Never underestimate the healing power of a torrential Scottish rainstorm. It really is a wonderful thing to behold. As we ride the bus home from the airport, my Dad is telling me about the changes that he’s made since I left, while I watch the rain falling angrily from the magnificent black sky. He’s working as a janitor now. The pay is higher and the work is regular. Things are better now, much better. We might be able to move to a bigger place, get our own phone line installed, and perhaps even buy an automobile. He’s right of course. Things will be better. I can tell already. He talks about Celtic, our fitba team, and all of the things that have happened in the neighbourhood. He pauses from time to time, and I expect him to ask me about Canada, or why I’ve come home early, but he doesn’t. Mercifully, he just keeps telling me, in his own way, that he’s missed me. I’m too tired from the flight to turn towards him, so I just rest my head against the window and listen.
The rain buckets down, and lashes against the houses that we pass, as though it’s trying to wipe the greyness right off them. I’m dressed in clothes that George has bought for me, a pair of shorts that I seem to be outgrowing already and a tee-shirt from the concert the night before. The music is fainter in my head now, and it’s not boys jumping up and down on a stage that I see. It’s rain, just rain, bleeding its wondrous colours through the mud of the Kilmarnock streets. I know these streets and what happens on them. There are few surprises here, and when I think about Canada and Brutus and George and Terry and Marvin, and of course my mother and all the things that happened, none of it really makes any sense to me. So, I decide that I’m glad to be home. I’m glad to be back in the safety of my black and white world. I’m glad to be back with my Dad.
CHAPTER 11
School Picture Day always seems to come far too early. It should be sometime after Christmas. It should be once we’ve had time to settle into our classes, once we’ve realized that the little bit of freedom that summer gave us, is gone. It’s not though; it’s the same every year. At the beginning of September, we’re marched, class by class, into the gymnasium, where a terrified looking photographer waits to take our pictures.
Hextall, with his cane tapping at his side, and Mr McRae, the Physical Education Master, line us up on a shaky old set of bleachers according to our height, tallest to shortest. I’ve moved this year. Instead of being in the middle row, I’ve made my way all the way to the back, standing with the tallest boys in my class. So, either everyone else has shrunk, or I really am growing very quickly. Hardly, on the other hand, the shortest boy in our class, is in the same spot he always occupies, right in the middle of the bottom row. I haven’t spoken to him since school re-started. I’ve tried, but when I reach the end of his street, to walk to school with him, he’s never there. Then, during class or in the hallways, he turns away, or just nods and keeps on walking. Perhaps he doesn’t want to remember the events of last school year, or perhaps he thinks he stands a better chance of getting through Third Form if he’s by himself.
The bleachers creak and groan under our weight, and I can’t help wonder what Terry would think if he could see me now. While he’s studying at his private academy on Vancouver Island, I’m wedged between two of the hard boys in our class, Derek Robertson and Jim Miller. In front of me, one half of the Craven twins, Kev, is trying to touch a scab on the end of his nose with his tongue. His sister, Ang, never far from him, is a row below, glaring at the cameraman, daring him to take her picture.
“Don’t point it at me. Don’t be pointing that effin’ thing at me.” She’s furiously scratching her head, while yelling at the photographer, and from my vantage point two rows above, I can see red welts where she’s dug her nails deep into her scalp.
Hextall hesitates as though he’s going to say something to her, but turns away, choosing instead to usher the rest of us into place. “Right, you lot, get yer smiles ready. We want nice smiles for your mithers and faithers, those of you that have mithers and faithers that is.”
No, I can’t imagine Terry in a place like this. He’s more likely to be surrounded by healthy Canadian boys and girls, boys and girls who don’t carry knives or pick at scabs, or yell at photographers.
This is an important year. Most of us will turn 15 while in Third Form, and at that point, we no longer have to stay in school. We can join the ranks of the workers who populate the local factories or head to the shipyards of Glasgow. The two knife-carrying boys beside me will have fewer options. Their future likely lies in whatever criminal enterprise their families are involved in. The rest of us, if we maintain our grades, will stay in school, and try to remain at a level that will allow us to qualify for grants, and in turn head to university. My father tells me to keep studying, and if I keep bringing home the marks that I’ve been getting, there will be many schools that I can qualify for. It’s good advice. It sounds like good advice.
Most of the other classes have had their pictures taken, and innocently mill around the outside of the gym, waiting to be dismissed back to their classrooms. Gordon McGregor and Stuart Douglas are amongst them of course, menacingly standing off to the side of the photographer.
“C’moan, gie us a big smile. Smile for yer Mammys and Daddys, those of ye that have Mammys and Daddys that is.” Douglas mocks Hextall’s words while McGregor confidently goads him on, standing back, laughing at us.
Their words don’t bother me and as usual, the whole process is over very quickly anyways. The man says smile and next almost as though they were one word, with only the glaring light of the camera’s flashbulb separating them. Then we’re quickly ordered to climb down from the bleachers.
I slowly make my way down from the top level, and can see that Douglas has spotted Hardly, and is leaning into him, waving his hand in front of his mouth, wafting at his breath. Gordon McGregor is still beside him, smiling, with his arms folded, looking every bit like his father, the butcher, as he stands behind his glass counter serving the housewives of our neighbourhood.
All of a sudden, something strange happens. In between trying to keep my balance and not getting shoved off the creaky old bleachers, I smell something. I smell piss. There’s no mistaking it. It’s piss. I mean, I know it’s not there. There’s nothing covered in piss, and although our gymnasium has a wide array of semi-unpleasant smells, it’s never smelled like piss before, but in my mind I can smell it. It’s piss, just piss. The smell and the memory that it brings back infuriates me, and I quicken my pace, actually jumping from the last bleacher, trying to make my way towards Hardly.
It’s too late though. By the time I brush past the rest of the kids, the doors of the gymnasium have opened and everyone’s crowding out into the hallways. Douglas and McGregor are leading the charge, shoving their way out, and Hardly has somehow disappeared into the crowd himself.
It’s strange. Last year I would have cowered behind someone else who was lingering on the bleachers, until Douglas and McGregor had finished with him, but this time I didn’t. This time, I made my way towards them. I don’t know what I’d intended to do once I got there, or what exactly motivated me to try and reach them. I really don’t know. I only know that once I smelled that piss, that same piss smell that I was covered in last year, I couldn’t wait to get there. I sit on the bottom bench for a moment where Hardly sat, and realize that the smell is gone and has been replaced by a smell that I know all too well. It’s alcohol, stale, foul, alcohol. I recognize it from my time with Hardly last year, and I know that’s why Douglas was wafting at his breath, and tormenting him. While I had my own demons to deal with this summer, Hardly has surely had his, and once again, he’s back on the booze.
My morning walks with Hardly suddenly resume. I don’t ask him why he chose to walk without me, or why he’s back now. I just enjoy the fact that he’s back in his usual spot, standing at the lamppost at the end of his street when I get there. After three or four days, I notice a change in him. The same change that happened before, and I can’t stop myself; I have to say something. I just hav
e to acknowledge it.
“You’re back to yourself these past few days. It’s good. It’s good to see.” I keep walking with my head down, kicking the rock in front of me, and although he pauses before answering, he does the same, kicking and missing at his rock.
“I stopped, if that’s what you mean. Nae booze. Don’t need it, doesnae help.”
He means it, and he sticks to his commitment. In the mornings he doesn’t smell like booze, and at dinnertimes he doesn’t sneak away to drink. Life almost becomes normal.
In the evenings, my father and I talk about fitba, and his new job, or we work in the small garden that we share with our neighbours. Second Form is harder than First Form was, but the answers to the lessons still come easily to me, and present few new challenges. I do the mandatory homework of reading and writing and studying, and in between I practice my best smile in the small mirror in our bathroom at home. Bashfully, I try it out on Nan McHendry, as she walks past me in the dinner hall, or from across the school yard if I think she happens to be looking in my direction. Once, she stops, with her two girlfriends hovering beside her, and actually speaks to me while I sit with Hardly, eating my mashed potatoes and mince.
“Hello Malcolm, did you have a nice summer in Canada, then?”
Her voice seems different, different from the way that she talks to the others. It seems as though it’s a tone lower, and it’s meant just for me. As she speaks, she flicks her dark, silky hair back, peering at me shyly. I quickly try to empty my mouth of potatoes and answer her, but her girlfriend halts my little fantasy, quickly reminding me of who I really am.
“What’s wrong with yer teeth, anyways, Malcolm? The way yer always lookin’ at Nan, showin’ her yer teeth like that. It’s no’ right. Neither of youse are right in the heed if you ask me.” She shakes her head, and looks at the two of us distastefully, trying to pull Nan’s arm away.
I don’t answer. I just scoop another forkful of potatoes and put them into my mouth, and pretend that I haven’t heard anything. Nan leaves of course. She lets her girlfriend pull her away, then turns and admonishes her with a scowl, telling her to leave us alone, and mind her own business. She doesn’t laugh at me though, or even smile at her girlfriend’s comments; she just walks away, leaving me alone once again, with Hardly.
Hextall is not our Master for any classes this year, but he still patrols the school grounds at dinner time, his trusty cane at his side, preying on the weaker children as they play their harmless games. I watch him as he avoids the bullies of the school, and walks past McGregor and Douglas or any of the young criminals in my class. He speaks to me once and, although it’s only a few words they pierce me in a way that’s hard to ignore.
“No trees this year, Mr Wilson. No trees for you this year.” He’s smiling as he says it and taps his cane against the side of his leg as he walks past. I don’t detect the smell of piss this time, but it’s not far off. I know that it’s there somewhere.
Lunch times are either spent walking around the school with Hardly, talking about the masters and our classes, or I run. Mr McRae takes me aside early in the school year and tells me that I’ll be running with the track team. He sees my newly acquired long legs and strong arms and I suppose thinks that I’ll be a runner for the school. He’s right and he’s wrong. I enjoy running. In fact, I like it very much. It starts with my legs being stiff and inflexible for the first few minutes as I run around the school yard with the rest of the team, but then after a while they lighten up and I feel no resistance at all. It almost feels like I’m running on air. It doesn’t even feel like running. It’s more like I’ve found a way to move and cover distance that I’ve never known before. So, yes, he is right. I am a runner, but I’m not a runner who will win races for him. I have no interest in whether I can run faster than anyone else on the team. I run to get the feeling-the feeling of weightlessness and levity that comes from running long distances. I settle into the middle of the pack and try to find my pace. Sometimes I pass other runners and sometimes they pass me. I’m never last or even in the last part of the pack, but I also never win. I just have no interest in it, no interest at all.
The only time that I exert any extra effort is if I pass an area on the grounds where Nan might be sitting with her friends. I hunch my body forward a little and push myself harder, trying to get every inch of air to pass by me as quickly as possible. She sees me once or twice, but I don’t look over. I pretend to be so intent on running against the others that I don’t notice her. I know that she’s there, of course, and I know that she isn’t just watching us do our regular laps around the school grounds. Her eyes are firmly on me, and once, I’m sure she smiled and spoke. Staring at me, she mouthed my name and smiled that beautiful, sweet smile as I put every bit of effort into cutting between two of my competitors and flying around the course.
Yes, everything can be normal, monotonous and normal, and then your whole life can change in just one day. You can take every single thing that you know, or think you know, and forget about all of them. This is how it happens, you accept the changes that happen to your body and your mind, and tell yourself that you’re fourteen, almost fifteen, and you’re changing. That’s all that it is, just changes. You start out by being someone who’s thirteen and scared, then the next minute, you’re older and stronger and braver and everything might just be alright; now life might just get better. Just when the girl that you like is starting to smile at you and say your name, and your best friend has stopped drinking, and your Dad is actually whistling to himself and talking to you. All that can change. Because just around the corner, there is that smell again, that smell that seems to have some kind of control over you, that lingering smell of piss.
Hardly doesn’t come to school for two weeks. My morning walks become guessing games of wondering what’s happened to him, and when he’s going to be back. His desk at school sits empty, and nobody else seems to notice as his name is called, and the response doesn’t come. I try not to worry. I try to pretend that everything is normal. He’s sick, or is off visiting a relative. He’s got some normal, regular reason for not being at school. I’m sure of it.
When he does return, he’s leaning against the lamppost, and to my relief, he still looks sober, and clear-eyed. I smile as I reach him, wondering whether or not I’ll get a reason for his absence. It only takes a moment for me to realize that the reason is all over his battered face. He has purple bruises on his cheeks, and by his right eye there’s a yellow stain with a heavy imprint around it. He’s been hit several times by something heavy, by the look of it, and the wounds are healing, healing enough for him to return to school, I suppose.
I walk and he limps, almost the whole way to school, without talking, and it isn’t until we reach the grounds that he finally stops and speaks.
“I didn’t drink. It wasn’t that. He just loses his temper. They both do. I’m a burden, their burden. Five and a half more months to go, then I’m gone. The Army if they’ll have me or the shipyards, I don’t care. I’ll just be gone, and I’ll never come back to this, any of this.”
We’re at the entrance to the school, and just stand there, neither of us looking at the other. We just stare vacantly at the day ahead of us, as he tells me the plans that he has for his fifteenth birthday.
“I have to run this dinner time. I can’t get out of it, but wait for me. Wait for me by the dinner hall. I’ll be there. Just wait for me.” I keep staring ahead and clenching my teeth as I speak, not wanting to look at his bruises, but also not wanting him to think that I don’t care. He nods back at me, as he walks ahead into the grounds. It’s hard to watch him, as he tries so hard to walk straight, every once in a while favouring his good leg and limping with the other.
The morning is a blur of more assignments and reading and watching the back of Hardly’s head as he goes through the day as though it were any other day. When dinner time comes it’s lashing with rain, but Mr McRae still makes us run. We do our mandatory laps around the groun
ds and I lead the pack for once, anxious to finish and meet my friend. As I pass the entrance to the dinner hall I see him there, sitting under the shelter at the entranceway and I signal how many laps I have left. Then, the next time around, he anticipates me coming and holds up his hand telling me the amount of times around remaining. He’s smirking through his bruises and the heavy imprint around his eye is shiny from the rain water that’s dripping on him. The next time around he’s not alone though; Stuart Douglas is standing over him, in front of a group of boys with, of course Gordon McGregor, goading him on. The rain is soaking all of them and Douglas is laughing, and kicking at the air, narrowly missing Hardly’s head. Hardly just sits there, holding his hands up and cowering away, as though he’s waiting for yet another hit to come.
You don’t think about it. You just do it. That’s how it happens. You just do it.
I veer away from my running route, and can hear McGregor yelling something at Douglas, then Douglas turning and smiling, as I come charging towards him.
My Temporary Life Page 7
