The Walk Home

by Rachel Seiffert

  There was nothing he could do, so he did the washing up, Papa Robert’s breakfast plate and cup, to keep his hands from damage, and his grandfather stood there and watched him for a couple of over-long minutes.

  The old man drank a slurp of his tea—two, three—and then, milder again, he said:

  “You havenae the measure ae your ain strength yet. But you’ll get that, Graham, given time.”

  Papa Robert looked at him, like he was sure of him, watching the calm return to him. Then he asked:

  “You’ll forgive an old man his grief?”

  And Graham nodded, because he did.

  He thought about that some evenings now, driving Stevie home from Eric’s. How what his Grandad said bore weight; not just the bad things, but the good as well. If Papa Robert took your part, he could make you feel right, and Eric could have done with some of that back-up when he came out of hospital. So maybe Lindsey had a point.

  Only Papa Robert had told him he’d get to know his strength, and Graham still didn’t feel like he knew it. And there was that part about grief too. Nana Margaret had been dead ages, and so Graham couldn’t decide, if it was her Papa Robert was sad about, or if it was Eric.

  He knew his Grandad was sorry for what he’d said to him that day.

  Maybe he was sorry for much more besides.

  But Graham reckoned if he tried saying that to Lindsey, she’d need to hear the proof. Or she’d ask him why it was, then, that Papa Robert never made the first move. So he didn’t tell her that story. It had him too rattled anyhow, feeling too weak and word-poor, and he didn’t know that he could tell it right.

  Lindsey was taking Stevie’s cot apart one evening when they got in. She said it wasn’t being used, save to house Stevie’s toys.

  “It’s too cramped in his room to play, so I’ve found a box for his things now.”

  She was making a neat job of fitting the cot sides into the back of the hallway cupboard, with the bolts and bits in a plastic bag, taped to one of the legs.

  “Ready for the next wan,” Graham said.

  And Lindsey smiled.

  “Soon as we get a better place.”

  She gave Graham a kiss, but he still got that same lurching feeling, like he was second best again. Just like these walls he’d plastered and painted, this home he’d made for them. If Lindsey wasn’t talking about Eric and Papa Robert these days, then she was on about moving, so Graham said:

  “Aye, I know.” Watching her shut the door on the cot. “Soon as we’ve a better place tae go.”

  13

  Ewa called Jozef. In the middle of the third week. It was such a long time since she’d done that, he didn’t know what to say at first, when she asked him how he was; he was just thrown by that familiar-unfamiliar voice.

  “Jozef?”

  “I’m all right. I’m fine.”

  He’d be better with her here. But he couldn’t say that in case he was overheard. Stevie was behind him, painting the stairwell, and even though the boy couldn’t understand Polish, Jozef still put down his roller and headed for the first floor before he spoke more. Hot from working, looking for a room with the windows open, Jozef decided it might be better not to say that at all: Ewa knew that’s what he thought, he’d told her often enough. Until she’d asked him to stop. I have to make up my own mind.

  Ewa told him now:

  “I just wanted to check anyway. I’ve been hearing things to make me worry.”

  So then Jozef slowed a moment on the stairs, unnerved; it must have got back to her, about the tiles and the towel rails.

  “Oh, right.”

  He picked up his pace again, heading for the front door and fresh air, thinking she’d maybe heard from Tomas. But then she could have heard from any number of his workers; he and Ewa had so many people in common, between here and Gdańsk, they’d known each other for such a long time, since well before they were married. His father and her uncle were both in the shipyard, and in prison together over the strikes, and Ewa went to school with Jozef’s youngest sister too, so then he was suspicious:

  “Was it Adela who told you?”

  But how would Adela know? Jozef had said nothing to anyone at home. His sisters all knew about the last job, that disaster, but he’d been careful not to tell them about this one. He stepped onto the pavement, but outside it was worse: he had the sun on him now, full in the face.

  “It doesn’t matter how I heard,” Ewa told him. “I just want to know if you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

  He sounded defensive, Jozef knew that; found out, sweat prickling against his scalp. He shielded his eyes, and then Ewa fell quiet, just as she’d done in so many of their phone calls since she left.

  “Anyway.” She took a breath. “This boy you have working for you.”

  “Stevie?”

  Jozef threw a checking look behind him, up at the open first-floor windows; the boy had them wide as always.

  “The Scottish one, yes. What do you know about him?”

  Jozef felt himself frowning: it sounded so much like a Tomas question, he thought she must have been talking to him. He took a pace or two away from the building, telling her:

  “He’s one of Romek’s.”

  “I know. And he’s been taught well. Everything by Poles.”

  How did Ewa know all this? Jozef waited, guarded, unsure what she was getting at. That he was a soft touch, maybe, and Romek wasn’t. She said:

  “I heard you put him with Marek. And so they’re friends now.”

  “They work together.” Jozef corrected her, sharp. “I’ve got all my men working hard.”

  “Right. Right.”

  Ewa sighed. He was making it difficult for her, so then she got to the point:

  “You’ll watch out, won’t you? For Marek.”

  She put the stress on her nephew’s name. As if she thought Jozef would put the other boy before him.

  “And you’ll watch out for yourself, too. Okay?”

  14

  Lindsey came up trumps. She found them a housing association place. It was in Whiteinch, which she knew wasn’t bad: she’d been through there on the bus before, and it was along by the Clyde, halfway between Drumchapel and town.

  “Aye. I know,” Graham told her, holding the letter.

  She’d had it ready for when he got home from work; it felt like she’d waited and waited, and now he stood in the hallway, reading it over and over. Lindsey wanted a reaction, a huge great hug and a well done, but she knew she’d stood there dumbstruck with the envelope too, when she got in with Stevie after school, so she let Graham be a moment. The letter had given her such a kick, Lindsey had to go down the hill to show Brenda, pulling Stevie with her, because it hadn’t felt real until a second pair of eyes had seen it as well.

  “Your Maw’s dead happy for us.”

  “You tellt her?”

  Graham frowned a bit, and then Lindsey looked at him, properly, and thought he looked tired; all grimy with plaster dust, his face and hands. She told him:

  “I’ll run you a bath. You can wash the day off, before we go and see the flat. Brenda said she’d mind Stevie.”

  It was a new build, and not ready yet, so they could only look at it from the street, but Lindsey was dying to do that.

  “Please, love? Just quick.”

  They dropped Stevie at Brenda’s that same evening, just an hour or so later. Lindsey found some music on the van radio and she cranked it up loud while Graham drove them down the wide Boulevard and the Crow Road. Only then he turned the stereo off again, mid-tune, no warning, and said he didn’t know where he was going.

  “Shouldae cut through Knightswood mebbe. Bloody hell.”

  Graham muttered it, leaning forward on the steering wheel, frowning doubtful at the street signs.

  “Bloody Partick. Bloody Yoker.”

  He was talking to himself more than her, and it was the first hint Lindsey got that Graham wasn’t just tired.

&
nbsp; But he wasn’t lost; he only thought he was. Graham got them to Victoria Park, and then Lindsey knew they were right.

  “We’re fine, you’ll see. It’s just over that way.”

  She pointed, and then she put a hand to Graham’s knee while he drove them round the roundabout.

  They took Dumbarton Road at a crawl, looking for the turning. The streetlamps were coming on by this stage, and Lindsey peered out through the windscreen, thinking it was mostly council places round here, by the look of the too-small windows and all that pebble dash, grey render. Plus, she’d never had a house to clean round here.

  But it wasn’t a scheme, it was proper streets, a proper place; on the way to somewhere from somewhere else. And their flat would be brand new in any case.

  It was nearly dark by the time they found it: a big red-brick box with stickers still on the double glazing, and site tape across the street doors. Graham parked up out front while Lindsey unplugged her seatbelt; she was out fast and on the pavement. Except not as excited as she was before, because she could feel Graham stalling, slow getting out of the van.

  He came and stood by her, looking up at the windows, and he didn’t like it, this new place, she could see that. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets, and his shoulders up, like he was cold. Lindsey said:

  “Looks good, I reckon.”

  “Aye.”

  Didn’t sound like he meant it. Lindsey told him:

  “We have to tell them yes by the end of next week.”

  But she got no answer, so then she pressed him:

  “We’ll be telling them yes, though. Won’t we?”

  Graham shrugged.

  She hadn’t bargained on this. Lindsey had geared herself up for the place being poky, or on a bad street maybe, a long walk from the bus stop or the shops. She knew they still could do better, in good time, so she’d figured on another move a year or two down the line. But looking up at the new build just now, she couldn’t see why Graham would turn his nose up.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  He didn’t say, he just started talking about his brother.

  “Malky Jnr. He’s in line for wan ae they new terraces, planned for the top ae the scheme. We could put our names down for wan ae those.”

  “On Drumchapel?”

  “Aye on Drumchapel. They’ll be nice, they new houses.”

  Lindsey didn’t believe that for a minute. Only from the way Graham looked at her, it seemed like he did. So she shook her head:

  “No way. They won’t be built for years yet.”

  If ever. Lindsey thought they were nothing more than a rumour, spun to keep scheme life ticking over. Stevie could end up grown in the meantime; grown on that hellhole. It wasn’t the houses, anyhow, it was the place Lindsey wanted out of.

  “You want us to stop where we are?”

  Graham shrugged again. And then it started to get to Lindsey, the way he wouldn’t give her a proper answer. How many years had she been going up to that housing office? All that time, and he’d never even thought it through: if it was Drumchapel he wanted, or somewhere else, like she did. He wouldn’t even look her in the eye now, he just kept looking up and down the road, at all the pavements and the houses, like he just didn’t know. Graham said:

  “I dinnae know emdy that lives round here.”

  What did that have to do with anything?

  Lindsey couldn’t think what to say to him, all the way back to the scheme. Graham drove them back in silence.

  They had to fetch Stevie, so Graham waited outside while she climbed the stairs to Brenda’s; they did all that without a word passing between them.

  Stevie was asleep in the spare room, and Brenda stopped Lindsey in the doorway. She could see there was something amiss, because she said:

  “Just leave him tae sleep, hen. Come an sit a minute.”

  Only Lindsey wanted her boy then, the comfort of his weight. So she carried him down the close, with a blanket wrapped around him, his sleeping head heavy on her shoulder. But when she got out to the street, and saw Graham standing there, Lindsey thought she couldn’t bear this.

  She was going to cry, or shout. So Graham stepped forward and lifted Stevie from her arms, and then with her boy gone, there was nothing to hold her.

  “Where’s my Maw?”

  Stevie didn’t wake up, not properly, not until they got home, and it was just his Dad there, putting him to bed.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s at your Gran’s.”

  His Dad said it short, tucking the bedcovers tight. Only Stevie was awake then, and sitting up, because his Mum had always been here before now.

  “Is she comin?”

  “Lie down, wid you?” Stevie’s Dad let out his breath. “She’ll come back. She’ll be here in the mornin, you’ll see. Quicker you get tae sleep, quicker it’ll be.”

  But Stevie couldn’t sleep for waiting.

  He just listened to his Dad, putting on the telly and then shoving the dishes into the sink, crashing them about, like it didn’t matter if they broke. He ran the hot tap hard, so Stevie got up then, even if he was scared his Dad might shout; the fathers in Eric’s stories did all sorts when they got angry. Stevie’s Dad was looking in the cupboards when he got to the kitchen, at the shelf where he kept his beers: nothing there. He opened the fridge, and slammed it shut again.

  “Fuck’s sake.”

  Then he saw Stevie watching.

  “Can we no go an fetch her, please, Da?”

  His Dad said nothing, he just took him back to his bedroom, and sat on his bed for what felt like ages, all silent and heavy. Then he stood up and told Stevie to be quick then, if he was coming.

  Stevie had to trot to keep up with his father’s stride once they got outside. He didn’t know what time it was, but it was dark, and he was a bit muddled then, from being out so late; being asleep first, and now awake. Stevie was just glad of his Dad next to him, the size of him, walking down the empty streets. He thought they were going to his Gran’s place, only then they cut across the waste ground where the flats had been razed last year, so he reckoned they must be going to buy beer first.

  He saw puddles in among the foundations, all rippled in the wind, and then the cold air got in through his tracksuit. He’d pulled it on over his pyjamas, because his Dad had said to hurry, and all the bed-warmth was out of him, before they’d even got to the corner.

  Stevie was still cold in the snooker club, standing, chittering next to his father, while the barman bagged up the carry-out. Still dazed too, Stevie gazed about the long, dim room and empty tables; at the pictures on the walls, of red lions and Rangers and the Queen. There were more pictures behind the bar: a long line of photos in frames, all of a flute band in full uniform with Pride of Drumchapel painted across the big skin of the bass drum.

  Stevie had never been in here before, but he knew his Dad came to watch away games on that big screen above the bar. Stevie had heard his Mum grumbling about it to his Gran; how she had a good mind sometimes to come down here and haul him out. All his brothers have Sky, so why can’t he go to theirs? The bag of cans was paid for, and Stevie tugged his sleeves down over his palms, thinking they should be going. Only then the barman poured his Dad a pint, and threw in a packet of crisps:

  “You can stop here for one. Let your wee boy there warm up a bit.”

  They sat down at one of the tables by the wall, and Stevie’s Dad didn’t seem in a hurry now. So Stevie ate half the crisps, and then he shuffled along the bench, closer to his father’s warm legs. He didn’t much like this half-lit place, and he couldn’t think what they were doing here in the middle of the night; maybe they were waiting for his Mum to haul them home. Stevie wanted her to come, but he hoped she wouldn’t shout when she did.

  His Dad shifted a bit when Stevie climbed up onto his lap; he put down his pint. But he didn’t stop him, didn’t shove him away, or shout, or anything, and Stevie was glad he wasn’t so angry any more. They sat there like t
hat, alone at the table and quiet, his Dad with one hand on his glass, the other next to him on the seat, a fist. Stevie got warm there after a bit, and drowsy, even if his Mum hadn’t turned up yet. Maybe if he went to sleep, just like his Dad said. He put his head under his father’s chin, a neat fit. His Dad still had his parka on, unzipped, and Stevie had his eyes shut by that time, but he felt him, pulling it around them both.

  Other men came in and joined them. Stevie couldn’t tell how much later, and he couldn’t wake up enough to make out their faces, but they knew his Dad anyhow. The bell went and they bought him pints, and Stevie saw more red lions on their T-shirts, and red hands this time too. Pride of Drumchapel. But none of them had their sons with them, under their coats, so Stevie thought maybe they hadn’t seen him; his small face the only part of him showing, just under his father’s collar, dozing; thinking his Mum would come and they could go home.

  Eric was not long out of bed when Lindsey buzzed. He watched her climbing slow up the close, and he saw the washed-out look about her too, like she’d hardly slept.

  “I’ve been at Brenda’s.”

  She looked like she’d been crying. So Eric read between the lines: there’d been a falling out.

  “Does my sister know you’re here now?”

  Lindsey shook her head.

  “What about Graham?”

  “I’ve not been home yet.”

  Eric made Lindsey tea, black and sweet, and then he sat with her, quiet in the kitchen. Not a day for dreams of elsewhere, or for looking at drawings: tea and sympathy was what the girl needed.