The Walk Home

by Rachel Seiffert

  “It’ll hold.”

  Ducking his head, biting off a stray thread.

  “Nae hole there anyhow.”

  He gave Jozef a nod, a shrug, patting his knee, but his face was difficult to read: defiant, or maybe just in need. Who did this boy belong with?

  Stevie sat a while, rolling the thread against his teeth with his tongue, then he asked:

  “You’re wantin me out. Just now. Am I right?”

  Jozef did. But he found he couldn’t say it. He said:

  “I am out of here too. Monday, Tuesday.”

  The boy gave no response. So then Jozef had to tell him:

  “This job is done now. I am going. I can’t help you.”

  Blunt truth; he hoped he sounded sorry at least. The boy squinted, over at the one still-open window. He’d been on his own since the day he left here. Stevie wouldn’t meet Jozef’s eye, but he nodded.

  24

  Stevie skipped school to go up to Eric’s.

  The old man never moaned at him about missing lessons, so he’d been going there off and on over the winter. Eric’s head in his drawings, Stevie reckoned he didn’t even know what day of the week it was; the old man kept his flat warm and his nose out of Stevie’s business.

  It was a fine morning, bright and blowy, and Stevie got off the bus early because he knew Eric liked to go out sketching, now the weather was getting better. He knew all the places to look, too. He’d found Eric by the canal last week, with his big old coat on, pencils in his pockets, and paper under his arm, strapped to a square of thin ply with rubber bands. The old man had been on the slope by the allotments, sitting and squinting in the sunshine; the wide reach of Glasgow below, and pigeons pecking about him in the long grass. His pencil was moving fast, his old face folded in concentration, and he didn’t break off drawing when he saw Stevie coming up from the road:

  “Haud on,” Eric told him. “Just wait there.” Like he was warning him off coming any closer. “Just need tae get this ontae paper.”

  Eric had been working on the same picture for weeks now, and it had got so he couldn’t think of anything else. He’d told Stevie it was going to be of Jacob and Esau. Isaac’s boys, aye? Abraham’s grandsons, still split by the old man’s spite. Eric kept changing his mind; he couldn’t settle on which part of the story, but they were all he could talk about. Wasted their young lives fightin over their Dad’s love, so they did. He kept saying how Jacob got sick of it and cut his ties—can you blame him?—so Stevie reckoned his uncle would most likely draw him leaving his brother behind, his warring family: a young man starting out on a new life. Only when his uncle spread out his sketches on the grassy slope, all of them were of pigeons, mostly of their wings, and Stevie couldn’t think where they came into it. The old man said:

  “Wish I had some ae John Joe’s birds tae draw.”

  His brother-in-law had told him, how the best part was when he heard the first of his racers, coming back to the coop:

  “Aw that waitin, aye? An then the welcome sound ae wings.”

  Could take them for ever sometimes.

  “John Joe, but. He never gave up on his birds.”

  Eric said he’d wait up ages for the last, and he’d check each one over, taking his time, with love; especially those that had been away the longest. So then Stevie thought it must be Jacob’s homecoming he’d be drawing, because it was years and years before he went back; he and Esau were both grown men by that time.

  Only his uncle was still on about John Joe:

  “He used tae spread they feathers wide.” Eric spread his big arms to demonstrate. “Sleek an handsome, so they were.”

  Then he pointed to his pictures of the allotment birds:

  “These are nothin bloody like them.”

  He called them miserable specimens, and he shoved the papers together, rough, closing the subject:

  “It aye looks like shite till it’s ready anyhow.”

  Eric had got moody like that just lately. More and more, since he’d started this drawing. Whatever part of the story he was working on, Stevie hoped his uncle wouldn’t be so crabbit today.

  Back of ten, Stevie had been looking for the best part of an hour, and the old man wasn’t by the allotments; he wasn’t on the canal banks either. Stevie had searched them, from the Applecross basin up as far as Maryhill, but there was no sign.

  The only thing he had to go on was Eric’s picture, so then he tried to remember how the story ended, when Jacob went back to Esau, because it was hard not to be worried about his uncle and his strange moods; where could he have got to? Eric had told him last time, how Jacob stopped by a river, and that water was hard to draw, especially if it was moving fast. The canal was still, just about, so Stevie cut back to the road, thinking to try the Kelvin; best an eye was kept on him.

  The few sketches he’d seen were dark, as was Eric’s habit. It had looked like a bit of Jacob’s story that happened at night, and Stevie jogged uncertain down Queen Margaret Drive, until he saw the trees beyond the West End tenements, tall ones, shading the riverbanks. He found a bridge and beneath it the green-black Kelvin, and then he took the steep steps down to the shadowy path that ran along the water’s edge.

  Stevie was cooler when he got down there, and he felt better under cover, surrounded by spring growth, everything in full leaf. But he still had to pass under the high, damp arches of two more bridges before the path turned and he found his uncle.

  Eric wasn’t on the footway, he was further down, nearer the water, where the river made a bend and there was a small strand, a rocky curve of dry land. The old man was sitting on the stones, tucked against a leaning tree trunk; Stevie could just about make him out. Joggers went past, mothers with buggies, but nobody looked down there. It was not far past a weir, so the water was swifter here, and Stevie could see why Eric had chosen the spot. But the old man wasn’t drawing, he was just sitting, all hunched, staring at the river.

  Stevie whistled, leaning out over the railing, and Eric looked up and about, head darting worried, like a bird’s. His uncle ducked when he saw him, but then he beckoned too, and when Stevie came level, Eric was waiting to pull him off the path:

  “You’re no tae draw attention.”

  He gestured with his head, further downstream, to a high road bridge that crossed the water. Stevie hadn’t seen it before, it had been hidden by the steep banks and the bend in the river, but anyone crossing that could see them, if they were looking down here. Heads went past at a workday clip, hair blown back off faces, but none turned to the water.

  Eric crouched down again, among the tree roots, and he motioned for Stevie to do the same, pointing to the branches that would cover them. Stevie didn’t know why Eric was so keen on hiding, but it suited him to stay out of sight on a school day, so he got down on his hunkers next to him.

  Eric’s pencils were laid out on a stone, and his papers were there too, on their board, strapped down. There were just a few lines on the top one: just a rock, Stevie thought, with water flowing over the top.

  The two of them stayed there for a while, Stevie following his uncle’s eyeline while he drew, or while he tried to anyhow; the old man kept on stopping, looking out over the rushing water, and the steep bank beyond. There was no path on the far side, just a few trees clinging to the rock, with a couple of plastic bags snagged in the twigs, billowing now and then as the wind got up. The water got shallower further on, towards the bridge. Faster too, because the river level dropped as it curved, and Stevie could make out what looked like an old bicycle in mid-flow, minus the wheels; cold splashes leaping over the handlebars.

  Eric said:

  “He that is able tae receive it.”

  Quiet, but Stevie just about heard it. The old man took a breath and then he held it in, like it hurt.

  “I cannae dae this.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest, talking into his coat, and Stevie had to lean in close to hear when his uncle spoke.

  “I can feel it. A
w the time. Cannae see it, but.”

  He was talking about his picture, as per usual, but Eric’s eyes were squinty, his forehead puckered. He said:

  “I feel it. In my bed, at night-time. Gies me nae rest. I get up tae draw. An it’s lost.”

  Eric swiped an angry hand at his pencils, and set them rolling onto the pebbles. It gave Stevie a jolt.

  “Things I draw, I draw them aw wrong.”

  Eric sounded like he might cry, or something worse, and then Stevie thought he should maybe get him home. But the old man wouldn’t like it, being bundled back to his flat, so Stevie asked:

  “Gonnae show us?”

  Nodding at the papers, thinking if he kept him chatting, his uncle might calm down a bit, and then he could talk him into going.

  Eric looked at the board by his feet, reluctant. But he picked it up, and peeled back the rubber bands. He angled the pages into his chest like they were shameful, and his face was painful, flicking through what he’d done.

  “Just cannae get it down.”

  Stevie thought he was looking out the best. His worst would be better than anything Stevie could manage, but the old man was still ashamed. Eric pulled out a sheet and handed it over.

  “See?”

  He sounded disgusted.

  “Cannae make it work. Cannae make my mind up.”

  The page was covered with figures, corner to corner, full of limbs. It took Stevie a couple of minutes to make it out: masses of tiny pictures, but all of the same thing.

  A fight. On a riverbank at night. Two men, one clearly winning; both laying into each other. The bigger man was forcing the other one down onto the stones, the one on the ground wasn’t giving up though. He was much smaller, and taking a battering, but his head was always up, and sometimes his arms as well, hands clutching at the big man’s hair or face or neck.

  “Cannae take charge.”

  Eric’s hands were fists, clenched at his shins. He had his knees pulled into himself, and Stevie could see his ankles, under the dusty cuffs of his trousers. He had shoes on, but not socks. That and his clatty old coat made him look mad, like some old jakey. Stevie knew he should get him back to the house. Call his Gran maybe; he could do with her here now. She’d give him a row for not being at school, Stevie knew she would, but if she could just see what Eric was drawing.

  What sort of homecoming was that? Seemed more like an attack. And it got worse the further down the page he looked. There was something creepy too, about the big man: he wore a suit, dark cloth, but there were sketches where his jacket was off, and then his shirt seemed like it was ripped at the back, maybe from the smaller one’s tearing fingers. Except when Stevie looked closer, at the slits in the fabric, it wasn’t skin he saw there, but feathers.

  “Put it back.”

  Stevie looked up, confused, and Eric repeated:

  “Put it back, son. Or gies it here. Quick.”

  He pointed back along the path, and then Stevie saw his Dad.

  Elbows on the railing. How long had he been there? Had he been following? Stevie thought his Dad must have been watching as he left the house this morning.

  Eric pulled the paper from his hands, pressing it back with the others, under the bands, face down. Stevie kept his eyes on his father. He hadn’t moved yet, but he was nodding, so he knew they’d seen him.

  Stevie tried to work it out: how quick could he get away from him? Up the steps onto the high bridge, maybe; he could call his Gran up there from a phone box, even if she shouted. Stevie took a checking look, over his shoulder, only the steps were steep. He could manage them fast enough by himself, but he couldn’t leave the old man behind.

  So they just stayed there, both of them. And they stood up when Stevie’s Dad moved, like a two-man greeting party or something. He walked down the path until he was above them.

  “That’s twice this past week you’ve been tae see him.”

  He must have seen them last time as well; might not be the only times he’d followed. He was looking at Stevie, only not in the eye. He didn’t look right.

  “He’s tae be in school. You no tellt him?”

  Stevie’s Dad didn’t sound right either. He turned to the old man:

  “You reckon you’re bettern me an aw, at takin care ae my son?”

  “Leave him be.”

  Stevie spoke up, wanting this to stop, before it got out of hand.

  “It was me came lookin. Eric never asked.”

  “Aye.” His Dad nodded. “That’d be about right.”

  And then:

  “She used tae go an see him, aw the time.”

  The she came out harsh, like it had to be forced from his mouth, and Stevie didn’t know if his Dad had been drinking, or what had set him off. He wasn’t shouting, but his eyes were red, and it was like he couldn’t look him square in the face, just at the old man.

  “You never asked Lindsey tae come neither?” he sneered. “You never put ideas intae her head?”

  He was still up on the path, and Eric was down on the shore, but Stevie got to thinking he should put himself between them. His Dad would have to cover a bit of space before he could hit the old man: two, three metres of rocky slope and tree root, but still.

  Eric said:

  “Lindsey was glad tae come. She knew I was aye glad tae see her.”

  And then it was too late: Stevie’s Dad was already upon them.

  He made a grab for the board, wrenching it from Eric’s hands, raising it, high, like to bring it down, and Eric had to curl his arms over his bare head, to shield himself, braced for the blow.

  Stevie’s Dad hurled the board. Hard. But at the stones, not at Eric: he couldn’t do it.

  There was a crack as it hit a rock and the rubber bands split, and then Stevie saw how his Dad shouted out, in rage, out of breath, before he slumped a bit, head bent, shoulders slack.

  Stevie looked away from him; he had to. And his eyes fell on all the pages, scattered across the stones now. Eric was already down there, on his hands and knees, grabbing at all that were within reach. Some had been caught by the breeze, they were over by the water’s edge, and his Dad made a dive for those.

  So then Stevie glanced about himself, thinking this was his chance, he could go now while the other two were distracted. He turned to the bridge again: that must be the Great Western Road, and there’d be plenty of buses up there he could jump on. He didn’t even have to call his Gran and risk a bawling, he could just get himself away from here; right the other side of Glasgow if need be. Only he still had Eric to think about. What would his Dad do to him?

  Stevie looked at his father, up to his ankles in the water, chasing a bit of paper. And then he stepped over to Eric and started to pull him, off his hands and knees, up to the path. But his uncle resisted, reaching beyond Stevie’s feet for one of his drawings.

  It was of the same two men fighting that Eric had shown him earlier, only closer up this time: just one picture of both, and in savage detail. Not just a fight, it looked like a murder now, still in progress. And his uncle had made everything look so raw, all vein and sinew and clawing fingers, but the worst thing was, he’d given them faces Stevie recognised. The man on the ground, he could see his uncle had drawn that one as himself; held down and kept there. And so that big man standing over him, the one with the torn shirt, Stevie thought that must be Papa Robert. He’d have been sure of it were it not for the feathers.

  He kicked away the picture, pulling harder at his uncle, wanting to get him far from here and his morbid drawings. But the old man shook him off, snatching at the crumpled paper and two or three others. Stevie hissed at him, urgent.

  “Mon now, just leave them.”

  And then his Dad shouted from mid-stream:

  “Fuck you talkin tae him for?”

  His fists were full of sodden pages.

  “Fuck you daen? He’s a nutter.”

  He crashed about a bit in the water, then he held up all that he’d grabbed, above his head, like h
e meant to tear the whole lot into shreds.

  “Fuck him. Fuck Eric an his fuckin pencils. His fuckin Bible an aw.”

  Stevie saw the front one, before it ripped. Papa Robert, big and brutal, no mistake. His wings free now, majestic; all his dark plumage on show. The pencil Eric looked as if he might be done for, though.

  Stevie’s Dad pulled the picture apart, he threw his handfuls into the river. And then Stevie watched the scraps, carried off by the flow; some getting caught in the eddies by the old bike, others swooping and diving into the deeper waters, away under the bridge.

  There were people up there now, stopped and watching the spectacle. A few girls among them were laughing, pointing at Stevie’s Dad, mid-stream and freeing shreds of paper from the bike frame. But one was shouting, a man, he was leaning over:

  “Yous all right? Yous needin help?”

  Stevie’s Dad stood up, chest out, his arms spread and dripping. He roared:

  “Get tae fuck!”

  “Aye, pal. You an aw.”

  The man shoved himself back from the railing, gone again, leaving just the jeering girls.

  Eric was still on the stones, just next to Stevie, fumbling with his papers, the ones that were left: he was smoothing and checking through them. His uncle was in a bad way, Stevie had known that for ages, but he hadn’t guessed how far gone until now; his old face set, like he wouldn’t listen to reason, fixated on his pictures, all more of the same. Not Jacob’s homecoming at all, but the night before, when he’d stopped at the river, needing time to brace himself before he faced his brother. Only then it got dark, and a stranger came out of nowhere, no warning; he just flew at Jacob, and Jacob had no help. Stevie thought that must be how Eric felt. The stranger looked so strong in his drawings: sure of his force. He never said his name in the story, not even when Jacob asked him, he just fought him down, on and on, and Eric’s pictures had Stevie frightened, thinking his uncle must have hit some new low if he could draw himself beaten. And Papa Robert like some great, dark angel sent to do him in.