The Walk Home

by Rachel Seiffert

  It was too much for Stevie. What could he do? He looked up to the bridge, but there was nobody there now, no one he could turn to.

  Only his Dad, sloshing his way back towards them.

  Stevie stepped between Eric and the water, keeping himself between the two men this time, thinking to guard his uncle from harm, but it seemed like his Dad wasn’t in the mood for a fight any more.

  He just turned his back to them and sat down, taking his boots off and emptying them out. He was looking at the river, but he spoke to Stevie:

  “He’s twisted. Eric’s a bitter auld cunt. Dinnae be feelin sorry for him. The old guy’s meant tae have a good brain. The best in the faimly? Well if that’s what clever looks like, he can keep it.”

  Eric had got to his feet, just behind Stevie, stooping over his board and his remaining pages, and he held them closer when Stevie’s Dad pointed towards him:

  “Nae mair messin wae my faimly. You hear me? Dae what you fuckin like, but me an mine, we’re out ae bounds.”

  Eric shook his head, like Stevie’s Dad was the one who’d lost it, and then he turned to go, at last, so Stevie made to hurry him. Only then the old man said:

  “Lindsey wanted tae go home.”

  He muttered it, like he was talking to himself, but Stevie’s Dad heard it. He snorted:

  “Aye, well. That just shows what you know. No much.”

  Eric stood up, straight, in response; he’d been about to leave, but now he stopped, and Stevie did too. His Dad was still looking at the water, but he knew they were listening: he had them. His trousers dark to the knees, fingers dripping, smell of the river rising off him, he said:

  “Lindsey never went back tae her Da.”

  “She did,” Eric countered.

  But Stevie’s Dad just waved a wet hand:

  “Naw. She never even went back tae Ireland.”

  Eric crouched down when he heard that.

  He bent forward, over his board and papers, like he was in pain, and Stevie saw his Dad’s head flick round to look at the old man, satisfied at what he’d done. He gave a tight smile:

  “London, her uncles reckoned. Or Liverpool mebbe. It’s emdy’s guess. Land’s fuckin End.”

  Then he looked over at Stevie; his eyes red-raw, and the skin around them sore. He dropped his voice:

  “She cut hersel loose, son.”

  Stevie thought about how often he’d heard people call his Dad slow, or stupid. Often enough to have Stevie believe it. But his Dad was looking at him now, and he knew something they didn’t; he’d known it for years.

  Eric said:

  “You’re lyin.”

  But Stevie knew he wasn’t.

  And it all made sense to him. Why go where you can be tracked down? If you’re going, why not get lost? Stevie could see it, why his Mum must have thought that was the best way to live.

  He looked at his Dad, all calm now, and then at Eric, crushed. The old man was all curled over, and there was hardly an arm’s length between them. They weren’t touching, it wasn’t like they’d come to blows, but it was like the pair of them were locked into some ages-old struggle, way beyond Stevie’s reckoning. He stood and watched them both: how his Dad had his head tilted over, like he was listening, waiting, and how Eric was shifting, like he was leaning in, ready to confide in him. The old man said:

  “I only meant for her tae make amends.”

  Hard for him to get the words out. Stevie could hear he was crying now, like he was pleading. His own throat felt raw, although he’d done no shouting; it stung when he swallowed, but he kept on swallowing, trying to force down the hurt.

  He needed to get the two of them apart, so Stevie stepped over and took Eric’s arm again; he thought he’d give it one last try. But the old man still wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t give up this fight, or whatever it was turning into. And then Stevie thought if Eric wasn’t coming, he’d just have to leave him. His own Mum had done the same to him, and he knew why now: he’d only have slowed her, weighed her down.

  If he could just get to the road. It didn’t have to be a bus, it could be a coach; even if his Gran was expecting him home. Stevie thought he could put out a thumb at one of the motorway slip roads. Was that what his Mum had done?

  His Dad’s face was wet, and Stevie knew he was right, but he wasn’t going to start crying as well; not now, not about her, else he didn’t stand a chance.

  “Naw, son.” His Dad shook his head while Stevie retreated. “Nae point talkin tae Eric. He’s nae idea.”

  He didn’t even look angry, he just looked spent now, arms dropping loose at his sides as Stevie turned away from him.

  “She didnae love us anymair.”

  25

  Brenda got in late Thursday evening, done in from the sticky day’s work. There was a blinking light to greet her in the hallway, and then long seconds of silence on the answer machine.

  She knew it was Stevie, even before he spoke.

  “Just me.”

  Just a few more quiet seconds, and then he hung up.

  Not much to go on, but Brenda still felt the relief. He’d been gone three years, but she still couldn’t adjust. It was all that waiting between phone calls: too much time to imagine the worst.

  She dialled the number back: it was a mobile, and it was off, it always was. No doubt it was nicked. Brenda thought it would be barred come tomorrow, when she tried it again.

  She had a shower, washing the day off, but then she couldn’t sit. No Malky to sit with, he was out driving and wouldn’t be back until first light at the earliest, so Brenda went from room to room, not getting anything much done: bit of tidying, bit of folding, opening windows to let some air in. Mostly she just found herself standing. Hoping for her grandson. Strange to have hopes, she didn’t know where they came from.

  She’d had Graham here twice this week and both times talk had turned to Stevie. Brenda tried to remember: if it was her that started it, or him. They’d managed to talk without shouting anyhow, even without Malky there to keep watch, and that was something.

  Malky had put his foot down in the worst weeks after Stevie left; he’d made them sit down together, with the police and the social workers, and he’d made sure Graham kept coming round too, even after all the busybodies stopped. They’d never got to the bottom of what made Stevie run off, and Brenda still thought Graham knew more than he let on. But theirs had been a hard-won truce, and it seemed like they were sticking with it for now.

  Her son had looked weary to Brenda this week. Up to his eyes in work, and there’d be extra band practice on top, now he had the Walk coming up on Saturday. But they’d both known better than to mention that.

  Graham had asked her:

  “Emdy been in touch?”

  Police, missing persons, any of that mob.

  “Naw, son, not just lately.”

  “Right.”

  Then Graham had sat quiet.

  Stevie never called him, only her and Malky, and Brenda thought that had to hurt. So she’d watched him then, her youngest, getting older; a big man, alone on her sofa, and she’d felt sad for him, not angry, for the first time in ages.

  But Brenda wasn’t sad this evening, she just couldn’t settle to anything. What a day. What a life. Greasy pots, dust bunnies on the stairs, and now hope. It didn’t seem right to feel this light; it wasn’t what she was used to, not these past few years. A long day’s work just passed, and another one up ahead, Brenda needed her rest. She opened two more windows, trying to get a through-draft. This heat; it did for sleep. That and hearing Stevie’s voice.

  Brenda played his message over before she went to bed. There was a roomy sound to what he said, so when she lay down and shut her eyes, she pictured him indoors. Inside some empty place, no carpets or curtains, just walls.

  Mostly when he called, what she got was traffic noise. Buses and cars. So she knew he was alive, and that he was outside. In London, most likely: Stevie told her one time that he was down there, but she never
got much else. If it was his mother he’d gone looking for, or just a good bit of distance. Brenda still felt the loss of Lindsey, even now, so she couldn’t blame him for searching, even if she didn’t think it would help. Cannae find somewan doesnae want tae be found.

  So hard to think of Stevie out there, working that out for himself; or that he might take the same path. That dread prospect had Brenda running off at the mouth, in all his early phone calls:

  “You’re safe, are you? Are you keepin safe, son?”

  She’d told him she kept a bed made, and how he’d be safest at home, with her and Malky. But if she went on at him too much he’d just hang up, she’d learned that to her cost; and to regret all the shouting she’d done too before he ran off. So Brenda tried not to press him now when he called, just gave him her bits of news. Not too much about family, she stuck to safer territory: which of the neighbours had moved, which flats on the scheme had been pulled down, and which were being damp-proofed.

  They’d been busy with the wrecking ball since Stevie left, so there was plenty else to tell him. The top of the estate where he’d lived with his Dad went first: his old bedroom smashed, and the close, the whole long grey block turned to rubble and dust. Graham was living in one of the new terraces now, on his own, with enough room for Stevie too, if he ever came home. But mention his Dad and he’d cut her off as well, so Brenda didn’t like to risk it.

  Stevie’s phone calls were her straws to clutch at: her grandson still out there, somewhere, and wanting contact, even if he couldn’t let himself be found yet. His calls were strange and sore, but still a consolation of sorts, so once she’d told him about the rebuilding, or her new central heating and Malky’s dealings with the housing association, Brenda mostly just stayed quiet as Stevie was. A few seconds, or sometimes minutes, if she was lucky. The line went dead when the mobile’s credit ran out, and that was that. Until the next one.

  Fingers crossed she’d be home when it came. Brenda opened her eyes, hopeful again.

  She lay with the windows open, curtains wide, watching the night turn pale beyond the high rises.

  Brenda was still lifted when she went up to Eric’s. Late Friday afternoon and the day was sweltering, but she got off the bus with Stevie’s call still fresh.

  Brenda found Eric drawing. She hoovered up the ash around his feet, but didn’t interrupt. She’d been going to his place more often over the summer; it was like Eric had got old on her, all of a sudden. He mostly went and lay on his bed while she did the cleaning, and he’d even been asleep on the sofa on Tuesday when she arrived. So if he was working, Brenda took it as a good sign.

  Eric tore everything off his walls when Stevie left. They’d been full of his pictures and now they were blank. He’d stopped drawing too, for a good couple of years, so it was hard not to wonder what had got him back at his desk.

  Brenda kept half an eye on her brother, through the open doorway, while she dusted the hall, and when Eric went for a lie down, she worked her way brisk across the living room to take a look.

  She’d only meant to take a quick glance. Only then she found Stevie on the page. Freckles and skinny limbs, that missed face. It made her heart sore to see it, and light. Brenda pulled the paper closer, out from under the others, and found Graham drawn there too, over at the far edge.

  One on one side, the other on the other, and good likenesses both. Graham solid and Stevie spare, and a bit older too than when he’d left, as though Eric’s pencils had been keeping pace. There was nothing dark about the picture, it was just clear and simple, with no hint of old Louth hurt, or tricky wee clues to some Bible story, as far as Brenda could make out.

  Stevie was sitting, up close, and Graham was standing, a bit more in the background; like Eric was imagining Stevie back, at home and with his Dad. Except it wasn’t like a picture of the two of them together, more like two different pictures on the same sheet of paper.

  “Havnae worked it out yet.”

  Eric caught Brenda looking. He was swift across the room, putting his hands down to cover the paper, hide what he’d been drawing.

  “You’re no tae tell Graham. Aye? I keep my sketches hidden when he comes.”

  Brenda blinked at her brother, surprised.

  “When does Graham come here?”

  She left him a while later, with a fresh mug of tea and her word of honour: she wouldn’t say a thing to Graham about the picture. But she thought she’d have to ask him about his visits. Eric had told her Graham came by some mornings on his way to work; her son made him tea and toast, that was all. He’d made it sound so normal. Only with their history, Brenda knew there had to be more to it.

  So she called Malky from the bus stop, to relay the news. But he told her:

  “Graham can go an see his uncle. That’s allowed.”

  And then, teasing:

  “He comes tae see you. Seein Eric must be easy efter that.”

  Malky had been staunch these past three years, in defence of their son. He’d told her Graham was making a fist of his life, in his new house; finding jobs, even in these hard times, taking on extra hands. And after all he’d been through as well. Malky said:

  “They’ve ground tae make up, anyhow. Eric an Graham. Best they get on wae it.”

  Brenda couldn’t argue with that.

  It was too hot to argue in any case.

  She stood up to flag down her bus, coming through the Friday traffic rush, and then after she’d hung up, it occurred to her that she hadn’t told Eric about Stevie’s phone call. She’d planned to, just this morning; she’d wanted to talk about Stevie coming back, because it had felt to her like Stevie might. What would it take to make that work?

  Brenda sat down on the lower deck near the doors and thought about Eric’s new picture: seemed like he’d been asking himself the same question.

  And if Graham and Eric could make up, then maybe anything could happen.

  She felt the hope rise again, like an ache this time, in her chest. She couldn’t have Lindsey back, Brenda knew that. But if she could just have the boy. She thought she’d do what it took; still enough marrow in her old bones, just about, and Malky’s. Only who knew where Stevie was? She didn’t.

  Brenda had to sigh then, at herself, rubbing the heel of her hand against her temples, like to wipe away that thought, wiping away the sweat that kept on coming. An old man’s picture and a phone call: it wasn’t much to go on. She’d be glad when this heat had passed anyhow, and the Walk as well, then she’d have a proper talk with Graham.

  Friday night, Saturday morning, it rained in the small hours. It poured. Brenda was asleep, but she heard the roar as the clouds burst, like a goal scored at Ibrox, and then there was a long minute of lying there, eyes half-closed, before she could think what that din was, all around.

  The roar settled into a rattle on the slates, and then she made out the high sound of water in the drains: a burble, like a song, and under that was the steady prassle on the bins and grass and pavements.

  Still early, just getting light, Brenda got up and made herself tea, with enough in the pot for Malky too, ready for when he came off shift. Then she sat in the kitchen, watching the rain across the back court, soaking the pebble-dash dark.

  The rain had washed away the heat, and Brenda wrapped her dressing gown tight. It was the sort of day would chill you, if you were out and wet, and she knew Graham would be out by this time. With Shug and all the rest, making ready by the Orange Halls, waiting for the off, their once-a-year chance to meet and merge with other bands and lodges, coming in from Clydebank, Yoker, Whiteinch. All the loyal western folk, heading for town.

  No sign of Malky yet, though he wouldn’t still be driving, Brenda thought, not with the Walk about to start. If she knew her husband, he’d have parked up his cab by now, and gone to see the bands off.

  He’d done that these past few years, ever since Stevie left, and Brenda didn’t know how he could bring himself. Malky just shrugged when she asked; he said if you lov
ed, you learned to make allowances.

  It was nothing like when they were kids, anyhow: Malky told her the Walk wasn’t nearly so big, or so bold now. It had seemed like a fine spectacle back then, with all the banners, and the menfolk in suits; men who never got to wear them on work days as a rule. Back in Kinning Park, Brenda remembered the streets all strung with bunting, and folk leaning out from up high in the tenement windows; orange lilies, and Sweet William bunched into buttonholes. It was talked of for weeks, before and after: all that life and colour, and the stiff, solemn pride of the July day.

  Pride of Drumchapel was well down in numbers. Malky said they were all getting older, most likely getting married and thinking better at long last; same as what had happened to his band. There were fewer turning out to follow as well. Not even nearly like the send-off it used to be in years gone by, and hardly any young folk. Mostly it was just hard cases and the aged: last year, Malky said the Walk looked more like the walking wounded.

  He told Brenda he stood well back from the crowd anyhow; it was just Graham he was turning out for.

  Brenda couldn’t go and do the same. She could never like Graham drumming. But the rain kept on coming, and it had her minded how Shug had found the band plastic capes one year, to cover their uniforms. They were printed with union flags, with elasticated bags to match, like daft wee shower hats, to put over their peaked caps. Brenda pictured Graham like that, and it was hard not to feel fond of him when she did.

  She thought he’d be sodden already, before they’d even started; the rain would be running down his neck, soaking his shoulders and back. But it would dance on his snare too, whenever the skin was struck—jumping pearls—and the flute players would shake the water out of their instruments in the lulls, without breaking stride. If this drizzle kept up there’d be hardly anyone out to watch them. But a bit of rain wouldn’t stop them, on down through town and beyond. Brenda sat and pictured her son, damp and happy with his drum, somewhere among them.

  26

  Stevie heard the Walk from where he lay, wrapped in his bedroll.