The Walk Home

by Rachel Seiffert

  “Aw, son.”

  Like she needed him to tread careful. And like she saw them all the time too, wee hoodies with freckles, only none of them had turned out to be Stevie yet.

  So Graham took a breath, slowing up a bit again. Thinking maybe she was right: best not be leaping ahead of themselves. Wasn’t like he didn’t have doubts; the way Stevie was there and then gone again, soon as he’d parked up, all the cars behind beeping at his slammed brakes.

  In his socks now, Graham stepped into the house, took the mug of tea his Mum was holding out; she’d stirred in two sugars to compensate. He let her bring him back down to earth again, gentle as she could.

  “You eaten, son?”

  “Naw.”

  He’d been working round the clock, as per usual.

  “I’ll get mysel somethin,” Graham told her. “You sit down, Maw.”

  They were both still being careful, Graham and his mother, around each other. Graham’s Dad said that was all to the good. And he’d told him she liked the way he dropped round like this.

  Graham did it most evenings just now: parking up for tea and talk before he drove the last of the home stretch. He’d taken to checking in on his Mum since Eric passed, just a few days after the Walk; it was coming up for a month ago, and it had come as such a shock to her as well. His Mum had been to see Eric only the evening before, and she said he’d been tired again, but still busy as he ever was.

  She never said it in so many words, but Graham knew his uncle had been drawing.

  Graham had been the one who found him.

  He’d got in the habit of getting Eric dressed and breakfasted, because the old man had been neglecting himself too much over the summer, in favour of his pictures. Mugs sat unwashed all over the surfaces, and he missed out on meals entirely; Eric always was his own worst enemy, but Graham still found himself driving over there. Not that he could have explained himself. He just couldn’t stand by and let the old man slide, so he’d let himself in, just like most mornings, only Graham knew there was something amiss, soon as he couldn’t get the door to the living room open.

  Eric had died on the floor. Except Graham didn’t tell his Mum that, when he’d called her. He’d figured the old man had stayed up too late at his desk, trying to get his new picture right, and then he’d been too tired to make it to his bed.

  Graham had decided his Mum didn’t need to know that either, so before she got there, he’d already lifted Eric onto the sofa; laid his big limbs onto the cushions, curled over like he was sleeping. Graham had fetched a blanket too, from Eric’s bed, and put it over him, but not his face. So that’s how she saw him when she came in.

  “You go on, Maw,” Graham told her now. She’d followed him into the kitchen, so he steered her out again, back towards her armchair. He cut himself a sandwich, and went to join her.

  His Mum would sit there half the night, given half a chance; Graham’s Dad had told him how she dropped off some nights, there where she was, waking up hips stiff, neck cricked, when he came in from driving.

  His Dad reckoned it was the shock, the loss of her brother; she needed time to do her grieving. But Graham had sat with his Mum these past few weeks, all these evenings, telly on in the corner, only he could see she wasn’t watching, and so sometimes it felt more like she was waiting. For he didn’t know what. Him to say something useful, or his Dad to come in the door. Or maybe even Stevie to call. Graham figured that would be about right: July was his last, which meant she was just about due another. So anyhow, Graham sat with his mother. And he’d got to thinking: maybe she hoped as much as he did, only she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  His own phone rang off the hook these days: guys he had working needing their orders, or suppliers wanting paid up front. Graham had had to get himself organised, and it had been some steep learning curve, taking on as much as he did, but he felt it levelling out. He’d even managed a drink with his Dad a couple of days ago, his first in however long; they’d met up at a place in town, after Graham finished up for the evening, just in time for last orders. No games at the snooker club, or practice nights, Graham had no time for anything but work and family just lately.

  His Dad told him that’s what a man’s life should look like; he said he was rising to the task. Graham didn’t know if that’s what it was. But it was no bad thing anyhow, to feel broad-shouldered, do things you never thought you would.

  He’d found his uncle, he’d lifted him and covered him; Graham had stayed with him too, until his Mum got there, and even after. It would have been wrong to just up and leave him, but it wasn’t only that, not for Graham. Eric’s dying had left him quiet. Like sleep taking him after a long day’s graft, or like he’d worked something out, even if he didn’t have the words. Graham never was much good at explaining himself, but in any case, sitting quiet with Eric was the last thing he’d have thought could happen. And so even now, sitting here with his Mum and thinking about his uncle being gone, Graham got that same ground-shifting-under-him feeling of life going on; full of surprises.

  So much of life still to get on with.

  “You should get tae your bed, son,” his Mum told him, soft, from her armchair: he had work again tomorrow.

  “Aye so should you, but.”

  Graham gave as good as he got. And got a smile from her.

  This is what they did just now: they sat and kept each other right of an evening. Quiet, companionable. Graham thought that was no bad thing either.

  But it was late now, his piece was eaten, about time he took his plate back into the kitchen. Graham wasn’t sleepy, he still had half a mind to drive back to the South Side, call his Dad on the way, see if they couldn’t comb the streets down there together. Him in his van, his Dad in his cab; both on the hands-free, windows rolled down, looking out for Stevie. Only Graham wanted his Mum in bed first.

  “Mon now,” he told her. “Because you’ll only be up early.”

  He knew what she was like: she might wait up late, but she didn’t spend her days sitting idle. She’d got them all to Eric’s funeral, and now she had his flat to sort through: all those box files. What to hold on to?

  “Aye, right you are, son.”

  She made a show of being annoyed, rising stiff from her armchair, but Graham could see she liked it, him taking charge here, taking care of her.

  “I’ll take it easy,” his Mum promised, as she went to get her face washed, teeth brushed. Graham laid odds she’d be up at Eric’s again tomorrow.

  She and his Dad had made a start on the kitchen cupboards, to make a bit of headway through the easier stuff, and Graham’s brothers said they’d be on hand to help now, most weekends. His Mum had all her sons with her last Saturday, two of her daughters-in-law as well, and it looked like it had been a comfort, having Eric’s kitchen full of family, even if it had come too late for him to see it.

  Graham had heard his Mum telling Malky Jnr. as much.

  And how she’d be leaving Eric’s desk till last.

  So Graham couldn’t help but think now of all the sketches locked inside: his uncle’s new drawing, still unfinished before he’d died.

  Eric had kept his desk shut when he came calling; the old man had made a point of it. Not that Graham had been tempted to look. He’d seen enough that riverbank morning, and he’d made his thoughts known. Nothing to be gained, raking over those old coals, so Graham had made his uncle tea and toast, and then left him to his dark drawings.

  There had been some Graham liked, even so, over the years; he gave Eric that much. His biro sketches of John Joe’s pigeons, done on the backs of envelopes. And the one in his Mum’s hall too, that Graham could just make out in the telly glow: all his brothers, lined up and smiling, eating ice-creams. He could see why his Mum still kept it.

  Graham had even found some good ones in Lindsey’s box that time, not so long before she’d left him. Pictures of Papa Robert, drawings that caught his best side. The old man, not so old then, secateurs in hand, standing by
his close steps, deadheading a rose bush almost as big as he was.

  If it was something like that, Eric’s last drawing, Graham thought that would be something. Hope in his last days; Graham even wished it for him. New scheme, new blooms, and Papa Robert’s staunch faith, that life could start anew for them.

  Papa Robert’s roses died before him. Two of old age and too-cold winters, and the last of them in the scheme’s worst days, when Graham was a boy. It was felled overnight, by a handful of wee shitebags, armed with thick gloves and hacksaws, out way beyond their bedtime. And Papa Robert was near the end by then, but he still came out roaring when he heard them, only they’d got through the trunk by that stage, and then they’d flung the bush at him, thorns and all, before they ran off crowing.

  Such a long time ago now, but Graham still remembered: how the neighbours had a whip-round in the days that came after, enough to buy three new roses. Only Papa Robert would have none of it.

  He said they’d never be like his mother’s.

  Or half as good as the ones he’d planted with Eric.

  And then Graham thought how Eric shouldn’t have been a draughtsman, even if he’d turned out a good one. He should have got his Highers, maybe he should have gone to university. Who knew what hopes Papa Robert had had for him?

  Papa Robert was a hard grandfather to love.

  Graham reckoned he must have been a much harder Dad.

  And so what kind of father had he been to Stevie? It hurt Graham to think he’d given him reason to run off.

  But it gave him heart just then, all the same, that Eric had tried drawing Papa Robert again. He’d given him another go, so sons could do that, if you gave them time, maybe, and cause. Not just bitter about everything he’d lost, Eric had tried to remember what else his Dad was. A teetotaller, a steady and reliable worker, a church elder, and a grower of fine roses. A Louth boy, and a Glasgow man; Papa Robert was a father too. And Graham still wanted to be a better one.

  “You still here, son?”

  His Mum was standing in the doorway, in her dressing gown, face a soft smile. Like she knew she’d caught him hoping, waiting up like she did. It was just a short drive across the scheme to his own house, but she told him:

  “You can aye stay here. You know that.”

  Graham nodded: he did now. It did him good to hear it. A while since he could take that for granted.

  He turned to look at the clock, well after midnight. Should he sleep now, or go out driving about, looking for Stevie? What would happen if he found him?

  “Could still take him years, son. Tae find his way home.”

  Graham looked at his mother, abrupt, feeling like she’d looked right through him. But it was a kind look she gave him, like she knew it was painful. Hard to be hopeful, but not too much; keeping faith, over the long haul. She said:

  “It’s Stevie’s choice tae make. So we’ll just have tae wait.”

  Like she’d thought all this over, and it would only lead to hurt, getting their hopes up too early.

  Graham blinked, not sure what to say to that. He stood himself up. Was that all there was to say here?

  He looked at his mother, thinking Stevie was out there, somewhere, so he couldn’t just do nothing till he came here.

  Except Graham couldn’t find the words to put her right, not just then. How long had it taken Eric before he drew his Dad again?

  He sighed.

  “Can I take you up on that bed, Maw?” Graham asked, for want of a better response, and then he took himself into the spare room to sleep on it.

  But he woke again, briefly, at three. Thought he heard his Dad’s key. Allowed himself to think it was Stevie. And then he was back drifting, and Graham’s dreaming mind took over; he was already on tomorrow night, the night after, searching the streets between here and the South Side. Watching for a small red head to show up on the pavements.

  Acknowledgements

  Grateful thanks to:

  Toby Eady and Jamie Coleman, for sticking with me while I stuck this one out. Ditto Dan Frank, and for cutting to the chase when it was needed. Lennie Goodings, for her careful persistence; very much appreciated.

  Anne Campbell, Willy Maley, Alison Miller, Caroline Rye and Paul Welsh, for all the reading and support over the years.

  John Freeman and all the good folk at Granta, for their timely intervention.

  Jo Seeley likewise, and for helping me to put things in a new light.

  Alan Bisset, for pointing me in the right direction early on.

  Kevin, for all the time he gave over, with good humour; and his family, for letting me bend his ear.

  The Grand Orange Lodge of Scotland, in particular Robert, Malcolm, Tom and David, for their generosity and openness.

  The Queen Elizabeth Accordion Band, especially Harry and John, who welcomed me both at Whiteinch practices and on Walk days, and were endlessly patient with all my questions.

  Sarah Ward, for long friendship, and who first took me to Drumchapel, too many years ago now to think about.

  And Michael, just because.

  Those who know Drumchapel well will spot that the timeline of its regeneration is a little elastic in this novel. I hope I have remained faithful in principle to the process and that they will therefore permit me this leeway.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rachel Seiffert’s first novel, The Dark Room, was short-listed for the Booker Prize, won the Los Angeles Times First Fiction Prize, and was the basis for the acclaimed motion picture Lore. She was one of Granta’s Best of Young British Novelists in 2003; in 2004, Field Study, her collection of short stories, received an award from PEN International. Her second novel, Afterwards, was long-listed for the 2007 Orange Prize, and in 2011 she received the E. M. Forster Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Her books have been published in eighteen languages. Formerly of Glasgow, she now lives in London with her family.

  A Pantheon Books Reading Group Guide

  The Walk Home by Rachel Seiffert

  This guide is designed to enhance your reading group’s focus on some of the main concepts in this book and to enable readers to explore and share different perspectives. Feel free to wander in your discussions, and use this as a guideline only!

  Discussion Questions:

  1. Describe the relationship between Stevie’s parents, Lindsey and Graham. Why does she leave Ireland for him? Why does she eventually leave Scotland too? What is she running away from? Do you think she’ll ever find peace?

  2. How is The Walk Home a story of reinvention? Who tries to reinvent themselves and why? Do they succeed?

  3. Are any of the characters free of guilt? How does both family guilt and religious guilt play into the novel?

  4. The Walk Home is set against the sectarian and cultural divisions and hatred of Northern Ireland and Scotland in the 1990s that are, years later, still reeling from the Troubles of the 1960s. How does religion affect the characters, even those that aren’t religious?

  5. Why does Graham play his flute in the annual Protestant Orange Walk despite pressure from his wife and mother? Why don’t they want him to participate?

  6. What does playing and practicing with the band give Graham that he doesn’t seem to have from anything else? How does it ultimately rip apart his family?

  7. Why does the relationship between Graham and Lindsey dissolve? What do you think kept them together up to that point?

  8. Why does Stevie run away from home and stay away for so long? What is he running away from and to what or where is he running?

  9. What do you think home represents for each of the characters? Family? Love? Safety? Shared history?

  10. What does the title mean to you? What do you think it means to Stevie, to Lindsey, to Eric, to Graham, and to the Polish workers?

  11. The Economist says of The Walk Home, “This is a book about people who say very little.” Why do Graham and Stevie not say much? Why does Lindsey chat more with Eric and her mother-in-law than with her
husband?

  12. Describe Lindsey and Eric’s relationship. What binds them together? Why does Lindsey ultimately feel betrayed by Eric?

  13. Does Lindsey trust anyone? Does Stevie?

  14. Why do you think the author compares a working-class Scottish family with the community of Polish contractors who are in Scotland with little family or cultural connections? What do they represent in the novel?

  15. Discuss the themes of violence and betrayal in this work. How does violence, both physical and mental, play into the story?

  16. What do we learn about Graham’s grandfather, Papa Robert? How has his large personality (“He was a force tae be reckoned with” [this page]) loomed over and haunted the family even after his death?

  17. How is Eric different from the other men in the novel? “He’d taken a lonely path, and it had undone him” (this page).

  18. “Now he was no longer so angry, perhaps he could feel it as his father had” (this page). Eric tries to forgive and explain his father to Lindsey, but it backfires. Why?

  19. Is the Drumchapel neighborhood of Glasglow, as described here, similar to any neighborhood you know of? How and why?

  20. Do you think the ending is hopeful? And do you think Stevie will finally feel like he belongs?

  Suggested Reading:

  Monica Ali, Brick Lane

  Tessa Hadley, Clever Girl

  Rachel Seiffert, Afterwards

  Zadie Smith, NW

  Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting