Tony Black - Paying For It

All I did know, the person I was wasn’t the person I wanted to be any more. My father had tried to shape me with lashings and harsh words, but look what he’d done. Look what I was. A waster, basically. An alkie loser.

Deep down though, I knew I couldn’t blame him. I’d been over it a million times. If I’d had it better, who’s to say I would be any different? Kids who are showered with affection develop their own problems. They go into the wider world looking for a kind of love they’ll never attain. My problems felt like mine alone. For years I’d been nurturing them. Perhaps now it was time to let them go. I knew that was what my father had tried to show me.

The coffin was balanced on the dining-room table, my mother sat beside it, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Cathy stood beside her, a hand placed delicately on her back.

‘The others… are they coming to the house?’ I asked.

‘In a while. Michael’s talking to the television people.’

‘The telly?’ I wondered why Michael had been asked to do this, I was the eldest, and Christ, I had the media experience.

‘They’re doing a slot for the news.’

My mother spoke up: ‘Do you think anyone will remember him?’

‘Mam, he was a big name in his day,’ I said. ‘There’ll be loads of interest.’

I knew this wasn’t the case. Football had moved on. To the fans of today, he was a relic. A strange remnant of a bygone era when men were men.

‘Och, I don’t know, it’s all that David whatsisname these days. One married to the skinny girl off that Spice group.’

‘David Beckham,’ I said. ‘We can be grateful he’s nothing like that pretty boy. My dad never once wore shin guards; can’t see Becks taking ninety minutes of tackles like that.’

I’d surprised myself. Here I was defending my father.

‘Do you know what George Best said about Beckham? “He cannot kick with his left foot, he cannot head a ball, he cannot tackle and he doesn’t score many goals. Apart from that he’s all right.”’

A few smiles were raised. For once, I’d done some good.

‘Angus, son,’ said my mother, ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

I knelt down, beside her. ‘Sure, anything.’

‘Now, I don’t want you to feel you have to say yes — really, I don’t want that.’

‘Mam, what is it?’

‘There are some men from your father’s old club coming to help carry the coffin… and there’s Michael, but I thought…?’

I saw where this was leading, the final thing my mother could ask of me.

‘Mam, it’s no problem. I’ll help carry the coffin.’

She raised her handkerchief again. More tears.

‘Come on now, there’ll be cameras out there — stiff upper lip remember.’

Cathy put her arm around her. ‘Come on, Mam. Why don’t you have a bit of a lie down? There’s plenty of time before we need to make our way to the kirk.’

The pair looked a strange sight, both dressed in black, as they moved out of the room.

For a moment I was alone with my father in his coffin. I felt uneasy, moved through to the lounge. As I closed the door behind me, Cathy returned.

‘She’s wearing up well,’ said my sister. ‘Do you think it’ll last?’

‘She’s a tough old girl,’ I said. ‘She just needs a bit of a rest.’

‘She got no sleep last night.’

‘I’m not surprised. What about you?’

Cathy ran her fingers through her hair, I saw a few streaks of grey had crept in. ‘I’ll be okay.’

‘Sit down, would you? You’ve been running about like a mad thing all day.’

‘No, I was going to make some tea.’

‘Cathy, I’ll get the tea. Put your feet up.’

On my way to the kitchen, I tried to stop myself, but had to glance at the dining-room door. I’d seen dead bodies time and again, but this felt different. This was the home I’d played in as a boy; it shook me up. It’s obvious to say death is all about endings, but this really did feel like the curtain had come down on something.

I brought Cathy her tea.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘No problem.’

My sister perched on the edge of her chair, blew into the cup. ‘Gus, there’s something I have to tell you.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I know you and Deborah, well, aren’t exactly getting on right now-’

I put up a hand. ‘Correction. Debs is divorcing me.’

Cathy lowered her cup, balanced it on the arm of the chair. She took a deep breath, then spoke slowly. ‘She came round a few days ago. She’d heard about Dad, and I think it was more for Mam’s sake, but she wanted to say goodbye.’

‘And?’

‘I told her he wasn’t expected to see the night out — this was before you arrived.’ Cathy raised up her cup, took a sip.

‘I know this is leading somewhere, Cath.’

‘Well, she asked to be told about the funeral.’

‘She’s coming to the funeral, that’s what you’re trying to tell me?’

Cathy put her cup on the floor, a little tea spilled over the side and down the edge.

‘Did I do the wrong thing, Gus?’

Tony Black

Paying For It

AS THE SLOW cortege made its way into the kirkyard, my mother wore a brave face. Old women stood up from the graves they’d been tending, gave knowing glances. People I’d never seen greeted us with nods, said they felt sorry for the family’s pain.

A few men in black armbands spoke like we were old friends. I guessed they were from my father’s playing days; we may even have shared a word here and there in the past. But I recognised none of them. Names were a mystery.

At the graveside the sun blinded. A yellow oblong led the way to the broken earth, where the minister stood with a small crowd. More strange faces, people I may once have known, but not now.

Even the minister was a stranger to me, a young bloke, with pale blond hair and paler cheeks. He stood sweltering, sweat dripping down his flat forehead. It all looked very difficult for him. He started to speak; ‘Cannis Dury was known the length of the country,’ he said. ‘In his day he knew faith, not only faith in the Lord, for faith comes in many forms, but faith in himself. When he took to the football field, Cannis Dury showed his faith in a strong body and a determination to win. He had skill and he had heart, and, he was an idol to many.’

I tried to block out the minister’s voice, every word was a reminder of what I’d sooner forget.

‘In these times of change, we see the worship of many false idols, but it is men with faith, in the Lord and in themselves, we can look to for guidance.’

Please. I’d heard enough.

I loosened myself from the crowd, walked away. Under an oak tree I lit a cigarette and watched while they laid my father to rest. My mother scattered earth over the coffin, stepped away. The minister was the first to signal the end of the ceremony, heading off to the kirk’s hall.

As the crowd dispersed I lit another Marlboro with the end of the last one. It grew colder, then the brief glimpse of sun disappeared. The sky still looked blue, but grey clouds started to pitch up.

A voice from nowhere, said, ‘Hello, Gus.’

She wore black trousers and boots, one of those sleeveless tops that could be worn as a dress. Her hair was the first thing I noticed though. Shorter than usual, and a whole new colour. ‘You’ve changed — gone blonde,’ I said.

Deborah took off her sunglasses, flicked back her fringe, then swept the lot back and held it in place with the shades. ‘Fancied something different.’

‘I like it — it suits you.’

‘And you? What about those teeth?’

I dipped my head, felt tense. ‘They’re falsies.’

Silence, as we both searched for more small chat.

Then, we broke in together. ‘I’m sorry…’