Alex Gray - The Riverman

Maggie stood motionless. What the hell did he mean? She felt the redness suffuse her cheeks and continued to stare, quite unable to form a coherent reply.

‘Eh, Miss? Did ye no’ kinda’ wonder aboot Mr Lorimer when ye were away?’

There was a sudden collective intake of breath from the rest of the class. James Kerrigan had gone too far this time. Mrs Lorimer would give him a real telling off or even sling him out of the room.

But Maggie did neither of these things. Instead she continued to gaze at the boy. Had other kids in the school been asking the same question? A murmur among the girls made her aware that she had to speak or be condemned by her very silence.

‘Is that what you think the normal reaction is between people, James?’ she said, trying hard to control her voice. Then, turning to look over the whole class, she asked, ‘What do you all think? Is it reasonable to become suspicious of one’s partner?’

The relief within the room was palpable and a few hands shot up.

‘Desdemona’s younger than him, Miss, and she has lots of admirers,’ one of the girls piped up.

‘And Iago makes him think like that, Miss. He’s pure evil, by the way,’ another added.

Just then the bell shrilled out and Maggie watched as each student began to pack up hurriedly and head for the door.

‘Walk!’ she called automatically as the boys began to run along the corridor towards the canteen. Last period in the morning was a good slot for teaching, but Maggie rarely had any pupils hanging back to discuss the finer points of Shakespeare in their rush to find lunch.

‘A’right, Miss?’ James looked back over his shoulder at her as he turned away from the door, an insouciant grin of mischief on his face.

Maggie waved him off. James was a pain and she should have dealt with him more severely. He knew it too, she thought, as she watched him kick an imaginary football into an equally imaginary goal. God! That had been close. She’d nearly made a right fool of herself. Next time he’d be given a reprimand for insolence and made to stay behind. So why hadn’t she done that today? Maggie asked herself, gathering in the textbooks that had been rapidly thrust down to the front row of the class. Was it because she was frightened to hear what he might tell her?

She piled the books into her cupboard shelves and locked the door. Outside, the corridor was silent, the last sound of rushing feet having died away. With a huge sigh, Maggie turned and headed towards the staffroom. A cup of coffee, she thought, then a sit down.

The staffroom was a pleasant cacophony of noise, the hiss from the coffee machine and the sound of voices talking and laughing. A few faces turned her way and smiled as she passed them. Maggie smiled back feeling, as she sometimes did, that this was her real home among these people who shared her way of life, her grouses about certain pupils, her frustrations with aspects of the system that seemed utterly pointless; things that Bill would never really understand. There was that lovely solidarity with folk like Sandie, who was already beckoning her over to sit next to her.

‘Hard morning?’ Sandie asked as Maggie slumped into the chair by her friend.

‘Sort of. That James Kerrigan. He’s a cheeky wee soand-so.’

‘Oh, him! I’ve given up expecting much of James. His computing assignments are way behind. Can’t think what on earth we’ll do without him after the summer,’ she added, her voice laden with sarcasm.

‘Is he leaving, then?’

‘Yep! Doesn’t want to be bothered with school, he tells me. Doesn’t need any grades for what he’s going to do.’

‘And what might that be?’ Maggie asked darkly. ‘Dealing at the school gates with big brother Tam?’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Sandie replied, ‘but he said he was starting with his pal’s father in his joinery business.’

‘Ah, well, so long as he keeps his nose clean. Those Kerrigans have been nothing but trouble,’ Maggie grumbled, rising to her feet in search of a cup of coffee.

‘Come and see, come and see!’ Stephanie, the probationer in Maggie’s English department, sat opposite them and placed a pile of wedding magazines on the table with a flourish.

‘Tell me what you think,’ she prattled happily, turning a page and pointing at an advertisement for wedding stationery. Several of the women leaned in towards the girl and examined the magazine. Maggie sat back and sighed to herself. Steph, with her long glossy dark hair and impossibly tiny waist, was just like a wee girl at times. Her voice rose in a squeal of excitement as she showed off her choices of wedding invitations and orders of service. Had she ever been like that before her wedding to Bill? Maggie wondered. Memories came flooding back of standing at the church door, rose petals whirling in the spring air and Bill grinning at her like an idiot. The happiest day of my life, she thought. But there had been other moments too, like being whisked off her feet and carried over the threshold.

Suddenly she was back there again in Glasgow’s West End, seeing herself as she must have been at Stephanie’s age. Their flat had been two flights up a dark staircase that smelled of late-night curries and mouldering vegetables. The front door was a home-made job, flat brown formica nailed across whatever had been there before in a vain attempt to give the place some class. That had been an utter failure, but at least it had served to distinguish their wee place from all the rest. Some time previously the apartment must have been a fine building, since traces of cornicing could still be distinguished on the ceiling of the tiny hallway. Theirs had been one room with a shared communal kitchen and a long cold bathroom with an enormous bath. It had taken hours to fill and far too many of their precious coins in that greedy meter. Maggie smiled to herself remembering the time she and Bill had clambered, giggling, into that huge tub, hoping their collective weight would make the water level rise sufficiently to give them a decent soak. They’d made love then, careless of the presence of other folk just through the thin partition walls, careless of anything other than their own fervent desires. She’d trembled beneath her young husband’s touch as he’d dried her skin, as much from passion as from the cold air that had swirled around that Gothic excuse for a bathroom. The wooden floorboards were worn and shiny from countless pairs of feet, she remembered, and those green tiles with their black trim just had to have been the original decor.

Now it was all gone, felled by the wrecking ball that had cleared that whole section of Gibson Street. She had gone back once, before the heavy plant had moved in, seeing the blank windows with their dingy lace curtains and the rubbish that had piled up inside the closes. How had she felt? Had it been nostalgia for the days they’d spent in that wee nest or gratitude that their home consisted of far more than a single rented room? She couldn’t remember. Stephanie had got onto the subject of her new flat and all the Ikea furniture she wanted to buy but Maggie was barely listening. In her mind’s eye she was seeing Bill loping along Gibson Street, his dark hair shining under that street lamp just below their window and remembering how her heart would lift at the very sight of him.

Had they lost something of that along the way? The lonely nights spent in hospital beds after yet another miscarriage had perhaps served to make her grow up or grow away from the person she’d been. Would a family have made any difference to them? Or was this a condition that came to all married couples in time? Would young Stephanie still have that magical sparkle ten years from now?

‘What’s up with you?’ Sandie asked, making Maggie aware of the huge sigh that had escaped from her chest.