Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

‘Och, Julie Donaldson’s the biggest drama queen, Sam. You know it and I know it,’ Tim told her.

They were standing in a corner of the playground beneath a shaded walkway. The text to Sam’s mobile had been the only communication from Julie and somehow that had hurt. Why hadn’t she called her? Properly. It wouldn’t have taken much time out of her day. What was she doing anyway? In town. What was that supposed to mean? Sam’s thoughts whirled around but failed to come up with any sort of solution. She’d cried night after night after Dad had left and Julie had been there for her each morning, on the telephone or actually coming round to the house. Now things had changed.

‘She’s been really good to me since-’ Sam began, a break in her voice. Abandoning any sort of worries about looking cool, Tim put his arm around his wee sister as he sensed the tears about to fall.

‘It’s okay, wee yin. Julie’s a big girl. She’ll take care of herself. Wait and see. It’ll all sort itself out. Mr Manson’ll make sure it does.’

‘D’you really think so?’ Sam lifted a tear-stained face. Her big brother sounded so sure. Tim had changed in recent days, Sam realised looking at his profile, the sharp jaw ending in that determined Wetherby chin. He was so like Dad, she thought with a sudden pang of recognition. Was that why her big brother seemed so much older? She’d thought it was just because he was one of the Sixth Years now. Or maybe with Dad gone Tim was trying to take his place as the man of the house. That’s what Gran had called him last night.

‘Aye, you’re probably right. Guess she’ll call me tonight, eh?’ Sam pulled away and searched in her bag for a paper hanky. ‘Right, better go and tidy up. See you.’ She attempted a tremulous smile and Tim grinned at her. In that fleeting moment Sam caught sight of the old Tim, the happy-go-lucky boy he had been before all this horrible stuff between their parents had happened. Then the moment was over and he was striding away from her towards the door that led to that holy of holies, the Sixth Year common room.

Glasgow city centre was more crowded than Kyle had anticipated. The unexpected bonus of more sunshine after a few days’ interlude of rain seemed to have brought out the shoppers in force. A group of old ladies clad in light rain-jackets of varying shades of beige (as a concession to the summer weather) were standing staring at a window display; as he passed them he saw one point at something and declare, ‘An awfu price’ in reproving tones. Kyle grinned. It could’ve been his granny, the old dear sounded dead like her.

He’d left the bus at the corner of Renfrew Street and now he was walking past the steps leading up to RSAMD. The Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama was one of many cultural institutions of which the city was rightly proud. Kyle’s class had been taken to a student production of Twelfth Night before the end of last session. He’d moaned like the rest of his class, sure that any play of Shakespeare’s would bore him out of his box, but much to his surprise he’d actually enjoyed it. A comedy, the teachers had told him, but somehow he hadn’t expected it to be so bloody funny or the actors to be so very, very good. The bus trip on the way back to school had been great, with everyone shouting out lines from the play in daft voices. Mrs Lorimer, who’d organised the event, had even joined in at one point. Kyle glanced up Hope Street towards the Theatre Royal. He’d been there just the once, at primary school. Some Roald Dahl story, he forgot which one. His two recollections of the place were of the myriad lights that made the gold-painted balconies glitter and, once those lights had dimmed, wondering how the band underneath the stage could possibly play in the dark.

Crossing as the wee green man appeared on the pedestrian lights, the boy made his way further into the heart of town, instinct taking him towards the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall that dominated the hill above Buchanan Street. He passed the verdigris-green statue of Scotland’s first First Minister, Donald Dewar, and began walking past Buchanan Galleries. There were some young lads, not much older than himself, sitting on the stone steps tucking into their lunches; watching one of them take a bite from a huge baguette made Kyle’s mouth water. His own lunchtime snack was already a memory. Maybe he should’ve gone round to Chancellor Street. Granny’s tins were always full of home baking. A wistful look filmed Kyle’s eyes. Och, well, it was too late now. He’d just hang about here till it was time to go home. She’d have just made a fuss anyway, giving him what for when she found he was cutting classes.

There was a Borders bookshop further down the hill; their magazine section was ace and you could actually sit and browse some of the sports copies without being hassled. The shop assistants always seemed too busy to bother so Kyle supposed that most folk eventually bought their stuff anyway. He’d rather keep what cash he had for the bus home and maybe something else to eat.

‘Hiya. What’re you doing in town, Kerrigan?’

Kyle whirled round. Julie Donaldson was standing right behind him, her bag slung casually over one shoulder.

‘Could ask you the same question, Donaldson,’ Kyle retorted.

‘Dogging it, same as you,’ she replied with the beginning of a grin. ‘Fancy going for a coffee? There’s a Starbucks just over there.’

Kyle felt his face redden. Starbucks’ prices were out of his range and he couldn’t afford to pay for hers as well. ‘Naw, don’t like that place,’ he lied. ‘How about we just go an sit at the back o Borders, eh?’

‘If you like,’ Julie agreed. ‘It’s probably a wee bit early for a thae Goths that always hang out there anyway.’ She giggled. Kyle shrugged. School was split into so many factions, self-branded as Goths, Emos or whatever. Julie and her crowd certainly didn’t favour the Goth look, he knew. They were right girly sort of girls, always on about the latest bands and fashions. Kyle glanced at Julie, appraisingly. Pity they weren’t an item any more. She was a nice-looking lassie, with all that long blonde hair and a neat wee figure. Kyle liked to see the ones that kept fit. In his book there was no excuse for a teenager to get all flabby and he hated seeing lassies whose bellies rolled fat over their waistbands. Julie, he noted, was all right. More than all right, he thought, those old feelings suddenly rushing back. Today her lips were a nice pink colour with some shiny stuff making them all glossy. But apart from that she didn’t have loads of stuff on her face, not like some of them who painted themselves daft until their grannies wouldn’t recognise them. That was one of the things that had made Kyle fancy her in the first place.

‘It’s pure magic in the sunshine,’ Julie said, flopping down on the stone steps beside him.

‘Aye,’ Kyle replied, suddenly at a loss for what to say. Why had he agreed to chum her? Why on earth hadn’t he made up some excuse to go and do something? But her sudden appearance there in Buchanan Street had caught Kyle unawares. Besides, he sensed that Julie was actually quite pleased to see him and that made him feel good, sort of. Julie Donaldson had been in his class since way back, he could simply regard her as an old pal, Kyle told himself. So that made it all right. There was no sense of her wanting to get back together with him.

Below them, Royal Exchange Square was thronging with afternoon shoppers looking for a rest in one of the many tea rooms on either side of the Gallery of Modern Art, a pseudo-classical building that dominated the area. The sun was warming the old grey stones making the place seem almost continental — the pavements filled with dinky wee tables and chairs outside where folk could sit and blether as they had their lattes or whatever, Kyle thought.