Alex Gray: Glasgow Kiss

Anna had wanted a place by the seaside. She’d talked about it as they lay on top of the bed that first afternoon, the dust fairies (her expression) flickering in the still air above them; how they’d get a wee place of their own, how she’d do it up. He’d listened, never saying a word, imagining the sound of waves murmuring on a distant shoreline, sea birds pecking among the pebbles.

But the house had changed and that old, easy familiarity was gone for ever. The bookshelves were empty for a start. Where were the rows of the Reader’s Digest Omnibus and all those ancient discards from the local library? He remembered their faded linen spines and the faint whiff of dust. But now there were just three empty shelves, their original varnish scabby with age. Had he sold them? Thrown them away? A sense of panic began to creep into his thoughts and he had to shake his head to dislodge it. It didn’t help to remember everything.

He looked around, trying to see what else was different. They’d put a peephole into the front door. The man who’d helped him with his stuff had remarked on it. ‘Keeps you safe,’ he’d said. That was the sort of thing they were fond of telling him. Keeps you safe or Concerned for your welfare: these were their favourites. He didn’t care. They were really only anxious to be seen to be following the guidelines that some clown had decided to set in place. They were like wee puppies, tongues lolling out of their mouths, eyes hopeful for a crumb of praise, or even a thank you. Mostly he ignored them but sometimes, just for sheer devilment, he stared them out, then, just as their gaze had dropped, he’d say it. Thank you. Gravely, sonorously, he’d say it, catching the doubt in their eyes as they tried to gauge if he was being sincere or sarcastic.

He was glad when that one had finally left today. It had taken all of his patience not to give the man a good slap as he’d twittered on about how this worked and how that worked. It was his own home, for Christ’s sake! Not some mangy bedsit he’d never clapped eyes on before.

The headache was subsiding now. There was no need to take any medication. There was no need to do anything at all, simply rest and relax, relax, relax, relax . .

Julie Donaldson, her long blonde hair caught by a sudden gust of wind, stood on the pavement, waving and waving until the Range Rover was out of sight, the ubiquitous Jane Norman schoolbag slung across her shoulder. At the end of last term Julie had hung around, waiting for Kyle to appear, but she wouldn’t be doing that any more she told herself, turning to pick out the staffroom windows, wondering if he was there.

Now she could see some of the girls in her own year group and her special pal, Samantha. Julie waved at her, her pace quickening. From the corner of her eye she spotted two young lads in the reception area staring but she just ignored them. Let them stare, she thought as her friend grabbed her in a hug. She was done flirting with stupid wee schoolboys.

‘See you later.’ Samantha turned to catch her older brother’s eye before linking arms with Julie. A group of other Fourth Years were already bearing down on them, their girlish voices becoming louder as each tried to outdo the other.

‘See you, Tim.’ Julie gave Samantha’s brother a wee smile, gratified to see him blush. It was cool being one of the seniors now. And maybe certain people would take her a bit more seriously.

More pupils streamed through the gates, following the girls and their friends towards the school buildings. Over in the staff car park, doors slammed shut as teachers arrived to begin their working day. Some members of staff did arrive on foot, though, and the kids instinctively moved away from them; engaging in conversation with a teacher was just so uncool. A tall young man, a slim document case under his arm, stopped to ask directions from one of the younger girls. Her face colouring up, the pupil pointed to the main entrance then rejoined her pals amid much sniggering as the man followed her directions. There were always new teachers or students at the start of the autumn term and this one wasn’t at all bad looking, they thought, measuring up his appearance against their favourite pop stars.

‘Don’t we have to wait till Manson gives us the okay?’ Kyle asked. The Fourth Year lads were milling around the PE block, sneaking a look down the corridor that led to the place that everyone had been talking about: their Fourth Year common room. It was evident that the boys were keen to inhabit one of the rooms that were given as a special privilege to senior pupils, but still respectful, in a kind of fearful way, of their head teacher.

‘Aye, I think we have to have assembly first. Let’s go and see if the team lists are up, eh?’ one lad suggested.

Kyle let himself be carried along with the others but he kept looking over his shoulder, hopeful of seeing Julie. They’d not spoken since that day in the park, though a couple of text messages had passed between them, and Kyle was anxious to see how she’d behave towards him.

‘Hey, you’re playing with us this term, Kerrigan!’ Ali, a whippet-thin Pakistani boy who was the First Eleven’s best striker, clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Let’s see!’ Kyle pushed his way to the noticeboard and looked. Ali was right. His name was there, in the middle of an alphabetical list. For a moment he simply stared at it. He wasn’t all that good at footie, he knew that. Second Eleven was where he expected to be until at least Fifth Year. So what were they playing at? Had he done better last year than he thought? Or had his name been added to this list for a different reason? Kyle listened to the congratulations from his mates with a few insults thrown in for good measure. But while he pretended to be pleased and even faked a grin, his overwhelming feeling was one of puzzlement.

‘Off to the bog,’ he said, turning on his heel and heading for the boys’ toilets across the corridor. He left them still crowded around the noticeboard, commenting on names and dates, only Ali looking after him with a strange expression on his face.

Inside the cubicle, Kyle slumped forward, head in his hands. He didn’t want to be in the First Eleven football team. Didn’t want to be here. And even if Julie was all over him like a rash, Kyle suddenly knew that it wouldn’t change a thing now that his father had come back into his life.

Morning assembly on the first day of a new term was split into three parts due to the number of pupils that could be accommodated in the main hall. While the juniors were being given Keith Manson’s annual words of wisdom, the other year groups drifted into their year teacher’s classrooms. It would be some time after morning interval before Maggie’s group was taken downstairs for their turn.

‘Good morning, nice to see you all.’ She beamed as she closed the door, the bell signalling the official start to the school year. ‘Oh, Jessica, sorry,’ she added, opening the door again to admit a tall girl who glided into the room. Jessica King smiled vaguely and drifted towards the back. Jessica had never been on time for school as long as she had known her and Maggie guessed that it had ceased to bother the girl around the end of Secondary One. Her disrupted education, caused by her family’s many moves from country to country, meant that she was the oldest student in the class yet she remained quite unconscious of having the sort of cosmopolitan glamour that her contemporaries lacked. Maggie watched the girl sail past the desks, oblivious to the boys whose eyes automatically followed her. They couldn’t help it, Maggie thought, nobody could. At sixteen Jessica was everything a teenage boy fantasised about: long dark hair (still damp from this morning’s shower), porcelain skin, huge blue eyes framed in lashes that looked too thick and luxuriant to be real (they were) and a poise that came from a gene pool that had spawned generations of gorgeous women. Jessica (she had not shortened it to Jess and never in a million years would she answer to Jessie) sat at the back of the room next to Amanda Hamilton. Maggie considered them for a few moments; they were like two Arab mares, manes tossed back, bloodlines showing an elegance of breeding. But where Jessica took her appearance for granted, Manda was different. It wasn’t that the red-haired girl craved attention, Maggie thought, more that she enjoyed warming herself in the sun of admiring glances.