James Kelman - The Burn

I was just that bit young, he said. I mean you were married when I was at primary school.

Yeh. Linda was smiling at a photograph showing him up on dad’s shoulders. It was me took this one, she said.

Mum, Marilyn and Elizabeth were also there, everybody hand in hand; dad’s shirt open at the neck but smart-looking in a way that seemed ancient. Derek was wearing a strange white hat which he seemed to remember. Was that possible? He could only have been about 3 at the time. Mum smallish and carrying a bit of weight — that smile on her face; he knew that smile; and the coat she was wearing, he knew that as well. How come she carried that bit of weight though? She never seemed to eat. Funny. That whole world, whatever it was, totally gone now, vanished forever. Ah christ. He sighed and put his left arm round Linda’s shoulders: Ye’re wearing perfume.

I’m no past it yet you. . But her concentration was on the photograph: Ye were petted as a baby, she said.

Och away.

Ye were.

Petted. .!

A bit. Linda was smiling. . That holiday, she said; that was the time Elizabeth fell off the bike and skint her knee. She was always a moaning-faced wee besom — ye shoulda heard her scream!

I remember.

Do ye?

Yeh. It was a caravan we were staying.

O God it wasni half a caravan! Linda chuckled. The toilet was miles away, they called it a latrine. We all had a potty!

Each?

No each! My God though Derek that holiday was one in a million.

1 mind we had to go across the Forth Bridge on a train.

That’s right.

Although I dont know whether it’s me or just yous all talking about it I remember. Yeh. . He took the photograph from her. The pad and the pen were in the living room. He studied it. What would he have got from it? Ach, just something, there was something there; beautiful wee lassies his sisters, mum and dad, him as well, the wee boy, beautiful. He shut his eyes; what ye should do is drip yer tears into a cup and then dip in yer pen.

Linda had lifted another one out.

But it was these group studies. They were the ones. They were the real thing. The mysteries. I’ll get it, said Linda; the phone ringing, she got up from the floor. Whatever it was it was the group studies. When he was a hundred and thirty six he would be ready to start on them. Up until that point, up until that point.

It was for him, the phone. He frowned. It’s Bill Finlayson, she said.

Christ. . Derek grinned and strode through to the living room. Fin! Hullo?

Mister Hannah.

How ye doing?

How ye doing yerself?

Fine christ. Good to hear ye.

I wasni sure ye’d be back?

Coupla days ago.

Good.

Yeh.

I was sorry to hear about yer mother. I saw it in the Times.

Yeh.

I thought about going to the funeral. .

Ye shoulda.

Aye.

So how’s life treating ye?

Aw fine, alright.

Good, that’s good.

Aye. Listen d’ye fancy a pint or something, when ye going back?

A pint’d be great, great.

Him and Linda in the kitchenette eating toast and cheese. She had cleared the photos away and started making it while he was on the telephone. It was a tiny space but there was a pull-down table joined to one wall. Dad had done the joinering. He used to be quite good with his hands.

Yeh, said Linda, when mum got him going.

Ye mean he was lazy. . Derek smiled.

I dont mean he was lazy; just he had been out at his work all day.

Yeh, yeh, of course.

Saturday morning then he’d go to the match: ye only saw him on Sundays; sometimes he worked them as well.

Hard for mum.

It was.

It wasnt all good fun.

Linda looked at him.

It wasni easy, he said.

She reached to the oven and lifted across the teapot. Ye aye had a sharp tongue Derek, she said.

Did I?

She shook her head. She flicked her lighter to light her cigarette. She blew out the smoke, sipped at her tea.

I didni think I was that bad.

Linda raised her eyebrows.

Smoking does ye damage, he said.

She pointed at the spare slice of toast. That’s for you as well.

Feed the man. I’ve been looking after myself for a while now ye know I mean I’m no exactly handless.

Shut up and bloody eat.

Sexist.

Sexist? She frowned.

He hadni been going to stay long anyway. Even during the funeral, he had known it then. But now the decision was final. That was definitely it. Two more days. He would get drunk tonight with Fin; they hadni seen each other for a coupla years. That would get the other thing out his system. What other thing? His fucking life.

Maybe Sammy would turn up as well. Him and Derek had started as students the gether. Fucking hell, nearly thirteen years ago.

He finished the toast then ate the half-eaten bit on Linda’s plate. That was definitely sexist. Maybe she had just left it there and was coming back to polish it off later. But she had gone to phone a taxi and pack a few bags. It occurred to him she really was hoping he would stay. It was nice. It was nice. If he could maybe keep on the house or something, get it put under his own name. His sister Elizabeth had mentioned that at the funeral. It was a good big four-apartment. Mum never went to the trouble of buying it so it didni actually belong to the family, not as ‘property’. It wasni political, not as such, she just never got round to doing the business. She mentioned the idea in a letter to him once. Maybe the sisters had suggested it. But they wouldni have put her under any pressure. Ye never know though. Ye just never know. What sort of pressures other folk are under, especially if they’re short of money. Ye could end up doing anything. What was Linda putting in her bags for instance, what sort of stuff was she taking?

What a thought. What a thought. He smiled and got up from the stool, he walked to the kitchenette window and stared out for a moment then sat back down and drank a mouthful of tea. None of it concerned him anyway, it was none of his business. A dispassionate bastard. He had been too long on his own. Maybe if he had settled down and was rearing a family. Linda had been a mother for twenty years: twenty years.

Down in the back a woman was hanging up washing, a toddler playing by her feet, now hanging onto her leg.

Plus Elizabeth could be a bit pushy in some ways; it was noticeable at the funeral. But she didni have an easy time of it either; she had to be practical, her own man was a bit of an idiot where money was concerned. It mighta suited her if mum had bought the house. So it could be sold later on.

Who the fuck cares. Past history. All of it.

The taxi arrived. No a hackney, just an ordinary car.

The driver got out and opened the boot and Derek helped him lift in Linda’s bags.

Here you, she said.

Derek glanced at her and smiled; she was holding her arms out. They cuddled tight. She was crying. Yeh. The feeling that when he left Daneside Drive this time he would never see it again; this was it. A final event. Another final event. He shut his eyes to stop the tears. Poor old mum for christ sake poor old mum poor old fucking mum. He clenched the lids but the spasms shook his shoulders and he knew Linda would feel it but so what she would feel it so fucking what so fucking what.

The driver had returned to his seat and closed the door. His window was down and ye could hear a Radio 1 disc jockey with that horrible jolly voice. He didni want to go back to England either, he just didni want to go back there. Time to get out Britain altogether, he had been back too long, time to get away, a bit of freedom.

Linda was standing beside him. Did I scratch yer face? he said.

Dont worry about it. She smiled. Tommy only shaves once a week. And that’s when he’s going to play snooker with his mates. Are ye staying the weekend? Have ye decided.