James Kelman - The Burn

She was holding his arms. I’m no sure, he said.

Tch. . she sighed.

Ye going to tell me to settle down!

It would be no use would it?

Look Linda I settled down a while ago.

Come back to Glasgow.

Maybe.

Yer girlfriend’ll come.

Derek chuckled.

She will. Just ask her. Linda let go his arms and he put his hands in his trouser pockets. She got into the rear of the car and he closed the door; her smile to him was self-conscious.

He waved till the taxi turned a corner, then stood for a minute watching two middle-aged men pass on the other side of the street, they seemed to be arguing about something.

He still had to finish the business details. The undertakers; the wreaths and the entourage, the three motor cars. It was a bit ironic that when ye were dead the cash for yer wreath came out what ye had left behind. I would like to buy some flowers for my funeral. Imagine leaving a message. He was going to leave one, on a postcard, with a seaside view, in with the last will and testament. I want a bunch of red and yellow tulips, I want them placed at the bottom end of the coffin, just above my feet. Pay for it out the petty cash.

He didni mind attending to the business. The sisters had taken for granted it would be one of them doing it but they were glad to leave it to him. Surprised as well, like it had never occurred to them. Quite right, he wasni exactly reliable.

Also the idea it might stop arguments. It happens. Once there’s a death everybody starts fighting over the goods. Mum didni have a great deal of stuff but whatever there was would have to be disposed of. He had no especial interest; most of it seemed to be linen. Although some of the mementoes would be nice to hang onto. Plus there was a hat he found in the cupboard where the gardening tools were kept, he quite liked it. But apart from that and a couple of photographs he didni want nothing; nothing; that was what he was entitled to, fucking nothing.

The idea of staying on in Glasgow. Even if he couldni get the house put into his own name. He could rent a flat somewhere. He still had a couple of quid. Audrey might come up. She might no right enough. Did he want her to come up? Whatever. It was the idea she wouldni want to. He just wasni sure. Given the choice she probably wouldni; she would stay where she was. Yeh, that was the reality. She would stay; she had her own people; it wasni so much the place but she had her own people. And the job, she liked the job. In his experience that was what women liked, jobs, they liked their jobs. That was a fucking funny word, job; what does that mean? job.

But how would he get by? Living away from Scotland for so long he was totally out the scene. Could he handle it? Who knows.

He had the pad by the bedroom window and was sketching, a hand-mirror propped in front of him; one continuous line, if it didni work in one continuous line. . The sky had got dark, big heavy clouds full of rain. He was leaving as soon as the business was done. They could do what they liked with the house. And everything that was in it. Including his three paintings. Fuck it. There’s no escaping the facts of life.

He was wearing the hat he had found. Maybe dad had worn it. He couldni remember, but whose else could it be? It was a most unGlasgow hat.

The Hannah resemblance was definitely there. Weird. Fucking hell but he was a strange bastard; he was, how strange, how strange people are, people are so strange, doing these things to one another, to themselves, they do things to themselves, a kind of masochistic quality. He sketched fast. But his face was straightforward — what’s a straightforward face? silly bastard, but no, straightforward, nothing startling, a face, a man’s face, bits of mum and bits of dad; bits of the sisters — my god these photographs where mum’s self-consciousness, having to put up with the camera, the tension, these signs of strain, just the way she looked. How come he hadni phoned more regularly? He could definitely have phoned more regularly. He nudged up the hat so it lay to one side. He took it off and went to the bathroom, washed his face in cold water. Back in the bedroom he closed the window. He would definitely keep wearing the hat. It was appropriate. Quite gallus as they used to say. Monsieur Gauguin s’il vous plait, the one with Anthony Quinn. He would have to pluck up courage to wear it outside on the street though. The weans would laugh at him, little bastards, they’d fling stones at it. That’s what happens in Glasgow, it’s the opposite of an attitude problem. He lifted the hat off the bed and looked at it. There’s no escaping the facts of life.

That seemed to be becoming a motto of his. What did it mean? Facts of life.

It was a pub down by Charing Cross him and Fin were meeting, which would take him a good hour to get to, by the time he waited for a bus. And he needed two of the bastards; one into the city centre then another one out. Unless he walked it. He could walk it, depending on the weather; it would be nice to walk it, see the city. He was well used to walking anyway, the number of times he landed skint and options there were none. The price of another pint or yer bus fare home, that was an auld yin. There’s always tomorrow. Fucking banalities, ye just say them.

The thing that was irking him was Sammy; no irking him a lot but it was still irking him. If Fin had phoned then he coulda phoned. Unless he had left Glasgow. It would be good to see him again, see how he was doing — that gallery he was getting involved with. Maybe he was back painting again. Fin was a close mate but Sammy had been closer. But he was a bastard, these social formalities, they just never occurred to him, things like phoning people. Untrue. They occurred to him, he just fucking ignored them. Unless he didni know. No everybody reads the death notices. Maybe he should give him a bell later, just say hello, see how he was doing.

Mum used to like Sammy, she thought he was a well-brought-up boy. He came from Stonehaven and had a nice accent, that made him exotic. People like exotica, it makes a change. Plus his parents had money; if yer parents have money folk think ye’re well-brought-up. Derek had never wanted money. What a lie. How come ye say these things, ye just seem to open yer fucking mouth. Sammy used to call Derek his associate. Imagine calling yer mate an ‘associate’? So what, eighteen years of age, ye were just a boy. No big deal.

As it turns out he didni walk it from the scheme into the city after all; he was going to but eventually he couldni be bothered, he took a taxi. Fin had arrived first and set him a pint up immediately. A big pint of heavy; beautiful. The pub was just round from the Mitchell Library, near enough the old stamping ground but without being one of the campus boozers as such. It was okay. Quite busy. A young crowd but mixed, business-type people plus a few that looked arty, students maybe; torn jeans and a coupla shaven nappers; some of the women were beautiful. When Derek went for the next round the woman behind the bar ignored him. Eventually a tall skinny boy took the order. At least he smiled. But maybe it was the hat. He had stuck it on at the last minute. So he now stood revealed as one more arty farty bastard. Unless the barmaid remembered him being drunk in the place years ago and was bearing a grudge. Glasgow pubs. He shifted his stance. He could see Fin sitting at the table, footering with the near empty pint glass. Fin was good. He hadni really got to know him until the end of the second term. Without him phoning there woulda been nothing. And there wasni anything else. Fucking weird. Life is fucking weird.

He got his change and carried the drink to the table. Heh Fin, he said, some great-looking women in this place.

I know.

Is that how ye chose it?