James Kelman - Dirt Road

Otherwise nothing.

Dad was asking a question. He was going to the bar and was asking him what he wanted to drink. A big pint of lager Dad ha ha ha.

Please, he said, maybe an apple juice.

Did he even want an apple juice! Why not a glass of wine! A jack and coke, guys drank that.

Dad had got up from his chair, going to the bar or else to find a waiter. He stood there looking about. Uncle John pointed to the other corner of the large room: the Men’s room. Over there, he said.

Dad headed across and as soon he had gone Uncle John was up and over to the end of the bar, and to the cashier’s desk where a wee queue had formed. He was still there when Dad exited the Men’s room. He saw Uncle John. The two had a disagreement. It was in good spirits; not loud enough to embarrass people. Dad wanted to pay the bill but Uncle John was insisting and insisting. Uncle John won. When they returned to the table he led the way. Dad followed with more drinks which included two whiskies. Uncle John was speaking to Dad over his shoulder. That’s how we do it here, he said.

I wanted to pay something, said Dad.

Huh! said Uncle John.

Aunt Maureen looked from him to Dad, then to Murdo. Uncle John and Dad were sitting down now. Dad taking the drinks off the tray. Uncle John said to Aunt Maureen, He’s the guest. I dont want him paying.

Dad smiled. Well Uncle John I have to pay something.

Uncle John immediately sat forwards, almost up off the chair, and he glared at Dad: You paid the goddam tickets!

The force of this shocked Dad, and Aunt Maureen cried: Oh now mister!

Sorry. Uncle John closed his eyes.

Murdo looked again at Dad who was staring at the table but now had raised his head, gazing at Uncle John.

Uncle John said, Sorry. I’m sorry. He clasped his hands on the table and was still. He glanced at Murdo and smiled a moment but not cheerily.

Whatever it was, not paying the tickets, what tickets? Not the plane tickets, Uncle John paid the plane tickets. What other tickets? The bus tickets?

Uncle John shifted on his chair and said to Dad, Sorry about that Tommy.

Och! Dad shrugged. Not at all.

Aunt Maureen sighed. She smiled, looking around, and said to Murdo: You like this place son?

Yeah.

You want to come for the music now, they have some fine musicians play here.

Murdo nodded. Eventually Uncle John raised his whisky glass and paused with it. After a moment Dad raised his. Uncle John said to Murdo, What is it ye say again son is it slàinte mhòr or slàinte mhath?

Eh… Usually just slàinte, or slàinte mhath.

Some of them here say slàinte mhòr.

Do they?

Yeah. Uncle John glanced at Dad. Slàinte mhòr, it’s just one of these things that they say.

I dont know it, said Dad. Mhòr is big.

Yeah, said Uncle John. Big whisky eh!

Yeah. Dad smiled, sipping the whisky. It’s a nice one.

I like it, replied Uncle John.

Aunt Maureen said to Murdo, You’re thinking about the drive home son huh? You worrying about that? Aunt Maureen was opening her purse; she withdrew the car keys. This what you’re worried about? She jerked her thumb at Uncle John, and snorted: You think I’d let him drive huh? You want us to land on top of Old Smokey?

Murdo grinned. I wasnt thinking that at all!

Oh yeah! Uncle John chuckled.

I wasnt!

This guy sees everything! laughed Uncle John.

Dad smiled, looking from one to the other. Aunt Maureen closed her purse. Dad said, I knew ye were a driver Aunt Maureen but not the 4x4, I didnt know ye drove the 4x4.

Oh you didnt huh!

No!

Aunt Maureen touched Dad on the wrist.

Murdo said, You liked driving the wee car Aunt Maureen.

Yes I did son thank you for saying. Scoot here and there huh.

Uncle John smiled, but didnt say anything. After a moment Aunt Maureen glanced at him: Dont go blaming yourself now mister we had to sell it.

Yeah.

We didnt have the choice.

No.

Aunt Maureen nodded, and said to Murdo, He dont want me going on buses Murdo.

Murdo smiled.

But Aunt Maureen frowned at Uncle John: So how am I to get any place huh? Cant go on a bus and aint got no car.

I know, replied Uncle John.

You dont know mister: stuck in the house. What happens when these boys go? Huh? What happens then?

We’ll miss them. Uncle John sipped at his beer.

Sure we’ll miss them. Sure we’ll miss them.

You’ll go down in the dumps. Uncle John winked at Murdo.

I wont, said Aunt Maureen.

Is that a promise!

Oh now you want to promise to phone Springfield, Missouri? she asked.

Uncle John gazed at her.

After a few moments she winked at Dad, jerking a thumb in Uncle John’s direction and she said, He thinks I dont know about walking Tom! I walked them mountains when I was a girl and I can keep walking them.

Uncle John frowned, I’m not saying a word.

No sir, she said.

On the road home Murdo sat in the front passenger’s seat. He was not sure whether to speak to Aunt Maureen or not and was wary of disturbing her concentration. Her gaze rarely strayed from the road ahead and it seemed like her preference was silence. In the rear seats Dad and Uncle John didnt speak hardly at all.

*

Be sociable.

What is “be sociable”? There was nothing wrong with lying down. That is what bedrooms are for, ye go to relax and just like escape. Sometimes ye needed that. Not having to talk to people. Putting on the music. Reading a book or anything at all. Nothing at all. Why has it got to be something? Think about nothing. So what if it was the afternoon? Ye need yer own space. Bedrooms are a space. Dad was annoyed because Murdo was lying down but so what if he was lying down if it was his room? Surely he could be in his room? Dad went to his and Aunt Maureen went to hers so why couldnt Murdo? It had been raining the last couple of days so what else was there to do? Ye couldnt go in the garden. Ye had to stay in yer room or else go to the lounge, except if ye did somebody else might be there so ye had to say hullo and start talking. And obviously ye couldnt play the music: obviously.

He didnt want to read anyway he was sick of it.

Uncle John spoke about an Indian village they visited, a real one someplace where they had wooden houses. Indian descendants showed them historical things and they felt it creepy but not the ones showing them, they didnt bat an eyelid.

So what, that would have been Murdo, exactly the same.

That prayer on the leaflet at Mum’s funeral. The minister read it out. Oh Thou who are present in every place and from Whose love no space or distance can ever separate us. Grant us to know that those who are absent from one another are still present with Thee. Ha ha. Was Murdo supposed to cry? Memories memories. Ye cry about the past and memories are the past. If the person is with ye then she is with ye so how come the tears? No tears. That is crap. Let Jesus take the strain. Ha ha.

Screams from the basement. Tortured screams. Dig deep beneath the floor, going down beyond the foundations, way way down, down into the dark earth that used to be lush fields and dirt trails; the black soil ye rub between yer fingers where the maggots are, places where Indians camped, where they buried their dead.

Dad didnt cry either. People felt sorry for him. Why not Murdo? If things were tough for Dad, it was the same for him. Poor Dad. What about Murdo! Grant us to know that those who are absent from one another are still present with Thee. That is like ha ha.

Rows, moans and grumbles all the time having to think about him. Why not him about Murdo? Who was the father and who was the boy? Murdo was the boy and Dad was Dad. How come he was to feel sorry for him? It was bloody nuts. The son shouldnt have to feel sorry for the father. Jesus didnt feel sorry for God.