Part 9 (1/2)
But he wasn't lost; he only thought he was. Graham got them to Victoria Park, and then Lindsey knew they were right.
”We're fine, you'll see. It's just over that way.”
She pointed, and then she put a hand to Graham's knee while he drove them round the roundabout.
They took Dumbarton Road at a crawl, looking for the turning. The streetlamps were coming on by this stage, and Lindsey peered out through the windscreen, thinking it was mostly council places round here, by the look of the too-small windows and all that pebble dash, grey render. Plus, she'd never had a house to clean round here.
But it wasn't a scheme, it was proper streets, a proper place; on the way to somewhere from somewhere else. And their flat would be brand new in any case.
It was nearly dark by the time they found it: a big red-brick box with stickers still on the double glazing, and site tape across the street doors. Graham parked up out front while Lindsey unplugged her seatbelt; she was out fast and on the pavement. Except not as excited as she was before, because she could feel Graham stalling, slow getting out of the van.
He came and stood by her, looking up at the windows, and he didn't like it, this new place, she could see that. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets, and his shoulders up, like he was cold. Lindsey said: ”Looks good, I reckon.”
”Aye.”
Didn't sound like he meant it. Lindsey told him: ”We have to tell them yes by the end of next week.”
But she got no answer, so then she pressed him: ”We'll be telling them yes, though. Won't we?”
Graham shrugged.
She hadn't bargained on this. Lindsey had geared herself up for the place being poky, or on a bad street maybe, a long walk from the bus stop or the shops. She knew they still could do better, in good time, so she'd figured on another move a year or two down the line. But looking up at the new build just now, she couldn't see why Graham would turn his nose up.
”What's wrong with it?”
He didn't say, he just started talking about his brother.
”Malky Jnr. He's in line for wan ae they new terraces, planned for the top ae the scheme. We could put our names down for wan ae those.”
”On Drumchapel?”
”Aye on Drumchapel. They'll be nice, they new houses.”
Lindsey didn't believe that for a minute. Only from the way Graham looked at her, it seemed like he did. So she shook her head: ”No way. They won't be built for years yet.”
If ever. Lindsey thought they were nothing more than a rumour, spun to keep scheme life ticking over. Stevie could end up grown in the meantime; grown on that h.e.l.lhole. It wasn't the houses, anyhow, it was the place Lindsey wanted out of.
”You want us to stop where we are?”
Graham shrugged again. And then it started to get to Lindsey, the way he wouldn't give her a proper answer. How many years had she been going up to that housing office? All that time, and he'd never even thought it through: if it was Drumchapel he wanted, or somewhere else, like she did. He wouldn't even look her in the eye now, he just kept looking up and down the road, at all the pavements and the houses, like he just didn't know. Graham said: ”I dinnae know emdy that lives round here.”
What did that have to do with anything?
Lindsey couldn't think what to say to him, all the way back to the scheme. Graham drove them back in silence.
They had to fetch Stevie, so Graham waited outside while she climbed the stairs to Brenda's; they did all that without a word pa.s.sing between them.
Stevie was asleep in the spare room, and Brenda stopped Lindsey in the doorway. She could see there was something amiss, because she said: ”Just leave him tae sleep, hen. Come an sit a minute.”
Only Lindsey wanted her boy then, the comfort of his weight. So she carried him down the close, with a blanket wrapped around him, his sleeping head heavy on her shoulder. But when she got out to the street, and saw Graham standing there, Lindsey thought she couldn't bear this.
She was going to cry, or shout. So Graham stepped forward and lifted Stevie from her arms, and then with her boy gone, there was nothing to hold her.
”Where's my Maw?”
Stevie didn't wake up, not properly, not until they got home, and it was just his Dad there, putting him to bed.
”Where is she?”
”She's at your Gran's.”
His Dad said it short, tucking the bedcovers tight. Only Stevie was awake then, and sitting up, because his Mum had always been here before now.
”Is she comin?”
”Lie down, wid you?” Stevie's Dad let out his breath. ”She'll come back. She'll be here in the mornin, you'll see. Quicker you get tae sleep, quicker it'll be.”
But Stevie couldn't sleep for waiting.
He just listened to his Dad, putting on the telly and then shoving the dishes into the sink, cras.h.i.+ng them about, like it didn't matter if they broke. He ran the hot tap hard, so Stevie got up then, even if he was scared his Dad might shout; the fathers in Eric's stories did all sorts when they got angry. Stevie's Dad was looking in the cupboards when he got to the kitchen, at the shelf where he kept his beers: nothing there. He opened the fridge, and slammed it shut again.
”f.u.c.k's sake.”
Then he saw Stevie watching.
”Can we no go an fetch her, please, Da?”
His Dad said nothing, he just took him back to his bedroom, and sat on his bed for what felt like ages, all silent and heavy. Then he stood up and told Stevie to be quick then, if he was coming.
Stevie had to trot to keep up with his father's stride once they got outside. He didn't know what time it was, but it was dark, and he was a bit muddled then, from being out so late; being asleep first, and now awake. Stevie was just glad of his Dad next to him, the size of him, walking down the empty streets. He thought they were going to his Gran's place, only then they cut across the waste ground where the flats had been razed last year, so he reckoned they must be going to buy beer first.
He saw puddles in among the foundations, all rippled in the wind, and then the cold air got in through his tracksuit. He'd pulled it on over his pyjamas, because his Dad had said to hurry, and all the bed-warmth was out of him, before they'd even got to the corner.
Stevie was still cold in the snooker club, standing, chittering next to his father, while the barman bagged up the carry-out. Still dazed too, Stevie gazed about the long, dim room and empty tables; at the pictures on the walls, of red lions and Rangers and the Queen. There were more pictures behind the bar: a long line of photos in frames, all of a flute band in full uniform with Pride of Drumchapel painted across the big skin of the ba.s.s drum.
Stevie had never been in here before, but he knew his Dad came to watch away games on that big screen above the bar. Stevie had heard his Mum grumbling about it to his Gran; how she had a good mind sometimes to come down here and haul him out. All his brothers have Sky, so why can't he go to theirs? The bag of cans was paid for, and Stevie tugged his sleeves down over his palms, thinking they should be going. Only then the barman poured his Dad a pint, and threw in a packet of crisps: ”You can stop here for one. Let your wee boy there warm up a bit.”
They sat down at one of the tables by the wall, and Stevie's Dad didn't seem in a hurry now. So Stevie ate half the crisps, and then he shuffled along the bench, closer to his father's warm legs. He didn't much like this half-lit place, and he couldn't think what they were doing here in the middle of the night; maybe they were waiting for his Mum to haul them home. Stevie wanted her to come, but he hoped she wouldn't shout when she did.
His Dad s.h.i.+fted a bit when Stevie climbed up onto his lap; he put down his pint. But he didn't stop him, didn't shove him away, or shout, or anything, and Stevie was glad he wasn't so angry any more. They sat there like that, alone at the table and quiet, his Dad with one hand on his gla.s.s, the other next to him on the seat, a fist. Stevie got warm there after a bit, and drowsy, even if his Mum hadn't turned up yet. Maybe if he went to sleep, just like his Dad said. He put his head under his father's chin, a neat fit. His Dad still had his parka on, unzipped, and Stevie had his eyes shut by that time, but he felt him, pulling it around them both.
Other men came in and joined them. Stevie couldn't tell how much later, and he couldn't wake up enough to make out their faces, but they knew his Dad anyhow. The bell went and they bought him pints, and Stevie saw more red lions on their T-s.h.i.+rts, and red hands this time too. Pride of Drumchapel. But none of them had their sons with them, under their coats, so Stevie thought maybe they hadn't seen him; his small face the only part of him showing, just under his father's collar, dozing; thinking his Mum would come and they could go home.
Eric was not long out of bed when Lindsey buzzed. He watched her climbing slow up the close, and he saw the washed-out look about her too, like she'd hardly slept.
”I've been at Brenda's.”