'No,' he said, 'I never knew.'
'Did you ever try to find out? Didn't you ever ask your mum?'
'No.'
How could he have done that? It had taken time to discover that children ought to have a father. By the time he found out, he had become sad for his mother. How could he have asked her such a personal and unnecessary question?
Often, though, he had thought of asking her. He knew some of the rumours which had been currency when he was a child. It was his Uncle Tom, who had then quickly scarpered.
It was the Devil himself, and his mother was a witch after all. It was one of his Uncle Tom's friends. It was a fairy king. Would she tell him if he asked? Perhaps she would, now that he had grown up, but what did it matter? It was a moment's curiosity every few months. It was nothing.
'What's it like then, not having a dad?'
'It's not like anything really. It's not very different.'
'How can you know if you've never had one in the first place?' Colin was good at arguing. Sandy was forced to shrug his shoulders.
'Well, it doesn't seem any different,' he said. 'Am I different from you?'
'Well, you're witchy for a start,' said Clark, laughing.
'I'd put a spell on you if I was,' said Sandy. 'I'd change you from a frog.' They all laughed at that. Sandy felt safe again. He was tempted to visit the mansion, but he knew that it would probably be empty at this time of the day. It was
tempting, too, to visit the gypsy encampment at Craigie Hill.
It would only take ten minutes from the Soda Fountain. The wind was beginning to blow a bit anyway. They could not lie here for much longer. Sandy pressed a finger down on to some of his goosebumps. They flattened for a second, then swelled.
The dark strands of hair on his arms stood on end when he shivered, like the sea rolling up to the esplanade in Kirkcaldy.
'Why don't we go to Kirkcaldy?' he suggested.
'No money,' said Clark. Colin and Mark nodded.
'Well, let's arrange a trip for when we have money. To celebrate the end of the exams. We can go to the Harbour Tavern. Dicky Preston says they serve you in there even if you're underage. He says it's easy.'
'Okay,' said Colin. The others were nodding. 'That sounds fine. We'll need a good bit of cash, though, so start hunting through your mum's purse and looking in your dad's pockets. Okay?'
'Magic'
6
The cemetery sat at the top of The Brae. It was quite large, sprawling with the headstones of mining accidents and many other less newsworthy deaths. Matty Duncan was buried here in an untended but often visited corner. Mary passed this corner, and glanced at the gravestone. If he hadn't died, it would have been my father . . .
The cemetery contained most of Mary's family. A lot of plots had gone untended for too long, and yellow-flowering weeds were beginning to make serious inroads, giving the place a rank, lush look and a constant pungency resembling that of urine.
Mary stooped over one or two graves on her way to her parents' plot, and pulled up some of the silent, stubborn weeds. Seldom did they come up at the roots. Mary knew that hers was merely temporary surgery.
Her parents' tombstone gleamed still. In a few years it would lose its shine, but not yet. The letters were dull gold and indented clearly. Mary squatted by the graveside and placed her posy of flowers on the grass. She lifted the two glass jars from either side of the tombstone. There were partly withered stalks in one. The other was empty, someone having taken the flowers she had placed in it so delicately last week. She said nothing and thought nothing, just walked with both jars over to a small hut beside which stood a bin and a cold-water standpipe. She emptied the stalks into the bin where they landed on top of other matted and decaying vegetation, and rinsed out both jars under the tap before filling them. The icy water lingered on her hands, freezing them, sending all feeling to some foreign region.
She blew on her fingers, trying to warm them, as she carried the jars over to the graveside, her parents, and the small tribute of flowers.
Having placed the jars in their original positions, marked by the greener grass beneath each, Mary made herself comfortable on the slightly damp ground at the foot of the grave and smiled. She had not smiled for a long time. She seemed to be studying the plot, just as she would have studied a work of careful embroidery. When she was satisfied with the arrangement of the graveside, she began to speak in a soft, respectful voice.
Clouds moved overhead with a regal gait befitting the calm afternoon. Crows were arguing in the distance, probably in the trees of the kirkyard. She told this to her mother.
Her mother was interested in details and in the kind of day it happened to be, in the sights and sounds from which she had been banished. Mary's mother had been a nature-lover all her years, taking the children out for long rambles on Sunday afternoons, summer evenings, and school holidays.
She would point out wild flowers and trees to her two children, telling them the names of each and making them repeat these names so that they would remember. Then, later in the walk she would suddenly ask, 'What was that called again?', pointing to something, and when they shouted out the answer she would chuckle and say that they seemed to have learned more that day than in a whole week's schooling.
They would laugh together and rush down the steep hill hand in hand and shrieking, collapsing eventually into the sofa at home, the sweat on their brows linking them inexorably to the day's events, making them grin and glance at the father who pretended not to mind being excluded from their group.
Those were days of near innocence, days which all too soon had become irretrievably the past. She never talked with her dead mother about the day when she had been thrown into the hot burn, or about the days that followed. Those times sat in crouched silence in Mary's mind, grinning rictus-like and festering.
She spoke with her mother of flowers and brooks and country walks, of a land which might once have existed but was now no more. Her father listened in silence, doubtless impressed by their relationship, sisters more than mother and daughter, sharing their thoughts and their vision like girls tucked beneath the bedclothes in a darkened room. Her father would nod and listen, but make no comment other than to grunt when spoken to. He seemed further away than her mother, and Mary knew the reason why. His face had vanished from her memory, leaving only the vague outline of a shuffling, heavy man with a pipe clamped between his teeth. But Mary knew her mother's face better than she knew her own. It was kindness and russet cheeks and a cold compress on a headache. It was love. It was love that she talked to now as she sat by the cool graveside and stroked the bristles of grass as if they were long weavings of hair.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, she told her mother about Andy.
Tes, Mum, he's lovely. He really cares for me. He's always doing little things like bringing me chocolates or flowers.
Like an old-fashioned suitor in a way. He has a car and we go out into the country sometimes to little pubs and interesting places. People look at us as if we were man and wife.' She paused. 'I think maybe one day we will be. Sandy's still growing, though he says he isn't. He's sitting his exams at school just now. He's been swotting for weeks. He comes home exhausted. Mind you, he's still quite a laddie. He's out till all hours some nights. No, I'm being strict enough with him, Mum, but you have to give them a bit of freedom these days or they go off the rails. He never gets into trouble. I think he's got himself a girlfriend. He blushes like a schoolgirl when I ask him.' She chuckled. 'I don't know who it is yet. I just hope it's someone nice and not one of those tarty young things that hang around down the street. But I think Sandy's got enough sense not to get into trouble in that respect.'
She was silent for a few moments. The crows continued their dialogue. Smaller birds began bickering in some bushes nearby.
'The birds are fairly singing today, Mum. I can't really tell what kinds of bird. There are crows and sparrows, of course, but goodness knows what else. You would know them all. I'
ve forgotten all those bird-songs that you taught Tom and me. Tom's fine, by the way. I had a letter from him recently. Have I seen you since? I forget. My memory seems to be going a bit haywire these days. Sandy's leaving school. He's adamant about that. I wonder what he'll do with himself. If you were here, Mum, he'd listen to your advice. He takes little or no notice of his own mum.
Independent as anything, and still only fifteen. Fifteen, Mum.' She paused as if listening to something. 'Yes, Mum, it has been the ruin of me. But I love my Sandy and I wouldn't not have had him. I can't think of such a thing. What do you think, Dad? What do you think?' She was weeping now. She rose to her feet and, drying her eyes on a delicate handkerchief, walked quickly from the grave. The flowers in their jars trembled in the slight breeze.
As Mary left the cemetery, she saw George Patterson toiling up The Brae. She took to her heels and ran, dodging into the housing scheme so as not to be seen by him.
Mr Patterson was going home for lunch. He had shut the Soda Fountain at half past one, aware that young Sandy was not going to show up after his exam. It was a beautiful afternoon and quiet. He was glad of the fresh air. The shop was a tomb as far as he was concerned. He was selling less than ever, which meant smaller profits, but more importantly fewer customers with whom to while away the time.
George Patterson was in his fifties and was waiting to die. It was a slow process. He ate packets of sweets and smoked cigarettes and drank himself silly in isolation, but still he could not die. Perhaps this hill would do the trick.
George Patterson wanted to die because he could not see that it could be worse than living. He went to church sometimes, but no longer believed in God. It made it easier for him to want to die. All he wanted was not to exist. That he was liked in the town only made it harder. He wanted to be hated, but people would not let him be hated. What was worse, he would not let himself be hated. When he met people, he would feel a smile appearing on his face, though he willed himself to frown, to hurl abuse. He found himself forced to make noble gestures, all the time hating himself, all the time aware of the grossest hypocrisy.
Mr Patterson was a bachelor. He lived alone in a small house in Cardell, on the outskirts of town. He read lots of magazines and newspapers there and listened to the radio.
He had no pets. He had no housekeeper. He tidied the house himself and did his own washing and ironing. He was portly from having eaten too many sweets during his lifetime, but was not entirely unfit. That he was also bald and ruddy faced merely added to the endearment others felt towards him. He hated it all. This world was a mockery, and human beings were mockeries of life. Another flood was needed, if there had been a first, a flood to wash away all the debris, to leave only a handful of starry-eyed children and the few good people who had to exist somewhere. George Patterson would have prayed for that, had he still believed in God.
Being an unbeliever, he merely thought about it.
He sweated his way towards his shaded house and hoped that the pain in his side would not intensify. He passed the old minister, or rather he made to pass him. The minister, as always, stopped to speak with one of his respected and respectable parishioners. One, admittedly, who was not seen at church as regularly as might have been expected, but who nevertheless showed the true Christian spirit.
'A lovely afternoon, Mr Patterson. Is this you just getting home for lunch?'
Tes, Mr Davidson, I'm afraid so.' Mr Patterson loathed himself for his newly arranged smile and simpering tone. He came to a halt beside the old man with the cherub's face and the silver hairs curling from his nostrils telling everyone that he was a man of God but a hard man too, a man one could deal with realistically.
'And how is the sugar trade, Mr Patterson? Are you still corrupting our youth with your tooth-rot?' There was a smile on the old man's face, but his gaze was honest enough. Mr Patterson laughed uneasily.
'Everyone has their little sin, Mr Davidson. I'm not saying that sweets aren't bad for you, but there are other pleasures a lot worse.' The minister laughed heartily.
'True, very true, but it's a weak defence if defence it is. I would agree that there are degrees of temptation. I am often tempted by a dram now and then, but would certainly consider the yielding to such as something less heinous than being tempted to commit a crime and carrying through the act. But look at it another way. You are selling something you know to be bad ...'
And so are you, old man, thought Mr Patterson in an evil moment, so are you.
'. .. so does that make you the better man?' Mr Patterson, lost in his thoughts, had missed some part of the minister's argument vital to its understanding. He smiled and shook his head.
'You've got me beat there, Mr Davidson. What do you want me to do? Sell my livelihood?' The minister laughed and shook his head.
He took George Patterson's hand and patted it lightly. His clasp was soft and dry.
'Indeed no, George, I was only joking with you. You better away and get your lunch now. Don't be disheartened by the jabberings of an old man. Will we see you in church again soon?' The minister's eyes suddenly stopped their survey of the houses around them and concentrated themselves on those of Mr Patterson, who felt the blood tingling responsively in his cheeks.
*Yes indeed,' he said as keenly as he could, 'probably this weekend in fact. I've been rather busy, you see . . .' This time the minister patted his shoulder.
'No need for excuses, George. Only too glad to have you come when you can manage. I look forward to seeing you.
Maybe I'll drop in for some of your pandrops sometime.'
'Please do,' said Mr Patterson, walking away. Old bugger, he thought to himself. He'll want them on the house if he does. Still, the old minister wasn't a bad sort. Quite wicked in his own way, always berating people for their occupations or preoccupations or sins of indulgence. He was in a right nest of vipers here. Carsden stank of corruption. Mr Patterson remembered it as it had been, or at least had seemed, when he had been young. Times had been hard, yes, but the people had been honest and generous. People, after all, were all that towns had going for them. Mr Patterson had fallen as far as anyone, and further than many. No one knew the sins he had committed. People thought him the salt of the earth. He smiled bitterly as he walked the rest of the way home. If only he could die. He could not commit suicide: he was too much of a coward for that. He wanted needed - to die naturally, but quickly. Let him die quickly.
The very next morning, Mr Patterson learned from his first customer that the old minister had died in his sleep. He shook his head in disbelief. So this was the world. The bitter irony overtook any idea of immediate mourning. It was as if a malevolent creator had decided to show him something of its truly impersonal power. He stood behind the old wooden counter all day and heard nothing but good spoken of the man. He dipped his hand into many glass jars of coloured sweets and guiltily filled many paper bags. No one bought pandrops. Pandrops were for the kirk on a Sunday.
Sandy came in at four o'clock for a haircut. Mr Patterson was silent much of the time, forgetting about the sweets he had promised the boy. He made a good job of his fringe, however. Afterwards, Sandy asked for a quarter of pandrops for his mother. Mr Patterson stared hard at him. It was like staring at his own conscience magnified many times. He should have said something more to the old man. Too late now, too late. He should have said much, much more to the old minister. He gave Sandy the mints and would not take the proffered money.
7
For over a week he had not seen her. It was like something gnawing inside his stomach. He thought that he might have an ulcer or something, but did nothing about it, afraid that it would be true. He sat in his bedroom much of the time and scribbled on pieces of paper and in old jotters. He read a lot of books from the library. When his mother told him off mildly for sitting indoors when it was so warm outside, he would silently pick up his books and switch off his record player and trot downstairs. He would sit sullenly on the doorstep with a book held close to his face while
his mother watched his protest in mounting frustration. He was becoming a zombie to her. She was worried, naturally, but could think of no way to ask him what the trouble was without him clamming up even more than he already had. She again wished that her mother was alive. She wished that she herself had been a stronger mother when Sandy was growing up. She wished a lot of things. Then she would get on with her housework.
Sandy sat on the step. He boiled like an egg in a simmering pan. It was an unpleasant heat. It made him tired and unable to think. He had to squint at his book because of the sun, and that gave him a headache. He could not win. He was reading a quite funny American novel. He guffawed at a few of the jokes. That was as far as a laugh could force itself from his body. He thought about Rian. He fantasised about her, and always in his fantasies she was not the Rian he knew but some wilder, more animal figure.
She bit and scratched and connived. Robbie looked over her shoulder into Sandy's face as Sandy pulled her to the ground and she laughed. These images scared him, and made him uneasy about the true relationship between sister and brother (he remembered the rumours about his own mother and her brother), but at the same time he was gloriously in love with the new version of Rian, a girl who would know things he needed to know and who would teach him the rules of new games. She pulled on his hair as she twisted his face towards hers. He champed like a tethered horse to go to the mansion. His exams had kept him away at first, and then he had been made to visit an ill and very old grandaunt in Leven. He might have gone today, but something held him back - the self-imposed tether. Tomorrow he was going to Kirkcaldy on the expedition planned a few days ago.