He barely said a word to her all the way home. But she didn�t notice; she kept banging on about how nice the boys seemed, how polite they were. �They�re real gentlemen, Danny,� she said, and he knew she was trying to convince herself as much as reassure him. He couldn�t look at her, didn�t turn away from the world outside the window. You�re so transparent, he wanted to scream at her, You�re so transparent and you were trying too hard, they could all see that.
Once he was in his room, he almost tore the uniform from his body. He pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of trackpants and stretched out on his bed. He wanted to stay in his room, to be safe in the room he knew, with the shelf of medals, the glow-in-the-dark poster of the solar system, the pictures of Michael Jordan and Kieren Perkins, the model of the Brontosaurus he had built in primary school, the boxed set of the Back to the Future trilogy that Demet and Boz had given him last year for his thirteenth birthday. He didn�t want to leave the room�it belonged to Danny, not to Kelly. But his mother was frying meatballs, and as the smell drifted down the hallway his stomach lurched. He was famished, he could have eaten it all, left nothing for his brother and sister, nothing for his mum and dad.
He ate dinner in silence.
It�ll make you a better swimmer.
He spoke to Demet for an hour on the phone. How was it? I fucking hate it.
It�ll make you a better swimmer.
He was so exhausted that he didn�t even bother to brush his teeth. He fell asleep still in his t-shirt and trackpants.
Taylor came up to him at the lockers, just as the bell sounded for first period. �Is your mum on TV?�
Danny slammed the locker door. �She�s a hairdresser.�
Taylor held up his hands in feigned apology. �That�s cool, Dino. She�s amazing-looking, we thought maybe she was an actress or something.� He winked at Danny. �Someone�s got to cut hair.� Taylor had his hands in his pockets and he was whistling as he walked away.
That day and the day after that, and all the days following, Danny kept telling himself, It�ll make you a better swimmer. He was not welcomed, and he was not wanted, but he could already tell that the Coach was indeed making him a better swimmer. Teaching him how to recognise his muscles, explaining exactly how to breathe, how to think ahead of the water. And that most precious and unlikely piece of advice: Always give it back. The boys didn�t want him there, not just Taylor and the swimmers, but all the boys at that fucking school with their perfect smiles and their perfect skin, none of them wanted him there. But the Coach did. The Coach thought he was the best, and that was all that mattered.
That weekend he swam, he swam in the morning and in the evening, and he caught up with Boz and Sava, he spent every spare moment he could hanging out with Demet. On Sunday evening, as he was leaving her house, she asked, �Will you be alright at that school?�
�Sure,� he answered. �I�ll be fine.� It will make me a better swimmer.
The next day, back in the heavy uniform, that tie pushing against his throat, he was aware of some of the boys whispering behind him. He ignored them through the morning assembly, but when he walked down the corridor towards his locker, he could sense the smirks and the titters following him. He saw it as soon as he opened his locker door; it was lying on top of his books: the glossiness of the paper, the flash of pink nipple, of pubes and folds. Danny�s breath stopped, his body tensed. He pulled out the folded papers and some pages fell to the ground.
He can�t bear the lascivious grin on the woman�s face, the way she stares up at him. And then there are the words crudely scrawled in texta: DANNY KELLY�S PORN STAR MOTHER. He notices the words last and he notices the words first, all that matters are those words.
Why did she have to come and pick me up? That was his first thought; his second: I hate her. I fucking hate her.
And the tears come, he is aware of them a second too late, how they sting his eyelids.
Taylor has placed a hand on his shoulder, is saying, �It�s alright, mate, It�s alright.� Trying not to break out in laughter.
Danny knows that Taylor has arranged it all.
He knew he should have just turned and decked him. But the boys had formed a half-circle around Taylor, staring and smirking. They were watching Danny Kelly crying.
He wanted to slaughter them all. And he promised himself that if he ever cried in front of them again he would never forgive himself. He would never let himself feel such shame again.
The shame twisted his heart and emptied his lungs. Danny wiped his eyes, picked up the pages, and ripped the paper into pieces.
Give it back, he told himself, give it back to them all.
And he would.
But he didn�t say a word. He collected his books and headed off to the first class. One boy teased, �Your mum in the movies, Dino?� Danny didn�t say a word.
All that day, teachers spoke and lectured but Danny didn�t hear a word. All that day, boys came up to him, behind him, around him; they whispered, they jeered, they catcalled. Danny didn�t say a word.
That afternoon, when he dived into the pool, that was when he finally spoke. He asked the water to lift him, to carry him, to avenge him. He made his muscles shape his fury, made every kick and stroke declare his hate. And the water obeyed; the water would give him his revenge. No one could beat him, not one of the pricks came close.
Regaining his breath and balance, he shivered at the end of the pool, listening to the Coach harangue the rest of the squad. Torma�s face was flushed red, he lashed them with his insults: �Not one of you is worth shit, the only one worth anything is Danny Kelly, the rest of you are born shit and will die shit, do you understand me?�
Danny made sure to look straight at each of them, at Scooter, at Wilco, at Morello and Fraser. He stared longest and hardest at Taylor. All the boys had to meet his gaze. I�m the strongest, I�m the fastest, I�m the best.
The boys skulked towards the change rooms. Danny walked in step with the Coach. He didn�t have to say a word.
And he knew that hate was what he would use, what he would remember, what would make him a better swimmer.
AFTER NEARLY TWO HOURS OF FRUITLESS searching through the department stores and boutiques off Buchanan Street, I buy my great-aunt Rosemary a scarf. I want to buy her something special as it has been eight months since I arrived in Glasgow and this is the first time I have visited her. But I don�t know her at all; all I know of her are my grandad Bill�s stories of when she was a little girl. It is only because I am running out of time that I grab the scarf, a royal-blue cashmere scarf. It could be from anywhere, and as I watch the shopgirl wrapping it, I am ashamed of what an ordinary, unimpressive gift it is. But walking out into the square, I tell myself scarves are always handy in Scotland.
Just as I have that thought, the parcel jammed under my arm, the rain pours down. There�s no shelter to be had anywhere and I head towards Queen Street station, the rain saturating my jacket and soaking through to my skin, cursing the fact that in this city where it rains two hundred and bloody thirty-nine days of the year�Clyde declaims it proudly, as if the number is a selling point, something to be proud of�there are no awnings. Not one. The shopkeepers, the councils, no one has thought of putting up shelter. They prefer it, I curse sourly, gives them one more bloody thing to moan about.
I dash into the station, cold and drenched and pissed off.
The man who sells me my ticket to Edinburgh is tight-lipped. He studiously avoids looking at me; the whole time he�s talking to the young woman at the terminal next to him. She too doesn�t glance my way, I might as well not be there. They are talking over each other, absent-mindedly checking paperwork; a queue is forming behind me and people are beginning to grumble.
I look at the man selling me the ticket and I see a stern, long-chinned Australian face.
I run to catch the train, slip through the turnstile past the elderly man checking the tickets; he too has a ruddy Australian face. I get
on board, squeeze into my seat; a young man in a grey sweatshirt scowls at me over the lowered plastic table between us as he pulls in his feet to make room for mine. There are four schoolkids in the seats behind me, talking and giggling. The mother, the schoolkids: in them I see the Australian face. Getting off at Waverley station, climbing the ramp to the bridge, passing people looking up at the timetable screens, passing rail workers smoking in groups, crossing with the crowd at Princes Street�all around me, wherever I look, all I seem to see is the Australian face.
I am walking the long high road to Leith, I crest a rise and I can see the Firth of Forth, the water sparkling in the clear winter light. I walk past betting shops and Pakistani grocery stores, past walk-up gymnasiums and pubs, past frowning boys in hoods masking their faces in shadows. And everywhere, the Australian face.
Clyde had said to me the other day, �Pal, do you think you might be seeing the Australian face everywhere because you want to?� He�s right, he caught me out.
Homesickness, I am discovering, is not a matter of climate or landscape; it does not descend on you from unfamiliar architecture. Homesickness hits hardest in the middle of a crowd in a large, alien city. Oh, how I miss the Australian face.
I get to the end of the walk and there is a sad collection of shopfronts with grimy windows, a group of young boys sitting on the dirty concrete rim of a dry fountain, an old woman in a red headscarf resolutely pushing a crammed trolley. I have no idea where to go. Excuse me, I say to the old woman, do you know . . . but she won�t let me finish, she just shakes her head, I don�t know, I don�t know, so I let her pass and look across at the young boys, one of them standing, his jaw jutting out, his eyes fierce, looking as though he will growl, just like a dog, the group of them just like a pack of wild dogs. I keep walking, go through a dank concrete tunnel that stinks of urine and garbage, its walls black from the constant stream of water running down them. I am in a square surrounded on three sides by grey towers.
Heading towards me is a giant insect of a man, so thin that his hooded top and polyester trackpants flap against his spindly arms and legs. Walking next to him, trying to keep to his pace, is a young woman, short, as thin as he is but with enormous breasts, her long hair falling limply over her shoulders. She�s wearing an electric-blue tracksuit and is clutching what looks like a pink toy rabbit to her chest. As if she�s trying to hide her tits, as if by holding the toy close to her she can fool the world into thinking she�s a girl, not a woman. The couple are arguing, he�s calling her names and she keeps saying, �Just fucken shut up, it�s all your fault, just fucken shut up.� As I near them, I ask if they know the address I am trying to find, and the man stops suddenly, as if I have clouted him. His head goes back and he says something in such a thick angry accent I�m not even sure it is English. The woman hasn�t stopped walking, and she turns around and looks at me as if I am dog shit she�s just stepped in. She doesn�t have to speak, the scowl and the disgust in her eyes are enough. I know to keep on walking.
Then I hear, �Aye, aye, aye,� and I turn around, the man is running back to me, though it is hardly a normal run, he is cradling one hand in the other, as if the effort of it all hurts, as if it is killing him. �Aye aye aye,� he keeps repeating when he stops in front of me, not able to say another word, bent over, fighting for breath. He has a big smile on his face, he winks and says, You�re an Aussie, eh, nah?� and I nod but he�s already calling out to the young woman, who hasn�t moved, who is standing with her feet apart, the pink rabbit dangling from her left hand, her other hand a fist on her hip, and he�s calling out, �Aye, aye, aye, he�s an Aussie.� She�s still scowling and doesn�t respond, and he turns to me and starts giving directions, asking do I want them to walk me over there, and I say no, but thanks, mate, I make sure to say mate over and over, thanks, mate, and he winks again and goes back to the woman. I can hear her berating him as I walk towards the grey towers and this time it is he who keeps interrupting her onslaught, with �Just shut the fuck up, will ya, just shut the fuck up.�
My great-aunt Rosemary lives on the ground floor, in the shadow of the towers. On her door is a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a terrier�s head. I bang it, once, twice, and I can hear a shuffle. A voice asks, solidly Glaswegian, �Is that you, Danny?� and I answer yes and the door swings open. The smells of fried egg and locked-in bodies, confinement and home cooking, burnt toast and eau de cologne, all hit me at once. There, smiling up at me, a solid white-haired woman is holding out her arms, but I can�t move; for a moment I think time and space have played a trick on me, I think I am about to be hugged by my granddad Bill. Then she says, �Let me hold you, love, let me hold you,� and Granddad Bill is gone and this stranger has wrapped her arms around me and I smell chips and cheap scent but the hug she gives me is warm and trusting.
There is no light in the front room, so we sit in the kitchen, out the back. There are two chairs for the small kitchen table; a clump of folded knitting lies next to a small porcelain statuette of the Virgin and next to Her is a framed black and white photograph of Great-Aunt Rosemary on her wedding day. Below that are framed photographs of my granddad as a kid, a photo of my mother and father, of Regan and Theo, and then there is the photograph of me; I am skinny and pale with a toothy grin, in my black swimmers, clutching a ribbon, smiling like an idiot, ecstatic at my win. On a white doily next to the kettle is a snow globe on a red plastic base, Flinders Street station in miniature.
�Aye, Danny, aye, Danny,� Great-Aunt Rosemary keeps repeating, �I can�t believe we have finally met. Tell me,� she urges, �tell me everything. Tell me about Bill and Irene, tell me about Neal and Stephanie.� She�s lived in this flat for over forty-five years, came here as a new bride. But her accent still carries the thick chopping call of Glasgow. �Tell me, Danny,� she says. �Tell me everything.�
And I do: over another cup of tea, over the biscuits, over the ham and squishy cheese toasts she makes me as the sun moves across the sky and the kitchen begins to darken, I tell her all that I can. She gets up to switch on the light, saying, �Go on, love, go on, I want to hear it all.�
So I do, I bring Australia forth in words, and it seems that I must be convincingly tracing the outlines and filling in the shades and colours of home because the tiny room seems warmer. I take off my jumper as the sharp smell of burnt toast seems to retreat, as if my stories carry with them the scent of silver-gum forests, of fish and chips on a stinking hot day. All around me are reminders of my home town, the Mother of God and the photographs watching me as I talk. And Great-Aunt Rosemary smiles sadly and nods, and once, twice, takes hold of my hand, squeezes it, even with her arthritis, squeezes it tight and ignores the pain. And again it could be my granddad Bill who is here with me.
I feel as though I�ve talked for hours, more than I have since coming to Scotland. Suddenly I have no more words. She nods, and takes out a crumpled tissue from her sleeve, blows her nose and dabs at her eyes.
�I wanted to come to Australia,� she says quietly. �But then Jimmy got sick. So there you are.� She is smiling again. �Another cup of tea, love?�
It has started to rain again; the bits of sky visible between the towers appear heavy and sodden with black cloud. We sit in the quiet as the rain splatters against the window.
She pats my hand. �I�m glad Bill�s done so well, I am so glad. He did the right thing, leaving this cold hard place and going to Australia.� She shakes her head, as if the word conjures up enchantment. �It gave him opportunity. Ach, I know my brother has worked hard, I know it, but he�s raised two wonderful sons, he and Irene are happy together and he has a home he loves.� She can�t stop nodding, as if in prayer.
And then she surprises me. �You know he wanted to study?�
�No,� I say, �I didn�t know that.�
�He was a marvel at languages. There was a friend of his, in our tenement, he was Russian�oh, I�ve forgotten the wee one�s name�and he and Bill us
ed to play together all the time. Bill would just go on and on in Russian�he picked it up so quickly. He used to tell us that he was going to learn languages, he wanted to speak five or six, he did.�
�I had no idea. I haven�t heard him speak anything but English.�
I say that and her face drops.
�Aye, our dad couldn�t bear hearing Bill talk Russian. He�d shout at him, �Who do you think you are? What are you doing dreaming, lad? Our sort can�t dream.��
My great-aunt again dabs at her eyes. I am silent. �Ach, can you imagine that, Danny, can you imagine saying that to a wee child, that you�re not allowed to dream? That was our world then.� She looks out the window to the darkness outside. �No wonder Bill wanted to leave, no wonder he wanted to go as far away from here as he could.�
She surprises me again as her smile returns. �And I suppose he did�you cannot get further than Australia, can you, lad?� She smiles at me, nodding; I know she wants me to agree. �Can you, Danny? It must be such a lovely, lovely place.�
In all my time here, she�s the first one to say that Australia seems like a lovely place. All of Clyde�s friends and family, even those few who have travelled that distance, they say, �It�s alright,� they say, �Of course, there�s beauty there,� but they hold back; you know they have seen or heard of the ugliness and the insularity there. They have experienced the farawayness of it. I have learned to keep silent, not to berate them for their disregard of the Brits� role in the colonial tragedy of my country. I bite my tongue and hide my frustration at their tedious obsession with Scottish independence, as if that would make a difference to life in Glasgow, let alone to a single soul anywhere else in the world. I have learned how to nod and pretend that I agree. I am a stranger. It is my duty to be polite.