My Life as a Man (26 page)

Now, settling down opposite me, he declared, ‘It’s like a sign, finding you up at this hour and still dressed.’

‘I was reading.’

‘I do that, fall asleep over the book. You’re tired but you can’t face going to bed.’

We looked at each other in silence.

‘Thing is,’ Walter said eventually, ‘I’ve got a sister lives in Castlemilk. Respectable woman, but life hasn’t been easy for her. The scheme’s gone down since
she first got a council house there.’

‘Yes?’ Just the one cautious word. It was possible the man was a secret drinker.

‘I visited her a month ago, and when I came out someone had scratched the Jaguar. A key or some bloody thing right along the side of it. That car’s my pride and joy.’

‘I’ve seen you polishing it.’

‘You don’t need me to tell you that kind of thing happens. But here, a fortnight ago, same thing again.’

‘That’s bad.’

‘It’s
atrocious
.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But I found out who did it, through a man who knows a man who knows a policeman. The family’s notorious,
they’re telling me. Now, Harry, this is it. I’m not the kind of man to let a thing like that pass. But, and I’ll admit it, I’d appreciate a wee bit of back-up. And, eh, I
don’t want to go in the Jaguar. Your car would maybe fit in better round that district. I mean, it wouldn’t be recognised.’

He had been carrying two rectangular boxes in the carrier bag. When I looked over my shoulder as we drove through the scheme, I saw them lying side by side, where Walter had taken them out of
the bag and laid them carefully on the back seat. I noted uneasily that the streets weren’t entirely deserted. At this hour I had expected them to be, but we passed not one but three separate
walkers, each hurrying on, head down, as if taking part in a foot race.

‘Best to stop here,’ Walter said. ‘The house we want is round the corner.’

He got out and stood with his head back, searching perhaps to see if there might be a moon hidden behind the clouds. From the back seat he lifted out the two boxes, and I took one from him as I
clambered out.

‘Hope I can manage this,’ Walter said. ‘The bones at the bottom of my back are just a crumble, but I swim every day to keep the musculature. We’re not allowed to dive
from the side, so I dive from the steps. And just as I do, my body remembers what it is to be young. I look forward to that moment every day.’

We walked round the corner and Walter straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat and, reaching into the box, threw the first egg, chucking it overarm like a soldier lobbing a grenade.
Another four followed in rapid succession, before I came awake and launched my first missile.

I didn’t really believe any of it was happening until my egg exploded against the wall, leaving yet another dribbling mess on the white harling. There were a dozen eggs in each box and I
was down to my last one when a light came on in an upstairs window. I started at a run after Walter, who had taken off like a startled rabbit.

In the car, as one street whirled into another, I crouched over the wheel and marvelled at the steady beating of my heart.

‘Urban guerrillas!’ Walter shouted, grinning and nodding. ‘Just for one night!’

From then on, we alternated silence with sudden fits of triumphant guilty laughter. By the time we got back, the guilt had a slight edge and, wary of getting involved in a postmortem, I refused
his offer to come in for a whisky.

‘Sleep well, then,’ Walter said. ‘I’ll have one on my own, or maybe two.’

‘Another time.’

‘But you enjoyed it?’

‘It was different.’ I saw him smile at the word. Suddenly more light-hearted, I added, ‘That’s worth something when you get to our age!’

He pulled a card from an inside pocket, and passed it across. ‘My son in Washington sent me that.’

It was a folded letter-card with a picture on the front. Angling it to catch the light from the streetlamp, I saw that it showed three old men. One was gesturing with two fists, one was stepping
back in a trance of admiration, the one in the middle was leaning forward to join in whatever was going on. And there were two spectators, younger men, not part of the group but watching
humorously. The caption read: ‘ “Growing old: it’s not nice, but it’s interesting.” August Strindberg (1849–1912).’

‘Unusual name,’ I said, handing it back. ‘I used to know someone called August.’

Home again, I shovelled the tablets into the glass of whisky, put the whole concoction into the pan of the small downstairs lavatory, and flushed it away. I looked at myself in the round mirror
above the basin and wondered what Eileen would have said if she’d been watching. I offered her an explanation: Since the heart attack I’m warned off spirits; and imagined her smiling at
the joke.

In defiance of doctors, back in my own familiar chair I cradled a fresh glass of whisky. As I sipped, I felt my heart beating. If it had been the last night turning into day of my life, it would
have been one free of pain and full of interest. That might not be everything but it was a great deal; and in the end perhaps something a creature of chance and time should settle for.

I drained the whisky and went to bed but, habit being hard to break, got up and started my round of switching off lamps and checking the locks on every door and window. In the kitchen, the
earliest flush of morning light drew me out to walk round the garden, feeling the dew strike up through my slippers. A small breeze was clearing the last traces of mist and the air felt newly
washed.

The next thing I knew I was walking along a street, having just come from my house. Across the road I saw a man getting out of a car and opening the boot. I had started to walk on when he called
to me and I saw it was my friend Tony. He was pushing a pram and he looked very well and smiling though he’s young to have a family. ‘I didn’t realise it was you,’ I said.
‘I was expecting you further along.’ As we turned back to the house, I was struck by how beautiful the child in the pram was. I can hardly talk to Tony for the wonder of her. Her eyes
are incredibly blue and she is laughing. I can hardly wait to hold her in my arms. Tony asks about getting the pram in – we’ll have to go up steps to the front door, I say, and since
the kitchen is at the back we’ll have to carry the pram through the front room. As I work this out, I become embarrassed and begin to apologise. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m
sorry. I can’t stop, over and over again, I’m sorry, until I force myself to wake up.

When I opened my eyes on a milky darkness, I thought that something terrible had happened and then I saw Eileen sitting in her chair near the window with a blanket round her shoulders.
Involuntarily, a breath of content sighed from me, but so softly she gave no sign of having heard. Almost at once, I decided against disturbing her. Lovers, even lovers for a lifetime, have need of
times apart. She would be warm under the blanket, and when she was ready she would come back and lie beside me. It was enough to see her and know that I was complete. In the quiet night, I thought
of how it was only by chance we had met and gone on to share so much together. It was a wonderful thing and a commonplace thing, an everyday miracle. I was a boat on a wide stream among so many
others, on either side, ahead and behind, all of us drifting under the white moon and a mist rising from the water. After so long a day, I was ready now to sleep.

Good night, my love
.