Poking Seaweed with a Stick and Running Away from the Smell (15 page)

‘What do you want to know that for?' I asked

‘Just answer the fuckin' question, will you?'

‘I feel great right now.'

‘Right, well there's your problem right there. You're not depressed enough to write. You take it from me, Blinky, the more depressed you are, the better your stories will be. The fuckin' ideas'll come flying out of your head without you having to think about them. What you need in your life is some kind of tragedy or drama or somethin' like that.'

‘Christ, you know what, Nobbie, it's true—since I met Thomas I've been happier than I've ever been, so I ­probably could be doing with a bit more drama or some kind of tragedy in my life. I think you're right! Ah, now I can almost feel those waves of depression lapping up against the shore as we speak. Thanks, Nobbie, I really appreciate your input.'

‘Don't worry about it, darlin'. You know you can always turn to your family in your time of need. That's what we're here for—to keep you depressed.'

‘Aye, and what a great job you all do at it too.'

36
A bottle of Laphroaig

My da ended up selling the bungalows and his precious land and he moved away to the country with Mum. When I went back to Scotland from Sydney years later, I drove past the bungalows and I stopped to see how they had changed. I stared at the houses from the street and thought back to the days when I was Bruce's assistant and how I'd carried that hod full of bricks up that ladder all day long and I thought about the sandwiches we ate with our filthy hands and how we'd earned our tea and I remembered loving every minute of it.

I parked my car and I walked down the driveway towards the bungalows that now stood vacant and neglected and I walked across to Bruce's bungalow and I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the window and into his living room. I could still make out the lilac walls we'd laughed at and I imagined the two armchairs in front of the fire where we'd shared our spaghetti bolognese and our glass of red wine with a spoonful of sugar in it and the memory of those times left me happy and sad at the same time.

Then I walked across to our bungalow and the concrete lions that Mum and I had bought that day at the Biggar auction still graced each side of the front doors. And when I walked around to our old back garden, I could almost see Nanny making her way to our back door wearing her beanie and Grampa's leather slippers and she's holding her bag of goodies high in the air to show me and she's smiling and I wish I could hold her and hug her and take away all the pain she suffered and I wish I could have offered her comfort and peace in the last few years of her life when she'd needed it most. All we'd wanted back then was harmony and the comfort that comes from living in close proximity to those you love and all of that was wasted by my da and his greed of gold.

After Mum left him, my da stayed on in the house they'd bought in the country. The house was a 100-year-old sandstone farmhouse called Glengarry, set high on a hill with views to Tinto Hill that, from a distance, looked remarkably like Mount Fuji. There were fireplaces in every room and an acre of land with crab-apple trees, overgrown bramble bushes and a solitary Victoria plum tree, heavy with fruit.

Mum had taken hardly anything that day she fled with her tartan holdall and the dogs and cats in the back of the car. But she'd come back from time to time to take all that was precious to her, like the photographs of Nanny and Grampa on holiday at the Palace of Versailles, of me and Izzy blowing out the candles on my first birthday cake, and of Andrew in his school uniform with his ears sticking out and smiling like a monkey.

After a long time living apart, Mum told my da she wanted a divorce and he didn't take it too bad, like an adult you might say. And so Glengarry went up for sale, and my da made his own ‘For Sale' sign and nailed it to a two-by-two post and stabbed it into the front lawn. He got enquiries all right, 'cause everybody who drove past wished they could live in this spot. Glengarry overlooked the Mousebank River that twinkled like Irish eyes, and creamy-coloured lambs dotted grassy green fields as far as the eye could see. Even some famous racing-car driver enquired when he saw the garden at the back was big enough for a helipad to land his own personal helicopter. And every time Mum drove past a house for sale after that, Andrew would say, ‘That's nae good tae us, Mum, where would we park our helicopter?' and all of us would laugh.

Hogmany was approaching and that's the time for being with friends—and family, if you must; a time for tall dark handsome men with lumps of coal to come knocking on your door to first foot you; a time for black bun and steak-pie dinners and Tenants lager out of cans with pictures of dolly birds on the side, and the best malt whisky money can buy. Hogmany's a time for cleaning your house from top to bottom too, 'cause your house must be clean for when the bells welcome in the new year at midnight. In the village where Glengarry stood they didn't listen out for the bells, but for the twelve rifle shots that rang out in the crisp midnight air.

Since Mum left, my da had spent his Hogmanys alone. One Hogmany, Callum, the farmer from the farm across the road, invited my da to come just before midnight and have a dram with him and a few of the other farmers. Callum's wife, Moira, was putting on a spread—spicy ­eggplant dip, kalamata olives and curried cocktail sausages by all accounts. My da, he doesn't like all that foreign shite, but he'd go for the dram and the chat in any case.

At half past eleven my da put on the new Aran jumper he'd been keeping good for an occasion as special as this. Before he left he put his long-distance specs in his pocket and picked up his carry-out bag. He'd gone all out and bought a bottle of Laphroaig malt whisky to take with him, well it was Hogmany after all. At twenty-five minutes to midnight, he turned the kitchen light off, closed the door behind him, and started the walk to Callum's place, half a mile up the dirt track.

By the time he got to Callum's the drams were flowing freely and my, was my da popular that night when he arrived with his bottle of Laphroaig. He put it on the table next to Moira's spicy eggplant dip and he wondered why nobody did cheese cubes and silver-skin pickled onions on cocktail sticks stuck in an orange wrapped in silver paper like in the good old days, when a party was a party and you knew what the fuck you were eating.

After the first couple of drams, the electricity at Callum's place failed and the lights went out and sure, the electricity going off was a regular occurrence in the village in winter. And if it wasn't the electricity going off, it was the gas, and if it wasn't the gas, it was the water. Once when the water went off it wasn't the fault of the Water Board but my da who was digging holes in the garden with his digger and dug down too far and broke the main water pipe that supplied water to the entire village. Mum never saw him jump so fast from the cabin of his digger, screaming for her to phone the Water Board straightaway. The men from the Water Board came as soon as they could, mind it was six hours later, by which time enough water had gushed out of that pipe to service the whole of the African continent. It whooshed straight through Mum's petunias, uprooting them on its way down the sloping driveway and out onto the public road like Niagara fucking Falls. It was freezing cold that day and as the gushing slowed the water froze over until the road looked like a slow-moving glacier and the drivers approaching in their cars slammed on their brakes before they hit it and reversed back out and took the long way round to their destinations.

Moira the farmer's wife got a stack of candles out of the cupboard and everybody lit one and the party carried on. Big Bob was at the kitchen sink filling a jug of water for the whiskies and he peered through Moira's kitchen window across several fields to Glengarry and he put on his glasses to take a second look. ‘Looks like the power's back on in your place, Joe,' he said. My da stepped up to the window to see what Bob was going on about 'cause the power wasn't back on in Moira's. He took his long-distance specs out of his pocket and put them on only to discover he'd brought his telly specs. ‘Ah fuck it,' he said under his breath. He put them on anyway and screwed up his eyes and pressed his nose against Moira's kitchen window and sure enough, he could see a flickering light. Only it seemed to be getting bigger. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked again.

‘Jeesiz Christ, the place is on fire!' he screamed, and he dropped his glass of Laphroaig and ran like hell back down the dirt track towards Glengarry with three burly farmers in hot pursuit. By the time they were halfway there the entire front of the house was engulfed, but they kept on running and the freezing new year's air scraped at the inside lining of their windpipes already raw from the Laphroaig and Moira's spicy eggplant dip.

By the time they got to the front gate it was too late. The fire had already taken hold and the searing orange flames roared much like my da used to roar as they ate their way through every room in the house. And the three burly farmers and my da looked helplessly on.

37
My da's cherry buns

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your cabin crew supervisor speaking. Air Canada is pleased to announce the arrival of Flight 3245 from Alberta via Halifax. Welcome to Glasgow International Airport. We hope you have a pleasant stay. For your information, please note the following facts about Scotland; one, it rains, and two, it's cold.

‘Please also note that all Scottish people are fully aware of these two facts. Consequently, after your stay here, please try to resist the temptation to tell every Scottish person you should meet hereafter that you went to Scotland once and, one, it rained, and two, it was cold.

‘On behalf of the captain and crew, I would like to wish you a very safe and enjoyable stay. Thank you for choosing Air Canada.'

Uncle Jack had emigrated to Canada and he came back to Scotland ten years later for a wedding. He decided he'd drop in on my da when he arrived so he took a taxi from the airport and went straight to my da's new house. Later, when my da phoned me in Sydney, he told me he couldn't believe his eyes when he opened the door and saw Jack standing there. Not because he hadn't seen his brother for ten years, but more the shock of seeing somebody actually wearing one of those ridiculous ten-gallon hats like the one John Wayne wore in
How The West Was Won
.

‘Well, are ya' not gonna' say anything? Are ya' not pleased to see me?' Jack asked with this stupid Yankee twang he must've picked up on his ranch
hangin' aboot wi' his Yankee pals
, my da said. My da never made any distinction between the Yanks and the Canadians. All spoke funny and wore fucking ridiculous ten-gallon hats.

And my da's opening statement was what you might expect from him, having not set eyes on his brother for ten years. ‘There's nae spare bed here,' he said, ‘you'll have to go somewhere else.' Warmth and compassion are not two of my da's strong points. Mind you, I couldn't tell you what his strong points were, except of course maybe his ability to park any vehicle you care to mention—and to perfection—but that's for another time. My da stood at the door and stared at Jack and said nothing.

‘Aren't ya gonna' invite me in?' Jack asked.

‘Aye, awright, but I'm just on my way oot. I've a pick-up to make at Auchterarder, then I'm dropping the same load off at Auchtermuchty, so I'll need to be making tracks. You'll need to get goin' as well, will you no'? I mean, you'll need to find somewhere to sleep tonight before the night starts to draw in, eh?'

‘Can I at least have a cuppa' tea before I head off?'

‘Aye, awright,' my da said, ‘but you'll need to make it quick.' And my da switched on his new fast-boiling ­cordless electric kettle he got only the week before from Lewis' department store on Argyle Street with the six million Fly Buy points he'd accrued. This new kettle would have the water boiled up in an instant and he'd be rid of Jack in no time. Jack looked around the house while the kettle boiled.

‘It's really small, isn't it?'

‘What's small?'

‘Your place here.'

‘It's big enough for me! Since Glengarry burnt doon, this is all I need. Plus I'm a single man now and thank fuck for that. It's been a few years since Betty left me and to be honest, I've never looked back. Now I've only masel' to think about and I do what I like wi' my wages at the end of the week. I've even enough money to buy masel' a fancy car these days and so long as I've got my
Sale of the Century
and
Come On Down!
for company at night, there's nothin' more I need.'

‘Back in Canada, our ranch house has ten bedrooms and four bathrooms,' Jack said. ‘We just like a bit of space, you know, for when our friends drop by. We're pretty ­isolated out there—it's a nine-hour drive from the nearest village and when the snow comes in winter, we sometimes can't get off the property for weeks on end. It's pretty extreme living, but we love it that way. We just love the space, the isolation, you know, just working the land, being at one with the cows that we breed. Just being there with nature, you know?'

‘No, I don't fuckin' know. What do you want to live away oot there for—in the middle of nowhere? Are you fuckin' mad or what?'

‘No, Joe. It's just a choice that Georgina and I made and we're glad we did. We've got everything we could ever want out there and we've got over a million dollars in the bank. Life's good, you know?'

‘If you've got a million dollars in the bank, how come you're wearing that stupid fuckin' hat then?'

‘What do ya mean? These hats are all the rage in downtown Alberta. You wear a hat like this out there and it says something about the kind of man you are.'

‘Aye and you wear a hat like that in this town and it says something about the kind of man you are too—that you're a fuckin' dick. So take it off and don't embarrass me. I've my reputation to think of.'

And so my da made the tea and put extra milk in Jack's so it would be cool enough for him to drink down quickly and knocked back his own cup of tea slamming his mug down on the kitchen table to let Jack know that the tea break was at an end. And Jack just sat there.

‘Well, I've got to be off,' my da said. ‘Got to get down the yard and get the lorry ready for action. Just pull the door shut on your way out. Cheerio.'

‘So long, partner, I'll catch you before I head back to Alberta.'

‘Och, don't worry about that, I'm sure you've plenty to be doin' without coming back here to see me. I'll be fine. See you in another ten years. Cheerio.'

And with that, my da jumped into his Rover 3000 and drove around the corner to the yard to get his lorry ready for the next job. Twenty minutes later, my da was in the yard when he heard this Yankee accent and turned around to see Jack strut into the yard, wearing that fucking hat, the checked shirt and, Christ Almighty, cowboy boots. And as if that wasn't bad enough, he stopped to talk to the lads in the yard and my da hunched himself up and tried to hide under the bonnet of his lorry. Next, the lads were shouting across the yard at the top of their voices, ‘Hey, Joe, here's your brother lookin' fur yae! Yae didnae tell us you had a brother fae Americy.'

‘It's Canada, actually,' Jack corrected.

‘Canada, Americy, it's aw' the same to us, pal,' the lads said.

My da looked up from under the bonnet and wished he was somewhere else and Jack strutted up and stopped at the lorry and looked under the bonnet at my da. My da stopped what he was doing and looked up at Jack from the engine.

‘Did you want somethin'?' he asked Jack.

‘Yeah. You don't have any butter in your fridge.'

My da stood up straight at that point with his greasy spanner and oily rag in his hand and looked at Jack square in the eyes. ‘Did you come all this way just to tell me that?'

‘Well, yeah, I did.'

‘I suppose you noticed I don't have any bread in my bread bin either?'

‘Yeah, that too. I'm going to the baker's to pick up something to eat, so how about giving me your house key so I can get back in to finish my tea?' Jack said.

‘Aye, awright, here's the key,' my da said, thrusting the key into Jack's hands. ‘And look, I'll come back home masel' shortly and change into my boiler suit before I head off and I'll have a bite wi' you since you're going to the baker's. Now, don't go into Gregory's the baker, by the way, their stuff's helluva greasy. Go tae Smith's and ask for big Janice. Tell her you're my brother and you'll get a fresh-cream strawberry tart thrown in. Actually, naw, on second thoughts, don't tell
anybody
you're my brother. Just get what you want and I'll see you back at the house. And don't forget, you'll need to get goin' soon—you've still a bed to find fur the night.'

Jack swaggered out of the yard in his ten-gallon hat, and my da pretended to be engrossed in what was under the bonnet and he didn't dare look at the lads in the yard. He'd never been so embarrassed in his life except maybe for that time he was drunk and got out of his bed during the night, opened the middle drawer in the chest of drawers next to his bed, pissed into it, closed the drawer and went back to bed. And when he got out of bed in the morning he stood on his own piss and started screaming at the dogs for pissing in the bedroom during the night and that's when Mum said the dogs were smart, but she'd never heard of a dog opening a drawer to piss in it.

Back at the yard my da did his final oil and water checks and closed the bonnet tight, wiped his oily hands down the sides of his trousers and hopped back into his Rover 3000 and headed home for his quick bite.

Jack had managed to find the baker and big Janice must've been on duty, 'cause there was the tell-tale fresh-cream strawberry tart sitting on the table, and right beside the tart were three cherry buns topped with white icing and half a maraschino cherry. My da pulled up a chair, anxious to join in the feast, and as he leaned forward to grab a cherry bun he noticed his hands were still thick with oil and grease so he ducked outside to the wash house to give his hands a good scrub with that Grease Away stuff that lorry drivers and hard men use.

‘You wouldnae believe it,' he told me on the phone. ‘I comes back fae scrubbing my oily hands and there's Jack, polishing off the last scrap of patisserie on the table—
including big Janice's fresh-cream strawberry tart
—which by law was rightfully mine. Can you believe that? The greedy bastard ate every last crumb himself and left nothing for me. It's hard to think a man could treat his ain brother like that—I mean, after ten years of not seeing each other, the least you'd think he could do would be to share his cherry buns wi' his own brother, do you no' think?'

‘Well,' I said to my da, ‘if a man cannae share his cherry buns with his own brother, it's a bad day. I mean, Christ Almighty, is it any wonder he's got a million dollars in the bank if that's how he carries on?'

‘Exactly, hen,' my da said, ‘it's a sad day when a man treats his own flesh and blood like that. I mean, my own brother—
ten years
we havnae seen each other and this is what it's come to. Incidentally, you should have seen the heavy fall of snow last night. I wonder if Jack managed to find a bed for the night before the blizzard came on. I hope he got caught in it, the uncharitable bastard.'