The Rain Dance

With improvised maracas – a shake of small stones in a tin can; with tambourine, cymbal and drum – assembly of biscuit-tins and lids; with a bell, a rattle and a party squeaker left over from Christmas; with streamers, with a rose, with a paper hat, Kathleen was paraded through the lamplit streets of the scheme. Her maids and ladies-in-waiting were girls from the same office, Agnes and Jean linking arms with her, the rest of the clattering procession straggled out behind.

Faces appeared briefly at windows as they passed, drawn for a moment from the television before fading back into its blue light, jerking shadows on the ceiling. Curtains were opened on living-room windows, screens that the procession moved across and was gone. Curtains were closed.

Some there were that leaned out and waved, or stood watching from closemouth and pavement, some smiling and glad, others tightlipped and knowing.

‘Tommy Brady’s lassie.’

‘Gettin merried at Martha Street themorra.’

‘Merried oantae a proddie tae.’

Passing silent judgement on this double heresy. Not only marrying a Protestant, but marrying at Martha Street Registry Office. And for a Catholic girl, that was no wedding at all.

But the girls were untroubled as they sang into the night. The bells are ringin for me and my gal. The clamour and racket of the bridal dance.

‘Everybody is knowin

To a weddin they’re goin

An for weeks they’ve been sewin

Every Susie and Sal.’

Breaking off into shouts and laughing whenever man or boy should stray across their path. Then they would gather round the victim, willing or not, sometimes lurching across to the opposite pavement, or even stopping cars in the middle of the road. And Kathleen would be jostled towards the captive, offered for the ceremonial kiss, a final flirtation, benediction, farewell.

There was a young boy of about fourteen who blushed and was clumsy and missed her mouth.

There was an old silverhaired man, out for a walk with his dog. He smiled and kissed her forehead and said, ‘God bless ye lass.’ Then he added, tugging the lead, ‘An whit aboot Rab?’ So she bent and kissed the dog’s wet nose.

There was a boy with the smell of drink on him, who had known Kathleen at school. The girls clapped and stamped and cheered as he gave her a long deep kiss, probing with his tongue.

‘Drunken bugger!’ said Kathleen, laughing and prising him clear at last.

‘It’s a bit late fur that son,’ said Agnes.

‘That’s the wey it goes,’ he said.

They moved on, their voices raised again.

‘And she sang and she sang

And she sang so sweet

His name is Brian

Ah hope ye will agree.’

(A song from their childhood. A memory of long summer evenings. Her friends in a circle moving round her in step, chanting the magic name, the name of the boyfriend, the name that would release her, to take her place again in the circle of linked hands. Songs and games. Just a few summers. Chalk-marks on the pavement.)

They rounded a corner, past a stretch of open ground. The noise and the singing came echoing back from a gable end. Their pace grew slower. It began to rain.

Brian had to get a bus to Hillhead so Tommy saw him to the bus-stop in Hope Street. Tommy had to get a bus to Pollok.

‘Ah’ll see ye doontae the bus-stoap,’ said Brian.

Supporting each other, they made their erratic way down past Central Station towards Midland Street. By the time they got there it had started to rain and they were glad of the shelter of the railway bridge above them.

‘Ah’m tell’n ye Brian,’ Tommy was saying, ‘Canada . . . at’s wherr yis should go. See wance yer time’s oot at the college . . . land a opportunity . . . See Peter . . . ye huvnae met Peter . . . Peter’s ma son . . . Kathleen’s big brurra . . . ah’ll show ye a fotie . . .’

‘At’s awright Tommy,’ said Brian, ‘ye showed me it arready. Jist pit yer wallet back in yer poacket before ye drap it.’

‘Aye . . . aw aye. Yirra good boay Brian. Tell’n ye . . . See you an Kathleen . . .’ He broke off as a train rumbled overhead.

‘Mon ah’ll see ye up tae the bus-stoap,’ he went on.

‘Naw, look . . .’ said Brian, ‘wu’ve arready been up therr; ah mean, don’t think ah don’t appreciate it . . .’

‘Sawright,’ said Tommy.

‘Anywey,’ said Brian, ‘it’s wet. Nae point in the two ae us gettin soakin. Look . . . here’s yer bus comin. Ah kin jist dive roon tae St Enoch’s an get a subway.’

They both got on the bus, Brian guiding Tommy into a seat.

‘Ah’ll see ye themorra then,’ said Brian. ‘That’s if ye’ve sobered up!’

‘You don’t need tae worry aboot me,’ said Tommy, slowly nodding his head, spreading his fingers like an opening fan. ‘Nae bother!’

‘Right yar,’ said Brian. ‘Martha Street themorra.’

‘Themorra,’ said Tommy, poking the air with an emphatic finger.

Then somehow Brian was outside on the pavement, knocking on the window. Tommy wiped the steamed-up glass and through the clear patch saw Brian’s face, focused, mouthing words he couldn’t hear. Then he was gone and the window misted over again as the bus moved out into the main stream of traffic and across Jamaica Bridge.

Kathleen had gone to bed but Mary her mother still sat, leaning on the windowsill, seeing nothing but the rain streaming down the glass. The window had clouded a bit from her breath and she drew a face on it with her finger. Like a child’s drawing, the mouth turned down and doleful. Half past eleven. Tommy shouldn’t be long now. She had made a pot of tea and poured herself a cup. Thinking maybe, that the smell of the tea would bring him home. Funny how you half-believed things like that. No sooner would the tea be ready than somebody’s head would be round the door. Tommy or Kathleen or Peter. Three years now Peter had been gone. And now it was Kathleen. One more day. The house would be strange without her. Just herself and Tommy. And Kathleen and Brian would begin it all again. Mary liked Brian well enough but she was troubled about the wedding. She remembered the bit in the missal about not marrying outside the church. And that meant both ways. It meant marrying a Catholic and it meant a proper church wedding. So she was worried for Kathleen. Father Boyle had put the fear in her about the wedding not being blessed. Not that Kathleen cared, or Tommy either. Little enough he cared about anything, especially the church. Sundays he usually spent recovering from Saturday nights and only rarely could she drag him along to Mass.

And now he was somewhere out there, roaming and daft and drunk. Him and Brian both. But he couldn’t be much longer now, allowing for the last lingering pint and the chip-shop queue and the time it took him to get a bus . . .

She looked out at the same old street, wet by the same old rain. She saw him turn the corner, unsteadily, and veer across towards the close, and she was relieved and annoyed all at once at the sight of him.

She stood up from the window. The cup of tea she had poured herself was cold and untouched.

Tommy woke, stiff and cold, huddled on the living-room couch. That was where he had slumped, a deep drunk sleep ago, his head drooping forward, his jaw sagging open. The shifting room had closed over him and Mary had taken off his shoes, covered him with his coat and left him be. Now he moved from a dream of creatures like cats or owls surrounding him, waking to a dream of ashes in his mouth, sickness dry in his throat. In the first grey light of the day the room resolved itself into vague familiar shapes, shapes from another dream. There was the table, television, display-cabinet, gas-fire. He gave them names and remembered them as real. He remembered who he was and where. He tried to get up but he was too weak to move. A sick dull throb had replaced his head and the room tilted and threatened to swamp him again. He turned over with difficulty, almost falling off the couch, then pulled his coat tighter about him and went back to sleep.

When he woke again his body was one long ache. He managed to open his eyes long enough to see Mary looming over him, like a mourner at a wake.

‘So it’s come back tae the land a the livin his it? C’mon, get up!’ She clumped into the kitchen.

He screwed up his face and groaned. The light was too bright and harsh. Mary was banging about in the kitchen. He could hear outside the noises of the morning, voices, traffic, children on their way to school. Then he heard Kathleen ask the time and he remembered what day it was and why he was not at work. The wedding. Christ! Still, it wasn’t till the afternoon and another half-hour wouldn’t . . .

‘Oh Jesus, ma guts!’ He creaked to his feet and wobbled towards the door. As he fumbled with the doorknob it came away in his hand and the knob on the other side thudded on to the hall floor.

‘Oh ya bastard!’ He glowered accusation at the crucifix on the wall.

When he had replaced the handle and opened the door, Mary stuck her head out of the kitchen and bawled.

‘An ye kin fix that door before we go oot!’

‘Ach!’

A little later, purged, he braved the kitchen. Mary was scraping the cinders from bits of charred toast. She shoved them in front of him, banging down the plate, rattled the cups and saucers and poured him some tea.

He sipped at it, fingering the blackened, brittle toast. He pushed the plate aside and started to retreat.

‘Ah canny face the burnt offerin hen.’

‘Ye need somethin in yer stomach.’

‘Aye, maybe efter. Ah’m no feelin too good.’

‘Aye, well Hell mend ye, that’s aw ah kin say.’

‘Noo don’t start! Ye gave me enough shirrikin last night. Bloody dog’s abuse.’

‘And no bloody wonder!’ she said. ‘God forgive me.’ (Slipped in like punctuation as she put down a plate so she could cross herself.)

‘Ach be reasonable Mary. Ah mean it wis the boay’s last night a freedom before e pits is heid in the auld noose.’ He yanked an imaginary rope above his head and jerked his neck to the side. But that brought back the nausea, so he sat down before going on.

‘We hid tae gie um a wee bit send aff, ye know whit ah mean.’

‘Ah know whit ye mean awright, an ah know wherr ah’d send the perry yiz! Noo get ootma road. An will ye go an . . . DO somethin ABOUT yerself!’

He went back into the living-room and fumbled in his coat pocket for his cigarettes. His hand met the grisly remains of a fish supper and a copy of the War Cry, absolute proof of how he’d spent the night before. He wondered vaguely if the War Cry was ever sold anywhere else but in pubs. He remembered the girl that had sold him it, black cape and bonnet and bright moon face. Into battle with her War Cry for the Salvation Army. He didn’t know anything about what they believed, just that they were another kind of Protestant, but something in him had always warmed to them for the way they went at it, with their brass bands and their banners. Some of them still had the fire and the joy of it, and that was how it should be. He tried to imagine old Father stoneface Boyle rattling a tambourine or beating a drum. He looked again at the War Cry and suddenly saw the words for what they were. A war cry was what an Indian would make, or a Dervish, or a Zulu. He had a sudden picture of the whole Sally Army birling and yelling and charging through Pollok. He looked at the main article on the front page. It was a report of a conference in London with a photo of delegates looking serious and purposeful.

‘Ach!’ he said. He wrapped the paper round the cold soggy chip-bag and threw it in the bin.

He sat down on the couch again and closed his eyes. He was still feeling crumpled and raw. Kathleen poked her head round the door and asked if he’d like another cup of tea.

‘Aw thanks hen,’ he said, ‘Ah’d love wan. Ah’ve git a tongue in me lik a spam fritter.’

She brought through his tea and a cup for herself and sat down beside him.

‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘The day’s the day.’

‘Aye,’ she said. They smiled at each other, reassuring.

‘Did Brian get hame awright last night?’ she asked.

‘Och e wis fine!’ said Tommy. ‘As a matter a fact he wis lookin efter me. We didnae really huv that much.’

‘Aye, tell me another wan!’ said Kathleen.

‘Naw ah’m no kiddin,’ said Tommy. ‘Some a they pals a his wur merr bevvied than the two ae us pit thegether. Ah mean we knew we hud tae keep wursels right.’

‘Away ye go!’ she said.

‘You’re as bad as yer mammy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘How wis she when ye wur in the kitchen?’

‘Och she’s still playin the martyr.’

‘Aboot me?’ said Tommy.

‘Jist aboot the whole thing,’ said Kathleen, ‘because it’s no a church weddin an aw that. Ah suppose you jist made ur a wee bit worse, comin in steamin. But ah think it’s maistly that auld priest that’s been gettin oantae ur again, pittin ideas intae ur heid.’

‘Interferin auld bugger,’ said Tommy.

‘Never mind,’ said Kathleen, ‘wance she sees the actual weddin she’ll be fine.’

‘Suppose so,’ said Tommy.

‘Anywey,’ said Kathleen, ‘ah’m away tae huv a bath, so ah’ll see ye efter. Oh, could ye take the cups intae the kitchen?’

‘OK hen, ah’ll see ye in a wee while.’

He took the cups through and rinsed them out. Mary was sweeping the floor.

‘Ah think ah’ll go oot fur a wee walk an get the paper,’ he said. ‘Maybe the fresh air’ll clear ma heid a bit.’

‘Fine,’ said Mary. ‘It’ll get ye oot fae under ma feet as well.’

‘Look hen,’ he said, ‘Ah’m sorry aboot last night. But ye know how it is. It’s jist wan a these things.’

‘Aye, well . . .’ she said. ‘Jist . . . away ye go an gie’s peace!’

On his way out he called through to her, ‘D’ye want anythin when ah’m oot?’

‘Naw,’ she said. ‘Thanks aw the same.’

And he heard the tone of truce in her voice and was glad. He stepped from the close and felt the wind cold in the shadow of the building. He crossed the road into the sunlight, too bright for his eyes still and it made him feel grubby and sticky, but he welcomed its warmth, enough to ease the chill from his bones.

Brian could see most of the park spread out below, the green hillside stretching down to the fountain and the pond, beyond that, a glimmer, the Kelvin, and further, across Kelvin Way, the Art Gallery, the university tower. Further still he could see the shipyards of Partick and Govan, the cranes, giraffe-necks, jutting, grey. Govan was on the other side of the river and somewhere behind that was Pollok. There was nothing to distinguish it, no way he could recognise it from here. But that was where Kathleen was. He wondered what she was doing, what she was thinking. Probably the same as him, the same inconsequential stream of nothing in particular. Tangle of branches. Flight of ducks. Hunger. A bit of an old song. Let us haste to Kelvingrove bonnie lassie o, through the . . . something . . . let us rove bonnie lassie o. He’d learned that at primary school but only recently had he remembered it and connected it with the park. Every day now for almost two years he’d passed through the park on his way to the university. The park was his calendar. Here he could read the traces, the changes, the slow shift of the seasons. The daft dance of it. In a few more hours he would be married. A few more months he would be a father. Tick tock. On it went. A few more steps in the dance.

He looked up at the statue of the horseman, silhouetted at the top of the hill, and remembered the wedding of Ritchie and Mag. The papers had called it a mockery and gone on about long hair and bright clothes. None of the parents had come because it was at Martha Street. But somehow none of it had mattered. They’d all come here to the park afterward for a ceremony of their own, running mad and laughing across the grass. They’d climbed to the top of the hill, about thirty of them, and they’d linked hands and danced in a huge circle, round and round the statue of the horseman. And as they’d danced they’d chanted, and tried to levitate the statue, and with it the park and the rest of Glasgow, and raise it into orbit forever.

Ritchie and Mag were in London now. He’d heard they were living apart.

The grass was still wet from last night’s rain. Everything felt fresh and new. It was almost spring now. Nothing definite yet, no riot of leaves on the trees, no blaze of daffodils and tulips, just a feeling of everything hesitant, about to be, of opening, unfolding, a slow stirring to life.

A dog went panting and scampering up the hill, stopped and chased its tail, lay down and rolled and wriggled in the grass. Brian laughed.

‘Daftie!’ he said, out loud. He made his way towards the gate. On his way home he stopped in at the Indian grocer’s, to buy some milk and rolls. He liked the shop, and Mr Rhama who owned it. It had a warmth and a brightness about it, open till all hours, an improbable clutter of boxes and bags, of bundles and packets and tins, piled, haphazard, to the ceiling, and always the smell of spices or cooking from the back shop.

Before him in the queue, two tiny Indian boys with broad Glasgow accents dithered over the penny tray – candy balls or bubble-gum, jelly beans or caramels. Brian reached down and helped himself to a pint of milk from the blue plastic crate perched by a wall of tins – hamburgers and mangoes, creamed rice and Scotch broth, corned beef and pineapple and curried beans. Above the crate hung a sacred heart calendar, Jesus gazing up at the legend PL Trading Co. – Cash And Carry – Maryhill Road. Next to it was a poster for a showing of Indian films.

‘Anything else please?’ Mr Rhama grinned aross the counter at him, between a basket of tomatoes and a tray of meat pies.

‘Jist four rolls,’ said Brian. ‘That’s all.’

The rolls were in a breadboard balanced across an orangebox. Mr Rhama eased his way between bags of coal and a pile of newspapers, put four in a paper bag and passed them over the counter.

‘Today’s the big day, yes?’ he said. Brian had told him about the wedding.

‘It is that,’ said Brian.

‘Ah well,’ said Mr Rhama, ‘now you have to stop messing about. You have to settle down and bring up family.’

‘Suppose so,’ said Brian.

‘No suppose,’ said Mr Rhama, laughing. ‘It’s really true. No more messing about. But never you mind. I tell you, married is best.’

At the far end of the counter, his wife moved among packing-cases and sacks, the swish of a blue sari, the glint of a gold-embroidered hem, a jewel in her nostril, a glitter of rings.

Brian wondered about their wedding, how long ago it had been, in Glasgow or in India, what the ceremony had been like. He remembered the West Indians he’d seen in London, just a glimpse as he’d passed, a splatter of bright colours, bopping and jigging out of the church into the street. He was about to ask Mr Rhama about Indian weddings, about his own, but a fresh delivery of milk arrived, the vanboy lugging crates in the door, and Mr Rhama had to see to it. No matter. If he remembered he would ask him the next time he was in the shop.

‘Good luck!’ said Mr Rhama.

‘Thanks,’ said Brian.

On his way out the door he turned as Mr Rhama called out to him.

‘Hey! Next time you come here you be a married man!’

Kathleen lay, soaking in the warmth and comfort of the bath, nothing in her head but just drifting, lazy, not wanting to stir from it, ever. Steam rose and hung in the air, misted over the windows and the mirror, condensed and trickled down the tiles.

Through the wall she could hear her mother in the kitchen, familiar noises, far away, her mother, she supposed, still troubled and thinking about old Father Boyle, filling her head with purgatory and hellfire. She remembered how he’d seemed to her as a child, arms raised, intoning the Mass, glorious in his vestments, exalted and terrible like God himself, the voice of judgement in the deep musty dark of the confessional. Father forgive me for I have sinned. I have committed a sin of impurity. Yes my child. I have kissed a boy on the lips. And is that all? Yes Father. Yes Father. She leaned against the sides of the bath, buoyed up so slightly by the water, stretching, bobbing in the warm stream, and she thought of the life that moved deep inside her, the tiny life that was growing, becoming, the child that would be hers and Brian’s. And at twelve she’d wanted to be a nun. It had seemed so beautiful. The bride of Christ. Jesus the lover, the bridegroom, gentle Jesus. Father forgive me for I have conceived out of wedlock. How many acts of contrition and Hailmarys for that? Impurity and dirt. Wash it all away. She laughed and lathered herself with the soap. Sandalwood. Brian had bought it for her in the Indian shop. Fragrance. Like the incense he burned in his room. Hail Mary full of grace. Mother Mary working in the kitchen, on the other side of the thin wall. And once Kathleen had been no more than a stirring inside her, had been one with her, curled and safe in the warmth of her womb. She slid back down into the water again, lapped in the warmth surrounding. She brought her knees up to her chest then stretched again, looking down at her body, pale through the soapy water, the curve of breast and belly breaking the surface, the black seaweed tangle of hair, flattened out by the water, felt below it the soft depth of hole, open, the dark emptiness her being centred around. Blessed art thou among women. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

The taxis were waiting, purring at the close.

‘Huv ye seen ma black tie?’ said Tommy.

‘It’s a weddin wur goin tae,’ said Mary, ‘no a bloomin funeral!’

‘Ye coulda fooled me,’ said Tommy, turning, stiffnecked because his collar was up in readiness for the missing tie.

‘Whit’s that supposed tae mean?’ she asked.

‘Your face, that’s whit,’ he said. ‘Kin ye no gie’s a wee smile hen. Ah mean it is YOUR daughter’s weddin tae!’

‘Aye, well,’ she said. She brought out a blue tie from the wardrobe. ‘Here,’ she said, throwing it to him. ‘This’ll dae ye.’

In the next room Agnes and Jean, who had led Kathleen the night before with such devoted rattling of cans, were again fussing over her, making sure that no talisman was forgotten.

‘Right,’ said Agnes. ‘That’s the flowers an the horseshoe. Noo make sure ye’ve got the lot. Somethin old, somethin new, somethin borrowed, somethin blue.’

‘This cameo’s old,’ said Kathleen. ‘Used tae be ma granny’s.’

‘An yer shoes are new,’ said Jean.

‘Ah huvnae anythin borrowed,’ said Kathleen. ‘Ye’ll huv tae len me somethin.’

‘Take this hanky,’ said Agnes.

‘Where’ll ah put it?’ said Kathleen. ‘Ah’m no takin a bag.’

‘Therr’s a rude answer tae that wan!’ said Jean.

‘Jist shove it up yer jook,’ said Agnes.

Kathleen wrapped the hanky round the stems of her flowers.

‘An mind an gie me it back sometime,’ said Agnes, ‘otherwise it’s no borrowed!’

‘Yer dress is blue,’ said Jean, ‘so that’s everythin.’

‘Expect yer nosy wee neighbours’ll huv somethin tae say aboot that,’ said Agnes. She looked down her nose, disapproving. ‘And not even a white wedding.’

‘Ach they’d huv somethin tae say anywey,’ said Kathleen.

‘C’mon!’ shouted Tommy from the hall. ‘The taxis ur waitin!’

At the closemouth, a few peering faces, a handful of confetti, a huddle of children waiting, eager, for the scramble of loose change. Bundling into the taxis, Kathleen and Tommy in the first, Mary, Agnes and Jean in the second.

‘Huv you got change fur the scramble?’

‘Godalmighty, did ah pit oot that gas?’

‘Mind yer flowers in the door!’

A cheer. A flurry of waving hands. Tommy bestowing a shower of coins from the window, jolted back into his seat as the taxis moved off. Agnes turned in her seat for a last look at the scramble before they rounded the corner.

‘God, wid ye look at them!’ she said, laughing. ‘Lik flies roon a toly!’

‘Ah remember readin,’ said Jean, ‘that scrambles go right back tae the aulden days, when the didnae keep records an that. An it wis so’s the weans an everyb’dy wid remember the weddin. Then if they ever needed witnesses, they’d aw mind a the money gettin scrambled.’

Jimmy and Ann, like most of the other children, had just been passing, on their way back to school. They were triumphant as they fought their way out of the tangled, scrambling pack, jostling and grappling in the roadway.

‘Much d’ye get?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Tanner!’ said Ann. ‘An you?’

‘Eightpence!’ said Jimmy, counting it out into his palm.

‘Race ye doontae the café!’ said Ann, and they both pelted off down the road. By the time they reached the café near their school, and elbowed their way into the semblance of a queue, the taxis were moving along Paisley Road, towards the town.

Tommy smiled across at Kathleen.

‘Ur ye still feelin rough?’ she asked.

‘Ach, no too bad,’ he said.

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘No doubt a coupla wee halfs’ll set ye right.’

‘Hair a the dog,’ he said.

‘Ah thought that would set yer wee eyes twinklin!’ she said. ‘But we’ve got the small matter ae a weddin tae get over wi first!’

It was over so quickly, embarrassed introductions, Brian’s mother Helen to Tommy and Mary, grins and hello to the friends that had come, crowding, awkward, on the pavement, trying to keep out of the wedding-group photos of the couple that had just come out; confusion over which door to go in, then somebody showing them the way; hustle along a corridor, a few minutes’ wait, hushed, in the hall; a door opening, another wedding-group bustling past; another door opening and the registrar ushering them in.

In a low, bored drone he intoned the preliminaries, about how the ceremony was no less serious and sanctified though it wasn’t in a church, and about general impediments to marriage.

Tommy thought he was going to laugh, then suddenly for no reason, when he saw them standing there, he wanted to cry. He looked at Mary and he saw the confusion in her eyes.

Kathleen too had to stifle a laugh, changing it to a cough and turning her face from the registrar. Brian was staring at the pattern on the carpet, as if he could read there the meaning of it all, the meaning they all knew at that moment. Not the lifeless ceremony, the cardboard stage-set, the dead script, the empty sham. Not that, but something at the heart of it, something real. In spite of it all, they knew, and that was what moved them, to laugh or to cry.

The exchange of vows. Signatures on the line. Out along the corridor, past the next group waiting to go in, out into the street and it was done.

‘We’ve done it now!’ said Brian.

‘So we huv!’ said Kathleen, and he kissed her and they laughed.

Outside, waiting, were the friends that hadn’t gone in. Somebody showered more confetti as they gave themselves up to the backslaps and handshakes and hugs. Ian and Kenny had cars. They were two of Brian’s friends from university and Ian was the best man. They took as many as they could crowd in. The rest followed in taxis as they headed back to Pollok, to what had been Kathleen’s house, for the reception.

In the boys’ playground, Jimmy was finishing the sweets he’d bought with the money from the scramble. He screwed up the bright coloured wrapper and kicked it high over the railings.

In the girls’ playground, Ann was pushed, giggling, to the centre of the circle. Her friends linked hands and moved round her in step and as they moved they sang.

‘And she sang and she sang

And she sang so sweet

His name is Jimmy

Ah hope ye will agree.’

And when she at last agreed, somebody else was pushed into the centre and the dance began again.

Instead of buying a cake, they’d got Mary to bake an enormous dumpling. Tommy carried it carefully into the living-room and solemnly laid it on the table. With exaggerated ceremony, Brian took the knife and flourished it in the air.

‘Feels lik a Burns Supper!’ he said. ‘Great chieftain o the puddin race! Or is it Wee sleekit courin tim’rous beastie?’

‘C’mon you an stop yer nonsense!’ said Kathleen, laughing.

‘See that!’ said Tommy. ‘She’s got ye under the thumb already!’

Brian guided Kathleen’s hand and everybody cheered as they carved the first slice. Kathleen went on slicing it and Agnes helped her to dish it out. Mary and Jean carried plates from the kitchen, piled with bread and bun, biscuits and cake, while Brian and Tommy brought through the carry-out, bag after bulging bag. When all the glasses were filled, Ian got up to make his speech and read the telegrams.

‘Three telegrams,’ he said. ‘The first one’s from Peter in Canada. It says ALL THE BEST TO MY WEE SISTER AND HER LAD.’

‘Aw the nice!’ said Mrs Robertson from downstairs. ‘Luvly boay Peter,’ she said to Mary. ‘Luvly boay!’ She smiled into the distance.

‘The next one,’ said Ian, ‘is from Uncle Danny and Auntie May.’

‘Ma brother in Ireland,’ explained Mary to Brian’s mother.

‘Sure it’s from the ould country,’ said Tommy.

‘It says,’ said Ian, raising his voice, ‘GOOD LUCK GOD BLESS AND MAY ALL YOUR TROUBLES BE LITTLE ONES.’

That one brought a laugh.

‘Nudge nudge!’ said Jean.

‘The last one,’ said Ian, ‘is from Gerry in London. It says NORMAL IS REALLY NICE.’

Again everybody laughed.

‘Whit wis that aboot?’ said Tommy to Kathleen.

‘Och it’s jist Brian’s pals up tae thur nonsense again.’

‘An whit’s the matter wi a wee bit nonsense?’ said Brian, tickling her.

‘Aye bit whit dis it mean?’ said Tommy.

‘The whole universe is a wee bit nonsense!’ said Brian.

‘A wee bit order therr!’ said Ian, who wanted to propose a toast.

‘Aye, wheesht the perry ye!’ said Kathleen.

‘Ah’ve got no intention of wastin time makin a speech,’ said Ian.

‘Hear hear!’ said Brian.

‘So ah’ll just say good luck and happiness and long life to you both.’

He picked up his glass. ‘The bride and groom!’

All the glasses were drained and set down empty on the table.

‘C’mon now people,’ said Tommy. ‘Get wired in therr!’

‘Eat up,’ said Mary. ‘Yer at yer auntie’s!’

Several refills later, Brian turned to Kathleen.

‘Tommy’s peed already,’ he said.

‘Yer no doin too bad yerself!’ she said.

‘Ach well,’ he said, squeezing her, ‘it’s no every week ye get married.’

‘See Kenny an Ian are gettin quite pally wi Agnes an Jean,’ he said, nodding to where the four of them sat squashed on the couch.

‘Ah’m watchin ye!’ he shouted over. He crossed to where his mother was talking to Mary.

‘Gettin on OK mammy?’ he asked.

‘Ah’m jist fine,’ she said. ‘Me and Mary are havin a right old natter.’

‘Don’t believe a word she tells ye about me,’ he said to Mary. ‘Honest, ah’m innocent!’

‘Who’s gonnae give us a song then?’ asked Tommy, raising his arms and calling for order.

Mrs Robertson let herself be coaxed on to the floor and began the singsong with ‘You’re the Only Good Thing’, then she dragged her husband, protesting, to his feet and he sang ‘Green Grow the Rashes O’, and ‘Of A’ the Airts’.

‘It’s nice tae hear an auld Scotch song,’ said Mary.

‘She better be quiet,’ whispered Ian, ‘or e’ll be givin us “Scots Wha Hae”.’

Mary was next with ‘Honky Tonk Angels’, then Tommy with ‘Take Me Back to the Black Hills’, and the afternoon grew late and the bottles and cans were emptied, and everybody sang the songs they always sang. ‘Nobody’s Child’, ‘There Goes My Heart’, ‘Please Release Me’, ‘The Blue of the Night’, ‘You’re Free to Go’, ‘Among My Souvenirs’. They forgot themselves, they wallowed, grew happily maudlin as they sang. And through it all Tommy kept calling for order, ‘C’mon now there, one singer one song,’ and joining in all the choruses himself.

‘How is it,’ said Kenny, ‘the whole a Glasgow likes Country an Western?’

‘Everyb’dy likes tae get a wee bit sentimental when they get bevvied,’ said Ian. ‘It’s a wee escape.’

‘Aye,’ said Kenny, ‘but whit ah mean is, whit is it aboot Glasgow? Ah mean, how come Country an Western?’

Tommy swayed over to where they sat.

‘How aboot youse young yins?’ he said. ‘How aboot givin us some ae yer modern stuff? The auld rock an twist an aw that jazz!’ He gyrated his hips and snapped his fingers in attempted imitation of the dance style of ten years ago.

‘Naw,’ said Ian, ‘we’d need a backin group.’

‘Ach!’ said Tommy, dismissing them, ‘yer aw the same. Canny dae anythin withoot electricity!’ He supported himself, leaning heavily on the back of a chair, and announced that he was going to sing one more song.

‘For ma wee lassie,’ he said, and began singing.

‘I’ll take you home again Kathleen

To where your heart will feel no pain . . .’

When he’d finished she went to him and gave him a hug.

‘Wherr’s Brian?’ he asked. ‘Ah wanty talk tae um.’

‘E’s away doon tae Mrs Robertson’s tae phone a taxi,’ she said. ‘E’ll be back in a minute.’

When Brian reappeared, Tommy took him by the arm and looked at him earnestly.

‘Brian . . .’ he said. ‘Ah jist wanty tell ye yer a great kid!’

‘You too Tommy,’ said Brian. They shook hands on it.

‘See you an Kathleen . . .’ said Tommy, ‘Canada . . .’

He took out his wallet and once again showed Brian the photo of Peter and his family.

‘Ah told ye aboot wur hoalidays therr in the summer, din’t ah? Peter peyed wur ferrs. Daein well so e is. Terrific it wis, nae kiddin . . .’ He stopped and raised his hand to cover his mouth. The room was going up and up and up, like a television when the vertical hold goes. He belched out an explanation and lurched towards the bathroom, leaving Brian holding the snapshot. A young couple with a baby between them, sitting in front of a Christmas tree. Bright colours, like a photo in a magazine.

‘The taxi’s here,’ said Kathleen, tugging his arm.

‘Ah’ll jist give this back tae Tommy,’ he said, holding up the photo. ‘Ah think it’s too precious tae leave lyin here.’

They found Tommy in his own room, rummaging in the cupboard.

‘Ye feelin better noo?’ said Brian.

‘Me?’ said Tommy. ‘Ah’m champion! C’mere an sit doon a minnit. Ah wanty show ye somethin.’

‘We canny wait daddy,’ said Kathleen. ‘We’re jist gawn.’

‘Here’s yer fotie,’ said Brian. ‘Mind ye don’t lose it.’

Tommy shook Brian’s hand. ‘Aw the best,’ he said.

‘Same tae yersel,’ said Brian.

‘Cheerio daddy,’ said Kathleen, hugging him again.

They shouted a quick farewell into the living-room and hurried to the door. Mrs Robertson was in the hall, and before they fled, Kathleen stopped and said ‘Could ye gie ma mammy a wee warnin? Tell er ma daddy’s lookin fur is souvenirs, and that prob’ly means e’ll be givin is party piece any minute.’

‘Right yar hen,’ said Mrs Robertson, opening the door for them. ‘Good luck tae ye.’

Outside on the landing stood Father Boyle, his hand raised to knock the door. Kathleen and Brian almost banged into him as they rushed out. They all stood for a moment, embarrassed, looking at each other.

Then Brian grabbed her hand.

‘Cheerio Father!’ she called back to the priest as they clattered down the stairs.

‘Ur ye comin in Father?’ said Mrs Robertson.

‘Well, I . . .’

‘Mary!’ she shouted. The priest stepped into the hall and she closed the door behind him.

Tommy still sat in his room, looking down at the floor. That was it. She was gone. He looked again at the snapshot he was still holding in his hand, then turned his attention to the cupboard and the cardboard box full of souvenirs from Canada, a heap of mementoes he’d brought back from their holiday. A pair of moccasin slippers, a chipped plaster ashtray shaped like a maple-leaf, a miniature Canadian flag, a doll dressed like a mountie, a stick-on plastic badge and all the other wondrous, useless things he’d gathered. Digging under a jumble of postcards and guide-books and leaflets, coins and maps and assorted tickets, he unearthed what he was looking for. It was an Indian head-dress, made up of red and white feathers, fitted on to a cardboard headband and bordered at the front with brown fur.

‘Yes,’ said Father Boyle, ‘I wanted a wee word with you and Thomas, but it looks as if I’ve chosen an awkward moment. Maybe tomorrow . . .’

‘Yes Father,’ said Mary. ‘Well you see . . .’

‘Oh Mary,’ said Mrs Robertson. ‘Ah nearly forgot. Kathleen says tae tell ye Tommy’s lookin fur is souvenirs.’

‘Aw naw,’ said Mary. ‘No another performance! If ye’d excuse me a minute Father, ah’ll jist . . .’

‘Ah ya bastard!’ Tommy was struggling with the door and the handle had come away. The door thudded twice under his boot then there was a final crash as it swung open and he came stumbling into the room. ‘Wahoo!’ he shouted, brandishing the doorknob. The head-dress was perched on his head, tilted forward so that the fur covered his brow.

‘I think I’ll just be going,’ said Father Boyle, but Tommy came over and grabbed him by the arm.

‘Hello therr Father Boyle,’ he said. ‘Wull ye huv a wee half tae drink ma daughter’s health?’

‘I really must be going,’ said the priest.

‘Ach c’mon,’ said Tommy. ‘Melt yer auld stone face fur wance in yer life!’

‘Godalmighty!’ said Mary, looking in despair at the ceiling.

‘Wish ah had a camera,’ said Kenny. ‘This is jist too much.’

‘Auld Father Gilligan widnae uv said naw,’ said Tommy. ‘He liked is wee dram wi the best ae thum. Fine man e wis tae. Red nose an aw! Jesus, d’ye mind the time e hid the weans up dancin a paddy ba oan the altar, the time the bishop came! Ye shoulda seen aw the frozen faces tut-tuttin away. By Christ they wurnae long in gettin rid ae um efter that.

‘But ah’ll tell you,’ he went on, waving the doorknob at Father Boyle, ‘e wis twice the man you’ll ever be, God rest um.’

The priest was making his way towards the door, Mary behind him, apologising.

‘Perhaps some other time,’ he was saying, ‘when Tommy’s sober.’

‘An anyb’dy that says ma wee lassie’s no right’s a no user!’ shouted Tommy after him. ‘An that goes fur yer church an aw!’

‘C’mon Tommy!’ said Ian, laughing. ‘Do yer Medicine Man! Give us a Rain Dance!’

Tommy straightened his head-dress and stamped a rhythm with his foot, shaking the doorknob like a rattle above his head, howling and patting his pursed lips with his palm.

‘Gawn yersel!’ said Kenny, as some of the others shouted encouragement and took up the rhythm, beating it out on the furniture or clapping their hands.

‘Ah don’t believe it,’ said Ian, as Tommy twisted and shook, waving his arms in the air, getting faster and faster till he finally collapsed, exhausted, face down on to the couch, and his head-dress dropped to the floor, a few of the feathers crooked and bashed.

Tommy was still lying there, huddled, dead to it all, long after everyone had gone home. Only Mary still sat, thinking she should tidy up the debris left from the party, but feeling engulfed by it, and unable to move.

*

‘The tea’ll be ready in a minute,’ said Kathleen. ‘Ah’m jist lettin it mask.’

‘Great,’ said Brian, who was busy filling the paraffin stove.

She took a joss-stick from the packet and lit it, blowing out the flame and watching it smoulder and glow. She placed it in the brass holder on the mantelpiece, watched the smoke curl and rise past the wooden image of Shiva that Brian had bought at the Barrows, Shiva with his four arms, his fire and his drum, dancing in a circle of flame.

She went to the window and looked out. It had begun to rain again and it was just beginning to get dark. A few people were passing on their way home from work. She could hear, faintly, the stream of traffic from Great Western Road. Through a gap between two gable ends opposite she could see the shapes of trees in the park, branches dark against the sky. The streetlamps went on then. She could see five or six, reaching to the end of the street. She thought of them going on all over Glasgow, a linked network of lights, strung across the city, and everywhere people coming home.

She could smell the incense now, the fragrance of sandalwood permeating the room, and with it the warm smell of paraffin burning. The tea was brewing. The stove was lit.

Looking down below, outside the close, where they’d stepped from the taxi, she could still make out a few tiny specks of colour, bright flakes of confetti, scattered on the pavement, wet by the rain.