The Palace

The first touch of his feet on the cold floor as he swung out of bed had set him coughing, fumbling for his matches and the last of his cigarettes.

At last it was Friday again, his day for signing on at the labour exchange. This week he had managed well. The last of his money had gone the night before, into the meter for the fire and light in his room. He had made it through another week, and sometimes he felt that was miracle enough to be grateful for.

The face that looked back at him from the mirror as he shaved was old and tired. Even he could see that now. He suddenly remembered a habit of his that had always annoyed his wife. Any time he’d be making plans or arrangements, even for the following day, he would say ‘If God spares me.’ These days he probably said it more often than ever and meant it more seriously. At times it was a wonder to him that he survived from one week to the next. He had been out of work now since the summer, almost eight months. Somewhere in him he still felt ashamed to be signing on and taking money, but there was no other way. Jobs were scarce, he had no special skill, and now he was getting old. So on it went, week after week. God had spared him. Sometimes he wondered why.

But today was different. Today he would have some money and the world would be brighter. It was like pay-day. Even though he had no job, nothing to fill his days, the weekend still felt special.

He smiled at the mirror as he scraped away with the razor. When his face was like that, covered with lather, his lips showing through, he always thought it looked like the white mask of a clown. He remembered thinking the same thing as a child, watching his father shave.

(The slow steady scrape of the open razor on his father’s cheek, the razor that looked like a toy, clutched in that big powerful hand that could wield the blacksmith’s hammer with such ease. The way the blade took the soap from his face in clean straight strokes. Like making a path in the snow with the edge of a slate. His father contorting his face as he peered into the mirror, the easier to shave the awkward contours; suddenly aware that he was watching and turning towards him, the clown’s mask screwed up, grotesque. His father, chuckling to himself. ‘Aye well,’ he’d said, ‘ye’ll be shavin yersel soon enough.’)

Soon enough.

It was strange that he could remember something like that so clearly. Sometimes things that had happened thirty or forty years ago were just as clear, just as real to him as anything going on now. He was always remembering; things were forever repeating themselves; forever reminding him of something else. Sometimes he had the strangest of feelings he couldn’t explain, that he had always been living through the same day. He had grown up, married, become a father. His wife had died, his son had moved away. It all seemed like a dream. Something in him was dreaming it; something had watched it all going on and was watching still. He had gone through these changes, he was growing old, but he was still the same person he had always been.

With a click the light went out and the fire died. The money in the meter had run out.

‘Ach!’ he said, setting down his razor. He pulled open the curtains. Outside it was still dark. One or two lights were on across the road. A man was passing on his way to work, or perhaps coming home from nightshift. Overnight there had been a light fall of snow and it lay on the street, on the roofs of parked cars, adding its silence to the early morning still.

He carried on shaving, in the dark, then he finished dressing, put on his coat and scarf for warmth, and sat down to wait. Nobody else in the house would be up for another half-hour or so.

Some of his neighbours he had never even seen. Sometimes he wondered about all the different people who had lived here. He liked to imagine the way it must have been in Victorian times. That was what the street always brought to mind; the terrace houses, the faded elegance. He could imagine the great dark rooms, the old solid furniture, heavy velvet drapes. He could almost smell the polish, hear the discreet chime of a clock, the faint sound of a piano from an upstairs room. The facade was unchanged, the only signs of passing time the crumbling paintwork, the concrete slabs where a garden had been, the rows of names on every door, some typewritten, some carefully inked, others roughly scribbled, and each name with its own bell. It wasn’t the same as having his own place, but in some ways he liked it as well as anywhere he’d ever lived. The area still had a sedateness and tranquillity that pleased him. He could walk down to Great Western Road and along to the Botanic Gardens, or in the other direction, to Kelvingrove. It was a strange irony, now that he was poorer than he had been in years, to be living here in the West End. It was true that he could probably find somewhere cheaper, in Maryhill perhaps, or back in Govan, but he justified it to himself that the saving would be slight. Living here seemed less of a defeat than moving back to the tenements. He could never bring himself to go back to Govan now. He had never been too fond of it, but now it was worse. It was not even the place he remembered. Half of it had been pulled down. The life had gone out of it.

Living here he knew was only a transition. The names on the outside door were always changing. But then sometimes, looking back, he felt his whole life had been a transition. All the years he’d spent in Govan, thinking some day there would be something better. And yet in the years since he’d moved from there, things in many ways had got worse. There had been the move out to the Nitshill scheme. The house had been decent enough. It had even had a small garden. He remembered the first summer out there, evenings painting the garden fence, planning what he would grow. But gradually the bleakness had taken hold of him. The place had no heart. By the time he left, his garden was overgrown, the fence daubed with gang-slogans.

Since then he had lived in a succession of furnished rooms. He had been made redundant and laid off work. And still, through it, the same feeling had persisted, keeping him going, the feeling that it would all pass. Once he was over this spot of bother. Once this year was out. If only he could get through this week. If he could just survive today . . .

Increasingly lately his memories had been of his childhood, isolated bits and scraps, vivid in their clarity, with no apparent shape or meaning. He had grown up in Kinning Park. That was where he had lived until he had married and moved down the road to Govan. From one room-and-kitchen to another. But occasionally he remembered even further back than that, back to his earliest childhood, to Campbeltown where he was born. He had only lived there until he was five or six. Then the shipyard had closed down and they’d moved to Glasgow so that his father could find work.

Often he had thought of going back there, to Campbeltown. It would be a good place to retire to, to live out his old age. But retire from what? Unskilled and unemployed. He saw the humour of it and he smiled. But there was a sadness in it. The thought of ending his days in this dingy furnished room.

The rooms had been divided so that they could be let out to more people, so his was really only half a room, oblong instead of square, half a bay-window at one end. The circular cornice-work on the ceiling, round what had once been the central light-fitting, was cut in two by the partition so only half of it was in his room, the other half next door. For some reason that had annoyed him. He wanted to look up and see it whole. He thought it reminded him of something, but he didn’t know what.

Next door an alarm rang itself out and he heard his neighbours stirring. The partition was thin and he could hear their every movement. The man was about thirty, the girl a little younger. They both worked on the buses. That was all he knew about them, though at night, if they were in, he could hear their talk, their laughing, their quarrels, sometimes even their lovemaking.

Soon their radio would go on. He would be glad of that, raucous though it was. It didn’t matter what the music was. The noise was enough. It was some small comfort in itself. He stretched himself and shivered. It was growing lighter. He could make out more clearly the objects in the room. A chair. A table. A wardrobe. A bed. There was no space for more.

Through the thin wall he heard the sound of a kettle being filled, then a click and the blare of the radio; jingles, the disc jockey’s babble; the raised voices of his neighbours above it.

SO THERE I WAS UP IN THE OLD BBC CANTEEN WITH ME CUPPA TAR I MEAN CHAR HA HA HA

‘Whit’s that yer sayin?’

AN SHE JUST WALKS RIGHT PAST AND OUT THE DOOR WITH IT BEFORE I CAN SAY JACK ROBINSON SO I THOUGHT T’MESELF AH WELL THERE YOU GO THAT’S LIFE

‘Ther’s eggs . . . an beans.’

TOO RIGHT Y’KNOW ANYWAY

‘Sausages.’

SO AT TWENNY FOUR PAST THE HOUR OF EIGHT WHAT’S IT GONNA BE FOR THE NEXT

‘Ye kin say whit ye like, ah mean ye kin see aw kinds, long wans an short wans an fat wans an skinny wans but ye never see the wan yer lookin fur.’

MORE MUSIC MORE MUSIC MORE MUSIC

‘When it comes right doon tae it, whit uv ye goat? Nothin!’

HA HA HA HA HA

‘Many eggs ur ye wantin?’

SO LET’S GO WITH A GOLDEN OLDIE A BLAST FROM THE PAST A RAVE FROM THE GRAVE

LET ME TAKE YOU DOWN

COS AH’M GOING TO

STRAWBERRY FIELDS

NOTHING IS REAL

Soon it would be light enough and he would read and re-read last night’s paper until it was time to go.

As always, he arrived at the labour exchange about ten minutes early, and he joined the queue of waiting men. The woman behind the counter avoided looking at them. She moved the indexed box of cards an inch to the left, removed the plastic cap of her ball-point pen, adjusted her spectacles on her nose, drummed with her fingers, looked at her watch. Nobody was allowed to sign so much as a minute before the allotted time. The man before him in the queue turned to him and shook his head.

‘Ah don’t know!’ said the man.

‘Thur no in a hurry anywey,’ he replied.

The woman had a brittle, jerky manner, a permanent disdainful expression on her face, as if a particularly unpleasant smell was being wafted towards her by the draught that blew in through the swing-doors.

He rubbed his hands together, trying to generate a little warmth.

‘Cauld aw the same, intit,’ he said.

‘Freezin,’ said the man. ‘It’s gettin worse aw the time.’

‘Yer right therr,’ he said. ‘Perishin.’

By this time, after all the months of signing on, some of the faces in the queue were familiar to him. But it didn’t go much deeper than that. A nod. A gruff word. A shared complaint against this brusque attitude or that bland face behind the desk with its barricade of filing-cards. And yet there was something else they shared, something unspoken that went beyond resentment, and at the back of it was a laugh. The man he was talking to had once summed it up. ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘If ye canny beat them an ye canny join them, ye might as well fuckin use them!’

The man was short and stocky-built, redfaced with a harsh rusty bark of a voice that always sounded as if he needed to cough. He always wore a donkey-jacket and old baggy denims, his cap pulled down over his brow.

In the next queue an old man was trying to stop a puppy from yelping.

‘Look at that poor bugger!’ said the man in the donkey-jacket. ‘Disnae look as if e could feed is sel, never mind a bloody dug.’

He looked across at the old man, trying to calm the puppy which he had on the end of a length of string. Another bit of string was tied round the waist of his long shabby coat. He looked as if that might be all that was holding him together. But in the band of his old bashed hat was a feather, and in his breast pocket a paper napkin, folded like a hanky, and in his buttonhole a plastic rose.

He didn’t look at the man too long. Something in that precarious dignity was too much for him to take. Perhaps it was too close to his own. For a moment he felt saddened again. There was not much room for dignity in this place, with its boxes and forms, its numbers and its cards and its queues. They could call it what they liked. Unemployment benefit. Social Security payment. But the echoes of the Means Test were still there. The fact that Social Security was called SS spoke for itself.

Once, when he was about twenty and out of work, the man from the Means Test had come to the house, about eight o’clock in the morning, hoping to catch him in bed so that his money could be cut because he wasn’t out looking for work. He’d been out in the toilet on the landing and he’d stayed there, listening to his mother say he’d been out since six. She had let the man look round the house, to make sure, and at that he had grudgingly gone. He had heard stories of people having their money cut because they had a decent bit of meat in the house. (‘If ye kin afford that,’ they’d been told, ‘ye must be awright.’)

At least it wasn’t as bad as that now, though sometimes he thought the attitudes hadn’t changed much.

The queue at last moved up. He handed over his card, signed, and queued again to collect his money.

On his way out, he held open the door for the old man with the dog.

‘Thank you sir,’ said the old man, smiling. ‘A gentleman.’

Outside he bought some cigarettes and the morning paper, then headed into town to walk around and fill in the day.

He needed a solid pair of shoes and a heavy pullover, so he made his way down to Paddy’s Market to see what he could find.

Just across the road from Paddy’s was a low building where smoke seeped from every crack, every gap. Painted on the wall was a sign that always made him smile. It said NO NEED FOR ALARM. FISH BEING CURED. And here, under the dank arches, beneath the railway bridge, the smell of fish was everywhere. It hung in the air. It seemed to ooze and trickle from the damp glistening walls.

Crossing over, he could hear a jig being played on a tin whistle, as bulging bundles were dumped on to the pavement from the back of a horse-drawn cart. Into the market itself, along Shipbank Lane, he picked his way past the heaps of old clothes spread out on the ground, stopping now and then to investigate any woollens that caught his eye. Here was something soft and green, here something patterned, Fair Isle, here what looked like a sleeve. But what he unravelled from the fankled heaps were a woman’s cardigan, an old scarf, a jersey frayed away at the cuffs and under the arms.

Sometimes he would walk the whole length of the lane and find nothing, and the place would assail him with its dismal drabness. Then he would notice only the smells and the dirt; nothing but old junk and stinking rags. Even the people would look bedraggled, pathetic, their faces brutalised and harsh.

There were times though, when the place had another quality altogether, when it seemed colourful and alive, when every stall might reveal some treasure and everything pulsed with a warm underlying humour. He remembered coming here as a child with his mother, the atmosphere, the clamour, the feeling of adventure it had held for him then. (Even in the mad scrambled chaos of everyone trying to grab their things and run whenever the police had raided the lane.)

Paddy’s was a link for him with those days. The old days, remembered. It belonged to a Glasgow that was almost gone, bulldozed and flattened, gutted out. And while the gutting was perhaps necessary, there was still the feeling that something was lost, something that could be glimpsed here, even in spite of the grey.

He stopped to look at a heavy black coat, but it was stiff and greasy with age. He picked up a pair of shoes, but both the soles were worn through.

‘Jist need a perr a rubber soles,’ said the woman who was trying to sell them. Her voice was without enthusiasm, without hope. She was about his own age. She sat amongst her sad rags, resigned. He was feeling cold. The day was looking bleak.

But on the wasteground behind the lane he noticed a few young people had lit a fire and were gathered round it. One was playing a mouth-organ, another was tuning up a guitar.

He moved on and pushed his way into one of the indoor markets. Just facing the door was an old stove and he warmed himself in front of it, rubbing the life back into his numbed fingers. Propped up on the stove was a sign reading NO LOITERING AT THE STOVE, and beside it another which said WHERRABOOTS . . . AWRERR, with an arrow pointing across to a stall stacked high with workboots and shoes. A few minutes’ rummaging unearthed a pair of brown brogues that were only slightly too big, and that could easily be set right with a cardboard insole or a thicker pair of socks. He bought the shoes and, feeling brighter already, moved further in.

At one corner, the passageway was crowded. He eased past a big brash woman who was trying on a fur coat. Her hair was dyed blue-black, a stiff-lacquered haze round her head. With her was a little girl about six years old who was holding her mother’s umbrella and handbag, walking up and down with them, delighted, as if they were her own. A young Indian man had bought a red shirt, patterned with yellow sunburst flowers, and now he was trying on the jacket of a chalkstripe demob-suit (lifted down from its place on a rack beside a velvetcollared teddyboy-jacket, a Beatle-blazer with brass buttons, a leather jerkin and a morning-coat with tails).

A young girl who looked like an art student was holding up a velvet curtain, examining it for stains and flaws. Passing, he could smell the soft scent of her. Thin bangles jingled together with every move of her arm. She was dressed in a long flowing cloak and she might have been unfolding bales of silk in some far Oriental bazaar.

Presiding over the stall were two old women, perched on rickety chairs, their bony hands wrapped round mugs of steaming tea. Like old spey-wives they sat, looking out on all that passed, breaking off their mumbled and endless conversation to haggle over prices or accost any likely customer. Under their scrutiny, he began to look through the tangle of woollens on the table. He told them what he was looking for and one of them dragged out a huge hand-knitted cardigan. Across the vast back of it, blue reindeer ran in ordered lines through an off-white tundra broken by scattered firtrees.

‘Rare an warm,’ she said.

He said it was too big, and anyway he wanted something a bit plainer. She looked at him as if to say there were plenty of big stores up in Argyle Street for folk that could afford to be fussy, and she sat down again, went back to her mumbling and left him to look for himself. And eventually he found something good — a thick white Aran-knit jumper, just about the right size and all in one piece.

The child had lifted a pair of high-heeled shoes, climbed into them and wobbled forward, scuffling and clacking as she went. Her mother broke off from preening herself in the fur coat to yell across at the child. The Indian had almost decided to buy the demob-suit. The girl had found a hole in the velvet curtain. The women talked on.

‘Mind you, she fair suits er new teeth.’

‘Wull you do as yer told an put them back.’

‘How much for suit please?’

‘Ah won’t tell you again malady!’

‘Course he’s no half the man e was.’

‘None ae us gettin any younger.’

‘Nice bit a velvet dear. That’s whit aw the young yins are after.’

‘That’ll go nice wi yer shirt son. Don’t make suits lik that anymerr.’

‘Much ye wantin fur the coat?’

‘I take it.’

‘No thanks, it’s not really . . .’

‘Will you pit thaym DOON!’

Fumbling in his pocket for change, he paid for the jumper and moved on again, pausing for a last heat at the stove before heading back outside.

Further along the lane he stopped at another stall, a jumble of bric-a-brac and paperback books. What had caught his eye was a stack of old gramophone records, old 78s, many still in their brownpaper sleeves. A record was just the kind of fine and useless thing he felt inclined to buy. Although he had pawned his record-player, he had kept up the payments, hoping some day to redeem it. Meanwhile he could add to his collection and look forward to music and better times. The labels of the old records were beautiful – intricate, graceful designs, golds against reds and blues, lovely melodic names, like Regal Zonophone, Beltona.

There were a few records he would have liked to buy, but the one he finally chose was John McCormack singing ‘There is a flower that bloometh’. The man at the stall gave him an old carrier-bag and he put the shoes in the bottom, the pullover on top and eased the record down the side.

He was almost at the end of the lane, so he turned and headed back. There were more people gathered now round the fire on the wasteground. The man with the tin whistle had joined them and was playing ‘Amazing Grace’.

And suddenly it was all unreal, like a scene from a film, with that thin frail sound as the background music; and everything moved to it, moved without knowing; moved in that place and that time.

Turning away, he went from the lane, carrying his treasures with the greatest of care.

At the corner of Stockwell Street, buffeted by the cold wind from the river, he hesitated, wondering which way to go. The pubs would be open now, and he felt like a drink to warm him. But instead he decided he should put some food in his belly. So he walked along the riverside, two blocks, to Community House. There the food was good and cheap, and he liked the atmosphere. It was big and spacious, half way between being a café and a canteen, with something more besides, something peaceful that maybe came from having a chapel in the back. Along one wall was a mural showing what looked like Glasgow in the thirties, people queuing at a soup-kitchen, a background of tenements and shipyards. He didn’t know much about the Community, just that it was connected with the island of Iona.

He bought a bacon roll and a bowl of soup and sat at a table near the window. At this time of day there were not many people in the place – some drivers and conductors from the red-bus terminus across the road, a few old folk here and there, marooned at their tables, lingering over cups of tea.

The soup brought the life back to him and he savoured each bite of the bacon roll, wiping his soup-bowl with the last of it. Then he settled down to read the paper, with a cup of tea and a cigarette.

An old woman, who’d been sitting over in the corner, began to make her way towards the door, stopping at some of the tables to give out gospel tracts. ‘God bless ye sir,’ she said as she handed him one. He thanked her and read it over. On the front it said COME BACK TO GOD. COME HOME. Inside was an obscure story about a drunkard who had lost his job and his house and sunk from one disgrace to another, stealing, beating up his wife and children. Somehow it ended with them all on their knees at a gospel-meeting, being welcomed into the church. Then there was a text from St John’s Gospel – ‘In my Father’s house there are many mansions . . .’ That was part of the text that had been read out at his wife’s funeral. So long ago it sometimes seemed, but the words had stayed with him. They were beautiful, moving words and they said so much more than the stupid TRUE LIFE STORY, that had no reality at all. He put the tract in his pocket and went on reading his paper over a second cup of tea.

When he left, revived, he didn’t feel like going home just yet. So he wandered about the city centre, peering in shop windows at things he’d never buy, cut by the freezing wind, till it finally began to snow again and he stood in a queue for a bus back to the West End. But instead of going home, he got off the bus at the Botanic Gardens. He would go for refuge to the Kibble Palace.

In the Palace it was always summer. Outside there might be snow, sleet, ice; but in here it was warm the whole year round.

The whole structure was of glass, two main domes connected by a short passageway. At the entrance was a plan, showing the overall shape, with a key to the names of the statues and the grouping of the plants. It explained that these were arranged ‘according to their habitats’. So the area under the large dome was divided into North and South America, Australia, New Zealand and Temperate Asia. He smiled at that. It was pleasing to think that his leisurely dawdle round the Gardens would take him through four continents.

Passing inside he felt the warmth, the gentle humidity of the atmosphere; condensation, wetness of leaves. He breathed it in. The smell of it was green. He walked round the pond and along the passageway, through South Africa to Australia. It was a whole different world from the cold and grey outside. Sounds seemed accentuated, the crunch of his footsteps on the red ash of the path, the steady drip and spray of water from hosepipes and sprinklers, the song and chatter of tiny birds. The green was ease to the eye, creepers and tree ferns reaching up on either side, dark luxuriant growth; it breathed a rich fragrance, vegetation, the damp of the earth. In imagination he could be deep in some tropical rainforest.

In the Temperate Asia section he passed two Indian women, one old one young, sitting on one of the benches. And it was as if a joke was being played on him; as if they had been placed there to be part of this reality; Temperate Asia at the heart of a drab Glasgow day.

Further along was an empty bench and he sat himself down, glad of the rest. He set down his precious bag beside him, peering inside to see that nothing had mysteriously disappeared. Reassured, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Perhaps he had actually dozed a little, or was just afloat between waking and sleep. He couldn’t be sure. But the voice startled him.

‘Ah’m sayin d’ye mind if ah sit here sir?’

Looking up, he recognised the old man he’d seen that morning at the labour exchange, with the string round his coat and the feather in his hat.

‘Not at all,’ he said, fully awake now. ‘Not at all.’

‘Sorry for disturbin ye,’ said the man. ‘Ah didn’t realise ye were sleepin.’

‘That’s awright,’ he said. ‘Ah jist shut ma eyes fur a minnit.’

‘Oh aye,’ said the man. ‘It’s a nice place tae come for a wee rest. Ah come here quite a lot maself in this weather. Here or else down tae the library. Ah think this is better aw the same. The library’s no bad mind ye, but the atmosphere’s . . . well, some a they auld tramps, they smell a bit, y’know.’

Pot calling the kettle black, he thought to himself, looking at the old man, but all he said was ‘Oh aye, in here’s nice an fresh.’

‘Beautiful,’ said the man. ‘Mind you,’ he went on, ‘the thing aboot the library is ye can get a good read as well. Eh, would that be the day’s paper in yer pocket? Could ah get a wee look at it?’

‘Aye, sure,’ he said, handing it to him. ‘Ye kin jist keep it. Ah’ve finished readin it.’

‘That’s very kind ae ye. Mind you, sometimes ah don’t know why ah bother. Papers can be awfy depressin things tae read. Still, there’s always the jokes.’

He realised something in him was wary of the old man, drew back from him. But behind that was something more. A sympathy perhaps, complicated by that discomfort he’d felt in looking at the old man that morning, and seeing in his shabby dignity something of himself. In his wariness was a lifetime of attitudes to old dossers. The hand on your arm as you passed a closemouth; the reek of wine on the breath, the stink of old clothes that had been slept in for weeks or months or years; and always the hustle for money.

But over these last few years his attitudes had been eroded, eaten away by his own worsening luck. He had seen how easy it was to slide. And this old man had just slid that bit further. And yet he was very far from being a wreck. He had that quality, that tattered dignity, the paper napkin in his pocket, the plastic rose in his lapel. His very eccentricity was a kind of affirmation. There was life in his eyes, in his voice.

He remembered the pup the man had had with him at the dole. To be looking after a dog, he must have a place to stay. So he wasn’t even a tramp, just an old man down on his luck.

The old man was chuckling at the cartoons in the paper. But as he scanned the pages, he shook his head. ‘Ah don’t know,’ he said. ‘Nothin but disasters an tragedies an God knows what. Ye’d think nothin good ever happened. Ye know, it puts me in mind a some auld minister ah heard on the wireless years ago. He started is talk bi sayin Good News is No News.’

‘That’s very good, that is.’

‘Ah thought so maself,’ said the old man. ‘An it’s true as well.’ He folded the paper and put it away in a carrier-bag he’d left under the bench.

‘Same as mine,’ he said, pointing to his own bag.

‘Snap!’ said the old man, laughing. ‘Been doin a bit of shopping then?’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve jist been down tae Paddy’s Market.’

‘Paddy’s!’ said the man. ‘God, ah havnae been down there for years. Many’s a good bargain ah’ve got in Paddy’s. Tell ye no a bad place as well, jist down the road – that Oxfam shop in Byres Road. Ah went in this mornin tae get a pair a gloves an ah found these.’ He held up his hands to display a pair of bright red woollen mittens.

‘Jist the job.’

‘Ah’ll show ye what else ah got.’ Carefully he took from the bag an old print in a wooden frame. Faded and brown, it was a drawing of St Francis surrounded by birds, hovering about him, pecking the dust at his feet.

‘Ah thought it wis really nice,’ said the old man. ‘An ah wis kiddin maself on that it wis a bit like me. Ah mean, ah’ve seen me comin in here tae feed the birds, say if ah’ve got some old bread. No that ah let a lot a bread get stale wi the price it is. But the drawin puts me in mind a that. That’s whit it feels like when yer feedin them.’

Then, chuckling, he added, ‘An e’s even got a bit a string round is coat lik me! Course yer always thinkin somethin lik that aren’t ye? Like ah’ll be standin there feedin the birds an jist feelin fine, an then it’s lik ah’m watchin maself, y’know. Ther’s this voice sayin “Here’s me bein St Francis.”’

‘Ah know whit ye mean,’ he said. ‘Watchin yerself.’

‘In fact sometimes,’ said the man, ‘ah think yer never done playin at somethin or other. Still, ye could do worse than bein St Francis! Thing is but, next minute yer bein somethin else, yer snivellin away or yer narkin at somethin.’

‘That’s jist it,’ he said.

‘Ach well!’ The old man put the print carefully back in his bag, shoving it down beside a package wrapped in newspaper. ‘This is jist a bone for soup,’ he explained, ‘an some scraps for the dog.’

‘The puppy,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve seen um with ye at the burroo. Nice wee fella.’

‘The burroo!’ said the old man. ‘That’s it. Ah knew ah’d seen yer face before. Signin on this mornin. It’s a small world, eh! A small world.’ He smiled, thinking to himself, then went on, ‘Now there’s a thing. D’ye ever say somethin an then ye hear the words different? Like they mean somethin else? Like ah’m jist after sayin it’s a small world an ah looked up an remembered ah wis thinkin this place here wis a small world. The Palace ah mean. A wee world in itself. The different continents an that.’

‘Ah wis thinkin that as well,’ he said. ‘Whole world tae choose fae. Go where ye like.’

‘There yar then,’ said the man, grinning and nodding his head. ‘Ah see yer a Temperate Asia man yerself!’

‘Oh definitely,’ he said. ‘Never go anywher else!’ and they laughed. He was beginning to like the old man. There was something of a twinkle in his eye and he was a good talker. His voice too was easy on the ear. In the rhythm of it was a lilt that hadn’t quite been overlaid by Glasgow. It still had a lightness to it that was Highland perhaps, or Irish. He was muttering now about getting home soon to feed the dog. ‘How d’ye no bring um out wi ye?’ he asked.

‘Och,’ said the old man, ‘ye canny bring um in here. Ther’s this notice at the door. Big capital letters, it says NO SMOKING NO DOGS NO PERAMBULATORS.’ He said it in a clipped, mimicking voice. ‘Awful posh eh! Ah don’t know. See these folk wi ther notices. No bloody perambulators!’

He told the man about the notices he’d seen at Paddy’s, and they laughed again.

‘Oh that’s comical that is,’ said the man. ‘No need for alarm. Fish being cured. It’s lik somethin out the Marx Brothers!’

‘Makes me think a some doctor tryin tae cure this sick fish on a slab, an it’s slappin aboot an makin a rammy!’

‘An whit wis the other wan?’ said the man.

‘Wherraboots . . . Awrerr.’

‘Oh aye. That’s very clever. D’ye see aw the different meanins in it? Wherraboots means “Whereabouts” or “Where’s the boots”. An Awrerr means “Over there” or else “All rare”. Really really clever. Must be a bit ae a genius made it up. Jist shows ye aw the same. Words are queer things. Folk should be careful how they use them.’

For a moment the old man was silent again, inside himself, thinking. Then he said, ‘Ach aye. They should use words tae cheer ye up. No need for alarm. Imagine puttin that on big posters! Here, never you mind me sir. Ah’m jist ravin away! Tell me, did ye get anythin nice down in Paddy’s?’

He told him about the pullover and the shoes, then showed him the old record.

‘Is that no beautiful,’ said the man. ‘There is a flower that bloometh. Oh, that should definitely go on posters. Put it along wi the other wan. No need for alarm. How about that for the front page ae a newspaper! Great big headlines. THERE IS A FLOWER THAT BLOOMETH. NO NEED FOR ALARM!’

Handing back the record he said, ‘That’ll be a collector’s piece that. John McCormack. Lovely song. Flower that bloometh. Thing is, if everyb’dy could jist stop for a minute an appreciate the flower that bloometh then ther would be no need for alarm. No need for all that bloody nonsense ye read about in the papers. Here, ah’m away again! Ye should jist shut me up.’

Reaching into his bag, the old man brought out a half-bottle of wine and offered him a drink. He was momentarily thrown by it. The man was once again a dosser, an old winey, and he seemed to sense the reaction, adding ‘Oh no offence sir, no offence,’ and explaining that he just bought a bottle now and again, to have with a meal, or to share when he was ‘in good company’.

The whole thing seemed suddenly ridiculous, as if they were connoisseurs of the finest food and drink. It was like the way they had spoken of the grand tour they could make in their circuit of the Palace. Relaxing, he grinned and told the old man how daft he thought it all was.

‘A couple of swells,’ said the man, quoting an old song, and he raised his little finger as he took a swig from the bottle.

There was something not quite real in all this; to be idly passing the time of day with this strange old man. He had put the bottle away and was twinkling back at him like a grizzled old leprechaun.

‘Would ah be right in thinkin you’re fae Ireland?’ he asked.

‘Fancy you noticin that,’ said the man. ‘Ah thought ah’d jist about lost ma accent. Ah havnae been back there for donkey’s years. The auld country’s in a terrible state these days, eh? Ah’ve lived in a few places since ah left mind ye. But somehow ah’ve finished up here. Are ye a Glasgow man yerself?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘ah’ve lived here most a ma life, but ah wis actually born in Campbeltown.’

‘Is that no incredible,’ said the man. ‘D’ye know ah lived there for five year.’

‘Away!’

‘Small world right enough, eh!’

‘We left when ah wis jist wee like, but ah used tae go back for ma holidays when ah wis auld enough tae go campin an that.’

‘Oh aye, it’s a great wee place Campbeltown. Course it’ll be changed nowadays. Jist lik everywher else. Prob’ly full a cafés an chip shops an bingo. They’ll likely av made the saint’s cave intae a museum wi a turnstile. An they’ll be sellin genuine relics. Actual chuckies wi real birdshit on them!’

‘Ah’d forgot all about that cave. Imagine you knowin about it! Whit wis the saint called again?’

‘Kieran.’

‘That’s it. St Kieran.’

(A hollow, green with seaweed, in the rocks battered by the waves; an ancient design carved on a flat slab of stone; call of gulls; the sound of the sea.)

‘Ye know e’s supposed tae uv carved that stone imself.’

‘Oh ah don’t doubt it,’ said the man. ‘A circle wisn’t it, wi a kinda Celtic cross in it.’

‘Amazin tae think ae it still lyin ther.’

‘Unless some’dy’s sold it tae an American!’

‘They must a been tough these auld fellas aw the same, livin in a cave lik that. Tellin ye, we don’t know we’re livin.’

‘Oh that’s true,’ said the old man. ‘Makes a single-end in Partick look lik a palace! Makes ye appreciate yer wee comforts.’ Bringing out his bottle again, he swigged some more wine. ‘Here’s tae Campbeltown! Sure ye don’t want a wee slug?’

‘Naw, naw,’ he said. ‘Ah’m fine thanks.’

‘Tell me,’ said the man, ‘d’ye ever mind a gettin fish off the boats?’

‘Ah do,’ he said. ‘Ah mind a goin down wi ma mother early in the mornin, when it wis still dark.’

(Boats bobbing in the harbour, everything bigger than life. Bulking shapes, the men unloading their catches on to the quay, shimmering silver harvest, glinting in the moon’s pale light. Bustle as crates and barrels were filled to the brim and to overflowing, always a few fish for the baskets of the waiting women. The town taking shape in the first grey light. The creak of the fish-frail his mother carried home.)

‘That’s incredible,’ he said. ‘Ah kin remember that really clear. Ah kin jist aboot smell the fish!’

‘Amazin thing the memory,’ said the man. ‘It’s all in here y’know,’ tapping his head. ‘Everythin.’

‘Ah’ve often thought that,’ he said. ‘Ah’m always rememberin things, even fae when ah wis wee. An whit’s funny is, a lot a the time it’s jist daft things that come back tae ye. Things that don’t matter.’

‘Ah!’ said the man. ‘That’s wher yer wrong, see, cos it ALL matters. Every wee thing. If you remember somethin, ye kin be sure it’s important. Ther’ll be some meanin behind it somewher. Course, at the same time, none ae it matters a damn!’

Laughing, he offered him the bottle again, and this time he took a sip, shuddering as the taste of the wine hit him.

‘Good stuff that,’ said the man. ‘None ae yer rubbish. Listen, while we’re doin a wee bit reminiscin about Campbeltown, did ye ever go tae Davaar Island?’

‘Walked across tae it at low tide!’ he said.

‘An see the paintin in the cave?’

‘Ah did that,’ he said.

(Jesus, his hands raised in benediction, painted on the wall of the cave, where the sunlight, shafting in through an opening, lit up a halo round the head.)

‘Ah don’t mind tellin ye,’ said the man, ‘the first time ah saw that it fair took ma breath away. Ah wisnae expectin it like. The sun must av jist come out fae behind a cloud, an there it was, aw lit up.’

Now they were passing the bottle between them, like old cronies, as they talked. His liking for the old man was growing. There was a strangeness in a lot of what he said, but there seemed to be a depth to it, a wisdom he could recognise and almost grasp, and a feeling that mirth was never far away.

The old man drained the last drops of wine and, stuffing the bottle back in his bag, said, ‘There ye go, another dead man!’ then, looking about him, ‘Ye have tae watch the parkies don’t catch ye drinkin or they’ll put ye out on yer ear.’

‘Kin they do that?’ he asked.

‘Oh well,’ said the man, ‘it’s mibbe no up on the notice, ah mean it disnae actually say NO BEVVYING! But ah think they might take a wee bit exception. An that wid be us. Out in the cauld.’

‘That wid be a shame,’ he said. ‘It’s nice in here.’

‘Warm.’

‘Like a big greenhouse.’

‘A greenpalace!’

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Like somethin out a story. The Winter Gardens. Somethin fae another age.’

‘Magic,’ said the man. ‘D’ye ever look at the statues? Very nice they are. But ah’ll tell ye somethin that bothers me. They’ve all got fine names lik Eve and Ruth an Sisters of Bethany, but what ah want tae know is what’s King Robert of Sicily doin in among them? That’s the fella jist at the right as ye come in the door. Ah mean who is e anyway? Ah what’s e doin sittin in the bare buff wi a monkey in is lap?’

‘Takes all sorts,’ he said.

‘An then ther’s Cain at the other side,’ said the man. ‘Poor bugger. Funny thing as well, ah don’t know if ye’ve noticed, but right next tae um ther’s this door that leads in tae another bit ae the garden, a wee side bit, and ther’s a big barrier across it. Now isn’t that jist like the thing? Auld Cain sittin ther wi is face trippin um, an all thae beautiful flowers jist across the way, an a big CLOSED sign keepin um out!’

‘That’s it, isn’t it.’

‘An doesn’t the bit that’s locked always look the best?’

‘The grass is always greener.’

‘Ah mean, that jist has tae be the finest part ae the Palace. Ah’ve peeked in there many a time when nobody wis lookin. Poor auld Cain.’

‘Hisnae got a look in,’ he said. ‘Here, ther’s somethin ah wis gonnae show ye. Ah wis in Community House the day an a wee wifie gave me this.’ The gospel tract had been crumpled in his pocket. He smoothed it out and showed it to the old man. ‘Ther’s another headline for ye!’

‘COME BACK TO GOD,’ read the old man. ‘COME HOME. Ye could do worse.’ Reading over the story, he went on, ‘Community House ye got this? It’s a queer sorta thing for them.’

‘Aw naw,’ he said. ‘The wee wifie didnae belong there. She wis jist in fur a cuppa tea, lik me.’

‘Ah wis wonderin!’ said the man. ‘Still, ah suppose these folk mean well enough. If they’d jist stop grabbin ye bi the collar!’

‘Right enough,’ he said.

‘But tell me,’ said the man, ‘did ye ever go tae Iona itself?’

‘Ah did not,’ he said, ‘but ah’ve heard a lot about it.’

‘God,’ said the old man. ‘Whit a place that is.’ Again he was far away, and his voice was more quiet as he went on, feeling for words. ‘It’s no like . . . how kin ah explain it? It’s nothin ah could describe tae ye, y’know. Ah mean ah could tell ye all about the place, the abbey an the ruins an the sea an . . . everythin! But even if ah could describe every last wee thing on that island, ah still wouldnae be able tae say it. It’s jist a feelin. Ther’s jist this incredible peace, an it’s as if nothin’s ever changed. Ye kinda half expect tae see Columba imself. Ah mean it’s like . . . e’s still there! As sure as God, it’s magic. Ah’m no even explainin whit ah mean. But the time ah wis ther . . . it wis only for a week mind ye, but ah’ve never forgot it . . . anyway when ah went ah wis in a bad state, cos ah’d jist lost ma wife ye see. But as soon as ah got there ah felt this peace ah’m tellin ye about. An then ther wis one evenin . . . ah’d been out for a walk an ah wis comin back down tae the abbey. An ah stopped, an looked about me, an it wis jist gettin dark, an ther wis jist the stillness, an this fine fine rain soakin intae me, but it didnae matter, an nothin else mattered, an ther wis jist this feelin a being out maself . . . an it wis like ah wasn’t even feelin it, there wis jist the feelin itself . . . an it wis like ther wis no time, an ah wis part a everythin that had ever been . . . an ah KNEW!’

The old man’s eyes were bright with the remembrance, and his wrinkled face, for a moment, looked ancient, as if he had looked deep into the mystery of things and found at the heart of it a smile.

The crunch of footsteps on the path brought them back to where they were, as a young couple passed by, arm in arm.

‘Ach well,’ said the old man. ‘It’s gettin late. Ah better get home an feed that dog before e chews the house down! It’s been nice talkin tae ye sir. Maybe see ye next week at the burroo.’

‘Should do,’ he said.

‘Cheerio then,’ said the old man, picking up his bag to go. ‘An remember, No Need For Alarm!’

‘Right!’ he said, waving, and the old man was gone.

He sat for a while, trying to gather himself. His head was fuddled from the wine. The afternoon had drifted away in talk with the old man, whose words had seemed to have a crazy kind of sanity to them. He had enjoyed the company and didn’t feel much like going back to his half-room. But eventually he stirred himself to get up and head out.

Further along, the two Indian women were still sitting. He suddenly thought how far they must be from the bright land that was their home.

In the passageway, he heard footsteps behind him and a park-keeper came striding past and across to the statue of Cain. Perched in the statue’s lap was the old man’s empty wine-bottle. The keeper snatched it and threw it into a litter-basket, turning and glowering round about. For a moment he thought he was about to be accused. Perhaps the keeper had smelled the wine on his breath as he passed. He prepared an imaginary dialogue in which he replied to the keeper, with dignity, ‘I ask you sir, do I look like an old wine-mopper?’

But in fact the keeper just barged right past him, as if he didn’t exist, muttering something to himself.

He couldn’t keep a smile from his face at the thought of the old man leaving the bottle in Cain’s lap. He could almost imagine him, his arm round the stone shoulder, telling Cain to cheer up and see the flower that bloometh, reassuring him there was no need for alarm.

Standing at the pond, he looked down into the water, watching the fish swim slowly round, the shapes they traced, gliding, darting, the rhythm of their movement a perfect flow. Reflected in the water was the glass domed roof, a circle of sky at the bottom of the pond, the frame of the dome a radial pattern, broken by the rippling fish, the rocks, the trailing plants.

He thought of the cornice-work, cut in half, in his room, and the emptiness he felt from it; and remembering, going back, he saw the whole design, on the ceiling of their room in Govan.

(Lying with his wife on their wedding-night, first night in their own home. Because it was wartime, furniture was scarce and they hadn’t a proper bed, just a mattress in the middle of the floor. The air-raid sirens had been whining, but they were staying where they were. The week before, a shelter had been hit in Clydebank. Here at least they could have a little time together. By the side of the makeshift bed they had lit a small candle, the blackout curtains tightly closed, and in its flickering light he had lain awake half the night, staring up at that pattern on the ceiling, hearing the bombs drop somewhere else, safe in her arms, lost in her soft warmth.)

Looking up at the dome, he could see the snow was falling thick. Near the top it was even beginning to settle. The quality of the light was a sad yellow-grey. Leaning forward he could see his own reflection in the pond, breaking up, dissolving as the fish rippled across.

Another memory was coming to the surface, a memory from further back.

(He was back in the house in Campbeltown; he was only four or five years old. He could see the design on the carpet where he had played. The carpet had been old and frayed but the patterns had still been clear. Out of the shapes, he had made a whole world, of flowers and faces, stars and leaves, all merging into each other, fishes and birds, a stain that looked like a boat. He remembered the smell of the room, the familiar enclosing warmth of the house around him. He would lie there, curled, in that circle on the carpet. It was his place, his territory. Within it he was safe. He remembered the feeling; centred, contained, whole; listening to the heavy comforting tick of the clock on the mantelpiece, the sounds his mother made, working about the house. Every evening at the same time she would look up at the clock, and tell him his father would be on his way. And he would jump up and run outside to watch for him. And there he would be coming slowly up the steep cobbled street. And his father would wave, and he would go pounding down the hill, running to meet him in a surge of simple joy, and his father would lift him on to his shoulder and carry him home.)

The keeper he had seen a little earlier passed by again.

‘Closin in a few minutes sir,’ he said.

As he headed out into the snow, his head felt clearer, though the taste of the wine was still sour in his mouth.