Art: Jackie Duckworth
The heat’s made people fucking fruity. It’s not supposed to be this hot. Not this late at night. Not in Paisley.
Fucking global warming shite.
It’s late now and the heat’s worn off a bit, but not its effects on the Fruit & Nut bars of Causeyside Street. Me and Wully slow up a bit as we come down the hill by the Town Hall. This is partly because Wully’s getting on and hills are a bastard for him, and partly because the polis are up ahead corralling a group of youths in shorts, distinct now in two opposing groups, drunk on sun and White Lightning. Montagues and Capulets they are not.
An older man ahead of us, bearded and sunburnt, shakes his head as he crosses the road.
“Paisley!” he shouts, raising his arms to the straight-backed officers, the gesticulating youths and curious onlookers, “City of fucking culture!”
I look at Wully and he hitches up his eyebrows, gestures with his stick.
We take up the Threads, drawing in the yellow light, and the heat, the clack of tottering high-heels and the brash confidence of a skinny youth with his top off. I pull on a Thread gently. It buzzes electric as I twine it with the bits of pride at our bid for City of Culture; bits of hope disguised as sullen, eye-rolling apathy, and some fine delicate strands of quiet ambition. It makes for a nice wee Weave, that. Sort of sweet and sour.
Wully nods again and we move on.
We stop at the traffic lights. Karaoke music’s coming from the pub ahead. Wully leans against the railings for a moment and we wait for the green man, even though there’s no cars coming. His breathing is heavy and part of me wants to Weave this Thread. This moment, here: a dying man on a balmy Paisley night, shaking his head at the off-key caterwauling coming from the pub. I have a keen sense for these things; we all do. I know the moments that need to be part of the Tapestry. But this moment is not mine to Weave.
The green man blinks on and we cross the road.
The ‘City of Culture’ banners don’t make it this far up Neilston Road. No #wTeamPaisley up this neck of the woods. This is Rab’s patch. He Weaves here between his trips to the multiple chemists and drug dealers on the street. Dave takes over up by Glenburn and Craw Road, posh nob that he is. Wully’s battle ground was the town centre, keeping the mills and the cobbles, the Abbey, the Coats, the statues in check. It would be my patch soon.
“Wully, I can call us a taxi, you know,” I say, as he slows again.
“I know, son. But I want a pint.” I hesitate and he reads my silence and chuckles wheezily. “I’m no gonnie fall down deid, lad. Come on, buy me a pint with that fancy non-contact thingamy.”
“Contactless?”
He grumbles and steers the way into the bar that is crowded and noisy and smells of sweat. I order our drinks while Wully finds us a seat, or rather while Wully hangs around looking lost until someone takes pity on him and offers him their table.
I Weave a little while I wait at the bar. There’s laughter and excitement; the heady enjoyment of a Saturday night in the warm. “Aye, hotter than Spain. Look!” says one red-faced man, brandishing a cracked iPhone at his pal. “Hotter that Spain!”
I take bits and pieces and twine them with some old memories of a fug of cigarette smoke, rainy days of sleet and smur.
“Bit on the nose,” comments Wully after I join him again.
“I was just doodling,” I say. “Besides, I let the Weave go. This is Rab’s patch.”
“Doesn’t mean you cannie work here, lad.”
“Aye, but it’s manners, in’t it.”
He smirks and takes a sip of his drink. He takes off his thick glasses and polishes them on the edge of his t-shirt.
’If you think something’s worth recording, there’s no harm in it. Anyhow, do you really think Rab would mind?”
It’s true. Rab may have been an addict but he’s also the kindest man I know. Yas on the other hand...she would mind. Fucking princess.
“You’re responsible for them now, Malcolm,” says Wully, watching me closely. “And they’ll respect you, son. You’ve got...what’s the word...gravitas.”
I laugh loudly. “You’re a funny bastard, Wully. But nah,” I take a swig of beer. “They’ll no respect me the same as they do you.”
“That’s cus I’m an old fucker,” says Wully. “Age does that tae ye; just you wait.”
I laugh again and sigh deeply.
“Now, there’s something you might want tae look at,” he says nodding surreptitiously.
There’s a middle-aged couple sitting in a corner. They’re both drunk but they can’t take their eyes off each other. They’re holding hands under the table and giggling like teenagers. I smile a little and roll my eyes at Wully. “Dirty bastard,” I say, but pull a Thread all the same, wrapping their giddy romance with the heat of summer; childhoods spent up the Braes or fishing in the Cart.
“Nicely done.”
“Aye, I’m no fucking amateur,” I say smiling, “Got to fill your old-man shoes, don’t I?”
We finish our drinks and move on. The sky is inky and the air is close. There’s excitement here, like an orchestra tuning up or the title cards of a classic film. We walk slowly behind two men staggering bravely across the road. Some kids run around a corner, up past their bedtime, heading for Brodie Park to smoke, drink, giggle till their sides hurt and drag long and hard on the indestructible fag-end of youth. I consider pulling the Threads they leave behind but I realise I couldn’t do them justice. I don’t feel indestructible. The night, pregnant with possibilities, to me just seems like the end of something.
I glance over at Wully who deftly pulls up the Threads and knits them together, simple and tight. There’s no sadness...Jesus fuck, there’s not even old age. It’s impossible to Weave objectively, but the old bastard’s captured it with the pure memory of youth. I feel old and inadequate.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
I can smell barbecue smoke coming from somewhere. It’s incongruous and somehow necessary.
“So, if I take over the Town Centre,” I say, “and train up Wee Katie... where do you want her to work when she’s ready?”
“That’ll be up to you, son,” says Wully, “and up to her.”
“Aye, I thought you’d say that,” I say with a sigh. “I suppose we’ll know when we know, eh?”
“Aye.”
I glance up and notice the windows thrown wide open; I can see a silhouette at one of them, cigarette smoke drifting out against the darkening sky.
We meet in Eileen’s house. Her kids are at their dad’s tonight and she’s tidied up special. The others are already here.
“Kettle’s on, boys,” Eileen says as Wully and I sit in the drooping but clean sofa. “Malcolm, gonnie give out they coasters,” she says to me.
“Coasters? Very posh, Eileen,” says Dave.
“Bit rich coming from you,” I say, “you big PACE wanker.”
Dave smacks my head with a coaster but Yasmin gets in the way before I can retaliate, taking Dave’s vacated seat. “Is this gonnie take long? I’m opening the shop tomorrow.”
“Come on, Yas. You could do that in your sleep,” says Dave, frisbeeing a coaster at Wee Katie who tries to catch it, misses, blushes a pure beamer and goes to help Eileen in the kitchen.
“Take that as a compliment, hen,” says Wully, shifting to get comfy on the sofa. “You work hard in that shop, a seen ye at it.”
“Thanks Wully,” she sways with a pointed glare at Dave.
“So here, how’s Wee Katie?” I mutter to Wully. “She ready?”
“She’s nervous, aye. But she’ll do fine,”
“She’s a nice wee lassie,” says Yasmin, flicking her hair over a shoulder. “Dead polite.”
“ ’Course she is, she’s ma granddaughter,” says Wully, smiling only a little sadly.
Eileen comes back in carrying a tray of mugs and a plate of caramel wafers. Wee Katie trailing in her wake perches on the arm of the sofa.
“No sign of Rab yet?” says Eileen, checking her watch.
“He’ll be here,” I say and just as I do there’s a knock on the door and Eileen goes to open it, leaving only the faintest trace of the chippy where she works.
It’s Rab, who shuffles in, his tracky evidently not bothering him in the heat of the night. He’s carrying a blue carrier bag from which he produces some rich tea biscuits that he gives to Eileen. “Just a wee mindin’,” he says. He fishes in the bag again and pulls out a battered paperback which he gives to Wee Katie, “Wully says you like reading so a brought you that. Huvnae read it mind, but ma next door neighbour says it’s dead good.”
“Thank you,” says Wee Katie, taking the book. “You didnae huv to.”
“Special day fur ye, hen,” he says. I glance at Dave, who gives me a guilty shrug. None of us had brought a gift or a minding.
“Such a nice boy you are, Rab,” says Eileen. “You have a wee seat and a cuppa.”
Once the tea is finished and the plate is littered with scrunched-up foil wrappers we fall silent. No one has given any indication that we should; we’ve all decided that the moment has arrived. Wee Katie looks at the floor, twisting fingers in her lap.
Eileen pulls herself forward in her chair. “Right, no offence, yous lot, but a’v got work in the morning.”
“Aye,” agrees Dave, “If ... if that’s ok with you, Wully.”
Wully huffs and I nudge him gently in the ribs. “Aye, Davie boy,” he says, “that’s fine.”
“Right then,” says Eileen. I think she looks a bit weepy. “Wully. It’s been an honour working with you,” she says. She’s about as used to making speeches as we are. Her knuckles tap gently on the arm of the chair. “You’ve taught all ae us here and...well, you’ll be missed.”
“Well that’s bloody good to know,” says Wully and we breathe out a laugh that is full of tension and sadness.
“Aye, well...” Eileen continues, “we’re glad it’s your wee Katie that’s stepping up. You’ll make a great addition to the team, hen,” she says and Katie smiles.
“I hope so,” she says, with a glance at her Grampa.
Wully gives her a pat on the arm and a wee grin. “You’ll do fine, darlin’.”
Silently, we share our Weaves: thousands of knitted Threads full of lives and voices; stone and rain; music and traffic. The layers run deep, thick with history: mills, and looms and floating fibres.
I breathe in, enjoying the feeling of everyone’s Weaves out in the open. Wully’s is fine and intricate, heavy with years of Paisley life. He pulls the Weave towards Wee Katie who’s sitting cross-legged on the floor; she’s concentrating, her face screwed up. I watch as she pulls a Thread. It’s a nice thing, simple and innocent but full of expectation. It’s got us all in it, this wee sitting room, the tea, the caramel wafers, Rab’s paperback. It’s got her Grampa and the lesson he’s taught her and the lessons I’ll be teaching her soon. Sweat beads on her brow now, as she takes the Thread and ties it to Wully’s.
Wully smiles and casts off the last Thread, twining it with Katie’s new one. It makes a lovely counterpoint for a second and then Wully’s Weave becomes hers and she pulls it around her, wrapped momentarily in her future and her long distant past.
Sarah is a Paisley-based writer and lover of all things fantastical. She is proud of her hometown and everything it continues to do after some pretty tough times. When not writing, Sarah is a full time teacher of primary school children and is currently scrambling to finish her masters dissertation.