In the end, Catherine twisted Shuggie’s wrist and dragged him down Renfield Street. The boy had stopped at nearly every corner to silently lodge a protest about how much he didn’t want to go. Without a word he would stand on his laces, and with a sleekit eye on her face he would gently let the knot unravel.
“You are bloody doing that on purpose!” seethed Catherine, bending to retie the school shoes for the fourth time in ten minutes.
“Am not,” said Shuggie with a satisfied smile. He took one of his mother’s romance novels out of his anorak pocket, and opening it, he rested it on the top of Catherine’s head as if she were a hallway table. He started to read. Catherine stood up and snatched the book from him, an angry devil boiling inside her, and she lashed the thick book across the back of her brother’s legs. She seized him by the wrist again. “If we miss this bus there won’t be another for ages, and when you start complaining, ‘I’m Hun-gry, I’m Thir-sty, I’m Ti-red …’” She mimicked his whine. “Well, you needn’t think I’m going to take pity.”
“I don’t sound like that,” huffed Shuggie, his legs windmilling to keep up with his sister’s stride. He twisted his arm from her grasp. She halted and spun her brother to face her. “Shuggie. I thought we were to be pals. You and me.” Her face didn’t look very friendly.
He huffed, “I don’t want to be your friend.”
She cupped his chin and turned his head gently back to face her; his eyes followed reluctantly. She ran her fingers through his neat parting and separated the thick black hair the way Agnes liked. The boy had grown so much over the past two years in Pithead. It was hard to describe, he had grown taller but he had also sunk somehow, like bread dough stretched much too thin. She could see he had slid deeper into himself and become more watchful and guarded. He was nearly eight now, and often he could seem so much older.
“Now when we get there I want you on your best behaviour.” Catherine smiled a polite hello to an older couple passing in colourful rain cagoules. “Please, do this for me? I’m caught in the middle of a big, big mess, and I’m only asking for a little help.” She looked at his small face, his lips pursed, he looked like a stubborn old wummin. She let her hands fall defeated to her side. “OK, you win. As always. But I want you to know that if you do tell Mammy where I took you today, she will die. Do you hear me? Die!”
Under sullen lids, his eyes swung back to meet her face. “How?”
“Shuggie, if you tell her she will take more and more drink, and she won’t ever be able to stop.” Catherine stood up and unclipped her coin purse; it was cognac-coloured with a painted camel and had been given to her mother by Wullie once. She counted out enough silver coins for two bus fares. “She will drink so much she will wash all the goodness out of her heart. T’chut. If she does that, I don’t think Leek will ever speak to you again.” She closed the old leather purse shut with a satisfied click, and her face brightened. “Oh, look! Here comes the bus.”
They sucked on soor plooms and pressed their noses against the front window of the top deck. The bus swung across the river, and Catherine pointed at the bones of the Clyde, the cranes that were out of work for good. She told him about how Donald Jnr had been let go from the shipbuilders, how he wanted to go to Africa for work.
“Say a prayer for me, Shuggie …” she pleaded.
“I have a long list. I will add you,” he lisped, his cheek bloated with the sour sweetie.
Catherine could believe her brother had been praying his very hardest for lots of things. She picked the raw skin around her thumb and worried again that she was doing the wrong thing. Since Shug had left her mother, she had told herself that it was not her fault. It rarely worked, but the selfish part of her would not be dissuaded. It wasn’t fair: just because her mother had lost her man, why should she give up hers?
When they got off the bus, they passed rows of identical brown houses, all with fenced-in gardens in the front. None of the houses had any flowers. Catherine walked up a narrow path and through a heavy brown door without knocking. She stepped on to a stranger’s hall carpet and waved at her brother to follow. Shuggie had never seen this house before; he was suddenly scared at how familiar it all was to Catherine.
The house was warm, like there were plenty of coins in the meter, and it smelled rich and sweet with the scent of roasted potatoes and meat gravy. Catherine sat on the carpeted stairs that ran to a second floor. She unzipped his anorak and hung it on the banister. Shuggie could hear televisions roar different channels from different rooms. The Old Firm match was on in the front parlour, and cartoons were honking and tweeting from somewhere upstairs. Catherine fixed his tie and kissed his cold cheek. “Best behaviour, right?”
She led him through to the back of the house, where a warm dining room was connected by a serving hatch to a thin kitchenette. As they came in, six or seven adults Shuggie didn’t know turned at once and smiled. Catherine dropped her brother’s hand and went to a man who looked like Donny Osmond. She kissed him lightly on the mouth.
“We were wondering where you had gotten to,” said the man, rubbing the back of his fingers gently over her cold cheeks.
“You should try dragging him through a packed town centre.” She turned to her brother, who was standing in the doorway. “Shuggie, don’t just stand there, come over here and say hello to your Uncle Rascal.”
Shuggie stepped into the dining room, the heat and the smell of roast ham made him feel light-headed. He wrapped one arm around Catherine’s legs as she introduced him to the adults who were huddled around a sliding door, smoking cigarettes and making a great show of blowing smoke carefully out into the back garden. He didn’t recall most of their names as soon as they were said. She turned him towards an armchair in the corner. “This is your Uncle Rascal.” She gave the boy a light push. Shuggie held out a polite hand and shook the man’s paw.
So vague was his memory of his father that for a moment he thought the man could be him. There were the same ruddy flushed cheeks and a thick, manicured half-moon of a moustache. The man looked like a photo Shuggie had seen once, hidden underneath his mother’s underthings in a drawer, but instead this man still had a thick head of hair, which was dyed a gravy brown but real and thick and all his own. Rascal pumped the boy’s arm till it hurt. “Been too long, wee man! Terrible situation that it is.” The man smiled. There were happy stars in his eyes.
Catherine introduced him to the Donny Osmond who had kissed her. “This is Donald. You remember, don’t you? Well, Donald and I are getting married.”
The boy glanced up at her. “Will I get cake?”
The man stepped forward and shook Shuggie’s hand. He looked like he had brushed his brown hair from the underside, so that it curved like the cap on a shiny button mushroom. He was pink and thick and friendly-looking. He pumped the boy’s hand too. “I see it. I can. I can see the resemblance now,” he roared.
“I’m sorry there are no more big boats for you to hammer,” said Shuggie earnestly.
“No bother, wee man,” said Donald. “Will you come visit us when we live in Africa?”
Catherine scowled at Donald as she lifted her brother and nearly pushed him whole through the serving hatch into the kitchenette. There was a mess of bubbling pots, and a deep-fat fryer full of roast potatoes was crackling in the corner. Catherine introduced him to Donald’s mother, his Auntie Peggy. Everything about her was small and pointed, from the happy corners of her eyes to the pink tips of her ears. Catherine whispered into Shuggie’s ear, and the boy repeated: “Thank you. For. Having me. To dinner. Auntie. Peggy.”
“So, where is he?” asked Catherine, lowering her brother. “I’ve lied and lied and dragged this boy through the town for him. Are you to tell me he’s not showed up?”
Shuggie felt a flick on the back of his bare neck, a thick flat fingernail welt like the ones Gerbil McAvennie gave when Father Barry was not looking. “Oww!”
“Don’t stand there with your back to me, son.” The man in the black suit filled the doorway, not in height but in breadth. Shuggie eyed him with caution. There again was the thick moustache and the quick eyes from the photograph. This man was flushed-looking, his head pink and scrubbed clean under long thin strands of brown hair that were combed over the top. His nose was small and delicate, not like the Campbell bone, and his brows were straight and dark and hid the darting of his clear eyes. Shuggie watched him and wanted to touch his own face, to feel it and see whether he had the same rosy round cheeks, the same thick hair on his lip.
Behind the man was a woman, waiting to be introduced, her hands clasped demurely across her front. Shug twisted the ring on his pinkie finger. “Are you not going to give your old man a hug?”
Shuggie had not seen his father in a long time. Anytime Shug had come to the Pit he had made sure the children were in bed first. Shuggie held on to his sister’s leg. Catherine spoke for her brother. “Shug, he’s shy. And no wonder with you flicking at the wean like that.”
“It’s the Bain code. Hit them afore they hit you.” He crouched, and Shuggie could hear the heavy swing and clash of many silver coins in his pocket. “I like your tie, very dashing. Are you breaking hearts yet and taking after your old man?” There was movement behind him as the woman who had been waiting came through.
“I swear, travelling on an Old Firm day is a bad idea,” the woman said. She was worn-out looking, the sides of her eyes puckered as she pulled a tight, reluctant smile. She was shorter than his father, which made her very short. Her hair was clipped close to her head, and Shuggie could see the grey untended roots throughout. She wore a simple V-neck jumper with a large Pringle lion on the chest, and under that she wore a pair of women’s trousers. She looked like one of the dinner ladies at school when they smoked by the bins after lunchtime.
Catherine stepped forward without a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Joanie.” She didn’t look like she meant it. They shook hands, then collided in a clumsy, nervous embrace.
Shuggie’s head nearly snapped on his neck, and his lips must have been hanging open because Catherine pulled her quit it face. His father, still crouched, never took his eyes from his son’s and was smiling like he was enjoying himself. Shuggie pulled on Catherine’s blouse. She leaned over, and he cupped a hand over her ear. “Caff, that’s bad Joanie. You are not supposed to like her. That’s the hoor who stole my daddy.”
“Say hello to your new mother,” baited Shug, still grinning. “Go on, give your new mammy a hug.”
“No. Some of us know what side our bread is buttered on,” said Shuggie, leaving the safety of the traitor’s leg. He didn’t know where he had heard that before, probably from her, screaming at her phone table.
“Pfft. You’re gonnae need a new mammy, Shuggie. That old one you’ve got is for the knacker’s yard.” Shug stood up with a click of the knee and a wince. “Or the Eastern Hotel, more like.”
Joanie waved a small hello to the boy. She held out a paper shopping bag. “You never mind him, son. Sometimes I swear his heart is as empty as a Fenian’s cupboard on a Thursday.” She came forward with the shopping bag, it looked very heavy. “Listen, you don’t have to call me anything but Joanie.” She peered into the bag. “Our Stephanie has outgrown these, but they are so new-looking I hadn’t the heart to throw them out. Would you like them?”
He shook his head no, but his lips said, “What are they?”
She came closer and set the bag between them like she was feeding a cautious beast. Then Joanie the Hoor took two steps back. “Ye’ll just have to look and see.”
His father came out of the kitchenette with a tall glass of milk, there was already a rich line of cream on his bristles. He leaned against the wall and watched the boy hug the safety of the corner. Shuggie wanted to step away from the bag, wanted to pretend like he wasn’t interested, but it was calling to him, and he found himself stepping towards it. He tapped the bottom of the bag with his toe and it was heavy. He used a finger to push it open. At the bottom were eight bright yellow wheels. His eyes were wide as saucers as he took out the first roller boot.
“I still don’t know why we couldn’t have given him Andrew’s old bladder fitba,” said Shug to Joanie.
They were a bumblebee-yellow suede with white stripes and white laces. The laces were fed through a dozen holes, and the boots went up nearly to his knee. He loved them.
“What do you say to Joanie?” prodded Catherine.
He wanted to pretend he did not care. He wanted to put the boots back in the bag and tell Catherine that they had to leave. He felt like a traitor. He was no better than his sister.
Auntie Peggy’s high voice came out of the kitchen hatch. “Shug. You’ll never believe what the Prodigal has gone and done.”
Shug smirked at his nephew and then smirked at Catherine in a way that made her want to fold her hands over her chest, over her belly.
Donald Jnr spoke first. “No! It’s no that, Uncle Shug. I’ve got an offer of work, good high-paying work where I get to be lord and master over four dozen men.”
Shug finished the last of his milk. “But I was looking forward to seeing you on that rank.”
“You might see him on the Renfrew Street rank yet,” said Catherine, as she helped Shuggie into the new boots. She turned her head, spoke to Donald Jnr over the small bones of her shoulder. “I have a career of my own, you know. I can’t just up sticks and follow you around like a shadow.”
Shug watched her try to master his nephew and laughed. “Donnie Boy! You thought you were on to a sure thing, but look how the Catholics are revolting.”
Donald Jnr turned to his uncle. “It’s a good job in the palladium mines. Out in Transvaal, I think it’s called. They telt us they will take nearly all the Govan riveters, fly us out there, find us somewhere to live. Even give us a month in advance. Yasssss! Soooth Efrika. Boyeee.”
“Youse gonnae be a Kaffir master!” said Shug, his bottom lip stuck out in genuine pride.
“Don’t use that horrible word in front of the boy,” Catherine said. She helped her brother on to his feet and turned him towards the door. “Go play in the hall. Make sure and shut that door behind you.” They watched him go, his arms stretched out for balance, his fingers splayed upwards like pretty bird wings. Shuggie pushed off each step into a gliding graceful swoosh, but each boot embedded soon enough into the deep pile carpet. They watched him clomp out into the hallway, his face split from ear to ear in a smile.
Shug sucked his teeth in disappointment. “I don’t think that boy is mine.”
Shuggie lowered his arms. He stopped gliding across the carpet. Suddenly he could feel just how heavy the old roller boots really were.
Shug turned to Catherine and asked, “What do ye think she’ll say when she hears I’ve seen him?”
Catherine looked at Shuggie, she could see the scalding in his cheeks. “Oh no. We can’t ever say he’s been here.”
A mean smile broke over Shug’s face. He spoke in the pushing voice that bullies in school used when they wanted to see a fight. “Go on. Let him tell her.”
With a shove, Catherine closed the door between them. Shuggie could hear his father roar with laughter. He heard Catherine ask, “Why on earth did you ask me to bring him if you are going to be such a bloody bully?”
Shuggie spent the afternoon wearing lines in the hall carpet, trying as hard as he could to ruin it. He listened to the adults fight about something he thought was called Joanna’s Bird that lived in the south of Africa. He heard Catherine say she would be settled there by Christmas. He wondered what black people were like and why they needed Donald Jnr to make them work better. He wondered why his big sister had to go off and leave him.