The train ride was a long one.
And tedious. Despite whatever resolve he may have felt while staring out the window as the buildings and streets of London gradually gave way to the countryside of Chilterns, by the time they reached Northampton, Logan was embroiled in a heated game of cards. And as he had predicted, he had lost nearly everything before the train reached Carlisle. He had been a wealthy man in Leeds, but by the time the train had pulled into Cumberland, he had lost his shirt, just as the Duke by that same name nearly had against Bonnie Prince Charlie not far from that very spot. He built his fortune up once more by Moffat in his own homeland. But Logan had had no Culloden like the famous Duke, and by the time he reached Glasgow, he was a poor man once again.
“Just like when I left,” Logan mused as he stepped off the train.
He straightened his silk necktie, buffed the toes of his black dress shoes on his pant cuffs, and made one last attempt to brush the wrinkles from the cashmere suit he had donned in honor of his homecoming. Even without the fedora, he cut a rather striking figure strutting down the street as if he owned that portion of the soot-blackened industrial city. The two days on the train, and the outbreak of sunshine eight hours north of London had served to heighten Logan’s enthusiasm for life once more. Never one to stay down for long, he walked along feeling as optimistic as if he did own the city—and the world, if he chose. Having no money in his pockets was only a minor inconvenience to Logan Macintyre, though certainly one he would not want to advertise in his hometown. But temporary setbacks, as he always called his losses at cards and dice, in no way diminished the possibilities for the future. Though he remembered his friend fondly, and indeed, over the last two days the image of the old man’s dying face had scarcely left his mind, Skittles’ final words to him had yet to be driven into his heart. It would take more than a friend’s death to penetrate his superficial existence with a deeper and more lasting vision of life’s true values.
As he passed a public house where he had spent many an idle hour during his youth, Logan’s brisk pace slowed to a stop. Through the sooty window he spied several faces he thought he recognized, sitting, as it seemed, in the very spots where he had left them seven years earlier. He turned inside, wondering if he had changed as little as they. His question was answered in short order; he sauntered toward the bar unrecognized.
He removed Skittles’ cap, kept his eye on the table where three old friends sat, and waited. It took but a moment or two longer before a dawning stare of recognition began to spread over one of the faces. Logan grinned.
“Be that Logan Macintyre?” exclaimed the man.
His two cronies glanced up and peered across the room.
“Ain’t no wiseacre kid no more!” said another.
Slowly Logan approached, laughing at their comments.
“Hoots! Jist look at ye!” cried the first.
“Didna anyone tell ye there was a depression on?” asked the third man, speaking now for the first time. “Where ye been, Logan, ’at ye can dress in sich fine duds?”
“London,” replied Logan.
“An’ hoo lang’s it been since ye left Glasgow, lad?”
“Seven years.”
“Ye still haen’t told us hoo ye came by sich a suit,” jibed another. “Hasna the Depression hit auld London yet?”
“Or maybe oor frien’ here has finally found himsel’ a lucrative”—with the word the speaker winked at his two friends knowingly—“line o’ work!”
Logan laughed again, wanting to dispel no fancies for the moment, at least until he could once again get a feel for the lay of the land.
Drinks were bought all around, and no one so much as thought of allowing Logan to lay out a penny toward them. The fact that he looked wealthier than all of them put together only made them the more determined that they should finance this festive afternoon of his homecoming.
“Where’s old Bernie MacPhee?” asked Logan.
“Oh, he’s doin’ a drag up in Barlinnie for stealin’ a automobile.”
“An’ Danny?” tried Logan again.
“Got himsel’ killed a year ago. Seems a feller didna agree that his full house were on the up-an’-up.”
Logan exhaled softly at the news, somewhat deflated.
“An’ what hae ye been up t’ in Lonnon, Logan?”
“Me?”
But before he had the opportunity to frame a response, one of the others at the table answered for him.
“Why look at him, ye dunderhead,” the man said, fingering the fine fabric of Logan’s suit. “Anyone can see he’s doin’ jist what he set oot t’ do. Ye run one o’ them fancy night clubs, nae doobt, don’t ye noo, Logan?”
“Well . . .” Logan began, thinking how best to answer the question. But before he had said another word, the innkeeper had shouldered his way into the group to pour refills, and the conversation was sidetracked, leaving Logan still thinking what might have been his reply. But he did not appear anxious to correct his friend’s miscalculation. And when the second round was finished, he took his leave, promising to return soon to try out his London luck on them. In high spirits the three sent him on his way, sure enough in their own minds that their former acquaintance of the streets had indeed made it into the big time in London.
A light rain, never far away even on the sunniest of days in Scotland, greeted him as he left the pub. He threw on his overcoat and pulled the checkered cap down over his unruly hair. He had thought about walking around the old neighborhood for a while, but the rain forced him to turn his steps directly toward his mother’s home.
Yet even as he did so, he realized for the first time that he was actually reluctant to face her. Well, who would blame me? he rationalized. After all, this was hardly the homecoming he had always fantasized for himself—penniless and practically running for his life. The picture his mind had usually conjured up of the event always included a Rolls Royce, a mink-clad lady on his arm, and an armload of gifts for his mother—in every way the epitome of the son who had made good. He thought fleetingly of the five thousand pounds he had handed over to Billy in London. Of course if his mother had known how he came by the money, all the outward show of success and sophistication in the world would not have impressed her. And besides, knowing the money was now in Molly’s hands was worth ten Rolls Royces.
Well, tomorrow his luck would change! It was bound to—because it could hardly get much worse.
In thirty minutes he had arrived. He came to the front of the old gray granite building (he avoided calling the place a tenement, which in fact it was) where his mother lived. The front door squeaked on its hinges as he opened it, and the fifth step still had a loose board. One’s old home should always appear changed after a long absence, he thought, but at first glance everything here was exactly as he remembered it. Everything was supposed to look different, because he had changed—hadn’t he?
He glanced quickly down at his fine clothing as if to reassure himself. He certainly hadn’t had apparel like this when he left seven years ago. Even the blokes at the pub hadn’t recognized him. For the moment he forgot, as he was prone to do, that he was nothing but a lad seven years ago.
One thing he knew for certain: the three flights up to his mother’s flat had never seemed this fatiguing. He was panting heavily when he reached the final landing, and had to pause a moment to catch his breath. He raised his hand to knock on the door. That seemed the strangest sensation of all.
Suddenly his mind flooded with visions of a dirty-faced, ragamuffin boy racing up and down the steps, bounding through the door. Or more often than not, when that same youngster reached the age of thirteen or fourteen, creeping up the steps in the middle of the night and sneaking through the door so that his mother would not hear.
The temptation seized him once more to try to sneak into the flat, but he gave a mature chuckle at the idea and rapped sharply on the door instead.
His mother opened the door.
A brief moment of utter stillness ensued, like some of the moving pictures Logan had been to in London when the film had jammed and the action momentarily had ceased. Then all at once the film began running again, and Frances Macintyre smiled and took her son’s hands in hers.
Logan mused that she was indeed another of the fixtures of his home that had not changed. She was nearly as tall as he, and still displayed a certain poise, though it was difficult to discern properly, covered as it was by a poorly fitting housedress of drab green.
For an instant Logan wanted to flee. Was it childlike embarrassment to once again stand in front of his mother? Or was it the manly disappointment of wanting to hang his head in shame for neglecting her all these years? How many times does a man possess five thousand pounds—right in his very hands! Yet he had not once thought to keep a little back for his mother. She had seemed so distant, almost a nonexistent memory out of his past, when he was back in London. Molly and Skittles had been everything then. But suddenly it was different. He had flown back in time and now here she was, part of his life once more. And how desperately he wished he had a few quid to buy her a new dress.
“Evening, Mum,” he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek, as if he hoped the gesture could substitute for all the other things he could not do.
“Ye sure know hoo t’ surprise a woman,” she replied in an even contralto voice he remembered always finding so soothing. She led him inside and he noted that most of the old furnishings were still in place.
“I guess I never was one for letter writing.”
“Two letters in seven years,” she said without reproach. “I’m thinkin’ it must be a record o’ some kind fer makin’ yer kin wonder whether ye be alive or dead.”
As they gravitated toward the kitchen, Mrs. Macintyre set a kettle of water on the stove.
“Ye haena had supper yet?” she asked. Logan shook his head. “Weel,” she said, “I got a bit left from my own. I always make more’n I need. Tomorrow I’ll go t’ the market an’ get some real man food fer ye.”
“I don’t want you to make a bother for me.”
“Seven years I hae been waitin’ fer jist sich trouble, son! Leave me t’ enjoy ye while I can.”
Logan sat back and studied her as she set about her tasks, and he realized he was seeing her in a completely different light than he had before. Perhaps the years apart and his own maturity helped him to view things more objectively. At any rate, he unexpectedly noticed that his mother was still an attractive woman. But then, she was only forty-one. And even after years of hard work and poverty, Frances Macintyre could still hold her own beside the women of the world he had seen daily in London. He wondered why she had never remarried. Somehow, he had been the reason. Maybe she hadn’t wanted him to turn up one day and find a new surrogate father in his home.
Before many minutes she set a dish of steaming potatoes on the table with a plate of brown bread and sliced cheese. He hadn’t eaten anything all day due to his lack of funds, and fell to it with a relish that warmed the mother’s heart. After he had finished everything in front of him and the second helpings that followed, she poured them both cups of hot, strong tea. It was then that he noticed her hands. They looked old. Like nothing else about her, they showed the life of toil. It seemed as if all the years of hardship and heartache had drained to those two appendages. Even old Molly’s hands had never seemed so worn and wrinkled. But perhaps they were noticeable because they contrasted so sharply with her attractive, almost youthful appearance otherwise. Something about that made it all the more pitiable.
Impulsively Logan reached out and touched one of the hands which had so attracted his gaze.
Puzzled, his mother stopped with the kettle in midair. He looked up at her, and smiled—a bit embarrassed.
“It’s good to be home,” he said, as if he felt some words were appropriate. But he wasn’t at all certain those were the exact words he wanted to say.
“’Tis good t’ hae ye home, Logan.”
“Don’t you wonder why I’ve come?”
“I figured ye’d tell me when an’ if ye had a mind fer it.”
“I wish I’d done more for you, Mum.”
“’Tweren’t yer responsibility, son,” she said gently, “so dinna get it int’ yer mind that it were.”
Mrs. Macintyre’s lips curved up into a smile—a nice smile too, considering the few occasions in her life when she had been able to practice it. “Knowin’ ye as I do,” she said, “I doobt that’ll last fer lang.”
“That’s not why I’ve come back,” he said. “But I thought you should know.”
“’Tis fine wi’ me, fer whate’er reasons ye came. An’ noo there’ll be not anither word aboot it. Ye can help oot when ye can.”
She set the kettle once again on the stove. When she turned back toward him, from her wan smile Logan thought she might be on the verge of tears. She quickly sat down and took a sip of her tea. “Mr. Runyard’ll be needin’ some help in his restaurant,” she suggested. And if her voice carried a note of hopefulness, she could perhaps be forgiven for wishing against hope that her son was at last home to stay.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying,” he answered evasively.
“Oh?”
“But I’ll bring some money in—”
“That weren’t my meanin’, son,” she added hastily. “I jist knew ye’d be wantin’ t’ keep busy.”
“I never had trouble keeping busy before.”
“I know. But ye was yoonger then. An’ perhaps what was keepin’ ye busy wasn’t the best o’ things fer a grown man t’ be doin’.”
Then came a long silence.
They each pretended that their tea was consuming their complete interest. But a half-empty teacup can serve that purpose only so long. At length Mrs. Macintyre rose and began to clear away the supper things.
Logan jumped up to help.
“Sit doon,” she said. “Ye must be tired after yer trip.”
“Not a bit,” he replied. “At least, not after that feast. I even thought I’d take a walk around the old neighborhood and reacquaint myself.”
“’Twill be late soon—” she began, but then stopped herself. “I’ll get ye a key t’ let yersel’ in.”
“Thanks, Mum. I won’t be too late. And thanks for the supper and tea.”
She merely smiled as he gathered up his coat and cap. Then she walked over to a ceramic jar by the sink and took out two one-pound notes. These she pressed into Logan’s hand. He began to protest, but she shook her head.
“Ye’re my son,” she insisted. “Let me do it fer ye.”
He took the money and left, knowing all the while that his whole reason for wanting to walk about the neighborhood was simply to escape the intimacy he was so unaccustomed to—and he hated himself for it. She wanted to make up for the years of his absence by giving to him of the little she had, yet he knew it was he who should be doing for her. But because he couldn’t, he found it difficult to look her in the face. At this moment he found it hard even to face himself honestly. How much easier it was to duck out into the familiar streets where every promise seemed available, especially to a man of his wit and skill.
He had little difficulty finding a back-room card game, and the cronies of his youth welcomed him with gusto, treating him with the eminence of a returning hero. Logan had no reason to doubt that tomorrow would bring changes, and there was no reason for those changes not to be for the better.