The Kiln by William McIlvanney Read Free Book Online Page A

notice the difference of a little more smoke in the bedroom. And Tam has only recently begun to realise how good a cigarette tastes after food.
    He rises and rinses his crockery and cutlery at the sink, laying them on the draining-board.
    ‘Here,’ his mother says. ‘You've got yer good trousers on. Who d'ye think ye are? Beau Brummell? Change them.’
    ‘Aye, Mither,’ he says abstractedly.
    He hardly hears her. The thought of smoking at the brickwork has brought the image of Cran from the edges of his mind, where he constantly loiters, until he is looming darkly in the forefront. He is thinking that perhaps he should mention Cran to his father, as he goes to fetch the Paymaster from his coat pocket. He reaches absent-mindedly into his left-hand pocket, then into the right-hand one. He pauses. He thinks back through last night. He only smoked three. The insult of it jars him into action before he has time to think. He is standing in the living-room.
    ‘Here,’ he says.
    The aggression in his own voice takes him by surprise. His father looks up from his newspaper, observes him over the top of his glasses.
    ‘Somebody's nicked ma fags.’
    His father takes off his glasses. The newspaper settles, rustling across his knees. Tam is embarrassedly aware of the silliness of the ‘somebody’. There is only his father in the room. Marion is out for the day with her friends. His father's eyes haven't left Tam's face.
    ‘Ah wonder who it could be?’ his father says. ‘D'ye think yer mammy's started smokin’?'
    ‘No, but,’ Tam says, and he feels the lameness of his remark even before he makes it. ‘Ah bought them.’
    ‘D'ye want the money?’
    ‘Naw, it's no’ that.'
    ‘“Nicked” yer fags? Strangers nick, son. Families share.’
    They stare at each other. Tam is cringing at the way he has created a crisis out of nothing. Suddenly, it's Cigarette Fight at Sunday Creek. Tam continues to return his father's stare because he doesn't know what else to do. But he has become sickeningly aware that his gun's empty. His father leans towards the hearth and picks up the Paymaster packet.
    ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy. Ah believe this is your property.’
    He throws the packet to Tam and, in having to crouch in order to catch it, Tam has the involuntary sensation of bowing, as before a superior force. He straightens up quickly but he still doesn't feel much taller than a bug. He despises himself for having been so stupidly mean as to grudge his own father a few cigarettes. Was he supposed to waken Tam up and ask permission? Seventeen years of providing for him hasn't earned his father the assumptive right to take a couple of fags when he feels like it? Oh, Jesus. Tam can't believe who he is, what a crummy person he can be. Will he ever get it right?
    He stands uncertainly in the middle of the living-room. He struggles to find something to say.
    ‘It's okay, Feyther,’ he says. ‘You can have them.’
    ‘Naw, it's all right, son. Ah'll smoke the pipe.’
    Anger would have been easier to take. The gentleness of his father's voice is very painful, kindness as whiplash. His father is reading the paper again, repeatedly pushing up his glasses with his forefinger as they repeatedly slide down his nose. Tam is still standing. His father glances up again.
    ‘It's okay, Tam. Ah've got the pipe here.’
    ‘Aye.’
    The border is closed. He feels again that sense of his parents' dismay with him. What's their problem? ‘Where did we go wrong, Betsy?’ his father will say. ‘What did we do to deserve this?’ his mother will say. Come on. He's not an axe murderer - though if they keep this up, who knows? Tommy Borden with an axe … If they only knew some of the things he wants to do, fantasises doing. They should count themselves lucky, he has often thought. They should think about how some parents must really wonder how their children turned out the way they did.
    He turns away and comes upstairs and shuts