The Low Road by A. D. Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

McAllister thought. He was enjoying the performance, but anxious about his train. It was clear to him his mother knew why Wee Gerry was here, and clear he would have to stay until his mother was ready to release the visitor. To have the razor keeking out his pocket, McAllister was thinking, attempting to intimidate me, or show off, wrong move in front of my mother.
    â€œWell, it was nice o’ you to visit, Gerry,” Mrs. McAllister relented. “I’ll no’ keep you—this being Sunday, you’ll be wanting to visit your father.” Nodding her head in benediction, she finished, “Give him ma best.” And Gerry Dochery was dismissed.
    McAllister saw him out. They said little. But at the door McAllister held out his hand, and Gerry did not refuse.
    â€œGood to see you, Ger. Any time you’re up for a drink, call me at the Herald or leave a message there. It’ll get to me.”
    McAllister knew he was looking at a man who had visited with the intention of doing damage. But something seemed to have shifted in the carapace of Gerry Dochery; his sense of invincibility now cracked with a hairline fracture. Or perhaps it was sheer embarrassment, the same as when, as young boys, they had been caught standing on the high wall of the Acropolis cemetery having a weeing competition onto a grave below. A woman had appeared, looked up at them before they had time to run, and shaking herhead she went to lay flowers at the foot of the tombstone splashed with urine.
    â€œI won’t harm you, John,” Gerry told him, “but I can’t say the same about your friend.”
    It was then that McAllister realized he was right—harming him had been his former friend’s intention. “About my friend, where . . .”
    But Wee Gerry Dochery was off down the street without acknowledging the question. McAllister knew there was no point in chasing after him, in asking more; Gerry Dochery, childhood friend, had crossed a line long since and would not, could not, come back.
    As he walked back towards the kitchen, he could smell bacon frying. The clock in the sitting room struck ten. He had missed the train.
    â€œSit yerself down,” his mother said. “And you can make yerself useful by buttering the rolls.”
    After the full Scottish breakfast of bacon, eggs, black pudding, and fried tattie scones, he thought he and his mother would talk about Gerry’s visit. Not so.
    When he tried to broach the subject, all she said was, “Best leave it, Son, no use stirring up trouble.” She stood. “I’ll make a fresh pot.”
    â€œNot for me, I’ve missed my train. I need go to the station and book a sleeper. Then I need to let Joanne know I won’t be back till the morning.”
    â€œAye. You do that. And give the lass ma best.”
    â€œI will.” He looked at her. She gave her usual tight wee smile. And suddenly, whether it was because of his living away in the Highlands, or because Joanne had prized open his I’m-a-buttoned-up-Scottish-male persona, he saw his mother anew; he saw the woman who had lost her husband, a fireman, in thehorror of the wartime Clydeside Blitz; a woman who had buried her second son when, at sixteen, he had drowned himself in the River Clyde; a woman who had kept a family together through years of poverty, always encouraging her sons to break free of the Glasgow slums through education.
    She caught his expression. “What are you doing, grinning to yerself?” She smiled back.
    â€œRemembering how you used to make me sit at this kitchen table and never let me up until I’d done my homework. Years after, I discovered you’d asked my teacher to set me extra work.”
    â€œAye, and look where it got you. You have a great job. And you own your own house.”
    â€œI would never be where I am now without you pushing me.”
    She turned away but not before he caught her smile. “Get away