face shocked me.
‘No,’ I said.
Wasted. Wasn’t that what he had done with most of his life? Wasted it away. Playing for his country, the adulation, it all meant nothing to him now he was dying.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, something in me felt sorry for him, the old man dying before me needed comfort, ‘we all make mistakes.’
‘Don’t make mine, please.’ As he closed his eyes it was like watching a light go out inside him.
I gripped my father’s hand tight, then left his bedside.
I closed the door and went back downstairs, where my mother sat waiting for me. She rose as I entered the room.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘I think he’s gone, Mam.’
61
On the day of the funeral my mother hung a black crepe scarf on the door of the family home. A white card told when the remains would be taken to the kirkyard.
I tried to straighten my tie in the mirror, not easy when you find it hard to look at yourself.
I didn’t know how to feel about my father’s passing. He felt sorry, yeah, but the memories were still there. Every time I felt sympathy sneaking up on me I had to ask was it really myself I felt sorry for?
All I did know, the person I was wasn’t the person I wanted to be any more. My father had tried to shape me with lashings and harsh words, but look what he’d done. Look what I was. A waster, basically. An alkie loser.
Deep down though, I knew I couldn’t blame him. I’d been over it a million times. If I’d had it better, who’s to say I would be any different? Kids who are showered with affection develop their own problems. They go into the wider world looking for a kind of love they’ll never attain. My problems felt like mine alone. For years I’d been nurturing them. Perhaps now it was time to let them go. I knew that was what my father had tried to show me.
The coffin was balanced on the dining-room table, my mother sat beside it, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Cathy stood beside her, a hand placed delicately on her back.
‘The others… are they coming to the house?’ I asked.
‘In a while. Michael’s talking to the television people.’
‘The telly?’ I wondered why Michael had been asked to do this, I was the eldest, and Christ, I had the media experience.
‘They’re doing a slot for the news.’
My mother spoke up: ‘Do you think anyone will remember him?’
‘Mam, he was a big name in his day,’ I said. ‘There’ll be loads of interest.’
I knew this wasn’t the case. Football had moved on. To the fans of today, he was a relic. A strange remnant of a bygone era when men were men.
‘Och, I don’t know, it’s all that David whatsisname these days. One married to the skinny girl off that Spice group.’
‘David Beckham,’ I said. ‘We can be grateful he’s nothing like that pretty boy. My dad never once wore shin guards; can’t see Becks taking ninety minutes of tackles like that.’
I’d surprised myself. Here I was defending my father.
‘Do you know what George Best said about Beckham? “He cannot kick with his left foot, he cannot head a ball, he cannot tackle and he doesn’t score many goals. Apart from that he’s all right.”’
A few smiles were raised. For once, I’d done some good.
‘Angus, son,’ said my mother, ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
I knelt down, beside her. ‘Sure, anything.’
‘Now, I don’t want you to feel you have to say yes — really, I don’t want that.’
‘Mam, what is it?’
‘There are some men from your father’s old club coming to help carry the coffin… and there’s Michael, but I thought…?’
I saw where this was leading, the final thing my mother could ask of me.
‘Mam, it’s no problem. I’ll help carry the coffin.’
She raised her handkerchief again. More tears.
‘Come on now, there’ll be cameras out there — stiff upper lip remember.’
Cathy put her arm around her. ‘Come on, Mam. Why don’t you have a bit of a lie down? There’s plenty of time before we need to make our way to the kirk.’
The pair looked a strange sight, both dressed in black, as they moved out of the room.
For a moment I was alone with my father in his coffin. I felt uneasy, moved through to the lounge. As I closed the door behind me, Cathy returned.
‘She’s wearing up well,’ said my sister. ‘Do you think it’ll last?’
‘She’s a tough old girl,’ I said. ‘She just needs a bit of a rest.’
‘She got no sleep last night.’
‘I’m not surprised. What about you?’
Cathy ran her fingers through her hair, I saw a few streaks of grey had crept in. ‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Sit down, would you? You’ve been running about like a mad thing all day.’
‘No, I was going to make some tea.’
‘Cathy, I’ll get the tea. Put your feet up.’
On my way to the kitchen, I tried to stop myself, but had to glance at the dining-room door. I’d seen dead bodies time and again, but this felt different. This was the home I’d played in as a boy; it shook me up. It’s obvious to say death is all about endings, but this really did feel like the curtain had come down on something.
I brought Cathy her tea.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘No problem.’
My sister perched on the edge of her chair, blew into the cup. ‘Gus, there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I know you and Deborah, well, aren’t exactly getting on right now-’
I put up a hand. ‘Correction. Debs is divorcing me.’
Cathy lowered her cup, balanced it on the arm of the chair. She took a deep breath, then spoke slowly. ‘She came round a few days ago. She’d heard about Dad, and I think it was more for Mam’s sake, but she wanted to say goodbye.’
‘And?’
‘I told her he wasn’t expected to see the night out — this was before you arrived.’ Cathy raised up her cup, took a sip.
‘I know this is leading somewhere, Cath.’
‘Well, she asked to be told about the funeral.’
‘She’s coming to the funeral, that’s what you’re trying to tell me?’
Cathy put her cup on the floor, a little tea spilled over the side and down the edge.
‘Did I do the wrong thing, Gus?’
Tony Black
Paying For It
AS THE SLOW cortege made its way into the kirkyard, my mother wore a brave face. Old women stood up from the graves they’d been tending, gave knowing glances. People I’d never seen greeted us with nods, said they felt sorry for the family’s pain.
A few men in black armbands spoke like we were old friends. I guessed they were from my father’s playing
