And thought: Ha ha! As I walked to Espedair Street.
Which was a real disappointment, to be honest. They seemed to have knocked a few bits of it down, but I couldn't be sure which bits. It looked less homogeneous than I remembered, more mixed up and unsure of itself. There was a new pizza place just at the Causeyside end; it looked out of place to me, something bright and plasticky from another age, another planet.
Across the other side of Causeyside Street was the Waterloo Bar, where Jean Webb and I had sat that day, twelve years before. It didn't seem to have changed much. I thought of going in for a drink, just for old times' sake, but didn't. I walked down Espedair Street instead, trying to remember which flat had been the Webbs'.
Just an ordinary street; low tenements, more modern low flats (I couldn't even remember if they had been here the last time; the street looked different), semis and detached houses, an old, derelict school, and a new snooker club in an old factory building. I turned around at the far end and started back, oddly deflated.
I tried to recapture the feeling of anticipatory joy I'd experienced that day I'd met Jean, or the sensation of sublimely resigned bliss I'd experienced, seven years later, after visiting her mother, walking down the same street under that stunning sky. Of course no echo of emotion sounded from either occasion.
I walked, humming my new tune, while the words said.
I stood at the traffic lights on Canal Street. There was a man waiting on the other side, looking curiously at me. Suit, coat, briefcase; not the sort of person I'm used to having stare at me. It had been years since somebody recognised me in the street and let me know; an intensely embarrassing experience.
This man looked like he wanted to talk. I considered walking away down Canal Street, so I wouldn't pass him... but what the hell. The lights changed. We met in the middle of the road; he put one arm out, as though to stop me, put his head to one side and squinted with one eye. 'Dan Weir?' he said.
'Yes?' I said. He smiled broadly and put out his hand, shaking mine. 'Glen Webb; remember me?'
Jean's brother; the one who'd been in the army, if I was right. I nodded. 'Yes, of course.'
He glanced at his watch. 'You got time for a drink?' He half-turned, to head along with me. He seemed honestly pleased to see me.
I shrugged. 'Well, why not?'
We went to a new, overly plush bar called Corkers; subdued lighting and plump green upholstery. A fan on the ceiling; is this the new insignia of yuppie hangouts in Scotland? Isn't a place proper without a prop? I had a pint of export, ignoring the attractions of inferior British copies of anyway awful American lagers. Glen Webb had a non- alcoholic lager .
'Thought it was you. Hope you don't mind me accostin you in the street like that.'
'No, that's all right.' I said. 'Doesn't happen very often these days.'
'You retired now, aye?'
'Aye, sort of,' I said. I'd never thought of it like that, but he was right. 'What about you? You look prosperous.'
'Oh, I'm doin all right for myself. I'm working for a firm in Glasgow now; just on my way to do somebody's books.' He laughed, and I thought: wrong brother. This was the accountant who'd been in England. 'Well, this is a right surprise. I was just talkin to Jean about you the other day.'
'How is she?'
'Fine. A lot happier now she's settled down again.' He took a sip of his gassy lager. 'You knew she'd got divorced?'
'No,' I said, surprised. And, right there and then, before the words were fully out of his mouth, something inside me seemed to leap.
'Did you know Gerald? Her husband, did you?' Glen asked. I shook my head. 'Ah, well, he wasn't a bad guy really, but I think they just... drifted apart, you know? And then she found out he was seein this other woman...' He shrugged. ' All sorted out now. You knew they had a wee girl?'
'Dawn,' I said, pleased to be able to remember.
'Aye. Well, Jean and her live in...' He frowned. 'Damn me, I can never remember the name of the place...' And I was sure he was going to say 'Bahrain', or 'Adelaide' or something, but he didn't. 'Arsey? Harris-egg ... something like that. I've got the address somewhere...' He reached down to his briefcase. 'Near Fort William; on the Road to the Isles.' He searched the briefcase for a few moments, then shook his head. 'Must have left it at the office. Never mind.'
'Arisaig?' I suggested. He snapped his fingers.
'The very place. Anyway; the two of them seem to be happy enough there. What about you? This you makin a sentimental journey, or what?'
'Yeah, I suppose I am,' I admitted.
'Aye, I always come up this way myself, just to look at my mum's old flat. Daft, isn't it? Doesn't even look the same since they were all renovated.'
'Aye, I know.' I supped my beer meditatively. 'Yeah, it is a bit daft.' We sat in silence for a moment. 'How's your mum?'
This time, I was sure the answer would be 'Dead', but I was wrong again. 'Ah, she's no too bad. She's in a wheelchair now; my aunt Marie looks after her.
'Aye, she was in the wheelchair last time I saw her.'
'Of course, aye; she told me about that. Thinks you're wonderful.'
'What? Who does?'
'My mum. Oh God, aye; she thought it was great, you calling in like that. Her with a famous rock star in her wee flat, taking tea.' Glen laughed. I shook my head, looked down. This has been my Modesty Act for so long it's no longer an act. I felt the way I had when I'd just left her flat that time, the way I had at the far end of Espedair Street quarter of an hour earlier; saddened.
'Whereabouts you livin these days?'
'Oh, I... move around a lot. I'm in Glasgow, just now,' I said, lying, and wondering why I lied.
'Ah, well, if you're ever moving around in the Highlands, you should drop in and see Jean. She'd appreciate it. Still talks about you a lot. You've got a couple of fans there, her and wee Dawn.'
'Really?' I tried to make it sound self-deprecating without making it sound insulting to them. I busied myself with my glass. My heart was misbehaving. This was absurd.
'Aw , aye,' Glen said, smiling. 'Great to be famous, eh?'
I agreed it was, most of the time. We spent another five or ten minutes talking about other old friends we had in common, and people we'd gone to school with, until Glen looked at his watch and started draining his lager. I finished my pint. 'I've got to go,' Glen said, taking up his briefcase. 'Here;' he handed me his card. 'Give us a ring if you want Jean's address... or my mum's; you're always sure of a cup of tea there.'
'Thanks.' We went to the door. A light shower had started outside and we stood on the pavement, under an awning, while Glen dug into his briefcase for a small umbrella. I looked up and down the street.
'Aye, you'll see a few changes in the old town, I suppose.'
There were actually fairly few in sight from where we stood, but I knew what he meant. I nodded. 'Aye. There weren't any places like this here then,' I looked back at the bar we'd just left. 'The Waterloo doesn't seem to have changed much, though... not from the outside, anyway.'
Glen Webb unsheathed the little Knirps and fiddled with it. 'That your old watering hole, was it?'
