Docherty by William McIlvanney Page B

temporarily invisible to her. There were times when she left him sitting or standing unnoticed for minutes, like a toy she had forgotten about. Their occasions together were strangely without development. What they achieved wasn’t so much a relationship as the demonstration of the absence of one.
    It was hopeless from the beginning. Conn was at first frightened by the ghost ceremonies Miss Gilfillan practised, whispering and moving eerily around her musty room, creating a charmed circle in which she tried to resurrect the past. She initiated him into the uses of cutlery with a ritual solemnity that suggested they were the only weapons that could reduce life to order and sense. She took tea with him as if it were a sacrament. Eventually the word ‘daft’ kept coming into his head like a bad angel. When she finally neglected to tell him to come back, neither regretted it, since they had never met each other.
    But all those moments stayed engraved on Conn’s memory, weird hieroglyphics which experience would eventually translate into some kind of sense. Looking back on it much later, he had the feeling of having been in a mausoleum.
    With his departure, Miss Gilfillan sealed the door on herself. In a sense, his visits had served their purpose. His indifference to all her kindness was somehow related in her head to the scrawny, frightened boy her father had dismissed from his bakery. Conn’s ingratitude absolved her father.
    11
    This is Jack, mither.’
    The name had for Jenny the impact of a secret formula, contained as much potency as ‘Rumpelstiltskin’ or ‘Rapunzel’. It introduced change into their lives. Normally, a girl would only bring one young man into her parents’ house. If by the end of her courting days it had extended to two, she had been flighty, and to have her married was probably a relief. Three suggested infiltration from Gomorrah.
    ‘Hullo, Jack,’ Jenny said to Kathleen’s future husband. ‘Sit yerself doon, son.’
    ‘Hullo, Mrs Docherty. Thanks.’ Conscious of scrutiny, Jack Farrell felt awkward, and slightly belligerent because of his awkwardness. He hung his bonnet on his knee and resented immediately the stare of the boy sitting by the window, nursing a neatly bandaged hand – that would be Conn.
    ‘Yer feyther’ll be in soon, Kathleen,’ Jenny said. ‘He’s et the stables in Soulis Street. Wullie Manson’s horse again. Takin’ canary-fits. Jumpin’ a’ ower the place. Yer feyther’s helpin’ tae calm it doon.’ That was a code message. Since Kathleen knew all this, she realised her mother was suggesting that Jack should still be here when her father got back.
    ‘Jack and me’s supposed tae be gaun fur a walk, mither.’
    ‘He’ll no’ be long. Whit wid ye make o’ this boay, Jack? He wis doon at the stables wi’ his feyther. An’ he wantit tae see if ferrets bite. He kens the answer noo, onywey. Ah doot Wullie Manson doesny feed thae ferrets, Conn. We had tae clean it and bandage it fur fear of infection, didn’t we, eh?’
    ‘The dirt that’s aye oan his hauns, ye should’ve cleaned the ferret. It’s probably goat hydrophobia by noo.’ It was a self-conscious remark, Kathleen being smart for Jack’s benefit.
    ‘Ah’ve heard a lot aboot Conn,’ Jack offered.
    There was a pause during which Kathleen and Jack used Conn as an escape from their embarrassment, looking at him as if he were a picture.
    ‘Well. Ah’ll just get ready, Jack,’ Kathleen said.
    ‘Fine, Kath.’
    The shortened form of the name made a momentary window for Jenny, through which she saw their inaccessible intimacy, a strange area encroaching on their lives, into which Kathleen was withdrawing more and more, and where she would eventually live almost entirely. The experience of it was a wistful instant, happiness shaking hands with sadness. As she ironed a semmet, she had a sense of big things happening almost unnoticed round the corner of each trivial task, powerful laws moving in