My Temporary Life by Martin Crosbie Page A

comfort in it. I remember as a young child, sitting on his lap, trying to match my breaths with his, never being able to match his rhythm. I dread the thought of another plane, another place to live, a different school, and more awkward places to try and fit in. I just sit there and listen to the two of us breathing, thinking about how difficult it must have been for my Dad to make that call to George.
     
    I think about the movie of my life that plays in my head and I realize that there is one last thing that I have to do before I leave, one last thing that’s been heavy on my mind since that last day at school. “I want to see Hardly. I want to see him before I go, Dad.”
     
    As he straightens up, he has just the trace of a little smile, the same kind of little smile that I had when I was jumping down the bleachers, trying to make my way to Stuart Douglas. My Dad has two voices. There is the voice that he uses to talk to the Masters and Headmasters on the telephone, and then there’s his street voice. This is the one he uses when he answers me and talks about visiting Hardly’s house. “That’s a good idea son, I’ll come too. We’ll go the night and I’ll come ower there with ye. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Rab.”
     
    Growing up, before my Mother left, my parents would take me for walks through the streets of Kilmarnock, through our neighbourhood. We’d pass Taylor Avenue, Craigmore Avenue, Longpark Avenue, and they’d tell me who lived in the houses that we’d pass. They’d tell me about the boys and girls, who later became men and women, that they went to school with, and show me their houses. They’d tell me which ones they liked, and which ones that I should avoid. They’d tell me about the women who married young, and the women who were left alone when their husbands ran away in the middle of the night. We’d pass the houses where the boys lived who stole things that they later claimed, ‘fell off the back of a truck’. And, they’d tell me stories about girls setting fire to their homes, sometimes by mistake, or sometimes desperately trying to get some attention. None of the stories are unique. It’s just a poor neighbourhood, and it’s just the way that it is. We all know each other, and the common feelings of hate and indifference and I suppose, sometimes love, linger between the relationships that hold all our houses together.
     
    My Dad knows Rab, Hardly’s father. I don’t know how and I don’t ask. I assume that it’s through their school days, or from playing fitba in the streets as children, or it might even be from work. When he chaps on the door of Hardly’s house, it isn’t a friendly tap, but more of the type of knock that you would make if you were trying to break a door down. An older, larger, version of Hardly immediately comes to the door, and he looks every bit as angry as I’d imagined him to look.
     
    “ Rab.”
     
    “ Alex.”
     
    We stand that way for a moment with the two men looking at each other, and I stare at their expressions while trying to pretend that I’m not actually staring at their expressions. My Dad looks steadfast and firm with the same little smile that I recognize from earlier, while Hardly’s father’s goes from anger to curiosity before he finally says something.
     
    “ These two lads, Alex, getting up to too much bloody trouble, too much trouble. We’ll have the polis roond here next. You mind, it’ll be the polis next.”
     
    “ I huv tae apologize tae ye Rab. I really dae. I really have no been a very guid neighbour at all. Here oor two boys are friends, and I havenae been by to see you at all.” My Dad’s street voice is in full force, and his Scots accent is as thick as I’ve ever heard it. His expression doesn’t change. He just keeps standing there and smiling, waiting.
     
    “ Oh, that isnae necessary, Alex. They’re just lads, just wee lads. I’ll get him the noo.” He turns his head and yells into