is a knock at the door, and Greg enters. It is obviously time for some reconciliation. — I heard that you and Elspeth . . . ehm, well, I think we’re all a bit nervous about the funeral tomorrow . . .
— Aye.
— The boys are at my mum’s. Will you come through and join us? We’re about to have some roast chicken I’ve cooked.
— Sound, Franco says, rising. He doesn’t particularly want company, and a second helping of roast chicken didn’t excite, but he has burned a load of calories today and it would be sensible to eat again.
The atmosphere around the table is tense. Franco looks up at Elspeth, knows she is drunk. A bottle of white wine has been opened. Greg will get one glass out of it, if he’s lucky. Suddenly his sister starts snivelling, pushing a hand up to her eyes. — Oh my God . . . she says softly.
— Sweetheart . . . Greg puts his arm around her. — Are you alright?
— No! Ah’m no awright! My nephew’s gone, wee Sean, Elspeth groans, sounding wrought with pain. Then she turns to Franco and says sadly, — I mind when I was a young lassie, I was so excited and proud when you and June brought him back to the house.
Franco stays silent. He recalls that time, the irritating fuss Elspeth and his mother had made. The bairn this, the bairn that. The bitterly resented implication that his life was now over, that he would live by proxy through this child. And he realised that he’d been manipulated, that the pregnancy and the birth of the kid had represented a (forlorn) hope by June and his mother that he would change. Thinking of the latter, he wishes that he could have taken Val Begbie to Santa Barbara, had her meet his daughters. Shown her how it had worked out fine after all, like he’d always assured her it would, throughout those decades of midnight police raids, calls fromthe cells, court appearances, and grim, ritual trips to prisons. But all Val – by then in the advanced stages of cancer – got was a brief meeting with Mel, and some pictures of Grace as a newborn.
— But you, you dinnae care, Elspeth is roaring at him. — You never cared!
— Elspeth, this really isn’t helping, Greg protests.
— I’m trying to find out what happened to him, Franco says. — If I didn’t care, I wouldnae be trying, would I?
— Aye, but you don’t care about him , Elspeth bubbles. — You didnae know him! He was a lovely laddie, Frank, a great kid, till the drugs got him, she states, almost breathless. — Had a smile for everybody and a great big laugh. I’m fucking sad he’s gone! Aren’t you, his fucking faither , aren’t you sad he’s gone? she begs. — Tell me! Tell me you’re sad!
— What? Are you kidding me? Franco’s eyes narrow to creased slits. — We’ve no seen each other in five years, and you want me tae sit here and talk aboot how ah feel aboot my son being murdered, to you, now, wi the funeral the morn? Never gaunny happen, Franco says emphatically.
— Elspeth, Greg pleads, — it’s Frank’s son. People process grief differently. Please, try to show a little respect, let’s just help each other get through this.
— But he never even tried to help them! Look at him! Just sitting there like nothing’s happened!
Franco sets his knife and fork down. — Look, ah made the decision that I had nothing tae offer them –
— Even when you made it as an artist!
— I have my own family . . . my other family, my new family.
— But those boys needed a faither . . . n that other laddie, that River . . .
— And they didnae get one. It’s shite, but it happens. Tae me. Tae you. Tae loads ay folks. I failed them, aye, but I couldnae make it right for them, he says firmly, waving his fork in the air. — That ship had long sailed.
— So ye just wash yir hands ay the mess you created! Elspeth snaps. — That River, you’ve never even met that poor bairn, she bellows in accusation.
Greg scrunches up his face, but Franco remains calm. — All I can do for them
— Aye.
— The boys are at my mum’s. Will you come through and join us? We’re about to have some roast chicken I’ve cooked.
— Sound, Franco says, rising. He doesn’t particularly want company, and a second helping of roast chicken didn’t excite, but he has burned a load of calories today and it would be sensible to eat again.
The atmosphere around the table is tense. Franco looks up at Elspeth, knows she is drunk. A bottle of white wine has been opened. Greg will get one glass out of it, if he’s lucky. Suddenly his sister starts snivelling, pushing a hand up to her eyes. — Oh my God . . . she says softly.
— Sweetheart . . . Greg puts his arm around her. — Are you alright?
— No! Ah’m no awright! My nephew’s gone, wee Sean, Elspeth groans, sounding wrought with pain. Then she turns to Franco and says sadly, — I mind when I was a young lassie, I was so excited and proud when you and June brought him back to the house.
Franco stays silent. He recalls that time, the irritating fuss Elspeth and his mother had made. The bairn this, the bairn that. The bitterly resented implication that his life was now over, that he would live by proxy through this child. And he realised that he’d been manipulated, that the pregnancy and the birth of the kid had represented a (forlorn) hope by June and his mother that he would change. Thinking of the latter, he wishes that he could have taken Val Begbie to Santa Barbara, had her meet his daughters. Shown her how it had worked out fine after all, like he’d always assured her it would, throughout those decades of midnight police raids, calls fromthe cells, court appearances, and grim, ritual trips to prisons. But all Val – by then in the advanced stages of cancer – got was a brief meeting with Mel, and some pictures of Grace as a newborn.
— But you, you dinnae care, Elspeth is roaring at him. — You never cared!
— Elspeth, this really isn’t helping, Greg protests.
— I’m trying to find out what happened to him, Franco says. — If I didn’t care, I wouldnae be trying, would I?
— Aye, but you don’t care about him , Elspeth bubbles. — You didnae know him! He was a lovely laddie, Frank, a great kid, till the drugs got him, she states, almost breathless. — Had a smile for everybody and a great big laugh. I’m fucking sad he’s gone! Aren’t you, his fucking faither , aren’t you sad he’s gone? she begs. — Tell me! Tell me you’re sad!
— What? Are you kidding me? Franco’s eyes narrow to creased slits. — We’ve no seen each other in five years, and you want me tae sit here and talk aboot how ah feel aboot my son being murdered, to you, now, wi the funeral the morn? Never gaunny happen, Franco says emphatically.
— Elspeth, Greg pleads, — it’s Frank’s son. People process grief differently. Please, try to show a little respect, let’s just help each other get through this.
— But he never even tried to help them! Look at him! Just sitting there like nothing’s happened!
Franco sets his knife and fork down. — Look, ah made the decision that I had nothing tae offer them –
— Even when you made it as an artist!
— I have my own family . . . my other family, my new family.
— But those boys needed a faither . . . n that other laddie, that River . . .
— And they didnae get one. It’s shite, but it happens. Tae me. Tae you. Tae loads ay folks. I failed them, aye, but I couldnae make it right for them, he says firmly, waving his fork in the air. — That ship had long sailed.
— So ye just wash yir hands ay the mess you created! Elspeth snaps. — That River, you’ve never even met that poor bairn, she bellows in accusation.
Greg scrunches up his face, but Franco remains calm. — All I can do for them
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