early morning profile. Then she said:
“He’s been drawing Papa Robert. Eric has. He showed me, just this week.”
It gave Brenda a jolt to hear that, and it must have shown, because Lindsey went on:
“They’re nice. Eric’s new drawings.”
And she smiled a bit, like she hadn’t expected that either.
“He told me he’s not done a picture of your Dad in years. He’s always got stuck before, when he’s tried.”
Lindsey put her head to one side.
“Now I can see why.”
She met Brenda’s eye, soft, like Brenda was forgiven, orgetting there in any case; she’d grown up with Papa Robert too, after all. Then Lindsey said:
“Eric’s done three big sheets of your Dad and his roses. Planting them up. Back when you were kids.”
Brenda could only blink at first, taking in the news. Only then she thought it made sense—almost—for Eric to draw that, because they hadn’t always argued, her brother and Dad. Far from it, in fact. Those early Drumchapel years were good ones, maybe their best times. When Eric started at the High School, Papa Robert had dug over the earth in front of the house, and then they’d heeled in those roses, just the two of them, like to mark his fine achievement. So he must have known their father was proud of him, even if he never said as much.
“Our Da was a proud man, aye.”
Lindsey nodded, wry:
“That’s what Eric says too. He’s drawn the bushes all thick and twisted, from Papa Robert’s hard pruning. But he told me the blooms were glorious.”
“So they were.” Brenda remembered. “They went on for months. Summer tae the first ae the frosts. Fed by the tea leaves he used to fling at the roots, mornin and evenin, efter the pot had cooled.”
She lapsed into thought again, thinking of her father’s good sides. A long time since she’d had cause. All their close neighbours had loved those roses; folk of both denominations and none. They were a scheme landmark, and her father a scheme legend: resolute. His patch of Drumchapel wouldn’t go down the tubes, not while he had life and breath, and when he was on your side you were glad of it, right enough.
Brenda was loved, she’d never doubted that. But Eric was the firstborn, the clever one, her Dad’s best hope, and maybe herbrother was drawing what that had felt like. She hoped it helped him to remember. Papa Robert had read the paper up at the table of an evening while Eric did his school work, not keeping check, or helping, just there to be companionable. They went to the library together on Saturday mornings too. They cycled across to Partick, because that’s where Papa Robert worked, and Brenda used to sit on the steps and watch them go down the road: two bikes and two sets of big, blunt bones.
So how did it come to all that fighting? Brenda thought: it should all have been so different.
Only the girl took her arm then, leaning in close, telling her:
“I’d sooner Eric was drawing Franny. If I’m honest.”
Brenda nodded: agreed. And they shared a small half-smile, the hurt between them healing.
Stevie was still crying, though, at the row he’d just been given. Brenda caught sight of her grandson, hiding his face, all wet-cheeked, and red behind his freckles, and then she felt sorry for shouting.
“Dinnae take it tae heart, son.”
He wasn’t to blame, not for any of this, or the daft words he used. Lindsey put a palm to his cheek to soothe him:
“You gave us a shock, that’s all. It’s a sore subject.” Complicated. “You weren’t to know.”
Brenda cleaned a house in Hyndland, she had done for years, where the family were Italian, way back, three generations. There was a picture of them all in Rome, up on the mantelpiece, taken in the 1970s, when they were lined up on St. Peter’s Square to see the new pope. The kids were still young then, and open-mouthed, the three of them squashed up together at the front of the crowd, huddling close to Mrs. C, who was oblivious; on cloud nine, arms
“He’s been drawing Papa Robert. Eric has. He showed me, just this week.”
It gave Brenda a jolt to hear that, and it must have shown, because Lindsey went on:
“They’re nice. Eric’s new drawings.”
And she smiled a bit, like she hadn’t expected that either.
“He told me he’s not done a picture of your Dad in years. He’s always got stuck before, when he’s tried.”
Lindsey put her head to one side.
“Now I can see why.”
She met Brenda’s eye, soft, like Brenda was forgiven, orgetting there in any case; she’d grown up with Papa Robert too, after all. Then Lindsey said:
“Eric’s done three big sheets of your Dad and his roses. Planting them up. Back when you were kids.”
Brenda could only blink at first, taking in the news. Only then she thought it made sense—almost—for Eric to draw that, because they hadn’t always argued, her brother and Dad. Far from it, in fact. Those early Drumchapel years were good ones, maybe their best times. When Eric started at the High School, Papa Robert had dug over the earth in front of the house, and then they’d heeled in those roses, just the two of them, like to mark his fine achievement. So he must have known their father was proud of him, even if he never said as much.
“Our Da was a proud man, aye.”
Lindsey nodded, wry:
“That’s what Eric says too. He’s drawn the bushes all thick and twisted, from Papa Robert’s hard pruning. But he told me the blooms were glorious.”
“So they were.” Brenda remembered. “They went on for months. Summer tae the first ae the frosts. Fed by the tea leaves he used to fling at the roots, mornin and evenin, efter the pot had cooled.”
She lapsed into thought again, thinking of her father’s good sides. A long time since she’d had cause. All their close neighbours had loved those roses; folk of both denominations and none. They were a scheme landmark, and her father a scheme legend: resolute. His patch of Drumchapel wouldn’t go down the tubes, not while he had life and breath, and when he was on your side you were glad of it, right enough.
Brenda was loved, she’d never doubted that. But Eric was the firstborn, the clever one, her Dad’s best hope, and maybe herbrother was drawing what that had felt like. She hoped it helped him to remember. Papa Robert had read the paper up at the table of an evening while Eric did his school work, not keeping check, or helping, just there to be companionable. They went to the library together on Saturday mornings too. They cycled across to Partick, because that’s where Papa Robert worked, and Brenda used to sit on the steps and watch them go down the road: two bikes and two sets of big, blunt bones.
So how did it come to all that fighting? Brenda thought: it should all have been so different.
Only the girl took her arm then, leaning in close, telling her:
“I’d sooner Eric was drawing Franny. If I’m honest.”
Brenda nodded: agreed. And they shared a small half-smile, the hurt between them healing.
Stevie was still crying, though, at the row he’d just been given. Brenda caught sight of her grandson, hiding his face, all wet-cheeked, and red behind his freckles, and then she felt sorry for shouting.
“Dinnae take it tae heart, son.”
He wasn’t to blame, not for any of this, or the daft words he used. Lindsey put a palm to his cheek to soothe him:
“You gave us a shock, that’s all. It’s a sore subject.” Complicated. “You weren’t to know.”
Brenda cleaned a house in Hyndland, she had done for years, where the family were Italian, way back, three generations. There was a picture of them all in Rome, up on the mantelpiece, taken in the 1970s, when they were lined up on St. Peter’s Square to see the new pope. The kids were still young then, and open-mouthed, the three of them squashed up together at the front of the crowd, huddling close to Mrs. C, who was oblivious; on cloud nine, arms
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