Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [88]
“I’m not sure, Mr. Coulter. Mibby. I mean the name’s familiar but I’m no’ sure.”
“He was one of us. He went to London and did quite well for himself. A year ago…. No. Wait.”
Thaw looked at Mr. Coulter’s big gnarled hand lying quietly on the quilt, a cigarette with a charred tip between two fingers. “It was three years ago. His name was in the Bulletin. He was making a bust of Winston Churchill for some town in England. I thought when I read it, I used to know you.”
Mr. Coulter hummed a quiet tune then said, “My father was a picture framer to trade. He did everything in those days, carving the wood, gilding it, even hanging the picture sometimes. Some of his work must be in the Art Galleries to the present day. I used to help him with the hanging. Hanging a picture is an art in itself. What I meant to tell you was this: I was hanging these pictures in a house in Menteith Row on the Green. It’s a slum now but the wealthiest folk in Glasgow once lived in those houses, and in my time some of them still did, and this house belonged to Jardine of Jardine and Beattie, the shipbuilders. Young Jardine was a lawyer and became Lord Provost, and his son proved tae be a bit of a rogue, but never mind. I was hanging these pictures in the entrance hall: marble floor, oak-panelled walls. The frames were carved walnut covered with gold leaf, but the hall was dark because there were no windows opening into it, apart from a wee skylight window that was no use at all because it was stained glass. When I had finished I opened the front door and went down the steps onto the pavement outside and stood looking in through the open door. It was a morning in the early spring, cold, but the sun quite bright. A girl came along and said, ‘What are ye staring at?’ I pointed through the door and said ‘Look at that. It looks like a million dollars.’ The sun was shining intae the hall and the gold frames were shining on the walls. It really did look like a million dollars.”
Mr. Coulter smiled a little.
Coulter entered and said, “Hullo, Duncan. Hullo, Forbes. Forbes, your cigarette’s out. Will I light it for you?”
“Ye can light it if you like.”
Coulter got a match and lit the cigarette, then went to the sink, put an arm round his mother’s waist, and said, “My ain wee mammy, how about a fag? You’ve given my daddy a fag, give me a fag.”
Mrs. Coulter took a cigarette packet from her apron pocket and handed it over, grumbling, “You’re no’ old enough tae smoke but.”
“True, but my wee mammy can refuse me nothing. Have these two been discussing art?”
“Aye, they’ve been talking about their art.”
“Well, Thaw, my intellectual friend, what’s it to be? A game of chess or a dauner along the canal bank?”
“I wouldnae mind a dauner.”
They walked on the towpath talking about women. Coulter had dropped the hard cheerful manner he wore at home. Thaw said, “The only time I reach them is when I speak at the debating society. Even Kate Caldwell notices me then. She was in the front row of desks last night, staring at my face with her mouth and eyes wide open. I felt dead witty and intellectual. I felt like a king or something. She sits behind me at maths now. I’ve made a poem about it.”
He paused, hoping that Coulter would ask him to recite. Coulter said, “Everybody writes poems about girls at our age. It’s what they call a phase. Even big Sam Lang writes poems about girls. Even I occasionally—”
“Never mind. I like my wee poem. Bob, if I ask you a question will ye promise to answer truthfully?”
“Ask away.”
“Is Kate Caldwell keen on me?”
“Her? On you? No.”
“I think she’s mibby a bit keen on me.”
“She’s a wee grope,” said Coulter.
“What?”
“A grope. A feel. Lyle Craig in the fifth year is supposed to be winching her steady, and last Friday I saw her being lumbered by a hardman up a close near the Denistoun Palais.”
“Lumbered?”
“Groped. Felt. She’s nothing but a wee—”
“Don’t use that word!” cried Thaw.
They walked in silence until at last Coulter said, “I shouldnae have told you that, Duncan.”
“But I’m glad. Thank you.”
“I