Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [149]
“My wee boy’s just come back from Paris,” Stuart remarked conversationally, as they went over to Matthew’s table. “He went over there with an orchestra. Then they somehow managed to . . .”
“Oh yes,” said Matthew, without any real interest. “Good.”
They sat down and Matthew got straight to the point. “You said you knew somebody in Glasgow who might get Eddie to pay Lou back,” he said. “Any progress?”
Stuart smiled. “Steady on,” he said. “It was just an idea.”
“But you do know somebody?” Matthew pressed.
“Yes,” said Stuart. “I do.”
“Well can we go and see him right now?” said Matthew, looking at his watch. “We could get the six o’clock from Waverley if we rush.”
“But hold on,” said Stuart. “I’m not sure if I want to go to Glasgow tonight.”
312 And Here’s the Train to Glasgow, Again Matthew looked at him pleadingly. “Please,” he said. “A lot depends on this.”
Stuart sighed. “I’ve just got back from work. I don’t want to sit in a train . . .”
“We’ll take a taxi,” said Matthew. “I’ll pay for the whole thing. Taxi there. Taxi back. Same taxi – I’ll pay the waiting time. Let’s just do it.”
Stuart studied Matthew’s expression for a few moments and realised that he was desperate. He remembered, too, how he had felt when he had heard the story of Big Lou having her money effectively stolen. If he really disapproved, then he should have the courage of his convictions and do something, rather than just talk. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get up to Waverley. It’ll be quicker by train.”
They caught a taxi at the end of Cumberland Street and just made the six o’clock train. As the train drew out of town, Matthew looked out into the gathering darkness of the late autumn evening. There were clusters of light here and there, and beyond them the dark shape of the hills. That was what the world is like, he thought: a dark place, with small clusters of light here and there, where there is justice and concord between men.
A man came through with a trolley and at Stuart’s request poured them each a cup of tea. Matthew paid, and they sat back in their seats with the scalding tea before them. The man at the trolley was good-natured. “There you are, boys,” he said, handing them little cartons of milk to go with their tea. “That’ll keep you going over there in Glasgow. You’ll no get ony tea over there!” He smiled at them, and they smiled back. On these small kindnesses, thought Matthew, is everything built. And Scotland was good at that, for all its faults. People were, on the whole, kind, and they were particularly kind in Glasgow, he remembered. Of course one would get tea over there!
“Stuart, tell me about this man we’re going to see,” Matthew said. “What’s he like?”
Stuart smiled. “You’ll be able to tell that he doesn’t come from Edinburgh,” he said.
100. Grey over Riddrie
Grey over Riddrie, thought Stuart as the train wound its way through Glasgow, just short of Queen Street Station. Grey over Riddrie . . . and then? Something about the clouds. The clouds piled up . . . Yes, that was it. That was the first line of Edwin Morgan’s poem about King Billy, a Glasgow gang leader who had one of those showy funerals which brought out all the hard men, the troops, the foot-soldiers of ancient gang battles. He thought about the haunting poem each time he saw Riddrie, and remembered, too, how he had learned of it in his final year at school. It had been read out in class by the English teacher and there had been a complete silence when he came to the end, so powerful was its effect. And now, all these years later, here he was going to see just such a man, although Lard O’Connor was not quite King Billy. They were distinguished by a small matter of religious affiliations, apart from anything else. Matthew and Stuart had only to wait a few minutes for a taxi and then set off for the Dumbarton Road.