sea of Abercrombie & Fitch. Of Ralph Lauren and Hollister. I couldn’t help but think of all the tribes that roamed the halls of my school, back before everyone looked the same.
Mods. Punks. Rockers. Skins. The heavy metallers with their denim waistcoats over their biker jackets. Their patches that saidJudas Priest, Saxon and Iron Maiden, Eddie’s skeletal features sometimes skilfully emblazoned on the back. The reek of patchouli oil. Goth hadn’t really hit our school yet, though there were a couple of kids in the fifth year with black clothes and spiked dyed black hair, their canvas knapsacks emblazoned with strange band names like Bauhaus, the Birthday Party and Alien Sex Fiend. Having younger parents Banny had more interest in fashion than me or Tommy. He’d been somewhere between mod and skin when we first met. A parka, but with close-cropped hair, rather than the Weller crop. Desert boots with Sta-Prest trousers. More recently he was veering towards what we called ‘casual’: waffle sweaters, slip-on shoes with white socks, stonewashed jeans, Harrington jacket and his hair starting to fall into a wedge that hung over his right eye. He’d blow the hair up out of his face when he talked to you.
I realised someone was speaking to me.
‘Uh? Sorry . . .’
I turned and looked up to see Irene. Sammy was standing, talking to the Krugers behind us. ‘Hi, Donnie.’
‘Oh, hi, Irene. Sorry – miles away.’
‘Is this OK?’ She was gesturing to the empty seat beside me. ‘Of course, here . . .’ I moved our coats and scarves and Irene sat down, untying her scarf and slipping off her parka, her thick red hair spilling out. Irene was always very precisely made up – foundation, mascara, lipstick and hair just so – and perfumed. Her scent was filling the cold air around me now. She often came to Walt’s home games, a gesture of local support and solidarity that, I suspected, was more due to simple loneliness: a widow with an entire weekend stretching emptily ahead of her.
‘Brrr,’ she said, rubbing her hands together. ‘Where’s ourboy then?’ I pointed Walt out. ‘Everything OK?’ Irene asked. ‘You seem a bit distracted.’
‘Oh, I’m fine, just . . .’ I glanced to my right; Sammy’s ass was a few feet from my face, she was deep in conversation with Stephanie Kruger about something. ‘I don’t know, Irene. Kids these days . . . they seem to think they can have anything they –’ I stopped myself. ‘
Kids these days
? Christ, listen to me.’
Irene laughed. ‘I see. You think you’re starting to sound like an old-timer?’
I watched Walt talking to a couple of his friends, sticks cradled in front of them, their hands in the big padded gloves, like the fists of Transformers, of armoured samurai warriors. For a second I had a keen wave of regret for having spoken so harshly to him just before a game and had to fight back the urge to make my way down to rinkside and wish him good luck. The boys were already getting to the age when a parent approaching them when they were with their friends was becoming a source of embarrassment.
‘Well, I
am
an old-timer,’ Irene said. ‘And to be fair, kids nowadays, not just Walt, all of them, they do seem to get an awful lot of expensive stuff. I’ll bet it wasn’t like that back in Scotland when you were growing up.’
‘You’re kidding?’ I said. ‘When I was Walt’s age?’ I laughed now. ‘Nothing like it.’
‘Mind you, with all that lovely scenery you wouldn’t have needed much, huh? I’d just love to visit there some day.’ She fingered her brooch, the word ‘just’ coming out as ‘jest’.
‘Oh yeah, we just played in the scenery all the time Irene. It was all you needed.’
I laughed, marvelling at the cliché of how Americansoften thought Scotland was one endless, beautifully shot tourist-board ad – the Kyle of Lochalsh joining onto some Hebridean beaches, joining onto Glencoe or whatever – and thought of my home
Mods. Punks. Rockers. Skins. The heavy metallers with their denim waistcoats over their biker jackets. Their patches that saidJudas Priest, Saxon and Iron Maiden, Eddie’s skeletal features sometimes skilfully emblazoned on the back. The reek of patchouli oil. Goth hadn’t really hit our school yet, though there were a couple of kids in the fifth year with black clothes and spiked dyed black hair, their canvas knapsacks emblazoned with strange band names like Bauhaus, the Birthday Party and Alien Sex Fiend. Having younger parents Banny had more interest in fashion than me or Tommy. He’d been somewhere between mod and skin when we first met. A parka, but with close-cropped hair, rather than the Weller crop. Desert boots with Sta-Prest trousers. More recently he was veering towards what we called ‘casual’: waffle sweaters, slip-on shoes with white socks, stonewashed jeans, Harrington jacket and his hair starting to fall into a wedge that hung over his right eye. He’d blow the hair up out of his face when he talked to you.
I realised someone was speaking to me.
‘Uh? Sorry . . .’
I turned and looked up to see Irene. Sammy was standing, talking to the Krugers behind us. ‘Hi, Donnie.’
‘Oh, hi, Irene. Sorry – miles away.’
‘Is this OK?’ She was gesturing to the empty seat beside me. ‘Of course, here . . .’ I moved our coats and scarves and Irene sat down, untying her scarf and slipping off her parka, her thick red hair spilling out. Irene was always very precisely made up – foundation, mascara, lipstick and hair just so – and perfumed. Her scent was filling the cold air around me now. She often came to Walt’s home games, a gesture of local support and solidarity that, I suspected, was more due to simple loneliness: a widow with an entire weekend stretching emptily ahead of her.
‘Brrr,’ she said, rubbing her hands together. ‘Where’s ourboy then?’ I pointed Walt out. ‘Everything OK?’ Irene asked. ‘You seem a bit distracted.’
‘Oh, I’m fine, just . . .’ I glanced to my right; Sammy’s ass was a few feet from my face, she was deep in conversation with Stephanie Kruger about something. ‘I don’t know, Irene. Kids these days . . . they seem to think they can have anything they –’ I stopped myself. ‘
Kids these days
? Christ, listen to me.’
Irene laughed. ‘I see. You think you’re starting to sound like an old-timer?’
I watched Walt talking to a couple of his friends, sticks cradled in front of them, their hands in the big padded gloves, like the fists of Transformers, of armoured samurai warriors. For a second I had a keen wave of regret for having spoken so harshly to him just before a game and had to fight back the urge to make my way down to rinkside and wish him good luck. The boys were already getting to the age when a parent approaching them when they were with their friends was becoming a source of embarrassment.
‘Well, I
am
an old-timer,’ Irene said. ‘And to be fair, kids nowadays, not just Walt, all of them, they do seem to get an awful lot of expensive stuff. I’ll bet it wasn’t like that back in Scotland when you were growing up.’
‘You’re kidding?’ I said. ‘When I was Walt’s age?’ I laughed now. ‘Nothing like it.’
‘Mind you, with all that lovely scenery you wouldn’t have needed much, huh? I’d just love to visit there some day.’ She fingered her brooch, the word ‘just’ coming out as ‘jest’.
‘Oh yeah, we just played in the scenery all the time Irene. It was all you needed.’
I laughed, marvelling at the cliché of how Americansoften thought Scotland was one endless, beautifully shot tourist-board ad – the Kyle of Lochalsh joining onto some Hebridean beaches, joining onto Glencoe or whatever – and thought of my home
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