town, of the brown pebble-dash council estates built after the war and already tired by the time I was born in the late sixties. Of the empty prefab factory units next to the bypass, the all-night garage, the sawmill and the rough pubs that dotted the high street. Of the millions of tons of poured concrete that surrounded the place: the roundabouts, ringroads and bypasses designed to get you quickly and smoothly around it and on north towards Glasgow, towards better places.
‘Are you mocking me, Donnie?’ She was smiling, pretending to be scandalised.
‘No, sorry. It’s just . . . most of Scotland isn’t quite like how people picture it.’
The buzzer rang, signalling the start of the game and the two teams sailed forward across the ice towards each other. Walt skated backwards, taking up his position in defence, to the right of the goal. ‘Right, come on, Eagles!’ Sammy said, clapping her hands together as she took her seat next to me. ‘Oh, hi, Irene! Sorry, didn’t see you there.’
‘Morning, Sammy.’
‘Listen, Stephanie’s borrowing our samovar,’ Sammy said, turning her attention to me. ‘I said you’d take it over tomorrow during the day.’
‘Our?’ I turned and looked round at Stephanie Kruger, smiling at me in the row behind. ‘Just leave it on the porch if we’re not in, Donnie,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
‘It’s in the garage somewhere,’ Sammy said.
‘Well, tomorrow, I –’
She looked at me.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘No problem.’
I still had the car keys in my hand and I dug the point into my palm as the ref blew his whistle. With a clatter of sticks and a scraping of blades, the game lurched into life below us.
10
THAT NIGHT, AFTER Walt was down, we cooked and ate in the kitchen, a simple pasta-and-salad supper, me draining the pasta and stirring in homemade pesto while Sammy sliced cherry tomatoes in half and added them to a bowl of watercress and rocket. Sammy was a good cook, but meticulous, everything seemed to take hours. Like many women she cleaned as she went along, each spoon and bowl rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, every surface and chopping board wiped clean, any unused ingredients neatly put away. I was faster, but I left in my wake a reeking Passchendaele of crockery, a medieval battlefield of spiralling peelings and bloodied cutlery. When Sammy finished cooking the aromas were the only way you’d know she’d been there.
We ate in silence, Sammy turning the pages of a magazine, me half watching the news on the little TV, the sound down low. As soon as she’d finished her last mouthful of salad and dabbed a spot of olive oil from her lips with her napkin Sammy looked up and said, ‘So, what was all that about today?’
‘Huh?’ I put my fork down.
‘Laying into Walt.’
‘I didn’t “lay into” him.’
‘You’re kidding, right? He was really upset. And right before his game too. Nice.’
This was how Sammy did it. She bided her time. Pushed the anger way down deep and chose her moment, usually much later when you had long thought it was over and she’d had time to prepare.
‘Oh Jesus. Look, he’s got to learn to have more respect for his things. He just –’
‘I mean, after all he’s been through this past few weeks with Herby and everything.’
‘So what are we meant to do when he breaks and loses stuff all the time? Just say, “That’s fine, son”? “No problem”? “Here’s a cheque”? What kind of message is that sending?’
‘It’s just a phone. You need to pick your battles.’
‘I’ve heard that one before, Sammy. It seems to me we don’t pick any. And besides, that phone cost –’
‘Christ,’ she said, raising her voice for the first time. ‘You can’t keep gauging what Walt should have against what you used to have, Donnie.’
I looked at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s late,’ she said, getting up.
There was a moment right there when I could have let it go. Where I could
‘Are you mocking me, Donnie?’ She was smiling, pretending to be scandalised.
‘No, sorry. It’s just . . . most of Scotland isn’t quite like how people picture it.’
The buzzer rang, signalling the start of the game and the two teams sailed forward across the ice towards each other. Walt skated backwards, taking up his position in defence, to the right of the goal. ‘Right, come on, Eagles!’ Sammy said, clapping her hands together as she took her seat next to me. ‘Oh, hi, Irene! Sorry, didn’t see you there.’
‘Morning, Sammy.’
‘Listen, Stephanie’s borrowing our samovar,’ Sammy said, turning her attention to me. ‘I said you’d take it over tomorrow during the day.’
‘Our?’ I turned and looked round at Stephanie Kruger, smiling at me in the row behind. ‘Just leave it on the porch if we’re not in, Donnie,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
‘It’s in the garage somewhere,’ Sammy said.
‘Well, tomorrow, I –’
She looked at me.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘No problem.’
I still had the car keys in my hand and I dug the point into my palm as the ref blew his whistle. With a clatter of sticks and a scraping of blades, the game lurched into life below us.
10
THAT NIGHT, AFTER Walt was down, we cooked and ate in the kitchen, a simple pasta-and-salad supper, me draining the pasta and stirring in homemade pesto while Sammy sliced cherry tomatoes in half and added them to a bowl of watercress and rocket. Sammy was a good cook, but meticulous, everything seemed to take hours. Like many women she cleaned as she went along, each spoon and bowl rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, every surface and chopping board wiped clean, any unused ingredients neatly put away. I was faster, but I left in my wake a reeking Passchendaele of crockery, a medieval battlefield of spiralling peelings and bloodied cutlery. When Sammy finished cooking the aromas were the only way you’d know she’d been there.
We ate in silence, Sammy turning the pages of a magazine, me half watching the news on the little TV, the sound down low. As soon as she’d finished her last mouthful of salad and dabbed a spot of olive oil from her lips with her napkin Sammy looked up and said, ‘So, what was all that about today?’
‘Huh?’ I put my fork down.
‘Laying into Walt.’
‘I didn’t “lay into” him.’
‘You’re kidding, right? He was really upset. And right before his game too. Nice.’
This was how Sammy did it. She bided her time. Pushed the anger way down deep and chose her moment, usually much later when you had long thought it was over and she’d had time to prepare.
‘Oh Jesus. Look, he’s got to learn to have more respect for his things. He just –’
‘I mean, after all he’s been through this past few weeks with Herby and everything.’
‘So what are we meant to do when he breaks and loses stuff all the time? Just say, “That’s fine, son”? “No problem”? “Here’s a cheque”? What kind of message is that sending?’
‘It’s just a phone. You need to pick your battles.’
‘I’ve heard that one before, Sammy. It seems to me we don’t pick any. And besides, that phone cost –’
‘Christ,’ she said, raising her voice for the first time. ‘You can’t keep gauging what Walt should have against what you used to have, Donnie.’
I looked at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s late,’ she said, getting up.
There was a moment right there when I could have let it go. Where I could
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