Cafe in Bonnington Road is still hanging in there, albeit as an even more depleted incarnation than when he’d last been in town. They find a booth and settle down and are served the traditional milky coffee, both repulsive and oddly reassuring to him. Franco asks his son, — What’s the story wi Sean?
Michael starts talking; grudgingly, sparingly and in terse, economical sentences, as he would do with a cop. Franco learns little new. Michael talks about Sean in a general way, revealing nothing about their closeness or otherwise. They could have been bosom buddies, or had a relationship like him and Joe. Both his sons’ backstories, from the meagre info he’s garnered, appear to offer few surprises. It seems Sean was prone to mood swings, his life-and-soul-of-the-party flamboyance followed by June’s brand of broken resignation, which made him an ideal candidate for junk’s levelling ministrations.Michael, on the other hand, looks like he’s picked up some of Franco’s own brooding aggression. It’s hard for him to work out who landed the worst inheritance. One would be bent out of shape, then crushed by the world, offering no resistance to the heroin- and alcohol-soaked streets. The other would attempt to bend it to his will, then be broken by it. Franco feels disappointed, as part of him had hoped that his own rags-to-relative-riches story might have somehow inspired his sons. He realises how paltry and unrealistic this conceit on his part is.
Michael keeps a searching gaze trained on him, as if demanding some kind of deeper revelation than the super-ficialities his father is prepared to offer. Franco feels like he knows that look from somewhere, and can’t quite place it, but it isn’t the shaving mirror. Wherever its origins, it’s annoying him. So Frank Begbie shrugs, takes a deep breath. —You know, I never changed his nappy. Nor yours. Not once. Left youse full of shit till your ma came back. There’s another couple of kids that are mine, around here somewhere . . . I don’t know them, barely knew their mothers.
Michael’s intense scrutiny of him never wavers.
— My girls though, my sweet Californian girls, Franco says, almost wistfully, — I changed them without thinking about it. I always thought I wanted boys. ‘If it’s a lassie, it’s gaun back,’ I used to say. Now I’m different. I like girls, I don’t like laddies.
— Good for you –
— Fuck laddies, Franco cuts him off. — It’s youse I never wanted. No really.
At last his son blinks. He takes a cigarette from a packet. A woman behind the counter looks like she is going to say something, but instead turns away.
Franco feels his own mouth tighten in a satisfied smile. — I liked the idea ay having sons, but I was never really interested in you or Sean. Never loved youse like I do my girls. My beautiful, rich, spoiled daughters. You boys, he shakes his head, — tae me there was never any real point in you boys.
Michael’s tight sneer of a mouth suddenly flaps open. The cigarette between his fingers is directed at Franco, — Is that aw you’ve got tae say tae me?
— Naw, Franco says, rising to depart. — Whaire’s it your ma steys again?
Michael smiles for the first time. Lights up the cigarette. Looks at his father. — Fuck knows.
12
THE EX
Michael’s ostentatious non-cooperation is superfluous; the address he is heading to has stuck in Franco’s mind, as it’s next to the stair where a much-hated rival of his had once lived. Walking from the Foot of the Walk along Duke Street, to Easter Road and up Restalrig Road, he looks at a video clip that has come in, on his almost-dead US phone. Grace and Eve are sitting on the couch, waving to the camera, one with enthusiasm, the other coyly guarded. Melanie’s text: We miss you and we love you!
Franco feels something stir inside him, but clicks off the phone and fights it down. It is Lochend, and in the drizzle the darkening streets surrounding him conjure
Michael starts talking; grudgingly, sparingly and in terse, economical sentences, as he would do with a cop. Franco learns little new. Michael talks about Sean in a general way, revealing nothing about their closeness or otherwise. They could have been bosom buddies, or had a relationship like him and Joe. Both his sons’ backstories, from the meagre info he’s garnered, appear to offer few surprises. It seems Sean was prone to mood swings, his life-and-soul-of-the-party flamboyance followed by June’s brand of broken resignation, which made him an ideal candidate for junk’s levelling ministrations.Michael, on the other hand, looks like he’s picked up some of Franco’s own brooding aggression. It’s hard for him to work out who landed the worst inheritance. One would be bent out of shape, then crushed by the world, offering no resistance to the heroin- and alcohol-soaked streets. The other would attempt to bend it to his will, then be broken by it. Franco feels disappointed, as part of him had hoped that his own rags-to-relative-riches story might have somehow inspired his sons. He realises how paltry and unrealistic this conceit on his part is.
Michael keeps a searching gaze trained on him, as if demanding some kind of deeper revelation than the super-ficialities his father is prepared to offer. Franco feels like he knows that look from somewhere, and can’t quite place it, but it isn’t the shaving mirror. Wherever its origins, it’s annoying him. So Frank Begbie shrugs, takes a deep breath. —You know, I never changed his nappy. Nor yours. Not once. Left youse full of shit till your ma came back. There’s another couple of kids that are mine, around here somewhere . . . I don’t know them, barely knew their mothers.
Michael’s intense scrutiny of him never wavers.
— My girls though, my sweet Californian girls, Franco says, almost wistfully, — I changed them without thinking about it. I always thought I wanted boys. ‘If it’s a lassie, it’s gaun back,’ I used to say. Now I’m different. I like girls, I don’t like laddies.
— Good for you –
— Fuck laddies, Franco cuts him off. — It’s youse I never wanted. No really.
At last his son blinks. He takes a cigarette from a packet. A woman behind the counter looks like she is going to say something, but instead turns away.
Franco feels his own mouth tighten in a satisfied smile. — I liked the idea ay having sons, but I was never really interested in you or Sean. Never loved youse like I do my girls. My beautiful, rich, spoiled daughters. You boys, he shakes his head, — tae me there was never any real point in you boys.
Michael’s tight sneer of a mouth suddenly flaps open. The cigarette between his fingers is directed at Franco, — Is that aw you’ve got tae say tae me?
— Naw, Franco says, rising to depart. — Whaire’s it your ma steys again?
Michael smiles for the first time. Lights up the cigarette. Looks at his father. — Fuck knows.
12
THE EX
Michael’s ostentatious non-cooperation is superfluous; the address he is heading to has stuck in Franco’s mind, as it’s next to the stair where a much-hated rival of his had once lived. Walking from the Foot of the Walk along Duke Street, to Easter Road and up Restalrig Road, he looks at a video clip that has come in, on his almost-dead US phone. Grace and Eve are sitting on the couch, waving to the camera, one with enthusiasm, the other coyly guarded. Melanie’s text: We miss you and we love you!
Franco feels something stir inside him, but clicks off the phone and fights it down. It is Lochend, and in the drizzle the darkening streets surrounding him conjure
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