early buzzing at Eric’s close door.
The old man was all smiles and surprise, coming out of his flat to greet them up the stairs, while Lindsey explained about Brenda, and how they’d finished ahead of themselves.
“We can come back later. I can take Stevie to the swings, maybe.”
“Ach, don’t be daft.”
Eric ushered her inside, but then he stood with her, awkward in the hallway, like he didn’t know what to do next.
“I meant tae have everythin ready. Tea set out.”
He was still smiling, but like he was embarrassed now: not the best host, creases deep in his old brow.
“It’s just that I was in the middle ae somethin, aye?”
Eric gestured though the living-room doorway, to a table thing by the window, and he told her:
“I get caught up sometimes.”
Brenda had been careful to let Lindsey know how her brother sat and drew most Tuesdays, while she cleaned around him.
You mustn’t mind if he does that when we visit. He doesnae mean it tae be rude
. So even if it felt like a strange thing to do, Lindsey told him:
“I’ll give the rooms a hoover while you get yourself sorted. I promised Brenda I’d do that anyhow.”
She watched him go back into the living room while she hung up her parka, and she saw how the table thing was like a low cupboard, sort of, but folded open so the lid made a desk, and Eric had paper and pencils laid out. Lindsey had guessed he was in the middle of a drawing, but she couldn’t see what it was of. The old man had sat down with his back to her, and now he was bent over the papers; only just back at his desk, and already caught up again. Stevie was pressed against her leg, tugging at her, wanting to go and look, but Lindsey put a hand to his head:
in a minute, not just yet
. She helped him out of his coat sleeves, and then she couldn’t think what else to do, except get on with cleaning.
Eric’s house had a smell, but not a bad one, just like fags and the yellow soap he kept in the toilet. His flat was a first floor and dark at the back, and Stevie stuck close to Lindsey through the rooms, eyes wide, like he’d never seen anything like it.
The place wasn’t a mess, not exactly, but it was rammed full of stuff: prints on the walls and in cardboard boxes on the floor, photos cut out of magazines and folded-over newspaper pages, all held together in bundles by rubber bands and bulldog clips. Everything looked ancient: the clock on the sideboard in the hallway, and the faded postcards that Lindsey picked up and squinted at while she dusted. Views of old Glasgow and the shipyards, and paintings by artists called Old Masters.
There were more boxes on the living-room shelves, and rows and rows of paper files, and Lindsey was quiet about her wiping and straightening, especially now they were in the same room as Eric.
The old man had books in there, his own and from the library, that were left about the place in piles, on the low table,the sofa arms and on the chairs. They were books of paintings mostly: art books, wide and heavy, and Lindsey had to lift them to get at the surfaces. She made two neat stacks on the rug by the bar fire, and Stevie crouched down next to them while she worked. He leafed through the pages, looking at all the olden days people with the paint gone cracked across their faces; swan-necked ladies with babies, bowls of fruit, fish on plates, dead birds. It seemed like Stevie could look as much as he wanted, Eric didn’t take much notice.
It was getting dark by that time, the afternoon fading beyond the windows, and when the old man clicked on his desk lamp, Lindsey could see the circle of carpet under the table, covered with pencil shavings, and fag ash too, because Eric smoked while he drew, blowing the ash off that fell on the paper. Lindsey saw him blow when there was nothing there, like he was trying to get the picture clear, see it better. The lamplight shone off the page, so she still couldn’t see what he was drawing, but it seemed like Eric
The old man was all smiles and surprise, coming out of his flat to greet them up the stairs, while Lindsey explained about Brenda, and how they’d finished ahead of themselves.
“We can come back later. I can take Stevie to the swings, maybe.”
“Ach, don’t be daft.”
Eric ushered her inside, but then he stood with her, awkward in the hallway, like he didn’t know what to do next.
“I meant tae have everythin ready. Tea set out.”
He was still smiling, but like he was embarrassed now: not the best host, creases deep in his old brow.
“It’s just that I was in the middle ae somethin, aye?”
Eric gestured though the living-room doorway, to a table thing by the window, and he told her:
“I get caught up sometimes.”
Brenda had been careful to let Lindsey know how her brother sat and drew most Tuesdays, while she cleaned around him.
You mustn’t mind if he does that when we visit. He doesnae mean it tae be rude
. So even if it felt like a strange thing to do, Lindsey told him:
“I’ll give the rooms a hoover while you get yourself sorted. I promised Brenda I’d do that anyhow.”
She watched him go back into the living room while she hung up her parka, and she saw how the table thing was like a low cupboard, sort of, but folded open so the lid made a desk, and Eric had paper and pencils laid out. Lindsey had guessed he was in the middle of a drawing, but she couldn’t see what it was of. The old man had sat down with his back to her, and now he was bent over the papers; only just back at his desk, and already caught up again. Stevie was pressed against her leg, tugging at her, wanting to go and look, but Lindsey put a hand to his head:
in a minute, not just yet
. She helped him out of his coat sleeves, and then she couldn’t think what else to do, except get on with cleaning.
Eric’s house had a smell, but not a bad one, just like fags and the yellow soap he kept in the toilet. His flat was a first floor and dark at the back, and Stevie stuck close to Lindsey through the rooms, eyes wide, like he’d never seen anything like it.
The place wasn’t a mess, not exactly, but it was rammed full of stuff: prints on the walls and in cardboard boxes on the floor, photos cut out of magazines and folded-over newspaper pages, all held together in bundles by rubber bands and bulldog clips. Everything looked ancient: the clock on the sideboard in the hallway, and the faded postcards that Lindsey picked up and squinted at while she dusted. Views of old Glasgow and the shipyards, and paintings by artists called Old Masters.
There were more boxes on the living-room shelves, and rows and rows of paper files, and Lindsey was quiet about her wiping and straightening, especially now they were in the same room as Eric.
The old man had books in there, his own and from the library, that were left about the place in piles, on the low table,the sofa arms and on the chairs. They were books of paintings mostly: art books, wide and heavy, and Lindsey had to lift them to get at the surfaces. She made two neat stacks on the rug by the bar fire, and Stevie crouched down next to them while she worked. He leafed through the pages, looking at all the olden days people with the paint gone cracked across their faces; swan-necked ladies with babies, bowls of fruit, fish on plates, dead birds. It seemed like Stevie could look as much as he wanted, Eric didn’t take much notice.
It was getting dark by that time, the afternoon fading beyond the windows, and when the old man clicked on his desk lamp, Lindsey could see the circle of carpet under the table, covered with pencil shavings, and fag ash too, because Eric smoked while he drew, blowing the ash off that fell on the paper. Lindsey saw him blow when there was nothing there, like he was trying to get the picture clear, see it better. The lamplight shone off the page, so she still couldn’t see what he was drawing, but it seemed like Eric
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