Stonemouth

Mike comes back. We chat. All is well, business is good, things are calm, he’s sorry my stay in Stonemouth can’t be longer, but, well, that’s just the way things are. Strong feelings involved. Unfortunate, but understandable. I saw Anjelica? (Yes; lovely as ever. Nice kid. Hmm, but only a 2.2 in Media Studies at Sheffield. Still, an internship with Sky.) Have I got a girl? (Not really — no time. He nods wisely.) Have I seen Josh lately? (No. That’s a shame, living in the same city. Yes but it’s a big city; more people than the whole of Scotland, and, anyway. But we leave it at that.) Oh, look, there she goes! (And I follow his nod and gaze and, fool that I am, I half expect to see Ellie walking along the beach outside, but it’s the Deep Blue IV of course, blue hull and white superstructure heading, shining, out to sea above a curled wake of grey, just starting to fade into the haze.)

The front door has only just closed and I’m halfway up the garden path, heading back to the street, when I hear the door open again. It’s Jel, dressed now, in tight jeans and a scoop-necked T. She’s holding a translucent box.

‘Here,’ she says, thrusting a Lock-n-Lock container into my hands. ‘Mum baked this morning,’ she explains. ‘Scones.’

‘Thanks.’ The box feels heavy.

‘There’s a jar of home-made jam in there too. Strawberry.’

‘Ah.’

‘Enjoy.’

‘Thanks again.’ I hold the box up, shake it gently. ‘I’ll share with Mum and Dad.’

‘Should think so.’ She takes a quick breath, sticks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans. ‘Think you will see Ellie?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe not. Or maybe just see her, at the funeral? But not get to talk to her.’

‘Right, yeah. I see.’ She looks down at the path, looks up again. ‘It wasn’t just my idea, Stu,’ she says. And I know that she’s talking about our disastrous fling five years back, the fuck that fucked everything up.

I nod. ‘I know.’

Of course I know. Mine as much as hers. She did kind of throw herself at me, but I was very happy to be the thrown-at, and accepted enthusiastically. I might even have been giving off signals myself, signals that I really needed one last quick fling before I got hitched. I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

But maybe I agreed a bit too quickly there, appeared too glib with that ‘I know’, because a frown tugs at Jel’s smooth, tanned brow and she looks about to say something else, but then seems to think the better of it, and just sighs and says, ‘Well, good to see you anyway.’ She takes a step backwards, towards the house. ‘Maybe see you later?’

‘You never know.’ I hold the box up. ‘Thanks again.’

‘Welcome.’ Then she turns and goes.

I walk down the street. I open one end of the container and stick my nose in, smelling flour both baked and not, and a faint hint of strawberries, a scent that always takes me back to the Ancraime estate just beyond the furthest reaches of the town, and a succession of summer days, half my life ago.

Malcolm Hendrey — Wee Malky — was just one of those kids. That’s what we felt at the time, what we’ve told ourselves since. He was the class numpty, the slow kid who got jokes last or not at all and who always needed help with answers. He was sort of stupid brave; if there was a frisbee, a stunt kite or an RC helicopter stuck up a tree, Wee Malky would happily shin up to the highest, thinnest, most delicate-looking branch to get it: places even I wouldn’t go, and I was always a good and pretty much fearless climber. I was proud of this and the guys tore me up about Wee Malky taking greater risks. I tried to save face by pointing out he was smaller and lighter than me, but, even so, they were right: he did go places I wouldn’t.

He’d also do pretty much anything you suggested — like shouting something out to a teacher or going up to an older kid and kicking them or letting down a car’s tyres — and then just grin stupidly when he was given detention or belted round the ear or chased down the street by some irate motorist, as though this wasn’t just hilariously funny for the kids who’d suggested the jape in the first place, but quietly amusing for him too.

Wee Malky really was small, always looking like he was in the wrong class, mixing with kids a year older than him, and he sort of carried himself smaller still, too, walking stooped and with his head down. He had dark-brown curly hair and swarthy skin; he’d been called various nicknames like Tinker or Gyppo throughout his school life but none had really stuck because they didn’t annoy him sufficiently; Wee Malky thought these were quite exotic terms, positively cool.