On the Walk Home by Keith Mckibbin, a dark Moroccan roast

Andy Gracy trudged his way home, eyes on the gum-pocked pavement and the occasional dog turd, hands thrust resolutely into the pockets of his Sunday trousers – even though it wasn’t Sunday. He’d had to wear the trousers and the stupid shirt and tie for Mrs Maxwell’s funeral. She had been his primary five teacher two years ago. He was the first member of his family ever to attend a cremation. Only four primary sevens had been chosen to go and he had been really looking forward to seeing the old girl go up in flames. It was nothing personal. In truth, he could barely remember her. That was when she had started to get ill. For much of the year they had been taught by a supply teacher called Miss Jenkins who played evangelical songs on her guitar – Kumbaya my Lord, Kumbaya – had a lisp and a wispy moustache.

The burning of the coffin had, however, been a huge anti-climax and he kicked himself now for his naivety. Everything had been so boring and discreet. Of course he had known you wouldn’t actually see the thing bursting into flames. He wasn’t that stupid. But he had thought maybe there might be the distant sound of cancer stricken bones crackling under the heat, or at the very least a plume of dark smoke emanating from a chimney connected to the furnace. But nothing. Nadda. The minister had told them to bow their heads, and when he opened his eyes – poof – Mrs Maxwell was gone. What a con.

Even that hadn’t been the main disappointment. Stephanie Gillespie, who had saved his life three months earlier, had been a no show. Andy had been gutted. He had been dying to see her all dressed in black, looking pale and sad and beautiful. When both their names had been pulled out of the jar it had seemed like such a monumental victory, especially since Doyce was so desperate to go. Doyce, aka David Donnelly, was his best mate. Kind of. He sat beside him in class anyway.  Girls always turned to look at him because of the way he styled his hair. It was tousled on top with a waxed textured effect round the sides. Doyce’s mother paid for him to go to a proper hairdresser twice a month. Andy’s dad took him to the barbers every two months with strict instructions to cut off as much as possible, so that he emerged, blinking in the sunlight, looking like he had just been liberated from a concentration camp.

 

To say that she had saved his life was probably an exaggeration. Laughable even. You couldn’t possibly drown in a public swimming-pool. Drowning was a noisy, splashy, frantically attention grabbing spectacle. But she had certainly saved his dignity, of that he was sure. For a lifeguard to drag you coughing and spluttering from a pool under the watchful gaze of twenty-five eleven year olds was a fate worse than death. Children never forgot such things. They were the bread and butter of rainy lunchtimes, sleepovers and depressing school reunions.

The speed of it had been quite terrifying. Still to earn his swimming stripes, he had been tip-toeing his way down the gentle slope towards the deep end, keeping a careful hold of the pool edge. It was so he could get a closer look at Stephanie (who of course could swim like a shark) in her swimming costume. She was chatting with Shirley McKnight – a plain girl, rendered grotesque in her presence. They were giggling and Stephanie was doing a little jigging dance in the water; a rhythm that involved her shifting her shoulders up and down, clicking her fingers and mouthing some lyrics he couldn’t make out. She. Was. Gorgeous.

Then it happened. Big fat Stanley Brownlie jumped into the pool to his left and the resulting momentum in the water carried him forward out of his depth, whilst at the same time angling him beyond reach of the side. No-one saw him. There was too much happening.

Panic embraced him. He started to flail, gasp, gulp down horrible swallows of chlorine laced water – whilst all around him they continued to dive and shimmy and splash each other without a care in the world. Whilst he was drowning. Kind of.  It was probably less than seven seconds before he felt the delicate arms around his flabby torso, and then they were at the side, him coughing and retching, mucus and water frothing from his nose.

‘Easy, you’re safe now. Take big deep breaths.’

He looked madly about, his whole body shivering with relief and gratitude, finger-tips white from gripping the lip of the edge. Yet he had enough about him now to register that her face, her mouth, was less than six inches from his. She was so close he could count the freckles on her nose. And just a moment ago (or was it a lifetime?) her arms had been around his waist.

Incredibly, she moved even closer, so that he could almost taste her strawberry perfume. ‘Don’t make a big deal of it or they’ll never let you forget it.’ Even as she spoke, he could sense a few curious glances in their direction; in a few more seconds there would occur an almost telepathic ripple of communication that would have all eyes focussed on them. ‘Go back to the shallow end, it’s safe there.’

So, with only a nod of gratitude he waded back, his mind in a whirlpool of wonderment. What the hell had just happened and where was it going to lead?

Nowhere seemed to be the answer. That had been three long months ago. He had seen her in school every day since then but there was nothing in her manner or body language to suggest that the experience had lent any familiarity or intimacy to their relationship. Opportunity lost. Two possibilities he had decided. First, that the ‘saving of his life’ had not been quite so significant for her as for him. She, after all, was the daughter of two doctors, whose hectic social life involved horses, parties, shopping trips and frequent theatre visits. The second, far more depressing, was the idea that it had been up to him to take the initiative – grab the proverbial bull by the horns – make an approach in the schoolyard or the dinner queue, thank her properly, build up some kind of rapport. The thought caused him to grimace with self-loathing. He was spineless, yes, but mostly what appalled him was his complete incomprehension of the rules and regulations that governed these things. It was enough to give you a bloody nosebleed, and in the darker moments of his frustration he fantasised that she had just left him to choke amongst the flotsam of verruca plasters and pubic hair.

He was approaching the Toyota showroom, about two hundred yards from the lane that led to his house, when he heard footsteps hurrying after him.

‘Andy, wait up!’

There she was, right by his side; like it was the most natural thing in the world. No time for any panic; just enough time to suck in his stomach.

‘Oh, hi there, Stephanie – what’s up?’ Bright and breezy, just two young people chatting together. No problem.

‘Are you mad with me?’ She did that thing that pretty girls sometimes do, knowing it makes them look irresistible, stuck her lower lip out and gazed up at him through her eyelashes. ‘I just couldn’t face it. I really liked Mrs Maxwell.’

Andy had run out of things to say. It was just about all he could manage to keep walking without falling over.

‘Mr Mooney will be furious with me. Someone else could have taken my place.’

For God’s sake say something.

‘Just tell him you were upset – he’ll understand.’

That’s good, that’s good.

‘God, I hope you’re right,’ she tilted her head to one side and regarded him keenly, her freckle nose wrinkling like a bunny rabbit. ‘No more trouble at the pool I hope.’

‘I never got a chance to thank you properly.’

‘Ach,’ she dismissed it with a flick of her wrist, then jerked her head in the directions of the newsagents. ‘I’m really thirsty. I’m just going to pop in here. Can I get you a coke?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You don’t mind waiting for me?’

‘No, no, it’s cool.’

Cool? Jesus.

He watched her race into the shop. She was wearing black leggings under her pleated skirt and you could make out the tiny bulge of her bra buckle beneath her blouse.

Hold it together, man. She’s not going down your lane so you only have to keep it up until the end of the road. Then you can play it over in your head, commit it to memory, figure out what it all means.

But isn’t this fucking magic?

She’d asked him to wait. Why would she say that? Why didn’t she just say, see you later? It meant something. It had to. He untied and retired his laces just to have something to do. She would be out soon and he realised he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to her. Something about school maybe. A television show they both might watch – oh, Christ, here she was.

‘Thanks for that.’

Her chest jiggled as she half-skipped back in line with him (they know the power they have over us, they must do) and he had to bite down a whimper. It wasn’t just that he had no idea what to say to her, but that he seemed to have forgotten how to form words and make them come out of his mouth. What if he accidentally spat on her? The worst thing about that was that she wouldn’t turn away in disgust – oh no; she would wait for a moment and then discreetly wipe it so as not to embarrass him. That was the sort of girl she was.

They walked on in silence for a time whilst she savoured her drink.

‘Andy, this is really awkward,’ she looked around for eavesdroppers. ‘I really hope you don’t mind me asking you.’

This is it. This is it. This is it.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s just… Doyce. He’s like your best friend, isn’t he?’

‘Well…I sit beside him.’

Then, all in a hot, breathy gush. ‘Is he going with anyone? God, I hope you don’t mind me asking. Promise me you won’t tell him I asked – I would die. But is he?’ And she looked at him so earnestly with her bright hazel eyes, as if he was some kind of genie that could grant her any wish she cared to ask.

‘He’s never mentioned anyone.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

All of a sudden her perfume was cloying and he had the uncomfortable urge to gag. It was like swooning into a gigantic overripe strawberry and having the blackened mush push into every available orifice.

‘Do you think he’d want to go with me?’

‘I don’t know.’ He was glad at least that they had found something to talk about, a little momentum to the conversation. ‘Would you like me to ask him? I can do that.’

‘Oh, could you, Andy? Would you? You’re such a pal. I was so nervous asking you,’ she gave his arm a little squeeze of gratitude and kissed her forefinger to suggest secrecy. ‘Don’t tell him I asked.’

Andy Gracy watched her walk away, knowing she wouldn’t look back. She was happy now, knowing Doyce wasn’t going with anyone. He watched her figure disappear – she really did have a lovely arse – then began to walk down the lane that led to his house. He was hungry for his tea and they would be eager to hear all about his day. He was the first member of his family ever to attend a cremation.

About the author

 

Keith Mckibbin is an English teacher working in Glasgow. He is married with four daughters and two beautiful granddaughters. His favourite short story writers are O.Henry and Raymond Carver. He has been published in both the Bath and Edinburgh short story competitions. 

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