“Well, come in then, let me make you some liver.”
“I don’t like liver, Mister Calhoun.”
“Och, naebody likes liver, son, but you look like you could use the iron.”
Over the threshold, Poor-Wee-Chickie locked all the deadbolts behind them. He drew off his anorak and put on his cooking cardigan, buttoning it all the way to the neck. He pushed the purple liver around in an old pan then put it down in front of the boy, still quivering and bloody. The smell of it turned Mungo’s stomach, but he brought his knife through it to be polite.
“Can you no eat?”
Mungo shook his head. “I’m sorry. My mouth hurts.”
Poor-Wee-Chickie fished around in the pocket of his cardigan and put on his reading glasses. He took Mungo’s head in his hands and told him to open wide. “Awright, haud still.” He used a pair of eyebrow tweezers and pushed against Mungo’s cheek. There was a tug, and he pulled out a sliver of tooth from the cheek fat; it was long as a sliced almond. “Ye’ll need to get that tooth looked at.” He handed Mungo a water glass cloudy with cooking salt. “Rinse with this and the cut will do much better.”
Mungo swilled the salty water with a wince. He did it again and spat the bloody water into the sink.
“Are you awright, son? Yer face is twitching somethin’ rotten.”
Mungo pinched his tic. “Sorry, Mister Calhoun.”
“Och, no need to apologize to me.” Poor-Wee-Chickie was indulging him. “But don’t grab yer face too hard, ye’ll spoil yer lovely foundation.” He took Mungo’s face in his hands for the second time that morning. He watched the blinking tic for a moment and then with the tip of an old tea towel he wiped the boy’s face. With careful fingers he was gently blending the thick foundation better, feathering it away at the edges. “After the fine-upstanding-family-men-of-the-roofers-union drove me out of the business, I went to work at the King’s Theatre. I jist minded the back door, but sometimes they used to let us watch the big stars, you know, while they put on their make-up and wigs and that. I was mad for Dorothy Paul, so I was.”
Mungo Hamilton, never one to cry, started to cry now. He ground his top teeth into his bottom lip but it would not be controlled.
“Here, here, it’s awright. You can let it out. I mean, auld Dorothy is no the singer she once was, but ah wouldnae greet about it, son.”
Mungo found himself choking between laughter and tears.
“Let it out. It’ll do you good.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
Poor-Wee-Chickie refolded his tea towel. He pointed out into the back green. “Ye know, I knew a brave wee sodjur once. He was parading up and down that back wall out there.” The man mimicked a rigid little soldier, marching with pride. “He had a wee wooden gun and one of his mammy’s old berets; pure proud as anything, he was. I was just standing at my window watching him have a great time, pretending to shoot the opposing army of weans, all of them screaming into walkie-talkies, chucking fake grenades, the whole pantomime. When all of a sudden, this big general came up ahind him and kicked the sodjur off the wall. Just shoved him without blinking. Oh, it was a pure sin! This general was in the same army, can ye believe it? He just shoved his own man off the wall lit that.” Chickie shook his head. “Anyway, this brave wee fella fell about four feet, hit the midden roof, rolled once and fell eight feet on to the paving slabs. Blamm!” Poor-Wee-Chickie winced as he slapped his hand on the countertop. “That wee sodjur didn’t even make a sound. He was winded but he was brave. Any other wee boy would have screamed for his mammy. But not this little sodjur. This wee army man jist stood up and got on with it.”
Mungo let out a low gut roar. He had balled his fists and was trying to shove them backwards into his brain through his eye sockets. His face was bright red.
“It’s awright son, let it out. Every brave sodjur gets tired and cries at some point.”
Poor-Wee-Chickie didn’t rub his back or pat his shoulder, he just stood there and gave Mungo the space to scream inwards into himself. He lit a cigarette and when the boy finally took his fists from his eyes he asked, “Does the boy with the slate roof like you as much as you like him?”
Mungo flinched.
“It’s awright, I won’t tell anyone yer secret.” He crossed his heart and saluted the boy. “On ma Girl Guides honour.”
Mungo looked at Chickie through swollen eyes. Poor-Wee-Chickie who stood behind net curtains and saw everything had arrived at the very heart of it. He could see clearly what had been going on. “He did, Mister Calhoun. He liked me a lot. But I’ve ruined everything.”
“Och! Weans! Everything seems a hunner per cent more dramatic at your age. It’ll pass.” He handed him a clean tea towel.
“Do you honestly think so?”
“Aye.”
Mungo wiped his face. “He asked me to run away with him and I asked him to wait. Now I don’t think we can hide much longer.”
Poor-Wee-Chickie was thinking again; he had tilted his head to the side and was running his tongue along the back of his teeth. “I want to show you something. Don’t run away now. It’s no a big kiddie-catching net, no matter what the other weans might say.”