“Did you want to hurt them?”
“Ah did at first. Ah was screaming and roaring. Jodie wouldn’t latch on, she was always a fussy wee thing, and with everything that happened, ah was up to high doh. But these boys were all about your age, they looked so young standing at my door. Ah think they thought they were hardmen when they’d first stabbed him. It was in all the papers and in time their own mammies got on to them after they heard Ha-Ha had two weans and well, that’s a rotten thing to bear. It was the wimmen who felt bad. They were only wee boys running wi’ scissors.”
“Hamish will get his own back one day.”
“So he says. But a funny thing, they used to buy Hamish nappies. For a while they even sent me money, mostly Provvie checks and maybe an occasional tenner at Christmas.” She drew a deep breath. “Aye, well, it’s aw fun and games till someone loses an eye, eh?”
Mo-Maw had an affectation when she was feeling sad, a soothing tell of sorts. She spread the fingers on one hand and caressed each finger, rubbing the length and pressing into the soft webbing between each, tamping down gently, as though she were wearing fine gloves. Mungo was thinking about how he should save up and buy her actual gloves. But she straightened up suddenly, the stone step leaching the heat from their bodies. “Did I ever tell you how ye got yer name?”
“Aye, like a hundred times.”
“Oh am ah boring ye? Ah must’ve been mad to give ye such a name.”
“It’s a Fenian name.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Naw. The saints belong to aw of us. But ah can remember the registrar staring at me like ah was mental. Ah was mental. Ah wisnae even a widow – ah couldnae even call myself that. Your father was always ‘poor Jocelyn Hamilton’s boy,’ he was never my man, never ‘poor Maureen Buchanan’s fella.’ Ah just felt ye needed somethin’ of Glasgow. It was probably the only thing your father really loved. Ah thought it could help bring some peace.”
“Not to me.”
“But you are. You are my dear one.” She rubbed the back of his hand. “It’s a hard name, ah suppose.”
“Stephen would have been fine. David. John.”
Sat at the top of the hill, they could smell the sweet diesel in the crisp morning air. The Parade was already choked with congested traffic all trying to make its way into the grey city. Mo-Maw kissed his cold cheek. “It’ll absolutely kill me.”
“What will?”
“When you meet a lassie and leave us.”
“You left me first!” His voice pitched higher than he would have liked.
She waved her hand like he didn’t understand. “Ah can barely handle sharing ye wi’ Jo-Jo as it is.” There was truth to this. It sat uncomfortably between them. “Ah know she thinks ah’m a terrible mother. She doesnae miss a trick to remind me she could raise ye better herself. The judgy prig-faced wee cow.”
“Maw!”
She slapped his knee. “Whit have ah telt ye about calling me that?” At least she rubbed where she had slapped. “But ah will. Ah’ll die when ye start the winching.” Without regarding her, he knew what would come next – she was not a woman given to subtleties – he could practically hear her eyes swivel towards his face. “So, have ye met somebody yet?”
“No.” He pulled her tight to his side. “You’re my only girl.”
She wasn’t laughing as she pushed away from him. “Darlin’, ah’m starting to worry about you. Ye’ll be sixteen at Christmas, ye should be chasin’ lassies. Ah had every father from Govan to the Garngad at my door by the time Hamish wis your age.” She went quiet for a moment. “Is there anything the matter?”
“No.” He felt himself flush.
Mo-Maw looked uncharacteristically concerned. Jodie had told her about their possible eviction and she hadn’t bothered her shirt. Hamish had gotten a girl-child pregnant and she hadn’t ruffled a feather. But now she stared into his eyes and she looked genuinely worried.
“I’m just not that interested.” Then he added hopefully, “Yet.”
She sniffed. “Listen. Just cos ah’ve been away don’t think ah’ve no been watching. Missus Campbell tells me everything ye’ve been up to. She telt me ye’ve been in at Poor-Wee-Chickie’s.”
“Mister Calhoun needed a hand.”
“Aye, ah bet he fucking did!” The back of her jaw was jutted out to the battle angle. “And your soft wee hands will do very nicely thank-you-very-much. Stay away frae him, Mungo. Dae ye hear? Ah’ll be damned if ah raise a bachelor.”
Mungo was glad to stand up. He arranged the hood on her thin anorak. The fake coyote fur matched the speckled tones of her dyed hair. “Let’s go home, you look done in.”
“Thanks very much.” Mo-Maw wiped the streaking mascara from underneath her eyes. He pulled her to her feet, and they almost toppled into the crocuses.
“Listen, ah need yer help. Ah need to cut out the drink. Nae kiddin’ this time.” Then, without any irony, she downed the last of her fortified wine. Mo-Maw pummelled her small breasts, hoisted them a few centimetres higher, and sighed when they drooped back into place. “See, ah cannae let Jocky get away. If ah do there might never be another go-around for me.”
Mungo agreed to nothing. He led his mother down the boggy hill. When she slipped, he picked her up.
* * *
He did not go to school that day. While other children were running for the first bell, Mungo ran his mother a lukewarm bath. He put a stack of towels in the oven to heat them, and when he put her to bed, he laid the towels over her so she was warmed through. Mo-Maw was roiling and restless. Mungo took off his school uniform, and climbing in beside her, he held her till the shakes subsided and she fell asleep.