Dirt Road. James Kelman. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: James Kelman
Издательство: Ingram
Серия:
Жанр произведения: Здоровье
Год издания: 0
isbn: 9781936787517
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Cover

      Also by James Kelman

      Novels

      The Busconductor Hines

      A Chancer

      A Disaffection

      How Late It Was, How Late

      Translated Accounts

      You have to be careful in the Land of the Free

      Kieron Smith, boy

      Mo said she was quirky

      Short Story Collections

      An old pub near the Angel

      Short Tales from the Night Shift

      Not not while the giro

      Greyhound for Breakfast

      The Burn

      Busted Scotch (selected stories, USA only)

      The Good Times

      Prezivljanje preživlijane (selected stories, Slovenia only)

      If it is your life

      A Lean Third

      Drama

      Hardie and Baird & Other Plays

      Essays

      Some Recent Attacks: Essays Cultural & Political

      “And the judges said . . .”

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      The characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons,

      living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

      Published by Catapult

      catapult.co

      First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Canongate Books Ltd.

      Copyright © 2016 by James Kelman

      All rights reserved

      ISBN: 978-1-936787-50-0

      Catapult titles are distributed to the trade by

      Publishers Group West

      Phone: 800-788-3123

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2016944752

      Printed in the United States of America

      987654321

      for

      Kenny Glenaan

      Tony Slater Ling and Dirk Powell.

      Contents

       Also by the Author

       Title

       Copyright

       Dedication

       ONE

       TWO

       THREE

       FOUR

       FIVE

       Acknowledgments

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      It was half five in the morning when his father wakened him. Murdo lay in bed an extra few minutes. There was a lot to think about. But that was all, thinking; he finished the packing yesterday. Soon he was up and downstairs for breakfast. Dad had eaten his and was doing the last-minute check to electric switches and gas taps, water taps and window snibs. In a couple of hours’ time people would be going to school. Murdo and his father were going to America.

      Then they were off, walking down over the hill and on down to the ferry terminal, Dad pulling his suitcase, Murdo a step behind, rucksack on his shoulders. Dad had wanted him to bring a suitcase too but what a nightmare that would have been.

      It was a good morning, fresh and new-feeling. An old neighbour and his dog were returning from the newsagent. He saw their luggage and was ready to stop for a chat. He told long stories and Murdo quite liked listening but just now there was no time. Murdo gave him a wave. Dad had barely noticed the old guy anyway. Father and son carried on down to the pier.

      A guy Murdo knew was by the entrance to the ferry terminal. His young brother had been in Murdo’s class at school. The guy was working and there was no time to blether. The early morning ferries were busy. People crossed to the mainland on a daily basis to get to their work. Murdo’s father was one of those and must have recognised a couple of the passengers but he didnt nod to any of them, not that Murdo saw. Dad didnt talk much anyway. As soon as they sat down he brought out his book and began reading. Murdo sat thinking about stuff. If anybody had asked what about he wouldnt have known. All sorts and everything. Soon he got up to go outside. I’m just going out a minute, he said.

      Dad nodded and continued reading.

      Murdo had made this ferry crossing a million times but it was still enjoyable. He leaned on the barrier seeing down towards the island of Cumbrae. Next thing they would be flying over it. But they would hardly see it because it came so close on the take-off. Murdo had only been on a plane once before, for a holiday in Spain. So that was twice, there and back. All he remembered was a happy time. What made it so happy? He stopped the thought. But it was not even a thought. The image from a photograph. His mother and sister were there.

      When Murdo thought of “his family” that was what he thought about. The family was four and not just him and Dad. Mum died of cancer at the end of spring. This followed the death of Eilidh, his sister, seven years earlier from the same disease, if cancer is a “disease.” He could not think of cancers like that because the way they hit people. One minute they were fine but the next they were struck down. More like a bullet from a gun was how he saw it: you walk along the street one minute and the next you are lying there on a hospital bed, curtains drawn, nothing to be done and nobody to help. The cancer his mother and sister suffered struck through the female line and ended in death. Males cannot help. All they can do is be there and be supportive. What else? Nothing, there is nothing.

      That was weird, not being able to do anything, thinking of doctors and all medical science yet nothing. Murdo found that difficult. His Dad must have too. Murdo didnt know. It was not something they spoke about.

      He was standing by the rail, enjoying the sea-spray, that freshness. Nobody else was there. Too blowy. Either they were inside where Dad was or else had stayed in their cars. Boats were better than planes. Even wee ones. If ever he made money he would buy one. Even before a car he wanted a boat. With a boat ye could sail anywhere. Depending on the engine, or maybe the sails. Guys he knew had boats; their dads anyway, or uncles. It would have been great. His father didnt bother. When ye take one back and forwards to yer work every morning ye dont want to be doing it in yer spare time. As if traveling