If he had known the words to describe it, he would have said he could smell the tang of the pine forests, the bright snap of bog myrtle, vetch, and gorse, and then underneath it all, the damp musk of dark fertile soil, the cleansing rain that never ceased. But to Mungo, it was green and it was brown and it was damp and it was clean. He had no words for it. It just smelled like magic.
Gallowgate was not moved by this magical wind. He spoiled it by hauching great gobs of phlegm into the water. They floated by Mungo like swirling nebulae. All morning the man had said very little, like he could not speak over the din of his hangover. He held his rod between his knees and lit his fifth cigarette. Mungo slid further out into the freezing loch. He wanted to keep the unsullied wonders for himself.
St Christopher was not moved by the majesty either. He spent the bright morning lying in the one-man tent, nursing his shakes. As the morning wore on, more drink left Gallowgate’s blood and put him in a worsening state. The two men hadn’t spoken since the previous night and by the way Gallowgate kept glancing at St Christopher’s tent the boy could tell that he was in a foul mood and looking for a place to pollute with it.
Gallowgate lurched off into the long grass to take his morning shite. He took a meandering route past St Christopher’s tent and kicked the guy ropes. The tent sank on to the sleeping man like a shroud. Mungo watched the thin nylon heave up and down, keeping time with the man’s snoring.
The slow sun had shifted from the eastern side of the crags by the time St Christopher finally rose from the dead. In his wool suiting, he bent over at the loch’s edge and lapped at the icy water like a beast. Sitting back on his haunches he blinked to himself for a long while. Gallowgate ignored him and busied himself with the campfire. He dropped two tins of beans into the flames and the three of them sat together and ate a measly breakfast. They had been an age trying to open the stubborn, scalding tins without a can opener, and when Gallowgate finally burst them on the edge of a rock, some of the beans had sprayed across the shingles. St Christopher used his yellow fingers to save the beans and scoop them into his mouth. Every so often he would eat a small stone by accident, and the grinding of the broken teeth would stop, and he would cough and spit the tiny pebble across the campsite.
Mungo sat apart as some thick clouds rolled in. The clouds had been locked out by the tall Munros, but now that they found their opening, they rushed into the peaceful glen. They gathered and thickened and pressed downwards, like smoke filling a room.
It was a strange thing to see; the wonder of the changing light and how it gave colour to the land. The morning sunshine had burned the hills with brackens and lichens and coppers. Now, the fleecy clouds fell like heavy curtains, and they dampened it all to a lifeless grey and brown. It was as if the earth had no hues of its own.
As all the greens faded to grey he thought of James, and the way the light left his eyes without warning. He wanted to see those greens and golds. Then he pushed the thought away – he would never see them again.
The men were scratching through empty bags and rattling the crushed beer cans looking for a mouthful to kill their shakes. For the first time Mungo could study Gallowgate in the crisp daylight. He wasn’t much older than Hamish. His flashy denims hung off his frame; his only remaining fat sat in paunchy bags beneath his eye sockets. He was hunched over, inspecting the last of their supplies, and laying them out on the rocks. There was a fair share of drink left: a noose of cans, a bottle of whisky, and a quarter of something clear. For food there were two chocolate bars; the kind with the painted frog on the side, the too-milky ones you gave teething toddlers. Mungo wondered if that had been his share. If that is what they’d brought to make this boy they didn’t know fond of them.
Soothed by the fresh beer in his gut, St Christopher came down to the water. His shakes were softer now. He had brought some sprats from the city, a handful of half-rotted fish that he had wrapped in toilet paper for transport and carried in his breast pocket. It helped explain the unpleasant smell that emanated from him. Mungo tried not to inhale as the man showed him how to sink the hook into the fish’s gullet. St Christopher cast out into the peaceful loch and put the remaining fish back into his suit pocket.
“Absolutely nuthin’ better, is there? Just us boys and some good fishing, eh?” At least he was in better fettle than the sullen Gallowgate. “Cannae believe ye’ve never been at the fishin’ afore. Shame that. Nobody tells wee boys how to fend for themselves anymair. Ah met a fella the other week who didn’t even know how to fix a puncture on his bike. He just took the thing, flung it in the canal.”
“Why?”
St Christopher shook his waddle. “Ah dunno. But ah waited till he was gone, waded in, and got twenty-five poun’ for it at the pawnshop.”
“I can fix a bike. I’m not great at school, but I can fix things. And I know about pigeons.”
“Don’t worry about school. Any man that can use his hands will never want for work. Glasgow is the home of the working man.”
Mungo thought about what Hamish had told him about the shipbuilders; the hundreds of men being put out of work every month. St Christopher was lost in another time. Mungo skimmed a stone across the water’s surface. “What is this loch called, anyway?” He tried to sound casual, but he still didn’t know where he was.
“Ah’m no tellin’ ye,” said St Christopher. “If I tell ye, all the schemie wee bams wid be up here, ruining paradise with their souped-up Escorts and BMX bikes. Aye, yer maw telt us aboot yer brother.” He chewed on a thought for a moment. “How come yer brother couldnae teach ye how tae fish?”
“It’s too quiet for him.”
“And ye’ve no got a faither who could teach ye?”
“He’s dead.”
“Ach, ah’m sorry. A young gent like you. Ye must miss him.”
Mungo couldn’t say just how much he missed him. It was too big a feeling to put into words. “I was only wee.”
St Christopher gave a pitying sigh. “Funny. Yer mother had the look of a divorcée to me. Angry wee wummin. She looks like she’s been cheated out of something.”
Mungo didn’t know what to say to that. He was glad when St Christopher kept talking to fill in the silence. “Ah think ma own mammy was overjoyed when ma faither died. He wisnae a bad soul, he jist liked the ponies too much. At first ah thought ma mammy wid marry again. She was young enough, never much of a looker though.” He turned to the boy. “Is that an awfy bad thing to admit about yer mammy?”
Mungo shrugged.
“No? Well it’s true. She wisnae anybody’s idea of a thrill, but she was companionable enough. A very well-read wummin.” St Christopher turned back to the loch, he reeled the slack from his line. “Did your mammy ever marry again?”
Mungo shook his head. “She’s been trying. How about yours?”
“Och, naw. This was years ago now. Right after ma faither died aul’ Jeanette sold the family hoose and bought a one-bedroom flat in Govan. She gave us all a wee bit of cash, said she wanted to see us enjoy it aw while she could. In other words, ‘here take this and get the fuck away frae me.’” He laughed. “She never remarried, ah don’t think she let a fella inside her ever again. But in the end she got what she always wanted.”