Ashley shrieked. “Oh. My. God. I cannae believe you jist telt him that.”
Mungo did not hear the rest of their nonsense. He was too busy watching the top floor window. Mr Jamieson had his hands in his trouser pockets. His back was arched in pride, he was rocking on his heels. He stood in his window and watched the foolish schoolgirls declare true love for his son. Mungo watched the smile pull at his top lip.
* * *
“Have you been chewing the telly remote again?” Jodie pounced on him as he came in the door. It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t wait for an answer. Most of the time he wasn’t aware he was doing it, but he liked to chew the grey remote. It fit perfectly inside his mouth, and he could push it all the way into the back and clench his molars down on to it until he felt calmer. The plastic squeaked satisfactorily, and it was strong enough that he could clamp down his hardest, till he was vibrating with the effort. Crushing the remote between his back teeth focused the current that ran through his body. He hadn’t chewed it in a while. But this afternoon, he had found a familiar comfort in it. Jodie pulled a sour face as she wiped it on her skirt.
There were six books laid out on the carpet: three fine art books, a dog-eared novel, a manual of Fair Isle knitting, and a book of traditional Scottish weaving. Each book was opened to a specific page and pinned down by something personal of Jodie’s. She had arranged them in a semicircle.
“What are they?” he asked sulkily.
Jodie blinked once, very slowly. “Those are books.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I’m going to read them.”
“But how?”
Jodie gave him one of those looks that tired women give to stupid boys; it was hard to tell if she felt sorry for him or sorrier for herself for having to suffer him. She looked worn out in her work uniform. Her ice cream costume was prim and old-fashioned with its raspberry piping and scalloped collar, but Mungo could see that it needed ironing and he resolved to wash it for her. Jodie still wore the kirby grips that held her paper hat in place, and as she drew them out, she used them to point at the books. “Actually, I got the books for you.”
“But how?”
“Stop saying that. For goodness’ sake. It’s why, not how. Why did I get them for you. Are you going to talk like a schemie wee bam your whole life?”
Mungo kicked his trainers off. “Didnae realize I was such an embarrassment to you.”
“Don’t you want to go somewhere in life, Mungo?” Jodie was out of patience. “Sakes. I got them because I need to talk to you.” She dropped heavily to the floor. Sitting in the semicircle, she pushed one of the books towards him like it was a Ouija board. It was a white-covered book with drawings of different-coloured boxes stacked one on top of the other: Ellsworth Kelly, The Museum of Modern Art. The cover was already yellowing, but when Mungo checked the inside flap, the library ticket showed it was the first time it had been checked out.
“I had to ask the Mitchell Library for their copy. I’ve been waiting on some of these for a few months.”
Mungo flicked through the book; page after page was covered in organized hatch marks or supremely controlled line drawings. Rectangles of fine lines that collided to make patterns and depth of tone from their layered repetition. It was very controlled. He found it calming. “Why are you doing this?”
Jodie sighed. She reached into her schoolbag and pulled out an official-looking letter. Handing it to him, she spoke in short, complete sentences, almost as though it would be better parsed out this way. “I’ve been accepted. Unconditionally. I start in September. I’m going to university.”
“Glasgow?”
“Yes. To study Biology.”
He lunged at her and crushed her with his body weight. Underneath him, he could feel her relax as though she had been stiff with tension. They lay against the settee and she returned his embrace. “That’s bloody amazing.” He chanted into her hair. “I knew it. I knew.”
When they sat up again, she was weeping with relief. Her face was slick with tears and her hair was sticking to her damp cheeks. “God. I’m glad you’re happy. I was worried. I got this letter last week and I had nobody to tell. Haaah-ha.”
He picked at his cheekbone as his memories of James tinted with feelings of guilt. He had been a glutton with his three days. He had been selfish. “Wait just a minute, okay?” Before she could protest, he spun from the room. When he returned, he had a plate with a towering sandwich on it. There were eight layers of bleached white bread and between each layer he had smeared thick raspberry jam. Mungo had carved it into a rough cylindrical shape, then he sliced it into quarters. He crowned the cake with a blue birthday candle that was half-spent.
Jodie clapped her hands and counted the slices of flattened bread. “Huit-feuille. My compliments to the chef.”
“I dunno what you are banging on about, but if you close your eyes, I bet it tastes just like Victoria sponge.”
They sat cross-legged on the carpet and Mungo cheered as Jodie blew out the candle. She didn’t tell him what she had wished for. They tried to eat a slice each, but only Mungo made it further than one bite, scarlet jam gathering in the corners of his smile.
“Are you. Going to be. A doctor?” He couldn’t eat, talk, and breathe at the same time.
She picked at the sweet sandwich. “No, I want to learn about the ocean. I’m going to specialize in Marine Biology. S’pose that’s one thing to thank Fat Gillespie for. All that time on the Ayr coast and I realized I didn’t know anything about the sea.”
“Can’t ye just watch David Attenborough and learn about it lit that?” Mungo crammed more bread into his mouth. “‘Asides, I wonder. How long. The bus will take?”
“What? To the sea?”
“No. To university. You’ll have to change buses in town you know.”
Jodie slid her plate away from herself. “I won’t get the bus.”
“Well you can’t walk that far.” He was incredulous at her stupidity. Jodie was never stupid.
“No, you’re right.” She wiped the corners of her mouth. “I’ll need to move to the West End. Into the halls of residence with the other students.”
An image of James flashed across his mind. “But I can’t move.”
“I know.” She pushed his hair away from his face. “The halls have single beds. I need to go alone. You’ll need to stay here. Haaah-ha.”
“Oh.” Several expressions crossed his face. He slid from happiness to disbelief and finally tried to cover his own rejection and embarrassment with a stoic tightening of his lips and eyelids.
“Mungo, you’re bleeding everywhere!” Jodie shot to her feet. There was blood on the carpet and the cover of the Ellsworth Kelly book. Jodie hated anything to happen to a book. She mostly kept hers in the safety of her bedroom, safe from their double lives as tea coasters or dustpans to sweep cigarette ash on to. Jodie took his bleeding hand into her own. “You have a piece of metal stuck into your thumb.”
“I do?”
“Mungo, how could you not feel that?”
Jodie used her teeth to pull the shard of paint from the nail bed. Without a second thought, she put his whole thumb into her mouth and sucked the blood from it. Mungo could feel her quick tongue worry the edge of his nail. She drew it out and looked at it closely again. “Stupid bloody boy. How could you not know you had a piece of metal in your nail? You’re gonnae need a tetanus jab.”