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I was freezing cold and couldn't figure out why we were here. I
suppose, like most of the others, I had been carried away by the
result. Whatever the reason had been, a group of us were now standing
outside the home of the only known English person in the village of
Blairallan chanting slogans that informed her that the country of her
birth had lost 1-0 to Scotland in the second leg of the European
Championship play-off Qualifier at Wembley. Despite the victory, the
Scots would not be going to Euro 2000. Having lost the first leg at
Hampden Park they had gone out, 2-1 on aggregate.
"What are we fuckin' doin'?" I asked, rubbing my gloveless hands
together in an effort to keep them warm. Davie Bowman looked at
me.
"What it looks like. We're telling the English bastards that we beat
them, that's what?"
"Is that what we're doin'," I said to him. "Sorry, I thought we were
just standing around like a bunch of pissed kids screaming at a lonely
woman."
Just then a door opened in the house and the front driveway was flooded
with light. A voice shouted at us; a Scottish voice.
"Go on ya wee bastards, just fuck off before I come out and kick yer
arses."
We all recognised the voice. It was Barry Cowan, the village butcher
and captain of the rugby club's first XV. None of us wanted to mess
with him.
Davie turned to me and smiled. "It doesn't seem like she's too lonely
tonight," he said with a leer.
And that was the end of it. No one wanted to mess with Barry Cowan. He
was well known as something of a local hard man. We all turned and
started to walk away. By the time we had reached the centre of the
village The Gordon Arms had closed for the night. Davie seemed most put
out. "Aw, fuck. I thought there might have been a lock-in tonight,
especially since we won."
"No way," I told him. "You know Pat's on her last warning." Pat
Campbell was the owner of the pub and it looked like the numerous
warnings she had received from the local constabulary about after-hours
drinking had finally sunk in.
"Well, I'll see you tomorrow," I told him, heading off in the direction
of home.
"Aye," he shouted after me. "Just don't make it too early."

* * *

The following Saturday morning I took a walk into the village to get
the papers. It was just before eight o'clock when I passed the Widow
McKenzie's house; the scene of our antics on the previous Wednesday.
Still secreted in the hedge beside the front gate were the beer bottles
we had stuffed there. Looking at them I felt ashamed of myself. The
fact that I hadn't actually taken part in the abuse seemed almost
irrelevant. My mere presence there on that night had been enough to
seal my guilt.
About a hundred yards past the house I came across a small boy. He was
sitting at the edge of the road, sobbing to himself and holding his
knee. A few feet away lay his bike, and the front wheel was still
spinning. Crouching down beside him I asked him what the matter
was.
As he looked up at me through his fringe I could make out a pair of
deep blue, tear-stained, eyes.
"I fell off my bike," he said, gesturing to the offending article with
a slight nod of his head. I asked him if he was hurt badly and he
showed me his knee. It was quite badly grazed and full of dirt. Next,
he showed me his elbow; it was in a similar state to his knee. I
suggested that we took him home to his mum but he shook his head.
"She's asleep and she told me not to wake her."
"Come on, then," I said, helping him up. "You can come with me. I'll
fix you up."

* * *

After cleaning out his grazes and covering them with plasters we took a
walk back into the village where I bought him a lollipop and a copy of
the Beano. This time I pushed his bike for him. On the walk back to his
house he told me his name was Graeme McKenzie and he was seven years
old.
"So you're the Widow McKenzie's boy then?" I said, figuring out for
myself who his mother was. As he nodded, the stick of the lollipop
bobbed up and down in his mouth.
"Do you think she'll be up by now?"
He withdrew the lollipop from his mouth. "I think so."
"Come on. Let's get you home."
As we walked up the driveway to his house I felt the shame of Wednesday
night re-ignite. Following him round the back I entered the
kitchen.
"Come in," he shouted from inside. "I want to show you
something."
I followed him through the kitchen and along the hallway into the
living room. On entering I knew instantly that something was wrong. He
was standing in the middle of the room looking around him in confusion.
The room was in something of a mess. Pot plants had been knocked over
and a shelving unit built into a recess appeared to have been
deliberately smashed. Lying next to the sofa were a couple of empty
wine bottles; the contents of one of them had spilled out onto the
cream carpet. The boy rushed past me, obviously distressed and I heard
him climb the stairs shouting as he did so, "Mummy! Mummy! Are you
okay?"
Walking to the bottom of the stairs I stood and listened. I could
clearly make out two voices so she seemed to be all right. Then,
without thinking, I went back into the living room and started to tidy
up.

* * *

It took me just a little under half an hour to get the place squared
away. The only thing I couldn't fix there and then were the shelves. I
would have to come back later with my toolkit and have a look at it. I
had finished just finished vacuuming the carpet and was tying up the
cord when the boy walked in, followed by his mother.
"Who are you?" she asked sitting down in an armchair. She pulled the
towelling bathrobe tight across her chest, but not before I had noticed
that underneath it she was completely naked. I felt my groin
stir.
"Colin McKechnie. I found your son, crying. He had fallen off his bike
and I took him home and sorted him out."
She looked angrily at the boy and as she turned her head to the side I
could see the faint outline of a mark at the side of her right eye. "I
thought I told you never to go anywhere with strangers?"
"But mummy!" the boy cried.
"Mummy, nothing! Don't ever do it again! Understand!" The boy nodded
his assent.
"Don't be too hard on him," I said. "He didn't want to wake you up. And
besides, he's okay isn't he?"
"That's not the point," she said. "We have rules in this house."
Yeah, I thought. One of them is to stay up all hours, get pissed, get
shagged by the local butcher, get into a fight with him and then have
your living room wrecked. Her rules were clear: do as I say, not as I
do.
"Of course you do," I said. "I was only tryin' to help." That seemed to
soften her a little.
"I know you were. Thanks." Then looking at the boy: "But next time,
Graeme, don't go with anyone unless you know them."
"I know him now," the boy said pointing at me. That made his mother
laugh and for the first time I noticed how pretty she was. Despite her
hungover and unkempt state she was someone who obviously possessed
considerable natural beauty.
"I suppose you do," she admitted. "Would you like a cup of tea or
coffee?" she asked.
"No thanks," I said even though something inside me wanted to stay. "I
have to be goin'. I've got a game this afternoon."
"You play football?" she asked.
"No. Rugby."
"My husband - Graeme's father - played rugby."
"I know," I told her. And so does your boyfriend, I thought to myself;
the one that gave you that shiner.
"Did you know him?" she asked, suddenly interested.
I shook my head. "Not really. I was a lot younger than he was."
"Of course," she said. "You would have been." Then standing up: "Well
thanks again."
"No bother," I told her walking to the front door and opening it.
"And thanks for tidying up."
"Anytime," I said as the front door closed behind me.

* * *

"What are we doing here?" I asked my dad as we sat in the front of his
van staring out through the rain splattered windscreen at the McKenzie
house.
"This is where the job is."
"What sort of job is it?"
"I'm not sure," he said, opening the door and climbing out. I joined
him, closing the passenger door behind me. "She said somethin' about
some shelves and decoratin' and stuff. I said I'd pop by and giver her
a quote."
We walked up the drive in silence. The house was one of the largest in
the village, and one of the most imposing. It had been built on a piece
of wasteland that had belonged to the McKenzie family for years. On
returning from London, where he had trained and worked as an architect,
Iain McKenzie had asked his father for the land and then designed and
built his own house on it. It was modern, so no doubt would include all
the benefits that came with new houses - gas central heating, double
glazing; but at the same time it also retained in its style, some of
the majesty that was possessed by the neighbouring houses. Many of
these had been built at the turn of the last century so, despite being
a modern house, it seemed to blend in and complement the neighbourhood.
When designing his house, Iain McKenzie had clearly considered the
environment around it.
Hidden behind a high hedge that had been planted decades earlier, you
never really saw the house until you stepped through the gate;
something I hadn't done until the previous Wednesday night when, to my
shame, I had joined my friends in disturbing her peace.
My father rang the doorbell and we stood for what could only have been
a few seconds before the door was opened. How had she managed to get to
the door so quickly in such a large house, I wondered, or had she been
watching us as we had walked up the driveway?
She looked different from the last time I had seen her. Her hair was
neatly brushed and tied back in a ponytail. This had the effect of
making her look younger, and I noticed that unlike that Saturday
morning, she was wearing make-up. Not a lot, but just enough to
complement the natural beauty she clearly possessed. I looked closely
at her right eye but could find no evidence of bruising. Either it had
disappeared over the weekend, or more likely, it had been carefully
covered up. As she looked at me there was a flicker of recognition. I
wanted to ask how her son was, but not wanting my father to ask any
questions I stayed silent on the subject. Some things, I had decided
long ago, were best kept secret from your parents.
"You must be Mr McKechnie," she said, standing aside to allow us to
enter.
"And you must be Mrs McKenzie," he said. "How are you?"
"Fine. It's this way," she said leading us through to the living room.
I watched as she walked ahead of us, her hips swaying in time with her
ponytail. I suddenly remembered the faint glimpse of flesh I had seen
when she had sat down and her bathrobe had fallen open. I tried to
calculate how old she was, but couldn't. I had little experience of
older people, other than my parents, so found it a difficult task. What
could she be? Thirty? Thirty-five? I really couldn't tell. How was a
thirty-five year old woman supposed to look?
"It's this room," she said gesturing to walls. "I feel it needs a
change. It was fine when the house was built but six years on it looks
a little dated, don't you think?"
My father agreed. "And what did you have in mind?" he then asked.
"Oh, a completely new colour scheme. I don't like the wallpaper
anymore, so I thought I'd just have it painted. Something neutral. And
the shelves," she said pointing to the recess. "I want taken
out."
Of the shelving only two shelves remained. Where the others had been
torn out there were scars in the plasterwork. They would have to be
repaired.
"Of course," said my father reading my mind. "The plaster will have to
be repaired before the walls could be painted."
"Is that a problem?" she asked.
"No, not at all. My son here." And at this point he put his hand on my
shoulder, "Can do that for you. He's a dab hand at the
plasterin'."
She looked at me and smiled. I think I blushed slightly because I can
remember looking away.
"There might be other things that need to be done," she said, returning
to the business in hand. "But I'll let you know as we go along."
"That's fine," said my father.
"So when can you start?" she asked.
My father looked at me. This was one of the tricks he had taught me;
always seem busy but at the same time never put a customer off. Always
appear like you're doing them a favour by fitting them in. "This
afternoon. We've got a job to finish at the hotel but we should be here
after lunch is that okay?"
"Fine," she said. "This afternoon it is then."

* * *

I had just finished skimming the top layer of plaster when she walked
in carrying two mugs of tea.
"There's your tea," she said laying the mug down on a table that sat
beside one of the sofas. I turned to thank her but she had already
disappeared back in the direction of the kitchen. She reappeared
moments later carrying a plate stacked with slices of cake and
chocolate biscuits.
"I would like to say that the cake is home-made but unfortunately
baking is not one of the things that Iain married me for."
We were alone; my father having knocked off early to visit the bank and
her son was still at school. My father and I had spent the first part
of the afternoon dismantling the remaining part of the shelving unit.
Then after he had gone into the village I had mixed the plaster and
skimmed the recess where the shelves had been.
"Your father was right," she said looking at my work. "You are a dab
hand at plastering. Did he teach you."
"Aye," I said sipping my tea. It was hot, sweet and tasted good. I
could feel the particles of plaster I had breathed in being washed away
as it trickled down my throat. "As they say 'He taught me everything I
know'."
"So this is your job?" she asked handing me the plate. I took a slice
of cake and bit into it, shaking my head at the same time.
"No," I said, my mouth full of cake. "I'm only helping him out until I
go to Uni. next year."
"Why aren't you there now?" she asked. "Surely you've already left
school. What are you eighteen, nineteen?" She clearly had more
experience of judging someone's age than me.
"Eighteen, but it's a long story," I told her.
"Well it's your tea break," she said taking a seat and crossing her
legs. "So tell me."
"I was hurt last year playing rugby. Quite bad. I injured my back and
they were worried I wouldn't be able to walk again properly. Well
anyway, I spent a long time in hospital and then recovering at home.
When I did get back to school I had missed so much that when I sat my
exams I didn't do well enough to get in this year. That's why I'm going
to have to retake them."
"And you still play?" she asked, sounding surprised. "Even though you
were hurt so badly?"
"Oh yeah!" I told her. "I've been fine ever since. Besides I'm pretty
close to getting into the first team so I'm not going to risk
that."
"Don't your parents worry?"
"Mum does. Dad just let's me get on with it." I gestured at the recess
I had plastered. "As you can see."
"So what do you want to study?"
"At Uni?"
She nodded.
"Journalism. Napier University in Edinburgh run a course and I'd like
to get on that. Competition is tough though so I'll have to do really
well in my exams."
"And will you?" she asked. "Do really well?"
"Oh aye," I told her without the smallest trace of modesty. "I'll do
well enough to get in."

* * *

Over the next few weeks I was sent by my father to complete a few small
tasks around the McKenzie home. Bread and butter stuff, really;
repairing a section of guttering, painting doors, that kind of thing,
and each time I went there I noticed a change in the widow. She seemed
to have smartened herself up. The clothes she wore were always tasteful
and flattering; her hair and make-up perfect and she seemed to spend a
lot of time on the telephone.
In fact, it was after one such phone call that she came into the living
room with a broad smile on her face and humming a tune.
"You seem happy," I told her, looking up from the skirting board where
I was touching up the paintwork.
"I've got a job interview later this week."
"Where?"
"Aberdeen. I applied for a job with a design consultancy, but to be
honest I didn't expect to hear from them. I mean I haven't worked since
having Graeme and that was over seven years ago."
"What sort of job is it?"
"Interior designer. That's what I used to do in London. In fact," she
said sitting down on one of the sofas. "That's how I met Iain. He was
one of the architects involved in a project I was working on."
I noticed that she still spoke about her husband in the present
tense.
"You still miss him don't you?"
"How can you tell?"
"You talk about him a lot."
"I suppose I do," she said. "I've never really thought about it before
but you're right. Sometimes I find myself talking about him as if he's
still alive. I remember all the happy times; never the bad ones and
believe me we had them too. No," she went on wistfully. "I remember the
happy times; how he used to make me laugh. I hardly ever cry now. Is
that bad?" she asked me suddenly, as if my opinion mattered. "Does that
make me a bad person - the fact that I don't grieve so much
anymore?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "I wouldn't know. Apart from my Gran I don't
really know anyone close who's died. A lad from school was killed in a
car crash last year. He was in the year above and although he played
rugby I didn't really know him all that well. A lot of folk at the
school were really upset about it though. When my Gran died I was only
small so I probably didn't really understand what was going on."
"But I haven't cried for a long time. Months in fact."
I couldn't figure out what she wanted me to say so in the end I just
told her the truth. "I don't suppose he would've wanted you to cry all
the time. I mean, you've a kid to look after and your own life to lead.
You're still youngish and good looking. I'm sure he would've wanted you
to be happy, maybe even meet someone else."
"You think so?"
"Well I don't know for sure, but if it was me that's how I'd feel. If I
was married to you I'd want you to be happy."
There was a moment of silence between us. It was the most serious
discussion I think we had ever had. I decided to break the silence and
save us any further embarrassment. "Anyway, Mrs McKenzie. I hope you
get the job."
I turned back to the painting and from behind me she spoke.
"It's Lynn."
Turning round I asked: "Sorry?"
"My name; its Lynn. I'd like you to call me Lynn. Mrs McKenzie makes me
sound like one of your old teachers and as you said yourself I'm still
'youngish'."
"Okay," I said turning back to the wall.
But my heart was pounding.

* * *

I heard quite by chance that Lynn McKenzie had broken up with Barry
Cowan after the events of that Friday night when her house had been
damaged. I was standing in the dressing room shortly before the midweek
training session at the rugby club, minding my own business when the
topic of conversation had come up. One of the props was quizzing Cowan
on his love life.
"So what happened with you and that McKenzie woman?" he asked, tying
the laces on his boots.
"Oh I got rid of her quick after she flipped out on me."
"Oh aye, what happened like?"
Cowan sat down and spun a ball around in his hands.
"Let's just say that she wouldn't play ball in the bedroom," he said
laughing.
"Go on," said the prop, eager to know all the details.
"I wanted to try something a little&;#8230;. different. Exotic you
might say."
"And she wouldnae go for it I suppose?"
"That's right and&;#8230; then this is the weird thing&;#8230;
she just flipped and started screaming and hitting and pushing
me."
"So what did you do?"
Cowan stood up and threw the ball at his inquisitor who caught it and
began rolling it down his beefy forearm.
"I got the fuck out and havenae been back since. She's a madwoman.
She's asked me to take her back like but I've said no and put her
straight."
Yeah, I thought, but not before giving her a good slap, eh big man? As
he passed me on his way out he glanced up at me. "Ready for some
tackling practice kid?"
I just smiled back at him. "Ready when you are."
Laughing at me he made his way out onto the pitch.

* * *

Under the floodlights we ran countless drills and performed complicated
callisthenics designed to sharpen our skills and improve our fitness.
After a particularly strenuous session we broke for water. I stood with
Davie Bowman and watched the first team pack going through some mauling
drills. Steam rose off them in huge clouds and disappeared up into the
night sky. It reminded me of how a herd of cattle looked after a rain
shower in the summer.
"I fuckin' hate this next bit," he said putting the bottle to his lips
and taking a long draught.
"Why?" I asked him as he handed me the bottle. I took a swig and then
handed it back.
"Because we're nothin' more than fuckin' tackle bags to these
bastards."
He was right of course, we were. The first team just used the seconds
to practice their tackling on. I didn't care much for either, but
tonight was different. Tonight I was looking forward to it. Andy
Morrison, the first team coach blew his whistle to signal the end of
the break and called us round him.
"Right," he said. "I want the teams to line up as normal. We'll start
with a scrum and whoever wins possession will attack. It's up to the
fly halves on each team to call the moves. Do whatever you want -
dummies, missed passes, switches, whatever. Just don't drop the fuckin'
ball, okay?"
We all nodded and broke. I lined up at outside centre. Opposite me I
could see Cowan, the full-back prowling around. I knew that at some
point in the proceedings he would attempt to come into the line on a
crash ball. When he did I'd be waiting for him.
The first few drills ended up as predictable passes out along the line
and the occasional missed pass. At no point did Cowan come into the
line except on the end of a move to take the scoring pass. But still I
waited. I knew I had to be patient. Finally, he did. The outside centre
dummied his pass to the wing and then flicked it inside to Cowan on the
crash. As he came through I coiled myself like a spring and hit him
around the ribs, coming up from a low position. I felt his ribs jar on
impact and I knew then that I had hurt him. As we fell to the ground he
spilled the ball.
"Great tackle Colin," shouted Morrison from the side. "We'll take the
Knock on. Scrum down, seconds ball."
Standing up I looked down at the prone figure of Cowan. He raised his
hand for me to help him get up but I ignored his request and walked
away. He got to his feet and started walking back to the line. As I
watched him walking it was clear that the tackle had hurt him and he
was trying hard to hide it. Knowing that I also knew that he would be
waiting for me when I got the ball. Davie Bowman was our fly-half. He
looked at me and nodded. He could tell I was fired up. "OC2!" he
shouted. That call meant that I was to take the crash ball through the
centre.
When the pass came it missed out the inside centre and I took it at
full pace about a foot behind the line. Easily brushing past my
opposite number I headed for the posts. Out of the corner of my eye I
could see Cowan coming for me and just as he threw himself into the
tackle I stepped lightly to the side, switched the ball into my left
arm and thrust out my right hand, catching him full on the face and
pushing him down; a textbook hand-off. Running under the posts I slowed
to a stop and laid the ball down behind the line.
"Brilliant, Colin," shouted Morrison. Then directed at the first team:
"See you old bastards that's how it's done!" Clapping his hands
together he said, "That's enough for tonight. Let's hit the
showers."
As we walked off Davie came up and put his arm round his
shoulder.
"You were fuckin' awesome tonight big man! I bet you get a
replacement's spot in the first team on Saturday!"
"If I do, I'm ready."
Just then, Cowan ran up alongside us. He slowed to walking pace,
shooting me a look that could have frozen the puddles at my feet.
"You thought you were fuckin' smart tonight didn't you kid?"
"No but I was up for it a lot more than you were," I told him.
"Don't fuckin' cross me again," he said.
"Or what?" I asked.
"Or I'll fuckin' break you," he said walking off ahead.
"Ooh," I shouted after him. "I'm so scared."
He didn't turn round, but instead kept walking until he'd disappeared
into the changing rooms.
"You should be," Davie said looking up at me. "You should be."

* * *

The winter turned into spring and I started to spend a lot more time
round at Lynn's house. Over the course of carrying out all the work for
my father we had become friends. Quite often I would help her out by
picking her son up from school when she had to stay late at work. Her
new job was progressing well and it seemed to fill her with a renewed
sense of purpose and confidence. The work she had carried out on her
house with the help of my father and I showed that she was a talented
interior designer. At times I would tease her about how she was using
the house to create a style; a signature that she could carry with her
to work. She would laugh and say that what she was creating was a
beautiful home and that if some of that style appeared in the houses
and offices of her clients than so much the better.
Often we would spend hours talking and sometimes she would help me with
my schoolwork, aware that I need to pass my exams in order to achieve
my dream of a place on the journalism course.
Her son Graeme took something of a shine to me as well, and on the
occasions when I picked him up after school we would often play games
together on the Playstation before his mother would come home and put
an end to it, insisting that he did his homework and I stayed for
something to eat.
It was over tea one evening that I told her my good news. That morning
I had learnt that I had been offered a conditional place at Napier
University to study journalism. The course would start in early October
and in order to secure my get place I would have to achieve at least A
grade in my Higher English. On the previous occasion when I had taken
the exam I had achieved only a C. I raised my concerns with her.
"Do you think you can get the grade you need?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," I shrugged.
She suggested that I go and see my old English teacher, so with a
little trepidation I went to see Mr Kyle at Blairallan Academy. It felt
strange to walk the corridors of my old school, out of uniform and as
an inhabitant of the outside world. The grownup world. I found him,
where I remembered he had always been after school, marking books in
his classroom. I explained my predicament to him and he listened
sympathetically. Finally I asked the question I had came to get
answered and he replied: "Do I think you can get an A grade?"
He leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses. Then taking a
handkerchief from out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket he
started to clean the lenses. "Yes," he said after inspecting how clean
his lenses were. "I think you can. The grade you got last year was
based on you missing more than two thirds of the school year because of
your injury. If you've been working..." He looked at me and I nodded.
"&;#8230;And you say you have been, then I don't see why you can't
get an A. You're certainly not without ability in the subject."
"Great." I had been told what I had wanted to hear, but the message was
clear: As long as I put in the effort then there was every chance that
I would get the grade I needed.
"Thanks, Mr Kyle," I said, turning to leave his classroom. He called me
back.
"I've been watching you play for the first XV." Being an ex-public
schoolboy from Edinburgh he always called them the first XV. "And I've
been impressed. Very impressed. Keep it up and it's only a matter of
time before you're playing for the county."
"Thanks sir," I said again.
"Just be careful," he shouted after me. "We don't want a repeat of your
injury do we?"

* * *

The evening after my final exam the three of us - Lynn, Graeme and me -
packed ourselves into her 4x4 and drove to Aberdeen beach where she
treated us to our dinner at Harry Ramsden's. Graeme was in his element,
staring out from the restaurant's first floor window at the ships that
left the harbour and then disappeared over the horizon.
"Where do you think they're going?" he asked.
"Norway, probably," said his mother, stroking his hair. I could almost
feel her love for Graeme.
"Where's that?" he asked.
"Miles and miles over there," she told him pointing towards the
horizon.
"So they don't fall off the edge of the earth when they
disappear."
"No, silly," she said laughing. "They keep going. It's just that they
are so far away you can't see them anymore."
"That's okay then," he sounded relieved. I think he had a nightmarish
image of ships falling off the earth into the void, their sailors
desperately trying to cling to life on the planet but unable to compete
with the pull of space. Content with the answer he resumed eating his
fish and chips. Lynn looked across at me.
"So how do you think you've done?"
"Pretty good. The English paper was right up my street and I have a
feelin' that the guy who set the History Exam knew that I had to get a
B. The questions that came up suited me perfectly."
She raised her glass of sparkling mineral water and toasted me. "Here's
to life at University." Together, we clinked our glasses. I had noticed
that over the last few weeks her consumption of alcohol had dropped to
a point where, now, I rarely, if ever, saw her with a drink in her
hand. I was pleased. She had come a long way. She had kicked Cowan into
touch, kicked the booze and got herself a good job. Life was looking
good for her.
"Cheers," I said looking into her eyes. Unlike other times, when she
had diverted her gaze, this time she held it for a fraction too
long.
And on this occasion, it was me who looked away.

* * *

On the drive home Graeme fell asleep.
"What will you do now?" Lynn asked.
"What do you mean?" I was unsure what she meant.
"Well now you don't have to revise. What will you do?"
"I don't know. Train harder probably." I had become a regular in the
first team, much to the annoyance of Barry Cowan, but lately I had been
neglecting training sessions, using my exams as an excuse when the real
reason was wanting to spend more time at Lynn's house. One evening,
when I had been round at Lynn's, I was leaving the house when Cowan
appeared. As we passed on the driveway he had given me another of his
trademark looks. On reaching the end of the driveway I had turned round
and looked back at them. Lynn had let him in and closed the door behind
her. Unable to leave without finding out what was going on I sat
outside her house on the opposite side of the road. I was there for at
least half an hour before he re-emerged, and when he did, he hadn't
look happy. As he had walked out of the front gate he saw me.
"Fancy your chances kid?" he had sneered, emphasising the kid. "Well
you can have her. Everyone else has."
I had been about to cross the road and have a go at him when my dad had
pulled up in his van to defuse the situation.
"Do you mind if I ask you something, Lynn?" I asked, my thoughts
returning to the present.
"No, go ahead."
"What did Barry Cowan want the other night?"
"What do you think he wanted?" she asked rhetorically. "What he's
always wanted."
"And?"
"And what?" she asked slightly angrily. "Did he get it?"
"That's not what I meant," I told her, although that was exactly what I
meant. That was exactly why I had waited until he had left her house
that night. "And you know it."
"I'm sorry," she said. "But the answer is still no. I told him we were
finished. In fact, I told him that I wished I had never become involved
with him in the first place. He didn't like that, I can tell
you."
"He didn't&;#8230;?"
"No," she said anticipating the question. "He didn't hit me, although
I'm sure he felt like it." Then: "You don't like him very much do
you?"
"I don't like him at all. In fact, I never have. To me he's always been
the village bully. You know the type - thinks he's hard and has to
prove it by beating everyone else up that doesn't agree with him or
like him. But don't worry," I said with a feeling of certainty. "His
time's coming. Mark my words."
"Don't cross him Colin, he's dangerous. I don't want you to get
hurt."
Why not? I wondered to myself. Why don't you want me to get hurt?
"I think it's a bit late for that. I've crossed him already."
"Then promise me you won't do anything stupid," she said. "Promise me
you'll be careful."
"Don't worry about me I can look after myself." Barry Cowan didn't
scare me.
"Promise," she said again, only this time a little more firmly.
"Okay," I said to her. "I promise."
Looking back now I wished I had asked her to make the same
promise.

* * *

Even to this day I don't remember the tackle. All I can remember is
waking up in the accident and emergency ward of the cottage hospital.
The lights were too bright and my head pounded, feeling like it was
ready to explode.
"Good to see you're back in the land of the livin'."
I recognised the voice of Andy Morrison although I couldn't make him
out; his features were too blurred.
"What happened?" I asked, although even something as simple as asking a
two-word sentence seemed to hurt my head.
"Do you remember the eighteen stone flanker on the other team?"
"Aye."
"Well, on a five-metre scrum he peeled off with the ball and you
decided to stop him."
"And did I?"
"Did you fuck!" he said laughing. "His knee caught you a beauty in the
face and you went down like a sack of tatties. Still, it's good to see
you're okay. The doctor says you've fractured your cheek and broken
your nose. Apart from that and a slight concussion you're okay. Means
you'll miss the rest of the season though."
That was the last thing on my mind. Just then there was a bit of
commotion behind him and a familiar voice came into earshot. It was
Lynn.
"I just heard what happened," she said taking hold of my hand and
looking at my face. "Are you all right."
"He'll be fine Lynn, don't worry," said Andy Morrison. Then, winking at
me, "I'll see you later son. Take care."
I waved half-heartedly and watched as he left the room.
"I was pretty worried," she said looking concerned. "Does it hurt
much?"
I nodded. Since I had woken up pain was pretty much all I had been
feeling.
She reached out her hand and gingerly touched my cheek. I could see
water welling up in her eyes.
"Don't worry. I'll be fine."
She sniffed and nodded her head.
"Where's Graeme?" I asked.
"He's at his Grandmother's. I dropped him off on the way here. He
wanted to come but I told him he couldn't. He sends his love."
There was a silence between us, as there always seemed to be at moments
like this. Moments when neither of us really knew what to say; moments
when neither of us knew how to articulate our feelings for the
other.
"When will you get out?"
"I'm not sure," I told her. A doctor hadn't yet seen me since I had
regained consciousness.
"Unless there's anything serious wrong, probably tomorrow."
"Will you be all right?"
"Yeah. Mum will fuss over me like she always used to." And as if on cue
she walked in with my father in tow. Lynn stood up.
"Hello Mr McKechnie," she said.
"Mrs McKenzie," he said shaking her hand. "What a surprise to see you
here."
"Well I was just going. Nice to see you again." Then turning back to
me. "You get well and I'll see you when you get out."
I raised my hand and gave a slight wave. I had hoped she would kiss me
but my parents' appearance had probably put paid to that.
"What was she doing here?" asked my mother suspiciously.
"She was worried about me."
"You know the whole village is talking about you two."
"Are they?" I asked sounding surprised, although I knew exactly what
the village was saying about us. I also knew that Barry Cowan was the
source of most of the rumours. "Well you can take it from me that none
of the things you're hearin' are true. We're just friends. I help her
out sometimes with odd jobs around the house and occasionally pick her
son up from school. He's a great wee lad."
"It's the odd jobs that worry me," said my mother, heavy with
innuendo.
I sighed. "If you're going to be like that," I told her. "You might as
well leave now."
"I'm only worried Colin. She's a lot older than you are, and she's been
married. You should be out meeting girls your own age."
"I already told you, there's nothing going on between us! We're just
pals! And you can't stop me being friends with her."
"No," she said quietly. "I can't."

* * *

July arrived in a blaze of sunshine and with it came my results. I had
always imagined that I would sit with the envelope in front of me at
the kitchen table and agonise over opening it. In the end I ripped open
the flap and pulled out the contents. I scanned the list: English A,
History A, Mathematics C, French B. Within seconds the realisation that
I was finally going to university hit me. All the hard work that I had
put in over the last year had finally come to fruition.
Later, Lynn had telephoned me from her work to find out my results and
invited me around to dinner that night. It had been a while since I had
been round at her house, so I accepted, partly out of guilt for not
having seen her so much and partly just because I wanted to see her
again. Following a long talk with my parents I had decided to limit my
visits to her house. I had made up various excuses as to why I had
stopped going round - working late with my dad, off to Edinburgh to
look for digs - and every time I had lied to her I had felt bad. Not
only because I was lying to Lynn, but also because I was lying to
myself. The truth was that I missed my visits. I missed going to a
place where I felt at home; I missed the way I could talk to her about
anything at all; I missed seeing Graeme, but most of all I just missed
seeing her, smelling her and being around her. I asked her what time I
should arrive. She said eight, so with a recently purchased bottle of
wine in my hand I found myself standing at her front door at exactly
that time.
She opened the door wearing a pair of cropped blue jeans and a
brilliant white shirt tied and knotted at the waist. As she gave me a
hug and I held her close I could feel the warmth of her body through
the thin material of the blouse. As we pulled apart I noticed that the
blouse rode up just enough to expose her navel that, like the rest of
her body, had acquired a deep tan from exposure to the sun. I suddenly
thought, for no reason, about kissing it.
"I hope you like your food hot and spicy," she said disappearing into
the kitchen. "I've tried something new."
Making my way to the kitchen I stood, leaning against the doorframe,
and looked around.
"Where's the wee man?" I asked.
"He's gone to his granny's. I told her I was going out and wanted her
to baby-sit. She didn't seem to mind."
Lynn opened a drawer, took out a lever corkscrew and handed it to me.
"Do the honours, will you, it's in the fridge."
I opened the fridge door and pulled out a bottle of white wine,
replacing it with the bottle that I had brought with me.
"So how do you feel?"
"The same."
"The same! How can you feel the same! You're off to university in a few
months time. I remember when I got my place. I was so excited I
couldn't wait for it to come around."
"And was it worth it?" I asked, pulling out the cork and pouring out
two glasses of the golden liquid. "The wait?"
"You bet! University is like nothing else in your life. It's a chance
to relive your youth with all the benefits. Like being able to stay out
all night without telling your parents and being able to buy drink
without fear of being caught. It's just&;#8230;.. great!"
She raised her glass and toasted me. "Here's to your future as a great
journalist. I only hope you'll remember me when you're rich and
famous."
"How could I forget you?"
"You will," she said turning her back on me and stirring a pot. "You'll
make new friends at university, meet girls your own age. I'll be just a
memory to you."
I laid my glass down on the kitchen worktop and walked over behind her.
This was the moment, I decided. This was the time when I would take my
chance to tell her so, taking my hands I placed them around her waist
and softly kissed the nape of her neck. Within my grasp she turned her
body around until she was looking up at me.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her breath catching. I could almost
hear her heart pounding. If my own hadn't been thumping quite so loudly
inside my chest, I might just have.
"What I've wanted to do ever since I first met you."
And then I kissed her. Instead of pulling away she responded to my
kiss, forcing her tongue between my lips until it found mine and began
a dance that seemed to heighten our senses and raise our passion onto
another level.
I must have been aware of how close she was to the cooker because I
pulled her away and pushed her up against the wall, where our kissing
resumed with an intensity that the months of pent-up frustration had at
last now released.
"Stop, stop," she said as I showered her neck and throat with little
kisses.
"Why?" I asked, half-kissing, half-mumbling into her neck. "Don't you
want this?"
"Yes," she said, taking my head in her hands and forcing me to look at
her. "Of course I want this."
"Then why stop?" I asked, confused.
"Because," she said laying her index finger on my lips. "The dinner
will be ruined and as I've spent ages slaving over this hot stove I
don't want to see it go to waste."
So we just laughed. There would be plenty of time for kissing.

* * *

I would like to be able say that our lovemaking took place in a torrent
of racy lingerie and different sexual positions, but the truth is it
did not fit the standard teenage boy's sexual fantasy. There was no
older woman's deflowering of a young virgin, only the tenderness and
feeling reserved by two people for those for whom they feel intense
affection. At that point I hadn't really known whether I was in love
with Lynn or not. Our lovemaking just seemed to be the natural
culmination of what had grown up between us over the past few months.
It fulfilled the same function as a full stop does at the end of a
sentence. It was just&;#8230;right. It was merely punctuation of the
physical.
And afterwards, when our appetite for each other had been satisfied and
the sky outside had turned dark we lay together and talked.
"I never meant for any of this to happen," she said.
"Me neither," I told her. "Although I had hoped."
"Really?" she asked looking up at me. I nodded and once again she laid
her head on my chest, where occasionally she would place her lips and
kiss me.
"We must keep this from Graeme," she told me. "He's too young to
understand, and with you going away in October he'll only get
confused."
"Of course," I agreed.
And so our relationship grew, from one of close friendship to one of
deep affection. Once, Lynn told me that she "liked me a lot" and for a
second I felt that she was going to say "loved", but she didn't. I told
her I "liked her a lot" and we just left it at that.
I spent many nights in her bed, where we enjoyed each other and I
learned much, always leaving before sunrise so as not to be discovered
by her son.
However, there was one morning when I overslept and Lynn's alarm didn't
go off. Rising from bed I dressed quickly in the daylight and slipped
out of her room. As I gingerly trod down the stairs I was halted by a
voice from behind me.
"Colin?"
I turned round and looked up at the face of Graeme peering at me
through the banister.
"Graeme! What are you doing up at this time?" I asked, trying to sound
as if it was normal for me to spend the night.
"I had to go to the toilet and I saw you come out of mummy's room. Does
this mean you're going to be my new daddy?"
The colour must have drained from my face, as I suddenly felt sick
about this little boy's simple question. There was a long silence
during which time I pondered the enormity of the situation.
"Well, Colin?" said another voice, this time a little more harshly.
"Aren't you going to answer his question?"
Lynn had appeared at the back of her son. She must have heard us
talking and got out of bed.
Unable to answer I turned, walked down the stairs and out of the
house.

* * *

At first Lynn had tried to pretend that she was busy with work and
couldn't see me anymore. Then I found out that she had started drinking
again and had taken up once more with Barry Cowan. On the rare occasion
we passed in the street she ignored me, until one day when I could bear
it no longer, I followed her home and confronted her on her doorstep.
She tried slamming the door on me but I managed to slip my foot
inside.
"Go away," she said. "The brothel's closed!"
"Don't say that!" I said.
"Why not! That's all it was to you wasn't it? Some nice practise before
you headed off to university. I must have been mad! The sad, lonely old
tart shagging a teenager!"
"That's not what it was like and you know it?"
"Do I? I loved you Colin! I thought you felt the same way about me! I
never put any pressure on you, never made any unreasonable demands, but
I thought that at least you loved me! But oh no! How wrong was I? When
Graeme asked you that question and the colour drained from your face I
could see how sick you were and how the whole enormity of the situation
scared you!"
"You never said you wanted anything more out of our
relationship!"
"I didn't! Besides, it wasn't for me to ask," she said. "I was leaving
it up to you. I thought you might have wanted more from it!"
"I did, I do. It's just that it came as a shock." I said, almost
pleading with her. "Look. I do love you."
"Well that's nice Colin because I don't love you anymore, so if you'll
kindly remove your foot I've got to put my shopping away."
And then she shut the door on our relationship.

* * *

"What is it?"
My father was leaning over me.
"It's the phone for you."
I looked at the readout on my digital clock. It was 2.34am. Who could
be calling me at this time, I wondered?
"Who is it?" I asked sitting up in bed and squinting my eyes against
the light that flooded in from the landing.
"I think it's your friend."
I knew by "friend" he meant Lynn. I relieved him of the handset and
waited until he had gone back to his bed before speaking: "Yes, what is
it?"
"You've got to come over."
"It's half-two Lynn," I told her wearily. "Can't this wait until
morning?"
"No. I've got to see you now."
Desperation had crept into her voice and I could tell that she had been
crying. I wondered what had happened? What had made her call me at this
time in the morning? Did she know, perhaps, that I was leaving for
Edinburgh later that day? Whatever, the reason I knew I would have to
go over.
"Give me ten minutes to get dressed and then I'll come over."
When I arrived at her house she was waiting for me at the front door.
As soon as I entered I knew that instantly what had happened. Her eyes
were ringed with tear-stained mascara and there was a raised red mark
on her left cheek.
"Where is he?" I asked angrily, my eyes scanning the room.
"He's gone," she said. "He left over an hour ago."
"Why Lynn? Why did you do it? Why did you get involved with him again?
You knew what he was like!" I was so angry with her.
"Because I was lonely!" she almost screamed. "And the person I loved
didn't love me enough to stay."
Oh, I thought to myself, but I did love you. Perhaps not in the way you
wanted me to, but I did. Right at that moment I knew that I had nothing
left to give her.
"Is Graeme here?" I asked.
"No."
At least the boy had been spared this.
"I'll help you get straightened up then I have to go. I'm leaving for
Edinburgh today and there are still some things I have to pack."
"You're going today?"
"Yes."
"When were you going to tell me?"
I looked away. "I wasn't. I thought it would be best if I just
went."
I must have sounded cold because she began to sob and as her shoulders
rose and fell her whole body seemed racked by the pain of what I had
just told her. What had I done to this woman? How had I turned her life
upside down like this? The truth was, of course, that I hadn't. The
truth was just as she had said that day we had fought. She had been
lonely and I had given her friendship when she needed it. Later I had
given her affection when she had needed it. Finally I had given her
love when she had needed it. The only thing that in the end I couldn't
give her was the one thing she longed for more than anything -
stability. I walked over and put my arms around her, pulling her close.
She buried her head in my chest and continued to cry. When, after a few
minutes, she had stopped crying she pulled away from me and looked into
my face.
"Graeme will miss you," she said, wiping tears from her eyes.
"What about you?" I asked her. "Will you miss me?"
"Of course."
"I'll be back," I told her.
"For holidays."
"And more besides."
She shook her head. "You won't be back to stay, though? Will
you?"
I couldn't answer that one.

* * *

As we drove through the centre of the village I asked my father to stop
the car.
"What is it now?" he asked, looking at his watch. I had already annoyed
him by taking longer to pack than I had expected. "Your train's due in
an hour."
"Don't sweat it, there's plenty of time. I've just got one more thing
to do before I go."
I got out of the car, closed the door behind me and walked across the
street and into Barry Cowan's shop. He was standing in front of the
huge glass counter, pointing out cuts of meat to an elderly couple. As
the door of the shop opened a bell tinkled and he looked up. After
giving me a short glance he returned his attention to his customers.
Without waiting my turn I pushed my way past the elderly couple and
walked up to where he was standing, and grabbing his lapels I brought
my head crashing down on the bridge of his nose. Behind me I could hear
the old lady gasp, so turning round I fixed her with a look that made
both her and her husband exit the shop. I turned my attention back to
Cowan and saw that he was now sitting on the floor with his back to the
wall, holding his nose. It had burst spectacularly and left him with a
red stain across his face. The way he was sitting meant that his legs
were in front of him and lying open. So, with this being too good an
opportunity to miss, I pulled my right leg back and gave him a swift
kick in the groin. As his hands fell away from his face and onto his
groin he tumbled forward into the sawdust that covered the shop
floor.
"I'm leaving now Cowan," I told him. "But if I hear you ever lay a
fuckin' finger on her again I'll be back to finish this off,
understand?"
He half-nodded and half-groaned his agreement, then smiling to myself;
I turned and walked out of the shop.
When I got back into the car my father asked me: "Have you finished all
your errands? Can we go now?"
"Yes," I said giving myself a last, final look at the village square.
"I can go now."