Creative Works

I found an old photo of you, sitting side-saddle on my Lambretta, smiling a perpetual smile. It triggered a train of thought, returning me to Glasgow Central to see you again, for the last time. Remembering how you spoke with a lisp. How it was more pronounced when you were angry with me for pulling up the plant that was our relationship, to see if it was still growing.

You once told me that when your Irish mother was a catholic law student in Belfast (now a senior Judge in Scotland no less), she witnessed first-hand the violence of the Black and Tans. I confessed I was not a fan of Irish history and foolishly made light of it. I told you about my regular visits to see my sister and family in the North; and the two tall sons from the farm next door who took me to dances in Orange Halls. With the innocence of ignorance, I said I’d once asked them if we could go to a Cèilidh for a change. And when I told you I’d visited Londonderry with my niece, you quickly corrected me: it's Derry you said, and smiled a knowing smile, telling me I was so full of blarney, I must have kithed the Stone.

I smiled. We both smiled. Yet I knew I was being weighed and found wanting. The Judge’s verdict was clear cut! Black and white! Like the photo of you I’m looking at now. And I am reminded of the last time I saw you smile through the window of the express to Kings Cross, and the gap I minded but never stepped across.