All the Colours of the Town by McIlvanney Liam

Author:McIlvanney, Liam [McIlvanney, Liam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Scotland
ISBN: 9780571278510
Publisher: Faber and Faber
Published: 2011-03-16T13:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The restaurant was large but I spotted John Rose straight away, his bleached poll glowing like a struck match. A pained look crossed his face and I smiled to show it was all right but he turned away. A waiter blocked my path and in the time it took him to hoist two bowls of chowder past my nose I nearly turned for the door. But Rose had seen me so I carried on, picking my way through the tables with my smile tightening.

It must be a do, an occasion, a party of sorts. Twelve or thirteen men, their jackets slung on chair backs. I was conscious of the mess on my face, the green-and-red graze on my cheek, still tacky to the touch. Was this a birthday lunch? Somebody’s retirement? A glinting cityscape of bottles extended down the tablecloth.

The faces were turned to the head of the table where Down-in-the-mouth Macpherson was telling a story. Bent low, his chin almost flush with the table, his big hands waggling like antennae. Buttery sunlight caught the facets of his bald head. The story was reaching its climax. I hung back but Macpherson waved me forward, procured an extra chair, and summoned a fresh glass of red, all with his fluent hands and without disarranging his syntax. In a minute I was seated, like one of the boys, with a great globe of wine in my hand, nosing its rich vanilla. ‘No problem, my darling,’ Macpherson said. ‘Just give me a minute to pack!’ He reared back. The glasses clanked under the wave of mirth that crashed over the table. The diners came to life all at once, laughing in great winded heaves. I smiled foolishly round, nodded gormlessly at the faces as they raged in savage glee, gagging for breath, the red mouths chewing the air.

When groans and sighs brought the table back to earth, everyone looked at me. I felt my sobriety like a skin colour, like a separate nationality. I gulped at the great glass of wine and some of it slopped on my shirt. I wiped it down with a napkin.

Macpherson did the intros. Simmonds was there, and Malachy Kane. The others dipped their heads or smiled tightly or tipped two fingers to their temples in mock salute while Macpherson said their names.

‘Gerry’s from the Glasgow Tribune,’ Macpherson said. ‘He’s working on a story. Is that right, John boy?’

Rose stiffened.

‘You holding out on us, Rosie?’ someone said. ‘That’s not very Protestant, boyo.’

‘You find out who you’re friends are,’ said someone else. ‘A time like this.’

‘Give him a break, fellas,’ said Macpherson, tipping more wine into my glass. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing in it. I’m sure this big lad from Glasgow would tell his friends if there’s something they ought to know. Though it looks like he’s already seen some action.’

They all looked at me. I tried a laugh. ‘I’m saying nothing.’ I fingered my raw graze; gummy, like a sucked sweet.

‘Give us a clue then, John boy?’

Rose was flushed.

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