Free The Walk Home by Rachel Seiffert Page A

She flicked her eyes around Eric’s shelves, thinking there must be pictures of them all in those box files, surely. Of Papa Robert. And of Franny, too, Eric’s wife; maybe she’d helped him escape? But there was nothing written on any of the spines, no titles or subjects or names, so Lindsey thought it must all be in Eric’s head. So much in there she could only guess at yet.
    He patted Stevie on the shoulder, and then he got to his feet, walking over to the desk, to where Lindsey was still standing. Eric stopped beside her, putting the Bible down next to his drawings, and then he narrowed his eyes and pointed; at the lastof the three, the one with the lizards and the monkeys, fierce and frightened, baring their teeth. He said:
    “Nae rainbow, is there? Or olive branch.”
    Lindsey searched for both and saw that he was right: just an ugly mess of life, shut inside and wanting out.
    Eric shook his head, like he was daft for forgetting that’s how the story ended, and then Lindsey wondered: maybe Papa Robert never read him that part. Her own Dad wasn’t one for olive branches. Eric told her:
    “I’ve no drawn it right.”
    Flat, like he wasn’t happy any longer with his day’s work.
    Lindsey looked down at the pictures, and they were still dark, but she saw how they were fine too, in their own way, in all the details; the wet fur and the fish scales, and the grain on the timbers in the ark. It was the way he’d drawn the city too, the spires and the shopfronts and the buses; they were all of them perfect. So she told him:
    “It’s just like Glasgow.”
    And then she felt her cheeks go hot, because it was and also it wasn’t. That’s not how she saw this place. But Eric’s pictures were good, so she’d wanted to say something good about them. And he hadn’t drawn them to preach, she knew that much, even if she didn’t know why he’d drawn them. Eric said:
    “I’ll try again. Another time.”
    Smiling at her, a bit downhearted, but like he was thanking her just the same, rolling up his pictures, twisting a rubber band tight around them. Eric had told her he drew every day, but he’d never said why, so Lindsey asked him:
    “You see that thing you said? About a man’s soul. About enjoying good in his labour. Is that from there as well?”
    She tapped the Bible, thick and shut, and Eric nodded.
    “Aye, it is. Plenty ae good lines in there. If you know where tae look. Plenty ae stories. Plenty ae humans, in aw our weakness. Nothin new under the sky, same auld failins and frailties, goin back through the ages. Gies us insight, so it does, an consolation.”
    It gave Lindsey another stab, that Eric needed consoling. Eric was lonely. Maybe that’s why he did his drawings. But how would it help to draw such dark things?
    Eric blinked at her a moment, and then he tilted his head.
    “He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.”
    He told Lindsey he was waiting.
    “I’ll draw somethin special. One day. So I will.”
    Eric said the picture wouldn’t have to be perfect:
    “It’ll cut through, but.”
    He made a slice in the air with his hand, ending with a thump in the middle of his chest.
    “Tae somethin that matters. Aye?”
    Eric held Lindsey’s eye, still shy, but steady too now, until she nodded.
    Not that she got it. Maybe one word in three. But Lindsey still wanted more: to hear the weight of Eric’s boyhood and how he’d thrown it off. Lindsey knew the old man could tell her all about escaping, give him time and half a chance.
    Only their time was up for today. Her boy was still on the sofa, both his hands up to cover a yawn; up since the crack of dawn, Lindsey thought, and trailing behind her from pillar to post. So she told him:
    “Aw, son, look at you. Best we get off home.”
    And when Stevie shook his head, Eric smiled:
    “You can come again. Nothin tae stop you. Bring your mother. Tell her I’ll draw her somethin better.”

    Stevie was quiet on the bus, in Lindsey’s arms. It