Free Walking Wounded by William McIlvanney Page B

He was a Further Education lecturer in English at Jordanhill College in Glasgow. He had been on a visit to students in Dumfries.
    â€˜I prefer taking the train when I can,’ he said. ‘You go by car, it’s just a chore, isn’t it? This way, you can turn it into a carnival. Watch. Just answer one question, that’s all we need. What do you drink?’
    He came back from the buffet with two gins and two cans of tonic for her, two whiskies and a plastic cupful of water for himself. They made a party between them. As with all good parties, the conversation went into overdrive.
    â€˜The new Glasgow?’ he said. ‘Looks like backdoor Thatcherism to me. What difference is it making to the people in the housing-schemes? How many investors invest for the good of others? That kind of investment’s the TrojanHorse, isn’t it? Oh, look, these nice punters are giving us a prezzy. Let’s bring it into the city. Then, when it’s dark, its belly opens and they all come out to loot and pillage.’
    â€˜I think maybe Manhattan ,’ she said. ‘But it’s not exactly an easy choice. I still love Play it again, Sam , that scene where the hairdrier almost blows him away. I just think he’s great. Who was it said that? Bette Midler? “You want to take him home and burp him.”’
    â€˜Maybe I just haven’t found the man,’ she said. ‘You volunteering? I’m involved at the moment, actually. But I don’t think marriage is exactly imminent.’
    â€˜It’s interesting enough,’ she said. ‘But you go to a lot of places without really seeing them. Because you’re there for one purpose. It can be like travelling in a tunnel.’
    â€˜Oh, that was the worst time,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it. Divorce? I can see what Dr Crippen was getting at. I’m not saying I agree with him. But murder must be a lot less hassle.’
    Before the buffet closed (‘Haven’t we been lucky?’ he said. ‘They usually shut it about Carlisle but the fella in the buffet’s drunk.’), she went and fetched them two more drinks. By the time they were drawing into Graithnock she had his telephone number (but he didn’t have hers) and Fran was about to say goodbye to Tom.
    Departure heightened their sense of closeness. He was helping her with her case and threatening to come with her since he felt it only right, considering how far they were along the road to marriage, that he should meet her parents. Just before he opened the door for her, he kissed her on the cheek.
    Then she was on the platform with her case beside her and he was leaning out, waving with mock drama, and she felt slightly dazed with alcohol and elation, as if she were taking part in a scene from a film in which she might be the heroine and didn’t know what would happen next, and then she turned and saw her parents.
    They were standing thirty yards away, waiting for her to notice them. They would be doing that – not for them the spontaneity of running towards her. Victor and Agnes Ritchie, informal as a letterhead. They stood slightly apart, her father with his clipped, grey military moustache, a general in the army of the genteel, her mother with that expression some unknown experience had pickled on her face countless years ago. Fran wondered again how they had acquired their ability to turn joy to a dead thing at a touch and how they had managed to pass the gift on to her. Years of hopelessness they had taught her resurfaced in her at once. She suspected the value of the pleasure she had just had.
    Her life in miniature, she thought, this journey. A promise something in her wouldn’t allow her to fulfil. She didn’t think she would be phoning him. She hoped she would but, standing there, she would have bet against it. She felt her faith in life and living evaporate. Her parents had taught her well. Maybe home is simply where