Dead End Street
by Alan Crossan
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A few strong ones.
Description: A story of a father and his relationships with his sons.
_____________________________________________________________________
He awoke with a start. The crack of gunshots pierced the air, grown men crying out in pain, the incessant beat of horse hooves on prairie sand. Black and white images of a cowboy movie from the fifties flickered on the television, the only light in the darkened room. How long had he been asleep? Sliding his glasses on top of his bald head, he ran a hand slowly down his face, attempting to massage life into his craggy features as the sandpaper of two day old stubble scratched dry skin from his calloused fingers.
A clatter of pots in the kitchen alerted him to the fact he was not alone. His wife had returned from work and conscious not to disturb his slumbers had gone directly to start preparations for tea. Now, the familiar aroma of chip oil wafted from the door.
‘What time is it, Grace?’ he shouted through.
‘So yir awake are ye? Archibald Campbell what are ye like?’ she replied
‘Aye but what time is it?’
‘Just gone six, I've been back half an hour.’
Just gone six? Archie had been asleep for the best part of four hours. The realisation depressed him greatly. So this was what he had been reduced to? A life of napping in front of afternoon telly. He glanced back at the screen; the closing credits of the old movie were rolling. The image took him back to his childhood, galloping out of the Scala, shooting imaginary Indians after a Saturday matinee. He wondered what his younger self would make of him now, his weapon of choice a remote control, his mount a tatty armchair - a lame horse lost in the desert with vultures circling.
‘I'm away out for a walk, need some fresh air’ he said,
‘A walk? But what about yir....’ the question cut short by the slamming of the front door.
He tip-toed through the dogshitstrewn park, icy insistent wind gnawing at his cheekbones. Birds in the heights of barren trees crowed, mocking anyone mad enough to fly the nest on such a night. He felt a tinge of guilt for running out on Grace but he had to escape the Artex oppression of those four walls.
The pub was deserted. The bored young barman stood by the pumps, distractedly polishing a pint glass. Archie sat at the bar, sipped at his pint, savouring the silence. The place was usually mobbed but on a quiet Monday its flaws were obvious. Frayed red carpet, numerous dark patches where drink had fallen, floral patterned paper coming away from the walls. A group of lads tumbled down the stairwell, laughing and joking. Archie looked up from his pint, nodding in recognition at one of the voices, his son, Robert.
‘Awright Da, can I get you another?’ he slurred.
Archie slowly took a sip from his glass before returning it to the beer mat. ‘No thanks, son, you keep your money’.
His son looked bewildered, ‘Come on Da, I only want to buy you a pint, I'm sure I can stretch.’
‘If you can stretch to spending all your cash in this shit hole, then how’s about contributing at home?’
His son spread his arms out in mock surrender and shrugged. ‘You know Ma won't take anything off me.’
‘Aye like you've tried!’ Archie fought to control his anger, ‘It's changed days my boy and I've no seen you offering.’
‘You never said...’
‘I shouldnae have to say. Here's me crediting you with some brains but you've shown a lack of those lately.’
‘Whit’s that supposed to mean?’ his son puffed out his chest, squaring up to his father like a boxer at a weigh in.
‘It means yir a waster son, all that money coming in and whit do you do? Pish it away with these reprobates.’ Archie gestured towards the mates retreating to the far end of the pub. They congregated by the jukebox, feigning an interest in the songs scrolling across the screen, happy to avoid the bust up brewing at the bar.
The laughter from his son was derisive, ‘And explain how that’s different from whit your doing?’
‘The difference is, ya wee arsehole, I've worked from the age of fifteen all the hours under...’
‘And whit did ye get for it? Booted out the door without so much as a thank you!’
Archie ignored the dig and ploughed on regardless, ‘I worked all the hours under the sun so you wouldnae have to. I've tried to provide so ye wirnae stuck in this dead end...’
‘Ah fuck off Da, I've heard all this before. I'm just a young guy enjoying life.’
It was Archie's turn to laugh. ‘A young guy? A young guy? Yir thirty years old son, when I was your age I had a wife and kid. I wisnae living at home, leeching aff mammy.
‘Yir ma's too soft,’ he continued. ‘If it was up to me I'd have chucked ye out years ago. I'm getting close now.’
‘Aye right, yir all talk, old man. Ma would go mental. The sun shines out ma arse as far as she's concerned. She'd see you out first,’ Robert smirked.
Archie slammed his empty glass down on the bar, sending dry roasted peanuts flying. ‘All talk is it? We'll see son, we'll see. We both know why she’s that way and it's nothing you've ever done.’
His son's smile disappeared in an instant as he grabbed Archie by the jacket, face so close he could smell the stale beer. ‘You always hold that against me. I can't be him, as much as you'd want me to.’ Archie pushed him away and without looking back, escaped into the cold night, alone once more with his thoughts.
‘Ashes to ashes...’ the minister intoned as the dirt fell from his hand, covering the small white coffin below, ‘dust to dust.’ Surrounded by family and friends, Archie stood alone at the head of the grave, death carved in the stone of his face. He had acted as solitary pall bearer, selfishly hoarding his grief, unable to share his pain with even his wife. A comforting hand was placed on his shoulder but he barely noticed, continuing to stare down at the coffin, willing it to burst open with young Archie junior giggling at the joke he'd played, but the grave remained immune to his wishes. The boy was gone. Only two years old.
All his dreams for his son were buried with him. Here was a boy destined to play centre forward for the Rangers and Scotland. After he was born, when they brought him home from the hospital and laid him in his cot, Archie hung a small pair of leather boots above his head.
As soon as the child could walk, a ball was rolled at his feet. Staggering like a late night drunk crossing George Square, he kicked the ball towards his proud dad’s imaginary goalposts. Archie scooped him up and ran around the living room, mimicking the roar of the crowd:
‘And Campbell scores the winner in the World Cup final, whit a player this boy is.’
‘Yir no asking much, are ye?’
‘Just you wait Grace, just wait and see what this wee man will do.’
The other mourners walked back down the hill towards their cars, shielding their eyes from the low sun as it disappeared behind the snow peaked hills, ghosts of their whispered conversation escaping in the cold, January air. Archie lingered by the grave side. Impotent anger rose up inside him like bile; he wanted to lash out but had nowhere to aim. He swallowed it down, punishing himself instead.
Grace stood a few paces behind, watching in silence as her husband tore off his black tie and threw it in the dirt, her gloved hands cradling her growing bump.
Thirty years on he was hollow, his feelings scooped out, leaving only the empty shell of the container. He couldn't ever love anyone as much as he had loved his first born, he would never allow himself to feel that pain again. He needed another pint. Drink helped him forget, if even for a short time, it anaesthetised the painful memories.
He stepped out onto the road, the light from a large red T guiding him on.
Swearwords: A few strong ones.
Description: A story of a father and his relationships with his sons.
_____________________________________________________________________
He awoke with a start. The crack of gunshots pierced the air, grown men crying out in pain, the incessant beat of horse hooves on prairie sand. Black and white images of a cowboy movie from the fifties flickered on the television, the only light in the darkened room. How long had he been asleep? Sliding his glasses on top of his bald head, he ran a hand slowly down his face, attempting to massage life into his craggy features as the sandpaper of two day old stubble scratched dry skin from his calloused fingers.
A clatter of pots in the kitchen alerted him to the fact he was not alone. His wife had returned from work and conscious not to disturb his slumbers had gone directly to start preparations for tea. Now, the familiar aroma of chip oil wafted from the door.
‘What time is it, Grace?’ he shouted through.
‘So yir awake are ye? Archibald Campbell what are ye like?’ she replied
‘Aye but what time is it?’
‘Just gone six, I've been back half an hour.’
Just gone six? Archie had been asleep for the best part of four hours. The realisation depressed him greatly. So this was what he had been reduced to? A life of napping in front of afternoon telly. He glanced back at the screen; the closing credits of the old movie were rolling. The image took him back to his childhood, galloping out of the Scala, shooting imaginary Indians after a Saturday matinee. He wondered what his younger self would make of him now, his weapon of choice a remote control, his mount a tatty armchair - a lame horse lost in the desert with vultures circling.
‘I'm away out for a walk, need some fresh air’ he said,
‘A walk? But what about yir....’ the question cut short by the slamming of the front door.
He tip-toed through the dogshitstrewn park, icy insistent wind gnawing at his cheekbones. Birds in the heights of barren trees crowed, mocking anyone mad enough to fly the nest on such a night. He felt a tinge of guilt for running out on Grace but he had to escape the Artex oppression of those four walls.
The pub was deserted. The bored young barman stood by the pumps, distractedly polishing a pint glass. Archie sat at the bar, sipped at his pint, savouring the silence. The place was usually mobbed but on a quiet Monday its flaws were obvious. Frayed red carpet, numerous dark patches where drink had fallen, floral patterned paper coming away from the walls. A group of lads tumbled down the stairwell, laughing and joking. Archie looked up from his pint, nodding in recognition at one of the voices, his son, Robert.
‘Awright Da, can I get you another?’ he slurred.
Archie slowly took a sip from his glass before returning it to the beer mat. ‘No thanks, son, you keep your money’.
His son looked bewildered, ‘Come on Da, I only want to buy you a pint, I'm sure I can stretch.’
‘If you can stretch to spending all your cash in this shit hole, then how’s about contributing at home?’
His son spread his arms out in mock surrender and shrugged. ‘You know Ma won't take anything off me.’
‘Aye like you've tried!’ Archie fought to control his anger, ‘It's changed days my boy and I've no seen you offering.’
‘You never said...’
‘I shouldnae have to say. Here's me crediting you with some brains but you've shown a lack of those lately.’
‘Whit’s that supposed to mean?’ his son puffed out his chest, squaring up to his father like a boxer at a weigh in.
‘It means yir a waster son, all that money coming in and whit do you do? Pish it away with these reprobates.’ Archie gestured towards the mates retreating to the far end of the pub. They congregated by the jukebox, feigning an interest in the songs scrolling across the screen, happy to avoid the bust up brewing at the bar.
The laughter from his son was derisive, ‘And explain how that’s different from whit your doing?’
‘The difference is, ya wee arsehole, I've worked from the age of fifteen all the hours under...’
‘And whit did ye get for it? Booted out the door without so much as a thank you!’
Archie ignored the dig and ploughed on regardless, ‘I worked all the hours under the sun so you wouldnae have to. I've tried to provide so ye wirnae stuck in this dead end...’
‘Ah fuck off Da, I've heard all this before. I'm just a young guy enjoying life.’
It was Archie's turn to laugh. ‘A young guy? A young guy? Yir thirty years old son, when I was your age I had a wife and kid. I wisnae living at home, leeching aff mammy.
‘Yir ma's too soft,’ he continued. ‘If it was up to me I'd have chucked ye out years ago. I'm getting close now.’
‘Aye right, yir all talk, old man. Ma would go mental. The sun shines out ma arse as far as she's concerned. She'd see you out first,’ Robert smirked.
Archie slammed his empty glass down on the bar, sending dry roasted peanuts flying. ‘All talk is it? We'll see son, we'll see. We both know why she’s that way and it's nothing you've ever done.’
His son's smile disappeared in an instant as he grabbed Archie by the jacket, face so close he could smell the stale beer. ‘You always hold that against me. I can't be him, as much as you'd want me to.’ Archie pushed him away and without looking back, escaped into the cold night, alone once more with his thoughts.
‘Ashes to ashes...’ the minister intoned as the dirt fell from his hand, covering the small white coffin below, ‘dust to dust.’ Surrounded by family and friends, Archie stood alone at the head of the grave, death carved in the stone of his face. He had acted as solitary pall bearer, selfishly hoarding his grief, unable to share his pain with even his wife. A comforting hand was placed on his shoulder but he barely noticed, continuing to stare down at the coffin, willing it to burst open with young Archie junior giggling at the joke he'd played, but the grave remained immune to his wishes. The boy was gone. Only two years old.
All his dreams for his son were buried with him. Here was a boy destined to play centre forward for the Rangers and Scotland. After he was born, when they brought him home from the hospital and laid him in his cot, Archie hung a small pair of leather boots above his head.
As soon as the child could walk, a ball was rolled at his feet. Staggering like a late night drunk crossing George Square, he kicked the ball towards his proud dad’s imaginary goalposts. Archie scooped him up and ran around the living room, mimicking the roar of the crowd:
‘And Campbell scores the winner in the World Cup final, whit a player this boy is.’
‘Yir no asking much, are ye?’
‘Just you wait Grace, just wait and see what this wee man will do.’
The other mourners walked back down the hill towards their cars, shielding their eyes from the low sun as it disappeared behind the snow peaked hills, ghosts of their whispered conversation escaping in the cold, January air. Archie lingered by the grave side. Impotent anger rose up inside him like bile; he wanted to lash out but had nowhere to aim. He swallowed it down, punishing himself instead.
Grace stood a few paces behind, watching in silence as her husband tore off his black tie and threw it in the dirt, her gloved hands cradling her growing bump.
Thirty years on he was hollow, his feelings scooped out, leaving only the empty shell of the container. He couldn't ever love anyone as much as he had loved his first born, he would never allow himself to feel that pain again. He needed another pint. Drink helped him forget, if even for a short time, it anaesthetised the painful memories.
He stepped out onto the road, the light from a large red T guiding him on.
About the Author
Born in Paisley, Alan Crossan now lives in Barrhead near Glasgow. He is a member of the Glasgow Writers group, which meets fortnightly to discuss new work. He writes mostly short stories and flash fiction, but is currently struggling through a first novel set in Argentina during the 1978 World Cup.