Scotland

Chapter I: The Nativitie Beneath the Star

Upon a nicht o grievous wind an rain,

In Scotland—that stern, unyieldin lan—

Whaur auld tenements, wi age an want made plain,

Leant doon like penitents at Fate's command,

A bairn wis born.

 

The chaumer, puir an spare,

Held nane o splendour, yet wis ordered weel;

For though want's discipline lay heavy there,

The mither's care wad never bend nor kneel.

Nae gilded ease adorned that meagre place—

A chair, a bed, a kettle worn wi years—

Yet a' wis kept wi grave, deliberate grace,

As though sic tending sanctified their fears.

 

The faither sat beside the narrow door,

An counted coins as priests micht count their beads;

Ilk copper, though it scarce could promise mair,

Wis weighed wi a' the solemn weight o needs.

"We'll thole it yet," he said—nae boast, nae cry,

But quiet as the truths that dinnae die.

 

"Aye, what we hae, we gie," the mither said,

An in her voice lay something deeper still;

For want may starve the flesh, an leave it bare,

But cannae bend a steadfast, gien will.

 

Then cam the pains.

 

Nae sudden storm alone,

But like a tide that kens nae ebb nor rest;

An wi it cam a stillness, strange an grown,

That laid the restless warld tae solemn test.

The wind drew back, as if in reverence stayed;

The lichts held firm, nor flickered in their frame;

An Time itsel, in hushéd pause arrayed,

Seemed bound within an unco, sacred claim.

 

Abune the roofs, whaur broken chimleys stand,

A single star took hold within the sky—

Nae wanderin spark, but steady, sure, an planned,

As though it watched wi auld, unblinkin eye.

 

The bairn wis born.

 

Nae wild, discordant cry,

But breath drawn deep, as if the soul kent mair;

A sound sae low it seemed tae pass us by,

Yet filled the room wi something rare an rare.

 

An then—they cam.

 

Nae shadow, dream, nor art,

But manifest, as ony livin frame;

They stood as those wha never truly pairt

Frae earth, though Death has laid its quiet claim.

 

The crofters first—frae lands o peat an loss,

Whaur hunger carved its memory in the banes;

Ane bowed his heid, an spak in tempered breath,

His een still hauldin a' they'd borne an kent:

"We ken this bairn—the wecht o what he'll dree,

The kind o kenning only want has lent."

 

Then cam the men o Culloden—nae fierce,

Nae sharpened tae the pitch o mortal pride,

But hushed, as grief grown lang enough turns clear,

Their sorrow settled, purified, an wide.

Ane bent the knee, an said nae mair than this:

"A crown wis broken—but no this ane."

 

The miners rose, as if frae earth itsel—

Nae speechifiers, but men o practised daurk;

They laid their haunds alang the bairn's wee frame,

The way ye test a seam, or feel a spark.

Said naethin. Stepped awa. That wis enough.

 

An last, the builders—broad as iron cast,

Wha shaped the hulls that bore the warld awa;

They stood like pillars Time could never waste,

An bowed, as if tae some unwritten law.

"Here stands a grund," ane murmured, grave an slow,

"On whilk the unseen architecturs grow."

 

The pairents stood.

 

Nae terror seized their frame,

Nor did they shrink frae what their sicht beheld;

For though they owned but poverty an name,

Their inward wealth nae outward want compelled.

 

"Ye hae but little," said the crofter then.

"Aye," said the mither, "yet we gie it a'."

"An sae," he said, "ye stand abune maist men—

For sic as this nae empire e'er could draw."

 

The faither spak, his voice near broke wi care:

"Will he endure the weight that ye declare?"

 

A pause then fell—nae doubt, nae mortal dread,

But judgment rare, wi solemn measure gien:

"He shall no merely live," at last wis said—

"He shall be needed—baith by earth an heaven."

 

The bairn then opened een baith still an wide,

An met their gaze wi something nane could hide.

 

The star burned on.

 

Then cam the mortal cry—

Sharp, sudden, wholly bairn an wholly true;

The mither laughed, though weariness lay by

Her limbs wi pain that few could ever rue.

"Saint or nae saint," she said wi tender art,

"He'll greet an feed—like ony mortal heart."

 

The spirits smiled—nae vanished, nae, but drawn

Back through the veil whaur memory keeps its claim;

Nae lost—but waitin for another dawn,

When flesh recalls what ance it couldnae name.

⸻

The hoose grew quiet. Want resumed its place

Beside the chair, the kettle, an the door;

The star withdrew its unco, borrowed grace,

An left them tae the life they'd lived afore—

 

Save that the bairn lay breathin in the dark,

An something in the room refused tae leave;

Nae presence ye could name, nor fix, nor mark—

The way a candle lingers efter eve.

⸻

Three years passed, an want remained their guest,

Yet order held, an guidness didnae yield;

The bairn grew slight, yet bore within his breast

A depth nae common measure could reveal.

 

Within the close, beneath the tempered sky,

He stood wi baw upon the hardened grun;

Nae herald marked the deed, nor reason why

The warld itsel seemed gathered, all as ane.

 

He loosed the baw.

 

A measured touch—then twa.

 

An Time drew still, as if compelled tae heed;

The air leaned in, as though it felt some law

That bound the sicht tae something mair than deed.

 

The count rose slow—unbroken, sure, an clean;

Nae falter marked the rhythm o his play;

An those wha watched perceived what lay unseen—

A form o order nane could weel gainsay.

 

At last—ane hundred.

 

Silence held the air.

 

He stilled the baw, an raised his gaze abune—

Nae tae the crowd, nor what wis present there,

But tae the star that marked him frae the moon.

 

Then spak—nae boast, nae triumph in his tone:

 

"Again."

 

As though the word wis no his ain.

Chapter II: The Wan wi the Baw

The pitch wisnae much—

a scabbit rectangle

ahint the primary school,

goalposts bent like auld men

wha'd gien up arguing wi the wind,

netting lang since gone

tae someone's windae or a dug.

 

The grun wis hard in winter,

baked tae plates in simmer,

an in between—which wis maist o the year—

a smir o dubs an chewed-up grass

the colour o auld broth.

 

He didnae mind.

 

He'd played on worse—

the close mooth, the car park ahint the Spar,

the strip o wastegrun aff Maryhill Road

whaur the baw aye foond the only broken gless.

 

He wis seven.

 

He wore the school strip—

yellae, wi a crack doon the front

whaur somebody's maw

had ironed it ower-keen—

an shin-pads held wi sellotape,

an boots a size too big

stuffed at the tae wi newspaper.

 

He didnae mind that either.

⸻

It began, as maist things dae in Glasgow,

wi naebody expectin much.

 

A Tuesday. Elevenish.

The maister blawin his whistle

wi the enthusiasm o a man

wha'd raither be onywhere else.

Sax-a-side. Twenty meenits each wey.

The usual.

 

Except.

 

By the third meenit

the heidmaister had left his office windae

an wis staunin in the cauld

wi his airms folded,

watchin.

 

By the fifth,

a dinner lady had set her tray doon

an forgotten aboot it.

 

By the tenth,

there wis a wumman frae the hooses opposite

leanin ower her gate

wi her coat nae properly on,

as if she'd meant tae go in again

but couldnae quite mind why.

 

Naebody sent for onybody.

Naebody pit it on a group chat.

Naebody said—come an see this.

 

They just cam.

⸻

A retired postie wha walked the same loop every day

felt his feet take the wrang turnin

an foond himsel at the railins

wi his haunds through the wire

like a man at a match he'd paid guid money for.

 

A delivery driver pulled ower.

Left his hazards on.

Sat on his bumper.

 

Two auld fellas frae the bookies roon the corner

stood in their shirtsleeves in November

an never once complained aboot the cauld.

 

By hauf-time—if ye could cry it that,

the maister jist blawin his whistle

an the boys staunin aboot breathless—

there wis near twa hunner folk

ranged alang the railins an the wa'

an up on the grassy bank abune,

an some wha'd climbed the bins tae see ower.

 

Nae ane o them could've tellt ye

wi ony certainty

what they were daein there.

⸻

Here is what the baw did when he touched it:

 

It stilled.

 

No slow—stilled.

The wey a dug stills

when it hears its ain name

in a stranger's mooth.

 

An then it went

exactly whaur he meant it.

 

No near enough.

No roughly.

Exactly.

 

Roon the left side o a boy twice his size

wha'd pivoted the wrang wey

afore he'd even moved.

 

Through a gap

that wisnae there

until it wis.

 

Past the keeper—

a wee lad wi gloves too big,

wha'd dived the right wey

an still missed it—

 

an intae the corner o the goal

wi a sound like a door

bein shut, clean, in a quiet hoose.

⸻

He scored twenty.

 

No in a romp—

the other team had boys,

real enough boys, tryin hard enough,

an some o them were greetin by the end,

which naebody wantit.

 

But he scored twenty.

 

An each wan wis different.

As if repetition

wis beneath the consideration

o whatever wis workin through him.

 

The retired postie at the railins

said nothing for a long while.

Then said, tae naebody in particular:

 

"I seen Maradona. '82. On the telly.

I'm no sayin.

I'm jist sayin."

 

An the man beside him—

wha he'd never met afore

an widnae see again—

jist nodded,

the wey ye nod

when a thing disnae need

the weight o words on it.

⸻

At the final whistle

the boy stood in the middle o the pitch

wi his haunds on his knees,

breathin hard,

jist a boy breathin hard.

 

He looked up at the railins—

at the twa hunner folk

wha had nae real reason tae be there—

an his face did

what a seven-year-auld's face does

when it sees something unexpected:

 

went pure rid.

 

"Mister," he said tae the maister,

loud enough for the nearest few tae hear,

 

"how come there's aw they folk?"

 

The maister looked at him.

Looked at the crowd.

Looked back.

 

Said: "I dinnae ken, son.

I genuinely dinnae ken."

⸻

That efternoon

his maw met him at the gates

wi his wee brother on her hip

an a message bag frae the Co-op.

 

"How wis yer day?"

 

"Aw right," he said.

"We won."

 

"Did ye score?"

 

He shrugged,

the wey seven-year-aulds shrug—

aw shoulder, nae neck.

 

"A few."

 

She shifted his brother tae the other hip

an took his haund

an they walked hame through Maryhill

past the bookies,

past the Spar,

past the wastegrun aff the road

whaur the baw aye foond the broken gless.

 

The street wis jist a street.

He wis jist a boy.

 

An the star—

if it wis there at aw—

wisnae the kind

ye'd notice

on a Tuesday efternoon

in November

in Glasgow.

 

But it wis there.

Chapter III: The Message Run

The Aldi wis on Saracen Street,

a twenty meenit walk

if ye didnae hae a buggy,

twenty-five if ye did,

thirty if the wee ane

decided halfway

he wisnae for walkin

an sat doon on the pavement

wi the absolute conviction

o someone wha has made

a final decision.

 

They went on a Thursday.

Thursday wis the day

the yellow stickers went on—

the mince, the rolls, the value cheese—

an his maw knew the rotation

the way other folk know train times

or lottery numbers.

 

She had twelve pound forty-seven.

She knew it wisnae enough.

She went anyway.

⸻

His name wis Kieran.

 

He wis seven,

which we already know,

but it bears repeating here

because seven is the age

at which ye are auld enough

tae understand

that something is wrang

but young enough

tae believe

it willnae always be.

 

He pushed the trolley.

 

This wis his job.

He wis good at it—

steerin wi wan haund,

runnin a wee bit

on the straight bits

between the aisles,

lettin it coast,

his feet up on the bar

at the back

like a man on a scooter

wha has earned his rest.

 

His maw walked ahead

wi the wee ane on her hip—

always the wee ane on her hip,

always the same hip,

so that her right shoulder

sat a hauf-inch lower

than her left,

the wey the body learns

tae carry what it's gien.

⸻

She wis twenty-six.

 

She looked older,

the way poverty ages ye—

no in a dramatic way,

no in the way films show it,

but in small specific ways:

the line between her brows

that wisnae a frown

but had stayed anyway,

the chap on her haunds

frae the cauld flat

an the cheap soap,

the way she read the shelves

wi the absolute focus

o someone for whom

a mistake o thirty pence

is no a mistake

but a consequence.

 

She hadnae finished school.

No through want o trying—

she could read fine,

could add in her heid

faster than most,

had a memory

for prices, bus times, appointment letters,

the reference numbers

on the brown envelopes

that came on Fridays—

but school had ended

when her maw got sick

an someone had tae

an she wis the eldest

an that wis that.

 

She never said she'd been unlucky.

She never said much aboot it at aw.

She jist got on,

the wey the women in her family

had always got on,

which is tae say

wi nae particular fuss

an a complete absence

o any alternative.

⸻

His faither wisnae there.

 

He wisnae a bad man.

This matters,

because it would be easy

an untrue

tae make him wan.

 

He wis jist gone—

gone the wey men go

when the shame o havin nothin

becomes heavier

than the love o the folk

they've left wi nothin,

an the bottle

becomes the only room

in the hoose

whaur naebody's disappointed in ye.

 

He sent money when he had it.

He didnae have it often.

When he did,

it came in a card

wi a fitba team on the front

an twenty pound inside

an his name signed

like he wis signin somethin official,

like the name itsel

wis a kind o apology.

 

Kieran kept the cards.

In a shoebox under his bed.

He didnae know why.

He jist did.

⸻

His maw lifted the mince.

Yellow sticker. Eighty-nine pence.

She turned it ower twice

the wey she always did—

checkin the date,

checkin the weight,

checkin it wis worth

the space it would take

in the bag

an the pot

an the week.

 

It wis.

 

She put it in the trolley

an Kieran steered them

roon the corner

intae the cereal aisle

whaur everything wis almost right

but no quite—

the own-brand cornflakes

that were almost cornflakes,

the own-brand juice

that wis almost juice,

the own-brand everything

that sat on the shelf

like a copy o a thing

made by folk

wha'd only ever heard

the thing described.

 

She lifted the cornflakes.

She lifted the juice.

She lifted the bread—

the plain kind,

the kind that costs

eighty-two pence

an tastes like

what bread would taste like

if bread had given up.

 

She did the sums in her heid.

She put the juice back.

Lifted the smaller wan.

Did the sums again.

 

Kieran watched her

the way he always watched her—

quiet,

wi something in his face

that wisnae sadness exactly

but wis the beginning

o understanding

what sadness is for.

⸻

The boots were on an end-of-aisle display

that had nae business bein there—

a cardboard stand,

Aldi's ain brand,

six ninety-nine,

wi a wee strip o Velcro

instead o laces

for the smaller sizes.

 

He saw them

frae the far end o the aisle.

 

He didnae say anything.

He didnae stop pushin the trolley.

He jist looked,

the way ye look at things

ye've learned already

arena for you—

quick, an then away,

like lookin at the sun.

 

His maw saw him look.

 

She looked at the boots.

She looked at the twelve pound forty-seven

she wis already ower

in her heid.

 

She looked away.

⸻

The security guard's name wis Derek.

 

He wis fifty-three,

he'd worked the Saracen Street Aldi

for eleven years,

he'd seen everything

an believed in nothing much—

not in the capacity o a man

made cruel by disappointment,

but in the quiet capacity

o a man

wha had learned

that the world is roughly

what it looks like,

an had made his peace wi that.

 

He stood at the end o the aisle

wi his haunds clasped

behind his back

an his eyes on the shop floor

the way eyes are on a thing

when they're no really on it—

 

an then something happened

that Derek would never

quite be able

tae account for.

 

No in a dramatic way.

No in the way that stories tell it.

 

His shoelace came undoon.

 

He looked doon.

 

He bent tae tie it.

 

An when he bent—

his angle changed,

his sightline dropped,

his attention narrowed

tae the simple ancient problem

o the lace,

the loop,

the crossin ower,

the tuckin through—

 

an in that hauf-meenit

o complete ordinary

human concentration,

 

the mince went intae the big pocket

o his maw's good coat—

the wan she wore for appointments,

for meetins wi the school,

for the kind o days

when ye need folk

tae see ye

as someone

wha has things

under control.

 

The bread went in efter it.

 

The cornflakes—

too big, too loud, too risky—

stayed in the trolley.

 

An the boots—

size three, Velcro,

still in their box—

 

were placed, wi some care,

beneath the wee ane

in the trolley seat,

covered wi the maw's message bag,

the way ye cover somethin

ye canna look at directly

for too long.

 

Kieran pushed the trolley.

 

He didnae know.

 

He wis seven,

an he wis thinkin

aboot the straight bit

at the end o the aisle

whaur ye could get a good run

an lift yer feet

an coast.

⸻

Derek stood up.

 

He straightened his jacket.

He looked at the shop floor.

 

His eyes passed ower them—

the wumman wi the wee ane on her hip,

the boy wi his feet up on the trolley bar,

coastin through the last aisle

wi his airms oot

like someone who has briefly,

completely,

forgotten everything

except the speed

an the wheels

an the moment.

 

Derek watched him.

 

Something moved in his face—

no much,

the way not much

moves in the face

o a man

wha has learned tae keep things

where he put them.

 

He looked away.

 

He clasped his haunds

behind his back.

 

He walked the other way.

⸻

At the checkout

his maw put the cornflakes on the belt,

an the juice,

an the value cheese,

an the things

that were meant tae be there.

 

She paid nine pound twelve.

 

She got three pound thirty-five change

an folded it

intae the wee zip pocket

inside her purse

whaur she kept

the things

she might actually need.

 

Kieran pushed the trolley tae the door.

 

The wee ane grabbed the bar

an tried tae chew it.

 

His maw took him aff the bar.

 

They went oot intae Saracen Street,

intae the November,

intae the walk hame

that wis twenty-five meenits

wi the buggy

if the wee ane cooperated.

 

He didnae cooperate.

⸻

That night,

efter the mince an the tatties,

efter the wee ane wis doon,

his maw sat at the kitchen table

wi a cup o tea she'd made

frae a bag she'd already used that mornin

an the boots in front o her

still in their box.

 

She looked at them

for a long while.

 

Then she called him through.

 

He stood in the kitchen

in his socks

wi the waistband o his pyjamas

folded doon

the way he always wore them,

she'd no idea why,

she'd stopped askin.

 

She opened the box.

 

She didnae say:

these fell aff a lorry

or dinnae ask

or any o the other things

ye say

when ye cannae say

the true thing.

 

She jist held them oot.

 

He looked at them.

 

They were the maist beautiful thing

he had ever seen—

which sounds like an exaggeration

an isnae.

 

He sat doon on the kitchen flair

an put them on.

 

They fit.

 

No nearly.

No roughly.

They fit

the way things fit

when something other than chance

has been at work—

exact,

an right,

an entirely

as if they'd always

been his.

 

He stood up in them.

Took two steps.

Looked up at her.

 

She wis watchin him

wi the expression

she kept

for the things

she couldnae afford

tae feel too much o—

 

"Maw.

They're pure brilliant."

 

An she laughed—

a real laugh,

the kind

that comes up from somewhere

ye'd forgotten wis still there—

 

an said:

"Aye, son.

They are."

⸻

Later,

when he wis asleep,

she sat back doon at the table.

 

She drank her tea.

She looked at the empty box.

 

Outside,

Saracen Street wis jist Saracen Street—

the orange lamps,

the last bus,

a dug barkin somewhere

three streets ower,

the particular silence

o a city

that hasnae stopped

but has at least

paused

tae draw breath.

 

She didnae pray.

She wisnae that kind.

 

But she sat wi her haunds flat on the table

an her eyes closed

for a meenit—

 

jist a meenit—

 

the way ye might

if something had gone right

for once,

an ye didnae want

tae move too fast

in case it noticed.

Chapter IV: The Bard o Saracen Street

Room 14 wis on the second flair

o a school built in 1973

by someone wha believed

that children learned best

in a building

that looked like

it wis punishing them

for something.

 

Concrete.

Lang windaes that opened

only at the top,

operated by a pole

naebody could find,

so that the room wis either

baltic

or tropical

wi nothing in between.

 

Thirty-two desks

in six rows

that were supposed tae be

in four rows

but which had been rearranged

sometime in October

and had, by some principle

o institutional drift,

never gone back.

 

On the waw:

a poster o Rabbie Burns

that someone had gied a moustache to,

a laminated sheet o punctuation rules

wi the apostrophe example

peeling at the corner,

and a world map

frae which Australia

had detached itself entirely

and slid doon ahint the radiator,

where it had presumably

been since 2019.

⸻

Miss Hendry arrived at eight fifty-two,

which wis eight minutes before the bell

and forty minutes before

she would fully understand

what she wis dealing wi.

 

She wis twenty-seven.

She had a first class degree

in English Literature

frae St Andrews,

a postgraduate teaching qualification,

a good annotated edition

o Romeo and Juliet

wi her notes still in the margins

frae her third year seminar,

and the particular kind o confidence

that belongs tae someone

wha hasnae yet had it

specifically addressed.

 

She liked these kids.

This matters.

She genuinely liked them—

their noise, their energy,

the way they came in

like weather,

like something

ye couldnae predict

or fully prepare for

but which wis

absolutely, undeniably

alive.

 

She set oot the books.

She wrote the learning intention on the board

in her good handwriting:

Today we will explore how Shakespeare uses language to convey emotion.

 

She stood back and looked at it.

 

She felt ready.

⸻

They came in at nine hundred miles an hour.

 

Kieran first—

because Kieran wis always first,

no because he wis keen

but because he walked fast

and thought about other things,

so he arrived places

before he'd decided tae.

 

Behind him, Ryan Gallacher—

known universally as Gall—

wha entered every room

as if he'd been announced,

as if there wis a fanfare

only he could hear,

already talking,

already performing,

already three exchanges intae

a conversation

that naebody else had started yet.

 

"Miss. Miss. Miss.

Did ye see the game last night Miss.

Four-wan Miss.

Four-WAN.

The keeper pure—

sorry Miss, the goalkeeper,

he jist—

his haunds went the wrang wey Miss.

His ain haunds.

Like they'd made a separate decision."

 

"Good morning Ryan."

 

"Good morning Miss

is it true we're daein Shakespeare

because ma da says Shakespeare

is just English folk

talkin funny

an he went tae school an aw Miss

so."

⸻

Then Isla McCabe,

wha sat beside Kieran

and had, since primary four,

operated as a kind o

editorial conscience

for everything he said—

quick, contained,

wi a way o looking at ye

sideways

that meant she'd already thought

three steps ahead

o wherever ye currently were.

 

She sat doon,

looked at the board,

looked at Miss Hendry,

looked at her jotter,

said nothing,

which in Isla's case

wis a complete sentence.

 

Then Wee Paul—

Paul Docherty,

called Wee Paul

not because he wis particularly small

but because there wis a Big Paul

in second year

and the nomenclature

had simply followed him

through the school gates

like a dug

that wisnae his.

 

Wee Paul had glasses,

a school jumper

two sizes too big

that his maw had bought for growing into

in August

and which he had not yet,

in November,

grown into,

and a disposition

toward earnest effort

that the universe

appeared tae find amusing—

 

he tried harder than anyone,

got further than maist,

arrived nonetheless

at approximately

the same destination.

 

He sat doon next tae Gall.

He opened his jotter.

He found his pencil.

He looked at the board.

He read the learning intention

wi the full sincerity

of someone who intended

tae learn it.

⸻

By nine-o-five

the room wis full

and Miss Hendry

had asked for quiet

four times

in four different registers—

conversational,

encouraging,

firm,

and the particular frequency

that isnae quite a shout

but which occupies

the same zip code.

 

"Right," she said.

"Romeo and Juliet."

 

"Miss," said Gall,

"is this the wan whaur they baith die."

 

"It is, yes."

 

"So we know how it ends."

 

"We do, but—"

 

"So whit's the point Miss."

 

"The point, Ryan, is the journey.

The language. The—"

 

"Miss ma journey's a twenty meenit bus

and naebody's written a play aboot that."

 

Laughter.

The specific laughter o thirty-two children

wha recognise something true

bein said aboot them.

 

Miss Hendry waited it oot.

She wis good at waiting.

She'd learned that in week two.

⸻

She read the opening.

 

Her voice wis good—

she'd practiced,

she knew the rhythm,

she believed in the words

the way ye believe in something

ye've spent years wi,

the way it becomes

part o how ye think.

 

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

 

She looked up.

 

Thirty-two faces.

 

The faces of people

who had heard a sound

they could not locate

the source of—

polite,

not hostile,

genuinely attempting

tae find somewhere

tae put this information.

 

Wee Paul had written

too howseholds

in his jotter

and was studying it

with the expression of a man

who knows something is wrong

but cannot identify what.

 

Isla had written nothing.

She was watching Miss Hendry

with the careful attention

of someone

trying to understand

what this meant to her—

not the words,

but the fact

that this woman

clearly loved the words.

That wis interesting.

That wis worth watching.

 

Gall had drawn a wee man

in the margin

with a sword.

 

Kieran wis looking oot the windae.

 

Not absent—

present in his particular way,

the way he wis present on the pitch,

which is to say

elsewhere in a way

that looked like nowhere

but wis in fact

somewhere very specific.

⸻

"Can anyone tell me,"

said Miss Hendry,

"what Shakespeare means

by civil blood

making civil hands unclean?"

 

Silence.

 

The companionable silence

o thirty-two people

who have agreed,

without discussing it,

that this is a communal problem

and therefore naebody's fault.

 

Gall raised his hand.

 

Miss Hendry,

who had learned

to experience this

with a feeling

she couldnae quite name—

hope and caution

arriving simultaneously—

said: "Ryan."

 

"Is it like,

blood on yer haunds Miss.

Like if ye've done something."

 

"That's actually—yes.

That's exactly right.

Well done."

 

Gall looked delighted,

then suspicious,

as if correct answers

were a trap

he'd wandered intae.

⸻

They read the balcony scene.

 

Miss Hendry gave oot parts.

She gave Kieran Romeo

because she'd noticed—

she wis good at noticing—

that he wis the kind of quiet

that sometimes meant something.

 

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

 

He read it

the way ye read something

in a language ye don't speak—

careful, phonetic,

finding the sounds

without the sense,

 

and when he finished

he looked up

wi the expression

o someone wha has completed a task

whose purpose

remains unclear to him.

 

"Good," said Miss Hendry.

"Now—what does Romeo mean?

What is he saying?"

 

Kieran considered this

with genuine seriousness.

 

"He's sayin she's pure bright Miss.

Like. She lights up the place."

 

A beat.

 

"Yes," said Miss Hendry,

and something moved in her voice,

the way it moves

when ye hear a thing

said simply

that ye've only ever heard

said elaborately.

 

"Yes. That's exactly what he's saying."

 

Isla looked at Kieran sideways.

Kieran didnae notice.

He wis already looking

oot the windae again.

⸻

The essay question wis this:

 

How does Shakespeare use the language of light and darkness in Romeo and Juliet?

Write a minimum of two paragraphs.

 

Kieran looked at the question.

 

He looked at his jotter.

 

He wrote, in the careful

deliberate hand

o someone wha has never quite

made peace wi the pen:

 

romeo thinks juliet is brilliant like she lights up the whole place and he cannie stop looking at her which is how ye feel when ye see something that pure good ye cannie look away like when the sun comes oot in february and everywan on the street goes oh and looks up because they forgot it wis there this is the same i think romeo just forgot the sun wis there until juliet and then he remembered

 

He looked at it.

 

He added, after a pause:

 

shakespeare talks a lot i think he couldve said it in less words but maybe that wis just how they talked then

 

He put his pen doon.

 

He looked out the window.

⸻

The maths wis period three,

Mr Paterson,

a man wha had taught

in this school

for twenty-two years

and who had reached

a kind of equilibrium wi the universe—

not defeated, not triumphant,

but settled,

the way a river settles

into the particular shape

o its banks.

 

He wrote on the board:

 

A train leaves Glasgow at 07:30 travelling at 70 mph toward Edinburgh. The distance is 46 miles. At what time does it arrive?

 

He turned round.

 

"Right. Kieran. You start."

 

Kieran looked at the board.

 

He looked at it

wi the focused attention

he gave tae things

that genuinely interested him.

 

"Mr Paterson."

 

"Aye."

 

"Where's it going after Edinburgh?"

 

A pause.

 

"It's—the question's about Edinburgh."

 

"Aye but like.

Is it a through train

or does it terminate.

Because if it terminates

the driver'll need time

tae walk tae the other end

before it goes back.

That affects things."

 

Mr Paterson looked at him

for a long moment.

 

"It arrives in Edinburgh, Kieran.

That's where the question ends."

 

"But whit if someone's on it

that needs tae get tae Dundee.

They'd need tae know

if they're changing

or if it goes through."

 

"Nobody's going tae Dundee."

 

"How d'ye know but."

 

"Because I made it up."

 

Kieran considered this.

 

"Aye but if ye're makin it up

ye could make it go tae Dundee.

It'd be mair useful."

⸻

Gall had not attempted the question.

He had, however,

drawn a very detailed train

on the cover o his jotter,

with faces in all the windows

and a small figure on the roof

for reasons he had not explained

and would not be asked to.

 

Wee Paul had attempted the question.

He had the right method,

the right formula,

and an answer o

fourteen minutes past eight,

which was correct.

 

He checked it three times.

 

He got it right three times.

 

He wrote it doon

wi the quiet satisfaction

o a man placing a brick

exactly level

in a wall

he believes in.

 

Isla had finished in four minutes,

got it right,

and was now reading something

inside her jotter cover

that was not maths.

 

She did this

wi the practised invisibility

o someone

wha had long ago

calculated

exactly how much

she needed tae do

and did precisely that

and no more.

⸻

The reports went hame on a Friday

in a brown envelope

wi the school crest on the front

that fooled naebody

aboot what wis inside.

 

His maw sat at the kitchen table—

same table,

same cup o tea,

same haunds flat on the surface—

and read it.

 

English: F

Kieran shows some natural expressiveness but does not write in standard English and struggles to engage with formal literary analysis.

 

Maths: F

Kieran is easily distracted and does not apply himself to problem-solving tasks.

 

PE: A

Exceptional. See separate letter.

 

She read it twice.

 

She folded it.

 

She put it back in the envelope

wi the precise movements

o someone

filing something

in a place

they will not forget

but will not look at again.

 

She made his tea.

 

She said nothing about it.

 

Not because she didnae care—

she cared completely,

wi the fierce specific care

of someone

for whom the stakes

are never abstract—

 

but because

she didnae have the words

for what she felt,

which wis something like:

I know what he is

and this bit of paper

disnae.

⸻

Miss Hendry stayed late that Friday.

 

She sat at her desk

wi the jotters in a pile

and marked them

the way she always did—

carefully,

wi comments,

because she believed

comments mattered

even when she wisnae sure

they were read.

 

She got tae Kieran's.

 

She read it.

 

She read it again.

 

She sat for a moment

wi her red pen

held above the page

and did not write anything

for a while.

 

Then she wrote, in the margin

beside the bit about the sun

coming oot in February:

 

This is lovely.

 

Then, because the system

required it,

because the boxes

needed filling

and the criteria

were the criteria

and she wis twenty-seven

and not yet sure

how much o herself

tae spend fighting

what she could not change—

 

she wrote F at the top.

 

She closed the jotter.

 

She sat for another moment.

 

Outside,

Saracen Street wis just Saracen Street.

 

She picked up the next jotter.

 

She kept going.

⸻

That weekend

Kieran played

on the wastegrun aff Maryhill Road—

him an Gall an Wee Paul

and some boys frae the next street

and a game that had nae real rules

and nae real score

and lasted until

somebody's maw shouted them in.

 

He wore the boots.

He always wore the boots.

 

The baw went exactly whaur he meant it.

It always did.

 

Naebody wis writing it doon.

Naebody wis gieing it a grade.

 

The street wis just a street,

the game wis just a game,

the boys wur just boys—

 

Gall nutmegging somebody

and appealing tae an invisible crowd,

Wee Paul trying his hardest

and getting there almost,

Isla watching frae the wall

where she'd appeared

without explanation

and wid leave the same way,

saying nothing

but missing nothing.

 

An Kieran

wi the baw at his feet

in the last o the light,

 

going again.

 

Always going again.