Her feet were as purple as calf liver. That’s what his father had said before he hung up. Cal had been standing in the red phone box at the bottom of the Meadows, watching the rugby players stretch on the lush green grass. Their white shorts clung to their haunches, and in the soft smirr the cloth became sheer and he could see the elasticated lines of their briefs. He was only half-listening as his father read from the New Testament.
His father had never been fond of small talk. This gave their telephone calls the feeling of a service line, like when you dialled the Speaking Clock and then reset your watch to it. When Cal mentioned this to his father, the truth of it made his father laugh, for John Macleod believed the spirit was indeed in need of constant calibration, and Cal made his calibrations every Wednesday at 6 p.m. prompt and twice again on the Sabbath.
It had taken some time to find the perfect place to worship, a solitary phone box that wasn’t back-to-back with another. When his father precented the psalm, the expectation was Cal would sing it back to him in Gaelic with the full power of his belief. But when a particularly handsome man would stroll past he would cringe and lower his voice and, without fail, John would ask him why he was wavering. It was mortifying to deal with the glances of passing strangers. For this reason, he spent a good portion of their time together with his eyes closed or with his back turned to the path. He found he did his best singing while his fingers searched the calling cards left by the prostitutes and masseuses.
For all that, he liked the Meadows. The rolling fields helped slow his mind. It was one of the few spaces where the city took a breath, and he found it helped match the rhythm of his thoughts to his father’s unhurried talk. He knew his father was staring out at the sea.
“Ciamar a tha thu an-diugh?” his father asked in Gaelic. And how are you today?
“Fine. And you?”
“Not bad. Upright. All praise to God.”
Their conversation was always censored, missing the things they couldn’t talk about. Cal never mentioned he had nowhere to live. He never said that since graduating he had been abusing the charity of his classmates, surfing from one settee to the next, waiting for them to leave for work so he could forage like a wood mouse, taking just enough food to sate his hunger but never so much as to get caught. He never mentioned how he dripped dry after a shower, or how he studied the tideline of a milk bottle so he could replace what he took with tap water, or how he wandered the Edinburgh suburbs of an evening so his friends wouldn’t feel the burden of feeding him.
He didn’t mention that he had found work with a band of Albanian women cleaning the sick-splattered toilets of Negociants and the Rose Street pub.