A green coat.

In Paddy’s imagination Betty Carson’s flame-red hair was brilliant against the cream close wall, her skin as pale as white bread. Betty and Patrick Meehan were each eighteen, both taking shelter in the same dark close, waiting for the rain to go off. They spoke for a while and he walked her to the bus stop, waiting with her, watching her wave from the retreating tram with his heart beating loudly in his throat.

Betty was from good people. Her staunchly Protestant family were surprised when she came home a few months later and announced that she was married but, in a bigoted city, they were open minded and accepting of the young Catholic man. They gave Meehan every chance to do the right thing. Each time he came home from prison they welcomed him, expecting it would be different this time because he said so.

Prison release day. According to his own account Betty met him outside the gates at the end of every single sentence. Every time she would be outside, standing in rain or wind or in the biting dark of a long Scottish winter. And she’d be wearing a new green coat or dress or suit, green for new beginnings, green to set off her red hair.

Meehan and Betty kissed, Paddy imagined, kissed and wrapped their arms around each other, squeezing a little, delighted to be together, and they’d set off, arms linked, walking calmly as she did through the early-morning rush of people hurrying to their work, head-down people talking to themselves and hurrying through a gray morning to the conversations they were already having. On release day Betty floated through the town with her man, taking him home to a hearty breakfast.

Betty, a happy fleck of festive green and red in the great gray city.

II

Paddy stepped off the train onto the windy Rutherglen station platform, bleary eyed, with dry powdery baked potato coating her teeth. Her head was too scrambled to stick to the high-fiber diet, but she was still trying and always kept a cold baked potato in her bag. She had put on weight in the last few years, on her hips and her chest. Any faith that she could stick to a disciplined regime had deserted her so that she ended up applying the principles in a half-arsed way, supplementing meals with baked potatoes or cold beans eaten straight from the tin, feeling tired and guilty all the time and shamefully scuttling off to corners to pass stinking wind.

As she climbed the long flight of stairs from the platform to the street compound, tiredness made her back curl over, her hands slapping on the steps in front of her. She needed a big starchy sugar lift and knew there would be porridge and honey at the Ogilvys’. As she walked down Rutherglen Main Street, passing the commuters spilling outside the bus shelter, she swithered over the promise of porridge. Being fat was holding her back at work. She didn’t have the confidence to put herself forward or take the initiative and apply for better jobs in London. If she was thinner she could do it. She was just twenty pounds away from the life she should have been living.

On the other hand she wasn’t at work this morning and she was tired and sorry for herself. She could give in and gorge on warm porridge and mugs of milky tea.

Rutherglen Main Street was in the calm lull between the morning rush to work and the gathering of old people and young mothers for ten o’clock mass at St. Columbkille’s. They would be making their way there slowly, coming through the shopping arcade and making their way downhill from the small housing schemes dotted around the Main Street. All her elderly relatives would be coming. Her sister Mary Ann would be walking the straight road from Eastfield. Paddy kept her head down and hurried through the back streets to Sean’s house in Gallowflat Street. She’d hide in Sean’s until well after the mass came out, or suffer a hundred inquiries after her mother, father, and brothers and sisters as she tried to make her way to her warm bed and a long, creamy sleep.

The Ogilvys’ kitchen window was steamed up, the living room dark. The living room light would be on if Sean was up, he liked to watch the school programs while he ate his breakfast. Paddy turned into the close, almost bumping into a young woman with a screaming baby in an old-fashioned Silver Cross pram.

“Fiona O’Conner, how ye doing?” said Paddy, though she had never liked her at school and vaguely remembered being insulted by her. “Is this your wee one?”

Fiona raised red smarting eyes. “Oh, yeah, hi. Help us down with the pram.”

Paddy took the front axle of the pram and lifted it down the two steps to the street. Fiona looked annoyed. “I thought Sean was going out with Elaine McCarron now.”

Paddy winced a little at the mention of Elaine and wondered why she did. “Aye, they’ve been together for a year now. Seem to be getting on well.”

“Oh, right,” said Fiona slyly. “You’re always here, but, eh?”

Paddy gave her a stiff smile and slipped past Fiona into the close.

She could have been married to Sean by now, they might have had a family and a house of their own. She chose instead to continue working at the News and hope for a career, to dream one day of a house of her own that didn’t smell continually of soup and potatoes. Making the difficult choice wasn’t enough. She was still at home, her family of five were reliant on her wages. Her clothes were cheap, came from What Every’s and lasted no more than two washes. A place of her own was a long way off.

She had started going with Sean at school. They were close and both came from big families so neither of them bothered with other friends. It was too late now; the lifelong friendships that trail on after school, that made for best men and holiday companions, were out of reach for them now. They found themselves stuck together, not engaged or even dating, just hanging around during the day watching County Court on TV, or grainy pirate videos of the three films his brother owned: Airplane!, Evil Dead, and The Exorcist, or else going for pointless walks up the Brae.

Mimi Ogilvy was pulling on her coat on as she opened the door. “Come in, Paddy, wee hen, good of you to come.”

Paddy stepped into the hallway, into the warmth and the cozy smell of toast and strong tea. The holy water font inside Mimi’s door was large enough for a small chapel: a Disney-ish Our Lady gazing lovingly down at a fat baby Jesus who was holding a pink oyster shell full of holy water. Paddy dipped two fingers of her right hand and dabbed her head, her breastbone, and both shoulders as she crossed the threshold. It was an old habit she couldn’t shake. She had no faith but knew the gesture soothed her mother’s fears about her. Every time she did it she felt like a hypocrite, but a hypocrite with a calm mother.

She noticed a new set of leaflets stacked under the telephone table. Black text on red paper this time, proclaiming Callum Ogilvy’s innocence. It cost a lot of money to print them-she wondered where the hell Sean was getting it from-but just then Mimi ambled out of the kitchen, peeled two pound notes from her purse, and laid them on the telephone table, answering her question.

“That’s for his ciggies and a pint at teatime. And,” she pulled out a fiver and three more pound notes, “he’s got his last driving lesson later.”

It was meant as a compliment that she did it in front of Paddy, a mark of acceptance. Paddy looked away. Mimi had paid for so many lessons that Sean had his test in a few days. Sean didn’t need to drive, he wouldn’t be able to afford a car, and anyway, no one was paying for her driving lessons.

Mimi glanced at the clock on the far wall of the galley kitchen and stepped past Paddy to the door.

“There’s porridge in the pot for ye and the honey’s in the cupboard next to the fridge.”

She was gone, leaving Paddy in the hall listening to her ex-fiancé snoring and trying to resist the pull of warm porridge after a long night shift. Sean didn’t take porridge for his breakfast. Poor Mimi had gone to all that trouble just for her. It would be unkind to leave it.