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be the brainy one, and this new yin, Robert wir callin him, he’ll be the fighter. Aye, eh came oot kickin n screamin, tore the wife bad . . . Wullie said, then blushed in Maria’s presence, — eh sorry . . . ah mean . . .
    Maria just laughed heartily, waving him away as Duncan returnedwith the drinks on a Youngers tray he’d taken one drunken night from the Tartan Club.
    Billy Birrell had started the school last year. Wullie was proud of his son, though he had to constantly watch him with matches. The laddie seemed obsessed with fire, lighting them in the garden, on the wasteground, anywhere he could, and he’d almost set the house ablaze one night.
    — It’s good that he likes fire though Wullie, Duncan said, the drink taking effect, topping up what he’d already had, — Apollo, the god o’ fire is also the god o’ light.
    — Good, cause thir’d’ve been light awright if they curtains had gone up . . .
    — It’s that revolutionary impulse though, Wullie, sometimes you’ve goat tae destroy it aw, just burn the bloody lot doon, before ye can start again, Duncan laughed as he poured more whisky.
    — Nonsense, Maria scoffed, looking grimly at the large measure Duncan had poured, splashing lemonade into the glass to dilute the spirit.
    Duncan passed another tumbler over to Wullie. — Ah’m jist sayin . . . the sun’s aboot fire, but it’s aboot light and healing as well.
    Maria was having none of it. — Wullie’d need healin awright if eh woke up wi third-degree burns, she told him.
    Wullie was feeling guilty that he was being unintentionally a bit hard on his son, in front of people he hardly knew. — Eh’s a good wee felly but, ah mean ye try tae teach thum right fae wrong . . . he slurred, himself now feeling the drink and the tiredness.
    — It’s a difficult world now, no like the yin we grew up in, Duncan said. Ye never know what tae teach them. Ah mean, there’s the basic stuff like back up yir mates, never cross a picket line . . .
    — Nivir hit a lassie, Wullie nodded.
    — Definitely, Duncan agreed sternly, as Maria looked at him with a you-just-try-it-pal expression, — Nivir shop anybody tae the polis . . .
    — . . . neither friend nor foe, Wullie added.
    — That’s what ah think ah’ll dae, replace the ten commandments wi ma ain ten commandments. They’d be better for kids thin that Spock, or any ay thaim. Buy a record every week, that’d be one o’ mine . . . ye cannae go a week withoot a good tune tae look forward tae . . .
    — If you want tae give yir sons some kind ay code tae live by, whatabout try not tae line the pockets of the brewers and the bookies too much, Maria laughed.
    — Some things are a lot harder than others, Duncan ventured to Wullie, who nodded sagely.
    They sat up most of the night drinking, reminiscing about where they’d come from before the slum-clearance flats. They all agreed that they were the best thing that had happened to the working classes. Maria was a Tollcross girl, while Wullie and his wife came from Leith via the West Granton prefabs. They’d been offered Muirhouse but they went for this cause it was nearer Sandra’s mother who had been ill and who lived in Chesser.
    — We’re across in the aulder part ay the scheme but, Wullie said semi-apologetically, it isnae as smart as this.
    Duncan tried not to feel superior, but that was the consensus in the area: the newer flats were the best deal. The Ewarts, like other families in the area, enjoyed their airy flat. All their neighbours commented on the underfloor heating, where you could heat up the whole flat with just a click of the switch. Maria’s dad had recently died of TB from Tollcross’s damp tenements; now all that was a thing of the past. Duncan loved those big warm tiles under the carpet. You put your feet under that fireside rug and it was sheer luxury.
    Then as winter set in and the first bills came through the post, the central-heating