Shuggie Bain Quotes

Sadness made for a better houseguest; at least it was quiet, reliable, consistent.

Shug had seen it before, those with least to give always gave the most.

Flames are not just the end, they are also the beginning. For everything that you have destroyed can be rebuilt. From your own ashes you can grow again.

She had loved him, and he had needed to break her completely to leave her for good. Agnes Bain was too rare a thing to let someone else love. It wouldn't do to leave pieces of her for another man to collect and repair later.

She was no use at maths homework, and some days you could starve rather than get a hot meal from her, but Shuggie looked at her now and understood this was where she excelled. Everyday with the make-up on and her hair done, she climbed out of her grave and held her head high. When she had disgraced herself with drink, she got up the next day, put on her best coat, and faced the world. When her belly was empty and her weans were hungry, she did her hair and let the world think otherwise.

Rain was a natural state of Glasgow. It kept the grass green and the people pale and bronchial.

It was clear now: nobody would get to be made brand new.

He had long perfected the art of staring through people, leaving conversations to follow his daydreams through the back of their heads and out any open window.

The morning light was the colour of too-milky tea. It snuck into the bedsit like a sly ghost, crossing the carpet and inching slowly up his bare legs.

Shuggie heard the nurse say to a male attendant that she thought for sure Agnes was a working girl. “She is not,” said Shuggie, quite proudly. “My mother has never worked a day in her life. She’s far too good-looking for that.” The matted mink coat gave her an air of superiority, and her black strappy heels clacked out a slurred beat on the long marble hallway.

She’d looked as happy as he could ever remember, and he was surprised how this hurt. It was all for the red-headed man. He had done what Shuggie had been unable to do.

As I reached out for help, everyone shrank back from me; they pulled away from fear that the fire would return

am in flames, yet I do not burn.” He wiped the spit from the corners of his mouth. “That’s what Saint Agnes had to teach us. How even in the darkness there is still hope.

dunno. I think it’s what all alkies want anyways.” She shivered. “To die, I mean. Some are just taking the slow road to it.

The rubber tip had worn away from around the right heel, and although she had coloured the shoe in with an old black bingo marker, the sharp metal nail scraped the floor with the screech of hard times.

He locked the door that lay behind his eyes and walked away, leaving the body, the plaster dust, the flask of cold tea, and the angry gaffer behind.

Big Shug Bain had seemed so shiny in comparison to the Catholic. He had been vain in the way only Protestants were allowed to be, conspicuous with his shallow wealth, flushed pink with gluttony and waste.

The damp wind kissed her flushed neck and pushed down inside her dress. It felt like a stranger’s hand, a sign of living, a reminder of life.

To Shuggie, the aunties who came to visit were often worse. It was like Agnes’s worse qualities went out and found a friend.

Mammy, can you no help?’ and ah just turned to her and said, ‘I have raised my children. I. Am. Done.

What was once built to be new and healthful now looked sick with a poverty of hope.

wondered why he tolerated these other children but had left him.

No, hen, we’re drinking piss-cold tea,” scolded Bridie. “It’s only ye who’s neckin’ vodka like it was tap water.

There is no way Shuggie Bain can dance! Shuggie tutted. He wrenched himself from her side and ran a few paces ahead. He nodded, all gallus, and spun, just the once, on his polished heels.

had been a long time since he felt thawed all the way through, all of him warm at the exact same time.

If he got this and she got that, then what would they themselves do without? It was a mother's math.

George said. “I am on fire. I do not burn. It’s Saint Agnes’s lament.

I’ve never liked those AA places. They attract the lowest kind of people. God gave you a will. You should use it to save yourself.

How come ye don’t have a daddy?” His voice was already deep like a man’s. “I d-do,” Shuggie stuttered. Gerbil smiled. “Where is he then?” This Shuggie didn’t know. He had heard he was a whoremaster

At the front door she pushed a jam piece and a peeled carrot into his hand and told him to go and play and not to come back till it was dark. She pointed out into the distance and waved her hand wide across the scheme, meaning he could go anywhere he pleased for all she cared.

She’s no gonnae get any better, son. Come away from there.” Shuggie paused for a second, he looked over his narrow shoulder bone and shrugged. “But she might.

From where Eugene watched him, he looked like a half-shut penknife, a thing that should be sharp and useful, that was instead closed and waiting and rusting.

Once upon a time the wind whipping off the sea had turned the front of her thighs blue with the cold, but Agnes couldn’t feel it because she had been happy.

to hold his arms tight. It

Howse aboots some light entertainment?

It would be drunk open mouths, hot red tongues, and heavy clumsy flesh. Pure Friday-night happiness.

The damp wind kissed her flushed neck and pushed down inside her dress.

the city’s ills were supposed to disappear.

Soon the greenish, brownish air filled with a dark tangy smell, metallic and sharp, like licking the end of a spent battery.

parsimonious

It looked like the lager beauties sometimes did, a careless printer and a misaligned screen, and suddenly the woman was no longer whole, just a mess of different layers.

It was a relief in the same way old people enjoyed having a child in the room, because it gave them something to fuss over when they had nothing left to say to each other.

taking more space than was his to take and talking about himself with no modesty.

She was sobering up. She stared silently out the window, trying not to think of the trail of fatherless children and the childrenless father they were leaving in their wake. In her mind it looked like a trail of viscous, salty tears being dragged along behind the black hack. The excitement had left her by then.

The red-headed ox was called Eugene. It was a good name, both old-fashioned and plain. It was the name mothers chose for first born sons, the ones that were to be solid and true, mother's pride but not her joy.

Shuggie always chose the same bright pink sponge pyramid, covered in red and white desiccated coconut and trimmed with a sugary sweetie on top. He would walk home very slowly in Wullie’s shadow, enjoying his spoils.

He liked to roam alone in the darkness, getting a good look at the underbelly. Out came the characters shellacked by the grey city, years of drink and rain and hope holding them in place. His living was made by moving people, but his favourite pastime was watching them.

those with least to give always gave the most.

It gave me that much pleasure just to be proud of you.

Somebody here loved this other little boy.

As they looked at one another, Shuggie wondered whether he was lost or searching too.

he stole sideways glances at the man and wondered why he tolerated these other children but had left him.

Something shook loose inside him, as if the old glue that was gumming his joints together had failed.

She’s never going to get off the drink.” Shuggie was staring into the swampy broth. “She might. I just have to try harder to help her.

The tinned custard wasn’t a fuck-you to ungrateful sons. She was making sure her baby was fed, and now she was saying goodbye.

That’s her away. It was what you said when you disposed of something.

My mammy had a good year once. It was lovely.

Shuggie watched her and said under his breath, “Why can’t I be enough?” But she wasn’t listening.

they sat with their knees touching, deciding what versions of her to bring and what to leave behind.

He let her cry, he let her talk, and he didn’t contradict her when she made him fine promises he knew she would be unable to keep.

Shuggie’s head pulled back on his neck in disgust. “Then who will look after her?” “Well. She’ll have to look after herself.” “Then how will she ever get better?

I do fight for her!” he said. “Mostly with herself, but it’s still a fight.

It was a fresh start, she had thought, and hopefully a better class of alcoholic.

even in the darkness there is still hope.

They were happy with her alone, with her sobriety and the peace it brought.

She had loved him, and he had needed to break her completely to leave her for good.

She'd looked as happy as he could ever remember, and he was surprised how this hurt. It was all for the red-headed man. He had done what Shuggie had been unable to do.

Men were losing their very masculinity.

the

As girls, they had clung to one another like a string of pearls and sang at the top of their voices all the way down Sauchiehall Street.

Red-haired, stocky, and flat-faced, his head joined directly to his body as if a neck were an unnecessary luxury.

Agnes pulled the boy into her side, and he clung to her like a limpet.

Dance for me, Hugh,” said Agnes, out of the blue. “Eh?” answered Shuggie, rolling over on the carpet.

He had been rubbing her back one morning as she told him she wanted to live somewhere she could have her anonymity back, a place her pride could be restored.

The man moved with an odd jangling gait, like he was made up of a pile of plates that threatened to teeter over.

Fuck!” she squealed like a spoilt child. “Does nobody want me to have a life?

Has he ever touched you, Shuggie? Father Barry, that is.

I was going to go out and get you a new daddy.

Are you going to stick in at the school?” “I’ll try.” “Well, try harder. Don’t make the same mistake as me, Shuggie. Make something of yourself.

What kind of man are you going to be when you grow up?” “What do you want me to be?” Agnes thought for a moment. “Peaceful.” She pushed at his wet hair again. “Less worried-looking.

If I were you, I would keep dancing.” “I can’t.” The tears were coming. “You know they only win if you let them.” “I can’t.” His arms and fingers were still outstretched and frozen, like a dead tree. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.” “Mammy, help. I can’t.” “Yes. You. Can.” She was still smiling through her open teeth. “Just hold your head up high and Gie. It. Laldy.

He had lied to Agnes as she had lied to him about stopping the drink. She would never be able to get sober, and he, sat in the cold with a lovely girl, knew he would never feel quite like a normal boy.

Shuggie put the phone back on the cradle and stood in the hallway, waiting for her to say something, anything. Agnes could have said anything then, and he would have taken it and he would have forgiven her.

He rested his ear against the door and prayed for Eugene to stay, prayed that his mother would find strength to stay off the drink and be at peace. Then he prayed for God to make him normal for his birthday.

she sounded bothered by the interruption. “Who’s your mammy, wee man?” “My mother is Agnes Campbell Bain,” he said. “C-can you tell her it’s Shu—Hugh.” He caught himself. “Can you please tell her I don’t have any custard left.” The woman leaned back into the noise of the party. “Haw, does anybody here know an Agnes?” she asked of the room behind her. There were other voices, and then she said, “Haud on a wee minute,

He felt something was wrong. Something inside him felt put together incorrectly. It was like they could all see it, but he was the only one who could not say what it was. It was just different, and so it was just wrong.

He felt something was wrong. Something inside him felt put together incorrectly. It was like they could all see it, but he was the only one who could not say what it was. It was just different, and so it was just wrong.

Her lips were almost always pursed, and her raisin-coloured eyes were constantly scanning the busy crowd for trouble. There was a calcified hardness to her now that she wore like armour and too often forgot to take off.

I had to see if you would actually come.” Agnes took hold of the neck of his jumper then. Shug picked up his money belt and kissed her with a forceful tongue. He had to squeeze all the small bones in her hands to get her to release him. She had loved him, and he had needed to break her completely to leave her for good. Agnes Bain was too rare a thing to let someone else love. It wouldn’t do to leave pieces of her for another man to collect and repair later.

Ah have been lonely fur years now. Lonely long afore ma wife died. Don't get us wrong. She was a guid wummin, a guid wummin just like our Colleen, but we were jist stuck in our wee routine. When ye think about it, ah've been under the ground most of ma life. There wasn't much in me for sharing at the end of a day. After twenty years, what do you talk about? But she was a guid wummin. She used to make me these big hot dinners, with meat and gravy, the plate scalding hot cos she'd warm it up all day in the oven. We ate big hot dinners because we had nothing left to say. Nothing worthwhile anyway. Ah'm forty-three. That's four years older than when ma father died, so I should've been done. I should've been retiring from the pits, living the rest of ma days out with her and with nothing to say. When I saw ye I wasn't looking. I didn't know of you then, hadn't heard our Colleen lift your name. That's wummin's stuff, isn't it? They don't talk to the men about that. Gossip. Telling tales. Chapel. That's their club. All I know is when I saw you sat behind that glass, I saw someone lonely too, and I hoped we might have something to say to each other. I realised then. Ah don't want to be done.

Each time he held her he was less like a child. He was becoming something else, not yet a man, something like a stretched child, waiting to be inflated into adulthood. She clung to him while she could. He smelled fresh, like the fields outside.

He knew now that he couldn’t keep his promise. He had lied to Agnes as she had lied to him about stopping the drink. She would never be able to get sober, and he, sat in the cold with a lovely girl, knew he would never feel quite like a normal boy.

Don’t cross your legs when you walk. Try and make room for your cock.” Leek grabbed at the bulge in the front of his corduroy and strode back and forth in a half strut, half lazy amble. “Don’t bend your knees so much. Take longer, straighter steps.

Shuggie sat there listening to them amuse themselves. He took the red football book and dropped it into the dark drawer of this strange school desk. He was glad, at least, to be done with that. It was clear now: nobody would get to be made brand new.

The raw honesty of the characters in Shuggie Bain is almost shocking to an American ear. Nobody holds back, not even the kind man who runs the taxi garage where Agnes takes refuge in the rain and who right away sizes Agnes up for a drunk the day she’s on her way to pawn her mink coat. Unlike other characters, he seems bent on helping Agnes, suggesting AA to her over a cup of tea. What do you make of the unapologetic candor—both kind and rough—in this book? Is there something to this Glaswegian honesty that Americans could benefit from?

She was sobering up. She stared silently out the window, trying not to think of the trail of fatherless children and the childrenless father they were leaving in their wake. In her mind it looked like a trail of viscous, salty tears being dragged along behind the black hack.

The boy was engrossed, his face in shadow, and he looked like he was playing with small toy horses that could have easily been wooden toys, military or Trojan. Shuggie knew what they really were, that they were the scented dolls, bright and cheerful and for little girls. They were the pretty ponies, and Leek had known. Leek had always known.

Opposite the gates was a low concrete building. Dozens of men were spilling out of its windowless structure and stood in dark clumps on the Pit Road. At first it looked like they were leaving chapel, but as the diesel engine roared nearer, they turned as if they were one. The miners stopped their talking and squinted to get a good look. They all wore the same black donkey jackets and were holding large amber pints and sucking on stubby doubts. The miners had scrubbed faces and pink hands that looked free of work. It seemed wrong, these men being the only clean thing for miles. Reluctantly, the miners parted and let the taxi go by. Leek watched them as they were watching him. His stomach sank. The men all had his mother’s eyes.

In the silence he listened to her cough through the stupor, then she retched and a trickle of thick bile appeared on her lips. Shuggie reached inside her jumper sleeve and took out her toilet paper, carefully enough not to wake her. With a practised finger he reached inside her mouth and hooked out the bronchial fluid and bile. He wiped her mouth clean and lowered her head safely back on to her left shoulder. There

Is that a dolly ye’ve got, Shuggie?” The boy was using his name like he had known him a long while. Without waiting for an answer he added, “Are ye a wee girl?” He stepped into the long grass, flattening it as he came. Shuggie shook his head again. “If ye’re no’ a wee girl then ye must be a wee poof.” He tightened his smile. His voice was low and sweet, like he was talking to a puppy. “Ye’re no’ a wee poof, are ye?