In this extraordinary memoir, Carl MacDougall takes us through his upbringing, both in and out of care on the west coast of Scotland, Fife, and industrial Glasgow, during the first decade of his life. Through a powerful mosaic of stories, he strips away all rose-tinted sentimentality to create a vivid account of heart-break, dissociation, and loss.

Extract taken from Already, Too Late
By Carl MacDougall
Published by Luath Press

Six

Trains

I ran past the janitor in his brown linen coat, out the gates and along Rumdewan, past the warehouses and Kettle Holm, under the bridge and past the station, down Bankton Park and into the house where my tricycle was waiting by the door, with crossed flags in the brakes, a Lion Rampant and a Union Jack.

My mother shouted from the kitchen, Not today. There’s no use going. So I put the cat in the shoebox and hauled him round the house. Patch was a black farm cat with green eyes, a white smudge below his chin, thick fur and a tail that wavered when he walked. He lost an ear in a fight. Granny said, This hoose has mice. As sure as God’s alive in heaven, there’s mice in this hoose.

When I got back from hospital, my mother told me, We’ll get a kitten for your daddy coming home. He likes cats.

I though they gave you hay fever.

We’ll see, she said.

A week later Patch was sleeping in a box by the range. Don’t you waken him, she said. You can stroke him, but do it gently. Your daddy always strokes his cats below the chin and tickles them between the ears.

Next day Willie Barr, Tom Seath, George Aitken, Tom Lamb and Ann Wilkie came round after school. My mother gave them currant cake and a cup of milk. That’s a Jamieson kitten, Ann Wilkie said. They stared at the box, bent, touched the fur and said, Hello, to the cat.

Miss Barclay says pets can be a burden.

And we nodded. Miss Barclay’s opinions were important.

You’re lucky, Willie Barr said as he left. My mother hates cats. They give her hay fever.

Have you got a cat here? my granny asked.

No.

Are you sure?

What have I just said?

I’m damn sure there’s a cat in here.

Well, there’s a cat that sometimes looks in, but it never stays.

You know I cannae have anything t’dae with cats in a strange hoose. I’ll trip over them and break my neck, unless, of course, you’re trying to get rid of me. Maybe we’ve outstayed our welcome.

I started school part time when the war ended and knew the war was over when I saw my grandfather pack the cases. The pile of cardboard boxes grew daily. And, without warning, a van backed down Bankton Park.

I ran round marvelling at the spaces, wondering how they would be filled.

Well, my grandfather said. And everyone stood.

Granny started crying. She shook her arms from side to side, let out a wail and started speaking to no one in Gaelic.

Come on, Mother, Barbara said. We’ll miss the train.

Grandad took my hand and we walked to the station in silence. Granny, Mum and Barbara followed behind, whispering.

The station lights were lit, a ghostly yellow. We stood on the platform, Barbara holding on to me, rocking me gently while Granny sobbed. My mother and grandfather stared towards Ladybank. Small groups stared down the line. Few were talking.

Just think, my mother said suddenly, her voice so loud folk turned to see who was speaking. Just think how lucky we are. We’ve survived the war. Every one of us have come through alive. We’ve lost no one. They’re all alive, thank God. We’ve a lot to be thankful for; I don’t know how many families can say that. We’ve been spared. Archie and Willie, Charlie, Eva, Matt and George are alive. Margaret’s alive and we’re all here.

The train pulled into the station and my mother kept talking while Barbara searched for an empty carriage and Grandad helped my granny into the nearest compartment. Mum held me up to the window and we kissed them all.

We can start again, she said. Now that all that war is past, we can start again, make a new beginning, start afresh.

Barbara settled my granny while Grandad put his suitcase on the overhead rack.

We’ve a lot to look forward to, my mother said, as Barbara lowered the window and they touched hands, Barbara and her holding each other as the train moved away.

We’re very, very lucky, Mum said, tears running down her face, Barbara waving a white handkerchief as we watched the red light on the guard’s van fade.

We walked home in silence, my mother sobbing.

I suppose you’ll want toast and cocoa, she said.

That night I watched the sky, knowing my father, wherever he was, could see the same stars, wondering if he was looking, if these were the stars they’d see in Glasgow and Oban and when a train lit the sky waiting to see if it stopped at Kettle station. I jumped into bed when I heard Mum’s step on the stair.

Two days later after a heavy bout of rain, I was standing in the porch with the tricycle. It’s no use, she said. We’ve missed the train. It’s been and gone. There’ll’ve been no one on it, so we’ll have to wait till tomorrow.

I watched a soldier walk down Bankton Park. He seemed in no hurry, sauntering through the rain, looking round him. Stopping at the turn-off to the Paul farm, he took off his forage cap and lifted his face to the sky, turning round, letting his face get wet.

He seemed soaked through when he reached the door. He smiled and put out his hand.

Carl?

I nodded.

Give your mum a shout, there’s a good lad.

She screamed. Charlie. Oh my God, Charlie.

And they hugged each other and danced in the mud.

Already, Too Late by Carl MacDougall is published by Luath Press, priced £14.99.