by Owen Mullen
Mr Drummond was wrong. A series of dead-end jobs confirmed what the teenage Derek had always known: working for somebody else wasn’t for him. But he had to wait until he was twenty-three – when a van bought at auction sold for twice what he’d paid for it – before the light went on with the realisation that there was money in this game. Two years later he had a second-hand car dealership on London Road and another on Ballater Street, near the Gorbals. In those days he’d paid his landlords by cheque, always adding ‘Good luck with that.’
They’d laugh, thinking he was joking. Sometimes he was.
The smoothed-off accent – the big house and the polish – came later; he could buy them and he had.
At fifty-one, and close to six feet, he was happy with how he looked. His silver-grey hair added style to an otherwise unstylish appearance. Throughout his life women had found him attractive but he’d never been close to marrying. Not until he met Mackenzie.
From the moment he’d spotted her sitting with her friends in the pub in West George Street, he’d wanted her. Of course he knew her girlfriends laughed at him behind his back because he was older; they weren’t laughing now.
Their wedding was without doubt the best day of his life. Derek had hardly been able to believe the vision by his side belonged to him. That first year had been bliss, she’d adored him. They rarely disagreed. When they did it was soon resolved. For a while, he congratulated himself on having found a wonderful partner.
Until the drinking started and everything changed.
He’d come home to find dirty dishes in the sink, the bed unmade, and Mackenzie slumped on the sofa. Slowly, he came to accept his wife had a problem. As a husband, his responsibility was clear: he had to help her. And he’d tried. God knows, he’d tried, allowing her just two glasses of wine per day. Some nights ended with her storming off to one of the spare rooms because he refused to let her have more. Derek tightened his already tight grip on their money. Every penny spent had to be accounted for, and while she visited her sister he’d search the house for hidden bottles and empty the contents down the sink.
Derek Crawford was used to being in control, but there was no controlling this. Threats meant nothing, her repeated promises to quit even less. The humiliations, public and private, came thick and fast – too many to count, too painful to remember, lying and deceiving him constantly.
One particularly embarrassing scene at the golf club gave him the excuse he’d needed to cut off their limited social life. Until Mackenzie straightened herself out the designer clothes would stay in the wardrobe upstairs, not needed. Apart from the odd unavoidable family gathering they wouldn’t be going anywhere – it would just be the two of them.
Then, suddenly, around three months ago, the drinking stopped. It hadn’t lasted, though while it did she started going out at night by herself, refusing to tell him where. The third time he’d followed and saw her get into a blue Vectra parked at the corner of the street. His brother-in-law, Blair Gardiner, drove a blue Vectra. Mackenzie couldn’t be visiting Adele – Adele would’ve said – besides, there would be no need for secrecy if that was where she was going. And surely she couldn’t be meeting him? He was a tosser, a nice tosser but a tosser nonetheless. Derek pushed the thought away. His instinct was to drag whoever was behind the wheel out and beat his head to a pulp. But apart from filling his neighbours’ mouths, what would that change?
Around ten-thirty, she’d returned and gone straight to her bedroom without a word. He heard the door close. The perfect marriage had fallen apart; he was losing her, may have already lost her.
Finally, Derek had taken as much as he could stand and decided to have it out with her, whatever the cost. He cornered her in the kitchen and asked the question he didn’t want the answer to.
‘What’s the game, Mackenzie? Who is it?’
Her reply stunned him. ‘I’m leaving you, Derek.’
It was almost amusing. ‘After the hell you’ve put me through?’
‘My mind’s made up. Trying to stop me is a waste of time.’
What could he say? He was living with a stranger.
She continued going out in the evening while he stayed at home worrying until she returned. Even if she didn’t realise it, Derek was sure Mackenzie needed him. The worst part wasn’t another man – lots of wives had affairs; they blew over. No, the worst part was doing what she was doing sober. Alcohol couldn’t be used as an excuse. Any day he expected to come home from work and find his wife no longer there.
Until a month ago, when the drinking and the lies kicked off again.
She’d stopped going out at night, but wouldn’t speak to him, sometimes for days. When she did it was to tell stories no one would believe.
‘A man was watching me in the supermarket today. Every time I turned round, he was there.’
Derek pretended to accept what she was saying. ‘What was he like?’
‘He was wearing a black coat, I remember that, but it was his eyes. He just stood there staring at me. It was weird. He really scared me.’
Her husband had chosen his words carefully, things were delicate enough. She’d talked to him, that was progress. ‘Maybe he was waiting for someone?’
‘No, it was me he was interested in.’
‘We’ll report it to the police if you think we should.’
She hesitated. ‘Maybe I was mistaken.’
Mackenzie didn’t mention it again, the incident was forgotten, and the silent treatment returned.
This trip to the city was a desperate attempt by him to get them on track. That morning she’d been on edge. He’d recognised the signs and braced himself for the storm heading towards him. Coming out of the department store he tried to take her hand. She pulled away and barked at him. ‘I’m not in the mood to shop. When’re we eating?’
Derek resigned himself: food wasn’t the attraction. His wife needed a drink.
‘Whenever you’re ready.’
‘I’m ready now.’
They sat at a table in an Italian restaurant on the top floor of Princes Square, busy with the lunchtime office crowd gossiping and chattering. People like themselves, enjoying a day in town. He studied the menu. She didn’t bother opening hers. Her voice was sly and provocative. ‘Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?’
‘Mackenzie…’
‘Don’t give me a lecture. We’re supposed to be having fun. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’
‘We’re supposed to be here to try and work things out.’ He shook his head. ‘But who am I kidding?’ He saw he wasn’t getting through and used a softer approach. ‘Look, I know it’s difficult, but you can do this, Mackenzie. Just stick to what we agreed: two glasses, okay?’
She ignored him and called to a passing waitress. ‘White wine, please.’ When it arrived she asked for the same again, daring him to object. He did. ‘We’re going to your sister’s tonight, in case you’ve forgotten – that’s when you should be having your two drinks, not now.’
She reacted. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I shouldn’t have to tell you. She’s your sister, the only one you’ve got. We arranged it last month. It’s her birthday.’
‘Well, I’m not going. I don’t want to.’
‘She’s expecting us. Gavin and Monica will be there.’
‘Too bad.’ Mackenzie finished the first glass and started on the second. Derek tried to steer the conversation on to safer ground. ‘See anything you fancy?’
Her reply confirmed his suspicions she’d only been after booze. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m not hungry.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You said you were ready to eat.’
‘I’ve lost my appetite.’
He reached across and took hold of her hand. ‘Eat something, please.’
The tenderness in his tone persuaded her and they ordered mushroom risotto for each of them. Mackenzie did no better than pick round the edges of hers in between the wine. Soon, she was signalling the waitress for anoth
er. Her husband placed his hand on top of her nearly empty glass. ‘For Christ’s sake. Haven’t you had enough?’
She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. ‘I can’t go on like this. It’s too much. I can’t stand it.’
He felt his cheeks redden. ‘Mackenzie – get a grip. We’re in the middle of a bloody restaurant.’
She took a tissue from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m leaving you, Derek.’
‘Not that again.’
‘I mean it.’
She was leaving him. He wanted to laugh. People nearby were listening. Derek glared at them until they looked away and waited for his wife to calm down before raising the subject he’d rather have avoided. ‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. There’s someone else, isn’t there?’
‘No, of course not. Why do you always think that?’
‘Because there is. Ever since you stopped drinking the last time there’s been some guy in the shadows who’s going to change your life. Well, I’ve got news for you. Nothing’s going to change unless you deal with your drinking.’
She stood. ‘I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I’m going home.’
Mackenzie stormed away. Derek tossed money on the table and ran down the escalator after her, pushing past shoppers travelling at the speed of the moving stairway. On Buchanan Street, he caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She brushed it off. ‘Let me go. Let me go!’
He tightened his hold and pulled her to him, whispering through gritted teeth. ‘You’re making a bloody fool of yourself. Of both of us. I mean it. Get a grip.’
The anger in his voice was enough to stop her struggling. Across the street, a man in his late-twenties, wearing a black coat, leaned against a shop doorway and stared over at them. He casually crushed the cigarette he was smoking under his shoe, smiling at some secret joke.
‘Who’s that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Derek pointed. ‘The guy in the black coat.’
Mackenzie looked over his shoulder. ‘It’s him!’
‘Who?’
‘The one I told you about. The man in the supermarket. He’s watching us.’
‘The whole of fucking Glasgow’s watching us.’
‘He’s following me. Oh my God. I knew I was right, he’s following me.’
Black Coat waved and Derek’s face twisted in a sneer. ‘You really must think I’m an idiot. He isn’t following you. He’s waiting for you.’
Once, knowing she’d chosen him made Derek Crawford proud. Having a beautiful female on his arm was a boost to his ego. Three years on, pride had been replaced by other emotions. He turned on his wife. ‘Was that the plan? Fall out with me and hook up with him?’
Mackenzie started to deny it when the stranger waved a second time. That was too much for her husband. ‘Are you seriously asking me to believe he doesn’t know you?’ Derek laughed a brittle laugh. ‘He knows you all right. He bloody knows you.’
He grabbed her arm again and half-dragged her up Buchanan Street. ‘We’ll discuss it when you sober up. As for your sister’s party, you’re fucking going.’
* * *
Gavin and Monica Darroch
Gavin knotted his tie and inspected himself in the mirror: not bad, considering he’d only managed a couple of hours sleep. The bags under his eyes which alarmed him two months ago had found a home on his face and seemed to belong there now, and earlier that morning he’d spotted a grey hair. Welcome to parenting. At this rate he’d be an old man before Alice hit her teens.
He had always taken his responsibilities seriously; as a student he hadn’t spent his days in the bar, unlike so many of his peers. The result was a 2:1 degree in architecture from Edinburgh University, followed by three lost years in London, catching up on the fun he’d missed. Back in Glasgow, ready to put his education to work, he’d interviewed with the old established firm of Jamieson Coburn in the West End of Glasgow. They’d liked what they saw and offered him a job. All he needed to do was stay on the right side of the planning department and allow his flair to shine. Except, as he soon discovered, it wasn’t so simple. Robert Jamieson, the founder’s great-grandson, told him the facts of life on his very first day.
‘You’re young, bursting with enthusiasm, and that’s good. We need your energy. But keep this in mind. Every office in the city will tell you a successful practice runs on great design. Not so. Invoicing is what keeps the lights on. Every hour a client’s bill is delayed puts the firm at risk.’
He saw the new-start’s confusion and placed an avuncular arm on his shoulder.
‘Jamieson Coburn has been in business for close to four decades. I’m giving you the secret of our survival: don’t get lost in the drawings, manage the project.’
Gavin took the advice to heart and ten years down the line was a junior partner: it was all working out.
One Friday night in Brown’s Brasserie on George Square he’d met a girl with a very different world-view. Monica had just returned from a six-month trip around India and couldn’t have cared less about paying the rent. Her blue eyes sparkled when she told stories about fishing off houseboats on the waterways of Kerala, camping under the stars in the Thar Desert or picking tea in Darjeeling, and by comparison, what he’d done seemed tame. She was the adventure he hadn’t known he was looking for. When he took her home he was already in love with her. It was obvious they were right for each other and the romance moved quickly.
Light years ago, at least that’s how it felt.
Before Alice was born he’d listened to his friends’ jaundiced comments about fatherhood, making it sound like a living hell, and kept his thoughts to himself. Surely they were having a laugh? If it was as bad as they made out, why did some of them have three and four kids?
And he’d been right, they were joking. But they were also telling the truth.
Gavin put on his jacket and had a last look at his reflection. An older version of who he’d been stared back: a stressed-out guy who didn’t laugh as much as he used to and, although he wouldn’t admit it even to himself, worried about where his life was headed. He’d changed and so had his wife; the free spirit had gone leaving a stranger in her place. Being parents was turning out to be more of a challenge than either had foreseen. In the clinic, they’d listened to the lecture on postpartum, believing it had nothing to do with them, the way smokers believed lung cancer always happened to somebody else.
Alice was beautiful; he loved her. So much it scared him. But the tiny person they’d created together overwhelmed them, dominating and demanding more than they had to give. Gavin had taken time away from work to share the load. Not a great success. They got in each other’s way and argued over issues which weren’t really issues at all, in the end agreeing it would be better if he went back to the office. He did and they were both relieved, but it didn’t solve the problem. The balance they’d taken for granted in their relationship eluded them, trying to find it pushed them further apart, and he began staying at his desk into the evening, dreading having to come home.
If this was how profoundly he – the man – was affected, what about his wife?
The gift Monica carried for nine months had become a curse. She felt inadequate as a mother, unattractive as a woman, and couldn’t cope. Her mood swung all over the place, one minute joyful and excited the next anxious and irritable. Then came the depression. They’d been told the ‘baby blues’ could last for as long as two weeks. Three months on, things had deteriorated even further. Secretly they both feared the marriage wouldn’t survive and avoided each other. They would die for their daughter – no doubt about that – but they were coming apart. Normal conversation didn’t happen now and sex was a thing of the past.
He heard the doorbell, then Mrs McLeod’s cheery Gaelic lilt drifting upstairs. She’d offered to watch Alice so they could go to Adele’s birthday party. There wasn’t much anybody could tell her
about babies; she’d had five. Monica hadn’t been keen and only agreed after Gavin promised they wouldn’t out stay long.
Downstairs in the lounge the women were in discussion about feeding-times. He heard the concern in his wife’s voice. ‘If anything happens, anything at all. Call me.’
Shona McLeod was an old hand at the game. She understood. ‘Forget about us, enjoy yourself, we’ll be fine.’
On the journey across Glasgow, Monica stared out of the window, her fingers nervously twisting the strap on her bag. Gavin remembered the bag well, a Stella McCartney, bought two years ago for her birthday in the far-off days when everything had been right with their world. They’d had a routine that suited both of them: he played five-a-sides on Tuesday nights while she was at the gym. He’d never understood why a woman with a perfect size ten figure needed to exercise. She’d told him that was why. Afterwards they’d meet up and go for a curry, taking turns at choosing the restaurant. Monica usually favoured Mother India’s Café on Argyle Street, across from the Art Gallery; or sometimes Chaakoo in the city centre. Though he’d heard it had closed, so she’d have to find somewhere new. Gavin stuck with the Shish Mahal in Park Road and always ordered biryani. On Fridays and Saturdays they’d take turns cooking, trying to impress with fancy chocolate desserts. Then Sunday – the best day of the week: breakfast in bed made by him; sex, unhurried and intense; coffee; the papers and the often-heated discussion over what was in the news.
In the afternoon, they’d drive into the country. Scotland was beautiful, fantastic scenery in every direction and less than an hour from the city. Just being close to it refreshed them: breathing in the salty air on Pittenweem harbour with the Bass Rock in the distance, or trudging arm in arm into the winter wind over the sand dunes of Irvine beach.
