Chasing Angels

by Meg Henderson

  Kathy had been, what, fifteen? So ‘the poor boy’ had been around twenty-six. Outrage almost overcame her grief. ‘Christ, aye, Aggie,’ she spat at the old woman, ‘that’s right! It’s too much for poor bloody Peter, an’ here’s me, right enough, havin’ the time o’ my life at my mother’s funeral!’

  ‘Peter’s different,’ Aggie replied savagely. ‘Oor Peter’s sensitive, he’s no’ a callous wee swine like you! Allowances havtae be made for the sensitive!’

  ‘Well Ah guarantee he’ll be just as sensitive when your time comes, Aggie!’ Kathy spat back. ‘He won’t be here tae see you away, Ah’d lay money oan it! There won’t be anythin’ different then either!’

  And she’d been right about that as well. She only hoped Aggie was hovering about at her own funeral a few years later, as Father McCabe did the business. When Aggie went the priest had been right there, ready and desperate to administer the Last Rites, however belatedly, just as he had been in the background all through Aggie’s marriage to her late husband, the much reviled stalwart of the Orange Lodge. Not that Aggie could be received back into the one true church while her husband was alive, because having married in a Protestant church she was living in sin as far as the Catholic Church had been concerned, but as soon as Aggie became a widow it was as if the unfortunate, unspeakable marriage to the evil Henry Bryson had never been. Aggie was a Catholic once again, and that was at least one reason why Father McCabe had pulled out all the stops to give the reclaimed one a feature-length send-off when she died, even if it perhaps wasn’t the only reason. And if she was around, supported by her new wings, she would’ve seen her granddaughter’s smug expression and heard her mutter as the coffin passed, ‘Ah told ye, Aggie! Nae Peter for you either!’

  ‘Different,’ that’s what Aggie had said, Peter wasn’t like Kathy, and funnily enough, ‘different’ was how her mother had always described her and Peter. ‘The two o’ ye are the same,’ Lily used to say, as Kathy wondered which of them should feel more insulted by the description, ‘but different.’ ‘But a helluva lot different, well!’ Kathy would protest. In many ways it was true though. Peter was a lot older than her, ten, no, eleven years, and handsome all of his life. He had Old Con’s thick black hair, grey eyes and sallow complexion, whereas his much younger sister had auburn hair, brown eyes and pale, freckled skin, just like Lily and the long-gone Orangeman, Henry Bryson. But different as their colouring was, there were similarities. For instance, they both had skin so easily irritated that the softest wool brought it out in a rash, and their features had an undeniable look of kinship about them, despite the different colour schemes. But there was something about Peter, something that had been there since he was a child by all accounts, an air almost of not belonging to his own family, of being too good for them and their station in life. It was something they almost admitted themselves in a guilty, apologetic way, as though it was their fault for landing him with his own background. Peter was, from the very beginning, on his way up and out, and he had a confidence that left no one in any doubt that he was meant for better things. Part of what Kathy disliked so much about him was his easy rapport with everyone he met, he was all things to all men but he stood for nothing, except his precious self, of course. ‘He can talk to prince or pauper,’ Aggie used to say proudly of her ‘sensitive’ grandson, and it was true, but Kathy knew he was always well aware of which was which. She didn’t understand why no one else objected to Peter’s clear agenda, his clear image of a destiny that didn’t include the pauper, or any of the family either, come to that. She had worked out long ago why she knew this. It was because they had similar characters too, however much she hated to admit it to herself, but at a certain point they had diverged. They saw things in much the same way, but the roads they decided to take as a result, their priorities, were widely different. It was as if they looked through the same eyes on the same scenes, she had always thought, then made opposite choices based on the identical views they saw. Who, after all, has a clearer picture of what is in the mirror than its reflection? Lily, her daughter knew, was more right than even she realised; Peter and Kathy were indeed the same, but different. Very different.

  Peter was the reason, Kathy knew without asking, that eighteen-year-old Con Kelly had married sixteen-year-old Lily Bryson all those years ago, and even then Aggie, Lily’s mother, had taken her new son-in-law’s side. It was her daughter’s fault alone that Con had got her pregnant, and for the rest of her life Aggie had continued to take his side. The bond between Con and Aggie was their religion, which Aggie had to lose temporarily during her marriage but had never quite forgotten, and it mattered more to her than her daughter, her elder daughter at any rate. Lily had no time for religion of any kind, a neutral stance that was interpreted as a vote against Catholicism as far as Aggie was concerned, whereas Lily’s younger sister, Jessie, shrewdly sided with their mother on this and all other issues. Lily it was who ran after her, danced attendance on her, and Jessie it was she adored – and Con too, of course. It was as if Con and Jessie were her children and Lily the unwanted in-law. ‘Oor Jessica shoulda married Con,’ Aggie would say openly. ‘An’ if Lily hadnae got herself in the family way, he woulda.’

  ‘Aye, Aggie,’ Kathy would reply darkly, ‘it was a’ doon tae Lily. Ah thought ye’d have approved o’ a virgin birth in the family. Any virgin ower the age o’ ten in your family would’ve been an achievement for that matter. An’ the Virgin Lily even gi’ed birth tae Peter the Messiah – Christ, Aggie, Ah think ye might be on tae somethin’ here y’know! But ye’re right, it was a’ Lily’s doin’. That an’ the fact that my Da was a randy auld swine who didnae care where he put it, of course! Him an’ Jessie are well-met in that department tae!’

  ‘You keep yer dirty tongue aff oor Jessica!’ Aggie would argue back. ‘You mind yer ain business!’

  ‘Ah’d rather mind ma business than hers, Ah’ll tell ye that! But right enough, Aggie,’ her granddaughter would say with a grin, ‘Ah’ve likely got your Jessie a’ wrang. Ah havtae admit, though, Ah still wouldnae want to get too close tae her business. Ye’re a blessed wumman right enough, the Virgin Lily, Peter the Messiah and Jessie Magdalen, plus whoever the hell ma auld man is, a’ in wan family, must be a record that! But come tae think o’ it, Jessie Magdalen would never have done business wi’ ma auld man anyway, seein’ as she’s rarely been known tae gie it away free, has she? An’ Ah don’t think ma Da could’ve afforded her an’ the booze!’

  ‘Ye’re an evil wee swine!’ Aggie would screech. ‘Ye know fine that oor Jessica works in Stobhill Hospital as a secretary!’

  ‘Naw she doesnae, Aggie!’ Kathy would reply sweetly, as though talking to a particularly dim child. ‘Has naebody tellt ye? That’s just where the VD clinic is! Jessie doesnae work there, she provides work there. They’re that grateful tae her for keepin’ them in business that she’s even got her ain chair … Mind you, naebody else would sit in it anyway, she’s likely got her ain cludgie seat tae for the same reason.’

  ‘Ya filthy-moothed wee midden ye!’

  ‘She’s their best customer, Ah’m tellin’ ye, Aggie, withoot Jessie the VD clinic would’ve shut doon years ago. If she’s no’ in for a bitta cleanin’ up hersel’ she’s providin’ patients tae keep the place goin’. Ah’m tellin’ ye, ye should be proud o’ her, keepin’ a’ they hospital folk in jobs. Every advance in the treatment o’ the clap that’s been made has been doon tae your lovely Jessica. She’s been a godsend tae medical science so she has, an’ Ah’m proud o’ her, even if you’re no’!’

  While Lily worked to keep old Con in booze money, and Peter and Kathy fed and clothed, she had also slaved for her mother. She did the old woman’s washing, did her shopping, took her turn at scrubbing the stairs and generally made sure she was fed, watered and healthy. Lily was regarded as ‘a good wumman’, by everyone who knew her, but it was Jessie who provided Aggie with cash, and cash was much closer to Aggie’s heart than goodness or devotion. And everyone knew too h
ow Jessie earned the cash, though, of course, only those outside the family gave it a name and never when talking to those inside. Kathy remembered Lily’s response whenever the subject of her sister was raised, a quick sniff, and ‘Aye, well. We a’ know oor Jessie’s problem. She’s got this affliction that means she can only see the world frae her back!’ Everyone knew it too, and the tales of Jessie Bryson’s adventures were part of the folklore of the East End. But you had to admire her, the way she affected not to acknowledge her reputation; looking at her and listening to her, you’d think being on the game was like attending a particularly expensive finishing school. Not that Jessie suffered from low self-esteem; there was no chance of her doing it for a couple of pounds to keep the wolf from the door, for instance, she performed her skills only for and with those who could reward her well. Jessie was no common slapper, but Kathy used to wonder what it was that she could possibly do that was different enough to keep her in the style to which she had become accustomed. For the life of her she couldn’t think of any variation on the norm, or the perverted either, that could be worth the money, and even Jessie’s best friend, if she had one, couldn’t say she was a great beauty. Jessie took after Aggie in looks, and as everyone knew, Aggie had a face like a bag of tatties, and knobbly ones at that, she looked like Sid James in drag. Jessie was probably what Aggie looked like when she was young, a small, thin woman with dark, straight hair, though her dark eyes, just the right side and no more of bulbous, were all her own, as was the sallow complexion that produced dark circles under her almost bulbous eyes years before they would’ve shown on anyone else. But there again, she was literally a lady of the dark, so her physical appearance could’ve been down to her lifestyle rather than her genes, because a good night’s sleep didn’t quite fit in with her line of work. Still, whatever wonders Jessie performed on the libidos of her customers, it kept her in luxury. Jessie it was who wore the first mink coat Kathy had ever seen.

  ‘It’s true then,’ Lily had whispered to Kathy, watching her sister swanning around in her latest acquisition.

  ‘What?’ Kathy had asked, and Lily had laughed so hard that she’d almost choked. ‘Fur coat an’ nae knickers!’ she had squealed. ‘In Jessie’s case it’s definitely true!’

  ‘My, Jessie,’ Kathy had said, feeling the silky, luxurious pelt, ‘Ah bet a few cats laid doon their lives tae make that!’ Behind her she could hear Lily stifling a giggle.

  ‘It’s mink,’ replied the insulted Jessie. ‘It’s no’ catskin.’

  ‘Well don’t you worry, Jessie,’ she said sympathetically, ‘nae-body’ll know it’s no’ cat unless ye tell them. It looks just like the real thing tae me.’

  And the be-furred, half-naked Jessie’s earnings were enough to keep her two children, Harry and Claire, at the local primary schools in Glasgow. Kathy had been jealous of her cousin Claire when she was a child, not because Claire was darkly beautiful, which she was, but because while Kathy went to the local primary school then on to Our Lady and St Francis Convent School, Claire had attended the up-market, fee-paying Notre Dame Primary and then the High School, the top Catholic girls’ school in Glasgow. Harry had gone to St Aloysius, but that had bothered her less because unlike his sister he had a brain, and Kathy liked him too, but education was, she always felt, wasted on Claire, who seemed to get from one breath to the next without any conscious effort or aim. ‘A bit fey,’ was how Lily had described her, while ‘Daft as a brush,’ was Kathy’s more accurate opinion.

  And Jessie’s two children had no visible father, though she had been married briefly to a man called Sammy Nicholson, whom everyone thought of as a decent enough bloke, until he fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. ‘Fell or was pushed?’ Kathy used to ask Lily, and Lily would laugh, ‘Kathleen! That’s terrible!’ ‘Well, he’d served his purpose, hadn’t he? He’d supplied Jessie wi’ an alternative name tae make her respectable, or as respectable as a name change alone could ever make her.’ In the curious way of things, she was known locally all her life as Jessie Bryson, even if legally she was Mrs Nicholson, while both Harry and Claire, who had no relationship, either biological or legal, to the unfortunate Sammy, had taken his name, though Harry had been there many years before his mother’s brief marriage, and Claire didn’t appear till much longer than nine months after Sammy’s death. What always fascinated Kathy was what explanations Jessie could possibly have given her children about their origins, or were they unaware of the time scales involved in their births and the demise of their ‘father’? The rest of the family knew of Harry’s origins, but Kathy was never sure if he did. His father was Eddie Harris, a notorious Glasgow gangster, and for however long the relationship lasted he would visit Jessie in her home in nearby Broad Street on a regular basis, while his two bodyguards waited outside. Thus, anyone passing knew that Jessie and Eddie Harris were inside, attending to ‘business’. There was a suspicion that Eddie Harris was the only punter who didn’t actually pay for Jessie’s services, though for some years afterwards he contributed to the upkeep of the product, known for the first few years of his life as Harry Harris. ‘D’ye no’ remember him comin’ tae see Harry when he was a wee boy?’ Lily would ask Kathy, but Kathy had been even wee-er than Harry at the time and she was never sure if she could remember, or if her mother had told her so often that she thought she could remember. ‘D’ye no’ mind the time ye asked why Harry wasnae comin’ oot tae play an’ Aggie said his Daddy was visitin’ him, an’ you said, “But Harry’s Daddy’s deid”? Ye coulda heard a pin drap!’ Kathy wasn’t sure whose memory that story came from either, but from somewhere there was an image of a tall, thin man wearing a tight, double-breasted suit and a hat, and black suede shoes with thick crepe soles. But then that was everyone’s image of a gangster and Kathy could have lifted it straight from a comic or a film, even if her vision of Eddie Harris was taller than either George Raft or Edward G. Robinson.

  In time, though, the visits had stopped and Jessie had married the ill-fated Sammy Nicholson, and from then Harry was known as Harry Nicholson. If he was aware of having changed names he gave no indication of it, but certainly Father McCabe had been aware of that and all the other intricacies of Jessie’s life story, not that it stopped him accepting cash from her and welcoming her into the faith. Kathy supposed that Jessie just trotted along to confession once a week in her mink coat, repented of that week’s liaisons, took her penance and emerged clean as a whistle and ready to liaise again. And oh, by the way, Father, here’s a couple of bob for the new roof. Was that how it worked, she wondered? Claire’s father had come from climes further afield, as was evident from her exotic features. That two such handsome children, one blond and blue-eyed, the other darkly beautiful, should have come from Jessie, was a thing of wonder to Kathy. How was it, she mused, that they had been lucky enough to take their looks so entirely and obviously from their fathers, when Jessie’s plainness was so strong? No one knew for sure who Claire’s father had been, but around the time of her conception and birth there were increasing numbers of immigrants arriving from the Indian subcontinent. As it was always assumed that Jessie’s skills did not lie in her brain power, she would probably have had more difficutly than most telling one of her dusky customers from another, if, indeed, she was ever able to distinguish the features of any of them, regardless of their colour. The price was all that interested Jessie, so whoever had fathered Claire one thing was certain, he must’ve been one of the wealthier new arrivals, because Jessie had her standards, or her tariffs at least.

  In time, though, Jessie’s line of work got to her, and it was a great sorrow to Kathy that Lily hadn’t lived to see it. Jessie developed a phobia about germs, though, as Kathy wryly noted, not until her physical charms, such as they were, had faded and presumably – but who knew for certain? – business had dropped off. Wherever she went Jessie held a handkerchief over her mouth and nose with white gloved hands, in an attempt to avoid whatever bugs were seeping out of passers-by and making their way
directly to her. It didn’t help that Kathy was always overcome with sneezing and coughing attacks whenever Auntie Jessica appeared, or that she was so happy to see her that she insisted on hugging Auntie Jessica whenever they met either. Then Jessie began washing her hands so often that the skin was permanently red and weeping, and instead of attending the VD clinic she transferred to the Dermatology clinic, where various unguents and lotions were tried over the years; in vain, of course, the problem being in her mind, not her hands. Where once she was instantly recognisable by her expensive clothes and potato-like, young Sid James features, together with the treasured mink coat and her lack of nether garments, everyone’s perception of Jessie Bryson was changed in later years, and she was reduced in their minds to two weeping, red, raw hands, enclosed in white cotton gloves, clutching a handkerchief against her nose and mouth.

  ‘Poor Jessica,’ Aggie sympathised, ‘her hands is that bad she’s had tae gie up her work.’

  ‘Nae wonder,’ replied Kathy. ‘Ah know men don’t care too much where they put their willies, but even a scabby auld horse would think twice about lettin’ Jessie touch them wi’ her hands in that state! Efter a’, if the ootside’s like that, there’s nae tellin’ whit the inside’s like!’