by John Mayer
‘You two are your own worst enemies. Do you know that? Jesus, if you keep this up the Council won’t need to defend against us. You’ll make their case for them. Frankly, I think you owe everyone here an apology for the damage you’ve done to this cause.’
Every man and woman in the bar had known him all his life and everyone said that since becoming an Advocate, then a Queen’s Counsel and now Baron McLane of Calton, he had changed both in the way he spoke and even the way he looked. One clever woman who’d been in his class at school said he’d ‘evolved’ into his new self. His facial features were of course nearly thirty years older than when he left the Calton. But they meant more than that. He now polished his fingernails - or had someone do that for him. Also, the way he spoke sometimes didn’t sound like the boy they’d waved off to Edinburgh aged just under eighteen. Now, even the way he sat in Lenny’s biggest chair was done in a way like no-one else they knew. Even the very air around him seemed to move to his command.
The atmosphere was now thick with his authority. Heads nodded in silent agreement and elbows nudged their neighbours as though to remind them that they’d been told exactly what he’d just said before they left the house. Some had even used the phrase ‘…their own worst enemies’. But, although this gathering rather looked like one and even felt like one, it wasn’t a prosecution. Far less was it a persecution. Everyone understood that Jean and Bella had only done what everyone else wanted to do. Now that he was back, the air hung with expectation of what his strategy might be. The last thing anyone wanted was to embarrass Jean and Bella any further. So no words of apology were necessary. For now that they were turned in their chairs towards each other, as far as their roly-poly bodies would allow, sitting with their hands tightly entwined, Jean Mularkey and Bella McLane were a portrait of two very sorry looking women:
‘OK. Moving on. Last night I had a word on the phone with the senior public prosecutor who’s handling this complaint. I’ve known him many years and he’s a decent guy. His mother was born in Maryhill, so he remembers what it was like when a lot of that area came crashing down. Purely as a favour to me - and that means I now owe him a BIG favour - he’s not taking you to court. But he is issuing you two with a formal written caution. In return, you two will write to the councillor you threatened, expressing your deepest regret for losing your temper and making those threats. You’ll also clearly and expressly promise not to do anything like that again. The prosecutor will record your letters on file and should you do any such thing again, he’ll throw the book at you. So, I hope you get the idea. Next time there will be no cosy chat with me. It’ll be a court appearance and straight to …’
Widening her eyes, old Jean looked delighted, even cocky at hearing his news: ‘Great! You can write the letters for us and we’ll just sign …’
Shoving out the palm of his hand, McLane burst her bubble: ‘What? No chance! You will both write separate letters, in your own words and your own handwriting, doing just what I’ve told you to do and you’ll take them - not put them in the mail - but take them to Glasgow City Council Chambers and hand deliver them. You won’t need to see the woman. She probably doesn’t want to meet either of you two again. OK? Now, what I can tell you all is that because of Jean and Bella’s outbursts, the statutory consultation process has been suspended. So nothing is going to happen until those apologies are received.’
Turning to Auld Faither, McLane asked: ‘So, Faither? What’s the damage report?’
Auld Faither was a man who’d seen real trouble so many times in his life that a day without trouble felt like walking on air. Now that Jean and Bella were off the hook, his sense of relief showed all over his craggy red face. Shrugging his bony shoulders in his old suit jacket, he only half turned towards the chairman:
‘Well, all things considered, I suppose it’s no’ too bad, really. The TV News has been on the phone. They wanted to know if the whole Calton will be marching en-masse from the Calton Bar here along to the court with you at the front: arm in arm wi’ Jean and Bella.’
McLane spun his head and dropped his hand onto Auld Faither’s arm:
‘You didn’t confirm or deny …?’
Pulling back his head in surprise, Auld Faither looked almost insulted:
‘What? You must be kidding. D’you think I’d fall for that? No way. I know a suggestion from somebody who wants something’ for somethi’ when I see it. Naw! I just told them, that all such things are really up to you. Of course, now that there will be no court case, I think we need something’ else to … raise … what’s it called? Oh aye. Raise awareness. Don’t you agree, Brogan?’
Leaning back into one corner of Lenny’s widest wooden chair, McLane tapped his pen onto thin air and looked around the sea of familiar faces, every one taut with expectation:
‘Never chase the game. That’s what the greatest living Advocate taught me when I was still a Devil in Parliament House. You don’t chase trouble because when you do, you’re expending all your energy going headlong down a never ending road.’
Around him, no-one yet saw his point. But in silence and awe of the man they’d been to school with, got into fights with, had fast-moving romances with and waved off when he took his first journey to Edinburgh University Law School, they trusted in him one hundred per cent:
‘You see, right now, beyond what was in the letters and what was said at the erm, … consultation, we know a total of absolutely nothing about this move by Glasgow City Council. All of the movement has been on their side. They’ve had the idea to demolish the Calton. Where they got the idea to extend the motorway and put up these shopping malls, we don’t know. We don’t know who the big players are. We know that every man, woman and child in the Calton stands to lose, but we don’t know who stands to gain. No. For the next week, at least, we make no move at all beyond Jean and Bella’s written apologies. At the moment, the ball’s in our court, so if it took ten days to hand those in, that would be within expectations. But Faither is right. We do need a ‘corporate body’ so to speak. Someone who will be our point of contact with the press and TV. That sort of thing.’
The whole gathering waited for him to say it, but they were disappointed:
‘I can’t be involved because I’m legal counsel. But I say that right here and now we form the Calton Residents Association. Who wants to join?
Immediately the whole house rocked to the cheering and a forest of hands went up:
‘Good. Now, I propose that Faither be Chairman and Big Joe be Secretary. Does anybody have any objections or is a second set of candidates proposed?’
Before their very eyes, history was being made by the finest mind the Calton had ever produced and he was doing it as easily as though he was putting together a boys’ football team to play a neighbouring district. No-one even let the thought of another set of candidates cross their mind:
‘Good. So that’s approved. Now to the next item of business in this the inaugural meeting of the Calton Residents Association. I want to show you all this.’
Looking straight at old Jean Mularkey, who was like a second mother to him, and then at his aunt Bella, McLane’s face took on something of the boyish smile he used to make when addressing his elders in the streets around this old Free House. From his jacket pocket, McLane brought out a single sheet of paper, unfolded it and pressed it flat on the table. Both sitting and standing, even looking at it upside down, most if not all could read its heading: ‘Scottish Legal Aid Board’:
Tapping the bottom of the sheet with his pen, McLane didn’t need to tell anyone what it meant to be granted Legal Aid:
‘Earlier today, this was sent to my hotel in London by my Chambers Clerk in Parliament House. Friends and neighbours, I’m pleased to say that it reads: By order of the Scottish Legal Aid Board, Applications for full Legal Aid by one Mrs Jean Mularkey and one Isabella McLane, both residing in the Calton in Glasgow have now been approved. Accordingly, subject to audit and in accordance with European Law which demands ther
e be equality of arms where any citizen challenges any EU member state or any of its local or city governments, agencies or other state organisations, all fees for legal advice and assistance in the filing of any lawsuit or otherwise challenging Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018 is hereby GRANTED.’
Whoops and skirls filled the air so loudly that Lenny’s big front window rattled. More than a dozen hats were thrown high and kisses were pressed so hard into flesh that marks were left. Some of the older women stretched over and ruffled his hair the way they did when he was a boy. Auld Faither shook his hand with all the power of twenty years before. And, when Big Joe Mularkey dug him in the ribs with his elbow, the deep penetrating looks in both of their eyes washed away all that had been said in the Gravediggers Bar in Edinburgh. It took well over a minute for the crowd to calm down enough to hear McLane speak again:
With both arm outstretched and his hands waving as though he was trying for lift-off, McLane brought the meeting back to order:
‘Right, calm down now, please. OK, Jean. Bella. Now that you two are properly my clients, I want to start at the very beginning. I’ve got a few legal ideas I want to explore. Your ‘apologies’ will give me a little time to look into a few legal documents I need to study before I begin to form any view or answer any of your questions. What I can guess is that whoever is behind this will have friends in high places - though in this case I don’t think they’ll be in Edinburgh. However, just in case, I don’t really want to alert anybody in Edinburgh to what I’m thinking. So after a pint of Lenny’s beer and a steak pie - if there’s any left - I’m going to a library, then to another library and then home.’
As he spoke, an air of empowerment flowed from his lips like a fresh breeze among the stunned, sweating crowd. Almost bursting with pride in him, simultaneously Jean and Bella pressed on the arms of their chairs and flung themselves over the table, wrapping their hands around his neck and pulling him close. Kissing him all over his face, it was Bella who broke away first. Raising her fist, she turned to the crowd:
‘Oh aye! He’s a crafty one, right enough. Lenny, for God’s sake get this man a beer and a hot steak pie. On me!’
Collectively, everyone breathed again. Lenny’s girls moved faster than cartoon characters pulling foaming beers and clattering out plates to take piping hot steak pies. The cacophony of old friends correcting each other and betting that each other was mis-remembering this story or that, once again filled the Calton Bar; as though someone had opened a social pressure relief valve.
Leaning shoulder to shoulder on the bar, McLane turned to whisper into Big Joe’s ear: ‘Oh, by the way. Don’t worry about being away in Africa and not being here to support your mother through this. The DoE has approved the sale of the ship and the assignation of their BioMass contract. The money transfer - which I may say is a tidy sum - is happening as we speak. The office lawyers are dealing with the taxes and should have the whole deal put to bed in a few days. You’re out of the BioMass shipping business Joe.’
Big Joe’s bull face showed nothing of the relief he felt. Being contracted to the UK Department of Energy to ship BioMass to Africa had been OK at the beginning; but, now that they had grandchildren, being at sea for weeks and away for months didn’t suit Big Joe at all and he’d wanted out for some months. Gripping his pint glass, Joe swallowed about half a pint and licked his lips:
‘Good. Thanks for that my brother.’
Turning his shoulders towards McLane, Big Joe had that serious look on his face that only showed when there was trouble of the most serious kind. The life and death kind.
‘Look Brogie, I can see now that courts and lawyers might not be able to solve this. I think we both know that if my mother and your aunty Bella are separated … ripped out of the Calton to some Godforsaken place … they’ll die of boredom and broken hearts. I wouldn’t give them six months.’
‘But what about the bungalow you bought her in … where was it? Bishopbriggs?’
‘Och that? You know as well as I do that she lasted just under four months in it. She’d get up in the morning … every morning … and get the bus into town. Then she’d get another bus to the Calton and sit wi’ Bella all day. Bella told me she used to cry every night before getting’ her bus back to town. They both did. No. The posh bungalow was a disaster. She was born and bred here and wants to stay in the Calton. She’s often said she wants to die in the Calton. And I’m sure that’s true for Bella, too.’
Big Joe wasn’t telling McLane anything he didn’t already know in his heart. He knew his blood brother as well as he knew himself; and knew this kind of language was only leading to one conclusion:
‘You do know Brogie …I’ll do anything in my power to keep them here. And I do mean anything. D’ye know what I’m talkin’ about?’
Turning and leaning on the bar, McLane didn’t have to answer in words. He simply touched the rim of his pint glass to that of his blood brother and looked into Big Joe’s steely eyes. Although the Calton Residents' Association had now been officially formed, they had only begun to tip-toe down what would obviously be a long road; perhaps a very long road. Big Joe only used the word ‘anything’ when he meant only one thing, which McLane understood only too well. For now, they were just two Calton men in the Calton Bar standing shoulder to shoulder. After turning away from his blood brother, McLane caught Lenny’s eye:
‘Two large whiskies Lenny, when you can.’
~~~o~~~
Chapter 16
In every house in the Calton, the idea that they were all joined in this battle as the Calton Residents Association meant that the fires now burned a little brighter in their grates, the cold night air didn’t seem to penetrate the single pane windows quite so bitterly and even the young children could sense that when putting down their dinners, their mothers’ faces looked less weary than in the previous weeks. Lenny’s bar takings were up and quite a few families with men working had gone back to buying big Tommy Sorkin’s steak pies instead of putting bread soaked in beef gravy on the table. Even in the Primary School, the teachers noticed that fewer kids were drifting off into a fearful place and were more attentive to their lessons.
Bella McLane dropped her tired bones down into her well-worn wooden kitchen chair. Giving its arm a tug, she got her knees under the old wooden table she’d inherited from her sister-in-law, stirred her steaming soup and opened the evening paper. With one eye on a story about a young woman who’d climbed something called K2 and the first spoonful at her lips, she heard a solid knock at the door. No-one she knew ever knocked. Jean across the landing wouldn’t dream of knocking. Old Mrs Collier below couldn’t make the stairs anymore and the paper boy had only five minutes before delivered the paper in her hand. As she shoved back her chair and used one arm to turn and get up, she called out:
‘Who is it?’
The muffled voice coming through her thick old door was the last one she expected to hear:
‘It’s me, aunty Bella.’
As the door opened, there he was, wagging his finger in mock scorn at her: ‘You’re not using the security chain I had wee Micky fit for you. Anyone could walk in here and you’d be at their mercy.’
Turning and shuffling back to her soup, Bella waved her hand twice: ‘Och away and don’t be daft. Who’d break in here? There’s nothin’ in here worth stealing.’
Closing the door behind him, as his aunt Bella lifted her spoon, McLane thought it worthwhile taking one last shot: ‘It’s not only money that bad guys want. There are some crazy people out there. The lower courts are full of them.’
McLane couldn’t remember a time when the solid pine table that was pushed close to the wall wasn’t there. It was definitely much older than him. He’d seen its bare wooden top scrubbed thousands of times and it never bore a cloth; except on Christmas Day. The chrome salt and pepper pots positioned against the wall were where they always were. A wedding present from the Mularkeys next door, an identical set also given as their w
edding present would be on Jean’s table.
Bella motioned with her hand to the shelf in a 1960s tall cabinet:
‘I’ll just get ye’ a bowl. Ye’ll take a wee drop o’ soup, I hope.’
Pulling out a china bowl, she checked it for cracks. With her ladle in hand, she shuffled towards the stove. McLane was about to refuse when he stopped himself making such a futile gesture. Filling the bowl to the brim with her home-made chicken broth, Bella carefully placed it down. From her apron she produced a deep old soup spoon, which rivalled the ladle in volume:
‘There. Get that inside you.’
As they silently took their soup, both were very well aware of the symbolism at the table. Before he was born, a man and his new wife would sit at this table taking exactly the same soup. He thinking about getting enough work to pay the rent, while she was counting the days before seeing the doctor. When the last drops had been poured from their bowls into their spoons, Bella reached for his bowl, but McLane got to his feet and beat her to it:
‘Sit, for God’s sake woman. Let me wash these.’
With his expensive white shirt sleeves rolled up, at the sink, washing round and round and staring out of the kitchen window, McLane’s small talk trailed off and Bella saw her nephew fall back nearly thirty years. When his hands stopped rubbing the bowls, Bella shuffled over to the sink, laid her hand gently on his arm and turned him. There in Bella’s tiny kitchenette, there was no room for anything to be said: during the soup, their unspoken feelings had grown and grown with every mouthful so that they now filled the room to the point of pressing against the window panes. Slipping his arms around her neck, McLane softly laid the side of his face onto the top of her head. Solidly patting his back, she whispered:
