The Man Who Loved Islands

by David F. Ross

  We had all this, your mother and I, even though it was only for a very brief time And then it evaporated. I called it a misunderstanding, but she knew the truth. I just loved someone else.

  Chapter Eighteen

  August 1984. Kilmarnock, Scotland

  ‘How ye holdin’ up, Hettie?’

  ‘Ach, aye. Ah’m fine … y’know, considering.’

  Hettie Cassidy had seen Joey Miller walking through the cemetery gates from a distance. Her family’s plot was high up on the steep contours of the Strawberrybank hills. From that vantage point she watched Joey, dressed in black and carrying flowers, for a full five minutes before he reached her. He wore a long trench coat despite the late-summer sunshine. He was walking slowly: it was a warm day and he couldn’t quite remember exactly where Harry Cassidy had been buried two years earlier.

  ‘Ah’m really sorry about yer mam, Hettie,’ said Joey.

  ‘Aye. Well … maybe for the best. She was a poor soul at the end,’ said Hettie.

  It was clear she had been crying recently, but she was more together than Joey had anticipated. He didn’t expect her to be here, but he was glad she was. Joey didn’t want to probe too deeply but he didn’t have to.

  ‘There wis so many things at the end,’ said Hettie. ‘One thing after another. But it wis the pneumonia that did it. She just didnae have the strength to fight it.’

  Joey sighed.

  ‘Christ, Joey, ah’m no’ sure ah can really comprehend these last couple of years. Both parents gone before they were fifty.’ She began to cry. ‘It’s just so bloody unfair.’

  Joey kneeled down next to her, put his arm around her and drew her closer. ‘C’mon, pal. It’ll take time, but ye need tae try and stay positive, eh?’ These seemed like useless platitudes, but they seemed to help.

  ‘Thanks Joey,’ she said. She wiped her eyes on his jacket. Her tears left a wet stain on his shoulder. ‘Ach, look at the state ae me. Ah’ve blubbed all over ye. Whit ah’m a like?’

  Joey smiled at her. Hettie smiled back. He helped her up. They arranged Joey’s flowers, along with the ones Hettie had brought earlier.

  ‘Nice colours,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Hettie. ‘She loved chrysanthemums. Thank you.’

  ‘The least ah could do, Hets,’ said Joey. ‘Ah’m sorry ah wisnae here for the service an’ that.’

  ‘It was lovely. Gary wis a bit … arsey, but just because Don McAllister sorted aw the arrangements. Then him an’ bloody Bobby fell out about it all. To be honest, ah was really grateful tae him for everythin’. An’ him and Auntie Mary had been lookin’ after her since … well, Dad … y’know, so ah don’t really know where Gary got off, havin’ a go at him for it.’

  ‘Ach, he’s got his own shite tae deal wi’ though. Cannae be easy, ken?’

  ‘Have you seen him, then?’ asked Hettie, sounding surprised.

  ‘Aye … ah have, recently tae,’ said Joey hesitantly. He had been in England when Hettie’s mum, Ethel, had passed away two months before, and had missed the funeral. But he was aware that her death had pulled out a pin in a grenade that none of her three children had been able to defuse.

  They had all been so close growing up: Bobby and Hettie, both so laid back and free-spirited; Gary, their protector and shield when things got increasingly strained between their parents. To Hettie he had seemed so different to her and Bobby: so robust and capable. But in the emotional aftermath of the Falklands War, in which he had served, been lost, presumed dead, and then resurfaced, with all the attendant media pressure, he had changed immeasurably. He’d returned to barracks in London, and Hettie hadn’t seen or heard from him for over a year. Then, out of the blue, he came back home, with his girlfriend Deb and their tiny baby son, James, named for Harry, but taking his middle name. Harold seemed way too formal, and its shortened version sounded too much like an old man’s name to Deb. Gary hadn’t even phoned to let Hettie know James had been delivered safely; she had been incredibly upset by that. But Gary, uncharacteristically, shrugged it off like it was no big deal.

  When Hettie finally welcomed them all to Kilmarnock in late 1983, Gary seemed smaller to her, as if he had physically shrunk. He was stooped. He had put on weight and that whippet-leanness was gone. He chain-smoked, too, and was clearly drinking too much. There was no joking around; no playfully teasing Hettie as he had always done. He was edgy and anxious, constantly looking at his watch as if there was somewhere else he should be. Deb was also a bit distant, but her anxiety seemed connected to his; like she was anticipating an outburst and trying desperately to deflect the potential of one. They didn’t come across as the loving, dedicated couple Hettie expected newborn parents to be. Gary didn’t communicate much during the five days they were up. When he did, there was a bitterness to his words. Cynicism and sarcasm infused the few sentences he offered. Hettie pitied him his suffering and understood the intense pressure he was under, but he wouldn’t respond when she asked him what the army were doing to assist him. She wanted to try to help her brother, but he wouldn’t let her in. Gary Cassidy was a locked, dilapidated shell of a structure with a demolition notice pasted on the outside. Someone she once knew and dearly loved was squatting inside, but he was too terrified to come out into the light. She still loved him; just didn’t really know him as the same person anymore. Any intervention would have to wait. Gary, Deb and little James departed on the National Express and Hettie didn’t see any of them again until two days before Ethel’s funeral on 20th June 1984.

  ‘Jeezo, what happened to you, then?’ said Hettie. She hadn’t initially noticed the marks on Joey’s face when he had approached; he had walked up from the west. But now they had turned, and she had her back to the sun. The scars on his face were healing, but lit from the other side, she could see how many of them there were. It looked like he might have been whipped.

  ‘Ach, ah wis down at Orgreave, a couple ae months back. That’s how ah missed the funeral, like. Went wi’ the Labour Party guys ah’d been hangin’ about wi’. Got involved, got locked up, got a batterin’ off the polis, got let go.’

  ‘Bobby thought ye might’ve been there,’ said Hettie.

  ‘Aye? Did he?’ said Joey. He wasn’t expecting Bobby to have even mentioned his name at the funeral.

  Hettie didn’t elaborate. Bet that stupid cunt, Joey Miller’s doon at that miners’ riot, chuckin’ bricks at polis horses, the fuckin’ bampot: Hettie didn’t feel Joey needed to know the full context of Bobby’s words, or that they had been the catalyst for his argument with Gary afterwards. At least that ‘fuckin’ bampot’ … yer best pal, remember … believes in somethin’ bad enough tae fuckin’ fight for it. A fight had followed but in a contest between an aggressive angry soldier and a truculent, part-time slacker DJ, there was only ever going to be one winner.

  ‘It wis absolutely terrible, Hets. Just bloody legitimised state violence. We were aw there tae picket peacefully, an’ then ye just got the sense that the polis saw it as a battle right fae the off. They were meant tae be maintainin’ order but they were just bloody out ae control … hundreds ae the bastards, chargin’ aboot on enormous big horses, batterin’ anybody that stood in the way.’

  ‘Ah saw it all on telly, Joey. It wis terrible,’ said Hettie.

  ‘Aye, but the flamin’ BBC edited it back tae front. They news reports showed the pickets throwin’ stuff, an’ then the horses chargin’. That’s no’ how it was. Ah wis right there.’ Joey’s voice was becoming strained, as if he was on a witness stand, trying to get his point across under cross-examination.

  ‘Ah wis ower in Maltby just days earlier tae, when that young guy Joe Green got killed by the lorry. There wis a sense that it wis aw kickin’ off after that,’ said Joey.

  Hettie was no supporter of the Thatcher administration but neither was she an activist. The miners’ strike had seemed shocking but it also seemed remote from her. She sensed Joey Miller was desperate to share these events with someone, anyone. She felt insta
ntly sorry for him. Not only had she ‘lost’ Bobby; he had, too. He seemed a bit disoriented, which was presumably how he had ended up in England, trying to replace one small gang unit with another, much bigger one. Belonging was always something Joey Miller craved. Hettie knew it from the way he had spent more time at the Cassidy family house than at his own. There were even times, when Bobby and Lizzie King had started going out, that Hettie had found Joey in Bobby’s bedroom on his own, practising with the mobile DJ decks.

  ‘Ah tell ye, Hettie, this country’s fucked. The way the polis, the government an’ even the media are aw colludin’, it’s the biggest frame-up in history.’

  ‘Ye cannae win in those circumstances, it’s true,’ she said.

  ‘But that shouldnae stop ye tryin’, should it?’ he said.

  They walked on into the town, saying little.

  ‘How’s Uni?’ he asked her after a while.

  ‘It’s good, aye. First year was a bit tough. Ah actually preferred the photography tae the fine art. The lecturer was better an’ ah got on much more wi’ him. But, aye, it’s good. Good tae get away fae Killie. Too many deadbeats an’ arseholes left about here,’ she laughed.

  He wasn’t sure if she meant him.

  ‘Whit aboot you. Whit ye up tae when yer no’ punchin’ polis horses?’

  It was intended as a joke, just to lift the mood. But he thought she was making fun of him.

  There was a long pause. He didn’t answer her question. Instead he said, ‘Ah saw Gary an’ Deborah an’ the wean a wee while ago.’

  This caught Hettie off guard. She now knew she’d hurt him. This was his subtle revenge. ‘Ah got lifted after Orgreave, but after gettin’ a bleachin’ they let us go. Ah wis stunned by all of it, we aw were. Ah didnae want tae go home, so ah went tae London. Went tae the barracks an’ hooked up wi’ Gary. Figured he might’ve understood.’ This was a counter-dig, aimed to hurt. He saw it did, and he immediately wished he hadn’t said it. ‘Gary was askin’ for ye, Hettie,’ he lied. ‘Told me tae come an’ see tae ye, ken. Make sure ye were aw’right.’ One lie leading to another. ‘Said tae tell ye he wis fine, that he wis gettin’ help fae the army.’ A litany, now. He was trying to recover lost ground; to curry some favour. ‘He gave me this for ye.’ He passed her the Polaroid he had taken from his wallet. It was a photograph of Gary, Deb and wee James that he had taken for them but then asked if he could keep.

  Hettie wept again when she looked at the picture, but not at the cuteness of her new nephew; not at the shared joy of a young family captured at the start of their new life together. Hettie Cassidy wept when she saw the haunted, strained, look on her brother’s unsmiling face. The Man Who Wasn’t There. A young man who had experienced brutal, traumatic events that had led to him retreating from contact with his remaining family, and – as it transpired – from his own comrades.

  Joey Miller put another consoling arm around his former best friend’s younger sister. She would maybe phone London later, and his fencing match with the truth would be revealed. But having intended to hurt, he then only wanted to heal. He would have to take his chances.

  Chapter Nineteen

  July 1985. Glasgow, Scotland

  Hettie had packed a larger bag than would have normally been required for an overnight stay. She put it down to nervousness. Spontaneity was the usual characteristic almost everyone she knew associated with her. She smiled at the thought of them watching her now. This bag had been packed, unpacked and repacked countless times in the days before they were due to leave. But now she finally felt ready. She still had to wait for Joey, though. But once he got up, they’d be off, back to London. She sat the bag down close to the front door and laid her duffle coat over it. Then she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

  She was close to Joey, but they weren’t a couple, although many of the people they hung around with assumed they were. She did care deeply for him, but she didn’t want a relationship. She’d known him since she was only ten years old. He’d always just been there; her big brother’s best friend – normally a no-go area for teenagers anway, at least in terms of acting on any stronger feelings, and in truth, she had never specifically had them for Joey. But he’d been a support for her in the difficult months after her mum had died, when her brothers weren’t. She also revelled in his passions: for politics, for music. He took her to gigs; and out of herself. She recalled his enthusiasm about science-fiction, and allowed herself to smile at his theorised, nerdy certainty about the future: cars that drove themselves and telephones the size of a matchbox, which you could carry around and use anywhere. Since Bobby was no longer around, Joey had picked up the mantle of idealistic dreamer and Hettie absolutely loved that about him, even if there might have been a degree of opportunism about it. Nonetheless, he made her believe anything was possible at a time when, aged only eighteen, she had struggled to see any future happiness in her life.

  ‘Are you ready? We’ll need tae go or we’ll miss the train.’ Hettie rapped heavily on Joey’s bedroom door, for the fourth time that morning. There was no irritation in her voice but she had already decided that this was his last chance. If there was no indication that he was up by her next circuit of the flat, she’d be barging in and dragging him out of his bed. It was 4 am, admittedly, and also a Saturday, but since this whole trip had been Joey’s idea in the first place – and he’d insisted they get there in time to see The Style Council – there was going to be no soft-soaped sympathy for him not being a ‘morning person.’

  ‘Right, ah’m comin’ in … ah don’t care if yer starkers!’

  ‘Ah’m up, ah’m up,’ he replied. ‘Christ’s sake, ah hear ye.’ The door opened slowly. Joey Miller edged through it. He had his jeans on, and presumably pants underneath them. ‘Five minutes tae I get a quick wash, eh?’

  ‘Joey, the train is at ten tae five! Ah’ll need tae phone a taxi now.’ Her earlier mocking tone had shifted to one with a more vexed edge.

  The bathroom door shut. She headed towards the shared phone out in the communal hall of their Dowanhill student dorm.

  Joey Miller had been renting with Hettie Cassidy and two other young women – Alexa and Persephone – for six months now. The arrangement seemed to suit all of them. Tony Macari, the previous incumbent of the room at the end of the hall, had been mentally unhinged. He had been stealing things from all three girls for a few weeks before they confronted him. When they did, he had grabbed Alexa and held a kitchen knife to her throat, before edging both of them towards the front door. Her neck still bore faint marks from the cut, although she still didn’t think he had intended to harm her. Alexa tended to see the good in everyone, and not the salient fact that Tony was a drug dealer who preyed on the Glasgow University fraternities for his livelihood. His bedroom door had remained constantly locked, he didn’t engage much with his flatmates and there was an undeniably dark side to him. But still, when the police investigation began, the depth of his criminality had shocked the girls. When he had been in their company, he was usually very pleasant; and he was very good-looking too. They couldn’t blame themselves, though; his police interview described a very plausible, if totally fabricated life: A practised liar and career criminal. After his exit, though, the girls needed the additional income, and from someone who could respond positively to the following challenge: Flat-mates must be of good character. They must not be two-faced or addicted to alcohol. They must not use shameful ways to make money. Hettie was a bit unsure of this, but since Alexa had suffered the most, she was given the casting vote. Hettie showed the draft text of their advert to Joey to ask his opinion. He was certain it had been lifted from the Bible, but regardless, had put himself forward as an appropriate candidate. Almost a year earlier, Hettie had persuaded him to swap a college course that he hated for studying architecture at Glasgow University. Joey had reluctantly applied and – with his Ordinary National Certificate providing sustenance to his art-centric Higher qualifications – had been accepted. When the flat-
sharing opportunity came up, a move to the city seemed the logical one. Although he certainly wouldn’t have qualified to be a church deacon, Hettie could attest to his character, and that was enough for Alexa and Persephone. He was in, sharing a flat with Hettie Cassidy, and now, preparing to head to London with tickets for both of them to go to Live Aid at Wembley Stadium.

  The train from Glasgow Central was packed, predictably. Hettie was so glad this trip had been preplanned. Her old, spontaneous self might’ve just turned up and hoped for the best, but Joey had stressed the importance of reserving seats. That was one of the main ways in which he had irrevocably changed her. It had taken a while, certainly, but she now looked forwards. She anticipated, whereas before, in the ashes of that tormented summer of ’82, she had just reacted, gone with the flow. Previous boyfriends – admittedly, there hadn’t been many – were regularly late when meeting Hettie. They had all been young students, free of the bonds of home for the first time; flexing their wings in the big city. Strutting peacocks, more obsessed by their looks than most women. He might not have been an official boyfriend, but Joey was different to them in so many ways. Alexa had decided he was unconventionally handsome, and apparently unaware of it. He was also clean-shaven at a time when the emerging Glaswegian student counterculture was threatening to put local barbers out of business.

  ‘I need a coffee. Want one?’ said Joey.

  Hettie shook her head.

  He got up to look for the buffet car, which the conductor had told them was in the next carriage. He wasn’t sure which next carriage; left or right of their seats. She watched him squeeze between a group of youngsters all carrying balloons and Union Jack flags and then disappear behind four tall skinheads all wearing ripped t-shirts with the words ‘Fuck You’ scrawled across them. Paradoxically, they smiled broadly and politely stepped out of Joey’s way when he asked them to excuse him. Everyone else, including the conductor, had been eyeing them suspiciously since they had boarded the train at Birmingham New Street, as if they were aliens, intent on mass abduction. Hettie felt sure the skinheads wouldn’t be heading to Wembley. The billed acts were a bit corporate, and music-business safe. Although her own tastes were less narrowly defined than his, Hettie agreed with Joey that including The Smiths and Echo and The Bunnymen might’ve made the British side of the event a bit more representative of contemporary UK music. They probably would’ve rather stuck pins in their eyes than play Geldof ’s matey-driven games. But at least U2 were in and she loved them. Bowie too, and if putting up with the record-business old guard of Phil Collins and Queen was the penance to be served for that, she was sure it would still have been worth it. A brief flurry of local rumours had hinted that The Miraculous Vespas – the Kilmarnock band who had hit the number one spot with their debut single the previous autumn – would be appearing. Joey knew their manager and had hoped that backstage passes might be possible. Subsequent counter-rumours had quashed these hopes. The band had been pawns in a bizarre, large-scale gangland vendetta and for anyone on a witness protection programme, appearing in front of an estimated global audience of 1.9 billion wouldn’t have been the smartest move.