He’d made enquiries at the clinic at the other end of the town, however, and been told what this new drug could do. What miracles it could perform. Or at least he thought of it as a miracle, if they could save Jenny or even just prolong her life and make it pain-free. Despite the painkillers she was taking at the moment, she was still suffering.
He gathered her in his arms and rocked her gently, close to his chest, praying that he could hold back his tears, because it upset Jenny so much when she saw him weeping. Later, he wept silently in the bathroom, his chest heaving, his eyes screwed shut. For years they had been so happy together. She was his first and only love. Every evening she used to drive to Goodmans to pick him up, then drive him home. Except once a week (sometimes twice), when they would go to a restaurant for dinner, and he would have a couple of glasses of wine. He would have done without the wine because she couldn’t drink and drive. However, she always insisted that he needed the wine to help him relax after a busy day in Goodmans.
If they went straight home, she’d make him sit down and enjoy a glass of wine while she attended to the evening meal. Afterwards they would both relax before the fire and he’d tell her all about his day at Goodmans. They often had a good laugh together but still he couldn’t help asking, ‘Are you sure I’m not boring you with all my talk about what happens at Goodmans?’
‘Of course not,’ she’d assure him. ‘I enjoy hearing all your stories. I really do.’
She would tell him about her day as well. Then they would watch the news on television and Coronation Street (Jenny’s favourite), and perhaps The Bill. Or Rebus. They both liked Rebus and had read most of Ian Rankin’s books. Later they’d enjoy a hot milky drink and a biscuit before snuggling up together in bed. Nearly every night they made love.
Since Jenny had taken ill, of course, she had not been well enough for any love-making. He only ever held her in his arms and whispered over and over again how much he had always loved her and always would.
He couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to give her the chance of being saved by the new drug. He had to get her to that clinic. He had to get the money from somewhere. No use trying the bank. He already had an enormous loan. They wouldn’t give him one penny more. He knew that because he’d tried.
Now, when he made several journeys every evening to the bank with the takings from Goodmans, he had begun to think about how that money could work the miracle for Jenny. He had never, never in his whole life before, had one dishonest thought. Over the years, he had worked his way up in Goodmans and prided himself that he had always been a good, hard worker, conscientious and honest. Mrs Goodman appreciated his conscientiousness and his honesty. He could not betray her trust and let her down.
And yet … and yet … Every night he was tormented by having to handle all that money. If he did defraud the firm, how could he manage it? There was not only Mrs Goodman’s sharp attention to every aspect of the business. There was Miss Eden. Nothing dishonest ever escaped her eagle eye. It had to be done in a way that meant he would not be caught or even suspected. He had not only to get Jenny cured at the clinic, he had always to be there for her, and she, of all people, must never find out what he had done. She would feel she was to blame and it would distress her so much. The thing was, though, he couldn’t think how he could steal the money. The more he thought about Jenny, the more desperate he became, the more feverishly he tried to think of a way, a safe way, to commit the crime. It was driving him mad. He couldn’t sleep at night now for trying to figure out how he could not only get the money, but also get away with it.
He struggled to calm down, or at least to look calm and normal, every day at work. Already he thought Miss Eden was giving him the occasional suspicious glance. And even Mrs Goodman’s sharp eyes were piercing through his façade of normality. Or was it just his guilty conscience making him imagine that people suspected he was up to something? He struggled to control nervous habits he had recently acquired, like fiddling with his glasses and avoiding looking people in the eye.
Eventually he thought of one way. It was pretty drastic but it could work.
It meant him getting physically hurt and he’d never been a particularly brave man, but when he thought of all Jenny’s suffering, he knew he had to be brave for her.
7
Abi gazed at the outward façade of the Scottish Parliament. John had told her that Enric Miralles, the architect, had studied in Glasgow and Edinburgh and was influenced by Charles Rennie Macintosh. She thought Charles Rennie Macintosh was a genius and some of his buildings were masterpieces. The Glasgow School of Art, for instance. But this? She shook her head. She couldn’t see Charles Rennie Macintosh in this. This was a complex of buildings with what looked like bamboo rods all over the walls outside. John said it was oak latticing. John loved everything about the Parliament.
Inside there was, in her opinion, a rather confusing and unwelcoming feeling, which wasn’t helped, of course, by the security. She had to empty some things into a tray. Then her handbag went through and then she walked through another part. It had once pinged several times until she’d had to be frisked. She had forgotten that she had her door key clipped on to the waistband of her skirt. It was all very embarrassing and humiliating. Further in, she was under the vaults. Historically, the vault was to hold up your tower, but also so that invaders couldn’t burn your house out by setting a fire on the ground floor. Under her feet was Kemnay granite from north-east Scotland and Caithness slab from the far north-east of the Scottish mainland. But what a mix-up it all was inside and out. Everything was over the top. But John said it was meant to be the reverse of the Modernist doctrine of ‘less is more’ to ‘more is different’.
She looked around for John’s secretary but couldn’t see her. Of course, she was a bit early. She was already carrying a bag of cakes from a bakery on the Royal Mile. Nevertheless, she decided to visit the Parliament shop while she was waiting for John’s secretary, and make some more purchases. She couldn’t remember the secretary’s name. But she’d recognise her when she saw her, she hoped. The shop sold bottles of special wine and delicious fudge and chocolates and other sweets. The children would enjoy them. It would be an excuse for her to visit them. Not that she needed an excuse. She’d taken the day off work to come and have lunch with John, and then listen to him for a while in the debating chamber, before returning home in the afternoon. Douglas Benson was delighted that she’d taken the day off and he would certainly have no complaints about her visiting the children.
After filling another carrier bag with shopping, she returned to wander around the main hall area and the lobby, tossing critical glances up at the upturned boat shapes and shoals of fish and leaf forms. All extremely over the top, in her opinion.
Still no sign of the secretary. She began to wonder a little fearfully if indeed she had forgotten what the woman looked like and she was already there among the crowd of people milling around. Then she caught sight of John’s tall, slim figure. She had to smile to herself. Not that long ago, before he had entered Parliament, he went about in jeans and baggy pullovers and his hair was long and untidy. Now he wore a smart suit, shirt and tie. His hair was cut short-back-and-sides but he still had a bush of curls on top.
She waved to him and he came striding over to give her a welcoming hug. He had always been a demonstrative, affectionate boy.
‘Where’s your secretary, son?’ Abi asked. ‘Did I miss her?’
‘No, she hasn’t come in today. I don’t know what’s wrong. She hasn’t phoned in to say. It’s not like her. I phoned her place just now and got no reply. But of course she’s often away doing research or other odd jobs for me. Anyway, how are you, Mum? You’re looking very smart. Quite glamorous, in fact. Here, give me your shopping bags. We can put them up in my office before we go for lunch.’
She didn’t even like his office. It was long and narrow and didn’t look at all comfortable or adequate. But John loved working here, anywhere and everywhere in t
he Parliament, in fact. He assured her that everybody did.
In the office, he dumped her message bags on the secretary’s desk, repeating in puzzlement, ‘It’s not like her not to phone.’
‘Oh, I bet she’ll phone later. It’s early yet.’
He didn’t look convinced. ‘Anyway, come on. You must be hungry.’
‘Yes, I’ll enjoy a bit of lunch. But the best thing about today, son, is seeing you and I’m looking forward to a wee while in the debating chamber. I hope you get a chance to speak.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll have something to say, all right.’
They made their way to the restaurant and settled down at one of the tables. While supping enthusiastically at his carrot and coriander soup, John said, ‘It makes me mad when I think of all that’s going on just now. What a bloody mess – and I mean literally – there is in Iraq just now. Saddam has no weapons of mass destruction, so that was Tony Blair lying for a start. We didn’t go in to defend ourselves. Or the Iraqis for that matter. Nowadays the ordinary Iraqis can’t even go out to a market for food and other essentials without risking death. I was speaking to a woman the other day. Her cousin had to go out and try to buy some petrol and was killed. He leaves a family of young children now with no food or heating at home.’
‘Poor things.’ Abi’s face creased up with sympathy. ‘Life’s so short at the best of times, but now there’s so much killing and cruelty everywhere.’
‘The laugh is,’ John said, with bitter seriousness, ‘the ones that do have the weapons are Britain and America. America has even used them. Not once, but twice.’
Abi shuddered, remembering the photographs she’d seen of children with the patterns of their clothing burned into their skin. Huge, flattened, desolate areas that had once been cities full of people going about their business in shops and offices and at home, looking after their families, had been destroyed in seconds.
‘Is that all right, Mum?’
Abi felt confused for a few moments until she realised John was meaning the steak pie and chips she was eating.
‘Yes, delicious thanks, son.’
‘How’s Benson behaving himself?’
‘Oh, the usual. He’s trying to keep me out of the shop as much as possible. His latest ploy is to try and get me to babysit the children during the day. I’m always tempted by that. But I try to resist and only go in the evenings to see the children.’
‘He’ll love you coming through to Edinburgh, then.’
‘Oh yes. He always says, “Why don’t you stay with John for a few days?”’
‘You know you’re always welcome at my flat, Mum. The spare bedroom is yours any time you want it.’
‘I know, dear, but I need to keep an eye on what he’s doing in the store.’
‘Could you go a pudding, Mum? They’ve got chocolate sponge.’
‘No thanks. That pie filled me up. Just a cup of tea will do me fine. Anyway, dear, is it not time you were taking your seat in the chamber?’
‘I’ve still time for a quick coffee.’
Over coffee, he again brought up the question of Julie, his secretary, saying, ‘Still no word from her and she’s got my mobile number as well. I don’t understand it. She’s normally so conscientious.’
‘There’ll be some perfectly good explanation. Try not to worry, John.’
He nodded, and eventually pushed back his chair and rose.
‘I’d better go. You stay and finish your tea.’
He bent down and kissed her.
‘Thanks for coming, Mum. It’s great to see you.’
She made her way up to the debating chamber, where several people – including what looked like a party of schoolchildren – were already seated. Meetings of Parliament took place every Wednesday afternoon and all day on Thursdays. People came on non-business days as well, just to have a look around.
At least she liked all the console desks like little pulpits carved in sycamore and oak in the chamber. John said the chamber was less confrontational than Westminster, where the two sides were two sword-lengths apart. Now a Labour man was arguing about how Scotland could never be financially independent. It would always have a deficit in its budget.
John reminded the man that secret papers from the 1970s that had been deliberately withheld from the Nationalists had now been released to the public and clearly stated that in the seventies, the government at the time knew that – as the Nationalists had always claimed and still claimed – Scotland would be heavily in surplus. Scotland would be able to keep all its wealth, including North Sea oil revenues, if the country was not a region, but an independent country.
‘The argument for wealth in a small country,’ John said, ‘is not something we’re hypothesising. You can see it in Norway, in Finland, in Sweden, in Luxembourg, which is a fifth of the size of Scotland. These countries are among the richest in Europe.’
Abi was definitely going to vote Scottish Nationalist at the next election. John had inspired and persuaded her. She wouldn’t mention this to Douglas Benson, of course. He would really believe she’d gone out of her mind if he found that out. Anyway, it was none of his or anyone’s business whom she voted for. She thoroughly enjoyed her visit to Edinburgh. Glasgow was her first love, but it was a pleasure to walk up the Royal Mile, as long as she ignored the outside of the Scottish Parliament.
The Royal Mile was full of interest. For instance, across the road was White Horse Close and the White Horse Inn. The Close was the original stables at Holyrood House and the Close was named after the white palfrey belonging to Mary, Queen of Scots. After that, it was the Jacobite headquarters during the ‘45 rebellion, and then an inn and terminus of stagecoaches to London. It was amazing to think that the journey took eight days in 1745.
The Royal Mile stretched right up to the Castle, passing two of the oldest houses in Edinburgh – one where the writer Daniel Defoe once lived and another that had been John Knox’s house. Abi didn’t go right up to the Castle, but turned off to make her way to Waverley Station, where she caught a train back to Glasgow.
Although she liked Edinburgh and was fascinated by its history, her heart belonged to her native city. As soon as the train pulled in at Queen Street Station, she felt at home. She was looking forward to being with the children. It wasn’t yet closing time for the store and so Douglas and Minna would still be at work.
George Square was busy. Some people were sitting on the seats; others, obviously tourists, were taking pictures of the imposing City Chambers, or the Cenotaph, or the statues. Abi crossed over to the building in which the Benson penthouse was situated high above the Square.
The nanny welcomed her in and gratefully disappeared into the nether regions and left her on her own with the children. After hugs and kisses, Abi was touched by the wide-eyed expectant expressions on their little faces. She knew, and they knew, that nowhere else and from nobody else did they hear such stories and songs. Once she got them settled around her and they were happily sucking the sweets that she’d brought, she began to sing:
My wee lad’s a sodger,
He lived in Maryhill.
He gets his pay on a Saturday night,
And he buys a half a gill.
He goes to the church on Sunday,
A half an hour late,
Pulls the buttons off his shirt,
And puts them in the plate.
Then, to the clapping of hands and with the children doing their best to join in:
There’s a big ship sailing down the ali, ali, o,
The ali, ali, o, the ali, ali, o.
There’s a big ship sailing down the ali, ali, o,
On the nineteenth of September.
After that, there was much giggling as Abi sang in broad Scots:
Twelve an’ a tanner a bottle,
That’s what it’s costin’ today.
Twelve an’ a tanner a bottle,
Takes aw the pleasures away.
For if you want a wee drappie,
You’ve got to spend aw you’ve got.
How can a fella be happy,
When happiness costs such a lot?
Then the enthusiastic clapping started again, and the children joined in with:
There were rats, rats, with bowler hats and spats,
In the store, in the store.
There were rats, rats, with bowler hat and spats,
In the Co-operative store.
My eyes are dim, I cannot see,
I have not got my specs with me.
I have not got my specs with me.
By this time, the children were falling about in hilarity, and so she thought she’d better tell them a quiet, more sensible (and the nanny would say more suitable) story. But the children wanted to hear ‘silly songs’ as they called them. They didn’t know what the words meant half the time. She thought it was the unusualness and, she suspected, the naughtiness of the songs that fascinated the children and excited their laughter.
The nanny must have quite a problem trying to keep their attention on Timothy Tiptoes or Brer Rabbit. If the nanny tried to tell them stories at all. Douglas and Minna certainly never bothered. Minna might have paid more attention to the children but Douglas dragged her out socialising so much. No wonder he wanted to take over Goodmans. He spent money as if he’d invented it. The city’s most expensive restaurants knew him as a regular customer, as did the nightclubs and bars. He and Minna were not trendy youngsters and so at least they avoided the many places where young people went. She’d seen the crowds of youngsters arriving in town to mill around the city streets at ten o’clock in the evening, just ready at that (to her) late hour to start their noisy rounds of nightclubs and discos.
No, Douglas and Minna had their own clubs and hotels that catered for the more mature, upmarket clientele. Expensive places. Though Douglas kept telling her that what he planned, or would like to happen, at the store was all for the good, cutting expenses, expanding, and so on. It was all for the good of the store, he said. That’s all he cared about, he kept telling her. She didn’t believe a word of it. The first thing he’d do, she was sure, was buy a big house with lots of land and live like a lord. He’d soon fritter away any profits he would manage to make in Goodman’s. He didn’t care about the place, only himself.
Goodmans of Glassford Street Page 4
