No Wonder I Take a Drink

by Laura Marney

  It didn’t help that I spent all day sitting: either in the car or in the health centres. The biggest health centres and therefore the ones I visited most frequently, were in the poorest parts of the city: Bridgeton, Maryhill, Springburn. I didn’t mind, I could read magazines while I waited for doctors to finish their surgery. The only problem was that the place was full of sick people. Sick people in sportswear and running shoes. Most of them couldn’t run the length of themselves. To avoid catching anything, I was always careful to sit as far away from them as I could but often the waiting rooms were crowded. Amongst the multicoloured jogging clothes I was conspicuous in my sober suit. I would quickly be swamped with screaming snot nosed toddlers, rattling junkies, pishy old ladies (which were of course, with my incontinence product, my target market) and diseased old codgers expectorating like nobody’s business. And they had the cheek to call these places health centres.

  It wasn’t long before I had a runny nose which turned into a phlegmy chest. The smoking wasn’t helping. I was coughing up chunks, laced with white stuff which looked, to me, suspiciously like bits of lung.

  Once a month I had to go on a field visit with my boss, Irene, taking her round the practices on my patch. Irene accompanied me while I ‘detailed,’ that is to say told doctors about how wonderful my product was. Each field visit was a test, an ongoing assessment of my selling ability. Irene met me with her usual flood of insincerity.

  ‘You look terrific Trisha, is that a new suit? It’s lovely!’

  In fact it was a very old suit. Six years ago when I started as a drug rep I bought three dry-clean-only designer suits that cost in total more than a month’s wages. After only three months in the job, three months of chomping my way through coffee mornings, I was a stone heavier and popping buttons all over the place. I switched to cheap easy-care polyester suits as a temporary measure until I regained my figure. Four years later I had succeeded only in putting on another stone and buying more polyester, but now with elasticated waists.

  ‘Och Irene, this suit is donkey’s years old.’

  Two years of nursing Mum had whittled me back into my designer suits. Even if they were six years out of fashion, I was enjoying it while I could. I knew that with a fridge full of sweetmeats my svelte designer look probably wouldn’t last. Already the waistbands were beginning to gouge my belly.

  ‘Well you would never know,’ gushed Irene. ‘Apart from the lapels, obviously.’

  Snidey cow.

  ‘So,’ she smirked, ‘where are we off to today then?’

  I took her to Archy Marshall, a mate of mine, a tame GP, and went through my sales spiel.

  ‘So, Dr Marshall, as you can see from the data,’ here I pointed with my pen to my sales leaflet as I had been trained to do, ‘with our product there is no need for you to titrate the dosage, minimising patient visits to you and therefore saving you precious time.’

  Archy nodded, pretending that this was new information.

  ‘No need to titrate you say?’

  ‘That’s correct Dr Marshall,’

  I had to remember not to call him Archy.

  ‘Another advantage is that with such a low side-effect profile, the product is well tolerated, patient compliance is high and therefore outcomes are improved.’

  Archy scratched his chin as though considering my argument. ‘Well I must say Miss McNicholl, you’ve put up a pretty convincing case for your product.’

  It was too easy, I wanted him to pretend that he wasn’t going to prescribe and then win him over demonstrating to my boss my superior sales techniques. He left me no option but to close the sale.

  ‘So Dr Marshall, can I take it then that you’ll prescribe ‘Preventapish’ for your patients?’

  ‘No.’

  Archy was at the wind-up. Out of Irene’s line of sight he flashed me a manic grin.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Only the incontinent ones.’

  Oh how we all chuckled. As we left Archy pumped my hand vigorously.

  ‘Always a pleasure Miss McNicholl, and I’ll be pleased to hear of any new products you might be promoting.’

  I was worried Irene would catch on. She had been a rep herself until six months ago, she must have been in similar scenarios with her boss; she knew the score. She must have played the same game. It was all bollocks.

  *

  Steven came round for his tea on Wednesday night as usual. As usual he looked pale and fed up and wouldn’t be drawn when I tried to ask him how he was getting on at school or at the football. His replies were as short and uninformative as he could make them. But things between us had improved a bit since Mum died. Now we sat in the living room with trays on our knees the way Steven preferred and watched The Weakest Link. This was much better, cosier. Mum had always insisted we eat in the kitchen, usually the only sound would be of the cutlery scraping the plates.

  In the living room we interacted with the telly and tried to answer the questions Anne Robinson fired. I was careful not to answer too many or else Steven just stopped playing. Aged fifteen and over six feet, he was still a wee boy inside and hated to lose, especially to me. We bet between ourselves which of the contestants was likely to win. The first time we did this I said something like ‘I fancy Jim,’ meaning I fancied Jim to win. Steven sniggered and teased me for fancying fat baldy Jim. After that I always chose the ugliest competitor saying I fancied him but I could see that as far as Steven was concerned, the joke was wearing thin.

  ‘What d’you want, coronation chicken or Chinese duck?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Well I’ve got both, it’s up to yourself.’

  ‘Do we have to have sandwiches again?’

  ‘I thought you liked these sandwiches, they’re Marks.’

  Steven shrugged for a reply.

  ‘I could cook but I’ve nothing in, I’ll have to nip out to Iceland. You can come with me and choose whatever you like. We can make a posh dinner, fajitas or something, whatever you fancy.’

  ‘No, you’re all right. I’ll take the chicken sandwich.’

  He made it sound like eating the best sandwiches money could buy, forcing them down his martyred throat, was an ordeal he would endure rather than cause me the bother of going out to the shops.

  ‘Look, I’ve got brilliant stuff here.’ I opened the fridge and pulled out a bunch of grapes, a fourpack of fromage frais and three fresh cream eclairs. ‘A big glass of milk with that and you’ve got a delicious and nutritious meal,’ I said, trying to keep it light.

  Earlier when buying the goodies for the coffee morning I’d shopped with Steven in mind and bought all his favourites.

  ‘Ta,’ he said unenthusiastically.

  My face flushed with an unexpected rush of anger. What kind of mother was I that I didn’t cook for my son and only fed him other people’s leavings?

  ‘Why don’t we forget this stuff and go out to dinner. Proper nosh up, there’s still time for the Pre-The at the Indian. D’you fancy it?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  This might mean he didn’t want to go out. Or he might want to go out but just be too stubborn to say so. Alternatively, he might not want to hurt my feelings by rejecting my posh sandwiches. He might actually prefer the sandwich option.

  I grabbed a promotional pen and an old envelope that was lying on the kitchen table and started scribbling on the back of it.

  ‘Right. I’ll write down the choices, A: Have the sandwiches. B: I’ll cook. C: Go out to dinner. Take as long as you need to think about it. All you have to do is tick A, B or C, okay?’

  I went into the bathroom and stayed ten minutes. When I came out the house was awful quiet. I went into the living room, he wasn’t there or the kitchen. He hadn’t ticked any of the boxes. He had taken the chicken sandwich and silently let himself out the front door.

  *

  I was just leaving Govanhill health centre on the Southside when I spotted the leaflets. On a table full of untidy piles of junk pamphlets about chlamydia,
pigeon fancier’s lung, giving up smoking, industrial white finger, haemorrhoids, and breastfeeding, there were flyers advertising half-price entry to the circus.

  When Bob and I were together we used to go as a family every year. He always moaned saying it was a rip-off, but Steven loved the circus. The first time we took him he was only five. I asked him afterwards what he’d liked most, was it the flying trapeze artists or the fire jugglers although I thought I knew what he was going to say. He’d laughed hysterically at the clowns, as if he was possessed. His mad laughter was so infectious Bob and I giggled with him. But he didn’t say the clowns. He said the ladies.

  ‘The ladies?’ I asked, thinking this was some kind of kiddie code.

  ‘The nearly naked ladies with no clothes on.’

  I phoned Steven as soon as I got home.

  ‘How d’you fancy a wee night out with your old Maw?’

  Steven blew out a sigh on the other end of the phone. I knew right away I’d made a mistake using the phrase your old Maw. I used this usually when asking him a favour or to elicit sympathy as in gonnae make your old Maw a cup of tea Son? Or your old Maw’s bowly legged running up and down to the shops. So I was surprised when he seemed quite positive.

  ‘Dunno. Where to?’

  ‘The circus has come to town. All the nearly naked ladies, all the fun of the fair. We could go on Wednesday night, eh?’

  There was a lot of activity in the background and Steven seemed to be struggling to give me his attention.

  ‘Eh, Dunno. What time is it on?’

  ‘Starts at eight, we could have a nice fish tea in the Ruthven Cafe and after the show I’ll drop you off back at your dad’s.’

  This was another slight diplomatic gaffe. I should have said ‘drop you off home,’ but Steven wasn’t listening anyway. He’d tuned into the background noises coming from his end which were getting louder. A couple of random bangs, a silence, subdued muttering then somewhere behind Steven a woman’s voice shouting.

  ‘I eat you Robbie!’

  It didn’t sound like the telly.

  ‘Everything all right there? You okay Son?’

  It had all gone quiet again. Steven paused before he answered.

  ‘Yeah I’m fine.’

  He didn’t sound fine.

  ‘Well how about it?’

  ‘Eh, dunno. I don’t like fish. That’s for old people.’

  ‘Well a sausage supper then. Hey, maybe they have Mars Bar suppers, that would be a laugh, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Am I allowed a Mars Bar supper?’

  If sales training had taught me nothing else it had taught me to recognise buying signals when I heard them.

  ‘You can have whatever you like, Steven.’

  It was time to close the sale.

  ‘I’ll need to get the tickets tomorrow if we’re going, it might sell out. What do you say?’

  There was another long silence but I held my tongue. I knew how to use silence, to let the customer fill the gap.

  ‘Okay,’ he finally allowed.

  ‘So, who’s Robbie then?’

  Now that our circus trip was organised I could afford to snoop into whatever the drama was down his end of the line.

  ‘Who d’you think?’

  The utter distaste in Steven’s voice told me what I should have easily worked out. I got off the phone as soon as I could. It was all I could do not to laugh and poor Steven was affronted enough as it was.

  Pathetic, a grown man going about calling himself Robbie. He’d always been Bob, never anything else. And The Bidie In screaming at him like that within earshot of The Wife. How embarrassing was that for ‘Robbie’. But what was she saying? I eat you. In front of a fifteen year old boy? Surely not. Obscene, but that was Norwegians for you. Maybe it was I hate you. Yes, that sounded more like it. Good on you Helga, I thought, a woman after my own heart.

  Chapter 3

  Before I went to pick Steven up I scrupulously de-fagged. I hadn’t smoked since lunchtime. I washed my hair, changed my clothes, scrubbed my teeth and fumigated the car. I went a bit overboard with the Mountain Pine air freshener giving it another quick scoosh just before he got in.

  ‘Ooof,’ he said waving his hand in front of his face. ‘This car is howfing, man.’

  I only smiled. I knew by this time tomorrow it would be stinking of cigarettes again. I didn’t ask for much, just to smoke all day and sit at night with a Marky’s piece in chicken in one hand and a fag in the other.

  Steven was disappointed to discover that they didn’t do Mars Bar suppers. Ronaldo the owner said he’d read about it in the paper and put them on the menu to see how they’d go. The school kids went a bomb on them but after a few weeks it died away. No one was doing them anymore. It was a shortlived craze that had become an urban myth.

  Steven plumped for the healthier option of a deep-fried Scotch pie supper. I complimented him on his excellent choice.

  ‘In fact I’ll have one as well, I haven’t had one for years. Can I have mine in a roll please, Ronaldo? I’m trying to lay off the chips.’

  As Steven’s knife cut into his pie, plasma coloured grease flooded his plate. Scotch pies should have been more properly called ‘grey meat’ pies as that was the colour of the contents but even the word ‘meat’ may have been an inaccuracy. What the hell, they tasted great and we got scoffed in before we had to hurry down to the circus in the park.

  When we used to go as a family Bob had always insisted that we get the cheap seats and even then, the cheapest possible seats. Plenty of times I had been ashamed to think of these beautiful highly trained athletes risking life and limb on a high wire for the pittance my husband was prepared to fork out. The wooden planks we sat on were so far back our heads bumped the roof of the big top. Poor wee Steven never had a chance of getting picked to come into the ring. The clowns always asked for a kiddie volunteer and although the wee soul shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Me! Me! Pick me!’ he was always passed over. As the years went by and he still never got picked, he realised the futility of shouting and stopped. I tried to explain that it wasn’t personal, it was just that the clown couldn’t see him. To the clown he was a colourful dot far beyond a hundred nearer screaming kids, but there was little comfort in it for either of us.

  Steven was mortified when the man showed us to our seats.

  ‘No way. I’m not sitting here. It’s for weans.’

  Encouraged by the half-price deal and as a way of making it up to him for all those years on the very back benches, I’d went mad and bought the most expensive seats in the place. The man showed us into a box on the ringside. Although there was about ten chairs in the box, it was empty except for us.

  ‘C’mon, the show’s about to start, you’re blocking people’s view.’

  I tried to embarrass him into sitting but he was having none of it.

  ‘I’m not sitting here. I’m going home.’

  ‘No, Steven, don’t go home. Please,’ I panicked. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ll ask if we can swap.’

  I found an usher who waved us generally in the direction of the grandstand seats.

  Steven was right. Sitting in the box on our own like that, we would have stuck out like a sore thumb. And the atmosphere in the grandstand was fantastic.

  There were no animals in the circus anymore, the council wouldn’t give them a licence. There was no longer the rank smell of the elephants or the cages for the lions. The cages were only for show anyway, Bob always said. Circus lions weren’t fierce, they were no more than slightly pissed off at being herded about but they were too pot bellied and sleepy to rebel. The most they could manage were sullen glances and occasional snarls at the lion tamer.

  Without the lions and the manacled elephants the show was even better. Exotic young women with buttocks so developed you could sit a tea tray on them spun painted barrels on their feet while a troupe of young boys formed a human pyramid. When I got a chance to look at them individually, some of the young boys
had bald heads and lined faces. A few of them would never see fifty again and yet they jumped and tumbled with the best of them.

  As they entered the ring each act was met with warm applause in appreciation of the satiny costumes, feathery headdresses and regal gowns that were dragged across the sawdust. As they left it was always to tumultuous applause and even Steven showed his grudging admiration for their amazing strength and skill. There was a collective gasp of horror when the trapeze man nearly fell to his death. The gasp fragmented into thrilled whispers, squeals and nervous tittering as Steven turned and said to me, ‘That’s a set-up,’ nodding knowingly. But I could see he was having a good time. When the clowns came on we sat with our heads down, embarrassed by how unfunny they were. Three wee kids in the row in front of us started laughing their heads off and when Steven glanced at me we both smiled.

  It was dark when we came out of the big top and we stumbled with everyone else along the muddy path out of the park. I nearly tripped and Steven said, ‘Sober up Mum!’ and held my arm all the way until we got to the main road. I thought now was as good a time as any to ask him but I was nervous of what his reply might be.

  ‘Are you happy at your dad’s Son?’

  He probably said, ‘Dunno’ but all I heard was a grunt.

  ‘Would you be happier back home with me d’you think? Now that…’ I nearly said ‘that Granny’s dead,’ but I didn’t want to upset him so I said, ‘that there’s more room. I’m going to get the place all sorted out, freshen it up a bit. Your room could do with a lick of paint and you could probably do with some new furniture.’

  I left it hanging there but he didn’t respond. Time for some open questions.

  ‘What d’you think’s the best colour for your room?’

  ‘Dunno.’