Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival

by Godley, Janey

  On the day of Arthur Thompson Junior’s funeral, two young men called Bobby Glover and Joe ‘Bananas’ Hanlon were found shot dead in a car outside the Cottage Bar in Darleith Street, next to Kenmore Street in Shettleston. The newspapers hailed it as an ‘execution’. There were accusations, court cases and conspiracy theories. In the Calton, there were journalists and photographers crawling all over the Weavers and loitering outside Jonah’s home. Old George came into the Weavers and asked me: ‘Whit the fuck’s happenin’ across the road?’

  ‘It’s all to do with Thompson,’ I told him, then nodded across to two men in the bar. ‘They’re journalists. Don’t speak.’

  Old George spat out, ‘They’re fuckin’ worse than the Polis!’ then, speaking louder: ‘Get those cunts oot o’ my pub!’

  When blind Jonah and I were alone later that day, I asked him, ‘Who killed them boys in Shettleston, Jonah?’ as I stirred his tea and held the cup straight to his hand to let him feel the handle. He had thick, jet-black hair and wore dark glasses quite a lot, but this day he didn’t wear specs; he was actually quite handsome and had an infectious smile.

  ‘Killed who, Janey?’

  ‘Fucking Cock Robin,’ I told him. ‘Glover and Bananas, ya mad fucker. Ye know who!’ I sat close to his face, sticking up two fingers at his eyes. I still thought maybe he could really see and kept trying to catch him out.

  ‘How the fuck would I know?’ he replied evasively. ‘I wisnae there, wiz I? Anyway, are ye gonnae open ma letters an’ read them fur me?’

  ‘Where’s Jackie?’ I asked, ripping open the first brown envelope.

  ‘She fell oot with me again – haha!’ he laughed. That was how he typically spoke. He acted like he thought it was all a big game – he was a man, after all, so he wasn’t going to admit that anything had hurt him; he just sat there with his head cocked, looking up straight at me with his blind eyes.

  ‘It’s a Visa bill,’ I told him. ‘You owe a couple of hundred quid.’ I read through the bill. Then I tried again: ‘So who d’ye think did it?’

  ‘Janey, when did ye become a fucking Polis wumin? Never ask anything ye don’t really need to know. Never be a witness … Did Sean never tell ye that?’ He stared blindly into his tea and smiled.

  ‘Aye,’ I sighed. ‘He tells me that all the time, but I just want to know stuff.’ I knew Jonah would never tell me now.

  ‘And did ye know,’ he continued, ‘did ye know ye talk too much? In fact, you talk more than anybody I huv ever met in ma life and I huv done time in jail and spent years with bastards who could talk for Britain in the Olympics but you beat them. Did Sean never say that tae ye? Haha! Nae wonder that man is quiet.’

  ‘Everybody tells me I talk too much,’ I agreed. ‘Sean included.’

  * * *

  Sean and I now seemed to be back on an even keel. He had had no more outbursts for a while and it felt good to love him and not hold my breath, waiting for some unexpected explosion. I was even pleased to read newspaper stories about Prince Charles and Princess Diana’s marriage being on the rocks. It reassured me to know I was not the only one who had in-laws that despised them. I could see why my in-laws disliked me. I was very confrontational. I asked too many questions. I did sometimes think I was better than them. And I did talk too much in a family that clearly hated any form of communication. But they were difficult to like. Every other week Sean’s brother Dick, who had no top teeth, would come in, sit at the bar, get drunk and attempt to pick a verbal slanging match with me.

  ‘Yer Mammy deserved to die in the Clyde,’ he would mumble and spit at me.

  ‘That’s nice, Dick, thanks,’ I would say. ‘Yer own ma died, but at least she knew enough to call you Dick. She had the foresight my Mammy never hud when it came to men. In future, here’s a tip for ye: when talking in public it helps if you actually know words and maybe get some teeth in yer heed, gumsy boy. Did yer teeth leave ye, just like yer woman, Dick?’ I would sneer. He and Margaret had split up by this time.

  ‘My da hates you, d’ye know that?’ he would shout out so all the customers could hear.

  ‘That’s fine, Dick. It’s no’ yer dad I’m fucking. It’s his son though, in your family, that is always confusing, isn’t it? I mean, you lot make the Borgias look like the Waltons!’

  ‘Who are the Borgias?’

  ‘A family from Shettleston,’ I said, patting him on the hand.

  I was a patronising bastard and I knew it, but I was fed up taking constant abuse from the Storrie family and started to just poke fun at them when I got the chance. I had been on the receiving end of this shit for years. I was sure even Princess Di took the piss out of her in-laws once in a while.

  While I was doing all this banter with Dick, Sean would stand at the till and laugh along with me but, after I had had enough fun, he would frown and that was his sign as if to say Enough now. Stop it now. Not in public. Occasionally, he would lean over the bar and quietly say, ‘Dick, leave her alone and she’ll ignore you. Or you can leave. It’s up to you.’ When he said this, I would smile behind Sean’s back and stick two fingers up at Dick. I often won the battle but never the war. I mostly had to live my life, marriage and motherhood in the full glare of the paying public in the bar – though Sean and I never argued in front of them: we always went into the back shop. But the customers always loved to pry and try to find out how things were really going. I was scared they would find out I had a secret life where I was an unhappy woman.

  ‘Everything OK, Janey?’ Big Malky would sometimes say, standing at the bar. ‘Keep your chin up. Nobody ever gets anything right, remember that.’

  Other customers would ask more prying questions. ‘Sean is very quiet – you upset him again?’

  ‘No, everything is fine, Sean is always quiet. And being me is fucking hard – OK, nosy arse?’

  Even when we had a full-blown all-out fight, I would come out from the back shop, walk calmly through the bar, then storm upstairs, pick Ashley up, get her dressed and pack to leave. Sean would watch through the window in the Weavers’ door for me passing, then he would run outside and we would have a hissed private argument while he watched over his shoulder to see if anyone needed serving. Sometimes while this was happening, customers would get out of cars and pass by us, saying ‘Hello’. We would smile, say nothing to each other, then, the minute they had disappeared into the bar, go straight back into fight mode. Often Ashley would stand in the doorway holding her school bag and wait for us to finish whatever was going on. Most times, she thought it was some game her mummy and daddy played.

  ‘Janey, please,’ Sean would plead with me. ‘I love you; don’t leave me; don’t take Ashley like this; wait until midnight, then we can talk more. Please, I hate this; I have to fucking serve and I am scared I go up tonight after closing and find you’re gone again.’

  I used Sean’s fear as a weapon against him time and time again. Me leaving with Ashley was Sean’s worst fear and it was the one hold I knew I had over him. I must have walked out of that street 40 times with Ashley in my arms, stayed over in a hotel one night and brought her back the next day. I knew this had to stop; she was going to school now and needed more stability. She needed to have her mummy and daddy together and solid.

  Sean could be very charming and helpful at times and encouraged me to go out clubbing with my mates – he never had any true mates to go out with himself because he’d never made friends outside his immediate family circle. His friends were Sammy and Paul and the boys upstairs. He seldom went out. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. And, if he went out, it was usually just for a quiet dinner somewhere. He always took me to nice restaurants. He told me, ‘You should never just eat in the same places. You should always step out of your class. Always, always go to the best restaurants and enjoy good food.’

  Which was weird, because he hated spending money.

  * * *

  To cheer me up, though, he decided to take me on a short break to Amsterdam. Ashley was sent of
f to stay with my Dad and stepmum and Philip Storrie and Sammy were to take over the Weavers for the weekend. The flight was great and we had spared no expense. We had an amazing big hotel suite and it was so luxurious. I was in heaven. I loved Amsterdam. The museums, canals and all the beautiful architecture just made my head swim. The hotel even had a health club! Sean loved to sit in the sauna, but I preferred to go for walks around the beautiful churches. After his sauna session we would meet for lunch and on the second day he told me how he had met some American guy in the sauna room.

  ‘He told me he looks after a band and the group is playing here in Amsterdam. He says if we want tickets he can arrange it.’

  ‘Did ye ask who it was?’

  ‘No, I forgot.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any posters around Amsterdam,’ I told him. ‘So it cannae be anyone famous.’

  ‘Suppose no’.’ He shrugged. ‘D’ye want to go to that jazz club we saw last night instead?’ Sean loved jazz.

  ‘Yep, that’ll be good.’

  That night, we had a great time at the jazz club. The music was great and, even though we both rarely ever drank alcohol, we had shared a bottle of red wine and that was enough to make us pissed. We walked through Amsterdam at night so, by the time we got back to the hotel, we were exhausted. As we entered the lobby, there was a huge black man talking to the check-in staff. When he saw Sean, he came over.

  ‘Hey, Scottish Guy! How ya doing? This your wife?’ He held out his big hand; it was covered in gold rings and dominated by a huge gold Rolex watch. He kissed me politely on the cheek.

  ‘You wanna come to the after-show party?’ he asked me.

  I took in his bright blue leather jacket, his huge baggy jeans and the bright red baseball cap atop his head. I thought it didn’t seem likely to be my kind of party. ‘No, we are really tired – but thanks though.’

  ‘Well, Prince would love to have you there: he really digs Scottish people.’

  ‘Prince? Prince?’ I was gobsmacked. ‘You never said it was Prince. Oh fuck!’ I squealed at Sean. ‘I love Prince! You know that!’

  ‘I didn’t know it was Prince,’ Sean said, dragging his fingers through his hair and looking at me apologetically.

  ‘I missed meeting Prince coz you don’t ask enough questions!’ I started to laugh as I realised only Sean would meet interesting people but would never think to ask them any questions. That was him all over.

  ‘Hey!’ The big black guy clapped his hands, laughing: ‘The party is still on! I’ll drive ya over!’

  Within minutes, my biggest fantasy was coming true: I was in a big car being driven to a private party with Prince. Sean was not really into ‘the purple one’, but went along for the fun. There were hundreds of people outside a club shouting Prince’s name and trying to get in. A path was cleared to get us through and we were whisked upstairs into a relatively small but funky room. The walls were draped in purple satin, there were big glitter balls hanging from the ceiling and the bar looked like a weird, colourful laboratory. The bar staff were throwing cocktail shakers in the air and uniformed waiters were mingling through the throng with glasses of champagne and salmon on crackers.

  Sean and I sat down in a corner and I felt immediately out of my depth. These were beautiful people. I gazed at one woman, statuesque, dressed in a short red leather dress and gyrating for the on-lookers. The men all looked like extras from some 1950s Italian movie. Gorgeous young guys dressed in sharp suits chatted to equally beautiful young girls. And they all looked like they knew each other. I was a wee Glaswegian housewife in a top from Marks & Spencer’s. Sean was even worse dressed, wearing a free T-shirt from Tennent’s Lager with the slogan

  OUR LAGER IS BETTER THAN PURPLE GROAK JUICE

  in a big purple swirl all over the front. It was an advertising campaign: aliens came down and were given lager because Tennent’s was better than purple Groak juice. Sean didn’t seem to care; he grabbed a beer, happily smiling at me.

  ‘Come, dance, Storrie!’ He skidded onto the dance floor.

  There was one thing I knew for sure: Sean could not dance, but he was drunk and up for fun. So I joined him and he actually moved quite well. I made a mental note to get him a bit drunk more often. Then, out of the side of my eye, I spotted Prince himself on the dance floor. God, I thought. He really is tiny! I am small – five feet three inches – and even I could look down on him. Yet I was so excited I thought I was going to scream. I adored all Prince’s music; I loved him like a teenager and here he was dancing right beside me. He moved even closer and pointed to Sean’s T-shirt.

  ‘Like your top!’ he yelled over the music.

  Sean danced, smiled, then leaned down to shout to him: ‘Thanks! My wife loves your music, so why are we dancing to this crap? Can’t they play your stuff?’

  ‘This IS my new album!’

  ‘Holy fuck, Sean!’ I shouted and twirled him away from my musical idol.

  Prince laughed.

  Sean laughed.

  I wanted to die.

  The rest of the night went without incident; I was just happy to be in the same room as Prince and watch him dance. When we were about to leave, one of his big body-guards came over and whispered something to Sean. I watched Sean shake his head and say, ‘No, mate, but thanks.’ We walked downstairs and felt the cold Dutch air slam into our faces as we left the club.

  ‘What did he want, the big guy?’ I asked.

  ‘Prince was having a private drinks party back at his hotel suite; he wanted to know if I was interested. Do you think that wee weirdo fancied me?’

  I spoke quickly: ‘Was I invited?’

  ‘No, just me. I said no.’ Sean hugged me close. ‘His music is shite anyway.’

  * * *

  When we got back to Glasgow, life at the Weavers went on as normal. Sammy showed me some new pictures of his kids. They really were cute children – God knows how he always got the women. He had been up in Shettleston that week, seeing them.

  ‘I met your Uncle David Percy in the betting shop,’ Sammy told me, lighting up a fag and sitting beside me. ‘He wanted to know what you were doing. I told him to fuck right off. She disnae want to speak to you, ya big bastard – an’ you know why! That’s whit I said to him, Janey.’

  My hands started trembling. ‘Thanks, Sammy. He needs to fucking keep away from here. He never contacted me all these years until that day he thought I wiz looking fur him. He knew I didnae want tae look for him.’

  ‘Janey,’ Sammy told me, ‘ye know when I wiz a wee boy an’ my mammy an’ daddy stayed wi’ David Percy’s dad – Granda Davy Percy? Well, one night my dad hud a fight with Granda Davy Percy coz my sister Jacqueline said he had touched her an’ stuff …’ Sammy looked at me and nodded his head. ‘D’ye think Granda Davy Percy wiz a perv as well?’ he asked.

  It seemed perfectly clear. I had seen Granda Davy Percy’s penis more than I cared to remember and it had always been by ambiguous accident. I could never prove he was a child abuser, but I remembered all those uncomfortable conversations I had had with him when I was around 16. I remembered him telling me to go on the pill and have sex; I remembered the way he would sit with the zip of his trousers down when he chatted to me. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Sean and I had spent almost a year staying with Granda Davy Percy. I was confused. I had to talk to my sister Ann. I never actually thought about what I was doing; I just lifted the handset and dialled her number.

  ‘Hiya! That you, Janey?’ Ann answered, sounding happy.

  ‘Aye, it’s me. Listen, that bastard David Percy phoned here a couple of months ago and asked me if I was looking for him. I mean, why does he think that? I told him to fuck off. I mean, after everything he did tae us!’

  Silence.

  Heavy breathing.

  Sobs.

  ‘Ann … You OK?’ My heart was pounding. I realised I had just opened the floodgates. The last time we discussed this was when I was seven years old.

  ‘Janey �
�� I … can’t talk.’

  The phone line went dead.

  I immediately called her back.

  ‘Ann?’

  ‘Janey? Brian here. Your sister is really upset, Janey. Please come up and see her … Please,’ my brother-in-law whispered down the line.

  I told Sammy to stay behind the bar and bolted upstairs to the flat.

  ‘What the fuck is wrong?’ Sean demanded. ‘Who is in the pub, Janey?’

  ‘Sean, get the car and take me to Ann’s house. Please don’t ask. Just come now. Paul will watch over Ashley.’

  Sean ran to get his car keys; I ran up two more flights of stairs.

  I banged on Paul’s door.

  ‘Go watch Ashley till I get back! Sammy is in the bar! I won’t be long!’

  ‘Whit’s wrang?’ I heard him shout behind me as I ran down the stairs.

  ‘Nothing! Tell you later! See you later!’ I shouted as I almost ran into Sean who was halfway along the landing holding the car keys. As our car pulled out of the street, he turned to me and, for the first time, was able to ask, ‘What has happened with your sister?’

  ‘I spoke about Uncle David Percy to her and she flipped.’

  I kept my head down.

  I felt numb.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Sean asked, looking straight ahead as he drove.

  My hands felt like glue sticking to each other: ‘I don’t know … I feel like I just … stabbed her … Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.’

  The car journey up to Ann’s house seemed to take forever.

  Why did I say that on the phone? I should have gone round and chatted instead of dropping that big bombshell on her down a telephone line. As the car drove on, I remembered how we sat in that toilet up in Kenmore Street.

  ‘Oh Janey, no, no, no!’ she had whispered. ‘I thought if I let him touch me he widnae touch you!’

  My big sister had tried to protect me and now I felt that I had hurt her by talking about it again.

  I walked up to her home.

  Brian was standing at the door, holding it open for me.

  ‘She is in the living room, Janey.’