by James Kelman
It seemed ages since he had gone to collect her. Occasionally they walked a different route home. Sophie liked to see things and Mo enjoyed pointing them out. The screaming stage had passed. He carried his ID anyway. In case somebody called the cops. Paki bastard. Going to sell her to the slave-trade you cunt, where’s your ID then?
In me pocket.
And a photograph of the three of them together for further evidence, especially if he had to carry her in public, she hated him doing it. It was okay in the house if he did it for a laugh but not outside, going up the tube escalator or walking through a crowd or across a busy road. Mo joked about it but Sophie hated it. Put me down put me down! I dont want you to hold me! I dont want you to hold me!
He was not holding her he was carrying her. There is a difference. Sophie didnt understand that. At least it was better now than the early days in Glasgow. Leave me! Leave me! She wouldnt hold his hand without a fight, just being touched. Oh I dont like being touched! In this world you have to be touched. You learn that as a child. Although it can be an invasion, of course it can and was for Helen when she was a girl, people grabbing her and poking her. Why? Why did they think that was acceptable, poking your fingers into a child? They looked for an excuse to do it. Men were the worst, and so patronising, the way they did it, so actually just like patronising, like with dogs, stroking their muzzle. Pawing you. What a pretty little girl, stroking your head. Or taking you by the shoulder, What’s that love? grasping you, so you cant hardly move, What’s that love? and you cant hardly breathe. Men did that. Imagine. If you asked them a question, the hand going round your shoulder, gripping, What’s that love? suffocating. On television too you saw them doing it. Not to other men, oh no, they just did it to females. Helen didnt like it. Her own mother wasnt a toucher. Helen was so very glad of that, except the odd occasion, it would have been nice. A mother who doesnt touch. That was unusual, surely. There were times Helen had to touch Sophie, just pick her up and hold her, just hold her, she needed to do it – giving her a bath or she was in her nightdress my God what was wrong with that? just so she was alright. Nothing ever would happen to her, if anything ever did, if anything ever did she would die, Helen would die, she would, she would die, she would die, oh my God. Leave me leave me! Never.
Sophie wasnt spoiled. Helen didnt spoil her, she loved her. People who love dont spoil. What is spoil? People said it about children, Oh she is ‘spoiled’, but Sophie wasnt ‘spoiled’; she was loved. It was the same for Helen when she was wee. Dad didnt spoil her he loved her. Mum said, Oh dont spoil the girl. But he didnt. It was unfair saying that. Dad only loved her. Love is different. If Mum couldnt recognise that. Helen felt sorry for her. A dad loves his daughter. So if her ex did want to take Sophie away for whatever, a long weekend or a holiday, if he did, if he did he did and he was entitled, it was up to him and he could come to London, just make the arrangements, it was up to him.
Parents love their children, and if they dont, well, if they dont they dont. Only dont let the children see it. If a child knows, surely that is the worst? An innocent little child.
No wonder she worried. People worried. No wonder they did because take your eye off a child for one solitary moment, just one.
Helen would die.
Mo knew better than to let her out his sight, so nothing would happen. Not with him. Because he wouldnt let it.
It was obvious. Who didnt know it. You had to keep your eye on children. Even that isnt enough. It isnt. Not if somebody is there, watching, waiting, with all the patience waiting and waiting for the moment to come and it does and they just they grab the child and steal it. Nobody means to let it happen but it does because the stealer is there to do it, the abductor and the child is gone, never to be seen again.
Families never recovered. Couples split, the relationship ended, divorce; because of what happened, people laying blame on themself and each other; if she hadnt done that and done that and if he hadnt gone there and come back from there, and who let go her hand, why did he let go her hand, for that one fraction of a second, and the wee girl jumped out and the motor hit her full on, in that one fraction of a second, when he lost concentration, he took his eye off her then when he turned back at that very very next moment she was gone, vanished, where on earth was she? and searching everywhere. But the girl had vanished, perhaps wandered off but no, she had been taken, a bad man took her and whisked her away and she would now be overseas, forever, in a country where you couldnt find out things, where nobody knew what you were talking about and the police didnt even care, they couldnt speak your language and didnt even try, they didnt care, nobody did.
Not even a proper ironing board but blankets and towels on the floor. She had to kneel on the floor to do it. Sore on the back but better than that old wobbly contraption thing Mo brought home from his travels. He called it an ironing board, it wasnt an ironing board, God knows what it was although it worked fine for his shirts because of the shoulders and sleeves but not for other things. His shirts had to be ‘smart white’. That was a laugh. It was a constant battle. He hated the same shirt two nights in a row. Other men werent so finicky. He liked to be smart, fresh shirt, smart white, that was him. She helped him. She didnt have to, she just did; women were better at ironing. He spent hours, she did it in half the time. Oh well what did it matter. Anyway, she liked helping him.
Girls were ridiculous for clothes. Oh for a boy. The very idea of vests being ironed! No boy in his right mind
But surely Helen had ironed her own clothes? Not at six she hadnt. Even holding the iron, she couldnt have. Mum’s old thing weighed a ton.
Sophie was fussy, so so fussy, too fussy. Mo made fun of her. Of course she didnt like it, but she was learning. Even how she smiled. That was unusual, really, and beautiful. She had fought so hard against him. Yet here he was winning her over. But had he? Yes. Sometimes.
Helen kept out it.
Sophie had been fourteen months when she started walking and even then, when she looked at you, it was as though she saw into you, and was asking, Who are you? Are you my mother? But these questions were within herself and the answers came from within herself. Are you my mother? Sophie asked the question and gave the answer, Yes, you are. It is you, you are my mother.
If it wasnt so silly she might have thought Sophie was special, her own daughter. This wee girl the size of nothing who had the power to defend herself against a full-grown man.
It was true, so resilient, really, and strong-willed. You wouldnt believe how strong-willed, and children needed to be. It was the survival instinct like in this day and age especially, the weak would not survive. People scrambled for scraps. And Sophie was a fighter thank God, such determination! There was a humorous side. Mo was inexperienced with children and didnt know about staring games. He tried to get Sophie to break the stare by laughing into her face and making funny faces. He failed. She focused on something faraway. Eventually her expression altered and she looked straight at him but a concentration was here and it could make you squirm. Squirm was a good word. Mo squirming, yes, he squirmed! He could never have broken her stare. He didnt have the power. It was Sophie broke the mood. She exercised the control. Mo adopted a gangster voice: Hey kid, why you staring at me? Wanna make something of it! You wanna fight me? Hey kid.
But still she stared at him and he was standing there – what? defeated. She had defeated him. So then he called her ‘kid’. Why had he called her ‘kid’? She was not a goat. Helen didnt like him calling her that. Why did he? Because she had won? A kid is an animal and children are not animals. Then he patted her, or tried to. It could be the most patronising thing one person ever did to another. That was a dog, not a child. Dogs are clapped, not people. People are people, even children. A kid is not a child, a kid is a baby goat.
Mo smiled when Helen said that but it was true.
Brian grabbed her and whizzed her off the floor. Helen would be walking by when he did it. Although it was fun she didnt always like it. And no
t the way he did it, if he jerked her too hard, her shoulders came back and it was sore and hurt her, hurt her chest. Not like Dad who did it smooth. Brian was just like so clumsy, so so clumsy. He just plucked her up; one moment you were walking. She didnt even see him till suddenly she was in the air and kicking, how could you not kick! of course she kicked. Because he shouldnt have done it without warning. It was only fun and it was fun but only if he warned her first, and he never. It wasnt a good thing to do, not to a little girl. It was inconsiderate. No wonder she kicked him! But it was not like she meant it my God how could a child be blamed for that? Nobody would. Not even Mum. Surely not. Brian was her pet. Skinny malinky long-legs. Dad called him that. Legs like kirby-grips. It was unfair, but that was Dad. But it was funny. Kirby-grips and legs. Big banana feet, went to the pictures and fell through the seat. If you were a child, you just imagined it and of course you laughed, skinny malinky long-legs. But Dad was Dad, an adult. So it wasnt funny. He shouldnt have done it. It was unfair, like for a son – or for any person, male or female, when you were growing and maturing.
What did people expect? A man grabs you up, are you supposed to surrender?
No but relax, relax, you never relax, when have you ever relaxed, you never fucking relax. That was her ex talking; his voice was still in her head. He liked to swear because he was the boss. That was him.
Helen put up with most things but swearing in front of children was difficult to take. Also if it was girls; so disrespectful. For women too. Guys swore round the blackjack table but what did that matter, you were only a dealer.
Respect was important. If men were respectful to women there would be no rapes and no humiliations, these horrible ones like the fourteen-year-old girl in France who was stripped by a crowd. She was wearing a hijab and they took it off, and they stripped her.
Men who could do that. Mature men, adults.
Just ugly brutality, cowards and bullies. What was worse? racism or sexism? But both at the same time. It was just like any excuse.
It was true what he said about relaxing. Helen did find it difficult, and always did. When Dad took her onto his knee she could only sit five seconds until needing down. She hated being trapped, struggled and struggled, she struggled and he still held her. But he shouldnt have held her. He held her too long. If the child wants down then put her down; dont hold onto her; not against her will. Why did Dad do that? That is what he did, bouncing her on his knee, making her still, having to be still, him forcing her to be still but she wouldnt be still, no, and why should she have been? never. Apparently she fought and struggled. No wonder. That wasnt fun. Would Dad have done it with Brian? He said he was beating the record. Five seconds is the record! It caused a bad fight with Mum. It was her told him to stop it, to put her down. She ordered him. She was the strong one. The strong silent type. That was supposed to be men; not in her house, Dad roared and Mum gave the orders
Oh God.
Anyway, some families were sick. What did it even mean? sick! Society began from there, the sickness. You only had to watch the news. What about hers where you had one member not speaking to the others, just cutting himself off? It was Dad’s fault. He singled Brian out. Imagine he was alive and she brought home Mo. Nobody was good enough for her, not even the King of England, never mind ‘the wee Paki’ up the stair. That was how they spoke. They werent even being racist. They said that, oh it is not racist really, only ‘ingrained’. Ingrained. The answer was children. If all children mixed together and had friends like from everywhere then if their parents met up and knew each other. Mo said that. Helen wasnt so sure, thinking of Glasgow and the Catholic Protestant thing. Mo knew nothing about it. You having a laugh? But it was something to laugh about. Oh it is only old-fashioned. People said that; that was how you felt it was so like backward, and they laughed, Helen didnt like how they laughed. Mo too. People could be patronising. Muslims wanted separate schools so why was that okay but not like for Catholics and Protestants? if they wanted their own education for their own religion. What difference would it be if it was them kept apart from other people? It would be the same if it was Muslims or if it was like Hindus and Sikhs or Jews, whoever it was. She didnt care if Mo disagreed, ‘faith schools’ or what you call them. Mo said they were good people but were they if they were going to be sectarian? How could they be? That was sectarian, that was communalism. What was communalism? If it was hurting, if people were being hurt, if they were being killed? Were they hilarious? Why were they not hilarious like if it was Catholics and Protestants? If that was funny what about the other stuff? Mo didnt think that was funny if it was like the Punjab or what he was talking about.
White woman with her own baby! That was the hilarious thing how Mum, if she found out about Mo’s family not thinking she was good enough. Pakistanis! My God! The neighbours would laugh at that one. Not that Mum worried too much about neighbours. If anybody it was Dad. He was the petty one. But at least he would have been there for her. He would have been. Helen knew he would have been. He would have loved Sophie; just having a grandchild, Dad would have loved that, he would never have been off the phone, and asking questions, wanting to speak to the girl and just like my God a proper grandparent. No wonder Sophie showed no interest in talking to her. You cant blame the child for that, you have to look at the adult. Mum never asked questions, except the most basic. Why didnt she ask the wee soul a question? She never did, not a proper one. Her one and only granddaughter.
If it wasnt for Mo Helen wouldnt have bothered keeping in touch. He was cheery, or tried to be.
Although he could be too cheery. Mum didnt like ‘cheeriness’. Helen didnt like it much either. Cheery men! Women werent ‘cheery’ in that way. It bordered on stupidity. With her ex it was forced. As though everything was fine when it wasnt, it was awful; things were awful; lousy and horrible; just hopeless really and that voice going on and on, pretend cheeriness. The way he did it was such a sham. Yes Mo was cheery but you never felt he was acting. With him it was real. Because he was good, a good man, so if he was cheery, it was an honest cheeriness. He respected people, and had a talent for them too. Really, he did, like if Helen was late meeting him someplace he would be hearing a stranger’s life story by the time she arrived. Even at the supermarket he got into conversations. It was nice when it happened; an old person started talking and when Mo replied that was him, just another London guy, it didnt matter he had a different background, it was two London voices. Helen liked that. It was so nice when it happened. He had the London patter. They all had it, the ones Helen met, they tried to patter her. So she wasnt always boring. Otherwise why would they bother? They wouldnt bother otherwise.
Mo collected Sophie at ten past three and should have been home by three thirty, at the latest. Helen could have done it herself but him doing it was great: one less worry. When he couldnt she had to be out of bed by half past one, and even then it was a rush. Before Sophie started school was the very worst; nurseries and childminders, that was the nightmare of nightmares back in Glasgow, she was going mad, like truly, her sanity, so that was a major thing how Mo had been so supportive. They had only just met. He was not like a bosom friend but take away him and who was there? Because Mum, my God. She could not rely on Mum. She made that plain enough. Dont think of me, dont expect me. And that damn nursery and all their officious damn officiousness, rows and tellings off, oh late again, late again they hated you being late even two minutes, just that officiousness and how mothers had to stay once a fortnight to be with their child, to be with their child. What did that mean? How presumptuous was that, it was just so incredibly presumptuous. As if people didnt have jobs to go to. My God. As if life wasnt complicated enough. What world did they come from? People had to work, and it was five nights of every week, it needed to be. Why did they not understand that? People lived every day. Not just some. They didnt stop breathing and eating every so often, it was just so stupid. What did people think? People didnt think. That was the problem. Thinking wasnt a str
ong point.
Without Mo she would have been stranded. She would never have returned to London. It wouldnt even have occurred to her because with Sophie and everything, if the nursery scene was bad in Glasgow at least she knew about it there and the travelling wasnt so bad. Then worrying about him all the time, her ex, if he was going to interfere and he would have my God he would have of course he would have.
She would never have managed. She didnt have the looks for prostitution. Well of course she did. If you were young, you only had to be young. She would never have considered it. She didnt know how; even making enquiries, who would you have asked? it was ridiculous, except in a roundabout way, but who would have known? It was all guessing, and if you went up to somebody and asked, what a laugh that would have been. The ‘girls’ came into the casino. Helen could have got talking to one, or if she had gone into a casino herself, another casino, and just, all she would do, just, if she just waited or sat down and what would happen perhaps if a guy talked to her or what, she didnt know. Except the problem then that people would know her in these other casinos. You get to know people, and they know you.
Imagine walking the streets my God whoever could imagine. And the risks, imagine the risks. Helen saw girls on these quiet streets, poor-looking and cold, behind buildings and in back lanes and car-parks, so horrible and dangerous. Girls getting beaten up and raped and murdered, how many girls were murdered every year? the figures were shocking; what were they? You saw these guys, horrible horrible guys, looking at you, just how they looked at you like sleazy, so so sleazy. Stripping you with their eyes, women said that, oh he strips you with his eyes. That was what they done, and to make you feel that way, you just turned your head and they were watching you and that was it, they wanted you to know, that is what they were doing. Sleazy and horrible. They wanted you to be a slave, you were just a woman, you meant so little to them, they looked down on you and didnt think you were anything, not a real human being, they didnt think you were, just a slave. That was him. You were a servant bringing up his child and for sex, that was what he wanted you for so he could penetrate you or if it was your mouth, that was penetration too, it was all just penetration, penetrating another human being; and you werent another human being, not to them. They only thought of men. They didnt think of women. That was the look, how they did it, sleazebags. That was a good word ‘sleazebags’.
