by James Kelman
Helen watched for that look and if Mo was there too. Who is this little guy getting this white woman? she must like Asians, she must want it from Asians, smiling horrible smiles, if she wants it from anybody, perhaps she does so then they are looking. All she had to do was tell Mo, if ever one did. They were taking a risk because he had that in him too and he would do it; her ex would have found that out. Mo didnt care, big or small, he said he couldnt fight to save his life but it wasnt true it just wasnt true, she knew it wasnt, he had thick arms and could punch, she knew he could or else stick a knife in them, small men could do that. Dad always said it about tall skinny ones, forget about them it was the wee guys with the bad temper, they were the dangerous ones.
But that was the last thing, telling Mo, she would never take the risk because if she did.
She had learned not to react. People thought she was naive. They were the naive ones. If you worked in a casino you were used to men, being looked at and watched. You coped. You had to. Helen was young and men looked at her. She was a girl. Girls learned. As would Sophie. Helen would teach her. Mothers should teach daughters. Instead of criticising. Fathers could help. Real fathers. Not only biological ones, real fathers dont have to be ‘biological’, not if it is a natural feeling for children, and not like an enemy. There were enemies of children. Mo wasnt one and neither was her ex, she could never have charged him with that – oh God, a sharp pain in her tummy. Sometimes she experienced this. ‘Anxiety’ in the stomach. Caroline called it that. She might be dealing the cards then for no reason she got it. Anxiety.
She opened her eyes, seeing her slippers by the door. Fancy ones Mo had bought her. She liked the design. Her eyes had been closed. Why did she not raise her head? she didnt want to, she didnt want to see things. People dont have to see things, not if they dont want to. Just the ironing. What did it matter it was just so stupid and daft just day in day out clothes and worries. Ironing is just silly and foolish and the most foolish foolish
Helen left the kitchen. Through in the front room she opened the window to see out. In the old days women got a reputation for doing this. Nosey buggers. Around here it was like creepy-crawlies, that was the worry, if a driver saw you leaning out: he circled and came back again to see if you were still there and if so, if you were – what? Did you want a man? No thank you, nice of you to ask, she had one and one was plenty thank you very much.
Punctuality was not a strong point. He was good but not for time; he ignored it. Him and his chatting and meeting people. Who was he talking to now? Somebody anyway. Sophie would have to remind him on the way home, otherwise it was another port of call.
Men exaggerated about everything and he was no different. What was the opposite of expert? That was how she felt about men. Sometimes she thought she knew them, most times she didnt. And they lied. It was second nature. Helen hated lies and men did it the worst. Even the ones who didnt, they did too, they all did; white lies and black lies. Some guys tell them because they are lazy. Too lazy to tell the truth! A comedian on television talked about that and it was funny. Usually Helen didnt like comedians. Haw haw haw, ho ho ho, laughing all the time at horrible nonsense, stupid stupid silliness, showing off, that was them usually, you felt like putting your fingers in your ears.
It was a quiet street and that was good but you never saw children where were the children! At school. But they should have been home by now, nearly quarter to four my God so actually they were late. Of course he detoured, if he knew she was in bed, if he met a friend it was yap yap yap, he just talks all the time, Sophie making faces at him, pulling his sleeve. She was so right, just all the time talking, talk talk talk, even walking down the street on the mobile talking or texting people. When he came round the corner he would be texting.
In Glasgow too. For somebody who had never been to Glasgow, he knew more people than her. It was a knack he had. What about her friends? Why dont you introduce me to people? What people!
Her life had gone from top to bottom bottom to top, just screwy. How had it happened? It was just so screwy.
He had his own life and she was happy that he did. She didnt need to meet his family. Things might change but it didnt matter if it didnt. This was their relationship and it suited her, it suited her. Oh God.
He was her best friend. He even said it about the relationship, the first thing you should be is a friend. Friends come first. He called it a ‘position’. That is my ‘position’.
In Glasgow
there they were thank God, that was them coming from round the corner thank God oh thank God thank God. Hand in hand. Of course. Sophie had the schoolbag over one shoulder. Of course of course.
Helen closed the window quickly, returned to the kitchen, switched on the radio.
Sophie was supposed to wear the schoolbag over both shoulders but she didnt. It was pointless talking to her. Whether Mo tried or not it would have made no difference.
When they came in through the outside door Helen was kneeling by the ironing board iron in hand and she rose. Sophie called, Oh mummy I have things to show you.
All kinds of things! Mo chuckled.
Sophie was hopping on one foot while untying a shoestrap. Helen filled a kettle of water. We had an errand to go, said Mo, and to Sophie: Didnt we?
Yes.
It’s a secret, said Mo and he winked at Helen while wagging his finger at Sophie: I thought you were bursting for the loo?
Sophie sighed, glaring at him.
You should have gone in the park!
She kicked off her other shoe and stepped sideways into the bathroom, snapping the door shut.
You went to the park? asked Helen.
No, we were passing but she wouldnt go in.
Sophie shouted from behind the door: I’m not doing the bathroom in the park it’s all dirty!
Mo whispered very loudly at the bathroom door: But what if she explodes! We dont want exploding girls, who wants an exploding girl?
Sophie called: I’m not listening!
Helen returned to the ironing, rearranged the clothing. Mo followed her, wanting to talk but she wasnt wanting to listen, not just now, not when she was trying to work in this confined space. She held the iron and edged past him. Sophie was even worse, she stood far too close. It was how accidents happened. What if it was like boiling water in a pot, or if the kettle tipped over? Even the gasrings on top of the cooker were a hazard the way they had gaps. It wouldnt be the first time a pot wobbled and nearly fell. The design was bad. The ones who designed cookers had never cooked a meal in their life, not in a cramped space where people were knocking your elbows. It was all rich people, where you could just swan around and people might come in and have a chat, sit down at the table, a big table; probably there would be servants, and a cook doing the cooking or carry-outs from a high-class restaurant.
What did he want to talk about that was so important? It couldnt be that important, not that it couldnt wait five minutes. Everybody talked in the restaurant kitchen, according to him, they shouted at one another. Perhaps they did but what did that have to do with it? They were adults and like experienced kitchen-workers, that was their job. And he moved about he always moved about, why didnt he stand still? He was talking. People should stand still when they talk my God he never did – and the clothes there too, even if he lifted them because if he stood on them for God sake having to wash the damn things again and then – she always ended up – why couldnt he wait? could he not wait? surely he could wait?
Although he would be away to work soon. She knew that, so if he needed to talk, it had to be now, or soon. Only sometimes it wasnt important, not once he had said it. Chit-chat, that was all. Why couldnt it wait? He could wait. She had waited for him.
At least she wasnt cooking; that was the worst, no space at all, that so-called counter, having to keep it clear, everything stacked everywhere just because nowhere and nothing, no proper cupboards, no workplace my God this silly wire thing he brought home; the cutlery was supposed
to like stand upright to dry off naturally but individual articles forever slipped through the gaps and landed in the sink and that sink, like gunge, always thick with it, and you had to wash them all again. It just created work. Why create work? That was labour-saving devices. He loved them but they were silly gadgets most of them.
He was talking again. Although it was cheery, Sophie was there and smiling at what he was saying and she put her arm round Helen. Helen said to her: Who does he remind you of? Does he remind you of anybody?
Mr Noisy.
Yes and Mr Nosey, rolled into one.
Mo laughed.
And Mr Grumpy, said Sophie.
Yes!
It aint me that’s Mr Grumpy! called Mo. There’s two Mr Grumpys in this house and they aint Misters let me tell you they are Misses.
Huh! said Helen.
Mo was beckoning to her: Guess what about?
Pardon?
Guess what I want to talk to you about?
I cant.
You have to.
Oh God.
Mo smiled.
You’re going to work in an hour and here you are blethering!
Exactly, he said.
Blether blether blether.
Yes, he said.
Helen sighed. There was a chair positioned to the side of the counter gable. She rose from the floor, settled the iron upright on a space on the counter, switched on the kettle of water then plopped down onto the chair.
Sophie was watching her. Of course she was. Helen smiled and Sophie smiled in reply. That was a girl who worried; six years of age and already, already she was doing it.
It was having people, she had people, and had known loss, whatever the reality was her father was no longer the fixture and that was it, poor wee soul. No doubt she worried about Helen. Of course she would. Helen’s arm was round her shoulder and she pulled Sophie to her. It was good having someone. Poor Brian if it was him. Imagine it was, down-and-out and on the street. A homeless person living rough. With psychological health problems. He should never have been on the street. That was so wrong. Britain was a horrible country. Everything being frittered and people in need. Brian should have been receiving care, he should have been in a nursing home. He was Helen’s brother and she would have looked out for him, come to see him every day possible, as often as she could, help him get better. Mo would be good too. He was good with people, he liked them. And if you like people people like you. Oh my God.
Mo was smiling.
What? said Helen.
You’re in fantasy-land!
No she isnt, said Sophie, leaning closely into her.
Yes she is, her head is in the clouds!
Dont be so cheeky, said Sophie.
She’s miles away!
Oh I’m just thinking, said Helen.
What about? said Sophie.
Nothing for nosey folk! Helen smiled. But Sophie didnt. Sophie was staring, about to cry my God she was, blinking to stop the tears. Helen sighed. Oh Sophie, she said.
I’m not nosey. You said I was.
I didnt.
You did. I was nosey. You said it.
Oh but it was fun, it was fun; I dont think you’re nosey at all.
I hate it when you say that.
Honestly, it was only fun.
You know your mum, said Mo, if there’s a joke she’ll make it.
Sophie looked at him. He poked his tongue out but she kept her face straight. A battle of wills. Helen shut her eyes. The water in the kettle had started boiling. She reached to switch it off. She thought to say something but didnt. They were both strong characters: stronger than Helen. At the same time it was comical, like how she had been herself, always on her dignity, on her high horse. Dad shouted that whenever Brian lifted her. Look at wee jellybelly, she’s up on her high horse, and that was Brian. Dad always poked fun. He shouldnt have. It wasnt sarcasm but it wasnt nice. Insensitive. That was Dad, like a lot of men. They saw things differently so their jokes too, their jokes were just not funny. But why did he pick on his own son? All the time he did it and it wasnt nice. If he was doing his best. People do their best. Why did Dad do it? Mum didnt like him when he did. Helen saw that. She was a wee girl and she saw it. Mum didnt like Dad. Brian was only lifting her, putting her on his shoulders. What was wrong with that? That was a big brother, he was a great big brother. There wasnt a single piece of badness in him, there wasnt – him and his burnt toast, he loved burnt toast. So did she, although it was bad for your insides. Brian burnt it black then scraped off the worst portions, showing it to Helen making her jealous. Oh I love burnt toast, mmm. That was what he said, tormenting her. He did torment her so she did it back to him. Oh but it was playful. It was not in spite. There was no spite. There wasnt. They didnt blame each other. Why would they have if it was fun? It was fun. Nobody was at fault. She was a wee girl. There was no fault. Why fault? What fault was there? Only Dad. Dad was silly. He was. She saw that now. Grown-ups could be silly, their little jealousies and pettiness. It was the pettiness. Helen hated pettiness. She would far rather
what
too many things. That was life. Where was she in hers? She didnt know, just how her thoughts went with so much like all the time, so so – just on the go, so so much; here there and everywhere and worry worry, him too, her ex, Sophie hadnt said but she looked forward to seeing him; she didnt say because she didnt want to, saying it to Helen so if Helen took it the wrong way – Sophie was safeguarding her! That was what it was, that was this little girl, just so so perceptive about adults and all everything, just everything, an astute wee girl, worrying about her mum. She shouldnt have had to do that. Was that fair? Children shouldnt have to serve the parent.
It was twisted loyalties. He was her father. Your father is your father. It was difficult for him too with them in England. Helen could admit that. It wasnt his fault. He was her dad and your dad is your dad. It was Mo she felt sorry for. He could never be her father, if that was what he was trying, not her real father. If he was trying for that it was silly. All he could do was be nice and be thoughtful, try to be a friend, but not her father like her natural father, he couldnt be that, never. If he was trying that. But he wouldnt have been trying that. Mo was bright and intelligent. He was not stupid. A proper friend. One to one, as an adult to a young person, friendly in that fashion: be responsible and dont give a child everything she wants. Children want everything and cannot have it. Sophie was six years old and had to be controlled. All children do. They cannot do what they want like just anything because they would ruin themselves and what would happen? biscuits for breakfast and chocolate for tea, they would never grow, they would never develop. Adults have to take charge of their development, they have to take charge; a child is a child; a child is not responsible, not for everything. How can she be? It is unfair to expect it. Yes be friends but dont get led astray. That is so easy. Adults fall into the trap. Play their games but be careful too my God they are children, that is all they are, girls are not women, they are not women. Dont blame them.
But it would have been good to talk. Who to! There was nobody. Mo was the only one. Her friends in work were workmates. Perhaps if they met outside of work. That would have been nice, going for a coffee. If there was time, but it was difficult fitting things in. It had to be the day off. Although on some subjects you had to know the person. Who would you trust? Matters were private; you couldnt talk about everything, not to everybody. Not even Ann Marie, if she lived close by, although it would have been nice to chat. Anyway, it was Helen’s fault; she should have phoned a while ago. Just to say hullo. Although Ann Marie would only talk herself. That was what she did. The conversation would begin with Helen then it would be her and her problems. Ann Marie’s life was so taken up with the concerns of other people. Everything. Her parents every day of the week. My God it was so like just horrible, and drastic. Helen thought of it as drastic. It was your life but it wasnt, you had no control. You life was dominated by others. It was not them doing it b
ut their lives. Their lives dominated yours. Yours was important too but somehow
what happened to it? You were just like an audience. It wasnt their fault it was just their lives, how what had happened to them was being overtaken: their lives were being overtaken. And it was true, when you listened, my God, how could people’s lives be like that? it was just like so so incredible what was happening to them, happening to their families. And they were happening right now like this very very minute these things were happening.
But in your life too things were happening. Your life was there and things were in it too, and that was important but who was it important to? Nobody apart from your own family. Nobody was interested. They were in a way but in another way they werent, they just switched the conversation, so you were left feeling what did it matter. You were the audience. They had celebrity lives and you were having to watch them talking about all what happened to them. It wasnt them dominating you, it was their lives; there was a difference. If it was only them it would be selfish. So you couldnt blame them, not the real person, only what was happening to them.
Only it would have been good to talk, you get left so you cant talk. That was how Helen felt. She couldnt talk and she didnt. She preferred that anyway. She didnt want to talk about her own life and what was going on. It would have driven her mad. People go mad. Their lives are so insane they became insane themselves, they have to. So they can cope. That was why celebrities were good. You heard what they had for dinner and how they liked cats better than dogs or if they were veggies or red-meat eaters and how they had to watch their calories because they wanted to become good dancers or practise their singing or take lessons to be a chef. Otherwise it was your own life and what happened in it. Your own world was so horrible and you wanted to shut it out. Their lives were so just – what were they? boring. That was what was good. It was all just stupid and silly, what they liked to eat, French or Italian and how their old grandmother always knew they would be rich and famous because that was their family, people always worked hard and were talented and went good holidays to where their family came from, wherever it was.
