‘A painting, was it?’
‘No, cash. From the gift shop. It’s always cash with them.’
Mae began to feel faint.
‘So you had to let them go.’
‘Meantime. But the lads aren’t worried. They know they’ll get them. They’ll have hidden the cash somewhere and they’ll not be able to wait to collect it. Soon the lads’ll visit them again and nab them with it. It’s happened before. They’re a couple of stupid toe rags. Always have been.’
Mae had to sit down. She was remembering the two men she’d seen approaching down the slope towards the river’s edge. She was remembering the cash under the floorboards.
She felt sick.
9
Clive Westley was small and delicate-looking with short, light brown hair. Paul Brownlee was tall and had longish dark brown hair. They both lived at number four. Today they were excited. Something good had happened to both of them at the same time – a most unusual occurrence. One of Clive’s paintings had been accepted to be hung in the National Gallery in Edinburgh, and a book of Paul’s poems had been accepted for publication. They hugged one another and showered each other with kisses. Wonderful, wonderful! Truly a gift from God. They both had been trying for years to get any sort of success with their creative work, while at the same time holding down regular jobs to make a living. Clive had painted innumerable scenes of the Scottish countryside while he and Paul were on holiday. Unexpectedly, the painting that was to be hung in the National Gallery was one he’d done of a tenement close. It had caught his eye with its coloured wall tiles and stained glass window. It was in a building near where he worked as an art teacher in a small, private, boys-only school.
Paul was also a teacher, but he taught English in a large secondary school. He’d always loved to write and had penned many poems without ever getting any published. He’d also written a couple of novels, without success. They had both been historical in context. One was set during the First World War, the other in the fifties.
Although his main ambition was to have a novel published, Paul quite enjoyed writing poetry and eventually had gathered enough poems to make a slim volume. At least writing poetry kept his creative juices flowing. To get the slim volume accepted by a publisher and a reasonable sum of money offered for it was not only an achievement, but also a terrific thrill. At least now he could claim to be a published writer.
He and Clive danced around the sitting room together. They had been happy to get this house in such a quiet spot but near enough to the Art Galleries with its wonderful paintings and book shop and restaurant.
Unfortunately, their happiness about the house was being spoiled by the attitude of some of the neighbours. So far, the Pakistanis hadn’t bothered them. Nor had the Kellys at number one, or the McIvors at number two. They weren’t sure about Mrs Gardner at number six. Somehow they didn’t trust her, were almost afraid of her. The snobby woman with the double-barrelled name at number five was obviously offensive. But the neighbour at number seven had been trying to make their lives miserable. A minister of religion of all people, the Reverend Denby, had been not only nasty but abusive. According to him, they were an abomination in the sight of God, and a dirty one at that. There had been a lump of shit through their letter box and they were sure that the reverend gentleman was responsible. Only the other day, as they were returning from work, he had been in his garden and had called over to them, ‘Dirty poofs!’
A minister, of all people! It was truly terrible. They’d attended church where they’d lived before. They just sat quietly in a back pew but people smiled at them in passing, and the minister there, the Reverend MacAndrews, was always very kind and welcoming. But this minister was anything but welcoming. It made them sad.
They had always tried to be good-living Christians. They recited their prayers down on their knees beside their bed every night.
Our Father, which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread
Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil.
For this is the power and the glory
For ever and ever, for Jesus’ sake.
Amen
It was the ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us’ that they found most difficult. Forgiving people like the snobby woman was bad enough, but a minister of religion like the Reverend Denby was very difficult indeed. A real challenge to their Christian beliefs. But as long as they had each other and their deep, enduring love, they would survive.
Their favourite quotation from the Bible was from Corinthians 13, versus 4-8.
Love is patient, love is kind.
Love is not jealous or boastful.
It is not arrogant or rude.
Love does not insist on its own way, it is not irritable or resentful.
They did love one another and Paul said to Clive, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll not allow that terrible hypocrite of a minister, or anyone else, to harm you. Depend on me.’
And Clive did.
They often read the verse about love and quietly recited to themselves,
It does not rejoice at wrong,
But rejoices in the right.
Love bears all things,
Believes all things,
Hopes all things,
Endures all things.
Love never ends.
They did not believe in the Old Testament. But the Reverend Denby obviously did. Paul said the Old Testament, for the most part, was just a collection of stories written by men with over-active and over-dramatic imaginations. But he got depressed at how his novels kept being rejected.
Clive had always tried to encourage Paul’s belief in himself and his creative talent, especially when his novels were rejected.
‘Every writer, and every painter too, has to suffer lots of rejections. Poor old Van Gogh never sold one painting while he was alive – and as far as writers are concerned …
He reeled off all the rejections that now famous novelists had suffered and how they had gone on, despite them, to succeed.
Together, they would succeed. One day they would become famous. They always managed to convince each other of this. A million times, they thanked God for each other, and for the deep love that sustained them and which, like their love for God, would never end.
After they had moved into number four Waterside Way, something occurred to Clive.
‘Paul, why don’t you make your next novel about the prejudices and discrimination gay men have to suffer.’
‘What? It would never be allowed to see the light of day. The chances are that publishers are as prejudiced as most other people, or even worse. They would discriminate by tossing the manuscript straight back at me.’
‘Now, you don’t know that, Paul. We don’t really know anything at all about publishers. They might welcome a book on such a subject.’
‘We didn’t know what we were about to suffer here, Clive. Before we came here, we thought it was worth a try. A lovely quiet, almost secret kind of place. What could possibly go wrong here? But here we are again, suffering the usual …’ He shook his head. ‘I can never understand, can you? I mean, we’ve never done anyone any harm.’
‘I know. All we’ve ever tried to do was to be nice and friendly to folk.’
‘Yes, and trying to keep ourselves to ourselves didn’t work either. So to hell with them.’
‘Now, now, Paul. Remember – “‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”’
Paul sighed.
‘It’s awful difficult trying to be a Christian, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but at least we’re not suffering as much as poor Jesus did.’
‘We don’t have his courage though.’
‘But we have
faith in him. He’ll be with us always, supporting us and protecting us from all evil.’
‘I don’t know about that, Clive. I mean, that snobby woman surely can’t be a Christian and that horrible man can’t be a true believer in Jesus and his teachings. Love thy neighbour, and all that. We’re their neighbours.’
‘You’re forgetting something, Paul. Forgetting a lot of things. We have so much more in our lives, so much to be thankful for. There’s our interesting jobs and at least a few nice colleagues at work. And think of all the students you have helped, who are grateful to you. We don’t need to worry about this wee row of houses.’
‘Now, you know fine, Clive, it’s not just here in this row of houses that we’ve suffered.’
‘All I’m saying is that we have to look at the broader picture and thank God that everyone isn’t the same. We’re lucky really.’
‘Lucky?’
‘Of course we are. What about our creative talent.’
‘Well at least you’re right about that. I can hardly wait to visit the National Gallery and admire your painting there, Clive. I’m more excited about going through to Edinburgh to visit the National Gallery and admire your painting than I am about getting my poetry published.’
‘And I’m more excited about you getting your poems accepted then I am about seeing my painting in the National Gallery.’
Paul laughed. ‘You liar, you!’
‘No, honestly, Paul. I’m really happy for you. But I know that it’s a novel you really want to get published and you will be a successful novelist one day. I just know it. You are so talented. I’m proud of you. And I’ll love you to the end of time.’
Paul laughed as they embraced.
‘Sounds as if I could get a poem out of that. I’ll love you to the end of time.’
‘Don’t mock me, Paul. I mean it.’
‘Sorry. How about us taking a walk up to the Galleries, having a meal there and then a walk around? That’s one thing I do like about here. It’s such a quiet place. I don’t think for a minute that people milling about at the back entrance to the Galleries will even know that the houses are here. Looking down from the Galleries you can’t see them for the trees on that side of the river.’
‘I know. I don’t regret coming here. Do you?’
‘No, and despite our awful neighbours!’
‘They might not all be awful. Jack Kelly, the police officer in number one, seems a decent sort and the McIvors in number two. And I bet our next door neighbours, the Pakistanis, will be fine. They’ve probably suffered plenty of prejudice and discrimination themselves and so they’ll be able to understand and sympathise.’
‘You’re right. I’m looking forward to meeting them. Come on, we might as well enjoy the rest of the evening at the Art Galleries.’
Then they happily set off.
10
Clive and Paul walked hastily through the park area on the left and made their way towards the front of the Art Galleries. There were two or three groups of rowdy teenagers wearing wide flared trousers and Rod Stewart’s ‘Maggie May’ was blaring out from a wireless. The youths could be looking for trouble. Usually, they fought among themselves, jeering and shouting at one another, but Clive and Paul were always nervous in case they’d turn on them. They had been feeling uneasy about another couple of men hanging about near Waterside Way – dawdling behind the trees. As soon as the men saw Clive and Paul, they hurried away.
‘Who on earth are they, I wonder?’ Clive said. ‘A right tough-looking pair. Did you see the tattoos one of them had? The other one’s bomber jacket looked very worse for wear.’
‘Well, at least they’re not interested in us, thank goodness. I don’t like the look of them though. Shifty kind of characters. They’re up to no good, I bet.’
‘Well, if they’re burglars looking for a house to burgle, they’re in for a shock with a police officer living in one of them.’
Paul laughed.
‘I hope they do pick his house. Serve them right!’
While walking around the Galleries admiring all the paintings, they came across one of a woman with a cape of long, reddish blonde hair.
‘Look,’ Clive pointed out. ‘Who does that remind you of?’
‘Sandra Arlington-Jones, of course. Both Sandra and that Pakistani boy, Mirza Shafaatulla, had better be careful. Mirza and Sandra are both in one of my classes. Mirza’s a really clever lad but he obviously dotes on Sandra. Her mother will have a fit if she finds out – a right snobby bitch.’
‘I know. She didn’t manage to get us chucked out of our house though.’
‘What do you think of her neighbour, Mrs Jean Gardner?’
‘I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her.’
After their walk around the Galleries, they decided to go into town for a visit to the Stirling’s Library. They loved to wander around the city centre, admiring Glasgow’s wonderful architecture. They especially admired the architecture of the Stirling’s Library which had originally been built as a house for one of the wealthy Glasgow Tobacco Lords. Both being artistic, they could admire the Corinthian pillars on the facade and the cupola above.
It was with reluctance that they made their way back home. Not because they didn’t like where they lived, not even because of the trouble-making Mrs Arlington-Jones or the smarmy Mrs Jean Gardner. The Reverend Denby was the one they feared and who spoiled the love they had of their nicely situated home and little garden, with a small patch of grass and borders of flowering impatience, french marigolds, primulas and hydrangeas.
‘A minister of religion was the last person in the world I thought would be such a danger to us,’ Clive said. ‘I’m frightened of him.’
‘I don’t blame you. I’ve a gut feeling he’s going to succeed in doing us real harm if we’re not careful.’
‘How much more careful can we be? I wonder if we should talk to Jack Kelly. After all, he’s been threatening violence against us.’
‘He hasn’t actually done anything to us though. I mean, he hasn’t put a hand on us. It could be said he’s just a mad old man and we should simply ignore him.’
‘It is frightening though. He’s evil. Especially last night, the way he shouted, “Die, die, die” at us. He wants to … not just put a hand on us, but kill us.’
‘Or have somebody else kill us.’
Clive shuddered. ‘For pity’s sake, Paul, you and your imagination. Don’t make me feel worse.’
Paul put an arm around Clive’s shoulders. ‘Sorry, but nobody will hurt you if I’m around. I’d die protecting you.’
Tears well up in Clive’s eyes. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I know.’
11
‘He’s got the true spirit of Scotland, Pop,’ Bashir said.
‘Who?’ Mahmood asked.
‘Jimmy Reid.’
‘And who is this Jimmy Reid?’
‘He’s a Clydesider, a ship builder and a union man, a leader and a self-taught intellectual.’
‘He is the true spirit of Scotland because he is self-taught? Ah, like me?’
Bashir laughed. ‘Yes, OK, Pop. But in a bigger way. I mean, he’s taking on Heath’s government. Heath wants to close all the shipyards and that would make at least six thousand workers lose their jobs.’
‘What can this Jimmy Reid do?’
‘It’s in all the papers. Instead of going on strike, he’s told everyone they’re going to have a “work-in”. They would fill every order on their books. Look, there it is in the paper.’ Bashir read out, “‘We are not going to strike. We are not even having a sit-in strike. … And there will be no hooliganism, there will be no vandalism, there will be no bevvying, because the world is watching us.”’
‘No bevvying. That means drinking alcohol, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘He does sound like a good man,’ Mahmood admitted. ‘Like a good Muslim. Not like you, Bashir. You drink.’
‘Och, just the odd pint, Pop. Anyway, lots of us
are getting together to help them. We’re trying to gather money, anything we can get,’ Bashir said. ‘I’ve put a collection box in the shop. It’s to help keep them supplied with food. They’re going to be shut in there, working hard, probably for months.’
Mahmood sighed. ‘You are a kind man, Bashir. Not a good Muslim, but a kind man. I cannot deny that.’
‘Right, I’ll speak to the neighbours first.’
Jack Kelly welcomed him into house number one and his wife Mae immediately put the kettle on. Bashir explained his mission.
‘Well, the man’s got courage, right enough,’ Jack agreed. ‘And principles. It’s a welcome change to read about somebody bringing everyone together in a good cause. I thought after the Ibrox disaster everyone had come together. Rangers and Celtic, Orangemen and Catholics, but the game was hardly over when all the old prejudices and hatred flared up again.’
‘All the workers will stick together to the end with a leader like Jimmy Reid.’
‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘I believe you’re right, Bashir. I’ll help in any way I can.’
Next Bashir called on the McIvors at number two. Mae Kelly came with him so that she could make sure Doris understood what Bashir had come about.
‘She’s getting a bit distracted with all the worry and stress of looking after her mother,’ Mae explained.
‘Och well, maybe I’d better not bother her.’
‘No, no, I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.’
And indeed Doris seemed delighted to welcome them both in.
‘I thought it was Mrs Gardner but it’s really great to see any of my neighbours. Everyone is so kind.’
‘Who’s that black man?’ old Mrs McIvor called out, much to her daughter’s embarrassment.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Bashir. So very sorry.’
Bashir laughed. ‘Don’t worry.’ Then to Mrs McIvor, ‘It’s brown, Ma. I’ve got a brown face.’
The Kellys of Kelvingrove Page 4
