The Kellys of Kelvingrove

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Should she keep out of the house all the time, keep well away and leave the robbers to do whatever they wanted? And what would that be? She could never figure it out. Never be quite sure. Never get her head round the alternatives. The robbers would be furious, of course, as soon as they realised that somebody had been helping themselves.

  They were bound to be furious. But then what? A policeman’s house of all places. They’d think about that. Bound to. And that would make them all the more enraged. Then what?

  As soon as she reached the house after shopping, she got a terrible shock, but not the one she had feared.

  Old Mrs McIvor was lying on the ground in front of the door of number one. Her white head was crimsoned with blood. Doris was standing weeping over her.

  ‘Doris! What happened?’

  ‘I’ve killed her.’

  ‘Nonsense, you couldn’t.’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  Mae knelt down and searched for a pulse but found none. Old Mrs McIvor was dead.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. All I can remember is finding her lying there. And I wanted to kill her, Mae. I wanted her dead. I was going mad enough to do it. So I must have done it. I want to die now. I can’t live with the knowledge that I’ve been so wicked. And what’ll Alec say when he comes now? He’ll want me dead. He’ll know that I’m too wicked to live.’

  Mae struggled to her feet.

  ‘Stop talking like that, Doris. You’re not wicked. You loved your mother. Come back into your house.’ Mae put her arm round Doris’s shoulders and led her back into house number two. ‘Where’s you mother’s sedative tablets?’

  Doris pointed towards a sideboard drawer and Mae hurried over to take out a tablet from the box inside. Then she ran into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

  ‘Here, swallow this over. It’ll calm you.’

  ‘It might make me fall asleep.’

  ‘That’s fine. Hurry up. Just do it. Now sit down and relax. I’ll see to everything.’

  She helped Doris over to the nearest easy chair and propped cushions behind her.

  ‘Keep this in your head, Doris. Keep repeating it. “I loved my mother and I’d never harm her.” Keep repeating that, Doris, because it’s the truth.’

  Already Doris’s eyelids were beginning to droop. And in a few minutes, Mae felt it safe to slip away.

  She went out of the back door, round to her own back door, where she removed her muddy shoes. She left them outside her own back door and entered the house. The first place she went was the cupboard to see if the money she’d put there was still there. It wasn’t. Her dreadful suspicions were confirmed. The robbers had come to take the money but either when they were trying to enter or when they were leaving, old Mrs McIvor had been struggling to get in and she struggled with them, all the time shouting as usual, ‘I’ll get the police to you.’

  As a result, they’d either hit her or pushed her out of the way and she’d fallen. The blow to her head had killed her. Violently trembling now, Mae took a large suitcase and filled it with a change of clothing. Then she returned via the back door to Doris’s house. Doris was sound asleep.

  Dumping the case down, Mae reached for the telephone. She could hardly hold it, she was shaking so much. But she managed to dial the police station number.

  As she sat in Doris’s house, her distress became focused on Jack. If he hadn’t been so bloody stupid about money and so selfish about inviting so many of his friends to the house to gorge themselves on expensive food every week, she would never have got into debt and she would never have needed to steal the money from under the floorboards. When she thought of all she’d suffered and how he had been the cause of her suffering, for the first time she experienced hatred against him. Then the doorbell rang, she hurried to go and open the door.

  Local police officers on the doorstep explained they had been sent to the scene to ascertain information received and report back to the station on the possible death of a woman. She knew them all but realised they had to go through the normal procedures. They also explained that an ambulance would come but if the person was deceased, they would not remove the body.

  ‘You can’t go back into the house, Mae,’ one of them said. ‘We’ll have to secure the area to preserve all the evidence. Is it OK if you stay here overnight?’

  ‘Yes, no problem,’ she replied. ‘Poor Doris is in a state of collapse with shock. I’ve given her a sedative and I’d need to stay and look after her anyway. I’ll have to phone her brother in Australia and tell him the awful news as well.’

  ‘We thought it better if Jack didn’t come home right away, but we’ll be able to tell him now that you’re OK and he doesn’t need to worry.’

  ‘Fine.’

  After that she sat at Doris’s front room window and watched the police tape being put round the front, side and back of house number one.

  Soon, Jack arrived and limped breathlessly into Doris’s house to grab Mae into his arms.

  ‘My God, Mae. What happened?’

  ‘I came back from Marks & Spencer and found Mrs McIvor lying dead on our doorstep.’

  It was all his fault, she thought. His stupidity, his thoughtlessness, his selfishness had forced her into a morass of desperation and agonising suffering. She’d tried to tell him, tried to make him see sense, but he’d always refused to listen. She remembered with much bitterness the last time she’d desperately tried to tell him the true situation, but as usual, he’d refused to listen. She remembered how he’d silenced her. He’d laughed and said, ‘Where’s my dinner then? My nice big juicy steak?’

  Now he said, ‘There’s no use sitting there, Mae. The forensic team will be notified and the police photographer and the police surgeon will soon be there. Everything’s under control. Did you bring your shopping in here? We might as well relax and have something to eat.’

  ‘A nice big juicy steak?’

  He was obviously unaware of the heavy sarcasm in her tone because he said, ‘Great,’ and happily rubbed his hands together. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to enjoy our meal before the CID guys come round all the houses making their enquiries.’

  God, she thought, still in a state of collapse at the awful turn of events. How had she ever managed to put up with him for so long?

  26

  Jack said to Mae, ‘By the way, I told Clive and Paul that they’d be OK. If they ever needed to be looked after, you’d look after them.’

  Wasn’t that typical, she thought. In between nursing Doris, he expected her to be able to nurse two men as well. And at any moment, he’d be announcing that all his police pals would be arriving for their usual Sunday dinner.

  ‘By the way, we’ll be able to get back to our own place tomorrow.’

  They had been staying in Doris’s house until their own place was cleared by the police. By this time, Alec McIvor had arrived and, seeing the helpless state his sister was in (Mae had continued to administer sedatives), he asked Mae if she would be Doris’s carer.

  ‘I’ll arrange through our solicitors for you to be paid a regular wage, Mae, and a very generous one, if you’d please take on the job. It would put my mind at rest if you’d agree.’

  She agreed.

  ‘Well,’ Jack said, ‘make sure you make it clear that you’ll be doing it part time.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean?’ knowing exactly what he meant. He meant that she had to be available to make his ‘juicy steak’ dinners every night and have all the necessary Marks & Spencer meals ready for his mob of police pals every Sunday.

  ‘You’re a married woman, Mae. Your first duty is to your husband.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Jack, but I’ve taken on this commitment and I must honour it. Poor Doris is definitely needing me to nurse her back to health.’

  Jack rolled his eyes. ‘Well, I hope she’ll recover soon. Meantime, we’ll gather our things together ready to move back to our own place tomorrow
.’

  ‘You can gather your things, Jack. I’m staying here to nurse Doris full time. I must be available during the night as well as during the day.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘But who’ll cook dinner every day? Especially dinner on Sundays.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to cook them yourself meantime, Jack, and do the shopping for all your nice, juicy steaks.’ Again, her little sarcasm passed unnoticed by him.

  He was obviously furious.

  ‘Well, don’t expect me to pay you your housekeeping money, as well as pay for all the food myself,’ he shouted indignantly.

  ‘I’m not expecting that, Jack. By all means, use the housekeeping money to buy your steaks and fish suppers, and puddings and whatever else you fancy from Marks & Spencer.’

  He really believed that the paltry few pounds he gave her would buy all the food he and his pals happily gorged on. Oh, just wait, she thought. What a surprise he was about to receive. Shock, more like. She could hardly wait to see the result of his foray into Marks & Spencer.

  Meantime, she enjoyed the rest she was having in Doris McIvor’s house. It was a rest because she and Doris got on well together and Doris wasn’t in the least demanding. She slept most of the time and when she wasn’t asleep, they enjoyed a light meal together while watching television. Doris had a packed freezer and fridge and so she didn’t even have to go out shopping.

  ‘My brother was over, wasn’t he? Or have I been imagining seeing Alec?’ Doris asked occasionally. She was forgetful and repetitive, but not nearly as bad as her mother had been.

  ‘No, dear. Your brother was over and he really cares about you. He’s asked me to stay with you and look after you. He’s even arranged for me to be paid a good wage as your nurse and carer. Which is very nice for me.’

  ‘Very nice for me too, Mae. I feel so much safer and better now that you’re with me all the time.’

  After a minute or two, she said, ‘Tell me again that I didn’t kill my mother, Mae.’

  ‘You didn’t kill your mother, Doris. I saw two men hanging about. I told the police when they were questioning everybody. They knew the men. They’ve been after them for a robbery at the Art Galleries.’

  ‘I wonder why …’

  ‘Doris, you know how your mother kept shouting, “I’ll get the police on you”?’

  ‘Oh yes, poor soul. I forgot about that.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt she shouted it at these two criminals, and they killed her to silence her.’

  Gradually Doris relaxed.

  At last she said, ‘My poor mother. You’re right, of course. That must be what happened. It’s just I got such a shock. I’d been under so much stress for so long and …’

  ‘I know. I know. But now you must relax and get better, Doris.’

  ‘Please don’t leave me, Mae.’

  ‘I’m not going to leave you, Doris. I’m very happy staying here with you. I enjoy your company and it’s a lovely wee job for me.’

  It was the truth. She felt happy and relaxed.

  She felt upset though when she thought of what had happened to poor Clive and Paul from house number four. She popped in to see them and was shocked at their appearance. They had black eyes and broken noses and scars on their cheeks.

  ‘I’m so sorry about what happened to you. What a disgrace that people can behave like that – like wild animals. I can’t do much to help you, I’m afraid, because I’m nursing Doris. Her brother is paying me to be her full time nurse and carer.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mae. We’ll manage. Bashir has been filling our fridge and we’re able to walk about the house now and cook our meals. Not that we’re able to eat much yet.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re on the mend. I’ll pop in again as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thanks, Mae.’

  They struggled to their feet and Mae said, ‘I’ll see myself out. Just you relax where you are.’

  ‘The only thing is,’ Clive said, ‘we’re both terrified to show our faces outside our door now. God knows when we’ll ever have the courage to go out again.’

  Paul sighed.

  ‘Before this, we enjoyed our visits to the Art Galleries so much.’

  ‘You’ll soon get your courage back,’ Mae assured them. ‘And the first time you go out, Jack and Bashir will go with you. Don’t worry about it. Just give your physical wounds time to heal first.’

  ‘We’re lucky we’ve got such good friends,’ Paul said. ‘The writers from the club are coming to visit us too. We’re looking forward to that.’

  ‘Good.’ Mae gave them a wave. ‘Have a great time.’

  27

  Clive and Paul had become members of a writers’ club and the club was having a night for members at their house, reading samples of their work out loud. Clive listened with great pride as Paul read:

  Learning to Listen

  The wind pulled voices

  across my window

  with the insistence

  of chalk across the blackboard,

  like high squeals of warning

  from a loose-hinged gate.

  Here on a bridge girded by secrets

  the same voices whisper snippets

  from dark, shallow grooves in the stone.

  They slide words at me across the brick

  like pebbles sent skimming over a river

  hard-edged with gossip.

  Some I manage to evade, others

  strike home with the cutting flint of truth,

  once I recognise the curve of your speech.

  I should learn to listen,

  allow the words to settle

  in that padded-room

  between denial and understanding.

  It would be easier to place one foot

  on the low wall of the bridge

  spread my arms crucifix wide

  lean forward

  and will flight into the span of my arms.

  There was enthusiastic applause and one member said, ‘Here, Paul, that was good. And it’s damned difficult to write poetry. I know. I’ve tried. Have you got another one there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, let’s hear it and then after a wee bit of discussion, we’ll go on to someone else.’

  A Close Shave

  It sat on the window sill

  above the sink, bounced back

  my father’s movements as he shaved.

  I would sit on my hands

  on the toilet seat and watch

  mouth open,

  the ritual of soap and razor.

  Skin was prepared,

  soaked with water

  hot enough to open pores,

  relax wire follicles.

  Bristles whisked the soap

  until cream peaked.

  I loved the sound of the blade

  As it rasped over his face.

  Breath on hold,

  I watched a thin river of red

  wash through white soap.

  No cry of pain.

  He was tough, my Dad.

  Clive joined the others in clapping enthusiastically. It was such a blessing that they’d found the writers’ club. There was no discrimination, no prejudice here. They had remarked on it and another member had said,

  ‘Right enough. When you think of it, in what other profession would people help each other so much and be genuinely delighted and happy when one of them achieved success?’

  Sometimes there was a speaker but always, after the formal part of the meeting, everyone enjoyed a cup of tea and a chat, or a blether to use one of Clive’s favourite Scottish words. They were each given a programme when they joined and it contained an interesting mix of speakers. Some were very successful writers in different genres – playwrights, romantic authors, thriller writers, science fiction authors. They came to help by telling of how they succeeded. They also handed out typed sheets of helpful hints and suggestions. On other occasions there were s
peakers whose knowledge helped with research. A librarian from the Mitchell Library was listed and both Clive and Paul were looking forward to hearing him. The Mitchell Library was one of their favourite places. It had been founded by a Glasgow tobacco baron, Stephen Mitchell, and was the largest public reference library in Europe. Both Clive and Paul were great fans of the poet Robert Burns and the Mitchell had the largest collection of first editions of the poet’s work, as well as a host of Burnsania. It had more than four thousand first editions in thirty two languages. The place itself was impressive. The solid Edwardian baroque building was topped by a beautiful copper dome. The Mitchell was one of many buildings in Glasgow that inspired the architecture enthusiast and poet laureate John Betjeman, to describe Glasgow as the ‘greatest Victorian city in Europe’.

  The writers’ club was situated in Ashton Lane, off Byres Road in the West End. It was a really trendy area, with a variety of restaurants and pubs where crowds of people (mostly young people who looked like university students) stood drinking their pints outside. Further along, there were a few tables and chairs in front of a small restaurant. When Clive and Paul were able to go out and about, they favoured a larger restaurant called the Ubiquitous Chip. There the food was, in their opinion, about the best in Glasgow. Many famous people ate there.

  The whole atmosphere in Ashton Lane and the West End, in Clive and Paul’s opinion, was very typically Glasgow. One New Yorker said that Glasgow had the disputatious cheek and the pace of Manhattan. Glasgow had grit to it and an exhilaration that made the place buzz.

  Especially in the centre of the city in front of the Royal Exchange building. There, a statue of the Duke of Wellington mounted on his horse sat high on a plinth. One guide to Glasgow claimed that if Edinburgh had poise, Glasgow had swagger. And it had a determination to break free of its background of poverty and deprivation and give everything a whirl.