Scottish Widows

by Grae Cleugh

  SCOTTISH WIDOWS

  Grae Cleugh

  SCOTTISH WIDOWS

  OBERON BOOKS

  LONDON

  WWW.OBERONBOOKS.COM

  First published in 2014 by Oberon Books Ltd

  521 Caledonian Road, London N7 9RH

  Tel: +44 (0) 20 7607 3637 / Fax: +44 (0) 20 7607 3629

  e-mail: info@oberonbooks.com

  www.oberonbooks.com

  Copyright © Grae Cleugh, 2014

  Grae Cleugh is hereby identified as author of this play in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The author has asserted his moral rights.

  All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to Curtis Brown Group Ltd, Haymarket House, 28-29 Haymarket, London, SW1Y 4SP (cb@curtisbrown.co.uk). No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the author’s prior written consent.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or binding or by any means (print, electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  PB ISBN: 978-1-78319-159-8

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-78319-658-6

  Cover design by James Illman

  Printed, bound and converted

  by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.

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  For Mum,

  with all my love

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  1. ‘All that’s Left of Him’

  2. ‘Home Sweet Home’

  3. ‘Wanted Man’

  4. ‘You are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine’

  5. ‘Life’s Too Short’

  6. ‘Turkish Delight’

  Acknowledgements

  I would very much like to thank the following people:

  Camilla Young (Curtis Brown), Melina Theocharidou (Oberon Books), Andy Dickinson, Michael Kingsbury (White Bear Theatre), Andrea Miller, Billy Riddoch, Laura Glover, Enrique Muñoz and Laura Arnaiz.

  Scottish Widows was first performed on 6 May 2014 at the White Bear Theatre in London.

  Cast

  Andrea Miller

  Billy Riddoch

  Laura Glover

  Director, Andy Dickinson

  Set Design, Enrique Muñoz and Laura Arnaiz

  Sound Design, Enrique Muñoz

  Stage Management, Laura Arnaiz

  1. ‘ALL THAT’S LEFT OF HIM’

  JESSIE, a woman of 70, sitting on a park-style bench outside.

  JESSIE: The first time he takes it out, I’m surprised how big it is. Oh aye. I’d led a very sheltered life until that moment and I don’t mind telling you. And us not even married yet?

  ‘Look at that’, he says, showing it to me. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh my’ I said, ‘It’s a fair size, isn’t it?’ Which it is.

  ‘You can touch it if you like’ he says, smiling.

  ‘Oh no’ I said, ‘I don’t think I want to.’

  ‘Go on’ he says, ‘Touch it.’

  I touch it.

  ‘Oh here’ I said, ‘It’s quite warm.’

  ‘Course it is. What did you expect?’ he says.

  ‘Well I don’t know’ I said, ‘do I? It’s my first time…you know…’

  ‘Do you want to hold it’ he says, still smiling. ‘Go on, hold it in your hand if you want.’

  I take it in my hand.

  ‘It’s lovely and smooth’ I said.

  ‘It’s a bloody big beauty’ he says.

  He’s right. It is. After that, I get quite used to it. In fact, I come to have something of a fascination for it. I’m not ashamed of that. Though it did come as a surprise to a woman of my background. I was a girl guide. Sometimes, I would sit and look at it. Late at night. After we’d go to bed. He’d nod off, and I’d gently take it in my hand and just look at it. Stare at it. Other nights, I’d fall asleep holding it. I don’t know why but it aye gave me an immense feeling of comfort. He never knew. I’d always wake up first. Stick it back. Mind you, a few mornings, he’d look at me like he knew I’d been up to something. Never said anything though. Strange. Not that he minded people looking at it. He enjoyed it, the dirty bugger. Oh aye. He’d often whip it out in public. His ‘perty piece’ I used to call it. Mrs. McKellar from the Church drama group was a particular fan. ‘Oh it’s marvellous’, she’d say. The woman couldn’t take her eyes off it. She liked to hold it in her hand too. Cheeky besom. I don’t mind admitting I got a wee bit jealous. She was a widow, you see. Lonely. I didn’t realise at the time. What that’s like. Now I know. Only too well. I kept it. After he… I did. Removed it. A bit strange perhaps but then again why not? He doesn’t need it anymore, does he? It’s all I have left of him.

  She brings out a handkerchief from her cardigan pocket. Something is wrapped in it. She unwraps the item as if it is the most precious object in the world. To her, it is. It’s a large glass eye. She shows it to us.

  Isn’t it lovely? They weren’t going to let me have it but I pleaded with them. Do you know I hadn’t cried in over twenty years, but when they were taking him away, I broke down. Couldn’t help myself. I begged them. I did. Didn’t care how it looked. ‘Please. Please give me his eye. I want his eye.’ They looked at me funny at first, of course. Think I’m going off my rocker. Then I explain. The officer’s ever so nice. She really is. Lets me have it. I should have sent a note round to the station. Say thank you. Maybe a box of chocolates. I will. I’ll do that. Hand them in myself. Tomorrow. I need to pop in there anyway. What’s her name again? WPC McKay, is it? Och, I don’t know, but I can describe her. They’ll know who I mean. Lovely girl she is. Really bonny. Heart of gold. Aye. I’ll get something out of Thorntons. Quality Street aren’t what they used to be, are they?

  Forty-five years we were together, Jock and I. Would you credit it? Only man I ever loved. Only one I ever will. Four children and thirteen grandchildren. We did well. I’ve no complaints. You mustn’t be greedy. Said so himself. ‘I’ve had a good innings’ he said. Just look after my garden and remember to feed the cat. And keep next door’s dog away from my bloody Chrysanthemums.’ Hulking great brute it is. Quite strong as it turns out. Kept peeing on Jock’s flowers. He didn’t like that at all. Of course, (lowering her voice), they are Catholics. Next door. I think they’re quite a nice family, but he never took to them. ‘The Waltons’ he used to call them. We had four ourselves, I’d say to him. We were busy bees. Don’t go casting aspersions. Still, he wasn’t wrong in a way. Eight of them. Another on the way. I don’t know how the poor woman does it. I suppose you have to admire her strength. These priests have a lot to answer for. Actually I quite like the noise. Drove Jock mad but it’s just me now. It’s nice to hear them moving about, living. A family. Don’t know when I’ll see my lot next.

  It’s four months since he went. Seems like yesterday. We were all doing shifts at the hospital. He’s been wanting to be at home but it just isn’t possible. The pain. One night, I come home early to get some sleep. My daughter Grace, she’s still up there. I’m just settled when the phone rings. I know straight aw
ay. Sure enough. He’s gone. Very peacefully. I wish I could forgive myself for not being there. I don’t see him at the hospital again. Wasn’t sure I wanted to. Then the day before the funeral, I have this irresistible urge. I have to see him. I call the undertakers and they’re very kind. ‘It’s no problem, Mrs. Anderson’ he says to me. ‘He’s all ready for tomorrow. Come up anytime.’ I put on my coat and head over there. They show me into this small room and there he is. I have to say he looks wonderful. Handsome even. In a lovely, dark-coloured suit. Wasn’t sure if it was black or navy. What a marvellous job they did. I shouldn’t say this but honestly he hadn’t looked that good in years. Very skilled people, undertakers. He was a skilled man himself, Jock. Lathe operator. How he lost his eye. I know he would have been pleased with the quality of their workmanship. The next day we put him in the ground. It’s terrible. Putting him in that cold, dark, lonely place. Cremation’s the usual thing now. That’s what I’m opting for. Nothing fancy. Just stick my bones in a black bag and throw me in the furnace. But he wanted to be buried. Each to their own, I suppose. That night, after everyone’s gone, I’m sat at home by myself. Kids offer to stay but I say no, I have to do this on my own. Might as well get used to it. It must have been very late. Even the Waltons had gone to bed. Just me now. So quiet. Empty is how I felt. Utterly, totally empty. I’m sitting here thinking, okay Jessie, this is it, this is your life now. Just have to get on with it.

  Mushrooms. It’s the mushrooms that do it. I get back into my routine. Cooking, washing, cleaning the house. I’m fine. Well, maybe not fine, but I’m managing. Until that Saturday. I get up and I think, I know, I’ll treat myself. A fry. Something tasty. Haven’t had one since… I always did the cooking but Jock always did a great fry. Much better than mine. Funny that. I go down the Co’ and get the sausage, bacon, egg, all the usual bits ’n’ pieces. And of course my favourite, the mushrooms. I never knew what it was he did with them. Cooked them in a wee bit butter and pepper. That was all it looked like. But the flavour. Better than anything you’ve ever tasted. I cook the breakfast best I can – it’s not rocket science is it – but then I come to the mushrooms. Cook them just the way he does…did, but…soggy, tasteless muck. I wept. It sounds so bloody stupid, but that’s when it hit me. He’s gone, Jessie. I felt so alone. I thought, that’s it, to hang with it, I’m taking a big bottle of painkillers and be done with it. It’s the only way. I meant it too. Then…then it came to me. It just came to me.

  There’s a pair of lads come to my door nearly every week. ‘Do you have any odd jobs need doing, Mrs?’ Usually I’ve nothing for them. But I know I can’t do this all by myself, not with my back, so next time they come round I say to them, ‘Actually, yes, there is something you can do for me. Can you come back tonight?’ ‘What time, Mrs?’ one of them says. ‘3 a.m.’ I say. Both of them give me a funny look. I think they’re thinking this is something else. I assure them I’m not in the market for that sort of thing right at the moment. One seems quite disappointed. Some people. Twenty pounds each I offer them. We settle on twenty-five. Not bad for a couple of hours work. In my day, you’d probably have got five shillings and lump it. Why is everybody so greedy these days? I often wonder.

  They’re late of course. Twenty past three they arrive. Young folk now. Anyway, I take Jock’s old Golf and we drive up there. I’ve never been brilliant with cars, Jock usually drove, but I manage well enough. They take the shovels out the boot and head over. Doesn’t take long. Still summer. The ground’s quite soft. We get him out alright, but then the boys don’t want to touch him. Get the willies. Typical. Well I can hardly get him out and into the car myself. Had a feeling this might happen, or some such thing. I’ve brought some extra money just in case. Give them another tenner each. Buggers. They help me wrap him in plastic sheeting and we put him in the boot. A good fit. He was quite a small man. I get him home fine. The boys give me a hand getting him upstairs, and we put him on the bed. He looks wonderful. Exactly as I last saw him. His beautiful, serene face.

  The police come later that day. To inform me he’s been taken. They’re quite distraught themselves. I’ve only recently put him in the ground, after all. I’ve never lied to the police before. I don’t like doing it. Fortunately, they’ve no idea who’s responsible. No-one saw anything. It happened in the middle of the night, so in a way I should bloody well hope not. What sort of degenerates would be hanging around in a graveyard in the middle of the night? The officers have some tea and custard creams and say they’ll let me know if they find anything out. It’s in all the papers too. Not just the local. I’m in the Daily Record. Me holding up a picture of Jock. Trying to look shocked. People in the street are coming up to me. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs. Anderson.’ ‘It must be awful for you, Mrs. Anderson.’ I feel bad lying but really, what harm am I doing? He’s my husband. Nothing to do with them. The net curtain brigade are out in force. Coming round with their dropped scones. ‘How are you doing, Mrs. Anderson?’ I know what that lot are after. Apart from paw, maw, John-boy and the rest next door, it’s a street full of widows. Nosy buggers. Nothing better to do. Still, I do understand, in a way.

  I begin to realise there’s work involved. They’ve done a good job of the embalming but he’s going to need regular treating or he’ll, well, go off. Nothing worse than something that goes off. I bought a pint of milk from that corner shop once…well, you get the idea. I get a book out the library and then I order what I need on the Internet. Wonderful thing that Internet. I’d never used it before but my son David got me hooked up or plugged in or whatever you call it and anyway off I go. I mix the chemicals as best I can and it seems to go alright. No deterioration at all. I’m quite pleased with myself. Every day I treat him. Just a little. Doesn’t need much, Jock. In life or in death. I talk to him sometimes too. Sounds silly but I do. Hold his hand. It’s comforting. Perhaps for him too, who knows? I make no apology for it. I start cooking for two again. Hate cooking for one. You can’t buy the portions. Very limiting. So I make two lots and take his meals up to him. It’s the thought, isn’t it? Usually leave his out for next door’s dog after. Wolfs it down, he does. Laps it up. Even my mushrooms. I finally manage to get them tasting better. Not as good as his. But not bad. It’s a sign. I’ve done the right thing. Sometimes in the evenings, I close the curtains and bring him downstairs. No point just having him sit in bed. He was always a very active man. Plus we always spent our evenings downstairs in front of the telly. Was thinking he’d probably be too heavy to shift, and so he is, so I think bugger it, he left me very well provided for, I’ll get a stairlift put in. One of those Stenna affairs. I’ll probably be needing it myself sooner or later, what with my arthritis, so why not now? We watch telly together again. It’s lovely. I put his eye back in so he can see properly. Well, for effect. Coronation Street was always his favourite, so I quite often stick that on. Sometimes I put on a DVD. He loved war films. Specially that Guns of Narvarone. We just sit together. Quietly. Arm in arm. Like we used to. I mean, it’s the simple human needs you miss the most, isn’t it? Contact. And so on.

  The first time is sort of an accident. I’m trying to lift him out of bed one evening to get him to the stairs. They gave him a wheelchair when he was ill and either they forgot about it or never had the heart to ask for it back, so I usually use that to wheel him from the bed to the top of the landing. I must be tired because that night I can’t budge him at all. Normally I can just about drag him up and into his chair. It’s not easy but I can do it. I’m on the bed trying to lift him up and I can’t and what happens is I just sort of fall on top of him. I lie there for a minute or two. On top of him. I’m thinking, no I can’t. Can I? We’d kept the physical side going when he was alive. Not all the time. Now and then. An early night wasn’t unheard of in this house. And after all, dead or alive, it is, in its own way, an act of love. I kiss him. Just to see. It sounds horrible I know but it was really quite nice. Tasting his lips on mine again. Even if they are a bit cold. I know he wouldn’
t have minded. Not at all. I think if he knew I was still enjoying him, he’d actually be quite pleased. ‘Waste not, want not’ he always used to say. ’Course, there’s a limit to what you can do, isn’t there? ‘Downstairs’ there’s nothing happening at all. Rigor mortis has well and truly come and gone. Then I remember this programme I saw. About lesbians. Channel 5 it must have been. They use this thing called a strap-on. A bit tasteless I know, but when you haven’t got one, or at least one that works, you have to improvise in life, don’t you? I get on the Internet again, and lo and behold I manage to get one – www.bigsextoys.co.uk. A bit pricey but looks the ticket. The ‘Bend Over Beginner’s Kit’ – in black. I’d have preferred flesh-coloured but black’s all they have. Comes with a lovely velvet harness and two dildos, one small and one large. Batteries are included. At £29.99, quite a good deal all in, I’d say. And that was it. Strap it on him as per the instructions, and Scots wha hae. Happily married again. Some people probably think it’s shameful. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more natural in the world. The passion’s maybe a bit more onesided now, but sometimes that’s true even when they’re alive, isn’t it ladies? It’s nice. Having him back. It’s lovely in fact.

  I’ve aye hated September. It’s a month that canny make up its mind. I remember this was quite a warm day. I’m out in the garden doing some work – I like to keep it nice for him. His Chrysanthemums especially. I always leave the back door open so I can nip in and out if I need to fetch anything, a cup of tea maybe or just to hear if the phone rings or the bell goes. I’m working away and that great mutt from next door must’ve come in looking for something to eat. The next thing I know the Walton weans are screaming at the top of their voices, ‘Mum! Mum, Barney’s got a giant bone!’ ‘Don’t worry,’ she calls from inside, ‘He’ll just be playing with it.’ She comes out into her garden and starts screaming. Which makes me look up. What I see is not a pretty sight. Barney’s dragged my Jock out of bed, down the stairs, across the lawn and into next-door’s vegetable patch. He’s now digging a huge hole to plant Jock in. I see all this and all I can think is – Jock was right about that dog: a bloody pain in the arse.