The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5

by Todd, Ian

  “Fire away, doll,” Betty said, taking a deep puff.

  “The announcement by veteran political fixer, JP Donnelly, that he wis throwing his hat intae the ring efter the sad death ae Dick Mulholland, the sitting cooncillor fur the Keppochhill ward in Springburn, came as a shock and a surprise tae the other candidates in the ward who hiv awready announced their candidacy. At his baronial pile in Lenzie, Colonel Spicer Barr-Owen, the Tory candidate fur the ward, spoke fur many ae the wannabe candidates by stating that if Mr Donnelly really believed in democracy, he wid staun back and gie the ordinary man in the street a chance ae getting elected fur a change. Sir Bob Barking, the Liberal candidate, agreed wae these sentiments and spoke ae his disappointment that Mr Donnelly obviously didnae hiv that much gaun oan in his life if he hid tae come oot ae retirement tae find something tae dae wae himsel. ‘It won’t put the Liberals aff,’ Sir Bob said fae his Bishopbriggs Toonhoose. ‘We’re confident we will dae well. We nearly took the seat fur The Liberals in 1909 and 1913. If we kin be assured ae a fair share ae the press coverage, then Ah’m sure we kin gie JP Donnelly a run fur his money. Oor local activists ur preparing fur battle as Ah speak.’” Helen read oot, looking across at Betty tae see if she wis still wae her.

  “Whit’s a Toonhoose when it’s at hame then?” Betty asked.

  “Ah’m buggered if Ah know...a hoose in the toon somewhere probably. Wan thing’s fur sure...it certainly won’t be a cramped and damp auld tenement building.”

  “Aye, that sounds jist aboot right, so it dis. Right, hen, carry oan...whit else is it saying?”

  “At an official launch in The Journeyman’s Club in Springburn, in front ae an estimated hunner and seventy supporters...”

  “How many?” Betty interrupted, looking puzzled.

  “...in front ae an estimated hunner and seventy supporters, JP Donnelly rallied those in attendance by urging them tae get oot there and show the good people ae Springburn that they’re no furgoatten aboot and that when he wis back entrenched in George’s Square, they’d soon aw be reaping the benefits ae voting fur him.”

  “Ah thought that wee commie wan, Charlie whit’s his name, said that he reckoned there wis only aboot fifty or sixty at JP’s launch?”

  “He did.”

  “So, where the hell did a hunner and seventy come fae?”

  “Well, somewan’s telling porkies, so they ur. Ah cannae see Charlie getting it wrang by o’er a hunner, kin you?”

  “Surely the reporter, whit’s his name?”

  “Bradley McLeod.”

  “...Bradley McLeod...widnae get it wrang by that amount unless he wis a lying fork-tongued snake. Ah mean, surely tae God, The Glesga Echo widnae employ some stupid bampot that couldnae coont, wid they?”

  “Well, it says here that he’s The Echo’s main political reporter. Ah’m no sure coonting wid be that essential fur his job, seeing as the political pundits oan the telly always seem tae get it wrang. Look at the last General Election. Labour wur supposed tae walk it, bit Heath ended up becoming the prime minister. Every single wan ae them goat their sums wrang, so they did. Christ, imagine if the weans in the schools used the same calculations as them in their exams? We’d aw end up wae a nation ae blithering idiots, so we wid.”

  “Aye, and ye never hear ae them coming back oan the telly apologising fur getting it wrang or explaining how they couldnae coont tae save themsels.”

  “And then there’s the occasions when they’ve reported oan a warrant sale efter wan ae us hiv goat lifted. They usually only say that there wis only wan or two demonstrating at the closemooth when there’s been aboot a dozen ae us.”

  “Helen, we’ll need tae watch that wan, so we will.”

  “Whit wan?”

  “That auld commie wan…whit an embarrassment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Ah think he’s a wee bit touched, if ye know whit Ah mean,” Betty replied, rolling her eyes and tapping the side ae her temple wae that nicotine-stained finger ae hers. “Hiv ye heard the dribble he speaks? Sharon Campbell says she clocked him a few weeks ago, up oan Springburn Road, parading up and doon ootside the train station wae a sandwich board strapped o’er his shoulders, pished as a fart.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oan the front ae it, it said ‘Free Ra People,’ so it did.”

  “And the back?”

  “‘Line The Rich Up.’”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” Betty replied, as a stream ae blue smoke fae they pouting lips ae hers exploded aff ae the polythene sheet hinging aff ae Helen’s kitchen ceiling. “Sharon says she spent days and sleepless nights trying tae figure oot whit the hell he wis oan aboot until she couldnae cope anymair and nipped doon tae The Journeyman’s Club and confronted him.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. She says he started harping oan aboot whit him and they two comrades ae his wur gonnae dae tae everywan, except the good wans, come the revolution.”

  “So, Ah take it she never found oot whit he wis selling then?” Helen asked, smiling and taking a puff ae her fag.

  “No really. By the time she caught up wae him, he wis minging, hinging aff the bar and still wearing the two strips ae Elastoplast she’d stuck oan his heid a few days earlier when he’d toppled o’er. She said that she hid tae come tae his rescue because he’d nearly hung himsel, trying tae pick up his box ae matches efter he drapped it oan the pavement. The daft auld bampot couldnae be arsed lifting the board o’er his heid like he should’ve, and tried tae lean o’er and pick it up while still wearing his boards...well, even a dafty wid know that that wis jist asking fur trouble, so it wis,”

  “Aw, Ah’ve goat a lot ae time fur auld Charlie, so Ah hiv. Him and they pals ae his wur oot in Spain, back in the thirties, wae an auld auntie ae mine. His heart’s in the right place...as long as ye don’t start talking politics wae him, that is.”

  “Is that whit he wis advertising…politics, Ah mean?”

  “Aye,” Helen laughed. “And don’t furget, it wis The Three Comrades that invested in ma campaign fund. They cannae be aw that bad. Mad, bit certainly no bad.”

  “So, is there any mention ae us in the paper then?”

  “Naw. Yer pal, Charlie, said he’d be haunin in ma form the day, doon at The Corporation in George’s Square…in person…as he disnae trust the post. The day’s the deidline fur the candidates. Ah widnae haud yer breath aboot press coverage though. Argumentative Dave fae up in Cowlairs Road, who’s hisnae worked since he left school, is staunin as the ‘Minimum Wage Fur a Fair Day’s Work Fur Everywan’ candidate. He made his announcement oan the same day as JP and wis parading up and doon ootside The Journeyman’s Club while JP’s meeting wis gaun oan, bit he hisnae goat a mention in the paper either. Naw, unless we go intae the newspaper printing business, Argumentative Dave his goat a better chance ae seeing his name in print than Ah ever will.”

  “Talking ae which...where hiv ye goat tae oan whit ye’re staunin fur, hen?”

  “Well, Susan Flaw his gied me aw the bumph that the main parties stood oan in the last Corporation elections, during the general election in 1970. Ah’ve been trying tae sift through it tae get a haundle oan where they’re aw coming fae. It disnae seem tae make sense tae me...bit then again, it’s probably jist me and nothing tae dae wae whit’s oan their election pamphlets.”

  “How dae ye mean?” Betty asked, haunin Helen a lit fag.

  “Take Dick Mulholland’s leaflet fae the wan he won. Apart fae ‘Ah know you and you know me,' and some shite aboot how the People’s Labour Party wis gonnae dae aw these good things fur everywan in Scotland, including paying everywan beezer wages, there wis naff aw aboot Springburn. In fact, apart fae ‘ye aw know me, wink, wink,’ the stuff in his leaflet hid been lifted fae the general election leaflet.”

  “Whit? Is that bad like?”

  “It’s the same wae the other parties. Vote fur us and we’ll cook yer breakfast in bed fur ye...jist as long as ye don’t read the smal
l print and ask fur yer vote back the day efter the election when nothing changes.”

  “Ah’m sorry, Helen, bit ye’ve lost me. Ah hivnae goat a bloody clue whit ye’re babbling oan aboot. Nae wonder Ah’ve never voted. Ye’re starting tae sound like them awready, so ye ur.”

  “Ah wis talking tae auld Patsy Morrison at the shoaps yesterday and Ah asked her whit wid make her get up aff her arse and go oot and vote. Dae ye know whit she said?”

  “Ah kin imagine.”

  “She said she’d love an inside toilet in the hoose so she didnae hiv tae pish in a pot at the side ae her bed every night. She said that although her and auld Mick hiv been married fur o’er fifty five years, she still feels ashamed ae hivving tae dae that in front ae him every night, even though the lights ur oot. She said that she’s never goat o’er that first time efter they goat married when he telt her she sounded like a pit pony,” Helen said, as her and Betty went intae spasms ae giggles.

  “Aw, Helen, is that no terrible, us laughing?” Betty asked, as the pair ae them started cackling like a pair ae auld geese again.

  “Aye, Ah know. Auld Geraldine Baker and Bess McKay wur staunin there when Patsy came oot wae that wan, face as straight as a die. Ah thought the four ae us wur gonnae wet oor knickers in the queue, there and then,” Helen said, laughing.

  “Bit, auld Patsy’s right. Her and Mick must’ve paid fur that hoose ten times o’er by noo, yet they’re still hivving tae use an ootside toilet.”

  “Fifty five years they’ve been living in that single end. Patsy said aw her five weans wur born and brought up in that hoose. Y’know, they three auld wans that Ah wis speaking tae, still hiv ootside toilets at their age. This is supposed tae be 1972, so it is,” Helen mused.

  “So, is that it then?”

  “Whit?”

  “Ye’re gonnae campaign fur ootside cludgies tae be shut doon?”

  “Whit Ah’m gonnae dae is talk tae people doon oan the street and in the shoaps...find oot whit pisses them aff aboot The Corporation and then, use whit they say as ma election manifesto. And Ah’m no jist talking aboot the auld yins either. Ah’ve awready spoken wae a bunch ae wummin up at The NAB when Ah wis up there wae Issie yesterday, when she wis signing aff young Joe’s funeral arrangements.”

  “So, whit dae ye need tae talk tae people fur? Ye awready know that The NAB and The Corporation treat people like cattle when anywan is forced tae turn up and ask fur a wee haun fae them.”

  “Because when Ah highlight and start tae publicly challenge aw the crap that’s dished oot tae people, Ah want tae be able tae honestly quote back people’s feelings and experiences and no jist ma ain.”

  “And ye think that’ll get ye elected, dae ye? Dae ye honestly believe anywan gies a toss aboot stuff like that?” Betty asked, reaching fur Helen’s fag packet.

  “Probably no, bit that’s whit’s important tae a lot ae people aboot here, so it is.”

  “Like who?”

  “People like us who don’t vote because everywan knows that the things that matter tae them won’t be listened tae or be changed fur the better as a result ae them voting.”

  “Hmm, Ah’m no sure aboot that wan.”

  “Whit wan?”

  “The reasons why people like us don’t vote. Personally, Ah think it’s because we cannae be arsed and we don’t gie a monkey’s aboot politics…that’s why.”

  “Betty, ye’ve jist confirmed whit Ah’ve been saying, so ye hiv. Fae whit Ah kin understaun, ye’re supposed tae vote fur the wan who says whit ye want tae hear, and who actually delivers oan his promises. Where politics draps back oan its fat lying arse is that maist politicians ur lying toads and they’ll jist say anything tae get elected.”

  “Aye, and?”

  “And whit?”

  “So, whit’s so special aboot getting elected then?”

  “There’s a big building doon in George’s Square, where anywan wae hauf a brain could go places...become somewan...Christ, maybe even dae something tae help somewan occasionally,” Helen retorted, looking across at Betty and bursting oot laughing.

  “Hoi, settle doon, hen. It’s The Corporation we’re talking aboot here.”

  “Aye, Ah know, bit kin ye imagine?”

  “Whit?”

  “Somewan like me, being let loose in a place like that.”

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  The Stalker couldnae believe how blatant Daddy Jackson hid been in his approach tae him. He supposed he should jist view it as some sort ae privilege...a right ae passage...noo that he wis an inspector and aw that, bit he wis still feeling a wee bit uncomfortable efter the carry oan doon at Central earlier. Efter pushing the door ae the boardroom open, aw the voices hid drapped, before tapering intae an embarrassed silence. It wis obvious that the bad smell hid arrived.

  “It’s yersel, Paddy. In ye come, son. We wur jist finishing,” Daddy hid said, as aw the other inspectors stood up and started tae gather up their fag packets, papers and files.

  “Congratulations oan yer unexpected and sudden promotion, Paddy,” Duggie Dougan, his Possil counterpart, hid said stiffly oan the way past.

  “Aye, welcome tae the club, Paddy,” Mickey Sherlock, Serious Crime & Intelligence hid echoed fae across the table.

  “Aye, Ah’ll gie ye a shout fur a cuppa sometime, Paddy. Hiv tae go…Ah’ve goat a young murderer up your way tae book,” Bobby Mack fae the Murder Squad hid announced, avoiding gieing The Stalker eye contact.

  Before The Stalker hid known whit wis happening, the room hid emptied, apart fae himsel, Daddy Jackson and Billy Liar, the chief inspector fae the Saltmarket and Daddy’s right-haun man.

  “So, whit the hell’s gaun oan then, Daddy?” The Stalker hid demanded.

  “Whit dae ye mean, whit’s gaun oan?” Billy hid interjected.

  “Billy, shut the fuck up, Ah’m no talking tae you. Ah don’t answer tae you any mair, remember?” he’d said, tapping his inspector’s badge.

  “Ye’re such a prick, Paddy...dae ye know that?” Billy hid growled, staunin up and picking up his hat, before leaving the room.

  “See whit ye’ve done noo, Paddy? Noo, whit did ye go and say that fur, eh?”

  “Daddy, whit the fuck’s gaun oan, eh? Ah came here tae a briefing meeting and as soon as Ah arrive, Ah’m telt that the sergeants hiv been excluded and the meeting started withoot me ages ago.”

  “Ye wur invited tae a meeting, and ye arrived bang oan time, so ye did.”

  “So, why did everywan piss aff as soon as that shadow ae mine darkened the room then?”

  “Because, that particular briefing meeting hid finished.”

  “Withoot me?”

  “Who telt ye that ye wur invited tae that meeting in the first place, eh? Ah don’t recall putting yer name doon oan the invite list.”

  “Bit, Ah thought...”

  “Aye, ye thought. Look, a wee word ae advice, Paddy. Don’t mess somewan like Billy Liar aboot. Ye might think that since ye’re an inspector, ye’re equal tae everywan else aboot here, bit ye’re no. He’s a lot mair senior than you and always will be...at least as long as Ah’m oan the go aboot here.”

  “Look, Daddy, ma heid’s nipping here. Whit the hell’s gaun oan, eh?”

  “Springburn is excluded fae The Simpson investigation fur the time being.”

  “Excluded?”

  “That’s whit Ah’ve jist said.”

  “Oan whit grounds?”

  “Oan the grounds that there’s a murder squad oan the go in the city that investigates death by foul play and the fact that Tam Simpson wis murdered in Possil. That means they hiv tae involve the local boys in the investigation, if they want tae get it solved.”

  “So, whit aboot Joe McManus then? He wis done-in up in Springburn by the Possil crowd.”

  “Aye, bit that case his been solved, so it his...bar tracking doon Toby Simpson, who his clearly high-tailed it doon south or abroad.”

  “Ah submitted a report, direct tae you, making a connection wae Ton
y Gucci and his associates in Tam Simpson’s murder.”

  “And Ah passed yer report oan through the proper channels, although Ah must say, Paddy, yer connection wis stretching it a bit.”

  “Whit? That fur the past fourteen months, up until Tam Simpson wis shot, him and his brother wur trying tae snuff-oot Gucci’s manky mob? That two days before the shooting, Tony Gucci and Pat McCabe wur clocked driving oot ae Hillend Road, the same road that Tam Simpson hid his wee love nest in? That the morning Tam Simpson wis blasted, alang wae his fancy shag-bag, two night shift workers’ cars wur blagged fae the Sighthill Goods Depot through the night and hiv never been recovered, despite a hunner percent recovery rate ae aw the cars stolen in Springburn o’er the previous twelve months? Ah’d say that a blind man could see the connection there, Daddy,” The Stalker hid retorted.

  “Anyway, as Ah said, yer suppositions ur being looked at, alang wae aw the other accrued evidence. Ah’m sure somewan will be getting back tae ye at some stage. In the meantime, if ye hivnae awready picked up oan it fae the newspapers and the word oan the street, the anticipated beatings ur in full flow up in Possil and Milton. Roy Smith, Derek Begg and that big ugly prick, Les Anderson, hiv aw been admitted tae Stobhill hospital missing various knee caps. Anderson wis also stabbed in the eye, in tae the bargain. They're aw claiming industrial injuries although they’re fooling nowan. Fae Milton, ye’ve goat Alex Hanson, attacked wae baseball bats in his bed yesterday morning and no expected tae pull through and Wee Eck Thomas his been transferred tae The Western Infirmary wae multiple stab wounds and possible brain damage. Somewan no only stabbed the wee eejit repeatedly, bit used that face ae his as a punch bag wae a pair ae knuckledusters. He’s another wan that’ll be lucky tae make it. Christ, the papers ur hivving a bloody field day, so they ur. People aboot here ur scared tae put their heid above the parapet, so Ah widnae get too upset aboot being excluded. Right, whit’s happening oan the Springburn front then?”

  “There’s nothing much, apart fae a seventeen-year-auld who stabbed his brother last night fur gaun oot wearing his good shirt and the usual chaotic scenes ae devastation being inflicted oan the community by aw the wee neds. Ah goat word this morning, jist before Ah left that the shirt blagger croaked it up in Stobhill. That’s probably whit Bobby wis referring tae when he wis leaving.”