by Lesley Kelly
His nephew sounds quite a turn. ‘That was very enterprising of him.’
‘Naw the money-grabbing wee bastard thinks maybe a previous owner’s got their valuables buried there, and him and his pal can pocket them.’ He shakes his head. ‘Tight-fisted wee toad. £٤٠ he charged me for that wallpapering, and me family and all. Still, the wee prick gets his comeuppance when they unscrew the trapdoor and Lewis sticks his bonce down the hole. Just about brains himself on the skeleton that was buried there.’
We all laugh. I’ve never met Lewis but it sounds like he had it coming.
‘So he starts screaming like a lassie which brings the gaffer and all the other workies up the stairs, and the gaffer has to get the Polis involved, so that’s Lewis been sat on his arse for the past three days, waiting to get the all clear to start work again.’
We all contemplate our drinks for a minute.
‘So, was it a body from ye olden days do you think?’ I ask.
Jimmy shakes his head. ‘Naw, I don’t think so. The papers are talking a load of shite about this being some hiding place from the old days. I’m telling you that window seat was thirty year old, tops. And another thing: Lewis said the skeleton, well the body anyway, had had its hands tied behind its back with a length of flex, so it can’t be that old.’
‘So, are the Polis charging the owner of the house for murder?’
He shakes his head again. ‘No – the last owner of the house was some old wife, and Lewis said that she was only living in a couple of rooms on the ground floor. He said the top floors of the house were in a terrible state, birds nesting there and that kind of shit.’
‘Interesting,’ I say.
Wheezy nods. ‘Interesting.’
1980-1982
When he was twelve, Colin found God. I don’t think that it was directly related to my mother’s death. Too many things had happened in between her death and God’s appearance on the scene. Not least, her resurrection.
When my father and grandparents were doing their best to erase Ma from the scene, you think it would have occurred to one of the daft well-meaning bastards, that there was just the teeniest, tiniest, possibility that one day Col and I would be walking home from school, and run slap-bang into the ghost of our dead mammy, half-cut and weeping about how much she’s missing us. Do you not think?
When Ma inevitably did turn up at the school gates we had a lot of questions for her. Actually, we had one question really, along the lines of, ‘How come you’re not dead?’ But she was too drunk to answer anything, so she just hugged us to her and kept saying, ‘My babies, my babies,’ which was kind of nice.
My father must have thought his worst nightmare had come true when he saw the three of us sitting in the kitchen. We had been pouring coffee into my mother all afternoon in the hope that she’d sober up enough to tell us what the hell was going on, but all we had managed to do was move her on to a tearful phase, and we both knew not to mess with her when she was like that. Tears generally turned into throwing things.
So, when poor old Dad walked in, she’s sat there in floods, rocking back and forth and still chanting, ‘my babies, my babies,’ the novelty of which had worn off by now. He didn’t say anything.
‘Ma’s not dead,’ said Colin helpfully.
‘So it would appear,’ said Dad, and I couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t look quite as surprised as we did when we first saw her. He got a fiver out of his wallet and handed it to me. ‘Away to the shops you two, and get something for the tea.’
‘Can we get an arctic roll to celebrate?’
‘Aye, aye, whatever you want, son,’ said my dad, shooing us out the door.
‘Who do you think they buried then?’ Col’s brow was creased as he tried to work this out.
‘I dunno. I suppose the hospital gave them the wrong body.’ Colin nodded away, but I wasn’t convinced. ‘Col, you take the money and I’ll meet you at the shop. I just want to check something with Dad.’ And I took off before Col could complain that he’s not supposed to cross Leith Walk on his own.
When I got back to the flat, I didn’t go in, but jumped over the wall into the back green. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled along to the kitchen window. I waited a minute or two before cautiously popping my head up and looking in. Dad was making Ma a cup of coffee; she must have been pissing pure caffeine by now. If I stayed really still, I could hear what they were saying. At least I could hear what Dad was saying, ’cause he was shouting, but I couldn’t hear my mother’s responses.
‘We had an arrangement.’ My father put an emphasis on the word ‘arrangement’. ‘It was all agreed, Doreen. And what about the money I gave you?’
I saw Ma’s lips move.
‘What do you mean he’s spent it? And where is he now?’
Ma covered her face with her hands.
‘He’s left you? After all this? After all that the pair of you put the boys through? Well, you’re not coming back.’
Ma was shaking and rocking back and forth again.
‘I don’t care. You’re not coming back.’
By the time I caught up with Col, who was standing nervously at the side of Leith Walk, did the shopping, and got home, Ma had gone. Dad wasn’t answering any questions on the subject, so we ate our celebratory meal in silence. We didn’t even put the telly on.
We never talked about my mother again. From time to time I tried to raise the issue with Dad but he just got angry. Not just a wee bit annoyed either; he got screamingly, go-to-your-room angry. As a tactic for avoiding discussion this worked well. Col always started to cry, and if I’m honest, talking about my Ma tended to bring tears to my eyes too, and it was difficult to carry on an argument in that state. I made up my mind that as soon as I was old enough I was going to leave home and look for her. As it turned out Colin was the only one who ever saw her again, and what she did to him then was unforgivable.
Colin’s conversion to religion came as a surprise to my father and me; our attitude to religion was semi-detached at best. Back in the 1940s Grandad Joe had re-found his religion, mainly to annoy the father of Miss Ailsa Morrison, a dour man who could barely contain his misery at gaining a Polish son-in-law, with or without an anglicised name. As soon as Joe realised that nothing would annoy Mr Morrison more than his daughter having active links to the Catholic Church, he suddenly felt nostalgic for the religion of his youth. He raised the issue with his wife.
‘I’m worried that the children are not being brought up in the church.’
Mrs Ailsa Staines (née Morrison) was a little surprised by this. ‘But they come to the church with me, Joe. They go to the Sunday School.’
‘Is not proper religion.’
Ailsa was getting more confused by the minute. ‘Are you saying that you want them to have a Catholic upbringing? I thought you had no time for the Catholic church?’
‘I the last of my family, and my children not honouring their heritage.’ This was Joe’s trump card: his ‘last of the family’ line was used to get his own way on many different issues relating to child-rearing. Ailsa generally got misty-eyed at the thought of Joe’s losses, and gave in.
This time, though, Joe had just brought a whole heap of trouble on himself. Ailsa, being a dutiful wife (and a little bit gullible where Joe was concerned) embraced Catholicism, and took to it with the zeal of a convert, thus ensuring that the two following generations had all the benefits of a full Catholic education, and that Joe never again got a long lie on a Sunday morning. I freely admit most of the educational benefits were lost on me but Col must have been paying some attention.
When Col turned twelve we were living in East Kilbride. East Kilbride had the distinction of being the first Scottish New Town, and was famed for having nearly as many roundabouts as inhabitants. Neither point greatly impressed Col or me, but then we were getting increasingly hard to impress, as this was the fourth town we’d lived in.
Our wandering had started two years earlier, shortly after my
mother’s reappearance. The first we knew of it was my father interrupting our post-school TV viewing to tell us that he’d got a new job.
‘Oh aye,’ I said, not moving my eyes from the telly.
‘Aye,’ said my dad, ‘it’s in Rosyth.’
‘Rosyth? Where’s that?’
‘In Fife.’
Suddenly Dad had my undivided attention. Col remained oblivious to where the conversation was going, concentrating instead on Johnny Ball, thinking of a number.
‘Fife, Dad? That’s a long drive every day.’
‘Aye, well, I’ll not be driving because we’ll be moving there.’
This was big news. I did a few quick calculations in my head. Downside, leaving the only home we’d ever known, moving away from Grandad and Florrie, having to go to a new school. On the upside, waving goodbye, hopefully forever, to Lachlan Stoddart. Although I would miss the Stoddarts’ house.
Col wasn’t taking it so well.
‘Moving? What about Grandad and Florrie? And the school? And my pals?’
Dad shifted from foot to foot. ‘You’ll make new pals.’
It was no use, though. Col burst into tears and couldn’t be consoled.
Lachie didn’t show much emotion when I said I was leaving. For some reason I was finding it difficult to choose a moment to tell him. I was aware that I was Lachie’s only pal, and considering the way he’d treated most of the other laddies in the class I didn’t hold out much hope of him making new friends. So I kept the news to myself for as long as possible, and we were only a week away from moving when I raised the subject.
‘We’re moving house, Lachie. Dad, Col and I are all moving to Rosyth.’
I didn’t know what I expected like, not tears or anything, but he just blinked a few times and said, ‘Remember to give me back my Star Wars game before you go.’
I didn’t.
I wasn’t entirely sure what prompted my dad to move. Looking back, he might have been worried about Ma coming back and trying to exercise custody rights, or maybe he’d finally decided to get me away from the influence of the Stoddarts. Whatever the reason was it definitely wasn’t a career move. Dad gave up a well-paid job in the Parks Department of the Council to take on some of the shittiest factory work going. The early 1980s weren’t exactly boom years for employment so he took what work he could get. This was often on short-term contracts; we were only in Rosyth a few months before we moved on to Port Glasgow, where we lasted the best part of a year. Six months in Paisley, and then our final move to East Kilbride.
To my surprise, given that I’d lived my whole life in one flat in Leith, I found that I didn’t mind the moving from place to place. The first few days at a new school were always hard, and I can’t say that I made loads of friends, but on balance I still had more pals than when Lachie was running my life for me. Oh, I missed Grandad and Florrie, I even missed Leith some of the time, but every time my father got the suitcases out and said, ‘We’re moving on, lads,’ there was some spark of excitement in my stomach that I couldn’t ignore.
Colin, on the other hand, hated the travelling. He was a shy kid, and the constant uprooting wasn’t doing him any good. By the time we got to East Kilbride I’m pretty sure he had been beaten up in three different schools. He was probably bullied at school in East Kilbride as well, but I wasn’t quite sure what was going on in his head, and to be honest, I didn’t ask him. You’d think that being thrust into each other’s company would have brought us closer together, that as his big brother I could have provided some stability in his life. Unfortunately, shortly before Col discovered God, I discovered girls, and I was far more interested in what I could get Linda McFarlane to do in the hour between us leaving school and her ma getting home from work, than any crisis my wee brother might be having.
So, the first time I realised that there was anything afoot was when I wakened one Sunday morning to find that his bed was empty. Not that surprising perhaps, but like I’ve said, Col wasn’t what you would call an early bird. I had a hunt round the rest of the flat, which didn’t take long, then wakened my dad, who slept on the couch in the living room.
‘Col’s gone missing.’
‘What?’ said Dad, opening only one eye. None of the Staineses were really morning people, if I’m honest.
‘Col isn’t in the flat.’
‘Col’s not in the flat? Then where is he?’
I should have made the man a cup of coffee before starting on this. ‘I don’t know Dad, that’s why I’m wakening you.’
Both of his eyes were open now and he was looking worried. He flung off his covers and swung his legs to the floor. He was wearing only boxer shorts and I turned my head away in case I accidentally got a flash of his balls.
‘He’s maybe just gone to the shop,’ said my dad doubtfully. ‘We’ll give him five minutes. Stick the kettle on son.’
We drank a cup of coffee in silence. Dad looked at his watch.
‘He should have been back by now. If he’s not at the shops, where do you think he’s gone?’
I was starting to feel both panicky and guilty. I had no idea where my wee brother would have gone.
‘C’mon, Joseph, you must have some ideas.’ Dad’s voice was raised, and I was feeling a bit aggrieved because it wasn’t my fault that Col was missing. ‘Think, Joe.’
‘I am thinking Dad, but I don’t know where Col would have gone. Maybe he’s gone to visit Grandad and Florrie?’
‘Grandad and Florrie? What would he do that for?’
I was getting really pissed off with his tone. ‘’Cause he doesn’t like being moved about the country every five minutes perhaps?’
Dad looked furious. I know with the benefit of hindsight and two bairns of my own, that the fury was due to him being petrified, but at the time all I was thinking was that if Dad laid a finger on me I was out of there for good. Just then we heard the door open and Col walked in.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ we said, almost, but not quite, in unison.
Col looked surprised. ‘I’ve been to Mass. It’s Easter Sunday.’
‘Easter Sunday?’ said Dad, and collapsed back onto the couch.
Now I’m no mind-reader, but I’d hazard a guess that there were a number of competing thoughts going through my dad’s head, including various concerns that he hadn’t been giving his sons the attention they required, was failing to provide either spiritual or moral guidance, and most pressingly, there wasn’t a single chocolate egg in the house.
He looked at us both. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes, lads.’
Thursday
‘I’ll say this for you Stainsie, I’m certainly eating better these days.’ Father Paul pushes away his empty plate. ‘That was the best breakfast I’ve had in about twenty years.’
I pick up his dish and put it in the pan of soapy water in the sink. ‘I’m a qualified chef.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Really? I never realised you had a trade.’
‘Oh aye – I was all round the world on cruise ships doing the catering. I’m an expert on mass catering.’
‘Are you?’ he says, and I realise I’ve made a tactical error. He’ll have me cooking the old folks’ weekly lunch for the rest of my life if I’m not careful. He’s obviously filed the information away for future use though, because all he says is, ‘Sounds an interesting life.’
A great life if you want to lose your family and drink yourself half to death, I think, but all I say is, ‘You get to see the world, certainly.’
‘You must have some tales to tell.’
People always do this. They think that life on board a cruise ship must have been one long riot. And, in fairness, it was for about the first year or so: hard work, but plenty of lassies and a staff bar so cheap you could get falling-down drunk and still have change from a fiver. Which was the problem. By my last year at sea I was working from 4 am to 9 am, then again from 4 pm until 10 pm, then going on drinking until the early hours. I was getting so little sle
ep I started hallucinating that the breakfast sausages were talking to me, which was around about the time the liner and I parted company.
Father Paul’s still looking expectantly at me.
‘Less stories than you’d think, Father, when you’re working an eighty-hour week.’
He looks sympathetic. ‘Doesn’t leave much time for a social life.’
I wouldn’t say that. ‘I spent most of my free time in the bar.’
He stares at the table for a minute then looks up at me. ‘Not a good thing, Stainsie.’
‘Aye.’ I’m pissed off at being lectured by a teetotal priest and it must have shown in my face. ‘Not that you’d know from first-hand experience.’
He’s got an expression on his face that I can’t quite fathom. ‘I don’t drink these days, Staines.’
I nod. I’ve never seen him with a drink in his hand. ‘I know.’
‘I can’t drink, Staines.’ He stares at the table. ‘I was a heavy drinker for years.’
This is all news to me. ‘What made you stop?’
He smiles. ‘God, I’m afraid to say, Stainsie.’ He looks almost embarrassed. ‘I know you’re not a believer.’
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly…’
He shushes me with his hands. ‘I know you’re not a believer, Stainsie, but it’s true. God made me stop, but it’s my own willpower that keeps me from going back to the drink every single day.’
I pick up his coffee mug and land it in the sink next to his plate. ‘Aye, well, that’s a problem because there may or may not be a God, but I’m pretty damn sure that my willpower doesn’t exist.’
He laughs. ‘Are you going to go back to the cruise ships?’
