A Fine House in Trinity

by Lesley Kelly

  There are a few minutes to spare before my bus leaves and I could use a drink, so I head round to one of the basement bars on York Place. The pub has just had a delivery from the brewery and a large chap is rolling the barrels into a trap door. I hover on the steps for a minute wondering whether to cut my losses and try somewhere else, when I realise that the big man looks slightly familiar. I’m halfway down the stairs before realising that the last time I saw him he was trailing six feet behind Isa Stoddart, holding a pit bull on a leash. It’s Bruce’s sidekick. Apparently not dead.

  I’m trying to back quietly up the stairs when he sees me.

  ‘You!’

  For a big man, he’s quick on his feet and before I can get up the stairs he’s got me by the collar.

  ‘I want a word with you.’

  ‘Aye, no problem, big man, but just let us go for a minute.’ I realise with horror that he’s pulling me toward the trapdoor. ‘Come on now, pal…’

  I’m airborne. The drop isn’t too bad, only about six feet and I land on the sacking that they have in place to cushion the fall for the beer. I barely manage to roll out of the way before the big chap jumps down.

  ‘You owe me!’

  ‘I owe a lot of people, or so I’m told.’ Although I’m not sure exactly what I’m due this chancer.

  ‘I lost my job when Lachie died.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get another one.’ To be honest I’m not sure what the prospects are like in the whole henchmen industry. ‘Anyway, you’ve got a job here.’

  He walks toward me and stands looking down, one foot either side of my legs. ‘This...’ he waves round the room, ‘… is shite. And they took my dog.’

  We look at each other. He leans toward me.

  ‘I lost my job.’

  ‘Aye, you said that.’

  He extends his arms, grabs a handful of my jacket and slowly pulls me toward him. ‘And my dog.’

  I’m beginning to suss that Bruce was the brains of this particular operation. I gently tug at his arm, and to my surprise he lets me go. I stay sitting on the floor; I don’t want to push my luck by standing up.

  I decide I might as well get his side of the story. ‘So, how come you’re not working with Bruce anymore?’

  He looks as if he’s about to start crying. ‘They said I wasn’t needed anymore.’

  They? Bruce, I assume, but who else? ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Bruce and the Spanish laddie.’

  This is new. ‘Who’s the Spanish laddie?’

  ‘The laddie that came over from Spain.’

  ‘Of course.’ I’m beginning to think the pit bull was further up the chain of command than this guy.

  Bruce’s accomplice suddenly sits down on an upturned barrel. ‘I lost my job. You owe me.’

  I take a chance and get to my feet. ‘I’m sorry you lost your job, big man, but I don’t see how it’s my fault.’

  ‘’Cause you killed Mrs Stoddart, and ‘cause of that the laddie from Spain turns up.’ He starts to cry. ‘I miss my dog.’

  Jesus. This is all I need. A sensitive, animal-loving thug who wants to kill me. Well, he can join the queue.

  ‘Here’s what I’m going do – sorry I don’t know your name?’

  ‘Duncan.’ He sniffs.

  ‘Right, Dunc. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll find this Spanish laddie and put in a good word for you. How does that sound?’

  He doesn’t look convinced. ‘Do you think that’ll work?’

  I nod vigorously. ‘Oh aye, absolutely.’

  I’m sidling toward the stepladder and he’s not trying to stop me so I figure I’m free to go.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Dunc.’

  He nods, miserably.

  I scale the ladder, and push open the trapdoor which takes me out behind the bar, much to the surprise of the lassie serving there.

  So, Bruce has been bullshitting me. But just ’cause he isn’t a murderer doesn’t mean that he’s not up to giving me a kicking when his tallybook doesn’t materialise.

  I leg it to the bus station as fast as I can, and my heart doesn’t stop racing until I’ve left Edinburgh far behind.

  ‘See that chap that was looking for me, Wheezy, is there any chance that he was Spanish?’

  There’s a pause at the other end of the line while he thinks about this. ‘Naw, he had a bit of an accent but I’d have said Irish if anything. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m on the train to Newcastle.’

  There’s silence at the other end of the phone and I almost feel bad for lying to him, but I wouldn’t put it past the crafty bastard to come looking for me.

  ‘Are you coming back, Stainsie? We need your help here. Marianne’s relying on you.’

  My stomach lurches at the thought of Marianne. ‘Aye, well.’

  There’s another silence.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Wheeze.’ I’m not even convincing myself.

  ‘Aye, well.’ He hangs up on me.

  My brother and his family live in a flat in the West End of Glasgow. It’s a nice bit of town, and I suppose it suits them location-wise, with him working at the Council, and her at the uni, but still I’m surprised that Col’s gone for a flat. After all the years we spent living in crappy tenements I thought he’d make for the country as soon as he had any money. That’s what I’d do. Nice wee cottage with a garden.

  I left in too much of a hurry to check Col’s address so I’ve had to find his place from memory. The first couple of flats that I try are full of students, then I get some mad old bat who won’t even open her door. Eventually I find a stair door with a ‘Staines-Highfield’ nameplate.

  ‘All right, Colin?’

  He’s looking older than I expected, but then it’s been a good few years since I last saw him, and I guess I’m not aging too well either. He’s cropped his hair to try to cover up the fact that it’s receding at the temples. This gives me a brief moment of pleasure. He might be the one that ended up six foot tall, but I’m the one with a full head of hair.

  From the look on his face, Col isn’t too pleased to see me. His two lassies come running out to see who is at the door. I’m surprised at the age they are; I’d put them down as about ten or twelve now. The living room door is open and I can hear the sound of some kids’ programme on the TV.

  ‘Hello girls.’ I can’t mind either of their names, which isn’t going to go down well with my sister-in-law. ‘Remember me? Your nunkie?’

  They both stare at me. The bigger one pipes up. ‘Who’s that man, Daddy?’

  There’s the briefest of pauses. ‘That’s your Uncle Joe, Catriona.’

  ‘So, Col, are you going invite me in then?’ I’m trying to sound jovial but I can hear my heart echoing in my head. If he doesn’t help me out, I’m sleeping at the station.

  He opens the door a fraction wider and I take that as an invitation.

  ‘Place’s looking nice, Col. You been having work done on it?’

  My attempt at small talk seems to be pissing him off even more. ‘Aye, Jackie’s been dealing with it.’

  ‘Is she in?’

  ‘No, no at the moment.’

  Thank God.

  He points to the kitchen. ‘Come through. Away to your programme, girls.’ With that he ushers his daughters back into the living room and closes the door firmly behind them. I’m sensing that he’s none too delighted at the family reunion.

  Their flat really is lovely, I wasn’t lying. It’s the kind of thing you’d see on a property show. Stripped pine floor boards, pale pastels colours throughout, and just enough kids’ toys littered about to look like the place is lived in. Jackie’s obviously got an eye for the interior design, but I haven’t really got a chance to take the place in properly before I’m shepherded into the kitchen.

  Col starts making us a drink.

  ‘So Col, how’ve you been?’ I slide into a kitchen chair without waiting to be asked.

  Colin puts down the kettle and speaks without turning
round.

  ‘What do you want, Joe – is it money?’

  I feel lousy. ‘Aye. Aye it is. I’m in a bit of bother. I’ll pay you back, obviously, but…’

  Colin’s back sighs.

  ‘Honestly, Col…’

  He turns toward me with a look of fury on his face.

  ‘What kind of fool do you take me for, Joe? Ever since we were bairns you’ve caused me grief – you and that pal Stoddart of yours. Well, after the last time we gave you money…’

  ‘Which I will pay back as soon as I can.’

  He ignores me. ‘After the last time, Jackie and I agreed that we wouldn’t be helping you out no-strings-attached again.’

  I try another tack. ‘Well, if you are a bit short of cash, if you could at least put me up for a couple of nights.’

  He shakes his head and turns back to the kettle. ‘No.’

  I’m getting desperate. ‘Col, you don’t realise quite how much trouble I’m in. If I go back to Leith the now I’m a dead man, and I don’t have any money to go anywhere else.’

  Col shakes his head with a little disbelieving smile on his face. This isn’t boding well for me getting any cash out of him.

  ‘Come on, Col. I’ve got nothing. You’re living here in a bloody paradise, with your lovely home and Jackie and wee Catriona and… eh the other one.’

  Colin’s still smirking. ‘Catriona and who, Joe?’

  He’s got me there. He slams my cup down in front of me but doesn’t sit down, preferring to drink his coffee standing up and leaning against the sink.

  ‘Though I’m not surprised that you don’t remember my daughter’s name. I’d be surprised if you can even remember your own bairns’ names.’

  This is a surprisingly mean comment for my wee brother. I’m almost impressed. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ There’s a pause while he has a sip of his coffee. ‘When was the last time you even had contact with them?’

  I want to tell him to piss off, but I do need the money so I decide to be honest. ‘My lassie sent me a Christmas card last year.’

  Col looks surprised. ‘Really? How did she know where to contact you?’

  ‘She sent it care of the pub.’

  ‘That was clever of her.’

  It was; I was proud of her initiative and ashamed at how well she knew me. ‘Aye – she always was a smart lassie. Got her mother’s brains, fortunately.’

  He almost laughs. ‘Did you write back?’

  ‘Naw.’ I laugh. ‘What was I going to say to her? Hope you are all having a fantastic time out there in Brussels. By the way, is that prick your mother married still running the whole of the European whatsit? Oh, and seeing as you ask, hen, yes I am still the same loser I was when your mother left.’

  He looks at me for a moment and says softly, ‘You’re still her dad.’

  Not much of one.

  Colin finally sits down opposite me. ‘I’m making you one offer, Joe, take it or leave it. There’s a community in France – I’ve a leaflet somewhere.’ He leaps up again and roots about in one of the kitchen drawers. He passes me a leaflet with a lot of happy-clappy types in brightly coloured clothes on the cover. It’s not looking good.

  ‘A ‘therapeutic community’?’

  He’s nodding so hard he almost bounces up and down in the chair. ‘It’s run by the church but you don’t have to be practising to go there. They don’t ram religion down your throat or anything, it’s just a space for you to go and get your head together.’ He pauses for a minute to think of the least judgemental phrasing he can come up with. ‘You know – work out your problems.’

  Ten minutes later I’m outside the house with £500 of Col’s money burning a hole in my pocket, and directions to a hippy commune on the outskirts of Lille. It’s a testament to my wee brother’s naïvety that he gives me the money just on my solemn promise that I will actually get myself on the next Easyjet to France. And it’s a testament to how shite my life is at the moment that I decide that I will actually give the godbotherers a go.

  1986

  Edinburgh was working out just fine. Florrie kept me fed and watered without ever asking for a penny in rent, and while Just Seventeen might have overstated the sexual magnetism of your average trainee chef, I wasn’t doing too badly with the lassies. Oh aye, and the course was all right too.

  Since I’d turned eighteen a world of employment opportunities had opened up to me, and I was now employed as a glass collector in Raiders, one of the vault bars in the centre of town. Edinburgh isn’t the type of place to waste space in its city centre, and when a viaduct was built across the city it made good use of the arches. The South Bridge vaults had been used as workshops and slum housing, before settling on their current recreational use as pubs.

  I was interviewed for the post by the Manager, Rob, an amiable Geordie in his early twenties.

  ‘So, have you worked in a bar before?’

  Obviously I hadn’t, but I’d been well coached by the Careers Guidance Officer in the Student Services Office at college. ‘Not as such, but I have a range of transferable skills that I have learned both through my college course and through my personal life,’ I quoted from memory.

  ‘Yeah? Like what?’ Rob was looking amused at this.

  I list them on my fingers. ‘Communication skills, customer relations, catering.’

  ‘And in your personal life?’ He was still looking entertained, but unfortunately I hadn’t really prepared for this one. I improvised.

  ‘Well, I’ve drunk in a number of pubs.’

  Rob burst out laughing. ‘OK – you can start on Friday as a potman and we’ll see where your transferable skills take us.’

  As I was leaving the pub he shouted after me, ‘Watch out for ghosts on the way home!’

  I was wondering what he meant by that when I walked straight into a six-foot-tall apparition, with a pure white face, a top hat, and a long black cloak. The other use of the Edinburgh vaults – haunted walks for tourists.

  After my birthday I took a good look at my life. I was enjoying the catering course, and I couldn’t say I was too upset at not being in my dad’s good books. Life should have been good. Yet there was a little voice nagging me that I had unresolved business here. I needed to find out what had happened to my ma.

  Florrie, while usually willing to give opinions on every topic under the sun, was tight-lipped on this one. I’d waited for what I thought was a suitable time to introduce the subject. It was Sunday evening and I’d made us a full three-course meal using all my new-found culinary skills as an attempt to soften her up.

  She finished her French apple tart and put down her fork with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘I don’t know what they’re teaching you at that college Joseph, but they’re doing something right. That was smashing.’

  I picked up her plate and put it on top of mine. ‘Thanks very much. It’s the least I could do, know, with you letting me stay here and everything.’

  She took the plates back off me and stood up to take them through to the kitchen. ‘You’re very welcome, you know that.’

  I followed her through. ‘I’m really enjoying living in Edinburgh again, but…’

  She took the bait. ‘But what, son?’

  I looked as troubled as possible. ‘But I keep wondering if I’m going to bump into my ma…’

  ‘Oh Joseph.’ She put the plates into the sink.

  ‘… is she still living in Edinburgh?’

  Florrie didn’t say anything. Her lips had formed into a tight, straight, line.

  ‘Florrie, if you know anything please tell me.’

  She shook her head and reached for the washing up liquid. ‘I’m in enough trouble with your father for inviting you to stay here. I’m not getting involved.’

  ‘But Florrie…’ I could see my one chance slipping away.

  ‘I mean it, Joseph, don’t ask me about your mother. And if you’ve any sense you’ll leave the past well enough alone.’

&nbs
p; She wouldn’t be drawn any further on the subject, which is maybe not that surprising, considering her relationship with her own family. Perhaps she didn’t know anything, or didn’t want to see me getting hurt, but either way she wasn’t giving me any assistance in tracking down my ma.

  Without Florrie’s help I wasn’t quite sure where to start looking. A ring round the half a dozen Staines in the Edinburgh phone book didn’t reap any rewards. I hadn’t any alternative but to look up Ma’s side of the family, and I wasn’t sure what reaction I would get.

  I started with Ma’s brother, Uncle John. A check through the Stevensons listed in the phone book showed a J Stevenson living in the bit of town where I remembered visiting Ma’s family. I decided to visit in person rather than risk a phone being slammed down on me.

  Uncle John lived in a council scheme on the other side of Edinburgh. It looked pretty much as I remembered it, though he was obviously having some work done on it because the front door had been taken off its hinges and was lying in the front garden. I took a deep breath and pushed the bell. A lassie appears in the frame wearing skin-tight jeans and a perm that put about three inches on her height. It took me a minute to recognise her.

  ‘Kirsten?’

  She looked me up and down. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It’s me – your cousin Joe. Joseph Staines.’

  She looked a bit confused which wasn’t surprising seeing as she was probably about eight last time she met me. ‘Dad!’ she shouted back into the house.

  Uncle John appeared. He was stripped to the waist and was carrying a drill. I hoped he was going to be pleased to see me.

  ‘Uncle John – it’s me, Joe. Doreen’s laddie.’

  His face rippled. He put down the drill and stepped toward me. For a moment I thought he was going to hug me but he seemed to change his mind at the last minute and held out his hand instead. ‘How are you doing, son?’