by Pat Young
‘Well, I think you look fantastic, but that’s not why I called. Officially, I’m reminding you that your school handbook is due for review. Please send the new version to Mr Smeaton by the tenth of January.’
‘Great. Presumably he expects us all to work on them in the Christmas holidays?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Carole, sounding as if she was stifling a giggle.
‘And the unofficial reason for this call?’
‘While he’s out, I thought I’d take the chance to tell you. I’ve been making some subtle enquiries. You know that question you asked me? You were right. His mother is in Briargrove, the place by the cemetery.
After a hastily prepared evening meal, Sheila surveyed the contents of her wardrobe.
Wondering what Liz would have made of her new style, she fingered one garment then another. Suddenly, on a whim, she grabbed two armfuls and dumped them, hangers and all, on the floor. ‘You are going out,’ she said, giving a kick to a beige anorak that wouldn’t have looked out of place on one of the old ladies in Briargrove.
She stood for a moment, staring at the jacket then picked it up, gave it a dust down with her hand and replaced it in the wardrobe. She retrieved a pleated skirt in a colour that could best be described as dog’s diarrhoea and hung it up too. A cream blouse with a bow that tied at the neck was also salvaged before Sheila closed the wardrobe door and got dressed in tight jeans and a white shirt. She added her new, soft leather biker-jacket and gave her reflection a questioning look. Too young for her? Unsuitable for December? Well, so what. She was fed-up with wearing suitable, sensible clothes all the time. The panto cast were in for a surprise.
When she got to St Gerard’s Church Hall, Joe was dropping off a bunch of kids in a minibus. He did a three-point turn in the car park and lowered the driver’s window as he passed. With a salute he said, ‘Hiya, Boss. You’re looking good. I’m heading over to the Community Centre now to pick up Margrit and the other ladies. Apparently the costumes are ready for the chorus kids to try on tonight and there are black bags galore. I’ll go and get them and then I’ll give you a hand here.’
‘That’s marvellous, Joe. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘No need, but are you sure it’s okay with St Gerard’s for us to leave stuff in the hall?’
‘Oh yes, Father Rafferty has cleared all that. He knows we’re using the Community Centre without official permission.’
The rehearsal was underway when Joe came into the hall, laden with black plastic bags but minus Margrit and her cronies. When he’d dumped the costumes he came and hovered behind Sheila till Jason got to the end of his monologue.
‘Can I talk to you, Sheila? It’s important.’
Sheila gave him a worried look then turned to the stage where Jason was preparing to sing and said, ‘Well done, everybody. Take five.’
She said to Joe, ‘What’s up?’
Joe handed her a plastic box and said, ‘Margrit sent her biscuits as usual, but she and the ladies won’t be coming.’
Sheila groaned and said, ‘What now? Is there a fortune teller on at the pub or have they all fallen out?’
‘No, much worse than that. Bobby the Caretaker has been called in to HQ and disciplined for letting us use the community centre.’
When Sheila swore, Joe said, ‘There’s worse to come. Bobby was told to look for another job asap as the hall will be shut within the next financial year. The women are taking action because they’ve had enough of being “shafted” by the council.’
‘So what are they doing?’
‘They’re staging a sit-in. Occupying the hall till further notice.’
‘This is all I need. Smeaton will blame me for this when he hears.’
‘And it won’t be long till that happens. They’re expecting The Record to turn up at any minute.’
***
CHAPTER 32
They’d chosen a pub on Byres Road for tonight’s meeting. It had been done up in what Marty would have called ‘minimalist’ style since she’d last been in, which clearly appealed to the student crowd. Marty wondered where students got the money for drink as Joe placed her G&T on the table and sat down.
‘Hello there,’ Joe said, not to her, but to someone standing behind her left shoulder.
Marty turned. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t see you.’
An elderly lady, stooped over a large handbag, said, ‘Excuse me interrupting, dear. Could you help me please?’
Joe rose to his feet.
‘If we can,’ said Marty.
‘Is this the book club?’
‘Em,’ Marty hesitated, unsure how to reply.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Without waiting for an answer, the woman sat down on a stool at the end of the table and delved into her huge bag, while Marty mimed helplessness and mouthed, ‘What do I do?’
She could see Joe was trying hard not to laugh.
The old woman took out a spectacle case and put on a pair of half-moon glasses over which she peered at Marty. ‘What do you read, dear? I hope it’s crime.’
Joe leaned forward and said, in his most charming voice, ‘Unfortunately, you couldn’t have picked a worse night to join us. You see, we’re disbanding after tonight.’
‘Surely not!’ The woman looked so disappointed that Marty found herself feeling sorry for her.
‘I hope you find another book club to join and I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
As the elderly woman heaved herself off the stool and onto her thick-stockinged legs, Joe took her elbow to steady her. She rewarded him with a sweet smile.
‘Just before I go,’ she said, ‘do you mind if I ask a wee quick question?’
‘Not at all,’ said Marty.
‘I was just wondering if by any chance you might know my identical twin sister, Sheila Scott?’
‘What the …? said Joe.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Violet McNish, a friend of Ruby Smeaton.’
Marty looked Sheila up and down. ‘Unbelievable,’ she said. ‘You look old enough to be my mother. In fact, you look like my mother. But why?’
‘I needed to find out if my disguise was convincing.’
‘It certainly convinced me,’ said Joe.
‘Me too,’ said Marty, ‘but, I have to ask, what are you up to?’
Sheila touched Joe’s arm and said in her wee, old lady voice, ‘I’ll explain everything in a moment, but first, young man, I’ll have a small sherry, if you don’t mind.’’
‘Violet’ stayed in character, chatting away to Marty until Joe came back with her drink. Then she explained about the chance visit she’d made to Briargrove and how she’d come across Ruby Smeaton.
Joe couldn’t keep his face straight. ‘Sorry, Sheila, I can’t take you seriously dressed like that. You even sound like an ancient aunt of mine.’
Marty said, ‘Are you sure she’s Smeaton’s mother, this old lady?
‘Definitely. I got Carole to check. There’s absolutely no doubt.’
Joe and Marty leaned in close, notepads, pens and drinks forgotten, while Sheila outlined her plan.
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Joe, suddenly serious, ‘you’re going to befriend this old woman and use her to get Smeaton.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Sheila, in her Violet voice. She patted the back of his hand and said, ‘Could you run along, like a nice young man, and buy me another sherry? They’re awfully wee glasses in here.’
‘You’re certainly credible. I’ll give you that.’
Marty leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘Why should she trust you, this Ruby Smeaton? And more importantly, why the hell would she betray her son?’
‘Because I suspect she hates him as much as we do.’
Sheila took a sip of the sherry Joe handed her and said, ‘Right guys, tell me if you think this will work.’
When she had finished, Joe blew out a low whistle. ‘Have you ever conside
red a life in crime, Sheila?’
Marty said, ‘Sounds pretty watertight to me, except for one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What if his old mother’s demented, like so many folk in these care homes? Are you sure you can rely on her to tell you when Smeaton’s going to be visiting? Or not to shop us to the man himself?’
‘I don’t think she’s demented.’
‘You don’t think?’ said Joe.
‘Well, that’s what yours truly, Violet McNish, intends to find out during her regular do-gooder visits to Briargrove House, starting on Sunday. Watch this space.’
‘Go for it,’ said Marty. ‘I think it’s brilliant.’
‘I’m not convinced,’ said Joe. ‘On another matter - any news on the Bankside sit-in?’
‘Well,’ said Sheila’s, her voice back to normal and sounding very grave, ‘I’ve been ordered to stay away, or I’ll be in breach of my contract as a council employee and could lose my job.’
‘Who ordered you?’
Sheila rolled her eyes. ‘Take a guess.’
***
CHAPTER 33
Sheila was on her way to the community centre, fresh from a roasting at HQ. Her face was on fire, as if she’d lain too long on a sunbed.
Sheila had expected to have to face Smeaton, of course, with maybe Carole there to take notes. She hadn’t been prepared for the Spanish Inquisition. Smeaton had sat centre stage with the head of finance on one side and the torn-faced Councillor Cooper on the other. The sit-in at Bankside had been headline story on the local television news and The Record had run an item. It was made clear to Sheila that the council was embarrassed by being the focus of such media attention. It was also made clear she was being held responsible for creating the problem. It was now her responsibility to make it go away.
‘We don’t want this to become another Govanhill Baths situation, do we, Sheila?’ said Councillor Cooper, her pudding-like features contorting into something resembling a smile. Sheila found her scarier than Smeaton.
The sit-in at Govanhill had lasted for months when Glasgow City Council had tried to close the baths. It had ended in eviction and scuffles with police, all televised. Of course Sheila didn’t want that. Nor did she want the responsibility that had been thrust upon her. ‘Get it sorted,’ Smeaton had said, with more than a hint of menace in his voice. ‘You started all this, you put them up to it, now get it stopped.’
‘All they want is the chance to use premises that belong to the community.’
‘I think you’ll find the premises belong to us,’ said Cooper. ‘That is, to Logiemuir Council.’
Oops. Wee Freudian slip, there, thought Sheila.
‘I get that,’ she said, nodding and trying hard to sound cooperative. ‘But surely you can see that all we want is to stage a show that will bring the community together. The rehearsals have already got people working with folk they would normally fight in the street. It’s incredible.’
‘Nobody is stopping them using the premises. All they have to do is apply for a let. They need to pay the council to use premises that belong to the council.’
‘But that’s the point. They don’t have the money. And I see it as my duty to facilitate an activity which is such a force for good.’
‘May I remind you, Miss Scott, that your duty is, first and foremost, to act as an agent of this council.’
‘The same council that pays your wages, don’t forget.’ Cooper was practically vibrating in her chair, desperate, it seemed, to reprimand. ‘You should not, whatever the circumstances, be condoning any activity that contravenes council rules and regulations.’
‘Surely improving lives should be our priority.’
‘Keeping yourself in a job should be your priority,’ said Smeaton. Any more stunts like this and you’ll be using your thespian skills to busk in Buchanan Street.’ Having delivered his threat, Smeaton sat back in his enormous chair, smug and self-satisfied. Sheila wanted to slap him.
Councillor Cooper had twisted her face into a rigor mortis smile. ‘Wait a minute, Tommy. I’ve just had a thought. We might be missing an opportunity here for the council to be seen in a very favourable light. If we manage this cleverly.’
She swivelled her chair to face the money man, who had remained silent so far. ‘John,’ she simpered, ‘do you think we can afford to give them free use of the hall till they put on their pantomime?’
Sheila held her breath.
The grey-faced man took a calculator from his inside pocket and tapped a few keys. ‘It would cost us funds we can ill-afford to lose, but we could manage a few weeks, I suppose. But it has to be a one-off.’
‘That’s all we need,’ said Sheila, wanting to kiss the accountant.
Cooper made her move. ‘Now, Miss Scott, listen very carefully. The council will require tickets for the front rows, complimentary, of course. Plus, a press photo opportunity with some members of the cast, the more disadvantaged-looking the better. Also, you will need to set aside a suitable space for hospitality, so we have somewhere pleasant to spend the interval, with drinks and nibbles. Will you be able to arrange all of that, if we agree to let you continue to use the hall?’
The word ‘thank you’ got stuck in Sheila’s throat, but thinking of Jason, Margrit and the others, she had managed to smile and say, ‘Certainly.’
And now she was here to tell them the good news. She pulled on to the pot-holed square of tarmac that served as a car park and looked at the community centre. It was like a scene out of Les Misérables. A dirty duvet cover had been ripped open to make a banner that proclaimed, ‘Okupied by Bankies’. Street urchins swarmed around the doors which were guarded by two bears with shaven heads and tattoos. One barred Sheila’s path with an arm like a log. ‘You fae the council, doll?’
‘No, not strictly speaking.’ Sheila heard her words echoed by a mocking falsetto voice behind her.
Somebody in the little crowd by the door shouted, ‘We shall not be moved, so we’ll no. No till yous basturts gie us back our community centre.’
Jason appeared at her side, carrying plastic bags of provisions. ‘Goadsake! This is Sheila. Let her in.’
Behind him was Margrit, laden with home baking in see-thru containers. ‘You’re right on time for your tea, Sheila. Come on in, hen.’
The media seemed to have left, apart from a one-man news team, a boy with a notebook in his hand and a camera round his neck. He looked frozen.
Sheila gestured to him to come over. ‘Fancy a cup of tea and an exclusive?’
He nodded as if she’d asked him did he want a corner office at the Wall Street Journal.
‘Get your camera ready. It’s your lucky night.’
Turning back to Jason she said, ‘Could you get everybody out here, please, Jason? I’ve got some good news to share.’
When she announced they were to have free use of the centre till they had staged their panto, a roar went up that would have done justice to Hampden Park. People grabbed one another and jumped up and down. There were fist-pumps and hugs and Jason, through his tears, gave a passable impersonation of Freddie Mercury singing ‘The Show Must Go On.’
Before Sheila could object, the two bears had hoisted her aloft. She clung on for dear life and tried not to scream. When they finally put her down, she called for cast members to come and stand beside her while the photographer/reporter organised the crowd around them.
Then she gave the reporter a statement, being sure to cast the council in the role of the cavalry. She finished by saying, ‘Will you please make sure that, whatever else you put in the article, you print, in bold, the date, time and cost of the tickets? This might get us a few more bums on seats on the night, who knows?’
‘I guess the venue will be self-explanatory?’ said the young reporter with a grin. ‘Oh man, am I glad I decided to stick around. To be honest, I was hoping for a riot of some kind, but it’s nicer to be able to report good news for a change. Good luck with the panto. Will you
keep me a seat at the dress rehearsal and I’ll come and do you some photos?’
‘With pleasure. Thanks a lot. Want a cup of something hot before you go?’
‘No way. I’m going to get this filed, while it’s still an exclusive.’
Sheila watched him stick on a crash helmet and jump-mount an ancient scooter. She turned to Jason. ‘Right, Il Divo,’ she said, ‘our paparazzo has gone. You can stop posing now.’
***
CHAPTER 34
Ruby found the afternoons the worst. No wonder folk nodded off. Wheelchairs, parked in a circle like a wagon train. Everybody sleeping or lost in their own wee world. They were the lucky ones, them that were gaga. They didn’t have to listen to that telly.
The giant screen blared non-stop rubbish. Nothing but auction rooms, house-hunting, cookery. Imagine. To folk in a place like this?
They’d all been forced to part with everything they held dear. Every single stick of furniture. Left with nothing but a handful of treasured possessions. A few measly ornaments to sit on a shelf in their poky wee bedrooms.
These folk would never shut their own front door again. Never enjoy the privacy of their own home. Forced to eat whatever pap was put in front of them. If they wanted to stay alive.
What about human rights? Criminals up the road in the jail had a better life than her. At least they’d get out some day.
Ruby would never forgive Tommy for putting her in here. Not if she lived to be a hundred. And she hoped to God she didn’t. She hoped her release would come long before that. She was ready to meet her maker. She wanted to be reunited with them she’d lost.
Jinty was speaking, but Ruby couldn’t hear a thing for that damned television.
‘Hang on a minute, Jinty,’ she said, heaving herself out of her chair, ‘till I turn this thing down.’
Ruby picked up the remote. Telly off.
‘There, Lily,’ she said to old Mrs Benton, ‘that’s better, isn’t it?’ Ruby popped the remote under the old dear’s skirt. No one batted an eyelid. That should keep things quiet for a while. At least till toilet time.
