A not-proven verdict delivered, there was no such ambiguous uncertainty about the couple’s future. They were engaged following a festive night out dancing, two months after meeting, and they married in Elizabeth’s local church in Pollok.
The only negative remnant of their big day was Archie’s new name for her: Betty Fury. She displayed that fury on the day, and often in their ten years of marriage, especially when Archie suggested going for a drink with Geordie. Glaswegian men never ever went out for just one drink. It could be a stopover lasting several shifts. Bet would also disappear for days at a time following what seemed the most inconsequential of arguments with Archie. But his drinking bouts weren’t the real problem. He should’ve seen the signs. She couldn’t conceive, and it tortured her.
By the late sixties Bet had calmed down considerably. Beyond the absence of children, there was nothing remarkable about them. And then, one dark, wet, unremarkable afternoon in December 1971, Archie’s world fell apart.
‘What’s wrong wi’ you? You’re like an auld jakey wi’ aw that coughin’. Away an’ get some water, for Christ’s sake!’ Archie wasn’t normally this irritable with Bet, but she’d been keeping him up at night for over a fortnight with her rhythmic rasping.
She’d been moaning about feeling tired and lackadaisical, but everybody did that after the clocks went back. He had his own complaints. He had terrible toothache. He was keeping that close to his chest for now in case she coerced him into a traumatic visit to a dentist.
‘Aye. Aw’right … ah hear ye.’ Bet cleared her throat and got up to go into the kitchen. She stumbled.
‘Jesus, are you steamin’? It’s a bit early tae be tannin’ the Advocaat, is it no’?’
It was intended as a joke. But Archie caught the look on his wife’s face and he immediately knew something more serious than a chesty cough was at work.
‘What? Bet, what is it, hen?’
‘Ah…’ She sobbed. ‘Ah’ve been coughin’ up blood…’
Archie knocked over his tea. ‘Christ, Bet … for how long?’
She hesitated. She sniffled. Wet-faced, she looked totally vulnerable. ‘About a fortnight. Three weeks, mibbe.’
‘Jesus fuck, Betty! Why did ye no’ tell me?’
‘Archie, ah’m really scared.’ Teardrops raced each other down her reddened face, merging at her chin. Archie tutted and hugged her. She was shaking.
‘Look, love, everythin’s gonnae be fine. We’ll get the doctor in an’ … it’ll aw be fine. Nothin’ tae worry about, eh?’
But Archie was worried, and it transpired, with good reason.
He left her to head down to the shop – the tiny newsagents on Cathcart Road, the one where Betty worked. They could see it from the flat’s bay window. He’d only be fifteen minutes, he assured her. He returned with cigarettes and painkillers. He had been gone too long; nearly an hour, held up by a drunken Bobby fucking Souness arguing with Bet’s boss over the increased price being charged for a quarter-bottle of vodka, and then continuing the fight with Archie outside.
When he finally got back, Betty was sprawled on the bathroom floor. His wife was dead. Killed by a rare form of leukaemia; a disease that Archie knew nothing about, and that Bet didn’t even know she had.
As he knew he would, Archie Blunt felt calmer with his stomach lined. He opened the plastic bag. He had taken Geordie McCartney’s advice, eventually: Get a suit, Arch. We’re gonnae need tae appeal to the panel. Imagine you’re goin’ tae court, son.
It had been more than five years, yet all his clothes were still those bought for him by Betty. This was the first time he’d ever shopped for himself. He had picked up some appropriate items from the stalls at the back of Paddy’s Market. Light-grey trousers and matching jacket, beige shirt, dark-blue cardigan and a light-blue tie. He wouldn’t normally have been seen dead in such a formal combination. He shuddered. The last time he’d worn a full suit was at the funeral. He wasn’t wearing that one again. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. Bet had picked it out for him from John Collier’s in Argyle Street for a dance they had been invited to. They didn’t go in the end. She never saw him wearing it, outside of the shop’s changing room. He shook his head, and thankfully that thought evaporated. He reckoned that the punters at the club would now have to look twice to recognise him. The glasses were an old pair of Geordie McCartney’s that Archie surreptitiously lifted six months ago because his eyesight was failing. He also needed a haircut. He put on a flat bunnet, concealing the embarrassing fact that his long hair was tied up at the back, like a geriatric gypsy operating a waltzer at the Kelvin Hall shows. Geordie’s tactic, if all else failed, was to appeal for sympathy on behalf of a suffering man, down on his luck. Archie prayed there was more. He collected the remaining fags from his last packet and picked up a fiver and some loose change; all he had until the next broo day.
Don’t worry, kid. Big things are right around the corner, I believe in you, boy.
‘Thanks Jim,’ Archie muttered as he pulled the door behind him and headed for the streets.
8
May 1976
‘Comrades … ah hope it’s still OK tae call ye’se comrades…’
Nervous laughter greeted the opening line of Big Jamesie Campbell’s address. This was his first time back in the City Chambers since he’d led his controversial breakaway from a Labour Party with which he had become disillusioned.
‘It’s been a fractious time for evryb’dy in the Labour movement. Most ae ye’se know that ah was close to Mr Wilson. An’ although we were always movin’ on with the new party, ah was personally dismayed when he resigned.’ A pause. Jamesie took a white hankie out of his top jacket pocket and theatrically wiped his glasses – and an eye – before replacing them on the bridge of a bulbous red nose that Rudolph would’ve envied. Big Jamesie was revelling in this; a get it right up ye to those in the controlling Labour Party who had stifled attempts to discuss a Scottish Assembly.
The big man knew it was time to strike. Circumstances were going his way. This press launch had been set up a few weeks earlier, but only three days before John Stonehouse had decided to resign the Labour whip – from his cell in Brixton Prison. It had thrown the new Callaghan cabinet into crisis and the fact that the Labour Party hadn’t expelled Stonehouse months earlier brought it widespread public scorn. And Jamesie Campbell’s championing of Scottish political autonomy now looked virtuous; he could claim the high ground from a group of incompetent and self-interested dinosaurs. Few knew the real motivations behind the shift.
He concluded with a flourish, explaining what the new Scottish Free Labour Party would represent. And then he leaned back and pointed, statesmanlike at a journalist, his remaining fingers hooked into his high waistcoat pockets, as if Dickens had created him.
‘Aye, Barry.’
‘Mr Campbell, is it true that you are investing your own money into the regeneration of the East End of Glasgow?’ A plant, no doubt.
‘Yes, Barry, an’ ah’m very grateful for the Herald’s support in gettin’ that message out there to the people of Shettleston an’ beyond. For too long, they’ve been handed a rough deal. It’s time for them to get a new deal!’ Jamesie Campbell smirked. He was the new Roosevelt, Attlee and Bevan rolled into one. Nothing surer. A pixie-like face caught his eye. It appeared unconvinced.
‘Yes, you there. Front row. What’s yer name, hen?’
‘Gail Proctor, Sunday Post.’
Campbell’s PR team had been lazy – they hadn’t checked Gail’s borrowed credentials closely. She’s noticed a few looks from some of the veterans as they all waited in the side chamber, but she had passed unchallenged. She hadn’t recognised any of them as Press Bar regulars, so she put their attention down to her look. Androgyny was something of a default setting in Carnaby Street, but here, among the broken teeth, the Brylcreemed quiffs and the pale-grey nicotine skin, she stood out.
‘Aye. What’s your question?’ Campbell thought there was somet
hing strangely familiar about her. But he couldn’t place it.
‘Mr Campbell, do you not feel awkward accepting an honour from Mr Wilson? Doesn’t it feel strange to be on his resignation pay-off “lavender list”?’
Big Jamesie shuffled his feet. He’d anticipated a walkover, but he’d just been clipped round the ear. ‘Eh, no … no I don’t. Why should I? Ah was happy to serve a Labour Party led by Harold Wilson. An’ ah did my share wi’ the whips to secure that victory in seventy-four.’
‘So why are you splitting the party in Scotland, if you’re such an avowed Wilson man?’
‘The Prime Minister resigned because the party was movin’ away fae its roots. I agree wi’ him.’ Big Jamesie Campbell nodded to the young journalist to indicate her turn was over. ‘Yes, you son.’ He pointed away to the back.
‘Is it true that you are a Rangers season ticket holder, Mr Campbell.’ A collective ‘wooooh’ went up around the room.
Big Jamesie laughed. ‘Naw son. Ah’m a Thistle man. Partick born an’ bred.’
‘Will you be resigning your Westminster seat, Jamesie?’ An older male voice from middle left; this one seemed to Gail like another prepared question, particularly given the speed and numerical assuredness of the answer.
‘A total of 13,652 people voted for Big Jamesie Campbell in the last election. That’s more than fifty-eight percent of the Glasgow Shettleston electorate. Ah’d call that a positive personal mandate, wouldn’t you?’
‘Mr Campbell, what’s your personal involvement with the plans for the Great Eastern Hotel?’ Gail Proctor again.
This time Jamesie Campbell was less composed. He looked around. Most of the other journalists were scribbling, heads down. If it was a loaded question, he wasn’t convinced they were aware of it. But how could this skinny wee lassie know anything specific? She looked like she was a cub reporter for the Jackie magazine. Short hair … One ae they fucken lesbians, nae doubt, thought Big Jamesie. His ire was rising. People were looking up now. He’d have to answer quickly, and concisely. But what to say? He coughed. Hesitated. Not a good start. He remembered the training: Breathe slowly, deeply in, deeply out. Look them straight in the eye.
‘When ah was a boy, growing up in Partick, my ma used to tell me how important it was to look out for them that were less fortunate than us. My da worked in the shipyards. We were lucky. The dinner table was always stocked…’ Big Jamesie looked up. Puzzled faces stared back. He needed to rein it in, or he’d lose the more important ones. Focus, Jamesie, focus. ‘My ma volunteered with the Salvation Army an’ told me stories ae poor wee weans that were made homeless. No chance in life given tae them. Ah’ve never forgotten that. Look at yerselves … inside yerselves. Consider aw the things ye take for granted, an’ the single most important one ae these is the roof over yer head.’ He paused, everyone was now paying attention. Thinking of their headlines. That they might be witnessing something pivotal. Something legendary … Jesus, those media tips fae The Circle really did work!
‘Ah’m determined tae help rid the Scottish cities ae they youngsters … ae the need for youngsters tae be on the streets … the dangerous streets … startin’ here, in the greatest city of them aw. Ah want tae help set up hotels for the young homeless. Places that get the strays off the booze an’ the drugs an’ put a roof over their heads.’ He paused again, hoping for some acknowledgement, and it did briefly come, but only from the older ones, the career head-nodders who were more malleable, and therefore of more use to a man like Big Jamesie. He had rescued the situation and delivered a speech Jimmy Reid would’ve been proud of.
‘An’ that’s the spirit ae Scottish socialism right there. That’s what the Scottish Free Labour Party stands for.’
He folded his notebook and, right on cue, supportive applause rang around the ornate room on the first floor of the historic City Chambers. Those bottles of Black Label dispatched with the press invites had worked.
Gail Proctor looked up at Big Jamesie Campbell, bemused. As the ranks of the fourth estate disassembled, Gail watched the politician embrace a policeman who had advanced from the front row. His shiny epaulettes told her he was very senior. Over his shoulder, Big Jamesie Campbell glanced again in Gail’s direction. She looked away. Big Jamesie stared on before stepping down from the platform. A sly smile formed. He knew the power of conviction; that it could beguile and entrance and ultimately conceal. This young one, though, she would have to be watched closely. Or maybe even leaned on a bit.
Big Jamesie Campbell moved his twenty-stone bulk slowly down the granite steps. He’d specifically asked for a room on the ground floor. He was sure the local-council bastards had done this on purpose, hoping, no doubt, that he’d slip on the surfaces, specially polished just for him, and break his neck. His shovel-sized right hand gripped the six-inch-wide, profiled wooden balustrade capping. The other arm was linked with an assistant’s, steadying him. He was accompanied by four others, carrying his bag and files and papers, and generally clearing a path as he headed towards the front door.
Gail Proctor watched this procession from the upper balcony. There was something odd about this entire event; something that didn’t quite add up – even in the context of her personal interest in Campbell.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, then stopped and glanced upwards. She nodded casually. He smiled falsely. She turned away first, walking slowly, a broken shoe forcing an irregular heel click on the terrazzo. She had breached a defence, she was sure of it. This press conference might prove to be the breakthrough she had needed. She had a few more landmarks to place on the map she had spent so long trying to draw. She could finally begin constructing the road to the truth.
Big Jamesie Campbell also turned away, content that he had held their gaze longer. These small battles of will were important, he’d realised. He moved to the door, accidentally bumping into a slighter man who was heading into the City Chambers. The man went down like a toddler being barged by a prop forward from the New Zealand All Blacks. Big Jamesie Campbell managed to keep his anger at this internalised.
‘Ah’m sorry, mister,’ said the man from the floor, even though he wasn’t at fault.
Big Jamesie said nothing. He glowered, the promotional smiles all used up for the day. He stepped between the legs of the man and headed out of the doors without looking back, followed by a pack of photographers, all snapping constantly.
‘Jesus Christ! Ignorant bastard.’ The man got up, dusted down his crumpled suit jacket and approached the receptionist. ‘Ye see that there? Was that yon politician guy?’
She didn’t reply.
He adjusted his tie. ‘Em … hullo. Ah’ve got an appointment with the Corporation. Transport Department. Sorry, ah’m a wee bit late.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked the receptionist.
‘Eh, aye, it’s Archibald Blunt.’
9
May 1976
‘Sorry mate. Ah’ve let you down.’
‘Fuck off, Geordie. Naw ye didnae. Aw this was my fault. Ah shouldnae have left the bus tae chase that fucken diddy.’
Archie and Geordie walked out of the imposing City Chambers building where representatives of Glasgow Corporation had just delivered their damning verdict on his future employment. In hindsight, Chib Charnley’s absence from the hearing, despite having taken Geordie’s advance payment, was unsurprising. But the lack of a witness had made them look naïve and desperate. Geordie was embarrassed. They shuffled across the road and found a bench on the edge of George Square, in the welcome shade of the Cenotaph, Glasgow’s principal memorial to its fallen sons. Geordie peeled back the tinfoil wrapped around a sandwich his ma had reluctantly prepared for him.
Archie took no joy in in the realisation that the Corporation’s officials would soon be moving on too, as part of the whole consolidation of local services into the newly formed Strathclyde Regional Council. In fact, after delivering their decision, it had been revealed to Archie and Geordie that this determination would be th
e last one laid down by the Corporation disciplinary panel before it was disbanded.
So change was afoot at the Corporation, and it was evident that the beneficiaries of the restructuring wouldn’t be those on Glasgow’s Transport services’ front line. Archie Blunt – and Geordie McCartney too, in time – might simply be part of the wider collateral damage.
‘C’mon. Let’s go an’ get fucken pished,’ said Geordie.
‘Naw, it’s fine, pal. You need tae get back tae the depot. Christ, last thing ah want is you gettin’ yer cards tae. You need tae keep yer own head down just now.’
Geordie sighed. ‘Aye.’
‘Might get ye in there later,’ said Archie.
Geordie dropped part of his sandwich at his feet. Within seconds, there were more pigeons around them than either of them could count.
‘D’ye think these birds ever go anywhere else?’ said Archie.
‘What, as opposed tae just hangin’ around the square aw their lives?’
‘Aye.’
‘Christ, man … ah’ve never really thought that much about that.’
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