In Servitude

by Heleen Kist

  She leaned forward, frowning. ‘Sweetie, we all worry about that. That’s completely normal.’

  ‘Besides, what kind of freak puts up with someone who does this?’ I pointed to the carefully stacked biscuits and we both chuckled.

  ‘Who cares? Grab him while he does!’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I said. ‘But now I have to go. Stephen will need me.’

  Alice nodded and led me to the door. We hugged each other goodbye. ‘I’ll come visit soon,’ she said. ‘Let me know about the funeral. And if there’s anything I can do to help. But in the meantime, honey, take care of yourself. And remember: love isn’t only about giving, it’s also about being willing to receive. You deserve love, my friend. He’s a good man. Take the plunge.’

  Chapter Nine

  Was I stalling? Alice’s question haunted me the whole way home, the intermittent drizzle on the windshield mirroring my feeble indecisiveness.

  Thoughts of Dave, Glory, her secrets, mum, the dementia merged into a distressing, unfixable tangle, like wind-struck streamers on a kite that had flown far and fast out of reach.

  Once in Shawlands, the struggle to park the Fiat anywhere within two hundred yards of home compounded the exhaustion from my arduous morning, so that by the time I’d turned my key in the lock of apartment number 2/1, I was too weak to push. I stood with my head resting against the cool wooden door for a minute or so; then it opened from inside.

  ‘Oh. It’s you. Good,’ said Dave. ‘I wondered if maybe it was someone at the wrong door.’

  He was wearing a black T-shirt and tight jeans. Both accentuated his muscles. His short brown hair was wet and smelled of shampoo. It was the freshly showered look that won over the housewives when he came to quote for a job. A nice change from the grotty workmen you didn’t know whether to trust or not, it gave the added subliminal message that this plumber would also clean up after himself.

  It didn’t hurt that he was handsome: large twinkly eyes and a wide, genuine smile displaying rows of perfect, straight teeth which clashed implausibly with his thick Glasgow accent. He was short though, which fit the stereotype a little better.

  I was still using the door for support while Dave approached with care, like a zookeeper primed to catch a fragile species.

  ‘You look like you’ve been through the wars,’ he said.

  ‘I have.’ I let go into his arms.

  He brought me to the sofa, my head finding comfort on his lap. His arm was wrapped around my shoulder and he stroked my hair, waiting for me to speak.

  I didn’t.

  The room was in the semi-darkness of early evening when I woke with a start, a sharp pain radiating in my neck and my cheek flushed with the warmth of another body.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘About two hours.’

  ‘And you sat here all this time? In the dark?’

  ‘It’s okay. You needed it. I sang some songs in my head—the Stone Roses have a surprisingly big repertoire.’ He smiled.

  ‘I have to go.’ I unbent my aching limbs one by one. ‘I have to get back to Glory’s.’ The sound of her name made my stomach jump.

  ‘How are they doing?’

  ‘As you would expect.’

  He offered to make a pot of tea while I showered. The casualness of his movements around my flat irked me; as did the noisy banging of cupboard doors. But I was grateful for the offer and his presence.

  Once clean and with a bag packed, I sat with him at the breakfast bar where the tea stood steeping. Having mulled it over while soaping myself, I’d determined there was no easy way to ask what I wanted to know.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘I know you don’t want to talk about why you and Stephen fell out, but can you tell me this: was it to do with violence?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you guys grew up in the Gorbals, did Stephen ever get into trouble? Fights?’

  ‘Wow, Grace. That’s some prejudice right there. What? You think anyone from the Gorbals must have a violent streak?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…I know you’re not. And your friends are all great. But, you know, it’s just got a reputation. I’m sorry. I really just wanted to know about Stephen. When you were young.’

  My apology seemed to have done the trick. He looked less insulted.

  ‘No, not Stephen. No fights. Christ, his foster parents would’ve killed him if he’d laid a finger on anyone. Why do you ask?’

  ‘So he never assaulted anyone? Or had a temper?’

  ‘No. I told you no. He was fine. What’s this about, Grace?’ He searched my face for an answer, his eyebrows sinking into a deep frown.

  ‘Never mind.’ I got up.

  ‘I thought you said it was an accident. Did he hurt her? Tell me.’

  He turned the barstool to free his legs. I placed my hand on his shoulders, intended to signal reassurance, but with the added benefit of keeping him there.

  ‘Ignore me. I’m talking shite.’

  Chapter Ten

  The funeral was awful: watching the boys cling to their father while surrounded by strangers twice as tall, smothered by a relentless flood of sympathies. Stephen a perfect picture of sorrow. I had hardly been able to look at my parents—let alone speak—for fear of breaking down and was grateful for their trusted friends from Perth caring for them.

  Alice had stood by me while the mourners gravitated towards immediate family: parents who lost a child, children who lost a mother, a husband who lost his love. Me merely a sister; once in adulthood, relegated to second-degree kin. A slap in the face I hadn’t seen coming.

  But we knew better, didn’t we, Gi?

  I moved back to my flat once the boys survived their first few days back at school. The little troopers navigated the innocent but misguided celebrity status thrust upon them with an amazing resilience.

  You would have been so proud.

  Stephen re-joined his colleagues within days of the accident, quoting important deadlines. Who could blame him wanting to escape the house?

  The last commiseration casserole made way for veggie burgers and pasta selected from Glory’s list of ‘favourites’ at Tesco, its delivery man oblivious to the reduction in portion size from four to three.

  With mornings a struggle, I still came round to help pack the kids off to school and exercise the dog. I didn’t mind. It took only fifteen minutes to walk to Lochiel Academy junior school. There, I observed the boys race inside with their friends, a scene repeated across the street by a stream of mothers entering McDonald’s for coffee. The fast food place bore testament to Glasgow city council’s greedy hypocrisy towards its child obesity targets, sandwiched as it was between two primary schools.

  The mums had been kind to me at the gates, offering commiserations and help with an awkwardness that seemed to grow as the days increased. I wasn’t one of them. I knew that. I brought the stench of death to their jasmine-and patchouli-scented lives. I’d offered them respite by stating I didn’t drink coffee, and they never invited me again.

  This morning, the boys had barely given me a glance before darting off, their little heads and Spiderman backpacks disappearing into the crowd.

  ‘Come on Blue, time to run.’

  On hearing this, the dog skipped in place, keeping his shiny eyes on me as he awaited my first step. Then off we went. His enthusiasm for me had ballooned these last two weeks as he worked out that I always kept up, no matter how hard he pulled on the lead to go faster. We ran down Pollokshaws Road and turned into Queen’s Park, skirting the pond to prevent a possible incident with the swans. Still at pace, we headed for the flagpole atop the hill to admire the ten-mile views in three directions.

  ‘Look, buddy, you can see Ben Lomond today. I still want to climb that one.’ Dark clouds were forming up ahead indicating imminent rain but, for now, we stood side by side catching evasive ray
s of sunshine and breathing in the cool spring air.

  I gazed down and smiled. I had grown fonder of him too, admiring his ability to stay in the present and to rebound, unshaken, from even the foulest smelling tree trunk only to try his luck again. Channelling my inner canine, I had stopped getting sucked into the rabbit hole of crazy theories. I now chose to accept that Glory had probably merely been bored and, in sneaking around, had likely only wanted to engineer a bit of financial independence.

  ‘Right. We can’t stay here forever. It’s time to go back down and face the world. You and me, buddy. Looking out for each other.’

  We took the shortcut described to me by Adam, slicing through the senior school’s playing fields and past the hockey club, where he played with his pals on Friday nights. I headed for a last lap of Maxwell Park to round off the walk, in keeping with Glory’s usual schedule.

  Blue pulled at the lead. I let him off once I’d scanned the area and noted no loose dogs. Only a lone figure loitering. His eye line crossed mine as he also took stock of the park and paused on me long enough to raise a creepy sensation.

  To break the connection, I moved to a bench by the play park and pretended to tie my laces. When I straightened up, the man was striding straight towards me. I searched for Blue, hoping for a semblance of protection, but he was nowhere to be seen. Nor was anyone else.

  Before I could stop him, the man sat down next to me. He whistled and shouted, ‘Here boy!’ then faced me with a disturbing grin. As if he knew the dog wouldn’t come. I jumped to my feet and looked around. What had he done?

  On my second attempt blowing silent air through my dry mouth, Blue appeared from behind a tree thirty yards away. Safe. He showed no interest in me or the man, instead sniffing out the ground’s many treasures.

  I turned back to the intruder. Sensing an edge in standing over him, I raised my chin and my voice when I asked: ‘Do I know you?’

  He chuckled. ‘Nah, hen. I’m only the messenger.’

  ‘What?’

  His smile faded. ‘We’re not very happy about you closing the café for so long. You need to open up again. There’s a delivery coming on Thursday.’

  ‘What do you mean? How do you—’

  His eyes turned to ice as he grabbed my wrist in a flash. ‘We’ll be very disappointed if you’re not there to receive the goods. Ken what I’m saying?’

  He rushed off, his dark coat billowing behind him like a cape, almost engulfing Blue who circled his legs, tail wagging, until he turned towards the road.

  I collapsed onto the bench, my leaden limbs welded to the frame. Who was this man? How did he know about the café? How did he know who I was? Then it dawned on me: did he think I was Glory? Even then, none of it made sense. Why would a supplier come find you like that?

  Blue sniffed around my shoes and placed his head on my knee, his expectant stare coaxing me to come run again.

  ‘So much for looking out for me. Fat load of good you are.’ I pushed him aside, wincing at the slabber left on my trousers.

  My nerves remained on edge as I dropped him off and made for my first client appointment of the day. Since moving to Glasgow, I’d experienced my fair share of encounters with vagrants invading my personal space, asking for change, a meal, a kiss. The alcoholics were most likely to hurl lecherous compliments at you and try to cop a feel, whereas the junkies slung cocky threats of physical aggression their broken bodies couldn’t possibly deliver. I learnt that it upset men the most when you didn’t smile on demand. I also learnt that, naturally, this made me a cunt.

  But this was different. This man had been looking for me.

  I walked with an overly straight posture to signal, should anyone be looking, I was not afraid. ‘I will not be intimidated, I will not be intimidated,’ my mind recited, but I flinched whenever something dark flashed past in the corner of my eye. Mental affirmations not working, I started a light-footed jog, swaying to Taylor Swift singing in my head. ‘Something something something, shake it off.’

  Although the fear subsided, the knot in my stomach persisted. The incident had woken a repressed sense of duty. The café. I could no longer pretend the café wasn’t there, wasn’t being neglected, wasn’t another part of Glory we would need to pack away.

  I’m sorry, Gi, I know how much you love it.

  I vowed to resurrect it, if only until Stephen was ready to decide on its future. Though him wanting rid of it would be no surprise.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Is my bum okay?’

  ‘Hm?’ The question jerked my thoughts back to the exercise room and the red-faced blonde struggling to sustain a one-minute plank, fishing for a gold star for posture.

  ‘Grace is everything all right? You’re a million miles away today.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes, your line is great,’ I looked at my watch. ‘Time’s up. Well done. Let’s do the burpees again, shall we? And this time, speed it up. Starting with sixteen.’

  ‘Were you…thinking…about…your sister?’ Her words came out in breathless chunks as she squatted and jumped.

  I’d made all my clients aware that I would need a break because of the accident. In true British style, most enquired about it once out of politeness, for it never to be mentioned again. Others saw it as carte blanche to pry into my state of mind at every opportunity.

  ‘That’s it. Only nine more to go.’ Ignoring her enquiries, I projected the professionalism she was entitled to for her thirty-five pounds an hour.

  ‘I can’t…imagine…what you’re…going through.’

  ‘Yes. It’s been hard. And eight more, please.’

  Once she was sucking on her ionised-water bottle for recovery, I took my chance. ‘With everything going on, would it be possible to move your session to later in the afternoon? I’ve got Glory’s café to deal with. I don’t know what’s required yet or how long that will take. So I’m just testing the waters.’

  ‘Oh.’ She took a few more sips and eyed the door, her caring persona disintegrating and revealing the me-first, elbows-out attitude that explained why she had the big house with the gym and I didn’t. ‘Thing is, Grace, I really like working out with you, but it’s hard for me to fit in me-time already, what with the kids and the house and the Heart Foundation. I need to keep it at nine, if it’s all right with you?’

  Shit.

  ‘I understand. I’m sorry to have to ask. If I can’t make it work, I’ll introduce you to another trainer I know. You’ll like him. He’s very good with bums.’ I gave her a conspiratorial wink and she giggled at the innuendo. I resisted the urge to say, ‘With a bum as big as yours, you need all the help you can get.’

  She grabbed her towel, dabbed her flawless face and showed me to the door.

  ‘Okay. Well, I hope it works out. Let me know on Monday. If not, maybe I’ll see you at the café when it’s up and running again? I really like that place.’

  Of course she does.

  Chapter Twelve

  As I left my client, thinking about the café, I was reminded of the time I’d dared to challenge Glory’s concept for her new venture. It must have been three years, yet I could still picture her sitting opposite me, affronted.

  ‘I know you find this hard to believe, Grace, but I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘I never said you were. But I don’t see why it has to be vegan. There are not that many vegans around. And the vegans I know don’t even drink coffee.’

  ‘It’s only pseudo-vegan. It’s psychology. I’ve been around the yummy mummies for years now and I know exactly how to make them part with their not-so-hard-earned cash.’

  ‘Well, I don’t get it, so maybe that makes me the idiot.’

  ‘Are you expecting me to comment on that?’ She laughed. ‘Here’s the thing. Shawlands is going through a phase of massive gentrification. Crappy pubs are being replaced by hipster gin bars, right? The dead giveaway is that half the greengrocer’s display is dedicated to avocados.’
>
  ‘God forbid we run out of avocados!’

  ‘This is serious, Grace.’

  ‘Sorry. Tell me more.’

  Her eyes lit up and threw herself into a rehearsed-sounding explanation of her terribly clever plan.

  ‘I’ve been reading up on marketing. The proposition needs to be right. It needs to be bored-mummy heaven. We’ll serve single-source artisan coffee and throw cushions over some mismatched chairs and hand-carved wooden benches. That will also attract the actual artists that are still around, and the students. And then I’m tapping into the clean eating fad. Oh my God, Grace, you can’t believe how much energy is spent talking about what foods are forbidden and why. And not just for the mums. The kids too! It’s all posturing. Loads of nonsense allergies.’

  ‘Some of them are—’ My point was lost.

  ‘We put unprocessed-sounding dishes with lots of veg and chick peas in the name. And we offer every possible substitution for dairy and eggs. They’re not actually going to order it, but it allows me to charge higher prices. And ta-dah! You’ve got a winner.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. It’s a place where they can look like they have special dietary needs, even though they don’t have them? And you’re going to make them pay extra for it?’ It sounded ridiculous. Why did these well-to-do married women always feel the need to adopt every latest trend? They seemed constantly looking for purpose? I didn’t get it. Luxury problems.

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ Glory said.

  I rinsed a nascent bad taste from my mouth with a sip of water. ‘That all sounds pretty scheming, if you ask me. Aren’t you supposed to be nice about your customers? Aren’t these your friends?’

  ‘Okay, you got me. Here I am trying to be all calculating, hard-nosed business-like, when in reality, I’ll probably go broke handing out free coffees to my posse. Who am I kidding, right? But I really think there’s something there.’