‘Well, that’s confirmed,’ he said. ‘The doctor cannae remember ever seeing anybody healthier than myself in a long time. He says my diet must be fantastic. My cholesterol level is low, my blood pressure is normal—so you’ll all be delighted to know, I’m as fit as a fuckin’ fiddle!’
All of our faces fell as he made his way in another light jog through the kitchen and up the stairs to the bathroom to have a shower and I turned to Mum and said, ‘How does that work? After all your effort! After all that dairy produce! All that animal fat!’
‘Fucked if I know how it works, Ali hen. Pass me another litre of cream.’
35
Oh no, my da’s no’ got cancer
Izzy moved to Australia first, well she’s always been more adventurous than me. I was in my 30s and still living in Scotland when she moved and the burdens of the past weighed me down like a sack of Maris Piper potatoes around my neck. And I’d had enough of that. I wanted a change. I wanted to wake up in the morning and love my life and I couldn’t do that stuck in such close proximity to my da and all of the black memories that go along with that. So I jumped on a plane and I joined Izzy, and it’s such a long way away, Australia, it seemed like I sat on that plane forever, but all the while I was happy, knowing with each passing minute I was another few kilometres further away from my da and closer to the freedom I thought Australia would bring.
When I finally landed, I walked out of the terminal building and into my new life where the jaggy yellow sun has nothing to do all day but dazzle your eyes and shine on your milk-bottle skin turning it pink. And it wasn’t long before I discovered the cold black thoughts I thought I was leaving behind in Scotland had followed me here.
The first few years I lived in Sydney I hated Scotland and I was thankful with every day that passed that I was as far away from the place as I could possibly be. Then one day, out of the blue, I woke up and realised that actually it wasn’t Scotland I hated, but the memories of my past there, and that’s when my thoughts started to lighten and slowly I let the orange rays of the sun warm my cold black thoughts and I started to think fondly again of tartan kilts and snow-capped mountains and Johnny Frost’s patterns on the inside of the windows in the mornings and I think that’s maybe when I started to forgive my da a little too.
It was during those first few years in Sydney that Thomas appeared in my life, much like the ice-cream cone reward you might get on a Sunday when you’re wee and you’ve washed the dishes, including the pots, all week long.
Thomas was born and bred in Paris and he left France ten years earlier when he was only twenty. I met him at a friend’s dinner party and of course I fell in love with him the moment I saw him with his warm brown eyes and olive skin and jet-black hair all the way to his shoulders and I hoped that one day he would love me too. That night after our baked Alaskas, he invited me to see Forest Gump with him at the pictures the next weekend and things just grew from there. Thomas’s love wrapped me up in the safest place I’d ever known and six weeks after our first date I’d moved into his apartment. Four months later we were married.
Twelve years on we’re still married and Thomas is my rock, the kindest and most tender man I’ve ever known. Thomas who lies on my cold side of the bed in winter to take the chill away before I get into the bed myself. And sometimes while he’s still lying on my side, I pull back the covers and carefully lie on top of him, for fear of my skin touching the cold cotton sheets, and once they’re warmed, Thomas slides out from under me and onto his own side that’s still icy cold to the touch and I lie down on the warmth that he’s left behind and if that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.
Thomas helped me get back the confidence I must surely once have had. A day doesn’t go by but he’s complimenting me on how smart I am, when all I ever feel is daft. He tells me every day how beautiful I am, when all I can think about is the shame of my Joan Crawford lips. He tells me I couldn’t cook the noodles of South-East Asia to save my life, but I’m creative and funny and great to be with and sometimes I wonder if we’re talking about the same person.
Secure in Thomas’s love my mind drifted back to all those years ago when I locked my banana box away in the attic and to the promise I made myself that there would be no more time for fun and careless moments, pushing stupid stuffed animals on wheels up and down the street. But now, with Thomas by my side, I no longer feared having fun. Instead, I finally knew that I deserved it. So that day, as I sat on my stripy deckchair under the jaggy yellow sun in Sydney, I closed my eyes and took myself back to the attic.
The attic smelled of damp dogs and brown seaweed and skinny rays of squashed sunlight squeezed in through the cracks in the slate roof. I crouched down to avoid banging my head on the sloping roof and I shuffled further in. From the corner of my eye I saw my crocus bowl with ‘Plant Use Only’ stamped on the side, discarded and lying upside down in a corner. And then my eyes fell on it, my beautiful banana box, sitting in the same spot I’d left it all those years ago, waiting patiently for me to come back as if it always knew I would. I crouched further down and blew away the thick layer of dust that had gathered on the top over the years. When I lifted the lid, wily spiders that had lived there all this time eating daft flies that dared to come too close, scurried for cover. Inside my box, I saw the precious wheel from Molly my Airedale Terrier and one by one the memories of the red handle and the track marks and the fingerprints in the black tar softened by the afternoon sun came back to me and I sat in my stripy deckchair in Sydney with my eyes still closed and smiled. With the warmth of the memories came the heartache of the past too, but I reminded myself that life was different now, I had Thomas in my life, and my heart was stronger than before. Isn’t it true, love changes everything?
With my eyes still closed, I brought my banana box and myself back from the attic in Scotland to the safety of my stripy deckchair in Sydney. I opened my eyes, ready to have fun again, but had no idea where to start. Looking for inspiration I picked up a brochure from my local community centre and flicked through it for hours on end. That’s when I stumbled on ‘Pottery for beginners’ and I smiled as I recalled the pottery course Grampa had done when he was 80 years old and the misshapen ashtrays he filled the house with and the clay plates he made and painted with pictures of wild horses galloping through the prairies of Lithuania, not to mention the crumpled plant pots that leaned to the side much like the Leaning Tower of Pisa does.
I enrolled, excited, and waited impatiently for the first day of the course to arrive. Once the class was underway though, I discovered I was shite at pottery and knew instantly how Grampa’s garden shed ended up packed to the hilt with plant pots that even the Italians couldn’t turn into a tourist attraction. I didn’t go back for week two. Somewhat deflated, I flicked through the brochure again. My eyes lit up when I saw ‘Singing for beginners’ and thought maybe I could re-live the Lena Zavaroni aspirations I had as a child. I enrolled but discovered that actually I was shite at singing too. Next I tried ‘Watercolours for beginners’, closely followed by ‘Classical guitar for beginners’, then ‘The noodles of South-East Asia and how to cook them’. And I was shite at all of them.
Then one day, after enrolling in ‘Yoga for beginners’, I had a call from the college to advise that the yoga class was unfortunately full and would I like to try something else?
‘What else is available?’ I asked.
‘Well, there’s a few spaces left in “Creative writing for beginners”.’
‘Are you sure I can’t get a refund, I mean it’s not my fault the yoga class is full.’
‘Sorry, Alison, college policy, no refunds. But wait, if you’re not keen on the creative writing course, how about stamp collecting—there’s about a hundred-and-fifty places left on that course. Would you like me to put you down for that instead?’
‘Hmm. Can I think about it overnight?
‘No, I’m sorry. The cut-off point for all enrolments is today.’
‘Bloo
dy hell. All right, just put me down for the creative writing. I’ll give it a go.’
On the first night of that course our teacher Dean asked us all to introduce ourselves and to tell the group what had brought us to the course. I stood up and told the group I’d enrolled in loads of other courses and that I’d hated all of them and based on this pattern, it was highly unlikely I’d show up for week two. Dean didn’t seem to mind that answer at all, in fact he told me he hoped he would see me for week two and inside my head I’m thinking, I doubt it.
He gave us some homework that night for the following week and he gave us a subject to write about but we didn’t have to stick to it, for there were no rules in this writing game, at least that’s what Dean said. And he gave us tips along the way and one of those was to write every day, come hell or high water, ’cause ‘it’s the process of writing that makes you a writer’. And I had no idea what to write and so I called Andrew in Scotland, what with him writing songs all day I was sure he’d be able to help.
I was lucky to catch Andrew on the phone, what with the time difference between Australia and Scotland, and I got him as he was driving down the M8 motorway to Duntocher.
‘Awright, Blinky!’ he shouted down the phone at me, competing against the noise of the motorway traffic and Radio Scotland’s Gaelic FM that he had blaring through the speakers, ‘What’s happenin’?’
‘It’s all happenin’, Nobbie,’ I shouted back, my voice insignificant amongst the bagpipes and the hewchin’ and chewchin’ that was going on in the car as he sped along. Andrew calls me Blinky and I call him Nobbie—I don’t know why, it’s just always been that way. Nobbie has its origins in knob—you know, from the noun, ‘to be a right knob’, and of course it’s a term of endearment, I mean you know how it is between families on the west coast of Scotland, or maybe you don’t. You should have seen us laugh when Andrew came to visit us in Australia and we came across Nobby’s Nuts in the nibbles section at the supermarket and as if the name wasn’t funny enough, their slogan ‘Nibble Nobby’s Nuts’ had us splitting our sides.
‘What are you up to, darlin’?’ I shouted down the phone just as big Boaby McTavish, the guest accordionist on Radio Scotland’s Gaelic FM, played the final chord in ‘Oh, bonny Mary come muck out the byre with me’.
‘I’m on my way down to the studio to practise these wee songs I finished writin’ this week. I’ve got a few session musicians comin’ and there’s a record company comin’ as well to check me out, so fingers crossed they know good music when they hear it, eh? So, tell me, Blinky, how’re things?’
‘Aye, everything’s good,’ I said. ‘Except I’ve started this writing course and we have to write a wee somethin’ for next week and read it out to the class and I haven’t a clue what to write. By the way, while I remember, have you heard our da might have cancer?’
‘Well, I hadn’t heard a sausage since he attacked me with that iron bar and I got the court order out against him, then just the other day Bruce told me he’d heard something about him having cancer and I thought you fuckin’ beauty, there is a God—after all that shite he’s put us through. So, what have you heard?’
‘Well, Bruce rang me the other week and he was telling me that big John Brown had been in at the garden centre to buy a few plants for his herbaceous border and while he was there he mentioned to Bruce that he’d heard my da had cancer.’
‘And what did Bruce say to big John?’ Andrew asked, impatient to hear some seriously bad news.
‘Well, apparently Bruce just asked him if he wanted a buy a few petunias for his terracotta tubs and John said a’right and then he told John that’d be eight pound ninety-five and did he want a carrier bag for the petunias.’
‘Naw, what did Bruce say to big John about my da having cancer?’
‘Oh, apparently Bruce just told him he wasn’t interested in whether my da had cancer or not and had he considered planting some daffodils to add a splash of colour to his front lawn. He’s having a hard time shifting those daffodils, or so he was saying.’
‘Aye, its true, daffodils are always hard to shift, especially at the tail end of the season. Well, maybe the rumour’s true about him right enough then, Blinky,’ Andrew said. ‘And I don’t mind telling you, when I heard the rumour I did a cancer dance all night long—fuckin’ rained nonstop the whole of the next day and it was my day for the steamie and I couldnae get my sheets dried.’ Andrew paused and I heard him light up a fag and take a long, deep draw. ‘So what do you reckon, has he got cancer or no’?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’ve been trying to phone him for days to find out and I was beginning to think he was already dead and buried when I got a text from him just yesterday,’ I said.
‘A text message?’ Andrew said. ‘Fuckssake, how did he manage to work out how to send one of them?’
‘I don’t know, I couldnae believe it myself. Anyway, the message just said he was fine and he left his mobile number so I gave him a bell this morning.’
‘Right, so tell me, tell me—is it true? Does he have cancer?’
‘Well, he didn’t mention any cancer to me when I spoke with him this morning but what I can confirm is that he does have a bad case of constipation and now has extremely high blood pressure and the doctor thinks the two might be connected in some way. Mind you, since he saw the doctor he’s made a few drastic lifestyle changes. Apparently he’s stopped drinking and smoking, and he’s eating fruit and vegetables every day and a serve of fresh fish once a week. Christ, next thing you know he’ll be at the church on Sunday. That’s all we fuckin’ need,’ I said.
‘Christ Almighty. So what you’re saying is he’s not on his death bed?’ Andrew asked, unable to conceal his disappointment.
‘Well, I never heard of anybody dying of constipation, Nobbie, but you never know. I’ll keep you posted on that front. So, got any smart-arsed ideas for a wee story for me then? I’m desperate for inspiration. I can’t seem to write a word at the minute.’
‘Hey, I’ve got an idea. You could write a wee story called “Oh No, My Da’s No’ Got Cancer”,’ Andrew said.
‘That’s in bad taste, Nobbie, don’t you think? Seriously, have you got any ideas for me?’
‘Well, Blinky, if you’re having a few issues with your creative outlet, answer this question. How are you feeling about life in general at the moment?’
‘What do you want to know that for?’ I asked
‘Just answer the fuckin’ question, will you?’
‘I feel great right now.’
‘Right, well there’s your problem right there. You’re not depressed enough to write. You take it from me, Blinky, the more depressed you are, the better your stories will be. The fuckin’ ideas’ll come flying out of your head without you having to think about them. What you need in your life is some kind of tragedy or drama or somethin’ like that.’
‘Christ, you know what, Nobbie, it’s true—since I met Thomas I’ve been happier than I’ve ever been, so I probably could be doing with a bit more drama or some kind of tragedy in my life. I think you’re right! Ah, now I can almost feel those waves of depression lapping up against the shore as we speak. Thanks, Nobbie, I really appreciate your input.’
‘Don’t worry about it, darlin’. You know you can always turn to your family in your time of need. That’s what we’re here for—to keep you depressed.’
‘Aye, and what a great job you all do at it too.’
36
A bottle of Laphroaig
My da ended up selling the bungalows and his precious land and he moved away to the country with Mum. When I went back to Scotland from Sydney years later, I drove past the bungalows and I stopped to see how they had changed. I stared at the houses from the street and thought back to the days when I was Bruce’s assistant and how I’d carried that hod full of bricks up that ladder all day long and I thought about the sandwiches we ate with our filthy hands and how we’d earned our tea and I remembered loving every minute of it.
I parked my car and I walked down the driveway towards the bungalows that now stood vacant and neglected and I walked across to Bruce’s bungalow and I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the window and into his living room. I could still make out the lilac walls we’d laughed at and I imagined the two armchairs in front of the fire where we’d shared our spaghetti bolognese and our glass of red wine with a spoonful of sugar in it and the memory of those times left me happy and sad at the same time.
Then I walked across to our bungalow and the concrete lions that Mum and I had bought that day at the Biggar auction still graced each side of the front doors. And when I walked around to our old back garden, I could almost see Nanny making her way to our back door wearing her beanie and Grampa’s leather slippers and she’s holding her bag of goodies high in the air to show me and she’s smiling and I wish I could hold her and hug her and take away all the pain she suffered and I wish I could have offered her comfort and peace in the last few years of her life when she’d needed it most. All we’d wanted back then was harmony and the comfort that comes from living in close proximity to those you love and all of that was wasted by my da and his greed of gold.
After Mum left him, my da stayed on in the house they’d bought in the country. The house was a 100-year-old sandstone farmhouse called Glengarry, set high on a hill with views to Tinto Hill that, from a distance, looked remarkably like Mount Fuji. There were fireplaces in every room and an acre of land with crab-apple trees, overgrown bramble bushes and a solitary Victoria plum tree, heavy with fruit.
Mum had taken hardly anything that day she fled with her tartan holdall and the dogs and cats in the back of the car. But she’d come back from time to time to take all that was precious to her, like the photographs of Nanny and Grampa on holiday at the Palace of Versailles, of me and Izzy blowing out the candles on my first birthday cake, and of Andrew in his school uniform with his ears sticking out and smiling like a monkey.
Poking Seaweed with a Stick and Running Away from the Smell Page 14