For Florence and Precious.
May you live happily ever after in Glasgow.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Without author, storyteller and all-round wonderful person Lari Don, this book would exist, but it would be a very different shape. And not as good. She’s a wise, wise woman!
Gale Winskill believed in the book from the start, a long time ago. And became involved once again, proving that it is, indeed a funny old world! Thank you.
The storytellers of Scotland, especially Glasgow, need a mention. Without you guys, the magic beans from which this book sprouted would never have been planted in my mind.
All at Unity also earned my thanks by giving me an insight, over the years, into what life is really like for asylum seekers. They’re also a seriously good bunch of people.
And the following people who have believed in me over the years: Mrs Holmes, Miss O’Donnell, Colin McAllister, Sheena McGinnis and my wonderful family, especially Dame Doddlipoos of the Truncatit Hooses o’ Wonderland.
Oh, dear. I almost forgot Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Charles Perrault and Hans Christian Andersen, whose fault it is that I even know any fairytales!
And last, but not least, my thanks to the varied and wonderful people of Glasgow, without whom this would all be a bit pointless.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
Once upon a time in Glasgow, Jack Cameron made a wish; a wish that would not come true.
He wished with all his heart that the wee drunk man who had just boarded the bus would sit next to someone else.
The man’s clothes were manky, his yellowish beard (that might have been white if clean) almost trailed along the ground, and he moved with the unmistakable gait of the Glasgow drunkard. Even when the bus was still, he walked as if on the deck of a ship in a storm.
After the bus driver had explained to him three times that he was showing the back of his ticket, he stumbled up the aisle towards the very seat Jack occupied, and sat not beside, but on Jack.
‘Sorry about that, mate,’ he said, without pronouncing any consonants. He reeked of alcohol and body odour.
Jack groaned inwardly.
‘Y’awright?’ said the wee man.
‘Awright?’ said Jack, wishing the man would go away.
‘Where ye off to?’ said the man.
‘I’m off to visit my sister,’ Jack replied with an air of resignation.
‘Yer sister, aye?’ said the wee man, nodding and chewing, digesting this information. ‘Yer sister, aye,’ he trailed off, muttering the word ‘sister’ over and over for a minute or so, before looking up suddenly. ‘What’s yer sister’s name?’
‘Jill.’
‘Jill?’ said the wee man, his eyes glazed over in a moment of deep intro-spection. ‘Naw, don’t think I know her. Where’s she stay?’
Jack cleared his throat, and said, ‘Some weather we’ve been getting, eh?’ not eager to discuss his sister’s home address.
‘Aye, weather, aye,’ slurred the man. ‘Oh, aye, it’s some weather … aye, weather … aye.’
He sat in silence for a few moments, before giving Jack an almighty nudge. ‘I’m no bothering ye or that?’
‘No,’ said Jack.
‘Ye sure?’
‘Aye.’
‘Sure I’m no bothering ye?’
‘Aye.’
Jack decided to ignore him.
Suddenly, the man sang at the top of his lungs:
Harry Charming!
Harry Charming!
Harry Charming is the king of kings!
Then he gave Jack what he clearly thought was a friendly shove.
‘Ye support the Celtic, big man?’
Jack shook his head, forcefully wishing that this ordeal would end.
The wee man roared with laughter and gave him another shove. ‘You’re alright mate.’ Then, pronouncing each syllable separately (but still not pronouncing any consonants) ‘You – are – all – right!’
Jack smiled and nodded.
‘I’m no a bigot,’ said the man, pointing at Jack for emphasis, his finger wandering aimlessly. ‘I’m no a bigot,’ he repeated. Then, pointing even more sternly, ‘I am not a bigot. No way.’ He poked Jack in the face. ‘Makes nae difference to me if ye’re a Celtic supporter or a Hun!’
Another moment’s silence passed, then the wee man said, ‘Buy some magic beans!’ Just like that. A command.
Jack put his hands up in front of him and said firmly, ‘Naw. I’m no into that, mate.’
The wee man laughed. ‘Och, no. No, I’m no trying to sell ye anything bad or that. Here …’ He fumbled in his pocket and brought out what appeared to be a handful of glowing, electric-blue marbles.
Jack was strangely transfixed. They seemed to shimmer with energy and he could almost swear he heard them humming faintly.
‘See, ye plant these in the ground, like seeds or that, see. Just like seeds. Ye plant them in the ground. See the ground? Just like they was seeds, ye plant them. And out of the ground will grow your fortune!’ With the word ‘fortune’, the wee man threw his arms wide to illustrate the magnificence of the word.
‘Uh huh,’ said Jack, trying not to look sceptical.
The wee man started trying to force them into his hand. ‘Go on. Take them. Only two quid!’
Jack resisted.
Suddenly, in no way Jack could definitely measure, the wee man’s face changed: absolutely sober he looked Jack straight in the eye with an ice-cold gaze that would have cut glass.
‘Take them,’ said the wee man, with perfect clarity and an air of authority far removed from the drunkard he appeared to be. ‘It’s your destiny.’
Jack gulped and stuffed the beans into his pocket.
‘That’s two pounds I’m wanting for that,’ said the wee man, once again the pathetic drunkard.
‘I’m no paying two pounds for a haundfu’ o’ jauries!’ Jack exclaimed, outraged.
‘You’s trying to steal my magic beans!’ slurred the enraged drunk. ‘Haw, everybody,’ he roared for all to hear. ‘He’s trying to steal my magic beans! Haw, driver! Get the polis! He’s trying to steal my magic beans!’
‘I’ve only got £1.75,’ said Jack, fumbling in his pocket, caring more about silencing the embarrassing wee man than anything else.
‘Sold.’ The man took his money and promptly left the bus.
‘He seen you coming, mate,’ said the man sitting behind Jack.
Jack blushed as he heard clearly whispered remarks such as ‘Magic beans? That’s a new wan’, ‘That’s a wee shame for that guy’, ‘Imagine paying two quid for that’, and ‘That guy’s a pure numpty, by the way’.
Jack stared at his purchase: five luminous marbles. He was so angry – with himself, with the wee man, with the marbles, and with everyone on the bus who had dared to see him humiliated – that he stood up on the seat and slung the magic beans out the window.
As chance would have it, the bus was on its way over the Squinty Bridge at the time. The magic beans cleared the railing and landed, with five tiny splashes, in the River Clyde below.
Every day, after a hard w
orkout at the gym, TV heart-throb Reginald King would uncover his own special mirror and say, ‘Who’s the bonniest man in Glesga then?’
And a horrible, twisted, gruesome, green face would appear in the mirror and say, ‘Why, you are, Mr King.’
It was true. By most standards, Reginald King was the most handsome man in Glasgow. He had a smooth face, twinkling blue eyes and a muscle-bound body, but was so vain that no one liked him very much. They pretended to like him, for he was rich and powerful, but behind his back they said awful, dreadful things.
King never gave a hoot! He was so in love with himself that he scarcely even noticed when his girlfriend left him.
Meanwhile, Jill Cameron (aforementioned ex-girlfriend of Mr King) was busily chucking his stuff out the window.
She heard a key turning in the lock and knew it must be her brother, Jack. She continued assisting the absent Reginald with his flitting.
‘Jill? Jill what are ye doing?’
‘Tossing the weasel’s personal effects oot the windae,’ she replied calmly, and continued to do so.
‘Och, don’t be an eejit, Jill …’ Jack’s pierced eyebrows knitted together under his bleached hairline. ‘Jill, this is crazy! We’re twenty floors up! You could hurt somebody! Jill!’
Jill paid him no heed and began unplugging King’s computer.
‘Come on, Jill! Ye cannae fling PCs oot a twenty-storey flat!’
Jill hesitated. ‘It’s a Mac,’ she informed him, and out it went.
Jack swore and dashed to the window. ‘Oh, my God, Jill … I think you’ve killed somebody!’
‘What? No!’
Jill turned pale and threw herself at the window.
‘Made ye look,’ said Jack.
Jill went red with fury. ‘That’s not funny!’
‘Wasnae meant to be,’ Jack explained. ‘What would ye do if that had hit a wean? Going to jail would be the easy part. You’d never forgive yersel’.’
For a moment Jill flared up with rage at Jack’s cruel trick, but it quickly passed as she realised he had a point. She slid to the floor, defeated, grabbing at handfuls of her hair.
‘I take it you’ve broke into that cairry-oot wi’oot me, then?’
‘Maybe…’
‘What happened?’ asked Jack.
‘I’m fed up wi’ him. Fed up wi’ being treated like dirt. Fed up wi’ him thinking he’s God’s gift to women. Fed up wi’ women agreeing.
‘You know what he says to me? He says, “You’re lucky to have someone like me. Someone who’ll stick with ye no matter what ye look like. There’s hunners o’ women would give their right arms to be wi’ me.”
‘Well they’re welcome to him! I’ve had enough!’
‘Good for you,’ said Jack. ‘You’re too good for him.’
‘He’s right, though,’ sniffled Jill. ‘I mean, look at me. I’m short and fat and naebody else would want me.’
‘That’s not true,’ insisted Jack.
She threw him an old newspaper. The front-page headline read: TV LEGEND KING DATES SHORT, FAT BURD.
‘Och, ye don’t want to be listening to what newspapers say! You’re gorgeous, and there’ll be a guy who sees that. Someday your prince will come, I guarantee it. Haud on, I’ll grab us some coffees.’
By the time Jack had returned with the steaming cups, Jill had calmed down a bit.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I think we’ve talked quite enough about my love life. How about yours? How’s Rapunzel?’
Jack broke into a huge grin.
‘Given that you’re still grinning like a Cheshire cat every time I mention her, I’d guess pretty well, right?’
‘Och, I cannae help it. She’s lovely! I love her hair. You’d never know by looking at her how long it is when she lets it doon. And she smells like apples.’
Jill chuckled. ‘Glad somebody’s happy. Does Maw know you’re going out wi’ an asylum seeker?’
Jack’s grin vanished. ‘Um … I was waiting for the right moment to mention it.’
‘Well, good luck wi’ that,’ said Jill.
Jack gulped.
‘Still, it could’ve been worse,’ said Jill. ‘She could’ve been a Catholic.’
Late at night, the lights were off throughout the building, except for one dim lamp in a windowless room.
A man in a suit leaned dangerously across the desk at the councillor behind it.
‘What are you saying to me? I understood you had enough clout with the Planning Department to see our application through without a hitch. My client’s flung a lot of money at you. Now can you deliver, or can’t you?’
‘There’s been an unexpected complication … completely out of my hands,’ said the councillor, trembling slightly.
‘What sort of complication?’
‘There’s a pig. He’s built a house right in the middle of your proposed development site.’
‘How much does he want for it?’
‘You know pigs can’t be bought. This little pig built his dream home with his own trotters, out of straw, and he’s well proud of it.’
‘That’s ridiculous! We’ve worked hard for this, put in a lot of dosh, bent a lot of rules and twisted more than a couple of arms. We are not going to be stopped by a grumphie!’
‘Hmm,’ said the councillor. ‘I understand how you feel. Since animals with the power of speech were granted human rights by the European Union, they’ve been popping up everywhere, making a nuisance of themselves. And they don’t need to apply for planning permission!’
‘Fix this!’ said the developer. ‘You made a promise and unexpected complication or no, we own you!’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands,’ said the councillor. ‘My question to you is how badly do you want these flats built on this particular site?’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Persuasion,’ said the councillor. He scribbled down a number on a yellow Post-it note and handed it to the other man. ‘This guy’ll sort ye out, no problem. They call him the Wolf. Probably because … he’s a wolf.’
‘An animal? Can he be trusted?’
‘If the price is right, implicitly. You didnae get that from me, mind.’
‘Didnae get what from you?’ asked the developer, pocketing the piece of paper.
Diary of Ella McCinder
What a nightmare my life is! I hate it here!
I keep telling them I’m sixteen, well capable of looking after myself, but because I’m on this supervision thingy, that doesn’t count for much.
So unfair!
The people I’m living with are just horrible. They’ve got two daughters who are older than me, and they’re so ugly but they think they’re so beautiful, and they’re always telling me to do things like scrub the floor and clean the toilet and bathe all seven of their horrible dogs and – get this – clean under their toenails! And their mum and dad let them away with it!
The worst thing is they say if I tell the social workers what’s going on, they’ll make sure I get sent somewhere even worse and never see Mum again. I don’t know if I should believe them or not, but I do know I have to hide this diary.
The only thing I’m really living for at the moment is Harry Charmaine. He’s going to be interviewed by Reggie King next week, and I’m doing Work Experience at the studio, so there’s a chance, just a chance, I might actually get to meet him!
I know this sounds stupid, but I love him. I really do.
Another great day in the office was followed by yet another great workout in the gym. Reginald King was very happy when he asked his mirror: ‘Awright, Mirror?’
‘Awright, Mr King?’ replied the horrible visage that appeared in the glass.
‘Who’s the bonniest man in Glesga, then?’ asked King, stroking his own hair.
For the first time, the mirror hesitated. ‘You know, Mr King, that I can only give you an honest answer … but you’re no gonnae like it.’
King’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the m
irror sideways and picked up a dumbbell. ‘What are you saying to me, Mirror? Who’s the bonniest man in Glesga?’
‘I beg you, Mr King, not to do anything rash wi’ that dumbbell. There is a young man by the name of Karl White, a strapping young lad from the Highlands, who has made this city his home. He’s an albino, and everybody cries him “Snowy” on account of his white hair. His skin is softer, his smile is warmer, his eyes shine brighter, and by every measure, it must be said … he is bonnier than you.’
It had never occurred to Reginald King that the question he asked every day might, one day, have a different answer. His brain just wasn’t wired to deal with that.
A wave of unbearable heat swept through his body; he felt a loss of control, and his fist tightened around the dumbbell until it hurt. King’s heart was a ball of rage, and his voice, when it spat, ‘What?’ was entirely unfamiliar to him, as if some demon had spoken in his stead.
‘Try to calm down, Mr King,’ said the mirror.
‘Calm down?’ demanded King. ‘I’ll do nae such thing! How dare you? Who do you think you are? You’re just a wee daud o’ glass, a swing o’ this dumbbell away fae never insulting me again!’
He held the dumbbell over his head, ready to strike.
‘You know I can neither insult nor flatter, only tell the truth. And if you smash me, you lose your only channel to the truth. There’ll still be another man in Glesga bonnier than you. And others, bonnier still, may join him, but you’ll never know. So go ahead, smash me. Live yer life in torment, as other men do, never knowing who’s bonnier than them and who isnae.’
‘What do you suggest?’ puffed King, still gripping the dumbbell.
‘Well, I’m loathe to go Lady Macbeth, but … have you considered that maybe your anger is a wee bit misdirected? If White were to have a wee accident, you’d never have to worry about being second bonniest again … well, until next time.’
‘Can I do it? Can I take a human life? No! It’s unthinkable!’
‘Ye’ve nae qualms aboot doing in an innocent mirror!’ spat the mirror. ‘You’re a racist, that’s what you are! In any event, I’m no suggesting you dae yer ain dirty work.’
Glasgow Fairytale Page 1