Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival

by Godley, Janey

  ‘Janey,’ she asked one morning, ‘can ye cut ma hair?’

  ‘Are ye mad?’ I laughed.

  ‘Just do yer best.’

  Her thick white hair was going yellow at the front, as if each cigarette had left a stain on her fringe; I stood there and cropped inch after inch off and, as the hair spun down to the ground, I started getting cocky and began to chop into it, making layers. The end result was amazing – she looked great! I went to the local chemist and bought a cheap dark brown hair dye and tinted the short hairdo I had created. She looked years younger. We both laughed as she pretended to be Judy Garland in my kitchen and danced around singing ‘Easter Bonnet’ into my soup ladle.

  I was hoping that Dad would visit us and then maybe he and Mammy could get back together: I still had that same childish fantasy in my head. But, this time, Dad did arrive the following day and he took me aside. ‘I need to tell you something. It’s important.’ He looked different and edgy. ‘I’ve stopped drinking, Janey. I had such a bad time last week I felt I was going mad. I ended up in the Police Office screaming mad. It was the DTs. I have stopped drinking.’

  ‘That’s great, Da,’ I shot back, pretending to believe him. I knew he would be drinking again at the weekend, though I had never heard him say those actual words before. I’ve stopped drinking. Not ever.

  ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘I really mean I huv stopped. I am never gonnae drink again.’

  I looked at him and saw his eyes were clear and he looked happy: ‘That’s really good, Dad, I hope you do it.’

  Mammy and Dad decided to go out for a day in town. I dressed her in a fresh blouse, fixed her hair and wrapped her in my new black leather coat. She looked lovely but it felt strange. Here I was getting my Mammy ready for a date with my Dad. They set off around midday. I sat in the bar, playing my favourite Steely Dan songs on the jukebox and secretly smiled at the thought of them having a good day with each other. Around teatime, the bar door slammed open, banging off the wall. Mammy stood there glaring and angry.

  ‘I hud to drink fuckin coffee!’ she shouted at me. ‘We sat an’ talked in a café an’ he didnae let me drink!’ The leather coat was whipped off and she climbed up onto a bar stool demanding a half of lager. ‘No drinking? He’s no’ my man any mare – he’s a fucking weirdo. Janey, he talked aboot the meaning of life and shitey regrets and stuff. Fuck knows whit has happened tae him.’

  I had thought this was what she had always wanted – a man who didn’t drink and was good to his family. But I had been wrong. She sat there swigging down her lager, sucking on a fag and staring into the distance. As the week progressed, out of the blue, Mammy and Sean started sniping at each other. She had never been rude to Sean before. He mostly ignored her attacks and went downstairs to the bar; the only times he argued back were when she demanded that we watch what she wanted on telly. Sean always got his own way on that because it was important to him. Slowly, Mammy became quieter within herself. The only time she laughed and talked much was when she sat by the window at night and watched the prostitutes in London Road negotiate with men under the stark white street lights.

  ‘Some of those hookers are as old as fuckin’ me!’ she’d laugh, then wrap a coat round herself, lift her skirt up and swagger round the living room, pouting: ‘D’ye think I would get a tenner fur it?’ She would howl with laughter. It was good to hear her laugh. Soon, she began talking about going home. I tried to talk to her about Peter, but she wouldn’t. She left the Calton after eight days. She wanted to go home to him.

  11

  Down those streets

  SEAN AND I were still trying our best to get customers into the bar, but no matter how many times you hoovered or tried to brush around the pool table, the place still looked like a dump and few new faces came in. The emptiness of the bar meant I played pool incessantly and read constantly – magazines, comics, classic literature, anything – and I organised our meals and washed our clothes and shopped for food to keep the boredom at bay. That summer was unusually hot and I would sit outside on the pavement watching the world go by. Each day, I would see a scattered procession of drug addicts quick-march on their tell-tale jiggy walk off across the Green to score at The Railings. Half an hour later, they would stumble back, dribbling, full of drugs, and meander across the busy London Road making me terrified they would get flattened by a bus or a speeding lorry. It was like the drunken men I had seen staggering up Kenmore Street on Friday and Saturday nights in my childhood, only the drug had changed from alcohol to heroin.

  By this time, most of Britain was gripped by Royal Wedding fever: Prince Charles and the virginal Lady Diana Spencer were creating a perfect template of wedded bliss for us all to follow. Five minutes down the London Road, in Bridgeton, there were street parties, cakes, happy children waving flags and balloons and the whole area was draped in red, white and blue Union flags to celebrate our Prince’s wedding. In the Calton, though, there were no street parties, no flags, no festive bunting; people were not throwing themselves into it like other areas because the majority of people in the Calton were Catholics who were not by nature Royalists. The Royal Family were Protestants and one of the Queen’s titles was Defender of the Faith – the Protestant Faith. Down those streets she was disliked as much as Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.

  I, though, was excited by the whole thing and sat glued to the Nationalist Bar’s wee telly hanging above the pool table. I watched as the beautiful bride in her big crumpled cream dress headed towards St Paul’s Cathedral in London. I loved it! I was in love with love and hoped they were going to be happy – even if only as happy as Sean and me. The bar only had three old customers that day. Just as Diana got out of her carriage at St Paul’s and I waited to see what her dress looked like full length, one of them yelled out:

  ‘Turn that fuckin’ Orange bastard Prince off the telly so we can listen to the jukebox! … Give us “Mack The Knife”!’

  I ran upstairs and spent the whole rest of the day following the live wedding coverage on our own TV. Sean stayed downstairs and looked after the bar alone. Despite his occasional angry and sometimes violent moods, he was usually loving and affectionate and always stood by me. One night in the bar, Sean told a big, hairy, middle-aged drunk guy he was not getting served any more booze.

  ‘Ya specky bastard,’ the man screamed at Sean, as he pulled him towards the door. ‘I am gonna punch your fucking heed in!’ I stood terrified by the cellar door. Sean was still only 19 years old. They both went out the side door and I ran out behind them. Sean stood in front of the man, slowly took his spectacles off then, without warning, suddenly kicked him hard in the stomach. The man fell forward and Sean jumped on him, raining blows on the guy’s head. I became hysterical and managed to pull Sean off as other customers dragged the man away. Sean was spattered with the man’s blood and shaking like a leaf. He went into the back shop and washed his hands. I ran in behind and put my arms around him.

  He pushed me roughly off and yelled, ‘Don’t you ever fucking pull me off anyone again! Don’t you ever hold my arms when I am fighting! Don’t you ever fucking come near me when I am dealing with any of that!’ As he screamed at me, spittle and blood were splattered over my face. ‘Don’t you ever fucking do any of that unless you want to fight him instead of me! Never – ever – be a witness! Do you fucking hear me? Never be a witness!’

  He grabbed me by the neck and stared at me for what seemed like hours, his ‘mad’ eyes searing into mine, his fingers not moving but tightly pressing into my throat. I felt my breath slip away; I felt a pulse behind my eyes; I felt I was trying to scream but I couldn’t. He let go slowly, then grabbed me round the shoulders and held me tight.

  ‘Janey, I am sorry, I’m sorry, babes. But don’t come near me when aw that happens, please.’

  I stood there in our dirty back shop staring at the wallpaper, not breathing aloud or speaking, just looking at the floral pattern blur and magnify as the tears bloated over my eyes. Sean sat on the floor,
looked up at me and then dropped his head onto his knees. I could hear him crying softly.

  ‘I hate this, Janey. I hate this place. I hate fighting and I hate hurting you. You should just go home to your Mammy, hen, I am fucked …’

  But I wouldn’t give up on him. He was only 19 and I realised it was hard trying to be a man in that world. The pressure I came under was different. To be married in the East End and not have kids before you were 18 was seen as a sure sign of infertility. You were expected to get married, get pregnant (not necessarily in that order), get several children, then get depressed and practise putting make-up on black eyes.

  ‘You no’ pregnant yet?’ Sean’s aunt would regularly bark at me, like I had a defiant Protestant womb.

  ‘I’m no’ ready for weans,’ I kept telling the many people who asked. Sean never wanted babies either; he reckoned we had to make some cash and live a wee bit first. I did get to be a surrogate mammy because we always had Sean’s wee brother Paul Storrie, now a cheeky, funny young 13-year-old. We even took him on our first holiday together. We hired a boat and chugged up and down the River Thames. Paul loved getting to ‘drive’ the boat all the way up to Windsor. Seeing his smiling wee face as he fed the ducks and played on the banks of the Thames made my heart leap. At home, he never really got to be a wee boy much – he was driving cars and shifting big lorries for Old George.

  When we got back to Glasgow, Paul was pulled in by the police as a witness in the trial of a Glasgow shopkeeper who was selling solvents to young kids. Paul had bought the glue for a glue- sniffing friend. The police insisted Old George attend a meeting at the local Police Office to discuss his son’s upcoming court appearance. I had to be there too as Paul was staying with me and that legally made me involved. But I was really there to support Paul as he was terrified of what Old George would do to him for the trouble he had got himself into. We all sat crammed into an extremely small room at the London Road Police Office. Old George was dressed in his full formal suit with cashmere coat on top. It was stiflingly hot and he looked stressed. The atmosphere was dreadful. Four detectives came into the room; Paul shrank behind me and gripped my hand. I held fast. Old George stood up, refusing to shake hands or exchange any pleasantries with the detectives, who tried but failed to introduce themselves.

  ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ George shouted at them. ‘He is not goin’ to fucking court!’

  ‘Maybe you should sit down and shut up,’ a detective replied.

  The room became oppressive; it was like trying to suck in air as you were being buried alive. The four policemen and Old George all stood their ground aggressively. Paul and I clenched each other’s hands. One large detective sniggered as Old George dropped his shoulders. Then George turned to me, slipped off his big coat and, as soon as the warm woollen garment dropped onto my lap, he turned and punched the large detective square in the face. The five men fell over each other in the cramped room as Old George thrashed around punching anyone and anything that came near him.

  ‘Calm down, for fucksake, George!’ shouted one of the older detectives. ‘It’s OK, George! George! Calm down!’

  It was over.

  The fighting stopped.

  The room was almost quiet.

  Almost.

  Two of the detectives stood holding their bloodied faces, swearing quietly.

  Old George was standing in the middle of the room, his fists up high, jaw clenched and growling like a caged animal. He pushed his way past the men, walked to the door and almost wrenched it off its hinges, thumbing to us to follow him. Outside in the hallway, two startled young uniformed coppers tried to peer into the room but walked quickly off as soon as they saw the fierce look on Old George’s face.

  ‘You fucking bastards! If you want more, fucking come here right now!’ George screamed, pointing to the floor in front of him. Paul and I just shuffled behind him as he made his way through the hall. ‘My son is not going to court! That’s the fucking end of it, OK?’ he spat towards the men gathered in the hallway. No one moved, they just stood and watched us all march towards the outer door of the Police Office. As he reached the door, Old George turned, pointed at the desk officer and shouted: ‘Tell those cunts no’ to come near me again!’

  Paul and I shuffled like mice behind him, terrified to speak. We both breathed quietly in case the noise of our exhaled nervousness upset him. When we reached the car park in front of the Police Office, Old George stopped and looked at the door of his big silver car. The window had been broken; inside, the radio had been ripped out.

  ‘Oh my God. Please God, no!’ I whispered to Paul. He just looked like a white-faced corpse. I held onto his hand even tighter and we stared at his father.

  ‘Aaagh! That’s fucking it! No fucking way!’ Old George screamed at the top of his voice. He strode quickly back towards the Police Office.

  Paul and I followed nervously. I don’t know why we didn’t just run for the hills at this point, but something made us stay with the old man. By the time Paul and I reached the front desk, Old George was already screaming at the desk officer:

  ‘Who the fuck smashed my car, ye bastards?’ The veins were jutting out in his neck and sweat was running down the side of his almost bald head. The young desk officer stood there docilely and asked politely ‘What is your problem?’ then said more firmly: ‘And don’t raise your voice to me.’

  Old George pulled back his right arm and drove his fist straight into the young man’s face. Blood spurted from his nose. I felt sick. Stinging bile forced its way up my throat. I grabbed Paul’s shoulders, turned him round and we both fled back to the car park. We sat on a low wall and watched through the sliding glass front door of the Police Office as Old George flailed his arms about, pointing to his car as three policemen held their palms up towards him and shook their heads. We could hear his swearing and shouting, sometimes clearly, sometimes muffled, as the glass doors kept sliding open and shut whenever he paced too near the sensor as he ranted and swore.

  Eventually, he was walked to the door by an elderly man wearing a suit.

  Old George strode towards us, then shouted: ‘Get in the fucking car!’ We drove home in total silence. Old George stopped at the Nationalist Bar and spoke through gritted teeth to Paul as we were trying to manoeuvre ourselves out from the back seats: ‘If you get into any more trouble, ya stupid wee bastard, I will fucking kick yer ass.’

  Paul dropped his head and nodded. We walked away towards the bar and he finally let go of my hand. Paul needed help with his education and loads of comforting hugs. He did better at school once he was staying with us rather than at Toad Hall. We gave him some security and stability and Sean tried hard to keep him occupied during weekends. Paul’s biggest problem was that he had a natural gift for getting caught; he was just innately unlucky. If anyone at school broke a window – even if Paul didn’t do it – witnesses would remember seeing Paul among the crowd who might have done it.

  * * *

  That Christmas, Paul, Sean and I had great fun decorating the pub, putting up a tree and stringing lights all round the walls. We hoped for better business, but that allegedly festive week was abysmal. We fed Christmas dinner to the few punters who came, then sat silently round the pub’s telly watching old films and eating hot chicken, occasionally pouring the odd pint for a desolate customer.

  The New Year, though, held great promise. The Calton had been designated a ‘regeneration area’ – the wasteland across the London Road from the pub, barren and bleak with frost, had been designated for private homes. The blurb in the proposal described this heroin- and prostitute-infested stretch of road within the seedy, rundown Calton area as Historic, set facing Glasgow’s oldest park, central to the city centre. The area is fast becoming one of Glasgow’s most sought-after residential communities.

  It was great news for us. The Nationalist Bar was soon bustling with burly workmen who liked a drink before, during and after work. The pool table started doing brisk business and our
newly arrived Space Invader machine happily bleeped and gulped 10p pieces by the dozen. Sean and I were now getting on very well and planned a boating holiday. Paul chose the Norfolk Broads and we began saving hard for the trip.

  When Mother’s Day approached, Sean bought my Mammy a fancy big card and gave me an extra £5 to buy her something special. I got the card ready and rode the bus to Shettleston. I was excited to see her; she had never had a phone and I did miss her. I couldn’t wait to catch up on what was going on in her life. When I arrived, she was at home, sitting quietly at her new electric fire.

  ‘Hi, hen,’ she welcomed me. ‘Shut the door quick or that fucking daft dug will want in.’

  ‘Mammy, the dug lives here; it will bark if ye don’t let it in.’

  ‘It is not my dug!’ she shouted.

  ‘OK, Mammy, here – Happy Mother’s Day.’ I handed her the card. She smiled at the picture of a big bunch of lilacs and opened the card up to read the words, smiling even wider when she took the £5 note and slipped it in her pocket.

  ‘If Sean asks, tell him I bought ye chocolates,’ I told her.

  ‘Fucking chocolates! I don’t eat chocolates. C’moan down to the pub with me and I’ll get a coupla cans,’ she said as she pulled on her woolly coat. I never got to spend the time I wanted with her. After she bought the cans, she turned round and told me, ‘Tell Sean thanks. I’m off to see Peter an’ I know ye don’t want to come, so I’ll maybe see ye next week.’

  I felt a bit let down. I had wanted to be with her for a wee while longer. But she was right – I didn’t want to see Peter. I watched her as she walked into the distance, following her red coat with my eyes until it finally disappeared as she turned a corner. Then I went and got the bus back to the Calton. I had only been away an hour.

  Sean and Paul were sitting waiting for me; Paul had bought me a lovely card for Mother’s Day. He had even bought me a Hall and Oates music tape. I felt better and decided that Mammy just wanted my cash; she had never even looked back to wave at me. I had my own life here with Sean and it wasn’t that bad.