Even Glasgow crime ‘godfather’ Arthur Thompson’s daughter Margaret died from a drugs overdose. Drug addicts were dying and the count was getting higher. Each death became less of a shock. I half expected my brother Mij to be the next one found dead in some flat somewhere. He would often come over to the Weavers from the Gorbals with exaggerated tales of lost Giro cheques and stolen wallets, in the hope I would bail him out. Heroin addiction makes people the best improvisers in the universe and he was playing out the whole Glasgow drug image thing; he even got two Pit Bull Terriers called Rocky and Tyson.
Sammy was as horrified as I was by what was happening. ‘That fucker,’ he said, naming a local drug baron, ‘drives about in his big BMW, living in a council house; he goes to Spain every other week with his wife and it’s all financed by kids dying in the street.’ Sammy hated heroin. So did I.
But I had no moral problems about running a pub. Alcohol and spirits were legal, therefore I was doing nothing wrong but sometimes I wondered if maybe watching all these people slowly destroy their lives with the booze I sold them made me as bad as the drug dealers. I used to watch the women in the Weavers letting themselves go wild on booze. Some very respectable, professional, married woman would start getting loud and falling about or, in some cases, get pissed-drunk and end up shagging Sammy. There was a hidden corner of the bar which I could only see because of a well-placed security mirror and sometimes I’d see Sammy snogging some local woman or getting her tits out. One woman I liked worked at the Stock Exchange in Glasgow and she would arrive in her business suit, stay all night and, by the end of the evening, she’d be so pissed-drunk she would pee down her tights, slide off her chair and have to be carried home. ‘Ooh! Whit?’ she’d slur, slightly surprised.
I never understood why people wanted to drink vodka late at night in a bar, but then I never drank and never fancied getting drunk. Alcohol to me was only a method of losing control and I hated the thought of losing control. I had watched my Dad and my Mammy lose control – him falling all over the house, looking nothing like the man I admired, her banging her head and incapable of even fighting Peter off as she, in my mind’s eye, struggled with him that horrible night on the bank of the River Clyde. They found high levels of alcohol in her system when they checked the dead body; maybe if she had been sober she would still be alive. So I hated booze, but didn’t mind selling it. And it had the advantage of attracting eccentric and interesting clientele.
One couple were very keen on listening to Country and Western music. ‘Wild Bill’ was a thin, tall man in his late sixties with a middle-class Glasgow accent and grey-white shoulder-length hair. He always wore a Wild West stetson hat and dressed in full, black cowboy gear – not just in our bar but in his everyday life. He actually had a ‘Red Indian’ squaw who called herself Sioux. Well, she wasn’t a real Red Indian. She spoke with a Glasgow council-estate accent and wore traditional Sioux clothes around the streets in her daily life – loose-fitting animal-hide clothes with Indian beads round her neck. It always amazed me how this man who liked to dress up as a cowboy had found a woman in Glasgow who, just by luck, liked to dress up as an Indian. She was maybe a wee bit retarded: she looked like she’d maybe made baskets as a teenager or had a gene missing and she had the strangest mouth I’d ever seen. She had inexplicable teeth. When she smiled, her lips parted and her gums looked as if they were made of dark yellow plastic while her teeth had layers of lighter yellow plaque on them. She had jet-black hair plaited into Red Indian pony-tails with big ribbons on them and she also had a slight black moustache, which was quite disconcerting.
You couldn’t hold a conversation with her. I’d say, ‘That’s a lovely dress you’ve got on.’
She’d reply, ‘Uhwhuhehe,’ and just laugh and I’d think Right. Wild Bill has found a backward Indian called Sioux. In Glasgow. I wondered if she might actually live in a wigwam somewhere in Maryhill, near where my Dad had bought a flat.
In 1891 and 1904, the real Buffalo Bill Cody had come to Glasgow with his Wild West Show featuring 100 Red Indians plus cowboys, Mexicans, Bedouins, Cossacks, Argentinian gauchos, Japanese cavalry, buffalo, elk, horses, a group of African tribesmen, six performing Burmese elephants, Annie Oakley wearing tartan and a man on a bicycle who did stunts. They were all based in the big army barracks at Maryhill and about seven or eight of Wild Bill’s Sioux Indians stayed on in Glasgow and married Scottish women. In my childhood, we had sung the local nursery rhyme:
Buffalo Bill from Maryhill
Disnae work and never will
It seemed that, perhaps, their descendants still roamed the streets of Glasgow.
16
Que sera sera
WHEN ASHLEY TURNED three, Sean developed various worrying ailments, like flu, food poisoning and the migraine headaches he’d had all his life but much worse. He got very thin and weak. Lots of people thought he had AIDS; this was, after all, the East End of Glasgow in 1989. It was really hard on me, as I had to work double shifts to make up his hours; I became exhausted trying to do everything in the Weavers and looking after the flats day to day. Ashley was juggled between my Dad and my sister Ann. Eventually, after months of worsening illness, Sean went into hospital for a lumbar puncture to drain spinal fluid and he also had a brain scan. The hospital tested him and assured him he did not have AIDS, but the scan revealed he had had a brain haemorrhage. I felt terribly guilty; I had wished him dead so many times.
Sean became even more ill, so weak that he could hardly walk or talk at all; it was as if he were turning into a vegetable. Ashley understood what was happening and was stricken with fear. She was a real daddy’s girl and did not want him to stay in hospital. She once refused to leave his bedside and screamed as she was dragged off by the nurses. My Dad visited Sean daily. Old George never went once; I explained what was wrong with Sean by phone and he never asked again, not even for any progress reports. As I did not drive, while Sean was ill, Sammy drove me to the cash-and-carry warehouse to buy goods for the Weavers. But, one night, Sean’s brother Stephen drove me because he wanted to borrow Sean’s car afterwards. When we got to the till, I pulled out Old George’s cheque book and signed a cheque for the alcohol and food.
‘Is that my da’s cheque book?’ Stephen asked me suspiciously.
‘Aye,’ I said irritably. ‘It’s the same cheque book I’ve been signing for the last seven years. Why?’
‘Does my da know you sign his cheques?’ Stephen asked, even more suspicious.
‘Aye he fucking knows!’ I snapped back. ‘OK? It is his pub. I have worked there for the last nine years. We use his cheque book. We give him the books to check. What is your fucking problem? D’ye think if I wanted to steal with your da’s cheque book I would buy booze and fags when I don’t drink or smoke? Oh and, by the way, booze and fags happen to be what we sell in the fucking pub. Ye think that’s a coincidence?’
The till girl carried on putting goods in bags without looking at us; she knew me because I came in and signed a cheque every other week.
Sean had just come out of hospital two days before and was lying at home in bed, trying to do all the books and deal with the cashflow while he struggled with his brain and lung disorders. His speech was slow and he felt constantly confused.
The next afternoon, Old George came to see him at the Weavers, although he had never visited him in hospital. Sean dragged himself out of bed and went downstairs with me. There were just the three of us plus Sammy and Paul and a few old men down the far end of the bar.
‘Why is she using my cheque book?’ Old George snapped at Sean.
‘Janey always signs the cheques, Da. She’s always done the cash-and-carry run with Sammy. Who d’ye think runs this place? I’ve been away for six weeks.’
‘I don’t like it!’ Old George snarled back.
‘Well, big fucking deal,’ replied Sean. ‘Here – I’ll tell ye whit, Da, why don’t ye give the cheque book to your junkie sons and I’ll take the thieving wife away? That’s i
t. Here – take the fucking pub keys!’ He slammed the keys onto the bar. ‘Sammy, Paul, Janey – upstairs!’ Sean boomed. ‘I need you to bring doon all my da’s paperwork and all of the fucking accounts and any other shite that belongs to him.’
Old George stood firm; he was as white as a sheet and gritted his teeth so loud they could almost hear it at the other end of the bar. He always literally gritted his teeth when he was angry. Sammy, Paul and I bolted out of the door and ran upstairs. Sean followed us slowly.
‘Sean,’ I tried to placate him when we were all upstairs. ‘Be careful. Old George is angry.’
‘Well, fuck him!’ Sean screamed as he packed files and folders into a big box. ‘This is all shite, Janey! You have been helping with his paperwork for years, running his fucking bar, counting all the cash in the machines, dealing with licences and – suddenly – you are stealing by using a cheque book at the fucking cash and carry?’ He slowly walked downstairs again and dramatically slammed the bar door open, carrying a big cardboard whisky box. Old George had not moved. Bemused customers were patiently standing at the bar waiting to be served. I walked in slowly behind Sean.
‘I will go serve the —’ I started to say as I stepped behind the bar.
‘No!’ Sean shouted at me. ‘Don’t fucking serve anyone! You are a thief, remember? Let him fucking serve his customers!’ Sean banged the box down in front of his dad. ‘Here you are – all your accounts for the flats above, the bank details, the council reports Janey got for the grant we are trying to get for the building, the takings from the Weavers and any other shite I have that we do for you. Take these and yer pub keys and don’t fucking ever even speak to me again!’ Sean walked straight back out of the door and went upstairs again. I was left in the bar, rooted to the spot. The customers just looked at me as if to say Are we ever going to get served?
Old George stood there, rock solid, like one of those faces on Mount Rushmore, and stared at me with that chilling look in his eyes which used to freak me out – like he just didn’t care what happened to me or to himself. I knew Old George would do anything; he’d be willing to throw everything away; it was the sort of stare a cat gives a mouse or a bird just before it jumps.
Eventually, after a terrifyingly long silence, Old George spoke: ‘This is all your fault!’ he growled.
‘My fault?’ I tried to reason with him. ‘Why? All I did was go to get stock for the bar. You know I’ve signed your cheque book for years, George. You’ve even been there in the cash and carry with me when I signed it. I don’t understand the problem.’
There was a moment of total silence, then …
‘Tell him to come back doon here!’ Old George commanded.
I walked slowly towards the door but, as I opened it, I turned and said to him, ‘No, tell him yourself.’ I slammed the door dramatically behind me then leapt, terrified, and ran upstairs, glancing over my shoulder to see if he was chasing me. Sean was sitting quietly in our living room.
He was entirely calm.
He said nothing.
I said nothing.
I paced the floor, worried. Ashley was in her room playing with her toys.
Downstairs, customers were waiting to be served, but I could hear nothing, separated from them by the concrete floor.
There was a knock at the door. Ashley ran out of her room into the hallway to answer it.
‘It’s Grandad!’ she shouted, excited at seeing him. ‘Lift me up, Grandad! Lift me up!’
George lifted her up into his arms as he came towards us through the hall. Sean stood up as his father entered the living room and pulled Ashley out of George’s arms into his own.
‘Grandad was holding me, Daddy!’ she shouted angrily.
George stood there filling up the living room with his brooding presence. He very rarely came into our living room but, when he did, it was as if he filled up the whole room with … George-ness. He was about six foot tall and very broad. Toad Hall had big rooms; our rooms were small. I had rarely seen him in small rooms, so he seemed even more imposing now. There was silence. Neither Sean nor Old George was going to raise his voice in front of Ashley. Both were distracted by her persistent chatter as she ran around her beloved Granda’s legs wittering. She was totally unaware of any antagonism in the air. Old George spoke first.
‘Sean, I am sorry,’ he said quietly.
‘Don’t apologise to me,’ Sean answered. ‘I wasn’t the one you called a thief.’
‘What’s a thief?’ Ashley asked, turning her face up to look at her granda.
‘Come on, chatty girl,’ I interrupted nervously. ‘Go into your room, Ashley, and get some drawings to show Grandad.’ And off she happily trotted.
Old George smiled his best big charming grin at me. ‘Janey, I shouldn’t huv said any of that. Now, you both go down and run the bar for me, eh?’
‘Janey will go down if she wants,’ Sean said firmly. ‘But I am staying here. I am ill.’ He turned his back on his father as Ashley came through the door with a big piece of paper.
‘I drew a dead rainbow. It fell into the street.’ She had seen diesel spill from a taxi on the wet street, its spectrum of colours spreading and shimmering in the daylight.
The drama was over – for the moment.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, Sean went back to work slowly. He had recovered as well as he could but had been told that, for the rest of his life, he would need to take tablets for sarcoidosis (a disease which causes inflammation of the body’s tissues) and a nasal spray for diabetes insipidus (an inability to recycle the water in the kidneys). He was very subdued and overly anxious at the same time, which made his temper even worse. He had always had an inner need for small details to be perfect, but now it got totally out of control.
We used to have a company who delivered all the laundry and tea towels for the Weavers and the flats; they would hand me a small receipt which I had to punch two holes in and put into Sean’s laundry accounts folder. One day, I punched the slip and clipped it in as normal, Sean arrived, opened the laundry ringbinder – and immediately rammed it flat, full force into my face.
‘Look! It’s all out of fucking line!’ he started screaming at me. ‘They’re all up and doon! The receipts have tae line up perfectly! You have tae punch the holes in exactly the right place or they don’t look neat! It’s a fucking mess!’
I looked at the bundle of receipts and one or two were indeed sticking out ever so slightly. I watched Sean unclip the receipts and trim them with the very sharp blade of a Stanley knife and a ruler so they all sat perfectly in line in the folder. He did it in total silence.
In the bar, he also started to shout at staff if the beer bottles in the chiller cabinet were not all standing with the labels facing front-out in a regimented fashion. Even if I had made sure they all faced front, he would pull the chiller out and make tiny adjustments to ensure they looked 100 per cent perfect. Tiny pedantic issues started to dominate his life. In the bar, the glass-cleaning cloths had to be folded in a very particular way. In our bedroom, the sash windows had to be raised to a certain level and no more – he marked the wood with a pencil to show how high it should be. I had no idea what had made him get so picky, but I worried more and more about his health and how he would cope on our forthcoming holiday.
This year, we had long planned to take Ashley for a visit to Disney World in Florida. It was to be our holiday of a lifetime. Sean assured me he would be fit enough to go and the doctor gave him the all-clear. Ashley became increasingly excited about her big visit to meet Mickey Mouse but I was even more excited. I had dreamt about Disneyland ever since I was a wee girl. I had seen that big magic castle and those flying Dumbo elephants on television in the early 1960s and the anticipation of seeing them for real burned inside me. I had always dreamt of escaping to Sleeping Beauty’s castle.
When the ferry finally took me across to the Magic Kingdom and that beautiful pink castle appeared on the horizon, I had tears in my eyes.
I completely forgot about Ashley as I stood there holding onto the boat rail, transfixed by the image. I was 28. Ashley was three. We went into Mickey’s home and walked around with all the other tourists. As we entered Mickey’s bright bedroom, Ashley shouted loudly, ‘Look, Mickey and Minnie sleep together here!’
An overweight American man leaned over and drawled: ‘No, honey, we would know if they were married. They would have had a wedding.’
Ashley smiled innocently up at the man: ‘But they must sleep here like boyfriend and girlfriend,’ she explained, ‘coz Minnie’s shoes are there on the floor …’ And, sure enough, there on the floor beside Mickey’s big red bed were, indeed, a pair of Minnie’s black high-heel shoes. The fat American stood with his hands outstretched towards the bed and a What can I say? expression on his face.
* * *
When we returned to Glasgow, I would stand at the bar of the Weavers and look out through the front window at the glamorous Doges’ Palace tiling on the side of the old Carpet Factory – bright glinting tiles, Venetian turrets and scooped windows – which bore no relation to the seediness into which the Calton had fallen. Ashley loved that exotic building almost as much as the People’s Palace behind it. She knew every single exhibit at the People’s Palace and would wander round chatting to people about the Glasgow tobacco barons, Billy Connolly’s big banana boots, the wee 1950s newsagents that was recreated within the museum and she would play with Smudge the Cat, the only card-carrying trade union membershipped cat in Britain, who always followed her around. Ashley became so well known to the staff that she was allowed to walk around as though she owned the place.
‘I am the Princess of the Palace,’ she told me. ‘Tommy Security Man told me so!’
Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival Page 19