My group unfortunately met in Kenmore Street – just yards from the house where it all happened. Having to deal with the location on top of the memories themselves upset me at the time, but the women in the group were amazing and we all pulled together. I did benefit from those therapy sessions; I felt better each time I left Shettleston and returned to my world back in the Calton.
Occasionally, on my way back down Kenmore Street, I would throw a glance up at my Mammy’s old window, half-believing she might still be sitting there, blowing out her spindly smoke circles and gazing out towards the big gas tanks and Barlinnie High Security Prison and all the houses of High Carntyne. I wished she were still there for me to talk to. I could ask her so much, tell her so much, and hope that, this time, she could face the truth like her two daughters were now trying to.
23
Cleaver and Polis and pills
SEAN AND I had booked another holiday in Florida because, now that Ashley was older, she would enjoy the trip more. Sean was much easier-going during the trip and seemed to be enjoying himself. One night, we sat on a beach, Sean, Ashley and me, all curled up in a blanket inside a big blue cabana, watching the Florida sunset and, after darkness fell, Sean let Ashley get up and paddle in the moonlight.
‘Daddy, come on! It’s midnight swimming time!’ she squealed as she ran splashing along the shoreline.
‘She might die in there!’ I yelled out – I could hardly see her in the darkness – She might fall in and drown – I ran down the beach – Searching through the darkness – I couldn’t see her – I could hear the ocean – Not see it – I was scared.
But she was there, holding Sean’s hands and tip-toeing through the surf, humming and singing:
She’s gone with the Hoola Hoola boys …
I could see Sean’s wide smile: he was holding her hands, singing along and making his wee girl happy just by being there.
He made things easier for me at times; when I was confused and scared he could always calm me with his reassuring words. I had always believed in my heart he never really wanted to hurt me. I knew he loved me dearly. Yet he was the one person who did hurt me most. I had never really understand why he felt so destructive at times. Somehow the love we shared either ripped us apart or pulled us together.
‘Janey,’ he told me in Florida, ‘never accept things you can’t live with. I know I fucked you about. I’ll never deny that.’ He held my hand. ‘One day you will know where you want to be and – if it is not with me – trust me, I will make it easy for you. I won’t fuck you about any more.’
When Sean said those words to me, I remembered a regular in the Weavers who loved to play word games with me. He was very educated and loved crosswords. He worked at the new computer company across the road in the Templeton Business Centre. He sported long greasy hair, big goggly spectacles and clothes that implied he liked to dress in the dark at a jumble sale. He was the archetypal nutty professor.
‘Janey, what word is spelt the same, sounds the same but has two opposite meanings?’
‘Don’t know, you tell me,’ I replied, unsmiling, looking at a row of unwashed glasses.
‘Cleave,’ he announced smugly. ‘It means to pull apart and to stick together.’
That single word described my relationship with Sean.
We were ‘cleaved’.
I wanted to love him without fear and look forward to a lifetime with a man who didn’t scream at me and make me climb out of windows to escape his rage. I also wanted to hate him, but I had to keep reminding myself he was Ashley’s daddy and I could no longer genuinely wish him dead because she would be fatherless. I knew I could not take her away from him and I knew I could not leave without her. What point would my life have if I left my daughter? So the bond between Sean and me became much stronger but much more volatile. I needed our relationship to work so that Ashley’s mind would not be fucked up. I almost wished her life away; I would look at her and think: Hurry up and be 16! The minute she was 16, I would leave Sean; I would only be 40 – not a bad age. I had it all planned.
* * *
Ashley still loved her school and so did I. There, I was just Janey Storrie – I wasn’t Sean Storrie’s wife and that felt nice. Ashley made friends easily, felt secure in her world and was often invited to tea at other girls’ homes, some of which were huge mansions with gravel paths and enormous gardens she could play in. It did make our pokey wee flat above the Weavers feel very inadequate. Ashley never mentioned if she felt overwhelmed by the superior financial status of her new friends though she spoke with pride of her pals’ big cars and swimming pools in the garden. I worried we might not be good enough for her and became stressed in case Ashley would feel ‘the poor girl’ of the class, exactly as I had.
Fortunately, this never seemed to happen; she loved the world of the Weavers bar with the flats above and the garden on the roof. Although she lived in our flat, she had access to most of the other flats and rooms in the building. Her playroom – specially decorated for her – was actually in the flat next door to ours – a whole room next to Old Wullie’s. We never kept the doors locked during the day and she would drag her toys back and forth all over the landing stairs which were very often carpeted in dolls, toy cars and tiny pots and cups. It became so bad I had to keep making sure she cleared part of the stairs in case someone stumbled over the toys when coming up or down. If the boys who lived upstairs came across her on the landing, they would be held emotional hostage. She was the only child in the building and she knew how to manipulate that situation to her advantage.
‘Steve! Play with me for a wee while, please? I will be the teacher and you can be the good child who gets to read!’ Before he could react, she would put a book in his hand. ‘Please! You are my best pal! Please play for just this many minutes?’ Her hand would hold up five chubby fingers and she would smile her biggest smile. ‘Now sit down and I will get all the teddy bears and Mr Bovey the panda bear to listen to your wee story!’ She would point to the old grey stone stair, smiling and pleading with her big eyes. ‘Please?’ Her world was full of obliging, happy people – young men who danced to her songs, read her books and swung her up high any time she asked.
* * *
Sammy had been her favourite uncle for the longest time but, lately, he had been avoiding her – in fact, avoiding all of us. He was hardly offering to work any shifts in the pub and any time I knocked on his door to see him, he made me feel like a stranger standing there. I was concerned as Sean and I had taken out the loan for him in our name to buy his car; he was paying it back as agreed but it seemed to be the only time we ever saw him. After a few weeks of this, Sammy came to us with news that he and Sarah would be moving out and going to live up in Coatbridge, 20 miles outside Glasgow. Sarah’s family lived out that way and she seemed happy with the move. But I was very suspicious. Sammy did not get on well with Sarah’s family and he had never seemed keen to move away before. When I pressed him for further details he just brushed me off.
‘Sammy, whit the fuck is this all aboot?’ I persisted. ‘You belong here with us. Who the fuck do you know in Coatbridge?’ I handed him a mug of tea, watching as he scooped the fat ceramic mug between both shaking hands to steady it.
‘It’s aboot nothing, Janey. I just feel like a wee change, ye know?’
He moved out the following week. It was all too fast for my liking; Sarah, too, was very evasive on details of where they were going; neither would tell us the actual address. Within weeks, Sammy’s payments on the loan had become sporadic. It was unlike him and alarm bells immediately rang in my head. There was only one thing that would stop Sammy keeping up with his loan repayments and that was heroin.
One night, soon afterwards, he stood in my kitchen. He had always been skinny, but now he looked like every bone in his body could rattle against the others. His hands shook; his face looked in pain; he could not make eye contact with me; he stood shivering and uncharacteristically shouting. I had never heard Sammy shout in m
y life.
‘I have no fucking money to eat!’ he shouted at me. ‘I am skint! I can’t afford this fucking car!’
His hand clutched a wad of 30 £10 notes. He kept moving forward with the cash, as if to give it to me, but not actually letting go of it. His thin hand would hover over my pine kitchen table but never once did his bony fingers open enough to scatter the money onto the table top. He paced up and down the kitchen, shouting, ‘Janey! I cannae pay ye!’
He suddenly stuffed the money into the pocket of his blue denim jeans. I reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. He looked straight into my face. His eyes were cloudy, not the clear bright blue they used to be. I knew then. For certain.
‘You are on smack, ya cunt!’ I shouted. ‘Fucking hell, Sammy! You! Why?’
‘No I am no’ Janey!’ he spat out, wildly throwing his arms up and releasing himself from my grip. ‘Ah promise, Janey. Fucking hell, I’m no’ a junkie!’
‘Ye fucking are, Sammy!’ I shouted. ‘Jesus! Fuck! Why? After everything you fucking know, you took smack?’ I sat at the table and put my head in my hands. Sammy stood there, shivering, looking down at me. ‘Take it, Sammy,’ I told him, exhausted. ‘Keep the money, but you will huv to explain to Sean why he will need to pay £300 this month oot of his own pocket for a car you own, not fucking him.’
Sammy did not move.
He slowly pulled the 30 £10 notes out of his pocket. I watched him as he held the bundle in his grip and then put it on the table. His eyes did not leave the brown notes. He turned his back on me, then actually ran out the door. My stomach lurched like a leapfrog game had taken place inside it. Sammy was on smack. I felt so fucking angry. His own denials, his anger and the look on his face as he screamed at me confirmed it all.
Sean took Sammy’s fall from grace very well, considering he would now have to pay a lot of money for a car he didn’t own and couldn’t sell – Sammy had already done that the week before without telling us.
‘Well,’ Sean said. ‘That’s my fault for giving a loan to a junkie.’
‘Fucksake,’ I told him. ‘You slapped me for not defrosting the fridge, ya weird bastard! Sammy fucks you for a couple of grand and you just shake yer head?’
Sean looked at me through narrowed eyes, reading a newspaper. I didn’t really want him to hit Sammy, of course, but I never could understand why I always got the shit and no one else did even when they clearly deserved it. I felt overwhelmed by everything and deliberately started a fight with him.
‘Sammy fucks us both for cash and you accept it! Your fucking family slag me off and you accept it! If my family hurt you that would be a different story, wouldn’t it, ya fucker?’ I ripped the newspaper from his hands and threw it on the floor.
Sean always ignored me when I went into a rant. He just picked up the newspaper, resumed reading it and smiled quietly, saying: ‘Sammy is your family.’ This calm pedantry really annoyed me. Sammy had taken Sean’s side in so many arguments and situations that I had almost forgotten he was my cousin.
‘Well, he has been here so long he behaves like a fucking Storrie!’ I yelled. ‘And you never asked me if we could lend him the cash! You just did it! You make all the decisions! I never get any say!’ I grabbed the newspaper off him again and this time I ripped it up to make sure he couldn’t read it. I grabbed his hair and pulled him off the chair onto the floor. I was so angry that he was just smiling and ignoring me. I needed a reaction. My left foot came up and kicked him in the head. I heard the thud as my foot made contact with his skull, breaking his spectacles which went flying off. He lay there, motionless, for a few seconds. I watched him move to get up and kicked him in the head again. Sean lunged forward and grabbed my leg as I threw another kick. He pulled it so hard I fell backwards onto the floor. He jumped over me and pinned me down with both his hands on my wrists. I was petrified; my heart thumped so loudly I could hardly hear him speak.
‘Stop this, Janey! Don’t become me! Don’t fucking do this.’ His eyes were pleading and full of tears.
I didn’t understand what was happening; I wanted him to hit me then so I could run and he would feel bad and want me back, then we could all live like this till next time. Isn’t this how it works? I thought. He let go of my wrists and lay on top of me on the floor and wrapped his arms around me. He was crying, his tears sticking to my neck.
‘Don’t, Janey. I love you. If you need to hit me, then we are both fucked.’
I lay there holding him.
We eventually got up and he sat holding my hands on the sofa.
‘You were never the bitter and angry one, Janey; don’t hate Sammy; he fucked up. I will pay for the loan, don’t be like this.’ He stroked my hands on his knee.
‘Sean,’ I blurted through tears, ‘I feel so mental. All we do is fight or shout or have sex or scream then I leave and you plead then I come home and it all goes fucking round and round in circles …’
Sean looked into my eyes and wiped my tears with his thumbs and said: ‘I thought about us going for marriage guidance, what do you think?’
‘Well, if it stops you hitting me, then I would be happy about it.’ I tried to sound enthusiastic. I was worried Sean would never really open up with a stranger but, if he was the one to suggest it … So Sean called the Marriage Guidance Council place in the city and we had an appointment set for the following week.
* * *
It turned out to be at Glasgow’s Catholic Cathedral, an awesome Gothic spiral affair of a building that stands right beside the River Clyde. It made me feel that I had no right being grumpy with my husband in such a place. On the other hand, I felt it was all wrong to have marriage guidance there. As all Catholic priests are single, what the hell would they know about marriage? I felt they might even say my marriage was in tatters because I was not a Catholic – that if Sean had married a lovely Catholic girl, everything would have been fine. But, despite this constant nagging in my head, we walked together into a cosy wee room with cushions and sofas all arranged at what seemed like erratic angles. I stumbled and tripped over a footstool, landing on my palms. It was not a good start.
The walls were all rainbows, doves and hearts. This immediately set off warning bells. Anywhere that displayed a rainbow and a dove shouted shitey tokenism to me. Never in my entire marriage had the thought of a fucking rainbow or a white bird salved my pain. I was totally defensive. I decided I hated the marriage guidance man sitting there and hated Sean even more for suggesting coming to see some nutty Catholic who painted doves on the wall. I had wished a brain haemorrhage on this bastard and had actually got one to strike him down.
‘Hello, my name is Harry,’ the marriage guidance man said, smiling, friendly, patronising, reaching out and shaking my hand. It was a very soft grip and his palm was very dry and warm.
‘I know you both need to do some talking, so I will sit here until you are comfortable enough to tell me what you feel.’
He spoke like a man who normally tells people they have cancer. His voice was immediately annoying. I sat there staring at my shoes. I gripped both hands together very tightly and felt the blood pulsating through my knuckles, trying hard to get some form of circulation going back into my fingertips. Sean did not speak. The man did not speak. Eventually, I felt it was up to me to fill the dead air and give Harry the juice he needed to get this show on the road. Without even knowing it was happening, my mouth went into full throttle.
‘I married him when I was really young. I tried hard to be a good wife. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I don’t fuck other men. He shouts at me, he makes me feel scared, he hits me, he never praises me, I work in his pub, yes it is his pub, I never even got asked if that was a job I wanted, I just did what I was told, I wanted to be an actress or an artist but, no, I wasn’t given a choice, he told me to work in the bar and I did, I try hard to be patient but he makes me feel like shit, I was abused as a child and he made me feel bad about it as well, even though he was kind of supportive, I felt as though
my family and my past were an inconvenience to him …’
By this time I was on a roll. I took a deep breath and launched into what I can only describe as my ‘Freedom’ speech:
‘I hate his family, they make me feel like I am some sort of freak, he lets them put me down, I would never let my family say a bad word about him, we have a daughter and she loves him and I would never turn her against him, but he can frighten her when he gets angry, she knows when to walk out of a room and occupy herself and keep out of his way and she is only six years old, he is like a petulant child and demands attention a lot and gets grumpy if he doesn’t get sex on demand, I am tired and I have to work a lot, I starve myself coz he hates fat people, I wear the clothes he likes and I fucking hate myself for being what he likes and what I hate.’
I finally shut up. I kept my head down and stared intently at my shoes. They were black, leather and low heeled because Sean liked my shoes to be flat. I decided that, first thing tomorrow, I was going to buy my first pair of stiletto-heeled shoes. Then I remembered that I could not walk in high heels. Sean was going to be angry with me for saying all that stuff; I could feel his presence beside me. He was very still and quiet.
No one spoke.
The room felt very small.
Harry looked at me and finally said quietly, ‘You do talk a lot, don’t you?’
‘Yes, well sometimes I get a bit carried away,’ I replied. I spotted a wee scuff mark on my shoes where my big toes had been pressing against the leather from the inside. Then I thought, Cheeky bastard! How dare he judge me? I was just trying to get it all out!
Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival Page 27