‘No, Janey, tell no one,’ Sean shouted at me. ‘OK? No one!’ He went to visit his dad that night. When he came home he was very pale and drawn.
‘Janey, he is incapable of communicating. He looks angry and frustrated just sitting there, but the doctors say he can make progress with the right treatment.’
I could see the fear in Sean’s eyes. My heart lurched, I felt dreadful for him, for Ashley, for his six brothers and for all the other children in this big fragmented family. They were all held together by Old George. The brothers had never really got on; their father bound them all together like human duct tape. If he goes, God knows what will happen, I thought.
It was a nightmare trying to remain calm and focused on the bar while worrying sick about Sean’s father. As it stood, we were told that only his family could visit him. I assumed that meant only his sons, not me, and was annoyed when I discovered that Sandra and other daughters-in-law had been to the hospital but I was not allowed. I accepted that Old George had never really liked me much, but I had never heard him say many nice things about his other daughters-in-law either. When I thought about it, though, I didn’t really want to visit him: the thought of seeing Old George incapacitated actually scared me. I had always known him as this big strong man who took control of any conversation and every situation. But I couldn’t understand the need for secrecy. If my father had been ill in hospital, I would have had no problem telling his close circle of friends. Perhaps it was to prevent anyone knowing George and his family were terribly vulnerable. I tried to talk to Sean about it: ‘What if he stays in hospital for a long time recovering from the stroke? What will you tell people to cover up his absence?’
‘Shut the fuck up, Janey. He will recover. He looks better every day. He can move his fingers now,’ Sean told me, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
I had to carry on getting ready for Christmas. Ashley had written a letter to Santa asking for a train set and it was now my job to buy and assemble the thing. I decided to set it up in her playroom on Christmas Eve. That way, she could keep it on the big board it was fixed to and play with it at her leisure. Meanwhile, Old George was into his second week of intensive care and Old Wullie was getting sicker. He had never liked anyone coming into his room and I respected his privacy.
‘Wullie, d’ye want me to take the dug a walk?’ I would shout through his door.
‘Naw, ahm fine!’ he would shout back, then his whole body would break into a deep hacking cough. I would stand there and wait for the coughing to subside then shout again:
‘Wullie! It’s Janey! D’ye need anything?’
‘Naw! I will put yer pot ootside the door later. The mince wiz shite – even the dug didnae like it!’ he would growl from what used to be my living room when I first moved into the building 13 years before. I would stand out there in the hall laughing: he was a cantankerous old bastard who loved getting a dig at me.
‘OK, ya ungrateful old fucker!’ I’d yell. ‘Let me know if ye need anything. I will be next door an’ ye know the doors are always open!’
Sean was barely holding it all together; he became more distraught each time he visited his father. Old George was not progressing enough to even contemplate coming home for Christmas. The other brothers were getting increasingly annoyed at Young George and Sandra’s closeness; everyone knew Sandra had been Young George’s girlfriend for years before his father took over the saddle; they suspected that they might be ‘seeing’ each other again.
I just kept running. Each morning, I would pull on my running shoes and pound along the Glasgow Green, down towards the River Clyde. The Christmastime cold would shock my lungs as I started into the run, I would dodge the traffic and run across the Salt Market and make my way down the Clydeside walkway to run along the hard cobbles that lined the dockside all the way beside the river to the Glasgow Exhibition Centre. There I would take off my backpack and go into the Moat House Hotel and swim for an hour before I headed back towards the Weavers in my running shoes. This kept me focused and busy. I loved running and it really did help me beat the stress.
I was also trying to keep Ashley’s spirits buoyed up. She was now aware something was happening in the family but I could not tell her that Grandad George was ill as she might tell someone else by accident. I told her that Grandad George was away at his caravan at Wemyss Bay on the Firth of Clyde and would be back home after Christmas. She seemed to accept this, but became very clingy to her dad. Each night she would sit on his knee till she slept. Sean would sit there and hold her in silence. It was as if they were both comforting each other without knowing why.
When Sammy came over to see us, Sean did tell him about Old George’s illness. He sat in my kitchen and hung his head in silence. Sammy had always called Old George his uncle and Old George was fond of Sammy. He looked on him as one of his family and he knew that his son Paul and Sammy were very close as they had lived and worked together for so long with Sean and me. I felt awful for Sammy and, despite the grief he was giving me, I hated knowing he was in pain.
The Weavers was fully decorated for Christmas and the old tree dressed with all the old familiar ornaments. Sean was on a huge emotional rollercoaster. He was happy with his dad’s progress one day and shocked to the core the next. I was also getting more concerned about Old Wullie; he was very quiet and hadn’t shown his face for a few days. I would regularly bang on his door.
‘Wullie? Ye OK?’
If there was no answer, it would scare me because I knew he hadn’t left the building – I would have heard the dog bark as he went downstairs.
‘Wullie! Are ye OK?’ I would yell again and, eventually, he would shout through.
‘Ahm fine! … Noo fuck off!’
I knew he was getting worse. Then one day Ashley came in to see me: ‘Mummy, Old Wullie wants you to come right now,’ she told me, standing holding her tiny wee teapot. ‘Is he going to die?’
‘Ashley no. What makes you say that: he is just ill.’
‘He shouted: Ashley tell your mum I am gonna die! I heard him say that, Mum.’ She fiddled with her wee teapot. I could have shot Old Wullie, the insensitive old fucking drama queen. Ashley was only seven. I went onto the landing and into the flat next door, striding up the long hallway, making sure he could hear my footsteps, and then I opened his door. I stepped into his room. It smelled of stale smoke and old fish. Wullie had always shoplifted tins of salmon. The opened cans were now gathering together up at the window and he didn’t own a fridge.
‘Wullie, fucksake! The smell in here! Let me get a bin bag and I will clear this room a bit!’ I put my hand to my mouth. He was generally clean and always kept the bathroom tidy with his razors and stuff all up high as he knew Ashley used it when she was in his flat playing.
‘OK,’ he mumbled. ‘And then can ye take the dug oot fur me? The doctor is coming later. Sean called him fur me.’ Wullie stood there, frail, in a bright blue Paisley-patterned satin housecoat. I used to joke this was his ‘smoking jacket’; it looked so posh on this old purple-faced, hard-drinking Glaswegian.
‘Wullie, do me a favour? Stop shouting yer gonnae die, will ye? Ashley is freaked.’
‘Aye, but it made ye come here quick eh?’ he said, his big purple face creasing into a smile and then he laughed and coughed while he held his chest and laughed and coughed again.
I cleaned his room and took Sara the dog for a walk with Ashley. She tried in vain to stop the gentle yet very big blonde Alsatian from dragging her along. The dog was desperate to pee and ran along the grass looking for its favourite place.
Christmas Eve eventually arrived and, after teatime, I sneaked next door and walked up Old Wullie’s hallway with Ashley’s train set under my arm. I spread the instructions out and set about clipping it all together. I had a big green board and miniature trees, tiny people and wee pretend brick bridges all to set the scene of a country village with train station. I was loving it. It was a great present and she was going to adore this toy.<
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Whisky the cat sat quietly and watched me; I stopped for a break, picked him up and looked out of the big bay windows. I could see all the way across Glasgow Green and into the Gorbals. The big flats were gone; they had been demolished with explosives the year before, but I could see the twinkling lights of the houses beyond the beautiful church spire of St Francis in Cumberland Street where the gangs used to fight. Frost was starting to sharpen up the corners of the windows, making the street lights twinkle. I looked around the room; it was covered in toys, dolls, crayons and loads of paper and children’s books. Although this was Old Wullie’s flat, this was Ashley’s playroom. The walls were painted with bright Disney characters, some done good (mine!), some done squiggly (Ashley’s), loads of coloured hand prints (Ashley’s), lots of high-up hand prints with Celtic and Rangers written on them (Paul and Sammy’s). This was her room to enjoy and play in as she wanted. I finished putting together the train set and tried it out. The old-fashioned steam train went off round the track and trundled towards the wee brick bridge.
All was well until Whisky leapt off the cupboard and landed hard on the board with his paw firmly trapping the train as it came through the bridge. ‘It’s not a mouse, it’s a train!’ I exclaimed, but the cat was so excited, his eyes were flashing, tail twitching and his hunting instinct took over as he tried to bite the train. He sat with his mouth open waiting for the train to come round again. It went straight in between his teeth and the cat looked at me, surprised and embarrassed. I laughed and thought of all the trouble this was going to cause Ashley when she played with her trains. Whisky was never going to stop stalking the train and, even when I held him, he struggled to get out of my arms, claws bared trying to stretch out to catch the wee moving toy. I took Whisky with me and closed the door to the playroom, then walked over to Old Wullie’s door to see if he needed some tea or supper before the busy Christmas rush took over downstairs in the bar.
I banged on the door.
No answer.
I could hear Old Wullie’s television blaring away in the room. I kept knocking louder.
No answer.
My heart missed a beat. I felt a strange shiver at the back of my neck. I could hear Bob Geldof’s familiar Band Aid song, written for the starving in faraway Ethiopia, blaring clearly on television.
I walked back down the hall and went into our own flat. Sean was sitting at the kitchen table reading with Ashley.
‘Mummy! I can read “The Night Before Christmas” all by myself! Ask Dad!’ She smiled up at me.
‘Go into the living room and stick on the telly, Ashley,’ I said, lifting her from Sean’s knee. ‘A big Christmas film is about to come on. I need to speak to Daddy.’
Ashley ran off happily towards the living room.
‘Sean, I think Old Wullie is dead. There’s no answer at his door and I am really scared to go in there.’ I reached out to pull Sean’s arm and get him up off the chair. ‘Please get the keys and go check, eh?’
He got up in silence and left the room. He lifted the set of master keys off the hook behind our door and walked into Old Wullie’s hallway. I followed, after making sure Ashley was settled in our living room. By the time I caught up with him, Sean had Wullie’s door open only a crack; he was crouched down, trying to keep the dog calm on the other side of the door; he turned to me and said, ‘Janey, the door seems to be jammed and the dog won’t let me in. She is growling. She likes you. Come and talk to her and see if we can get her out into the hall so I can get in there.’
I leaned down and looked through the crack in the door. The room was in semi-darkness but I could see the television was lying on its side flickering grey and silver, shimmering on the brown carpet; it was still playing the Band Aid song very loudly.
The dog’s nose came poking through and sniffed at me. I instinctively put my hand to her and she licked my palm.
‘Hello Sara, how’s my girl, eh? There’s ma good big lassie, eh? Coming oot, hen, eh?’ I tried to push the door wider, but it felt as though something was jammed behind it, though not stuck fast. I could see the soles of Wullie’s feet in his slippers facing me on the floor. I tried to encourage Sara to come out to me, but I watched through the crack in the door as the big dog turned away from me and lay beside the old man and whimpered.
‘Come on, girl! Come on,’ I shouted to her.
She looked at Wullie, then looked at me, then back to Wullie and slowly pushed her way through the slim space that the jammed door created. I left Sean behind as I ran quickly down the hall with the dog, avoiding colliding with her as we both leapt down the stairs, her long claws clicking all the way and skidding on the grey stone slabs that led to the outside door. I pushed it wide open; she ran through, jumped the wee red fence, stood there, squatted and seemed to piss for ages. The poor dog had held that urine inside her for who knows how long, because she would never do her toilet indoors, no matter what the circumstances.
I was sure Wullie was dead. I stood outside with Sara and hugged her when she had finished pishing. I didn’t want to go back upstairs as I did not want to know about the death. I somehow thought if I stayed outside, I would not need to know. But I also knew I had to go up in case Ashley wandered through looking for her daddy. So I went into the Weavers bar and asked a customer to keep an eye on the dog for me. Big Sara slouched under a table in the corner, looking forlorn. I climbed back up the stairs very slowly and, as I reached the top, I heard Sean walking down Old Wullie’s hallway and he met me as I reached the door.
‘He is dead, Janey. He is just lying there on the floor. There is some blood where he hit his head. He must have fallen or collapsed – I don’t know – but I have already called the police.’ Sean pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He sat on the cold stone steps. ‘Ma dad was worried about him as well, Janey. Maybe I should have kept a better eye on him … Fucking Merry Christmas, everybody!’ he sighed.
I tried to reassure him but I knew he was not listening: ‘There is no way you could have known he was gonna die, Sean. We did wur best.’
‘I can’t tell ma da,’ Sean sighed. ‘This will set him back. And Wullie didn’t know my dad was in hospital. It’s all fucking falling apart!’ I could hear his voice cracking as he put his arms around himself and sat hugging his tummy.
Two policemen’s radios broke the silence as they mounted the stairs.
‘Sean Storrie?’
‘Yes. The body’s in there.’ Sean stood up and led them down Old Wullie’s hallway. I went back into our flat and made some tea. I arranged for the staff to stay on a bit later to give me time to get organised for the late shift. Ashley’s babysitter had turned up – Clare was a daughter of my Dad’s cousin and she was told what had happened. She was in control within minutes, lifting a curious Ashley up and away from the door.
‘Why are there policemen in at Old Wullie’s?’ I could hear Ashley ask.
Clare spoke quickly. ‘You are not allowed to ask that many questions on Christmas Eve – didn’t ye know that, madam? So let’s get the mince pies ready for Santa!’
I went down to the bar to work. I stood watching all the late-night revellers smiling and singing along to their favourite Christmas songs from the jukebox and went round to pick up the empty glasses. When I got to the wee tables round the side where the telly was housed, I stopped and almost broke down. There was Sara, still lying under a table, watching the door, waiting for Old Wullie to come through and join her; she never let him even go to the toilet on his own, she was always with him, even when he sang on the karaoke; she even stood faithfully at his side, like an uncomfortable child averting her eyes whenever Wullie belted out ‘Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing’. I recalled how I used to laugh at the look on the dog’s face as Wullie sang that song with his baggy pockets full of tins of salmon. I had never seen an Alsatian embarrassed before then. I walked over to her and stroked her soft blonde tufty coat. My first priority would be to get someone to look after her; Wullie was dead but Sara was ali
ve. I made a few phone calls and that same night Sara had a new home.
Sean came down later and told me the police doctor reckoned it looked like a heart attack; there were no suspicious circumstances but they needed to talk to me to finalise statements. I sat and told them everything I could remember and they took notes.
‘We will probably be in touch to let you know what is happening. We will take his body away and deal with the paperwork as soon as we can. Christmas is not a good time to die, y’know,’ the big policeman told me as he tucked his notebook away. ‘Though is there ever a good time to die?’ he added sarcastically, then he looked sheepishly at Sean: ‘Sorry, Sean, that was stupid of me. How is yer dad? Does he know about Wullie?’
Sean looked shocked then looked away; he realised the policeman knew nothing about Old George’s situation and was just being polite.
‘I will tell him in the morning,’ Sean said flatly.
Christmas Day was hard for us all. We videotaped Ashley opening up her presents and kept smiles on our faces at all times. We took her next door to see the train set all arranged. I looked at Old Wullie’s door. I knew his body had been removed but didn’t want to freak Ashley out by telling her he had died in there. She still thought Old Wullie was alive.
‘Mummy! Daddy! I love this train set! Thanks so much!’ She sat mesmerised watching the old-fashioned trains glide around their miniature town. Sean managed to lift it all up and bring it next door for her to sit in our hall with, but Ashley was having trouble stopping Whisky from dragging the trains off the track: he was still convinced the small moving objects were prey and deserved to be attacked.
Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival Page 30