Mo said she was quirky

by James Kelman

  Everything was so different. If Sophie was not talkative, well of course she wasnt. Who wouldnt have been? My God. It was so understandable. Even the school, Helen had been dreading it on Sophie’s behalf. It had been such a relief to see this one and the children from all different backgrounds.

  The girl had suffered during the past months. No question about that. The important thing was she had settled, thank God. She had settled. It seemed like she had. If she didnt they were not staying. Helen had discussed it with Mo. If the wee one didnt settle they would go home; they would pack their bags. Helen would make sure of that. She liked London but would leave immediately. Not to go home to Glasgow, not necessarily.

  Helen had never been quiet. If people thought she was; never, and never as a girl. Dad called her the champion chatterbox, she was to get the gold medal. She didnt like him saying it but it was only Dad having fun. Helen did chatter. It was true. Sixteen to the dozen when she was little. Brian was the quiet one, he just looked, he looked and he said nothing. Dad didnt like that. He wanted people to talk.

  Neither did Mum talk. Brian took after her. So Helen took after Dad.

  Oh God, but it was true. Mum said it so it had to be. Imagine telling that to your daughter. So thoughtless, because of how Mum felt about Dad, did she even like him? No, not very much. Not that Helen ever saw, so thank you Mum, thank you very much.

  It would have been funny if it wasnt so sad, sad if it wasnt so funny. Funny peculiar.

  Mo was standing in the doorway, head cocked to the side. Hey, why you laughing? Come into the dressing room oh lady of the cards, your daughter needs assistance.

  She rose and followed.

  There were things Mo couldnt do and discussing clothes with Sophie was one of them. It would be the coat. Two weeks ago Helen bought her a new one but she didnt like it and created a fuss. It had a pattern down one side and some boy laughed. Sophie scrubbed her hand up and down the pattern in an effort to erase it. Helen was expecting another fuss but this morning it seemed not to bother her. Instead she chattered about a girl in her class and a funny funny joke that another boy did, one called Borden whom she had spoken about before – Borden? It sounded like Borden, if that was a name. Anyway, the joke wasnt against her, fingers crossed, and fingers crossed she no longer dreaded it all. Tantrums and tears. If all that had ended. With luck it had. Not so long ago she never would have allowed Mo to take her. It had to be Helen, and it didnt matter she needed a sleep. Even at the school gates my God, the girl wouldnt let go her hand. When she entered the school playground she lost the power of speech altogether. Yes it was a worry, of course it was a worry. So if the teachers couldnt get her to talk, no wonder, the wee soul.

  She had been trying. Only she got herself into a state. The teachers could have let her stay with the other children. It would have calmed her. But there was no time no time, people had no time. Helen had to sleep with her phone next to the bed for emergencies. On a number of occasions she had been called to bring her home. A woman from the office was there and thought Sophie was having a fit, an actual fit. Sophie had reached a point beyond screaming. She was shaking, really. The woman called it ‘spasms’. The child was having spasms! Spasms could cause brain damage in small children. Actual brain damage. Didnt Helen know that?

  Of course Helen knew that, of course she knew it. Why do people say such stupid things? teachers especially. So like it was Helen’s fault? Is that what she was saying? There must have been spasms in her own family the way she went on about it. It was just absurd. And obviously a criticism. As if Helen wasnt aware of the dangers. She didnt for one minute think spasms were insignificant. How patronising can you get? Because she was Scottish she didnt know how serious it was? Did she even have children of her own? People rushed to criticise.

  If it wasnt one thing it was another. Sophie was a great wee girl, so let her be a wee girl. Helen had been worse when she was that age. The Queen of Sheba. That was what Dad called her, comical but not very nice. Dad’s sense of humour. Better than jellybelly.

  The outside door lay wide open. Sophie had her coat zipped and Mo was helping her pull up that heavy heavy backpack. Why did they have them so heavy? It weighed like a ton and must have slowed her down walking, six years of age for God sake she didnt need all that, surely.

  She was waiting for a kiss. Helen gave her a big cuddle. Oh Sophie, she said.

  Mummy are you tired? He said you were sleeping and I wasnt to go in.

  I didnt say that! cried Mo.

  Yes you did.

  I did not.

  You did!

  Mo winked at Helen. He touched her upper arm. Helen smiled at him. Thanks, she said. She looked at the two of them. I feel like you’re both watching me!

  Well we are, said Sophie.

  Because we like you, said Mo. Then he turned, reached his hand to Sophie. Hey Miss Goldilocks, you ready?

  Dont call me that!

  Mo sighed and made an apologetic gesture. Helen frowned at Sophie but in a humorous way. Sophie said: Okay Mummy, and she took Mo’s hand. Away they went. On the first landing she turned to wave.

  Helen listened to their footsteps down the stairs, closed the door eventually, walked to the front room window. The sky was the usual heavy clouds, even darker than usual, like a thunder storm, or lightning. Perhaps not, but it would still be clouds, it was always clouds, clouds clouds clouds. They said it was Glasgow but London was bad too, it could be.

  Sophie and Mo appeared below, down the short flight of stairs onto the pavement. Immediately they turned and glanced upward to wave to her. Helen waved until they were out of sight, then was crying. She couldnt stop. It was so stupid, she just could not stop, tears flowing my God what was wrong with her she just could not stop. It was only to be seeing them hand in hand and the little girl just walking, and her shoes and coat, but even Mo, he wasnt small although he wasnt tall, and the two of them, it was so beautiful seeing them, and if anything happened, but it wouldnt. She was being silly. Buses and lorries and all traffic, it was normal, everything, except her and her worries and all worrying, constant, just so silly, but that was her, Mrs Silly, that is who she was. It was his place, he knew it inside out. One pub round the corner from his parents’ home he tried never to pass, even in broad daylight, but that was miles away.

  In the window of the house opposite a light was on. Helen imagined an elderly couple living there. A nice old couple who were always pleased to see Sophie if ever they saw her on the street or at the window. Their own children were long gone, and with families of their own. They had no grandchildren and when they died they might leave their fortune to Sophie. Why not? Or else a cats’ home. Millionaires did that to annoy their families. No doubt they were a wizened and crabbit old pair of so and so’s, who gobbled up children for breakfast like out of a fairytale – some of them were terrifying; wicked stepmothers and ogrish stepfathers. Why was it always them who were monsters? Why not the natural parents? In real life that is who it was.

  Another cup of tea. Or bed? But would she sleep! It didnt matter ‘would she’, she had to. She was so very tired, beyond tired. Mo worried about her health. Why not? she worried about his! But it was nice all the same, somebody to worry. Helen worried about everything. And had to stop it. Because it was so stupid, stupid and foolish. Anything and everything. Dont be a worrier, you’ll never leave the house. Mo said that. It was true.

  But anybody with children, you always worried. They should be cherished. If children were cherished there would be far less pain and suffering in the world. How could people not cherish children? To not cherish a child. It was unthinkable

  Sophie was safe with Mo. She knew that herself. Even the way she took his hand; the way they walked along the street together. Of course he wasnt her natural father but that was that and life moved on; here was Mo and he was so good with her and patient, and Sophie was responding. She was, it was beautiful to see.

  Still sitting at the window, but she liked sitting at
the window. One time she opened it and surprised a seagull perched on the ledge above. What a fright! A huge seagull flapping its wings and looking at her, annoyed – annoyed to see her! A big seagull! like in south London! My God. What rivers are there in south London? Do they even go on rivers?

  Unless near a supermarket. That happened in Glasgow, flocks of seagulls congregated in the car-parks and roofs. There were stories about them swooping on people’s heads. Frightening to think. Imagine a toddler. How would you fight them if it happened? perhaps with a brush or an umbrella except not with the telescopic sort because how could you hold it to hit? you couldnt, you couldnt hit with it. Seagulls are huge heavy beasts although not like an eagle. Eagles carry off a sheep never mind a child. You would have to hit the bird’s head and do it hard; that would force it to open its beak. How else would you do it? Even pecking a child, they swoop down and peck into people’s heads. That was in the news; was it true? It sounded far-fetched.

  Women were the worriers. Men didnt bother, at least not so much. They chose not to. They let others do it for them. That was men.

  When people are tired, everything goes everywhere, mingling and merging, everywhere and anywhere, just scurrying about with no rhyme or reason. Her brains were always mince. She knew that. Empty vessels.

  Anyway, Mo would be home soon, thank God, she would fall into bed, into sleep, before she hit the pillow,

  only if her feet were cold, sometimes they were, in the morning especially, so then

  But it was a safe district, although you could get too comfortable. That would be a mistake. In Glasgow you saw them coming. In London it caught you off-guard. Mo breathed easier up north. So he said. If she could believe him. She didnt believe him. For fresh air, yes, it was true about the parks; you could try different ones all around, and then get on a bus and go north of the river. There were so many places. People went farther afield. Helen wouldnt have been comfortable doing that. Visiting parks was one thing but travelling out the city was another. Taking a train down the coast to wherever; people did it but Helen would have found it difficult. They did get looks, even if Mo didnt notice. If he didnt, he said he didnt.

  They were not to touch. Of course not, holding hands, of course they couldnt, how scandalous a thing, a man and a woman like shocking, so so shocking and surprising to see, so extraordinary horrible, horrible horrible, imagine, the very idea, a man and a woman touching; so they werent to do it.

  One look from one person was enough. That was all it took. Even Sophie noticed. Parks were not a haven, if Mo said they were, they werent, not if you saw a pile of teenagers coming towards you; or like on a bus you were always watching, she preferred the tube, except you had to watch there too; the time of day, late evening, or mid-evening if it was quiet, or football supporters

  From her chair she could see the street corner where Mo and Sophie walked, where Mo would return if he came by the direct route and didnt detour but he did detour, all the time, and without telling her. It was her fault for sitting there, if she didnt she wouldnt worry, she wouldnt be seeing the corner and wouldnt be thinking about what could happen.

  But why should he tell her? a grown man. He could detour as much as he wanted. As long as he didnt take chances. She hated when he did. He once went to a bar where racists congregated; it was like a headquarters for one of these national front parties. Him and his mates went into it and ordered drinks. Why? Why would they do that? These stupid risks. Men did it all the time. You could tell because the guy himself, how he laid down the chips and these nervy looks or like staring at the wheel, staring at the cards or his own fingers. They stared at their own fingers. So the money wasnt theirs. Whose was it? They were gambling money and it wasnt theirs. So whose? His wife, his children, whose? laying it down on one spin of the wheel black or red, odds or even, twist or stay and please dont bust me oh dont bust me.

  But Mo wasnt like that.

  Helen’s eyes closed a moment.

  She would have to tell him about Brian. What would he say? That it didnt matter. That is what he would say. If he is your brother. Your brother is your brother. That is what Mo would say. Bring him home. No hesitation. Life was simple; for some people it was. Mo. Mo was not some people.

  Only she worried, if he was gone the whole morning, depending on if he visited, where he visited. He called them his ports of call and put on a funny London accent. Me nasal whine voice. I got me ports of call. He’s a port of call. People who worked in restaurants had different social lives, like with croupiers. One who worked beside Helen was from the Yemen or someplace, Lebanon, he went to the same café every day of the week; every single day, that was where he went. He was married too and had three wee boys. What did his wife think? A fine-looking man, you wondered about him, what all had happened in his life, his people dead, family members, people starving and no medicines either, how had he escaped? if his wife was from the same country or else if he had met her in London. Fate led you to places. He was not bitter, never bitter. That was a wonder. And his eyes too, there was an honesty and just how he was so gentle, he was, Helen noticed that about him. Every day of the week the same café. Imagine, the men all talking together in their own language about all what had happened since they were forced out their own country and how things might be if ever they could go home, if ever they could. But would they be able to? And now they had children, what about them? could their schooling be interrupted? Kids hated that. And where was home for them? if it was children, their home was here. And the wives too, if they had married here, so here was home, not the ‘old country’; if they called it that. Perhaps they didnt. If it never was your country, so how could it be the ‘old country’? not in the first place.

  A cat was miaowing. It sounded like a baby. This one miaowed constantly. Its owner must have locked it in then went to work. Quite heartless really. There were a few animals in the neighbourhood. Mainly it was cats. Helen wasnt fond of cats. Sophie liked them but Sophie was a girl and girls liked all pets. And foxes! Not just foxes, in Glasgow you saw deer. Cafés sold venison and chips. It was said as a joke but you could imagine people killing them, baby deer. Teenage boys would do it for a laugh.

  Oh well. She would fall into bed, to lie down and sleep for a month, that would have been nice, the Sleeping Beauty.

  Mo had cold feet.

  So then she would waken up, so she couldnt be a Sleeping Beauty.

  A man and woman came round the corner. It should have been Mo. If he knew she was waiting, he knew she was waiting, just because she worried, she did worry but why did she? So foolish, like so so foolish. Foolish behaviour. Because she was foolish. Little Miss Foolish

  and silly, so silly. Mo visited an old man who worked in a wee shop. He sat about or else shifted boxes and things. He looked like nothing but was a respected man in the community. If you saw him you wouldnt think anything. He wore an old-fashioned jacket, his shirt buttoned to the top without a tie. He had a white beard, straggly too and wore a certain hat with a pattern, not a turban, just like a round little tub. It didnt matter that he worked in a shop because a wise man is without power. In the Muslim religion people didnt have to be wealthy folk in great careers. The best man with the best intellect in the community might be a ‘shit shoveller’, he was the one who knew the old stories and all how things were, what was the right way and what was the wrong way. Mo said that. And what the old man said about Glasgow, like how he used to live there and it was backward, that was his word, ‘backward’, Glasgow was backward, meaning the local community, meaning Asian community. They suffered things they shouldnt, because they didnt want trouble. Things happened to them and they didnt report it to the police. The old man said that. If it was true. But you would believe him. Mo did. People punched a baby. Imagine that. The baby was in a pram. A man came along and punched it, a baby, like a man punching a baby. That must mean something. Unless if he was ill in the head. How could a man punch a baby? He must have been ill. That was Glasgow. But why not London? It
could be real thugs and they attacked you. And if it was like knives, that was what Mo didnt consider, gangs used knives and bats, they smashed people with bats. They beat them up. Gangs did that. Thugs. They did it to children too. Nothing mattered to them.

  Although he should have texted. Why didnt he? Because if she was in bed. He would have thought she was. She could have texted him. Except she was checking on him, he would think that, and she wasnt. Anyway her phone, she needed a top-up. But it was nothing to do with trust. She only worried. He was a flirt but that was all. It made Helen smile. Even the first time they met. Middlesexy; I was born in Middlesex; I am of the Middlesex breed. Male sex, same sex, trans sex. Any sex. You are a member of the female sex. I am Middlesexy.

  But it was true, women liked him. He was a nice man. She was so so lucky. She felt that, strongly, she did, she did and she was, except foolish, foolish foolish Mrs Foolish that was her. She had expected him home by this time. So he must have stopped off.

  But he was good at meeting people. Helen was hopeless. She hadnt always been hopeless. Oh God, God.

  She hadnt though, she used to have friends. Nowadays she didnt get the chance. Anyway, who would look after Sophie?

  Imagine a mother not babysitting. That was Mum. She would if asked but always had to be. Each and every time. She never offered, never ever offered. Imagine that, like never. Oh well. Self-reliance, Helen was good at that, she had to be with him, her ex. The complete opposite of Mo.