The Kellys of Kelvingrove

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  The visit to Clive and Paul went very well but Mrs Arlington-Jones and Mrs Gardner were horrified at the mere mention of Jimmy Reid’s name. The Reverend Denby was surprisingly welcoming.

  ‘Reid is at least trying,’ he agreed. ‘No hooliganism, no vandalism and no drinking. I did my best to preach these things over the pulpit but God alone knows how many of my congregation followed my commands.’

  Bashir wasn’t sure if it was a good thing to have the Reverend Denby on his side. He’d seen the way he treated Clive and Paul. He made for the Art Galleries next with a collection box. On the way, he saw Mirza and Sandra, arms around each other and gazing adoringly at one another.

  Oh dear, oh dear, he thought. There’s serious trouble brewing there.

  12

  Bashir was fond of his father-in-law, Mahmood, but he was fond of Mirza too and suffered constantly with a division of loyalties. It would have been so much better and more appropriate if Mirza had fallen in love with a Muslim girl. He was actually too young to be falling in love with anyone. He was just a schoolboy, for goodness sake. There was a Pakistani Muslim girl in his class. Bashir had seen her. A pretty little girl, she was. Why couldn’t Mirza have fallen for her? But of course, he knew perfectly well that falling in love wasn’t a cold-blooded thing that you planned. ‘That’s for the best,’ you tell yourself. ‘I’ll have her.’ But no, it seldom worked that way.

  British people were horrified at the mere idea of Muslim arranged marriages. They thought that they were forced marriages. This was not so. When he’d had a bride chosen for him, for instance, he could have said no.

  But he didn’t because, for one thing, he trusted his parents to make a good, suitable and happy choice for him, and they did. He had been broken-hearted when the dreadful gas explosion had killed his dear wife, and his loving parents. Naturally, Mahmood had been broken-hearted too. He had lost a much-loved daughter. He would never forget, and he would be eternally grateful to Mahmood for welcoming him into the bosom of his family. He and his wife Rasheeda had treated him like a son. Mirza was like a brother to him. Mirza was only a schoolboy but was a tall, handsome young man, broad-shouldered and muscular, as a result no doubt of the time he spent in the school gym.

  Yes, he wished Mirza had made Mahmood happy by bringing the little Pakistani girl home to be introduced to him. At the same time, he couldn’t help understanding and sympathising with Mirza when he saw Sandra, the girl Mirza said he loved and wanted to marry.

  He truthfully had never seen such a gorgeous girl in his life. She had a smooth creamy skin and a pretty pink rosebud mouth. But it was her hair – my God, talk about a crowning glory! It was long, reaching below her waist, and such a shining red-gold colour, it was startlingly beautiful.

  Couldn’t Mahmood see and understand how and why Mirza loved such a girl? Sadly, he couldn’t and it left Bashir with a worrying dilemma. He wanted to be loyal to Mahmood – one hundred per cent loyal – but try as he might, he couldn’t help understanding and sympathising with Mirza.

  He tried to talk to Mahmood.

  ‘Pop, look at the girl. Please try to see why Mirza has fallen in love with her. Have you ever seen such a beautiful creature in your life?’

  ‘I’m constantly surprised and disappointed in you, Bashir,’ Mahmood said. ‘You have developed so many Western ways and even talk like a born Glaswegian and I can understand that in a way, with you working in our Gorbals shop all the time.’

  ‘But, Pop, poor Mirza. I love him like a brother and can’t bear to see him so unhappy. Please try to find it in your heart to accept Sandra and Mirza’s love for her.’

  ‘No, never, Bashir. And I’m sure that girl’s mother will feel the very same as I do. She will not want a mixed marriage for her daughter. They are Christians, Bashir. I have seen her going to church on Sunday mornings with that minister of the Christian religion who lives in the end house.’

  Bashir sighed. But he still couldn’t help feeling sorry for Mirza. Somehow he had to help him.

  13

  It was dark.

  ‘Oh God,’ Mae groaned. ‘Not another power cut.’

  That and the strike of the delivery drivers made it impossible to get any bread in the shops. People were forced to walk in the dark to the bake houses, which just worked during the night. They couldn’t even use their cars because of the fuel crisis.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Jack said.

  ‘No, of course you won’t – walking all that way with your sore hip. No, I’ll go. I’ll get Doris to go with me. Her mother gets a strong sleeping tablet at night now, so it’s all right to leave her.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘All right, but take care.’

  She went next door and collected a more than willing Doris who was always glad of any excuse to get out of the house. They ventured arm in arm and treading with great care through the pitch blackness.

  Soon they heard footsteps behind them and Mae called out nervously, ‘Who’s there?’

  Then she heard Mirza Shafaatulla’s voice. ‘It’s OK. It’s only me and Sandra. Are you making for the bake house as well?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m just hoping they won’t be sold out before we get there. What a carry on, isn’t it? Nothing but strikes and cuts nowadays. And I can’t understand what this decimal currency is they’re talking about next.’

  They went on chatting as they slowly walked along.

  ‘Yeah, I know. But not everything is hopeless. That explosion on board Apollo thirteen could have ended in one big disaster.’

  ‘Right enough. We should be thankful for small mercies, as they say.’

  The only mercy she’d be thankful for, Mae thought, was getting enough five pound notes together to replace the ones she’d stolen. She could think of nothing else. Now that she was sure she’d seen the robbers, she could imagine how dangerous they could be. A scruffy, tough-looking pair, they were.

  What’s going to happen? She kept tormenting herself with the same question over and over again. What’s going to happen? What am I going to do?

  ‘Oops!’ She stumbled and nearly brought Doris down with her. It was only Mirza and Sandra’s catching them from behind that saved her.

  Everything was so pitch black. Street lamps, house windows – not the slightest glimmer of light anyway; not a chink.

  They all linked arms. Sandra said, ‘My mother thinks I’m just with you, Mae. You being a police officer’s wife means you must be respectable.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Mae laughed but of course she was only too aware of how far from respectability she was. If Mrs Arlington-Jones only knew, how horrified she would be. Anyone would be horrified. I could be arrested, put in jail for what I’ve done, Mae thought. The robbers obviously took advantage of the then-vacant house to break in easily and stash the money. Imagine their surprise upon returning to find that it was now occupied – and by a police officer! But now Mae was just as guilty. She should have reported the discovery straight away. To take such a large sum of money without questioning its origin was no trivial matter.

  The worst thing was the shame it would bring on Jack. Jack Kelly had always been so straight and honest. No police officer had been more admired. In fact, he deserved a medal for what he’d done during the Ibrox disaster alone.

  Oh Jack, I’m sorry, Mae kept thinking. I’m so sorry.

  14

  The thought of her husband Jack’s fury if he ever found out made Mae Kelly’s heart beat through her body at such an uneven rate that she thought she was going to have a heart attack. Over and over again, all sorts of scenarios formed in her mind. What if the robbers came to the house – despite having seen Jack in his police uniform? They could find out he was on day shift and come during his working hours. What then?

  If they found out that most of the money had gone, they would think Jack was helping himself. They’d come to that conclusion, knowing that it had not been reported to the police station. Then what? Would the
robbers phone or write anonymously to the police station accusing Jack? She had been saving as much as she could and replacing as many of the notes as she could but she hadn’t managed to replace nearly enough of it yet.

  It was impossible to sleep and she lay watching the darkness as it filtered into cold grey gauze. The furniture of the bedroom appeared like menacing ghosts – the tall wardrobe, the squat dressing table, the basket chair – glistening faintly. The luminous alarm clock beat an endless tattoo in her head. She thought if she didn’t sleep, she’d go mad and when morning came, her nerves were stretched to breaking point.

  When Jack asked for an extra egg with his breakfast, she snapped at him, ‘That’s all you ever think about – food. It’s all you care about. That and your stupid car.’

  Jack’s jaw muscles tightened.

  ‘What’s up with your face this morning. You’re glad enough of the Mini when it takes you to the seaside or collects you and brings you home from visits to your friends.’

  She felt so distracted with worry, she just wanted him to get out of her sight and leave. He stormed away without kissing her. She longed to run after him, apologise and plead with him to come back. Instead she wandered about the quiet house, making herself another cup of tea and trying to work out what she could do. It was then she suddenly thought of a moneylender. She remembered seeing a moneylender’s office near where they used to live.

  Her heart leapt with apprehension at the mere idea but she had to do something, and quickly. She flung on her coat, grabbed her handbag and hurried from the house. It was a bright, sunny morning and buildings were silhouetted, coffee-coloured, against the glassy blue sky. She ran for a bus and once at her destination, she crossed the road and hurried towards the moneylender’s office, believing that she really had gone mad. What was the procedure in such a place? Did they ask her for references? Or some sort of security? She had no idea. Then suddenly she was startled by a familiar voice.

  ‘Hello there! Searching the shops for an expensive new outfit, are you, while your poor old man’s working his butt off in the station?’

  It was one of Jack’s police pals that he entertained to dinner every Sunday.

  She couldn’t bring herself to fake a laugh. But she managed to say, ‘Caught in the act. A lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Then she gave him a wave as she hastened away. Further down the street, she surreptitiously looked back. Now there were two police officers strolling along together, obviously on duty. No way could she risk returning to the moneylender’s office.

  Eventually, home again, she shut the door and leaned her head and back against it. Such anguish of mind couldn’t continue. She knew that. She would simply have to tell Jack. There was nothing else she could do. He arrived home and he was barely inside the door when she burst into tears.

  ‘Mae!’ He gathered her into his arms and smoothed a straggle of hair away from her wet face. ‘What on earth’s wrong with you these days? You’re not yourself at all.’

  ‘Oh Jack,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m in an awful mess. Darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it but the cost of living’s so terrible and money disappears so quickly and sometimes I just don’t know what to do.’

  ‘All right, all right. There’s no need to get into such a state.’

  ‘But Jack …’

  He pressed a finger to her mouth, silencing her. ‘Just keep quiet for a minute and let me think. Well, it won’t be easy, but yes, I think I could stretch to another couple of pounds a week on your housekeeping money.’

  ‘But Jack …’

  ‘No more buts, and no more tragic faces. I mean it. Now, just be quiet. I’ll manage it somehow. But for God’s sake, Mae, try and be a bit more careful. I’m not made of money. Now, come on. Get a grip of yourself and stop this nonsense. It was bad enough this morning when you were really nasty to me.’

  She mopped her face, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  It was no use.

  ‘Come on then, what’s for dinner. I’m starving,’ Jack said.

  She tried to tell herself that Jack meant well. Often he’d said, ‘You’re a great wee manager.’ He really believed he was being generous giving her a paltry raise in her housekeeping money.

  She wanted to tell him, ‘Those extra pounds won’t even pay for your next steak dinner. I don’t know what to do. For God’s sake, help me.’

  But she didn’t. He was as straight as a die and such a hard, conscientious worker and so positive and cheerful, despite the agony he obviously suffered with his injured hip.

  She loved him and nothing had ever spoiled their happiness before. Many a happy time they’d had together. Especially during the summer in Jack’s pride and joy of a car with its fancy rims and hub caps and jazzy seat covers. When Jack was off duty, she often helped him to polish the car.

  ‘Right,’ Jack repeated. ‘Where’s my dinner then?’

  He kissed her and she clung round his neck, not wanting to let him go.

  Laughing, he disentangled himself from her arms.

  ‘Later. First things first and that means a nice big juicy steak.’

  15

  As Paul said – to be a writer, especially a novelist, you had to be interested in people and what made them tick. You had to get around and observe people. Clive said it was much the same in art, at least the observing bit. And so, as much as they could, they went around observing and discussing what they’d seen and heard.

  The West End was always fascinating, with Byres Road and the lanes, including Ashton Lane, leading off it. The people going about in that area were mostly young university students.

  Just up from Byres Road were the Botanic Gardens and Clive and Paul enjoyed a walk around, then stretched out on the grass for a while before enjoying a visit to the big glass Kibble Palace. It was lovely that it was now the school summer holiday time and so they were in no rush. They took a bus into the centre of town and then walked down Buchanan Street.

  Clive said, ‘I always tell people who come to visit Glasgow to keep looking up. That way they don’t miss the beautiful architecture of the buildings.’

  ‘Yes, and I doubt if there’s anywhere else that has so much, if any, of that warm red sandstone.’

  There were the steps leading up to the Concert Hall at the top of Buchanan Street, all shaped in a half circle and covered by a rainbow of young people sitting laughing and chatting together. Further down, there were fashionable shops to visit but Clive and Paul preferred a leisurely stroll down the street, watching and listening to all the buskers.

  There were two young men in kilts, one playing the bagpipes, the other rattling on the drums. Several men from Peru in huge feathered headdresses and loose leather coats were playing pan pipes and drums.

  Then there was the St Petersburg brass band. Further down again, several Scotsmen in what seemed to be ancient tartan cloaks wound around their bodies and under their legs pranced about. The street led right down to the busy Argyle Street, but first Clive and Paul wandered round George Square.

  Clive and Paul got the bus back up Sauchiehall Street and walked through the park, before returning to Waterside Way.

  They were shocked and saddened at the situation developing in the park. Youths were lolling about drinking from bottles of wine and Buckfast – or Buckie as they called it. Many of the drinkers looked under-age. Fights sometimes broke out between gangs. Clive and Paul had also heard that drugs had been found on many of the youths. Before now, they had even seen youths urinating in the park.

  ‘It used to be such a beautiful, respectable place,’ Clive said. ‘If it gets any worse, we won’t be able to walk through it. It won’t be safe enough. Especially for the likes of us.’

  ‘I saw in the paper yesterday that there’s been a man convicted of harassing a poor guy and shouting, “Homosexuality is a sin against Jesus.”’

  ‘Sounds like the Reverend Denby.’

  ‘Yeah. There’s still too many of his kind around. I wish they would
do something to make the park a safer place. There’s so many angry youths, just looking for a meeting place to drink and start trouble.’

  ‘I often wonder what their parents are thinking of. Don’t they know what their children are up to?’

  ‘Probably they don’t care. The chances are they’re out drinking or getting stupid on drugs themselves.’

  ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. We’ve been lucky, Paul. Remember our mothers and fathers. Well, not so much our fathers, but our mothers were always loving and loyal.’

  ‘Yeah. One of my earliest memories is of a neighbour coming to my mother – I couldn’t have been more than six. Anyway, I remember this neighbour saying to my mother, “Do you know your boy’s a poof?” And my mother said, “My boy’s a good wee boy and I love him and I always will.”’

  ‘That was the same kind of woman my mother was – bless her. And it was her – like your mother – who taught me to be a good Christian. My mother used to go down on her knees with me beside my bed and recite the Lord’s Prayer with me.’

  ‘Yeah. Brave women too, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they were. We must always try to have as much courage as them, Paul.’

  And they continued their walk through the park, ignoring the violence around them.

  16

  Mae didn’t know what good it would do but she felt an urgency to go to the Art Galleries. She might find out something. At the back of her mind, of course, was the thought that while she was out of the house and Jack was at work, the robbers would come, break into the house and find the money gone. But what good would that do? She didn’t know but she was even more fearful of the robbers arriving when she was in the house. She had to get away and decided to ask Doris if she’d like to accompany her for a walk and a visit to the Art Galleries.

  Doris thought it was a great idea. So without wasting a minute, they set off, with Doris holding on to one side of old Mrs McIvor and Mae holding on to her other arm.