It was then that the door of number two was flung open and a wild-haired Doris hastened out in great agitation.
‘I just went to the bathroom. I must have forgotten to lock the door. Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘Not to worry,’ Jack said, linking arms with the old woman. ‘Come on, I’ll see you safely in to your own home.’
Mrs McIvor said to Doris, ‘I got the police to you.’
Mae went into the house with Doris and the old woman. Jack went back to garage his car.
‘I won’t be long,’ Mae called after him.
Inside number two, Doris was trembling and almost in tears.
‘Oh Mae, I forgot to lock the door. Do you think I’m going the same way as my mother? Is it genetic, do you think?’
‘Of course not. You’re under a terrible strain, Doris. I don’t know how you manage as well as you do.’
‘I’ll get the police to you,’ Mrs McIvor said.
‘Oh God,’ Doris groaned, rubbing a hand through her hair and making it even frizzier and messier. ‘She’s found something else to keep repeating at me.’
‘I’ll get the police to you.’
‘Doris, something will have to be done,’ Mae said firmly. ‘You definitely can’t go on like this. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy. Forgive me for saying this, Doris, but even I feel like punching her in the mouth to make her shut up. And I only see her occasionally.’
‘She wasn’t always like this. She was such a good mother to me and Alec. I must never forget that.’
‘But you’ve got to face it, Doris. She’s not that woman any more. It’s sad, I know, but for her own good as well as yours, something will have to be done.’
‘More and more, I feel like being violent to her myself.’ Doris began to moan and weep and Mae put a comforting arm around her. ‘I’m so ashamed, Mae, but what can I do?’
‘You’ll have to do the best thing for your mother and that means getting her into a good nursing home now.’
Mrs McIvor was wandering in and out of the room. ‘I’ll get the police to you.’
‘I suppose you’re right. But I’ve wanted so much to look after her with the patience and love she always gave me. I felt I owed it to her.’
‘It’s too much for you, Doris. Far too much. You know it is. The very best thing for your mother now is to get her into a good nursing home. You can visit her every day. And she’d be happy there. She’d have company and be well looked after. She’d be much happier, I’m sure. And you’d be happier too.’
‘But what’ll Alec say?’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Doris. Give me his address. I’ll write to him and tell him the desperate urgency of the situation. I’ll tell him that if he doesn’t respond and do something, I’ll get the police – something desperate like that. I’ll think of some kind of threat.’
‘You’ve done so much for me already, Mae. Would you really write and tell him the truth about how Mum is?’
‘Of course.’
Doris wiped at her eyes. ‘All right. I’ll wait until he gets your letter.’
‘I’ll write the letter tonight and post it tomorrow. But Doris, are you sure you’ll be all right until you hear from him?’
‘I’ll get the police to you.’
‘Yes, all right, Mum.’ Doris spoke to her mother through gritted teeth and made Mae all the more worried about leaving her.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Doris? Look, I’ll wait until you give your mother her medication. Give her an extra dose to make her sleep.’
Doris nodded and went to fetch the necessary tablets. At least her mother dutifully swallowed them over. Mae waited until the old woman was nodding off to sleep and then she helped Doris tuck her safely into bed.
‘Thank you so much.’ Doris’s voice trembled as she saw Mae to the door. Mae gave her an affectionate hug.
‘Everything’s going to be all right soon. Just cling to that thought.’
Once back in her own house, she wished she had such a thought to cling to. She was sure Doris’s life was bound to get better. Her own life was sinking into the abyss of hell.
She was desperately trying to gather five pound notes but was she going to have enough before the robbers broke in?
21
Mahmood had not minded in the slightest when his young son Mirza asked if he could bring Sandra Arlington-Jones in for tea. Indeed, he had been delighted.
‘Welcome. Welcome,’ he’d told Mirza and then Sandra. His wife Rasheeda had made a nice cup of tea for their young guest and also produced a plate of assorted biscuits. Biscuits were a very popular seller in his grocery shop. Western people liked biscuits and Sandra had been no exception. She had a healthy young person’s appetite and enjoyed several.
But then Mahmood had become worried. Mirza had settled himself at Sandra’s feet and gazed adoringly up at her.
Eventually Mahmood spoke to Mirza about it.
‘Mirza, you must remember that we are Muslims. You can never be anything more than friends to any Christian woman.’
‘Father, you are prejudiced and I am not. I’ll be more than friends with who I like, whether she’s Christian or not. And eventually, when I’m older, if all goes well, I’ll marry who I like, whether she’s Christian or not.’
Mahmood was horrified. ‘No, no, my son. You cannot do that. Your mother and I will choose a wife for you, even if it means we have to go to Pakistan to do so.’
‘Father, this is Scotland and I’m nearly seventeen. In Scotland, anyone can get married as young as sixteen. It’s the law.’
Mahmood felt a cauldron of emotion begin to boil up inside his small frame. Anger, disappointment, grief. He was completely appalled.
‘You can’t even think of disobeying your parents and your religion. It is not possible.’
‘Anything’s possible, Father, and now that you’ve brought up the subject, I confess – I love Sandra Arlington-Jones and I hope one day to marry her.’
‘You’re being ridiculous, Mirza. Isn’t he being ridiculous, Rasheeda?’
‘Yes, of course. You haven’t even known her long enough to be friends.’
‘I’ve known her a lot longer than you think. She’s lived at number five for years but I knew her before we came to live in Waterside Way. We go to the same school.’
Mahmood said, ‘I forbid you to see her again.’
Mirza managed a laugh. ‘Father, we’re in the same class at school.’
‘At school, you will concentrate on your lessons, then you will come straight home alone. Or with your sister, Zaida, only. If you do not do that, your mother will wait at the school gate and then escort you home.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Mirza groaned.
‘Do not blaspheme, you wicked boy. If necessary, I will speak to the girl’s mother.’
‘Oh no, Father. No, please don’t do that.’
Mahmood experienced a welcome surge of relief at the sight of Mirza’s distress. He had found what was needed to bring Mirza back to his senses.
‘Very well. We’ll wait and see how you behave, Mirza. If you obey the wishes of your father, all will be well. If you do not obey …’ His shoulders raised in a shrug and he spread out his hands.
Mirza now sat tight-lipped, pale-faced and silent.
‘So,’ Mahmood said firmly, ‘no more visitors from number five.’
It was a pity, Mahmood thought afterwards, that they would not be able to be good neighbours with number five after all. They could not be on happy visiting terms with them, as he’d originally hoped.
Remembering the adoring look on Mirza’s face as he gazed up at Sandra, he realised that it would be far too risky.
He believed in live and let live. He had always respected the Gorbals neighbours for being good Christians. And they had respected him for being a good Muslim. They went to their Christian church. (If they went to any church at all. Many didn’t bother and so he wasn’t sure what they believed.) He and his family always atten
ded the mosque with unfailing regularity. The marriage of his dear deceased daughter and Bashir had been arranged. His daughter had never seen Bashir before the ceremony but everything had worked out well and they had been happy.
He fondly remembered that wedding day. All the men gathered in the sitting room of the Gorbals flat. All the women sat on the floor of the kitchen. His daughter was suitably veiled. The vows were taken separately, as was the custom, and then the men trooped off to the restaurant where a meal had been booked. After they returned, the women went to have their meal. At first, his daughter had gone to live with Bashir’s family. Then, sadly, his daughter and Bashir’s mother and father were killed and their house destroyed in a gas explosion.
As a result, it was agreed that he, Mahmood Shafaatulla, would provide a larger home so that the whole family could be together in a good area, and they moved to Waterside Way. Bashir had taken over the running of the Shafaatulla grocery business and was doing extremely well. He had lived in Glasgow all his life, of course, although not in the Gorbals. He had lived with his well-off parents in a very good area at the other side of Glasgow, but Waterside Way was just as good, Mahmood thought proudly. A very respectable place.
He still felt annoyed at Mirza. The boy should have known better. He wondered if, despite Mirza’s obvious opposition to the idea, he should talk to Sandra’s mother, just to let her know that he had reprimanded Mirza and reminded him that any liaison between a Muslim like him and a Christian girl like Sandra was unacceptable and impossible. Before he had a chance to make up his mind, there was some sort of trouble outside.
He ran to the front door, opened it a crack – just enough to enable him to peek anxiously from it. Poor Mrs McIvor, who had, he understood, an elderly person’s illness of the mind, was shouting and violently struggling with her daughter and also with Mae Kelly outside number one.
Apparently, Mrs McIvor had become determined that the house at number one was where she lived and that her daughter had locked her out. Her daughter was a very good woman who looked after her mother, kept her at home and did not abandon her to some institution, as so many British people did with their elderly parents.
He greatly admired and respected Doris McIvor.
He saw Jack Kelly, the police husband of Mae Kelly, arrive and struggle from his car. Mahmood knew all the names, partly by overhearing conversations as he was doing now, and partly from Bashir who had had friendly conversations with the Kellys and the McIvors. Bashir knew all the gossip.
Poor Jack Kelly had been injured at the Ibrox football disaster and it was obvious that he suffered great pain. Now he limped hastily towards the still violently struggling Mrs McIvor. He put an arm around her to lead her gently but firmly towards house number two. Then he went away to park his car, leaving his wife and Doris McIvor to take the old lady into the house.
Mahmood withdrew but even after he’d closed his door on his small, thin body, he could hear Mrs McIvor shouting,
‘I’ll get the police on you.’
He sighed. Poor Doris. What a good, patient daughter she was. He prayed to Allah that she would be rewarded in heaven. As soon as Bashir arrived home, he told him all about what he’d witnessed and heard.
His wife Rasheeda had been busy in the kitchen and had not seen or heard anything.
‘Och, I know.’ Bashir shook his head. ‘I’m really sorry for that girl. The other day I saw her chasing after her mother down at the river’s edge. She was terrified that her mother would fall into the water. I rescued the old woman on that occasion. Apparently she gets out the front door the moment Doris’s back is turned. Then she’s off like a shot. Doris told me it once took her so long to find her, she had to ask the police for help.’
‘Well, that was the police helping her again today. The police officer, Jack Kelly, at number one. The poor man could hardly walk. I cannot understand why he is still able to keep his job.’
‘They’ve given him a desk job, a regular day shift. So that he can still earn some money, I suppose, and also not be bored sitting at home all the time.’
‘Everyone has their problems,’ Mahmood said and he told Bashir about his worry with Mirza. ‘I was thinking I might yet talk to Mrs Arlington-Jones. She might want to know that Mirza has been suitably reprimanded.’
‘No, no, Pop,’ Bashir said. ‘You’d only make things worse. I’d have nothing to do with that woman. I said a polite good morning to her one day and she just about knocked me over, pushing past me without a word.’
‘I cannot believe,’ Mahmood said, ‘how different some people are here. People were so friendly before.’
Bashir’s brown face creased into a dimpled grin.
‘This isn’t the Gorbals, Pop. It’s time you recognised that.’
22
‘Do not forget the Scottish tea,’ Mahmood reminded the women. The two men from number four were coming to visit. They were teachers, one of them in Mirza’s school and the other in a private, boys only school, and so they were important people indeed.
A plate of cakes and a plate of biscuits were also important. It was the Glasgow custom. In the Gorbals, much cake and many biscuits were eaten. He had discovered too that minced beef and mashed potatoes and fish and chips were popular. (Oh, how often he’d longed for royal chicken and almond sauce. His wife Rasheeda had her dream too. She often spoke longingly of mango ice cream and milk balls made in syrup.)
The two men arrived and introduced themselves as Clive and Paul. Clive was the one who taught in the private school. Paul taught in the secondary school that Mirza attended. They seemed to enjoy the tea provided by the women.
After the women disappeared back into the kitchen, Mahmood said, ‘I am worried about my son, Mirza. Do you know him?’
‘Yes, of course,’ both men answered.
‘And Sandra-Arlington Jones?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Mahmood shook his head sadly.
‘It cannot be. It is wicked. We have always been good Muslims. It would greatly help, I have been thinking, if Mirza was in a different school. At present, you see, he is with that girl every day in the same school – your school.’ One bony finger pointed at Paul. ‘But if he was at your school,’ the finger switched to Clive’s direction, ‘how much better everything would be. Your school is private and boys only, no girls allowed. That is what matters – no girls allowed.’
‘In the first place,’ Paul said coldly, ‘the schools don’t belong to us. We only work there.’
‘And in the second place,’ Clive interrupted, ‘the school I teach in is a private Christian school. The headmaster could not allow Mirza’s entrance.’
Mahmood said, ‘If you recommended his application, he would. It will only be for a couple of years, then he will be at university and I will find him a good and suitable wife. Meantime he must get into your school and away from any contact with Sandra Arlington-Jones.’
‘As Paul said, Mr Shafaatulla, we only work at the school.’
‘You are a teacher, Mr Clive. You will have influence. Recommend Mirza and that will make all the difference to the headmaster. I beg of you, Mr Clive. I only want the best for my son. I want to protect him.’
‘It will not be the best for Mirza to disrupt his education by changing schools.’
Both Clive and Paul rose. Paul said, ‘Mirza is a good boy and Sandra is a nice girl. I wish them both every happiness.’
Mahmood followed them to the door with much wringing of hands and agitation.
‘So do I. So do I. But not together. That can never be. My wife Rasheeda and I will find Mirza a good wife. But first of all, he must have a good education.’
Paul said, ‘He is getting a good education where he is. I can assure you of that, Mr Shafaatulla. And he is a very intelligent boy. His ambition is to be an architect and if he continues his education where he is and then gets an appropriate place at university, I’m confident he will succeed.’
‘Yes,’ Clive agreed. ‘You would d
efinitely ruin the boy’s chances if you disrupted his life by trying to change his school just now.’
‘But surely …’ Mahmood began to protest but was stopped by Paul.
‘Forget it!’
‘Far from recommending your application,’ Clive said, ‘I’d object most strongly to it.’
At the door, Mahmood shook his head. ‘I do not understand. I am most surprised and I am very disappointed in you. Very disappointed indeed.’
‘And we in you.’
Outside the door, Paul said, ‘Could you beat that?’
Clive shook his head. ‘I know my school has an excellent academic reputation but it’s obviously not for that reason that he wants Mirza to go there.’
‘I know, and if he did manage to get Mirza in, can you imagine how the poor lad would stick out like a sore thumb, looking and being so different from the others. He’d be picked on, for sure.’
‘I don’t know about that. My pupils are good lads. But you could be right. It could turn out to be a difficult situation. But just to disrupt Mirza’s education by changing his school would be bad enough.’
‘Poor Mirza and it’s all because of his love for Sandra. Isn’t life damnably unfair.’
‘Let’s include them in our prayers tonight, Paul.’
And they did. Down on their knees beside their bed as usual, they recited the Lord’s Prayer and then they added, ‘And please, Jesus, have mercy on Mirza Shafaatulla and Sandra Arlington-Jones. Please protect them from harm and help them to be happy together and to go on loving each other in peace and freedom. For this is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, for ever and ever, for Jesus’ sake, Amen.’
The first opportunity they got, they spoke to Bashir and Bashir said, ‘I know. It’s absolutely damnable. I’ve tried over and over again to speak to Pop, but it’s no use. All it’s made him do is hurry his plans to find what he called “a suitable Pakistani Muslim wife” for Mirza. He can’t find any in Glasgow and he’s actually talking now about travelling over to Pakistan to find one.’
‘Serve him right,’ Paul said, ‘if Mirza and Sandra got married at Gretna Green while he’s away.’
The Kellys of Kelvingrove Page 7