by Todd, Ian
“Any mair cheek aff ae The Three Amigos staunin there dishing oot their orders and Ah’m aff hame, so Ah am,” Mary Flint hid threatened, getting a supportive nod fae her pal, Elaine Hinky, who’d been staunin scowling at the men-folk.
“Comrades, comrades…and that goes fur aw youse comrade-ettes tae,” Charlie hid shouted. “Keep the peace and the noise doon. There’s nae need tae be getting aw personal aboot here. We’re aw supposed tae be oan the same side, so we ur.”
“Charlie’s right. We have to work together and respect what each and every one of us has to offer,” Susan hid reminded them, looking at each and everywan ae them.
“Well, tell the three stooges tae get back under their blankets. It’s real wummin they’re dealing wae noo,” Sally hid growled, still spoiling fur a fight.
Things hid finally settled doon...efter a fashion...and Helen hid telt Charlie tae carry oan. Everywan present hid eventually been gied a street, wae an equal number ae closes, tae put leaflets through the doors. Within a few seconds, everywan hid been swapping streets tae save them walking up here or there. Helen hid seen that Charlie wisnae too happy, bit baith her and Susan hid appreciated his resignation in accepting the best-laid plans and aw that. Naw, whit wis currently bothering Helen wis the skulduggery that wis happening oot oan the streets. She’d been glad that she’d spoken wae Susan the night before.
“Look, don’t worry, this is just old campaigning tactics. If that’s all JP gets up to, then we’ll do just fine, Helen,” Susan hid responded soothingly.
“Oh, Ah’m no bothered aboot their tactics, Susan. Whit Ah’m bothered aboot is the reaction fae the lassies. Issie and Sharon hiv spent the last three days putting up posters, only tae find they've either been ripped aff ae the walls within ten minutes ae gaun up or plastered o’er wae JP’s ugly mug sneering oot at them. Sharon said they’ve gone through four bags ae flour in two days making up their paste mix.”
“It’s an old trick. They just have to keep going.”
“And then there’s the carry-oan oan Springburn Road. Anytime the lassies stoap somewan tae speak tae them, JP’s crowd ur o’er like a shot, slinging in their tuppence worth, asking why anywan wid vote fur somewan who couldnae be arsed voting in the past. They’re challenging people and pointing oot if they themsels hid decided tae staun, dae they think fur wan minute that a non-voter like me wid get aff her lazy arse tae go oot and vote fur them? Christine Bailey slapped Haddock Broon oan the coupon fur butting-in when she wis mid-sentence, speaking tae a couple ae potential supporters oan the corner ae Palermo Street. That wee gnaff, Harry Paterson, started howling like an auld fishwife at passer-byes, oot daeing their shoapping, demanding tae know if they’d witnessed the assault oan Haddock. That King Bushwhacker wan hid tae separate them by pulling Christine aff ae Haddock, bit no before she hid two haunfuls ae hair clamped between her fingers.”
“You need to show leadership, Helen. JP’s people are deliberately baiting us. You have to ask the women to show restraint before someone gets badly hurt. How is Haddock? Is he alright?”
“Susan, Ah’m sorry, don’t take this the wrang way, hen, bit who gies a monkeys? If Ah’d been there, Ah wid’ve goat stuck in as well.”
“Helen, this is very important. Under no circumstances must you get involved. No matter how much people love and respect you, voters will shy away in droves if you’re seen to be condoning or inciting violence. Let’s be honest, there’s enough violence on the streets in Springburn without you adding to it. You cannot be seen to be involved in a street brawl...in fact, you have to be visibly seen to be above all of this.”
“Aye, Ah know ye’re right, bit Ah’m telling ye, some ae the lassies ur awready up fur marching doon tae that Journeyman’s Club fur a right battle royale, so they ur.”
“And your job is to curb that and redirect those energies into a more positive approach. We still have some time to go, so everyone has to stay calm, irrespective of what is being thrown at us. What about Charlie, John and Bob? How are they doing?”
“The Three Comrades? Ach, they’re gaun at it, tit-fur-tat, so they ur...haranguing the opposition up and doon Springburn Road, morning, noon and night. Gie them their due though, they’re pretty active and mobile fur their age.”
“You need to reign them in. People won’t be able to differentiate between your supporters and the opposition, if we’re seen to be as bad as them.”
“Ah’ve tried talking tae them. They see this as the nineteen thirties, part two. Ah shudder tae think whit’s gaun oan in The Journeyman’s Club bar at night, wae them in amongst JP’s crowd.”
Helen knew Susan wis right. There wis a danger that everything wid fall aboot their ears unless the lassies showed a bit ae restraint. The problem wis that Helen could only be in wan place at any wan time. She’d known maist ae the wummin fur years. They wur aw up fur it and game fur anything, as any Sheriff officer wid testify tae, bit getting them tae keep their hauns tae themsels when under attack widnae be easy. She stood up and tested her weight oan her feet, jist as her letterbox clattered. The plaster seemed tae be helping and jist as she made up her mind tae wear her blue patent shoes that day, a voice shouted alang her lobby.
“Is there anywan in? It’s me,” Soiled Sally shouted.
“Ah’m in the kitchen, Sally.”
“Right, plap yer cheeks doon oan tae that chair. Better still, ye better light up while Ah put the teapot oan. Ye’re no gonnae believe whit Ah’ve goat fur ye,” Sally said, throwing doon The Glesga Echo, before filling the teapot wae water.
“Right, c’mone, hit me wae it. Whit’s happened noo?” Helen eventually asked her, hivving skipped through the paper and found nothing.
Sally lit up a fag and stirred her tea furiously.
“Ah’m telling ye, Helen, if Ah ever clap eyes oan that wee parasite ever again, Ah swear, Ah’ll bloody-well swing fur him, so Ah will.”
“Whit parasite wid that be then, hen?”
“That ugly cretin who turned up at yer launch unannounced...whit’s his name...the reprobate fae The Echo?”
“Er, McLeod...Bradley McLeod. Why? Whit aboot him?”
“Lying, forked-tongued lying basturt, mair like,” Sally scowled, looking fae the newspaper tae Helen and back tae the newspaper sitting oan the table between them.
“Whit? He’s finally goat aff his arse and written something aboot us then?”
“Aye, well, judge fur yersel. Page thirty seven,” Sally said, nodding tae the paper.
Helen picked up The Echo and turned the pages tae the desired page.
“Where?” she asked.
“Bottom left...underneath aw that shite aboot whit Scottish wummin will be wearing this year. Dae ye see it...Springburn At War? They’ve even goat a wee smiling photo ae ye fae the day ae the launch.”
“Christ, so they hiv,” Helen said in wonder, touching her black and white smiling face oan the page.
“Aye, well, don’t get too carried away. Ah’d read the story first before ye go and get it framed fur posterity, so Ah wid.”
Helen looked doon at the article.
“Noo that aw the candidates hiv declared and thrown their hats intae the ring, the battle fur the heart and soul ae Springburn his begun, writes The Echo’s chief political reporter, Bradley McLeod. The last ae the candidates attempting tae fill the shoes ae the previous, noo deceased incumbent, Mr Dick Mulholland, Mrs Helen Taylor, declared her intentions tae take the seat at a launch meeting in a near empty hall attended by...”
“Aye, Ah telt ye, so Ah did,” Sally huffed, sitting back, folding her erms across her chest.
“Bit there wis mair than eight or nine ae us at the meeting…the lying toad!” Helen cursed.
“Right, carry oan, hen. If ye think that’s bad, wait until ye see whit’s fur pudding.”
“Right, where wis Ah...oh, aye...attended by eight or nine wishful thinkers last Monday efternoon...”
“Cheeky lying pish-pot!”
“...Mrs Tayl
or declared an aw-oot war oan Corporation workers, efter declaring that they wur aw corrupt and hid been fur years. Mrs Taylor then went oan tae run doon her fellow candidates using expletives that cannae be printed in a quality family newspaper, paying particular attention tae wan ae the maist successful politicians Glesga his seen these past thirty odd years, Mr JP Donnelly, who his fought gallantly oan behauf ae those less fortunate than the rest ae us. Typically, Mr Donnelly his awready expressed sadness, rather than anger, at Mrs Taylor’s offensive diatribe. ‘It’s wan thing tae hiv a go at me...Ah’ve been aroond long enough tae take it...bit tae hiv a go at oor hard-working Corporation staff is petty and vindictive. Ah kin assure aw they hard working people that as long as Ah kin draw breath, Ah’ll be there tae protect them fae opportunistic bullies like Mrs Taylor, so Ah will. Insteid ae hivving a go at them, Mrs Taylor should be hivving a go at aw they Tories who ur taxing us aw up tae the hilt,’ Mr Donnelly said. Meanwhile, the Tory candidate, Colonel Spicer Barr-Owen said that whilst he agreed wae Mrs Taylor that a culling exercise wis required fur The Corporation tae become mair efficient, there wur still a few decent people trying tae dae a good job under tough conditions. He said that a good many ae his estate workers aw hiv family members working fur The Corporation and wid be upset by Mrs Taylor’s unprovoked threats tae their livelihoods. Tam Barnet, The Corporation’s election supremo, a dedicated employee ae many years past, widnae be drawn oan Mrs Taylor’s assault oan The Corporation’s thousands ae hard-working employees. However, he did urge candidates tae restrain fae making inflammatory speeches and tae respect the democratic principles that he his applied in his thirty seven years in the job, gaun aw the way back tae the nineteen thirties. Mrs Taylor wis unavailable fur comment last night before gaun tae print,” Helen read, laying the paper doon oan the table, stunned.
“See? Whit did Ah tell ye, hen?”
Silence.
“Er, ur ye awright, Helen? Here, get yer laughing gear roond this,” Sally soothed, haunin Helen a lighted fag.
“Ah never said that. In fact, Ah never came oot wae any ae that tripe, so Ah didnae,” Helen whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Ah knew as soon as Ah clapped eyes oan that turgid wee snake that he wis a shark, so Ah did. Wid anywan listen tae me? Wid they Jack-fuck.”
“Oh, Sally, whit am Ah gonnae dae? Ah’m goosed, so Ah am.”
“Naw, ye’re no,” Sally laughed, unconvincingly, “Who the bloody hell reads any ae that politics shite in a newspaper, eh? Christ, hauf ae Springburn cannae even read and the wans that kin, urnae gonnae bother aboot reading this pish, Ah kin assure ye. Look at me...Sharon hid tae read it oot tae me, seeing as Ah couldnae find they glasses ae mine and even if Ah hid found them, Ah still widnae hiv gied that shite a second glance.”
Helen smiled through her tears thankfully, across at her neighbour. Helen knew Sally could barely write her name, and wis thankful fur her support.
“Ah’m drooned before Ah even get started. How could he write that? It’s aw bloody lies.”
“That’s why Ah don’t buy newspapers. Getting hit wae aw that crap fae the news oan the telly is bad enough withoot reading it in the bloody paper.”
“Look how many people we know who work fur The Corporation, Sally? They’ll aw think Ah’m oot tae get them...”
“Naw they won’t.”
“...it’s the tap officials who operate behind closed doors in cahoots wae the likes ae JP Donnelly Ah wis referring tae, no the ordinary worker.”
“Helen, Ah’m telling ye, hen, don’t get yer knickers in a twist o’er this. Get up aff yer arse, and get oot there. That’s the Helen that everywan knows and expects. Don’t let the basturts grind ye doon.”
“Ah’m sorry, Sally, bit it’s no as easy as that, believe you me,” Helen mumbled, feeling the blisters oan her feet warming up fur another day’s torment.
“Of course it is. Ah’m up here tae drag ye oot ae this hoose tae get tore intae them. Don’t let that auld sly badger, JP, get tae ye. He’s behind aw this, so he is,” Sally pleaded.
“Oh, Ah don’t know,” Helen said, biting her bottom lip doubtfully.
“And another thing, whit dis culling mean? Issie said she asked Harry Bouffant and he said he thought it wis some posh highland fish soup. Christ, kin ye imagine turning wan ae Salty Tony’s good fish suppers intae soup? Whit a waste, eh?”
“Thinning...thinning oot,” Helen murmured, looking doon at the article again.
“Whit is?”
“Tae cull something. It means cutting oot, reducing something tae a manageable size, so it dis.”
“Ah suppose that makes sense. Ah couldnae imagine slinging wan ae Salty Tony’s big battered haddocks intae the soup pot withoot cutting it intae wee bits first...if Ah wis that way inclined, that is.”
“Oh, Sally, hen, whit wid Ah dae withoot you and aw the lassies, eh?” Helen sniffled, reaching across and taking Sally’s hauns in hers, unable tae stoap the tears fae rolling doon her cheeks.
Chapter Forty Four
Mary stubbed her fag oot in the metal Capstan ashtray oan her desk, withoot taking her eyes aff ae the page. It wis shite. Pure drivelling unadulterated crap, wae a capital C. Whit hid she been thinking ae? She looked at the heider fur the umpteenth time. ‘Whit Scottish Wummin Will Be Wearing in Scotland in 1972.’ It totally contradicted the banner at the tap ae the page announcing tae the world that Mary Marigold, Scotland’s foremost wummin’s journalist, wis launching her new column fur wummin, aboot wummin, in Scotland’s maist exciting and forward-thinking newspaper. Even her smiling wee photo oan the tap right-haun side ae the page, beaming oot at the reader, looked like something aff ae a wanted poster. Whit hid started oot as a great idea hid gone aff like a damp squib. Nae wonder Dandy Maclean, her editor, hidnae uttered a word, other than tae murmur that ‘it’s early days yet,’ when she’d asked him whit he thought. She’d jist put his lack ae enthusiasm doon tae the fact ae him being a pipe smoking, Welsh rarebit eating, blubbering auld idiot, who’d obviously been too long editing The Green Fingers gardening column fur the past twenty three years tae know anything other than the size and texture ae a bag ae Kerr’s Pink totties. Christ, whit wid he know aboot whit every wummin wanted? In fact, noo that she thought aboot it, lighting up another fag, even Pearl, her new apprentice gofer, hidnae seemed aw that impressed. Mary hid goat Pearl tae rip oot fashion articles fae aw the magazines, efter sending her oot tae buy them fae the wee paper shoap beside the bus stoap, jist ootside the main entrance ae The Echo. Mary hid thought Pearl’s reticence in praising the article hid been due tae the fact that Pearl hid obviously gone aff in the huff because aw her suggestions oan whit wid be good tae go intae the new column, hid been rejected oot ae haun by yours truly.
“So, whit dae ye think then, Pearl?” she’d asked Pearl before taking it next door tae Dandy, the spud expert.
“Er, aye, no bad.”
“No bad?”
“Ah like some ae the dresses in the photos, bit they’re no tae ma taste, so they’re no.”
“Pearl, how auld ur ye?”
“Fifteen.”
“And how auld dae ye think the models in the photos ur?”
“Er, aboot twenty odd. Why?”
“So, ye’ll admit yer tastes ur...jist that bit mair, er...how wid ye put it...wee lassie-ish...as opposed tae the mair sophisticated girl-aboot-toon kind ae thing that Ah’m trying tae project?”
“And expensive.”
“Expensive?”
“Well, wance Ah eventually get tae that sophisticated, grown-up stage...jist like yersel...Ah’m still no sure that Ah’d be seen deid in the...”
“Whit?” Mary hid interjected, eyes narrowing.
“...er, be able tae afford the kind ae prices quoted under the photos.”
“Expensive? They’re no expensive...no fur whit they ur. Christ, Pearl, if ye want that sophisticated look that shouts oot confidence, sleekness, grace, S-T-Y-L-E, style, then ye’ll need tae wise up. How
else ur ye gonnae attract aw they big rich hunks oot ae their fancy big hooses doon in Balmaha, tae buzz aroond that tight wee arse ae yers like bees roond a honey-pot, eh? Us modern wummin need tae take the plunge and invest in the image...the look...the confidence...that says that we kin go anywhere and dae anything we want.”
“That sounds like wan ae they Martini adverts ye see in between the films at the pictures tae me, so it dis.”
“Christ, Pearl, nae wonder ye left school withoot any qualifications, wae an attitude like that,” she’d retorted, like an auld hen.
Mary felt a wave ae depression descend, that threatened tae suffocate her, and left her feeling the same as she’d felt efter some dirty, selfish basturt hid silently let aff a deadly fart at The Odeon up in Renfield Street a few evenings previously. It kind ae crept up oan her tae start wae and jist when she realised that something wisnae quite right, it grabbed her by the throat and held oan until her senses wur completely paralysed and she felt her heid spinning uncontrollably. She quickly reached fur another fag and flipped the paper o’er oan tae the front page. Benson hid telt her that when she felt an oncoming attack approaching, she should dae something quickly tae distract hersel and take her mind aff ae her misery. The heidline made her feel even mair dejected and useless.
‘Torture Factory Discovered’ screamed the banner heidline. She looked at the grim-looking building sitting in the black and white photo, that hid a polis constable staunin guard ootside whit looked like two big factory doors that said 'Nae Parking' oan them.
‘Polis in Glesga hiv reported that they’ve discovered whit appears tae be a torture chamber at 347 Garscube Road, Coocaddens, early yesterday evening. Whilst nae bodies hiv been found, paraphernalia and other implements associated wae torture hiv been discovered in the disused factory. Chief Superintendent Bob Mackerel, heid ae the city’s murder squad, confirmed late last night that they’re no ruling oot a connection between activities at the factory and the recent spate ae serious violence, including the murder ae Mr Thomas Simpson, the notorious Glesga gangster fae Possilpark. As readers will recall, Mr Simpson wis shot deid oan Hogmanay in the stairwell ae his love-nest, in the arms ae his senior social worker lover, Mrs Alison Crawford, wife ae Mr George Crawford, Assistant Governor ae Polmont Borstal, near Falkirk. Mrs Crawford is still being treated fur life-threatening injuries in the city’s Royal Infirmary, efter being shot in the throat during the incident. Her cuckolded husband, Mr George Crawford, wis still unavailable fur comment last night. Chief Superintendent Sam Bison, heid ae the Serious Crime and Intelligence Division confirmed that the flairs and walls ae the factory wur covered in whit appeared tae be human blood.