‘She’s good at buying fish suppers if she’s got the money,’ said Cathie. ‘I’ve got a message for you, Duffy. From Cooley.’
‘Duffy doesn’t want to hear about Cooley,’ said Molly, jealously.
‘Maybe you’ve heard, Duffy. She’s been sent to a reform school in Aberdeen, so she’s done a bunk. The Children’s Panel did it. That Mrs Porteous. Cooley says she hopes Porteous gets raped by a big nigger with pox.’
‘Cooley’s got pox herself,’ said Molly.
‘She’s cured. Not everybody’s got your luck, Molly.’
‘She’s plukey.’
Cathie had a spot or two herself. ‘And you’re freckly.’
‘Freckles are a sign of delicate skin. She’s got no boobs either.’
Cathie’s were very small. ‘Not everybody likes having bags of haggis on her chest.’
‘Men like big boobs. Mick said so.’ Molly was careful not to ask Duffy if he liked them. What she felt for Duffy was different from her usual sexual slavishness. She wanted him to respect her.
‘She had an airbag with Singapore Airlines on it,’ said Cathie. ‘She said she was going to Singapore to marry a rich Chink. She wants to see you before she leaves town. She said you’d know where to find her.’
Molly had no irony in her. She sneered. ‘Some rich Chink! Mick said Cooley wouldn’t even make a good whore.’
‘He wouldn’t know it,’ said Cathie, ‘for all his brains are in that big dick of his, but he was paying her a compliment.’
‘She wouldn’t make a good wife either.’
‘Well, that’s the message, Duffy. I said I’d tell you if I saw you.’
‘Thanks, Cathie.’
‘When I see Mick will I ask him if I can come and stay with you?’ asked Molly.
‘Isn’t it Johnny Crosbie you should ask?’ asked Cathie. Didn’t Mick promise you to him? Isn’t he going to give Mick six packets of fags for you?’
‘I don’t have to go with Johnny if I don’t want to.’ But fear had come into Molly’s eyes.
Johnny Crosbie was in Duffy’s book because of his stoning a swan to death. Duffy himself had not seen the incident but he had had it described to him by boys who had. There had been blood on the white feathers. Crosbie had exulted. ‘Like Tarzan.’ No one had tried to stop him. He had a knife of which everyone was afraid. He had used it to subdue a girl called Sally Cooper. She had charged him with rape and then withdrawn it. Her brother Archie, a soldier in Northern Ireland, was going to settle with Crosbie next time he was home on leave. Mrs Crosbie told everybody that Johnny’s was a medical condition: he took terrible headaches. The doctors had said he would grow out of it. She had said that when he was five, she was still saying it now that he was sixteen. Nobody believed her but not many blamed her either. It was not easy for any mother to have to admit that her only child was evil.
‘I don’t like Johnny,’ said Molly.
‘Tell me who does,’ said Cathie.
Molly had no older brother to fight for her. Her father was a useless drunk. She thought of the police as persecutors, not protectors.
‘If you wanted me, Duffy,’ she said shyly, ‘Mick would let you have me instead of Johnny.’
‘It’s for you to say, not Mick,’ said Cathie.
‘You know I can’t.’
Cathie nodded, grimly. Molly was her friend but she was a big lump of helplessness. There were women in Lightburn who ran away from their men who beat them up, but they always went creeping back for more. It was no good telling them that they were weak-minded fools: they knew it better than anybody else but they could do nothing about it. They didn’t go back either just because of the children, they went back to be beaten up again. Molly was like them, only she hadn’t the excuse that she was married to the brute. All that wee Cathie’s grim nod conveyed.
‘You might be lucky,’ she said. ‘Archie Cooper’s coming home this weekend. Sally says he’s bringing a buddy, a big fellow like a gorilla. Crosbie’s goolies are going to be sore for months.’
‘He told Mick he was going to stay in the house till Archie went back.’
‘He’ll come creeping out in the dark, like a rat. Everybody will tell Archie where he is.’
She spoke on behalf of the tribe. Crosbie must be protected from the police but not from the Coopers who were entitled to their revenge.
At last Molly found the courage to touch Duffy’s face.
He had learned not to shrink back or shudder. All his life he had hated being touched. His mother thought it was because of his excessive modesty but it was more than that. When he was small, bigger girls, noticing his peculiar reluctance, had hugged and kissed him. They had meant to be affectionate but they had also enjoyed his shudders. It had been his first lesson on how kindness could have in it elements of malice.
Molly though was never malicious. She patted his cheek again. ‘If somebody comes chapping at your door one of these nights, Duffy, it could be me.’
‘Better not,’ said Cathie. ‘You’d just get Duffy into trouble with his mother. If you see Cooley, Duffy, wish her luck for me. Come on, Molly.’
Molly let herself be led away. She looked back and waved.
She needed to be with people even if they were mocking her and making use of her. For him it was just as necessary to be alone.
All the same what if the great gesture he intended to make was to take the form of becoming Molly McGowan’s boyfriend and later her husband? If he saved her from being made use of and gave her happiness, whatever the cost to himself, he would have, in a way, redeemed and benefited all humanity.
CHAPTER FOUR
Many years ago Lightburn had been surrounded by coal mines. They were now defunct and with one exception had been reclaimed, with houses built and playing fields laid out. The Brandy still had relics of the surface workings and its bings of dross, but to these had been added heaps of garbage for it was now used as the town’s rubbish dump. Situated about half a mile out of town, it was inhabited by thousands of gulls and many rats. In winter, especially, it was an eerie, forsaken, maladorous place. A small shed of corrugated iron had been let fall into disrepair, for the men who brought the garbage here preferred to drink their tea in pleasanter surroundings.
This was the sanctuary where Duffy sometimes went and where he was sure he would find Cooley hiding.
The way to it was an earth track through fields. There were many muddy puddles. Duffy wore Wellingtons and a raincoat, for it was raining. A gate shut off the side-track leading to the dump. There was a notice saying Private. The gate should have been padlocked but wasn’t. People were not supposed to bring their own garbage here but some did.
Not far from the shed, in the midst of the mounds of rubbish, Duffy trod on something soft. A stink, worse than all the others, sickened him. He shone his torch. It was a dead dog, showing its teeth as if in pain. Parts of it had been gnawed away. Perhaps, poisoned or ill, it had crawled here to die, or more likely its owner, to avoid the labour of burying it or the expense of having its remains disposed of by a vet, had dumped it here.
Duffy patted its head.
Parts of the shed were loose and rattled in the wind. He imagined Cooley inside, waiting for him.
He pushed open the door and shone his torch. ‘Cooley, it’s me, Duffy.’
She was there all right, sitting in an armchair that had two petrol cans for its front legs. She put up her hand to protect her eyes from the torchlight but it could have been to keep him from seeing her tears. She had once boasted that she would let no one, not even him, ‘especially not you, Duffy,’ see her crying.
‘What kept you?’ she asked, hoarsely.
She took her hand away. Her eyes were dry enough now and as bold as ever. ‘Don’t waste your battery,’ she said.
He switched off the torch. ‘I had to wait till it was dark.’
‘Didn’t you want the gulls to see you?’
‘Cathie Barr said the police were looking for you.’
>
‘So they are, the pigs. Did you bring me a fish supper and a bottle of coke? I’ve been sitting here telling myself Duffy would come and bring me a fish supper and a bottle of coke.’
‘Come and have a meal in my house, Cooley. You could stay the night if you wanted.’
‘Has your mother gone then?’
‘This morning.’
‘She wouldn’t want me in her house, especially after I’ve spent a night in this stinking hole.’
‘You could have a bath.’
‘I’d like that. Thanks. All right, I’ll come, but I’ll not stay the night. If you could lend me a few quid I’d go to Glasgow. I’m heading for London.’
‘Do you know anybody there?’
‘What difference does that make? I prefer strangers. They leave you alone. But I do know somebody. Sadie Turnbull. She went there about three years ago and is doing very well.’
It was said that Sadie Turnbull had become a prostitute. She had the body for it, like Molly McGowan.
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s manageress of a hotel for Cypriots. She said I could get a job there any time.’
‘What kind of job?’
‘Well, it won’t be in a knocking-shop anyway, if that’s what you’re thinking. Who’d pay good money to fuck me? Blacks wanting cut rates maybe. Christ, I’m stiff as a board. Let’s go.’
‘I’ll carry your bag.’
He started to laugh.
‘What’s funny? I haven’t got Porteous’s head in it.’
‘Singapore Airlines.’
‘Oh, that. I found it. No, that’s a lie. I nicked it. I’ve always wanted to go to Singapore. It’s hot and there are lots of rich Chinks.’
There were pictures of Singapore, the Lion City, in his encyclopaedia.
They set off towards the lights of the town. It was still raining. The wind was chilly.
‘I expect Cathie told you they want to send me to a reformatory in Aberdeen? Tight-pussy Porteous suggested it.’ In spite of her chittering teeth she mimicked Mrs Porteous’s deep, stern voice. ‘“It’s for your own good, Helen. You are out of your parents’ control, you know. This is a very nice place. It has its own tennis court.” Christ, Duffy, can you see me in wee white shorts playing tennis? If it’s such a nice place why doesn’t she send her own daughter Margaret there? Wasn’t it her and her smart friends painted Burns’s statue red-white-and-blue?’
‘That was never proved, Cooley.’
‘They took fucking good care not to prove it. The sons and daughters of the most respectable citizens in the town mustn’t have their careers ruined. What about my career?’ She laughed. ‘But I forgot, you used to fancy Margaret Porteous, didn’t you, when you were at school?’
‘I’ve never spoken to her in my life.’
‘What difference does that make? I fancy John Travolta and I’ve never spoken to him.’
She had to stop walking to cough.
‘You’re taking a cold, Cooley.’
‘It feels like double pleurisy.’
They went on again.
‘What about you, Duffy? If your mother hooks this guy she’s gone to Spain with and goes to live in Bearsden among the toffs, why shouldn’t she take you with her? You look the part. All you’d have to do would be to stop acting as if you were simple. I know it’s just an act but why do you do it? Whatever you are it’s not simple. You worry me, Duffy. I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen to you.’
‘What’s going to happen to you, Cooley?’
‘Oh, that’s easy. I’m going to marry Prince Edward and live in Buckingham Palace.’
‘Seriously, Cooley.’
‘Oh, seriously? I’m going to become a junkie and get my throat cut. Are you sure you didn’t bring any fags?’
‘You shouldn’t smoke, Cooley.’
‘And you shouldn’t call me Cooley.’
He was astonished. She must be joking. Usually she dared people to call her Helen, too many sarcastic teachers had called her that. Nor did diminutives like Nell and Nellie please her.
‘What do you want me to call you?’
‘I shouldn’t have to tell you that, should I? In some ways you really are simple. You should be able to think of something. Like honey.’
‘Honey?’ How could he call this bitter, humorous girl honey?
‘Skip it.’
She stopped. They were not far from Kenilworth Court. Rain stotted on the pavement. Her head was soaked.
‘Before I go another step I want to know why you’re doing this for me.’
‘You’re my friend.’
‘Some friend. If I was to kiss you or just take your hand you’d grue. What sort of friend am I then? I can stand all those bastards trying to kick me around for they hate my guts and I hate theirs, but I can’t stand somebody being kind to me that would grue if I kissed him or took his hand. Do you know something Duffy, with everybody else I’ve got no pride, I’d steal from a blind man’s tinny, I’d even take a job from Porteous if she offered me one, but with you it’s different. You make me ashamed of myself.’
He had known that she had deeper feelings than she was given credit for, but he had not realised how fond she was of him. She really did want him to call her honey.
‘Let’s talk about it in the house,’ he said, ‘or you will take double pleurisy.’
She couldn’t stop shivering. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble with your mother. I’ll take a few quid if you can spare them and catch a bus to Glasgow.’
‘My mother won’t know.’
‘What about that nosy fat cow across the landing that’s always spying?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I wouldn’t want to make the wee darkie upstairs jealous.’
‘Mr Ralston’s been brought home from hospital. He’s dying of cancer.’
‘Isn’t he lucky? All right, then, just for an hour or two till I get dried.’
The close-mouth was in darkness because the street lamp there had been smashed. No one was about. Everybody was indoors watching television. Duffy hurried on ahead to open the door.
He had always imagined himself as waging his war alone, but if Cooley really wanted to be his comrade and if she took him seriously he might ask her to join him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cooley did not take him seriously.
To begin with his deft household movements and dutiful face reminded her of a butler she had seen in a comic film. She told him so. He smiled, looking more than ever like that butler.
She decided there was less heartbreak in laughing at him than in loving him.
He ran her bath and laid out fresh towels. He pretended not to hear when she saucily invited him to stay and scrub her back.
A few minutes later he was knocking at the door and handing in some clothes of his mother’s. Cooley’s own, he said, were in the washing machine.
The pink crêpe-de-chine knickers, white blouse, multicoloured dirndl skirt, and fluffy red jumper were all several sizes too big for her. She would look a freak in them but Duffy, the butler, wouldn’t laugh. She had never heard him laughing.
In the kitchen he had a high tea prepared: sausage, bacon and eggs with HP sauce, fresh bread, cream cookies, and a big pot of tea under a tartan cosy. He was not only an efficient housewife, he was also a good cook. He would make a marvellous husband for some girl with no sense of humour. Like Molly McGowan.
Maybe, she thought, as she tucked in, he was mad and dangerous and afterwards intended to chop her into pieces with his usual neatness. She might find herself back at the dump, a bloody package, hidden under mattresses soiled by shitty old men. Still, she was hungry, the kitchen was warm, the food was tasty, she wasn’t itching any more, and there were no rats running over her feet, so what the hell. She ate with enjoyment and boldly met Duffy’s solemn brown eyes with her own winking blue ones. She could wink with either. She doubted if Duffy could wink at all.
She offered to hel
p clear the table and wash the dishes. He said no, she was a guest. Really he thought she would be too slapdash. He took her through to the living-room and saw her settled in an armchair in front of the gas-fire. She liked being pampered like this, even if, she thought with an inward chuckle, she was going to be butchered as soon as he had done the dishes. It was as well she couldn’t stop yawning. It kept her from laughing.
‘Could I have the telly on?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’ He switched it on. It was a programme she usually enjoyed, with people doing and saying daft things.
‘Could I have another one of your mother’s fags, please?’
He went away and brought a packet with three in it. They were scented but would have to do. She lit one and then curled up in the chair. Maybe later she would ask for a vodka and lemonade. She had looked in the sideboard and seen that it was well-stocked.
He murmured that he wouldn’t be long and returned to his domestic duties.
She found she didn’t want to watch television but couldn’t be bothered getting up to turn it off. Her own situation, in a house alone with a nutcase, was more interesting.
She warned herself, with more chuckles, not to fall asleep, or she might wake up in a dozen pieces.
He came in. He had removed his apron but not his butler’s look.
‘Is it a good programme?’ he asked. ‘I heard you laughing.’
She added ‘honeys’ in her mind but managed to keep her face straight. ‘Do you want to watch something else?’
‘I would like to talk to you. Seriously.’
‘Is it about who’ll win the Cup?’
He frowned. ‘I said seriously.’
‘What could be more serious than who’ll win the Cup? Go into any pub and ask.’
‘Do you mind if I turn off the television?’
She gave up adding ‘honey’. ‘It’s your house.’
He turned it off and then sat on the sofa and stared at her.
Was he going to propose that they elope to Gretna Green? He was certainly solemn enough.
‘I have never discussed these things with anyone before.’
Just Duffy Page 3