by Lesley Kelly
‘Not bad.’ I shrugged.
‘Come in, come in.’ He ushered me into the house and sent Kirsten off to get him a t-shirt and me a cup of coffee. There was an awkward silence.
‘You doing some work on the place, Uncle John?’
He nodded and leaned back in his chair. ‘Aye son, I’ve just bought it off the Council and I’m making a few changes.’
I followed his lead and made myself comfortable. ‘I didn’t realise you could do that.’
He laughed. ‘Aye, son, God bless Mrs Thatcher.’
I didn’t have to respond to this, fortunately, because Kirsten arrived with the coffee.
I smiled at her. ‘How old are you now, Kirsten?’
She smiled back, a wee bit shyly. ‘Fifteen.’
‘Aye, and thinks she’s twenty-one.’ Uncle John pulled on his t-shirt. ‘Can you give us a minute to ourselves here, hen?’
Kirsten looked surprised but didn’t argue.
Uncle John took a long gulp of tea. ‘Are you still living in Paisley?’
Now I was surprised. ‘No, I’m living in Edinburgh these days. How did you know I lived in Paisley?’
‘I bump into your granny from time to time.’
There was a pause while I tried to work out who he meant. ‘Florrie?’
He nodded.
I was a bit confused but kept the conversation going. ‘I’m living with Florrie now.’
‘Really?’ He got out his fags and offered me one. ‘So, what can I help you with son?’
I took a deep breath and hoped that my nervousness didn’t show. ‘I’ve left home and I think it’s about time that I made contact with my ma. I know my father doesn’t want me to...’
Uncle John nodded. ‘Well, he has his reasons.’
This stopped me in my tracks. I’d assumed that Ma’s family hated Dad as much as I did for taking us away. I wasn’t anticipating them taking his side.
‘What reasons?’ I said, with the tone of indignation that only a teenager can carry off.
Uncle John sighed. He was playing with his fag and still hadn’t got round to offering either of us a light. ‘I was half expecting you and your brother to turn up here one day, but I’m still not sure what to say to you. You know your mother liked a drink?’
I started to get angry. ‘She was a good mother.’
‘I know that, son, I’m not saying otherwise.’ He held his hands up to calm me down. ‘But after you and your Dad moved away she started drinking even more. Your aunties and I tried to give her some support but she’s had money off of all of us, and stolen stuff from us when we wouldn’t give her money. She’s caused all sorts of scenes and although I wanted to help her, I had to think about my kids, and my sisters’ kids, so we all agreed that we couldn’t do anything else for her…’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘So, you just chucked her out? Pretended she didn’t exist?’
He shook his head. ‘Not entirely, son.’
‘But more or less?’ He didn’t respond to my accusation but he finally got round to lighting his fag, although he forgot about mine.
‘I know that you want to find her, son, and catch up on all that you’ve missed out on but it’s not going be a happy reunion, take it from me. I couldn’t have it on my conscience if I put you in that situation. Anyhow, I’m not even sure if I could help. It’s been over two years since I last saw her.’
‘Thanks for nothing,’ I said and stormed out, throwing my unlit fag back at him. I regretted it later when I got on the bus and found out I’d no fags of my own left.
Two weeks later a letter arrived for me at Florrie’s.
Dear Joseph
I’ve discussed your visit with your Auntie Viv and Auntie Eileen. We’ve thought long and hard about what to do, but we’ve decided that it’s not up to us todecide if you should meet your mother or not.
The last known address we have for her is a hostel on Vine Street. If she’s not still living there the staff might be able to help you with where she’s gone.
Look after yourself son and if you want to get back in touch your aunties would love to see you.
John
I read the letter three times then set fire to it with my lighter. I never followed it up.
Friday
It’s late by the time I get back to Edinburgh. I need to go to the Priest’s House to get my stuff, not least my passport, but I don’t fancy wandering round there in the dark. I can’t be sure that there’s not some hard man waiting for me with a plan to kick my head in, but I’m not spoilt for choice with other options.
I reluctantly make my way to the rathole that Wheezy calls home. I press the buzzer to get in to the block, but there’s no reply. I hang around for a couple of minutes, until a young couple come out. I smile politely and they hold the door open to let me in. The door to Wheeze’s flat is so manky I pull my jacket over my hand before I knock on it. There’s no answer. I try again with my naked knuckle but there’s still no response.
Kneeling down I take a look through the letter box. Through the open door of the living room I can see Wheezy fast asleep on the sofa. He’s snoring his head off, with an empty polystyrene chip packet going up and down on his chest. I don’t stand any chance of attracting his attention.
As a last resort I decide I’ll try my luck at Marianne’s. She’ll probably tell me to sling my hook.
I knock gently.
Hearing her come to the door I stand back so that she can see me through the spy-hole. I hope to God she’s not armed with a mop.
‘Stainsie.’ She opens the door wide, and to my surprise, throws her arms round me. ‘I knew you’d come back.’
I’m thinking on my feet here. ‘Well, I heard you were relying on me.’
An hour later I’m luxuriating in a bath that Marianne has run for me. Only lassies do baths properly – you know, bubbles, and fancy soap, and all that shite, and I think she must have cracked open her finest bottle of relaxing bath salts with added God knows what, ’cause as I lie there I can feel the tension flooding out of me. Of course, I can feel it flood back every time I hear a noise outside, thinking that I’ve been tracked down by Bruce, or the Irish stranger that’s been asking after me, or maybe even the Spanish laddie who may or may not be a figment of Duncan’s imagination.
I haven’t gone into the ins and outs of why I’m here instead of at the Priest’s House and fortunately Marianne doesn’t ask any questions. As I smoke the last of the fags that she’s given me, I can smell sausages cooking. So far, as a host Marianne is totally outstripping Father Paul. I decide reluctantly that I better get out of the bath, but I can’t face getting back into the clothes that I’ve had on all day so I wander back through to the living room just in a towel. I sit staring at Marianne’s lava lamp, watching it run through its palette of colours. I jump when she comes in with a couple of sausage rolls on a plate.
‘I thought you might be hungry.’ She places the sausages on the coffee table and sits down beside me on the sofa.
‘Thanks.’ I reach for the rolls carefully, making sure the towel is still wrapped round me. I’m starving. Through a mouthful of sausage, I say, ‘I really mean it. Thanks for looking after me.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’ She’s nursing a cup of coffee. ‘Uncle Mick said that you’d had some bother and had to leave town again.’ She stares into her coffee and laughs. ‘I was gutted.’ She looks me in the eye. Damn, but she’s a good-looking woman.
‘How come?’
She stares into the coffee and gives an embarrassed little laugh. ‘’Cause I got it into my head that you were going to sort out all this mess that I’m in.’
This is a lot of pressure. ‘Marianne, I think I can safely say I have never sorted out anyone else’s mess. I’m bad enough with my own mistakes.’
‘I know, but…’
‘But what?’ There’s an edge to my voice; I don’t really want an answer.
She rests her head on her hands. ‘But I
am in so much trouble, Stainsie. What if I did kill Mrs Stoddart?’
‘I’m really pretty sure that you didn’t.’ I finish off the last of the sausage roll and hope she drops the subject. She doesn’t.
‘But if I didn’t kill her, who did?’
I sigh. ‘Aye, well, that is the question. And I’m not a detective.’ And every theory I’ve had so far has been wrong.
‘But you are going to find out who did it?’
I chew the last bit of my sausage roll. I take my time eating because I really don’t know what to say to her. ‘Marianne…’
She interrupts me with a sigh. ‘I know, Stainsie, you’re not a detective.’
She looks so miserable and I’ve not got any false promises that can make it better, so I put my arm round her and give her a hug. ‘It’ll work out Marianne,’ I lie. ‘You’ll see.’
She rests her head on my shoulder for a moment, then pulls back. She turns her head and kisses me gently. I find this a little bit surprising and my brain’s telling me that it isn’t gentlemanly conduct sleeping with a lassie when you are planning to leave the country early the next morning, but unfortunately my brain is a couple of minutes behind the rest of my body. Within a minute we’re at it hammer and tongues.
She leans back. ‘I’m working in the morning, but if you want to…’ She leaves the sentence unfinished but I get the drift.
‘What happened to you’d rather go to prison than sleep with me?’ I ask Marianne, stroking her lovely soft hair.
I never get an answer to my question, because at that minute the living room door flies open, and in the gloom I can see the unmistakable outline of a hand holding a gun.
1986
I was picking up a round of empties from a table in Raiders when somebody kicked a barstool into the back of my legs.
‘Oi,’ I said, turning round.
‘Oh, it is you. I thought it was.’
It was a laddie about my own age, chubby, wearing a leather jacket and a sneer. He’d got longish hair, a bit on the greasy side, and a smattering of teenage plukes, finished off with a very misguided attempt at a goatee beard. It took me a minute or two to figure out who it was.
‘Lachie?’
He held his hand up in a kind of are-you-serious gesture. ‘Aye, you tube, who else?’
I suppose my luck was bound to run out sooner or later. I’d thought so long as I kept out of the pubs in Leith I’d probably be OK. He was staring at me, so I thought I’d better make some conversation.
‘So…are you here on your own?’
‘No, loser.’ He smirked. ‘Who sits in a pub on their own? I’m here with my girlfriend.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘She’s gone to the bog.’
Lachie had lost none of his charm in the past five years. My heart was racing and I had to put down the glasses that I was carrying, because my hands were shaking. I knew I should tell him I was busy and get back to the bar before he could ask me too many questions, but despite my nerves I was overcome with curiosity to see what kind of girl Lachie had managed to pull.
He waved to a lassie who was winding her way between the tables. ‘This is Shirley.’
Shirley was tottering between the tables in the highest heels I’d ever seen, which still didn’t make her more than five foot tall. She had a mass of blond curls, which she threw back over her shoulder in a gesture that made me think nostalgically of Linda McFarlane, and she had obviously spent a good hour or two doing some intricate make-up thing before she came out. The lassie was way out of Lachie’s league. She also looked about four years too young to be in a pub.
‘Hiya.’ She gave me a little wave and turned to Lachie. ‘Are we going on somewhere now?’ She slipped her hand into his, while I looked on in disbelief. In what upside-down universe did Lachlan Stoddart manage to pull a lassie like this?
‘In a minute.’ Lachie fixed me with one of the stares I remembered so well. I needed to put the glasses down again before I dropped them. ‘You working here tomorrow night?’
‘Eh...’ I couldn’t think of any way to put him off.
He smiled. ‘Right – I’ll see you then.’
The next night he was sitting there, nursing a pint. He nodded when he saw me.
‘All right?’
The good-looking lassie wasn’t with him. ‘I thought you said only losers drank on their own?’
He threw me a dirty look. ‘I’m not on my own, I’m here to see you. Anyhow Shirl and her pals will be here any minute.’
I kept my head down for the rest of my shift trying to look too busy to sit and chat to Lachie. Rob was amused by my unusually hard graft. My transferable skills had never been more in evidence as I scurried round Raiders picking up glasses and being as attentive as possible to customer needs. I volunteered to deal with a blockage in the Ladies’ toilets, and when I came out Rob called me over.
‘OK – I take the hint.’
I didn’t grasp what he was on about. ‘What hint?’
‘I realise that your range of customer care skills are not being used to the fullest. Let’s give you a go on the bar on Sunday.’
This was great news and usually I would be delighted, except every time I looked over at Lachie he was still sat on his own, scowling into his pint. I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this apparition from the past; I came back to Edinburgh for many reasons but taking up with the Stoddarts again was definitely not one of them. I decided I would just play it cool and hope he got the message.
‘Oi, Loser!’ I heard Lachie summoning me but when I looked over this time he wasn’t on his own anymore. Shirley had arrived and she’d brought some seriously fine-looking pals with her, who, I was happy to see, looked a good deal older than her.
‘What time do you finish work?’
I made some non-committal sounding noise, partly ’cause I didn’t want to go anywhere with Lachie, and partly because I was distracted by the lassies, who were even better looking close up.
He flicked a thumb in the direction of the girls. ‘They want to go clubbing.’
I looked at Lachie, and the tiny blonde, then past them to the other lassies with big hair and short skirts. ‘I can be ready in twenty minutes.’
And that was me, back in the fold. The temptation of colour TV and Pong of our youth had been replaced by the temptation of good-looking women, and I was totally prepared to put up with Lachie’s haverings if that’s what it took to hang around with Shirley and her mates.
Guthrie was delighted to see me again. I suspected that Lachie wasn’t inundated with friends, so he was, no doubt, glad to see that his son had got someone to pal about with. But beyond that I think he was genuinely glad to see me; he asked me loads about my college course and my job at Raiders.
Lachie and I settled into a routine with him coming round to the pub at weekends, and both of us going on clubbing after closing time with Shirley and her pals. A couple of times a week I hung out at Lachie’s gaff; Guthrie’d bought him his own flat on Albert Street. It was a cracking wee pad, marred only by Lachie’s run-ins with the neighbours over the constant noise he created. I’d have probably hung out there more – he had a fantastic range of computer games – but Mrs Stoddart had a habit of calling round to see her son and she’d lost none of her power to creep me out.
I couldn’t figure out the deal with Shirley. She was round Lachie’s day and night, usually with some of her mates. The lassies she hung around with were all nice-looking, but Shirl was in a class of her own. She was the kind of lassie that you never saw without her make-up on, and her hair done. I would be the first to admit I was smitten with her, although I wouldn’t have dreamed of even hinting that to Lachie.
The only problem with Shirley was that I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t as old as she was making out. When I asked Lachie how old she was he shrugged and said, ‘Seventeen, eighteen?’
Aye right, I thought to myself. ‘Is she working then?’
‘Naw - she’s on the dole.’
/> No, she’s not, I thought. She’s a bloody schoolkid playing truant.
But it was none of my business so I didn’t push it with him. Shirl was nice as well as pretty; she was funny and always ready with a smart answer. She’d got Lachie wound round her little finger, and I didn’t blame him – I’d have given her the shirt off my back if she’d asked.
Yet, for all I’d made my mind up to keep out of it, I was worried about the situation. For one thing, I was pretty sure that Lachie was committing a crime that he wasn’t aware of. But more than that I was worried about Shirley. A young lassie like her shouldn’t be around all the booze and drugs that Lachie had easy access to. It wasn’t just drugs that I was worried about either: Guthrie’s laddies-with-dogs were in and out of Lachie’s flat and I’d seen both of them leering at her. And, here’s the thing that I couldn’t get my head round: I’d seen Guthrie eyeing her up as well.
Guthrie was round at the flat all the time, and if the lassies were there he always had a laugh with them. The lassies all thought he was wonderful; he was still a fine-looking man, and he wasn’t above bunging us all some money to get a drink or two when we were going out. Whenever he visited there was always one or other of the lassies sitting on his knee, and another one running back and forth getting him food and drink.
I often wondered about Guthrie. I couldn’t imagine that he was faithful to Mrs Stoddart, but it wasn’t exactly a topic I could ask Lachie about. I had high hopes that Guthrie was going to make his son see sense about the age of his girlfriend, but he didn’t appear to have noticed it, although he’d noticed plenty other things about her. But then looking’s not a crime, is it, even if it is your son’s lassie?
I usually worked at Raiders at the weekend, so my big nights out with Lachie tended to be on a Thursday night. Our usual routine was that I headed over to his flat after college and we had a few joints and beers, then went for a few more drinks in one or other of the pubs on Leith Walk, before we headed up to the clubs on Lothian Road. Shirley and her pals joined us in one of the pubs. Lachie ended up paying for most of the drinks, which helped to explain his sudden popularity with the lassies.