by Lesley Kelly
‘Was that before or after you turned into a jakey? Ow!’ Don’t antagonise a man that’s got you in an armlock.
He lets me go and I drop to my knees.
‘I should never have offered you that money before. I should have known that your sort never go away, you just hang around trying to get more and more. Well, you can piss off. You’ve had the last cash you’re getting out of me or my parishioners.’
‘But…’ I try to protest but I can’t think of what to say. He isn’t going to believe me if I try to tell him now about Bruce’s threats to Marianne.
He isn’t done with me yet. ‘It would have been better for everyone if you had stayed out of town. It would have been better if you really had…’ he stops suddenly.
‘If I really had what?’
He ignores me. ‘Just get your stuff and get out. Whatever trouble you’re in you can get out of it without the Church’s money.’
I pick up my rucksack and passport with my good arm, but have to put them down again in order to open the door. I linger on the step.
‘Father, I’m sorry about all this,’ I say, but he ignores me and picks up his paper. ‘I only intended to borrow the money Father. I’d have paid it back when I got on my feet.’
A loud snort of disbelief comes from behind the Guardian’s sport section.
God save my rotten soul, and my lying, wooden, heart.
I decide to sound Wheezy out about where his great-nephew is likely to be of a Saturday lunchtime. All I have to do is find Wheezy, which shouldn’t prove too difficult as he is generally a creature of habit, most of them bad. My first guess at his whereabouts turns out to be a double whammy, ’cause not only is Wheezy sitting in the back room of Shugs, but he’s got Liam for company.
Wheezy catches sight of me over the top of his pint. He lowers it slowly. ‘So, you’re back in town?’
‘Yeah - I realised you couldn’t live without me and all that.’ I’m not in the mood for discussing my change of plans. I point at Liam in what I hope is an intimidating manner. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘We’re celebrating.’
I could do with a quiet word with Liam outside. ‘Are children even allowed in here?’
He gives me a look, and says, ‘I said – we’re celebrating,’ as if that overrode any licensing requirement Shugs might have. Suddenly I’m suspicious.
‘What are you celebrating?’
‘The boy here’s won £500 in a Spelling Bee.’ Liam’s staring into his coke.
‘Oh really?’ This isn’t good. ‘No wonder you’re celebrating.’
‘That’s not all. This wee man’ – he breaks off to ruffle Liam’s hair – ‘this wee man, instead of wasting it all on skateboards or whatever, uses it to pay off his mammy’s back rent. Have you ever heard the like?’
‘Oh, God.’ I’m a dead man.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing. Here – take this.’ I dig into my pockets and throw my last remaining coins on the table. ‘Get us a round to celebrate, Wheeze.’
He doesn’t need to be asked twice, and pisses off to the bar.
‘Right you little bollox, get my money back.’
‘I can’t. The Housing’s got it now.’
‘Oh, God.’ I fold my arms on the table and put my head on top of them. ‘Oh God, oh God, I’m dead.’ I sit up. ‘And it’s all your fault, you wee bastard.’
Liam looks defensive. He’s keeping a good table’s width away from me, and has one eye on where his great-uncle’s got to. He doesn’t need to worry. The state my arm is in since Father 007 finished with it means it’s going to be some time before I’m choking anything.
‘My ma needed it more than you did. She’s got nothing and you’re wandering round with big wads of cash.’
‘That was all the money I had in the world, you wee prick.’ I put my head back in my hands. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’
Wheezy appears back with two pints, and a coke and packet of crisps for Liam. ‘Drink up, Stainsie. I’ve got a plan.’
Wheezy’s rabbiting on to Liam but I’m not even listening to what they’re saying. I sip my pint and try to think. I’ve run out of options. I’m Gary Cooper in High Noon. I’m Ripley in Alien. I’ve no money and nowhere to go so I’m going have to stay right here and get enough information to point Danny Jamieson in the right direction. I lean forward and cut across the conversation.
‘You said you had a plan?’
1986
The Elisior cruise ship had five decks, twelve bars, three pools, a cinema, a gym, and a theatre. Not that I got to see any of them, with me working 70-hour weeks in the depths of the ship’s kitchen. Kitchen Assistant was the lowest of the low in the cruise ship pecking order. I was a fairly streetwise eighteen-year-old, with my dad’s policy of moving us to a new town every six months to thank for that, so I managed to avoid the worst of the practical jokes. Nobody succeeded in sending me off to get a long weight, or a sky hook.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the freely available sex. In fact, sex that was downright hard to refuse at times. I was officially the freshest meat in the kitchen, and, as is traditional, was propositioned by just about everybody. And in fairness to me, I could see why they were interested. Over the past few months I’d begun to fill out, and started looking like a man, instead of a skinny teenager. My hair was dark, long, and styled with the best 1980s feather-cutting that the trainee in one of the hairdresser’s on Leith Walk could manage. My only real gripe about my appearance was that I seemed to have stopped growing at 5’ 9” rather than the 6” I was hoping for.
The first time I was propositioned I had only been on the ship a couple of weeks. It had taken me a fortnight to get up the nerve to go into the staff bar. I was sharing a room with Pers, a Swedish guy in his forties who was a veteran of the cruise ships, and was none too pleased to be rooming with me. I didn’t know who he was hoping to be sharing with. I didn’t think Ingrid Bergmann was likely to be needing a bunk up on a European cruise ship. However, after some bouts of shouting and swearing in the first week about keeping out of his stuff, he’d pretty much left me alone.
I’d been spending my spare time in the cabin on my own, but for some reason, I think involving a hangover, Pers was staying in one night and made it clear that I should get out of his space. Which was also of course my space, but he was about three stone heavier than me and a lot more aggressive so I decided the time had come to check out social life at sea.
The bar was pretty full but I couldn’t see a single face that I knew. I kept my head down and made for the bar.
As I was ordering my pint a voice said, ‘hello’ and I turned to see Michael, one of the soux chefs, standing there. I had learned just enough in catering college to know that soux chefs were several rungs up the food chain from kitchen assistant so I was pretty pleased that he was bothering with me.
‘All right, Michael – can I get you a drink?’
He shook his head and waved his full glass at me. I wondered what he was drinking; it looked like gin and tonic. Sophistication.
He didn’t say anything, just leant back against the bar, scanning the room. I tried my best to get the conversation going.
‘So, have you worked on the liners for long?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe four years?’
I found his accent quite difficult to follow. I thought he was Italian or Spanish or something like that. He didn’t say anything else and there was a long pause while I tried desperately to think of conversation. I was just about to ask him where he was from when he leant across to me.
‘Do you like me?’
‘Do I like you?’ I wasn’t expecting this. ‘Well, aye.’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘Do you like men?’
I wasn’t entirely sure what was going on here, but he clarified it for me.
‘Wanna fuck?’
I wised up quickly. The approaches from blokes were surprising but basically ok, ’cause I
could just tell them where to go. But the approaches from women were harder to ignore. Older women. Attractive women. And I wasn’t about to turn any of them down.
I wasn’t on the ship very long before I had my first crush on a lassie. Claudette was from London. She was in her late twenties, gorgeous, and black. This was exoticism such as I had only imagined. The nearest St Kentigern’s had had to an ethnic mix was a Filipina nurse, who weighed about twenty stone and had never to date figured in any of my erotic fantasies. I couldn’t believe my luck when Claudette started showing an interest in me.
Her and the other waitresses all took the piss out of me anyway, which I wasn’t that averse to – I could handle a bit of banter – but I started to notice that she was going out of her way to be rude to me. Always a good sign.
The waitresses had a particular interest in finding out about my sexual history.
‘So, are you a virgin then, Scottie?’ asked Tessa, one of the American waitresses, picking up plates of entrées for the evening buffet.
‘No,’ I said with as much scorn as I could manage, seeing as Linda McFarlane, for all her bright red curls, had failed to assist me on that particular issue. ‘Of course not.’
‘Lots of women then, Jock-boy?’ said Claudette with an arch of her eyebrow, offering me a pile of dirty dishes.
‘Enough women, thank you very much.’ I took the dishes from her and crouched down to start loading the dishwasher. Over my shoulder I said to them, ‘But I’m the kind of gentleman that doesn’t kiss and tell.’
They staggered about laughing.
That night I was in the kitchen on my own. It always fell to one of the kitchen assistants to give the area a late night clean, in preparation for the following morning’s breakfast, so I was down on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor when I heard somebody come in. I stood up to see Claudette standing there with a drink in her hand. She was swaying slightly which made me think she was a bit the worse for wear.
‘So, how much of a gentleman are you then, Jock?’ she said, coming toward me. In spite of myself I took a step back. She pushed me into the corner between the wall and the fridge and started to undo my flies.
Travel is educational.
I think I fell a little bit in love with Claudette after that. Not that she was remotely interested. She twigged that I’d got a crush on her, so she dropped the banter and kept out of my way. Eventually in an act of desperation I attempted to corner her in the kitchen, much as she’d cornered me earlier, except when I took a step toward her she moved to the side and said, ‘Get over it, Jock.’
‘I can’t. I think I love you.’
She laughed, then put her hand over her mouth, with a look of slightly amused pity.
‘I’m sorry, Joe, but it was just a fling. There’s plenty more women on board – you’ll get over it.’
Which I did. With Tessa. And half the other waitresses. And the occasional passenger that I managed to seduce, although this was strongly frowned upon by the management.
I was feeling quite The Man, what with the growing notches on my bedpost (or fridge) until I realised that my technique, or apparent lack of it, was the topic of discussion throughout the kitchen. I overheard a conversation between the waitresses noting a few of my shortcomings, which at least, thank God, concluded that I was improving.
Travel is educational.
On my first shore leave I’d a bit of money in my pocket, so I decided to give Florrie and my dad a bodyswerve, and check out how Linda McFarlane was getting on. We’d kept in touch over the past couple of years while I’d been sailing the seas and she’d been studying at St Andrews University. Our chosen menthod of communication was the postcard: just enough writing space for some mild flirtation without having to go into the details of either of our lives. I’d had my hair cut and bought some new clothes. I was hoping to show my favourite curly-haired red-head a few of the techniques I’d picked up in the Caribbean.
My first impressions were, frankly, a disappointment. She met me off the bus. The red curls were gone, replaced by long light-brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. (‘My hair? Oh, I was always doing mad things to it at school, Stainsie – perms and dyes and that.’) I wasn’t expecting her to be dressed in a St Kentigern’s uniform (not in public anyway) but I was hoping for more than jeans and a t-shirt that came half-way to her knees. And to cap it all, she was with some limp-dicked bloke called Sebastian that she hadn’t bothered to mention in her recent correspondence.
The pair of them showed me to my B&B. They were wandering along hand-in-hand and every time we met someone coming in the opposite direction I had to step off the pavement to let them past. Three was definitely a crowd, and I wasn’t a fan of crowds. I was half-thinking about jumping ship, and Linda could see that I was put out. I let her talk me into meeting up that evening. When she turned up at the pub, I was pleased to see I’d made the right decision. She’d ditched the limp-dick and brought one of her pals instead.
‘You remember Paula from St K’s, don’t you?’
‘Oh aye, of course’ I said, though I could swear I’d never seen the woman before. She was slim, with dark hair and eyes, pale-skinned but with a smattering of freckles on her cheekbones that just cried out to be traced. I should have remembered her. But then at school I could never see further than Linda’s bra strap.
A few drinks later and my earlier moodiness was just a distant memory. The Paula woman was smart as well as pretty, and I wasn’t even that bothered when Sebastian turned up and sat with his arm round Linda’s shoulders. The lassies managed to smuggle me into their Student Union’s disco, and after a couple more lagers served in plastic glasses, I managed to manoeuvre Paula into a dark corner for a snog. We ditched the others and headed back to her hall of residence, where I finally got a chance to use the knowledge I gained at sea.
I woke up the next morning, slightly cramped in Paula’s single bed.
‘So, this is a student hall of residence then?’
She rolls onto her side. ‘Yeah – is it better than a cabin?’
I cuddle into her. ‘Better than a cabin you have to share with a 40-year-old Swede with hygiene problems.’
Paula burst out laughing. I really liked this girl. She was pretty, she laughed at my jokes, she thought I was a god in the sack (probably)… I really couldn’t have asked for more.
I ended up spending the whole two weeks of my leave staying in the David Russell Halls. I pottered about in the library and the Student Union while she was at classes, then we met up for walks on the beach, lingered over hot chocolate in cafés, and of course, had lots of single-bed sex. I couldn’t help but ponder that this would have been my lifestyle if I hadn’t been so keen to get away from home. Even then, if I’d stayed on at college I could have done my HND then transferred to university. That is, if I hadn’t walked in on Guthrie Stoddart committing statutory rape.
I wondered what happened to Shirley. I still wasn’t sure what it was that I saw, whether it was just Guthrie doing the dirty on his son, or something worse. I left Edinburgh without telling Lachie I was going, and I hadn’t been in touch with him since, so I didn’t know if he’d found out about Shirl and his dad. I couldn’t say I was missing Lachie but I did feel kind of sorry for him. I’d run off, and Shirl was going to dump him for somebody richer, and even more gullible, one of these days. I was glad I was out of it all.
On the last day of my leave Paula came with me to the train station at Leuchars to see me off.
We held hands and I thought I could see a tear or two in Paula’s eyes.
‘This is sad, isn’t it?’ I said and she nodded miserably.
‘Paula?’ I decided to try my luck. ‘Do you think you could write to me while I’m at sea, and then maybe we could meet up when I next have leave?’
To my amazement she agreed.
And I did write. In fact I surprised myself with what I wrote. Paula brought out something in me, and I found I was writing not just about what happens on the ship,
but also about my feelings for her, and my hopes and fears for the future. In short, I found myself writing love letters, and I ended each of them with a note of the number of days until I got to see her again.
I didn’t knock back any of the offers of knee tremblers behind the freezer that came my way, but I told myself that it was all educational, and that Paula would benefit from it. The only downside to life was that I had a sneaking suspicion that Pete from the Bursar’s office was steaming open Paula’s letters before he passed them on to me, and the whole Bursar’s office was having a good laugh at my expense.
My next shore leave was even better. I headed straight to St Andrews and spent two fantastic weeks with Paula, although if I’m honest I think I was half in love with Paula, and half in love with university life. I even sneaked a prospectus into my bag to read at my leisure when I was back at sea.
On our last night before I went back we spent the night with Linda and Seb at the Student Union disco. Paula was a bit drunk and suggested that we go for a late night walk on the beach. Linda and Seb weren’t up for it, so Paula and I headed off on our own. It wasn’t really the weather for a beach walk and the West Sands were deserted.
‘Jesus, but it’s cold.’
‘It’ll be warmer when you get back to the Canaries and forget all about me.’ She gave me a playful punch on the shoulder.
‘As if.’ I decided it was now or never. ‘Paula, I love you.’
She stopped walking and looked at me. ‘I love you too, Stainsie.’
We fell into a sand dune, wrapped up in each other, and forgot about the cold.
It was hard being back at sea. I missed Paula so much I considered jumping ship, but this plan was scuppered when I realised I didn’t actually have enough money to get home. I was sitting in my cabin composing a letter to Paula (‘179 days until we next meet’) when I got a phonecall from the Bursar’s Office. It was Pete.
‘So, you’re going to be a daddy?’ he said conversationally.