Demo
Page 28
Check his wee face, he says once, when Elvis was younger, he’s really concentratin, look at him, thinkin great thoughts.
Don’t be an eejit, I says, he’s deain a jobby. There, see? Smell his great thoughts now?
… They said you was high class,
Well, that was just a lie…
Danny was pissed off wi me and took him into the bathroom to change his nappy. But I must admit, I was fooled by it too the first time I seen it, though I wasny gonny let on to Danny. I’m readin my book; Elvis is lyin on his bouncy chair, bouncin away, his hair swept back, reachin for the mobile danglin above. Suddenly he stops and goes dead still and his eyes are starin straight ahead, the way you see folk doin when they look like they’re gazin into the distance, but really they’re thinkin about somethin else entirely. Then comes the stink.
Oh, pooh, Elvis, I says to him, you mingin wee bandit! And I go for my ma in the kitchen.
I’m choppin onions here, Clare? Could you no change him for once?
No way, I says. I don’t know how to.
Oh, grow up, Clare, for heaven’s sake, my ma says, you’re no a wean any mair.
That makes me pure furious and I stomp back through.
Right, you wee minger. I lift him out his bouncer and lay him on his changing mat. His legs are goin nineteen to the dozen and he grabs for my dreads, so I gather them up and stick them down the back a my jumper out the road. He’s no bothered; he’s blowin bubbles through his Elvisy lips. One a my shorter dreads at the front slips down and he stops brrrrr-in and starts swinging his hand in the air, cross-eyed, openin and closin his wee fat fingers, trying to catch it.
Ah, ah, I says. No, you don’t.
His denims are easy enough to get into – his denims! Probably Armani, knowin Laetitia – they’ve got poppers on the inside at the legs. I would hold my nose if I could, but baith hands are needed for this operation.
Pffaww! I try no to breathe in. Elvis doesny bother his shirt; he’s lyin there in his stinky nappy, his red socks wavin in the air, smilin at me and gurglin away.
What you laughin at, you wee toerag? What you laughin at? Eh?
I tickle his belly just above his nappy and he laughs mair. He’s like a wee manikin wi his teddy-boy hair. A homunculus, that’s a good word. A munchkin. I don’t see nothin a Julian in him. He’s got Laetitia’s brown eyes. Wouldny matter what colour of eyes the father’s got, Danny says, the brown-eyed gene is dominant. Well, that’s no entirely true, Jed says. And he gies a lecture on genetics that goes right ower my head, about how it all depends on the combination a genes on baith sides a the family.
Right, Pongo, I says. I hold my breath, rip off the stickers at the sides a his nappy and open up the surprise package.
Feuch!
First thing he does is stick the heel a his red sock right in the bright yellow shit.
Och, Elvis!
I pull it off dead careful by the toe, then he goes and does the exact same wi the other one! And when his socks are off, he’s stickin his bare feet in. I grab his ankles next time he kicks and hold them together. It’s all over my hands now too. Elvis gies a husky chuckle.
OK, you wee shite, very funny.
Wi my one hand I pull him up by the feet then manoeuvre the shitty nappy out fae under him wi the other. I take some babywipes and clean my ain hands first, then wipe all round his bum. I make sure that’s a shite-free zone, afore I start on his willy. It’s like a wee bud peepin out fae his – what d’you call it? – scrotum. I don’t really like touchin that. It’s all red and wrinkly and it takes me ages to clean the yellow shit out all the creases. There’s somethin no right about me handlin Julian’s wean’s wee pointy prick. Elvis is lovin it but, cooin and burblin, now and again makin a swing for my dread. Like father, like son, I says. I dry him wi his Scooby Doo towel, fae the set my ma got in Poundsaver’s, Scooby and Scrappy and Nemo and the characters fae Toy Story.
I’m reachin for a clean nappy fae the big bag behind the sofa, when he pees in the air, this sorta high golden arc. He turns and pure hits me wi it right under the chin!
OK, pal, that’s you had it, I says. You done that deliberately.
The pee runs down my neck, trickles down the inside a my T-shirt, into my bra. And there’s a puddle of it under him on the changing mat, soakin into the back of his denims and his red top.
Fuck, I says.
By the time my ma comes through, I’ve got all his claes off and I’ve cleaned him up. His smooth bare body’s sittin on my knee, smellin a wee bit better, and he’s still tryin to get a haud a my dreads. My ma laughs at me. What’s my boy doin? she says. What’s Matthew been doin to Clare? He squeals and flaps his hand at her like a baby seal.
He only got shite all over his socks and my hands, peed down my jook and soaked his claes for good measure. Apart fae that, he’s been perfect, I says.
He’s only a baby, Clare. Be fair. He canny help it.
Aye, well. I canny help it if it gies me the boak.
And my ma looks at me then, a right long look, as if she’s tryin to figure me out.
Well, don’t worry, Clare, I won’t be askin you to do it again.
And that makes me feel rotten. Bad. Horrible. Thing is, my ma doesny know what’s at the back of it for me.
She picks Elvis up off my knee and goes to his bag to find him some clean claes. He gies me a big lopsided grin ower her shoulder and reaches out to me. I canny help smilin at him. No matter what’s goin on at the other end, there’s never a hair out a place; still the same slicked-back style wi the quiff looped forward, like somebody done it wi gel.
I blow a wee kiss at him behind my ma’s back.
You ain’t never caught a rabbit
And you ain’t no friend of mine…
I’ve only just went into my room, when I hear the door and Julian arrivin and my ma goin, Look, Matthew, who is it? Who is it? It’s Julian, that’s right!
I ayeways get the feelin she’s tryin a bit too hard, like she has to be nice to Julian to get her hands on Elvis.
Joo, Elvis says. Joo-joo.
Hello, Matt, Julian says. Have you been a good boy? Have you been a good little boy for Maeve?
He’s been perfect, my ma says. Come in, Julian.
I’m thinkin, how nice! Maeve! How terribly, terribly. Awfully, awfully. Frightfully, frightfully. Nice! I look at mysel in my granny’s mirror and I’ve got a face like fizz, but I canny help it.
Hello there, Julian, I hear my da sayin.
Hi, Peter, how’s the hand?
I hate the way he’s so palsy-walsy wi my folks.
Aye, no bad, my da says. So, so. He’s no that sure a Julian either. No really.
He’s been off work a week now, my da, wi Dupuytren’s contracture, waitin for an operation. His mates were all laughin at him, gettin the same thing as Maggie Thatcher. It’s carryin that handbag, Peter, they says. We telt you it would be the ruin of you. And my da’s pure mortified he’s developed the same condition Thatcher had, even though he tries to make a joke of it.
Could be worse, he says, I could be doolally an aw! It’s the Viking blood; only thing I’ll ever admit to having in common wi her Baronessity.
Aye, that and a hatchet face, my ma says. Look for the Baronessity… And he chases her into the kitchen.
Underneath, you can see my da’s quite down but, and my ma’s worried too. Before this happened he hadny been a day off work in the last seven years, or so he’s ayeways tellin Danny. The management said he didny need to be off his work for this either, cause, wi him bein the supervisor, he hardly ever has to operate the machinery these days. But he wouldny budge; a health and safety issue, he says, and the union backed him. Away hame and put your feet up for a while, Peter. You’re due it, they says.
Personally, I think it’s mair to do wi Elvis; my da loves lookin efter him. Mind you, I seen him workin away, massagin his hand the day, when Elvis was down for his sleep, tryin to get the fingers to straighten out. You can see it’
s just gettin worse; they’re curlin right into his palm.
Have you tried physiotherapy? I hear Julian askin him.
I’ve got an appointment next week, my da says. Maybe that’ll dae the trick.
First I heard of it. I sit up on my knees on the bed to look in the mirror, and pick up Julian’s dread. It’s clatty again. I’ve bleached it twice already since the first time; it gets manky cause I’m rubbin it between my fingers so much, I suppose, even when I don’t realize it. It’s amazin naybody’s twigged; no even Julian; even though he knew the dreads were about him. Aye, he knew that alright.
But Farkhanda’s kept her word and no telt naybody. Sometimes she says, Is it no time you moved on, Clare, and got rid of the Peroxide Dread? She says it like it’s got capital letters, like it’s some kind a poxy disease.
What about yours? I say. You want me to get shot of it tay?
Suit yourself, she says. I’m no bothered.
But I don’t think that’s the truth; I think she likes to see a bit of her hair out in the open; hidden in full view was the way she put it. She gets a thrill bein there when people ask me about it. I make sure I don’t look at her and say, Oh, I just like variety, so I done a couple a dreads different for a laugh.
Cool, they says. Or, I see. Dependin on the age a whoever’s asking me. And Farkhanda smiles at me when we’re on our own again. She’s eighteen, same as me, Farkhanda, and she’s started at university, so you would think she would stop wearin the hijab. But I’ve got a sneaky suspicion a bit of her wants to wear it. She’s used to it now. A bit of her wants to say to the world, I’m a Muslim, any objections? Come over here and give us them.
Aye, well. No really, but that’s the feelin I get sometimes. At least she doesny have to wear the dead heavy black claes she wore last year for the big demo and right up to the so-called end of the war. I was worried she was gonny start wearin a chador, a burkha even. But it turns out it wasny her ma and da after all; it was a group Shenaz and her pals set up theirsels, Daughters of Palestine or somethin, to show their solidarity wi the Palestinians.
There must be better ways to give your support than coverin yoursel up, I says.
What? she says. Name them.
And I couldny think a nothin. Except signin the odd petition in the city centre on a Saturday and payin attention when it comes on the news. Mair houses bulldozed; mair weans shot for throwin stones.
Point taken, I says.
I’m dead jealous a Farkhanda bein at uni. I could a been there with her if I hadny blew it, no sittin my Higher English. Why did I no? It’s hard to remember now. I was on a real downer after the Glasgow demo and what happened wi Julian. And then the war started anyway and I thought, what’s the point? What is the fuckin point? But when my da heard I’d dogged it, he was that disappointed, I thought he was gonny greet, so I sat the rest a them. At least that’s somethin, he says.
I tune into what’s going on in the livin room again. It sounds like ma’s gettin Elvis into his snowsuit, you can hear him squealin – I’m gonny get him a white one wi rhinestones and big flares – and my da’s talkin to Julian about the American election.
Nah, my da’s sayin, Bush is in. A dead cert. The Iraq factor’s worked in his favour.
The polls aren’t so certain, Julian says.
Well, we’ll see. Only two days to go. You can nearly hear my da’s brain tickin over goin, Who does he think he is, this upper-class twat, comin into my house tellin me about politics? Only he wouldny say twat.
That you all ready, sunshine? That you wrapped up warm for the winter’s night? We’ll need to get you a Celtic scarf, wee man; bring you up in the true faith. Eh?
Thank you very much again, both of you, Julian says. Tish and I really appreciate it.
Tish and I! Tish and I…
Not at all, my ma says. He’s a pure delight. Aren’t you, Matthew? A pure delight. She squeezes her voice thin and high. And she must be ticklin him through his padded suit, cause Elvis obliges wi a pure delightful shriek, on the way out the door.
Hey, wee man, I wouldny be surprised if they heard that in Australia, my da says. Great pair a lungs.
I need out a here.
January 2005
My da says, That bus goes through every damn scheme between Glasgow and Helensburgh. Take the train, hen, for Christsake.
And I should’ve, but I was still mad, so I stood in the cold at the stop on Glassford Street, across fae the Trades Hall, and got on this bus that’s windin in and out every wee street behind the St Enoch Centre.
It was my ma’s idea.
You’ll be able to take Barney for walks down the shore, blow away the cobwebs. It’ll dae you a world a good, she says.
Aye, what she really meant was it would do her a world a good. I know I’m pure daein her head in these days. Think of all the people, she says, that have died or lost everythin in the tsunami. Think a the weans in Iraq or Darfur. What have you got to complain about? She knows what buttons to press, my ma, makes me feel pure rotten. I’m in the wrong all the time the now.
But I’m lookin forward to seein Barney. He’s a big daft slobbery bugger and he ayeways cheers you up. Last time I seen him, he put his paws right up on my shoulders and nearly knocked me flyin. They treat him like a wean, my aunt Patsy and uncle Davey, cause they’ve nay weans a their ain. Which is fine by me, cause it lets me off the hook.
We’re startin to get out fae the tangle a wee streets at last, and the driver’s built up a bit mair speed on the straight road beside the Clyde. It’s an old bus, rattlin and shakin along, and the seats are threadbare and lumpy. A woman across the passage is tryin to catch my eye, tryin to start a conversation, but you know yon way when you just don’t want to talk to anybody; you just want to sit and think your ain thoughts. I keep my head turned away fae her and look out the window. It’s a kinda hazy day, no exactly grey, but no sunny either. We’re chunterin past derelict sites and warehouses mixed in wi loads a new designer flats bein built. The gentrification a the Clyde, my da calls it.
Anyway, I’m glad of the chance to get away; things have been tense at home, to put it mildly. It would be different if I wasny hangin about the house all day. Jed’s right about one thing, if I’d a sat my Higher English when I was meant to, I could’ve been enjoyin mysel at uni wi Farkhanda the now. As it is, every Tuesday and Thursday I’m pure keyed up, wonderin if it will be Laetitia or Julian collectin the wean. Yesterday it was Laetitia. She makes a point of talkin to me, bein nice, but the nicer she is, the more my face willny behave itsel. It’s like I’ve got Bell’s palsy or somethin, same as Mrs Graham across the landin. Twisted and ugly. And to put the tin lid on it, my ma’s aye sayin how great Laetitia’s lookin.
She’s fair came on, that lassie. Positively blooming.
Positively fuckin make you sick!
The thing is too, you can’t help lovin Elvis. He makes you. No that I let on. It would be different if he wasny their wean. We have a carry-on when my ma and da’s out the room. Him and me’s pals on the QT.
There’s the Armadillo. No so shiny the day; the overlappin plates of the metal roof look as if they could do wi a polish. It seems like a hundred years fae we marched there. Aye, and look at Iraq now. What was the point? I says that to Jed, when we went to the pictures a couple of weeks ago and he says, Come with me. He dragged me by the hand along the road to an internet café, sat me down in front of a computer and logged onto the Sorry website. Hunners a photos of Americans, holdin up handwritten messages: Sorry, World! We tried our hardest and Bush still got back in. We’ll do better next time. Please don’t hate us. They looked dead normal, ordinary, like us. Makes you realize that’s no the usual picture you get of America; Bush, Rumsfeld, Cheney, Rice, rampagin about the world kickin ass. Negroponte, for God’s sake! The Sorry website cheered you up. Which I think was the whole idea. I’ve a feelin it was Danny put Jed up to it. A film and then a good talkin to about sittin my Higher English, applyin to uni. Aye well, maybe.
> We pass the sailin ship moored on the river, but you canny see it right, only the tops of the masts; there’s a big warehouse blockin the view. Wouldn’t it be great to sail away on that boat; out the Clyde estuary with the white sails flappin, down past Galloway and the North of England; through the Irish Sea, past Wales then Cornwall; along the west coast a France, round the corner a Spain, intay the Mediterranean; up the boot of Italy to the mouth of the Arno, and straight up the river to Florence! Aye, you wish! I’m gonny go someday but. I’m definitely gonny go back. Me and the David have some catchin up to do.
I must tell Patsy about him and Il Prigioni. I like Patsy. She’s a couple a years younger than my ma and – don’t get me wrong – dead similar, but – well, she’s no my ma. I can talk to her, for one thing. And for another, she doesny know nothin about me and Julian. My ma and her never spoke for years after they had a big falling-out. Danny thinks it was all to do wi Davey workin at the Faslane naval base. Which makes sense. Davey maintainin the Trident nuclear submarines; my ma and da campaignin against them. I asked my ma how they patched things up. Water under the bridge, was all she would say. Life’s too short.
I sit wi my nose to the window when we pass the cranes, but I canny see nay sign a work goin on. Except there’s a half-built boat, grey, a ferry, by the looks a things, wi an open stern for the cars. When I sit back, I get a surprise again, catchin a faint glimpse a my reflection in the window. Nay dreads. I rub the short fuzz on my head to check it’s true. Aye, it’s true. It took me ages to pluck up the courage to cut them off. You get used to them; I couldny imagine bein without them. After I decided, I tried to get a hold a Farkhanda to come and help me, but she was tied up at the uni, workin day and night on the election campaign for the rector. She’s been supportin Mordecai Vanunu, the Israeli scientist that blew the whistle on Israel’s nuclear programme. She telt me all about him the last time she came to the house, but I canny mind the half of it. I was mesmerized, couldny take my eyes off her; she was so excited about the campaign, sittin on my bed, her hair round her shoulders, face all lit up, eyes big and shiny. She was rattlin through the reasons why the students should support Vanunu, countin the points off on her fingers one by one. She phoned me up pure ecstatic afore Christmas and telt me they’d done it. He was elected. Now all they have to do is get him freed fae house arrest in Israel. Oh, is that all? I says. Uni’s been great for Farkhanda.