by Les Cowan
Sometimes she was convinced she was just as much of a snob as her mum. Who on earth was she to look down on any of them? Each of them was struggling in their own way to make a living, bring up kids, keep their lives together. Were they really so different? At least in Muirhouse there was less facade than in Morningside. People seemed to really be what they really were, not constantly pretending to be something else. Or maybe that was just Mum and her friends. So she had swallowed hard and tried to get on with it and keep on being who she was. She tried being friendly and in return found not just friendship but courage, resourcefulness, and a willingness to accept her without prying or judging. She felt ashamed of her own prejudices. It was possible, she found, to live life here after all and still keep the chaos at bay.
Unfortunately Jennifer – or Jen as she had started calling herself – didn’t see the chaos as something to be avoided at all. She seemed to think that revelling in the worst she could get away with was a neat way of getting back at whatever and whoever. First there were meetings at school about her bad attitude and lack of homework, then temporary exclusions, then accusations of bullying. Being allocated to a school social worker seemed to be thought of almost like a badge of honour. She more or less gave up any pretence at schoolwork after a couple of months and there were times Alison felt like giving up as well. What was the point? Unfortunately there’s a deal you do when you have kids. In exchange for this little pinkish bundle of potential you check your heart in. So giving up wasn’t an option. Social Work and the Children’s Hearing got involved after a spate of shoplifting. “Beyond Parental Control” was the neat-sounding legal jargon – the only neat thing about it. Nothing further was done to help though, as Jen was going to be sixteen in three months. Thanks a bunch, she thought. Jen sat chewing gum and staring at the ceiling throughout the hearing.
So life went on. Jen kept later and later hours, never went to school, and was constantly being brought back by the police. She treated the flat like a B&B and her mother like a domestic. The week she disappeared Alison actually spent the first two days in a state of relief. She could tidy up and expect it to stay that way. She could go to bed and sleep till morning. There was no one to fight with and she didn’t have to take the mixture of sullen indifference and abuse that had become the norm. Then Jen didn’t come back home on the Sunday night either – or Monday – and she started to worry.
When her mum turned up with a birthday present she broke her golden rule, cracked up, and told her how things were in a mixture of rage and tears. Actually it was a relief and Mum turned out to be surprisingly understanding: no condemnations, no told you so. Nobody’s fault. She suggested they speak to Señor David – whoever he was. He would be sure to know what to do. Despite resisting every previous attempt to get her back to church, this time she was so desperate she had gone along that morning to the funny upstairs room and listened to that completely weird sermon, which might have been all about her, she wasn’t sure. Nevertheless she was impressed. He seemed to have been through this sort of thing before and knew what he was talking about. Not at all what she had expected. Then they had talked about what to do and had come up with an idea that maybe could work. But whether it helped or not, she had felt listened to, taken seriously, and made to feel worthwhile. It was a long time since that had happened.
The night Señor David and the other woman were due to go out on the van she tried not to get her hopes up but couldn’t quite stop herself. She could barely sit still and phoned her mum three times in the course of an hour, only finally going to bed after two when she thought they would have been in touch if there was anything to tell. Silly that – thinking they would just find out where Jen was, pop round for a cup of tea, and bring her with them. She had hoped for some information at least but was not prepared for what she discovered the following day. Señor David came to explain. She had thought Jen might be hiding out with a girlfriend from school, probably taking drugs round the back of the shops. Maybe she’d even run away with a boy. But to discover that she was now the girlfriend of a man as old as herself who seemed to be the boss of the entire North Edinburgh drugs operation – she couldn’t believe it. Then she heard about the van.
“Gillian’s going to be ok,” David told her. “The van can be repaired. I’m just sorry it all worked out this way. None of us expected it so there’s no need to feel bad.” She wasn’t sure if this meant she was supposed to be feeling guilty at this point. Dealing with all the guilt from what Jen seemed to have turned into was quite enough. She was not about to take on another bucket load.
“Ok – I’ll try and remember. Thank Gillian when you speak to her.”
“Will do. Maybe you should get back to work. It might take your mind off things.”
“Yeah – maybe. It’s just – what if I’m not here if she does come back – even just to pick up some stuff?”
As it happened, she needn’t have worried. David had only been gone a matter of minutes when she heard the front door again. She thought he must have forgotten something and had come back. She stepped into the hall and froze.
“Jennifer! Thank God!” But her rush to put her arms around her daughter was held at bay. Jen twisted to avoid her and kept on going. She was wearing a crumpled black T-shirt and jeans – exactly what she’d had on the night she hadn’t come home. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week.
“I’m just back for my stuff,” she said over her shoulder. Alison followed her into her bedroom where she had already pulled a suitcase off the top of the wardrobe and laid it on the bed. She stood in the doorway, stunned, unable to think of what to say. Jen started pulling open drawers and dumping armloads of tops, jeans, underwear, and shoes in the case.
“What are you doing?” was all she could manage, as if it wasn’t obvious.
“Don’t know. I think we’re going away.”
“Who? Where? You and Raúl?”
“Yeah.”
“And where are you going?”
“Don’t know. He’s got a place. Something’s happened.” Alison thought about grabbing the case off her but simply hadn’t the stomach for a fight. She flopped onto a tattered beige armchair in the corner.
“How can you do this Jen? He’s more than twenty years older than you. And the police are supposed to be after him.”
“Yeah, well, they’re not going to find him, are they?”
“Stop and think what you’re doing. He’s a criminal. A drugs dealer. He’s not someone you want to be with.” Jen dropped an armful of stuff into the case then spun around.
“Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I’m, like, happy people are getting shot at? Anyone that tries to help me ends up in hospital.” She paused. “I’m not even happy I can’t come home.”
“Why not? What’s stopping you? I’m not stopping you. All I want is you to come back and we’ll try to work things through.” Jen laughed bitterly. “Do you think it’s that easy? The hit squad was out last night because somebody was trying to find out where I was. Somebody’s going to get killed if I stay here.” She turned back to the case, pulled it shut, and started fumbling with the clasps.
“Do I not even get properly introduced then and tell him to look after you?”
Jen was struggling to get it to close.
“Believe me. You don’t want to.”
“Here. Let me help you.” Alison held the lid down while Jen pushed in the catches. Their shoulders touched. Suddenly Jen grabbed her mother and started sobbing. Alison held her tight and stroked her hair.
“There must be something we can do,” she said quietly. “I’ll phone the police – or Señor David. There’s bound to be a way.” Jen sniffed loudly and managed to collect herself.
“There’s nothing you can do, Mum,” she said. “You don’t know what he’s like.”
“So I’ve just got to let you go?”
“I’ve got to. I’ll
be fine.”
Alison held Jen at arm’s length then gathered her up again. They both held on tightly, then Jen slowly eased away.
“I’ve got to go now,” she whispered. “And he says I’ve to get my passport.”
“No!”
“I have to. If I don’t he’ll just send somebody round to get it and that’ll be worse.” Alison saw the logic and reluctantly went through to her own room and came back with it.
“Now, Mum – you’ve got to promise not to come looking for me. I’ll be ok. I’ll find a way.”
“Look, if you’re going to take that, take this too.” On impulse Alison reached into a bedside cabinet and pulled something out. “Granny gave you it. It’s something from home. Take it.” It was a white leather Bible with her initials embossed on the cover.
A car horn blasted in the street. Alison looked out and saw a huge black 4x4. The windows were tinted so she couldn’t see who was inside. Jen hauled the case to the floor, gave her mum a kiss on the cheek, and headed down the hall and out the door without looking back.
Chapter 15
Marchmont
The outside of Dr Gillian Lockhart’s tenement block near the foot of Marchmont Road was not too different from Reverend David Hidalgo’s in Bruntsfield – both quite plain compared with the more elegant, better known New Town facades. They shared a similar appearance of solid Victorian permanence and dependability without airs and graces. It was as if they had grown out of the slightly differing soils in their respective parts of town, a little grander here, a little more functional there, but more or less the same genus and species. New Town flats came from more refined stock and grew up with the shiny brass plates of advocates, architects and royal societies already in place. Bruntsfield was of humbler DNA and emerged only with Chinese restaurants and charity shops. Marchmont stood somewhere in between, with its urban professionals, delicatessens, and wine merchants.
Gillian’s street was quiet with modest Saturday morning traffic, dog walkers, and joggers. David checked the number on the card, looked round to make sure the silver MX5 was still parked where it should be, and proceeded up the path. Unlike his Bruntsfield block, the Marchmont address had something that posed as garden space in front and did not open directly onto the pavement – just to let passers-by know they were entering an establishment a whisker higher up the tenement pecking order. He let himself in the outer door, squeezed past an assortment of bikes and buggies, and climbed to the first floor. The fact that Gillian didn’t live up four flights was also a touch more refined than he was used to. As he fiddled for the right key, he was hoping that Eric, newly installed in his own flat, would not yet have lost the key, burned down the building, swapped his jazz collection for a fix, left the fire on and gassed the entire close, or otherwise made his indelible mark on David’s only bit of personal space left. If he’d been Juan he’d be trusting the Lord. Right now the best he could manage was hoping for the best.
So what did that mean? Hoping for the best? No God? Or maybe “Yes God” but just not one you could rely on? Or was God up to something so far from human understanding that the questions were meaningless? He remembered Juan’s remark “the story isn’t finished yet” and tried to hold on to that as another key failed. He tried a third. How would God have fared judged by the stories of a handful of the former users and addicts of Warehouse 66? Very few got free without relapses, disappointments, even going to jail for offences committed in a past life. He thought of those who had contracted AIDS in their junkie days, dying with a certainty and a peace of mind that seemed entirely beyond human resources. They didn’t make it either, but instead of blaming God for the final result seemed to be gloriously at peace in what they had, in the face of what might have been.
So if you made your final call at the lowest point, then no, God didn’t seem to be shaping up very well. Rocío gone, Gillian in the Royal Infirmary, Jen – who knew where and in what sort of trouble – Alison bitter, angry, and worried, and David himself – not a very robust advert for faith at the present time. Then there was Raúl. El Niño. He seemed to be doing fine. A few unplanned changes of address but otherwise business was booming – no doubt a wealthy man indulging all his whims and amusements. Reprehensible in his habits so not the sort of person any normal human being would actually envy – you’d have to hope – but by his own lights seemed to be doing ok. He kept on happily sowing the wind – it was other people who were reaping the whirlwind. When would he get his? What was the phrase – “Justice delayed is justice denied”? So even if there was to be justice, when all the books were opened and the final court was in session, how many Raúls could get away with it all in this life, wrecking the lives of others with neither remorse nor retribution? He knew well enough that his biblical namesake had been there long before him. How long, oh Lord, will you let the wicked triumph? The Bible wasn’t afraid of asking the question but answers seemed a bit thinner on the ground. Too much, David thought, as he finally got the right key and pushed it home. That’s enough. We’ve been round this block enough times already. Just live in the moment. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. He used to have a university pal who called it the Lena Martell solution: “One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus”.
Finally unlocking the front door, it struck David that he was about to enter Gillian’s world. So far almost everything had been on his terms – his Spanish language class, a Spanish restaurant with his friends, his church, his rescue mission. The only element of Gillian’s universe he’d touched so far was the soup van, which, thanks to the problem he was trying to solve, was now in a police compound waiting for analysis prior to being sold for scrap. This was her world now. He went in with a mixture of curiosity, trepidation, and also a sense of breaching the rules. It was like reading a diary or catching a glimpse of a bank statement – something you’d better have a very good reason for doing. Gillian had given him permission, but even so, without her here he still felt like an intruder. Nevertheless, she had asked and he had agreed. He was a friend not a burglar.
Stepping over the post his first impression was one of classic Edinburgh middle-class chic. Wide borders of mellow golden floorboards were worn with the impressions of at least four generations of traffic. There were Turkish or Persian rugs in delicate shades of blue, rose pink, and cream, with swirling geometric designs. Wallpaper was plain cream but broken up with posters, paintings, tapestries, calendars, and photos. One painting in particular caught his eye – Edinburgh trams on Princes Street, probably in the fifties, maybe a late winter afternoon. An impatient, harassed mum was dragging her daughter either to or from a party, judging from the frock, and stepping into the gutter to avoid a bustle of shoppers. A younger man in a polo neck and sports jacket was crossing the road, perhaps just off the tram for Churchill. The Scott Monument was lit up like a beacon in the darkening sky. It was a busy scene, superficially not too unlike the present day. Perhaps the real difference, David thought, was that these shoppers, office workers, and students were still broadly optimistic and expected life to get better. Health would improve, travel get quicker, educational attainment would rise with living standards and people would become more affluent, better informed and – yes – happier. For a similar picture today, he thought, you would have to add beggars, shoplifters, double the traffic, and adverts on the buses for the latest series of Big Brother.
David wandered round looking for Gillian Lockhart. Twelve volumes of the Dictionary of the Older Scottish Tongue stood next to Antonia Fraser’s Scottish Love Poems, Sueños BBC World Spanish, the complete poems of Pablo Neruda (translated), A Brief History of Time, Sherlock Holmes and Driving Over Lemons. Jimmy Hendrix rubbed shoulders with the Mozart Requiem and the Grateful Dead, Gloria Estefan (in Spanish), and lots of Bob Dylan. Next to these was a photo album. Wondering whether this was off limits or not, David picked it up, changed his mind, and put it back. Get a grip, he thought. I’m here to water plants, not conduct do
mestic espionage. He filled a kettle then watered anything that looked in need of it – particularly a huge Swiss cheese plant and masses of tiny African violets. Gillian’s bedroom had its quota of plants so he felt justified, indeed obliged, to go in. The bed wasn’t made up but he didn’t touch it. There were two huge antique oak wardrobes and a matching dresser covered in the paraphernalia of feminine presentation – what his mother used to call “war paint”. David was impressed by the quantity and variety, but as to function, that was a closed book. Something on the bedside table caught his eye. A Bible. Open. The start of John’s Gospel. Next to it a copy of Alpha – Questions of Life. Interesting.
Back in the hall, he gathered up the post and left it on the table then checked the fridge and emptied sour milk down the sink. He made sure windows were locked, bagged up the rubbish, and copied down a couple of messages from the answering machine. Having done everything he came to do though, he still found himself reluctant to leave. This was Gillian’s space – her identity, her uniqueness, even her scent was here. He sat on what he guessed was an antique chaise longue in the living room and glanced round the high skirting boards, the heavy cornices and ceiling rose, soft furnishings and hangings, the wide bay window looking over the Meadows to the Castle. These helped describe but they didn’t define. That was in the books, the music, the photographs, a half-empty bag of chocolate brazils, a silver flute on a stand next to a score of the Brandenburg Concertos.