by Kerrie Noor
The plans were proposed, agreed on, changed, agreed on again, and finally, pending budget cuts, postponed, and the wall of gratitude remained.
No one listened to Lumpy the janitor, who pointed out that the wall was only a pop-up wall, attached to the ceiling like a set of chimes, even when McFlaherty planned the yearly art show.
Every wall in the community centre was covered with still lifes, portraits, landscapes, and seascapes, along with the odd nude from the life drawing class, tastefully picked so as not to give away the model’s appendage size or identity (which was mostly McFlaherty).
Every wall—including the wall of gratitude, a wall designed, as Lumpy put it, for paper-thin photographs, posters, and the odd business card.
Lumpy watched as the art group hung and rehung large framed pictures the weight of an elephant on the wall of gratitude.
“How about a nice light print?” he said. “Or a few posters . . .”
Nobody listened.
Finally, when McFlaherty hung a life-sized nude—oil on canvas, in a frame befitting a royal portrait—Lumpy “threw a wobbly.”
“Don’t be friggin’ stupid,” he shouted, pointing to the flimsy connections. When no one listened, he made a final “health and fucking safety” sermon, and when that didn’t work, he made plans to be unavailable for the week of the exhibition.
McFlaherty, having spent the whole weekend hanging and rehanging pictures to please all in the class, tucked into the free wine at the launch with a “this looks fantastic” sigh. Until, that is, a committee member pointed out that the life size was as tilted as a drunk trying to adjust his kilt. Then McFlaherty, living up to his “the Brave,” pulled up a ladder to adjust it and took not only the wall and its paintings but half the ceiling and part of the roof attached as well.
“I was only trying to save the show,” he muttered, his head peering through the purple arse of a nude.
It took several days of clearing and a decent downpour of rain to discover where the leak was . . .
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Plan
Who listens to someone in overalls unless they’re sorting your plumbing?
Mum sat in the library speaking to an audience of Steven and Baby Bea while the others escaped, and soon a plan was formed. A plan that she insisted Helen and I listen to as she circled her kitchen later that day.
We had just dropped her home from the library and she, mid circling, saw us heading for the door and blocked our only escape. She was riled; losing her storytelling gig meant more to her than anything, and she wanted us to not only listen but help.
Mum, using the sort of language that would silence a bar, fiercely barred the door as she ranted about those “council bozos” who were “as efficient as a comatose twat.”
“They have no idea about money and budgets,” she said. “Their idea of saving is to cut services so they can swan about their shagpile carpet—barefoot.”
“Well, that’s not strictly true,” muttered Helen. “I think they have vinyl as well.”
Mum, ignoring Helen, carried on. “They’re never happy unless they’re chopping something to pieces. Well,” she shouted, “I’m going to chop their dicks to pieces!”
“Not all of them have dicks,” I said.
She looked at me. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”
Helen chuckled.
Mum was just about to expand on dick chopping when George arrived with an “I’m here” cough.
He stood the other side of the door waiting for Mum to move so he could enter.
Mum refused to be diverted.
“Your carriage awaits,” he shouted.
Mum turned with a start. “Carriage?”
“The card game, Francis and her dips, remember?”
Mum pulled a face. “Cards at a time like this?”
“It always this time,” said George.
“But this is an emergency.” She snapped, “I’ve hardly got time for Francis and her friggin’ dips.”
George, saying nothing, began to rummage for Mum’s coat.
Every week they played cards with the Aces High Club, and every week Mum protested, until her first gin. The Aces High Club was where they met; Mum kept beating George, despite how many gins he poured her, and she still did . . .
George called it foreplay.
Tonight, they were to meet at the home of Francis, who according to Mum had the sort of nibbles that required a decent dinner beforehand.
George, clutching Mum’s least favorite jacket, eased himself past Mum’s chair barricade.
She huffed. “Francis and her dips—the last thing I need is a belly full of sardines and herrings.” She stared at the coat. “Or that jacket.”
“Fish is good for the brain.” George laughed.
“Pfff,” muttered Mum.
George let out an exaggerated “arrrrgh, fish, fish, and more fish,” while Mum huffed.
“Oh, shut up, George—how can I possibly concentrate with a sardine stretched across an oatcake inches away?”
Helen and I laughed; we had heard it all before.
“Come on,” he said. “Your audience awaits, and you can tell them your plans. Maybe they’ll sign your petition.”
“In that jacket? I don’t think so.”
“And I heard”—he pushed her to the door—“it’s a full house.”
Mum looked at him. “Full house?”
“Yes, everyone.”
“Even Chubby?”
“Even Chubby,” said George.
Mum’s face lit up. Chubby, the local butcher, was the sort of gossip who spread stories on par with Facebook. If Mum had her on her side, then the whole of Argyll would know about the library by morning.
“You’re a genius,” she said.
And for the first time ever, George blushed.
The next day, inspired by a late-night viewing of Stephen King’s Pet Cemetery, Mum dressed up like a ghostly pumpkin and decorated her wheelchair.
She, with the help of Helen and myself, attached a mile-high tombstone made from egg boxes, splashed “Mid Argyll—The Graveyard of Scotland” across it, then attached two skeletons made from coat hangers and bin bags.
For a week, she parked herself outside the library, the community centre, and the co-op petitioning, and when no one took any notice, she told stories.
Mum is hard to ignore when she tells stories, and as it was near Halloween, many thought she was part of it. Soon she had a following, a mixed bag of children, their parents, and library visitors. In fact, the library had become a ghost town, according to Steven.
George supported her.
He drove her everywhere, keeping her and her growing followers going with flasks of tea and egg sandwiches, coughing—loudly—when her language got too colorful.
“Sign my petition,” shouted Mum, “join me on a sit-in!”
“What’s a sit-in?” said one tot.
Mum burst into a round of “We Shall Not Be Moved.”
By the end of the week, Mum’s protest arrived outside the Taj in an attempt to nab all the Friday-night takeaway customers. With an audience of ten, including two primary school sisters chanting “sign the petition” and Janice, their mother, trying to persuade them to “call it a day,” my mum was causing a scene, which had most passing cars tooting.
Originally, Mum had arranged for her entourage to meet at Kilmory, a stately castle converted into a beehive of offices for the council headquarters.
Mum and her group planted themselves in the car park at the front of the castle. Their aim was to block all workers entering without first signing her petition.
She had forgotten it was a public holiday, and the only workers there were three self-employed builders working on the reception renovations . . .
After a curt chorus of “We Shall Not Be Moved,” they headed for the Taj.
Helen and I were working on the community centre roof that Friday. We had almost finished when we heard about the ta
keaway.
Neff, who always worked on Fridays texted to complain that Mum was scaring off all the customers and the Chinese was doing a killing.
I didn’t reply; there weren’t enough swear words.
As Helen cleared up, I went down to move the “rabble,” as Neff called it . . .
I arrived to find Mum singing “Ghost Town” by the Specials and George looking uncomfortable . . .
I noticed someone familiar: a policeman standing outside the police station just across the road . . .
Ten years ago, Mum had driven a car full of folk—including me—to Oban. I had a hangover from hell, and it was two policemen, Rathbone and Cocolder, who stopped us. Mum was still driving at the time and was, according to Cocolder, “breaking every rule possible and making a few new ones.”
Mum, assuming they were barely out of school, treated them in a flimsy, offhanded way that nearly cut short our trip to Oban. Not that Oban is anything to write home about, except we had tickets to see the American wrestlers, and thanks to my Mum, it nearly didn’t happen.
From what I could remember, Rathbone was a decent bloke and it was Cocolder to be wary off. As I passed around George’s egg sandwiches, I recognized that same steely glint.
The last thing I needed was for him to recognize me. From what I could remember, I had just finished throwing up . . .
Mum, however, wasn’t wearing her glasses, and by the way she was carrying on, she had no idea. Before I could stop her, she was shouting to him, “Do you have any children?”
Cocolder stopped . . . he seemed to have no idea who was beneath Mum’s pumpkin-painted face.
“’Cause if you do, you’ll not get any storytelling, not if those pricks at the Kilmory have their way.”
George let out an overcompensating loud laugh as I tried with a few abortive “Mum!”s to shut her up.
I texted Steven.
“Quick as you can and bring Mum’s glasses.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Blast from the Past
There is more to camouflage than face paint.
Steven took a long time to come due to Baby Bea’s nappy, which, to quote him, was “an explosion of sticky stuff that required a packet of wet wipes, lubricant, and a decent soak in the bath to clean” (order unknown).
As I waited, the two sisters moved from skipping to pushing each other, and Cocolder moved from across the road to inches from Mum with a blank expression.
Perhaps we got away with it?
“Egg sandwiches?” I said, with my best innocent look.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’ve some pakoras to pick up.”
His squeaky voice brought it all back—the anxiety of Mum and her fuck-ups.
A car tooted just as Cocolder, hand on door, was about to enter the takeaway.
Mum gestured an “up yours” with her egg sandwich.
“Mum,” I hissed, “will you stop with the finger gesturing?”
Cocolder stopped.
He turned to me, his dark eyes betraying nothing.
“You look better than the last time I saw you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cocolder Again
The good ol’ days when we used to play “I can punch harder than you” . . .
By the time Steven had arrived, the two sisters had given up pushing and were now charging about like football players. Janice was at her “wits end,” while most of Mum’s entourage had disappeared, persuaded to leave with a free naan and Cocolder’s grim stance.
Cocolder had not only remembered Mum but reminded her of why he had, to quote Mum, “put the kibosh on her driving” and Mum was riled to the point that even George could not control her.
“You should be shot,” she snapped, ignoring the toot of the Glasgow bus.
“Shot, I hardly think so,” said Cocolder coolly.
“What you did to me was a . . . discrimination, a discrimination against the disabled.”
Cocolder began to describe her driving like a comedy sketch, which, until Mum threw him a look, had George laughing.
“How dare you insult my driving,” she snapped.
“I am not insulting—”
“You try driving with legs like play dough,” huffed Mum, “see how you do.”
“—just stating the facts,” said Cocolder.
“Facts? You make me sound like something out of the Carry On movies. This is my audience”—she gestured to the sisters racing around her wheelchair—“and you just . . . just . . . humiliated me.”
“I’m not dressed as a pumpkin,” said Cocolder.
“Let’s get you home,” muttered George.
“I am saving our community,” Mum said in a loud voice.
“From what? A roast dinner?” said Cocolder.
A passerby chuckled.
“She is dressed as Legs, the pumpkin,” shouted the younger sister. “He eats little girls.”
Her big sister pushed her with a “shut up.”
“Time for tea,” said Janice, attempting to drag her youngest.
“Time for you as well,” said George, making to push Mum’s chair.
Mum, ignoring George, began to call Cocolder a prick “like those in the council,” while the sisters, ignoring their mother, began to push each other with a “shut up.”
“Look,” said Cocolder, “I just came for my pakoras. If you want me to arrest you, just say the word.”
“You, arrest me, hardly. I am expressing my freedom of speech,” said Mum.
“You are putting people off their takeaways,” said Cocolder. “You should move.”
“Yes, come on Beatrice,” said George.
“Come on, Mum,” I said.
“How about we get some chips?” muttered Janice. The girls were almost persuaded, about to leave . . . until Steven appeared, parking his car at the bus stop.
He and Helen charged from the car like there was a fire and they were the only ones with a hose, caught a glimpse of Cocolder, jumped back in the car, moved it around the corner, and appeared again, this time a little puffed.
“Hi, Steven,” said the sisters in unison.
“We’re saving the world,” said the youngest.
Push, shove . . .
Steven, stopping just shy of the pavement, sighed, tripping over the two girls mid-scuffle.
Cocolder, now looking like he had been rubbed up the wrong way and was thinking of revenge, surveyed Steven.
“Where have you been?” I said.
“You try finding glasses in that bedroom,” snapped Helen. “Not to mention the nappy from hell.”
Steven, shaking his pale face, muttered, “Chemical waste.”
“That’s my wee one you’re talking about,” snapped Mum.
“Yes, and you’re the one that fed her curry,” said Steven.
“You fed her curry?” I said.
“It was only a korma, and she enjoyed it,” huffed Mum.
“That stuff did not come from a korma,” said Steven.
“Korma?” said Tenzam, appearing at the door. “There is something wrong with my korma?”
“Well, there is when you feed it to a baby,” said Steven.
“You fed my korma to a baby?” said Tenzam.
“And the rest,” said George with a glare at Mum. “I told you, but would you listen?”
Cocolder’s face lit up. “I know you,” he said to Steven. “Your driving would drive an instructor to drink . . . ha ha.”
No one else laughed.
“Take up cleaning for a living . . . ha ha.”
Still no one laughed.
I turned from Steven to Mum. “The rest? What do you mean, the rest?”
“Take a look in the bin.” Helen glared at Mum. “That’s where the true story lies.”
“Is Legs in the bin, Mummy?” said the youngest sister.
Janice sighed. “Legs is just a friggin’ story.”
George grimaced. “Let’s get you home.”
Mum, with a move me
at your peril glare, snapped. “I am not leaving till he”—she gestured to Cocolder with her now completely dried egg sandwich—“signs the petition.”
Cocolder, with a bored look, pulled himself up into an I’m in charge here stance and turned to the group.
“Right, that’s it. Shape up and ship out . . . there is nothing here.”
“Come on,” said Janice, attempting to drag her youngest.
“I want a curry,” said the older sister.
“Nothing? Our libraries are dying, closed down like an out-of-date atomic plant, and you say there is nothing doing?” snapped Mum.
Janice stopped in her tracks. “Libraries?”
An elderly couple heading for the Indian stopped. The man, puffing, leaned on his Zimmer.
“You’re in the wrong place—you should be up at Kilmory,” he said.
“Kilmory? That place is empty, a new reception is being built,” said Mum.
“Typical,” said an elderly man.
“They’ve got some bruiser from Glasgow ripping up a perfectly good carpet.”
“Typical,” said the elderly man’s partner.
Cocolder moved to open the door, then turned. “When I come out, I want youse”—he gestured to Mum—“gone.”
“They’re shutting the library?” said Janice.
“Yes.”
“I thought it was the schools.”
“No, it’s the library.”
“You said they were shutting the wee schools.”
“I said the wee schools will be next,” said Mum.
“You mean I have been waiting here all this time with this lot”—Janice gestured to her daughters shoving each other—“for a lousy library?” She grabbed one of the girls. “Stop that!”
Mum huffed. “The library is very important.”
“You should have been clearer. I wasted my whole day supporting you . . . and . . . for what? A dump of a library no one uses?”
“Steady on,” snapped the old man.