Nothing left unsaid, p.12
Nothing Left Unsaid, page 12
He talked loudly and said ‘yah’ a lot, so I was glad to have finally managed to connect to the internet with a dongle at Mum’s flat. I didn’t want to have to speak to him in full view of everyone in the coffee shop or hospital corridor.
Mum writing about my first boyfriend was such a throwback. I had forgotten about Terry, but I could see him now, skinny as a reed, big flared trousers and huge hair. We didn’t have underage discos or family houses that welcomed teenage romances; if you wanted to get passionate you had to do it outside the dirty bin sheds and walk home from school together. Privacy was a luxury the poverty-stricken teenagers of the seventies couldn’t afford.
We spent a lot of time heavy petting in bus shelters as women with shopping bags pushed us out the way to board the bus. ‘Hen, make sure you get off at Paisley,’ one wee lady with a big blue coat and head scarf once shouted at us, as her pals laughed loudly. We didn’t live near Paisley, so we were confused. Years later I understood she was referring to the ‘withdrawal method’ of birth control. Glasgow women were full of good advice, even if it came in code.
I wondered what Terry was doing now. Probably living in Paisley with six kids.
Last night when I was in the café, Clyde asked me if I wanted to go see his local band play in a pub this weekend.
‘They’re brilliant, a bit like Counting Crows meets Del Amitri, all heavy acoustic sounds. Come along and have a wee night off?’ he said with the ease of a man who often asks women to listen to local bands.
I got so flustered; I hadn’t been asked out on a date since Frankie Goes to Hollywood were at number one. I mumbled and panicked: ‘I’m old and married and my mum’s ill in hospital.’
‘Firstly, you’re not old, and are you not allowed to listen to music if you’re married, then?’ He stared at me and I could see his one eyebrow rise sarcastically.
‘Well, technically my marriage is in bits, and things . . . ’ I floundered, trying to step back and start again. ‘I mean, I do listen to music and thanks for the invite, it’s just I think I might just need to see how Mum is . . .’ I blushed right up my face and my scalp prickled with embarrassment.
‘That’s a big riddy you’ve got there,’ he said, smiling at me.
I laughed and took a deep breath. ‘Might be my menopause arriving in time to remind me to start wearing big pants, give up underwired bras and take up bingo,’ I replied.
He just grinned and said, ‘Well, if you change your mind . . . ’
He winked and passed me an illicit cooked scone. As I turned to leave, he said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come? It might do you good to take your mind off things and do something for yourself for once?’
I thought again of Mum and her diary. I could hear her voice – I should take this chance, and I knew she would agree with me.
I took a deep breath once more. ‘OK. Thank you – if Mum’s OK at the weekend, I would love to come.’
Clyde gave me a big daft smile and we swapped numbers, and I felt a flutter of excitement that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. I rushed out the door before I changed my mind, like a gawky teenager at a school disco, and nearly knocked over Archie with the bunnet who was stepping in.
It had been eleven days since Mum had been admitted to intensive care. It seemed the cancer was taking its time, or she was holding it off. Part of me wanted her to go quickly and be free from pain, but the other part of me was grateful for this extra time with her.
She needed to hold on to see Janet and John, and her pals, and I thought she knew that. It was such a tangled mess of emotions. I was getting stressed at how long it was taking Janet and John to get here. I knew it was hard to drop everything and run, but I just didn’t want them to miss her. Time was of the essence.
As if she could hear my silent plea, Janet called me. They had had a casting issue that she couldn’t get out of, she explained, but she was heading home soon, and John had organised a flight for early next week. I couldn’t wait to see them. We were all laughing and crying on the phone in the way you do when you’re facing a death in the family and you’re too far apart to hug.
I gave her an update on Mum and the diary. ‘When I read about that trip to London in 1977, I couldn’t stop laughing thinking about that tiny wee bedroom in that East End flat we stayed in – remember that? You went through the bookshelf saying, “Shite, shite and more shite,” as you threw them all on the floor. And our John was trying on the slingback shoes and dancing about the bedroom.’
Janet said, ‘Fuck, yes, I recall that; you were such a goody two shoes, tidying up behind us!’
‘It was disrespectful, going through her stuff, Janet,’ I said.
‘We found that big electric Pifco “neck massager” and John was rubbing the cat with it. I still can’t get that cat’s face out of my head!’ Janet giggled.
We hung up and I had a warm feeling right under my ribcage. It caught my breath and, for the first time in ages, I felt as though I belonged somewhere.
As soon as I put the phone down, it rang again.
‘Sharon, it’s your aunty Isa here,’ boomed a familiar voice. ‘Just to say, I’ve rearranged some prior commitments and I will be back home in the next week and I will come and see your mammy.’
We chatted details about accommodation and travel, then I plunged in with the big question that had been on my mind.
‘Do you know if anyone has managed to get a number for Sandra? I just can’t seem to find anyone who knows where she is.’
Isa went quiet and then muttered, ‘Oh, aye, I think Bunty knows all about that, she’ll have got a hold of her.’
I was startled. ‘Really? That’s—’ I was about to inform her that Bunty had basically denied knowing her.
Isa interrupted quickly. ‘What?’
‘Um – that’s great news. Can’t wait to see you,’ I finished. I didn’t want to alert her that I had stumbled on their wee web of denial and lies; best not to give her advance ammunition.
I finished the call and stared down at the floral carpet. Something just wasn’t ringing true. One minute nobody remembered Sandra, the next they’re all pally-wally. What the fuck were these women hiding?
I pulled out Mum’s big red book, balanced it on my knee, flicked to the end and stared at where the ripped-out pages would be. What was missing from this story?
1977
October
House is freezing, wee John has mumps, Janet got sent home from school for shouting at the teacher and Sharon has period pains. This is when you hate being a single parent, when you have to deal with all the issues yourself. Not that Billy would have been any good, but someone else to be a babysitter when you’re running to schools and doctors and trying to hold down a job would be fucking helpful. Sharon, despite being buckled by womb cramps, went up to Mrs Bradshaw’s and did my cleaning shift – she’s a great wee worker. She is worried about missing school as she wants to take exams and go to college. I want this for her too, and she knows I wouldn’t ask unless I was desperate. Janet stayed in by herself. She is old enough to be in alone but I worry that someone will say I am neglecting the kids.
Went down to the post office to cash my benefit book, bought some bread and cold meat in Eusebi’s. Laddie was in the butcher’s again, trying to haul a carcass off the meat hooks. That’s me barred for the third time. I’ll need to go to the new supermarket, Kingco, for my butcher meat until Mr Cross forgives me and my stupid dog.
Saw the newspapers and some toffee-nosed politician called Jeremy Thorpe has been linked to the murder of a male model. What a scandal! I thought shit like that only happened in Glasgow. Talking about sex scandals, I heard from Bunty that Sandra’s man Jim has got a bit on the side. We went down to see her in her new house, and Bunty asked her about it to her face. Sandra said she doesn’t believe it and Jim loves her.
It was the first time we’d seen her in ages. Her new house is so tidy, not a thing out of place. The kitchen is top-of-the-range Formica and everything is bright yellow. She opened the back door and we sat in the garden so we didn’t make a mess inside. She carries a damp cloth in her apron pocket for quick wiping down, like a fifties housewife. I don’t think she’d told Jim we were coming, we’re still banned from any contact with her. She kept nervously listening when she heard a car door shutting out in the front street.
Isa, Bunty and I all went to the bingo in the social club last night. Bunty is looking better, she always bounces back, but I can’t believe her own family had a go at her. What bastards they are. ‘Family is family,’ she said.
Philomena had to work. Sharon kept an eye on the weans and studied her history books. She’s fell out with her boyfriend and told me she doesn’t need a man in her life. She said, ‘All the men I know let women down, women don’t need men.’ She says she’s a feminist now and keeps telling me that men are the downfall of working-class women. She could well be right. I am certainly tired of being treated like shit.
We saw Billy at the social club with Dirty Donna. He’s looking fatter and that Rod Stewart feathered haircut doesn’t suit a man whose hair is falling out at the top. He never mentioned the divorce letter but Donna was practically dry-humping him at the table and he looked utterly affronted. Billy hates public kissing. Jack the barman took me aside and told me that he was showing anyone that would give him the time of day the legal letter and playing the victim. What an arsehole – has he suddenly forgotten it was him that walked out on me because he couldn’t put up with kids and get a fucking job?
Donna was wearing a big white Laura Ashley floaty frock like a second-hand bride. Remembering what my Sharon had said, I decided to take control. I walked over to them both and said, ‘Make sure you sign my letter, Billy, or I’ll be coming after you for child maintenance as well. Enough is enough.’ I took my cigarette and stamped it out in their ashtray. I could feel their eyes drilling into the back of my head as I walked away. Fuck them.
Isa is bringing her American sailor to my house next week. I can’t wait to meet him. I bet he sounds like Steve McQueen. She says I haven’t to get too excited, she’s still not sure he’s being faithful to her.
She gave me a loan of her new LP by Meatloaf, ‘Bat Out of Hell’ – it’s like nothing I have ever heard before, like opera and rock all at the same time. I can’t wait to see if Legs & Co dance to that on Top of the Pops. My Sharon is right into her music as well, she loves much the same stuff as me, which is great. I draw the line at listening to her punk stuff, though, brings on my migraine.
Watched Crossroads, Miss Diane has a new boyfriend and Meg Mortimer is off to the lawyers, again. So many board meetings and takeover bids for a wee hotel off a roundabout.
November
Woke up late and put the oven on to heat up the kitchen for the kids going to school, the gas has run out and I can’t pay it until my turn of the menage. We are really skint this week. I hate being poor. Sharon gave me her wages from the fruit shop to buy food. I am saving all my money for the kids’ Christmas presents and pawned my wedding ring. My mum is giving me her Co-op stamps to help out again.
Mrs Bradshaw gave me a big frozen steak pie from her deep freeze as we were cleaning it out, but it stank when we defrosted it. I think it’s been in there since Princess Margaret got married. She’s a good woman, though, and her cleaning job gives me cash on the side, but it’s a big house with a lot of work. It really exhausts me and the travelling can be a pain in the arse during the winter. I get the bus from St Enoch’s up to Hillhead on the Byres Road and the place is full of middle-class students. A few times I have seen some famous faces off the telly as the BBC studios are near Mrs Bradshaw’s place. I once walked past Dorothy Paul from Garnock Way outside the library and spotted John Cairney, the actor, coming out of Curlers pub. I felt really nervous and wanted to ask him for his autograph but I was too shy. I like the Byres Road, they have a delicatessen that sells beautiful cakes and lots of wee fancy shops that sell very modern ornaments and china plates. Sometimes, when I finish cleaning, I wander down there and mix with the hoi polloi as mammy calls them and look at all the clothes and wee jewellery shops. Folk speak right posh up there and have poodles or wee shaky dogs that have ribbons in their hair. Laddie would look out of place in the West End, they don’t even have dog shit on the pavements.
I like to walk past the big fancy houses, gaze into their big windows and imagine me and the kids in there. Me at the big wooden kitchen table, dinner in the old Aga cooker, velvet curtains at the windows, the kids all sitting round reading books or playing with jigsaws, waiting for me to serve up a big roast. Then I come back to earth with a heavy bump. I know I am skint and I was married to a guy called Billy who wouldn’t work and thinks he should be Rod Stewart with a pot belly. Now getting divorced, with three kids, and I know I will never find a decent man who will make me feel young and safe. I fucked up my life, didn’t I? I hate this feeling. Never mind, maybe I will have a wee win at the bingo this week.
I popped up to see Janine too. She unbolted her door very slowly and checked it was me before opening it properly. It seems Alan is still acting really strange. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was him leaving notes and climbing up the veranda. She says he’s sitting outside the building in his van at all hours. Things can’t go on like this.
CHAPTER 18
2019
Day twelve
Sharon
What a woman my mum was. Cleaning other people’s houses, cleaning our house, catching buses, watching kids, scraping every penny, wishing for a decent man and dreaming about velvet curtains. But everyone we knew lived like that, robbing Peter to pay Paul as my mum used to say. She was a good mum to us, and my heart flooded with love when I thought about how open-hearted and affectionate she was. But, clearly, she had been lonely. She never did find another man as far as I was aware; she’d lived alone since Janet and John and I had left home. Her life dedicated to her wee house, working part-time in the local community centre and looking forward to our visits which, looking back, never had been frequent enough. She’d deserved better.
Bunty called as I sat in Mum’s bedroom last night.
‘Hi, hen, how are you?’
I updated her on Mum’s diagnosis. Bunty took a breath, waited for me to stop speaking and launched into her own health problems, which she detailed in a lengthy, well-rehearsed monologue. Diabetes, scoliosis, arthritis and some I couldn’t make out but you don’t interrupt Glasgow women when they are telling you their ailments. After she’d explained what treatment and tablets she was on, I told her about the memories flooding back with the big red book.
‘It’s like you’re all there in front of me, Bunty, it’s full of
stories and drama. My mum has a bloody good eye for detail, I can tell you.’
‘Sharon, you must be heart-roasted with it all. I can’t wait to see her and hear all about the diary. Oh, the old days, when we all had a waistline and tits that you couldn’t tuck into your pants.’ She laughed down the line.
‘Er, yeah, those days, Bunty,’ I said, laughing too. ‘Listen, Philomena has been up to see Mum. Senga knows Isa is on her way as well. She’ll be so made up to see you all. We could even start up another menage,’ I joked.
‘God, I’ve not heard that word in years, Sharon,’ she said. Then added, ‘That’s good, hen, we can all talk, I cannae wait.’
‘I’m going to try to speak to Janine soon – I have her care home details from Isa. Listen, Bunty, do you have a number for Sandra?’ I asked. ‘She’s the only one I can’t find.’
‘Sandra? No, hen, you asked me that before. I cannae recall her.’
‘Yes, you can, Bunty, I’m asking about your friend called Sandra. You said you weren’t close the other day, but Isa says you were.’ I was getting irritated now; they were definitely giving me the runaround. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten her? She had blonde hair and was married to a guy called Jim. Does that not ring any bells? Isa was very clear that you would know about her.’
I was not going to give her the space or time to brush me off again.
‘Oh, aye, if that’s what Isa says . . . I think I do remember a
Sandra?’ She let out a forced laugh. ‘Now if it’s the same lassie I am thinking of, her brother’s wife Helen has a cousin, Dougie, who married my niece Lisa; they got divorced the same year Charles and Diana got split up and she runs a hairdresser’s in Paisley. I’ll ask them,’ she said in typical Glasgow style, where an entire family tree and surplus information can be shoved like an unwanted side salad into a word kebab.
‘Thanks, Bunty, that sounds like something. Is Sandra still with Jim, do you know?’ I asked.
Bunty went quiet. The line crackled and I thought she had been disconnected. I looked at my phone to check and then I heard her say, ‘No, hen.’
And then she hung up.
1977
December
Got up early, ate some toast and got the kids out the door for school. Janet has lost her new anorak and is wearing three layers of my mammy’s hand-knitted ‘fancy cardigans’ to keep her warm.
There’s a rash of the scabies going round again. Philomena said the doctor is giving out big bottles of lotion that you paint on your skin and apparently you have to burn all your bedding and mattress to get rid of them. I don’t know anyone other than Margo Leadbetter from The Good Life who could afford to do that. The rest of us just head to the steamie, hot-boil all our bedding and spray chemicals on our mattress and floors.
I am heading down to the Barras market this weekend to pick up some cheap curtains and a big bag of second-hand books. All I do is read when the kids are in their beds. I can lose myself in a good book. I like to read about women, spies, murder and sexy locations. Not love stories so much these days. Nobody in a Mills and Boon book has scabies, fights off a violent man over a pot of mince or has to give the provy man a quick grope at her boobs to pay off some debt. It’s all too much sweetness and sometimes, when life is kicking you in the fanny, you can do without that, so I avoid them. I have been feeling down lately. Am exhausted cleaning houses, living in debt, worrying about Sandra and Janine and Bunty and dealing with the kids. That bastard Billy is swanning about like a drunk lord while my hands are raw with bleach. This isn’t how I saw my life. I can only hope for a better council house to see me through to my forties. You never read about eyes burning with bleach in a Mills and Boon book, do you?
