The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 (36 page)

Chapter Fifty Nine

  Helen hid jist tossed a wee bag ae flour intae her basket before she turned intae the breid aisle.

  “Oh, sorry,” she apologised, as she walked straight intae another happy shoapper in the Co-op.

  “Oh, it’s yersel, Helen,” JP Donnelly gasped, surprised.

  “JP?  Aye, er, sorry, Ah’ll jist get oot ae yer road,” she replied, flustered.

  “Aye, well, it wis ma fault.  Ah should’ve been watching where Ah wis gaun, so Ah should’ve.”

  “Naw, it wis ma fault.”

  “So, er, how’s the campaign gaun then?”

  “Fine.”

  “Aye, ye seem tae hiv a good wee team beavering away oan yer behauf, so ye dae.”

  “Ach well, maist ae us hivnae done this kind ae thing before, so it’s a learning experience, if nothing else, so it is.”

  “Aye, it’s a pity we’re up against each other.  Ye wid probably hiv made a good cooncillor wae a wee bit ae guidance fae the right quarter.”

  “And whit’s that supposed tae mean?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “No...c’mone, JP...spit it oot.”

  “Ah wis only jist saying, it’s a pity there’s only wan winner in a by-election.”

  “Well, Ah widnae coont yer chickens jist yet.  There’s still a long way tae go,” Helen said stiffly, trying tae squeeze past him.

  “According tae ma information, ye hid up tae twenty percent ae the vote at wan time and noo it’s drapped back tae fifteen percent, so it his.”

  “And according tae ma information, yer dirty tactics urnae working as well as ye hoped, and things ur starting tae turn ma way.”

  “Aye, they dae say ‘confidence and youth go haun in haun,’ bit there’s nothing like a seasoned bit ae meat at the end ae the day.”

  “JP, if Ah thought fur wan minute that Ah wisnae gonnae win, we widnae be staunin here talking aboot it.  Ah’d be back at hame wae ma tail between ma legs...despite the interference ae Father John and the rest ae the weasels ye carry aboot in yer back pocket."

  “Father John?  Weasels?  Ah hivnae a clue whit ye’re oan aboot, hen.”

  “Aye, well...don’t ye worry, JP, they’ll be roasting in hell someday alang wae yersel, so they will.”

  “Helen, tae win an election ye hiv tae gain the respect ae the community.  Despite whit ye might think, everywan aboot here disnae necessarily subscribe tae whit somewan like you believes in.”

  “And whit’s that supposed tae mean?” Helen demanded, eyes narrowing.

  “Ye don’t need me tae point oot yer faults.  Ye’re the wan that’s staunin as a cooncillor.  Ah’m sure everything will come oot in the wash...whit ye staun fur...whit ye don’t.  Aye, Ah’m sure the people ae Springburn will make their ain mind up, come a week oan Friday.”

  “Wae a bit help fae yersel.”

  “In politics…it’s legitimate tae point oot, er, certain inconsistencies in an opponent, if ye believe that person is trying tae pull the wool o’er the electorate’s eyes.  It’s up tae the candidate tae defend and rebut whit’s put before them.  That’s politics,” JP said smugly.

  “JP, don’t staun here and lecture me.  There’s a difference between pointing oot contradictions in yer opposition as opposed tae the muck you and that bunch ae sad gits ye call an election team are raking up.  Ah think people will see through that tactic and vote fur the person who they believe kin genuinely improve their lot...somewan they kin trust no tae hiv their fingers in the till aw the time.  Yer track record speaks fur itself...people hiv long memories, so they dae,” Helen shot back, feeling good, noticing that her punches wur landing.

  “Let’s get something straight here, Helen...ye’re nothing bit a tramp...always wur and always will be.  Ye staun there as if ye’re bloody Joan ae Arc, defending aw the riff-raff who believe life owes them something and who refuse tae pay whit they’re due, while they boys ae yers ur oot robbing everywan blind...and ye’ve the cheek tae accuse me ae being oan the make?  How much dae ye charge fur yer services?” JP snarled.

  Helen couldnae contain hersel.  Wance JP started oan her family, the gloves wur aff.  She couldnae remember putting her haun intae her shoapping basket.  It wis only when her bag ae flour exploded like a grenade oan JP’s foreheid that she realised that she’d scored a bull’s eye.

  “Don’t ever bloody slag aff ma family, ya nasty auld pervert, ye,” Helen hissed, as she stomped back tae the flour shelf and picked up another bag.

  By the time she’d goat hersel a loaf and reached the checkoot, JP wis awready being served at the next wan alang.  The lassies oan the tills wur daeing aw they could no tae pish themsels, as a clump ae flour slid aff JP’s white heid and landed in his wee purse as he poked aboot tae get his coins oot ae it.

Chapter Sixty

  “Mrs Crawford...Alison, this is Marybell Raminsky, wan ae the polis’s public relations officers.  She wis wondering if she could hiv a wee chat wae ye…er…if ye get ma drift,” Bobby Mack said tae the patient, wondering why the hell he’d been sent, seeing as how busy he wis.

  “Hello, Mrs Crawford.  Aye, that’s right, Ah’m Marybell, wan ae the new public relations officers doon at Central, so Ah am.  Noo, Ah know ye cannae talk and ur communicating via that wee writing pad beside yer bed, bit don’t ye worry aboot a thing, hen.  Ah don’t mind daeing aw the talking...efter aw, that’s whit Ah get paid fur, eh?” Hattie Jacques gushed, guffawing like a distressed donkey.

  The patient took an instant dislike tae the six feet tower ae fat staunin in front ae her, dressed in whit wis supposed tae be a WPC uniform, but insteid looking mair like a black tarpaulin tent wae a fat body trying tae escape fae it.  The patient looked across at Inspector Mack, who wis in the process ae flicking through the fitba section ae that morning’s Glesga Echo and wis clearly there jist tae make up the numbers.

  “Right, then, hen, where dae Ah start, eh?  We realise that ye’ve been through a lot, bit that’s nae excuse fur lying up here in this gilded cage feeling sorry fur yersel...feeling helpless and thinking ye cannae dae anything tae make yer situation better.  Ye might be thinking that ye’re a bit ae a cripple, bit when Ah’m finished wae ye, ye’ll be raring tae go, so ye will or ma name’s no Marybell Raminsky.  We’ve goat tae get ye back intae fighting fit mode...get ye squared up so ye kin get oan wae yer life.  That’s where Ah come in wae ma specialist knowledge ae the media, so it is,” Hattie beamed, looking doon at her.

  The patient closed her eyes.  She counted tae ten...slowly...and opened her eyes.  She wisnae hallucinating.  The fat officer really wis flesh and blood and hid somehow managed tae hijack a chair while her eyes wur closed and wis noo sitting, balancing oan it, twenty inches fae where she wis lying.

  “Ah’ve been tasked wae yer rehabilitation programme, hen.  Ye might look a wee bit shell-shocked jist noo, bit wae ma guidance, we’ll get ye ship-shape tae face the media.  Bit first, we’ll need tae work oot oor spiel...whit we’re gonnae say and how we haundle them, eh?”

  The patient felt her heart miss a beat.  Hid she heard correctly?  Did she jist say that wae her guidance, she’d be facing the media?

  “Aye, see, that goat ye, eh?”  Hattie said, winking and stabbing her fat stubby finger in the patient’s direction, baying like a water buffalo.

  The patient turned her heid.  The pad wis gone.  She wis sure she’d placed it oan the bedside cabinet alang wae her pen.  She turned and looked back at the fat officer.  She was haudin up the pad in wan haun and her pen in the other, a big grin splashed across her coupon.

  “Don’t ye worry, hen.  Ye won’t need these fur a day or two.  We’ve goat until Wednesday morning tae get oorsels ready tae face the press.  Believe you me, hen, by the time Ah’m finished wae ye, they’ll be shouting fur ye tae get The George Medal fur gallantry, so they will.  Ah’m no sure how we’ll manage tae tart up that face wae aw they bandages oan it, bit we’ll think ae something, so don’t ye worry aboot a thing.  Christ, rather than hiding the fact, we could probably use it tae oor ain advantage...mair sympathy votes, if ye know whit Ah mean,” Hattie winked, amazed at her brilliance.

  The patient reached across and snatched the pad fae Marybell Raminsky’s haun while snapping her fingers wae the other wan fur the return ae her pen.

  ‘No newspaper interviews,’ the pad read.

  “Look, Ah know how ye must be feeling, wae aw this terrible coverage and aw that, bit the longer we ignore them, the worse it’ll get.  That’s why they’re making it up as they go alang.”

  ‘No newspaper interviews,’ the pad repeated, this time the words underlined.

  “Look, rather than letting everywan in and it becoming a bun-fight between aw the reporters, why don’t we jist start aff wae the wan paper, eh?”

  ‘No, I’m not ready.’

  “If we went fur the wan reporter plus wan photographer and see how it goes, that wid be a start, so it wid,” Fatty said, imploring the pad tae gie it a bit mair thought.

  ‘Who did you have in mind?’ the pad asked.

  “We thought we’d go wae the biggest and the best.  That way, ye’d get mair coverage.  We’ve goat The Glesga Echo’s tap crime reporter primed and ready.”

  ‘Who is that?’

  “Sammy Elliot...ye’ve probably heard ae him...honest tae a fault, so he is.  If we get him and Slipper, the paper’s main photographer, in tae take a few wee snaps, it wid be o’er in aboot an hour, so it wid.  Whit dae ye think, hen?”

  ‘No.’

  “Bit Ah’d be here, so Ah wid,” Marybell coo-ed, putting oan her maist supportive pose.

  ‘No,’ the pad insisted.

  “Look, Ah know ye’ve been through a lot, bit this wid be fur yer ain good, so it wid.  We could try fur the sympathy vote.  Wance people see the photo and the mess ye’re in, we might get people, witnesses, coming forward wae information oan who shot yer boyfriend,” Hattie added, still as subtle as a firecracker.

  ‘I’ve been up most of the night.  I’m tired.  I can’t think properly at the moment.  Sorry,’ the pad apologised, as the patient closed her eyes.

  “Oh, right.  Well, Ah’ll tell ye whit, hen.  Ye jist hiv a wee kip and Ah’ll nip in by in a day or two and we kin hiv another wee chat, eh?” Marybell said, staunin up, nodding tae Bobby Mack tae let him know the session wis o’er wae.

  “So, how dae ye think it went then?” Bobby asked her in the corridor.

  “Fine...as expected.  Ah’ll gie her the day tae think aboot it and Ah’ll get back in there oan Wednesday or Thursday.  The main thing is tae try and make sure she disnae change her mind wance we’ve goat the go-aheid.  We’ll get The Rat and that wee monkey ae his, Slipper, tae come up here oan Wednesday and hiv them oan standby.  We kin always say that they jist happened tae be in visiting somewan.  As soon as she gies the go-aheid, we’ll wheel them in and get whit we want.”

  “Ye don’t really think people wid start tae feel sorry fur somewan like her, dae ye?” Bobby asked, nodding towards the patient’s door.

  “Ae her?  Christ, ye must be joking.  If there’s wan thing people hate, and that’s a turncoat...somewan who’s crossed the line.  Tam Simpson wis hated and because ae the type ae hoodlum he wis, everywan wid’ve expected him tae be dipping his wick aw o’er the place, bit there wid be nae sympathy fae people in the community towards a social worker who wid’ve awready been hated by maist ae them in the first place.  The fact that she wis allowing him tae perch oan her during her work-time, while at the same time, swooping in and pontificating tae everywan aboot how they should be living their lives is like a priest being caught wae a bare-arsed boy sitting oan his knee while spouting aboot aw that celibacy he claimed tae be enjoying.  Naw, her ain kind will never accept her back, and she certainly widnae be welcome back tae a place like Possil.”

Chapter Sixty One

“Hello?  Mary Marigold speaking.  Ah’m sorry, Pearl’s no here.  Nope, she wis supposed tae be here six and a hauf hours ago.  Whit’s that?  Am Ah expecting her in anytime soon?  As Ah’ve jist telt ye, she wis due tae be here first thing this morning and she hisnae turned up...probably slept in or something.  Ah don’t know.  Ah’m jist the wan that pays her wages.  Eh?  Ah hivnae a clue, hen.  Your guess is as good as mine, bit if ye dae catch up wae her, kin ye pass oan a message?  Aye. Tell her that, despite her absence, her long suffering boss, Mary, his managed oan her lonesome and goat the job done.  Aye, Ah know she’s jist worked fur me fur a week, bit that’s the effect she’s hid oan me.  If ye kin jist pass oan the message, eh?  Aye, Ah’m sure she’ll know exactly whit that means.  Bye.”

  Mary wis well and truly pissed aff wae Pearl.  She specifically telt her that she hid tae be in the office at eight o’clock sharp tae get the column put thegither.  The wee git hid only jist started work the week before and here she wis, skiving aff awready.  Talk aboot leaving ye in the soup?  It hid taken Mary a good twenty five minutes tae find yesterday’s interview notes under aw the shite oan Pearl’s desk and then a further hour tae sift through them tae match the pages wae the right interviewee tae put them intae some semblance ae an order.  When Mary hid first clocked the haunwriting, she’d jist aboot pished hersel.  It looked like a cross between Chinese and Swahili...and who the hell didnae number pages nooadays, especially when there wis aboot forty or fifty ae them?  Mary felt harassed.  Dandy Maclean, her editor, hid phoned three times, demanding her copy.  She looked at the clock oan the far wall.  Three thirty.  Thirty minutes tae go tae her deadline.  Normally she wis okay until five thirty, bit Dandy wis heiding aff tae interview the new manager ae the Blochairn Fruit Market.  Seemingly he’d been trying tae get the interview fur donkey’s, ever since the operation hid moved up fae the Candleriggs.  Dandy hid sounded well pissed aff at her.

  “Well, Ah’ve goat everywan’s except yours, Mary.  Ah hivnae time tae mess aboot noo, so four o’clock is yer deadline.  Efter that, ye kin furget yer column fur this week, so ye kin,” he’d threatened.

  God, whit a way tae run a newspaper, she thought.  Here she wis, thinking that rigor mortis hid well and truly set in, only tae find oot that there wis a pulse under that deathly exterior ae his.  She’d wanted tae tell the stupid auld demanding tottie tae get a life, bit didnae, oan account ae Dandy jist aboot shooting his load in his pants every time he mentioned that this wis the biggest scoop he’d come up wae in the twenty-odd years he’d been editing the Green Fingers column.  Mary hid obviously missed something, so insteid ae telling him tae get a life, she’d put oan her wee, sorry-Ah’m-jist-a-helpless-wee-stupid-wummin voice.  Despite the whiff ae death emanating aff ae that dry, shiny, yellow cracked skin, he’d melted before her eyes and left her tae get oan wae it.  She wis glad Pearl hidnae turned up, although it widnae stoap Mary gieing her a sherricking when she decided tae finally grace the office wae her presence.  Mary could tell Pearl wisnae convinced wae this week’s column...again.  It wisnae anything she’d said in particular...it wis the surly way she’d been gaun aboot her tasks...questioning everything and asking Mary if she wis sure that this wis whit she wanted tae put in this week.

  “Aye, it is.  Noo, dae as ye’re telt and get oan wae it and mind and no leave oot any ae the questions oan the list Ah’ve provided.  Christ, ma pet rat could dae whit Ah’m asking ye tae dae.  So, oan ye go, chop, chop,” she’d tut-tutted at Pearl, clapping her hauns tae encourage some movement.

  The heidline fur the column wis ‘Wummin At Work’.  Mary hid managed, withoot much help fae Pearl,  tae get a haud ae six wummin who wur prepared tae be interviewed oan the ins and oots ae the work they wur daeing.  Maist ae the wummin wur either the maws or sisters ae the lassies fae the typing pool or family members connected tae the paper itsel.  Everywan hid been up fur it and dead excited, apart fae Carrot Heid behind the boxes.  Mary hid managed tae get a cook fae a school dinner hall, a bus clippie, a typist called Bonnie fae two desks alang fae Pearl, a school lollipop wummin, a hairdresser and Trisha, the receptionist fae doon the stairs oan the front desk.  The only wans that hid needed tae come intae the office hid been the dinner lady, the lollipop wummin, the bus conductor and the hairdresser.  Pearl hid been assigned tae interview the visitors who’d arrived aboot a hauf an hour apart and who’d been aboot pishing themsels wae excitement.  She’d managed tae drag Slipper, the photographer, in tae take their photo as they arrived.  She’d hid tae butt-in oan Pearl three times, tae encourage her tae make her questions sound as if she wis actually interested in whit the wummin wur saying aboot their work.

  “Apart fae the hairdresser, everywan ae them said their job wis shite, so they did,” the cheeky wee retard hid retorted.

  “Well, sex it up a bit...sling in a few wee ditties aboot extra marital affairs in the work place.  Fur God’s sake, Pearl, use yer imagination,” she’d harrumphed at the cheeky wee cow.

  “So, who’s flashing ye their lollipop then, hen?  Or, whit aboot, he dipped whit in yer sago?”

  “Don’t get catty wae me, Pearl.  Ah’ve goat yer cards well marked, so Ah hiv.  If ye want tae become a journalist, ye’ll hiv tae buck up yer ideas and get used tae using the material ye’ve goat at the time...and that includes the duff stuff.  If it wisnae fur you leading me up the garden path, we could’ve been sitting wae something stoating, so we could’ve.”

  Mary wisnae aw that happy wae whit she hid, bit it wis far better than the previous week’s ootput.  At least the wummin reading the column wid be able tae identify wae the jobs, shite or no.

  “Done!” she said oot loud, as the big haun oan the clock up oan the wall landed oan four.