Chasing Angels (6 page)

As if on cue, just as the medico-legal formalities had been completed, the undertaker had arrived. He immediately reached up to the bedroom window and released the catch to open the small top
pane.

‘Whit on earth are you doin’?’ she asked, amazed, because everybody knew that letting air in was the worst thing you could do with a newly dead body in the room; it made them
go off all the sooner.

‘There is a tradition of letting the soul go free,’ he replied, in a voice he must have practised for years to get the deeply sad, and yet mysterious, tone just right.

‘Well if that’s the case, let’s open a’ the windaes an’ the front door as well, tae make sure the old bastard really goes free! Or,’ she continued, ‘on
second thoughts, don’t bother, son. If Ah know Auld Con, an’ believe me, Ah know him better than most, he was oot the keyhole wi’ his last gasp an’ on his way tae the
nearest boozer while Sanctimonious Joe was still doing the business with the oil an’ the mutterin’. Take my word for it, if ye care tae visit the Sarrie Heid ye’ll find “the
soul” propping up the bar, soaking up the bevvy like a sponge! Wan thing the business o’ dyin’ did,’ she laughed bitterly again, ‘was keep him anchored tae his bed
an’ away frae the water of life. Noo that he’s “free”, he’ll be makin’ up for lost time. Talk aboot the final revenge! When his legs gied oot wi’ the booze
it was the first time in a’ my life Ah’d seen him sober, the only time in fact!’

It wasn’t, though. 1968; that was the first and only time he had temporarily seen the world as others did, non-drinking others anyway. When he had eventually been traced on the day Lily
died he had been shocked into sobriety for a brief moment. And that was when she realised that she had never seen him without a drink in him ever before; even if he hadn’t been falling down
drunk he had always had enough in his system to keep him permanently inebriated. For that one, fleeting second he had been sober, and she had nothing to say to him, or he to her; they were total
strangers. She didn’t know him any way but drunk, not the
real
him anyway, if indeed the real him existed or ever had. Peter, the prodigal son, hadn’t turned up then either, come
to think of it. He’d sent a message that he was involved in some extremely important but unspecified work and was therefore unable to arrange his mother’s funeral, but he hoped to make
it for the event on the day. When he didn’t make that either, Aggie had been sympathetic. ‘Poor Peter,’ the old harridan had said, ‘it would likely have been too much for
the poor boy. He did the right thing stayin’ away, so he did.’

Kathy had been, what, fifteen? So ‘the poor boy’ had been around twenty-six. Outrage almost overcame her grief. ‘Christ, aye, Aggie,’ she spat at the old woman,
‘that’s right! It’s too much for poor bloody Peter, an’ here’s me, right enough, havin’ the time o’ my life at my mother’s funeral!’

‘Peter’s different,’ Aggie replied savagely. ‘Oor Peter’s sensitive, he’s no’ a callous wee swine like you! Allowances havtae be made for the
sensitive!’

‘Well Ah guarantee he’ll be just as sensitive when your time comes, Aggie!’ Kathy spat back. ‘He won’t be here tae see you away, Ah’d lay money oan it! There
won’t be anythin’ different then either!’

And she’d been right about that as well. She only hoped Aggie was hovering about at her own funeral a few years later, as Father McCabe did the business. When Aggie went the priest had
been right there, ready and desperate to administer the Last Rites, however belatedly, just as he had been in the background all through Aggie’s marriage to her late husband, the much reviled
stalwart of the Orange Lodge. Not that Aggie could be received back into the one true church while her husband was alive, because having married in a Protestant church she was living in sin as far
as the Catholic Church had been concerned, but as soon as Aggie became a widow it was as if the unfortunate, unspeakable marriage to the evil Henry Bryson had never been. Aggie was a Catholic once
again, and that was at least one reason why Father McCabe had pulled out all the stops to give the reclaimed one a feature-length send-off when she died, even if it perhaps wasn’t the only
reason. And if she was around, supported by her new wings, she would’ve seen her granddaughter’s smug expression and heard her mutter as the coffin passed, ‘Ah told ye, Aggie! Nae
Peter for you either!’

‘Different,’ that’s what Aggie had said, Peter wasn’t like Kathy, and funnily enough, ‘different’ was how her mother had always described her and Peter.
‘The two o’ ye are the same,’ Lily used to say, as Kathy wondered which of them should feel more insulted by the description, ‘but different.’ ‘But a helluva lot
different, well!’ Kathy would protest. In many ways it was true though. Peter was a lot older than her, ten, no, eleven years, and handsome all of his life. He had Old Con’s thick black
hair, grey eyes and sallow complexion, whereas his much younger sister had auburn hair, brown eyes and pale, freckled skin, just like Lily and the long-gone Orangeman, Henry Bryson. But different
as their colouring was, there were similarities. For instance, they both had skin so easily irritated that the softest wool brought it out in a rash, and their features had an undeniable look of
kinship about them, despite the different colour schemes. But there was something about Peter, something that had been there since he was a child by all accounts, an air almost of not belonging to
his own family, of being too good for them and their station in life. It was something they almost admitted themselves in a guilty, apologetic way, as though it was their fault for landing him with
his own background. Peter was, from the very beginning, on his way up and out, and he had a confidence that left no one in any doubt that he was meant for better things. Part of what Kathy disliked
so much about him was his easy rapport with everyone he met, he was all things to all men but he stood for nothing, except his precious self, of course. ‘He can talk to prince or
pauper,’ Aggie used to say proudly of her ‘sensitive’ grandson, and it was true, but Kathy knew he was always well aware of which was which. She didn’t understand why no one
else objected to Peter’s clear agenda, his clear image of a destiny that didn’t include the pauper, or any of the family either, come to that. She had worked out long ago why she knew
this. It was because they had similar characters too, however much she hated to admit it to herself, but at a certain point they had diverged. They saw things in much the same way, but the roads
they decided to take as a result, their priorities, were widely different. It was as if they looked through the same eyes on the same scenes, she had always thought, then made opposite choices
based on the identical views they saw. Who, after all, has a clearer picture of what is in the mirror than its reflection? Lily, her daughter knew, was more right than even she realised; Peter and
Kathy were indeed the same, but different.
Very
different.

Peter was the reason, Kathy knew without asking, that eighteen-year-old Con Kelly had married sixteen-year-old Lily Bryson all those years ago, and even then Aggie, Lily’s mother, had
taken her new son-in-law’s side. It was her daughter’s fault alone that Con had got her pregnant, and for the rest of her life Aggie had continued to take his side. The bond between Con
and Aggie was their religion, which Aggie had to lose temporarily during her marriage but had never quite forgotten, and it mattered more to her than her daughter, her elder daughter at any rate.
Lily had no time for religion of any kind, a neutral stance that was interpreted as a vote against Catholicism as far as Aggie was concerned, whereas Lily’s younger sister, Jessie, shrewdly
sided with their mother on this and all other issues. Lily it was who ran after her, danced attendance on her, and Jessie it was she adored – and Con too, of course. It was as if Con and
Jessie were her children and Lily the unwanted in-law. ‘Oor Jessica shoulda married Con,’ Aggie would say openly. ‘An’ if Lily hadnae got herself in the family way, he
woulda.’

‘Aye, Aggie,’ Kathy would reply darkly, ‘it was a’ doon tae Lily. Ah thought ye’d have approved o’ a virgin birth in the family. Any virgin ower the age
o’ ten in your family would’ve been an achievement for that matter. An’ the Virgin Lily even gi’ed birth tae Peter the Messiah – Christ, Aggie, Ah think ye might be on
tae somethin’ here y’know! But ye’re right, it was a’ Lily’s doin’. That an’ the fact that my Da was a randy auld swine who didnae care where he put it, of
course! Him an’ Jessie are well-met in that department tae!’

‘You keep yer dirty tongue aff oor Jessica!’ Aggie would argue back. ‘You mind yer ain business!’

‘Ah’d rather mind
ma
business than
hers
, Ah’ll tell ye that! But right enough, Aggie,’ her granddaughter would say with a grin, ‘Ah’ve likely
got your Jessie a’ wrang. Ah havtae admit, though, Ah still wouldnae want to get too close tae her business. Ye’re a blessed wumman right enough, the Virgin Lily, Peter the Messiah and
Jessie Magdalen, plus whoever the hell ma auld man is, a’ in wan family, must be a record that! But come tae think o’ it, Jessie Magdalen would never have done business wi’ ma
auld man anyway, seein’ as she’s rarely been known tae gie it away free, has she? An’ Ah don’t think ma Da could’ve afforded her
an’
the booze!’

‘Ye’re an evil wee swine!’ Aggie would screech. ‘Ye know fine that oor Jessica works in Stobhill Hospital as a secretary!’

‘Naw she doesnae, Aggie!’ Kathy would reply sweetly, as though talking to a particularly dim child. ‘Has naebody tellt ye? That’s just where the VD clinic is! Jessie
doesnae
work
there, she
provides
work there. They’re that grateful tae her for keepin’ them in business that she’s even got her ain chair … Mind you, naebody
else would sit in it anyway, she’s likely got her ain cludgie seat tae for the same reason.’

‘Ya filthy-moothed wee midden ye!’

‘She’s their best customer, Ah’m tellin’ ye, Aggie, withoot Jessie the VD clinic would’ve shut doon years ago. If she’s no’ in for a bitta
cleanin’ up hersel’ she’s providin’ patients tae keep the place goin’. Ah’m tellin’ ye, ye should be proud o’ her, keepin’ a’ they
hospital folk in jobs. Every advance in the treatment o’ the clap that’s been made has been doon tae your lovely Jessica. She’s been a godsend tae medical science so she has,
an’ Ah’m proud o’ her, even if you’re no’!’

While Lily worked to keep old Con in booze money, and Peter and Kathy fed and clothed, she had also slaved for her mother. She did the old woman’s washing, did her shopping, took her turn
at scrubbing the stairs and generally made sure she was fed, watered and healthy. Lily was regarded as ‘a good wumman’, by everyone who knew her, but it was Jessie who provided Aggie
with cash, and cash was much closer to Aggie’s heart than goodness or devotion. And everyone knew too how Jessie earned the cash, though, of course, only those outside the family gave it a
name and never when talking to those inside. Kathy remembered Lily’s response whenever the subject of her sister was raised, a quick sniff, and ‘Aye, well. We a’ know oor
Jessie’s problem. She’s got this affliction that means she can only see the world frae her back!’ Everyone knew it too, and the tales of Jessie Bryson’s adventures were part
of the folklore of the East End. But you had to admire her, the way she affected not to acknowledge her reputation; looking at her and listening to her, you’d think being on the game was like
attending a particularly expensive finishing school. Not that Jessie suffered from low self-esteem; there was no chance of her doing it for a couple of pounds to keep the wolf from the door, for
instance, she performed her skills only for and with those who could reward her well. Jessie was no common slapper, but Kathy used to wonder what it was that she could possibly do that was
different enough to keep her in the style to which she had become accustomed. For the life of her she couldn’t think of any variation on the norm, or the perverted either, that could be worth
the money, and even Jessie’s best friend, if she had one, couldn’t say she was a great beauty. Jessie took after Aggie in looks, and as everyone knew, Aggie had a face like a bag of
tatties, and knobbly ones at that, she looked like Sid James in drag. Jessie was probably what Aggie looked like when she was young, a small, thin woman with dark, straight hair, though her dark
eyes, just the right side and no more of bulbous, were all her own, as was the sallow complexion that produced dark circles under her almost bulbous eyes years before they would’ve shown on
anyone else. But there again, she was literally a lady of the dark, so her physical appearance could’ve been down to her lifestyle rather than her genes, because a good night’s sleep
didn’t quite fit in with her line of work. Still, whatever wonders Jessie performed on the libidos of her customers, it kept her in luxury. Jessie it was who wore the first mink coat Kathy
had ever seen.

‘It’s true then,’ Lily had whispered to Kathy, watching her sister swanning around in her latest acquisition.

‘What?’ Kathy had asked, and Lily had laughed so hard that she’d almost choked. ‘Fur coat an’ nae knickers!’ she had squealed. ‘In Jessie’s case
it’s definitely true!’

‘My, Jessie,’ Kathy had said, feeling the silky, luxurious pelt, ‘Ah bet a few cats laid doon their lives tae make that!’ Behind her she could hear Lily stifling a
giggle.

‘It’s mink,’ replied the insulted Jessie. ‘It’s no’ catskin.’

‘Well don’t you worry, Jessie,’ she said sympathetically, ‘nae-body’ll know it’s no’ cat unless ye tell them. It looks just like the real thing tae
me.’

And the be-furred, half-naked Jessie’s earnings were enough to keep her two children, Harry and Claire, at the local primary schools in Glasgow. Kathy had been jealous of her cousin Claire
when she was a child, not because Claire was darkly beautiful, which she was, but because while Kathy went to the local primary school then on to Our Lady and St Francis Convent School, Claire had
attended the up-market, fee-paying Notre Dame Primary and then the High School, the top Catholic girls’ school in Glasgow. Harry had gone to St Aloysius, but that had bothered her less
because unlike his sister he had a brain, and Kathy liked him too, but education was, she always felt, wasted on Claire, who seemed to get from one breath to the next without any conscious effort
or aim. ‘A bit fey,’ was how Lily had described her, while ‘Daft as a brush,’ was Kathy’s more accurate opinion.