Poking Seaweed with a Stick and Running Away from the Smell (7 page)

16
Vladimir's deli and my bare arse

I used to think Mum drank the vinegar straight from the gherkin jar 'cause her grandparents were Lithuanian. Once the last gherkin in the jar had been eaten, Mum used to lift the jar to her mouth and gulp down its contents using her teeth as a sieve for the pickling spices and the long bits of stringy dill that floated in amongst the gherkins. Lithuania is right next door to Poland and we grew up on Polish gherkins and Polish sour-dough bread and Polish pork ring sausages and we used to get them once a week from Vladimir's delicatessen at the Gorbals.

We didn't have a telly back then or Monopoly or Scrabble or Buckaroo like our cousin David had and so for a laugh sometimes I'd lift my skirt and run through the living room exposing my bare arse to Mum and Izzy and Andrew. And then one day Mum came up with a new game that involved cutting off the little knot of skin that tied the two ends of the pork sausage together to keep it in its ring shape. Then she'd keep it in her pocket and when I exposed my arse again she'd grab me and stick the little knot between the cheeks of my arse as I ran past. The first time it happened, I didn't like the new game very much, but Mum and Izzy and Andrew thought it was the best game they'd ever played. Buster loved this new game too 'cause it meant he would get the knot of sausage skin as a treat at the end, so when the game started Buster joined in enthusiastically, running after me and sniffing and licking my arse, searching for the treat. Sometimes even when I wasn't exposing my arse and just minding my own business, Mum and Izzy and Andrew would tease Buster and give him orders like, ‘Get the pork ring, boy, get the pork ring!' and Buster would run after me, salivating at the thought of the tasty morsel he might find.

As time went on, having the dog run after me trying to lick my arse every minute of the day lost its appeal and so I turned my attention to other ways of passing my time which saw me keep my knickers up and my skirt down and life became very dull. And just when I thought things couldn't get any duller, I became vegetarian and Mum seemed to respect that if I didn't want to eat meat, then I certainly didn't want to have pieces of pork sausage stuck up my arse and so she let me be, although not before ­considering nut cutlets and lentil rissoles as vegetarian alternatives.

With my arse now covered up at all times, Mum ­continued on her weekly trips to Vladimir's Deli to stock up on jars of gherkins and pork ring sausages and although I still went with her I stayed in the car, my new vegetarian principles preventing me from entering any establishment that sold dead animals. On the way home though I'd sit in the back seat of the car with my buttocks firmly clenched, one eye on the jar of gherkins and the other on the pork ring sausages sticking out of the brown paper bag laughing at me.

I think back to those days with enormous fondness yet the memories are tinged with a certain sadness, for exposing my arse had become my signature tune as it were, something I had identified with so strongly and for so long. And today, as I pass the delicatessen counter in the ­supermarket my buttocks clench in conditioned response to past traumas and the desire to lift my skirt to the waist and go running through the meat section exposing my arse overwhelms me.

And of course I blame my mother for all of this and some day when I'm old and can no longer contain my urges I'll be rugby tackled by a security guard in the supermarket, the police will be called and I'll be frog-marched to the manager's office and charged with indecent exposure.

Freud would have a field day.

17
Right there in God's house for Chrissake

Beatrice the Brown Owl had warned us if we wanted to graduate some day from the Brownies to the Girl Guides then we had to be in church every Sunday at one o'clock and right away I got concerned 'cause that's when my favourite TV show,
Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)
came on telly.
Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)
was about a detective agency and had two detectives in it—one called Randall and the other called Hopkirk. One day Hopkirk is murdered and Randall is left alone to solve the crimes. Then, out of the blue, Hopkirk reappears as a ghost wearing a white suit and he sits on Randall's desk and helps him solve all the mysteries and crimes that come up. So, the way I saw it,
Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)
was in a way about God and the church and everything, what with Hopkirk having died yet still able to come back from the dead, and I was sure it was on at this prime time so that all good Christians could take faith in the fact that there was some kind of life after death and that you could still come back from the dead and appear on the telly and maybe help solve the odd crime or two if you had a mind to.

In the end I decided I'd better go to church after all 'cause something told me Brownies shouldn't be having thoughts of putting sawn-off shot guns into their daddies' mouths and so at quarter to one the following Sunday, I put on my red vinyl Sunday coat and made the trip to church by foot. The service was long and I fidgeted in the pew and picked the skin from around my fingers till they bled and just when I thought I couldn't take another moment of the boredom the minister announced how he looked forward to seeing us all again next week.

You fuckin' beauty, I thought, desperate to get out of there and get home and get the telly on, thinking maybe if I was lucky I'd catch the end of
Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)
. I started shuffling out of the pew only to be rooted to the spot the very next moment as the minister announced, ‘All Brownies should now proceed to the church hall for the Sunday school.'

‘You're fuckin' kidding me,' I thought to myself as I dragged my body through the vestibule and into the Sunday school hall for another hour of drudgery. The other Brownies were in the church hall too and chatted excitedly amongst themselves about the different points the minister had raised during the sermon. As for me, I could only think about
Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)
. We had to break into different groups and I hate it when you have to do that 'cause I just wanted to stay with my best pal Maggie. We sat around in our groups and listened to some story about Jesus and Mary, then we sang a few songs about envy, jealousy, malice and spite, and after that we had to listen to this fat guy with a beard tell us how these ­emotions must never be allowed to reside in our hearts and I wondered what reside meant for a moment then went back to thinking about
Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)
.

Finally, the bell rang signalling the end of the torture. I jumped from my seat, grabbed my wee red vinyl coat from the bottom of the pile of coats, toppling all the others above it to the floor, and ran for the door. I was free and I ran and I ran all the way home not even stopping to put on my wee red vinyl coat, instead holding it high above my head letting the wind catch it and the sun shone through it and I felt its pink rays on my face and I felt safe right there under my coat. I made up my mind right there and then that that would be the last time I would ever give up the telly for the church. The two just didn't compare.

18
Mum's big knob

The minister's wife was Beatrice, the Brown Owl for our Brownie pack, and one night she announced she needed an assistant and that assistant would be the Tawny Owl, not as important as the Brown Owl, but still an important role that not just anybody could fill. And so I ran home that night after we sang ‘The Lord's Prayer' and asked Mum if she would be the Tawny Owl and Mum told me to fuck off, that she had enough to do, what with my da and his drinking, me, Izzy and Andrew, four dogs, five cats and a donkey called Annie to contend with. But I pleaded and pleaded and eventually she came over to meet with the Brown Owl and she got the job and I was delighted, even though some of the Brownies got confused and thought that Tawny Owl meant that Mum's name was Tony and went on to call her Tony for their entire Brownie lifetimes.

Mum and Beatrice started to become friends, which surprised us because Beatrice's husband Adam was the minister and we couldn't think what they'd want hanging around with people like us who didn't care much about God. At first Beatrice just came to our place by herself, then she started bringing Adam around as well and we thought maybe they were trying to help us find God or something, but Mum said they had probably never experienced anything like us before and were intrigued to see how the other half lived. ‘We're not rich,' Mum used to say, ‘but we do see life.'

Adam used to come around and spend a lot of time in the good room with my da with the door closed tight, and we thought maybe Adam was trying to convert my da. He used to come to our place carrying a plastic bag with Tenant's Lager printed on the side and shortly after arriving and chatting to us in the kitchen he would excuse himself, make the sign of the cross above our heads, and head to the good room where my da would be drinking himself into oblivion with the telly Mum had just bought from Big Sheena's Second Hand Bargains on the Glasgow Road blaring in the corner. As he made his way towards the good room Adam's Tenant's Lager bag made strange clinking noises, which we put down to bottles of holy water he must carry about with him in case of one of those holy emergencies ministers sometimes have.

One night Mum invited Adam and Beatrice around to have a bite to eat and a glass of Mateus Rosé and of course they came and Adam brought his Tenant's Lager carrier bag with the strange clinking noises and as the night wore on, the drinks, the nibbles and the conversation started to dry up and it became apparent to everybody, except Beatrice and Adam, that they had overstayed their welcome. And so without any warning my da put his glass down, stood up from the couch, peeled off his shirt, vest, trousers and underpants, dropped them onto the carpet and announced that he was off to bed, and duly walked out of the good room wearing nothing but his socks. Beatrice and Adam didn't flinch but Mum, well she was so embarrassed she tried to draw attention away from the situation and started talking really fast and loud about the new telly she'd bought from Big Sheena's Second Hand Bargains on the Glasgow Road. And as Mum spoke, she stood up and ran her hand over the lovely wooden-veneer cabinet urging Beatrice and Adam to take note of the absence of any scratches and, without pausing for breath, she moved straight onto a demonstration of the lovely big knob that was just the right size for changing channels. And she gave them a demonstration of each of the channels too, although it was late and the telly had finished for the night, so all they got was snow in various frequencies.

Adam didn't come around so much after father dropped his trousers like that, but Beatrice seemed to come all the more.

Having chosen the telly over God my red vinyl coat didn't see the light of day much, so Mum decided we should at least go to church once a year on Christmas Eve. The service started about eleven and ran through until just after midnight and we were always glad to go on that one night 'cause it made Christmas feel all Christmassy. I got to wear my red vinyl coat and when we got back to the house we'd crack open a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry and open one present each from under the tree. Mind you, the worst part about the Christmas Eve service was that just as the clock struck midnight in the church, Adam would stand in his pulpit and instruct everyone to turn to the person sitting next to them and shake their hand and wish them a very merry Christmas. The first time he told us to do that I thought, ‘You've got to be fuckin' kidding me, I don't even know the prick sitting next to me.' Of course, it was all right for Adam up there in his pulpit removed from the masses but I wondered how he'd like it, down here in the pews, having to wish a merry Christmas to people he had never met. That's the trouble with the church, it's so insincere. Anyway, year in year out I clenched my teeth and my buttocks and I'd get through that bit. After all, it was only once a year.

The last Christmas we would ever set foot inside that church my red vinyl coat barely fitted me anymore. Adam was up there in his pulpit going on about Jesus, a big star, and three wise guys bearing gifts nobody could spell, and just as it was approaching midnight and getting close to that bit where he was going to make us turn to the person next to us and wish them and their families a very safe, holy and merry Christmas, there came this huge crash on the outside door of the church. The entire congregation looked in horror towards the door and the crash came again and there was a great sense of unease right there in God's house.

Everybody stared at the door wondering what was going to happen next and I looked at Adam and he was staring at the door as well and his nose glowed red in the candle light. The sound came from the door again, BANG, BANG, BANG! and people in that congregation started to stand up nervously and were turning to face the door. Whoever was out there was determined to get in and just kept on banging and banging and then pushing that door until finally the massive door to God's house burst open and in fell my da, flat on his face in the middle of the aisle, pissed out of his mind, a fresh fall of snowflakes adorning his crown.

We didn't want to believe what we were seeing but unfortunately the evidence was right there in front of us on the floor of the church. The entire congregation gasped in unison and stared in disbelief at such a display on holy ground as my da managed by some miracle to get himself to his feet and stay upright long enough to grab onto a pew. As he stood there, wobbling to and fro, he saw Adam in the pulpit in his dog collar and purple gown and he didn't seem to recognise him at first. Then you could see the ­realisation dawn on him that the bloke up there in the purple get-up was Adam, his ‘auld china' by the way. Adam, normally creative in times of need, glanced around the congregation, his eyes greedily searching for a television set with a scratch-free veneer and a big knob, but there was none to be seen. And all eyes were on Adam as my da, swaying on his feet, managed to get a sentence together.

‘Hey, Adam—is that you, pal? It's me, Joe—yir auld china! I went to your place, pal, but you wurny there. Just wondered if you fancied a wee dram like? What time do you knock off your shift, by the way?'

The colour drained from Adam's face and he sent a silent prayer to the Lord promising if He could open up the ground right now and let him disappear into the black hole of eternity, then he'd truly believe in His greatness and would worship and spread the holy word without ever touching another drop of Johnny Walker. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the miracle to happen. When he opened them again, nothing had changed. My da was still there in the aisle waiting for an answer to his question and the rest of the congregation held their breaths for Adam's response. Mustering up as much holiness as he could find, Adam took a deep breath and made his way from the pulpit towards my da in the aisle. And he went up to him as if he didn't know him and guided him to a seat on one of the pews at the front, like you might a lost sheep who has strayed from the fold, and he whispered into my da's ear for him to sit there and keep quiet until he'd ­finished his shift, then they'd get that drink. Then Adam made the sign of the cross above my da's head and headed back to the pulpit feeling holier than thou.

Obligingly, my da sat down, folded his arms in front of himself and fell asleep right there in the very front row of God's house. Adam looked down on him from on high and raised his eyes to Heaven and paid thanks to the Lord for this small miracle. And then, guess what? Another miracle! In all the confusion Adam forgot where we were up to in the proceedings and wished us all a very merry Christmas and asked us all to keep an open heart to those less fortunate than us and we knew he was talking about my da in the front row. Then he said something about the Sunday school this coming Sunday, bade us good night and a moment later he was gone through a side door. We didn't have to shake our good neighbours' hands and wish them and their families a very safe and merry Christmas! I couldn't have asked for any better gift than this one Adam had unknowingly bestowed upon us. And to think I had my da to thank for that.

The Lord truly works in mysterious ways, I thought as we headed home to crack open a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry and open one present each from the bottom of the tree. Just as we got home the snow started to come down heavy and Mum drew the big red crushed-velvet curtains to try to keep the heat in and we wondered what state my da would be in when he'd finally get home.

Then I put the telly on. As if it hadn't already been the best Christmas Eve so far,
Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased), Christmas Special
was just about to start.