The Kellys of Kelvingrove (14 page)

Right from the start, should she have refused to buy all the equipment and furniture for the new house in Waterside Way? She had used up her savings. After that, should she have stopped, even if it meant moving in to bare floor boards, curtainless windows and empty rooms? She had wanted to please Jack, of course, but that should not have been used as an excuse to go to a wholesale warehouse and order everything the house needed to make it look first class. How on earth had she imagined at the time that she’d ever be able to pay the bill for all that?

The money under the floor boards had obviously proved too much of a temptation for her in the circumstances.

She had thought at the time that it had been put there by some previous eccentric tenant who had since died. It was sheer bad luck that it was money stolen from the Art Galleries.

But she should never have touched it. She had only herself to blame for that. She couldn’t blame Jack. It was only natural too that he wanted to show his lovely new home to all his police officer friends. She should not have gone along with buying expensive food for them, however. She should have stood her ground and refused.

Things had just gone from bad to worse after that. Now she felt sad – sad that she had been at the root of changing Jack so much. Changing herself too. There were times when emotion got the better of her and she could even feel hatred for him. But in quiet moments she realised that fuelling the hatred were her feelings of frustration, regret and guilt.

Deep down, she still loved him. She tried not to face that, or she tried to tell herself that it was purely sexual and she’d get over it. No, all of his life, Jack Kelly had been an honest, kind-hearted, courageous man. She had loved him for it and she loved him still.

He had changed but it was her fault that he had changed. She had to face up to that unpalatable fact.

Jack had come apparently just for a cup of tea and a gossip about his work. Mae knew differently of course. Looking at him, she could understand what she’d always seen in him and how he’d always got round her in the past. His dark eyes had a sexual glimmer in them when he spoke to her. He was the most handsome man she’d ever known, with his sleek black hair, his strong cleft chin and broad, muscly shoulders.

‘So the lads took the two neds round and in through the back door. The reception desk where I work is for members of the public coming in.’ He took another sip of tea while his eyes glimmered at her over the tea cup. ‘If it’s a suspect or an accused, they get taken in through the back door to the charge bar. The lads had a good laugh in private afterwards. It was such a stroke of bad luck for the neds that they stashed the stolen money in a police officer’s house.’ He laughed, remembering. ‘They didn’t know at the time, of course. It was before we moved in.’

Mae said to Doris, ‘Would you like some more tea, dear?’

‘No thanks, Mae. I’ll just go over and look out of the window. I like to see the flowers in our wee garden.’

‘Will you manage all right?’

‘Fine. Fine.’

Jack watched Doris move away and then said, ‘She’s an awful lot better, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, I’m glad to say.’

‘I saw you walking her round to the Art Galleries the other day.’

‘Yes, she really enjoyed that. She had a rest in the tea room for a while, but she managed to see a couple of the exhibits.’

‘She’ll soon be completely back to normal.’

‘Physically, perhaps. But the years of stress she had to suffer have affected her mentally.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll get over that too. She sounds quite sensible to me.’

Any minute now, Mae thought, he’s going to get round to the true reason for his visit. And sure enough, it came.

‘But for now, you’ll at least be able to get out with her to do the shopping.’

‘Yes, we do manage once a week. As well as hanging on to me, Doris sometimes uses a stick. Or she supports herself with the trolley I push. We use it to carry the shopping back home.’

‘No problem shopping then?’

‘We manage.’

‘So you could quite easily pop into the trolley the steaks, etc, I need for my dinners and the Sunday dinner for my pals.’

There it was, at last. The true reason.

‘But I’m not going to, Jack.’

His eyes hardened with anger. ‘What do you mean, you’re not going to?’

‘I’ve told you before that I want you to do the shopping. It’ll be a learning experience for you. Come back and tell me what you think afterwards.’

‘What’s to learn about shopping? And you’ve done it so often before, Mae.’

‘Oh yes. So often.’

‘You know the price of everything.’

‘Oh yes, indeed I do.’

‘Well then.’

‘Jack, I tried and tried to tell you about the shopping and the price of everything and you would never listen.’

‘Of course I listened. I gave you a raise in your housekeeping money. But don’t think that I’m going to give you any more. You’re getting no housekeeping money from me until you come back and do the housekeeping. Meantime,’ he commanded, ‘do the shopping!’

‘I don’t want any housekeeping money from you any more. I’m well paid for the job I do here.’

‘This is ridiculous. You’re my wife. Your first duty is to me.’

‘You’ve a lot to learn, Jack, and your first lesson will be when you do the shopping for all the steaks and fish suppers for your Sunday dinner.’

‘Are you jealous of my police friends coming to visit me? Is that your problem?’

She could have laughed but instead she just shook her head.

‘No, that’s not my problem, Jack. Now, if you’ve finished your tea, I’d like you to leave.’

He got up, nearly knocking the chair over.

‘Right, I’ll do the bloody shopping but I’ll be back.’

‘Yes, Jack, I do believe you will.’

Paul hadn’t got very far with his novel yet but he had a poem ready to show the crowd of writers who came to have a meeting in house number four.

It was called ‘Wounded Knee’ and he read it to them when it was his turn to contribute something to the meeting.

Wounded Knee

My black trousers stumbled to a point half way

to the skull-grey cap of my knee

while I steered my way through the corrals

of school playtime, avoiding the gunslinger

glare of bullies, who’d queue

to lassoo with threats.

Pencil point stabbed between my shoulders,

Beef-jerky breath in my face

And a low growl in my ear …

… as soon as the bell rings, you’re dead.

I was faster than any of them

knees and fists pumping the air,

I was the best rider

the Pony Express never had.

A half-breed scout, I wore

a Colt pistol under my belt

and an eagle’s tail feather in my hair.

A fall … and the bony plate of my knee

became a wound with hard baked gravel

ground under the torn and grieving skin.

I grew my thumbnail especially

for that moment when the scab was ripe,

when the blood had hardened

to a brown as deep as the colour of apache skin.

I would tease off the scab …

… until baby pink skin winked in the sunlight,

fresh for the next gallop across the prairie

and the race into the unreachable horizon.

‘Where did you get the idea for that one?’ Eric Summers asked. ‘Were you bullied at school because you were gay?’

‘I don’t know if it was because I was gay but I was certainly bullied.’

‘Were you bullied as well where you were young, Clive?’ Pat Jenners asked.

‘Yes, I used to be terrified to go to school. Unfortunately I hadn’t the release of being able to write poetry. I suppose it was a release, Paul, to express your feelings like that.’

‘Yeah, definitely. I didn’t have a clue then about how to write a novel, but I was a great reader and always dreamed of writing books like the ones I read and enjoyed.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Eric said. ‘You’ll soon be able to get back to working on your novel. It’s got such potential, Paul. We’ve all been enjoying what you’ve read to us so far.’

‘Here,’ Pat cried out. ‘How about sending the first three chapters out to a publisher. Or to half a dozen publishers. Multiple submissions are allowed now.’

‘I know,’ Paul said, ‘but in the
Writers and Artists Yearbook
, it tells you to send three chapters and a synopsis. How can I write a synopsis when I’m only half way through the book. At this stage, I don’t know how it’s going to work out, how it’s going to end.’

Sally Menzies piped up then. ‘Och, just make a guess at how it could work out. Each of us can come up with a suggestion. Then you can cobble them all together. It’s worth a try. Think of the excitement if a publisher accepted it.’

‘I could faint with excitement at the mere thought.’

‘OK. Let’s do that. We all want to come to your book launch party, remember.’

One of the others said, ‘I’ve got a gut feeling, Paul, that at least one of the publishers you submit to is going to make an offer, is going to want to buy and publish it. I mean, it’s so good, Paul. It’s written with such genuine feeling and authenticity.’

They were now all fired up with enthusiasm and excitement and before the meeting was over, a believable synopsis had been written. One of the members typed it out, with copies, and put each into an envelope, ready for posting the next day.

Paul said, ‘Don’t forget the stamped addressed envelope in each, in case they’re not wanted.’

‘OK. OK. And I’ll go to the post office first thing tomorrow, get them all posted and get receipts for them as well.’

‘It’s so good of you. Good of you all. I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘You’d do the same for us, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah, definitely.’

‘There you are then. Now I think a cup of tea is due now. Don’t get up. We’ll make it. We’ve brought a packet of biscuits so we’re OK.

‘Bashir, one of our neighbours, did a whole lot of shopping for us. Everyone’s been so kind.’

‘Good.’

Over drinking down good, strong cups of tea and crunching happily at biscuits, they all enjoyed planning Paul’s celebration party.

By the time their writer friends left, Clive and Paul felt so much happier and better. They could have danced around the room. Clive said,

‘No more poetry, Paul. Every minute of your time now, every ounce of your energy, must be spent finishing your novel. If they accept the first three chapters and the synopsis, they’ll want you to send them the whole book right away.’

Paul managed to finish his novel. Clive did some of his best painting. Their minds had begun to heal as well as their bodies. They remembered, for instance, that it was the Reverend Denby who had incited the mob to attack them. He had pointed them out.

They even remembered his exact words. ‘An abomination in the sight of the Lord. They deserve to suffer. And suffer they must.’ And he had pointed at them and shouted, ‘There’s two of the filthy poofs. Destroy them! Stamp them out! God said man must not lie with man …’

They told Jack Kelly about this, plus all the other ways Denby had harassed and persecuted them since they moved into Waterside Way. Jack then had the Reverend Denby arrested.

They wished they knew who the individuals were who made up the mob which so brutally attacked them, but they didn’t. Could that mob still be a danger to them, they wondered. Their writer friends thought not, especially now that the Reverend Denby had been arrested and especially with a police officer living just a couple of doors along from them.

Then a great, exciting event happened that chased away every ache and pain, every fear and worry. A publisher wrote to say that he was interested in seeing the finished novel.

The day they received this word, the writers’ club was meeting at their home. The members were hardly over the door of number four when Paul yelled to them,

‘A publisher wants to see the finished book.’

‘Hurrah!’ All their writer friends danced around them in excitement and delight. ‘Congratulations, Paul.’

‘Yeah, but wait a minute.’ Paul’s energetic delight fizzled out. ‘Once I send it to him, he might not like it and accept it.’

‘Why not?’

Paul shrugged. ‘It’s one thing seeing how I’ve worked it out in the synopsis. He might not like the way I’ve written it up.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a pessimist. There’s nothing wrong with your writing. He’ll love the book. We all love it.’

‘You’re my best friends.’

‘We’re readers too. And honest readers. Now, cheer up for God’s sake. Smile.’

One of the writers tickled him under his chin and Paul burst out laughing.

‘OK. OK.’

‘That’s the way. As one famous writer told beginners, “Be happy.” Be happy, OK?’

Paul wasted no time in getting the finished manuscript away to the publisher. But again, because he had not yet been out on his own, it was his writer friends who packed it up and posted it.

‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Paul. We’re really lucky,’ Clive said.

‘Yeah, I know. In what other profession would everyone be so genuinely delighted at a colleague’s success. And tirelessly help them to succeed.’

‘Of course, as they’ve often reminded us, we’d do exactly the same for them.’

‘That’s certainly true.’

‘Now, I’ll be in agony waiting to get word from the publisher.’

‘Let’s pray that he’ll waste no time in getting back to you.’

That night and the next two nights, as they knelt by their beds as usual saying their prayers, they added, ‘And please, Jesus, help the publisher to make up his mind quickly and get back to us quickly to put us out of this agony of suspense.’

Bashir thought he’d find out about Gretna Green. He couldn’t mention it to Mirza or Sandra without first knowing something about it. They might not even marry people there any more. He hadn’t time to visit the place. He had good, hardworking and willing assistants in the grocery but he didn’t like to take advantage of them. He decided to go to his nearest library and have a chat with the librarians. He had always found librarians kind and helpful and he had visited a great many Glasgow libraries over the years. He had friends in every one of them and he always enjoyed a chat. People were his thing. He loved all sorts of people. None more so than Mirza and Sandra.