The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 (15 page)

“For me, it was about getting involved, having a feeling that I was part of something that could change people’s lives for the better.”

  “And making cakes didnae dae that fur ye then?”

  “Making cakes, as you say, did have its rightful place, but at that particular time, in the parish we were working and living in, the poverty amongst large sections of the community was debilitating in so many ways and affected so many people, despite the good intentions of the welfare state.”

  “So, whit aboot 1950 then?” he asked slyly.

  “1950?  What about 1950?” Susan asked, startled that this auld man knew mair aboot her than he’d initially let oan, and wis noo making her feel uncomfortable fur the first time since she’d invited him intae her hame.

  “Wur ye no involved in the election tae get Wedgewood Benn elected then...his very first successful seat?”

  “If I was useless in 1963, then you should have seen me in 1950.  I must have only been about nineteen or twenty then...still at university...and most certainly wet behind the ears when it came to politics,” she replied lamely.

  “So, where dis that leave ye in relation tae Helen Taylor then?”

  “What?” Susan gasped, puzzled and surprised at Helen’s name cropping up.

  “Ye heard me.”

  Susan looked at him, feeling her eyes narrow.  She awready knew that JP Donnelly, who wis staunin as a local cooncillor in the Keppochhill ward, efter the death ae the sitting cooncillor, Dick Mulholland, hid awready started his campaign and hid his supporters oot and aboot, drumming up support fur him.  JP hid awready accosted Donald and asked fur his public support fae the pulpit, to which he’d demurred, oan the need fur impartiality.  She wis jist aboot tae staun up and inform Mr Mann that she wis busy and that she’d other things tae be getting oan wae, when the memory ae his name being mentioned came creeping into her brain.  The only problem wis, she couldnae remember in whit context.  Wis he wan ae JP Donnelly’s campaign team?

  “You’re not a member of our church congregation, are you, Mr Mann?” she asked, far mair coldly than she’d intended.

  “Me?  Christ, if Ah wis tae darken the door ae a church, Ah’m sure it wid come tumbling doon, roond aboot ma ears, so it wid.  Ah think it wis Marx who said that religion wis the opiate ae the masses...or words tae that effect.  Naw, naw, religion’s no wan ae ma vices, hen.  Although, mind you, Ah’ve goat mair than enough tae be gaun oan wae,” he said, smiling.

  It wis the mention ae the word 'vice' that wis the trigger fur Susan’s fog-riddled memory tae start tae clear, at last.  She wis sure that it wis Charlie Mann’s name, alang wae two other aulder gentlemen, whose names Susan couldnae remember, that hid been mentioned when Helen and Donald hid spoken aboot candidates fur the upcoming local election the previous week.  She seemed tae vaguely remember Helen referring tae a Charlie Mann and the other two auld men as pirates, who did nothing bit haud up the bar ae wan ae the local working men’s clubs.  She racked her brain, trying tae remember the details ae the conversation.  Before she could respond tae Mr Mann’s proud declaration ae atheism, the bell oan the manse’s front door rang.  That wid be Helen noo.  This wis gaun tae be interesting, tae say the least, Susan thought tae hersel.

  “If you’ll excuse me for one moment please, Mr Mann,” Susan said, staunin up.

  “Don’t mind me, hen.  Ye jist go aheid and answer the door.  Ah’ll jist help masel tae another wee schoosh ae this cauld tea fae yer fancy china teapot, if it’s awright wae yersel.”

Chapter Thirty Two

  “So, how auld dae ye reckon she is then?” asked Bumper.

  “Who?” responded The Stalker, heid still in the clouds efter being dramatically promoted tae Inspector, oot ae the blue, oan Hogmanay, by none other than Jack Tipple, the Assistant Chief Constable himsel.

  “Who dae ye think?  Her...yer best pal,” Bumper said, nodding towards Helen Taylor, who wis trudging up Springburn Road, her scarf-covered heid pressed forward and doon against the snow and gale force wind that wis trying, unsuccessfully, tae put her doon oan tae her arse.

  “Oh, her?  Hmm, Ah cannae remember…probably early tae mid-forties.  Why?”

  “Ah’d still gie her wan, so Ah wid,” Bumper said.

  “Fin, as tough as ye think ye ur, she’d bloody punch ye that fast, ye’d think ye wur surrounded, if ye even smiled in her direction,” The Stalker retorted, smiling.

  “Don’t ye believe it, pal.  Ah’ve tamed a lot harder than that feral cat in ma time, so Ah hiv.”

  “So, why don’t ye get aff ae yer fat lazy arse and nip across and offer her a lift up the road tae wherever she’s gaun then?”

  “Me?  Nah, she’s no ma type.  Noo, take somewan like yersel, ye’d probably be in wae a better shout than me, so ye wid.”

  The Stalker didnae reply, bit sat in the passenger seat ae the squad car and watched the hunched-up figure draw level wae them, oan the pavement across the road.  He’d known her, or rather, hid come intae contact wae her regularly since the sixties, through trying tae lift that son ae hers, Johnboy, who’d been running aboot in the Toonheid, stealing everything that wisnae nailed doon.  The boy wis noo a tall, hairy-arsed, dangerous thug, who ran aboot wae a murderous crowd ae up-and-coming gangsters who everywan, apart fae the boys themsels, called The Mankys.  The Stalker winced thinking aboot the violent run-ins himsel and aw the other polismen, hid hid wae Helen Taylor and her scraggly pals, efter hivving tae polis the warrant sales ootside aw the closemooths in the area.  Everywan in the station and doon in The Corporation knew she wis the number wan pain in the arse, who lead the attack against The Corporation’s warrant sales policy.  She wis absolutely hated by everywan and anywan wae a bit ae authority.  Whit the daft basturts didnae realise though, wis that it wis her that kept aw the really mad wans in check, who wur attracted tae the possibility ae a pitch battle wae the bizzies during the inevitable fracas that wid erupt doon in a closemooth during a sale.  He'd tried tae tell everywan that, bit they widnae listen.  Aw everywan wanted wis the opportunity tae say that it wis them that hid managed tae arrest her…if they could get her intae the Black Maria withoot being assaulted and rescued by aw her cronies.  Biscuit always maintained that if she wisnae running aboot, stirring up the natives, then there widnae be any need fur a polis presence in whit he clearly saw as the responsibility ae The Corporation.

  “Fur Christ's sake, Paddy.  This is a civil situation we’re being drawn intae, no a bloody criminal wan,” Biscuit hid whined, as The Stalker remembered haudin his PC sidekick’s heid back, trying unsuccessfully tae stench the blood pishing oot ae his broken nose efter some jezebel hid scudded it wae a pole wae a bit ae cardboard pinned oan the end ae it saying ‘Make Love Not War.’

   It hid been a thankless task and hid been wan ae the first areas ae responsibility that he’d swiftly dumped oan tae his replacement when he wis promoted tae Inspector.  He watched her.  Tae look at her...ye widnae think there wis an attractive redheid under that scarf, a shapely pair ae legs, haudin up a nice ripe arse and a juicy pair ae succulent paps sheltering underneath the buttoned-up coat she wis wearing.  If he could be honest wae Fin, which he knew fine well he couldnae be, he wid’ve blurted oot that no only did he fancy Helen Taylor, bit that he wis in love wae her.  In truth, he hid been since first clapping eyes oan her, roond aboot 1967, when he’d first appeared at her door, looking fur Johnboy, who’d either been oan the run fae a remand home or hid tanned some local shoap windae.  He couldnae remember whit the actual crime wis that the boy hid supposedly committed, apart fae the fact that he wid obviously hiv been guilty, bit when she’d opened her front door and demanded tae know whit the fuck he wis efter, he’d been hooked.  The fact that her accusatory question hid stinging barbs ae hostility and loathing attached tae it, hidnae mattered a toss tae him.  Her fiery red hair, which matched her famous temper, her pale face and green eyes, alang wae her small, white, even teeth, hid made him go weak at the knees.  She wis married tae a wee weakling ae a lorry driver and they hid five snappers aw in.  Apart fae Johnboy, there wis another boy called Charlie who wis aulder than his brother and who wis supposedly living abroad and gaun straight.  Jist like his wee brother, he’d been a bit ae a bampot when he wis younger and hid been well-known fur assaulting the polis.  They also hid three lassies, aw in their late teens or early twenties.  He’d heard that aw her snappers hid flown the nest and that it wis only her and her man at hame noo.  He’d made the mistake ae confessing tae his priest, Father John, aboot his feelings towards her a while back.  As soon as Father John hid heard that he’d feelings...urges...towards a married wummin...well, that hid been that.  The priest hid come doon oan him like a ton ae bricks.  Efter that, Father John hid kept casting his lustfulness up tae him during confession, despite the fact that The Stalker hid thought that he’d managed tae convince Father John that the hundred and thirty seven 'Hail Marys' that he’d been ordered tae recite as punishment fur his wicked thoughts, hid cured him.  His biggest mistake hid been in telling Father John who the object ae his desires wis.  He still took umbrage at the response he'd goat.

  “What?  Paddy, are you trying to tell me, your confessor, that the lustful thoughts you’ve been having have been towards Helen Taylor?  That shameful jezebel incarnate from the Townhead, who is currently undermining the good people of Springburn on a daily basis with her filth and lies?  Helen Taylor, who’s married to a Protestant unbeliever and who refused to bring her children up as good Catholics?” the priest hid demanded, astonishment in the voice oan the other side ae the confessional screen.

  “Er, aye, Father,” he’d replied piously, laying oan his shame thickly, trying tae ensure that the priest wid be convinced ae his repentance.

  “Christ, Paddy, if I’d known it was her, I wouldn’t have been so severe in dishing out the Hail Marys.  You should have said who it was earlier,” Father John hid replied wae a chortle.

  “Er, is there something that Ah’ve missed here, Father?” he’d asked,

  “Paddy, Paddy, you’ll need to get a grip, my son.  Lusting after a married woman is bad enough...but someone like Helen Taylor?  Oh, come on.”

  “So, whit’s wrang wae her then?  Granted, she’s married, and Ah kin assure ye Ah’ve repented till Ah’m blue in the face, bit she’s lovely, so she is,” he’d retorted, sounding confused.

  “Paddy, listen to you.  Helen Taylor has always stood on the wrong side of Gabriel.  She hates the mother church, and detests its priests even more.  Why, she spends all her waking hours in plotting its overthrow.  She is averse to authority, to order, to what’s right and wrong.  It’s people like you and I that she rants against.  She hates what you and I stand for.  We are the vanguard between what is good and right as opposed to what is wrong and rotten.  Mark my words...when she speaks, it’s with a forked tongue.  You have to be strong, Paddy.  Remember Eve and the apple?”

  “Aye, Father.”

  “I suppose, if there was one positive outcome, it’s the fact that your lust is aimed towards her.”

  “So, whit’s that supposed tae mean then, Father?”

  “It means you’ve got as much chance of biting into that rotten apple as I have of giving up my vows and becoming a gun runner for the IRA,” Father John hid chuckled again fae behind the screen.

  The Stalker knew that Father John hid been right…at least, the bit aboot his chances ae getting tae perch oan Helen Taylor wis.  He wisnae too sure aboot the rest ae the shite that the priest hid been oan aboot though.  He’d bumped intae Father John oan New Year's morning and hid ended up wae a right earful.

  “I see that your fancy fantasy bit on the side is still up to no good, as per usual, Paddy,” Father John hid commented, in that Irish lilt ae his. 

  “Oh, aye, and who might that be then, Father?”

  “Taylor, the heretic, the focus of your loins…or have you forgotten your shame?”

  “Helen Taylor?  Whit aboot her then?”

  “She persuaded those poor lost souls, Issie and Thomas McManus, not to have their only son properly buried through the church he was born and christened into.  Can you imagine where his soul is now?  Purgatory, that’s where.”

  “Ach, knowing Joe McManus, Ah wid’ve thought he wid’ve ended up there whether he’d been gied a proper Catholic mass or no, Father,” Paddy hid foolishly replied.

  “Paddy, you clearly don’t understand the seriousness of this.  All sinners are God’s children.  That shameful vixen has denied a young man and his family the blessings of the mother church, access to our Lord, the saviour, to Mary, mother of God and entrance to heaven.”

  The Stalker turned roond in his seat and jist managed tae catch the back ae Helen Taylor’s heid disappearing through the gate ae the manse belonging tae Reverend Flaw.

  “Hmm, Ah wonder whit the hell she’s up tae then?” he murmured.

  “Eh?” Bumper asked, looking up fae admiring the dark green stripy bogey, the size ae a rotten whelk, that he’d jist excavated fae his left nostril and which wis noo hinging precariously fae the finger nail ae his pinkie finger.

  “Nothing...let’s go...oor man isnae gonnae show noo,” The Stalker said, glancing across at the empty entrance tae the train station.