The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 (35 page)

  “Uh, oh, watch oot, Ma Barker’s arrived,” he’d said tae Biscuit in a loud enough voice fur hauf ae Springburn tae hear.

  “Ur you talking tae me?” Taylor hid demanded, obviously still stinging as a result ae her humiliation at the hauns ae the priests the day before.

  “Me?  Ah don’t know whit ye’re oan aboot,” Fitz hid replied.

  “Aye, ye dae.  Ye wur directing aw that Ma Barker shite at me, so ye wur.”

  “Away ye go and get tae yer kip, ye’ve obviously been oan the bottle…again,” the stupid bampot hid snarled at her.

  “Oh, hiv Ah, ya big lump ae shite?  Did ye hear the unprovoked abuse Ah’m getting here, Mary?” Helen hid said tae some passing wummin.

  “Wae ma ain ears, Helen, hen...totally unprovoked cheek, if ye ask me,” the witness hid shouted, as a bunch ae other election leaflet-toting hairys arrived oan the scene, mob-haunded.

  Despite Biscuit trying tae drag Fitz away, aw the wummin hid awready goat their backs up and wur howling abuse at the pair ae them fur abusing a poor soul, gaun aboot her business ae trying tae win an election.

  “Who’s paying ye backhaunders tae hassle oor candidate, eh?  Ya pair ae tadgers, ye,” a big stout wummin, that sounded like Soiled Sally, hid screamed at them.

  “Go back and tell that JP that we won’t be intimidated, ya pair ae galloots, ye.”

  “Aye, ye better get that Bushwhacker oot ae here before every hair oan that heid ae his is pulled oot by the roots!”

  Jist by a stroke ae luck, Froggie Shearer hid been driving past in a Black Maria and hid screeched tae a halt.  It hid taken Biscuit and Froggie aw their strength tae drag Fitz away and lock him intae the back ae the van.  The stupid basturt hid wanted tae staun and hiv it oot wae aw the howling mad hairys.  While everywan wis up at Stobhill earning their gallantry medals, Helen Taylor hid arrived at the station and hid filed an official complaint wae Happy Harry, the desk sergeant, oan polis harassment and interfering wae an election candidate gaun aboot her lawful business.  Fitz hid been laughing and recounting his run-in wae Taylor when The Stalker hid walked past the canteen and heard them aw laughing.  He hidnae been able tae haud back and hid stormed intae the room.

  “Aw the fucking good we’ve done the day his jist gaun doon the bloody spout because ae you and that big fucking gub ae yers, Fitz!” he’d bawled at the tap ae his voice.

  “Paddy, whit the fuc...”

  “Helen Taylor his been in and filed a complaint and telt Happy that she’s gaun tae the papers efter she speaks tae a solicitor, ya daft eejit, ye.  Ah hope ye’re fucking satisfied,” he’d shouted, before shooting aff intae the lavvy.

  The Stalker felt his bowels gie up the ghost again as the shite hit the water under that arse ae his.  Wis he really pissed aff at Fitz or wis he pissed aff wae himsel?  The whole station hid been talking aboot whit the priests hid come oot wae the day before.  He didnae gie a hairy tit aboot fair play and aw that.  As far as he wis concerned, the priests could dae whit the hell they wanted.  Whit bothered him though, wis his part in it.  He hidnae been at mass the day before, bit he knew the information ae whit they wur punting fae the pulpit hid come fae the file he’d haunded o’er tae Father John.  Alang wae background info oan the boys in the family, the file hid also contained stuff oan the lassies.  When he’d read it he’d jist thought that it wis tittle-tattle…Ah mean, who wid be interested in a lassie in her twenties hivving an abortion?  If Helen Taylor’s complaint aboot polis harassment wis tae be investigated, how far or deep wid they dig?  Why the hell hid he no jist telt that wee twisted priest, Father John, tae go and fuck himsel when he’d asked fur the file fae Central?  How the hell wis he gonnae explain why he needed the intelligence file a few days before wan ae his detective sergeants harassed her in the street, in broad daylight, in front ae hauf ae Springburn?  Christ!  He felt the sweat break oot oan his brow again.  He wanted tae wipe that arse ae his and run through tae the canteen and punch that stupid basturt in the kisser, bit the rumblings fae his guts telt him that that wid be premature.

  “Aw, fur Christ sake!  Ah cannae even hiv a shite in peace,” he shouted, as the smiling face ae Helen Taylor, announcing her candidacy, beamed oot at him fae wan ae the torn bits ae newspaper hinging fae the string oan the back ae the cubicle door.

Chapter Fifty Eight

  Mary tried hard tae keep that scowl ae hers aff ae her face, bit she knew she wis fighting a losing battle.  She’d jist come aff the phone tae Benson feeling humiliated.  Her arse hid only been in her seat two minutes when her phone hid rang.  She’d known fine well exactly who it wid be, and hid decided tae ignore it, bit her nose hid eventually goat the better ae her, and she’d picked the thing up.  Her heart hid sank when she heard his voice.

  “So?” he’d asked.

  “So, whit?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Mary.  Any news of the social worker story?”

  Talk aboot eating humble pie, she’d thought, cursing little Miss Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep fur noising her up and spoiling her weekend.

  “Nothing,” she admitted.

  “Oh.”

  “According tae Lady Godiva, sitting o’er there wae her heid doon behind they boxes, the social worker moll said naw,” Mary spat, deliberately loud enough fur Carrot-heid tae hear her.

  “Not, er...she’ll think about it?”

  “Zilch.  In fact, Ah’m no convinced she wis ever approached in the first place.  Ye know whit like these wee bunnies ur...heid full ae shite wae boys and clothes?  Ah’ll know better the next time.  Meantime, Ah’ll hiv tae get ma heid thegither and try tae come up wae something fur the morra’s deadline, so Ah will.”

  “Don’t be hard on the girl, Mary.  You’re right, it was probably a bit of fantasy on her part, but I’m sure that it was with the best of intentions.  Go easy on her.”

  “Christ, Benson.  Ye make me sound like Cruella Deville.”

  “You’re lovely and loving, but I know what you can be like.  Look, I’ll have to go.  I have a man from Jaguar waiting on the other line.  Oh, and can you please remember to telephone my sister, Susan.  That was twice she telephoned you at the weekend.  It must be important if she’s telephoned twice.  See you later, pumpkin.”

  Mary looked across at Pearl’s cardboard box wall that separated them.  There wisnae a sound tae be heard, apart fae the typists clacking away, further doon the office, typing up the adverts fur the next day’s edition.  She wondered if Pearl hid sneaked oot while she’d been oan the phone tae Benson.  If she hid, then she wis definitely fur the high jump.  Mary wanted Pearl tae know how disappointed...naw...how bloody scunnered she wis wae her, fur getting her hopes up aboot the social worker story.  She knew it hid been her ain fault fur letting hersel get carried away, bit the wee bugger hid sounded so convincing.  She’d know no tae trust little Miss Jackanory the next time.  The only problem wis, whit wis she gonnae come up wae fur this week’s column?  She lit up her seventh fag since arriving earlier and stared intae space, swishing away the blue smoke cloud she’d enveloped hersel in.  She wanted tae cry.  Her life hid been turned upside doon aw because ae they sexist pig-trotters upstairs.  

  “Why dae men hate us wummin so much,” she groaned fur the umpteenth time since she'd dragged hersel oot ae bed and spent the next two hours in the bathroom making hersel beautiful.

  She couldnae help smiling through her misery as she thought back tae Benson, hopping up and doon the hallway, clutching his crotch, demanding tae be let in tae the bathroom earlier, before he’d gied up and gone and pished in their good banana plant in the hallway before disappearing tae make her a couple ae poached duck eggs fur her breakfast.  Whit hid she ever done tae deserve tae be treated like a used paper hankie...tae be grogged oan before being thrown away...used, soiled and scrunched up, as if she didnae hiv any feelings?   Why wur men born basturts?  It wisnae her fault that she wis born withoot a dick.  Did they selfish morons no understaun that wummin hid feelings tae?  And then there wis Susan.  Whit the hell did she want, Mary wondered.  Every time Mary heard her voice or clocked that Joan ae bloody Arc face, she wanted tae poke her two fingers intae they smarmy look-at-me-Ah’ve-done-another-good-deed-this-week-so-Ah-hiv eyes ae hers.  Although her and Benson hid seen Donald and Susan o’er the Christmas period, Mary and Susan hid hardly exchanged a word since Mary hid obviously upset the stupid do-gooder last summer when everywan wis oot at the Flaws in Clackmannanshire fur the annual get-thegither barbeque.  Susan hid been organising some fundraising raffle fur the manky weans up in Springburn and hid been pestering everywan tae chip in ten bob tae gie the wee smellys a trip doon tae Saltcoats.  Mary hid been hauf pished oan auld daddy Flaw's homemade Elderberry wine at the time.

  “Christ, Susan, it’s aw right fur aw youse stay-at-hame so-called arteests, messing aboot wae bits ae scrap metal, bit some ae us hiv tae go oot and work tae earn oor living, so we dae,” she’d slurred at Susan, deliberately emphasising the word artist, jist before Benson hid dragged her aff and put her tae bed.

  By the time she’d crawled oot ae her pit the next morning, Susan and Donald hid awready heided back tae Glesga.  She’d meant tae phone Susan up and apologise, bit wan thing hid led tae the other, and it hid goat lost in whitever it wis she’d been daeing at the time.  It wis only when Benson asked her at Christmas if she’d apologised tae Susan that she’d been reminded that she hidnae.  Of course, she’d lied and said that she hid.  Benson wid never find oot anyway, as Susan wisnae the type tae bring it up...another reason she didnae like the self-righteous bitch.  If it hid been Mary that somewan wis hivving a go at, she wid’ve been in there, squaring up tae them, like a cat oot ae hell, so she wid’ve.  She looked at the alphabet buttons oan her desk address book and pressed the letter S.  The lid popped up and she scanned the list until she found whit she wis efter.

   “Susan?  Darling, it’s me...Mary.  How ur ye daeing?  Great, jist great.  Aye, Ah’m sorry we didnae get a chance tae hiv a wee chat o’er Christmas.  Ye whit?  Twice?  Naw, Benson never mentioned it...mind you, he’s so busy these days.  Ah’ll speak tae him aboot it the night when Ah get hame.  Naw, the reason Ah’m phoning is jist tae apologise fur ma unacceptable behaviour when Ah wis pis...er...drunk at the barbeque last year.  Aye, Ah know ye’ve furgoatten aw aboot it, bit Ah wis totally oot ae order, so Ah wis.  The amount ae times Ah’ve woken up in the middle ae the night, distraught at the way Ah wis so cheeky tae ye...well, Ah’ve nae excuse, so Ah hivnae.  Aye, Ah know ye understaun, bit that isnae any excuse fur ma cheeky insolence.  So, ye phoned twice, ye say?  Wur ye efter anything in particular?  Ye know me, if anywan needs help, Ah’m the first tae dive in, so Ah am.  The column?  Ach, it’s gaun great, so it is.  Even though last week wis jist the first wan, the feedback his been overwhelming.  That in-tray ae mine’s is piled high wae the positive letters fae aw the readers, so it is.  Ye know whit, Susan?  Ye’re right.  This is a great opportunity, especially seeing as the column’s aboot wummin, fur wummin.  Ah’ve never been happier.  Fur the first time in ma career, Ah feel that Ah’m writing whit Ah want tae write aboot and no whit aw they bast...er...sexist Neanderthals up the stairs want me tae write aboot.  Pearl?  Oh she’s daeing fine...fitting right in, so she is.  Aye, she’s a wee stoater...full ae the joys, so she is.  Ye cannae get her tae staun still wae aw they great ideas she keeps coming up wae...even though some ae them ur a wee bit pie in the sky, if ye know whit Ah mean.  Helen Taylor?  Naw, can’t say that name springs tae mind.  Election in Springburn, ye say?  Hing oan a minute...wis there no something in the paper aboot her last week, written by Bradley McLeod, the political columnist?  Is she no the wan that wants tae sack aw The Corporation workers?  She sounds like something else, so she dis...Ah cannae see her getting the vote fae the great unwashed wae an attitude like that.  Aye, well, Bradley dis tend tae stretch things oot a bit, so he dis.  Probably went tae the Dr Goebbels School ae Journalism.  Hmm, Ah’m no sure if that’s whit the column’s aboot, Susan.  Ah know she’s a wummin and aw that, bit politics?  Aye, Ah hear whit ye’re saying and it’s a shame, bit Ah’m no sure writing aboot some wummin who hates aw The Corporation workers and wants tae put hauf the city oot ae a job wid endear me tae the wummin Ah’m trying tae reach...if ye know whit Ah mean.  Ah’m sure she is...if ye say so...and Ah’m sure there’s a lot ae other amazing wummin oot there jist like her,  bit it’s the meddling in the politics bit that Ah’m no sure aboot.  Well, another reason is that Bradley wid probably go straight up tae the big boys club up the stairs if he thinks Ah’m trampling aboot oan his writing patch.  If ye think his writing’s bad, ye should meet him in person...a right wee nippy sweetie, so he is.  Wid argue wae his ain shadow, so he wid.  Look, Susan, maybe when ma column gets mair established, Ah’ll hiv another look at her.  Honest, ma desk is overflowing wae aw sorts ae people sending me in brilliant ideas and wanting me tae dae this and that...aw good causes like yer Mrs...aye, Taylor, Helen Taylor, that’s her name.  It’s when?  A week oan Friday?  Naw, there’s nae chance ae that.  Ah’ve awready goat this week’s column done and dusted and Ah’m awready working oan next week’s.  In fact, Ah’m jist aboot there wae it.  Even if Ah wanted tae dae a story oan the injustice, lies and undermining that’s gaun oan against her, there’s nae way Ah could get it in fur next week.  Aye, Ah know, Ah’m sorry as well.  Maybe some other time, eh?  Right, well, look, Susan, Ah’m gonnae hiv tae go.  That wee assistant ae mine is run aff ae her feet, so she is.  Ah’m getting dizzy jist sitting here watching her whiz aboot.  Ah better get aff this phone tae tell her tae slow doon before she topples o’er like a spinning tap.  Aye, the same tae yersel, darling.  Ah love ye too.  Gie ma love tae that big hunk ae a minister ae yers, Donald.  Bye,” Mary said, putting doon the phone as a mass ae red hair popped up fae the boxes and heided her way.

  “That’s a letter that’s come in fur ye, Miss Marigold,” Pearl said, being sensible enough tae avoid eye contact

  “Who’s it fae?”

  “Somewan commenting oan last week’s column.”

  “Oh?  Whit dis it say?”

  “Er, dae ye want ma words or theirs?”

  “Theirs, of course.”

  “Er, well, here goes.  ‘Call yersel a writer?  Ah’ve never read such pish in aw ma life.  Go back tae writing aboot something ye know a lot aboot...low-lifes, bums and manky pish-pots,’”  Pearl said, looking up fae the letter tae her boss.

  “Is that it?”

  “Er, aye.”

  “Is it signed?”

  “Naw.”

  “Right.”

  “Er, so, whit will Ah dae wae it then?”

  “Put it in ma in-tray,” Mary mumbled, as Pearl placed the un-signed letter in the empty in-tray, before returning tae her cardboard stockade.