Goodmans of Glassford Street (11 page)

He wondered if he should confess to Moira. Get his word in first. The mere thought made him feel sick. It took all his will-power to concentrate on his driving. But he couldn’t help thinking, ‘What a mess!’

And he kept remembering how lucky he had been with such a lovely wife and children and such a happy home. Viv was going to do her damnedest to ruin it all. No doubt she would put on a great act as the poor, hard-done-by, deceived and abandoned woman.

There was nothing else for it. He would have to confess the truth to Moira. He prayed that he would get to her first.

Mr McKay started his search in the Merchant City area – first of all in the streets and lanes nearest to Glassford Street. On the corner of Glassford Street and Argyle Street was Marks & Spencer’s, and there was a plaque on the shop wall at the corner of Argyle Street and Virginia Street. It was where the Black Bull Inn had been. Robert Burns stayed there when he wrote to Agnes McLehose. She didn’t want their correspondence to be known and suggested they sign their letters ‘Sylvander’ and ‘Clarinda’. Before she died, Agnes wrote in her journal, ‘I parted with Burns in the year 1791, never more to meet in this world, may we meet in heaven.’

Oh, how Mr McKay echoed those words – broken-heartedly. And the words of the poem Burns wrote to his ‘Clarinda’ – ‘Ae Fond Kiss’.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

Ae fareweel, and then forever! …

Had we never lov’d sae blindly,

Never met – or never parted,

We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

He wandered around wearing something he’d bought earlier that day – a dark, hooded anorak, with the hood pulled well over his face. At the end of Ingram Street he came to the Gallery of Modern Art, in Queen Street. Even at this late hour, and despite the dark smir of rain, there were people squatting between the pillars and on the front steps. They were young people, some of them drinking out of cans and bottles, and laughing and fooling about. He didn’t think any of them were tramps likely to be rooting in bins for something to eat.

The Gallery of Modern Art had been built originally as a tobacco lord’s mansion house and in front of it was a statue of the Duke of Wellington on a horse. It had become a habit of the young people to climb up to the statue and put a traffic cone on the Duke of Wellington’s head. Now even in Glasgow guide books, the picture of the Duke always showed him with the incongruous and undignified red and white traffic cone perched on his head.

Jenny used to laugh at that and say it was such a typically Glasgow thing to do. Jenny had a good sense of humour and she liked art. He had never understood, and certainly didn’t appreciate much of the modern art in the gallery, but Jenny had.

He skulked into every corner and lane in Queen Street, until he reached Argyle Street, and then walked along Argyle Street and down every close, lane and alleyway until he reached the Trongate. Jenny had always been interested in the history of Glasgow and after she was confined to bed she spent a lot of her time reading books about the origins of the city. She had been particularly fascinated by this area. (Oh, how interested and full of life she had been. What a cruel waste!) Just west of King Street was the oldest music hall in the United Kingdom, the British Panopticon. Sixteen-year-old Stan Laurel had started here. There were mermaids and bearded ladies in the attic and a zoo in the basement with a Himalayan bear which escaped into the Trongate and terrorised everyone until it was shot by its eccentric owner, A. E. Pickard.

There was a dark area behind King Street where he saw a group of shadowy figures. Cautiously he approached them. They looked as if they were half unconscious with either drink or drugs, or both.

‘I’m looking for a friend,’ Mr McKay said. ‘He came into a bit of money recently. Do you know him? Have you heard of anybody like that?’

There was a shaking of heads and mutters of ‘Naw’ and ‘Sorry, son.’

He moved on down the lane to where another few men were squatting and drinking from a bottle of Buckfast tonic wine. He got no response from them at all.

Back on King Street he hesitated, not sure which way to turn. It could be that the man he was searching for was no longer on the streets, but living it up in a hotel. His only hope, he reckoned, was finding one or more people who knew, or had even heard about the change of fortune, the sudden acquisition of money, by one of their number. But the homeless tramps he’d come across so far were suspicious of him and obviously saw him as not one of them.

The rain became colder and heavier and he hugged his anorak tighter around his body. He was exhausted and miserable. Yet being at home for long empty evenings made him feel worse. His thoughts about Jenny became unbearably painful. And thoughts about the money and the man who’d stolen it. To think of anything was better than suffering desolation and guilt. Finding this man gave him something to concentrate on, gave him a purpose to live for.

He went along as far as the Tolbooth, on its island in the middle of the traffic. It was all that had survived of a much larger building that had once housed the courts and prison. People were chained to the walls here and prisoners’ ears were nailed to the Tolbooth door. Further along, in the Gallowgate, there had been public hangings and nothing was better attended. The last hanging attracted over 100,000 people. How he would have enjoyed seeing the bastard who stole the money hanged. But hanging would be too good for him.

Where to go now? He stood across from the Tolbooth hunched into his wet anorak, his glasses blurring with rain. Should he go up the High Street or along the Saltmarket? Jenny had told him that the Saltmarket had been the place where middle-class burgesses of the town had houses fronting on to the main streets. Booths, or early shops, were situated in the lower halves of the houses, with the living accommodation above. Along the narrow vennels and wynds were other buildings which housed the craftsmen of the town – tanners, skinners, fullers, weavers, fleshers. The candlemakers moved to what was now known as Candleriggs. They were blamed for causing several great fires in the town. At one time, a third of the town had been destroyed by one of these fires and over a thousand families had been made homeless.

He kept thinking of Jenny’s face, bright with interest and enthusiasm as she spoke about Glasgow’s history. Often they’d come here on their way to Glasgow Green and when they reached the ancient green, she’d say, ‘This is the site of a thousand battles, Norman. Can’t you just feel the atmosphere?’

He couldn’t but always hugged her arm, enjoying her enthusiasm.

‘Battles here were fought by the people. The battles for “one man one vote”, “one woman one vote”, “a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work”, to mention just a few. Then there’s the fairs, festivals, all sorts of entertainments and sport. This is the heart and soul of the social history of Glasgow, Norman.’

All he had known it as was the original home of both Celtic and Rangers football clubs. His only other interest in history was contained in the Trades Hall and Merchants House. He had always had a serious interest in his job and how trade had developed. He had worked up from the bottom to being manager and he had always been proud of how hard-working and conscientious he had been. And how meticulously honest. Until now.

If the money had still been there, he would have returned it to the shop. It was no use to him after Jenny had died. But he had been prevented from doing that by some stupid thieving bastard who’d probably never done a hard day’s work in his life.

Fury quickened his steps and before he knew it, he was at the entrance of Glasgow Green. He couldn’t bear even to look at the place, and shrunk away from it. Soon, he was passing the area where Oliver Cromwell had stayed while in Scotland. A minister called Boyd had verbally attacked Cromwell from the pulpit at a sermon Cromwell attended. The minister’s hatred of Cromwell infuriated Cromwell’s secretary, who told Cromwell that he should have the man beheaded. Cromwell declined and instead invited the minister to dinner. Jenny had always liked that story. She was a forgiving person. She had never even shown any bitterness at having to suffer her terrible illness and imminent death.

He had.

She was a Christian but he had lost whatever faith he once had. What kind of God was it – if there was a God – who could allow a beautiful, loving woman like Jenny to suffer so much?

Somehow, he got back to Argyle Street. He cursed the rain. No doubt most of the tramps were sheltering inside hostels for the homeless and the like, not hunkering about in lanes getting soaked. His whole evening had been a waste of time. He could have wept.

On the way home, he went into an off-licence and bought a bottle of whisky. He managed to drink a third of it before he reached the isolated villa on the outskirts of Bishopbriggs. He dreaded the ordeal of returning to the house and all the memories it contained. The drink knocked him out before he reached the bed upstairs and he awoke next day on the sitting room settee. He was still dressed, except for his soaking wet anorak, which, thank goodness, he’d managed to discard before collapsing unconscious.

Hurriedly, he washed and changed into clean clothes. He didn’t wait to eat anything or even drink a cup of tea before leaving for work. He couldn’t stay in the house a moment longer than was necessary. Only with a struggle did he manage to resist the temptation to swallow down a mouthful of whisky.

On arrival at the shop, he went through his usual routine, hoping that no one would see any difference in him, or suspect any difference. His only worry on that score was Miss Eden, with her usual piercing stare. At last he had time to go up to the canteen for a cup of hot, reviving tea. He didn’t feel he could face any food but forced himself to eat a piece of toast. Then he had Mrs Goodman’s morning meeting to cope with. His head was thumping and his mouth had gone dry again. Somehow, he got through the meeting. The buyers seemed to be taking up most of Mrs Goodman’s attention, instead of the managers, this morning. He returned to his office to attend to phone calls, before making his routine inspection of the departments. All the time, he longed for a drink. He needed to drink himself into oblivion again.

Now not only thoughts of Jenny returned, but thoughts of the thief who’d taken the money began to obsess him. He had tried all that he could think of by searching around the lanes and closes and back streets. What else could he do?

‘Are you all right, Mr McKay?’ Miss Eden’s voice jerked him back to his present surroundings.

He shook his head. ‘I’m finding it difficult to cope. My poor wife, you know …’

‘Yes, we are all so sorry, Mr McKay. If you ask me, you really need to take some time off to recover. I’m sure Mrs Goodman would agree. There’s no need in your present circumstances to struggle in to work every day. Why don’t you speak to her?’

Nothing would help. It would only mean longer hours alone in the villa. But he nodded. ‘Maybe I will. We’ll see. Thank you for your concern, Miss Eden.’

He did not ask for any time off and had no intention of doing so. Just the thought of having nothing to do all day was a nightmare. His only comfort was alcohol. So far, he had at least managed to refrain from drinking while he was at work. Every evening, on the way home, however, he would go into a pub and drink himself practically unconscious. Eventually, a thought occurred to him – something that could help him in two ways. He’d have company and at the same time, he might be able to find the thief.

He remembered the homeless people he’d seen, groups of shabbily clothed men. He could buy some shabby clothes from Paddy’s Market and join them. Probably the reason nobody spoke to him before was because he didn’t look like one of them. This way he would get to know them. Then he might, in time, get to know the thief. The chances were that a man like that had already squandered the money on drink and drugs and would be back on the streets again. Or somebody would know something about him.

Paddy’s Market was situated along the Bridgegate where a railway bridge crossed overhead. At this point, the narrow Shipbank Lane led to a flea market, as Paddy’s Market was sometimes called. It was started in the nineteenth century by Irish immigrants, when it sold second-hand clothes to poor people who lived in nearby hovels. The traders sold their wares on the pavement and still did to this day. They had been offered decent premises but had refused, preferring to sell their second-hand goods in the traditional way.

Mr McKay picked his way gingerly between the coats, jackets, dresses, trousers, skirts and other garments spread out on the pavement. He bought a pair of shabby brown trousers, a green and white striped collarless shirt, a navy waistcoat, a jersey, a dirty-looking raincoat, and a woollen hat. At the last minute he decided on a down-at-heel pair of shoes that were his size. His own shoes would look suspiciously good quality. He had bought them in the shoe department at Goodmans. Everything in Goodmans was of the highest quality. Before returning home, he went into an off-licence and bought a couple of bottles of Buckfast.

Later that night, he discarded his smart coat, his business suit, shirt and tie and polished shoes and dressed in everything he had bought at Paddy’s Market. Then, under cover of darkness and with one of the bottles of Buckfast wine in his pocket, he made his way back into town.

The police had received a phone message telling them that a bomb had been planted in Goodmans of Glassford Street and a call had immediately come from the police to the store. The bomb had been set to go off within the hour and blow the whole place up. The store had to be evacuated immediately. This was a dreadfully difficult and complicated thing to do.

Miss Eden found herself having to take charge and do most of the organising. Mr McKay was confused and, to put it bluntly, completely useless. This was so unlike him. Mr McKay had always been calm, clear-headed and competent in any emergency. Of course, Miss Eden thought, the poor man was not himself just now. He should have taken her advice, spoken to Mrs Goodman, and got a spell off work to give him some time to recover.