Goodmans of Glassford Street (13 page)

‘Oh, big pictures of all the crowds in Glassford Street and Wilson Street – even up to Ingram Street and down to Argyle Street. What a carry on. Were you there, Sam?’

‘Yes. They didn’t find anything though. Some mad hoaxer. I hope to God they catch him. It was a terrible upheaval.’

‘Mrs Goodman must be very worried.’

‘We all are.’

‘I see her son is in the papers as well.’

‘Oh? What’s he been saying this time?’

‘Oh, it was apparently in answer to letters about the cost of the building of the Scottish Parliament.’

‘Well,’ Moira said, ‘it did cost a ridiculous amount of money.’

‘I know,’ Mrs Campbell agreed. ‘But he was saying that the Dome in England had cost very much more and even a set of new offices down there had cost almost as much, and no one had been up in arms and complaining about the costs down south.’

‘He’s a great guy,’ Sam said. ‘He’s never afraid of speaking his mind.’

The girls had gone upstairs to the attic room and the rhythmic beat of pop music could be heard echoing down the stairs.

‘Anyone for a drink?’ Sam asked. He needed a drink himself. With one thing and another, it had been a stressful day. He brought out a bottle of whisky, which he knew was a favourite with the men, and a bottle of vodka and some soft drinks as mixers for the ladies.

The evening went well but it was late before their friends left, and then Moira and the girls tidied up and filled the dishwasher. Later he and Moira lay in their separate beds in silence after saying goodnight. Moira’s voice had been cool and polite again.

She had appeared and sounded perfectly normal earlier in the evening, though at one point Mrs Brown had said, ‘Are you all right, Moira?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘You look a bit strained around the eyes. I thought maybe you’d a headache. I’ve got some paracetamol in my bag if you need any.’

‘No, no. But thanks all the same.’

He couldn’t sleep and he suspected that she was lying awake in the dark as well.

The next day was Saturday, always a busy day, and he was glad that he had a lot to do – phone calls, correspondence to catch up with, and people to see. It was nearly closing time and Betty, thank goodness, had gone off to keep a date with a boyfriend, when Viv turned up. She’d asked downstairs for him, saying that a friend had arrived from down south to see him.

He braced himself for a confrontation but was determined it would not be in the store. He went downstairs and led her out, just as Mr McKay was about to lock the doors.

‘Where are we going, darling? Are you taking me for a nice dinner?’

She was all cosy and clingy.

‘No,’ he said coldly. ‘I’m taking you to the station and putting you on a train back to South Castle-on-Sea.’

Her coyness disappeared.

‘You bastard. Don’t you for one minute imagine that you’re going to get away with this.’

‘Look, Viv, how often do I have to tell you? We had sex. A fling, I believe it’s called, and it meant nothing. I’m a happily married man. You’re just wasting your time.’

‘You won’t be so happily married once I have a chat with your wife.’

‘My wife knows about you. I’ve told her. It’s one of the risks of the job and being away from home so much. She’s always known it. She’s a strong woman and perfectly able to cope with the likes of you. So just fuck off!’

Show me the way to go home,

I’m tired and I want to go to bed,

I had a little drink about an hour ago,

And it’s gone right to my head.

No matter where I roam,

On land or sea or foam,

You can always hear me singing this song,

Show me the way to go home.

The children clapped their hands. ‘Sing another one, Granny.’

She was aware that half their enjoyment came from the fact that bedtime was being put off. ‘All right. Just one more.’

Ali bali, ali bali bee,

Sitting on my mammy’s knee,

Greetin’ for a wee baw bee,

Tae buy some coulter’s candy.

‘Just one more, Granny.’

She laughed. ‘Well, this is the very last one for tonight. It’s way past your bedtime now.’

At the back of the Central Hotel,

There a man with a nose like a bell.

If you want it to ting,

You pull a wee string,

At the back of the Central Hotel.

The children giggled and then shouted, ‘Another last one, Granny.’

‘Well, just a wee story this time.’

Then, after telling them one of her made-up stories, she said firmly, ‘Come on now. I’ll be getting a row from Nanny if I keep you up any longer. I’ll come back again soon, I promise.’

She kissed them goodnight and tucked them into bed, before going to tell the nanny that she was leaving.

George Square was busy with people getting home from work, either in cars or buses or walking up to Queen Street Station. Towering over the Square on the east side was the magnificent City Chambers. In front was the Cenotaph, which always made her sad when she looked at it. It represented so much grief. It stood for so many young people whose lives had been cut off, wasted. And young lives were still being sacrificed. Would the powers that be never learn? John said it was all based on lies. It was about oil and greed more than anything. Blair and Bush were liars. One thing was for sure – she wasn’t going to vote Labour after the recent debacle in Iraq. People argued that the Labour government had done a lot of good, especially for old people, and so they had, but the war, and Blair’s shoulder-to-shoulder attitude with Bush, had sickened a lot of people and turned them off.

She felt tired but reluctant to face the empty house in Huntershill. She was tempted just to sit on one of the benches in the Square and watch the world go by. But there was no use postponing the evil hour. Her loneliness and gathering cloud of depression had to be faced. She struggled to be positive and brave as she made her way up to the station. There was a taxi rank at each end of the station, and usually plenty of taxis available.

As it turned out, there was a queue at the first rank. She walked through the noisy, echoing station to where the other rank was situated, and caught a cab there. As it whizzed along the dual carriageway, she felt like telling the driver to slow down. She was in no hurry to get home. In no time, however, he was swinging up the thick, bush- and tree-lined drive of the house. It occurred to her that she should get a gardener in to tame the place. Everything had got wild and out of hand. Bushes and plants were crowding against the walls, and branches of trees were tapping against the upstairs windows.

She forced herself once more to consider selling the place and buying a flat in town. She could even try for a flat in George Square and be near to the children all the time. She feared that she would not be able to cling so closely to the visible memories of Tom for much longer. Not here, at least. In the store, it was different. She would continue to fight to keep Goodmans of Glassford Street as Tom Goodman had always kept it, and to run it as he had always wanted it to be run.

Once in the sitting room, she switched on the lights and stood gazing up at the portrait of Tom Goodman Senior. There was quite a strong resemblance to her Tom in the features, but Tom Senior was of a heavier build. She had always liked tall, lean men and her Tom had been tall and lean. That was why Horatio in
CSI: Miami
always reminded her of Tom. But there was also the tenderness, the caring, and the passionate sex they had always shared.

She went over and tugged at the curtains, in an effort to protect herself from the black wilderness outside. Then she switched on the television to give at least the illusion of company.

Nevertheless, depression increased and in a desperate effort to reawaken the happy time with the children, she began singing, defiantly, over the noise of the television:

Who saw the 42nd, who saw them sailing away?

Who saw the 42nd, sailing down the Broomielaw?

Some of them had kilts in tatters,

Some of them had none at all.

Some of them had dirks and stockings,

Sailing down the Broomielaw.

She began rocking herself backwards and forwards.

Ah’m a skyscraper wean, ah live on the nineteenth flair.

But ah’m no gawn oot tae play any mair,

Cause since we’ve moved tae Castlemilk, ah’m wastin’ away

Cause ah’m getting’ wan meal less every day.

Oh ye cannae fling pieces oot a twenty storey flat,

Seven hundred hungry weans’ll testify tae that.

If it’s butter, cheese or jeely, if the bread is plain or pan,

The odds against it reachin’ earth are ninety-nine tae wan …

Tears spilled over and she repeated the words like a mantra as she rocked herself and clutched her hands together.

Ah’m a skyscraper wean …

Ah’m a skyscraper wean …

‘The Jeely Piece Song’ reminded her of her own tenement upbringing. It made her sadder than ever to be reminded of the close and loving relationship she’d once had with her mother and father, and the friendship and neighbourliness of the other tenants in the building. Her mother and father had been so proud of her, first getting a job in Goodmans, then getting promoted to window dressing, and then – joy of joys – marrying such a lovely man, and
the boss
, to cap it all. Tom had been good to her mother, especially after her father died, and even wanted to buy her a bungalow or a cottage somewhere. But her mother had refused to leave her wee tenement flat.

‘No thanks, son,’ she’d said. ‘It’s a kind thought, and I appreciate it, but all my happy memories of my husband are here and I’ve so many good friends in the building.’

Her mother had clung to the memories of her husband just as she was now clinging to the memories of Tom. Her mother had been surrounded by friends and neighbours, though, to keep her happy. And she had a good son-in-law. It was a different situation with herself. Douglas Benson was an ambitious, ruthless man, who hated her. She was so tied up in the business and in trying to protect it, that she had no life or friends outside it. And this house was so lonely and isolated, she had not even any neighbours to turn to. It was getting harder to believe that she had once been happy here.

She wondered what Benson would think of her selling the house and buying a flat in George Square, or in one of the streets nearby. It would mean, of course, that she would be nearer to Glassford Street and the store. He would not like that aspect of a move.

She kept rocking herself backwards and forwards, not knowing what to do. If Minna had been stronger and closer to her, life would have been more bearable. But it seemed she’d lost a daughter as well as a husband. Often, she worried about Minna. Minna professed love for Douglas and was one hundred per cent loyal to him, but could it be that Minna was also afraid of him, and if so – why? He was a bully, of course, and no doubt he always had to have his own way. She didn’t allow him to succeed in bullying her, but Minna had never been able to stand up to him.

Poor Minna. She wept for her as well as for herself. Eventually, exhausted, she dried her tears and went into the kitchen to make herself a soothing milky drink. She was ashamed of feeling sorry for herself and determined to make a concentrated effort to pull herself together. After a good night’s sleep, she’d be more able to decide what to do for the best.

She didn’t get a good night’s sleep, of course, and lay listening to the trees tapping and scraping at the window for what felt like hours.

The next day, after the staff meeting, she decided to go to the nearest estate agent’s office and see what the housing situation was in the area. It might be difficult or even impossible to buy a flat in or near George Square. It was a very sought-after area.

She’d go to Edinburgh as soon as possible and find out what John thought about the idea of her moving house. Before she had the opportunity to do so, however, she had a very upsetting phone call from John.

‘Mum, you’ll never guess what’s happened.’

‘You sound upset, son. What’s wrong?’

‘I didn’t phone you earlier because I didn’t want to upset you, but Julie, my secretary, has been murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Abi echoed loudly in disbelief.

‘She was found by a neighbour who had a key. I had gone to the flat, but she didn’t answer the door. She must have been lying inside, already dead.’

‘Johnny, how awful! No wonder you’re upset.’

‘The police have been questioning me.’

‘What do you mean? They surely don’t think you had anything to do with it? They couldn’t.’

‘I can’t believe it either, and I suppose they’ve been questioning other people – neighbours, friends, and people like that. But I didn’t like their attitude towards me. They seemed very suspicious, to say the least.’

‘But that’s ridiculous.’

‘I know.’

‘The only reason I can think of is that we were together a lot – in the Parliament and out of it. She travelled with me to my constituency and various engagements.’

‘That was her job.’

‘I know. But they keep coming to question me at the flat. It’s only a couple of closes from Julie’s. Now they’ve asked me to come to the station – “to help with their enquiries”, they say. But I’m worried, Mum.’

Now all her worries about moving house and everything else were banished from her mind. All she cared about was her son.

Mr McKay changed into his tramp’s clothes in the nearest public toilet. Then, with the balaclava partly covering his face, he returned to the street and shuffled along, his carrier bag slung over one arm. He was grateful he didn’t need to go home and sit for a whole evening by himself, at the mercy of agonising grief and guilt. Near here, he remembered seeing homeless men in a cul-de-sac off Argyle Street. There had been a ledge jutting out from the back of one of the buildings meant to shelter the refuse bins. The men had moved the bins and were squatting under the ledge on layers of cardboard. The bitter wind cut savagely through the thin material of Mr McKay’s second-hand jacket. He hunched his shoulders, his head settling deeply into the flimsy collar.