Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival (37 page)

Eventually, the detective closed the file and smiled at me: ‘The bottom line is, Janey, we now send all this to the Procurator Fiscal along with your sister’s statement and we wait to see what happens then. You did very well, Janey, this must be really hard for you.’

He turned to Sean and asked, ‘Will this man ever get to court or will he be found dead before the trial?’ He asked the question in a jokey tone of voice but one that implied that, if it was taken seriously, that was fine too.

Sean spoke very quietly but stony-faced: ‘Janey and her sister need to get this out of their system and my family don’t do violence.’

The detective smiled.

‘Why would we want him dead?’ Sean asked.

The detective nodded his head. ‘OK, then, as long as we know where we all stand.’

Old George came down to the Weavers for a quick visit after having been at a car auction. He was looking smart in a new blue shirt, smiling with Sandra at his side. She was playing the attentive girlfriend, brushing imaginary dandruff off his shoulder, her blonde dry hair pulled up into a severe pony-tail, highlighting her pale pinched face. Old George asked me to make some coffee for him and stood quietly as I stirred it for him. I knew he wanted to say something by the look on his face.

‘Did you make a statement at the Polis Office aboot yer uncle?’ he finally asked.

‘Yep,’ I said and carried on stirring his coffee on the bar.

‘Why did you do that?’ he spat at me angrily. ‘We don’t go to the Polis, Janey!’

I looked him square in the face and replied: ‘
We?
Who the fuck is
We
?
We
were not raped, George.
I
was.
Me
. Not you. Not we.
Me
. And
I
want to deal with this my way. I don’t want him beaten by anyone. I don’t want him killed. I want to see him in court so everyone knows what he did to me and my sister.’ I did not want the men to solve this problem for me; this was something I had to do myself.

‘That’s all very well,’ George said, ‘but I am not so fucking sure I like the Storrie name in the newspapers as a victim of anything. We don’t huv victims in our family.’

Sandra leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. ‘I wiz sexually abused as a child and I don’t go shouting aboot it to everyone and I’m fine.’

‘Really?’ I snarled at her. ‘You consider yourself to be fine, do ye?’ George shot me a dark, warning look which I ignored. ‘Maybe the next time ye have to spend time in a mental ward ye should remind yourself ye are so fucking OK!’ I told her. I knew this was cruel, as she was continually in and out of the mental health care system due to her depression, but I was not about to be placated by
her
advice on sexual abuse. ‘George,’ I told him, ‘the first chance I get, I will change my name so it’s not Storrie any mare. And, in case ye huvnae noticed, this is aboot me and no’ aboot yer precious fucking fucked-up family!’ I slammed the coffee down in front of him and walked to the other end of the bar.

I didn’t care if he jumped the bar and strangled me; I was determined to keep focused on the main issue. It was enough to be up against the abuser himself without being sabotaged by people who just didn’t like the police or a little spot of publicity. And Sean backed me all the way. He was happy I was doing what I wanted to do. He was so moved by the whole issue that he volunteered his services to the local Victim Support Group and was given training on his afternoons off. He enjoyed the work, threw himself into the whole scheme and was happy taking part in something he felt gave real help. Things between us were slowly getting better again. Despite our one attempt at marriage guidance, we managed to resolve issues between ourselves. I still was scared when he got angry, but not as scared. I had decided inside myself that I definitely would leave when Ashley was 16 and up till then he could do all the shouting he wanted. If he hit me, I would take him to court as well. I was not about to be bullied again.

That New Year brought the best news I had heard in a long time. The police let me know the Procurator Fiscal had decided that, on the basis of the statements my sister and I had provided, there was certainly enough evidence to have my Uncle charged. The only problem was that the police could not find him.

* * *

By now it was early January and I stared through those big windows at the front of the Weavers, looking at the beautiful mosaic on the side of the old factory opposite; the spirals and majestic turrets of that building always cheered me up. It made me wonder if I would ever get to Venice and see the real Doges’ Palace, not a replica on an old carpet factory in Glasgow. The frost and snow capped all the trees that lined Glasgow Green, making the place look like a wee Christmas card. I loved that view. Ashley was out playing happily in the snow, rolling big snowballs down the wee hill opposite the Weavers. I went out to keep her company and met a young man who was walking his two wee terriers. We got chatting and I told Colin to come into the pub for a beer and to bring the dogs that Ashley seemed to have adopted within minutes of meeting them. Before long he was a regular and brought over his partner.

Colin and Andrew were a lovely gay couple who had moved into the Barratt homes across the road. Colin worked as a wigmaker and hairdresser for theatrical productions; Andrew worked in an upmarket Glasgow city-centre restaurant. They had initially been a bit worried about coming over to drink in a ‘rough’ East End bar – the Calton tolerated prostitutes but not so many homosexuals except Gay Gordon, who was still a Weavers regular, drinking more and more, getting more and more bitter, going downhill fast. After one visit, Colin and Andrew became regulars too. I loved Colin’s wicked sense of humour: the sarcastic, scathing remarks that he whispered under his breath about locals had me pissing myself laughing.

‘Oh my gawd!’ he’d say, combing his cream wig. ‘Why that woman thinks acrylic dresses covered in flowers is cool I will never know; she is the reason men fuck other men!’

He stood nearly six feet tall, with blond spiky hair, and was always dressed in the latest outfits to hit Glasgow’s fashionable expensive designer shops. He was really very kind and he loved hanging out in the bar; his partner Andrew was very hard working but more subdued. One night, they took me out to a gay club and introduced me to all their friends. I loved the whole gay scene. The music and the guys all hanging out having a laugh and being very risqué suited me. One of their gang was Findlay, a tall, brown-haired, big smiler, who was outrageously funny and was just about to go off to work in one of Conran’s new restaurants in London. He and I hit it off straight away. He spent his last six months in Glasgow hanging out in the Weavers and made good friends with Ashley. He could hardly believe she was so up to speed on the whole gay attitude even at seven.

‘Do you have a boyfriend, Findlay?’ she asked him within minutes of meeting him. ‘Do you like Doris Day?’

I explained she had been looked after by Gay Gordon, our customer and friend. She regaled Findlay with all the gay torch songs Gordon had taught her. Findlay was fun to be around and I enjoyed going out with him and the boys. But I missed one old friend. Sammy had not come down for Christmas and this was hard for me. We had always got together at Christmas. Ashley missed him as well. His new flat was not that far away – only half an hour. He could have paid us a visit, but I supposed the cash situation made it all worse. He had given Sean a few payments for the car despite the hardship that came with it but, because he owed us so much money and was on heroin, he could not bring himself to visit us socially. Whenever I saw him, his face was severely drawn and gaunt. Whenever he made a sporadic payment, he never spoke to us. He simply walked in, held out an envelope to Sean, then left. It still hurt me. I wanted to sort out his life, maybe stop him from taking heroin. But I knew that was stupid thinking.

My brother Mij had now been HIV positive for over five years and was still on smack, though his health was on a fairly even keel. Ashley was still very fond of him. He was still childlike and funny and played card games and magic tricks and kept her imagination fired up with his crazy stories of how he had fought that big shark in Shettleston swimming pool. I let Mij know I was charging Uncle David Percy with the abuse. He was all for it and reassured me that, if I needed him to back me up, he would say anything to the police.

‘Mij,’ I told him, ‘you didnae
know
anything. You spent the best part of the seventies believing you were Bryan Ferry and were a man who fought with a shark, so for fucksake the last thing I need is for you to lie on oath. I have Ann to tell the truth and me to tell the truth. I don’t want you to add lies to this story, OK?’

‘OK sis,’ he said. ‘But I want ye tae know I am proud of ye.’ He put his thin arms around me and held me.

Sean’s brothers were another matter. Young George had taken to calling me ‘Oprah’ in honour of the American talk-show host who often highlighted sexual abuse cases on her show. Dick went one step further and, in the middle of another one of his pointless arguments, declared, ‘You wur no’ a virgin when ye married Sean. Ye hud slept wi’ another man; ye lost yer virginity tae yer Uncle!’ Then he laughed loudly through his gums.

* * *

There was good news, too. Ashley told us that her school was holding auditions for a London production company and she wanted our permission to take part. Of course, we allowed her to go and only found out later that week that the auditions were for a Fairy Ultra soap powder ad directed by Ken Loach. As a teenager, I had loved his film
Kes:
it was one of my all-time favourite movies and, by the end of the week, we were told that Ashley got the part. I was so proud and could not wait to tell the family and all the customers. Everyone was well chuffed. Even Old George gave her a big hug at the news.

‘You are gonnae be a big star, Ashley Storrie!’ he said, swinging her up high as she ran into his arms.

‘Grandad! I am going to be on television and then you can see me all the time!’ Ashley told him, her eyes wide with excitement.

We were all really excited and Sean, Ashley and I were flown to London for four days and collected at the airport by a big fancy car. We were taken to a hotel near Hampton Court Palace and met the other cast member. This was a young Glaswegian woman who was to play Ashley’s ‘mum’ in the advertisement. Ken Loach came to the hotel and gave Ashley an idea of what was to happen the next day on set. She was up bright and early the next morning and was introduced to all the crew and shown around the big house at East Molesey, near Hampton Court Palace, that was to become her ‘home’ for the shoot. Sean and I sat in a burning hot sunny garden watching the action on one of the monitors.

She spoke her script to camera: ‘Mummy! Daniel dirtied my T-shirt!’ and, every time she said ‘Mummy’ to the actress, I felt weird inside.

Ashley was told to improvise her reaction to situations that Ken set up for her. For one, she was taken up to the top of the stairs in the hallway of the house. Ken threw black-currant juice onto her T-shirt and said, ‘What do you think has happened to you, Ashley?’

She stood, looked down at the big red stain spreading all over her white top, spread her arms out wide and shouted: ‘I have been stabbed!’ Sean and I burst out laughing; the crew all giggled and Ken came back into shot to explain more about what he was expecting her to say about getting her clothes dirty for the Fairy Ultra ad.

At the end of the four days’ filming, just as we were leaving, Ken took Ashley aside on the pavement. He knelt down and spoke quietly to her. I could see her nodding, chatting and smiling as he talked. She hugged him quickly and ran towards us, shouting her goodbyes to him.

‘What did Mr Loach say to you?’ I asked as she climbed into the car that was taking us to the airport.

‘He told me to be a wee girl again and that making films is all silly nonsense.’ She looked at me, smiling. ‘Then I told him I was going to be a movie star when I grow up and he said I have to get an education in case it all works out differently and I said that’s nice but I am going to be a movie star and he said that was good, but educated movie stars are always much better.’

I laughed as the car drove off towards Heathrow Airport, but Ken had no need to worry: we were going to make sure her education always came first. When we got home, we also had to make arrangements for her first Holy Communion. Because her school was Non-Denominational Christian and not specifically Catholic, we had to do this independently. The nearest Catholic church was Glasgow RC Cathedral down on Clydeside, where we had been for marriage guidance: it had a beautiful Gothic chapel with awesome stained glass and wonderful wooden and stone carved interiors.

Ashley had never really attended church much. Some Sundays one of the Catholic regulars from the bar would take her to Mass. I had once taken her to a chapel; she had walked all around the Stations of the Cross with the young priest then, after slowly looking at images of Christ dying all around the room, she turned to the priest and asked, ‘Don’t you have any pictures of him having a happy picnic with his daddy?’

* * *

One night, shortly after Ashley’s Holy Communion, Sean and I had an argument. I walked out and came back an hour later then went to bed in a huff, leaving Sean in the living room and Ashley sleeping in her bedroom. About another hour later, I got up. Sean was still in the living room, just sitting staring into space.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked, then noticed what was lying on the table beside him. ‘Have you taken tablets again?’

‘I really do want to die, Janey,’ he replied. ‘I’m never going to be the right man. I’m always going to be bad. I did everything wrong. I’m a bad man. I am really bad. A bad man.’

Sammy was in the building, so I ran and got him.

‘Sean’s taken something,’ I said.

Sammy took him to the hospital while I found someone to look after Ashley. They kept Sean in for two days. He just kept repeating he was bad and wrong and depressed and wanted to die.