Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival (39 page)

All was well until Whisky leapt off the cupboard and landed hard on the board with his paw firmly trapping the train as it came through the bridge. ‘It’s not a mouse, it’s a train!’ I exclaimed, but the cat was so excited, his eyes were flashing, tail twitching and his hunting instinct took over as he tried to bite the train. He sat with his mouth open waiting for the train to come round again. It went straight in between his teeth and the cat looked at me, surprised and embarrassed. I laughed and thought of all the trouble this was going to cause Ashley when she played with her trains. Whisky was never going to stop stalking the train and, even when I held him, he struggled to get out of my arms, claws bared trying to stretch out to catch the wee moving toy. I took Whisky with me and closed the door to the playroom, then walked over to Old Wullie’s door to see if he needed some tea or supper before the busy Christmas rush took over downstairs in the bar.

I banged on the door.

No answer.

I could hear Old Wullie’s television blaring away in the room. I kept knocking louder.

No answer.

My heart missed a beat. I felt a strange shiver at the back of my neck. I could hear Bob Geldof’s familiar Band Aid song, written for the starving in faraway Ethiopia, blaring clearly on television.

I walked back down the hall and went into our own flat. Sean was sitting at the kitchen table reading with Ashley.

‘Mummy! I can read “The Night Before Christmas” all by myself! Ask Dad!’ She smiled up at me.

‘Go into the living room and stick on the telly, Ashley,’ I said, lifting her from Sean’s knee. ‘A big Christmas film is about to come on. I need to speak to Daddy.’

Ashley ran off happily towards the living room.

‘Sean, I think Old Wullie is dead. There’s no answer at his door and I am really scared to go in there.’ I reached out to pull Sean’s arm and get him up off the chair. ‘Please get the keys and go check, eh?’

He got up in silence and left the room. He lifted the set of master keys off the hook behind our door and walked into Old Wullie’s hallway. I followed, after making sure Ashley was settled in our living room. By the time I caught up with him, Sean had Wullie’s door open only a crack; he was crouched down, trying to keep the dog calm on the other side of the door; he turned to me and said, ‘Janey, the door seems to be jammed and the dog won’t let me in. She is growling. She likes you. Come and talk to her and see if we can get her out into the hall so I can get in there.’

I leaned down and looked through the crack in the door. The room was in semi-darkness but I could see the television was lying on its side flickering grey and silver, shimmering on the brown carpet; it was still playing the Band Aid song very loudly.

The dog’s nose came poking through and sniffed at me. I instinctively put my hand to her and she licked my palm.

‘Hello Sara, how’s my girl, eh? There’s ma good big lassie, eh? Coming oot, hen, eh?’ I tried to push the door wider, but it felt as though something was jammed behind it, though not stuck fast. I could see the soles of Wullie’s feet in his slippers facing me on the floor. I tried to encourage Sara to come out to me, but I watched through the crack in the door as the big dog turned away from me and lay beside the old man and whimpered.

‘Come on, girl! Come on,’ I shouted to her.

She looked at Wullie, then looked at me, then back to Wullie and slowly pushed her way through the slim space that the jammed door created. I left Sean behind as I ran quickly down the hall with the dog, avoiding colliding with her as we both leapt down the stairs, her long claws clicking all the way and skidding on the grey stone slabs that led to the outside door. I pushed it wide open; she ran through, jumped the wee red fence, stood there, squatted and seemed to piss for ages. The poor dog had held that urine inside her for who knows how long, because she would never do her toilet indoors, no matter what the circumstances.

I was sure Wullie was dead. I stood outside with Sara and hugged her when she had finished pishing. I didn’t want to go back upstairs as I did not want to know about the death. I somehow thought if I stayed outside, I would not need to know. But I also knew I had to go up in case Ashley wandered through looking for her daddy. So I went into the Weavers bar and asked a customer to keep an eye on the dog for me. Big Sara slouched under a table in the corner, looking forlorn. I climbed back up the stairs very slowly and, as I reached the top, I heard Sean walking down Old Wullie’s hallway and he met me as I reached the door.

‘He is dead, Janey. He is just lying there on the floor. There is some blood where he hit his head. He must have fallen or collapsed – I don’t know – but I have already called the police.’ Sean pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He sat on the cold stone steps. ‘Ma dad was worried about him as well, Janey. Maybe I should have kept a better eye on him … Fucking Merry Christmas, everybody!’ he sighed.

I tried to reassure him but I knew he was not listening: ‘There is no way you could have known he was gonna die, Sean. We did wur best.’

‘I can’t tell ma da,’ Sean sighed. ‘This will set him back. And Wullie didn’t know my dad was in hospital. It’s all fucking falling apart!’ I could hear his voice cracking as he put his arms around himself and sat hugging his tummy.

Two policemen’s radios broke the silence as they mounted the stairs.

‘Sean Storrie?’

‘Yes. The body’s in there.’ Sean stood up and led them down Old Wullie’s hallway. I went back into our flat and made some tea. I arranged for the staff to stay on a bit later to give me time to get organised for the late shift. Ashley’s babysitter had turned up – Clare was a daughter of my Dad’s cousin and she was told what had happened. She was in control within minutes, lifting a curious Ashley up and away from the door.

‘Why are there policemen in at Old Wullie’s?’ I could hear Ashley ask.

Clare spoke quickly. ‘You are not allowed to ask that many questions on Christmas Eve – didn’t ye know that, madam? So let’s get the mince pies ready for Santa!’

I went down to the bar to work. I stood watching all the late-night revellers smiling and singing along to their favourite Christmas songs from the jukebox and went round to pick up the empty glasses. When I got to the wee tables round the side where the telly was housed, I stopped and almost broke down. There was Sara, still lying under a table, watching the door, waiting for Old Wullie to come through and join her; she never let him even go to the toilet on his own, she was always with him, even when he sang on the karaoke; she even stood faithfully at his side, like an uncomfortable child averting her eyes whenever Wullie belted out ‘Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing’. I recalled how I used to laugh at the look on the dog’s face as Wullie sang that song with his baggy pockets full of tins of salmon. I had never seen an Alsatian embarrassed before then. I walked over to her and stroked her soft blonde tufty coat. My first priority would be to get someone to look after her; Wullie was dead but Sara was alive. I made a few phone calls and that same night Sara had a new home.

Sean came down later and told me the police doctor reckoned it looked like a heart attack; there were no suspicious circumstances but they needed to talk to me to finalise statements. I sat and told them everything I could remember and they took notes.

‘We will probably be in touch to let you know what is happening. We will take his body away and deal with the paperwork as soon as we can. Christmas is not a good time to die, y’know,’ the big policeman told me as he tucked his notebook away. ‘Though is there ever a good time to die?’ he added sarcastically, then he looked sheepishly at Sean: ‘Sorry, Sean, that was stupid of me. How is yer dad? Does he know about Wullie?’

Sean looked shocked then looked away; he realised the policeman knew nothing about Old George’s situation and was just being polite.

‘I will tell him in the morning,’ Sean said flatly.

Christmas Day was hard for us all. We videotaped Ashley opening up her presents and kept smiles on our faces at all times. We took her next door to see the train set all arranged. I looked at Old Wullie’s door. I knew his body had been removed but didn’t want to freak Ashley out by telling her he had died in there. She still thought Old Wullie was alive.

‘Mummy! Daddy! I
love
this train set! Thanks so much!’ She sat mesmerised watching the old-fashioned trains glide around their miniature town. Sean managed to lift it all up and bring it next door for her to sit in our hall with, but Ashley was having trouble stopping Whisky from dragging the trains off the track: he was still convinced the small moving objects were prey and deserved to be attacked.

After lunch, Sean went to visit his dad in hospital and came back knowing he would have to tell Ashley about Old Wullie dying – we had by now informed all the people in the building and the customers were all talking about it. Sean looked beaten. He told me he felt he had let his dad down by not looking after Wullie. He felt in his suspicious Scottish heart that deaths came in threes and that his father might be next. Old George was not getting any better and each visit only confirmed Sean’s fears. The seven Storrie brothers were now all back in Glasgow except Michael, who was serving time in a German prison. I hadn’t been told what the crime was but knew through overheard conversations that he would be home soon, so I presumed it could not have been that serious.

When we told Ashley about Old Wullie’s death, she cried in my arms. I went through to his room with the police to check out some of his documents.

‘Were you his daughter?’ the policeman asked.

‘No, I just lived next door and always knew him. As far as I am aware Wullie never had any family, though I might be wrong; he was very private.’ On Old Wullie’s wall was a big colour photo of Ashley as a baby; he had hung it up beside his calendar. He was fonder of her and Sara the dog than he was of anyone I knew. He had never had much time for me but would chat away to Ashley whenever she played in the hallway. She stayed out of her playroom all over the Christmas holidays.

‘I don’t like being in that flat alone,’ she explained to me. ‘I feel like someone doesn’t like me. When Wullie was there I always knew he would look after me.’

I tried to talk her round, but she begged me to bring her toys through into our flat and even the cat could not be persuaded to go back into Old Wullie’s flat. The next few days were spent organising his funeral. I could see Sean was worried that this might be a rehearsal for his own dad’s death. We put an obituary in the
Glasgow Evening Times
to make sure Old Wullie’s old cronies would know and former workmates from the council where he had worked as a welder/blacksmith. The funeral went well and loads of his old friends turned up to say goodbye to the old character. We invited them all back to the pub where we laid on his favourite music and lots of salmon sandwiches.

On the morning of his funeral, a letter had arrived for him from the Salvation Army. It said that they had traced and were contacting him as William Kerr – Old Wullie’s real name – on behalf of a woman in Leeds. She thought she was his daughter by a relationship with a Glaswegian woman and William was invited to write back and make contact with her. They had included a copy of a very old picture the woman had of Wullie and her mother smiling together. The picture was, indeed, of Old Wullie as a young man and it broke my heart to call the woman in Leeds and explain to her that he
was
her father but he had been cremated the same day her letter arrived. After the call, I posted off Old Wullie’s wallet, watch and pictures of him that we had gathered over the years. I hoped it gave her some peace. In a strange way, it made me feel good that there was a family member somewhere missing him as he had had no family at the funeral service.

Now New Year approached and Old George’s health was deteriorating; Sean explained that it was OK for me to go visit him now. The other daughters-in-law had all paid visits. I was very apprehensive. I felt that, with seven sons to visit him and the emotions that they would all be feeling, the last thing they or he would want was for an outside witness to the pain. Least of all me. I was easily the least liked by his sons. I decided not to go and Sean accepted it well. But I was worried that Ashley might be horrified if she found out she could have said goodbye to her beloved grandad and I was torn between not telling her and pushing Sean into telling her about her Grandad George and maybe even taking her to see him. Sean decided she should be told he was in hospital but there was no way she was going to be taken to see him.

‘Janey, he gets angry and struggles. He is in a wheelchair. He has to be hand-fed, for fucksake. Ashley would scream if she saw him like that!’

Sean patiently explained to Ashley that her grandad was very ill in hospital and needed to stay there till he got better. He told her it had to be a secret and not to let anyone know just yet. It always amazed me that, whenever Sean told Ashley something had to be a secret, she never questioned him or debated it, she accepted his word. More importantly she never ever told anyone. Not a soul.

On New Year’s Eve, we all gathered at Toad Hall for the traditional Storrie ‘party’. There was different music playing in each room you entered – the kitchen was blaring with local radio, the main sitting room where George always sat had Scottish Television’s New Year celebrations belting from it and, in the dining room, the stereo was blasting out some strange rap music. It felt like the music was there to fill the void that George had left behind. The brothers wandered from room to room, stalking each other like cats who had forgotten or were checking out their territory, touching old ornaments that had lain on the shelves for years.

‘Was this the china thing my ma had in Greenhead Street?’ asked one, as he delicately inspected a fine figurine between his thick fingers.

‘Naw, Da bought that at a sale, remember? You were there – it wiz the day the Pope came to Scotland. You bought a silver cake slice that day; there wiz millions of crap china stuff and nick-nacks an’ you hud to stop Da from buying loads o’ shite. He really liked mad ornaments, didn’t he?’