Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival (41 page)

She would sit there and nod her head in agreement.

But, when the much-hyped tape was eventually aired, it just sounded like Old George making a long inventory of his possessions, his cars, his cash, his bank accounts, his property, something he referred to as ‘hard-working money’ and his ‘various miscellaneous materials’ – I wondered what those were; I thought perhaps pieces of jewellery, a watch and some of his Masonic regalia. Although a Catholic, Old George, like many of the policemen he encountered, had been a Freemason all his working life. The tape said that ‘the deal still stands with Sean’, meaning, of course, that Sean was still buying the pub and the Weavers building. This was no shock, as everyone knew it already. We would continue paying into the account Old George had set up for our building. We would own and run the Weavers. Philip would continue to run the Palaceum. Old George also mentioned that Sandra was ‘to be looked after’ although he didn’t explain how and left her no money at all in his will.

The cash the seven brothers knew about was divided equally seven ways, but the tape finished abruptly. There were no goodbyes or any natural end to his conversation. Old George’s voice just suddenly stopped in mid-sentence. This aroused suspicions all round. The other six brothers were convinced their father had mentioned cash he had put aside for them and they now assumed Young George and Sandra were conspiring to keep it.

* * *

In early March, Sean stood behind the bar in the Weavers as he opened an envelope. I watched him smile and then saw big fat tears drip down his face: ‘Janey! We got the grant from the council to renovate the building!’ He turned from the bar and walked into the back shop. ‘That’s good news eh?’ But his tears perplexed me. Sean realised I was looking at him and explained, ‘My da never got to see it. All those years he talked about what we would do when we got the grant and now he won’t see it.’

Within days, architects and builders were all over the building and plans drawn up years ago were now set in motion. We, of course, had to put up cash as well and the first sum of money we put in matched the cash that Old George gave Sean in his will. It was a huge financial investment and, at some moments, it scared me just thinking about how much we would have to pay, but the end result was that we would get a good living from the hard work we had put in – and a shiny new place to stay. Slowly and diligently, we managed to get temporary homes for the people who lived upstairs and we got the whole building empty; the pub itself was not due to be evacuated until October, in about six months’ time; then it, too, was set for renovation. Sean and I started to look for somewhere for us to stay ourselves. I wanted to go up the West End nearer to Ashley’s school but, then, we got a phone call from Young George.

‘Sean, just come up here an’ live in Toad Hall. Da would have wanted that.’

‘Erm, I will ask Janey if that’s what she wants, OK?’ Sean replied.

It was most certainly what I did
not
want.

‘It will be free,’ Sean tried to persuade me. ‘And George is moving out. Sandra will go to the caravan in Wemyss Bay and we will have the place to ourselves. Come on, Ashley will love living near Tollcross Park!’ he pleaded with me.

I was sure this was going to be a bad move, but I eventually agreed. Ashley and Sean loved it. I spent three days hauling boxes and bags filled with all our possessions into the big house and put our ginger tom cat Whisky’s box down in the back hallway; he was very excited to have such a big house to explore. He ran from room to room, his back slung low as he anticipated danger around every corner, his tail twitching, ready to pounce, possibly stimulated by the distinct aroma of dog piss. Sandra’s two wee Yorkshire
Terriers
had pissed or shat on every surface they could find. The carpets in the hallways still felt constantly damp with dog piss and the smell was sometimes unbearable. I scoured and scrubbed those hall carpets till the dye leaked but never got rid of the smell. Still living out in the pound at the back of the house were Old George’s two dogs Brindle the black evil vicious Alsatian and Junior the blond passive happy Alsatian. Brindle had an outhouse right beside the back door. To feed him we had to shout over the half-stable door at the back, ‘In dog! Get in!’ and he would run in, barking, snarling and growling at us, then turn his back and gobble the food. Junior would watch the whole scene with genuine canine bemusement. With his big blond head tipped to the side, he would wait for Brindle to finish and only then would he risk eating his own food. I would let Junior come into the house and sit by the fire as I stroked him. One night, he sat by the fireside with me and leaned his big chin on Old George’s armchair. His soulful brown eyes looked at Ashley and he whined sadly.

‘Mummy,’ she said gently, as she stroked Junior’s neck. ‘He is crying for Grandad George.’ We both sat on the floor with him and wept. Ashley hugged the dog and wrapped her arms around his middle. ‘I miss him too, Junior,’ she said to his tummy.

Ashley had moved into the bedroom that used to be her daddy’s when he was a teenager: she loved it there and, when she got home from school, sat at the windows that overlooked the dog pound, looking into the massive back garden and, beyond, across into Tollcross Park. Sean and I settled into Old George’s bedroom, which quite freaked me at first, but I changed all the bedclothes, re-arranged the furniture, washed down the wardrobes and soon made the room ours. The wardrobes were still stuffed with Old George’s belongings and Sandra still had stuff lying around, but I made space where I could.

Living in Toad Hall was fine so long as we had no Storrie visitors. We were a family not used to people staying in the same house as us and I liked to be able to sit in my T-shirt and knickers and watch TV. But, despite all assurances that we would have the house to ourselves because Young George would be in London and Dick would be staying with his friends, we always got them or another of the six brothers coming to stay. When we came home from school with Ashley, the familiar smell of toast and hash smoke would greet us. I hated her being surrounded by cannabis and heavy cigarette smokers. No watching cartoons on TV for her, no playing downstairs, she had to go up to her own room to avoid the drugs and confrontations.

‘Holy fuck!’ I moaned to Sean. ‘I cannae cope with this. Ashley has tae hide away and do her homework in her bedroom coz they bastards cannae stay away. Fuck it all, tell them they huv to go or I go!’ I shouted loud enough for them to hear.

Later, as he passed me on the stairs, Young George smiled, blew smoke in my face and sniggered, ‘If you go and take Sean with ye, I will fucking take yer pub!’

Sean heard this and ran upstairs screaming at Young George. A shouting match ensued. It sounded like blows would be struck. I was horrified. Ashley started screaming for her daddy. Young George came running downstairs and shouted at me, ‘This is no’ your hoose! We can stay here if we want!’

‘I didnae want to come here,’ I snapped back. ‘Ya fucking dope heed! Naebody likes ye, ya big weird cunt! No wonder yer mammy didnae want ye and gave ye to yer granny!’ Old George had told me he always felt guilty about Young George as he had been given away to his granny as a child. ‘Even yer mammy hated ye!’ I screamed at him. ‘Fuck off!’

Young George stopped shouting and stood stock-still, stunned. There was complete silence. He looked up the stairs at Sean, who was looking down at him. He looked at me in shock, then stormed off.

After that, the fighting never stopped. Young George would let Brindle the evil Alsatian stalk the house and Ashley hid, terrified, in her room as the big dog panted at her door. Young George would spit on her and call her names.

‘Mummy! Uncle George says bad things to me!’ she told me one day, holding onto my hand in the kitchen. Something inside me snapped. I had had enough. It was time to make Sean choose. Them or us.

‘I don’t know what they’re planning behind my back,’ he explained to me. ‘I need to be here where the threat is. I want to keep my enemies close. I’ve got them plotting; I’ve got you fucking screaming at me; I don’t know what to dae.’

I thought maybe he was planning his own suicide.

* * *

The pub was still ticking over, although the whole place was now covered in scaffolding and workers wearing yellow hard hats and blue overalls were everywhere. It was strange to work there but not live above. I had got used to running upstairs if I needed to see Ashley or Sean or get something to eat and it drove me mad having to carry a change of clothes each day when I went to work. The builders’ bills came in regularly and we kept up with the payments. The good news was that soon we would have a great new place to stay and lovely new pub to go with it. The bad news was that Sean was becoming overwhelmed by builders’ plans, architect meetings, fights with his brothers, trying to stay calm in his dead father’s house and keeping me happy. He just didn’t have time to grieve properly. Something was always happening either with Young George or Sandra or some brother was moaning to him about another having more money or more property than him. I had my own way to deal with it all: I put on my shoes and ran for an hour round Tollcross Park. I was determined to get fit enough to run the annual ladies’ 10,000 metres street race through the West End of Glasgow in under an hour.

When the actual day of the race came, I was so excited my legs felt like jelly and I was not sure how I would fare because I had never raced against anyone during my training. But I started well and my legs carried me all the way around posh Kelvingrove Park; I never stopped or got out of breath once; I just kept running and running. Sean, my Dad and stepmum were all waiting at the finishing line for me and I came in at just under one hour. Getting that medal round my neck felt like a huge personal achievement for me because, any time I’d won anything before, I’d never got the prize.

Immediately after the race I had a shower, then caught a train to London: my gay friend Findlay had invited me down to see the new Conran restaurant he was running near Tower Bridge. I couldn’t wait to see him; it was ages since we had laughed together and spent time bitching about the world. As soon as I got off the train at Waterloo and into a cab, I relaxed. My legs still ached a bit, but the excitement of getting away for a week on my own soothed my strained muscles. When I arrived at Findlay’s flat in a big Victorian house in Clapham, he came running out to meet the cab and hugged me in the dark street.

‘How are your old Scottish legs then?’ he laughed as he lifted up my bag and led me by the hand through his big blue door. It was a shared flat and there were four people sitting around on the floor and on the few chairs in the living room. ‘Everyone! This is my mate Janey Storrie from Glasgow!’ Each person looked up and said
Hi
to me.

I recognised one: ‘Oh, hello, I know your face!’ I blurted out.

‘Oh here we go, the big superstar!’ Someone laughed out loud.

Andy was an actor from Scotland now working in London. I had recognised him from the
Take The High Road
TV series back home. They were all a really nice bunch of people, mostly working in television acting, wardrobe or production. Findlay was the odd one out as he worked in catering. He took me into his own high-ceilinged room, sparsely furnished except for one wardrobe and a big double bed. I was taken slightly aback: I was expected to sleep with him! It had never entered my mind he would not have a spare room. I realised I had a lot to learn about living in London but I was determined not to let my stupid naivety get in the way of being with all these exciting people in this exciting city. I had never slept beside any man except Sean. Of course, Findlay was gay but it was still weird. I was so tired after running that day that, by the time I was in my cotton pyjamas and lying down, I was fast asleep and I awoke the next morning to find myself wrapped around Findlay’s back.

‘Yuk! Get your breasts off my back, Storrie!’ he giggled as he turned round to hug me front-on. ‘People will say I am straight and throw me out of London! Men with whom I have not yet had sex will shun me for letting your boobs touch me!’

I loved his humour; he laughed at all my wee jokes and impersonations of people from the Weavers and loved to listen as I ranted on about Ashley and Sean. He knew me well enough to take the piss out of me, which was reassuring. I phoned home each day. Sean was coping well, the Weavers was fine and Ashley assured me she was happy enough, but I missed them so much.

* * *

One day, Findlay organised lunch for me at the restaurant he managed: Sir Terence Conran’s new eatery The Chop House was housed on the South Bank of the Thames, amidst the cobblestones and fancy upmarket new flats at Shad Thames. The staff were all dressed in starched white and blacks and appeared to float around as if on wheels, delivering large white plates of delicious food. I was overwhelmed by the sophistication. Findlay’s staff and friends were very cosmopolitan, very well spoken and very tastefully dressed. One woman I sat chatting with was dressed in a fashionably expensive long black linen dress, wore a silver twisted chain around her uniformly tanned throat and her long elegant fingers were adorned with platinum rings and red-painted fingernails. I sat with my hands on my lap and kept my head down, staring at the solitaire ring that Sean had bought me and at the dull clothes which made me feel old-fashioned and very unworthy. I was wearing cheap jeans and a cheap black blouse tucked in with a brown belt. I had a cheap handbag. Findlay saw me frown and slid in beside me on the leather banquette:

‘You all right, sweetheart?’ he asked, lifting up my chin. ‘Missing family?’

‘No, I am OK,’ I whispered to him. ‘I just feel really old-fashioned and I’m scared I will say something wrong in front of your fancy pals. Fuck, Findlay, that woman is so posh –it scares me a wee bit.’

‘Posh my arse, Janey!’ he giggled, twisting my curly hair and playing with it as he told me, ‘She is a 35-year-old corporate wife. She looks good and fucks hard because she wants a new Aga cooker from her husband. Her handbag is worth more than my monthly wages, but she has to stay skinny and have sex with a man who is 57 years old, so she can keep her house in Chelsea … Chin up, Storrie, at least you work for your money and love Sean!’ I smiled at him. We lifted up our two expensive champagne flutes and chinked glasses. ‘Cheers!’ said Findlay. ‘To the woman who married through choice and who is married to a man who has skin that still fits him and makes her smile.’