The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 (24 page)

  “See?  Whit did Ah tell ye, hen?”

  Silence.

  “Er, ur ye awright, Helen?  Here, get yer laughing gear roond this,” Sally soothed, haunin Helen a lighted fag.

  “Ah never said that.  In fact, Ah never came oot wae any ae that tripe, so Ah didnae,” Helen whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Ah knew as soon as Ah clapped eyes oan that turgid wee snake that he wis a shark, so Ah did.  Wid anywan listen tae me?  Wid they Jack-fuck.”

  “Oh, Sally, whit am Ah gonnae dae?  Ah’m goosed, so Ah am.”

  “Naw, ye’re no,” Sally laughed, unconvincingly,  “Who the bloody hell reads any ae that politics shite in a newspaper, eh?  Christ, hauf ae Springburn cannae even read and the wans that kin, urnae gonnae bother aboot reading this pish, Ah kin assure ye.  Look at me...Sharon hid tae read it oot tae me, seeing as Ah couldnae find they glasses ae mine and even if Ah hid found them, Ah still widnae hiv gied that shite a second glance.”

  Helen smiled through her tears thankfully, across at her neighbour.  Helen knew Sally could barely write her name, and wis thankful fur her support.

  “Ah’m drooned before Ah even get started.  How could he write that?  It’s aw bloody lies.”

  “That’s why Ah don’t buy newspapers.  Getting hit wae aw that crap fae the news oan the telly is bad enough withoot reading it in the bloody paper.”

  “Look how many people we know who work fur The Corporation, Sally?  They’ll aw think Ah’m oot tae get them...”

  “Naw they won’t.”

  “...it’s the tap officials who operate behind closed doors in cahoots wae the likes ae JP Donnelly Ah wis referring tae, no the ordinary worker.”

  “Helen, Ah’m telling ye, hen, don’t get yer knickers in a twist o’er this.  Get up aff yer arse, and get oot there.  That’s the Helen that everywan knows and expects.  Don’t let the basturts grind ye doon.”

  “Ah’m sorry, Sally, bit it’s no as easy as that, believe you me,” Helen mumbled, feeling the blisters oan her feet warming up fur another day’s torment.

  “Of course it is.  Ah’m up here tae drag ye oot ae this hoose tae get tore intae them.  Don’t let that auld sly badger, JP, get tae ye.  He’s behind aw this, so he is,” Sally pleaded.

  “Oh, Ah don’t know,” Helen said, biting her bottom lip doubtfully.

  “And another thing, whit dis culling mean?  Issie said she asked Harry Bouffant and he said he thought it wis some posh highland fish soup.  Christ, kin ye imagine turning wan ae Salty Tony’s good fish suppers intae soup?  Whit a waste, eh?”

  “Thinning...thinning oot,” Helen murmured, looking doon at the article again.

  “Whit is?”

  “Tae cull something.  It means cutting oot, reducing something tae a manageable size, so it dis.”

  “Ah suppose that makes sense.  Ah couldnae imagine slinging wan ae Salty Tony’s big battered haddocks intae the soup pot withoot cutting it intae wee bits first...if Ah wis that way inclined, that is.”

  “Oh, Sally, hen, whit wid Ah dae withoot you and aw the lassies, eh?” Helen sniffled, reaching across and taking Sally’s hauns in hers, unable tae stoap the tears fae rolling doon her cheeks.  

Chapter Forty Four

  Mary stubbed her fag oot in the metal Capstan ashtray oan her desk, withoot taking her eyes aff ae the page.  It wis shite.  Pure drivelling unadulterated crap, wae a capital C.  Whit hid she been thinking ae?  She looked at the heider fur the umpteenth time.  ‘Whit Scottish Wummin Will Be Wearing in Scotland in 1972.’   It totally contradicted the banner at the tap ae the page announcing tae the world that Mary Marigold, Scotland’s foremost wummin’s journalist, wis launching her new column fur wummin, aboot wummin, in Scotland’s maist exciting and forward-thinking newspaper.  Even her smiling wee photo oan the tap right-haun side ae the page, beaming oot at the reader, looked like something aff ae a wanted poster.  Whit hid started oot as a great idea hid gone aff like a damp squib.  Nae wonder Dandy Maclean, her editor, hidnae uttered a word, other than tae murmur that ‘it’s early days yet,’ when she’d asked him whit he thought.  She’d jist put his lack ae enthusiasm doon tae the fact ae him being a pipe smoking, Welsh rarebit eating, blubbering auld idiot, who’d obviously been too long editing The Green Fingers gardening column fur the past twenty three years tae know anything other than the size and texture ae a bag ae Kerr’s Pink totties.  Christ, whit wid he know aboot whit every wummin wanted?  In fact, noo that she thought aboot it, lighting up another fag, even Pearl, her new apprentice gofer, hidnae seemed aw that impressed.  Mary hid goat Pearl tae rip oot fashion articles fae aw the magazines, efter sending her oot tae buy them fae the wee paper shoap beside the bus stoap, jist ootside the main entrance ae The Echo.  Mary hid thought Pearl’s reticence in praising the article hid been due tae the fact that Pearl hid obviously gone aff in the huff because aw her suggestions oan whit wid be good tae go intae the new column, hid been rejected oot ae haun by yours truly.

  “So, whit dae ye think then, Pearl?” she’d asked Pearl before taking it next door tae Dandy, the spud expert.

  “Er, aye, no bad.”

  “No bad?”

  “Ah like some ae the dresses in the photos, bit they’re no tae ma taste, so they’re no.”

  “Pearl, how auld ur ye?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “And how auld dae ye think the models in the photos ur?”

  “Er, aboot twenty odd.  Why?”

  “So, ye’ll admit yer tastes ur...jist that bit mair, er...how wid ye put it...wee lassie-ish...as opposed tae the mair sophisticated girl-aboot-toon kind ae thing that Ah’m trying tae project?”

  “And expensive.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Well, wance Ah eventually get tae that sophisticated, grown-up stage...jist like yersel...Ah’m still no sure that Ah’d be seen deid in the...”

  “Whit?” Mary hid interjected, eyes narrowing.

  “...er, be able tae afford the kind ae prices quoted under the photos.”

  “Expensive?  They’re no expensive...no fur whit they ur.  Christ, Pearl, if ye want that sophisticated look that shouts oot confidence, sleekness, grace, S-T-Y-L-E, style, then ye’ll need tae wise up.  How else ur ye gonnae attract aw they big rich hunks oot ae their fancy big hooses doon in Balmaha, tae buzz aroond that tight wee arse ae yers like bees roond a honey-pot, eh?  Us modern wummin need tae take the plunge and invest in the image...the look...the confidence...that says that we kin go anywhere and dae anything we want.”

  “That sounds like wan ae they Martini adverts ye see in between the films at the pictures tae me, so it dis.”

  “Christ, Pearl, nae wonder ye left school withoot any qualifications, wae an attitude like that,” she’d retorted, like an auld hen.

  Mary felt a wave ae depression descend, that threatened tae suffocate her, and left her feeling the same as she’d felt efter some dirty, selfish basturt hid silently let aff a deadly fart at The Odeon up in Renfield Street a few evenings previously.  It kind ae crept up oan her tae start wae and jist when she realised that something wisnae quite right, it grabbed her by the throat and held oan until her senses wur completely paralysed and she felt her heid spinning uncontrollably.  She quickly reached fur another fag and flipped the paper o’er oan tae the front page.  Benson hid telt her that when she felt an oncoming attack approaching, she should dae something quickly tae distract hersel and take her mind aff ae her misery.  The heidline made her feel even mair dejected and useless.

  ‘Torture Factory Discovered’ screamed the banner heidline.  She looked at the grim-looking building sitting in the black and white photo, that hid a polis constable staunin guard ootside whit looked like two big factory doors that said 'Nae Parking' oan them.

  ‘Polis in Glesga hiv reported that they’ve discovered whit appears tae be a torture chamber at 347 Garscube Road, Coocaddens, early yesterday evening.  Whilst nae bodies hiv been found, paraphernalia and other implements associated wae torture hiv been discovered in the disused factory.  Chief Superintendent Bob Mackerel, heid ae the city’s murder squad, confirmed late last night that they’re no ruling oot a connection between activities at the factory and the recent spate ae serious violence, including the murder ae Mr Thomas Simpson, the notorious Glesga gangster fae Possilpark.  As readers will recall, Mr Simpson wis shot deid oan Hogmanay in the stairwell ae his love-nest, in the arms ae his senior social worker lover, Mrs Alison Crawford, wife ae Mr George Crawford, Assistant Governor ae Polmont Borstal, near Falkirk.  Mrs Crawford is still being treated fur life-threatening injuries in the city’s Royal Infirmary, efter being shot in the throat during the incident.  Her cuckolded husband, Mr George Crawford, wis still unavailable fur comment last night.  Chief Superintendent Sam Bison, heid ae the Serious Crime and Intelligence Division confirmed that the flairs and walls ae the factory wur covered in whit appeared tae be human blood.

  “Although some ae the walls hiv red splattered brackish stains oan them, which look tae hiv been there a while and could be dried blood, there is evidence ae recent criminal activity within the building as well,” Superintendent Bison stated.

  When asked if the evidence involved fresh blood, Assistant Chief Constable Jack Tipple, who chaired the press conference, nodded before adding,

  “The City ae Glesga Polis are at an early stage ae their investigation.  Oor forensic teams will be at the scene fur a number ae days and we ask members ae the press tae be patient and let us get oan wae the job unhindered.  We intend tae take oor time wae this investigation, tae make sure we discover the causes ae the disturbing evidence found at the scene.  As yet, identification ae human matter discovered and who it belongs tae, his still tae be established.  We hiv, however, been able tae establish a major underworld figure as hivving links tae the building, through ownership ae the factory, bit Ah am, as yet, unable tae identify that person, at this moment in time.”’

  Mary threw the paper aside.  Jist two weeks ago, that story and heidline wid’ve been written by her.  Noo, aw she hid oan her hauns wis a piece ae dribbling shite oan page thirty seven that gied a dose ae free publicity tae the wummin’s department ae The Hoose ae Fraser, in exchange fur a commitment ae a future interview wae Sir Shuggie Fraser...wow, whit a bloody hoot, that wid be, she groaned.  She looked across the stack ae boxes tae where little Miss Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep wis keeping her heid doon.

  “Pearl?”

  Silence.

  “Pearl, Ah know ye’re there.  Kin ye come across here fur a second...please?”

  The things Ah hiv tae dae aboot here tae get a bit ae respect, Mary sighed tae hersel as the carrot heid and freckled face appeared above the boxes.

  “Did ye jist call me, Miss Marigold?  Sorry, Ah wis jist packing ma stuff...”

  “Look, furget aw that, hen.  Come o’er here and take a seat.  Ignore ma last instruction, eh?”

  “Bit, Ah thought that...”

  “Naw, look, here, take a seat,” Mary said, swiping the pile ae torn magazines aff ae the chair and oan tae the flair beside her cramped desk.

  Mary looked at Pearl, staunin there, dried tear streaks oan her cheeks, pencil and pad in haun, looking wary.  She nodded tae the empty chair and watched the lassie sit doon.  It wis hard tae tell if she wis cocky under aw they freckles.  Mary still wanted tae fire the arse aff ae the cheeky wee bitch, bit no through papping the blame oan tae her fur Mary’s ain decision tae write her first feature oan whit every wummin in Scotland wis clearly no gonnae be wearing that summer, nor the summer efter that, at they bloody prices.  Christ, she’d be lucky tae afford the clothes hersel.

  “Look, Ah’m sorry, Ah didnae mean tae ask ye tae clear yer desk...”

  “Bit...”

  “Naw, listen tae me, it’s nothing tae dae wae you or anything ye’ve said and done,” Mary said quickly, haudin up her haun fur silence.  “Ah’ve been upset and under a lot ae pressure since they shifted me fae the crime desk doon tae here in the dungeons.  Ah widnae expect ye tae understaun, bit that’s how it is,” she confessed, letting her voice trail aff, as she looked at the white, freckled face under the bushy red hair.

  Silence.

  “And another thing...ye wur right...the article turned oot worse than whit Ah thought it wid...in fact, it wis pretty shite, if Ah’m being honest,” Mary admitted, feeling her depression starting tae well up again.

  “Ach well, at least they stuck it oan page thirty seven, where it widnae be seen, let alone read by anywan, Miss Marigold.  Nowan probably noticed it,” Pearl said supportively.

  Silence.

  “Oh, er, sorry, Ah didnae mean tae...”

  Mary couldnae help hersel and burst intae uncontrollable hysterical laugher.  She hid tae haud oan tae the desk wae her haun as she buckled up.

  “Whit?” Pearl asked her, frowning, before bursting oot laughing hersel.

  “Oh, Pearl, ye’re something else, so ye ur, hen,” Mary squealed, gaun aff oan wan again, as she snatched a Handy Andy fae the packet sitting oan her desk and wiped the tears fae her eyes.

  “Aye, Ah know, ma teachers always said Ah’d get masel shot wan ae these days, so they did,” Pearl replied matter-ae-factly, as the baith ae them howled again.

  The typing pool crowd aw turned tae stare at the two mad yins up in the corner.

  “Aw Christ, help ma boab, Ah think Ah’m gonnae pish masel,” Mary managed tae get oot before the cackling took control ae them again.

  Efter five minutes and a few false starts, Mary managed tae speak again.

  “Look, Pearl, believe it or no, Ah’m no the stuck-up bitch that ye think Ah am.  The reason Ah decided tae let ye go is because, no only dae Ah think there isnae a future fur you in this dump, bit Ah’ll be lucky tae last another week masel, so Ah will.”

  “Bit why?”

  “Because, believe it or no, Ah’m actually good at ma job, bit Ah’m a crime journo, so Ah am.”

  “Journo?”

  “Journalist.  Ah’m no wan fur sitting oan ma fud, writing aboot expensive clothes that nowan kin afford in the first place.”

  “Ah think ye dress amazingly.  Ah’d love tae be able tae afford tae go oot at night in the stuff ye put oan tae wear tae yer work, so Ah wid.”

  “So, why wur ye no intae ma article aboot style then?”

  Silence.

  “C’mone noo, we’ve goat o’er that.  Ye kin say whitever ye want...Ah won’t be offended.”

  Silence.

  “C’mone noo, Pearl, be honest wae me...Ah won’t take the hump…Ah promise.”

  “Well, as long as ye don’t get yer diddies in a twist, here’s ma opinion, fur whit it’s worth.  Ye wur clearly searching fur something exciting tae write aboot...something glamorous or whit wummin really thought aboot things these days, bit insteid, ye went fur Biba’s newest creation and Diane Von Furstenberg’s Jersey wrap dresses, hinging aff ae beautiful models that looked as if they hidnae hid a decent pie, beans and chips, since they wur twelve.  Ah thought ye wur looking in the wrang places, so Ah did.”

  Silence.

  “Well, ye did ask.  Ah’m sorry,” Pearl quickly added.

  “So, why did ye no say something before noo?”

  “Ah tried tae, bit Ah wis a bit scared.”

  “Whit?  Ae me?”

  “Er, well, ye’ll probably find this hard tae believe, Miss Marigold, bit there’s jist a wee hint ae Cruella Deville under aw that pan stick, so there is,” Pearl replied, looking at the ceiling, immediately regretting her frankness.

  “Ma whit?” Mary demanded, haun automatically touching her greasy face.  “Ur ye suggesting Ah’m caking too much Pan Stick oan that kisser ae mine, ya cheeky wee cow?  Christ, and here’s me thinking that ye should be applying it by the spade load tae hide they horrible freckles ae yours,” she retorted, before bursting oot laughing, followed by Pearl.

  “Look, Ah know ye suggested that Ah dae something oan Hollywood stars or pop stars like Melanie, Joni Mitchell or Carole King, bit it wis jist too predictable.”

  “Aye, bit that’s whit people like ma pals wid read aboot, plus they aw wear funky, cool gear, so they dae.”

  “And ye think that’s whit should be in the column next week then?”

  “Oh no, Ah think ye kin dae better than that.”

  “So, why did ye try and get me tae dae an article oan them if ye don’t want me tae write aboot them next week then?”

  “Ah only mentioned them because ye wur determined tae write aboot fashion.  Ah still think ye could dae better.  Wan ae ma pals Kim Sui is at college.  She’s jist come back fae London and wis raving aboot a designer called, er, er...”