The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 (40 page)

  “Maybe, bit whit else?” Helen hid asked.

    Silence.

  “Susan?” Helen hid asked her, joining aw the heids that hid swivelled in her direction.

  “That not only is it more likely that the older generation will vote, but that there’s a whole swathe of traditional non-voters,” Susan hid replied.

  “And why dae we think that is?  Nan, why dae ye no vote?”

  “Fur the same reason as you.  It won’t change anything,” Nan hid replied.

  “Exactly.  Nothing will change...or at least...that’s whit people like us hiv been led tae believe because ae people like JP who’ve hid a monopoly oan the decision-making process in the city fur donkey’s years.  Nothing will change because people like JP ur happy that people like us don’t vote.  It means they kin target aw their ain pals and pals ae pals tae get behind them, so when they dae go oot and vote, nowan bit them turn up.  Christ, it’s like a stroll in the park, when ye staun back and think aboot it, so it is.  That’s whit Jeannie is shouting at us fae the diary, so it is.  She’s telling us that if we sit back and dae nothing, then nothing will change.  She’s saying we need tae fight fire wae fire and get oot there and get tore right intae them, so she is.”

  “Bit we’re awready oot there daeing that, so we ur.  Ma poor feet kin testify tae that,” Sharon hid retorted.

  “Aye, we ur, bit we’re trying tae compete wae JP's crowd fur the same people who ur trooping up and doon the street who, if they dae go oot and vote, will mair than likely vote fur JP.  Dis that make sense?” Helen hid asked the blank faces, noticing a smile in Susan’s eyes.

  Silence.

  “Issie, sorry fur bringing this up, hen, bit remember when we wur up claiming a grant fur poor Joe’s funeral expenses?”

  “Aye?”

  “The place wis heaving wae people.  Next door in The Burroo wis the same.  Christ, the queues wur hauf wae doon the drive, so they wur.”

  “If ye're thinking whit Ah think ye're thinking, then furget it,” Issie hid said.

  “Why?”

  “There’s nae way in a month ae Sundays that ye’d get somewan like that big Mary Pickford and that wee Dan ae hers oot ae the door tae vote...unless ye paid them fur their time, that is,” Issie hid said wae authority.

  “Maybe, bit everywan isnae like them.  That place up there is hoaching wae people, wummin like us, whose interests will never get represented because ae whit Nan his jist said.  Bit, whit if people, aw the wummin, actually thought…believed…wur convinced that if they did vote, then things could change fur the better?”

  Silence.

  “How many people up there in they queues, being shunted fae pillar tae post, ur still hivving tae use ootside lavvies in this day and age?  How many live in damp infested hooses that belong tae The Corporation?  How many ae them hiv hid a warrant sale, or the threat ae wan hinging o’er them as The Corporation dae the dirty work oan behauf ae the tic companies who’re making a bomb fae The Corporation’s tenants?  Surely there’s something no right aboot that.  How many ae them hiv been telt tae fu...er, piss aff, when they’ve tried tae get something done aboot the state ae the back courts when the middens hiv been overflowing and the weans hiv been playing in amongst used sanitary towels and shitey nappies?  Where ur the safe play areas fur the weans?  Unless people ur happy fur the weans tae cross some ae the busiest roads in the city tae reach Springburn Park, where ur they expected tae play?  How many people dae we know that hiv been bitten or been woken up by a rat or something worse, running across them when they’ve been in their beds at night?  Aw the people that we stood beside in the queues up there hiv aw, and ur still, suffering fae the same wan-sided stacked deck that wis operating when we wur weans.  Christ, nae wonder wummin like us don’t vote.  Naw, if Ah’m putting masel forward tae represent the people who’ve been oan the receiving end ae JP and his sticky-fingered cronies since time began, then there’s nae better place tae go than up tae the NAB and The Burroo and at least hiv the decency tae ask them tae consider voting fur me.  How many ae these so-called politicians ur still  sitting oan their fat arses doon in George’s Square, who wur there when we wur snappers, eh?  People might no gie a toss aboot politics, bit whit if we gied them a chance tae get their ain back by gieing JP a boot in his auld scrawny hee-haws?"

  “How many, Helen?” Geraldine hid asked.

  “How many whit?”

  “How many ur still aboot since we wur weans?”

  “Eh?  Er…Ah don’t know, bit Ah’ll bet ye a pound tae a penny that the younger wans who’ve taken o’er fae the auld basturts who’ve died through gluttony oan the job ur aw related or connected tae the wans that went before,” Helen hid panted.

  “It’s funny ye should say that.  Ah know at least three current cooncillors, whose faithers and grandfathers sat as cooncillors in the same wards as them years ago,” Elaine hid said.

  “Ah’m telling ye, it's aw corrupt, full ae men who wur in the unions, the masons or the Boys Brigade thegither, who’ve been running the show ever since.”

  “So, whit ur ye saying, Helen?”

  “Aw Ah’m saying is that we hiv tae start targeting everywan who his tae go cap-in-haun up tae The Burroo tae sign oan or the NAB.  The chances ur we’ll know hauf ae them anyway.  As far as JP and his crowd ur concerned, they’re aw losers anyway.  We’ve goat aboot a week tae get oor act thegither.  We aw know whit the issues ur.  Ah widnae think there’s anywan in this room who isnae capable ae gieing it a right good shot.  Whit dae youse think?”

  “Is there no a danger here ae gieing people hope?  Whit if ye get elected and there’s nothing ye kin dae tae alter people’s situations, Helen?” Nan hid asked.

  “Then Ah’ll bloody-well die trying.  People cannae ask fur mair than that,” Helen hid replied defiantly.

  “Ah think it’s pure dead brilliant, so it is,” Ann hid said, as everywan sat wae big grins oan their faces.

  “What about the street work, Helen?” Susan hid asked.

  “We still carry oan wae that, so we dae,  We jist need tae make sure everywan who says they’ll turn up tae help oot, dis.  We’re nearly there, so we ur.  Wan mair concerted push, and we’ll gie JP and that pack ae his the fright ae their lives,” Helen hid urged them, her clench fist raised.

  “Ah’ll speak tae Senga the night and see if she kin get her pals oot again when they finish their work," Ann Jackson hid volunteered.

  “Ah’ll dae the same wae Pearl,” Sharon hid said.

  “And the maws ae the school weans?”

  “We’ll dae a rota between the NAB and The Burroo.  Jemima, Sally, Frances, and Issie will spearheid targeting the maws, starting at the school gates.  The chances ur the maws will know yer ain weans anyway, so that’ll gie youse a way in,” Helen hid reminded them.

“Right, here’s a good wan.  Why don’t we get Blind Bill, who sells The Echo in the mornings and The Evening Times and Citizen at night ootside the railway station oan Springburn Road, tae slip a wee leaflet in tae everywan’s paper before he hauns them o’er,” Patsy hid volunteered.

  “Nice wan, Patsy,” Helen hid said, nodding.

  “Dae ye think he’ll dae it, Patsy?  The last time Ah smiled at him...aboot thirty years ago...he looked at me as if Ah wis asking him oot oan a date, so he did, the grumpy auld git,” Elaine hid pouted.

  “Naw, he’ll be fine, jist so long as we volunteer tae slip the pamphlet between the pages oorsels.”

  “Right, how aboot this.  Dizzy Gillespie is oan the Springburn buses noo, so she is.  How aboot gieing her a stash ae pamphlets tae haun oot tae her passengers?” Issie hid asked.

  “Ooh, is that no a wee bit dodgy?  Ye widnae want her tae lose her job.  Christ, we widnae hear the end ae it,” Sharon hid warned them.

  “Naw, naw, she’ll be selective.  Dizzy will know who tae dish them oot tae, so she will…plus she’d convince a rat that it wis a cat,” Sharon hid said tae mair laughter.

  “So, posters and pamphlets?  How ur we daeing oan that front, Issie?”

  “Nae problem.  That boy ae yers, Johnboy, asked Alex The Manager fae Jonah’s if he’d sponsor ye and Alex said aye.”

  “Johnboy?  Ma Johnboy?  Did ye speak tae Alex yersel?” Helen hid asked, surprised and suspicious.

  “Naw, when Ah bumped intae Johnboy and telt him we wur running oot ae money fur posters, he volunteered tae see whit he could dae.  A couple ae hours later he came roond tae ma hoose wae fifty quid, so he did.  When Ah thanked him, he said no tae thank him, bit tae thank Alex.”

  “Aw, is that no nice?” Nan hid cooed.

  “So, Alex won’t let us put up a poster up in the pub, bit he hits us wae fifty quid?” Helen hid asked, frowning.

  “See, God does work in mysterious ways, Helen,” Susan hid beamed.

  “Ye said ye hid a couple ae pieces ae interesting stuff tae sling intae the mix, Susan.  Yer sister-in-law wis wan.  Wis there anything else?” Betty hid asked, changing the subject.

  “Oh, yes.  I’ve heard that the Liberals, Tories and the Nationalists are demanding an evening debate between the four main candidates, to take place in The Springburn Halls.  JP has already said he’ll not take part, but I’ve provisionally booked the large hall for next Wednesday evening, two days before the voting begins,” Susan hid replied, as aw eyes turned tae her.

  “A debate?  Whit dae ye mean, a debate?” Helen hid asked.

  “They’ve started doing this down in England.  It’s usually the candidates who know they’re not going to win who demand it.  They believe they can score points off the main candidate, particularly if they can manage to drum up a large turnout of their supporters.”

  “Dis it work?”

  “It’s been known to.  The popular candidate, although reluctant, usually gives in as the opposition make a big deal out of it and embarrasses him or her into attending.  If JP agrees, it's likely he’ll have all his supporters turn up.”

  “Well, he won’t hiv me tae worry aboot, so he’ll no.  There’s nae way Ah’m gonnae staun up and speak in front ae anywan.”

  “Oh, well, I wouldn’t worry.  JP is as equally against it as you are, Helen.  I would be very surprised if he agreed.  He would have more to lose than to gain,” Susan hid said.

Chapter Sixty Seven

  Mary dreaded the phone ringing.  The last time it hid wrang, it hid been Benson ringing tae see if she wis awright.  The call must’ve lasted aw ae five seconds.

  “Fur Christ’s sake, Benson, whit hiv Ah telt ye?  If Ah hear anything, Ah’ll gie ye a shout,” she’d hissed, slamming doon the receiver.

  She wis aw o’er the place and smoking like a chimney.  Wan minute she’d been thinking aboot jacking her job in, and then, efter the shit hid hit the fan oan the fourth flair wae the social worker feature, she’d become desperate tae haud oan tae it.  Whit wis that aw aboot, she kept asking hersel.  She’d initially blamed Benson.  If he hidnae been oot and aboot, being wined and dined by the Linwood execs, he wid’ve been available tae offer her his advice oan whit tae dae next.  Things hid been moving at a rapid pace.  The ten o’clock deidline fur the following day's main daytime issue hid been fast approaching.  Wance she’d haunded o’er the social worker copy, replacing the wummin at work wan, the brakes hid been let aff the car and it hid picked up speed as it raced doon the hill tae smash her well-earned career intae smithereens.  She couldnae hiv held back the story, even if she’d tried.  By ten o’clock that night, wae a big thumbs-up fae Little Miss Carrot Heid, she’d sauntered through tae editorials, like the golden goose, tae file her second instalment ae the day.  She’d been way beyond the starting line where sense and sensibility should’ve kicked in, tae curtail her lust.  Nowan, other than a journalist, could know whit that feeling wis like.  It wisnae anything ye could dae justice tae by writing aboot it.  It came fae within...deep doon...the yearning, the need fur adulation, recognition and ultimately...praise.  There wis noo no way tae stoap her career fae being obliterated in spectacular fashion.  She shuddered as she remembered bolting upright at hauf three in the morning, wae the sweat dripping aff ae her.  She could actually taste and smell the tenement building that she’d grown up in, despite knowing it hid been a nightmare she wis hivving.  The taste hidnae changed.  It still tasted shite.  Efter getting up and brushing her teeth, she’d gone back tae bed and tried tae arouse Benson.  Efter a few fits and starts, she’d managed tae roll him o’er oan tae his back, still snoring, and hid jumped oan board.  She’d never laugh at necrophilia jokes again, she remembered thinking,  although it hid done the trick.  She’d eventually managed tae get back tae a fitful sleep.

  That morning, when she’d arrived at her desk, she’d known that upstairs wur constructing the gallows...fur her.  When she’d first walked intae the office, the volume ae the chatter amongst aw the typists hid drapped.  Some ae the dafter wans hid actually stoapped typing and hid stared at her as if she wis Ruth Ellis, heiding fur the gallows.  Fuck them, she’d thought...stupidly.  They’d obviously known mair than she hid.  She hidnae even hid time tae hiv a fag efter she took aff her coat before the phone hid jumped oan her desk, the shrill being amplified fae whit she’d remembered fae the day before.  It hid been Tom Bryce’s secretary, calling her up the stairs tae the crime desk.  Wance again, the sound level hid drapped when she’d walked through the door, although, given the intelligence ae the reporter class, it hidnae been as blatant as wae the typists doon oan her flair.  She’d been aware that she’d crossed the line, bit she’d thought that aw the attention hid been a bit o’er the tap.  It wisnae as if a crime hid been committed, she remembered thinking at the time.

  “Ye’ve jist tae go right in, so ye hiv,” Tom’s secretary hid said, relishing her role in being so close tae the condemned.

  “Right, sit doon oan that fanny ae yers and tell me why ye’ve done this tae me, yer mentor?”

  “Er, well, it’s a kind ae a long story, so it is.”

  “Well, ye hivnae goat that long before Ah’ll be instructed tae sack ye.  Ah’m jist waiting fur the call as we speak.  Whit Ah want tae know is, who the buggery gied ye the go aheid tae push through an un-edited feature, eh?”

  “There wis nowan aboot tae sanction it.  Dandy hid gone aff tae dae his interview up at the fruit market and when he didnae return, as he wis supposed tae hiv, and the deidline wis approaching, Ah made a calculated decision that everything wid be hunky dory up here in the clouds where the air is fresh.  Ah’d nae choice bit tae send it through.  How wis Ah tae know that two ton ae Geest bananas hid fallen aff the back ae a lorry and buried him.”

  “So, when the cat’s away...is that it?”

  “Naw, Tom, it isnae.”

  “Every paper, the length and breadth ae the country, his been trying tae get their hauns oan that social worker and no only dae ye get the interview ae the century, bit ye tuck it intae page thirty fucking seven, in amongst the green beans.  Ur ye bloody wae me or whit?” he’d roared at her, as the noise fae the typewriters oot in the main office hid silenced.

  “Look, Tom, Ah’m sorry if Ah’ve upset anywan, especially yersel, bit Ah didnae get the choice ae whit page number ma weekly feature wis gaun intae, remember?  As tae the subject and content ae ma story, ma editor wis carted aff tae hospital and there wis nowan else aboot.  Whit wis Ah supposed tae dae, eh?”

  “Mary, don’t gie me that pish.  A blind fucking moron wid’ve known the value ae that story, so they wid’ve.”

  “Ma contract says that Ah kin write whit Ah want withoot the interference ae management.  It’s in black and white, so it is, signed by yersel,” she’d reminded him defensively.

  “Oh, shut the fucking fuck up, Mary.  Why did ye no try and contact me?”

  “Ah did,” she’d lied.

  “If Ah find oot ye’re lying tae me, God help ye.  Hugh McAllen, the paper’s brief is oan the phone jist noo, putting oot a statement.  Hauf the media in the country ur wanting tae know whit we’re up tae.”

  “So?”

  “So?  So?  Ye’ve jist gone and put us in the shitehoose wae yer wee fly attention-seeking tactics, so ye hiv.  If ye think this wis supposed tae get ye yer job back, then ye’re in fur a shock, so ye ur.”

  “Bit, ye jist said aw the competition ur chasing us up oan it.  Is that no good?”

  “There’s mair tae this than whit ye think.  We’ve goat other people in there chasing up the social worker tart.”

  “So, Ah goat in there first.”

  “Ah truly believe that ye don’t hiv a clue, dae ye?”

  “Aboot whit?”

  “Never you mind.  Right, Lord Frank and Hamish disappeared o’er the weekend aw ae a sudden tae South America.  Lord Frank his been chasing Che Guevara’s motorbike fur years noo and they’ve goat a lead as tae its whereaboots…”

  “Che… who’s Che when she’s at hame, then?”

  “We’ve been trying tae contact them tae let them know whit damage ye’ve done.  They’ll decide yer fate, so they will, bit Ah’d clear oot yer desk in anticipation.  In the meantime, talk tae nowan aboot this and jist pray oor sales fur the day go up,” he’d snarled, ignoring her question as he dismissed her.

  “Ah hivnae unpacked ma boxes fae ma last demotion yet,” she’d reminded him.

  “Out!”

  Mary hid spent that day trying tae read between the lines.  She’d picked up fae her conversation wae Tom that there wis something oan the go that he hidnae let her in oan.  When she’d brought it up wae Benson, he’d jist shrugged.

  “They tell me nothing in here, but I have picked up that something has being going on.  All the top brass from the city’s finest were in last week and they looked very glum when they left afterwards.  There’s rumours of a major rift between the paper and the boys in blue.  Jack McFarlane told me that some of the journalists on the crime desk are under investigation by Central,” he’d said.

  “In relation tae whit?”

  “I don’t know,” he’d replied.

  The sales ae Wednesday’s early edition hid started aff slowly, bit wance the news ae her feature wae the social worker hid been picked up by the competition, up the stairs hid ordered a re-run ae the morning’s edition that lunchtime...a first fur The Glesga Echo.  Seemingly, aw the city’s newsagents couldnae get enough tae satisfy the demand.  Benson hid telt her that that day’s edition hid been an all-time record fur wan day's sales in the hunner and fifty year history ae the paper.  Christ, it hid even entered her stupid heid that she might jist get promoted efter aw, until that is, the shit hid hit the fan again.  The lunchtime television news hid reported that earlier that morning, Sammy Elliot, the paper’s tap crime reporter, the rodent that hid nicked her job, hid been arrested and held fur questioning by the City’s finest.  The polis claimed he wis helping them wae their enquiries intae organised crime, including murder and extortion in the city o’er a number ae years.  Although she couldnae see the connection, Mary hid a sinking feeling that her column hid somehow been some sort ae catalyst fur the latest stramash.  The Echo, alang wae aw the other competition, hid been screaming fae the rooftaps aboot a polis state and the end ae democracy as they knew it.

  She looked at the clock.  Hauf two.  She’d nipped alang tae The Horseshoe Bar earlier in Drury Lane tae watch the lunchtime news in the pub.
 
Hugh McAllen, the paper’s brief hid been oan, spouting aw kinds ae shite aboot how the polis hid waited until Lord Frank wis oot ae the country before they’d pounced.  The polis replied by saying that aw they wanted wis tae talk tae Mr Elliot, given the substance ae some ae his stories in past editions ae the paper.  They apparently hid nae intention ae charging him and they hid allowed him tae leave Central oan his ain free will, although they did reserve the right tae pursue their investigations wherever it might lead them.  They wur sure the public wid understaun that.  In the meantime, Lord Frank and Hamish McGovern, the paper’s editor, wur still away in some jungle and Mary’s fate wis still hinging in the balance.  God, whit a life it wis, being a wummin in 1972, Mary cursed tae hersel.

  “Goat them!” Pearl whooped, appearing in front ae Mary’s desk wae a big grin spread across her coupon, interrupting Mary’s panic.

  “Who goat them?”

  “Me, Ah did.  Ah’ve jist come aff the blower tae Sarah May’s manager, Kirsty Burr.  Ye kin hiv hauf an hour at quarter tae four this efternoon, so ye kin,” she beamed.

  “Whit?  They’re coming here?”

  “Ur ye jesting?  Sarah May Todd, the lead singer ae Scotland’s biggest country and western band, The Cowpokes, coming tae us?  It’s her that’s daeing us the favour, no the other way aboot.  Naw, she’s getting awarded a gold record fur sales in Europe doon at the Transatlantic Offices.  They’ve gied us a slot, so they hiv.”

  “Us?”

  “Well, she knows aw us wans.  It’ll make things easier seeing as ye’re no gaun there tae talk tae her aboot her music.”

  “Who’s aw us?”

  “Me, ma maw...everywan that’s involved in the election.”

  “Whit aboot her brother...the Olympic runner?”

  “Calum?”

  “Calum.”

  “Kirsty’s no sure aboot him being there.  She said he might be aroond tae get a photo wae Sarah, bit she couldnae guarantee an interview.  We’d need tae speak tae him oorsels.”

  “And ye know him as well?”

  “Aye.  When me and ma pals wur aw younger, we used tae clock him running aw o’er the Toonheid in his vest and shorts.  We’d aw gie chase and try tae keep up wae him, so we wid.  Of course, that wis before he became famous.”

  “Will he still remember ye?  Ye wur really young then.”

  “Probably no, bit Sarah still turns up at Helen Taylor’s door every noo and again, oot ae the blue, when she’s no touring, so she dis.  Helen’s her Godmother, so she is.  Ma maw and aw her pals usually nip roond wae their bottles and spend the night singing aw the good auld country songs till they pish themsels silly.  It’s bloody hilarious, so it is.  Me, Senga and a few ae ma pals usually go roond and show face, jist in case she’s goat the Burr brothers in tow wae her.  Sarah and Senga get oan like a hoose oan fire oan account ae Sarah hivving trained as a nurse before she became famous.”

  “The Burr Brothers?”

  “Aye, Gareth and Blair...a pair ae stoaters.  Gareth, the auldest brother, plays guitar wae some backing vocals and Blair’s oan the drums.”

  “Dae ye think there’s any chance Sarah wid dae an interview fur a future features page?”

  “Ah don’t know...ye’d need tae ask her yersel.  Ah jist telt Kirsty ye wanted tae talk tae Sarah aboot Helen Taylor and she came back and said fine.” 

  Despite the axe swinging back and forth in front ae her like a pendulum, Mary hid decided tae make sure she knew her subject this week.  If she managed tae get tae print next week, it wid be the first time since she started her new job that she’d hid the luxury ae researching whit she wis wanting tae write aboot.  She’d been pumping Pearl fur information aw week aboot this Helen Taylor wan.  It hid been difficult tae tell fact fae fiction when talking wae Pearl.  Christ, tae hear her talk, ye wid’ve thought that this Helen wan wis the Holy Virgin Mary and Joan ae Arc, aw rolled intae wan.  Oan the political front, she’d hiv tae go caw-canny.  As well as the mair recent press stuff that Bradley McLeod hid written up, she’d despatched Pearl aff doon tae the archive section tae see if there wis anything aboot Mrs Perfect’s past.  She awready knew fae Bradley’s write up and Harold Sliver’s article in The Citizen that Taylor hid been arrested in the past, bit she wisnae sure if the paper hid picked up oan any ae that activity previously in any detail.  She hid tae watch oot that Bradley, who wis a moaning prick-face, didnae get upset wae her meddling aboot oan his patch.  Pearl hid reappeared wae a whole batch ae juicy stuff fae the sixties.  Christ, she wis a walking encyclopaedia oan the who’s-who ae aw the