Where There is Evil (8 page)

My parents thought that a good way to patch up their marriage was to take a family holiday. Our trip to the small seaside resort of Montrose, however, was an unmitigated
disaster. Not only was the weather bad, but several times my mother ended up in tears. I never knew what had been said when we called in to see relatives who lived near Banchory, and have tea with
them, but when someone referred to an acquaintance called Betty she dissolved into sobs.

Our holiday home, in a back street of Montrose, was Spartan, with meters that had to be fed regularly with shillings to give gas for heating or hot water. The elderly couple who let part of
their home did not appreciate young children, and expected us all to be out for the greater part of the day, rain or shine. We ventured out of town on a number of day trips, all of which seemed to
begin with accusations by my father about how long it took my mother to organize the children and the food, and to end in rows over directions to various places like Brechin and Stonehaven, and
silences. Just as bad were the looks of hatred I received in the driver’s mirror when I suggested we stopped, or played one more game of I Spy for the sake of the two smaller ones.

There were no books to speak of at our lodgings except
The Pilgrim’s Progress
, which I devoured in a day. The one outing voted a success was to the lighthouse at nearby Scurdie
Ness, where my brothers and I had the chance to run about and explore without being told to be quiet.

On the last evening, a Friday, our landlords encouraged my mother to take me to their Kingdom Hall, where they thought we would have ample entertainment to round off our holiday. For once, the
rain was not lashing down, and we set out, with much muttering from me because Ian and Norman were being taken to the fair by my father. Its twinkly lights were inviting and in vain I pleaded with
my mother to change our plans. I reminded her of the pocket money I had left, but she was adamant that Mr and Mrs Young, our hosts, would be on the look-out for us at their religious meeting and
she never broke a promise.

The hall was full of people with damp macs and umbrellas, who all sang heartily from Sankey hymnbooks to an out-of-tune piano. Afterwards, over cups of tea and wonderful Scottish home baking,
they shook their heads mournfully about the weather: ‘Na, it cannae last . . .’

I was thrilled when my mother agreed that as it wasn’t late we could walk down to the fairground and meet the others before going home, perhaps getting some fish and chips on the way. I
had a go on a few hoopla stalls, but we couldn’t spot my father and brothers. My mother smiled tolerantly as I picked up a fluffy gonk I’d won, and agreed I could spend a few more
coppers at the next stall, where you could win a coconut by knocking down cans. But she was too distracted to enjoy herself watching me. ‘Perhaps they’ve headed home already,’ she
said anxiously. ‘Oh, well, come on, Sandra, we should, too. Remember we’ll have all the packing tomorrow.’

I pulled a face but I tried not to show how disappointed I was that my dad was not there to take me on the ghost train or the dodgems, or to buy me a ride on the waltzers. When we got into our
lodgings, however, there was no sign of the rest of the family. We ate our fish suppers, washed up and cleared the table, and started to think about bed. My mother was worried. ‘Where on
earth can he be?’ she demanded, as she ordered me into my baby-doll pyjamas, bought specially for the holiday. I shrugged and snuggled down with a
Reader’s Digest
. The minutes
ticked by, and my mother paced up and down on the well-worn lino. Then she started to pile things into cases. Just when I was rubbing my eyes, and checking that it really was after midnight on the
Baby Ben clock, and she was muttering about going to the police station, we heard a key turn in the lock. My father was carrying one child, who was fast asleep, and wheeling another in his
pushchair.

My parents hissed angrily at each other as she demanded to know his movements. It transpired that my father had met a woman at the fair and, according to him, she had invited himself and the
children to her home for supper.

‘You’ve been sitting with some woman while I’ve been worried sick about these weans. How could you?’ my mother asked.

‘She was a very
nice
wummin.’ My father smirked. ‘She took to me right away, and she was good to Norman and Ian.’ Then he added, ‘And tae me.’

My mother smacked him across the face and marched off to bed.

The atmosphere in our car going home next day could have been cut with a knife, and as we left Montrose behind I knew it was somewhere I would never wish to see again.

In November 1959, a kindly town councillor had listened to my mother’s plea to be relocated near her parents during her husband’s absence, and we were installed at
9 Ashgrove, directly above my grandparents in number 11, with adjoining gardens on a large corner plot. Perhaps my mother felt that such close proximity to his father-in-law would ensure that my
father changed his ways when he came home, but this was not to be. My grandfather detested him, and deplored his sexual conduct, but his policy was to avoid him, while exerting a strong patriarchal
influence on the rest of his large family.

My grandfather’s principles and values were drummed into me: no matter how glorious the weather, playing outside on a Sunday was off-limits, and even a game of snap was forbidden. It never
crossed my mother’s mind to question why we had to adhere to the rigid code of discipline laid down by her father.

Religion had also played a strong part in the life of the Anderson family. After Moira’s tragic disappearance, her two sisters continued to attend Band of Hope meetings, which Moira had
loved. Janet never came to terms with the fact that one evening she had rushed Moira home when the younger girl had wanted to learn about becoming a missionary. It would keep, she said, but shortly
afterwards Moira vanished.

I started at Coatbridge High School in August 1961 and my workload increased dramatically. As my mother and her sister helped me to cover all of my books and jotters with wallpaper samples, they
agreed that I needed the privacy of my own room and a good part of Sunday to myself to get my homework completed to a good standard.

Although my mother was delighted that I had won a place to the town’s élite senior high school, kitting me out in its uniform gave her nightmares. A navy blazer represented a major
investment, and a leather briefcase was out of the question. Hand-me-downs came to the rescue once again: the blazer came with elbow patches and the white shirts, for boys, had to be adapted. I
transformed them to short-sleeved blouses, over which I could wear the navy V-neck sweater with a gold neck edge that Granny Frew had knitted.

The ignominy of having to start at secondary school without the case I needed for books filled me with far more apprehension than facing algebra, logarithms, Latin and French for the first time.
Also I shrank from the gaze of the terrifying rector, James Cooper, who had been feared by generations of local schoolchildren mainly because of his height, which was six foot ten.

As I embarked on my secondary school career, where I made friends who have lasted ever since, my father embarked on a string of affairs with various young women, some of whom were strangers and
some of whom were known to my mother. There was Norma, sister of one of his driver pals, several bus conductresses, mostly single, then a long line of women who were all married, including a Lily
and a Rose. Occasionally my mother took me with her to confront the current woman. One stands out. Taken off school for the day, and cringing with embarrassment, I was marched up a garden path in
the Townhead area of Coatbridge, to the door of a thunderstruck woman named Cora, whose husband worked away from home. My mother delivered a furious tirade and declared that Alexander was married,
and should be left well alone. Not only that, he was also the father of three children and
this
was the eldest, at which I was pushed forward to underline the potential jeopardizing of a
family. The raised voices attracted a small interested crowd of neighbours, mainly women, slyly nudging each other and uniformly folding their arms across their chests.

That afternoon, Cora told us that she and my father had been planning to run off to England together but her husband had been informed of this anonymously and arrived on the scene threatening to
throttle my father. It was agreed that the affair must end with no further contact. Later, Mary told me of one other ultimatum she had made: ‘I want him away from Baxter’s Buses,
Sandra,’ she said. ‘For two good reasons.’

First, the environment supplied him with an endless rota of female conductresses and opportunities for affairs. Second, she was convinced he was being influenced by a driver she regarded as a
shady character, a small, powerfully built man, with whom he had struck up a friendship. The other man had a reputation for being quick with his fists, and I too, detested him, having noticed how
terrified his quiet little wife and his young son were when he was around.

My mother was sure that if our family left Coatbridge, she could leave the past behind and start afresh with my father. With this in mind, she wrote to his young brother, who lived in Leicester,
to see if he could help. Uncle Robbie was the antithesis of my dad. An ex-Marine, his language could be colourful and his temper flared up quickly, but he shared none of my father’s sexual
traits, and was a man of integrity. He had done well for himself, and was manager of the city’s sewage works. Although his wife had reservations about my father going to live with them
initially, and had no time for his extramarital exploits, Robbie agreed that he would find Alex work, which he did as a security man at the sewage plant. My father was to establish himself in the
post, which was reasonably paid, and once he had found a house, my mother would join him and send for us when funds allowed. My brothers, still both at primary school, were quite excited by all
this.

My father was keen to leave Coatbridge, and left to the relief of his own parents and my mother’s, who all found him difficult to cope with. However, no sooner had my mother arrived to
visit him than Uncle Robbie had a catastrophic falling out with his brother. He had been given a copy of the telephone bill for the plant, and had spotted a series of long-distance calls to
Coatbridge. In those days, bills were not itemized but, knowing we were not on the phone, Robbie tackled my dad and discovered that the affair with Cora was not over. The house he had found was to
share with her, not us.

My uncle hit the roof. He had to pay for the private calls himself and then to dismiss his own brother. My father had caused him such humiliation that he ordered him out of his home, and said he
would have no more to do with him. He sat my mother down and gently explained why he would provide no further help with the planned move, as she sat sobbing, and my dad packed, to my aunt’s
undisguised relief. ‘I’ll always have a lot of time for you and the kids, Mary, and I’ll help you ones any way I can,’ Robbie told her, ‘but I wash my hands of oor
Alex. That big bastard had better no’ show his face over my doorstep again or I’ll let him have it. I know how strong your Christian duty is, but if I were you, I’d think about
divorce and get shot of him.’

But my mother simply followed my father back to Lanarkshire.

The first thing I insisted on in our new home, at 9 Ashgrove, was that not only did I have a bedroom to myself, but that a lock was put on the door. No one questioned why I wanted it, and when
any friends expressed surprise, I explained it was to keep my little brothers out. The other great advantage about living next door to my grandmother was that I could spend a great deal of time in
her house. If ever I found myself alone with my dad, I made a beeline for downstairs or made excuses not to open my bedroom door.

I was careful now about whom I brought home. Two chums I played with were different in maturity and appearance. Barbara had been raised in a strict, religious background. She was small, fiercely
intelligent with glasses. The other girl, whom I shall call Ellen, was much taller, heavier, more physically developed than either Barbara or me and more wordly wise too. The three of us had little
pocket money, but Barbara and I noticed that Ellen pleaded poverty regularly, but then acquired funds out of the blue, treating us when the ice cream van came and occasionally being what we called
‘flush’. My father looked out for her comings and goings and Ellen warmed to any sign of affection.

I liked the teenage Ellen. We shared a love of reading and would sometimes go to the cinema together. One night, when we were fourteen, Ellen and I sat mesmerized through the first of the James
Bond films, at the Odeon in Coatbridge, and missed the last bus to Whifflet. Shrugging off the mile and a half walk, we queued for chips, then set off on foot, chatting with two young lads faced
with the same journey – we were pretty pleased to have their company on the dark road. Before we arrived in Whifflet main street, we were on first-name terms and arm in arm. Near Tennents
Works, the boy beside me nudged me and pointed to a small black car that was going along slowly just behind a blonde woman, who was hurrying away. ‘These weirdos make ye sick, eh?’ he
muttered, putting his arm round me protectively. ‘Ye know whit they call ’em, don’t ye?’

I shrugged nervously. I had a sick feeling in my stomach as I saw the woman shake her fist angrily at the driver of the car, who sped off. I knew who it was.

‘Kerb crawlers, that’s what,’ my escort went on knowledgeably. ‘Jist as well you ones are wi’ me and ma mate, though I think that wummin’s got rid o’
him.’

To push it out of my mind, I began to chat animatedly to him while Ellen and her new-found friend strolled behind us. In Whifflet, we agreed to split up, since Ellen lived in Shawhead. Waving
goodbye, my escort and I went on towards my house. Just before we got to my street, a car drew up with a screech of brakes, and out jumped a menacing figure. My companion gave an almighty start as
my father yelled at him. Letting go of my arm, he took off like a harrier, not stopping to find out what it was all about, and I almost laughed as I saw him bound athletically over the six-foot
fence at the back of St Mary’s school, and disappear into the night. ‘Just what the hell are you up to, Miss?’ my dad shouted. ‘I’ll leather your hide for ye! Get in
the car this minute, you little bitch!’