Exile

Chapter 3

A stark wind streamed into Glasgow tugging black rain clouds behind it. Litter fluttered frantically outside the strip of glass and the close door breathed gently in and out. The students kept their heads down as they worked their way up to the art school. Maureen cupped her scarf over her ears and turned up her stiff collar before opening the door and venturing out. The bullying wind buffeted her, making her totter slightly as she turned to shut the door. She kept her fists tight inside her silken pockets and made her way down the hill to the town, cozy in her rich-girl overcoat.

She had bought the coat in a pre-Christmas sale. It was pure black wool with a gray silk lining, long and flared at the bottom with a collar so stiff that it stood straight up and kept the wind off her neck. It was the most luxurious thing she had ever owned. Even at half price it had cost more than three months' mortgage. She swithered in the shop but persuaded herself that it would last three winters, maybe even four, and anyway, she enjoyed losing the money. On the day Angus murdered him, Douglas had deposited fifteen thousand pounds in her bank account. It was a clumsy act of atonement for their affair and the money compromised her. She knew that the honorable thing to do was give it away but she was dazzled by the string of numbers on her cashpoint receipts and kept it, justifying her avarice by doing voluntary work for the Place of Safety Shelters. She was hemorrhaging money, leaving the heating on all night, smoking fancy fags, buying endless new cosmetic products, fifty-quid face creams and new-you shampoos, trying to lose it without having the courage to give it away.

The biting wind made her eyes burn and run as she crossed the hilt of the hill. Leslie would be coming into the office today and Maureen was dreading meeting her.

"Maureen?"

Someone was shouting after her, their voice diluted by the wind. She turned back. A woman in a red head scarf walked quickly over to her, keeping her head down, stepping carefully over the icy ground. She stopped two feet away from Maureen and looked up. "Maureen, I love you."

"Please," said Maureen, fazed and wary, "leave me alone."

"I need to see you," said Winnie.

"Mum, I asked ye to stay away," insisted Maureen. "I just want ye to leave me alone."

Winnie grabbed her, squeezing her fingertips tight into the flesh on Maureen's forearm. She was drunk and had been crying for hours, possibly days. Her eyes were pink, the lids heavy and squared where the tear ducts had swollen beneath them. A gaggle of pedestrians hurried past, coming up the steep hill from the underground, walking uncertainly on the slippery ground.

"I love you. And look"-Winnie held a silver foil parcel towards her and clenched her teeth to avert a sob-"I've brought you some roast beef." Winnie poked the package towards her but Maureen's hands stayed in her pockets.

"I don't want beef, Mum."

"Take it," said Winnie desperately "Please. I brought it over for you. The juice has run in my handbag. I made too much-"

A passing woman skidded slightly on the frosty ground, let out a startled exclamation and grabbed Winnie's arm to steady herself. She dragged Winnie over to one side, jerking her hand and knocking the lump of silver onto the pavement. The cheap foil burst, scattering the slices of brown meat, splattering watery blood over the white ice.

"Oh, my." The woman giggled, nervous with fright, patting her chest as she stood up. "Sorry about that. It's so icy this morning."

Winnie yanked her arm away. "You made me drop that," she said, and the woman smelled her breath, greasy with drink at nine in the morning.

She glanced over Winnie's shoulder to Mr. Padda's licensed grocer's, shot Winnie a disgusted look and stood up tall and straight. "Didn't mean to touch you," she said perfunctorily.

"Go away," said Winnie indignantly.

"I'm sorry," the woman addressed Maureen. "I slipped-"

"We didn't ask for your life story," snapped a suddenly nasty Winnie.

Maureen couldn't help herself. It was a big mistake but she smiled at Winnie's appalling behavior and gave her quarter. The disapproving woman took to her heels and scuttled away, watching her feet on the icy ground. Maureen took Winnie's arm and guided her out of the busy thoroughfare and onto the side of the pavement.

"Thank you, honey," said Winnie, covering Maureen's hand with her own.

Maureen wanted to turn and walk away. Every time she had seen Winnie before the schism Winnie hurt her or freaked her out or had done her head in in one way or another. She dearly wanted to walk away, but looking at her mum's badly applied makeup, at her shiny nose and big mittens, Maureen realized that she'd missed her terribly, missed all the fights and the high drama and the mingled smells of vodka and face powder. "Mum," she said, "I'm not staying away from you because you don't love me."

Tears were running down Winnie's face and her chin began to tremble. "Why, then?" she demanded, catching the eye of a workman on his way into the newsagent's.

"You know why," said Maureen.

Winnie wiped her face with her mittens, scarring the beige suede with her tears. "You know about Una?" she asked.

"I know she's pregnant. Liam told me."

Winnie sniffed, wringing her hands. "And what did you do on Christmas Day?" she asked.

Maureen shrugged. "Had dinner with friends," she said.

She had spent the day alone with a packet of Marks & Spencer's sausage rolls, which she had eaten and hadn't liked at all. An hour later she had read the back of the packet and realized she was supposed to have cooked them. Liam had come over in the evening and they had watched the tail end of the good television together and had a smoke. He had refused to eat with the family because Michael would be there. Liam said George, their stepdad, had almost come out with him. George didn't like Michael either and he liked everyone. George would have liked Old Nick if he could hold a tune and got his round in.

"It's because of your father, isn't it? We hardly see him now," said Winnie. "He isn't very nice."

But Maureen didn't want to know. She didn't want one more scrap of information for her subconscious to build nightmares around. "Mum," she said, trying to stick to the point, "it pains me to see you, do you understand?"

Winnie pressed her hankie to her mouth. "How do I pain you?" she said, as her face crumpled. "What have I ever done?"

"You know fine well."

"No," wept Winnie, "I don't know fine well."

"How could you have him back in your house after what he did to me? I'll never understand that. I know you don't believe me but if you even wondered about it-"

Winnie took a deep wavering breath, snapped her wrist out and slapped Maureen's arm. "At least phone-"

"Don't fucking slap me, Mum!" shouted Maureen. "I'm an adult. It's not appropriate."

Winnie began to sob, making Maureen into the sort of person who would shout unkind things at her crying mother. She had promised herself peace from this but here she was, falling into the old traps, playing the bad guy again, coming to hate herself on a whole new level.

"We don't see him anymore"-Winnie struggled to speak through convulsive sobs-"and Una's angry and George won't speak to me… I miss you, Maureen. I don't want you to not see me."

Maureen wondered at Winnie's resilience. If Winnie had set her mind to world domination she could have done it. Unhampered by the twin evils of manners or empathy, Winnie could railroad an acre of salesmen into charity work if she set her mind to it.

"Mum," she said softly, "I don't want to see you for a while and that continues to be true, whether or not you're all having a nice time together."

Winnie clocked the condition. She looked up when Maureen said it would only be for a while and looked away again. She blew her nose and narrowed her eyes at Maureen. "Don't you tell me what to do," she said, hope twitching at the corners of her mouth. "You're still a cheeky wee besom. And I'll slap ye if I want to. I could take you in a fight any day." She looked at the spilled meat, scattered and trampled by passing feet. "Are ye sure ye won't have a slice?"

Maureen started to smile but her eyes began to water and she had to breathe in deeply and blink hard to stop herself crying. It was good news: they weren't getting on, he had nothing to keep him here, no reason to stay. Winnie took off one of her mittens and played with her hankie, pulling at the corners, looking for a dry patch. The wedding band George had given her was loose on her finger. Winnie was losing weight; her skin looked thin and a watery gray liver spot was developing on a knuckle. Maureen reached out suddenly and held her mum's hand, cupping it in her own, trying to hold the warm in. The wind blew freezing tears across her face like racing insects. "Mum," she breathed. "My mum."

They stood close, looking at Winnie's hand, chins trembling for love of each other, crying for the pointless sadness of it all.

"I can't stand this," whispered Maureen.

"Me neither," said Winnie.

But she meant the moment and Maureen meant her life. Winnie reached up to Maureen's face, dabbing at her wet ear like a drunken St. Veronica, letting her fingers linger on her cheek.

Maureen sniffed hard, dragging the cold air up to her eyes, waking herself up. "Is he going back to London, then?"

"Don't think so," said Winnie.

"Who's keeping him here?"

Winnie tutted at her. "No one's keeping him here," she said. "He's got a flat, a council flat, in Ruchill." She pointed over Maureen's shoulder to the horizon, to the jagged red-brick tower of the old Ruchill hospital.

Maureen could see it from her bedroom window. She dropped Winnie's hand. "What the fuck did you tell me that for?"

Winnie shrugged carelessly. "It's where he is."

"I don't want to know anything about him and you come here and tell me he lives near me?"

Winnie knew she was in the wrong. She tugged her mitten back on and pressed her face up to Maureen's. "Did it ever occur to you," she said, "that the rest of us know him as well?"

"What?"

"It's not all about you," shouted Winnie. "He's their father too. Don't you think they wonder about him? Don't you think I wonder?"

"Wonder?" shouted Maureen. "You stupid cow! D'ye think I was committed to a psychiatric hospital suffering from pathological wonder?"

"Don't you cast that up to me." Winnie held up her hand. "Your breakdown wasn't just about him. You were always a strange wee girl. You were always unhappy."

They hadn't seen each other for five months and although Maureen vividly remembered how angry her mother made her, she had forgotten the sanctimonious bulldozing, the utter disregard for her feelings, the vicious kindness and blind denial of what Michael had done.

"Think about it, Winnie," she said, talking through her teeth, the fury reducing her voice to a whisper, "think about what he did to me. If it wasn't for him I'd never have been so unhappy. If it wasn't for him I'd never have been in hospital. I'd have gone on to a real job after my fucking degree. I might be happy, I might be married. I might even have the nerve to hope for children of my own. I might be able to sleep. I might be able to look at myself in the fucking mirror without wanting to scratch my fucking face off." She was out of control, shouting loud and crying in the street. Art students stole glances at her as they came out of Mr. Padda's with their newspapers and lunchtime rolls. "And what did he sacrifice all of that for? For a fucking tug."

Winnie had never believed in the abuse and had never flinched from saying so before. But this time she pursed her lips and clasped her hands prissily in front of her. "Is that all you want to say?" she said, grinding her teeth and looking off into the middle distance.

Winnie was trying to listen. She was actually trying, and Maureen had never known her to do that. Not when they were children, not when they were adults, not even when Maureen was in hospital. "Mum, that man and the memories and stuff. I know what he did. He knows he did it too."

Winnie looked nervously around her. "Do we have to discuss this here?"

"Does he ever ask for me?"

Winnie swallowed hard and looked away. She muttered something into the wind.

"What?" said Maureen.

"No," said Winnie quietly. "He never asks for you. Ever. It's as if you were never born."

"How likely is that, Winnie? Doesn't it make ye wonder?"

Winnie couldn't think of an answer. It must have bothered her terribly. She looked angrily over Maureen's shoulder. "I'm sick of this," she said.

"Why did you tell me he lives there? God, am I not troubled enough already?"

"You can't blame me for that-"

But Maureen was backing off into the street. She leaned forward in case Winnie missed anything. "Stay away from me," she said slowly, pointing at her mum's soft chest. "And stop phone-pesting me when you're steaming."

"If I was that bad of a mother," Winnie shouted after her, "how come none of the rest of them had breakdowns?"

The vicious morning frost had numbed Maureen's ears before she was two hundred yards down the hill. She turned a corner and the wind ambushed her, parting her eyelashes. She stopped and waited at the lights, staring at the patchwork tar on the road. The nervous cars and buses jostled one another for road space, speeding across the twenty-foot yellow box, afraid of being left back at the lights. If she threw herself into the road she'd be killed instantly, a five-foot jump to an eternity of peace and no more brave plowing on, no more shouting over the storm, no more nightmares, no more Michael. She thought of Pauline Doyle and envied her.

Pauline was a June suicide. She had been in psychiatric hospital with Maureen. Two weeks after she was released, a walker had found her dead under a tree. Maureen couldn't stop thinking about her. Her thoughts kept short-circuiting straight from worry to the happy image of Pauline at peace on the grass in springtime, oblivious to the insects crawling over her legs.

She glanced up, conscious that something around her had changed. The green man was flashing on and off and the other pedestrians had almost crossed the road. She jogged after them, clutching the fag packet in her pocket, bribing herself on with the promise of a cigarette when she got to work.