Exile

Chapter 15

Leslie couldn't see a way around it. Her mum had a heart condition and she didn't want to worry her, but if they lied to her and Isa found out she'd worry all the more. Leslie adored her mum. When she talked about Isa she became almost tearful with awe and frustration because her mother was a deeply good person, not just kind but a woman who had tended and cared for other people all her life. Isa was beyond selfless, she was almost invisible, one of a breed of women left penniless and aching from a lifetime of chores and caring, women who spent their lives waiting for the work to be done. It never was: there was always another potato to peel, another child to wash, another dirty floor. Leslie didn't talk about it but it was glaringly obvious how pivotal meek Isa was to Leslie's pathological bolshiness. Isa wanted little for herself: her idea of a high old time was sugary food, her family around her and a wee chant at the old songs.

It must have been devastating for little Leslie to grow up seeing her mother never off her feet, never asking for anything for herself, just shutting up and taking the blows. Her father was absent most of the time and a pest the rest of it so there was no alternative. Isa's life said be this or be nothing, reduce yourself to a shadow, deny anything you've ever wanted and never, ever dream of more.

Leslie's extended family all lived in Drumchapel. It was a matriarchal guddle of hardworking women and strangely feral children. Traditionally, the men fathered the children, then hung about for a couple of years, competing with the babies for attention and resenting the responsibility before pissing off. They floated away into the ethereal world of orphaned men, propping up bars, wasting their child support on take-out dinners and taxis home while the women struggled bravely on. Isa had already raised two generations on a dinner lady's salary. Born the oldest in a family of five she stayed and raised her brothers and sister after her mother died. She waited until the children left home before getting married herself and starting the whole chore again.

She was in her fifties and looked eighty, with a little barrel body and skinny legs. The fat accumulated near her heart making her a candidate for a Scottish death, face down on the floor, choking on her own spittle while her heart exploded. She dressed plainly, in nylon skirts and blouses, and always wore a flowery pinny when she was in the house to keep her clothes good. Her house was spotlessly clean and orderly, the furnishings plain. Any ornamentation was contained within a teak wall unit in the living room; framed photographs of the family wearing stiff clothes at weddings and christenings, a mock crystal vase sitting on a doily and a gray ceramic model of a rabbit.

Isa wouldn't sit down at the kitchen table. She couldn't seem to understand that Leslie and Maureen had come to speak to her, not to see how many gammon rolls they could eat in an hour.

"Mum, for fuck's sake come and sit down."

Isa bit her lip when Leslie swore. "Oh," she said to Maureen, "I hope she doesn't use language like that all the time." The question was rhetorical because Isa knew she did. She put another plate of homemade fruit scones on the table and scurried back to the worktop.

"Come on, Isa," said Maureen, sounding casual to avoid frightening her, "sit down and give us your chat."

"I'll just get a drop more tea," said Isa, topping up the stainless-steel pot from the kettle.

The sad thing about Isa's shaming hospitality was that nothing was very nice. The tea was stewed, the gammon rolls were tasteless and even the biscuits were a bit plain. It was as if the endless repetition of the caring task had made her forget the purpose. Leslie said it was because of her Calvinist upbringing: Isa associated enjoyment of any kind with terrible moral danger and thought that a tasty roll might result in a massive sensual overload, driving the recipient off the rails into the hands of bookies, bakers and white slave traders. Isa put the teapot on the table and looked at Maureen. "D'ye want a wee bit fish in milk?"

"Mu-um!" wailed Leslie.

"No," said Isa, defensive and embarrassed. "I'm asking because Maureen looks a bit peaky."

The thought of fish in milk made Maureen feel distinctly unwell. They could go on all day like this, with Isa bringing more and more food until the swing-leg table collapsed. "Isa, please," said Maureen. "We came to speak to you. It's about Jimmy Harris."

Isa turned and looked at her. She set her face for a harsh wind, sat down and picked at a mark on the table. "What about him?" she said.

Maureen wasn't prepared for such a sinister response. "He's had a bit of trouble," she said quietly.

"What sort of trouble?"

Maureen looked at Leslie but Leslie gestured to her to tell it. "D'you know his wife, Ann?"

Isa nodded.

"Well," said Maureen gently, "I'm afraid she died."

"Oh," exclaimed Isa, "but she's very young to die."

Maureen and Leslie looked at each other and Leslie took a breath. "She was murdered, Mum."

"Oh." Isa covered her mouth and shut her eyes tight. "Dear Lord."

Maureen didn't know whether to go on but Leslie nodded encouragingly. "Before she died she came to us at the shelter. She was badly bruised and said that Jimmy had beaten her-"

"Well, I just don't believe that," said Isa, tearful at having to state an opinion.

Leslie took her mum's hand. "Mum, he might have hit her."

But Isa brushed Leslie's hand away and clutched her teacup. "Leslie," she said, shocked and shaken, "I knew James Harris as a child and I'll tell you this: he couldn't have beaten her."

Leslie pointed at Maureen. "That's what she says."

"She's right." Isa turned to her. "How do you know?"

Maureen felt less sure than she had been. "I went up to see him. I just don't think he's the type."

"See?" said Isa to Leslie.

Maureen looked back and forth at them. She didn't know what else she was allowed to say and it might be a disaster if she got it wrong.

Leslie took over. "Well, she was killed anyway."

"He didn't do it," said Isa.

"Mum, how do you know? Plenty of men who batter women seem put-upon to outsiders. You of all people should know that."

Isa took a deep warning breath and raised an eyebrow at her. Leslie had said exactly the wrong thing.

"And there's his da and everything," added Leslie, compounding the felony.

Isa sat up, bewildered by her daughter's shameless nature. "Well," she said, "I don't see what-"

"Mum," sighed Leslie, "tell Maureen."

Isa was mortified. She didn't want to insult Maureen but family secrets were private business and Leslie had broken the rules without even asking. She stood up and the girls looked at her. "I'll put the kettle on," she said tearfully.

"Mum, come and sit down."

Isa filled the kettle and plugged it in. She'd run out of things to do so she picked up a damp cloth from the windowsill and rubbed the immaculate worktop even cleaner.

"Mum, please come and sit down."

But Isa was weeping softly. Leslie got up and went over to her, wrapping her arm around her mum's shoulders, taking the cloth from her hand and setting it down. "Mum," she said softly, "why are you still ashamed for Billy? He hadn't the decency to be ashamed of himself." Isa shook her head. "Come and sit down."

"I don't want tae," whispered Isa.

"Mum, if we don't come up with a plan, Jimmy's going to prison and his four wee bits of weans'll be going into care."

"I'll take them," said Isa, too loudly.

"Ye wouldn't get them," insisted Leslie. "You're not fit and they don't even know ye. They can go to her family."

"I'll take them."

"Mum, come and sit down and tell Maureen the story. She's good at this, she'll try and sort it out."

"Isa," called Maureen, from the table, "come over. I don't think it was Jimmy either."

Isa blew her nose on a cotton hankie from her sleeve. "Why don't you think he did it?"

"He's so mild. He makes you look like Ian Paisley."

They were smoking Leslie's cigarettes and sitting around the table, intimate and close, and Isa was telling them about Jimmy's dad and all the wrong he did. She balked sometimes, straining to overcome a lifelong habit of secrecy, mentioning herself occasionally, minimizing her kindness.

Jimmy's father, Billy, was Isa's cousin and a gangster of the old school. It was in the fifties and Billy Harris didn't bother organizing himself to rob banks or anything, he just bullied the other men and had street fights, getting a reputation as a hard man in the Carlton, the roughest part of a wild city. He was friends with all the gangsters at that time and she reeled off a string of threatening names, hollow echoes of the past. Billy was terribly handsome. He would have had his pick of the girls if he hadn't been such a fighter. He had a lot of scars by the time he was seventeen and the nice girls were afraid of him. They'd give him one dance and leave the hall if he asked again. Isa's brothers and sisters avoided him at the dancing, ashamed that he belonged to them. He married Monica Beatty when she was expecting, which was a shame in those days, not like now, and Monica looked like a movie star. She had platinum hair, red lips. Billy first beat her on their wedding night; he put the head on her for smiling at the photographer. There were no shelters in those days. Pregnant Monica had to leave the house when Billy came home drunk. She'd waddle around the dark Bridgeton streets waiting until he was asleep before creeping back into the house. No one questioned it. You married a man and if he beat ye that was just your luck. Isa said that in those days there was a time of night, about an hour after closing time, when the only people in the streets of Glasgow were women and children.

The moment Jimmy was born it was clear that he wasn't Billy's. He took after him in nothing, neither in looks nor temperament. Jimmy was always gentle, always fearful, there was never a drop of Billy in him.

Billy worked the boats. The last time he came home on leave he brought wee Jimmy over to Isa's to stay for a couple of days. Isa took the child – she had no idea, she honestly had no idea. Jimmy had stayed before, when Monica brought him. He'd stayed for days sometimes, but Isa was glad of his company. He was a nice wee thing, always laughing, and Isa's brothers and sister were out at work all day and the dancing at night, so having the bairn was like being a real mother. Billy left the child and went looking for his wife. He had heard about Monica. She'd been running with a crowd from the Gorbals, leaving the child alone and going with other men. He found her in a rough pub by the docks and took her outside. He broke her arms and – Isa paused and stared at the table – he took one of her eyes out. The men in the pub heard the screaming. When they found what he'd done they beat him. He hanged himself in the cells at the Marine. Monica died a few months later, got an infection. Isa pointed to her eye and winced. She thought something bad must have happened to him on the boats, and it must have been something terrible to make him so vicious.

"Maybe he was just like that?" suggested Leslie.

"He took her eye," said Isa.

"Mum, I hear about things like that all the time and there aren't any boats for the bastards to go on anymore. They're just like that."

"Oof." Isa turned away as if she'd been slapped. She smiled hopelessly at Maureen. "I hope she doesn't use language like that all the time."

Maureen patted her hand. "What happened to wee Jimmy, Isa?"

"Monica's sister came"-she hung her head-"and took him away. She thought I knew what he was going to do but I didn't. I wouldn't think of such a thing, I was just a girl myself. But he was my cousin and he was dead and I got the blame. She wasn't very nice to me."

"And did ye see wee Jimmy after that?" asked Maureen.

"Not for a long time. Then about ten years ago I bumped into him at the Barras." She flushed. "He was all grown-up and he knew me, came running over and kissed me in the street, in front of everyone. I was that pleased. I thought his auntie would've turned him against me but, to her credit, she hadn't. She died before he married. We kept in touch. He came to our Maisie's wedding"-she nodded at Leslie-"and he brought his new wife, Ann. It was nice, us all being together, but then he just drifted away. He wouldn't hit his wife…"

Isa trailed off and Leslie sat forward. "I think he did it," she said certainly.

"Rubbish," said Isa flatly, and Leslie opened her mouth to start a fight.

"I don't think he'd hit anyone," interrupted Maureen, "not coming from a background like that."

"He's more likely to hit someone coming from that," insisted Leslie.

"No, he isn't," said Isa.

"No," said Maureen. "If ye come from that ye can't lie and pretend it doesn't matter. If ye come from that ye'd be acutely aware of what it meant and what it could lead to."

"I still think he did," said Leslie stubbornly.

Isa poured more tea for Maureen. She tried to make her take a gammon roll or at least a biscuit, have a wee biscuit. Maureen took a tea cake just to be nice.

"What d'yees think'll happen to him?" whispered Isa.

Leslie looked at Maureen but Maureen's mouth was full. "The police'll do him for murder when they see the shelter photos," said Leslie.

"What if they don't see the photos?" said Maureen, struggling to speak through a mouthful of mallow and cooking chocolate.

"But they're going to see the photos," said Leslie firmly.

"Could you hide the photos?" whispered Isa.

"Mother," said Leslie, "what are you suggesting?"

Isa quietly rearranged the plate of biscuits. "Ye might misplace them," she said quietly.

"Mum, for God's sake-"

"I've stolen them," said Maureen to Isa. "They're in my bag."

"Oh," beamed Isa, "that's wrong."

"I'm a bad lot," said Maureen. Isa made her take another biscuit. "I think Ann had a boyfriend," said Maureen, basking in Isa's approval. "He could have beat her, she could have followed him to London and he might have killed her there. We should look for a boyfriend."

"Yes," said Leslie, nodding at Maureen as if she were prompting her a line. "But we need to wait and see what the police make of it."

Isa sighed heavily. "I'll go and see Jimmy and get to know the children," she said. "Every time something terrible happens to that family I turn up like Typhoid Mary."

"Mum, if it wasn't for you Billy might have killed the wean as well."

The doorbell rang three times in rapid succession. Isa sighed and stood up, straightening her pinny and narrowing her lips. "I bet that's that bloody Sheila McGregor," she said.

"Oof," said Maureen to Leslie. "I hope she doesn't use language like that all the time."

Isa tee-heed and disappeared into the hall. They heard two oscillating lady voices greeting each other with offers of tea and cake.

"You were brilliant," said Leslie. "She'd have been gutted if I'd told her."

"No bother." Maureen gestured out to the hall. "Who's this?"

"Hungry neighbor. Catches the smell when the lid comes off the biscuits."

Mrs. McGregor's shopping bags filled the doorway. She humphed them onto the kitchen floor and stood up, blinded by the condensation on her glasses. She was dressed in a thick green tweed coat and stood less than five foot tall on bandy cowboy legs. Isa came back into the kitchen and put the kettle on again.

"Oh, my," said Mrs. McGregor, pulling out a chair and sitting herself down, "but it's wild out there today. Is that you, Leslie, pet?"

Leslie looked as sullen as she ever had. "Aye, hello, Mrs. McGregor. How ye keeping, all right?"

Mrs. McGregor helped herself to a shortbread biscuit and looked at Maureen. "And who's this?" she said, looking her up and down. "Is this your life partner, Leslie?"

"Stop trying to be modern, Mrs. McGregor. She's my pal."

"Very good," said Mrs. McGregor, taking a half cup of weak tea from Isa and filling it to the brim with milk. "Your mother says I can't stay long because you've had a death in the family."

"That's right," said Leslie.

"Aw, well," said Mrs. McGregor, opening her mouth, letting shortbread crumbs fall willy-nilly onto her coat. "And just after Christmas as well." She wrinkled her nose at Maureen. "No time for turmoil."

They had to wait until Mrs. McGregor left because Leslie wouldn't leave Isa alone with her. "McGregor bullies her," said Leslie, unchaining the bike from a lamppost. "She'd be staying for her tea if we hadn't seen her out."

"You're very abrupt with her," said Maureen. "Who is she?"

"She's a misery magnet, that woman," said Leslie. "Every time there's a tragedy on this scheme that woman turns up for the purvey."

Maureen put her helmet on and did up her coat, watching while Leslie jump-started the bike.

"Why did she think I was your girlfriend?"

"She's been saying I'm gay since I was wee. And then the bike, ye know."

"Oh, yeah, sure sign. Ye should tell her that a bipolar conception of gender is widely discredited now."

Leslie threw back her head and laughed a wide-mouthed dirty laugh, baring black fillings and coffee stains. And Maureen wanted her to keep laughing so she could watch.