The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 Page 15

  “Well, Mary, and what brings you around here on a cold day like today?” Susan hid asked her.

  “Ma Maw asked me tae run a message fur Helen, so she did.”

  “Helen? You mean Helen Taylor?”

  “Aye. Ah hiv tae ask ye if it wid be awright fur Helen tae come roond the morra morning aboot eleven, as she wants tae hiv a blether wae ye...if that’s awright wae yersel.”

  “Tomorrow? Yes, of course, that would be quite alright. Did she say what it was about?”

  “Naw, that’s it, missus.”

  “Well, please tell her that I’ll look forward to seeing her. And Mary, please call me Susan. My friends call me Susan. Hopefully, you can be my friend and feel free to pop in to the manse here for a warm glass of milk and a sticky bun anytime you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Right, well, Ah better be offskie and get back doon the road then. Ta fur the fine sticky bun and the hot milk.”

  And wae that, Wee Mary hid stood up, wae a big smile oan her face and hid heided fur the kitchen door.

  “See ye, missus,” she’d yelled o’er the noise ae the wind, before disappearing intae the swirling snow.

  Susan looked at her unexpected visitor sitting across fae her.

  “Right, Mr Mann, one spoonful or two?” Susan asked him, holding up the sugar bowl.

  “Five, if ye don’t mind, hen. And it’s Charlie tae ma friends, so it is,” he said, taking aff his coat and laying it across the back ae the kitchen chair beside him.

  “So, Mr Mann, er, Charlie, I’m afraid I don’t really know when my husband will be back. It could be in the next five minutes, or it could be in a couple of hours. Can I take a message perhaps?” Susan asked him, pouring the tea and hoping that he wid take the hint and leave, before Helen arrived.

  It soon became obvious that Charlie Mann wisnae in a hurry tae go anywhere. In fact, Charlie Mann didnae seem tae be in a hurry fur anything. He jist sat there, gieing Susan the occasional smile, as he took sip efter sip ae his tea.

  “Ahhh, ye cannae whack a good cup ae char, so ye cannae,” he repeated every noo and again, loudly smacking they lips ae his.

  It took five cups ae tea and two trips tae the bathroom, before he opened up, surprising Susan wae his opening line and topic ae conversation.

  “It wisnae that man ae yers that Ah wanted tae talk tae, Mrs Flaw.”

  “Oh?”

  “Naw, it wis yer good self, so it wis.”

  “Oh, right, well, please don’t let me hold you back any longer then, Mr, er, Charlie,” she replied, surprise in her voice, looking across at the auld man sitting there in collarless shirt and braces, still wearing his bunnet.

  “Right, Ah’ll jist start then,” he said, before sinking back intae the same suspended stupor that seemed tae take o'er him efter his first sip ae tea earlier.

  “Yes, Mr Ma, er, Charlie, you were about to say?”

  “Oh aye, as Ah wis jist saying, it wis yersel that Ah wanted tae hiv a wee pow-wow wae, oan the QT…if ye know whit Ah mean,” he replied, tapping the side ae his nose wae an auld gnarled, nicotine-stained finger.

  “Good...please carry on...Charlie,” Susan said quickly, not hivving a clue whit hid jist been said.

  “Is it true that ye wur involved in helping that Anthony Wedgewood Benn wan tae get elected doon in Englandshire?”

  “Oh, well, I was part of his election team, along with a whole host of other, more experienced people than myself. Why?”

  “Aye, Ah like that, so Ah dae.”

  “What?”

  “Yer modesty.”

  “No, seriously, Mr Mann. I was far more junior and inexperienced than most of the other volunteers. In fact, I probably learned more from them than what they would ever have got back from me in return. Most of the time, my job entailed stuffing leaflets through doors and licking postage stamps to send out campaign material.”

  “Charlie.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Charlie.”

  “Look, Charlie, it is true I was involved, on the fringes, in Tony Benn’s election campaign in 1963. I don’t know where you got that information from though. Given my husband’s position in the community, it’s something that my husband and I don’t exactly shout from the roof tops...or the pulpit, in his case.”

  “And the result wis?” he asked, ignoring her protests.

  “He got successfully re-elected as the member for Bristol South East in a by-election, despite my eager, though somewhat ineffectual involvement. Malcolm St Clair, the sitting Conservative MP, who took over Mr Benn’s seat, stood down after the peerage act of that same year was introduced, as part of a gentleman’s agreement between them. It was at the time that Mr Benn was allowed to give up his peerage. Mr Benn had already received a majority vote in the ward in the 1960 general election by the local constituents, even though they knew he wouldn’t be able to take up the seat after becoming a viscount on the death of his father. The result was always a foregone conclusion really. I was a young mother of two young children at the time, living the quiet life of a minister’s wife, trying to encourage parishioners, mostly women, to get involved in the local WRI. I would say that that was hardly someone with political influence over people who had already chosen their man, Mr Mann...er, Charlie.”

  “Aye, bit ye wur there, in the thick ae it, insteid ae sitting scoffing aw they delicious wee stoating cakes the wummin ae the WRI ur famous fur churning oot, eh?”

  “For me, it was about getting involved, having a feeling that I was part of something that could change people’s lives for the better.”

  “And making cakes didnae dae that fur ye then?”

  “Making cakes, as you say, did have its rightful place, but at that particular time, in the parish we were working and living in, the poverty amongst large sections of the community was debilitating in so many ways and affected so many people, despite the good intentions of the welfare state.”

  “So, whit aboot 1950 then?” he asked slyly.

  “1950? What about 1950?” Susan asked, startled that this auld man knew mair aboot her than he’d initially let oan, and wis noo making her feel uncomfortable fur the first time since she’d invited him intae her hame.

  “Wur ye no involved in the election tae get Wedgewood Benn elected then...his very first successful seat?”

  “If I was useless in 1963, then you should have seen me in 1950. I must have only been about nineteen or twenty then...still at university...and most certainly wet behind the ears when it came to politics,” she replied lamely.

  “So, where dis that leave ye in relation tae Helen Taylor then?”

  “What?” Susan gasped, puzzled and surprised at Helen’s name cropping up.

  “Ye heard me.”

  Susan looked at him, feeling her eyes narrow. She awready knew that JP Donnelly, who wis staunin as a local cooncillor in the Keppochhill ward, efter the death ae the sitting cooncillor, Dick Mulholland, hid awready started his campaign and hid his supporters oot and aboot, drumming up support fur him. JP hid awready accosted Donald and asked fur his public support fae the pulpit, to which he’d demurred, oan the need fur impartiality. She wis jist aboot tae staun up and inform Mr Mann that she wis busy and that she’d other things tae be getting oan wae, when the memory ae his name being mentioned came creeping into her brain. The only problem wis, she couldnae remember in whit context. Wis he wan ae JP Donnelly’s campaign team?

  “You’re not a member of our church congregation, are you, Mr Mann?” she asked, far mair coldly than she’d intended.

  “Me? Christ, if Ah wis tae darken the door ae a church, Ah’m sure it wid come tumbling doon, roond aboot ma ears, so it wid. Ah think it wis Marx who said that religion wis the opiate ae the masses...or words tae that effect. Naw, naw, religion’s no wan ae ma vices, hen. Although, mind you, Ah’ve goat mair than enough tae be gaun oan wae,” he said, smiling.

  It wis the mention ae the word 'vice
' that wis the trigger fur Susan’s fog-riddled memory tae start tae clear, at last. She wis sure that it wis Charlie Mann’s name, alang wae two other aulder gentlemen, whose names Susan couldnae remember, that hid been mentioned when Helen and Donald hid spoken aboot candidates fur the upcoming local election the previous week. She seemed tae vaguely remember Helen referring tae a Charlie Mann and the other two auld men as pirates, who did nothing bit haud up the bar ae wan ae the local working men’s clubs. She racked her brain, trying tae remember the details ae the conversation. Before she could respond tae Mr Mann’s proud declaration ae atheism, the bell oan the manse’s front door rang. That wid be Helen noo. This wis gaun tae be interesting, tae say the least, Susan thought tae hersel.

  “If you’ll excuse me for one moment please, Mr Mann,” Susan said, staunin up.

  “Don’t mind me, hen. Ye jist go aheid and answer the door. Ah’ll jist help masel tae another wee schoosh ae this cauld tea fae yer fancy china teapot, if it’s awright wae yersel.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  “So, how auld dae ye reckon she is then?” asked Bumper.

  “Who?” responded The Stalker, heid still in the clouds efter being dramatically promoted tae Inspector, oot ae the blue, oan Hogmanay, by none other than Jack Tipple, the Assistant Chief Constable himsel.

  “Who dae ye think? Her...yer best pal,” Bumper said, nodding towards Helen Taylor, who wis trudging up Springburn Road, her scarf-covered heid pressed forward and doon against the snow and gale force wind that wis trying, unsuccessfully, tae put her doon oan tae her arse.

  “Oh, her? Hmm, Ah cannae remember…probably early tae mid-forties. Why?”

  “Ah’d still gie her wan, so Ah wid,” Bumper said.

  “Fin, as tough as ye think ye ur, she’d bloody punch ye that fast, ye’d think ye wur surrounded, if ye even smiled in her direction,” The Stalker retorted, smiling.

  “Don’t ye believe it, pal. Ah’ve tamed a lot harder than that feral cat in ma time, so Ah hiv.”

  “So, why don’t ye get aff ae yer fat lazy arse and nip across and offer her a lift up the road tae wherever she’s gaun then?”

  “Me? Nah, she’s no ma type. Noo, take somewan like yersel, ye’d probably be in wae a better shout than me, so ye wid.”

  The Stalker didnae reply, bit sat in the passenger seat ae the squad car and watched the hunched-up figure draw level wae them, oan the pavement across the road. He’d known her, or rather, hid come intae contact wae her regularly since the sixties, through trying tae lift that son ae hers, Johnboy, who’d been running aboot in the Toonheid, stealing everything that wisnae nailed doon. The boy wis noo a tall, hairy-arsed, dangerous thug, who ran aboot wae a murderous crowd ae up-and-coming gangsters who everywan, apart fae the boys themsels, called The Mankys. The Stalker winced thinking aboot the violent run-ins himsel and aw the other polismen, hid hid wae Helen Taylor and her scraggly pals, efter hivving tae polis the warrant sales ootside aw the closemooths in the area. Everywan in the station and doon in The Corporation knew she wis the number wan pain in the arse, who lead the attack against The Corporation’s warrant sales policy. She wis absolutely hated by everywan and anywan wae a bit ae authority. Whit the daft basturts didnae realise though, wis that it wis her that kept aw the really mad wans in check, who wur attracted tae the possibility ae a pitch battle wae the bizzies during the inevitable fracas that wid erupt doon in a closemooth during a sale. He'd tried tae tell everywan that, bit they widnae listen. Aw everywan wanted wis the opportunity tae say that it wis them that hid managed tae arrest her…if they could get her intae the Black Maria withoot being assaulted and rescued by aw her cronies. Biscuit always maintained that if she wisnae running aboot, stirring up the natives, then there widnae be any need fur a polis presence in whit he clearly saw as the responsibility ae The Corporation.

  “Fur Christ's sake, Paddy. This is a civil situation we’re being drawn intae, no a bloody criminal wan,” Biscuit hid whined, as The Stalker remembered haudin his PC sidekick’s heid back, trying unsuccessfully tae stench the blood pishing oot ae his broken nose efter some jezebel hid scudded it wae a pole wae a bit ae cardboard pinned oan the end ae it saying ‘Make Love Not War.’

  It hid been a thankless task and hid been wan ae the first areas ae responsibility that he’d swiftly dumped oan tae his replacement when he wis promoted tae Inspector. He watched her. Tae look at her...ye widnae think there wis an attractive redheid under that scarf, a shapely pair ae legs, haudin up a nice ripe arse and a juicy pair ae succulent paps sheltering underneath the buttoned-up coat she wis wearing. If he could be honest wae Fin, which he knew fine well he couldnae be, he wid’ve blurted oot that no only did he fancy Helen Taylor, bit that he wis in love wae her. In truth, he hid been since first clapping eyes oan her, roond aboot 1967, when he’d first appeared at her door, looking fur Johnboy, who’d either been oan the run fae a remand home or hid tanned some local shoap windae. He couldnae remember whit the actual crime wis that the boy hid supposedly committed, apart fae the fact that he wid obviously hiv been guilty, bit when she’d opened her front door and demanded tae know whit the fuck he wis efter, he’d been hooked. The fact that her accusatory question hid stinging barbs ae hostility and loathing attached tae it, hidnae mattered a toss tae him. Her fiery red hair, which matched her famous temper, her pale face and green eyes, alang wae her small, white, even teeth, hid made him go weak at the knees. She wis married tae a wee weakling ae a lorry driver and they hid five snappers aw in. Apart fae Johnboy, there wis another boy called Charlie who wis aulder than his brother and who wis supposedly living abroad and gaun straight. Jist like his wee brother, he’d been a bit ae a bampot when he wis younger and hid been well-known fur assaulting the polis. They also hid three lassies, aw in their late teens or early twenties. He’d heard that aw her snappers hid flown the nest and that it wis only her and her man at hame noo. He’d made the mistake ae confessing tae his priest, Father John, aboot his feelings towards her a while back. As soon as Father John hid heard that he’d feelings...urges...towards a married wummin...well, that hid been that. The priest hid come doon oan him like a ton ae bricks. Efter that, Father John hid kept casting his lustfulness up tae him during confession, despite the fact that The Stalker hid thought that he’d managed tae convince Father John that the hundred and thirty seven 'Hail Marys' that he’d been ordered tae recite as punishment fur his wicked thoughts, hid cured him. His biggest mistake hid been in telling Father John who the object ae his desires wis. He still took umbrage at the response he'd goat.

  “What? Paddy, are you trying to tell me, your confessor, that the lustful thoughts you’ve been having have been towards Helen Taylor? That shameful jezebel incarnate from the Townhead, who is currently undermining the good people of Springburn on a daily basis with her filth and lies? Helen Taylor, who’s married to a Protestant unbeliever and who refused to bring her children up as good Catholics?” the priest hid demanded, astonishment in the voice oan the other side ae the confessional screen.

  “Er, aye, Father,” he’d replied piously, laying oan his shame thickly, trying tae ensure that the priest wid be convinced ae his repentance.

  “Christ, Paddy, if I’d known it was her, I wouldn’t have been so severe in dishing out the Hail Marys. You should have said who it was earlier,” Father John hid replied wae a chortle.

  “Er, is there something that Ah’ve missed here, Father?” he’d asked,

  “Paddy, Paddy, you’ll need to get a grip, my son. Lusting after a married woman is bad enough...but someone like Helen Taylor? Oh, come on.”

  “So, whit’s wrang wae her then? Granted, she’s married, and Ah kin assure ye Ah’ve repented till Ah’m blue in the face, bit she’s lovely, so she is,” he’d retorted, sounding confused.

  “Paddy, listen to you. Helen Taylor has always stood on the wrong side of Gabriel. She hates the mother church, and detests its priests even more. Why, she spends all her waking hours in plotting its overthrow. She is averse to a
uthority, to order, to what’s right and wrong. It’s people like you and I that she rants against. She hates what you and I stand for. We are the vanguard between what is good and right as opposed to what is wrong and rotten. Mark my words...when she speaks, it’s with a forked tongue. You have to be strong, Paddy. Remember Eve and the apple?”

  “Aye, Father.”

  “I suppose, if there was one positive outcome, it’s the fact that your lust is aimed towards her.”

  “So, whit’s that supposed tae mean then, Father?”

  “It means you’ve got as much chance of biting into that rotten apple as I have of giving up my vows and becoming a gun runner for the IRA,” Father John hid chuckled again fae behind the screen.

  The Stalker knew that Father John hid been right…at least, the bit aboot his chances ae getting tae perch oan Helen Taylor wis. He wisnae too sure aboot the rest ae the shite that the priest hid been oan aboot though. He’d bumped intae Father John oan New Year's morning and hid ended up wae a right earful.

  “I see that your fancy fantasy bit on the side is still up to no good, as per usual, Paddy,” Father John hid commented, in that Irish lilt ae his.

  “Oh, aye, and who might that be then, Father?”

  “Taylor, the heretic, the focus of your loins…or have you forgotten your shame?”

  “Helen Taylor? Whit aboot her then?”

  “She persuaded those poor lost souls, Issie and Thomas McManus, not to have their only son properly buried through the church he was born and christened into. Can you imagine where his soul is now? Purgatory, that’s where.”

  “Ach, knowing Joe McManus, Ah wid’ve thought he wid’ve ended up there whether he’d been gied a proper Catholic mass or no, Father,” Paddy hid foolishly replied.

  “Paddy, you clearly don’t understand the seriousness of this. All sinners are God’s children. That shameful vixen has denied a young man and his family the blessings of the mother church, access to our Lord, the saviour, to Mary, mother of God and entrance to heaven.”