Behind Bars:
Part One
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Meet nasty Norman, Brendan’s former boss, and innocent Catriona, Kathleen’s lover. All four characters are heading on a collision course.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Meet nasty Norman, Brendan’s former boss, and innocent Catriona, Kathleen’s lover. All four characters are heading on a collision course.
Chapter Eleven: Norman
1
I don't know which I hate the most: queers or wogs. Queers probably: at least you can see if someone is black or not, but queers are sly and devious: they pretend to be normal until it's too late. All those times I must have shook hands with that queer cunt Brendan, or touched his shoulder when pushing past him, it makes me want to puke.
You can't trust them. I certainly couldn't trust Brendan: it's thanks to him I lost my job, all because he didn't turn up for work.
It was the night after Paddy terrorists bombed those two pubs. It'd been his day off, so I wouldn't be surprised if he was involved in some way, particularly once I discovered he was a Paddy himself. A queer paddy, for fuck's sake. The day after the pub bombings he came in to work his lunchtime shift, and me and the boss told him to warn the niggers and tarts not to sell drugs and sex because the police were likely to visit us. Both of us told him he'd need to do it because we wouldn't be there. I'd even arranged for a couple of casual staff to be there to help. I don't know why I bothered.
I only found out later he hadn't turned up. Typical queer: unreliable and probably too scared to say anything to any of the dealers, so just decided to skip his shift without telling anyone. The two casuals were a waste of space: if they'd used their heads surely they would have realised the police were likely to visit. Anyway, the cops did turn up and not only found the place full of tarts and dealers, but one of the niggers tried to sell one of them some dope. How thick can you be? Okay, they were in plain clothes but I thought the dealers and girls could recognise a cop even in a fancy dress outfit. Apparently not.
It didn't stop there. The brewery closed the pub and both me and the boss were arrested. Fortunately I was able to convince the police I was a decent citizen who had nothing to do with drugs or bombs. They did ask me if I knew what went on in the lounge and of course I told them I didn't. I'm not sure they believed me, but they had no alternative but to take my word for it. After all, I'm English and normal.
I still got the sack. After all I'd done I got the sack. At least that was all that happened to me, unlike the boss: the police told him he'd probably be prosecuted for allowing the pub to be used by dealers and tarts. After all, as the manager he was responsible for anything that happened. I saw him a few days later and to say he was pissed off would be an understatement. I was used to getting the rough end of his tongue, but I'd never seen him so angry. He blamed me, of course, he always did. He told me he'd left me in charge, so it had been up to me to make sure everything was okay.
“But I asked you for the night off, and you said okay. How the fuck can it be my fault?”
“You were still in charge, you were still responsible. Should never have fucking employed you.”
“Oh yeah, and what other cunt would work for you? Other than queer Paddies, of course. You're the worst fucking boss I've ever fucking had.”
He came up close to me. I thought he was going to hit me, which would have been a laugh: he only came up to my shoulder. Like a lot of short arses, he had a chip on his shoulder. He was clenching his teeth and closing and opening his fists. Sweat was beginning to run down his face. I refused to flinch, and eventually he turned away. His parting shot was: “Don't expect a reference, ’cos you won't fucking get one.” He stormed off.
I laughed. A reference? What fucking use would a reference from him be, particularly if he got a criminal record?
In any case, I never had a problem finding work. I'd worked all my adult life, and if one job ended another one turned up. It wasn't luck: it was a sense of responsibility, it was not thinking the world owed me a living, it was good honest traditional English values. Not for me hanging about on street corners smoking and complaining about how little dole I got. I had always believed in getting off my backside and looking for work.
And I always made sure I dressed smartly. Some people used to snigger at me wearing suits and nice shirts and bow ties, but I didn't care. A smart body means a smart mind: that's what I've always said, and it's served me well most of the time.
Providing you weren't fussy, there were plenty of jobs and I soon found work: in an off-license, where I sold booze and fags to all comers. As far as I was concerned, I didn't care how old they were or how old they looked: if someone under-age wanted fags and booze, that wasn't my problem. Let them. I wasn't paid enough to bother.
There was only one problem: I was working for a Paki. Like most Pakis, he didn't drink, but was happy to make money selling it. Hypocritical bastard! He left me to it most of the time, which suited me, particularly as when he was there he kept interfering. And he stunk. Don't these people believe in washing?
I had a nice little fiddle going. I knew how to cover what I stole and I never got too greedy: enough to supplement my wages and pay for a few little extras, but not enough to be noticed. I was quite proud of myself: my own little protest against the immigrants who were polluting this country.
One night while locking up, I was approached by a stranger. On my guard and wary I waited for him to say or do something. He smiled at me, but I didn't respond. I didn't know whether he was a queer about to make a pass at me or some mugger intent on robbing me, but hopefully my height – well over six feet – would deter him.
“I know you,” he said, offering his hand for me to shake, “you used to work at the Star, didn't you?”
Ignoring his proffered hand, I said: “What's it to you?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, nothing at all. I saw the pub was boarded up and I wondered what had happened to you.”
“It's none of your business, mate.”
He withdrew his hand. “True, very true. I see you've gone from serving niggers to working for a Paki. You wouldn't get me working for one: I'd rather slit my own throat.”
“Easy for you to say. If you were out of work, you might think differently.” I pushed past him and began walking away.
He ran after me. “No offence, mate, just wondered why someone as smart as you would work for one.”
I stopped and turned to him. “Look, I don't know what the fuck you want, but you're beginning to irritate me, so fuck off.”
“Okay, but I reckon you could do better for yourself.”
“And what would you know about anything?”
“Fancy a drink, and you can find out what I know.”
He didn't look queer, still I didn't trust him: they can disguise themselves as normal. But I could defend myself if necessary, and if he wanted to buy me a drink, what was there to lose? So I followed him to a pub – one of the few in Winson Green that wasn't full of niggers or Paddies. I'd been in the Oak a few times and quite liked it. The small bar was warm and cosy and the beer was good – far better than the crap we used to serve at the Star. I sat at a table next to the roaring coal fire while he got the drinks.
On his return, he held out his hand again, saying: “I'm Tony.”
This time I did shake it and told him my name. “Why would you buy a complete stranger a pint? You're not queer, are you?” I asked him.
He laughed. “Do I look queer? I just thought you might be interested in a job that pays more than you earn at the moment and that doesn't involve working for Pakis or niggers.”
“Yeah, sure. And why would you want to offer someone you don't know a job?”
He shrugged. “Why not?” I didn't respond, I just took a swig of my pint and waited for him to continue. He sighed. “Okay, here's the deal. I know more about you than you think. I know you know how to look after yourself and if you wanted to you could floor me. I also know you hate Pakis and niggers. It's my business to know these things.”
“Yeah, well I don't like being spied on. You still haven't told me what this is all about.”
“Patience, Norman. I'm a sort of Good Samaritan, a sort of social worker, if you like. I help people out: it gives me a nice glow inside to help my fellow men.”
“Just cut the fucking bullshit.”
He smiled. “But it isn't bullshit. I do help my fellow men – and women. I help them out when they're short, particularly those worse off than myself, the sort of people who don't have bank accounts. If they need money for something, I lend them it. But sadly some people just take advantage of my generosity, and get behind with the repayments. Sometimes they complain I'm ripping them off by charging so much interest, but all I'm doing is helping them when they need it. I ought to get an honour for what I do. But if I let one or two people get away without repaying me at the agreed rate then it won't be long before word gets round that I'm a soft touch. So I'm looking for someone to persuade people not to get behind with their payments.”
“And what makes you think I'd want to do it?”
“Oh, I think you do. Just think, you'd be persuading the scum of the earth to pay up. The feckless, the stupid, the ones who never think of tomorrow, the ones who'd probably be late for their own funerals. And plenty of niggers and Pakis and Paddies among them to persuade. Yes, I think you'd like it.”
“So let me get this straight. What you want me to do is to go round and beat up people until they pay what they owe? Is that about right?”
“I prefer the word persuade. How you persuade is up to you: I don't need to know anything other than you've successfully persuaded people.”
“Ha! Persuade then. But what's in it for me? What are the wages?”
“No wages. Just 10% of whatever you collect.”
“That's fuck all. If I'm not getting a regular fucking wage, I expect more than 10%.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I'm not about to haggle with you. Either you want the job or you don't. But before you make up your mind, look at this.” He passed me a dog eared exercise book full of names and sums of money.
“What's this?” I asked.
“Accounts. All you need to look at is the last column, which shows how much each person owes me. Quite a bit, isn't it?”
When I saw the figures I whistled. “Fucking hell. And I get 10% of that lot?”
“Only if your powers of persuasion lead them to give you the money.”
I whistled again. “That's a lot of money. But what if one of them calls the police on me?”
“I wouldn't worry about that. Some of these people wouldn't want the police round, what with drugs and stuff. And as for the others, it's up to you to make sure they know the consequences of calling the police. If you know what I mean.”
“Well, it looks like I'm not working for a Paki anymore.”
He grinned and over another pint we discussed the details. The next day I handed the keys back to the owner of the off-license and demanded my wages. He made a bit of a fuss about lack of notice and such like, but I just told him I wasn't leaving until I got what was owed me.
2
I soon found I wasn't the only “persuader” employed by Tony. Sometimes we worked together, particularly when we knew the person we were visiting had a reputation for fists or knives. But when it was single women or the old or students there was rarely need for back up, and it was rare I needed to use violence on them, though threats were sometimes necessary. I had no sympathy for any of them: they were feckless idiots who couldn't live on what they earned or, more likely, what the state gave them for doing nothing, so they borrowed money and then would try and get out of paying it back. I'd met their sort in the pubs I'd worked at: get their giro cheques, cash them and then straight down the pub. And they wondered why they got in debt.
Tony explained there was no point in going through official channels: if we took them to court, they would only give some sob story and get off with paying the debt in instalments so tiny they would die before the debt was paid. Anyway, Tony's business wasn't exactly legit: apparently it was illegal to lend money to people, charge interest and then demand people pay back the loan as agreed. The fucking banks or building societies or other authorised companies can get away with it, but not an entrepreneur who was a victim of a miscarriage of justice: he'd got a criminal record for GBH, when all he'd been doing was defending himself against a drug addled nigger.
He told me the black cunt had come into his local pub the Oak, one of the few safe places for normal English people, and demanded a drink. When the barman had refused to serve him, the cunt told him he couldn't refuse to serve people because of their colour: it was the law. Tony said he intervened because he thought the nigger was going to hit the barman. Of course the courts didn't believe Tony. He said he was lucky not to be sent down.
I was concerned at first in case I got attacked in the street when carrying money, but Tony told me not to worry, but if I was I could carry a knife or other weapon. He was right: I never did have anyone try to get money off me. It was all about attitude, really: a firm, masculine walk, head held high, looking straight ahead as if I knew where I was going and what I was doing, showing I belonged. It was only the weak who were attacked in the street, and they deserved it for being weak.
I was earning more money than I had ever done, and even began to save up a bit for a rainy day, or perhaps for a holiday. Though I wasn't sure where to go: the weather in this country is normally crap and who wants to pay an arm and a leg for a week at the seaside watching the rain fall? And I wasn't about to travel abroad: the weather might be better, but there was no way I was going to spend my holidays in a foreign country where the thick natives couldn't even speak English. It was bad enough we were in the Common Market without having to be nice to the Frogs or the Hun – and don't get me started on the Italians: cowards, all of them. Hey, what do you call a brave Italian? Nothing: they don't exist.
We met in the Oak regularly in order to pay him and get paid myself. The pub was like his office: he spent most evenings there, often using the landlord's phone, always at a table by himself with his beer and paperwork for company. If I'd had a successful day and collected lots of money he would buy me a drink and occasionally even give me a bit extra on top of my ten per cent. Sometimes we'd chat over a drink and sometimes he'd talk about politics.
Politics had never interested me. As far as I was concerned, they were all the same: only in it for what they could get. The only decent one among the lot was Enoch Powell: he was the only one who told it like it really was, and he was sacked for it. But Tony told me everything was political. I asked him what he meant.
“Everything is about politics,” he said, “you losing your job, the number of foreigners we have in England, all those bombs planted by Irish murderers, joining the Common Market, how much you pay for food and drink – it's all politics. And until we get a decent government, one that will bring back hanging, get rid of all the foreigners and make sure England is for the English, until then we're fucked.”
I laughed. “Oh yeah! They're all the fucking same. Labour and Conservative – there's no fucking difference. I haven't voted for years, don't see the point.”
“That's where you’re wrong, Norman. Yeah, you're right Labour and Conservative and the Liberals are all the same, but that just means we need to get decent English people running the country, people who won't shy away from the hard tasks ahead of us.”
“And who would that be? Fucking Hitler?”
“Ever heard of the National Front?”
“Yeah, heard the name, but don't know anything about them.”
“Here,” he said, passing me some magazines, “read these. They'll tell you everything you need to know.”
“I'm not much of a reader, I prefer practical things myself.”
“But you can read, can't you?”
“Of course I fucking can. I'm not a thick cunt, just don't see the point.”
“Well, read these. You'll find out about all the crap that's happening, and how we can stop it.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “If you say so.” I finished my drink and left with my copies of “Spearhead”.
He was right. I found out “Spearhead” was the magazine of the National Front, and that the National Front was a party that believed in deporting all blacks, keeping Britain white, bringing back the death penalty, banning queers, putting Communists in prison, and much more that all right thinking people agree with.
3
I joined the National Front, and I began to take part in their activities. I wasn't interested in meetings and listening to people talk about boring stuff like minutes and accounts. But when it came to getting together with some other fellow members and making life difficult for blacks, queers, Jews and Paddies, that was different. We organised boycotts of Paki shops and beat up queers in public toilets, we sent anonymous threatening letters to any blacks who tried to organise meetings or wanted to be politicians, we organised pickets and demonstrations, we left copies of “Spearhead” in pubs and fish and chip shops and libraries and on buses.
The party was also busy organising for the council elections that were due in May. We couldn't put up candidates in every ward: that would have cost more than we had, particularly as we lost our deposit if we didn't get enough votes – and they call that democracy. But we put up a few candidates and began raising money for the elections. Every time we had a public meeting we rattled tins and we made it clear everyone was expected to put something in. No-one refused. We put up posters, tore down those of our opponents, went canvassing for votes – and made sure those from other parties didn't butt in. All the legal stuff all parties did, but with a little extra illegal spice.
We didn't win any seats in the council elections, but we didn't expect to. The aim was to increase our profile, make more people aware of us and get more support for future elections. As for those who wouldn't support us, we did our best to intimidate them. To be honest, I don't think any of us thought we would ever win power through voting, and there were two different points of view. Some activists thought we would only ever change things by direct violent action on the street, but others thought that by standing in elections and taking votes away from the other parties we could persuade politicians to take account of our policies so we could change things bit by bit, step by step. I didn't know enough yet to decide whether to support the radicals or the gradualists, but instinctively I preferred direct action: it was more immediate and you got the satisfaction of seeing the fear on people's faces.
After the elections Tony told me the party was organising a summer social as a thank you to all those who had helped, and I was welcome to come along. It was going to be held at a pub run by one of our members: the George & Dragon in Balsall Heath. I didn't know much about the area, except it was rough, but Tony told me the pub was all white and all English and everyone there was a patriot. He said the landlord was letting us use the upstairs function room for the party, one that would go on for as long as we wanted, as long as he was able to clear up in time for the following day's lunchtime opening.
I was looking forward to it. What I didn't realise was just how much I was going to enjoy the evening. Who was it who said revenge is a dish best served cold? He was right.
Chapter Twelve: Catriona
1
At first I thought I'd made a horrible mistake. Birmingham was big, noisy and crowded. I'd been to Glasgow, of course, but only rarely and even then only for overnight stays with ma and da, and at least the way people spoke was familiar. But Birmingham...
As the train headed south, I was both excited and nervous: my first time living away from home, having to look after myself, the freedom to do as I pleased and the responsibility that went with it. Gradually the unfamiliar flat countryside was replaced by urban sprawl that seemed to go on for ever. As I approached the end of my journey, the buildings became taller, greyer, dirtier; the streets more crowded; the patches of green rarer. As soon as I got off at New Street Station, the decibels pounded me so hard I almost collapsed. I looked around, but couldn't see anyway out so I just followed the crowd, jostled by people who were either unaware of me or perhaps thought I was moving too slowly. I followed the crowd up a wide staircase and onto a covered walkway with stairs down to platforms.
I found my way to the ticket barriers and into a large and crowded concourse full of shops and bars. Eventually I found my way out of the confusing maze of a station, down a ramp and onto a street crowded with shoppers, buskers, paper sellers and goodness knows what else. I didn't know whereabouts in the city I was nor how to get to the university campus. Well, I thought, this is a good start.
I gave myself a good talking to. “Come on, lass,” I said to myself, “you've got a tongue in your mouth, just ask someone.”
But I'd heard horror stories about how you couldn't trust strangers in the big city, particularly if you were an 18 year old woman travelling alone. I thought of getting a taxi, but I had no idea how that worked and anyway I needed every penny I had. I should have let da drive me down, as he'd offered to do, but I wanted to be independent, wanted to prove I could do things for myself. I realised that getting to Birmingham was the easy part.
I looked at my watch and saw it was getting late. I had promised to ring ma and da as soon as I arrived, so I retraced my steps until I reached the row of phone boxes I had passed a few minutes earlier. I lied, telling them everything was okay and I was about to catch the bus to the university.
I had to ask several people before I found someone who could understand me and who I could understand, who wasn't dashing somewhere and wouldn't stop and who could actually tell me where the bus left for university.
By the time I got there, registered, was told where my digs were and found the building and my room I was tired, dirty, sweaty and had an unpleasant headache. I collapsed on the bed and burst into tears. I had decided I didn't like Birmingham and I couldn't face three years studying here: I was going to go home the next day and, instead of university, work on my parents' croft.
I didn't. Of course I didn't.
That very night a flatmate, also new to Birmingham, befriended me and together we went to the student union bar. The next day I had my first hangover. Over the next three years I began to love Birmingham: there was so much going on. No matter what you liked or what you wanted to do, you would find it somewhere in this large sprawl. And music, so much music: classical, folk, pop, country, jazz, blues, musical comedy – every form of music was here, including things I'd never come across before, like Indian raga. Birmingham was certainly the place to study music!
The biggest culture shock wasn't the noise or the crowds or the flat landscape, but just how much happened on Sundays. Where I came from, everything stopped on the Sabbath: the shops, garages, pubs, even the play parks. People didn't even put their washing out on the line, even if Sunday was the only dry day of the week. Walking or driving was frowned on, unless you were going to church. But in Birmingham, and as I discovered the rest of England, some small shops opened, as did pubs and some garages. Few people worked on Sunday, and I saw people out enjoying themselves in parks, pubs, cafés. It would have shocked my parents. It would have horrified the minister at our kirk. Not that it would have bothered me: I gave up on the kirk a long time ago and stopped going once I left home.
Actually, lots about my life in Birmingham would have shocked my parents and the minister. My parents weren't prudes: I won't have a word said against them. They enjoyed life, had no objection to drinking in moderation, but they were of a time and place where certain things just weren't done, or if they were they weren't talked about unless the minister was preaching against someone or something.
Some of the things I discovered about myself would also have shocked many people in my adopted city, particularly when I realised I loved women. That was something I kept to myself and to my lovers, of which there were several at university. When I finished my studies and became a music teacher at a comprehensive school, I was particularly careful.
I hated having to hide my love, but I knew of teachers who'd been sacked for being homosexual: there were regular reports in the press. If any of the parents had found out, they would have been worried for the morals and safety of their little Janes and Patricias. I enjoyed teaching music and I enjoyed singing and playing the guitar and piano, and I wasn't going to allow anything to put a stop to that.
Then I met Kathleen.
2
I not only taught music, I played as part of a collective of folk musicians. It was fun, and I learnt a lot from the other musicians and singers. I also contributed to the breadth of music we performed, bringing Scots and Gaelic songs to the collective. I particularly enjoyed singing Gaelic waulking songs: work songs that one time were sung by women who were beating the tweed to make it softer.
The only downside with the collective was David, the person who had set it up. Although he never interfered with mine or anyone else's choice of music, he was controlling in other ways. Most people just accepted that David was the leader, even though collectives weren't supposed to have leaders, and most of the time he got his way, partly because he was good at getting us gigs and partly because no-one was prepared to stand up to him.
That was until Kathleen joined. Not only did she have a wonderful contralto, not only did she have a wide repertoire covering everything from traditional ballads to contemporary pop songs and including a few she had written herself, she was also prepared to stand up for herself or, to use her own words, wouldn't take shit from anyone. Some people called her potty mouth, but never to her face. Although I rarely swore myself I found her attitude refreshing. She was no-one's doormat. Her and David regularly had stand up rows which normally resulted in him backing down, while the rest of us cowered.
She was the most amazing person I had ever met. With flaming red hair, barely reaching five feet tall and a taste for low cut revealing tops and mini skirts, she was a tiny bundle of energy who swept through a room like she owned it. She took no prisoners, knew what she wanted and normally got it. She had the shortest fuse of anyone I'd ever known, but she calmed down as quickly as her temper rose. She smiled a lot, was often giggling, but gave nothing away. She was beautiful and I loved her.
We began to spend ever more time together, and she gave me the confidence to stand up to David. I don't know what she saw in me, but whatever it was I hoped I never lost it. At first she struck me as being like a selkie, except she was as far from the sea as it was possible to be in this country. I hoped she would never find her seal skin, or if she did she would find one for me.
Her name was an Irish variant of mine, so really we had the same name. I told her that once, and told her both our names meant pure. That was when it all came out: the appalling story of her abusive childhood and of her life as a prostitute. I realised just how lucky I was and I resolved to never, ever again complain about my family. That resolution didn't last that long, to be honest.
We became lovers. She introduced me to her friend and house mate Brendan, and fortunately we got on. I suspect that if Brendan hadn't taken to me or I had disliked him then Kathleen would have finished with me. But the three of us got on well together, so that was alright.
Kathleen wanted to tell everyone about us: she told me she had never before realised just how pleasurable, how beautiful physical contact could be, and she now understood why it was called making love. She wanted the whole world to know.
I told her that couldn't happen. “I'm a teacher,” I said, “and if anyone at the school found out I'd probably be sacked.”
“That's okay, no need to tell anyone there. No reason they should know. But what the fuck's wrong with the rest of the collective knowing? What harm can that do?”
“But once a few people know, they might start talking and it could get back to the school. And then I'd be out of work and I wouldn't be able to afford to keep my home, wouldn't be able to afford the mortgage.”
“For fuck's sake. Is that all you care about, your fucking job and your fucking mortgage? It sounds more like being in prison, if you ask me. Are you ashamed of me?”
“Of course I'm not. It's so unfair, so unfair of you to say that. So unfair. I could never be ashamed of you nor of my feelings for you. Surely you know that.”
“No, I don't fucking know that. What I know is that you want us to hide our love from everyone. What I know is that you never let me stay the night at your home in case the neighbours see me leaving the next day. It seems to me the fucking neighbours, your fucking job and every Tom, Dick and fucking Harry are more important than me. That's what I know.” She stared at me, nostrils flaring, anger rising like fire from her red hair, arms folded across her chest, closing herself off from me.
“Please, Kathleen, please understand.”
“Oh yeah, I understand alright. I fucking understand for sure. And I'll tell anyone I like, any fucking wanker I want to.” She stormed out, banging the door so hard one of the pictures fell off the wall.
I collapsed into a chair and burst out crying, howling loudly, calling her name over and over. How could I make her understand? It wasn't the first such row we'd had, but it was the worst. It wasn't just our sexual relationship, though that could have got me the sack, it was also her past. I really didn't know what would horrify people more: that I was a lesbian or that I was in a relationship with an ex prostitute. And an Irish Catholic on top of that.
Growing up I'd been told lots of stories about the overcrowding and insanitary conditions, the filth, the violence and the unemployment in the East End of Glasgow, and how Irish navvies and tinkers had brought their degenerate and superstitious ways across the sea with them.
I didn't believe any of it, of course, but that was irrelevant: it wasn't what I believed that was important, it was what others thought. Back home the minister would probably have preached against me if he'd known. I can just hear him now, his booming bass telling the congregation I was a sinner and demanding my repentance, something I couldn't have given. Ma and da went to the kirk, but I think they were sometimes embarrassed by the ranting of the minister: ma would say it was a pity he didn't show some Christian charity and da would just shake his head. Neither of them, in fact no-one in the congregation, had the strength, courage or authority to challenge the minister, though some people did stop going. People listened to him on a Sunday, sucking boiled sweets while he preached, and observed the Sabbath. For the rest of the week most people just got on with their lives, happy to socialise with those of different or no faiths, forgetting or ignoring his remonstrations, either that or they were able to compartmentalise their lives. I suppose that was what I was doing: dividing my life into discrete separate sections, with one reserved for Kathleen.
She might have been potty mouthed and rough spoken, but she was far from stupid: she was probably the most intelligent person I had ever met, including all those professors and academics I knew from university. She hated hypocrisy and undoubtedly thought I was being a hypocrite. Did that mean she hated me, as well as loved me?
She rarely stayed angry for long. My sobbing segued into a restless fitful sleep, from which I was wakened by a kiss. I opened my eyes to find Kathleen knelt before me. We both said “I'm sorry” at the same time and hugged each other. We made up in the best way either of us knew.
3
I may have been a music teacher with a degree and all the theory, but Kathleen had an instinct for what sounds went well together. She couldn't read music, but didn't need to: her memory and her ear were excellent. We had been rehearsing for a show we were doing together, just the two of us, and we worked on harmonies together as well as some imaginative medleys that combined very different pieces. Only Kathleen could have thought up a medley combining a Gaelic waulking song, a raunchy sea shanty and a traditional American chain gang number. I was dubious at first, but she persuaded me to give it a go. And it worked. In a weird way it made sense: all three were work songs specific to particular types of work, so all three mimicked the rhythms of work. She also convinced me that all three would work better with just our voices in harmony. This did mean she had to learn some Gaelic phrases. Her first attempt at singing in Gaelic had me in stitches.
She looked hurt. “What's wrong? Why the fuck are you laughing at me?”
“I'm sorry,” I said between giggles, “I know I shouldn't laugh, but your pronunciation is just so funny – and the Brummie accent makes it hilarious.”
She just snorted. After a few moments, I apologised properly, and we spent the rest of that rehearsal getting her pronunciation correct. She was a quick learner.
I don't know about Kathleen, but I was nervous before that gig, more nervous than I could remember having ever been. It would be the first time we had performed a whole concert together without anyone backing us. Just our two voices, her guitar and my keyboard.
I needn't have worried: it went perfectly, particularly the second half which consisted of songs, both traditional and contemporary, relevant to feminism, and which finished with a rousing version of Peggy Seeger's “Gonna Be An Engineer”. The audience joined in with us and we left the stage to rapturous applause.
Afterwards, as we collapsed with a beer each, Kathleen said: “Fuck. That was good.”
I nodded: no need to say anything else.
As it was a Saturday, we had all of the following day to ourselves. There was no need for me to dash home, get a few hours sleep and get to work the next day. So we were going to spend the night together at Kathleen's, and wake up together on the Sunday morning. We knew Brendan would be working late at some function at the pub where he worked, but we knew he wouldn't disturb us when he came in. With any luck, he'd cook us breakfast on the Sunday.
As I drove us, neither of us had any idea of what awaited us.
1
I don't know which I hate the most: queers or wogs. Queers probably: at least you can see if someone is black or not, but queers are sly and devious: they pretend to be normal until it's too late. All those times I must have shook hands with that queer cunt Brendan, or touched his shoulder when pushing past him, it makes me want to puke.
You can't trust them. I certainly couldn't trust Brendan: it's thanks to him I lost my job, all because he didn't turn up for work.
It was the night after Paddy terrorists bombed those two pubs. It'd been his day off, so I wouldn't be surprised if he was involved in some way, particularly once I discovered he was a Paddy himself. A queer paddy, for fuck's sake. The day after the pub bombings he came in to work his lunchtime shift, and me and the boss told him to warn the niggers and tarts not to sell drugs and sex because the police were likely to visit us. Both of us told him he'd need to do it because we wouldn't be there. I'd even arranged for a couple of casual staff to be there to help. I don't know why I bothered.
I only found out later he hadn't turned up. Typical queer: unreliable and probably too scared to say anything to any of the dealers, so just decided to skip his shift without telling anyone. The two casuals were a waste of space: if they'd used their heads surely they would have realised the police were likely to visit. Anyway, the cops did turn up and not only found the place full of tarts and dealers, but one of the niggers tried to sell one of them some dope. How thick can you be? Okay, they were in plain clothes but I thought the dealers and girls could recognise a cop even in a fancy dress outfit. Apparently not.
It didn't stop there. The brewery closed the pub and both me and the boss were arrested. Fortunately I was able to convince the police I was a decent citizen who had nothing to do with drugs or bombs. They did ask me if I knew what went on in the lounge and of course I told them I didn't. I'm not sure they believed me, but they had no alternative but to take my word for it. After all, I'm English and normal.
I still got the sack. After all I'd done I got the sack. At least that was all that happened to me, unlike the boss: the police told him he'd probably be prosecuted for allowing the pub to be used by dealers and tarts. After all, as the manager he was responsible for anything that happened. I saw him a few days later and to say he was pissed off would be an understatement. I was used to getting the rough end of his tongue, but I'd never seen him so angry. He blamed me, of course, he always did. He told me he'd left me in charge, so it had been up to me to make sure everything was okay.
“But I asked you for the night off, and you said okay. How the fuck can it be my fault?”
“You were still in charge, you were still responsible. Should never have fucking employed you.”
“Oh yeah, and what other cunt would work for you? Other than queer Paddies, of course. You're the worst fucking boss I've ever fucking had.”
He came up close to me. I thought he was going to hit me, which would have been a laugh: he only came up to my shoulder. Like a lot of short arses, he had a chip on his shoulder. He was clenching his teeth and closing and opening his fists. Sweat was beginning to run down his face. I refused to flinch, and eventually he turned away. His parting shot was: “Don't expect a reference, ’cos you won't fucking get one.” He stormed off.
I laughed. A reference? What fucking use would a reference from him be, particularly if he got a criminal record?
In any case, I never had a problem finding work. I'd worked all my adult life, and if one job ended another one turned up. It wasn't luck: it was a sense of responsibility, it was not thinking the world owed me a living, it was good honest traditional English values. Not for me hanging about on street corners smoking and complaining about how little dole I got. I had always believed in getting off my backside and looking for work.
And I always made sure I dressed smartly. Some people used to snigger at me wearing suits and nice shirts and bow ties, but I didn't care. A smart body means a smart mind: that's what I've always said, and it's served me well most of the time.
Providing you weren't fussy, there were plenty of jobs and I soon found work: in an off-license, where I sold booze and fags to all comers. As far as I was concerned, I didn't care how old they were or how old they looked: if someone under-age wanted fags and booze, that wasn't my problem. Let them. I wasn't paid enough to bother.
There was only one problem: I was working for a Paki. Like most Pakis, he didn't drink, but was happy to make money selling it. Hypocritical bastard! He left me to it most of the time, which suited me, particularly as when he was there he kept interfering. And he stunk. Don't these people believe in washing?
I had a nice little fiddle going. I knew how to cover what I stole and I never got too greedy: enough to supplement my wages and pay for a few little extras, but not enough to be noticed. I was quite proud of myself: my own little protest against the immigrants who were polluting this country.
One night while locking up, I was approached by a stranger. On my guard and wary I waited for him to say or do something. He smiled at me, but I didn't respond. I didn't know whether he was a queer about to make a pass at me or some mugger intent on robbing me, but hopefully my height – well over six feet – would deter him.
“I know you,” he said, offering his hand for me to shake, “you used to work at the Star, didn't you?”
Ignoring his proffered hand, I said: “What's it to you?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, nothing at all. I saw the pub was boarded up and I wondered what had happened to you.”
“It's none of your business, mate.”
He withdrew his hand. “True, very true. I see you've gone from serving niggers to working for a Paki. You wouldn't get me working for one: I'd rather slit my own throat.”
“Easy for you to say. If you were out of work, you might think differently.” I pushed past him and began walking away.
He ran after me. “No offence, mate, just wondered why someone as smart as you would work for one.”
I stopped and turned to him. “Look, I don't know what the fuck you want, but you're beginning to irritate me, so fuck off.”
“Okay, but I reckon you could do better for yourself.”
“And what would you know about anything?”
“Fancy a drink, and you can find out what I know.”
He didn't look queer, still I didn't trust him: they can disguise themselves as normal. But I could defend myself if necessary, and if he wanted to buy me a drink, what was there to lose? So I followed him to a pub – one of the few in Winson Green that wasn't full of niggers or Paddies. I'd been in the Oak a few times and quite liked it. The small bar was warm and cosy and the beer was good – far better than the crap we used to serve at the Star. I sat at a table next to the roaring coal fire while he got the drinks.
On his return, he held out his hand again, saying: “I'm Tony.”
This time I did shake it and told him my name. “Why would you buy a complete stranger a pint? You're not queer, are you?” I asked him.
He laughed. “Do I look queer? I just thought you might be interested in a job that pays more than you earn at the moment and that doesn't involve working for Pakis or niggers.”
“Yeah, sure. And why would you want to offer someone you don't know a job?”
He shrugged. “Why not?” I didn't respond, I just took a swig of my pint and waited for him to continue. He sighed. “Okay, here's the deal. I know more about you than you think. I know you know how to look after yourself and if you wanted to you could floor me. I also know you hate Pakis and niggers. It's my business to know these things.”
“Yeah, well I don't like being spied on. You still haven't told me what this is all about.”
“Patience, Norman. I'm a sort of Good Samaritan, a sort of social worker, if you like. I help people out: it gives me a nice glow inside to help my fellow men.”
“Just cut the fucking bullshit.”
He smiled. “But it isn't bullshit. I do help my fellow men – and women. I help them out when they're short, particularly those worse off than myself, the sort of people who don't have bank accounts. If they need money for something, I lend them it. But sadly some people just take advantage of my generosity, and get behind with the repayments. Sometimes they complain I'm ripping them off by charging so much interest, but all I'm doing is helping them when they need it. I ought to get an honour for what I do. But if I let one or two people get away without repaying me at the agreed rate then it won't be long before word gets round that I'm a soft touch. So I'm looking for someone to persuade people not to get behind with their payments.”
“And what makes you think I'd want to do it?”
“Oh, I think you do. Just think, you'd be persuading the scum of the earth to pay up. The feckless, the stupid, the ones who never think of tomorrow, the ones who'd probably be late for their own funerals. And plenty of niggers and Pakis and Paddies among them to persuade. Yes, I think you'd like it.”
“So let me get this straight. What you want me to do is to go round and beat up people until they pay what they owe? Is that about right?”
“I prefer the word persuade. How you persuade is up to you: I don't need to know anything other than you've successfully persuaded people.”
“Ha! Persuade then. But what's in it for me? What are the wages?”
“No wages. Just 10% of whatever you collect.”
“That's fuck all. If I'm not getting a regular fucking wage, I expect more than 10%.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I'm not about to haggle with you. Either you want the job or you don't. But before you make up your mind, look at this.” He passed me a dog eared exercise book full of names and sums of money.
“What's this?” I asked.
“Accounts. All you need to look at is the last column, which shows how much each person owes me. Quite a bit, isn't it?”
When I saw the figures I whistled. “Fucking hell. And I get 10% of that lot?”
“Only if your powers of persuasion lead them to give you the money.”
I whistled again. “That's a lot of money. But what if one of them calls the police on me?”
“I wouldn't worry about that. Some of these people wouldn't want the police round, what with drugs and stuff. And as for the others, it's up to you to make sure they know the consequences of calling the police. If you know what I mean.”
“Well, it looks like I'm not working for a Paki anymore.”
He grinned and over another pint we discussed the details. The next day I handed the keys back to the owner of the off-license and demanded my wages. He made a bit of a fuss about lack of notice and such like, but I just told him I wasn't leaving until I got what was owed me.
2
I soon found I wasn't the only “persuader” employed by Tony. Sometimes we worked together, particularly when we knew the person we were visiting had a reputation for fists or knives. But when it was single women or the old or students there was rarely need for back up, and it was rare I needed to use violence on them, though threats were sometimes necessary. I had no sympathy for any of them: they were feckless idiots who couldn't live on what they earned or, more likely, what the state gave them for doing nothing, so they borrowed money and then would try and get out of paying it back. I'd met their sort in the pubs I'd worked at: get their giro cheques, cash them and then straight down the pub. And they wondered why they got in debt.
Tony explained there was no point in going through official channels: if we took them to court, they would only give some sob story and get off with paying the debt in instalments so tiny they would die before the debt was paid. Anyway, Tony's business wasn't exactly legit: apparently it was illegal to lend money to people, charge interest and then demand people pay back the loan as agreed. The fucking banks or building societies or other authorised companies can get away with it, but not an entrepreneur who was a victim of a miscarriage of justice: he'd got a criminal record for GBH, when all he'd been doing was defending himself against a drug addled nigger.
He told me the black cunt had come into his local pub the Oak, one of the few safe places for normal English people, and demanded a drink. When the barman had refused to serve him, the cunt told him he couldn't refuse to serve people because of their colour: it was the law. Tony said he intervened because he thought the nigger was going to hit the barman. Of course the courts didn't believe Tony. He said he was lucky not to be sent down.
I was concerned at first in case I got attacked in the street when carrying money, but Tony told me not to worry, but if I was I could carry a knife or other weapon. He was right: I never did have anyone try to get money off me. It was all about attitude, really: a firm, masculine walk, head held high, looking straight ahead as if I knew where I was going and what I was doing, showing I belonged. It was only the weak who were attacked in the street, and they deserved it for being weak.
I was earning more money than I had ever done, and even began to save up a bit for a rainy day, or perhaps for a holiday. Though I wasn't sure where to go: the weather in this country is normally crap and who wants to pay an arm and a leg for a week at the seaside watching the rain fall? And I wasn't about to travel abroad: the weather might be better, but there was no way I was going to spend my holidays in a foreign country where the thick natives couldn't even speak English. It was bad enough we were in the Common Market without having to be nice to the Frogs or the Hun – and don't get me started on the Italians: cowards, all of them. Hey, what do you call a brave Italian? Nothing: they don't exist.
We met in the Oak regularly in order to pay him and get paid myself. The pub was like his office: he spent most evenings there, often using the landlord's phone, always at a table by himself with his beer and paperwork for company. If I'd had a successful day and collected lots of money he would buy me a drink and occasionally even give me a bit extra on top of my ten per cent. Sometimes we'd chat over a drink and sometimes he'd talk about politics.
Politics had never interested me. As far as I was concerned, they were all the same: only in it for what they could get. The only decent one among the lot was Enoch Powell: he was the only one who told it like it really was, and he was sacked for it. But Tony told me everything was political. I asked him what he meant.
“Everything is about politics,” he said, “you losing your job, the number of foreigners we have in England, all those bombs planted by Irish murderers, joining the Common Market, how much you pay for food and drink – it's all politics. And until we get a decent government, one that will bring back hanging, get rid of all the foreigners and make sure England is for the English, until then we're fucked.”
I laughed. “Oh yeah! They're all the fucking same. Labour and Conservative – there's no fucking difference. I haven't voted for years, don't see the point.”
“That's where you’re wrong, Norman. Yeah, you're right Labour and Conservative and the Liberals are all the same, but that just means we need to get decent English people running the country, people who won't shy away from the hard tasks ahead of us.”
“And who would that be? Fucking Hitler?”
“Ever heard of the National Front?”
“Yeah, heard the name, but don't know anything about them.”
“Here,” he said, passing me some magazines, “read these. They'll tell you everything you need to know.”
“I'm not much of a reader, I prefer practical things myself.”
“But you can read, can't you?”
“Of course I fucking can. I'm not a thick cunt, just don't see the point.”
“Well, read these. You'll find out about all the crap that's happening, and how we can stop it.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “If you say so.” I finished my drink and left with my copies of “Spearhead”.
He was right. I found out “Spearhead” was the magazine of the National Front, and that the National Front was a party that believed in deporting all blacks, keeping Britain white, bringing back the death penalty, banning queers, putting Communists in prison, and much more that all right thinking people agree with.
3
I joined the National Front, and I began to take part in their activities. I wasn't interested in meetings and listening to people talk about boring stuff like minutes and accounts. But when it came to getting together with some other fellow members and making life difficult for blacks, queers, Jews and Paddies, that was different. We organised boycotts of Paki shops and beat up queers in public toilets, we sent anonymous threatening letters to any blacks who tried to organise meetings or wanted to be politicians, we organised pickets and demonstrations, we left copies of “Spearhead” in pubs and fish and chip shops and libraries and on buses.
The party was also busy organising for the council elections that were due in May. We couldn't put up candidates in every ward: that would have cost more than we had, particularly as we lost our deposit if we didn't get enough votes – and they call that democracy. But we put up a few candidates and began raising money for the elections. Every time we had a public meeting we rattled tins and we made it clear everyone was expected to put something in. No-one refused. We put up posters, tore down those of our opponents, went canvassing for votes – and made sure those from other parties didn't butt in. All the legal stuff all parties did, but with a little extra illegal spice.
We didn't win any seats in the council elections, but we didn't expect to. The aim was to increase our profile, make more people aware of us and get more support for future elections. As for those who wouldn't support us, we did our best to intimidate them. To be honest, I don't think any of us thought we would ever win power through voting, and there were two different points of view. Some activists thought we would only ever change things by direct violent action on the street, but others thought that by standing in elections and taking votes away from the other parties we could persuade politicians to take account of our policies so we could change things bit by bit, step by step. I didn't know enough yet to decide whether to support the radicals or the gradualists, but instinctively I preferred direct action: it was more immediate and you got the satisfaction of seeing the fear on people's faces.
After the elections Tony told me the party was organising a summer social as a thank you to all those who had helped, and I was welcome to come along. It was going to be held at a pub run by one of our members: the George & Dragon in Balsall Heath. I didn't know much about the area, except it was rough, but Tony told me the pub was all white and all English and everyone there was a patriot. He said the landlord was letting us use the upstairs function room for the party, one that would go on for as long as we wanted, as long as he was able to clear up in time for the following day's lunchtime opening.
I was looking forward to it. What I didn't realise was just how much I was going to enjoy the evening. Who was it who said revenge is a dish best served cold? He was right.
Chapter Twelve: Catriona
1
At first I thought I'd made a horrible mistake. Birmingham was big, noisy and crowded. I'd been to Glasgow, of course, but only rarely and even then only for overnight stays with ma and da, and at least the way people spoke was familiar. But Birmingham...
As the train headed south, I was both excited and nervous: my first time living away from home, having to look after myself, the freedom to do as I pleased and the responsibility that went with it. Gradually the unfamiliar flat countryside was replaced by urban sprawl that seemed to go on for ever. As I approached the end of my journey, the buildings became taller, greyer, dirtier; the streets more crowded; the patches of green rarer. As soon as I got off at New Street Station, the decibels pounded me so hard I almost collapsed. I looked around, but couldn't see anyway out so I just followed the crowd, jostled by people who were either unaware of me or perhaps thought I was moving too slowly. I followed the crowd up a wide staircase and onto a covered walkway with stairs down to platforms.
I found my way to the ticket barriers and into a large and crowded concourse full of shops and bars. Eventually I found my way out of the confusing maze of a station, down a ramp and onto a street crowded with shoppers, buskers, paper sellers and goodness knows what else. I didn't know whereabouts in the city I was nor how to get to the university campus. Well, I thought, this is a good start.
I gave myself a good talking to. “Come on, lass,” I said to myself, “you've got a tongue in your mouth, just ask someone.”
But I'd heard horror stories about how you couldn't trust strangers in the big city, particularly if you were an 18 year old woman travelling alone. I thought of getting a taxi, but I had no idea how that worked and anyway I needed every penny I had. I should have let da drive me down, as he'd offered to do, but I wanted to be independent, wanted to prove I could do things for myself. I realised that getting to Birmingham was the easy part.
I looked at my watch and saw it was getting late. I had promised to ring ma and da as soon as I arrived, so I retraced my steps until I reached the row of phone boxes I had passed a few minutes earlier. I lied, telling them everything was okay and I was about to catch the bus to the university.
I had to ask several people before I found someone who could understand me and who I could understand, who wasn't dashing somewhere and wouldn't stop and who could actually tell me where the bus left for university.
By the time I got there, registered, was told where my digs were and found the building and my room I was tired, dirty, sweaty and had an unpleasant headache. I collapsed on the bed and burst into tears. I had decided I didn't like Birmingham and I couldn't face three years studying here: I was going to go home the next day and, instead of university, work on my parents' croft.
I didn't. Of course I didn't.
That very night a flatmate, also new to Birmingham, befriended me and together we went to the student union bar. The next day I had my first hangover. Over the next three years I began to love Birmingham: there was so much going on. No matter what you liked or what you wanted to do, you would find it somewhere in this large sprawl. And music, so much music: classical, folk, pop, country, jazz, blues, musical comedy – every form of music was here, including things I'd never come across before, like Indian raga. Birmingham was certainly the place to study music!
The biggest culture shock wasn't the noise or the crowds or the flat landscape, but just how much happened on Sundays. Where I came from, everything stopped on the Sabbath: the shops, garages, pubs, even the play parks. People didn't even put their washing out on the line, even if Sunday was the only dry day of the week. Walking or driving was frowned on, unless you were going to church. But in Birmingham, and as I discovered the rest of England, some small shops opened, as did pubs and some garages. Few people worked on Sunday, and I saw people out enjoying themselves in parks, pubs, cafés. It would have shocked my parents. It would have horrified the minister at our kirk. Not that it would have bothered me: I gave up on the kirk a long time ago and stopped going once I left home.
Actually, lots about my life in Birmingham would have shocked my parents and the minister. My parents weren't prudes: I won't have a word said against them. They enjoyed life, had no objection to drinking in moderation, but they were of a time and place where certain things just weren't done, or if they were they weren't talked about unless the minister was preaching against someone or something.
Some of the things I discovered about myself would also have shocked many people in my adopted city, particularly when I realised I loved women. That was something I kept to myself and to my lovers, of which there were several at university. When I finished my studies and became a music teacher at a comprehensive school, I was particularly careful.
I hated having to hide my love, but I knew of teachers who'd been sacked for being homosexual: there were regular reports in the press. If any of the parents had found out, they would have been worried for the morals and safety of their little Janes and Patricias. I enjoyed teaching music and I enjoyed singing and playing the guitar and piano, and I wasn't going to allow anything to put a stop to that.
Then I met Kathleen.
2
I not only taught music, I played as part of a collective of folk musicians. It was fun, and I learnt a lot from the other musicians and singers. I also contributed to the breadth of music we performed, bringing Scots and Gaelic songs to the collective. I particularly enjoyed singing Gaelic waulking songs: work songs that one time were sung by women who were beating the tweed to make it softer.
The only downside with the collective was David, the person who had set it up. Although he never interfered with mine or anyone else's choice of music, he was controlling in other ways. Most people just accepted that David was the leader, even though collectives weren't supposed to have leaders, and most of the time he got his way, partly because he was good at getting us gigs and partly because no-one was prepared to stand up to him.
That was until Kathleen joined. Not only did she have a wonderful contralto, not only did she have a wide repertoire covering everything from traditional ballads to contemporary pop songs and including a few she had written herself, she was also prepared to stand up for herself or, to use her own words, wouldn't take shit from anyone. Some people called her potty mouth, but never to her face. Although I rarely swore myself I found her attitude refreshing. She was no-one's doormat. Her and David regularly had stand up rows which normally resulted in him backing down, while the rest of us cowered.
She was the most amazing person I had ever met. With flaming red hair, barely reaching five feet tall and a taste for low cut revealing tops and mini skirts, she was a tiny bundle of energy who swept through a room like she owned it. She took no prisoners, knew what she wanted and normally got it. She had the shortest fuse of anyone I'd ever known, but she calmed down as quickly as her temper rose. She smiled a lot, was often giggling, but gave nothing away. She was beautiful and I loved her.
We began to spend ever more time together, and she gave me the confidence to stand up to David. I don't know what she saw in me, but whatever it was I hoped I never lost it. At first she struck me as being like a selkie, except she was as far from the sea as it was possible to be in this country. I hoped she would never find her seal skin, or if she did she would find one for me.
Her name was an Irish variant of mine, so really we had the same name. I told her that once, and told her both our names meant pure. That was when it all came out: the appalling story of her abusive childhood and of her life as a prostitute. I realised just how lucky I was and I resolved to never, ever again complain about my family. That resolution didn't last that long, to be honest.
We became lovers. She introduced me to her friend and house mate Brendan, and fortunately we got on. I suspect that if Brendan hadn't taken to me or I had disliked him then Kathleen would have finished with me. But the three of us got on well together, so that was alright.
Kathleen wanted to tell everyone about us: she told me she had never before realised just how pleasurable, how beautiful physical contact could be, and she now understood why it was called making love. She wanted the whole world to know.
I told her that couldn't happen. “I'm a teacher,” I said, “and if anyone at the school found out I'd probably be sacked.”
“That's okay, no need to tell anyone there. No reason they should know. But what the fuck's wrong with the rest of the collective knowing? What harm can that do?”
“But once a few people know, they might start talking and it could get back to the school. And then I'd be out of work and I wouldn't be able to afford to keep my home, wouldn't be able to afford the mortgage.”
“For fuck's sake. Is that all you care about, your fucking job and your fucking mortgage? It sounds more like being in prison, if you ask me. Are you ashamed of me?”
“Of course I'm not. It's so unfair, so unfair of you to say that. So unfair. I could never be ashamed of you nor of my feelings for you. Surely you know that.”
“No, I don't fucking know that. What I know is that you want us to hide our love from everyone. What I know is that you never let me stay the night at your home in case the neighbours see me leaving the next day. It seems to me the fucking neighbours, your fucking job and every Tom, Dick and fucking Harry are more important than me. That's what I know.” She stared at me, nostrils flaring, anger rising like fire from her red hair, arms folded across her chest, closing herself off from me.
“Please, Kathleen, please understand.”
“Oh yeah, I understand alright. I fucking understand for sure. And I'll tell anyone I like, any fucking wanker I want to.” She stormed out, banging the door so hard one of the pictures fell off the wall.
I collapsed into a chair and burst out crying, howling loudly, calling her name over and over. How could I make her understand? It wasn't the first such row we'd had, but it was the worst. It wasn't just our sexual relationship, though that could have got me the sack, it was also her past. I really didn't know what would horrify people more: that I was a lesbian or that I was in a relationship with an ex prostitute. And an Irish Catholic on top of that.
Growing up I'd been told lots of stories about the overcrowding and insanitary conditions, the filth, the violence and the unemployment in the East End of Glasgow, and how Irish navvies and tinkers had brought their degenerate and superstitious ways across the sea with them.
I didn't believe any of it, of course, but that was irrelevant: it wasn't what I believed that was important, it was what others thought. Back home the minister would probably have preached against me if he'd known. I can just hear him now, his booming bass telling the congregation I was a sinner and demanding my repentance, something I couldn't have given. Ma and da went to the kirk, but I think they were sometimes embarrassed by the ranting of the minister: ma would say it was a pity he didn't show some Christian charity and da would just shake his head. Neither of them, in fact no-one in the congregation, had the strength, courage or authority to challenge the minister, though some people did stop going. People listened to him on a Sunday, sucking boiled sweets while he preached, and observed the Sabbath. For the rest of the week most people just got on with their lives, happy to socialise with those of different or no faiths, forgetting or ignoring his remonstrations, either that or they were able to compartmentalise their lives. I suppose that was what I was doing: dividing my life into discrete separate sections, with one reserved for Kathleen.
She might have been potty mouthed and rough spoken, but she was far from stupid: she was probably the most intelligent person I had ever met, including all those professors and academics I knew from university. She hated hypocrisy and undoubtedly thought I was being a hypocrite. Did that mean she hated me, as well as loved me?
She rarely stayed angry for long. My sobbing segued into a restless fitful sleep, from which I was wakened by a kiss. I opened my eyes to find Kathleen knelt before me. We both said “I'm sorry” at the same time and hugged each other. We made up in the best way either of us knew.
3
I may have been a music teacher with a degree and all the theory, but Kathleen had an instinct for what sounds went well together. She couldn't read music, but didn't need to: her memory and her ear were excellent. We had been rehearsing for a show we were doing together, just the two of us, and we worked on harmonies together as well as some imaginative medleys that combined very different pieces. Only Kathleen could have thought up a medley combining a Gaelic waulking song, a raunchy sea shanty and a traditional American chain gang number. I was dubious at first, but she persuaded me to give it a go. And it worked. In a weird way it made sense: all three were work songs specific to particular types of work, so all three mimicked the rhythms of work. She also convinced me that all three would work better with just our voices in harmony. This did mean she had to learn some Gaelic phrases. Her first attempt at singing in Gaelic had me in stitches.
She looked hurt. “What's wrong? Why the fuck are you laughing at me?”
“I'm sorry,” I said between giggles, “I know I shouldn't laugh, but your pronunciation is just so funny – and the Brummie accent makes it hilarious.”
She just snorted. After a few moments, I apologised properly, and we spent the rest of that rehearsal getting her pronunciation correct. She was a quick learner.
I don't know about Kathleen, but I was nervous before that gig, more nervous than I could remember having ever been. It would be the first time we had performed a whole concert together without anyone backing us. Just our two voices, her guitar and my keyboard.
I needn't have worried: it went perfectly, particularly the second half which consisted of songs, both traditional and contemporary, relevant to feminism, and which finished with a rousing version of Peggy Seeger's “Gonna Be An Engineer”. The audience joined in with us and we left the stage to rapturous applause.
Afterwards, as we collapsed with a beer each, Kathleen said: “Fuck. That was good.”
I nodded: no need to say anything else.
As it was a Saturday, we had all of the following day to ourselves. There was no need for me to dash home, get a few hours sleep and get to work the next day. So we were going to spend the night together at Kathleen's, and wake up together on the Sunday morning. We knew Brendan would be working late at some function at the pub where he worked, but we knew he wouldn't disturb us when he came in. With any luck, he'd cook us breakfast on the Sunday.
As I drove us, neither of us had any idea of what awaited us.
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.