Chasing Angels (17 page)

7

Only, of course, she did come back. Against her will, to be sure, and many years later, first when Con was ill and then when he was dying, and now here she was, sitting in his
house, sifting through what was left of him before she escaped again. Since she had arrived three months ago she had slept on a fold-down bed in the living room. There was only one bedroom, and Con
had that, but even if there had been five she would still have used the fold-down; it was a statement of the temporary nature of her stay. He had died thirty hours ago, though who was counting, and
in another twenty-four she wanted to be gone from here, so she was in a rush to get as much done as she could, to get the thing finished. He was lying in St Alphonsus’s, a candle at each end
of his box, and hopefully with the communion wine safely locked away, just in case. In the morning there would be a funeral mass, followed by the long trek to the Linn Crematorium to have Con
cremated, then back to the East End for the traditional reception. And as soon after that as she could manage, she would be on her way back to the West Coast, this time for ever. This place would
have no further claims on her, no ties of duty or emotion, and with all the loose ends finally tied up, maybe the dreams would disappear too.

When she awoke for that last time in the Moncur Street house all those years ago, the first sound she heard was a child crying. She had paid no particular heed to it, there
were many children in the area, all with reasons to cry. What she didn’t know then was the crying child would haunt her for the rest of her life; it hadn’t been
a
child, it had
been
her
child. Sometimes the dream would disappear for months at a time, but it would always return, triggered by something that reminded her or by nothing that she could identify, but it
always returned. She would hear a child crying, and in the dream she would run through streets she had long since left, searching for her child, frantic with worry, shouting that she was coming,
that she would be there soon. But wherever she ran, however hard she searched, she could never find the child, and she would wake drenched in sweat, sobbing and panic-stricken, with the
child’s cry fading into the background, till the next time. And in the months of Con’s dying the child cried longer, stronger and more often. The East End was where she had last seen
the tiny, dead form, it was where the nightmare had started, and it was as if the ghost of the daughter she had failed still waited here. And the aftermath was always the same. She would sit in the
twisted bedclothes, hitting her head rhythmically with her fists, sobbing ‘Useless! Useless!’ over and over again. She hadn’t wanted the baby, it had been a mistake and a huge
inconvenience, but once it was gone she would’ve done anything to bring it back to life again. Those months of her hidden pregnancy when she had desperately detached herself so successfully
from what was happening inside her body that she had barely felt the pain of labour, and the months before when she had safely concealed her gradually swelling belly, yet what had it all been for?
Given that time over again she would have been happy to brazen it out, to display her illegitimate daughter to the world, if only she could hold her again and see her breathe, see her pink and
smiling. She felt less than a woman, she was
useless
. Anyone could grow a child, a glance down any street confirmed that, it was easy, it was normal and natural, but Kathy Kelly
couldn’t do it. Kathy Kelly who had always thought herself so smart, so clever, Kathy Kelly who judged all the women in her family and found them wanting, who always had the last word, and
she couldn’t do a simple thing like have a baby. Well, Aggie could, the Aggie she had regarded as stupid and had baited all of her life, and even Jessie the whore could, yet
she
couldn’t, so she must be something less than a woman. She had never given a thought to being female before, she just was, that was all, but any real woman could have a child. What kind of
abnormal specimen couldn’t even reproduce? A failure, that kind. Her, Kathy Kelly. She had failed at the most basic, fundamental task, and she had failed her tiny, dead daughter. All the baby
had needed was somewhere safe to grow, any child had a right to that, and any other woman could have provided it.
Only she couldn’t
. She had turned her own helpless, defenceless
daughter out of the safety of her womb to die, little wonder that she cried in revenge all those years.

Lost in thought, tears streaming down her cheeks, she barely noticed the knock at the door. Probably that wee swine Frank McCabe with another entreaty to have Con buried in St
Kentigern’s, she thought. She wasn’t worried about being found out, about the grave with the white heart-shaped headstone being opened and the red box containing the remains of the
child being discovered. What had happened that night in Moncur Street was private, it had been between her and the child and Lily, it was no one else’s business. Even as she was burying the
box with the Kelly women, her thoughts hadn’t been on the fear of discovery, but on placing her dead baby in Lily’s care. Her refusal to bury Con there was based simply on the belief
that they were all free of him, his tragic sisters, his mother and his wife, and now the baby she had called Lily, and she didn’t want Con near any of them even in death. There was another,
louder, knock. ‘Ah’m comin’,’ she shouted wearily, and took her time wiping her eyes before she opened the door. She was shocked to find Jessie standing there, though she
didn’t show it. ‘Come in, Jessie,’ she said calmly. She had only vaguely registered Jessie’s face in the chapel earlier, or what had been visible above the ever-present
handkerchief covering the lower half, and had silently nodded to her in passing. Now Jessie passed her with a small but detectable body-swerve, you could never be sure about germs, and headed for
Con’s living room. She still held the handkerchief to her nose and mouth with gloved hands, and the mink coat, her proud acquisition of long years ago, hung absurdly over her emaciated frame.
Jessie looked around the living room, taking in the scattered pieces of paper and photos on the floor, then she glanced at Kathy.

‘Ye shouldnae let this upset ye, hen,’ she said briskly.

‘It doesnae,’ Kathy replied.

Jessie gave her a disbelieving look. ‘So that’s why ye’ve been greetin’, is it?’

‘Aye, well, mibbe a bit,’ Kathy grinned. ‘There’s stuff here aboot ma Mammy,’ she sighed quietly, ‘things Ah havnae seen for years. God knows why she married
the auld bastard!’

‘Because she was up the duff!’ Jessie said simply. ‘Ye surely didnae think it was love!’ Jessie rolled her eyes as she said it. ‘He was nae catch, ye know. Naebody
but an innocent lassie like oor Lily woulda been taken in by Auld Con!’

‘Christ, that’s good!’ Kathy laughed. ‘Yer mad auld mother wanted
you
tae marry him, reckoned Lily had stolen him frae ye!’

Jessie snorted. ‘Wouldnae’ve spat oan him if he’d been on fire!’ she said calmly. ‘An’ aye, Ah’m here at his funeral, Ah know, but ye’ve got tae
go through wi’ these things, haven’t ye? At least ye can satisfy yersel’ that the auld sod is really deid an’ gone if ye’ve seen the lid screwed doon oan
him.’

‘Sit doon, Jessie,’ Kathy said. ‘Ah’ve a feelin’ Ah’ve mibbe misjudged ye a’ these years!’

Jessie looked around for the smallest surface she could risk sitting on, her gaze settling on a kitchen stool with a plastic seat. She took an antiseptic wipe from a packet in her bag, wiped
down the plastic and perched on the stool. ‘Aye, ye have,’ she returned eventually, ‘but it wasnae really your fault, hen. Ye never really liked me, did ye?’

‘Ah didnae really
know
ye, Jessie.’

‘But ye looked doon oan me, thought Ah was a slut.’

‘Aye, well, Ah was young then. Ah’ve learned no’ tae make that kinda judgement.’

‘Och, ye were
right
!’ Jessie laughed. ‘Ah aye liked that aboot ye, Kathy, hen! Ye were the only wan that was open aboot it, everybody else kept up this pretence tae ma
face that Ah earned ma money daein’ somethin’ respectable while they talked behind ma back, but you were aye open aboot it. Ye were a nasty wee swine, mind ye, many’s the time Ah
felt like giein’ ye a dirl aboot the ears for yer cheek, but as Ah say, ye were aye honest.’

Kathy took in the thin frame, the hankie held in the gloved hands, the skeletal legs so tightly crossed that they almost twisted around each other. It was as if Jessie was trying to make herself
small and insignificant enough to almost not exist; blink as she passed and you would miss her.

‘Have ye never tried tae get treatment for a’ this?’ she asked, her hands forming a circle in the air in an attempt to take in Jessie’s affliction in its entirety.

‘Ye mean go tae wanna they psychiatrists?’ Jessie asked. ‘Ah’d probably find Ah’d done the business wi’ them or their faithers hen. Awfy hard tae have
confidence in somebody when ye’ve seen them doon oan a’ fours in the buff, askin’ tae have their arse slapped for bein’ bad. Besides, Ah don’t think there is a cure.
Ye’d be askin’ for a cure for ma life, efter a’.’

‘Is that no’ whit wee Frank McCabe specialises in?’ Kathy laughed. ‘A coupla Hail Marys an’ yer life’s cured?’

‘Aye, that’ll be bloody right!’ Jessie said sourly. There was a moment’s silence. ‘He’s ma faither, did ye know that?’ She said it so casually that
Kathy wondered if she’d heard her properly. She was so surprised that if she’d been perched on the stool instead of Jessie she’d have fallen off, and as it was it was all she
could do not to land with a thump on the floor.

‘Well!’ she said uncertainly. ‘Ah knew, but Ah didnae think you did!’

‘Known since Ah was a wean,’ Jessie smiled smugly. ‘Was sent hame frae school early wi’ a dose o’ the lurgy wan day an’ heard the two o’ them
talkin’, so Ah waited ootside the door – y’know the sleekit way ye dae when ye’re a wean. It was just before ma confirmation an’ they were discussin’ names. Ye
could tell he’d rather no’ have been consulted, but Auld Aggie was determined. She wanted me tae take the name Francesca an’ he was sayin’ there wasnae a St Francesca. Auld
Aggie said it would look like it was efter St Francis o’ Assisi, but they’d baith know it was really efter him, an’ it bein’ kinda Italian insteada just Frances, it would
put folk even merr aff the scent. The wee man wasnae happy, ye could tell, went oan tae say it still might make folk wonder, like, which was really stupid when ye thinka it. Who the hell would put
two an’ two thegither – especially they two – an’ realise he really was
Father
McCabe? He said they had made a pact wi’ God tae keep it secret an’ she
hadtae keep tae that, she couldnae gie anybody the slightest idea that Ah was his.’

‘Musta gied ye a helluva shock, did it no’?’

‘Well, aye and naw really,’ Jessie replied with a chuckle. ‘Ah’d always known Ah was different, Ah just didnae know how till then. Ah was always treated different frae
oor Lily, the auld yin was aye helluva hard oan her, an’ Ah didnae know why. So then Ah understood.’

‘An’ ye never told them? Her an’ him, Ah mean? Ah know ma mother never knew.’

‘Naw, Ah never let dab tae Lily or tae them,’ Jessie replied. ‘The wan Ah felt sorry for was the Orangeman.’

‘Ma Granda? Dae ye think he knew?’

Jessie shook her head. ‘Ah’m sure he didnae. Poor auld bugger. He just worked tae keep us a’ an’ was never considered by anybody.’

‘That’s no’ the picture Aggie painted,’ Kathy said. ‘Accordin’ tae her he was some kinda monster, a deflowerer o’ Catholic maidens!’

‘Ach, her!’ Jessie said dismissively. ‘She put it aboot merr than a bit, Ah can tell ye! Gied it away. The Sailor’s Friend, that’s what they used tae call her when
she was young, would let anybody park their boat in her harbour! If Lily hadnae looked so much like the Orangeman Ah wouldnae’ve believed he was her faither, it coulda been anybody. The poor
auld sod got caught, that was a’, he did the decent thing insteada denyin’ it or bungin’ her a few bob tae get ridda it. He was a decent auld man, the Orangeman, Ah always liked
him, even if he was a sap. Ah aye thought marchin’ aboot wi’ his sash was a’ he could dae tae fight back, his last rebellion against her.’ She thought for a minute.
‘Ah took care o’ his funeral, by the way, did ye know that?’

Kathy shook her head.

‘Oh, aye!’ Jessie said with relish. ‘Ah was only aboot twenty year auld, at ma earnin’ peak so tae speak. Ah told the undertaker tae make his coffin long enough for him
tae wear his bowler hat as well as his sash! Aggie never knew! See when they carried him oot tae bury him, Ah could hardly keep frae laughin’, him being carried past his Fenian widow
wearin’ his sash!’

Kathy thought of Con wearing his Highland Light Infantry gear, with his Child of Prague collection rolling around inside his coffin, and laughed. ‘Christ, Jessie! We’re helluva
alike, you an’ me! How did Ah never notice that afore?’

‘Ye were too busy gettin’ by the best way ye knew how, hen,’ Jessie said quietly. ‘Ah know how that feels.’

‘But ye didnae needtae go oan the game, Jessie, did ye? There musta been an element o’ choice there, surely?’

‘Ach, well, mibbe they psychiatrists would have an answer tae that wan,’ Jessie smiled. ‘Low self-esteem or somethin’ they’d likely say, or because Ah’d had a
bad childhood, only Ah didnae, or a way o’ hittin’ back at Aggie an’ dear auld Dad. Wasnae that either, though Ah havtae admit it was a treat confessin’ tae him,
knowin’ that Ah knew who he was, an’ him no’ knowin’ Ah knew, if ye follow me! Ah aye gied him a’ the gory details tae, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. This
is
exactly
whit yer daughter did wi’ every trick she had last week.” Ah kept imaginin’ his toes curlin’ inside his wee boots!’ Jessie stopped and chuckled
loudly before continuing. ‘But it was nane o’ that lot, it just happened, an’ that’s the truth. When it did Ah realised Ah was good at it, an’ the money was bloody
good tae! It was efter Harry’s faither got killed.’

‘Uncle Sammy?’ Kathy asked.

‘Come oan noo!’ Jessie laughed. ‘Ye know bloody fine Sammy Nicholson wasnae Harry’s faither! Naw, Big Eddie Harris, he was Harry’s faither. Well, he was only big
here
, in Glesca, but he wasnae big anywhere else, or in the brain department. Y’know how a lotta men keep their socks oan? Well Big Eddie never took his soft hat aff durin’
proceedin’s or efter. I used to look at him an’ wonder whit he kept under it. Bollock naked except for his soft hat! But he got it intae his heid that he was a top rankin’ hard
man, went doon tae conquer London, only they knew rightaway whit an arse he really was. He was found knifed ootside a night club somewhere doon there, they probably just got fed-up tellin’
him tae bugger aff. An’ efter him, well, ma reputation was kinda sealed. It was wan thing bein’ Eddie Harris’s tramp, but take Eddie away an’ ye’re just left wi’
a tramp, a tramp wi’ a wean come tae that. It was always assumed that Ah only went wi’ him for the money anyway, so efter he was oot the game it was assumed that Ah’d dae it for
anybody’s money. An’ they quite liked the idea o’ daein’ it wi’ Big Eddie Harris’s moll, didnae take me long to realise that. Seemed tae make them feel kinda
dangerous theirsels for some reason. Funny things men, brains in their willies every wan!’