Country of the Blind (3 page)

NAOMI AGAIN, RIGHT?"

Followed by injured wailing on the part of the chastised and a competitive tearful bid for further sympathy by the oppressed sibling.

"So Mrs McKechnie, what exactly were you. . . ?'

"HERE!" she suddenly barked, Nicole placing a relieved hand on her chest when she realised it was not she who was being thus addressed. "Yous sit nice while I talk to the lassie. 'Mon. Play wi' this."

Nicole watched in horror as Mrs McGrotty's yellow hand removed a ring binder from the desk and offered it to the older sprog, who took this as a cue to help herself to a further clutch of folders and a box of highlighter pens that had been sitting nearby.

12

Nicole found herself rooted to her chair and helpless as Demi and Naomi began to tear documents from the folders and Mrs McGrotty looked challengingly at her, demanding full attention as she resumed her stream of consciousness.

". . . way that scheme's been goin' it's nae wunner there's nae bulbs in the lights in hauf the closes and it's not like I don't know my ain business cause I've tell't thon yin a dozen times faimlies like that can get singl't oot, specially when there's cairry-on like that nonsense last year with the new railings they were puttin' in. . . "

Nicole felt herself slump inside, knowing her eyes were gradually glazing but aware Mrs McGrotty was less concerned about her victim's on-going attention levels once initial capture had been accomplished.

". . . oor Chic gettin' laid aff by that cheeky bastart ower in Milton just cause he was late a coupla moarnins, as if it was his fault the bookies wasnae open on time that day, and after him comin' in on a Sunday the week before as well. . . "

Demi and Naomi coloured in a few affidavits in streaks of luminous yellows and greens, then disappeared around the side of the desk, out of Nicole's view, giggling and chattering, occasionally silenced by an interruption to the Joycean catharsis.

Nicole made a couple of attempts to interject, to perhaps maybe kind of sort of ask what legal matter Mrs McGrotty wished to pursue, or even to inquire whether she might have mistaken these offices for those of her GP, but got no further than the words "So Mrs McKechnie. . . "

". . . no easy when you've weans runnin' aboot I've tell't them but do they care? N.O.N-FUCKIN'-O. Too busy givin' oot grants to darkies and sendin' wee thugs on hoalidays tae Kenya to be worryin' aboot the state of. . . "

Demi appeared on the outer reaches of Nicole's vision; or rather, her hand did, swinging something white on a string.

"DEMI!" came the throaty rasp, this time accompanied by a reaching, haymaker of a slap. "Leave the lassie's bag alane. That's the lassie's fanny pads you're in at there. You've no to touch them."

Mrs McGrotty smiled understandingly as Nicole felt the colour drain completely from her face, leaning over the side of the desk to see the contents of her bag abandoned randomly within a short circumference surrounding the two little girls.

"Fuckin' law unto themsels this pair. Just never know what to dae aboot them, dae ye?"

Nicole knelt down, frightened for a moment that she might succumb to tears as she gathered up the remaining Lil-lets, her car keys, purse and other items. She found herself at eye level with Demi, and tentatively held a hand 13

out to receive the pendulous tampon for disposal. The girl stared at her in apparent deep puzzlement.

"Can I have that please?" Nicole said in a croaky, plaintive half-whisper. Demi's brow creased into a determined furrow.

"NUT! GETTYFUCK!" she suddenly decided, and lashed out at Nicole with an open-handed swipe that caught her painfully around the bridge of her nose.

"HERE! THAT'S BAD," stated Mrs McGrotty, further clarifying the moral position with another clout to the offending granddaughter.

"I'm awfy sorry aboot that, hen," she offered, then deciding another show of penitence and retribution was appropriate, slapped Demi yet again. "You're in for it noo," she warned darkly. "Showin' us up in front of the lassie, ya ignorant wee hoor. Noo just sit doon and shut up fae noo on.

"But that's what I'm talkin' aboot here, see? What chance have you when there's that kinna hing. . . "

Nicole's eyes were now watering, as was her nose, both in reaction to Demi's blow. She pinched the bridge and held her head back for a few moments, blinking hard until her vision cleared.

"MRS McKECHNIE," she barked firmly as she brought her head back down, beginning to appreciate that volume was the most valid currency of debate.

"I'm sorry, could you please tell me concisely what it is you think I can help you with."

"What?" Mrs McGrotty asked in disbelief, eyes filling with offended anger.

"What the fuck do you think I've been talkin' aboot here the past hauf-an-oor, ya stupit English cow. The poofs! That's what I'm talkin' aboot. The poofs next door! There' two of them, right in the next hoose."

"And have they been bothering you in some way? Loud music or something?

Late comings and goings perhaps?"

Mrs McGrotty looked at Nicole like she was the thickest human being ever to have walked the earth, which by coincidence roughly matched Nicole's own self-assessment at that moment.

"What do you mean? They're poofs! Zat no enough? I've tell't the cooncil a dozen times, but they'll no listen, and I waant them oot. I mean, we've got weans livin' in that hoose. I'm no wantin' Demi an' Naomi exposed to any filth. Weans have to be protected. What kinna upbringin' dae the cooncil want them to have? Tell me that. An' you're askin' me what's wrang? Mind you, I'll bet the likes of you hinks it's fine, long as you've no to live there. In fact, here I'm are, pourin' ma heart oot an' you could be wan o' thay lez-beans. Probly hink I'm the wan that's no normal, zatit? Probly hink there's nuhin' wrang wi'

poofs. Well mark ma words, hen. If they're sayin' poofin's awright the day, it'll 14

be childmolestin' that's awright the morra. Christ, don't know what I'm daein'

here. Waste o'ma fuckin' time. Demi! Naomi! 'Mon!"

And with that, they were gone, as if sucked back out of the room by a tornado of indignation.

As the door slammed, Nicole put her head down on the desk and cried, hearty, snuffly, snotty sobs, the anguish of someone who not only felt very lost, but who feared she was reaping what she had arrogantly and headstrongly sown.

She used to think Rob had been her self-inflicted punishment for her teenage rebellion, but she knew now that he was merely a separate, self-contained disaster, an integration of sin and retribution, mistake and consequence. The real invoice had just arrived for her, here in Glasgow, September '96, humiliated, lost, alone and found out.

This is what you want - this is what you get, as John Lydon put it. Jesus. Being fourteen once had a lot to answer for. The dark years. Black clothes and heavy eye make-up, and the obligatory Cure albums providing their soundtrack of facile angst-platitudes, essential listening for huffy teenagers. But you don't just rebel. You need something to rebel
against
, and in true Blue Peter fashion, you can use an ordinary household item, like your father. It should have told her something that she opted for politics; she had choice of weapons and picked an inflatable squeaky hammer. Annoyance and attention, but no damage. Dad was an Old Tory, sure, and his father was an Old Tory, and politics was in the blood, but it was an enthusiasm, not a vocation. If she had wanted to hurt him, she could have chosen any number of tried and tested methods. Maybe she had just been trying to show off. Little girls like to do that in front of Daddy.

And so it came to pass that Nicole did declare herself a Lefty. Her pal Monica, who was into Howard Jones at ten and The Smiths a bit later, had declared herself a vegetarian (her father owned a bacon-curing business). She met Rob at university in London, after a meeting at the student union to discuss plans for protest about some reactionary outrage that she couldn't now remember. It had been one of the first such events she attended, a hall full of young people desperately looking for a common cause and a set of shared beliefs; what they needed wasn't politics, it was religion. There was an overwhelming sincerity and worthiness,
earnestness
about it all, a reverence that seemed, well, again, religious. Until, of course, the SWP mob fell out with the RCP over some minute point of interpreted socialist principle, and the Labour Group got shirty with the Marxist Group about what slogans to put on their placards, and the Intergalactic Socialists for a Marxist Universe started a spat with the Vegan Organic Hamster Protection League. . . And so on.

15

Her older flatmate, Pippa, who was in her final year and had been round the houses with this stuff before, had sung her a song when she announced her intention to attend:

One Trot faction, sitting in a hall,

One Trot faction, sitting in a hall,

And if one Trot faction, should have a nasty squall,

There'll be two Trot factions, sitting in a hall.

Two Trot factions. . .

Her faith had been restored slightly in the bar afterwards, where she recognised a guy from the meeting, someone who had seemed refreshingly aloof, watching events from the back, arms folded and wearing a sardonic expression. He was very accurately caricaturing some of the speakers, and cutting ruthlessly through all the bullshit and posturing to get to the issues that the meeting should have been about. Nicole took one look at him in action, drink in hand, surrounded by a laughing audience, and would later blush at some of the thoughts that popped into her head. Unfortunately, thoughts were all she'd ever have. His name was Eberhardt - his father was German and his mother a West Indian from East Ham - and his wit, intelligence, laughing brown eyes and flowing dreads all belonged to Martina, the drop-dead blonde sitting on his right.

Rob was the consolation prize. Nicole made the mistake of thinking, because she had seen him laugh at Eb's jokes, that he had (a) understood them and (b) a sense of humour.

She had seen Martina on TV in recent months, presenting some Channel Four kids-and-chaos affair, and had heard her romantically linked to several B-list celebrities. Funnily enough, the last time she saw Eb was on TV too, but it was on the news. He was working in Rwanda for an aid agency, surrounded by a rag-bag of children who were shrieking and laughing at everything he did as they followed him around the refugee camp. His hero status remained very much intact.

By contrast, Rob's stock had fallen, it would be fair to say. The humourlessness that she had mistaken for integrity, the ideological snobbery she had thought was political commitment. She still felt embarrassed for the green first year who had fallen for it, but she couldn't blame her for not seeing through him right away. He was very good at emotional manipulation, at eroding your bases from within, making you feel worthless without him. Making you need his approval, making you feel that he was a pillar without which you couldn't stand up. This, of course, he achieved by subtly chipping away at your self-respect, and cutting you adrift from the values and beliefs you had moored yourself to.

16

Her most frequent mistake was thinking he was listening to her. She thought he understood what she was saying about her family, her relationship with her father, when really all Rob latched on to was that her father was an establishment gargoyle from whose clutches he could rescue her. It was his fantasised ideal of their relationship. He was always trying to take her by the hand and lead her through the streets of London, like she was the bloody pit-owner's daughter who needed her eyes opened. The bizarre, sliding-scale inverted snobbery that made him think he had been afforded priceless insight by being brought up by parents who earned less than hers, even though it was still in a middle-class house in a middle-class neighbourhood with a middle-class school, middle-class friends and middle-class values. Amazing, apparently, the difference in your ability to understand the world, depending on your mum and dad's combined take-home and the size of their bloody drawing room. Wasn't this what they were trying to get away from?

But then Rob wasn't very big on irony.

He couldn't see the joke in his class-warrior act any more than he could see that his use of - for want of a better expression - "political correctness"

was in itself a vehicle for his own prejudices. Actually, there wasn't a better expression, that was the problem. Nicole didn't think political correctness existed as an entity or a code or a system or anything else. It was a phrase that certain conservative elements had thought up because they needed a stick to beat back at the liberals with. It was a phrase coined by people who resented the fact that you couldn't treat niggers, yids, shirt-lifters, bints and cripples the way you used to, who wanted to believe that it was all part of some organised agenda (and therefore reversible), rather than a natural, gradual, evolved process of increased understanding and therefore tolerance, which was leaving them all behind.

Rob, however, used it to look down on people and social groups in what he thought was an ideologically sanctioned way. A new snobbery for the Nineties. His sneering disdain when he heard someone address a woman as "luv" or "pet" or "darlin", for instance, thinking there was a crime in the language, unmitigated by innocuous intent. People who didn't recycle their newspapers. People who bought the wrong newspapers in the first place. People who talked about "girls", not "women". He never realised that what he was really sneering at was that they were somehow less than him, beneath him. And the fact that they were almost invariably working-class was probably significant. (Just maybe.)

God knows how, but they lasted more than eighteen months. In the end it was taking him to actually
meet
her parents that finished it, but then maybe, in a devilish way, taking him to meet her parents had been her
way
of finishing it. She must have known what would happen.

17

Rob just wasn't programmed for it. It did not compute. Her father was warm, welcoming, genuine, generous and, above all, magnanimous. Rob must have been shattered not to find himself perceptibly disapproved of, nor any great strain between Dariusz Carrow and his younger daughter. Her dad didn't agree with her politics, but had (almost infuriatingly) refused to be upset by her apostasy; indeed he seemed amused (in a not quite the full hundred per cent patronising manner, though close) that she had turned out this way. But that was him through and through. He was someone who was entertained by life's twists and surprises, rather than constantly disappointed by its failure to meet his expectations (which, she too late understood, rendered her efforts at rebellion rather futile).