Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival (21 page)

But the journey back from Newquay was tiring and Sean got more and more restless and argumentative as each mile dragged us closer to Glasgow. When we hit home, we found so many problems at the Weavers. Sean had left Young George in charge. Not only had he upset the regulars by smoking dope but he had screwed up Sean’s uniquely weird but effective cash system. There was only one way to insert the cash takings into the ledger and that was Sean’s way. He always got very upset if I dared to use a blue pen instead of a black one – or if I wrote too big – or if my figures strayed over the neat lines – or if I accidentally had to erase a figure and it looked messy … To Sean’s horror, when we got back, it looked as if Young George had taken a chunky crayon and drawn a dead zebra across the whole page.

‘It’s a fucking mess!’ Sean screamed at me. ‘He can’t fucking count! He’s upset everyone! I shouldn’t huv gone on a fucking holiday!’ He never confronted Young George. Instead, he shouted at me.

We were soon back in the old routine of veering towards complete disaster and/or divorce. There would be another night of silence; then a night of shouting, threats and me walking the night-time streets in the rain. It always happened, yet I was never prepared for my night-time flight. I always managed to take a jacket but never the shoes. I used to think I should prepare a packed bag with shoes, bra and some cash and hide it somewhere outside in the streets. Then I could run out, safe from prowling thieves and junkies, knowing I had shoes and cash to get me out of that street somehow. But I never did find the perfect hiding place so, on frequent nights, I would run from our home screaming, fear making me pound down all the steps in my bare feet, run through the wet puddles and feel every sharp stone cut into my feet, while Sean ran after me, hurriedly dressed in his jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, never able to catch me in time. Some nights, he’d only run down the stairs but not come right out the door because it was too wet outside. I would stay out freezing in the rain, in the orange-grey shadows of the sodium street lights, and I would walk around the streets and look through people’s windows, watching them watching television in the warmth. I wondered
Do any of them ever run in the night?

Eventually, I would huddle in some strange hallway or alleyway far away from my own street in case someone recognised me. I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to be found. When daylight came, I would run on the balls of my feet straight back to the pub in time for opening. I would look up at the first-floor window to see if Sean was looking for me but he never was; he was sleeping. Eventually I would go up our stairway and knock on the door and hope he was missing me and was not still angry with me. Inside I was pleading
Please don’t be angry with me. I’m really tired
. Often, when Sean opened the door, he was sleepy and staggered around trying to make sense of why I was out there. Then it would all come back to him.

‘I am sorry, Janey,’ he would say. ‘Come to bed, babes.’ Then he would hold me in his warm nakedness – he’d be naked at the door and wouldn’t care – and even the pain in my feet would disappear. But I realised his mood swings were becoming more erratic. He was under pressure.

* * *

The Weavers
was
going great; we
were
making decent cash; but our success with the bar had only incited jealousy among the other Storrie brothers. They insisted Sean must be stealing from Old George. If Sean wasn’t, then I was stealing; or Sammy was stealing. Old George had always made sure each son was at all the others’ throats. He would spread whispered gossip from son to son, then sit back and watch the consequences. I once phoned him to complain about one of my sisters-in-law: when she came into the Weavers, she had argued with me in front of customers about leaving my big bin in the close. I rambled on and on to Old George about her as he encouraged me to get it all out of my system. Later, I discovered he had taped the whole conversation on his answering machine and had played it straight back to the woman. She came storming into the bar the next day, repeating the cruel and careless comments I had blabbed to Old George. That night, Sean spent an age screaming at me for talking about people behind their backs and told me to never ever trust his father.

Sean was trying to talk him into repurchasing all the flats above the Weavers and turning them into bed and breakfast rooms. Old George owned most of the flats but we needed to own all nine outright to make the plan more financially viable. Sean explained that each bed could house an unemployed homeless person and the government would pay us £40 a week to house each of them.

‘Multiply that £40 per week by the 34 beds we would accommodate between all the flats,’ he explained.

Old George’s elderly business cronies advised him that Sean’s idea was ingenious but this only served to make him oppose the idea; none of his sons was allowed to be smarter than him. Still, the idea was sensible and the plan did start moving along.

* * *

We had good fun in the Weavers in between the shouting. We already had chess nights and now we started a five-a-side football team – ladies included. I made good friends with some of the new regulars and started to employ some of them part-time to help with our increasing workload. One was Gordon. He had just moved into one of the smaller one-bedroom flats on the other side of the London Road; it was quite characterless, but Gordon did a lot to make it homely because he was gay and therefore knew how to use soft furnishings. He was enormous fun. At last, I had someone to share my love of 1970s music! He had a huge collection of everything from Steely Dan to Supertramp to early David Bowie and T Rex. I loved it! He was also good with Sean; he understood his quirky ways and was happy to have found friendly faces in this new part of town he had moved to. Gay Gordon loved to throw parties and, when he heard our fourth wedding anniversary was imminent, suggested:

‘You should throw a fancy dress party!’

Sean dressed as a Mississippi Gambler in a dandy waistcoat and cowboy hat while I got to be Cinderella in a silver sticky-out dress and a silver bodice. Our regulars took the party to heart and everyone turned out in awesome costumes. Archie The Architect came dressed as a priest, Sandra The Social Worker dressed as Little Bo-Peep, Jack The Janitor and his wife dressed as a Frenchman and his French maid. And even Old George turned up dressed as Fidel Castro in a green military uniform with a beret and black beard, sucking on a big cigar. He surprised us all by bringing along Sandra, an ex-girlfriend of his son Michael – the same Sandra who had grown up at the bottom of Kenmore Street – the wee, blonde girl with the cute dimples and
Children of the Damned
blond brothers. Sandra had by now fucked virtually the entire Storrie family including Michael, Young George and now Old George. She was still very blonde and very pretty but was also very clearly trouble. She came dressed as a hooker but I didn’t realise this immediately, as she often wore similar clothing around the streets in her everyday life.

Despite this strange reappearance by Sandra, the night was magical. Sean and I cut a big fourth anniversary cake that our customers had bought and we all danced to the sounds of Madonna, Tears For Fears and U2. It was good to see Sean enjoy himself. He had never really made an effort to make friends with anyone before. The next day, he rounded up 40 of our hungover partygoers and loaded them onto a bus bound for Germany on a pre-arranged trip to the Munich Beer Festival. While he was away, my sister Ann, Gay Gordon and I ran the Weavers. Finally, I could count the cash, do the books and lock the door – all by myself. It was the most peaceful five days I had had for ages and I loved it.

‘For all his faults, though,’ I told my sister Ann, ‘it’s good when Sean’s with me because I can help him through his demons. When he feels down or he has a migraine, I can understand him.’

‘Just enjoy him being away,’ Ann replied.

A couple of days later, Old George popped in with Sandra again in tow – to check I was OK, he said. Sandra sat and purred over him like a cat, which made me feel very uncomfortable. She was the ex-girlfriend of two of his sons and was quite childlike in her manner and speech. She had broken up Michael’s relationship with his long-time girlfriend Mags and I thought Sandra was just a gold-digger. I had preferred Patsy Paton – she was great fun and had been more than a match for Old George. It soon became clear my antagonism to Sandra caused problems for Old George. Whenever we met, I would be snide to Sandra. In return, Sandra would complain to Old George that I was not showing her the respect she was due as his girlfriend and insisted he told me off. Old George would try to keep the peace.

‘Get off Sandra’s back,’ he once told me. ‘She’s only got the intelligence of a wee girl.’

‘Then,’ I snapped back, ‘you shouldnae be sleeping with her, George!’

Sandra had by now started calling herself ‘Mrs Sandra Storrie’.

Eventually, after five days away, the Munich tour bus arrived back. I waited patiently for the hiss as the doors swung open, then ran out and hugged Sean so tightly in the street. He had made new friends on the trip and, after that, started enjoying his job more. He was sure his dad would be well proud of his progress. He was still only 23 years old and desperately trying to prove himself worthy of being the son Old George wanted. He never drank alcohol, never smoked and hated drugs. He never got into trouble with the police. He was always working, always making progress with the pub. Yet, still, Old George never gave him any praise. That was the way he was. If you got anything wrong, then all your mistakes were told in great detail to all the other family members, with the intent of making you look the fool you were; but your successes were never mentioned. Sean wanted a pat on the back, he wanted his dad to be proud. The irony was that I was not even recognised as existing. I worked all the hours God sent and Sean never bothered to praise me either. We both worked hard. We worked every day including Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. We only closed on New Year’s Day and then only because it was illegal to open.

* * *

Each year ended with the Storrie New Year Party, when all Old George’s seven sons and their respective partners and families gathered in Toad Hall just before the midnight bells of Hogmanay. No one was ever in party mood; it was a gathering of a bunch of people who never actually got on with each other. Some of the sons would disappear into a side room for a quick smoke of weed, some would sit awkwardly with their father and, in between, sat, stood and meandered various sisters-in-law, wives and girlfriends while little grandchildren ran around. I never got on with any of them because we really had nothing in common to talk about. I enjoyed playing with Dick’s two lovely wee kids but his girlfriend Maggie would sneer at me and make biting comments any chance she got.

‘You an’ Sean still no’ huving any kids yet?’

‘We want to wait until we’re able to afford them,’ I replied, looking at her lovely wee daughter.

‘Ye saying we cannae afford oor kids?’ she snapped back.

‘No Maggie,’ I replied, feeling the tension mounting, ‘I’m sayin’ I will huv kids when I want to – OK?’

‘Maybe ye cannae huv weans, an’ ye just don’t want to say,’ she persisted.

I got up and walked into the living room. The telly was blaring the obligatory New Year bagpipe music. Old George sat quietly in his seat. It was a sad time for him as this was the time of year his wife had died of heart disease in this very house just after she had moved in ten years ago. She came to Toad Hall, spent one night in it and died in her bed. I offered Old George some tea and lit one of his favourite cigars.

‘Steak pie nearly ready?’ he asked. It is traditional to have a big steak pie and potato dinner at ‘the bells’ in Scotland.

‘I don’t know, George, the other women are doing that,’ I answered gently. ‘I’m just standing about annoying people like I normally do.’

He laughed and told me to sit down. The bells were about to start. The Storrie family all gathered in the big room, some sitting on the floor, others on their mammies’ knees, a few on the arms of chairs and the rest on the floral sofas.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

‘Happy New Year! Welcome to 1985!’ the tartan-clad man shouted on the telly. Loud cheers rang out on the screen, in the street outside Toad Hall and in living rooms across Scotland. But, in the Storrie living room, each person shook hands in silence and immediately disappeared back to their steak pies and potato, to their hash, to their kids. I got up and walked into the dining room, where I sat alone and wished I could see my Mammy again.

After a while, Sean came in. ‘What you thinking aboot?’ he said.

‘Nothing … You?’

‘I miss my mammy,’ he told me. ‘She died at New Year.’

‘I know,’ I said and held him tight. ‘I miss my Mammy as well.’

All seven sons sat together with their father at the big table in the dining room where all Sean’s late mum’s best furniture and crockery was kept. The women all sat together in the kitchen, eating on their knees or at the wee pine table. In the dining room, Sean lifted his plate and walked towards the kitchen.

‘Where are ye going?’ Young George asked him.

‘I want to sit with Janey an’ eat my New Year dinner,’ Sean replied. Not looking back, he left the room and came into the kitchen. We sat together, eating in silence.

Suddenly, Young George stormed into the kitchen. ‘All us sons eat together! The wumen sit in here! Fuckin’ get back in there, ya bastard!’

‘No,’ replied Sean. ‘We don’t talk to each other. We don’t even fucking like each other.’ He kept eating his steak pie.

Young George stood waiting for Sean to pick up his plate and return to the dining room.

‘Fuck off!’ said Sean, scooping up a forkful of peas. ‘I’m not going.’

I watched as the two brothers glared at each other across the brightly lit kitchen. Sean suddenly dropped his cutlery with a loud clatter. He stood up and turned to me.

‘Janey, get yer bag,’ he said very quietly. ‘We are leaving.’ Then he started shouting: ‘Fuck you, George! Fuck yer big family dinner! Janey is
my
family – OK?’