Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival (40 page)

Sean said, ‘Stop talking like he is dead, eh?’ and walked from the room.

Tension crept around the house, which still smelled of dogs’ piss, and spread like a virus from brother to brother, from wife to child. Everyone was exhausted by trying to keep a smile on their face, laughing at the antics of the kids through gritted teeth. As the booze, cannabis and various other drugs seeped into their hosts, the night slowly ground to a halt. At one point, I sat on a sofa, holding Ashley’s hand as the house, filled with around 20 people, slipped into total silence. A little later, the mood changed to paranoia and deep suspicion and, as always, the Storrie family broke off into splinter groups and snatched, angry conversations started to fly around. Shouts were heard from upstairs. Young George had been defending Sandra as one brother accused her of not looking after his father more; another brother had then shouted at Young George, ‘You were shagging her as oor father lay dying!’

The tension got worse, Ashley started to get upset and Sean came downstairs to drive us home. He had never wanted to be there in the first place.

‘Janey,’ he snapped. ‘Get your coat; Ashley, get your shoes; come on.’

We were ready in double-quick time. I looked into the dining room as I stood up to get my coat and saw Paul Storrie standing there looking desperately sad. His girlfriend Shona held his hand. I liked Shona; they had been together for years off and on. Shona had stood by him through the best and worst of his behaviour, and sometimes I wanted to take her aside and tell her to run as fast as she could in the opposite direction. But probably, like me, she would stay and see what happened next. I walked over to Paul and put my arms around him and told him we were going and, if he wanted, he could come with us. He shook his head and kissed Ashley goodbye.

Sean and his brothers were still visiting their dad daily at the hospital. I kept my head down and carried on working hard at the bar. January was always a hard, cold month in the Calton. The view through the window again became one of freezing branches on bare trees above frost-covered grass as people wrapped against the wind scuttled past.

Patsy Paton came down from Easterhouse to see me. I was sure she knew about Old George because she was unusually quiet and sat staring at me as I polished beer glasses. Nothing got past her sharp eyes and ears. I was terrified she might quiz me, might spot any hesitation, deviation or the very least aversion of my eyes. Eventually, she ran her hand through her fine blonde hair, let out a sigh and tapped her fingers on the bar. ‘So where is old George, Janey?’ Her blue eyes followed me as I leant beneath the bar, pretending to look for something. I had to avoid eye contact with her.

‘Why are you asking me? Your own sister Mary is married to one of his sons, Patsy. Ask her. Give me a fucking break, eh?’ I tried to act as brusquely as I could with her. She leaned over the bar and grabbed my left wrist. She had never hurt me before in her life; she always protected me and stuck up for me when I needed her.

‘Patsy, ask someone else, please,’ I pleaded with her. ‘In fact, just ask fucking Sandra.’

Sandra hated Patsy. They were friendly in front of Old George whenever they met, but Sandra was desperately jealous of her as Old George’s ex and gave George a hard time whenever she came to visit. Patsy did not give a fuck about Sandra and would descend on Old George whenever it suited her. He was no longer her lover but they had a long history and there was a bond between them that lasted. Now Patsy sat at the bar staring at the wall behind me, her eyes filled with tears.

‘I know there is something and he is fucking ill and no cunt in his family is telling anything!’

There were a few wee men sitting at the far end of the bar minding their own business. They casually looked in her direction when she said this but any female emotion was akin to the plague for these wee guys in dark old suits who sat and tapped their toes to Frank Sinatra as he sang from the jukebox.

I came out from behind the bar and faced Patsy, then wrapped both arms around her shoulders as she sat on the tall bar stool. She pushed me a little away from her then held my face between the cold palms of her hands. It was something Patsy always did when she wanted your undivided attention.

‘Is he dead, Janey?’

‘No, Patsy, he’s no’ dead. Please go ask someone else. I get the blame of everything. Go ask one of the boys, eh?’

When Sean came back that day from the hospital, it was clear Old George had taken a turn for the worse. Sean leaned against our big industrial microwave in the back shop and slid off his glasses to rub his eyes: ‘He looks angry, Janey – just fucking angry … He is not … not really there at times and I feel …’ He broke down, tears choked his words and he slowly slid down the fake wooden panelling that covered the back kitchen area to sit crouched on the floor, his shirt and tie crumpled up around his knees as he hugged them to his chest. He looked like a wee lost boy. I tried to touch him, reach over and hold his head but he just put his hand up defensively, to fend me off.

‘Go serve, Janey. I just need a minute and I can hear old Albert out there shouting for a pint of cider.’

I seemed to spend most of those days watching people cry and rushing around tending to customers. At night, I would run, even in the snow; I was getting up to six miles now and was pleased with my progress. I loved the feeling of pounding along, leaving everything behind me, my Sony Walkman thumping into my ears – no more dealing with crying people, just Steely Dan, Supertramp and Hall and Oates to soothe my soul as my bouncy trainers strode along the concrete in the cold. At home, I would hear Sean on the phone debating, arguing or calming one or another brother. It was one suspicious conversation after another.

‘Dad bought land from Johnny Jones. Let’s see about that.’

‘We’ll go and start to dig up these people who owe my dad our money.’

Each son started to make decisions about Old George’s various businesses in his absence, cutting the cake before he was dead. It was causing huge rifts. They would fight about Toad Hall and the other pub Old George owned and his collection of cars and vans, the caravan at Wemyss Bay on the Firth of Clyde, the money lent out to various men for various deals … it went on and on. I kept out of it. I knew we were secure; we had paperwork to show we were buying the Weavers bar and building. Sean assured me we were fine and safe and I trusted him. I had no reason not to. Despite all he had ever done to me I was sure he would always look after us financially. He was smart at this money stuff. This was the man who had budgeted £20 a week for everything when he was 17 and stuck to it. I felt safe amidst a sea of Chinese whispers that stuttered poison.

Early January saw my long-delayed visit to Old George’s hospital bed. I had just been swimming and Sean took me straight up to the ward. Sandra was with us; she and Sean walked fast with the familiar comfort of people who had taken this route every day. I was constantly trying to catch up and almost walking off in wrong directions as they strode ahead, turning corners and pushing apart quiet hissing doors in the endless Royal Infirmary corridors. My heart was beating loud. I hated hospitals. I did not know what to expect. I was afraid to see him. Eventually, we reached a corridor where the nurses started smiling at Sean and Sandra. I hung behind; I saw Sean turn into an open ward and stop. I could see his back bend over and hear his voice as he spoke to his father. I stepped in and looked beyond Sean’s shoulder.

Everything was white.

Old George was pale, bloated and his skin was very white – his hair was white – his gown and the surrounding bed were white – the strong, bright lights over it were white – all white – and it dazzled my eyes. Old George was sitting up in a wheelchair by his white bed, staring straight ahead. His eyes looked dead. My immediate reaction was one of complete and utter horror. Sean smiled at me, saying, ‘He looks good eh?’

I turned on my heels and walked out of the ward; I had to gulp hard to stop the lump in my throat from choking me. No, he did not look good – in fact, he looked like fucking Death to me. I screamed inside my head. But I managed to pull myself together and walked back into the ward again, more for Sean’s sake than mine. He and Sandra sat there smiling at the white man. Old George’s fists were gripping into the arms of the wheelchair; his white face was contorted with anger and his sharp blue eyes looked like he was silently screaming behind them, screams of complete horror – ripping, deadly, venomous howls of anger leapt from his eyes as I looked at them.

He was not the kind of man who waited for a stroke to sort itself out, or who would want to spend months having physiotherapy in the hope of managing to finally feed himself. He was the kind of man who fucked younger women, ate big breakfasts, bought fancy cars and lived life his way. His eyes bore into me; I could feel the frustration well up every time he moved his eyes and they darted desperately around the shiny white room.

A male nurse was chatting over his head to Sean and Sandra explaining how well George was doing today and rubbing my father-in-law’s big white right hand. I looked, half-dazzled by the bright overhead lights, at George’s old white arm and could see the pale blue fading tattoos that boasted of his love for his mother. The white hairs on his arms made the letters blur. His shins were peeping out the bottom of his pyjamas and I knew that, underneath his pyjamas, his white legs were covered in mottled blue bruises from the savage beatings he got from the police in his early twenties. Sean and Sandra chatted away to Old George. I just wanted to leave. I was horrified by what I had seen – the big, powerful man I knew, sitting there glaring at a world which could not hear his silent screams. Afterwards, I was glad to get back to the bar and was desperate not to discuss Old George.

The second time Sean and Sandra took me to see him, as soon as we entered the ward, a doctor took us aside and explained that George had had a further stroke that morning and was now gravely ill; he was on a machine to help him breathe. Sean and Sandra sat staring at the floor as the doctor explained.

‘You have to get the rest of the family up to the hospital soon.’

Inevitably, a day or so later, there came the decision to switch off the machine that was keeping him breathing and this had to be made by his surviving children. It was heart-breaking to see his sons all sitting in that hospital ward with his daughters-in-law. At one point, there were eleven people around his bed watching and listening to him breathe noisily without a machine. He rasped out each breath and his chest rattled. Everyone waited in case that was the last breath he took. I felt overwhelmed. This really was no place for his son’s wives to be.

I finally decided to go, but first I had to say my goodbyes. I leaned over, took his white, clammy hand in mine and quietly whispered to him, ‘Thanks for everything, George. Thanks for giving me Sean and thanks for loving Ashley. I will miss you.’

I quickly turned and left his bedside and walked out into the hallway of the ward. That was it for me. No more visits and no more waiting for him to die. I had a pub to run and even Old George would have agreed with me on that score. He died the next morning with his family around him. Sean was on his way to the hospital and missed being there for the actual moment of death but, within minutes of his father’s death, Sean was on the phone organising the funeral – that was the best way for him to cope. Ashley became hysterical when she found out her beloved grandfather had died and she had never got to say goodbye to him. She ran out of our living room and crouched under the kitchen table and covered her head with her arms like she did with her jacket when her daddy was beating the man in
the
car. As a child, I did handstands; Ashley did head-hiding. ‘No! Don’t tell me!’ she cried. ‘Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me, Mummy!’

The funeral was set for the following week, a week in which there were so many arguments and shouting matches it made me smile, because Old George would have loved the fuss he caused.

His funeral took place on a sunny January morning and was well attended: several ‘Faces’ came up from London to pay their respects. They dressed the same as their Glasgow counterparts. They all had slicked-back hair or shaved heads and wore sun-glasses with the ubiquitous uniform of grey or fawn camel-hair coats or black cashmere Crombies. Onlookers and ordinary people from the pubs and clubs Old George ran swelled the crowd in the street outside the funeral parlour and streams of cars followed the funeral procession all the way to the crematorium. There were no security arrangements as there were in some equivalent London funerals. George had seven sons and they were all there. Perhaps 200 mourners lined the seats inside the full building and there were others who couldn’t get in as Mr Bovey, the family lawyer, conducted the service. Old George’s sons sat in the front pew, all with heads bowed to the ground, remembering their father. Outside, on the grass, big floral wreaths sat, plump and bulging with ferns and flowers, amid the January frost. Ashley wore her green school uniform and was so upset during the service that I had to leave early with her. As I stepped out of the crematorium and walked to the car, I heard some woman say: ‘That’s a wreath from the Kray Twins.’

WITH THE FUNERAL
out of the way, we all just carried on as best we could.

There were various Storrie family meetings to which I was not invited: always ‘just the boys’. Sean usually returned from these meetings with an angry face and sometimes a black mood. It transpired that Old George had left a ‘tape’ to explain his will. He could read but was not good at writing, so this had been the easiest way for him to do it. The tape caused much pain and in-fighting, mainly because it was in the hands of Young George and Sandra; they kept telling the brothers that they would allow it to be heard only when it suited them, feeding on everyone’s insecurity. The fact that Sandra was in on it with Young George further fuelled suspicion among the other brothers that she and he were sleeping together again. When he got drunk, Young George would yell out at anyone near him, ‘I heard the tape! You are getting fuck all. Wait till you hear the tape! You’ll fucking shut up then, won’t he, Sandra?’