Extract from : Mo said she was quirky

1

It happened on her way home from the casino one morning, Helen noticed the two men through the side passenger window. A pair of homeless guys. One was tall and skinny, the other smaller, heavier built and walking with a limp, quite a bad limp. They approached the traffic lights and were going to cross the road in front of her taxi, right in front of its nose. The lights were red but set to change. Surely the men knew that? The tall man was having to walk slowly to stay abreast of the other, almost having to stop. He was full bearded and wearing a woollen cap. Although he was taking small steps Helen could imagine him striding out, his stride would be long and it would be hard keeping up with him. There was something else about him, to do with his shape and the way he walked, just something.

Would they make it across in time? Only if they hurried. They wouldn't hurry, not them. You could tell just by looking.

They went at their own pace and that was that.

Helen looked away, then looked back. Her workmates Caroline and Jill were beside her in the back seat but hadn't noticed the drama. The lights would change and the taxi would move. What would they do? Nothing, just keep walking. Oh God, Helen hated this kind of thing. Why did she even notice? Typical. She always had to. Other people didn't.

Only it was so tense, too tense.

Caroline and Jill were chatting about something else together, Caroline’s husband, the never-ending saga. They hadn't noticed any of it. But the taxi driver had. This was Danny, one of the regulars; Helen saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror, no doubt wondering the same as her; would the men make it across before the lights changed to green as surely they must, they must. Why was it taking so long? Another car pulled in on the outside lane.

Helen was holding her breath. She didn't realise this until suddenly she breathed in and it made a sound. The tension was just – my God, but they walked so slowly. Alkies, muttered Danny, but they didn't look drunk to her.

They reached the kerb. The small man’s limp really was bad, even painful. Perhaps he had been in an accident. Then the tall skinny one, there was something about him too the way his elbows crooked, his hands in his side coat pockets. It was him Helen was watching. He was not in the slightest drunk. She recognised something, whatever it was; a kind of deliberate quality, in how he moved, slow but not slow; slow in his movements but not in his thoughts, seeing everything, even himself.

Helen settled back further in the seat. She didn't want him seeing her. Why didn't the lights change? This was the longest ever.

At the moment the amber joined the red the two men stepped out from the pavement onto the road. The exact moment. This was when they did it. It was so weird. At this time of the morning too, with everything so quiet, so peaceful. Helen could hardly believe it and was glad of the shadows there in the back. She didn't like being in taxis with poor people seeing her, as though she was rich, she wasn't. It was silly but sometimes she felt it. They were directly in front of the taxi. It lurched forwards a tiny fraction. Danny must have raised his foot on the accelerator pedal for one split moment only but it was enough for the lurch and the tall skinny guy turned his head and stared in at him and at Helen and the other two women. He was not that old either. Only how he looked, wild, wild looking, wild as in – not dangerous. People might have thought it, almost like crazy, they would think that too, he was not, only mannerisms, how some people

Brian, it was Brian, her brother Brian.

How could it be but it was, it was his movements and his shape my God Brian, it was Brian. The car in the outside lane had rolled forwards then halted. The lights were green. The taxi quivered but couldn't move. How far had the pair travelled? Hardly at all; they didn't care. So aggressive! Brian was not aggressive. It was his physical shape but not his behaviour; the way he was staring in at them, so intimidating, and forcing them to wait. And Danny was waiting my God, he hated that. Patience, patience. Whoever heard of a patient taxi-driver? He rushed everywhere, giving people rows. Not this time. Helen saw his head lowered, not drawing attention to himself. Usually he was tough or acted like it. Helen had seen him before with other drivers, he never backed down. He would take them all on, that was how he acted. This was different. These two homeless guys made it different, they were going at their own pace and everybody else could wait.

Now the taxi was moving. Helen opened her eyes, seeing out the window. Danny shifted from second gear up to third, the engine roaring and rushing on, venting his anger and annoyance. Jill exchanged looks with her. The car in the outside lane must have been behind them, so too the homeless guys. Caroline had the phone in her hand and was smiling. I wanted to take their picture, she said, but I was too scared! Did you see his face? the one with the scraggy beard, the tall one?

Helen looked at her. Caroline gave an exaggerated shiver. Imagine meeting him on a dark night!

She spoke in a whisper. Why did she whisper? What was the point of whispering? So silly, just so silly, and not nice either, as though there was something horrible, it was prejudice pure and simple.

Are you alright? asked Jill, leaning to Helen, nudging her arm.

Yes, said Helen but she wasn't alright at all. Just weird, that was how she felt. Caroline chattered on about his height and how he was so so thin and his beard and all of it, like as if something was wrong with being tall and with a beard, or being thin.

Why people are thin my God what kind of world was it, for having no food, they get made to blame, if you don't have enough to eat and end up thin it becomes your fault. It wasn't fair. Scraggy. That was a beard, so if you didn't comb it or shave it, if it was a beard, whatever men did – how could they if they were homeless and didn't have any scissors or razors? how could you blame them? Wild and scraggy, it wasn't fair talking like that and like he was dangerous. Not if it was Brian, he was not dangerous, never. Now Caroline was wanting to text her husband, even although he was asleep in bed. Why? What did she want to say? She didn't know anything. There wasn't anything to know. Except how he looked. Jill too. I thought he was creepy, she said.

It wasn't like Jill to say that. People were prejudiced. And Danny heard her and was listening. Helen saw his eyes reflected in the rear mirror. The word ‘creepy’ could be said about a lot of men. She didn't much like Danny. He acted as if he was there to protect them. But was he? No. Would he? No. Danny was there to drive his taxi and that was that, just get on with the job and make his money, that was him. He shouted back over his shoulder: What you think about them then eh, dirty filthy buggers! Don't give a rat’s toss! Go where they want, walk where they want. They do what they want, whatever they want! I would run over the fucking top of them.

Oh watch your language you! called Caroline, but with a smile.

Danny waited a moment before replying. It’s alright for you lot, working inside your casino, I’m out here on the street. Guys like me got to deal with them animals!

They are human beings, said Jill.

He wasn't listening. It reminded Helen of somebody, her ex-husband of course, the same mentality. Men like them didn't listen, they talked. Not so much talked as boasted, how good they were and all what they did and how they got the better of everybody else. That was Danny to a tee. He had his ‘message’ for comfort, wedged down the side of the driver’s seat. He called it ‘the message’ but it was a weapon. If anybody tried it on with him, he had ‘the message’ and they would get ‘the message’. Whoever it was, just let them try it and he would bash them. He had shown them it. A solid big shifting-spanner. If ever they messed with him, he would break their skull. Even without the weapon he would take them on. Although why anybody would want to mess with a taxi driver was beyond him. They had to be thick if they did because you mess with one you mess with them all. Other taxi drivers would be there in a moment. Every driver within a stone’s throw, they would rush to back up a mate in trouble: that was how they operated. One for all and all for one.

That was what he said, and looked fierce while saying it. It might have been male boasting but that didn't mean it was false. Only this time was different, the two homeless guys made it different. What was it about them? Something.

Helen didn't see Danny as a coward. Neither was her ex. But they were not like the toughest, the real dangerous ones. When you worked in casinos you saw them. They had that certain quality. It didn't matter the nationality, it was them as individuals, a thing they had that was dangerous, like a twisted mentality. Other men left them alone, just like now with the homeless guys. Except if it was bravado, if they had had too much to drink and were beyond the sensible stage. Then they tried to speak or joke with these dangerous ones, like they were on an equal footing. It was childish. The dangerous ones smiled or else ignored them but eventually they didn't; it might only be a stare but it was enough to call their bluff like in poker at the late stage, when somebody gets asked the question: You raising or what? What you doing? It is up to the bluffers what they do but whatever it is it will be a real thing with a real consequence. Bluffing doesn't come into it. If they aren't ready for that then stop the stupidity, just shut up, go away.

Danny had kept his head down. It was the best thing too because what if he hadn't? The way the tall skinny one was staring at him. You didn't know what would happen. Some could be calmed. Some couldn't. That is part of the threat. What if they lose it altogether. These dangerous ones are telling you that, this is what they mean. Better stop it now, better leave me alone. Some men made you shiver. Nobody knew what they might do, and who to. Females or males, it didn't matter. They were capable of anything and would do it to anybody. Even children, poor innocent children, if they got in the way. Only look at them the wrong way, and if they lost their temper. If they had a knife, or just the violence, jumping and kicking, kicking people’s heads. That violence was everywhere. So if that was Danny’s worry, it might have been, and quite right too, why take chances. Except he didn't phone for help, why not? If these other drivers would have come to his rescue, why didn't he? Two homeless guys, surely that wasn't a worry? And if it was Brian, Brian was not dangerous, he wasn't.

So weird. Imagine she told Caroline and Jill. What would they say? Nothing. There wasn't anything really. Stop the car! Go and see him! But would they say that? No, they wanted home, home. Anyway, they would think she was mistaken.

How could it be Brian? He wasn't even in London. But he was in England, the last she heard, he was working in Liverpool. Mum must have told her.

They hadn't seen each other for twelve years. Gran’s funeral. He had come home for that. Not for Dad’s, he didn't come home for Dad’s. He came home for his grandmother but not for his father.

Sad. It was another world. She shifted on the seat to see through the rear window. The taxi had left the riverside several streets ago, passed down a slope and beneath a railway bridge, turning and passing the place where the old mortuary building stood, near where they held the car-boot sale on Sundays. Her and Mo came regularly. Mo was her boyfriend. She and her six year- old daughter lived with him. Her street was the first drop-off point, thank God. She would be there in ten minutes, in thirty lying beside him. The very thought! But it was true, Mo was like normality. If only she could close her eyes and count to ten, then open them again and there she was beside him. She sat back on the seat. Jill was looking at her. Helen smiled.

An hour later and she was home but still sitting in the kitchen, still wearing her coat and shoes. She held a photograph in her hand. Others lay on her lap, and a few on the floor. She brought them out as soon as she got home. It didn't depress her seeing them but neither did it cheer her up. Family was family. No matter what. People said that and it was true. Blood is thicker than water. If it was Brian it was Brian. It was so unlikely. But if it was. She smiled for some reason, a weary smile, ironic also. Families don't finish. You run away but they catch you up. Families are ghosts. Presences. What if he had recognised her?

She drew the coat about her shoulders, feeling a bit shivery. She should have gone to bed. Of course she should have, she had been working all night, she was tired and cold. A gas-boiler clanking sound she never switched it on first thing in the morning in case it wakened the entire household. Mo said it needed an overhaul. Probably it did but he was wondering if he and a mate could do it themselves, and they couldn't. People had to be qualified for that job. Gas can be dangerous.

Anyway, tenants shouldn't have to overhaul the heating system, even if they know how, it was the landlord’s job. Mo took matters on that he should have left alone. It wasn't his business.

She glanced at the photograph in her hand: one of her mother seated with a baby in her lap. The baby was Sophie. You couldn't tell the important thing which was Mum’s lack of interest. That was something for a child to know about her own grandmother. Eventually she would. Children come to know these things. It was sad. Who was the loser? Not Sophie. If Mum wanted to be foolish that was her.

Imagine a child and she didn't go to you. A mother to daughter was something but a grandmother? What could a little child have done to deserve that? Nothing at all. It was not possible. It could only come from the grandmother. The truth revealed was the relationship between the grandmother and her own daughter. That was so glaring. How Mum was with Sophie was how she had been with Helen. She never had been close to Helen, never.

It was sad and didn't have to be. That made it sadder. It would have been so easy for it not to be the case. Sophie could be standing next to Mum and taken her hand the way children do, just reached up and taken her grandmother’s hand, and Mum would – what? what would Mum do? She would look at the hand: a tiny hand in her own; her granddaughter’s hand. She would wonder at that, why children are so trusting. She would think to let go the hand because that would be her inclination but wouldn't be able to because that tiny hand, the child’s hand

Children take things for granted, and why shouldn't they? In the nursery back in Glasgow parents had been encouraged to stay with the children for periods of the day. Helen stayed occasionally and saw how a child looks at you to see if you are friendly. They look at you. If you aren't friendly they see it in you, even the smaller ones like if you try to lift them and they aren't yours. People do that, they lift up a child and the child doesn't want to be lifted. She does but she doesn't. Not by somebody strange. If it was Sophie: Leave me leave me leave me! Mum Mum Mum, and kicking and kicking and the person would have to put her down and just smile, pretending it was okay. It happened once when Mo was with her, in that same nursery and Sophie started screaming at a man who lifted her. He was one of the fathers. Sophie fell and he picked her up. He didn't see Mo or if he did he didn't think he was the parent. Mo was Asian so how could he be? That would have been the man’s thinking. It was accidental. The man had acted instinctively, and Sophie too. The teacher said she was ‘over-reacting’ which made it sound like Sophie’s fault and that was total nonsense. Sophie screamed and thank God she screamed. It was right that she screamed, she was defending herself. Girls have to; just don't lay a finger on me, don't dare lay a finger on me, and if anybody did, God help them. Screaming was so important. Men could laugh but it was. It was men who had to learn. Some did and some didn't.

‘Over-reacting’. It was so wrong to say that. And another woman saying it made it worse. The child was reacting . So would anybody if a stranger came along and grabbed you. Why did he? Oh because she had fallen. Excuse me? Helen didn't accept that argument. She didn't care if it happened in other cultures, if people went around lifting people up. Or if it was the olden days, oh they do it in the olden days. This was not the olden days. What right does a man have to come along and lift up a little girl? He doesn't have any right, not for that, that is just like a violation, almost it is.

Helen glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, lifted the cup to swallow what was left of the tea but it was cold and she replaced the cup. It was nice seeing the photographs of herself and Brian. They were close. And there were other photographs. Mum must have had them, and of the older generations.

She yawned again, she should have been in bed. But she wouldn't sleep, not now, thinking about everything, she wouldn't be able to, she knew she wouldn't, just worrying about things all the time over and over, worry worry worry, then when daylight came, oh well. Helen made to rise but forgetting the photographs on her lap and they landed on the floor. It was another cup of tea, she had been going to boil the water. Stupid, but that was her.

She left the photographs on the floor. Her eyes were closed. An image in mind, sort of memory. Whatever, it had gone. These images, what else to call them, you expect to see the person and you don't.

An image isn't a person, it only makes you think of the person. Although if it is yourself, if you are the person, you as a child. The supposed-to-be happy time, when life is supposed to be good. People said that, they didn't mean it. Boredom and lies and just what it was, dishonesty. Childhood was not something to look back on and wish things were the same nowadays. Not for Helen anyway. God knows how Sophie would come out of it all.

Those lives were mostly gone now, the older generation. Helen’s own grandmother would have been eighty-three had she been alive. She was Mum’s mother. Dad’s died when she was young. Helen had never known her.

Life goes on but people don't, individuals.

Helen’s hand went to her forehead; she massaged there, thinking of something, whatever. Oh but it was true enough, divorce, what people say about it. So horrible an experience. Mo said he understood but he didn't. How could he? How could anybody, if they hadn't gone through it themselves. Al - though he had been there for her. That was true, of course he had. And never would she forget it, if she hadn't met Mo, if he hadn't been in Glasgow, and it was only a fluke he had been, helping people at a restaurant, cousins of the ones he worked for in London. Typical Mo. He called it ‘troubleshooting’ and made a joke about being the sheriff in a cowboy movie. But it was true, he was there to sort out the problems. At weekends it was past three in the morning when he finished. He and a couple of workmates used Helen’s casino as a place to wind down. They spent an hour drinking tea and chatting by the bar, talking over things, how the evening had gone and whatever else. Casino staff knew them and occasionally used their restaurant. Helen was one of a group that booked in for their Christmas dinner. During it the guys who came to the casino sat with them, including Mo. She hadn't looked at him. He was smaller than her, and like younger, or seemed to be. Then he was sitting behind her, then talking to her directly. She just liked him. That was the truth. How he spoke, just like an ordinary Londoner. But he was an ordinary Londoner. Helen had lived and worked in London before getting married, it was nice talking about that, she didn't get the opportunity much. And he wasn't younger he was older – by one month! A month is a month; a month is older. That was him talking. God he was a cheery bugger, and the way he was chatting her – and he was!

He was chatting her. It was just so silly, and nice, so so nice and just – normality, after what she had been through, it was like boy meets girl.

He had seen her at the tables, had she not noticed? No. Surely she had noticed? No! She hadn't! Not even one time? She hadn't noticed any of them sitting at the bar and sipping their tea. It was not her job to notice, not when she was dealing cards.

He didn't believe her. Then he did. It was an honest smile too. She saw that it was. He was being straight with her, this wee London guy, Asian guy, making her laugh, and watching her, closely. If she was racist? Anyway, she was watching him, and he knew she was. I got two wooden legs. Stupid, but it made her laugh. She covered her mouth but couldn't stop herself giggling, it was a giggle, so silly. She stopped it. Only it was funny. ‘Giggling’. When had she last ‘giggled’?

Mo and his smiles, Mo and his laughs. If he hadn't been there for her. If he hadn't. There was nobody else. Not her family. Nobody.

Things make you strong.

The actual divorce experience itself, people wouldn't believe how dreadful it was. Not the stress my God the stress it puts you under. The children too, some don't recover, become damaged emotionally, psychological scars, the whole thing a nightmare. Only they never wake from it. No matter how bad the nightmare is in the ordinary world you wake up from it but they don't.

The photographs on the floor. She didn't want to pick them up. Ones facing up and ones facing down. It wasn't her choice. Things land at random. If her mother’s photograph was face down. She didn't want to see it if it was. As if it was her fault! It wasn't. Silly thinking such a thing.

She made her way through to the bedroom. It was a good size room and must have been a lounge originally. They used it as a bedroom and a place to store things. There was plenty light coming in through the curtains. Mo’s huddled shape in the double bed, she listened to his breathing. Sophie slept in the walk-in cupboard. The door was kept ajar when she was in bed otherwise it would have gone from cosy to claustrophobic. There was no window in the cupboard. Cupboards don't have windows, even the walk-in variety, so no fresh air. When Sophie was in bed the door had to be left properly open. So things were awkward; it meant the room was out of bounds. The kitchen was where they lived. They needed a new place, whenever that might happen. Probably never. They didn't do the lottery.

Helen sat by the entrance with the chair angled that she might reach into Sophie without shifting position. An empty glass stood by the wall. Not quite empty; inside was a drop of water. Mo must have left it there. He would have checked how she was when he came home, then last thing before getting into bed; perhaps sat with her if she had been awake, if the movement had disturbed her. She could have been awake; sometimes she was. She still liked to come into bed with Helen, even when Mo was there. She had suffered bad dreams for a while. It still happened though not so much but on Helen’s night off the girl used it as an excuse to wangle her way in beside them, unless it was a form of jealousy. Mo said that. And jealousy could happen; parents and children, it did, jealousy and envy, spite, everything.

Turning the cupboard into a ‘bedroom’ had been Mo’s brilliant idea. But it was good. Really, and made a huge huge difference. He bought an old bed from a so-called furniture store down near the market. It was secondhand junk they sold and the bed wasn't just old it was like prehistoric, with a nailed-down metal frame. It was so so heavy. Two of his mates helped with the lifting and manoeuvring. They managed to squeeze it into the cupboard by taking off the end frames, and the legs too, sawing bits off and nailing bits on as supports, then putting bricks underneath the sides. Obviously the mattress didn't fit.

Obviously. Helen hunted about and found long settee-style cushions made of foam-rubber. These had been designed for a caravan but could be fitted together, and would do meantime. What the landlord didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Although landlords have a habit of finding things out. Surely he would have had no complaints? If changes weren't structural and no damage occurred. What could he say?

Oh but he would find something. They always do. Any excuse to keep the deposit. The cupboard shelves, he would have had something to say about them. They were high above Sophie’s bed and couldn't be reached without stepladders but he definitely would see them. How could he miss them?

Mo built them before the bed went in. You had to twist about to get up because you couldn't set the ladders inside the cupboard, you climbed up then twisted and reached across; and the stepladders were old and shoogly; greasy and oily into the bargain; horrible old things. Everybody in the house used them and they were just horrible.

In this place everything was old. Nothing worked. Especially if she was using it. What worked for Helen? Nothing. It didn't matter what.

It was true.

No it wasn't. It was not true at all, and she was stupid and foolish for thinking such a thing and she had to stop it stop it, stop thinking negative thoughts all the time, things were good. They were.

But what would the landlord do if he saw the shelves? Surely it was structural if you interfered with the walls? And you weren't supposed to do anything structural.

That was Mo. He interfered. He did. Walls came under fittings, you weren't to touch fittings, it was interfering and you weren't to interfere. He went in and did things, and that was the shelves, building them and so high. And he kept heavy stuff up there; old computers and bits and pieces; cables and connections, leads and other stuff , all fangled together. He hunted the secondhand shops and came home with junk. Ancient junk. Why did he do it? There was nothing in them. Spare parts, it was stupid. Two old video machines under the bed my God why did he keep them? outmoded junk. What a waste of space. Spare parts for what? The IT industry didn't work like that. She knew enough to know junk when she saw it, and that was junk. It was all relics. The technology changed every couple of years. Less. It had to. That was how the industry worked, that was profit and loss, people had to be buying and people had to be selling. And like the ones that made the things, them too, the people doing the actual jobs, poor people in foreign countries, whatever they did for a measly pittance of a wage and catching all the cancers. Mo wanted to talk about them and that was good but he didn't make the other connection. A man he knew worked down town selling the stuff , why didn't he ask him? That old junk was not going to be useful and come in handy; it would sit up there gathering dust. Why clog up your home? What was the use of that? eBay, nobody was going to buy these things on eBay. Even if they did, a pound here and a pound there. And these big hi-fi speakers on the top shelf. What were they for? They were completely obsolete. Things became obsolete because they had to be so people were forced to update. Everybody knew that. Mo was clever but he could be thick. He had blank spots. All men did, it was like a gender issue. They did things that were silly. They didn't see the consequences. Mo said the shelves were strong but they had to be strong because what happened if they fell down? so that was not an answer. Even the walls themselves: what if they fell down, because of all the shelves and all the heavy objects piled on top of them? This wasn't Glasgow where you got big thick sandstone lasting a hundred years. The buildings here were flimsy, their wee thin bricks, the big bad wolf could have blown it down. She got sick of talking about it. He wore her down. Not everything was a joke. When you looked up to the ceiling and saw the stuff all piled high, then down below and it was Sophie’s bed! My God!

Oh but the walls would never collapse. It was just her worrying.

Even the nails, see the nails.

Mo showed her them. They were big strong nails. They were too. Helen could see they were.

Nothing would happen. He called her ‘girl’. Dont worry about it girl. What did he mean by that? As if ‘girl’ because she was a ‘girl’ and a girl was a child like not an adult and not to be taken seriously. It was annoying. They said ‘girl’ in London but so what? Mo wasn't even a real Londoner he was Middlesex my God he said it often enough, ‘Middlesex’, like being proud of Middlesex. Danny the driver said ‘girl’ too. She didn't like it from him either. ‘Girl’, it was not like an adult.

What did it matter? She closed her eyes, although thoughts of her ex, his image; she was too tired to shudder. Why could she not be rid of him forever? It wasn't fair that his image could still be there and come into her brain, not after such a long time. Why could she not wipe it out? If the brain was a computer. People say that, as though things can be deleted and then erased, but the brain is not a computer, things cannot be erased , not like that.

Even now her main worry – laughable, so laughable – that she might turn a corner and bump into him. She knew he was in Glasgow and there was no reason to worry but she did. So it was like why? He would never come to London. Except perhaps it was a new job, and he came down for it, if she was with Mo, and Sophie too, Mo walking with them and it was hand in hand and they turned a corner and there he was. But he would never do it, he would never leave Glasgow and there was no reason ever to worry, never more, he could do what he liked. She could too. She could. It was up to her; if she wanted to do something she could do it.

Oh God.

Mo was nothing at all like her ex. Nonsense even thinking it. Only he could be silly. She liked it about him but also she didn't like it.

But the walls wouldn't fall down. She accepted that. She did. Mo knew what he was doing. She didn't have to nag him, if you could call it nagging. That was what he called it though with a smile on his face to make it a joke; but it was still nagging. That was what he thought about Helen safeguarding and protecting her child, he called it nagging. But if one hair on her little girl’s head was ever hurt by one single thing relating to these damn shelves, one thing, that was all, then that was that.

She was not going to lose her temper about it. Only if anything happened, if anything ever happened.

But that was why she worried and why she nagged him so that it wouldn't happen and it wouldn't be too late and it didn't matter if he sighed or how much he sighed. She was not a silly child. He got exasperated. It was his word, exasperated . She exasperated him. She felt like slapping him never mind exasperated, he exasperated her. Then when he laughed. She hated that. It was like – why did he do it? As if she was thick, she wasn't thick. Why did he make her feel that way? It was a thing about Mo and why Helen compared him with her ex. Of course she did, it was natural. He had mates from the restaurant. One came to the house and Helen saw him smiling at something Mo said. Helen knew it was about her, whatever Mo said. Else why whisper? Mo had whispered. He did it so Helen couldn't hear. What other reason was there? So she was the one excluded, so it was about her.

Why else would he have whispered? It was like speaking in Urdu. His mate did that until Mo corrected him because with Helen there, it was just bad manners. So was whispering if it excluded people. Especially matters between a man and a woman, these are private things, it could be anything, sex or whatever, if it was about her he was speaking, that was horrible, like behind her back and in the same room too, it was horrible, so so horrible, any man that could do that. Helen just could not ever, ever, never ever. She would never stand for it, how could she she never ever.

That was a trust. He would have broken the trust. She had trusted him and he had broken the trust. That is how it would be. There was no excuse. She had trusted him, even with her own daughter. My God, if ever Sophie suffered. That was the one thing, if ever one thing happened, one little tiny thing. It was beyond talking about except it had to be because with people in the house; there had to be people in the house. But who were they? That was the trouble with lodging houses with people all coming and going. Strangers: you were surrounded by them.

Of course some strangers were necessary. You had to bring people into your home. Childminders. They had Azizah and thank God. She was a lovely girl and they were so so lucky to get her. Who else could they have relied upon for weekend working? All Azizah did was read. She barely spoke at all. Perhaps she did when Helen wasn't there. Mo said she did, it was only shyness. She couldn't look Helen in the eye never mind say hullo. The scarlet woman! Teenage girls have an imagination. Helen didn't care. Yes she did, but not much. Sophie liked her and that was the difference. Even if she didn't, childminders don't last forever, sooner or later it would be somebody else. And who might it be, you never knew, horror stories abounded. She was right to worry. Of course she was. It was impossible not to. But what choice did she have? None. That was divorce, that was being a parent. It was always difficult and you were always taking a chance.

She had worked in casinos for years so was well used to it; at the same time, she got weary. There was nothing wrong in admitting it. Nightshift was difficult with young children, the constant organising, everything, it got you down. She was lucky with Mo. Mo was good. He wouldn't hurt a fly. And so gentle with Sophie. More than her ex. He threw her up in the air! My God! Why did men do that? He put her to the highest chute in the park. No wonder she was nervous. Two years of age my God she was entitled to be. He knew better. He always knew better. That was him, Mr Know-Better. Because he was a man? What did that mean? a man? Did it mean something special? Not as far as she was concerned. Mo wasn't like that, not even close. If ever he was she would tell him. He was one good thing that had happened to her, amongst many others. She acted like they didn't but they did. Even if they did they didn't. If it was her they were happening to it meant they were not good. Because good things didn't happen to her. If they did they would come to an end; sooner or later they would. Anything good came to an end. That was her and that was life, her life anyway.

Her daughter’s head had moved on the pillow. The dampness was evident, her thick head of hair and the furry toy too close to her face, La Divina, Helen reached to ease it away, careful not to screech the chair legs. She kept her hand near to Sophie’s forehead but without touching. Even so there was movement, the tiniest wisp, but more than a pulse beat. Sophie’s brain must have picked up a signal. Mother and daughter, it was so so sensitive, so sensitive between them.

She would be up for school soon enough, poor wee soul. She had to be strong. Children had to be, nowadays, and resilient, just to survive. But they began strong. Mo said that. Their bodies were strong when they left the womb. Gradually they weakened, until late in life they died. That was humanity’s story. From birth on the spirit was strong but then it got knocked out you. The best part of life is birth, from there on it is downhill, downhill all the way!

What a terrible way of looking at the world. Helen wondered if it was his religion, then saw he was laughing. He had made it all up. He was always doing it, always laughing at her. Thank goodness, she loved it about him, she needed it so much, seeing life like he did, he was just so so cheery and so so – just cheery, it was so necessary.

It was lovely the way he had transformed the cupboard. It was a bedroom; it really was – perhaps not a proper one but But it was a proper one! Helen knew that now. She hadn't at first, unlike Sophie who had believed from the beginning. That wonderful story about the doll who lived in a cupboard: so it was a bedroom.

But it was wonderful. It made you want to curl up and just, just listen, close your eyes, or open them. It was so so – just unbelievable. Who could believe it? The book had been put there for Sophie. If miracles did happen. It was for them to find and they did. The doll who lived in the cupboard had been written for Sophie. Mo said it. There was nothing surer than that. It was the exact same cupboard. So amazing, exciting. Even the doll, it didn't look like La Divina but it was her best first cousin, you could see that. Mo held the book-page next to the doll to show the resemblance. When the story was read to her Sophie’s eyes were huge as she looked round the interior walls. Whatever she was seeing, she was seeing something. Such an imagination. Oh but she got it from Helen. Her imagination my God it was notorious. Dad used to joke about it!

Poor girl if that was what she had. Helen felt sorry for her. It wasn't sweet and wasn't cute. Mundane thoughts were better.

Boys had those. Girls were different. Boys thought what they thought but girls didn't, girls had their own world. They loved stories and loved reading books. Sophie too. Helen was so glad and would encourage it all the way. Real books and not just computers. Real books to help with her studying. So she would get away from it all, the horrible stuff , just get out of it all and get away and just – if she got a worthwhile job and just away from the hopeless world, all the horrible and dark side and all.

Helen had an urge to touch Sophie: she resisted. When the girl was asleep like this you had to stop yourself. What had she wanted to do? She didn't know, perhaps hold her. No, only touch her, only that. Helen wanted to laugh, and seeing her brow; there was a strength there, strength of purpose.

Her breathing was irregular but not to worry about – a particle catching in her throat. It made the breathing catarrhal, a little, but it was fine and nothing at all, really, not to worry about, just being silly, that was Helen all over.

The pillow and the side of her head damp with sweat. Of course it was normal. Boys were even worse apparently. Mo certainly was. He burned, it was like feverish. But Sophie burned too, and the side of her head, the temple, my God, it was so so thin and would be damaged.

Oh so easily damaged. Easily.

You saw children throwing stones, girls as well as boys, and if they hit the side of the head, where the scalp was so thin, it would cause an injury, a dreadful one, and if it was by the ear. Children could be rough.

She was sound asleep. She was, she couldn't be more asleep.

Touch wood she was okay now but she had had such a hard time settling in at school. People said boys were the shy ones. It was hard for them, harder than it was for girls, supposedly, but Helen didn't believe it. Girls were every bit as shy, perhaps shyer. And it wasn't harder for boys. Definitely not. And girls could be horrible too. If it was bullying especially, if they had to fight. And worse with the Glasgow accent. London children would just look at her and think she was funny, they would laugh at her and perhaps might fight her. You could imagine it, because she was a stranger and with the different voice.

Sophie didn't like fighting. Some girls did. Some fought all the time, they hit boys too. And they could torture. Girls could torture. Helen remembered it from her own day. Perhaps worse than boys. Did boys even do it? Perhaps they didn't. Girls did, oh my God they did, they were so so good at it too.

Why did people have to hurt each other? Why did they not accept things, and accept each other. Helen was not clever and knew she was not but that was what she believed. Anyway, you didn't have to be clever to believe that, not if it was the truth. And it was the truth, people did hurt each other.

Helen shivered. She could have been into bed in one minute; into the warmth. Why didn't she? She didn't want to. She did but she didn't. Her head was too full, she would be tossing and turning. And she had a headache too. Of course that was normal.

But if everybody was different their thoughts too would be different and all their points of view, everything. You couldn't have everyone different but their thoughts all the same. That was just stupid. Why did people want everybody to be the same? Or act like they did. Usually it was men. But not all the time. You heard women politicians and they were tough as old boots, you saw their faces; they were worse than men, they would tell somebody to push the button for the whole human race, they would give the order. They could be mothers. Of course they could. It was hatred, people hated; why did people hate? They did, they hated.

She eased La Divina out from beneath the girl’s head. It was just a little furry creature but she had had it since she was a baby. Mo teased her about it. Helen wished he would stop. But maybe it was for the best. It was a new life now and the sooner Sophie got rid of the old stuff the better. But it didn't apply to dolls. There was nothing wrong in dolls. If she could break with the old associations. That was what counted. Mo was good with Sophie, she could have been his own daughter.

Helen was so lucky with Mo, but perhaps she wasn't.

That was an odd idea. What did it mean?

Nothing. Odd ideas were – odd! And she got them. But she was odd. She was; just hopeless, hopeless. She knew it about herself. If she wasn't hopeless she would never have got involved with him in the first place, her ex, never. And marriage would have been out the question. Marriage! My God imagine marrying him! But she did; it was never a strong point, sense. People thought she was sensible. She wasn't. They thought she was and she wasn't. She had to be thick to have married him. At the same time he was Sophie’s father. So if not for him.

She lifted the empty glass and rose from the chair, the floorboards squeaking, treading so very carefully when she passed the end of the bed, although Mo would have slept through thunder. She clicked open the door into the hallway, and closed it so very gently.

That draught under the front door, my God, you could actually feel the chill. Her feet were always cold.

The light was still on in the kitchen. She had forgotten to switch it off . Oh well, she switched it off now, stepped across between the fallen photographs and settled into the chair. She was tired, sitting with the coat shielding her. It was weary. Weary and tired, that was her. Tiredness. Where did it come from? From living. Exhaustion. She was too weary to smile, she had been working all night dealing cards, dealing cards and taking money, putting up with it all, everything. And now here she was, not sound asleep and she should have been, snug, warm, just warm, the heat from Mo he was so so, so warm, so warm, in beside him and away from everything, and his body, she loved his body; she did, why did she, men and women,
all these things and in her mind too all just going round and round. Her head lolled, her eyes open; only the tiredness, but not wanting to go to bed, she didn't want to.