Any less might have kicked off another row.
She looked back at me for a bit longer. More in hope than anticipation I was sure. Something in her eyes made me cave.
‘What’s happening there?’
She brightened. She enthused. ‘A protest outside the main entrance. Should be a couple of dozen of us and I’m really hopeful there will be press coverage. Maybe television too. BBC Scotland didn’t say they’d definitely be there but it is in their diary. Fingers crossed.’
Uh huh. Fingers crossed right enough. Couple of dozen meant there would be five or six. Hopeful meant very unlikely. In their diary meant no fucking chance. We had been there so many times before.
With that, she swept up whatever it was she felt she needed and deposited them in a selection of bags and pockets. A last mouthful of tea was knocked back in an exaggerated haste and the cup placed down with the hurried air of a woman on a mission.
A last look round, a wave of her hand as if she didn’t even have time to speak, and she was out and off to catch the eight o’clock train to Edinburgh. I watched the door bang shut and could only shake my head at the shudder that was left behind. It wasn’t just the eight-hour shift that had left me tired.
I tried to listen to her footsteps as they faded away, tried to capture the final, faint smack of heel on concrete, strained to hear the very last sound that I could. With each wilting, softening step I spiralled into sleep until my head was on the table and my mind had drifted to another time, another place.
I sat like that for an hour before waking sore and stiff and dragging myself off to a cold bed for a further four uneasy hours of sleep. As ever, slumber offered no escape from a waking nightmare. It just brought memories and distorted versions of an already disturbed reality. I’d long since given up any hope of finding some sanctuary with my eyes shut.
It was nearly five before she returned, as deflated and self-righteous as I’d expected. She dropped her bags and coat as if throwing off armour. The weary warrior returned from the front.
The same dance as the morning. I was to ask how it had gone. I didn’t care. She would tell me anyway. The truth was found between the lines. She had stood in the rain outside the Parliament for three hours along with eight other well-intentioned, misguided halfwits. Every one of them holding a sign and wasting their time. This wasn’t how it was told to me.
Few MSPs even noticed the dripping bodies littering the entrance to their talking shop and those that did paid little attention. Eventually one made a token gesture and invited three of them in out of the rain for a cup of tea and a five-minute head-nodding session. A cursory chat forgotten as soon as they were back on the Royal Mile.
Suitably patronized, the would-be revolutionaries had trotted off again, overflowing with self-praise and having achieved the square root of fuck all. Oh how pleased with themselves they were on the train back to Glasgow. Making notes, eating sandwiches and taking it in turn to pat each other on the back.
Nor was that the end of her day of busy non-achievement. In the afternoon, she was back in Glasgow pushing for a meeting with members of the education committee. I hated to think what they made of her. Probably filed under nutter or nuisance.
She maybe even knew that but it wouldn’t stop her. Nothing would. She had her mission, just as I had mine. She had tried to get me involved, of course she did, but it was another battle she could never win. At first I made excuses, couldn’t be here, couldn’t make it there. I was working, I was tired. But she kept pushing till I just had to tell her straight that I didn’t want to get involved.
I had stopped short of telling her why. Spared her that added pain and she inevitably responded by resenting me, shutting me out even further. She grudged my lack of involvement, hated my disinterest. Thought I was just sitting back and
She looked back at me for a bit longer. More in hope than anticipation I was sure. Something in her eyes made me cave.
‘What’s happening there?’
She brightened. She enthused. ‘A protest outside the main entrance. Should be a couple of dozen of us and I’m really hopeful there will be press coverage. Maybe television too. BBC Scotland didn’t say they’d definitely be there but it is in their diary. Fingers crossed.’
Uh huh. Fingers crossed right enough. Couple of dozen meant there would be five or six. Hopeful meant very unlikely. In their diary meant no fucking chance. We had been there so many times before.
With that, she swept up whatever it was she felt she needed and deposited them in a selection of bags and pockets. A last mouthful of tea was knocked back in an exaggerated haste and the cup placed down with the hurried air of a woman on a mission.
A last look round, a wave of her hand as if she didn’t even have time to speak, and she was out and off to catch the eight o’clock train to Edinburgh. I watched the door bang shut and could only shake my head at the shudder that was left behind. It wasn’t just the eight-hour shift that had left me tired.
I tried to listen to her footsteps as they faded away, tried to capture the final, faint smack of heel on concrete, strained to hear the very last sound that I could. With each wilting, softening step I spiralled into sleep until my head was on the table and my mind had drifted to another time, another place.
I sat like that for an hour before waking sore and stiff and dragging myself off to a cold bed for a further four uneasy hours of sleep. As ever, slumber offered no escape from a waking nightmare. It just brought memories and distorted versions of an already disturbed reality. I’d long since given up any hope of finding some sanctuary with my eyes shut.
It was nearly five before she returned, as deflated and self-righteous as I’d expected. She dropped her bags and coat as if throwing off armour. The weary warrior returned from the front.
The same dance as the morning. I was to ask how it had gone. I didn’t care. She would tell me anyway. The truth was found between the lines. She had stood in the rain outside the Parliament for three hours along with eight other well-intentioned, misguided halfwits. Every one of them holding a sign and wasting their time. This wasn’t how it was told to me.
Few MSPs even noticed the dripping bodies littering the entrance to their talking shop and those that did paid little attention. Eventually one made a token gesture and invited three of them in out of the rain for a cup of tea and a five-minute head-nodding session. A cursory chat forgotten as soon as they were back on the Royal Mile.
Suitably patronized, the would-be revolutionaries had trotted off again, overflowing with self-praise and having achieved the square root of fuck all. Oh how pleased with themselves they were on the train back to Glasgow. Making notes, eating sandwiches and taking it in turn to pat each other on the back.
Nor was that the end of her day of busy non-achievement. In the afternoon, she was back in Glasgow pushing for a meeting with members of the education committee. I hated to think what they made of her. Probably filed under nutter or nuisance.
She maybe even knew that but it wouldn’t stop her. Nothing would. She had her mission, just as I had mine. She had tried to get me involved, of course she did, but it was another battle she could never win. At first I made excuses, couldn’t be here, couldn’t make it there. I was working, I was tired. But she kept pushing till I just had to tell her straight that I didn’t want to get involved.
I had stopped short of telling her why. Spared her that added pain and she inevitably responded by resenting me, shutting me out even further. She grudged my lack of involvement, hated my disinterest. Thought I was just sitting back and
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