forget it, hen, he’ll have forgotten all about it when you go back, you’ll see.’
‘But what will my mum say? He’s bound to tell her,’ I spluttered.
‘Bet you he won’t say.’ She looked at me knowingly. ‘And maybe best you don’t mention it to her either, Sandra. He married a saint when he wed your mum, you know.
That’s what oor Jenny ma sister aye says, Alex merrit a saint.’
With brisk efficiency, she began to wipe my cheeks with a cold flannel, and said, ‘Now, just you forget all about it.’
Perhaps, after the incident at the bus terminus, my father was concerned that I might disclose the relationship he had with his clippie: a brief period followed in which he was pleasant to my
mother. He should take her out more often, he mused, Mary needed to get away from the kids a bit. Bemused, my mother pointed out that I was not nearly old enough, at seven, to be left in charge of
the two boys. He talked of arranging a babysitter, and although Mary dismissed this as more pie in the sky, he brought a thirteen-year-old girl to our home one day and introduced her as Betty. The
young, giggly blonde sister of one of his colleagues, she wished to earn pocket money.
Surprised, but pleased, my mother agreed it would be nice to go to the pictures with her husband and an occasional dance. A deal was struck, and Betty became a regular visitor to Dunbeth Road,
always escorted home by my father. I looked forward to her visits, while noting with distaste the way my dad looked at her, particularly when my mother was not in the room. I came to regard her as
yet another threat to my mother’s happiness, and began to show a distinct coolness towards her, which my father thought uppity.
Betty’s visits continued as winter approached, but one Saturday she did not come. My dad, in a jovial mood, handed money ceremoniously to my mother. ‘Why don’t you take the
kids and yourself to the pictures?’
I jumped up and down in great excitement, because
The Wizard of Oz
was showing at the Garden near my granny’s, and I loved the story. My mother was pleased by his generosity, and
the way in which he helped organize the two younger ones, putting Ian into a pushchair. All smiles, he waved us goodbye, and said he would have a meal fixed up from the chippie nearby for our
early-evening return. We set off happily enough, arrived at the cinema, and paid our admission money at the kiosk. All was well during the Wee Picture, and Ian nodded off to sleep. Then the main
feature began. While I was entranced with the Munchkins, Norman, who was three years younger than me and not yet at school, began to whimper, at first quietly, then louder.
In vain my mother tried to hush him, glancing round apologetically. Maybe he would have settled down, if the Wicked Witch of the West had not then made her dramatic entrance. Norman’s
screams of terror filled the cinema and Ian woke up and joined in. My mother dragged us towards the exit, which did not suit me. I chimed in with the howls of protest, as a frantic usherette
hurried us into the corridor. Luckily, my mother knew her, and not only did she refund our ticket money, she told my mother that I could see another showing of the picture free.
However, there we all were, turfed out of the cinema much earlier than anticipated. ‘Never mind,’ my mother said stoically. ‘Let’s just head home early for our fish and
chips. At least that part of your dad’s treat you
will
get, Sandra.’
We caught a bus from Whifflet up to Coatbridge. I ran on ahead of mum and reached our back door first. I burst into our small living room and froze. My father was with a little girl of about
two, the child of one of our neighbours. She was sitting on our couch, half-dressed, with an expression of bewilderment on her face. Then my mother appeared behind me. An unholy row broke out and
we kids were all bundled into the bedroom, and told to keep quiet.
Just before Christmas in 1956, without
‘But what will my mum say? He’s bound to tell her,’ I spluttered.
‘Bet you he won’t say.’ She looked at me knowingly. ‘And maybe best you don’t mention it to her either, Sandra. He married a saint when he wed your mum, you know.
That’s what oor Jenny ma sister aye says, Alex merrit a saint.’
With brisk efficiency, she began to wipe my cheeks with a cold flannel, and said, ‘Now, just you forget all about it.’
Perhaps, after the incident at the bus terminus, my father was concerned that I might disclose the relationship he had with his clippie: a brief period followed in which he was pleasant to my
mother. He should take her out more often, he mused, Mary needed to get away from the kids a bit. Bemused, my mother pointed out that I was not nearly old enough, at seven, to be left in charge of
the two boys. He talked of arranging a babysitter, and although Mary dismissed this as more pie in the sky, he brought a thirteen-year-old girl to our home one day and introduced her as Betty. The
young, giggly blonde sister of one of his colleagues, she wished to earn pocket money.
Surprised, but pleased, my mother agreed it would be nice to go to the pictures with her husband and an occasional dance. A deal was struck, and Betty became a regular visitor to Dunbeth Road,
always escorted home by my father. I looked forward to her visits, while noting with distaste the way my dad looked at her, particularly when my mother was not in the room. I came to regard her as
yet another threat to my mother’s happiness, and began to show a distinct coolness towards her, which my father thought uppity.
Betty’s visits continued as winter approached, but one Saturday she did not come. My dad, in a jovial mood, handed money ceremoniously to my mother. ‘Why don’t you take the
kids and yourself to the pictures?’
I jumped up and down in great excitement, because
The Wizard of Oz
was showing at the Garden near my granny’s, and I loved the story. My mother was pleased by his generosity, and
the way in which he helped organize the two younger ones, putting Ian into a pushchair. All smiles, he waved us goodbye, and said he would have a meal fixed up from the chippie nearby for our
early-evening return. We set off happily enough, arrived at the cinema, and paid our admission money at the kiosk. All was well during the Wee Picture, and Ian nodded off to sleep. Then the main
feature began. While I was entranced with the Munchkins, Norman, who was three years younger than me and not yet at school, began to whimper, at first quietly, then louder.
In vain my mother tried to hush him, glancing round apologetically. Maybe he would have settled down, if the Wicked Witch of the West had not then made her dramatic entrance. Norman’s
screams of terror filled the cinema and Ian woke up and joined in. My mother dragged us towards the exit, which did not suit me. I chimed in with the howls of protest, as a frantic usherette
hurried us into the corridor. Luckily, my mother knew her, and not only did she refund our ticket money, she told my mother that I could see another showing of the picture free.
However, there we all were, turfed out of the cinema much earlier than anticipated. ‘Never mind,’ my mother said stoically. ‘Let’s just head home early for our fish and
chips. At least that part of your dad’s treat you
will
get, Sandra.’
We caught a bus from Whifflet up to Coatbridge. I ran on ahead of mum and reached our back door first. I burst into our small living room and froze. My father was with a little girl of about
two, the child of one of our neighbours. She was sitting on our couch, half-dressed, with an expression of bewilderment on her face. Then my mother appeared behind me. An unholy row broke out and
we kids were all bundled into the bedroom, and told to keep quiet.
Just before Christmas in 1956, without
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