No one in the entire world had known about Mr Adams, until Ann Marie. Helen told her. Imagine telling her! Typical. But why, why why why!
Because she had to. Otherwise explode, exploded, she would have exploded because who to tell if not Ann Marie it would have been him, her ex, that was who she was going to tell. The one person never to tell was the one she would. She thought she would, she was bursting to, really, she was, lying beside him and she was going to explode my God the words reaching up from her throat into her mouth and if she unzipped her lips out it would come: everything would come out; not in a confession; only how wonderful it was, she wanted to tell him because he didnt know and didnt know anything about how it could be if it was two people, he just had no knowledge at all, such an ignorant ignorant
But she needed to tell someone and told Ann Marie. Then others knew. They were smiling. They knew. Ann Marie told them. Imagine telling them. But she did.
So sad, so so sad, really. A friend is a friend but is not a friend, not a real friend. What is a real friend? That is like family, a real family. Mo had a real family. Helen didnt. Sophie was her family.
It was the last time she would confide in anybody. Who was there? Not another living soul. She didnt have one proper friend. Imagine a sister, how that would be; just talking and being able to say things. Some said about mothers and daughters, but not hers. Even brothers; in stories you got them, sisters confided in brothers.
Oh but Ann Marie had had a tough life. It was true. Everybody had tough lives but Ann Marie really really did have, just how things had been for her, so very very difficult. But other people’s lives were difficult too. Everybody’s life. Ann Marie had a habit of going on and on about how tough it was. Other people were the same, like they were the only ones with troubles. Nobody knew the meaning of ‘tough’ except them. It was so so foolish. They knew nothing about people but dismissed them anyway, and said things that were nonsensical. If they could only think, why didnt they think? There were countless millions of people. How many of them had tough lives? Most of the world. What if it was Africa and Asia and these countries where they starved to death? People were killed in these countries. But oh no, they didnt want to hear about that, they didnt like political things and thought they knew better. If you said about other countries they just looked at you so it was you, you were the naïve one.
That was a fault people had. Older ones especially, they had to be the experienced person, as if they knew everything because they had seen hard times and their lives were tough.
Nobody knew everything; nobody had the right to say that. It was like a woman’s story in a magazine Helen had been reading. This woman sent in her own personal diary and they published it. Her dad had Alzheimer’s and her mum was an invalid, unable to leave the home without assistance. The daughter had to call in every day. Every single day. She visited her parents every single day of her life. A train and a bus on the return journey. She was married herself although she had no children. How could she have? There wasnt any time. It was just so tough. Helen wouldnt have coped. Every single day. The travelling alone was two and a half hours, then the time she spent looking after them, say an hour and a half, so four hours daily, four hours out your life, every day of the week. Imagine it. Every single day! My God. So she did have it tough. But was it the toughest? It didnt give her the right to act like she knew everything, although she could have but she didnt. Some people were humble but some were the opposite. It was interesting when you read about their lives. There were hidden parts for everybody.
It was true. You never knew about other people. Nobody told you everything. Why should they? Every night of the week Helen saw people in the casino: what about them? What were their stories? These old Chinese women. You couldnt imagine. Where she worked in Glasgow they spent more time there than their own home. People said that and it was not prejudice. Some didnt even gamble. They only came in for a cup of tea, and a chat with their friends, or else just sat there looking at nothing. The management didnt bother, even if their voices were loud and carried. If it was ordinary Glasgow people they would have been asked to quieten down but not the Chinese. Management wanted them because they were regulars, they were the ‘bread and butter’. Some nights it was like their own casino. Then if they were all talking round your table. Ann Marie said that, if they compared notes in their own language like what happened when she was dealing years ago, you didnt know what they were saying yet it was your table, you were supposed to be in charge. So that was annoying. But if management didnt bother who else would? You had to be careful at the tables, you never knew who you were facing.
Her workmate Caroline said that to her once. What a cheek. Helen wouldnt have minded if it had been Ann Marie, but Caroline? Helen had forgotten more about casinos than she ever knew. She seemed to think Helen had led a sheltered life. Oh you are so innocent. That was how she looked at her. It rankled. People think they know better. Caroline wasnt the only one. They were surprised Helen had a six-year-old daughter, they didnt think she was old enough. So she was supposed to take it as a compliment. Ha ha. So patronising. After what she had been through. How ironic, how very very ironic.
Really, they knew nothing about her. And if it was women talking about men, that was another ha ha.
In some ways she might have been naive. She would admit that. So if she was, everybody is, in some way. Helen didnt care. She really didnt. Why should she? It was all meaningless nonsense and she couldnt be bothered with it.
It was her turn to phone Ann Marie. She would eventually. It was nice to talk. Only not for important matters. But she could still enjoy her company. It was cheery. She had a boyfriend or as she called him, ‘a manfriend’. Ann Marie’s stories concerned men. She called them ‘the great lost cause’. Men. What use were they? None at all — except hanging a hat.
That was Ann Marie’s sense of humour. Only women were there when she said it and they didnt all get the joke. Helen knew immediately and spluttered on her coffee — literally, she did, the coffee went over her — it was just so funny, the tears would be streaming out your eyes. Ann Marie didnt care about men except for sex, that was what she meant, and most of them were hopeless even for that. It was true, my God, and smelly. Ann Marie was right. Why did they not wash? It was so obvious but they didnt do it; and these personal things, it was disgusting. And their breath, even Mr Adams. He was so clean except when it came to his teeth, and he brushed them regularly, but it didnt matter, the smell of his breath made her think of old people, and he wasnt old. Although forty-eight, and she was twenty-seven. It was old. But not too old and just so clean, he was. But then her ex, my God, her ex washed himself in the washhand basin, that was just so bad like his private parts, the very thought; and afterwards there were hairs stuck to the sides. Hairs! What would they have been? private ones, pubics. A washhand basin. People had to wash their faces. Disgusting wasnt the word. The word was pig. For him it was. That was one of them, ‘pig’, there were others. Mo was so much better. Perhaps it was the culture. Muslim men seemed cleaner, even the beardies. That was her, probably she was wrong, prejudice in reverse, she didnt care. She couldnt always think, not when she was tired tired tired, tired beyond anything, and could not sleep, if she went to bed now, she would not sleep, she knew she wouldnt; exhaustion, except her mind; minds were the strangest thing, they were.