In the window of the house opposite a light was on. Helen imagined an elderly couple living there. A nice old couple who were always pleased to see Sophie if ever they saw her on the street or at the window. Their own children were long gone, and with families of their own. They had no grandchildren and when they died they might leave their fortune to Sophie. Why not? Or else a cats’ home. Millionaires did that to annoy their families. No doubt they were a wizened and crabbit old pair of so and so’s, who gobbled up children for breakfast like out of a fairytale — some of them were terrifying; wicked stepmothers and ogrish stepfathers. Why was it always them who were monsters? Why not the natural parents? In real life that is who it was.
Another cup of tea. Or bed? But would she sleep! It didnt matter ‘would she’, she had to. She was so very tired, beyond tired. Mo worried about her health. Why not? she worried about his! But it was nice all the same, somebody to worry. Helen worried about everything. And had to stop it. Because it was so stupid, stupid and foolish. Anything and everything. Dont be a worrier, you’ll never leave the house. Mo said that. It was true.
But anybody with children, you always worried. They should be cherished. If children were cherished there would be far less pain and suffering in the world. How could people not cherish children? To not cherish a child. It was unthinkable
Sophie was safe with Mo. She knew that herself. Even the way she took his hand; the way they walked along the street together. Of course he wasnt her natural father but that was that and life moved on; here was Mo and he was so good with her and patient, and Sophie was responding. She was, it was beautiful to see.
Still sitting at the window, but she liked sitting at the window. One time she opened it and surprised a seagull perched on the ledge above. What a fright! A huge seagull flapping its wings and looking at her, annoyed — annoyed to see her! A big seagull! like in south London! My God. What rivers are there in south London? Do they even go on rivers?
Unless near a supermarket. That happened in Glasgow, flocks of seagulls congregated in the car-parks and roofs. There were stories about them swooping on people’s heads. Frightening to think. Imagine a toddler. How would you fight them if it happened? perhaps with a brush or an umbrella except not with the telescopic sort because how could you hold it to hit? you couldnt, you couldnt hit with it. Seagulls are huge heavy beasts although not like an eagle. Eagles carry off a sheep never mind a child. You would have to hit the bird’s head and do it hard; that would force it to open its beak. How else would you do it? Even pecking a child, they swoop down and peck into people’s heads. That was in the news; was it true? It sounded far-fetched.
Women were the worriers. Men didnt bother, at least not so much. They chose not to. They let others do it for them. That was men.
When people are tired, everything goes everywhere, mingling and merging, everywhere and anywhere, just scurrying about with no rhyme or reason. Her brains were always mince. She knew that. Empty vessels.
Anyway, Mo would be home soon, thank God, she would fall into bed, into sleep, before she hit the pillow,
only if her feet were cold, sometimes they were, in the morning especially, so then
But it was a safe district, although you could get too comfortable. That would be a mistake. In Glasgow you saw them coming. In London it caught you off-guard. Mo breathed easier up north. So he said. If she could believe him. She didnt believe him. For fresh air, yes, it was true about the parks; you could try different ones all around, and then get on a bus and go north of the river. There were so many places. People went farther afield. Helen wouldnt have been comfortable doing that. Visiting parks was one thing but travelling out the city was another. Taking a train down the coast to wherever; people did it but Helen would have found it difficult. They did get looks, even if Mo didnt notice. If he didnt, he said he didnt.
They were not to touch. Of course not, holding hands, of course they couldnt, how scandalous a thing, a man and a woman like shocking, so so shocking and surprising to see, so extraordinary horrible, horrible horrible, imagine, the very idea, a man and a woman touching; so they werent to do it.
One look from one person was enough. That was all it took. Even Sophie noticed. Parks were not a haven, if Mo said they were, they werent, not if you saw a pile of teenagers coming towards you; or like on a bus you were always watching, she preferred the tube, except you had to watch there too; the time of day, late evening, or mid-evening if it was quiet, or football supporters
From her chair she could see the street corner where Mo and Sophie walked, where Mo would return if he came by the direct route and didnt detour but he did detour, all the time, and without telling her. It was her fault for sitting there, if she didnt she wouldnt worry, she wouldnt be seeing the corner and wouldnt be thinking about what could happen.
But why should he tell her? a grown man. He could detour as much as he wanted. As long as he didnt take chances. She hated when he did. He once went to a bar where racists congregated; it was like a headquarters for one of these national front parties. Him and his mates went into it and ordered drinks. Why? Why would they do that? These stupid risks. Men did it all the time. You could tell because the guy himself, how he laid down the chips and these nervy looks or like staring at the wheel, staring at the cards or his own fingers. They stared at their own fingers. So the money wasnt theirs. Whose was it? They were gambling money and it wasnt theirs. So whose? His wife, his children, whose? laying it down on one spin of the wheel black or red, odds or even, twist or stay and please dont bust me oh dont bust me.
But Mo wasnt like that.
Helen’s eyes closed a moment.
She would have to tell him about Brian. What would he say? That it didnt matter. That is what he would say. If he is your brother. Your brother is your brother. That is what Mo would say. Bring him home. No hesitation. Life was simple; for some people it was. Mo. Mo was not some people.
Only she worried, if he was gone the whole morning, depending on if he visited, where he visited. He called them his ports of call and put on a funny London accent. Me nasal whine voice. I got me ports of call. He’s a port of call. People who worked in restaurants had different social lives, like with croupiers. One who worked beside Helen was from the Yemen or someplace, Lebanon, he went to the same café every day of the week; every single day, that was where he went. He was married too and had three wee boys. What did his wife think? A fine-looking man, you wondered about him, what all had happened in his life, his people dead, family members, people starving and no medicines either, how had he escaped? if his wife was from the same country or else if he had met her in London. Fate led you to places. He was not bitter, never bitter. That was a wonder. And his eyes too, there was an honesty and just how he was so gentle, he was, Helen noticed that about him. Every day of the week the same café. Imagine, the men all talking together in their own language about all what had happened since they were forced out their own country and how things might be if ever they could go home, if ever they could. But would they be able to? And now they had children, what about them? could their schooling be interrupted? Kids hated that. And where was home for them? if it was children, their home was here. And the wives too, if they had married here, so here was home, not the ‘old country’; if they called it that. Perhaps they didnt. If it never was your country, so how could it be the ‘old country’? not in the first place.