Helen watched for that look and if Mo was there too. Who is this little guy getting this white woman? she must like Asians, she must want it from Asians, smiling horrible smiles, if she wants it from anybody, perhaps she does so then they are looking. All she had to do was tell Mo, if ever one did. They were taking a risk because he had that in him too and he would do it; her ex would have found that out. Mo didnt care, big or small, he said he couldnt fight to save his life but it wasnt true it just wasnt true, she knew it wasnt, he had thick arms and could punch, she knew he could or else stick a knife in them, small men could do that. Dad always said it about tall skinny ones, forget about them it was the wee guys with the bad temper, they were the dangerous ones.
But that was the last thing, telling Mo, she would never take the risk because if she did.
She had learned not to react. People thought she was naive. They were the naive ones. If you worked in a casino you were used to men, being looked at and watched. You coped. You had to. Helen was young and men looked at her. She was a girl. Girls learned. As would Sophie. Helen would teach her. Mothers should teach daughters. Instead of criticising. Fathers could help. Real fathers. Not only biological ones, real fathers dont have to be ‘biological’, not if it is a natural feeling for children, and not like an enemy. There were enemies of children. Mo wasnt one and neither was her ex, she could never have charged him with that — oh God, a sharp pain in her tummy. Sometimes she experienced this. ‘Anxiety’ in the stomach. Caroline called it that. She might be dealing the cards then for no reason she got it. Anxiety.
She opened her eyes, seeing her slippers by the door. Fancy ones Mo had bought her. She liked the design. Her eyes had been closed. Why did she not raise her head? she didnt want to, she didnt want to see things. People dont have to see things, not if they dont want to. Just the ironing. What did it matter it was just so stupid and daft just day in day out clothes and worries. Ironing is just silly and foolish and the most foolish foolish
Helen left the kitchen. Through in the front room she opened the window to see out. In the old days women got a reputation for doing this. Nosey buggers. Around here it was like creepy-crawlies, that was the worry, if a driver saw you leaning out: he circled and came back again to see if you were still there and if so, if you were — what? Did you want a man? No thank you, nice of you to ask, she had one and one was plenty thank you very much.
Punctuality was not a strong point. He was good but not for time; he ignored it. Him and his chatting and meeting people. Who was he talking to now? Somebody anyway. Sophie would have to remind him on the way home, otherwise it was another port of call.
Men exaggerated about everything and he was no different. What was the opposite of expert? That was how she felt about men. Sometimes she thought she knew them, most times she didnt. And they lied. It was second nature. Helen hated lies and men did it the worst. Even the ones who didnt, they did too, they all did; white lies and black lies. Some guys tell them because they are lazy. Too lazy to tell the truth! A comedian on television talked about that and it was funny. Usually Helen didnt like comedians. Haw haw haw, ho ho ho, laughing all the time at horrible nonsense, stupid stupid silliness, showing off, that was them usually, you felt like putting your fingers in your ears.
It was a quiet street and that was good but you never saw children where were the children! At school. But they should have been home by now, nearly quarter to four my God so actually they were late. Of course he detoured, if he knew she was in bed, if he met a friend it was yap yap yap, he just talks all the time, Sophie making faces at him, pulling his sleeve. She was so right, just all the time talking, talk talk talk, even walking down the street on the mobile talking or texting people. When he came round the corner he would be texting.
In Glasgow too. For somebody who had never been to Glasgow, he knew more people than her. It was a knack he had. What about her friends? Why dont you introduce me to people? What people!
Her life had gone from top to bottom bottom to top, just screwy. How had it happened? It was just so screwy.
He had his own life and she was happy that he did. She didnt need to meet his family. Things might change but it didnt matter if it didnt. This was their relationship and it suited her, it suited her. Oh God.
He was her best friend. He even said it about the relationship, the first thing you should be is a friend. Friends come first. He called it a ‘position’. That is my ‘position’.
In Glasgow
there they were thank God, that was them coming from round the corner thank God oh thank God thank God. Hand in hand. Of course. Sophie had the schoolbag over one shoulder. Of course of course.
Helen closed the window quickly, returned to the kitchen, switched on the radio.
Sophie was supposed to wear the schoolbag over both shoulders but she didnt. It was pointless talking to her. Whether Mo tried or not it would have made no difference.
When they came in through the outside door Helen was kneeling by the ironing board iron in hand and she rose. Sophie called, Oh mummy I have things to show you.
All kinds of things! Mo chuckled.
Sophie was hopping on one foot while untying a shoestrap. Helen filled a kettle of water. We had an errand to go, said Mo, and to Sophie: Didnt we?
Yes.
It’s a secret, said Mo and he winked at Helen while wagging his finger at Sophie: I thought you were bursting for the loo?
Sophie sighed, glaring at him.
You should have gone in the park!
She kicked off her other shoe and stepped sideways into the bathroom, snapping the door shut.
You went to the park? asked Helen.
No, we were passing but she wouldnt go in.
Sophie shouted from behind the door: I’m not doing the bathroom in the park it’s all dirty!
Mo whispered very loudly at the bathroom door: But what if she explodes! We dont want exploding girls, who wants an exploding girl?
Sophie called: I’m not listening!
Helen returned to the ironing, rearranged the clothing. Mo followed her, wanting to talk but she wasnt wanting to listen, not just now, not when she was trying to work in this confined space. She held the iron and edged past him. Sophie was even worse, she stood far too close. It was how accidents happened. What if it was like boiling water in a pot, or if the kettle tipped over? Even the gasrings on top of the cooker were a hazard the way they had gaps. It wouldnt be the first time a pot wobbled and nearly fell. The design was bad. The ones who designed cookers had never cooked a meal in their life, not in a cramped space where people were knocking your elbows. It was all rich people, where you could just swan around and people might come in and have a chat, sit down at the table, a big table; probably there would be servants, and a cook doing the cooking or carry-outs from a high-class restaurant.
What did he want to talk about that was so important? It couldnt be that important, not that it couldnt wait five minutes. Everybody talked in the restaurant kitchen, according to him, they shouted at one another. Perhaps they did but what did that have to do with it? They were adults and like experienced kitchen-workers, that was their job. And he moved about he always moved about, why didnt he stand still? He was talking. People should stand still when they talk my God he never did — and the clothes there too, even if he lifted them because if he stood on them for God sake having to wash the damn things again and then — she always ended up — why couldnt he wait? could he not wait? surely he could wait?