Harley 3

Mary raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t often that wee Fiona surprised her. The last time was when she’d dripped HP brown sauce onto a piece in egg and munched her way around the corners of Mother’s Pride and let the runny yolk and congealed brown sauce drip down into her mouth. It seemed like yesterday, because she was getting older and time speeded up, but it was actually a week ago. Next thing wee Fiona wanted an abortion and pulled out enough money to stuff a pantomimed horse. Mary still had a bit of non mother's pride. She was determined not to show she was surprised by anything else wee Fiona did. Even if wee Fiona pulled out a Kalashnikov, she would say nothing. And she was as equally determined not to ask her where she’d got the money. If she knew Fiona in the way she thought she did, then the old Fiona, who was a bit of a blabbermouth, would soon tell her anyway.

‘Where did you get the money?’ Mary said.

She’d held out long enough. Her eyes were popping and her lungs bursting as if she’d jumped into the deep end, all seven feet, of the swimming pool, at the Public Baths in Risk Street and found that she couldn’t swim. She was weighed down with not knowing.

‘He asked me not to say anything.’ Fiona chewed distractedly on one of her painted fingers and tried not to catch Mary’s eye, in case she read her mind.

‘Was it Finlay?’ said Mary, surfacing for air.

‘I told him. I told him, I knew you’d find out.’ Her voice bubbled up and met Mary’s. She was glad somebody else knew. Glad it was her best friend. ‘How did you work it out?’

Mary let out a deep breath and lit up a fag. She passed one to Fiona. ‘No it’s my crash,’ said Fiona, pushing her hand away and pulling her own ciggies out of the bag.

‘What did you do rob a bank?’ said Mary.

Fiona’s mouth dropped open and the fag fell out of her mouth. ‘Who told you?’ she said.

‘Nobody,’ said Mary, taking a deep draw of nicotine into her lungs.

She needed time to think. ‘Who knows about this?’ said Mary.

‘Just me. You. And Finlay,’ said wee Fiona.

Mary shook her head. By the end of the week wee Fiona would tell somebody else and make them promise not to say anything and then she’d tell somebody else and the ring of people knowing would grow tighter and tighter and choke her. One thing was for sure, she couldn’t let wee Fiona go to prison. She was pregnant.

They heard Ma climbing up the stairs. Wee Fiona stashed the bag of money under the bed. But they heard the click of the light in the toilet and moments later Ma going back down the stairs.

Mary started picking through her wardrobe and putting clothes on the bed. She worked quickly pushing and pulling at clothes and sometimes smelling a particular item, as if it was a flower and belonged to a particular season that had passed. Her clothes piled up on the bed beside wee Fiona, like the petalled corpses of their youth.

‘I must admit,’ said Mary, shaking her head, ‘I didn’t think Finlay would have the bottle to rob a bank.’

‘Oh, he didn’t,’ said wee Fiona, ‘he stole it…’

She didn’t even need to say a name . Mary thought she was going to be sick. That was even worse. Everybody in their little row of houses knew who had robbed the bank in Dalmuir. Finlay had stolen, the bank money, from Jordie Pollock. ‘But why did he give the money to you?’ wailed Mary.

‘He said if he didn’t have any money, and just acted normal, they would never know it was him. And I said if he didn’t help me get an abortion I would need to tell his Da that I was pregnant and it was his son, Finlay that did it. And you know what he’s like, high up in the Orange Lodge and the Masons…And I’m…I’m well…Catholic. And you’re not allowed to screw Catholics, not in that way. And you know what they’re like. It’s all hell and eternal damnation and they don’t even wait until your dead.’

‘Oh, Fiona,’ said Mary, pulling her close and giving her a quick hug. ‘Some things that we lose make us more mature. Some make us old; and some kill you plum dead. Stealing Jordie Pollack’s money wasn’t one of your brighter ideas.’

‘But I didn’t,’ said Fiona.

Mary continued speaking. It was as if wee Fiona’s muffled reply never had escaped her armpit. ‘You always choose the worst option. You’ve always been the same. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go to London myself. You don’t need to come. I just thought you’d be up for it. You’re always up for anything.’ Tears rolled down her face, but she made no move to wipe them away.

‘Don’t be daft. Course I’ll come with you. What do you think I’m packing for…a funeral?’ Mary patted her on the back and shoved her away so that she could take a closer look at her. ‘You’ll need to go home and pack as well.’

‘I’m never going back there,’ said Fiona. ‘My mum and dad said they were going to kill me. And our Michael said that he was going to kill Finaly. I’m not going back.’

Mary knew the way that Fiona set her face that she was adamant. ‘Why do we need to go to London then, if everybody and their dog already knows that you are pregnant and Finlay is the father?’

‘Everybody doesn’t know. I had to tell my mum and dad. And Michael overheard dad shouting and bawling and trying to fling me down the stairs and out of the house. Then when they two started fighting mum had to get Mr McGuire from next door to come and separate them. And his wife, wee Mattie, got involved and called me a spoilt bitch and mum went for her. I cannae go back,’ said Fiona resolutely.

‘Well I suppose, with the amount of money you’ve got we could fly down to London and fly back up again.’ Mary’s fingers drummed out a beat on the dressing table. ‘Then I wouldn’t need to take that much time off work. Probably, a week on the sick maximum.’

‘I cannae fly,’ said Fiona, ‘and besides it’s bad for the baby.’

‘Wheesht,’ said Mary, ‘the tickets will probably cost a fortune, about a tenner each, but that’s nothing to you.’

‘I’m not flying,’ said Fiona. ‘Why don’t we just get the train?’

‘Ok,’ said Mary lighting a cigarette and putting it in the ashtray where there was already one lit, ‘you can stay the night here and we’ll leave in the morning.’

‘No,’ said Fiona, shaking her head, ‘we need to leave right away.’

‘Why,’ said Mary.

Fiona scrunched her mouth up and shook her head, as if to say I’m not telling. Mary jumped up and looked out the window, to see if anybody was coming up the street to her door. She flung all her nicely ironed clothes into a suitcase and snapped it shut.

‘That’s it,’ she said, ‘I’ll just tell Ma and we’ll be off.’

‘What are you going to tell her?’ asked Fiona, ‘whatever you do, don’t tell her about me. And don’t tell her that I’ve split up with Finlay. Your Ma liked Finlay. And Finlay made me promise not to tell anybody that we had split up. ’

‘She must have been the only one that liked him,’ said Mary under her breath. ‘I’m telling my Ma that you’re in trouble and we need to go away for a wee while. She knows how daft you are. And she’ll understand that why I need to go with you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Fiona. ‘You’re my best mate ever-ever. Do you think we should have beans on toast or something before we leave?’