Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

‘Sorry to bother you,’ Alice explained. ‘We were hoping to see Teresa Mair, but she seems to have moved. Do you have an address for her?’

‘Teresa’s got nae address, she’s deid. You’se are too late to see her,’ the woman replied, cradling the child in one elbow and wiping its mouth on its bib with her free hand.

‘When did she die? Can you tell us what happened?’ Alastair asked, impatient for information.

‘Aye, come oan in.’

Once she had started to speak the woman seemed unwilling to stop.

‘Teresa took her ain life. She done it late November. Took an overdose, in the flat wi’ her ain tablets. The kids were split up soon aifter, poor wee things deserved better than that aifter a’ they’d been through. They’d had…’

Alice interrupted the flow. ‘Have you any idea why she killed herself?’

The rejoinder was immediate. ‘Oh aye, I’d bet ma pension oan it. She’d had enough, couldnae take ony mair, naebody much could hae.’ She deposited the now sleeping baby on the corner of the settee on which she was seated, and, lighting up, carefully turned her head to blow the first puff of smoke away from the child.

‘You ken aboot Davie, her wee boy?’ the woman asked.

‘Yes. We know about him and the court case about him,’ Alice responded.

‘I reckon that the court case wis the final straw, fer her. See, she’d pinned a’ her hopes oan it, fer the faimily like, an’ once she’d heard they’d lost she couldnae cairry oan. Mind, the wee yin wis her life. The other kids never got a look-in, there wisnae time and onyway she wis worn oot. She telt me that the court money would solve a’ their problems, they’d get a wee hoose somewhere nice, the special equipment that Davie needed an’ mebbe even someyin to help noo an’ then. Then Kelsie and the rest of them could be normal kids again an’ she’d hae plenty o’ time for them a’. She even talked aboot taking them on a holiday somewhere, mebbe Arran. Of course, aifter Sammy left…’

‘Sammy, Samuel McBryde?’ Alice enquired.

‘Aye, Sammy McBryde, the wee laddie’s dad. You ken’, the yin that wis killed, it’s been in a’ the papers. Him. Onyway, aifter he left Teresa she wis devastated, she just lived on her nerves. I never seen him do much for the boy, but I suppose he wis in the hoose at least an’ he did help a bit wi’ the other kids, as much of a daddy to them as John Bradley ever wis. Teresa wis suicidal aifter he walked oot, but she kept hangin’ oan, she reckoned that once they got their compensation a’thing would be alright again. Telt me that they lawyers had assured her that she had a guid case, that if it went to court she’d win, but more likely a big offer’d be made to keep it oot o’ the courts. Donny said…’

‘Donny?’

‘Her brother, Donny, Donald Mair. He’s her only brother, only faimily, in fact. Donny said she should take a break, he’d look aifter the kids fer her an’ she could hae a few days to hersel’. He’d aye helped her oot, but aifter Sammy scarpered he wis never awa’ from her hoose. I’m no’ surprised Marie threw Donny oot, I’d hae daen the same, he wis never there. Nothing wis too much trouble fer him where Teresa, Davie an’ the kids were concerned.’

‘Who found Teresa?’

‘He did. Donny. Came in here tae phone the polis an’ he wis as white as a sheet, he’d been sick, ken. Kept saying o’er an’ o’er that she shouldnae hae daen it. He wis shaky, like. I got him some tea an’ the kids spent that night here wi’ me.’

‘Where are the kids?’ Alice asked.

‘The Bradley yins, Joanne, Kelsie, Shane and Lexie an’ a’ went tae their dad in Glasgow. He used tae visit regular-like an’ sometimes they’d stay wi’ him in Whiteinch. Davie’s gone tae foster parents in Musselburgh. I spoke tae the social worker who picked him up an’ she said they’d be trying to find a permanent hame fer him, but she wisnae too hopeful, said disabled children were difficult tae place.’

‘Was the child’s father, Sammy, not considered?’

‘I dae ken. Donny telt me that Sammy had been asked tae take the boy but had refused. It wouldnae surprise me, aifter he left he never came back tae see the kiddie, his own kiddie, even the yince. Donny said he’d shacked up wi’ a new wuman somewhere in Granton. He’d have been useless onyway, he never lifted a finger fer Davie even when he wis aboot, an’…’

Alice interrupted, ‘What about Donny then, why didn’t he take Davie?’

‘Oh, he tried,’ Mrs Girvan replied, ‘he daen everything he could tae get the Social Work to let him care for a’ the kids, including Davie, but they wis having none o’ it. He wanted tae keep them all togither like, but he hadnae a hope, didnae even hae a hame o’ his ain, as Marie had thrown him oot by then. I think he wis sleeping oan a friend’s floor most o’ the time. Onyway, he blew it. I heard him bawlin’ at they social workers, crying them a’ the names on God’s earth, even wi’ the kiddies aboot. They should hae let him hae Davie though, ’cause he really did want tae look aifter him an’ he kenned mair than onyone jist whit wis involved. He’d hae done onything fer the boy. It didnae seem tae matter tae him that Davie couldnae understand or dae onything, he jist adored him jist the way he wis, an’ Davie seemed tae ken it. He wis such a lovely looking wee thing tae. I’ve got a photy, would you’se like tae see it?’

She produced a colour photo showing a smiling woman holding aloft a laughing child. Teresa Mair may have carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, but in the picture a carefree mother was showing off her beloved boy. And what a boy. Endowed with heavenly looks, eyes as blue as borage, beneath a mass of wavy, golden hair. Alice was taken aback, appalled at herself as she realised that since reading the judgement she had imagined some drooling, malformed little thing, the antithesis of the comely image now before her eyes. In a single, shameful instant the child’s tragedy had become more real, and with it that of his mother.

‘Do you have an address for Donny?’ she asked, handing the print back.

‘Aye. I’ve got a note of Marie’s address. I dae ken if he’s gone back tae her, mind. He gave it tae me as it wis the only permanent yin he had and I’d asked him fer it. I wanted to ken hoo Davie wis getting oan and a’. I used tae sit wi’ him, you ken, sometimes if Teresa had tae go oot. Daen it ever since he wis a babby. All they kids cried me Granny Annie. Joanne an’ Kelsie used to play wi’ my older grandkids aifter they came back fae the school. Joanne loved wee Amy, my youngest yin,’ the woman looked fondly at the child at her side, ‘liked to be ma wee helper…’

Stenhouse Lane was a few minutes’ drive, but half a world away. No.14 had been painted a sweet, ice-cream pink, and the new Georgian-style fanlight above the door was flanked by a couple of shining carriage lamps. The rest of the houses in the lane had also been prettified by their owners, and the small enclave stood as a rebuke to the council houses surrounding them with their grey harl and uniformly drab appearance.

Marie Mair was killing time. At 11.30 am she intended to catch the bus to ‘The Upper Cut’ in Gorgie High Street and have her black roots bleached and a trim. In the meanwhile, the minutes were ticking away nicely with the help of day-time TV, her constant companion. What sort of man would sleep with his sister-in-law if she looked like that, she wondered, concluding, on seeing Melvin, the sort that no one else much would deign to have sex with. The crisps were stale, so she put them back in the packet and took a sip of her coffee, listening intently as Melvin was harangued by the show’s outspoken hostess, and then informed by his angry wife, now hugging her grossly-obese sister, that she was going to divorce him. Serves the bastard right, she thought, two-timing slimeball, and the studio, at one with her, booed loudly as Melvin exited right. The high Westminster chimes of her front doorbell interrupted another woman’s confession of her lesbian longing for her boss, and Marie Mair switched the TV off to go and answer her door. It would be the news soon anyway, and she did not want the woes of the world gaining entry into her cosy nest.