Denise Mina - Exile

Maureen pulled the zip shut on her makeup bag. "Let's go and see your mammy."

Leslie couldn't see a way around it. Her mum had a heart condition and she didn't want to worry her, but if they lied to her and Isa found out she'd worry all the more. Leslie adored her mum. When she talked about Isa she became almost tearful with awe and frustration because her mother was a deeply good person, not just kind but a woman who had tended and cared for other people all her life. Isa was beyond selfless, she was almost invisible, one of a breed of women left penniless and aching from a lifetime of chores and caring, women who spent their lives waiting for the work to be done. It never was: there was always another potato to peel, another child to wash, another dirty floor. Leslie didn't talk about it but it was glaringly obvious how pivotal meek Isa was to Leslie's pathological bolshiness. Isa wanted little for herself: her idea of a high old time was sugary food, her family around her and a wee chant at the old songs.

It must have been devastating for little Leslie to grow up seeing her mother never off her feet, never asking for anything for herself, just shutting up and taking the blows. Her father was absent most of the time and a pest the rest of it so there was no alternative. Isa's life said be this or be nothing, reduce yourself to a shadow, deny anything you've ever wanted and never, ever dream of more.

Leslie's extended family all lived in Drumchapel. It was a matriarchal guddle of hardworking women and strangely feral children. Traditionally, the men fathered the children, then hung about for a couple of years, competing with the babies for attention and resenting the responsibility before pissing off. They floated away into the ethereal world of orphaned men, propping up bars, wasting their child support on take-out dinners and taxis home while the women struggled bravely on. Isa had already raised two generations on a dinner lady's salary. Born the oldest in a family of five she stayed and raised her brothers and sister after her mother died. She waited until the children left home before getting married herself and starting the whole chore again.

She was in her fifties and looked eighty, with a little barrel body and skinny legs. The fat accumulated near her heart making her a candidate for a Scottish death, face down on the floor, choking on her own spittle while her heart exploded. She dressed plainly, in nylon skirts and blouses, and always wore a flowery pinny when she was in the house to keep her clothes good. Her house was spotlessly clean and orderly, the furnishings plain. Any ornamentation was contained within a teak wall unit in the living room; framed photographs of the family wearing stiff clothes at weddings and christenings, a mock crystal vase sitting on a doily and a gray ceramic model of a rabbit.

Isa wouldn't sit down at the kitchen table. She couldn't seem to understand that Leslie and Maureen had come to speak to her, not to see how many gammon rolls they could eat in an hour.

"Mum, for fuck's sake come and sit down."

Isa bit her lip when Leslie swore. "Oh," she said to Maureen, "I hope she doesn't use language like that all the time." The question was rhetorical because Isa knew she did. She put another plate of homemade fruit scones on the table and scurried back to the worktop.

"Come on, Isa," said Maureen, sounding casual to avoid frightening her, "sit down and give us your chat."

"I'll just get a drop more tea," said Isa, topping up the stainless-steel pot from the kettle.

The sad thing about Isa's shaming hospitality was that nothing was very nice. The tea was stewed, the gammon rolls were tasteless and even the biscuits were a bit plain. It was as if the endless repetition of the caring task had made her forget the purpose. Leslie said it was because of her Calvinist upbringing: Isa associated enjoyment of any kind with terrible moral danger and thought that a tasty roll might result in a massive sensual overload, driving the recipient off the rails into the hands of bookies, bakers and white slave traders. Isa put the teapot on the table and looked at Maureen. "D'ye want a wee bit fish in milk?"

"Mu-um!" wailed Leslie.

"No," said Isa, defensive and embarrassed. "I'm asking because Maureen looks a bit peaky."

The thought of fish in milk made Maureen feel distinctly unwell. They could go on all day like this, with Isa bringing more and more food until the swing-leg table collapsed. "Isa, please," said Maureen. "We came to speak to you. It's about Jimmy Harris."

Isa turned and looked at her. She set her face for a harsh wind, sat down and picked at a mark on the table. "What about him?" she said.

Maureen wasn't prepared for such a sinister response. "He's had a bit of trouble," she said quietly.

"What sort of trouble?"

Maureen looked at Leslie but Leslie gestured to her to tell it. "D'you know his wife, Ann?"

Isa nodded.

"Well," said Maureen gently, "I'm afraid she died."

"Oh," exclaimed Isa, "but she's very young to die."

Maureen and Leslie looked at each other and Leslie took a breath. "She was murdered, Mum."

"Oh." Isa covered her mouth and shut her eyes tight. "Dear Lord."

Maureen didn't know whether to go on but Leslie nodded encouragingly. "Before she died she came to us at the shelter. She was badly bruised and said that Jimmy had beaten her-"

"Well, I just don't believe that," said Isa, tearful at having to state an opinion.

Leslie took her mum's hand. "Mum, he might have hit her."

But Isa brushed Leslie's hand away and clutched her teacup. "Leslie," she said, shocked and shaken, "I knew James Harris as a child and I'll tell you this: he couldn't have beaten her."

Leslie pointed at Maureen. "That's what she says."

"She's right." Isa turned to her. "How do you know?"

Maureen felt less sure than she had been. "I went up to see him. I just don't think he's the type."

"See?" said Isa to Leslie.

Maureen looked back and forth at them. She didn't know what else she was allowed to say and it might be a disaster if she got it wrong.

Leslie took over. "Well, she was killed anyway."

"He didn't do it," said Isa.

"Mum, how do you know? Plenty of men who batter women seem put-upon to outsiders. You of all people should know that."

Isa took a deep warning breath and raised an eyebrow at her. Leslie had said exactly the wrong thing.

"And there's his da and everything," added Leslie, compounding the felony.

Isa sat up, bewildered by her daughter's shameless nature. "Well," she said, "I don't see what-"

"Mum," sighed Leslie, "tell Maureen."

Isa was mortified. She didn't want to insult Maureen but family secrets were private business and Leslie had broken the rules without even asking. She stood up and the girls looked at her. "I'll put the kettle on," she said tearfully.

"Mum, come and sit down."

Isa filled the kettle and plugged it in. She'd run out of things to do so she picked up a damp cloth from the windowsill and rubbed the immaculate worktop even cleaner.

"Mum, please come and sit down."

But Isa was weeping softly. Leslie got up and went over to her, wrapping her arm around her mum's shoulders, taking the cloth from her hand and setting it down. "Mum," she said softly, "why are you still ashamed for Billy? He hadn't the decency to be ashamed of himself." Isa shook her head. "Come and sit down."

"I don't want tae," whispered Isa.

"Mum, if we don't come up with a plan, Jimmy's going to prison and his four wee bits of weans'll be going into care."

"I'll take them," said Isa, too loudly.

"Ye wouldn't get them," insisted Leslie. "You're not fit and they don't even know ye. They can go to her family."