Zoom Society Stories by Project-Ability Glasgow

ZOOM SOCIETY STORIES An anthology of short fiction by Re Connect Writing group

From workshops with nicky melville, January-March 2021

www.project-ability.co.uk With thanks to The Baring Foundation Edited by nicky melville Typesetting by nicky melville cover image by Stuart Low © No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means or in any form, stored in electronic or digital media, or by any other means, without prior permission of the authors or publishers.

Bel

First and Third Person First: It was pushing 3:30 by that point. The council had finally got around to replacing the bus stop. About time too, the old one was falling apart, although some kid had already scrawled graffiti on the new plastic. The bus was late, of course. I kept checking the timetable, but each time I looked it still said 3:25. Typical. Time for another smoke, if I was quick. Margaret keeps nagging at me to stop, and if I smoke in the house she cries bloody murder, so now I take my chances smoking outdoors. Used to get silk cut, but the price of them these days is criminal, so I stick to Richmonds. I decided to start a new one and of course the bus shows up the minute I take a drag. Sod’s law, that is. Never used to be a problem smoking on the buses, but I suppose things are different now. Third: The bus stop had been upgraded. The old wooden posts, heavy with rot and riddled with graffiti had been replaced with transparent plastic panels, and a digital display that announced times and destinations in harsh orange light. A small awning offered some little protection from the worst of the weather, but even then there was no escape from water soaking through the shoes of waiting passengers on its way to the drains. A small man is huddled now, sucking at a cigarette as if the embers in the tip could dry out his sodden clothes. A soft flat cap is pulled down to keep the rain out of his eyes. He looks at the blurry timetable again, pushing thin grey hair out of his eyes and tucking it beneath the cap. He checks his watch. Yes, he had read it right. The bus was late.

Gabriel Well, of course I started with “be not afraid.” You have to, you know, with mortals. If you don’t they scatter very easily. So, I started, “be not afraid” I said, and he said, well, he said “oh don’t worry, I was expecting you.” He was expecting me. Well, I thought, God’s probably mentioned me at some point, I am the highest ranked angel, after all. Gabriel, the top of the hierarchy, that’s me. Favourite. Above all the other angels, certainly above mortals. And he says he was expecting me. Well, I’m sure God just mentioned me at some point so the mortal wouldn’t panic. That’s it, He was just preparing him in case he got intimidated by me. It does happen you know – mortals getting intimidated, I mean. You can’t blame them, all they see all their short lives are cattle and deserts and other people living equally short lives. A seven-foot heavenly being can cause quite a stir. I can even cause the lower angels to get a bit nervous, so of course God would mention me to this mortal in advance. God is very insightful like that. So anyway, he says “oh don’t worry I was expecting you” and I have to say that threw me off my stride a little, so I may have been a little sharper than intended, but, I mean, I am an angel after all. “I’ve been sent to lead you from the Garden of Eden,” I say. I was expecting tears or something, but he just stands there quietly, and nods. I mean, he’s the first man created in God’s image and he has royally, R O Y A L L Y, screwed up, damning mankind to live outside paradise… and he’s just standing there nodding. So I said “you have to leave,” I said, “You can’t throw yourself on my mercy or beg God’s forgiveness or anything. This is it, you must leave. Forever.” And he just stands there, right, all 5’3” of him, there in front of me, and says “I accept the judgement of my lord, for he is all knowing.” 9

Well. Well, I mean! Of course God is all knowing, I know that, I’ve been working with God since before the world was created. I’ve known God for a time inconceivable to the limited mortal mind, and he, he, stands there and tells me that God is all knowing. Then she turned up, obviously. And you might think that she would have some of the respect that Mr “I was expecting you” is lacking. She is, after all is said and done, a rib. But then she just stands there next to him, looking determined, and I’m thinking, well, I am going to have to have a word with the creator. This just won’t do at all. I preferred it when we had finished the animals on day five. Sea creatures and creatures that fly, lovely sun and oceans and … things. I’m really not convinced day six was wise at all. I’ll have a word with Him. He listens to me.

Katya Against horizontal wind and penetrating rain, Katya hunched protectively over her cigarette, trying to inhale as much as possible before the bus arrived. It was 5:30am and there was only one other person at the stop, huddled at the opposite end of the shelter and looking as unhappy at being awake as she was. The bus came around the corner, headlights bouncing off the mist around it making everything look fuzzy. Sighing, she extinguished the remains of her cigarette and reached for her bus pass. The only morning the bus was on time and she was running late, and running even lower on cigarettes. Great. She’d have to try and get some off her colleagues during a break, or maybe she could persuade Hannah to let her nip to the corner shop before opening to the public. As she turned towards the bus doors her eyes caught the graffiti scrawled across an advert for Captain Morgan's on the side of the shelter. ‘No EU Migrants in Govanhill!’ had been crossed out and replaced with ‘EU migrants welcome in govanhill’ which in turn was edited to read ‘Only an idiot would want govanhill full of refugees’ with the final note reading ‘Govanhill not Romahill!’ Govanhill not Romahill? That didn’t even make sense, thought Katya, it’s stupid. And the spelling is appalling. It would have been nice to go the morning without being reminded of Brexit and the tidal wave of entitled nationalism that had risen with it. The bus wasn’t busy but had still managed to become unpleasantly moist, with condensation covering the windows. Kayta sat defensively in her seat, staying as far away from the passenger who had been coughing big fruity coughs every minute or so. They had started with a phlegmy rumble in their chest which matured into a violent hack and 11

was completed with a rasping inhale that made it sound like it would be their last. Kataya tried to shrink further into her seat, and shut her eyes. I need a fucking cigarette. She survived the bus journey, arriving at the shop 5 minutes early and, after some dedicated pleading, bargaining and outright grovelling, was allowed to run to the corner shop for as many cartons of cigarettes she could lay her hands on. It was a Saturday, which inevitably meant queues out the door and as many staff members on the coffee machines as humanly possible. Any time away from the heat and stench of milk would be cherished, even if it did mean standing outside in the rain.

Thrones

It’s a tenement flat, with the common attempt to squeeze in a bathroom where no one had designed a bathroom to be. The shower and sink have been placed in an artificial gap between the kitchen and the living room. A long thin sliver has been sliced from the end of the bedroom to house the toilet. The toilet itself is burgundy, possibly the last survivor of a fashionable 70s bathroom set. It sits right at the end of the long thin room on a small rise so as you move towards it you feel like you are approaching a throne. The next room is the living room. It has the large bay windows, so common in sandstone tenements, which allow the sunlight in and the heat out. You can look down onto a bus road, a busy bus stop, a bust pedestrian area, and a recently busy town hall. Builders in high-vis scurry around its corset of scaffolding, avoiding the stone columns and protecting the bust of the queen at the very top. She has been looking down on us since 1903. Right now she is watching children learning to skateboard.

Zoom Meeting Hello Hello, everyone Hello! What did she say? I can’t see everyone, I’ve just got one picture, how do I see everyone? … button on the top of the screen. Are you using a phone? A tablet? A pc? Oh doggy!! What a lovely doggy, what’s his name? I can’t see a dog. Who said there was a dog? Can you hear me? Yes, but we can’t see you Jenny, you’re on mute. Jenny, you need to unmute yourself, Jenny, Oh I can’t work this, I don’t know how to work this Hello Margaret! It’s in the chat, the chat, at the top with the speech bubble Who’s making that racket? There’s a horrible racket coming from somewhere Hello everyone! Hello, good morning Hello, lovely to see you, you’re looking well Can You Hear Me? Well, I don’t know why it won’t work. I did what they said, but I can’t see anybody. I’ve only got one picture! Hello everyone, we’ll be starting in just over a minute 15

Oh, one minute. What’s your lovely dog’s name? Margaret! Where’s there a dog? I don’t see any dog … button in the top corner three dots speech bubble gallery view Just swipe through I don’t know how to use this I’ve never used it before THE HOST HAS MUTED YOU

Simon

Simplexity Known as the singularity. Yes the name suits because everything falls within and is no more. Beyond the horizon nothing escapes. Always wearing black with a silver lined trim. Neither tight nor loose. Clothes that defy the laws of physics. Reach out to touch, your fingers spaghettini. All that falls into the dark falls into a space and time of such ridiculous and extreme condition. The perfect circle floating through the world. The absorption of all worlds. That is its purpose. Occasionally a glimmer is seen or a force felt but not witnessed. When evening arrives so does the interior. Look and dilate but see only the rumble of space. Waves, patterns registered in the gut. Each an exclamation of its structure. The architecture of the once was and the soon to disappear. The term singularity is appropriate because this is no longer countable. After all, zero plus zero equals, a singular nothing. It searches for the name. Indicative towards a multiplicity of one and the same. A perfect circle will roll on a flat surface infinitely without compulsion. The perpetual motion of a black so black. So absent. Imagine the smooth release in the conditions of space and time. A relinquishment of all particles, all forces, all intensions. No strains or guidance. Essentially falling. The satisfaction of one particle. The number one in the shape of a zero. The iris and the lens of all. Wherever and for now. I am Mr Dark and have always moved this way. I go through things as I am going through this. That is my name. That is my nature. Here is the story. Most people think dark is not great. But I beg to differ. If you take one element and make it mean. Make 19

it count. Make it count for something positive even if it began as dark. I think you will find I am not so inscrutable. Not so intractable. I have qualities some term, indeterminable. I can speak to light and with light. I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s give this something concrete. There I am sitting in the window gazing at weather that ain’t sunny. People pass and I track them with curiosity. I turn around and I can see the barista. I love the smell of coffee when I am working. I said I have always moved this way. Writing there on the window with moisture that should be on the outside. I flip back my head as if watching the gulls. I miss gulls when I don’t hear them. So I started to say the way I moved, but what I really wanted to say was something more descriptive. Something that would tell you who I am and what I do. Take my name. It brings up all sorts of connotations but it is my nature to invert dark into photons. It is at the centre of writing “this.” Me? I am only interested in the curiosity reflected back. Sometimes, and this is where I will use quotation marks, “you just have to get it out on the page.” So, yes I am a bit here there and everywhere. I am that character written and softened by the desire to appeal. More than this. Something tangible and distinct. Let’s go back to the coffee shop where I am sitting. Let’s go back to the coffee on the table in a cup. The basics you could say. A biscuit for a break. The arrangement of objects. Their position in space. Where the laws of physics pertain. Even the weird ones about continuums. The vast emptiness in fundamental ways. A single gull heading towards Venus. I think it is nonetheless significant. With a tendency to do that in the physical world. If I haven’t previously described my 20

appearance or manner of moving I will try here to do so. If I take an uninteresting passage of words and ask that they be remembered and recited, chances are that wouldn’t be successful. Perhaps there would be a vague or persistent cloud remaining and that is what resembles my movement and travels. My trajectories and vectors. A gull glides by. Looking through the window I see myself sitting there. I listen to the gulls. I lift the cup and drink. Run a sugar grain around with fingers. Think about tasting it sweetly but decide against it. I Wait till the gulls have drifted away before drinking again. For some reason when I listen to gulls fighting over a fish supper I choose not to drink or eat. The sound they make catches in my throat and I feel it tighten. I tap the window to see if anyone will respond. Only I do. Placing an index finger on the glass I calculate the sound of the café and match it with a downward squeegee rubber. Perfect. The sound went unnoticed. Next time I try it louder. A passerby changes head angle by 90 degrees and stares. Not at the finger but at me. A bit unnerving for both. The sound of gulls falls. Returning to coffee. Avoiding the subject and what can be said or can’t be said. That is what will occupy my further thoughts. Why are coffee shop windows the place for so much speculation and wandering thoughts? If thoughts were post-it notes stuck on a window the café would need its interior lights. But there is no consistency to this. Last Tuesday was a natural light day. Full on sunshine. Whereas Wednesday was a total black out. Neither good nor bad in and of themselves. Each day has its own unique qualities. I seemed satisfied with that. Some sort of 21

communication had been made from the inner glass to the outer and vice versa. The sound of gulls rises. Birds don’t leave an impression or trace in the sky. Only when they are ground based. I am not saying that I do an equivalent thing. But in order to bring this back to reality I need to talk about birds. In particular those gulls that I hear from the café. So far they have been my sole companion. They speak to me somehow. Tell me to persist. In some way indicate an appropriate direction. So with that said I will leave the café and head out into the streets. A post-it note is caught by the wind. I leave now to go outside and seem to be grappling with rudimentary movement but gather enough of myself to do just that. Once outside I look up and seem to move lips around words and sentences that at some point will be emitted. In that moment gulls entropy above and I arch my stoop to look. Neither counting them nor naming them, my sight follows a gull heading West. I remind myself of who I am looking back into the reflection in the café window. Search for tell-tale signs of breath and there on the window observe it. The condensation obscures a slight smile. I address myself as Mr Dark. “Hi”. Another post-it note evaporates. In a determined manner I place a foot down, without ambiguity, solidly so that it can be heard. The smile returns. Into the West accompanied by two gulls. The first I know, the other is a bonus and backup. In the fresh air once again. Needing to move and shed the café legs. One step to the West and head towards colours and shapes not available to me in the café. At this stage I have to remind myself of what I know. A post-it note of myself and things I have encountered. A post-it note with a gull drawn on it. 22

The fresh air makes me forget the taste of coffee and the gulls have moved to another part of the city. But I can still hear them. In the distance and probably airborne above the rumbling traffic. A few more steps West and I feel the wind from its typical direction. Mr Dark has a problem. After the first few steps I look down at the ground to see how things are progressing. But there is a problem with the left shoe. It’s not mine. A brown brogue mismatched with a grey boot. When did that happen? Back in the café looking up at the gulls. I had taken a shoe off to clench toes but that was the right foot. Grey boot off. Stretch out the cold. Grey boot back on. There had been coffee and tea drinkers in the vicinity. But who would lose a shoe? The coffee table was big. With a draping cover and I remembered the differing temperature from right to left. But I assumed this was due to a cold damp sock. Anyway I hadn’t removed the left boot. Embarrassed to return and explain something I can’t explain. I press on left, right. The click of the brogue, the stomp of the boot. The click of the brogue the stomp of the boot. This reminds me of a tune I can’t remember and helps to relieve the embarrassment. With the bonus that those who see me from the right will see a different person than those on the left. Coffee drinkers wear grey boots tea drinkers wear brogues. Only the gulls can see both. Two post-it notes. One pale yellow, one black. The gulls are gone.

Stuart

Monologue story in part When I go I am going to buy a car. I am the right age now and it’s about time. The blue sea and the golden sun would suit me. How far do I need to go in this age? In this new world? I have always hated the code. And some people who are “the gas” in their gas guzzling shit vehicles that some people drive. I’m sure it would be as bad as that over there. They would hear my roar my inner lion. I like liking myself too… I may be likening myself to one of them too. Let me tell you. A fortunate soul. I like the way the palm trees blow. Even though they are stationary. Even though they are two dimensional. Only if I could fill my table. The table of my ‘dreams.’ With the beach boys and talk about anti-genre haters. This is my concept of healing. To channel the mind. Using soft aloe vera and it soothing on the skin. I hear it grows wild there. A plant introduced by the Portuguese maybe? Man would we talk. All the chicks all the gigs. All the dough. No one would stop me… Would I need stopped. They would see me coming. Not that I am missable. At 6’9 ½.” Blonde hair. All of the culture is different there. It’d be a change from home. Vera by the side of the pool. My ex was a great swimmer. And she loved the space in the first floor of my bungalow. She used to say, in a way of kidding, I only look old I’m not. This mirror is old. There are many like me in L.A. People come to find dreams. I’d message all of my social media friends and say I’ve found my way in my world. Friends are good. It is said that everyone in life apart from family are strangers… Yeah what a place to go… What a place to be…

Untitled

I opened my eyes and looked at the carpet. I didn’t recognize it. I stood and came away from where I should have known but I didn’t. The window was there but I didn’t recognize it. I seen the tv screen and the walls. Still nothing… I started to examine myself. And think who I was. I couldn’t. People in my mind unable to tell me now. Where was I, as I looked at the stereo. As I looked at the table as I looked at the walls again and the same picture I had seen a few thousand times. I never recognized. I walked through the door I knew was there. And remembered how the colour’s chipped at the bit just above the handle. How slack it was, as I walked through. I was in this new place. I had been here a lot. I had stayed in the building for nearly 20 years. I recognized something. I recognized my name as I went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. It boiled in a moment or two. I have been wandering round too much. I had been asleep for an hour dreaming away but it had gone too far. It didn’t register with my mind how long I actually slept. It didn’t make me much of a thinker I would say. Shaking off the heat I stretched as the shine from the sun came through the window. I made a coffee and walked into my other room. The one with the books you might recognize from the zooms. I haven’t read them all. I’ve got a thing for a bargain. Mostly books about films, actual made films. Still shaking off my sleep. Still in a daze at how I could have went that deep into a sleep and lost an hour or an hour and a half of my life. People will think less of me… People will talk. Coffee was nice. I started the computer and waited. The tv turned on. The night was creeping up. Not much to do again 29

today. Everything is closed. Remembering the password. Remembering a song about waste and nothing. Not today. With the song in my head I looked out of the window at the sun again. Again. Again and again I wanted to get out. I wanted to do my normal routine but I can’t everything is shut. I had lived this day before and might just live it again. Maybe the same tomorrow. I mind my luck and give thanks for my blessings.

Board There was a glint in his eye that day he walked down the edge of the pool for the last time. He found a short brown-haired man sitting, his co-worker, when they do them lengths or whatever the smart ones tend to do more. He turns round and sees the clean shirt of the five-foot man. Shirt before his face then up to the blue eyes of his senior attendant. Yeah suppose, he says. As he walks beside him to the staff lockers. Thinking of what he could have for dinner the staff member says. How long have you been here now? You’ve been here for as long as I have and maybe remember the old guy. Yeah, Don Swaith you mean? Yeah he had a beard. Do you hear from him? Not in a while replies Brandon. Feeling the click of his shoes as he slips them on. Ah yeah, I got a chance to meet him before he retired think I was here only a week when he left, said the smaller attendant. Retired eh, he spoke as the worker left the conversation and the staff room with Jack coming behind him. Brandon knew his name but didn’t know him personally. He never applied for the role Jack had. He didn’t want the responsibility of organising people and the training. He got out as Jack spoke to someone else, murmuring he’s a strange one, as the desk girl leaning towards Jack as if to whisper. Brandon signed out, time date signature and a nod to the pair as he left the non-slip floor of the foyer into the cooler car park. Brandon didn’t drive. He walked to the road where he lived. Common currency of ideas of how he was going to spend his evening. The sun was leaving the sky as he slipped his key into 31

the door of the house and three envelopes greeted him. No cat no dog just the kit wall of his flat. Turning on the lamp he sat in his chair still in his work uniform. Someday it will be mine, as he looks from the beach to the seat of attendants from the sun towards the golden sand. Baywatch characters ran through his head with excitement he lingered on the blue sky of the beach. And thinking how long it would take him to run it all. And how the heat would be just what the doctor ordered. He had studied a bit about beaches in the world. He had books on a shelf in another room which he referred to. On his desk he kept some open and paper stuck in pages where he would relate to. Thinking he could use his education in geology to better use.

Gillian

Doris contemplated washing her windows as she stood before the largest of three in her lounge, as she swayed softly to the silken tones of Perry Como. Registered blind or not, her sanity depended on this restricted view of the world beyond: deadly quiet though it now was. The sun poured through but belied an icy wind. It shocked her tiny body and she slammed the window firmly shut, dismissing the cleaning for today. And she didn’t want to miss the call. This, the third, had become a high point in her week. And today she planned to make a confession. She was unsure of its prudence, but as this was her 91st birthday, she felt she deserved it. Meanwhile, Annabel was feeling delicate from having overdone the wine the night before. Her ‘quality over quantity’ policy had failed horribly. This reserve rioja was just too damn tasty so she’d drank the lot. And these days, pleasures were short enough. Painkillers kept the headache in the background, but any sharp head movements triggered its sudden return. Gentle pottering in her little garden was soothing – tending these spring seedlings which had so recently burst into life. Charting their progress got her out of bed each morning. The delight of fresh shoots and first leaves was immeasurable. She supported their transition from greenhouse to garden as if a parent: hand-holding the infants she’d never had. After seedling duty, she surveyed her plot and mentally listed the many tasks, the heavier of which she’d been steadfastly avoiding. Clearing the remainder of the winter decay remained overdue. She considered tackling it briefly – as penance for yesterday’s over-indulgence – before dismissing it. Afterall, it was nearly time for the call. Just before midday, Annabel prepared her station: A4 pad and her favourite pen; fresh coffee and shortbread sustenance, in 35

case of a long call. At noon exactly, she dialled Doris’s number and imagined her face: this face Annabel had never seen. Only Doris’s voice she knew – and the history she was slowly revealing.

Disclosures I’d been rising at 5 a.m. lately. Not so much from imperative but because of an injection of discomfort into my usual sanctuary of sleep. Sometimes I’d wake gasping, with the tightness and tempo of fear in my chest; bedclothes soaked from perspiration. And I’d re-orientate myself to this time and this place, not that time and that place. No matter how I suppressed it, it insisted on being seen. A recalcitrant memory refusing to stay archived. Selfexhumed since the ‘unfortunate incident’ it was now marauding around my dreams, trampling on these usually sweet, restorative hours. This most uncomfortable re-entry into consciousness had turned me into – a most atypical – early-bird. But my research was my worm. And in the week since speaking to Doris I’d discovered plenty. Keen to be fresh-ish for our session, last night I’d even limited myself to just a bottle and had almost a glassful left. I smiled to myself as I thought of savings on wine and painkillers, both now bought from Aldi as the Government’s Universal Credit benefit didn’t reach any further. Each week, I stood – a lone-shopper, conspicuously gloved and face-masked in a queue outside, clearly marked two metres apart, only to become enraged at customers seemingly unable to apply that same measurement once inside. I fumed at folk who merrily handled and returned goods, or those openly coughing and sneezing. Not like this at Waitrose, I thought, before chastising myself for my outrageous snobbery. And those who could still afford to shop at Waitrose would have it delivered. Thoughts returning to today’s session, I 37

considered the two revelations to report – one for Doris and one of my own. On Doris’s encouragement, I’d sought out an aunt. Harder to find than expected but once the connection was established, she embraced it: perhaps in the spirit of Lockdown collaboration, or perhaps through boredom. And it turns out I have four. Aunts that is. All still very much alive and dispersed around the Antipodeans. This one, Grace, lives in Sydney and is the youngest. She’s only eight years my senior. She seems nice and is intrigued to learn more about this novelty new niece. But where to start? Instinctively, I layered on no small measure of gloss. Shone the light on the positives – educated, home-owner, wide range of interests. Coping ok without family as I had oh so many wonderful friends. I skimmed over the ‘unemployment situation’ and found myself resorting to all kinds of inventive terms to describe my position: a “career rethink”, a “short sabbatical.” I’d even reframed it as “give back through volunteering.” What a fraud. But in the context of Lockdown what you did beforehand seemed to matter less anyway. The unvarnished truth of it, I realised, prompted a level of shame too great for me to handle. And I had no language for it. I barely understood it myself. A propensity for poor-self-control? Hedonism? No, not really. Selfsabotage perhaps. One finger always hovering above the selfdestruct button. I still experienced the memory of its latest manifestation in my gut. Raw and visceral. It then triggered the churning intrusion of all the ‘could have’s, should have’s’: endless rumination and recriminations. If only I’d stayed at home, refused the invitation, just stayed an hour, resisted the shots. If only he hadn’t been there, we hadn’t been seen, it hadn’t been videoed, hadn’t been posted, hadn’t been tweeted and then retweeted. If it 38

only it hadn’t gone ‘viral.’ Such a tiny word hardly captured the extent of these parallel catastrophes. Both for me: from one small, recorded event shared, named, blamed, shamed and ultimately, ostracised, and more widely, the impact of a pandemic on our planet. This virus had now infected millions and hundreds of thousands were dead. And how many more. Thoughts swirling madly in this virulent vortex, I so needed a drink. Immediate remedial action required, I found my headphones and Sex Pistol-ed the thoughts from my head, I tried to turn my attention to other things. Pleasant things. I went out to the garden – wet today – and stomped around. On the verge of hyperventilation, I tried to breathe. And count. Yoga breaths – belly, ribcage, collarbone. In for 4. Out for 8. I switched to Adagio for Strings and ruthlessly deadheaded some violas. I ran my hand through the lavender and inhaled the scent. I noticed new leaves and protruding roots on the cucumber plant. Whilst quickly repotting and watering I saw my pinky wound was now healing well. Funny how we become our own nurses in this strange isolation. Our own chief mend-smiths. I’d mended holes in clothes, broken specs, leaking pipes and squeaky doors – albeit temporary but functional. I now exhaled heavily. The cool air, the gentle focus and sweat scent had calmed me better than any tranquiliser. I returned inside and made some tea. As I retrieved the milk, I glanced only briefly at the leftover wine. In preparation for our session, I began to organise my findings for Doris. From the scant snippets she’d provided, I’d had to do some serious sleuthing. Restricted to online resources, I’d started with news features. Since the Grosvenor Hotel fire took place in 1978 there were plenty of them. I’d liked to have seen the original archives but there were enough authoritative 39

sources marking anniversaries or drawing parallels to similar events to build a decent picture. There was good information on the Cypriot turned-Scot hotel owner, Reo Stakis, in both biographies and obituaries. There was also a smattering of information in the Fire Journal and History site but most interesting – and indeed, informative – were the Community Interest groups. Sites set up by dedicated enthusiasts including resources from multifarious contributors. Although arguably less reliable, the accounts of over 300 people, including fire-fighters, workers, neighbours and eyewitnesses provided a decent body of qualitative research. I would rarely have considered this before but this, together with other sources, allowed for defensible triangulation. At midday, I eagerly dialled Doris’s number. It rang. And rang. And it rang. I could feel rising concern playing percussion in my chest. When Doris didn’t want to talk she switched her answering machine on which engaged after a few rings. It never just rang out. Maybe she was out. But she knew about this regular arrangement. Looked forward to it, she said. And only last week she said she’d been housebound throughout Lockdown, as her daughter couldn’t manage her wheelchair down her stairs alone. Maybe they’d got help and gone out. But on such a wet day? My relief was palpable when the phone was at last lifted. Until she spoke. Doris was breathless and her speech slurred in a slow motion staccato. “Hel…l...l...l...lo.” “Doris, what’s happening?” “A…. w….w….w….w…wee…..att……….….ack.” “I’ll phone an ambulance.” “It…s….…co…o…o… o…..om........ing.” 40

“Ok, let me phone the Agency. They can phone your daughter.” “No” snapped Doris, forcibly. The line suddenly went dead. The percussion – now a full scale orchestra – was approaching a crescendo. Think, I instructed myself. Think. I should phone an ambulance just to be sure. But I didn’t even know Doris’s address. Not even the street. All these months and all I knew was the locale. The Befriending Agency would have both her address and her next of kin details. But Doris’s reaction spoke loudly. She didn’t want this interference. But this sounded like some kind of stroke so delay could be deadly. But there was an ambulance called already, likely by her daughter – a nurse, who lived nearby and surely would be on her way. But in the meantime, Doris was on her own. With resolve, I lifted the phone and redialled. It was answered quickly this time. “Hel…l…l…l…ooo.” “Doris it’s Annabel. I’ve not phoned the Agency. I know you said the ambulance is coming but can you just assure me that someone is coming to help you. Your daughter?” “Ye..e..e…s.” “Ok, you don’t need to speak Doris. But I’d like to stay with you on the phone until help comes. Is that ok?” “Ye….e..s.” “Ok. Good. That’ll help me at least. I’ve been all of a panic. But I know you’ve had attacks before so you’ll know best what you need.” “Co…r...r….r….r…ect.” This reassured me. Reminded me of the fortitude of this remarkable woman who knew her own mind and took no 41

nonsense. But as tungsten, she was strong yet brittle. No amount of character offset the inherent physical vulnerability of a nonagenarian. “Doris. You really are quite incredible. You’ve been such an inspiration to me.” No response – not uncommon in the face of compliments. When offered before, I could sense her discomfort. A distinctly Scottish trait I think. No-one likes a blowhard. Easier to run yourself down – and others for that matter. Aligned to that strange endearment they call ‘Glasgow banter’ – taking the piss out of your nearest and dearest. Like grown-up pigtail pulling. But I could tell Doris was still there from her laboured breathing. And I could hardly expect her to be chatty at a time like this. But what on earth should I speak about? Should I tell her my news about Aunt Grace? She’d be pleased I’m sure but I didn’t want to cause excitement. So I stuck to safe ground. Gentle garden chat. But soon I’d exhausted my vegetable patch update. And it occurred to me, if Doris was actually dying, was this really the best use of her last minutes or hours? Where the hell is that ambulance? What to do? This is awful. I took a few seconds and decided to trust Doris to judge it herself. “Doris, I found some things out. Do you want to hear them?” “Y..yes.” Ok, how best to handle this. I hadn’t thought this through. After a short deliberation, I decided it was probably best to cut to the chase. “The fire Doris. You weren’t responsible.” A barely decipherable note of puzzlement was heard from her end. 42

“It wasn’t your fault. I know you thought you hadn’t done a good enough job cleaning the grill, but it wasn’t that that caused the place to burn to the ground.” “Go…o..o…….on.” “I found lots of information online, including testimony from people who worked there – one who was there that night. It was the steaks on the grill that caught alight and the fire went straight up the extraction vents. The fire spread from there. You couldn’t have been expected to clean all the way up inside the vents. Apparently these grillhouse fires happened regularly. Not just there, but in others. In fact, said they were quite common in these hotels. There was also a fire at the Pond further along Great Western Road. And one in the Cumbernauld hotel it seems. And later, another in Aviemore. Some have theories on why this was – and there was even an Inquiry after the Aviemore fire which was very critical of the management.” Loud exhalation at Doris’s end but no words. I paused, then went on. “And the reason the fire at the Grosvenor was so devastating was because they didn’t have the equipment to tackle it. Because you left for your trip to Aberdeen that night you might not know but there was no proper fire engines to attend. They were six weeks into a firemen’s strike so military crews had to fight the fire using those antiquated wee Green Goddess fire engines and no turntable ladders. It was the second fire they had to fight that day apparently and the earlier one ended badly too. They had no hope of tackling a fire which had taken hold of the 100 rooms over three stories. People said it looked like the wildest of parties with flames dancing out from every window. The heat was so intense it could be felt from way across the street and it melted the lightbulbs into strange 43

elongated forms. All the responders could do was douse the wall connecting the Hotel to the adjoining terrace. They were lucky to have stopped it spreading through to neighbours’ homes with only the basic equipment they had.” “M..my,” said Doris. “When fire leapt up the extraction vent the vast building – built in 1855 – didn’t stand a chance with no sprinkler systems and all that timber. But there’s a funny part to the story too. Do you want to hear it?” “Y..e..e..s.” “Apparently one of the first things the sailors and marines fighting the fire did was remove all ‘accelerants’ from the cellar and bar: that is, the vintage wines, whiskies, brandies and ports. There was even one report of a refreshment wagon for emergency services providing "enriched" teas and coffees through the night as they worked.” “Ha,” Doris wheezed and I recognised a note of amusement. So I continued. “The rest reportedly went back to the barracks for safe keeping – and the troops were still working their way through it for a long time to come. A small payment for their efforts I suppose. There was apparently a thank you to Reo Stakis at a Regiment retirement speech years later. For him, the insurance money paid out and he rebuilt the hotel with the same Georgian façade. It opened again four years later. And the rest you probably know…Doris?…Doris? …Doris?” Gemma at the Befriending Agency was utterly useless. Probably not helped by my barely coherent account of events. She’d gone to check Doris’s file on her laptop and was going to phone me back. In the meantime, I was an utter wreck. Pacing frantically 44

and punishing myself for not doing things differently. Why the hell hadn’t I made this call first? She might be dead because of my inactions. God I needed a drink. But I might need to drive. Maybe I should go over to Garscube and drive around and look for an ambulance. What on earth had I been thinking? Precious time wasted wittering on about some hotel when the woman needed urgent medical care. She may not have welcomed it but I could hardly have trusted her thinking when she’d just suffered some kind of episode. The phone rang and I visibly spasmed from hyperarousal. I really needed to calm the hell down. “Ok her next of kin details aren’t on the database,” said Gemma. “Seriously?” “Our admin worker can’t have had a chance to input it from her application before Lockdown. I’ll have to go into the office to find it. I have her address though.” Multitasking maniacally, I jotted down the details whilst finding car keys and sticking on shoes. Within minutes I was on the motorway.

Doris and Gender “I just don’t get it,” said Doris. “It used to be offensive to call someone queer. Now it’s allowed? What does it mean? Is it gay?” “It could be. But a lot of people who are gay just say they’re gay. Queer just means you’re not heterosexual or cisgender.” “What’s cisgender when it’s at home?” “It’s the gender that’s on your birth certificate?” “Well that I don’t understand at all? You either have male bits or female bits. You either inseminate or bear children. Why does it have to be more complicated than that?” Annabel took a deep breath and considered her response. “The world has changed Doris. When you, and I for that matter, were born there were more rigid rules. That’s still the same in lots of countries. But here gender identify is more fluid. Some people choose not to identify as their birth gender. Others feel they have no choice, that they are – and always were – a different gender.” “Like that Eddie Izzard guy. A man trapped in a women’s body.” Another slow inhale. “I think that’s something different again. These days people have the freedom of expression to dress as they like – within limits. Some people have an urge or a pleasure in dressing in what we once thought of as ‘male’ or ‘female’.” “You mean transvestites?” Annabel considered the need to tread carefully here, mindful of Doris’s 91 years and the desire not to offend her. “You know how language changes over time Doris?” “Of course. I know ‘n—n—’ isn’t allowed anymore?” Annabel winced but held her wheesht. 47

“I don’t know what words are ok to use these days. My daughter says just avoid mentioning it. And I get so flustered in case I use the wrong word.” “That’s understandable. It’s confusing cause the acceptable terms change. A more modern word for transvestite might be ‘cross-dresser’. And ‘transgender’ is the word for someone who identifies differently from what they were born as.” “Like the man who thinks he’s a cat.” “What man that thinks he’s a cat?” “There’s actually two. Saw them on the news. One lives on a remote Island off Scotland and has himself tattooed up to the nines. The other was a Russian sailor who landed in Greenock and decided to live like a cat.” “Ok-ay. We’ll that’s not really about gender. About being male or female. Or non-binary?” “What’s non-binary? Isn’t that some kind of computer thing?” “Binary is. If you think of male as YY and female as XX, then non-binary is neither. Neither male nor female. But I think these days people can identify as anything they like, even a cat, as long as it doesn’t harm themselves or others.” “Or their poor mothers. Imagine.” “Doris, what about your kids? Would you have been disappointed if they had turned out to be gay?” “Disappointed. I would have been terrified. Homosexuality was still illegal ‘til the late 60s. Took me a while to get my head round it. But Edna’s grandson is gay. And he’s a lovely boy. The nail varnish is a bit strange but each to their own.” “Well, these days boys can wear nail varnish and make up and not be gay. Girls can dress anyway they want.” 48

“I’ve seen that. Non-existent skirts and ankle-turner heels. Don’t get me wrong. I remember how nice it was to be able to wear shorter skirts. And slacks. Even in the 60s you weren’t allowed to wear trousers.” Long exhale from Doris. “Aye, how the world has changed.”