Her speech never really recovered from the big stroke. In The Broch they say a body has ‘taen a shock’. Her eyes seemed to move that bit faster. So you had no doubts she was taking everything in. She got her home-helps trained. None of them would talk down to her. Otherwise the olaid would get aggressive. No wonder.
But you could tune into her new voice. She’d a memory for turns of phrase. I offered to get her to the kirk one week, if she wanted. We might need a shottie o a chair.
‘A hope it’s ane wi wheels you’re speakin aboot and no ane wi electricity tae fry me,’ she said.
The kirk means the Church of Scotland. Not the one on Kenneth Street. Definitely not the one on Scotland Street. Nor the Bayhead division, nor the new one, out Sandwick way. And of course the new Catholic Church, also on Scotland Street isn’t in the equation. Hope you’ve got all that.
‘No, dinna worry, Peter, loon. I’m nae bothered aboot goin tae the kirk.’
I knew she was worried about how long she could go without the toilet but she saved face.
‘Last time I went there I got naethin but cheek. We’d just seen a coffin oot o the kirk and oer tae the men tae carry her. A neebor fae Westview cam up to claik. You knew her well, Mary? she asks. Aye, says me, weel enough, poor soul. She’s at peace the noo. Was she a good age, Mary? the other ane asks. No really. I dinna think she was saxty-five. How old are you yourself, Mary? Saxty-four, I says. My word, she says, do you think it’s worth your while going home?’
But the olaid seemed able to accept it when she lost this and that. As long as it was physical. Stuff got delivered to her modified house. It was the zimmer first. Later, we needed the Social Work wheelchair to get out of the house. We still called it a stroll when I took her round the block. She kept asking if I could understand her. She missed talking to Canada on the phone but she got flustered when Kirsty couldn’t make out what she was saying. I told her not to worry, I’d let her know if she wasn’t making sense.
I remember telling her about the time I went to borrow the tractor. We were towing a heavy boat to the harbour. A favour for a favour. Anyway, my mate was on the dayshift but he said to pick up the tractor – the grey Fergie painted red. But I’d to see his sister first. Aye, Portrona Drive, the urban croft.
Nobody came to the door when I rang so I went out to have a look at the beast. I was going to give her a warm-up anyway but nothing happened with the starter. Right then the bodach came running over. I’m not kidding, he was like a whippet. He’d been dozing in the chair, out the back door but he just woke up and came running.
‘The battery,’ he said. ‘It’s the battery. John’s got terminals in a box.’
So we found them together. It wasn’t long before I had one connected to replace the cracked one. But before I could step aboard, the bodach was in the seat and the Fergie was away and nearly took the gate off.
The daughter came running out then and waved her arms till he stopped and dismounted. She’d been on the phone. They had a few words and he went meekly back to his seat.
‘John puts that cracked terminal on whenever he leaves the house,’ she said. ‘That’s why he asked you to see me first. The bodach’s grounded. He’s lost it for driving anything.’
You had to admire him grabbing the opportunity.
But when the olaid heard that one from me, she leaned over quietly.
‘A wee word in yer shell-like. Am fair enjoyin the fitba an th athletics an th snooker on the telly,’ she said.
‘Aye?’ I said.
‘Aye, but promise me somethin. If you ever call by an catch me watchin the cricket on the telly, get somebody tae shoot me.’
‘I jist like tae ken there’s enough tae cover the funeral. That’s all we’re needin in the kitty,’ she said. ‘But a dinna think there’s muckle tae be anxious aboot. It’s like my ain grannie. Grannie Bruce. When ane o the loons tellt her to behave herself or they widna bother aboot a funeral, she says till him, Weel if ye’ll nae bury me for love ye’ll bury me for stink.’