Jodie didn’t falter. “Rotted, rancid, rarelysober, reallyfuckingselfish?”
When the night-shift breakfast rush was cleared, Mo-Maw hopped down out of the small caravan. Mo-Maw looked nothing like her off-spring. All the Hamilton children’s swarthiness must have come from the Black Irish that ran through their father. Mungo had never seen any pictures of this man. At one time, there was the promise of an undeveloped roll of film lying in a kitchen drawer somewhere, but Mo-Maw could never seem to find it. His mother was shorter than Jodie – only five foot tall in her bare feet – but she heaped her mousy curls on top of her head to give her the illusion of height. She was small-boned and fine-featured with quick green eyes. She was paler than her children, fragile looking, but her brittleness was only skin-deep.
Their mother was wearing a greasy pinny and underneath that she wore a pair of cropped denims and a brand-new pair of white trainers, flashy Nike ones with the swoosh on the side. Mo-Maw noticed them eyeing this luxury. “Well, ma back hurts, standing at that hot griddle all day.” She had a polystyrene cup that was bright with the molten orange colour of Irn-Bru. There was an astringent tang to it that smelled like alcohol, a strong medicinal scent that was noticeable despite the rain. Jodie was already picking at a splinter in the table.
“How long have you been working here then?” Mungo thought that seemed like a safe place to start.
“Two weeks, give or take.” Mo-Maw sat close to Mungo and lit a damp cigarette that looked like it wouldn’t take. “Jocky knows a fat Scouser called Ella. Big Ella owns a whole fleet of these vans and needed somebody to work the night shift here.”
“Who’s Jocky?” asked Mungo.
Mo-Maw pushed at the hair that hung down the back of her neck; her old perm was looking tired and slack. Mungo thought that hair could grow a lot in a few weeks. “Jocky’s ma new fella,” she sniffed. “He runs the pawnshop down the Trongate. Oh! Wait till you meet him. He’s a smasher, puts you in mind of a chubby wee Nicolas Cage. Fair loves his grub.” She pushed Mungo’s hair from his eyes. She liked to look on him, he was the bonny and, as of yet, unspoiled bit of her and Big Ha-Ha. He didn’t have the sharpness of Hamish or the weariness of Jodie. “Do you want a Commodore 64? Jocky can get me one if ye want?”
Mungo shook his head. He didn’t want a computer.
Mo-Maw rested her hands on the table. She noticed Jodie looking at her fingernails. Her nails appeared nude under the street lights, but as she waggled them Mungo saw their pearlescent shimmer. “Do youse like it?” she asked Jodie. “Ah felt yon Raspberry Beret was making me look a bit done-in. Aw the young lassies are wearing these nude shades the day. Took me a minute to get used to it, but I think it looks cleaner, younger. Din’t it?”
Jodie stared at her mother with such intensity that Mo-Maw turned to Mungo and asked if she had something on her face.
“Are you living with him? This Jocky?” Jodie asked. “I mean, I suppose you are living with him, but why?”
“How no? Jesus Christ. Ah’m only thirty-four, Jo-Jo.” Mungo knew his sister hated this pet name, she said it made her sound like a dancing monkey. “You’ll be seventeen in a couple of months. Ah was potty-training Hamish when ah was your age. What’s the harm in it, eh? Jocky treats me right, he takes me for a Chinese – starters and mains.”
“Prawn crackers, too?” asked Mungo.
“Aye. And a banana fritter if I like.” Mo-Maw turned her gaze back to Jodie. “Ah’ve got to try and squeeze a wee bit of happiness out of life while ah still can.”
Jodie nodded across the table at Mungo. Her face was wet from the rain, it gave it a waxy pallor and her expression was alarmingly calm. “He’s only fifteen. You’re no done raising your weans yet, ya selfish besom.” It was happening again. This pitched battle between Jodie and Mo-Maw over Mungo. He felt forever in the middle. At any moment they might both get on their knees and try to lure him towards one of them with a bit of salted ham hock, like a dog.
“Oh, gies peace. We both know ye love playing at the wee housewife.” Her cheeks were hollow sucking on the cigarette. Mungo searched for Jodie’s feet under the table, he wrapped his legs around her ankles, ensnaring his sister.
Mo-Maw said, “Look, ah’ve goat some money now. No much, but some.” They listened to the squeak of the new trainers. “Ah’ll come round the house and pay all the bills. We can go down Duke Street and run the messages the gether. You can have all the chocolate biscuits ye want.” She took Jodie’s hand in her own. Mungo thought Jodie might stab her. “You need to stay on yer own a wee bit longer. Jist till I know where me and wee Jocky are headed.”
It was becoming so late it was early. There was a fresh line of black hackneys pulling up on the kerb. They bumped up out of the flow of traffic and Mungo watched them heave with relief as pot-bellied taxi drivers stepped down into the rain. “Can we come visit? Can we see where you live now?” He could feel the side of his face start in a mutiny.
Mo-Maw put her chin on his shoulder. She strained to kiss his twitching cheekbone. “Naw son. No the now.”
“How?” It was not a good enough answer for Jodie.
Mo-Maw leaned forward and clasped Jodie’s hands in a way that startled his sister. “Wummin to wummin, ye might not know how men are yet, but ah need to make this easy on him. It’s too early for me to be messy, to be a bother.”
“A bother?”
“Ye’ll understand one day. Ah need to keep it breezy a wee while longer, that’s aw.” As she rose to serve the men, she unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse again. “Ah need to find the right time to tell Jocky ah’ve got weans.”
FIVE