Evolution

Dad murdered folk, but only during the war. The peril and the bravery came later. It was a gritty childhood, when hot water was cold. Mum swooped down with the towel flapping like angel’s wings, faster than the speed of light and lifted me out of the basin grave. Slowly the frozen toed waiting and freezing would unweave. My tap of tears would shut. And the vertigo of missing some picky little thing on the ground-which might, or might not be there- would take hold in a writhing snake motion.

‘Down. Down. Down,’ I’d command, like a submarine commander.

Mum smelled of talcum and floated round about, in and out of the kitchen light and back; a barrage balloon of cuddles and smiles. We’d an outhouse we shared with Daft Rab next door and Mrs Bell across the hall, but nobody ever told me what we kept there.

Bossiness came from my dad’s side. He had a tuft of hair, which fascinated me. It lay on his forehead like a question mark or gun sight, depending on the way his nostrils were flaring. He was a Communist, which meant he shouted a lot.

His first lesson was that we were all descended from monkeys, but I already knew that. Uncle Alby looked like a monkey, with his long arms. But it was tricky. His son Craig looked like a parrot with his big nose with snottery green slittering and sliding in and out; a mucus plug with the taps on. Before the telly this was exciting friction, waiting to see what could happen.

The other thing about Craig was he was cross-eyed, before it was fashionable. And he moved stealthily like a black bird, hip-hopping on one leg then the other, looking for cover out of the corner of his lizard eyes. Caught out, up to his old tricks, his young body would freeze and he’d weaken me into liking him by red cola cubes sucked into the shape of his distended head.

Communists were little people, like me. We packed together in rooms the size of two cupboards on a Tuesday and Thursday night in solidarity. We’d be competing with Ging-Gang-Gooly crowd next door. They played fair with the rent amid the thunder of feet as the proto Capitalists played British Bulldog in their different class of Scout toggles and shirt sleeves in the big hall.

All Communists were equal and had an equal typewriter voice. Yakety-yack, clackety-clack, clank-clank, with lots of buts and no-matter and order-order when there was none. There was always someone holding his arm up squashed into the darkest most smoke filled corner of the room. Not wanting to be too timid, his cuff sleeves frayed, he’d wave his arm about. Not wanting to be too bold, in a capitalistic kind of way, he’d take his arm down. Up and down his arm would go. He’s probably still standing there now.

All Communists smelled the same of blue fag smoke, green-mould and onion oxter. Even though they knew lots of things they didn’t know this. They’d strange words for other things Revolutionary Komsomol meant ‘goin’ fuck yourself’ and it was like getting saved by drowning.

Communists rolled their own cigarettes. They didn’t let a multinational corporation do it for them. Some cheated and used a plastic rolling machine. Some used the darkness of a six-penny meter to exploit child labour by asking me to lick the cigarette papers for them. Others went further. Under the pretext of showing me a new game they balanced the rolling tobacco and the papers on a hard plastic chair and soon had me mass-producing roll-ups. But they never let me taste the fruits of my labour.

There were some people, even those that were part of the proletariat, that were filthy pigs. Ida in the next close to us, was one of them, because she was a Protestant married to a Catholic and never washed her windows, or cleaned her stairs. She did have big fat cheeks and a snouter nose. Dad shortened it to pig woman. And I used to make oooough—oooough pig noises whenever I saw her, until mum heard me and slapped me sensible. Then I had to do them under my breath.

Dad was invisible out with Communist circles. He was a bin man by trade, which meant that he could practice shouting and moaning about how shit people were. He tried to shut up, by filling his mouth with drink, but that only made him worse. It made him sing The Red Flag, which he taught me: Keep the Red Flag flying high, in the sky. Bring on the Hearts, the Hibs, the Rangers. Bring on the Spaniards by the score. Barcelona. Real Madrid. They will make a gallant bid. Keep The Red Flag flying high.

When someone told Dad to shut up he’d sing louder. Mum was the only person that could tell him to get to his bed. He’d wink at me, because I was a Communist too. His sleepy-eyes would be away in the morning and he’d start shouting again.

They shouted at school when I started, but not very much. It was all thin-boned alphabet and toothpaste smiles. They never spoke about Communists at school, only Jesus. Dad cleared it up for me later. He shouted that if Jesus was born in a midden and crucified then he was a Communist too. Mum said I wasn’t to listen to him, but it was hard. I had a bright blue blazer with a badge that I really liked and grey shorts. It was a uniform. Communists didn’t like uniforms. They made them smoke more. Capitalists weren’t stupid. Mum ironed my shirt. They made you wear their clothes without creases and had to like it.

Communists didn’t like rich people, unless they were cripples, because they never worked a day in their life and at least if they were cripples they had an excuse. Dad had an especial hatred for Dr Felmer. He’d walk me up the hill to show me his palatial home in the snobby bit of Clydebank. It didn’t have a moat around it, but it did have massive high hedged and a big gate, with a dog barking on the other side. There were only buses and trains then, but Dr Felmer had a black Ford. ‘Who paid for it all?’ asked Dad in his pamphlet voice.

‘When I was your age my Da’ went cap in hand to Dr Felmer. I didn’t know what it was, but was in incredible pain and thought I was dying. Do you know that man stood on our doorstep and refused to come in because we were two pennies short. Ma’ had to borrow them from one of the neighbours. It was tetanus. I had to go to hospital. I could have died, or worse been a cripple, a burden on my family. All for two pennies. Rich people have their fantasies about poor people. They like to thing they know what they’re doing. But just remember, unless you’ve two pennies to rub together you’re nothing to them.’

I didn’t hate Dr Felmer. Not right away. Not until Dad told me about the state of his bins.