“I don’t think it’s for me. I think I’d be better off working.”
“Then do what ye like. Ah can’t force ye. Fat load of good school did me.” Then she squinted at him. “But Mungo, see if ah get the School Board at ma door, ah tell ye, yer feet will no touch the ground.”
“You won’t. They’ll be glad to see the back of me.”
“Aye, well, yer almost a man now. Time ye grew up and paid yer own way.” She took a long drink out of the half-chewed cup. As she opened the bottle of wine to refill it, the metal Buckfast cap rolled away across the greasy floor. “Ah, bugger.” Mo-Maw shrugged and took a long swig from the bottle as though she had better finish it now. She offered it to Mungo.
He shook his head. “And I wish you wouldn’t.”
“It’s got a wee buzz. It keeps me gaun through the night.” Then she added, “And it makes me mair fun. Men prefer women that are mair fun. Ah get better tips.”
Of all the alcohol Mo-Maw enjoyed, Mungo feared Buckfast wine the most. He had heard Ha-Ha’s boys refer to it as the “Commotion Lotion.” Its high alcohol content mixed with its high caffeine content meant it made his mother blindingly drunk and too jittery to subdue. Mungo tore at a bread roll and held the doughy guts out to her. Mo-Maw pushed his hand away. “Have ye seen the shape of me? If I get any heavier this caravan will pop a wheelie.”
He crammed the bread into his own mouth. “How’s Jocky?”
Mo-Maw suddenly became animated. She spun and splayed her hands out wide, and Mungo could tell he had struck a seam of gold. There was such excitement on her face that, combined with the tight perm, she looked like she was convulsing. “Oh. Ma. God! Ah cannae believe ah didnae tell ye already. Jocky found some widow’s wedding ring that a wee house-robbing basturt tried to fence through his pawnshop. He got a cash reward, but better than that, he’s on a promise of a caravan in Burntisland for two weeks. Can you believe?”
There was a hole in the calf of her sheer tan tights. Mungo traced it with his finger. “Can I come?”
Mo-Maw brushed his hair away from his face and made a little moue. “Oh, sorry son. It’s still what morning telly calls the honeymoon period. We have to focus on us the now. It’s very important.” She clawed at her waistline. “Oh these tights are killin’ me. Ah should know better than to stand at this griddle and smother myself.”
He pushed his finger into the hole. “Can I?”
She huffed, and then she nodded. “Aye, go on. If it’ll make ye happy.”
Mungo felt the stubble of her leg hair against his knuckles. He tore at the hole and the tiny stitches ran away, they poured down her leg like raindrops. He pushed more fingers inside the tear and he tugged them apart. The tights ripped from her ankle bone up beyond the line of her skirt. He burst a hole in the other leg and ripped that one too. Mo-Maw clung to the counter and squealed in delight. They had loved this game as children. When her tights had become laddered beyond decency, she let the children rip them. They never split at the gusset or the toe seam so they made a game of pulling their mother out of her chair by her stocking feet, dragging her giggling across the floor until, finally, the pale softness of her legs thudded to the carpet, like chicken meat escaping from a string bag.
“Oh, I can breathe again.” Mo-Maw stepped out of her destroyed tights. She stepped back into her trainers. Mo-Maw put her foot up on the low shelf, picked at some ingrown hairs, and traced a finger along a varicose vein. “That one ah got from nursing you. Such a needy wean. You would never let me put ye down.”
Something in the darkness caught her attention. Mungo watched her lean out and peer beyond the glare of the fluorescent light. “Hello there, son. Can ah fill you a roll?”
Mungo sat up and peered over the top of the counter. He was there, shifting nervously, at the very edge of the light. James Jamieson was scrubbed pink from a hot bath, his hair slick and neatly parted. Mungo grinned at the effort, he would noise him up about it afterwards. “Mo-Maw, this is my pal. This is Jamesy.”
“Wait. Ye’ve made yersel a wee pal?” He watched her calf muscles tense as she leaned into the darkness to shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you, son. Ah’m Maureen, ah’m Mungo’s big sister.”
Mungo opened the caravan door and jumped down into the dirt. He could tell Mo-Maw was appraising James favourably. However, when James turned his back to say hello to Mungo, Mo-Maw pushed behind her own ears and mouthed silently, Shame about those.
“How did youse two start playing the gether?” she asked.
“Jesus. Come on, we don’t play.”
“Ah don’t know the slang, do ah? So when did youse two start going to the bingo the gether? Bridge? Canasta?” She pulled a smart-arse smile. “Is that better?”
Mungo’s eye started to pulse. “James has a doocot. He raises pigeons.”
Mo-Maw mugged as though she might be sick. “Ah don’t know how ye could, beady-eyed wee buggers. Ah swear they just need to see me and then they try an shite on me.” She was peering at the tawny boy as she leaned out of the serving hatch. Mungo wished she would button her blouse. James let himself be pored over. Mo-Maw cocked her head in recognition and fell back into the snack bar. “Here now, are you Jimmy Jamieson’s boy?” Before James could answer, Mo-Maw slapped the counter. “Ye bloody are. I can tell. Ye’re a big handsome wan just like yer da.”
James didn’t answer, but he looked uncomfortable. Mo-Maw took a polystyrene cup and poured James some of her wine. “Here, ah winched him once. Years ago. Your granny had a conniption when she heard I was a Protestant. But ah’ve always believed in bringing the religions the gether.”
James reached up and cradled the cup with both hands, as though it were a communion chalice. “Thanks for doing your part, Mrs Hamilton.”
Mo-Maw had warmed to the young man instantly. She raised her cup in salute. “But here, Mungo, think how different it would be if Mr Jamieson was your da.” She snorted, and waved her hand. “No, wait, what am I saying? James, think how much fun it would be if ah was yer mammy. Eh?”
“I’d like that,” he lied. The front of his teeth were already staining with wine. “I like your perm.”
“See!” Mo-Maw had a weakness for compliments, she never seemed to care if they were sincere or not. She pointed accusatorily at Mungo. “He’s only been my son for five seconds and already a nice word. Now that’s how ye talk to a wummin.”
NINETEEN
The second time they lay together the greediness of the first fever had broken. Now there was no hurry, no selfishness. Afterwards, they lay in the glare of the three-bar fire and turned only when the heat became too much. The electric fire was crowned with a layer of fake plastic coals in imitation of a real fireplace. There was a tinny fan underneath the coals that whirled and sent an artificial firelight dancing across the ceiling. Mungo lay back on the blue rug and watched the flames flicker. James told him how his mother had come to hate this fire. She had loved it when they were children, but as her end came nearer, she said the flames made her think of hell.