“I didn’t want to,” I said.
“Jessie?”
“Stubborn,” I explained. “There was a”-think fast, think fast-“a picture of Mum and Dad and me on my dressing table, from before he’d left, and I didn’t want to see it. So I kept my face turned the other way even though there was a feather end sticking in my cheek.”
“All night?” said Gus. I nodded. “But wasn’t it dark?”
I was stupid enough to try to remember. And then of course, it was the real room that came back to me. The real thing I didn’t want to see.
“Not very,” I said. “There was a street light right outside her house and just a cotton blind.”
“Whose house?” said Gus.
“Mine. My mum’s, I meant.”
“And a photo of your dad from before he’d left?”
“Yeah. Yep.”
“And you were five?”
I saw the mistake I’d made. Because Dad didn’t leave until I was seven. But Did Gus know that? Had I told him?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s plenty,” he answered. “She tied you to your bed when you were five, even though your granny wasn’t angry. Even though your granny was absolutely fine.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Please.”
“Jessie,” said Gus, “you are the bravest, best little girl there could ever be. You worked out a way to handle things that hurts no one else in the world. But you know what?” I shook my head. “It takes too much out of you. It’s time to let go.”
“Not really,” I said. “It’s a case of being careful.”
“You love children, don’t you?” he said. I felt a sob bulge up inside me. “Why don’t you have one of your own?”
It burst out of me like a shout. And the pain. Christ, it felt like he’d cracked my ribs open and squeezed my heart in his fist.
“So it’s time to lay it down,” he went on.
“How do you know what to say?” That was a translation of what I was thinking. What I was thinking was that for someone who’d only looked it all up on a computer that day, he certainly talked a good game.
“Because I care about you,” he told me.
“Someone else cared about me once. And he didn’t get the first thing about it. Couldn’t stand it.”
“Becky said she loved the kids, but she didn’t love feeding them or changing them or bathing them or singing to them or playing with them. So what did she love? Babies need you to do stuff. That’s what babies are. And you’re fucking terrified of feathers even if you won’t tell me why. Loving Jessie King means getting that.”
“Jessie Constable,” I said. But even though I was correcting him I didn’t mind really. He’d nearly said I love you, and I knew it was true.
“Big excitement yesterday then,” said Steve when I arrived the next day.
I straddled one of the black bags piled in the doorway and started on the many locks. We have locks and alarms and deadbolts so that folk won’t break in and steal the free clothes, but nobody ever takes the black sacks of crap that people dump on us when we’re closed. The sign with the donation hours is two feet square and written in red and the note along the bottom-do not leave donations in doorway when shop is closed-is outlined in waves of orange and yellow highlighter, but it’s still an obstacle course every damn day.
“You said it,” I agreed, thinking about Kazek and then stopped and turned. “What do you mean?”
“The cops bringing those clothes,” Steve said. “Of course. Why, what else happened?”
“How did you know about that?” I asked him. I was booting the bin bags inside. I didn’t want to have to take my gloves off and touch them-it was that special kind of cheerless cold this morning, the river fog seeping up the side streets, beading our hair and clothes, dripping down the windows.
“Dot told me when she phoned to check the shifts,” he said.
I kicked a bag that didn’t have clothes inside and hopped about a bit until my toe stopped throbbing.
“That better be boots,” I said. But it felt like metal and my guess was pots and pans. The Free Clothing Project has a massive clue in the name, but when folk get to clearing out their cupboards they just think “charity shop” and if we’re the nearest to where they live, we get whatever they’re clearing. I usually bung it all in a supermarket trolley and trundle it up to Oxfam, who’re never that happy to see it either, but they can’t say no until they’ve at least checked it through.
“She said you might have recognised the jacket,” said Steve. “But you denied it. Quite right. You need to ask Management where we stand, confidentiality-wise. I’d have done the same.”
“God’s sake, Steve,” I said. The neck of the heavy bag looked clean enough actually-even though a doorway in St. Vincent Street is nowhere to leave anything overnight if you want it fresh in the morning, between the dogs, the drunks, and the gulls-so I squatted and untied the handles. “Think I’d give a stuff about line management when some poor bloke got slashed and chucked in the Nith? I didn’t recognise the coat. It was a work jacket with plastic shoulders. A donkey jacket.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Steve had a problem with donkey jackets. First, we weren’t allowed to call them that. And then he vetoed them altogether, along with army surplus, those silvery marathon blankets, and terry-towelling nappies. I reckoned the jackets and blankets were warm and practical, but Steve thinks they’re humiliating and one step up from asking tramps to stuff their clothes with newspapers. (He was all for the towelling nappies, mind you, and vouchers for the launderette, until I pointed out that you’re not allowed to wash nappies in a launderette, which he wouldn’t know because he’s never had to use one. And since nothing makes Steve madder than someone making out he’s clueless-or “insinuating that he’s out of touch with the reality of our clients’ lives” as he put it-that meeting ended on a sour note.)
“So how’s Gus?” he said, changing the subject. “Have you heard from him again?” This was very innocent-sounding, but I was sure Dot had told him I’d come to work in Gus’s car.
“Gus is great,” I answered, and I couldn’t help smiling. I looked down to hide it. “Wow. Cake tins,” I said. “Yeah, that’s the thing about destitution. It can play havoc with your home baking.” I retied the bag handles and took it through to the Oxfam trolley.
“When I say ‘great’, mind you,” I added coming back again, “I mean he’s doing really well for the kids. And he’s a great guy. He’s not so hot in himself, obviously. And he beats himself up like you wouldn’t believe.”
Steve was raking through the rest of the bags now. Holding up a shirt with an appraising look in his eye. He put it down quickly when he saw me watching. “For what?” he said. “Survivor guilt? He needs counselling.”
“Not exactly. Coffee? Tea? He doesn’t even think he should take time off work, if you can believe it,” I said. “He was freaked out because he couldn’t crack on with what he’s meant to be doing.”
“Sculptor’s block,” said Steve. “I never thought of that. Coffee.”
Sister Avril phoned then to tell me there was a volunteer care-worker coming in today to pick up some women’s clothing and take them to her client’s house for trying on.
“Why can’t the client come and choose her own?” I said. You hear about those care homes where they don’t even try to make sure the old dears get their own clothes back from the laundry. I heard once about a place where they washed the teeth in one great big bowl and just dished them out again. “The whole point of the Project is that it’s supposed to be a shopping experience. Not a-”