SCOTLAND ZEN and the art of SOCIAL WORK Read online



  SCOTLAND

  ZEN

  AND THE

  ART OF

  SOCIAL WORK

  COPYRIGHT

  BY JANETTE SKINNER

  Copyright 2011 JANETTE SKINNER

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my family who put up with the writing and rewriting, late dinners and missed appointments. It is also dedicated to the good people of Carfin, in my opinion, the salt of the earth.

  AUTHORS NOTE

  This story is set in a real place called Carfin. The people in the story are not real or based on any real people. If you think you recognise yourself or any of your friends or family in this story, I will be delighted as that will mean I have made it real for you

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  chapter 1 Monday 5th may

  chapter 2 Thursday 8th May

  chapter 3 still Thursday 8th may

  chapter 4 still Thursday 8th May

  chapter 5 still Thursday 8th May

  chapter 6 Friday 9th May

  chapter 7 Monday 12th May

  chapter 8 Tuesday 13th May

  chapter 9 Wednesday 14th May

  chapter 10 still Wednesday 14th May

  chapter 11 Thursday 15th May

  chapter 12 Friday 16th May

  chapter 13 Monday 19th May

  chapter 14 still Monday 19th May

  chapter 15 Tuesday 20th May

  chapter 16 Wednesday 21st May

  chapter 17 Friday 21st may

  chapter 18 still Friday 21st May

  chapter 19 Sunday 25th May

  chapter 20 Monday 26th May

  chapter 21 Tuesday 27th May

  chapter 22 Wednesday 28th May

  chapter 23 Thursday 29th May

  chapter 24 Friday 29th May

  chapter 25 still Friday 29th May

  chapter26 still Friday 29th May

  chapter27 Monday 2nd June

  chapter 28 still Monday 2nd June

  chapter 29 still Monday 2nd June

  chapter 30 Tuesday 3rd June

  chapter 31 still Tuesday 3rd June

  chapter 32 Wednesday 4th June

  chapter 33 still Wednesday 4th June

  chapter 34 Friday 6th June

  chapter 35 Saturday 7th June

  chapter 36 Monday 9th June

  CHAPTER 1

  Monday 5th may

  Huntington's disease, also known as Huntington’s chorea is an inherited disorder that causes degeneration of the brain cells. This results in a progressive loss of mental ability, control of movement, and changes in personality.

  This is the routine. John gets dropped off at school, ten minutes before the bell, enough time for a quick game of football, which is the most important thing in his life. I walk on along the main road to the top of the village with my girls to call on my Mother. I do hope she has her happy head on today, makes me a cup of tea, and spoils her granddaughters for a wee while.

  the door. These variations in her tolerance levels depend on what gossip she’s heard about me during the week. I’ve been known to smoke in the street, forgotten to give John his packed lunch, or tried to sneak in late to Mass on Sunday. This last offence being mortally sinful in her eyes, on a par with armed robbery or assault. Mam and I have what is very trendily called a fragile relationship, a bit like a cracked mirror, ready to fall out the frame on any day.

  We walk smartly, as there’s a chill in the air, it’s the beginning of May, but the sun is a weak, pale disc in the sky, not giving a bit of heat, and there was a light frost earlier, after all, this is springtime in Carfin, in the west of Scotland. It has been said we don’t have a climate, just lots and lots of weather.

  Theresa and Rosie have pink hats, scarves, gloves and jackets, they look like little pixies, their cheeks reddened with the cold.

  ‘Hello hen, come away in out of the chill,’ Mam says.

  So far so good.

  ‘My, those girls look lovely, (a touch of the Miss Jean Brodie) but don’t they always?’

  This is definitely a good day. Tea is offered, and I smile genuinely with relief.

  ‘That would be lovely Mam.’

  Of course I could do with a cup of tea, or maybe something more fortifying. I’ve already done a shift this morning, got the kids up, washed, dressed, fed and out the door ready for the walk to school. I’ve also put the washing on, made the beds, smoked my last cigarette and slapped wee Rosie on her precious, delicate wee white hand, for spilling milk and frosties down her clean cardigan. No, I’m not bitter really, but I certainly could do with a cup of tea and a few quid for fags. I’m not a complete addict at the moment, but might be working up to it. I do like to smoke a few a day, but I won’t push my mother yet, let the girls get a bit of attention first.

  The watchword in our family and in our village, Carfin, is respectability. Mam is respectability personified, she is always modestly dressed, neat and tidy and her house is as clean as chastity. In her world, the most mortal of sins is giving people something to gossip about, as she says it; ‘filling people’s mouths’.

  Mary Coyle, my Mam, is a respectable widow. She is tall and trim, with dark naturally curly hair which, thank god, we all inherited, and grey-green eyes. She is Mother to two daughters and a son. Kate is the oldest, Mam’s pride and joy, and slowly evolving as her clone. Michael is the youngest, hard working and handsome. He marches to a drummer only he hears, and Margaret in the middle, well, I do my best.

  Kate is safely married to a good Catholic man, Philip Brady, I am separated, and Mickey is, at the moment, sort of on his own.

  My dad Peter Coyle, passed away ten years ago, appropriately on Saint Joseph’s day, his anniversary was last month. He’s now immortalized, by my Mother, as a latter day saint. The reality is a whole lot closer to him having been a hard working, decent Lanarkshire man with the clay feet of a Friday night binger.

  From family and friends he always gets a good press, which I suppose is a tiny bit of compensation for dying prematurely at the age of fifty of the Scottish Disease.

  We don’t need lottery-money funded research or feasibility studies to analyse the incidence of heart disease in Scotland. It surrounds us like the adipose batter on our fish and chips, black pudding, and fritters, along with chocolate and fizzy drinks, it makes us the sickest nation in Europe with also the worst dental health.

  Peter Coyle was one of a dedicated band of village men who, as well as working hard at the steelworks, kept the Grotto in good repair, carrying on the tradition of their fathers, mostly miners, who helped old Canon Taylor live his dream and build a replica Lourdes in Carfin.

  After a visit to Lourdes in France in the 1920’s, the young priest, Father Taylor was so impressed by the French grotto dedicated to Saint Bernadette, that he wanted to copy this and build a place of pilgrimage for the Scottish people. This may be hard to comprehend as the original grotto in France was built round the place where some miracles supposedly took place. Maybe father Taylor thought miracles would happen after the fact.

  With the help of lots of free willing labour from out of work miners and a very large piece of parkland owned by the Church the Grotto was created. It was his fabulous dream come true. Lanarkshire men were used to hard work and hard times, just the qualities needed to build a national garden of prayer from a bit of wasteland.

  There had to be an upside to the general strike in 1925.

  Uniquely, Carfin is the only village known which contains a Catholic Pilgrimage Grotto, a centre for Muslim Cultural Learning, known locally as the Paki Mosque, and a greyhound racing track. There is also a group of Lithuanians and some Polish families who complete the
bit of colour and ethnicity in our village.

  ‘I have some bad news for you hen, your Uncle John passed away last night,’

  My mother delivers this with a sad expression her eyes are lowered and her hands clasped on her lap. No wonder she has her happy head on today, she loves a crisis. In an emergency, give her an aircraft crash, a bomb attack in Belfast, or a famine, and she comes into her own. She seems to be constantly knitting blankets for refugees or filling shoe boxes with soap and toothpaste to send to orphanages somewhere in Rumania or the Baltics. (Hopefully they will end up with better teeth than us.) Helping to organize this family funeral will be child’s play to her, she’s the expert.

  ‘The funeral will probably be on Thursday, and, as you well know we’ll all be expected to be there, don’t forget to arrange a babysitter.’ She says.

  This death is no shock. Uncle John, my Dad’s younger brother, had been in and out of hospital for as long as I can remember, although the details of his illness had always been a bit vague, some kind of nervous debility or breakdown. He was a nice kindly old man, and I remember visiting him at his sister’s house, my aunty Therese’s in Motherwell a few times over the years. He never married. He moved in with Auntie Therese when his health got bad and he had to stop work. Counting my dad, there was three in their family, now only Therese was left of that generation.

  John was always talked about very fondly, in fact thinking about it now, he had sometimes been talked about in the past tense, as if he had already died, poor man.

  My mother spent some time explaining to the girls that Uncle John had passed away, and was probably already in heaven, but it would be for the best if they just said a wee prayer to help him on his journey. Death is no longer a mystery to my children. We have had a cat who was run over by a motorbike, and two budgies dead of a virus. We also had some tropical fish that ate their own babies; an experience I don’t ever wish to go through with my children again.

  Nevertheless, they are beginning to understand that people and animals sometimes leave and don’t come back. They also love the drama of tears when they haven’t actually hurt themselves, so they manage to cry a bit during the prayer and Mam was well impressed. She calls them her sensitive wee souls.

  A Thursday funeral means a reception into the church on Wednesday night. This is an exclusively Catholic tradition, part of the very long goodbye. All the mourners gather at the church in the evening and the coffin is brought in to stay overnight, ready for the Mass in the morning. A few years ago the relatives and friends would sit vigil with the coffin till morning, but sadly all the churches have to be locked against robbers and vandals these days so the coffin sits alone.

  This now seems like a good time to bring up the subject of money. Timing can be everything.

  ‘Can you lend me some money till next week Mam?’ I ask.

  ‘No bother hen, but don’t you be spending it on cigarettes will you?’

  ‘Okay, don’t worry.’ I give her a kiss on the cheek as she hands over the money. We should have a crisis every week if it makes her so amenable.