SCOTLAND ZEN and the art of SOCIAL WORK Page 6

  Chapter 5

  Still Thursday 8th May

  Huntington's disease causes progressive damage to cells in areas of the brain called the basal ganglia and cerebral cortex. These areas are involved in your control of movement, planning, motivation and personality.

  ‘Daddy got us ice cream, and got you a packet of fags,’ John shouts as I walk in the door

  ‘Fantastic,’ I say, then I lean over the back of the couch to whisper in Charlie’s ear,

  ‘You have done really well so far, thanks for last night and today but I hope you’re not angling for a shag, because it’s not going to happen, my man, not this time.’

  ‘No worries hen,’ he says, ‘I’m off to Mother’s for dinner, chicken and roast potatoes, better than an orgasm any day.’

  We have a good laugh at this; it’s an old joke, part of our history. Charlie used to say to me,

  ‘Your roast potatoes make me feel so good, we never need to have sex again.’

  He says his goodbyes to the children and promises to see them next week. John is already getting old enough not to have very high expectations of his dad and the girls seem to forget his promises, which is a sort of blessing as is lessens the disappointments when he doesn’t turn up for a while. As the door closes, Theresa says,

  ‘What’s an orgasm Mam?’ Before I can take a sharp intake of breath John confidently declares,

  ‘It’s like a type of sneezing, and it makes you feel happy.’

  I’m speechless, what on earth are they teaching my son at school?

  We all settle on the couch later with our pyjamas on, watching telly and eating bowls of ice cream. My kids are lovely, really lovely, innocent normal healthy and growing in confidence.

  Rosie is the baby, she is nearly three, my little surprise package just before Charlie and I called it a day. She is still chubby with dimples at her wrists and knees. She has light reddish brown curly hair, and dark brown eyes, just like me but a lot prettier, thank God. She is a bit clumsy and cries very easily. A real heart breaker at crying in fact, big fat instant tears. She is spoiled by all of us and will probably get everything she wants in life by wile.

  Granny Mary says Rosie’s tears bags are too near her eyes, but a bit of crying makes your eyes sparkle. I’ve enrolled her in a toddler dance class to see if she can pick up a bit of grace and balance. No change yet, but its early days. I’m sure Ginger Rogers must have gone through an awkward chubby stage.

  Theresa is the middle child, slim and pretty with dark wavy hair and hazel eyes, like her granny, she is five and well ready for school after summer. She’s a dreamer, she lives in a world of make believe half the time. With her dolls and her brother and sister, she makes up elaborate scenarios involving plane travel and real holidays, both of which she has no experience, but she does watch a lot of television. She is also a grass. There should be one in every family, the child that a mother can depend on to tell everything with the minimum of interrogation.

  John, my eldest is handsome and very articulate, like his Father. Dark good looks run in his half Irish family. He has very dark almost black waves and greeny-brown eyes. He is full of second hand knowledge he learns in school, or in the playground. How dogs have babies, what a scabie is, how his pal Khalid goes barefoot at home, how girls have teabags too near their eyes, how vomit always looks like carrots, the list is endless. He comes home from school almost every day with some such nugget of wisdom. Last week is was;

  ‘George McLaughlin is probably a robot.’

  Poor wee George uses phonic ear equipment, and I suppose the wires and earpieces could spark the imagination.

  Later when the kids are all asleep, I sit at my bedroom window and smoke a couple of cigarettes. I don’t really think I’m addicted, but I like smoking. I like the conviviality and the brotherhood of smoking in company. Sharing an ashtray, sharing a cigarette, sharing a lighter, sharing a need. I also like smoking alone, it feels like a private ritual before bed, it has to be private because if Theresa sees me smoking she grasses on me to her Granny. Mam believes firmly in frugality and cigarettes cost money.

  I think the idea of sneezing and orgasms is rather nice, now that I’ve got over the shock, but it’s a long time since I had the chance at the latter, I try not to dwell on it.

  It’s late now and the street outside my window is very quiet, my thoughts return to Tommy no-name. What if he really does like me, he seems nice and if he’s looking for a thirty something with three small suitcases of baggage, and some fetching stretch marks, he might just get lucky.

  I think about the funeral and the strange things the priest said, I really will need to sort that out. I also think about the good feeling of being in a close-knit family and community which being at a funeral sometimes brings home to you.

  There are times when I love the security, when my kids can play in the street and all strangers are scrutinised as potential robbers or abusers. There again, sometime I hate it, and dream of living in an anonymous flat in Glasgow or Edinburgh, where you are not related to your neighbours and nobody asks if you’ve been ill if you miss Sunday Mass.

  I go back in and check the kids again, all sleeping soundly, they are really beautiful. I am so lucky, lonely sometimes, but lucky.