SCOTLAND ZEN and the art of SOCIAL WORK Read online

  Chapter 6

  Friday 9th May

  The early symptoms of Huntington's disease are sometimes overlooked. This is because they are mild at first and people without the disease can have the same symptoms.

  First thing Friday morning Malcolm Gray is waiting for me in my office. I was forewarned by Aileen on my way in,

  ‘Manic Mr. Malcolm is waiting for you, in your room, monkey pie.’

  Malky is fortyish, tall and skinny and permanently nervy. He has dark red hair which sticks up in a ‘finger in the light socket’ style, and his clothes look like he sleeps in them, they hang on him like a scarecrows flapping suit. He is pacing my small room tidying the desk as he passes, and at the same time is checking his car in the car park out the back window every ten seconds or so. We all tend to do a bit of that.

  ‘Malky, what’s happening, you’re on the ball early today.’

  ‘Sorry Tommy, we have a ‘break in’ in Newarthill and we need you to be there, just in case.’

  Malcolm has been an officer with the R.S.P.C.A. for the last twenty years and ‘break-in’ to him doesn’t mean a robbery, but an impending forced entry into an abandoned house to rescue an animal, in this case, a dog. My presence is requested, just in case any children or Grannies have been abandoned in the house along with the dog.

  Malcolm’s renowned manic behaviour hides a big soft heart for animals and a total dedication to his job. He is well known for saying,

  ‘If folks are feckless with their animals, they’ll be feckless with their children, both soft targets,’ and in a more enigmatic strain, ‘folks with sloping shoulders shouldn’t be allowed to own dogs.’

  I persuade him to come to Newarthill in my car, as his driving style can leave me with the shakes for three days. He tends to drive straight over mini roundabouts without even noticing, and will stop and abandon his car anywhere, crossroads or traffic lights if he sees a stray dog.

  This isn’t the first time and it certainly won’t be the last that a desperate family has done a moonlight, but left the dog behind. This may be because the dog has now become a financial liability, or maybe it’s to try and fool the housing department that they’ll come back and pay the rent arrears someday soon. Meanwhile the poor dog starts to howl and chew the wallpaper and Malcolm and the Police are called out to the rescue.

  Dangerous breeds of dogs are often kept by families in lieu of house insurance, as a deterrent to burglars and to give the hard-man of the house some macho status. Very sadly, the novelty soon wears off, and women and small children are often seen out exercising enormous Rottweilers or snorting Pit-bulls, while the hard man sits at home drinking tea and watching day-time television.

  The ‘break in’ is the end of the line, it is potentially very dangerous, and of course the whole street turns out to watch the spectacle.

  There is quite a carnival air in the street with children playing round their mothers, and an opportunist ice-cream van doing a brisk trade. There is not a dog in sight, as Malcolm is a well-known figure, and who knows what dog he will ‘rescue’ given the slightest provocation.

  Thankfully, this time, it’s all dealt with swiftly and professionally, the police put the door in and Malky like a magician, produces a Tupperware bowl of Chum for the poor demented German Shepherd. The house is checked and found empty, and then the dog is put on a leash and has to be persuaded into my car. Why didn’t I let Malky bring his van, I always forget about this bit.

  Malky sits in the back seat with this enormous, slavering, flea infested dog. His tongue grows teeth and he is ranting and raving about how people should be subjected to psychological testing before owning any animal. At times like this his mannerisms go into overdrive. I glance in the mirror and he is patting the dog, shaking his head and blinking rapidly to keep back tears.

  This is why I love Malky, he has a heart like marshmallow and the dog miraculously quietens at his touch, but for him I would still recommend Ritalin in steady doses.

  Back in the office I sit at my desk staring into the middle distance, hoping that Aileen will bring me my messages and one will be from Mags, breathless to speak to me. Harry strolls into my office and starts tidying up and moving some files from the floor to a chair, I think he and Malcolm may be trying to make a point.

  Harry has three new cases to offload and thought that I might be getting bored with what I’ve got, he thinks that a change of social worker is good for the long term clients every so often, as they can tell their life stories over again to a different face. I start to look through the files when Aileen sticks her head round the door,

  ‘Messages for you, huggy bear,’

  Alleluia, one of the pink message slips is the one I want. The words jumps off the page at me like fleas. ‘Please call me as I need advice on a family medical matter,’ Margaret O’Hara.

  Harry reads this over my shoulder and I say,

  ‘Forget the new cases Boss I might have to concentrate on this one for a while.’ He smiles and says to Aileen,

  ‘He may have a dichotomy here.’

  ‘I think you mean a dilemma, Harry, for God’s sake, and I don’t have one.’ He may of course be developing a psychic trend.

  He quickly allocates me another elderly case and walks off with Aileen, hoping to receive a ‘lovey or ducky something’ or even a ‘treacle toes’ from her but she doesn’t oblige him. Her loyalty to me is touching.

  Alone again I think about Margaret and her family.

  What a disease this is. Changes in personality can occur at the onset and some compulsive or anti social behaviour in the extreme Often there is an abuse of alcohol, which can mask the loss of muscle control and personality changes. Yes I’ve read all the books and reports, I can quote them.

  Still Friday 9th may

  My son comes running in from school, breathless,

  ‘You only grow when you’re sleeping,’ he delivers with confidence.

  ‘Fantastic John, if you go to bed early every night you could be the biggest boy in your class.’

  His eyes are slits of suspicion, and a wee bit of regret at sharing this nugget.

  ‘There’s a procession at the grotto tonight’ he says, brightening up again, ‘can I go?’

  Of course, how could I forget this is the beginning of May, the month of Mary, which is celebrated in Carfin with a deluge of prayers hymns and processions.

  ‘No problem kids, why don’t we all go, it’s going to be a lovely night.’ The sky is clear and there is not a breath of wind, it really feels like spring. There’s not much on telly anyway, four channels and nothing to worth watching. Theresa immediately drags Rosie into the bedroom to help her choose what she is going to wear, they can choose up to a point but I will draw the line at the tap shoes.

  Processions in the grotto were part of my growing up. It wasn’t so much a religious thing, it was me and Kate dressed up in white socks and sandals, tartan pinafores and of course ribbons in our hair. I can still hear my mother’s voice,

  ‘Kathleen, Margaret, stand still to get your hair done, I haven’t got elastic arms, and on the peril of your life, get these socks dirty. Peter, put something on Michael’s hair to flatten it down, he looks like a scarecrow.’

  Mam fussed and fretted and got us all looking just grand. The best thing was that family feeling, all walking out together on a warm May evening, Mam and Dad walking ahead. We always dawdled behind chatting and waving to friends. Mickey was like a little cut down man with his long trousers and brylcreamed waves in a sharp shed.

  It was always Dad who would stop and turn around looking for us, checking we were still there and safe. It seemed to be only the children and women who actually walked in the processions around the grounds of the grotto. For the men it was more of a social get together on the way for a pint later, but it was magical when they added their rough deep voices to the rowdier hymns.

  How we loved the taped music and the singing in the open air. The decades of the rosary droning just
below conscious thought, and the church bells being rung for the celebration.

  Most of my early religious beliefs have dropped away from me gradually and painlessly, like a snake shedding several skins. This has caused me no guilt or heartache, but give me a whiff of incense or a verse of Ave Maria and I whiz back through the years and recognise that little girl again with the white socks and bunches in my hair, walking hand in hand with Kate in the spring procession. We were very secure then, we accepted that everybody loved us, including God.

  So yes, we’ll get dressed up and I’ll take my children to the Grotto tonight, and hope that they can store up gentle memories like mine, that will last their lifetime.

  I’ll also score some Blue Peter points from Mam and Kate, as they are sure to be there.