by Ramesh Gupta

When I was taken into care by Social Services, I considered it a betrayal of the most sacred trust. As far as I was concerned, my mother should have fought to keep me. But she didn’t and so I had none.

*

I was brought up in the Gorbals area of Glasgow in the 1970s. My parents were virtually illiterate, never having needed any form of education beyond that required to obtain an income of some kind. So that was how it had to be for me.

During my formative years I was expected to find whatever jobs I could to earn and add to the family coffers, which were, for the most part, completely empty. I did odd jobs for neighbours to earn a few pennies and sometimes a shilling or two. Once I was even given half a crown for helping Mrs McCormack, the woman who lived in the tenement flat opposite ours, to post a letter to her sister, to let her know she would not be visiting that summer as she was too ill. She was the only person for whom I had any respect. She always remembered my birthday with a gift and gave me socks or a scarf or something useful at Christmas and a chocolate egg at Easter. She must have been more ill than I thought because she was dead within a month.

That was the most I earned legitimately. I soon learned that it was much easier to acquire what I needed by other means. Shoplifting became a regular occurrence. At first I was scared but, having been taught the craft by particularly experienced artisans in the neighbourhood, I soon threw myself headlong into my exhilarating profession. Fostered by the growing admiration of my peers, I went from strength to strength. Initially, I stole what I needed, mostly food. Soon, I was stealing what I wanted. Then I stole what others wanted.

I soon had enough money to keep me in relative luxury. What I stole (or “knocked” as we referred to the art) but didn’t want, I bartered with other thieves or sold. I even established a “knock to order” service, which was in great demand, especially among adults. They would let me know what goods they wanted and, if we agreed an acceptable price, the goods would be procured, money would be paid and the goods handed over at a knock-down price, pun fully intended.

*

I learned to stay out for as long as possible. Sometimes that meant not coming home at all. In my early teenage years this introduced me to the lowest of the lowlifes. I had my first taste of whiskey at 13. Fortunately, it was disgusting; it put me off alcohol for life.

I very quickly saw what potheads the drunks and druggies were and how cheaply they sold their bodies and souls. Dunder-heeds, I called them. Whatever they used to be, now they were pathetic. No pride, no dignity. Nothing.

*

When I returned home to my tenement flat early one morning, I found my mother staring into space. She didn’t scream or shout as was her custom. She and my violently abusive father had made it all but impossible for me to stay at home. Instead of turning a deaf ear to her usual cacophony of curses and complaints, I saw her looking vacantly in my direction, her eyes red from crying. No “Where have ye been a’ this time!” No “Oot a’ night and not a word from ye!” Not even “Dae ye no care aboot me? About how worried ah’ve been a’ this time?”

She said nothing, turned her head and resumed her vacant stare into the emptiness of her ebbing life. I climbed into my bed and slept soundly that entire Saturday, waking in the late afternoon to find her still sitting on the settee in the living room, in much the same position. When I told her I was going out, all she said was, “Your father’ll no be commin’ back. So, ye’er on yer ain noo.”

I thought nothing of it. My father had left many times; he always returned.

*

It was when I was in the nearby park that I saw a police van draw up. A friend shouted something about smelling bacon and fled in the opposite direction. I turned and stood transfixed. I had run from the police many times and never been caught. This time, however, was different. The driver stayed in the car, looking in my direction. Besides, the pig coming towards me was walking. Usually he would be running, but this one stared intently at me as he strode.

When he came within talking distance, I saw the blank expression on his face. It was me he wanted but not because I had been caught for an act of criminality. He wanted to give me something: information.

He asked my name; I gave it. He asked my address; I gave it although he well knew who I was and where I lived.

“Yer fether’s deed. Ye’ve tae come wi’ me,” he said, without emotion, turning and walking back towards the Black Maria.

“How come?” I finally asked.

“Cus ye’er mither disnae want any mair tae dae wi’ ye.”

He hadn’t understood. I wanted to know how my father had died, but I knew not to pursue the matter. I followed him and sat silently in the back of the van. I tried to convince myself that they had made a mistake, that it was someone else’s father who had died. But even as the thought swirled in my mind, I knew I was wrong. Pigs didn’t make mistakes like that.

I never saw my mother again.

*

After spending a week fostered to a family in the East End, I was taken to Social Services. A slim woman with a kindly face, dressed in a white blouse, grey jacket, matching skirt and smart shoes, smiled and introduced herself. She was Susan Hendry, Mrs McCormack’s sister. She wanted to take me to live with her in Birmingham. I later discovered that Mrs McCormack’s last letter had served to extract a promise, that if anything should ever happen to my family and her, she would take care of me as her own.

I spat a profanity at her.

“Now, young man,” she said in a soft but firm voice. “There’s nothing you can say that will shock me. I lived in Glasgow for more years than I care to recall, so there’s not much I haven’t heard. But if you and I are to get along, there’ll be no more of that. So…” she softened her tone, “…what do you say? How about it? I’ll not nag you and you’ll not use that sort of language. It’s not fitting for a fine young man about to set out on a grand adventure.”

She wanted me to live with her in Birmingham, wherever that was. But I was not about to leave the only city I had ever known and where I had established and built up a massive (well, sizeable) and successful business. And what about my friends? I knew no one in Birmingham. No, I was staying in Glasgow.

“Well, if that’s how you feel, I’ll respect your decision,” she said. “The fact is, your mother is quite ill and likely to be so for some considerable time.”

Her candour might have offended some, but to me she sounded like someone to whom time was a precious commodity. And she smelled really good. Not that overbearing, cheap perfume my social worker used. No, this scent was the vaguest hint of something quite beautiful.

“Perhaps we can compromise,” she continued. “You look like a reasonable sort, so stay with me for, let’s say, a month before you decide. Then, if you still feel you want to come back here, I’ll bring you.”

I was taken by her refusal to be perturbed by my profanity. I was drawn to her. She not only smelled good, she reeked of money. Her clothes were classy and her accent (West End Glasgow, despite her years in Birmingham) was firm without sounding commanding. This was a woman who was used to having her way through persuasion. She was not a great looker but clearly had been in her youth… and her smile was sincere. I had the distinct impression that she cared about me, although why, I could barely begin to guess.

It was her or an orphanage. There was no point in resisting.

*

Susan Hendry did not live in Birmingham. This middle-aged, childless widow lived in the country, just outside the city. She had an impressive, large house placed slap-bang in the centre of a one-acre garden. There were a variety of flowers and bushes at the front and sides and a massive lawn with fruit trees in the back. As a full-time gardener was employed to look after all the gardens in the gated community of five equally grand houses, the whole area was immaculately manicured. Susan’s husband had been a diplomat so she had always lived well. I later discovered that he had been killed some years before on a mission in the Middle East.

I had my own room – one of seven, with my own en-suite – which looked onto fields beyond the back garden. For two days I feigned a bad mood at being forcibly removed from my beloved Glasgow. I shunned the children of my own age to whom Susan introduced me, although all were polite. The food she cooked was delicious, but I pretended the broccoli and carrot soup were bland as were the trout, the pork chops and the roast chicken. In truth, it was the best food I had ever tasted and in secret, I sneaked out of bed each night and gorged myself on the leftovers in the fridge. I was used to chips from the local chippy, drenched in salt and vinegar.

I passed the first week in a detached manner, trying not to engage her in conversation, and feigned anger if I caught her looking in my direction. She always tried to start a conversation when we sat at the table. That was another new experience for me, sitting at a table with crockery, cutlery and crystal glasses. But I was resolute in my determination not to enjoy myself.

Over the course of the next two weeks, I engaged Susan in a series of battles. She was as cordial and accommodating as she could be while I was as difficult as possible. I unfortunately liked her more and more. Her patience, tolerance and understanding of a young boy’s need to grieve for the loss of his parents, home and old life made it almost impossible for me not to wish she were my real mother. The first time I felt that, I retched, feeling I had betrayed my own flesh and blood. Nevertheless, faced with the relentless onslaught of Susan’s compassion and understanding, I was soon and inevitably defeated.

One morning at breakfast, she served me potato scones, a fried egg and bacon.

“Would you like salt for your egg?” she asked as she took her seat opposite me.

I thought for a moment, opened my mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. Breakfast, like all the meals so far, were normally conducted in a one-way conversation. But right then, I changed my mind. “Yes,” I said, in barely a whisper. She stopped in the middle of buttering a slice of toast and looked at me expectantly. “Please,” I added, breaking eye contact. I may have won a few battles; Susan won the war.

*

Very soon the four weeks with Susan drew to a close, and I stayed. I had been enrolled in the local private school the other kids attended. My lack of literacy was immediately and embarrassingly apparent, but with extra support and homework I was soon able to hold my own with the rest of the class. There was no doubt that Glasgow was now far behind me. As much as I loved that city and as much as it would forever be part of me, my life was now in England with Susan. Here I had made friends who expected nothing more than a conversation and fair game of football from me. 

I had almost forgotten my previous life after a year of living with Susan. I liked my school and even enjoyed many of my lessons. I determined I would study English at university and try to break into journalism. Susan took on extra tutors to help with maths, physics, chemistry and biology. I was never going to be a doctor or a scientist, but I still needed passing grades to go to university so I didn’t put up too much resistance. Besides, all the other kids had tutors; there was no shame in wanting to learn.

One of the girls in my class was given a pair of hamsters by her father and I, along with the other children, was invited to come see them. They were cute, I thought, but hardly worth all the attention they garnered. Nevertheless, I had learned to keep disparaging judgements to myself. I had learned that in certain company, words hurt far more than a clenched fist.

That evening I told Susan about the hamsters, in glowing terms. That turned out to be a mistake. The next day she brought a rabbit home, complete with a hutch.

“I thought you might like a pet too, seeing how you took to the hamsters,” she announced. It was large, white and fluffy, not at all what I wanted. Nevertheless, I thanked her and asked my friends round to see it. When asked its name I realised I didn’t even know what sex it was. So I called it Bunny.

For the next two weeks I fed it, cleaned its hutch and tried to hold it and play with it as often as I could, but no matter how hard I tried it always seemed to know I didn’t like it. When I approached, it would cower in a corner, looking at me with frightened eyes. When I did hold it, it shivered, trembling with fear. Frightened or not, it certainly ate enough. Almost every day it seemed to grow bigger. 

Three weeks later I woke in the cool light of a spring morning. I showered and dressed as normal and went whistling downstairs to join Susan who had prepared breakfast. “We have a guest this morning,” she announced mysteriously as I munched on lightly buttered toast. I saw no one else in the house and hadn’t heard anyone arrive. But that was all Susan would say, insisting we finish eating before she revealed anything more.

After breakfast Susan led me into the back garden to the rabbit hutch. There, nestled amongst the hay at the back of the hutch was the rabbit. At first, I didn’t understand.

“Patience,” Susan whispered. “Don’t make any loud noises.”

Slowly, she coaxed the rabbit from the corner. There, almost hidden from view, was a tiny rabbit. Bunny had given birth! Unlike its mother, the baby was pink and smooth. It had with no fur at all! Its eyes were closed tight as if the sunlight was too bright. Its head was disproportionately large for its body and its chest moved rapidly. Occasionally its whole body twitched. It was ugly!

*

That evening after school, I brought my friends round to see it. The rabbit was there but there was no sign of the baby. All I could see was hay in the corner where the baby had been. I was confused and embarrassed. When my friends had gone, I asked Susan what had happened to the baby.

“Rabbits look fluffy and sweet,” she said as she sat in an armchair by the lit hearth in the living room. “But we often forget that rabbits are not really meant to be caged in a hutch. They prefer to be running around causing havoc to farmers’ lettuces and carrots. Mother rabbits, like any mother for that matter, want the best for their children. Sometimes, however, if the baby is not right or ill or in danger of not turning out right, the mother will eat it to save it the pain of a bad life.”

Suddenly and inexplicably, I felt a tremendous urge to go back to the hutch. Bunny was there, as usual looking straight at me, nose twitching. But now she was in the middle of the hutch, no longer cowering in the corner. Bunny’s eyes held no fear. I was suddenly reminded of my mother, caged in that dreadful, tiny tenement flat, never able to run free as she would have wished, confined to a cage by a husband who was self-serving and a son who was out of control.

For the first time in my life, I felt a tear running down my face, without a preceding slap from my father. I became aware of Susan standing behind me.

“Are you all right, my dear?” she asked. I didn’t answer, my head filled with guilt and remorse. “Mothers always love their children and do what’s best for them,” she offered in her soft voice. “There was probably something wrong with the baby and she couldn’t protect it or do what’s best for it. It was the kindest thing Bunny could do.”

She placed a hand on my shoulder and felt me shudder. “Are you crying?”

I turned around and looked at her, silent tears dripping from my face.

Ramesh Gupta was born in India but raised in Glasgow, Scotland during its turbulent, gang-driven 1970s and 1980s. He has a background in healthcare delivery. He is also a writer of short stories and traditional, epic book-length poetry (both traditionally published). He believes in the power of storytelling to heal the worst of wounds.