Escaping from Him Page 4

  "Wherever you think best. I'm not bothered."

  We pulled into a lorry park for an overnight stay. Douggie retreated into the back of the lorry's cab to get comfortable and I sat nervously, still part of me expecting him to appear with a chloroform-soaked hanky. He didn't, of course, and eventually I fell asleep across the seats. I woke to the orange light of the dawn across a car park full of lorries, the sun shining on their bodywork and giving the whole scene an out of this world feeling. This feeling intensified when, joining the dawn chorus of birds, was a pre-breakfast show presenter on Radio Two playing cheerful music and being far too chirpy for five a.m.

  Douggie appeared from the sleeping area, threw on a coat and boots and left for the nearby trucker's café. He reappeared with a black coffee for both of us. When I started to say I didn't drink black coffee, he pushed it gently into my hands and explained we were "away in a quarter hour," so I might like to think again.

  A few more comfortable hours passed, during which he told me about his two sons, what they did, how they'd so quickly grown from little shitting, puking machines with dummies and rattles to big puking, drinking, shagging machines with facial hair and no eye contact.

  I continued with my story about how my made-up Mum and Dad had been united via a Ford Cortina, and he seemed to enjoy the diversion and amusement the fantasy provided.

  We approached a large city, and I asked if it was Glasgow.

  "Right enough, aye."

  He weaved our way through the gradually thinner and more full of traffic streets until he reached the city centre. Somehow, he managed to navigate the lorry until he dropped me right in the city centre, near a row of shops selling tartan hats and sticks of Glasgow rock and Scottish shortbread. Tourists swarmed to the shops, taking pictures next to a man in a kilt playing bagpipes.

  This was Scotland alright. And I'd made it in one piece.

  Douggie stopped the lorry. "This alright?"

  "Looks perfect. Thanks again. Good luck with Shona and the boys."

  "You too, good luck with the new Ford. I hope Scotland means he's the right person you wanted to be."

  He waved and I slammed the lorry door. He disappeared leaving a cloud of diesel fumes and the smell of air brakes.

  I walked along the road, passing tourist shop after tourist shop, all selling the same authentic Scottish wares, all probably imported from China. I shook the cynical thought from my mind. I am not Darryl any more, I am Ford. And Ford lives in Glasgow.

  I felt thirsty so I paused outside the next shop, which looked like it would sell cans of drink and not just tartan shortbread. I stared at its window full of little cards with hand written notes on. In front of the window was a crowd of men, talking to each other in a language I didn't understand, all leaning towards the cards, writing down details on bits of paper.

  Have they not heard of online notice boards like Gumtree in Scotland?

  I walked into the shop then I put the can of Coke I'd chosen on the counter and fumbled in my pocket for some coins.

  The woman behind the counter said in an accent as strong as Douggie's, "Alright there, hen?" She chewed and folded her arms across her bosom before adjusting her jet black back-combed beehive hairdo, "Is there anything else you'd like, hen?"

  "I don't … "

  "Not from round here are you, hen?" She patted her beehive again. "Just got off the coach, have ya? Come up from London have you, hen?"

  What was it with all the hens? What was she on about? Darryl would have just paid for the drink, smiled and left. But I wasn't him any more. I was Ford. And Ford hitch-hiked, slept in lorries with strangers, made up stories about his parents. I wasn't going to let this woman and her 'hens' and hairdo scare me, I was going to answer her question properly.

  "Right enough, hen. Bye." She looked to a customer stood behind me and took their paper and chocolates, scanned them and took the money.

  I turned to leave. Maybe I wasn't quite that new Ford person, not just yet.

  "Did you forget something, hen?"

  I was standing at the door, the busy street outside, full of tourists. The whole city of Glasgow ready for me to explore and see what it could offer me. I didn't believe in fate, but I did seem to have been pretty lucky on the old 'kindness of strangers' count over the past few days. Maybe this is where it runs out.

  "I said, did you forget something, hen?"

  I turned and walked back to the counter. "I've just got here, right, an, I don't suppose you've got any jobs as a photography assistant going begging, have you? On the cards outside, or is it all plumbers and builders?" I smiled and flicked the ring pull on the can.

  "No, hen, I don't," she smiled.

  I started to turn away, fiddling with the ring pull again.

  "But right enough, I know a man who has."

  I pulled the ring pull and Coke sprayed all over my top, down my arms and across my groin.

  "Alright there, hen? Shall I get you a wee paper towel?" She handed me some paper towels and told me about her brother who had just started up his own business as a photographer, and he meant to put an advert in her shop, but he didn't get round to it, "He's a busy man, my poor wee brother, so he always tells me. A busy and disorganised man. Is that any good, hen?"

  Is that any good? I could have hugged her, but as I leant in, I saw her eyes widening, and she held out her hands to stop me approaching further. "No need for that, hen. I haven't hugged my brother since the millennium so if you think you're coming near me, you've another think coming." She reached behind the counter wrote a name and number on a bit of paper then handed it to me.

  "Thanks, who shall I say sent me?"

  "Shona, tell Ewan, Shona sent you. Now come on, I've other customers to see to. I've to ring my long lost hubbie, Douggie, find out if he's back in town yet.” She waved me towards the door, adjusting her hair and checking her bright red nails. “Off you go, hen. Off you go." She looked behind me at the queue of customers.

  I left the shop, holding onto the piece of paper. Shona and Douggie, can't be the same. That's far too much of a coincidence, isn't it?

  Chapter 4

  We were in a smoky, very dirty pub in a less salubrious part of Glasgow. The clientèle didn't seem bothered about the smoking ban. I had tried to mention it to the landlady, a woman who could have been Shona's sister, with a big pile of bright red hair piled on top of her head, fixed with hairspray and bobby pins. I waved my hand in front of my face and handed over my money for the beer.

  "Summat the matter there, darlin'?" She rolled the 'r' and took my money, smiling.

  "It's just the smoke, I thought … "

  "Oh, you thought did you? Well, there's them down in London and there's us up here, and we don't always listen to what them lot tell us. You been in Scotland in the winter, have you?" She looked me up and down, taking in my full-on weedy thinness. "I can tell ya, it's not your namby pamby southern, London winter. Up here we get a proper two foot a' snow, breath freezing, icicles hanging off your beard winter. And I don't think it's right for my customers to stand outside freezing their tits off to have a wee smoke. You got a problem with that have you, hen?"

  Again with the hen. I really couldn't get the hang of this hen lark, was it a term of endearment or a threat? I looked around and two gnarled men stood at the bar, blowing smoke all over the place, a pair of large dogs on the floor between them.

  I smiled, briefly debated about pointing out that it was summer, thought better of it, and asked for a packet of pork scratchings, grabbed them and sat in a corner with a circular dark wood table, as far from the smoke as I could, without going outside.

  "Right you are, love. Right you are." She smiled behind the bar and moved onto the next customer, adjusting her hair on the way.

  A man with jet black hair, just like Shona's, but with some grey speckles, walked into the pub and nodded at the landlady, who started pulling him a pint. "Is there a -" he looked at the piece of paper in his hand "- Ford here?"

 
Like a little school boy, I put my hand up and stood.

  He walked to my table and held out his hand. We shook hands and I thought he would break mine. I smiled and said it was lovely to meet him.

  The landlady brought his drink over and stood next to the table with her arms folded across her chest, which had gone south many decades previously. "So, who's this wee lad you're talking to, then Ewan? He's not local is he?"

  Ewan looked at the landlady, supped his pint. "Just a bit of business. So if you don't mind." He smiled at me.

  Landlady sailed back to the bar where she stood, sucking on a cigarette like her life depended on it and staring at us through a fog of smoke.

  Ewan explained he was in the set up stage of the business, and it could all go wrong, no guarantees, but he wanted to make it work and he needed some help to do that. He said it was mainly family portraits, some school stuff, "Nothing too arty at the moment, but there's time for all that."

  I told him about the photography studios I'd worked in, listing their names and counting five on my fingers. He hadn't heard of any of them, but seemed impressed that I'd covered what he was doing: fashion, photography of objects - for a catalogue, endless hours sorting lights for a lawnmower and an iron, that sort of thing - as well as a brief stint doing animal photography at a studio in Kensington that catered for all the ladies who lunched and their little toy dogs.

  "Want another?" He looked at my empty glass.

  "No, no, I'm fine, thanks." I smiled and crinkled the pork scratching packet on the table.

  "More of them?"

  I nodded, not wanting to seem ungrateful or standoffish, but knowing I'd do a better interview without that second pint.

  He returned with a pint for each of us and some pork scratchings, putting them in front of me. "Get into that." He drank and opened the packet before helping himself to a few. "Don't mind do you?"

  I shook my head.

  "Why Scotland?" He looked at my drink. "Come on, you're not going to let it go to waste are ya?"

  I took a sip and told him about wanting a change from London, from the little flat, from the routine I'd got into down there. I said I'd never been to Scotland so it seemed like a good place to start if I wanted to get far away from London.

  He seized on that. "Why so far? Were you running from something? Or someone?"

  Another big sip of beer and I started to blather on about a change of scene being as good as a rest, almost believing it myself as I continued talking. Then, out of nowhere, I told him a story about The Proclaimers, the famous Scottish brothers who'd formed a group. "I got confused between The Proclaimers' song Five Hundred Miles, and The Pretenders' Two Thousand Miles, see." I took another sip and stared at him over the top of my glass. Bugger, that's it, I might as well go now. I've completely fucked this one up. I knew I shouldn't have taken the second pint. I was now just the wrong side of squiffy. I held the glass by my mouth and slowly sipped more beer, enjoying the sensation of being removed from what was happening in front of my eyes. If I carry on doing this, it'll be like I never said it. It'll be fine.

  Ewan laughed, at first a little titter, then it grew to a proper slapping his knees bellow. "It's only fifteen hundred miles difference! I like it. When can you start, young Ford?"

  Had he just offered me a job, on the spot, now? "Monday?"

  "Aye, Monday's fine. Nine o'clock, here's the address." He handed me a business card.

  He laughed to himself and said, "Fifteen hundred miles," a few times.

  Chapter 5

  I spent a few nights in a youth hostel, grateful for a bed, even if it was in a dorm with another eleven snoring, smelling men. I was relieved I had some cash with me. My joint account debit card had been swallowed by the cash point when I'd optimistically and naively tried to draw out some money.

  One morning in the first week, I found I'd already settled into a new routine with Ewan. I made us both a milky coffee - instant, two sugars - and got him a chocolate Hobnob for his breakfast. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I handed him his breakfast as he started to set up the lights and background for the first shoot of the day.

  "Tired?"

  "No, I'm fine."

  "C'm here, let me have a look at you, wee lad."

  This could go either way. I'd been in similar situations to this before, and it hadn't ended well. I trusted my instincts and knowledge of Ewan so far, and walked towards him.

  He held my eyes open. "You look pretty tired to me. Red they are. Where you been sleeping?"

  I walked to the desk and switched the computer on, making a big show of waiting for it to fire up so I could check the diary. "With friends. On their sofas." I stared at the computer screen intensely.

  "What's their names?"

  "Who?" Still staring at the computer screen.

  "These friends. Kind souls they must be."

  "Oh, err, it's been a few. Now let me see … " I looked at the ceiling and tried to think of a name. I caught a glimpse of a tree outside. "There's Ash." I counted on my finger. "Then last night I was at … " I looked at the computer. "Dell, he's a great friend, is Dell."

  Ewan put his hand up. "Enough, enough of this shite and bollocks. You don't know anyone in Glasgow. You told me when we first met. Fresh off the lorry, catching a lift from her husband, Shona said to me. So once again, where are you staying, young Ford?"

  I peered at the computer screen and noticed we had a family first thing, coming in for one of those family portraits, where you all look slightly angelic, with a little gauze of a halo round everyone's heads. "At the youth hostel in town." I looked at the desk.

  He clapped, smiling at me."There we are. Wasn't too hard was it?"

  I mumbled.

  "What's that? Speak up laddie."

  "I need a deposit if for somewhere to rent. But I don't have it, because, well, because I don't have any money." There, I'd said it. Sink or swim. I mentally prepared myself to get my bag and coat and never see him again.

  "How much you talking?"

  "For what?"

  "For a tutu. What do you think, a deposit?"

  "Two, three hundred quid. It's a lot less than in London."

  He walked to the desk, handed me a pile of notes. "Who do we have first, this morning? What sort of background are you thinking? Red velvet, or something a bit more subtle maybe?" He went back to fiddling with the lights.

  The kindness of this near stranger made my heart melt. I felt myself welling up and had to blink quickly as my eyes filled and blurred. Stupid, don't be so bloody stupid. "I'll pay you back."

  "Bloody right you will. I'm taking it out of your wages." He turned to look at me. "So, which is it, red velvet or white cotton, or maybe something else?"

  "It's a family first thing. We've got some woman later on, says she wants glamour shots."

  "We'll keep the red velvet for her, shall we? Get us another coffee and pick up a roll of white paper, we can hang it as the backdrop for the family, see what they want from there."

  Ewan told me which areas to avoid when flat hunting, and so I avoided living anywhere near the pub we'd first met in. He later told me it was a test, that pub. "To see how much you wanted the job. If you were prepared to meet me, fresh off the lorry from London, wet behind the ears, and in that pub, I knew you must have been pretty keen."

  Once I had my own room in a house share, I felt another part of myself unfolding inside.

  I showered early, before the others clogged up the bathroom, and left each morning, breathing the clean air deeply as I walked to work.

  I could have got a bus, but it saved me some money and meant I got to know my new city better. The novelty of being close enough to walk to work was such a welcome change from the crowded Tube in London. I noticed the sun's warmth on my face; the green leaves on the trees; the flowers in the parks as I walked past. I noticed, for the first time in a long time, my surroundings. I felt I had time to breathe, to feel how I was moving in my life, rather than having to rush from one
thing to the next, not sure why I was rushing, but always rushing nevertheless.

  I tried to explain this difference between these two ways of living to Ewan one day, over our traditional breakfast. I omitted any reference to Chris; I'd been very careful to never mention his name while in Scotland. I didn't want there to be any way he could easily trace me here. He listened, his feet on the desk as the computer whirred into action for the day. "I went there once - to London. For a trip to see the tourist sites - Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, all that shite."

  "What did you think?"

  "A day was enough. I couldn't wait to get on the coach back home. Back to the grey granite, the cold air, the low sun in winter, the deep-fried food in bright colours. All of it. My Scotland." He clamped his right hand on the left side of his chest.

  Blimey, that's a bit Mel Gibson in Braveheart, isn't it? "Right you are."

  He laughed. "I'm joking. I hate the cold winters here as much as the next man. And haggis is shite. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. Give me a nice pizza any day of the week. But for all that cold greyness, I wouldn't live anywhere else. Definitely not London. It gives you space and time to breathe here. And that's what you're getting used to, that's what I think." He paused and turned to collect a roll of black paper for a photo shoot backing. He shouted into the corner of the room as he walked away, "And getting away from your ex. That'll make a difference as well of course."

  But I'd not said anything about Chris. Not a single word since I'd arrived. "Don't know what you're talking about."

  "Why else would someone arrive in a new country with nothing? You're not on the run from the police, I've checked. So it's gotta be a relationship."

  Chapter 6

  I couldn't bear another Saturday night in my little room alone. I also couldn't be bothered to have to make up something for when Ewan asked me the following Monday morning what I'd done at the weekend, smiling over sweet coffee and a Hobnob.