I Come From Lockerbie

Violence was never far off the agenda. Or the threat of it. Parents, siblings, cousins, schooling, etched into my psyche, my sense of identity. Given the constant levels of threat, it was no wonder it was hard to find a voice. So I sought solutions.

Having four elder sisters, I’d race home from school on Thursdays and repay them. I’d have the last laugh. The back page of the Bunty comic had sets of clothes that you could cut out. I got in first and cut the tabs off. Another battering but it was worth it. Wickedness had a price.

When I wanted a Batman outfit as the Rag & Bone man came down our street I would give my sisters’ best clothes to get the gear. Kerrunch! Kapow!

Then there was the lunchtime incident when my brother used the f-word. 

          ‘What did you just say?’ Mam screamed. 

           ‘You fucking heard’ Jim said. 

Quick as a flash, she whipped the worn, black gabardine raincoat belt from the pulley and started leathering him across the face. Buckle and all. Brilliant to watch. Ace. Ringside seats.

When Mam ran out of steam my brother got up from the table, left, and said nothing. That was bad.

           ‘Take Bob out to play.’ Irene reluctantly had me in tow. When out of sight she hung me on a picket fence by my reins and left me there. Some neighbour detached me. Irene still denies it but smiles when I remind her.

Bridge Street – early morning. Mrs White. ‘And what did you have for your breakfast?’ she asked innocently.

‘A sausage and half an egg.’ Whack, whack, whack. ‘Don’t you show me up like that.’ 

How come it was OK to lie when you had it drummed into you to tell the truth? Repression and guilt in equal measure. Nothing like a Protestant, God-fearing upbringing culture to mess with your head. 

Three miles from home in the Summer and standing in the River Milk I decided not to come out of the water. Sister Rosemary lobs a Coke bottle at me to encourage me. Big thick bit of glass in my left foot. Nice. Whilst convalescing, I told Bett Findlay, our neighbour, the truth.

Me mother overheard the conversation. Slap - that’s for lying. Slap - that’s for thinking you’d get away with it. Slap - because I’m on a roll.

Bob Carruthers