We’re celebrating the paperback publication of Ginger and Me by Elissa Soave. Read on for a sneak peek at the first chapter.
It’s hard to imagine this now but there was a life before Ginger and Diane. After Mum died the most important person in my life was my support worker so I probably need to talk about her first because, in a way, she brought us all together.
Apart from work – and I didn’t really count the people on my bus as friends, except maybe the regulars – my support worker was sometimes the only person I spoke to all week. I really liked her. Her name was Saanvi, and she always wore a sari, a different colour every time she came. My favourite was the red and gold one, it sparkled when the sun caught it, and she’d hoist it over her arm as she walked so she wouldn’t get the hem dirty. Sometimes when she was speaking, I found myself staring at the blood-red spot in the centre of her forehead, mesmerized by it so that I wasn’t really listening to what she was telling me at all. When she coughed, or called my name a couple of times, I’d bring myself back to the present and go, ‘Yeah you’re right,’ or something like that so she wouldn’t know I’d stopped listening. She’d sigh and say, ‘There’s only so much I can do Wendy. You’re nineteen years old now, an adult, you have to try and help yourself too.’ Or ‘You know, social clubs and making new friends are open to everyone.’ It’s true, they are,
but only in the same way that staying at the Savoy or jet skiing is available to everyone, and I won’t be doing those things any time soon either.
In fact I hadn’t been doing anything much at all since Mum died and Saanvi said that was one of my problems. Mum had died in August, and I’m not saying it was harder for me than anyone else who’d lost their mum but . . . I didn’t realize how much I relied on her till she wasn’t there. Maybe it was because I’d never had much luck making friends, and it had been just me and her for so long, living in our house in Birkenshaw. Before she got sick she was out working a lot of the time but, even when she wasn’t at home, she left me lots of little notes, on the table and sometimes stuck to mirrors. In the kitchen they’d say things like: Take the bin out Wendy. Remember to get milk on your way home. Put the stew on at three o’clock. There was always a note about something or other. Up in the bathroom or my bedroom they’d say: You’re your own best friend. God made you perfect as you are. And there was one that I kept stuck inside my wardrobe that just said: Love yourself. After she was gone, I missed those scribbled notes pasted all over the house. Suddenly there was no one to care if I got the milk or not, and I realized she hadn’t told me how to love myself.
I didn’t go to work or eat or even take a bath for weeks after
she died. I was finding it really hard to know what I was doing all those things for when Mum and me weren’t going to Tunnock’s for our tea, or into town window shopping at the posh shops, or even just talking over dinner about what had happened on my bus that day. With Mum gone, I didn’t think anyone would notice or care if life caved in on me, and I just stopped being part of it all. But Mr Laverty came round to see why I wasn’t at
work and called in social services as soon as he saw my house and the way I was living. I was angry about that at the time, he may have been my boss but he didn’t have the right to get strangers to come to my house and judge me. I refused to go to hospital but it turns out if you’re not coping as well as other people say you should be they can slap a section on you and make you go to hospital anyway. They seemed surprised I hadn’t spoken to a counsellor before but why would I need that when I always had my mum to help me through life? I didn’t agree with most of the stuff they said, like how I had to make peace with Mum dying and be grateful for the life I had; and that the way to happiness was to strike a balance between the terror that is life and the wonder that is living, but I nodded and pretended to agree with everything. They lifted the section after a week, but it was another four months before they said I was well enough to leave the hospital and come home.
Saanvi came to see me every Wednesday because it’s impor- tant to establish a routine. That’s one of the first things she told me. She said to start small, and I did find that small things became important, ways of eating up the hours till the day was over, then the week, and then a month had passed.
I went back to work in the February, and I loved my job on the buses so that helped a bit. My favourite was the 255 – that’s the hourly service from Birkenshaw bus bay, through Mossend and up to Bellshill. A lot of the other drivers don’t like doing the local services – you do have to go back and forth over the same route a lot of times in one shift – but I liked it, especially before I knew Ginger and Diane, when my regulars would keep me going. I’d start off in front of Naf’s in Birkenshaw, not far from my house in fact, then head up Old Edinburgh Road
towards Viewpark. I’d fly along the top road past the Viewpark Community Centre, where the pre-school children all went to Rising 5s, and loads of kids from my own school had gone to basketball and karate and that sort of thing. I didn’t go to any clubs but my dad once took me to see a pro wrestling show in there and a block-jawed wrestler called the Dynamite Kid signed a gigantic foam finger for me. There was a stop outside JR’s Tyres, and The Ashley was just opposite. It didn’t matter what shift you were on, the drunks would be slumped outside, gulping down nicotine like oxygen, or standing about gabbing the way they say women do. No one ever called it The Ashley, it was always known as The Flying Tumbler, I don’t know why. I knew it well though as it was one of my dad’s favourites when he first got made redundant. A young guy that Ginger told me later was Wee Eddie would be running on the street somewhere, either on his way to Coral or heading back to The Olde Club, as we drove by. Beyond St Columbas and a couple more stops took you to the memorial garden with the bronze statue of Jimmy Johnstone, and then round the corner past The Laughing Buddha and The Rolling Barrel, the pub my dad went to after The Flying Tumbler wouldn’t have him any more. ‘I’ve changed my allegiance,’ was how he put it to me as Mum snorted from the kitchen beyond. By the time I pulled up in front of the Spar in Bellshill the bus would generally be full, no matter the weather. The laughter and chatter from Irish Mary, Terry, Myra and the rest of my regulars would float down the bus, so it was just as though I was part of the conversation myself.
I finished early on Thursdays, so I’d go home and change out of my uniform, have a hot shower and put on my jeans. If I stayed a while in the shower, that could use up almost an
hour. It took about twenty minutes to walk from my house in Birkenshaw, down the Holm Brae and across the motorway bridge to Uddingston proper. The village, as Mum used to call it, though it’s hardly a village now with all the new houses they’ve built, there’s even a sushi restaurant. Sushi in Uddingston! Main Street’s always busy, in the early afternoons you’ve got the mums and the prams, usually walking three abreast so you can’t get by without one of them tutting and saying ‘excuse us’. You’ve got the rich old folk coming back from Bothwell Golf Club to have a drink at Angels or the new wine bar they’ve opened, Rosso’s or Rossi’s I think, I’ve never been in. My dad wouldn’t recognize Uddingston these days, I don’t think he would’ve liked it. He certainly wouldn’t have been seen dead drinking in a wine bar. At first it felt strange going into Tunnock’s for my steak pie because me and Mum used to go there together every Thursday. We’d have a cup of tea and a scone in the café at the back and then pick up the large pie the ladies behind the counter would have all packaged and ready for us on the way out. Mum would ask the woman handing over the pie about her daughter who’d gone to university, and check with the woman at the till how her uncle who’d had a stroke was doing. And she’d been at school with the manageress so they used to joke about not getting any younger and how old age doesn’t come alone. She always knew the right thing to say, and made it easy for me to hang back and
say nothing, which was what we were both used to.
The first time I went in after was a bit awkward. The ladies knew Mum had died and felt they had to say something but I couldn’t talk about it – another issue according to Saanvi. After one of them said, ‘So sorry to hear about your mum,’ I looked past her into the chilled cabinet and said, ‘A steak pie please.
A small one.’ She must have thought I hadn’t heard because she said again what a shame Mum had died, and I said, ‘Will you wrap it up for me and I’ll get it after my tea?’ and left the three women behind the counter looking at each other in surprise as I headed to the back of the shop. I could tell I’d handled it all wrong because of the way they huddled and whispered together behind me, and I was glad Saanvi hadn’t been there to see it. I wasn’t trying to be rude. After Mum died, I realized it was just another thing I hadn’t learned – how to talk to people about little things, like family, or what cakes they liked, or whether it looked like rain. And even after my stay in hospital, I still didn’t know what people wanted from me when they said they were sorry she’d died, tears maybe, or some other emotion. I never knew the right response, better just to say nothing.
Friday was my day for the library. I’ve been going to Uddingston library since it was in the old sandstone building at the far end of Main Street. That’s a podiatrist’s clinic now and I think they also offer massages, so you could get your feet and neck done at the same time if you wanted. The new library is round the corner from the Tunnock’s factory, right next to the Baptist church. The librarian’s called Linda, she’s really nice, and sometimes even stops what she’s doing to talk to me for a while about books.
Once I saw a poster behind her desk advertising the local book club.
‘Can anyone go to the book club?’ I asked, following her as she carried a pile of books to the big red box in the children’s section.
She put down the books and said, ‘Yes, of course. Are you interested?’
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if I was interested or not but I did know the evenings were long with no one to talk to and, though I’d never be as good at talking to people as Mum was, I thought maybe even I could join in if we were only talking about books. Also, I knew it would make Saanvi happy.
‘It’s on the last Wednesday of every month,’ Linda said. ‘We all take turns hosting the discussion evening, and—’
‘Wait, you have to have people to your house?’ She nodded.
I wouldn’t have wanted anyone seeing my house far less have to offer them tea in cups that matched so I just told Linda I would think about it, and watched as she tidied up the Mr Men books. I usually tried to stay in the library for a full hour before walking back up the road. Sometimes when I passed the Baptist church, I was quite tempted by the signs outside that said things like We Welcome Everyone or God Loves All His Flock, but I knew Mum would turn in her grave if I actually went into a non-
Catholic church so I never did.
Weekends were more problematic, especially if I couldn’t get any extra shifts. I tried to keep busy, maybe read, and I did a lot of walking. If you walk down Station Hill, and go across the roundabout by Anne’s Pantry, there’s a wee lane, half hidden by trees, which takes you to a path that leads straight to Bothwell Castle. It’s kind of boggy and overgrown but I love the quiet, and the trees overhanging the river make it dark and private. On your right-hand side as you walk towards the castle is the River Clyde. Lots of kids from my school used to go there in the summer, hang a tyre swing over the water and swing from the bank over the river and back again. I used to hear them talk about the buzz it gave you, it sounded great. I could easily pass
a good hour or two walking there and it usually lifted my spirits. Sometimes I became a bit focused on the dog walkers, in pairs, or the couples with their arms twisted round each other, or the young families in their brightly coloured woollens and wellies, and I understood what it was like to have people in your life by my own lack of it.
Once I saw a woman, a bit older than me maybe, wearing a Ramones T-shirt and purple Doc Martens. She was pushing a white-haired woman in a wheelchair, and they were headed towards a group of three ducks paddling at the water’s edge.
‘Take some bread Mum, they like that.’ The woman handed her mum some chunks of bread from a small plastic bag then placed the bag on the ground beside them.
I hesitated, then remembered Saanvi telling me that if I wanted to make friends I had to be more confident and take the initiative sometimes, and the Ramones woman did look really nice and I hadn’t spoken to anyone the entire weekend except Naf at the corner shop. I shut my eyes tight and muttered, ‘Come on Wendy,’ opened them and shuffled over to where they were standing. ‘Hi. Hello,’ I said, in a loud voice in case the old lady was hard of hearing. Neither woman replied though the younger woman smiled at me.
Encouraged, I tried again. ‘Looks like rain.’
The younger woman looked up at the clear blue sky and said, ‘Maybe.’
I leaned closer to the woman in the chair and shouted, ‘You’ll be alright in there anyway’ and smiled. I picked up some bread from the bag on the ground and started to throw it into the water, thinking maybe Saanvi was right and making friends was easier than I’d imagined.
‘Do you come here often?’ I said, turning again to the younger woman but she was already taking the brakes off the chair and pushing it back to the path. I stood and watched them hurry off, shouting after them, ‘Wait, you’ve left your bread!’ but they must have been too far away to hear as they didn’t turn back. I fed the rest of the bread to the ducks, wondering if I’d said the wrong thing. The ducks left too as soon as the bread was finished, and I headed back up the hill to my house, to wait for the week to begin again.
The highlight of the week was Wednesday when I saw Saanvi. At first, I was annoyed social services thought I couldn’t look after myself – I definitely could – but after a while I started to look forward to Saanvi’s visits, practise what I was going to say beforehand, and try to impress her with how well I was doing. I thought if I did everything she told me I might learn how to make friends and be as good at life as she was.
She usually opened with the same question. ‘Tell me about your week Wendy, what’s been happening?’ I remember she was really impressed when I told her I’d made the effort to go to the cinema.
It had been a good day. I’d taken the 63 to Hamilton, it wasn’t a driver I knew so I just sat at the back, looking out the window. As we got closer to the town centre, I swivelled my head as we drove by the spot where my old school had been. It’s not there any more, it’s been replaced by a housing estate of tiny houses for new families, and I certainly hope they’ll be happier there than I was at school.
The cinema was practically empty so it was bad luck that one of the three other customers was sitting in my favourite aisle seat, row 12, seat D. I stood over him and coughed a couple of
times but, when he didn’t move, I took the seat next to him. He tutted as I struggled out of my jacket, looked for the best spot to place my rucksack so it wouldn’t be under my feet, and then had to pick it up again when I remembered I’d forgotten to take out my snack. I could feel him tense next to me as I started peeling my orange and sucking the juice from it – you’d think he’d never seen anyone eat an orange in the cinema before. The way he was huffing and puffing and shuffling round in his seat, honestly I’d be amazed if he saw anything of the film at all. Not that he missed much – I should probably have checked what was on before I bought my ticket because to be honest, I didn’t enjoy the film that much. I watch a lot of movies and nobody likes a good twist more than me but I do think you need at least some basic structure to follow. The story was told looking backwards for one thing – never easy – and for another we were seeing everything from the point of view of the main character but he had problems with his memory so you couldn’t be sure if what he was telling you was right or not. I couldn’t tell who was responsible for killing his wife, or even if she was dead at all. Still, it got me out of the house for almost four hours so that was most of the day gone. And I could tell Saanvi was pleased with me.
‘That’s great Wendy,’ she said, checking her watch, then bending down to put her folder in her bag. ‘Little steps forwards, going to work, going to the cinema, you’re on the right track now.’
I wasn’t sure doing all the things Saanvi suggested was making me any happier but at least we had stuff to talk about every week. And maybe she was right – I was on the right track, and I could have stayed there too, if it hadn’t been for Ginger and Diane.
Get your copy of Ginger and Me here.
