The third of three photographs from Springfield, Fife
Life of George
Mother
George Chalmers
To paraphrase Kundera, Betty and I became ‘the allies of our own gravediggers’. I hold to a theory that a person’s popularity can be measured in the length of time taken to find them dead in their house. Ten weeks passed before her neighbours complained of the smell.
A young constable who broke down the door ‘took afae no’ weel’, according to her sister, who identified the body by way of a dishtowel draped over its legs.
‘Betty always did that – tae cover her legs fae the fire – they four bars had been burnin’ a’ they weeks – Christ knows what the electric bill’s mountit up tae’.
People say odd things at funerals.
I said something along the lines of ‘Perhaps it can be settled out of her estate – ha ha’.
Which didn’t sound odd to me, but some focused hard on the sandwiches and sausage rolls. A spread laid-on by another of her sisters who tried to communicate regularly but always ended up repelled by the ‘invincible ignorance’ of Betty’s tongue.
There were no books in the house. She read aloud, again and again, tales of homicide and betrayal from the News of the World. Then, before another bout of deathly quiet, she’d replenish her ‘botilla curada’ of draught sherry at the downstairs boozer.
When there was food in the house it consisted of stuff that could be fried, or maybe tinned mince. She wielded a mean tin-opener, amongst other things. Or frayed ‘ootsiders’ of Mother’s Pride that even Camus would struggle to make something of.
Elizabeth thought she dressed like the Queen. Acid-green or vitamin-deficient orange, two-piece suits made from fibres that combust in direct sunlight.