The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson

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       Chapter Four

      Over the next few days, I venture nowhere near the overly scented store. It’s not that I want to avoid looking like a weirdo stalker. Okay, it is partly that – but, perhaps handily, there’s no time to take lunch breaks anyway. A deluge of donations has arrived at the shop, suggesting that the whole of Glasgow is clearing out its old tat ahead of Christmas.

      If the shop is going to be able to function, then all of this stuff has to be sorted. Despite the sign in our window reading ‘We welcome your sellable donations’, we’re gifted an alarming amount of skanky underwear and used toothbrushes with bristles splayed (sometimes harbouring ‘bits’). Because naturally, such items will bring in the money we need to build and support our network of animal sanctuaries. In fact, I think people sometimes forget that we are a charity at all, and regard us as a gigantic bin. Thank you kindly for your ancient knitting pattern that might possibly have been used to line a budgerigar’s cage! But then, happily, there is the odd pearl among the dross, and we actually do a tidy trade.

      As the volunteers and I separate the good stuff from the ripped lampshades and filthy sandwich toasters, I find myself wondering why my lovely helper in Lush chose to work in what seems like a particularly youthful environment.

      It’s not that she’s old, not at all; I’d put her at around the same age as me, and I don’t feel old. At least, sometimes I don’t (when I plucked a cracked glass dildo from a box of donated goods I did, admittedly, feel about ninety-six – and on more than one occasion my ex Elaine has ‘jokingly’ asked if I ever worry that being surrounded by so many old things might somehow seep into my consciousness and accelerate the ageing process). It’s just that she didn’t seem to quite fit with the other, multiply pierced and tattooed assistants in there. It’s bizarre, the way this stranger keeps sneaking into my thoughts. Perhaps it’s the time of year; it always unsettles me a bit.

      ‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay over the holidays?’ I ask Iain, who’s stayed on to help on our last day before we close until the new year.

      ‘I’ll be fine,’ he says breezily, carefully checking that all the components are present in Home and Away: The Board Game.

      I glance at him. ‘You’re going to your mum’s, right?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      Together, we begin to stack up the boxes of donations we haven’t yet sorted, in order to leave the back room in a reasonably orderly state. ‘What about the rest of the time?’ I ask. Who will you see, is what I mean, and what will you do to fill the days?

      ‘I’ll be fine,’ he says again.

      ‘Yes, but …’ I pause, wary of sounding patronising. ‘You won’t be on your own the whole time, will you?’

      ‘Of course not,’ he says with a trace of defensiveness. ‘I’ll be with Pancake … and I’ll finally have time to read,’ he adds, with a note of triumph, as if his life is too hectic normally.

      ‘Well, that’s good,’ I say as I lift a basket of hairdryers, their cables entangled, onto a shelf.

      ‘Yeah.’ He beams at me. ‘I’m going to learn some new stuff. Expand my mind …’ He indicates the scruffy hardbacks he’s stacked on the fridge, set aside for him to take home.

      ‘What kind of stuff?’ I ask, now wiping down the worktop of our tiny kitchen area.

      ‘All kinds of stuff!’

      I turn and look at him. Whenever Iain’s in the shop, he’s never far from my side. Today he’s wearing one of his customary V-necked sweaters – tufts of chest hair are poking out – and his curious old-mannish trousers that always look a little too tight for his belly. Dropping the sponge wipe into the sink, I check the books he’s chosen. ‘Vehicle Maintenance for Beginners,’ I murmur.

      ‘Yeah!’

      Whilst I am not au fait with Iain’s various conditions, I’d be surprised – and frankly alarmed – if he was ever capable of driving a car.

      Small Plot Gardening in Full Colour is another of his choices. But Iain doesn’t have a small plot, or even a balcony. I check more of his books – which he’ll insist on paying for – hoping to find something that might be of use to a single man living alone with a dog. Picture Framing Made Easy, Creative Crafting With Yarn …

      ‘That’s what I’m going to do,’ Iain says eagerly.

      I frown. ‘What, make macramé pictures of owls?’