The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson
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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?’
‘No,’ he sniggers. ‘I mean this one. I’m going to learn to cook.’ He plucks the relevant book from his pile, and I recognise it immediately: a once-popular guide to a savagely punishing dietary regime.
‘We get this all the time,’ I remark. ‘If there was a prize for the most handed-in book, this would win it. It’s because no one can actually stick to it, Iain.’
He pushes back his wonky, possibly self-cut fringe: ‘But it’s full of healthy recipes. Weren’t you saying I should start eating better?’
I shrug in bafflement, having no memory of saying anything of the sort. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yeah, you did. At the Christmas lunch …’
‘Oh, that. All I meant was, we’d seen the menu beforehand, and you said you were fine with the full turkey dinner. And then, on the day, you decided you didn’t want veg …’
‘I don’t eat veg,’ he says indignantly.
‘You wanted chips,’ I remind him, ‘instead of roast potatoes, and baked beans in place of the sprouts …’
Iain beams at me. ‘Yeah, well, like I said, I’m going to read this and be healthier, like you’re always on at me about …’ This is so not true. I’m never ‘on at’ him about anything, although sometimes I suspect he’d like me to act like a sort of dad-type figure, dispensing advice. Although he mentions his mum occasionally – I gather she struggles with a raft of mental health issues – he’s given the impression that his father was never around. It’s Una, his upstairs neighbour, who seems to keep an eye on him.
‘Well, um, I think that’s great,’ I say, ‘but, y’know, that book was written quite a long time ago, and people don’t really go for her methods anymore …’
‘But she’s a doctor,’ he insists, jabbing the author’s name on the cover.
I pause, wondering whether to break it to him. ‘The thing is, she’s not actually a real one.’
‘But it says it on the book!’ His eyes flash with indignation.
‘Yes, but there’s been some debate about whether her qualifications are real, or if she’s just a bit of a charlatan …’
‘A charlatan?’
‘You know – a cheat, a fake …’ I’m reminded now of a difficult conversation I had with Lori a few years back, when she asked me to tell her straight – no messing – whether Father Christmas really exists.
‘People can’t do that,’ Iain retorts. ‘Not when they write books.’
‘They can, if they have the nerve. I mean, I could call myself a doctor …’
‘But you’d be lying, wouldn’t you?’ He glares at me as if I might be considering it as a possibility.
‘Well, yes. I’m just saying—’
‘How did she write a book then?’ Iain snaps.
‘By sitting at her computer and hammering it out, I’d imagine.’ I catch Iain’s crestfallen expression and regret being so blunt. ‘Look,’ I add, ‘I don’t know for certain, but I do know there was a TV show years ago where she used to examine people’s poos …’
‘Ugh!’
‘And you don’t want to spend your Christmas doing that,’ I remark, but my attempt at a joke seems to appal Iain even further.
‘No, I do not.’
‘It wouldn’t be very festive,’ I add, at which, thankfully, his eyes glimmer with amusement as he finally realises I’m having him on.
‘I don’t want to ever look at people’s poos,’ he adds, ‘unless they’re Pancake’s. And I don’t like it, y’know – I just do it, with the little plastic bags, because you can’t just leave it lying there, can you? Not if you’re trying to be a good citizen.’
‘No, you can’t,’ I say, glancing at the clock now. It’s almost seven p.m., and Iain and I have spent an extra two hours past closing time, sorting donations. I’m paid an okay-ish salary to manage this place, and for the most part I enjoy it. But now I’m seized by an urge to head home, maybe go for a run or meet up with friends, anything rather than be trapped in our dingy back room.
I can tell Iain’s still feeling rattled as he stuffs his books into a carrier bag. In regular shops, where everyone’s paid, you can pretty much expect your team to come in and do their job, and go home; it’s a straightforward exchange of money for labour. A charity shop works differently. While some of our helpers – mainly the elderly ladies – simply enjoy the company and want to make a difference, others are more emotionally entwined with our little emporium.
I started out here as a volunteer myself. I needed something to keep me busy after the Glasgow-based book publisher’s I worked for went bust. It was gutting, really, when it happened. Gander Books had been a tight-knit operation with just the MD, two editors, a couple of admins and myself. After a media course at college, followed by a smattering of casual jobs, I’d been taken on at twenty-three as an admin assistant. Keen and hard-working, I seemed to fit in well, and pretty soon I was promoted until I was taking care of Gander’s publicity, marketing and events. It was a brilliant job, and as book publishing jobs are few and far between in Glasgow, I was happy to stay put.
Gander won literary prizes and Independent Publisher of the Year, and all seemed to be going swimmingly for many years until authors started to complain of advances and royalties being delayed, then not paid at all. The permanent staff were put on ‘emergency measures’ (i.e. drastically cut pay) and finally, after months of uncertainty, the whole place sunk.
We were all bereft. I’d worked there for fifteen years, and the place had felt like a second family. There was no payout for staff, and by then Elaine and I had a four-year-old daughter so I couldn’t hang around, perusing job ads until the ‘ideal’ position came up. For a few years I worked for an events company, building up a second strand in freelance proofreading on the side. When redundancy happened again I decided, to hell with it; the next job I took would really matter to me and what the hell if I took a big pay cut. I’d kept in touch with the manager of the charity shop, and when she decided to move on it felt kind of right to apply.
Iain turns up his jacket collar against the sharp wind as we step outside. ‘It’s great that you want to learn to cook,’ I tell him. ‘But how about you forget that cranky cookbook, and try something simple that doesn’t need a recipe?’
He folds his arms over his substantial stomach as I lock up the shop. ‘Like … salad?’
‘No,