The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson

where donations are sorted, and is now slotting paperbacks onto the bookshelf.

      ‘Leave the books alone,’ shouts Iain, a keen reader of dated how-to manuals, who regards the book section as ‘his’.

      ‘I’m just putting new stuff out,’ Mags retorts, pink hair clip askew, lipsticked mouth pulled tight. Although it’s hard to put an age on her – our volunteer application forms don’t require a date of birth – I would guess mid-forties. She favours stonewashed jeans and floaty tops, usually made from cheesecloth, encrusted with beading around the neck. ‘You’re not the boss round here,’ she adds, glaring at Iain.

      ‘I’m deputy manager,’ he announces.

      ‘Says who?’

      ‘Says everyone, actually. Says Jack!’ He turns to me for confirmation, and I shrug. Although no such position exists, I – along with most of the volunteers – am happy to go along with his self-appointed elevated status, just as we willingly accept Iain’s instant coffees made with water from the hot tap. He works hard, coming in virtually every day, with utter disregard for the rota; he was visibly unsettled when I reminded him that we’d be closed for the days between Christmas and New Year.

      During the couple of years he’s been volunteering for us, I’ve been to his flat several times. The last time involved escorting him home when he’d had ‘a turn’ whilst steam-cleaning some trousers in the shop’s tiny back room. As far as I’ve been able to gather, his only regular visitor is Una, the elderly lady upstairs who helps with his dog and tricky matters he struggles to deal with, like filling in forms and making calls on his behalf (Iain doesn’t like using the phone). Like with Mags, it’s hard to guess at his age, although I’ve surmised early thirties. He lives with his ageing mongrel, Pancake (‘’cause he likes to lie flat’), and has a liking for what he calls ‘found furniture’: i.e. the stuff people have left out on the pavement to be taken away by the council. Bookshelves, occasional tables and a wooden coat stand: Iain has dragged them all home, given them what he calls ‘a good sanding down’ (he means a perfunctory wipe) and then puzzled over where to put them.

      The last time I was at his place, several shabby, mismatched dining chairs were lined up against a living room wall; it looked as if some kind of support group meeting was about to happen. ‘I’m going to sell them,’ he explained, with enviable confidence.

      ‘Piss off, Iain!’ Mags snaps now, swiping at him with a Galloping Gourmet cookbook. I stride over and suggest that she reorganises the plundered shoe section. ‘C’mon, Mags,’ I say. ‘You’ve got a real eye for it. No one makes it look as good as you do.’ As she beams with pride, Iain ‘straightens’ the books unnecessarily in order to re-establish his territory.

      All afternoon, I keep thinking of the beautiful woman in Lush and wishing I’d asked her name or something. Christ, though – I don’t know what made me behave like some idiot male who’d never heard of a bath bomb. Lori’s been demanding the things every Christmas and birthday since she was about eight. I could probably sketch an accurate floor plan of that shop, the amount of times she’s dragged me in there. I’d never seen the woman who helped me, though. Maybe she’s new.

      As closing time rolls around, I lock up and step out into the street, making my way through the revellers, many who’ve tumbled straight from all-afternoon Christmas lunches, by the look of it. We had our own last week, at an old-fashioned Italian in Merchant City. Mags demanded that the balloons be removed from the vicinity (she fears balloons). Iain shunned all offerings from the dessert menu and was finally appeased with a slice of Madeira cake adorned with squirty cream.

      As Lush comes into view – happily, it’s still open – I decide, what the hell, I could just nip in buy the squidgy stuff Lori asked for, which I forgot all about. I clear my throat, smooth back my hair as if about to go in for a job interview, and stride in.

      The heady scent engulfs me as I scan the store for the gorgeous dark-haired woman. But there’s no sign of her now. With the help of a shiny-faced teenage girl, I locate the product. It’s called ‘Fun’ and, as the girl explains its many uses, I put on a fine show of listening whilst conducting one final scan of the shop.

      Nope, she’s definitely not here. And anyway, I reflect as I travel home on the packed subway, what would I have done if I’d seen her again? Lurched over to thank her one more time, when she’d probably attended to fifty more customers after me and would have assumed I was just some random nutter? Hello again! You probably don’t remember me, but a few hours ago you patiently explained the purposes of Tea Tree Gel … I imagine her at home now, with her attractive, fully functioning family: handsome husband, delightful kids, wrapping presents and putting the final touches to the Christmas tree …

      Get a grip, Jack McConnell, I chastise myself silently, and possibly try to get out more.

       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,