Beneath it all

She fingered the charm, a cross, in the centre of her bracelet. Alex had bought one with a cowrie shell but she had been attracted to this one. Simple leather strap, with gold-coloured beads. Inexpensive. The small cross was made of white wood, or maybe resin. She bought it two weeks ago in Mallorca. It was a souvenir gift to remind her of the ceramic tiles, azulejos, by the door of every house in Valldemossa. They depicted episodes in the life of Santa Catalina Thomas, who was born there. From the age of three she had spoken to God. Once when her father had died, and again at seven when her mother died. Later, she became a nun and remained humble and stoic all her life. Each tile read: Santa Catalina Thomas Pregau per Nosaltres.

Angela didn’t consider herself devout. But she helped friends regularly (brought them groceries if they were ill, that sort of thing), put small change in charity boxes in shops (just coppers and annoying 5ps that would otherwise clutter up her purse), occasionally put money into street buskers’ guitar cases (especially if they were really bad, because they must be desperate to embarrass themselves that much), and occasionally into a rough sleeper’s outstretched hat (if she deemed them to be genuinely needing food rather than drink).

Now she was 61, it was maybe time to start considering the sum total of her life, and how others might judge it. Before it was over. Before it was too late!

Alex said, Pointless exercise. Life was the ON switch and Death was the OFF switch. Once flicked OFF: Goodbye. Darkness. The End.

What if she went to Hell and had to labour endlessly in front of a well-stoked inferno? Forever. Now the heat bit kind of appealed – given that her thyroid was underperforming which meant she was feeling cold all the time. Just go and get some thyroxine from the doctor, Alex said. You know you hate underperforming. Think of it as a supplement not as a medicine! He knew she hated taking tablets. And she was never prone to headaches.

Maybe she had just reached a time in her life when she could allow herself to believe in God? It might be a more pleasant middle path between Utter Darkness and Hellfire? She had done some Christian things in her life (as described above); she had lied to people who couldn’t easily handle the starkness of the truth (the kinder option). Anyway she knew people - church-goers - who were very unpleasant and uncharitable in their daily lives. They had a rather sour outlook on life. She, on the other hand, in her own sweet sunny way, had always liked giving pleasure to others.

She had lived a gregarious life. At school and at uni the phrase rampant nymphomaniac had been used by various one-night stands – hardly a pious phrase though! However, at school, the word holy had been used several times of her. The night she got off with Patrick Smart after the school disco, she remembered he’d gasped, Holy Mother of Jesus, you’ve been hiding a right pair under there, Angela Mackay! For a few seconds, she’d hoped he’d meant her legs. She, too, had her share of body issues. They were too skinny and when her legs were together, they only met at her ankles and at her knees – the bits in between were rather ropey. Like cartoon Olive Oyl legs. However, truth be told, her legs weren’t often together.

So she was disappointed, somewhat, that Patrick was instead referring to her ample pert breasts, that lay hidden in her shirt, throughout school time. She knew they were okay!

Other boys called her angel, as in: you’re an angel fallen from heaven and ended up on my chest. That, in fact, was a lie. They didn’t say chest. It was something a bit further down! Their boyish preoccupation. One lad even embroidered My Angel on a pair of knickers and posted them through her letterbox at Christmas. Trouble was, she was more than his angel!

When Apollo 11 blasted off for the moon on Wednesday, 16 July 1969, Sandy Molloy passed her a brown paper bag after Double History. In it, was a pair of pants with a phallic-like rocket, 1969 and Take Off written underneath. That made her laugh. She took off her pants lots of times for him! Sandy Molloy. Athletic. Fit. No brains. Short on conversation. He knew instinctively what she wanted. That’s one thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight times more then, he said after the first time. (Okay, so maybe he could count!) I’ll try to oblige, she had promised.

She remembered thinking her Mam would go daft if those pants ended up on the washing line. Celebrating the New Era in Space Travel? Maybe not! So she washed them secretly, by hand, in the bathroom sink. Then she blotted them on a bath towel and finished them off in the airing cupboard – dangling them from a slotted shelf at the very back, out of sight. She did that chore about half a dozen times before she got bored with handwashing. She was never going to make a good housewife.

Mam bought her a pack of 5 pastel waist-highs from Littlewoods. God forbid that she would ever fall over in those, or worse still, needed rescuing from Geography or Modern Studies, both on the top floor of High School, by a fireman! (It was a fantasy of hers, at that time.) A fireman’s lift would surely reveal her unmentionable passion-killers? She was sure the gorgeous Mary Macgregor with the long blonde hair, and probably low-slung stretchy-lace bikini briefs, would have got saved first. She was the clever boys’ focus. Sandy even said, Mary Macgregor almost has nice legs. That was the last thing he said to her that day. That was the first time she chucked him.

For Halloween he bought her a skimpy G-string with a red cross on the front and the message, Nurses Do It Better, underneath. She reciprocated with a pair of boxers with cartoon spooks on the front and, Ghosts Rise in the Middle of the Night, written on them. They were both perfect for a scary medical emergency. They were back on. Sandy and her.

Mam, by mistake, bought her a pair of red High-Cut Hip-huggers. They had Angela printed on the front. At that time, everything had everyone’s name on it – in case at any moment people might forget their own names, get early dementia, or something? From putting on her slippers (Angela in glitter just below the pom-poms), her t-shirt (Angela in a fluffy cloud above a rainbow), her dressing gown (ANGELA in pink lettering above her left boob), Angela on pens, notebooks, hankies etc. etc. What a marketing nightmare for anyone on the list! But Mams and Aunties bought into it, BIG time. It was about the only time her cousins Ishbel-Ann and Davidina were glad of their birth names!

However, the red High-Cut Hip-huggers were perfect – after she’d sewn a silver heart sequin on top of the second a. The result was a racy pair of tight panties with Angel and a heart on them! Sandy was away on a school field trip, so Andrew Marshall, Head Boy, saw them first. I have it on good authority that you can take me to the Stars and Beyond, he declared. He seemed a bit stuffy in his tight blue jockey briefs, and he was heavily into Sci-Fi. He fantasised about buying her a pair of panties that said on them, Love is the Master Key that opens the Gate of Happiness. He was too wordy. It just wouldn’t have worked.

Sandy returned armed with a present of two pairs of cotton & lace Hi-legs. One with a map of SE Asia and the acronym BURMA on it. The other with a map of N Africa and the acronym EGYPT on it. Those put Sandy firmly back in the picture! He was smarter than she gave him credit for!

He had a good knowledge of Geography and he was going to study Geology at Edinburgh Uni. Angela, you show me Heaven. So I might as well learn as much as I can about the Earth! It was a profound statement from someone who didn’t converse so very much. And for good measure he had added, Your legs aren’t that bad. She was impressed. They started student life together in a dingy flat in Marchmont Road, Edinburgh.

She bought new undies with her Summer Job money. She had sent away for a naughty catalogue from Ann Summers. Just intended for research. Marks & Sparks didn’t have what she was looking for.

Your knicker drawer appears to be full of bunting, Sandy had said as he pulled out a few thongs with ribbon side-ties. You’ve got spares in case there’s flags missing on the Royal Mile? And these look a bit well ..unfinished.. with vital seams open. Your Mam not shown you how to darn yet? You’re a crazy wee devil, Angela Mackay! Come here. Sandy always liked her opening that drawer.

Those student days are a bit of a blur now. Parties, drinking, smoking and learning and debating and studying, slotted somewhere in between. Some things change, some things remain the same. She’s almost back to waist-highs with a smattering of lace around the gusset. Her figure isn’t bad for a woman in her 60s – legs great now, breasts less so. Sandy, prefers Alex now. More professional for a Geologist. Silver-haired fox. Bit deaf. But still bold and up to mischief.

For their anniversary, she asked her daughter, Grace, to order a pair of boxers for him online. They had a picture of a cunning fox and the words, Wily Fox sneaks into the Bush, on them. She thought Grace might be shocked.

But she replied, Hell no! You should see the pair he’s got you, Mam. They’re worded: Did you say Acute Angina, or a Cute V*gina?

She laughed wickedly. Alexander Molloy! He’s never changed in 44 years! He often said, Angela, you’ll never get to Heaven. We’ll be soldered together in Hell first!

She took off her holiday bracelet. Grace had given them matching new ones with YOLO on them. She said they suited us perfectly – living so disgracefully! ♥ ♥