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Gran Reynolds moved in ‘for a wee while’ three months ago. She’d been not well and Mum wanted to keep an eye on her. ‘We’re lucky, really,’ Mum said. ‘We get to have her with us all the time.’

Dad smiled. ‘Aye, and if we’re really lucky, Gran McHendry will move in too. Then we’ll have all the expert advice a family could ever wish for.’ Mum shoved him, playing at being annoyed. Dad laughed.

Gran Reynolds has had my bedroom the whole time – she’s never been well enough to come downstairs. I’m sleeping on the couch in the front room. I pretend it’s fun.

It’s not fun. The couch is kid-on leather and when the sheet slides off it during the night I end up stuck to the cushions. The quilt won’t stay on and I wake up cold – cold and stuck to the plastic cushions. Everyone comes into the room whenever they like; to get stuff, to watch telly, to sit for a while. It’s like they forget I’m there. But I don’t say anything, just in case the upside-down Jesus hears and gets even more angry with me. He’s always angry.

I do like mornings in the front room. By the time I wake up, Mum has set the fire and made my breakfast, so I’m cuddly warm as I eat my toast and runny egg, all snuggled up in the quilt. I get dressed and washed in the bathroom, with the two electric bars in the heater above the door burning hot.

I’m still at the wee school, so I just have to walk up the road. My brothers are at the big school and have to get the bus. I don’t want to go to the big school. Buses make me sick. They smell bad and the drivers are rubbish; they brake suddenly, for no reason – or maybe when they see a lassie they fancy. They seem to fancy a lot of lassies. Whatever school I’m at, I’ll still have to pass the upside-down Jesus.

Dad gives me a big squeezy hug before he leaves, the brothers ruffle my hair or push me over – depends what kind of mood they’re in. Mum always has to strip Gran’s bed ’cause she’s messed it during the night. You can smell it right through the house.

I have to go in and see Gran before I go. I take a big deep breath in the front room, run out the door and up the stairs into my old room, kiss Gran’s cheek, let the breath out, shout, ‘Bye’ and hold my breath until I’m downstairs again. I grab my bag and dive out the front door into the fresh air, Mum yelling after me, ‘Did you say goodbye to Gran?’ Gran shouts, ‘Aye she did – she always does. Kirsty’s a good wean.’

I skip up the road. It’s not that I like school; it’s just good to be out of the house, away from Mum’s sad eyes and Gran’s bad smell. She was brilliant before she was ill, my gran. She used to teach us to bake, take us on days out, buy us sweets. Not like Gran McHendry. Gran McHendry is scary, and she likes being scary. She likes to take her teeth out and show us her mangled gums. She doesn’t like us to make any noise – sometimes she says we breathe too loud. She makes grey mince full of hard carrots and stringy onions. We have to eat it or we get a skelp. She eats parma violets. She’s the only person in the world who doesn’t think parma violets are horrible, so she must be evil.

Halfway up the road I slow down. Halfway up the road is the path down to the old abandoned garage. Halfway up the road is where the angry upside-down Jesus is. He’s in that garage. I know he is. I’ve never seen him, but one day, if I’m really bad, those doors will swing open and he’ll be there, stuck to that cross, upside down, eyes staring, teeth bared, angry at me for not being good after all he’s suffered for me.

I cross the road so I’m opposite the path. I don’t look at the path, don’t look at the garage. I never look. Well, I try not to, but I can’t stop my eyes from wandering, from wanting to see the upside-down Jesus. When I feel my eyes move that way, I run. I run like I’m being chased. I run to the end of the road, breathless, sweating, even though it’s not that far.

While I stand and wait to cross the road, I see Mrs Adams working in the shop opposite. She smiles and waves. That’s when I know I’m safe. If the angry Jesus was behind me on the upside-down cross, she wouldn’t smile and wave – she’d look scared or shocked or at least a wee bit surprised, wouldn’t she? I look behind me, just in case she’s in cahoots with the Jesus. I do it every morning. He’s never there; she’s always smiling and waving. But I have to check, ’cause you never know.

On the way to school I meet the ‘worthies’ – that’s what Dad calls them – the women who go to Mass every morning, even though they don’t have to. I think that’s mad, my brothers think it’s ‘desperate.’ Mum kid-on skelps us if we say it’s mad or desperate. Dad says those women have been 75 years old since he was a boy. Mum says that’s proof going to Mass every morning gets you a long life. Dad says what’s the point in having a long life if all you do is spend your bloody time at Mass. Mum kid-on skelps him for swearing in front of us. We giggle. Dad’s funny – Mum’s funny too, but in a different way.

The worthies all dress the same – checked coats, hats with weird wee stalks coming out the top, rain-mates if it’s wet, brown tights and flat shoes. The smelly powder they put on their faces gets stuck in all the wrinkles and their false teeth are yellow. Gran McHendry is a worthy. Gran Reynolds isn’t that keen on the chapel or the new priest – she says he’s the worst kind, from the backside of the backend of the backwoods. They ask how Gran Reynolds is doing. They already know, ’cause Gran McHendry tells them, but they ask me so I’ll go home and tell Mum and Gran Reynolds that they asked. Dad says all their good deeds have to be noticed and appreciated.

When I tell them she’s fine, they hold their heads to one side, smile and give each other strange looks. They walk off, muttering about ‘shame…sick…not long now.’ I want to shout that she’s not that bloody ill, but that would make the upside-down Jesus really mad at me, so I ignore them and go to school, hoping I don’t get Mr Taggart for RE.

Mr Taggart is the one who told us about the upside-down Jesus in the first place. Well, it wasn’t really about a Jesus – it was about a saint who had been crucified upside down, which was, apparently, worse than being crucified the right way up – I couldn’t see why, but I didn’t ask. But in my head, it was a Jesus, ’cause there are all the Jesus pictures everywhere, and I can see his faces dead clear, so the upside-down crucified man always has a Jesus face.

Mr Taggart hates me and always finds a reason to make me stand out at the front of class, facing the blackboard. I don’t really mind facing the blackboard. It’s easier to block out what he’s saying if you can’t see his face. It’s always scary stuff about torment, the bad fire and eternal suffering. Gran Reynolds says him and the new priest must have been born in the same street.

It is him this morning – I see his cord jacket hanging just inside the classroom door. It’s going to be another bad day.

Today’s lesson is about some poor saint who was beaten and burned and other terrible things. But at least no one hung her upside down. At least she’s not angry with me for not being good after all she’s suffered.

That was the first time Taggart made me face the board – the day I said I never asked anyone to suffer for me. I didn’t mean to be cheeky – I just meant that I would never want anyone to be in pain for me – never ever – and especially not in all the terrible ways the Christians used to find to torture each other. Mr Taggart says they were righteous, but a bit over-enthusiastic. Gran Reynolds says that’s like saying Hitler was a bit intolerant. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but Dad laughed himself off his chair.

I think about all the funny things Dad and Gran Reynolds say, and that helps me get through RE without having to face the board. I get picked for ten mental and get every one right. I get through reading without a mistake and without a stammer. I get through gym without falling off any of the apparatus. I get through lunch without being force-fed custard. I get through sewing without stitching my fingers to anything – that’s very unusual. I sing my heart out in music and carry the last note in ‘Our Lady of Aberdeen’ longer than anyone else in the class. Miss Lennox takes me aside and reminds me that I play triangle for a reason, and could I maybe sing a wee bit quieter in future. I smile. She squeezes my arm and says there’s nothing to beat enthusiasm. It’s a good day.

I skip my way home again, until I reach the path to the garage. It’s been such a good day, I decide I’m not going to run. I’m going to ‘face my fear.’ I’ll walk slowly past the upside-down Jesus’ garage and he can glare at me all he wants. I stand straight and tall, the way they teach us in gym, I take a deep breath and I walk slow and steady. I turn and look at the garage – it’s just a garage, there’s nothing in there but old scrap and some cobwebs. I can feel my heart thumping in my chest and I want to scream, but I don’t. I take a few steps down the path – I don’t need to do this, I never need to go down this path, but I do it anyway. I stand, I stare, I dare the upside-down Jesus to spring those doors open and let a roar out at me. Nothing happens.

I walk away, trying to stay calm. Then I run. I run faster than I ever thought I could. I run up the garden path, into the house, into the kitchen, yelling, ‘Mum, Mum – I’m home!’ Dad is in the kitchen. He should be at work. He holds his arms out to me. I walk into them, accept the hug, though I don’t know why I deserve it – he doesn’t know about my good day or the upside-down Jesus not roaring at me.

‘Mum’s not in, pet. She’s at the hospital with Gran Reynolds. You and the boys are going to Gran McHendry’s for tea.’

‘Is she making mince?’ I screw up my face.

Dad smiles. ‘Aye, probably – so long as she doesn’t try her hand at dough balls, you’ll all survive. You might be staying there overnight, okay?’

We’ve never stayed at Gran McHendry’s. ‘Why? I don’t want to – I don’t like it there. It smells of parma violets.’ It’s true – it’s like walking into the worst sweetie shop in the world.

‘I know. But it’s just for one night. And when you get back, you’ll have your old room again.’
I think for a minute. ‘But where will Gran Reynolds sleep when she’s back from hospital? Are they making her better? Is she going back to her own house?’

‘No, pet, she won’t be able…’ I’ve never seen him cry before. It looks like his face has had an earthquake – all those creases appear from nowhere and surprise us both.

I hug him closer. ‘It’s okay, Daddy – I don’t mind sleeping in the front room. Gran Reynolds can come back here when she’s out of hospital.’

He hugs me so tight I can’t breathe. When he stops crying he lets me go. ‘You’re a good wean, aren’t you, Kirsty?’

I smile. ‘That’s what Gran Reynolds says, and she’s always right. She says that too.’ Dad half laughs, half cries, so it comes out like a bark. We both laugh then.

I am a good wean, and the upside-down Jesus can think what he likes. I never asked him to suffer for me, so why should I suffer for him? It’s a good day, one I’m sure I‘ll never forget.

KAREN JONES, 47, has previously been published in The New Writer magazine, Guildhall Press Anthology and Leaf Books Anthology. Mother of two, she is a dedicated carer/housewife but manages to grab anywhere from three to 30 hours a week for her writing. Kelvingrove Art Galleries is an especially inspiring writing haunt for her. People-watching churns her creativity but being easily distracted too often pulls her out of this mind-space. While working to achieve her ambition of winning a major literary award, Maltesers, red wine and Facebook Scrabble keep her sane. Read more about Karen.

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