Not every man is a Prince. If Kate hadn't met Wills, maybe this could have been her story...
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Prologue
Sauchiehall Street
- I s’pose in years tae come, it’ll be something to laugh aboot, o’er a few beers meybe…but at the time it was nae funny. It was nae funny at a’ and i’s still nae funny now…
Ewan’s face was contorted by the recent memory. He stood with his back to the desk looking through the window at the passing lives of Glasgow, trying both to remember it clearly and forget it forever.
Dr Swartz coughed. The dry air from the air conditioning unit was not good for his chest. It was the hottest summer in history and weariness had settled over the busy city as people tried to conserve energy.
- Tell me again aboot your father
The insinuation was clear and Ewan rounded on him
- Och aye, he was a bully a’ right…
His voice faded and his eyes glazed over.
- I idolised him. He wanted me to be a prize-fighter like him but in the ring like. No’ one o’they street fights they did fae money in the alleys o’ Glesca, but pucker like. Wi’ a manager an’ a’.
Ewan came back to the present. He slammed his fist into the filing cabinet; the drawers buckled slightly under the force. His father had walked out when he was three abandoning his mother and baby brother to a succession of fathers and subsequent siblings. There were seven of them now. Ranging from Sarah at 6 months to Ewan who was 23. They lived in a cramped council house on the south side of Glasgow, so many to a room and still two children would invariably end up staying down the road at their Grandad’s, overnight, for the shortage of beds at home.
-Ma Ma, she had such dreams, but each one was worse than the last. When I was 14 ma Da returned to teach me to fight. He stayed on the scene, livin’ nearby for a few years, but he could nae hol’ down a job and then there was the trouble wi’ the polis… I’ve nae seen him since I was 19. We had a big fight, it was aboot how he treated ma Ma. I’d had enough. He was nae bigger than me then and I took him on. He left in the ambulance wi’ a broken jaw an’ six cracked ribs. Tha’ was the last o’ it. I can nae stand domestic violence.
Ewan looked up, realising the import of his last words.
- I dinnae believe in a’ tha’ environment an’ genetics crap. It must be possible to break free. I’m educated. I’ve got brains. I read books!
He was angry now, and confused. Sweat was pouring down his face, despite the ambient temperature in the consulting room. Dr Swartz watched and remained silent. Waiting for the admission.
- I s’pose I must ha’ done it. I jus’ could nae believe I was capable o’ it.
The recent events came back with a flash. Her last words were burning into his skull. He thought his head would explode in the heat.
- You really have no idea what you’ve been doing have you? All these months and you aren’t even aware of it. You need help.
She hadn’t called the police. She hadn’t thrown him out. He’d wandered the streets of the little Hillfoots town for hours, dazed, coming to terms with what was happening. He was suddenly homeless, penniless, friendless and being accused of behaving like the worst kind of ogre. The sort of man he detested and he was unaware of how it had happened. He’d loved her. He’d idolised her. But somewhere it had all gone wrong. She made him angry. He felt week beside her, uncouth and ignorant.
He’d gone to Glasgow and holed up with his father’s sister for a while. She asked him no questions and she gave him privacy to think and work out what was happening.
She put him in touch with Dr Swartz at the hospital where she’d worked as a receptionist for the past 20 years. He was an elderly, fatherly man, forever trying to sort out the problems of Glasgow’s minds: Violence; drugs; alcohol. Abuse of all sorts, had entered his room to be filed and re-ordered into something more socially acceptable, or to be condemned to one of the few mental institutions, or in some cases prisons and mortuaries, within the boundaries of Glasgow’s metropolis.
Ewan returned his thoughts to that night, as he described the events to Dr. Swartz. His mind reeling as he re-lived the nightmarish events of that night and the weeks preceding.
All the while, he became more agitated, banging his fists again and again, anger flashing in his eyes. He’d felt sub-ordinated.
Dr. Swartz continued to sit, listening, watching, not moving, not indicating approval, disapproval, or indeed any emotion. He just listened as Ewan continued his outpouring of wrath. This was what the Doctor excelled at. Listening, and through listening, assessing, without giving anything away, and hopefully over time, healing. When he was young and idealistic, he felt he could help. He had not expected his chosen specialism to bear such a ferocious brunt of Society’s problems, without being able to provide any real answers. The cracks ran too deep. Too fundamental in the belly of society and he was left to pick up the pieces of those who found him. An arbitrary result, for an arbitrary and limited population. He lost his naivety, but kept his idealism, mixed with a strong dose of bitter irony and social realism and did what he could for his patients.
Ewan was staring wildly at the doctor, shouting and bearing down over the desk, knuckles on the edge, bare forearms showing his well-toned muscles.
His mouth had curled to a sneer and beads of sweat were running down his forehead. His friendly Grecian looks had adopted the air of a savage. Anger and disbelief overflowing, he collapsed into a chair, hiding his face in his hands, overcome with the horror of what he’d become over the past months.
Outside in Sauchiehall Street the sounds of the Orangemen on yet another march could be heard. Their Protestant songs telling tales of years of pride and fighting, beating into the hearts and minds, of Catholics and Protestants alike.
Ewan momentarily glanced at the Parade, the booing Catholics, the proud Protestants, the Police escort trying, somewhat in vain, to stem the scuffles and periodic outbreaks of violence. Ewan felt removed from all this. He had grown up with it, but had determined to use his intellect to escape it.
Ewan’s body crumpled under the weight of the recent reality. His noble aims struggling against this weight of oppression, borne through his veins over 100’s of years… What had he reduced her to? Anger, confusion, shame reared their heads in turn…
He continued his story…
- I didnae ken how it had happened… I didnae ken wha’ a dae. Where was the fighting girl I’d met? What had I done tae her? What had she done tae me? What had we done to oursel’s? I had tae gae…
She hadn’t told anyone. Slowly creeping in on herself, relying on her own resources, she continued the daily routine of getting up, writing her studies, attending lectures and trying to please him, trying to avoid failing again…
She crept around the flat. Her gregarious, vivacious manner, reduced to timidity and conserving energy…
