The time for digging up the tatties was fast approaching and all Andrew could talk about at home was Donald. Donald this and Donald that, Donald and the tatties, Donald and the bonfire. Mum was run ragged with all this talk about Donald every minute of every day and then, one Tuesday at five o’clock, Mum heard the drone of Donald’s Morris Minor coming up Victoria Street and you couldn’t see Andrew for dust as he flew up the driveway to Donald’s back door like he did every day at five o’clock. He knocked on the door and waited and it was Janet who opened the door.
‘Is Donald comin’ oot to play, Janet?’ Andrew asked.
‘He’s just coming in the front door now, son. Do you want to come in and wait?’
‘No, I’ll wait here for him,’ Andrew said and he sat himself down on Donald’s back step. Donald raced into the house through the front door and dropped his bag on the couch as he headed to the back door to see his wee pal, who was always waiting there at five o’clock when he got home.
‘Hello, Andrew son, you’re here waiting for me already, eh?’
‘Aye, Donald. Are you comin’ oot to play?’
‘You bet I am. Let’s go and check the tatties, eh?’
‘Aye, okay, Donald, and look, I’ve got a surprise for us.’
Andrew stretched out his wee hands and proudly displayed two knobs of butter wrapped in tinfoil. ‘It’s for the tatties, Donald,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s Lurpak butter, Donald—
no’ margarine.’
‘What a treat, Andrew, son. We’d better get movin’ and check on the tatties then, eh? Maybe tonight’s the night!’
And with that they raced down the garden path to the tattie plants and Donald crouched down and scraped around in the dirt and started to smile. And Andrew crouched down too and they both turned their heads and looked straight at each other, nose to nose, and both of them were smiling.
‘They’re ready, aren’t they, Donald?’ Andrew said.
‘Aye, son, I think they are. Tonight’s the night! Let’s get the spade and make a start—it’s getting dark already. We’ll be eating our tatties by moonlight!’
So Donald got the spade from his garage and dug up the first plant to reveal five of the biggest tatties Andrew had ever seen in his life.
‘Ah, Donald, they’re beauties!’ Andrew shrieked.
‘Aye, they are that, son, and all your own work. Did I no’ tell you my secret about pinching the flowers and how that would make the tatties grow big like that?’ Andrew nodded in agreement as Donald handed him the spade. It was nearly the same size as Andrew and Donald showed him how to put his wee foot on one side of it and how to push it in under the tattie plant and bring up the tatties without damaging them.
‘That’s the way, son,’ Donald said proudly, watching over Andrew as he dug up his first tatties, ‘you’ve really got the hang of it there.’
Andrew furrowed his brow in concentration and kept on digging and digging, showing Donald what a big man he was, and once the tatties were up they gathered up a collection of branches and sticks and started the fire. It didn’t take long to catch and soon it crackled and roared while Andrew and Donald scrubbed the tatties under the outdoor tap and Donald showed Andrew how to wrap them in tinfoil and place them in the fire. Then Donald got his tartan travel rug from the boot of his Morris Minor and placed it close to the fire and Andrew and Donald sat together on the rug, just the two of them, looking into the flames and waiting for the tatties, and neither of them could have been any more contented. Their faces went pink from the heat as they stared into the flames and the flames mesmerised them and as the smoke rose up, Andrew and Donald watched it as it twisted and curled on its way up to the moon.
After half an hour Donald said the tatties were ready so he pulled them from the flames with a big long branch that he’d saved from the pile of firewood they’d collected. The tatties were black on the outside and when Donald cut them open the white powdery flesh looked fluffy like snow. Andrew popped one knob of butter on top of each and watched it as it melted and trickled into the powdery flesh and when he tasted them he said they were the best tatties he had ever had, even better than the new season Golden Wonders Mum used to boil in their jackets. As the last flames of the fire died and the orange embers glowed Donald said it was probably time for Andrew to be getting home to bed. ‘Come on, son, I’ll walk you home,’ he said tenderly.
But Andrew didn’t want the night to end. He wanted to sit there with Donald all night long and ask him questions about tatties and fires but he knew he had to go. It was dark and late and the excitement of the tatties had left him exhausted.
Donald took Andrew’s hand as they started down the path towards home and Andrew squeezed Donald’s hand as much as his wee hand could squeeze a grown man’s. He thought about the secret wish he’d made about having Donald as his new da and he wondered if it would ever come true, but Mum had told him before that life was never that simple.
Mum opened the door to the pair of them, their faces still pink from the fire and their fingers black and sooty from the tattie skins.
‘Just returning your wee yin, Betty,’ Donald said.
‘Ach, thanks, Donald. Looks like you two have had a good time,’ Mum said, ‘and it looks like we might need to get the scrubbing brush to Andrew’s fingernails!’
‘Aye, he’s a dirty wee bugger tonight, Betty,’ Donald said as he kneeled down beside Andrew. ‘Awright, wee man, time to say good night. We had a good time tonight, didn’t we son?’
‘Aye, we did, Donald. Will I see you again tomorrow then?’
‘Of course you will, pal. I wouldn’t miss that for the world—you just listen for the drone of the engine of my Morris Minor coming up Victoria Street at five o’clock and I’ll meet you on my back step. But right now it’s time for your bed.’
Donald smiled at Andrew, the son he never had but wished for with all his heart, and Andrew smiled at him, all black soot and grimy, and Donald put his arms around Andrew and cuddled him and he shut his eyes tight and a wee tear ran down the bridge of his nose as he whispered ‘Good night, son’ into Andrew’s ear. And Andrew wrapped his arms around Donald’s neck and pressed his wee pink cheek against Donald’s and whispered back, ‘Good night, da.’
15
Is that for your porridge or are you going to plant crocuses in it?
I used to go to the Brownies on a Tuesday night and I loved it there. One night Brown Owl divided us into different groups and each of these groups got the name of a bird: The Yellow Canaries, The Robin Red Breasts, The Little Brown Sparrows and The Blue Tits. I was in The Blue Tits and Mum said that was okay, ’cause out of all the birds the blue tits were the most beautiful, and I believed her.
The next week for homework we had to find a picture of our birds from newspapers and magazines, stick them down on a big piece of paper and bring them to the Brownies the next Tuesday. My grampa used to take photographs of birds so I asked him the next day if he had photographed any blue tits and he said he hadn’t but had photographed Auntie Annie’s blue budgie in its cage and I said that that would do ’cause who’d know what a blue tit looked like anyway?
I took my photograph and glued it down on a big sheet of blue paper and wrote blue tit at the bottom in blue pen. I thought my homework was pure brilliant and couldn’t wait to see the other Brownie’s faces when they saw how great it was too.
The Tuesday night eventually arrived and when I got to the Brownie hall I discovered all the other Brownies had done something called collages and they had stuck loads of pictures and clippings of information from the newspapers on what their birds ate and where they slept and how they fed their babies and all of them were colourful and sparkly and I didn’t know where to look. I thought about saying I had left mine at home but knew they’d know I was lying and so I had no choice but to put mine on the table along with the rest of them, and then I went to the toilet and hoped when I came back it would all be over. As I made my way back from the toilet I saw Jean Rowntree
from The Little Brown Sparrows looking at my blue tit and then she marched straight to Brown Owl and she whispered something into Brown Owl’s ear and pointed at my picture.
‘Ali,’ Brown Owl said, ‘is this your blue tit?’
‘Yes it is, Brown Owl.’
‘I’ve been having a look at it and I must say this is the first time I’ve seen a blue tit that looks almost identical to a blue budgerigar.’
‘Is it, Brown Owl?’
‘Yes, it is. And I was just wondering, what made you think this was a blue tit?’
I didn’t know where to look and so I said, ‘The blue tit and the blue budgie are from the same family, Brown Owl.’
‘Oh, really? And who told you this?’
‘My grampa told me, Brown Owl.’ Of course Grampa had said nothing of the sort but I had to blame somebody.
Brown Owl raised her eyebrows, picked up Jean Rowntree’s brown sparrow collage and congratulated Jean on an excellent sparrow collage, perhaps the most excellent she had ever seen in all her years as a Brown Owl. Jean looked across at me and the way she looked at me got my back right up.
Once the bird collages were all put away, Brown Owl told us she had some special news and that special news was there was going to be a Brownie camp and she hoped that all the Brownies would be able to attend. During that Brownie camp there were going to be opportunities to research your bird group as well as games and activities and I couldn’t wait. Brown Owl gave us a list of essential camping items we would have to take with us and we had to show the list to our mums and report back the next week if we would be able to go or not.
I was so excited I ran all the way home to ask Mum if I could go. She said that I could and I showed Mum the list with ‘one pair of sturdy walking shoes, one average-sized plastic breakfast bowl, one sleeping bag, one toothbrush, one bar of soap, one towel, several items of warm clothing, one knitted hat, one waterproof coat’. And I kept the list with me in my bed that night and couldn’t sleep for wondering if any of my shoes were sturdy enough and what did they need to be sturdy for?
The day of the departure to camp arrived and Mum had prepared my bag with the essential camping items except I still didn’t have my average-sized plastic breakfast bowl. It was already one o’clock and I had to be at the Brownie hall to board the minibus at one thirty. So Mum grabbed me by the hand and we raced down to the shops on the Glasgow Road to see what we could find and we couldn’t find anything ’cause all the shops were closing for their half-day Wednesday trading. Just as we were about to give up hope of finding a shop still open, Mum noticed that the lights were still on in Joe Battersy’s hardware shop and so we rushed inside just as Joe was heading to the door to turn the key in the lock.
‘Ah, just in time, Betty. What can I do for you this afternoon?’ Joe asked Mum.
‘Well, it’s a bit of an emergency, Joe—we need an average-sized plastic breakfast bowl for Ali here. She’s just heading off on her Brownie camp and she needs it for her porridge in the morning.’
‘Sorry, Betty, I don’t carry plastic breakfast bowls these days, not since the Tuesday markets opened up in the car park at Hasty’s Farm and they stock everything there from plastic breakfast bowls to imported polyester men’s ankle socks at four pairs for a pound.’
My heart sank as I listened to Joe and I imagined the shame of being turned away from the minibus for not having all the essential items from the list with me and then I thought maybe if I asked nicely, Brown Owl would still let me come if I promised not to eat any breakfast. Mum could see my disappointment. She took my hand and we turned and walked towards the big red door of Joe’s hardware store and just as we were about to open the door Mum noticed Joe’s display of crocus bulbs in the window and right next to the crocus bulbs there was a pile of big green plastic bulb bowls. She turned to Joe and said, ‘Joe, I see you’ve lovely crocus bulb bowls in the window. How much are they?’
‘They’re one pound twenty each and they’re big enough to hold a dozen and a half crocus bulbs, Betty. We’ve got hyacinth bulbs too, if you’re interested, and the daffodils are coming in on Friday.’
‘I’ll take the bowl for now, Joe, but I don’t need any bulbs just at the minute.’
‘Okay, Betty, I’ll wrap it up for you.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll just pop it into Ali’s bag.’ And I couldn’t think what was going to be worse, showing up at the minibus without an average-sized plastic bowl or showing up at the kitchen on the first morning of the Brownie camp with a bowl that was designed to incubate a dozen and a half crocus bulbs.
‘But, Mum, the list of essential items says, an average-sized plastic breakfast bowl and that crocus bowl is big enough to feed The Canaries, The Little Brown Sparrows, The Robin Red Breasts and The Blue Tits all at the same time!’
Mum told me to shut up and stop complaining and to remember that there were people starving in the world. I didn’t see the connection but then with Mum there often wasn’t one. So, rather than risk being ridiculed and ostracised by my Brownie pack for not going to the Brownie camp, I decided instead to risk being ridiculed and ostracised for showing up at the breakfast kitchen with a larger than average-sized plastic breakfast bowl.
With my crocus bowl pushed down as far as possible into my bag I boarded that minibus and as we trundled out of the street we all sang Brownie songs and I tried to push thoughts of breakfast as far out of my mind as I possibly could.
I sat at the back of the bus just across from my pal Maggie and my other pal Susan and as we set off they brought out their breakfast bowls and Maggie’s had Donald Duck on the side and Susan’s had bunny rabbits running around the rim and when I thought about my crocus bowl, with ‘Plant Use Only’ stamped on the side, I got a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then Maggie and Susan asked me if they could see my breakfast bowl and I said, ‘Och mine is at the bottom of my bag and I’d have to take out my sturdy walking shoes to get at it. I’ll show it to you when we get to the camp.’ They seemed happy enough with that and me, I couldn’t have been unhappier, and suddenly I wished I’d never boarded that minibus and that I’d stayed at home with Mum and planted crocuses instead.
When we arrived at the camp, Tanya, the camp coordinator, showed us to our tents and then she showed us where to have a wash and where to show up for breakfast the next morning. As we toured the camp site my fears about the breakfast queue escalated from a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach to a frantic state of dread in my whole body and in the dread I started to imagine the breakfast line the next morning and I could see the queue of bubbly Brownies chatting excitedly about their sturdy walking shoes and admiring each other’s bowls and next thing I know, beads of sweat are forming on my forehead and rolling down into my brown bushy eyebrows.
No longer able to contain the dread, I went inside my dark tent and sat on the wet grass and held my head in my hands and wept. I wept for Mum, the only person in the world who ever told me I was beautiful like a blue tit and the only person in the world who didn’t care whether I ate my breakfast from a crocus bowl or if I ate any breakfast at all. One of the Brownies heard me crying and she went and told the Brownie Commissioner who was Brown Owl’s boss, and the Commissioner came straightaway and asked me if I was okay. Of course I couldn’t tell her about the shame of my crocus bowl so instead I told her I was missing my mammy and that I didn’t know if I could get through the night sleeping in that tent without her. And then the weeping got worse and all the Brownies from the other tents gathered at the flap of my tent and peered in to see who would be making such a disgrace of herself on their first trip away from home without their mammy. When they saw it was me they put their heads together and whispered to each other and I knew they were asking questions about my breakfast bowl and they were saying how it seemed strange I hadn’t wanted to show mine on the bus and so I told the Commissioner I wanted to go home and the Commissioner told me, ‘Come come, there’s no need to be going home. You’ve onl
y been here two hours and what’s everybody going to think of you if you head home without even sleeping one night in the great outdoors?’
But how could I tell her my fear of what people thought of me for going home without even sleeping one night in the great outdoors was nothing compared to my fear of someone in the breakfast queue asking me, ‘Is that for your porridge or are you going to plant crocuses in it?’ And so I sobbed even more and then the sobbing turned into wailing until the Commissioner knew she had no choice but to agree to drive me home before all of the other Brownies started wailing for their mammies too. So with my head hung low, I dragged my bag of essential camping items through the wet grass behind me to the Commissioner’s car and didn’t dare look up from the grass for fear that the Brownies would be staring at me and whispering in each other’s ears about the Brownie from The Blue Tits who’s missing her mammy.
The sun was almost set for the night and the darkness wasn’t far away as me and the Commissioner drove up the dirt track and out of the Brownie camp. Just before we turned right onto the sealed road that would take us to the motorway, I turned back and looked one last time at the camp. Each of the tents had its own oil lamp burning outside and I could see the Brownies in their sturdy shoes sitting around the orangey flames of the camp fire telling each other stories and all sorts of lies about their breakfast bowls and how they weren’t missing their mammies one little bit, and me, I just turned my head in the direction of home and watched the dusky hills roll past as the rhythm of the Commissioner’s car rocked me gently to sleep.
16
Vladimir’s deli and my bare arse
I used to think Mum drank the vinegar straight from the gherkin jar ’cause her grandparents were Lithuanian. Once the last gherkin in the jar had been eaten, Mum used to lift the jar to her mouth and gulp down its contents using her teeth as a sieve for the pickling spices and the long bits of stringy dill that floated in amongst the gherkins. Lithuania is right next door to Poland and we grew up on Polish gherkins and Polish sour-dough bread and Polish pork ring sausages and we used to get them once a week from Vladimir’s delicatessen at the Gorbals.
Poking Seaweed with a Stick and Running Away from the Smell Page 6