Pope and Her Lady

by Leon Rooke

  Shut yer gub ye bony snitch, sez the snitch.

  ***

  Yet a shame Pope to divulge she and Mady’s wee wish frae time to time aboot having the wee wean, the stud stand-in but

  a wee wean, imagine such

  wee wean for just the two of them, da and ma

  my gudeness, just imagine!

  dear god Pope ye can be a mither withoot enduring, enduring the hardship, which believe me is prize comfort for yin youse’s age.

  And ne’er mind Mady was getting on, the danger, ne’er mind, she was willing, willing and eager, forty-four was nay auld, forty-four, fuck forty-four ye’re still part wean yer ownself. Forty-four is dandy, donay impeach forty-four, forty-four is prime. A surprise though, on the polis sheet they fetching Mady in as younger. When she’s ripe forty-four in the actuality, by her own word, and what woman is gony age herself? “Weil, nay to deceive ye, I’m forty-four,” says Mady that time at the Brideshead. Doing the gude deed, wanting me to comprehend ours were to be nay gudebye-see-ye-later it were nice coupling ... relationship.

  The yin lie ault Mady told, the polis has her birth notice, wonder the lie-numbers I telt?

  Cause I do lie frae time to time, I confess it, it’s built into my DNA. Fucking yeh, aright.

  Wouldnay ye heart quicken Pope, yer own wee wean to holt in yer arms, wee wean to suckle yer thumb and call ye Mum?

  Well, nay Mum, no especially.

  ***

  The snitch is standing. She’s brushing flaky shite from the mattress, baith hands.

  I’m the meanest ye ever saw, she sezs. Donay think ye can fuck wi me many have tried. I mean tae strangle ye in yer sleep, I’m telling ye ye damnable snitch.

  The guard nellie slashes through, banging her truncheon on cell doors. Lights oot, no talking, ye flaming twits, sez she.

  In the night the snitch at Pope’s throat, ye goddamn snitch she’s saying.

  ***

  Sorry to harangue ye.

  Yez in no haranguing me. Speak yer piece snitch.

  Yez are the snitch but.

  Aye? I’d appreciate ye no breathing ower me.

  Sorry. Sorry. It’s that I suffer this horrible toothache. Ye dont have nay tablets d’ye? I can lay ower my gums?

  Where fuck am I getting tablets for christsake.

  I’m in pain, what I’m saying.

  Yez is a snitch, that’s yer pain.

  I’m no a snitch. Yez is the snitch. I seent it first glance.

  Yez is complaining ye have a tooth confrontation?

  Aye. An awfy awfy ache.

  Then call Pinky. Shout oot through the bars. Pinky’ll come running.

  She’ll take bet on yer cure.

  ...

  Go on aw fuck wait a min I’ll call her. Pinky, git yer arse this way! There.

  I can see yez is a gude woman. But my guard is high. Ye’re still a snitch.

  ***

  Ladies.

  Hullo Pinkie.

  Ladies of the night beware.

  What?

  Aw Pope aw it were just a saying. Ye were shouting. Ye know yin shouts the entire female universe gaes berserk.

  Yeh.

  The whole womanly tribe aflit wi anger, remorse, simmering poison, pent-up aggression, aflit wi who knows what.

  Me snitch cellmate has a toothyache problem.

  Is that so? Is that so and what am I tae do aboot it? Up ’n’ doon aw night seeing to ye buggers.

  Ye want the truth Pinky? I’m nodding. I done it. Now git the snitch her tooth consolement.

  I’m a fucking dispensary?

  Send for it ye rat.

  ***

  The poor nelly, the poor sod, the sweet pooch. Fifteen, Mady’d aready had the yin wee wean, skoffed away frae home, a tragedy, the wean born dead – so telt. Oh me it was pulling teeth getting that oot of her. Oh the muck the poor sweetie ye had to crawl through yer tunnel aw alone oh me, yez wean born dead, oh me. Oh that’s rancid, ye poor beautiful wean to die when yez are fifteen and aw alone in the cruel world, Paw and Maw forsaken ye, oh me. Aye but.

  Aye ye coped didnay ye, ye taken in ye hands the feminist creed. Ye stood up to the thunderbolts and here yez is.

  Aye luv to confess to ye the now ye’re being such an understanding sweetie I truly love ye Pope I truly do and nay I’d telt ye this but for my broken heart and knowing even a gude sporting woman like yeself will hate me but.

  What? The look on ye face has me worrit.

  Nay it wont as I just the now said, nay at aw. The poor wean didnay die. Righto I was alone I was deserted I was fifteen I didnay know me true calling, the sex proclivity and that, but.

  But?

  Weil, I were awfy awfy accomodating to the other sex in them days. The boys. Awfy, awfy, what they say round-heeled, tell the truth. Promiscuous, like. Snap the finger, I’m doon on the carpet. Carpet nay, the whatever. It was like ye could say a rule, ye donay know the horrors of the horrors of the horrors of the environment. Ye had nay purpose but. Do it or its done to ye and ye have a cut face to show yer antagonism to the universal rule. Me looks were Olympic, did I want that? Donay hate me luv donay abominate the heart holting ye so dear. My confession is appro pro to personal endless defilement of the self-betrayal category: I left me poor wean on a doorstep, her crying the very minute my heart breaking dear Pope. Number 6 Argyle Quay it were Pope, this city. The times I passed these steps with bowed head afterwards I cannay telt you. A gude Presby home it were I’d selected: cross in each window, oot on the Green a crow’s fly from Ramshaw Kirk. Rocks I chunkt that night of the leaving til a light come on, then I take to my feet fast. My abandoned wean oh me. A man in a red shirt come to the door he hollers then arrives a dour woman in a grey shawl I see them huddle ower me wean, hours pass it seems afore they picks her up. Oh that is me terrible story and never since to see me poor fondling again oh ne’er more.

  D’ye hate me d’ye ye can fly away ye say so.

  Dry ye eyes lassie dry ye eyes.

  I have telt my true luv the awfy story my terrible secrets God wants to strike me dead here I am can ye forgive me Pope d’ye hate me would ye kill me or drive me away?

  Ye needs time to assimilate the consuming story as pertains to ye beloved. Ye needs time and in the meantime are ye no consumed?

  Come tomorry me and ye’ve got to visit number six Argyle Quay, there’s nay any two or three ways as to that. Fact is let’s put on our coats, let’s brave the storm the fucking rain and cold this very min.

  Ye are such a gude girl Pope ye are me very own lost daughter, her very lost breath.

  ...

  ...

  Snitch? Nay comment?

  The snitch stretches, she loops oot her arms, swings her feet to the pishy floor, her face aw wrinkled.

  I’ll say this to ye Pope. I thank ye for the Mady tale, it’s touching. Howinever, I confess I donay feel close attachment to yer unfortunate Mady. I think ye were a prize fool for falling for a narcissistic, hyper-manipulative creature like that. Me mind has ruminated ower yer sad story and I’m come to the conclusion yer Mady lacked the finer qualities.

  ...

  I didnay finish, snitch.

  Ach, screw.

  ***

  No a pipe, Pope sez to the snitch. Tell chief tell Jack I’m privy to nay pipe. If a pipe exists the stud what was to seed Mady bung it.

  Spare me, the snitch sez. I donay want to hear yer stupit confession shut yer childish gub.

  ...

  D’yer know this auld MacDougal song

  I ne’er was married

  Ne’er made my bed

  Life was sae cruel

  I was born dead.

  These hands ower me ears see? Nary a peep. I’m hearing nay word ye’re saying.

  ***

  Pope?

  Eh?

  Are ye on today? Rest well?

  Righto, auld Pope’s got her steam back.

  Saint Jack here is nay gaeing tae register yer unprovoked attack upoon his perso
n.

  Ye wonky bastids.

  Now Pope. Now Pope. I’m certain ye’re meaning nay insult.

  Arseholes.

  She’s gude eh Jack. I count that heartfelt apology eh Jack.

  Accepted. Forgive and forget sayith the Lord.

  Ye’ve had a visitor Pope. Fair young doctor lassie bung ye these clothes. Jeans, this shirt. She were nay certain the fit but. Gae ahead, make ye change. Jack here will turn his back, see, he’s coverit his eyes.

  ...

  Smart eh? Ye feel better I’m sure. Naything like a new wardrobe tae improve a lassie’s attitude. Likly ye’ll be happy the now tae telt us aboot that tool. Only nay yet, nay yet, yer doctor lassie friend sez – what were it she said Jack?

  Consequential amendments re criminal procedure, she sez, tae the Crime and Punishment Act, quote, “Where the first diet tae which the accused is cited” wi regard tae qualifying offenses in the arenas of culpable homicide, attemptit homicide, rape or its attempt, clandestine injury to a woman or said attempt, sodomy or its attempt wi-oot consent—

  Leap tae the lassie medical practicioner’s “behoove” speech Jack.

  Aye. The lassie behooved chief and yer faithful Jack tae recall the rarity wi which a child under sixteen may be prosecuted in normal criminal court, zero point five percent cases sez she, and then only upon instrumentation of the Lord Advocate. The balance, yer doctor friend saying, rightfully and by law subject tae the whims of the Children’s Hearing System.

  Which we are nay, right Jack?

  Aye fuckit aye.

  And sae wi-oot authority.

  Aye.

  Which brings us tae what vital question Jack?

  Suspect Pope’s age.

  ...

  What’s yer age Pope?

  Pope?

  ...

  Jack sez twenty-yin. Yer identification sez twenty.

  Forged howinevery. A fraudulent act punishable by—

  Ne’er mind Jack. What’s yer age Pope?

  ...

  Yer doctor lassie claims – what does she claim Jack?

  Thirteen. Recent graduate of the pram.

  Help us oot here Pope.

  ***

  Thirteen, sez Dora. Humble me God. Still, the Guv can sink ye. The state had weighty debate some time back: could a child of eight be helt responsible for the atrocious act. The wean had bludgeoned her fayther. It was helt she could, and remanded ower to High Court. Convicted, now serving the life term.

  ***

  Pope minds the reconnoitering at Number 6 Argyle Quay. Her and Mady are actually looking up auld number 6. The doorstep. There it is. Her sweetie says Oh but hun I’m no sure. It has changed some. Evergreens there were I’m sure. It was so long ago. I was so young. I was such another party. It were such a common doorstep. That red-shirted man, that shawlt auld sourpuss wore.

  This is the street and there is number 6. Ye’re gony leave a wean on a doorstep there’s the doorstep ye would pick. Fucking aye. Is there another doorstep on the whole street more tidy? Fucking naw. Nay one speck of dirt, the yard-green swept. In the whole Close nay other as enticing. It’s uncanny. That doorstep is made for a wean. The blae door. It were nay blae back then, who back then would waste precious smash painting a door. Donay be silly. So fuck that, its blae now, a bloke can paint a door. And ye can see there the sawed-off stump where a tree were.

  6

  Look at that number. That 6 is yin ancient fucking auld number. A 6 frae way back. Look at them shades. They could be the same auld war-number shades, watch oot for them Krauts. What war number Mady, what Krauts? Ach ye’re a stupit lassie, were ye born last week? The home, the hame f’fuck sake, it goes that far back. Yer Presbytery excellence, preserve the heritage days. Fertilize the bush but to nay excess. Cross in the window aye luv I see it. Look at that knocker, ancient lion’s paw.

  I mind that knocker Pope, sez Mady. The very one. Ye can feel it cannay ye? What’s to be done the now Pope? What next?

  Who the fuck knows.

  Mind ye language Pope, I’m different generation than ye ye know. Conservative like. I’m nay yet accustomed to yer nose ring.

  Aye but. Ye leave a wean on a doorstep twenty odd the year come and gone. Say ye were fifteen that’s twenty-five naw thirty year ago what the blazes d’ye do now? Time passes. That wean she’s now, it stands to reason, twenty five naw thirty fucking thirty year auld her on self. A woman, just imagine. She’s no wean own the doorstep the now. Ye cannay go up and pound the lion’s paw, explain to the answering party, I made a mistake, I want me wean back, pardon the intrusion. And what if the party herself answers? Or what if she’s on the slog or dead or what if yer wee wean the now has herself a household of wee fat weans?

  Bejesus Pope ye’re asking me? I cannay take it I’m skonkt. I’m a lost sailor. Let’s go home. Do the Jane Fonda.

  Mady doing a tear jag on the street. Owercome with grief who can blame her?

  There is number 6. Now what are ye insane muckers gony do? Other streets come and go, homes fall doon, whole fucking streets has been razed, the city spread to kingdom fuck, but here is number 6.

  She could be oot back, spading the garden. Imagine, me to view me own wean.

  Calm yeself. Consider yeself as awalk in cloistral calm.

  The strange thing is they has never expected to find number 6. It’s a fucking miracle number 6 still exists, aye ye had no faith but.

  She looks a bright happy home d’ye no think?

  It’s run doon. Rot aw ower. But that blae door is fresh. The steps has been renewed.

  I’m no up to this. Let’s for tea.

  ***

  How’s yer tea?

  Lovely lovely.

  Yer biscuits?

  Lovely.

  ...

  Ye’re a strange yin Pope. Did ye ne’er have a fayther? A mither?

  Why d’ye ask?

  Ye frighten me sometimes.

  ***

  Pope isnay yin to lay blame. Gie the woman answering the door credit. She said to Mady, That’s a sob story to aroint my eyes, come inside, sit down. You should have aborted, hun, the way I did. Sharp wire up the grimmies. Oh dear, ease the shocked expressions, it was a raping: the same churchman as implanted me arranged the doctoring. Wire is me feeble joke.

  My dear – did you say your name is Pope? – you are far too young to have those trembling hands. May I get you something to eat? A nice melon? Soup? I have a remarkable asparagi Parmigiana soup.

  ...

  Very well, then. It occurrs to me, Mrs. Powrs, based on your house description, that the domicile you seek is in fact not number 6 Argyle Quay but instead number 64. I believe you will find there perhaps no longer the war-period curtains, your perplexed couple, though certainly the crosses in each window.

  ***

  I didnay like that woman.

  She were awright. She were helpful. She offered ye sustenance.

  She was hateful. She’s an ourageous meddler.

  ***

  Frae the back lane, Argyle Quay, ye could see the age. Sag in the roof. Tin cans, buckets, paper dabs littering the weedy yard. A rusty trike. People living in 64 had been people living on the slog. The house didnay look occupied.

  Hun, it looks unlivable.

  Here she gaes Pope is knocking.

  Pope has a vision. The door will open and standing there will be a woman the exact copy of Madeline Powrs. Exact, I’m telling ye exact, doon to the painted-on eyebrows, the pearly blae stockings, the hint of stomach, narrow shoulders, teensy ankles, breasts weighing 0.3 kg, smelling vial gripped in the exact wee hand. Twenty year younger, but exact, I’m telling ye exact, yer perfect photocopy.

  A thin, tall, fiercely bent young man finally answers their raps; he doesnay say a word of reply to Mady’s elaborate summation. A fantastic stunning creep wearing a red jackeet, a dustman’s coveralls, is what he is, to Pope’s mind. She’s feeling surly. She’s no happy today with Mady’s jaunt doon Memory Lane. She’s jealous
, poor lost wean, naybody ever made such a fuss ower her. I’m no jealous, she tells herself, fuck ye asparagi parmi whatever, Mady’s sometimes ye frighten’, fuckit, I’m flagged, me heels raw frae the prolonged chugging.

  The young man is uncivil. He bores holes through Mady the entire time she’s panting the set spiel. Swishing frae yin foot to another, his head slanted to escape the low door frame. Ye can see on his brow the times he’s been struck. Pope he doesnay so much as consider, fuck Pope. Yer name again? Such is near aw he sez, this to Mady – yer name again? The voice squeaky, like few are the sounds uttered by him since leaving the pram, undigested food lodged in his throat, ye’d think. His face pressing in close to Mady’s, the eyes wet, he’s a bastid ought to be wearing glasses, the elongated prick.

  Wean, ye say? Doorsteps, ye say?

  Mady sputters, she’s run doon, her engine has quit. She licks her lips, trying no to look at the man’s big bare feet, the big yin hand set to slam the door.

  ***

  Later, Mady to say, That person is following us Pope he’s ...

  but Pope cannay see any followers, nay morn a thousand citizens gaeing aboot their clever business.

  There he is again Pope, the red jacket, he’s scary, holt onto me.

  ***

  It’s just yer friends have telt us yer a wee bit balmy Pope.

  Nay enough though a plea of insanity will save ye.

  Commedians ye are. Ye’re regular Stanley Baxters. Ye ought to book ye act into King’s Theatre.

  Ye’ll mind the recorder is no recording. View this as like a privilidged encounter twixt auld friends.

  We wantit tae ask ye aboot the letters Pope.

  Letters?

  Them under yer luv’s pillow eh? Them.

  Ask away.

  Ye know the letters?