The Credit Draper

by J David Simons

  Her embrace was tight. Tighter than was comfortable for him. As if she never wanted to let him go. He felt the sweat between them. And he broke away from her lips. She was panting and so was he. He thought of Jean Munro’s pair of horses doing the same. Sweating, snorting, steaming. He kissed her again. This time, as they embraced, he kept his upper body away from hers so he could bring his hand round to touch her breast. He did so slowly, feeling the dampness of her underarm, then again the fabric of her slip.

  “Yer tickling me,” she murmured into a half-kiss.

  His fingers froze, but when she started kissing him again, he edged them round to feel the underside of her breast beneath the thin cotton. His whole body relaxed in the heft of this deliciously soft orb in his palm. His objective had been achieved. This small victory among life’s challenges.

  He moved his thumb upwards with confidence now, circling, until he located the button of her nipple. Megan moaned and he thrilled at his ability to create such pleasure for her and for himself. He continued to caress her there, feeling the small tight bud of her erectness. Her breath was held tightly in her ribcage as was his. He felt the heat between them and he pulled away, still holding on to her breast. The tension subsided in the mingled exhalation of their breaths.

  She looked into his eyes. Searching for something he hoped was there for her to see. For at this moment, his heart was full of great affection and gratitude towards Megan Kennedy. She moved closer and he twisted his groin away from her so she wouldn’t feel his hardness. Her heart beat against his own. He wanted to stay like this forever. On this grey afternoon. With the rain lashing the small window as it tried to intrude on their cosiness. With her breast still cupped in his hand like a ripe plum. With Megan’s fingers resting lightly against his thigh.

  The sound of horses woke him. Megan was by the window, brushing her hair in long sweeps. Over her shift which rose to above her knees she wore the blanket Jean Munro had brought for him.

  “Jean’s gone to fetch him,” she said.

  “How long will she be?”

  “Half an hour. If the Rail-Motor’s on time.”

  “She doesn’t mind us … using this room?”

  Megan came over to sit on the bed.

  “She wants us to. She wants to see at least one happy person in this miserable household.”

  “When will I see you again?”

  “I dinnae ken. I’ll try to get a message to ye. Through Jean. Maybe we can meet here again.”

  “My uncle comes back tomorrow to replace me. I’m supposed to go down to Glasgow.”

  “How long for?”

  “I’m not sure. A fortnight perhaps. But I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go back to Glasgow ever again.”

  She leaned over, kissed him on the nose. “Now get up. I need to make this room tidy. Yer clothes should be dry by now.”

  Thirty-three

  “HOW’S YER UNCLE, THEN?” Donald Munro asked, as his wife lifted the cloak off his shoulders. He roughly brushed some raindrops from his tweeds, then re-inserted his pipe into his mouth. “Well?”

  “He’s fine, sir,” Avram said, smelling the faint whiff of ether off the man. “He’s been in Glasgow. Back tomorrow.”

  Donald Munro walked over to the fire. “Glasgow, eh? He’ll be all riled up about the demonstrations, then.”

  “Is that about the rent increases, sir?”

  “Ye ken about the refusal to pay?”

  “A bit, sir.”

  Donald Munro grunted as he poured himself a glass of whisky from a crystal decanter. He swept one of his wife’s samplers off an armchair and sat down. Pipe in one hand, glass in the other. “Go on.”

  “It’s about the women protesting the landlords putting up the rents when their husbands are away fighting. It’s about socialism.”

  “Socialism, is it?” Donald Munro snapped. “What do ye ken about socialism?”

  Avram wrung his fingers behind his back. He recognised Donald Munro’s anger. He had seen it flash across his face at the stationmaster in Oban station.

  “It puts people before profit.”

  “It’s nothing of the kind, boy.” Donald Munro drank greedily then refilled his glass. “It’s about a few teetotallers hungry for power. And using the ignorance of the workers to achieve it. If it’s true ethical guidance yer after, boy, better look to the kirk than to the Independent Labour Party. Or wherever it is you Jews go to for yer morality. Now show me these samples.”

  Avram hastily brought over the book of swatches.

  “Jean,” Donald Munro screamed. “Come in here.”

  Jean Munro hurried into the room, wiping her hands nervously on her apron. Megan arrived behind her, and Donald Munro’s features visibly softened.

  “Megan. I didnae ken ye were here.”

  “Mr Munro,” she said with just the slightest curtsy.

  He turned his attention back to his wife. “When is dinner ready?”

  Jean stepped forward with her watch in the flat of her hand and showed him.

  “Good. They will stay to eat.”

  Jean nodded.

  “Now what do you think of these cloths?”

  Avram stood on one side, Jean on the other, as Donald Munro turned over the pages of swatches. Every so often, he would pause at a particular material and she would nod or shake her head until a choice had been made. Avram tried to offer his own opinion, but his advice was met with a grunt of dismissal. Instead, as Donald Munro fussed and his wife stood anxiously behind him, Avram listened to the sound of Megan setting the table in the other room. He imagined her fingers placing the cutlery just right or straightening a napkin, the same fingers which only a short time ago had tugged urgently at his vest, touched his lips, caressed his skin.

  “Good,” said Donald Munro. He beckoned Avram over and indicated his choice. Then he snapped the book shut. “Now, let’s eat.” He stood up, took his wife’s arm, and Avram followed as together they walked into the dining room.

  By the time dinner had finished, Donald Munro was slumped florid in his chair, a decanter standing empty by his limp hand and unlit pipe. It had been a joyless affair, centred around the man’s deteriorating speech, until there was almost no conversation at all. Jean Munro had hardly touched her plate and sat staring at it with a look of sadness that Avram felt a thousand words on her lips could not describe. He tried to imagine what it must be like when guests were not present. Jean Munro’s dumbness matched by her husband’s stupors. A monstrous weight of silence – with no sound but the waves attacking the rocks, edging ever closer to this isolated mansion before swallowing it whole into their grasp.

  Megan leaned forward across the table. “Jean telt me what happened in the forest.”

  Avram smiled. “How can she tell you anything, Megan Kennedy? She doesn’t speak a word.”

  “I can read her signs. I’ve kent her for so long … it’s like she’s talking to me. Isn’t that right, Jean?”

  Jean nodded.

  “She telt me you heard music.”

  “An intruder in the castle maybe. It didn’t half scare me.”

  “It’s happened before. Jean’s heard it many times. Since she was a bairn. Me too. But just the once. It’s only when there’s a storm and the wind’s coming from a certain direction. Off the sea. Like today.”

  “So what is it?”

  “When we were little, we went in. There was a way in then. Not all boarded up like now. It was Jean’s idea. She made me follow. I didnae want to go. It was real dark at first. We could hardly see anything. Just the grand staircase. And this sound. A musical sound. Not a tune. Like a Jew’s harp. Long notes.”

  Jean sat fiddling with a fork but her eyes showed an interest.

  “Like a moaning,” he said, recalling that awful sound.

  “Aye, like a moaning.”

  “So go on. What was it?”

  “Haud yer wheesht and let me finish. We climbed the staircase. Jean first, then me hauding her hand. A
nd it was getting lighter, for there were spaces in the roof. Where the tiles had loosed or dropped away completely. And everything was covered up with sheets. It was like a snow palace. And all the time, there’s this sound. Getting louder all the time. And my heart is pumping like a piston on wan of these steam engines. And I dare say I can hear Jean’s doing the same. But she carries on, dragging me with her. Along these corridors full of portraits watching our every step with their dead eyes. Until we come to this doorway. Double doors. And whatever is making the sound is behind it. I’m greeting now. Pulling her hand. Take me home, I’m crying. Take me home.”

  Megan glanced at her friend. “But Jean Munro is no feart. Not Jean Munro. She’s a strong lassie, that one. Full of courage. She’ll take on even castle ghosts. She lets go of my hand and pushes down on the two handles. I think to running away, but my feet are stuck to the floorboards like I’m standing in a bowl of cold porridge. Jean pushes open the doors and goes in. There’s a wind rushing through that room. Off the sea, like I said. And I see her pointing at something I cannae see. I move forward with wee steps along the side of the door. And the noise is coming loud. And Jean is still pointing. I get to the edge of the door and peek round. And what do ye think it was?”

  “A ghost. A ghost playing a musical instrument.”

  “It was a musical instrument all right. It was a harp. A big beautiful harp. With its sheet fallen down by the broken window. But no ghost was playing it. Just the wind. And ye should see yer face, Avram whatever-yer-name-is.”

  Megan was laughing. And so was Jean, with her eyes. The two of them hugged each other. And he began laughing too. Donald Munro stirred in his seat, but no-one paid any attention.

  When the rain eased off, Jean Munro drove Avram and Megan on her wagon back into Lorn, dropping them off by the kirk near to the Kennedy’s cottage. Standing in his doorway, Kenny Kennedy scratched his head when he saw them, dishevelling the few strands of hair that lay there.

  “How come the two of ye arrive together?”

  “Jean Munro picked me up on my way back from the Laird’s castle,” Megan said. “Avram was in the wagon …”

  “… I’d been taking the swatches over to Mr Munro.”

  “Aye,” Kenny Kennedy said, with a stare at Avram. “Aye.”

  “It’s nice to see them both together, isn’t it, faither?” said Mrs Kennedy.

  “Aye.”

  Avram slept in his usual spot in the barn with Fadda and Colonsay for company. The noises of the nights didn’t worry him now. Instead, they linked him to Megan awake in the cot-bed in the parlour, listening to the same sounds. Even though he woke early the next morning to catch her, she was already gone back to the castle and it was the curious face of her mother who greeted him as she came to milk the cows.

  Later that same morning, Avram took the Rail-Motor service back across the Connel bridge, then tramped across the hillsides to Oban. He found a different route into the town and it was just as well he did, for if there was one thing to take his mind off Megan, it was the sight that greeted him now. A field laid out with goalposts. And a clubhouse with a sign above the door. ARGYLL THISTLE FC. Kicking a ball around in one of the muddy goalmouths were youngsters about his age and he guessed the real members of the club were signed up to some Pal’s Brigade at the Front dreaming of the times they would be back thumping a ball up and down this very ground. He stopped to watch, eager to join in, to feel again the curve of the leather on his instep.

  “I thought shinty was the game here?” he called out to one of the boys running in close for a throw-in.

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “I’m not from these parts.”

  The boy sniffed hard then spat out some clear mucus onto the ground in front of him. He was a long-necked, tousle-haired lad with a smell of fish about him. “Where are ye from then?”

  “Glasgow.”

  “Glesca boy, eh?” He looked Avram up and down, measuring him carefully. “Rangers or Celtic?”

  “Celtic.”

  “Ye’ll have to keep yer gob shut about that.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’re all Proddies here. ’Cept for a few Baptists. But I’ll forgive ye. Aye, shinty is the game here. But there are a few wee fitba’ teams about. This one’s one of the best. Argyll Thistle. Like it says on the shed.”

  “Is there a league?”

  “Aye. Can ye play?”

  “A bit.”

  “Let’s see then.” The boy held out a muddied hand. “My name’s Archie. Archie Campbell.”

  Avram had never played on a full grass pitch before. He had a dream of it once, when he thought he might make the schoolboys’ final at Hampden Park – but that was another lifetime ago. This pitch had been left uncut for some time, the long and greasy blades giving an edge to some of the other boys with proper studded boots. But once he had adapted himself to the surface, he felt the old moves come back to him.

  Argyll Thistle were professional enough to have nets for their goalposts, and though they were torn here and there or patched up with blue fishing mesh, they were full enough to gather the sting of his well-hit shot. It still thrilled him to see the bulge of the net, to hear the cord stretch taut in a stringy cradle before spilling the ball harmlessly onto the ground. And it wasn’t just the thrill of scoring a goal. There was also an essential beauty in seeing all the power he had diverted to the ball absorbed and rendered harmless by the net’s embrace.

  “Where did ye learn to kick the leether like that?” Archie asked.

  Avram shrugged. “On the streets. School team.”

  “Well, ye can play with us any time. We’re awfully short these days.”

  “I’m not in Oban much.”

  “Disnae matter. Just when ye can.”

  “When do you play?”

  “Saturday mornings. If I’m not here, I’ll be at the fish markets by the pier. I’m an apprentice cooper for my father.”

  He thanked Archie for the offer and rushed to the station. The Glasgow train had already pulled in.

  “Boychik. I’m glad to see you.” Uncle Mendel was checking several parcels at his feet, reconciling them with some list in his head. “Take these, these and these. I’ll take the rest.”

  Thirty-four

  THE OBAN ARMS WAS A SMALL, white-washed pub with a low lintel of thick oak beam that Avram had to crouch under to enter. The interior was dim and smoky, with most of the rickety tables occupied by fishermen who paid little attention to the entrance of an Orthodox Jew and his armful of parcels, save for an arched eyebrow or a disinterested glance. Some of the men played dominoes, some warmed their drinks in the palms of their hands, others just sat staring at the walls with the far-away look of men used to vast empty horizons. There was not much chat.

  The barman eased towards them with a generous wipe of a cloth across the counter. “Moses?”

  Uncle Mendel pulled out a small bundled handkerchief from his pocket, unwrapped it to reveal a shot glass which he placed carefully on the bar top.

  “Whisky. And for you, boychik?”

  Avram looked around at what the others were drinking. “Beer?”

  The barman glanced at Uncle Mendel.

  “For my young business partner, a half-pint.”

  Avram followed his uncle in laying down his parcels, resting a foot on the brass rail, placing an elbow across the bar, still damp from the barman’s rag. The drinks were poured. Uncle Mendel tossed back his, ordered another.

  Avram sipped at his beer. It came warm and sloppish with hardly a head on it. But it was the first he had tasted and he felt more of a man for it, even though the hoppy taste was not particularly to his liking.

  “The belt, boychik. The belt. Pass it over. Slowly. So no-one can see.”

  Avram turned to face the bar, hitched up his sweater, unbuckled the money-belt under the cover of his jacket. Uncle Mendel snatched it from him, quickly wrapped it around his own waist under his jacket and cardigan. He then fid
dled one of the pouches open, wriggled out some coins with his thick fingers.

  “Wait here.”

  Uncle Mendel went over to a corner of the bar. A lone drinker sitting with his pint and newspaper looked up, registered the approach with a nod and a blink. The man’s eyes sat tiny on either side of a large tuberous nose, bruised veins flowed ready to burst across his red-raw ravaged cheeks. Avram saw him put a hand into the top pocket of his jacket, pull out a wad of papers, sifting through them with a licked finger until he presented one to Uncle Mendel. Uncle Mendel took the slip, scrutinised it for a moment, then shook the other man’s hand with both of his. Watching on, Avram was sure Uncle Mendel had passed over the coins with his grasp.

  “Good,” Uncle Mendel said, slightly breathless on his return. “Now, tell me about business.”

  “Who is that man?”

  “Just a goy.”

  “You gave him money.”

  “I said just a goy. Now, business.”

  Avram handed over the order book and Uncle Mendel proceeded to flick through the pages, running a finger up and down the columns, suggesting a bigger mark-up here, a longer time to pay there. He dwelt longer on the totals, made some quick calculations which he wrote into another page with a pencil stub, then snapped the book shut.

  “Not bad, boychik. Not bad for a first time.”

  Avram relaxed, downed the rest of his beer. His cheeks burned hot as the warm liquid sloshed uneasily in his stomach. But he felt cheery in his heart, and a kindly disposition towards the dim cosiness of his surroundings. He accepted another drink, listened as Uncle Mendel spoke of Papa Kahn’s slow recovery and Madame Kahn’s return to running the household. Mary came in daily, but no longer lived upstairs. Only Nathan’s situation remained unchanged.