by Ron Butlin
‘Kiss of life we’re saying, Maggie!’
. . . The smell of the leather seats, the heavy rain clattering onto the thin metal roof only inches above her head. The offer of whisky from his hip flask.
No, thanks.
I’m drinking for two then. Cheers.
That peat-brown brackishness on the man’s breath, making her pull away. A real stomach-churning –
The memory made her want to gag, to turn away like she was still trying to avoid the man’s lips, to squirm away from his touch. The beam of the lighthouse still searing her eyes . . .
She gripped the metal edge to steady herself, gripped it tight and held on. Doing her best to shut out the men in the cafe, to shut out the cafe itself, the darkness, the wind and rain, to shut out everything. Kiss of life? She wanted Michael’s kiss, she wanted his arms around her, holding her safe and secure, shutting out the rest of the world . . .
Without any warning she felt a flutter deep inside her. So faint and seeming to have come from nowhere . . . Like nothing she’d ever . . .
But she knew at once what it was. She recognised it. Had been waiting for it . . .
Making her feel . . .? Making her feel that everything she’d ever known before, ever seen before, touched, heard . . .
She stood quite still, her hands resting on the counter, and suddenly nothing else mattered.
Nothing. Else. Mattered.
Fusco’s was empty at last.
‘You go now, Maggie. I finish. Good work. Good work.’ Tony handed her two half-crowns. ‘This for you.’
‘Thanks. Like I said, happy to help.’ Waitress words, waitress smile. ‘Goodnight, Tony.’
She went through to the kitchen for her coat.
Slow Peter must have left. Clean scoops and sieves hung from their hooks on the wall, dishcloths were spread out to dry over taps and racks, the sink and draining board gleamed. She felt she could have lain down on the main worktable there and then, and been asleep within seconds.
Taking her coat out from the broom cupboard, she headed for the street door.
‘Good night, Maggie. You safe home now.’
She waved goodbye. ‘See you Monday.’
It had stopped raining. Apart from the occasional car, its tyres hissing on the wet cobbles, and the few late-night stragglers making their way home, Gorgie Road was more or less deserted. She hurried along the pavement, side-stepping the puddles and the occasional gush of rainwater from a rone pipe. It was well after eleven o’clock. Fingers crossed there might still be a last tram.
Time to step lively. Past the line of closed shops, past the Tynecastle street-end, quick-marching under the railway bridge, singing to herself to set a good pace: I love a lassie, a bonnie Scottish lassie . . .’ A very brisk fifteen minutes and she’d be home.
Coming up to the Dalry Road junction. To left and right stretched a darkness of streetlamps spaced further and further apart, straight ahead lay an empty street of closed doors and tenement windows with their curtains pulled. No wind any more, the air damp and everything silent. A few parked cars and hardly a sound except for the brisk click-click-click of her heels on the pavement echoing back from the wall.
Sweet as the heather in the dell . . .
Footsteps.
Someone else’s, and coming close behind. Long steady strides. A man’s.
Starting to speed up: Nane sae classie-as-ma-bonnie-lassie . . .
‘Hey there!’
She felt herself freeze inside. Freeze and close up tight.
Then abruptly walking even faster: A-bonnie-bonnie-lassie . . .
‘Hey there, Maggie, wait a moment!’
It was Norrie, and he’d almost caught up with her.
‘What are ye running for? Olympics were last year. Just saying hello. Friendly greeting, Maggie, that’s all.’ He was now level with her. ‘You’re yin fast woman right enough!’
She could smell the beer on him. ‘That’s because I want to get home.’
Keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead, she accelerated to double-speed.
Another flutter, stronger than before . . .
‘Couldnae be better! The baith o us gang the same way, being neighbours like, on the same stair. Grand, eh!’
‘It’s late.’
Fluttering like the very gentlest kick-kick-kick . . .
‘I’m walking ye back, seeing ye safe home.’
‘I’m fine thanks.’
Kick-kick-kick . . . Yes, she was fine – they were both fine. Needing nothing except to be left alone.
‘Ye dinnae like me?’
‘Go away, Norrie. I’m tired. Been on my feet all day and — ’
His hand grasping her arm, his fingers digging into her elbow. Making her stop in mid-stride.
‘Ye dinna like me?’
‘Go away, I’m telling you.’ Trying to shake herself free. ‘Stop it.’
His grip was too strong. Forcing her to turn and look at him. His face only inches away, his unshaven cheeks looking dingy and raw.
‘Let go, you’re hurting me.’
‘Then say ye like me.’
Squeezing her arm harder.
She gritted her teeth. ‘What do you mean – Say I like you? What about Grace?’
‘Grace isnae here.’ Another squeeze. ‘Come on.’
So tense now she could hardly manage to speak.
‘But Grace’ll be waiting for you to come — ’
‘say it, Maggie.’
‘I’m saying nothing. Let go of me.’
‘Yer a quiet yin, richt enough. Need encouraging. Am I right?’ He passed his hand over her hair, stroking it lightly. ‘Shy’s right for a lady, ken? A proper lady. Makes them . . . special.’ Stroking her cheek. ‘Makes you special. Let’s walk th’gither.’
Forced to walk at his side she remained rigid, her face turned away from him.
A house light clicked off as they came to the beginning of Fountainbridge. Mrs McKenzie’s was only five minutes away, five minutes at most.
He paused before crossing the street. ‘Rare night, eh, Maggie? All the stars and everything. Peaceful. Like in the black-out. Mind hou bonnie the sky looked then?’
Jerking her elbow, making her stumble forward across the main road before abruptly wheeling her round into a side street. ‘No far nou.’
‘But this isn’t the way to — ’
‘Shut it, Maggie. Or I’ll shut you.’ His arm had moved around her shoulder to hold her more firmly.
Like she was resting her head on his shoulder, her face pressed up against the grit and greasiness of his work jacket. To anyone else they’d probably look like a courting couple making their way home – and if she screamed, folk would just think they were having a row . . .
But there was no one to see them. The street was deserted, the tenement windows curtained.
‘Grace hisnae let me near her in weeks. She’s nae wife tae me. It’s bairn this an bairn that.’
‘But, Norrie — ’
‘Shut it, I said.’ He marched her another twenty yards. ‘Dinna be feart, Maggie. I’m no gang to harm ye. I like ye. I really do. Nothing bad’s gang tae happen. I promise.’
Into the next street.
‘Wanting tae show ye whit I’d done, is aa. Grace isnae interested – just in the money I bring hame. But I’m proud o whit I’ve done an ken ye’ll appreciate it. Ye’ve got class.’ Another squeeze.
A few steps later he halted outside the first in a line of new bungalows.
‘Folks’ll be moving in Monday.’ Hauling her up the steps to the front door. ‘I kept us a key.’
SUNDAY
THE WHITEBOARD IN the hall reads today is . . . monday.
Boss Beryl’s come up to you saying, ‘What’re you doing here, Maggie? Waiting for a
bus? Won’t come just because you’re standing here.’
No point saying anything back to the likes of Boss Beryl, so no one ever does. Complete waste of time.
You mumble what might be a yes or might be a no and give her a shrug, making it look like you’re really heading towards the dayroom . . .
But if you really do walk off, then you’ll just have to turn and come all the way back once she’s gone.
So you rein in your zimmer and give her a puzzled look. Puzzled, and yet hopeful.
‘The fact is, Beryl, I’m waiting for a number 26. Maybe you can help me? Do you have any idea when the next one’s due? It’ll take me right along Princes Street. Pity there’s no timetable. Can’t Mrs Saunders get one fixed up?’
The look on her torn face! She’ll certainly not be hanging around much longer. She’s got better things to do than . . .
And so . . .
Not even the hint of grin: ‘Or, if a 7 turns up I’ll ask for a two-penny transfer and get off in Princes Street. Some of the shops stay open over lunchtime and . . .’
Success. Boss Beryl’s given a snort, shaken her head and said that she’s got better things to do than stand around passing the time of day.
After waiting to make sure she’s gone all the way down the corridor and disappeared round the corner, you execute a neat U-turn and zimmer yourself right up to the board. No one about – and so you grab hold of the marker pen . . .
The shaft of sunlight from the bay window has started inching its way across the lino, turning the chairs lined up against the walls into the hour marks scratched on a sundial. Anyone coming in the door can tell what time it is by how far the sun has travelled round the room and who it’s pointing at. It’s Dorothy o’clock now. The old woman doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even turn away to shield her eyes.
You changed what was written on the whiteboard, of course. Not that you believe today will end up any different because of that. You’re not that far gone. But today is . . . sunday written up there for everyone to read, must mean something? The words are real words that make real sense, so they can’t be completely wrong. They must be a little bit true. Surely?
Here in the dayroom things move forward only when the sun carries them, and at meal times. You come in, take your seat. No one changes their seat or gets up and walks anywhere except on the TV screen where folk are always talking and waving their arms and having car chases with emergency blue lights and sirens and loud crashes. But there’s no point trying to follow what’s being said or –
‘Your son’s here, Maggie.’
‘Who? Someone’s here today?’
For a moment it seems that Fred Astaire has appeared in the doorway looking for a new partner to dance with, but without his top hat. After pausing to check who’s sitting where, he’s come across the empty space in the middle of the room like he’s wading through a pool of sunlight, splashing brightness on everyone. He’s making straight for you.
You’d like to hold out your arms for him to take you and lift you onto your feet, then together the two of you’ll go whirling round and round the dance floor.
‘But today’s really called Monday.’ Damn. You’ve gone and said it out loud before you could stop yourself. You don’t want them to find out it was you who changed the board, do you? Of course not. But you can’t have really made it Sunday . . . ?
He’s standing in front of you. Will he reach up to touch the side of your face, let his fingertips pass slowly over your eyes and lips?
‘Happy Birthday!’ His hands on your shoulders, he’s bent forward to kiss you on the forehead. The briefest touch and he’s already back in his seat. Too quick. All too quick and finished with.
‘My birthday?’ You can hardly follow what he’s saying. Doesn’t he want to clasp you in his arms? Pass his hands over your face?
Can he really see you?
‘Congratulations! Happy Birthday, Mum. Ninety – and looking fabulous! That’s why I’ve driven down special to be here today. Didn’t they have the cake at lunchtime that I ordered? And everyone singing Happy Birthday?’
‘Cake? Yes, I remember cake.’
Before you know what’s happening, he’s waving his hands in the air – making magic passes is what he calls it. A trick – he’s doing a magic trick like he says he sometimes does on TV. Maybe he’ll make you vanish in a puff of smoke? Or else the Murray twins will start talking? Or else Dorothy? Or . . . ?
There’s the flick of a yellow silk handkerchief that he’s pulled out of nowhere:
‘Let the sun shine and the earth whirl,
For our very own . . . birthday girl!
Happy Birthday, Mum!’
A small package has suddenly appeared on your lap, wrapped in red paper and tied with curly gold ribbon. He’s helping you with the ribbon, the paper.
You mutter a thank-you, adding that it’s very kind of him. What else can you say?
It’s a book. A book with a hard red cover. You never asked for a book. He wouldn’t know you stopped reading a long time ago. Sad stories, they always felt sad. All that living that just goes on and on until it tears the heart out of you, till you ache.
‘For you, Mum. I made it.’
Only there’s no title. Nothing written on the front or on the back. No pages even, not the usual kind of pages anyway.
‘Well, come on, Mum, open it!’
The first page: A black and white photograph set in a plastic sleeve. Not a book at all, but photographs like in a family album. That’s what it is – somebody’s photo album. Out of politeness you flick through the opening pages while he tells you he’d come across a lot of photos in an envelope in a cupboard, along with your old typewriter. Halfway through, you stop at a snap of some couple or other posing outside their house –
Complete strangers.
Makes you feel bad seeing them, whoever they are. Makes you feel ashamed, poking your nose into other people’s lives. You give him the album back.
But all he does is show you another picture. This time . . . it’s you! A photograph of you wearing a starched white blouse and looking very efficient, your hands poised above the keyboard of an ancient-looking typewriter. Your old Underwood.
‘Remember, Mum? How you used to do the laird’s typing – that’s how we lived, wasn’t it? You did it for everybody in the village too, near enough – the school, the minister, Arnott’s shop, the smiddy. And helped them with their accounts. You ran the place!’
You remember the typing all right. Good times! Battering away on the keys, the bell ringing at the end of every line, the carbon paper and inky ribbon, everything set up on the tea trolley with its extension flaps. Handwritten scraps of paper you could sometimes hardly read to the left of your machine, neatly typed sheets stacked on the right – like doing the ironing, you called it. You really enjoyed it, didn’t you? Making order out of mess – and it certainly helped you quickly get to know everyone in the village. The farmers sometimes paying you in eggs, vegetables; Arnott’s giving you groceries as well as a good discount; other folk giving you rabbits, fish out the Annan . . .
‘Mum, who were the Callanders?’
‘The who? Never heard of them.’
He’s gone back to that photo of the man and woman on their doorstep. ‘Their names are on the back. I don’t think you ever mentioned them and — ’
‘I don’t know who they are, and I don’t want to know.’ You snatch the album from him, slam it shut and hand it back. If it’s mostly people you don’t know, you tell him, he might as well give the book to someone else.
But he won’t stop. Next comes a photo of your cottage. Yes, that’s where you live. It’s yours. When the laird’s estate got broken up in the eighties, Tom bought it for you so that you’d always be secure. That photo’s worth keeping, you say.
‘It’s where you brought me up, eh, Mum?
’
‘Where you were brought up? What are you on about? Don’t talk daft.’
But now he’s started, there he goes talk talk talk talk talk.
Of course, today’s really Monday. Monday. Monday. monday.
Monday’s always washday. Take the week’s washing with you in the morning when you go up to the factor’s office, then use the laundry tub at the back of the house in the afternoon. Pretending Tom was with you, helping. Pretending so hard that sometimes he really seemed to be there at your side, the two of you singing as you worked:
‘Scrub a dub-dub, Three men in a tub . . . !’
‘What’s that, Mum?’
Dirty, crumpled clothes into the sink, the cold water turning your hands red-raw, the stone floor puddled from the wash being lifted between the deep sink and the tub.
‘The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker . . .’
‘The – who, Mum? I’m talking about the cottage. See, that’s me and my new bike on the drive up to the big house.’
Yes, Tom’s helping you today, both hands at once, barrel-organ-ing the mangle with his little-boy strength, sending the squeezed-out water splashing down into the tub. A pair of small dungarees will be first to go between the rollers, sodden, then dripping ice-cold water as it’s forced through. All the way in . . . and out the other side it comes, crushed and flattened into your waiting arms.
‘. . . and there’s the tree you were always telling me not to climb, and the laird’s horse looking out its stable. Rusty he was called. Remember when they lifted me up onto Rusty’s back so I could go for a . . . ?’
Tom celebrates by knocking on the side of the tub with his fist – Boom! Boom! Boom! Makes you both laugh. You take good hold of the dungarees by the shoulders and shake them, making them snap in the air, crack like a whip. Another Boom! Boom! Boom! Then you lay them down flat in the cane basket, the arms and legs dangling over the sides.
‘Here’s the vegetable patch, you wearing your big wellies and me helping you with . . .’
Then socks, underwear, pillowcases . . . till you’ve got the first basketful of the week’s wash stacked and ready. Swinging it in time, off you go down to the gatehouse garden to peg everything out on the line. Winter days are fierce, the shirts and pillowcases freeze rigid in a few hours. Tuesday’s always the ironing.