The Incomers

by Moira McPartlin

  A man, younger than James, with straight, dark mopped hair in the style of The Beatles’ John Lennon stands beside Ellie and waits for her answer. He presents her with an honest look, not the false smile of Green-apron. He merely waits to see what she requires. A serious young man, Ellie thinks.

  ‘I am looking for a record.’ She detects a small quiver of his lip. ‘A record they play on the pirate’s radio.’

  ‘The hit parade you mean? Do you want to buy a single?’

  ‘I think so. The Walker Brothers, The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore is one that I know.’ The words ‘ain’t’ and ‘gonna’ lump out of Ellie’s mouth, she cannot speak this American speak. It is not the correct Queen’s English that was beaten into her at school.

  ‘Are you sure you want that one? It’s been in the charts a few weeks now and folk are becoming sick of it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ellie does not know what else to say. All she knows is that she would like to buy a record.

  ‘What about Tamla Motown?’ the young man asks. ‘Look at you, you’re black, this is the music of your homeland, slave music. How do you feel about that?’

  How did she feel about that? ‘What is this Tamla Motown?’ is what Ellie says but what she wants to ask is: ‘How do you know about slaves?’ This young boy is the first person here, with the exception of Mary, who looks her squarely in the eye. He calls her black and is comfortable calling her black because that is what she is.

  ‘Listen to this.’ His serious face animates with the joy of a toddler. ‘It’s a bit old too, but this is going to be a classic in years to come.’

  The boy leads Ellie to a booth that protrudes from the wall by about a foot, its insides are covered in small white dots smaller than her fingers, but even so, she cannot resist the compulsion to press her fingers into them and look at the dotted imprint left on her fingertips.

  ‘That’s the soundproofing.’ He places cups over her ears and jumps back to his counter. Ellie holds onto the cups thinking they will fall but they are joined together. She leans against the dotted wall and looks into the shop. The young girl who flicks and flips records has left her alone with the shop boy who now looks up and sticks his thumb up at her.

  A piano sounds in her left ear followed by a guitar in the right. Deep men’s voices and one high voice begin a ‘do, do, do’ harmony then the high voice smoothes into a lyric. Ellie can feel tightness in her chest; she thinks she will choke, the skin between her shoulders begins to tingle, and her foot starts to tap without her permission. She feels hot and cold at the same time when she hears the tears in the singer’s voice. Ellie does not know the name of this emotion but it is close to sadness and joy welded together, like the tears in the song, how can this be so? The words hold meaning but the music reaches into her core and puts down roots. Then it stops before the end; she does not understand but the boy is signalling to her to take the cups off.

  ‘Wait a minute, that’s far too sad for you, you look like you’ll be greetin’ in a minute,’ he says rummaging through the rack of single he has on his counter.

  ‘Hold Tight by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich?’

  ‘Yes, I know this Hold Tight,’ Ellie says.

  ‘Yeah? No, maybe not.’ He searches again, ‘Or what about this, you look like a woman who knows her fashion. Dedicated Follower of Fashion. He lays it on the counter then resumes his search, stops and holds up a record. His joy transmits to Ellie. ‘Yes, of course,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘This has just been released and is just the thing for you,’ he says, placing a disc on the turntable and miming for Ellie to replace the cups over her ears.

  ‘Here we go,’ he says. ‘I bet they have pretty flamingos where you are from?’ Bouncy guitars begin to play. Not only does Ellie’s foot tap, but her shoulders and hips begin to sway. When a flute plays, the boy pretends he is playing along as he sways in time to the music. He signals for her to take the cups off. She shakes her head; she does not want the music to stop. The boy takes them off for her and she hears the music now fills the whole store. Her feet shuffle her out of the confines of the booth and propel her round the shop floor in her own dance. With her eyes closed Ellie tries to enter another world but she feels as though her feet take her off the ground and will soon tip her over.

  She is breathless when the music ends, she wants to feel this way forever.

  ‘I told you this was for you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will buy it. Can I buy it?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ the boy says as he takes another record from a shelf and puts it in a bag.

  ‘No, I want that one.’

  ‘Yes, but this is a shiny fresh one. You don’t want the shop version, it’s all scratched.’ He hands the bag across the counter towards her and smiles, ‘And the next time you come in here I want you to have an upbeat song in mind. None of this sad stuff.’ Then he laughs, ‘Although they are good. That will be seven shillings and thruppence please.’

  As he takes her money and opens the till he asks, ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ she says, placing the record in her shopping bag.

  ‘Where are you off to now?’

  Ellie looks to the door, not wanting to leave, but as she checks her watch she sees she has spent over an hour in this shop.

  ‘The bus conductress suggested I might like a walk in Woolies.’

  ‘It’s just round the corner.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  So there are people here who do not stare - the conductress and now this boy. Ellie decides she likes this toon.

  She walks in the direction the boy indicated for Woolies and crosses another cobbled street. Broad steps lead up to six glass doors and a red and white sign above the door reads “Woolworths”. Ellie sees a young man with oily hair crouched against one of the doors. The hand he raises to his mouth holds a burning cigarette and not only are his fingers tinged yellow but his knuckles are painted with markings of blue and red in the shape of a spider’s web. They are similar to the tribal tracks scored on some of her countrymen’s faces.

  He looks at her with narrow eyes as if daring her to talk to him. He coughs roughly and spits a pebble of shiny phlegm onto the step beside his sharp-toed shoes. When she begins to climb the steps, she sees him slide his back up the wall until he reaches his full height; he presses his back against the building as if willing it to consume him.

  Ellie stops two steps below him because he looks like a rat caught in a corner and she does not want him to flee.

  ‘I am looking for Woolies.’

  He swallows and says, ‘Ye’ve found it.’ He nods his head towards the door. So, Woolworths and Woolies are the same thing. Now she knows this for sure.

  First she notices the smell of rubber and then the sweetness of candy and paper. The lights are bright against the early afternoon gloom and unidentifiable tinkly music plays everywhere at the same volume but, unlike the music store, this music induces sleep rather than dance. Silver moving stairs in front of her climb to an upper level where she can just make out people walking and chatting. Ellie walks past bins of rainbow-coloured sweets and counters filled with different types of biscuits. Her teeth tingle at the thought of all this sweetness and increases when she sees towers of coloured boxed Easter eggs, mugs with foil covered eggs and loose chocolate eggs piled and toppled on top of each other. A sign hangs from the ceiling: ‘Easter Eggs Half Price.’

  Some shoppers gape at her as she walks towards the moving stair, others pretend she does not exist and bustle past on their way about their business. The moving stairs seem to speed up as she approaches them. She can tell by the way the other customers grab the hand rail and jump on that this is new to them too. An old lady with a stick hesitates at the bottom, places her stick on the step then pulls it away. She does this four times before saying ‘Och, tae hell wi’ it,’ and turns and walks out of the shop.

  Ellie takes her turn and grabs the hand rail, jumps on and glides up to the next level. At the top of the s
tair she waits until they disappear into the floor before jumping off, almost losing her balance and colliding with the cluster of people waiting to jump onto the downward-sloping stair.

  The upper level of the store smells of wool and string and earth. Rows of plastic bowls, buckets and mops jostle with crockery and pots. At the back of the store Ellie sees the familiar black jacket of Mr Winski with his neat-haired wife beside him. Their heads are bent forward intent on something. Ellie can see across to the wall beside them where a tall rack is filled with green packets. As she walks towards it the green packets come into focus and she makes out different pictures on each one. Seeds. Not just for vegetables but for flowers too. Ellie steps up beside the Winskis.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  They both turn with shy smiles. He bows and clicks his heels together; she nods to Ellie.

  ‘Hello,’ Mrs Winski says. Mr Winski’s lips part to smile but they do not quite make it.

  His wife holds up her seeds. ‘We plant vegetables. Dese wans will be best.’

  Carrot and parsnip and cabbage.

  ‘How is it you know how to grow them?’ Ellie asks.

  The older lady points to the sky. ‘Weather not so different where we from.’ She then points to Ellie hugs herself and shivers. ‘You will be cold, no?’

  Ellie pulls her coat tight over her shoulders and mimics Mrs Winski. ‘Yes.’

  Her husband says something to her in their own tongue. She scowls then nods.

  ‘We must go,’ she says, pointing to her husband. ‘He has to start dat night shift at dat bloody pit.’

  He bows once then spins around on his heels, and they leave her with the rows of seeds and no clue.

  The bus stop for her return journey is directly opposite the stop where Ellie got off. As she rounds the corner from the cobbled street, she sees her bus at the stop and people boarding. She twists her shopping bag strap around her hand and begins to run. No passengers are left on the pavement and the bus begins to move just as Ellie reaches out her hand to grab the metal pole. Someone from inside the bus shouts, but the bus pulls into the road and Ellie only just stops herself falling into the gutter. Twenty minutes to wait until the next bus is better than five days.

  Beside the bus stop is a café. The windows are steamed over, but Ellie can make out the rows of seats and tables scattered with little gold ashtrays and salt and pepper pots. It tempts her, but as she steps forward to open the door, she is halted by a big woman with black hair who rams in front of her.

  ‘Come on, Lily,’ the woman says, pulling her friend with her. ‘Let get wan o’ thon frothy coffees afore oor bus comes.’

  The other woman with hair the colour of James’s but with black showing in her parting, screws up her nose and looks at Ellie, slowly from the roots of her hair to the toes of her feet.

  ‘Aye well, it’s better than staunin’ oot here onywey.’

  The Pairty Line

  ‘Obscene, that’s whit it is.’

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘They Wilsons huv only gone and got fitted cairpits.’

  ‘Git away wi’ ye, they niver huv?’

  ‘Aye, awe owre the hoose. Who’d huv thocht it o’ them? That wumen cannae keep her bairns fed and shod. The St Vincent de Paul ur ayeweys taking other folk’s cast-offs tae them and yet they can afford tae dae away wi thir lino.’

  ‘Ah’ve niver seen a hoose wi’ fitted cairpits.’

  ‘Huv ye no? Aw, thir great. Soft and bouncy, they say thir easier tae keep clean than a square. Eh?’

  ‘How dae ye ken that like?’

  ‘Well, when ah heard the news ah went roond tae the Wilsons wi ma Freeman’s catalogue tae see if she wantit onyhing on tick, and she asked me in.’

  ‘That wiz a bit brazen o’ ye, wiz it no?’

  ‘Listen, they could huv won the pools or ony hing, eh?’

  ‘And did she want ony hing?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Chapter Twenty

  There is a scuffing noise coming from outside the kitchen window. Ellie stops pounding the nettle leaf that has been drying in the airing cupboard and listens, but it stops. She reckons she has enough leaf to make nettle tea to last a whole month. Once she clears the nettles from around her compost heap she can make more and have room to plant the squash seedlings Dod has given her.

  No more words have crossed her table about James’s mother since he threw her the scraps from the urgent telephone call. There was in fact no urgency. The call had been to tell James that he had left his scarf behind. Ellie thinks this is a fine excuse. It was only at the end of the call that his mother mentioned she had spoken to her solicitor about her pension and could James come up and help her sort it out – he could collect his scarf at the same time.James had finished the call by saying he could not come up this weekend, he was spending time with his family. He had put the phone down and sat in silence. Even though Ellie wanted to ask why he had not suggested he take Nat visiting, as he had promised, she decided it was best to leave him with his thoughts so she busied herself shining the stove top to sparkling even though this was not needed. As she cleaned and sang her Pretty Flamingo song to herself, she felt the strong arm of her husband circle her waist. He bushed up her curls with his hand and kissed the back of her neck.

  ‘I had better make a start on the sand pit.’

  Ellie puts the dried leaves in a tall black tin and picks up her sewing; she will finish her skirt soon. The clothes she had brought here are now too tight for her. She feels constricted and trussed up around her stomach.

  The week before, a box arrived for Ellie from the Fairbairn’s estate. Her mother had sent a parcel of fabric. That wily woman now knew the best and cheapest way to contact her daughter. Mr Funny-hair quizzed her as to the box contents but she would not let him know. When she saw the size of the box she said,

  ‘I will ask my husband to collect it. This will not fit on my bike.’

  ‘Fair enough, hen.’

  When she had opened the box her breath caught as the colours burst onto the kitchen table; mango flesh, ripe red berries, a noon sky and the ocean pooled in the bay. And now these colours are almost formed into a garment to brighten her day.

  The back gate squeaks, and Ellie sighs. Her husband the Factor is not so handy. She hears the scuffing at the kitchen window again and wonders if James has come home early.

  Giggles, she hears giggles. Ellie thinks of the skinny woman scrubbing the wall and jumps to catch the perpetrator but before she can reach the door a tiny knock sounds from the other side. She opens it to find Mary standing with her fist in mid air ready to knock again. Beside her lurks that big girl Carol.

  Both girls step back and gape at Ellie as if they did not expect her to answer. The girl Carol reacts first and prods Mary in the back. Mary jumps and, taking a deep breath, launches into speech:

  ‘Oh sorry, but please, Ellie, can we please take Nat out for a walk in his pram, please?’

  What is this they are talking about, walking with a pram? What is this pram? Ellie thinks these girls have teased her enough and begins to close the door.

  The girl Carol steps forward. ‘You know, missus, a wee hurl out in the pram.’ The girl makes a pushing motion. Ellie feels her face warm at her own stupidity. On her trip to the shops she had encountered many little girls push babies, trundling toy baby carriages, but she has also seen older girls pushing full-sized carriages. This is a little girls’ pastime in Hollyburn, she thinks.

  Both girls stare at Ellie.

  ‘Why are you not at school?’ she says to them.

  Mary sighs, ‘I told you at church – remember?’

  Ellie wonders how it is that two little girls can make her feel so stupid; this is not the way it should be.

  The girl Carol slumps her shoulders. ‘Easter holidays. We are off for two weeks now.’

  Ellie nods but remains silent. When she still does not answer the original question the bold Carol moves forward again as if to step into
her kitchen. Ellie moves to block the door.

  ‘Come on, missus, let us take yer bairn out for a hurl?’

  Ellie does not know how to answer; it is as if these children have put a spell on her. She looks over their heads and sees Mr Winski coming up the track, past the gate. When he sees the children, he stops. He glances at his feet and turns to walk back the way he came, but before he does, he lifts his hat to Ellie and she raises her hand in a return greeting. Both girls spin round and watch Mr Winski walk off back towards the village.

  ‘See him, he’s weird. Dae ye ken ’um?’ Carol says.

  ‘Yes, but he is not weird,’ Ellie says.

  ‘How weird?’ Mary asks.

  The Carol girl laughs.

  ‘That’s the Pole. Ma da says he’s weird and he’s such a baby. He’s ayeweys greetin’ at the pit. But dae ye ken what they did tae him?’ She starts to laugh so hard snot falls from her nose, Ellie begins to feel sick, but thankfully the girl wipes it off on her cuff.

  ‘Just fur a laugh they pinched his pit piece wan day and wouldnae gie him it back and wouldnae gie him onyhing tae eat, then somebody did. Ma da says he’s always mooching aboot and he never gits the hard jobs tae dae on account o’ the fact he cannae speak proper Inglish. But he can understand it, ma da says, he’s just thick as a plank, that’s what ma da says, everybody kens that. But everything they dae tae cheer him up fails because he’s such a miserable foreigner.’

  Mary looks at Carol. ‘My dad says he just doesn’t understand the way people speak here.’

  ‘And whit wid yer da ken aboot it?’ Carol says. ‘Your da is niver doon the pit even though he’s suppose tae be the manager. He should be getting that Pole sortit oot.’

  Mary’s face turns the colour of flame. But Carol is not finished. ‘If he cannae un’erston plain Inglish he shouldnae be here, he can bugger aff back tae Pole Land

  Both girls seem to have forgotten Ellie standing at her door. She is aware that the heat is leaving her kitchen and she wants to get back to her sewing. Then Ellie remembers something she has been wondering about since Palm Sunday.