by Tony Roper
‘Right, ya thievin' wee swine, where is it?’ Magrit's hand was round the back of his neck in a grip that her husband would have found hard to surpass in his capacity of hauder-oan.
‘I gave him it, Ma – honest.’
‘Do you think I'm deaf – eh? Do you think I didnae hear him shoutin' through the letterbox?’
Tim was desperately trying to think of an out. ‘Ah … but … Ah … but …’
Magrit's grip tightened. ‘Ah, but – Ah, but – Abbot and Costello.’ She released her grip so she could whack him round the ear. ‘Where is it?’
His head ringing and his ears burning, Tim handed over the money.
‘That's better.’ She gave him another clout for good measure. ‘If I ever catch you at that again, I'll knock you into the middle of next week.’
Tim could have been forgiven for thinking he was already there.
As he fought back the tears, his father's voice worked its way into the ear that was not ringing. ‘What the fuck's happenin'? What's all the shoutin' aboot?’ Peter emerged from the depth of the bedclothes. His face was that of a man who had never willingly under-indulged in his life. His mouth felt like sandpaper and tasted like the proverbial camel's crotch.
Magrit spun round to answer him. ‘Pig.’
Peter stared at her bemusedly. ‘Eh?’
‘You heard,’ Magrit explained.
‘What the fuck's happenin'?’ Peter persisted, trying to come to terms with whatever was happening.
‘Oh, aye, that's your answer for everything – eh!’ she replied in a whining voice, mimicking his tone. ‘What's happenin' – what's goin' on? You make me sick, the whole bloody lot of youse.’
Peter looked askance, then looked at the clock. ‘It's no' half seven yet and you're moanin' already.’
‘I'll moan whenever I like,’ Magrit threw back at him as she stormed out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.
‘Ach! Away and shite,’ Peter shouted after her.
‘You're an animal – that's what you are – you're just a fuckin' animal,’ screeched Magrit through the dividing wall. ‘God forgive me for swearin' but you drag it oot of me.’
The sound of furniture being thrown around the room and a door slamming signified that all further questioning was now at an end.
Peter scratched his head ruefully, vainly tried to swallow, gave up and surveyed Tim who was trying to fix his face into what he hoped was a look of innocence. ‘What's up wi' her noo?’ he asked him.
‘Tim tried to nick the milk money,’ yawned Frankie, as he sat up in bed and picked his nose.
‘Dear Christ. Is that all?’ Peter sighed. ‘Did she get it back?’
‘Aye,’ nodded Tim.
Peter knew instinctively that he should do what any proper father would do if he caught his son stealing but it was just too early in the morning to figure out what it was he should do.
‘Did you get the milk?’ was the best he could come up with.
‘Aye.’
‘Good. Away and make your da a cup o' tea, son.’
‘Och, Da, it's freezin',’ Tim wheedled, heading back towards the bed and settling under the sheets beside Frankie who was now in repose again having dislodged whatever was offending his left nostril.
Peter sucked at the roof of his mouth. Still no moisture. ‘I've got a right dry mooth on me – be a good boy, son.’
Peter crawled back into bed between Frankie and Tim. ‘Go on, son – eh?’
Tim now felt warmth and security envelop him as his eyes closed. He heard his father murmur sleepily, ‘Tim, son.’ But he ignored it as the peace and quiet of the moment took hold of him. The moment was only disturbed by his father's voice barking, ‘Tea!’ followed by his father's leg propelling him out the bed and on to the cold linoleum.
‘Big shite,’ he muttered under his breath as he made towards the sink.
He trudged across the cold lino feeling a deep injustice that it was he who had to make the tea and not Frankie. It seemed to Tim that, just because he was a wee bit older than Frankie, he was put upon. As he reached for the teapot and filled it with water this sense of injustice welled within him. Lighting the gas as high as it would go, he placed the teapot on the gas ring and waited for it to boil. He could hear his mother still banging drawers open and then shut behind the closed door of the bedroom.
This was to let everybody in the house know that she was still raging mad. Tim thought it a waste of time as his mother was always mad at something – usually him. He decided to try and get on her good side and avoid any further retribution over the milk incident. Crossing to the bedroom door, he knocked on it gently and said, ‘I'm making you a cup o' tea, Ma.’ He waited for her to reply, ‘Thanks, son.’ He waited in vain. ‘If it was Frankie that had made her a cup o' tea, she would have been all over him,’ he thought as he turned away. He could hear the water begin to boil in the teapot. As he looked for cups that were clean, he saw that there was only the one which had not been washed from the night before. There were still the dregs and tealeaves in it and a fag end jutted out from them, at the bottom of the cup. Tim picked it up, smelled it and grrhoo-ed in disgust at the stench.
He was still screwing up his face as he placed a teaspoon of tea into the teapot and then stirred it around the now boiling water. Turning off the gas, he got clean cups out and put milk and sugar into them, then filled them with the tea. He went back to the dirty cup, reached down with his finger, dislodged the fag end and, lifting it out, removed the paper from the wet shag. He distributed the loose tobacco back into the cup and filled it with tea.
‘Frankie's.’ He smiled, putting in an extra spoonful of sugar to disguise the taste.
As he stirred the cup he heard his mother shout through to his father, ‘Are you gettin' up for your work or will we just dae withoot money for the New Year as well as the old one?’
Peter rose from his bed and surveyed Tim standing over the teacups. ‘Thanks, son – did you make one for your wee brother as well?’
Tim nodded. ‘Aye, Da.’
Peter ruffled his son's head. ‘You're no' the worst – eh?’
FIVE
Wullie stared at Thornton's enormous muscular rear end. There was something comforting to Wullie in the easy way it swayed left and right as it strode unflinchingly, despite the weight of the cart loaded with milk, along the milk round. The black wiry tail contrasting perfectly with the dark brown of its coat rested easy on Wullie's eye. In the summer, there was always a shimmer of sweat that gave Thornton's vast bum a slick sheen that made Wullie think his equine pal was perhaps a descendent of some sleek Arab stallion. They had been on this round so long that Wullie had no real need to use the reins to guide the horse – it now knew where to go off its own back.
Wullie wondered, not for the first time, what thoughts were going through his big pal's head. After all, the horse knew nothing about politics, sport, religion, all the things that kept humans in contact with each other. It never met any other horses to exchange ideas with. It never was short of money and needed a tap till pay day. It never really communicated in any way whatsoever with Wullie – in fact, logically, Wullie reflected, he should have found the horse boring and uninspiring. Yet this was not the case. Whatever it was that made him love his big pal would remain a mystery and maybe it was better that way.
As Wullie sat lost in his thoughts, Thornton turned into Granton Street and headed for Wilson's grocer's and newsagent's, where the empties would be offloaded and he would receive a well-earned bag of oats. Shaking his head and blowing the cold through his nostrils, Thornton reached his journey's end and automatically stopped – his whole persona was one of a job done and dusted. He stood, quietly majestic, thinking of … who knows what?
Wullie noticed Dolly Johnson hurrying towards him.
Dolly was in her early sixties and was the type of woman who knew everything about everybody. Her husband called her Pathé after the cinema newsreel The Pathé News, whose motto was ‘The Eyes
and Ears of the World’. She had the proverbial heart of gold and would have rather done you a good turn than a bad one. She also had ‘the bow’ or ‘bowly legs’ that a lot of people of her generation had because they had suffered from rickets in childhood. This was caused by either a lack of vitamins or making your baby walk too quickly – Glaswegians could never agree on which was the accurate diagnosis. Whatever the reason, it had the unfortunate effect of causing the bones in the leg to bend outwards and this gave the sufferer a tendency to walk with a side-to-side motion or shauchle as the locals called it. In fact Dolly's brother was called Shauchley – not to his face of course. Dolly's hobby was talking. It didn't really matter where, when or to whom – as long as she could have a blether, Dolly was happy. It took Dolly four times as long to go for the daily groceries as most other women due to the fact that she would meet someone every couple of yards and swap the gossip. She gave Wullie the customary greeting, ‘You all right, Wullie?’
As Wullie jumped down from the cart, he acknowledged her. ‘Mornin', Dolly. You all set for the bells thenight?’
Dolly's wee red round weather-beaten face creased into a smile. ‘Oh, aye. Lookin' forward to it. It's awful cold, isn't it?’
Wullie nodded as he blew into his cupped hands for warmth. ‘Get a wee goldie into you. That'll warm you up.’
‘I'll wait tae thenight – I've too much work to get through. Hullo, Thornton – that you finished for the day? He's a big darlin', isn't he?’ She nodded to the horse.
‘We're nearly finished – just get the empties unloaded, the big yin brushed doon and fed and that'll be me for this year. As the surgeon said to Vincent Van Gogh, just before he operated, “Happy New Ear when it comes,” Dolly!’
‘Oh! He's had an operation, has he? I don't know the man personally but, if you see him, tell him fae me I hope his operation's a success,’ Dolly replied, earnestly. ‘Happy New Year when it comes, Wullie. You as well, Thornton.’
Dolly waved goodbye as she pushed open the door of the shop. Mamie Wilson came through from the back on hearing the sound of the bell that warned her there were customers in. She and her husband had been on the go since four o'clock getting everything ready for the Hogmanay rush. It was always a strain as they had to get through four days' work in the one. But they were no different from everyone else who ran their own business so they just made up their minds to enjoy it and get on with the job in hand.
‘'S awful cold, i'n't, it Mamie?’ Dolly said, plonking two message bags on the counter.
‘Bloody freezin', Dolly. Wait a minute – I've got they loaves you ordered.’ She bent down under the counter and came up with four unwrapped plain loaves. ‘Well-fired crusts. That right, Dolly?’
Dolly placed the loaves in one of the message bags. ‘Thanks, Mamie. You'd better gie me two dozen rolls as well – a dozen ordinary and a dozen well-fired. Oh and my paper.’
Mamie nodded. ‘Did you hear Cissie Gilchrist's man's died?’
‘Aye. I read aboot it in the Evenin' Times. Cissie'll be heartbroken. He wis younger than her, wis he no'?’
Mamie handed Dolly the rolls, which she'd packed into four large paper bags. ‘Watch you don't get them crushed. I think he was younger, right enough – fine big woman though, Cissie.’
‘Oh, she is, Mamie – very striking.’
Mamie helped Dolly to pack the rolls into her bag. ‘I don't know what she ever saw in him.’
‘Oh, naw! He was a shelpit wee nyaff,’ agreed Dolly. ‘I'll take six of your Paris buns as well. He thought he was above everybody else. You know how he sold insurance and that?’
Mamie nodded. ‘Aye, that's right, so he did.’
‘He came up tae my hoose wan time. I wasn't gonnae open the door 'cause he rang the bell and I usually only open the door if somebody knocks on it or rattles the letterbox, you know. I always think, if it's the doorbell, that it's somebody wantin' money.’
‘Aye, right enough, Dolly,’ Mamie agreed.
‘Anyway, for whatever reason, I don't know, but I answered the door and he's standin' there wi' this form. And he says, in yon pan-loaf voice o' his, “Good evening, Mrs Joansin. Eh was wondering if the master of the house was in?” “You're lookin' at her,” I says to him. “Well,” he says, “Eh was wondering if you would consider cheynging your poalicy?”’
‘And what did you say, Dolly?’
‘“Naw!” I says, “It is my poalicy never to change a poalicy.” 'Cause my mother told me always to haud on to your poalicies or you'll lose money on them.’
‘You're no' wrong there, Dolly,’ Mamie agreed again, nodding sagely.
‘Are your fern cakes fresh, Mamie?’
‘Naw, Dolly – they're yesterday's.’
‘Oh.’ Dolly's face registered disappointment.
Mamie thought for a second or two before replying, ‘I'll gie you them for half price.’
‘Gie us six then.’ Dolly had a mental check up if there was anything else she needed. There wasn't. ‘So that's the end o' wee Gilchrist,’ she sighed.
Mamie picked out six of the best of yesterday's fern cakes and put them in another bag. ‘Aye,’ she sighed, echoing Dolly.
‘Sad, right enough. You feel sorry for Cissie, though, eh?’
Dolly had another mental check up. ‘Aye. Gie me a bereavement card and a dozen drop scones.’
The shop doorbell rang to announce the arrival of Sadie McCue.
‘Aye, Sadie. This you getting ready for thenight?’ Dolly beamed.
Sadie was a few years younger than Dolly and had a face that always seemed to be dissatisfied with something. She shook her head in an instantly recognisable sign that she was fed up to the back teeth. ‘Aye, Dolly. I hate this time o' the year. You feel as if there's no' enough hours in the day, don't ye? 'S bloody freezin' as well, i'n't it?’ Her gaze swept over Dolly and landed on Mamie. ‘Aye, Mamie. Have you a couple o' hot rolls?’
Mamie nodded and pulled two from a large batch that rested behind her on a tall rack. ‘These are only a couple o' minutes oot the oven. But I wouldnae eat them tae later on. It can gie you an awful sore stomach when the dough's too fresh.’
Sadie took the rolls from her and said with a sniffle, ‘I'm no' wantin' them for to eat – I want to get a bit heat in me.’ She opened her coat, lifted her thick woollen pullover and shoved the two rolls inside her bra. ‘Oh that's lovely, so it is,’ she said with a shudder as the heat transferred through her body.
Dolly chortled heartily at Mamie and said, ‘Have you got a couple of crumpets for her airse while you're at it?’
Mamie replied, ‘If she asks for a doughnut, she's gettin' barred.’
Dolly and Sadie hee-hawed to cries of, ‘You're a helluva woman, Mamie, so you are.’
Sadie adjusted her bosoms and gave her nose a wipe with a hankie she kept permanently up her pullover sleeve for that sole purpose. She looked round the shop. ‘Noo, what did I come in for?’
‘To heat up your chist,’ said Mamie.
‘Apart fae that, though,’ Sadie chewed her bottom lip in concentration. ‘I'm gettin' awful forgetful these days.’
‘Don't forget you've a couple of rolls shoved up your jersey or you'll get the soap all dough when you have a wash later on,’ Dolly reminded her.
Sadie smiled. ‘Aye, right enough.’ She continued to ponder. ‘I need milk – four pints – and gie me four loaves as well, Mamie. A half a dozen eggs and …’
As she tried to recall whatever it was she had to recall, Mamie piled Sadie's order on to the counter.
‘Raisins – that was it – raisins. Have you any more o' they big blue ones I got aff you the last time?’
Mamie nodded, ‘Aye, I have them. They're lovely, so they are.’
Dolly nodded in agreement. ‘Are you makin' a dumplin', Sadie?’
Sadie sucked in some more warm air and nodded back at Dolly. ‘I'd get thrown oot the hoose if I didnae make a clootie dumplin' at the New Year. I'll put it on when I get back.’
‘Have you got spice?’ Mamie enquired as she poured the large blue raisins on to the weighing machine.
‘Hell, naw. That's another thing I nearly forgot,’ Sadie groaned.
‘Do you want a pound o' these?’ asked Mamie, glancing at the raisins.
‘Aye, that should dae. They're lovely and juicy, Dolly.’
‘Aye, they are, right enough, Sadie,’ Dolly signalled agreement by nodding whole-heartedly. ‘They'll keep your dumplin' juicy, stop it fae drying oot – unlike the rolls, eh?’
Sadie stuck her hand up her jumper again and fiddled about. ‘They're startin' tae itch a wee bit. I think I'll take them oot.’
Dolly watched as Sadie fished out what were now two very flat rolls from her bosoms. ‘What are you gonnae dae wi' them?’ she asked as Sadie placed them in her message bag.
‘I'll gie them to him wi' a sausage for his breakfast,’ she said, referring to her husband. ‘Mamie, I'll take two flat sausages as well.’
‘A couple o' Lorne sausages – right, you are.’
‘Speakin' o' dumplin's', Sadie – did you hear that Cissie Gilchrist's man's died?’
Sadie was in the last throes of adjusting her brassiere. ‘Wee pan-loaf Gilchrist? When did that happen?’
‘I think it was a couple o' nights ago,’ said Dolly earnestly.
‘It's a terrible time of the year this. A lot o' deaths at this time of the year – my mother used to say that.’
Mamie and Sadie murmured their agreement of this indisputable fact.
‘My Uncle Harry died on a New Year's Day,’ Dolly informed them.
Sadie gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Was he ill for long?’
‘Naw, he was drunk and fell doon the stairs,’ Dolly replied, then added, philosophically, ‘What's for you'll no' go by you, eh?’ Both of her companions nodded in concordance at this example of Dolly's wisdom.
‘Poor Cissie. That's all you need at this time o' the year, eh?’ Sadie's face reflected on Cissie's grief. ‘Mind you, he wasn't liked hisself, though.’