by Tony Roper
‘Naw,’ Dolly concurred, ‘He was a wee nyaff – good tae her, mind you! Funny tae think you'll never see his wee pinched face again, eh?’ Dolly said, shaking her head.
There was a moment of silent reflection, only broken by Sadie. ‘I never thought his face was pinched.’
Mamie finished packing Sadie's bag. ‘Me neither,’ she said, earnestly.
‘Aye, it was,’ Dolly said back, convinced that right was on her side.
‘Naw, it was definitely no' pinched, Dolly,’ Sadie insisted, forcefully.
‘You're right, his face was not pinched, Sadie,’ said Mamie, emphatically.
‘How was it no'?’ Dolly was beginning to get worried that she was being ganged up on.
‘Well, because, if he was gonnae pinch a face, he would have pinched a better one than the one he had,’ said Sadie.
‘Oh! You'se are hell of a funny!’ Dolly smiled. ‘I'll need tae get oot o' here before I die laughin' at youse. You goin' oot after the bells tonight, Sadie?’
Sadie's face registered resignation. ‘Aye, we'll first-foot my mother and then we're all goin' roond to my sister's after that. But that's a long way away yet – I've still got a dumplin' tae cook, a pot o' soup tae get ready and the hoose tae clean. I've got to go to the steamie at two o'clock this afternoon … then the ironing. I could see it far enough, so I could.’
Dolly adjusted her scarf against leaving the warmth of the shop and, as she paid Mamie for her shopping, gave out her itinerary, ‘I'm goin' thenight tae the steamie. I've got a stall booked for seven o'clock. That was the earliest they had left so it'll be tight gettin' everything ready before the family comes up. Mind you, I've told them they better no' show up till efter the bells – 'cause I'll just no' let them in.’
Mamie placed the cash from Dolly and Sadie in the register and, as the till kerching'd out its happy note (well, happy for Mamie, at any rate), she wished them the season's greetings. ‘Have a good New Year when it comes and don't get too drunk.’
‘Same to yourself, Mamie,’ chorused Dolly and Sadie as they left the shop still chatting about the trying time ahead for them.
SIX
Peter McGuire emerged from the gloom of his tenement close mouth into the darkness of the last day of the year. He surveyed the dim and the dampness that was an all too familiar sight in the city and felt his spirits drop even further than when he had wakened that morning to Magrit's voice strafing his ear with what seemed to him like a never-ending torrent of complaining. A grunt of utter discontent escaped involuntarily from his still-parched throat as he saw the bus he had to catch approach the bus stop. It was cruelly just within catching distance – providing he ran. Considering how he felt, this would not have been Peter's ideal way of starting the day but there was no alternative. With another grunt and an oath to confirm his dissatisfaction with the world, he set off. His boots clattered on the pavement. One of the nails, that formed the horseshoe pattern which held the sole of his left boot on, emerged slightly and dug into him, forcing him to limp and then hop as the nail freed itself and burrowed deeper into the pad of his big toe. He had about ten yards to go when he heard the bell on the bus clang, signalling that it was about to move off. Peter bellowed at the back of the bus and ignored the pain that was shooting up his big toe as he strained, through gritted teeth, to catch it. With a leap that would not have disgraced an Olympic long jumper (admittedly an unfit one), he grabbed the handrail at the back of the bus and swung himself on to the platform.
His breath, what remained of it, came in all too short waves from what the Capstan Full Strength cigarettes had left of his lungs. As he gasped and fought for the air that seared the top of his chest, he inwardly cursed. Cursing was a thing the men of the Clyde did without thinking. It was used more as an adjective or a punctuation mark than an actual vehicle for blasphemy. They rarely used the curse words to describe what they actually meant. For example, if you were described as a ‘clever bastard’. It only meant that you were highly intelligent and not that you were highly intelligent and illegitimate. The word ‘bastard’ meant absolutely nothing – it was merely a way of finishing a statement while keeping the rhythm of the sentence.
Peter was excelling himself at rhythm-keeping as he stood coughing his lungs up on the platform. When he had regained enough of his breath to move, he headed upstairs to where you could smoke.
As his head gained altitude to the top deck, the smoke hung in the air like something that was living. It wafted around the heads of the puffers engulfing them in a grey haze that resembled a travelling Turkish steam room. Peter surveyed the familiar scene and greedily sucked in the second-hand smoke as he searched for his own fags so he could add to the pleasure of his fellow travellers. As he did this, he spotted the only spare seat that was on the top deck.
Lurching along the passageway, he grabbed the rail and sank into the vacant seat, which was covered in brown moquette suffering from alopecia. The occupant of the seat next to him lifted his head from the back pages of the morning paper and gave him a nod of recognition.
‘How you doin', Peter?’
‘How does it bloody look?’ Peter growled at John Hood.
John was younger than Peter and had recently got married to Doreen. They were what's known as a nice young couple. John had a fresh face that was fashionably topped off with a Tony Curtis haircut. He was a time-served carpenter – or shipwright, as it's called in the shipbuilding industry – and earned good money which, unlike Peter, he shared with his wife and partner in life. Along with the majority of the bus, he worked in the same shipyard as Peter did.
‘You sufferin'?’ John asked, unnecessarily – as a blind man could have seen that Peter was not tickety-boo, as they say in the south of Britain.
‘I got right fuckin' blootered last night.’ Peter smiled through the pain. ‘I had a wee three-cross treble aff the bookie in the efternoon – threw me a few quid – so I went in for a small celebration … All's I can remember is wakenin' up wi' face-ache poundin' my eardrums fae the startin' flag aboot milk money or some fuckin' thing. My head's loupin'. You've no' got a bottle o' beer on you, have you?’
John shrugged and shook his head sympathetically.
Peter sucked at his cigarette, coughed with the effort and continued, ‘I'll need a swally o' some kind – I'm skint as well. I think she might have hoovered my pockets last night.’ He blew out the smoke. ‘Havnae a bean tae I get the wages at dinner time. You want a fag?’ Peter offered John the packet.
John felt a minikin of pity for Peter. As he took hold of the packet, he could tell by the rattle coming from inside the carton that there were, at most, only two cigarettes inside.
As he handed the packet back, he said, ‘Naw, you're all right, Peter, I just put one oot.’
Peter nodded and put the packet back into his pocket.
John gave him a nudge and, drawing his hand out of his own pocket, he slipped a pound note into Peter's hand. ‘There's a quid till dinner time.’
Peter took the pound and squeezed John's knee. ‘If you were no' a Prodestant, they'd have to canonise you for that, pal. I'll pay you back at dinner time – that's a promise.’
Peter sank back into his seat, closed his eyes and, thanks to John's benevolence, blew out a sigh that spoke volumes for his newfound ability to get rid of his pounding head and his raging thirst.
As he relaxed in this state of plenty, the conductor wended his way along the top deck until he stopped at Peter. ‘Fares? Any mer fares, there?’ He stared at Peter. ‘Any mer fares?’
Peter opened his eyes and passed him the pound note. ‘Thruppence.’
As he took the pound, the conductor surveyed him sadistically and proceeded to hunt around his cash bag for halfpennies and other small change to dish out to Peter.
Noticing the glint in the conductor's eye Peter said pointedly, ‘I'm no' wantin' to be carryin' a pocket full o' pennies.’
The conductor was coming to the end of his shift and it would suit h
im nicely to ditch all of his small change. ‘Well, that's all I've got – so that's what you're getting.’
Peter felt the good feeling that he had, a second or two ago, ebb away. His voice sounded exactly like he was feeling, ‘Is it a necessary part o' your job to be a total prick – or have you just had a sudden notion for a sore face? 'Cause I am just dyin' tae whack the first obnoxious bastard that gets on my tits this mornin'.’
Peter didn't rise – even his voice didn't rise – but, wisely, the conductor could tell that this was not an empty threat. ‘Aye! Well … I'll let you aff this time, OK?’ He sniffed, handing Peter the pound note and making his way back along the top deck and down the stairs to safety.
John went back to reading his paper and Peter sank further down in his seat and concentrated on his fag. He was delighted that John had supplied him with the wherewithal to buy a new packet of fags or he would have had to rely on scrounging roll-up cigarettes till his pay came through. The way his hands were shaking, he doubted if he could have managed to control the delicate task of keeping the loose tobacco in the Rizla cigarette paper.
He glanced at John who was engrossed in an article of the newspaper. Sucking in a lungful of smoke, he dragged it right down to the bottom of his very being, held on to it for a few seconds and sucked it even further down. He then released it, at last, as a mist of grey smoke and it merged with the other man-made clouds on the top deck of the bus.
His brain was starting to emerge from the confusion of the early morning. He stared at the end of his cigarette and noticed, not for the first time, that, when the smoke curled up from the fag end, it twisted and wrapped round itself in a blue wisp-like strand that had a subtle form and grace. However, once he inhaled it and then blew it out, it lost its shape and turned to a powdery grey. He stared abstractly at the other blue wisps winding their way through the grey and thought, ‘What a load of crap.’
Turning to look out the window, he noticed an expression of consternation had formed on John's face. ‘You're helluva concerned aboot somethin' in that paper. Have the Rangers signed a Catholic or somethin'?’
Without looking up John nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘What?’ Peter replied, incredulously, his body snapping bolt upright in the seat. ‘Have they?’
John nodded again and continued, reading aloud from the newspaper, ‘It also says that … hell has frozen over and loads o' pigs have joined the RAF.’
‘Bastard,’ was Peter's only reply.
John continued, ‘What it really says is that the corporation have plans tae build a big housing scheme called Drumchapel.’ He quoted from the paper, ‘“All brand new houses with bathrooms and inside toilets in them. Each house will have its own front garden.”’ He shook his head in wonderment. ‘Goin' to be some place, eh? Doreen wants us tae move somewhere like that.’
Peter's face echoed John's in its stupefaction. ‘Bathrooms and lavvies? In all the hooses?’
‘That's what it says.’
‘How many hooses are they buildin'?’
John scanned the paper and then announced, ‘Eh, it says here … “to accommodate upwards of twenty thousand people”.’
‘Twenty thousand? And there's a lavvy in each hoose? That's a lot o' lavvies!’
‘Certainly is.’ John nodded in agreement. ‘Some fuckin' smell aff it, eh?’
‘They'll need all their baths,’ Peter replied. ‘You and Doreen goin' oot for the bells thenight?’
John nodded resignedly. ‘Just the usual. Her family, then my family. I could see it far enough. Lookin' forward to a couple o' days off, though. She's goin' tae get her hair done, then she's goin' tae the steamie. She's aw excited aboot it.’
‘She's excited aboot goin' tae the steamie? You should take her oot mair.’
‘No. She's excited aboot gettin' her hair done. She left me a note sayin' she was gettin' it done in a bubble cut and she hoped I'd like it. I'll need tae remember and tell her it looks great or her face'll be trippin' her. Does Magrit carry on like that?’
Peter thought for a moment. ‘Don't know. I don't ever remember her gettin' her hair done.’
Doreen Hood hummed along to the wireless. It was playing Dean Martin's rendition of ‘That's Amore’. Doreen danced as she hummed and tried to remember all the words in case she was asked to sing at one of the parties she and John would be going to after the bells. She always sang ‘My Yiddishe Mamma’ and everyone invariably said she sang it beautifully but, as she wasn't Jewish and neither was her mother, she had decided, this year, she would sing something different. She danced over to the mirror above the fireplace and tried to sort her hair into a shape that she would not find too awful. She screwed it up at the back but that made her look too old-fashioned. Then she tried the front in an approximation of a bang. ‘More like an explosion,’ she thought. No, it was an impossible task – it needed cut and that was that. Once she had it cut into the new fashionable bubble cut, all her troubles would be over. With that consoling thought, she put a headscarf on and made her mind up to go out and get it done.
After Dean had stopped singing.
SEVEN
With their father having gone off to his work, Tim and Frankie McGuire were sitting on the edge of their bed still in their underpants and vests, eating breakfast – two large doorsteps of plain bread with jam. Frankie had intimated that he felt a bit sick in his stomach. Magrit, who was busy doing the hundred and odd things she had to attend to before she could leave the house for the morning, had said it was maybe something he ate.
‘Or somethin' that you drank?’ Tim enquired innocently. ‘My tea tasted funny, so it did,’ he added, hoping to turn suspicion away from him and his machinations with the soggy fag.
Frankie's face screwed itself into an expression of distaste mixed with discomfort. ‘So did mine.’ He rubbed his stomach with both hands and groaned.
Tim patted his brother sympathetically on the back and then deftly deflected any suspicion away from him by looking as if he was thinking hard before coming up with, ‘It might have been the milk, so it might. That milk boy might have poisoned it, Frankie.’
Frankie groaned and lay back on the bed.
Tim placed his hand tenderly on his brother's forehead and said, ‘Mammy, I think Frankie's got a temperature. Will I go for a Dandy and a Beano so he can take his mind aff no' bein' well? Maybe even get him a Mars bar and me a Wagon Wheel? OK?’
Magrit hurried over and felt his forehead. ‘He's fine. Youse are gettin' hee-haw.’
Tim groaned along with Frankie at this and sank back among the crumpled bedclothes in despair that his machinations had come to nothing. As he writhed in unhappiness, his sister Theresa appeared from the bedroom that she shared with her mother.
She had just recently turned thirteen and was lost in the perpetual angst of being a teenager – and a female teenager at that. No one understood the tribulations that Theresa had to endure – well, no one, that is, except her best friend Rena Reilly. Rena was nearly six months older than Theresa and, with that wealth of extra experience of life, was the only one Theresa felt that she could turn to for advice. There was no point turning to her parents as they just did not know anything about anything. Ignoring her younger brothers, she said, in a voice that was heavy with anguish, ‘Mammy, can I change in here in front o' the fire? It's freezin' in the other room.’ She held her arms around her bare shoulders and hugged herself, conscious that she was in her vest and knickers and that her brothers should not be privy to viewing her in that state.
‘Dae what you want. I'm too busy,’ was Magrit's reply as she swept the lobby and banged the edge of the brush against the skirting board. As Theresa started to lift her vest off, she turned round quickly, in time to catch her brothers chewing on their jam and bread and staring at her. ‘Mammy, will you tell they two to take their pieces into the other room? I want to get dressed and they're staring at me.’
Her mother shouted back, above the clacking of the brush and skirting board, �
�I'm cleanin' that room in a minute – anyway you said yourself it's too cold.’
Her voice went up a level as she shouted to the boys, ‘You two, turn your backs and don't look at your big sister.’
Tim had risen from among the swirl of the bed sheets so he could get a better look at his big sister. ‘We're no' lookin' at her, sure we're no', Frankie?’
Frankie, now miraculously recovered, peeked from beneath a blanket, threw the blanket aside and stood beside his brother. His face leering and his hands cupped suggestively, he shouted, ‘Naw!’ to his mother.
‘Turn your backs when you're told, then,’ Theresa scolded in her best big sister voice.
They gave a gesture of wronged innocence and, shrugging their shoulders, turned and faced the other way. Theresa slid out of her vest and put on a clean one that her mother had left over the big chair that was in front of the fire along with clean knickers. She thrilled to the warmth of where her vest had been heated by the fire and started to remove her knickers. She had thrown her knickers on top of her vest when she heard suppressed sniggering coming from behind her. Whirling round she saw that, although the boys' backs were turned, their faces were tilted upwards, staring into the mirror that was hanging on the opposite wall. They were beside themselves with mirth and Frankie was almost choking with the effort of not guffawing out loud.
Theresa howled with embarrassment. ‘They pigs are watchin' me,’ she screamed at them and her mother. ‘I hate youse,’ she raged at Frankie and Tim who were now hanging on to each other and making pouting faces as their hands simulated the female form with figure-of-eight curvy gestures.
‘I hate everybody in this hoose.’ She ran into her room and passed her mother who had run out of the room and into the kitchen to see what all the commotion was.
Magrit sized up the situation immediately. ‘Ya dirty little perverts.’ She made a dive at them but they adopted the tactic of splitting up and, for a moment, threw her. That moment, however, was enough to see them dart into the lobby, through the door and into the room where Theresa had gone in her anguish. Theresa screamed again, ran out of the room and into her mother who had recovered remarkably quickly and was in hot pursuit of the Brothers Grim. As Theresa and Magrit collided just outside of the room, they heard the door slam shut and the sound of a chair being wedged against it.