The Steamie

by Tony Roper

‘She's a stewardess,’ Rena informed her.

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘I think it's like a waitress – like in a restaurant, except more important. Know what I mean?’

  Theresa nodded her head in understanding.

  Rena continued with the lesson, ‘And, because it's more important than a waitress, you have to be called a stewardess – you know?’ Theresa nodded again. Rena took the postcard from Theresa's grasp and held it up to the light. ‘I've put wee holes in the side o' the ship wi' a pin. If you hold the card up to the light like this and look through it, it's as if there was lights shining through the portholes. See?’

  She passed the card over to Theresa so she could study this example of Rena's ingenuity. Theresa studied the postcard and imagined herself sailing on the high seas in a similar ship. The lights coming through the pinholes seemed to draw her inside the ship and she could almost hear the sound of laughter and music coming from the dance floor.

  ‘That's what I'm gonnae do – travel the world,’ she announced. Her mouth set in resolution.

  ‘Me as well,’ Rena avowed. ‘My cousin says she's gonnae speak for me to her boss, like, you know?’

  Theresa fixed Rena with a look that spoke volumes about her intent to escape from the drudgery of Glasgow. ‘Would she speak for me as well?’

  This took Rena aback somewhat. She was not sure that she wanted Theresa to be on the same level of glamour as she would be if they both went stewardessing. ‘I don't know – naw,’ she announced defensively.

  ‘How no'?’ Theresa said, injured by the unexpectedly terse reply from her dearest and only real friend.

  Rena was at a complete loss to answer this. How could she say to her dearest and only real friend in the whole world that she really did not, in her heart of hearts, want her to be as glamorous or as important as her? She struggled again for an explanation as to how she could not plead Theresa's case to her cousin. The answer came at last. ‘'Cause I'll no' see her to ask her, will I? She's on a boat, isn't she?’ She noticed that Theresa was close to tears with the frustration of not being allowed to be a stewardess. ‘But,’ she continued with more assurance now that she had the upper hand in the relationship, ‘when I get started – once I'm established, like – I'll speak for you.’

  Theresa buried her face in a pillow. ‘That'll be years away. I'll be an auld woman by then.’

  Rena touched her friend's hair gently and said sadly, in full Barbara Stanwyck mode, ‘I'm sorry. It's the best I can do.’

  Theresa sat up and, resting on an elbow, turned her face eagerly towards her friend. ‘Could I no' write to the ship personally?’

  This blew Rena from Barbara Stanwyck mode to somewhere between Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. ‘Naw,’ she said, not very helpfully. ‘It goes all over the world, you see. Your letter could be years tryin' tae catch up wi' it. Anyway, they'd probably ask if you had experience of stewardessing … and … you havnae … so they wouldnae give you a job.’

  ‘You havnae got experience either,’ was Theresa's logical thrust back.

  ‘But I've got a cousin, haven't I?’ Rena countered.

  ‘Well, how am I going to get experience?’ Theresa threw her hands in the air and bit the side of her lip in exasperation.

  Rena nodded her head sagely at the immensity of the problem, secretly glad that she was not Theresa. She was now heading for Barbara Stanwyck again. She wished she could smoke as she could just imagine Barbara wrestling with this problem, striding over to the bar that all Americans had inside their house, pouring herself a drink and then lighting a cigarette and blowing out the smoke as she said, ‘I don't know, honey – maybe you'll just have to start on wee boats and work your way up. There's boats doon at the dockside – we could go doon there and ask … perhaps.’

  ‘You called me “honey”,’ said Theresa suspiciously.

  Rena shook her head. ‘Look, do you want to go doon to the docks or no'?’

  ‘To find oot who tae write tae like?’ Theresa said, hope starting to loom in her brain again.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rena shrugged.

  ‘Would you come doon wi' me?’

  Rena started to get worried. Theresa was obviously getting serious about this.

  ‘I don't like the docks – they're dead smelly,’ Rena said.

  Theresa's look, showed that she felt totally betrayed by her only friend.

  Barbara Stanwyck took a deep breath and then said, ‘Awright.’

  ‘Brilliant. Come on, we'll go the noo,’ exploded Theresa, jumping from the bed and racing across the room to put her coat on. ‘They'll maybe be startin' waitresses – I mean stewardesses – for the New Year.’

  Rena couldn't believe her ears. ‘What are you talkin' aboot? You're still at school. You're too young tae be a stewardess.’

  ‘I'm nearly fourteen.’

  ‘Naw, you're no'. You've just turned thirteen. It'll be two years before you can start stewardessing – on wee boats – and at least another two years before they would let you near a liner.’

  Theresa sank to the floor with despair. ‘I cannae stay in that hoose another two years. I'll kill at least one o' my wee brothers.’

  Rena sat down by her best friend and put her arms around her. ‘Well you'll just have to. You're too young.’

  Theresa started to sob into her sleeve. ‘I hate being young. I just hate it.’

  TWELVE

  Mary Culfeathers sat at the dining room table. The table was oak and had been given to her by Harry's parents, along with six chairs, as a wedding present. It was polished once a week and had a dark red chenille table cover over it to keep it from spills. These days it was very seldom used but Mary polished it anyway. On top of the tablecloth was a Christmas card and two envelopes. Mary brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over the lens of her spectacles as she read over a second Christmas card. It said, in a hastily written scrawl:

  Dear Mum and Dad Hope this card reaches you in time. I've been very busy. Helen and the children are fine and we're hoping to get up to see you soon.

  Merry Christmas

  Your loving son.

  Mary took up the pen that was lying on the table and wrote ‘Alan’ at the bottom of the card.

  She put the card in one of the envelopes, licked the gum and sealed it. She picked up the other card, reread it for mistakes and then placed it in the other envelope and sealed it as well. With a sigh of satisfaction, she rose up from the table and crossed the room. At the door to the hall she took her shoes off and padded silently to the front door. Lifting the flap of the letterbox, she let it clang shut and then dropped the two envelopes on to the linoleum that covered the hall floor. As quickly as she could she padded back into the dining room. Just as she reached the door she heard Harry shout, ‘That's the front door, Mary. Will I get it?’

  ‘It's alright – I'll get it,’ she shouted back as she slipped on her shoes. She returned to the front door and picked up the two envelopes. Trying her best not to sound suspicious she called out, ‘It's the postman – a couple o' letters or cards maybe.’

  She paused as she collected her thoughts on how to respond when Harry shouted back, ‘Maybe they're from the boys?’

  She gathered herself and tried to look and sound non-committal as she entered the kitchen and crossed to the bed where Harry was raising himself into a sitting position. ‘You open them up. I'm tidyin' up in the dining room,’ she said, leaving the envelopes on top of the bedspread. Harry nodded and looked around him.

  ‘Where's my glasses? Have you seen them?’

  Mary turned back and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don't know where they are. You're always losing them. I've told you, you should tie them on a string round your neck, then you'll aye know where they are.’

  Harry snorted back, ‘I'd look like an auld man – it's alright, I've found them,’ he called out to her as she left the kitchen and made her way across the hall. She stopped just inside the dining room and listened for a reaction from Harry
.

  Harry's voice rumbled disgruntledly as he tried to open the envelopes, ‘Bloody stuck wi' cement these things.’ She heard him mutter, ‘It's a couple o' cards. Christmas cards.’

  ‘Oh. Who from?’ Mary did her best at feigning innocence, as she answered back. She was not used to deception and knew she could easily blow the whole charade.

  She let out a silent sigh of relief as Harry called out, ‘Aye. They're from Alan and Duncan.’

  She could hear him reading the cards. Lately he had taken to reading in a semi-whisper that she found irritating, as it stopped her concentrating on whatever she was doing, but this time she did not mind as it served as a pointer of how her plan was progressing. ‘They're from the boys, right enough. Can you hear me?’ he called out.

  ‘Aye, I'm just getting ready tae go to the steamie but I'm listening,’ she called back, smiling at the success of her duplicity and putting her coat on.

  While she got her bag out and loaded it with bars of soap, a scrubbing brush, a black rubber apron and other tools of the washhouse, Harry continued to enlighten her as to the contents of the cards. ‘They were busy right enough – they're gonnae try and come up and visit us soon, though.’ He was still scanning the cards when Mary entered the kitchen.

  He held out the cards for her to read. ‘I'll read them when I get back,’ she said. ‘Will you be OK?’

  Harry nodded, ‘Aye, of course I will. How would I no' be? Bloody cards are hell of a late gettin' here – it's bloody New Year's Eve.’

  Mary tutted at him, ‘Your language is gettin' worse.’

  ‘Well, nae wonder – that's a hell of a time tae take. Oor other cards got here on time.’ His eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the cards and then the envelopes. He looked at Mary from beneath his brows and Mary shivered in anticipation of being found out. His voice was undercharged with disappointment as he shook his head forlornly and informed her, ‘I know why they're so late – the silly buggers never put stamps on the envelopes.’

  Mary allowed herself a small, if somewhat self-satisfied, grin. ‘I'll be back aboot half nine – if you're sleepin', will I wake you for the bells?’

  Harry was still studying the cards and envelopes. ‘Naw – what?’

  ‘I said, will I wake you for the bells?’ she reiterated.

  ‘Whit bells is that?’

  ‘It's Hogmanay. We always bring in the New Year wi' a wee whisky at the bells.’

  ‘Oh, aye, and listen for the horns,’ Harry replied, searching for something in the bed.’

  ‘What horns? What are you talkin' aboot?’

  ‘The ships' horns. We always open the windows and listen for the ships' horns doon on the river,’ he said a bit tetchily.

  Mary wondered what he was looking for and was about to ask him when she realised that she had forgotten about the horns. This realisation had the effect of making her forget to ask Harry what he was looking for. ‘Of course, the ships' horns – I'd forgot aboot them.’ She shook her head from side to side in a gesture of exasperation. ‘See my memory, it's getting worse.’ She walked back into the dining room. ‘There's somethin' I've forgot and I don't know what it was.’ She surveyed the dining room for a clue. No luck, she turned back towards the kitchen and studied Harry lying in the set-in bed. ‘Was it something to do wi' you? Aye, that's it, somethin' I had to ask you aboot.’ Harry was still studying the cards. She gazed at him. ‘There was somethin' I meant to ask you and it's gone right oot my head. My mother always said my head gives my feet a lot o' work. I didnae know what she meant at the time but I know noo.’

  She turned and headed for the outside door. ‘Right that's me away – I'll see you when I get back.’

  Harry's only response was to growl in irritation, ‘You'd think they'd have brains enough to put a bloody stamp on an envelope.’

  As the front door slammed shut, he made a mental note to speak to Alan and Duncan and tell them about their oversight when they arrived. He lifted up the sheets and searched around before yawning. ‘They'll turn up sooner or later, I suppose.’ He lay back on the raised pillows and shut his eyes. His breath came in short sharp uneasy bursts. His brows furrowed in concentration, then his eyes sprung open and darted about the room. ‘I wonder,’ he thought to himself. Raising his right hand towards his nose, he felt gingerly with his index finger from the tip up to the bridge, where its progress was halted by his spectacles. ‘I thought that's where they would be,’ he said smugly – to no one.

  THIRTEEN

  Magrit had left Tim and Frankie bickering. The shops would all be shut for almost a week over the holiday period. Time was running out and she had to get the groceries in now or she would not get them in at all. Turning into Wilson's, her spirits sank even lower when she saw there was a queue. She would have gone somewhere else but Wilson's allowed her to buy stuff without immediate payment (or ‘tick’, as it was known), to be settled at the end of the week – and this was the day to settle up. In better-off sections of Glasgow society, this form of shopping was termed ‘on account’ – however, in the lower orders, it was called ‘tick’.

  Magrit had not only the previous week's groceries to settle, she would also have to placate Wullie Patterson over the morning milk episode. At this precise moment, she was not in the mood for placating anyone and it was perhaps just as well for Wullie that he had finished his day's graft and gone home.

  Doreen Hood paused at the door of Francini's and checked if it was raining. She looked up and noted happily that there was no immediate sign of rain in the unbroken blanket of dull grey overcast Glasgow sky. Although with the help of Mario and a hand held mirror, she had studied her new hairdo from every conceivable angle, she again glanced at herself in the reflection of Francini's side window to check that it still looked as good as it had done two minutes ago. It did indeed still look all that Doreen had hoped it would. She smiled to herself and, despite the chill in the air, she felt a rush of warmth surge through her with the realisation that she was young, married to the best man in the world and looked a million dollars. Buttoning up her coat, she set off for home.

  Theresa McGuire stood at the window of Thomas Cook's and stared at the posters advertising the vacations that were on offer. She was searching for anything about cruises. She searched in vain. As she stood there forlornly, she heard a snatch of the conversation Dolly Johnson was having with Agnes Malloch as they passed her by – something about somebody called Gilchrist whose husband had apparently died was all she heard as they sauntered by her.

  Mary Culfeathers walked resignedly to the steamie. She had been obliged to take in washing for people in the district as a way of supplementing her income. Harry knew nothing about it of course. She had decided not to tell him as it would only have upset him to think that his wife had been forced to do other folks' washing. Harry was under the impression that she went to the steamie only to do their own washing. He was also under the impression they were still living on their savings. Harry had always insisted that they watched their money and put by a proportion of it for a rainy day. She could of course have applied for what was called ‘social security money’ but that was not her or Harry's way. They had pride and would never consent to be ‘on the parish’ as it was called. Mary had no false sense that it was demeaning to take in washing – as far as she was concerned, no work was demeaning. She just felt that Harry need not know about it as it would upset him if he felt that he had failed in some way to provide for her. Beside which, she enjoyed getting out and being among other women – although she did notice, with a tinge of regret, that a lot of the conversation bypassed her and she did not always get the gist of what they were talking about. However, that was a part of being old and there was nothing she could do about that.

  The one o'clock hooter bawled out, signalling that the yard had finished for the last time that year. The gates were flung open and the workers poured out of them like a dam that had burst and spilled its contents on to the roadway, turning it almost instantly into a r
iver of human fish. They resembled some kind of rag-tag army because, although it was not planned, they had somehow created a uniform that was endemic to each and every one of them.

  Each of them wore flat caps that had become so imbued with oil they were now waterproof. All of their shirts, despite the cold wind, were open-necked and encased by equally oil-saturated jackets and broad leather belts that held up their dirty oil-soaked trousers which fell tightly round the top of their steel toe-capped boots. There was a great deal of back slapping and mock punching that led to someone being chased. This led to deft dodging in and out of the throngs that had now swamped the road. Money that had been loaned was being repaid with phrases such as ‘Thanks – you saved a life there’, and replies of ‘Nae bother. You goin' for a bevvy?’, ‘Aye – bloody right I am’, ‘I'll stand you a pint’, and so on.

  If indeed it had been a river, the swell of sound and unmistakable lust for living would have deemed it an extremely healthy one.

  Magrit left Wilson's, her message bags straining with the weight and bulk of groceries that were to last the family for the next week. Her face was fixed in a state of concern, which was due to the fact that, although her message bags were now full, sadly her purse was almost empty. Her face relaxed slightly as she headed for home with the knowledge that Peter would be in with his wages when she got back.

  Mary Culfeathers handed over the money for three sessions in the wash house and made her way to stall number fifty-seven. It would be after nine o'clock before she would see the street again.

  Doreen heard the doorbell and checked herself out in the mirror. She patted her hair for the umpteenth time before rushing to open the door, eager for John's opinion on her new hairdo. She swung the door open. John stood on the threshold surveyed her hair and said, ‘Nice. I like that. It suits you.’

  Magrit had just finished putting the groceries away when she heard the door being knocked. ‘He's forgot his keys again – thank God that's him back,’ she thought, not because she missed him – more because she was glad that she would have some money to see her through the week. She opened the door and Peter fell past her and landed face down on the lobby carpet. Two of his pals, who had helped him up the stairs and were almost as blootered as he was, opened their mouth to say something that would make Magrit laugh with their sparkling wit. They were stopped in their tracks, however, as the crash of the door slamming in their faces drowned out their opening line.