The Steamie

by Tony Roper

  Mary sighed again in concordance with Dolly's sentiments, ‘Aye.’

  They shared a silence in respect of his loss to the world.

  ‘Of course, he wasnae liked himself, though,’ Mary said, demonstrating that realism should never be sacrificed for sentimentality.

  ‘Naw – he was a wee shite. How's Mr Culfeathers? Will youse be celebratin' thenight?’

  Mary shook her head, ‘Naw, Dolly, we never bother wi' Hogmanay noo – with the family away, it's no' the same.’

  ‘You're welcome tae come up to us, you know,’ Dolly said sincerely.

  ‘That's awful nice o' you, Dolly,’ Mary said, but her tone indicated she wouldn't.

  ‘It's no' formal nor nothin' – just a terr wi' the neighbours. It'll be a wee break for you,’ Dolly persisted.

  Mary smiled at Dolly. ‘By the time I finish here, well … I'll be ready for my bed. To tell you the truth, Dolly, I'm frightened to leave Harry too long by himself. It's his chest, you know.’ Her shoulders shrugged in resignation.

  ‘Is it bad then?’ Dolly asked in sympathy.

  ‘It's no' good, Dolly. And, Dolly …’ she said, her voice going back to its conspiratorial tone of a moment ago, ‘Noo, it's maybe my imagination … but … I think … I think he's beginnin' tae wander … in his head, you know? No' all the time, of course – just noo and again. Sometimes I think he thinks he's livin' in the past.’

  Dolly gave Mary's arm what she hoped was a reassuring pat. ‘It's just as well that you're there tae see he's awright.’

  Mary's expression signalled she was not too sure of Dolly's assessment of the situation. ‘How are the boys gettin' on? Are they still doon in London?’ she said, changing the subject hurriedly.

  ‘Oh, they're fine, Dolly – we got Christmas cards fae both o' them.’

  FIFTEEN

  Theresa was alone in the bedroom. She stood in front of the wardrobe mirror with a plate in her hand, which she was holding shoulder high. She walked back and forth disappearing from the mirror frame and then reappearing. Finally she stopped and smiled at the mirror. ‘I'm sorry, were you wanting a stewardess? … Yes, I am the head stewardess – just leave everything to me.’ She turned her back to the mirror and walked a few steps away before turning round and again addressing an imaginary passenger sitting at an imaginary table on an imaginary transatlantic liner, ‘Youse were requiring something to drink? Leave it to me, I'll send someone who does drinks to attend to youse. May I ask, do youse take butter or margarine on your pieces? Well, thank you – it's all part of the service,’ she responded to an imaginary compliment. ‘It's nae bother … My name? It's Ther …’ She stopped before completing the sentence. She had always considered her first name too common. Her second name was alright as there was already a Hollywood actress called Dorothy McGuire but she definitely did not like the name Theresa – there were another four in her class at school for a start.

  Theresa saw her new career as the perfect opportunity to ditch her first name in favour of something more glamorous. What would go with McGuire? She pondered excitedly. In a flash of inspiration the answer came to her. She had been reading in a film magazine about the hit movie based on one of the most dangerous and seductively beautiful women of all time – Salome – that would be her new name. She addressed the imaginary passenger, ‘My name is Salome – Salome McGuire.’

  As Salome McGuire turned to sort out drinks for the imaginary passenger, she started to sing Frankie Laine's hit song ‘Jezebel’. Her voice had automatically lowered Marlene-Deitrich style to suit her new persona. Her ears rang with the make-believe passengers' imaginary applause and she envisioned herself being spotted by a movie producer. Unfortunately, all that really happened was the sound of her wee brother Frankie banging on her door and shouting, ‘Gonnae shut up? Ma da says you're burstin' his heid.’

  SIXTEEN

  Inevitably there was a queue for the wringer. It was always a hold up and the women had continually asked for more wringers to be installed. What was the point of building nearly a hundred stalls and only putting in two wringers to service all of the stalls? The common answer to the question was that a man must have designed it – a woman would never have made that stupid a mistake. One of the women in waiting said to another, ‘Did you see in the papers that Cissie Gilchrist's man has died?’

  The other one answered, ‘Naw, but I was talking tae Sadie Hendry and she said that Dolly Johnson had told her aboot it.’

  The first one nodded sagely. ‘That's right. It was in the evenin' edition – “Passed away leaving a grieving wife,” it said.’

  A third woman, tall and thin with a worldly-wise air about her, interjected, ‘Nae money?’

  ‘Naw, just a grievin' wife,’ came the doleful reply.

  ‘Selfish wee bugger,’ was the reaction to this by the tall one. She furthered her reasoning on this theme with the explanation that, ‘It's awkward dyin' at this time o' the year as well – for the family and that, you know?’

  ‘You mean wi' everybody celebratin'?’

  ‘It's no' so much that, it's just that they've got tae lie a long time – wi' the holidays 'n' that. He could lie for a week before he got buried,’ she informed the throng that was now in on the discussion.

  ‘In the hoose?’ said one, incredulously.

  ‘Could be,’ she said, pleased that she was now the centre of information. ‘I think Catholics let them lie in the hoose – before they take them tae the chapel.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said a non-Catholic.

  ‘I think so. Hing on a minute – Anne,’ she called out to a passing Catholic.

  ‘When one o' youse die, do they stay in the hoose till they're buried?’

  ‘Aye – sometimes,’ clarified the Catholic.

  ‘For a week though?’

  ‘Oh, God, naw! No' for a week,’ she further clarified as she carried on to her stall.

  ‘They'll probably cremate him if there's naebody opened – or he'd smell,’ explained a small woman with greying hair.

  There was general agreement on this point, till one voice asked, ‘What if the crematoriums are all shut for the holidays?’

  This caused further mystification as to the outcome. ‘What did I say aboot him bein' a selfish wee bugger?’ explained the tall one in self-exoneration.

  Dolly had been at the sink for a good ten minutes and she decided that was more than enough time not to have been talking. She turned to Magrit who was engrossed in scrubbing, rubbing and pounding. For Magrit, it was a release of tension, taking her feelings out on the washing. Her concentration was interrupted by the sound of Dolly enquiring from her stall, ‘Are you goin' first-footin' thenight, Magrit?’

  ‘We were supposed to be,’ said Magrit. ‘But he's lyin' up in the hoose – drunk already – oot the game.’ She picked up the soap and began battering Peter's overalls with it. ‘Sick a' over the carpet – his breath's like a burst drain – you could strip paint wi' it.’

  Not wanting to come between husband and wife Dolly said in a compensatory way, ‘Aye, he likes a drink, your Peter.’ Then she changed on to safer ground, ‘Did you have a good Christmas? – Oh, here, I never wished you a merry Christmas.’ Wiping her hands on her apron, she reached over the top of the stall and gave her hand to Magrit. ‘Merry Christmas, Magrit.’ As she smiled, her cheeks, which were like a painter's palette of thin purple veins interspersed with red and white patches of marbled skin, bunched up on each side of her upturned nose and forced her eyes to screw up until they were mere dots. Below this, an eager smile topped off a personality that was put on this earth with the sole purpose of getting on with people. Magrit's personality was not quite as developed in that way, so she just nodded, shook Dolly's hand and said, ‘Merry Christmas, Dolly.’

  This brief exchange was never going to satisfy Dolly's need for social involvement so she called out to Doreen in the next stall to Magrit, ‘Merry Christmas, Doreen.’

  Doreen looked up from her washing and called bac
k at Dolly, ‘Merry Christmas, Dolly – Merry Christmas, Magrit.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Doreen,’ Magrit grunted back as Dolly's voice leapfrogged over her and Doreen till it reached Mary Culfeathers.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Culfeathers,’ she shouted out, waving to Mary Culfeathers, who looked up without knowing for certain who had wished her a merry Christmas.

  Not wishing to appear rude, Mary took a chance and waved back, ‘Merry Christmas, Dolly – Merry Christmas, Greta,’ she said to Doreen. Then lowering her voice she asked, ‘Will you wish Magrit a Merry Christmas for me, hen? I don't want to disturb her.’

  Doreen nodded as she said, ‘My name's Doreen, Mrs Culfeathers.’

  Mary put up a hand to signify that she understood, but she didn't really.

  ‘Magrit,’ Doreen called out, ‘Mrs Culfeathers is wishin' you a Merry Christmas.’

  Magrit's patience was running on almost empty but she held it in check long enough to shout out, ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Culfeathers.’

  Mary smiled back and said to Doreen, ‘Thanks, hen – Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ Doreen replied as Dolly appeared outside her stall.

  ‘Did I wish you a merry Christmas, Doreen?’

  Laying down a bottle of bleach that she had been dishing out to the whites in the boiler, Doreen turned to where Dolly was standing, one hand on her hip while the other scratched her head in a gesture of forgetfulness.

  ‘Aye, I think so, Dolly.’

  Dolly chewed at her bottom lip. ‘I'm no' sure if I did, you know. Ach, I'll wish you it again, just in case. Merry Christmas, Doreen.’

  As Doreen replied in kind, a low groan escaped from Magrit's stall.

  Dolly did not pick up on it. ‘Did you get nice presents, hen?’

  Doreen stopped what she was doing and turned her attention to Dolly. ‘Oh, aye. My ma and my da gave me a lovely table lamp and John gave me a dress and money tae get my hair done.’ She undid the top of the turban she was wearing to protect her hair from the damp, just long enough so Dolly could see it.

  As she was putting it back under its protective cover Dolly asked admiringly, ‘Where did you get it done? It looks beautiful – it really does.’

  Doreen preened openly. ‘Francini's up in Sauchiehall Street,’ she said and subconsciously pursed her lips in a gesture of acknowledgement that said she knew it looked beautiful. ‘It was three pounds,’ she announced, grandly.

  Dolly gasped. ‘Was it? Three pounds,’ she repeated incredulously. ‘They've made a lovely job o' it, though,’ she reasoned. ‘Is that a bubble cut?’ Dolly continued.

  ‘Aye.’ Doreen was glowing with the knowledge that she was the height of fashion.

  ‘Oor wee Angela wants one o' them – she's too young for it, though.’

  ‘Is that your granddaughter?’ Doreen enquired as she checked to make sure that her hairdo was properly protected.

  ‘Aye.’ It was Dolly's turn for a bit of preening and glowing. ‘She's too young for it, though,’ she continued, warming up to her favourite subject. ‘She's only twelve. She's champin' at the bit – cannae wait to be a teenager. You should see her in the hoose all dressed up wi' her mother's lipstick and make-up on. She thinks she's a right wee glamour girl – it's a bloody shame. Oor Helen clatters her if she catches her an' all.’

  ‘That right?’ said Doreen, who was now caught up in Dolly's enthusiasm.

  ‘Nae wonder, but – she ladles it on somethin' terrible. She's got the lipstick all over her face, she uses it for rouge, on her cheeks – yon way? And she tries tae put shadin' roon her eyes like the big lassies – you know? Her faither says she looks like an apache.’

  Magrit's voice cut through them – she had come to the conclusion if you can't beat them join them. ‘Does she wear her mother's shoes? I used to do that.’

  Dolly shook her head. ‘Naw, she doesnae do that – her feet are too big.’

  Magrit stopped her exertions. ‘What size are her feet?’

  ‘She's a size seven,’ was Dolly's emphatic response. ‘Oor Helen's only a four and a half.’

  ‘That's big for a lassie o' twelve, right enough.’ Doreen tried not too sound too critical but it was hard.

  Dolly nodded in acceptance of the fact that her granddaughter had enormous feet. ‘She's sweatin' blood in case they get bigger – her faither torments the life oot her as well. 'Cause you know how she's awful like him?’

  Doreen did not, so she said so.

  ‘Oh, she's his double – thon thick wiry black hair.’

  Magrit and Doreen said, ‘Aw – shame,’ not only in sympathy but also in unison.

  ‘She's got his blue eyes, she's even got his nose and, of course, he keeps tellin' her that she takes efter him, of course – he takes a size eleven.’

  A gasp of compassion flew from the lips of her audience.

  ‘He says he's gonnae leave her his sand shoes when he dies and that he's put her name doon tae join the polis when she leaves the school. And then he says she hasnae to hang up her stockin' at Christmas as it wasnae fair to the rest o' the weans.’

  Doreen turned to Magrit, ‘That's a shame, isn't it?’

  Dolly carried on before Magrit could reply, ‘She says to me the last time I was up in their hoose that aw the lassies in her class were always measurin' their busts, she says, “I'm no' worried aboot my bust, Gran – it's my feet I keep measurin'!”.’

  Magrit joined the conversation proper by advising that, ‘Oor Theresa's aye measurin' her bust – she's doin' exercises for it. Ah caught her over a week ago staunin' in front o' the wardrobe mirror wi' her hands oot in front and clasped together. She was pressin' the palms into each other and recitin' wi' her eyes shut, kinna rhythmic like,

  I MUST

  I MUST

  I MUST INCREASE MY BUST.

  A BIGGER SIZE

  IS THE PRIZE

  FOR DOIN' THIS BLOODY EXERCISE.

  I thought I was gonnae wet myself,’ she laughed for the first time that day.

  Doreen and Dolly were laughing as well. Mary Culfeathers stopped what she was doing, and unknown to the others, had a wee listen to what was going on. ‘Wait till I tell youse though,’ Magrit carried on, ‘she comes in from the room, aboot ten minutes later, and she makes her and I a cup o' tea – there was just the two o' us in the hoose, Peter was oot workin' and the boys were still oot playin'. So she's drinkin' her tea and I says to her, all innocent like, “Here, is your chest no' getting bigger?” “Is it?” she says, tryin' tae appear as if she's no' botherin'. I says to her, “We'll maybe need tae think aboot gettin' you a bra soon.” She jumps right oot the chair and she shouts, “Can I get one for my Christmas, Ma?”’

  Dolly said softly, ‘Aw, the wee soul.’

  ‘Did you get her one Magrit?’ Doreen asked, mirroring Dolly's sentiments.

  ‘Aye. On Christmas morning, I took her aside and gave it to her privately. She was nearly greetin' she was that happy. She says tae me, “That's the best Christmas present I've ever had.”’ Magrit turned away slightly, as she gave a bit of slack to an uncharacteristic soft side of her character. ‘I was near greetin' myself.’

  ‘We used tae use bandages when I was a lassie,’ Mary informed the company. ‘Just tied roond aboot tae support you,’ she said, miming the procedure. ‘It was great. You felt that secure.’

  Magrit surveyed her own mammoth mammaries. ‘I think I'd need a bloody hammock tae support these.’

  ‘Aye, you're big that way Magrit,’ concurred Dolly.

  ‘Peter says it was the first two things he noticed aboot me – the thing is I had my back to him at the time,’ she said ruefully.

  Mary turned away. No one had acknowledged her bit of information so she felt a bit foolish at having tried to join in the conversation. ‘What does anybody care what we were wearing when I was a lassie,’ she thought to herself as she went back to sanitising the doctor's washing.

  SEVENTEEN

  Harry Culfeathers sat
at the kitchen table, still in his pyjamas. His breathing although heavy and laboured was relatively under control. He lifted his favourite cup and had a sip of tea from it – or he would have done except that there was no tea in it. He shook his head in a gesture of resignation as he placed the cup back down on to the table. Squinting through his spectacles at the mantel clock and then at the wag-on-the-wall, he shook his head again as he realised that Mary would not be back for hours yet. This meant that he would have to make his own tea. He started to weigh up the pros and cons of going down this avenue. First he would have to remember where she kept the tea. He paused while he wracked his memory cells – the solution did not leap immediately into his head. What did leap into his brain was that he did not know where the sugar was kept so that meant there was the sugar to find as well. He couldn't take tea without sugar – that much he did know. There was something else that would be needed for the tea but he couldn't think what that was either. ‘You're gettin' worse,’ he thought aloud.

  He propped his elbow on the table and rested his head on the palm of his hand. His eyes alighted on the Christmas cards for the umpteenth time that day. He stared at them – something about them bothered him. It was all distraction Harry thought.

  His whole life was getting too complicated – simple things were becoming an impossible chore. He remembered when he ran a business and brought up a family at the same time and thought nothing of it. Now? He couldn't remember the last time he had been out of the house. Although he had never been one to blaspheme, he swore inwardly. ‘Christ.’ He couldn't even make himself a cup of tea. The frustration of it all began to well up inside him.

  He rose up from his chair and roared at the walls of the kitchen. The effort made him stagger but an inbuilt core of determination kept him on his feet. Winning that small battle gave him a bit of dignity back so he roared at the walls again and this time he didn't stagger. Self-confidence started to ebb back into his being. The ramparts of frustration that he felt could have engulfed him and thrown him into a pit of bewilderment eased back. Shaking his fist at the walls he shouted again, ‘You'll no' beat me. I'll beat you. How do you like that then, ya bastards?’ There was no reply from the kitchen walls – or the world at large.