The Steamie

by Tony Roper

  Harry felt new energy pour into him. He had always responded to a challenge and usually won. It was good to win again. He knew he had got some of his old fizz and pizzazz back and, for the first time in a long time, he felt good, he was master in his own home once more.

  ‘I'm goin' tae make myself a cup o' tea and nothin' is gonnae stop me.’ His jaw set firmly as his gaze swept round the kitchen. He saw a note propped up against an empty milk bottle on the table. Sitting down he took hold of the note and read it. It was in Mary's handwriting. Harry's self-esteem got another wee bolster from his ability to still recognise that. It said, ‘We've run out of milk. I'll bring back a pint on my way from the steamie. Mary.’

  Harry listened to his breathing as he read the note. It was long and loud and intrusive, not like his breathing at all. ‘I sound like an old man,’ he thought to himself. A vision of a black tin box with gold Chinese flowers painted on it flashed into his consciousness. ‘That's where we keep the tea,’ he cried out to the kitchen. His fists punched at the air. ‘Beat you, ya swine, you.’

  Life was good again as he surveyed the kitchen. He still had it in him to win a battle and that was important to him. He also felt a bit drained with the effort that had been required of him to triumph. He'd earned a rest so, steadying himself with the aid of the tabletop, he sat down.

  Once more his gaze settled on the Christmas cards from the boys. There was something about them that puzzled him but, for the life of him, he didn't know what it was. His newfound confidence would not give up so he concentrated on the cards to try and win this battle of wits also.

  As he studied them, another flash hit his brain and his scrutiny shifted to the note left by Mary. Uneasiness entered him and took the place of the feeling of confidence that had been prevalent only a second or two ago. Leaning across the table, he picked up the note and read it again. Laying it down beside the Christmas cards, he compared the handwriting. The silence of the walls seemed to mock him as they scrutinised his bent shoulders and his chest that heaved and strained under the pyjama jacket.

  ‘Christ – I hate bein' old,’ he thought in tacit despair. On the kitchen wall hung a clay plate that had been given to them by the boys as a Christmas present many years ago when they were all younger. It was sky blue with a motto picked out in relief white lettering:

  TO THE WORLD'S BEST MUM AND DAD

  I thank the Lord who dwells above;

  He gave me a mum and dad to love;

  He created the sky and the beautiful sea,

  But the best thing of all he gave to me.

  And though I may fail in what I endeavour,

  I'll never fail to love you forever.

  I'll always be happy;

  I'll never be sad;

  For I'll always have you for a mum and dad.

  EIGHTEEN

  The sound of deep snoring rang round the lobby of Magrit's house. It emanated from Peter who was still comatose on the carpet where, earlier on, he had been sick. There was a damp ring round Peter's inert jaw from the stain that was left where Magrit had cleaned it up so it would not smell the house out. He snored the snore of a just man, a man who did not have a care in the world, a man whose conscience was clear, a man who was pissed out of his skull. The living room door opened cautiously and Tim eased his way out from behind it and into the lobby. His tread was soft as he tiptoed towards his father. Tim surveyed the carcass on the floor and smiled as he knelt down beside Peter. He put his hand softly on his father's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

  ‘Da – are you all right?’ he said in a voice that was not much above a whisper. There was no reaction, either vocal or physical, apart from the continuous snoring.

  ‘Da – will I make you a cup o' tea?’

  Tim prodded his father a bit harder but still to no avail. He placed both arms under his father's inert form and with a great deal of effort managed to turn him over on to his back. Peter's face contorted with the movement and he groaned inwardly. Tim looked at his father with genuine concern and tenderly slapped his face. There was no reaction at all – even the snoring failed to stop. He studied his father intently, noticing how his chest rose and fell evenly indicating he was deep in dreamland. He reached down and, with a touch as light as a feather, stroked his brow soothingly with the back of his right hand. While his right hand continued to administer a touch of tenderness, his left hand, equally feather-like, began to rifle through the pockets of his father's trousers. As he continued to search, he was interrupted by his dad's voice, ‘Tim, son.’

  Tim froze mid-search. His left hand totally still where it rested in his father's pocket.

  ‘You're too late – your mother beat you to it.’

  NINETEEN

  Dolly had stepped outside of her stall for a break – she had been hard at it for a quarter of an hour or so. The reason she felt in need of a break was not because she was tired but because she was just the type of woman who needed to talk – or, as her husband put it, she was a right gab. Smokers were addicted to nicotine – Dolly was addicted to blethering. She looked around for someone who was in a similar state of need as herself.

  Magrit's whole body language gave out a definite ‘Leave me alone – I'm busy’ attitude. Doreen was likewise getting tore in to her washing. Mary Culfeathers was trying, not too successfully, to load wet articles on to a pram in order to wheel them off to the wringer. This was in order to remove ninety-odd percent of the water from the washing, thus making it dry enough for the dryers to finish the process and ensure a clean dry bundle ready for ironing. Mary Culfeathers was trying to get as many wet articles as possible on to the pram so she would maybe only have to make the one trip to the wringer. Dolly saw an opportunity to not only have a blether but do someone a good turn as well. She lost no time in setting off for Mary's stall.

  ‘Mrs Culfeathers, do you want a hand doon tae the wringer wi' them?’

  Mary looked up as Dolly advanced, her bow legs accentuating the width of her leather apron and inducing a slapping sound with each stride as she approached. Mary thought it sounded like a round of applause. ‘Are you no' too busy, Dolly?’ she said, hoping that Dolly would say no.

  ‘No,’ said Dolly, obligingly, ‘I've got blankets lying steeping – they can lie there till I get back.’ She started to load the washing from Mary's stall on to the pram. As she did so, she seized the opportunity to take stock of what she was loading. Her eyes alighted on a pale pink bedspread that was a cut above the ordinary. She held a corner of it up for a closer inspection. As far as bedspreads went, this one was a definite ten-out-of-tenner. Dolly gave a small whistle of appreciation. ‘That's a beautiful bedspread that, isn't it, Mrs Culfeathers?’ she said to Mary.

  Mary nodded in a continuous way. One nod would have done but lately she had inexplicably taken to nodding continuously when asked a question – even if it was her asking herself the question, which was another thing she had been doing lately. Mary was unaware of this phenomenon but she had observed Harry doing it and wished he wouldn't.

  ‘It's the doctor's wife's,’ she nodded, with a touch of reverence in her voice.

  ‘Is it?’ Dolly said slowly and quietly as if sharing a secret that few were privy to. She turned to Magrit. ‘Magrit,’ she called out, ‘have you seen this? Beautiful, isn't it?’

  Magrit sighed impatiently but turned from what she was doing to see what Dolly was on about. ‘Aye, it is,’ she was forced to admit.

  Doreen's inquisitiveness got the better of her and she had a look as well. ‘That is beautiful,’ she nodded but only the once in her case.

  ‘It's the doctor's wife's,’ Dolly informed the bedspread appreciation society.

  ‘Wee McInnes's?’ Magrit asked Mary Culfeathers.

  Mary nodded her head, unaware that she had never stopped nodding it. ‘They've got a lovely hoose, Magrit.’ Her voice was respectful – as Mary felt it should be when speaking of anyone who kept their house in a manner that could inspire such a remark. ‘Lovely
stuff, isn't it? Wait till you see this tablecloth.’ She rummaged around in the wash till she found it. Removing the objet d'art that was the doctor's wife's tablecloth, she shook it in the air to remove as many creases from it as possible then draped it across her arms and displayed it to the gaze of Magrit & co. ‘That's Irish linen, that – the embroidery is all hand-done.’

  Dolly gasped in admiration. ‘I'n't that lovely, Doreen? What does the writin' say, Mrs Culfeathers?’

  Mary smoothed the cloth to reveal the motto writ in an old-fashioned lettering of earthy brown embroidery:

  YESTERDAY IS HISTORY.

  TOMORROW IS A MYSTERY.

  BUT TODAY IS A GIFT.

  THAT IS WHY IT IS CALLED THE PRESENT.

  ‘They must have got it as a present,’ Mary explained.

  ‘I'd be feart to put that oan the table in case I spilt somethin' on it,’ Doreen said, thus bestowing the importance she felt the tablecloth deserved.

  ‘If that was mine, it would never get oot the drawer,’ Dolly concurred.

  ‘He's bloody useless him,’ Magrit said, referring to the doctor and restoring a sense of sanity to the conversation. ‘No matter what you go tae him with, he tells you it's your nerves.’

  ‘I think he's creepy,’ Doreen said, adding her own version of embroidery – not on the tablecloth, but on Magrit's opinion of Doctor McInnes. ‘I hate goin' to him. They're nice curtains, them – I'd like a pair like that in my big room.’ She was now rifling through the wash as if she was at the January sale counter at C&A's in Sauchiehall Street.

  ‘They're a lovely colour, aren't they, Greta?’ said Mrs Culfeathers.

  ‘My name's Doreen, Mrs Culfeathers,’ said Doreen automatically.

  Dolly interrupted by saying quizzically, ‘I don't go tae him. Is he no' homeopathic?’

  ‘I think he's homeo somethin' – I don't know aboot pathic,’ Doreen volunteered.

  ‘More like homeopathetic,’ Magrit said venomously. ‘He gave me tablets the last time I went – for my leg, you know. I said, “You gave me these before and they never did any good.” He says, “These are different ones.” So I went back to the hoose and checked – they were the same bloody tablets.’

  ‘Did you go back to him?’ Doreen asked.

  ‘Aye, of course I did. I showed him the two bottles and I says, “You tell me this and tell me nae mer – are they or are they no' the same tablets?” You know what he says?’ Magrit didn't wait for their answer. ‘He says, “These last ones are a different strength, Megrit.” I says to him, “Well, they look exactly the same to me.” and he just gave me one o' they stupid wee smirks o' his – you know that way as if to say you're no' right in the head.’

  The women nodded in concurrence.

  ‘So I says to him,’ Magrit carried on, ‘“Well, I'm no' wantin' them 'cause, as far as I'm concerned, they're the same and they're no' helpin' me.”’

  ‘Did he give you somethin' else, Magrit?’ Mary Culfeathers asked, her voice almost quivering with concern.

  ‘Bloody right he did. He says, “Well, you're obviously not happy, Megrit.” and he writes oot another prescription for some other tablets. “We'll try you on these and see if they're any better. Come back and let me know how you get on with them.”’ Magrit was now reliving the moment, her face red with anger.

  ‘He's a plausible wee swine,’ she spat out, ‘but I let him have it, so I did. I says, “You listen here to me,” I says. “Do you think I'm a bloody guinea pig? Am I a bloody test case or somethin'?” Excuse my language Mrs Culfeathers.’

  She nodded in deference to Mary Culfeathers, who was already nodding back anyway. ‘It's all right, Magrit.’

  Magrit continued, ‘“'Cause, if I am,” I says, “I want to be tested by somebody competent. I could do what you're doin' – handin' oot pills and sayin', ‘Try that and, if they don't work, we'll try somethin' else.’ Any stupid bugger could do that.”’ Magrit was now transposed in her anger. ‘An' then he says to me as if it was my fault, “Well, maybe you should think about registering with another doctor.”’ She paused while the injustice of the remark settled into the psyche of her confidants. ‘I says, “Listen you, I'm here wi' a sore leg, I cannae go traipsin' two mile tae the next doctor,”’ she shouted.

  ‘Is that Bell? Is that Doctor Bell?’ Doreen asked the assembly.

  ‘Aye – that's who I'm with. He's smashin' – it's hard tae get on his books, though,’ Dolly advised Doreen.

  ‘Is his wife no' a doctor as well?’ Doreen asked, not realising that, by altering the course of the discussion, Magrit was seething at being stopped in full vitriolic flow.

  Mary Culfeathers was more sensitive to Magrit's urgent need to vilify Doctor McInness. ‘What happened then, Magrit?’ she enquired sympathetically.

  ‘He gave me an appointment tae see the top man in the Western Infirmary,’ she announced triumphantly. Then added emphatically, ‘He should have done that long ago.’

  ‘What did he say was up wi' your leg, Magrit?’ asked Doreen.

  Magrit shook her head in resignation before replying, ‘He says it's my nerves.’

  ‘Is it sore?’ Dolly enquired.

  ‘Of course it's bloody sore,’ Magrit answered vexed with Dolly's pointless question.

  Dolly shook her head in a gesture that said she was annoyed that Magrit thought her question was pointless. ‘Naw, I mean is it sore just noo?’

  ‘Naw, it comes and goes. It's thrombosis. That's what it is,’ Magrit stated, clear in the knowledge that she knew better what her malady was than any medical expert.

  ‘Thrombosis? Is that no' a clot?’ asked Doreen before re-entering her stall.

  ‘Aye,’ Magrit verified as she too headed back to the drudge. ‘And so's that bloody doctor.’

  Mrs Culfeathers announced that she would go and see if there was a ringer free.

  ‘I'll gie you a hand doon wi' these to the wringer, Mrs Culfeathers,’ Dolly volunteered, because she could see that the load was large and would need someone to push the pram and another one to steady the wash and make sure it didn't fall off.

  ‘You're a saint, Dolly,’ said Mary, beatifying Dolly without any official qualification. Saint Dolly Johnson, patron saint of the steamies, dismissed the honour with a wave of her arm and started on about the price of fish.

  TWENTY

  Theresa studied herself in the wardrobe mirror for the umpteenth time. The problem was trying to look older – well, old enough to be considered as a viable candidate for a position as a stewardess. She retreated a couple of yards back from the mirror, pouted her lips and pulled her hair down over the left side of her face in the style made popular by Veronica Lake. She studied this effect with her right eye and was pleased with what she saw. Apart from the fact that her hair was mouse brown, while Veronica Lake's was blonde, and apart from the fact that she had on her flair skirt and blouse, white ankle socks and lace-up black shoes, whereas Veronica Lake had a slinky black low-cut shimmering evening dress and silk stockings with stiletto-heeled black satin dress shoes, there really wasn't that much difference.

  Undoing the top four buttons on her school blouse, she pulled the left side down over her shoulder. Turning side-on she lifted her shoulder and smouldered at her reflection. She licked her lips to make them shine a bit, drooped her eyelids, then vamped her way towards the mirror. Stopping at the mirror she looked it up and down and announced in as husky a voice as she could manage, ‘I was wondering if youse were starting any stewardesses? My age? I am nineteen – and a half.’

  Theresa's considered opinion was that she could pull that one off – if only her breasts were bigger. Taking off her blouse, she cupped her hands in front of her and began her daily bigger bust campaign.

  Outside her door Tim and Frankie were taking it in turns to look through the keyhole. Peter snored on.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Magrit had knocked off for a breather and lit up a fag. Even that had annoyed her because the matches were damp with the
humid atmosphere of the steamie and she had had to waste three before one finally succumbed to her threats to ‘Throw the whole bloody lot o' youse at that drier door’.

  Doreen didn't smoke but she was in need of a break too. Adjusting her turban-like headscarf to ensure that her new hairdo remained protected from the sodden atmosphere, she joined Magrit. She planked herself down on a stool provided by the management for the comfort of patrons at the side of all the stalls.

  ‘Have you been to the pictures this week, Magrit?’

  Magrit exhaled her Senior Service. Cigarettes were the only luxury she had so she bought good ones. She had tried Player's, Capstan and a few others but her mother had always maintained that Senior Service was the only dignified cigarette for a woman. In her considered opinion, ‘Other fags only made you look cheap’. Magrit usually followed her mother's advice. The only time she had gone against it was when she married Peter. That was a lesson that she never forgot.

  ‘We went to the Rex aboot two weeks ago. It was … what was it called …? Eh, I've seen it before … Fred MacMurray and …?’

  ‘Double Indemnity?’ volunteered Doreen.

  ‘That was it,’ Magrit confirmed, stretching her legs out and crossing her ankles.

  ‘I saw that. It was great, wasn't it?’

  ‘Aye, he's good – I like her as well.’

  ‘Barbara Stanwyck?’ Doreen volunteered again.

  ‘That's right. They're good togither – as a pair, you know?’

  Doreen nodded in agreement. Then stated, ‘I like Doris Day as well.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Magrit enthused. ‘Marvellous singer. I've got a cousin in Riddrie can sing like her,’ Magrit said as she sucked in another lungful of tobacco for females who did not want to look cheap.