by Tony Roper
Dolly didn't reply as she was still busy unloading blankets from the sink.
Doreen was not to be outdone, however. Picking up her own scrubbing brush, she answered Magrit's scrubbing brush with the mother of all affected voices, ‘Hellooo – Drumchapel 3776. To whom am I speaking?’ She grinned inanely at Magrit, well pleased with herself.
Not to be outdone Magrit carried on with the charade. ‘This is Magrit McGuire here. I was wondering if perhaps I could have a word with Mrs Doreen Hood who resides at The Willows, Drumchapel,’ Magrit smiled back to Doreen, with a top-that-if-you-can expression.
Doreen smirked wickedly. ‘This is her maid. I believe Mrs Hood is in conference with the workmen who are putting in the new TERRAZZO MARBLE flooring in the BIG room.’
‘Well,’ Magrit smirked back, ‘I don't want to disturb her while she is servicing the workmen. If you could just say that one of her old friends from the Carnegie Street steamie called, I'd be most grateful.’
Before she could replace the receiver/scrubbing brush, Doreen fired back, ‘Oh, just a moment, I think you are in luck. Mrs Hood has just entered through the FRENCH WINDOWS. I'll see if she's free.’
‘Thank you – you're very kind,’ Magrit responded with a curled lip.
Doreen pushed open an imaginary door at the front of her stall and stepped out on to the steamie floor. Nodding graciously to no one in general and Magrit in particular, she said, ‘This is Doreen Hood of 73 The Willows Drumchapel speaking to you PERSONALLY.’
From over Magrit's shoulder in the Johnson stall, Dolly's voice said, ‘Is it her? We were lucky we got her in, Magrit.’
Magrit turned to smile knowingly at Dolly but was surprised to see that Dolly was still busily working away and not even looking their way.
‘Helloooo, is there anyone there?’ Doreen cooed.
Magrit turned her attention back to Doreen and answered, ‘This is Magrit McGuire – we used to be friendly – in the old days – I don't suppose you'll remember me, though?’ Her lips were smiling but her voice was acidic.
Doreen replied with a beaming grin, ‘That's right – I've forgot all about you.’
Dolly's voice again cut in, ‘Ask her if she minds o' me. She'll remember me.’ She was wiping her brow and sighed with relief that the blanket situation was put to bed – so to speak.
Both Magrit and Doreen looked at Dolly quizzically and both thought, ‘Surely not.’
Doreen carried on regardless, ‘Eh! Do you have an appointment?’
Magrit answered with mock humility, ‘I'm very sorry, I'm afraid I don't.’
At this, Dolly appeared by Magrit's side in the stall and, wiping her hands on her backside, she said, in a manner that was bereft of any nonsense, ‘Gie it to me. Let me speak to her.’
Magrit's mouth, much to her surprise, fell open.
Doreen saw there was sport to be had and asked, ‘Is there someone there with you Mrs McGuire?’
Magrit lifted the brush to her ear and could not fail to notice that Dolly was on her tiptoes trying to listen in to the conversation by placing her ear next to the brush. ‘Yesss, there is, indeed – another old chum of yours – a Mrs Dolly Johnson?’
Both Magrit and Doreen saw that Dolly was listening intently. ‘Dolly Johnson?’ Doreen said, tentatively, as if searching her memory banks. ‘Dolly Johnson … Now, just a moment, does she have bowly legs?’
Magrit started to laugh openly before she heard Dolly say emphatically, ‘See, I told you she would remember me. Give us the phone.’
It appeared that Dolly's love of talking had just passed the line of demarcation. ‘There isnae a phone,’ Magrit said, incredulously.
Dolly eyes shone with intensity, as she said impatiently, ‘I know that – I know that – but,’ she continued, ‘give us it anyway.’
To say that Magrit and Doreen were astonished would be almost accurate – incredulous would do more justice to their astonishment.
‘Hello, Doreen, hen,’ Dolly spoke into the scrubbing brush to Doreen with the air of someone she hadn't spoken to in years. ‘Are you up to your eyes in it, hen?’
Doreen was still in shock but came to as Magrit's elbow dug into her ribs and egged her on to see how far Dolly could be swept along by the moment. Doreen took a deep breath and then joined Dolly in her flight of fancy. ‘Oh! Goodness me, yes – what with the workmen being in and everything.’
‘Aye – they'll cause an awful stoor,’ Dolly nodded in sympathy with Doreen's plight.
‘Well, it's been one of those days, Mrs Johnson.’
‘Oh, naw, has it, hen?’ Dolly said with warm compassion. Doreen glanced again at Magrit who signalled her to go for it. ‘You see, John and I are going to the opera tonight and I went and dropped my tiara on the bathroom carpet and, of course, the pile on that carpet is so thick that it took me ages to find it.’
Dolly had now rested her behind on the sink to make herself comfortable, obviously she was up for a right old chinwag. ‘Is that right, hen?’ she replied earnestly to Doreen's assertion of the trials and tribulations of a typical Drumchapel dweller.
Magrit was eating a wet sock to stifle her laughter.
‘Oh, yes, Mrs Johnson,’ Doreen prattled on. ‘And, of course, this terrazzo marble just arrived from Italy this afternoon and, when the workmen were carrying it in, they nearly broke the TELEVISION SET.
‘Oh, naw,’ Dolly gasped.
‘But, fortunately, the DISPLAY CABINET got in the way – and they only just missed the RADIOGRAM too.’
‘That was lucky, hen, eh?’ Dolly said into the brush.
‘Anyway I've just sat them all down in the DINING ROOM and told the maid to bring something in from the REFRIGERATOR. I just hope the noise from the WASHING MACHINE in the kitchen doesn't disturb them too much.’
‘Well, let's hope no', hen, eh?’ Dolly concurred respectfully, before carrying on with, ‘Do you no' mind o' Magrit McGuire, Doreen? Her maiden name's Docherty but she got mairried on tae Annie McGuire's boy, Peter. They stayed up the fish pen.’
‘I don't think so,’ Doreen squeaked as she tried not to dissolve.
‘You must know Annie McGuire,’ Dolly persisted. ‘Her uncle used to work in the fish shop at the corner o' Balshagray Lane.’
Doreen tried to speak but all that came out was a thin squawk, shaking her head she signalled to Magrit that she could not keep going.
Dolly stared at the phone. ‘Hello? Hello?’ Are you still there, Doreen?’ She asked the scrubbing brush.
Magrit took up the cudgel as Doreen collapsed. ‘Hello. Is that Dolly Johnson?’ she said severely.
Dolly stared at the brush. ‘Is that you, Magrit?’ she asked, incredulously.
‘Yes. I would just like to say that if you don't get aff that phone, you'll never get your washing done thenight.’ Doreen and Magrit laughed like drains.
The spell was broken. Anyone else would have felt very foolish at being so silly but not Dolly Johnson. She had enjoyed herself immensely and, to her, that was all that mattered. For a wee while, she had been taken out of herself by her own innocence and enthusiasm and it would have taken a cruel disposition to blame her for that. Holding her hand up to her cheek in a gesture that showed disbelief, Dolly enthused to Doreen and Magrit, as they slid cheerfully back into their stalls, ‘I got right carried away there. I actually thought I was phonin'. I enjoyed that … Oh! I'd like one o' them in the hoose.’
She hurried down to Mary Culfeathers' stall where Mary was unaware of what had gone on because of her exertions at the sink. She looked up as Dolly hailed her with a voice that still registered high excitement, ‘Mrs Culfeathers – Mrs Culfeathers, did you hear me phonin' there?’ Dolly asked, pointing to her stall – proud of her prowess with the newfangled technology she had just mastered.
‘Naw, I was busy, hen,’ Mary answered, a bit taken aback. ‘I never knew they had a phone in here,’ she thought as Dolly made her way back to her own washing.
Andy was whistling Frankie
Laine's hit ‘The Girl in the Woods’ when he informed everyone that a wringer, that had been out of order, was now back on-board. The women all shouted OK so he turned to give the remainder of the steamie washers the good news.
Before he left, Mary Culfeathers ushered him over to her. Andy thought she had maybe not heard him due to her advanced age so he repeated it as he drew opposite her stall, ‘That's the wringer fixed noo, Mrs Culfeathers.’
‘Thanks, son,’ she said, before adding, ‘Andy, where's the phone in here?’ She gestured to her stall with her head.
‘Phone? In here?’ Andy replied, justifiably puzzled.
‘Dolly Johnson's got one in her stall. Is there no one in here?’ Her head beckoned again towards her stall.
Andy was unsure where to go with this. He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of,’ was the best he could do.
‘Ach, it doesn't matter. There's nobody would be phonin' me anyway,’ she said, retreating back into her stall.
Not for the first time, Andy left mystified as to what was going on.
TWENTY-FIVE
John surveyed Peter as he sat at the table. The contents of the paper bag he had brought with him from the licensed grocer were about to run out on them and Peter's eyes were beginning to regain their old sparkle as the hair of the dog did its magic. Peter looked up from the quarter-full McEwan's screw top which, apart from the one John was drinking, was all that was left of the half dozen John had brought in with him and pointed a shaky finger at John. His voice was still just a croak but twice as good as it had been a half hour ago when John had first knocked on the door. ‘That's the second time you've saved my bacon theday. Eh – I'm really sorry that you've had to come a' the way up here for the money you lent me. Fact is I cannae pay you back – I never picked up my wages – sorry.’ He sheepishly drained the last bit from the bottle and spread his arms out in the universal gesture that said there was nothing else he could do.
John waited a second or two, then reached into his pocket and threw a brown envelope on to the table. It hit the table top with a dull thud. Peter stared at the packet uncomprehendingly. John coughed and then held up three fingers. ‘Third time,’ he said, as he took a swig from his own bottle. Peter's eyes finally focused on the name at the top of the wage packet.
Theresa was in the bedroom, studying herself in the wardrobe mirror. She made a small adjustment to the strap of the new bra she had got for her Christmas. Putting it on made her feel that, at last, she was growing up for real. She was so glad that her mother had given it to her privately. The last thing she needed was Tim and Frankie sending her up. She turned her back to the mirror to see how she looked from the rear. ‘Mmmm,’ she thought, ‘not bad.’
She could cheerfully have strangled the pair of them. If only they could be like the brothers that were in films, they would not be so annoying.
Maybe, she thought, as she surveyed her reflection from the side, it was a sign of her own maturity that was making them so unbearable. She quickly rejected this, as they had, as far as she could remember, always been unbearable.
She turned around and stared at the other side of herself and couldn't help notice that she did not look as buxom as she hoped. ‘A wee bit of paddin' might do the trick?’ she reasoned – but what to use? She hurried over to the chest of drawers. One by one she opened up the drawers of the dresser that her mother kept their clothes in. They were empty. She had taken everything to be washed – well, everything like socks, knickers, etc. that would have done as padding. There were jumpers and some blouses but they were all too big. There must be something that she could use to give her an idea of how she would look once her bust exercises had attained the effect that she strove for. Breast-wise, Jane Russell was her ideal. She and Rena had gone to see the hit Hollywood movie The Paleface, which starred Bob Hope and Jane Russell. Hope was as always hilarious and had the audience rolling around in their seats but, as far as Theresa was concerned, Jane Russell was the best in the picture. She was voluptuous, witty and strong-willed and her lips always glistened and shone. When she smiled her top lip curled up at the corner, giving her a smile that was wickedly seductive and making her irresistibly attractive. That was the ideal Theresa strove for.
Her eyes raked the room for some kind of padding that she could use. It seemed she was out of luck, then she spied the copy of yesterday's newspaper her mother had been reading lying by the side of the bed. Picking it up she separated the pages and began scrunching them up and shaping them into what could pass as Jane Russell's breasts.
Peter was smiling the smile of a hanged man who had just been reprieved. He had been feeling steadily better since the McEwan's had sloshed round his digestive system. ‘Now, I'm no' takin' no for an answer,’ he rasped. ‘You and me are goin' oot and you are not goin' to put your hand in your pocket a' night – that's settled, OK?’
‘I need to get back for Doreen comin' in from the steamie, Peter,’ John said, ‘but, up till then, I am willing for you tae ply me wi' free drink, if you've got your heart set on it.’
‘That's us, then. I'll throw a jacket on and we'll head off.’ Peter clapped his hands and rubbed them together to signify that a deal had been struck.
Tim and Frankie were engrossed in a game of snap with a packet of cards that had long ago lost at least half a dozen of its cardboard characters.
This condition normally would have rendered the pack useless but the shortage only added to Tim and Frankie's enjoyment – it meant they could argue the toss that whoever won had done so unfairly and any excuse for the brothers to argue and cause what their parents called a ruction was always all right with them.
Frankie was just about to call out SNAP on a jam-stained eight of clubs with his own dog-eared eight of diamonds when the door opened to the kitchen and Theresa was revealed framed in the doorway. Her lip was curled up in what she hoped was a provocative smile but was actually more like a nerve ending that caused her mouth to look a bit deformed. However, it was her chest that made the two boys' eyes stand out like saucers on stalks. Under the greying-white school blouse that she wore, her breasts were three times their normal size and also looked a bit deformed. This was due to the strange bumps and indentations that the scrunched-up Daily Record had been subjected to in the trial run that was Theresa's first go at the art of exuding femininity. She mistook the boys' open mouths for unbridled male admiration and vamped her way over to the table where her father sat also staring at her. He knew something was wrong with her but couldn't figure out what it was.
Turning her newfound allure fully on John Hood, she leant on the table and made sure that her arms were pressing tight to the side of her chest. This would double up on the effect of the sport section that was crumpled up inside her bra. She ignored the sound of paper rustling and, through half-shut eyelids, asked with the lower register of her voice, ‘Would youse perhaps care for a cup of tea, Mr Hood?’ Theresa was revelling in the attention she was getting.
The moment was spoiled a bit, however, by Tim shouting, ‘What's happened to your tits, Theresa?’
The moment was then rent asunder by the two lads collapsing in peals of laughter as they rolled around the floor holding on to their sides and pointing at Theresa's maladjusted mammaries.
Peter and John looked on in mystification as Theresa screamed at her two brothers, ‘Shut it … just … shut it … I hate you … I hate everybody in this hoose.’ Her screams of frustration rang round the kitchen and were still reverberating in the ears of the bewildered John and Peter as they watched her run out and slam the door.
Eventually it dawned on Peter why his daughter reacted as she did. He rose from the table and crossed over to his two boys. Their eyes looked up at him from the floor expecting retribution. He grabbed both of them by the back of their shirt collars and hauled them to their feet and gave each of them a clip around the ears. ‘Don't you ever … any of youse … ever again … call your sister's breasts “tits”. OK? … Is that understood?’
&
nbsp; The boys feigned regret and snuffled their apology as they wiped imaginary tears from their eyes, then smiled secretly at each other because they had discovered a brand new way to bring misery to their sister's life.
TWENTY-SIX
Harry stared fixedly at himself in the full-size swivel mirror that had been a decorative fixture in their bedroom when it was first bought. Encased in an oval walnut frame, it rested on a brass fulcrum that allowed it to turn all the way round. Mary had been wanting one for years so Harry had splashed out and made it a birthday gift from him to her. He remembered the delight she had shown when Pickfords had delivered it. She had, of course, admonished him and said he shouldn't have spent all that money on her but he knew that she was not all that annoyed by the way she was hugging him. He very seldom went into this room these days – it was too cold. However, this time Harry didn't feel the cold due largely to him having his First World War uniform on. When he had been demobbed, he had managed to hold on to it – ‘Just as a keepsake’ – and placed it underneath his other clothes in his private drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. It had lain there for the last thirty-odd years but, tonight, something inside Harry's brain urged him to put it on again.
Standing there, surveying himself, he was like one of the characters in a cowboy movie. The upright guy who has lain away his guns but now has to strap them on one last time to ensure that good will triumph over evil.
Harry was young again. The voices and the sounds of battle were again ringing in his ear. Mortar shells exploded and men yelled as they fell all round him. Smoke swirled and officers bellowed commands. As they were running up the beachhead, the whistle of mortar shells screeched through the night air and briefly clothed, in an eerie grey and white stark light, tragic scenes of death and destruction as they exploded, sending sand spuming all over. Again, the panic-stricken cry of, ‘GAS! GAS!’ assailed his ears.
‘PUT YOUR MASKS ON! MASKS ON!’ was the frenzied clarion call. Harry was oblivious to the danger. Something had forewarned him all this would happen and he was prepared for it. His face was devoid of all emotion as he saluted his reflection. ‘Aye, Sir. My mask is on.’ And it was.