by Tony Roper
These were all that were available this old year's eve. Theresa was unaware of this fact when she turned into a dark street that was about three hundred yards long and sloped down to where the Broomielaw and the realisation of all her hopes and aspirations lay.
Hidden eyes followed her as she marched hastily down among the frowning darkness that enfolded her unevenly between the grey gas-lit cobblestones of the permanently puddled pavement.
Peter reached the crossroads where Argyle Street met with two others just before John did. They were both a bit breathless from hurrying. They were also faced with three choices – one way headed east towards the town, the opposite took them westwards and the third to the dockside.
‘What way do you think?’ John asked.
Peter looked both east and west; his face was a mask of perplexity, when he eventually said, ‘She wouldnae have gone that way.’ He pointed to the west. ‘She doesnae know anybody that lives oot that way.’
John blew slightly from the exertions. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No' really,’ was Peter's unconvincing answer.
‘What aboot the toon?’
‘She might have gone there. She likes the shops and that.’
‘They'll a' be shut by now,’ John said. ‘Do you want to try doon by the docks?’
‘Naw! She'd be too feart tae go doon there at night. We'll head towards the toon and try a' the side streets along the way. She'll know we'll be lookin' for her and be anxious to keep oot o' oor sight.’
John gave him the thumbs up to this suggestion. He thought it unlikely that she would put herself in danger by going off the beaten track but felt Peter needed encouragement not debate.
Theresa stood, huddled up in a darkened doorway at the bottom of the cobbled street watching a ship about two hundred yards away to her left. She had been studying it for about ten minutes because she had seen what she presumed to be two officers climb the gangway. They were carrying luggage and, more to the point, there was a large notice at the bottom of the gangway saying:
DEPARTURE TIME 20.40 hours
Although it did not state where it was going, Theresa just felt that it had to be America. She also reasoned that, if she could stay out of sight till the ship was well out to sea, when she eventually gave herself up as a stowaway they would not turn the ship round just because one lassie was on it. She could then prove her worth by stewardessing for them till they reached America. Once there, she would write to her family and tell them she was all right. She would have to lie about her age of course but felt that, with the help of her bra, she could easily pass for eighteen. She had pinched her mother's lipstick and powder so that would also bolster her claim to being older.
She watched the comings and goings on the ship intently – still unaware that she too was being studied from the shadows. Two bloodshot eyes surveyed her. The owner made no sound except for a slight wheeze from his chest as it rose and fell, releasing stale fumes of alcohol into the chilled night air. Dank wisps of hair blew over the eyes. His gaze remained unaffected and constant.
THIRTY-ONE
Dolly was on her way back from the wringer. As she passed Mary Culfeathers' stall, her ever-alert antennae noticed that Mary was mopping her brow. She stopped for a second, figuring that that was all it would take to check that everything was OK with her.
‘Are you gettin' on a' right, Mrs Culfeathers?’ she asked.
Mary turned from her exertions and dabbed a bead of sweat from beneath her left eye.
‘Aye – thanks, Dolly,’ she replied, her voice sounding a bit tired. ‘It's awful hot in here, isn't it?’
Dolly, who was blessed with more energy than God, took charge. ‘You have a wee seat on the stool there and, while you're havin' a blow, I'll get tore intae this lot – give you a chance to cool doon a bit, eh?’
She smiled easily as Mary Culfeathers nodded her head in acquiescence. ‘Thanks, Dolly. I could dae wi' a wee rest. I've seen the day when I could have rattled through twice this and thought nothin' aboot it but … I'm getting' too old noo.’
Dolly was already attacking the washing as if it was her sworn enemy. ‘Oh, aye, you were always a good worker,’ she replied, as she concentrated on the task in hand.
‘I always liked to be workin' – I always enjoyed it,’ Mary said, more to herself than Dolly. She gave out an involuntary sigh – she did that a lot these days.
It was never in Dolly's character to just do something if she could talk at the same time as she was doing something so she carried on where she had left off with Doreen and Magrit. ‘Do you know the McCandlishes, Mrs Culfeathers?’
Mary stopped sighing involuntarily as she mulled over Dolly's question. ‘The McCandlishes? From Torphichen Street?’
‘Aye. They're at the top end next to the butcher's,’ confirmed Dolly at the same time as she strangled a pair of soggy shirts to get rid of the water.
Mary considered the McCandlish question and decided to indulge in what she now did best, remember the past. ‘I don't know them tae speak to but I know who you mean, all right. The old granny used tae have a stall at The Jiggy – you know Paddy's Market,’ she said, referring to the marketplace down by the Clydeside where second-hand clothes were sold. As well as the Jiggy, it was also known, in local parlance, as The Old C&A. ‘She used to sell clothes to the coolies that were off the boats.’ She smiled inwardly as she remembered that. ‘They always walked in single file tae Paddy's Market and, when they'd bought a' their stuff, they'd wrap it up in an auld blanket and walk a' the way back fae Paddy's Market to the docks – wi' the bundles on their heads. They always used tae walk awful fast, I remember. It was a common sight that …’ She stopped talking for no reason for a moment, then continued reminiscing, ‘She was a hard workin' woman, auld Granny McCandlish.’ She stopped again briefly, before continuing, ‘They say she left her family a lot o' money.’
Dolly was doing battle with a green cotton dress and a scrubbing board – there was only ever going to be one winner. Although her attention was all on her immediate chore, she said politely, ‘Is that right?’ so Mary Culfeathers would not think she was ignoring her.
Mary was now thoroughly engrossed in the topic – after all, it was seldom these days that anyone asked her about anything other than how she was feeling. ‘Well, that was the rumour that was goin' aboot – but she always kept to herself.’ She stopped again, as though she had run out of things to say – but she hadn't. ‘Of course, her man died young and she had to bring up the family on her own – that's a bought hoose, you know,’ she stated firmly.
Dolly did not reply but Mary carried on as if she had. ‘Oh, aye, she bought that hoose – I know that. Oh, aye, she gave the family a good start – but I think, when she died, they stopped selling things to the coolies.’
Dolly replied without looking up from her washing. ‘Well, from whit Magrit was tellin' me, I think they've started again.’
‘Is that right, Dolly?’ Mary replied innocently, unaware, of course, that Maureen had been bestowing her favours to the male population on a strictly cash basis until she had met the lucky man from Springburn. ‘Well, I wish them a' the luck, Dolly. Auld Granny McCandlish would be proud o' them. There's nothing nicer than to see your family all set up and doin' well for themselves. It's just a pity that she's no' here to see it, eh, Dolly?
Dolly decided wisely not to burst the bubble. ‘Aye, it's a pity, right enough.’
Mary sat smiling sentimentally. ‘But you never know, Dolly,’ she continued in her familial reverie, ‘even although she's dead, she could still be watchin' over them.’
‘She'll certainly be gettin' an eyeful if she is,’ Dolly thought to herself as she wrung out the now debris-free green dress and placed it on the pile with the rest of the clean washing.
Mary had just finished what looked outwardly like one of her blank moments but inwardly she was sorting out what to say that would continue to hold Dolly's attention. She was starting to feel her opinions mattered aga
in, instead of just having them politely dismissed as the haverings of an old woman. She felt that, in Dolly, she had found a confidante. Bolstered by this feeling of confidence in her ability to still converse sensibly, she carried on, ‘I don't know them noo because I never go to that butcher's. I always go to Galloway's. They've got lovely butcher meat – their mince is marvellous.’ She paused again at the thought of the quality of Galloway's mince. ‘Marvellous mince,’ she said reverently. ‘There's hardly any fat on that mince, Dolly. Have you ever tried their mince, Dolly?’
Dolly realised she was now pushed for time if she was going to finish her own washing so she was rattling on. But, again, replied politely to Mary's not exactly riveting conversation, ‘It's very good mince.’
Mary nodded in agreement at Dolly's and her own covenant of the delight that was Galloway's mince and then decided to offer proof positive of the unqualified quality of Galloway's mince. ‘I've seen me tryin' mince from somewhere else – just for a change,’ she explained pointedly and then shook her head in resignation. ‘But, no, I always go back to Galloway's mince. I've seen me bringin' in mince from another butcher,’ she continued relentlessly, ‘and I'll no' say nothin' to Harry but, see when I put it down to him, after the first mouthful, do you know what he says to me, Dolly?’
‘Naw.’ Dolly was struggling to keep up her feigned interest.
‘He says,’ Mary continued laboriously, ‘and I know he's gonnae say it …’ She paused dramatically. ‘He says, “Where did you get that mince fae?” That's right, Dolly – he can tell it's no' Galloway's mince.’ She shook her head in amazement at this testament to her husband's gastronomical expertise and carried on mercilessly again, ‘You wouldn't credit that, would you, Dolly?’
Even Dolly, who could talk for Scotland about nothing, was getting fed up with this monologue of monumental monotony. She remained, however, in deference to Mary's age, respectful. ‘Naw, that's … that's … amazin',’ she lied.
‘Well, that's my hand to God, Dolly,’ Mary exclaimed, verifying that, amazing or not, what she was revealing was gospel. She wasn't finished. ‘But, the next time, I'll get GALLOWAY'S mince and I'll put it doon to him and, Dolly, this as sure as I'm standin' here,’ she said, still sitting on the stool. ‘Do you know what he says to me then?’
Dolly was fighting hard not to declare she'd had enough and flee to the comfort of her own stall. ‘That's Galloway's mince?’ she replied, a tiny note of sarcasm creeping in despite her best efforts.
Mary turned to Dolly and looked askance at this suggestion. She shook her head. ‘Naw, Dolly – he doesnae know I get it fae Galloway's – he doesnae know one butcher from another – they're a' just butchers to him.’ She shrugged her shoulders in despair. ‘You know what men are like. Naw, he doesnae say it's Galloway's mince.’ She deliberated on the accuracy of this statement for another moment before adding emphatically, ‘That's no' what he says.’
Her eyes gave Dolly a quizzical look that suggested she should have another attempt at Harry's pronouncement. Reluctantly, Dolly stopped scrubbing and tried to answer. ‘Well … eh … does he say …’ She groped around in her brain for inspiration. ‘Does he say, “That's better mince than the last time”?’
Mary studied Dolly. There was a hint of disappointment in her expression as she again shook her head. ‘Naw, he doesnae say that either.’ Her gaze transferred to the wet floor beneath her feet.
Dolly finally lost the rag. ‘Well, what does he say?’
A long exhalation of breath, which was not quite a sigh, escaped from Mary before she answered. ‘He says, “Can I have another tattie?”’ She went back to studying the puddle of water between her feet.
Dolly had to admit this did capture her attention. She could not imagine why he would want another potato. ‘What does he say that for?’ she asked.
Mary's expression did not change and she continued to stare at the floor. ‘I don't know – but that's what he says. Every time it's Galloway's mince, he asks for another tattie.’ She transferred her attention from the floor up to Dolly. ‘Do you know why he says that, Dolly?’
‘Maybe it's just coincidence?’ was the best Dolly could come up with.
‘Naw, it's no' coincidence – he's been sayin' that ever since I first bought Galloway's mince.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘When they opened that shop. It's over twenty years noo.’ Mary was glad this was out in the open. She had lived with it all these years and never told anyone. At first, she had dismissed it as not worth considering but, lately, she had found it was growing in importance and nagging at her. It was the only secret that she and Harry had between them. She could always have asked him, of course, but was afraid Harry would think her silly.
‘And he's always said, “Can I have another tattie?”?’ Dolly's voice cut in on her deliberations.
Mary nodded and then offered the only explanation that she felt might be feasible. ‘Aye – I think Galloway's mince must bring oot the flavour o' the tatties.’ She waited for Dolly's approbation that this was indeed the case but Dolly seemed inexplicably to rule it out as a possible solution. She could sense, however, that Dolly too was now wrapped up in her enigma.
Dolly had, by now, abandoned the washing. She had one more trawl through her brain to come up with a reason before admitting defeat – but only temporarily. ‘I'm gonnae ask Magrit,’ she pronounced. ‘Magrit!’ Her voice cut into Magrit's ears as she beavered away.
Magrit stopped and turned to see Dolly standing outside her stall.
‘Doreen!’ Dolly had decided to enlist the help of both in her efforts to get to the bottom of this poser.
Magrit's response was not overly friendly. ‘What is it?’ she said, impatiently.
Dolly was in one-track-mind mode and did not notice Magrit's impatience. ‘Magrit – Doreen,’ she began with a heavy indication of solemnity, ‘have you ever … bought your mince from Galloway's?’
‘Aye,’ Magrit said.
‘Aye,’ was Doreen's answer too.
‘Right,’ Dolly said, addressing Magrit, ‘Noo, when you put it doon in front o' Peter, does he ever say anything?’
Magrit could not figure out what the purpose behind this intrusion into her exertions was. ‘Does he ever say anything?’
‘Aye,’ Dolly said, also impatiently, as it seemed a straight-forward enough question.
‘I don't know. I never listen tae him. Whit are you on aboot?’
Dolly ignored Magrit for the moment and turned to Doreen. ‘Doreen, does John ever say anything to you?’
Doreen thought for a second or two then replied. ‘Aye, he does.’
Dolly and Mary Culfeathers looked at each other covertly.
‘What does he say?’ Dolly pressed her.
‘He always asks for sauce. He likes sauce on his mince.’ Doreen was totally mystified and exchanged a look with Magrit that expressed her mystification.
Dolly picked up on this and straightaway resolved to let them in on the enigma that was Galloway's mince. ‘Well, wait till youse hear this.’ She held up her hands to prepare them for what they were about to be privy to. ‘Mrs Culfeathers,’ she said, her voice slow and laden with the import of what Mary was about to declare, ‘tell them what you told me.’ She invited Mary to take centre stage.
It had been a long time since any one had paid any real attention to what Mary said and the prospect facing her now was a bit daunting but she felt she owed it to Dolly to explain the situation fully to Magrit and Doreen. She gathered her thoughts and resolved not to get sidetracked from the central core of the story as she was wont to do these days. She began, ‘Well, I was tellin' Dolly that I always got my mince oot o' Galloway's because it is lovely mince – there's hardly any fat in their mince, Doreen, you know.’ She hoped Doreen would agree with her and thus build her confidence up.
Doreen was, so far, none the wiser, of course. ‘Aye,’ she replied, mystified. ‘It's … good mince right enough.’
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p; Mary turned to Magrit hoping she would agree with Doreen. Magrit's face was equally mystified. Mary translated this as disapproval. ‘Do you no' like their mince, Magrit?’ she enquired tentatively.
‘Aye … it's all right.’ Magrit flashed a hard glance at Dolly.
Dolly realised that Mary needed a bit of prompting to help her over her advancing stage fright. ‘Tell them aboot what Mr Culfeathers says aboot it,’ she encouraged.
Mary realised that, despite her best efforts, she had strayed a bit from the story and possibly let Dolly down so she redoubled her efforts to concentrate fully on what she had to say. ‘Well, I was tellin' Dolly aboot how I always get my mice oot o' Galloway's but sometimes I get it oot o' another butcher's – you know, just for a wee change. And I was sayin' that, when I get it oot another butcher's, Mr Culfeathers can always tell – even though I haven't said what butcher's I got it oot o'. If I put mince doon to him and I havnae got it oot o' Galloway's, he says to me …’ she paused so the import of what she was about to tell them would not be diminished, ‘“Where did you get that mince from?”’ Her eyes searched the audience for the befitting amount of awe she felt would be forthcoming from everyone.
Magrit stared at her and then turned to stare at Dolly also. Her face did not register any awe at all. ‘Does he?’ she uttered flatly. ‘Did you hear that, Doreen?’ She was registering more impatience than awe, Mrs Culfeathers imagined.
Doreen tried to feign interest but couldn't understand why. ‘Aye,’ she replied to Magrit, ‘that's … that's … quite interesting.’
Mary was encouraged by Doreen's response. ‘That shows you what good mince it is, Doreen,’ she said, reinforcing how interesting she had been.
‘Oh, it is! It certainly is.’ Doreen was losing her way rapidly with this conversation. She turned to where Magrit was beginning to smoulder. ‘It is good mince, isn't it, Magrit?’