by Tony Roper
‘Second to none,’ Magrit fumed. Her slow fuse beginning to gain momentum.
Dolly sensed it was time to give Mrs Culfeathers a hand with the tale.
‘But that's no' the end o' it,’ she announced grandly. ‘There's more.’
‘Is there?’ Doreen said, incredulously but also unenthusiastically.
‘You mean even more interesting than that?’ Magrit growled openly.
Dolly raised her hands for silence, then said with relish, ‘You wait till you hear this.’
Magrit bit her lip and said, with biting sarcasm, ‘Well, I don't know how you can top that but do go on.’ She swivelled on her heels and fixed Mrs Culfeathers with a cold uncompromising stare that did not radiate encouragement.
Mary did not notice this because she was too preoccupied with the next bit of the saga. She peeped towards Dolly for support and saw Dolly give her a supporting peep back. ‘Well, you know I was sayin' that, when I bought the mince from another butcher, Mr Culfeathers …’
She was interrupted by Magrit saying grimly, ‘We've got that.’
Mary struggled to stay on the through train of thought that would clear up the … whatever it was she was trying to clear up.
‘Tell them what happens when you get the mince fae Galloway's,’ she heard Dolly willing her to succeed.
‘Well,’ she started again, ‘when I don't get it from Galloway's … I … he says … it's no use, Dolly, I've forgot what I was gonnae say. What was it, Dolly? … I've lost the thread. You tell it.’
‘Are you sure you don't want tae tell it yourself, Mrs Culfeathers?’ Dolly asked, concernedly.
Magrit's voice burst on to their ears. ‘Dolly, I have got a washin' to finish here. Noo, for God's sake, what are you on aboot?’
Dolly decided it was time to take the bull by the horns.
‘Right! I'll make it quick. When she buys her mince oot o' another butcher's, the old man can tell it's no' Galloway's 'cause he always says …’
‘Where did you get that mince from – we've got that,’ Magrit snarled.
‘Right – but, if she buys it oot o' Galloway's, what do you think he says?’ Dolly asked, laying the trap for Magrit.
‘That's Galloway's mince,’ Magrit hissed, confident that she was stating the obvious.
‘Naw – he doesnae,’ Dolly gloated freely.
‘Naw, he doesn't say that, Magrit. He doesnae know I get it oot o' Galloway's,’ Mary Culfeathers added, hoping to clear things up for Magrit. Not wanting to seem to favour one over the other, she turned to Doreen. ‘All butchers are the same to him, Doreen.’
Doreen nodded – she didn't know why. ‘Well, he must say … ehhm … “That's nicer mince than the last lot”,’ she offered.
‘Naw!’ Dolly crowed again. ‘He doesnae say that either.’
‘WELL, WHAT THE HELL DOES HE SAY THEN?’ Magrit roared, having finally snapped.
‘Tell them, Mrs Culfeathers,’ Dolly said, grandly.
‘He always says, “Can I have another tattie?”’
The air hung heavy with menace, created solely, it has to be said, by Magrit. ‘Well, now – that was worth stoppin' for.’ Her face, like her voice, was a study in pent-up hostility.
As she was turning back to re-enter her stall, she heard Doreen say from behind her. ‘It's a funny thing to say, right enough. Mebbe it's just coincidence?’ She could not believe her ears. Dolly's voice also reached her. ‘Naw, that's what I thought. But he's been sayin' it for twenty-odd years.
‘That shows you what good mince it is, Doreen,’ Mary explained again.
‘Aye,’ Doreen acknowledged, ‘it would seem so.’ Then, after a pause for reflection, she dug again into the mysterious case of Mary's mince again. ‘But why does he want another tattie? I mean, you'd think he'd ask for more mince.’
‘I think the mince brings oot the flavour o' the tatties,’ Mary said, advancing her theory again. Frustratingly for her nobody said she was right.
‘I don't believe this,’ Magrit muttered darkly to herself. ‘This is the stupidest conversation I have ever heard.’
Doreen was deep in thought, as was Dolly – both trying in vain to find a solution that would answer the dilemma. Mary Culfeathers was grateful they were so concerned but, at the same time, she wished they would just listen to her and accept that Galloway's mince was so good that it made Harry ask for another flavour-filled tattie.
Doreen interrupted her thoughts. ‘Mrs Culfeathers,’ she said, stroking her chin thoughtfully. ‘Do you always get your tatties from the same shop?’
‘How do you mean, Doreen, hen?’ she responded.
‘Well,’ said Doreen slowly and very deliberately, thinking her way through what she was trying to wrap her brain around. ‘When you buy your mince oot o' Galloway's, d'you get your tatties oot the same fruit shop that you always do?’
Mary could see from Doreen's demeanour that she had to get her answer absolutely accurate. She was determined not to get confused and to help Doreen as best she could. ‘Let me think, Doreen,’ she began, matching Doreen's slow deliberations. ‘Noo, if I buy my mince oot o' somewhere else … I just get my tatties oot the nearest fruit shop … to wherever I bought the mince.’
She hoped that this would help Doreen and the matter could be put to rest. Her hopes were dashed however when Doreen pressed her further. ‘Aye, but when you get your mince oot o' Galloway's?’ She emphasised Galloway's and then fixed her with an eye-to-eye contact that forced Mary to concentrate all over again before reiterating, ‘When you get your mince oot o' Galloway's, do you always get the tatties from the same fruit shop?’
Mary relaxed – she knew the answer to this one. ‘Aye … always … I aye get them from wee Mr Jackson.’
She saw Doreen's eyes light up with a glow of utter triumph. ‘THAT'S IT. That's the answer. It's the tatties from Jackson's that he likes – that's why he asks for another one – it's nothin' to dae wi' the mince.’ Her voice was a mixture of relief and self-congratulations as she clapped her hands at her ingenuity.
Dolly joined in and shook her warmly by the hand. ‘That's it,’ she shouted out. ‘You've solved it, Doreen. Dae you hear that, Magrit? Doreen's solved it.’ She turned to Mary Culfeathers, her face beaming as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted from her. ‘There you are, Mrs Culfeathers, after twenty years the mystery has been revealed – it's no' the mince at all.’
‘It's the tatties, Mrs Culfeathers,’ Doreen said, happily.
Mary tried to join in their mood. She was not a hundred per cent convinced about Doreen's theory, though she wouldn't have spoiled her moment for anything. ‘That's good, hen – well done.’ She smiled, then had one more try at furthering her own preference, ‘I always thought it was the tatties, myself.’
Magrit's bellow interrupted everything. ‘WILL YOUSE SHUT UP ABOOT BLOODY MINCE AND TATTIES – MA EARS ARE BLEEDIN' WI' YOUSE.’
A silence, that only slightly preceded an atmosphere you could cut with a knife, replaced Magrit's shout for sanity. Doreen turned and, inwardly smoldering but wisely silent, went back to her wash.
Dolly and Mary Culfeathers were transfixed and rooted to their spots before Dolly sniffed snootily and made to return to her stall as well. As she turned to leave, she was stopped by Mary touching her on the forearm and saying softly in a muffled secretive voice, ‘Dolly.’ Dolly leaned in towards Mary to catch what she was whispering. ‘I'm goin' to get mince oot o' another butcher's and tatties oot o' Jackson's and see if he asks for another one.’
‘That's a good idea,’ Dolly whispered back. ‘That'll put your mind at rest.’
Mary nodded. ‘Aye.’ Then she motioned to Dolly that she had something else to impart. ‘I'm no' wantin' Magrit to hear me,’ she whispered, tugging Dolly further away from Magrit's hearing. ‘I still think it's the mince – I'll see you later.’ She touched the side of her nose with her finger to signal that they both shared a secret and then moved off to the safety of stall fifty-seven. On her way ba
ck to stall sixty, Dolly very purposely gave number fifty-nine an exaggerated wide berth.
THIRTY-TWO
Harry Culfeathers had left the front door of the house ajar as he made his way along the street that led from his close-mouth. It had been a very long time since Harry had last set foot in this street but tonight, dressed in his military uniform and holding his gas mask by the webbed strapping that would secure it to his face if necessary, that did not matter. There was no one around to ask him what he was doing in this garb as everyone was busy either inside their house setting themselves up to celebrate the New Year or in a pub also setting themselves up to celebrate the New Year. This was of no interest to Harry. All that really concerned him was obeying the order to retreat and getting out of the immediate danger that the enemy fire was placing him under.
Peter and John had cut down into Warrick Street. Having called out a few times with no reply, they were now hurrying along an offshoot named Warrick Lane so as not to leave any stone unturned in their search for Theresa. They passed a number of derelict shops. Among the usual flotsam of failed enterprises were a boarded-up turf accountant, a bespoke tailor that could no longer bespeak and the inevitable defunct fruit shop in hand-painted green gloss paint.
Just to the left of it another paint-ragged doorway, that had once held the promise of untold riches to an optimistic hairdresser, now stood disconsolate in its failure to live up to the dreams it had seemed to promise. All that was left of that dream was the remains of a striped pole that had broken off and was now lying forlornly in the gutter like an outsize stick of rock with a pointed cap. Its circumference was only six inches, which maybe explained why it had snapped off.
‘Theresa?’ Peter shouted down the lane. Sadly, the only voice that he heard was his own echoing back from walls that formed a sounding board of dank doorways waiting to be demolished and a gable end that sealed the lane off.
‘She'll no' be doon there,’ John said, confidently.
‘I know but … might as well check it oot,’ Peter explained, starting to walk down to the end of the lane. He heard footsteps at the top of the lane and thought it strange because John was just behind him.
‘Hey! McGuire!’ A familiar harsh, grating voice, like iron chains being dragged along a concrete floor, filled his being with dread.
‘Oh fuck,’ was his immediate and almost silent response.
His profanity was not silent enough to escape John's notice. ‘What is it?’ he said as Peter turned round to face the man who had called out his name.
Peter gave John a worried look that just glanced off him. John turned to see a figure outlined in the light of a street lamp walk towards them, the soles of his shoes clacking off the cobbled stones, accompanied by a creaking sound of new leather being worn in. It was almost no exaggeration to say that he just about took up half of the lane. Or maybe it just seemed that way. Finally his shoes finished creaking, as he stopped no more than a few feet in front of Peter. A broad flat face encompassed eyes devoid of any emotion that stared from underneath two jutting simian-like eyebrows. From beneath the shadows that gave him a greyish-black almost monotoned appearance, a squashed nose that looked as if it had been thrown at the face and just sort of stuck there, spread above a mouth that turned down at the corners, even when he was smiling, which he seemed to be doing as he stood facing them. A very powerful frame was constricted by a tight-fitting donkey-brown large pinstripe suit. He ignored John and fixed his shadowy gaze on Peter.
‘How is it goin', Peter?’ he rasped, with a voice that seemed to sandpaper the eardrums. Although the greeting signalled that the giver was concerned about the welfare of the receiver, somehow this Neanderthal in a suit made it seem that the exact opposite was implied.
‘No' bad, Pig – yourself?’ Peter's eyes avoided making contact and his voice sounded uncharacteristically nervous as he answered the questioner.
‘Oh! Everything's hunky-dory – couldn't be better.’ There was a false joviality to the reply which was intended to convey just that. After an intake of breath, he carried on, ‘Oh! Wait a minute … I tell a lie … it could be better.’ He stared steadily from beneath his ape-like eyebrows. The small hard black pins that were his pupils glittered with a cold malice.
‘Aye! I'm really sorry, Pig,’ Peter blurted out, nervously, still not daring to look up.
‘What's up?’ John said, moving to Peter's side and declaring in a macho way to the man called Pig that there were two of them to one of him.
‘You … fuckin' wrap it,’ Pig growled, without raising his voice or taking his eyes off Peter. ‘Who are you talkin' tae?’ John moved towards Pig.
‘John … naw.’ Peter's advice to his friend had an urgency that suggested John comply with the command. ‘Not a good move – this is Pig Matheson.’
John had never met Pig Matheson as he never had occasion to have to borrow money but, like everyone in the district, he had heard of him. The tales of Pig's cruelty were legend. He had fought a squad of eight policemen that had been sent to bring him in a Black Maria van to the local cop-shop. He had duffed them all up, bundled them into the van and delivered them back to the police station. He had broken the hand of a rival who had pulled a knife on him simply by crushing it in his fists. It was also said that he would only dance with men as he considered dancing with women to be for cissies. These tales, along with many others, may have grown legs in the telling but the gist of them was that you did not mess with Pig Matheson. John was not a foolhardy man at the best of times and now was not the time to abandon this principle.
‘Oh! Sorry, Mr Matheson – I didnae realise it was you.’ John stammered.
‘That's all right, Sonny Boy – a genuine mistake – I can forgive that,’ Pig said, magnanimously but still somehow menacingly. ‘What I cannae forgive is people … who get a loan of money … off their friends … at a very reasonable interest rate … and don't pay it back.’
‘Reasonable? Two hundred per cent? How is that fuckin' reasonable?’ Peter sputtered before he could control himself.
A second later, he was already regretting his foolhardiness. Pig's wee eyes flashed danger as he took his hands from his pockets. ‘Oh! You are tryin' my patience somethin' fuckin' terrible.’ Pig's voice had not risen one bit but Peter could feel his legs begin to jellify. ‘Now why don't you put your at-the-moment-unbroken right arm into your pocket and wade in with the spondulix?’ He continued to stare unrelentingly into Peter's distressed eyes.
Peter's reply came out as a panicky whisper, ‘I … havnae got it, Pig … I …’
‘That is an awful pity, Peter. There is something very likeable aboot you as a person … however, as someone who owes me money, I have to try and ignore that side of you as I kick fuckin' lumps oot you – you see my position, I hope.’
He moved back a pace in order to give himself room to start swinging but was temporarily halted in carrying out his trade by John making one last despairing plea on Peter's behalf. ‘Look, Mr Matheson – Peter's wee lassie has gone missin' and we're oot lookin for her.’ Pig stared at him. ‘She's only thirteen – and obviously we're helluva worried – I mean anything could have happened to her.’ Pig continued to stare. ‘If you could see your way clear to no' breakin' Peter's arm till after we've found her … we'd both be very grateful …’ He looked at Peter. ‘Wouldn't we?’
Peter had his eyes shut as he nodded.
Pig's eyes seemed to go blank as he digested what John had told him. After a short and silent deliberation with himself, his eyes refocused and he gazed at them.
‘Right – she's only thirteen?’
They both nodded.
‘And she's ran away and you cannae find her?’
Again they nodded.
He sniffed, stroked his chin in thought and readdressed them. ‘Well – what the fuck has that got to do wi' me?’
He grabbed Peter by the throat and pinioned him against the entrance to what, before the war, had been a fish and chip shop. Now it was
acting as an unfortunate link between the past and present in that Peter was about to be battered. Swiftly and expertly, Peter felt his right arm being jammed behind him between his back and the doorway rendering it useless as a force to protect himself with. Pig had his elbow hard against Peter's throat and his left arm in a grip like a vice.
Although Peter was no shrinking violet and could hold his own and a bit more, he felt as if he was a wee boy trying to wrestle with his father. Pig had taken his elbow from Peter's throat but, just by leaning on him, his vast bulk still meant that Peter was struggling in vain to get away. It was with horror that Peter realised why Pig's elbow had slid away from his throat. He felt the top of his left arm start to go numb as Pig's ham-like fist gripped it. Then, as easy as a baby would lift its rattle, Pig straddled the back of Peter's left arm over his leg and Peter realised he was about to have his arm snapped in two.
‘Please, Pig … don't … I'll do anything you want … please … don't,’ he pleaded, his voice pathetic and his sense of his own worth rendered sterile in his desire to escape what was inevitable.
‘Too late, Sonny Boy.’ Pig's little eyes glinted like black pearls as Peter stared into them. Trapped in their gaze like a moth caught in a lampshade, it flashed inappropriately into his mind that, although the pupils were glinting, there was absolutely no emotion in them. This terrified him even more as he realised that there was no point in trying to appeal to Pig's better nature – there wasn't one.
In blind panic, he looked to see if John would come to his rescue again. What he saw was John running like a man on fire away from them and back up the lane. If he had not been in such a frenzy of fear, he would have understood his pal's reaction but this was not a moment for cold logic. ‘BASTARD!’ he screamed.
‘Who are you callin' a bastard?’ Pig snarled.
‘NO' YOU PIG – HONEST!’ Peter howled again, as Pig began to exert slow pressure.
Pig could have snapped Peter's arm as quickly and as easily as he would have a stalk of rhubarb. But that would have been the amateur thug's approach and Pig was, he liked to think, a consummate professional. He prided himself on being the thugs' thug. The non-payer would tell other transgressors of the pain and terror they had gone through and this, Pig reasoned, would make them redouble their efforts at settling up promptly. The reason for breaking their arms was that the bandaged stookie took about three months to come off and, during this time, it acted like a portable poster, advertising Pig's prowess with poor payers. It was good business practice.