by Tony Roper
Her mind returned to the present with an abruptness that felt unpleasant. Again she felt foolish and that she had maybe spoken out of turn. In her old age, she had become aware that she was gradually getting very unsure of herself. Mary had noticed that as men got older they got grumpier and more positive in their opinions and deluded themselves that they were right, even if they were wrong. She sometimes wished she could be like that but then decided that that sort of thing was best left to Harry. He was better at it she conceded.
Her thoughts on Harry's positive ability to be negative in his delusions of being always right were interrupted by Dolly. ‘That's what I like aboot the steamie – you're always busy and there's aye somebody you know to talk to,’ she stated in agreement, bringing Mary back once more to the present.
‘That's true, Dolly. Mind you, the best of it's gone. But it's smaller noo. And, when you're finished dryin' the clothes, you're out and off home. But back then, you'd always got Glasgow Green to look forward to … sort o' round off the day.’ She felt the reasoning of her argument begin to dissolve in her head and added before it was gone, ‘You know what I mean, Dolly?’
‘They're closin' a' the steamies doon,’ Doreen announced brightly. ‘They say launderettes are gonnae take over.’
‘Oor Jenny has one o' them next to her. She doesnae like it,’ Dolly said.
‘They save you a lot o' work, Dolly,’ Doreen argued, with a nod of her head that suggested there was no argument about this fact.
‘What are they, Dolly?’ Mary asked, trying not to lose out on the gist of the conversation.
‘They're awful wee, Mrs Culfeathers,’ Dolly responded to her question, with a nod of the head similar to Doreen's. ‘There's only aboot ten machines and they only take aboot ten pound o' washin'. Jenny says, when she goes in, she never knows anybody. All she does is sit and stare at the machines. Naebody talks to one another except maybe, “Have you got change of a shilling?” or “It's a cold day, isn't it?” kind o' conversations that never seem to go anywhere, Mrs Culfeathers. Everybody's hell o' a polite because they don't know each other.’ Her face registered distaste at the thought of this way of living.
‘Is that her wi' a daughter that's got a television?’ enquired Doreen.
Dolly nodded assent to her enquiry. ‘Aye. She's comin' up to oor hoose thenight for a wee terr. She says her daughter's asked her up there but they'll just sit watchin' the television and she'll get bored.’
‘I don't see how she could get bored,’ Doreen said, with a touch of impatience that her two older companions were unable to see what was glaringly obvious to her. ‘I think it would be great to just pop round and watch a television set and have a' your washin' done for you by a machine. I can see your point aboot Glasgow Green, Mrs Culfeathers, but you're just rememberin' it when it was summer. What wis it like in the winter when it was freezin?’
There were times Mary despaired of what she called the younger ones. As nicely as possible, she tried to explain to Doreen that, ‘You never hung oot your washin' in the cold weather, hen. It would never dry, you see!’
‘That's my point,’ Doreen replied, starting to lose control slightly.
‘Is it, hen?’ Mary replied, trying to be friendly. ‘That's nice for you. Harry always says he has a point as well. I've never had one myself but, as the old sayin' goes, “What you've never had you never miss,” eh?’
Doreen was not sure if she was being sent up or not. She, of course, wasn't.
Dolly decided to put her oar into the conversation. ‘What Mrs Culfeathers means, Doreen, is that, in they days, there were hundreds o' people a' doin the same thing and enjoin' wan and other's company. If it wasnae New Year, we would a' just go hame because the dryin' is a' done for us. But, back then, they could a' keep havin' a blether and a laugh and a joke because they were still in amongst wan and other – no' just inside but ootside while they were waitin' for the clothes tae dry. Isn't that right, Mrs Culfeathers?’
‘I don't know, Dolly.’ Mary was lost in the intricacies of the argument. ‘I'll ask Harry when I get back.’
Dolly couldn't wait that long. ‘That is what you mean, Mrs Culfeathers?’ she said, thinking she was being helpful.
‘Oh, good, Dolly.’ Mary smiled, giving her the thumbs up. ‘That'll save me havin' tae ask Harry.’
Doreen, although not actually identifying with Mary Culfeathers, was now getting a bit lost herself. ‘I'm lost,’ she announced, a bit more irritably than the last time she spoke.
Dolly was not and had a remarkable grip on the discussion. She usually did. ‘Mrs Culfeathers is tryin' to say that she's noticed that people are no' as tight wi' wan and other as they used to be. It's what I was sayin' aboot the launderette things. Naebody speaks to wan and other and,’ she added in emphasis, ‘when you have a machine in your hoose and a television as well – well, you'll no' need to go to the steamie or the pictures. There'll be nae point to goin' oot at all – we'll a' just sit in the hoose starin' at wee boxes.’
There was a pause while Doreen digested what Dolly said what Mary Culfeathers had said differently, during which Mary Culfeathers said affirmatively, ‘I think that is what I meant, Dolly – thanks.’
‘Nae bother, Mrs Culfeathers,’ Dolly acknowledged.
Doreen adjusted her argument and came from a different angle all together. ‘That'll just give us a lot more leisure time.’
Dolly and Mary looked at each other for help. ‘What's that when it's at hame? What's leisure time?’ Dolly asked, genuinely puzzled.
Doreen tried to explain what she thought was perfectly obvious and did not need an explanation. ‘It's spare time. Time to yourself – just time to do whatever you want. You could listen to the wireless or go to the pictures or, if you've a television set, you could watch that instead. It's … just … time to relax.’ Her tone was becoming more exasperated.
Dolly gave a shrug of dissatisfaction. ‘Oh, I couldnae be doin' wi' that. That's no' … what do you call it? … leisure time?’ Doreen nodded curtly. ‘That's just hangin' aboot. That's a' that is.’
‘How is it?’ Doreen snapped coldly.
‘Because you're no' doin' something – you're just watchin' other people doin' something. No, I'm like Mrs Culfeathers – I like to be busy and in amongst people.’
Doreen smacked her hand against her head in exasperation. ‘But you can go oot in your leisure time and meet people if you want. In fact, you'd have more time to do that because the machine'll be doin' the work for you. Can you no' see that?’
Dolly realised that Doreen was getting a bit heated up and decided that it wasn't a conversation that was worth creating an atmosphere. ‘Aye, I can see what you mean, Doreen,’ she said, diplomatically, and then, because she did not like conceding too much, she added, ‘I'd still rather be busy and talkin' at the same time but I'll no' be here to see a' that so it'll no' bother me anyway.’ Dolly turned and went back into her stall.
‘Well, I, for one, am looking forward to it,’ Doreen pronounced stiffly to Mary Culfeathers.
Somehow Mary blamed herself for causing this wee bit of friction. ‘Och, aye, hen. Everybody's got their own way o' doin' things,’ she reasoned before turning away herself.
There was an attitude of the forlorn about her that made Doreen feel a bit guilty.
THIRTY-SEVEN
John and Peter had drawn a blank and Peter was now very worried as they took the stairs two at a time to the top floor and the McGuires' house in the hope that she had come back. Peter searched for his keys, couldn't find them and, in exasperation, thumped on the door.
Inside, Tim and Frankie were reading swaps. These were comics that they had swapped with their pals – thus saving themselves the bother of trying to get money from their parents for more comics. At that moment, Tim was wrapped up in the adventures of Dixon Blake, a detective in the Sherlock Holmes tradition, while Frankie had just finished reading about Limp Along Leslie who was a professional footballer with enormous skill despite
having one leg a lot shorter than the other. As if this wasn't impediment enough in his profession, he also had to solve at least one major crime every week before going out on to the pitch, having escaped from usually certain death, and then score the last-minute goal to win the cup for his team. He had just started the next story, an adventure about a blind football manager who used the sound of the ball and the shouts of the players to decide his tactics to ensure his team's various victories, when the sound of the door being thumped by his father impinged on his reading.
‘There's the door – you better see who it is,’ he said to Tim without lifting his eyes from the comic.
Tim's eyes were glued to Dixon Blake's exploits. ‘How should I see who it is? You see who it is!’ he murmured in his usual huffy tone.
‘It might be Theresa,’ Frankie said absently while, at the same time, laconically picking at his nose.
‘Well, away and see then,’ Tim replied, his voice mingling with the sound of his father pounding impatiently again at the door.
The pounding got louder as Frankie, turning the page, informed his brother, ‘If that's my da, you're for it.’
‘You'll be for it as well,’ Tim casually answered his brother in the same tone of voice as they both pored over their respective comics.
Frankie couldn't be bothered talking any more so he contented himself by shaking his head from side to side as in ‘No, I won't.’
Tim responded likewise except up and down as in ‘Yes, you will.’
They were both still at it when the sound of a key being inserted in the door, signalling that their father had finally found his lock opener, reached their ears. This galvanised them into action and they threw down their comics and jumped up on to the kitchen sink.
Peter burst into the kitchen to see his two boys sitting on the sink and looking out the window. John followed only a few steps behind as Peter roared at the boys, ‘Did you no' hear us at the door?’
‘Naw, Da,’ Tim said in a small helpless voice as he turned round from staring out the window. ‘We've been keepin' watch for Theresa.’
‘Did you no' find her, Da?’ Frankie added anxiously, a note of concern in his voice that would have done justice to an Oscar winner.
‘No, son,’ Peter replied, touched by his sons' efforts on behalf of their sister.
He sat down heavily at the table and slumped on a hard wooden chair as his eyes stared unfocused at the opposite wall.
John hovered awkwardly in the kitchen doorway not knowing what to say to ease things for his pal. He and Doreen had no children as yet but, despite that, he could still appreciate what Peter was going through. Even his mind was beginning to envisage all sorts of mishaps that Theresa would be prey to and, though he tried to dismiss them from his thoughts, they still returned like a nagging toothache.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The owner of the bloodshot eyes hugged the filthy carbuncle of a street as he slowly moved among the shadows to where Theresa was hidden. His disturbed mind judged he still had about twenty-odd yards before he would be in touching distance of her. The bitter taste of undigested alcohol rose up in his gullet and burned at his throat causing the blotched purple-stained face to contort in pain. The sour liquid gyrated into foam and rushed from the gullet into his mouth where it sought release by escaping in a hot dribble that slid down the side of his week-old stubble. A tiny cough escaped from him.
Theresa gave a start as she thought she heard something behind her. She turned fearfully to see what it was. Her breathing stopped as she searched the shadows for … she didn't know what. Thankfully, there was nothing that seemed untoward. Just as she turned back, her eye caught a fleeting glimpse of something not quite right. Again, she turned towards where her gaze had registered unease and scanned the darkness for movement.
Her worst fear was that there might be rats lurking in the gloom and she had always had not just a fear but almost a phobia about them. The mere thought that a rat might be there watching her was enough to end any thought of turning back. She took one more look at the empty gangway – a look that confirmed it was still empty – and made up her mind to go. She stepped out of the doorway and on to the street, clutching her small suitcase, and made her way to the gangway of the Clan MacIntosh that symbolised the gangway to a new and better life.
The owner of the bloodshot eyes rose from his prone position and started to follow her.
Peter slowly turned his gaze from the comfort of the blank undemanding wall towards John. ‘I'll need to tell Magrit,’ he announced, facing up to the fact that he was at a loss what to do next.
‘I think you better,’ John said softly, confirming his decision.
THIRTY-NINE
There was no denying the fact that she was feeling guilty. Doreen watched Mary Culfeathers and noticed the air of desolation that seemed, every now and then, to inhabit her frail figure. Dolly was working away. Magrit was still at the wringer. Doreen could not contain the impression that she, by her assertive prediction of a utopian Glasgow, had somehow caused the old woman's unhappiness. She stopped what she was doing and crossed to Mary's stall.
Mary looked up from her tasks at Doreen's appearance beside her. She had been working on automatic pilot – not concentrating on the wash but allowing other unpleasant thoughts to invade her mind. The appearance of Doreen was unexpected and, therefore, worrying. She worried about everything these days.
‘Mrs Culfeathers?’ Doreen began cautiously. ‘I hope you don't think I'm bein' cheeky – I don't mean to be. It's just that you look awful unhappy and you spoke earlier on aboot feelin' lonely.’ She stopped and examined her feet awkwardly. ‘If it's none o' my business, just tell me to shut up. I just wondered … if I could maybe help … in some way …’ she said. Her words stuttered to a halt and she felt as awkward as she had when she started.
‘That's awful kind o' you, Doreen,’ Mary replied. Faced with Doreen's unexpected kindness, she too felt awkward and, consequently, obliged to offer some explanation for her actions – actions that had apparently upset the lassie. ‘I'm no' lonely here, hen, but, when I go back to the hoose … well … Harry's no' too good these days and … maybe I just … sometimes it gets …’ Her voice tailed off as all the fear and uncertainty that getting older entailed invaded and overcame her. Try as she might, the emotions, that had held back for too long, rushed to her eyes for an outlet, spilled out from them and trickled down her cheeks in a silent sob. The silence emphasised her vulnerability.
‘Oh! Mrs Culfeathers.’ Doreen tried to find words that would comfort the frail old being that trembled in front of her – there weren't any.
Dolly heard Doreen's cry and approached them. Her concern was evident as she asked, ‘What's the matter? What's happened?’
‘I'm sorry, Dolly.’ Mary tried her best not to cry – it was not in her nature to let anyone see her lose control. ‘I just feel … as if I'm finished.’
‘Naw, you're no',’ Dolly replied firmly, as she put her arms round her. ‘There's many a young wan couldnae get through the work you do,’ she concluded with, it must be admitted, a great deal of accuracy.
‘That's true, Mrs Culfeathers,’ Doreen echoed. ‘You're smashin' for your age.’
Mary sniffled as she agreed with them, ‘I'm healthy enough. It's just, when your family has moved away and you don't see them – it's awful empty.’ She took a deep breath to try and regain control. ‘I've got three grandweans, Dolly.’ The emotional tide began to rise again as she declared, ‘I've never seen them – only photos – I've never actually cuddled one o' them, Dolly.’
‘Where are they, Mrs Culfeathers? Where are your family?’ Doreen enquired gently.
‘I've nae lassies – just the two boys. They're somewhere in England.’
Doreen was mystified. ‘How do you no' go doon and see them?’
Mary's face was a study in helpless perplexity. ‘They've never asked me … but I'd like to see them … I'd like to see my wee grand …’ She gave up the uneven
struggle and the floodgates were allowed their long overdue release. This time there was no silence to her sobbing and the grief that had been allowed to build up over the years was allowed to escape in pulsating gasps.
Dolly cradled Mary's head on her chest and patted her back, as she would have done a child in distress.
Meanwhile Doreen looked on, frustrated in her inability to alleviate Mary's pain. ‘That's a bloody shame,’ was the best she could come up with.
‘They want their buckin' airses kicked,’ Dolly said angrily, as she paraphrased the better known swear word. ‘Never you mind, Mrs Culfeathers. You've got friends all roond you here. Hasn't she, Doreen?’
‘You certainly have, Mrs Culfeathers,’ Doreen babbled a bit in her rush to give Mary assurance. From the corner of her eye she saw Magrit as she rounded the aisle that led to their stalls.
Magrit was already cursing under her breath about the lack of wringers when she saw that all was not right with her three cronies. One glance was enough for her to take in the scene and enquire sharply, ‘What's the matter?’
‘Mrs Culfeathers is just feelin' a bit sad. She's missing her family,’ Doreen said diplomatically.
Magrit surveyed the frail wee woman and tried to comfort her. ‘It's this bloody time o' the year. That's what it is,’ Magrit counselled, following her tried-and-proven method of assigning blame to some outside influence as the cause of any and all upsets. Sometimes it was Glasgow Corporation, sometimes the weather, usually it was Peter. Tonight it was the time of the year.