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The Steamie

Page 19

by Tony Roper


  Her face adopted its usual expression of aggression, which Mary mistook as being directed at her because she was crying. ‘I'm sorry, Magrit,’ she sniffled laying her hand on Magrit's arm.

  Magrit patted her hand and told her that she always cried at this time of the year too. ‘So did my mother,’ she added poignantly at the thought of her.

  ‘So do I,’ said Doreen, her bottom lip just beginning to tremble slightly.

  ‘I just feel … I keep rememberin' …’ Mary could not, for the world, have finished the sentence as the memories of times past, when her life had meaning and purpose, flashed brightly in her brain. The boys were hers to protect, Harry was strong and happy in his role of provider and it all seemed as if it would never end.

  Now it had and it seemed to her awful unfair of God to give you all that and then take it away from you and leave you with nothing … but memories. Although their lives were different, a bond, that stretched back far into the past and which would also permeate the future, united the four women.

  It was this that probably sent Doreen over the edge as she absorbed Mary Culfeathers' sadness. ‘I think I'm gonnae cry as well,’ she announced, her eyes swelling up and reddening. She put her arm round Mary's shoulder and gave her a squeeze of reassurance.

  ‘Oh! Don't, hen – you'll start me off as well,’ Dolly wailed. ‘Don't worry, Mrs Culfeathers,’ she pleaded.

  Mary looked up from wiping her eyes. ‘I always worry, Dolly – I cannae help it,’ she explained.

  ‘Me as well,’ Dolly acceded as the tears bubbled up and overflowed.

  ‘For Christ's sake.’ Magrit's oath was not addressed literally to the Son of God – it was more of an admonishment to herself for allowing feelings she tried to deny and had buried as an act of survival to escape and be on full view to the world at large or, in this case, three neighbours. ‘I aye feel that stupid when I greet,’ she moaned, crying into her apron.

  ‘It does you good,’ Dolly advised, still blubbering. ‘It gets it oot your system.’

  They all grieved as their memories wafted round the chambers of their beings.

  Andy's voice interrupted the mood as he hailed Magrit. Peter and John were close on his heels.

  ‘What are you daein' here?’ Magrit's gaze had hardened in a moment as her words flashed across to Peter.

  Doreen also couldn't figure out why John was with Magrit's man but, before she could ask him, Peter spoke, ‘It's Theresa … she's ran away … we cannae find her.’

  Magrit's eyes had the now more familiar look of hardness back in them as she tried to take on board what Peter had said. ‘Ran away? What for? … What happened? What did youse do?’ she accused, the words firing from her like bullets from a Bren gun.

  ‘Nothin,’ Peter said, searching in his pockets and withdrawing a crumpled piece of paper. ‘She left a note … sayin' … here it is.’ He smoothed the note out and then handed it to her.

  FORTY

  Theresa stood at the bottom of the gangway. Her heart was racing and she could feel it beating relentlessly at her rib cage. Her eyes strafed the top of the gangway almost hoping that someone would appear to take the onus from her and thus scupper the plan to run away. No one appeared. The decision was still hers and hers alone. Had she the courage to leave her friends and family in order to do something with her life or would she just sink into the mediocrity of her surroundings and become her mother, unhappy and always angry with the drudgery she had settled for? There was only one outcome to this and Theresa recognised that. She began to climb the gangway to her future.

  An empty packet of Senior Service cigarettes floated lazily on the oily scum that left blue-grey streaks amidst the silent waters of the River Clyde. The only thing that stopped it from becoming damp and sinking was the oil that formed a protective barrier between it and the water. Something from above splashed into the water beside it and made it bob about before it settled down once more.

  Harry stood to attention at the foot of a flight of twenty-two stone stairs that led from the pedestrian pave-way of the Broomielaw down to where the black water of the Clyde lapped at his slippers. He had put on all of his regimental khakis but, due to the ravages of time, his feet could not get into his army boots.

  Once more, he aimed a missile made of his spit at the cigarette packet and stared into the waters as his spit narrowly missed a second time causing a small spume of water to rise up where the saliva had disturbed it. Harry saw this and perplexity dug deep into his grasp on reality.

  Once more, his brain became prey to flights of fancies. He was on board the packet of Senior Service and shells were exploding all round him sending plumes of spray twenty feet into the night air. Again, he could smell the cordite as his ears were assailed from all angles with the shrill scream of the shells before they hit the water. He knew it was only a matter of time before one missed the water and found him and his companions.

  Then his brain seemed to explode with noise and he was thrown against the taffrail as the vessel was all but split in two. He had no idea if his limbs were still attached to his body or even if he was alive or dying. Gradually, when his ears had recovered some of their hearing, he could detect cries of agony that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He also heard another voice, a voice that informed him, ‘We're sinking. Jump ship and head for the beach.’ Harry fixed his gas mask on and jumped.

  FORTY-ONE

  Magrit's face was a mask of barely contained fury as she finished reading the note. ‘See if anything happens to her …’ The fact that she did not finish the sentence underlined the threat of what she would do. Her instinctive reaction gave way to uncertainty as she realised the real danger a thirteen-year-old girl could be in, wandering about on her own.

  Peter could think of nothing that would ease this and avoided Magrit's eyes. ‘We've looked at all the places I thought she might be in … but nae luck,’ he said, knowing this was of no help to Magrit's increasingly worried state.

  Magrit's eyes bounced off her surroundings in a frenzy as she frantically tried to think of something – anything – her daughter had said that might give her a clue to where she could have gone.

  The others could only look on helplessly.

  Doreen edged closer to John, wanting to ask what his role in all this was but judging that now was not the time for it. John's glance to her confirmed that her judgement was spot on.

  Dolly had put aside Mary Culfeathers' troubles as indeed had Mary herself in the light of Magrit's awful plight.

  It was, however, Dolly who took charge of the situation. ‘Is Theresa no' pals wi' Betty Reilly's daughter Rena?’ she enquired.

  Magrit – who was now approaching a condition of confused indecision wrapped up in helplessness that was unfamiliar to her – could only nod to Dolly that she was. ‘Well, I saw Betty along at the stalls next to the dryers while I was doon that way earlier on and I'm sure that wee Rena was wi' her. Do you want me tae go doon and see if she's still there? Her daughter might have some idea where Theresa would head for.’

  ‘Aye, that would be a start anyway, Dolly,’ Mary Culfeathers answered, not realising that, in her wish to help, she had made a decision that was not really hers to make.

  ‘Would you Dolly? Thanks,’ Magrit agreed tightly, doing her best not to explode as fear, anger and indecision all fought to be uppermost in her feelings.

  ‘Right. I'll no' be long.’ Mary followed Dolly as she felt she would not be of much use where she was.

  ‘John and I tried the café and a few other places but we had nae luck. I've left the boys in the hoose in case she comes back.’ Again, Peter could only reiterate his earlier explanation of what he had done so far. Wisely, he left out the bit about Pig Matheson.

  ‘I'm sure she'll come back, Magrit,’ Doreen said encouragingly, trying to be positive for her friend's sake. ‘Will the boys get word to us if she – or should I say when she? – turns up, Peter?’ she asked, trying to continue in the same spirit.

&nb
sp; Peter did not answer. He was stuck in a whirlpool of impotence that seemed to go round and round – searching for answers but never coming up with any.

  John reacted for his friend, ‘Oh, aye, I'm positive one o' them will.’

  FORTY-TWO

  Pig Matheson had managed to find a phone box that would accommodate him and his newly acquired timber appendage. He had heard of wee boys climbing on backcourt railings, losing their footing, impaling themselves on a rail and being in a similar situation to the one he now found himself in. Any sane human being would have felt distraught and have enormous sympathy at the boys' agony. Pig, in his private world of cruelty, had always found the image conjured up by their plight highly amusing. He had heard that the fire brigade was usually called to free them because they were the experts in that situation. Pig sensed correctly that he could not reveal his plight to any of his cronies as he knew this would leave him up to ridicule in the future – so the fire brigade was his only solution.

  As he dialed 999, a terrible thought crossed his mind. The wooden object that was temporarily separating his left buttock from the right one must have been lying around for some time. What if it was infested with woodworms? His rear end, as well as giving him a lot of pain, suddenly started to itch as well.

  FORTY-THREE

  Dolly called out to Magrit as she rounded the corner with Betty and Rena Reilly in tow. Mary Culfeathers was somewhere behind them.

  At the sound of her voice, Magrit and the others turned to face them. ‘Dolly's told us that Theresa's left a runaway note, Magrit,’ Betty said, before turning to her daughter. ‘Rena, tell Magrit what you told us.’

  Rena related the saga of her cousin being a stewardess and how Theresa had become excited at the thought of being a stewardess too. She told them how Theresa had set her heart on being on a ship and that she had gone down the town to look at travel brochures on cruising.

  ‘I saw a travel thing in the room when I went in tae look for her,’ Peter remembered. ‘I never thought anything aboot it.’

  ‘I know it's crazy but did you try doon the docks, Peter?’ Dolly asked.

  ‘She wouldnae go there,’ Peter said dismissively.

  ‘How would you know?’ Magrit snapped at him.

  ‘She's mine as well,’ Peter snapped back. Magrit's implied accusation that he was somehow to blame had fired up anger in him.

  ‘Right, youse can fight later but, for noo, let's check the docks,’ Dolly said, taking charge of the situation.

  She put her coat on and without waiting for the others headed for the front door. Magrit did likewise – at least she was doing something positive rather than just standing about worrying herself to death. Peter and John realised that Dolly had a point and followed too.

  Doreen was held up a bit as she explained what was going on to Mary Culfeathers who nodded concernedly, if uncomprehendingly, as she too put her coat on to help with the search.

  Georgina McCusker, who worked in the bookie's that Peter frequented to lose the money that he had not spent in the Dry Dock Inn, stopped Doreen as she was heading for the door and said she had heard that Theresa McGuire was missing and asked if it was true. Doreen verified the rumour and also told her that they thought she might have headed for the docks. Georgina's hand flew to her mouth in a gesture that signalled that was very bad news and immediately volunteered to help with the search.

  There was really nowhere like a Glasgow steamie for spreading news faster than a snowball in hell could melt. And, before Peter, Magrit, Dolly and the rest were halfway down the street, women were putting their coats on and abandoning their washing to help out one of their own. They poured out of the front entrance and on to the street like an army of turbaned female titans setting out to rescue their princess from the clutches of a foreign foe.

  The air rang with instructions and suggestions as to who would do what and where they would do it. Isa McCormack, who had been at the entry desk of the washhouse all afternoon right up till now, watched in dismay as everyone rushed past her and out the front door. She was left in a quandary. Her terms of contract stated that she must never leave the front desk on pain of dismissal. ‘Bugger that,’ she decided.

  Locking up the till, she put on her coat and, closing the office door behind her, rushed down the street after the searchers.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Andy put his feet down from the table that doubled as a desk in his tiny storeroom and finished off the last cup of tea he would have that year. Rising up from his chair he crossed to the sink and rinsed the tea leaves down the drain. He normally did not do this as it could cause a blockage but it was New Year's Eve and he was in a holiday mood.

  He had one more inspection of the washhouse stalls to make and then he could have a real drink. He'd already sank quite a few illicit small snifters of whisky throughout the shift but nothing that would impair his ability to carry out his duties, he would argue. Some of the women had urged him to indulge in a wee goldie as a reward for various obligements that, although outwith his terms of employment, he had nevertheless supplied during the year. It would have been churlish to refuse them – in fact, it would have been very bad manners, he reasoned with himself, and then agreed with himself that his reasoning was very sound.

  He also recalled that on more than one occasion he had turned a blind eye to infringements of the washhouse rules in the interest of customer satisfaction. So tonight had been payback time and, as he closed the office door behind him, he was anticipating a few more refreshments from satisfied customers before he closed the place for the night.

  He clapped both hands and rubbed them together in a gesture that signalled he was ready for anything as he turned from the door to survey his kingdom – his palace of purification – and the goddesses of gleam that brought a scintillating sparkle to the weekly washing. Strangely there were none to be seen. ‘There must be a hell of a queue at the wringer,’ was Andy's explanation for this strange phenomenon. ‘I better go doon and see if it's workin' OK,’ he resolved.

  As he strode down to the wringer, he noticed something else – apart from the fact there was no one in sight, there was also no noise. Turning the corner that led to the wringer section, he pulled up with a start. There was no one there – no one at all.

  ‘Christ. I must have overslept,’ he surmised, before looking at his watch. ‘It's only twenty-five to nine – where the hell is everybody?’

  Quickly, he made his way to the front desk to check with Isa McCormack why there was no one about. Andy gave the rubber swing doors that led out from the wash house to the front desk a kick with his boot and, as they swung open, he strode purposely through them to the window of the front desk.

  ‘Hey, Isa – what's happenin' – there's no' a sign o' anybody in that …’

  There was also no sign of Isa. This was something Andy could not comprehend. It was a phenomenon outwith anything he had ever experienced. ‘I've heard o' abandon ship – but abandon steamie?’

  Andy decided he had better alert his employers to the situation straightaway. This was a situation that required immediate action and Andy was the very man to carry that action out – just as soon as he had one wee jolt from a hidden half bottle of Teacher's that he was glad he'd smuggled in at the start of the shift. Checking every stall for some sign of life, he made his way back to the office. ‘Kettle on, a cup o' tea, a wee goldie and then I'm on to this.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  The bloodshot eyes searched in vain along the dock front. They had carefully watched the young woman who had headed for the ship. Then a fit of alcoholic-tobacco-inspired coughing had caused the body they belonged to to collapse in on itself and prevent total seizure. Under this kind of pressure the body – or what was left of it – had closed the eyes in an automatic response to avoid dehydration and maybe even total collapse of the entire nervous system. By the time the eyes had been replenished with watery blood and refocused, the young woman had disappeared.

  ‘Bastard.’ The vo
ice that uttered the oath, in a gurgling whisky-mixed-with-cheap-wine-and-tobacco-drenched whisper causing the watery eyes to overflow with the effort, belonged to Richard Hamilton.

  Richard had, not too long ago, been a promising feather-weight, much lauded and sought after by many friends and admirers who thought there was money to be made by associating with him.

  For a time, there had been. Unfortunately, Richard's talent had not been of sufficient magnitude to escape being frequently battered around the head and body by opponents while, at the same time, having the crap kicked out of his insides by his much more evident talent for bingeing on booze, baccy and blondes. Richard always maintained that he could have handled the booze and the baccy – it was the blondes that did the real damage.

  He had acquired the nickname ‘Wee Niggles’ because, as his lifestyle took its toll, he began to complain of ‘wee niggles’ that would only go away after he had sank some pain-deadening South African wine. Eventually, the oft-told tale of the Glasgow boxer fulfilled its destiny and Wee Niggles found that all his erstwhile good companions had deserted him and discovered new companions they could feed off.

  He now largely lived in his own world – apart from when he was trying to sponge money from passers-by for bevvy. It was in this capacity that he had shown a keen interest in the young lady who had mysteriously disappeared at the foot of the gangway of the ship.

  ‘Bastard,’ he cursed again, bemoaning the fact that it was New Year's Eve and he had nothing to deaden the pain that wrenched at his gut due to there being nothing in it. He knew that one drink would sort out the wee niggle in his stomach and now the possible source of providing money for it had ‘Fuckin' disappeared’.

  All day and into the night, he had heard people wish each other ‘a happy New Year when it comes’. Well, it was getting hell of a close and there was nothing happy about it as far as he was concerned. ‘NEW YEAR?’ he railed at the world. ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR? – HAPPY NEW YEAR, MY ARSE.’ He searched for someone or something tangible to berate. There was no one. ‘YOUSE ARE A SHOWER O' NEW YEAR BASTARDS,’ he hurled at the world in general, as he wrapped the three coats he had for protection around him and searched the streets and pavements for any sign of a discarded bottle that might just contain a drop of anything alcoholic.

 

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