by Isla Dewar
Recently things had changed. His Auntie Ella had left him twelve thousand pounds. It had been a surprise. It had opened possibilities.
Lying on her deathbed in hospital, Ella had gripped his arm. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’ He’d leaned close. She smelled old. Her voice was a rattle, a whisper. She lifted her head from the pillow. This message was urgent. ‘Look in the biscuit tin. It’s to make up for what I did. I did a terrible thing.’
‘What terrible thing? You’ve never done anything terrible.’
Four o’clock in the afternoon and visiting time was over. People were heaving on winter coats, kissing the cheek of the one they’d come to see, and trudging along the gleaming polished floor to the door. Matron, a fierce rock of a woman, small and solid as a wrestler, who tolerated nothing less than instant obedience, was standing, arms folded, at the end of Ella’s bed. ‘You have to go. It’ll be tea time soon and doctor’s coming on his rounds.’ She glared the glare of a woman who had never known defiance. Charlie had pleaded for a few more minutes.
‘She’s telling me something important.’
‘You can see her tonight. Seven till eight.’ Matron glared harder. Pointed at the door. Charlie left.
He didn’t go back. He got drunk. He was easing the dread. Auntie Ella was dying and he didn’t know what to do about it. He’d known for some time this would happen. But now it was actually happening, it frightened him. He’d be alone in a tiny flat that smelled of Ella and Ella’s cooking.
Once he’d thought about going to Canada. There were opportunities there. But he didn’t want to leave Ella. She was old and forgetful and he was all she had. She’d taken him in when his mother died. He owed her a lot. He owed her everything he was, everything he had – his sanity, for example. If she hadn’t taken him in, he’d probably have ended up in a children’s home. ‘You don’t want to think about them,’ Ella had said, shaking her head, drawing in her breath. ‘Fearful places. Beatings. Hungry bairns. Cruelty to make you weep.’ He reckoned she’d given up a lot to raise him. How could he abandon her after such a sacrifice?
After leaving the hospital he’d walked, hands in pockets, not really noticing where he was going. He moved along pavements considering terrible things – murder, theft, fraud – wondering what Ella had done. She was a gentle, timid soul. Born to sit on life’s sidelines smiling slightly. She was no criminal mastermind. In the end Charlie decided that Ella might once have taken a bus ride and forgotten to pay. Her conscience would have been burdened with guilt for a long time over such an oversight. He smiled at the thought. And stopped, looked round. He’d walked so far from the hospital, he was yards from the Bull and Barnacle, a rough and rowdy drinking hole. It was his favourite pub for watching people who lived their lives openly, wildly, shouting and fighting and swearing. It fascinated him.
He took a stool at the bar and ordered a pint. The conversations around him were unpleasant but bawdy. He found that after another two pints this no longer bothered him. Life became pleasantly blurry and he became more sociable than he actually was.
Halfway through his third pint, the pleasant blurriness seeping through him, he’d been thinking the world was lovely, absolutely bloody lovely, and his fellow men were all his friends. Except the bloke on his right who’d been saying abusive things to the woman standing next to him. She had her back to Charlie. All he saw was white high heels, a tight red skirt, a flimsy but absurdly bright yellow-and-turquoise top and long blonde hair. Attractive, but not his type. The man had been calling her a cow, a bitch, a pervert. He’d said he hated the bloody likes of bloody her and told her to bloody go and bloody stand somewhere bloody else. He didn’t bloody want her anywhere near him. ‘Someone might think I’m with you.’ He’d shoved her. Raised his fist.
Charlie had stepped forward. ‘That’s no way to treat a lady. You don’t hit women.’ He was feeling gallant. Alcoholically gallant.
The man turned and the blow that had been intended for the woman crunched into Charlie’s cheek. It wasn’t painful. The pain would come later. The shock had taken his breath away. As he reeled back, clutching the bar, knocking over chairs, spilling beer, the woman had turned, smiled and said, ‘Thank you, darlin’.’
Even in his dazed state Charlie could see he’d made a mistake. This was no woman. Women didn’t look like that. They didn’t sound like that. This person had a voice that might suit a sailor, deep, salty, rough. She also had the beard to go with it and was missing a front tooth. The shock had made him reckless.
‘God, you’re ugly.’ Charlie’s cheerful blurriness and sociability had abandoned him. Now he was being drunkenly honest. Not good. The woman turned on him, too. Her blow landed on his stomach. He keeled forward and spat out a mouthful of regurgitated beer. The next punch hit him on the side of his face and the next sent him spinning to the floor. Now his assailants found it more convenient to kick him. It saved them bending down.
Curled up and praying for the beating to stop, Charlie had breathed in stale beer and tobacco and the foul smell of the filthy sticky wooden floor. Somewhere above him a woman, a real woman, was shouting, ‘Outside. Outside the lot of yez.’
He’d been dragged face down across the room and thrown onto the pavement. When he’d come round he was in the gutter. His jacket was ripped, his pockets were empty and he was bleeding from his nose and mouth. He could barely move. In time, he’d crawled to the pub door, pulled himself to his feet and hobbled back in.
By now the pub had filled up. A thick blue layer of cigarette smoke curled and shifted along the ceiling, the air reeked of alcohol and curses. The man and woman who’d set about him had bonded and were standing at the bar each with an arm round the other’s shoulder. Charlie had said, ‘Bloody hell.’
The room had silenced, the swearing and drinking momentarily stopped. Everyone had turned to look at him. ‘You,’ the barmaid yelled. ‘You at the door.’ She’d pointed, arm rigid. ‘Get out and stay out. You’re barred. Don’t show your ugly mug in here again. You’re trouble.’
Charlie said, ‘But . . .’
The barmaid had screamed, ‘OUT.’
Charlie left. He thought this was the safest thing to do.
He’d walked home. Nothing else for it, he’d no money and, besides, he doubted he’d be allowed on public transport in his present state – ripped clothes, reeking of beer, bruised and bloodied face. It was after midnight when he reached the flat. His key had been spared and was still in the back pocket of his trousers. A mercy, he’d thought. He’d hung his jacket on the hook by the front door, splashed cold water on his face, wincing a lot, lay fully clothed on his bed and slept.
The banging on the door woke him. He’d opened his eyes, winced again – daylight hurt. He considered himself to be a master of light – he could tell the time by the colour of the day. Two in the afternoon. The banging continued. He should answer it, but moving was a problem. He’d heaved himself upright and shuffled from the bedroom to the front door. Not a long trip, but a painful one.
Perhaps it was their bulk, or their dark uniforms, but policemen always made him feel guilty. Seeing two of them standing in his doorway, surveying him, taking in the torn shirt and bruised, pulpy face, Charlie had felt bound to confess. Fair cop, he’d thought to say, ‘I’ll come quietly.’ He knew for a fact he’d done nothing. He’d been set upon while defending a lady’s honour. Except that the lady in question had turned out to be a man who’d taken exception to being called ugly. He’d started to prepare his version of events.
‘Mr Gavin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps we could come in. The hospital couldn’t get hold of you last night. I’m afraid we’ve got bad news.’
And Charlie knew this visit had nothing to do with the happenings in the pub. His Auntie Ella was dead. He’d never know what the terrible thing was.
The funeral had been quiet. Only Charlie, a couple of neighbours Ella had been friendly with and a woman who was the barmaid at the pub
where she cleaned. Gazing at his feet and not looking at any of the three people who’d come along, Charlie gave a short speech.
‘Thank you all for being here today. It would make Auntie Ella happy to know you came to say goodbye. I’ll always be grateful to my aunt. She took me in when I had nobody. I think she saved my life. All that, and she made a mean scone.’ He’d shoved his hands into his pockets, stared into the mid-distance rummaging through his mind for something more to say. He’d known he ought to invite the mourners out to a hotel for a cup of tea. That was the expected thing on such occasions. But the thought had filled him with dread. He didn’t know these people, had nothing to say to them. He could have invited them back to the flat. He’d had tea and perhaps there were biscuits in the tin. ‘Biscuits,’ he said. Auntie Ella had said to look in the biscuit tin. There was something there to make up for the terrible thing she’d done. What? Custard creams? Bourbons? He was fond of them. ‘The biscuit tin,’ he’d said. He was near to tears and desperate. He’d be alone now. And that aloneness would go on for a long time. Maybe for the rest of his life. He’d wanted to get on with it. ‘Biscuits,’ he said again. The small gathering murmured understanding. In moments of grief and mourning there was nothing like the comfort of biscuits.
He’d discovered the money when he got home. He’d gone straight to the tin, an old and dented thing with a picture of the Forth Railway Bridge on top. Twelve thousand pounds in cash was stuffed under the lid in single and five-pound notes, all crumpled. Charlie had counted it, and then counted it again. He’d arranged it into hundred-pound bundles spread on the table in front of him. And counted it again. He’d never seen so much money in his life. It should have delighted him. But no, it filled him with guilt. How much had Auntie Ella denied herself to save this amount? The piles in front of him were the result of years of scrimping. It hurt to think of what she could have bought – a new coat, a decent sofa, a fridge. This flat where they had lived was bare, uncomfortable. Life had been frugal.
The furniture here was old, worn and dented or chipped from years of use. The kitchen had three pots. The bedrooms each had a narrow bed and forlorn wardrobe. Built in the early twenties, there was an inside toilet, but no bath. Washing was a delicate operation done in the kitchen, always hurriedly and always while singing or shouting, ‘Keep out,’ so each would know the other was in no state to be seen. Nakedness had been fleeting.
‘Be safe and be kindly,’ Auntie Ella always said. ‘If you’re safe you’re never sorry. And if you’re kindly, kindliness will come back to you.’
Charlie didn’t know about being kindly, but safe was a good idea. He’d put the money back into the tin and had taken it to the bank where he’d placed it on the counter. One of the tellers had fetched the manager.
‘Best place for it, lad,’ Mr McGregor had told him. He’d pointed at the tin. ‘Seen it before.’
Charlie had wondered if Mr McGregor had visited Auntie Ella and been offered a biscuit.
‘People putting money in tins they keep under the bed rather than in the bank. It isn’t safe. And there’s no interest on money stashed under the mattress.’
They’d been in his office. Mr McGregor behind his giant polished desk, Charlie on a chair that had placed him rather lower down than the manager. He’d felt like a schoolboy, seeking approval from his headmaster.
Mr McGregor had leaned back. Looked serious. A man in his fifties, balding with steel-rimmed glasses, his suit dark grey, shiny at the elbows, his shirt perfect white, he’d looked like a bank manager from central casting. ‘Buy a house, son. You could get a lovely bungalow. Three bedrooms, nice little garden. You’d be set for life.’
Nobody had ever called Charlie son before. The word almost stopped him breathing. He didn’t have a father. He didn’t have a mother. Auntie Ella called him darling from time to time. She loved him, fussed over him but rarely gave him advice other than, ‘Be kindly and be safe.’ So fatherly advice – the first he’d ever been offered – was welcome, but a bit embarrassing. Charlie was tempted to take it. He wanted to please this man. But he was going to Canada. There was nothing now to keep him here.
He needed a passport. To get one he needed his birth certificate. He was here. He’d been born. He must have one. Back home, he’d searched the flat. He’d started with the drawer in the living-room sideboard where Ella kept all her papers. Here he’d found several recipes for interesting things to do with mince, along with old electric and gas bills and a few Christmas cards. He binned the lot.
He’d searched the other drawers and found nothing. He moved to the kitchen, but there the drawers and cupboards only contained ancient utensils – a potato peeler, a couple of knives, old pots with shaky handles.
Next came the search he dreaded – Auntie Ella’s bedroom. He knew that he’d have to empty Ella’s drawers and wardrobe before he went to Canada. But without that birth certificate he couldn’t get a passport and there was only one place it could be – that room.
It smelled musty with a faint undertow of Ella’s Lily of the Valley perfume; a tiny, frighteningly tidy, sparsely furnished room. The flat had always been immaculate, nothing ever lying around. Sometimes Charlie thought his aunt behaved as if she expected tidiness inspectors to break down the front door and rush in checking for mess. But then, Ella had a fear of unexpected visitors. She’d jump at any knock on the door.
He’d felt like an intruder. This had been Ella’s sanctum and after he was seven years old he’d rarely come in here. He’d moved softly on tiptoe across to the small dressing table beside Ella’s bed and opened the top drawer. He’d found a bible. In other drawers he’d found a hardly used lipstick and an old powder compact with a faded picture of a rose on the lid, a hairbrush, a set of curlers and Ella’s scant collection of underwear. Nothing more. There were two skirts in the wardrobe along with three blouses, a cardigan, a coat and two pairs of shoes neatly lined up at the bottom. He’d raked in Ella’s coat pockets knowing she’d be unlikely to keep a birth certificate there, but he was desperate.
On his hands and knees he’d looked under the wardrobe and under the bed. Only dust. He’d sat on the floor feeling hopeless. It wasn’t the missing birth certificate that depressed him; it was the heart-stopping austerity of his aunt’s life. The woman had nothing.
Ella had earned money as a seamstress. The only people who’d called at the flat were customers who wanted curtains made or clothes altered – hems taken up, waistbands loosened, jackets taken in or let out. The only time Ella left the flat was on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday nights after ten when she cleaned the pub in the High Street.
How he’d hated these nights. Even now, years later, a low growl of worry spread through him at the thought of a Tuesday, Thursday or Saturday spent alone. He’d sit by the door wearing his striped pyjamas and thick red dressing gown waiting for Ella to come home. He’d start at every creak or night-time groan in the flat and hold his breath at footsteps passing in the street. He’d read, or study the pictures in his book. It was the story of two children lost in a deep dark forest. Dangers lurked. Witches, dragons, wolves, evil goblins watched the innocent pair from behind bushes and trees as they wandered through the density of trees and further and further from home. He’d put his fingers over the lost ones, keeping them safe from grasping claws and reaching arms and wild glinting eyes.
Ella always came home at half-past midnight. Charlie would hear her key in the lock, exhale a gasp of relief and run back to bed. By the time Ella had come in, put her bag in its place in her room, taken off her coat and stuck her head round the door of his room, he’d be under the blankets, eyes shut, pretending to sleep.
From when he was seven Charlie had done the shopping. Auntie Ella would give him a small list and some money and send him to the butcher’s and the grocer’s. She didn’t like any of his friends dropping by and hated when he’d gone to play at someone’s house. ‘Be back by five,’ she’d say. He’d sigh. But who was he to complain? Auntie Ella had
saved him from life in a children’s home. Her descriptions of the cruelties that went on in such places made him weep for the ones who had no Auntie Ella to open her arms to them. He’d prayed for them. It had been a nightly ritual, kneeling by his bed, fingers laced, eyes squeezed shut, begging God to keep the orphans safe.
Remembering all this, he’d sighed and heaved himself to his feet. As he’d pushed himself upright, his eyes had swept the top of the wardrobe and he caught a glimpse of something. A box. Ah, all the important papers will be in that. How like Auntie Ella to hide it away. Keeping it safe.
He’d taken it to the living room, set it on the table and opened it. Inside he’d found his life – a baby tooth wrapped in tissue paper, a lock of pale blond baby hair, a tiny pair of shoes, all his school reports, the valentine card he’d made for Ella when he was six, Christmas cards he’d given her, a photo of him on the beach standing at the water’s edge, painfully thin in woollen swimming trunks holding a bucket and spade, a few buttons he recognised from childhood shirts, a pressed flower, his certificate for perfect attendance at Sunday school. All that and no birth certificate. He’d lurched from memory to memory, but had been shocked that his entire life so far could be stuffed into a small shoebox. It was time to move on, time to reach out for bigger moments. He’d go to Canada.
A week later he received a letter from the General Register Office for Scotland replying to the one he’d sent asking for a copy of his birth certificate. There was no record of anyone called Charles Gavin born in Glasgow on the fourth of March 1932.
The following afternoon he’d gone to Register House to look for himself. He’d searched through 1932, moved on to 1933, 1934 and 1935 but couldn’t find anything. He’d looked for Ella Balfour – 10 November 1898 – and couldn’t find her either. ‘But she existed,’ he’d shouted. ‘She was my aunt. She brought me up. Saved me from the children’s home.’ He’d beat his chest. ‘Look. It’s me. I exist. I’m here.’ He’d been escorted from the building.