If the world decided to shower fame on a man it liked nothing better than to pretend that his origins were much lowlier than in fact they were. The higher it raised him the more generous it appeared itself.
Because I was not sufficiently famous, any scabby-faced child seen in my native street would be simply a scabby-faced child, with no mystical significance whatever.
What Betty was seeking to do was, in the Biblical phrase, uncover my nakedness. Afterwards, she hoped, I would be so shame-stricken that I would agree to anything she suggested.
The car was so big, the streets so narrow, and the corners so tight, that she had frequently to slow down almost to walking pace. She looked apprehensive lest I should take advantage of one of these opportunities to leap out, and surprised that I did not. It never occurred to her that these streets through which we were now passing might be remembered by me with love. In all of them, often with Smout to help, I had pushed my barrow, gathering dung.
Bessie was right, though. In the past twenty years the district had greatly deteriorated. The defenders of respectability had retreated from it to other areas of the town that still held out. The Goths and Vandals from the Vennel and other slums had come in and taken over, bringing with them their tribal habits. They would not bother to go down the stairs with their rubbish, they would simply throw it out of the window: the conscientious among them would wait till dark. If the lavatory on the stairs was occupied, as it would be much of the time, or if there was frost in the air, they would not stoically wait or suffer, they would use the jaw-box (as I had done myself more than once, to be fair) or improvised chamber-pots.
Any boy living here now who wore a kilt would need ten times the courage and resolution I had had to show.
By this time the car had been spotted, for there were more people about than I had expected. The puzzled but respectful glances it at first attracted, because in those parts opulence in motor-cars was associated with death, quickly changed to scowls when its occupants were seen to be members of an alien clan.
We passed a gang of boys. As jealous of their territory as baboons, they immediately yelled insults and snatched up off the street whatever messy or injurious missile they could find—the variety was remarkable—and pelted us. Naturally Betty, who saw nothing of anthropological interest in their behaviour, and felt no painful stirrings of kinship, accelerated, as much as she dared. Provoked, the baboons bounded after us, yelling and throwing. More joined them, leaping out of closemouths. When we turned into Lomond Street and stopped outside No 437 there must have been at least a dozen in pursuit.
Standing at the closemouth were two women, one of whom I thought I recognised. Gap-toothed, hair in paper curlers, with a squint in her eye, and hugely pregnant, she had on her thin face an expression of bewilderment so intense and extravagant that it looked more the effect of a physical disease than of intellectual confusion. She must surely be Elsie Tweedie, still seeing the same visions of chaos and damnation. ‘Elsie,’ her mother used to shout, ‘stop looking as if you’d seen the deil wi’ his tail in his mooth.’ She had been sweet on Archie Pater son, one of my mates in Limpy’s famous class. In spite of his bad eye, he had not been quite so enamoured of her. I wondered if they had got married.
The other woman looked like one of the invaders from the Vennel. With black hair, flat nose, big teeth, and long powerful arms, she snarled at us like a she-gorilla guarding her tree.
‘Excuse us, please,’ said Betty, preparing to enter the close.
The she-gorilla barred the way. ‘Hey, juist a meenute,’ she growled. ‘Wha the hell are you? Whit d’you want?’
It’s a‘right, Annie,’ whispered Elsie. ‘Maybe they’re looking for somebody.’
‘I ken fucking fine whit they’re looking for. Slums. That’s whit they’re looking for. Slums.’
Meanwhile the boys, joined now by a few girls, fiercer creatures, were gathered round the car, kicking its wheels, jumping up and down, showing their teeth, and uttering baboon-like cries of menace. I thought I recognised in one a resemblance to a family I had known. This tall boy with the florid face and white eyelashes looked like a mad Murchison.
Betty tried sweetness. ‘We wish to visit Mr and Mrs Orr,’ she said.
So she had done some preliminary investigation. These Orrs, whoever they were, wherever they had come from, must occupy the room-and-kitchen where I had been born.
‘They’re no’ whit you wad ca’ early risers,’ giggled Elsie, ‘especially on Sundays. No’ that Eddie has ony work to go to ony day. Are they expectin’ you?’
‘No. But they will be pleased to see us, I think.’
‘Don’t be sae fuckin’ shair,’ muttered Annie.
‘Eddie Orr,’ explained Elsie, ‘is a man no’ likely to welcome unexpected visitors, except of course if they were bringing him money. Forby, wee Isa’s in the family way, like me, and then she’s got wee Gary wha’s cross, I believe, wi’ sair ears. Whit I’m trying to tell you is, the hoose will no’ be whit you’d ca’ tidy.’
‘I have something here that will sweeten Mr Orr’s temper,’ said Betty, opening her gloved hand and revealing a five-pound note.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Annie, subdued.
Betty smiled at her. ‘If you would be so kind, Mrs—?’
‘Blackburn, Annie Blackburn.’
‘Thank you. If you would be so kind, Mrs Blackburn, as to do us a small service I would be pleased to reward you for it.’
‘Whit sma’ service?’
‘Help to ensure that our visit to the Orrs is reasonably private. I mean, by preventing these children from following us up the stairs and creating a nuisance.’
‘Hoo much is this reward?’
‘Two pounds.’
‘You’re on. For twa quid I’d bre’k their fucking legs.’ And she thereupon demonstrated her prowess as a guardian of the closemouth by skelping across the face a boy who’d ventured too near, and by warning the others off with ferocious threats.
‘Whit aboot me?’ asked Elsie, wistfully. ‘My name’s Mrs Wishart, by the way.’
So Archie had escaped. I remembered Gavin Wishart, though he had been noted for nothing but nose-picking.
‘I’m no’ wanting money,’ said Elsie. ‘Don’t think that. I’d juist like to oblige you. I could show you whaur the Orrs live. They’ve got nae nameplate, you see.’
‘I think we know where they live,’ said Betty. ‘But thank you just the same.’
As nonchalantly as I could, I whispered: ‘All right. No need for further bloodshed. I give in. You win. Let’s go.’
‘No, Fergus. We must go through with this to the end. You must be beaten to your knees. I don’t trust you.’
She led the way into the close. I tamely followed. Behind us we heard Mrs Blackburn threatening to break legs. I wished she had broken mine.
‘For two pounds,’ giggled Elsie, coming with us, ‘Annie really would. She’s an awfu’ woman.’
In my recollections the close had never stank quite so rankly of cats’ piss. Nor had the walls been so fearfully defaced, not merely with chalk, but with knives, and, in some places, with hatchets apparently. In my day Mrs McNair who lived in the close, though unable to keep out smelly toms had kept out destructive boys. She had been proud of the cleanness of the close. ’I wouldnae say you could eat meat aff it, but your dug could, if I was to let your dug in, which I wouldnae. Your freen’s, whaever they micht be, neednae be affronted passing through.’
We began the ascent to hell. Betty had her handkerchief soaked in scent at her nose. Elsie kept stroking Betty’s fur coat.
‘I keep thinking,’ she whispered to me, ‘that I should ken you? Should I ken you?’
We passed the first lavatory. Thank Christ the door was shut.
On the landing above-it a door opened and a woman looked out. Dirty grey hair covered her face. She was yawning.
It’s you, Mrs Wishart,’ she mumbled toothlessly. ’Whit the hell are the weans making a ro
w aboot?’
Then she saw Betty and me. Astonishment had the effect of making her itchy. She clawed her head, and then hauled up her dirty white nightgown to claw her leg. We caught a glimpse of that pale flabby limb; on it varicose veins were intertwined with whirls of paler dirt.
‘Don’t,’ whispered Elsie, as we mounted, ‘judge the rest of us by the likes of her. Or by the Orrs, when you see them. Are you sure it’s the Orrs you want to see?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Betty.
We came then to the next lavatory, that indeed into which I had trespassed at my mother’s bidding, more than thirty years ago. The door was open; in fact it was hanging off, since one of its hinges was broken. Any sensitive person—God pity any such who had to use it—would be in danger of rectal rupture trying to hold the door in place, while at the same time doing, in haste, what brutal nature made necessary. The chain, I noticed, had been replaced by a length of slimy-looking string, and the seat looked permanently sodden.
‘Some folk hae nae pride in whaur they live,’ sighed Elsie.
Still, I thought, the beautiful and romantic Mary, Queen of Scots, at Holyrood Palace must have had a chamber of easement not much less primitive than this.
‘You’d hardly believe,’ whispered Elsie, ‘that this building used to be one o’ the maist respectable in the district. I live up the close next to this one, but it’s juist as bad. A’ the folk wi’ pride hae left. Me and my Gavin hae had oor names doon for a cooncil house for years, but the list’s as lang as your airm. I don’t want to bring up a wean in a dump like this, but if you’re poor and oot o’ work and fond o’ each ither, it’s got to be done, I suppose. Weel, this is whaur the Orrs live.’
It had been, once, where the Lamonts lived. Some of the happiest moments of my life had been when, on cold wet dark Saturday nights, I had come to this door, blue-knee’d, with a comic in my hand and a poke of bonbons in my pocket. Perhaps Smout had been with me, or Jim Blanie. My father, John Lamont that was, encouraged me to bring my friends home. He would be there to open the door for me, having done all the housework: even the tap in the jaw-box—only the one, there never had been any hot water— had shone. There would be a big coal fire in the grate. We would lie on our stomachs on the hearth rug, reading our comics, chewing our sweets, and drinking Irn Bru. It had been heaven.
In Elsie good manners were now struggling with curiosity. She had brought us to our destination, her duty was done, she should now withdraw and leave us to knock on the door ourselves—Betty had already done so, firmly— and conduct our business, whatever in God’s name it could be. This was the tale her face pathetically and grotesquely told.
‘They’ll no’ be up,’ she whispered, after Betty had got no response to her imperious rapping. ‘Wee Gary’s seldom weel, as I telt you. If he’s sleeping, they’ll no’ want to wauken him. And like me, as I telt you, Isa’s expecting. She’s no’ weel either. Orr, I’m sorry to say, is no’ very nice to her.’
I had already deciphered the name in Gothic letters on the brass plate on the door adjacent, where in my day the Strathglasses had lived. It was McCreadie. I could not make up my mind whether or not I wanted voluptuous Jessie to come out.
‘Chap louder,’ advised Elsie, and showed us how.
The door opened an inch, just enough to let out a whiff of stink. A timid, hoarse, defeated, female voice that sounded as if it belonged to a woman of seventy asked us what we wanted.
This was Mrs Orr. She showed her face. She was no more than twenty, yet the impression of exhausted senility remained. There was a purple bruise under her left eye.
Amazement overcame fear and listlessness. Making an effort she again asked us what we wanted.
‘This is a five-pound note,’ said Betty. ‘It is yours if you allow us into your house for two minutes. That’s all, just two minutes.’
It seemed a flicker of pride was still left in the young housewife.
‘But whit for?’ she asked. ‘Whit d’you want to see my hoose for? There’s naething to see.’
‘My God, Isa,’ whispered Elsie, ‘even if it is a bit untidy, and wha’s hoose isnae on a Sunday morning? surely it’s worth it for five pounds?’
‘But whit’s it for? Whit’s she want? Orr’s in bed.’
From within came a surly male voice. ‘Will you get that fucking door shut? There’s a fucking draught.’
‘That’s Orr,’ said Mrs Orr. ‘I’ll hae to ask him first. Juist a meenute.’ She shut the door.
‘Eddie Orr thinks he’s a bit of a joker,’ said Elsie, in warning. ‘But he’s terribly short-tempered to be sich a young man. He hasnae worked for years. He’ll no’ turn doon the chance of five pounds wi’ nae work attached. You’ll see.’
We saw. In a minute Mrs Orr was back. This time she had her head covered with a shawl, with which she tried to hide the side of her face that was marked.
‘He says you’ve to show him the money first.’
Elsie was dubious. ‘He’s liable to tak it and then slam the door on you.’
Betty handed over the bank note.
After another brief wait Mrs Orr came back. ‘A’ right. But juist twa meenutes. He says if you exceed the time it’ll cost you anither five pounds. No’ you, Mrs Wishart. Juist them.’
Handkerchief at nose, Betty strode in. I followed. Mrs Orr closed the door behind us, leaving poor Elsie stranded on the landing.
In the kitchen, which was also the living-room, on the hearth, in front of the rusty cold range, an infant of about three, sat sound asleep, hands over ears, on a chamber-pot the enamel of which showed several black bruises as if it had once been used as a helmet. There were other stenches, but the worst came from the unfortunate child. The second worst came from the set-in bed, the very one where I had pretended to be asleep with Mrs Grier bending whiskily over me, and where, it suddenly occurred to me, I had been born. In it now, under a jumble of tattered and unclean blankets, lay the man of the house, Orr himself, smoking a cigarette. The five-pound note, folded up, was tucked behind his ear. Though he certainly looked brutal, especially when unshaven, unwashed, and unbreakfasted, he had also about him a touch of coarse humour. When he saw what a grand-looking woman Betty was, and when he smelled her expensive French perfume, he did not cringe or hide his face. What he did was, under the bedclothes, take hold of his penis. It was his way of showing that, whatever the situation was, he was in control of it.
With the instinct that all women from queens to bus conductresses have in such matters Betty and Mrs Orr were well aware of what he was doing. Betty’s disgust was hidden behind her handkerchief, but Mrs Orr smiled. Isn’t my Eddie an awful devil? her smile seemed to say.
‘Whit’s this aboot then?’ asked Orr. ‘Are you writin’ a book or something? Are you on whit’s ca’d a sociological survey?’
If I had needed to be convinced that the maintenance of civilised standards among the respectable poor depended on an effort of will more enduring and courageous than that shown by any army of soldiers, comparison between that living-room under poor Mrs Orr’s jurisdiction and the same room under, first, my mother’s, then John Lamont’s and for a short time, Bessie’s, would have been enough.
Your twa meenutes are up,’ said Orr. ʻYou’re on the dear rate noo.’
Betty decided to be Betty T. Shields, majestic and compassionate.
‘We have seen quite enough, thank you,’ she said. ‘I must apologise once again, Mrs Orr, for this inconvenient and indeed unpardonable intrusion. As a housewife myself, I know how awkward it can be for people to burst in unexpectedly. If I may be allowed to offer a little advice, my dear, I would suggest that your little darling requires now to be lifted and cleaned. As a mother myself I found grey powders very useful in the treatment of infant diarrhoea: any chemist will advise you as to the required strength. But, of course, I do not have to tell you that strict cleanliness is the best preventative.’
Mrs Orr was charmed and saw us to the door with dignity. Such was th
e miraculous effect of Betty T. Shields on women.
‘Come again,’ shouted Orr.
Outside on the landing, who should be waiting for us, but Jessie McFadyen, or rather Jessie McCreadie.
If Meg Jeffries, with her raven hair and red cheeks, had been the bonniest woman I had ever seen, fair-haired Jessie, with this magnificently mature bosom and these ample houghs, wrapt in a red dressing-gown, was the most sexually tempting, outdoing even Betty herself before she’d gone to fat.
I had no doubt that next door, Orr, probably now on top of his wife, would have preferred Jessie’s riper favours. Bessie had said she pleased herself nowadays. Certainly she gave the impression that she might well still stir up lust, but would not as in her old tender days quite so readily appease it. She would have ambitions above an Eddie Orr.
She recognised me at once.
‘If it’s no’ big Kilty Lamont,’ she cried, and held out a hand that was needed to help her other hand to keep her dressing-gown closed. This opened, and gave a glimpse of hair as flaxen as that on her head.
I gave her a bow for Smout’s sake, and then raced downstairs.
‘Whit a shameless creature,’ gasped Elsie, in envy.
I thought of what poor Smout had missed.
Then we were at the closemouth again.
Mrs Blackburn was still keeping them out. She was evidently a woman of her word, who gave service for money. Though the pavement was thronged by some of the most malapert children in Christendom none dared to try and push her aside.
Since her contract had been to keep people from following us up the close, she had made no attempt to protect the motor car. Perched on this were half a dozen boys, while others were engaged in scratching their initials on the paintwork with various sharp objects.
There were some women in the crowd and one or two men. No doubt some of these were parents or aunts or uncles of the young vandals. Perhaps they had voiced a word or two of protest or reproof, not really expecting or indeed wanting to be heeded. Without ever having heard of educational psychology they were inclined to believe that their children ought to be allowed to express themselves in any way they pleased, always providing that any property or persons damaged in the experimentation belonged to someone else.
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