Jimmy seldom bought clothes for the simple reason that those he bought were so expensive he couldn’t afford to buy them more than once every few years. He liked good things. He enjoyed the look, the line, the feel of them.
‘Are you going to be next then, son?’ Josy McWhirter, the painter who lived across the street, poked his face out of the window over his wife’s muscle-fat shoulder. ‘First old Melvin and then you. What’s that wee lassie and him doing up there?’ His voice heightened into a squeal of delight. ‘Hey, Melvin! Can you hear me? You’re awful quiet up there!’
Jimmy smiled, shook his head, raised a good-natured fist at Josy, but felt the beginnings of a flush of embarrassment creep up from his neck. Best to make his escape before anyone noticed him actually blushing.
‘Anything decent on the pictures?’ he called out in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner as he strolled from the close.
Everyone immediately became intensely interested. Such a conflicting and enthusiastic bevy of film titles and criticisms assailed him and so many heated arguments arose as to whether he ought to go to the Ritzy, the local Clydend picture-house, or take the tram further afield to Govan, that he quit Dessie Street, chuckling and flapping his palms at them in mock disgust. Deciding not to bother with a tram, at least not for a few stops yet, because he felt so restless, he strode away along the Main Road towards Govan.
His pace had slowed a little by the time he was approaching Big Loui Lorretti’s Ice-Cream Café, commonly known as the Tally’s, which was situated at the corner of the Main Road and River Street.
He thought the crowd lounging at the corner looked familiar and, sure enough, as he got nearer he saw it was Slasher Dawson and some of the gang. Slasher was well known and feared in the district. Lil Fowler made good use of him as a muscle-man. Her extortionate rates of interest were seldom questioned when Slasher was called in to collect. Slasher had more razor scars on his face and neck than any man in Glasgow. He couldn’t be much older than Jimmy but his Frankenstein stitch-puckered face and his giant humped-up shoulders made it difficult to guess his age, and nobody wanted to. Nobody wanted to do anything to Slasher Dawson or say anything about Slasher Dawson, much to many a Glasgow policeman’s chagrin.
His gang in comparison were unhealthy, undersized mice, nervous fleshless ferrets as much afraid of him as anyone else but under the continual strain of trying to keep up with his crime and violence in order to please him. They had no idea of any other way to survive, living as they did around the other corner in Dixon Street where Slasher also had his abode.
Jimmy was almost alongside them before he saw Lexy. They were all around her, sniggering and chatting her up and she was laughing delightedly, patting her hair, obviously flattered at so much attention being paid to her. But he could see the winks, the leering faces, the vulgar signs behind her back and he knew what they meant.
He strolled up to the group, his heart thumping.
‘Hallo, Lexy. There’s a good picture on at the Lyceum. Fancy coming? You’re only wasting your time hanging around here.’
For a full minute there was silence. Even Lexy was shocked rigid and could not speak.
‘Say that again!’ Slasher dared, still incredulous at Jimmy’s audacity.
Jimmy moved nearer until his black curly head was in between Lexy and Slasher, his face almost touching Slasher’s grotesque twisted nose.
‘How are you doing these days, Slasher? Haven’t seen you for ages.’
One of the ferrets flicked out a razor. ‘Let’s do him, eh? Let’s carve him up!’
‘Saw your sister Sadie the other day, though, and your ma!’ Jimmy went on talking straight at Slasher, completely ignoring the other young man in the thin frayed suit. ‘I’m making Sadie’s wedding cake. I suppose you know. They were in arguing about the icing and the way the cake should be decorated. You’ll be going, won’t you? Going to the wedding? By the way, tell your ma I want to see her again. Tell her to come tomorrow.’
The youth brandishing the razor giggled excitedly.
‘Never mind tomorrow, eh, Slasher? Come on us cover him with red icing today!’
‘Shut it!’ Slasher growled without looking at his minion. Then, averting his eyes from Jimmy, he shrugged. ‘Aye, O.K., Jimmy. I’ll tell her. Ma’ll be there, don’t you worry. She’s goin’ mad about that bloody wedding. I’m fed up hearing about it.’
Only one person in the world Slasher Dawson feared and that person was, without a doubt, his mother.
‘Good!’ said Jimmy. ‘Well, hurry up, Lexy! I told you. It’s a good picture. We won’t get in if we don’t get a move on!’
All at once Lexy burst into a paroxysm of hysterical giggling.
‘Ohi! Ohi,’ she gasped and squealed. ‘Oh, in the name, Jimmy Gordon. You’re an awful big fella!’
Jimmy grinned and shook his head at Slasher with such obvious bonhomie that Slasher roared with laughter in return.
‘Stuck with her all day and still not had enough, you big bastard.’ He swung his bulk round to Lexy. ‘You heard what the man said, you silly wee cow. Get movin’!’
‘These heels of yours wouldn’t last to the Cross,’ Jimmy said. ‘Come on! Here’s a tram coming!’
Gripping her by the elbow he half-rushed, half-carried her along the street and swung her on to the tram just as it went clanging away.
She was gasping and giggling in his arms on the tram platform when an outraged conductor burst their bubble of frivolity.
‘Come oan, get aff! Naebody’s allowed to canoodle on my platform!’
Pushing Lexy, but hardly able to control his own breathless laughter, Jimmy manoeuvred her into a seat. The tram was mostly filled with women wrapped in tartan shawls lumpy with dummy-sucking babies. There were only a few men in shabby suits and caps pulled well down and mufflers knotted high at their necks. Jimmy settled down beside Lexy and had just managed to subdue both his own hilarity and hers when another young woman got on at the next stop and he immediately gave up his seat to her. Strap-hanging, he swayed, lost in thought, away in another world from Lexy and tramcars until the conductor bawled: ‘Govan Cross! Any of yoos for Govan Cross?’
In strange silence Lexy allowed Jimmy to assist her from the tram. Her head held high, she bristled with ice-cold dignity. Jimmy didn’t notice. He had wandered back to the Highlands.
‘Here, you!’ Lexy erupted eventually. ‘What do you think you’re playing at? Who do you think you are?’
He ruffled his fingers through his hair and stared perplexedly down at her. ‘I don’t understand what you mean. What do you mean? What are you talking about?’
‘Well, I mean to say!’ Lexy patted her curls. ‘A fella asks a lassie to the pictures, the next minute he’s cooled off that quick he doesn’t even want to sit beside her. And you never once opened your mouth either!’ she accused with a burst of renewed anger. ‘What have I ever done to you? I mean to say. I’m not infectious, you know. I suppose you’d stand in the pictures too instead of sitting beside me if you got the chance. Well, I’m not infectious -see!’ .
‘Lexy, Lexy, love!’ Jimmy was appalled. ‘I didn’t get up because I didn’t want to sit beside you!’
Soothed by the word ‘love’, and the unmistakable concern on Jimmy’s face, Lexy’s bristles settled down, indeed began to melt away with astonishing rapidity.
He hugged an impulsive arm round her shoulders. ‘It’s just ordinary manners, just manners, to give up your seat to a lady in a public conveyance.’
‘Och, I’m sorry, Jimmy, so I am!’ She melted so close to his jacket they had some difficulty in making smooth progress into the picture house. ‘I hadn’t realized, I mean, you’re always doing such daft things. You’re an awful big fella!’
‘And I was quiet because I was thinking about that book again.’
‘Och, never mind, Jimmy. I mean to say. It wasn’t you that done it. Och, you wouldn’t hurt a fly, so you wouldn’t. You just hurt yourself, so you do. Where’s it to
be? Back stalls, eh?’ Her elbow jabbed his ribs and her squeal of laughter made him go red in the face.
He stared down, intent on finding his jacket pocket and the wallet he prayed it contained.
‘Wherever you wish, of course.’ He found the wallet, examined it as if he’d never set eyes on it before in his life, and selected a ten-shilling note with which to pay for the tickets.
A love film was showing inside but it paled in comparison with some of the performances taking place on the seats of the back stalls.
For Lexy’s sake (after all, she was barely eighteen) Jimmy hoped she hadn’t noticed as they settled in and he slithered comfortably down, long legs stretched out, elbows dug into the arms of his seat, chin resting heavily on clasped hands, ready to concentrate his full attention on the screen.
Unexpectedly, one elbow was knocked off balance, grabbed and hugged in a vice-like grip by Lexy.
‘Fancy!’ she hissed close to his ear. ‘Just fancy! Here’s me been working every day aside you and never realized you was such a lovely big fella. Ohi! Ohi! Jimmy!’
It was literally a most awkward position, terrifying, too! For a horrible minute Jimmy just sat there contorted to one side, not knowing what to do.
Then he sighed.
‘Lexy. Here, sit round this way.’ He put an arm around her and settled her comfortably against him.
It was her turn to sigh.
‘Ohi, ohi, oh, in the name of the wee man!’
‘Be quiet!’ Jimmy commanded, his ears beginning to tingle with embarrassment. ‘Be quiet and watch the picture. That’s what we’ve come for, isn’t it? The picture?’
‘Ohi, ohi!’ Lexy nearly choked. ‘You’re a scream, so you are. You’re an awful big fella!’
Desperately he put a hand over her mouth.
‘If you don’t be quiet I’ll make you. I’ll keep my hand over your mouth like this all night!’
To his surprise she suddenly relaxed. She quietened her head pressed against his chest, her lips moving gently against his palm. Then the hot moist tip of her tongue tickled and disturbed him.
‘Lexy!’
Why, oh, why, he kept asking himself, was life so full to overflowing with worrying situations, of anxieties, of responsibilities that had to be recognized and faced up to, decisions that had to be made and acted upon.
All through the film and all the way back home to Dessie Street, despite Lexy’s chatter, he thought of his responsibilities towards her.
Was he going to be just the same as people like Slasher Dawson and his mob? Did the person, the place, the background make any difference to the moral question? Did a bed instead of a back-close make it all right? Did an invitation from Lexy make it right?
Lexy was eighteen and her mother was little better than a prostitute. Lexy had moved out of her mother’s house in Pelt Street to come and work as his assistant and live in one of the attic flats.
He knew she was no innocent but she was no prostitute either, though what would it matter even if she were? Was he going to give her another push along the one-way street?
No man was an island. No woman, either. If man affected man, how much more man affected woman.
A few lines from one of his favourite poets came to his mind as he took Lexy up the spiral stairs to Number 1 Dessie Street.
‘Then gently scan your brother Man.
Still gentler sister Woman;
Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human
One point must still be greatly dark
The moving why they do it;
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.’
Robert Burns was a great man. An honest man and a man of wonderful love and compassion. Jimmy wondered what Burns would have thought of the Highland Clearances. He made it obvious what he thought of a national thanksgiving service being held in church for a naval victory.
‘Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks?
To murder men, and gie God thanks!
For shame! gie o’er - proceed no further -
God won’t accept your thanks for murder.’
Lexy rummaged in her handbag for the key to her flat. She opened the door. She smiled at him invitingly.
‘Lexy!’ He heaved a huge sigh. ‘Oh, Lexy!’
Chapter 13
Everybody was talking about the Fair, the new clothes, the sail ‘doon the watter’ to Rothesay or Dunoon, the two weeks looked forward to the whole year and spent together, crowded into one comfortless room, or one room and a kitchen for which ridiculous prices were paid and paid gladly with typical Glasgow big-heartedness.
Dessie Street and surrounding district plumped for Rothesay, except Amy Gordon and Jimmy who had relations they went to visit in Dunoon. They sailed ‘doon the watter’ with the rest, of course. Dunoon was just not so far on. Neighbours and families crowded into the one flat, single-ends were packed, ‘But and Bens’, as one room and kitchens were called, were shared to overflowing, the flats next door, upstairs and downstairs were equally bursting at the seams with other neighbours for two glorious weeks.
Dessie Street, the Dessie Street side of the Main Road, Starky Street, Scotia Street, Pelt Street, Dixon Street, River Street, indeed most of Clydend, moved en masse to live for the Fair fortnight in even closer proximity with each other than they did for the rest of the year. And they loved every minute of it.
The only person who did not go away at the Fair was Duncan MacNair but he lived in a detached cottage in Meikle Street in the old part of Farmbank, the part that was, and he hoped always would be, unsullied by the Farmbank Corporation Housing Scheme, thanks to the huge tree-surrounded Farmbank Infirmary.
He hated the Fair (or so he said, but nobody believed him; such preposterousness was beyond any sane-minded body’s understanding). All the Fair meant to him (he never tired of fighting to make them all see reason) was two weeks’ loss of trade and money, a loss that would mean the ruination of him, a blow from which he would never recover.
‘It’ll be the death and ruination of me!’ he whined through his nose to Maisie MacMahon who was filling the shelves with jars of apple jelly, and to the crowd of customers on the other side of the counter who were enjoying a blether and not paying the slightest attention to him. The death and ruination!’
At that point Lexy appeared from the back carrying a tray of iced German biscuits.
She was wearing her usual white coat, apron and turban but the steel curlers were noticeably missing; instead a thick sausage curl stretched across her powdered brow, and her face was flushed under her rouge and her eyes were shining bright like torches through lashes stiff with mascara.
‘Anybody for Germans? They’re lovely, so they are. Jimmy’s just made them!’
A howl of laugher rocked the shop and even took old Duncan by surprise.
‘What the bloody hell’s so funny about my German biscuits?’ he snorted indignantly.
‘Och, it’s not your biscuits, Mr MacNair.’ Tiny, gnome-like Mrs MacMahon sidled up as close to the old man as the counter would allow. ‘It’s Lexy. She’s started going with Jimmy Gordon. Did you not know?’
Automatically Maisie MacMahon cringed back against the shelves at the sound of her mother’s voice. Mrs MacMahon, tiny, humphy-backed, smiling and innocent though she might look, was still Clydend’s practical joker and her family had always suffered from her jokes more than anybody else.
‘She’s marrying him tomorrow! It’s one of them hurried affairs.’ Mrs MacMahon nodded sagely. ‘You don’t know what you’ve been missing back there. The things that go on behind that sack-cloth curtain. You wouldn’t believe it.’
‘No, I wouldn’t, you old harridan,’ Duncan MacNair replied. ‘I know Jimmy. He’s a cheeky bugger but he’s not daft.’
‘Aye, you’re right, Mr MacNair,’ Lexy agreed, completely unaware of the implied insult to herself.
‘Och, but Lexy, hen!’ Sarah squeezed to the front.
‘You’re no really goin’ with Jimmy, are you? No harm to Jimmy. He’s one of the best. A lovely fella. But ah don’t think you’ll get much fun out of him.’ She leaned an elbow on the counter to give herself enough energy to laugh. ‘Ah can’t see him tickling your fancy!’
Lexy crashed the tray of German biscuits down on the counter, making old Duncan nearly weep for their fate.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ His nasal whine loudened into a howl for help. ‘Look what she’s done to my Germans!’
Lexy ignored both him and his Germans and fixed a hoity-toity eye first on Sarah and then on the rest of the assembled onlookers.
‘Hold your mouth, all of yoos! Jimmy Gordon’s not that kind of a fella. He’s cultural. And forby, he’s got manners. You wouldn’t get him sitting in front of a lady in a public convenience!’
For a minute or two everybody thought old Duncan was going to take, or had actually taken, a fit. He staggered about, bouncing first off the shelves and then off the counter, slavering at the mouth with hysterical laughter until his wispy beard was, as many a customer later described it, ‘fair drookit’.
Without another word Lexy, her turbaned head held high, spun round and disappeared through the flour-sack curtain.
Gradually old Duncan was becalmed and the conversation returned to more normal channels - preparations for the Fair.
‘I’ve heard of folk who’ve got some rare outfits, whole new outfits at the barras,’ croaked Mrs Broderick, a comparative newcomer to the district, who had a mouth like a frog, was fat like a frog, and even had frog-like flat feet.
The Breadmakers Saga Page 9
