Suddenly the woman nearest to Mrs Broderick and to whom Mrs Broderick had so innocently spoken gave a ghastly shudder, took a menacing step that brought her even nearer to Mrs Broderick and yelled straight into Mrs Broderick’s face.
‘Don’t you dare use that word to me. You big fat frog!’ Then she stamped out the shop leaving poor Mrs Broderick blowing and puffing.
‘Och, never mind, hen!’ Sarah gave her a comforting pat. ‘It was Mrs Tucker!’ As if that explained everything.
‘What did I say, but?’
‘Och, nothing. It’s just she can’t bear the slightest thing to remind her. It all happened before your time.’
‘Remind her of what, but?’
Sarah sighed. She had no inclination to use up what little store of energy she had on such ancient history but she felt sorry for Iris Broderick who after all hadn’t meant any harm, and might all too easily do the same harm again.
‘Well, y’see.’ She shoved back her headscarf, leaned her whole self back against the counter until she could support herself by propping her elbows on top of it, and rubbed a slippered foot up and down one leg. ‘Y’see, wee Andy Tucker - that’s her man - he’s a stevedore, though ye wouldn’t think so, he’s such a delicate lookin’ wee soul. I’n’t he?’
She glanced around for confirmation and got it. There could be no doubt about Andy Tucker’s mysterious smallness, mysterious, that was, for a stevedore who worked like a Samson in the Benlin yards. Andy was four feet nothing. He looked as if he had been chopped off at the knees and he never could get clothes, especially trousers, small enough to fit him. His trouser seats always looked like hammocks and his trouser legs were far too wide all the way down. They flapped over the edges of his shoes and became tattered at the back where he kept treading on them. If Mrs Broderick looked like a frog, wee Andy Tucker was the spitting image of a seal, flapping along the road.
‘Well, anyway,’ Sarah pressed on. ‘You know how there’s always a lot of nickin’ at the yards - if it’s no whisky or something like that off the boats, it’s cans o’ paint that’s just lying around. Anyway, for a while there was an awful lot of stuff goin’ a-missing. The dock-police was nearly demented. Honest, everything but the ruddy ships were being lifted and wee Andy was their chief suspect. Oh, they hud their eye on wee Andy, them police at them Benlin gates.’
‘Speak up, but!’ urged Mrs Broderick. ‘That’s an awful habit your voice has of fading away, but.’
Sarah sighed again. Then she mustered up a smile before clearing her throat.
‘He kept coming out wheelin’ a barra piled high and covered that careful with sacks and things. The police stopped him every time and searched under them sacks until they were even usin’ magnifying glasses, no kiddin’. There was always nothing but straw, just straw, but they knew, they said, that somewhere, somehow he was hidin’ whisky or even drugs or diamonds, he was sneakin’ something past them somehow and they wouldn’t be beat.’ Her voice was fading again but she managed to end with a crinkly face and a chuckle. ‘Them police nearly did their nut when they did find oot what Andy was nickin’.’
‘What, but?’
‘The ruddy barras!’
Mrs Broderick opened an enormous mouth and let go such a yell of laughter she nearly burst her stays.
‘Oh, what a scream, but!’ She flapped, web-footed, towards the door, hitching herself together as best she could. ‘Oh, here, I’d better away if I’ve tae be ready for the Fair tomorrow. I’ll never reach the Broomilaw at this rate, but.’
Sarah’s chest lifted with another big sigh. Sigh, sigh, sigh - it was all she could do these days. Still, a couple of weeks at Rothesay would soon put her right.
‘Ah’m away as well.’ She hoisted her basket over her arm. ‘Ah haven’t a thing done. No even a case packed.’
But she’d manage somehow, she knew. Anything to get away for a change, a paddle in the water, a breath of fresh air, anything to make her feel better.
She took a long time dragging herself up the stairs and felt most peculiar when she reached her own door on the second landing. A singing noise made light of her head and her tongue felt thick and tingly.
‘Baldy!’
She felt her way into the silent house.
‘Baldy!’
She shivered. ‘Aw, come on, hen!’ she begged herself. ‘You’ve your man’s tea to make and you’ve your case to pack. Just think of the morra. The morra, hen! That lovely sail doon the watter. And Rothesay! Aw, come on, hen. If you can just get yersel there, you’re all right. You’re a lucky lassie now. Come on. Come on. Count your blessings. At least your man’s a foreman and he’s got the money. All you need is the strength!’
The words were barely out of her mouth when the doorbell startled her. She wasn’t expecting anybody except Baldy and of course it wouldn’t be him because he had a key. She shuffled to the door using the wall to support her, trying all the time to gather enough energy to make herself smile and be ready to talk pleasantly.
It was Baldy, although he was barely recognizable. A taxi-driver was holding him up.
Sarah swallowed down her sickness.
‘What happened?’
‘Don’t worry, hen!’ Baldy swayed, bloody-faced, towards her, chunks of flesh sticking out and beginning to turn black. ‘Ah’m perfi-per-per … Ah’m O.K. Ah just had a couple too many and tripped over masel’.’ All at once he exploded into riotous song. ‘I belong tae Glasgow! Dear old Glasgow town!’
The taxi-driver groaned.
‘For pity’s sake, man. Look at your nice wee wife. What makes you do a thing like this? Why do you live like this?’
Baldy pushed him aside and lurched into the house to tower over both Sarah and the cab-driver.
‘Och, you silly wee ninny. If you haven’t buried your face in the concrete you’re not a man and you haven’t lived!’ Then his face squeezed into a smile and bled down at Sarah.
‘Ah, there’s my wee wifie waitin’. Pay the man, hen. I’m skint.’ Suddenly he became very, very polite. ‘I have not one halfpenny left in my possession.’
And with that he wended a zig-zag, hiccoughing, merry path towards the sink in the kitchen.
Chapter 14
The knock on the door was very quiet, so quiet that Catriona went on polishing the sitting-room surround, hearing it, yet not hearing anything at all.
Betty, Melvin’s first wife, was a marvellous woman. Her death-bed had been the settee, under which Catriona was now sweating. It had been drawn close to the window so that Betty could be propped up to gaze down at life milling past in Dessie Street.
Melvin had done the housework during the day as well as work in the bakehouse at night and in the last few months of Betty’s life he had looked after baby Fergus as well.
Betty adored him, he said, and couldn’t bear that he should only be able to take a few hours’ sleep and then have to get up to scrub and polish. Melvin liked the carpets scrubbed but everything else in the house protected by a hard gleaming polish. Many a time, he said, he found Betty creeping round the sitting-room floor in her nightie with a duster in her hand trying to save him the bother of doing the polishing.
Catriona wriggled from under the settee and squatted breathlessly back on her hunkers to gaze up at the huge golden-framed photograph of Betty that dominated the sitting-room mantelpiece. There was a medium-sized photo in the kitchen and one in the bedroom as well.
The knock at the door did not become louder but it quickened with irritation and insistence.
Catriona struggled to her feet and hurried out to the hall to open it.
A woman and a child of about five stood on the doormat. The woman had straight hair, a pink and white complexion and eyes like splinters of coal.
‘I didn’t knock loud,’ she whispered, ‘in case Melvin would be sleeping.’
‘Won’t you come in, please. You must be Lizzie.’
The child clung to Lizzie’s hand. ‘Want to stay with you.’
&nb
sp; ‘I know you do, my wee son. You know who’s good to you, don’t you? Who gives you sweeties, eh?’
Catriona began to feel uneasy but she stifled her qualms and asked Lizzie to stay for a cup of tea.
‘Sweetened with arsenic, I suppose,’ Lizzie replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can’t fool me. I know you’ve had it in for me right from the start.
‘I never even heard of you until the other day. Why should I want to do you any harm? I just want to be friends with everybody.’
Catriona shot the pale-faced little boy a worried glance. How did one talk to a child?
‘Hallo.’ Reaching the sitting-room she riveted her attention on him. ‘You must be Fergus. I’m … I’m … You saw me at the Hall, didn’t you? But your Aunty Lizzie took you home early so I didn’t see you.’
‘Don’t you dare! I’m warning you. I’ll see through every one of your tricks.’
‘What tricks? What are you talking about now?’
‘Trying to put my wee Fergie, my wee precious boy, against me. Me who’s loved and cared for him like a mother!’
Catriona’s heart thumped.
‘I said you took him away from the Hall early. I was telling no lie or playing no trick. You did take him away early but no doubt you did the right thing. Little children have to go to bed early, haven’t they?’
‘I’ve been like a mother to that child and better. The fun we’ve had!’ She smiled at him, bending over. ‘Eh, Fergie?’
‘I was hoping you’d help me.’
The child, who’d been like a wax dummy, suddenly exploded. ‘I want my toys! I want my toys! I want my toys!’ Leaping up and down, he zig-zagged in a mad dance around the room.
Catriona gaped at him.
‘He’s Aunty Lizzie’s wee precious son.’ Lizzie’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Aunty Lizzie will never be far away. Aunty Lizzie will always be waiting, across the landing, waiting behind her door.’
‘Just a minute!’ By the time Catriona recovered, Lizzie had limped heavily away.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she called after her.
The front door quietly shut.
‘I want my toys! I want my toys! I want my toys!’
The mad dance erupted into the hall.
‘Hush! Fergus! For pity’s sake. You’ll waken Daddy. Be quiet!’ She chased after the tiny savage into his bedroom and immediately let out a cry of pain as a well-aimed metal toy hurtled through the air, and hit her in the chest.
Her mouth opened. Her face contorted. In agony she nursed her breast.
Other toys pelted about. Her nostrils widened as she fought for breath. Something sharp stung her leg.
‘Stop it! Stop it at once!’
With arms outstretched she stumbled blindly towards him. Her hands found his dark-green jersey. She felt like strangling him but at the same time horror at herself changed her voice, pushed it back down her throat, gentled it.
‘I’m your new mummy.’
He stopped. He stared warily up at her.
Her unexpected surge of passion evaporated as quickly as it had fumed into life and she gazed at the little boy with nothing but innocent curiosity.
He seemed to have calmed too; a wax dummy again, his eyes a bright still blue.
She smiled.
‘We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?’ Her mind roamed dreamily, searching for nice things to say. ‘We’re going to live together in this lovely house forever and ever and I’m going to love you and look after you like a real mummy and we’re going to be happy and safe here together for always.’
How still he was! She’d never seen anyone or anything so motionless. Time stopped, life gone, only caution clung round his small bird-like figure, his long girlish curls. Then, with astounding rapidity, he lunged at her, his nails digging deep into her legs.
‘Fergus, what are you doing?’ She endeavoured, gently at first, to pull him off. ‘You’re hurting me!’
He was hugging her legs with the strength of an iron-muscled maniac, his face hidden hard in her skirts.
‘Fergus, don’t be silly, dear.’ Wrenching at him with increasing vigour but without the slightest success she fought to free herself. ‘Fergus!’ Her voice condensed in a flurry of alarm as her soft fingers, poking and prising at his fingers, found them statue hard, unbendable.
She didn’t know what to do. She was a child herself, terrified.
‘Melvin! Melvin! Melvin!’
The silky head moved. Fergus looked up at her, and in the moment before he released her, she saw the gleam of perverted delight in his eyes.
By the time Melvin had staggered through from the next bedroom in answer to her screams, unshaven, moustache mussed, face pouchy with sleep, hands fumbling with the cord of his dressing-gown, his son was quietly tidying away toys.
‘Hello, Daddy!’
‘Hallo, son.’ A mumble before turning to Catriona and coarsening his voice. ‘What were you making all that racket for? You wakened me out of a good sleep.’
Catriona stared at Fergus. She wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her eyes flickered round to Melvin then lowered in embarrassment. ‘It … it … it was nothing. I … mean … I … I … think.’
‘Stop stuttering!’ She caught the note of disgust and flinched under it. ‘You sound like an idiot. And keep your eyes up when people talk to you. You look like a terrified mouse. We’re not going to eat her, are we, Fergus?’
Unexpectedly he laughed, flung an arm round her shoulders, and kissed her wetly, searchingly and for too long on the mouth.
The child’s eyes were burning a hole in her back.
In desperation she wriggled free. Melvin laughed again.
‘Just kiss her.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Eh, Fergus?’
‘Not in front of the child.’
‘Why not?’
She didn’t know why not.
‘Why not?’ Melvin repeated.
‘I don’t think he likes you kissing me.’
‘Don’t be daft. Why shouldn’t he like anything I do? He’s my boy. I brought him up myself. He’s the best behaved child in Scotland. Lizzie likes to think she’s helped and I let her think it to keep her happy but I looked after my son from the moment he was born. You like Daddy to kiss your new mummy, don’t you, Fergus?’
Fergus nodded.
‘See!’ Melvin nudged Catriona. ‘What did I tell you? You’re daft! Come on through to the kitchen.’ In the hall his tone turned conspiratorial. ‘I’ll show you how well-behaved and well-disciplined my boy is. Just wait till you see this. Fergus!’ he called heartily as soon as he reached the kitchen. ‘Come through here, son. Come and see what Daddy’s got!’
By the time the child had arrived to stand before him, Melvin had produced two bags of sweets from the cabinet drawer.
‘A bag of sweeties for Mummy.’ He handed Catriona one of the paper bags. ‘And a bag of sweeties for Daddy.’
A silence followed.
Catriona stood uncomprehendingly.
Melvin popped a toffee ball into his mouth and began sucking.
‘Mm … good! Come on!’ His eyes bulged impatiently first at her and then at the bag in her hand. ‘You put one in your mouth, stupid! Hurry up!’
Well-trained to jump automatically to sharp command, she pushed a sweet into her mouth.
She felt sick.
‘There now!’ Melvin sighed with satisfaction. ‘And what have you been doing today, son? Been having a good time, have you?’
‘Yes, thank you, Daddy.’
‘Right, away back and play with your toys, then.’
Fergus turned and walked obediently away.
‘See that!’ Melvin chewed the toffee ball over to the other side of his unshaven face. ‘What did you think of that, eh?’
Catriona removed the sweet from her own mouth as delicately as possible. A twitch fluttered like a butterfly at
her temple.
‘I thought it was horrible.’
‘Not the sweet, you fool,’ Melvin laughed. ‘Fergus! Anyway there’s nothing wrong with the toffee balls. The old man sells them in the shop. There’s very little he doesn’t sell. Everything from a pan loaf to a sanitary towel. Well?’
She felt frightened. She didn’t understand his lack of understanding.
‘You tormented the child. It was horrible!’
‘Don’t be stupid. Fergus knows he can get sweets any day of the week. He can get anything he fancies out of the shop and I’m always buying him things up the town. See all these toys through there. I bought these for my son. There isn’t another child in Glasgow who’s got toys like some of those through there. Did you not see the size of that rocking-horse? And I always buy him a present for going away with at the Fair. Do you know what l’ve got for him this year? It’s still down at the bakehouse. I was showing it to the men. What a laugh we had with it. It’s a toy monkey. A big stuffed thing and real-life-size. I’ll go down and get it later on.’
‘Maybe you didn’t mean to, but …’
‘But what? My son’s obedient and well-trained, that’s what! Have you ever seen a child who could walk quietly away like that after everybody’s got sweets but him? Have you ever seen a child like that before?’
‘No, but …’
‘Did he stamp his feet? Did he go into a temper? Did he shout and bawl: “I want sweeties. I want sweeties”?’
‘No, but, Melvin …’
‘Did my son cry?’
‘He should have!’ Catriona’s voice teetered unexpectedly out of control. ‘He should have cried and cried. A child should cry when he gets hurt.’
‘Och, shut up. Don’t talk daft. Obviously you’ve a lot to learn about me. Anybody in Clydend could tell you how devoted I’ve been to that boy. Hurt him? Me? You’re a fool. More like you hurting him. What were you doing to him when I came through just now? Fighting with him, were you? Was that what all the screaming and fuss was about? I bet you cried when you were a child, always snivelling, I bet.’
The Breadmakers Saga Page 10
