The Tin-Kin (12 page)

‘Let’s pretend to be Daddy,’ I decide. I make my feet go ‘clomp, clomp, clomp’ on the floor and bash my fist on the table, making as sulky a face as I can – ‘A mou ye could tie a string roun,’ Granny would say. Rachel laughs. Daddy’s boots are by the door.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ I say.

I twiddle the end of a lace round my index finger, the boot hanging down.

‘Look,’ I go. And I lift it over the fire.

‘That’s cheeky, Betsy. You shouldnae do that.’

‘Shut up, cowardy.’

The boot smokes and a foul smell comes off it. That’ll teach you, I think to myself. The flames dance around and lick at the toe part, which soon goes all black. I pull it out to inspect. Rachel wants a look too. She peers at it over my shoulder. A bit of the sole’s gone crispy and the stitching there’s come loose. I wonder if it’s really going to hurt him, me doing this to his boot. Granny would think so. I hope he stubs his toe. A wee tinker’s curse.

‘Okay,’ I say, flinging the boot down. ‘It’s your turn.’

‘AH CAN FUCK! FIGHT! AN’ HAUD A CANDLE TAE ANY MAN!’

I belly laugh just like Granny to hear my wee sister shouting that over and over. She stomps about the room with one foot inside the other boot, the unburned one, and she’s facing me at the fire, shouting it one more time, loud!

‘AH CAN FUCK!’

When suddenly the door opens. Daddy.

Rachel spins when he slams the door, and she almost falls over. I see his hand grab her wrist, and I plant myself on the burnt boot, looking for somewhere else to hide it. I think she’s going to get a smack, cause Granny’s nowhere to be seen.

But Rachel’s laughing.

She’s got her hand in his, spinning round and round like a windmill. And he’s being stupid. He pretends to reach over to skelp her, lifts his foot like he’s giving her a kick up the arse. His toe disappears under the hem of her skirt, but she just squeals, lowping forward, spinning and spinning till they’re both exhausted.

‘What about my other bairn? Is she no playin wi me any more?’

‘Daddy,’ I mumble, ‘we had an accident.’

I can’t look him in the eye as I take the horrid charred thing
from under me. Rachel, who I think had forgotten cause of all the fun she was having, goes very quiet. So does Daddy for a while.

‘Oh, dear,’ he goes at last. ‘These are nae mine. They’re your Uncle Jock’s boots. You’d better find him and say sorry. Tell him I’ll fetch another pair fae the rag store. Don’t look so glum, ah’m sure we’ll find him some struds.’

It’s God’s honest truth. Daddy’s wearing his boots and they’re identical brown ones. I feel rotten. I hold the burnt boot really close, like it’s a wee animal itself, and I can hardly look at Rachel cause she knows it wasn’t an accident at all. My lovely Uncle Jock! The boot’s a part of him. It’s like that with people’s things, especially their clothes.

I start sobbing when I see Jock, sitting on his bed and reading one of his fighter plane books. He’s wiggling his toes, not knowing at all that I’ve doomed him! And he seems nicer than ever. Granny’s right! There
is
a curse over him. And I’ve made it worse!

‘What’s got into you, Wee Betsy?’ Uncle Jock says. ‘Crying like that for an old boot! Look at your munty face! Have you lost your senses, darlin? That can be mended, don’t you worry. You ken I’m pals with the sooter at the top ae the Lane? He can sort this in two ticks. Dinnae be daft. Dry your eyes, you silly bam. There, don’t munt.’

I start to feel better. Just a wee bit better. And soon it’s fine as long as I don’t look at the cursed boot. I put my arms round Jock’s neck and pray for him to be saved so that one day he can marry Miss Webster, just like I’ve planned.

When Daddy comes back he’s got shoes. Not new ones, but they’re fine. Sort of slip-ons with no laces. While Uncle Jock is trying on the shoes, I stroke Rascal’s ears and make him roll over and rub his belly.

‘That’s me,’ Jock says. ‘A wee bit on the large side, but no matter.’

‘You can wear two pairs ae socks,’ Daddy goes. If I had money I’d buy Jock a good pair of socks, and a nice bone for Rascal.

It’s peaceful that night. Daddy stays in and plays with us, which makes Mammy happy. She sings to Nancy, who gurgles, and in between she does nothing at all but sit and watch. I get shunted onto the sofa to sleep and Daddy takes my place in the bed, beside Mammy.

Late at night, and there it goes again. CRACK. Another poor thing in the trap. As I listen for signs of life, the poem starts up in my mind.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie
Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

The voice won’t hush. So quiet and ca’ canny as a wee mouse myself, I tiptoe over the boards, two by two to the trap.

I go down on my hunkers. The fire’s dead, and the cold makes all my wee hairs prickle. I tuck my chin inside my nightshirt, up and over my nose, and blow warm breath on my chest. My eyes peer over the top of my collar, watching the mouse. It’s alive! Caught only by the tail. Just like the night before. You’d think they’d learn, really you would!

I pick up the mouse and the trap like it was a hot cinder, go to the blocked mouse hole, and pull the fistful of cloth away. My hands wrap round the creature, making a wee circle with it in the middle. Light streams through the boards from Uncle Jock’s room. He must be reading about his planes again. Holding the mouse near a crack, I can see the panic it has taken. Its tiny ribcage shudders. Its wide eyes are black, shiny as wet liquorice drops. The ears are stiff, and the skin inside is smooth and bluey-thin, like drowsy Nancy’s eyelids. I even feel the fluttering heartbeat.

I keep myself steady, trying not to shiver, and whisper a verse
of the poem. As my legs go numb I feel more of what’s between my hands, the whiskers tickling my fingertips, the sleek surface of the tail, the nose trembling like a tiny pink flower.

I free the trap.

Like a shot, the mouse darts from my hands, straight into the hole. He’s away to his warm nest. But I sit there a while longer, smiling so wide it’s like my lips are tweaking my lugs.

Dawn

She flicked through the paper. What would Shirley have have cut out? A large Dalmatian from Rothes was the star of the stage at the town’s summer production. There had been a drugs raid in a house in Lhanbryde, and there were lots of stories about the rain. It had been coming down for days. The gutters were rivers and folk were worrying about Lossie bursting its banks, the paper reminding them of previous floods right back to 1755. The only difference it made to Dawn was the view from the window, slates shining brightly on the rooftops opposite. It also meant she hadn’t taken that trip to the coast. She’d found the photos a week ago and had taken them out a few times, particularly the one of the couple on the beach. She felt like going there when the weather cleared, just to stand on the exact spot where she thought it had been taken. It was more to do with her own good memories than anything in the picture.

She slept through as many hours as she could, letting Maeve watch television or play in the garden with wellies on. Maeve had become friendly with Kyle, and the two of them were spending most of their time downstairs, watching videos and playing with his toys. Dawn had seen Anne from downstairs a few times. They would bump into each other but she never knew what to say. She didn’t like to ask after Ally, afraid to sound too interested. It was pleasing to know he was there, and she’d caught herself brooding over which room he slept in. Stop mooning, Dawn, that’s what Shirley would have said if she were here. He’s taken, chicky. It’ll end in tears.

The weather had turned colder and she’d put the heating on. Awake, she shifted round the flat, staining her teeth with cigarettes and strong black coffee. Listening to music felt
disrespectful to the silence. She stared out of the window, envious of the clean, wet pavements that were empty, blank. She stared at the walls and stared at her face in the mirror when brushing her teeth. She could study the reflection as if it belonged to someone else altogether. A noticeable face, the kind certain men would say things about. Unusual. Foreign. Cheer up, hen. It might never happen. There were dark circles slung under her eyes.

She watched television without really following. When the programmes ended and the pictures turned to snow, she let the buzz lull her to sleep again. She dreamt of messages from the dead but could never remember them later. She didn’t believe all that nonsense, voices in the white noise. It was the stuff of horror films, not real life. She’d wolfed down the remaining half of Shirley’s Toblerone, sharing it with Maeve. Sooner or later she’d have to do another shop. She kept expecting to run into Warren, wondered that he still hadn’t been round.

She woke with a bolt, a dry mouth, the flat roasting. She had a swollen sensation as if she’d swallowed her tongue. It wasn’t just the heat. There was someone inside the flat. Heavy footsteps. Knocking. The carriage clock said it was just gone three.

Maeve?

No answer. The noise stopped. Dawn waited. She got up from the sofa. It started again, a chock-chock of wood on wood. She got to the door of the living room and peered round the frame.

There was a woman standing in the hall, her back half turned. Maeve must have let her in. The woman was wearing a huge mohair jumper in streaky shades of grey, wisps of wool full of tangles. Her feet were in an old, wet pair of patent black slip-ons, with the toes bent upwards into snouts. Her mismatched socks were soaked and muddy. She looked like she’d been traipsing along the path by the river. The woman was waiting, leaning against the sideboard. One toe was sliding nervous circles on the
carpet as if she were stubbing out a ciggie, and the knocking was coming from something she was chipping against the wall. She started humming along to it in a tuneless way, still unaware she was being watched. She studied the photographs on the wall and the ornaments. She picked up Shirley’s unopened post from the sideboard and then placed it down again, carefully, as though she were dealing a hand of cards.

Dawn was surprised to see Blue Scarfy abandoned next to the letters. It was the first time Maeve hadn’t taken it with her to play. The woman gathered up Blue Scarfy and sniffed it deeply, drew back, put it down.

Hello?

She jumped.

Oh!

The woman laughed and put a hand to her chest. Ah’m fae the auction. Yer wee girl let me in. What a cheek ye’ll think ah’ve got!

They’ve already been from the auction, Dawn said. A man came.

The woman took a step back. She looked up and her left eye flashed blindly. It was as if the shock had imbalanced it, set it rolling like a cat’s-eye marble.

The auction man’s already been, Dawn said again.

But the woman’s one good eye was looking at Dawn. She hadn’t come to collect anything. It had something to do with the small slipper she was waggling in her hand. The toe was clasped in her fist and she’d been using the wooden heel to hammer on the door, woodpecker-style. Ratatat-tat. It was the same slipper Dawn had put into a box the other day and taken to auction. She’d had no use for it. It was child-sized, green velvet patterned with triangles, the fur trim mostly disintegrated.

The woman was about five feet tall, and an inch of that was the knots in her hair. A funny sort of Fairy Godmother. Dawn got a strong smell of wet yeti jumper as the woman came over and offered up the old slipper. She balanced it with two fingers
on each side like a precious exhibit. Heel and toe. Christssake, what did she want?

This was in the box ye sent us, the woman said, smiling. Her teeth were straight but dirty, streaked brown like wheat kernels. Was it yours? she asked.

Dawn didn’t take the slipper.

Everything here was my aunt’s.

The woman considered this, one squint eye wandering round the hall all goggledy-gawk. Dawn wondered if she could see in two directions at once. She took her cigarettes from her pocket, slid one out of the packet and stuck it between her lips.

Shirley died last week. Smoke?

The woman’s mouth twitched from side to side. Squirrel-like, she took a cigarette, snuffled at it, then dropped it into a wet, woollen pocket.

It was a stroke, Dawn added. She struck a match. The woman was caressing the wee shoe now as if it was a pet. Smoke. Stroke. It sounded like a gentle way to go. She hoped so anyway.

The shoe was old but nothing special, definitely nothing of value, not in that state. It had lived in Shirley’s house for ever and its partner had always been missing. Somehow it had seemed to belong on its own. It was a strange colour. The velvet triangles were a deep emerald on an even darker background, but the fur round the top was a dusty shade of lime. Inside was a moth-eaten pink lining, and there was a frayed hole on the front where the pink showed through.

Are ye wantin it back? the woman said suddenly, holding it out again. It didnae sell. Here. Her face was starting to flush, mottled red like raspberry mush.

Dawn shrugged.

Ah thought it looked auld. Ah thought maybe ye’d sent it by mistake. Ye’ve nae idea faraboots yer aunt got it?

A van honked in front. The woman looked disappointed. She put the slipper back in her handbag.

That’s me away.

Dawn watched her bustle down the steps. The sun had broken through the clouds and the woman’s jumper was twinkling with trapped raindrops. She looked up into the sky and mumbled something.

Funny weather. I’ll see you, then. It’s Maggie, by the way, if you need me.

At the front window Dawn looked down at the van.

JW02 ONE

Strange pair of angels, Dawn thought to herself.

The driver was the same man who’d picked up the furniture. She recognised his tufty red hair and the flat cap on the dashboard. She thought she’d seen the woman before, but couldn’t remember where. How would she have forgotten a face like that?

Ally’s door opened and slammed shut, and she moved so she could watch him from above without being seen. He was wearing a tracksuit and running shoes. He did some stretches: calves, thighs, arse. Really gorgeous arse. Christssake. What was she thinking that for? He fiddled with his laces and headed off towards the park.