The Tin-Kin (13 page)

The windows of a house opposite were thrown open, the sashes rattling, still dripping. She could hear a piano player practising now, some famous piece they used on telly adverts. The player was stuck on one bit, missing a note, going over the same phrase again and again to get it right. Dawn listened harder, irritated for him. She started to gamble. If he got the tune right this time, Warren would be the next to knock at the door. Nah. That was daft.

Folk believed in all sorts of superstitious rubbish. Warren had been a bit that way himself. He had a notion about red being good luck. He mentioned it when they moved into the house. They’d just got married. It was a place not much bigger than a
rabbit hutch, and it was in a mess, left empty for a while. But he loved it. There was a red doorstep, freshly painted. A good omen! he said, stepping onto it like a podium.

Come to think of it, they had lived at number twelve. So much for Maeve’s theory! But it was hard to forget the good days like that. Some things would resurface, no matter what.

The slipper wouldn’t be forgotten either. It came back again, abandoned this time, presumably by the strange woman with the yeti jumper and the rolling eyes. What did she say her name was? Maggie. The shoe was left like a foundling on the doorstep and Maeve rescued it coming in from the garden. It fitted her wee foot perfectly. She cobbled across the kitchen, the wooden heel going clop, clop, clop.

Look what I found, Mummy!

Maeve took it off and Dawn looked more carefully at it now, standing at the sink, turning the wee thing over in the light from the window. The fabric was rough as moss and burrs, maybe from age, or maybe it had always been like that. She put her fingers inside. Part of the lining was loose. It wrinkled under her fingertips like a sock slipping down inside a boot. Dawn lifted the material and rubbed beneath it. There was something tickly there. It got under her nails like the crumbs in the bottom of her handbag. She tilted it and saw something sparkling. Fine blonde sand. Maeve was watching.

What is it?

She told Maeve she was just thinking. She took the slipper with her and went to fetch the photograph album, flipped a few pages. It was just a hunch, probably nothing but silliness. What old thing didn’t have a bit of grit in it?

But there was the slipper. It wasn’t at the beach, which was the first place she looked. Instead she was surprised to see it clutched in the hand of one of the wee girls, held back so far it was almost hidden by the folds of her kilt. It looked deliberate, as if she didn’t want the treasure to be seen. Fate had lent her a
helping hand. A flaky white crease the length of a fingernail just scraped the girl’s hip and the sole of the slipper, almost obliterating it. But it was the same one, or at least one of the same pair.

Maeve was beside her, reaching up. Scarfy was back in her fist. Dawn held out the shoe, and Maeve took it and pressed it to her chest. She smoothed the fur of the shoe with the silk of Blue Scarfy.

Dawn normally left her daughter’s hair loose, the way she’d worn hers as a child, but today Maeve had stood infront of the mirror, brushing diligently, knitting and twisting it into two bunches. Now there was a tangled zigzag parting held with shiny bands and pink clasps. It would have to be teased out later, and Maeve would wriggle and cry, but Dawn hated to cut it.

   NITTIN AN SPEENIN   

Auld Betsy, 1954

Fammels fat as sausages, like ma George’s haunds were. Aye. But they’re nimble. Even as a young quine they were strong. They wanted tae be, wi the brood ah had, that along wi ma sister’s bairnies an now the grandkinchins.

Ma eyes screw up tight, peerin at ma fammels tickin ower the cloth that Jock brought me. Ah’m pleatin, foldin, tuckin, gatherin, stitchin ower the folds, keepin them in place. Auld cloth. Some aither woman had pleated an gaithered it afore me. Faded, aye, but nae all ower. Ah found bonnie hidden colours unpickin the hem, colours bright as the day they were woven, like times ah remember fae years afore an nivver spik aboot.

If ah’m thrifty wi the cloth, there’ll be enough tae mak a skirt fer Rachel startin at the school after Christmas. Curly’s awa there now tae meet the teacher an the school nurse. Doubtless they’ll be pokin an proddin the poor quinie, makin sure she’s no starved. Whit a cheek these country fowk hae when they get it in their heids they’re doin ye a favour! Oh, me! Ah ken bairnies in the fairms more wantin than ours, up at the skreek ae day tae walk tae school, nae food in their bellies, nae shoes on their tramplers, bairns whose faithers gie them the belt, bairns wi naebody carin fer them at aw. But that’s fae whit they call decent homes. Shaness! It maks the blood run cal, the things ah ken an hae tae bite ma tongue ower.

Ah nick ma finger on the needle an, wi a tut-tut, sook at the sore bit. That’s enough stitchin fer now.

Nivver waste whit someone’s a use fer! Ah wind whit’s left
ae the threed roun ma fammel an put it back in the tin wi the photies an the sewin things. The lid’s got a picture ae Castle Grant where ah stayed ain time wi George after the weddin, jist the two ae us. We were camped back at the burn there when ma Peter wis born. Bless his wee soul. Oh, me! Poor wee thing passed. That wis in Ardclach, seven months after. Bronchitis.

Ah nivver name Peter oot loud. Nivver speak ae those days. Shaness!

Ah’ve no photies ae Peter. But ah keep this picture ae the castle. Nearly died when Jock tried tae change this tin fer another. A better wan, he said. Wan wi a lid that fits, Ma! Ach, but it’s nae his fault. Ah nivver tellt them bout their brother Peter or ma wee girl Georgina either. Ah’m jist fond ae that lid, ah says tae him. Oh! Ah can be stubborn as an auld bull when needs be! Ho! Ha! Ha! Aye, poor Jock. He ended up takin the Castle Grant lid an fittin it ontae a new bottom fer ma. Now aw ma wee things are safe inside. Oh, me! He’s a good boy, ma Jock. If ainly he could find hisself a nice dilly.

Nancy an Big Ellen are both asleep otherwise ah’d play a tune on the organ or sing a canterach an try tae get Nancy kickin those wee baby tramplers. An thon bairnie inside Big Ellen! It’ll be a great muckle boy, that een. Jigs inside her when ah play! Boom, boom, boom! Aye. Jigs till Big Ellen’s beggin me fer a rest! Oh, but that gies me the belly laughs. Ho! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh, me! Ah love music. Love playin. Ah’ll teach the wee lad the chanter when he’s auld enough tae haud it. Every wan ae ma brothers were pipers, the best stummerer coulls in the North East. They taught me afore they left fer the war, an ah remember their pipe tunes tae this day. Aw in ma heid. We jist had the feelin fer it in oor family.

Pity Jock wis nivver mair interested in the pipes. He’s the ainly wan ae ma bairns ever played. His granddad gied him a real piper’s hat once, but wee Jock jist wanted tae look bonnie wi the thing oan his heid. ‘Never mind those old tunes, Mammy,’
that’s whit he used tae say. He liked the young fowk’s stuff, nae that ah blame him. There’s some affae good modern music ye hear oan the wireless.

Ah get oot the chair an ma skirt falls heavy on ma hips. The fire’s gutterin a bit low again sae ah throw on mair coal. The flames hiss, spittin a curse at me. If we were outside ah could mak this fire burn brighter than the sun in an autumn wood. Ah loved the campfires. On settled nights we’d sit roun singin, tellin tales fer hours, me wi the aither women, shoulder tae shoulder, each wi a bairnie or twa asleep at her bosie, a jam jar ae warm tea in her haunds. George would tak a drink wi the men, who sat aside maistly, an the twa fires, ours an theirs, would set the world beneath the trees glowin like those rosy red country scenes painted on moneyed fowk’s dinner sets. O ho! Ho! Ha! Ha! Oh, me! We had good times in the camps.

George. Some mornins the wind blows in fae the sea an ah swear ye can taste the salt. That’s whit he tasted of maistly. Fowk tellt me he wis the man who put the last rivet in the very last ship built in the Geddie yards in Garmouth. A steam drifter.
Blithesome
wis its name. Ah mind that, an oh me, oh do ah miss that man!

Well! Ah’ve worked mysel intae some dwam by the time Duncan an Curly get back an come bargin intae the room. Now, ma door’s aie open, don’t ever let onyone tell ye otherwise, but by faith, the pair ae them are at each other’s throats like a couple ae bairns. Rachel’s greetin, an that wee Betsy’s got her arms folded ower her chest, makin a face that screwed up ye’d mistake it fer a lump ae dough the baker had stuck his fammels intae. Well seen it’s nae gone very well at the school. Big Ellen wakes up in the midst ae aw this stew, an cursin the lot ae us she grabs her coat an storms across the hall tae lie doun on Jeannie’s bed. Duncan hauds his haund oot tae Curly, who’s bickerin awa, an then he turns tae me, bawlin his heid aff.

‘Ma, would ye tell ma wife there is no wye on this earth, no
wye, that we’re gonnae cut oor lassies’ hair all aff jist tae please some bitch nurse ae a burker’s daughter? They’ll look like bloody scaldies.’

Wee Betsy interrupts him, runnin up tae me an clawin at the waist ae ma skirts. She points at poor wee Rachel.

‘She’s got fuckin beasts crawlin in her hair, Granny! And now I’ve got them an all!’

Right, ah thinks. Ah may be an auld biddy, but ah can shout wi the best ae them. An now tae hear ma namesake grandbairn usin that fouty language like some shan dilly! Ah don’t shout, though. No need fer me tae shout cause they aw shut their gobs when ah spik. No wan talks ower Auld Betsy. Ah can whisper an they listen!

‘SHANESS! Shaness, the lot ae ye! You Duncan fer lettin yer ain daughter spik like that. Sit here, bairnies. Nobody tells ma family whit tae dae. Nae a hair on the heids ae these quines is tae be cut, ye hear? That’s the last word.’

They’re silent as the deid as ah fill a mug wi pannie at the tap an fetch the comb. Nae a peep oot ae them! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ah’ll no hae the bairns’ hair cut, though. Aw oor breed has these affae bonnie curls, an ye dinnae go takin that fer granted. It’d be years fer them tae grow back sae nice. The schoolhouse will still be there in a month or twa. So let it wait.

Ah mak a start on Rachel cause she’ll no fuss an wammle aboot like Wee Betsy. Ah draw her locks through the comb in time wi the words ah mutter fae deep in ma chest.

‘Whit do they think we are? Bloody sheep tae be shorn? The twa ae ye get oot ae here! Avree!’ ah say tae Curly an Duncan. ‘Oot ma road! Go oan, skedaddle! Ah’ve tae see the Batchie Woman later. Ah heard she had another wan ae her accursed visions, God hae mercy oan us. But ah’m nae missin that fer ony ae yous, nits or nae nits, ye hear? Let’s jist hope she’s got a good word tae tell me this time.’

Duncan goes aff doun the Lane an Curly goes up tae cook
some denner, shakin her heid. She thinks the Batchie Woman’s an auld witch, that we should hae nowt tae dae wi her an her hocus pocus visions an dreams. But ah tell ye that Batchie Woman’s been right afore.

‘You’re disgustin,’ ah hear Wee Betsy say tae Rachel. Oh, me! Someone needs tae teach that kinchin! She’s starin intae the pannie wi the wee black beasties floatin in.

‘Now, you listen,’ ah tell her. ‘Ah wouldnae wint tae be you when ah’m done wi yer sister. Yer riddled wi knots an burrs as well as beasts, an if ye dinnae mind yer language in yer granny’s hoose ah’ll pull so hard ye’ll forget yer ain name fer as mony days as there are hairs on yer heid. Ye got that?’

When it quietens doun, the ainly noises are Curly’s footsteps, the fire cracklin, an the smooth strokin ae the comb’s teeth ower Rachel’s locks, gentle as Nancy’s deep sleepin breath. The whole time the baby’s nae opened her winklers. No even a crack. Ah pass the time tellin them an auld story ae ma daddy’s. It’s the tale ae a piper coull who fell in love wi the daughter ae a laird. Ach, some bits ah forget, but ah mak them up oan the spot. Onywye, the laird’s nae happy, whit a surprise! Especially when he finds oot his daughter’ll soon hae the piper’s child.

‘Owie!’ Rachel goes when the comb gets stuck.

‘Shhh, now. Listen,’ ah go.

The laird ordered the piper coull tae be taken far awa on a ship, an though the piper chapped oan mony a door, aw the people turned their backs oan him. Ainly wan woman took pity, an auld greyhaired witch who lived in the middle ae a dark, thick wood.