The Tin-Kin (18 page)

It took a second to adjust to the feel of tyres underneath them, not quite solid ground. There was a girl and a baby in the van, and it was quiet except for a small telly balanced on a shelf.

This is my wife, the boy said nodding to the girl. She was half lying on a U-shaped seat that would change into a double bed at night. The girl looked up quickly and then turned back to the baby, which was gurgling and jiggling in a bouncy chair.

That’s Wee Jock. I’m Jock as well, and my father also.

It was a thing he was proud of.

And his father too? Dawn said, but the boy didn’t reply.

The girl was fixing the baby’s overalls, playing with the buttons.

Back in a minute, Jock said. I’ll see if Gran’s about. Do you want some tea? I can get water, if you do.

The girl moved to make room and Dawn took a seat.
Neighbours
was on the telly and the girl turned the sound up. Behind it they could hear the chainsaw-growl of trailbikes behind the trees, and every so often the girl would turn away from the telly, push the curtain aside and stare through the window to the top of the hill. Her expression was a tight knot, like she was expecting thunder. Dawn was relieved when Big Ellen appeared. The woman suited her name. She was tall and strong and her shoulders barely squeezed through the doorway.

Ye found us aw the way up here! she panted, the kind of welcome you’d expect after days of waiting.

Have some tea, if you want. My grandson’ll put it on. Here he is. Let’s see what ye have for me.

Jock was back with the water and he’d set it to boil. Big Ellen took a seat, her huge thigh pressing close to Dawn’s. She took the album and flipped a few pages. Two men came up the steps while she looked, and they peered in to see what was going on. The van shifted under their weight, then rocked back into place. The revving trailbikes were getting louder, and Jock put the mugs down and leaned over the sink to check out of the window.

The bikes are coming back, the girl said. She took the baby from the chair and held him close.

What’s wrong? Dawn said.

Big Ellen looked up from the photos. The men in the doorway were leaving.

Jock, you stay here, Big Ellen said.

Jock nodded but he went to the door all the same, opened it
and looked up in the direction of the noise. It seemed to be just outside now, the sound of the forest tearing in half.

Close that door! Big Ellen said.

She was still on the first picture, taking a while on it.

This lassie looks kind ae familiar, Big Ellen said eventually. But maybe not. I dinnae think I ken who this is.

It was the close up of the girl on the beach, her woollen scarf wrapped twice round her neck.

Big Ellen covered her mouth for a second with her hand and pulled the hand down over her chin. She gave Dawn a familiar look, one she used to get all the time. Folk would turn from Linda with a nod and a smile, but they would take their time over Dawn, shake heads, purse lips. Not able to see who she looked like. Mummy or Daddy.

This lassie looks a wee bit like you.

Big Ellen turned the page and looked at the next picture, the couple at the beach.

Now, he’s a handsome one. They dinnae make them like that any mair, she said sadly with a bit of a smile.

The bikes suddenly stopped, the zip-zip-zip of their engines slowing to a low growl.

Gran, I’m going! Jock said, and he jumped outside off the top step. Big Ellen got up but she was too late to stop him. Outside an engine backfired, and some shocked birds overhead screeched Two! Two! Two!

What’s happening? Dawn said.

You need to go.

Can I come back another time?

We’ve had a lot of trouble, tae be honest, Big Ellen said.

She had only looked at one picture, and now she was pushing the album into Dawn’s hands and Dawn towards the door.

Well, maybe. But my memory’s nae so good. Ye need someone who can remember way back. Sorry I couldnae be mair use.

Thanks anyway, Dawn said.

Outside the site was suddenly busy, people hurrying from one van to another or in through the gate. A teenage girl held the hands of two children and ran towards a car, and a man was crawling through the fence with a dog in each hand. The bikes were zipping round the site, looping around them.

Don’t just stand there! someone shouted.

Dawn ran to the car.

Will you take me down the hill?

The girl nodded.

The car had a smell of the earth and of oil. As soon as the doors were shut the girl started the engine and they pulled away with a skid. Outside people were scattering into the woods, disappearing into the trees. Others stood guard in the doorways of their homes. One man had a walking stick and he was shouting at the bikes, but the words were lost.

   COO   

Auld Betsy, 1954

Oh, me! Anither birthday! Sixty-five years oan the go, an ah’m puffin an blowin like a jenny whistle jist tae reach the top ae the Lane. They gie ye cards fae Woolies nooadays, the grandbairns.
Birthday wishes to my Grandmother
. Bonnie things aw fancied up wi nice pictures an sparklies. Ah put them in ma tin tae keep.

They’ve aw gone tae bed doun at the hoose, but the louns are in the store bailin the woollens afore the lorry comes in the mornin. Jock’s helpin an aw, lendin an extra pair ae haunds. He’s nae made fer the back-breakin work. The wools an some ae the mendin, that’s whit he does. Nae built fer heavin the scrap aroun like Duncan. Jock wis a seekly bairnie, wouldnae stop screamin aw the first winter after he wis born. George made me a sunk tae carry him in, a stockin stuffed wi straw. Ah carted Wee Jock roun ma waist in thon sunk aw day every day. The minute ah put him doun he’d be muntin an howlin.

George had a hard time. His daft auld mither thought the fairies had stole Jock awa fae us, left ahint ae them wan ae their ain wicked craiturs! O ho! Ho! Ha! Ha! Oh, me! Ma Jock. Ma youngest. He always wis the brains ae the brood! He’ll be up the top ae this hill wantin his tea an his paper.

When ah reach Hill Street ah hear voices comin fae the store. Ah gie a knock afore goin in. It’s aie toasty wi the wee stove goin, even though it’s nae much mair than a shed wi a warehoose ahint it. They’ll sit in there fer oors, oor men, hale lang evenins bletherin, an we’ll nae hear a peep doun in the hoose as lang as they hae a flask brought up.

It’s aw hustle an bustle the night, though. There’s aw the rags tae sort afore the van arrives. A great pile ae claes is heaped in the warehoose, under the skins hangin aff the beams. Pile has tae be separated intae three: non-woollens, dark woollens an light woollens, then bailed up, ready tae go.

‘Faraboots are ye wantin yer flask, sons?’

‘Aye, the sill,’ goes the Bissaker, busy tyin a bundle.

Jock’s rubbin a scabbit cloth atween his wrists tae see if it has wool in it. Aye. That een’s wool. Ah can tell jist tae look. He throws it tae the light pile. That’s the best stuff. Ah did this aince an aw, sortin the rags, a fair few birthdays ago noo! Ho! Ha! Ha! The light stuff’s whit yer wantin. The fowk’ll come tae tak that awa, pay us a good price. They’ll dae a wee bittie magic, turn it pink or yella or green, whitever they’re wantin in London these days (could be blue wi orange dots fer aw ah ken). Then they mak it intae somethin else alltaegither. A braw suit, a blanket fer a bed, a bunnet fer an auld manny, a toy fer a bairn, anything. Could be some ae the wool in that dark pile went through ma ain fammels years ago. O! Ho! Ha! Ha! Weel, ye nivver ken!

Ah sigh an put the tea doun fer them.

‘Mind an drink it afore it gets cal,’ ah say. ‘Jock, ah’ve yer paper an aw.’

He gets on his tramplers an comes ower. ‘That’s grand, Ma,’ he tells me, like always. He’s a good boy.

‘Yer a good boy, eh? Ma son. It’ll soon be a nice dilly up wi yer tea,’ ah go.

Oh, me! He doesnae like me talkin aboot his love life like that. Maks Duncan an the Bissaker laugh at him. O ho! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ah jist dae it fer a bit ae fun, though. Ho! Ha! Ha! Ha! He pours hisself a cup ae the tea, sits doun oan the bench an opens his paper.

‘Whit’s that ye’ve got? Local news, is it? Read it oot,’ says the Bissaker.

‘You can read it fine fer yersel,’ Jock goes.

‘Aye, well,’ he goes. ‘Ah’m oot ae practice. An can ye nae see ah’m busy here?’

‘O ho! Ha! Ha!’ ah go. ‘Go oan, Jock, leave him be. The Bissaker’s nae a learned man like yersel. He’s a chiel ae the road, is that nae it, Wullie? Good man, ye are. A true chiel ae the road. Go oan, Jock. Hae a look in yer paper fer me, ah’m wantin tae ken if oor Eddie’s Ebeneezer’s in it. Curly wis tellt he got sentenced tae twenty days in the quad.’

‘Twenty, is that right?’ goes Duncan.

‘Aye,’ ah breathe, an stare doun at the paper wi its nonsense ae letters. ‘Shaness!’

‘Gie me a minute. Ah’m after the bill at the Playhouse first,’ goes Jock. Ah see Duncan an the Bissaker throw wan another a look an share a wee nod. Jock’ll nae be after some dilly? ah think tae massel. Oh, me! Ma Jock. Weel, ah hope she’s a good lassie. No doubt she’ll be country hantle, but ah need tae see ma sons aw married, maist ae aw the wee lad. Till that happens, ah cannae settle ma heid.

Ah still think aboot whit the Batchie Woman tellt me thon time. Her an her visions. Ah forgot it fer a wee while, till it turned oot she wis right aw alang aboot Auld Jessie. Poor Jessie went an dropped doun stane cal atween the gates ae the cemetery, jist like the Batchie Woman saw.

Oh, me! Afore Jock’s married she tellt me. That’s whit she went an said. She’s a coarse auld bitch. Damn her an her visions! Ye should nivver dae that, nivver tell fowk the bad news. There’s rules! Oh, me! Bad news is fer readin oot the paper after it’s aw ower, nae aff ae fowk’s palms. Ye keep it secret. Every wan ae us kens that. Oh, me! Ah’ve nae peace in this life. If ah wis wan ae the country hantle, there’d be fowk spittin at her like a witch fer sayin whit she did.
Afore ma boy’s a married man
. Shaness!

Ah dinnae want tae scare him. Look at the loun! Nose glued intae his cinema pages! Ah stick ma auld fammels intae ma
pouch an wind ma mither’s rosary tight roun them, press doun oan the cross wi ma thumb. Nae a day goes by ah dinnae feel the words ae that woman in ma bones, scratchin, burnin like a curse, thon Batchie Woman. Oh, me!

Jock turns his page, laughs tae hisself at somethin. ‘Whit’s that?’ Duncan asks.

‘Somethin about neds in daft shapes.’ He reads oot a few snippets.