The Tin-Kin (2 page)

‘A Lady Lane lad?’ the toby asks.

Snake repeats the words back like a wrong answer, a schoolmaster about tae gie you the strap. ‘Lay-dee-Lane.’

‘First time I’ve seen him,’ goes the shadow.

Snake flicks ash on me.

‘Well, they’re all tink
sss
.’

I whisper a curse under my breath. Eat your mother’s . . . and I’ve barely shut my gob when the pain hits me another time. Back ae the heid. (
Sh-boom.
) He hunkers down tae crank cuffs on my wrists.

Suddenly, a bell! My heart rises. Someone’s come tae get me home!

But they take their time. The toby in the doorway puffs out bindweed smoke. It twists over the flagstones. His voice is slow, watchin. ‘Nasty cut, that,’ he goes, and it’s a while before he straightens up and heads away down the corridor after the bell. He leaves behind him the fraying ribbons ae ciggie smoke and a square ae light in the doorway.

The cuffs are cuttin in. I’m trapped, cheek on the slabs, trussed up like a bird in the butcher’s. There’s a whistle as Snake sooks in his breath, gathering his strength, and I harden myself, expect what’s coming. Any second now.

My brother’s been here often enough. He’s told me how it is with Munro. Snake’ll go for the ribs, the spine, the back ae the skull, the –

ONE!

He sinks his foot intae my kidneys. And TWO!

A toe-cap skims my ribs.

Everything inside goes hot, hunkered and dirty blood black. I cough and spit. When I’ve gasped a few lungfuls I start tae pull together again, remembering the outline ae my body, finding the centre ae the pain. I feel my breeks clinging tae my legs, hot and wet. Snake sneers over me. I’m nae better than a filthy animal. And again he beats his boot intae my side, hard, like he’s kicking a sack.

ONE!

TWO!

And ONE!

And TWO!

I curl, drag my knees tae my chest, loll over. My insides knit together and my voice comes out in gulps, a crackly wireless. The noise makes him laugh. I better shut up before the joke runs dry so I squeeze my eyes shut and picture myself at home: my camp bed with the poky springs, my aeroplane books and the wee planes I’ve carved, the clicking ae Ma’s knitting needles.
Duncan sits halfway up the dancers on the creaky step, polishing shoes. Curly and Jeannie cosy in round the fire. They’re sookin on spoonfuls ae sugar and margarine, telling stories. Wee Betsy does her homework at the table. She squints at sums and chews the end ae her pencil.

Snake twists over me, peering down like I’m something he’s stepped in. He plays a game, tucks dribbling kicks round my ribs and up ontae my face. I feel the tacks on his soles as he scuffs past my cheek. And then he brings his heel down. My heart goes crack.

My heart gets a kick start. I taste metal, choke the stuff up, but straight away more gushes in, gurgling mouthfuls ae soup. I cough dark and thick, and sobs jump out like soap suds bursting.

Later, Snake straightens my body on the floor. My insides groan and roll like he’s tippin the world over. He grabs a fistful ae hair and hauls my heid up tae slip something under. And just then there’s this amazing smell, so good I want tae drown in it.

Perfume! It’s her scarf! She draped it round my neck after we left Peter’s, and it’s still soggy from the rain and sweet from her skin. The scarf’s more than just damp, though. Soon it feels wet under my heid, drookit. The scent ae it’s so beautiful. I could wrap it over my face, this wonderful thing. It could make me invisible. I want tae breathe it right intae myself. But I cannae breathe it in. I’ve no breath at all! And now I remember another thing. I was at the hospital tonight, lying on the fresh blue and white striped linen. It could be years ago but I ken it was just a few hours past.

Snake sniffs, spits a bit. Perhaps the dust gets tae him. He turns tae leave.

‘My dog!’ I want tae shout after him. But I stay quiet. Nae enough puff. Every breath’s like sucking through a stalk. I cannnae get it back. Count! I think. Breathe! I wonder if I’m having an attack like thon manny at the station. We’d tae gie him a bag tae breathe with.

My wish comes true. I’m sinking intae the scarf, disappearing. But it hurts. I think ae a beetle on its back, screaming ‘Wrong way up!’, its legs frantic. I hold myself tight, tight, tighter, squeezing my ribs like ropes round bundles ae rags. A man takes each end of a rope, and they pull. The cloth gets compressed intae bails.

I’ve no breath left in me now. My insides are going tight. The bails ae cloth are thrown on the lorry and the men get their wages. The lorry drives off, down Lady Lane and up High Street. They watch it get smaller and smaller and smaller.

I’m still now, very still. The thoughts in my heid have folded up, like clothes going in a suitcase.

I’m gone! I was gone in a blink!

But I can feel something in my hand. My hands were empty, but there’s something there now, real as rain, just like how I felt my watch strap days after I pawned it. Wide open space. A hundred thousand faces. A place that smells like the beach, and tastes ae peat and berries and pokes ae chips. Planes that fly over oceans.

A world so small it would slip through a buttonhole.

   WINDFAAS   

Auld Betsy, 1954

Ah met the Batchie Woman when ah wis ainly a young dilly. It wis the same summer ah met George, an ah wis already carryin oor first, wee Georgina. Ever since then ah’ve been sure the Batchie Woman’s got the gift, an fer better or worse, ah aie heed her visions. They’re fairly clearer than the few ah’ve had mysel ower the years. O ho!

Yesterday ma nephew the Bissaker came back fae work sayin the Batchie Woman wis needin a word wi me. ‘A wee bit ae bother she’s wantin aff her chest,’ that’s whit he cried it. That wis aw ah could get oot ae him, though, an since then ah cannae think ae ony ither thing. Ah’ve sat wonderin whit her ‘wee bit ae bother’ means.

The Bissaker cries the Batchie Woman’s work ‘auld wifey’s footerin’. He doesnae tak ony ae it tae hert. Ainly believes in things he can sell. O ho! Ho! Ha! Rags an scrap metal are that loun’s ainly faith! But the Batchie Woman foretelt his ain birth, years ago. She kent aw aboot his scrap yard, even then. She kent afore abody that he’d buy thon place an mak a winner ae it, an that a year later he’d hae jobs tae gie aw oor breed. Sure enough, within a year ae him takin oan the yard we were aw speakin ae leavin the camps, comin aff the road, shiftin intae hooses in the toun. When the Batchie Woman tellt his mither aboot that vision, she said she saw it aw happenin in the shadow ae Lady Hill.

Ah shout up the dancers tae Curly an the bairnies that ah’m aff tae see her noo, an closin the door ahint ae me ah look ower
the rooftops across the Lane. Risin above them’s the brow ae Lady Hill, an this mornin mair than ever afore it nods tae me like it wis leanin doun tae whisper in ma lug. ‘Whit did ah tell ye? The Batchie Woman’s nae a circus act, right enough, an Auld Betsy’s nae a bloody fool!’ O ho!

Ah walk alang the Lossie tae reach her wee cottage. It’s nae far, but the path’s uneven an her hoose is easy tae miss. It’s circled wi trees an high hedges so fowk cannae peer intae her windaes. She’s nae patience fer interferin an nosyness. Fowk nivver see the Batchie Woman in toun. When she’s got somethin tae chew ower wi ye she sends a message tae come tae her cottage. But even fowk who’ve known her a hale lifetime dinnae ken much aboot her ain story. Naebody’s got a clue how auld she is. Ah remember bein twenty mysel, a fair whilie ago noo let me tell ye, o ho! But the Batchie Woman had somethin ae the auld wifey aboot her even then. The rumour is she’s put twa husbands in an early grave, an ah can believe that. Ah’ve nivver seen her wi ony bairnies or grandbairnies, an she bides alane these days wi nae sae much as a cat fer company. There wis a time she kept chickens an a goat, but nae ony mair.

Fowk say beasts wilnae even enter her gairden noo. Jugals dig their paws in at the gate, an the closest the wee birdies fly is the trees ower the water. Some say her gift’s turned wicked. Spoiled.

Oan the wye alang the path ah pass the place where George asked me tae be his woman. It feels a lifetime ago, an it almost is, ah suppose. Ah aie stop here onywye, tak a wee rest an remember him. That summer ma faimly wis travellin wi his, stoppin in aw the same places, an wan evenin ah met George oot alane, here in Elgin. Ah wis oan ma wye tae fetch Father fae the bar afore he drank the week’s wages, but when George offered tae tak me tae the showies instead ah forgot. O ho! Mither wis horn-mad wi me later oan, wi Father in the doldrums ae the drink an nae a sign ae me. But they werenae harsh aboot it. It wis
easy tae see ah’d been swept aff ma tramplers! O ho! Ho! Ha! An they were pleased. They’d aie liked George. It wis ainly a few months after that ah found ah wis haein his bairnie, an that wis enough fer us so we nivver bothered wi a weddin.

The Batchie Woman wouldnae utter a word tae me aboot Wee Georgina. She’d ae been oor eldest. Ah learnt aw sorts ae other things that first visit, though: that George would be a good man tae me; that we’d hae nine bairns; that we’d be happy. She wis right aboot aw those things. Except we ainly had eight bairns ae oor ain. Jock’s the eighth. Ma good boy, Jock. After he wis born an a few years had passed, ma George counted aw the heids roun oor campfire oan wan haund, an aw the poor wee souls that should ae been there but werenae oan the other. Then he says tae me, ‘The Batchie Woman wis wrang then, Betsy, we’ve ainly ever had eight.’

It did seem that wye fer a while, an aw the time ah felt like a goose wi a missin gosling. O ho! Ho! Ha! In a silly dwam, ah wis! But by faith, nae lang after that a terrible thing happened. Ma poor, dear sister, bless her sweet soul, wis taken by consumption just a month after her first baby wis born. A dreadful tragedy. But that’s whit brought her wee Francis intae oor nest. The Batchie Woman nivver tellt a lie. We had oor ninth bairn.

Ah’ve lost mair bairns than a mither ever should. Francis, Peter, an Wee Georgina, ma very first. She nivver lived tae see a sunrise. Ah’m sure the Batchie Woman saw that sad night months afore it happened an didnae dare speak a word ae it.

Ah’m standin at her gate noo, wonderin if it’s true aboot the beasts nae wantin in her gairden ony mair. There’s a lone rook ower the Lossie crawin awa at me, an ah wonder if it’ll fly closer if ah wait. But then the Batchie Woman’s curtains twitch. O ho! She kens ah’m here afore ah’ve even chapped oan the door.

Ah tak a step an feel somethin soft under ma shoe. A ploom. Ah nearly squashed it. There’s a hale apronworth ae the great muckle fruits oan the ground, dark purple an blue an
juicylookin. Windfaas. They come fae the trees at the top ae the Batchie Woman’s gairden an must’ve rolled aw the wye tae the gate. Normally ah’d pick a few up, sink ma teeth intae them. Ah love plooms, straight fae the tree an still warm fae the sun, stewed intae jam, steamed in a puddin or baked wi sugar. They’re grand. But somethin’s nae right aboot these. They’re too fine, perfectly roun like giant black marbles, aw the same size, an nae a bruise, nae sign ae a bitter, unripe side, or a single mushy, fusty bit atween them. So why’s naebody been by tae pick or tae scrump them? The ploom skins are full tae burst wi ripe flesh. Ah can smell the sweetness. But they’re nae hummin wi wasps or dusty like ye’d normally find them. These plooms hae a deep satin shine, like a greengrocer’s sat polishin them wi a lovely clean white hanky aw mornin. Ah go doun oan ma hunkers an turn a few ae the fruits ower. By God! The underbellies are perfect an aw. Dirt wilnae cling tae the skins, an nae a wan ae the bonnie fruits is flawed by a single worm’s hole, marked by fox’s jaws or a beastie’s sookin tongue. Not even a bird’s peck. They’re untouched, smooth as stanes.

Ah tak a deep breath, mindin ae the Bissaker’s words. ‘A wee bit ae bother.’ Ah wonder whit it’s oan. Last time ah wis in this hoose ah asked the Batchie Woman aboot ma Jock. Maybe it’s somethin oan him. A wee bit ae bother. But Jock’s a good boy. Ah’m sure if she had a vision aboot him it’d be a marriage wi a bonnie dilly. He’s at that age. Twenty-one. Ah feel lighter as ah start towards the door. Maybe that’s aw this vision ae hers is. A wife fer ma youngest son.

Ah’m nearly at the top ae the gairden path noo, but ah still cannae see the Batchie Woman’s face. It’s aw darkness inside the hoose. Jist afore ah reach the front step an the door opens wide, ah hear a thud. Anither ripe ploom falls fae the tree, unplucked an unpecked. It rolls past ma tramplers, makin fast fer the gate.