The Tin-Kin (30 page)

Ye are ma good boy, aie will be. Look at ye. If ye could feel
me stroke yer cheek. Still rosy. They’ll nivver get wrinkles like mine. Thon cheeks. Break herts, that’s whit we said ye’d dae wi them.

Break herts!

Fer a second ah cannae catch a breath. Feels like ma ain auld chest is giein up the ghost fer good. ‘Enough!’ ah want tae shout. The pain’s like ah’ve been pierced through. But part ae me welcomes this, start ae the end, cause at the tail ae it there’ll be ma George. Ah’ll see aw ma bairnies whase wee bodies ah carried an then had tae kiss goodbye, gie back tae God. Ma Francis, poor Francis. Wee Georgina an Wee Peter. An ma Jock’ll be there noo. Ma Jock. Shaness! Shaness! He should nivver hae gone afore me. It’s oonnaitral.

Ah’m breathin again, deeply intae yer black hair which smells ae dust. The prison flair. Nivver broke a single hert, did ye? Nae till thon night. Whit did ah tell ye? Ah said it’d be the death ae me if thon wicked manishee wis right. Thon cursed Batchie Woman. Shaness! Curse the night her evil mither gied birth. Ah tak ma rosary in ma fammels an pull at thon beads till they might snap. Ah could choke wi the anger against her. Devil tak her tae a frozen grave! Or yer auld mither’ll murder her.

Ah drop the beads back in ma pouch. Ma fammels are shakin as ah pick up ma pipe an tak a lang sook. Ma throat’s raw an the smoke scaulds. Ah mustnae think evil things. Jock needs peace. Hush, wicked thoughts!

Ah’ve been watchin ower ye aw the time, ma Jock. Daein the sittin up. Keepin ye safe fae harm’s wye, haudin yer haund, smoothin yer hair. But ah hae tae rest a wee bit. Ah’ll hae tae keep mysel breathin a while yet cause somethin’s wrang here. Ah ken it in ma bones. Sure as ever, somethin’s sair aff.

There’s words restin oan yer lips. That’s whit’s gettin tae me. There’s words restin oan yer lips jist like after a kiss. Ah’m certain, feel it under ma chin, like a lump ae crust that willnae gang doun. It’s a secret ye needed yer auld ma tae ken. An aw
night an aw day ah’ve been strokin ma fingertip ower this wee patch oan yer heid, bitin ma tongue, haudin a feeling doun like a thump in the belly. Is this whit the secret’s oan? This wee patch under yer bonnie hair? Ye’ve got stitches in yer heid, son. An they werenae there when ye said yer last goodbye tae me that night.

Ah count them wi ma nail. Twenty-four. Rusty broon caked roun the threed.

Somewan’s come in the room. They’re movin aboot wi a bottle. Ah hear them light the Tilly, then shuffle fae the cupboard tae the sink.

‘Will ye hae a wee drink ae somethin?’

‘George?’ Is that his haund oan ma back? Ah put ma pipe doun.

‘Ma, it’s me. Yer confused. Ah’m nae Dad.’

He hauds a mug towards me, cannae look at his wee brother.

‘Ah’m nae wantin that. Tak it awa.’

He puts the mug oan the flair beside ma chair an he pulls up another an sits. Ah can still see ma Jock’s shadow oan the wall, fainter noo wi the light oan.

‘Ye ken the funeral’s sorted, Ma.’

Funeral. Duncan speaks oan it aw gentle, lookin intae ma lap. His voice sounds mair like Jock than hissel. Ah nod, rummle ma rosary roun ma pouch again. Eleven o’clock in ma kirk. The boys sorted it aw atween them. They chose a grave Jock would like, a place where he can see the herons on the loch. It’s a braw spot fer a picnic, a wee wander. Aw up in the sky he wis, ma Jock, wi his birds when he wis wee, an his planes.

‘Ma? Curly’s got his things taegither fer ye.’

‘Good. Good.’

‘Will ye nae keep anythin? Wan ae they wee wooden planes he did?’

‘Nae a thing mair. Ma Jock should be at peace, so the rest’s tae go.’

‘Aye, that it can,’ Duncan laughs. ‘Ye ken he’s got aboot five hundred cigarette cards an a great pile ae comics under thon bed ae his, wee brother.’

Duncan puts his haund ower his mou an it’s quiet again. Too quiet.

‘Hunners, eh? O ho! Ho! Ha! Ma Jock. Aw yer treasures.’

Ah reach ower an haud Jock’s haund, ma dear clever boy’s haund.

‘Ah can still smell the polish aff his shoes,’ ah say tae Duncan.

He did them that night, afore he left. He left the lid aff the tin an the brush oan his bed an it wis me put them back in the

shoebox. Ah cannae stop the tears ony mair.

Duncan leans ower ma chair an puts his arms roun his auld ma. He’s a strong man. Same build as Jugs. Different fae Jock. Different aw thegither. Ah feel his breath oan the top ae ma heid an bury ma face in his coat. It has the smell ae the whisky. But ah’ll no blame him fer that. Nae the day.

‘Ah miss him, Ma,’ he goes, his words aw broken. He willnae let his bairns see him like this, but wi his ma it’s different.

‘Think ae the bairnies,’ ah tell him, wipin ma eyes an giein him a pat oan the sleeve. He says nothin. He’s haudin his breath in. ‘Whit’s in thon cup, Duncan?’

He sounds relieved an reaches fer it. ‘A dram, Ma. Dae ye want it? Help ye rest a wee bit.’

‘Aye. Gies it here.’

‘We’ve gied some tae the girls. They were sair fae greetin.’

Ah nod an tak a swig. It burns aw the wye doun, burns sae weel ah cannae feel ma breath hurtin me nae mair. ‘Thon’s whit the doctor ordered,’ ah say. An ah let ma eyes rest back oan ma sleepin son, fine man that he wis. Ah wipe ma een again, an ah think ae thon wound. Twenty-four stitches. Nae doctor’s ony good tae us now.

‘Ah wonder wha put thon stitches in his heid,’ ah whisper. ‘Ye’ve seen them, have ye nae?’

Duncan nods. He’s pourin hisself a dram an aw. ‘We’ll find oot. Dinnae think ae that.’

But ah dae think ae it. Wha held the needle? How did he get hurt? Did he hae an accident? Wis he at the hospital? Who wis the last wan tae care fer him?

‘Ah hope she wis a bonnie lassie, the wan that stitched him,’ ah say, wipin the wet strands ae hair aff ma cheeks. ‘Ah hope she wis kind tae him.’

Ah jump at a sudden knock oan the door. Ah’m waitin fer news. An maybe that’s it come. Some answers. Duncan opens it.

‘Look who it is,’ he says, an he opens the door wide. Ah look up, hopeful, but it’s jist Big Mary. She’s come tae visit her auld auntie, then. Poor lassie. There’s nane left now tae marry her roun here. She’s nae the bonniest tae behold, nae very glamorous, ah’ll grant ye, but she’s awright oor Mary, nae a bad sort. Aw she’s wantin is a wee family. Her mammy wis Agnes, the sister born after me, an her daddy wis a McAllister. They both passed younger than the rest ae us, wan wi hert troubles, the ither wi pneumonia. Aw her sisters married, an her wan brother wis a piper, mauded in the war. So she’s the last, and that’s a terrible, lonely thing.

Big Mary’s gonnae heid south now, she says, and ah think it’s a gye shame fer her, aff awa by herself. Thon’s the greatest sadness fer oor fowk, bein aw alane. Pity ma Jock nivver saw past her appearance. But he wis still a boy. After his feet failed the test fer the services we aw thought he’d settle doun. We had hopes fer the pair ae them. But he held fast tae his dreams; planes an pin-ups an aw that poppycock they play at the picture hoose. He wanted tae bide happy ever after.

‘Ta fer comin by,’ says Duncan. Big Mary tiptoes across the room like she’s late fer a church service. The flairboards creak under her boots onywye.

Her face is aw red an she’s tryin tae haud in the tears as she looks fae Jock tae me. She hugs a biscuit tin close tae her bosie,
like it’s a bairnie. She doesnae say a word, but when she touches the coffin her voice breaks oot, suckin in a sob. She kisses Jock’s haund, gies him a lingerin look, then straightens up an blows her nose. Ah lower ma eyes.

It’s a song an dance death. Fowk hae been in an oot, coverin the wireless an the organ wi clouts, bringin me pieces in biscuit tins, funeral organisin, wantin tae ask me aboot stone inscriptions an this an that, bringin their condolences, payin their last respects. Whit church will we haud the funeral in? Ma’s Catholic wan, or Duncan an Curly’s Baptist wan? Cause the minister there’s a fine sort. Or shall we jist gang tae the Church ae Scotland like abody else? Aw the same tae me. Oor family belangs tae aw the different churches, when we go tae those places at aw. High in the mountains, next tae a bonnie burn, that’s where ah feel close tae God. An fer Jock it wis by the sea, watchin the birds like his daddy. It’s whit’s in yer hert that counts.

They’re worried. They dinnae like tae say, but ah ken that wi no wages fae Jock they’re wonderin how we can keep the rent up. The Bissaker an Jugs an Duncan were ootby talkin oan it, the council maybe puttin us in wan ae them new hooses. Nae thegither, though, aw in the wan hoose like we are here. The council wouldnae dae that, nae fer the likes ae us. There’s too many ae us, an it’s aie too much bother. So we’ll be separated. Maybe ah dinnae want tae stay here onywye. Ah lost George in this hoose, an now ma boy’s gone an aw, another wan. Oot oan the road we’d hae moved. We’d hae built a wee cairn first, tae let ither fowk ken it wis a place somewan passed, jist so they didnae pitch ower it. An then there’d be the burnin fer Jock. A great fire would be made ae aw his belongins tae set him free fae this world.

Then aff we’d go.

Ye hae tae let the mauded rest in peace. Ah cannae haud ontae them. Ainly a few bitties can be kept tae treasure for ever.
Pipes aff the musicians, a rosary like ah got aff ma mither, or a wee photie.

It’s later in the evenin when there’s an almighty crash ootside the front door. Ah throw ma haunds up, go tae the windae an pull back the curtain. Wha the Deil’s makin a noise like that wi ma Jock in here? Is it some news? Ah’m aw ready tae gie somewan a tellin, but aw ah see oot there’s a boy, fallen aff his bike oantae the cobbles. Ma temper melts awa.

‘Curly,’ ah breathe at the bottom ae the dancers, nae wantin tae shout. She appears in her doorway, a wee haund in hers. ‘Leave the bairn up there an watch him a moment,’ ah say. Curly pushes the quine back intae her room, closes the door an starts doun the dancers. She’s quiet, light oan her tramplers, almost like a ballerina.

Ah go oot the front door an stroll up tae the gate. The lad’s still dustin hissel aff, trickle ae blood runnin doun wan knee.

‘Are ye all right, son?’ ah ask. ‘Whit a wallop ye gied yersel.’ He’s leanin his bike oan the wall ae oor gairden.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry fer disturbin ye, Mrs Whyte, at a time like this.’

‘Eh. Were ye wan ae Jock friends, lad?’ ah ask, thinkin whit’s this tounie after? Maybe he worked wi Jock at the station.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m a reporter fer the
Courrant
.’

He hauds oot his haund. Ah swallow. That wis the paper ma Jock read, written by country fowk that nivver had a good word tae say aboot us. Ah willnae shake his haund, but this lad’s jist a young thing, must be jist oot ae the school. Ah look him up an doun, hook ma thumbs ower the waist ae ma skirt.

‘Whit is it yer wantin?’

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Whyte, and sorry about the noise oot here,’ he says again, goin red in the face. ‘We were wanting tae report what happened. If you didnae mind speaking tae me. Just the facts.’

Ah think aboot it fer a minute. The facts. Ah put ma haund in ma pocket an feel ma rosary. The boy waits. He looks me right in the een, this loun. He’s fair-haired, nae like ma Jock. But there’s somethin in his face that reminds me ae ma son.

‘The kettle’s oan. Come inside. Ah’ve pieces comin oot ma ears an aw. Perhaps ma son Duncan’ll tak a look at the brakes on thon bike ae yours.’

The loun smiles an ah tak him inside. Curly opens ma door as we go past an ah see him keek ower her shoulder fer a glimpse ae the body, wonder if he’s ever seen wan afore. Ah lead him intae Jeannie’s room an gie him a buttery piece, pour him a cup ae tea.

An these are his facts. Ah cannae get through them wiout a muckle good greet. But this is whit ah tell him.

Jock wis a healthy boy. Twenty-two years ae age. He wis a good boy, a clever lad jist like his faither had been, an nice tae his family. The bairns loved him. He wis nae fond ae the drink. By faith, his brothers are, but ah tell ye God’s truth, nae him. Jock worked at Elgin train station, but his dream wis tae be a pilot.

He went oot oan the evenin ae February twenty-fifth, nineteen fifty-five, an it wis cauld that night. Afore he left he asked his sister-in-law, Martha, tae sew a button back oan the waistcoat ae his uniform, which he’d need fer the followin mornin. He wis aie smart an handsome fer his work. He came in ma room, said ‘Cheerio, Ma,’ an then he went oot. He didnae say where he wis awa tae, but ah didnae like tae pry. Ah dinnae ken if he wis seein a lassie or whit.

That wis the last time ah saw ma boy alive. Later a neighbour said he’d seen Jock get lifted. He’d ainly been quadded wan or twa times afore, a good few years ago an aw. Jeannie an Wullie went up tae see aboot bail, but the police said he would hae tae be carried hame in a stretcher, he wis that bad. So they came awa. Ah couldnae sleep. At four in the mornin twa policemen came wi Jock’s wee dog. They said ma son passed awa in cell number twa ae the jail. It wis a terrible thing.

Duncan went tae Dr Grey’s Hospital. He’d tae gie them Jock’s name. They kept him a lang time up there, far too lang wiout him haein his family roun him. We’re sittin up wi Jock here now, keepin a candle lit.

He’s still a handsome loun, except fer the twenty-four stitches in his heid an the bruises oan his chest. The funeral’s the morra’s mornin. An they’re daein an inquest oan whit happened, but nae fer a month.

Inquest, ma arse, ah think tae myself. But thon’s the facts. An somehow ah ken it’ll be the ainly wans we’ll ever get. Ah dry ma een, an when ah can see again, the wee blond reporter looks like his buttery piece stuck in his throat. But ah’m finished talkin, so he swallows, an scribbles his facts doun in his notebook.

   PEACE