The Tin-Kin (5 page)

Dawn. You in, hen?

Was he still around? Very likely. On the way back from the supermarket she’d pushed Maeve right up High Street in the buggy. It had been risky, but she’d been hot and exhausted and
it was a short cut. Folk had been hurrying round the shops, weighed down by bags, irritated by heat, traffic and narrow pavements. Cars had been coming and going from the new garden centre and the DIY superstore. They’d been at a standstill on the roundabout by the leisure centre, drivers and passengers all with long faces, some of them sucking on sweeties or slurping fizzy drinks from the petrol station. A busier place than the one she’d left behind.

Warren would have been somewhere amongst it all. He’d have heard she was back, especially if there was a death notice. His mother had always scoured the local rag from cover to cover. No wonder Dawn had already got a phone call. The bastard wasn’t going to let her get too comfy. After her bath she’d check again that the chain was on, and only then would she relax, listen to music for a while. The songs got stuck in her head sometimes, especially the silly ones that made Maeve laugh.

I’ve got tears in my ears from lying on my back
In my bed while I cry over you

She was humming by the time she got out the bath, pulled the plug and rubbed her hair in a towel. She checked the chain was on the door. She tippy-toed into the kitchen, her feet making tacky prints on the red lino which Maeve would have hopped into, playing stepping stones, if she’d been awake.

Look how tiny my feet!

Dawn thought she might as well take a peek in the parcel. Drips from her face soaked into the brown paper while she tore it. Inside were Aunt Shirley’s clothes in a plastic sack.

She put the kettle on. It was a whistler. It took ages to boil, but Shirley had never wanted to change it for a new one. Maybe she was right. There was something soothing in the sound of the
steam building, water gradually beginning to bubble. All the mugs were dirty. Dawn opened a high cabinet on the wall to look for more and found the shelves crammed. Another hiding place? A plate fell out, skimming past her cheek, shattering on the worktop. Shit, she whispered, hearing Maeve’s drowsy moan in the bedroom and praying she wouldn’t wake up. If she did, it would take another hour to settle her back.

But Maeve slept. She was good at sleeping, lovely to watch. Dawn adored that. She sat down and went through the pockets of Shirley’s skirt and apron, hoping she might find a tenner. The skirt pockets were empty apart from a balled-up paper hanky. Everything smelt of talc and dry-cleaned tweed. The apron pocket seemed empty too, but when Dawn checked it she found a bit of paper inside, the article cut from the local paper. It was folded neatly in four. On one side were things for sale, nothing circled, on the other side a news story.

Travellers do Battle to Stay Put

Below the headline was a photo, a disgruntled woman leaning against a fence, and behind it a scrubby patch of land. At the end of the story a meeting was announced in italics. Dawn assumed her aunt had intended to go. She threw the cutting in the bin and went back to the remaining things on the table. A pair of spectacles, a packet of sweetpea seeds and a half-eaten Toblerone, Shirley’s favourite.

Chocolate was Shirley’s small pleasure, but she’d only ever eaten half a bar at a time. It seemed a shame now. Dawn had a sudden pain, an inkling of doubt. She wondered if someone may be watching. Usually that feeling meant she had to check again, the question not leaving her alone. Was anyone outside? Was the chain on the door? Was Maeve tucked up in bed? She double checked, just to be safe, but the feeling didn’t go away. She sat
back down and turned the Toblerone over and over, pushing the feeling down every time a wave of it rose up. If Shirley was here, they’d have been watching television now, dunking digestives into tea, reading
Take a Break
, which Shirley had delivered each week. She would have to remember to cancel the subscription with the newsagents.

At the bottom of the parcel sat a pair of beige shoes. Someone had tied the laces. Dawn put her fingers inside. Whenever she packed a suitcase she always stowed little things in her shoes, socks and jewellery. Sure enough, stuffed into a toe was a white envelope and inside it was a pair of gold earrings, a chain and a pendant. The last time Dawn had seen the pendant it was hanging round Shirley’s neck. She’d never taken it off except to have a bath.

Now, holding it close, Dawn could see a tiny crack. She lifted the pendant to her ear and shook it. She looked again. There was a tightly pressed seam and in the centre was a notch just big enough for a fingernail.

In the garden the birds were falling asleep one by one. It was getting darker. The clock ticked in the other room and she heard raised voices again in the downstairs flat. A car started and then drove away at a pelt out the front. But Dawn’s attention was on the pendant.

It needed a little coaxing, but soon it lay on her palm, split open like a walnut. Inside was a single lock of hair bound with old thread. Dawn looked at it for a long time, admiring its sheen in the darkening kitchen, and inside a feeling danced around her. A tiny searchlight on a wide sea.

  SHOE  

Jock, 1954

Nancy’s coxcomb is the pride ae the close. A bonnie golden curl hanging like a crescent moon over her wee forehead. But right now she’s bawling murder. There’s a great gummy knot glued tae the coxcomb, still wet from her big sister’s gob. We’ll have tae snip it off.

‘Uncle Jock,’ Wee Betsy swears tae me, ‘the gum fell on Nancy’s head
by accident
!’

So what I saw coming round the corner wasnae Wee Betsy clartin the sticky mess down intae the hair, but trying tae get it out. That’s the story? Gum. How did she get her hands on gum?

‘CURLY!’ I shout up the dancers. Where the devil is she? I’ve the door tae the Lane wide tae the world behind me, nipping wind at my back, Baby Nancy stuffed under one arm, my free hand trying tae pull Wee Betsy inside, and there’s nae sign ae the woman. These are nae even my bairns!

‘CURLY!’

While all this goes on, the pesty Bissaker’s waiting in the Lane tae ask about a job. Last thing I want is him seeing me like this, hanging on the kinchins like an old fishwife. He’s the boss, even if he is my cousin. This place! So much for a welcome home from work.

Thank Heaven. The door at the bottom opens and here’s my old ma.

‘Oh, Jock. Would ye look at ye? Ha! Yer a good boy. Where’s Curly? An thon brother ae yours? Will they nae look after their ain bairnies?’

Her voice is low and creaky like the floorboards.

I press my lips together and nod at the baby, who’s about tae wipe snotters down the lapel ae my uniform. Curly’s likely tae be up the drying green, and who knows where bloody Duncan’s got tae. Down the yard maybe, or away drinking his wages. With a swing, I propel Nancy right intae her granny’s arms and she stops wailing. Thank the Good Lord.

When Ma spots the gum in the coxcomb she’s dumbfoonert. She takes the clay pipe out her mouth and her lips make an ‘
Oh!
’ shape. No sound comes out at all. If it wasnae for the ruined coxcomb I’d think she was trying tae blow a smoke ring.

She whispers, still gasping in her breath. ‘Oh, me! Oh, no! Oh, but that’s a shame. By faith, whit-a-shame!’

What else can I do but nod and breathe ‘Aye’ a few times as Ma mourns the curly coxcomb. Wee Betsy’s half hidden behind me, peeking at her granny from round the side, trying to wipe her gummy fingers. Ma looks up from the baby.

‘Oh, shaness, Wee Betsy! Whit-a-shame!’

‘Aye,’ I say, kickin my boot against the loose board. ‘But an accident, I’m sure ae it, Ma.’

She snaps back quicker than a swatch. ‘Oh, you, Jock, jist like you tae be sayin that. Ye’ve aie been a saftie wi her. Thick as thieves, the pair ae ye.’

Wee Betsy and me follow her down the hall and intae her room. She opens the drawer for a comb and scissors and ignores me trying tae defend us.

‘It fell out her mouth, Ma. I was watchin.’

But there’s no arguing with the old woman, so I take the easy way out.

‘Tell your granny what happened, Wee Betsy. I’m away for a drink with the Bissaker. See yous later.’

I push my niece in front ae me. A secret wink, and I get a wee smile off her. ‘Aye,’ she’s sayin. ‘Granny, it’s God’s honest truth.’

Wee Betsy’s a toughie and I am too soft, Ma’s right about that. But she’s a good girl and most ae the time I dinnae mind her hanging about my room or helping her with homework. It’s the school that teaches her tae be so canny. She writes already, left-handed just like her granny. Nae that Ma can write, mind. I’m the one that writes her letters, and she just signs her name with a cross.

I hurry intae my skivvies and the Bissaker winks as I come outside with the dog following at my heels. Some help the Bissaker is! He’s still chuckling tae himself about all the commotion.

‘Rascal, go on, lad,’ I say, ignoring my cousin.

We’re turning intae the High Street at the bottom ae the Lane when suddenly there’s an almighty screech. Nancy’s gurning again. Ma must be tugging at her with the comb tae see if there’s anything tae be done about the curl. If you ask me, the poor wee thing would prefer scissors.

We go tae the Vicky. The landlord’s nae a bad sort. He sees us most evenings. The Bissaker cries a couple ae screwtops and rakes in his bag for change. He wears the leather shoulder bag when he goes hawking round the doors. When folk hand him smaller bits, anything takin his fancy goes straight in the pouch. Duncan does the same when it’s his turn and the Bissaker doesnae mind. A few times my brother’s even had Wee Betsy along with him on the cart. Folk are more generous if they see you’ve bairns tae feed, and she aie comes away with a pocketful ae biscuits.

‘Ah’ve somethin here fer you, Jock.’

‘Oh?’

We take a seat at a narrow table near the back. It’s a bit unsteady on its one leg, could do with a tighten up. I lean down and push my fingers intae Rascal’s long grey hair. He lays on the floor like a good jugal, a good boy.

‘A bonnie wee thing,’ the Bissaker’s saying, ‘nae use tae me. Fer that dilly ae yours maybe.’

He raises his voice and gies me one ae them looks. I go red at my secret. My dilly. She’s country folk, nae from travelling stock like us, and Ma’s nae been told. Nae by me any road.

The Bissaker footers round in the bag, then lays something on the table in front ae his bottle.

‘There, that’s fer the dilly. Dinnae say I never gie ye anythin.’

It’s a child’s slipper, velvet, patterned with emerald triangles, a fur ankle trim, and a wooden heel that clip-clops on the table-top when the Bissaker trots it over tae me, a twinkle in his eye. The wee thing’s already got tae be a hundred years old, and it looks so delicate in his big hands! She’ll love it. I nod thanks and drop the slipper in my jacket pocket without a word.

We talk about the yard and the horses. I call two Double Centuries and kind ae hope Duncan will get here and liven things up. I delve a hand down beside the tiny slipper. The Bissaker’s blethering and I hum and haw, nae really listening. I’m thinkin about Lolly, our meeting at the Playhouse the other night after it closed. I arrived early tae stand outside and spy her in the booth, behind glass, counting the evening’s takings.
Seagulls over Sorrento
was on the bill with
Mexican Manhunt
.Lolly tidied her curls, smoothed her powder-blue cardigan, bit her lower lip, threw worried glimpses at the clock. All this cause it was me walking her home! At the door, ‘CINEMA’ blinked in lights above me. They sparkled on Lolly’s nail polish, on her pearls, in the look she gave me.

When she finished work we went the dark, back road where naebody would see and nae tobies were likely tae be nosing round. We’ve our own quiet place, near the hole in the river where Ma’s got the wee kinchins believing the Devil stays. Devil try and stop me! I feel like Mister Magpie with a diamond in his nest.

Beneath the table, my hand keeps goin back tae the pocket. My fingertips travel round the rim ae the slipper. This was a thing ae luxury and riches once, warm fur, silk, soft velvet. I slip
two fingers inside, right up tae my knuckles, down tae where the toes should be, and stroke the lining.