Prodical's Return

Ma's not home yet, it's her first week up at Menzie's.  Peter doesn't seem to be in either.  We make for the scullery where Mary lights the stove for heat, setting some bread under the grill, as I climb up on the chair to fill the kettle from the tap.


We settle with our toast and mugs of tea in front of the telly, watching Top Cat giving Officer Dibble the run-around. Just as the credits begin to roll, a key scrapes the lock, and Peter's head pokes round the door.

"Ma not back yet?"

We shake our heads.

He flops beside me, helping himself to a slice my toast, "I've seen Da, he was up by the docks with Uncle Jimmy."

Mary looks at him, "Did he speak to you?"

"Aye, he saw me.  He said to tell Ma he's coming back now.  And he gave me thruppence."

Typical, Peter always gets the money out of him.  I pretend not to care. "When's he coming?  Tonight?"

"Aye, I think so."

Mary looks to be sucking on a lemon, "That's good then, Ma'll be pleased."

And sure, 'course she will, and what's wrong with that?  Seems Mary's never happy 'less she's miserable.      

I turn the telly over searching for cartoons, but they appear to have finished.

                                      _____________


Ma is pleased, not that she say's as much but it's easy to tell.  She's washed her hair and tidied herself up, and even sent Peter off to fetch minced beef from the Butcher.  We're ordered to clear up our rooms and not to make any mess.

Dipping chunks of bread into the steaming gravy, we eat our mince and tatties at the kitchen table, wiping our plates clean.  It's Peter's turn to do the dishes, so carrying my plate to the sink, I head into the living room to join Ma, watching "Peyton Place".  But she is too distracted to settle much into it, fidgeting and watching the clock. When Peter comes through, she has him repeat exactly what it was Da said to him, and he dutifully recounts it to her for the umpteenth time. 

Nearing bedtime, Ma finally decides to send me down to Beep-Beep's.  I don't know it's real name, but it's the bar on the corner next to our tenement block, where Da usually drinks.  She wants me to check out if he's in there, tell him to come on up home if he is.

                       ______________________________

The bar is crowded, music, cigarette smoke, and conversation seep out through the swing doors as, peeping through the archway, I scan for his face.  A rich, beer-soaked shout call out, "Hey Larry, look - your bairn's here!"

A rumble of laughter ensues and another voice pipes in, "Ehh, you're in trouble now, man!"

Da laughs too, says something funny.  They all split their sides.  He puts down his pint, arms beckoning, "Hey Karen, c'mere."

Perched high on a bar-stool, a packet of crisps and a bottle of lemonade in hand, I swing my legs and deliver my message.

"Later."  He says, and buys me a box of chocolates from behind the counter.  Da's buddies fawn over me, me being the best wee girlie in town.  No-one is in any rush to go home, least of all me, sitting here basking in my glow.  It's only after last orders are well and truly over that we make for the door.

His yeasty breath meets the sharp night air, switching his sway into more of a stagger, as his feet struggle to carry him on home.  Oblivious, I skip up ahead, cradling what's left of my chocolates under my arm.  Turning, I run to take all three flights of stairs in one fell swoop.

Rapping on the door, I hear Da huffing below, leaning heavily on the banister rail, as he makes his way up.

The door opens to Ma's closed face.  Upset, she signals me through, motioning me on to bed.  Sensing trouble, I gladly go on.

Changing, I climb under the covers next to Mary, listening out for  voices in the hall.  Relieved it all seems fine enough, with them only just talking, settling down I turn, snuggling into my sister to  steal her warmth, I relax and drift off..

                          ________________________

My senses snap alert.

A loud wail.

Next to me Mary also stiffens.  She too is wide awake.  We lie silently side by side, listening, trying to work out what's happening. 

Da's voice is raised and angry, he's shouting at Ma.  She, sobbing, in lower notes is trying to placate, dampen the fire of his beer fueled rage.  I can't hear what's being said, their voices are too distorted to decipher, his with the booze, hers by her pain.

My belly twists a lump of lead in my gut. 

Huddled 'neath the blanket, we are become frozen lumps of stone, straining to fathom the timbre and tone, we shallow our breath and with thrumming hearts, immobilised by the gravity of our dull, draining dread, strain our ears to outside the hallway.


Da crashes out from the living room, his heavy foot-falls thudding down the hall.

Oh no.

They stop outside our door.  Barely breathing, we pretend sleep.  The handle rattles, opens, and light spills over the room.  Squinting through half slitted eyes, I see Da's hunched bulk leaning silhouetted against the door frame.

Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I lie still hearing him breathe, watching us.

He hesitates, perhaps he thinks we really are asleep?  He enters anyway, his weight tilting the mattress as he sits on the edge, his eyes now itching my face.

"Karen?"  He touches my shoulder.  Asleep or awake, he still wants to talk.  Smelling his beer, smoke and despair, I open my eyes.  We've already heard the shouting, pleading, the hard, sharp blows, but he chooses ignorance, safe I can't call him to account.

He sighs, "Ah Karen, your mother, she's a funny woman."

He doesn't mean she is funny to laugh with, just she's strange, odd, not right in the head.

I don't respond, willing him silent.  Eyes welling up to display his misery, he seeks my comfort.  "She's the stupidest woman this length of Commerce Street, aye, and from the start of Castlegate and back an' all!  Thick!  Not a brain-cell to her, neither there is, she just pure disgusts me, so she does."  He weaves an arm around to demonstrate his frustration, "She hasn't even the intelligence of a - a budgie, y'know?"

It doesn't matter what I know.  I know I hate it when he talks about her like that. I know the tremble in my throat every time she cries, the ache for air in my lungs each time he gets mad at her. I also know to my shame I am far too gutless to make him stop. I know a lot of things, but I also know he doesn't want me to know all that I know, so I simply lie quiet, allowing him his rant, wishing him done.  Yet.  Still my heart twists for him, he, my father, this man whom I cannot fail to still love.

He pulls out his hankie and gives a loud blow.  "Aw, c'mere wee Karen and give me a big hug.."

I lean up on one elbow and am enveloped in his musky scents. Pressing his lips to my ear, he murmurs, "I love you, me wee darlin', you're the bestest out of all of them, so you are."

I know this to be so (as does Mary now, too, feigning sleep next to me).  I hate it when he slobbers all weepy and sentimental like this, it's a precursor.  It's the set routine for what will doubtlessly follow on.  Sure enough, though it's no surprise, hearing it said still has the power to slice the flesh from my bone.  I believe his words afresh, and that it's true, he is leaving me forever, never to be seen again.

"Ach, it's breaking me heart, wee Karen, I've only come to say goodbye.  I'm the baddie, I'm the big, bad wolf - that's what you'll be thinking.."

"No, no Da, I won't."

"Aye, hush now, it's true, that's what she'll tell you, I know she will.  And you'll believe her, of course, as you must."

"No, please Da!"  I can't help it, sobbing now, "Da, please don't go, don't leave.."

"I have to, bonny lass, 'tis the only way, I have to go.  This is it, I'm going for good, but just remember - I'll always, always love you." 

Now he's blubbing too.  I'm still begging but shaking his head, he holds me tight.  He won't ever come back, never.

Mary's given up playing dead, wet cheeks, nose running, she lunges her arms out, clinging for dear life to him, "No Da, pleaaaase don't leave us, please Da, we need you!"

He holds us both in his tight embrace, three of us locked in a huddle of pain.  Gently, he brushes us off, swaying to his feet.

"Shhhhhhhh now, it's okay, you look after your sister now, Mary, y'hear?"

"No Da!"  she wails, "Come back, please Da!"

He points, nailing us to stay.

Finding the door, he closes it behind.

             __________________________________


We listen to the grief and the sorrow of Ma trying to cajole him away from his mission, but he's set and having none of it.  I visualise his battered case as I hear it snap shut.  Ma runs out with him, her calls echoing off the cold tile walls.

Finally, a click of the latch, and she comes back indoors to greet the silence of her loneliness.

Sandra

The double-decker bus sighs to a halt, and we disembark from the open platform to catch Ma, who's already way in the lead.  Mary and Peter trot with me on either side, as we scurry to keep pace.  She's on a mission, intently marching on ahead against the early evening drizzle. 

No idea where she is headed, half-jogging, we take in the wide, grassy stretches of lawn-flanked pavement standing sentry before row upon row of flat, trimmed hedge, guarding the uniformly neat and tended gardens laid behind.  Everything is so green and open, my head is on a swivel trying to drink it all in.

Finally Ma, finding where she is, stops and pauses for us to catch breath.

"Stay here a minute, I'll not be long."

She lifts the latch and sets down the path, as we huddle, necks craning to see where she's gone.  Lifting the knocker, Ma, jaw set, sharply gives it three loud raps.

Peter absent-mindedly plucks a leaf from the hedge, eyes never leaving her back.  Cold, I shove my hands deep into my pockets, squinting at the shape I see move past the window.  The door half opens, and a slender woman peeps out, smiles.  A little boy, perhaps no more than two, thrusts himself past her legs to gawk up and see who's calling.

"Hello Barbara, your sister home?"

The woman's smile fades, "She's working.  What is it you're after now, Elsie?"

"Tell her I've been, that I know what she is."

"Oh aye?  And what would that be?"

Ma turns and beckons to us.  Hesitantly, we file down the path.  The wee boy grins and says something to me, but uncertain yet whether to be friendly, I simply twist my mouth up as he meets my gaze.

"See these kids?"  Ma pulls me closer, "These are Larry's bairns, so they are, do you hear me?"  Embarrased, I try to wriggle away, but she holds me tight, "You tell her, and you tell that man of mine, his bairns are going without back at home, whilst he and that whore of a sister of yours is squandering the food right from out of their bellies, -"

Barbara, pushing the lad back behind her, snorts, "Now just a wee minute, here!"   Face sealed and closed, her voice is coldly clipped, "Our Sandra is far from desperate enough to cast her eye over your pathetic excuse for a man.  Who in their right head would be that hard up?"

"Just you tell her, and be sure to tell them both - I'm on to the pair of them, where they're at and what they're up to, you hear?"

"So what's that to me?  Away you go off and tell them yourself, since you're so well in the know, and be sure to mind to take this scabby litter of yours off away from my doorstep n'all, as you go!"  Making to close the door, she yanks the little boy farther in by his scruff, spitting a parting shot, "Small wonder if the poor sod's run off, with a nutter the likes of you to put up with at home."

The slammed door is far from enough to dissuade Ma from having her say.  Bending down, she lifts the letterbox, "Aye, that's right, run off and hide then.  You and that slag of a sister of yours are both one and the same, I even hear the Da of yon bairn there had to draw lots from the entire regiment, 'fore you guessed at who planted him.. ?"

Mortified, we watch, trying to avoid eye-contact with the small crowd of passer's-by who've begun to linger to enjoy the show.  Peter attempts to intervene, tugging at Ma's arm, "Ma, please, just leave it, eh?"

But she's only got her second breath, and on her knees, through the open flap, she continues to shout, "I can stay here all day and night if needs be - stop shielding the tramp and send her down, I'm going no where 'til I see her - too scared to face me are you then, bitch?  I know you can hear me."

By now, half the bloomin' street can hear her.

The upstairs window slides up and a head pops out.  It's not Barbara, but someone younger with curly, dark hair.  Ma pulls herself up with a triumphant curse, "Aye, see, there you are!  I knew, I knew it!  What did I say?"

"Go home you crazy, mad cow, I wouldn't touch your ugly, old man with a barge-pole, an alkie like that?  What do you think I am?  You're welcome to him, Dearie, aye, if you can ever find him, that is."

Ma is almost fixing to climb up and pull her down by the hair now, so furious is she.  "You need to watch your mouth so you do, and your back, come to that - "

Peter has heard enough, he steps between her and the door, forcing her to face him.  "C'mon Ma, let's go."  He grasps her arm, "Leave it, it's time to go home."

"See?  Look, even those poor bairns of yours have more sense than to stand here.  Some mother you are, God help them.  Go and bugger off back to where you came from, and give us all a rest."

Mary joins with Peter, "Ma, it's cold, let's go back, eh?"

Sandra's head disappears, and the window bangs shut.  Ma still stands her ground, watching as the curtains pull tight.  Peter gives a sigh, "Ma?"

Focusing, she suddenly becomes aware of the small audience we've attracted.  Pulling her spine straight, she turns on them, "What?  What you staring at?  Got a problem then, have you?"

No one has a problem. 

Disappointed, they slope away.

Ma grabs my hand.  "Alright, come along children, no point in over-staying our welcome, is there?"

The drizzle has turned to soft rain, droplets of moisture mist our face, dampening our hair.

So this is where Da is, then? 

Crossing through the gate, I tear a leaf from the privet-hedge, placing it in my pocket.  It feels cool and smooth between my fingers.

I wonder if he'll want us to live here, too?

Sandra would need to go.

House on Fire

.

A cold March wind cuts through my coat, icing my spine. Sticking ma’s hand in mine into her pocket, I trot to keep pace, head down, avoiding the cracks on the pavement. She pulls me along, past the warm, yeasty whiff from the bakery grate, circumnavigating the wicker baskets displayed outside the Ironmongers store, we cross the road and turn up in to Union Street.


The three brass balls above the pawnshop glint off the clear hard sky. Headscarf fluttering against the breeze, ma lifts the latch. Crossing the doorstep, a bell jangles our arrival, as the familiar smells of shoe-polish, damp leather and musty cloth swim up our nostrils. I like this place, it’s stuffed from floor to ceiling with multitudes of pieces of other peoples’ lives. There is always far too much to see on only one visit, especially if the visit is as short-lived as ours usually is.


Perched in front of rows and rows of over-stuffed shelving, is a line of glass-covered display cabinets. These house a plethora of valuable trinkets, gems and chains, each one neatly ticketed and priced up in bold, black pen. Like a pin to a magnet, I shake ma’s grip, eager to make a beeline to them.


Staring at the glistening array of watches, bracelets, rings, and pendants, I try to imagine who had last worn them, puzzled as to why there is no further use for them any more. If I owned any such jewellery, I would never, ever sell it, not to anyone. A cameo brooch catches my eye, and I long to hold it, pin it to my coat. It must have belonged to an elegant, grand lady, one I would be too, if I only had a fine brooch such as that. Lost in reverie, I am only vaguely aware of the bargaining between the shop-owner and my mother. It isn’t until ma’s voice becomes strident that I finally snap up, come to her side.

She is protesting he’s robbing her blind, where is his conscience? I look at the man seated behind his window-counter, he seems calmly disinterested. Despite her spirit, he knows she won’t walk, and beneath her threats she knows it too. His price does not sway. The register tings, the cash drawer slides open, and ma swaps her wedding ring over for the proffered five shillings. Agitated, she takes the redeeming ticket, shamed and upset she stabs it into her purse.


“Karen, come on, let’s get away from this misers’ hole.” The bell dances behind us, as I am tugged out to the street.


Stopping by the bakery for a loaf of bread, we see Phyllis standing in the queue. Ma nods hello, asking after Andy, her husband. Phyllis gives a wan smile, shrugs, “Ach, Elsie, he’s ever the same, but I’ll tell him you asked. And how are you, dearie? Are you keeping well?”


“Aye, well enough, I suppose. I hear you’re filleting fish, over at Menzies now?”


“Well someone’s got to put food on the table, eh? Och, it’s not too bad, at least the girls are all right. Here that reminds me, you know Irene, don’t you?”


“Who, Irene Dunne?”


“Aye that’s her, well she’s working the same shift as me now.”


“What, she’s still working? With all this terrible business going on?” Ma shakes her head, “Should be home, where she’s needed.”


“Och, come on Elsie, what else can she do? It’s been over two weeks, and its not like she’s his mother now, is it? We all have our bills to pay.”


Ma nods, “Happen so, but she’s still he's auntie, I think she’d be best by Morag’s side, right now, don’t you?”


“Aye, poor Morag. She’s not holding up at all, the poor lass.” Sadly shaking her head, “Have you seen her, at all?”


“Aye, I went round the day after. It was just like a circus though, and she was in no fit state to see anybody, anyway.”


Reaching the top of the line, Phyllis orders her rolls. She stays until ma is served, and follows us out to the street, walking part way home with us.


“So is there any news, at all?


Phyllis grimly shakes her head. “No, not a thing. He’s just vanished in to thin air.” She pulls at the collar of her coat, tightening it against the cold, “Same as young Sheena’s wee Billy.”


“It’s a sad, bad world we live in, so it is when a bairn’s not safe to play in their own street anymore.”


“Aye, it is that.”


I wonder about that too. Ma only lets me out if I’m with one of my mates now. It’s daft, really, because they only run off home without me half the time. I never talk to strangers though, so I’m safe enough.


“Phyllis?” Ma stares ahead, “I don’t suppose you know if there’s anything going up at Menzies for me, is there?”


“I don’t know. I could put in a word, if you like?”


“Aye, that would be good.”


“Is Larry not on the boats, then?”


“Aw, you know how it is there, he could maybe pick one up any morn' now, but who’s to say, eh?”


My ears prick up. What’s she talking about? I thought that was where he was, trawling on a boat to Iceland, fishing for the cod and prawn.


“Okay, Elsie, well I’ll ask the foreman for you, then.”


Reaching the corner, we bid goodbye, heading off on our separate way. Chill air biting at my back, I trail to reach ma’s hand. Catching her up, I grasp it in mine, as without breaking stride, she tightens her grip, squeezes it back.


Inside, she sets the fire, lights the paper beneath the kindling, and watches it catch against the small pile of coal lying on top. Satisfied, she heads in to the scullery, and sets the kettle on the stove. I follow her through, she has her back to me, rinsing off cups in the sink.


“Ma?”


“Mnn?”


I hesitate. She finishes up, empties the basin, turns to face me. “Well?”


“Where’s da?”


She sighs, pulls out a chair, sits at the table.


“Aye, good question, Karen. And just tell me, how the hell should I know, eh? “


I don’t want to annoy her, but I really need to know. “But he is coming back?”


She snorts, rolls her eyes, “You heard him, he’s never coming back! Yeah, right – he never does, does he?”


I can tell from the cut of her voice I am best not asking. I can’t help it,


“He’s not on the boats?”


“No, Karen, he’s not on the bloody boats. Alright?”


It’s not all right. I’ve made her angry. But I still can’t stop. “So, where is he, then?


“Why, are you missing him?” She smiles, but it’s not a good smile. It’s a smile full of warning.


“No. I – I just wondered, that’s all.”


She scuffs back the chair, stands up. Reaching in to her apron pocket, she fumbles out a cigarette. Lighting a match, she ignites and inhales, expelling a spume of smoke through her nostrils. “You want to know where he is, do you?”


I do.


“He’s off with his floozy, that skanky old whore. Do you know what a skanky old whore is, Karen?”


I shake my head.


“A skanky old whore is where your father runs to, when he decides to leave us all behind to starve!”


I eye the loaf lying out on the table, glad for tonight we’ll eat. I hope he’ll come back soon. Ma pulls herself out an ashtray and flips her ash. “And is she satisfied with that? Well, is she?”


I don’t know who “she” is, never mind if she’s satisfied or not.


“ Oh no, Karen, that’s not enough for her, the bitch, that’s nowhere near enough. You see she wants to kill me, aye, it’s true! She’ll not rest ‘til she sees me stone dead, so she won’t.” Grinding out the butt of her half-spent cigarette, her eyes light up, and she laughs. “Ah, but I’m on to her Karen, don’t you worry dearie, I can see straight through her, so I can.” She nods, a wide grin splitting her face, “You’ll see Karen, just you wait, just you wait, my little darling.” She gazes past the window, locked inside her plans.


I invisibly retreat to my room, wishing Peter and Mary home, hoping it won’t be long. I pull monkey-doll from the bed, and take him to China with me. We are in the middle of the paddy-field cutting rice, when a huge clang boxes my ears, snapping me straight back to the cold, hard linoleum floor. Several other hard, hollow quakes follow, splitting the silence.


What's she doing?


I stay where I am, listening. It increases. Ma’s voice shouts out, happy and triumphant, she’s got the beast. “Come see, Karen! C’mere take a look!”


I follow the clanging, through in to her bedroom. She is on her knees, furiously hammering at the pipe that runs by the skirting board, delivering great whacking wallops from the mallet in her hands.


“Ma, stop!” I lunge over, alarmed, trying to reach her, pull her back to who she is. Obliviously intent, she pushes me off, “No Karen, leave it, this needs to be done.” She continues, bent on her task, not a stroke missed.


Ma gone, I need to fetch Jeanie-from-upstairs, quick. My feet won’t leave her, I am too afraid for the both of us. I have to.


Flying out the door, taking steps two at a time, I reach and rattle Jeannie doorknob. It opens, as I fall through, shouting. “Jeannie, come quick! Ma’s down the stairs, breaking the pipes!”


Tight-lipped, Jeannie bustles out to meet me, “Okay, Karen. It’s all right now, go on, I’m coming.” She follows me down in to the madness.


“Elsie!” She shouts. What in the name of God are you doing, girl?”


No reponse, just a quickened tempo denting more lumps on the lead. Pushing me behind her, Jeannie scurries over. Grabbing a fistful of hair, she yanks ma’s head up. “Elsie, enough now!”


Ma stops, twists her head free, looks up, annoyed at Jeanie standing there above her. “Ach, leave me be Jeannie, it needs to be done – “


Jeannie raises her voice, “Elsie, come and tell me!” In softer tones, “Put the kettle on, and tell me what needs to be done, dearie. Come on now, maybe I can help, eh?”


“Go to hell – leave me be!” She resumes full swing, not to be tampered with.


“Elsie! Listen up to me, girl.”


Jeanie-from-upstairs kneels, places her hands on each cheek, twists ma’s head to face her. “You need to stop, Elsie, you hear? Stop. Come and tell me, here – come on, come tell me.”


Ma thinks about it, shrugs puts down the mallet. “Fine, we’ll have a cup of tea then.” She gets to her feet, back in to herself, euphoria dissipated, she looks shrunken, spent. Jeannie motions me on to brew the tea, as she guides ma through over to the couch in the living room.


Standing in the hallway, I wait for the kettle to whistle, ears strained.


“She was at me again, Jeannie, all last night, she was. It’s the pipe, she uses it to spill all her filth out to me, and I’m not having it, oh no, not any more, I’m not.”


“Och, Elsie, what nonsense are you talking about?”


“It’s the voices, it’s her, it’s been her all the time, her and her pals – “


“Elsie dear, - “ She stops, as she hears the outside door open. Mary and Peter tumble in from school, throwing their bags into the hall, they clatter through to the living room. Briefly greeting ma and Jeannie-from-upstairs, they withdraw to the kitchen, where I’m now stood making the tea. Peter grabs the milk-bottle, swigging it. I try to snatch it back.


“Peter, leave it! I’m telling ma – “


He swivels out of reach, continuing to drink. We only get the one pint a day, it’s for the tea, not for drinking, and he knows it. He hands it back half gone, and I snatch it, glowering. Mary pulls the grill out and lays a couple of slices of bread underneath. Looking over, she raises a quizzical eyebrow.


“Everything okay?” Finely tuned, she knows. I tell her and Peter about the pipe in ma’s room, how someone is trying to kill her, and of how, not knowing what else to do, I’d gone and fetched Jeannie-from-upstairs down. Mary turns her toast over under the grill and reaches for the margarine. Taking a knife out of the drawer, lifting the lid off the butter-dish, she turns, looks to Peter.


Peter sighs. “Where’s the mallet? In her room?”


“Aye, I think so.”


He sidles past me, slipping out to check. A few moments later the outside latch clicks up. He’s gone. Mary spreads her toast, takes a bite, leaning her back against the sink, she silently chews on it.


Pouring three mugs of tea, I give them a stir, and pass one on to Mary.


“Do you know where da is? He’s not on the boats, ma said.”


Surprised, she frowns. “Where is he then?”


I consider mentioning the skanky old whore, but feel uneasy about it. Mary and Peter don’t always believe everything ma says, so she doesn’t always tell them what she tells me. She might not want me to tell Mary about her yet. I shrug. The outside door clicks closed, Peter reappears. He tells us he’s put the mallet away, down at the very back of the basement, and warns us against telling.


Picking up the mugs, I carry them through in to the living room and find Jeannie-from-upstairs and ma, heads together, laughing. Pipes now forgotten, they are swapping the latest gossip about some other floozy, the one from two flights below, her whose husband works away.


(nb. Karen is entirely fictional.. !)

Mute

Standing at the bottom, she freezes.


Twelve steps. Sun baking the concrete cracks, it's not so far. Shuffled small, pulled in, she does as she can. A snap of dread in her gut, slow, slowly placing one foot softly on the stair, she runs her ears ahead to the open door.


"Aye, so it is, and that's what I said -"


"Hmn."


"Not that she did, mind - I ask you.."


Her mother stenciling out his silence, throwing voice motes in the air. Crouching, Karen sits on the second step up, memorising banister rails. Too filled up to breathe she falls to counting, closing down. Sixteen rails, each rail capped by three prongs, she reaches forty-eight, one flight up another forty eight, and another forty-eight above that. She counts, tallies, focusing on the chipped green iron rails, whilst above her head her mother offers tea.


Rails counted, she stands.


Sitting in a sharp shaft of sunlight, Big John lifts his eyes to her as she quietly slips through the door.  With a silent step back to close it tight, she quickly turns for her room before her Ma catches sight of her.


"Was that wee Karen? Och, now where has she gone? Honestly John, I tell you that girl has no manners at all these days.." Raising her voice, "Karen! Karen, come here and say hello will you? Uncle Johnny's here to see us."


No, she will not speak, he can not have her voice, but she opens the door anyway and comes out as is bid. Her mother sits across the table, a bright smile on her face. She is animated and happy, glad to have a visitor to talk at, someone to fill the space in between the scrubbing and the supper. Big John has a tray of allotment vegetables spread out between them. In season again, he is doing his rounds. Her mother continues her flow, picking through his offerings.


"So I went to see Mary and asked her straight, so I did, and you'll never guess what she said, the cheek of it! She only went and .."


Big John isn't listening, though it's no matter, her mother expects nothing less. It's enough she can loosen some words, so many seem to clog her throat. Seizing a fresh topic of interest, she pulls a chair out for Karen to come and sit, join with them.


"Eh, she's grown again, hasn't she Big John?"


Big John nods.


"Aye, I'll bet you see a difference from the last time you were here.."


He looks her over with a conspiratorial wink, smiling he responds, "Aye, Elsie, she sure has, she's changed a lot, hasn't she?"

Rituals

He sits at the table, awkward and gangley, steaming mug of tea hidden beneath calloused fists. He tunes out as she fills up the silence. This she knows, but doesn't mind.


It is their dance.


Work boots shuffling, he focuses on the sugar bowl, whilst my mother examines his box of freshly harvested produce. It is still wrapped in the rich earth smell of the allotments from whence they were recently torn. As always, she tells him his vegetables are the sweetest by far. As always, he nods this as true.


His hands are too big for the room, so huge they are all I can see of him. Watching, I follow as they lift the mug to his lips.  He takes a swallow of scalding brew, placing it silently back down again to the linoleum cloth-covered table.

Big John is a regular visitor to our door, as he is to everyone else around these tenement blocks. The frequency of his calls vary with the season, come the winter they are sparse.

But he always comes back.

As he will continue to do so for the whole of my life.


My mother makes her selection and agrees a price, digging some pennies out from her black, worn purse. John smiles and stands up, up, up. I stare up, up, too, craning my neck to meet with his eye. Connected, he winks, as I knew he would, and my belly performs a flip-flop of delight.


Our ritual now.


Bending, he enfolds his iron girder arms around me, raising me up level to his lined, gnarly face, scratching a rough, spiky kiss across my now tingling cheek. I shriek, as he tosses me high, higher, sailing, sweeping the ceiling, and (OH!) a split-second before descent, 

(HUSH)

Time frozen...


Look.. 

                         I FLY!!

Return of the Prodical

The Uncles, Jimmy, Peter and Eddie are here with their familes, as well as Auntie Patricia with her husband and children in tow. It’s Saturday night, and the living room, hall and scullery are packed full to bursting. The outside door lies open to the landing.


Running up, down and along the stairs, we play games of tag and hide-and-seek with our cousins, as inside the grown-up’s, lubricated by the Babysham and beer, take it in turn to sing.

The floor vibrates to Uncle Jimmy's thumping, his foot drumming beat to the rhythm. “For these are my mountains” is a popular request, along with other firm favourites such as “Ally-Bally-Bally-Bally-Be” and “Old Sheppie”.

Ma has the best voice, everyone agrees she should’ve had professional training. I can hear her belting out the second verse of “Oh Danny Boy”, as da accompanies her on the mouth organ.

Da’s been back for over a week now, and there’s a boat waiting for him come Monday. He’s never been too fond of ma’s “clan”, our Uncles and Aunts, but he’s allowed them over for ma’s sake, a show of his good grace.

I love these impromptu parties, everyone happy and smiling. Ma has put on her best dress and rouged her cheeks, she looks beautiful.


Out on the stairway, Mary and the cousins decide to play Rumpelstiltskin. Being one of the littlest, I’m the dwarf, bid to hide behind the curtain until it’s time to make an appearance. The tall window has a high deep sill, and I need to be hoisted up to reach there. The frame is rotted, and I’m warned against leaning lest it gives. Each time I peek out to watch them, someone yells, “It’s not your turn yet!” and I’m shooed back under the musty curtain.

Hard done by and feeling bored, I watch the traffic below, counting how many red cars go by. I’m almost at twenty before the adults, unknowingly but mercifully come rescue me.


“Where’s the bairn? Karen, where are you dearie?”


I poke my head through, spy Auntie Patricia’s flushed, round face shining up at me. “C’mon, my darlin’, come and give us all that song, eh?”


She spins me down to ground level, steering me back inside. Mary tries to reason with her, but Auntie Patricia will have none of it.

 “Och, you’ll need to find another Rumpelstiltskin, she’s a wee bit busy at the minute, aren’t you Karen?”


“Aye, I am, so there!”  Hoping it’s spoiled their game, I gleefully skip ahead.


The grown-up’s want to hear my rendition of “Nobody’s Child”, it’s my famous turn. Knowing how to work my audience, I take my place up behind da’s armchair, positioning myself by his shoulder, and donning my best tragic face, I start in on the first verse.


“As I was slowly walking past an orphange one day,..”


A mournful rendition accompanies me on the mouth organ, as I enter the chorus,


“Nobody’ child, I’m nobody’s child.
Just like a flower, I’m growing wild,
No mummy’s kisses, and no daddy’s smiles,
Nobody wants me, I’m nobody’s child.”


There is not a dry eye in the house when I reach the climax (“..sometimes I feel so lonely, I wish that I could die”). Da has abandoned the musical accompaniment to blow in to his hankie. Reaching in to his pocket, he digs me out a sixpenny piece.

A real result!

It's unanimous, I have my bonny mothers voice, no one is in any doubt, wee Karen is a good, sweet bairn and both my parents are blessed, so they are.

Beaming, I agree.  I'm far done from drinking in my praises, but apparently they are, for the conversation disappointingly moves on. Calls go up. The cuter, younger version of me, my cousin Julie, is now called forth. Her ever more popular version of “Bobby’s Girl” is in demand.

Redundant, I drift back to see if I can still be the dwarf.


Sleepy-eyed, I endure all the hugs and soppy kisses, as one by one, our relatives depart. It’s late, and everyone is slowly taking their leave. Ma and da wave them all off.  Emptying ashtrays and collecting glasses, they point us off to bed.


Under the covers, I ask Mary about the woman at the house with the blue door.


“Is da not with Sandra now?”


“Och no, don’t be daft, he’s back here with us, isn’t he?”

Shards

Most of my early adult life, my resentments lay at my mother's door. Mental illness is all consuming, I found her bottomless, suffocating, desperate neediness repellent. It seemed surviving to leave home wasn't enough, I still could not escape. Duty and love forbade me venting this frustration, she was far too fragile to scorch. It took so many, many years later to uncover the sleight of hand. All the time my siblings and I focused on her blame, we never once sought to question my father's motive, or as to why he deliberately choose to seek out and to marry such an obviously broken vessel. Perhaps we were too afraid to fall down that hole. Life was scary enough. Growing up in a house filled with secrets, denial became second-nature.

Does evil exist? Yes, I believe it does.

My name is Karen. This is still my story.

Ma’s not yet home, it’s her first week up at Menzie’s. Peter doesn’t seem to be in, either. Clicking on the light switch, we make for the scullery and Mary lights the stove for some heat. We spread slices of bread with marge, and I climb the chair to fill the kettle for tea. Lifting our bread and mugs through with us, we go on in to the living room, settling back to watch Top Cat and officer Dibble on the telly.

A key scrapes the lock just as the credits roll, and our Peter sticks his head round the door, “Ma here?”

We shake our heads.

“I’ve seen Da. He was up by the docks with Uncle Jimmy.”

Mary turns, “Did he speak?”

“Aye, he saw me. He said to tell Ma he’s coming back now. And he gave me thruppence..”

Typical, Peter always gets the money out of him. I pretend not to care. “What, is he coming tonight?”

“Aye, I think so –“

Mary purses her lips. “That’s good, then, Ma should be happy, eh?”

So am I. I don't know what Mary's problem is, she looks like she's sucking a lemon. Maybe somebody's told her about The Floozy?

Turning the telly over, I search for cartoons, but they look to have finished.




Ma is pleased. She doesn’t say so, but it’s easy to tell. She’s washed her hair and tidied herself up, has even sent Peter off to the butchers to fetch minced beef. We’ve been ordered to clean our rooms, and warned not to make a mess.

Eating our mince and tatties at the kitchen table, dipping chunks of bread in the swimming gravy, we soak it down to Ma's laughter. She is so pretty like this, with her hair all curled up and pinned. Tonight, it being Peter’s turn to do the dishes, after scraping, I head back over to the living room to join her, settling in to watch Peyton Place. Not that she's so interested tonight, she's too busy watching the clock, fidgeting, unable to settle, waiting for Da.

She asks Peter again, exactly what was it that he had said? Peter repeats it back again for the umpteenth time.

Nearing bedtime, Ma decides to send me down to Beep-Beeps. I don’t know its real name, but it’s the bar on the corner, next to our tenement block where Da usually drinks. She wants me to check if he’s in, and if so, to tell him to come on up home.

The bar is crowded, music, cigarette smoke, and voices seep through the door. Peeping through the archway, I scan for his face. A warm, beer-soaked shout calls out,

“Hey look, Larry – it's your bairn here!

Laughter.

“Eh, you’re in trouble now, man!”

Da laughs too, says something funny. They all split their sides.

“Hey, Karen, c’mere..” he puts down his pint, arms beckoning. Perched high on a bar stool, eating crisps, bottle of lemonade in hand, I deliver my message.

“Later.” He says, and buys me a box of sweeties from behind the counter. Da’s friends fawn over me, the bestest wee girlie in Town. Basking in their glow, I am happy to wait for when Da wants to finally finish up and take us on home. Neither of us are in any rush. It's only when the bell rings that we make for the door.

Skipping ahead, Da trails behind, leaning heavily on the banister rail. Rapping on the door, Ma’s closed face greets me, sending me back on through to bed.

Undressing, I climb in next to Mary, listening in the darkness to the rumble of voices down the hall. It seems fine enough, they’re only just talking, that’s all.

Rolling on to my back, I begin to drift.

A loud wail snaps me awake, Ma’s crying. All senses alert, I feel Mary stiffen. She’s heard too. We lie side by side, trying to follow the timbre and tone, work out what’s happening. The voices are raised, less ma's than Da, scuffles proceed thumps, a sharp, bitten off cry as an unmistakable slap find it's mark. Da is still yelling as he crashes out of the room, his heavy foot falls thudding down the hall. They stop outside our door. Barely breathing, we pretend sleep.

Oh no.
.
The door handle rattles. Light from the hall pools in to the room. Squinting through almost closed eyes, I see da's hunched bulk, leaning silhouetted against the door frame. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut again, I lie still, hearing him breathe. He hesitates, (are we asleep?) then enters. I feel him staring down. His weight tilts the edge of the mattress as he lowers himself to it. Still feigning sleep, I try to breathe evenly.

“Karen?” He touches my shoulder. Asleep or awake, he still wants to talk. Smelling his beer, smoke and despair, I open my eyes. We’ve already heard the shouting, pleading, the hard, sharp blows, but he chooses ignorance, safe he won’t be called to account.

He sighs. “Ah, Karen, your mother, she’s a funny woman,”

Willing him quiet, I don’t respond. Eyes welling up to display his misery, he seeks my comfort. “She is the most stupid woman I know, you know that? She’s – thick! Not a brain-cell to her. I’m just pure disgusted at how thick she is..” He weaves an arm around to demonstrate his frustration, “She hasn’t even the intelligence of a - a budgie, do you know what I mean?”

It doesn’t matter what I know. I know I hate it when he talks about her this way. I know how bad it makes me feel when she cries. I know I’m guilty of not coming to help when he starts in on her. I know a lot of things. I know he doesn’t want to know what I know, so instead I just lie there, let him rant. And yet, still my heart breaks for him, this, my father, the man whom I love.

“Aw, c’mere, give me a big hug.”

I lean up on one elbow, and he envelopes me in his musky scents, pressing his lips to my ear, “I love you, wee Karen, you’re my bestest little girl, so you are..”

I know this is so, so does Mary, faking sleep next to me. I hate it when he slobbers all weepy and sentimental, it is a precursor, I know only too well what surely will follow. Sure enough though, be it no surprise, hearing it said still rips the flesh from my bone. I believe, as always, that it's true, he'll leave us forever, I’ll never see him ever again.

“Ach, it’s going to break my heart, wee Karen. I’m the baddie, I’m the big, bad wolf, that’s what you’ll say..”

“No, no Da, I won’t –“

“Hush now, it’s true, that’s what she’ll tell you, I know she will, and you’ll believe it, aye, so you will.”

“No, please Da’!” I can’t help it, crying now, “Please don’t go, don’t leave.”

“I have to, bonny lass, I have to go. This is the last time you’ll ever see me, my little darling – och, it pure breaks my heart darling, but it’s the only way..”

We’re both blubbing now, me begging, he shaking his head. Gripped in his bear-hug, he holds me tight, asks me to remember he loves me, it's just he has to go, and he can never come back. Not ever.

Giving up playing dead, Mary joins in. “No Da’, please don’t leave, please, we need you.” Wet cheeks, nose running, she lunges her arms out, clinging tight. He hugs her back, holding us both in his tight embrace. We stay there, locked together in a huddle of pain. Gently, he brushes us off, swaying to his feet.

“Shhhh, now, it’s okay, you look after your sister now, Mary, you hear?”

“No Da!” she wails, “Come back, pleeaase, da!”

He points, nailing us to stay.

Fumbling for the door, he slips out, closing it behind. In darkness, we listen to ma's tears as she tries to placate, pleading and cajoling to talk him out of the process of packing. Her efforts are wasted, his mind is set. More raised words, the outside door opens. Running out after him, Ma’s calls echo off the cold, tile walls. A pointless exercise,, his ears are deaf.

Finally, a click of the latch, and she returns to the silence of her misery..

We remain lying motionless, blankets covered around us, as the continuous thunder of the passing lorries rattle over the cobbled street below.

(N.B. Dearest readers, please remember Karen is not me, she lives, yes, but she is, and always has been, a purely fictional character.)

A Wee Snippet More..

Jeannie-from –upstairs is at the door again. I get up to let her in.

“I’m just checking, how’s it going?”

“Aye, Jeannie, we’re fine.”

“You’re da’s not back then?”

“No, not yet, he’ll be up seeing ma.”

Clad in her pinafore apron and slippers, hair in a net, she shuffles herself over the step, and down through the hall. “And Peter and Mary?”

“Aye they’re watching the telly.”

We join them in the living room just as Batman is freeing Robin from being sliced through the middle by some jaggedy spinning blade. Mary and Peter grunt hello, eyes glued to the screen.

Sinking into da’s wing-backed chair, Jeannie asks if we’ve eaten.

“Granny McKenzie is looking after us, she left us something out.”

“So I hear, it’s a pity she can never stay ‘til you get here, eh?”

Jeannie from upstairs doesn’t like Granny MacKenzie, she thinks she always sides with da against ma, but that’s only because ma tells her it’s so. I wish ma and Granny liked each other better, Granny MacKenzie is nice, she feels soft, has this lovely smell about her, and brings apples when she comes.

“And what salad did she “cook” for you tonight, then?”

“Boiled egg..”

“And did the gulls enjoy it?”

Oh-oh. She must’ve been watching from her window above as we chucked it over the ledge. Them gannets will eat anything, so they will.

“Erm, well, we ate a fair bit first..”

Jeannie-from-upstairs laughs, “Well more fools you, then, I can still smell the stench. I think you’d best open up a window before you turn in for the night.”

Hearing this, Peter brightens, “Och Jeannie, her cooking’s pure evil, so it is! Don’t tell her we said so, but guess how many salads we’ve had to eat? It’s either tinned salmon, corned beef, or boiled egg. It’s all she does. Thank God she leaves us some fruit, or we’d be wasted away by now, eh Mary?”

“Right enough, Peter. She's a trier, just a shame she’s such a rotten cook, is all.”

“And what about your father, does he eat her salads?”

“Nah,” Peter smiles, “He not that daft, he eats when he’s out.”

Jeannie-from-upstairs grunts, “What’s the news on your mother?”

I perk up, aye, what is the news on ma? Nobody tells me anything around here. I try to make like I’ve gone, hoping Peter will loosen up his jaw to let something go.

“We can’t go see her, only da can. He says she’s fine.”

“Fine, eh?” Jeannie-from-upstairs tuts, “So why is she in the Nut-House then, instead of right back here with her bairns, where she belongs?”

“Karen, where’s your manners? Go and make Jeannie-from-upstairs a cup of tea.”

I knew Mary would send me off, but that’s alright, I’ll probably learn more from the other side of the door anyway. As I say, I’m not as daft as everybody likes to credit me.

“Is it two sugars for you, Jeannie?”

“Ach, make it three dearie, I could use the energy.”

“And don’t forget to shut the door there as you go, now.”

Mary thinks she’s so sly. I close the door, gently easing the handle down so it falls open a crack. Running to fill the kettle and light the stove, I hope not to miss too much before sneaking back.

Peter is standing his corner. “Ach, she’s only in there for a wee bit until she gets cured.”

“Peter child, what has your da been telling you? You know she battered that Sandra, don’t you? She’s put her in the hospital, so she has. Not that I can really blame her, mind. Your poor mother has snapped, Peter, she’s far from fine, but I don’t see as how shutting her away in that hellish place is likely to be any help. Tell your father son, she needs to be home.”

Jeannie doesn’t realise, nobody tells our da, least of all Peter. I tear myself away to catch the kettle as it whistles. Waiting for the pot to brew, I try to digest what’s been said. Why would ma batter Sandra? It’s not as though she’s stealing the food from out of our bellies anymore, is it? Da’s been away from her for ages now. I fill up a mug and make my way back.

“ – and make sure you stay inside, we’ve enough to worry about as it is.”

“Aye Jeannie, I am. I even leave the school early now, so’s I can fetch Karen back, don’t I Mary?”

“That’s right Jeannie, so he does.”

“Hold on a minute here, what are you saying? Both you and Peter are off out there all on your own then?” She takes the mug and places it by her foot. “Are you telling me Mary, Peter walks off on his own to fetch Karen, and then you come back after him as well, on your own after school?”

“Well, da said,”

“Jesus, God! It’s your da who needs to be locked up in the lunatic asylum, so it is! What’s he thinking about? They’ve not even found poor Alistair yet, never mind all those other wee bairns!” Her lip tightens, “He’s not even on the boats now, is he?”

No, he’s not. He stayed back to look after us. But he’s not here. He gets in late, after we’re asleep. She’s right, where is he? Jeannie’s getting angry, her shoulders are all puffed up now, her eyes sharp. I don't like where this is going.

“Has he told her family where she is? I’ll bet he not, has he? No, he wouldn’t be able to live with the shame of it all, would he? Nah, not him, the Big Man, eh?”

Peter is starting to look uneasy, he doesn’t want her to go mixing things, making it bad. It’s all fine and well for Jeannie-from-upstairs to go get up on her high horse, but he’s the one who’ll have to answer for it after she’s gone. Being the eldest, he’s accountable. We don’t discuss family matters outside the family. It’s a golden rule.

“Aye, aye he has, Jeannie. Auntie Mary is arranging to come and meet us from next week, so she is, it’s only been since yesterday, that’s all.”

Mary and I nod in agreement. Sure, that’s right. Auntie Mary.

Except Auntie Mary has her own kids to collect, and lives the other side of town. Besides, there’s no way da would be having her knowing any of our business.

Jeannie has no idea, no idea at all of the trouble she stirs. I go back to the kitchen, interest lost. Besides, maybe Sandra'll die now, ma will come back and it'll all be fine.