The Steamie Read online

  Dedicated to all the staff at the Rannoch House Care Home and Stobhill Nursing Home for the unbelievable skill, patience and TLC they have shown to Suzie, who was and always will be the inspiration for this book and the play of the same name.

  T.R.

  My thanks to the editorial team at Black & White Publishing for their expertise, patience and understanding in helping me finally finish this novel.

  T.R.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PRAISE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  ALSO BY AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  ONE

  It was the kind of day that made you feel good to be part of the human race. To be alive and able to bask in the warmth of the afternoon sun hanging brazenly on a translucent blue sky, seemed like a privilege that was only bestowed on a deserving few.

  The noise of women laughing and exchanging comments as they hung out their washing to dry on the expanse of the Glasgow Green, that had newly been allocated by the City Fathers for that purpose, drifted upwards and mixed with the seagulls that were floating aimlessly on the up-currents created by the nearby tributary working its way towards the River Clyde. It somehow added a sense of well-being and set the scene that all was well with the world.

  It was the eighteen eighties and there was an eager anticipation in the population that they were on the brink of a new and vibrant world, a world that promised advancement beyond everyone's imagination. Travel was soon going to be possible by means of the newfangled automobile and unbelievably they had heard that men were even trying to take to the air and fly just like the seagulls above their heads. Also, it seemed as if they had now begun to conquer illnesses that had plagued mankind since its very beginnings.

  Glasgow City Fathers had launched an ambitious scheme to root out disease by installing public washhouses so that clothes could be properly boiled and cleaned to a standard that was befitting this new age. Already there was a marked decrease in the instances of infectious agues that had cut short the lives of many in the city. The women also found that there was an added bonus of attending these new washhouses. They had given them a central meeting place where larger numbers of them could congregate. Events and news could be updated and friendships could be renewed while their natural thirst for the latest gossip was being slaked.

  The men had the shipbuilding to keep their bodies and souls together and, in so doing, fulfil their tribal needs by congregating en masse as they strove to float mighty vessels down the slipways and into the lifeblood of the city, the River Clyde.

  With the advent of these new washhouses, the women had found a modus operandi that now matched that of their menfolk. The women had swiftly dubbed these wash places by the generic term The Steamies. This was due to the steam that was produced when the wash places were full and boiling water was hissing magically out of the faucets and into great steel sinks that held swathes of their weekly wash.

  All this was of no consequence to a group of boys who were playing among the sea of washing that was hung out to dry on lines that stretched for hundreds of yards. Sheets and blankets were dancing lazily in the soft breeze while the lads were playing at the new game of football that had gripped the men of the city in a fever of exuberance that was a complete mystery to their women. The boys had tied a bunch of old rags together to form a poor approximation of the ball that was used in the large stadiums that had sprung up all over the city. There were shouts of ‘To me!’, etc. coming from them. There were also shouts of ‘Watch what you're doin' wi' that ball!’ from the women, which, of course, were totally ignored by the lads who were fully engrossed in the monumentally difficult task of trying to score a goal.

  Inevitably the inevitable happened. The ball was smacked by a wayward clearance from the foot of nine-year-old Andrew Caven and found its way to the centre of a pristine white linen sheet that had just been hung on the line by Agnes Tait.

  The instant the dull thud of the ball made contact with her sheet, Agnes spun round to observe the culprit and also take in the extent of the damage to her once-clean sheet. A large dirty brown imprint was now on the sheet and the evidence was lying directly beneath it. Andrew looked on in horror as he vainly tried to think of a way out of his obvious guilt. His eyes darted up to where Agnes was standing with her hands on her hips surveying the damage. As their gazes locked in on each other Andrew was frantically thinking of an excuse he could use to explain why such a catastrophe had happened and thus avoid a skelping if his mother found out about it.

  Agnes's eyes softened and with a good-natured grin she said, ‘It's all right, Andrew. Come and get your ball.’

  Andrew knew that all-out contrition was his best bet as far as pleading innocence was concerned.

  ‘I didn't mean to hit it into your washin', Mrs Tait,’ he said in a voice that was reeking with penitence.

  Agnes shook her head ruefully. ‘I know that, son – here.’ She picked up the bundle and held it out to him.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Tait,’ he said as he moved in to retrieve the ball.

  ‘You're gettin' good at the football, eh, son?’

  Andrew nodded as he reached out to get the ball and then felt his ears ring as Agnes's other hand had seemingly come from nowhere to land on the side of his head.

  ‘You keep that ball away. D'you hear me? I'll no' tell you again.’

  Andrew felt the beginnings of tears well up inside him at the injustice that he had suffered from Agnes Tait as he ran towards his mother and blubbered out, ‘Mammy, Mrs Tait hit me.’

  Andrew's mother's reply was not what he wanted to hear. Without looking round from hanging her own washing, she said, matter-of-factly, ‘Well, you must have deserved it.’

  ‘I get the blame o' everything,’ was Andrew's only line of defence.

  ‘That's because you're always to blame, son. It's the only talent I've seen in you so far. Noo stop your greetin' and help me tae fold these sheets.’

  Andrew's ears could not believe what he was hearing. ‘My pals will laugh at me if they see me giein' you a hand wi' the washin', Mammy.’

  ‘Well, we'll no' let them see you then, will we?’ was her unhelpful reply. ‘Here, grab the end of this sheet and don't let it trail on the ground or you'll greet on the other side o' your face.’

  As Andrew tried not to cry, ignore the pain coming from his ear and hide from his pals all at the one time, a group of girls, who were a similar age, ran past squealing with the excitement that was being generated in their game of hide-and-seek. They were hell-bent on finding whoever was ‘het’ which was their word for the on
e who was being chased and had to hide to avoid capture and the inevitable punishment of accepting a dare as a consequence of being found.

  In this instance, the prey was Mary Culfeathers. She was a lively six years old and had bright blue eyes that shone above a small nose that perched above a pair of lips that seemed to be forever smiling. She was, her mother and father thought, as close to an angel as you could get and today she was playing with her pals and having more fun than it seemed she could contain without passing out from the sheer pleasure of it all. She dived behind a man's shirt that was almost a punctuation mark in a row of bed sheets. Then, realising that her legs could be seen, she moved behind a large still-wet blanket that was almost, but not quite, touching the ground. As she stood there trying not to breathe in case her pursuers heard her, the owner of the washing parted the blanket and stood beside her. ‘I hope your no' goin' to get my blanket all dirty, Mary Culfeathers?’

  Mary looked up at her pleadingly. ‘Gonnae no' give me away please, Mrs Black?’

  At that moment the sound of the chasing posse arrived on the other side of the blanket. Anne Black looked over the top of the blanket and addressed the posse. ‘Who are you all looking for? Is it Mary Culfeathers?’

  ‘Aye, Mrs Black,’ they chorused. ‘She's het, so she is. And we've to find her,’ said the leader of the bunch, breathlessly.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ another of them chipped in.

  Mary's hand flew up to her mouth and sucked her thumb. She didn't know why she did this in moments of high drama – she only knew it usually helped. She stood on one leg as she figured that there was less chance of discovery with just one leg sticking out from below the blanket than two.

  Then her heart raced as she heard Anne Black say, ‘Yes, I know where she is.’

  Mary's face, glowing with the thrill of the chase, turned upward, her eyes pleading with Mrs Black not to give her away.

  ‘I'll tell you exactly where she is.’ She turned her gaze away from Mary's. ‘She's over there – behind the washhouse building.’

  The chasing pack turned away, their voices clamouring and squealing in that way that is peculiar to young girls the world over.

  ‘Mary Culfeathers! Here we come – ready or not. Mary Culfeathers! Here we come – ready or not.’ Their voices receded as they raced away. Mary wrapped the blanket around her. Her spirit soared as she realised that she had triumphed in this battle of wits with her adversaries.

  She could still hear them. ‘Mary. Mary.’

  Maybe it was her imagination but the tone of their voices seemed to change in their desire to contact her. ‘Mary. Mary.’

  There was a desperation that was taking over the previous note of fun. Mary felt ill at ease with this new turn of events. Her grip tightened on the blanket.

  TWO

  ‘Mary, for God's sake, waken up, Mary.’ Mary heard her husband Harry's voice rasp as it struggled with the effort of trying to breathe.

  As the fog of sleep drained from her and consciousness began to invade, she called out, ‘Harry, is that you?’

  ‘It's no' Clark Bloody Gable! Help me over to the window – I can hardly draw breath.’

  Harry Culfeathers was now in his late seventies and sweat was oozing from his body with the effort of trying to breathe. As he swung his legs out of the bed, Mary could see steam rising from his head, even though it was December and the room was so cold that ice had formed on the inside of the windows. They had known each other for over fifty years and Mary could still remember their first meeting as if it was yesterday.

  Harry had been her only beau and, although he was a few years older than Mary, every one of their friends had said they were made for each other, not least because they were both called Culfeathers. It seemed only right that they should join together and both sets of parents had given approval right away. But Harry would not tie the knot until they had saved up enough money to set them up in their first home. In time, though, they were married and their two boys were born. But the joy of being parents was cut short by the human blight that was the First World War. It darkened every doorstep in the land and Harry, being the man he was, volunteered to serve his king and country. Thankfully he came back to her safe and sound – if not in mind, at least in body. He never spoke very much about his experiences of that hell on earth and she got a sense that he did not really want her to know what he had endured.

  He did, however, waken in cold sweats during sleep when his dreams dredged up the night that he was onboard a ship taking a segment of his regiment to a new field of conflict up the French coastline. She never found out the whys or wherefores (she suspected that there was a fire) but, whatever the cause, the vessel got into difficulties and everyone was forced to abandon ship and take their chances in the freezing cold water.

  Like most of the men who had suffered the horrendous sights of that terrible time, Harry had determined that, if he ever got back home, then he would make the most of life and do as well by his wife and family as his talents would allow. One night, after he had been labouring in a blacksmith shop all day, he had broached the subject with Mary of starting a business of some kind. ‘I'm just no' sure what kind of business to go for, though.’

  Mary had said, ‘Harry, I had a sense that you were unhappy inside yourself. I thought maybe you had got fed up wi' me – after the excitement of bein' away in foreign parts during the war.’

  He had smiled, in the lopsided way that had first attracted her, shaken his head and whispered, ‘Not on your Nelly.’

  Her heart could have burst with happiness but she confined herself to saying, ‘In that case, I'm with you – whatever you want. I'll back you on it.’

  Harry had thought for a while before looking at her earnestly. ‘I know that, Mary, and it's no more than I would expect of you. However, I've come to the conclusion that it's not just me that is in this wee family so I would like your suggestions as to what you would feel comfortable with. Have you a wee notion of what might be suitable?’ He searched her face for encouragement. He sensed she was struggling with herself. ‘Go on, say what you feel, hen.’

  She shook her head. ‘Och, no – it's silly. I would feel stupid even suggesting it,’ she explained.

  His gaze was fixed firmly on her and she knew she was going to have to come out with it. She was, however, loath to share her secret ambition, in case it did not meet with his approval, so she stared in a non-committal way into the fire.

  He stood up and crossed over to stoke the fire. Kneeling down, he grasped the poker and thrust it into the glowing embers. As they burst into small flames, he said, with his back to her, ‘Our lives are like this fire, Mary. If you don't disturb the flames every so often and start to rekindle them, then eventually it'll just fade out and die. Say what's in your mind, hen.’ Mary bit on her bottom lip – a sure sign that she was perplexed. ‘The fire'll no' go on indefinitely, you know,’ Harry said gently.

  ‘I've always wanted to own a haberdasher's that sold buttons and threads and bows and dressmaking material but that's out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, continuing to prod at the fire.

  ‘Well, what would you do in a place like that? It doesn't bear thinking aboot.’

  Harry poked at bit of coal that sparked and fizzed as he disturbed it. ‘Hmm! Aye – I see your point,’ was his unenthusiastic response.

  ‘I told you it was silly,’ Mary said, feeling annoyed that her secret dream was no longer a secret.

  ‘Why a haberdasher's?’ he continued, with an expression that signalled neither interest nor disinterest.

  ‘I don't know. It's just something I got into my head as a wee lassie. I've always sewed and I just like the different colours of the materials and … well, I just do and that's that. I cannae help it. It doesn't matter.’

  Harry stared into the fire. ‘You know, if you stare into a fire long enough, you can always see a face in the coals. Have you noticed that?’

  Mary did not answer.


  ‘I've just seen your face in the fire, Mary, and it's surrounded wi' bright red thread and scarlet ribbons so I think that is, as they say in the Bible, a portent of things to come.’ He stood up, stretched his arms and then announced, ‘That's what we'll do – a haberdasher's it is.’

  ‘But what are you gonnae do? You're no' going to work in a woman's shop surely?’

  ‘You're no' wrong in that assumption, hen. But I've seen a place in Partick that could be split into two different shops. The blacksmith I work for is always complainin' that he cannae get enough nails and shovels and the like because they have to come from the other side o' the river. Well, if I was to open up an ironmonger's alongside of your haberdasher's, one o' them might just do the trick. What do you think? Will we give it a go?’

  And they did. Mary's haberdasher's became what's called a wee gold mine. Harry's ironmonger's did not do so well but he swapped over to selling paint and eventually his shop was successful enough to bring up their two boys. Indeed, as all their neighbours said, ‘They want for nothin', they two boys.’

  They gave them the best education they could afford and brought them up as good law-abiding young men. Life was indeed good and, eventually, the boys did what boys do and got married, giving Harry and Mary the great gift of grandchildren. Except that they had both gone abroad when all this happened and had never managed to make it back and visit their parents.

  This was a silent heartache that both Harry and Mary carried with them, always making excuses that their boys were just so busy that they could not get away – after all they were thousands of miles away.

  They had even contemplated saving up and going to visit them but the sad truth was that Harry's health was failing badly. Years of working with paint had taken their toll and the fumes had gone for his lungs. However, their spirits took an upsurge when first one then the other son wrote to say that they were coming back from Canada and were going to be living in London. Alas, London may as well have been Canada as they still did not visit. Harry had, by this time, given up his shop – mounting debts caused by ill health had not allowed him to tend to his business properly. Mary had sold her haberdashery years before, as soon as Harry's business was established, in order to be at home for the boys while they were at school. Now times were tough and they were struggling. A life that had seemed full of promise was replaced by a void that held none.