The Steamie Read online

  Mary had taken to doing the washing of well-off customers and looking after Harry. She suspected that Harry was beginning, as her mother used to say, to go a bit addled. Little signs, such as the natural forgetfulness of growing older, became more marked. He would wander into a room, look about him, shake his head, sigh and then walk back out. He had stopped reading the newspapers, saying there was nothing in them that he wanted to read, but Mary suspected that his brain just could not concentrate for any length of time. Indeed, the same thing was happening to her. People outside were continually talking about things that she could not identify with in the modern Glasgow of the nineteen fifties.

  That night was Hogmanay and the following day would signal the start of nineteen fifty-four. But, to Mary and Harry, it mattered not a jot – life, as they had once known it, had passed them by and was now merely an existence.

  As Mary surveyed Harry and listened to his efforts at trying to draw a decent breath, she felt a sadness come over her that was becoming a familiar part of her day. Every so often, a large sigh would escape from her and she would feel embarrassed and look round to check that no one had heard her. She felt there was no need to burden others with her problems. That was the way all her age group thought and she and her husband were typical of their generation.

  She put her arm around Harry for support as she helped him to his feet. ‘If I can just get to the window and open it, I'll feel better. I just need some fresh air, Mary,’ he said, wheezing as they made their way to the window.

  Mary nodded. ‘Of course, you will. That always helps, sure it does.’

  ‘Aye, it seems to, right enough,’ Harry nodded back in agreement.

  The window was positioned above the kitchen sink. They had taken to living in the kitchen as it saved on coal money if they just lit the one fire. The bed was set in a recess and, all in all, it was a handy arrangement.

  ‘Rest yourself on the edge o' the sink, Harry, and I'll get the window open a bit and let some fresh air in.’

  ‘Thanks. I'll be fine in a minute.’

  Mary brought over a cardigan and wrapped it round Harry's shoulders. She saw how scrawny he had become. She thought of how those same shoulders used to give her a thrill when he took off his jacket after a day's work at the blacksmith's and how the muscles in his shoulders would jut out from the braces that he used to hold his trousers up. She edged up the bottom of the window and immediately felt the blast of cold winter air howling through the small gap that was created.

  ‘Oh! That's better.’ Harry wiped sweat from his brow and sagged with the effort of being alive.

  ‘I'll get you a cup o' tea. Watch you don't catch a draught.’

  Harry nodded and gasped at the air hissing in through the gap in the window. ‘It's startin' tae get cold, isn't it?’

  ‘Aye. I'll get a fire goin' as soon as I've put the kettle on.’

  Harry stared bleakly out the window, nodded in assent and sighed.

  As Mary turned the tap on to fill the kettle, she shivered a bit. ‘Will I shut the window now?’

  ‘Aye. It's bloody freezin' in here. What time is it? I've no' got my glasses.’ Harry waited for an answer but, as one didn't come, he carried on with his next bit of news, ‘It's bloody cold, isn't it?’

  ‘I'll get a fire lit before I go to the washhouse.’

  ‘Is this the day you go to the washhouse?’

  Mary's thoughts were somewhere else and she didn't really take in what Harry was saying. A flash came into her brain and reminded her that she'd been dreaming. ‘I must have been havin' a dream when you wakened me.’

  She glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw it was ten past seven. Harry was still staring at the blackness outside the window. She picked up a box of matches from the table and crossed to the cooker. ‘I can remember it as clear as anything.’ She turned on a gas ring, struck a match and then lit the ring with it. ‘Aye – very vivid.’ Mary had always told Harry about her dreams but Harry had never been in the slightest bit interested. As she picked up the kettle, she continued with the vivid recollection of her dream, ‘I was in this forest and I was being chased by this pack of … they looked like midgets but maybe they were wolves.’ She put the matchbox on the mantelpiece and tapped it as if trying to tidy up her memory of the dream. Picking up the kettle, she was still trying to separate the midgets from the wolves as she put the kettle on the gas – unfortunately it was not the ring she had just lit.

  Harry shivered. ‘There's a draught comin' from somewhere.’ He scanned the room trying to pinpoint where the draught was getting in.

  Mary had started to set out the fire for lighting. She lifted the ashes from below the fire bowl and, selecting some of the cinders that had not become total ash, she wrapped them in a sheet of old newspaper and placed them on top of some kindling she had laid along the bottom of the grate. ‘Maybe it wasn't wolves. It might have been just dogs.’ She pondered this hypothesis for a moment. ‘Mind you, if it was dogs, they were awful big yins.’

  ‘I've found the draught. It's comin' from the window. I'll shut it.’ Harry got up on his feet, leant on the bottom of the window and then gave it a shove which successfully closed the window. ‘I've fixed that draught. It should be OK noo.’ He stood, surveying the room in his cotton long johns and cardigan. ‘It's bloody cold, i'n't it? Have you seen my fags? Where did I put my fags?’ His gaze settled on the table. ‘Ah! There they are.’

  Mary was screwing more old newspapers into spills for the fire. ‘Have you found your fags? Good.’

  ‘No, I haven't found the fags but I've found my specs.’ Harry picked up the wire-rimmed National Health specs that cut into the bridge of his nose, leaving two permanent red notches at each side, and slotted them on to the respective red welts. He could feel in his bones the pain of the effort he had to make to walk over to the fireplace. Reaching the fireplace, he scrutinised the top of it. His gaze fell on the cigarettes on the mantelpiece. Lifting them and the matches, he took a deep breath before walking to his easy chair.

  Mary was now on the final stage of lighting the fire. She was placing small bits of coal on the primed kindling. ‘Where did I see them noo? Are they no' on the mantelpiece?’

  Harry had settled in to his chair and was drawing the cardigan round him for warmth.

  ‘They might have fell down the side of the armchair. Have you looked down the side o' the armchair?’

  There was no reply from Harry.

  ‘Well, if they're no' there, I don't know where they are.’

  Mary also felt her bones protest as she stood up. ‘Aye, auld age doesn't come by itself,’ she muttered as she looked in vain on the mantelpiece for the matches. ‘Where did I put they matches?’ She patted the pocket on her dressing gown. ‘I could have sworn I had them here a minute ago.’

  Harry looked up from his freshly lit cigarette and shook the matchbox. ‘Use these. Is that tea nearly ready? It's bloody cold wi' no fire on, i'n't it?’

  Mary crossed to the fireplace with the matches and said, as she tested her bones again by bending down, ‘No' be long.’ She lit a match and began to coax the fire to light. She watched it for a sign that she had been successful. It was not promising. ‘I'll maybe need to block it with a newspaper and get the up-draught goin',’ she thought to herself. ‘But it might smoke the place oot and that's the last thing Harry needs wi' his chest. I'll give it a minute or two yet.’ She continued to stare at the fire in hope.

  ‘Did I tell you I had a terrible dream last night?’

  Harry continued to stare out the window, noticing a milk cart horse clopping along the cobbles in the yellow glow of the lamplit street below.

  THREE

  Wullie Patterson had been delivering milk, man and boy, for twenty-three years. He'd started as a delivery boy while he was still at school. His family had never been financially solvent due to the fact that his father had been afflicted with a chronic thirst, which was only slightly alleviated by alcohol consumed in large quantiti
es. Wullie had helped his mother feed the family by going on the milk. When his boss died suddenly of a heart attack due to overwork, he was promoted from milk boy to milkman. He took over his boss's run and milk cart, which he loaded each morning at 5 a.m. and then pushed all the way round to each of his customers.

  It was back-breaking work and, not wanting to wind up like his erstwhile boss, Wullie had decided to chuck it in and go for something a bit less strenuous. But, when his employers informed him they were upgrading and would provide him with his very own horse, he decided to give it a month to see how it panned out. That was twelve years ago and Wullie and his horse had been partners ever since. His horse was also his best friend. Due to the unsociable hours of his calling, he had never found any woman to share his life with and, if the truth were to be told, he wasn't all that interested in women anyway. He was an avid follower of politics and a prominent member of the Glasgow Humanists' Society – which was a bit of an anomaly, seeing as his best friend was a horse. Wullie's boast was that he did not like to go with the herd and always liked to do things his own way.

  He had renamed the horse Thornton as a tribute to the Rangers footballer Willie Thornton. Wullie was actually a Celtic fan but he had decided to honour the Rangers centre forward when the said player returned from the war having won the Military Medal. Of course the post-war shortages had put paid to Wullie's milk round for a few years, but Wullie had taken odd jobs and managed to keep Thornton in oats. Now the bad times were over and Wullie was back in the old routine.

  He even had his own squad of lads to run up and down the stairs. There were three of them but Wullie did not know their actual names as sometimes one boy would leave and another would swiftly take his place and Wullie found it very difficult to remember who was who. To save him the effort of trying to recall any new boy's name, he developed the strategy of always referring to them as Larry, Curly and Moe after the Hollywood comedy team known as The Three Stooges. This worked out well as the boys were not really interested in furthering their acquaintanceship with Wullie outside of the twilight hours anyway.

  As the cart turned the corner into Melton Street, the three stooges jumped off and grabbed the appropriate number of milk bottles for delivery to the various tenement closes and the houses that were on their lists. Larry and Curly were due to deliver to number 3 and number 6. Moe loaded up his crate with milk and headed for number 9. As he lurched across the street he felt the milk crate dig into the creases of his fingers making them sting in the cold early morning air. The bottom of the crate dug into his thighs and he was thinking to himself that he would pack in this way of enhancing his pocket money when Wullie's voice cut through the gloom and frost.

  ‘MOE!’ he shouted to him. ‘Make sure you get the money aff Magrit McGuire. Two weeks she owes – eleven and six-pence. Tell her nae money, nae milk.’

  Moe nodded and continued on his way. He was whistling the Guy Mitchell tune ‘She Wears Red Feathers and a Hooly-Hooly Skirt’. Guy Mitchell was Moe's favourite singer and he knew all of his songs off by heart. As he delivered the milk, he collected the week's money and, now and again, got a ‘wee mindin'’ – which was Glaswegian for a tip. The McGuires' door was on the top landing and, unlike the other main doors which had all been modernised by sticking a large piece of plywood on top of the original panelling and then painting it (usually cream), theirs was still in its original state. The practice of overlaying plywood was known as flushing the front door and was very fashionable at the time. However the only thing that was flushed in the McGuires' was the toilet. Peter and Margaret McGuire and their two boys and a girl lived on the edge and life was what is known as a struggle. Peter was a strongly-built red-headed descendant of Irish immigrants and had a job as a ‘hauder-oan’ in the yards. This consisted of holding on (haudin-oan) to a sledgehammer on one side of the bulkhead of a ship, while a riveter rattled through a white-hot rivet on the other side. The action of holding the sledgehammer against the hot rivet caused the tail of the rivet to flatten against the bulkhead, thus joining up the various panels of metal that constituted the bulkhead. It was hard, deafening work and most of the men who worked in this environment were prone to conditions such as arthritis or white finger, due to the staccato pressure from the riveting gun, and also to deafness, due to the din created in the shell of the ship that was being built, like a thousand ball bearings being rattled in an enormous tin can.

  Peter was still in his thirties and had all that to look forward to. It was, therefore, no small wonder that, come the weekend, if they were not working overtime, he liked to forget all about the week that had gone before and the weeks that were still to come. Like a significant number of the workmen, he found that a few wee haufs and a hauf pint chaser helped him to relax. It helped him so much that he would be as relaxed as a newt by closing time.

  He'd then sing or get in a fight, depending on whether or not his singing or his point of view was agreed on by his peers. Eventually, he would wind up falling in the front door and collapsing in the hallway, where his wife and family would ignore his existence except for rifling through his pockets for any loose change. This traditional practice had the effect of leaving the man of the house skint and in need of a moneylender by the Sunday. This was, however, never a huge problem as the moneylenders were always waiting outside the shipyard gates, to help out, so to speak.

  When Moe came for the milk money, Peter was doing what he did best when he wasn't holding on to rivets – sleeping.

  Moe had reached the McGuires' door and, clutching the two pints of milk that were destined for the McGuires, providing they coughed up the money owed, he knocked firmly on the door. As he waited for a reply, he changed from Guy Mitchell's ‘Hooly-Hooly Skirt’ to his next favourite singer Dickie Valentine's hit ‘All the Time and Everywhere’. Moe decided that an early-morning drag at a fag was in order. He gave the door another knock and extracted a half a Woodbine from a five packet in his trouser pocket. The five-Woodbine packet was known as the flat fifty due to its diminutive status and was usually smoked near the end of the week when money was too tight to buy Senior Service or Player's cigarettes. He gave the door another knock and then started to sing quietly, in the style of Dickie Valentine and to the tune of ‘Who Were You With Last Night?’:

  Woodbine's a rare wee smoke

  (gie's a light, gie's a light, gie's a light)

  Woodbine's a rare wee smoke.

  If it wasnae for Woodbine

  We wouldnae be here

  Woodbine's a rare wee smoke.

  Moe prided himself on his Dickie Valentine impression and was not quite happy with his rendition that time – something about the vowel pronunciations were not quite right. He placed the dog-end in his mouth and fished around in his pocket for a match, eventually finding one, but unfortunately it was a match without a box around it. He searched for a surface to strike the match on. Normally the stairs would have done but they were damp. His eyes finally spied a metal air vent high on the wall between the opposing houses on the stairhead landing. He realised he could reach it by standing on the upended milk crate. Laying the milk on the landing he turned the crate on its side, stood on it and struck the match. As the match head ignited, sparked and finally flared into flame, he instantly cupped it with his hands so it would not be extinguished by a stray draught. Sucking deliciously on the Woodbine, he stepped down from the crate and bent down to pick up the milk – only to discover that it had vanished into thin air. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to guess where it had gone. He had lowered his guard for only a few seconds but that was enough for the opportunists behind the McGuires' door to seize the moment – and the milk.

  Moe battered on the door frantically but, it has to be said, also futilely.

  ‘Mrs McGuire, the driver says I've to get the money for the last two weeks – Mrs McGuire – Wullie'll kill me if I don't get the money. Gonnae gie us the money, please?’ he shouted through the letterbox. ‘At least gie us the empties.’ He continued in t
his vein, chasing what's known as a lost cause. However, the unflushed door was not forthcoming and, finally, conceding defeat was all that was left to him and Moe trudged down the stairs with a heavy heart.

  From the McGuires' front window that looked down and on to Melton Street, ten-year-old Tim McGuire, dressed in a semmit and underpants, surveyed the milk cart as he sat on top of the kitchen sink. This grandstand seat provided him with an excellent view of Moe running to the cart and explaining to Wullie what had happened to his milk and the two weeks' money that was owed. Wullie looked up at the window and shook his head. Moe looked up and shook his fist. Tim gave them both a look at his middle finger which he used as a microphone while miming crooning into it in the fashion that Dickie Valentine used when singing the latest hit tune of the day.

  FOUR

  ‘That's him away, Ma,’ Tim informed his mother.

  Margaret McGuire or, to pronounce her name the way that Glaswegians did, ‘Magrit’ was busy getting herself ready for battle with the forthcoming day.

  ‘Did you give him the milk money?’

  ‘Aye, I gave him it, Ma,’ said Tim, jumping down off the sink and crossing over to the bed that contained his nine-year-old brother Frankie and their father. Pulling back the bed clothes, he got in beside them. Both Peter and Frankie were still sleeping so this afforded Tim the opportunity to count the money that should have been in the milkman's hands but was now in his. Pulling the bedclothes over his head, he surveyed the loot and, in a shaft of light that shone through a gap in the sheet, he swiftly counted his haul.

  ‘Jeez! Eleven and six.’ A silent gasp of delight escaped from his lips as he realised he was now in possession of a small fortune. He lay there, warmth coming back into his body and eyes shining with excitement as he tried to come to terms with his newfound wealth. At that moment, the sheet was yanked from his grasp and he found himself hauled out of bed.