The Tin-Kin (4 page)

Dawn’s baby sister Linda was a good girl, Mammy always said. A wee lamb that turned folks’ heads. She had blue eyes and springy blonde curls, always smiling, dressed up like a dolly in soft hand-knits and T-bar shoes. She was born in 1963, the very same day Dawn turned eight, which was old enough to remember the whole fiasco.

Dad had come round to Shirley’s with news of the birth, sweaty and tired, still wearing his uniform. He said Wilma was fine. She was resting in hospital, and the baby was healthy, beautiful, and blonde. Daddy’s eyes and Mammy’s mouth.

They sat down to tea together, Dawn, Dad and Auntie Shirley. But celebrations were thin ice. Shirley was angry because Dad, in his excitement, hadn’t remembered to say happy birthday to Dawn. There was no present or card for her. Shirley had baked Dawn’s favourite cake and iced it with a giant number 8, but it was sliced now with good wishes for the baby.

My Lord! Born on the same day! Fancy that! Dad laughed, once the number on the cake had reminded him. Ken what your mammy’ll say, eh? Let’s hope it’s the ainly thing they have in common! Eh? Eh? That’s what she’ll say.

Dad splurted his tea. A fat cigar was smoking in his fingers, and it was the happiest Dawn had ever seen him. He’d taken his hat off and put it on the table, and Dawn stared at it. It was the same hat she’d worn in dressing-up games, when her being silly had made him laugh. Now it was cocked to one side and rested on its brim, and it stared back like it was seeing her in a new, unflattering light.

Just wait till you see your sister, Dawnie, Dad said with a lullaby of a voice. She’s a wee miracle! A wee Goldilocks!

Dawn scowled at the cake with its fancy icing. It looked too fussy next to the tall black hat.

What’s that wet Wednesday ae a face for, eh? Come on, love!

Dawn kicked a chair leg.

What’s the matter? Don’t you love your auld dad any more? No!

Slowly he began to change colour. Don’t start, pet, he said, his tone changing. Especially if you’re tae visit the hospital. Mammy’s nae finding all this easy, eh? And you’ve a wee sister now! What do ye think, eh?

Dawn only whispered what she thought, almost to herself. But Dad heard. He stood up from the table and thumped his fist down.

Gordon, let her be today, Auntie Shirley said, using her brother’s real name for once.

But before he got the chance to do anything Dawn ran from the table and slammed the door behind her. She went to her room and sat on the floor in the corner, picked the wallpaper round the cupboard that wouldn’t open, and whispered it again.

Bloody baby.

She could hear the voices in the living room and wished she knew what they were saying. They’d not be going to the pictures like Dad had promised, that much was certain.

Shirley didn’t come in till Dad was gone. Dawn was still sitting on the floor with an ear to the cupboard.

Were you talking about me?

We were talking about the baby, Dawnie. We can go and visit her tomorrow, if you like, eh, chicky?

When Dawn didn’t answer Shirley came over and stroked her hair. She loved doing that. Dawn’s hair was silky then, just like Shirley’s used to be, except Shirley was blonde like the new baby, and Dawn, unlike her name, was dark.

I kept your birthday cake for you.

I don’t like that cake any more, Dawn said.

A birthday was all she and Linda did have in common as it
turned out. Folk said they were like chalk and cheese, those two. The sun and the moon. Angel and the Deil. Dawn was still living with her aunt when she turned nine and Linda had her first birthday, and by then there was no mention of it being just for a while any more.

Mother loved to boast about the new baby whenever they bumped into her out with the pram, and all the town marvelled that wee Linda was the spitting image of Shirley Temple. Aunt Shirley always laughed to hear that, a funny kind of laugh she kept barred behind her teeth.

But that’s who
I
was named after! Isn’t that a strange thing?

Those meetings left Dawn feeling sick, and perhaps Shirley had felt the same way, because she’d always held Dawn’s hand a wee bit tighter on the way home.

The best thing about living with Shirley had been the rasps, three rows of canes that produced sweet, fat berries every year. They’d eaten them with yogurt and ice cream and Dawn would mash hers with a fork to a creamy pink mush. She still missed the taste of those summer afternoons with Shirley.

It was a stroke that had taken her aunt. A neighbour had found her in the garden, on her back between the raspberry canes, hands tucked neatly in the pocket of her apron, a little red pip on her chin.

Dawn left Maeve in front of the telly, slipped on her shoes and went outside with a bowl. On her way she selected a few ornaments and dropped them into a box by the door, ready to go to auction: a glass figurine, a ceramic cottage, the Victorian mirror, and a strange wee clog Shirley had always kept on a windowsill.

Shirley had been cold when they’d found her. Down on the ground she’d been tucked away from the gaze of the nosey parkers who might have seen her sooner. The thought of it made Dawn want to lie under the rasps. It had been sudden, unexpected. The earth beneath the canes was dry and dusty, warmed by the sun. Dawn sat and pulled her knees close. The untrained
leaves were tickling her arms and she reached over for a clutch of berries, which she stuffed straight into her mouth.

Dad had written to Dawn with news of Shirley’s death. He wouldn’t have had her phone number, she supposed. It was a strange letter and she’d folded and kept it. He’d never written to her before, not even four years ago when he’d become a grandfather, but he did send a card for Maeve signed ‘Granny and Grandpa’. Shirley had told him Dawn’s little secret. 6lb 5oz. No one had ever told Warren. He’d know about Maeve soon enough, though. Surely he’d guess.

Dad had signed off his letter saying he hoped Dawn would come back, maybe even think of living in Shirley’s place now that it was all hers. The local schools were good, he’d said. He’d written something about himself and Wilma getting old, how Shirley had been his much younger sister, after all. He and her mother might not have that long themselves. And he’d love to meet the wee one, he’d said, because they didn’t have much to look forward to any more.

Dawn lay back, tasting the fruit and the soil, watching the sun glow yellowy green through the leaves. She’d thought for days about the funeral, wondered if she should go at all, whether it was safe. And now that she was going, what she would say to them? The letter made them sound different.

Dawn was licking juice from a fingertip when she heard a cough. She jumped and sat up, leaves sticking to her back and jeans. But no. Thank God it wasn’t Warren. Christssake! The man took a step back. He was just a neighbour. He could have been the one that had found Shirley’s body. In the sun’s glare it was hard to see what he looked like. His thick blond stubble glittered like sand, was almost blinding.

Um, I’ve a parcel for you in the house, he said. It was a nice voice, the accent of someone who’d probably left town and later come back. Ally. I live below, he said, gesturing round the front. Can you come round tonight? I’m just away out.

There was still a sour taste on her lips from the rasps, but she tried to smile. She said she’d see him later.

Twelve steps led to the porch and she sat on the fifth, looking at the sky. The clouds had formed like breaking waves, a shoreline of them one after the other, the curling surf of Norse pictures. She’d often seen waves in the clouds here, loved to watch them form and disperse. They rose and fell like tides. She decided to have another cigarette. She would sit and smoke, waiting and watching the crest of the waves being blown away, the sky wiped clean. After that she would settle Maeve for a nap, unpack her cassettes and listen to country music, and tomorrow they could take some of Shirley’s things to the auction. She’d make up another box of assorted. It was good. A clearing-out and a fresh start was just what they needed.

She always kept a small pack of matches in her pocket, and she took them out now. She liked to give them a shake first. A picture of a bridge was on the front, and she would have kept it once because it was a perfect place to hide things; small jewels to leave in a hurry with.

A sudden sickness rose at the thought of Warren’s phone call. Maybe he’d tried again. Again and again. The connector was pulled out of the wall so there was no way to tell. She’d been stupid. She’d panicked.

There was only one matchbox left from her old collection, an empty one, Scottish Bluebell brand. There was nothing inside now but a good feeling, one she wanted to keep. It flickered when she held the box in her hands and very occasionally Dawn would allow herself to do that. A small pleasure. There were other more harmless things, cigarettes, her music, tucking Maeve into bed, kissing her tiny palms which always smelt of playtime, a mixture of sweat and the sweetness of petals, sugared rhubarb.

She lit a match, loving the scratch when it caught, the tingle in her fingertips, a hint of phosphorus in the air. She had the
promise of a few quiet minutes before the day moved on. She had to keep herself together. And somewhere she would find the key to the cupboard. If there was a secret, maybe it was supposed to be discovered like this, only after Shirley was gone.

It was late in the evening, after Maeve’s drawn-out bedtime, when raised voices in the flat downstairs reminded Dawn of the parcel. She waited till it was quiet before going to knock.

Ally opened the door. At some point he’d had a shave and changed into a long-sleeved shirt that was brilliant white against his clean, freckled face. He probably worked outdoors, near the sea or on a rig, because his skin had that stung look that comes from salt and cold wind. He took a slow look at her before he went back in, and for a moment she imagined they were going somewhere together and he was fetching his coat. When was the last time she had a night out? God only knows.

She leaned on the wall beside a window overlooking the pavement. The door opened again. She turned round, expecting the man, but it was a wee boy in pyjamas. He stood staring, sucking chocolate milk through a straw for what felt like too long. It looked like he’d been crying and the drink was some kind of comfort.

Hello.

He was quiet, eyes wide on an unlit match she was twiddling in her fingers. A nervous thing. Over the street an old woman appeared between the curtains of an upstairs window, her stern expression framed with lace. Dawn met her gaze and flicked the matchstick into the gutter.

Mum says do you want a cup of tea?

The boy was almost smiling now, and Dawn saw he had a missing front tooth. He could drink chocolate milk with his mouth completely closed by placing the straw in the gap.

No, thanks. Has the tooth fairy been yet?

The chocolate milk slipped back down the straw. He shifted it over with his tongue and started to bite it flat.

Do you want a cup of tea, Mum says? he asked again between bites.

I’ve my wee girl upstairs.

The boy stared for a bit longer and went back in the house.

You’ve met Kyle then, said Ally when he came back. I’ve another one – Kirsten. She’s younger. The parcel was in his hands, a soft rectangular shape wrapped in brown paper, an official label on the front.

Sorry to hear about your mother, there, Ally said in a hurry, nodding behind him towards Shirley’s house and handing over the parcel.

She was my aunt.

Oh? He shuffled his feet and glanced at his front-room window, where Kyle was watching them talk. The chocolate milk was gone. He was holding the curtain back with one hand and the other he was holding out, making an eff-off sign with his fingers.

Kyle!

The boy only smiled and stuck the two fingers closer to the glass. He shoved them in Dawn’s direction.

Dawn smiled behind her hand.

Ally banged on the window.

Stop it!

The boy lowered a finger. Up yours. One finger. Two fingers. One finger. Two fingers. And then he jumped down and was gone.

Sorry, Ally said, starting to laugh. He’s just learnt that trick.

Dawn said it didn’t matter.

Come and ask us if you’re needing anything. Feel free.

I will, Dawn said, turning to go.

It’s Ally, by the way, he said, half holding out a hand she was too far away to take and then lowering it again, tucking a thumb into his belt loop.

I know. You told me before, Dawn said.

Oh. Are you Dawn? We read it in the obituary.

She nodded.

They shouldn’t have put my name.

She went round the back. It was a late July evening and the neighbours had their windows open. Teatime noises filled the gardens, a television squalling, cutlery clinking, a kid whining. Ally’s door didn’t slam straight away. Maybe he was listening to the same sounds, and Dawn’s footsteps crunching on the path.

She left the parcel on the kitchen worktop and checked on Maeve, who was still allowed to sleep beside her in the big bed. It was a habit Dawn didn’t mind. The room was quiet and the duvet was still. Maeve’s curls fanned out round her sleeping face, a deep-sea halo. Blue Scarfy was beside her on the pillow and she was dimly lit by the clock on the bedside table.

It was ten past nine.

Dawn left the door ajar and went to run a bath. She looked in the mirror as the steam gathered. A wry smile had appeared on her lips. It seemed to sit there all the time now. When her mother saw her at the funeral she would probably say, ‘Why are you making that soor face, Dawn?’ But it was just her normal face nowadays. The way the lines fell. Imagining herself back at Ally’s door, she wondered if he might have found her unusuallooking, like Warren and the few before him had. He’d seemed to take a good look, maybe making up his mind. She laughed at herself. Who was she kidding? He was a married man.

She used Shirley’s coal tar soap. The same brand had been in the bathroom since she was wee and the smell made her feel like bedtime, completely relaxed, no prospect of that sudden chill when the latch clicked late at night and Warren was home.