The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 (6 page)

Chapter Ten

  Helen wis kicking hersel as she sat oan the bus wae Issie, heiding back up the road.  How could she hiv been so bloody stupid?  Why the hell hid she no jist butted in, before they’d goat tae the expensive coffins.  Poor Issie.

  “Oh, Helen, Ah only wish Joe could be here tae see that lovely coffin we goat him.”

  “Aye, it's a beauty, so it is, bit Ah’m worried aboot how the hell you and Tam ur gonnae be able tae pay fur it, Issie,” Helen said gently.

  “Ach, the NAB will help, so they will.”

  “Issie, the NAB will only gie ye a hunner and twenty quid towards the costs ae the funeral, so they will.  Yer total bill fur everything is o’er three hunner and that’s no including the minister.  Ur ye sure ye want a minister and no a priest?”

  “Aye, Ah’m finished wae they bloody priests.  Ah’ll ask that nice minister who’s been up at the door.  Ah’m sure he’ll help us oot.”

  “So, whit aboot the service then?  Don’t get me wrang, Ah’m no really intae aw that guff aboot hivving a mass.  The main thing is that he’s been baptised.  Will anywan know the songs?  It’s gonnae be embarrassing, hivving a Proddy funeral, if there isnae anywan there who knows the tunes.”

  “Ach, we kin jist hum alang tae them, Helen.  Ah’m sure God wullnae get his knickers in a twist because a couple ae Catholics don’t know the words tae some ae they orange tunes.  Yer Jimmy and Betty’s Stan ur blue noses, so we’ll get them tae gie it big laldy in the church, eh?”

  “Aye, Ah suppose.”

  “That nice wan wis saying it’ll probably be next Wednesday, so he wis.”

  “Whit nice wan?”

  “Fatty.  The wan that looked like Oliver Hardy.”

  “Ah’m telling ye, Issie, how Ah never stuck the heid oan that baw-face ae his, Ah’ll never know.  The patter flying oot ae him and that wee pogo-stick ae a pal ae his, wid’ve melted the inside ae an iron lung, so it wid’ve.”

  “Dae ye think so?  Ah thought they wur dead nice, especially Fatty Arbuckle.  And remember, they didnae hiv tae gie us that good deal that ended last week.  Ye cannae deny them that, so ye cannae.”

  “Oh, Issie,” Helen said, feeling the tears well up in her eyes, as she took Issie’s hauns in hers.

Chapter Eleven

Helen opened her eyes.  She’d been awake fur a while, bit hid lain, luxuriating in the stillness ae the moment, under the warmth ae the blankets and coats that wur piled up oan tap ae her.  It wis still dark ootside, bit the wee gap between the curtains let in the orange glow fae the street light and hauf lit up the bedroom.  Jimmy must’ve opened the curtains earlier when he’d goat up fur his work, tae see if it hid been snowing in the night, she thought tae hersel.  She didnae know whit time it wis, bit she could hear the sound ae the engines ae the buses and lorries, heiding up and doon Keppochhill Road, at the bottom end ae the street.  She wis lying wae her hauns clasped thegither between her knees, curled up in a ball.  She could feel the cauldness ae the room oan the tip ae her nose which made her sink even deeper intae the warmth ae the mattress.  She smiled tae hersel in the semi-darkness, thinking aboot aw the times o’er the past few weeks that she’d tried tae convince Jimmy tae make up a fire through in the living room in the morning fur her, before he left fur work.  The two-bar electric fire wis oan the blink and wis lying through in Johnboy’s bedroom.  Jimmy widnae throw it oot because he thought he could fix it.  She couldnae remember when the tap bar hid gone oan it, bit it hid been o’er a month since the bottom wan hid gied up the ghost.

  “Whit?  Ye want me tae make up the fire at hauf five in the morning?  Ur ye bloody insane or whit?  Ah know Ah come across as a hauf-wit maist ae the time, bit believe you me, Ah’m no as stupid as you or aw they mad pals ae yers take me fur,” he’d growled.

  “Oh Jimmy, shut yer geggy and dae as ye’re telt fur wance.  It widnae take ye two minutes, so it widnae,” she’d pleaded wae her best pained expression.  “It’s aw right fur you.  By the time ye’re stomping doon the road, aw wrapped up and warm, building up a good auld sweat, Ah’m hivving tae pace aboot this fridge ae a place, trying tae keep warm until the coal fire gets gaun.”

  “Good.”

  “And wasting gas, staunin o’er that cooker ring, trying tae get a heat.”

  “Serves ye right, so it dis.”

  “Stiff as a board, no feeling ma toes because they’re that cauld, so they ur.”

  “Best thing fur ye...keeps ye fit.”

  “Hivving made up yer pieces the night before while ye’re lying through in that bed, snoring like an auld weasel, expecting me tae get a sleep wae aw that bloody racket gaun oan.”

  “Don’t brag aboot it.  It could be worse…it could be me listening tae you insteid ae the other way roond.”

  She turned o’er and glanced at the clock oan his side ae the bed.  Ten past seven.  She hidnae heard it gaun aff earlier.  Jimmy hid telt her that his body clock kicked in aboot five minutes before the alarm, so he usually switched it aff so as no tae disturb her.  Christ...Christmas Eve...whit a thought.  She drew the blankets up until they jist covered her nose.  She’d get up wance her nose thawed oot, she decided.  She looked across the room, searching fur the ootline ae her clothes, which wur stretched across the chair, beside the dressing table.  She wis always furgetting tae move the chair closer tae the bed so she didnae hiv so far tae dash in the cauld.  It looked like it wis gonnae be her socks first, brassiere, blouse and jumper second and knickers and skirt last...aw in less than thirty seconds flat.  She’d then dash through tae the cooker fur a cup ae tea, a fag and a wee bit ae heat, before tackling the grate in the living room.  She’d a busy day aheid ae her.  She’d tae get Issie up tae the NAB oan Springburn Road and then get back pretty pronto tae prepare fur Mary Porter’s warrant sale.  She wanted tae nip oot ae bed tae check if it hid been snowing, bit her thawing nose warned her against daeing something as stupid as that.  Snow and warrant sales didnae mix and it wis a right bugger if ye wur trying tae encourage people tae get involved.  People could cope wae the cauld if it wis dry, bit seeing the snow drapping doon put people aff fur some reason, apart fae the die-hards like hersel.  Snowing jist made her aw the mair determined tae turn up tae show they basturts.  It hid been pelting doon wae rain and then the snow hid started during the last wan, alang in Palermo Street in November.  The usual suspects ae Issie, Sandra, Cathy, Ann, Mary, Sharon, Soiled Sally, Betty and hersel hid been there, bit that hid been it.  They’d thought it couldnae get any worse and then the sale hid gone aheid, wae buyers turning up in droves and emptying Jessie Scanlon’s hoose like a swarm ae locusts.  That sergeant wan, the wan everywan called The Stalker, who’d arrested Johnboy and his wee pal…the quiet wan…fur resetting stolen goods, hid hid the cheek tae ask her why they aw bothered because ‘apart fae youse, nae other fucker gies a toss.’  She wis glad the other lassies hid heard him saying that.  It hid jist made them aw the mair determined.

  “Away and bile yer heid, ya creepy, stalking ghoul, ye.  Whit wid somewan, the likes ae you, know aboot anything, eh?” Sharon Campbell hid shouted at him.

  “Ah’m only saying, so Ah am.”

  “Aye, well, keep yer thoughts and opinions tae yersel then,” Betty hid snarled, false teeth chattering wae the cauld.

  “Aye, who cares whit ye think?  Ye’re getting paid tae be here, ya clown, ye, so ye ur, so shut yer geggy up and get back tae daeing nothing, where ye belong, ya big lump ae shite,” Ann Jackson hid shouted, tae howls ae laughter.

  “Aye, piss aff where ye belong, dick-face.  We know whose side ye’re oan, so we dae,” Mary hid shouted at the sergeant’s back, as he’d scurried aff tae join his pal across the street, continually looking at his watch, obviously wondering whit wis keeping the Sheriff officers.

  A few days earlier, they’d put up a wee haunmade poster in Salty Tony’s and Sherbet's, trying tae drum up support fur people tae join them, highlighting the fact ae whit wis gonnae happen tae Mary and her weans.  Tony and Sherbet hidnae been too keen oan getting involved, bit efter threats ae a boycott oan their overpriced goods, they’d relented.  Betty and hersel hid gone and stood ootside The Princes Bingo Hall oan Gourlay Street a couple ae Thursday nights previously, haunin oot leaflets.  Maist ae the auld wans hid taken the leaflet bit hid avoided eye contact wae them, before scurrying intae the foyer.  Betty hid said that probably hauf ae them hid hid their furniture flogged at wan point or other in their lives, yet she certainly wisnae gonnae haud her breathe waiting fur them tae turn up oan the day ae Mary’s sale.  Helen and Sharon Campbell hid stood ootside wan ae the churches up in Springburn Road oan a couple ae Sundays, daeing the same routine.  Sharon didnae think anywan fae there wid turn up either.

  “Did ye see aw the fancy hats they auld wans wur wearing?  Ye kin furget them, that’s fur sure.”

  Helen hid laughed.  She couldnae see whit hats hid tae dae wae anything, although Sharon wis probably right aboot the lack ae a turnoot.  Wance everywan hid gone in tae the church, they’d heided hame, blue and frozen stiff fae the cauld blast howling up Springburn Road.  They’d planned tae nip back up fur the evening service that same night, bit couldnae be arsed because the heavens wur against them as the  snowstorm hid goat intae tap gear and torn the slates aff the roofs up and doon Keppochhill Road.  Helen looked across at her glad rags, stretched across the chair, fur the twentieth time.

  “Right...wan, two, three!” she shouted, as she threw the blankets aff ae hersel and made a mad dash fur a pair ae Jimmy’s thick work socks.

Chapter Twelve

  Helen thought her and Issie wid be first in the queue by the time they’d hiked up past the auld Kinema Picture Hoose tae the NAB oan Springburn Road, bit it looked as if people hid been hinging aboot aw night.  Some ae them hid blankets wrapped roond them and she noticed wan auld couple looking like something oot ae a Mr Michelin tyre advert because ae aw the auld newspapers they’d stuffed doon inside their coats and troosers.  The auld dear hid copies ae The Evening Citizen sticking oot ae her left welly boot while in the other, The Glesga Echo wis advertising an aw-singing, aw-dancing, fancy electric cooker, wae some smiling trollop wae a big cheesy grin spread across her made-up coupon, done up in a fancy clean white frilled apron, wrapped roond her perfectly curved body.  When the doors finally opened, it looked like it wis every man-jack fur himsel.  Helen pulled Issie oot ae the queue tae avoid them being crushed between the blue double entrance doors.

  “Bit we’ll lose oor place in the queue, Helen,” Issie wailed, panicking.

  “Aye, bit we’re no gonnae lose oor dignity at the same time, Issie.  Let’s staun here a minute and hiv a wee fag till it quietens doon a bit, eh?” Helen replied, teeth chattering, as she pulled Issie tae the side as the mass ae frozen people ploughing past them.

  When they finally made it up the stairs and went through the door wae the sign saying ‘Death Grants’ above it, Helen’s heart sank.

  “Ah knew we should’ve stuck tae oor place in the queue,” Issie groaned, haudin oan tae Helen’s sleeve.

  The queue itsel didnae bother Helen as much as the sight in front ae her.  It looked as if hauf ae Springburn hid suddenly hid a death in the family.  The place wis full ae relatives, aw comforting and supporting the wans closest tae the deceased, shuffling forward in the queue a few steps at a time, towards the lucky few who’d managed tae get a seat sitting opposite the claimant desks, aw sobbing as if they wur awready at the graveside.  Helen found it hard no tae join in wae aw the grief that wis gaun oan roond aboot her.  When she turned and looked at Issie, she noticed Issie wis awready building hersel up.  The tears wur streaming doon her face and she wis sniffling, trying tae stoap the drips fae her nose fae running doon the front ae her black funeral coat.

  “Here, hen, take this,” Helen said, taking a thick cotton McEwans lager bar towel oot ae her bag, which she’d come across in Johnboy’s room a few months back when she wis cleaning it.

  “Ah’m no touching that, so Ah’m no,” Jimmy hid yelped, recoiling in horror when she’d thrown it across, oan tae his lap.

  “Why?  It’s a blue beer towel.  Ah thought ye’d like something like that,” she’d said.

  “It’s probably his ham-shank cloth, so it is,” he’d replied.

  “Ham-shank?  Whit ur ye oan aboot?  Ham-shank?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ta, hen,” Issie replied, blowing intae it loudly, before dabbing the tears fae her eyes.

  “Ur ye sure that Ah’ve goat everything noo, Issie?” Helen asked her, scanning through the sheath ae forms in her haun.

  “Aye.”

  “And the letter ye goat this morning?” she asked.

  “Oh, right, here it is,” Issie said, haunin o’er the letter that Tam and her hid goat in the post that morning, informing them that a plot hid been secured in Sighthill cemetery and that Joe’s burial wis tae take place the following Wednesday, the 29
th
December, at ten o’clock in the morning.  Mr Depardieu wis awaiting instructions as tae where the service wis taking place before the burial and Issie and Tam wur required tae inform him as soon as possible, so himsel and Mr Morrell could make arrangements wae the priest or the minister well in advance.

  Wance they reached the seated section, Helen found it a bit easier tae hiv a wee gander aboot tae see if she recognised any ae the mourners.  She knew that either hersel or Jimmy wid end up in here wan day.  She prayed fur her sake that it wid be Jimmy who’d be staunin in the queue and no her.  She thought she knew the tall lanky wummin who wis being unsuccessfully restrained fae sliding aff ae her chair by a wee bald heided man, two rows doon, in front ae them.

  “Christ, he’s hivving a helluva job wae her, eh?” Helen whispered intae Issie’s ear.   

  Issie wis noo in full flow and hid signed up wae the rest ae them as a fully-fledged mourner, trying tae ootdo the sound ae sobbing fae aw aroond aboot them.

  “Whit wan?” she sobbed, her nose getting the better ae her.

  “That big skinny wan, two doon in front ae us,” Helen whispered back.

  “Her?  Oh that’s jist Peggy Roy.  Ah heard that her maw hid jist died...fur the seventh time,” Issie said, sniffling intae the bar towel.

  “Whit?  Dae Ah know her?”

  “Oh aye, of course ye dae...everywan knows Peggy.  She used tae live at the tap end ae Parson Street above the Holy Trinket shoap, jist up fae St Mungo’s Chapel oan the corner ae Martyr Street, before her and that wee baldy man ae hers goat shifted up tae Springburn.  Her and her man ur never oot ae The Journeyman’s Club, so they’re no, even though he goat the sack fur turning up tae his work wae The Corporation pished as a fart every day fur the fourteen months he worked wae them.  Kin ye no remember that she wis the wan that goat lifted and charged wae breach ae the peace efter that accident wae the trolley bus up in Castle Street in the mid-sixties?  Ah wis there and witnessed it masel.”

  “Ur ye sure ye’ve goat the right person and ye’re no thinking ae somewan else?  Ah don’t remember anything aboot a trolley bus accident up in Castle Street,” Helen whispered back, as Peggy Roy again slumped back oan tae the flair in distress at her loss.

  “Aye, it wis jist up fae the Stirling Road end, across fae The Royal Infirmary.  The Trolley bus rammed intae the back ae a lorry that hid tae slam oan its brakes when the lights between Alexandra Parade and the tap ae Parson Street switched tae red withoot warning.  There wis passengers staunin oan the platform at the back ae the bus when it slammed intae the back ae the lorry, spilling everywan oot oan tae the road and pavement.  Aboot a dozen people went flying.  Peggy wis oot daeing her shoapping when she clocked whit hid happened and ran across, scattering the contents ae her shoapping bag doon oan tae the pavement as she lay doon oan the road groaning, haudin oan tae that gammy leg ae hers that hid been bothering her fur years.”

  “Naw!”

  “Oh aye, believe you me, ye widnae believe the cheek ae it.  She wis whisked aff thirty yards across tae The Royal in an ambulance, wae its blue light flashing and bells clattering away, while some ae the other poor souls, who wur really hurt, hid tae hobble across tae the emergency entrance oan their ain because there wis nae room fur them in the ambulance, despite the seriousness ae their injuries.  Aye, she needs watching that wan, so she dis.  She widnae know how tae pronounce shame, never mind spell it,” Issie said in between sobs.

  “Christ, so whit happened when she ended up in court then?”

  “Ach, that JP Donnelly twat fined her a fiver and telt her no tae dae it again.  She’s been bleating aboot her innocence ever since, saying how she wis done oot ae her compensation entitlement fae The Corporation Bus Department.  Everywan oan the platform who’d been injured still hid their bus tickets oan them except fur her.  Mind you, Ah always did feel a wee bit guilty aboot blagging wan ae her tins ae carnation milk which rolled ma way efter she’d started scattering them aw o’er the pavement.”

  Helen watched the flair show as Baldy hauf-carried Peggy across tae the two seats in front ae the wee NAB lassie, sitting behind her desk.  She wisnae wan fur feeling sorry fur the people working in places like this, bit it wis hard no tae hiv some semblance ae pity when she saw the pained and frightened look oan the wee lassie’s face as Peggy let rip.

  “Oh ma God, that poor wee maw ae mine is deid, so she is. Ah need ma money fur the funeral, in cash, jist noo, this very day…Aaarrgghh!” Peggy shrieked tae the heavens, before slipping aff ae her chair, as that wee baldy man ae hers, wance again, failed tae catch her.

Helen leaned across and comforted Issie as she began tae whimper again, jist as Peggy’s skinny arse thudded oan tae the wooden varnished flairboards, leaving her skirt still wrapped roond the seat she’d jist vacated, exposing her bare arse tae aw and sundry, as if they hidnae enough tae put up wae withoot being confronted wae the sight ae that.

  “Christ!  Ah think Ah’m gonnae throw up.  It’s like the black hole ae Calcutta reaching oot tae ye, so it is,” Issie sobbed in disgust, looking aroond at aw her fellow mourners tae see if they wur still compos mentis and hidnae fainted wae fright.

  “So, whit ur ye daeing aboot a service then, Issie?”  Helen asked her, looking fur an excuse tae avert her eyes.

  “Oh, Ah don’t know...Ah’m no sure.  Whit dae ye think yersel?”

  “Well, if ye’re no gonnae use a priest, then ye’ll need somewan.  Ah’m no sure if ye kin get buried nooadays withoot somewan fae the church.”

  “How aboot that minister wan…the wan that keeps coming up tae the hoose and gieing Tam money fur the licensed grocer’s?  Dae ye think he’d dae it...and poor Joe a Catholic as well?”

  “Ah’m no sure, bit there isnae any herm in asking.  He kin only tell ye tae piss aff.”

  “So, where kin Ah get in touch wae him then?”

  “Christ, Issie, Ah’m no sure.  Ye’d need tae nip roond the churches tae try and find oot which wan he runs.”

  “Bit, where aboots wid Ah start?”

  “Look, the morra is Christmas day and it’s Saturday.  That means Boxing Day is oan Sunday.  There’s bound tae be services oan aw o’er the place.  We’ll dae the roonds then and see whit we kin come up wae, eh?”

  “Ah don’t know whit Ah wid’ve done withoot aw the wummin, and yersel in particular, Helen, hen,” Issie sobbed, bursting intae a fit ae sobbing as Fraulein Hitler shouted, “Next!”  fae wan ae the desks that wur lined up in front ae the horde ae mourners.