The Sunday Girls (25 page)

But, in spite of my worries, within minutes of going back to bed, I was fast asleep. Dawn brought another golden day. It would be another scorcher by the feel of it although the sun’s breath was just pleasantly warm by the time I set off in search of my father.

As usual, the Hilltown was crowded with people – a multitude of human beings either going about their daily chores or merely lounging in the sunshine. Hordes of children spilled out on to the pavements – thin, hungry-looking children in faded, patched clothes and white arms and legs. A boy, with a paper eyeshade that dominated his pinched, white face, was busy playing with another boy who had one leg shorter than the other, the difference in height being made up by an iron calliper which encased his leg and shoe. But these deprivations went unnoticed as they whooped and shouted and threw themselves into their game of cowboys and Indians.

There was no sign of Rita or Nellie but I only gave them a fleeting thought as I hurried upwards. I had no plan of action as such. I suppose I was hoping that Dad would somehow materialise out of whatever abode he currently occupied. But, as I had long since discovered, life was not like a scene from my
Arabian Nights
book. Life did not have marvellous miracles or a genie in a bottle and nor did it have my father stepping out at my feet. There was no sign of Marlene either.

I walked along both sides of Ann Street, right to the perimeter of Bonnybank Road but, in spite of it being busy, everyone I met was a stranger.

It was too early for the Windmill bar to be open but that had been my intention – to arrive before opening time – and I now realised that this had been an unwise move. Mrs Davidson could live anywhere amongst this warren of tenements and humanity.

I paused outside a small shop that was obviously linked to St Mary’s Chapel in Forebank Road, a chapel that was situated about fifty feet from where I was standing. The window was adorned with crucifixes of every size. Religious pictures and rosary beads were also very much in evidence.

I wondered if Marlene was a member of the chapel and then decided she was not. During our brief meeting, I got the impression she had long ago embraced Bacchus as her spirit instead of Jesus. The tiny ‘jenny-a’-things’ shop across the road seemed a better bet. I stepped inside the minuscule shop, noticing with amusement that the huge bell nailed to the door was well out of proportion to the size of the shop. The metal bell shivered in excitement, almost shifting the film of dust on its surface but not quite. A shaft of sunlight, filled with a million dancing particles, somehow managed to squeeze through a gap in the many posters that decorated the door, falling like a stage spotlight on the dusty wooden counter.

At this point, the reason for the noisy bell became apparent. The owner was a bit deaf. I spoke in a loud voice, mouthing my words in an exaggerated manner, almost as if the old lady was daft as well as deaf. ‘I’m looking for a Mrs Davidson. Do you know where she lives?’

The old woman looked puzzled for a moment before holding up a flimsy packet. ‘Is it jam pot covers you want, lassie?’ She put them away when I shook my head.

I could see the danger of being here all day while she held up all her meagre stock. I then saw a well-chewed pencil on the counter and I had a brainwave. Searching in my message bag, I finally found an old paper bag. I wrote the name down and watched as the woman squinted at it.

After a few seconds she ducked under the counter. Moving things around and opening a few drawers, she re-emerged with a pair of tiny round wire-framed spectacles which she carefully tucked behind her ears and adjusted them on the bridge of her thin, bony nose. She scrutinised the name ‘Mrs Davidson. Mrs Davidson.’ She drew a grimy hand over her mouth. ‘Is that the woman with the nine kids that lives in James Street?’ she pondered for a moment while I almost fainted. Hattie hadn’t mentioned children. The woman was talking again, ‘No, no, that’s Mrs Richardson. No, lass, I don’t know anybody called Davidson.’

Disappointment was written all over my face. Seeing this, she rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘Try the grocer’s shop along the road – the one next to the second-hand shop.’

The woman in the grocer’s shop was totally different from the other one – not so nice and certainly not deaf. I got the impression she would hear a scandalous whisper from a distance of five hundred yards. When I entered, she gave me a sharp look before resuming her task of placing a dozen or so tins of pilchards in a pleasing looking pyramid.

I asked her about Marlene. She sniffed the air as she pondered on my question. When she spoke, her voice was as clipped and sharp as her facial features. ‘I don’t discuss my customers or where they stay with any strangers,’ she said, turning her back on me and dismissing both me and my quest.

I was desperate. I didn’t have all day to look for Dad as the weekly washing still had to be tackled at the wash-house. ‘It’s not really Mrs Davidson I’m looking for,’ I said, annoyed that I was being forced into discussing our family problems with this martinet. ‘It’s her lodger I’m looking for. He’s my dad but my granny has lost his landlady’s address.’

The woman turned. Her lip curled as if to say, ‘Pull the other one’ but she grudgingly took her attention away from the pilchards. She walked over to me. ‘Her lodger, eh? Is that what you call him?’ She looked me up and down, her sharp eyes noting my appearance. ‘So he’s your dad? Well, well.’

I decided to make a show of throwing myself on her mercy, a quality I doubted she owned. ‘Aye, he’s my dad. He comes every Sunday to see us at my granny’s house and yesterday, after he left, my wee sister became ill and now I have to tell him quickly. If you know where he is, missus, tell me because it’s urgent.’

She stepped back smartish – she was taking no chances with something that might be infectious. ‘Mrs Davidson stays in Powrie Place. I don’t know the number of her close but I’m sure somebody will tell you.’

With an exaggerated show of thanks, I bolted through the door but, to my dismay, Powrie Place was similar to the Hilltown and the Overgate – an absolute warren of tenements, closes and stairs. After a few fruitless encounters with dead ends in this maze of humanity, I finally found an old man who not only knew Mrs Davidson but seemed to be fully informed on her entire life’s history.

‘That’ll be Marlene you’re looking for. She lives on the top stair,’ he said pointing a thin, yellow nicotine-stained finger upwards, as if pointing to heaven. ‘Aye she’s had a hard life has Marlene. No luck with men if you know what I mean. Men seem to die on her. Poor lass. But this latest one seems healthy enough. Mind you, her last three were healthy enough at some stage before they popped their clogs.’

I realised he was describing Dad and I tried to escape before I heard something I didn’t want to hear but the old chap was still talking. ‘I’m not sure about this latest flame of hers, though. I think she’s more interested in him than he is with her but maybe that’s the attraction.’ He chuckled loudly before almost collapsing with a coughing fit.

I didn’t want to leave him alone while he was choking and gasping for air but he assured me in between wheezy gasps that he was fine. ‘I get these attacks from time to time but they don’t last long.’

Marlene’s close was like a long dark tunnel. There was a dank, musty odour that spoke of too many visitations from the cat and dog populations. This animal mustiness also mingled with numerous human smells – the pungent aroma of fried onions taking top billing.

I climbed the stair and was surprised to come out on to a stone plettie which was high enough to catch the sun, a luxury that was denied to the lower dwellings. This little corner was already bathed in warm sunshine and Marlene was taking advantage of it. She sat beneath her window in an old fireside chair which was so threadbare that the pattern had long since vanished. Minus her make-up and with her thin legs all brown scorch-marked from sitting too close to the fire, she looked old – much older than Dad. She turned suddenly at the sound of my footsteps and a thin white, scrawny hand shot up to her mouth.

Not wanting to alarm her, I held up my hand. ‘Mrs Davidson, I’m sorry to bother you but I really need to see my dad. Is he here?’

She nodded wordlessly and inclined her head towards the window behind her.

I skirted round her and knocked on the door which lay beside her left arm. There was no answer so I knocked again.

Now slightly recovered from her surprise at seeing me, she said, ‘Just go in. He’s probably sleeping in the chair.’

I stepped inside and another surprise awaited me. Hattie had told us that Marlene was sluttish as a housewife but I now saw this wasn’t true. Although sparsely furnished, the room was spotlessly clean. Dad was indeed asleep on a large Rexene-covered armchair. He had been listening to the wireless and the clipped cultured voice of the announcer droned on unheard.

‘Dad,’ I called. There was no answer and I soon realised why when I saw the two empty beer bottles lying at his feet. I marched over and gave him a hard shake. He opened his eyes and gave me a puzzled look until he focused on me. He suddenly sat upright but was still puzzled-looking, no doubt wondering how I had managed to find him.

‘Ann, what’s the matter? Is something wrong?’ His voice shook slightly but I was in no mood to pander to him.

‘Dad, I want you to come to the Overgate with me. We have things to sort out.’ I knew I sounded angry but I couldn’t help myself.

Although I hadn’t heard her, Marlene had entered the room and she was standing behind me. Dad gave her a warning look and made a slight movement with his hand. She tactfully left the room and resumed her seat in the sunshine.

‘We can discuss things here, Ann. What do you want?’

I decided to ignore the preliminaries and go straight for the jugular. ‘Hattie tells me you’re to be evicted from the house. Is that true?’

To my surprise he didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘She also says you haven’t paid your rent for weeks.’

He nodded. ‘That’s right – I haven’t paid the rent for two months now and I don’t care about it. It’s a right unhappy place and I never want to set foot in it again.’

Tears ran down my cheeks and his voice softened. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Ann. You’ve got your granny’s house to stay in and well …’ He stopped and gazed around the small clean room. ‘Well, I’ve got here.’

‘So you’re getting married to Mrs Davidson?’

For a brief moment the old sparkle appeared in his tired eyes and he laughed softly. ‘Oh, no, not me. Not that Marlene’s not good to me because she’s kind and she looks after me. She’s a good-hearted lass but being married to her is another thing. Oh, no, Ann, marriage is the last thing on my mind.’

I was confused and I said so.

He said, ‘This arrangement suits us both. I’m the lodger with my own room.’ He pointed to a door at the far wall. ‘No Marlene and I are just good friends and a damn good landlady she is and she looks after me so well.’

‘But Hattie said you wanted money to pay the rent.’

‘Aye that’s right but I needed the money to pay the rent here. I can’t expect Marlene to keep me for nothing.’

I knew there was nothing else to say to him except to make the arrangements to empty our old house. After all, the factor would want to get a new tenant in as soon as possible.

‘Dad, I have to go and do the washing this afternoon but we’ll meet later at the house and get it all sorted out. Now remember and be there.’

I stepped out into the sunlight. Planning to say a few words to Marlene to thank her for looking after Dad but, to my consternation, I found that she was crying. Huge teardrops ran down her pale face – tears which she tried to brush away when she saw me.

Suddenly a blast of music and the announcer’s voice from the wireless came from the window which I saw was open and I realised then that she had overheard our conversation – every word of Dad’s intentions. Feeling so sorry for her, I mumbled a few words of thanks and made my escape down the stairs. Before I reached the bottom, I stopped as something was puzzling me.

Why had I not heard the wireless on my arrival? Then it dawned on me. Marlene, curious to hear everything, must have opened the window quietly from outside. Poor Marlene – in her case, it was true about eavesdroppers not hearing anything good.

As I passed the grocer’s shop, I noted with amusement that the sharp-faced woman was now assembling a similar pyramid of pilchards in the window. It was obviously going to be a pilchard week in Ann Street.

Back at the Overgate, I told Granny all the news while we loaded the big bath of dirty washing on to the folding pram. This was such a blessing to us instead of the cumbersome high pram which had been the washing transport for ages. That pram had been given away to another family who lived in the Westport. Granny laughed at the time and said it was getting nearer to Hattie with every move.

Granny put her coat on. Heatwave or not, she never went anywhere without her coat. ‘I’ll just come with you and give you a wee hand with the washing. Your grandad can keep an eye on Lily.’

‘No, Granny,’ I was being quite firm, ‘I’ll manage all right on my own. You’ve enough to cope with all week as it is – both you and Grandad. Now you have a rest.’

She tried to protest but I was adamant. She said, ‘Remember you have to meet your dad later on and I just hope he’s there – the devil that he is. Sometimes I could cheerfully wring his neck.’

They were my feelings exactly. Although angry with him when we were apart, the minute I saw him I couldn’t help but pity him and, like lots of other people, I always gave in to his charm. But not this time, I promised myself, as I struggled uphill with my heavy load.

A fleeting feeling of annoyance crossed my mind when I saw how busy it was. Mondays were always the busiest day at the wash-house and today, with the lovely weather, women wanted to take advantage of the outside drying facilities. Washing lines were full of sheets and towels flapping in the gentle breeze. It was a perfect combination of sunshine and wind and, at times like this, it was easy to believe in a heaven.