The Tin-Kin (22 page)

‘Come on!’ I shout. ‘Come in! It’s like being swallied by a whale.’

Lolly looks a wee bit nervous. ‘Coooooo-weeee,’ she goes, intae the Gulp.

‘Oo-weeeeeee,’ groans the monster.

‘I hope there’s no forky gollachs in here!’ she whispers, ‘or I’ll scream.’ I tell her I’m the only beastie in this cave.

‘Your horns aren’t the kind I mean,’ she laughs.

We spread the blanket near the wall. Loll takes a key out her bag and says let’s put our names on the rock, just here, near the ground. I wonder if she’s gonnae put a heart round it or something like that, but you’ve tae scratch quite hard, and neither ae us has the patience. I touch the rock with my palm. It comes
away damp and cold, itchy with grains ae sand. That’s what’s holding this cave up, wet sand all pressed together. I wipe the hand on my trouser leg.

‘Are you cal?’ I ask, cause I feel a shiver go down her.

She doesnae answer. She rolls over tae face me and I touch her nose with the tip ae my tongue, which aie makes her smile. Our voices echo off the walls, hers high like a bird, mine deep in my throat, like two different creatures crouching in dark corners. We start kissing. Grains ae sand tickle my scalp and I can still smell Moray Cup on her lips. Soon it’s nae enough tae be holding her, trapped beneath woollens and buttons and stitching, six layers ae material keeping us apart. I’m bursting tae touch her again, and I tug at her coat toggles, the loops ae her scarf. I have a bit ae trouble with the sleeves, shunting round like a rowing boat with a standing passenger. She tries tae giggle and I kiss her roughly. I want tae feel again how smooth she is, her thighs, the softness ae her belly against the wool, her breasts in my hands, her nipples going hard and cold. Kittens’ noses. At last the coat’s off. I slip my hand ontae her skin. One feel, freezing and sandy, gies her instant goose bumps, has me catching my breath and her reaching down tae touch me. I almost lose it when she undoes the buttons. I have tae pull away. I want tae taste her this time, nae like our quick fumbles in the dark at the Deil’s hole, where abody could catch us at it. I open her blouse and kiss her belly, push up her vest, feel greedy at the sight ae her bare skin, all shivering and shiny from my tongue. I trace my fingers gently up her stockings, find her slip. She’s warm. Her slips are aie silky smooth. I shut my eyes tight and stroke my thumb over it, pushing forward. Her breath gets warm against my neck, and lower down my skin prickles with the cold as I wriggle off my breeks. Our breath feels smaller in the cave. And maybe it’s nae a bad thing, the fact that the cal wind is jeeling my arse, cause it stops me concentrating too hard on Lolly’s nakedness, the look on her face, all toot-mou’d, her skin on my skin, hands down my back, legs round my waist, the silky slip brushing against me. Her name goes through my head, and maybe I’m whispering it onto her lips.

There’s nae a sound I love more than what wakes us up. The whirring purr ae a jet engine. That’ll be me one day! I’m gonnae find a way tae get up there, medical or no, flying wherever I want, cutting through all the lines, both sides ae the lighthouse, dipping my wings and riding the currents like a bird, like the terns. I’ll fly a Sea Fury, a Vampire, a Venom, a Shackleton, maybe a Skyraider. I’ll dive through the spray in my baby, sweep along the beach, shoot over the waves on a tail wind, my engine so loud it’ll stop folk’s hearts down below. If you go fast enough you can swirl up the sand, I’ve watched them dae it. Aye, that’ll be me one day, soaring past, thundering by, disappearing intae the clouds. Catch me if you can! I’ll be the best pilot in the skies. I’ll be faster than Flash Gordon, even with my twa left feet. ‘Watch this, ladies and gentlemen,’ they’ll shout from the dunes, ‘Jock Terns loops the loop!’ HOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEE!

‘Well? What’s that one, then?’ Lolly whispers intae my ear as the plane flies over us. I hold her tight against me.

‘Sea Hawk, chicky. That’s a Hawker Sea Hawk.’

Dawn

She’d expected a smell of instant mash and surgical sock bandages. But this place was different. It smelt of antique furniture and creamy porridge. There was a shiny piano, an ornate hearth with a real fire, deep-pile rugs, velvet armchairs on brass castors, and a great oak staircase, the walls hung with antlers. None of the elderly residents wore dressing gowns and slippers. Visitors were offered tea with rich fruit-cake, scones with cream and jam, and sandwiches in triangles filled with salmon, egg mayonnaise and cucumber. It felt Christmassy. Dawn wondered what it cost. A fortune, surely.

But fortunes had always been Ma Batchie’s business. She was in a wheelchair. A nurse in a sky blue uniform pushed her into the lounge, positioning her so she could look into the fire.

She might fall asleep on you. You never know when they get to this stage, said the nurse.

Ma Batchie didn’t seem to have noticed Dawn and Maeve. She was staring at the opalescent glaze on the fireplace tiles. The flames made them gleam darkly.

Oh, it’s fine, said the nurse. She can’t hear you less you shout.

Ma Batchie was motionless beneath a tartan blanket that was tucked in round her bony frame. With every few breaths her eyes would close completely, rest awhile, but always open. Eventually she turned to face them.

Maeve held Dawn’s hand tighter as the ancient mouth opened, wide as a fish rising to swallow a midge. Ma Batchie had one tooth in the middle of her face.

Ye’ve come tae ask about yer mam and dad, she said, her voice catching and slipping, a scratchy 78.

What was that? Dawn asked.

The nurse gave them an uncomfortable smile.

Oh, pay no notice. She says things like that to everyone. The nurse took the old woman’s head in her hands, one palm under the chin, the other on the crown. She tilted the head sideways and leant close to Ma Batchie’s ear. It looked like a primitive telephone call.

THE LADY IS RELATED TO SOMEONE YOU KNEW.

Dawn stiffened. The other visitors in the lounge were interrupted, mid-sentence or mid-sandwich. They turned to look. There were lots of raised voices here, like in any retirement home, but this was shouting at top volume, the kind of voice you’d use to a dog.

The nurse looked into Ma Batchie’s face to see if she’d understood.

Yesed somethin?

THIS LADY IS RELATED TO SOMEONE YOU KNEW.

That was a lie, of course. Dawn was embarrassed, about the lying and the shouting, and at herself. She’d believed the paper. The article said Ma Batchie was in good health, or at least that’s how it sounded. But the old woman looked in no fit state for a birthday party. It had probably all been a publicity stunt for the retirement place.

The nurse stood upright and straightened her uniform. Everyone in the room was watching, but she must have been used to the staring and shouting.

Ye’ve come about yer mam and dad, Ma Batchie said again.

Dawn was holding the photo of Lolly and Jock.

Yes, Ma Batchie said. Them in yer haund. She nodded to it.

Dawn shook her head. No, they’re just . . .

The nurse apologised. Some days it’s all a load ae nonsense. Don’t be offended by it.

Ma Batchie flashed her one tooth and leaned forward. Her limbs were stiff as ice, but her flesh was liquid, skin dripping from fossils. One hundred and twenty one years was two lives.
It was superhuman. It should never really happen, but when it did, this was what it looked like – hard to look at. Distorted and not quite of this earth, like an octopus or a palid deep-sea giant, but with human features. A line of pink make-up had been half licked from her lips.

She spotted Maeve.

Wee Betsy! Is that you, Wee Betsy? Ken where I’m going tonight?

Maeve’s eyes were wide.

Dancing! Ho ho! Magic pears!

Ma Batchie laughed, if anyone could call it a laugh. It was more like a tussle going on inside, and Maeve ran behind the armchair where Dawn was sitting.

Oh, don’t worry, pet, the nurse said. She’s just very old. She’s one hundred and twenty one!

Huh. Whatyessay?

Ma Batchie glared till the nurse grabbed her head again.

I SAID YOU’RE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ONE.

The old woman grunted and rubbed her lips together, moistening them and mopping up what was left of the pink lipstick.

One! Two! One! the old woman said. And next year it’ll be one-two-two. One-two-two, buckle my shoe! she cackled. Dae ye hear that, lassie? ONE TWO ONE!

Maeve crept out from behind the armchair, with a smile on her face. One-two-one. Her angels.

A bell rang and the nurse said she’d have to leave them to it. She reminded them to shout, because otherwise Ma Batchie would get frustrated, and then she went. There were three other residents left in the lounge. A fat lady was knitting in a chair in the corner, and beside her a man in a hat had fallen asleep with his mouth open. There was also a feeble gentleman with a couple, perhaps his son and daughter. The couple were eating sandwiches and scones in silence, while the old man watched.

Come!

Maeve was taking jelly-tot steps and Ma Batchie’s eyes were twinkling.

Come on! Ma Batchie said. Ah’ve got cinaminaminamin baws in ma pocket fer ye!

Maeve giggled. She reached the wheelchair and, quite confident now, spread Blue Scarfy onto Ma Batchie’s lap. Maeve put her little hand into the ancient one that was held out, and their fingers intertwined.

Ahhh! Said the old woman with a one-tooth smile. Her eyes closed. She took a deep breath, settled her bones, and let her head fall back against the rest of the wheelchair.

They waited. Dawn felt conscious of the feeble man, sorry that his two visitors whispered so he couldn’t hear them. They ordered more scones, and soon their knives tinkled again round the wee pots of butter and jam. In the corner the fat woman’s knitting needles ticked, and the sleeping man beside her had started to snore.

Ma Batchie still hadn’t let go of Maeve’s hand. Maeve tapped her on the shoulder with her free arm, but Ma Batchie still didn’t make a sound or move a muscle. Her eyes stayed closed. Maeve looked at Dawn, who shrugged, and the woman knitting must have dropped a stitch. The rhythm of the needles stopped dead and she tutted.

Ma Batchie still didn’t open her eyes. Maeve tried to pull her hand away but the old woman’s fingers were locked tight. Maeve looked worried.

Mummy, is she dead?

No! Dawn said. I’m sure she’s just sleeping.

Hello! Maeve said as loud as she dared. She pulled at the old woman’s sleeve.

One-two-one!

Dawn got up from her chair. She would have to shush Maeve so the old lady could sleep a bit. But what if Ma Batchie
was
dead? The knitter had put her work down. Even the feeble old man and his visitors were aware of the scene now. They turned in their chairs, gulped down scone, and waited. Everyone began to look round the room, hoping to see a nurse on the way. Was she finally?

Dawn looked at the others. Um? Maybe we should get –

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! Ma Batchie cried out. Got yis!

Maeve and Ma Batchie’s fingers were still woven together in her lap, and the two of them laughed. Ma Batchie shook till her wheelchair creaked.

I knew she was alive, Mummy! Maeve said. She winked and you never saw. I was only pretending!

Ma Batchie’s laugh turned into a cough. It was a cough like Dawn had never heard before, like a tree trunk snapping in a storm. And it snapped over, and over.

ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, MA BATCHIE?

Ma Batchie was losing the pink from her cheeks. The colour was sliding off her face.

Let go of her, Maeve! Dawn said.

Maeve tried to pull her hand free from the old lady’s.

Mummy, I can’t!

Ma Batchie was gripping it tight. Too tight. Tears were pricking Maeve’s eyes. The old woman’s fingers were still strong. Her nails needed clipping and they were digging in.

She coughed.

She coughed.

Ach, here we go, said the fat lady, who had recovered the lost stitch in her knitting and was now unwinding more wool. One Tooth has a performance on the way. Just wait. She haughs them up like hairballs.

Get somebody! a quiet voice said. Go on! It was the sleeping man. He’d been woken by Ma Batchie’s coughing.

He’s right, Dawn thought. Someone should get help. But the
couple visiting the old man were already on their feet, one headed for the reception, the other up the grand oak staircase.

Ma Batchie coughed and coughed.

She’s having you on! the woman with the knitting said. Always playing up!

And then the coughing stopped.

I told you, did I not? said the lady. She tutted again and went back to her stitches. Knit one. Purl one.

Just like that it was quiet, like nothing had ever been wrong. Was Ma Batchie tricking again? She was still gripping Maeve’s hand, and Maeve was crying. But Ma Batchie didn’t seem to notice. She wheezed.

Just wait. Here it comes, said the lady. She ticked her needles louder as if her knitting could muffle whatever was coming next.

The one-hundred-and-twenty-one-year-old woman was reaching for the mantelpiece. The tartan rug slipped off her lap and down round her ankles, and with her free hand she was pulling the whole length of her splintery body from the chair. Dawn was amazed. Could everyone see what she saw? Ma Batchie had started spitting sparks, real sparks of light, as though something deep in her throat were about to ignite.

AHHHHHHHH! AH CAN FUCK! FIGHT! AND HAUD A CANDLE TAE ANY MAN!

There was a sharp suck.

Nurse! the old man tried to shout. The fat lady roughly bundled her knitting and padded away down the corridor as quickly as she could, averting her eyes from the ugly business. The other old man was still waiting for his visitors to return. He’d turned to watch, and now he threw his head back and laughed, his false teeth rattling loose.

Maeve pulled at Ma Batchie’s arm with all her weight, but she still couldn’t free herself. The old woman was in a sort of trance. At first, words were spat like orange pips from a mush of
nonsense, but then she seemed to get into a groove. They began to drum from deep inside her. Sentences took her over, resonating from deep inside like a reel bewitching a fiddle.