The Tin-Kin (9 page)

I love riding up here, and it’ll be even better once the cart starts to fill. Then I can look over my shoulder at the jumble of things and wonder what’s in the bags and where it will end up, whether there’s anything in there for me or maybe something for Uncle Jock. I watch the pony’s haunches as we go the windy road, over the hump-back bridge, heading for the posh houses in the West End. The Bissaker called the pony Hughie after a friend from the war. His coat’s greasy-feeling when you stroke him, and from up here the hairs glint in the light as he shimmys back and forth with the trot.

Daddy and Jugs talk about something boring till we come to a stop, and then Jugs stays with the pony. It’s me Daddy takes to the door.

‘Can I say it? Please, Daddy?’

‘Aye, course ye can,’ he says, and pounds on the big blue door. The knocker is a brass bull with a ring through its nose. Soon footsteps are coming from the other side and I swallow. I hope it’s someone nice opening the door. If it’s a nasty
sookyface old wifey or an ugly brute I’ll be too scared to ask and Daddy’ll have to do it.

Today’s my lucky day. The lady who answers has a bright yellow cleaning frock and plump cheeks with a flush like an apple. My mouth waters at the thought of apples. I’m sure I’ll get one from someone today. Now it’s my bit. I stick my chin out.

‘Any old rags?’ I pipe up.

She nods, aye! The lady goes back inside her house to fetch them and I look at my Daddy, who’s smiling. He puts his hand on my curls and strokes down to my collar. His hand is rough but warm. We don’t say anything while we wait.

We go to lots more houses. Some folk say no, not today, or no, they’ve not got a thing, but others have piles of things they’re not wanting. I’m just starting to feel sure of myself when a woman on the corner of Grant Street takes one look at us and her face curdles. She slams the door shut before I can even say my bit, and the slap of it against the frame makes the words go lumpy in my throat, like trying to swallow when you have a cold. Daddy picks me up and carries me back down the path, straight onto the next doorstep. But it doesn’t feel like a game any more and I don’t want to ask the question.

I cheer up, though, as soon as we get to Darkie Smith’s house. He gives me a biscuit. There are lots of old plates and teacups for Uncle Jugs, and Daddy gets a great pile of wheels and cogs from off of something. There are so many bits and bobs that Jugs has to steady Hughie and help load them on the cart too. With all this metal maybe Uncle Jock could make us a rocket. We could have our own journey into space!

‘That’ll dae, then, eh?’ Jugs goes to my daddy, and we head off in the direction of my school.

Daddy must be reading my mind cause he says to tell Jugs what I’ve been up to at school, only he calls it ‘that place’. Jugs teases me for going to school. Now I’m learning about the world and reading and writing, he says I’m one of the Bread and
Margarine Gentry. That’s not a good thing. It’s a tinky who’s getting a bit bigsy. Uncle Jock is one of the Bread and Margarine Gentry too, cause he wears a fancy uniform for his job at the station. Jock hates being cried that, and for a while I pretend not to like it either. I pull a face at Jugs and fold my arms over my chest, but actually I’m pleased me and Uncle Jock are called the same thing.

‘What else is it you telt me you liked at that place?’ Daddy says.

‘Roly-poly pudding!’

Daddy and Jugs both go ‘RohwlEE pohwlEE pudding, is it?’ They say it in a funny voice, a posh, English sort of way, and we all start laughing. For a while I just can’t stop myself from saying ‘RohwlEE pohwlEE pudding’, over and over under my breath.

The best thing about school is my teacher, Miss Webster. All the other teachers in the school look the same and talk the same, and when you see them up the street they just nod and say ‘Good morning,’ or ‘Good afternoon.’ They don’t stop to ask you how your day is. But Miss Webster’s different. She wears pretty, bright dresses and has bonnie curly hair like mine. Most exciting of all is that sometimes instead of sitting behind her desk, she perches like a bird on the edge of it. When she does that she looks like a singer or an actress in a film, not like a teacher at all. Secretly I want her to marry Uncle Jock. Then we’d all be related.

The only thing I don’t like at school is the wee break. Mammy gives me a slice of bread to eat, but the others in my class have nicer things, apples and sometimes cakes. I eat my piece in the lavvies, where Miss Webster and every one else won’t see, and when my wee sister comes to school I’m going to make her do the same.

But today I’ve done so well at the doors I might have a proper piece for school tomorrow. My Daddy’s got everything folk have given me at his feet. So far I’ve collected three pokes of
biscuits, a liquorice stick, two apples, and even a copy of the
Beano
! Of course, Rachel will have the half of all this, and wee Nancy likes to suck on the biscuits. I wonder if Daddy would be angry if I asked for the liquorice now, so I could eat it all myself.

When we get to the end of the High Street I’m expecting us to go left and back up the road to the stables. The pony leans that way out of habit. But instead Daddy gives the reins a sharp tug to the right and we turn towards the shops.

‘Where are we going?’

He doesn’t answer me, or maybe he doesn’t hear. Him and Jugs are speaking through their teeth, cursing about someone. Daddy looks serious and Jugs rubs his prickly chin in his hand for a while. Their eyes are narrowed at the road ahead, right through the gap between Hughie’s ears. I try again.

‘How are we going this way, Daddy?’

Daddy tells me to shush, cause we’ll be home soon. He’s got a job to do and I’m to just sit tight, like a good girl.

‘Can we fetch Uncle Jock from the station?’ I go, cause I know he’ll be off work soon. Jugs makes a sucking noise and Daddy says that would be a very bad idea. I don’t know why Uncle Jock isn’t allowed, and I’m angry with Daddy and Jugs for always making fun of him.

When the pony stops, we’re on a street with lots of identical wee square houses, a part of town we don’t normally go. Daddy and Jugs get down together. This time I’m to stay in the cart and keep out the road.

Daddy chooses a house and opens the latch on the wee garden gate. Him and Jugs walk up the path to a white door. On the other side of the street a lady comes to her window and pushes back the net. She stares across at me for a few seconds, and I stare back at the Nosey Parker. The lady’s eyes darken, and she swipes the curtain closed. At that exact same second there’s a loud voice shouting something I don’t understand, or maybe I just don’t want to.

Daddy begins to shout back, but before he’s even finished the man’s screaming.

‘CAUSE YER A BLOODY USELESS PACK AE DESPERATES!’

The man is so fat he fills his whole doorway. He looks like Big Fat Joe in the
Beano
and he can’t be wise, roaring like that at Daddy and Jugs. He tries to close the door but Daddy sticks his boot in the way and it opens wide again. I hear him shout something about his wee girl being in the cart. Then Jugs reaches in and grabs the man by both arms, pushes him up against the porch. He forces him still, holding him tight till the big fat man looks like Baby Nancy when she’s bawling to do something and Mammy won’t let her. His face changes pink to purple while Daddy comes back to the cart and picks up a spade. He doesn’t look at me at all. He won’t see me. For a second I think he’s going to hit the man and maybe kill him.

My throat feels all tight and I can’t breathe cause I’m too feart. Jugs has clamped the man’s neck in the crook of his arm, trapped his head like one of Rascal’s fleas about to be squashed between my fingernails. The man’s purple face is growling back, coughing, and croaking that Daddy’s a ‘damn tinky who’ll not get a penny oot’a my pocket’ .

But instead of the man’s head, Daddy brings the spade down on a sapling in the garden. He does it four times till there’s a snap like a broken rib, and with each blow my whole body jumps. Why would my daddy hurt that poor wee tree? Then there’s a different noise, a clattering hard blow to the wall, almost as loud as the sounds from the scrap yard that we hear when we play up Lady Hill. The man’s latch falls off onto the ground. Daddy goes up the path, dragging the spade behind him, letting the blade make a terrible scratching noise on the paving. When he reaches the door he holds it up to the man’s chin.

I have to turn away now. Behind me are the rags and wheels and cogs, and down the hill there’s the corner. I feel sure the toby
wagon’s going to putter round it any minute with a siren going, and we’ll all be quadded. I wish they’d left me at the station with Uncle Jock.

I peep back. Daddy and Jugs let go of the man when his wife runs to the door from inside and starts screaming. Set free, the man bends over double, holding his throat, and Daddy and Jugs come striding back to the cart. They’re wiping sweat from their brows and can’t close the gate behind them cause the latch is in the gutter. Daddy’s rattling some coins in his hand and shoves them in his pocket. He throws the spade into the back, where it makes another clank. We’re lucky Hughie doesn’t bolt. He’s a good pony. Thinking of that now, looking at his chestnut mane shining in the sun, makes me want to greet. If it was me and Hughie all on our own I’d take him on a long journey.

As we move off I notice the lady behind the net staring again. She looks like a ghost.

We pick up Uncle Jock just past the station. ‘Here’s oor dear brother, Lord Snooty,’ Jugs says, as Uncle Jock takes a jump into the cart behind us, ready to tickle me or make me laugh. But then he sees Jugs and Daddy’s faces, changes his mind and keeps quiet. Daddy holds Hughie by the reins and I hold Daddy on the sleeve. Jugs just smokes and rubs his chin some more. I’m the only one that says anything on the way back to the Lane.

‘You can have my liquorice, if you like, Daddy.’

He doesn’t answer, and I look over my shoulder at Uncle Jock, who doesn’t say anything either, but he pats me on the back.

It’s nearly dark by the time we’re home and Mammy’s outside with Granny looking to see where we’ve got to. Just the sight of Daddy’s face and she knows something’s not right. She asks him if he’s been marring again, and he doesn’t answer. He jumps down from the cart without even saying hello. He puts a hand in his pocket, takes out the coins, and pours them from one hand into the other, letting her hear the sound of them. Then he
puts them back in his pocket and he’s away. We watch him leave with a sack slung over each shoulder, disappearing down the alley to the McPhees’ place.

‘Down you get, Wee Betsy,’ says Uncle Jock. The little parcel of goodies I won gets handed to my mammy. She unfolds it at the corner and says ‘Ooh!’ She sounds pleased, but I can tell she’s worried cause of Daddy.

I give Hughie a pat, and Jugs and Uncle Jock wave goodbye. They head off to the yard to unload the rest of the scrap and rags. Jugs will take all the old broken and chipped china to repair and sell, sometimes back to the same people that gave him it. That’s how he’s called ‘Jugs’.

When we get inside I tell Mammy about the man, how Jugs grabbed him and he turned funny colours like a gobstopper. When I reach the bit about the spade she pulls back a chair and sits down with her head in her arms on the table. I stop telling the story. She doesn’t say to go on, and when she lifts her face she’s not greetin, but she looks dead tired. Mammy unfolds the napkin another time. She just stares at the treats and traces the hem of the napkin with her nail.

I get a beautiful red apple! I can eat it right away cause there’s no tea tonight. I don’t care. Not when I’ve an apple. I take it down to Granny’s house, where the fire’s really burning bright and I can read my
Beano
beside it.

Big Ellen’s come to stay cause she’s having a baby soon. Her and Granny are sitting on the edge of the bed, and they’re chatting in the funny language so I can’t listen in. I coorie up on the little seat right by the grate, so close I’ll get red spidery marks crawling on my shins. The
Beano
’s open on my lap, and my apple is cupped in both my hands. I watch the blurry dance of flames reflected on its waxy skin. There’s a bruise from where the cart was bouncing. I hide it under my thumb and press down on the damaged part a wee bit. It feels like a person’s flesh with bone underneath.

The first bite of the apple makes a crunch like chopping wood. My mouth fills up. It’s bitter-sweet and watery at the same time. All the little grains tickle my mouth. It feels like the tiny bubbles that fizz off my arms when I wash in the sink. The skin curls and twists round my tongue so I can’t say a word, but there’s no word for how good it is anyway.

When Ellen hears my teeth splitting the apple she stops talking to Granny and stares at me really hard. I was enjoying the
Beano
and the taste of the apple so much, their whispered mumbo jumbo had just become a blur in the background. I could have forgotten they were there at all. Now Big Ellen blushes a bit and blurts out, ‘Oh, Wee Betsy. I’d love a bite ae apple. Dae ye mind?’

Of course I do, but I can’t say so with Granny there, especially when Big Ellen has a baby inside her. Granny would tell me ‘shaness’ a hundred times if I did, and I do understand what
that
word means. I finish chewing and go over. I watch Big Ellen’s hand taking the apple from mine, how she wraps her jaw right round it.

CRRRUNCH
.

I imagine the juice running over her tongue. A shiny rim of it appears on her lips as she says, ‘Oh, it’s good. Thanks, pet.’ She passes me back what’s left of my red treasure.

There’s a half finished game of cards lying on the bed between Granny and Big Ellen, and instead of playing they’re looking at photies from Granny’s tin. Big Ellen hands me one.

‘Look! Thon’s Duncan, yer daddy.’

He’s standing at the side of a big horse, reaching up to its mane, patting it. Another man’s in the picture too, riding in the saddle, but you can’t see who it is cause that part of the photie’s all foggy. Daddy looks happy.

‘We were still oan the road then,’ my granny tells me. ‘Must’ve been the last month ae summer travellin we did. A tourist took that een at a horse fair, up near Muir ae Ord. Yer
daddy nivver wanted tae go back intae a hoose fer the winter. Oh, me! Whit a temper he’d get oan him when the winds started tae blow. O ho! Ha! Ha! That wis him jist afore ye were born, nae lang after him and yer mammy first met.’