Last Dance at the Wrecker's Ball

by Robert Douglas

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Glasgow, 1971. The old way of life is under threat for the tight-knit community in Dalbeattie Street, Maryhill. The shadow of the wrecker's ball looms large over their homes, and they must face the choice of moving to a new estate or dispersing throughout the city. But powerful friendships refuse to be broken. These characters have gone through too much together to be destroyed by some measly planning scheme. They'll face this with the same inimitable Scottish humour and strength of spirit that have carried them through other tough times. Douglas' vivid portrait of Seventies Glasgow recreates, in glorious detail, a particular time and place, but at its heart are the universal themes of love, friendship and community.

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 418

Sample

THE RESIDENTS OF 18 DALBEATTIE STREET IN THE YEAR 1971

‘The Top Landing’

Archie CAMERON, age 54.

Ella CAMERON, age 52.

Archie jnr. age 31.

Katherine, age 25.

Archie is an ex-para. Captured at Arnhem, 1944. He is a metal turner at Howden’s Works.

Ella is a confectioner at the Lux Tearooms in the city.

Archie jnr is finishing a prison sentence at the moment.

Katherine works in a lawyer’s office in Hope Street in the city.

Eve FORSYTH, age 59.

Lexie FORSYTH, age 26.

Eve, a widow, moved in in 1965. She has a part-time job as a cleaner at the City Bakeries on the Maryhill Road.

Lexie recently split with her long-term partner. She is a florist at Kinnaird’s on the Maryhill Road.

Agnes DALRYMPLE, age 63.

Unmarried. Serves behind counter at same branch of City Bakeries as Eve, next door.

Served in the Land Army during the War.

‘The Second Landing’ or ‘Two-Up’

Frank GALLOWAY, age 58.

Wilma GALLOWAY, age 44.

Frank is a bus driver, Wilma his conductress, at Maryhill Depot.

Frank was a widower (wife Josie) when he met Wilma.

Formerly lived in single-end on the top landing.

Frank served 4 years in Royal Navy during war.

Flat Vacant.

Not to be re-let.

Alec STUART, age 71.

Irene STUART, age 73.

Alec is retired. Former manager at Andrew Cochrane’s grocers on Maryhill Road

Irene is a housewife.

‘The First Landing’ or ‘One-Up’

Dennis O’MALLEY, age 70.

Teresa O’MALLEY, age 68.

Dennis is retired. For many years a brickie’s labourer.

Teresa has a part-time job cleaning offices for two hours every morning.

Both southern Irish. Emigrated to Glasgow in 1920s.

Two daughters. Siobhan lives in Airdrie. Rhea lives on the landing.

Flat Vacant.

Not to be re-let. (‘Granny’ Thomson used to live here.)

Robert STEWART, age 43.

Rhea STEWART, age 43.

Sammy, age 20.

Louise, age 19.

Robert is a foreman at Rossleigh’s garage on Maryhill Road.

Rhea works in office at Macready & Son, Solicitors, in Wellington Street.

Sammy is a student at Glasgow University.

Louise is an assistant at West End Modes on the Byres Road.

‘The Close’

Bert (Albert) ARMSTRONG, age 51.

Irma ARMSTRONG, age 44.

Bert is a long-distance lorry driver. Newcastle born.

German-born Irma works at Campbell-Duffs ironmongers on Maryhill Road.

Son, Arthur, age 20. Apprentice.

The family are about to move to the Molendinar Housing Scheme (Estate).

Billy McCLAREN, age 57.

Drena McCLAREN, age 51.

Charles McCLAREN, age 20.

Billy is a self-employed painter and decorator.

Drena only works now and again.

Son, Charles, is apprentice motor mechanic and works with ‘Uncle’ Robert (upstairs) at Rossleigh’s.

Oldest son, Billy junior (age 31) is a police sergeant. He lives in Milngavie.

Billy senior was a P.O.W. during Second World War.

Mary STEWART, age 71.

Widow. Mother of Robert on landing above.

Her husband, Samuel, died in 1965.

CHAPTER ONE

Spring Has Nearly Sprung



Thursday, 8th April 1971. Archie Cameron junior lies on his side in bed, reading Ian Fleming’s Thunderball. He sometimes wonders what took him so long to make a start on the Bond novels. Still, better late than never. He’s totally absorbed in this one; far removed from his bed as he traipses around Europe with 007. A sudden metallic noise startles him as the cover on the door’s spyhole is flicked open, then repeated as it swings shut. As Archie turns down the corner of a page to mark his place, there comes the expected ‘click’ from outside and the cell is plunged into darkness. He listens to the screw’s slippered feet scuff along the landing to the next door. Bastards! Always put that light oot when you’re in the middle of a good bit. He reaches out into the dark, accurately places the paperback in the middle of the cell’s only chair. The sigh he gives could be mistaken for someone breathing their last. Thank Christ Ah’ve only a few more months tae put up wi’ this. He lies with eyes wide open, though there’s nothing to see but blackness. You would’nae have tae put up wi’ it if ye stopped thieving. Well, stopped getting caught. Face up tae it, Archie, you’re no’ exactly Raffles. You’re thirty-wan years auld and you’ve spent mair time in the pokey than oot of it, this last ten years. You wasted your twenties. Are ye gonny dae the same tae your thirties? He turns onto his back, stares at the unseen ceiling. And what aboot Ma? You’ve caused that poor soul nothing but grief. Yet she still trails oot on the bus every month fae Glesga tae Stirling. Then pays for a taxi up tae Craigmill Prison. Brings me fags tae smoke on the visit. Sweeties. Books. He feels his eyes grow moist. And Ah take it aw’ for fuckin’ granted so Ah dae. My sister huz the right idea. Katherine often comes along wi’ her tae keep her company, but never comes in tae see me. Jist waits at the gate lodge. Cannae be bothered wi’ her loser brother. Huh! Ah don’t blame her. Then there’s ma faither. Did’nae half dae his bit during the war. Right wee tough nut when he wants tae be. He gave up on me years ago. Threw me oot the hoose. Ye don’t get many chances from ma faither. He yawns. Ah suppose if Ah wiz him – Ah would’nae let me through the door either!

Archie lies still for a while, deep in thought, far removed from sleep . . . ‘Ach!’ He throws back the bedcovers, sits up. Finding his prison-issue jacket, he puts it on over the pyjama top. Slips his feet into the felt slippers. Lastly, he reaches for his towel, wraps it round his neck like a scarf, tucks it inside the jacket. Climbing out of bed, he finds the Bond novel in the dark, lays it on his pillow. He now quietly moves his chair against the wall, directly underneath the high cell window.

Once up on the chair, he slides the small ventilation pane to the right and is immediately skelped on the face by a draught of ice-cold air. Eyes narrowed, he looks through the four-inch square opening. Barely a mile away, in a dip, the lights of Stirling sparkle in the clear night. It must be about half ten. Cars occasionally criss-cross the few roads he can see. As each one passes he wonders who is inside. Young? Old? Married? Where are they going? Where huv they been? Whoever they are, he envies them. Now and then, near the edge of town, he can make out people on foot. Couples, groups. Singletons. He somehow has a feeling that the good folk of Stirling are happy with their lives. Content. It’s probably not true, but it pleases him to think they are. He especially enjoys his sightseeing on clear, moonless nights. Like tonight. From his vantage point, high up in Craigmill top security prison, he drinks in this beautiful panorama. The brightly-lit town, isolated midst dark hills. Above it, a vast black canopy embedded with stars. More than he ever saw during his Glasgow childhood. Although he never tires of this view, he’s always aware he’s not a part of it. Never will be. He’s an outcast. A prisoner looking out of a cell window. Recently, this has started to depress him. It won’t be long until that insistent bloody voice will start putting its neb in . . .

Why aren’t you a part of it, Archie?

Because Ah’m in jail, daeing time.

So why don’t you pack it in? Give it up. You know you’re a crap thief.

He slides the small pane shut. Climbs down. ‘Gonny shut the fuck up!’

It’s next morning. In Dalbeattie Street.

Agnes Dalrymple wipes the wooden draining board surrounding her sink. Rinses the dishcloth, wrings it out, drapes it over the brass tap. She raises the lower sash of one of the double windows. A lively breeze drifts through the gap, makes the curtain wave. She looks out into the back courts from her top-storey flat. Whit a lovely day. Ah’ve mibbe picked a good week tae be off. She can see along the length of Cheviot Street’s back courts. Facing her, at the far end of this stretch, are the rear windows of a recently emptied tenement block in Rothesay Street. One or two folk left their curtains hanging when they flitted oot. Agnes has nothing to do but look at the drab, empty building. It’s lifeless windows stare back.

A movement catches her eye. Above the roof of this forlorn tenement she can see the top few feet of a crane. It has begun to sway back and forth. She knows that lower down, out of her sight, it’s swinging a huge steel ball hanging from a chain. The wrecking ball. Although the building she can see from her window was emptied weeks ago it is, as yet, untouched. The crane stands on the other side of it, four-square in the middle of the abandoned Rothesay Street, demolishing the tenement block on the far side. All she can see of it is its roof. Well, half of its roof. The rest has already gone, along with a large part of the building. She watches the top of the crane move in what seems to be a leisurely manner. Listens as a wall is hit. Though she can only hear it, she can picture it in her mind’s eye. It’s jist like listening tae the wireless. The crane appears to curtsey to the tenement. This is followed by a dull thud, then the sound of debris clattering into the street. Most times it doesn’t seem to be too much, but now and again a big section of outer wall gives up the ghost – and takes inner walls and floors with it. Then it’s different. She’ll hear a thunderous crash, the top of a crescendo, then a diminuendo which often ends with a counterpoint of broken glass. My God! It’s the blitz all ower again. Jist like the night Kilmun Street got it. Sometimes she’ll feel the vibration through her feet as ton upon ton of large stone blocks give up – after a century – and collapse into the street. From her window she cannot see a single workman. It’s as though it just seems to happen. And because of this she finds it all the more frightening. As she looks at the top of the crane, a stretch of the tenement’s roof catches her eye. It suddenly drops like a lift. Large slates, wooden joists, brick chimney stacks complete with terracotta pots, simply plummet out of sight. Seconds later, gouts of black soot which have successfully evaded sweeps’ brushes since Victoria was Queen, billow upwards in the breeze for a moment, then drift off, newly homeless.

CHAPTER TWO

Flitting Oot



Easter Sunday, 11th April 1971. ‘Zat it, Bert?’ As he speaks, Billy McClaren footers about, pushing items of furniture closer together in the back of the open lorry. Hopefully stop them sliding around on their journey to the new Molendinar Housing Scheme.

‘Aye. That’s it, marra.’ Bert Armstrong tightens the rope round them.

‘Yah. That is all our wordly goods.’ His wife, Irma, looks at their few belongings. ‘It does not take long to empty a single-end.’ She sounds, and looks, sad.

Archie Cameron produces a twenty packet of Players. Before he can open them, Bert reaches out, grips his wrist. ‘Naw, naw, hinny. If yees are ahll good enough t’ give us a bit hand, the very least Ah can dae is t’ crash the ash.’ He continues to restrain Archie until he’s able to counter with a packet of Gold Flake.

It’s a few minutes later. The smokers smoke. Some lean against the side of the lorry. Ella Cameron and Drena McClaren join the group. Moments later, so do Robert and Rhea Stewart from ‘one-up’. A warm April sun shines onto them from just above the tenement opposite.

‘It’s nice in the sun, in’t it?’ says Drena. No one has given voice to it, but they are all aware the moment is fast approaching when Bert, Irma and twenty-year-old son, Arthur, will climb into the lorry and leave Dalbeattie Street. For good.

Irma looks at the double windows directly above the close. ‘Have you noticed, someone has broken one of Granny’s windows?’

Ella laughs. Shakes her head. ‘Irma! Granny huz been deid nearly ten years. There’s been at least three different tenants in that hoose since she went.’

‘Och! But I know, Ella.’ She looks up once more. ‘For me, these are always the Granny’s windows.’ The men smile. Drena leans forward. ‘Ah’m wi’ you, hen. Ah never think o’ them as anything else but Granny’s windaes.’ She draws herself up. ‘And Ah’ll tell youse another thing.’ She points dramatically upwards. ‘Ower the years, whenever that hoose huz been empty, Bella Thomson moves back intae it until it’s re-let!’ She looks round the assembled company.

‘Sure an’ she’s right! She’s not tellin’ ye the word o’ a lie.’ All heads turn as Teresa O’Malley, as though on cue, steps out of the lengthening shadows in the close. She turns to her daughter. ‘How many times have Oi said that t’ you, Rhea?’

Ella looks at Drena, then Teresa. Shakes her head. ‘Ah’ll bet ye we’re the only close in Glesga that’s got two Gypsy Petulengros living up it!’

Rhea offers herself as witness for the defence. ‘She diz, mind. Every time that hoose has been vacant, Ma often comes back fae her wee morning job, pops her head roon’ ma door and says, “Ah just caught a wee glimpse of white hair at Bella’s windae, as Ah came along the street!”’

Drena stabs her husband’s upper arm with a finger. ‘See! Billy McClaren. How many times huv Ah telt you Ah’ve seen the auld soul?’

‘She’s still looking after us so she is. Just loike always,’ says Teresa.

Ella draws on her cigarette. ‘She’s gonny huv her work cut oot by the end o’ the year, mind, when we’re aw’ scattered tae the four winds.’

Robert Stewart contributes. ‘Rhea! Tell them about the time Granny made contact wi’ you.’ He tries hard to keep his face straight.

‘Ah’ll gie ye “contact”, Robert Stewart. Ah could huv drapped deid at your feet so Ah could.’

‘What happened, Robert?’ asks Archie.

‘It was the last time the flat was empty. Teresa had been telling Rhea that she’d seen Bella at her windows again. Just a few days earlier I’d happened to come across a spare key Granny had given us for her door. Oh, years ago. Back in the fifties sometime. When I found it, I thought, och, might as well hang on to it. Just as a wee remembrance, a keepsake . . .’

Rhea interrupts. ‘Keepsake? Very near the death o’ me.’ She tries to pretend she’s huffed.

‘As I was saying. I’d come across her key,’ Robert smiles, ‘and it gave me an idea. I looked out our window, waited until I saw Rhea coming home from work. Then I nipped out onto the landing and let myself into the empty flat. It was a winter’s night, early dark. So I wait ’til I hear Rhea coming up the stairs. Just as she steps onto the landing, I start rattling the letterbox from the inside and going, “Rheaaa! Rheaaa!” in a high-pitched screech . . .’ He stops for a moment to parry a right hook from his wife, then continues . . . ‘She lets oot such a scream and I hear her footsteps as she makes a dive for oor house. I open Granny’s door – and Rhea’s gone! Her message bag is lying on the landing where she dropped it, and I can hear her in oor lobby, shouting, “Robert! Robert! Come quick! Where are ye?”’

Rhea bristles. ‘That wiz stupid! Ah hud half a dozen eggs in that bag. Two of them got broke!’

Drena looks at her. ‘Eeee! Ah think Ah’d huv drapped in a deid faint, Rhea.’

‘Ah know. Can ye imagine? Ah’m aboot tae step ontae the landing. Granny’s hoose huz been empty for months. And suddenly her letterbox starts going mad – and she’s shouting oan me through the door!’

It’s thirty minutes later. The spring sun continues to shine. But . . .

Archie Cameron is first to grasp the nettle. ‘Well, this is very pleasant, folks. But it’ll no’ be sae nice if we’re still here at nine o’clock the night. It’s forecast tae turn chilly.’

‘Yah. You are right, Archie.’ Irma looks up again. ‘Oh! I do wish the kids had not smashed a window of Granny. I remember, like yesterday, when Bert and I arrive from Newcastle.’ They hear a catch in her voice. ‘I can still hear the sound of her window going up. And she tells us to come in for . . .’ Irma stops. Looks at everybody. ‘Remember? “A dish of tay” when we have emptied the van.’ Bert Armstrong reaches out, strokes his wife’s back. ‘Noo divn’t get tha’sen upset, pet.’ Their friends and neighbours smile.

Teresa O’Malley sighs. ‘Aye. For about sixty years, every newcomer t’ this close had to go in to her house and sit round yon table for a drink o’ tay – on the day they arrived.’

‘Aye, everybody.’ Ella leans forward. ‘Except Ruby Baxter!’

‘Eeee, God! You’re right,’ says Drena.

Ella continues. ‘Yet,’ she looks around, ‘it wiz Ruby Baxter paid for the auld sowel’s funeral!’

‘Aye. She did. Well, it wiz Ruby’s man – Fred,’ says Billy McClaren.

‘Sure, and ’tis the same thing,’ declares Teresa.

Another ten minutes have passed. Bert Armstrong looks at his watch. ‘We’ll have t’ be gannin’, Irma.’

‘Yah, I know, liebchen.’ She turns to Billy and Archie. Tries hard to think of something to say. Anything, as long as it will hold back the moment of departure. ‘And I zoh remember when you two speak to me in German and tell me you are Kriegsgefangener during the war . . .’

‘Aye,’ says Ella, ‘and they’ve never bloody stoaped since. Especially oan a Setterday night when they’ve hud a few pints.’ She shrugs, ‘Ah’ll tell ye. If Hitler hud managed tae get oot yon bunker and flitted intae a single-end up this close – he’d huv fitted right in!’

‘Oh, michty me, Ella! But always, we have so much laughs when you get onto the boys!’

Rhea changes the subject. ‘Ah wonder how long it’ll take ye tae get used tae no’ sleeping in a recess bed any more, Irma? Ah’ll bet you’ll miss no’ having walls on three sides of ye. It’s gonny be really strange, lying in a bed in the middle of a room.’

At this, Irma’s hand goes to her mouth. She and Bert turn, look at one another. ‘Oh, Mein Gott! The bett! We forget to tell the shop it is time to bring it to the new house.’

Archie looks at Billy. He nods toward the Armstrongs, then points to the ground. ‘Die mussen auf dem boden schlafen. Die hat kein bett!’

Drena turns. ‘Huz the new bed no’ been delivered?’

‘Naw,’ says Billy.

‘Oh, my God!’ Drena looks at Irma. ‘And the morra’s Easter Monday. Goldberg’s will be shut. It’s gonny be Tuesday night at the earliest, afore ye get tae sleep in a bed, Irma.’

‘Ah! Help mein Boab! Two nights we must sleep on the floor, Bert.’

Her man shakes his head. ‘Ah said to yee years ago, Irma, we should have got the metal frame and springs taken oot o’ the recess – and got a proper double bed pushed into the space like most folk have. Then that bed would be on the back o’ the lorry.’ He sighs. ‘Haway, let’s go, pet. It’ll be dark soon.’

Irma looks at her neighbours. Tears well in her eyes.

Archie Cameron steps forward, puts his arms round her. ‘Liebe Irma . . .’

Ella interrupts, purses her lips, nods her head – and even manages to tap a foot. ‘Dae ye think we could mibbe huv it in English, so’s the rest o’ us can underfuckin’staun’ whit yer sayin’!’

When the laughing dies down, Archie gives her a pained looked. ‘As it so happens, Ah wiz gonny go intae English. Because nooadays ma German’s rusty. It’s no’ good enough tae say the things Ah want tae say . . .’

Ella cuts him off. ‘Huh! Yer German wiz never good enough, pal. In fact, there is some doot as tae whether or no’ your English is up tae it . . .’ She has to stop as she and the entire company break up at the sight of her beleaguered husband.

Archie’s eyes seek out his fellow Kriegie, who is also convulsed. ‘Humph! You tae Brutus! Ah thought for auld times sake. For kameradschaft! You’d huv stuck by me, Billy McClaren.’

Billy manages to control himself. Shrugs. ‘Ah cannae help it. Komisch ist komisch, Erchie!’

Archie turns back to Irma. ‘Whit Ah wiz gonny say, hen, wiz that you and Bert are the first yins tae move up tae Stobcross Avenue in the Molendinar. But before the end o’ the year, once they finish the rest o’ the avenue, Drena, Ella and Teresa are aw’ moving tae within a couple of doors of ye. You’re no’ going abroad ye know. We’re still gonny be neebours.’

‘Yah, but not everybody goes to the Molendinar. Robert and Rhea are wanting to move to Wilton Street, and they also will take the mother of Robert to live with them . . .’ She stops as they hear footsteps pattering along the close. Agnes Dalrymple emerges from the ever deepening shadows. The close lights haven’t come on yet. ‘Oh, Irma! Ah meant tae come doon earlier.’ She blushes. ‘Ah wiz watching that auld fillum on the telly. That wan wi’ Robert Doughnut.’ She thinks hard. ‘Goodbye Mister Chips. Eee! Ah fell sound asleep. Auld black and white pictur’s are the best cure for insomnia ever invented.’

‘Oh, I’m glad you waken in time. We are ready to go, Agnes.’

‘Aye, so am Ah. Ah’d huv been kicking maself if Ah’d missed you. We’ve been too long the ’gither in Dalbeattie Street.’

‘Ma! C’mon.’ Arthur Armstrong decides to intervene.

Once more, Irma looks around, again on the brink of tears. She looks at the close, then all the way up the frontage of the building. ‘The first day I come into this street, it was 1949, only four years after the war. Because I am German, well, I think maybe folk will not be . . .’

Billy McClaren cuts in. ‘We weren’y worried aboot you, hen. You were welcome. It wiz the thought o’ huving a big Geordie fae Newcastle moving in. That’s whit hud us oan edge!’

‘Hey! Now mind, lad.’ Bert laughs with the rest. He turns, looks up at the roof and chimney pots of the tenement across the street. Only the thinnest sliver of sun can be seen, about to slip out of sight for the night. ‘Arthur! Take a haud of yer mother on that side.’ Bert takes her gently by the other arm. ‘It’ll be late by the time we get t’ the Molendinar. Ah’ll have a job finding Stobcross Avenue in the dark, pet.’

Once more Irma’s hand goes to her mouth. ‘Dark!’ She turns to look up at her husband. ‘Did you get the electric switched on, liebchen?’

‘Oh, Gawd!’ Bert Armstrong buries his face in his hands. He eventually emerges. Looks at his friends. ‘Does any of yee have a bit candle gannin’ spare?’

CHAPTER THREE

As Long As You’ve Got Your Mammy



The dark-haired young woman, struggling with two suitcases, makes it to the top landing at 18 Dalbeattie Street. ‘Pheww!’ She steps over to the middle of the three doors. The cases are gratefully laid down. She takes a moment to look at the combined letterbox and nameplate. K. Forsyth is engraved into the brass. Kenneth. A wave of sadness washes over her. She reaches out, runs her fingertips along her daddy’s name. Aw’ the years this was on oor door in Knightswood. Thought it would be there for ever. Not finish up on a single-end in Maryhill. And ma mammy a widow. She twists the butterfly bell in the middle of the door. Like every one she’s ever came across, it grinds more than rings. She hears movement – behind the door on the right. It opens. Agnes Dalrymple squints out onto the shadowy landing. ‘Can Ah help . . . Oh! It’s Eve’s daughter, in’t it? Ahhh, Alexandra if Ah mind right . . .’

‘Lexie! Ah prefer, Lexie.’ She smiles. ‘Always think ma full title’s too highfalutin’.’ She points to the door. ‘Is ma mammy no’ in?’

‘She is. Well, she’s doon the sterrs at the minute. At least Ah think she is. Ah heard her door shut a wee while ago. Ah’m sure she went doon tae the second storey. She’s pally wi’ Wilma Galloway. Oh, her and me are pally as well. But Ah think she went doon tae Wilma’s.’

‘Right. Will my cases be aw’right if Ah leave them here?’

‘Of course they will.’ Agnes pauses. Opens her door wider. ‘Mibbe best tae put them in ma lobby. Wilma will probably ask ye in fur a cuppa.’

‘Thanks.’ Lexie Forsyth lifts her two cases. After placing them in the lobby she turns towards Agnes. ‘Was it you that got ma mammy that wee job in the City Bakeries?’

‘Aye. It was.’

‘That was good of you. It’s ideal for her.’

‘Och, it’s jist a wee cleaning job. Four hours a day, Monday tae Setterday. But it’s handy. Ah work in the same branch. Further doon the Maryhill Road, near St George’s Cross.’

‘Aye, I know. She enjoys it. And it supplements her widow’s pension, tae.’ Lexie steps back onto the landing. ‘Right. It should huv Galloway on the door. Ah’ll away doon and see if she’s there.’ She turns. ‘Is that the couple that work on the buses?’

‘Aye, that’s them.’

Wilma Galloway opens her door.

‘Hi! Ah’m Lexie Forsyth. Eve’s daughter. Eh, Agnes up the stairs thinks she might be in visiting you?’

Wilma smiles. ‘She is indeed. In ye come for a minute.’ She stands to the side. Turns her head. ‘It’s your daughter looking for ye, Evie.’

‘Oor Lexie? Goodness!’

The two women walk into the kitchen. Eve Forsyth sits at the table, looking expectantly towards the door.

‘Six o’clock in the evening? Bit early for a visit, hen. Is everything aw’right?’

Her daughter shrugs. ‘Aye – and naw!’

Wilma pulls a chair out from the table. ‘Ah’ve jist made two cups o’ milky Nescafe for your ma and me. Ye wantin’ wan?’

‘That’ll be nice. No sugar for me, thanks. Ah could dae wi’ a bit caffeine efter lugging ma two cases up them stairs.’

‘Two cases!’ Eve looks at her daughter, turns toward Wilma. ‘Awww my God! Sounds as if Ah’m aboot tae get a ludger.’ It’s not said with any vehemence.

‘’Fraid so, Ma. Malcolm and me huv split up.’ She opens her arms wide. ‘Have’nae had a big row or anything. Quite amicable Ah suppose. We’ve baith realised it’s no’ working, so it’s time tae call it a day.’ She looks at Wilma. ‘Been living the ’gither a couple o’ years. Never got round tae getting married – which now turns oot tae be a blessing!. We’ve nae kids either.’ She gives another shrug. ‘So that’s another problem less.’

‘Huh! It’s a problem for me, pal.’ Eve sips her coffee. ‘Ah’ve got used tae sleeping in the recess bed on ma own. Noo Ah’ll huv tae share it again!’ She gives an unconvincing, ‘Humph!’

Lexie winks at Wilma. ‘Don’t let her kid ye on. She’ll enjoy having one of her lassies back in the hoose.’

‘Sez who?’ asks Eve.

‘If Ah mind right,’ says Wilma, ‘you work somewhere doon the Maryhill Road, dain’t ye?’

‘Aye. Ah’m at Kinnaird’s fruit shop, on the corner o’ Wilton Street. Ah do the flowers for them. Been there nearly three years.’

Eve cuts in, ‘She’s self-taught, ye know. Got a natural talent for it.’

‘Good for you, hen,’ says Wilma. She’s about to say more, but they hear the handle turn on the outside door, footsteps in the lobby. Wilma nods in the direction of the door. ‘This’ll be the Lord and Master. He’s been away for the messages. Frank diz maist o’ the cooking.’

‘Lucky you!’ says Lexie. ‘Malcolm could jist aboot go for a takeaway.’

Frank Galloway enters. He carries a shopping bag and a plastic carrier. A Senior Service dangles from his lips, he has one eye closed against the smoke. ‘Well! No’ many guys come hame wi’ the rations and find three film stars sitting in their kitchen!’

Wilma looks heavenward. ‘Auld silver tongue strikes again, eh? Don’t pay any attention. His patter’s alwiz mocket!’ She puts on a serious face.. . .