Staying On Past the Terminus

by Robert Douglas

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Glasgow 1961. It is ten years since we last visited the close at 18 Dalbeattie Street in Maryhill. The stalwarts are still there...Ella, Drena, Rhea and 'Granny' Thomson (86). Irma the German war bride speaks fluent Scots nowadays. Well, 'Fluent' if you were brought up in the same close as the Broons and Oor Wullie. Glasgow's beloved trams still run on the Maryhill Road. But not for long. There will not be a tramcar left in Glasgow by the end of next year. The new tenant, Frank Galloway knows all about this - he's a driver. The other new arrival is Ruby Baxter who impresses no one with her attitude - as Granny Thomson says 'She's no better than she ought to be, that yin!' Robert Douglas brings his usual blend of laughter and tears to this latest novel and his many fans will not be disappointed.

Release date: September 15, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 418

Sample

Archie CAMERON, age 44.

Ella CAMERON, age 42.

Archie jnr., age 21.

Katherine, age 15.

Archie served in Paras during Second World War. Captured at Arnhem 1944.

Archie is metal turner at Howden’s. Ella works at Cakeland as confectioner.

Frank GALLOWAY age 48.

Widower. Tram driver. Frank served in Royal Navy during Second World War, in minesweepers – North Sea and Atlantic.

Wife, Josie, died 1960.

Agnes DALRYMPLE, age 53.

Shop assistant at the City Bakeries.

Was in the Land Army during the Second World War.

Jack MARSHALL, age 53.

Marjorie MARSHALL, age 47.

Jane, age 5.

Jack is storeman at Goldberg’s Department Store in Candleriggs.

Marjorie is a clerk/typist in City Chambers.

Ruby BAXTER, age 32.

About to move into close. Going through an acrimonious divorce.

Moved from house in

Hyndland to Maryhill.

No children. Unemployed.

Alec STUART, age 61.

Irene STUART, age 63.

Alec is still Manager at Andrew Cochrane’s, Grocer’s, on Maryhill Road.

Dennis O’MALLEY, age 60.

Teresa O’MALLEY, age 58.

Dennis and Teresa are southern Irish. Lived in Glasgow since 1920s.

Dennis is a brickie’s labourer. Teresa is a charlady.

‘Granny’ THOMSON, age 86.

Long a widow. Everybody comes to Granny for advice.

The ‘Wise Woman’ of the close. She has lived there since 1910.

Robert STEWART, age 33.

Rhea STEWART, age 33.

Sammy Jnr., age 10.

Louise, age 9.

Robert is foreman mechanic at Rossleigh’s Garage on Maryhill Road. Rhea still at Macready & Co., Solicitors, in charge of office.

Bert ARMSTRONG, age 41.

Irma ARMSTRONG, age 34.

Arthur H., age 10.

Bert is from Newcastle.

Served in Durham Light Infantry during War.

Irma is German.

Bert is a van driver.

Billy McCLAREN, age 47.

Drena McCLAREN, age 41.

Billy Jnr., age 21. Policeman.

Charles, age 10.

Billy captured at Dunkirk, 1940. POW 5 years.

Billy is a painter and decorator.

Samuel STEWART, age 59.

Mary STEWART, age 61.

Samuel built Spitfires during the war. Now works at Singer’s factory.

A May afternoon in 1961. The blue Pickfords van has barely halted outside the tenement close before three removal men climb down from the cab, make their way to the rear and open the large doors. Seconds later another figure emerges from the vehicle. He stands on the pavement, looking around while smoking a cigarette. Just under six feet tall, he wears the bottle-green uniform and peaked hat of Glasgow’s Corporation Tramways. As he takes a last draw he stares again at the close, at the entrance to what is about to be his new home – 18 Dalbeattie Street, Maryhill.

From behind a first-storey window, an old woman looks down through her net curtains. ‘Huh! Ah don’t think that fella huz his troubles tae seek,’ she murmurs. ‘He’s no’ a happy soul, that yin!’ Two of the removal men appear from the back of the van carrying tea chests. Their voices drift up …

‘Huv ye got the key, gaffer? It’s the top storey, in’t it?’

‘Aye, it is. Ah’ll away and get something to bring up. Nae good going aw’ the way up there empty-handed.’ As he makes for the back of the vehicle the two men enter the close. A third Pickfords man climbs down from the rear toting a table lamp and a vase. He follows the others. For a moment, the man in the Tramways uniform is alone in the body of the large vehicle. He glances at his furniture. It just doesn’t look right in this unfamiliar setting. His eyes are drawn to a candy-striped mattress. It stands upright, held by a canvas strap. How many nights did Josie and I sleep on that? A wave of sadness floods over him. He stares at the sideboard. He knows if he opens its doors he’ll find the wartime Utility Mark stamped inside. Like a birthmark. Standing next to it is a well-worn pine table. How long did that dominate the middle of oor kitchen in Dalmarnock? Twenty-five years? One of the first things we bought. He runs the tips of his fingers along its surface. Can ye call a table a Jack of All Trades? How many meals did the three of us eat sitting round this? Daniel wi’ his homework spread over it. Playing table games wi’ his pals. Josie’s sewing machine sitting on top of it, whirring away. Me using it tae paste wallpaper. He looks round the other objects. These should aw’ still be in oor hoose in Allan Street, not piled up in a removal van. And there’s aw’ the stuff Ah’ve had tae give away. Ye cannae fit a room and kitchen intae a single-end. He looks at his belongings. And aw’ this upheaval caused by a kiss. An innocent kiss. Desolation, like a cloak, drapes itself over him. Oh God! Ah could sit doon on the floor o’ this van and fuckin’ howl like a bairn for what’s been lost. C’mon, gie yerself a shake! It’s done – and it’ll never be right. Them lads are waiting for ye. He lifts a cardboard box. His eyes take in the kitchen utensils sticking out of it. More memories triggered. With a juddering, tired-to-death sigh, he heads for the close.

He hears the sound of a window being raised. Looks up in time to see a snowy-white head of hair emerging from it. ‘Is that you jist movin’ in, son?’

He smiles at being called ‘son’. At forty-eight, it’s a rare event nowadays. ‘Aye, Ah’m moving intae the single-end on the top storey.’

‘When you’ve got aw’ yer stuff intae the hoose, jist lock the door and come doon for a dish o’ tay. Ye can sort yerself oot later. It’s the middle door oan the first landing. Thomson’s the name.’

‘Right. That’ll be smashing, Mrs Thomson. Ah should …’

‘Never mind the “Mrs”. It’s Granny Ah get called. Fae weans tae auld yins, everybody ca’s me Granny.’

‘Okay, Granny. It’ll no’ take long. Mibbe half an hour. Ah’ve jist got a few sticks o’ furniture.’

‘Nae matter. The kettle’s alwiz on the bile in this hoose.’ The head is withdrawn, the window slides shut. His spirits rise slightly. Frank Galloway enters his new close.

Ten minutes later, emerging onto the street to fetch another box, he almost collides with a woman … ‘Oh! Sorry.’

‘Zat you movin’ intae wan o’ oor empty single-ends? Two-up or three-up?’

He smiles. ‘I’m for the top storey.’

‘That’s good. Ah’m yin o’ your neebours up top. Agnes Dalrymple’s the name.’

‘Oh, pleased tae meet ye. Ah’m Frank Galloway.’ He offers his hand.

Agnes blushes, suddenly shy. She’s not used to men who offer to shake hands with a woman. She takes the proffered hand, blushing all the more as she does. Frank looks at her; fairly tall, slim, mid-fifties at a guess. Ah’ll lay a pound to a penny she’s a spinster.

‘Eh, oh, Ah’m pleased tae meet you tae,’ she says, then pauses, obviously trying to think of something else to say. It comes to her. She glances upwards. ‘Huz Granny gave ye yer official welcome tae the close yet?’

‘She has. Ah’m comanded tae come doon for a cup o’ tea as soon as the van’s unloaded.’

‘Aye, naebody gets intae number eighteen without an invite fae Granny.’ Agnes pauses, then hastens to add. ‘Oh, but mind, she’s a good auld sowel. Oh, God, aye. She’s the mainstay o’ the close so she is. She likes tae get tae know any new tenants. Never fails tae make them welcome oan their first day. Anywye …’ she fiddles with her shopping bag, ‘Ah think you’ll find it’s a good wee close tae live up. In fact, Dalbeattie Street’s no’ a bad street. Fairly quiet. Right. Well, Ah’ll away. Cheerio the noo.’

‘Yeah. Ah’ve nae doubt we’ll see each other quite often. Cheerio.’ He watches as Agnes Dalrymple, terminally shy once more, backs up, turns and makes haste up the stairs. He watches her go out of sight. Ah’m almost certain that was sherry Ah smelt on her breath. Jist like ma Auntie Bessie.

Frank approaches the middle door of the three on the landing. F. THOMSON is boldly engraved on the brass combined letterbox and nameplate. The door is open. He gives a gentle knock. Then another; louder. No response. He enters the small lobby. The door into the single room is ajar. He knocks it. When there is still no answer, he pushes it. With only slight protest from its hinges, it swings open to reveal the Glasgow of his childhood. Granny Thomson, surrounded by bric-a-brac from an earlier age, lies fast asleep in a chair by the range. Just above her mantelpiece, on either side of the chimney breast, two gas bracket lamps hiss gently to themselves. A pair of china dogs (wally dugs, his granny would have called them) stand guard. He smiles, Ah could have forecast those. He knocks harder.

‘Eh? Who … Oh, aye. In ye come,’ she clears her throat, ‘the kettle’s bileing. Have ye got yer stuff moved in?’ She gives a little grunt as she eases herself out of the chair, moves stiffly over to the range. ‘Whit dae they call ye?’

‘The name’s Frank Galloway.’ At just that moment she has lifted the kettle off the hob, so he doesn’t offer his hand.

‘Ah’m Isabella Thomson. Sometimes get “Bella” from them that’s known me fur years, but maist o’ the time it’s Granny.’

‘Right! Well, Ah’ll join the “Granny” brigade.’ He pours a spot of milk into his cup. ‘How long have ye lived up the close, Granny?’

She brings the teapot over to the table, places it on its stand, stirs it, puts the lid on. ‘We’ll let that mask a wee minute. Right! Ah moved in here in nineteen-ten. This is ’sixty-wan. Fifty-wan years. Jesus-johnny! It’s a lifetime when ye say it like that, in’t it?’

Frank nods up towards the gas brackets. ‘Have you nae notion tae get the electric put in?’

‘It’s in!’ She points. ‘Had it connected a few year ago.’ He looks up. Twisted brown flex wriggles down from the ceiling, ends in a schoolroom-type, green plastic shade with a white interior. ‘Ah hud tae get it in. Could’nae find anybody tae charge the accumulator for ma auld wireless. So Ah hud nae option. Got the electric put in, then bought a mains radio. Ah could’nae live withoot ma wireless.’ Frank laughs. ‘Ah never noticed the electric fitting. All Ah could see was the gas burning when Ah came in. Dae ye jist use the electric at night?’

‘Ah don’t use it at aw’ – except fur the wireless. Ah like the gas. Ah’m used tae it. If Ah did’nae need it for the wireless, Ah wid’nae huv bothered gettin’ the bugger put in.’ She sniffs, adjusts her bosom with a forearm. ‘The electric man’s alwiz playing hell. The maist Ah’ve ever burnt in a quarter is one-and-tuppence. That wiz only because the shop ran oot o’ gas mantles, so Ah hud tae use the electric till he got them in. Ah don’t like it for light. Too bright.’

He smiles, shakes his head. ‘Dae ye mind if Ah smoke?’ In answer, she slides an ashtray in his direction. Frank produces a twenty-packet of Senior Service from inside his uniform jacket. Extracting one, he holds it loosely between two fingers and thumb while rapidly tamping one end up and down on the side of the pack. The tobacco compressed to his satisfaction, he reaches into a trouser pocket, brings out a Ronson Varaflame lighter. Rich blue smoke twists and curls its way up towards the ceiling. In spite of all the tamping, he still has to pick a loose piece of tobacco from inside his lip.

‘When Ah saw ye standing oan the pavement, jist before Ah opened the windae tae speak tae ye, Ah could’nae help but notice, ye did’nae look ower happy.’

He draws deeply on the cigarette. ‘Is it that obvious?’ He dislodges some ash neatly into the ashtray.

‘It’s mibbe no’ obvious tae everybody. But efter eighty-six years o’ practice, Ah’m pretty good at reading folk. The way they look, an’ move, an’ stand. It can tell ye a lot. But maistly it’s in their faces – especially when they don’t know somebody’s watching them.’

Frank takes a sip of tea. ‘Ah certainly could’nae argue with ye, Granny. From living a quiet life, which is the way I like it, all of a sudden, well, ma life’s been turned upside doon this last twelve months. Last year Ah lost ma wife, Josie. Then earlier this year, March, if ye remember, we had a big fire at Dalmarnock depot. Lost sixty caurs. So Ah’ve decided tae transfer tae Maryhill depot so Ah can carry on as a tram driver.’ He takes a draw on his cigarette, lifts the cup to his lips again.

The old woman has been watching him closely. The aura of sadness around him is tangible. Frank Galloway sighs heavily, takes another deep draw on the cigarette. ‘This time last year Ah was the most contented man in Glesga.’ The smoke spills upward out of his mouth.

‘Aye, it’s amazing how oor lives can change fae wan year tae the other. Sometimes fae yin day tae the other. Dae ye have a family?’

He delicately gets rid of the ash again. ‘A son, Daniel. He’s twenty-four. Married. Him and I hav’nae spoke a word since the day his mother died,’ he pauses, ‘and for a terrible reason. He believes Ah was responsible for his mother’s death. Ah wasn’t. It was just a misunderstanding on her part. But there’s no way Ah’ll ever get him tae believe that. He refuses tae talk tae me.’

Isabella Thomson decides to change the subject. She leans forward, points to the silver and blue enamel badge on the breast pocket of his uniform. ‘Ye must have been oan the trams for a while. That’s a long-service badge, isn’t it?’

‘Aye. This is the twenty years award. Ah’ve been with them for twenty-two up tae now. That was interrupted wi’ five years away in the Royal Navy during the war.’

‘Are they really daeing away wi’ the caurs, next year?’ she asks. ‘Huz it been decided?’

‘Aye. If it runs according tae plan. September ’sixty-two and that’ll be it. We’re the last city in the land who’ve still got their tramway system. Nearly everybody else got rid o’ them in the fifties. Except for Blackpool, of course. They just keep them as a part of the attractions.’

‘So is that why you’re flitting intae Dalbeattie Street, ’cause we’re handy for Maryhill Depot?’

‘Exactly. It’s jist a ten-minute walk. But also,’ he sighs, ‘too many memories in our auld room and kitchen in Dalmarnock. Ah had tae get away from it. This wee single-end up the stairs will dae me fine. Less rent, easy tae keep tidy …’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘And nae ghosts in every corner. A fresh start and aw’ the rest of it. At least, that’s supposed tae be the idea.’

‘Ah hope it works oot for ye, son. Ah would definitely think getting away from your auld hoose is a good idea. You’d never shake off the past if ye carried on living in it.’

Frank carefully stubs the cigarette-end out in the ashtray. ‘Ah think it’s a sensible thing tae do. Unfortunately, there’s nothin’ can be done aboot the trams finishing next year. Ah’m a tram man through and through. Ah’m gonny drive them for as long as Ah can, but eventually Ah’ll have tae go ontae the buses. Ah’ve nae intention of leaving Glasgow Corporation, so Ah’ll jist have tae make the best of it. Anyway …’ He rises to his feet. ‘Ah’ll away up, Granny. Make a start. Thanks for the tea.’

‘Noo listen. Anytime you’re feeling browned off, whitever. Jist come doon and knock that door. Don’t sit up there on yer own. Dae ye hear? And don’t be thinking Ah’m jist a nosy auld wumman who wants tae know yer business. Anything ye tell me, wull’nae go any further.’

‘Ah’ll probably take ye up oan that. Thanks, Granny. Ah’ll say cheerio for the minute.’

Frank Galloway opens his ‘new’ front door. The stale, unlived-in smell hits him again. He takes two steps in, reaches a hand out, switches the light on. He stands for a minute in the small lobby, looks into the single room. After the comfort, the homeliness of Granny’s flat, this suffers cruelly by comparison. The shadeless bulb shines a weak sixty watts down onto his scattered belongings. Table, chairs, carboard boxes and tea chests look as if they don’t belong. They don’t. The flat has been empty for months since its previous tenant died. You can tell. It feels, looks, abandoned. Unloved. Reluctantly, he steps into the small room. Reaches into his pocket for the twenty-pack. You’re smoking far too much, Frank. So what? He sits on a kitchen chair under the stark bulb. Goes into his tamping routine, but less energetically. Flicks the lighter. In the silence, the wheel grinds noisily against the flint then sparks the Varaflame into life. The flowing gas sounds loud. He looks at the beautiful blue-tinged flame for a moment. Lifts his thumb. The cover snaps shut, the living flame gone in an instant. The smoke, grey in the poor light, curls up to caress the bulb. Next month. June the eighth. Josie will be gone a year. A year already. The great weight of loss and loneliness presses down on him once more. Tears brim in his eyes. ‘Oh, Josie. Why did ye have to turn up that day? At that minute? And see what wiz’nae there.’

‘Are ye in, Drena?’ Ella Cameron doesn’t bother knocking her pal’s front door. It’s half-open anyway.

‘Aye. In ye come.’ Drena McClaren is peeling potatoes under a stream of cold water from the brass tap. She turns, keeps her dripping hands over the large Belfast sink. ‘Zat you just in fae yer work?’

Ella looks heavenward. ‘Ye ask me that every night that God sends.’

‘Dae Ah?’

‘Aye. Dae ye never think o’ changing the record?’

Drena deftly winkles an eye out of a potato. ‘Okay then. Where huv ye been the day, Ella?’

‘Jeez-oh!’ Ella shakes her head. ‘Ah’ve been at ma work doon in Cakeland.’

‘Aw! That’s nice. Is this you jist gettin’ in?’

‘Up yer pipe!’ Ella gives her a two-fingered salute.

‘Right! We’ll jist leave that fur a wee minute.’ Drena puts the lid on the teapot. ‘Ah’ll jist go next door and see if Irma’s got time fur a cup.’ She pauses at the kitchen door, turns. ‘Before Ah go. Can ye gie’s a lend o’ thirty bob till Friday, Ella? Ah’m pink lint!’

Her friend sighs. ‘You’re always skint, you.’ She reaches a hand into her Rexine shopping bag; it emerges holding her purse. Drena watches her extract a pound note, then a red ten-shilling one. ‘Here y’are. Ah jist hope ah’ve got enough left tae dae me till Friday.’

‘Thanks, Ella. You’re a pal.’ She folds the notes together, slips them into her peenie pocket. ‘Right! Ah’ll away and gie Irma a shout.’ She steps out into the close, chaps the Armstrongs’ outside door, opens it. ‘Ella and me’s gonny huv a cuppa, Irma. Have ye time fur wan?’

‘Yah, I’ll be right ower the noo.’

Drena comes back into the house. ‘Aye. Eva Braun will be ower the noo.’ She takes another mug from the press, places it on the table, lifts Ella’s lit cigarette from the ashtray and takes an appreciative draw.

Ella sniffs. ‘The next time Ah hear ye saying ye don’t smoke, Ah’m gonny point oot that ye don’t buy the buggers. Ye jist smoke your favourite brand: ‘OPs’ – Other People’s!’

‘Noo, Ella, remember, whit a friend gets is never missed.’ She puts the cigarette back in the ashtray. ‘Huv ye seen anything o’ the new man that’s moved intae Donald’s auld hoose?’

While she has the chance, Ella takes a draw from her cigarette. ‘Ah’ve jist seen him in passing. Said “Hello”, but that’s as far as it’s went. He works oan the caurs as ye probably know. Talking aboot hooses, Ah wonder when that auld single-end o’ yours, on the second storey, is gonny be let tae somebody.’

‘God! Ah know. Billy and me were in it fur years. Yet since we moved doon tae the close, tae get the room and kitchen, naebody seems tae huv stayed up there fur long.’

‘You were pregnant wi’ Charles when ye flitted doon here, weren’t ye?’

‘Aye. So that makes it ten years ago since we moved oot. Ah think it’s had a new tenant very near every year. It’s strange, in’t it? Naebody seems tae bide in it fur any length o’ time!’

‘Though mind,’ says Ella, ‘some o’ them huv hud a good reason. There’s been two, mibbe three, who fell aff the perch no’ long after they moved in!’

‘Ah know. Eeeh! Mibbe it’s haunted,’ says Drena.

‘Yur knickers are haunted! Ye don’t believe in aw’ that baloney, dae ye?’

‘Now ye never know. It could be the ghost o’ Donald McNeil.’

‘Donald lived in the single-end oan the tap storey!’ splutters Ella. ‘Why the bloody hell wid he come back an’ haunt the single-end doon the sterrs? That flat hud nuthin’ tae dae wi’ him.’

‘Aye, but if ye remember, Ella. The last couple o’ years of Donald’s life, wi’ him huvin’ the arthritis, he hud an awfy joab gettin’ up the last two flights o’ stairs. So mibbe he’s haunting the single-end doon below ’cause he cannae make it tae the top storey anymair.’

Ella’s mouth falls open, she shakes her head. ‘Ah’m no kidding. Sometimes Ah worry aboot you. That’s yer best wan yet. Whit a load o’ keech! An arthritic auld ghost that cannae get up the sterrs tae where it should be haunting – so it jist haunts the flat doon below!’

‘It’s possible. Jist common sense when ye think aboot it.’

‘Yur arse in parsley!’

It’s a few minutes later. Order has been restored. ‘This is Monday, in’t it?’ enquires Drena.

‘Uh-huh. The whole day.’

‘Oh, good. This is the night Rawhide is oan the telly. Ah jist love that guy who plays the trail boss. Whit’s he called, again?’

‘Gil Favor,’ says Ella.

‘Ah’ll tell ye whit. If Ah got half a chance Ah would’nae mind daeing him a favour. Ah’d huv him intae the back of wan o’them covered wagons as soon as look at him!’

Ella tuts. ‘Dirty bizzum so ye are!’

Irma enters. ‘Halloooh, girls!’ She sits next to Ella. ‘Is Drena McClaren being a dirty girl again?’

‘You’ve got it right in wan, Irma. Ye know the trail boss oan Rawhide, Gil Favor?’

‘Yah.’

‘She says she’d let him huv a ride at her, if she got the chance.’

‘Jings! Mmm, he is very braw, mind,’ agrees Irma.

‘See! Ah’m no’ the only wan,’ says Drena. ‘Ah’ll bet ye Irma wid’nae say naw tae a wee bit of von rumpy-pumpy wi’ Gil. Zat right, hen?’

‘Och aye, he is very nice. But you know who I fancy the best? My nummer eins for a quick jigajig?’

Drena interrupts. ‘Whit would that be in German, Irma? A schnell jigajig?’ As usual when they are together the three of them start to get carried away.

‘Ah, but let me tell you who I would fancy the best.’ Irma looks around, she has their attention. ‘The man in Sea Hunt. The blond one. Lloyd Bridges.’

‘Och, you jist like him ’cause he’s blond, German-looking,’ says Ella.

‘Aye, but also ’cause he’s an aulder man,’ suggests Drena. ‘Remember, Bert’s aulder than her. She likes the mair mature man, that yin. Anywye, whit aboot you, Ella? Who dae you fancy from stage or screen for a quick poke up the nickers?’

By now Ella is filing a jaggy bit on one of her nails. She doesn’t look up. ‘Errol Flynn,’ she says. She manages to keep control of herself.

‘An’ you’re calling me a dirty bizzum,’ says Drena. ‘Eeeh! Yah radgie-arsed bugger!’

Ella nonchalantly continues filing.

Irma looks from one to the other. ‘Surely Errol Flynn is okay? He is handsome. Yah?’

‘Don’t ye know why she’s picked him, Irma?’

Ella seems absorbed in her manicure. The side of her mouth twitches imperceptibly.

‘No. Why?’ asks Irma.

‘’Cause he’s supposed tae huv the biggest tadger in Hollywood!’ exclaims Drena.

‘The world!’ mutters Ella. She concentrates hard on her nails.

‘Michty me!’ says Irma. All three, as usual, become helpless. Irma is first to recover. ‘But how do we know this is really true?’

Ella leans forward, as though to impart a confidence. ‘When Archie wiz a POW there wiz an American compound next tae them. Wan o’ the Yanks hud been a taxi driver in Hollywood before the war. He said it wiz common knowledge that Errol wiz, as he put it tae Archie, “hung like a donkey”!’

‘Crivvens!’ says Irma, eyes wide open in wonder. ‘Can you imagine such a thing. Hung like ein Esel. Wunderschon!’

Two heads turn as Drena falls off her chair.

It’s bedtime in Jack and Marjorie Marshall’s flat – for five-year-old Jane. ‘C’mon, hen, a wee visit tae the toilet then a wash in the sink. It’s baw-baw time.’

‘Awww, Mammy.’

‘Ah! Now never mind “Aw, Mammy.” Everybody has to go tae their bed when it’s night-time, darling. Take the lavatory key and make a wee visit.’

‘Well, you’ll have tae watch the door.’

‘Mammy always watches the door for you.’

As Jane descends the flight of stairs, Marjorie stands at the flat door, keeps an eye open for any monsters or bogeymen in the vicinity. Jane gets to the half-landing unscathed, then tentatively opens the door to the small water closet. It’s unoccupied. Just before she closes and snibs the door, she looks up to check her mother is still on guard.

Five minutes later, the next stage in their nightly ritual begins. The child stands naked in the Belfast sink while Marjorie sponges her down. ‘Oh, you’re getting to be such a big girl, Jane. You’ll soon be too big for the sink. It’ll have to be a tin bath in front of the fire, I’m thinking.’ Marjorie turns her head towards Jack, ‘Isn’t that right, Daddy?’

Jack Marshall looks up from The Evening Times for a moment. ‘Def-in-ately! And when she steps oot o’ the bath every night, Ah’ll have tae gie her a rub doon wi’ the Daily Record!’

The child laughs, ‘You’re silly, Daddy!’

‘Dae ye hear the cheek o’ that yin tae her Daddy? Jist you remember, Jane Marshall, you’re in your bare nuddy at the minute. It’ll be easy for me tae gie ye a scud oan the bum wi’ a teaspoon!’

‘No you won’t,’ says Jane, giggling.

‘Will Ah no’? We’ll see aboot that, ma girl!’ Jack makes a great fuss of rustling his newspaper and rising from the chair. ‘Where’s a teaspoon? Somebody gie me a teaspoon!’

Jane squeals with excitement, ‘Quick, Mammy! Quick!’ Marjorie lifts her from the sink and stands her on the floor. She manages to wrap her in a towel just as Jack approaches, brandishing a teaspoon. Amid shrieks from his daughter he attempts to lift a corner of the towel to carry out his threat. Marjorie and Jane fight him off until all three are weak with laughter. Then this big man, over six feet in height, eventually has to admit defeat. He trudges back to his chair, returns to his newspaper. Jane puts on her pyjamas and wanders over to the sink. She opens a round, pink tin of Gibb’s Dentifrice, wets her child’s toothbrush under the flowing cold tap and rubs it on the solid block of toothpaste until it foams. She then proceeds to brush her teeth.

Minutes later she appears at the side of Jack’s chair, freshly washed, a few damp blonde curls sticking to her forehead and smelling of soap, toothpaste – and little girl. He looks sternly at her.

‘What do you want?’

She places both hands on his forearm, ‘Story, Daddy.’

‘Och! Ah’ve nae time for stories. Ah’ve got the paper tae read.’

She stamps her foot, presses down on his large forearm with both hands, ‘Daaadyyyyy!’

Jack makes a great show of reluctantly putting the paper down. He suddenly sweeps her off her feet and she lies in his lap, her head on his chest, looking up at him. ‘Right then, Daddy’s wee scone. Whit’s it tae be?’

‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’

‘Aw! No’ again?’ He puts on a look of anguish.

‘Yes, Daddy!’

‘Would ye no’ like another yin for a change?’ Jack winks at Marjorie. She sits in the chair on the other side of the fireplace.

‘Noooo! Snow White.’

‘Aw, man man!’ He gives a sigh. ‘Okay, then. Anything tae keep the peace.’

As Jack reads the story to his daughter she snuggles into him. Her thumb sneaks into her mouth. ‘Aw, look! Wee sooky thumb is back. Can ye believe it? Five years of age. You’re too big tae sook yer thumb, Jane Marshall. Big school lassies don’t sook their thumbs.’

‘Don’t care. Story, Daddy.’

Jack resumes the oft-told tale.

Marjorie looks on in pleasure. She loves to see her smaller than average daughter nestling, safe from harm, in Jack’s brawny arms. Those same arms which once protected me, she thinks, just eleven short years ago. Married to Richard Sneddon. Knocked about almost every weekend, sexually abused. Then Jack, literally, comes to my rescue. Within weeks of leaving, Richard obligingly comes home drunk one night, falls down the stairs and fractures his skull. Three months later I marry Jack. She looks at him and remembers … I didn’t think it was possible to be so happy, yet fate held more good fortune. Five years later I’m pregnant. Forty-two years of age! Never even considered it a possibility. Our wee miracle – come December she’ll be six.

She looks again at husband and daughter, feels her eyes mist up. Jack has just finished the story. Jane is almost away. Her eyes are closed, but the thumb is being sucked intermittently. He now goes to his emergency plan; starts singing his silly wee song. Two lines, repeated for as long as is needed …

‘Shoogy, shoogy ower the glen,

‘Daddy’s pet and Mammy’s hen.’

As ever, it has the desired effect. Jack sings softer and softer until, finally, Jane’s head lolls against his chest. Out for the count! Some evenings, if Marjorie’s had a busy day in the o