Whose Turn for the Stairs?

by Robert Douglas

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

This is an utterly charming story about twelve families and their tightly knit street in 1950s Maryhill. Following the end of the war, the close rebuilds its ties and the strong sense of community and friendly neighbourhood bonds are soon back in place. There is young love for Rhea and Robert; a surprising new start for James; a change of direction for George; and all overseen by the matriarch of the street - Granny Thomson. And of course, all buoyed up by a big helping of Scottish humour and strength of spirit. Yet it is all not perfect in their world: the families have to deal with poverty, religious bigotry, racism, heartbreak, lies, violence and death. But the powerful friendships cannot ultimately be broken. In Robert Douglas's first novel, he recreates a time and place particular to Glasgow but to which everyone will relate.

Release date: December 8, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 418

Sample

Archie CAMERON, aged 32.

Ella CAMERON, aged 30.

Archie jnr., aged 9.

Katherine, aged 3.

Archie served in Paras during Second World War. Captured at Arnhem 1944. Metal turner by trade.

Donald McNEIL, aged 66.

A bachelor. Born on the Isle of Barra. Served in France in First World War. Retired. Formerly worked for the Clyde Navigation Trust.

Agnes DALRYMPLE, aged 41.

Shop assistant at the City Bakeries. Was in the Land Army during the Second World War.

Richard SNEDDON, aged 33.

Marjorie SNEDDON, aged 35.

Richard is a clerk in Glasgow Corporation Rents Department. Marjorie works part-time at the Fairy Dyes Company.

Billy McLAREN, aged 35.

Drena McLAREN, aged 29.

Billy jnr., aged 9.

Billy was captured at Dunkirk in 1940. Spent 5 years as a POW. He is a painter and decorator.

James PENTLAND, aged 49.

Irene PENTLAND, aged 51.

Brother and sister. Both unmarried. James works at N.B. Loco in Springburn. Irene keeps house for her brother.

Dennis O’MALLEY, aged 48.

Teresa O’MALLEY, aged 46.

Rhea, aged 21.

Siobhan, aged 17.

Dennis and Teresa are southern Irish. Lived in Glasgow since 1920s. Dennis is a brickie’s labourer.

‘Granny’ THOMSON, aged 74.

Long a widow. Everybody comes to Granny for advice. The ‘wise woman’ of the close. She has lived there since 1910.

Andrew McDERMOT, aged 63.

Lena McDERMOT, aged 63.

Andrew served in World War One in the Highland Light Infantry. Have a grown-up son and two daughters. All married and living in city.

Bert ARMSTRONG, aged 29.

Irma ARMSTRONG, aged 22.

Bert is from Newcastle. Served in Durham Light Infantry during war. Irma is German. Bert is a taxi driver.

George LOCKERBIE, aged 32.

Joan LOCKERBIE, aged 31.

Both served in RAF during war. Joan is English. George works in factory assembling prefabs.

Samuel STEWART, aged 47.

Mary STEWART, aged 49.

Robert, aged 21. Samuel built Spitfires during war. Now works at Singer’s factory. Robert is apprentice at Beardmore’s Motor Works.

A late September evening in 1949. In the countryside just beyond Glasgow’s city boundary, a fine mist is beginning to come down. The kind that most folk would look on as being part of that ‘season of mellow fruitfulness’. A few miles away, inside the city, the same low pressure and damp air is causing the smoke from a few hundred thousand coal fires to swirl down from the tenement chimneys and mix with this mist. By half past eight, it has turned it into a blanket of throat-catching green fog. A peasouper. The first this year.

The further into town you travel, the worse it becomes. Beams of light from the tall lamp standards barely reach to the pavements. Shop lights shining out of windows become diffused, illuminating the fog and making it worse. Vehicles find their headlights totally inadequate as they bounce off it, seeming to turn it into a solid wall. With visibility down to six feet, Glasgow’s motorists do what they always do at this time of year – follow the trams. Long streams of cars, buses and lorries trail back behind every one. Unable to overtake because of the limited distance they can see, they wait patiently as their tram stops every hundred yards or so to drop off or pick up passengers. Almost certainly, tomorrow’s newspapers will carry their annual news items on motorists who blindly follow trams all the way back to their depot – right into the sheds.

Dalbeattie Street in Maryhill lies fog-bound like every other street in the city tonight. If it was possible to see the length of it, it would appear to be deserted. The residents of number 18 are staying close to their fires. As coal is rationed, these fires aren’t very big. Some enterprising lads were round this afternoon, twice, selling coal briquettes from a horse and cart. Everybody at number 18 bought a large bag of these nuggets of compressed coal dust to supplement the meagre ration of one bag of coal per week.

In each of the twelve houses that make up this close, some of the acrid fog has seeped in through gaps in window frames and underneath doors. Every kitchen has a haze round the main light which hangs from the centre of its ceiling. As they sit, hugging the range, most folk listen to the wireless; perhaps a play or a variety programme. A few are absorbed in books borrowed from the Maryhill Library up at Gairbraid Avenue. Children read, for the second or third time, this week’s Beano or Dandy.

Because it’s such a dismal night, attendances are down at local cinemas like the Roxy, the Star and the Blythswood. Customers are few and far between in nearby pubs and snooker halls. It is, most definitely, ‘a night for goin’ naewhere’.

It is two nights later. A Saturday evening in the second-storey flat of Richard and Marjorie Sneddon at 18 Dalbeattie Street. If, as is unlikely, a stranger was invited to enter their home, there is no doubt he, or she, would be impressed by this well-furnished room and kitchen, and by the Sneddons. It is the most stylish of the twelve flats that make up this typical Glasgow close. The good impression won’t last long if the visitor has any contact with their neighbours.

None of the women who live at number 18 are envious of Marjorie and her nice home. Not if it comes with Richard Sneddon. All the other residents up this close know he is a nasty piece of work who treats his wife badly. No one, however, is aware of just how much he enjoys it.

It has just gone eight p.m. The Sneddons sit at their small dining table. As they eat dinner they listen to the radio. Variety Bandbox is on. The guest comedian is Vic Oliver. Marjorie spent forty minutes this afternoon queuing at McGregor’s, the fishmonger on the Maryhill Road, to get the nice piece of cod they are eating. The prospect of a pleasant evening lies ahead. Then Marjorie spoils it. Her timing couldn’t be worse. Vic Oliver is in the middle of an amusing anecdote. As Richard eats and listens he makes contented snuffling noises now and again. The crux of the tale is imminent when Marjorie’s fork slips from her fingers and clatters on to her plate. ‘Oh! I’m sorry, Rich—’

‘You stupid fucking bitch!’ With his open right hand, Richard Sneddon slaps his wife hard across the face. ‘Of aw’ the fucking times tae drop your fork you huv tae drop it just as a comedian’s aboot tae reach his punchline!’ In spite of her fright, Marjorie has noticed he’s forgetting to talk with his posh accent. She holds a hand to her cheek. Although she’s used to being hit, the suddenness has shocked her. She sits very still, hoping he won’t hit her again. Once usually isn’t enough.

‘Ah’ll bet you fucking did that on purpose.’ She can tell he’s working himself up again; knows she’ll almost certainly get another one. Sneddon looks at her. He likes to see the fright on her face. He begins to get an erection. Should he fuck her? Och no. There isn’t time. Saturday Night Theatre is on soon. He’ll wait till later. ‘Right, you! Get yerself tae bed oot o’ my sight. There’s a play oan next. I don’t want ye spoiling that too, yah dozy hoor. Go on, fuck off!’

‘Will I do the dishes first, Richard?’

‘What have Ah just told ye? Get oot o’ ma sight!’ He half rises to his feet. Marjorie stiffens in expectation. He feints with his left, then gives her another hard slap with his right as she leaves herself open. He feels pleasure at how clever that was. Marjorie is too frightened for tears.

She rises from the table, takes the key for the shared lavatory on the landing, and leaves the flat. Upon her return she hangs the key back on its hook, quietly closes the kitchen door and walks along the short lobby to the bedroom. Only after she has shut its door do the tears start. They stream down her face as she undresses. She looks through the net curtains of their second-storey window into the street. Across the way one or two folk have their lights on but haven’t yet pulled their blinds, or in some cases their blackout curtains, even though it’s four years since the war ended. From the shadows of the bedroom she watches in envy as people enjoy their evening: short conversations, laughter now and again; children in pyjamas wander in and out the room or sit playing at the table. What would things be like if Richard and I had children? Would he hit me in front of them? Probably. He enjoys it. Never, ever apologises. It’s always my fault.

She steps nearer to the window, looks down into the street. It’s almost dark. The tall green lamp standards cast pools of light on to road and pavement. Three women stand outside one of the closes, obviously enjoying a good blether, and the sultry weather. There are regular hoots of laughter. I’ll bet they’re talking about men, Marjorie thinks. I never have conversations like that with the neighbours. Richard wouldn’t like it. Not with him working at the Corporation Rents Department. Goes to work in a suit, thinks he’s a cut above everybody else in the close. In the street. We have to talk proper. His older brother, Alan, didn’t half take the mickey out of him last time we visited his parents . . .

‘Hey, Ma. Are you sure he belongs tae us? Ye did’nae find him under a bush in Hillhead by any chance?’ Alan turns to Richard. ‘Where dae ye get aw’ this talking pan loaf? We were brought up in Parkheid – no’ Park Lane!’

Richard bristles. ‘There’s nothing wrong with trying to better yourself, Alan. Speaking properly is part of that.’

‘Naebody’s bothered aboot your pronunciation, Richard. But you don’t leave it at that. You’ve started putting oan this refained Kelvinside accent. It’s so phoney. You weren’t brought up tae talk like that – and you make poor Marjorie dae it as well.’ He turns towards her. ‘But you keep forgettin’ noo and again, don’t ye, hen?’

Marjorie recalls how embarrassed she felt as everybody looked at her. Alan was spot on. She hates being pressured into speaking with this acquired accent; often gives the show away when she becomes enthusiastic about something – and falls back into Glasgow vernacular. She sighs. Richard is obsessed with us bettering ourselves. Now he says he isn’t happy with my part-time job in the office at the Fairy Dyes factory . . .

‘It’s an office job at one of the big companies down the town you should be looking for.’

‘But it’s only a couple of tram stops away, Richard. There are practically no fares. If the weather’s good I just walk down to Trossachs Street. And old Mrs Grant will be retiring next year, so I should get the chance to go full time. I’ll be making nearly four pounds a week!’

She closes the curtains, switches on the bedside light and climbs into bed. The sound of the radio drifts through from the kitchen now and again. Her tears have dried. She finds her place in her book and begins to read. She’s really enjoying The Third Man. They went to the Blythswood Cinema down the Maryhill Road to see the film a while back. It was very good: Orson Welles, Joseph Cotton and – what’s his name? Was In Brief Encounter. Aye, Trevor Howard. That was a lovely film. Too soppy for Richard. Still, he must have enjoyed Celia Johnson in it. Talked very cut glass, she did. It’s a marvel she got through the picture without cutting herself.

She hears movement from the kitchen, then his footsteps as he comes into the lobby, opens the outside door and descends the short flight of stairs to the half-landing to make a final visit to the lavatory. She puts the book down and switches the light off. Not that it will make any difference. God! How I hate him. But what can I do? My mother would be delighted if I left him and came back home. But she’d never let me forget it. She disliked him right from the start. Marjorie sighs. Ma was bloody right. It would be so humiliating if I left him. And it would take years to get a divorce. Then imagine having to state in open court what he makes me do . . . The front door is banged shut, the big key turned. She turns so as her back is to the room door. Not that that’ll stop him.

Richard Sneddon comes into the bedroom, switches the main light on. She feels a pang of fear in her stomach. He quickly undresses, then climbs on to the bed, kneels astride her. ‘C’mon, don’t lie there kidding on you’re sleeping.’ He forcibly turns her over so she lies on her back.

‘Mmmm?’ She pretends to be coming awake. Knows she’s just delaying the inevitable. She opens her eyes, looks up at his kneeling figure.

‘I’ll teach you to spoil my programme. Open your fucking mouth.’

Donald McNeil steps out of the close at 18 Dalbeattie Street and heads for Ken’s, the newsagent’s. When he reaches the corner shop he stops for a moment, looks up and down the almost deserted Maryhill Road. The shops are all locked and shuttered except for a few newsagents, and they only open until noon. He loves Glasgow Sundays.

The bell above the door gives its usual welcoming ‘ding’ as he enters. Ken is cutting the string round a bundle of Sunday Pictorials. ‘Good morning, Mr McNeil. How are ye this fine morning?’

‘Chust grand,’ says Donald in his soft Highland brogue. ‘I’ll have my usual two, Ken.’ The newsagent takes a Sunday Post and a Sunday Mail from adjoining bundles – the two largest. The bell gives another ‘ding’. Donald turns to see who’s coming in. The smile leaves his face when he recognises the tall figure of Richard Sneddon. Donald lives on the landing above him. ‘Right, I will be on my way, Ken.’ He makes no acknowledgement of his neighbour as he exits.

Outside, Donald pauses again on the corner, takes a few deep breaths of relatively fresh air. Once more he looks along the length of the Maryhill Road. Just four folk to be seen, three women and one man, going to or coming from a newsagent further along the way. In the distance a solitary tram, en route from Airdrie, makes its indolent Sunday-service way up the incline from Queens Cross. What a contrast with the other days of the week: trams, lorries, cars and the occasional bus going to or coming from the city, pavements thronged with folk – mostly women with bairns in tow – shopping for the rations.

The sun beats down, warming the walls of the tenements opposite, and a slight movement catches his eye as an eddy of breeze breathes momentary life into a discarded sheet of newspaper, causing it to glide a few yards along the pavement. Behind him the shop bell sounds again. That will be that Sneddon man.

Och, it’s too nice to go straight back home. Donald sets off down the road at a good pace, arms swinging. He passes one of the women coming from the other newsagent. Like most housewives who go for the papers on a Sunday morning, she has also bought a bottle of Irn Bru. Three decades of living in Glasgow since leaving the Isle of Barra have taught him to read the signs. At this moment, back in her house, her husband will be lying in the recess bed ‘at death’s door’, suffering from a near-terminal hangover. There is only one remedy that can pull him back from the brink – two Askit Powders washed down with copious draughts of the Irn Bru. Neat. As the woman enters her close, Donald gives a slight shake of his head. These Glasgow boys. Until he retired last year he’d worked with them for thirty years at the Clyde Navigation Trust. Oh, fine fellows. But the drink. Man, man, they guzzle down the beer and the whisky – blended whisky at that – as quick as they can on a Saturday night. Got to get as much into themselves as they can before the pubs shut at nine thirty. He contrasts that with his own Saturday nights at the Gaelic Speakers Club in Windsor Terrace. A couple of drams of Laphroaig single malt. Oh! You can taste the peat. Then an entire evening conversing with old friends in the Gaelic, and even though he doesn’t smoke, the aroma of good cigars adding to the ambience of the wood-panelled, booklined lounge. Now that is how a man should take his pleasures. Civilised.

Donald has walked almost as far as Queens Cross when he decides to turn and head back home. It’s ten past twelve. Now that the paper shops have closed, the Maryhill Road is deserted. As he’s about to retrace his steps, a number 11 tram hoves into view. It’s an old tram. An ‘auld caur’, as Glasgow folk call them to differentiate them from the streamlined ‘new caurs’ which appeared in the late 1930s. A bunch of youngsters have commandeered the upstairs front cubicle, directly above the driver’s compartment. They’ve closed the sliding door, isolating themselves from the other passengers. One of the boys is in the process of lowering the railway-carriagetype front window by its leather strap. Donald smiles. They’ll be heading out to Mulguy to play amongst grassy fields and trees for a few hours. Later on, perhaps, they’ll draw sweet water from the Allender to boil on a makeshift fire and brew tea. He sighs as he remembers such boyhood days on Barra. By 1918, three of his pals had perished in the trenches of the Western Front. So how could I serve four years in the Gordon Highlanders and never get a scratch? And finish up with a DCM – though no one knows about it. Never wear it. Not even on Armistice Day. Och, it’s all in the past. Been another war since my day. Aye, another ‘war to end all wars’! Hah!

Arms swinging, perhaps more than before, Donald heads back the way he came. What a pity there are not two Sundays in a week. He decides to get even more exercise by taking a longer route. He turns left into Blairatholl Street, walks along to its end then turns right into the far end of Dalbeattie Street. Some boys are having a kick-around with a ball in the middle of the road. Three girls, barely school age, fuss around a doll’s pram. One wears an old pair of her mother’s high heels. She teeters about, scliffing the shoes along the pavement so as not to step out of them. As he passes by, he catches a snatch of conversation . . .

‘Huv ye been for your messages yet, Mrs Telfer?’

‘Naw, Ah’m gonny gie the house a good clean before Ah go tae the shops, Mrs Rafferty.’

‘Ah did mine yesterday, so Ah did. Ah might go tae the pictures the night. Ah huv’nae been. . .’

When he reaches number 18, he takes the six flights of stairs up to his top-floor single-end with ease. There you are. He may be sixty-six, but a lot of young fellows would be hard put to match that. Donald’s door is the middle of the three on the landing. As he climbs the last flight, he finds the right-hand door is open. Agnes Dalrymple kneels on a cushion placed on top of her doormat. She is chopping sticks. Donald always thinks of her as ‘the spinster’.

‘Good morn— no, good afternoon, Miss Dalrymple.’

Agnes stops work, sits back on her heels. Reaches into the pocket of her floral-patterned peenie for an embroidered hankie. Dabs her nose. ‘Donald McNeil, if you’re no’ gonny call me Agnes, Ah’m gonny start calling you Mister McNeil!’

‘Och! Now you know I am always forgetting. It’s a terrible memory I have. Anyway, how were things at the City Bakeries yesterday?’

‘Oh! Murder polis, so it was! Run off oor feet we were. Jist non-stop the whole day.’

‘It’s a grand morning out there, Agnes. I’ve chust had a good walk to myself. Blew away the cobwebs. You should take yourself for a wee walk later on.’

‘Aye, ye hav’nae half been for a good donner. Ah heard ye go oot for your papers. You’ve been away for an hour or more.’

‘Yes. And it’s ready for a bit breakfast I am.’ As he speaks, Donald inserts his Yale key into the lock. ‘I’ll see you later, Miss, ah, Agnes.’

He steps into the small lobby of his single-end and gently closes the door. ‘Ahhh!’ He opens the inner door and looks into his one room. The early-afternoon sun slants in at an angle through the double windows. Dust motes float in its beams. It won’t be long until he loses the sun. He walks over to the table and places the two newspapers on the red chenille cover, then hangs his jacket on a hook in the lobby. He closes the inner door behind him. Agnes is still chopping her sticks. Now and again there’s a metallic ‘clang’ as she lays the steelheaded axe on the slate landing. After filling the kettle at the solitary brass tap, Donald pauses for a moment to enjoy the warmth of the sun through the windows. He lights a gas ring. The walk has keened his appetite. A couple of scrambled eggs, I think. He reaches a hand into the chipped enamel bread bin, squeezes a Milanda Bakeries plain loaf through its greaseproof wrapper. Not as soft as yesterday. Och, it’ll toast.

His good cheer evaporates as the sound of a raised voice drifts up from the Sneddons’ flat. That bloody man is starting on that poor woman again. So full of himself. Sneddon’s voice increases in volume, then stops as his wife cries out. ‘Bastard!’ says Donald. It’s common knowledge in the close that he mistreats her. Poor lassie.

He walks over to the sideboard and switches on the Pye radio that stands on it. It’s already tuned to the Third Programme. While the valves warm up there comes another brief cry from downstairs. Donald taps a foot in impatience. At last the music swells out from the large, wooden-cased receiver: ‘Che gelida manina’ from Puccini’s La Bohème. Soon it takes him away from his single room on the top floor at 18 Dalbeattie Street. Banishes thoughts of man’s inhumanity to man. And woman.

Everything is sharp and clear. The colour of the stones embedded in the wall of the trench, the pitter-patter of dried earth trickling down from the parapet as he leans on it to look across no-man’s-land. The two-hour bombardment of the German lines has just stopped. Ears still pop, nerves jangle. Andrew McDermot sighs. How many times can you go over the top before your number comes up? The best you can hope for is you’ll get a ‘Blighty one’. Preferably in the leg. Missing the bone. Then you’ll be out of it all: a hospital in southern England. Clean sheets, no more lice. Bonny nurses.

‘Have a gasper.’ Billy Strang holds out his battered baccy tin. As Andrew takes one, he glances at his best pal. Is he as calm as he looks? Andrew flicks his trench lighter, watches the shower of sparks from the flint ignite the petrol-soaked wick, feels the touch of Billy’s mud-caked hands as he cups them round his to protect the delicate flame while he lights his fag. They joined the HLI on the same day at Maryhill Barracks. September 1914.

Andrew looks along the trench at the long row of waiting men. Sergeant Murray seems to be raring to go. Anybody who’s keen to start walking into machine-gun fire must be fucking mental. The officers stop looking at their watches, then, in unison, start blowing whistles.

‘C’mon, lads! Up and at the bastards!’ bawls Murray.

Andrew and Billy, side by side, clamber out of the trench. Andrew feels himself tense as he clears the parapet. Whuzzz! Whuzzz! Whuzzz! The bullets flying past sound like bees heading somewhere, no time to stop. Phitt! Phitt! Phitt! They begin to kick up earth all around him. Bastards are getting the range, coming nearer . . .

‘Hah!’ Andrew sits up in the recess bed. He’s sticky with sweat. Oh, thank Christ! Thank Christ! It was jist that dream. Oh! Thank God.

Lena is hanging socks on the brass rail under the mantelpiece. ‘Have ye been havin’ yer dream, Andra?’

He remains sitting up. Stares at the wall at the foot of the bed. It’s always so vivid. Even now it hasn’t quite left him. He can still feel the touch of Billy’s hands, the dried mud. It’s only two minutes since he was with him. Naw it is’nae. He works it out. It’s thirty-three years.

‘The kettle’s boiling. Do ye want a mug o’ tea?’ asks Lena.

‘Aye.’ His throat is dry. ‘Aye, Ah would’nae mind, hen.’

A small table stands against the wall between the recess bed and the room door. He turns on his side, reaches for his baccy tin. Lena busies herself masking the tea. Their three grown-up children, Andy, Sheena and Maisie, are all married and living in other districts in the city. Lena and Andrew could sleep in the empty bedroom if they wanted. But they don’t. They like the kitchen. Especially in winter. It’s nice to snuggle up together in the recess bed on a bitter cold night. Lie in the dark, talking, while the dying fire in the range flickers on to walls, ceiling, and the washing that hangs from the pulley.

‘Here’s your tea, Andra.’ Lena stands holding the pint mug until her man props himself up on two pillows. She likes the smell of the Old Holborn tobacco he uses to roll his cigarettes. ‘Will Ah dae ye a bacon sannie and an egg yin, tae?’

‘That wid be great.’

‘Right. Ah’ll put the gas on a wee peep while Ah go doon tae Ken’s for the papers.’

‘Aye, and make sure it is a wee peep, jist in case ye come back and find me – and the bacon – done tae a crisp!’

‘Will Ah jist get the usual two?’

‘Aye, the Sunday Post and the Whore’s Gazette, hen.’

Lena sniffs. ‘And mind, if ye read anything in that News o’ the World that gets ye randy, ye need’nae think you’re gonny have me hoppin’ intae bed wi’ ye. Far too auld for that game nooadays.’

Andrew looks fondly at his wife. ‘Who are ye kidding? You’re no’ averse tae a wee bit slap and tickle noo and again.’

She gives another sniff. ‘Aye, but there’s a time and place.’

‘And tell me,’ says Andrew, ‘whit better time or place is there than a Sunday morn’?’ He laughs. ‘Remember when the weans were wee? We’d jist be enjoying oorselves when, withoot fail, the door would open and wee faces start appearing. Usually when Ah was jist approaching the vinegar strokes!’

‘Oh! Andra McDermot, you’re turning intae a dirty auld man so ye are!’

‘Whit are ye blushing for?’ He begins to laugh heartily. ‘We’ve been merried for thirty years. Anywye, Ah was alwiz a dirty young man – so noo Ah’m a dirty auld man. Ah grew up.’ He watches as Lena puts her coat on then picks up her purse and brown Rexine shopping bag. He pulls the bed covers to one side, pats the sheet covering the mattress. ‘Don’t be long, darlin’. Ah don’t think Ah’ll be needing any inspiration fae the Whore’s Gazette this morning.’

‘Ah’m away. It’s no’ the papers Ah should be going for – it’s the doctor. For you!’

As she steps on to the landing and closes the front door behind her, Lena is pleased to find there’s no one on the stairs. She feels certain her cheeks must be burning.

Andrew stubs out the last of his cigarette, leans against the pillows. No, it’s no good. Ah’ll have tae go. He rises, puts his bare feet into his shoes, then walks into the small lobby. He puts his overcoat on over his pyjamas, presses an ear to the front door. Silence. He turns the Yale lock, remembers to put the snib on so as not to lock himself out. He slowly turns the handle on the big, old-fashioned main lock, then peers out on to the landing. All is quiet. He takes the lavvy key off its hook then, on tiptoe, makes his way down the short flight of stairs to the half-landing. He chaps the door with the key. ‘Anybody in?’ No answer. Great. He quickly lets himself in, bolts the door, raises the seat. Ahhhh! If a bean’s a bean – what’s a pee? A sweet relief! He flushes the toilet. Waits until the cistern has refilled and quiet descends. He opens the door a fraction. Nobody about. Smashing. He is just three steps away from doing a clear run when the middle door on his landing opens and Granny Thomson emerges from her single-end. ‘Oh, hello, Andra. It looks like a grand mornin’ oot there. Have ye jist been for a wee walk?’

‘Naw. Ah’ve, eh, jist been paying a visit.’ He nods in the general direction.

She looks down, sees the pyjama trousers under the coat. ‘Oh, goodness me, aye. You’ll hardly have been for a wee donner dressed like that. You should get yerself yin o’ these.’ She holds up a china chamber pot. ‘Very convenient during the night, let me tell ye.’ She gives him a playful dig with her elbow. ‘As long as ye dinnae miss in the dark!’

‘Aye, Ah’ll bet ye it is, Granny.’ He watches as she takes hold of the banister rail with her right hand and carefully makes her way down to the lavatory, chuckling all the while. He shakes his head. ‘You’re an awfy wumman, Granny Thomson.’

Irene Pentland empties the soapy water down the sink, then rinses the enamel basin under the tap. The wooden draining board and windowsill are wiped dry with the dishcloth – one of brother James’s old cotton semmits – then that in its turn is wrung out and hung over the edge of the sink. She glances at the clock on the mantelpiece. Ten to ten. Och, it’s time for a wee cuppa. Then I’ll get a few things rinsed through. Then round tae the Maryhill Road for the rations. The sun blazes down into the back courts. She raises the bottom of one of the two windows about six inches; the yellow linen curtains move lazily in the warm air. The sound of bairns playing drifts up. They must be on holiday. She loves mornings like this. Once she gets James off to work at the locomotive works in Springburn, the house is hers.

As usual it’s the boys who are making most of the noise. But rising above their cries come the rhythmic voices of the girls as they play ‘ropes’ while singing one of their many songs.

Down in the valley where the green grass grows,

There sat Margaret, sweet as a rose.

Irene moves the damp dishcloth to the right, then leans on the draining board so as to look down int