On the Move: Under the Stack

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The sun set, the stars moved across the night sky, the sun rose, and Saturday dawned as bright, brittle and inevitable as the removal van that stood in the street at the end of the close. The boy’s prayers were left unanswered.

His head knew all was for the best but his heart beat out a dull, desperate tom-tom of protest. This was his home, this was his happiness, what did he care about a newly-built, three-roomed council house in a tree-lined square at the other end of Lochee?

“And the toilet’s actually inside the house.”

“Big deal.”

The boy lingered in the bedroom, their bedroom, that had for so long been the ‘boys room’ where he and his brother had fought out the wars of childhood. Only the double-bed in which they’d snuggled up like contented rattlesnakes remained. He pressed his skinny eleven-year-old body into the mattress, his face into the pillow, breathing in the old familiar smells of safety, security and urine that having an elder brother brought.

He could still smell, or imagined he could smell the rotting corpse of Hammy, the hamster who’d been squashed so ingloriously between the springs as the boys fought for possession of the side nearest the radiator. Hammy, whose tiny body had rotted away beneath them until betrayed by swarms of iridescent bluebottles.

“And you’ll have your own bed, each.”

“Big deal.”

How then could he inflict revenge on Joe for the myriad humiliations he’d suffered? Joe, who teased his cat, laughed at his books, made him sit on his own in the cinema, locked his things away from him, refused to take his hand when his pals were there, even in the dark, even when he knew the boy was afraid, especially when he knew he was afraid.

“Have you been to the toilet?”

“Yes, mum.” Which strictly speaking was true. He had tramped the outside stairs, dangerously decrepit in the dark. Sat there, bladder bursting, bum freezing on the icy toilet seat. He’d been to the toilet but he’d not actually done the toilet. That would come later, in warm yellow spurts down the back of Joe’s legs as he hugged the radiator and left him only the icy breeze on the window side for company.

“Aw, mum, he’s done it again. He’s pissed a’ ower me.”

“Speak proper English.”

“Paul’s pissed all over me. I’m gonna break his…”

“Joseph.”

Paul recognised that note in his mother’s voice. She was late for work, in a hurry, shuffling breakfast things onto the table, and would not have time to interrogate him before she hustled her boys out and on their way. She would unload his little sister at Flight’s Lane nursery, then scurry up Lochee High Street to the jute mills, while Joe, muttering foully, splatted down his cowlick and burst out of the door to catch the school bus.

He would wait for Mum’s harassed kiss, push back the curling waves of his hair, and pedal coolly off to Ancrum Road Primary School, confident in his safety until at least four o’clock when once more he would face the wrath of Joe. Meanwhile he could daydream of having the strength of ‘Morgan the Mighty’, of hurling his big brother straight through the bedroom window claiming at last and forever the side nearest the radiator.

Running his fingertips across the grey-white smeary ‘Windowlened’ panes, the boy scanned the back plots where so many sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds and pigeons had been lured and then terminated by Joe’s air-rifle despite his squeaky protests and incipient tears.

“They’re just vermin, you wee shite. Can’t you understand that? They’re vermin, just like you.” But if they were vermin they were warm and pretty (though he could hardly plead that in their defence) and did not deserve to have their trust betrayed by a ball-bearing between the eyes.

His gaze swept on to encompass the wasteland that lay between their row of houses and the three-storey buildings three hundred yards away, towering tenements of mystery as fascinating as they were forbidden. At least the wasteland belonged to everyone though as a ground-floor family, they had particular responsibility for ensuring that the dustbins were pulled into the road on a Monday morning and that the neighbourhood toms did not send up over-long passionate midnight arias to the fickle females who infested the block. Joseph’s rifle saw to that too.

But the wastelands beyond the back windows were trivial compared to the hunting grounds lying only a few hundred yards away. The Cally and the Wary. Huge, derelict areas of grit and gravel, rising and falling like the sand dunes of Montrose, bordered on one side by the cavernous warehouses of Camperdown Jute Works and on the others by high walls and fences of rusty corrugated tin that gave as little trouble to the local boys as they did to the local cats.

Some kids grew up in the streets, others grew up in the forbidden lands of the Cally and the Wary, hunters not gatherers, perpetually engaged in tribal and internecine warfare from dawn till dusk when their mothers ordered them home with voices that brooked no delay.

Paul wrestled with the window which had been sealed by the frosts of January. It suddenly shot up into its socket snapping off icicles as it went. He hung backwards out of the window; strictly forbidden, not because of any damage he might inflict on himself but because Joseph had pulled out the entire rotten frame and gone backwards with it into the wallflower patch. Its replacement cost Mum eight weeks’ catalogue money and Joseph a backside rendered more or less useless for several hours.

Peering up through his breath’s rising clouds, he half expected to see familiar faces grinning wickedly back down at him, but so many families had already gone, re-housed in the schemes springing up around Dundee. Mum had held out to the last, refusing to be decanted into Ardler, Fintry or Beechwood. It was Lansdowne or nothing.

“Jean-Paul! Get your bike on the van. We’re going now.”

Why did she insist on calling him Jean-Paul when everyone else called him Paul? His mother had a passionate dislike for diminutives, so Joseph was never Joe, Kathleen never Kath, and Jean-Paul never Paul. His surname was bad enough; his first name simply confirmed he belonged to that generation of Dundee kids whose fathers were not of Scottish stock. He was deviant, aberrant, a mongrel, a half-breed, a boy with an accent as thick as a Wallace bridie and an unpronounceable surname.

He was not alone. Around him were Ukrainians, Poles, Czechs, Dutch, Belgians, the assorted flotsam and jetsam of men who’d escaped from occupied Europe to carry on the struggle against Hitler and his Nazi henchmen. His father belonged, and it was confirmed by monthly letters authorising his mother’s pension, to the Free French Navy, in particular, to an elite group of submariners who’d fought their way across the Bay of Biscay, through the English Channel, and up the North Sea to the harbour and haven of Dundee. He had so much to be proud of. Big deal.

Where was his bike? His trusty old Raleigh, his hand-me-down, that rattled and squealed and got stuck in the tram tracks every morning as it bore him to school. The bike that carried him around patiently, come rain or shine, on a paper round that would challenge a professional cyclist. His bike was redundant now since he was going to a new school, a secondary school, somewhere far across the city, far beyond the sight and sound of the jute mills, to a school where pupils actually wore uniforms, never wore wellies, never sneaked a fly fag behind the bike sheds, had compulsory showers after P.E. even in the summer term, and where he would learn the language his father had never lived to teach him. What a brave new world he was entering so half-heartedly.

He bumped his bike along the icy road, between the broken pavements, towards the dark hungry emptiness of the removal van waiting to swallow it, him, and his childhood in its encircling gloom.

He glanced at the iron fence on the right, clear evidence that the war was long over, and winced involuntarily as memory and pain shot up between his legs. Once again he was balancing precariously along the thin top bar, once again he’d lost his balance and come down flailing, the iron bar catching him between his legs in a stab of pain which even the most ruthless of dentist’s drills could only hint at. He carried the scar, pale white on purple, an ironic smile, a little grin that, when pressed, disappeared for a few moments only to return as a reminder of what was lost.

Whorterbank might be a derelict dump, a maze of nineteenth century dwellings for jute workers, long overdue for demolition, sheltering under the ramparts of the mighty Camperdown Works, scarred by the shadow of Cox’s stack, but it was the garden of his childhood and his heart was breaking to leave it.

“Jean-Paul!”

“Coming!”

When their mother’s voice carried through both the front room and the bedroom, her boys never stood upon the order of their going, they went. He scrambled out into the close and gave a vague but cheery wave to no one in particular.

Joe and the removal man were wrestling the pull-me-down settee into the back of the van. Kathleen, her hair tied up with a pink ribbon, spectacles askew, was involved in intense conversation with Bessie, her hideously scarred dolly. Mum stood a little to her daughter’s left, arms across her chest, a hand rising occasionally to reintroduce a Players Extra to her lips, the same hand indicating in a silent elegant gesture just how the settee could be fitted into what little space remained in the van.

The boy stood there unable to move, transfixed, paralysed by the love he felt for that strong, stubborn, implacable woman who’d shielded them so long from the dust of the day and the terrors of the night. Her thick brown hair, curled and waved like his own, was tucked away beneath a headscarf drawn into the turban the women of the mills wore on weekdays. Her jaw line curved into firm cheekbones which themselves curved up to those wide grey-blue eyes that she’d gifted the boy. Her work pinafore was drawn tightly round her body delineating far too clearly the figure that drew admiring glances from many men and disapproving scowls from Joe. Her hips were strong, her legs sturdy, her feet planted in solid defiance of the world around her. She was the colossus that supported their world, captain of their little vessel, mistress of her soul and mistress of theirs.

“How long are you going to stand there dreaming?” The cigarette had gone, the last traces of smoke spiralling away.

“Can I come on the last run, with the big bed? The van’s too full for everybody. I’ll wait here. I won’t do anything, I promise. I’ll just wait.”

“You wait here then. But don’t go anywhere and don’t do anything. And make sure you’ve got Lucky ready. She’s your cat.”

He nodded mutely, face impassive. Mum was always at her most suspicious when there was nothing to be suspicious about. Joe added his thrupence worth from the back of the van, then hung over the backboard to see if he could reach the road, distracting Mum enough for him to slip back inside. From the window he watched Mum swing Kathleen effortlessly up onto a front seat. Then she disappeared into the cab herself. He watched the van pull out of the narrow close and felt as if he’d never see it or them again. He hated himself for being so unmoved.

Back in the bedroom the boy fluffed a coverless pillow and placed it at the bottom of the bed. He kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, the mattress hollowed below, head placed on the pillow so that he could see out of the window. It stood open; a chill breeze blew in, suiting his mood. Even then he was often most alive when he was most alone. Much as he loved the cinemas, the Rialto and the Astoria, his mind created better fantasies in a Technicolor Hollywood could only dream of; fantasies in which he was self-sacrificingly heroic; fantasies more real than the wishy-washy stuff that passed for reality. And there were no censors in his dreams. He rescued the princess from the dragon, held her in his match-stick arms, and watched her metamorphose into one of the girls in vest and knickers who did the crab in the school gym. He knew there was something else he should do, but that was as mysterious as the grammar school that awaited him on the other side of Dundee. Let it wait.

Consciousness slipped away like a hard, shiny pebble thrown into a deep, dark pond, drifting down beyond time and will. Mind slipped through the open front door, along the narrow close and into the main road that swung right towards Lochee High Street, turned left into another patch of wasteland, half ran, half stumbled towards the heart of Whorterbank and entered the square of low, rundown, two-storey stone cottages where it all began.

Stand in the square of mud, slush and snow that is the ‘Greenie’. Look right. The corrugated tin fences of the Wary. Look left. The high stone walls of the air raid shelters. Look behind you. The wooden fences of the Cally, home not so long ago to the heavy dray horses that dragged the jute carts across Lochee. Look directly ahead. The strip of workers’ cottages, single rooms below, attics above. Look to the left of the strip. Look up. There is a tiny garret window.

“Right, boys, what’ll we have for dinner tonight?”

“Macaroni on toast.”

“No, we had that last night.”

“Scrambled eggs on toast.”

“No, that’s for breakfast.”

“What day is it, mum?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Bread and chips. Right?”

“Right.”

Paul recognises the note of despondency in Joe’s voice. He cannot understand why his brother fails to appreciate the joys of bread and chips, teeth sinking into the fleshy fried potato, greasy margarine sliding down the throat, lips worth licking again and again, and hot sweet tea washing down the whole sloppy mess. On good nights you can have as much bread as you want, including the ends of the sliced white loaf, the ‘heelies’, which are always reserved for Paul since nobody else wants them. You can curl up on the big double bed that dominates the single room, chew on the crusts and get lost in the Rover, the Hotspur, the Wizard for hour after hour.

How can Joe sound so despondent every Thursday night about such prospects as these? Even Kathleen, the new baby, lies gurgling happily, but then Kathleen lies gurgling happily most of the time, kicking her feet against the sides of the tin bath that serves as her crib.

“Who wants to put the kettle on?”

“Eh’ll dae it.”

“Joseph, speak properly when you’re in this house. Put the kettle on. Jean-Paul will go for the chips. Get your coat on and your wellies. You’re not going out in sandshoes on a night like this. And come straight back. No wandering.”

Paul clambers into a heavy bottle-green overcoat and ties the belt around his middle, the buckle is long gone. Reluctantly he pulls on the heavy wellington boots. He stands beside mum’s armchair. She is absorbed in the Evening Telegraph, smoke curls up from her cigarette. Paul stands and waits. She turns her head to him, blue-grey eyes meet. She has that far away look. Paul knows she hasn’t been reading the newspaper, only looking at the words.

“Money, mum. For the chippie. I’m ready.”

She reaches for her purse. She takes out a sixpenny piece and presses it into his warm little palm closing her fingers over the money, her fingers over his. He swells with pride. He is a knight-errant setting out on a perilous mission. He knows he may meet dragons, monsters, wizards and bogeymen out there, but he will overcome them all, he will wade knee-deep through blood, guts and slaughter, but he will get there, and he will return with the holy grail, the sixpence worth of hot steaming chips to lay at her feet or at least on the stove until the bread is margarined.

Outside it is dark, cold and bitter, and the boy is not so sure. There is neither wind nor cloud. Winter stars sparkle overhead. Frost and rime sparkle below his feet. The gas lamps hiss and sputter. Shadows are blackly frozen. Paul remembers that he is only six, nearly seven, but by the calendar still only six.

He will gallop and sing his way to Delanzo’s. It is not far, only half a mile. The boy hasn’t the faintest idea what half a mile is, but it doesn’t sound too far. Across the ‘Greenie’, singing and galloping he will go. What to sing? That new one they learned in school at Christmas. He has only the vaguest idea what the words might mean. Something about the last time good King Wences looked out, looking for Stephen or someone like that, and Stephen arrived but he was only a kid, but the king decided to take him anyway. Get on with it.

His high treble rises into the frozen night air. “Good King Wences last looked out, he was looking for Stephen, when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.” He likes the sound of that, deep and crisp and even, as he slides and slithers across the freezing mush, slush and mud of the ‘green’. He’s got quite a good gallop going now. He can make out the Cally fence. Can’t be too far now.

The boy is gripped by the windpipe. His voice cut off in mid note. There is a searing pain across his throat. He is thrown backwards, his arms fly up, hands extended like a child crucified. He lands on his back with a thud that even the slush cannot muffle. He lies there, arms and legs akimbo, too stunned to move, to think, to cry. He waits for another blow. It does not come. He feels the pain now, the hot searing pain across his windpipe.

He feels the pain and he is glad he can feel the pain. It allows him to move, to think, to cry. But he won’t cry yet. He rolls onto his front. If another blow is to come, he does not want it in the face or in the stomach. He knows that would really hurt. He can take it across the back or across the backside, but not across his front. So get on with it. If there’s to be more pain, get on with it. Nothing. Only the hot slash across his windpipe. He staggers to his feet, slipping and sliding in the slush, he is breathing heavily, fighting for breath at times. The six times table helps a lot. He might even try the seven but he has trouble with seven times six. He turns to face his assailant.

Nothing. There is nothing there. Except a washing line. Hanging low. Swinging gently. If the seven times table presents problems, the answer to two and two is immediate. He has galloped into the washing line. It has caught him round the neck and thrown him into the sludge. Paul’s cheeks blaze and burn, and not only from the bitter chill. He is embarrassed, and the embarrassment sears him worse than the rope burn across his neck. Tears spring to his eyes at last. Never mind. Get on with it. He’s late enough.

He brushes the muddy slush from his hands. They have been grazed by the gravel beneath the snow. His overcoat has saved his knees. His fingers tingle but he cannot tell if they are burning or freezing. He opens his left palm, then his right. He jams his right hand into his coat pocket, then his left into the left. He fumbles in the pockets of his corduroy shorts. He is fighting for breath again, his chest heaving in great gulps. He drops to his knees, the slush splashes around him. He scrabbles wildly in the snow, in the mud, careless of his corduroys. His fingers are frozen, he cannot feel his knees, slush turns to icy water in his wellies. “Our Father which art in heaven where’s Mum’s money?” What can he promise this God who remains so stubbornly silent? I’ll never steal presents again, just let me find the money. It was Christmas last week; you’d think He’d be listening.

The tears are running down his face, the snot down his nose, water into his wellies. His scrabbling has grown more frantic. He has covered a wide circle. How far can a silver sixpence roll in snow? Should he scrabble backwards towards the house? What did the wise men bring to the baby Jesus – gold, frankincense and mirth? What is mirth anyway? Must remember to ask Mum. Please God, I’ll do anything, anything.

“What are you doin’ doon there, you wee shite?”

Paul looks up. Tears and snot run into his mouth. He gathers them in with his tongue. He blinks to clear his eyes. It’s Joe. God couldn’t make it, so He sent His representative on earth. Lochee’s answer to Herod.

“Ah drapped the sixpence, Joe. Ah didnae mean it. Honest. Ah ran in tae the washing line. Sumbody’s left it hinging afae low. Help is, Joe, go on, help is find it.”

“Stop bubblin’. Gie’s yer hand. We’re no gonna find it the nicht.”

Joe reaches for Paul’s hand and pulls him to his feet. Using the back of his hand, he wipes the teary snot away from his little brother’s face as best he can, then wipes his hand in the snow. He pulls the overcoat tight around the smaller boy and still holding his hand leads him back to the house. On the stairs leading to the attic, he gently eases off the overcoat and hangs it up on a wooden peg. Then he helps Paul off with his wellington boots and wet socks. He dumps them on the stairs.

“Wait there.”

Joe slips into the attic room. Paul stand and waits, cheeks ablaze, teeth chattering, wet corduroys clinging, the dirty tears stain his face. The door opens.

“Come in.”

Paul steps into the room. His mother is standing by the open fire. He can hardly raise his head to look at her. When he does, the familiar blue-grey eyes meet. His mother is smiling. Then she is laughing. “C’mere, son.” He runs to her and throws himself into those strong familiar arms. He is crying again, sobbing and heaving against her stomach, drowning himself in that familiar warmth, that familiar smell.

“You know what this means,” he hears her say. “It’s toast and dripping tonight. We haven’t had that for ages. Now come on, get these things off, you’re soaked through. It looks like the Steamie on Saturday.”

“Tea’s nearly ready, Mum. Will I start on the toast?”

“Let me get this boy’s backside warmed up first. Then we’ll all make the toast together. Save the heelies for Jean-Paul.”

In the grate the fire hisses and spits out tiny pieces of shale. The kettle whistles, the gas lamp flickers, the woman hums and towels the boy vigorously. In her tin basin the baby lies gurgling happily as she watches the shadows dance on the ceiling.

He felt his mother’s hand brush across his cheek. How could they have got to Lansdowne, unloaded the furniture and returned so quickly? He opened his left eye. Curled in his armpit lay Lucky, his permanently pregnant, black and white, battle-hardened lady of the streets and alleys of Whorterbank. She was purring steadily, releasing little bursts of flatulence directly in his face. With his other hand he pulled her around so she pointed in a more seemly direction. He could feel her warm Kit-e-Kat breath on his cheek. He cuddled her and put his right hand back under his head. He closed his eye and drifted away again.

Read more: Short Story: On the Move: Under the Stack- part 1 | Shortbread