Authors: Eleanor Thom
‘Did she give him gold, Granny?’ Rachel asks.
No. It wasnae gold. She got him tae play a tune, an he wis so gifted a piper, his music put a smile oan her tarry auld face like a split doun a rotten apple. An then she gied him twa pears. That’s aw it wis, twa pears fae the tree in her gairden, an they were hard as stanes. Oh, me, the poor manny!
But afore the piper wis forced ontae a ship, a hoard ae sailors returned fae a voyage. They saw his pipes an asked him tae play fer a dance, which he did, an by the end ae the evenin he’d got five coins in his pouch. He used the money tae send a message, an gifted wan ae the twa pears back tae his true love. An then he boarded a ship.
The dear dilly received the pear an put it tae her lips. But it couldnae be bitten open, nae even by her noble white teeth. As she did this the messenger whispered in her lug that the piper would return as soon as he’d made his fortune, an she smiled, fer she wis also in love. But that wasnae the end ae the message. The messenger turned the smilin dilly’s cheek an whispered the last part ae the message intae her other lug. The piper’s fortune would be made, an he’d be hame, afore the pear ripened. Now the dilly began tae greet great muckle tears, sure this wis a promise the piper couldnae keep. The pear would ripen too soon, or if not it would rot.
A month went by, an then another, an tae the dilly’s great marvellin, still the pear hadnae turned. Her belly did grow ripe, though, an soon it wis roun wi the baby inside. There wis nae sign ae the piper, but nor did the pear turn, an nor wis the child born. There wisnae a soul had ony answers fer it, but they waited an waited an in the end they jist forgot aw aboot it. The poor dilly wis locked up fer five summers fearin her piper had fallen in love wi another woman.
‘But that’s when he came back!’ Rachel says.
‘Of course it wis, bairns. Things always happen when ye least expect them tae.’
The piper had suffered oan the seas. He’d battled wi storms an pirates, but the tunes had kept comin till wan day he sailed intae port a rich man. He walked right up tae the laird’s door wi his ain pear still in his pocket. That same night Isabel had twins. The magic pears finally ripened too, an were eaten at the weddin feast.
Ah reach this point in the story an get oan ma tramplers. That’s aw can be done wi the lice today. Ah throw oot the pannie an wash the comb, then set it up tae dry. Betsy an Rachel hae their gobs open at the end ae the story. ‘But it’s nae quite finished yet,’ ah tell them.
‘Descendents ae that family bide in the castle tae this day. Every wan ae them lives tae a hundred an twenty at least. An the auld grey-haired hag in the wood. Remember her, bairns?’
They nod, an ah dae a wee jig back ower the flair. The quines start laughin.
‘Well, they say she’s still dancin! Ho! Ha! Ha! Ha!’
Later, once the lassies are eatin, Curly helps me sweep their hair intae heidscarves. We couldnae get aw the beasties oot. That’ll tak a month, wi the new ones hatchin on them. Fine fer noo, though. When we’re done wrappin up the hair ah sit doun on the bed next tae Nancy, awake now, gurnin wi hunger.
Ah’ve speened aw the grandkinchins aff the breast milk mysel, jist like ma granny did fer me an ma mither did fer mine. Mind an tak yer teeth oot fer the speenin! That’s whit ma mither used tae say, tuck em in yer pouch. Ah chew up lumps ae tattie an meat fer Nancy, an pass it intae her open mouie. Jist like a mammy an a babbie birdie. A spoonfy falls aff ma plate an ontae the flair afore ah can stall it. Dollop maks a thump.
‘Waste not, want not, pick it up and eat it!’ sings Rachel, soundin sae much like an auld wifey that ah get the belly laughs, an seein me laughin wi nae teeth in ma heid sets them all aff.
‘Ho! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh, mmme, bairns! Hmmmff! Oh, me! Would yous fffwwinish yer denner an let an auld woman get oot ae this damnmnmn hoose afooore she bursts? Ah’ve tae go an see thon Batchie Woman. Yer dear auld granny’s work is nivver done! Nowt but stitchin an nittin an speenin aw the blessed day! Hmmmmff! But oh, mmme! Oh, me, whit a laughmf!’
Dawn
Dad had been back round and fixed the telephone with a few creaky turns of a screwdriver. His fingers weren’t nimble as they’d once been, seizing with each twist. As soon as it was done he’d suggested a trip to the beach, as if what he needed was bracing sea air and a wide space to unfurl into. Dawn imagined him standing at the point of the lighthouse, the two long stretches of sand as his sleeves, arms open wide to wrap round the land he loved and called home.
Maeve had been easily persuaded.
Can I keep her with me today? he’d said. You could join us later, come for your tea.
She’d almost gone to the coast with them, but decided if she was going to visit the beach it was something she’d rather do alone. She put a clean towel and Maeve’s wellies in the back of the car and stuffed a change of pants, socks and a pack of wipes into a welly leg. There was no need to worry, she told herself. Dad would be good to her.
Is Blue Scarfy coming? she’d asked, holding it out to Maeve through the open car window. Maeve reached for it but Dad laughed.
Whit’s that old rag? You’ll no still be needing a tuttie!
Maeve hesitated but took it and lifted it straight to her mouth.
If you’re making sandwiches, she doesn’t like egg or anything with pickle or mayonnaise, she told Dad. He nodded. Right-o!
Both of them waved as the maroon Escort coughed into action. Dawn lifted a hand, answering Maeve’s tiny, pink palm and Dad’s thick, speckled one. The sun had come out again, and where they were off to the bay would be sheltered, deceptively inviting.
Dad had taken Dawn to that same coast years ago, all the
different visits blurring into one cause she was so young, and each time they’d always done the same thing. They’d never built castles. Who wanted to lock themselves in a castle when there was all that sea to discover? Dad would set to work immeditately, digging her a rowing boat. He always built up the sides so when it was finished she would have to be lifted in, just like a real boat. He even made the little benches. When they got hungry they would sit on them, eat their sandwiches and check for sharks. She would tell him ‘Don’t forget to row!’, and Dad would heave-ho at the invisible oars and tell her stories.
Sometimes Mother came to the beach, but she never wanted to stay long. Wilma felt the cold. She would sit on a blanket shivering, looking sad, waving them goodbye as they set sail in the sandy boat. When Mother decided it was time to go the wee rowing boat had to be rescued. She would shout ‘Ship ahoy!’, and the game would be over. As they left the beach, scrambling up the dunes towards the road and the bus stop, Dawn always wondered how long it would take for the sea to burst through the walls of Dad’s rowing boat, sinking it back into the sand.
That morning, Dad had peeped the horn as he and Maeve went round the corner in the maroon escort, and for a fleeting moment Dawn felt buoyed, that tight warmth of flesh and blood. The feeling almost had her running after them.
She hadn’t had a whole day alone since before Maeve was born, and found herself out of practice. Her movements round the flat felt cumbersome, as though she didn’t belong. A spaceman. It was as if she were on television and someone had put her on slow motion, the volume turned up full blast. Her own breath was blowing about her ears. Running the tap made her dizzy. The click-click-click of the ignition on the hob was a sickening crack of knuckles. Without Maeve in the flat she had the overwhelming feeling that someone else
was
there. Watching her. That was a stupid thing to think, she kept telling herself.
She wondered if a slowly supped cup of tea might calm her
nerves. But it didn’t work. She heard the stroke of the teabag falling into the cup, the grind of sugar under the spoon, the liquid’s lick and slop, the tick of the clock. She had to get out.
In fifteen minutes she was at the register in the Co-pie, feeling normal again and paying for cigarettes, matches and batteries for her Walkman. She picked up a local paper near the till, and read a few lines.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MA BATCHIE! OLDEST RESIDENT
TURNS 121 Page 5
Dawn put the paper back on the stand, dropped the cigarettes and matches into the pockets of her black cardigan, ripped open the pack of batteries and fished in her bag for the Walkman.
She walked up High Street listening to the spools turn as she rewound a cassette. The miniature photo album from the cupboard was in her pocket. She put her hand round it and felt the bumpy design on the cover. It was stiff cardboard pretending to be crocodile and it was coated in some kind of shiny lacquer. The word ‘Memories’ was raised on the front in joined-up letters. Dawn traced her finger over the word. The letters were smooth strokes. They felt like the white seam on her index finger where the rough edge of a can had once opened her, slicing down to bone. Just her own carelessness.
The only clue about the pictures was still the name scribbled on the back of one of them. Lolly. It sounded American. The cassette rewinding in her ears came to a stop with a thunk and a click. She pressed ‘play’. Lyle Lovett sung in a sleepy voice, but Dawn couldn’t relax. Maybe that was her problem, the reason she couldn’t be alone.
She looked through shop windows before going in, kept an eye on passers-by, checked left, right, round the corners and scanned the faces in cars. All of them were familiar in a way she
couldn’t place. Near Plainstones she noticed a man who looked a bit like Warren.
If it really had been Warren, she’d have recognised his finely cut blue eyes, the daft smile with the perfect teeth. Not long before she left, his hair had begun to thin. He’d started wearing it very short. You could see then that his ears stuck out, just far enough that light glowed through the edges. An angelic sort of face and not a bad body, though he’d never made any special effort with it. Without ever trying she’d memorised him whole. On pictures she could point him out even if only a tiny part of him had made it into the frame: an elbow, a foot, an earlobe.
It meant nothing, though. She could trick herself into thinking a stranger was him. It used to happen all the time. Even in the city she’d seen him everywhere, a figure always turning a corner or disappearing at the top of an escalator.
Dawn found herself outside her grandfather’s shop. It had a new owner now. Dad had never intended taking it on. Aunt Shirley used to pull her past the shop window, never stopping to say hello. She and Grandfather were on bad terms, she always said. Dawn would try and peek in as they hurried by, and inside he’d be serving a customer, wiping a knife down his apron. He was good businessman. He could get the customer talking and with a few smiles tempt them to buy the best cut.
Grandfather had never talked much at home, though. The only story he’d passed on was how he owed his life (and Dawn and Linda theirs) to his trade. If he hadn’t already been an apprentice butcher he’d have fought on the front line in the Great War. Sure as a gun. But instead he’d won medals for feeding the troops and had come home in one piece to marry his fiancée.
Dawn had liked watching him carve a joint. He was deft with it, artistic. His work had been important to him, fascinating. The sharpening of knives and slicing of meat had demanded his full attention, and he’d performed these things with a seriousness
like religious ceremony. He was a church-goer too: every Sunday morning till the day he died.
Dawn liked churches, even if she didn’t believe in God. The best one she’d seen had been on a school trip, the only time she’d ever been abroad. They were meant to look at the paintings and admire the vaulted ceiling but Dawn didn’t care about those things. Instead she’d found a corner where people had left messages on marble plaques, all offering thanks, and she hadn’t moved from it till it was time to go. There were dates on the plaques, not just years but months and days. Some were a century old. She’d wondered if she would ever have a day so miraculous she’d want to cut it in stone.
Maeve loved sausages. She’d get some for her later in the week.
Dawn pulled her headphones round her neck so she could hear the people coming and going around her, and she turned into South Street. Up here was the bookies. A picture of a horse and jockey covered the entire shop front and cast a funny light inside, primary colours like a wendy house. She remembered the smell too, running shoes and cigarette smoke. There was a plastic floor that made squeaky noises as men shifted their weight and deliberated over bets.
She’d usually found Warren in here, but not today.
Their bad luck came all at once, that’s how he would explain it. Somehow it leapt up on them, unexpected, like a strong racehorse clipping a high fence, losing its stride. And the final straw was the mark on the test, life announcing itself in a blurry burst, wishing for celebration. They’d waited so long for it. She had. She went through to him with the news on her lips and found him blinking sharp tears, his mouth a tight streak and a screwed bet in his fingers. He hurled the paper ball at the telly and looked like he wanted to spit after it. Ping! The bird’s-egg ball bounced off the screen and rolled to a stop beside Dawn’s foot. That was a moment she hated thinking about. That and the ones that came after.
She needed to sit for a minute. A haircut. She needed a haircut. If she was lucky someone would bring her a cup of strong coffee and she could smoke a cigarette. But they looked busy. She could see in the window of the salon from where she stood. There were already two women having their hair washed and another was sat in a chair with a tin-foil marigold for a head. There was nowhere else to go except Linda’s shop, which was just at the end of the parade.
When the door opened a familiar bell tinkled a sugary sound over her head. The girl at the desk wore a coat like a scientist and the fabric looked unnaturally white next to her deep tan. Dawn wondered if the tan was painted on. They did that here.
Hiya, the girl said.
There were slatted blinds covering the whole shop front and Dawn had a good view of the street. If she waited long enough she’d probably see him. She kept looking everywhere she went. Maybe she even wanted to see him.