The Kid on the Stairs
George Chalmers
In Dundee's hungry 50's the 'kindness of strangers' meant more than the price of a bag of chips. Certain people became, what social workers term, 'significant others' in an ongoing socialisation process.
"Nuthin but whores an' comic singers," my qualified mother slurred as unnecessary bait to tempt a curious fish. One day in particular left its hooks embedded.
In a dimply lit flat along the street from the Sheriff Court, I stood silently beside a man in a raincoat. Heavy curtains shut against the day. I dark, silver striped animal skin lay in front of a well-banked fire. A worn, overdone woman emerged from behind a kitchen door that folded in on itself. An aroma (now recognised as real coffee) followed her into the room. She held out a hand limp with gold charms and I handed over a canvas bag which she emptied onto a metal tray. Chris, the man in the raincoat, took his cap off, rotating it in his hands. I moved near a display cabinet, some ornaments shifted, tinkling on glass shelves. Chris stopped me with a look.
A huge, barrel-chested man filling the sofa stood to scoop the animal skin from the floor and slipped snugly inside it, he leaned across the table to pick up a hat with a black and white chequered band, leaving behind a waft of fierce alcohol. "Ah'll away an' start mah shift," he said, ducking low to miss the door lintel.
"He can'nae produce his helmet 'till he's outside." She said, still counting. Chris, the neighbourhood bookie, sat beside her, smiling at something I didn't understand. He shadowed me through town, past street-corner Teds, pubescent High School girls and distracted constables.
He produced a worn notepad from his all-year raincoat and they talked in numbers for a while. I let my gaze pan the room. A polished radiogram stood against a far wall and a breathy female's torch song worked its way into my bones. Coals sparked softly in the fire. A copper pancake of pennies nimbly sorted and stacked beside half-crowns, florins, shillings and tanners. She double-checked each count with a ripple of a thumbnail. They nodded at each other, saying the amount simultaneously, laughing, as if it were part of an old game.
Chris picked up a half pile of coin for himself and gave me another tanner. "That's us square noo wee chap," he looked to the door, "Mind the roads on yir way back." I hesitated, reluctant to leave the strange, other worldly atmosphere infusing the room. Looking around at the figurines, mirrors and unused companion set gleaming gold in the tiled hearth. Optics fitted to a wooden panelled wall behind a near corner cocktail bar. "Mighty fine place Ma'am," I said shooting a line from some western. They burst into laughter and I realised the power of humour as a way out of uncertain situations.
The woman turned slightly, draping her arm over the back of an empty chair. I'd been warned never to look into her eyes. According to local folklore, 'she turned men tae stane'. "You're fae Gellatly Street", she pointed, "the laddie Chalmers eh?" I kept my head down and nodded. She got up quickly from the table. I took a wary step back. "Do you want some juice?" she eyeballed me rigid, "then come wi' me." Her blue-veined, hand round my shoulder activated hairs on my neck. The kitchen was double cream and pillar-box red. Quiet bubbling came from a shiny, steel pot on a gas cooker.
"What's that smell missis?" I asked looking at an hour-glass shaded pot. "That's real coffee - when it's almost ready," she answered. Two dainty cups and tiny saucers were set out on a blood red Formica topped table.
She poured a full tumbler of lemonade and watched me finish it in two gulps. "Try no tae be too much like yir father," she said in an odd warning tone. Delayed action bubbles exploded inside my head, eyes filling with mock tears. Taking the glass, she moved to the sink and turned one of the taps. In a few seconds, after a splutter or two, hot water came out. "You get hot water - inside yir hoose?" I asked. She didn't answer, just smiled and ran a red fingernail down my cheek. Selecting a shilling from her purse, she pressed it into my hand, combing her fingers through my hair. A moment packed with intimidating tenderness.
Later that night, after the pubs closed, I regulated a gas lamp on the stairs for a wild-eyes woman. 'That's mah man up there,' she warned some men, 'so behave yirsel'. They peered into the darkened landing. I retreated to a far corner. She knelt on her handbag (to pray?) in front of drunken, grunting men and afterwards gave me a shilling. Her breath smelt of raw inions and wine. Sitting on the stairs she offered me a Woodbine, I said I didn't smoke. 'Ah'm only nine and half missis." Her harsh laughter echoed round the tenement close, 'You're older than ye think son.' She squatted on the communal stair toilet, leaving the door wide open. Although, it didn't put me off a pie supper and mushy peas once she'd gone. Wolfed down while the seat still felt warm.
