Lonie8

Lonie and Audrey walked past pubs, rock music blaring out as the doors swung open and dimmed as they shut, people weaving across the pavements in front of them like runaway spiders, so many people it was difficult to believe it was night and not daytime. He looked across at the Smiddy Bar and then later at The Hepburn Vaults with a kind of regret, but they were almost at the corner of Apsley Street before he knew it. The chip shop across the road was picking off the last few stragglers from the pubs. He licked his lips, almost tasting the vinegar on his tongue, but walked faster, having no money in his pockets.

Inside the close of his tenement at number 10, Lonie made his move. ‘Ah’m up there, on the third floor, that’s your passport to heaven.’ He clinched at Audrey’s waist and tried to spin her round to kiss her.

Audrey pushed him roughly away, looking towards the mouth of the close and then hearing the rustling at the bins at the backcourt, her eyes strained in that direction. But she could see only murky darkness outside, and inside only the pish stain of a passing drunk marking out and darkening the lower brick coloured part of the close wall. ‘Fuck off. I mean it,’ she said, in case he’d any more stupid ideas of jumping on her again. He’d that daft grin on his face. She could still hear the noise of traffic from Dumbarton Road and she tried to work out how long it would take her to get home, what she’d need to tell her mother, and if she had enough money to get a taxi. Worse than that would be if she had to waken her mother to borrow money to pay the fare, which would mean endless recriminations and sly digs about her sister’s marital status and how neither of them had given her the least bit of bother. ‘This was a bad idea. I think it is probably best if I just went home.’ She brushed past him, her feet echoing on the close walls as she made to leave.

‘Whoa. Whoa.’ In three steps Lonie had caught up with her. ‘Ah’m sorry.’ He held his hands up as if she’d put a gun to his head. ‘Ah’m an arsehole.’

Audrey laughed. She looked at him again. He’d taken a step back and was a respectable two feet away from her, with his coat flapping open, and hangdog look and he did look crestfallen. ‘Yes. You are. I only came home with you because I felt sorry for you.’

‘No hanky-panky.’ Lonie tried not to smile. ‘I feel sorry for me too.’ His hands were placed firmly behind his back as he spoke.

‘No hanky-panky,’ she repeated.

They’d settled on a truce. Lonie climbed the stairs first, looking back to make sure that she was following. Only when he’d got to the third landing was he sure that she wouldn’t scamper away. He’d the usual palaver of his looking for his house keys searching one side of his coat pocket then the other and finally the inside pocket were they’d snagged up on the lining.

Audrey stood respectively behind him, but close enough to smell his peculiar mix of whisky and tobacco. He’d a brass letterbox that needed rubbing down, and an old- fashioned push-and-pull bell, but she was impressed with the brass nameplate, with the house number and MR LONNIGAN etched into it that gave his house something of the feel of an important office.

Lonie jiggled the house key and turned it this way and that. There was a knack to springing the lock, but he’d done it that many times he hardly had to think about it. Only on cold damp nights when the lock jammed did he think about getting it fixed. He pushed open the door and flicked the switch, lighting up the narrow hallway. He peeled off his coat, hanging it on a hook on the back of the door. She stood hesitating in the close, looking strangely vulnerable pressed up against the black cast-iron rails and sleek lacquered dark wood of the bannister railing. ‘Come in. Come in.’ He waved her inside. ‘Ah’ll just nip through and put the kettle on.’

Audrey followed him through to the kitchen. His back was to her and he was beside a double set of thick ceramic sinks, one bigger and deeper than the other. There was a floppy yellow cloth curtain tugged along the base of the sinks which she imagined was used for storage. He filled the kettle from the cold water tap which was in an old-fashioned swan shape and turned to her and smiled, a look of contentment crossing his face.

‘Won’t be long.’ He placed the kettle carefully down on the front hob of the gas cooker. There was a stack of shillings lined up neatly on the meter connected to the copper pipe that ran to the cooker one way and the hot water geyser that ran to the sink the other. He could see she was uneasy, was standing with her coat and didn’t know where to put it. She had, what he thought of as, dancing feet. She didn’t know which way to turn. He put a shilling in the meter, turned the gas on and reaching for the family- sized box of matches and sparked one. He adjusted the flame and put the kettle on. ‘Sit down,’ he said, but then noticed there was nowhere to sit but the unmade double bed that jutted out of the corner space of the back wall. He rushed across; all windmill arms, flinging the sheets about and smoothing out the blankets. ‘Ah, don’t know what I was thinkin’. Sit down.’ He patted a space on the bed near the bookcase on the wall.

Audrey lowered her bum onto the bed, her coat folded respectably across her lap. It was cold in the kitchen. She felt like putting it back on. He went back over to the kettle, watching it boil and banging open one side of the patterned glass in the cupboard next to it and then banging open the glass on the twin side opposite. Then pulling down the drawbridge compartment and searching for the tea caddy banging it down on the worktop next to the gas cooker. His head whipped around looking for spoons, at her, then back searching for some unspecified thing. She wasn’t quite sure. Then he was across at the sink. The whoosh of the geezer marking out his efforts to painfully clean two chipped mugs that were in the smaller of the sinks. The kettle began to boil and he darted across to the caddy, using the brass spoon to painfully measure out two complete teaspoonful’s into the tea pot and putting it back on the ring and lowering the flame.

‘Shit,’ he said, ‘Ah’ve got nothing to eat. Not even a Custard Cream.’ He picked up a handful of shillings from the top of the meter. ‘Ah’ll nip out and get us a bag of chips.’ He pointed at Audrey. ‘You want a pickle?’ He didn’t wait for an answer.

He went stomping down the hall and she heard him saying ‘Every girl likes a pickle.’ The tea began to percolate on the gas ring, the smell masking, to a certain extent, the smell of unwashed socks. There was a pulley above her head, secured by a figure of eight knot attached to a bracket on the wall. Several shirts hung there on their hangers, on the slats near the high ceiling, and a few pair of pants, a purple bath towel and some socks. What she was really looking for though was a toilet. She hadn’t noticed one when she came in and didn’t like to ask, or nosey about when he was away. She picked up a leather-bound copy of Encyclopaedia Britannica from the books case, and placing it on her lap began to read about the ‘field tiger’ Ocelots.

Lonie kept the chips firmly wrapped, bought two pickles and still had a shilling left. He hadn’t bothered locking the door. The only thing worth stealing was his visitor and she’d a tendency to bite so he felt quite secure. He banged through the front door and into the kitchen. Audrey raised her head. She was looking through one of his books. ‘Jesus.’ He rushed over to the gas ring and turned it off. ‘You’ve let the tea stew.’ He lifted the lid and smelled the rising steam, and let it fall again. ‘Should be alright,’ was his opinion. He opened the bag of chips and let the smell speak for itself. He couldn’t resist delving in and nipping the odd one and then another as he looked in the bottom of his cupboard for clean plates.

‘Oi,’ Audrey shouted in a mock tone. ‘What about me? Where’s mine?’

Laughing, he picked up the chip bag and plonked it down on her lap. She placed the book carefully down face down on the bed beside her. ‘I’ll take your coat.’ He tugged it away from her, leaving her skirt like a taut table-cloth, with a chip bag on it. He dived down and flicked a chip into his mouth. ‘What you readin’?’ He angled his head to have a look. ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica that cost me more than two months’ rent.’ He walked towards the hall to hang her coat on the door.

‘Worth it,’ she said, chewing on a chip, not bothering to cover her mouth as he hovered in the kitchen doorway. ‘Have a chip.’ She held one up as a bent- in- the- middle offering for him to swoop down on.

Lonie came and sat down beside her on the edge of the bed, making sure his leg didn’t touch hers. He grabbed at the chip, but she pulled it away and stuck it in her gob. His hand crept across to her lap and he stole one chip from the chip poke and then another.

‘Tea?’ He stood up quickly, moving past her to the small fridge that was plugged into the wall.

Audrey moved the chip bag onto the bed. The light from the fridge illuminated his face. He sniffed at the pint of milk, his nostrils flaring and nose scrunching up.

‘It’s sour.’ Lonie looked at her. ‘You drink tea without milk?’

‘Sure. I can take it black.’

‘You sure?’ But he was already pouring tea out of the teapot into a glazed green mug and a white mug with a chip on the handle. He ploughed four sugars into his own and carried over the white mug, one hand underneath it, like a saucer, as he carried it over to her.

Audrey took the tea, warming her hands and sipping on it. ‘I’m finished.’ She motioned towards the newsprint parcel of chips lying on the bedclothes that already had that discarded look.

Lonie made a grab for the chip bag. ‘What about your pickle?’ he said through yellowing chomping teeth.

‘I don’t like pickles.’ She took another sip of tea. It was stronger than she was used to and it had loose leaves floating about.

‘What about the book?’ Lonie popped two pickles into his mouth and crunched down on both. ‘You finished with that?’

Audrey picked the book up by the cover, and slapped the pages shut and edged the closed book back into the space in the bookcase. ‘Yes.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I’m finished with ocelots and encyclopaedias.’

‘That’s a lie.’ He chased the last chip into the corner of the squashed- down wrapper and speared it into his mouth. ‘That there’s a university education. You’re never finished with it.’ He turned and tugged at the curtain beneath the sink, flinging the wrapper into a bin he’d stashed there and carefully tugged the curtain back into place.

‘Well, I’ve been to university.’ She looked up at him as she spoke and could see the surprise she’d invited come into his eyes, but just as quickly disappear.

‘What university?’ His fingers tapped against his legs, searching for the outline of his fags. ‘You mind if ah smoke?’

‘I don’t mind.’ She nursed the warmth of the tea cup. ‘It’s your house. I can hardly stop you.’

The satisfaction of smoking seemed to sooth him. ‘What university?’

Audrey took her time answering, sipping at her tea. He was squinting at her through the hood of his eyes, his jaw clenched. ‘Glasgow,’ she finally said.

‘What did you study?’

‘History. Contemporary Twentieth Century History.’ She put her mug of tea down on the floor and making sure there were no crumbs or stains, smoothed out her dress.

‘Ah know all about that.’ Lonie paced to one wall of the kitchen and in three short steps back again to the kitchen sink. ‘Ah’d have killed to go to university.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ she asked.

‘Ah’m a Catholic,’ he spat out in fag smoke and exasperation.

‘They’ve got Catholic universities.’ Her voice and manner was cool.

‘Catholic universities are all run by priests and nuns. Ah know all about how that works.’

‘I hear that some of them are quite good.’

‘Aye.’ He flicked fag ash onto his cupped hand and then crossing to the sashed window let it drop into an ashtray. ‘Quite good for Catholics.’

‘Let me tell you something, and this is a piece of history you may not know about.’ Lonie took a deep draw of his fag to steady himself. ‘After the second Irish potato famine in the 1930s the United States closed its borders. The coffin ships came here to Britain, but it was mostly Scotland. The population doubled and there were riots and the murder and rape of Catholics was not condoned. Indeed it was public policy. Every council in Scotland set up its own armed militia.’

‘I know all of this,’ she whispered. ‘It was a terrible time, but the Second World War gave us a common enemy. That’s all in the past now.’

‘It’s not in the past!’ He strode over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of McEwans’ beer and rattling round in the sink, pulled out a bottle top opener. He took a long swig of the beer, which seemed to calm him. ‘It’s not in the past. Sure Catholics were good cannon fodder for the armed forces. They worked in mines and in factories and in shipyards. All the menial tasks that needed to be done it was a Catholic doing them. We weren’t called “muck shovellers” for nothing. But let’s not forget the Catholic Church and the deal they did with the government. They were given the most worthless pieces of land in Scotland. Sold at a penny an acre and told to make the problem disappear.’

Audrey picked the mug up from her feet and took it across to the sink. ‘I’m getting pretty tired.’ She swilled her cup under the cold water tap and left it in the sink.

‘I’m sorry.’ He took another long drink, wiping at his mouth, his fag hand coming up and he dragged out another smoke, the tobacco burning down so quickly he almost burnt his fingers and stubbed it out on the ashtray on the window sill beside her. ‘If you’ll just let me finish.’ He sounded calmer.

Audrey went across and sat down on the bed again. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so clasped them in her lap.

‘Land is only worthless if it’s not productive.’ Lonie’s fingers ran through his hair and he looked at the bottle of beer in his hand, as if it was a stranger, before finishing it and placing the empty carefully in the bigger sink. ‘They’d men, women and children working the land. Sure tens of thousands…hundreds of thousands died, but they’d have died anyway.’ He gave a bitter bark of a laugh. ‘But at least it was good for the soil.’

‘I don’t see...’ Audrey looked across at him, but her words had no effect. ‘I’m really tired and need to know where I’m sleeping.’

‘You’re sleeping there.’ Lonie pointed at the hole-in-the wall bed.

‘And where are you sleeping?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘A’m sleepin’ next door.’ He waved his hand vaguely at the wall beside the gas cooker.

Audrey nodded. The sheets were dirty and it would be like sleeping in a sand-pit, but at least that was settled.

‘Just let me finish?’ Lonie sounded tired, hollowed out, and he came and sat beside her on the bed. ‘The thing is that attitude persisted right on into the 1950s and the start of the 1960s. We were all goin’ to a better place. We were all expendable. And why buy a tractor when you can get one hundred boys and a hundred girls doing the job with hoes and picks. Why treat somebody with tuberculosis when they were going to die anyway? Why treat somebody for scarlet fever and diphtheria when heaven was the only cure? I watched boys of twelve carrying their brothers of six into the fields on their backs. That was the only way you got to eat. And the only way you got medicine was to sign up for life, but not just this life, the life hereafter as well, and agreed to become a layperson, a brother, sister, priest or a nun. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. Don’t talk to me about the marvels the church has done. Don’t talk to me about the school, hospitals and universities they have built, because they are all filled with people who let others starve so they wouldn’t and they could feel superior. Don’t talk to me about the Protestants that persecuted Catholics. Talk to me about the Catholics that persecuted Catholics.’ Lonie’s head dropped and tears appeared in the corner of his eyes. He felt Audrey’s hand, kneading and massaging his fingers, but he sucked in his breath, determined not to cry.