Lonie 34

Ground frost crept up the walls and, three storeys up, clung to the inside of Lonie’s windows. He’d constructed a tent of sorts to keep the heat in, with his knobbly knees as poles, the blankets on his bed the outside covering and a pair of blue nylon socks as gloves. He fingered his way through the pages of The Encyclopaedia Britannica. He’d dug in all night, jerry-rigging a light from the close outside and got to the letter N, and the difference between edible seaweed and a device for raising water from a stream or river. Words enveloped him, offered him safety and sustenance; fondling words, hurrying them into phrases and trying them out on his tongue, nursing them along and reclaiming them from innocence; noting them down on a pad beside him, for a later use that would never come and die on his lips. He thought he heard a scratching and laughed because, if it was mice, they’d be hard pushed to find anything to eat until he picked up his last pay-packet. Then he recognised the light drumbeat of someone chapping on his door. He scrambled out of bed, pulling on a pair of tan corduroys and making himself decent with a mossy- wool jumper, before answering the door.

An old biddy, Mrs Johnstone stood her knuckle against his door, thin as daylight in the Clyde tunnel, with permed hair, jutting chin and a man’s full length black overcoat to her brown work boots. ‘Ah’m sorry to bother you son,’ she said with her Irish accent, ‘but Ah can’t seem to be gettin’ any water.’

Lonie looked behind her. One of the lights in the close was smashed, but even in the darkness he knew she’d worked her way up the close to his house scratching on every door. ‘It’s the frost. You’re on the ground floor. These old lead pipes. It’ll have frozen them solid.’

She tutted. ‘Is your water workin’?’

‘Come in.’ He dashed to the sink, trying the cold water tap one sink, then the cold water tap on the other. It made no sense but he tried the hot taps too, with the same results, before hurrying back to the door, where she stood rooted to the spot. He shook his head that his taps didn’t work either.

‘Ah well then Ah’ll need to throw myself on the mercy of Jesus and report it to the factor.’ Mrs Johnstone leaned across the threshold, her white hands in a knot, ‘unless you could take a look?’

‘You need a plumber Mrs Johnstone.’

‘Ah, that’s what Ah thought.’ But she was stiff-legged as a scarecrow and made no attempt to move away. ‘And Ah’ve not even got enough water to make a cup of tea yet.’

Lonie shook his head, couldn’t believe he was asking. ‘Have you got any candles?’

‘Ah have.’

‘Have you got any matches?’

‘Ah have.’

‘Well, Ah’m no’ promising anythin’, but Ah’ll take a look.’

‘Well God’ll bless you.’ Mrs Johnstone's hand slid down the bannister as she carefully worked her way down the stairs.

Lonie made sure he’d his house keys and pulled the door shut behind him. She’d left her front door ajar. He stepped into the hallway, almost bumping into a portrait of Jesus, heart aflame throwing off a yellow light. The kitchen was much the same as his, with her bed boxed into the corner, the twin sinks and the cooker. Her curtains were pulled almost shut, heavy with dust and the kitchen had that dull lived in smell of a bear hibernating. She was pottering by the cooker, cleaning it with a rag of a cloth.

‘God bless you son. Ah’ll just get the candles for you.’ Mrs Johnstone left Lonie standing as she disappeared in the gloom of the hall.

Lonie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. He looked about him. Many of Jesus’ relatives were pictured on the walls almost as if they were ancestors of Mrs Johnstone’s family. Joseph in brown, carrying the Jesus child. Mary in blue, carrying big brown eyes and a world of hope and sighs. Various saints, getting crucified and mutilated and looking quite happy, ecstatic even, about it. There was a print of Padre Pio. His two hands were shown palms outwards and plainly bleeding. Blood was running down his face, echoing the stigmata of the crown of thorns. Lonie wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a pull out portion showing him bleeding at the hip, where the spear had entered Jesus’ side. Next to it he recognised a recent addition that hadn’t yet had time to discolour the yellowing anaglyptic wallpaper, the smiling face of Father Campbell. There was a small tract underneath it, asking for prayers to The Ever Virgin Mary.

Mrs Johnstone came back in with four candles and a family sized box of matches. She caught Lonie peering at the picture of Father Campbell and blessed herself. ‘Is that man not a living saint? Sure he cured that little boy of leukaemia.’

Lonie looked away as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, but he was curious. ‘What boy was that?’

‘Sure that boy that had leukaemia.' Mrs Johnstone’s placed the candles on the work surface, lining them up as if proud of each one. And didn’t he cure that little girl with a hole in her heart? Her parents had prayed for his intercession and days later they did all the tests and they couldn’t find a thing wrong with her. It was in The Catholic Herald and all the papers. Didn’t you see it?’

‘No.’ Lonie shook his head ruefully. ‘But I have met him.’

‘You have not? Have you?’ Mrs Johnstone sounded as if she was going to swoon at Lonie’s feet. ‘And here’s me thinkin’ your some kind of tink. What was he like?’

‘Oh, he was just an ordinary man that liked a laugh and smoke.’ Lonie went over and picked up one of the candles. ‘You’ll need to clear everything from under the sink.’

‘Oh, Ah’m sure he wouldn’t smoke.’ Mrs Johnstone gave him the kind of look she usually reserved for her late husband. ‘Sure didn’t he cure that blind fellow that couldn’t see?'

Lonie pulled back the floral curtain under the sinks, picked up the three candles and the matches. Unlike his house Mrs Johnstone’s erstwhile cupboard space was relatively free. He felt all the way down the pipes leading from outside. His hands were soft now, so was careful his hands didn’t getting snagged and cut by the metallic seams where the pipes where joined. He groaned as he pushed himself underneath the sinks and laid out the candles in a row underneath the in- pipe. ‘Ah don’t know if this will work.’ He lit the candles and placed them underneath the pipe, running the flame along one and picking up the next in line and running it in the same direction. When the candles had burned down by about a third he popped his head out. ‘Run the taps!’

Mrs Johnstone dashed over from the bed and turned the spigot of the cold water tap on in the larger sink. There was a gurgling and the sink began to slowly fill. ‘You’re a miracle worker.’

Lonie straightened himself, pleased with himself. Mrs Johnstone grabbed at his hand and thrust a note in it. He tried to hand wrestle and give it back to her, but there was always going to be one winner.

‘Just get a drink on me.’ She peered at him again; her grey eyes unflinching. ‘You sure there’s not a bit of the tink about you?’

‘Thank you kindly.’ Lonie’s head was bowed. The £1 note was held up as a mark of appreciation.