The Good Provider (14 page)

At first Kirsty could not make out what was going on for the language was so guttural and alien that she could hardly understand a word of it. A constable, tall and distinctive in his uniform, presided over the proceedings and seemed calm and passive in the midst of the rabble. It took Kirsty several minutes to sort out the cast of the drama; the landlord, his agent, a municipal officer, members of the family, and three, possibly four, male lodgers who had also lost their billets.

More bundles were slung on to the handcart and two small children were hoisted on board and a runny-nosed toddler of indeterminate sex was lifted up and perched, howling, on the very top of the pyramid. Women leaned from tenement windows and gathered in closes and bawled and catcalled as if the performance was taking place on the stage of the Empire and not on a public thoroughfare. The landlord and his agent appeared no more respectable than their tenants and, far from being bullying, seemed to be very upset by the whole squalid affair.

‘Ah’m sorry, Mrs Skinner, but ye canny say ye wisnae warned,’ said one of the men in a whining tone, while his agent, also small and seedy and drooping, patted his shoulder and muttered words of sympathy as if injury was being done to the landlord and not his tenants.

‘See you, McCoig, you’s needin’ hung,’ cried a crow-voiced wife from one of the windows. ‘Ye’re a greedy bastard, puttin’ the law on them, an’ her wi’ an ailin’ hubby tae.’

‘Hangin’s too bloody good for him.’

‘Aye, so it is but.’

McCoig, the landlord, denied the accusations.

‘It wisnae me, I tell ye,’ he bleated. ‘God, but she was well warned. How could she no’ pay the three quarters owin’? I mean, God, she’s got four lodgers in there tae.’

But the crowd was not to be appeased.

‘
Who was it notified the Sanny man, eh, McCoig?
’

The ‘Sanny man’, municipal officer in charge of Health and Sanitation, entered the fray.

‘It was, I assure you, a random inspection,’ he cried.

‘
McCoig brung ye in. Deny it if ye can.
’

‘Never you mind, Dougie. Never you heed them,’ the agent, a brother perhaps, muttered soothingly. ‘Right’s on our side.’

‘RIGHT? WHAT BLOODY RIGHT?’

‘I never reported nobody.’ Douglas McCoig appealed to the officer, who, in black suit and bowler hat, exuded an air of superior wisdom. ‘Tell them it wisnae me, Mr Manfred.’

‘BLOODY MIDAS, SO YE ARE.’

Mr Manfred had no more respect for landlords than he had for the tenants who packed their miserable apartments far in excess of the numbers laid down by burgh law.

Mr Manfred snapped, ‘Think yoursel’ lucky you weren’t fined, Mr McCoig. You knew fine what was goin’ on. Thirteen folk in a wee single-end, for God’s sake!’

‘I never counted them.’

‘It was your responsibility, Mr McCoig,’ said Mr Manfred, then, waving an arm imperiously, shouted, ‘Now, you lot, stop shilly-shallyin’. I haven’t got all day to waste.’

A young man in shirt sleeves, cheeks aflame, flung himself out of the crowd and might have assaulted the Sanny man if the police constable had not rolled from the wall with the swiftness of a leopard leaping from a rock. He caught and restrained the young avenger and growled, ‘Enough out o’ you, lad, unless you’re anxious for a spell on bread an’ water.’

Persuaded not to press his grievances with his fists the young lodger, released, took shelter behind Mrs Skinner who had by now wrapped her broad-hipped body in a voluminous tartan shawl and had picked up an infant and a toddler to complete the image of martyred and unrepentant motherhood.

She was in her thirties but looked older. Sallow, haggard, with ash-grey circles around each eye, she displayed no lack of energy and in a high yapping voice snapped out orders that every member of the Skinner clan jumped to obey. ‘Bring him down then. Go on, Jimmy, fetch him down. Gi’e him a hand, Bert. I’m no’ leavin’ this spot till I see him right.’ She hoisted a child into the crook of each elbow and shrugged the shawl expertly around them to cover their skinny bare legs.

‘POOR THINGS. LOOK’T THEM. ARE YE NO’ BLACK ASHAMED, McCOIG?’

Douglas McCoig did indeed appear to be ashamed. He hung his head and could not bear to look as the procession emerged noisily from the close. Mr Manfred was not so squeamish. Hands on hips, coat-tails thrust back, he watched every move with a tiny hard-edged smirk.

Kirsty inched closer. Nobody paid her the slightest attention for every eye was fastened upon the close mouth and a hush, broken only by the wailing of the toddler atop the handcart, fell over the multitude.

Seated stiffly on a ladderback chair, Mr Skinner was carried from his ancestral home. He had a shawl about his shoulders and wore no overcoat or jacket. His collarless shirt was open to show a shrunken chest and the emotional palpitations of his Adam’s apple. He was not ashamed of his tears. He did not hide his face in his hands, kept his fists closed tight on the chair knobs as he was rocked out of darkness into daylight. He wore no shoes or boots and his trousers had ridden up to his shins to expose pale, hairy legs. In his lap was a chamber-pot and a cut-glass vase.

The young lodger, Jimmy, was weeping too, and the other attendants looked grim and funeral as they put the chair down on the pavement directly in front of the Sanny man.

Mr Manfred did not flinch. He was not afraid to confront a victim of officialdom face to face.

‘Got the key then, Mr Skinner?’ he demanded.

It was too much, too cold, for the neighbours. Shouting broke out anew and fists were raised. One wife lost balance, shrieked, and was only just saved from tumbling over her window-sill and beaning some poor soul on the pavement below. Even Kirsty, a stranger, felt a lump in her throat when Mr Manfred stuck out a lilywhite hand and once more demanded the key.

Slowly, hesitantly, Mr Skinner dipped a hand into the chamber-pot and brought out a long iron key. He placed it across the officer’s palm with all the dignity of a general surrendering a battalion’s colours.

Mr Manfred heaved a sigh. ‘Right, on your way. You have my letters to the supervisor so you’ll not be turned away.’

‘The Model!’ wheezed Mr Skinner. ‘Who would have thought it’d ever come t’ this that a Skinner would be sent tae the workhouse.’

Mr Manfred leaned forward. ‘I thought you’d be used to it by now, Skinner. Anyway, it’s a model lodgin’ not the workhouse.’

Mr Skinner stiffened, straightened, sniffed and said grandly, ‘Minnie, take our poor homeless weans awa’.’

Hands gripped the shafts of the cart. The child on top, shocked into silence, grabbed desperately at the bundles as the pyramid of belongings listed to starboard. Lodgers levelled the cart and flexed their muscles. Mrs Skinner’s brood gathered, big-eyed, about her skirts. Mrs Skinner glared venomously at Douglas McCoig and spat on the pavement at his feet. ‘Hell mend ye, McCoig. May ye be damned for this day’s work.’

McCoig winced, hung his head and did not look up until the woman led her children off, followed by the laden cart and finally by Mr Skinner raised up in his chair on willing shoulders. With a nod of satisfaction Mr Manfred gave the key to the agent who pocketed it promptly and discreetly.

The police constable had strolled away in the wake of the procession but whether it was to attend their welfare or just to see them safely off his beat Kirsty could not be sure. She had been distracted from watching the family’s departure, her attention caught by the key. A key meant a lock; a lock meant a door; and a door meant an apartment. It dawned on her at that moment that there was a vacant room in this tenement in the Greenfield and that the owner of the property and his letting-agent were standing not ten yards away. Stayed by a certain guilt, she did not immediately obey her inclination to rush forward and accost the landlord on the spot.

The crowd dispersed. Windows slammed shut. The men loitered by the close to watch the Skinners recede. The children clung to Mammy’s hands or to her skirts, dragging and trailing and girning, and the cart swayed and lumbered ponderously with the little toddlers still hanging grimly to the bundles. But the ladderback chair and its occupant had vanished. It was not until Kirsty stepped back that she saw what had become of them. The chair was propped against a wall, vase and chamber-pot beneath it, and above them was the gilded sign of the Vancouver Vaults, Canada Road’s most salubrious public house. Bearers and borne had apparently been unable to resist a last refreshment there and the police constable had apparently felt duty-bound to accompany them to see that they came to no harm.

Kirsty gave a little gasp, laughter and relief. Her guilt evaporated instantly. She dashed into the close of Number 11, where the McCoigs had gone, and followed their voices upstairs to the top landing.

Mr Colin McCoig, cousin not brother, was on the point of inserting the long key into the lock while Douglas watched him gloomily.

Panting, Kirsty said, ‘Sir, can I have a word wi’ you?’

The men looked round and Mr Douglas said, ‘Aye, lass, what is it ye want?’

‘Is it for rent, this house?’

The cousins exchanged a glance and Mr Colin raised an eyebrow before he answered, ‘As a matter o’ fact, it is. But it’ll not be vacant for long, dear, not in this neck o’ the woods.’

‘What size is it?’ said Kirsty.

‘It’s a single-end,’ said Mr Colin.

‘What’s that?’

‘God, are you from China?’

‘A single-end’s a kitchen wi’ a bed recess,’ Mr Douglas explained.

‘Were
all
those folk livin’ in one room?’

‘That,’ said Mr Douglas, ‘is what all yon stramash was about. The Burgh Council won’t allow it. Three adults an’ three children under twelve is their maximum.’

‘Did you not know?’ said Kirsty, ingenuously.

Again the cousins exchanged a glance and Mr Colin cleared his throat. ‘Obviously the room’ll need a bloomin’ good scrub but, otherwise, it’s in perfect order. How many of a family have ye got, dear?’

‘Me an’ my husband, that’s all.’

‘Aw, you’re newly-weds.’

‘Aye.’

‘Both workin’?’

‘Yes.’ Kirsty had learned the value of a little white lie in the right place at the right time. ‘Yes, he’s a carter. I’m employed at the bakery.’

‘Which bakery?’

‘Oswalds’.’

‘That’ll no’ pay much.’

‘My husband earns a good wage. He works hard.’

‘No doubt, no doubt he does,’ said Mr Douglas McCoig, as his cousin pulled him to one side and whispered in his ear.

Mr Colin said at length, ‘The rent’s four shillin’s per week.’

Kirsty said, ‘Can I look at the place?’

‘Not at this very minute,’ said Mr Colin. ‘We have to check in case it needs repairs, see.’

‘Is it furnished?’

‘It has all the furnishin’ that newly-weds need,’ said Mr Colin. ‘Come on now, dear, make up your mind. I can get a shillin’ a night for the place if I farm it.’

Kirsty hesitated; the rent did not seem unreasonable when she weighed it against her takings from Oswalds. The fact that Craig did not yet have work did not unduly bother her and she gave no thought at all to the long-term commitment.

Firmly she said, ‘I’ll take it.’

‘One month’s rent’s required in advance.’

‘Well, I haven’t got it on me.’

‘When can you get it?’

‘By tonight.’

‘Come tonight then at half past seven – with the cash.’

Kirsty was suddenly desperate to obtain occupancy of the single-end, gulled into imagining that it would be impossible to do better. She touched her wedding ring. It was on the tip of her tongue to offer it as a pledge of good faith that she and Craig would be there that evening with sixteen shillings in cash. But she could not bring herself to do it. She looked at Mr Douglas who seemed still to have a drop of charity in him.

‘Promise me you’ll keep it for us.’

‘We’ll keep it lass,’ the landlord answered. ‘Until eight o’clock.’

‘We’ll be here,’ said Kirsty.

She dropped a curtsy to the men, turned and skipped away down the stairs, her heart singing.

She had a job. She had a house. She had a husband. The dark and dragging threat of Hawkhead snapped like a worn thread and fell from her, leaving her light-hearted and light-headed.

Behind her, echoing down the stairwell, came Mr Douglas’s shout: ‘No dogs, no cats, no parakeets, remember.’

And Mr Colin’s parting shot: ‘An’ bring the bloomin’ readies.’

Kirsty did not hear them.

She was already out in Canada Road and running like the wind to find Craig and tell him her wonderful news.

It was almost midnight. For Craig and Kirsty the day had been filled with uncomfortable novelties. Saturday would bring them no rest and no respite and on Sunday they would have to tackle the kitchen in earnest to put it into habitable state.

‘Kirsty,’ Craig said. ‘Is that not enough?’

Pale with exhaustion, he leaned dejectedly against the jawbox, the small stone sink under the window, a claw-hammer in his hand. Since he had returned from the yard at nine o’clock he had been trying to clear the bed recess into which the Skinners had fixed three tiers of bunks. Back at Dalnavert he had always enjoyed working with his hands but there had been space on and about the farm; here there was none and the physical limitations seemed to accentuate the frustrations that had been building in him almost since the hour he had left home. It was all very well for Kirsty. She had been used to squalor. He had been brought up decently and to his way of thinking this place, even if it was ‘their own’, was no better than a slum. He blamed Kirsty for it and cursed his own weakness for not holding out for something better. What had his dad’s hard-earned money bought – a black iron range, a gas jet in a frayed mantle, a cold-water sink, a table, three chairs and a fragment of worn carpet. Kirsty seemed confident that she could create a comfortable home out of it, especially since they both had jobs, but he did not trust her word, was not convinced by her enthusiasm.