Blue Above the Chimneys Read online

  CHRISTINE MARION FRASER

  Blue Above the Chimneys

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  A Born Tomboy

  Backcourt Capers

  Chatterina Tottie Scone

  Treats and Tribulations

  Needles and Bedpans

  Gods and Gorgons

  Blue Horizons

  A Small Hope

  Partings

  Black Maria

  Days to Come

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  BLUE ABOVE THE CHIMNEYS

  Christine Marion Fraser was the author of over twenty bestselling books, both fiction and non-fiction, and was most famous for her Rhanna series. In total, her books have sold well over three and half million copies. She died in 2002.

  To the memory of Mam and Da

  A Born Tomboy

  It was high summer, the evenings were long and warm. Tall chimney stacks, row upon row of them, prodded into misty skies. The backcourts were alive with suntanned, grimy children. There was no place in our horizons to see the setting of the sun so we had no idea of the passage of time.

  The Second World War was two years in the past. In the latter part of its duration I had arrived into the world. It was March. The cold breath of winter still blew on the window panes but our kitchen was warm enough to keep out the chilly winds. The fire crackled in the hearth. All was silent but for Mam’s gasping sobs as I pushed my way out of the warm shell of her womb. So I was born, in a humble kitchen of a tenement in the Govan district of Glasgow, my first lusty cries shattering the silence. Mam’s arms waited to hold me in the loving embrace that had cradled my four brothers and three sisters before me.

  Early recollections are hard to pin down. There is no clear idea of the sequence of things. When you first spoke and walked. The indignity of being enthroned on a hard-rimmed container when hitherto you had been allowed to let go as you pleased into a nice warm nappy. Perhaps a tiny infant is so busy absorbing all that goes on in its immediate world there are no possible spaces left for memories. Like everyone else I slept, ate, soiled myself and remembered none of it. Later I loved listening to Mam telling me what I was like in those early days and I conjured a cosy picture of myself, tiny, helpless, lovable, not at all like the little warrior I became when infancy turned to young childhood. This is when my memories materialize and where my story must really begin, my story of green acres of happiness and black depths of despair mingling and weaving into my life among the dusty grey tenements of Govan.

  ‘Come and buy! Come and buy! Oor wee shop is o-pen!’ chanted my brother, Alec, peeping above two old tea chests on which were arrayed a number of mangled toys.

  Although the clamour of life filled the June night I was aware of my father’s presence even before I looked up and saw his iron-grey head sticking out from our kitchen window one flight up, his eagle eyes raking through the tumbling throng at the boxes in a search for his brood of four.

  Sidling backwards along the dusty walls for a few yards I then scurried for the shelter of the close and tried to attract Alec’s attention. But his senses were no match for mine. He hadn’t spotted Da and was absorbed in fighting off a cheeky urchin who was determined to help himself to the decrepit goods in our shop.

  ‘Alec! Chris!’ Da’s roar soared through space. ‘Upstairs this minute! If ye see Kirsty and Ian send them up as well …’ Aggression flooded my being at the idea of having to abandon the ‘shop’. One snot-nosed boy had been on the point of purchasing a dilapidated pencil case. The sticky penny had been in his hand; now he would have the whole night to reconsider the deal.

  ‘Da’s calling,’ I shouted to Kirsty, who was in deep conversation with her best friend, a girl who hailed from the landing above ours. The higher the landings, the better the standard of living seemed to be. Morag’s house was another world, full of cosy carpets and comfortable furniture. She had a young brother my age, who didn’t think it the least unusual to own a boxful of toy cars. It was an awesome treat to be invited to his landing to play with his toys and peek covertly into his plush carpeted lobby.

  Kirsty came slowly, her four years’ seniority giving her a restrained dignity. She looked disdainfully at Alec hopping on the stairs, but dropped her cool long enough to call lustily, ‘O-pen!’ It was a password that we all used when ascending the stairs, in the hope that the door would magically open before we reached it. But it wasn’t magic which opened it now, it was Da, wrenching it back on its hinges. ‘I hear ye!’ he said testily. ‘I’ve a good mind to lock the lot of ye outside! It’s past ten o’clock!’

  ‘We didn’t know, Da,’ said Kirsty as we piled into the dark lobby and into the kitchen. It was like an oven after the heat of the day, the sashes thrown wide to catch the cool night air. The gas mantles hadn’t yet been lit, and dark blobs of furniture merged into the dimness. It was a room of reasonable size, but the faded pink distemper on the walls made it look smaller. Broad shelves ran the length of one wall. Rows of delft cups hung on hooks. Beside them hung one special cup made of china and painted with red roses. It was Mam’s cup, a small reminder of days when she had known better things.

  A varnished brown dresser stood squarely at the window, its scratched surface almost hidden by a jumble of brushes, combs and knick-knacks. To the right of the dresser was the door to the scullery. Mam was at the cooker, making the supper. She had already laid the table, an oblong monstrosity with bulging legs, scrubbed white, protected from stains by layers of newspaper. The huge kitchen range gleamed dully in the half-light. Each Sunday Kirsty polished it with black lead, giving it a satin-smooth surface that was lovely to touch.

  On either side of the kitchen door the dark caverns of double-bed recesses were brightened by woollen bedspreads crocheted by Mam.

  Muted sounds of life came from the backcourts, filtering in through the jungle of marigolds and Tom Thumbs in Da’s window box.

  ‘Right, everybody,’ called Mam from the scullery, ‘the cocoa’s ready.’ She looked round the door. ‘Where’s Ian?’

  ‘He wasn’t with us,’ said Alec in his quiet nervous voice.

  ‘I’ll skin him when he gets in!’ threatened Da, lowering himself into one of two chairs in the room. It was a rickety little chair, dark with varnish, faded brocade padding the seat, the open-weave raffia of the upright backrest yellow with age. Although it was an ugly chair, it was considerably more comfortable than the other which was hard and straight, with a cushion tied to the seat to soften the unyielding contours. This was Mam’s chair. She never exploited Da’s position as head of the house by sitting in his chair.

  She emerged from the scullery bearing a tray heavy with mugs of steaming cocoa and a plate piled high with doorsteps of bread and jam. She was a small-boned woman with a sensitive face, green eyes and a thick head of naturally waving auburn hair. An Aberdonian, she had the couthy sense of humour common to the warm-hearted folk of the north-east coast, and she was gifted with the ability to make people laugh.

  Normally slim, she now moved with the heavy, awkward gait of pregnancy, her time to give birth imminent. I had seen the change gradually and thought nothing of it, but Kirsty was more knowing and rushed to take the tray.

  ‘That’s the door,’ I piped, breathless from gulping hot, sweet cocoa.

  ‘Go and open it, Kirsty,’ instructed Mam.

  Alec and I looked at each other, hugging ourselves in devilish anticipation of the scene we knew would follow that hurried knock. Ten-year-old Ian came in, tumbled and dishevelled, one sock up, the other lying in crumpled folds at his ankle, large smears of dust all over his jersey.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Da, his voice ominously quiet.

  ‘J
ust playing,’ sniffed Ian, a touch of defiance in his tones.

  ‘Jist playin’, eh?’ came Da’s inevitable roar. He got up and grabbed Ian by the scruff of the neck. ‘Look at ye! I’ve seen a cleaner tramp! Get into that scullery, wash yourself, then get out here and clean all the shoes!’

  ‘But it’s not my turn,’ whimpered Ian, his defiance waning under Da’s tyranny.

  ‘Turn! I’ll turn ye! Another word and I’ll skin yer hide!’

  The rest of us sat with piously prim faces, glad to be escaping the brunt of Da’s black mood. He had been drinking, just enough to turn him into a being to be avoided.

  ‘Don’t hit him, John,’ pleaded Mam wearily.

  ‘Hit him! I’ll knock his bloody heid off!’ was Da’s grim rejoinder. He glowered at everyone, then retired once more to his chair which afforded a grandstand view of all that went on in the tiny scullery. Ian ran cold water into a basin in the sink, stripped to the waist and lathered soap over his goose-pimpled flesh.

  ‘Don’t forget yer neck,’ warned Da, before turning his attention to the rest of us. We had finished supper and were going through the nightly performance of stripping off to be washed. Kirsty scrubbed us, her green eyes intent on searching out the usual patches of hidden dirt. Under Da’s watchful gaze she was more thorough than usual, but when we lined up for his inspection he merely grunted to indicate his approval.

  Ian squatted on the floor, surrounded by dusty shoes, his face red with effort as he spat, rubbed and brushed. He threw an ugly look at Da’s back. It had been Alec’s turn for the shoes and Ian made his displeasure quite plain with his scowls.

  ‘Put some elbow grease into it!’ commanded Da sharply. Ian polished harder. Da sucked at his pipe. Great billows of smoke invaded the stuffy atmosphere and for a time peace reigned. Da shredded tobacco with a stained knife, the pipe clenched between his teeth, removed only when he felt the urge to hurl his spit into the low-burning fire.

  Kirsty was kneeling before Mam, her loosened pigtails hanging in crinkled loops around her face. It was ‘bone-comb night’, a twice-weekly performance which Kirsty dreaded in case she had carried home lice from school. Fumes from the bowl of disinfectant mingled with the smoke from Da’s pipe. The fine-tooth comb relentlessly tugged into Kirsty’s shining russet mop and she squirmed.

  ‘Aha!’ exclaimed Mam, peering with interest at the comb. Kirsty’s eyes were bright with tears which she didn’t dare spill in front of Da. ‘Only one,’ said Mam in slightly disappointed tones. ‘Right, your turn, Chris.’

  The fine teeth of the comb scratched into my scalp. Having none of Kirsty’s reserve, I patiently allowed Mam to delve through my thick tresses, my attention wickedly taken up by the sight of Da relentlessly cropping Ian’s hair. Ian was scowling ferociously while his brown hair cascaded round his shoulders in jagged heaps.

  ‘There ye are!’ Da blew the loose hairs away from Ian’s neck and whipped the towel round Alec’s shoulders. He was nervous during the operation and sniffed continually while his head was pushed roughly this way and that.

  Da stood back to survey his handiwork with pride. ‘There ye are, right doon tae the wid!’ he declared with sadistic fervour. ‘Any beasts lodgin’ there will just die of pneumonia!’

  He sniggered delightedly at his own joke, but the boys threw black looks at their self-appointed hairdresser.

  It was time to troop through to bed. Da’s meagre wage from the Govan shipyards didn’t allow for the luxury of fancy pyjamas, so we wore a motley collection of worn knickers and old vests, kept specially for nightwear. Alec and I were too young to care very much but Kirsty had grown dissatisfied with such an indignity and Ian was positively disgusted at having to wear girls’ knickers now that he had reached the manly age of ten.

  ‘Goodnight, Mam,’ we chorused, love lighting our faces.

  She patted our heads and said, ‘Goodnight, my wee lamb,’ to each of us as we filed past her.

  ‘Goodnight, Da,’ we said with less enthusiasm.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll be through later so mind … none o’ yer shenanigans.’

  ‘Shenanigans, shenanigans,’ I chanted softly, loving the sound of the huge word Da used when referring to nonsense.

  He looked at me sharply. ‘What are ye whisperin’ about, Chris?’ he asked, suspicion edging his tones.

  ‘Nothing, Da,’ I answered innocently. ‘I was just singing to myself.’

  We piled into the lobby, an L-shaped cavern, our spirits rising now that we were out of Da’s sight.

  ‘You’ll do the shoes twice now,’ Ian growled at Alec, his bravado surfacing once more.

  ‘No, I won’t, I’ll tell Da on you,’ said Alec, his words falling over each other quickly. He was two years older than I but small and slight for his age. We went everywhere together. He followed me in everything and I was always quick to defend him with my ready hands and quick tongue. Rising to his defence at Ian’s words, I said righteously, ‘You shouldn’t have come in so late. Da was quite right to make you do the shoes.’

  ‘Aw, shut up!’ he growled and climbed into the big double bed with brass ends and brass knobs that could be unscrewed. We each had a knob, inside which were stored small personal treasures. Woe betide anyone who violated the privacy of the others! We got into the bed after Ian, Kirsty and I at the top, Alec beside Ian at the bottom.

  The spacious room still retained the light of the long June evening. We were all a little scared in the room, especially in the thick, black nights of winter. Kirsty and Ian scoffed when Alec and I voiced our fears, but I sensed in them the same apprehensions. It wasn’t really so much the room that instilled fear in us, it was the pictures that adorned the walls. Paintings of ancestors in heavy gilt frames that caught the dust, portraits of people belonging to a bygone era. Big-busted women stared seriously from eyes hauntingly sad. Abundant quantities of hair were swept into unnatural bouffancy above high, smooth foreheads; swanlike necks were adorned with cameos on velvet bands. Men sported twirled moustaches, chains dangled from pocket watches to rest on tweed waistcoats, peculiar eyes stared at you with unyielding accusation.

  One picture had a particularly eerie quality. It was a portrait of a young man, dark, handsome, his thumbs hooked cockily into the lapels of his waistcoat, his piercing eyes looking straight into the room, seeking you out no matter how much you tried to evade them. He hung opposite our bed, directly in line with my vision. The darker the room, the more intense his gaze. When he could be seen no more in the gloom, the fear of him became worse; you knew the eyes were there, watching you in the dark. Sometimes I could hardly contain my rising terror and sought refuge under the blankets, feeling it was far better to suffocate than have my wits scared out of me. Da would not allow the pictures to be taken down. He told Mam we weren’t to be turned into cissies. ‘Never give in to yer fears’ was his favourite motto. One made up by himself, of course!

  We lay in the hot, sticky bed, kicking fiercely at straying feet and humping bottoms. My ears were straining, listening tensely. Sometimes when Da had too much to drink he and Mam argued. If he was really drunk he occasionally hit her. We were always on the alert, ready to rush through and protect Mam with all the strength of our childish passions. But all was quiet tonight and my breathing became easier. I was inclined to hold the air in my lungs so that the sound of it escaping wouldn’t detract from my listening senses, but after a while the sound of my heart in my ears made me let go of my breath in a drawn-out whoosh.

  ‘Goodnight, Mam!’ I shouted and the others took up the cry.

  ‘Goodnight, lambs!’ the reassuring voice filtered softly through the wall.

  ‘We’ll see you in the morning,’ cried Kirsty gently.

  One of us said this every night. Everything would always be all right as long as she was there in the morning.

  Several minutes later I shouted again, ‘Goodnight, Mam.’

  ‘Shut up,’ grunted Ian, and Kirsty added, ‘Da will skelp your l
ugs if you don’t be quiet.’

  ‘Goodnight, Chris,’ the muted tones filtered comfortingly through the wall, giving me the courage to kick Ian who immediately kicked Kirsty, the only one he thought would dare do such a thing to him.

  Alec began sniffing, which meant he was getting ready to cry. ‘You hurt my ankle,’ he accused no one in particular.

  ‘Cry baby,’ sneered Ian. ‘I’ll kick your wullie off in a minute!’

  It was the ultimate threat. Ian had very long toenails. Alec abruptly ceased to sniff.

  Some time later Da came creeping through on his nightly round. Closing my eyes quickly, I hid behind the little barrier of blanket I had made in order to escape the prying eyes of the picture. Da made no sound. He had a habit of slipping into the room, waiting a few moments then clicking the door shut in an effort to trick us into thinking he had departed. From time to time he varied the procedure, but we had all grown wise to his cunning. He didn’t have to use his little ruses with me. I knew the feel of his strong, dominant presence.

  ‘Get to sleep the lot o’ ye,’ he muttered, just in case the peaceful snoring from the bed was only a front and we would start our ‘shenanigans’ the second his back was turned. I emitted a very realistic snore. He sniffed and the door closed softly behind him.

  My eyes were growing heavy when I heard the key turn in the outside door, admitting the last member of the family into the house. It was Mary, our seventeen-year-old half-sister, the only child from Mam’s first marriage still living at home. We all loved her. She was our protector from childhood fears, a romantic figure in our young lives. Forcing my eyes to stay open, I waited for her to come through. She came on tip-toe, going straight to the single bed recess in the wall.

  ‘Goodnight, Mary,’ I whispered.

  ‘You not asleep yet?’ she asked in her cheery voice.

  ‘Nearly, I was waiting for you. Where were you?’