Читать книгу A Glasgow Trilogy - George Friel - Страница 17

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mrs Phinn’s daily duties as a school-cleaner were in two spells. She went in at six in the morning before the school opened and worked till a quarter to nine, and she went back at four o’clock in the afternoon when the school was dismissed and worked till six in the evening. She did it with a grudge. She hated being a poor widow who had to do a menial job for a few shillings to pay her way, and a hardup way it was. She resented being under the eye of the janitor for clocking in in the morning and clocking out at tea-time, because she despised him as an interloper. He would never have got the job if her husband hadn’t been found dead in the cellar the day after his brother was killed in a car-crash on the Glasgow–Edinburgh road, the notorious A8. And he didn’t strike her as being a janitor in the true tradition. He wasn’t like her husband, serious, clever and experienced. He was a flippant, scruffy, inexpert little man, always calling in a plumber or a joiner for jobs her man would have done himself as a matter of course. And he knew next to nothing about janitor’s stock or janitor’s requisitions. He could never say, as her husband had said in all truth, that although he was only the janitor he was just as important to the school as any headmaster. Her husband knew his job. This fellow didn’t. He didn’t even know his place. He was chatty with the headmaster and familiar with the cleaners.

‘Well, with some of them,’ she complained to Percy, not that he was listening. ‘That Mrs Winters in particular is never out of his room. I don’t see how she can be doing her job right, the time she spends sitting in there drinking tea. They think I don’t know. She’s some widow, that one Made up to kill. Out at six in the morning with her powder on thick and her lipstick on like a chorus girl. I don’t know what he thinks he’s up to. She’s no’ as young as she makes out to be. Her hair’s dyed for one thing. And he’s got a wife of his own anyway. She calls him by his first name. Imagine that! None of the cleaners ever dared call your father by his first name when he was on duty. But this little upstart never wears a hat. Your father used to polish the badge in his hat every night. He looked the part. He knew how to hold himself. He knew how to speak to cleaners. But all these things is dying out now. Everybody’s equal. It’s all wrong.’

She crossed to the main gate at six o’clock the morning after her son had kept his chastity and her body trembled with longing for the sleep the alarm had broken. Yet it was a fine summer morning, the sky above the tall tenements was blue and unclouded, and the pigeons were already talking to each other in the high roof of the sandstone school. She grudged feeling it was good to be alive after all, but she felt it, and her awakening senses granted to her weary body that it was better to be up and doing on such a lovely morning than lying in a lazy bed. She was just coming really awake, approaching the gate, when a man at the corner of Bethel Street and Tulip Place whistled to her. She was affronted. She was wearing old stockings, her bare head showed her greying hair, and anyway six o’clock in the morning, even if it was a lovely morning, was no time for a man to be accosting a woman. Her head reared and her small thin body stiffened, dignity and alarm fighting for control of her. She glanced obliquely at the whistler, just to see what kind of man he was. He came quickly towards her, beckoning her over anxiously. She stood still and waited. She wasn’t going to walk to any man. Let him come to her. The janitor would hear her if she screamed.

‘Mrs Phinn?’ he asked civilly.

She didn’t deny it.

‘I’m the man that drove the car,’ he said. ‘You know, Sammy’s car.’

She looked at him hard. She didn’t believe in ghosts at any time, certainly not at six o’clock on a summer morning.

‘He was killed,’ she said. ‘They both were killed, Sammy and the man that was driving him.’

‘Aye, on the Friday, but I mean on the Thursday. It was me that drove the car on the Thursday, that’s what I mean, on the Thursday night.’

He smiled wisely to her, showing two yellow fangs, but she was more taken by a pink line from his nose to his jawbone, the scar of a razor-slash.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sorry,’ she answered, her head up and back from him as if he was a bad egg she had just cracked.

‘Who are ye kidding, missis?’ he complained, not so civil now. ‘You know damn fine what Sammy was up to the Thursday night afore he was killed.’

‘He was up to no good if I know him,’ she snapped. ‘He always was up to no good.’

‘He was up to a lot of good that night,’ the stranger smiled again. ‘And he saw your man on the Friday morning afore he went to Edinburgh. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ she snubbed him. ‘I can assure you my man wanted as little to do as possible with his brother even if they was twins.’

‘Did Hamish no’ tell you what he did with it all?’ he kept at her.

‘All what?’ she asked impatiently. ‘I’ve got my work to go to, I can’t stand here wasting time talking to you, when I don’t even know who you are anyway.’

‘I’ve told you who I am,’ he said, his hands out with the palms up. ‘I’m one of Sammy’s crowd. It was me drove the car, and I got nothing for it. No, he tells me to wait, just wait. It’ll be all right in a month or two. Then he goes and gets killed and here’s me still waiting. Somebody must know. You must know. Because Sammy saw your man right after it.’

‘I assure you I don’t know,’ she insisted, very dignified with him, talking with a bogus accent to let him know she was a respectable woman who knew nothing of her criminal brother-in-law. ‘I can assure you I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

She looked towards the gate and wondered if she could run that far and get into the school before this strange man assaulted her.

‘Don’t give us that,’ he said roughly, his palm lightly under her elbow, ready to clutch her if she moved. ‘Youmust know. Look, Sammy was coming back from Edinburgh when he had that smash, wasn’t he? And he’d been to see the jelly-man, hadn’t he? Don’t argue. I know. And he gave him fifty quid on account, but that was in fivers from another from another bank. So he’s still waiting too. The bloke with him that was killed, he went inside with Sammy, but he had nothing on him when he was killed. There’s nobody had nothing. So where is it? It’s a hell of a lot of money to be lying about.’

‘If you’re trying to insinuate that my brother-in-law stole some money and gave it to my husband to keep for him, you’re mistaken,’ Mrs Phinn locuted at him. ‘And I can assure you I know nothing about any money. Do I look as if I had anything to do with money? Do you think I’d be out here at this time in the morning going to sweep floors if I had any money?’

‘That’s no’ the point,’ he countered. ‘You couldny use the kind of money I’m talking about. It would only scare folk like you. You wouldny know whit to do wi’ it. All you’ve got to do is tell me what Sammy fixed up wi’ Hamish and I can take it off your hands and give you plenty o’ money you’d be glad to use.’

‘Money, money, money!’ she cried. ‘I’ve told you. If you’re trying to tell me Sammy Phinn passed a lot of money to my man you’re up the wrong close. As a matter of fact many’s the time my Hamish lent his brother money, money he never got back.’

‘Oh aye, they were thick,’ the stranger granted. ‘Your man was good to his twin. Sammy told me that himself.’

‘Aye, they were twins but quite different,’ Mrs Phinn said proudly. ‘My Hamish was a good man. He was never the gambler and the drinker and the thief his brother was. It was Sammy broke old Granny Phinn’s heart. In and out of jail, in and out of jail.’

‘Look, missis,’ said the stranger aggrievedly. ‘Stop kidding me. You know fine it was Sammy did the Finnieston bank that Thursday.’

Mrs Phinn let out a little scream and her rough hand went to her flat chest and then fluttered to her mouth in alarm. ‘Sammy Phinn never did a bank in his life,’ she cried. ‘He wouldn’t dare. Wee sweetie-shops and pubs was his level. A bank! He could no more have did a bank than fly in the air.’

‘He did that one all right,’ the stranger answered. ‘The sweetie shops and the pubs all went to experience, missis. A man’s got to learn. He took a year working on it. Got it organized.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Mrs Phinn.

‘He brought out forty-five thousand pound,’ the stranger bashed on, clutching her elbow now though she was too shocked to move. ‘He had it in two suitcases and there wasn’t more than three quid in his pocket the day he was killed. It’s a lot o’ money, missis. It canny just have walked.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t help you,’ Mrs Phinn panted. She was frightened. ‘I never knew a thing about forty-five thousand pound, I can tell you that. And what’s more I don’t want to know about it. I’d rather have a clear conscience and my night’s sleep than all your money.’

‘You keep your conscience and I’ll rest content wi’ the money,’ the stranger bargained. ‘The point is I haveny got it. I think you’ve got it. Sammy had it all in two suitcases when I drove the car away that night. But we couldny stop and divide it at Anderston Cross at two o’clock in the morning, could we? Sammy said we was just to wait till things got quiet. He got out of the car at the Saltmarket and I know he took a taxi your way. I heard him. He went to see Hamish wi’ the money. The next thing I hears he’s deid and there’s nae money on him. Nothing in the bank, nothing in the post-office, nothing in his digs. Missis, this is serious. Hamish must have said something to you.’

‘No, I’m afraid you’re wrong,’ Mrs Phinn told him sincerely. She was beginning to think the man was mad, and she felt less frightened. He could be humoured. ‘Hamish never mentioned that kind of money to me, and I can assure you—’

‘You’re a bloody assurance society, you are!’ the stranger interrupted her peevishly. She was sure there was a mad look in his eyes the way he glared at her.

‘Yes, I can assure you,’ she sailed on, not at all put out by his rudeness. She was used to the way Percy talked to her. ‘I can assure you my man wasn’t the sort of man to get mixed up in bank robberies. Bank robberies! For goodness sake! Huh-hm!’

She gave one of her special snorts, the violent kind that jarred Percy’s nerves.

They glowered at each other, neither yielding, and Mrs Phinn jerked her elbow free from the stranger’s clutch.

‘Why don’t you just go home and go to your bed?’ she suggested. ‘You’ve been watching the telly too much.’

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ the stranger cried in pain. He seemed on the point of weeping.

‘Now, I don’t like blasphemy,’ said Mrs Phinn. ‘I’m not accustomed to it. If you must swear go and swear somewhere else.’

The stranger stared at her, shaking his head sorrowfully, and she was sure she saw tears glisten in his crafty eyes.

‘Missis, are you mad?’ he whispered. ‘Come on, don’t act it! This is serious. I’m only talking to you for your own good. I was just the driver but I’m entitled to my share. I’ll play fair wi’ you but there’s other folk starting to wonder and if they get on to you they’ll chiv you as soon as look at you. I’m telling you, missis.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got my work to go to,’ said Mrs Phinn calmly. ‘I told you, I’ve got to work for my living. We canny all go about robbing banks and living in the lap of luxury. Forty thousand pound! Did ye ever hear the like!’

‘Forty-five thousand pound,’ the stranger corrected her dourly.

She looked at him pityingly and tutted.

‘To a penny?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘I was talking to your son the other night,’ he said abruptly. ‘A big fella with splay feet.’

‘You can leave my son’s feet out of it,’ Mrs Phinn objected with dignity. ‘He canny help his feet. At least he’s no’ a wee Glasgow bauchle like you.’

‘Aye, all right,’ said the stranger huffily. ‘I’d rather be a Glasgow bauchle than a big drip like him. Oh, la-de-da. Called after Percy the poet says he. He could do wi’ a haircut at that.’

‘He never told me,’ said Mrs Phinn.

‘That’s funny,’ said the stranger. ‘Maybe it’s him that knows and he’s keeping something back from you.’

‘My boy’s a big simple soul,’ said Mrs Phinn proudly. ‘He wouldn’t do anything that’s wrong. He was never brought up to it.’

‘I could see he was kind of dumb,’ the stranger agreed neutrally. ‘He talks a lot but he doesn’t say very much. He’s not all that bright I don’t think. That’s why I never told him what I’m telling you. I wanted to see if he knew anything first. But I don’t think he knew a thing.’

‘He knows as much as I know then,’ said Mrs Phinn.

‘Unless he was acting it?’ the stranger suggested.

‘I can assure you he had nothing to act about,’ said Mrs Phinn.

The stranger brooded into Mrs Phinn’s thin sour face before he spoke again.

‘You see, missis, when Sammy left us at the Saltmarket he told us he’d cellar the money till it was safe to divide it. Aye, he was the boss. He liked acting the big shot. Wouldny trust us. No’ to spend it daft-like right away I mean. No, he’d take care of it. Don’t yous worry, he said. Ye can trust me. I’ll cellar it safe and sound where it’ll never be found. Now what did he mean, cellar it? The only bloke Sammy saw when he left us was your Hamish, and your Hamish has a cellar in the school there, hasn’t he?’

‘My Hamish is dead,’ Mrs Phinn reminded him with a widow’s proud sorrow.

‘Aye, but the cellar’s no’,’ the stranger commented.

‘Yes, the cellar is,’ she retorted. She was a contrary woman. She wasn’t going to have this layabout telling her about the school cellar. It had been the bane of her husband’s last years, it was in such a state, and she wasn’t going to have it talked about by any stranger. ‘That cellar hasn’t been used for twenty years or more. It isn’t a cellar at all now, not since they stopped the steam heating.’

‘But there’s a door there in Tulip Place,’ the stranger waved a hand. ‘That’s the door to the cellar, i’n’t it?’

‘That door?’ said Mrs Phinn, sneering at his mistake.

‘That door’s blind. There’s a brick wall behind it. Has been since the school went all electrical. That’s where they delivered the coal in the old days.’

She didn’t know her contrary mixture of fact and fiction was a repeat of Percy’s story to the stranger, and she didn’t understand why he seemed to sag and surrender. She supposed his early morning fit of madness was leaving him.