The number 16 bus, which Stevie had boarded at the foot of Leith Walk, had just arrived at Elm Row when Stevie said to himself, ‘Nothing else for it then, but to get myself off the bus and . . .’ He sighed as he alighted at Elm Row. He just had to walk three steps down, pass through a hole in the hedge and cross over the road, and then he would be at the door of his son’s shop.
He had never visited the shop before, but he soon spotted it – the balloons and streamers hanging from the door and window caught his eye. To be truthful, he and his son had never really soldiered together in the past, but ever since the laddie had got married, Stevie had tried to build bridges. He knew that today was a big day for Robin and his wife Freda; indeed, every day for a week now, Joey, the font of all wisdom, had told him that if he did not turn up to this event, then he would probably never see his grandchild, who was due late September or early October.
This grandchild had changed the way that Stevie’s mates viewed his son. He knew that, behind his back, they had often sniggered and hinted that Robin was a nancy who would never father any offspring . . . but that was then. Now, Freda being three months pregnant stopped that subject of gossip dead in its tracks.
Stevie had just entered the shop when someone handed him a Pimm’s – a cocktail sort of thing with bits of fruit floating in it. He wasn’t quite sure whether to eat it or drink it! As he gazed down at it, he thought that it certainly didn’t have the same appeal as a pint of McEwan’s Export beer. Nursing the glass, he looked about the hairdressing salon. His heart sank. It was, to his eyes, like something out of a French brothel. Everywhere there were mirrors, lights and people talking loudly and bawdily, smoking cigarettes through long, pretentious holders. Then he espied Robin. Robin was now a fully-trained hairdresser – okay, ladies’ hairdresser – but his own locks had obviously not seen a pair of scissors in a month and had been expertly brushed into a Beatles–style bob. A wicked wee smile came to Stevie’s face, as he remembered how he had remarked to Joey that he wouldn’t be surprised if Robin ended up in a yellow submarine! Joey had replied that Robin was only following – and enhancing – the Liverpool look, which all the trendy young men had adopted. Shaking his head, Stevie thought that the Beatles, a band of four lads from Liverpool who had taken the world by storm, had a lot to answer for. In Robin’s case, it was not just the mod hairstyle (a heavy fringe that drooped over his eyebrows, and side lappers that Dracula would have been at home with) it was also his apparel. Today he was sporting a long, tunic-like coat with stand-up lapels. However, as ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ blared out from the record player, Stevie conceded that, on the plus side, Robin was also wearing a royal-blue bow tie. This, in Stevie’s opinion, was a more acceptable accessory than the swinging medallion Robin had worn last week to compliment the bohemian style of his open-neck shirt.
When Robin disappeared into the back shop, Stevie’s attention was taken over by the young women. He just wasn’t prepared for the amount of bare flesh that they put on display! The ‘in thing’ for fashionable women was to ape the model Twiggy. This meant that they all wanted to look as though they were in need of a good feed, and all dressed in the shortest, brightest and gaudiest skirts they could find. Stevie shook his head, observing that the only thing of decent size that the girls were wearing was their tall ‘go-go’ boots . . .
‘Hello, Dad!’ A voice broke into Stevie’s thoughts and put an end to his ogling.
‘Hello to you too, Freda,’ he managed to stammer, before guiding her over to a hairdryer. Pushing the hood up, he indicated that Freda should sit down on the seat. Looking down at her, he noted that she was wearing a bright crimson shift dress, multi-coloured tights and a pair of flat Mary Janes. He grimaced. He had thought that, by now, she would be covering herself up in a smock – a smock that would indicate to the world at large that she was pregnant.
‘Nice that you could make it today,’ Freda observed. ‘It will mean so much to Robin.’
Just then, a young lassie with a tray of small cakes appeared and asked if they would like one.
Stevie’s mouth gaped as Freda put her hands on to her stomach and started to shake it, spluttering, ‘No, thank you. Just look at the way I am putting on the beef!’ She giggled. ‘Think it’s a heifer I’m having, not a baby. What do you think, Dad?’
Stevie was now staring at Freda’s bump, transfixed. He was awash with delight to see that it had ballooned, even since he saw her last week.
Moira sidled over to him and said, ‘You’re learning. And, as my mum used to say, it is never too late to do that.’
Stevie was about to say that yes, he had, under duress, put in an appearance, but she should know that half an hour of all this flashy swanking was about as much as he could take. However, he was so overcome at the sight of Freda’s bump that he remained dumb. He looked about the salon for some sort of help, but he couldn’t even see a birdcage, never mind a bird, so he was unable to reply to Moira. This being the case, he decided to make a quick exit. As he bounded over to the outside door, two things happened.
Firstly, Moira shouted to him, ‘Stevie, did Joey tell you that I will be home in time for your tea? It will be your favourite . . . a white pudding supper from Elios on Duke Street!’ Stevie was about to turn and signal that he wanted plenty of muck sauce on it, when the second thing happened: he collided with a young couple coming in.
The young lassie, who had fallen over at Stevie’s feet, looked up at him and smiled. ‘Nice to see you here, Mr Dalgleish,’ she said as he helped her up.
Stevie grunted in reply.
‘Freda’s been telling me how over the moon you are about the baby,’ the lassie continued.
Stevie nodded vigorously. ‘Aye, Hannah, and I’m sure you are looking forward to being the wee soul’s godmother.’
Now it was time for Hannah to nod.
‘Look, lassie, I’m heading aff. I dinnae want to seem rude, but this is no’ ma scene. No’ exactly the Dockers Club on Morton Street, is it?’
Hannah put her hand up to her mouth so that Stevie wouldn’t see that she was stifling a giggle. She knew that Stevie was referring to the Leith Dockers Club on Academy Street, formerly known as Morton Street. Stevie, who thought that the Council had no right to change the name of the street, always referred to it as Morton Street. As to whether it was Morton Street or Academy Street, Hannah knew that did not matter to him really. What mattered to Stevie was that it was the home of the Leith Dockers Club, the working man’s hostelry that many of his mates, like himself, were dedicated members of.
Before Stevie could be stopped, he rushed out the door. He was sure that if he got his skates on, he would still be in time to get a decent pint at the Dockers.
Hannah was still chortling, watching Stevie’s fleeing figure, when Freda said, ‘Thank goodness you’ve got here. I was beginning to think that you’d forgotten about our big day!’
‘I would never do that! I know it’s not usual on a Saturday, but I had to work overtime at the City Chambers.’
‘Why?’
‘I just had to dig out some files that are in the archives, about the now-closed Hammond firework factory at the old quarries in Craigmillar. Required urgently, they are, as there are plans to clear the site and any chemicals still stored there will need to be safely disposed of.’
‘Okay, but did you have to get them out today?’
‘Well,’ Hannah began, with a wink to Freda, ‘Tom – Tom Davidson – is up to his eyes in work, and the files are stored in the vaults at Mary King’s Close. He is responsible for those vaults and everything that is in them, and he could only take me down there today.’ She tittered, continuing, ‘So, what else could I do?’
Freda looked beyond Hannah and smiled at Tom Davidson. She was pleased to see that he was a tall, handsome man, probably about six years older than Hannah. Like Hannah, Freda was captivated by his engaging smile and twinkling, deep blue eyes.
Extending her hand to him, Freda smiled, but the smile died on her face as she watched him move the walking stick he was carrying from his right hand over to his left in order to shake her hand. However, his handshake was firm and his hand, like himself, exuded warmth.
After the initial introductions, Freda had Robin engage Tom in conversation whilst she steered Hannah through to the back room. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Freda spluttered, ‘What is the story here? Is Tom disabled?’
Hannah just nodded. ‘Yes, he’s like me.’
‘Missing a part, is he?’
‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘Now, there’s a word you didn’t learn at Norton Park Secondary School!’
‘What’s wrong with you, Freda? Why are you being so horrible? Tom had polio as a child and was left with a limp – yes, a pronounced one. But he has a kind manner and he is an able, intelligent young man who is very good at his job. And he doesn’t have a mother, which I know matters to you very much!’
Freda’s face fired. She wished she could take back the hurtful words she had just hurled at Hannah. Hannah’s welfare was so important to her, and she was always concerned that Hannah would accept a proposal from the first man that asked her.
What Freda did not know was that Hannah was also anxious about her, and had been ever since Freda told her about the baby’s true parentage. She did think that Freda deciding not to abort the baby was the right thing to do, but marrying Robin . . . Surely that was a sacrifice too far?
The girls stared at each other, both unsure what to say. The awkward silence was finally broken by Robin, who knocked on the door and called, ‘Right, you two, time for the raffle! With a bit of luck, Hannah, you might win not only a special hairdo, to be done by moi, but also a manicure!’