"All That She Wanted"

All that she wanted was a back door. She’d be able to take the washing out without having to traipse through the flat. And there was always plenty of washing. Every day. In the kitchen sink. Powder in, and hope there was hot water. If not, kettle on first. As long as there were matches. And money in the meter.

Three bairns and a man who laboured – a dirty job. A man did she say? Well, he’d have to do. Other men had decent jobs and could afford bigger hooses. A hoose with a back door. To cut out all the awkward journeys to the drying green.

If she had a better man with a better job, and a bigger hoose with a back door, she’d be able to afford a washing machine. A twin tub, maybe. Then the wet washing wouldn’t be so heavy. But with the back door it wouldn’t matter so much.

‘Mum. I’m back. When’s tea?’ One of the bairns back from school – the impatient one.

‘Mum. What’s for tea?’ The fussy one.

‘It’s me, mum. I’m starving.’ The hungry one.

I’m fine, thanks bairns. I’ve not stopped all day, my hands are sore with all this washing, my back’s killing me.

She hadn’t peeled the tatties yet. Then she’d have to take the peelings out to the bin. If only she had a back door.

‘Tak your shoes aff,’ she shouted back. They never did. If she had a back door, she’d make them come in that way. Into the kitchen with its hard, cold lino. Easy to clean. Well, easier than trying to get dirt out of the hall runner.

And they might notice her, how run-down she was, because she was always in the kitchen when she wasn’t at work. She’d been at one of her jobs earlier. Cleaning offices. Nice respectable lassies worked there. Not the kind that got themselves into trouble at nineteen and had to get married to the good-for-little wee man who got her into this state. Her first time too. Her first man as well. Her only man.

And the men who worked in the offices. Now they were real gentlemen – clean shirts every day. Beautifully pressed and starched too. But then their wives would have washing machines, electric irons and back doors. And they probably didn’t have to work two part-time jobs to feed the bairns and pay the bills.

The girls in the office called her by her first name. They were friendly but they never asked her to their nights out. She was a bit older. And she was rougher. She knew it. Cleaners were a different class to the office lassies. The men in suits called her Mrs B. Never her full name. Very respectful. Her man didn’t use her name at all, and to the bairns she was just mum. Occasionally ‘mother’ when one was being sarcastic.

She’d feed the bairns first. Get them out the way before he got home. He’d be stinking of old oil and dirt, he’d be crabbit and he’d not want the bairns near him making a noise. He’d come in and take off his overalls in the hall or in the bedroom. If she had a back door he could come in and change in the kitchen instead of dirtying the rest of the place. But then again, if she had a back door it would be because she had a better man with a better job and a bigger hoose, and he wouldn’t need to take his overalls off at the back door.

Aye, she thought, I don’t want much. Mind you, if I had a fridge, I wouldn’t have to go shopping every day. If I had a fridge, milk and sausages would last four or five days. I could shop once or twice a week. The kitchen’s small though. There’s not space for a back door and a fridge. But if I had a better man with a better job and a bigger hoose with a bigger kitchen and a twin tub, even though it had a back door there would still be room for a fridge.

You’re never satisfied, you, are ye? she rebuked herself. You start off wanting a back door, and then you add on a twin tub, a new man, better-behaved bairns and a fridge.

What’s next? Do you want a fucking time machine to go back to when you were nineteen and stop it all from happening?

Ye’ve made yer bed. Noo lie in it.

She lay in it. The bairns grew up and went, leaving her drained. Less washing now, but a back door would still be nice.

Forty-one years – pregnant, kids, work, washing and her good-for-little wee man.

Days passed and then she was leaving work for the last time. The lassies bought her flowers. In a basket. The office gents gave her a voucher for fifty pounds! She might get a new coat. A good one, not something cheap out of BHS. Maybe Marks and Spencer. Something that’ll last her. Keep out the cold.

And she got her pension. Her reward for running the house, raising three bairns and cleaning offices. Sixty years old and on the pension. Then the best gift of them all.

A bus pass.

She’d be able to travel on any bus free. Anywhere in Scotland, providing she could get a bus there from Kirkcaldy. Just think of it. A day trip to Leven. Maybe one day she might even go as far as Dundee. And she could go to Edinburgh. Walk up the Royal Mile. Right up to the castle. She wouldn’t go in though. It would be too dear. She could walk along Princes Street and buy a sandwich and a coffee somewhere. Carry out – it would be cheaper.

He wouldn’t go with her. They seldom did anything together. He didn’t like Edinburgh; she didn’t like the bookies. He didn’t like walking along the shops, dreaming of what he could buy. He wasn’t even interested in the castle or the museums or Holyrood Palace. He loved the Queen and the royal family when Rangers were playing. The rest of the time, they were just a bunch of hangers-on. Except the Queen. She was like his ain mither. Aye, so he thought.

Then he died.

Just like the first time – over in seconds.

The supermarket was one of the few things they did together. In Asda’s car park, in the cold; he couldn’t even get dying right. Heart stopped; he fell. He couldn’t do it somewhere dignified. Then the council said, your flat’s too big for you. We’ve got a nice wee pensioner’s bungalow for you. Half a mile away. The area is a wee bit better.

So she moved to a one-bedroom house. The door, small path and garden at the front. The bin over there. The drying green at the back. Four clothes poles, and the last tenant had left her rope. A square drying green, and two long diagonals making a cross. She hung out her washing and then put the kettle on after going through the back door.

Her own back door.

But all that she wanted was her good-for-little wee man back. They’d never had much but they got away to Blackpool a couple of times. Monday to Friday, not the full week. That was too dear, and they didn’t need to go overboard, did they?

So, she had her own back door after all that time. And the family had made her get the phone put in. A back door and a phone. Forty-one years of progress.

For eight years, she used her bus pass. A day trip up the coast maybe. And once a week to Edinburgh. The Big City. It was so exciting during the festival. Busy and all those strange acts. She’d pick up a few bits and pieces when she was out. But when she got back, there was no one to show them to. Nobody moaning about how much she’d spent, complaining she was late back and when was he getting his tea.

If she could bring him back, she would.

More days passed, and a visit to the doctor led to a visit to the hospital and a visit to the cancer wards. They took out as much as they could, and then radiotherapy. Frightening, never sure if the all-clear would come. All she wanted was her health and her good-for-little wee man back.

A year or two on, and she seemed fine. But she was not so good on her feet now; she felt clumsy. But she was still able to get out on the bus. Not so far, but Burntisland was nice. A Co-op meal deal on the bench at the beach. And the years kept passing. Then another day came and brought meningitis with it, and it took her hearing and her balance.

She adapted. What else was there to do? The walking frame was lightweight, she had the subtitles on the telly and her family wrote things down when they visited. It all helped. They couldn’t phone any more. She missed her son phoning at teatime - the same news every time, but it was nice. All that she wanted was her hearing back so she could talk to people, better health, and her good-for-little wee man.

Time kept passing. The weeks passed quickly but the days were long. Every day her world got a bit smaller, and so did she. And then another Christmas. Boxes of biscuits and toiletry gift packs. It was nice to see the whole family – great-grand bairns too. But she felt like a stranger in her own hoose. Them all talking and her hearing nothing. They had no idea how exhausting that was.

Then the holidays were over, another year begun. Her carers came in every second day. They talked through scribbled notes. She enjoyed seeing them even though the ‘conversation’ was short. But it was something. Be grateful for small mercies. All that she wanted was for the family to understand, to be able to do things for herself, to get her hearing back, to have better health, and to be with her good-for-little wee man again.

The Chase was on at five. She enjoyed that. It was easy enough to follow. The questions came up on the screen and sometimes the players would win big money. She felt pleased for them, but she had no need for that sort of money. She’d nothing to spend it on.

Here comes her daughter. She pops in for a few minutes on her way home. She’s a good lassie and she’s got her own grand bairns now. She sees her coming up the path. Just as well – it saves getting an awful fright when the door suddenly opens.

She responded to written questions. ‘Aye, I’m fine. Oh, not much. Jessica was my carer today; the one I liked has left. Actually, it’s been a good day. I felt fine, happy.’

‘Now get out the way, I can’t see the subtitles on the telly. Aye, it’s The Chase.’

A minute passes. And then it came on fast.

‘I’m not right. I think you’d better call an ambulance,’ she says.

Two hours later and the ambulance hasn’t come. ‘They’ll be busy,’ she said before slipping into unconsciousness. Another two hours and the ambulance arrives.

The paramedics are having a bit of difficulty getting her out of the house.

‘We’ll use the back door. There’s only one step there.’

She never did like a fuss. Whatever’s easiest.

She’d needed that back door all along.

But it was too late.

Goodbye, Rosaleen.

1965 words

Written by Edward Blades