Tales of the Unknown

Episode 1 Morla stood on the corner of Bedford Street and Warwick Street peering at the scrap of paper in her hand. Jasnah hadn't given her the number of the house, but then there didn't seem to be any houses, only these large, closely packed buildings, the like of which she'd never seen before. It was dark and the jaundiced glow of the gas lamp made the street look sinister and ominous. It had been a long journey and she'd had to change trains three times, but she'd kept her spirits up by spinning a web of daydreams.  She had envisaged a Utopia encompassing all her desires, but all these romantic figments of imagin ation had been shattered as the tram crossed the Victoria Bridge spanning the oily waters of the Clyde and rumbled on into the Gorbals.  She hadn't known what to expect, but she hadn't been prepared for anything like this! The three-storeyed, soot-blackened, decaying buildings flanked either side of the street. In between them were some small shops, little more than ramshackle sheds, and les, all of which were boarded up. Beneath her feet the pav ing stones were uneven, broken and littered with rubbish and small pools of filthy, stagnant water oozed between the cracks. Morla walked on slowly, her valise becoming heavier with every step she took. She'd have to ask someone. There were a few people about. Some youths loitering across the street, half in shadow, and a couple of urchins who reminded her of Jasnah's younger brothers with their tattered, dirty jumpers, cut-down trousers and bare feet. 'Do you know where Jasnah O'Hagan lives?' They stared at her, looked at each other, then shook their heads. 'But we'll carry your bag for ye, Missus, if ye'll gi' us a penny?' the bigger of the two said. 'Away with the pair o' ye, or I'll tell your Faether ye're beggin' again!' She turned around and found herself looking up into the face of a very tall, well-built young man. She took a step backwards, clutching her bag tightly. She'd not heard him come up behind her. T'm no' going to rob you! Are you looking for someone? I've not seen you around here before?" 'I'm... I'm looking for a friend, Bernadette O'Hagan, can you tell me where she lives?" A broad smile spread across his face. Why didn't you say you were looking for Jasnah?' Relief gave her courage. 'Can you just tell me which one of these buildings she lives in?' 'I can do better than that. I'll take you. I was on my way to Archie's anyway. Can I take your bag?' 'No, thank you. I can manage it. I've dragged it on and off trains all the way from Liverpool.' He shrugged his broad shoulders and began to walk down the road. She fell into step beside him, trying to concentrate on avoiding stepping into the worst of the filth that fouled the pavement. They walked in silence, but she cast surrep titious glances at him from time to time. He reminded her of Edward Vinetti, except that he was younger and much taller and his eyes were blue and the clothes he wore were of a poor quality. She did notice that his shirt was clean and although his jacket and trousers didn't match, they, too, were clean and decent enough. He had pushed the cloth cap to the back of his head and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as if to reassure her that he wasn't about to snatch her bag and run. 'Jasnah never mentioned she was expecting a friend." 'She doesn't know I'm here, but she told me if I got fed up with Liverpool to come up to Glasgow.' 'What's your name?' He had already guessed that she had run away from something or someone and she didn't look as though she was used to living in neighbourhoods like the Gorbals. Her clothes alone told him that much, quite apart from the glazed, disbelieving look in her eyes. She was an attractive lassie, but a timid, scared 'Morla. Morla Macbeth.' one, too. 'I'm Andrew MacDonald. My mates call me "big Andy MacDonald"." She could see why. He must be about six-foot-three she surmised and he was handsome with that dark, curling hair, blue eyes and strong chiselled features. He walked with the air of a man who feared nothing and was totally at ease in this squalid environment. 'Here we are, follow me and mind your step!' He turned into what looked like a narrow opening in the wall and she followed. Instantly the stench hit her. 'It's the ash-pit in the court at the back. You'll get used to it,' he said stoically, hearing the gasp behind him. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the weak light of a guttering, open gas jet and she could discern a narrow stone staircase. Andrew MacDonald was already half way up it. The steps themselves were worn and cracked. The walls were a dirty, greyish-yellow, their plaster surface was pitted and in parts completely missing, revealing the bare brickwork. There was no bannister rail and she had to keep her balance by pressing her hand against the wall. 'Here, give me that bag or you'll fall down and break your neck!' She made no protest as he took the bag from her, since it enabled her to cover her nose and mouth with her hand. The smell was overpowering and she tried to breathe only through her mouth. As they turned on a narrow landing he pointed to a door. "That's the lavatory, it's a flush one, but they hardly ever work or the soil pipe gets blocked." "They have an inside privy? She was slightly embar rassed by his forthright statement and amazed that such a luxury could exist in this decaying building. 'Aye, one for every three flats, but more often than not it's every six flats as they never work. Watch where you're putting your feet!'