Thinkin back, ah've actually nae idea where the Four Marys came fae, naebody could mind, they jist sort o appeared yin noisy an drink-addled night, an then they kept appearin till it wis like they'd never no been there. Ah liked it cos obviously it pit me in the seat at the tap o the table so tae speak, but it rankled that it kind o cut me oot an aw... ah wis like the Queen Wi Nae Name if ye like, cos if they were the Four Marys then they were obviously *ma* Four Marys, but ah wis nivver a Mary masel, ah wis aye Sophia... jist Sophia, an the joke every time the topic came up, which wis generally roond the table in some hostelry, wis whit aw their second names wid be if they were actually Marys... but when it came tae me ah wis aye still Sophia, jist Sophia...
Anyway, *ma* Four Marys they were, an tho they had various names ower the period, th'day ah'll cry them Mary Hopkins, Mary Whitehouse, Mary Peters, an the Blessed Mary... bear wi me, it'll aw make sense in time, noo dinnae pick me up wrang, they werenae 'wee Marys', jist cos they were cried Mary... naw, some days they were a bunch o Minnies, as in Minnie the Minxes... they could drive ye up the wa wi their shenanigans, their noise, an their mess. It wis like bidin wi four weans oan Sunny Delight some days... an this day wis yin o thon days...
It started off jist like normal... cauld... awfy cauld, like, Baltic cauld... cauld enough ye could ping yer nipples tae. First thing ah did when ah got up wis sneak through, switch the central heatin oan, an pit the thermostat back up tae 15 degrees, fae the 10 degrees it wis aye gettin pit doon tae. Ah did this every mornin, an every mornin it wis back doon at 10... this wis Mary Whitehouse's lark, she had a notion that we should aw suffer like we were Aiberdonian paupers, which wis fine if ye had been brought up an Aiberdonian pauper, but the funny thing is even she wisnae, she wis fae weel-aff fowk that bided at the auld Queen's Cross in Aiberdeen an could afford tae hae the heatin runnin aw day if she wanted tae, but she wis a richt ascetic sort, aw bare bones stickin through the holes at the elbaes o her hair-shirt, an she thought we should aw suffer along wi her...
It wis a Sunday, so this wis late mornin, the Blessed Mary wis oot at Kirk awready, Marys Whitehouse an Peters were slowly rousin fae their kips, an Mary Hopkins wis roond at her fancyman's... ah boiled a couple o eggs an pit some toast oan... the scullery wis a midden, as it aye wis, an it smelled rankly o cabbage, but ah managed tae find a clean plate an a cup, ah wid make a start efter ma breakfast...
Ah heard noise at the front door, somebody went oot, then 5 meenits later the door opened again an in comes Mary Peters wi her airms fu o Sunday papers, mainly the big heavy yins, but she had ma Sunday Post an Sunday Mail an aw. Nae doot she an Mary Whitehouse wid be straight intae the Culture pages fae the Observer, an ah could hear them awready, chuckin aboot their opinions oan fowk ah'd nivver heard o or cared aboot, decryin some bigwig's positions oan this philosophy or that art 'movement', an expectin a response... an if ye gave her yin Mary wid pounce doon yer throat, scoffin at yer ignorance an how could ye no ken so-an-so an her great works or suchlike... she wis a veritable walkin needle wis Mary, but she wis awfy sweet wi it... she got ma goat far too easy, tae ma eternal chagrin, an ah had tae make an effort no tae rise tae her honeyed provocations...
So Mary comes in, Mary Whitehouse gets up and comes through, an within ten meenits the parlour's covered in great sheets o paper, spread oot aw ower the shop, ye wid think we were pittin doon sheets tae paint the ceilin! Acres o newsprint cover the flair, the table, every chair, Mary Peters is wanderin aboot wi a wee tasse o coffee squawkin aboot some author or some artist... ah wisnae listenin really, ah wis workin ma way through the Sunday Post, ah jist took a moothfae o tea an nodded noo an again an let her crack oan...
So ah've reached Wednesday in Francis Gay's week, an Pete's giein me a sair heid like he dis every Sunday, an in comes Mary Hopkins wi some bacon an a dozen fresh rolls... she's aw blissed oot efter a night o passion an wants tae treat us. Needless tae say Mary Whitehouse an Mary Peters turn their noses right up, they were gaun through vegetarian phases at the time, an Mary Whitehouse wis even tryin fer vegan status, hence the smell o cabbage, so she couldnae eat bacon, or eggs, ah think, ah dunno... couldnae care less... bacon rolls wid be jist the ticket fer me. Mary asks where the Holy Mother is, an Mary Peters says she got up at eight tae go tae the kirk. "Is she no at that kirk an awfy lot lately?" asks Mary Hopkins. "Is she thinkin o joinin the nuns or somethin? That's three times this week, an five if ye count her prayer meetins along at Number 18... twelve if ye count her daily devotions in the front room! Ah think she's developin a habit, either that or she's got a guilty conscience ower somethin..."
"That wid be some habit tho, they'd hae tae stitch twa th'gither!" says Mary Peters an we aw laughed, she wis some height wis the Blessed yin right enough. She wis the only yin in the hoose that could change a lightbulb jist standin oan a chair, the rest o us had tae get the stepladders oot. That wis the problem wi these big Marchmont flats ye see, awfy high ceilins... nae wonder they nivver heated up, aw that wasted space up abune yer heid, ah bet it's lovely an warm up there ah used tae think as ah huddled oan the settee in ma continental quilt. Mind you, if we'd been allowed tae set the heatin at a decent temperature...
"Well Sophia, looks like it's jist you an me then" says Mary an goes tae spark up the fryin pan. "Ah'll keep some fer the Holy Virgin, she'll be needin sustenance efter aw her penitence, her puir knees'll be aw scarted fae gaun doon oan her cossack!" Ah could see Mary Peters open her mooth aw ready tae pit Mary right, then clockin Mary's face an realisin Mary Hopkins wisnae as daft as she looked. "Ha!" wis aw she said...
So Mary turns an goes intae the scullery wi a wee triumph oan her face, an there's quiet fer mibbe 20 seconds, follaed by crashin an bangin, pots an plates bein clattered aboot, an "Fer the love o...!" ... "Jeez! Whit's that?" ... "Mary! Whit the hell is that?!" an Mary appears wi a pot in her hand, an it's half-fu o some material ah can only describe as grey shite, thick an claggy, solid in the pot, as Mary proved when she up-ends the pot an nothin comes oot, it jist sticks there...
Mary Whitehouse drags her face up fae the paper in that annoyinly distracted way o hers... "Oh yeah... I thought I would try out a bean goulash recipe, but the only beans the store had were an inferior sort... it didn't turn out... eh..." an looks back doon again like she's just lost interest in her ain answer... Mary Hopkins stands there, pot in hand, looks at Mary, looks at me, looks at Mary, looks back at me. Ah take a sip o tea an say nothin, ah'm no gettin involved...
"My God, your midnight cookery jist gets worse an worse, an yer ability tae tidy up behind yersel is truly shockin, are ye no ashamed o yersel?" Mary disnae even look up, she jist reaches ower an takes a Custard Cream fae the packet an leads it tae her mooth...
Mary's still stood there wi a pot o grey shite. "Weel if ye think ah'm cleanin that..." an slams the pot doon, *upside-doon* oan the table, oan the Sunday Times Magazine. Ah could feel Mary Peters an Mary Whitehouse jist itchin tae grab the pot an rescue the Magazine, but neither o them moved an inch, Mary Hopkins stood stock still an if ah'd had a sharper knife ah could've cut that atmosphere an pit a slice oan ma toast...
Anither typical day chez Sophia an the Four Marys. There had been tension fae the outset ah must admit, right back fae when the five o us had agreed tae share a flat. Mary Hopkins an masel got oan fine fae the day we met, Mary Whitehouse an Mary Peters were as tight as a hoor's purse, sittin up tae aw hours discussin Wittgenstein an shite like that... Mary Peters an the Blessed yin had the religious thing gaun oan, Mary Whitehouse aye wanted tae let her hair doon an be a cool kid wi Mary Hopkins, an Mary tae her credit pit up wi her at times, but she could curse her somethin rotten when her back wis turned, we aw felt a bit sorry fer the Blessed Mary, oan account o her bein no quite aw there, an then there wis the situation atween me an Mary Peters ower thon big Alasdair Blair that neither o us got in the end. Ah cannae deny it, that still rankled. Ah looked ower at her an allowed masel a quiet seeth...
Tae be fair, we were aw under a lot o stress, medical school wisnae easy, we hadnae long got ower last term's big Neuro-anatomy exam an we were awready comin up against some mair, Physiology an Microbiology were the name o the game this term an we were aw gettin a bit frantic ower oor hormone cycles an oor gram positive bacteria. It wis nivver at any time a bed o roses but as things got mair pressured an oor hormones got mair cycled we were definitely findin mair excuses tae hate each other, an mair reasons tae scrap... pots o *bean goulash* were jist handy ammunition in oor Marchmont guerrilla war, nae quarters taken, even oan a Sunday...
The door flies open an in lopes Oor Mary Immaculate, Mother o God... wi her airms fu o rhubarb... ah kid ye not, fu, o rhubarb... ah don't know, 50 stalks? a hunner? ... an poors them doon oantae the settee, aw ower the News of the World... we aw jist looked at her, an her big glaikit grin...
"Rhubarb!" she says, huge grin... "Mr Dalrymple's plot was awfy generous this year so it wis, he says it wis that dung he got fae Hughie Binnie... that awfy smelly stuff mind, Barbara at the end wis complainin aboot, an then wi Mr Scobie bein deid Mrs Scobie's no makin her rhubarb an ginger jam this year, Miss Tuplin fae the shop wis sayin she's been landed wi a huge dod o ginger root naebody wants, an she's no happy, an then Wee Ivy Aitcheson says she went roond the back greens gaitherin whit she could find... so... she's awfy nice Ivy is, it's a shame... we had tae rake through a lot o sticks an pick the actual rhubarb oot... she means weel..."
"Ah had tae take some so ah did, we had an awfy glut, ye know, there was rhubarb everywhere, it wisnae funny, everybody brought some... so... c'mon, it'll be guid fer us! Iii-ii-it's Roughage!" an she actually did jazz hands... tae roughage...
"Well make sure ye clean up behind yersel then, ah'm fed up gaun in tae that cludgie tae find mair streak marks than Powderhall oan a Friday night!" Mary Hopkins wis still standin ower the upended pot o... whit wis it again? Oh aye, 'bean goulash'... well, whit had *been* goulash, but wis still stickin tae its pot, refusin tae let go an drap oan tae the Magazine. Mary's mention o streak marks an the sight o the grey claggy streaks roond the rim o the pot were in danger o pittin me aff ma bacon roll. Ah took a sip o tea an let it trickle ower, lookin oot the windae fer fresh air, but aw ah could smell wis damn foostie cabbage...
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