Extreme Vinyl Café by Stuart Mclean

eggs. Mother used to put them on the mantel, and we would talk about how we were going to cook them.
    “You had to line up for everything. If you saw a line, you would get in it and ask what you were lining up for afterwards. They would tell you, tomatoes , and you would wait for an hour, or maybe two, and when you got there they would give you two tomatoes.”
    Stephanie was peering out the window; they were going by Buckingham Palace. Dorothy didn’t seem to notice.
    Dorothy was saying, “ We were better off than most. We used to get packages from my aunt Betty in Canada. Tins. Butter or meat. Once they sent eggs sealed in lard. But they had gone bad.”
    “You had an aunt in Canada?” said Stephanie.
    “Cape Breton,” said Dorothy.
    “That’s where my grandmother lives,” said Stephanie, staring across the dark cab.
    “Your grandmother Margaret ,” said Dorothy.
    “How did you know?” said Stephanie.
    “Because Margaret is my cousin,” said Dorothy, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Betty, who sent the food, was Margaret’s mother. Your great-grandmother. My aunt.”
    Stephanie looked dumbstruck. “If your aunt was my great-grandmother—that means we are related.”
    Dorothy snorted.
    “I mean closely,” said Stephanie.
    The taxi had pulled up in front of the hotel. Stephanie stood on the street while Dorothy paid the driver. Her head was spinning.
    She called Dorothy her aunt, but she knew Dorothy wasn’t really her aunt. She had known there was some connection, but she always thought it was distant and dubious. It had never dawned on her that she and Dorothy actually shared a past.
    They went into the hotel but not to their room. As they stood in the lobby, Dorothy said, “I think we should have a whisky, don’t you?”
    The hotel bar was almost as small as their bedroom. Three tables, maybe four.
    Stephanie said, “I can’t believe you know Grandma.”
    “Of course I know Margaret. I got a letter from her last month. What are you thinking? Of course we are that closely related. You are my first cousin.”
    “I am?” said Stephanie.
    “Twice removed,” said Dorothy, waving at the barman for another whisky.
    Dorothy leaned forward. She said, “I think we should drink these until we fall over.”
    Stephanie picked up her drink and started to say something. Her voice cracked. She took a sip and tried again.
    “What did you mean when you said everything was grey?”
    “Oh yes,” said Dorothy. “I was going to tell you how grey everything was. Mother used to wash my clothes in the sink and it used to turn the water black.”
    Stephanie frowned.
    “It was the coal dust, dearie,” said Dorothy. “It was everywhere. Even your underwear made the water black.
    “Didn’t they ever tell you about the fogs?”
    Stephanie shook her head, no. No one had told her about the fogs. Dorothy sighed. She said, “I have to do everything in this family.”
    “It was 1952,” said Dorothy. “The coldest winter we had ever had. I was a little younger than you are today. We had to wear our coats and hats in class. The men in the offices sat all day in their coats too. You never took off your coat. At night my mother and I would sit around the gas fire in our clothes with a wool dressing gown over our clothes, and a scarf, and a hat. One night the water froze in our toilet bowl.
    “What was I talking about?”
    “The fog,” said Stephanie.
    “Oh,” said Dorothy, “yes. It came at night. It was so thick. I remember one night Ellen Macdonald came for supper, and when it was time for her to go, and my mother opened the door and Ellen stepped outside, she was completely swallowed by it. She just took one step, and she disappeared. You have no idea. You have never seen anything like it. I was afraid Ellen wouldn’t be able to find her way home.
    “It lasted four days. Later we learned it was from all the coal fires, and it was very toxic. But we didn’t know then. And people were