by Millie Gray
Carrie obeyed. Once the boots were off, Sheila began fishing in her bag and this time she brought out her cosy slippers. Thankfully the ankle-strap shoes that had so irked Carrie had been left at home. As Sheila started to put on her slippers, she remarked to Carrie, “Your hair’s stinking again.”
“Yeah,” Carrie replied. “I washed it with Derbac soap last night and the rest of me was scrubbed with carbolic.”
Sheila grimaced. “Surely your Mammy knows that Dreen shampoo is best for your hair and Pears soap is the right thing for your face.”
Carrie just smiled proudly.
“My Mum says,” Sheila went on smugly, “I could’ve been Pears Baby of the Year if she’d put me in for it.”
“That right?” was all Carrie responded before changing the subject and asking, “Did you have a nice Christmas?”
“Wonderful. And you?”
“Great it was.” Thinking of Christmas reminded Carrie about the Christmas cards. Neither she nor anyone else in the family had got a single one. “Here, Sheila,” she asked, “did you really get a Christmas card from Miss Stock?”
“It wasn’t a Christmas card. It was a letter,” simpered Sheila.
“A letter?”
“Aye, a letter just to say that the school were very pleased that I hadn’t left and gone off to Gillespie’s Ladies.”
“But you couldn’t go – you didn’t pass their entrance exam,” Carrie reminded her.
“I wasn’t very well the day I sat that exam. My Mammy said so,” Sheila retorted in pique. “But the letter said I had been one of the best pupils they’ve ever had here. A credit to the school, I am. And they would have been so sorry to lose me, but they knew that when I go on to secondary school in April I’ll do very well there too.”
Carrie said nothing. Sam had come into class late again but thankfully this time Miss Stock didn’t make him stand by her desk. “Happy New Year, Miss,” Sam beamed as he sailed past Miss Stock.
“And a happy New Year to you too, Sam,” Miss Stock chuckled, taking note that he was wearing his recently repaired and well-polished shoes.
When school was finished for the day, Carrie approached Miss Stock. “Miss,” she said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but Sheila got a letter on Christmas Eve and I would like to have one the same.”
Miss Stock shook her head.
“But I deserve it more than her, Miss.”
“But you don’t, Carrie,” Miss Stock said as she rose and began cleaning the blackboard.
“But I do,” argued Carrie.
“No you don’t. You have to qualify for one of those letters.” Miss Stock turned to face Carrie, “And you, I’m pleased to say, do not.”
As soon as Carrie arrived home she went straight into the scullery where Rachel was busily making the tea. “Your favourite tea the night, Carrie. Egg and chips,” she announced, breaking an egg into the frying pan where it spat and sizzled.
“Good,” replied Carrie. “But, Mam, I’ve got to talk to you first. Got to tell you what that stinking school has done.”
Rachel half-turned towards Carrie but held on to the handle of the frying pan. “Done to you? Whatever are you on about now?”
Carrie poured out the story of the letter. To her amazement, her mother only shrugged and said, “If that’s the way they feel about it, don’t let it bother you.” Rachel then drew herself up to full height before adding, “You know full well that you come of a better class than Sheila. And that’s all that matters.”
Carrie began to cry. “But, Mam, you don’t understand. I simply have to get one of those letters. I deserve it. And I do qualify.”
Rachel finished frying the eggs, placing one on each plate along with some chips and a dash of tomato sauce. Meanwhile, Carrie’s wails were growing louder and louder.
“Oh, Mam,” Hannah pleaded, “could you not go and get her one of those blinking letters before she drives us all mad?”
“Tell you what,” Rachel conceded. “I’ve got to come to school tomorrow to see why that bitch of an Infant Mistress hasn’t put Alice back into her own class now she’s made up for what she lost while she was in hospital. And once I’ve done that, if I’ve got time, I’ll pop in and see Miss Stock.”
The following afternoon Carrie was writing her essay when a knock came at the classroom door. Raising her head, she was delighted to see, through the glass panel in the door, that her mother was standing in the corridor. She smiled broadly to herself as Miss Stock made her way calmly out of the classroom to speak to Rachel. When the door opened again, Carrie was pleased to hear the teacher and her mother laughing and her mother saying, “Thank you so much, Miss Stock. You’ve been most helpful.”
Once the door closed again the rest of the afternoon dragged for Carrie. She thought the lessons would never end but when they eventually did she sprang over to Miss Stock’s desk and said, “Miss, my mother came up to see you today – so have you got a letter for me?”
Miss Stock shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re not getting one, Carrie. You see, you don’t qualify and I explained to your mother why you don’t and she’s very pleased about that.”
Carrie’s eyes welled with tears as she thought, “My Mammy’s a traitor.”
Ignoring Carrie’s distress, Miss Stock continued, “And when you come into class tomorrow, I don’t want you to mention the letter again. Just forget all about it.”
Miss Stock then stood up from her chair and opened the tall cupboard. On the top shelf stood a large jar of boiled sweets. The jar had first been placed there back in 1940. All classes in Edinburgh schools had one such jar and the regulations stated that, should the school be hit by a bomb, each child was to receive three sweets from the jar. Sam had always asked what good the sweets would do you if your head was no longer attached to your body. But that was the rule – or so the children at Hermitage Park School were told.
Carrie wasn’t thinking about such things as she watched Miss Stock climb on to her high chair and take down the jar of sweets that had lain there unopened for seven years. Miss Stock then opened the lid carefully but, since all the sweets were by now fused together, she had to chisel three of them free.
The regulation three sweets were then proffered to Carrie, who was now sobbing openly. She shook her head and tucked her hands tightly behind her back. “No, Miss, I haven’t been hit by a bomb. So I don’t need the sweets,” she blurted out as tears cascaded down her face. Then she wailed even more loudly, “All I wanted was a letter.”
Miss Stock shook her head wearily and laid the three sweets on her desk top.
Carrie shot into the scullery as soon as she got home. Rachel looked up and smiled, “You’re finished your papers early. The macaroni cheese will be another wee while.”
“Never mind the blooming macaroni,” Carrie cried bitterly. “I didn’t get a letter. And you knew how important it was to me.”
“Aye,” said her mother coolly, taking a loaf out of the bread bin. “And let me tell you, Carrie, I don’t like the tone of your voice.”
“Mam, don’t you realise I just have to get one of those letters. And I do qualify.”
“No you don’t,” Rachel answered as she began to saw the bread as thinly as possible.
“Look, Mam,” Carrie yelled. “It’s like this. If I don’t get one of those letters I’ll commit suicide.”
“And if you do get one of those letters it’s me that’ll commit suicide,” Rachel retorted, waving the bread knife in her daughter’s puzzled face.
Carrie’s tantrum stopped abruptly and she drew her head back from the threatening knife. “Wh-why?” was all she could splutter.
It was then that Sam piped up. “Oh, Carrie, surely ye’re nae sae daft that ye havnae worked it oot that the blinking letter was a last warning to Sheila’s mither.”
“Last warning?” exclaimed Carrie.
“Aye,” chuckled Rachel, “Three weeks is all Sheila’s Mammy has to get her head cleaned up. And if she doesn’t get
rid of all the nits and poggies – then off comes, no’ just the bonny coloured ribbons, but all the bonny black ringlets as well!”
CHAPTER 7
HOLIDAY QUALIFIERS
That harsh winter seemed to go on forever for the Campbell family, but spring eventually did manage to push its way in and, as the ice melted away, so did Rachel’s depression. Her thoughts and those of the children turned to summer. “Jammy days” lay ahead – days when life was bound to become easier.
Chalky White, the next-door neighbour’s boy, was one of the lads with whom Sam shared the delivery of the Leith Provident Store milk. Chalky’s dad had been killed in the war and his Irish mother, as Sam would say, was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer. Hardworking she was, but no matter how she tried she was no miracle-worker with bits and pieces, like Rachel.
Sam was always telling Chalky that Rachel and Jesus had a lot in common – for they could both feed a multitude out of nothing. Chalky was indifferent to that. He didn’t care that his mother was a bad manager and couldn’t cook well. After all, there was always the chippie and, thanks to Sam being his best pal, he would always have at least the price of a bag of chips when he was hungry. However, there was one thing Sam had that Chalky really envied – his guider. Now that the war was over, Jaguar and Ford were churning out cars again, but there was nobody who could make a Rolls-Royce guider like Sam.
Sam’s latest model had been built with nothing but the very best. It had Silver Cross perambulator wheels and a coffin-top rosewood base which was fully upholstered with offcuts of maroon Wilton carpet. The finishing touch though was given by the white nylon guide-ropes that British Ropes’ experimental base in Leith didn’t know were missing. For all the plush finery this was a working guider, the family lifeline. There was nothing too dirty or too heavy that Sam couldn’t carry on it – bags of coal or logs of wood from trees that had been blown down. Bags of tatties when he and Carrie went tattie-howking, and every Saturday morning it was cleaned up and refurbished, ready to serve as the market stall where Sam did his buying and selling.
It was, as he explained, his “Johnny-aw-thing” stall. Goods that folk didn’t know they had lost could be found there. In October you could buy tatties there – the excess that the family didn’t need. His special customers, for a couple of bawbees more, could even buy a recipe card which read: “Ten ither things ye didnae ken ye could dae wi’ a forpet of tatties”.
However the tattie-selling came to an abrupt end when Sam discovered that, if he was on the harbour at Granton when the trawlers pulled in on a Friday afternoon, he could get one of the trawlermen to exchange a pauchle of fish for a bundle of kindling wood. And it didn’t take much persuasion for Sam to get Rachel to make scrumptious fish cakes out of the family’s leftovers. Every Saturday morning, Sam could be heard shouting, “Fish cakes! Secret recipe! Made by the best fish-cake maker in the world! Buy a half dozen for the price of six!”
The fish cakes were such a success that Sam soon had regular clients and the cakes were often sold before they were made. However, the tatties were soon used up, and as Rachel had to find full-time employment again she simply hadn’t the time to help Sam with his money-making schemes.
School had just finished for the Easter holidays and Sam and Chalky were both busy in the stairwell fixing Sam’s guider when Chalky remarked, “Soon be my birthday, Sam.”
“Nae soon. It’s only April and ye were born in May,” Sam answered, without looking up from the guider wheels he was furiously scrubbing.
“I ken that. But see hoo yer sister Carrie is ayeways dreaming o gettin’ things? Well, so do I.”
“If it’s a birthday present ye’re anglin’ for, we dinnae hae birthdays in oor hoose. Naw. Naw. Nae presents. Nae cards. Ye just get a year aulder.”
“Naw, I’m no expectin’ a present from ye. I was just wantin’ to say – I dream o haein’ a guider like yours, yin day.”
“Dinnae dream aboot it! Just get your finger oot and knock yin up,” advised Sam tersely as he finished polishing the spokes of the wheels.
“I’d dae just that, but I’m no handy like ye and yer faimily. I ken ye aw could mak soup oot o auld claes,” said Chalky, waving his ham fists under Sam’s nose.
Sam blew out his lips before replying. “Weel, we’ve made soup oot of maist things but I cannae mind of us ever takin’ aff oor claes and firin’ them in the pot.”
Both boys giggled and then a silence fell between them which gave Sam time to look intently at his friend. Life had been even worse for Chalky, Sam thought. Not only had he no Dad; he hadn’t even a Mam as good as Sam had. Finally he shrugged and said, “Tell ye what. We’ll gang ower the road to Walker’s timber yaird and get some wuid. Then we’ll rake aroond Johanson’s junk yaird, doon in Salamander Street, for some wee pram wheels.”
“Great,” gurgled Chalky. “And yince we’ve got aw them things, will ye help me bang a guider thegether?”
Sam nodded his assent.
It took Sam and Chalky a whole week to find or borrow the materials they needed to bang the guider together. And because Chalky was all thumbs, it took another week for Sam to assemble it. They had barely finished when Chalky said, “Thanks, pal. Wish you were goin’ with me on the Puir Bairns’ Holiday Treat.”
“The Puir Bairns’ Holiday Treat? What the devil’s that?”
“Och, Sam, dinnae tell me ye dinnae ken that the do-gooders doon at the Leith Rotary hae raised money to send really puir bairns, like me, awa to Rothesay for a holiday?”
“Rothesay? Doon the watter in the West?”
“Aye. They’re sending us there seein’ the winter was so bad.”
“Here, I was bluidy cauld an aw last winter and I could dae wi’ a holiday tae. Never had yin, so I hivnae,” Sam retorted. “Only ever got a wee dauner, wi’ a juice bottle filled wi’ water and a couple o jammy pieces, doon tae Portobello beach when the sun was shining,” Sam sniffed pessimistically. “And maist times, by the time I got there the bluidy sun had taen the huff and went back in again.”
“Weel, in that case why d’ye no go doon and ask they blokes that are dishing oot the trips to Rothesay if ye can have yin an aw?”
“Think I just micht dae that.”
“Great. So aw ye hae to dae is gang doon to the Methodist Church Hall on Friday nicht and mak them believe ye’re as puir as me.”
Rachel managed to persuade the hotel manager to give her a job back in the Queen’s Hotel but he would only give her constant late shift. That meant starting at four in the afternoon and sometimes she wouldn’t be home again until two in the morning.
That day, after scouring the house and preparing the children’s tea, she lay curled up on the settee having forty winks, dozing peacefully in that part of sleep where you’re neither sound asleep nor fully awake yet in a comfortable snug haze, with the troubles of life far behind. Suddenly a sharp tapping at the window jolted her into reality. “Where am I? What’s that?” she cried out. The tapping at the window continued so she rose, went over and cautiously lifted the window.
“Have you heard the latest?” whispered Grace Stoddard, her neighbour, as she looked all around to make sure she wasn’t overhead. “Bunty up the stair is awa again.”
Carrie, who’d been warned by Rachel to keep quiet so that her mother could have her nap, had been quietly reading a book but now pricked up her ears. “Bunty’s away again?” she said to herself. Then she thought, “What a load of rubbish. I saw her just an hour ago.”
The next thing Carrie overheard was her mother asking, “When d’you think she’ll be better?”
“Well,” said Grace, looking furtively about again. “I think she’s at least two months gone.”
“Again?” Carrie thought. “Rubbish! If she’s two months gone who was it I saw just an hour ago?” She couldn’t hold back any longer. “Mam,” she cried, “I saw Bunty Green just … ”
Rachel drew her head back inside. “See you, Carrie?” she snapped. “You’re too
fond of talking about things that shouldn’t be talked about. Now, just haud your wheesht.” Rachel’s head disappeared out of the window again. This time the gossip was about Aggie Glass having a throw-back black bairn. One she wished to hell that she could have thrown back – with people saying it was more than a coincidence that she had just finished befriending a homesick black GI.
Finally, Grace went on to speak to Rachel about what she had really come for. “Rachel,” she wheedled, “my Susan has a wee bit put by. Saw a nice skirt in the store windae, she did. But she’s used up aw her clothing coupons. You wouldnae hae ony spare, would ye?”
“Och, I’m really awfae sorry, Grace,” Rachel responded, “but mine are aw used up too.” She hesitated and then went on. “But here. Hold on a minute. I think I ken where I could get you some.”
“But will they no be pricey?”
“No, just one and sixpence each.”
“One and six each?” Grace gasped. “But the last yins ye got for me were only one and three.”
“Aye but as you know, Grace, everything is aye going up,” laughed Rachel – but the smile died on her face when she looked beyond Grace and saw her father, Gabby, staggering along the road.
He was blethering as usual, to anyone daft enough to listen. Right then, Gabby was spouting about how it was a pity Hitler had lost the war before he’d sorted bloody Rachel out.
The next thing to upset Rachel was Gabby doing a sort of double somersault over the hedge and into the garden. Luckily, at that very instant, Sam appeared round the corner on his guider. His first action was to park it carefully, then he peered with interest over the hedge at his grandfather lying prostrate among the daffodils. Sam was strongly tempted to leave him there to rot, but Rachel gestured to bring him indoors. The commotion and Rachel’s slamming down of the window alerted Carrie, who rushed into the garden in time to help Sam with their grandfather.
“Just ye help me get him on tae the guider,” Sam ordered. “Then haud him there while I pull him up the path.”