by Millie Gray
“Well, I was first for the scones, naturally,” Carrie boasted, demonstrating how each scone sprang back immediately she prodded it. “But that bitchy teacher deducted five marks for the mess I’d made, so I only came second all round.”
“Aye, and I bet when you finished there was more flour on the floor than there is in the whole of the Chancelot Mills,” teased Hannah.
Carrie ignored the barb, and all Rachel could do was to fill the teapot with boiling water. “Aye, Carrie, that’s you first in History, first in Cooking, first in Keep-fit, first in French. But where oh where are you in Geography and Algebra?”
Carrie laid her plate of scones on the table, picked one up, cut it open and walloped a huge dollop of butter on it. Immediately Rachel seized the knife and scraped off half the butter.
Quite undeterred, Carrie responded, “I was talking to Lottie Glass on my way back from school and she told me her sister Ina has been working three years now and she’s never once used her Geography but she’s sending whisky all over the world.”
Hannah and Rachel looked at each other and shook their heads. “But, Carrie,” her mother argued, “Ina only sticks on the printed labels. Somebody else does the typing.”
“Maybe so. But she gets real good money just for sticking on the labels the right way up.” Without waiting for an answer she bit into her scone. “Here, try one. They’re just yummy. Even with hardly any butter on them.”
“Look here, Carrie, don’t tell me you’re thinking of working in a whisky bond?”
Carrie looked up. Her eyes widened in mock disbelief and she let the scone fall from her hand. “Mam, how could you even think that? You know how hard I’ve been working on my tap-dancing.”
Rachel’s eyes similarly widened. “Tap-dancing?” she exclaimed, through a mouthful of scone.
“Okay, I mightn’t be just as good as Ginger Rogers right now but when I get to Hollywood …”
Now it was Hannah’s turn to splutter through her scone. “Hollywood?”
“Well, if I don’t make Hollywood right away I’ll just be a …”
Then a loud knock on the outside door halted Carrie in her tracks. Rachel frowned and Hannah went to see who it was. A big man framed the doorway. Hannah jumped back and her hand flew to her mouth. Surely the rent wasn’t in arrears again? But Mammy did do silly things when she was ill. No, it couldn’t be that. Mammy hadn’t been to hospital for ages.
“You’ll be Sam’s sister?” the man said.
Hannah nodded.
“Is your mother in?”
“Mam, there’s a man here to see you,” Hannah called, without asking the man in.
Rachel came through from the scullery, carefully removing her pinny and wrapping it up. “Aye?” was all she said.
“I was wondering if I could hae a wee word wi’ ye aboot Sam?”
“Well, whatever he’s done we’ll pay for it. Send in the bill,” said Rachel, beginning to close the door.
The man stuck his foot in the doorway. “Look, it’s nothing like that. It’s guid news.”
Rachel opened the door again and signalled for the man to come inside. Once the door was closed she ostentatiously shut all the windows before saying, “I don’t like all the nosy neighbours knowing my business. Now, you’re sure my Sam hasn’t put a ball through your window or found something you didn’t know you’d lost?”
The man smiled. “Naw. Naw. Sam’s a guid laddie. Great fitba’ player,” he said, seating himself on the chair Rachel set out for him. “Him and Chalky White are richt guid players.”
“They should be,” Rachel chuckled. “They spend every night – light or dark, rain or shine – kicking that ball of theirs to hell and back.”
“Well, it’s paid aff,” the man crowed. “They play for my tea – Restalrig Juniors.” The man pulled himself up and stuck out his chest. “And it looks as if we’ll be takin’ the Juvenile Cup this year. Will you be coming to see the gemme, Missus?”
“Mam works all day on Saturdays,” Hannah interjected before Rachel could answer. “But Carrie, Paul, Alice and I are all coming.”
“That’s a real pity, Missus,” said the man, shaking his head. “You see there’s a scout from Gorgie Hearts coming to see Sam. Got a real interest in him, he has.”
Hannah and Carrie looked at each other and gasped before raising their clenched fists in delight. Rachel reacted by jumping from her chair and howling, “What?”
The man cocked his head knowingly. “Aye, that’s what I’ve managed to dae for yer laddie. Got a Hearts scout comin’ to see him. And, believe me, for I ken these things, they’ll snap him up and mak a professional oot of him.”
“Here,” Rachel demanded, bending her head down so that Hannah could examine it. “Does my head button up the back?”
“What d’ye mean?” said the man, slightly disconcerted by this.
Rachel crossed the room and gave him a sharp poke in the chest. “I’ll tell you exactly what I mean,” she spat. “I know how these scouts get hundreds o laddies to sign up with promises that they’ll come to be football stars. And get into the big money. But you know it doesn’t work out like that.” Rachel turned and confided to Carrie and Hannah, “Maybe one laddie in a hundred will make it. Now we all know Sam’s a pretty good athlete, but he’s not brilliant – so he’ll no be signing for anybody. He’s going to get a trade.”
“But I’m telling you he will mak it,” interrupted the man
“Aye, till you throw him on the scrap heap at nineteen or twenty and he’s got no trade to turn to.”
Carrie and Hannah looked from the man to their mother. They simply didn’t know which of them to believe. Sam could kick a ball better and further than anyone else they knew. His dream was their dream – that one day he’d don the maroon jersey.
It was the man who was first to break the silence. “I’ve spoken to Sam and he’s said that…”
“You speaking to Sam will make not the slightest difference. I make the decisions here,” Rachel declared firmly, opening the outside door.
“In that case,” the man replied, “could ye gie me Sam’s faither’s address.”
Rachel closed the door with a bang. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Aw I want is Sam’s faither’s address.”
Rachel was now shaking. “And what the hell has his father to do with my Sam?”
“Just this, Mrs Campbell. As Sam’s legal guardian, he may well see what a golden opportunity this is for the laddie.”
“Are you trying to tell me that a man we haven’t seen for all of three, no, four years, can override anything I say?” Rachel gasped, sinking down on her chair again.
The man nodded.
“I’m sure he can’t, Mam,” Hannah blurted out, wringing her hands.
“Oh, but I looked into aw that business afore I came here, and he can, Mrs Campell, I assure ye.”
Rachel was still sitting. She slowly shook her head from side to side, then clenched her fists and beat them on her knees while gazing intently at the wall. Three whole minutes passed – three minutes of agonising silence – before she rose and opened the door once more. “I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch your name when you came in,” she said, in a tone she had learned long ago from Eugenie.
“Henderson. Jack Henderson.”
“Well, Mr Henderson, I don’t believe I have anything further to say to you!”
The man strode to the door but then turned round to face Rachel. “Let’s be fair, Mrs Campbell. I accept that you dinnae want to speak to me aboot Sam’s football career. All I want is his faither’s address so I can ask him.”
“There’s nobody here stopping you asking him anything,” Rachel chuckled. She knew, and she knew that Jack Henderson knew fine that she knew, that he’d already asked Sam about Johnny’s whereabouts and that Sam had stayed mum. “And when you do trace him,” Rachel continued sweetly, “could you ask him if he would kindly send on some of Sam’s keep because he hasn’t come up w
ith one solitary brass bean since the day he walked out of here.”
Just then the entry door opened and in dashed Paul and Alice – Paul with Tiny in his arms. “Mammy, Mammy,” he pleaded. “Sam’s wee dug’s no very weel. We found her round the back. She’s shivering and cannae walk nor nothing.”
“One minute, son, this freebooter here is just leaving.” And with that Rachel dismissed Jack Henderson with a curt nod and closed the door firmly on him.
Hannah immediately jumped forward and took Tiny from Paul. “Oh, Mam, she’s burning hot and her pads are brick hard,” she cried, gently feeling the dog’s nose and paws.
“It’s not that blooming distemper thing, is it?” queried Carrie anxiously.
Hannah nodded and gulped.
Rachel came over also to press Tiny’s pads, then frantically looked about the room before shouting, “Quick, Alice, go and get me that tin of Vaseline from the bathroom.”
“What good d’you think that will do?” asked Hannah.
“I’ll warm it and massage it into her paws.”
Hannah shook her head. “Mam, it’s distemper – hard pad.”
Rachel turned angrily on her. “Oh, you’re so smart now, aren’t you? You’ve no only been studying your Highers at night school but doing a veterinary course as well, I suppose.”
Hannah pouted, but before she could retaliate they heard Sam parking his guider in the stairwell. All stayed silent, looking from one to the other and thinking the same thing – had Sam met Jack Henderson out on the street?
To their relief Sam entered grinning. Rachel suddenly thought she had never seen him look so tall and handsome. His blue eyes danced, his tanned skin glowed and his ginger–blonde hair seemed to be curlier then ever. Rachel’s thoughts went back to the week before, when she’d felt annoyed at Rosie telling Sam how much he now reminded her of Gabby at that age – tall, strong and athletic. Rachel had often wondered what her mother had seen in her father. Now she could see it exactly, and she could understand why her mother had run off with her father – forfeiting luxury to live in poverty and squalor.
“Mammy,” exclaimed Sam, “you’re no gonnae believe this, but Jack Henderson, the guy that runs Restalrig Juniors, thinks the Hearts are really interested in me.” He stood back and gave a lofty kick at an imaginary ball.
“I know,” said Rachel. “He’s been here.”
“Did he tell ye hoo I’m the guy with the golden feet that’s gonnae go to Tynecastle?”
“He did. And I told him to think again – because you’re bloody well not.”
Sam stopped showing off his footballing prowess. “You what?” he exploded. “But it’s what me and my pals are aw dreamin’ o and I’m the only yin that’s made it.”
“Look here, Sam,” his mother said, poking vigorously at the fire. “It’s all for the best. I’m only trying to make sure you don’t get hurt. It’s to protect you.”
“You think ye want to protect me?” Sam howled, making Rachel wince. “Oh, naw ye dinnae! Ye only want Hannah to succeed. Ye dinnae want me to be a success cos ye dinnae like men.” Sam now screamed directly into his mother’s face. “I ken that. An’ that’s nae aw. Ye didnae really like my Daddy and that’s why ye flung him oot.”
Rachel shook her head in despair. “Sam Campbell, how can you say that? I didn’t put him out. He left of his own accord.”
Sam’s only response was to laugh derisively – which had Rachel realising that she might well lose control of the situation. She retaliated by brandishing the poker at Sam.
“And never once since the day he left has he ever tried to put his foot back in that door. It was me – all alone – that went out to work – and work bloody hard I did – to clothe you and feed you.”
Sam guffawed sardonically. “Ye feed me? That’ll be the day. It’s me that’s broke my back to feed the hale crowd of ye.”
Rachel knew that what Sam said was absolutely true. Sam was a true Leith keelie – a boy who lived by his wits, a laddie she could always depend on to make a bob or two and keep them all fed. Sam’s eyes were roving round the room until his gaze settled on Hannah. “Here, whit are ye daein’ wi’ my wee dug?”
“Sam,” Carrie intervened. “Tiny’s ill. Awfae ill.”
Hannah shook her head. “She’s more than ill now. Look.”
Sam took Tiny into his arms and sat down on the settee with her – silently stroking her silky coat in an effort to ease her rasping breath. She responded by putting out her small pink tongue and licking his fingers. Then her little tail gave one last wag, a final salute to her master and friend. Then they all understood that the tiny dog had loved Sam just as much as he loved her. They loved one another for what they were. Each had a need that the other fulfilled. The whole family stood and stared in a hushed silence at Sam and Tiny, aware that Tiny had somehow held on for Sam to reach home before she exhaled her last breath. Carrie went over and sat down next to Sam. “We’ll bury her in the garden, Sam,” she said. “In my special flower plot. Tiny loved the garden and if you really try hard you’ll always be able to see her running there – playing, jumping, barking.”
Sam didn’t speak. His whole body shook with sobs as he constantly stroked Tiny’s lifeless form. Carrie lifted her hand to pat Sam’s bent head, while Alice came over and sat down on her knee and Paul hung himself around her neck. Time ticked away very slowly until eventually Sam muttered, “I loved her. I really loved her, Carrie. Oh aye, from the tip of her tiny nose to the end of her tiny tail. Really I did.”
Carrie’s tears splashed on to Sam’s hand as she cuddled him.
Rachel looked long and hard at the four children on the settee before silently turning towards the scullery. Hannah shivered uneasily. There were times, like tonight, when she felt that she was the outsider. She was Mummy’s girl. The other four were a band apart and all she could do was follow Rachel into the scullery. “Don’t cry, Mam,” she pleaded as she went over to Rachel, who sat twisting her hands in her lap. “Sam didn’t mean it.”
“Maybe not – but he’s right,” her mother remarked, lifting a towel to dry her eyes. “Oh, Hannah, however did this all happen? Why did it all go so wrong?”
“What d’you mean, Mam?”
“Just that all of you are so completely different from other folk’s bairns. There’s you for a start, aiming to be a missionary in Africa. There’s Carrie wanting to tap-dance her way to Hollywood. There’s Sam wanting to make his living kicking a ball around Tynecastle.”
Rachel hesitated. “And I’m just terrified of finding out what Paul and Alice will want to do. Sure as hell it won’t be packing biscuits in Crawfords or bottling whisky at VAT 69 – that’s for sure.”
“But, Mam,” said Hannah so softly that it shook Rachel, “we’re only doing what you told us we must do. To think for ourselves. To aim for the skies.”
Rachel closed her eyes. Hannah was telling her what she already knew – that she’d brought her children up to think for themselves and have ambition. Now they were doing precisely that, she felt threatened. And they could be heading out of control – or at the very least out of her control.
CHAPTER 11
GETTING STARTED
The pawnshop that Rachel mostly patronised was situated in the Kirkgate. You would slink in by the entrance door with a carefully secreted brown paper parcel containing anything – blankets, curtains, candlesticks, clocks, coats, your man’s dress suit – in fact, whatever wasn’t perishable; and if the pawnbroker thought there was any value in your worldly goods you could sneak out a couple of minutes later by the back door into Coatfield Lane with a bob or two to see you through till Friday.
As Rachel made her way that day in January of 1949 along Charlotte Street and into the Kirkgate, she thought how ironic life was. Here she was on her way to “Uncle’s” and she wasn’t wanting to pawn anything. That day she desperately needed to buy and was feverishly hoping she’d bump into someone she knew so that she could tell them loudly she was on her
way to the pawnshop, not to get money, but to bargain for some other poor sod’s unredeemed pledge.
She squirmed a little as she admitted to herself that her impending action would appear to most people foolhardy at least. Folk like her sister-in-law, Saint Ella, would think the purchase she was about to make with this month’s rent was an obvious sign that she was back to her manic depression. But she was perfectly well and this buy would be an investment – an investment that would mean she’d never again have to scrape around for the four pounds to pay the rent on the twenty-eighth of every month. Indeed she could hardly restrain herself from shouting aloud that her trick had worked and a letter had arrived by first post this morning inviting her to attend for an interview
As luck would have it, she’d been scanning the Evening News last Friday in a quiet moment at work when she had seen the notice:
Manager required for a respectable pub in the Leith area of the city.
Excellent wages of at least six pounds per week.
Successful applicant must be honest, hardworking, and presentable.
Apply in writing to Box 1643.
Now Rachel knew quite well that they were looking for a man. No woman ever managed a pub. She might run one that her family owned, but not manage one for someone else. Yet the thought of a wage of six pounds a week was just too tempting for Rachel, so she chanced her luck and applied in writing to the given box number.
Planning her strategy came to a halt when she reached the entrance to the pawnshop. She looked around and tutted to herself. Why wasn’t there at least one person she knew hanging about? If she’d been pawning something, there would have been at least two or three of Saint Ella’s clypes hanging about. She sighed, thinking if she only had the time she would have hung around till one of them came by but, being in a hurry, she ran up the entry steps two at a time. Once at the top of the stairs she went straight into the shop and made her way over to the selling counter.
Waiting for attention, Rachel noted that the two members of staff- the male owner and his woman assistant – were closeted in the secluded booths serving those who came in to pawn their treasured possessions. She peremptorily rang the bell on the counter however, and the owner looked up and signalled to his assistant, Betsy, that she should leave her customer and attend to a potential buyer.