In a Class of Their Own

by Millie Gray

  “Er, that pony-skin coat over there?” Rachel said casually.

  “The yin ye tried on last week to gie yer mind a treat?” chuckled Betsy, pushing her grey wispy hair back and wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

  “Aye. You said you would let it go for three pound fifteen.”

  “Did I?”

  “You most certainly did. So let me try it on again.”

  Betsy, with the aid of a long-handled hook, lifted down the coat from the rail. “Belanged to yin o they actresses that come to the Gaiety, it did.”

  “So I believe,” Rachel replied as she tried the coat on. “You said she was the one that worked with Armundo the magician till he was bowled over by young Chrissie that worked down the stair in the pork butchers?”

  “Aye. See, when he saw hoo Chrissie could toss no just yin but a hale string o Bowman’s black puddings ower her shoulder and up on tae a hook, he just couldnae wait to let her juggle his equipment.”

  Rachel buttoned up the coat and flipped up the collar. “Could take it off your hands for three pounds ten,” she offered, running her hands over the sleek pelts.

  Betsy glanced at her boss, who imperceptibly shook his head. “Ken something, Rachel?” she went on. “Ye look a million dollars in that coat, so I think we should pit the price up, no doon.”

  Rachel laughed derisively and began to unbutton the coat. This time her reply was directed towards the boss. “Three pounds ten is all I’ve got and I know this coat’s been hanging on your wall so long that Chrissie has no only done a country-wide tour tossing the Great Armundo’s caber, but she’s been twice in the pudding club as well.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s a business we’re running here – no a flipping charity,” said Mr Cohen.

  “Aye, you tell her, Mr Cohen! And ken this? If she went up the toon she wouldnae get a coat of this quality under four pounds in the second-hand shops there. I mean, even here in Leith, she wouldnae get it for under three pounds twelve and a tanner.”

  “Done!” said Rachel, banging the money down on the table and starting for the door.

  “No want it parcelled up?” Betsy shouted as she got out a large sheet of brown paper and then cut off a couple of pieces of string.

  Rachel turned and fixed her gaze directly at Betsy. “I’ve waited all my bloody life for a coat like this. So if you don’t mind, we’ll no bother parcelling it up in blinking brown paper. We’ll head straight for the front door with it on us!”

  Rachel’s hand hesitated on the gate of the imposing Victorian villa. If the rumour she’d heard last night was true, then it might be better to forget all about this job interview and stick to being dispense barmaid up at the city’s Queen’s Hotel. It was true she was sick and tired of getting home at two or three in the morning, but the Queen’s was, after all, the most prestigious hotel in Edinburgh and the wee scheme she had going with one of the chefs, who liked a dram or two during his shift, meant she got a share of the food he pauchled. She sighed, thinking that was true enough, but there was the fact that Hannah had now been accepted for training – at the Royal Infirmary no less – and the terms of her nursing contract stated she had to live in. That in turn meant that all the care of Paul and Alice at night would fall on Carrie. Rachel came to the conclusion that there was nothing else for it but to ring the bell. After all, the thought of Carrie being in charge of the house till three in the morning was the stuff nightmares were made of.

  The maid showed Rachel into a plush, ornate drawing room that breathed the words nouveaux riches. Standing there was Paddy Doyle, a handsome, rather over-dressed, portly man approaching sixty. In her experience most men of his age were either thinking of retiring or – if they were working-class – physical wrecks.

  “You’re a woman!” he exclaimed before she could introduce herself.

  “So it says on my birth certificate,” replied Rachel, offering her hand.

  Still open-mouthed, Paddy motioned Rachel to the settee and sat himself down opposite her. “I’m sorry, but the job you’ve applied for is not really for a woman,” he began, speaking in a strong Irish brogue.

  “And why ever not?”

  Paddy sighed. “Look, Mrs Campbell, I’m going into a business I’ve never been in before.”

  “Like taking over Myles Dolan’s bar on the Broad Pavement?”

  “You knew that and yet you’ve still turned up for the interview?”

  Rachel nodded, conveniently omitting to tell Paddy that the story was all over Leith – she’d heard it not only from Gabby, who drank there, but also from her upstairs neighbour, Grace, who had the story from her Tommy, who naturally would never be seen in such a den of iniquity. Well, not when sober anyway.

  “As you’ll know, it’s a tough pub that. Aye, the customers there are sailors, thieves, vagabonds, old whores and drunkards.”

  Rachel silently indicated her agreement to this.

  “And what I want to do is bring in a bit of class. You know – some finesse.”

  At that Rachel relaxed and sank back into her settee. She knew that if it was class and finesse he was looking for, then he need look no further than herself. As Betsy had noted, she really did look a million dollars in her pony-skin coat, complemented by her high-heeled shoes, leather handbag and her piece de resistance - the jaunty brown hat that she was wearing at a perky angle. No one could deny she was both elegant and classy.

  “Aye,” drawled Paddy thoughtfully as he scrutinised her. “But if I did give you a chance at the job – and I’m making no promises till I’ve seen the others – I couldn’t possibly pay you six pounds a week.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because you’re a woman!”

  “But if I do the job, and do it really well, I need to get the going rate?”

  “No, no! You see, there’s another barman works there. He’d like the manager’s job, and if I put you in over him that’ll be enough for him to swallow without being paid less than you.”

  Rachel gave the matter careful thought before answering. “Look, I come with experience of serving toffs. I know how to run a high-class bar. Tell you what: you agree to give me the job, here and now, and I’ll agree to come for five ten a week. But as soon as I’ve proved myself, you’ll put my wages up by another pound. All right?”

  Paddy leant over and shook her hand.

  By the April of 1949, Rachel had been working three months for Paddy Doyle. From the first day however, she realised that even if they changed the name from the Standard Bar to The Dorchester it would always be known in Leith as Dolan’s and only its unique clientele would ever cross its threshold.

  Rachel had tried barring the very worst customers (including Gabby) from its doors, but in the end she had to admit defeat. It pained her to advise Paddy that they would just have to settle for the fact that it was a notoriously disreputable gold mine and accept the class of people who patronised it. Indeed by the end of her first week, despite all her efforts, she knew there was no chance whatsoever of raising its status.

  She cherished her Wednesdays off. Those were the days when she could forget about breaking up fights, cleaning up spew, serving Red Biddy to old whores whose minds were now completely befuddled, and checking that Jimmy, the barman, wasn’t fiddling the till or doctoring the stock. Wednesdays were the days for family and house: days for cleaning, washing, cooking and getting things generally sorted out. And that particular Wednesday she would be busy in the afternoon getting both Sam and Carrie sorted out with a job.

  The Headmaster of Montgomery Park secondary school was allowing all the imminent school leavers time off to find employment, and Rachel had arranged for Sam to come home early so that they could spend the afternoon trying to find him a trade.

  By the time Sam arrived home, Rachel had his plate of soup already dished up. “Sam,” she said as he began to tuck in, “we’ve agreed that you want to learn a trade. What exactly would you like to be?”

  Sam stared at the gas light above his h
ead. As usual the mantle was broken, thanks to his prowess with a ball. “Well, if ye’re still no gonnae let me kick a baw?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then hoo aboot me gettin’ tae be an electrician and pitting electric licht in here?”

  By now Carrie had come in and sat down. “Oh, Sam, that would be just great. Imagine it, Mammy, you’d come in and flick down a wee switch and the whole house would be lit up. Even the bathroom.”

  “Carrie, you wanting to hide in the toilet and read your trashy magazines there is no reason for putting in electric light,” snapped Rachel. “Besides, within a year I’ll have saved up the money we need to put it in. So, Sam, it’s your choice.”

  “Dinnae ken, Mam.”

  “In that case, we’ll just get ourselves down to the Labour Exchange and see what they’ve got to offer.”

  When Rachel advanced into the men’s section of the Leith Labour Exchange with Sam behind her, a silence fell upon the room. Even Sam could feel the hostility towards his mother for having invaded this male sanctum. Indeed, one man remarked very loudly, “Nae content with runnin’ Dolan’s, she’s got the bluidy cheek to come in here to see whit ither man’s job she can pinch.”

  Ignoring both the outburst and the queue, Rachel walked straight up to the clerk, who was about to call the next man. “You’d best attend to us first,” she cautioned the open-mouthed man. “That way you’ll get rid of me and then be able to find out if anybody is daft enough to give blabber-mouth over there a job,” she said, pointing towards the man who had had the temerity to try and humiliate her.

  “Look, Mister, all I want is a trade,” Sam intervened, to demonstrate that he could speak for himself.

  The clerk sucked in his lips. “Well, son, we expect you to have reached a certain standard in your education.”

  “He’s better qualified than you,” Rachel interrupted, slapping down Sam’s Lower Leaving Certificate onto the counter.

  The clerk took the certificate and perused it carefully. “Look, son,” he said as he handed Sam back his certificate, “with marks like these, shouldn’t you be staying on at school and thinking about a white-collar job?”

  Sam shook his head. “All I want is a trade.”

  “Well, you just might be able to get one. Only problem is there’s more laddies wanting trades than there are places. And another thing. The shipyards won’t take on any apprentices until after the Trades in July.” The man’s face brightened. “Hang on though: I do have a plumber looking for a bright laddie right now.” The man then began to flick through his card-index box.

  “Don’t bother with that,” snapped Rachel, losing her self-control. “My Sam doesn’t shovel his own shit and there’s just no way he’s going to shovel anybody else’s.” Rachel made for the door. “Right, Sam, let’s go.”

  “Look,” the clerk shouted, “wouldn’t it be better for your boy to take a temporary job till he gets into a trade in July? Though most of the laddies who do that get used to having a bob or two in their pocket and don’t want to give that up.”

  Once outside, Sam turned on Rachel. “Mam!” he exclaimed. “Ye didnae gie me a decent chance to find oot if there wis a job I could get richt noo.”

  “Look here, Sam,” said Rachel. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Go over to Henry Robb’s Shipyard right now and ask them to give you a temporary job in their office till they can take you on as an apprentice in July.”

  “An office job?”

  “Aye, and if you talk proper like your sisters, and stop bloody swearing too, you just might get taken on.”

  “But Mammy, would that no be me trying to get in by the back door?”

  “Oh Sam, surely you know I’d never encourage you to do such a thing?”

  Sam and Rachel eyed each other, and then without another word they set off walking across the wooden bridge towards the docks. Halfway over Sam stopped. “This is as far as ye go, Mam, cos I hae to go to Robb’s on my ain!”

  “No, Sam, I’m going with you.”

  “Naw, Mam, if I’m gonnae work there, I hae to speak up for masel’. Ah’m able to talk for masel’, even though it’s no the wey ye’d like me to speak. So ye’ll just wait here till I get back.”

  Rachel wanted to argue, but Sam’s determined look made her realise he’d go his own way no matter what she said. She sighed to herself and stood looking over the worn rails of the bridge at the gurgling, murky Water of Leith that ran below her. The view had always frightened her – as Sam’s future now did. Memories of her own past came flooding back and she thought of the many times she had walked over that very bridge with her Auntie Anna. Resting her chin in cupped hands, she wondered what life would have been like if she’d had a real mother – a mother who would have cared for her and protected her. Sure enough, she’d had Auntie Anna and maybe that was as much as she had a right to expect. Then, lifting her head boldly, she stared firmly downwards and vowed that her bairns would never be deprived of a mother’s love as she had been. On the contrary, she’d strive to ensure that they’d all reach their full potential, and somehow she just knew that some of them at least would end up in the class that she should have been born into.

  The sound of approaching feet made Rachel turn. She hoped it wasn’t Sam back already, because if so he’d surely have been unsuccessful. A warm smile lit up her face, however, when she saw Bella at her side. Beloved Bella was Auntie Anna’s brother’s youngest bairn, who had also been brought up by Anna. She was just seven years older than Rachel herself and they’d been brought up as sisters.

  “Well, are you not a sight for sore eyes? I haven’t seen you in weeks,” said Rachel delightedly.

  “Honestly, Rachel! Sandy and me – we’re run aff oor feet, these days.”

  “Ah well, it’s grand to know the funeral trade’s no dying.”

  “Richt enough. By April there’s usually less deid customers coming in – but noo that Sandy’s got this wee scheme going …”

  “Wee scheme? What wee scheme’s that, for heaven’s sake?”

  Bella looked warily about her before whispering, “Got himself real freendly like wi’ yin o the Sisters at Leith Hospital that he fancies. So when onybody dees on her ward and their folk are wonderin’ aboot an undertaker she sends them ower the street to Sandy.”

  “Now, that’s a proper dead-end way to build up a business.”

  Bella chuckled heartily before asking. “But here, whit are ye daein’ hingin’ ower the bridge with a face as lang as Leith Walk itsel’?”

  “Just waiting for Sam. He’s away over to Robb’s to see about a job and then an apprenticeship.”

  “Johnny been speaking up for him tae?”

  Rachel shook her head. “Johnny? How could he do that?”

  “Well, wi’ him being sae high up in the Union noo. He spoke up for Ella’s twa and they’re starting in Bertram’s.”

  “Bertram’s Engineering in Leith Walk?”

  “Aye. They’re just sweeping the flairs to start wi’, but if they dae weel they just micht get the chance o a trade. Mind you, with them no being ower bricht, that’ll tak some daeing.”

  “Och, I don’t know. They seem to have the backing of a father my bairns don’t have. But at least my Sam can aye say he got his trade by being top of his class and me bringin’ him up to speak up for himself.”

  Bella bristled, realising she’d said too much. Rachel was fuming now, and Bella knew she had every right to be. Sam, after all, was Johnny’s son, and there was Johnny, doing what he was best at – being the Good Samaritan to all but his own.

  “Em, does Sam no want to gang to sea like yer ain grandfaither?” said Bella brightly, trying to defuse the situation.

  “He hasn’t really said. But I know he’s quite happy to get a trade.”

  “So he’s got ower the fitbaw thing?”

  “Don’t be daft, Bella! Of course he hasn’t – and he never will.”

  “And oor Carrie? Is she gonnae dance straight ower to
Hollywood?” Bella teased, nudging Rachel with her shoulder. “Or is there a chance she’ll stick aroond an’ find a real job when she leaves schuil next week?”

  “Right enough – she’s pretty good at the dancing,” Rachel chuckled, “but not that good yet to tap-dance the whole way over the Atlantic.”

  Rachel stopped, suddenly aware that Bella was staring beyond her. She turned, thinking Bella was seeing Sam coming back, but it was a dirty, drunken old man staggering on and off the pavement that was holding her attention.

  “Some folk never change,” Bella muttered as Gabby tried three times to navigate himself onto the bridge.

  “Aye, you’re right there! And know what I’m thinking? Where on earth did he get the wherewithal to be drunk this early in the day?”

  “You still letting him into Dolan’s?”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “Here, talking of that, has yon skinflint pit up yer wages yet?”

  “Officially - no.”

  “Oh, dinnae tell me ye’ve taken to doctoring the whisky and takin’ the money he owes ye oot o the till?”

  Rachel just turned away and looked down into the murky waters again.

  “Oh, my God. Do ye no ken ye could end up bein’ chairged and daein’ time for that?”

  Rachel’s head shot up “Me doctor the whisky? Dinnae be daft. He goes off back to Ireland every month and while he’s away I just buy a couple bottles of the real Mackay.” Rachel stopped and winked at Bella before adding in a whisper, “Bottles, you know, that fell off the back of a lorry. Then I sell them in the shop for myself. And know something? If you pour it right, you can get nearly thirty nips out of the one bottle.”

  By now, Gabby had got himself on to the bridge and, as he weaved his way towards them, he pulled a bottle from his pocket and took a long slug from it. He was so bleary-eyed and drunk that he was almost level with Rachel and Bella before he noticed them.