by Agnes Owens
On her way home she stopped at the grocery which sold everything from a packet of pins to a jar of boiled mussels. The freezer near the door was filled with all sorts of frozen packets and half the counter was taken up with rolls, pies and doughnuts, all in separate cardboard boxes. Scarcely four people could stand inside the shop comfortably.
‘My, it’s a right cauld day,’ said Mrs Braithwaite, the owner, from behind the counter. She was a small, stout, elderly woman who always wore a hairnet over her blue perm.
‘I’m fair roastin’,’ said Ivy, and went on to ask for two pies and a tin of beans.
‘It’ll be a’ that hard work ye dae in the hotel,’ said Mrs Braithwaite. She put two pies in a poke, then without turning round, lifted a tin of beans from the shelf behind her. The shop was so cramped that she scarcely needed to move an inch to put her hand on any item, except those in the freezer to which folk helped themselves. ‘I’ve heard the manager’s no’ very easy tae work for,’ she added.
‘He’s no’ bad,’ said Ivy, reluctant to say anything that could get to Sproul’s ears.
‘They tell me the wages are no’ very good,’ said Mrs Braithwaite, when Ivy handed over a pound note for the purchases.
‘They’re a lot better than what ye get off the social,’ said Ivy promptly.
‘That’s true,’ said Mrs Braithwaite, opening the till, ‘though I’ve heard there’s plenty on the social and workin’ forbye.’ She looked directly at Ivy. ‘I don’t think that’s fair, dae you?’
‘I don’t suppose it is,’ said Ivy, wondering if the storekeeper knew that Dennett had worked two days on the farm. She asked for ten king-size Regal before Mrs Braithwaite could pursue the subject any further and headed for the door.
Outside the wind blew cold but invigorating in her face. Old autumn leaves stirred at the side of the pavement and in the distance she saw the peaks of the mountains covered in snow. She walked up the neat path of her council house noting the snowdrops under her window and reflecting that the village would be a nice enough place to stay in if it wasn’t for some of the folk.
When she came into the living room Dennett was sitting in the armchair facing the television with the gas fire turned up full.
‘So, you’ve managed to get up then,’ she said, turning the fire low. He stretched his legs and kept his sharp profile fixed ahead. She noticed with distaste that his hair was uncombed. It lay on his shoulders, light brown and straggly. ‘You might have washed yersel’ at least,’ she muttered, as she went through to the kitchenette to put on the kettle. A minute later she was startled to see him towering above her, looking anxious.
‘Did ye get my fags?’ he asked.
‘They’re in my bag,’ she said, exasperated. ‘Do ye no’ think it’s terrible I should have to buy you fags and you’ll no’ even make an attempt to earn money to buy them yersel’?’
‘I wisnae feelin’ well this mornin’,’ he said, ripping the Cellophane from the packet. ‘I’ll go tae work the morra.’
‘Well, ye’d better,’ she said, a bit mollified by this statement. ‘But mind,’ she added, ‘don’t go near the store on your way to the farm. If auld Braithwaite thinks you’re workin’ she could report ye. She’s that type.’
‘Aye,’ he said, then, ‘Are ye makin’ chips?’
‘No,’ she shouted, thinking that Dennett never seemed to give a damn about anything that really mattered.
‘Did ye hear that Shankland’s comin’?’ Babs said to Ivy when she came into the hotel kitchen next morning.
‘When?’ said Ivy, trying not to look excited.
‘Either Friday or Saturday,’ said Babs. She added morosely, ‘I hate when he comes.’
‘He’s OK – a lot better than Sproul,’ said Ivy. ‘If Shankland has anythin’ to say he tells ye fair and square, no’ like Sproul wi’ his snidy remarks for no good reason. Shankland doesnae bother me.’
‘It’s a’ right for you,’ said Babs. ‘You’re mair familiar wi’ him than me.’
‘Whit dae ye mean “familiar”?’ said Ivy, her voice sharp.
‘I only mean that you’ve known him longer than any of us, that’s a’,’ said Babs, her eyes wide and innocent. She poured out the tea while Ivy buttered her roll heavily. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘business is that bad I wouldnae be surprised if he’s up tae close the hotel. It’s happenin’ a’ ower the place. I heard the hotel outside Blairmaddie’s tae close and it only opened three years ago.’
Ivy made no comment on this, inwardly seething at the use of the word ‘familiar’. It looked as though Babs was jealous of her long acquaintanceship with Shankland. She’d have to be careful of what she said to her in future. When she was washing her cup at the sink Babs said, ‘Are ye still no’ goin’ tae the dance?’
‘Definitely no’,’ snapped Ivy, marching off to dust and hoover the lounge, although she didn’t think it would need much cleaning since it hadn’t been opened since Monday.
Thursday was cold, but bright. The hotel was surprisingly busy with families tempted out for the day by the early spring sun, and some of the wealthy retired locals from the big houses. The lounge was opened and there were six men standing in the public bar, including Geordie Forsyth who came in every day anyway. Ivy was asked to serve in the bar while Betty did the lounge. All this and the fact that Dennett had got out of his bed and gone to his job at the farm put Ivy in a good mood. Jim hummed tunes under his breath as he pulled the pints and Sproul walked between the lounge and the bar with his face less haunted-looking than usual. Only Babs in the kitchen was grumbling when Ivy dashed in for a quick cup of tea; she hadn’t time for a roll.
‘If it’s goin’ tae be as busy as this,’ she said, ‘I’ll need extra help.’
‘I thought you said the hotel might be closin’ down,’ Ivy laughed.
‘If it’s no’ one way it’s another,’ Babs shouted as Ivy dashed off. ‘Don’t forget one swallow doesnae make a summer.’
Ivy didn’t go home for lunch as she had a lot of cleaning to do. She took a snack in the kitchen then carried on with the washing, the hoovering and dusting, the polishing. It was hard going, she thought, but worth it with the place so busy. From now on maybe business would pick up and everyone would be in a better mood. She got home at half-past five after stopping at the store to buy milk, bread and cheese. Her face fell. Dennett sat in the chair facing the television with the gas fire turned up full.
‘I thought ye didnae stop until six,’ she said, blinking nervously.
‘I’ve been sacked,’ he said.
‘Sacked?’ she said, throwing her message bag on the couch and sinking down beside it.
‘Aye, sacked,’ he said defiantly. ‘It wis because I never came in yesterday. I’ve been in here since nine in the mornin’.’
‘I knew this would happen,’ she said bitterly.
Dennett’s voice was equally bitter. ‘I’m glad I wis sacked. You don’t know whit it’s like tae muck out dung all day, and then havin’ tae eat your piece wi’ yer haunds all smelly, and no’ even a drap o’ tea to wash it down. Anyway it wisnae a real job, I’d only have got paid in washers.’
‘Did you get yer two days’ money then?’
‘Naw, he said I wis tae come back on Saturday.’
‘And I bet like hell you bloody well won’t,’ said Ivy, her temper rising. ‘And here’s me workin’ my pan in to keep you in meals and fags and put a good face on everythin’ and tryin’ to keep decent and there you are tellin’ me you’re above muckin’ out byres . . . Well, I don’t particularly like bein’ a cleaner and gettin’ paid in washers either, but I have to do it to keep a roof above our heids.’
Dennett sneered, ‘That’s up tae you.’
Enraged, Ivy jumped up from the couch and slapped him on the cheek. Dennett confronted her with eyes blazing. For a second she thought he was going to slap her back, but he only stared at her madly for a moment before he rushed out of the room. She heard his bedroom door slam hard, th
en silence. She sat down on the couch again, drained, vowing to herself that she would tell Dennett to get out. He was old enough to take care of himself, after all; why should she put up with his laziness and cheek? He could get himself a room or a bed-and-breakfast somewhere in Blairmaddie, and come to think of it, Blairmaddie would suit him better, being full of licensed grocers and pubs.
Knowing him, he’d likely just drift around spending his social money on booze or even dope: she’d heard there were junkies galore there. At least, she thought angrily, if he’s out of the way he can’t give me a showing-up in the village. She sat for a while thinking of what could happen to Dennett in Blairmaddie or some other bigger place beyond. But she could never do it, of course. He was too feckless. It was quite beyond her to put him out at seventeen. Besides, he wouldn’t go easily, and after all he might get a job with the community programme next September when he was eighteen. Sighing, she stood up and went through to the kitchenette to make some tea and toasted cheese. It was all she felt fit to cook. Ten minutes later she shouted from the living room, ‘Dennett, come and get your supper.’ When he came through he peered at the plate on the worktop, saying in a perplexed manner, ‘Toasted cheese? How did ye no’ make chips for a change?’
On Friday it snowed and again there was hardly anybody in the bar except Geordie Forsyth, who was at one of the tables in the small room, deep in discussion with two of the brickies he employed. He hardly glanced at Ivy when she came in to clean, which annoyed her in a way, especially when she had taken extra pains with her hair, brushing it hard so that it fell smoothly round her face, as well as putting on a touch of eye-shadow and lipstick. Although all this was for Shankland’s benefit, she’d expected a compliment or two from Geordie. Betty came in right on time for once, and Ivy didn’t doubt that it was because she too expected Shankland at any minute. Jim stood behind Betty, polishing the glasses intently.
The morning passed and Shankland did not show up, nor was there any sign of Sproul in the hotel. This seemed strange to Ivy but she didn’t remark on it, not even to Babs. In fact, they had scarcely a word to say to each other during the tea break. It was as if they had mutually decided to fall out.
Ivy came back home at lunch feeling thoroughly disgruntled. She was taken aback to see Dennett up and fully clothed, eating toast and scrambled egg. Then she remembered that this was his giro day.
‘There’s some egg left in the pot,’ he said obligingly.
‘Thanks,’ she said curtly, thinking he’d have done better to make a slice of toast to go with it. Before she left she reminded him to leave his money on the sideboard after he had cashed the giro at Braithwaite’s store.
‘I always dae,’ he answered with a touch of indignation.
In the afternoon when she took the Hoover into the lounge, she was surprised to see Sproul’s wife standing behind the small lounge bar.
‘Don’t bother hoovering,’ she told Ivy. ‘The carpet’s clean enough. Just separate the tables. They’re far too close together.’
‘I always hoover the carpet whether it’s clean or no’,’ Ivy said hotly. ‘That’s how it’s in such good condition.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Sproul’s wife. ‘Just do as I say.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Ivy, her eyes blazing. ‘Since when have you taken charge?’
Sproul’s wife said tartly, ‘As from today, I’m in charge of the lounge.’ As Ivy stared at her in disbelief, Sproul’s wife, her lips cyclamen pink and smiling, added, ‘If you don’t believe me, ask my husband when he comes in.’
‘I’ll no’ bother seein’ your husband,’ Ivy retorted, ‘I’ll wait tae Shankland comes in. It seems to me he’s the main one to see.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Sproul’s wife, assuming an astonished expression. ‘I’d hardly credit that, when my husband is paid to manage the hotel. However, if you want to see Mr Shankland you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. He’s down at Blairmaddie at the moment discussing business with my husband in the Riverbank Hotel. He thought it better to stay there for the night on account of the roads being so bad up here with the snow.’
Ivy gave Sproul’s wife one black look, then turned on her heels, trailing the Hoover behind her.
‘What about separating the tables,’ Sproul’s wife called, but Ivy was off into the toilet to try and calm herself down.
On a Friday at teatime the store was always busy, mainly with women rushing in at the last minute after collecting their husbands’ wages. Although there was less rushing in nowadays than there used to be, it was still busy enough to make Ivy fume with impatience as she waited at the end of the queue. She wanted to get home quickly to make sure that her share of Dennett’s giro was lying on the sideboard, but beside that, she had been thrown into confusion by her encounter with Sproul’s wife. It seemed as she waited that Mrs Braithwaite was chatting longer than ever with the customers. When finally her turn came she asked in a clipped voice for bread, potatoes and half a pound of sausages. This didn’t prevent the storekeeper informing her that Dennett had just been in to cash his giro. As Ivy nodded and opened her purse, Mrs Braithwaite added, ‘It’s a pity he cannae get work, a big strong fella like that.’
Ivy was stung into saying, ‘There’s no work to be had, is there?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Braithwaite deliberately. ‘There’s some that widnae take a job if it was under their very nose.’
Ivy grabbed her change from Mrs Braithwaite’s fat fingers and marched out past the queue that had formed behind her.
When she went in through the front door she heard Dennett running the tap in the bathroom. He usually celebrated his giro day with a bath and a hair wash before going out with his pals for a night in Blairmaddie. She put the kettle on then checked to see if her money was on the sideboard. It was – the whole twenty-five pounds of it. His dinner was on the plate when he came into the kitchen, rubbing his hair with a towel, his face pink and shiny.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Chips.’
‘I’m glad somethin’ pleases you,’ she said drily, following him into the living room. Dennett stuffed chips into his mouth, gazing dreamily at the television. Ivy picked at her meal half-heartedly. Before she lifted the dishes to wash them, she told Dennett to mind and go up to the farm on Saturday and get the money owed to him.
‘Aye – so I wull,’ he said reluctantly, frowning as if he had no intention of going at all. Then he stood up and went into his bedroom. Within seconds the insistent beat of some pop group pounded on her ear-drums. She debated whether to go through and tell him to turn the sound down. Instead, she took a pair of ear-plugs from a drawer in the kitchen cabinet and sat down on the couch, staring blankly at a television she couldn’t hear. An hour later he peeped into the living room to tell her that he was away. She took the ear-plugs out and told him not to be late.
‘Aye – so I wull,’ he said. She knew she was wasting her breath.
On Saturday, rain turned the snow on the pavements to slush. Ivy came into the public bar wearing a blue woollen dress minus her nylon apron. She had decided to look good for Shankland, but when Jim turned to her and said, ‘For a second I thought you wir Sproul’s wife,’ she began to wonder if the dress was a mistake.
‘I should hope no’,’ she muttered, dying to ask him if Shankland had come in last night. Pride kept her silent. She asked if Sproul was around.
‘No’ yit,’ he answered, pulling a face as if something was happening that only he knew about. When she began to wipe the shelves he said in a low voice, ‘Sproul’s wife is takin’ over the lounge.’
‘So I heard,’ said Ivy. ‘Well, maybe it’s time she did something for her keep.’
‘Looks as if there’s gaun to be a lot mair changes,’ said Jim darkly.
Curtly, Ivy replied, ‘It’s all one tae me, I’m only the cleaner, thank God.’
Jim turned away to serve one of the men who had come forward from a youngish crowd sitting at a table. Every Saturday morning they came in
, deafening the place with their loud aggressive talk. Ivy was glad to get out of the bar whenever they arrived.
‘Would ye like to gie us a hand?’ Jim asked her when another two came forward to the counter.
‘I’ve got a lot to do,’ said Ivy, hurrying away: Betty would be in any minute and she’d be overjoyed to serve that boisterous lot.
‘That’s a nice dress ye’ve on,’ Babs said to her in the kitchen, evidently prepared to be friendly.
‘Actually, it’s quite an old one,’ said Ivy.
‘It doesnae look it,’ said Babs. ‘How have ye no’ got yer apron on? It’ll get a’ dirty.’
‘I forgot to bring it. Anyway, it doesnae matter if it gets dirty,’ said Ivy impatiently.
‘Here, d’ye know that Sproul’s wife’s in the lounge?’ said Babs, handing Ivy a cup of tea and a roll which she explained was already buttered.
‘Thanks,’ said Ivy, suspecting the roll would be buttered thin. ‘She telt me herself yesterday.’
‘Did she?’ said Babs, her eyes wide. ‘You must be well in. Naebody tells me anythin’ except when it’s history.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ said Ivy. ‘There’s always bound to be changes at some time.’
‘Aye, but changes are never for the best nowadays,’ said Babs.
‘Let’s look on the bright side for once,’ said Ivy, feeling anything but bright. She suddenly had a premonition: either Shankland wasn’t going to come in at all, or maybe he had been in last night and gone away again. So if Sproul’s wife was going to take over the lounge where did that leave her? If Betty had only the public bar to do, it meant that they wouldn’t need her to serve at all and there definitely wasn’t enough cleaning to justify her hours from nine to five. And if they cut her hours, she might as well be on the dole. She’d have to talk to Sproul about it immediately.