No Easy Road

by Patsy Whyte

  No one ever bothered to tell me how you caught a bus, not in all my years at the home. We never went on buses. We walked everywhere. The only buses I knew were the ones the church laid on to take us to the annual Sunday school picnics. This was a whole new world opening up to me and I had no idea what to do. The house mother disappeared out for the morning after handing me some money and just left me to get on with it.

  I walked down the driveway feeling nervous and apprehensive, worrying about the task ahead of me. Outside, standing alone trying to get my bearings, I noticed a lady across the road weighed down with heavy bags of shopping.

  "Excuse me!", I shouted out. "Where do you get a bus to the Labour Exchange?"

  She paused to think for a moment then reeled off a string of directions and instructions. She may as well have saved her breath. It was all too much to take in. The only parts I remembered were city centre bus and the bus stop was on the same side of the road I was already on. I thanked her anyway.

  The people waiting at the bus stop looked so natural and calm compared to me. I felt flustered and sweaty and my heart was racing. But I didn't want to show myself up. So I stood just like they did, pretending not to have a care in the world, acting as if I'd caught the bus hundreds of times before.

  It wasn't long before a bus appeared and I got on. The bus conductor knew instantly I didn't have a clue where I was going.

  "I'll give you a nod when it's time to get off", he suggested.

  He was so kind and I felt much happier and relaxed now as I slowly counted out the correct fare and handed it over. I hardly believed I was actually managing to take a bus all on my own. It was a great feeling. I felt so grown up.

  After about 20 minutes or so, the bus arrived at the city centre. The bus conductor gave me the nod he said he would and I got off. In front of me was the sign for the Labour Exchange and I walked through the front door.

  A middle aged lady sat at a large desk on which lay a bundle of papers next to a black telephone. The room was grey and drab looking and sparsely decorated. I noticed the single filing cabinet standing against the wall behind her. The lady looked at me.

  "Can I help you?", she said, peering through half spectacles which highlighted the rather big bump on the bridge of her nose.

  "I'm looking for a job", I replied, nervously.

  "Take a seat."

  Her voice was sharp and commanding. She pointed lazily to the empty seat at the front of her desk.

  "So what sort of job are you looking for?"

  "I'm not sure", I replied.

  "Have you had any experience?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Working!"

  "No", I said.

  I felt a bit silly. The lady looked at me with an annoyed expression on her face. This wasn't the sort of interview she needed first thing on a Monday morning. She thumbed through the pile of documents on her desk and pulled out a single sheet of paper and looked at it carefully. I watched her eyes scanning from left to right and then up and down.

  "There's a job going at the Harbour Bar. They're looking for a barmaid", she said, shoving the piece of paper in my hand. "It's £3 a week, live in. The address is on the paper."

  The door opened and someone else walked in.

  "Can I help you?", she said, completely ignoring me now.

  I took the hint and was off the seat and out the door on my way to catch the bus home. A short while later, I stood in the kitchen rather pleased with myself, having achieved what I set out to do. I had a real job. Although the house mother was there, she didn't look at me or make any eye contact. She ignored me and left the kitchen.

  Eventually, a member of staff asked me how I got on at the Labour Exchange. I showed her the piece of paper with all the details on it. She seemed pleased for me. But I wasn't so sure I could be a barmaid, although I felt excited at the prospect of the job. Whether I would be suitable at all was another question. My mind was filled with doubts.

  Later, as we all sat down to tea, the house mother asked me in a sarcastic tone, "Well, what job did you get?"

  "I've got an interview as a barmaid."

  "Where about is this job?"

  "At the Harbour Bar", I replied.

  The house mother burst out laughing. I was taken aback by her reaction. It wasn't what I was expecting. I didn't see what was so funny. Then, after composing herself, she looked hard at me.

  "Don't you know, that's a job for a prostitute. You want to work at the harbour, where all the prostitutes go?"

  I didn't know what a prostitute was or what they did. I didn't understand what the house mother was trying to say to me.

  "We'll telephone them tomorrow, shall we?"

  I sat eating my tea in silence. The house mother said nothing more. My cheeks felt hot and flushed and I felt embarrassed. I kept thinking of the word prostitute. The house mother used it for years, always reminding me I would grow up to be a prostitute, just like my mother. It was an ugly sounding word. I felt dirty.

  The house mother must have thought about it all and then had a change of heart. Next morning, in the kitchen, she told me to get ready and go down to the Labour Exchange again. She already telephoned them and insisted I was given a more suitable job. They were now expecting me. This time, there was no problem finding my way back there. The same lady was sitting at the same desk and recognised me when I walked in.

  "It's you again", she said. "Didn't I see you yesterday and give you a job to go to today?"

  "Yes, but the lady at Rosehill telephoned you?"

  She looked at me blankly, expecting me to say something else.

  "The job wasn't suitable", I said.

  The lady dipped into the pile of papers once more and pulled out a job for a nanny and handed it to me.

  "It's live in", she said curtly. "Three boys. Take that with you and telephone the lady. Her name and telephone number are on there along with the address."

  The house mother was in the dinning room when I got back to the home. She was giving Jennifer a hard time for not taking the polish off the floor properly.

  "Over there you stupid girl! Don't do it like that."

  Poor Jennifer. She never matched up to the standards of cleanliness demanded by the house mother. The more the house mother shouted at her the more mistakes she made. The house mother turned her attention towards me.

  "Well, what job did they give you this time?"

  Jennifer was glad of the reprieve.

  "It's a job as a nanny", I said, handing over the piece of paper with the employer's details on it.

  She slipped the paper into her apron pocket and got back to the business of sorting Jennifer out. Later on in the day, the house mother told me to get myself tidied up. She telephoned the number and arranged an interview for the nanny job. The lady was expecting me around teatime. The house mother handed me back the paper with the details on. The lady lived in Westburn Road and an hour or so later I was sitting on a bus heading there. By now, I was really getting the hang of buses.

  Eventually, the bus entered a rather smart area of Aberdeen and I got off. Westburn Road, which lay only a short distance away, was a long, steep road. I was suddenly struck by how quiet it was. There was very little noise or traffic. Tall trees and large mansions stood either side of me as I walked along, enjoying the sound of birds singing. The sounds seemed to fill the air. It was a beautiful evening.

  I stumbled across the address I was looking for more by luck than anything else and walked up the long driveway to the front door which was open. The house was grand and imposing. Its granite walls sparkled in the low evening sunlight. Somebody very rich lived here, I thought, as I nervously pressed the doorbell at the side of the door. From somewhere far inside, I listened to the faint sound of a bell ringing in response.

  A slim and rather aloof lady came to the door a few seconds later. She had a very posh voice and asked me to follow her through to the drawing room. The lady was smart but casually dressed with short blonde
hair and appeared to be in her middle 30s.

  The drawing room was dimly lit with oil paintings hanging on the walls. Two large leather easy chairs cosied up next to a roaring fire in the grate. The flickering flames provided most of the light in the room. Heavy velvet drapes hung from a large window and prevented daylight from entering. My feet sank into the deep Axminster rug covering the wooden floor as she invited me to take a seat.

  After formally introducing herself, Mrs Cameron told me she knew all about my background after talking with the house mother on the telephone. She wanted to see my childcare certificate.

  "You have brought it?", she said.

  "Yes. Here it is."

  After satisfying herself it was genuine, Mrs Cameron went on to tell me about her three sons. They were staying at the moment at their grandmother's home. If I wanted the job, I would have to move to Arbroath where she and her husband had just bought a new hotel. The job would not officially begin until the move, which was at the end of the month. In the meantime, would I be willing to help her here, with some of the domestic chores, so she could get on with the packing?

  "Yes", I said.

  I could see something was troubling her.

  "You won't be keeping in touch or visiting your mother, will you?"

  "No", I replied, rather puzzled.

  She shook my hand and showed me to the front door. I was to start my new job on Monday, 9am sharp.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All weekend, I thought of nothing else but my new job. I was looking forward to the challenge and to moving away to start my new life. The routine of the home carried on as usual. But as Saturday turned into Sunday, I began to feel less and less a part of it all.

  I arrived at Westburn Road exactly on time, as instructed. The boys were still at their grandmother's house. I was looking forward so much to meeting them. Mrs Cameron told me their father was still sorting things out at the new hotel, to make it ready for the end of the month. In the meantime, she was supervising the removal men who were in the process of packing up the family possessions.

  My first task was the laundry. Mrs Cameron asked me to follow her outside to the back garden. She led me down some steps into an underground room which was once an old air raid shelter. It was now being used as a laundry room.

  The room felt cold with its grey stone floor and whitewashed walls. It was perfect for storing the jars of home made jam and other preserves filling several rows of shelves. In the far corner stood a modern looking washing machine. Mrs Cameron quickly showed me how to use it and then left me to get on with washing a large pile of towels and clothes belonging to the family.

  Several hours later, the washing was finished. The clothes were pegged out and hanging on the washing line. After reporting back to Mrs Cameron, I was told to start dusting. The house was enormous, which I didn't fully appreciate at the time of my interview. Now I realised it was more like a mansion. There were still many expensive ornaments and paintings around the place waiting to be packed away. So I was rather nervous. I didn't want to break anything.

  Mrs Cameron sent me into the large kitchen to wash up the leftover plates from lunch. When I finished them, and then cleaned and tidied up some more, the day was over. It was time to make my way homewards. I was pleased enough by the way I coped on my first day at the job, even although I felt far from confident at times.

  The rest of the week carried on in much the same way. I followed Mrs Cameron's instructions to the letter, never giving her cause for any complaint or concern. But it was difficult to relax in her company. Even although she made the effort to be friendly and to put me at my ease, I still felt anxious and nervous talking to her, and inferior. We were classes apart. She was a woman with money and position, surrounded by luxury and wealth, while I came from the lowliest of backgrounds.

  I met Mr Cameron for the first time on the Friday. He spoke with a posh accent and struck me as a well educated man. Slim and of average height, with black hair, Mr Cameron found it difficult to relax or to concentrate on the matter in hand. Instead, his mind appeared preoccupied all the time, as if filled with worries and concerns.

  The boys were now staying at their grandmother's home until the move, he informed me. It was easier that way, he said. Looking after two lively young boys and a baby was much too difficult given all the packing and organisation which still had to be done. I agreed with him it was best.

  When I was finished for the day, he offered to drive me back to the home. It was kind of him, and quite unexpected and would save me a lot of time hanging about for the two buses I normally caught after work. So I gratefully accepted the lift. A short time later, Mr Cameron pulled into the driveway and stopped his car outside the front door of the home. Then he handed me £3.10s and smiled.

  "I can't take your money", I said, pushing his hand away.

  "Why?", he asked, looking slightly perplexed.

  "I'm not allowed to take money."

  "It's your wages."

  It was my turn to look puzzled. I wasn't sure what he meant.

  "This is the money you've worked for, all week."

  "But I'll get into trouble. You keep it."

  "Patsy", he explained, slowly. "This is the money you worked all week for. Don't you understand? When you work, you get paid. This is the money, the wages I owe you for that work."

  Mr Cameron looked at me with an odd expression while shaking his head slowly from side to side. It was as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He gently offered me the money again, insisting it was mine, and I reluctantly took it. As I made my way into the home, I was worried how I was going to explain having this money and what trouble I would be in for taking it.

  The house mother was in the kitchen organising the tea. She looked angry and annoyed and not in the best of moods. I don't think she noticed I was back home. The staff were helping out and getting a bit of a hard time.

  "Come on, come on", the house mother snapped at them. "Get a move on."

  She couldn't stand any slapdash or slovenly ways. No one was as efficient as she was. Everyone else was always far too slow. She darted about here and there and everywhere, barking out orders and checking and double checking the staff had done everything properly. Finally, I managed to catch her attention.

  "Yes. What is it?", she replied, not stopping to look at me as she blasted the staff once more, this time for not putting enough tea leaves into the enormous teapot.

  "I was given money from Mr Cameron", I said. "I told him to keep it but he said I had to take it as it was the money I worked for."

  "Well, why tell me?"

  This was not what I expected to hear. Her answer took me by surprise. She wasn't shouting at me for taking the money. I pushed the money towards her.

  "What do you expect me to do with it?", she asked. Then, after a pause, she added, "You keep it."

  The house mother turned away and carried on with the tea. I walked through to the dining room hardly believing what I just heard. Did she really tell me to keep the money? I felt delighted but confused at the same time and more than a little worried she would change her mind at some point. So I decided not spend a penny, just in case. But she never did.