by Millie Gray
Rachel accepted that there would be no use in trying to point out to Hannah that back in 1939 a flushing lavatory for their exclusive use had been something she herself had fought for, tooth and nail. Hadn’t she taken on the whole of the Edinburgh Corporation? Didn’t Hannah realise just what her mother had forced herself to do to get them out of the slum that was Admiralty Street (the same Admiralty Street that the bulldozers were now rightly pounding to dust) and get them resettled in Learig Close. She could still feel the thrill she’d experienced when Johnny and she had stood in the bathroom while she pulled the chain to flush the lavatory. That simple action symbolised how she had won a better life for her children. The days were finally over when the communal lavatory seat had to be disinfected before she would allow her offspring to sit on it.
“But I love you too, Mum, and I’m so grateful for all you’ve done for me.”
Rachel turned to smile at that remark but the smile froze on her face when Hannah continued, “And now, being the mother of two, I realise how hard it must have been for you to come all the way here to help me out at the very time that Sam was coming home for the first time in eighteen months, and you wouldn’t be there to welcome him.”
Why, oh why, wondered Rachel with a pang of guilt, did this lassie have to remind her that Sam, her own Sam, would now be at home, feeling yet again that Hannah’s needs were of greater importance than his? And when she did eventually get home, would he accept her explanation that she knew he was far more able to look after himself than Hannah was? Well, she conceded, that had been her firm belief until placid Hannah had just explained, so quietly yet so emphatically, what her priorities were – and how and where she meant to spend her life.
3
POLICE PRIORITIES
Stepping into the driveway of the Police Training School at Whitburn, Sam was confronted by row upon row of Nissen huts. The sight made him pull up so sharply that his suitcase tumbled to the ground. He had hoped that being accepted for his police training would manage to divert his mind from the horrors of Korea – but this old army training camp, for all that it was now serving a new purpose, immediately brought back the nightmares.
Sam was still standing rigid when the fellow who had followed him off the bus asked half-jokingly, “Taking cold feet?”
“Naw,” blustered Sam, facing round to the man. “Ye were on the bus from Edinburgh like me, but that’s no a Lothian accent ye have.”
“It’s Inverness I come from. And the name’s Dougal McDonald,” the chap replied, laying down his case and offering Sam his hand.
“Sam Campbell,” Sam responded, shaking the outstretched hand vigorously and taking an instant liking to this Highlander.
Picking up their cases, the pair made their way to the reception area where they were met by the duty officer, Inspector Smith, who showed them to a dormitory and advised them to choose a bed from the six empty berths out of the twelve available. He added that once they were settled in they should join the Commandant and other tutors in the main hall.
“Ah well,” began Sam as the inspector closed the door on them. “At least I’ll have a guid sleep the nicht. A bed all to myself again – the sheer luxury o it.”
“You don’t have a bed to yourself at home?”
“Naw. I share wi ma wee brother. Well, he was wee when I left to do my National Service, but in the space o twa years he seems to have sprouted to six feet and his size seven feet are now tens that kick the hell out o me the hale night long.”
Dougal laughed. “And here was me thinking that I missed out on being a lonely-only.”
By the time Sam and Dougal reached the main hall, the Commandant was already in full flight. “Now!” He paused momentarily to fix his gaze directly on Sam and Dougal. “Gentlemen, do take a seat while I recap…As I was saying, your instructors in all those subjects where you must become proficient are very highly experienced in their respective fields.” He halted again and gestured towards the five tutors who were seated at his side. “Each one of these gentlemen will also act as a personal mentor for six of you out of our thirty new recruits. Now, when you leave here I wish you to go directly to Classroom C and spend some time writing about what you have done so far in your lives. Just a brief summary of your home-life, your schooling, your work experience and what sports you have taken part in.”
Once in the classroom, Sam sat down at a desk, but instead of beginning to write he simply sat staring into space. He just couldn’t see what good might come from describing what his childhood had been like. How do you explain that your Dad had thought so little of you and your siblings that he’d done a runner? And how his callous desertion meant you’d had to live by your wits. Sam finally decided that he wouldn’t lie – but would couch Johnny’s desertion in ambiguity. So, lifting up his pen, he simply wrote down that his mother had raised him and the rest of his family after his father’s unexpected departure! With the Johnny problem out of the way he then confidently went on to write about everything else that had happened during his life – leaving to the last his love of football and his prowess in that sport.
Once they had both finished writing about themselves, Dougal and Sam made their way out into the corridor. Here they familiarised themselves with the notice board, which they had been counselled to check on a daily basis, as any individual instructions would be posted there. Nothing of any particular interest appeared for either of them until the Wednesday, when a neatly-typed instruction read: “PC 10 of Edinburgh City Police D Division should go, equipped with his football gear, to the entrance door of the School at 13.00 hours today. He will then be given transport to Edinburgh to take part in the mid-week Amateur League football match between Edinburgh City Police and RAF Turnhouse.”
Sam at once sought out his mentor, Inspector Smith. “Sir,” he began, “that football thing this afternoon – why me?”
“Look, Sam, you want to get on in your job, don’t you?”
Sam nodded.
“Then just follow instructions.”
“Okay, but how did they find out about me?”
The inspector was reluctant to answer that question, but even after three days of knowing Sam he realised he would have to explain. “Sandy Brown is manager of the Edinburgh Police football team and wants the very best players. So every intake day he phones up to ask if there are any decent footballers among the Edinburgh City recruits. Once he’d learned your name, he contacted Leith and…So just you be waiting outside to be picked up, eh?”
Obeying instructions, Sam had been standing in the driveway for a full fifteen minutes waiting to be picked up when a sleek black Jaguar unexpectedly swept in. Thinking that this mode of transport couldn’t possibly be for him, he drew back as the car came smoothly to a halt. The driver then jumped out and asked, “You PC 10 Leith Division?”
“That’s me,” said Sam.
“Then jump in, back or front – suit yourself – but hold on to your hat. We’ve got only forty minutes to get you to Turnhouse.”
Without a word, Sam opened the front door and slid inside. The car was the last word in luxury. Large, leather-upholstered seat facing an opulent instrument panel set in a walnut fascia that Sam just couldn’t resist running his fingers over.
“Never been in a Jag then?” the driver asked.
“In a Jag? Never been in a car. Where I come from, the only two cars that were ever in the street were the doctor’s and the sheriff officer’s.”
“So you don’t drive?” Sam shook his head. “Never mind. All you have to do is do what I did and get eight lessons from the BSM. Then the police will put you through their test and you could end up like me in the Traffic Department driving all the VIPs about.”
Sam smiled. “Well, to be truthful, I can drive a wee bit.”
“You can?”
“Aye, ye see I did have a wee shot at driving an American tank in Korea.”
The driver laughed.
Sam joined in. “Aye, right enough, I don’t think that
a Sherman would count. But thanks for the advice about the lessons. Being able to drive would really suit me, so it would.”
Half an hour later and with a friendship already forged, they pulled in at Turnhouse RAF base camp and Sam jumped out.
“I’ll pick you up at five sharp for the drive back,” the driver called out as Sam raced towards the reception gate where he was immediately directed to the Police Team’s dressing room. There he found that the team were already outside limbering up and that only one man remained in the room.
“I’m PC 10 Leith Division and I play centre-half,” Sam announced, already feeling rather puffed up with his own importance.
“And I’m PC 60 C Division, team secretary for the Edinburgh City Police Football Team – and you’re playing inside-left.”
Sam shrugged stoically.
From the very outset Sam fitted in well with the team and never missed an opportunity. Twice he put the ball into the back of the net. And, with many of the RAF team being National Service boys who were already signed-up professional footballers, the final score of six goals apiece was a commendable result for the Police Team.
The Jaguar had just arrived to pick Sam up when he was approached by Sandy Brown, the team manager, who congratulated him on his performance. Sam, however, was now feeling even cockier and couldn’t resist saying, “See that centre-half ye played the day? Is that his usual position?”
Sandy sucked at his upper lip before replying, “Had a bad game the day, he did. But listen, sonny boy, we all have our off-days – even a swollen-headed young ace like you could end up playing as if you’d never kicked a ball afore.”
Sam offered a reluctant nod of agreement.
“Now, off ye go and we’ll see you next week for the game against Glasgow City. And, believe me, the Glasgow Police field a no mean team.”
Shaking his head, Sam demurred, “But I can’t go to Glasgow. I’m at the Training School.”
“Forget the school. You just follow orders: next week you’ll be required to play at Glasgow.”
Sam wanted to argue that, although he loved playing football and knew he was good at it, his police career was very important to him – but the sound of the Jaguar horn had him scampering off.
The following week, on a dreadful ash pitch, the like of which Sam had never played on before, the Edinburgh team won by three goals to one. This time Sam didn’t directly score any of the goals, but he did prove himself to be an excellent team player by setting up two of the goals for his team-mates to score.
It was on the bus back to Whitburn that Sam found Sandy had omitted to say just how important the Glasgow game was. By beating the Glaswegians, Edinburgh was now the only Scottish representative in the quarterfinals of the British Police Cup! Consequently, whenever Sam was away playing football, his friend Dougal was ordered to copy out all the lecture notes for Sam and it was Dougal who also had to tutor Sam on Police Procedure.
4
SILVER SERVICE
Back at last from her time on Herrig, Rachel arrived at the door of 16 Learig Close and smiled when she saw the key in the lock. That was just what she wanted – someone at home to greet her. However, when she unlocked the door and stepped into the living room, a distinct chill seemed to settle upon her and she gave an involuntary shiver – due more, she thought, to disgust at the sight of last night’s ashes lying lifeless in the grate than to her annoyance at the general air of neglect in her home.
“Anyone home?” she called out.
The door from the bathroom creaked open and Alice emerged, her hair swathed in a towel, “Oh, it’s you, Mum. We thought it was about time you came home.”
“That so?” replied Rachel, picking up some clothes from a chair so that she could sit down. “Then why is this house looking like a midden?”
Alice looked critically round the room. “It’s Carrie’s fault. It was her turn to get things tidied up.”
Rachel shook her head emphatically. “Carrie’s turn? D’you mean to tell me you’re prepared to sit in the cold simply because Carrie’s not here to clean out the fire and reset it?”
Alice silently removed the towel from her hair, lifted a comb from the mantelpiece and started to drag it through her locks.
“And talking of Carrie, where the devil, is she? After all, she finishes at five. It’s now gone six o’clock and she should have the tea on the table.”
Alice sniggered. “Mum, you’re not going to believe this but Carrie’s away serving at a banquet in the posh Caledonian Hotel.”
“She’s what? But what on earth does Carrie know about silver service?”
“Not a blooming thing – but as soon as her pal down in the Roperie told her she would get paid twelve and six for the night’s work she just had to give it a go.”
Just then the door opened and Rachel jumped to her feet crying, “Sam! Oh, Sam!”
“Wrong, Mum. It’s only me,” Paul half sang to his mother.
“But where’s Sam?” Rachel’s hand flew to her mouth. “Don’t tell me he’s had a relapse of that flaming malaria.”
“Naw,” replied Paul. “But if you wanted to see him you should have got home on Sunday.”
“Sunday? So where is he now then?”
“At the Police Training School – if you stick around till Friday he’ll be home for the weekend.”
Rachel bristled. Why did her other children so resent her going off to help Hannah? Couldn’t they appreciate that Hannah’s needs were so much greater than theirs? Without uttering another word she took off her coat and knelt down to begin cleaning out the fire. What she really wanted to do was to sort Alice and Paul out – but was this the time to challenge them about their disrespect? A loud knock at the outside door settled the matter. Turning, she signalled to Paul with a curt toss of her head that he should answer the summons.
“Oh, Mum,” he shouted back, “it’s a telegram boy!”
Slowly Rachel rose off her knees. “Oh, no! Oh no, no, no!” she exclaimed.
The sheer opulence of the Caledonian hotel held Carrie mesmerised. When she had followed her friend, Gertie, into the dining room she felt as though she’d been invited into the ball at the start of Gone With the Wind. It wasn’t just the sheer beauty of the velvet curtains, the deep pile of the carpets, or the tables set with crisp white linen and real silver cutlery that held her spellbound. No, it was the open doors at the bottom of the room that led out into the guests’ waiting-area, where a pianist sat, resplendent in evening dress, playing heart-wrenching romantic music at the Steinway. The music quickened all of Carrie’s senses. Gazing at those diamond-encrusted ladies in their flowing evening gowns beside their handsomely-kilted escorts, she wondered why the world should be so ill-divided.
A loud whisper from Gertie halted Carrie’s day-dreaming. “What was that you said?” she asked, thinking that maybe she should get out quick.
“Just that Paddy Fowler…”
“Paddy who?”
“The Head Waiter – him that’s still talking.”
“Oh, I see,” Carrie mumbled, as Paddy reiterated how regrettable it was that, due to an outbreak of sickness and diarrhoea, nearly all of the permanent staff were off sick, which meant that he was virtually dependent on the temporary hired staff. It also meant that instead of two waiting staff per station there would only be one!
The news shook Carrie. She had been positively assured by Gertie that she would simply be assisting a fully-trained waiter who would keep her right. Whatever was she to do now? True, she could serve up meals no bother – but in her mother’s house everyone had an equal share of everything and if they didn’t feel like eating something they just passed it over to someone who did. Well, that was what she would do here – just dish up as she would do at home.
She was sure the first course would be no problem. All she had to do was to ladle the cock-a-leekie from the tureen into the soup plates. Unfortunately, she didn’t always make certain, as Gertie had told her beforehand, that there wa
s to be one prune placed in every plate. Her other blunder (which some of the guests regarded as a personal slight) was to serve the men first! Carrie was astonished to discover that the men were supposed to be served last. All her life she had been told that the breadwinners must come first at mealtimes.
When it came to the main course, Carrie decided it could be dished up at the sideboard – but Dai Morgan, the deputy Head Waiter, now designated to keep an eye on her, snapped, “No! No! No! All silver service must be at the table, beginning with the ladies. Is that quite clear?” Carrie meekly assented and did succeed in placing a sirloin steak accompanied by a fondant potato on each plate; but the trouble started when it came to the petits pois. She tried to scoop up the dancing peas with a fork and spoon but they would keep slipping off. That mightn’t have mattered so much if the lady she was serving hadn’t leant over to whisper to the gentleman sitting on her right, leading to Carrie’s hand being bumped. Control of both serving dish and spoon was thereupon completely lost – the peas cascading down the lady’s bare back before finally burying themselves in the folds of her royal-blue evening gown.
The ensuing furore caused one gentleman at the top table to look round and Carrie was amazed to find herself being smiled at by a real and well-known Scottish Duke. Her eyes travelled along the table and saw that the lady on his left, the most beautiful and most elegant person she had ever seen, had her napkin pressed to her mouth in a vain effort to stem her laughter. Dai Morgan, however, was not laughing. Racing to the aid of the distraught lady, he ushered her from the room and summoned a chambermaid to repair the damage.