by Millie Gray
Carrie reluctantly willed herself awake and yawned, “Where am I?”
“Ye’re in the Palace and you should be out there on the floor – you ken how thae bairns get oot o control when Tarzan’s on. Listen to that! Them that are over eight are jumping on the seats beating their chests and howlin’, ‘Me Tarzan. You Jane.’ And them that are under seven think they’re chimpanzees and are swinging on onything they can find, screamin’, ‘Me Cheetah!’ – and firing banana skins all ower the place.”
Rising and stretching heself, Carrie muttered, “Okay.”
“Aye, but it’s no okay, is it? Just look at you.”
Carrie peered at herself in the mirror that was nailed to the back of the door. A white sickly face with sunken eyes was all she could see. “I’ve had this sickness thing for weeks now. Nearly fainted this morning, so I did.”
“Aye, but you expect that when you’re …” Mrs Mack stopped and pointed meaningfully at Carrie’s stomach.
Carrie began to laugh. “I’m not expecting, Mrs Mack. Will’s been away for six weeks now.”
“So? You had a honeymoon, didn’t ye?”
“Aye. But I took precautions.”
“Like what?”
Carrie went on to explain how Bernie had told her about jumping out of bed and standing on the cold floor. Now it was Mrs Mack’s turn to start cackling. “Don’t tell me your mammy never told you that there’s only one way no to fall wi a bairn and that’s … no to do it!”
Shaking her head, Carrie explained, “My Mum never talks about these things.”
“You mean she’s no even noticed that you’re puking up all the time.”
“I don’t puke all the time.”
“Naw? Then what happened when you went out over the road to Elio’s for the chips last night?”
Bowing her head in an attempt to hide the intense flush of embarrassment that was overtaking her, Carrie replied, “I told you there must have been something wrong with the fat they were using. The smell was disgusting. No wonder I vomited!”
Before Mrs Mack could speak, a loud knock sounded at the door. “Look, you two. If ye’re any longer in there, we’ll need to send for a posse to round up the bairns who are now chasing each other all over the place with the DDT spray.”
Carrie was about to dash out of the door but Mrs Mack held her back. “It’s his DDT spray, so let him get killed trying to get it back. See here,” Mrs Mack delved into her knitting bag and withdrew some two-ply white wool and a pattern, “I’ll show you how to knit a shawl.”
Carrie shook her head vehemently. “I’m not expecting!”
“Okay, Carrie. But just promise me that you’ll take a sample o your pee down to the doctor and if he says you’re no… then I’ll eat this wool!”
“You’re on. But what’ll I take it in?”
Mrs Mack rolled her eyes. “A jam jar, of course. But a wee one. No a two-pound one!”
Sam was wandering round his beat in a dilly-dally daydream. He truly couldn’t believe that ever since Carrie’s wedding he and Emma Stuart had been walking out together. She was so unlike any other girl he’d ever known. He had expected her to be all hoity-toity – full of airs and graces – but she was such good fun and always game for a laugh. She hadn’t even turned down an invitation to meet him, when he’d finished his nightshift, this morning at six o’clock. The plan was that they would then climb romantic Arthur’s Seat, albeit by the easy route, to take part in the May Day service and then to wash their faces in the morning dew. This was a ritual that had been going on for centuries. Lassies actually believed that by washing their faces in the dew they would become beautiful. Carrie, who was desperate on her wedding day to look better than Ingrid Bergman, had tried it last year but all she’d ended up with was a fat lip when she tripped over a boulder.
Before starting their descent, Sam and Emma stood handin-hand gazing at the panoramic view of the historic city. They marvelled at the rosy hue that hung over the skyline as the sun began to rise. Hands still locked together, they made their way down the rough path. Sam took a deep breath and wondered if this was the right time to ask Emma the question that had been keeping him awake at nights. A rabbit dashing for its burrow startled Emma and she squeezed hard on Sam’s hand. That was the opportunity for him to speak. As he steadied her, he said, “Emma, I’ve been thinking. You and me get on so well thegither…how about us getting married?”
Letting go of Sam’s hand Emma drew back. “Married! But Sam, you just don’t suddenly get married, you have to plan – make arrangements.” She hesitated before adding, “For a start we would need a house. Where would we get one?”
“Easy. They’re building a new housing scheme at Clermiston and they’re putting in lots o Police Houses. I could put my name down for one.”
“A housing scheme?” queried Emma. “But whatever would my mother say?”
“You mean your dad?”
“No. My mother. But let me think about it first.” She then tucked her arm through Sam’s and asked, “Am I more beautiful now than before I washed in the dew?”
“No way, Emma, could the dew improve you!”
It was never unusual for Sam to pop into Carrie’s for a cup of tea when he was doing his rounds – but not at midnight. Sitting in an easy chair and staring into space, Carrie wasn’t even startled when Sam abruptly walked in. “Used my key,” he said, as he sank into the chair opposite. “Saw your light was on so wondered if something was up?”
Carrie puffed. “You could say that.”
“So?”
“Know who’s expecting?”
“Aye, Hannah. Mammy’s been going on and on about it ever since the letter arrived.”
The news about Hannah jolted Carrie. “Hannah’s expecting again? But Morag’ll just be going on three.”
“It’s Hannah’s life. So why are you getting yourself in such a stooshie about it?”
“It’s no Hannah expecting that’s the big problem…it’s what I’m going to do!”
“You?”
“Aye, due in December, that stupid doctor says. I never should have listened to Mrs Mack. Should have stayed happy in my ignorance.”
Carrie now lifted a large sheet of paper from her knees. “This here is the list of all the things I still need for this house. Now I’ll have to add on a pram, a cot, a baby bath, nappies and smocks.”
“To the bottom of the list?”
“No!” Carrie brandished the paper angrily. “As this here is a five-year plan, these things’ll have to go to the top… and when I stop working and the plan extends to ten years, I’ll need to add a school bag, a duffle-coat and some willies – somewhere in the middle!”
Sam rose and went into the galley kitchen, which was just off the living room, and filled the kettle. “Fancy a cup?”
“Well, as I can’t sleep for worry, I might as well. Oh Sam, how on earth am I going make ends meet?”
Sam turned to frame the doorway. “You’re no doing so badly.”
“Badly!” she scoffed. “Look, I’d have nothing if you and Mum hadn’t bought the bed, and if Will’s mum hadn’t suddenly pitched in with the wherewithal so I could get a dining table, chairs and sideboard.”
Trying to lift Carrie’s spirits, Sam said, “Well, these two easy chairs of yours are hardly nothing.”
“But I’m paying them up over two years. Anyway, forget my problems. What are you doing here at this time of night, Sam?”
“As I said, I saw your light and I needed someone to talk to.”
“About?”
“Emma. I made a mistake, Carrie.”
“Oh, God! She’s no expecting too?”
“Naw. If she was – well, I’d be as happy as a sand-boy.” Carrie knew this was not the time to say anything. “I asked her to marry me. Told her I could get a police house in Clermiston. That was last week and she’s not been in touch ever since.”
“So you don’t know if it’s yes or no?”
Sam shook his
head. “It’s neither. It’s maybe. You see, I met her father in the street and he says that, when you’ve been brought up in Murrayfield and educated at Mary Erskine’s Ladies, a police house in Clermiston is no quite where she’d be happy.”
“But what does Emma say?”
Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. And I can’t ask her because she’s now been shipped away up north to her mammy’s folk.”
“Oh, I see. So that’s that!”
With a sniff, Sam interrupted his sister. “All isn’t lost though. Ye see, her dad – and he’s a really nice honest man, Carrie – did say to wait two years and, if we still feel the same about each other and if I’ve something better tae offer than a police house in Clermiston, he’ll no stand in our way.”
Carrie nodded. “Two years is…”
“I ken what ye’re thinking, Carrie. But I’d wait twenty years for Emma. And in the meantime I’m going to be saving up a deposit for a guid house in a guid district. Remember how Mammy used to take us walking round bungalow land in Craigentinny every Sunday; and every Sunday she’d say in that dreamy voice of hers, ‘Know something? One day one of you kids might be rich enough to live here’.” Sam breathed in deeply and as his chest expanded his hopes rose and he declared: “That’s it, a bungalow in Craigentinny is what I’ll get for my Emma!”
8
MIXED BLESSINGS
“Well?” demanded Sam of his sister. “What d’you think?”
Desperate to find some words of encouragement, Carrie carefully surveyed the bungalow that nestled just beyond the boundary of Craigentinny Golf Course and whose front door directly faced the Council refuse dump. What could she say about a garden that was now a wilderness and a house in a state of complete disrepair? Its filthy window frames looked weary and unloved – and yet these were maybe the easiest problem to deal with. “Suppose some paint and elbow grease would make a difference.”
“Aye,” Sam enthused. “I just knew it. Like me, ye can see the potential. And as I’ve been saving for …” Sam paused.
“Five years, isn’t it?” Carrie reminded.
Both felt that five years was a long time to save up for a dream. For the first two years Sam had been driven by his desire to get a bungalow for his beloved Emma. That was motivation enough until he opened the Edinburgh Evening News one Saturday night and found himself staring in disbelief at Emma’s wedding photograph. She’d married a professional gent in the banking world who just happened to have a knighthood and who could provide her with a luxury mansion at Blackhall, in keeping with her social ambitions. Sam smiled ruefully at the memory. At the outset he’d given the marriage one year – and only one – because he was quite positive that once Emma found out what he knew about Sir James Souter she’d surely be thinking it would have been far better to have settled for Sam and a police house in Clermiston. But Sam didn’t realise that Emma would never come back to him because outward appearances were more important to her than true happiness.
Carrie broke into his thoughts. “I know fine you could make a palace out of this house in time, Sam, but if Emma ever did come back to you would she really want to be confronted every day by the reek from that rubbish dump – not to mention the pong from the Seafield sewage works!”
Sam laughed. “She’d feel right at home, she would. After all, didn’t she marry a heap o garbage in the first place. Anyway,” he added, looking towards the tip, “the football pitches are in front o it.”
Carrie smiled at her brother. There lay all the football pitches, right enough. And she knew that when the local laddies were out playing Sam would be there also, coaching and spurring them on. “I suppose you’re getting it for a song?”
“Aye, two thousand, seven hundred; and I’ve got fifteen hundred o that already saved up.”
Without answering, Carrie looked about the garden and suddenly realised that her four-year-old daughter had disappeared. “Sophie! Sophie!” she yelled, but only a solitary blackbird chirping in the rowan tree responded to her cry. “Where on earth could she have gone, Sam?”
They both dashed towards the side of the house but stopped in their tracks when they saw that the front door now lay wide open and Sophie was in the hall playing with a German Shepherd puppy.
“Came with the house, did it?” Carrie asked.
“Naw, naw! But as Mammy doesn’t want to come and bide with me, I thought a dog would be company – besides guarding the house.”
With a nod, Carrie silently acknowledged that Emma’s rejection still hurt Sam deeply. At least that bonnie bitch standing there in the doorway would always be loyal to him.
“Uncle Sam, could I have the other puppy,” Sophie wheedled, pulling vigorously at Sam’s trouser leg.
“What other puppy?” screeched Carrie.
Sam shifted uneasily, “Och, she’s just on about a wee runt frae a collie litter that I took aff the breeder’s hand.”
Sophie immediately dashed into the kitchen and emerged a few moments later carrying the small black and white pup. “Oh please, Mummy, could we get one? Please!”
“A dog in our home?” queried Carrie, thinking to herself that it had been a home last week but now that dry rot had been discovered it was like a demolition site. And it wasn’t the mess that worried her. That could be cleared up; but where, oh where, was she going to find the five hundred pounds to pay the contractors? No wonder she was always feeling sick and tired these days. Until then, life had seemed to be fine. They were just managing, thanks to Carrie doing night shifts on Fridays and Saturdays as an auxiliary nurse at the Eastern General. It wasn’t a job she particularly liked – wiping backsides and emptying bedpans was hardly an upward career move – but the reason she did it was that there was always somebody at Learig Close on a Saturday, eager to look after Sophie so that she herself could have a decent sleep.
Her thoughts went back to three weeks ago when Will had phoned from Garston to say that his ship would be docked there for five days and could she and Sophie come down. How much she’d enjoyed her time there! All the meals cooked for her and they’d gone to the pictures. Okay, so it was just The Wizard of Oz and they’d both seen that many times before, but Sophie hadn’t; and the wonderful time they’d spent together had them believing they really were all on the Yellow Brick Road. These warm memories had Carrie feeling deeply grateful that her marriage hadn’t become a humdrum affair, as seemed to be the case with so many of her friends – but after all, she and Will hadn’t spent much time together since he was so often away at sea. And once she got around to telling him about the dry rot, she knew he’d say that would mean him staying on at sea for another couple of years till they were really back on their feet.
On their feet? Carrie stared cynically down at her own feet. All her life she’d never really been off those two feet, yet somehow she’d never really been securely on them.
“Ken what? There’s still another wee runt looking for a hame in the collie litter, Carrie,” mumbled Sam, whose heartstrings were being pulled by his niece’s pleas. “I could ask the breeder if he’d gie it to ye at a knock-down price.”
“Sam, please don’t start. You know the hole I’m in with the blasted dry rot. Don’t you realise that I’m probably going to have to do another night at the hospital? So there’s simply no way I can look after a pup – never mind feed it.”
“But, Mummy,” interposed Sophie, “when I told Mrs Berry…”
“Who’s Mrs Berry?” asked Sam.
“Sophie’s teacher at Links Place Nursery School,” explained Carrie.
“She said,” continued Sophie, “that even though you’ve got dry rot, Mummy, it wasn’t serious and your legs wouldn’t fall off.”
Carrie rolled her eyes upwards as she thought how much simpler it would have been if it was she who had the rot and not the house. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be feeling as sick as she was.
Rachel sat staring blankly into space, thinking that here again her children were doing what su
ited them best, with no consideration for what might suit their mother. Wringing her hands till they hurt, she accepted that her auld enemy – that black, satanic spectre of depression – was about to swallow her up once more. She knew she just couldn’t face another spell as a voluntary patient in the Andrew Duncan Clinic. She’d no choice but to battle on by herself to keep the enemy in check. How to do it? Well, first she’d buy a bottle of Neurophosphate which in the past had stopped her getting too bad. She grimaced as she recalled the bright green liquid that tasted so awful: but it was a taste she’d willingly put up with if it helped her to hold on. She admitted she was luckier now than when her bairns had been wee – at least she could afford to buy the stuff nowadays. Used to be just half a crown, she mused – a pittance now but pretty well out of her reach back then. So desperate she’d been in those days that she’d willingly pawn anything simply to buy the bottle that saved her from being subjected to yet another barbaric session of electrotherapy. She shuddered at the memory. Twice a week for six weeks had seen her firmly strapped down upon the hospital bed. No anaesthetic to dull the excruciating pain, no muscle-relaxant to help her cope with the convulsive jerking of her whole body – seizures that left her quite unable to control her bodily functions. And the loss of memory that took such a time to recover. She smiled grimly, remembering how the consultant psychiatrist had said they didn’t really know why ECT worked for the most difficult of depressive conditions. They just knew that somehow it did. Eight weeks of last year she’d been in that blasted hospital. Moreover, it had cost her the decent job she’d had at the Queen’s. And now she was earning a living by looking after an old woman in nearby Restalrig Avenue while her sons were at work; and then, in the evening, by being in charge of the cocoa and Horlicks trolley at the Eastern General.
By now, Rachel had become so engrossed in those unpleasant memories that she didn’t hear the outside door opening and a voice calling out, “Coo-ee, it’s only me.”