by Jane Yeadon
It’s certainly a lot cheerier than the organ so earnestly played in her church by the sober, grey-suited organist. Deaf or not, Granny would certainly hear this brand of music, but even as its tinny sound shrieks above the soft crash of the waves, and we hurry towards it, the voices of the folk selling their wares rise over all, even the generators, into the gathering dusk.
‘You know, girls, I think this is better than a circus,’ says Mum. ‘It’s got all the glitter, thrills and excitement of one but without any distress cries coming from animals happier in the jungle.’
‘Oh, bad luck, wee ones. Try again!’ cries a neat, brown-faced woman, her eyes as bright as her dancing earrings. Her stall, like the others, is outlined in coloured lights, combining with the music to make it look alive and jolly.
She hands us three more ping-pong balls, which, when thrown, promptly leap out of the jam jars set before us.
‘Roll up, roll up. It’s easy to win,’ she says, turning to other custom when it’s obvious that both Mum and Dod are unwilling to hand over more money. We wander amongst country folk with sun-bleached eyebrows and skin as burned as the show people, and townsfolk, a little paler, and children whose faces are hidden behind huge clouds of something very pink.
‘It’s candy floss. Terrible for your teeth,’ says Mum, who’s got false ones.
‘Come on! Let’s have a go on the dodgems, and you can drive, Lizzie,’ says Dod.
I cling onto Mum’s hand in case she follows, amazed that Elizabeth’s dashed to jump alongside him in something that looks like a bath with a steering wheel.
Her knuckles show white as she grips it. She stares ahead. Nothing happens.
‘There’s maybe not enough petrol,’ I say to Mum, which may well be what my sister’s saying to Dod, but then he braces himself, the cars jolt forward and Elizabeth starts to spin the steering wheel as if her life depends on it. And maybe it does, I think, watching the other drivers trying to crash into each other.
‘I hope she’s not going to drive the tractor like that,’ I say.
A wire’s fixed to the back of each dodgem, which reaches up to the top of the carousel to make sparking connections. Apparently there’s entertainment in either being blown up or caught in a massive pile-up. When, after a few minutes – and there’s been a satisfactory level of screams, bangs and yells from the car occupants – a power switch must be thrown because all the cars stop. It’s impossible to think that people will consider their money well spent when they stagger out of their killing machines.
‘Ooh! That was great,’ says my sister, wiping her hands on her blouse and looking dazed but delighted.
‘I thought you pair might hiv joined us.’ Dod sounds disappointed.
‘I’d much prefer the waltzers,’ says Mum. ‘A little less dangerous. Look!’ She points to a carousel, made vivid with swirling brightly coloured artworks painted on its sides. The roof is striped in white and a red the same shade as that painted on the steps leading up to the ride.
Mum leads the way. ‘Come on, there’s one seat left.’
Parked on a surface, bumpy as the Glenferness switchbacks, is a line of chariots. Outside they’re decorated in a mixture of gold and crimson swirls, whilst inside the upholstery is all in red. I’ve never been surrounded by such rich colours or seen a ceiling lit by so many light bulbs. This must be how Cinderella felt, I think, as we climb aboard.
‘Bunch up, quines,’ says Dod, sitting in the middle and stretching out his arms behind him so that he can pull us together. For a moment, there’s only the sound of clinking coins as the ride attendant collects the money.
‘That’s right. Hold onto the wee one,’ he says, then pushes down a switch. Elizabeth’s opted to lean forward to clutch the shining chrome safety handle in front of us, whilst Mum and Dod suddenly do the same, one-handed, the other holding onto me. The music drowns out my protest for independence when, with a huge surge of power, our chariot takes off.
There’s an almighty force powering us up and down the bumps, whilst we spin round and round in dizzying turns. Beyond the enchanted circle that holds the fairground, it’s dark. The sea stretches a planet away from human noise and light. I’m glad, now, to be tucked snug between the adults, but Mum’s laughing so much she says she’s going to lose her teeth if she hasn’t got a free hand to keep them in.
‘Stop!’ she shrieks.
‘Dinna fash yersell,’ laughs the operator. ‘Ye’ll get them back afterwards, unless they fit me better.’ Then with his shirt straining over his barrel chest, he stretches his sunburnt muscled arms across the back of our car and gives it an extra spin.
24
SCHOOL!
Back home, Belinda, who’s tucked under my bedcovers, whispers so she doesn’t disturb Elizabeth. ‘My dear, what a good thing you didn’t take us to Nairn. Thanks to all your cold compresses, my head got better after my fall but, just think, we could all have lost our heads. What a common sort of man that gardener is! You girls must have had a dreadful experience. What d’you say, Rabbit?’
But Rabbit only hums the beginning of a hymn that Granny likes to sing. It’s called ‘Abide with Me.’ I think he’s a little off key but appreciate the thought.
‘That’s terrible singing. I wish you’d shut up, Jane,’ sighs Elizabeth. ‘I’m trying to get to sleep. Are you not remembering it’s school tomorrow?’
I could tell her I’m only singing to accompany Rabbit, but I’d like to keep her awake so she too can reassure me.
‘What was your first day at school like?’
She takes a deep breath, then, ‘Some of the pupils threw my schoolbag into the ditch. We didn’t get either free milk or school meals then, so Mum had to make me sandwiches and they got wet. They tasted horrible, but other than the cocoa the teacher’s sister Miss May always made for us I’d have been starving.’
I’m scandalised. ‘That’s terrible! If that happened to me, I’d tell Dod on them.’
‘He wasn’t our father then,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Neither he was. Goodnight,’ I say, wondering: if Mum’s changed her name to Bremner, will Dod turn into Dad? I could ask my sister but don’t. Her answer would give her the last word.
After Dod and Mum marry, life doesn’t seem much changed – except if he’s not already out doing farm work, Nell will be glued to his side, watching him having breakfast.
He’s there today and, as I join him, he says, ‘Big day for you today, Janie.’ He dips a spoon into a cup of milk, then transfers it to his plate of porridge. It makes a measured accompaniment to every mouthful. I copy him, liking the contrast of the spoon made cold by its milk dip against the hot porridge it holds.
Nell watches with the same degree of interest but she’s waiting, ready to lick the floor clean should anything fall on it.
‘Puss, puss!’ Mum’s calling.
Pansy, who’s obviously brought up her family to fend for themselves, has decided on an easier life as a house cat. She’s been sitting in front of the fire, waiting until she hears the sound of a saucer being put on the scullery’s stone floor. On her way there, she aims a careless swipe at Nell. She, however, never changes her gaze. Her teeth begin to chatter and she starts to slaver.
‘Beasts! We’re never done feeding them,’ says Dod, and hands Nell a bread crust. ‘Och, but you’re a greedy brute. See, Janie, if you’re ever offering a dog food, don’t tempt him, give it to him right away, then he won’t snatch your fingers and maybe get a taste for them.’
Mum comes into the kitchen. ‘After having your porridge the old-fashioned way, that’ll be the second lesson of the day, Janie,’ she says. ‘Now, as soon as you’re finished, and as it is your first day, I’ll drive you to school. You can walk home, though. You’ll have Kenny for company.’
She means one of the children of the farm help who’s come to work at Tombain and lives in the Tomdow cottage. They only came just before the wedding so we haven’t had much of a chance to get to know them, but I’m p
leased. At least the little girl who everybody denies stays there (but I’m convinced does) will now have some company.
As we get into the car, Mum searches in her dungarees and, after going through most of its pockets, finds a sixpence. ‘Ha! I knew there was another one.’ She hands it over. ‘I forgot that you’ll need a play-piece too. That should buy you enough for the week. Elizabeth already has her money so, if you ask her – nicely, mind – she’ll maybe get you something at the shop as well. Now that she’s got her bike, she’ll have the time to nip over to the shop and get you something too. Otherwise you might starve!’
She says it with such relish I assume she’s joking. More serious, however, is the way that she slams the car into reverse and, looking forwards, remarks, ‘Hallelujah! She’s started first go. She must’ve known we need to catch Eliza. Thank heavens our garage hasn’t a door.’
As we shoot out there’s a clamour of farmyard cries. ‘Damn beasts aye getting in my way!’ says my animal-loving mother, braking hard. As she searches for a better gear, I see Duck pecking the drake, bought, supposedly, to give her husbandly company. The poor bird tries to escape but Duck’s determined he gets a piece of her mind as well as her beak. As he runs for cover to the henhouse, she flaps her wings to help him get her message. She’s definitely having the last word.
‘She’s such an old rogue,’ says Mum, back in control and driving away from the noise. Hunched over the steering wheel with her nose practically scraping the windscreen, she speaks light-heartedly. I can’t believe she’s as cheery when we get to school and she’s waving goodbye. She’s obviously forgotten that even if I’ve been looking forward to going to school, it’s still a bit nerve-racking.
Seeing Elizabeth is kind of reassuring. I expect she’s there to make sure I don’t get the same first-day treatment as she did.
Instead, she says, ‘Did Mum give you money?’
As soon as I show her my sixpence, she grabs it. ‘That’ll buy us loads of biscuits,’ she says. ‘If you’d been any later, I wouldn’t have had time to get to the shop before school goes in. Quick now! I don’t want to be late for Miss Milne.’
Her anxiety’s a surprise because Elizabeth likes our teacher. I’m sure I will too. Having seen both her and her sister in our church, I know that they smile in recognition to everyone in the congregation as if they mean it. They’re always smartly dressed and wear face powder, which, even if it is laid on thickly, doesn’t hide the paleness of their complexions. Miss Milne’s as stout as Miss May is thin. She house-keeps in the adjoining ‘tied’ school house, which shares the school’s grey exterior but not its high windows.
I will learn that the top of the rake and hoe’s handles, wielded by the boys on occasional gardening duties, will be all that can be seen from inside our classroom. Chat and banter might float in if the windows are open, but Miss Milne gives them scant attention. It’s possible, however, that Miss May might look out from her netted and flounced curtain windows which also give out onto the garden. She’ll easily see the gardeners from there. If she does, she’s unlikely to pin much hope of a bumper crop from the patch on which they are supposedly labouring.
The garden’s walled on every side but the one where laurel bushes line the way to an open shelter-shed. From there, Elizabeth’s now wheeling her bike. The minute she disappears, a boy advances.
‘You’re Lizzie’s wee sister,’ he says. He’s wearing a grey knitted pullover under a grey jacket, with matching short trousers. His teeth show white in a sunburnt face – and in a grin that makes me uneasy. ‘I bet you’re no’ half as hardy as her.’
I tighten my grip on my schoolbag. ‘Am so!’
Another two boys join him. Beginning to look like a team, they size me up.
‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Mind your own business.’ Let down by a quavering voice, I stamp my foot, wishing I’d their tackety boots. They’d make a louder statement and, if a real war broke out, could come in handy.
‘Ha, ha! Just a wee quinie but cheeky with it,’ says the boy who’s a fine one to speak. He makes a grab for the bag. Inside it, there’s only a pencil, rubber and a bit of torn-up towel for wiping a slate clean, but I’m determined to defend it. I swing it round my head, then, aiming it at his, cry, ‘I’m telling Dod on you, you insolent boy!’
Ever since Mum said the stirks had this look about them and explained its meaning, I’ve been dying to try the word out. This moment seems right, but whilst one of the group looks as if the word appeals to him, the other two find it hilarious.
‘Ha, ha! Dod’s insolence. That’s a big word for sicca wee quinie. We’ll call you Dod’s Insolence, then! Dod’s Insolence!’ They make it sound like a song, attracting the interest of the other pupils until another lad, taller than any of the three, ambles towards us, hands in his pocket, ball under his arm.
‘Come on, boys. Pick on somebody your ain size,’ he says. ‘Whit aboot a quick game o’ fitba?’
‘Good idea, Davy, she’s ower small,’ they agree and troop after him to the playing field. There’s a big oak tree in the middle, which spreads out sheltering arms and, along with a thrown-down jacket, makes for a handy goalpost.
Soon after, Elizabeth returns. ‘I was going at such a rate I near fell off, carrying those bloomin’ biscuits.’ She brandishes a brown paper bag stuffed full of pink wafer-thin-looking things. They might have hampered her progress, but her timing’s perfect.
A bell, repeatedly swung, rings out.
‘Schoo-all,’ everybody shouts, so I join in, except I think they’re shouting ‘Stoo-all’.
‘Ha, ha! She can say “insolence” but nay “school”.’ The words float mockingly after me as I join the group of pupils gathering to flock behind the stout, bell-wielding, clock-holding figure of Miss Milne into school.
The boys’ boots clatter on the classroom’s wooden floor, whilst dust particles, caught by a sunbeam, dance in the air, disturbed by a slightly open window. On one wall, there’s pictures of scenes of farms and farmyards, where Duck might be interested to learn that here her relations mingle happily with hens, and smiling men in spotless clothes lean on clean implement. Taking up a lot more space on another, and hung by string over a stout nail, is a map drawn on oiled cloth. It means nothing to me, and is of little interest, especially as its colours, if varied, are faded.
With the care of someone handling a precious item, Miss Milne places the clock on top of the piano, then, spreading her dress tidily about her, places her ample rear on the stool. It’ll be the only time she doesn’t stand in the classroom and might explain why, throughout the day, she’ll lean so much either over her lectern-type desk or against the cast-iron radiator on which she winds her soft, pale plump fingers. Already her feet, poised over the piano pedals, are slightly swollen.
‘Good morning, children.’ She bows her head as the pupils, gathering round, respond in a sing-song way. Spreading her fingers over the keys, she looks over her shoulder and says casually, ‘Before we start, I’d like you to welcome some new faces. We have Jane, Victor, Sandy and Violet.’
There’s just enough time to clock that those grouped together in shy acknowledgement of their names must be the Tomdow family before Miss Milne continues, ‘Now, we’ll sing, “Jesus Loves Me”.’
Thanks to Granny, Rabbit and church, I know the words and join in as lustily as the cheeky boy. He assumes a look of angelic innocence and turns up the volume. I follow. Then Elizabeth nudges and shoots me one of her darkest of looks. ‘Ssh! Not so loud,’ she whispers.
I sigh. It could be a long day.
25
AN EDUCATIONAL EXPERIENCE
‘Alec Macgregor. Come out here!’
Miss Milne wheels round from the blackboard, lifts the lid of her desk and takes out a heavy-looking brown strap, forked at the end. Her chalky fingers grasp it whilst her soft voice grows as sharp as her well-powdered nose. There’s a momentary silence broken by a droning sound coming from the road. It’s a pass
ing tractor. I wish I was on it.
There’s two girls in Primary Seven: Violet and Moira.
‘Moira, you’ll be Jane’s pupil-teacher. You’ll be looking after and helping her settle in,’ Miss Milne had instructed.
Moira does her very best, saying, ‘First day’s aye the worst. Jist keep yer heid doon.’ I like her open, sunny-natured face and the way she seems happy to share her desk and bench. It’s even vaguely reassuring that she’s quite unfazed by the sight of our belt-wielding teacher. ‘Dinna you worry. Teacher usually only belts the boys,’ she whispers.
It’s no comfort to a small one sitting nearby. He’s got large anxious eyes and threepenny-sized freckles that stand out on his white face. He begins to lick his lips and drum his fingers on his desk, gazing wide-eyed as Alec, the cheeky boy, hands in pockets, strolls to the front of the classroom.
Ignoring the ‘heid doon’ advice, I’d been watching, fascinated, as he industriously dipped bits of blotting paper into his desk inkwell. After fishing them out, he rolled them into pellets, then, carefully taking aim, and using his ruler as a firing device, flicked them at his pals: all the while with a straight face. His missiles met their target every time. At length, and with the teacher fully occupied, drawing on the blackboard, things were beginning to heat up. His pals scowled and were plainly planning to return fire when Alec had a miscalculation. One of the pellets went off course and landed at Miss Milne’s feet.
It was a combination of poor aim and timing. A few minutes beforehand, Elsie Macintosh, a girl with a lisp and red ribbons in enviably long, fat plaits, had been struggling to recognise the letter ‘S’. Miss Milne was equally challenged, drawing pictures to illustrate it.
With patience stretched to the limit, she tapped the blackboard with its scattering of long-necked objects. ‘Look, Elsie,’ she’d said. ‘You usually see them on water. What do you think they are?’
Elsie screwed up her face in deep thought, sucked a plait for a second, then, brow clearing, beamed. ‘That’th eathie, Mith. It’th a loth o’ bonny boathies.’