by Jane Yeadon
‘No! Not boathies, I mean boats. They’re actually swans, Elthie – I mean Elsie. Swans! And they hisssss!’ She said this with feeling and banged the blackboard, which wobbled on unsteady legs and almost disappeared in a cloud of chalk dust. ‘Now say after me, “S is for swans.”’
‘Th ith for thwans.’
Despite Elsie’s best efforts, they haven’t helped Miss Milne’s temper (nor stopped a snigger sweeping round the classroom) until the unexpected arrival of the pellet at her feet does.
She glares. ‘Stop that or I’ll laugh the other side of your faces,’ she snaps.
As Alec mooches towards her, she lifts the strap. It lands on his outstretched, ink-stained hand; the forks wrap round it as if determined to have the last word. His palm dips slightly, but he keeps a smirk in place until Miss Milne raises the strap again.
‘Please, miss, I need the toilet.’
The small boy’s voice startles her. A girl sharing his desk retreats to the edge of its bench. As he stands up, clutching himself, Miss Milne darts an exasperated look at him, then, stepping forward to have a look, frowns a little. There’s a damp patch where he’s been sitting.
‘Oh, very well, James, and see Miss May afterwards, and you, Alec, go back to your seat and get on with your writing.’
Whilst James practically runs out of the room, Alec strolls back. His head’s high, but when he sits at his desk, I see him rubbing his palms together. He might have been trying to do this quietly but it makes the sound of someone running sandpaper over wood.
It’s the interval and Moira’s gone to show Violet a space in the laurel bushes so large it’s like a green-leafed room.
I’m sorry to see her go, especially since Elizabeth’s taken on the minder role. The biscuits she said were such a bargain aren’t really biscuits. Mattie must have been delighted to get rid of so many wafers, normally used to sandwich ice cream but now soft.
‘Tastes horrible,’ I say.
In an unusual instance of determination to share, Elizabeth says, ‘Stop complaining. We got a whole bagful. If you’re that fussy, you can wash them down with the milk. Come on. It’s beside the boiler in the cloakroom. Mrs Haggarty puts it there.’
‘Mrs Haggarty?’
‘She stokes the boiler in the winter and she’s the cleaner. She’s super – the big ones get to sit with her at her table at dinnertime. Afterwards, they help carry the dirty dishes over to the canteen. They get a right laugh with her, she’s aye so cheery.’
The milk comes in silver-topped half-pint-sized bottles, along with a box of straws in a crate. We’ve to keep the tops. Apparently blind dogs benefit from them; it’s not clear to me why. The milk’s cold and tastes different from the warm stuff that comes courtesy of Charlotte. In winter, the boiler’s heat will often be needed to thaw out the bottles’ contents. Meanwhile the big iron monster remains unlit and I wonder how James will dry the wet patch on his shorts. Then he appears wearing different clothes.
They fit him better and even if he hasn’t a play piece he looks cheerier. ‘Miss May sorted me, and I’m not hungry,’ he says, screwing up his nose at our offered wafers.
I don’t really want drying-out attention from Miss May but need to find a toilet. I’m sure there’s one in a lean-to affair at the top of a small but very steep hill with the canteen sited at the bottom.
‘I’m telling the teacher on you. Use yer ain,’ snaps an affronted boy when I peep round the corner of what is very obviously not the girls’ toilet.
Our ones are beside the bike shelter. The school has a variety of sheds. All share the boundary wall between the school and the railway track but green doors with huge spaces, top and bottom, mark my destination. They lead into two tiny stone-floored cell-like spaces occupied by the lingering smell of long-dead fish. Whitewash on the walls helps make for a brighter place, but you wouldn’t want to stay here long – especially in winter dark, when there’s no light outside or any inside these bleak little places.
Thinking that the toilet paper might be handier as tracing paper, I sit down. A second after, there’s a crash, clatter, rumble and a roar. The toilet chain swings and my wooden seat vibrates enough for me to think I might get splinters off it. I might have cried out, but all sound is drowned out as a passing train shrieks that it’s on its way to Dunphail station.
Into the small following silence, the school bell tolls.
During the interval, Miss Milne must have wiped off the swans so vigorously there’s a chalky cloud hanging above the blackboard. Starting to draw on it again, she says, ‘This is something for you, Jane.’
I’m anxious until she’s finished, when it’s a relief to recognise she’s drawn a recognisable apple and a bat jammed to a ball. She taps her artwork and continues, ‘That’s for “A” and “B”! It’s the beginning of the alphabet – the letters you’ll use for writing.’ She picks up a limp-looking book from her table. ‘And here’s your reading book. When you go home, you must cover it. It’s school property. New books are too expensive for our funds. Look and see if you can find letters like I’ve drawn in it.’
Worried in case the book, with its well-thumbed pages, disintegrates, I lift the first one with my fingertips. When Elizabeth got her first book, I’d a good look at it and don’t remember it having this one’s gluey smell or worn cover. The Red Letter might lack coloured illustrations but I bet its stories are livelier than the gentle activities pictured here. Anyway, I’ve seen them already. Quite soon, and tiring of the letter-search, I watch Moira.
She’s busy. ‘Up light and down heavy,’ were Miss Milne’s instructions to the class working on their writing skills. Carefully, Moira dips a pen’s nib into the inkwell sunk into the desk. She taps the surplus back, then, scarcely breathing, bends over her lined jotter.
The word ‘Writing’ appears in beautiful script. Smoothly, she moves on to words below it. I don’t know what they say, but Miss Milne, looking over Moira’s shoulder, smiles in approval.
Alec’s equally occupied, but his pen makes such a scratching sound I glance over and see a lot of ink splotches all over the paper. So does Miss Milne, whose hands start to tremble.
‘Wirting, Alec? That’s “wirting” you’ve written . . . again. How many times have I to tell you, this is an exercise in wrriting.’ She stabs a finger over the offending word on the page and looks at it in disgust since it’s now covered in ink. ‘You always get your “R”s in the wrong place and what a mess! You’re just not trying.’
‘Oh but I am, Miss,’ protests Alec, assuming a look of complete innocence. ‘I are trying.’
26
AN ERROR OF JUDGEMENT
‘So, how’s the scholar?’ Mrs Bremner asks when I deliver the milk.
‘I lost my schoolbag.’
She swings round from the sink where she’s been peeling tatties with a knife. A thin metal rod is all that’s left of its bone handle.
‘How?’
I know the Bremners don’t have much, and treasure the small possessions they do own, but all that’s forgotten as I spill out resentment. ‘It wisna my fault. When I got hame, I was too tired tae go back and look for it. Us wee ones might get out of school early, but by the time Kenny and me walked that long road home, the bigger ones who all had bikes could’ve beaten us to it if they hidna been caperin.’ I squirm on the sofa and include Lala in a room-sweeping glare.
‘If the wind changes direction, your face’ll stick,’ warns Mrs Bremner. ‘So whit happened tae the bag?’
‘Well! The school lavvies are terrible. I only went the once, so by the time we were halfway home I wis fair burstin’.’ I clutch myself in recall, then continue. ‘I pit ma bag doon afore I went behind a bush, then I forgot to pick it up afterwards.’
‘What did your mum say?’
‘You’ll mebbe no believe this, but she never even asked how I got on at school!’ I haven’t yet recovered from the shock, but manage to continue. ‘No! The minute I got home, the first thing she said
was, “Where’s your bag?” I draw breath, then continue, ‘When I told her where it might be, she tried to get me to walk back.’ I’m outraged. ‘All that way! Said she’d give me an apple if I went. She was ower busy tae tak’ me.’
Mrs Bremner screws the sink tap very firmly, then says in a quiet voice, ‘So, then?’
‘Well, she did eventually tak’ me in the car.’ I consider for a moment, then say, ‘I didna think it could go so fast.’
Mrs Bremner, raising an eyebrow, now asks, ‘Was there anything much in the bag?’
‘A smelly old reading book. Teacher told me I’d to cover it, but Elizabeth said she’d do it, along with her own books. According to her, I’d use too much brown paper and wouldna do it right either.’
I shift along the sofa. These days, it’s getting so uncomfortable: either my legs are growing or my kilt’s shrinking.
‘And did you get homework?’
‘No, that was it.’
As tattie peeling resumes, I add, ‘Mind you, one good thing about school’s the dinners.’ Sensing that in some way I’ve fallen out of favour, I add, ‘But the custard’s nay sae good as yours.’
Mrs Bremner begins to sound less frosty. ‘So ye get custard at school! That’s funny, we’re haen some for oor tea. It’s on the fire.’ She nods at the long-handled black pan. It’s small compared to the aluminium containers used to transport our school meals from the Logie one where they’re cooked.
A jokey man delivers them the five-mile distance. Today, carrying them through to the school dining room, he noticed the classroom door was open.
Earlier on, Miss Milne said she’d eyes at the back of her head, but I’m not convinced. Whilst busy at the blackboard, she neither saw him pulling faces nor us sticking out our tongues at him. It was fun but probably not interesting enough to include in this dinner tale.
‘Mind you, Mrs Bremner, and Lala,’ I add, feeling I don’t want to exclude him since he seems to be actually listening, ‘teacher said there was enough for second helpings an’ poor Sandy Burgess got a right row jist cos when it came tae the pudden, he said he only wanted the pastry bit of it.’
It had been a worrying moment. Miss Milne, ladle in hand, looked so outraged at the request, for a moment we thought she might throw the whole caboodle over Sandy’s suddenly anxious face.
‘You’ll take this and like it,’ she’d snapped and splashed on enough custard to smother the taste of the small piece of jam tart she’d so grudgingly given.
‘Mebbe she thought he shouldna be sae fussy. What else did you get?’
‘Mental soup. That wis for starters.’
‘That wid fair help ye wi’ yer sums,’ she twinkles, whilst Lala drops his eyes to concentrate on filling his pipe.
‘Ooh, I dinna ken aboot that,’ I say, recalling being given a slate and trying to copy figures from the blackboard onto it with a slate pencil that screamed if you pressed too hard on it. The slate cleaning cloth Mum had given me had come in handy, but it needed a lot of spit to get it to work better.
‘So, Janie, whit wis the best thing aboot the day?’
‘That’s easy! Playtimes.’
I could tell them how imaginative Moira and Violet had turned their laurel-bush home into a shop, inviting everybody to come and buy. Then, remembering both Elizabeth and my disappointment that not one person wanted to exchange the crisp note of a laurel leaf for lots of Mattie’s soft wafers to buy imaginary sweets, I opt for a more successful tale.
‘I got to hold one end of a skipping rope. Ye ken this, some of the quines are so good that when the rope’s spinning they can run in and skip, then run out without stopping the rope. They do it in time to something called “Two Little Dickie Birds”. Would you like to hear what they say?’
Without waiting for an answer, I get off the sofa and, in time to jumping on the spot, chant: ‘Two little dickie birds sitting on a wall, one named Peter and the other one Paul. Fly away Peter, fly away Paul. Come back Peter, come back Paul.’
Mrs Bremner shakes her head. ‘You’d certainly need to be quick and good at that. Peter and Paul, eh?’ She casts an eye at the photographs on the mantelpiece. ‘But I bet there weren’t any loons skipping. What were they up to? Nothing good, I bet.’
I agree. ‘Miss Milne read them a story about the bump on a toad’s head. Said it was a jewel, so, as soon as it was playtime, they went looking for one. They’d a knife and said if they found one they’d cut it open to see if it wis true.’
I take a breath, imagining the horror of it, then with pride add, ‘But Elizabeth told them not to be so daft.’
She laughs. ‘And what did they say?’
‘If conceit wis consumption, she’d be deid.’
A long silence descends. I wasn’t sure what the words meant but thought, because the boys had doubled up laughing after they said them, that it was a kind of joke. Now I’m frightened to see pain manage a flicker across Lala’s still face, whilst Mrs Bremner looks shocked. She’s got a big angry-looking scratch on her arm, which she covers with a protective hand as if suddenly aware of it.
The clock ticks, the fire crackles and there’s a smell of burning.
Mrs Bremner breaks her silence. ‘Och! The custard.’ Darting to save it, she mutters over her shoulder, ‘Mebbe ye’d better go for your ain tea.’ I get a message of hurt and displeasure and, without the offer of a Butter Ba, slink home.
‘Consumption’s another word for TB, and it’s what two of the Bremner lads died of,’ says Mum when she finds me in bed, sorrowfully holding Rabbit and soaking his vest with my tears. She sits beside me. ‘It’s only recently that there’s been a cure for what was a terrible scourge. In darker days than we have now, caring for sufferers must have been dreadful and backbreaking work. Mrs Bremner was not only running the home but caring for two and all at the same time.’ She pats me gently on the shoulder. ‘Of course you wouldn’t have known any of this or that there was only a couple of months between each death, but maybe you’ll understand why, to this day, an awful shadow’s been cast over the family.’
Remembering the photograph where they’re missing, I say, ‘Dod couldn’t have been very old.’
‘No, he was only ten, but old enough to know and be frightened by what was going on. It didn’t help when someone told him he’d be the next one to die.’ She sighs and shakes her head. ‘People can say such thoughtless things. Lord knows how Mrs Bremner managed to keep the rest of the family safe. It’s a terrible disease.’
She gets up and in a brisker voice says, ‘But she did. She’s a remarkable woman and, despite the history, all the rest of the family are hale and hearty. Now come on through for your tea. You’ll be hungry, and afterwards we’ve a surprise for the two of you.’
Mum and Dod are heading towards the old hayloft, which is above the neep store and tractor shed. The Bremner’s house is only a few yards away and I panic when I see Mrs Bremner waving her fist from her porch.
Turning and catching my expression, Mum says, ‘I’ve spoken to her and explained that you didn’t mean any harm. It’s all right – just you run over and have a wee word with her.’
I’m ready with an apology, but Mrs Bremner beats me to it. ‘Hold out yer hand, Jeannie,’ she says, and I do, because she’s smiling and opening her fist to drop something into my palm. ‘I forgot tae gie ye yer Butter Ba,’ she says.
‘Ooh. Ta!’ I cry, suddenly light-hearted. ‘I’ll see you the morn.’
I skip over to Mum and Dod, standing at the loft door. Elizabeth’s impatiently hopping at the bottom of the wooden steps leading up to it. ‘Come on, I’ve had to wait for you,’ she says, but as soon as I reach her she races up the steps, taking two at a time.
‘Are ye right, quines?’ asks Dod, then, without waiting for an answer, pushes open the door. Daylight, helped by two skylight windows, floods into a small, quiet place. It’s different from the barn loft, which has the busy feel of a place regularly visited either to store or get sacks of calf feed. Th
ere, the policing cats prowl; here, Bluebell and Belinda sit, propped against a stone wall on top of an old wooden chest.
‘That’s my kist,’ says Dod, giving a mischievous smile. ‘I’m thinking ma traivlin’ days are ower.’
‘Och, Geordie!’ says Mum, going pink, changing the subject and explaining. ‘It was getting a bit of a squash in the house. This place wasn’t being used, so we thought you’d like it to play in.’ She adds with feeling, ‘More room for everybody.’
I’m surprised we hadn’t missed the cardboard box of toys, the dolls or the wooden bagatelle game kind neighbours have given us on a long-term loan. School’s taken us over completely and now I feel guilty not to have noticed that poor Belinda’s been moved. I bet she’s not even been consulted if she wanted to go. I don’t know where the pictures of Highland cattle have come from, but they’re not that happy. Maybe it’s because they’re up to their ankles in water. They look down gloomily from two gilt-edged pictures, hung on the roof’s rafters by Glesga Jock. As far as I can make out from Elizabeth, Bluebell’s not a great conversationalist. My poor doll! She must be lonely.
Still, it’s great to have a lot more space, even if it’s only got half the potential for circus training as the barn. I’m thinking of dropping those career plans anyway. The cats have refused their training programme and Dobbin’s getting too small. Heights are maybe not my thing. The tightrope practice on the fence was hardly a success – and being completely winded after plummeting from a tree I’d been climbing was terrifying.
‘You will breathe – eventually,’ Elizabeth had said. As it seemed unlikely at the time, her reassurance had been encouraging.
‘It’ll be a fine place if you want the Tomdow bairns to come and play here too,’ continues Mum.
Much as I love the idea, Kenny might not. On our way home, I’d asked him if he’d seen the little girl.