by Jane Yeadon
‘Och, sit down, it’s only me!’ she said.
Miss Milne took over. ‘Did any of you see anybody on the road?’
There was a lot of chat followed by a general shaking of heads. If Mrs Haggarty had a problem, it was as much ours as hers, but hard as we tried nobody had an answer.
Miss Milne, was keen to help. ‘Did you see anything or anybody acting strangely, Elizabeth?’ she asked. ‘You come the longest way on the main road.’
‘No, Miss.’
I was cross. First of all, James didn’t want me to be his conductress, then Miss Milne only asked Elizabeth if she’d seen anything out of the ordinary. She obviously didn’t appreciate that we each took the road at different times.
I pointed this out to my sister at playtime.
‘Well, did you see anything?’ she asked.
Before I’d time to think about any repercussions, I blurted out, ‘Yes. Actually I did. I saw a funny mannie.’
Then I produced what I considered to be a killer line, one that served her right for not coming with me. ‘You can see loads more from a lorry, and if you’d been in it you’d have seen him as well.’
31
A STORY WORTH THE TELLING
You’d think it was an emergency! Before I could stop her, Elizabeth had raced off to hammer on Miss Milne’s house door.
Miss Milne jerked it open. ‘What?’
My sister all but screamed, ‘Jane’s seen somebody!’
The teacher dropped her irritated look. All attention now, she said, ‘We must tell Mrs Haggarty. What did he look like?’
The entire school clustered round. The idea of an audience, usually appealing, did not apply. Rooted to the spot, I longed instead to run away and hide in the laurel bushes. Afterwards, it would have been easier to say that Elizabeth hadn’t been listening properly or been dreaming, or we’d had no such conversation. More creatively, I could have said that it was just a joke.
Unfortunately, it’s not obvious that Miss Milne’s got a sense of humour. The odd smile has been glimpsed, but if she laughed out loud the whole school might collapse with shock.
There was nothing for it. I plunged in deeper. Looking into the distance as if to get a better recall, I said, ‘He’d red hair and a beard.’ Actually the more I thought about it, the more real it seemed. ‘And an old coat. It didna hae a belt.’
‘Have not hae,’ Miss Milne automatically corrected. She looked at Elizabeth. ‘Didn’t you say you never saw anybody coming to school?’
‘She got a lift.’ Elizabeth jerked her head in my direction. ‘One of the men working at our farm just now took the time to take her in his lorry.’ She added in such a way that you’d have thought it was a crime, ‘It was really kind of him, especially as he’s so busy.’
‘So he’ll maybe be able to tell us if he saw him on his way back,’ said Miss Milne. ‘Maybe I should phone your mother and she could ask him.’
Horrified, I said, ‘She’s likely out. She’s very busy too, you know.’
‘Well, we’ll maybe just call the police and leave the investigation up to them. Now, once you’ve all finished your milk, we’ll go back into the classroom and get on with the work.’
Miss Milne’s determination was a worry. Other than making the acquaintance of Mr Plod in the Noddy storybooks, I’d never met a policeman but presumed the Forres one was unlikely to be as kindly. It’s a small consolation, but it’s a long cycle-haul from Forres to Dunphail. With a bit of luck, maybe his bike would get pinched as well.
Sadly, that hope died at dinnertime, when Mrs Haggarty said, ‘I’ve told the bobbies and they’ll want a word with you, Jane. But they can’t come until tomorrow.’
Now, it’s that tomorrow. There could have been a chance to say something last night. When we were having our tea, Dod said in a not entirely joking way, ‘Missing a bike, eh? Never mind that! For a while I thought we’d lost a lorry driver.’
‘From your description, it could be a tink, but they don’t pinch things. Mebbe take a loan, though,’ said Mum. After that the subject was dropped, though I did worry about Elizabeth bringing it up when we were in bed. However, she was far too taken up fretting about a spelling test.
‘Difficulty, now. That’s the one I’ve difficulty with,’ she says. At another time I might have thought it was a joke. Instead, I snap, ‘It’s easy. Look! It needs two “F”s to get it to rhyme right. Don’t you remember Miss Milne tapping her pointer on the floor in time to saying it?’
Silence falls after I spell out the word in a sing-song way. Lying sleepless through the night, I reckon my sister’s problem’s been solved, but it’s thanks to her that I’ve got a far bigger one.
In the morning, on leaving the house, Mum’s parting shot doesn’t help.
‘It’s a pity the lorry driver’s away today. He could have been a help. Still, if the bobby does come to the school, all you’ll have to do is tell him the truth.’
I could, but think that’s a risky business. I glance back at Tombain, maybe for a last glimpse, when Elizabeth passes. She rings her bell with the importance of someone who can ride a bike. ‘You’ll need to hurry up or you’ll be late, and that’ll put teacher in a bad mood,’ she says.
I’d be quickening my step past Tomdow cottage anyway. Its cottage windows stare blankly back as I pass them, wondering if the little girl’s returned and is watching. This particular morning I haven’t the courage or time to look somewhere that now holds a deserted air.
Dod’s words come back, as I carry on down the road. ‘Once the byre’s done, the Tomdow house must be next for improvement. And we should ask the laird if we can get an extra bit built on, too. It’s really far too wee for a family.’
Mum agrees. ‘And let’s see if we can get rid of that old wall mirror advertising Guinness. After that, it might start to look like a house and not like the old disreputable inn that it once was.’
The ash tree beside Tomdow’s steading is beginning to lose its leaves and, come springtime, it’ll be the last to grow new ones. I’ll miss seeing the funny-looking letters that the bare branches make against a winter sky and wonder what it’s like to wake up in prison. At least I won’t have to walk to school.
Our fields finish where the Knockack is spanned by a road bridge. It links two dangerous S-bends. In the future, they’ll bring sorrow to the family of a scooter driver unprepared not only for them but the treacherous camber of the road as well. Right now, there’s no traffic using it and, as I cross the bridge, I hear only the sound of the Knockack. It accompanies me until I climb the slight hill and walk past old Mrs Munro’s cottage at the roadside.
She’s out minding her vegetable patch and calls, ‘Aye, aye, Janie. I see you’re no’ in any hurry to get to school the day. I’m no’ even hearing yer blethers.’
Without Kenny, I’ve had to invent company and it’s no fun unless you share a conversation, even if it’s with somebody in your head. But, to tell you the truth, I’m a bit embarrassed that she’s heard me. I’ve to wait until she’s safely out of earshot before I call up my Funny Manny.
‘You’ve landed me in a right load of trouble,’ I tell him.
He doesn’t reply, but by the time we reach the Glebe I know that he’s no idea where the bike is. Anyway, he’d never dream of pinching anything. As for his appearance, it’s no wonder that he hasn’t had time to smarten himself up. He’s a part-time kelpie catcher and he’s also looking for his long-lost daughter.
‘I’m sure there’s one at Tomdow,’ I tell him. ‘Try there.’
In my mind’s eye, there’s such a touching reunion that, going up the last stretch, which we call the schoolie brae, I almost feel better.
‘Schoo-alll!’ the pupils call and I run to catch up with them filing in, the manny’s image as fresh in my eye as his words of gratitude are in my ears.
Elizabeth grabs me and whispers, ‘Mrs Haggarty’s got her bike. She didn’t know her husband had taken it.’
I should be glad, bu
t when I think of that poor little girl waiting to be claimed, and the manny’s story, I’m almost disappointed.
32
THE RIGHT ADDRESS
Mum lifts the wooden cover off the deep sink where she’s been steeping clothes. Over time, the lid itself has soaked up water, making it heavy with slimy edges. She totters under the weight of it as she tries to put it aside, but it slips from her grasp, to slide over the stone floor.
‘Damn! Ach, just you stay there, you sorrer,’ she says. It sounds like a handy word for playground use. I store it away whilst righting the offending lid.
‘Thanks, Janie.’ Mum sighs, then bends over the sink’s soggy collection. ‘Oh, for a washing machine!’
We seldom wear bright colours, but our dull navy-blue knickers and white school blouses meanwhile entwining in a shapeless mass will be soon transformed. Once they’re hung on the wire clothes-line strung between two larch trees, that eternal Tombain wind will breathe enough life to balloon them into funny-looking flags flapping Scotland’s colours.
But the image may not amuse Mum today. As she scrubs red soap over a blouse collar, then rubs it over the corrugated surface of a wash board, she muses, ‘After the byre improvements, I never saw such happy cows! I wonder if Maudie had been in those new bonny quarters would she have kicked your sister?’ Holding up the blouse, our devoted mother glares at it, then dumps it back into the water. ‘Honestly! I don’t know how you manage to get this so grubby.’
I don’t like the way this conversation’s going. ‘You were saying about the byre?’ I try.
Her voice softens. ‘Aye. Of course a damp-proof course wouldn’t mean anything to a cow, and we certainly didn’t think our ones would notice the new cement floor laid over it. But without cobbles underfoot, they fair skipped into the byre. Once they were there, they took to their new ultra-hygienic quarters right away. Even the cement feeding-boxes, replacing the straw and hay haiks, got their full approval.’
She goes on. I get the feeling that she’s speaking about herself. ‘You know this, Janie? They reminded me of hard-working women who’ve spent years running shockingly inconvenient houses. Now they’re delighted to have their attics, basements and big Belfast sinks transformed into a modern labour-saving unit.’
Any minute now, and especially in the absence of a washing machine, I reckon she’s going to move into the byre.
Our laird has agreed with Mum and Dod that the Tomdow cottage needs modernising and I wonder if, once the work’s finished, we might fetch up living in it. I’m not sure if that’d be a good idea. It’s very close to the road and hasn’t any trees. I now know that our larch witches are harmless, but if the little girl comes back I’m not sure that she is.
‘Mum says you’ve to stop going on about that little girl,’ Elizabeth told me. ‘She said that when you get something into your head, nothing short of a bullet will shift it.’
I’m appalled. ‘I don’t believe you!’
‘Well, now you know what that’s like. Anyway, it’s all in your bloomin’ imagination. Remember all the hours you’ve wasted, tapping on Granny’s walls looking for a secret passage?’ She gets into her stride. ’And of course, there’s this business of looking everywhere for a piano. You even think that Granny might have one, she just hasn’t got round to telling you where it is.’
Ignoring her, I think about the piano tuner coming to the school. He got all sorts of funny noises when he was working on it, but after he finished he played something so wonderful it drew beautiful and exciting pictures in my head. I’d love to learn how to do that. The dream of having a horse hasn’t completely gone, but a piano doesn’t need hay. Maybe I could get that instead.
Rubble from Tomdow’s been dumped in a careless heap at the road edge. Tonight, on my way home from school, I’ll look for the Guinness mirror: see if it lands here as well.
The sound of the workmen, hammering and shouting, floats through the open door. I wish Victor was coming out of it instead. He always knew what was going on at school and would tell me if there was anything new happening.
‘How d’you know all this?’ I asked him once.
‘I listen.’
He’d said it in such a dreamy way, it was difficult to take offence or consider it might apply.
The school day starts in the usual way, but we don’t spend as much time singing round the piano.
Miss Milne explains. ‘Remember, it’s Music and Movement today, so, boys, go and push back the desks so there’s plenty room and we’re in time for the programme.’
If Victor had been there, he’d have heard her add, and then may have told me, to expect a visit from the school nurse and doctor. They’ll call after the interval. Unfortunately, I’ve either drifted off at this point or gone to the cloakroom to change into sandshoes. They’re better wear for a radio school music activity that teaches song and dance.
A few minutes before it starts, Miss Milne will stretch up to the wide windowsill where the big wireless sits. As she twiddles with its two controlling knobs, odd noises emanate from it, to all but her amusement. Alec holds his nose and makes a hand signal, indicating a chain being pulled.
‘I’ll laugh the other side of your face,’ she says unsurprisingly.
The wireless is as big as Granny’s one but not as fancy – certainly not as polished and is beginning to get sun-bleached.
‘What can you expect when you’ve something too heavy to be moved from somewhere that the sun gets it. It’s a monster of a thing,’ Mrs Haggarty declares, ‘but there’s nowhere else for it to go.’ She flaps a duster at the machine in disgust. ‘Tch! Newfangled ideas!’
‘Good morning, boys and girls.’ A lady with a voice unlikely to be heard in the playing fields of Dunphail greets us, as she must do the nation’s tuned-in primary schools. ‘Let’s warm up and start today with a nice new song. I want you to imagine that you’re donkeys. Nice trots now, as we go along.’
‘That should be easy for some of us,’ Alec whispers, and as the music starts he starts to galumph about in a way reminiscent of a Clydesdale horse.
Miss Milne ignores this and takes her usual spot. If I wasn’t so busy looking for my bridle, I’d swear there was a glimpse of her looking amused. Meantime, the lady warbles.
Were you ever in Tibet?
Donkey riding, donkey riding
Were you ever in Tibet
Riding on a donkey?
There’s cracks and whistles from the wireless, the wooden floor bounces under the weight of creative expression, garters are shoved to the ankles and faces grow red with endeavour as we trot and canter round the floor. The pong of heating sandshoes adds rubber to the smell of our over-heating bodies. Getting into the swing of things, and with a bit of shoving and pushing, we’re all heading for a full-blown display of hee-hawing donkey savagery when the wireless lady must have heard us.
Her voice comes over. ‘Now, boys and girls, I hope we’re singing too.’ She says it in a tone calm enough to control every participating pupil throughout Britain, whilst Miss Milne moves away from the radiator and begins to clear the table beside her desk. As she puts away the usual clutter of paper and jotters, she includes the small box of Unusual Object. This could be exciting. Speaking personally, I’ve found that after the first few weeks on display, the porcupine quill and ostrich egg have lost their rarity appeal. Now slowed down to jogging on the spot, I start to look forward. Maybe after playtime the box will come back full of other, more exciting things.
Space cleared, Miss Milne looks at it with a satisfied expression. She checks the clock. ‘Playtime in a few minutes,’ she says.
A new family’s come to the district and there’s a child from it in every class but mine. They stick together in such a strong clan even Alec and his pals don’t bother with their induction programme of tease and mockery. I don’t know where the family stays but think they may live near the Dunphail garage.
There’s a cluster of houses close to it and about half a mile from
the train station on the Forres side, but we only pass that way by car and that’s not very often. It’s a part of our parish that I don’t know much about, except that quite a few workers for the Dunphail estate live there. Anyway, our playtimes are so full of action there’s never the time or interest to ask anybody anything about where they live. Meanwhile, the new family merges seamlessly into a game of rounders and shares everyone’s disappointment when Miss Milne appears.
‘She’s nay got her bell!’ There’s a buzz of surprise, especially after our teacher says in a mild voice, ‘Playtime’s over, children.’
‘That’s jist cos she’s that two wifies wi’ her,’ says Alec, ‘I’m surprised that yon ane wi’ the white coat can move in it.’
‘It’ll be the starch,’ says Moira. ‘And that’ll be the district nurse in the blue frock. Miss Milne said they’d be coming.’
It’s disappointing to see that the table’s empty of Unusual Objects and, after the ladies spread paperwork out on it, it still looks pretty boring. As they take their seats behind the desk, they seem so business-like and serious, they begin to look a bit frightening. Seeing Elizabeth biting her nails doesn’t help.
‘We’d like you to come up to us, singly please.’ Even if the lady in the white coat speaks with a low voice, it carries command.
‘Right! We’ll start with Primary Seven,’ says Miss Milne, and points to the newest pupil.
I watch closely and listen hard. The lady in the white coat seems to be asking some kind of question. It’s hard to hear what because she speaks so softly. Whilst the new pupils answer clearly, the others lower their voices, but always she nods, then writes something down on a form whilst the nurse looking on takes notes.
I strain my ears, but the only audible response comes from the new pupils. As if it’s a badge of honour and she’s hard of hearing, they shout, ‘Dunphail Home Farm.’