Primrose Square

by Anne Douglas

  With a quick smile, she withdrew, leaving the maids to set down their cups with a nervous clatter, while exchanging anxious looks.

  ‘No’ means the sack, does it?’ Mattie whispered.

  ‘Oh, no!’ cried plump Ada, as Gerda’s jaw dropped and Elinor’s dark eyes flashed.

  ‘Miss Ainslie’s hardly going to sack us all, Mattie,’ Elinor said quickly. ‘We’re needed.’

  ‘Everybody can be done without,’ Mrs Petrie said cheerfully, then relented. ‘Of course Miss Ainslie’s no’ going to give you the sack, Mattie! She’ll just be wanting to ask you to do something. She’s always got something she wants folk to do.’

  ‘Does she want you to do something, Mrs Petrie?’ Gerda asked.

  ‘That’s between her and me,’ the cook answered loftily. ‘But she knows I’ve too much to do to get involved with anything outside this kitchen. Now you lassies had better get off to her office, and Sal, you get the cups washed. Vera, you can do the coffee, so’s Ada and Gerda can take it up when they’ve seen Miss Ainslie. I’ve the soup to start.’

  Still looking apprehensive, the maids filed out of the kitchen, some shaking their heads.

  ‘Think Miss Ainslie will want us to do something?’ Mattie whispered to Elinor. ‘How will we find the time?’

  ‘Couldn’t say, but I have the feeling Mrs Petrie knows what’s going on.’

  ‘What is? What’s going on?’

  ‘Have to wait and see.’

  Four

  Miss Ainslie’s office was at the back of the house with no view of the square, only the rear garden where the maids pegged out clothes not destined for the laundry. For this reason it had no great appeal for Elinor, but she had to agree that it was a fine room all the same. Perhaps once the study of the man of the house when it had been privately owned, it was now furnished with a mahogany desk, bookshelves, filing cupboards and a table for Miss Denny’s typewriter. The flowers at the window had probably been provided by Miss Ainslie, and she herself, standing to greet the girls as they trooped nervously in, was pleasantly smiling.

  Almost forty years of age, she was slightly built and short, not much taller than Mrs Petrie, and had, some thought, the look of a bird, with a slightly beaked nose and darting brown eyes. She wore a pale blue shirtwaist blouse, on which was pinned a gold watch, and a family signet ring on her right hand, but there was no ring on her left hand for she was neither engaged nor married. Past it now, poor thing, thought some of the maids, though Elinor would have said that Miss Ainslie probably didn’t want to marry. Independence would be what she wanted, and what, in fact, she seemed to have.

  ‘Now, girls,’ she was saying, closing the door on Ada, the last one in, ‘don’t look so worried. I’m sure there’s no need to be worried about anything I have to say to you.’

  A little ripple of sighs ran round the maids as Miss Ainslie returned to stand behind her desk, though whether the sighs were truly of relief was doubtful. The manageress might have very different ideas on what was worrying and what was not, and everyone wanted to hear first just what she had to say before they could relax. Even Elinor, in spite of her confidence, was somewhat apprehensive, and glanced at Gerda to see how she was feeling. A waste of time of course, for Gerda never gave much away.

  What happened next came as a surprise, for Miss Ainslie, turning to her desk, took up a large poster and held it high for everyone to see. ‘Votes for Women’ it read, in uneven capitals, and they all stared.

  ‘You’ll have seen posters like this around?’ Miss Ainslie asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Gerda replied, after a short silence. ‘We’ve seen ’em.’

  And of course they had. Unless you’d been living underground for the past few years, you couldn’t have missed them. Suffragettes posters – they were everywhere, together with reports of women smashing windows, setting fire to post boxes, going to gaol. But why was Miss Ainslie showing this poster to her maids? Was she a suffragette, then? If so, she’d kept it pretty dark. But she must know that that cause could be of no interest to them. Even if some women ever did get the vote, lassies like them never would.

  Her keen gaze travelling from face to face, Miss Ainslie laid the poster down.

  ‘I expect some of you, when you see such notices, think the campaign is nothing to do with you? But I’ve called you together to tell you that you couldn’t be more wrong.’ She smiled a little. ‘So, you see, what I have to say is not about work, or duties, which is why there’s no need for any of you to worry.’

  Certainly no sack for anyone, then, but an idea was forming of where this could all be leading. Impossible, of course, if true, but they’d have to hear her out. As they looked at her expectantly, Miss Ainslie, clearing her throat, began to speak again.

  ‘What I want to ask you today is to think about coming to join me – and others – in the struggle for justice. We need you, you see. We need girls like you, who can bring youth and enthusiasm and make men understand we’re not just a bunch of older women with bees in our bonnets. What we’re striving for is something of fundamental importance to everyone – to choose the people who will decide how this country is governed, to have a say in what should be done. At present, only men have that right, yet there are as many women as men, and it’s been proved that women can be just as clever. Think about all the women teachers! The women who are now accepted for training as doctors! Yet they have no vote.’

  So, thought the listening girls, they’d been right in their guess of what Miss Ainslie might want them to do. She spoke well, she was convincing, but could she really believe they’d join her? Elinor raised her hand.

  ‘Mind if I ask, Miss Ainslie, but is it true you’re a suffragette yourself? We never knew.’

  The manageress hesitated a moment. ‘I am,’ she said at last, her voice firm and strong. ‘I may not talk about my interests at the Primrose, but they are very important to me. Some people here might have the wrong idea of what we stand for, and I prefer not to be involved in discussion with club members. I could not be keener, though, to see women get the vote, and I want you girls to be keen, too.’

  She leaned forward a little, holding them still with her bright, bird-like gaze.

  ‘Will you consider it, then? Helping us in our fight? It would mean so much.’

  A silence fell, the girls shifting uneasily, managing to look away.

  ‘I don’t think it’s for us,’ Elinor said at last.

  ‘Apart from anything else, we’re too young,’ Gerda added.

  ‘Aye, too young,’ voices chimed.

  ‘No, no!’ cried Miss Ainslie. ‘I have said, it’s young people we need. And by the time we get the vote, you will be of age, I promise you, so don’t let your youth stop you coming forward. Come to one of our meetings. I have cards with details which I’ll pass round. Take one and at least think about hearing what we have to say. Will you all do that?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Ainslie,’ they answered readily, accepting the cards she was beginning to hand out. Oh, thank the Lord, they could agree to that and not upset her. Then if she asked them later what they’d decided, they could make up some excuse for not going. Whatever happened, no one had any intention of giving up precious time off for the sake of attending a suffragette meeting. Miss Ainslie was a wonderful lady and a very kind boss, but she really didn’t have the faintest idea how much their time off meant to girls in service, or how they liked to spend it. Only Elinor was still studying the card when she and the other maids left Miss Ainslie’s office, and it was Elinor she called back.

  ‘I won’t keep you, Elinor, but if you don’t mind, I’d just like another quick word.’

  Of course I don’t mind, Elinor thought, but it wouldn’t matter if she did, would it? She had to admire Miss Ainslie’s manners, though. It was what her staff liked about her, that she was as polite to them as to the club members. Made them feel they’d like to please her, only Elinor knew that that wouldn’t include attending her meetings.

  ‘I saw you
reading my card,’ Miss Ainslie was saying. ‘It seemed to me you were more interested in my appeal, perhaps, than some of the others.’ She laughed a little. ‘I’m not really expecting much of a response – Miss Denny is with me, but I have to tell you I got nowhere with Mrs Petrie or Vera.’

  Elinor nodded. ‘Mrs Petrie’d never agree, and when she says no, so does Vera. Sal’s the same.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ The manageress sighed. ‘But I have great hopes of you, Elinor. I have the feeling that you understand what we want, even though you said it wasn’t for you. But how can you know, unless you give it a try? Unless you come to our meetings, listen to us speak?’

  ‘I’d like the vote, Miss Ainslie, but is there much chance of it for someone like me without property?’

  ‘We want women from every walk of life to think about having the vote,’ Miss Ainslie cried fiercely. ‘To work for it, shoulder to shoulder, to achieve it together! That’s why I’m trying to get you and the other girls here to come to our meetings. See that working for the vote is not just for the privileged. Remember, I also work for my living.’

  Elinor looked at her doubtfully. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘There’s all this violence to think about, eh? Look at that lady who threw herself in front of the King’s horse the other day. I’d never be keen to get mixed up in that sort of thing, or breaking windows, maybe going to gaol.’

  ‘You would never be asked to do that, I give you my word. I personally am against all militant action, anyway, but as a group, we would never seek to involve you in violence. Look, what do you say then? Will you come to our next meeting?’

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.’

  ‘That’s all I ask.’ A smile lit Miss Ainslie’s features. ‘I know that when you’ve considered it, you’ll come to a fair decision. You are an intelligent girl, Elinor. I’ve always known that and I think you’ll do well.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Ainslie.’ With some relief, Elinor turned for the door. ‘Now I’d better get back to work.’

  ‘Just do what you think best about the meeting. As I say, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘What happened to you, then?’ Mattie asked when Elinor joined her to begin washing down one of the bathrooms.

  ‘Oh, Miss Ainslie was just trying to make me go to her meeting.’

  ‘You never said you would?’

  ‘Said I’d think about it.’

  ‘That’s right, that’s good. We don’t want to be mixed up in it, eh? My dad thinks all suffragettes should be locked up.’

  ‘Bet mine thinks the same, but he’s never said.’ Elinor dipped her sponge into a pail of hot water and began to clean the bathroom tiles.

  ‘Might find out when you go round. You always like to go to Friar’s Wynd on your time off, eh?’

  ‘Oh, yes, see the folks.’ Elinor rubbed the tiles hard. Hoping for the best, she thought.

  Five

  Elinor’s free evenings came on Fridays, usually from four o’clock to nine – or ten with special permission. Twice a month, she also had Saturday afternoon off, but she preferred to do her shopping then, or maybe go out with Gerda or Mattie, keeping her free evenings for her family.

  She had no ‘followers’, as male admirers were called, they having been strictly forbidden in the lawyer’s house where she had first worked, and though permitted at the Primrose, only Ada could claim to have a ‘young man’. He was from her home tenement and could often be seen hanging round the area steps waiting for her on her free evenings, much to Mrs Petrie’s disapproval. Still, if it was all right with Miss Ainslie, it should be good enough for Mrs Petrie, Ada would declare, usually adding, ‘Silly old thing, eh? How’d she ever get married herself if she couldn’t have a follower?’

  ‘How will any of us ever get married?’ Mattie would often sigh.

  Marriage was not something Elinor cared to think about. Sometimes, when she remembered her mother, she would decide she didn’t want it. At other times, she’d look ahead and wonder if she might take it on, supposing she met just the right person. But who knew what was in the future? For the present, she felt she wasn’t ready, anyway, to sink her life into someone else’s. Och, no, she’d enough to think about. Especially on Fridays, when she returned to Friar’s Wynd.

  Always, when she had to make her way from the pleasant West End to the other side of the city where the Wynd crossed from the High Street into the Cowgate, a certain gloom descended. It was not just that the journey by tram seemed so long and noisy, or that when she reached her stop she met the dark buildings of her childhood again and the sunlight began to fade – no, it was much more the uncertainty of how things would be at home.

  All depended on her father’s moods. If he was in a good mood, you could relax and breathe again. If not, you just had to weather the storm. It always died down, he always got over whatever had spiralled him into a temper, but they all walked on eggshells until they knew how things would go.

  Mind, there were plenty of fathers worse than Walter Rae. He was not a brutal man, and though his children had had their ears boxed when they’d misbehaved, he didn’t go in for beating his family. Elinor and Corrie could be grateful for that, then, as their mother certainly was, but the truth was his dominance over them didn’t leave much room for gratitude. And when you were wondering when the next flare-up was coming, when the eyes would be flashing and the voice rising, you couldn’t do much except keep your head down and hope you weren’t the target.

  Sometimes, Elinor would compare her dad with Mrs Petrie, but tyrant though Mrs Petrie was, it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t family, was she?

  On that first Friday afternoon after Miss Ainslie’s talk, Elinor made her way home as usual. The day was hot with no prospect yet of cooling, and as she left the tram and began to walk down the Wynd between the dark cliffs of tenements on either side, she felt stifled, as though there was no air. She had taken off her jacket, but the collar of her blouse was too high, seeming to grip her throat, and she undid the top button, breathing hard, then pushed back her straw hat from her glistening brow.

  If only women didn’t have to wear such long skirts! She could feel the warm dust from the pavement rising up her stockinged legs as she walked, and the mad thought crossed her mind – what would happen if girls like her just suddenly cut their skirts off right up to the knees? Och, they’d be locked up, so they would. But think of the relief!

  Stepping round a group of children chalking the pavement, she paused as someone called her name and turned her head.

  ‘Hallo, Elinor!’

  It was a fellow waving to her from the other side of the street. He wore paint-stained overalls and his cap on the back of his head showed his curly light-brown hair. Even from a distance, she could see his hazel eyes were bright. ‘Just going to your dad’s?’

  She stood still, trying to remember his name, for she knew him; he’d been in her class at school. Hadn’t seen him since then, and he certainly wasn’t from the Wynd.

  Barry. The name popped out of her memory. Barry Howat. Cheerful laddie, but given to teasing.

  ‘What are you doing round here?’ she called, walking on.

  ‘Been doing a wee job in the tenements.’ He, too, was walking on, making no effort to cross over to join her. ‘Just going home.’

  Two boys tore past him, chasing after a can they’d been kicking, and he neatly cut in and kicked it for them, far away up the street.

  ‘Ah, you’re too quick!’ one told him, running after it, and he laughed.

  ‘That’s because I play football, eh? Get some practice in, lads. Elinor, cheerio, then.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she replied, reaching the door of her father’s shop, and gave a quick nod as Barry Howat pulled on his cap and disappeared round the corner. A footballer, eh? Where on earth did he play, then? Not that she was interested. Had to think of what awaited her up the stairs in the flat over the shop. Gauge the temperature. See if a storm was on the way.

  As she tried
the shop door, the bell tinkled and the door opened. So Dad hadn’t locked up. That was because he was still there, behind his counter, tall, heavy-shouldered, with the dark eyes she’d inherited from him beneath black brows she had not, and greying black hair clipped short. He wore a baize apron over his collarless flannel shirt and looked as if he hadn’t shaved that day, but the good thing – the thing that mattered – was that he was smiling. His mood was good.

  A great rush of relief enveloped her, as she smiled back and cried that she was home.

  ‘Can see that.’ He set down the piece of leather he’d been shaping and, loosening his apron, came round from the counter. ‘Might as well lock up, then, eh? There’ll be nobody else in today and your ma’ll have the tea ready.’

  Hope so, thought Elinor, for meals were always to be ready when Dad wanted them. As she stood watching her father lock his door, breathing in the familiar smells of leather and shoe polish that had always been a part of his shop and indeed of her own life, she quietly crossed her fingers.

  Six

  When she was a child, Elinor had thought her family very lucky to live over a shop, rather than in one of the tenements of Friar’s Wynd. Though wishing they could move out of the Wynd altogether, she still felt that way, for at least in their little flat there wasn’t the same sense of being surrounded by people, the constant sound of footsteps on the stairs, the smell of cooking that wasn’t theirs.

  On the other hand, you couldn’t say there was much space to spare over the cobbler’s shop. A cramped living room with a kitchen range, a sink, a table and chairs, and a bed in the wall for Corrie. A room for her parents, a cupboard for herself – for it was no bigger than that – and a toilet. No bathroom, of course, so getting washed involved taking it in turns to carry water to the washstand in the one bedroom, and hauling out the hip bath for bathing when other folk weren’t around. No wonder Elinor was so happy to be living-in at the Primrose! It would have been worth it, just for the bathroom.