A Pinch of Salt

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘Did you see my Uncle Colm’s letter, Daddy?’ she asked now. ‘He says there’s going to be another war.’

  ‘Nonsense, lassie, and for heaven’s sake, don’t let your mother hear you talk about war. Didn’t she lose enough in the last one?’

  ‘But it’s Germany. Do you remember Hitler in the twenties? He tried to take over then and he’s at it again now.’

  ‘I’ve no heard that name afore, lass. Tell me about the school; that’s away more interesting than some wee German laddie.’

  And obligingly Margaret talked about school and about how she loved mathematics and science and languages.

  ‘Changed days from when I was at the school, Margaret. Imagine a wee bit lassie like you learning Latin. Your brother doesn’t like the Latin and I cannot say I blame him.’

  ‘Och, it’s easy, Daddy. It’s just learning words and things like tenses. Poor Pat has an awful job with his tenses.’

  Charlie got up from his seat by the fire and began to fill his pipe. ‘You’re not to tease him. I cannot understand it. You’re that quick at the learning but he works away and gets there in the end but, my, if he does go away to the university, what a dull time the poor laddie’s going to have.’

  ‘Aye, he’ll be at the lectures all day and then he’ll be stuck in his room all night trying to remember what he heard.’

  ‘Sure, that’s what university’s for.’

  ‘Away, Daddy. I’d have a grand time in the city; you wouldnae get me stuck at the books all day. I’d try everything.’

  ‘And what would you learn, miss?’

  ‘Everything. That’s what university’s for.’

  ‘It’s not for lassies, Margaret. You don’t need to fill yer head up with facts, a bonnie wee thing like you. Some handsome prince . . .’

  ‘Some handsome prince will do what, Charlie?’

  They had not heard Kate return. She looked at them and, not for the first time, envied the warmth and ease of the relationship between father and daughter. How she would love to sit at the fireside of an evening and giggle with Margaret, but she was always too busy. Even her attempt at playfulness with the girl this evening had been spoiled because of Margaret’s thoughtlessness and selfishness. So anxious had she been to see Colm’s letter with its promise of pleasure for her that she had carelessly burned her brother’s shirt. Kate took refuge in anger. ‘He’ll not marry a lassie that cannae iron a shirt or who promises to tell her wee brother a story and doesn’t.’

  Margaret had jumped up. ‘I’ll do it now, Mammy. I’ll away and run his bath.’

  ‘He’s in his bed and that’s where you should be. By the way, do you mind a George Bell at the primary school with you and Patrick? He’s coming up the night to apply for the relief vanman job and I want to know if he’s the type that was in trouble at the school. No use asking Patrick. He cannae see badness in anyone.’

  Margaret stopped on her way to the door. ‘There was a lot of Bells at Auchenbeath, Mammy. I cannae mind that I ever heard anything about a George.’

  ‘Well, he’s a year older than Patrick so maybe he was too big for you. Put the pipe out, Charlie, or smoke outside where you can breathe at the same time. Your lungs are bad enough without that.’

  Margaret had reached the door when the bell rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ she called and opened the door. For a full minute she was bereft of the power of speech and, to her intense mortification, felt that horrible red blush coursing across her cheeks.

  ‘Mrs Inglis is expecting me,’ the young Greek god at the door said to break the silence.

  ‘She’s in there,’ said Margaret and fled to her room where she rushed to the window and pressed her hot face against the glass. Where had her sophistication gone when she needed it? Where had the bright-red lipstick, that would have devastated the most beautiful boy, no, man – he was a year older than Patrick, that made him seventeen – been when she had had a chance to really test its seductive powers? What an idiot she had been. She threw herself on her bed in an agony of embarrassment. She could just hear him with his pals. ‘I met Pat Inglis’s wee sister. What a gawk; stood there looking at me with her tongue hanging out and ran away when I spoke to her.’ Oh, God, she could kill herself. George Bell, George Bell. Beautiful George Bell. How could I have forgotten you? There had, not that she thought about it, been a George Bell at the school, tall and skinny with blond hair that was always far too long, haystack, they’d called him, and his bum halfway out of his breeks. She laughed at the memory and that made her feel better. Well, the next time he saw Margaret Inglis, he would see a changed woman. She pulled her frock tight across her front and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Was there any chest there at all? None worth mentioning. It would have to be the lipstick and silk stockings. How could she get the silk stockings on when George Bell was at the bakery and her mother, who would definitely kill her if she discovered the silk stockings, was not? She had an utterly, terrifying, devastating thought. What if he didn’t get the job? She fell on her knees beside the bed. Dear Blessed Virgin, please let him get the job, and let him see me when I look nice and I’ll never tease Patrick again about being a priest and I’ll iron everything perfectly for the rest of my life.

  George got the job and Margaret planned her campaign very carefully. It had to be a Saturday; Kate spent most of the morning in her office doing accounts and Charlie, who would be in and out filling his van, wouldn’t notice anyway and Patrick, who would say nothing, although he would look at her mournfully as if she were in danger of losing her immortal soul for the heinous crime of wearing silk stockings, would be up at the primary school playing football for the Auchenbeath Eleven. For several Saturdays George was not at the bakery. His employer did not need his services but then, at last, either she felt more secure with him or the pace of deliveries hotted up, for nearly two months after he started work for The Toll House Bakery, George arrived on his old bike just as the family were finishing breakfast.

  ‘Come away in, George,’ Charlie welcomed him. ‘There’s time for a fly cup.’ He sat the boy down at the table and George, who was the only member of his large family out of bed at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, was only too pleased to sit down and demolish the rolls and tea Kate put in front of him.

  ‘We should do him eggs, Mammy,’ whispered Margaret when she followed her mother into the kitchen. ‘He looks starved. I bet you he’s no had his breakfast.’

  ‘You can do some bacon for him when he gets back from Sanquhar, Margaret. Now, I want this place cleaned up when I come through. Keep wee Liam happy; he can play outside if it stays nice but wrap him up, and help your daddy with the orders.’

  ‘Can’t I go in the van with Daddy?’ asked Margaret whom wild horses would not have dragged from the premises. She always argued with Kate about Saturday chores and certainly did not want to rouse her suspicions.

  ‘They should be back about ten. Have the bacon ready and I’ll have some tea in the office. Now I want the place spotless.’ She whisked off to the glorified cupboard she called her office and Margaret hurried back to the bakery.

  Unfortunately she would have to keep the awful white apron on until Charlie left because he would wonder what on earth she was doing wearing her second-best Sunday dress. She could pull the ghastly cap off though, because the baking was all done. Better not change the stockings or apply the lipstick just yet. There was a limit to even Charlie’s indulgence. She brushed her hair furiously and bit her lips to make them red.

  ‘You’d best put your cap on, lassie,’ said Charlie. ‘Mrs Inglis is very fussy about hygiene in the bakery, George. Check off the order book, will you, Margaret, while I go over the Thornhill route with George.’

  Thornhill. If George were sent all the way to Thornhill he would hardly be back before dinner time and that was when Kate closed on a Saturday.

  ‘Would you not be better to go to Thornhill, Daddy? You could take Liam; he’d love to see his Auntie Deirdre, wouldn’t you, lambie
?’

  ‘George is doing the Thornhill run. He’s got the best van.’

  ‘Do you know the way, George?’ asked Margaret and knew immediately that she had made a fatal mistake.

  ‘Aye, lassie,’ said George smiling at her in a way that made her blush like a silly loon. ‘If I point the van down the hill and keep on for fifteen mile I’ll hit the Burns statue in the middle o’ the town.’ He laughed and picked up a tray of pies to put in the back of the van.

  Margaret wanted to burst out crying. She could hear herself. ‘Do you know the way, George?’, like a right idiot, and Charlie was looking at her in a fair puzzled way. What was even worse was that George had called her a lassie. He didn’t know, how could he? and her in this ghastly apron that hid the little she had, that she was a woman of the world with a treasured pair of silk stockings and a red lipstick.

  ‘I’ll take the bairn,’ said George to Charlie, ‘if he wants to see his auntie.’

  ‘No, lad, thanks, his mammy’s frightened of cars with him. He’s got to be sitting on her lap for her to be easy.’

  With a general wave George drove out of the yard. He hadn’t even looked at her, not as if she were a person, and Charlie was staring at her.

  ‘You’re not yourself this morning, lass. Are you feeling all right? Should you maybe get back to your bed? Tell your mammy . . .’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, away you go on your run. I’ve this bakery to scrub. You’d think Mammy would get some of the women in to do it but, no, Margaret can do it. That’s what lassies are fit for, scrubbing floors and washing dishes, nothing atween their ears but air.’

  Charlie looked after her. Sometimes she worried him with her antagonistic attitude to Kate. ‘You’re no fair to yer mammy, Margaret,’ he wanted to say, and maybe he should have. Instead he shook his head and climbed into his van while in the kitchen Margaret almost threw the breakfast dishes into the sink. A cup broke when it hit a plate and that calmed her down. If Kate came in to see what all the noise was about, there really would be trouble.

  13

  PATRICK PASSED HIS Higher examinations by the skin of his teeth and to Kate’s almost unbearable joy was offered a place at Edinburgh University.

  They sat around the kitchen table and read and re-read the beautiful piece of paper.

  ‘Look at it, Charlie.’ Kate could hardly speak for pleasure. ‘Our bairn at the university.’ She passed the official letter to Charlie who looked at it for a while and then passed it to Margaret.

  ‘I never thought you’d make it, Father Pat,’ she teased and hurriedly passed the paper back as an angry move from Kate made her realize that even at the advanced age of sixteen her ears were not completely safe from her mother’s hard right hand.

  ‘Can you not share your brother’s joy, miss?’ asked Kate. ‘Do you have to spoil everything with that smart tongue of yours?’ Where had she gone wrong with Margaret, thought Kate. It seemed that the girl antagonized her with every word that came out of her mouth. This past year she had been almost impossible and just when her mother had begun to think that perhaps the girl should go on to higher education, her examination results had been poor. Well, I was right all along, thought Kate, Patrick’s the one to do great things.

  ‘I was only joking, Mammy. Patrick knows I’m pleased for him.’

  Look at the face on her, thought Kate, acting as if she was misunderstood. I understand you only too well, madame. She lost herself again in the study of the paper. Eighteen years, eighteen years of hard work, of sweat, of fear, of disappointment and of great joy. Maybe every mother felt the same, experienced the same.

  ‘I’m glad you’re pleased, Mam, and you too, Dad, but I’m not sure about the university.’ Patrick’s doubts disturbed her euphoria. ‘Should I not go straight to the seminary? I want to be a simple parish priest, not a Jesuit or a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher. What good is a university education going to be to me?’

  ‘It’s not just the chance of being a Jesuit, love, but I promised your dad, love,’ said Kate, ‘and you still feel that way don’t you, Charlie? You want him to go to the university first.’

  Charlie stood up and reached for his pipe, a sure sign of stress. ‘You know where I stand, Patrick. I don’t want you to be a priest, I never have, but I’ll not stand in your way, if that’s what you really want. Just go to the university first; who knows what you’ll learn there? Ach, give yerself a chance, laddie. You’re not even eighteen yet.’

  ‘It’s just because you never had the chance of university; you want it for me, but it’s not what I want. I’m not clever enough. I might not be clever enough to be a priest either but I want to try.’

  Charlie looked at Kate but she sat quietly, refusing to interfere. For years they had argued; night after angry night in the big bed almost from the night of Liam’s death. ‘Our boy wants to be a priest, Charlie. I never hoped or even prayed for such a blessing and I never said a word to him. He decided himself, from seeing his Grampa die, I think.’

  ‘It’s no natural, being a priest. I want him to be a real man, no half a man.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie. Men like you think that’s what makes a man, groping away at some poor woman night after night. Well, there’s more to being a man than that.’ She hadn’t meant to say it; she would have cut her tongue out rather than ever utter such hurtful words but they were flying there in the air around them and nothing could ever bring the words back. She had to do something to make it up to Charlie. Although she hated doing it, she had found herself suggesting that Patrick test his vocation by doing a degree course at the university first. If he still wanted to be a priest after he had achieved his degree, then his father would say no more. Charlie had agreed but it was over a year before he ever touched her again. At first Kate had enjoyed the abstinence, had even begun to go to bed without that feeling of trepidation but then she had begun to worry. Had she wounded her husband so deeply that he no longer loved or wanted her? She doubled her efforts to make his home life as pleasant as possible. After all, perhaps it was just age, perhaps it had nothing to do with what she had said. The house shone with polish and the bakery gleamed in its hygienic whiteness. Margaret could have testified to that because it became one of her jobs after school to scrub the tables.

  If the house and bakery were not spared Kate’s zeal, neither were her children. They did not gleam with polish but as she sent them off to school each morning, with their nourishing pieces, their homework all done and as far as she could gather, correct, she would thrill with pride. Were there any smarter, better turned out children in the whole of the south of Scotland?

  ‘Take Liam with you on your rounds this morning, Charlie,’ she began to say. ‘He’s aye under my feet, but I’ve told him he’s to behave and not touch the wheel. I have a lot to do this morning.’

  ‘You have a lot to do every morning, Kate.’ Charlie enjoyed the company of his youngest child but, despite his mother’s dire warnings, Liam was becoming a handful, always trying to figure out how the van worked. He couldn’t be left alone for a second or he’d be driving away.

  ‘The sooner you’re at the school and all, ye rascal,’ Charlie laughed.

  But now, not only was Liam at the primary school at Auchenbeath, his brother was finishing his sixth year at the academy in the big town and would soon be off, somewhat reluctantly, to university.

  ‘You’re really something, Patrick Inglis,’ Margaret berated him on the bus home. ‘You’ve got the chance to get away from home, out from under Mammy’s thumb, and you’re moaning and groaning. Boy, if she’d let me go to the university I would be gone without looking back.’

  ‘And what about George? When would you see your darling George?’

  Margaret blushed furiously and rounded on her brother. ‘What are you talking about? Have you been spying on me, you nasty sneak? If you’ve said anything to Mammy, I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Calm down, Margaret. Which heroine of the pictures are you playing now?’ Patrick laughed at her
terror. ‘Of course I haven’t said anything to Mam for I think you should tell her yourself. You’re sixteen, hardly a wee lassie, and George is a nice enough fellow.’

  Tell Mam? The enormity of the suggestion. Margaret could hardly assimilate it. When had she ever been able to tell Kate anything? Even if she had wanted to have long cosy chats with her mother about boys and clothes or the pictures, Kate was always busy or, what was worse, totally condemning of her interests.

  ‘Is Hollywood all you have in that head of yours, madame?’ Kate would say with her bitter, hurtful sarcasm. Tell her about George? Never.

  ‘Why don’t you go on to the university?’ Patrick went on. ‘You’ll get your Highers if you stop mooning over big, blond George and make a little effort. You’re brainy, Margaret, far brainier than me.’

  ‘You know fine Mam wants me to work in the bakery to take over from her eventually.’

  ‘She let you stay on at the school. Would all that education no be a waste and she hates waste?’

  Margaret leaned back in the seat. Go to university. What would she do there? She hadn’t too much idea of what a big city was like but it had to be full of more challenges than Auchenbeath, and the people! There would be people from foreign countries at the university. Maybe somebody French on whom she could practise this daft language she’d been learning for so long. Her Latin was even better but nobody spoke Latin now except priests and she certainly could not become a priest. Who would want to anyway? She looked across at her brother. Poor Father Pat. Latin was his worst subject. Just as well he only had to read it.

  ‘Patrick, you don’t think Mammy knows that I’m going out with George? We only meet at the pictures or sometimes for a walk up the Baker’s Burn.’

  ‘Mam’s not devious, Margaret. She would say something – at least I suppose she would if she disapproved.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Och, Daddy and I used to have a good laugh at you trying to attract George’s attention. You’d have done better tae hit him over the head like the caveman. He thought you were just my wee sister till last summer and then he saw you when you didnae see him and you weren’t acting the femme fatale. You’re a bonny enough lassie without your lipstick and that stuff you put on your eyes. Just as well Mam’s over busy all day; she’d kill you for that.’