In a Class of Their Own (11 page)

Pulling up hard she retorted, “Into school, Sam. Where else?”

“Weel, come ower here first and gie’s a haun.”

“You’re not really expecting me to help you to humph that milk into the classrooms?” Carrie spluttered with indignation.

“Naw. I need ye to haud they twa Kola bottles while I fill them wi’ milk. Then I’ll bunk them in the jannie’s office and tak them hame later.”

“But that’s stealing.”

“Naw, it’s no. It’s bein’ thrifty, cos aw the really puir bairns are hardly ever at schuil the noo. So their free milk would just go to waste if I didnae find a yaise for it.”

“You’re turning into a right spiv, Sam.”

“Am I? Weel see, the nicht, when ye reach ower to pit some o this milk on yer parritch, I’ll cut the fingers aff ye, so I will,” snorted Sam as he filled up the Kola bottles.

Carrie said nothing, but raced away into the school building.

She was pleased to see that she was into class before Sheila, the girl she shared the double desk with. That meant she could get herself to the far end of the seat and tuck her feet underneath the radiator. While her hands and feet were gradually thawing, Carrie’s thoughts turned to Sheila. Though her best friend at school, Carrie hated the fact that Sheila had been lucky enough to get herself born to a forty-seven-year-old mother – which meant Sheila had a jammy life because her three elder brothers were all working. Not only could her mother afford Wellington boots for her daughter, but she could buy slippers for her to change into when in class. “How come you have such an old Mammy?” Carrie had once asked her.

“I’m a gift from God,” Sheila had said. “You see, women my Mammy’s age don’t get babies the way your Mammy got you.”

“You mean your Mammy and Daddy didn’t …” Carrie had screwed up her face and gulped “… do what we never ever must do till we’re married and even then we’re not supposed to like it?” Carrie stopped reminiscing when Sheila sat down beside her.

“Hi, Carrie.”

“Hi, Sheila.” Carrie kept her hands on the radiator.

“Will you help me off with my wellies?” asked Sheila, taking off her pixie hood and shaking it.

Carrie wanted to say she was heartily sick of helping Sheila off with her wellies but thought better of it. After all, Sheila might have an apple for her play-piece, a Canadian Macintosh Red, and she might offer Carrie a bite. Reluctantly she lifted her hands from the radiator and eventually, after much heaving and pulling, managed to remove the boots. “There you are, Sheila.”

Instead of thanking Carrie, Sheila wrinkled up her nose and bawled, “Your hair is stinking, Carrie Campbell.”

“It is not! It was washed last night.”

“Yes, maybe, but with Derbac, I bet. Smell mine.” And Sheila waved her hair under Carrie’s nose. “Mine was washed with Dreen Shampoo. I’ve got such long hair a bottle only lasts me once.”

Carrie delicately lifted one of Sheila’s gleaming, beribboned ringlets to her nose. The perfume of roses assailed her nostrils. If ever she was able to afford a bottle of Dreen, she was sure she’d be able to get at least three washes out of it because her own hair was so short. For months her hair would smell so sweet. She was still dreaming of the perfumed suds when Miss Stock, their teacher, came into class and shouted, “Carrie Campbell, please put Sheila’s hair down at once.”

Carrie was taken aback. It wasn’t like Miss Stock to speak to her like that. She was certain Miss Stock had a soft spot for both Sam and herself. She knew that in Sam’s case it was because he was always top of the class and should have got to sit for the bursary. In her case it was probably because she had a squint in both her eyes and wore glasses – glasses that were forever getting broken. That meant Carrie had to sit at the front, in the dunces’ row, to be able to see the blackboard.

While Carrie was recovering from the shock of the rebuke, Miss Stock had gone on to say that, since it was Christmas Eve, the class would get through their work quickly and in the afternoon could play games. Lifting her desk lid, she took out the class register and began to check each child’s name from the alphabetical list. Sheila meanwhile fished in her bag and pulled out, not the cosy slippers, but a shiny pair of split-new, black patent leather, ankle-strap shoes.

“Where on earth did you get those?” gasped Carrie.

“Remember we wrote letters to Santa Claus last week?”

“Aye,” Carrie replied. “I’ve been writing to him for three years now and he’s never even sent the Mars bar I asked for, never mind the ankle-strap shoes.”

“Well, he sent me my shoes early so I could wear them today,” Sheila explained as she fitted on the gleaming shoes and waggled them from side to side so Carrie could get the full effect. “And know something else, Carrie? My Mummy says I’ve been such a good girl that I’ll be getting everything else on my list.”

“
Everything?
”

“Aye, and we’re to have chicken and trifle, with a red cherry on top, for our dinner tomorrow.”

“A chicken dinner and nobody’s ill?” muttered Carrie, who was still unable to take her eyes off the gleaming shoes.

“Yeah. Oh here, I nearly forgot. My Mummy plucked the hen last night and was wondering if your Mummy would want the feathers?”

Carrie’s head shot up. “Look, Smarty. If I’m not getting any of your blinking chicken you can stuff your feathers where the monkey stuffs its nuts.”

Before Sheila could speak, Miss Stock looked up and wagged her pencil in their direction. “I’m trying to take the register and you two are talking. Now I’m not going to warn you again.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Stock, it wasn’t me. I was only trying to be nice to Carrie,” Sheila simpered unctuously. “But now I’m going to move to the end of the seat as far from her as I can get.”

“Thank you, Sheila. I would really like you to do that.”

Miss Stock closed the register and put it tidily away in her desk before proceeding. “Boys and girls, now that the register call is finished, all stand. Bow your heads and we’ll commence our devotions with a prayer.”

After the prayer was finished Miss Stock went to the piano and had launched into the opening bars of “Away In A Manger”, when Sam dashed through the door.

“You’re late again, Sam Campbell,” Miss Stock said without missing a note.

“I ken, Miss. I was helping the jannie.”

“Perhaps you were. But right now,” Miss Stock replied, lifting her hands from the piano and pointing to the far end of it, “kindly stand there until we finish our morning service.”

“But, Miss,” protested Sam, looking down at his feet. They were newly shod in a pair of running shoes that one of his lady customers had given him out of pity for the holes in his shoes. Her son’s old spiked track shoes would do him a turn. And so they did. They were brilliant for running through the packed frozen snow – but what would happen now that he’d have to stand for twenty minutes on the worn wooden floorboards of the classroom?

Sam looked pleadingly at his teacher, who seemed unaware of his problem. Then he looked at Carrie. She was about to speak but Sam signalled to let things be.

Miss Stock went on with the Christmas service. After the class finished singing “Away in a Manger”, she read the Christmas story – how Mary and Joseph went all the way to Bethlehem and what happened when they arrived at the inn. Sheila raised her hand and snapped her fingers. “Yes, Sheila, what is it?” Miss Stock asked.

“Please, Miss, it’s just that I don’t like sad stories, so could Mary and Joseph please get a bed at the inn this Christmas?”

Carrie started to snigger.

“Something amusing you, Carrie Campbell?” asked Miss Stock.

“No, Miss. I’m very sorry, honestly I am, but Mary and Joseph will
never
get a place at the inn.”

“And why do you think that?”

“Because they’re poor, so very poor, Miss, that they’ll never ever get a warm bed for the baby Jesus – and Santa Claus will never bring patent leather, ankle-strap shoes neither.”

Miss Stock seemed about to correct Carrie, but then she noticed Sheila’s gleaming new shoes peeping out from under the desk, so she merely announced that they would finish the service with the singing of “Still the Night”.

Miss Stock finally closed the piano lid and then motioned to Sam that he could now go to his seat, but with the nails in his running shoes firmly embedded in the floor, poor Sam was well and truly stuck. All he could do was swing backwards and forwards, to the huge merriment of the whole class – all except for Carrie, who felt a warm flush of shame spread over her whole face as tears sprang to her eyes.

Realising what had happened, Miss Stock did her best to pull Sam free. The more she pulled him forward, however, the further the nails dug in.

Eventually Sam whispered, “The jannie will ken what to dae, Miss.” And indeed the jannie
did
know what to do. First he undid Sam’s shoe laces and lifted him free. Then, with the help of a screwdriver, he levered the shoes out of the floorboards and presented them to Sam, who proudly offered his cheering audience a deep bow before swaggering to his seat.

Miss Stock tutted loudly before announcing, “And now that Sam’s pantomime is quite over, we will all settle down to our mental arithmetic. Everyone take out your slates and slate pencils.”

Carrie heaved a sigh of relief because she was always happy doing mental arithmetic. When you were poor you simply had to know how to count every penny. Last night, for instance, she’d worked out just how many beer bottles at twopence, jam jars at a penny and messages at threepence she would have to collect or do to get one shilling and eleven pence.

She needed that amount because she was now having swimming lessons at Docky Bell’s swimming baths down in Great Junction Street. Her mother had given her Hannah’s old costume. Hannah had got it in turn from Ella Preston, whose two elder sisters had worn it. Josie, the oldest, had been a big girl – so big that everybody called her Desperate Dan in knickers. And if that wasn’t enough to put the swimming costume out of shape, it had originally been knitted in stripes by Mrs Preston, using odd bits of wool. The result was that, when Carrie jumped into the water for the second time, her sodden costume had flown up and smacked her on the back of the head. The class had all howled with laughter -just as they laughed at Sam today. Carrie silently vowed that no one would be laughing at her or Sam when they came back to school after the Christmas holidays. Somehow she would have a proper bathing costume and Sam would have proper shoes or wellies.

“Are you all ready? Or would you like some more time, Carrie Campbell, to sit and dream?” Miss Stock asked rather tartly.

Carrie nodded and held her slate pencil poised.

“Four plus fifteen minus one, divided by three.”

Carrie promptly scratched a “6” on her slate.

Miss Stock began again. “Five times six, minus ten, divided by five.”

Again Carrie began to write down the correct answer when she heard a “Psst!” from her left. Sure enough, Sheila was trying to attract her attention. “Come closer, Carrie,” she mouthed. “I need a copy of your answers.”

Carrie shook her head. She was already listening to Miss Stock calling out the next sum.

“But you know I can’t count! If I get more than five sums wrong I’ll get the belt.”

Carrie smiled sweetly at Sheila.

“What’s wrong with you two?” demanded Miss Stock, who was now aware of the interaction between the girls.

Carrie jumped to her feet. “Please Miss,” she said, snapping her fingers, “I broke my glasses yesterday so I’m not hearing very well. So may I change seats, please?”

“Very well! And I don’t care whether you can see or hear, just so long as you two get as far away as possible from each other,” Miss Stock announced firmly.

Sheila could see that Carrie was smirking as she gathered up her things and began pushing past her, so with unfeigned delight she whispered, “Not only have I got posh ankle-strap shoes –
and
chicken and trifle for dinner tomorrow – but I’m the only one in class that’s going to get a Christmas card from Miss Stock.”

Carrie could never really explain what happened next. All she knew was that somehow she seemed to jump in the air and land with a thump on Sheila’s shiny new shoes, resulting in howls from Sheila and a grim-faced Miss Stock inviting Carrie to spend the next half hour in the corner facing a blank wall.

Having completed her two evening newspaper deliveries, Carrie was very glad to arrive home. As soon as she opened the door, however, her whole body quivered when she looked at the fire. It was piled high with spitting potato peelings and the remains of an old shoe. There were no flames – not even a flicker. Just a listless smouldering that would do nothing to thaw out her frozen fingers and depressed spirits.

Only yesterday she’d complained to her mother about the fire and the lack of heat coming from it. Rachel had been quick to explain that there was no shame in being poor – but there
was
in being dirty. So the fire, such as it was, mightn’t give them much heat but it would warm the water so they could all get washed – washed, that is, in the washing tub. Oh yes, in all the years they’d lived at Learig Close, not once had there been enough hot water for a
real
bath. That was another of Carrie’s dreams – a wash in the bath where you wouldn’t have the water taps digging into your back and your knees tucked underneath your chin.

She was still staring at the fire and dreaming of a hot steaming bath when Rachel broke into her thoughts by calling through from the scullery. “That you, Carrie?”

Carrie made no answer but advanced slowly into the scullery. The gas light was lit and was giving out a greenish-yellow glow because the mantle, thanks to Sam heading a ball in the scullery, was broken once more. Its ghostly flickering lit up the room sporadically, and when it suddenly flared Carrie was confronted by a sight that resulted in her screams echoing melodramatically around the room.

The noise so startled Rachel that she dropped the porridge spoon and spun round to face Carrie. “What is it? What’s wrong, hen?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, Mammy,” Carrie wailed, pointing to the bunker. “Please don’t tell me that that horror there is our Christmas dinner?”