In a Class of Their Own (12 page)

“And what’s wrong with sheep’s heid?”

“Everything. Oh, Mammy, don’t you realise I
hate
sheep’s heid?” Carrie spluttered through her sobs. “And I
hate
being poor. I want to be rich. To have a Mars bar all to myself. A tin of condensed milk, a loaf of bread to spread it on. A pair of shiny ankle ….”

“Aye, aye,” Rachel interrupted. “And I want to tap-dance on the moon but I’ll have a long wait, will I no?”

Still sniffing, Carrie tried to squeeze cautiously past her mother.

“Is that your shoes squelching?” Rachel asked. Carrie nodded as she brushed a hand under her dripping nose.

“Did you not cut out new cardboard soles for them last night?”

“No. D’ye no mind? You were showing me how to turn the heel of a sock.”

“Aye, and a right waste of time that turned out to be. Here,” said Rachel, handing Carrie some cardboard, a pencil and a pair of scissors. “While I finish the tea, you cut yourself out some new soles for the morn.”

Reluctantly, Carrie sat down to do as she was bidden but began to girn as drops of melting snow trickled down her face. Only when she realised that her mother was taking no notice of her moaning did she start to cut out the soles. She had just finished the first one when she decided to broach the subject that was on her mind. “Know what? Sheila Cameron has new ankle-strap shoes.”

“That so? Well,
her
mother maybe knows where this month’s rent is coming from, while I don’t.”

“But, Mammy, I do everything right and isn’t God supposed to reward you when you do? I’ve even joined the Band of Hope.”

“Aye, cos they’ve the best Christmas party,” commented Rachel dryly as she dished up the runny porridge.

“
And
I’ve been good at school,” Carrie went on, ignoring her mother’s cynical remark.

“Carrie!” said Rachel with growing impatience, tapping the spurtle on the table. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“Just that Sheila does nothing right. She’s a dope. Yet she gets new shiny ankle-strap shoes and here’s me, who’s done everything right, cutting out cardboard soles.”

Rachel leant over towards Carrie and whispered confidentially into her ear. “Aye, but it isn’t any old cardboard, Carrie! It’s the very best corrugated I could lay my hands on. So just get on with it, will you!”

At six the next morning Carrie rose promptly to go out and deliver the Christmas papers – in Scotland there were always newspapers on Christmas Day. She had just pulled on her jumper when Sam asked, “Whit are ye daeing, dopey?”

“Getting ready to go and deliver the papers. And
you
should already be away to the store to deliver the milk and rolls.”

“Naw. Naw. We’re nae goin’ oot till efter nine the day.”

“After nine?” Carrie protested indignantly. “But I’m hoping to be home long before that. Home before all these bloomin’ bairns come out with their doll’s prams, bikes, skates and ankle-strap shoes that Santa has left them: that rotten pig, Santa.”

“Forget Santa bluidy Claus. We’ll mak oor ain Christmas cheer.”

“How?”

“By no goin’ oot till efter nine.”

“After
nine? But why?”

“Cos it’s Christmas and they’ll aw be feelin’ charitable. So we hae to knock on every door and haud on to their paper or their milk until they stump up wi’ the Christmas tip.”

Carrie made twenty-five shillings in tips that day, thanks to Sam’s good thinking. However, Sam did even better by coercing two whole pounds out of his customers. And since it was Christmas he didn’t need to have dropsy. The Store Manager gave him a bag containing ten rolls, four bran scones, a bag of broken biscuits and a two-pound jar filled with nine chipped eggs.

When it was time to go back to school in January, Carrie had completely forgotten about her row with Sheila. The money she and Sam earned in tips had made life a lot easier for the whole family.

On Boxing Day, Rachel went straight to her friend Roman and had him sole and heel all the family’s shoes, then she bought two bags of coal, one of which was of chirles. As a result the whole family was happily seated around a blazing fire while they listened to the church bells ringing in the New Year of 1947.

Sam was busily toasting bread on a long fork in the louping flames. Each of the family in turn got a hot slice of toast that had been liberally spread with best butter. The feast was washed down with the mandatory New Year nip of ginger wine - judged suitable for children. An added bonus, according to tradition, was that the family would be sure of a whole year of good luck, since they had been first-footed by a tall, dark, handsome man bearing gifts – coal, bread, money and shortbread.

Back at school, Carrie was still basking in her New Year memories when Sheila came in and plopped down beside her. “Please, help me off with my wellies, Carrie,” she pleaded.

Carrie obeyed. Once the boots were off, Sheila began fishing in her bag and this time she brought out her cosy slippers. Thankfully the ankle-strap shoes that had so irked Carrie had been left at home. As Sheila started to put on her slippers, she remarked to Carrie, “Your hair’s stinking again.”

“Yeah,” Carrie replied. “I washed it with Derbac soap last night and the rest of me was scrubbed with carbolic.”

Sheila grimaced. “Surely your Mammy knows that Dreen shampoo is best for your hair and Pears soap is the right thing for your face.”

Carrie just smiled proudly.

“My Mum says,” Sheila went on smugly, “I could’ve been Pears Baby of the Year if she’d put me in for it.”

“That right?” was all Carrie responded before changing the subject and asking, “Did you have a nice Christmas?”

“Wonderful. And you?”

“Great it was.” Thinking of Christmas reminded Carrie about the Christmas cards. Neither she nor anyone else in the family had got a single one. “Here, Sheila,” she asked, “did you really get a Christmas card from Miss Stock?”

“It wasn’t a Christmas card. It was a letter,” simpered Sheila.

“A letter?”

“Aye, a letter just to say that the school were very pleased that I hadn’t left and gone off to Gillespie’s Ladies.”

“But you
couldn’t
go – you didn’t pass their entrance exam,” Carrie reminded her.

“I wasn’t very well the day I sat that exam. My Mammy said so,” Sheila retorted in pique. “But the letter said I had been one of the best pupils they’ve ever had here. A credit to the school, I am. And they would have been so sorry to lose me, but they knew that when I go on to secondary school in April I’ll do very well there too.”

Carrie said nothing. Sam had come into class late again but thankfully this time Miss Stock didn’t make him stand by her desk. “Happy New Year, Miss,” Sam beamed as he sailed past Miss Stock.

“And a happy New Year to you too, Sam,” Miss Stock chuckled, taking note that he was wearing his recently repaired and well-polished shoes.

When school was finished for the day, Carrie approached Miss Stock. “Miss,” she said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but Sheila got a letter on Christmas Eve and I would like to have one the same.”

Miss Stock shook her head.

“But I deserve it more than her, Miss.”

“But you don’t, Carrie,” Miss Stock said as she rose and began cleaning the blackboard.

“But I do,” argued Carrie.

“No you
don’t.
You have to qualify for one of those letters.” Miss Stock turned to face Carrie, “And you, I’m pleased to say, do not.”

As soon as Carrie arrived home she went straight into the scullery where Rachel was busily making the tea. “Your favourite tea the night, Carrie. Egg and chips,” she announced, breaking an egg into the frying pan where it spat and sizzled.

“Good,” replied Carrie. “But, Mam, I’ve got to talk to you first. Got to tell you what that stinking school has done.”

Rachel half-turned towards Carrie but held on to the handle of the frying pan. “Done to you? Whatever are you on about now?”

Carrie poured out the story of the letter. To her amazement, her mother only shrugged and said, “If that’s the way they feel about it, don’t let it bother you.” Rachel then drew herself up to full height before adding, “You know full well that you come of a better class than Sheila. And that’s all that matters.”

Carrie began to cry. “But, Mam, you don’t understand. I simply
have
to get one of those letters. I deserve it. And I
do
qualify.”

Rachel finished frying the eggs, placing one on each plate along with some chips and a dash of tomato sauce. Meanwhile, Carrie’s wails were growing louder and louder.

“Oh, Mam,” Hannah pleaded, “could you not go and get her one of those blinking letters before she drives us all mad?”

“Tell you what,” Rachel conceded. “I’ve got to come to school tomorrow to see why that bitch of an Infant Mistress hasn’t put Alice back into her own class now she’s made up for what she lost while she was in hospital. And once I’ve done that, if I’ve got time, I’ll pop in and see Miss Stock.”

The following afternoon Carrie was writing her essay when a knock came at the classroom door. Raising her head, she was delighted to see, through the glass panel in the door, that her mother was standing in the corridor. She smiled broadly to herself as Miss Stock made her way calmly out of the classroom to speak to Rachel. When the door opened again, Carrie was pleased to hear the teacher and her mother laughing and her mother saying, “Thank you so much, Miss Stock. You’ve been
most
helpful.”

Once the door closed again the rest of the afternoon dragged for Carrie. She thought the lessons would never end but when they eventually did she sprang over to Miss Stock’s desk and said, “Miss, my mother came up to see you today – so have you got a letter for me?”

Miss Stock shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re not getting one, Carrie. You see, you don’t qualify and I explained to your mother why you don’t and she’s very pleased about that.”

Carrie’s eyes welled with tears as she thought, “My Mammy’s a traitor.”

Ignoring Carrie’s distress, Miss Stock continued, “And when you come into class tomorrow, I don’t want you to mention the letter again. Just forget all about it.”

Miss Stock then stood up from her chair and opened the tall cupboard. On the top shelf stood a large jar of boiled sweets. The jar had first been placed there back in 1940. All classes in Edinburgh schools had one such jar and the regulations stated that, should the school be hit by a bomb, each child was to receive three sweets from the jar. Sam had always asked what good the sweets would do you if your head was no longer attached to your body. But that was the rule – or so the children at Hermitage Park School were told.

Carrie wasn’t thinking about such things as she watched Miss Stock climb on to her high chair and take down the jar of sweets that had lain there unopened for seven years. Miss Stock then opened the lid carefully but, since all the sweets were by now fused together, she had to chisel three of them free.

The regulation three sweets were then proffered to Carrie, who was now sobbing openly. She shook her head and tucked her hands tightly behind her back. “No, Miss, I haven’t been hit by a bomb. So I don’t need the sweets,” she blurted out as tears cascaded down her face. Then she wailed even more loudly, “All I wanted was a letter.”

Miss Stock shook her head wearily and laid the three sweets on her desk top.

Carrie shot into the scullery as soon as she got home. Rachel looked up and smiled, “You’re finished your papers early. The macaroni cheese will be another wee while.”

“Never mind the blooming macaroni,” Carrie cried bitterly. “I didn’t get a letter. And you knew how important it was to me.”

“Aye,” said her mother coolly, taking a loaf out of the bread bin. “And let me tell you, Carrie, I don’t like the tone of your voice.”

“Mam, don’t you realise I just
have
to get one of those letters. And I
do
qualify.”

“No you don’t,” Rachel answered as she began to saw the bread as thinly as possible.

“Look, Mam,” Carrie yelled. “It’s like this. If I don’t get one of those letters I’ll commit suicide.”

“And if you do get one of those letters it’s me that’ll commit suicide,” Rachel retorted, waving the bread knife in her daughter’s puzzled face.

Carrie’s tantrum stopped abruptly and she drew her head back from the threatening knife. “Wh-why?” was all she could splutter.

It was then that Sam piped up. “Oh, Carrie, surely ye’re nae sae daft that ye havnae worked it oot that the blinking letter was a last warning to Sheila’s mither.”

“Last warning?” exclaimed Carrie.

“Aye,” chuckled Rachel, “Three weeks is all Sheila’s Mammy has to get her head cleaned up. And if she doesn’t get rid of all the nits and poggies – then off comes, no’ just the bonny coloured ribbons, but all the bonny black ringlets as well!”

That harsh winter seemed to go on forever for the Campbell family, but spring eventually did manage to push its way in and, as the ice melted away, so did Rachel’s depression. Her thoughts and those of the children turned to summer. “Jammy days” lay ahead – days when life was bound to become easier.

Chalky White, the next-door neighbour’s boy, was one of the lads with whom Sam shared the delivery of the Leith Provident Store milk. Chalky’s dad had been killed in the war and his Irish mother, as Sam would say, was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer. Hardworking she was, but no matter how she tried she was no miracle-worker with bits and pieces, like Rachel.

Sam was always telling Chalky that Rachel and Jesus had a lot in common – for they could both feed a multitude out of nothing. Chalky was indifferent to that. He didn’t care that his mother was a bad manager and couldn’t cook well. After all, there was always the chippie and, thanks to Sam being his best pal, he would always have at least the price of a bag of chips when he was hungry. However, there was one thing Sam had that Chalky really envied – his guider. Now that the war was over, Jaguar and Ford were churning out cars again, but there was nobody who could make a Rolls-Royce guider like Sam.

Sam’s latest model had been built with nothing but the very best. It had Silver Cross perambulator wheels and a coffin-top rosewood base which was fully upholstered with offcuts of maroon Wilton carpet. The finishing touch though was given by the white nylon guide-ropes that British Ropes’ experimental base in Leith didn’t know were missing. For all the plush finery this was a working guider, the family lifeline. There was nothing too dirty or too heavy that Sam couldn’t carry on it – bags of coal or logs of wood from trees that had been blown down. Bags of tatties when he and Carrie went tattie-howking, and every Saturday morning it was cleaned up and refurbished, ready to serve as the market stall where Sam did his buying and selling.