In a Class of Their Own (16 page)

Sam was already at the table with a small head peeping out of his V-neck. It was Tiny, the puppy Sam had found wandering in the street three months ago. Carrie looked at her plate. The egg yolk was burst and Sam had twice as many chips on his plate than on hers. “You greedy big pig,” she spat, picking a chip off Sam’s plate and dunking it in his egg.

Sam made a grab for the chip – but Carrie had swallowed it. Undaunted, he took another chip off Carrie’s plate and smirked. “Hae ye forgotten, dopey, that ye promised to help me feed wee Tiny here?”

“Aye, wi’ my mince and tatties. No wi’ my egg and chips,” wailed Carrie as she remembered the night Sam had brought in the wee dog.

Carrie had just been discharged from hospital that day back in December. Sam had been doing her paper round while she’d been away and, according to Sam, he’d found the wee dog sitting on his guider when he came out of a stair. It had been shivering and whimpering so what else
could
he do but bring it home. Sam was clapping the little dog when he asked Rachel if he could keep her. Rachel threw him a scornful look. Hannah and Carrie both knew she’d say, “No, we haven’t enough food to feed ourselves, never mind a dog,” so in unison they sang out that they would willingly help feed the dog off their own plates. Rachel shrugged her shoulders. “Well, suppose it might stop you clapping something else.” So the little dog had come to stay at 16 Learig Close.

It came as no surprise to Carrie when Hannah told her that the little dog had been the runt of a litter from the dog breeder down in Links Place. Sam seemingly delivered a bag of kindling there every week and, learning the little dog was about to be given swimming lessons in a pail, he’d asked the breeder if he might have her. A hard bargain the fellow drove. Sam would now be delivering the kindling free for a whole year – and, since the wee dog was not up to the breeder’s standards, Sam was never to tell to anyone where the wee dog had come from.

By now Carrie had finished her egg and chips. She clapped the wee dog, got up from the table, laid her plate in the sink and was making for the door when Rachel asked, “Where are you off to?”

“Just away to the lavvy – I mean toilet, Mammy.”

“Something wrong with you, like?”

“No, Mammy,” Carrie replied, edging closer and closer to the door.

“Then in that case you won’t need to go. And you can get on with washing the dishes. It’s your turn.”

Carrie grimaced, but came back and began washing up the tea dishes while her mother did the drying up. Rachel had just finished when she called out, “Did you mind to go into Harrison’s the day, Sam?”

“Aye, but he didnae hae ony spare newspaper. So I cannae cut ony up for the flawy.”

Carrie sniffed. “You know something? We’re the only folk I know that go to the fishmonger’s and
ask
for old newspapers. Everybody else
gives
them their old papers.”

“That, Carrie,” said Rachel emphatically, stretching up to turn off the gas, “is because
they
can afford to buy newspapers, or even toilet rolls, but we can’t.”

Carrie had just got into the living room and was waiting for Rachel to light the gas there when she replied, “See me? When I’m big I won’t wipe my backside with newspaper. I’ll be so rich I’ll have a toilet roll all to myself. An Izal toilet roll at that.”

Rachel sighed. “Right. But till then will you just sit down while I show you how to turn the heel of that sock you’ve been knitting for the last six months.”

Carrie’s face fell. “But I was just going to the lav – I mean, toilet, Mam.”

“Look! I asked you five minutes ago if there was anything wrong with you and you said no. So is there?”

Carrie blushed deeply. “No.”

“Good. Because there are five other folk besides you in this house, and they like to use the toilet too. So as you’ve been there in the last hour you’ll just wait your turn and not go again till you’re ready for bed.”

An hour and a half later there was even less of the sock than there had been when Rachel had started to show her how to turn the heel. Somehow Carrie simply could not master the four wires and so ripped-down wool was now wound all around wee Tiny.

“See my wee dug,” Sam cried out in delight when he realised Tiny thought it was all a game and had joined in, frantically pulling the wool this way and that until she was completely entangled.

“Here, Sam, come and help me get your pup out of this guddle,” Rachel muttered irritably as she picked Tiny up.

“Just hold on, Mammy, and I’ll get the scissors and cut her oot.”

“Am I hearing you right, Sam? Did you say, cut her out? Waste the wool?” Rachel fumed. “No, no! No cutting. We’ll have to unpick it, knot by knot. That way Carrie can start knitting it up again.”

A full half-hour was to pass before Tiny was finally disentangled from the wool. And when at last the dog was free Rachel sighed, shook her head, announced it was high time they were all in bed and went over to turn off the gas.

“Is it all right for me to go the lav – I mean toilet, Mam?”

“Aye. But know something, Carrie? If you hadnae been born at home I’d have sworn somebody had given me the wrong bairn.”

Once Carrie had settled herself securely in the bathroom she fished out the candle and matches from under the bath. The soft candlelight imparted a romantic glow, and Carrie sighed with eager anticipation as she reached for her
Red Letter.
Her hands shook as she searched for the vital page. Then a cry of dismay escaped her. The page and the next one were gone! Panic seized her when it dawned on her what had happened to them. Paul and Sam had used them as toilet paper. “Good grief,” she moaned. “Whatever am I going to do?”

All the time she’d spent trying to turn the heel, her mind had visualised herself drifting luxuriously to sleep knowing the climax of the story – discovering that delicate Flora was at last the blushing bride of Murdo, and about to experience all the bliss of her wedding night. Now, because of the disaster, Carrie would toss and turn all night wondering how she was going to explain the mystery of the mutilated magazine.

Next morning Bernie was understandably furious when Carrie was unable to tell her the ending of the story. Carrie was equally put out because Bernie didn’t seem at all concerned that her friend could be in deep trouble. What made matters even worse was that Bernie just stomped off when Carrie whimpered, “Whatever
am
I going to do?”

To blazes with Bernie! She would just deliver the magazine with its missing three pages to Mrs Stivens with her morning paper. After all, Mrs Stivens might not follow the serial and therefore not notice that the last three pages of her magazine had been ripped out. Carrie squirmed with embarrassment as she remembered how she herself had had to rip out the third page when the shock of what happened to the magazine resulted in her having an attack of diarrhoea during the night.

When Carrie arrived at the newsagent’s to collect her evening papers, Mr Dalgleish was waiting for her. He motioned sternly with his finger for her to come to the counter. His tongue, as usual when he was angry, was hanging out and was licking his bottom lip from side to side like a pendulum. “Mrs Stiven’s been in and she wants to know what’s happened to the back of her
Red Letter
?”
he thundered.

Carrie hesitated. All night she’d rehearsed what she was going to say, but realised the story about Tiny eating the magazine wouldn’t wash. Nor would the one about some girl who was so desperate to know the end of the serial that she’d robbed Carrie and torn out the last three pages before fleeing with them. She also knew that if she lied she would probably end up in the burning fire underneath the school floor boards. Not only did the minister say that Satan lived there, waiting to devour children who lied or stole, but the headmaster, Mr Green, said so too.

Five minutes later she had confessed all to Mr Dalgleish. He sighed patiently before telling her there was nothing else for it but that she must pay for the magazine – which meant she would be fourpence short in her weekly wages. It also meant she would have to tell her mother because Rachel would be expecting seven and sixpence not seven and twopence. Carrie looked up and pleaded. “But what will I tell my Mammy, Mr Dalgleish?”

“The truth, of course,’” he expostulated. “But before you tell yer Mammy anything, I want you to go round and see Mrs Stivens and tell her exactly what happened.”

After Carrie had seen Mrs Stivens she crept at a snail’s pace towards home. During the trudge she thought of running away – but it was macaroni cheese for tea and she was very hungry, starving in fact. She decided though that, if she went into the house sobbing, Rachel would be less likely to bounce her head off the wall. So, taking a deep breath, she opened the door. “Mammy, Mammy!’” she called. “I got a terrible row from Mr Dalgleish because Mrs Stivens reported me for delivering her
Red Letter
late.”

Rachel, who was lifting the macaroni cheese out of the oven, turned round. “Are you saying that all some women have to worry about is a comic being delivered late?”

Carrie had now sidled to one end of the wooden bench behind the table. “Mammy, the
Red Letter
is no a comic. It’s the best magazine in the whole wide world.” Carrie sobbed before continuing in an awesome whisper, “And this week it was the end of the serial.”

Rachel banged the dish down on the table, leant forward and yanked Carrie to her feet. If Carrie thought the
Red Letter
was the best magazine in the whole wide world and was also aware that it was the end of the serial then there was more to this business than a magazine being delivered late. “Right, my girl,” she yelled. “Out with it!”

Carrie was again tempted to lie, but in her mind’s eye she could clearly see the hell flames engulfing her. And because she was standing close to the heated scullery wall, she could actually feel her flesh beginning to burn. So, when her mother let go of her, the truth tumbled from her mouth.

The tale of woe having eventually ended, Rachel grabbed Carrie again and shook her until her teeth chattered. “Now, just you listen to me, my lady. And listen good. At your age you’ve no right to be reading a paper as wicked as the
Red Letter
and you’re lucky,
very lucky,
that wee Billy up the stairs has bronchitis and his Mammy had just got him to sleep, or I’d give you a good doing right now.”

“I’m very sorry, Mammy,” wept Carrie.

“You will be!
Very
sorry at that. Because I’m going to set the alarm five minutes early for tomorrow morning and you’ll get your doing then. And believe me! A Macintosh Red will look pale compared to your backside when I’m done with you.”

“Will I set the alarm for ye the noo, Mammy?” This intervention came from Sam, who was thoroughly relishing the scene.

“What a good idea, Sam. And while you’re at it, set it ten minutes early, because you’re enjoying this so much you can also enjoy having your arse warmed first.”

“But, Mammy,” Sam protested – but was unable to finish because Rachel had turned back to Carrie.

“And is that it?” Rachel demanded.

Carrie shook her head. “No. I had to go round and tell Mrs Stivens what happened.” A further fit of sobbing overtook her.

Rachel sighed. “To her magazine?”

“No. In the story, Mammy.”

“And what did you say, Carrie?” pleaded Hannah, who hated family rows.

Carrie’s eyes became dreamy. Her voice grew husky. And she spoke more as if to herself. “I just told her that the wicked woman was killed by a bolt of lightning when she was out riding. Mercilessly beating her horse she had been, so God sorted her out. After that, Murdo went quickly to Liverpool and was just in time to jump on the gangplank before it was pulled away to let the ship sail. Luckily Flora had seen him from the rail where she was standing. You see, she’d wanted to get one last glimpse of Britain, and when she saw Murdo jump aboard she ran to meet him. He swept her up in his arms and then they jumped overboard together and swam back to the shore. And once they were dried out by a roaring fire, Murdo took Flora back to his house in Corstorphine. Big house it is. And it has
two
bathrooms with an Izal toilet roll in each one of them!”

The winter of 1948 melted into spring and spring warmed into summer. A bright June sun streamed into 16 Learig Close through the windows that had been flung open wide. Rachel was on a day off and Hannah was on a week’s holiday from her clerking job, and together they were giving the house yet another spring-clean.

They launched into their task as soon as the children left for school. They washed, scrubbed and polished everything in sight. Towels and bedding danced on the washing-line along with the two blankets that Sam had acquired for the family last winter. Had he been at home, he’d have sworn he was scared to stand still for fear he too landed in the second-hand Burco boiler that had quite recently fallen off the back of a lorry into his ever ready hands.

At the time he’d been haggling for the boiler, he was convinced it would save Rachel a lot of work. But he now realised it had become her favourite toy. She never tired of boiling, boiling, boiling – everything that should be boiled and a great deal that shouldn’t, with the result that the family washing was now so white that it had become the talk of the street. Indeed Rachel was thrilled when Edna Glass told her that people were actually going up the back lane just to see it flapping in the wind. Now not only would Mrs Anderson in the next stair be remembered when she died for the beautiful washings she’d put out, but Rachel too would surely be awarded the same accolade in due course. Or so she told Carrie, who exclaimed, “Surely, Mammy, you don’t want to be remembered for just putting out a beautiful washing?”

Rachel hadn’t answered. Why should she try to explain it to a young lassie who couldn’t even wash her neck properly – never mind wash anything else whiter than white.

“That’s me finished black-leading the fireside, Mam. And that’s it all done,” Hannah announced to her mother, who by now had finished scrubbing and bleaching the wooden bathroom floor.