In a Class of Their Own (17 page)

“Right, get the kettle on and we’ll have a fly-cup before they all get here,” Rachel shouted back. Thinking of the rest of her children coming home jolted Rachel into reflecting. How, she wondered, had that blasted government the blooming cheek to put the school-leaving age up to fifteen? If they hadn’t, Sam and Carrie would be leaving school in three weeks’ time and earning money that the family sorely needed. The irony for her, she conceded, was that all of her children were bright enough to achieve the dreams she’d always had for them – dreams that would have taken them out of abject poverty and out of the housing schemes. Out of the labouring-class and back into the middle-class where her mother had belonged and where Rachel felt she and her children should rightly be.

She sighed wistfully. Hannah, the brightest of her children, had so wanted to stay on at school and get her Lower Leaving Certificate. The simple truth was that she couldn’t afford to let her stay on past fourteen. Sam too had been denied his chance at the Heriot’s bursary for the same reason. With Sam though, she had the comfort of knowing that, while he might be slightly less intelligent than Hannah, he had what Hannah didn’t have – a good dose of animal cunning. And that talent would see him through life and let him reach his goals one way or another.

Rachel’s thoughts then turned to Carrie. Ah well, best to forget what happened three years ago. Carrie had passed her qualifying exam well above anyone’s expectation – which saw her elevated to a seat next to Sam in class. But so what? Carrie never worked to her full potential – unless (Rachel granted) the subject really interested her. So getting Carrie settled into a good job like Hannah, who was now a clerkess in the Leith Provident head office, was going to be something of a problem.

Footsteps behind her interrupted Rachel’s thoughts and she jumped in slight alarm.

“Oh, it’s only you, Hannah,” she sighed with relief. “See that?” she said proudly, standing aside so that Hannah could admire her handiwork. “All scrubbed and bleached the way I know you like it.”

Both Hannah and Rachel took a deep breath but coughed when the smell of bleach and carbolic caught the back of their throats. “I know folks say I’m fussy like you, Mam, but if I’m to be a doctor I really do have to have high standards of hygiene.”

Rachel stared down into the cloudy water in the pail. “Hannah,” she murmured, “I’ve looked into the whole business, and there’s just no way I can afford for you to become a doctor.”

Hannah’s lip trembled. Tears sprang to her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. “But, Mam, you’ve always said we should aim for the skies.”

“I know, dear, and next year, once Carrie and Sam are working, I might just manage to let you train as a nurse.”

“A nurse? Oh, Mam, don’t you understand? I’ve been going to night school to get my Highers so I can get to university one day?”

“Yes. And it’ll stand you in good stead.”

“I
don’t
want to stand in good stead: I want to take out people’s adenoids, not wipe their backsides.”

“Oh, Hannah, nurses do a lot more than wipe arses.”

Hannah snorted indignantly and pursed her lips. “Right then, if you won’t let me be a doctor, I’ll just lower my sights and settle for being a missionary.”

“A missionary?” yelled Rachel in horror as she brushed past Hannah and went into the scullery to empty the pail into the sink. There was a pause, as the murky water gurgled away, before she demanded. “And where exactly are you meaning to be a missionary?”

“Africa.”

“Africa? Why Africa?” Rachel asked, wheeling to face her recalcitrant daughter.

“Cos I’ve been reading all about Mary Slessor and that’s where she went to show the native children how to live better.”

Drying her hands, Rachel began to laugh disbelievingly and sank down on a chair. “Look, Hannah, if you want to show bairns how to live better, you don’t need to bother going all the way to Africa. You just need to go up the stairs to the Sinclairs.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Just that they poor bairns up there are living worse than them in Africa. The Sinclairs think a decent meal comes out the chippie, so they do.”

Before Hannah could speak, the outside door opened and Carrie waltzed into the scullery, bearing a plate neatly covered with a tea towel. “Mam,” she gushed. “You’re never going to believe this, but I came second in the class for making these floury scones.” With a dramatic flourish Carrie removed the towel to reveal eight perfect scones. “See?”

Rachel rose and picked up one of the scones to examined it. “You only came second?”

“Well, I was first for the scones, naturally,” Carrie boasted, demonstrating how each scone sprang back immediately she prodded it. “But that bitchy teacher deducted five marks for the mess I’d made, so I only came second all round.”

“Aye, and I bet when you finished there was more flour on the floor than there is in the whole of the Chancelot Mills,” teased Hannah.

Carrie ignored the barb, and all Rachel could do was to fill the teapot with boiling water. “Aye, Carrie, that’s you first in History, first in Cooking, first in Keep-fit, first in French. But where oh where are you in Geography and Algebra?”

Carrie laid her plate of scones on the table, picked one up, cut it open and walloped a huge dollop of butter on it. Immediately Rachel seized the knife and scraped off half the butter.

Quite undeterred, Carrie responded, “I was talking to Lottie Glass on my way back from school and she told me her sister Ina has been working three years now and she’s never once used her Geography but she’s sending whisky all over the world.”

Hannah and Rachel looked at each other and shook their heads. “But, Carrie,” her mother argued, “Ina only sticks on the printed labels. Somebody else does the typing.”

“Maybe so. But she gets real good money just for sticking on the labels the right way up.” Without waiting for an answer she bit into her scone. “Here, try one. They’re just yummy. Even with hardly any butter on them.”

“Look here, Carrie, don’t tell me you’re thinking of working in a whisky bond?”

Carrie looked up. Her eyes widened in mock disbelief and she let the scone fall from her hand. “Mam, how could you even think that? You
know
how hard I’ve been working on my tap-dancing.”

Rachel’s eyes similarly widened. “Tap-dancing?” she exclaimed, through a mouthful of scone.

“Okay, I mightn’t be just as good as Ginger Rogers right now but when I get to Hollywood …”

Now it was Hannah’s turn to splutter through her scone. “Hollywood?”

“Well, if I don’t make Hollywood right away I’ll just be a …”

Then a loud knock on the outside door halted Carrie in her tracks. Rachel frowned and Hannah went to see who it was. A big man framed the doorway. Hannah jumped back and her hand flew to her mouth. Surely the rent wasn’t in arrears again? But Mammy did do silly things when she was ill. No, it couldn’t be that. Mammy hadn’t been to hospital for ages.

“You’ll be Sam’s sister?” the man said.

Hannah nodded.

“Is your mother in?”

“Mam, there’s a man here to see you,” Hannah called, without asking the man in.

Rachel came through from the scullery, carefully removing her pinny and wrapping it up. “Aye?” was all she said.

“I was wondering if I could hae a wee word wi’ ye aboot Sam?”

“Well, whatever he’s done we’ll pay for it. Send in the bill,” said Rachel, beginning to close the door.

The man stuck his foot in the doorway. “Look, it’s nothing like that. It’s guid news.”

Rachel opened the door again and signalled for the man to come inside. Once the door was closed she ostentatiously shut all the windows before saying, “I don’t like all the nosy neighbours knowing my business. Now, you’re sure my Sam hasn’t put a ball through your window or found something you didn’t know you’d lost?”

The man smiled. “Naw. Naw. Sam’s a guid laddie. Great fitba’ player,” he said, seating himself on the chair Rachel set out for him. “Him and Chalky White are richt guid players.”

“They should be,” Rachel chuckled. “They spend every night – light or dark, rain or shine – kicking that ball of theirs to hell and back.”

“Well, it’s paid aff,” the man crowed. “They play for my tea – Restalrig Juniors.” The man pulled himself up and stuck out his chest. “And it looks as if we’ll be takin’ the Juvenile Cup this year. Will you be coming to see the gemme, Missus?”

“Mam works all day on Saturdays,” Hannah interjected before Rachel could answer. “But Carrie, Paul, Alice and I are all coming.”

“That’s a real pity, Missus,” said the man, shaking his head. “You see there’s a scout from Gorgie Hearts coming to see Sam. Got a real interest in him, he has.”

Hannah and Carrie looked at each other and gasped before raising their clenched fists in delight. Rachel reacted by jumping from her chair and howling, “What?”

The man cocked his head knowingly. “Aye, that’s what I’ve managed to dae for yer laddie. Got a Hearts scout comin’ to see him. And, believe me, for I ken these things, they’ll snap him up and mak a professional oot of him.”

“Here,” Rachel demanded, bending her head down so that Hannah could examine it. “Does my head button up the back?”

“What d’ye mean?” said the man, slightly disconcerted by this.

Rachel crossed the room and gave him a sharp poke in the chest. “I’ll tell you exactly what I mean,” she spat. “I know how these scouts get hundreds o laddies to sign up with promises that they’ll come to be football stars. And get into the big money. But you know it doesn’t work out like that.” Rachel turned and confided to Carrie and Hannah, “Maybe one laddie in a hundred will make it. Now we all know Sam’s a pretty good athlete, but he’s not brilliant – so he’ll no be signing for anybody. He’s going to get a trade.”

“But I’m telling you he
will
mak it,” interrupted the man

“Aye, till you throw him on the scrap heap at nineteen or twenty and he’s got no trade to turn to.”

Carrie and Hannah looked from the man to their mother. They simply didn’t know which of them to believe. Sam could kick a ball better and further than anyone else they knew. His dream was their dream – that one day he’d don the maroon jersey.

It was the man who was first to break the silence. “I’ve spoken to Sam and he’s said that…”

“You speaking to Sam will make not the slightest difference.
I
make the decisions here,” Rachel declared firmly, opening the outside door.

“In that case,” the man replied, “could ye gie me Sam’s faither’s address.”

Rachel closed the door with a bang. “
What
did you say?”

“You heard me. Aw I want is Sam’s faither’s address.”

Rachel was now shaking. “And what the hell has his father to do with my Sam?”

“Just this, Mrs Campbell. As Sam’s legal guardian, he may well see what a golden opportunity this is for the laddie.”

“Are you trying to tell me that a man we haven’t seen for all of three, no, four years, can override anything I say?” Rachel gasped, sinking down on her chair again.

The man nodded.

“I’m sure he can’t, Mam,” Hannah blurted out, wringing her hands.

“Oh, but I looked into aw that business afore I came here, and he can, Mrs Campell, I assure ye.”

Rachel was still sitting. She slowly shook her head from side to side, then clenched her fists and beat them on her knees while gazing intently at the wall. Three whole minutes passed – three minutes of agonising silence – before she rose and opened the door once more. “I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch your name when you came in,” she said, in a tone she had learned long ago from Eugenie.

“Henderson. Jack Henderson.”

“Well, Mr Henderson, I don’t believe I have anything further to say to you!”

The man strode to the door but then turned round to face Rachel. “Let’s be fair, Mrs Campbell. I accept that you dinnae want to speak to me aboot Sam’s football career. All I want is his faither’s address so I can ask him.”

“There’s nobody here stopping you asking him anything,” Rachel chuckled. She knew, and she knew that Jack Henderson knew fine that she knew, that he’d already asked Sam about Johnny’s whereabouts and that Sam had stayed mum. “And when you do trace him,” Rachel continued sweetly, “could you ask him if he would kindly send on some of Sam’s keep because he hasn’t come up with one solitary brass bean since the day he walked out of here.”

Just then the entry door opened and in dashed Paul and Alice – Paul with Tiny in his arms. “Mammy, Mammy,” he pleaded. “Sam’s wee dug’s no very weel. We found her round the back. She’s shivering and cannae walk nor nothing.”

“One minute, son, this freebooter here is just leaving.” And with that Rachel dismissed Jack Henderson with a curt nod and closed the door firmly on him.

Hannah immediately jumped forward and took Tiny from Paul. “Oh, Mam, she’s burning hot and her pads are brick hard,” she cried, gently feeling the dog’s nose and paws.

“It’s not that blooming distemper thing, is it?” queried Carrie anxiously.

Hannah nodded and gulped.

Rachel came over also to press Tiny’s pads, then frantically looked about the room before shouting, “Quick, Alice, go and get me that tin of Vaseline from the bathroom.”

“What good d’you think that will do?” asked Hannah.

“I’ll warm it and massage it into her paws.”

Hannah shook her head. “Mam, it’s distemper – hard pad.”

Rachel turned angrily on her. “Oh, you’re so smart now, aren’t you? You’ve no only been studying your Highers at night school but doing a veterinary course as well, I suppose.”

Hannah pouted, but before she could retaliate they heard Sam parking his guider in the stairwell. All stayed silent, looking from one to the other and thinking the same thing – had Sam met Jack Henderson out on the street?

To their relief Sam entered grinning. Rachel suddenly thought she had never seen him look so tall and handsome. His blue eyes danced, his tanned skin glowed and his ginger–blonde hair seemed to be curlier then ever. Rachel’s thoughts went back to the week before, when she’d felt annoyed at Rosie telling Sam how much he now reminded her of Gabby at that age – tall, strong and athletic. Rachel had often wondered what her mother had seen in her father. Now she could see it exactly, and she could understand why her mother had run off with her father – forfeiting luxury to live in poverty and squalor.