In a Class of Their Own (20 page)

She had almost found the right words when Bella called out, “Look, here’s yer Sam comin’ noo.” She paused, looking lovingly towards the young man.

“Aw, God,” she murmured with feeling. “Is he no a braw-lookin’ laddie noo. An’ ye ken something, Rachel? Gabby yased to look just like him.”

“No another eejit trying to say my father was once tall, straight and athletic?”

“Weel, he wis! And that’s hoo yer Mammy fell for him. But yince the booze and gamblin’ took ower, she should hae done a runner.”

By now Sam had bounded up to them.

“Did you get a job, son?” asked Rachel tremuously.

“Aye, I start in the office on Monday and I’m going straight into a trade in July. And I’ll no need to pay the twa pounds doon at the start.”

“You won’t?”

“Naw, Mam, and they’re gonnae pey ma nicht school fees an aw.”

Rachel tried to speak but couldn’t. Her beaming face said it all.

“And what trade did they gie ye, Sam?” asked Bella on Rachel’s behalf.

“Engineerin’. Same as Will Fraser. I saw him when they took me roond the yaird.”

“Him that plays for Restalrig Juniors?” Rachel asked dubiously.

“Aye. His Daddy wouldnae let him sign for the Hearts neither, so he works in Robb’s aw week and plays fitbaw on Saturdays. And when he’s finished his time he’s gonnae gae to sea as a ship’s engineer.”

“Just a minute, Sam, are you trying to say you’re thinking of following him to sea an aw?”

“Aye. Soon as I finish my time, I’ll be aff to the Merchant Navy.”

Rachel looked from Sam to Bella. Not a word could she utter. Her eyes widened in dismay. Was her own precious Sam planning to go out of her life?

“Weel, the sea’s in his blood,” Bella volunteered helpfully.

“Is it?” A startled Sam looked questioningly from Rachel to Bella.

Again it was Bella who answered. “Aye, son, yer great-grandfaither, Gabby’s Daddy, was a maister mariner. An expert on navigation by the stars, they said he was. An’ his twa sisters were schuil teachers. Lived in a big hoose in South Queensferry, they did.”

Sam said nothing, but looked again from Rachel to Bella.

“Surely ye ken aw that?” Bella asked.

Sam shook his head and looked searchingly at his mother, whose face was turning a deep scarlet.

“Look, I never told you where he was from,” she said defensively, “cos I didn’t want you to know just how far he’d fallen.”

“But I ayeways thocht yer Mammy had mairried beneath hersel’?”

“Look Sam, so as far as I’m concerned, if Gabby had been blooming King George himself, she’d still have married beneath herself.”

Bella grew uneasy and began to shift from one foot to the other, then quickly turned and looked over her shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you,” she said, speaking into space. “I’ll tell him.”

She turned to Sam and said airily, “That was yer Granny speakin’ to me there.”

“Dinnae be daft! My Granny’s alang in Admiralty Street, no standin’ oot there on that oily water.”

“Naw! Yer ither Granny. Yer Mammy’s Mammy that’s in heaven. An’ she says engineerin’ will dae for noo, but there’s something much better for ye later on.” Bella looked over her shoulder again, “Oh, that was her comin’ through again, just to remind me to tell ye that, whitever ye dae, ye’ve no to annoy the Chinese.”

“Och, Auntie Bella, it’s aw stuff and nonsense this talkin’ to the deid. I wish ye wouldnae dae it,” Sam shouted as he turned away and raced back along the road.

“Where are you off to, Sam?” Rachel called after him.

“To see my real Granny and tell her aboot my job.”

“Hold on a minute, Sam. I’ve somethin’ to tell you – I’ll go with you.”

Sam halted abruptly and looked at Rachel with a quizzical smile. “You’re gonnae chum me to see ma Granny?”

Rachel nodded. “Aye, son, ye see – she’s taken a bad turn – and I need to see her too.”

Bella nodded.

It was well past tea-time when Rachel jumped into the house ahead of Sam. “Where have you been, Mammy?” Alice complained with a scowl.

“Getting Sam started into a job and seeing to this and that,” said Rachel, glancing warningly at Sam to make sure he’d do as she had asked and not mention Rosie being so very ill – nor that she’d visited her.

When Rachel had arrived in Admiralty Street she’d gone first to the Browns. Willie, now retired, was sitting by the fire smoking his clay pipe as usual. The Browns were such a nice family: decent hardworking folk who had remained very good friends, not only with Rosie all the many years they’d been her neighbours, but also with Rachel.

“If ye’ve come to see Rosie it’s safe to gang in,” Willie, who knew why Rachel had come, spoke before she could say a word.

“She’s not by herself, surely?”

“Naw, naw. My Mary’s wi’ her till Johnny and Ella get back,” Willie reassured her, taking his pipe from his mouth and spitting into the fire, which sizzled and crackled.

Rachel signalled her thanks and tiptoed into Rosie’s house where Mary Brown came over immediately and pulled her into a tight, comforting embrace. “Guid to see ye, Rachel. Ye’re in time, lass. But only just, if I’m ony judge.”

Mary let go of Rachel and went over to the bedside where she gently tapped Sam on the shoulder. “C’mon noo, son,” she whispered. “Dinnae greet so sair. Naw, naw! Awa doon the stairs and keep an eye oot for yer Daddy or yer Auntie Ella comin’ back. An’ if they turn the corner o the street, run straight back up here and get yer Mammy intae my hoose till it’s safe for ye and her to leave.”

Reluctantly, Sam heaved himself up off Rosie’s chest, but before going he stroked her forehead and put her paralysed hand to his mouth for a kiss. “Bye, Granny,” he said sofly as he watched two large tears run down Rosie’s face. Mary led him to the door and they both crept into the lobby.

Rachel was still pondering deeply about Rosie and wondering whether she had understood what was said to her when Carrie broke in, shouting, “Mammy, are you listening to me?”

“Aye, Carrie, what is it?”

“Just that at school this afternoon we got taken around all the places that we might find work.”

“And?”

“Well, they took us to Smith’s Bakery at Hawkhill. And ken that cream that goes in their cream cookies? Well, we all got a lick of it.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, we did that – and if you take a job there you can have a lick any time you want. And if they don’t sell all their bread by tea-time the workers get it half price.”

A deep frown furrowed Rachel’s brow before she spoke with undisguised irony. “Right enough, Carrie, that’s exactly what I want for you. A place where you can get a lick of sour cream any time you want it and take a stale half loaf home with you every night.”

Carrie pursed her lips before exclaiming “Oh, Mam, surely you knew I wasn’t going to take
that
job.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“No, it’s Lottie Glass that’s going to stick the jam in their Paris buns.”

Rachel sighed. She was feeling guilty for not being with Carrie to help find her a job. But she just had to see Rosie. There were so many things …

Trying desperately to take her mind off her meeting with Rosie, she went on, “And where else did they take you?”

“Crawford’s biscuits.”

“Aye well, I hope you told them that you had no intention of packing biscuits either.”

Carrie ignored that. “And then we went on to Duncan’s chocolate factory. I saw Jean Hunt there. She puts the walnuts on top of the Walnut Whips. But I didn’t fancy that. I’m really not that keen on walnuts. But I did quite like the hazelnut chocolate they gave us to sample.” Carrie rambled on, unaware that Rachel was only half-listening. “Listen to this, Mam. See, in the VAT 69 Bond…”

“VAT 69 Bond? Without my permission they took you into the VAT 69 whisky bond?” fumed Rachel.

“Aye, but we didnae get any samples there because we’re too young to drink whisky and when we went round we had to keep our hands in our pockets.”

“Why?” Rachel demanded.

“In case she pauchled enough samples to keep Granddad goin’ for a week,” Sam quipped.

“That right?” Rachel retorted. ‘Well, she’s your sister, right enough, but she’s no that bloody smart.”

“And last of all, Mam, they took us to British Ropes.”

“Took you to the Roperie?” thundered Rachel. “Are they mad or something?”

“What’s wrong with the place?”

“Look, Carrie, you have to be a keelie to work there. Oh aye, that place is so tough that even your common school pals, Lottie and Crystal, would find it hard going.”

“But Mam, there are some real nice lassies working there in their office.”

“Here! Don’t tell me you’re thinking of working in the Roperie office?”

“Well, what I would really like to do – that’s if I had a choice – is write.” Carrie sighed and her eyes misted over.

“You mean, be a clerkess?”

“No, Mam, I don’t want to be a clerkess – I want to write for the
Red Letter
.”

Rachel sank down heavily on the chair and covered her head with her hands. “Oh no. We’re not going down that road again. I’ve told you already, I couldn’t hold my head up around here if folk thought a daughter of mine was responsible for writing the trash that’s printed in that apology for a magazine.”

“Well, in that case,” Carrie challenged, “it might be better for you if I take the job I was offered at British Ropes today.”

“What blooming job at British Ropes?” demanded Rachel.

“I told you, Mam. They have an office and they’ve started to make nylon ropes.”

Rachel butted in before Carrie could continue. “Don’t be daft, Carrie. Ropes are made from hemp and it’s stockings that are made from nylon.”

“Mam, I can assure you that the new whaling ropes are made out of nylon.”

“That’s right, Mam, they
are
made o nylon noo,” Sam confirmed.

“You must be joking!”

“Naw,” said Sam, chortling, “Honestly, Mam, they’re made o nylon because nylon is much stronger than hemp. Stronger than ony whale for that maitter.”

“Okay, that might be the case, Sam. But you, Carrie, my girl, are going to work in
no
Roperie!”

“But I’ll be workin’ in the office.”

“Look, as I’ve just said, I’ll accept that ropes can be made out of nylon to keep the whaling industry going, but there’s no way you can persuade me they’re made in an office.”

“Just listen to me, Mam. The nylon ropes are made in a specially-built factory unit down there and the man in charge is absolutely brilliant but doesn’t know how to write out the test papers, the results, the letters, the invoices – or anything like that. So they’re looking for someone to be his …”

“Secretary?” yelled Rachel in disbelief.

“Aye,” Carrie nodded. “And the wage – the salary I mean – that they’re paying is ten bob a week more than Oxo offered me to be an invoice clerkess.”

“But why?” queried Rachel, who was still thinking there had to be a catch somewhere.

“Well – cos I’d have to work with this man and sometimes he shouts and swears when he’s dictating a letter and you have to know how to find other words for his swear words. And as he starts at seven-thirty – so will I.”

“But if you don’t start at nine the neighbours will all think you’re just working in the factory. And I can’t have that, Carrie. No. I just won’t have it.”

“But they’ll know I’m staff because I’ll be signing in, not clocking on – and I’d have every Saturday off and finish at five every night.”

“And why’s that so important?”

“Cos I won’t get any overalls so I’ll have to save up to buy some nice clothes to …”

“Here, just a minute. There’s no way you’ll be keeping yourself till you leave this house to get married. And till you do that, you’ll hand your wages over to me every pay-day – unopened.”

“I know that, Mam, but the wages from my other job.”

“What other job?”

“The usherette job I’m taking on at the Palace picture house.”

“What?”

“Aye, just three nights a week and every Saturday, Mam.”

“And, Mammy, ken something else?” squealed Paul. “She says she’ll be able to smuggle Alice and me in for nowt after the big picture has started.”

“And do you know something else, Paul?” Rachel retorted. “I think the lot of you have been watching too many bloody pictures.”

“Anyway,” Carrie went on as if Rachel had made no comment at all, “the money I get for being an usherette will go on tap-dancing lessons for Alice, some nice clothes, a pair of black patent-leather high heels and a bottle of Mischief perfume for myself. And know something else I’m going to buy?”

Rachel shook her head wearily.

“A bottle of that new stuff they’ve brought out for painting under your oxters. Honestly, Mam, Bernie was telling me, that even if you don’t wash for a week you still don’t hum if you use it.”

“What?” Rachel exploded.

“Aye, Odo-ro-no it’s called; and know something else? Even though I’m going to have to work in the Roperie and the Palace, I just know that one day I’ll be a famous novelist and be so rich that I’ll pay somebody like me to do the typing.”

“Oh, my God,” Rachel moaned as her head dropped again into her hands.

“And after I’m dead, there’ll be a plaque on the outside door stating: ‘Carrie Campbell wrote her first novel in this house’.”

Rachel looked up at Carrie and then gazed out of the window.

“Nope, Carrie, I just can’t see them.”

“See what, Mam?”

“Flying pink pigs, Carrie. Flipping flying pink pigs.”

Carrie emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head just as Sam shouted from the kitchen, “Hey, Lady Muck, if ye’ve finished washin’ yer hair for the second time this blinkin’ week, d’ye think we could hae oor kettle back?”

“Aye,” chipped in Paul, who always took his cue from Sam. “Some o us would like oor breakfast.”

With a well-practised air of indifference, Carrie turned back into the bathroom and lifted the kettle from the floor, along with a colander and a jug from the window sill, then picked her way gingerly through a morass of wires, plaster and uprooted floorboards, back into the scullery.