In a Class of Their Own (23 page)

They were still trying to come to terms with this when Gabby half-opened his eyes and stretched out a scrawny hand. “Rachel hen. Rachel hen,” he gasped. “Thank God ye’ve come!” Gabby struggled for breath. “Ye’ve got to get me oot o here.”

“Out of here?” exclaimed Rachel. “I’m still trying to figure out how the hell you got yourself in here.”

“Collapsed in Dolan’s pub, so I did. But listen, Rachel, I
hiv
tae get oot o here,” Gabby pleaded, “I just cannae abide that midden o a Sister.” Gabby stopped to get his breath. “Which minds me, Carrie hen – ye gae and get the polis and then yer Mammy can hae her chairged,” Gabby’s breath was now rasping and he waited a full minute before continuing, “wi’ theft, arson and …” he struggled for breath again before uttering ominously, “… 
cruelty!”

“Theft, arson and cruelty!” exclaimed Rachel. “And how in the name of heavens did she manage all that?”

Gabby gasped his answer. “Well, when I got brocht in – first thing – she – had me stripped naked.” Lifting his head from the pillow, he sought for Carrie’s hand and tears welled up in his eyes. “Aye, aff came ma coat, ma jaiket, ma muffler, ma jumpers – aw three o them – ma shirt – ma vest…”

“They’d need to do that to examine you,” Rachel interrupted impatiently. Gabby flung his head back on the pillow and groaned as she went on. “And, as no one’ll want them, you’ll soon get them back.”

These ironic words of comfort only made Gabby more agitated and his breathing become still more erratic.

“That’s where ye’re bluidy well wrang,” he wheezed. “Didn’t the auld midden kick them oot the door and then tell the porter to burn the lot. That’s right, Carrie hen,” cried Gabby, who was now sobbing openly. “The bloody bitch burnt aw my claes. Didnae even leave me wi’ a hankie.”

“Right,” said Rachel complacently, thinking to herself, “Good! That’s what I’ve wanted to do to them for years.”

To Gabby, she said, “That takes care of the theft and arson. But, know something? I think you’ll have a hard job, a hellish hard job, convincing anybody that it amounted to cruelty?”

Gabby struggled again to speak. “The cruelty bit, Miss Know-all, was wheeling me mither-naked intae the bathroom and then me bein’ …” He was overtaken by a fit of stertorous coughing before he could continue. “… bein’ flung in a bath, doused wi’ raw carbolic an’ then bein’ scoured wi’ a deck scrubber.”

“Oh, that’s just awful, Mam,” whimpered Carrie. “Can you no do something about it?”

“No, Carrie, I can’t. The nurses are only doing their job.”

Rachel picked up her bag gingerly and cautiously brought out a bottle. Simultaneously, the door opened and Sister flounced in.

“Mrs Campbell,” she announced in the sternest of tones, “that paper bag that you’re just about to slip to your, em, father, wouldn’t be concealing a bottle of alcohol, would it?”

A deep red glow suffused Rachel’s face. “It’s just a wee dram, Sister. You see, he’s been a heavy drinker all his life.”

Sister snorted contemptuously. “That’s all too evident. In here, however,” and she hesitated before continuing with every ‘r’ imperiously rolled, “rules are rules and regulations are regulations and the Demon Drink is not permitted on
my
ward.”

Gabby struggled to grab hold of Sister, failed and had to be content with a heartfelt imprecation. “Wi’ ye, ye frustrated ugly auld coo, there’s nae drinkin’. An’ nae livin’.” He stopped to gather enough breath for the final insult. “See, if ye’d hae been in the murderin’ Gestapo ye’d hae been drummed oot for sheer bluidy cruelty.”

“Maybe so,” the Sister responded coolly, pushing Gabby back on his pillows and pulling the blankets even tighter about him. “And might I remind you to kindly moderate your language while in this hospital?”

“Look, Sister,” pleaded Rachel, “surely it’s not good for him to be cut off the drink so sudden? I mean it might – er – well -finish him off!”

Sister’s only response was to toss her head. Clearly, in her opinion, Gabby’s demise would be no great loss.

Three days later, Carrie stood at Robb’s Shipyard gate, ostensibly waiting for Sam. And when Will Fraser came out he only told Carrie what she already knew – that Sam had taken time off to help Rachel, who’d been upset at being asked by the warden of the Model Lodging House to clear out Gabby’s locker. The man wasn’t really insensitive, it was just that were more homeless people in Leith than there were beds. And everybody recognised that it was highly unlikely that Gabby would ever go back to lodge there – even though he did seem a little better.

Taking time off to help Rachel was natural for Sam. What he could never cope with was Rachel being distressed, so before she could dry her eyes he’d volunteered to go down to the Lodging House and clear out Gabby’s belongings. Before he left, however, he asked Rachel if he could borrow a suitcase from the neighbours and she had replied grimly, “You won’t need a suitcase, Sam,” she said, handing him a brown paper carrier bag. “All his worldly goods that haven’t ended up in the furnace will go into this.”

Will Fraser again asked Carrie why she didn’t know about Sam having taken time off. She blushed slightly and stammered “I – just forgot. You see, I’m so upset about my Granddad. Brought back memories of my Granny who died a couple of years back.”

“Can I walk you part of the way?” Will asked sympathetically.

Carrie immediately consented. That had been her objective all along, but she wouldn’t have had the courage if Sam hadn’t told her that Will thought Carrie had the loveliest legs he’d ever seen – even better than Betty Grable’s million-dollar ones.

But Sam had angered Carrie by telling Will he was never to look at her legs again – or if he did, he’d end up in bits like the last guy Sam had warned. This was all because Carrie and Alice both had legs like Rachel’s – absolutely perfect. Carrie knew they were because Alice and she were always carrying out the “perfect leg test” by taking three half-crowns (that is, if they were lucky enough to have three) and place them between their ankles, knees and thighs. If they stayed in place, that was the all the proof they needed that their legs were indeed perfect.

By the time Carrie had stopped thinking about the perfect leg test, she and Will were walking together along the pavement. They had gone only a few yards when Will felt for Carrie’s hand – but not wanting him to think her a fast piece she pulled her hand away and thrust it safely into her coat pocket. Then she wondered whether she’d been a bit hasty in taking her hand out of Will’s, because it had felt so nice there – when wallop! She bumped into something hard and solid.

“What idiot put that there?” she cried, rubbing her forehead.

“That lamp post?” asked Will. “It’s always been there.”

“Has it? I’ve never seen it before.”

“Maybe you should be wearing your glasses.” Will chuckled.

Carrie was furious. Everybody knew that boys, especially those as dishy as Will, didn’t make passes at girls who wore glasses. And she had only taken hers off to encourage Will to make a pass at her. Tossing her head, she retorted, “I’m not wearing them cos I only need them for reading.”

“Aye, and for seeing lamp posts,” chortled Will.

Carrie felt her face burning with embarrassment and she began to stomp off. But before she was out of earshot Will called out, “Hang on a minute, Carrie. I want to ask you something.”

She wheeled about to face him again. “Like what?” she yelled.

“Just this – can you dance?”

“You crazy or something?”

Will, who had now caught up with Carrie, shook his head. “No. It’s just that I need a pretty girl, with or without glasses, to go with me to the Highland Ball next Friday night.”

“You want
me
,” Carrie had to gulp before she could go on, “to go with
you
to the Highland Ball on Friday?”

Will vigorously nodded his assent.

Carrie smiled but then bit her lip.

“You do have a ball gown, don’t you?” asked Will, worried that Carrie was going to renege.

“One?” Carrie retorted nonchantly. “Don’t be silly! I’ve got two. Which one d’you want me to wear – the pink or the blue?”

Rachel was seated at the table deep in thought. She’d been there for ages, having had yet another row with Paul and Alice. Paul had been cleaning Sam’s footballs boots to earn a couple of bob, but that morning he’d decided not to clean them in the entry but to do his chore on the floor in the scullery – on the very floor that Rachel had just finished scrubbing. Paul had thought it was far too cold to be cleaning boots outside and was surprised when his mother picked them up and tossed the offending objects into the stairwell. Having got rid of the boots, she turned her attention to Paul. Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, she indicated by a curt nod that he should follow the boots – and out he stumbled.

Rachel banged the door shut with a sigh of despair, hoping she’d not been too hard. Her Paul was just so thrawn. How often had she told him he was not to have the nerve to take after his father. But that had made no difference. Oh, no. Of all her children it was only Paul who mirrored Johnny – the same jet-black hair, slate-grey eyes, olive skin and tall lean figure. The only things Paul had taken from his mother’s side of the family were his intelligence and his vaulting ambition.

Rachel was still thinking about Paul when the door was opened – this time by Alice, who waltzed in looking as if she’d stuck her fingers in an electric socket. Her normally straight blonde hair (one of Alice’s best assets, in Rachel’s opinion) was now a mass of reeking corkscrew curls. Her mother could only look on in horror as Alice gazed admiringly in the mirror, preening herself all the while.

“Mam,” she said ecstatically. “Now, be honest: What do you think of my new bubble-cut? You know bubble-cuts are all the rage right now.”

Rachel could guess pretty accurately who was responsible for Alice now looking like some Rose Street tart. Carrie! Carrie, who seemed to have nothing better to do with her money than indulge Alice’s lunatic whims. What Rachel had never been able to understand was why Alice couldn’t accept that her hair was not curly – or how lucky she was to have straight blonde hair that was classy, just like Hannah’s and Veronica Lake’s.

Once Alice realised that Rachel was not going to fall head over heels for her new hair-do, she stormed out of the house to go and see her pal, Florrie. Alone again, Rachel wondered if everybody who had to bring up bairns had the same problems that she seemed to be having. She had just settled down to ponder the question further when a loud knock came to the outside door. It was the police sergeant again.

“Och, don’t tell me you’re back to talk to Sam about blooming football again?”

The sergeant shook his head and Rachel indicated that he should come in. “Wish I was here aboot yer braw laddie,” he said gravely. “But naw, it’s aboot yer Dad.”

“Has he had a relapse?”

“Naw. Mair than that – he’s deid.”

Rachel sank down on her chair again. “But yesterday he was on the mend,” she protested.

“Aye,” the sergeant nodded. “So much so that early this morning he decided to mak a run for it. Only thing was he hadnae realised he’d been moved to an upstairs ward and then when he leapt oot the windae …” The sergeant grimaced before adding, “Well, it’s a fifteen–fit drap into the hospital gairdens frae Ward Three.”

“Are you saying he broke his neck?”

“Naw. Naw. To tell the truth, he micht hae got ower his faw, but when they got him back inside and the Sister insisted on dumping him back in the bath – well – he just gave up the ghost, didn’t he?”

Sam was at the bunker sorting through Gabby’s things when he came across an old battered photograph of three well-dressed, cherub-like children standing on a highly polished wooden staircase in a large house.

“Who are they?” he asked Rachel, who was busy rolling out scones.

Rachel paused and dusted her hands on her pinny before taking the photograph from Sam. “That’s your Granddad and his two brothers at their home in South Queensferry.”

“Awa!” exclaimed Sam. “Are ye tellin’ me he really did come frae a posh backgroond like that and ended up like this?” Sam pushed Gabby’s few belongings along the bunker before picking them up distastefully and throwing the lot into the bucket.

“Aye,” his mother answered. “And not only do you have his good looks, but he’s the one you got your athletic prowess from.”

“Whit d’ye mean?”

“Just that in his youth he was a star, Sam.”

“A fitbawer?”

“No. But he could run and sprint like a cheetah,” Rachel replied wistfully. “Oh aye, he could even have won the Powderhall Sprint.”

Sam was looking at his mother as if she were mad. “Ye mean the big race they run every New Year’s Day doon at the dug stadium?”

Rachel nodded as she looked longingly down at the photograph again.

“But if he was that guid, whae beat him?”

“Oh, he wasn’t beaten, Sam. He took a bribe – sold out.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. He was speechless, but noted that Rachel ran her hand gently over the photograph before placing it carefully behind the gas meter beside all her other unredeemed pledges.

She began to roll the scones again when the outside door was flung open and Carrie bounced in.

“Oh, Mam,” she cried, “I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Well, Carrie, these things happen,” Rachel murmured.

“Is there nothing we can do about it?”

Rachel looked perplexed. Carrie had some strange notions, but imagining they could somehow resurrect Gabby was going just a bit too far, even for her, so all Rachel said was, “Well, to be truthful I’m not sure that I want to.”

“So you’d rather see me end up an old maid?” Carrie continued.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Rachel asked, more puzzled than ever, as she got out the girdle to begin baking the scones.

“Will Fraser fancying me, of course.”

“Fancyin’ ye? But is that no what ye’ve ayeways wanted?” sniggered Sam. “Efter aw, ye’ve been daeing five-mile detours just to get him to notice ye.”

Carrie’s eyes misted over. “And he has, at last, Mam. He’s even asked me to go with him to the Highland Ball in Mackies on Princes Street next Friday.”