The Baker's Daughter (2 page)

‘I'd
like to go to London,' Rona said. ‘There's others get modelling jobs, and I'm just as good as them. You can earn a lot of money,' she added hopefully.

‘Well, you can put that out of your mind for a start,' said Angus. ‘I never heard anything like it.'

He paused. ‘Ah, well,' said Angus at last, ‘what's done can't be undone. There's only one thing for it. I'll take you on here,' he decided.

‘But . . .' Rona began.

‘No buts. I want you here where I can keep an eye on you. You can start by sweeping the floor. You'll find the brush and dustpan behind the door And,' he added, ‘I want to hear no more about you running around with boys. Is that clear?'

‘It was only . . .'

‘That lad has a bad reputation. You'll do as I say.'

He sighed. What was he to do with this wayward daughter? Ruby would have known how to handle her. Lizzie—well, she was of no help at all.

She and Rona were constantly at war, and it made for an uneasy atmosphere in the home. ‘At your age,' Lizzie would say, pursing her lips, ‘I did what my elders and betters told me.'

‘But,' Rona would argue, ‘we're in the nineteen fifties now. Not the Dark Ages,' she would add under her breath.

I'll maybe regret this, thought Angus.
Taking
her on in the shop. She's that headstrong. And there was bound to be trouble with Lizzie. If only . . . But there was no use regretting. And to be fair, Rona hadn't really had a chance, what with her mother dying when she was just about to leave school.

It was not, he thought, going to be the cheeriest Hogmanay he'd ever had. Doug—well, he was old enough by now. He'd want to be out with his friends. Rona—he shuddered—would resent staying at home.

But then, he recalled, there would be friends dropping in. There would be a first foot—someone tall, and dark. It was nearly always Geordie from next door. He'd bring his accordion, and someone would sing, or give a comic recitation. And there would be black bun—he thought proudly of the black bun that was his speciality, dark, rich and spicy, and a dram to welcome in 1952. Oh, it might not be too bad after all.

He thought back to the dark years of the war. Everything in short supply, no sugar for iced cakes, and queues all along the street.

He remembered, you couldn't even provide a wedding cake. Lots of brides had to make do with a cardboard cake—and when you took off the top layer inside was a wee bit of sponge.

It was even worse after the war, just when bread was rationed—1948, he remembered, before the two years of bread rationing ended.

How tired he had been of these dreaded
coupons—bread
units, BUs they called them. But now things were beginning to improve.

Oh, there were some shortages still, but gradually life was getting back to normal, though it had been a long slow business, and rationing wasn't ended yet.

It would be grand, he thought, to return to producing the elaborate cream cakes of pre-war—though he had to admit, the mock cream that had filled cream horns hadn't been all that bad, made with margarine, sugar and dried milk powder.

He'd done his best this year to provide something extra for Christmas and Hogmanay, such as the old folks' boxes he'd made up with gingerbread, a piece of sultana cake and shortbread. They'd sold well at eight shillings a box—there were none left.

Just as he was about to close up, there was a sound outside.
‘Ma feet's cauld, ma shoes are thin . . .'

He sighed, exasperated. ‘I've already given these bairns their Hogmanay.'

But there were scones and some tea bread left—they'd be stale by the time the shop opened again.

He reached for a bag and filled it, then opened the door. ‘Now that's the last—there's no more. So you needn't be telling any of your pals to come round.'

The biggest boy in the group grabbed the bag with a whoop of joy. ‘Thanks, mister.'

The
rest of them crowded round to see what treasures they'd been given.

‘Thanks, mister. A good New Year to you when it comes.'

Angus smiled ‘And a good New Year to you,' he said, as he closed the door.

Rona grimaced. Would it really be a good New Year? Oh, it was dull in Kirkton, and it promised to be even drearier working in the shop under the watchful eye of Aunt Lizzie.

If only . . . she wished she could leave, find a job in the city, Edinburgh or Glasgow or even London. She had never been to London. But then she began to cheer up. Rona was seldom down in spirits for long.

There had been a boy last week at the dance in the town hall who had whirled her round in a quickstep and told her she was the prettiest girl there. And another—he was rather boring, she had to admit—who had asked her to go to the pictures.

Still, this was the beginning of a new year—and who knew what might happen? Maybe, she told herself, romance was just around the corner.

BORED IN THE SHOP

‘I hate this job,' said Rona to herself. ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire.' She wished
sometimes
that she hadn't been quite so impulsive, that she'd tried harder to fit into the job at the big house. ‘At least,' she reminded herself, ‘I wasn't working for Father.'

It was even worse being in the shop with Aunt Lizzie the whole time. She thought of the conversation she'd had with her friend, Nancy, the previous evening.

‘Do you like that colour?' Nancy had said, examining the bright scarlet she'd painted her nails.

‘My father would have a fit if I painted my nails that colour,' said Rona gloomily.

‘You should stand up for yourself.' Nancy shook her dark curls. ‘There—I've smudged a nail,' she said in exasperation. ‘You could easily be a model,' she went on.

‘Do you think so?'

‘You've got the height,' said Nancy earnestly.

‘I've seen these models,' said Rona thoughtfully, ‘in the big stores—that time we went to Edinburgh. They walk through the tearoom holding a card with the price. I could easily do that.'

She jumped up and pretended to be a model swaying her way through the tea tables with a haughty expression.

Nancy fell back, laughing. ‘There you are. You're perfect!'

‘But I'll never get the chance,' said Rona gloomily. ‘My father thinks I'm no good at
anything—but
I can add up, and I'd really like a chance to do the windows. They've looked the same for donkeys' years.'

She turned to her friend. ‘Look at your family,' she said. ‘They let you leave school, and there you are working in the council offices.'

‘Just till the right man comes along,' said Nancy, ‘and then I'm off.' She spent many of the hours at work day dreaming about the perfect wedding dress.

‘Oh, you,' scoffed Rona who hadn't given a thought to weddings. Unless it was as the bride at the end of a fashion show, making her way slowly along the catwalk.

‘Ooh, isn't she lovely?' She could hear the applause of the audience and graciously looked from left to right before she turned with a sweep of the long silk train . . .

*        *        *

‘A real family business,' said an old lady as she paid for a brown loaf and some potato scones.

Rona overheard her and glared. Luckily the old woman was exchanging news with Aunt Lizzie, and didn't see, but Rona earned a ticking-off from Angus. ‘The customer is always right,' he said sternly. ‘How often do I have to tell you?'

But most of the time, Angus was in a good mood. Business was brisk and he felt he could
invest
in a new van.

‘It's necessary—for the deliveries,' he excused himself. ‘I could never be sure that the old one wouldn't break down—and me maybe miles away delivering to a farm somewhere.'

Because for him it was a matter of pride—early deliveries, morning rolls and bread, later in the day, tea bread and cakes.

‘There you are.' He gestured proudly towards the van, with its gilt lettering,
Maclaren—Family Baker
.

Rona felt more dispirited than ever. Maclaren's would go on for ever and ever. The fact that the lettering proclaimed it in gilt words made it all the more certain. She had only worked in the shop for a couple of weeks, and oh, she was bored.

‘Can I get a shot?' Doug was round immediately to see the new van.

‘That you cannot.' Angus was firm. ‘No-one gets to drive this van but me?'

‘I can drive, Father, honest I can. Sanny lets me drive the cars in the garage.'

‘What he does is his own business,' said Angus solemnly. ‘This is a working vehicle not for you to run around in with your pals.'

Doug sighed. There was no moving Father when he was like this. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to go back to the garage where the doctor's new Ford Consul was in for a service. Now there was a car—leather upholstery, heater and all.

‘I'd
quite like to have a go,' said Rona who had come out to the front and stood admiring the van.

She was supposed to be making up orders, but this was much more interesting. She wiped her hands on her white apron—the apron that had been white that morning—and brushed back a few tendrils of hair.

‘Have a go, you will not,' said Angus severely. ‘I've told you, no-one drives this van but me.' He ran a hand lovingly over the shining bonnet then turned to chase away a crowd of children who had gathered.

‘Give us a hurl in it, mister! Go on . . .'

Angus ignored them. He turned back to Rona. ‘Away and sort out the delivery for the hotel,' he told her.

Sulking, Rona did as she was told.

‘YOU'RE NO CREDIT TO THE FAMILY'

Later that day, the door opened and Rona tried not to stare at the elegant figure who stopped and gazed around the shop. ‘I'm looking for something really special,' she said in a languid drawl.

‘English,' said Rona to herself ‘Not from around here anyway.'

She took in the customer's dress, figured in a geometric print, and her little black velvet
hat
with a veil, perched at a fetching angle on her dark hair.

‘You'll find something special here, madam,' said Rona in her best saleswoman's voice. Behind her, at the desk, she could hear Aunt Lizzie sniff. Whether it was disapproval of Rona's manner, or whether she was inhaling the musk of the visitor's perfume that wafted round the shop—it was hard to tell. Rona paid no attention.

‘Would it be for afternoon tea?' she continued.

‘I'd like some of your fruit cake.'

‘None better,' said Rona.

‘I'm sure.' The woman looked rather coldly at Rona. ‘What else? Scones?'

‘Freshly baked today,' said Rona.

‘Very well, I'll take half a dozen. What besides?' She looked rather vaguely along the display of potato scones, pancakes and soda scones.

Immediately Rona recognised someone who wasn't accustomed to shopping for herself, and set about selling enthusiastically.

‘We've some nice apple tarts,' she said. ‘A speciality of our shop,' she added grandly.

‘I'll take a dozen.'

‘Right you are,' said Rona forgetting in her enthusiasm to be the sophisticated sales lady. ‘They're in the back shop, newly baked. I'll just get a tray.'

The customer leaned against the counter,
inspecting
her fingernails in a bored sort of way.

But as Rona emerged from the back of the shop, the front door burst open, blown by a gust of wind and a small black Pekinese, dragging its lead, bounded into the shop, yapping angrily.

‘Toots, you are naughty,' the customer exclaimed. ‘I told you to wait outside.'

‘Here you are . . .' Rona began, just as the dog rushed towards her. She tripped over the lead and her tray of apple tarts went flying and she crashed to the floor.

Aunt Lizzie rose from the cash desk. ‘Get up, Rona,' she said crossly.

Rona, mortified, rose to her feet, rubbing her elbow where she had hit it against the edge of the counter.

The dog, meantime, had gobbled up one apple tart and was starting on a second.

‘Oh, poor little thing,' the customer swept the dog into her arms. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes, thank you,' said Rona before she realised that the customer was addressing the Pekinese.

She looked gloomily at the tray of apple tarts now spread all over the floor.

‘Will that be all, madam?' she said with as much dignity as she could.

‘Dear me,' said the customer, looking disdainfully at the floor. Her gaze swept the Shop. ‘Is this the only baker's in the town?' she
said.

‘There is another,' said. Rona, ‘but this is the best.'

‘Really?' The lady's tone was chilly ‘Is it?' Her attention was drawn to her little dog, licking the floor happily ‘Oh, sweetie, don't do that. It may not even be clean.'

Aunt Lizzie now entered the conversation. ‘Can we be of further assistance to you, madam?'

The customer shook her head. ‘How much is that now?' She produced her purse from her dainty black pochette, and said to Rona, ‘That will be all.'

Rona wrapped up the items she'd bought and put them into a box.

When the customer had paid and taken herself and her dog away, Rona looked at the floor with dismay.

‘You'd best get that all cleaned up,' said Aunt Lizzie behind her. ‘Before your father comes back. I never saw the like of it. If there's a wrong thing to do, you'll do it.

‘Yesterday you dropped these cream cookies, and you forgot the order for potato scones.' She said grimly, ‘You're no help to your father, none at all. You can't be left for a minute.'

‘I'm doing my best,' Rona defended herself.

‘Aye, well. I'm not surprised they gave you your books from the big house.'