The Baker's Daughter (3 page)

‘It's always the same.' Rona flared up.
‘Whatever
I do, it's the wrong thing. There's no pleasing you, ever!'

‘You'll not speak to me like that, miss. I'm not having it.' Aunt Lizzie's cheeks flushed.

‘Well,' said Rona, nearly in tears. ‘I don't want to work here.'

‘And what are you fit for, may I ask?' her aunt said grimly. ‘There's precious few places would employ you, and you so handless. It's not as if you were any help in the house—mind that time you scorched your father's best shirt, supposed to be ironing it.'

‘That was a while ago!' Rona said angrily ‘And you're never done casting it up to me.'

‘Well, all I can say is, you're no credit to the family and no help to your father, poor soul.'

At this reference to her father, Rona had had enough and she burst into tears.

She wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron and went into the back shop to fetch the brush and pan.

Just then the door opened. A customer, thought Rona, with a gulp, and the shop in a proper state.

She turned to greet the person who had entered, and saw a stocky, fair-haired young man with a cheerful expression. He looked a little dismayed as he looked at the floor.

‘Oh, sorry. I've come at a bad time.'

‘Not at all,' said Rona, with a sniff. She put away her handkerchief. ‘What can I get you?'

‘I came in for a pie for my piece,' he said,
but
. . .'

‘It's all right,' Rona tried to sound normal. ‘I just dropped a tray of apple tarts.'

He walked cautiously through towards the counter. ‘The floor's a bit sticky,' he said.

‘I was just going to clean it up,' said Rona.

‘I'll give you a hand. Can't have the customers tramping apple tarts into the floor, can we? Have you got a mop and a pail?'

‘In the back shop.'

‘Right you are.' He nodded pleasantly to Aunt Lizzie.

As Rona swept up the crumbled remains of the tarts, he filled the pail with soapy water, and began to mop.

‘There's one here not broken,' he said. ‘Could I have it?'

‘I wouldn't,' said Rona solemnly. ‘The last person—the woman they were meant for—she had a dog with her, and it ate up one or two. I can't think why it left that one. So it's probably not very clean.'

‘Pity,' said the young man. ‘I rather like apple tarts.'

‘It's very kind of you to help my niece,' said Aunt Lizzie from her position at the cash desk. ‘I would myself, but my legs . . .'

‘It's no trouble at all,' he said politely. ‘There you are. That's better.' He stood back and looked at the floor. ‘Maybe we'd best open the door till it dries out.'

‘It's very kind of you,' said Rona, suddenly
shy.
‘I don't know what I would have done . . . if it had been another customer wanting bread or something.'

‘Or apple tarts,' he agreed. ‘Speaking of which, I don't suppose there are any more?'

‘Sorry,' said Rona. ‘It was a whole tray—and that's the last of them.'

‘I'll need to come back tomorrow then.' He smiled at her, a cheerful impudent sort of grin.

‘You wanted a pie,' Rona reminded him.

‘So I did.'

‘We've pork and bean pies,' said Rona. ‘They're nice.'

‘That'll do me.'

Rona put the pie into a paper bag.

‘How much is that?'

‘Nothing,' said Rona. ‘You have that—with our compliments—as a thank you, for your help.'

‘My, that's good of you.' He grinned again. ‘It'll taste extra special. I'll be on my way then?'

‘Well, that looks a bit better,' said Aunt Lizzie with approval. ‘A nice helpful lad—but you've no call to be giving away pies. You'll have us all in the poorhouse.'

Rona paid no attention. Who was he? She wondered. She hadn't seen him in the town.

Maybe he was new here. Would she see him again? Would he really come back tomorrow?

A
NEW FRIEND

For a few days, Rona wondered about the young man. But then again she was so busy in the shop that she hardly had any time for thought.

There were orders to be made up, shelves to be cleaned, new supplies to be checked, and Father was out twice a day in the new van delivering to farms and the outlying areas.

By the time it came to shut up shop, Rona was exhausted.

*        *        *

One evening about a week later, as she made her way along the street, someone called to her.

‘Hello! Any more apple tarts?'

She whirled round The young man with the fair hair was waiting at the corner. He grinned at her.

‘Sorry—I shouldn't tease you.'

Rona smiled forgivingly. ‘Not at all—you were a great help!'

‘I meant to come back to the shop, but we've been a bit busy. I haven't really had a day off. And,' he said, ‘to be honest, I'm a bit scared of your aunt.'

‘Me, too.'

They
both laughed.

My name's Callum—Callum Scott. And you?' he said enquiringly.

‘Rona—Rona Maclaren. My father owns the shop.'

‘Have you always worked there?'

She hesitated. ‘Just since I left—well, was asked to leave my last job.'

‘How do you like working for your father?'

‘Not much,' she said frankly. ‘Well, he's all right, but Aunt Lizzie . . . I've lots of ideas, for window displays and so on, but she won't let me.'

‘Shame that. I work for my father too—at Harefield Farm.'

‘I know it.'

There was a pause. ‘It's my half day,' he said, ‘so I'm in the town getting a few things from the ironmonger.' He added, a little shyly, ‘I was hoping I might bump into you.'

Rona smiled back at him. But then she was distracted—by the sight of a car parked at the corner.

She recognised the young man helping the girl into the passenger seat. For a moment, her attention was focused on the girl, short black hair, scarlet lipstick and a bright yellow frilly blouse and skirt.

She looked like someone from another world than the sober, everyday world of Kirkton. Rona found herself staring—who could she be?

There
was no doubt about the young man who was helping her into the car with such concern.

‘Hello!' she called. ‘Doug?'

Her brother turned briefly and saw her, but he ignored her, ducked into the car, and drove off along the street.

‘I'd better go for my bus,' said Callum.

‘Oh, yes?' she turned towards him. ‘Sorry ...'

‘Was that someone you know?'

‘My brother,' said Rona a little grimly.

‘So I'll see you around. I'll come into the shop next time I'm into the town. If I can brave your aunt.'

‘Yes, do.' But Rona was only half paying attention as he waved and went off down the street.

Who was the girl? Where had Doug found her? And why was he so anxious to avoid a meeting?

ROMANCE FOR DOUG

‘Pass the potatoes to your father,' Aunt Lizzie told Rona. The atmosphere that evening was strained.

Rona wondered how much her aunt had told Angus about the disaster a few days earlier.

He
knew, of course, about the apple tarts and told Rona to be more careful in future, but did he know that the customer had said she'd go to another baker in future? To Keith's, possibly—the other baker was in a more central position, right on the town square.

Their scones, thought Rona loyally, were nothing like as good as Maclaren's, but they did a good trade in birthday cakes and special occasion cakes.

She'd passed one day and noticed a large birthday cake in the window, with pink icing that bore the legend,
The Best Gran In The World.

Angus had sniffed when she told him about it. ‘We'll have nothing of that sort here,' he'd said sternly.

A pity, thought Rona. People would continue to go to Keith's for anything a bit out of the ordinary. Whereas everyone knew that Maclaren's black bun and shortbread were the best in the district.

But now Angus sat thoughtfully. Rona glanced at Doug who avoided her gaze. Who had he been seeing? Why was he so secretive?

After the meal she helped Aunt Lizzie to clear up, and then went through to the living room where her father was reading the evening paper.

‘Ah, well, I'm away out.' Doug had been standing looking out of the window, his hands
in
his pockets.

Angus looked up from the paper. ‘You're out most nights,' he said mildly.

‘Ah, well . . .' Doug shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I've friends to see.'

Angus said no more, but Rona, carrying a tray, stopped Doug in the passage towards the scullery.

‘Who are you seeing, then?' she asked.

‘None of your business.'

‘Is it that girl?'

‘I told you,' he said sharply. ‘It's nothing to do with you who I see.'

‘I saw you with that girl,' Rona persisted. ‘What's her name?'

Doug glared at her. ‘I told you. It's not your business. And,' he added, changing tack, ‘if you go telling Father, I'll . . .'

‘I wouldn't.' Rona was hurt. ‘I'm not a clype. I don't go telling tales on folk.'

‘Well, see you don't.'

‘You should bring her home for her tea,' she called after him, teasingly.

He ignored her, and she felt a bit ashamed. It wasn't her business who he saw, and anyway, she grinned, she could just see Aunt Lizzie's face when confronted with the girl with her thick make-up and scarlet nails.

She turned back to the sitting room where Aunt Lizzie had started work on an embroidered runner for a dressing table. Angus was reading items out of the newspaper.

‘Is
there anything about Princess Elizabeth?' Aunt Lizzie asked.

‘The tour of Kenya?'

‘Aye.'

‘Just a picture of the King waving them off on the plane.'

‘Let me see.' Aunt Lizzie put down the silks she had chosen. She scanned the paper, and handed it back. There was silence as she began to stitch.

*        *        *

‘They know about you,' said Doug glumly, that evening. Neela raised her pencil-thin eyebrows.

‘And why not?' she said. ‘You're not ashamed of me, are you?' She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

‘No, of course not,' he said hastily. ‘It's just that—well, you know how people talk.'

‘There's nothing to talk about,' she said sharply.

‘Nothing at all,' he said, but he still couldn't forget that exchange with Rona earlier in the evening.

His mind went back to his meeting with Neela—what was it, two months ago now?

He'd first met her when he went to a local dance in the town hall. She had been leaning against the wall, not at all embarrassed to be on her own, smoking a cigarette in a long
scarlet
holder. Among the local girls she looked like an exotic flower.

Doug had never seen anyone like her. Her beautifully groomed hair, the vivid red lips, her general air of sophistication—what was she doing here?

‘I dare you to ask that one to dance.' His friend, Fred, jerked his head towards the corner where Neela had stood coolly watching the dancers.

Doug had laughed. ‘She'd never look at me.'

‘Go on.'

They teased Doug a good deal at the garage. Some of the others were courting—nice sensible girls who were saving for their bottom drawer. But who was this girl, and where had she come from?

‘All right,' he said suddenly.

‘They'd slapped him on the back. ‘Good old Doug. Well done.'

Doug had stammered out his invitation to dance. And she'd smiled at him—he did hope his friends were watching.

‘I'm not much of a dancer,' he said apologetically as he had trodden for the third time on the black suede shoes.

She made a face. ‘No, you're not, are you? But you've won your bet.'

His face flamed.

‘I know,' she said calmly, ‘your friends were daring you to dance with me.'

‘No, well, yes. I mean . . .' he stammered.

‘Never
mind,' she said. ‘Come on, let's sit this one out and you can buy me a lemonade.'

Up in the gallery, looking down on the dancers, she turned to him.

‘So what's your name?'

‘I'm Doug Maclaren.'

‘And what do you do, Doug?'

‘I'm . . .' Doug hesitated. He was only an apprentice in the garage, though the boss, Sanny Munro, had said he was doing well, and he expected to be promoted to mechanic.

‘I'm in cars,' he said.

‘Ooh . . .' she sounded impressed. ‘So when you take a girl out, you've got a smashing new Bentley, or an MG, maybe?' She gave him a roguish sideways look.

‘And you?' he said. ‘I've not seen you around,' he said. ‘Are you new to the town?'

She paused. ‘Not exactly. I've been working in Edinburgh, but it didn't suit me. I've come back for a bit while I look round.'

‘So, are you working round here?'

‘For a bit,' she said casually. ‘Till I find something else in the city.' She added, ‘I'm the sort of girl who likes the bright lights—cafés, theatres, dance halls. Real dance halls, I mean. Not,' she glanced down at the dancers, ‘not somewhere like this.'

‘So you don't stay in the town?'

‘My, you ask a lot of questions.' She nudged his arm.

‘Cheeky, eh? Well, I'm staying at home
meantime,
just till I decide what to do. It's a one-horse town.' She attempted an American accent, not very successfully, but Doug was impressed.

‘Then,' said Doug, greatly daring, ‘maybe we could go out one evening, to the pictures? Do you like the pictures?'