by Millie Gray
Creeping footsteps near her bed alerted Carrie. “Who’s there?” she whispered.
A calloused hand took Carrie’s. She smiled, needing no answer. As soon as her fingers had gripped the hand she’d felt the deep gouges made by the knives that were used in the Roperie. “Granny,” sighed Carrie. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“Ah, dearie, but ye cannae see me.” Rosie chuckled.
Then another voice spoke sneeringly. “Aye, and on Tuesday I’ll be proved richt and she’ll never see nae mair.”
Carrie bristled from head to toe. Auntie Ella, was with Granny – Auntie Ella, whom Carrie had vowed to hate for ever and ever after she found out that her Dad, Johnny, was now living in Ella’s house.
It was true enough that Auntie Ella had had a hard and sad life. All her three bairns had been still-born. And her man had died last year with TB. But, Carrie argued to herself, all that bad luck didn’t give Auntie Ella any right to be jealous of her Mammy just because she had five healthy bairns. So jealous indeed was Auntie Ella that when Carrie and Sam had been born she’d gone straight out and adopted identical twin boys. Nice enough bairns, Mark and Tony were. Even Rachel admitted that. But what really angered Rachel was that Ella wanted them to be Rosie’s favourites and her bairns to be pushed aside.
Even Carrie had noticed that when she visited Rosie, and Auntie Ella was there with her boys, Granny would pay more attention to Mark and Tony than she did to Sam and herself. Once, when Auntie Ella had left, Carrie had asked her Granny why she liked Mark and Tony more than herself or her brothers and sisters.
“Och, lassie, ma Ella’s had a hard row to caw,” Rosie answered. “And I’m pleased she’s adopted twa braw bairns that were needin’ a hame. But as to me lovin’ Mark and Tony mair than aw o ye?” Rosie laughed with scorn. “Naw. Naw, lassie! Ye’re ma ain flesh and blood. It’s agin nature for onybody to love ither folk mair than their ain blood line.”
Carrie now knew how true that was because each week Granny handed over a half-crown to Sam or herself to take to Rachel. She would say, “Noo, tak it to yer Mammy alang with this,” and she would produce bread or margarine, or even a tin of Spam. “But remember. Never a word to yer Auntie Ella.” Sam, of course, was indignant that Granny was, as he put it, shit-scared of Auntie Ella and was always wondering what Auntie Ella would say if she ever found out that Granny saved pennies for Sam in the little wooden stool that read, “Our Wee Boy is no fool. He keeps his pennies in the stool.”
The little stool that stood on the mantelpiece belonged to Granny’s youngest son, Davy. Uncle Davy wasn’t, and never would be, married, so he stayed with Granny. Sam and Carrie knew that it was his wages coming into the house that helped Granny to be so good to them. And Uncle Davy was always so pleased to see Hannah, Sam, Carrie, Paul and Alice. When he backed a winner he would often fill up the stool for Sam. Not only with pennies but with tanners too.
“Did you no hear what I said, Carrie?” Auntie Ella demanded.
“No,” squeaked Carrie, who, like her Granny, was terrified of Ella.
“Well, what I’m sayin’ is: on Tuesday when they tak aff the bandages and we find oot that ye’ve been blinded for life, we’ll look efter ye.”
Before Carrie could speak, a voice retorted angrily, “You, look after my bairn? That’ll be the day!” Carrie heard a loud crack as a newspaper Rachel had been carrying was smacked across Ella’s face. “And,” Rachel continued, “I suppose this piece in last night’s News by your useless brother, my hapless husband, was your idea as well.”
The paper was snatched from Rachel’s hand by Rosie, who started to read aloud from it. “Notice is hereby given by Mr John Campbell that he will not be responsible for any debts incurred by his estranged wife, Rachel Campbell, residing at 16 Learig Close.” Rosie let the paper slip from her hand to the floor, whimpering, “Whitever dis this mean?”
“Mam,” Ella replied, “it means that she forged oor Johnny’s signature tae tak on debt. And we’re no haein’ it.”
“Aye well,” said Rachel hotly, “if I was like you, having Johnny’s wages keeping a roof over my head, I wouldn’t need to forge his name to get a bed for his son, your legal grandson, Rosie. Aye, Carrie, did you know that? That your father provides for her Mark and Tony while you go hungry.”
“My brother’s a guid man and he needed a hame.”
“He’s got one. One that he’s never chapped the door of in three bleeding years.”
Ella snapped back, “Aye, because you’re mad. And ye’re doubly mad noo he’s back in the fold leadin’ a guid Catholic life. Ye should be real proud, Carrie, that your Daddy’s noo a member o the St Vincent de Paul. Arranging trips to Lourdes for the sick and readin’ to the blind, he is.”
Rachel sniggered. “Reads to the blind, does he? And what about Carrie here? He doesnae even come into the hospital to visit her. Never mind read her a blinkin’ fairy story.”
“My brither’s quite richt to lead his ain life noo. Your marriage, that you trapped him intae, wasnae in oor chapel – so it’s no recognised.”
“Are you insinuating my bairns are bastards?” Rachel interrupted.
Ella gulped. Her hands curled. Her eyes bulged. “In the eyes of oor church,” she began, but before she could go on Rachel had leapt across the bed and grabbed her by the throat. But, as luck would have it, the ward Sister had been alerted to the fracas and dashed up to pull Rachel away before she could silence Ella for ever.
Having separated the two, Sister firstly straightened her cap, which had unprofessionally gone awry in the struggle, and then, smoothing down her apron, demanded that all visitors present leave. And immediately at that. “Failure to do so,” she warned, “will result in my summoning the constabulary and having you all charged with breach of the peace.”
Once everyone had gone Carrie began to sob, wishing she was not only blind but deaf as well. At least, she thought they had all gone, until a hand sought hers.
“Don’t cry, Carrie. On Tuesday you won’t be blind. I’ve prayed for you every day and every night.”
“I’m not crying about Tuesday, Hannah. I’m crying about today. Why did they have to make such a scene?”
“It must have been so awful for you, Carrie. Mammy will be so upset about it. And it wasn’t really her fault.”
“I know. Auntie Ella’s such a bitch.”
“Aye, and Daddy’s nothing but a selfish hypocrite.”
“But what I don’t understand is why Mammy needed to forge his signature.”
“She couldn’t get the bed on the never-never without doing that. Women on their own can’t get tick.”
Carrie nodded. “I’m glad then that she did forge his signature – I really am.”
“You are?”
“Oh yes, because if that bed stops Sam going blind then it must have been the right thing to do.” Carrie’s hands were now feeling around the bandages on her eyes. “Believe me, anything’s better than oor Sam being blind.”
“Oh, good grief!” Hannah suddenly interrupted. “If you thought Auntie Ella and Mammy having a rammy was humiliating, just listen to that!”
“But it’s only the Salvation Army Band and singers. They play here every Sunday.”
“I know that – but listen to who’s leading the choir.”
Carrie half sat up and then she let her head fall back on the pillow as a very drunken solo rendering of Leith’s very own hymn, Will your anchor hold in the storms of life? resounded through the ward. It was the voice of her inebriated grandfather, Gabby!
CHAPTER 9
RED LETTER DAYS
It was now three months, to the day, since Carrie had been able to stumble up the ward towards a tearful Rachel. Every night after Carrie’s operation her mother had lain awake, haunted by the unanswered question that would not let her eyes close in merciful sleep: how could she live with herself if Carrie had indeed been blinded?
“Mammy, Mammy!” Carrie had cried as she staggered into Rachel’s arm
s. “See my eyes. They’re straight! Both of them.’”
Rachel swallowed hard and peered at Carrie’s eager face. Her eyes were indeed straight, and Rachel became aware, for the first time, that Carrie had been blessed with eyes of the deepest violet that she’d ever seen. How on earth, she wondered, had she failed to notice the exceptional beauty of these eyes? Two oval eyes that were now dancing with delight.
Carrie herself was equally delighted that Hannah’s prayers had successfully undone Auntie Ella’s grim prophecy of disaster. She too was able to look in the mirror and see her own straight eyes. Indeed, for two whole days after she arrived home from hospital, Carrie lost no opportunity to take up lengthy residence in the bathroom. She would just stand there staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Then she would turn her head this way and that, making certain that she had indeed been transformed from an ugly duckling into a swan.
Delighted as Carrie was with this miracle, she was well aware – because Bernie had told her – that bad things always came in threes. Auntie Ella and Mammy having a punch-up in the hospital was certainly one. Hearing Granddad in his drunken rendering of Will your anchor hold in the storms of life? was the same. And since neither she nor Sam had ended up blind, another disaster would undoubtedly have to follow.
Consequently, the day after Carrie came home from hospital this disaster to end all disasters was revealed when Bernadette chapped on the door and asked Rachel if she could speak urgently to Carrie. Carrie immediately joined Bernie out in the stair and, because the shock was going to be too much for Carrie, Bernie suggested prudently that they sit down on the bottom step.
“What is it?” Carrie whimpered.
“It’s Ruth. She’s going to Canada. Emigrating.”
Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. Ruth, Bernie’s elder sister by ten years, was going to emigrate? Surely it couldn’t be. That would mean Bernie and Carrie wouldn’t be able to get big sister’s copy of the Red Letter to read when she was finished with it. On top of that, Carrie knew full well that Canada was such a very backward and unsophisticated country that they would probably never ever have heard of the Red Letter, so Ruth couldn’t even send it on to them from there. “Whatever will we do, Bernie, if we never ever get to read those wonderful, terribly exciting serials again?”
Bernie just shrugged her shoulders. “Wish we were as rich as that Mrs Stivens up in Restalrig Circus. Imagine that, Carrie. Not just able to afford the Red Letter but Secrets and the Red Star as well.”
Carrie sighed. She delivered those magazines to Mrs Stivens every week but couldn’t imagine anyone reading all of them in one week. Not properly anyway. Carrie’s eyes widened suddenly. That was it! Instead of delivering the Red Letter to Mrs Stivens along with the morning paper, she’d deliver it with the evening paper. That would allow Bernie and Carrie to read the serial on their way to and from school and during dinner break.
“Listen, Bernie,” said Carrie. “What d’ye think of this brilliant scheme?”
“Sounds smashing,” agreed Bernie.
The enterprise worked beautifully for three months – until the morning of the great snowfall. That was the morning when Carrie got up earlier than usual to deliver her papers. She was intensely excited because it was the day when she’d be able to read the final episode of “Jungle Passion”, which had been building to a climax for the past five weeks.
The tension in both girls had by now reached fever pitch. Would Murdo Bruce (of course a direct descendant of Robert the Bruce) be able to disentangle himself from the snare of that Sassenach hussy? The smart besom who was holding him to the promise that she declared was made to her when he was delirious with tropical fever. The two had been on safari when he was struck down with a mysterious ailment, and once he regained consciousness Lady Antonia Atholl Forbes was seated by his bed with a triumphant smile on her face. And if Murdo did indeed escape the clutches of this femme fatale, or if God graciously intervened and Lady Antonia was struck dead by a bolt of lightning, would Murdo be in time to prevent Flora, the true love of his life, from leaving on a ten-pound assisted passage to the Australian outback?
That day, when Carrie opened the entry door, she was greeted by a swirling blizzard. Common sense dictated that she should go back inside and wait for the storm to pass, but the compulsion to know exactly what would happen in “Jungle Passion” was more important to her than her own safety. After battling through the snow to the newsagent’s shop, however, she became alarmed when the proprietor, Mr Dagleish, said, “Nae magazines for ye to deliver the day, Carrie.”
“What?” exclaimed Carrie.
“Aye, the train from Dundee is snowbound on the ither side o the Forth Bridge.”
Carrie gasped in dismay. What was she to do now? She simply had to know what had happened to Flora and Murdo.
But the newspapers from London and Edinburgh were still there to be delivered. Carrie was only halfway through her task when she dimly saw a figure, its head swathed in a towel, floating eerily towards her. “Caa – aa – aa – rie,” a distorted voice rang out. Carrie froze. Was this some sort of ghost? It certainly sounded like one. “Caa – aa – aa – rie,” the voice called again. “I couldnae wait ony longer. I need to ken.”
Carrie sighed as relief swept over her. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you, Bernie, but the answer is they’re still on the blinking train.”
“Dinnae tell me I got oot o my bed and battled through aw this snaw and the magazines didnae get through?”
Carrie nodded despondently.
By eleven o’clock the snow had stopped falling and the sun had broken through. Looking out of the schoolroom window, Carrie was reminded of a scene in Holiday Inn. Thinking of that film, she wondered whether she and Bernie would ever get to Hollywood and make Ginger Rogers look clumsy? Bernie had been getting tap-dancing lessons for over a year now and would show Carrie all the steps afterwards. Until last week, that is, when Bernie realised that Carrie, who’d never had a dancing lesson in her life, was a far better dancer than herself. Poor Bernie had been quite upset when Miss Lightfoot, her dancing teacher, had apparently forbidden Bernie to show Carrie any more steps. Evidently it was very dangerous for someone who wasn’t properly trained to show someone else the dance steps. So dangerous indeed that they would probably catch polio and end up in an iron lung. And Bernie certainly didn’t want that for Carrie. Oh no!
When Carrie arrived at the shop to pick up her evening papers, Mr Dalgleish, was smiling broadly. “Wells Fargo got through, Carrie.”
“Eh?”
“What I’ m saying is – that the train with the Dundee magazines got through at dinner time.”
“Oh good.”
“Aye, so now you can get this Red Letter delivered to Mrs Stivens with her evening paper.”
Carrie shakily took the precious magazine into her hand and held it tightly to her bosom. For a moment she was tempted to hide it in her school books and deliver it the following night but then, she reasoned to herself while her hand lovingly stroked the magazine, that was a long time away. What if Mrs Stivens, who always went into the shop on Wednesdays to pay her papers, asked why her Red Letter had not been delivered?
She was still pondering the problem when Bernie approached her. Carrie told her what had happened, adding that it looked now as though they’d never be able to find out what had happened to Murdo and Flora. Bernie sniffed and blew a raspberry. “Here!” she said, grabbing Carrie’s arm. “Ken hoo my Mammy cleans the chapel and then brings the half-burnt candles hame?”
“Aye, cos she cannae really afford your tap-dancing lessons an’ that means she’s no got a penny left for the gas after Tuesday.”
Bernie ignored Carrie’s sniping. ‘“Weel, hoo aboot me giein’ you twa of they candles and some matches? Then you can tak the Red Letter hame and read it in the lavvy. And the morn I’ll find oot what happened in the story afore ye deliver it to Mrs Stivens.”
Carrie grinned. Her straight and violet eyes twinkled
and a wicked little smile curled round her lips. “Suppose I could, Bernie,” she drawled. “Specially if Miss Lightfoot changed her mind about you showing me the dance steps.”
It was half past five when Carrie got home. She had just opened the door when Rachel called out, “That you, Carrie? You’ve been some time.”
“Yeah, Mam. I’m just goin’ to the lavvy.”
“Toilet, Carrie! How many times do I have to tell you to speak proper? The only job you’ll get talking like that is gutting fish.”
Carrie ignored her mother’s remarks and once safely in the bathroom she took the Red Letter magazine from under her jumper and lit the candle before installing herself comfortably on the toilet seat. Soon, however, the story unfolding had her knees knocking. She became so excited that she had to stop momentarily and use the toilet she was sitting on. She flushed it and was ready to start reading again when Rachel shouted, “Tea’s up.”
This caused a dilemma for Carrie. It was Tuesday and because last Tuesday it had been only beans on toast for the tea that meant it would be Carrie’s favourite tea this Tuesday. Egg and chips. Carrie was tempted to read just to the bottom of the first page but then she remembered that if Sam got to the table first he’d be dunking his chips in her egg and at least four of her chips would end up in his greedy gob. Needs must. So Carrie slid the magazine under the bath before blowing out the candle and racing through to the scullery.
Sam was already at the table with a small head peeping out of his V-neck. It was Tiny, the puppy Sam had found wandering in the street three months ago. Carrie looked at her plate. The egg yolk was burst and Sam had twice as many chips on his plate than on hers. “You greedy big pig,” she spat, picking a chip off Sam’s plate and dunking it in his egg.
Sam made a grab for the chip – but Carrie had swallowed it. Undaunted, he took another chip off Carrie’s plate and smirked. “Hae ye forgotten, dopey, that ye promised to help me feed wee Tiny here?”
“Aye, wi’ my mince and tatties. No wi’ my egg and chips,” wailed Carrie as she remembered the night Sam had brought in the wee dog.
