‘Imagine,’ said Granny, ‘having a cake – it must have cost a wee fortune.’
Bella poured cold water over this suggestion of extra-vagance. ‘No, no, it wasn’t a real fruitcake – just a few sultanas in the mixture and it was made by Minnie’s auntie Jeannie. Mind you,’ said Bella darkly, ‘she likes to think she’s a good baker but I wouldn’t eat anything she baked.’
Leaving the women to their gossiping, I decided to take Lily for a walk. We set off towards Dock Street and my plan was to saunter past the warehouse where Dad worked. He was still part-time but it was better than no job. I wanted Lily to see it and, if I was being truthful with myself, I was also curious.
The doors were wide open when we arrived and the interior was a buzz of activity. It was one of those lovely autumn days when the sun had a shimmering quality in its warmth and it shone brightly on our faces as we peeked inside. Yellow shafts of sunlight slanted downwards from the dusty skylights on the roof, showing up filmy cobwebs that clung like grey lace to the corners of the wooden walls.
Stacked up high against each wall were boxes of bananas, oranges and apples plus the more mundane selection of vegetables. Some of the fruit boxes displayed labels with exotic sounding names – labels that had been stuck on in far-distant lands. A few men toiled with their loads, their voices echoing in the warehouse and also on the street where the gaffer’s voice could be heard as he issued orders.
We spotted Dad. He was pushing a pile of boxes which were leaning precariously against a two-wheeled trolley. A large blue label marked ‘Fyffes bananas’ could clearly be seen.
As if feeling the intense scrutiny of Lily and me, he turned his head and smiled at us. A small, stout man in a grey overall counted the boxes and made a pencilled note in a ledger. Meanwhile, Dad returned for another load and he gave Lily a big wink in the passing but he didn’t come to the entrance.
Lily couldn’t understand this and she cried, ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ Her thin, childish voice carried over the noise inside, causing Dad to turn with a worried frown but I made a sign that we were leaving. Lily waggled her chubby fingers at him and we set off for home.
If someone had asked me at that time to describe my happiness at our good fortune, I would have been unable to do so. A warm feeling of well-being wrapped itself around my heart and I felt truly that our lives were going to get better. Dad would soon be on full-time in his job and we would be a happy family again. With this happy frame of mind, I returned to the Ferry, full of plans for the future. Our load would ease and we would all live happily ever after. Our future looked as bright as a shiny red apple on Christmas morning.
Then, on the Thursday morning, Jean had her accident. One minute she was outside in the courtyard feeding the birds with some stale cake crumbs and the next she was lying on the flagstones, crying in agony. I heard her distressed cries through the open kitchen window and I ran out. I tried to lift her on to her feet but she roared with pain. ‘I think my leg is broken, Ann. Go fetch Miss Hood or Mrs Barrie.’
I raced back through the kitchen, almost knocking the housekeeper over. She opened her mouth to chastise me but I grabbed her hand. ‘It’s Mrs Peters.’ She didn’t seem to understand and I shouted at her. ‘It’s Mrs Peters. She’s broken her leg.’ I pushed her through the doorway towards the yard.
When we got there, Mr Potter was there. He had been working in the garden and had been curious about all the kerfuffle as he called it. Mrs Barrie had also heard the noise and she stood at her bedroom window but, because it faced the front of the house, she was unaware of the accident.
She called out, ‘Mr Potter, what is it?’
The gardener heard her and he detached himself from our little group and made his way to the front of the house. ‘It’s the cook, missus. Broken her leg by the look of it.’
This news upset Mrs Barrie. ‘Send Miss Hood in to telephone for Doctor Little.’ As he retreated back to the courtyard, she called after him, ‘Mr Potter, did you hear what I said?’
Mr Potter muttered to himself as he trotted back, ‘I heard you, missus, I’m not deaf.’
I brought a blanket from the linen cupboard and placed it over Jean and I also put a pillow under her head. Her leg lay at an unnatural-looking angle and she was shivering violently. In spite of it being a warm day, the flagstones in the yard were nearly always cold and damp because they lay in deep shadow.
Miss Hood had hurried indoors to telephone the doctor and she was on her way back out when we were joined by Mrs Barrie. She was pale-faced and frail looking as she stood in the courtyard, leaning heavily on her stick.
The housekeeper spoke for us all when she said, ‘Eva, I think you should be inside. When the doctor arrives I’ll let you know.’
Mrs Barrie was having none of this and her voice, when she answered, was resolute. ‘Nonsense, Lottie, I’m fine and I want to speak to Mrs Peters.’ She walked slowly towards the prostrate figure on the ground.
I was kneeling at Jean’s side and I didn’t like the look of her grey, pain-filled face. A film of sweat was now noticeable on her brow and upper lip but, in spite of this perspiration, she was still shivering.
Although in considerable pain, Jean looked embarrassed. ‘I forgot about yon cracked flagstone, Mrs Barrie. Normally when I come out to feed the blackbirds I avoid it but not today.’ She sounded rueful and her face contorted with pain.
My mind went numb at the mention of the blackbirds. Was this what Ma Ryan had warned me about? But surely the danger was aimed at me and not poor Jean who didn’t even know Danny’s grandmother? Then I thought how I often went out to throw the crumbs but I always made a quick dash for the door. Was I meant to be out here today?
Fortunately the doctor arrived at that moment and put these unhappy thoughts out of my mind. His initial diagnosis was swift and it matched Jean’s own suspicion. ‘Your leg is broken, Mrs Peters.’ He looked at Mrs Barrie. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bad break so I’m going to send Mrs Peters to the casualty department in the infirmary in Dundee. But first of all I’ll put your leg in a splint, Mrs Peters.’
I held her hand as he worked on her leg and I was upset when she moaned in pain. Poor Jean – my friend and saviour in this house and now, because of feeding the blackbirds, she was suffering all this pain.
Mrs Barrie asked Miss Hood to phone for a taxi. ‘Go to Mr Roberts, Lottie. His limousine is more comfortable and roomier than the one from the other garage.’
Lottie ran inside and I felt sorry for her. She seemed genuinely upset about Jean and she was certainly quick on the uptake regarding the telephone. She also had the proper authoritative voice for dealing with an emergency. ‘We need your limousine, Mr Roberts. It’s urgent so can you come to Whitegate Lodge at once?’
When he arrived, he viewed the scene with a nonchalant air. According to the Ferry grapevine, nothing ever upset Mr Roberts. The doctor had asked Mr Potter to make a temporary stretcher and, with the doctor and me at one end and the gardener and Mr Roberts at the other end, we managed to transfer Jean to the waiting car. We slid the stretcher along the length of the leather-upholstered back seat.
Mrs Barrie then gave him his instructions. ‘Make sure you drive slowly and look out for potholes on the road.’ She looked through the open window. ‘You’ll soon have your leg fixed, Mrs Peters, and Ann will go with you.’
I was surprised but Mr Roberts calmly opened the passenger door for me. If the circumstances hadn’t been so tragic, I would have felt like a queen at such grand transport.
Mrs Barrie was speaking again, ‘The doctor is going to telephone the infirmary, Ann, and I want you to wait till Mrs Peters has had her treatment before you come back. Mr Roberts will wait for you.’ She glanced again at the back seat but the cook was quiet. ‘Good, I’m glad she has had something to make her sleep.’ Although I hadn’t noticed it, the doctor had obviously given her a sedative.
‘I can easily get the bus back, Mrs Barrie. There’s no need to keep the car waiting,’ I said. Al
though I didn’t want to admit it, I felt Jean’s treatment would be lengthy and I wanted to stay until she was safely over whatever lay ahead of her. If the car was waiting for me, I would be under pressure to maybe leave earlier. ‘Honestly, Mrs Barrie, I don’t mind coming back on the bus and that way I can stay as long as it takes to make sure she’s comfortable.’
Mrs Barrie looked dubious but she agreed to my request. ‘I would feel better if you were there with her, Ann,’ she admitted. She turned to Miss Hood. ‘Lottie, I’ve no money on me. Can you please lend me a half crown to give to Ann to see she gets back safely?’
Miss Hood darted back inside and within a moment was back, her purse in her hand. She gave me the coin but her expression was blank and her pale eyes unfathomable.
As the car purred away, I heard Mrs Barrie ask the housekeeper to inform Jean’s husband. ‘I don’t think they have a telephone so can you please go to Long Lane and tell him personally. I would be so grateful, Lottie.’
Lottie’s reaction to this request went unheard as the car slipped through the front gates and along the road that skimmed the sea.
Thankfully, Jean slept through the entire journey which didn’t take too long. When we reached the infirmary, the casualty department was busy but, because of the serious nature of Jean’s injury and the earlier telephone call from Doctor Little, she was whisked away immediately.
I sat down in the busy waiting room as a motley procession of injured people came and went. Most of these casualties were children who had obviously taken a few tumbles. Sitting amongst this childish mob were a few grey-faced and ill-looking adults who waited patiently for their turn in the queue.
I noticed the small boy who sat beside me. His harassed mother obviously knew this department well because I overheard her tell another worried-looking mother that this was her third visit to the hospital in a month. The boy had a gory-looking ring of dried blood around his throat that extended from ear to ear. It looked horrific and his mother was of the same opinion. ‘You wee besom,’ she said, ‘the nurses will think I’ve tried to throttle you. Playing cowboys and Indians with the greenie washing line. It’s a bloody wonder you didn’t strangle yourself.’
After about an hour and a half, a young nurse appeared and said, ‘Mrs Peters has had her leg set but we’re keeping her in the ward overnight. Depending on how she feels tomorrow, she may get home. But she’s comfortable at the moment.’
This was what we all expected. If Mrs Barrie hadn’t thought it as well, she would have insisted to Mr Roberts that he had to wait but, as it was, he had set off back to the Ferry the moment Jean was transferred to the hospital.
I left through the main door, leaving behind the human cargo of half-strangled little boys and broken legs. Then I suddenly remembered this was the place where Mum had died – in this lovely grey-bricked building with its shining windows and impressive appearance. The memory of that terrible day came flooding back and I had tears in my eyes as I ran down the steep hill to the bus stop. The tears were mostly for my mother but I shed a few for Jean too.
As it turned out, Jean didn’t get home the next day. In fact, she was in the ward for over a week before Mr Roberts was despatched again to bring her home. I missed her so much in the house. Even the kitchen had a forlorn atmosphere and I had no one to chat to. I had become so used to her company, telling her all my hopes and dreams for the future, but I also missed the friendly chitchat of everyday gossip.
Mrs Barrie hired a temporary cook – a brash young woman with a loud voice and extremely poor cooking skills. Even Miss Hood was affected by our loss. She said one day, ‘I’ll be so glad when Mrs Peters is back. She’s such a good cook and a wonderful baker. Not like …’ She shuddered and walked away.
One thing I did notice, however, was that this new cook stood no nonsense from the housekeeper and, once again, I was convinced it was me and only me that Miss Hood disliked.
I offered to stay at the house to cover for Jean but Mrs Barrie wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Not at all, Ann – your family need you more than we do. Lottie and I can live quite easily. The cook, although inadequate, makes reasonably edible food and Lottie can always make us a snack.’
I was packing my suitcase the following morning in preparation for my time off when I noticed my coat wasn’t hanging in the wardrobe. For a brief moment, I wondered if I had brought it with me but I knew I had. Granny was always frightened Hattie would secrete it away again so she was most insistent I took it away with me every week. But, because of the mild weather, I hadn’t worn it since arriving back at the Ferry a week ago. I was really worried as I searched every corner of my room. I even went through the lobby and bathroom with a fine-tooth comb but it had vanished into thin air.
I scanned my memory, wondering when I had last worn it. Did I wear it to the shops on one of my errands? Had Jean’s fall made me forget the last time I had it on? Maybe, I thought, it was in the kitchen, hanging on the coat hooks, but it wasn’t. I tried all the kitchen cupboards which I knew was stupid because there was no way I would leave my precious coat in the steamy kitchen but I was clutching at straws. Because of my agitation, I didn’t hear Miss Hood enter the kitchen. Although it was officially her time off, since Jean’s accident, she had forgone her days off. She stood quietly behind me until I turned and I almost passed out from fright at the sight of her silent figure. I gasped.
She looked at me. ‘Have you lost something?’
Although I’d felt sympathy for her on occasions, ever since Jean’s accident, her manner had been back to what it had been during my first few weeks in the house. It was as if she knew how much I relied on Jean for my support and, now that my ally and friend was no longer here, I was totally alone and at her mercy again.
I decided to stick up for myself as Jean had suggested to me away back in the beginning. ‘I’ve lost my coat, Miss Hood. I can’t find it anywhere.’
She lifted her eyebrows in surprise. ‘You’ve lost your trench coat?’
‘No, it’s not my trench coat – it’s my good coat.’
She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I’ve never seen you wearing a good coat.’ She emphasised the word ‘good’. ‘Forgive me for saying this but you’ve always worn that old trench coat. What good coat is this? Something you’ve bought for yourself?’ By now the eyebrows had almost disappeared into her hairline.
I hated to tell a lie but I nodded.
‘Well then,’ she said, ‘describe it to me and I’ll help you look for it.’
Much against my will, I said, ‘It’s a bonny russet-coloured coat with fur trimmings.’ I was beside myself with misery, having to stand here explaining everything but maybe she was just trying to be kind with her offer of help.
She cast her eyes around the kitchen. ‘Your coat sounds really grand and expensive. What a lucky girl you are to own such a coat. Now I’ve always wanted something like that but I couldn’t afford it.’
‘Pigs might fly,’ I thought, remembering Jean telling me Miss Hood was feathering her own nest whilst living here.
She smiled but as usual, the smile failed to reach her eyes.
I made a decision. ‘It’s all right, Miss Hood, don’t bother looking for it. Maybe I’ve left it at my Granny’s house. I’m sure that’s where it’ll be.’ Yet I knew with certainty that it wasn’t there but it also wasn’t here. The mystery was where was it?
She clasped her hands. ‘Are you sure? It won’t be a bother to me to help you in your search but let me know when you find it, won’t you? It will be interesting to see the odd spot in which you left it.’
On that note, she turned quietly and left the kitchen while I returned to my room to ponder over the missing coat.
Back home, Granny was as confused as I was. ‘I don’t think Hattie has anything to do with this, Ann,’ she said but she didn’t sound too sure.
‘No, Granny, I remember putting it my wardrobe. I do it every week. I know I haven’t worn it for a wee while because it’s been quite mild
weather and it’s been over a week since I last saw it.’
She had another theory. ‘I don’t suppose the new cook has pinched it?’
I doubted it. Although she wasn’t like Jean, I got on all right with her. I hadn’t worn my coat in her company and she didn’t live in the house. Like Jean, she came in every day to work and I doubted if she knew the layout of the house. Another thing I was sure of was that she didn’t know where my room was.
14
Maddie had started her nursing training and she was full of enthusiasm when I met her on her day off.
‘I really enjoy the work, Ann, even although I only get one day off in the month and start at seven in the morning and work right through until early evening.’ She rolled her eyes and groaned. ‘Getting up at six o’clock in the morning is terrible, especially for a sleepyhead like me. The other morning I gave one old man the bedpan straight from the steriliser and it burned his backside.’
I looked shocked but she laughed. ‘Oh, I didn’t really burn him – I just gave him a hot bottom.’ She mimicked his voice. ‘“Ye’ve burned my erse, you silly wee bugger!”’
We both chuckled at this bit of hospital humour. I was also amused by Maddie’s interpretation of a long day. I thought it sounded quite normal and I worked hours like that day in and day out. Still there was no stopping her when she was in a chatty mood.
‘The patients sometimes bring in their own food. Mostly eggs. The other morning I put one on to boil for a patient and I forgot all about it. It was so hard-boiled that he couldn’t eat it with a spoon. “What am I supposed to do with this, nurse? Eat it or play a game of ruddy tennis with it?”’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I had got his egg mixed up with someone else’s but he shouted out, “No you’ve not – this egg’s still got my bloody name on it!”’ She laughed again. ‘We have to write the patient’s name on their egg before we cook it, just to make sure they get the egg that was brought in for them. I had to end up slicing his egg and putting it on his toast and even then he moaned all through breakfast time.’
The Sunday Girls Page 28
