by Millie Gray
From the very start Carrie knew the sweet course would be a disaster. Why couldn’t they have served up clootie dumpling or tinned pears with Carnation milk? No, it had to be flaming Baked Alaska resting upon a heavy silver platter. In spite of this, Carrie did manage successfully to serve two ladies but when she tried to persuade the meringue and ice-cream to leave the spoon and land neatly on the third plate it just wouldn’t budge. Three times she tried to coax it off before lifting the spoon up high in desperation and giving it a tremendous whack. Instead of landing on the lady’s plate, the Baked Alaska sailed backwards and with a loud plop deposited itself on the Duke’s balding head. Being the gentleman he was, he made no fuss but continued to converse jovially with his fellow guests before lifting his napkin to wipe away the melting ice-cream. Already it had trickled into his eyes, down his nose and on to his upper lip. Unperturbed, he stuck out his tongue and licked it away.
Unfortunately, Dai Morgan lacked the Duke’s fine breeding and Carrie found herself being verbally assaulted as he dragged her ignominiously from the dining room and out into the kitchen area.
“Out of here you go. Right now!” he screamed, wheeling about to return to the dining room.
“I’m going,” retorted Carrie. “But I want my wages first.”
Dai turned back. “You want paid for that fiasco? Don’t you realise, woman, what you’ve done and who you have done it to?”
Carrie tossed her head assertively. “I still want my twelve and six or …” She paused dramatically before offering the ultimate threat: “Or else I go right back in there and serve the coffees!”
Dai spluttered with rage, dipped into his pocket, brought out a wad of notes, peeled off a ten-shilling note and thrust it into Carrie’s outstretched hand. “That’s it. Now bloody well go.” Then, firmly pasting his well-practised smile back on his face, he fled back into the dining room.
Carrie watched him disappear before realising she had no idea how to get out of the hotel but, retrieving her coat, she calmly wandered around until she found a door that brought her into the foyer where the pianist was still playing.
Well, she decided, as she gazed about the palatial room, one day I’ll sit in this room on one of these chairs and listen to such wonderful music while someone comes to serve me. She was quite certain that some day her dream would come true. A playful wink from the musician confirmed that prediction.
It was after nine before Carrie got home. She had meant to take a bus but being already half a crown down on the night she felt prudence rather than extravagance was now required.
Entering the family home, she smiled. Rachel was seated pensively by the glowing fire with a cup of tea in one hand and a half-slice of toast in the other. “Oh Mum, thank goodness you’re safely back home from Herrig.”
Rachel looked up and gave the hint of a smile.
“How’s Hannah?” spluttered Carrie. “I mean, what did she have?”
“A boy. Going to call him Fergus, I think.”
“Isn’t she lucky? So that’ll be her family complete already.”
Rachel made no response to that. Everybody else might think that Hannah would now call a halt to her family but Rachel knew her eldest daughter better. Hannah would go on and on having children. Oh yes, a report last week had said the greatest problem for the Outer Hebrides was a falling population – but that was a problem Hannah would take great pleasure in resolving.
“Anything to eat?” asked Carrie, breaking sharply into Rachel’s thoughts.
“Eat? Well, the shops were closed by the time I got back. And all I found in the cupboard were two eggs, a tin of beans and some potatoes. So I cooked egg, chips and beans for Paul and Alice, then made a plate of porridge for myself. Here,” Rachel continued, “you can have the last bit of toast though.”
Carrie sniffed as she took the toast and started to devour it. “I wouldn’t want to take it, Mum, but I really am starving.”
“Didn’t you get some of the banquet leftovers?”
“I came away before the divvy-up.”
“Why?”
“I was sacked.”
“Sacked?”
“Aye. Honestly, all that carry-on just to dish up a meal. And it wasn’t my fault. I should have only been putting plates out and picking them up – not trying to scoop up silly wee peas with a spoon and fork!”
Rachel shook her head. “Well, wee peas are the least of your worries. Look …” and she pointed to the telegram that was propped up on the mantelpiece.
Carrie jumped up, grabbed the telegram and tore it open. Her jaw dropped and tears sprang to her eyes.
“Will’s been killed?” croaked Rachel, struggling to keep her alarm in check.
Carrie shook her head. “No. Worse than that!”
“Worse?”
“Aye. He’ll be home in six weeks. And I’m instructed to book the Co-op’s Kintore Rooms in Queen Street for our wedding reception at the beginning of February.”
“But isn’t that exactly what you want?”
“Course I do. But Mum, I told you about Will’s mother. She wants to invite fifty folk to the wedding. And I would get such a red face if we didn’t invite fifty.”
“Okay, but what’s the real problem?”
“Where the devil are we going to find the money for a hundred people to have steak pie and trifle in the Kintore Rooms when they charge at least two and sixpence a head? And if that’s not bad enough, Will thinks we should have sandwiches and sausage rolls later on …” Carrie sniffed loudly before bawling, “at another one and tuppence a head. And I’m certain his mother will get the dividend from it all because it’s her store number it’s to go on!”
“See what you mean, Carrie. But you know I’m chipping in all I can. The two-tier wedding cake is costing me six pounds – mind you, that does include four favours. And the material and making up of the dresses for you and Alice, well, wonder if I should try robbing a bank?”
5
WEDDING PLANS AND PIMPERNEL PETE
Rachel smiled at Sam who had just entered the kitchen. “Sleep well?”
“No I didnae!” he retorted. “Ye ken fine Paul needs the hale o that bed for himself.”
Rachel avoided the topic. “Fancy a bacon roll?”
“Aye. But dinnae change the subject.” Mellowing his tone, Sam wheedled, “Look, Mum, I can’t go on spending every night being kicked black and blue.”
Mother and son eyed each other. Both were remembering when the single bed had been bought – and why! At thirteen, Sam had been masturbating in the bathroom just as his mother climbed up to clean the outside of the bathroom window. Looking through the clear upper pane Rachel had been horror-stricken to see her precious, innocent boy abusing himself in such a way. So great was her distress that she’d fallen off the ladder; but once she’d picked herself up she had raced into the house and begun to thrash Sam with the carpet-beater. Paul’s claim that Sam was only polishing his conkers had merely added to her fury. Once her anger was spent, Rachel had stipulated that from then on Sam was never to be allowed to sleep in the same room and bed as his mother and sisters. He and Paul, his younger brother, were henceforth to be banished to the empty room to sleep on a palliasse. One week later she’d purchased a single bed for her boys on the never-never. That bed had served the two boys perfectly well as wee laddies – but two energetic sixfooters had different needs. Rachel admitted that. “Okay,” she said, more to herself, “I know I promised to buy a bed-settee for Paul so you could have the room all to yourself, especially now you’ll be working shifts but …” she heaved a deep sigh, “this blasted royal wedding of Carrie’s is costing the earth.”
Sam remained silent. He was still thinking back to why the single bed had been bought. How on earth, he wondered, had his mother, who had such an abnormal aversion to sex in all its forms – and that even included speaking about it – managed to give birth to five children? Debating the matter mentally, he concluded they couldn’t have all been immacula
te conceptions – or could they? Looking again at his prim mother he concluded that they really couldn’t have been anything else!
Covertly taking out his bulging wallet, he declared, “Well, if a bed-settee is the only thing that stands between me and a guid night’s sleep, I’ll just have to buy yin myself.”
Unable to hide her surprise and wondering how Sam’s wallet had come to have so much inside it, Rachel waited for an explanation. None was forthcoming but Sam did finally ask, “Could we go down to Leith Provident and get it after breakfast?”
Rachel consented.
They had just begun to eat their bacon rolls when Carrie came into the kitchen and sat down beside them.
“Why d’you always have to have a face that could follow a funeral?” demanded Rachel.
“Oh Mum, see Will’s mother? Know what she wants now?”
Rachel shook her head.
“A piper at the church and at the reception!”
“And who’s going to pay for all that carry-on?”
“I don’t know,” Carrie whispered before swallowing and adding, “but I think that with them paying for the band and the bar…”
“They’re paying for the bar?” queried Sam.
“Aye,” said Carrie. “Seems that at all Highland weddings the groom’s parents pay for the bar – and it’s free all night.”
“They’re putting on a free bar all night long?”
Carrie nodded.
“Never thought I’d say it,” smirked Rachel, “but know something? I’m real blinking sorry that my father Gabby’s dead. Even the Frasers couldn’t afford what he could drink!”
Carrie didn’t reply but picked up a bacon roll and groaned. The only thing that had gone right with the wedding arrangements this week was the tête-à-tête she’d had with her old school pal, Bernie. Bernie had been married to a Glasgow boy for a year now. She didn’t come back home to visit very often as her mother kept declaring she had married beneath herself by getting hitched to a Glasgow lad. But Carrie knew that Mrs Flynn’s dislike of her son-in-law was less to do with him being a Glaswegian and more to do with him being a Rangers’ supporter!
Carrie and Bernie did write frequently to one other; but what Carrie had been desperate to ask Bernie about simply couldn’t be committed to paper. Last weekend, though, Bernie had luckily turned up at her mother’s. Carrie barely allowed time for her old pal to greet her parents before she was scampering over the newly-erected outdoor coal bunkers that now separated each of the four-in-a-block housing gardens. Racing to Mrs Flynn’s front door she knocked impatiently.
Thankfully, it was Bernie who answered the summons. But she just couldn’t understand why Carrie insisted that they should huddle on the bottom step of the freezing stair rather than sit inside by a louping fire. “Right, what’s the problem?” Bernie demanded.
Carrie lost no time in explaining that it was the old one – sex. The very first time the topic had been raised was when Bernie and Carrie were thirteen. They’d been going round to the chip shop for a snack when Rachel, who always seemed to have a washing cloth in her hand when the subject was broached, began to clean the bunker top vigorously before calling out to her daughter, “Now, just you watch what you do, Missie, and don’t bring any disgrace on this family!” Carrie had been bemused. What disgrace could a bag of chips bring even if you did put on too much muck sauce? It was another two years before Rachel plucked up courage to refer to the subject again. For the first time Bernie and Carrie were going up town to the Friday night dance at the Palais de Dance in Fountainbridge. “Carrie, you do know, don’t you, that all men are only after the one thing?” Rachel stated bluntly.
Carrie stopped combing her hair and turned to face her mother but Rachel was now down on her knees vigorously attacking the hearth with a washing cloth. Why, wondered Carrie, did her mother never look at her when she was issuing such statements? It was then that Aunty Bella, who had called in for a blether with Rachel, agreed. “You’re right there, Rachel. They dream about it nicht an day, so they do.” This statement from Bella confused Carrie still further, especially when Bella went on to say, “And you, Carrie, having been brought up in the true Protestant faith, have a duty to make sure their dreams dinnae come true.”
Later, when Carrie and her friend were going for the bus, Bernie spoke about how her mother had also advised Bernie that all men were only after one thing! The only difference was that, when Bernie’s mother got to the bit where she warned her daughter about not allowing men’s dreams to come true, it was because Bernie had been brought up in the only true faith – the Roman Catholic one. Bernie then suggested to Carrie that she should ask Sam what it was he dreamed of all the time. Carrie declined this suggestion, pointing out that Sam wouldn’t divulge such information unless he was paid to do so.
The following Saturday, Sam was on his way out when Bernie ran up the path and waylaid him. “Sam,” she said, “I’ll give you three slugs from this bottle of sugarallie water and a penny-dainty if you’ll tell me what you dream about aw day lang.”
Sam took the dainty from Bernie, then grabbed the bottle and gulped down half its contents. Disgusted at his greed, Bernie grabbed the bottle back. “Right,” she said firmly. “I’m waiting.”
Wiping his mouth with the back of hand, Sam lifted both arms high in the air and shouted, “What do I dream aboot aw the time? Nothing mair than aboot the Hibees winning the Cup!”
Carrie’s thoughts came back to the present. She just had to speak to Bernie. Swallowing hard, she looked about to make sure they couldn’t be overheard before whispering, “Know how you’ve been married for over a year now?” Bernie nodded. “And you’re no…Well, you’re no, are you?”
“You mean I haven’t got a bairn?”
“Aye.”
“So?”
“How do you manage no to? Everybody else seems to get one nine months later or even earlier.”
“Simple! I practise birth control.”
Carrie sighed. “Good. Now, I don’t want to start a family for five years. First I’ve got to get away from Will’s mother, so I need a house and a bed.”
“Then just you do what I do.”
“I want to – but I don’t know what it is that you do!”
Bernie shook her head. “Look, it’s simple. When, you know what I mean – when it happens – and don’t believe your mother that it’s any bother, ‘cause it’s no bother at all – well, no for me anyway – you just jump straight out of the bed and stand your bare feet on the cold floor for five minutes and then swallow a big drink o water!”
“And that does it?”
“Aye, everything then just drops down or gets flushed away. Easy-peasy!”
Sam pushed back his chair. “C’mon, Mum, afore the money for the bed-settee ends up paying the piper.”
Carrie snorted. “You can mock, Sam, but Will’s mother is driving me cuckoo. And Mum, Mrs Fraser says I’ve not to worry about paying for the wedding with some of the house deposit I’ve saved up.”
Rachel’s face lit up. “She’s going to give it to you?”
Carrie shook her head. Tears were brimming. “No, no. She says I’ve to live in Will’s room, even when he goes back to sea!”
“Well, that would let you save more and we’d have a bit more room here.”
Shooting up her head, Carrie replied vehemently, “No, no! I might have to sleep there when Will’s at home, because that’s the only place we can be together.” She sniffed loudly before adding, “But when he goes back to sea again I’ll be back here with all of you.”
Engulfed with a warm feeling of achievement at having successfully completed his police training, Sam was now on his way to the structure that housed Leith Municipal Buildings and Council Chambers. He knew all about the history of the imposing edifice on the corner of Constitution Street and Charlotte Street because all through his childhood his mother had regaled him with tales about Leith. One of these, which she’d told him over and over, was abo
ut the Council Chambers having been a symbol of the independence and wealth that proud Leith once had. Amalgamation with Edinburgh, however, had put paid to Council meetings and magistrates’ courts being held there, although the building was still used by the Leith Police who had been there ever since its erection in 1828.
Entering through the impressive portico, Sam was still unprepared for the grandeur that faced him. The main marble staircase with its highly polished wooden banisters gave credence, in his opinion, to his mother’s claim that Leith once had been a thriving, affluent port and should have protected its standing by remaining quite independent of Edinburgh. He was still standing mesmerised by the sheer opulence of the architecture when Sergeant Duff walked in.
“So you like the look of the old place?” commented the sergeant.
“Just great.”
“Well, sorry to drag you away, but we go this way to the rabbit warren,” and he beckoned Sam to follow him.
Once arrived at the operations centre, Sam had to acknowledge it was quite an eye-opener. Rooms and cells just seemed to go off in all directions: here, there and everywhere. The sergeant ushered Sam into a small room and, seating himself behind a desk, motioned Sam to take the seat opposite.
“Now,” began Sergeant Duff, “I’m going to double you up with an experienced officer who’ll show you the ropes.”
Sam gave a nod of approval.
The sergeant rubbed his chin, sniffed, blew out his lips and seemed to ponder deeply before continuing, “I think Pimpernel Pete will be just the boy to break you in.”
“Why’s he called Pimpernel?”
“Because he has a habit of regularly disappearing and no matter where we seek him he always stays elusive.” The sergeant spoke more to himself now. “You know, I just don’t know where he gets to. Must have a howff somewhere. I’ll need to find it.”
“So you really think he would be a good mentor for me?”
The sergeant grimaced. “Only other alternatives are the Olympic Torch and…”
