by Millie Gray
“No he won’t.”
“But he’ll be a sergeant just as soon as he finishes his year’s special training at Tulliallan College!”
“Naw. You see, as a sop…”
“Sop?” Rachel interrupted.
“Aye, a bribe that is to hide the fact I came first in the exams in Edinburgh and then, to add insult to injury, they allowed a bloody blinkered psychologist, who was probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth, to decide that I’m no senior officer material!”
“So what exactly is this – sop?”
“Just promoted me to sergeant, they have.”
Rachel gasped incredulously and her melancholy expression switched suddenly to an expansive grin. “They have?”
“Aye. I start in Gayfield – well, the Drylaw section of B Division – next week.”
“Oh that’s absolutely wonderful. And I know you’ll make a good job of it.”
Sam smiled wryly. “Maybe aye; maybe no. You see, Pimpernel Pete has blotted his copybook again and he’s being transferred out o Leith to get him away from his demon drinking dens.”
“Don’t tell me he’s being transferred to Drylaw and on to your shift.”
“Where else? Thinking o getting him to start up Community Involvement, they are.” Sam turned to wink at his mother. “Now,” he continued with a chuckle, “Pete’s interpretation o Community Involvement might not be exactly what the powers that be want – know what I mean?”
When the ferry eventually docked at Lochboisdale, Sam was standing at the rail gazing down at the crowd of folk on the quay. No mistaking it – that was their Jamie waiting for them. “Thank goodness!” Sam murmured to himself. Unloading the contents of his shooting-brake at Mallaig and stowing all the cargo bound for Hannah had taken fifteen trips. It had taken so long indeed that he nearly didn’t have time to park the car safely behind the fish market before jumping aboard the boat. Then he’d settled down to enjoy the journey. Apart from his Far East cruise to Korea, courtesy of Her Majesty’s government, and his trips to play football in England and Wales for the Edinburgh Police, Sam had never travelled far. He didn’t even have a passport – you didn’t need one to go from Restalrig to Portobello for a paddle in the Firth of Forth whenever the sun put in an appearance. But as the ferry gently ploughed its way westward, Sam had been quite overawed by the sheer beauty of the Hebrides. Tiny islands glistened in the turquoise sea: beyond them lay the rounded hills – and he felt a sense of calm serenity as the magnificence of the view seeped into his bones.
“Let’s be going, Sam,” urged Rachel as she grabbed a laden bag and began to make her way to the gangplank. Sam was about to follow her when he realised that Jamie was now on board and bounding towards them, both hands outstretched in welcome.
Sam eagerly shook Jamie’s hand. “Great that you could come to meet us,” he said, gesturing meaningfully towards their mountain of baggage.
“Got the kitchen sink and all?”
“You saying that you’re actually due to be linked up to the water system?” asked Rachel, unable to keep her excitement in check.
“No. Not this year but they do say it’ll begin to happen next year and we should all be flushing away happily by 1966.” Rachel’s enthusiasm faded before Jamie quickly added, “But having the electricity has made all the difference. And it’s only been cut off a couple of times in the last three months.”
“Forget to pay your bill, did you?” asked Sam.
“No, no,” said Rachel reprovingly. “The wind would have done that. Just wait till you feel how strong it blows hereabouts.”
Sam felt a catch in his throat as soon as he entered the croft house. There was his sister, Hannah, surrounded by her happy brood, pregnant as ever but oozing contentment. Seven in all she had now, two of whom were trying to hide behind their mother’s back, unsure who this unfamiliar and very tall stranger might be. As Sam drew Hannah close in a loving embrace, the children took refuge around Rachel, their Granny, eager to discover what treasures she had brought. “Now,” said Sam firmly, as he let Hannah go, “I’m here for ten days and I want to be of some use. So are there any chores you’d like me to do?”
Hannah and Rachel both laughed aloud. “Well,” Hannah began, “the coal was delivered this morning.”
“So?”
“They just tip it out at the bottom of the hill and we have to barrow it up in the old pram.”
“Are you saying there’s more than two bags to be brought up?”
“Two hundredweight?” exclaimed Hannah. “Oh no, we only get a delivery twice a year – so it’s four tons at a time.”
Sam walked over to the window to remind himself just how steep the brae was and shrugged stoically. “Suppose it’ll take quite a few trips?”
“Aye,” added Jamie. “But, you see, every time someone goes out they wheel the pram to the bottom of the hill and the next person to be coming back fills the pram up and pushes it back up the hill.”
“D’ye think we’ll have it all up by the time I leave?”
“Of course,” replied Hannah.
“Maybe not,” interrupted Jamie. “Remember we’re to have a couple of days going over to cut the peat and Sam could help at that too.”
“Cut the peat?”
“Aye, over on yon wee island. Best peat you can get is over there. We all go. Make a day out of it.”
“And we take a picnic,” broke in Morag, who was desperate to get in on the conversation.
Sam smiled. “I’m thinking I’ll be fully occupied this holiday.”
“You certainly will,” replied Hannah, “because if you’ve any spare time it would be great if you could start to dig out the drains for when the water arrives!”
Sam and Hannah were still sitting at the table, quite unaware that Jamie and Rachel had seen to the washing and bedding of the children. Hannah was just so hungry for news of home and of all the folk she knew there.
“So Paul’s courting, is he?”
“Aye,” replied Sam. “A Newhaven lassie.”
“A bow-tow?”
“Well I suppose you might call her a bow-tow as her dad’s a fisherman. But she’s been educated at Gillespie’s Ladies College no less. She’s at Moray House now, training to be a teacher.”
“And she’s fancying our Paul?”
“Aye. Especially now he’s got the chance o ending up as a big cheese.”
Hannah didn’t answer – she was surprised that Sam had alluded to Paul being on the accelerated promotion course as Rachel had told her in strict confidence that Sam was a bit bruised by the whole affair.
“Mind you,” Sam continued, “it’ll still take him a fair while tae live down all his first cock-ups on the job.”
“Like what?”
“Well on his very first week at Craigmillar, Paul was put under the wing o the big sergeant, Jock Ferguson, and at midnight on his first shift there they were, chasing after two thieves who’d grabbed the takings out o the hand o the barman in the Last Stand pub just as he was about to put them in the night safe. Anyway, being on the spot, they took after them and big Jock tackles one to the ground. Unfortunately he was no the one with the money, Jock then grabs the man by the throat and asks who his accomplice is. When no answer’s forthcoming Jock says, ‘Right, unless you give me his name I am gonnae send my constable here to get a big pail of shite and when he comes back with it I’m going to put your heid in it until ye mind your pal’s name.’ But isn’t the feet cawed frae Jock when Paul asks, ‘But, Sergeant, where’ll I get a pail of excrement at this time of night?’ ”
Hannah laughed. “Oh Sam, isn’t that just like Paul?”
“Aye, and then when he was allowed out on his own, wasn’t he on night shift! As per usual, he’s constipated and taken a big doze o Syrup of Figs, which results in him having an urgent call of nature at midnight. So as all the usual haunts the police can depend on to allow them the use of their lavvies are closed, doesn’t he just decide to relieve himself on a paper
in the police box at Balgreen?”
“Aren’t there toilet facilities in the police boxes?”
“Naw Hannah, there’s no. So, Paul being our Paul, he has the Evening News all spread out on the floor and he’s just got himself perched over it when a runaway lorry careers down the hill on Gorgie Road, and wallops the police box a great hefty glancing blow. Slowly but surely the box collapses into four sections and there’s our Paul exposed to the all the world with his trousers at his feet and still hunched over the paper.”
Hannah tried hard not to laugh but couldn’t help tittering as she visualised the graphic scene. “But Sam,” she eventually managed to say, “he could have been killed. I mean the awful fright he must have got!”
“Fright? I suppose so but – know something? – he hasn’t been constipated ever since!” Sam sniggered as he rose and went over to his bag and brought out a paper parcel which he handed to Hannah. “Went into a bookshop and got you these.”
Hannah unwrapped the two books. “That was very kind of you, Sam.”
Sam shrugged. “Well, I remembered how much you loved books. Your nose was never out o them.” He turned and looked about the room that was liberally decorated with piles of washing, ironing and dirty dishes, and heaved a sigh. “Don’t know when ye’ll get the time to read them though?”
Hannah went over and put her arms around his neck, “I’ll keep them for when I go to the hospital in Daliburgh. The nuns always take me in two weeks before I’m due, to give me a rest. A good book puts the time in just fine. Now you’ve brought me up to date on Paul and I got a letter from Alice last week. So now I only have to find out what Carrie’s up to.”
“She’s moving house the morn,” Sam informed her. Just then the wind began to howl around the croft house. “Would you listen to that gale! And here was me thinking that all they stories Mammy told me about the storms up here were just fairy tales.”
He and Hannah walked over to the window from where they could plainly view the sea being whipped into a frenzy.
“See when Jamie and his step-brothers are out fishing at night and a storm like this gets up? I can’t sleep. I try hard not to remember the sinking of the Margaret Paton and I just pray that nothing like that ever happens here.”
“Aye,” whispered Sam, “It’s gone on thirteen years – maybe fourteen – since the Margaret Paton went down. Hogmanay of 1949 it was when she should have come back to Newhaven.” Sam huffed derisively, “But you know? It wasn’t until the fifth of January when she was six days overdue that they sent out an RAF plane to search the Coral Reef in the North Sea.”
“Right enough, Sam, that was where she was last seen but they found nothing. No. All thirteen of the crew and their boat were gone forever!” Shaking her head Hannah paused. “And do you remember how you insisted that Carrie and I went with you to the service in the Newhaven kirk? We had to stand out in the street, we did. Aye, the whole of Newhaven, Leith and Granton had turned out to pay their respects. All those communities were completely devastated by that terrible disaster. Even our Daddy was there, Sam, but he didn’t seem to notice us.”
“Aye, but we hadn’t come there to see him. It was because when I was a wee laddie and trying to keep us all thegither the trawlermen were aye so guid at giving me a pauckle o fish. I minded on that and just had to pay my respects to the men who’d aw been lost. And I needed you and Carrie tae chum me to the memorial service.”
Sister and brother sat silently for what seemed an age, each with their own memories of that awful event.
In no time at all, so it seemed to everyone, the peat had been dug and the coal safely transported up to the croft. Reluctantly, Rachel and Sam made preparations for their return home from the Isles. Hannah pressed them to take some of her fresh eggs but Rachel smilingly declined, saying they’d be sure to get smashed one way or another on the long journey back. The true reason, however, was that the island hens were all fed on herring. That was fine if one didn’t mind a herring-flavoured boiled egg – but Rachel’s discerning palate knew that the fishy flavour did little for fruit scones and even less for a fruit cake!
In Leith meanwhile, Carrie and Will were busily settling into their new home, with which they were all delighted. In the kitchen, Will was preparing sandwiches for lunch while Donald was outside furiously digging what would become a vegetable plot. Not even the twelve pounds a month mortgage payment had put Carrie off. And to add to this financial burden Sophie was now a junior pupil at Leith Academy where the annual fee was a hefty twelve pounds. So a little extra income would be welcome, she felt.
After lunch, Carrie decided to walk along by Hermitage Park to buy a few groceries at the Leith Provident Cooperative. This done, she emerged from the shop to find it was now raining hard – but after all it was April so what else could one expect? Much less expected was the sight of a small, dishevelled and totally drenched man hovering at the school gates. He looked so comical that Carrie could hardly stop herself laughing out loud. His trouser legs were obviously not on speaking terms with his feet since they were a good three inches above his ankles, while his scruffy shoes squelched loudly as he paced up and down. His well-worn brown suit was shiny and decidedly greasy but it was his shirt that really amazed her. Once crisp and white no doubt, it was now liberally bespeckled with what could only be spots of blood (Carrie hoped these came only from a careless shave and nothing worse) while the turned-up collar edges looked as if they’d been placed in dinky curlers all night.
“Can I help you at all?” Carrie found herself asking this distraught personage.
“I can’t say. You see, I’m the headmaster here and I’m looking for a secretary.”
“Is she late?”
“Well, she’s certainly my late secretary but she’s not late for work. She’s left me in the lurch. I have a most important letter that must go in the post today, so I’ve decided to wait here on the off-chance that the good Lord will providentially send me another secretary.”
Carrie hesitated. The man’s behaviour was even weirder than his dress, Who, in his right mind, she wondered, would expect to find a school secretary walking along a quiet back street looking for a job? But maybe he wasn’t entirely mad. After all, hadn’t she herself been a competent secretary to that unorthodox character, Jock Elmslie, at the Roperie? Almost involuntarily, she found herself saying, “I can type. Could I be of any use to you?”
The man’s hands flew above his head and he exclaimed, “I just knew God wouldn’t let me down and that he’d send me help before the Committee makes its final decision.”
“Well,” said Carrie, “Just let me go home first to tell my family. Then I’ll come back and do what I can to be of assistance to you.”
Some hours later, when Carrie entered the headmaster’s study, she was surprised to discover it hadn’t changed in the slightest since she herself had been a pupil there. The head’s desk dominated the room and in one corner stood a table furnished with an Imperial typewriter and telephone. Once seated at his desk the headmaster introduced himself. “I am Mr Hamish Brand, headmaster here, and I require you to type this draft letter exactly as I have written it.” Carrie set to work but was puzzled. The letter was addressed to the Director of Education. Why, she wondered, did Mr Brand imagine he could question a decision of the Director? And should he be sending a letter that states: “I have been headmaster at Hermitage Park School for the past twelve years and have three more years before reaching retirement age. Surely it would be appropriate for me to be promoted at this stage to one of our more prestigious places of education, while the existing head teacher there would be transferred to Hermitage Park, where there would be many valuable opportunities to gain experience in dealing with working class children and their parents, who are such a burden on society.”
By the time Carrie had finished typing she was red with rage and indignation. This man was an utter snob. Didn’t he realise that most of the children who attended Hermitage Park went on to become usefu
l members of the community and were a burden to no one?
Mr Brand read the typed letter through, with frequent nods of approval – less, Carrie felt, for the quality of her typing than for the self-evident justice of his own case for promotion. His unmistakable talents had been overlooked for far too long! Carrie had begun typing the envelope when a middle-aged teacher burst into the room.
“Headmaster, oh, Headmaster!” he cried out. “Little Alice Doig has just swallowed a piece of chalk!”
“And what colour was the chalk, Mr Jamieson?” demanded Mr Brand.
“I don’t know I’m sure, sir,” came the reply.
Carrie meanwhile had run into the corridor to aid the choking child. After two well-placed thumps on Alice’s back the chalk few out of her mouth. Cradling the weeping girl to her chest, she wondered again about this man Brand, but was still more flummoxed when he contemptuously picked up the piece of chalk, handed it to Mr Jamieson and advised him to wash it thoroughly.
“This coloured chalk is twice the cost of white so please do not let this kind of incident recur. And kindly employ this yellow chalk in an object-lesson to the class on how not to choke oneself.”
Brand then turned his attention to Carrie. “I am pleased to offer you the post of school secretary with immediate effect and your hours will be made convenient, if practicable, for your own domestic arrangements.”
The offer seemed ideal, despite her serious misgivings about Brand’s character. Almost without hesitation, Carrie accepted. Some extra money coming into the household would make life a lot easier for them all.
10
A TRIO OF MISHAPS
Newly appointed Inspector Paul Campbell was making his way down the High Street when he became aware of a police constable chasing after two small boys and shouting “Stop these wee thieves!” to the passers-by, who were naturally refusing to get involved. Paul quickly slipped into narrow Anchor Close and, just as the boys were about to run past the entry, he shouted, “Quick! In here. The polis…”
