by Millie Gray
Carrie blushed. “Yes, I know. What I meant was the hospital took over and his mother arrived so Mr Hamilton and I came back here.”
Miss King nodded. “Now, whenever Mr Hamilton has the time, I must speak with him.”
Carrie smiled and pointed to the door where Mr Hamilton was already standing.
“Ah, headmaster,” began Miss King, “I was wondering if you would kindly have a word with Robert …” Miss King hesitated, “I mean Bobby Smith’s father.” She tut-tutted before adding, “Why parents should give their children truly noble names like Robert and then shorten them to Bobby I really don’t know.”
“Quite so,” said Mr Hamilton amiably. “Now, if Robert, or Bobby, or whatever his name is, should be absent again then just have the attendance officer deal with it.”
“I only wish I could. But poor Mr Good, who has been dealing with the Smith family for six months now, has gone off on long-term sick leave due to a nervous breakdown!”
Mr Hamilton was now seated in his chair. “So be it. Well, the next time Bobby attends school I’ll make a point of speaking to his father.” Mr Hamilton stroked his chin pensively, “Do I take it his father still escorts him to school?”
“Yes, along with the dog! And you won’t need to wait to speak to him. He arrived with Bobby ten minutes ago.”
Mr Hamilton sighed. “Just in time for Bobby to get his free lunch, I presume?”
“Precisely. But I told Mr Smith to wait in the corridor, since you would wish to see him.”
Carrie could hear the barking of the Smiths’ dog and, as it grew louder, she realised that Bobby’s father was rapidly approaching the office. “Are you afraid of German Shepherds?” Mr Hamilton asked.
“Not at all,” replied Carrie. “My brother has one and it’s very well-behaved. But then my brother is one of the trainers at the Kennel Club.”
Carrie had just finished speaking when an enormous brute of a dog, on a long leash, bounded into the office. Two more minutes elapsed, however, before a breathless and obese shambles of a man stumbled in, clutching the end of the dog’s lead.
At the first sight of this awesome spectacle, Mr Hamilton’s jaw dropped and he instinctively reached for the small hand bell used for summoning the janitor, Alex Logan. Within seconds, Alex’s head appeared round the doorway but he seemed distinctly reluctant to take charge of the dog. “Look, sir,” he complained, with no attempt to hide the incredulity in his voice, “it’s on a blooming washing-line.”
“Aye,” interjected Mr Smith. “That’s because my doctor says I’ve got a bad heart and as he’s a big dog that needs a fair bit o exercise – well, yon lang rope means he can run all over the place while I just stand and let him gang about awyes.”
By now the dog had circled Mr Hamilton’s desk twice and there was still enough rope left for him to do another two laps. It took the janitor, assisted by Miss King, who ended up tied to the coat stand, a good five minutes to release Mr Hamilton, Miss King and the dog from the tangle. Once the janitor had unceremoniously dragged the reluctant dog from the office, Mr Smith thereupon demanded to know why Mr Hamilton wished to see him.
“We have to talk about Bobby’s school attendance,” began Mr Hamilton, then adding with a hint of gentle sarcasm, “or perhaps I should say his lack of attendance?”
“Aye, well,” remarked Mr Smith complacently, “ye cannae really blame him. I mean, it’s been a cold, cold, winter and even the noo – it’s April, is it no? – it’s still freezing.”
The Headmaster gave a slight nod of assent. “That is so,” he agreed, “but the other four hundred and ninety-nine children have all managed to attend.” Mr Hamilton took a deep breath. “Look here, Mr Smith, I’m trying to help you and Bobby. So is there anything you can think of that I could do that would solve the problem?”
Bobby’s father offered no reply and only shifted his bulk uneasily in the chair. After a lengthy silence, Mr Hamilton continued, “Now, Mr Smith, the law says, as you’re very well aware, that Bobby has to receive an education.”
Mr Smith sat grim-faced and silent for several more minutes before his face muscles relaxed and he brightly announced, “I know! Maybe you could get him into my auld school. A great school that is. The bus takes you there and the bus brings you back hame.”
Mr Hamilton was glad to be standing in front of his desk since it offered some much-needed support as his whole body sagged wearily against it. Dismayed and stunned, he asked, “Are you telling me you want to have Bobby transferred to Clarebank Special School?”
“Aye, I wouldnae be where I am the day if I hadn’t gone there. D’ye ken this? They had me reading a book by the time I was ten years old!”
With all the delays of the day, it was a quarter to four before Carrie was ready to go home. She had just left the office when she became aware of a child sobbing. Listening intently, she deduced that the sound was emanating from the boys’ cloak-room. On entering, she found an eight year old by the name of Jack Turnbull sitting on the floor in a flood of tears.
“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Carrie, as she bent down to pull the child to his feet.
“It’s ma coat. Somebody’s nicked ma coat.”
Carrie looked along the rails and saw that further away there was a black duffle coat hanging on a hook. “There,” she said, pointing to the coat. “Isn’t that your coat?”
Jack shook his head. By now Carrie had fetched the coat. “Look,” she said, it’s just right for your size.”
Jack sniffed loudly. “Aye, but it’s no mine!”
“How d’you know that?” asked Carrie who was now increasingly anxious to be home in time for her own children returning from school.
“Because it doesn’t have gloves that flap like this!” And Jack now waved his hands up and down to demonstrate the point.
Carrie smiled. Jack’s mother was not the brightest of persons and relied on her own mother to help her with Jack. Mrs Stoddart, Jack’s Granny, who just adored her grandson, always made sure he was well-clad and – since Jack was like his mother in being a wee bit slow in the uptake and in keeping hold of his belongings – had devised all manner of simple techniques to keep him right. For instance, she still sewed his gloves on to a tape which she then threaded through the coat sleeves so that they couldn’t get lost. “Right,” agreed Carrie, “so this is not your coat. Someone must have taken yours by mistake and they’ll bring it back tomorrow. You just put this one on then and get yourself off home before it gets any colder.”
Jack shook his head. “You want me to get battered?” he snivelled.
“No. I just want you to get home safe and warm,” Carrie coaxed as she held out the coat for Jack to put his arms through. “Good. Now, the Lollipop man will be away now, so I’ll take you over to the other side of Lochend Road and you can run all the way home from there.”
Carrie had given Sophie and Donald their evening meal, attended to their homework and settled them down to watch television by the time their father reached home. Will’s face lit up at the sight of his children. He really was such a devoted father, working all the hours God sent to keep them as best he could. The moment Carrie had disappeared into the kitchen to heat up his supper, Will was down on the floor with Donald and had donned his son’s tribal chief’s feather headdress. The children were hysterical with laughter. They just loved it when their father played with them. Carrie thought she knew why they preferred his games to hers – it was because he was still a child at heart. And when Carrie, who was the one always to hand out the discipline, came back into the living room to announce that Will’s meal was ready and remarked that, in her opinion, he didn’t make a very convincing Cochise since he was going bald at the front of his head. Will’s cheeky response of “Pale-face talk with forked tongue” was met with gales of laughter from the children.
But as the laughter subsided, Carrie noticed how tired Will was looking. Well, she reasoned to herself, he took on too much overtime. In addition to his straight
shifts, he worked Tuesday and Thursday evenings, Saturday mornings and all day on Sundays because that was paid double-time.
Once the children were in bed and Will was watching Double Your Money on TV, Carrie grasped the opportunity to say, “Will, dearest, don’t you think you’re working too hard? What I mean is – now that the school roll is over five hundred and I’ve been allocated twenty-five hours’ work, maybe you could give up your Sunday working.”
Will made no answer and Carrie raised her voice: “Did you hear me, Will?”
“Aye, I did,” came the eventual reply. “But I’m trying to save up for a wee car and I’d rather work Sundays to get it.”
“A car!” exploded Carrie. “You said that renting the television from Radio Rentals would definitely be our last extravagance.”
“And who was the first to break that promise?” retorted Will.
Carrie looked perplexed. “Surely you’re not suggesting it was me.”
“I am that. I mean, what d’you call that twin-tub washing machine in the kitchen then?”
“A necessity, of course,” retorted Carrie. “Don’t you realise I can’t work at the school and still find time, like my mother, to go to the washhouse?”
“And life would be a lot easier for me if only I could drive myself back and forward to work.”
Carrie had only just finished acquainting Miss King with the problem of Jack’s coat when both boy and mother arrived at the office door. Instantly, Mrs Turnbull launched into a tirade – blaming the school for her son’s missing coat that had the flapping gloves.
“Mrs Turnbull, I fully understand how annoying the loss of Jack’s coat is to you,” Miss King responded, with as much self-control as she could muster, “and once the school has assembled for the day you and I will search the cloak-room for it.”
“You mean I’ve got to check through all the coats?”
“Yes, indeed. These days every child wears a black duffle coat, so that’ll be five hundred we have to look through.”
Once the children were all safely seated in their classes, Miss King, Mrs Turnbull and Carrie began a diligent search – which after some fifteen minutes proved fruitful. Miss King retrieved the coat and passed it to Mrs Turnbull, remarking gently, “You know, Mrs Turnbull, it would help greatly if Jack’s name was on his coat.”
Mrs Turnbull’s eyes widened in disbelief as she stuttered, “Di-dinnae be daft. What use would that be? I mean it’s thanks to you, being no good at your job, that my Jack cannae read!”
Carrie waited for some response from Miss King but none was forthcoming. She went back to her office thinking how she wished all her worries could be resolved as easily and quickly as the finding of Jack’s coat. And, she admitted to herself, Will looking so tired was one of the main ones. Guilt began to take over as she acknowledged that next Friday, when the Easter holidays began, she would be off with the children to Herrig. It wasn’t just that she wanted to see how Hannah was coping since Jamie’s death; she also wanted to help. However, she wasn’t sure that her mother’s suggestion was a good idea. Rachel had said, “If you plant a good lot of potatoes now, there’ll be enough when they get harvested in October to see Hannah through the winter.” Sure enough, Will’s father had taught her how to grow flowers from seed or cuttings, but did that qualify her for planting potatoes in lazybeds? She thought not!
Long after the ferry left the shore Carrie still remained standing at the rail, staring back towards the Oban dockside, even though Will and Sam had left the pier and made their way back to Sam’s car. Such uncharacteristic inaction stemmed from her remaining doubts and indecision over Will’s wellbeing. She had even persuaded Sam to coax Will into taking time off to play a couple of rounds of golf with him. Having just begun a sixteen-day holiday break, Sam had readily agreed: it would do him a world of good to have some relaxation before he and a squad of his tradesmen friends pitched up in Herrig next week. Sam had pondered long and hard on what he might do to make life easier for Hannah after Jamie’s death. It was Rachel who’d put the idea into his head about building an extension that would house the bathroom. They would also finish putting in the drainage system which Jamie had begun. That would mean Hannah’s croft house would be ready for the link-up when piped water became available in July.
Sophie and Donald, who had scampered off to explore the ferryboat, were now back at her side demanding to know when they could have a meal in the café.
“A meal in the café? You must be joking. You were fed on fish and chips in a restaurant just an hour ago,” was their mother’s impatient reply.
It took a full six hours for the journey from Oban to Barra and the children continued to pester their mother for a meal. Assuming that the next docking would be at Lochboisdale, only forty minutes away, Carrie at length judged it reasonable to allow the children to eat in the café – where everything came with chips – without the fear of Sophie being sick. As soon as the ferry set sail, a fresh breeze sprang up and quickly gathered momentum. By the time Sophie and Donald had finished their meal of pie, beans and chips, the wind was judged to be approaching gale force and the few passengers now remaining on board were urged to stay safely in the lounge area. Within another half hour the ferryboat was being tossed on the water like a cork and waves the height of houses were buffeting their vessel.
Carrie did her best to calm Sophie’s fears as her face grew increasingly pale and she began to retch. Donald meanwhile kept running around the lounge, even venturing outside when his mother wasn’t looking. When forcibly thrust back inside by one of the crew members he proudly proclaimed to all and sundry: “I’ve just seen Moby Dick!”
Carrie was about to order him to come and sit quietly beside her when Sophie, without any warning, vomited her whole meal – pie, beans and chips – straight into her mother’s lap. Looking round for some help, Carrie became increasingly alarmed when she noticed that one of the remaining passengers, a nun who throughout the journey had sat in the corner, not engaging in conversation with anyone, now had her rosary beads out and was praying fervently. The only other person left was a youngish priest who immediately tried to come to Carrie’s assistance. This proved difficult because of the boat’s violent lurching and it took him some minutes to struggle over to her side. There he formally introduced himself as Father Charlie before he too threw up into Carrie’s lap!
Completely undaunted by the storm, Donald had once again escaped outside and when he eventually returned his mother angrily grabbed him by the collar and yelled, “Look here, Donald, things are quite bad enough without you falling overboard. All I want right now is to get off this blinking boat!”
To which Donald solemnly commented: “You will – and right now, because it’s sinking!”
An hour later, however, after three unsuccessful attempts to dock and repeatedly being blown off course, the ferryboat was finally moored safely at Lochboisdale. By that time Carrie had cleaned herself up passably and was anxious to get Sophie back on dry land, but because of all the delay and the wind’s persisting fury she was firmly advised that there was no way anyone would ferry her over to Hannah’s croft that night. All she could then do was hope to find bed and breakfast before reaching Herrig in the morning.
Standing disconsolately on the pier beside the children and her luggage, she was unexpectedly joined by Father Charlie who announced that he too was going to Herrig and that a fishing boat was already waiting for him. So why shouldn’t they all go with him? Carrie looked down at the tiny craft bobbing wildly up and down in the water and politely declined the offer – that was, until two of the fishing boat’s crew grabbed hold of her children and unhesitatingly jumped aboard with them. Carrie was still feeling terrified but the impossible idea of not being with her children on the perilous ten-minute journey made her throw caution to the winds; so when Father Charlie took her hand she closed her eyes and desperately leapt into space before landing unharmed on the rising boat deck.
The wind was still blowing s
o fiercely that the fishermen decided it would be wiser not to tie up at the pier on Herrig and to attempt a landing instead at a small, sheltered harbour on the leeward side of the island. This proved successful but once back on dry land Carrie grimaced, realising they’d have to scramble in the pitch dark all the way uphill before reaching the road that led to Hannah’s croft. Once more the fishermen came to the rescue by proposing that, as the weather was so ferocious, everyone should pile on to the fish lorry. A few minutes later, Carrie, the children and Father Charlie were all safely and unceremoniously dumped at the foot of the slope that led up to Hannah’s home.
On finally reaching the croft, however, Carrie was dismayed to find the house in total darkness. There was not a flicker of light or life. Impatiently, she repeatedly thumped on the door until finally the door opened and Hannah stood there, a coat flung hastily over her nightclothes and a glowing Tilley lamp in her hand. “Oh, it’s you,” she remarked, as if it was an everyday thing for a collection of soaking-wet, bedraggled people to arrive at one’s door in the middle of the night. “Why are you knocking at the door?”
“Because we need to get inside and out of this drenching freezing cold, of course!” Carrie hissed between her clenched teeth.
Standing aside to let them come in, Hannah laughingly continued, “Then why didn’t you just open the door and come in? It’s never locked.”
Once inside the house, Carrie’s heart sank as she surveyed the disorder of the poorly-lit room. Washing waiting to be hung up outside was heaped upon a rickety wooden chair; children’s shoes were scattered carelessly about the floor; the table was littered with dirty crockery; and the Raeburn cooker lay lifeless and cold, with pale grey ashes spilling from its metal ribs and dropping on to the hearth stone.
“I didn’t expect you tonight,” muttered Hannah, casually picking up some children’s clothes from a chair so that Carrie might sit down. “What I mean is, you’d have to be plumb crazy to do the crossing on a night like this.”
