by Anne Forsyth
THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER
THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER
Anne Forsyth
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available
This eBook edition published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.
Published by arrangement with the Author
Epub ISBN 9781471307881
U.K. Hardcover ISBN 978 1 4458 4640 8
U.K. Softcover ISBN 978 1 4458 4641 5
Copyright © Anne Forsyth
All rights reserved
Jacket Illustration © iStockphoto.com
‘SHE TOLD ME TO GO’
‘Ma feet’s cauld, ma shoes thin, Gie us oor cakes an’ let us rin.’ Two or three children crowded around the front door of Maclaren’s Quality Baker’s, chanting in a ragged chorus.
Angus Maclaren, owner of the shop, turned from rearranging the display of tins of shortbread and shook his head.
‘I thought they’d given up that caper a year or two back.’
‘You’re going to send them away, I hope?’ The woman behind the till was scrawny, dressed in black, her spectacles on the end of her nose. You would not have guessed that Lizzie Maclaren had ever been a child, let alone a bairn like those clustered hopefully around the door.
‘Och, Lizzie,’ said the baker. ‘It’s an old Scots tradition every ne’erday.’
She sniffed. ‘More an excuse for begging, if you ask me.’ Her brother paid no attention and brought from the back premises a large brown paper bag.
‘There you are.’ He handed it to the tallest of the children. ‘Now that’s all there is, so you can tell any more of your pals not to bother coming to the door.’
‘Thanks, mister!’ The children fell gleefully on the bag of yesterday’s cakes and cookies, sharing them out, before they ran off, whooping and screeching and fighting for the privilege of bursting the paper bag.
‘They’re just a nuisance, those bairns.’ Lizzie paused in adding up a column of figures. ‘Bairns will take advantage if you let them away with things. Ruby was too soft with them.’
‘I’ll thank you not to be criticising Ruby.’
Lizzie recognised the tone of voice and said no more. She knew by now that her brother wouldn’t stand for any criticism of his Ruby.
Poor Ruby, she thought, if she’d lived . . . Angus had been a lost soul without her—and what would he have done, Lizzie told herself, with a sudden spurt of anger.
How would he have looked after those motherless bairns, if I hadn’t come to the rescue?
Angus Maclaren finished rearranging the display. She was a good soul at heart, was his sister, but she could be very trying. Still, he thought, she had a grand head for figures and she ran his home efficiently. If only she had a bit more humour about her . . .
But now it was Hogmanay, and who knew what 1952 would bring.
‘So what’ll it be today, Mrs Maclean?’ he greeted the customer who pushed open the glass door.
‘An awful day, this,’ she said, unwinding the shawl she had tied round her head. ‘My, it’s a dreary start to the New Year and that’s a fact.’
Angus asked politely about her state of health—it was his custom to do this before they got on to the topic of pan loaves, soda scones or fruit cake and the like.
‘I’ll not see the year out,’ she returned gloomily. ‘Aye, who knows what’ll happen this year?’
Angus thought briefly of the country—those long years of war and austerity, but at last things seemed to be taking a turn for the better.
No coupons for bread any more—those dreaded bread units and long queues. Angus had always refused to keep cakes under the counter. ‘First come, first served,’ he’d said firmly. ‘So what is the matter?’ he asked his customer with a sigh.
‘It’s my feet. I’m a martyr to my feet.’
‘Take a seat,’ he invited her, drawing forward a chair in front of the counter.
‘Thank you kindly.’ She plumped herself down on the chair.
‘I saw your lassie,’ Mrs Maclean continued. ‘The other evening—with a boy.’ Her voice dropped as she imparted this information. ‘The Tulloch boy . . .’
‘Oh, yes?’ Angus said.
‘Just so.’ Mrs Maclean was a little disappointed that the baker didn’t seem to be disturbed by her piece of news. She added, ‘All dressed up, she was.’ She drew in her breath.
Angus coughed. He made up his mind to have a word with Rona when she appeared.
The Tulloch boy had a bit of a reputation for being wild. ‘Rona’s twenty,’ he said. ‘Old enough to go out with boys.’
‘You need to watch,’ said Mrs Maclean. ‘Lassies—they’re all the same. You want to see she doesn’t get into trouble. She wouldn’t be the first and she wouldn’t be the last.’
If only, he thought, this customer would take her custom to another baker’s, but Maclaren’s was known to be the best in the town.
‘So what’ll it be?’
‘I’ll take a pan loaf and half a dozen treacle scones.’
When at last she heaved herself out of the chair, Angus opened the door for her. ‘A good New Year to you, Mrs Maclean, when it comes.’
‘Ah, well,’ she said gloomily ‘We’ll just need to take what’s sent to us. What’s for us will no gae past us.’
‘Just so.’ Angus closed the door on her and turned to face his sister.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’ He busied himself making up the order for the hotel. Dundee cake, shortbread, black bun . . .
‘What she said, that woman, about your Rona. And a boy . . .’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’ she demanded.
‘Leave it to me. I’ll have a word.’
‘And so you should. That laddie’s been in trouble with the police.’
‘I said, leave it to me. I’ll speak to her.’
‘Make sure you do.’ She turned back to checking the invoices. From then on, the shop was busy with customers, buying tins of shortbread, black bun and fruit cakes.
Angus thought, as he wrapped tins, and boxed fancy cakes, that it was time he had an assistant. But who was there?
Lots of the lads in the town were still away on National Service—and not many wanted to work in a baker’s. Like his own lad, Doug, who had worked in the garage since he left school. Not that Doug was a problem—the problem was Rona.
‘A good New Year to you!’ He closed the door behind the last customer and pulled down the blinds. ‘That’s us, then. As soon as I’ve swept up and cleaned the shop I’ll get away. Why don’t you go? You’ll have things to do at home.’
‘I might at that . . .’
They were interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘We’re closed,’ Angus began, but reluctant to turn away a customer, he unlocked the door.
‘Rona! I didn’t expect you.’
The girl who stood on the shop doorstep was tall and slim with untidy gold hair. In the cold December air, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled.
‘I thought I’d come and surprise you. Old Mrs Fowler let me off early . . .’ She made a face. As a companion to the old lady at the big house just beyond the little town of Kirkton, Rona was a sore trial to the grim housekeeper who liked everything done by the book.
Oh, dear, thought Rona, looking round the shop. It never changed. It had been the same always since she was a small girl. There was Father, in his white overall behind the counter, and Aunt Lizzie—Rona thought she looked like a black crow in a cage, sitting at the cash desk . . .
She grinned to herself. And the tins, neatly stacked, the counter, scrubbed every night. Who would want to work here, year in, year out?
‘Well, this is
a surprise!’ Angus smiled at his daughter. ‘I was just clearing up. And your aunt’s on the way home.’
Lizzie put on her hat and adjusted it in front of the mirror that advertised a well known brand of sugar biscuits.
‘If that’s all right with you . . .’ she hesitated. ‘I’ve things to do for the morn.’
‘Away you go,’ said Angus.
‘I’ll help you clear up,’ Rona offered. ‘Tell me what to do.’
‘You’ll need to clear the window display then wipe the shelves.’
Window display, thought Rona. The same tins of shortbread had been there for years.
‘Right you are.’
Angus kept an eye on what she was doing. Rona was slapdash, he knew that. She was of little real use. How long she would last at any job, he often thought to himself, was in doubt. And yet, he told himself, as she went energetically about her task; humming tunefully, Singing in the Rain, she was a happy presence to have around.
He paused. Was this the time to talk to her about the Tulloch boy?
‘Rona?’
‘Yes?’ She was wringing out the cloth and hanging it up to dry.
‘Are you, er, going out tonight?’
‘It’s Hogmanay, Father.’
‘Well, I just thought, you might perhaps be going out with . . .’ he paused. ‘Your friends.’
She stood, glaring at him. ‘I know fine what you’re on about,’ she said angrily. ‘It’s that old cat, Mrs Maclean, isn’t it? The biggest and worst gossip in Kirkton.’
‘Well,’ said Angus as mildly as he could, ‘she did mention something.’
‘That she’d seen me with a boy.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘So?’
‘You’re far too young,’ said Angus more firmly. ‘Too young to be running around with boys. Especially the Tulloch lad.’
‘I’m grown up, Father,’ she said, exasperated.
Suddenly a thought struck Angus.
‘Should you not be still at your work?’
Rona hesitated. ‘I got away early.’
Angus paused, and carefully replaced a tin on the shelf. He turned to face his daughter.
‘So?’
She didn’t meet his gaze. ‘So?’ she mimicked.
‘Don’t you give me that, young lady,’ said Angus sharply. ‘I’ll not have your impertinence. Why are you not at your work?’ Rona sighed. ‘If you must know . . .’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Well, I’ve resigned.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘I said . . .’ she looked sulky. ‘I’ve left. It wasn’t my fault—that old cat, Mrs Jackson, the housekeeper—she’d got it in for me. I only broke a vase,’ she said defensively. ‘But she cast it up to me—and all the other things I was supposed to have done. Well,’ she swept back her hair. ‘I wasn’t having that. So I told her I was leaving.’
‘The truth,’ said Angus grimly.
‘She told me to go,’ said Rona in a small voice.
‘So you got the sack.’
‘Well . . .’
‘You had a good place there,’ said her father coldly. ‘You could have stayed there, learned a lot.’
‘I didn’t like it,’ said Rona. ‘I’d never liked it.’
‘It was a job.’ Her father spaced out the words. ‘Jobs are hard to get. You’ve no training . . .’
‘The teachers said I could go on to college. Maybe.’
‘Aye, if you got a bursary. But where’s the money to come from? And you wouldn’t stick in. You never have.’
They stood silent, glaring at each other.
Angus went on, ‘You’ve been in that many jobs. The chemist’s—that didn’t last, nor the wool shop. It’s not that there aren’t jobs to be had. You’ve only to look at the Fife News—there’re adverts, folk looking for girls to work at the hospital, Farm Mec are wanting office girls to train, and there’re jobs going at the printers in Cupar. You can learn shorthand and typing.’
He paused. ‘But no-one’s wanting a girl that’s been sacked that many times.’ He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘So what do you want to do?’
‘I want to be a model,’ said Rona defiantly.
‘Save us!’ Angus roared, his patience at an end. ‘A model!’ Thank goodness, he thought, that her Aunt Lizzie had gone home and wasn’t here to listen to this nonsense. ‘And what makes you think you could be a model?’
‘I’d like to go to London,’ Rona said. ‘There’s others get modelling jobs, and I’m just as good as them. You can earn a lot of money,’ she added hopefully.
‘Well, you can put that out of your mind for a start,’ said Angus. ‘I never heard anything like it.’
He paused. ‘Ah, well,’ said Angus at last, ‘what’s done can’t be undone. There’s only one thing for it. I’ll take you on here,’ he decided.
‘But . . .’ Rona began.
‘No buts. I want you here where I can keep an eye on you. You can start by sweeping the floor. You’ll find the brush and dustpan behind the door And,’ he added, ‘I want to hear no more about you running around with boys. Is that clear?’
‘It was only . . .’
‘That lad has a bad reputation. You’ll do as I say.’
He sighed. What was he to do with this wayward daughter? Ruby would have known how to handle her. Lizzie—well, she was of no help at all.
She and Rona were constantly at war, and it made for an uneasy atmosphere in the home. ‘At your age,’ Lizzie would say, pursing her lips, ‘I did what my elders and betters told me.’
‘But,’ Rona would argue, ‘we’re in the nineteen fifties now. Not the Dark Ages,’ she would add under her breath.
I’ll maybe regret this, thought Angus. Taking her on in the shop. She’s that headstrong. And there was bound to be trouble with Lizzie. If only . . . But there was no use regretting. And to be fair, Rona hadn’t really had a chance, what with her mother dying when she was just about to leave school.
It was not, he thought, going to be the cheeriest Hogmanay he’d ever had. Doug—well, he was old enough by now. He’d want to be out with his friends. Rona—he shuddered—would resent staying at home.
But then, he recalled, there would be friends dropping in. There would be a first foot—someone tall, and dark. It was nearly always Geordie from next door. He’d bring his accordion, and someone would sing, or give a comic recitation. And there would be black bun—he thought proudly of the black bun that was his speciality, dark, rich and spicy, and a dram to welcome in 1952. Oh, it might not be too bad after all.
He thought back to the dark years of the war. Everything in short supply, no sugar for iced cakes, and queues all along the street.
He remembered, you couldn’t even provide a wedding cake. Lots of brides had to make do with a cardboard cake—and when you took off the top layer inside was a wee bit of sponge.
It was even worse after the war, just when bread was rationed—1948, he remembered, before the two years of bread rationing ended.
How tired he had been of these dreaded coupons—bread units, BUs they called them. But now things were beginning to improve.
Oh, there were some shortages still, but gradually life was getting back to normal, though it had been a long slow business, and rationing wasn’t ended yet.
It would be grand, he thought, to return to producing the elaborate cream cakes of pre-war—though he had to admit, the mock cream that had filled cream horns hadn’t been all that bad, made with margarine, sugar and dried milk powder.
He’d done his best this year to provide something extra for Christmas and Hogmanay, such as the old folks’ boxes he’d made up with gingerbread, a piece of sultana cake and shortbread. They’d sold well at eight shillings a box—there were none left.
Just as he was about to close up, there was a sound outside. ‘Ma feet’s cauld, ma shoes are thin . . .’
He sighed, exasperated. ‘I’ve already given these bairns their Hogmanay.’
&
nbsp; But there were scones and some tea bread left—they’d be stale by the time the shop opened again.
He reached for a bag and filled it, then opened the door. ‘Now that’s the last—there’s no more. So you needn’t be telling any of your pals to come round.’
The biggest boy in the group grabbed the bag with a whoop of joy. ‘Thanks, mister.’
The rest of them crowded round to see what treasures they’d been given.
‘Thanks, mister. A good New Year to you when it comes.’
Angus smiled ‘And a good New Year to you,’ he said, as he closed the door.
Rona grimaced. Would it really be a good New Year? Oh, it was dull in Kirkton, and it promised to be even drearier working in the shop under the watchful eye of Aunt Lizzie.
If only . . . she wished she could leave, find a job in the city, Edinburgh or Glasgow or even London. She had never been to London. But then she began to cheer up. Rona was seldom down in spirits for long.
There had been a boy last week at the dance in the town hall who had whirled her round in a quickstep and told her she was the prettiest girl there. And another—he was rather boring, she had to admit—who had asked her to go to the pictures.
Still, this was the beginning of a new year—and who knew what might happen? Maybe, she told herself, romance was just around the corner.
BORED IN THE SHOP
‘I hate this job,’ said Rona to herself. ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire.’ She wished sometimes that she hadn’t been quite so impulsive, that she’d tried harder to fit into the job at the big house. ‘At least,’ she reminded herself, ‘I wasn’t working for Father.’
It was even worse being in the shop with Aunt Lizzie the whole time. She thought of the conversation she’d had with her friend, Nancy, the previous evening.
‘Do you like that colour?’ Nancy had said, examining the bright scarlet she’d painted her nails.
‘My father would have a fit if I painted my nails that colour,’ said Rona gloomily.
‘You should stand up for yourself.’ Nancy shook her dark curls. ‘There—I’ve smudged a nail,’ she said in exasperation. ‘You could easily be a model,’ she went on.
‘Do you think so?’
