by Anne Forsyth
‘You’ve got the height,’ said Nancy earnestly.
‘I’ve seen these models,’ said Rona thoughtfully, ‘in the big stores—that time we went to Edinburgh. They walk through the tearoom holding a card with the price. I could easily do that.’
She jumped up and pretended to be a model swaying her way through the tea tables with a haughty expression.
Nancy fell back, laughing. ‘There you are. You’re perfect!’
‘But I’ll never get the chance,’ said Rona gloomily. ‘My father thinks I’m no good at anything—but I can add up, and I’d really like a chance to do the windows. They’ve looked the same for donkeys’ years.’
She turned to her friend. ‘Look at your family,’ she said. ‘They let you leave school, and there you are working in the council offices.’
‘Just till the right man comes along,’ said Nancy, ‘and then I’m off.’ She spent many of the hours at work day dreaming about the perfect wedding dress.
‘Oh, you,’ scoffed Rona who hadn’t given a thought to weddings. Unless it was as the bride at the end of a fashion show, making her way slowly along the catwalk.
‘Ooh, isn’t she lovely?’ She could hear the applause of the audience and graciously looked from left to right before she turned with a sweep of the long silk train . . .
* * *
‘A real family business,’ said an old lady as she paid for a brown loaf and some potato scones.
Rona overheard her and glared. Luckily the old woman was exchanging news with Aunt Lizzie, and didn’t see, but Rona earned a ticking-off from Angus. ‘The customer is always right,’ he said sternly. ‘How often do I have to tell you?’
But most of the time, Angus was in a good mood. Business was brisk and he felt he could invest in a new van.
‘It’s necessary—for the deliveries,’ he excused himself. ‘I could never be sure that the old one wouldn’t break down—and me maybe miles away delivering to a farm somewhere.’
Because for him it was a matter of pride—early deliveries, morning rolls and bread, later in the day, tea bread and cakes.
‘There you are.’ He gestured proudly towards the van, with its gilt lettering, Maclaren—Family Baker.
Rona felt more dispirited than ever. Maclaren’s would go on for ever and ever. The fact that the lettering proclaimed it in gilt words made it all the more certain. She had only worked in the shop for a couple of weeks, and oh, she was bored.
‘Can I get a shot?’ Doug was round immediately to see the new van.
‘That you cannot.’ Angus was firm. ‘No-one gets to drive this van but me?’
‘I can drive, Father, honest I can. Sanny lets me drive the cars in the garage.’
‘What he does is his own business,’ said Angus solemnly. ‘This is a working vehicle not for you to run around in with your pals.’
Doug sighed. There was no moving Father when he was like this. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to go back to the garage where the doctor’s new Ford Consul was in for a service. Now there was a car—leather upholstery, heater and all.
‘I’d quite like to have a go,’ said Rona who had come out to the front and stood admiring the van.
She was supposed to be making up orders, but this was much more interesting. She wiped her hands on her white apron—the apron that had been white that morning—and brushed back a few tendrils of hair.
‘Have a go, you will not,’ said Angus severely. ‘I’ve told you, no-one drives this van but me.’ He ran a hand lovingly over the shining bonnet then turned to chase away a crowd of children who had gathered.
‘Give us a hurl in it, mister! Go on . . .’
Angus ignored them. He turned back to Rona. ‘Away and sort out the delivery for the hotel,’ he told her.
Sulking, Rona did as she was told.
‘YOU’RE NO CREDIT TO THE FAMILY’
Later that day, the door opened and Rona tried not to stare at the elegant figure who stopped and gazed around the shop. ‘I’m looking for something really special,’ she said in a languid drawl.
‘English,’ said Rona to herself ‘Not from around here anyway.’
She took in the customer’s dress, figured in a geometric print, and her little black velvet hat with a veil, perched at a fetching angle on her dark hair.
‘You’ll find something special here, madam,’ said Rona in her best saleswoman’s voice. Behind her, at the desk, she could hear Aunt Lizzie sniff. Whether it was disapproval of Rona’s manner, or whether she was inhaling the musk of the visitor’s perfume that wafted round the shop—it was hard to tell. Rona paid no attention.
‘Would it be for afternoon tea?’ she continued.
‘I’d like some of your fruit cake.’
‘None better,’ said Rona.
‘I’m sure.’ The woman looked rather coldly at Rona. ‘What else? Scones?’
‘Freshly baked today,’ said Rona.
‘Very well, I’ll take half a dozen. What besides?’ She looked rather vaguely along the display of potato scones, pancakes and soda scones.
Immediately Rona recognised someone who wasn’t accustomed to shopping for herself, and set about selling enthusiastically.
‘We’ve some nice apple tarts,’ she said. ‘A speciality of our shop,’ she added grandly.
‘I’ll take a dozen.’
‘Right you are,’ said Rona forgetting in her enthusiasm to be the sophisticated sales lady. ‘They’re in the back shop, newly baked. I’ll just get a tray.’
The customer leaned against the counter, inspecting her fingernails in a bored sort of way.
But as Rona emerged from the back of the shop, the front door burst open, blown by a gust of wind and a small black Pekinese, dragging its lead, bounded into the shop, yapping angrily.
‘Toots, you are naughty,’ the customer exclaimed. ‘I told you to wait outside.’
‘Here you are . . .’ Rona began, just as the dog rushed towards her. She tripped over the lead and her tray of apple tarts went flying and she crashed to the floor.
Aunt Lizzie rose from the cash desk. ‘Get up, Rona,’ she said crossly.
Rona, mortified, rose to her feet, rubbing her elbow where she had hit it against the edge of the counter.
The dog, meantime, had gobbled up one apple tart and was starting on a second.
‘Oh, poor little thing,’ the customer swept the dog into her arms. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Rona before she realised that the customer was addressing the Pekinese.
She looked gloomily at the tray of apple tarts now spread all over the floor.
‘Will that be all, madam?’ she said with as much dignity as she could.
‘Dear me,’ said the customer, looking disdainfully at the floor. Her gaze swept the Shop. ‘Is this the only baker’s in the town?’ she said.
‘There is another,’ said. Rona, ‘but this is the best.’
‘Really?’ The lady’s tone was chilly ‘Is it?’ Her attention was drawn to her little dog, licking the floor happily ‘Oh, sweetie, don’t do that. It may not even be clean.’
Aunt Lizzie now entered the conversation. ‘Can we be of further assistance to you, madam?’
The customer shook her head. ‘How much is that now?’ She produced her purse from her dainty black pochette, and said to Rona, ‘That will be all.’
Rona wrapped up the items she’d bought and put them into a box.
When the customer had paid and taken herself and her dog away, Rona looked at the floor with dismay.
‘You’d best get that all cleaned up,’ said Aunt Lizzie behind her. ‘Before your father comes back. I never saw the like of it. If there’s a wrong thing to do, you’ll do it.
‘Yesterday you dropped these cream cookies, and you forgot the order for potato scones.’ She said grimly, ‘You’re no help to your father, none at all. You can’t be left for a minute.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ Rona defended herself.
‘Aye, well. I’m not surprised they gave you your books from the big house.’
‘It’s always the same.’ Rona flared up. ‘Whatever I do, it’s the wrong thing. There’s no pleasing you, ever!’
‘You’ll not speak to me like that, miss. I’m not having it.’ Aunt Lizzie’s cheeks flushed.
‘Well,’ said Rona, nearly in tears. ‘I don’t want to work here.’
‘And what are you fit for, may I ask?’ her aunt said grimly. ‘There’s precious few places would employ you, and you so handless. It’s not as if you were any help in the house—mind that time you scorched your father’s best shirt, supposed to be ironing it.’
‘That was a while ago!’ Rona said angrily ‘And you’re never done casting it up to me.’
‘Well, all I can say is, you’re no credit to the family and no help to your father, poor soul.’
At this reference to her father, Rona had had enough and she burst into tears.
She wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron and went into the back shop to fetch the brush and pan.
Just then the door opened. A customer, thought Rona, with a gulp, and the shop in a proper state.
She turned to greet the person who had entered, and saw a stocky, fair-haired young man with a cheerful expression. He looked a little dismayed as he looked at the floor.
‘Oh, sorry. I’ve come at a bad time.’
‘Not at all,’ said Rona, with a sniff. She put away her handkerchief. ‘What can I get you?’
‘I came in for a pie for my piece,’ he said, but . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ Rona tried to sound normal. ‘I just dropped a tray of apple tarts.’
He walked cautiously through towards the counter. ‘The floor’s a bit sticky,’ he said.
‘I was just going to clean it up,’ said Rona.
‘I’ll give you a hand. Can’t have the customers tramping apple tarts into the floor, can we? Have you got a mop and a pail?’
‘In the back shop.’
‘Right you are.’ He nodded pleasantly to Aunt Lizzie.
As Rona swept up the crumbled remains of the tarts, he filled the pail with soapy water, and began to mop.
‘There’s one here not broken,’ he said. ‘Could I have it?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Rona solemnly. ‘The last person—the woman they were meant for—she had a dog with her, and it ate up one or two. I can’t think why it left that one. So it’s probably not very clean.’
‘Pity,’ said the young man. ‘I rather like apple tarts.’
‘It’s very kind of you to help my niece,’ said Aunt Lizzie from her position at the cash desk. ‘I would myself, but my legs . . .’
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ he said politely. ‘There you are. That’s better.’ He stood back and looked at the floor. ‘Maybe we’d best open the door till it dries out.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Rona, suddenly shy. ‘I don’t know what I would have done . . . if it had been another customer wanting bread or something.’
‘Or apple tarts,’ he agreed. ‘Speaking of which, I don’t suppose there are any more?’
‘Sorry,’ said Rona. ‘It was a whole tray—and that’s the last of them.’
‘I’ll need to come back tomorrow then.’ He smiled at her, a cheerful impudent sort of grin.
‘You wanted a pie,’ Rona reminded him.
‘So I did.’
‘We’ve pork and bean pies,’ said Rona. ‘They’re nice.’
‘That’ll do me.’
Rona put the pie into a paper bag.
‘How much is that?’
‘Nothing,’ said Rona. ‘You have that—with our compliments—as a thank you, for your help.’
‘My, that’s good of you.’ He grinned again. ‘It’ll taste extra special. I’ll be on my way then?’
‘Well, that looks a bit better,’ said Aunt Lizzie with approval. ‘A nice helpful lad—but you’ve no call to be giving away pies. You’ll have us all in the poorhouse.’
Rona paid no attention. Who was he? She wondered. She hadn’t seen him in the town.
Maybe he was new here. Would she see him again? Would he really come back tomorrow?
A NEW FRIEND
For a few days, Rona wondered about the young man. But then again she was so busy in the shop that she hardly had any time for thought.
There were orders to be made up, shelves to be cleaned, new supplies to be checked, and Father was out twice a day in the new van delivering to farms and the outlying areas.
By the time it came to shut up shop, Rona was exhausted.
* * *
One evening about a week later, as she made her way along the street, someone called to her.
‘Hello! Any more apple tarts?’
She whirled round The young man with the fair hair was waiting at the corner. He grinned at her.
‘Sorry—I shouldn’t tease you.’
Rona smiled forgivingly. ‘Not at all—you were a great help!’
‘I meant to come back to the shop, but we’ve been a bit busy. I haven’t really had a day off. And,’ he said, ‘to be honest, I’m a bit scared of your aunt.’
‘Me, too.’
They both laughed.
My name’s Callum—Callum Scott. And you?’ he said enquiringly.
‘Rona—Rona Maclaren. My father owns the shop.’
‘Have you always worked there?’
She hesitated. ‘Just since I left—well, was asked to leave my last job.’
‘How do you like working for your father?’
‘Not much,’ she said frankly. ‘Well, he’s all right, but Aunt Lizzie . . . I’ve lots of ideas, for window displays and so on, but she won’t let me.’
‘Shame that. I work for my father too—at Harefield Farm.’
‘I know it.’
There was a pause. ‘It’s my half day,’ he said, ‘so I’m in the town getting a few things from the ironmonger.’ He added, a little shyly, ‘I was hoping I might bump into you.’
Rona smiled back at him. But then she was distracted—by the sight of a car parked at the corner.
She recognised the young man helping the girl into the passenger seat. For a moment, her attention was focused on the girl, short black hair, scarlet lipstick and a bright yellow frilly blouse and skirt.
She looked like someone from another world than the sober, everyday world of Kirkton. Rona found herself staring—who could she be?
There was no doubt about the young man who was helping her into the car with such concern.
‘Hello!’ she called. ‘Doug?’
Her brother turned briefly and saw her, but he ignored her, ducked into the car, and drove off along the street.
‘I’d better go for my bus,’ said Callum.
‘Oh, yes?’ she turned towards him. ‘Sorry ...’
‘Was that someone you know?’
‘My brother,’ said Rona a little grimly.
‘So I’ll see you around. I’ll come into the shop next time I’m into the town. If I can brave your aunt.’
‘Yes, do.’ But Rona was only half paying attention as he waved and went off down the street.
Who was the girl? Where had Doug found her? And why was he so anxious to avoid a meeting?
ROMANCE FOR DOUG
‘Pass the potatoes to your father,’ Aunt Lizzie told Rona. The atmosphere that evening was strained.
Rona wondered how much her aunt had told Angus about the disaster a few days earlier.
He knew, of course, about the apple tarts and told Rona to be more careful in future, but did he know that the customer had said she’d go to another baker in future? To Keith’s, possibly—the other baker was in a more central position, right on the town square.
Their scones, thought Rona loyally, were nothing like as good as Maclaren’s, but they did a good trade in birthday cakes and special occasion cakes.
She’d passed one day and noticed a large birthday cake in the win
dow, with pink icing that bore the legend, The Best Gran In The World.
Angus had sniffed when she told him about it. ‘We’ll have nothing of that sort here,’ he’d said sternly.
A pity, thought Rona. People would continue to go to Keith’s for anything a bit out of the ordinary. Whereas everyone knew that Maclaren’s black bun and shortbread were the best in the district.
But now Angus sat thoughtfully. Rona glanced at Doug who avoided her gaze. Who had he been seeing? Why was he so secretive?
After the meal she helped Aunt Lizzie to clear up, and then went through to the living room where her father was reading the evening paper.
‘Ah, well, I’m away out.’ Doug had been standing looking out of the window, his hands in his pockets.
Angus looked up from the paper. ‘You’re out most nights,’ he said mildly.
‘Ah, well . . .’ Doug shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I’ve friends to see.’
Angus said no more, but Rona, carrying a tray, stopped Doug in the passage towards the scullery.
‘Who are you seeing, then?’ she asked.
‘None of your business.’
‘Is it that girl?’
‘I told you,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s nothing to do with you who I see.’
‘I saw you with that girl,’ Rona persisted. ‘What’s her name?’
Doug glared at her. ‘I told you. It’s not your business. And,’ he added, changing tack, ‘if you go telling Father, I’ll . . .’
‘I wouldn’t.’ Rona was hurt. ‘I’m not a clype. I don’t go telling tales on folk.’
‘Well, see you don’t.’
‘You should bring her home for her tea,’ she called after him, teasingly.
He ignored her, and she felt a bit ashamed. It wasn’t her business who he saw, and anyway, she grinned, she could just see Aunt Lizzie’s face when confronted with the girl with her thick make-up and scarlet nails.
She turned back to the sitting room where Aunt Lizzie had started work on an embroidered runner for a dressing table. Angus was reading items out of the newspaper.
‘Is there anything about Princess Elizabeth?’ Aunt Lizzie asked.
‘The tour of Kenya?’
‘Aye.’
‘Just a picture of the King waving them off on the plane.’
