Primrose Square (3 page)

‘I saw you reading my card,' Miss Ainslie was saying. ‘It seemed to me you were more interested in my appeal, perhaps, than some of the others.' She laughed a little. ‘I'm not really expecting much of a response – Miss Denny is with me, but I have to tell you I got nowhere with Mrs Petrie or Vera.'

Elinor nodded. ‘Mrs Petrie'd never agree, and when she says no, so does Vera. Sal's the same.'

‘I know, I know.' The manageress sighed. ‘But I have great hopes of you, Elinor. I have the feeling that you understand what we want, even though you said it wasn't for you. But how can you know, unless you give it a try? Unless you come to our meetings, listen to us speak?'

‘I'd like the vote, Miss Ainslie, but is there much chance of it for someone like me without property?'

‘We want women from every walk of life to think about having the vote,' Miss Ainslie cried fiercely. ‘To work for it, shoulder to shoulder, to achieve it together! That's why I'm trying to get you and the other girls here to come to our meetings. See that working for the vote is not just for the privileged. Remember, I also work for my living.'

Elinor looked at her doubtfully. ‘I don't know,' she said slowly. ‘There's all this violence to think about, eh? Look at that lady who threw herself in front of the King's horse the other day. I'd never be keen to get mixed up in that sort of thing, or breaking windows, maybe going to gaol.'

‘You would never be asked to do that, I give you my word. I personally am against all militant action, anyway, but as a group, we would never seek to involve you in violence. Look, what do you say then? Will you come to our next meeting?'

‘I'll  . . . I'll think about it.'

‘That's all I ask.' A smile lit Miss Ainslie's features. ‘I know that when you've considered it, you'll come to a fair decision. You are an intelligent girl, Elinor. I've always known that and I think you'll do well.'

‘Thank you, Miss Ainslie.' With some relief, Elinor turned for the door. ‘Now I'd better get back to work.'

‘Just do what you think best about the meeting. As I say, that's all I ask.'

‘What happened to you, then?' Mattie asked when Elinor joined her to begin washing down one of the bathrooms.

‘Oh, Miss Ainslie was just trying to make me go to her meeting.'

‘You never said you would?'

‘Said I'd think about it.'

‘That's right, that's good. We don't want to be mixed up in it, eh? My dad thinks all suffragettes should be locked up.'

‘Bet mine thinks the same, but he's never said.' Elinor dipped her sponge into a pail of hot water and began to clean the bathroom tiles.

‘Might find out when you go round. You always like to go to Friar's Wynd on your time off, eh?'

‘Oh, yes, see the folks.' Elinor rubbed the tiles hard. Hoping for the best, she thought.

Five

Elinor's free evenings came on Fridays, usually from four o'clock to nine – or ten with special permission. Twice a month, she also had Saturday afternoon off, but she preferred to do her shopping then, or maybe go out with Gerda or Mattie, keeping her free evenings for her family.

She had no ‘followers', as male admirers were called, they having been strictly forbidden in the lawyer's house where she had first worked, and though permitted at the Primrose, only Ada could claim to have a ‘young man'. He was from her home tenement and could often be seen hanging round the area steps waiting for her on her free evenings, much to Mrs Petrie's disapproval. Still, if it was all right with Miss Ainslie, it should be good enough for Mrs Petrie, Ada would declare, usually adding, ‘Silly old thing, eh? How'd she ever get married herself if she couldn't have a follower?'

‘How will any of us ever get married?' Mattie would often sigh.

Marriage was not something Elinor cared to think about. Sometimes, when she remembered her mother, she would decide she didn't want it. At other times, she'd look ahead and wonder if she might take it on, supposing she met just the right person. But who knew what was in the future? For the present, she felt she wasn't ready, anyway, to sink her life into someone else's. Och, no, she'd enough to think about. Especially on Fridays, when she returned to Friar's Wynd.

Always, when she had to make her way from the pleasant West End to the other side of the city where the Wynd crossed from the High Street into the Cowgate, a certain gloom descended. It was not just that the journey by tram seemed so long and noisy, or that when she reached her stop she met the dark buildings of her childhood again and the sunlight began to fade – no, it was much more the uncertainty of how things would be at home.

All depended on her father's moods. If he was in a good mood, you could relax and breathe again. If not, you just had to weather the storm. It always died down, he always got over whatever had spiralled him into a temper, but they all walked on eggshells until they knew how things would go.

Mind, there were plenty of fathers worse than Walter Rae. He was not a brutal man, and though his children had had their ears boxed when they'd misbehaved, he didn't go in for beating his family. Elinor and Corrie could be grateful for that, then, as their mother certainly was, but the truth was his dominance over them didn't leave much room for gratitude. And when you were wondering when the next flare-up was coming, when the eyes would be flashing and the voice rising, you couldn't do much except keep your head down and hope you weren't the target.

Sometimes, Elinor would compare her dad with Mrs Petrie, but tyrant though Mrs Petrie was, it didn't really matter. She wasn't family, was she?

On that first Friday afternoon after Miss Ainslie's talk, Elinor made her way home as usual. The day was hot with no prospect yet of cooling, and as she left the tram and began to walk down the Wynd between the dark cliffs of tenements on either side, she felt stifled, as though there was no air. She had taken off her jacket, but the collar of her blouse was too high, seeming to grip her throat, and she undid the top button, breathing hard, then pushed back her straw hat from her glistening brow.

If only women didn't have to wear such long skirts! She could feel the warm dust from the pavement rising up her stockinged legs as she walked, and the mad thought crossed her mind – what would happen if girls like her just suddenly cut their skirts off right up to the knees? Och, they'd be locked up, so they would. But think of the relief!

Stepping round a group of children chalking the pavement, she paused as someone called her name and turned her head.

‘Hallo, Elinor!'

It was a fellow waving to her from the other side of the street. He wore paint-stained overalls and his cap on the back of his head showed his curly light-brown hair. Even from a distance, she could see his hazel eyes were bright. ‘Just going to your dad's?'

She stood still, trying to remember his name, for she knew him; he'd been in her class at school. Hadn't seen him since then, and he certainly wasn't from the Wynd.

Barry. The name popped out of her memory. Barry Howat. Cheerful laddie, but given to teasing.

‘What are you doing round here?' she called, walking on.

‘Been doing a wee job in the tenements.' He, too, was walking on, making no effort to cross over to join her. ‘Just going home.'

Two boys tore past him, chasing after a can they'd been kicking, and he neatly cut in and kicked it for them, far away up the street.

‘Ah, you're too quick!' one told him, running after it, and he laughed.

‘That's because I play football, eh? Get some practice in, lads. Elinor, cheerio, then.'

‘Goodbye,' she replied, reaching the door of her father's shop, and gave a quick nod as Barry Howat pulled on his cap and disappeared round the corner. A footballer, eh? Where on earth did he play, then? Not that she was interested. Had to think of what awaited her up the stairs in the flat over the shop. Gauge the temperature. See if a storm was on the way.

As she tried the shop door, the bell tinkled and the door opened. So Dad hadn't locked up. That was because he was still there, behind his counter, tall, heavy-shouldered, with the dark eyes she'd inherited from him beneath black brows she had not, and greying black hair clipped short. He wore a baize apron over his collarless flannel shirt and looked as if he hadn't shaved that day, but the good thing – the thing that mattered – was that he was smiling. His mood was good.

A great rush of relief enveloped her, as she smiled back and cried that she was home.

‘Can see that.' He set down the piece of leather he'd been shaping and, loosening his apron, came round from the counter. ‘Might as well lock up, then, eh? There'll be nobody else in today and your ma'll have the tea ready.'

Hope so, thought Elinor, for meals were always to be ready when Dad wanted them. As she stood watching her father lock his door, breathing in the familiar smells of leather and shoe polish that had always been a part of his shop and indeed of her own life, she quietly crossed her fingers.

Six

When she was a child, Elinor had thought her family very lucky to live over a shop, rather than in one of the tenements of Friar's Wynd. Though wishing they could move out of the Wynd altogether, she still felt that way, for at least in their little flat there wasn't the same sense of being surrounded by people, the constant sound of footsteps on the stairs, the smell of cooking that wasn't theirs.

On the other hand, you couldn't say there was much space to spare over the cobbler's shop. A cramped living room with a kitchen range, a sink, a table and chairs, and a bed in the wall for Corrie. A room for her parents, a cupboard for herself – for it was no bigger than that – and a toilet. No bathroom, of course, so getting washed involved taking it in turns to carry water to the washstand in the one bedroom, and hauling out the hip bath for bathing when other folk weren't around. No wonder Elinor was so happy to be living-in at the Primrose! It would have been worth it, just for the bathroom.

But small though her dad's flat was, there was still the rent to find, for of course he didn't own the property, only leased it from the man he'd worked for as a young man. That was a man who'd given up shoe mending to run a grocery in Newington, saying it was more profitable than cobbling in Friar's Wynd – and heaven knows that could only have been true, for cobbling wasn't profitable at all. How many people could afford to have their shoes mended? How many children didn't have shoes or boots, anyway?

Walter, though, always said they could manage with what he made. Pay the rent, buy the food, as long as Hessie kept up her work, cleaning at Logie's Princes Street store, and ‘obliging' various ladies in the New Town. And Hessie did, of course, keep on with her cleaning jobs, and never risked saying they'd manage a lot better if Walt didn't go to the pub so much. Neither of her children blamed her for that.

‘Come on, come on, up the stair, then,' Walter Rae was ordering now, as Elinor still lingered, looking down at the shelves behind the counter where pairs of shoes and boots were tied by their laces and labelled with their owners' names. Seemed to her she remembered seeing a good many of these on the shelves before. Were any folk coming in to collect their shoes? Just how much would her dad be short, paying his bills that week? As soon as he'd had his tea, she knew he'd be out to the Dragon, or the Castle, or whichever pub he chose. He'd find the money from somewhere, always did. Probably Hessie's purse, or one of the boxes where she kept funds for this and that.

Maybe I can find a shilling to put in one of Ma's boxes, Elinor was thinking, and would have looked in her own purse if her father hadn't been pushing her upwards.

‘Come on, what are you waiting for? I can smell something good. Always does well for you, you know, your ma.'

‘Does well for everybody,' Elinor retorted, opening the door to the flat, gladly taking off her hat and looking for her mother.

‘Ma, it's me!' she called. ‘I'm back.'

‘Ah, there you are!' cried Hessie Rae, turning a flushed face from the kitchen range. ‘So grand to see you, pet. Sit down now, and rest your feet. It's like an oven outside, eh?'

With her light brown hair and large blue eyes, Hessie, at thirty-nine, still showed something of the pretty girl she had been in her youth, but the brown hair was greying, the blue eyes were shadowed, and only the artificial colour from the heat of the range made her look well.

She and Walter would have made a handsome couple when they wed, though, Elinor sometimes thought, her dad's dark good looks contrasting with the delicate prettiness of his bride, and wished she could have seen a photograph. Probably, at that time, wedding photos were too expensive for most folk and so there was no record of the happy day. And her parents would have been happy then. Of course they would.

‘Tea ready?' Walter asked now, washing his hands under the kitchen tap.

‘All ready,' Hessie answered quickly. ‘I got a nice piece of shin at the butcher's, half price, a bargain, left it simmering all day, and it's that tender, you'd never believe!'

‘Onions with it?'

‘Oh, yes, plenty. And carrots. So I've just the tatties to mash  . . .'

‘I'll do that,' Elinor said quickly. ‘But where's Corrie?'

‘Aye, where is the lad?' Walter asked, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. ‘No' reading again?'

‘Studying,' Hessie answered, beginning to look flustered. ‘He‘s been in our room since he got back from work.'

‘Studying  . . . what a piece of nonsense. He's got a damn good job at the tyre factory, what more does he want?'

‘He wants to be a draughtsman, you know that – he told us, eh?'

‘Well, I think he's wasting his time, let him stick to what he's got.' Walter stood up and gave one of his famous roars. ‘Corrie, come on now! We're all waiting for you, what the hell are you playing at?'