Primrose Square (6 page)

Two weeks later, having managed to obtain permission to slip out during the early evening, she made her way to the great gaunt school in Stockbridge where she planned to enrol for the typewriting class.

Heavens, though, the large hall – with its distinctive school smell of chalk, worn shoes, damp clothes and pupils – was crowded out! She'd never thought so many people would be as keen to learn as she was herself. Nothing for it, then, but to join the queue at the desk, where a young woman was booking folk in for the typewriting course, and hope she wouldn't be too long away from the club. In fact, the waiting crowd seemed to melt away just as she reached the desk, and she was about to heave a sigh of relief, when the young woman who'd been taking names rapped out, ‘Typewriting is fully booked. This position is closed.'

‘Fully booked?' Again, Elinor was taken completely by surprise. ‘What do you mean? You can't take me?'

‘Of course I can't take you!' the girl cried scornfully, her small blue eyes flashing. ‘There are only a limited number of typewriters for the students, and it's first come, first served. You should have got here earlier.'

As she began to gather up papers from her desk and Elinor stood disconsolately watching her, a tall, fair-haired man in a tweed suit came across to the desk.

‘What's the trouble, Miss Reynolds?'

‘No trouble, Mr Muirhead. This person wanted to take the typewriting class and I've told her it's fully booked. What else can I do?'

The tall man, looking at Elinor, gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about that. I'm afraid the typewriting class is very popular and quickly fills up. Perhaps something else might be of interest? I'm taking another class myself on office management and procedures. How about that?'

‘That's got no typewriting,' Miss Reynolds said at once. ‘It wouldn't be the same at all.'

‘Nevertheless, it is a very useful course,' he retorted, his voice edged enough to make her flush a little.

‘Sorry, Mr Muirhead, I'm sure it is. Shall I take this lady across to book in, then? If it's not full?'

‘No, I'll take her myself. This way, Miss  . . .?'

‘Rae,' Elinor answered. ‘And thank you.'

How kind he was, she thought, as he shepherded her through the crowd, his grey eyes so sympathetic. But who was he? He was very well dressed, seemed to be in charge somehow, and the snappy Miss Reynolds had caved in pretty quickly when he'd rebuked her. Why not take his office course, then? It might be just as good as the typewriting.

‘My name's Stephen Muirhead,' he told her. ‘I'm a course organizer for the WEA, and also a tutor. It's part of my policy to try to find the right course for everyone who wants to learn, which is why I hope my course will be of interest to you.'

‘Oh, it is!' she said eagerly. ‘I think it might suit me very well. But it might be booked up.'

‘Not yet.' He smiled. ‘The numbers are good, but it's not quite as popular as typewriting. Mind if I ask, are you an office worker at present, Miss Rae?'

Her colour rose. ‘No. I'd like to be, but I'm  . . . I'm in service. At the Primrose Club.'

‘I see. Nice place, I believe.' His expression was the same: he was continuing to smile. ‘But you'd like a change?'

‘That's right. A change.'

‘Well, before you book in, I'll just tell you briefly that the course is designed for people seeking jobs in offices, not necessarily in offices already. So, it will give an idea of the sort of thing they'll need to know, and practice at the different procedures – filing, simple bookkeeping, record keeping and so on.'

Mr Muirhead smiled a little. ‘I'm hoping it will help with interviews – everyone's worry.'

‘And women are being taken on in offices now?' Elinor asked. ‘There are still more men than women in your queue.'

‘True, but the fact is single women are being employed more and more.' Mr Muirhead gave a small shrug. ‘Although I'm afraid they do earn less than the men.'

‘Surprise, surprise,' Elinor responded, and they both laughed, before he saw her take her place in the queue she'd been studying.

‘I'll have to leave you now,' he told her, ‘but I'll look forward to seeing you again. On the last Thursday in August, seven o'clock at Carlyle High School. That's Fountain Bridge area.'

‘Thursday?' she repeated.

‘Difficult?'

‘It's just that I'll have to try to get Thursday evenings free.'

‘I hope you will.'

‘Oh, I will.'

As he moved away, looking back once, she had already begun wondering how she was going to manage getting to his class. She would have to hope that Gerda, whose free evenings were Thursdays, would swap with her for Fridays. But supposing she wouldn't? Och, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. All she knew was that she was determined to get to Mr Muirhead's class, and after she'd booked in and paid her fee, heaved a sigh of relief and put her receipt safely in her bag. She had her place!

Eleven

The following morning when the Primrose maids were having their morning break, Mrs Petrie, passing Elinor her tea, fixed her with a sharp green eye.

‘What's all this about you going to night school?' she demanded.

Elinor, turning crimson, swung round in her chair to look at Gerda.

‘I asked you no' to say anything!'

‘I never did!' Gerda's brown eyes were indignant. ‘You asked me to swap free evenings and I said I would, and that's all. Must've been Mattie.'

‘Mattie?' Elinor cried. ‘I told you in confidence, too!'

‘Sorry, Elinor.' Mattie's round face was shamefaced. ‘I was just that surprised, you see, and when we were doing staff breakfasts, I was with Mrs Petrie and it sort of slipped out.'

‘What's it matter who told me?' Mrs Petrie cried. ‘What I want to know is what's it all about? Have you got tired of the Primrose, or what, Elinor? And what's Miss Ainslie say, then, after all she's done for you, eh?'

‘I haven't told her yet,' Elinor admitted. ‘I will, though, when I ask if it's all right for me to take Gerda's Thursdays. Anyway, she won't mind if I go to night school, it was her idea.'

As Mrs Petrie stared in disbelief, Elinor added quickly, ‘And I've only signed up for a class, I'm no' leaving the Primrose, so there's no need to say any more.'

‘Don't be telling me what to say or not to say, if you please! What is this course, then? French? German? Arithmetic?' Mrs Petrie laughed shortly. ‘Just who do you lassies think you are?'

‘It's office procedures,' Elinor answered coldly. ‘If you must know, I tried for typewriting but it was full.'

‘Typewriting, eh?' Gerda smiled. ‘Sounds good. Mebbe I'll try for it next year, eh?'

‘Aye, might be just up our street,' chimed Ada. ‘Where'd you go for these classes, then, Elinor?'

‘Now you girls can just stop all this!' Mrs Petrie cried. ‘Hurry up with your tea and get back to work. Ada, never mind about classes – did you bring the papers down from the Quiet Room? Where's
The Scotsman
, then?'

‘It's here, Mrs Petrie.'

As Ada hastily gave her yesterday's
Scotsman
from the sheaf of newspapers she had cleared from upstairs, the cook took out her reading glasses.

‘Let's see what's happening in this terrible world,' she muttered, unfolding the paper she always claimed. ‘That Kaiser fella's always in the news, eh? I never did like Germans. Or any of thae Balkan folk. Always causing trouble.'

‘How many Germans has she met?' Gerda asked in a low voice, when they were outside the kitchen. ‘Or people from the Balkans, come to that?'

‘As though Mrs Petrie needs to know folk before she hates them!' Elinor answered, laughing, and Mattie touched her arm.

‘Elinor, I'm truly sorry I told her about your class. Like I said, it slipped out before I could stop it.' Mattie's eyes were woeful. ‘Me and my big mouth, eh?'

‘It's all right, Mattie. She'd have to find out sometime, anyway – I only wanted to spare all the arguments.' Elinor glanced at the clock in the entrance hall they were moving through on their way to clean inside windows. ‘Look, I'll just be five minutes – I want to speak to Miss Ainslie. You get started and I'll follow.'

‘Miss A's never going to worry about us changing days off,' Gerda murmured. ‘She's easy about things like that.'

But is she going to be so happy about me not going to her suffragette evenings any more? Elinor wondered, as she knocked on Miss Ainslie's door. Truth is, I have no time now.

Gerda was right, of course, that the manageress would find no difficulty in giving her permission to the two maids to swap their evenings off. It was only when Elinor had to point out that she could no longer attend the suffragette evenings that she looked a little dismayed.

‘Oh, that's a shame, Elinor, when you were doing so well and becoming so helpful to us. Of course, I know you want to go to the class and I'm pleased for you, but couldn't you have spared time for us as well?'

‘You've forgotten, I only get one evening off in the week,' Elinor told her quietly, at which Miss Ainslie put a hand to her lip and gave an embarrassed smile.

‘Oh, dear, of course you do! What am I thinking of? And I suppose it wouldn't be fair, to give you extra time off, just to help our cause  . . .'

‘No, it wouldn't. But I'll still try to go to some of the outdoor meetings on Saturday afternoons.'

‘That would be good of you. I know they're precious.' Miss Ainslie sighed. ‘If it were up to me, you know, I'd try to get you girls more time off, but the company would never agree. My hands are tied.'

Always were, when it came to asking the folk with the money for anything, Elinor thought, when she was on her way back to join Mattie and Gerda for their window cleaning. Still, you had to be grateful to Miss Ainslie for even thinking of better conditions for her maids. There was no doubt that working at the Primrose was about as good as it could be for girls in service. Would working in an office be any better?

Elinor paused for a moment, swinging her wash leather, frowning a little. It was going to be a lot of work, doing this course. Swotting up on arithmetic, learning different skills, maybe having to do tests and so on. Did she really want to do it?

Yes! came back her eager reply. Oh, yes. Because service at the Primrose was still service, while working in an office would give her a distinct identity that you never had as a maid, as well as perhaps providing a stairway to better things. She would have to leave her beloved gardens, of course, and that would be hard, a real sacrifice, but she'd come back, she'd visit, and they would be in her mind, always. As for the WEA course itself, even if it was hard work, it would be interesting and challenging. And had a good tutor, eh?

At the remembrance of Mr Muirhead, Elinor began to walk on swiftly, surprised to find her face growing warm and probably pink. It was a relief that when she joined the others in their window cleaning, no one took the slightest notice and soon her cheeks were pink anyway, as she rubbed away with her leather, her thoughts free to concentrate on a certain date in August. The last Thursday. Seven o'clock. Carlyle High School.

She'd be there.

Twelve

When the last Thursday in August finally arrived, it was no surprise to Elinor that she was feeling nervous. There was so much pressure. Everyone watching, commenting – especially Mrs Petrie. Oh, dear, oh dear, what were working lassies coming to these days, thinking they could do bookwork the same as educated folk, where would it all end? Et cetera, et cetera. And then there was Mattie, fearing that Elinor wouldn't be able to do the sums required, and Ada asking what good would it all be if she never got into an office, eh? And wouldn't everybody prefer men, anyway?

Only Gerda was supportive, telling Elinor she was doing the right thing and she wished she'd thought of doing something like it herself. Perhaps she still would.

‘If I get on all right?' Elinor asked dryly, but Gerda shook her head.

‘You'll do well, that's what the others know. They're a wee bit envious, that's all.'

‘As though anybody needs to be envious of me!' cried Elinor.

When it was time to go on Thursday evening, she left the Primrose by the area steps, conscious of the eyes watching, aware that she looked her best, even in the blue jacket and skirt she had not been able to afford to replace, but she was nervous. Come on, she told herself, you're looking forward to this, eh? Enjoy it, then.

The evening was still fine, the light still good, though August would soon be September and the northern summer was fading. Having taken a quick look at the gardens of the square to make her feel better, she was hurrying on when she saw ahead the figure of a man approaching. And stopped in her tracks.

It couldn't be, could it? Couldn't be  . . . her father?

No, he'd never come to the West End, he'd never come to the Primrose. Yet  . . .

‘Dad?' she whispered, as the man came nearer and she saw that there was no mistaking her father's tall figure, his way of walking, throwing out his feet as though kicking stones. No mistaking the cap and jacket he was wearing, or the good-looking face, the dark eyes meeting hers.

‘Dad,' she repeated. ‘What are you doing here?'

He had reached her, was standing close, and she could make nothing of his expression, except that it was not angry, nor did it show any emotion. But then he was there, with her, quite out of his own territory, and there must be some reason for that, so what could it be? Oh, no – no!

Her heart beginning to beat fast, she cried, ‘Is it Ma, Dad? Is there something wrong? Is it Corrie? Tell me!'

Suddenly, his features seemed to melt, his eyes soften. He began to shake his head. ‘No need to worry, lassie. There's nothing wrong. I just came to see you.'