The Sun Will Shine Tomorrow (16 page)

According to Joe, the war was on the turn. The Allies were capturing more and more ground and the American Army had recently captured Palermo in the Sicily landings. Joe had been almost ecstatic with joy when it was announced that Mussolini, the Italian dictator, had been deposed and had been replaced with King Victor Emmanuel.

‘Aye, it’s just a matter of time before Hitler is deposed as well,’ he said to Connie.

Still, all this talk of war and the worry of looking for another flat was at the back of my mind as we stood beside the large entrance of this new school. Lily’s friend Janey was with us as her mother had been unable to come with her. Janey had started primary school on the same day as Lily and they had been great friends since those early days. She lived in Dallfield Walk and came from a large family. In fact, another baby had just been born which was the reason she was with us.

Janey had chattered on as we walked to the school. ‘The baby is to be called Kenneth. It’s after my uncle Kenneth and he’s in the army fighting the Nazis,’ she informed us with a great deal of relish.

It was a well-known fact that Janey’s father hadn’t been passed fit for the army because he had a deformed foot. But Connie had said years ago that they were a very happy family and he managed to provide for his large brood, giving them a decent lifestyle from his rag-and-bone round. He was a familiar figure on the streets with his pony and cart, collecting old rags or scrap – in fact, anything that could be turned into money.

Janey and Lily looked with apprehensive eyes at their new school.

Janey said, ‘I didn’t think it would be as big as this, did you, Lily?’

Lily merely shook her head and looked at me. For a brief moment, I almost whisked them away back to the warm, familiar surroundings of their old school. Yet I realised I couldn’t protect Lily or Janey from the world forever.

We walked towards the gate. By now, groups of pupils were streaming through the entrance and into the very large playground.

I said, ‘Come on – you’ll be fine when you get used to the size of the place. Anyway, most of your class are here so you’ll not be on your own.’

Janey almost wailed, ‘But we’re no’ in the same class, Ann. I’m going into domestic science and Lily is going into French/ Commercial. We’ll be in different classes, won’t we Lily?’

Once again Lily nodded unhappily.

Faced with two unhappy twelve year olds who looked as if they were about to bolt into the blue yonder, I realised I had to make some sort of stand here. I said firmly, ‘You’ll still have one another at playtime and you’ll be arriving and leaving together so you’re not on your own, except for the short time during the lessons.’

This seemed to calm them down and I gently ushered them through the gates. They both turned before they reached the playground and the miserable look on their faces made me want to cry out loud. Instead I waved cheerfully and they turned hand in hand into a new episode in their lives.

Then I heard someone calling their names. A small group of girls, all dressed in similar gym tunics, called them over. For a moment, I was anxious until I recognised the girls as classmates from Rosebank. I had no idea what classes they would be in but the odds had to be in favour of some of them sharing either Lily or Janey’s classes. I had told the girls I would pick them up at four o’clock and that they had to wait by the gate.

As I walked back to Connie’s shop, my heart felt weighed down with sorrow. What kind of world would these children inherit when they finally left school? Would we still be at war?

As usual Connie cheered me up. ‘Yon fruit shop just down from the Plaza has got a consignment of apples from Canada. Nip down, Ann, and get some.’

Apples? What a treat! We hadn’t seen apples since the start of the war but then there were loads of foods no longer available – bananas, butter, oranges and real strawberry jam to name a few. They were things I had to admit we didn’t have a lot of before the war due to lack of money but nevertheless they had been in the shops for those who could afford them.

When I reached the tiny fruit shop down from the Plaza picture house, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The queue stretched almost to the bottom of the Hilltown and it seemed as if the entire population of Dundee had heard about the Canadian apples. Scores of women stood in the mist, their coats tightly belted against the greyness and clutching message bags close to their bodies. Most of the women were wearing colourful turbans on their heads. These headsquares, tied around the hair and knotted in front with the ends tucked in, kept the hair reasonably clean. Especially helpful now that women were working, not only in the jute mills but as conductresses on the trams and in scores of other jobs left vacant by the men who were now fighting all over the world.

I joined the end of the queue which, by the time I reached it, had turned the corner into Victoria Road.

A group of women ahead of me were muttering in annoyance. ‘Half the fowk here dinnae live in this area,’ said one woman to her neighbour. ‘See that woman ower there? Well, she bides in Strathmartine Road.’

Her neighbour looked reassuringly shocked. ‘Bloody cheek!’

I tried not to smile. I knew Strathmartine Road wasn’t exactly local but it wasn’t situated on Mars. It would seem that waiting in queues every day for basic foodstuffs was a chore most women put up with but, when it came to exotic Canadian apples, the women were certainly turning into territorial creatures.

As it turned out we were all to be disappointed – the stranger from Strathmartine Road included. Long before we reached the fruit shop, the owner closed the door. A large sign stated that all apples were sold out. Well, that was life during these difficult times.

Because I was in the area, I hurried up the road to Burnett’s bakery where another long queue had formed – probably from the remnants of the apple queue. Fortunately, bread and rolls weren’t on the ration which was a huge blessing to large families who relied on bread and potatoes to fill the hungry stomachs of their children.

When I reached the counter, I bought two loaves – one for Rosie. The assistant handed over the bread which had a grey look. The national loaf it was called but, as we had no choice, we had to forget about the great white bread in the days before the war. In fact, this was becoming a popular pastime. ‘I mind afore the war when we got ice cream.’ Or, ‘The pre-war tatties tasted better than these watery ones.’

Connie didn’t seem to be too disappointed about the lack of apples. ‘To be honest, Ann, I hardly ever ate an apple before the war but now, when you can’t get them, well, I have this craving for them. Strange isn’t it?’

‘No, Connie, it’s not – it’s just a case of wanting what you can’t get.’ Like Greg, I thought bitterly. Had I been too complacent about him? Was that why he was now with someone new? He had written about forgiving him but had that been just kind words to a lonely old spinster? Me.

Connie was speaking and I realised I hadn’t heard a word. ‘Sorry, Connie, I was thinking about something.’

‘I’m just asking if Lily and Janey liked their new school.’

I looked dubious. ‘It’s certainly much bigger than we thought, Connie, and I’m not sure how they’ll get on.’ I wanted to protect Lily from all the unfairness of life and I suddenly wanted to wrap her up in warmth and love – to keep her away from anything harsh.

Connie laughed. ‘Och, don’t worry about Lily. She’s a tough wee lassie – just like you. And Janey is the same – they have to be.’

Was that how Connie saw Lily and me? Tough? But, somehow, because of this statement, I felt a great deal better about the school. However, at four o’clock, my stomach was doing cartwheels as I waited by the gate. The large windows that overlooked the road gazed back at me with their sightless, desolate panes of glass. Then I saw boys passing in front of them and the tall figure of a teacher and the place seemed to become a bit more human-looking.

Then the school came out and I was astounded to see hundreds of children of various ages emerge from both the boys’ and girls’ playgrounds. For one terrible moment I thought I would miss the girls in this throng but they saw me and it was with a feeling of relief when I saw them running towards me.

I felt sick with worry. What if Lily hated this new school? What if she cried every morning? I didn’t think I could cope with her unhappiness. I was almost afraid to speak to them but Janey and Lily began to talk at once. They stopped and laughed.

Janey went first. ‘Och, it was quite good, Ann. I’ve got Marlene and Jean in my class and I used to sit beside them at Rosebank.’

‘Oh, that’s great, Janey,’ I said, looking at Lily. ‘And what about you, Lily?’

Her eyes were shining. ‘Like Janey said, it’s great. I’ve got Alice, Cathy, Robert and Jimmy in my class and we all like it. We get different lessons in different classrooms and although we’ve got a registered teacher, we get a different teacher for every period.’

In a cheerier frame of mind, we set off for home, dropping Janey at her close in Dallfield Walk.

‘I’ve not got any homework tonight, Ann, but I’ll have a lot later this week.’ She sounded a bit worried.

I gave her hand a squeeze. ‘You’ll manage fine, Lily.’

As the weeks went by, she sat at the table by the window and, after her tea, she studied her books and wrote long screeds in her jotters. Occasionally, she would give a long drawn-out sigh and when I looked over she would be resting her chin in her hand like a juvenile Einstein and she’d mutter darkly about science and the French language or trial balances and shorthand. It all sounded highly educational and far above anything I had been taught at school.

‘I sometimes wish I had taken the domestic science course like Janey,’ she said one evening. ‘She gets to bath a dolly and pretend it’s a baby or else she bakes tattie scones or cleans a wee classroom made to look like a house.’

I didn’t answer on those occasions as she seemed to be happy with her lot.

In November, I got a letter from Jean Peters. She lived in Broughty Ferry and had been the cook at Whitegate Lodge when I worked there for Mrs Barrie. She hadn’t managed to come to Grandad’s funeral. She had broken her leg a week before he died but now she said it was better.

Although we had corresponded over the weeks since the funeral, I hadn’t managed to pay a visit because of my job and the travelling to Lily’s school – plus the chores I did for Granny. It left me with little spare time but, when I received her latest letter, I decided to pay her a call.

Lily and I went to see her on the Sunday. She looked perky enough and her leg had mended but she still needed to take things easy, she told us. However, she managed a gentle stroll to the beach.

‘You have to stay off the sand,’ she said. ‘It is all fenced off with barbed wire in case the Germans land.’

We walked slowly along the esplanade with a bitter east wind blowing in our faces. The sky and sea were the same shade of steel grey and they seemed to merge into each other on the horizon. It was similar to the day I first arrived at the Ferry all those years ago.

‘How is your granny coping?’ Jean asked.

‘Oh, she’s amazing, Jean. I thought she wouldn’t get over it because they had been together for so many years but she says she’s got so many happy memories to keep her going.’

This was true. Over the months since Grandad’s death, I had visited the Overgate most days and, although she needed help with the heavy chores like the washing and bringing in some messages from the shops, she was coping well.

Jean nodded. ‘I can understand that, Ann. And she’s always got you and Lily and your Dad and the rest of the family.’

We sat down on a bench while Lily ran ahead. I gazed at the distance to try and catch a sight of Whitegate Lodge but it was much further along the road.

As if reading my mind, Jean said, ‘The house has been sold, Ann. A retired couple bought it a few months ago and they asked me if I could work a few hours a week for them but I said no. Then this happened.’ She indicated her leg. ‘I tripped over a broken pavement and fractured my leg again. Who says lightening never strikes twice?’

She was referring to her first accident at Whitegates when she broke her leg while feeding the blackbirds in the courtyard. How my life had changed from that moment on. Ma Ryan’s warning to me about danger from a blackbird had sadly come true but not in the context I thought.

‘Jean.’

She looked at me.

‘Ma Ryan has given me another warning. What do you think about it?’

She looked thoughtful. ‘Well she was right the first time, wasn’t she?’

I nodded unhappily.

‘What did she say?’

‘It’s difficult to put into words,’ I said, trying hard to remember what Ma had said. ‘She said I was to take care.’ I stopped. ‘No, that wasn’t it … It was to watch my step. That’s right, it was to watch my step.’ I recalled the day I got the warning. ‘The strange thing is, Jean, on that day, I almost fell off a tramcar and, if the conductor hadn’t grabbed me, then I would have been badly injured. Maybe that was the meaning of the warning and the danger is now passed.’

Jean took my cold hand in hers. ‘Well, let’s hope so, Ann. Now what is the news of Greg?’

My face told her the whole story.

‘Och, don’t tell me you’ve broken up?’

I nodded. ‘I’m afraid so, Jean. You’re looking at a frustrated old maid. Nobody wants me.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t be so daft. If it’s no’ Greg, then there will be some other lucky man, believe me. You’re a great catch for any man. Sensible, hardworking and aye doing your best for everybody but yourself.’

Lily was running back so I said cheerfully, ‘Well, I hope you’re right, Jean.’

Lily said, ‘What do you hope, Ann?’

Jean laughed. ‘She hopes you still have your appetite for my scones.’

Lily had and, as she sat at the cosy fire with a cup of tea in one hand and a floury scone in the other, she looked a vision of contentment.

Meanwhile Jean was apologetic. ‘Sorry I’ve no jam or butter Lily. We’ve all got to get used to this awful margarine. It’s the one part of the rations I hate and so does my man.’