be an obvious response from Dinah before continuing, “I think that day you got me to watch Phyllis so you and Etta could go over to South Queensferry … well I guess that mousy Etta had good reason to go a fair bit further.”
Dinah smiled but made no reply: she knew just how far Etta had gone that day.
“Here. We’re here,” Patsy exclaimed as the bus shuddered to a halt. “And look! The bairns have come to the road-end to meet us.”
6
Dinah was lovingly stroking one of the precious nylons that she had carefully laid upon her left hand.
“Well,” asked Etta, as she picked up the bottle of leg make-up and shook it vigorously. “Are you going to wear them tonight or am I going to plaster your legs with this?”
“It’s not the make-up I mind. It’s getting the line straight. You know, no matter how hard you try to keep yon eye-brow pencils going in a straight line they just go zigzagging.” Etta nodded. “So the choice is: do I go out with pencilled-on seams that look as if they’ve had one too many – not to mention the cold turning my flesh blue – or should I risk wearing my very first pair of precious nylons, the ones I got from that nice Canadian airman?”
“The choice is yours. But don’t forget the other problem is that you’ll need to jump up on the table for me to do my artistry on your pins because I just can’t …” Etta stopped and patted her swollen belly. “No. There’s no way I could bend down on the floor to help you.”
“Suppose it’s the pencil job then,” sighed Dinah, jumping up on the table, “because I’m no wanton hussy, I simply can’t go out bare-legged.”
Etta had started to smooth the fake tan make-up over Dinah’s legs when there came a sharp knock at the door. Both women looked at each other. Etta shook her head and held up her cream-covered hands. They looked towards Phyllis but since she obviously couldn’t move there was nothing else for it but for Dinah to jump down and answer the summons.
Opening the door, she was confronted by a telegraph boy holding out an envelope.
“No,” she cried. “I don’t want it.”
“But, missus, aren’t you Mrs Thomas Glass?” Dinah nodded. “Then you have to take it,” insisted the boy, thrusting the telegram into Dinah’s hand.
“Bad news?” enquired Etta who was just emerging from the kitchen where she had gone to wash her hands.
Dinah grimaced. “Suppose it is. Suppose it’s what we’ve all been dreading.”
Etta went over to Phyllis, lifted her hand and began stroking it. “Well, open it, Dinah, and let’s hear the worst.”
Slowly Dinah pushed her thumb under the flap of the envelope and then withdrew the telegram. As she began to read, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
“So Tam’s dead?” sniffed Etta.
Dinah shook her head. “No. He’s alive. Alive, thank God! But he’s a prisoner of war!”
Christmas Eve at the Craigs had an air of magic about it. A large decorated fir tree took up one corner of the schoolroom and the desks had all been pushed against a wall so that the centre of the room was bare and ready for the party to begin. Johnny was sitting on a chair with a smile on his face that would have melted an iceberg.
“You like Christmas, Johnny?” Mrs Carruthers asked. “But then you probably got some nice Christmas cards in the post today.”
Johnny cackled. “Naw, Miss, we dinnae send cards.”
“So you’re happy because Santa Claus will be coming tonight?”
“Santa Claus? Don’t you ken he’s a Tory, Miss? He only gies to them that has lots and lots – never to us poor folk.”
“So why are you so happy?”
Johnny took a letter addressed to himself that had arrived in the morning post. He thrust it into Mrs Carruthers’ hand and she began to read from it. “Oh, this is truly good news. Your Daddy’s been found in a prisoner of war camp! Oh, Johnny, that is indeed the best Christmas present you and your family could
Dinah smiled but made no reply: she knew just how far Etta had gone that day.
“Here. We’re here,” Patsy exclaimed as the bus shuddered to a halt. “And look! The bairns have come to the road-end to meet us.”
6
Dinah was lovingly stroking one of the precious nylons that she had carefully laid upon her left hand.
“Well,” asked Etta, as she picked up the bottle of leg make-up and shook it vigorously. “Are you going to wear them tonight or am I going to plaster your legs with this?”
“It’s not the make-up I mind. It’s getting the line straight. You know, no matter how hard you try to keep yon eye-brow pencils going in a straight line they just go zigzagging.” Etta nodded. “So the choice is: do I go out with pencilled-on seams that look as if they’ve had one too many – not to mention the cold turning my flesh blue – or should I risk wearing my very first pair of precious nylons, the ones I got from that nice Canadian airman?”
“The choice is yours. But don’t forget the other problem is that you’ll need to jump up on the table for me to do my artistry on your pins because I just can’t …” Etta stopped and patted her swollen belly. “No. There’s no way I could bend down on the floor to help you.”
“Suppose it’s the pencil job then,” sighed Dinah, jumping up on the table, “because I’m no wanton hussy, I simply can’t go out bare-legged.”
Etta had started to smooth the fake tan make-up over Dinah’s legs when there came a sharp knock at the door. Both women looked at each other. Etta shook her head and held up her cream-covered hands. They looked towards Phyllis but since she obviously couldn’t move there was nothing else for it but for Dinah to jump down and answer the summons.
Opening the door, she was confronted by a telegraph boy holding out an envelope.
“No,” she cried. “I don’t want it.”
“But, missus, aren’t you Mrs Thomas Glass?” Dinah nodded. “Then you have to take it,” insisted the boy, thrusting the telegram into Dinah’s hand.
“Bad news?” enquired Etta who was just emerging from the kitchen where she had gone to wash her hands.
Dinah grimaced. “Suppose it is. Suppose it’s what we’ve all been dreading.”
Etta went over to Phyllis, lifted her hand and began stroking it. “Well, open it, Dinah, and let’s hear the worst.”
Slowly Dinah pushed her thumb under the flap of the envelope and then withdrew the telegram. As she began to read, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
“So Tam’s dead?” sniffed Etta.
Dinah shook her head. “No. He’s alive. Alive, thank God! But he’s a prisoner of war!”
Christmas Eve at the Craigs had an air of magic about it. A large decorated fir tree took up one corner of the schoolroom and the desks had all been pushed against a wall so that the centre of the room was bare and ready for the party to begin. Johnny was sitting on a chair with a smile on his face that would have melted an iceberg.
“You like Christmas, Johnny?” Mrs Carruthers asked. “But then you probably got some nice Christmas cards in the post today.”
Johnny cackled. “Naw, Miss, we dinnae send cards.”
“So you’re happy because Santa Claus will be coming tonight?”
“Santa Claus? Don’t you ken he’s a Tory, Miss? He only gies to them that has lots and lots – never to us poor folk.”
“So why are you so happy?”
Johnny took a letter addressed to himself that had arrived in the morning post. He thrust it into Mrs Carruthers’ hand and she began to read from it. “Oh, this is truly good news. Your Daddy’s been found in a prisoner of war camp! Oh, Johnny, that is indeed the best Christmas present you and your family could
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