♫
My school was Braehead Primary and I was in Primary 4. It wasn’t as good as Primary 3. Or even Primary 2. Every year had got better—until Primary 4. That year was when I realised that teachers didn’t really help you. They wanted you to do well with your reading books and sums, but when you were sad, it wasn’t their job to make you feel better again. They just said, “Things will get better, Mary.” or ‘‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll make other friends’’.
Mrs Lithgow was my teacher. She had bright red hair that she dyed to make it that colour. Nobody mentioned it, even though grown-ups weren’t meant to have hair that colour. She had sweaty bits under her arms, especially when she wore the light grey top, but nobody mentioned that either.
When she got mad, she got really mad and I was scared even if it wasn’t me that was in trouble. Her shouting was so loud that other teachers could hear it across the social area between classes. Miss Young from next door would come into our classroom because she knew someone was in trouble and she wanted to shout at them too. They would look at each other and say things like,
‘Is that him causing trouble again?’
‘It is, Miss Young.’
‘And after he behaved so well all of last week.’
‘I know. I’d hate to have to get his parents in.’
‘Maybe he can come and sit in my room till he’s calmed down.’
One time, I sneaked under the windows of the staff room and heard one of them saying they wanted to ‘wring that boy’s neck’. I would’ve tried to stop them, but I was only wee. The next second, they were laughing and calling each other by their first names, like Margaret and Denise. When they went into the staff room, they changed from grumpy teachers back into normal grown-ups.
One thing I did like at school was music. On Thursday afternoons, the music teacher Mrs Stafford came and she had hundreds of instruments. All types of strange ones that you had to bang or shake or scrape and those were called percussion. I wondered if she took them home at night. Her house must’ve been noisy.
The best was the keyboard. I got lessons on Thursday lunchtimes from Mrs Stafford. I loved staying inside and having the empty classroom to myself while everyone else was outside. I’d just started doing left hand chords. Not full ones obviously, just the root note. That was hard enough. If I begged her, Mrs Stafford would write the names of the notes on the white keys in marker pen. She was worried it wouldn’t rub off, but it always did.
‘You’ll never learn this way,’ she said.
‘Just a few more lessons.’
‘And a few more after that?’
‘I’ll have them memorised by then.’
We only had a toy keyboard at home so I never got as much practice done as Mrs Stafford wanted. I asked for lessons every day, but Mrs Stafford could only come once a week because she went to all the other schools in Stirling too.
‘Do you not think I need them more, Mrs Stafford? I dinnae care about missing lunchtime.’
‘Their lessons are just as important as yours,’ she said. ‘Plus, I’m already doing your grandfather a favour.’
I was good for my age, but not as good compared to people who could play without sheet music or looking at the keys. There was a man on the telly called Jools Holland. He only came on late at night. If it was an extra special night, Granpa let me stay up to watch the news and the programme with Jools. He played piano better than I’d seen anyone else do it. His hands were like wriggling spiders when he played.
I was nowhere near as good as Jools, but I was still better than everyone else in my class. Paul Reed always tried to push me away so he could show off and play the Jurassic Park theme tune, but no one was impressed.
‘Do you even know what those keys are called, Paul?’ I said.
‘I dinnae care. Dinnae tell me.’
‘They’re D, C sharp, D again, A and G.’
‘God’s sake, Mary. No wonder you’ve got no pals.’
Everyone liked it better when I played Super Trouper because I could play more than just five stupid notes over and over.
Granpa and me played the Secret-Pocket-Money-Spy-Game for weeks and weeks and all through the Easter holiday. I went with him to every shift when I was off school.
Granpa brought something special to work one day. A present, all covered in wrapping paper. He must’ve bought it while I was at school.
‘Who’s that for?’ I said.
‘Mr Ferguson,’ Granpa said. ‘An Easter present. Ye can give it to him if ye like. Here’s what to say.’
I carried the box to Mr Ferguson’s office. His door was held open by a little wooden slice on the floor. I put the present on his desk.
‘Happy Easter,’ I said.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ Mr Ferguson said. ‘I’ve not got you anything.’
‘It’s to say thank you for letting me come to work with Granpa, even though I’m not supposed to.’
‘What the regional manager doesn’t know can’t hurt him,’ he said, smiling.
‘And sorry for your shoes smelling like pee.’
He ripped off the paper. It was a pair of shoes. Not suede ones like he had before, but shiny black ones with really thick bottoms. Sort of like a policeman’s shoes. I liked the way the shoebox opened, like a treasure chest showing the gold inside.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said. ‘This is very kind of Arthur. I’ll be more careful where I stand in future. Thank your granpa for me, will you?’
I didn’t get an Easter present from Granpa. I got an Easter egg, but that didn’t count. Mr Ferguson getting a present didn’t make any sense. He had made Granpa go back to work with a sore shoulder. They hadn’t been friendly to each other after the robbery.
‘Have you forgiven Mr Ferguson, Granpa?’
‘Cause of the shoes?’ he said, ‘Naw. Just want to keep in his good books. Dinnae get too friendly with him, Mary. He’s no right in the heid.’
Mr Ferguson seemed okay to me. Sometimes he got quite angry when people didn’t wash up their dirty plates and cups, but I would’ve been annoyed too. The cups with old coffee in them smelled the worst.
I spent most of the time doing my colouring books in the staff room. I could have as much hot chocolate as I wanted from the machine in there. Lydia showed me how. She worked Monday to Friday so I only saw her during school holidays. Her eyes were like a panda’s because of all the make-up she wore.
There weren’t any pandas in my colouring books. I took my time with every page, making sure everything was the right colour and staying in the lines and not leaning too hard on the pencils. I knew Granpa liked it when I made things last.
The Secret-Pocket-Money-Spy-Game was getting a bit boring. It was the same thing every time and it didn’t feel like being James Bond at all. James Bond got different gadgets to try out in the lab and then they’d come in handy later in the film, even when it seemed like they were no use at all. There were no gadgets for me, only the money. But Granpa was always so happy when we got home and the mission was accomplished, so I kept playing and said nothing.
Sometimes, when a man had a winning bet, Granpa gave him his winnings then put his slip under his computer keyboard. Then, later on, he would slide it back out and scan it again.
‘Y’see, Mary,’ he said. ‘When a punter wins on a horse, the man who owns the horse gets winnings as well.’
He took more money out the till and put it in a drawer. He didn’t tell me how the man who owned the horse would get the money from the drawer, but I guessed that was probably Mr Ferguson’s job.
During the Easter holidays, we played our game every day. Sometimes twice a day.
‘Granpa, why are you getting so many wages?’
‘I’ve been here a year noo. Ye get a big pay rise when ye work somewhere for a year. Are ye no enjoying the game anymair?’
‘Oh no, it’s fantastic. Like being a real spy.’
‘Good. Here’s another lot to put in yer secret stash.’
The Easter holidays, that was when the bundles of his wages got much heavier. They were harder to hide in my jacket pocket and I could barely get my hand around them. I wasn’t ready to be a proper spy.
The last day of school was Wednesday June 24th. We got off at two o’clock, instead of three, but Granpa worked till half past two, so I had to wait in school till he could come and get me. I told Granpa I could’ve walked home, but he said it wasn’t safe.
‘It’s no that I dinnae trust ye. It’s that I dinnae trust everyone else.’
I sat next to the fish tank in the welcoming area and read the books they had for visitors. The books for really wee ones were easiest: one about a big dog, another about a little hamster. They could always talk. It didn’t matter what it was, a cushion or a light-bulb, everything could talk in a children’s book.
There was a book of poems too. Grown-up poems that didn’t rhyme. I chose one called Mr and Mrs Scotland Are Dead because it sounded exciting. After I’d read it, I couldn’t even work out what had killed Mr and Mrs Scotland. Was it a murder or an accident? There weren’t any answers at the back of the book.
Even the teachers weren’t staying till three. They were hugging each other and saying, “have a good summer”. The welcoming area was right next to the main door, so I got to wave to all of them as they left.
‘Oh, you’re still about, Mary,’ Mrs Lithgow said. ‘Hope you have a nice summer. Come back and visit us. Mrs Stafford wanted me to wish you all the best too.’
‘I hope you have a good holiday, Mrs Lithgow. I’ll only be in the upper wing, it’s not that far.’
She gave me a smile, but looked a bit confused. She had a carrier bag full of the presents our class had given her. I thought being a teacher would be worth it just for the presents at summer and Christmas. Mrs Lithgow could hardly see over her desk for all the bottles of wine.
‘I’m glad I have the summer to get through all of these,’ she said.
At playtime, I heard Freddie Cooke from Primary Six say his mum had given him wine to give to his teacher, but he’d drank it on the walk to school.
‘Where’s the empty bottle then?’ another boy had asked.
‘I threw it in the burn,’ Freddie said.
‘Which burn?’
‘Yer maw’s burn.’
‘That disnae even make sense.’
But everyone had still laughed. It didn’t matter if the boy’s mum had a burn or not.
Granpa didn’t give me a present to give Mrs Lithgow and she told me she understood. The bottles clinked together when she went through the double doors to the car park.
I liked being in school after home time. There was no chance of getting into any trouble or being told to get back to class. And no one was around to make fun of me for being a Mary-no-mates. Through the window, I could see Leona walking with Hannah Hunter. I didn’t care what they were doing during the summer.
Granpa came at 2.54pm. He was wearing his work clothes. Red polo shirt and black trousers. It wasn’t that different from my school clothes, only my polo shirt was white. My jumper was maroon and I had it wrapped around my waist. That was how cool people wore it.
‘Sorry aboot the wait,’ he said. ‘Were the teachers awright with ye sitting here?’
‘Aye, Granpa. They’re all happy that it’s summer.’
‘Summer? Someone should tell the weather.’
Our house was only a ten-minute walk from the school. Out the car park, past the parish church, past the paper shop, all the way to the end of the street. Our street was called Springfield Road, just like in The Simpsons. Lisa Simpson was eight, the same as me. She had been eight forever though. I wanted to be nine as soon as I could.
Granpa made me cheese sandwiches and left the crusts on. It was a waste to throw the crusts in the bin. I nibbled all round them quick, so I was only left with the soft middle bit.
‘I’ve got something to tell ye, Mary,’ Granpa said. ‘We’re going on holiday this summer.’
‘Really? You’re not joking?’
‘Would I joke aboot something like this?’
‘Probably.’
‘Well, I’m no.’
‘Where are we going then?’
‘It’s a surprise, so I cannae tell ye yet. But we’ll be away aw summer. Ye dinnae mind being away aw summer, do ye?’
‘Naw! Not even a bit. But what about your job, Granpa? Won’t you get the sack if you go away for the whole summer?’
‘That’s aw sorted, Mary. Mr Ferguson felt bad aboot making me go back to work straight after I hurt my shoulder. They’ve hired someone to work my shifts for the summer. Ye’ll need to pack yer stuff. Ye may as well take everything.’
‘Are we getting on a plane? Because Walter Tompkins said he had to use his mum’s passport when he went to Spain.’
‘Ye dinnae need a passport for where we’re going, Mary. Think closer to hame. Will we make it like a game? Another spy adventure?’
‘Aye. How?’
‘How aboot, you be the spy and I’m yer, well, yer person that has to get ye somewhere safe? Cause the baddies are after ye. How aboot that?’
‘There’s not really baddies after us, is there?’
‘Course no. But if there were, we’d need to go really fast, wouldn’t we? We’d need to grab our stuff and get a move on.’
‘Should we go fast then?’
‘We should go like Usain Bolt. What if we leave... tomorrow morning?’
I made my hands into fists I was so excited.
‘Is that enough time to pack?’ I asked.
‘Ye’ll need something to put yer stuff into first, won’t ye?
We went next door to see Malcolm. He travelled a lot because of his work. He had spare suitcases in his loft and he climbed up to get us one. The loft had a hidden ladder which slid out from the ceiling and gave me a fright. Granpa held the ladder and I looked up, but all I could see was Malcolm’s bum wobbling as he reached for something.
‘Right,’ Malcolm said. ‘This looks just the ticket.’
He handed down a wee red suitcase to Granpa. It had two wheels on the bottom so you didn’t have to carry it.
‘What d’ye think, hen?’ Granpa asked me.
‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Malcolm.’
‘Ya beauty,’ Malcolm said, his head still up the loft. ‘I knew I still had my Bat out of Hell LP.’
Earlier that day, Mrs Lithgow had asked us all where we were going for our summer holidays.
‘I’m going with my dad to Florida,’ Paul Reed said.
‘Majorca,’ said Leona Turnbull. ‘With my mum and dad and my best friend Hannah and her family.’
I felt sorry for Hannah. Leona would probably find a new best friend in Majorca and she’d be chucked away like rubbish.
‘I’m just staying in Stirling with my granpa,’ I said.
‘At least you’ll be with your best friend,’ Paul said.
Everyone laughed. They wouldn’t have laughed if they’d known about my holiday. My holiday was going to last the whole summer.
Packing was exciting but sore on my arms. Clothes and shoes were the obvious things. I took books and toys that I thought I might need too. The Harry Potter books took up too much room, so I only took the first three. They were the easiest to read and the least scary. My space shuttle from Moonraker flew straight in my bag. My Elvis mask too. It was just a piece of cardboard with a picture of Elvis on and a bit of string to hold it on your head, but when I wore it I felt just like The King. I couldn’t make my voice go as low as his though. You never saw spies packing all their things, especially not toys. But that was what I needed for my mission.
I ran through to the living room to give Granpa the good news.
‘That’s me packed,’ I told him.
‘Ye were quick. Sure ye’ve got everything? Toothbrush? Wellies? Big jacket?’
I ran back to my room because I’d forgotten those things. Apart from that, though, I was packed.
‘Right, that’s me really done this time.’
‘Toothbrush?’
‘Aye.’
‘But how will ye brush yer teeth tonight?’
I ran back to my room to take my toothbrush out of the case.
Granpa didn’t rush with his packing.
‘Are you taking those pictures of Granny?
‘I am.’
‘Will you need them?’
‘I’d like to have them with me. The summer’s a long time and it’ll be nice to be able to see her.’
I didn’t have any photos of people. Not even of Mum and Dad. I preferred to remember them in my head. That way I could put sideburns on my dad even though he never had them in real-life.
‘Should we go and see yer mum and dad one last time before we leave?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Better put on your wellies and big jacket then. Ye didnae pack them did ye?’
‘You told me to!’
‘I think I would remember saying something daft like that.’
We left our bags at the front door, ready for the next day. It was a thirty-minute walk to the cemetery. Past the primary school, up the big Broomridge hill, past the high school and through the football pitch below the main road.
‘Wait till I tell everyone in my class about our holiday when we go back,’ I said on the walk there. ‘They’ll not believe me.’
‘Ye dinnae really like any of that lot, do ye, Mary?’ said Granpa. ‘Who cares what they think.’
‘I dinnae care. But I want them to know.’
Granny’s grave was at the cemetery too. Granpa bought some carnations on the way so he could put them at Granny’s grave. He always asked the man at the counter if they had any flowers that were on their way out. Those were the cheapest and they did the trick. I loved the look of flowers, but they never smelled as good as I thought they would.
‘Would ye like some for yer mum? Granpa asked me.
I nodded.
‘Pink ones, please. How come we never buy any for Dad?’
‘Your dad hated flowers. Terrible hay-fever.’
I liked finding out things about mum and dad I didn’t know.
Everyone knew to be quiet when they walked around the cemetery, even though there weren’t any signs saying so. I could hear cars beeping from the main road, but that was allowed because they might not know there was a cemetery nearby.
‘You head along to yer mum and dad,’ Granpa said.
‘But I don’t normally go without you.’
‘I fancied having a chat with yer granny, just the two of us. If ye dinnae mind?’
I didn’t mind.
I walked over the muddy grass. Walking over mud in my wellies was one of my favourite things. The mud could try, but it would never get through to my socks. My wellies were dark green and I could pretend I was a farmer checking on my land and my animals. There had been wellies with flowers on them at the shop, but I wanted proper ones. Real farmers didn’t have flowers on their wellies.
I made sure to walk right down the middle of the grass between the headstones because it wasn’t nice to walk right on top of dead people. I thought that was silly at first because it wasn’t like they could wake up, but Granpa said it was about respect which was really important. If you walked right on top of where people were lying it was like saying, ‘‘ha ha you’re dead and I don’t care’’.
The flowers at Mum and Dad’s grave from the last visit had gone droopy and brown. I took them out and threw them over the fence and into the bushes. I put the new pink ones through the holes of the little round pot. They were the brightest thing my eyes could see. Bright enough that people walking by would stop and have a look at the pretty flowers and read my Mum and Dad’s name. They’d know that someone still loves Alice and Robert Sutherland.
It was okay to step on top of graves, but only if you knew the person. You were never, ever to dance. Mum and Dad’s names were on the same grave so I could talk to them both at the same time.
‘Hiya, Mum. Hiya, Dad. Me and Granpa are going on holiday tomorrow. I dinnae know where we’re going but Granpa says it’s going to be fantastic. I won’t be able to come and talk to you for a while. I’ll bring you back a present. I cannae wait to see Leona’s face when she finds out I went on holiday. We’re still not pals, but that’s fine because I dinnae want to be her friend anyway.’
A woman came round the corner but I kept talking because Granpa said it was nothing to be embarrassed about.
‘And that’s school finished till next year. When I go back I’ll be a P5. Our class is going to be in the upper wing with the P6s and P7s. I’m a wee bit scared, but I’ll get to use the new iPads so that’s nice.’
Obviously Mum and Dad couldn’t talk back, so our chats never lasted long. I said bye and that I’d see them soon and went back to see if Granpa was still talking to Granny.
Dead people were under the ground everywhere. But not many alive people above the ground came to visit them. They were all too busy. I knew I would still come when I was older, even when I had other things planned. It was the right thing to do.
Granpa was on his knees in front of Granny’s stone.
In loving memory of
Isabel Lorraine Sutherland
1951 – 2002
She leaves the world a richer place.
One time, I’d asked Granpa about the last bit. He never talked fancy like that.
‘Some fella at the headstone place talked me into it.’
Granpa always said a good thing about living in Scotland was you didn’t need to come and water the flowers because the weather was so bad and the rain would do it for you.
‘Almost didnae see ye there, Mary.’
‘How’s Granny?’
‘No bad. She was talking aboot ye.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said, “when is that girl going to get her silver swimming certificate?”’
‘I’m trying so hard, Granpa, but I can’t keep straight doing the backstroke. I’m trying, Granny.’
‘She kens ye are, hen.’