Page 20 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

I was out of work, I had nothing else lined up and my grandmother had gone to so much trouble. It was as if I had one foot dangling over the edge of a cliff. I remembered my gran’s enthusiasm and love of crockery and how she had instilled it in me. Perhaps it was time I took a chance, like Ivy said. I owed my gran that much.

For fear of driving myself demented with over-thinking, I took her hand in mine and we exchanged a business-like handshake.

Mrs Cotter’s fine cheek bones lifted in a triumphant smile. “Excellent! Now, let me put the kettle on and then we can chat properly about the boring paperwork stuff.”

I watched her disappear in a flap of denim shirt out of her office door. My stomach performed an impressive cartwheel. There was no going back now. This was really happening.

Chapter Nine

15th June 1970, 12 Cadder Grove, Briar Glen

“Say that again. You want to do what?”

Helena’s pink cheeks ripened. She didn’t want Donald to raise his voice. She had just collected Marnie from school, who wasn’t impressed that in addition to numbers homework, she had to read over two pages of Janet and John.

From their avocado-coloured fitted kitchen, Helena could see Marnie seated at the dining table at the rear of the sitting room, swinging her spindl, six-year-old legs. She looked like Pippi Longstocking, with her severe dark blonde plaits either side of her face. Every so often, she would award her reading book a cross stare. It made Helena smile.

“Are you listening to me?”

Helena turned back to her husband. “Of course I am. Are you listening to me?”

Donald’s weary eyes, a washed-out grey, glinted with annoyance. “I do nothing else.”

Helena’s spine prickled. That was a ridiculous comment. He was never here. Donald would go off to his work as office manager at the local glass factory just as dawn was breaking over the rooftops of Briar Glen. Helena would ensure Donald’s breakfast things were set out for him the night before, together with his packed lunch prepared and sitting in the fridge in a Tupperware box. He was never home before six o’clock at the earliest.

She and Marnie were lucky if they were able to spend a couple of hours in his company, before it was time for Marnie to go to bed, and Donald would call it a night not long after his daughter. Then the whole circus would begin again the next morning.

Helena played with the ends of her long, centre-parted, brunette hair. She had tried to emulate the actress of the moment, Ali McGraw, from Love Story. Someone in the corner shop had remarked to her the other week that she bore a resemblance to Ali McGraw and she’d blushed with delight. God, she loved that film!

“But what about Marnie?”

Helena blinked out of her kohl-lined eyes. “What about her?”

“She’ll end up turning into one of those latch-key kids.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! That’s the whole point, Don. She wouldn’t.” Helena observed Donald’s body language. He was all folded arms and grim mouth under his Peter Wingard-influenced moustache. “It would be perfect. That new gift shop in the village has only been going a few weeks and they are desperate for part-time staff.”

Donald’s fine brows twitched. They always did that when he disapproved of something.

“They’re opening up a crockery section and when I mentioned to Mrs Auld that I was very interested in tea sets…”

Donald shifted his position against the sink.

“I haven’t forgotten about Marnie at all, Don. She’s at school from 9a.m. till three. That’s why a job like this would be perfect. Mrs Auld said I can work 9.30a.m. till 2.30p.m. three days a week to begin with and then I can increase it to five days if I want to.”

Annoyance swept through her like a giant wave. “Do you really think I would have even considered it, if it had been inconvenient?” Her attention swung back again to her daughter, who was now slurping her orange juice through a straw and swinging her legs in a wilder, more uninhibited fashion than before under the table.

“Of course not,” snapped Donald. This was one of those rare occasions when he was home at a reasonable time, thanks to an optician’s appointment. He was still dressed in his suit and had now loosened his paisley kipper tie. “I just think that a woman … wel l… a wife and a mum …should be running the house.”

Helena stared at him, her jaw slackening. She felt as if she was trapped in one of those dire American sitcoms. “It might have escaped your notice but there are some women who do go back to work after having children. Look at Connie at number three. She works three days a week in the hair salon.”

At the mention of their glamorous neighbour, Donald’s moustache twisted. “That’s a case in point. Look at her. That poor sod of a husband of hers has to do some of the shopping and take Louise and Paul to school.”

“Only every so often and that’s because she’s been made a senior stylist now.”

So that was what all this was about. Donald was worried he was going to be asked to help out with Marnie. Heaven forbid, he might even have to undertake the odd school drop-off or pop to the corner shop if they ran out of bread and milk.

Was that his issue? Was it because he was concerned that Helena working a few hours a week might emasculate his role as breadwinner?