Dragon Land (9 page)

Now, when I think of that night, I’m ashamed to remember how relieved I was that Milly hadn’t taken up Mum’s offer. I consoled myself later with thinking it was the selfishness of youth and not some horrid part of my being.

‘Well, your tea is in the oven, but I think it’s a bit dried up by now,’ said Granny, bringing out two plates of bacon and eggs.

The bacon was crispy and the egg had a brown frilly edge and a hard yolk, but we were both hungry so we ate it up without complaint.

The next day was my birthday and I couldn’t help thinking how similar it was to my sixth, when the news had come in about Dad being missing in action. Six whole years, but the war was still responsible for victims of its violence.

I got a lovely nightgown from Granny, and books from Mum and Aunt Margaret. Granny made a small birthday cake, but somehow the pleasure of the celebration was missing.

I was a bit apprehensive at the thought of going to a new school, but Mum said to look on it as an adventure.

‘You’re so like your dad, Lizzie, full of confidence. I often think you have none of my nature in you. Your dad liked going out and meeting people at the swimming and tennis clubs and he was always so full of life.’

I knew this was true because Mum didn’t have a lot of friends, preferring to go out to work then stay at home in the evenings. Her sole friend was Milly, and I knew she was upset at not being allowed off work to go to Bella’s funeral and be a support for her friend. But Milly understood that having a job and keeping it was very important in the city because so many people were unemployed and times were very hard.

Granny had offered to go to the funeral, and although Mum would have liked to have been there, it was important that one member of our family went to pay their respects. So Granny had put on her best black coat and hat and gone along to Milly’s house, where the small service was held, and although she hadn’t gone to the cemetery, she had stayed for a cup of tea and sandwiches, which she told Mum had been delicious. Mum said Milly had been touched by this gesture, while Granny said it had all been so sad, especially as Milly was now all alone in the world.

‘The one good thing,’ said Granny, ‘is that she has good neighbours and they will look after her. I’ve told her she must come here for her tea whenever she wants to.’

So my new life at the Harris Academy coincided with Milly coming to the house two or three times a week. On these occasions I would go into the bedroom and do my homework before going back into the living room and listening to the conversation.

I wasn’t the cleverest of scholars, although I did try hard to take in all the different subjects. It was so different from the primary school that at times I felt out of my depth. My favourite subjects were English, geography and history, and while I could manage arithmetic I didn’t really like it very much.

Every morning Mum and I would catch the tram, and although she got off at the High Street I stayed on until it reached Tay Street, when I would race up to the playground in time for the bell.

There was just one thing worrying me and that came in the shape of Agnes Burnett. She was in the year above me, but I remembered her well from Rosebank School. She was a relative of Emily, some cousin or something, and she was a bully. She was tall for her age but had a plain, dumpling-like face and she wore glasses which seemed to magnify her pale blue eyes.

I had just finished my first month at school when she recognised me in the playground. ‘Oh, it’s skinny, dizzy Lizzie,’ she said to the three girls who appeared to be her best friends. ‘I wonder how you managed to get to this school, as you weren’t the brightest girl in class, were you?’

I ignored her and turned my back to walk away. Enraged, she ran after me and poked me with her finger. ‘Don’t you turn your back on me, Lizzie Flint.’

I didn’t turn round but kept walking away, and I heard her friends laugh. I was shaking with annoyance as I sat in my class. I realised I had made an enemy before I had had time to make a friend.

This name-calling went on every day for the next month, and although I wasn’t intimidated by Agnes and her friends, I hated the malice that was behind the taunts.

Back at home, Granny and Mum would quiz me on my day at school and I always tried to put on a bright, confident smile and tell them everything was fine. I didn’t want to worry them by saying I hated it. I also got letters and postcards from Aunt Margaret asking the same thing and hoping I was enjoying the new experience. I decided to tell my aunt about the bullying, as I reckoned she lived so far away that my torment would remain a secret. I asked her not to say anything to Mum and, to my relief, she didn’t.

It was one cold wet morning in October when things came to a head. I had arrived in the playground a bit earlier than usual and I didn’t see Agnes or her three cronies until they came up behind me.

‘Oh, here’s dizzy Lizzie looking like a drowned rat,’ said Agnes, and she gave me a hefty shove that landed me in a puddle of water.

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Agnes, while the other three sniggered. ‘Dizzy Lizzie’s wet herself. You’d better get Mummy to put some nappies on you.’

I stood up, and without thinking I grabbed Agnes by her jacket. Her blue eyes almost stood out on stalks in surprise.

‘If you do that to me again, Agnes Burnett, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll wonder what hit you.’ I was so angry. ‘I remember how you pulled the head and arms off Emily’s favourite doll, you horrible girl, and Emily cried for hours and hours until her mother told you to get out and not come back.’

Her pals looked on in amazement at this revelation. But Agnes walked away and said she was going to report me to the teacher. This was what I was dreading, and if the news got back to Mum then she would be so disappointed in me.

I went quickly to the cloakroom to dry my gym tunic, as the hem was soaking wet. I didn’t realise a girl was following me until she stood in front of me.

‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘I’m Laura. Don’t let that wee monster worry you. I’ve noticed she always picks on the girls who are pretty. Perhaps it’s because she has a face like a boiled gooseberry.’

I laughed and had a quick peek in the mirror. I hadn’t thought of myself as being pretty, but this girl had said I was.

‘I’m Lizzie. I don’t think I’ve seen you in school.’

‘No, I just started this week, but I’ve been watching that bully and her pals and if it’s any consolation she picks on other girls as well. The pretty ones.’

I was so pleased to find out Laura was to be in my class and that I had found a friend at last.

Then a couple of weeks later we found out that Agnes and her pals had been in front of the headmaster and given a stern warning about their behaviour.

From then on, apart from receiving furious glares from my previous tormentors, life became happier. It was years later that I found out my aunt knew the headmaster from her own teaching days and that she had written to him about the situation.

Laura Niven lived in the Hawkhill and I often went home with her after school. Her mother would be baking when we went in and there was always the smell of home-made scones or pancakes smothered in strawberry jam, which we ate with relish.

Her mum would scold her: ‘Leave some of the scones for your dad, Laura.’

Laura’s dad, Wullie, was a joiner who worked in a small furniture factory, and he was a fervent socialist. We would be doing our homework while he spouted on about the state of the country. ‘I’m lucky to have a job, but what about the thousands who are on the dole? There’s a lot of anger in the country and it will all come to a head soon. Just you wait and see.’

Laura would giggle when he went on, while Irene, her mum, would calmly wash the dishes or sit down with her knitting.

‘Are you listening to me, Irene?’

Irene would look up and nod. ‘Yes, I’m listening to you, Wullie, and you’re right.’

Appeased, he would sit back in his comfy armchair and read the paper.

I loved going to Laura’s house after school, but one night Mum said I wasn’t to bother Mrs Niven.

‘Bring your friend here sometimes, Lizzie. After all, Laura’s mum will have enough to do without you getting under her feet every afternoon.’

Granny was upstairs in Mrs Mulholland’s house, so I told Mum I didn’t like to bother her with my friend.

‘You know how Granny has her own routine, Mum. Anyway, Mrs Niven says she doesn’t mind me going to her house after school.’

Actually the main reason for not inviting Laura back was the fact that Granny was old-fashioned in her conversation and outlook and she would constantly question Laura about her lessons and what she wanted to do after leaving school. No, I much preferred the easy-going atmosphere at the Hawkhill, especially when Laura’s dad arrived home from work with tiny curls of wood chippings in his hair and smelling of varnish and glue.

One evening I was on my way home to Victoria Road when I met Andy Baxter. He saw me but didn’t speak, so I said, ‘Hullo, Andy, it’s Lizzie Flint. Maybe you don’t remember me.’

He smiled and came over. ‘I didn’t want to bother you, Lizzie. How is your mother and Granny?’

I said they were both well. He didn’t have his black eyepatch and I noticed he had a glass eye. He saw me looking at it and said ruefully, ‘I’m not sure if this is an improvement on the patch.’ His jacket and trousers looked threadbare and he was wearing a pair of sandshoes that were scuffed. I didn’t mean to stare, but he looked embarrassed and said he had to be on his way home.

‘Have you got a job, Andy?’ I asked, but was immediately sorry for being nosy.

‘No, I haven’t, but I’m still looking and hopefully something will turn up.’

On that note he hurried up the Hilltown and I made my way home, feeling so sad for him and the hundreds of others who were unemployed.

I told Mum and Granny that I had been talking to him and they said the same thing, that it was a terrible world when so many people were living on the breadline.

The next evening at Laura’s house I mentioned this meeting to her dad and he became so angry.

‘There’s going to be a lot of unrest coming and this government will have to get people back into work. That young man fought and was disabled fighting for his country and what thanks does he get? Bloody nothing.’

Mrs Niven looked at her husband. ‘Mind your language, Wullie.’

Wullie made a snorting noise and disappeared behind his newspaper.

The country was in a state of unrest. The miners were told that their wages were to be cut. Wullie Niven was solidly behind them.

‘The miners are telling the government that there’s not to be “a penny off the pay, a minute on the day”, and they are right to call for a general strike.’

Irene was worried. ‘What will happen if you have to go on strike, Wullie? How will we manage to live?’

‘Well, we have to stand up to this government that wants to keep the working man down,’ he said, but without much conviction.

Laura said afterwards that her father was big on conviction but still afraid of her mum’s wrath when it came to money matters.

I have to admit we weren’t too worried over this news because my old adversary at school was on the verge of leaving. Agnes Burnett, or Argy Bargy, as Laura and I had nicknamed her, hadn’t really bothered me very much since her telling-off, but I still had to put up with her bulbous eyes glaring at me most days and I was often the person who got a shove from her now and again. However, I tried hard not to retaliate and that made her even madder, which gave me a feeling of satisfaction.

‘Just think,’ said Laura, ‘maybe Argy Bargy won’t manage to get a job because of all this unemployment and she’ll have to go begging on the street, and what will we do? Well, we’ll pass her by with a sneer.’ For a moment, this thought pleased us.

The papers were full of the chaos caused by the strike, but then it turned out that volunteers were maintaining most of the services and trains. Trams and food supplies were almost at a normal level.

Wullie was annoyed about these volunteers. ‘It’s all right for these students and folk with money to step in and do the work of the strikers, but this country is rife with unemployment and folk are rioting on the streets because they don’t have enough money to feed their families.’

Then it was announced that the Trades Union Congress, the miners’ union, had decided to end the strike.

Wullie was enraged. ‘The paper’s saying the TUC is calling off the strike, Irene! It’s a bloody …’ He became silent as Irene gave him a stern look. ‘It’s a blinking disgrace, I can tell you,’ he muttered, shaking the paper in disgust.

Laura and I had to muffle our laughter. He gave us both a hard look, but I began to cough and he seemed to think I had come down with the cold.

Still, what he said was true. We had witnessed the chaos on the Nethergate one day after school when an enraged crowd had tried to overturn a lorry that was being driven by a volunteer. It had been a frightening experience, and Laura had said she was glad her father was still working and not one of the mob that surrounded the lorry.

For a while now, Mum had been telling me to bring Laura round and I mentioned this to her one day.

‘I would love to come to see your granny and mother.’

I glanced at her, thinking she was pretending, but she looked sincere, so the next night, instead of heading for the Hawkhill, we made our way to my house. I almost mentioned how quiet it would be and how Granny could be old-fashioned, but as things turned out I’d got everything wrong.

Laura and Granny got on like a house on fire. When she realised that Granny loved knitting, she asked if she could be shown how to do this. I had never enjoyed knitting, but Laura loved it and soon the two of them would be knitting and chatting while I did my homework and then read my latest book. After a while, I joined in and was soon knitting squares to be made up into blankets for the church, and I was ashamed to think I had ever thought it boring.

One evening, Granny asked Laura what she was planning to do after leaving school. Laura’s face lit up. ‘I’m hoping to be a teacher.’ She turned to me. ‘We can both become teachers, Lizzie, wouldn’t that be great, and maybe we could be in the same school.’