Dreams to Sell (2 page)

‘They say food's so short, we have to help other countries who are worse off than we are,' Roz told him, taking out the porridge pan. ‘At least clothes are off the ration; suppose we should be grateful for that.'

‘Who cares about clothes? Food's all that matters.'

‘Bathroom's free!' cried Chrissie from the doorway. ‘Better be quick, though, Dougal. The MacGarry lads will be down any minute.'

‘As long as I don't have to see old Atkinson,' said Dougal, disappearing, as Chrissie ran to get dressed and Roz rushed about, preparing porridge and boiling the kettle for tea.

It was pleasant enough in the kitchen end of the main room, she reflected, with the warmth of the little range beginning to give out heat, the kettle singing, the porridge bubbling. If only the living area weren't so cluttered, stuffed as it was with pieces of second-hand furniture, including a heavy sideboard where Flo had placed a photograph of her husband and her children's father, Arthur Rainey, in his soldier's uniform.

Roz never liked to look at that. Too sad. Too much of a reminder that life had never been the same since he'd been killed at El Alamein during the Second World War. Her mother liked to look at it, though, in spite of taking Arthur's death so hard. Always had, even though being so depressed it was the family who'd had to take over for her until she'd felt up to taking a job again. Now she was working behind the cash desk in the same café where Chrissie was a waitress. She was certainly better than she'd been, even if they did still have to tread carefully around her, taking each day as it came.

Doesn't seem too bad today, Roz thought, feeling relieved again as her mother appeared, looking bright enough, a cigarette at her lips and a shawl over her nightdress.

‘Is the tea ready?' she asked hoarsely. ‘I'll get dressed later.'

‘Everything's ready, Ma. And here come the others.'

‘Morning, Ma!' called Dougal.

‘Morning, Ma,' murmured Chrissie, giving her mother a hug.

And as they all sat down to their breakfast, the family exchanging glances that said all was well, Flo stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray Roz had placed ready.

‘Awful cold this morning, eh?' she asked, sipping her tea. ‘When'll spring be coming, then?'

‘Och, I reckon it's on its way,' Dougal told her. ‘But then, I'm an optimist.'

By the time the kitchen clock showed half past eight, they were all scattered: Flo and Chrissie to the Café Sunshine off St Andrew Square, Dougal to his firm in Fountainbridge, Roz to the offices of Tarrel and Thom's in the New Town. Unfortunately, she couldn't go all the way by tram, which meant she had to finish the journey that morning running through a biting wind, worrying that she would be late. In fact, when she reached Tarrel's offices in elegant Queen Street, she was exactly on time, but it had been a near thing.

Mr MacKenna, in charge of the property department, was nice and easy-going. He was a big, broad man in his forties who couldn't be a better boss, but Mr Banks, the head of the firm, was a stickler for punctuality, correct dress and professional manners. It wouldn't do to be caught by him coming in late, especially with wind-blown hair and a look of anxiety.

Luckily, he wasn't about when Roz arrived, and nor, of course, was anyone called either Tarrel or Thom, both founders of the law firm being long dead, although Mr Banks was a great nephew of the Henry Tarrel who'd first opened his doors as a lawyer back in the 1850s. No property department then, of course, but Mr Banks, being a shrewd businessman, was as keen to move with the times as any other competitor and always backed new ideas, if sound, and if the firm's high standards were observed.

Which, of course, they were, not only by Mr MacKenna in his department and in his general legal duties, but also by his colleagues, Mr Newman and Mr Wray, who were both partners in the firm.

There were no women lawyers, Roz had noticed when she was first appointed. Apart from herself, the only women employed were Miss Calder, secretary to Mr Banks and unofficial clerk to the practice as she knew everything anyone wanted to know, and Norma Ward, office typist – the only person Roz called by her first name. Strictly formal, you could say, was Tarrel and Thom's. But in that respect it wasn't much different from most professional work places in 1949.

Roz loved it, anyway, in spite of not finding herself on the ladder to promotion. She loved the wide entrance hall, where there were always flowers arranged by Miss Calder, and the large rooms lined with books. The solid mahogany desks, the leather chairs, the parquet floors, the smell of polish. All the building spelled quality and quality was what Roz appreciated.

Maybe because her own home, the flat at 35 Deller Street in the St Leonard's area of the city, though immensely better than some of the tenements she knew, was so lacking in the kind of quality she admired at Tarrel's, she felt in spite of herself rather dissatisfied.

She'd no right to complain. In fact, she was grateful that her parents had done so well to get to Deller Street, her dad not earning much, working at the electricity station and always finding the rent a struggle. No, no, she wouldn't complain. Just couldn't help dreaming of one day having some place of quality herself. Why not? Everyone was entitled to dream. Hoping she looked tidier than she felt, she picked up the post that had already been left for her by Miss Calder and hurried into the property department.

Once a fine reception room in the original house, this was still spacious and elegant, though now divided to make a good-sized office for Mr MacKenna and a smaller one for his assistant, Roz. Hers had room only for a typing table and filing cabinets, whilst the lawyer's held his great mahogany desk, his fine bookcases containing law manuals and reference books, and two leather chairs for clients. Prominent on one wall was a large street map, while another showed a collection of black and white photographs of properties for sale, the exterior views having been taken by a professional photographer, the interiors by Mr MacKenna or Roz herself.

She had been pleased to learn how to use a camera and had become quite proficient at snapping sitting rooms and hallways, afterwards updating the collection regularly at the office as sales could move fast in Edinburgh. Like the rest of Scotland, there was no chain to hold up sales, offers being legally binding, having usually been made as sealed bids to lawyers' private auctions – changes of mind, therefore, being costly and rare.

‘All very different from the English practice,' Mr MacKenna had explained to Roz on her first day, ‘and better, we believe, as the buyer has no risk of losing the property when someone else tops his offer. On the other hand, he might have paid too much, for no one has any idea what others might bid. Of course, his lawyer will have advised him on the best price.' Here, Mr MacKenna had shrugged and smiled. ‘As best he can. We have access to previous sale figures for the area, but we still have no crystal ball.'

‘Must be really worrying, then, finding the right price,' Roz had commented.

‘All part of the fun of being in the property business, Miss Rainey.' Mr MacKenna's eyes had twinkled mischievously. ‘And I'll bet you didn't think there was any fun in that at all, did you?'

‘Oh, no, I didn't think that, Mr MacKenna,' she'd answered, wondering if he was being serious about finding his work ‘fun', and feeling cheered to think he might be. ‘I never thought that.'

‘Good for you,' he'd answered, and she'd had the comforting feeling that they were going to ‘get on'.

So it had turned out, and it was another reason why she didn't mind coming into work. Getting on with your boss – that was important, eh?

‘Morning, Mr MacKenna!' she cried on that wild March day as she took off her coat and Mr MacKenna, looking up from his desk, gave her his usual friendly smile.

‘Morning, Miss Rainey. Got blown in by the wind?'

‘Oh, heavens, I hoped you wouldn't notice!' She put her hands to her hair. ‘I should have gone to tidy up, but I didn't want to be late.'

‘Not to worry, you look fine. And you're never late.'

‘There's always a first time. The tram seemed slower than ever this morning – honestly, I felt I could have got here as quickly on foot.'

‘Cheer up; we'll be taking the car this afternoon, anyway. Got a couple of places to see, haven't we?'

‘The flat you valued in the Old Town and the house in the Grange. Are we all right for petrol?'

As petrol was still rationed, trips to properties by car were rationed too.

‘Sure, we're fine. Personally, I don't think it'll be long before petrol comes off the ration, anyway. That might be the time for you to think of learning to drive, Miss Rainey. Ever considered it? Very useful in our line of work.'

‘Me?' She'd never thought of such a thing.

Dougal could drive, though it was a friend who had taught him, and of course he'd no car of his own, but it would be too expensive for Roz to take professional lessons. Still, the idea of driving appealed. She could just picture herself driving around as though she were Mr MacKenna. Just another dream, of course.

‘I wouldn't mind,' she said thoughtfully. ‘If it was possible.'

‘Everything is possible,' he told her as she went to hang up her coat, sort out the post and collect the office diary in which she kept appointments.

‘Ten o'clock,' she read out. ‘Mr and Mrs Henryson are meeting you here, Mr MacKenna.'

‘And then I'm taking them to the south side. They're wanting something bigger – children growing up like mine.' Mr MacKenna sighed. ‘Well, let's hope they go for what I've found. There's one in Winter Place I'd really like them to take off our hands – hasn't had a thing done to it since nineteen thirty-five.'

‘I know the one,' Roz said, laughing. ‘You take somebody to see it pretty much every week.'

The lawyer laughed too, but then became serious. ‘Still, it's encouraging, you know, that so many properties of whatever condition are coming our way. Everybody thought there'd be nothing available for years after the war, but the market's not too bad at all. Nothing new, of course, except prefabs, and they're not coming up for sale.'

Not that Tarrel's would have been selling them if they had, Roz thought, their business being concerned only with traditional housing, but it was good to know that some ordinary folk were getting roofs over their heads. Pity there couldn't be more of them, to ease the terrible overcrowding in some parts of the Old Town, but it would take more than a few prefabs to achieve that.

‘Anything else in the diary?' Mr MacKenna was asking. ‘I probably won't be back until lunchtime, anyway.'

When she told him that, apart from their visits that afternoon, he just had a call to make to a lawyer wanting to arrange a sealed bids auction, he said he would make the call straight away. Meanwhile, she could get on with preparing their spread for the property page of
The Scotsman
– she hadn't forgotten the deadline, had she?

‘Oh, no, Mr MacKenna,' she said swiftly. ‘I hadn't forgotten.'

‘What am I saying?' he cried, his eyes twinkling again. ‘As though you'd ever forget anything, Miss Rainey!'

Oh, yes, I'm very efficient, she thought, returning to her own little office. But when does it all begin paying off? She'd never mentioned her ambitions to Mr MacKenna, though she was sure he was aware of them. Maybe, today, she might?

‘Oh, you're so lucky, Roz!' sighed Norma Ward as she and Roz ate their lunchtime sandwiches in the little back room set aside as a staffroom. Bread and the same old cheddar cheese – oh, how boring! But even eating in a café, which they rarely did, the menu wouldn't have been much more exciting. To get back to pre-war standards was taking longer than anyone had ever expected.

‘Lucky?' asked Roz, wondering why this seemed to be the day when everyone was envying her for no good reason. ‘How d'you mean?'

‘Well, getting out of the office the way you do,' Norma answered, gazing at Roz with large brown eyes.

She was a short girl, rather plump, with curly red hair that annoyed her, and a mass of freckles across her turned-up nose. At only nineteen and so very lively, Roz sometimes wondered if she might have been happier in a big jolly office instead of solemn old Tarrel's, which suited Roz herself but not everyone. Norma, however, seemed content enough to stay, which pleased Roz anyway. They got on well.

‘I mean, driving about,' Norma added now. ‘And with lovely Ronnie, and all.'

‘Lovely Ronnie!' Roz burst into laughter. ‘Hey, you'll get shot if Miss Calder hears you calling Mr MacKenna that!'

‘Well, he is a lovely man, Roz, you have to admit. Always smiling, always so friendly. Not like Mr Wray, eh? He's thin as a skeleton and always frowning. Or Mr Newman – he never even knows who you are!'

‘Yes, well, Mr MacKenna is nice to work with, I agree. I'm certainly lucky there.'

‘Aye, and his wife's lucky, too, being married to him. She might have been worried about him working with someone like you, but he's no' the sort to try anything on, I'm sure. Anyway, he's more like a father, eh?'

‘Of course he doesn't try anything on!' cried Roz, glancing round to see if anyone might be able to overhear, but the lawyers were all out at lunch. Only Miss Calder, who usually took a late lunch hour, would still be around, ready to answer the telephone or the doorbell if anyone called. ‘And yes, he's like a father. Been as kind as any dad, I can tell you!'

She jumped up to put the kettle on. ‘Honestly, Norma, the things you say! I can tell you this – never in this world would Mr MacKenna try anything on, as you call it, and I don't believe anyone who works here would!'

‘I know, and you're right. Mr MacKenna wouldn't even think of it, anyway. He's just devoted to his wife and bairns, and that's the sort of guy I'd like to have. If I ever meet one at all.' Norma sighed and took out a paper bag. ‘Like an oatcake, Roz? Ma managed to make some the other day. I've scraped some butter on.'