Gift from the Gallowgate (33 page)

By the next morning, the skies were clearer, the storm had abated but the roads were still packed with ice. Telling myself that it would be OK, I took the car and drove very, very slowly,
turning into any skids and correcting the car’s direction, and was congratulating myself on my dexterity as I reached the highest point on Anderson Drive, with the school in sight and just a
short run down to get there.

Then I saw that three cars and a small van were sitting broadside across the road, and panic made me hit the brake hard so that I wouldn’t crash into them. A big mistake! This skid took
the car to within a hairsbreadth of the van, and as I sat thanking my lucky stars I’d missed it, trying to steady my racing heart and praying that I’d be able to get myself out of the
pile of snow I’d landed in, I noticed that the janitor had arrived, complete with a large bucket of sand. One of the children on his way to school had seen the original four vehicles stuck
there, so he hadn’t come for my sole benefit, but at least I did get out eventually.

I had such a fright that I applied for a transfer, explaining the circumstances and asking for a school nearer my home. I didn’t hold out too much hope of having my request answered, so
you can imagine my delight at being told that I would be starting at Hazlehead Primary – practically on my doorstop – at the beginning of the next school year (mid August 1975.)

Before I end the Smithfield saga, I must tell you another little story. One of the girls amongst the ‘team-taught’ classes was called Amanda Wallace. Yes, you’ve guessed. She
was John Wallace’s sister, a quiet, well-behaved girl who was quite like him facially, but she, at least, upheld their angelic looks. Only a week or so before the summer holidays, when I
would be leaving Smithfield for good, Mandy waited behind one afternoon when all the others had gone out.

‘Did you want to ask me something, Mandy?’ I asked her.

‘Yes, Mrs Davidson, and I hope you won’t be angry.’

Wondering what she was going to say, I assured her that I wouldn’t be angry, so she gave a nervous sigh. ‘John wants to see you.’

This did take me aback, but it wasn’t the poor girl’s fault. Knowing her brother, I guessed that he had threatened to do something to her if she didn’t do as he told her.
‘All right, Mandy. Tell him to come tomorrow afternoon. Will he manage that?’

‘Yes, he gets taken home in a Rolls, so he’s always home before me.’

Coward that I was, I dreaded seeing him again. His sister had likely told her family that I was going to another school, but what could he have to say to me? Had he been harbouring resentment at
me for ripping his jumper? But that was a few years ago. Surely he wouldn’t even remember it?

He came through the glass doors smiling benevolently, but monsters could do that, couldn’t they? Smile one minute, pounce the next, ‘Hello, John,’ I said, as normally as I
could, ‘it’s nice to see you. How are you getting on at Cordyce?’

His smile widened to a grin. ‘It’s great, Mrs Davidson. I get to draw as often as I like, and I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.’

‘But, John, if you don’t listen to the lessons and don’t do what you’re told, how will you ever learn?’ I had to say it, whatever the consequences.

The grin faded, but just a little. ‘I came to say I was sorry for what I did to you when I was in your class, Mrs Davidson. I didna hate you, you ken.’

‘Well, I’m glad of that.’

I don’t know what became of him, but I must just say here that although another two of my ex-pupils are now serving time for murder, he is the one I’d have backed as a killer. I have
to admit that one of the other two was a little hooligan sometimes, but he was a likeable rogue, really. The other one, I just can’t understand. He was never any bother, in fact, just the
opposite. If anyone in the class wet the floor (in Primary Three) or was sick, it was this lad who offered to clean it up. He was a poor scholar, but very anxious to please. As I write, it is only
a matter of weeks since he was tried and sentenced for killing an older man and I haven’t got over it yet. His photograph was in the newspaper, and although he must be over forty, he
hadn’t changed much. I still recognised him.

I had been told to report to the Hazlehead headmaster before the schools broke up, so I was allowed off half an hour early one afternoon to make myself known.

I was later to learn that Mr Robb had learned much from Mr Robertson when he was an assistant under him, and their methods were very similar, but their natures were completely different. I sat
down when I was told to sit, and watched my new boss reading the information he’d been sent about me.

‘Oh, my God!’ he exclaimed, suddenly. ‘Not another Davidson?’

‘Yes,’ I trembled. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not really, but we’ve a Mrs Davidson in Room 10,’ (I might be well out in this), ‘the sewing teacher’s a Mrs Davidson and the janitor’s Jimmy
Davidson.’

‘My husband’s called Jimmy,’ I volunteered, then wished I’d held my tongue.

‘Oh, well, it’ll maybe be all right. We’re putting on a concert tonight, so if you like to come along, you’ll meet the rest of the staff.’

With that he picked up another piece of paper and I knew that the meeting was over. I did go to the concert that night, and was glad that it was every bit as good as the concerts we had staged
at Smithfield. I had seen other school concerts that were pretty poor, and I’d heard of some that were awful, but both these schools were fortunate in having teachers who were very
musical.

After the concert, of course, there was a cheese and wine party, a time for the teachers to relax after weeks and weeks of rehearsals and one evening of utter bedlam although it usually kept to
the saying, ‘It’ll be all right on the night’. I was made very welcome by all, and went home in a very ‘merry’ mood. To put it succinctly, I’d to make more than
one attempt before I managed to get through the school gates on my way home . . . and I was on my feet not in a car!

Then it was time to say goodbye to Smithfield. By this time, Mr Robb had been transferred to what was classed a ‘better’ school (it was in a less rundown area) and
the deputy head had been promoted to fill the post. I was sorry to leave such a friendly staff, and just as sorry to leave the children. Hazlehead’s pupils were an unknown quantity to me,
although I lived a mere five minutes away from the school, and there were three who actually lived in the same building as I did.

I had been eight years in Smithfield, happy years on the whole, and goodness knows what was to come.

My first class at Hazlehead School was as bad as my first at Smithfield; worse, in a way, because it was a Primary Five and the children were two years older. Both sets could
be very likeable if they wanted to be, but very hard to control if they didn’t. There was one big difference – I didn’t have to slave at trying to get the Hazlehead pupils to
speak proper English. They already did.

I hadn’t been there long when I came across another difference. I was marking the homework jotters while they were doing an exercise from a textbook, when one of the girls –
let’s call her Annette – said, ‘Mrs Davidson, Malcolm’s swearing.’

Bearing in mind the kind of bad language that had been exchanged at Smithfield, I thought it best not to ask what he had said. Instead, I assumed my sternest face as I looked at the boy.
‘Surely not, Malcolm.’

There was five minutes’ silence, then, ‘Mrs Davidson, he swore again.’

After the third announcement, I said, ‘Malcolm, stay behind after the bell. I want you to take a letter home to your mother.’

The threat was enough to nip it in the bud, but, remembering what had happened once before when I didn’t carry out a threat, I wrote the letter, telling his mother that I’d had to
reprimand him several times for swearing, and that perhaps a few words from her would stop it.

When Malcolm went home, sulkily clutching the envelope, Annette came sneaking back into the classroom, ‘He did swear, Mrs Davidson.’

That’s when I made another mistake. ‘Can you tell me what he said?’

She drew her mouth in for a moment, as if debating whether or not to sully her lips by repeating the word, but then she muttered, ‘Hell!’

My heart sank. That wasn’t really what I’d have called a swear word, but the letter was probably being handed over right now, because he lived only a stone’s throw from the
school. Sure enough, Annette had just gone out when the Head walked in. ‘There’s a lady on the phone asking for you, Mrs Davidson.’

It was Malcolm’s mother, in a filthy mood because I had addressed the letter to her, when she and her husband brought up their son together. ‘Most mothers prefer not to let their
husbands know about this sort of thing,’ I excused myself.

She ignored that, and asked what I had dreaded her asking. ‘And what was this awful swear word that he is supposed to have used?’

Ice was dripping from each syllable she uttered, but I could only say, ‘I didn’t find out until after Malcolm went home. He had said “Hell”, that was all, but . .
.’

She didn’t let me explain about my last school. ‘Oh, dear! Hell? Now that
is
a dreadful swear word!’ This was sarcasm to the
nth
degree. ‘My goodness,
your delicate ears must have been truly assaulted by that!’

She slammed the receiver down, and I turned apprehensively to Mr Robertson, who had heard only what I’d been saying, and gave him the whole story. His reaction, thank goodness, was
completely different. ‘Silly bitch!’ he grinned. ‘Never mind her.’

At Hazlehead, Primary Five classes went to Stirling for a day in two coaches, and although I was to have my student and one of the parents to help, I wasn’t looking
forward to it. As it happened, it wasn’t bad behaviour of any kind that upset the apple cart. The trip was at the end of May, and I’d been instructed by the mother of a girl called June
on my first afternoon that she was a diabetic, and that she always carried two sugar lumps, which I had to give her if she started acting peculiarly. There had been no sign of anything so far, and
I had almost forgotten the warning.

The day of the trip eventually arrived, the bags containing the children’s packed lunches were stowed into the boot of our coach, and off we set. This wasn’t like Smithfield, where
an afternoon’s outing to the beach had revealed that it was the first time most of them had seen the sea. This bunch, or most of them, were accustomed to being driven around in cars, and were
quite blasé about the scenery. The second coach, Mrs McLean’s class, was to visit the Robert the Bruce Memorial first and then the Wallace Monument, while we were to go to the Wallace
Monument first and then the Bruce Memorial. The two coaches were to meet up eventually at the Castle, where they could accommodate larger numbers.

Arriving in Stirling, our bus went to the Wallace Monument as scheduled. It’s a long, very steep walk up from the car park to the monument, and when I saw the toilet block at the foot of
the hill, I said, ‘If any of you want to go to the toilet, you’d better go now.’

My student went in with the girls who opted for it, while Mr Smith, the parent helper, went in with the boys and I took the remainder very slowly up the hill. Everything was going well; we all
enjoyed what we saw inside the tall building, the boys, especially, being impressed by the armour and weaponry – in particular the huge double-handled sword hanging outside, said to be the
actual one William Wallace had used.

Before we attempted the descent, I warned my class, ‘Please keep behind me, all of you. If you start running, you won’t be able to stop, the path’s so steep.’ I set off,
slowly and steadily downwards, and we were almost at the foot when I became aware of heavy feet overtaking me. When I looked round, I saw June plodding purposefully, one foot after the other
landing with a thump on the gravelly surface. ‘June!’ I warned, trying to grab hold of her, but she appeared not to have heard and carried on.

I couldn’t run after her, it was too dangerous, but she had only a few yards to go to reach level ground, so I let her go. At the toilet area, of course, those who hadn’t paid a call
before we went up, were now desperate to go, myself included.

I was washing my hands when I heard the racing footsteps. ‘Mrs Davidson! Mrs Davidson!’ and in burst about half a dozen girls. ‘June’s gone all stiff, and she
doesn’t know what the student’s saying to her . . . or anybody. She’s on a seat and you’d better come quick.’

All of us ran as quickly as we could to where June was sitting on a bench with her legs straight out in front of her like a dummy. The other girls were hovering anxiously around her. It was only
then that I remembered that she was a diabetic, and searched her blazer pocket – no sugar lumps. I asked if anyone would recognise her lunch bag, but all I got was a mass of negative
headshakes.

By means of getting each child to take out his or her own bag, I was left with the one I needed, but even after going through it with a fine toothcomb, I found no sugar lumps. Mr Smith ran to
ask the nearby hotel to phone for an ambulance, but the receptionist went one better than that. She offered to take the girl to the hospital in her car.

As a matter of interest, if you have never tried to stuff a board-stiff ten-year-old girl inside a Mini, you have missed one of life’s most frustrating experiences. We did pack her in
eventually, and Mr Smith accompanied her to hospital. The rest of the class had still to see the Bruce Memorial, and I couldn’t leave them in the hands of one poor student.

Sadly, because of the long delay, we had missed our time slot at the Memorial, and pupils from another school had already gone in. We did see the statue, the warrior King Robert sitting proudly
astride his mighty steed on the grass outside, but that was all. On, then, to our last port of call – the Castle and there was June, running around amongst Mrs McLean’s pupils, an ice
cream cone in her hand. It seems that the insulin injection the hospital gave her had been all that she needed.

In Primary Six, I went to Edinburgh with the same pupils for five days. The boys were most impressed in the Science Museum, while the girls loved the story of Greyfriars Bobby
and took photos of the dog’s statue sitting outside the cemetery where his master lies buried. They all seemed to be fascinated by the Waxworks, even if some of the girls – and one or
two boys – were wary of going down to the Chamber of Horrors.