The Step Child (14 page)

Her house was a pristine 1930s bungalow, a million miles away from the life I knew. It felt so rich and comfy; the entire house was suffused with warmth and full of lovely old furnishings. There was a grandfather clock ticking in the hall, a
barometer on the wall, a Bakelite telephone from the 1930s and shining brass irons in the fireplace. There was old mahogany furniture everywhere, tables that gleamed, and overstuffed armchairs with lace antimacassars draped over the back and on the armrests.

Auntie Nellie’s bedroom was opulent and sumptuous. There was a huge wooden bed covered with an embroidered satin throw and matching eiderdown. On her three-mirrored mahogany dressing table was an array of magical, wonderful items – even though I didn’t dare touch them, I still appreciated their existence. On top of an embroidered lace doily was a silver brush, mirror and comb set. Beside them sat a jewellery box surrounded by ornaments. In the box, treasures lay in miniature drawers – lace hankies, leather gloves, silk scarves. Nellie’s bedroom smelled of lavender. Everywhere was gentle and in complete contrast to my hard, harsh world – soft carpets, soft cushions, soft throws!

There was a pantry full to the brim of jars of home-made jams and chutneys. Food that was just there, there for the taking – that, to me, was a miracle in itself. Beside the food were stacks of chinaware, all so dainty, so perfect.

It’s hard to describe what that house meant to me – it was a refuge, a fantasy of what other homes could be like. It was storybook stuff compared to where we were living. Auntie Nellie even had her own headed notepaper, the epitome of class! Sometimes, I found it hard to believe she was actually part of our family – but I clung to it. If she was a relation, and if she loved me as much as she seemed to, then maybe there was some hope for me. Maybe things wouldn’t stay as bad for ever as long as Auntie Nellie was there.

Even now, years later, I find it difficult to talk of her simply because she meant so much to me. She was a wealth of wisdom and knowledge, and was wholly instrumental in switching me on to reading, to books, and to the other world I could create in my
mind. Her house was a dreamlike palace to the child I was, but she gave me much more than that. She gave me my imagination. I was allowed to meet up with Auntie Nellie about once a month – presumably, the joy of getting rid of me meant more to Helen than the pleasure she got from denying me everything else – and I lived for those days. I could hardly believe that anyone would take a special interest in me. Helen was already drumming it into me that I was ugly, that I was a little witch, that I was an unwanted bastard child. Auntie Nellie’s attentions seemed so tenuous as a result – surely she would find out about me? Surely she would see what Helen saw any minute and everything would be taken away?

On the days when Auntie Nellie was due to collect me, I was full of apprehension. Would she turn up? Would it be as wonderful as before? The day itself didn’t start off any differently in terms of Helen’s treatment of me. ‘Get up, you little bastard!’ she shouted from the living room. I already had on the best clothes I could find and I was waiting, just sitting and waiting.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. It was Auntie Nellie! I heard mumblings between her and Helen, but didn’t dare come out until I was called for. As soon as we both stepped out into Leith, our adventure began.

Auntie Nellie was very posh in my eyes – even her clothes could tell you that. She was a typical ‘Edinburgh lady’ of that time, generally dressed in a lambswool twinset and tweed skirt. She wore black ‘ladies’ brogues, which were always polished to a high shine. One day she informed me that the coat I loved her wearing was a ‘camel coat’. I thought this was the height of poshness – it was years before I realised it was made from wool that gave the appearance of camel hair rather than made from a few camels themselves! Auntie Nellie would never be seen without
a hat when she went out, and I can remember her handbag as if it were on the table in front of me now – black patent with a gold clasp, hooked over her left arm. Her left hand was gloved and in it she held the glove of her right hand, whilst in the ungloved right hand would be a little purse which matched the main handbag. When it was really cold, Nellie would wear a real fur coat, not a mangy moth-eaten one but one that felt as soft as silk. Although she could be stern and pedantic in a school-marm sort of way, my Auntie Nellie was round, soft and warm.

‘Today, Donna,’ she said, squeezing my hand in hers, ‘we will be taking high tea. It is very important that you know how to conduct yourself amongst people. It is vital that you realise the importance of good manners and etiquette. Today, my dear, we begin.’

Auntie Nellie and I jumped on a number one bus and began our journey up Easter Road. Behind us, we left the shabby shops and grubby tenements where I spent my days. The bus stank of fag smoke and old men, but I couldn’t care less – my dignified, wonderful Auntie Nellie was beside me in her perfect clothes, with her perfect style, and we were getting away from it all. The bus took us past the Palace of Holyroodhouse and up the High Street. At the very top of the Royal Mile, we alighted and walked down the Mound with Edinburgh glittering all around us.

‘This, my dear, is your city,’ Auntie Nellie told me. ‘You are part of it, and it is part of you. Never forget that you have a responsibility to yourself to be all you can – look around you and be inspired. Look around you at this city of wonder and history. These streets have been walked upon by royalty. Mary Queen of Scots put her feet on these same cobbles as you and I. Dignitaries and important people from all over the world have come to this magnificent place for centuries to be motivated, to become enthused by all that we have. Don’t forget that – it’s all there for you, Donna.’

As I looked around at Edinburgh Castle beside me, at the art
galleries laid out before me, at Princes Street Gardens shining in the sunshine, I could believe what Auntie Nellie was telling me. I wasn’t a little witch when I was away from Helen. I could just be a normal little girl, out with a loving relative, who truly could have the world at her feet.

Auntie Nellie was a perfect source of stories I never tired of hearing. Edinburgh has an amazingly rich literary heritage, and is also a city in which the tradition of oral storytelling was passed down to children of my generation. When Nellie picked me up from our house and we travelled up to Princes Street, I felt as if I was going back in time. The backdrop to our walks and talks was the castle, the crags and closes surrounding the city, and the famous stores which attracted tourists from around the globe. For me, Princes Street was the heart of it all. Although things were beginning to change, by the time I was taken out on our trips, Nellie could bring it all back. There were parts of the stories I could still relate to – the Scott monument towered over the scenery for me as it had for Nellie as a girl. The castle remained imposing. The ‘Disgrace of Edinburgh’ at the far East End continued to be a powerful symbol of how people in power could get things wrong.

But there were also details that I could only imagine. Auntie Nellie loved to tell me of the days when trams were the major traffic feature in the city centre. There had been tramlines on both sides of the street, with a constant stream of vehicles going up and down, and white-gloved traffic policemen waving their matching white-banded arms about. By the end of the 1950s, this system had changed and Princes Street was becoming more as we know it today, even although the tramlines lasted longer than the trams themselves. When Nellie and I walked along in our own little world, I often closed my eyes and imagined I was back in those days, which seemed so much safer and more comforting in the distance. I adored it when she told me of the shops and stores of her youth. The actual layout of Edinburgh city centre has
changed little, but where once there were independent retailers and shopping experiences the envy of any city in the world, there are now tacky burger outlets, sex shops and fly-by-night pound stores. She would tell me stories of the East End of Princes Street where just past Jenners had been R.G. Lawrie’s and the Old Waverley Hotel, a glove shop and a cigar retailer. The Scottish Omnibus Company now had premises there, where tourists and locals alike would buy tickets to explore the new layout of the city.

As we reached the bottom of the Mound, our destination appeared before us. The grand old lady of the world-famous Princes Street shopping parade would receive the distinguished company of two fine ladies today – Auntie Nellie and I were bound for Jenners, the department store which symbolises the capital and attracts the great and the good whenever they decide a trip to Edinburgh is on the cards. ‘High tea at Jenners, dear,’ whispered Auntie Nellie. ‘What could be finer?’

Jenners’ high teas were indeed a special treat. The store possessed a proper tea room with starched white tablecloths, upon which lay the most exquisite china and gleaming cutlery. Waitresses hovered, wearing black dresses covered with immaculate white aprons. There was a background warbling chitter-chatter from the ‘discriminating’ Edinburgh ladies, whose best hats and coats were always brought out for this occasion. Auntie Nellie was going to treat me – but it was also a learning experience. I would be told about all of the buildings we had passed and which surrounded us – the history of Princes Street, Edinburgh Castle and the Scott monument. Nellie would talk about how ‘fine’ the shops were in her day, and I listened to the list of names which were fast disappearing. Binns and Patrick Thomsons became memories passed down from Nellie to me, growing in stature as they were given the gloss of her retelling.

‘Now, my dear,’ she said, bringing me back to the present-day wonders of the Jenners’ high tea. ‘What will we have?’ There was
little point in asking me – I wouldn’t have known where to start, and I certainly didn’t think I had any right to ask for anything. But Auntie Nellie knew exactly what to do. Before my eyes appeared the most wonderful vision. A waitress stood at the side of our table with the china and chrome cake stand just for us. ‘What do you think of this, my dear? Is there anything you like?’ asked Auntie Nellie. Was there anything I liked? I didn’t know where to start! At the bottom of the stand was an assortment of dainty sandwiches, all with the crusts cut off. Next, on the middle plate, stood Paris buns and scones of all description. On the top were the most beautifully coloured and decorated French fancies. I immediately decided to lunge for these gorgeous confections. Just as I went to make my move, a reserved voice broke into my reverie. ‘My dear,’ she intoned, ‘whether in life or a cake-stand, one must always – always – start at the bottom and work one’s way to the top.’ The cakes were calling out to me, but I loved Auntie Nellie’s ways so much that I was happy to take her advice – after all, an unlimited number of sandwiches was an indescribable treat for me too.

After our high tea, shopping was on the cards. Auntie Nellie often bought clothes for me on our monthly trips, but it was hard to keep them. Everything good I had always disappeared – I don’t know whether Helen sold them or gave them away but, for a few hours at least (sometimes longer if my Dad saw them), I had lovely, warm, new, fresh clothes. Marks & Spencer would be our first stop, where Auntie Nellie would select woollen kilts and jerseys – warm, smart and very sensible. Next, she might buy me TUF shoes, which were an absolute delight as they had a compass in the sole – it was so unusual for me to have anything frivolous that even something as basic as a compass gave me enormous pleasure.

The entire day was a joy, but it was also an education. The ex-headmistress in Auntie Nellie never stopped, never went off duty. She taught me all about table manners, about how important it
was to talk ‘properly’, the need for proper pronunciation and the evil of ‘slang’. As we walked along Princes Street, bellies full of cake and arms full of shopping, I learned with every step. ‘Just remember one thing, Donna,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter what you do in life – just make sure you do it well. It is important to do unto others as you would have done unto you.’

Did Auntie Nellie suspect anything? At the time, I was so scared of her finding out that I was evil, that I had inherited badness from Breda, that I couldn’t even have considered telling her what Helen was already making me go through. She would surely blame me, or perhaps warn me not to name-call or tell tales. How could I sully what I had with Nellie by verbalising the horrors of Edina Place? When I look back on it, I find it hard to believe that this intelligent woman wouldn’t have suspected something. But, why then, didn’t she take me away? Perhaps Auntie Nellie chose to remove me at specified times, to do what she could on our days out, because she recognised the power of Helen. Maybe she didn’t want to engage in an all-out battle with her for fear of being excluded from my life for ever, for I am in no doubt that Nellie did love me.