In a Class of Their Own by Millie Gray Page B

grey hairs. Grey hairs! At thirty-eight? Surely I’m far too young for grey hairs.” She was about to pull out one of the invaders to get a closer look when she was distracted by muffled sounds from Sam. “You saying something, Sam?” she asked.
    “Just that I dinnae suppose us going wi’ milk and papers does onythin’ to get us oot the mess we’re in?”
    Rachel shook her head, realising that premature grey hairs were the least of her worries right now.
    “Not really. But I’m glad of the ten bob I get from you each week.” She sighed. “But let’s face it. There’s no way it even pays for what you eat.”
    Sam nodded and blushed deeply. Rachel knew he was regretting having supped the tinned milk and having taken two pieces of bread spread with dripping after she’d rationed them all to one each.
    She went over to Sam and gently ruffled his shock of ginger-tinted blonde curls. “Don’t you worry, Sam. I’ll take care of things. I’ve got things in hand and I’m sure it’ll all be …” She broke off and smiled, leaving her hopes only half-said.
    For Sam though, the threat remained. If his mother didn’t get the money they needed, they were all fated to be taken into care. The thought made Sam bite his lip so hard that it drew blood.
    Rachel had turned back to finish her grooming and didn’t witness his distress. She turned to face him. “Now, tonight I want you all to stay here in the scullery,” she said firmly. “That means no one is to light the gas in the living room. That clear?”
    “Is that an Easter thing – no having a light in the living room?” asked Sam as he took the bread from the bread tin and realised there was only enough for one slice each.
    “No, it’s not. And when Carrie comes in, you see to it she stays put in the scullery.”
    Sam nodded.
    “Now remember the rules, Sam. No trouble. No fighting. No answering the door to anyone. No one is ever to know I leave you alone at night when I go out to work.”
    “Why’re ye always sayin’ that, Mam?”
    “Cos you’re all under sixteen years of age, Sam. That means they’d say I was neglecting you so you could be put in a Home,” Rachel warned, picking up her coat.
    “So what? If we get kicked oot on our erses on Tuesday we’ll land in yin onyway,” Sam retorted.

    Two hours had gone by before Carrie reached home. She had stopped off at Bernie’s so she could read the final gripping instalment of the serial and she hadn’t been disappointed. Oh no! The ending was even better than she had imagined, with that horrible upper-class woman, who’d inveigled the hero into promising to marry her, being hurled off the cliffs at Kinghorn. Her death meant the hero could come back and rescue the true love of his life, that poor sick overworked damsel in the manse. Promised her, he did, that she’d now live in a mansion – Carrie was certain it had two bathrooms. He’d also pledged to her on bended knee that she would never again have to scrub floors to buy food. No, she would have maids, not just to scrub the floors but to massage her back as well. Finally, the hero swept up the fragile maiden in his arms, dashed down the stairs, two at a time, and they both disappeared off into a golden sunset.
    Carrie had followed the story eagerly in the Red Letter for six weeks and the ending left her toes curling in ecstasy. An unaccountable sensation permeating her whole body, worked strange stirrings in her that she couldn’t even acknowledge, stirrings that made her flush guiltily.
    Whenever she opened the door into the house, however, her temperature plummeted. “Oh, bother,” she exclaimed. “Would you look at that fire? It’s freezing outside and it’s banked up with wet dross. Not a bit of heat’ll come out of it the night.”
    Sam stood framed in the scullery doorway. “Weel, ye dinnae hae to worry aboot it – cos we’re aw to bide in the scullery the nicht.”
    “Why?” demanded his sister, pushing past