Primrose Square Read Online Free

tram seemed so long and noisy, or that when she reached her stop she met the dark buildings of her childhood again and the sunlight began to fade – no, it was much more the uncertainty of how things would be at home.
    All depended on her father’s moods. If he was in a good mood, you could relax and breathe again. If not, you just had to weather the storm. It always died down, he always got over whatever had spiralled him into a temper, but they all walked on eggshells until they knew how things would go.
    Mind, there were plenty of fathers worse than Walter Rae. He was not a brutal man, and though his children had had their ears boxed when they’d misbehaved, he didn’t go in for beating his family. Elinor and Corrie could be grateful for that, then, as their mother certainly was, but the truth was his dominance over them didn’t leave much room for gratitude. And when you were wondering when the next flare-up was coming, when the eyes would be flashing and the voice rising, you couldn’t do much except keep your head down and hope you weren’t the target.
    Sometimes, Elinor would compare her dad with Mrs Petrie, but tyrant though Mrs Petrie was, it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t family, was she?
    On that first Friday afternoon after Miss Ainslie’s talk, Elinor made her way home as usual. The day was hot with no prospect yet of cooling, and as she left the tram and began to walk down the Wynd between the dark cliffs of tenements on either side, she felt stifled, as though there was no air. She had taken off her jacket, but the collar of her blouse was too high, seeming to grip her throat, and she undid the top button, breathing hard, then pushed back her straw hat from her glistening brow.
    If only women didn’t have to wear such long skirts! She could feel the warm dust from the pavement rising up her stockinged legs as she walked, and the mad thought crossed her mind – what would happen if girls like her just suddenly cut their skirts off right up to the knees? Och, they’d be locked up, so they would. But think of the relief!
    Stepping round a group of children chalking the pavement, she paused as someone called her name and turned her head.
    â€˜Hallo, Elinor!’
    It was a fellow waving to her from the other side of the street. He wore paint-stained overalls and his cap on the back of his head showed his curly light-brown hair. Even from a distance, she could see his hazel eyes were bright. ‘Just going to your dad’s?’
    She stood still, trying to remember his name, for she knew him; he’d been in her class at school. Hadn’t seen him since then, and he certainly wasn’t from the Wynd.
    Barry. The name popped out of her memory. Barry Howat. Cheerful laddie, but given to teasing.
    â€˜What are you doing round here?’ she called, walking on.
    â€˜Been doing a wee job in the tenements.’ He, too, was walking on, making no effort to cross over to join her. ‘Just going home.’
    Two boys tore past him, chasing after a can they’d been kicking, and he neatly cut in and kicked it for them, far away up the street.
    â€˜Ah, you’re too quick!’ one told him, running after it, and he laughed.
    â€˜That’s because I play football, eh? Get some practice in, lads. Elinor, cheerio, then.’
    â€˜Goodbye,’ she replied, reaching the door of her father’s shop, and gave a quick nod as Barry Howat pulled on his cap and disappeared round the corner. A footballer, eh? Where on earth did he play, then? Not that she was interested. Had to think of what awaited her up the stairs in the flat over the shop. Gauge the temperature. See if a storm was on the way.
    As she tried the shop door, the bell tinkled and the door opened. So Dad hadn’t locked up. That was because he was still there, behind his counter, tall, heavy-shouldered, with the dark eyes she’d inherited from him beneath black brows she