In a Class of Their Own by Millie Gray Page B

off in a week that winter. Many of the children attending Hermitage Park were judged to be needy and therefore lacking the suitable clothing or footwear to withstand the elements.
    As she trudged along, Carrie became aware that someone was following her. Then she was greeted with a “Hiya, Carrie. Here, d’ye think we’ll get anither halfie the day?”
    “Don’t think so, Jean, seeing we got one on Thursday and Friday last week and it’s only Tuesday today.”
    “Aye, but that doesnae maitter if the weather’s really bad. And it’s worse the day than it was on Friday,” argued her classmate, Jean Watson.
    “ I know that,” Carrie emphasised with more force than was needed. “But it’s also Christmas Eve, so we’ll be getting out at half past two anyhow.”
    The next thing the girls knew was a shower of snowballs thudding into their backs. Jean ran into school screaming but Carrie bent down and seized a fistful of snow which she firmly pressed into a ball and fired it into the ring-leader’s face. Before John Ellis or any of his gang could retaliate, Carrie bolted for the school steps but as she reached the door she heard a voice call out: “Hey, where’re ye goin’?”
    Pulling up hard she retorted, “Into school, Sam. Where else?”
    “Weel, come ower here first and gie’s a haun.”
    “You’re not really expecting me to help you to humph that milk into the classrooms?” Carrie spluttered with indignation.
    “Naw. I need ye to haud they twa Kola bottles while I fill them wi’ milk. Then I’ll bunk them in the jannie’s office and tak them hame later.”
    “But that’s stealing.”
    “Naw, it’s no. It’s bein’ thrifty, cos aw the really puir bairns are hardly ever at schuil the noo. So their free milk would just go to waste if I didnae find a yaise for it.”
    “You’re turning into a right spiv, Sam.”
    “Am I? Weel see, the nicht, when ye reach ower to pit some o this milk on yer parritch, I’ll cut the fingers aff ye, so I will,” snorted Sam as he filled up the Kola bottles.
    Carrie said nothing, but raced away into the school building.
    She was pleased to see that she was into class before Sheila, the girl she shared the double desk with. That meant she could get herself to the far end of the seat and tuck her feet underneath the radiator. While her hands and feet were gradually thawing, Carrie’s thoughts turned to Sheila. Though her best friend at school, Carrie hated the fact that Sheila had been lucky enough to get herself born to a forty-seven-year-old mother – which meant Sheila had a jammy life because her three elder brothers were all working. Not only could her mother afford Wellington boots for her daughter, but she could buy slippers for her to change into when in class. “How come you have such an old Mammy?” Carrie had once asked her.
    “I’m a gift from God,” Sheila had said. “You see, women my Mammy’s age don’t get babies the way your Mammy got you.”
    “You mean your Mammy and Daddy didn’t …” Carrie had screwed up her face and gulped “… do what we never ever must do till we’re married and even then we’re not supposed to like it?” Carrie stopped reminiscing when Sheila sat down beside her.
    “Hi, Carrie.”
    “Hi, Sheila.” Carrie kept her hands on the radiator.
    “Will you help me off with my wellies?” asked Sheila, taking off her pixie hood and shaking it.
    Carrie wanted to say she was heartily sick of helping Sheila off with her wellies but thought better of it. After all, Sheila might have an apple for her play-piece, a Canadian Macintosh Red, and she might offer Carrie a bite. Reluctantly she lifted her hands from the radiator and eventually, after much heaving and pulling, managed to remove the boots. “There you are, Sheila.”
    Instead of thanking Carrie, Sheila wrinkled up her nose and bawled, “Your hair is stinking, Carrie Campbell.”
    “It is not! It was washed last night.”
    “Yes, maybe, but with Derbac,