The Serial: A Rowan Tree In My Garden Day 30

I found the family delightfully zany and I made up my mind then that this was the kind of household I would like to have one day

Igot speaking to Mrs Jackson. She must have realised I might be lonely with my parents and sister away all day and told me to pop in anytime for a cuppa.

She said she would enjoy my company. I took up her offer and had many a happy morning in her large kitchen in their house at the end of the terrace. We chatted as she worked, interrupted often by the children, who were delightfully boisterous but never cheeky.

The range of our conversation was wide. Anything from baking to books or what was happening in the world around us. Mrs Jackson was a big lady, rangy without being overweight.

She had straight hair and didn’t bother too much about her appearance. Clothes were considered to be a boring subject.

Before marriage she had been a science lecturer but didn’t seem to be at all put out when her husband would ask her a scientific question to which she had forgotten the answer. He would tease her in a kindly fashion, saying with a smile: “I think you have forgotten more than you ever knew about the subject.”

Dr Jackson was a lecturer in maths at Dundee University and had an abstract air about him which made you feel he wasn’t quite with you. I wondered, sometimes, what other world he inhabited.

Occasionally, I ran into him coming back from work. He was always dressed in an old Mackintosh, boots and a sou’wester, whether it was raining or not.

Amusing

Sometimes I would pop in on a Saturday and he would be in the kitchen turning the pages of the Guardian on the large pine table and now and again reading out snippets of information he found interesting or amusing.

From time to time, of an evening, the Jacksons would have chamber music recitals for which Mrs Jackson would do baking. I never got asked to these occasions, although I probably would have been had I been able to play an instrument.

I found the family delightfully zany and I made up my mind then that this was the kind of household I would like to have one day. Besides, hadn’t Louisa M Alcott’s Jo, a heroine of mine, married a professor and in Jo’s Boys had a couple of boys of her own.

A few weeks after suggesting the journalism idea, Father came back after his Saturday golf match and said: “I had a round of golf with the Sunday Post editor today and I mentioned you liked writing and are looking for a job. He was interested and said he is always looking for new young talent and suggested an interview. No promises mind. He wants me to let him have some pieces of your writing beforehand.”

I was excited by this information, if a little apprehensive and Mother seemed pleased.

“You must be properly dressed for the interview,” she said. “The dirndl skirts that you like to wear are not smart enough. I’ve been saving up clothing coupons for some time. We’ll take the train over to Dundee next Saturday and get you a smart suit.”

This was exciting. It had been a long time since clothes had been bought for me ready-made from a shop. Most of what I wore was made by Mother or, more recently, by myself.

A couple of weeks later I set off for my first job interview in a smart new French navy suit which Mother said brought out the blue in my eyes.

Apprehension

It was a dreich, cold day near the end of March when I caught the train to puff me over the bridge for my interview. Inside I was fluttering with excitement and a degree of apprehension which had kept me from sleeping. I hadn’t wanted breakfast but Mother had insisted.

“You must eat something,” she had said, “or you will not do well at the interview.”

It was raining and I’d had to cover my smart new suit with a trench coat that had seen better days; I’d taken an umbrella to protect my hair that I had carefully curled with tongs the evening before.

Arriving in Dundee’s cold, bleak station didn’t dampen my spirits and I barely noticed the yellow pall that hung over the city: a combination of mist rising from the river and smoke from thousands of chimneys.

From directions I had been given, I found my way to the offices of DC Thomson easily enough and while waiting for the interview, took off my trench coat, turning it inside out because I thought it looked better that way. Eventually, I was ushered in to the editor’s small office.

It wasn’t what I expected. I had thought it would be neat, tidy and rather clinical but it certainly wasn’t that. There was a clutter of books stacked around walls on which were pinned typed pages and various cuttings from newspapers.

The large desk that the editor was sitting behind was strewn with papers and beside a large typewriter stood a half drunk cup of tea and an open packet of Craven A cigarettes. I noticed it was the same brand that my father bought.

Smoke rose from one that was half finished and resting on an ashtray. The air was smoky and the familiar smell relaxed me a little. Behind the desk sat a fit looking man, greying at the temples. He rose from his chair and stretched out his hand.

“Henry Pollock’s daughter?” he said. “Very pleased to meet you. I do enjoy a round of golf with your father. He’s very good you know, a hard man to beat. Has he got you roped in for the game yet?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “He did take me out once on the golf course at Dollar but he wasn’t too pleased when he realised I was much more interested in the birdlife and wasn’t listening properly to his instructions.”

General knowledge

“Too bad, it’s a great game!” He went on to extol the virtues of golf and the wonderful golf course, Scotscraig. I felt this man would have liked to have gone on talking about golf-related matters all through the interview but finally he got round to my reason for being there.

“Now,” he said at last. “I have read the pieces that your father has given me and I like the way you write but I will have to ask you some general knowledge questions.”

Had he asked me questions on books, the classics, wildlife in Scotland or even farming, I would have been able to answer him but he didn’t ask me about any of these things. His questions were all about actors and actresses (I had rarely been to a cinema) or famous sports people, in whom I had no interest.

There were also questions about politicians. I did not know much about any of them apart from Churchill and Aberdeen’s MP, Bob Boothby, who Mother talked about from time to time. She had known him when she was at Aberdeen University. (More on Monday.)