Free In a Class of Their Own by Millie Gray

comin’ oot on a blinkin’ holiday,” quipped Sam in a hoarse whisper.
    The hammering came again. Louder this time. And, while the children huddled closer together, the voice thundered, “Open up, I say. Open up. It’s yer Granddad and I’ve got sweeties for you.”
    Hannah and Carrie collapsed against the wall with relief. Sam pushed them aside and opened the door cautiously. In reeled Gabby, their grandfather, who in his youth had been an articulate, handsome and debonair lad, but now – thanks to fifty years of abusive drinking – was little more than a shrunken shambles of a man.
    Gabby had just recovered his balance when he tripped over his own feet and did a pirouetting stagger across the room before collapsing in a heap on the floor. While this impromptu display was going on, the children just stood and stared in astonished silence. But when Gabby half rose and spluttered, “Some pissin’ weather we’re haein’,” they all had to stifle a giggle.
    Carrie was the first to stop laughing. She felt instinctively that she should help her grandfather to his feet, but the stench of alcohol, mingled with the stink from his unwashed body and hair, made her retch and turn away.
    Trying to focus his bleary eyes, Gabby squinted first at Hannah and then at Sam, before his gaze finally came to rest on Carrie. That brought a crooked smile to his face and without uttering a sound he fished around in his pocket and brought out a bag of sweets, which he shooggled noisily before handing them out to the children. “Bluidy lucky ye are,” he warbled. “Ah hae jist laid hands on some of ma Post-War Credits the day and I’ve backed a couple of winners forbye.”
    “How much have you got?” Hannah asked sweetly, taking a single sweet.
    “Nane o yer bluidy business, Miss Smarty-pants,” snapped Gabby. “And yer snobby bitch o a mither’s no getting ony o my thirty-five pounds neither. So there.”
    Wide-eyed and gaping, the three children all looked at one another. Eventually Hannah said, “Our Mam’s very hard up and you owe her, Granddad. You know you do.”
    “What we’re saying, Granddad, is this,” explained Carrie, taking a big breath before helping him to his feet. “Could you no see your way to giving her a wee loan?”
    “Naw I couldnae. And why should I?” grunted Gabby belligerently.
    “Cos she’s yer ain dochter and she’s skint,” replied Sam.
    “Some dochter,” sneered Gabby. “D’ye think I dinnae ken thon uppity bitch disnae want me comin’ up here an’ giein’ her a showing-up? Worst thing I ever done was lettin’ that bleedin’ sufferin’ get influence her.”
    “What suffering get?” asked Carrie, looking apprehensively from her granddad to Hannah and Sam.
    “The blethering skite means Mammy’s auld freend Eugenie, the suffragette. No a sufferin’ get like him,” Sam whispered back.
    “Uh-huh,” was all Carrie said as she began to pat her grandfather’s arm, and gently crooned, “and Mam does like you coming up here, Granddad. It’s just that she doesn’t like you being an alcoholic.”
    “Al-co-ho-lic?” thundered Gabby, staggering about the room. “I’m nae al-co-ho-lic. It’s just that I’m partial to a dram or twa.”
    “Aye, and he’s no drunk aw the time neither. It’s just that he gets less and less flipping sober,” remarked Sam ruefully.
    “See you?” Gabby snapped, aiming punches that Sam had no difficulty in dodging. “Ye’re a razor-blade mooth just the same as yer bluidy mither.” Gabby turned to Carrie and wheedled, “Come on, hen, help us through to the lavvy.”
    Once Carrie had complied meekly, Hannah asked, “Is he safely in the bathroom?”
    “Aye, and I shut the door on him.”
    “Look,” Hannah whispered. “He’s got money and we need some of it.”
    “Money? He’s a millionaire,” Carrie gasped. “I’ve always dreamed of being rich but a Granddad with thirty-five pounds – that’s scary. Really scary.”
    “Be quiet,