Voices in the Street Page 12

  She stopped briefly to look disdainfully at us before resuming her tale of impending marital joy. We had been toying with the idea of a purchase but, as Connie was still engrossed in her wedding chit-chat, we decided to leave our purchase for another time and treat this visit as an exercise in inside window shopping.

  We headed along the High Street and passed The Hub newsagent. It must have ranked as the tiniest shop in Scotland, squashed as it was between H. Samuel’s jewellery store and the Maypole grocery shop. Our destination, however, was the City Arcade in Shore Terrace. We both adored this horseshoe-shaped cavern with its small shops that sold everything from hairnets to brightly patterned linoleum and fragrant bunches of flowers. There was always a magical mixture of smells and noises in the arcade and, as we made our way towards the amusements section, I liked to linger for a few moments at one window that to me was like an Aladdin’s cave, with its positive plethora of cheap ornaments and shiny trinkets.

  The amusements corner was always full of children and their high-pitched voices sounded distorted as they echoed and amplified against the high vaulted ceiling. The owner stood in the middle of the throng, shuffling a pile of pennies in his huge fist and shouting.

  ‘Get yer change here! Does anybody want their money changed?’ he called, in an effort to drum up business.

  We normally spent one penny each on the machines and we usually began with ‘What the Butler Saw’. Standing close to each other, we placed one eye each against the large viewfinder and watched as a clutch of old-fashioned, faded and sepia-toned postcards flicked quickly over, giving the impression of movement. For half a minute or less the characters moved clumsily in front of our eyes before the light went out. This machine was billed as risqué, but none of the children knew what this meant. We never thought of this entertainment as anything other than a series of postcards.

  The ‘Gold Digger’ machine was next. This contained a huge claw that hovered temptingly over a selection of small toys and chocolate bars. No matter how carefully we worked the wheel, we were always disappointed. We would watch in growing excitement as the claw grabbed a bar of chocolate by the corner but by the time it reached the trapdoor the chocolate would have dropped back on to the bottom of the display and all we got for our penny was a handful of gravel.

  One Saturday George tried the fruit machine instead and had beginner’s luck with a row of shiny cherries. Much to our astonishment three pennies landed with a heavy thud in the tray, and with this windfall we headed straight for another diversion – Ned Smith’s Temperance Bar. We hurried past the bus stances at Shore Terrace, pausing to watch with fascination as a double-decker bus skilfully dodged the small pug engine from the docks as it chugged up and down on its own rails. A group of swimmers on their way to the baths strolled through the Royal Arch with their rolled-up towels under their arms. These towels would contain their costumes and ‘shivery bites’, which were little snacks to be eaten after their swim.

  Then it was on to Ned Smith’s. Long before the planners had discovered such things as prime sites, Ned’s shop was situated on the ideal spot on the steepest part of the Hilltown. It was a mecca for the weary and the thirsty. Many a trauchled housewife with a heavy message bag, a pram and maybe a couple of fractious toddlers found this a quiet haven where she could regain her breath and gather some strength for her final uphill journey. ‘Gie me three cream sodies and one sass, Ned! Eh can’t go another step with this load,’ she might sigh as she deposited her bag and children around her. ‘Ye ken something, Ned? Eh swear this hill is getting steeper or else Eh’m getting older.’

  Ned, a tall, well-built man, was a bit of a character and always treated his customers with a genial smile and a pleasant manner. His shop was a square and spartan affair with little concession to luxury. Behind the counter were rows of wooden shelves that displayed two sizes of thickly ribbed glasses that were filled with an inch of various coloured liquids. I never discovered how these drinks were made but they tasted like nectar, especially after a hot tiring climb up the brae.

  Sitting beside us that day was a small group of men in rolled-up shirtsleeves. They were scanning the newspaper and filling in their horsie lines, as they called their betting slips. There was always a great deal of amicable banter about the form of jockeys, horses and trainers and a lot of deliberation went into picking a possible winner.

  ‘Eh think Katie’s Lad has a good chance of winning the two-thirty race,’ said one man, confidently.

  The choice was not shared by one of his companions. ‘Och, away you go! It runs like a cow with three legs.’

  Sometimes two large and burly bobbies from the police box at the foot of the Hilltown would appear for some refreshments and on these occasions the betting lines would be made to disappear with the expertise one would expect from a world-class magician. In fact, these scraps of paper vanished so quickly that I often wondered if the men had swallowed them. Also doing a disappearing act on these occasions would be Jeemie, the bookie’s runner, who had a thin, pinchedlooking face and a furtive manner.

  After leaving Ned’s shop we usually met up with George’s pal, Alex. Because he was normally financially better off than us we would accompany him to the small shop in Ann Street that sold penny Vantas. These were bottles of sugary water that were almost totally tasteless and had to be drunk in the shop.

  As we took it in turns to have a swig, the owner kept a beady eye on his precious bottle. ‘Will you lot hurry up and finish or are you going tae take the entire day tae drink it?’

  As soon as the last dregs were drained, he took the bottle through to the back shop where it would be refilled, no doubt after a cursory wash under a cold tap. No sterilisation in those days.

  Our last visit on our spending spree was to the whelk stall. This was merely an old pram or cart with a fish creel perched on top. There were two such stalls near us – one outside the Windmill Bar and the other at the foot of the Hilltown. We always gave our custom to the former.

  ‘Three penny bags of whelks please,’ I asked while trying to extricate the pennies from the grubby, bunched-up fists of the two boys.

  The fishwife deftly scooped a handful of shells into three small pokes and painstakingly pulled three pins from a long paper strip which she carried in the voluminous pocket of her apron. ‘Do you want any dulse?’ she asked. Dulse was long strips of khaki-coloured cooked seaweed which hung limply from her creel. They looked awful, like pieces of washed-out rubber, but they were supposed to be very nutritious.

  I gazed at the dollops of dulse, as if considering a purchase, then said, ‘No thanks. Just the whelks.’

  Alex’s house was situated up the narrow opening between the Plaza Cinema and Campbell’s drapery shop and it was overlooked by the high brick wall of the cinema. We carried our whelks and sat on his doorstep to eat them. On warm days the door of the projection room was kept open and the soundtrack from the latest film drifted down to us. I always thought it a special pleasure to eat my whelks in the prestigious company of Bogart, Bergman and other elite film stars. With the whelks now a happy memory of empty shells we stood up to go. The dramatic strains of Errol Flynn fighting a one-man battle against an army of nasty villains boomed downwards and followed us to the edge of our street as we ran home for our tea.

  As Christmas approached, Auntie Evelyn asked us to come to the house straight from school to pick up our presents. Afterwards we ran down to the mill to wait for Mum. Snow began to fall as we waited patiently outside the mill gate, clutching our presents, mysterious wrapped parcels in bright holly-patterned paper with a ‘Don’t open until 25th December’ sticker on the front.

  Out of all the depressing streets that surrounded most jute mills, the lane that led to Little Eddy’s was by far the most dismally disheartening. The slime-covered road was witness to the fact that this corner was always without the warmth of the sun and on this snowy winter evening it was miserable. Sometimes, if we were lucky, the lodge-keeper would take pity on us an
d ask us into his tiny office to keep warm. He had the same elderly look as Grandad and he was just as kind. The lodge always had a large fire burning in the grate. Small cinders sometimes spilled on to the tinplate fender where they lay smoking like miniature Vesuviuses. The kettle always seemed to be boiling on the small gas ring and the old man would hobble across with a bashed and ancient teapot to make the tea. This was poured into enamel mugs which were white with a blue rim and, by a small coincidence, looked exactly the same as Grandad’s ones.

  On this particular night, the mill’s siren sounded loudly, casting its eerie wail into the winter air. The large gates opened to disgorge an army of mill workers, most of whom were women. They wore coats over dusty, floral pinnies and the cotton turbans on their heads made a splash of colour under the street lamps. As they all made their way through the narrow street these bobbing heads formed an undulating, technicolored sea of humanity.

  Because of the snowstorm Mum decided to get the tram home and we walked to the Westport. The tram was already quite full when we scrambled aboard and the conductor had to move niftily in and out to collect his fares. ‘Any more fares?’ he called, his voice rising over the hum of gossip.

  The air was filled with the aroma of wet woollens and damp varnished wood as well as the sweet, sickly smell of jute. We sat with our parcels on our laps while the women complained about the terrible weather. Now and then a voice rose over the general babble.

  ‘Eh just told him if the tatties are no boiling by the time Eh get home then he’ll get holy hell.’ This came from a small, meek fragile-looking woman.

  A ripple of agreement went round the car, and another woman added her lament. ‘You can’t send our Lizzie out for a simple message. The other night Eh sent her for five pie suppers and a pudding supper for the bairn and what does she bring back? Five pudding suppers and nothing for the bairn! Eh had to share mine with her.’

  Of course these were the days when the words diet, calorie or cholesterol were unheard of, and no one gave a thought to the high salt content of the meals. Still, I expect the bairn enjoyed her pudding supper and for all we know might be still hale and hearty. I know I am.

  While all this talk of gourmet meals went on I looked out of the window. Big fat wet snowflakes slapped against the glass as the storm gathered strength. Lights from small shops cast golden pools of brightness on to the snow-covered streets while the hissing and guttering street lamps tried vainly to illuminate this increasingly white world. George sat beside me. Chirping with Christmas excitement, we hugged our parcels close to our bodies, dying to know the contents but having to wait till the magic day.

  Still, Grandad always said that good things come to people who wait.

  CHAPTER 11

  The legendary harsh weather of the winter of 1947 began in early February and at first the snow was greeted with loud whoops of joy from the children. Before long an army of imposing-looking snowmen lined the street like some white, snowy guard of honour. Our snowman was a simple affair with pebbles for his eyes and nose but while the snow had still been soft George had drawn a sinister-looking half-circle for its mouth. This grin had an aura of menace which I noticed was missing from all the other snowmen.

  If ours had the look of a Chicago gangster then the one at the far end of the street was the ultimate designer model. Made by Nan, a girl who lived in the second-last close, it was a creation with a long, flowing scarf and matching hat. It drew a lot of favourable comment from passers-by but it cut no ice with the rest of the kids.

  ‘It’s just swank, that’s what it is,’ said Jessie, who owned a rough-looking model, similar to ours.

  In the late afternoon, after school and well into the early evening under the pale glow from the street lamps, the street would erupt into a frenzy of snowball fights and sledging down a small slope at Dallfield Walk on tin tea trays. Some people had the luxury of a proper wooden sledge but the majority had sneaked the old trays out from under their mums’ noses. All good things must come to an end, and soon our screams of delight turned to cries of agony when our gloves became solidly caked with snow, leaving our fingers white and painfully tingling.

  As we rushed into the house, covered from head to toe in snow, we complained about the freezing cold. We peeled off our wet clothes, leaving mini-mountains of snow on the kitchen floor. Normally this infuriated Mum, who would tell us off for not shaking the snow away before coming up the stairs, but she now seemed to be tired and listless. She was barely able to drag herself out to the mill every morning. We had been so pleased by all the snow that we hadn’t realised the enormous struggle the workers were facing. It was bad enough having to get to work every morning without the added burden of struggling through a blizzard. Each day had grown worse with constant snow that left the pavements so deep in slush that even the children became bored with it.

  Then one morning, about ten days after the start of this weather, things came to a head in the house. Mum could barely lift her head from the pillow let alone get up for the mill. I was sent to fetch Lizzie and when she saw Mum she was worried. ‘You’ll have to get the doctor, Molly. Keep Maureen off the school and she can go round to his house to call him out.’

  Lizzie sounded quite firm, which wasn’t like her. Mum started to protest, her voice a hoarse whisper and her face as white as the pillow-slip. ‘Eh can’t afford the doctor, Lizzie. No, Eh’ll just take the day off and Eh’ll feel better tomorrow.’ This was debatable because she looked and sounded very ill indeed and her words came out in a painful gasp.

  Lizzie was adamant. ‘Eh’ll lend you the five bob for the doctor if you don’t have it,’ she said hesitantly, as if this offer of charity might offend, but Mum was too weak to argue.

  ‘Right then,’ said Lizzie, ‘that’s settled.’

  She gave me my instructions. After taking George to the school I was to go and fetch Doctor Jacob. He lived in Nelson Street and I think he had a small surgery in his large stone-built house. I could understand Mum’s hesitation at calling him out because five shillings was a princely sum. It was a recognised fact of life that the poor couldn’t afford to be ill and this was probably the reason for all the self-medication they indulged in, like Grandad with all his home-made remedies.

  Doctor Jacob was a lovely man. Small-built with a bustling manner, he had a great down-to-earth persona which belied his vast medical expertise and knowledge.

  His diagnosis was swift. ‘You’ve got pleurisy,’ he told Mum.

  I can’t recall the exact treatment he prescribed but as he gathered up his well-worn and battered leather bag he gave us his orders.

  ‘Make sure the room is kept warm, day and night. Bank up the fire before going to bed so that the room keeps warm.’ Now this was easier said than done. Our coalman, who ran his business from a small shed in Ann Street, could allow his customers only one bag of coal per week.

  Things were to get worse. As February dragged its snowy feet across the entire country and held it in a freezing grip, the colliers at the mines couldn’t deliver their coal. It had frozen solid, either at the pitheads or in railway sidings. As a result of this national crisis, our coalman’s shed, usually filled with black churls (small nuggets of coal), was now completely bare.

  With our coal bunker almost empty apart from a thick layer of dross, I simply couldn’t light the fire until evening. Every afternoon I would race to the coalman’s shed after school, skirting round mountains of piled-up snow, but the story was always the same – no coal. As usual the neighbours were a big help, with Lizzie and Mrs Doyle doing all they could. It was agreed that I would come home every dinnertime and light the gas oven. I would put three pennies in the meter and leave the door ajar, and the room would have warmed up by the time I came home from Edmond’s cafe with a jug of their thick soup. Mum would have her tea and toast in the morning and her soup at dinnertime, then I would just have time to fill the hot water bottle before rushing off to school again.

  Lizzie was worried about Mum’s t
hinness. She weighed only six stone and a few pounds and as she lay back on her pillow she looked pale and fragile, not unlike the porcelain doll on Cathie’s mantelpiece. Mrs Doyle would pop in during the afternoon to make a pot of tea and have a chat. During that long wintry spell the talk would tend to be about the atrocious weather.

  ‘Folk are saying there’s never been a winter like this in living memory,’ said Mrs Doyle. ‘Eh see from the paper today that a train had to be dug out of a snowdrift at Auchterhouse. It was seemingly stuck for three days. Can you imagine that?’

  Mum couldn’t. The two women sipped their tea and watched the never-ending stream of snowflakes batter against the window. The cold empty hearth was another reminder of the dreadful conditions.

  During the past few weeks when coal was unobtainable, Lizzie had taught me to make briquettes from the coal dross in the bunker. We spent a messy evening shaping the wet dross into bricks and placing them to dry out on newspapers that were spread over the linoleum. Trying to sidestep these black mounds had us moving like an elephant at the circus but they were a blessing during the long cold nights. We also made wet paper twists which when packed around the briquette would keep the fire glowing for a bit longer. But as winter tightened its grip with more ice and snow even these standbys soon ran out.

  I was beginning to hate this weather. Everything was being disrupted because of the big freeze. Even our small bottles of school milk would show a frozen inch sprouting from the lid. The teacher placed them by the side of the radiators but that was never truly successful. It resulted in milk that was either half-frozen or full of icy splinters. I also hated the practice of milk-sharing which meant that one person drank half of the bottle and another one finished it. Going second meant a soggy straw or, in the case of some of the sadistic boys who flattened theirs by drawing their teeth down its entire length, no straw at all. The teacher stood no nonsense. Should anyone be daft enough to complain about frozen milk or a flat straw she would point out how lucky we were to get our supplies. She told us that some isolated communities had run out of food for themselves and fodder for their livestock.