Voices in the Street Page 13

  I knew other people had problems but I had one of my own. It stemmed from my wet Wellington boots. Jumping through the deep snow would soak the inside of the boots causing them to chafe against my legs. The resulting ring of watery blisters and red raw skin tingled painfully in the warm classroom. While the teacher explained the intricacies of long division, with her chalk squeaking against the blackboard, my attention was solely on my sore legs. I thought longingly of the long scratchy stockings Grandad had knitted for my first term and how I had hated them. I reckoned this pain was my punishment for rejecting them at the time.

  Fortunately, Mum noticed this sorry state of my legs and this was just as well because George’s legs were also going red. She told me to stuff dry newspaper into our wellies.

  ‘Go into the sideboard drawers,’ she went on, ‘and get the tin of petroleum jelly. There’s nothing better for sore legs.’

  As we slapped on a thick layer of this ointment, Mum reached for her purse. ‘Now, before you go off to the school in the morning, go over tae the Misses Campbell’s drapery and get two pairs of knee-length hose.’

  This shop at 99 Hilltown was a long, low-ceilinged, old-fashioned establishment that seemed to cling to an air of the nineteenth century while somehow having travelled intact into the middle of the twentieth century. It was owned by two sisters who were always helpful and good natured. Nothing was ever too much trouble for them. They would gladly pull open all the wooden drawers from the glass-fronted case and display their merchandise along the length of their counter should a customer be hesitant about a purchase.

  I wasn’t one such customer. ‘Two pairs of woollen knee-length hose, please.’

  Behind the counter were tall shelves holding dozens of boxes filled with assorted goods. These boxes jostled haphazardly with cardboard adverts for Vedonis vests and Ballito lisle stockings. One Miss Campbell deftly pulled a box on to the counter and asked for our sizes. Mum had written them down on a note which she had given me along with the clothing coupons needed for any purchase.

  In our close-knit community everyone knew their neighbour’s business and the sisters had heard about Mum’s illness. ‘We hope your mum is feeling better now,’ they said, not exactly in unison but not far from it.

  The stockings were just what we needed and were long enough to pull over the top of our wellies. From now on I was always careful of the snow, making sure I didn’t land in a deep patch and soak my boots again. After nearly two months of non-stop snow, I think the entire population was heartily sick of it.

  One evening when the stars were glittering like gemstones in a clear black sky and the wind was bitterly cold, Lizzie appeared. She was wringing her hands in an effort to regain the circulation in her fingers. She pulled her chair close to the measly fire although the room was warm due to the fact we had also put the oven on. ‘Eh blame the war for this awfy weather we’re getting,’ she said, ‘Eh think it’s all the bombs that were dropped during the war that’s put everything haywire. First of all we get a braw Indian summer at the end of last year and now it’s like the North Pole. It fair makes you wonder.’

  Blaming all the bad weather on the war and the emergence of the horrific atom bomb in particular was a common thought. The new word on everyone’s lips was radioactivity and the stories that were printed in the papers about the destruction of the Japanese cities of Nagasaki and Hiroshima were horrendous.

  Mum cried when she saw them. ‘If that’s what it takes to end a war, then we live in a sorry world,’ she declared sadly.

  The Japanese army had treated their prisoners of war dreadfully and some folk thought it was only justice to retaliate with the atom bomb. Lots of other people didn’t agree. What was clear, however, was that the world now had a weapon capable of destroying entire continents. At least it was in the hands of the Americans and not the Germans, who it seemed had been on the verge of discovering the secret of splitting the atom.

  Radioactivity was also being blamed for the saga of the sour milk. For some unknown reason milk wasn’t staying as fresh as it should and the papers were full of complaints and accusations that unseen radiation from the atom bomb was the culprit. Denials that anything was amiss came from the poor beleaguered Labour Government Minister of Food, the much-maligned Mr Strachey. On the other hand, a bevy of farming experts had put their oar in, claiming that the milk was as good, if not better, than before the war and the atom bomb. Lizzie spoke the collected thoughts of the entire Hilltown when she said, ‘It’s this ruddy radiation that’s blowing around and the worst thing is you can’t see it. No wonder it’s turning our milk sour.’

  By the beginning of April, Mum was getting better and was able to walk short distances, but she was still far from well. Her pal Nan suggested putting a kaolin poultice on her chest to help with the pain. She duly appeared with this and placed the small can of kaolin in a pan of water, setting it to heat up on the gas stove. When it was hot she spread a thick layer over a square of lint, almost like spreading bread with jam.

  When Nan placed this concoction against Mum’s skin she let out a yelp of pain as the thick hot clay touched her. ‘Heavens, Nan! Are you sure you’ve made it hot enough?’ she said with sarcasm. ‘Eh mean, it’ll no take my skin off will it?’

  Nan was confident in her remedy. ‘No, but you have tae leave it on for hours or overnight.’

  As it was, it came off within the hour because Mum was convinced her skin would peel away when the poultice was removed. It would appear that I took after Mum with my doubtful opinion of home remedies. Nan did her best to explain that the poultice wouldn’t damage anything but Mum wouldn’t listen. Nan left feeling slightly miffed.

  I knew Mum was worrying about money. With no pay coming in from the mill she was becoming depressed about her illness and the fact that the bills were mounting up. Then she became ill again with pneumonia. On the spur of the moment, and without telling anyone, I wrote to Dad in Grimsby. His letters with a money order enclosed were irregular to say the least and I was convinced he would be over-joyed to hear from me. It was a short letter. I mentioned Mum’s illness but, being stumped by the proper spelling of her medical condition, I called it ‘numonia’.

  Every day after school, I checked for his reply, which I hoped would include a few pounds to help Mum out, but after two weeks I gave up. My disappointment was intense. I was so sure I would receive a letter from him that I even used to lift the small square of lino behind the door in case the letter had somehow slipped under it.

  Afterwards I convinced myself that my letter might have been too direct and cheeky. Dad always said I was ‘lippy’ and I agonised over its contents. Had I asked him how he was keeping? I couldn’t remember. Perhaps he had taken umbrage at my impertinence and lack of news about George and our home. Then it dawned on me that his reason for not replying could be something as mundane as having changed his address. To be fair, I still think that was the reason.

  Still, life wasn’t all doom and gloom. The coalman had received a consignment of coal and he was supplying all his customers with one bag of fuel. Judging by the warm reception he got from everyone he must have felt like King George VI. The greeting he got from one old woman was retold through the street grapevine. ‘Och, you’ve managed to bring me coal at last, son! Eh’ve been reduced to burning old shoes just to get a glimmer of heat!’

  Mum had a good laugh when the coalman told her but she was also amazed. ‘Well, all Eh can say is she’s damn lucky to have old shoes to put on the fire. Some folk just have what’s on their feet. Like me, for instance.’

  When the coalman dropped his bag of fuel into the bunker it made a loud clatter because the previous buffer of dross had been used up. ‘Eh’m hearing that clatter in everybody’s bunkers,’ he chuckled, ‘but there’s tae be no let-up in this weather. Eh just hope the coal doesn’t freeze up again.’

  ‘Och, Eh hope no,’ agreed Mum, ‘otherwise we’ll be getting scraped off our beds like frozen mummies.’

  M
eanwhile the doctor had given Mum some advice which she soon relayed to Lizzie. ‘He said that if Eh was a rich woman he would have advised me tae take a sea cruise but, because Eh don’t have two brass farthings, the next best thing is a daily walk along the Esplanade.’

  Lizzie thought this was an excellent idea. ‘Eh hope you take his advice, Molly. As soon as the brighter nights come in you should make a start.’

  So it came to pass. By the end of April we had begun to take a daily stroll along the wide, tree-lined Riverside. Sometimes the river would be flatly calm with a brown-tinged, oily, slick look while other days saw the wind whip up the water into a frenzy of salty spume. As the three of us walked along beside the low wall, the sea spray slapped wetly against our faces. It was like walking in a shower of fine drizzle but we stoically braved the elements on our daily march towards the railway bridge.

  The sprawling framework of the Tay Bridge marked our boundary and when we reached that point we retraced our steps, hopefully with the wind at our backs. Often to our delight we would see, through the criss-cross tracery of the iron girders, a train puffing majestically across the river from Wormit station with its telltale plume of smoke drawing ever nearer. George and I would make a mad dash to be standing under the bridge when it passed overhead. The rattling, metallic clatter was deafening but this was all part of the pleasure. We jumped up and down and tried to speak but were deafened by the roar of the locomotive as it rumbled towards Taybridge station.

  Mum could never understand this ploy. ‘You wouldn’t catch me standing under that bridge for a hundred pounds. No after the last time.’

  She shivered slightly and I didn’t know whether this was because of her recent illness or the thought of the tragic Tay Bridge disaster of 1879 in which, one stormy December night, a train and all its passengers crashed into the dark depths of the river when the high girders in the middle of the bridge were blown down. As far as she was concerned, the bridge had fallen down once and nothing would convince her that the new structure was safe.

  On our return journey Mum liked to sit on one of the benches that were strategically placed along the riverside walk. On these occasions George and I liked to run over to the sea wall and peer at the white-tipped waves as they lapped the stone surface. Clumps of shiny green-brown seaweed were anchored to this wall, floating on the surface of the river like a mermaid’s ribbon. Because of the high tides it was possible to lean over and grab a handful of this and many a happy hour we spent bursting the seaweed’s sacs.

  Jessie said it was possible to forecast the weather with a small piece of seaweed. ‘Just put it on the windowsill. If it’s wet then it’s going tae rain and if it’s dry then it’ll be sunny.’ This was said with the confident air of one who knows what they’re speaking about; an oracle. We tried this bit of amateur weather forecasting but we never knew if her statement was true, mainly because our seaweed specimen had vanished the following morning.

  George was disgusted by the lack of foresight on Jessie’s part. ‘She mentioned the rain and the sun but she didn’t say what it meant if it disappeared.’

  When tackled about this Jessie had a ready answer. ‘Well, it’s like this: it’s wet if it’s rainy, dry when it’s sunny and if it’s no there in the morning you know it’s been windy. Simple.’

  CHAPTER 12

  One other outing suggested by the doctor at this time was a trip over to Newport-on-Tay. This was one of the great pleasures in the Dundee working-class summer calendar, this crossing of the river on one of the ‘Fifies’. They made the journey every half an hour and the two I remember well were the Abercraig and the B. L. Nairn.

  Motorists had to cross the river at this point unless they wanted to make the twenty-mile journey to Perth. This meant that these ferry boats were always full with an assortment of vehicles ranging from the humble motorcycle to cars and lorries. Large queues of people and vehicles gathered outside the Tay Ferries building at Craig Pier. The long line sometimes stretched right up Union Street as scores of families decided to have a day out. The women wore their summer dresses and their husbands were still clad in sober suits.

  Our finances wouldn’t stretch to weekly trips and we often watched the boats sail out across the water from our vantage point at the Esplanade. George and I would be filled with envy at the carefree passengers who would gaily wave at us. Sometimes Mum managed to save the fares for the three of us and would take us out as a treat. We waited with impatient anticipation and barely disguised excitement on the pier as the ferry approached, to knock gently against the jetty before lowering her large gangplank.

  Only then did the stream of passengers disembark, followed by the various vehicles which drove up the slope with such a great deal of petrol fumes and revving of engines that we were left wide-eyed with wonder. I liked to look at the water as it slapped against the side of the boat. These small waves made sucking, gurgling sounds and caused a myriad of rippling patterns that were slicked with patches of oil.

  One day, while I was standing too close to the edge, a playful wave slowly curled over my feet. Mum, who was forever warning me about standing too near the water, snapped, ‘Have you got your feet wet again?’

  ‘No, Mum,’ I lied, ‘just a wee bit damp.’

  It was one of those typically Scottish summer days – cool, damp and drizzly – and I had to spend my entire afternoon trying to look carefree and nonchalant while my feet got colder and colder. My every move was accompanied by a squelching noise and an eruption of soapy, white bubbles that burst through the black surface of my sandshoes.

  Once on board, we gazed over the side of the rails as a throbbing sound from the depths of the boat heralded the cast-off. We watched in fascination as we slipped away from the jetty, the water being turned into a foaming mass by the paddles. The gap between the rails and the jetty widened and we stood in delight as the industrial skyline of the city receded into the distance. Countless chimneys exhaled fluttering ribbons of smoke into the atmosphere, casting a hazy pall over the buildings while ahead the green meadows of Fife beckoned.

  The wide upper deck with its glass-panelled salon was our favourite spot. The salon always seemed to be populated by elderly folk, all muffled up against the weather. I could never understand why people wanted to shut themselves away from the exhilarating feeling of standing in the wild blowing wind, the wet sea spray and the tangy smell of the river, not to mention the glorious panoramic view. Mum, however, understood perfectly. Because she couldn’t afford the extra penny or so for the privilege of a salon seat, she always made sure she found a sheltered spot, usually near the box that held the lifebelts.

  As long as we promised to behave, we were allowed to roam the boat as if we owned it, playing out fantasies like the adventures of Long John Silver and his pirates or Captain Scott voyaging to the South Pole in his ship Discovery. On one trip I spotted a pile of debris floating on the murky water, swirling around for a brief instant before being carried out to sea on a wave.

  I had seen the Betty Grable film Song of the Islands the previous week and it made me wonder. ‘Mum, do you think that rubbish will land on a South Sea island beach?’

  Mum, who never felt truly happy on the boat because the motion made her feel queasy, replied rather cynically. ‘Eh shouldn’t think so. It’ll be lucky if it reaches Broughty Ferry beach.’

  Also on board that day was our pal Alex. Being a fount of knowledge, he remarked to us, ‘Do you know something? If you fall over the side and you’re drowning, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes.’

  George’s eyes were like organ stops but I was unconvinced. ‘How can a drowning person tell you what they’ve seen?’

  Alex gave this a bit of thought, which meant he frowned deeply and bit his lower lip while making a series of ‘tch, tch, tch’ sounds. Then his face brightened as he thought of a credible answer – to give Alex his due, he was never stuck long for an explanation of his many theories. ‘Well, Eh expect it was somebody who was drowning b
ut got rescued at the very last minute. Then maybe they said, “Och, it was awfy. My whole life flashed in front of my eyes.”’

  We took this explanation with a pinch of salt. After all, Alex was the one who told us about the ‘Dead Man’s Handle’ on the tramcars. According to him, if the driver felt ill he pulled this handle and the tram came to a stop. We had sat behind the drivers for months after hearing this story, only to find the poor men didn’t suffer from as much as a sneeze let alone a tram-stopping illness. Our unflinching gaze at some of the drivers had made them so nervous that they had become quite stroppy.

  Still, Alex was forgotten as we neared Newport. The boat docked at another pier similar to Craig Pier and the crowds surged forward in a seething mass into the narrow street that led to the grassy slopes that overlooked the river. This green brae was usually packed with day trippers and it was pleasant to sit there on a sunny day and watch the ferries ply back and forth across the channel, navigating round the exposed sandbanks. From this high vantage point the boats looked tiny as they sat squarely on the water like toys in a bathtub.

  After settling us into a comfortable spot, Mum would empty her message bag to reveal the usual fare along with her latest detective novel from the library and our comics. As we sat on the sharp tufts of grass we all agreed that it was lovely eating Spam pieces and reading about the latest exploits of Desperate Dan and Lord Snooty in the company of the river.

  The water presented a constantly changing scene as the waves shifted into an endless kaleidoscope of patterns. The waves could change mood from being choppy with white frilled edges to calmly languid and lazy with a mirrored slick finish. Seagulls squawked noisily overhead, diving for almost invisible crumbs which they deftly scooped up in their beaks. It was as if they sensed the food of the picnickers and they massed in furious white clouds above us, filling the air with high-pitched cries. As they fought and jostled for space, their outstretched wings flapped noisily in their desperate bid to grab the tastiest morsels.