Voices in the Street Read online

  It was a Sunday morning. Lawson’s Lane was as quiet as the grave and after heavy overnight rain the road had a shiny wet film over its uneven surface. Suddenly and without warning, the front legs of my cart caught the edge of the pavement and before I could act, the top crate went flying into space, to land with an almighty deafening crash on the stone setts.

  I was almost afraid to count the broken bottles but I reckoned there were at least a dozen. Convinced that this ear-shattering noise must have penetrated the walls of the nearby houses, I fully expected to see a crowd of people peeking through their curtains. But the entire street appeared to be firmly entrenched in the Land of Nod.

  Lucky devils, I thought bitterly, while trying to hold back tears. Then I realised a sharp shard of glass had cut my hand and bright-red spots of blood were now mingling with the creamy rush of milk as it streamed through a maze of cobbles and into the gutter. No one came to aid me, a positive damsel in distress. I wouldn’t have been ignored in one of my story-books. In this fantasy fictional life there was always a stray passing prince on every page. Alas, he wasn’t in Lawson’s Lane that morning and I realised delivering milk to the masses was real life. I kicked the remaining fragments of glass into the gutter where they lay amongst the stream of dirty milk.

  I considered my plight during the remainder of my round, which was spent delivering milk with one hand and sucking the bloody cut like some modern-day Dracula. Before reaching the shop I decided the best course of action would be to offer payment for the broken bottles. Then I remembered that this week’s money had been counted in Mum’s calculations. Because of the added outlay on our chairs, she was struggling to keep us afloat in the financial maelstrom of life. I was almost beside myself with anxiety over our predicament at home and what Mr Sherrit would say when faced with a huge pile of shattered bottles.

  Then, as if a guardian angel had wafted overhead, my worrying seemed to have been over nothing. He appeared to be more concerned about my cut hand than any breakages. I started to explain about paying for the damage but he waved this suggestion aside and ushered me into the back shop, where a couple of milk boys were sitting. Before my dramatic entrance he had been in the process of baking a large batch of scones which he sold in the shop, along with the milk.

  The teapot was sitting steaming on the stove. I was handed an enamel mug of tarry black tea and a hot, thick doughy scone liberally spread with a huge dollop of black treacle. This unexpected snack tasted like nectar and by the time I had wolfed down the scone and licked the sticky treacle from my fingers, my cut hand was almost forgotten until he placed a large chunk of pink Elastoplast over it. ‘There now,’ he said, with an air of satisfaction almost like some eminent surgeon after a delicate operation, ‘that’ll keep out the germs. Better tae be safe than sorry, eh?’

  I was worried about the pile of glass I had kicked into the gutter, concerned that a small child might fall on it, but it was all gone the following morning. No doubt the scaffie on his early morning round had swept it up. The only remaining trace of my mishap was a thin, white rivulet of dried-up milk now lying like a crazy-paving pattern between the stone cobbles.

  Weekday mornings were the best time to catch the customers. Some of them would only just make it to the door with their empties, clattering the bottles together in a glassy din. A lot of the women worked and they were quick to complain about having to wait for delivery. ‘Heavens! Eh thought you would never get here. My man and my bairns are shouting for their breakfast,’ was a typical moan.

  I would have liked to retaliate to these women. I had only two legs and arms and what they were requiring was a human centipede. Strangely enough, it was often the stay-at-home housewives who were the biggest moaners. This thrifty, industrious band of women were mostly nice but now and again one would meet me at her door, one hand outstretched for her milk while the other hand was vigorously shaking a duster, often in my face.

  Sometimes, while I recounted these snippets of daily harassment to Mum, she would sigh and say, ‘It must be great tae be at home all day instead of going tae the mill!’

  This statement was a bit unfair to the stay-at-home housewives who had to cope with young families as well as the daily grind of washing, cooking and housework. All these chores still had to be done by hand and took ages, even in this new decade. There was still some queuing as essentials continued to be in short supply. The war had been won but austerity was still the order of the day. Clothes and sweets were now off the ration but food was often subject to shortages.

  There was also the added worry of another conflict, the Korean War. Bella’s son, John, had joined up after leaving school and was now a soldier in the 1st Battalion, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. An unopposed landing had been made on the coast of Korea and the war went well for the combined UN, British and American forces as they pushed their way almost to the Chinese border. In November, however, China entered the war and they made such an assault on the UN troops that they fell back in disarray.

  The Chinese foreign minister, Chou En-Lai, had warned the USA that they would resist if America entered North Korea. He never said a truer word. The newspapers were full of reports of the massive waves of Chinese troops pouring over the Manchurian border. One paper likened it to ‘an undulating yellow wave, completely submerging all in its path’. This statement worried Bella and hundreds of mothers and wives all over the country. ‘We’ve just been through one war and here we are fighting another one!’ said Mrs Miller. ‘We never learn.’

  We may have entered a brave new decade but it was still in its infancy. Renewed hope was in the air but the same old restrictions and hostilities were still well and truly with us.

  CHAPTER 17

  Aggie had been a regular visitor to our old house, mainly because she lived a few hundred yards away, in Arthur Street, but since moving we hadn’t seen her for a while. Then, one wet and windy Sunday, she suddenly appeared at the door. The rain was sweeping into the close on the edge of a cutting wind. It was July but we hadn’t seen the sun for days. Huge black clouds like funeral pyres hung over the city, spoiling the holiday plans of people lucky enough to consider such a thing. Our new door had a bell which worked by twisting it like a clockwork key and the first time we heard it, we thought someone was strangling a hen. The sound hadn’t improved with time.

  Aggie rushed in, a picture of wetness. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, what a day! Eh thought Eh would be washed away!’

  She was wearing her most cherished garment, her musquash fur coat, and she looked like a drowned rat. Inside the living room, she took off the wet fur coat and, holding it by its large tag, she passed it over to me, giving it a few loving strokes and a long caressing glance before placing it in my hands. ‘Now, Maureen, mind and hang it up by the tag. Eh don’t want the fur to get damaged,’ she warned me as I took the object of desire to one of the lobby coat hooks.

  I hated this coat. It had a mangy appearance with one or two bald patches, and the smell of mothballs was overpowering. Today, however, there was also the smell of wet fur which was positively nauseating, and the lobby retained this unpleasant smell for ages after her departure. Mum laughed afterwards. ‘Aggie’s gone but not forgotten!’

  Mum, however, was pleased to see her old friend. Their friendship had lasted since the far-off days when, as fourteen-year-olds, they had started at the same jute mill, two youngsters with, hopefully, the world at their feet. In those days, Aggie had been an extremely pretty girl, full of life and fun and forever getting into mischief. At least that was the story according to Aggie, who never grew tired of recalling the happy, halcyon days of yore.

  During these long reminiscences, Mum, who was a realist, would nod in agreement at Aggie’s tales, later telling me the real truth behind the so-called ‘good old days’, which were characterised by working long hours in the mill, doing a dirty, hard job for little reward.

  Still, it had to be said that life had been kinder to Aggie. At sixteen she had met and marr
ied a man a few years older and, apart from her housework, she never again had to earn another penny in outside employment. Her husband was a tramcar driver, a job he had held for years. I never knew his first name as he was always referred to as Mr Robb or ‘meh man’. Aggie’s conversations were peppered with ‘Mr Robb did this’ or ‘Meh man did that’.

  On our numerous trips to Isles Lane to see our granny, we often saw him driving our tramcar. Although not a tall man, he was stockily built and had what I thought were enormous feet for a man of his height. ‘A man with a good grip of Scotland,’ Mum would say.

  When we saw him in his tram his feet would be splayed out on the platform, his hand guiding the machine along the tramlines. He sported a bushy moustache and thin, round, steel National Health spectacles that perched neatly on top of his nose.

  Apart from Mr Robb, Aggie was blessed with two daughters, Senga and Babs, and it was the former who was the apple of her mother’s eye. According to Aggie, Senga was the spitting image of herself. When she was sixteen, Senga met a young American soldier at a dance a few months after the end of the war. Such was the attraction that they wrote regularly to one another after his return to America. On the day of Princess Elizabeth’s marriage to Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, Marvin proposed to Senga and flew over with a gorgeous diamond engagement ring.

  Aggie and Mr Robb hadn’t been keen on the engagement but Marvin soon won them round with his tanned good looks, blond crewcut hairstyle, and charming manners. In the beginning he called his future in-laws Ma’am and Sir and Mum always said that did the trick, along with the huge diamond engagement ring.

  Aggie had almost swooned with maternal pride. The wedding had been as lavish as restrictions allowed with a ceremony in Wallacetown Church followed by a grand tea in the Queen’s Hotel. Mum had been invited but as we hadn’t she didn’t go. As Mum said at the time, how could she go to such a grand affair in her old plum-coloured gaberdine costume?

  As for Babs, she was hardly ever mentioned in the great scheme of Aggie’s life. She had played second fiddle to her glamorous sister at the wedding, dressed in a shiny, satin, powder-blue frock, a colour which did nothing for her very fair hair, pale grey eyes and colourless complexion. She obviously took her looks from the paternal side of the family, big feet excepted, thankfully. Senga and Marvin were now cosily domiciled in California and, from Aggie’s never-ending stories, the couple lived a life of luxury.

  In spite of Aggie’s pomposity, she certainly cheered Mum up. As the first year in our house progressed, it was becoming clear that Mum wasn’t well. According to the doctor, there wasn’t anything specifically wrong. It was more a progressive combination of hard work, tiredness and lack of money, a condition no doubt shared by the majority of her workmates.

  As we sat around the fire that Sunday, I was surprised when Mum announced that she was giving up her job at the mill and taking a new job at the DPM Dairy at the foot of Mains Street, a mere few hundred yards from the house.

  Aggie, who of course hadn’t worked a day since her marriage, was quite adamant that Mum was making the wrong decision. ‘You’ve been a weaver most of your life, Molly. Do you think it’s wise changing jobs now, especially at your age?’

  Mum bristled. ‘What do you mean, “my age”? Eh’m the same age as you.’

  Aggie was taken aback by this information that had somehow become obscured over the years. With a daughter now queening it in California, Aggie obviously reckoned that she was the younger woman instead of being a contemporary. She muttered unhappily, ‘Eh suppose you’re right.’

  It was clear she didn’t like this revelation being overheard by me, knowing I was always filled with eagerness to hear everyone’s conversation.

  ‘Well, Eh was just thinking of your well-being, Molly, and the different kind of work you’ll be doing.’

  Mum, who was too tired to argue, said wearily, ‘Well, it’ll be a damn sight easier than working a pair of looms at Little Eddy’s. That’s for sure.’

  Aggie couldn’t argue with that.

  With the work subject now dropped, Aggie’s good humour was restored and she searched inside her large, squashy hand-bag, muttering as she rummaged in its interior with the patches of pink face powder clinging to the moiré lining. ‘Now where did Eh put the photies of Senga and Marvin? Eh put them in my bag especially to show you, Molly.’

  I know Mum groaned silently at another imminent showing of Senga the Magnificent but I was keen to see them. Aggie gave a whoop of delight as her hand closed over the bundle of black-and-white snapshots. For the next hour we looked at Senga with her new house and umpteen poses of one or both of them lying, standing or reclining on bright striped deckchairs which were perched on a tiny lawn with a dried-up, parched look about it. ‘Oh aye,’ said Aggie, ‘the grass is like that because it’s always sunny and they hardly ever get rain.’

  We turned to watch the rain running down the window while the wind blasted against the wooden frames, shaking the bushy hedge and rattling the metal garden gate. ‘Eh wish we could get some Californian weather,’ sighed Mum.

  Afterwards, with the precious snapshots safely tucked away like the crown jewels and the wet musquash coat closed over her ample bosom, Aggie was ready to go home but not without a last piece of advice. ‘Now, mind what Eh said, Molly – sometimes it’s better to stick to what you know.’

  Mum, who was really fond of her old friend, just nodded. ‘Eh’ll keep your words in mind, Aggie.’

  To be honest Mum’s new job was almost forgotten. My mind was filled with the wonders of California as depicted by the small, square photographs. Senga’s life seemed so glamorous, just like that of a film star and a thousand light years away from our dismal lives of endless rain and eternal scrimping. I knew all about the love story and I was fascinated by the sheer romance of the whole thing. Marvin sounded and looked like a matinee idol but one thing in his favour was the fact that he never pretended to be rich. This was unlike lots of so-called Wyoming ranchers who spent the war years boasting to their girlfriends about their thousands of acres back home or those who claimed to have glamorous jobs in the movie industry. Many a poor GI bride landed in the USA to find herself the proud owner of some tumble-down shack in the wilderness. Most of the GI brides were happy but some weren’t. Some stayed for years while others were back home as soon as they could manage it.

  Marvin’s honesty had endeared him to Mum and I was totally impressed by this wonderful lifestyle. When Mum arrived back from seeing her friend out, I was still in the land of fantasy and finding it hard to suppress my longing for a similar situation. Perhaps, I thought, if I could conjure up a sliver of glamour then things might be different. I homed in on the word Senga, which seemed an exotic name to me.

  ‘Mum, if Eh called myself Senga, do you think it would make me more pretty?’ I asked hopefully, with all the yearning of a thirteen-year-old adolescent.

  I was taken aback by Mum’s hearty laugh. Tears streamed down her thin cheeks. ‘Senga? You daft gowk! Have you no twigged what it means?’

  I shook my head, really annoyed by a flippant attitude to my future happiness from my mother who didn’t seem to take my aspirations to glamour seriously.

  ‘Well, let me enlighten you. Senga is called after her mother.’

  I tried to reconcile Aggie’s dull name with that of her chic, sophisticated daughter and failed. Mum explained.

  ‘Aggie is short for Agnes and Senga is just Agnes backwards. Anyway,’ Mum went on, ‘Eh prefer Babs. She’s a much nicer lassie, more like her father.’

  With that statement, my little bubble of fantasy was burst and afterwards, any time Aggie prattled on about her daughter, Mum would catch my eye and gave me a huge wink. Thankfully, she always managed to hide this amusement from her friend.

  Mum was now on her last week at the mill. I couldn’t help feeling a touch of sadness as she prepared for her new job. I went down to meet her at the mill gate at the end of her last shift and I knew I was going to
miss this cheery band of women whose resilience never ceased to amaze me. I was also going to miss Tam and the lodge with its cosy interior, the hissing, spitting fire and shrilly boiling kettle, the chipped teapot and enamel mugs. I also hoped his rheumatics would clear up.

  Tam always knew when rain was imminent. ‘Aye, it’ll be raining before night because my rheumatics are real chronic,’ he would mutter.

  Mum always said the lodge was the quietest spot around. It acted as a buffer between the deafening clatter of the looms and the grey grimness of the surrounding streets outside. On that last evening, I stood at the gate as it disgorged hundreds of women. Mum was with Bella and Nell. Although Bella was still worried about her John fighting the communists on the 38th Parallel, she didn’t show it and was as cheery as ever.

  Nell, however, was complaining about the forthcoming evening’s itinerary. ‘It’ll be the same old hard grind, Eh suppose, putting the tea on for the family then doing the washing.’

  Ahead of us was Mary, fresh-faced and fifteen and in her first job. She turned with a sneer that was aimed at poor Nell. ‘Well, it’s your own fault for getting married in the first place. Eh’m no going to pander to any man, that’s for sure.’

  This was said with all the cocky confidence of youth and was actually a sentiment I agreed with. The weavers looked wordlessly at one another until Bella chortled. ‘Och, don’t fash yourself lass! After all, you’ve never been asked yet and, who knows, maybe you’ll be an auld maid.’

  This dire insinuation that she might never see a ring on her finger or have a man in her life greatly annoyed her but she contented herself by glowering darkly at Bella.

  ‘Don’t listen to Bella, Mary,’ laughed Mum, ‘but make sure you marry for money because whoever said love makes the world go round didn’t have to live on forty-eight and a tanner a week.’

  Bella gave a loud harsh laugh that sounded like a demented crow while her overalls strained at the seams. Trying to keep a straight face, I watched in fascination, wondering if she would burst out from the restraining overalls like some giant quivering jelly. However, to my dismay, the well-stitched seams remained intact.