Voices in the Street Read online

  To start with, she always invited Mum into the party but Mum, being the way she was, much preferred to curl up in bed with her latest detective novel from the library. ‘Eh’m no unsociable, Katie, but Eh just like lying here listening to your young voices and you’ve fair cheered up the place.’

  Meanwhile, Katie, happy in the knowledge that the noise wasn’t causing a nuisance, sailed off in full flow to join her guests while I lay in bed wishing she had asked me to the party. This lasted for two months or so before Katie disappeared. One day another couple turned up and moved in. They were Irish and the husband worked on the Tummel-Garry hydroelectric scheme. He was away from home all week and Vi, his wife, told Mum that they had bought the key to the flat along with all the lovely furniture.

  They had met Katie at a party and during the conversation had mentioned how desperate they were for a house. Katie had wanted to move away to another town and a new job and Vi was overjoyed when offered this golden opportunity. Mum, however, was worried about Katie. For weeks after she confided her worries to Lizzie. ‘It’s no like her to go and no say cheerio to us. Eh mean, we got on so well and Eh just hope nothing’s happened to her.’

  Lizzie was reassuring. ‘Och, Eh expect she’s moved away to be nearer her boyfriend. He’s in the army, isn’t he?’

  Mum was still worried. ‘There was always so many people in that house and it makes me wonder. Eh mind one day there was this huge white chalk cross on her door and I gave Maureen a right telling-off, thinking she had done it. Well, Eh had just sent her to wash the door with a bucket and cloth when Katie came up the stairs. She nearly had a fit. “Oh no, don’t wash off any crosses on the door, Molly,” she said. “Eh put them there to warn my friends no to come partying when my lad’s on leave!”.’

  I remembered that incident and how strongly I had protested my innocence, not that I got an apology from Mum. The weeks and months went on and we became friendly with our new neighbours and we never set eyes on Katie again. That is until the Saturday after the coronation. We saw this couple arrive at the close entrance and we were struck by their hesitation. The bell sounded, that unlovely, twisty bell with the sound of a chicken being garrotted. And there stood Katie, looking just as I remembered her.

  She was wearing a lovely yellow suit with an elaborate orchid buttonhole and a tiny yellow straw hat with a creamy, spotted veil. Standing beside her was the best-looking man I had ever seen, tall and deeply tanned with bright blue eyes and gorgeous white teeth which flashed every time he smiled. He was also wearing a buttonhole, a carnation, on the lapel of a very expensive-looking suit. Mum was completely astonished. She invited them in but not before shoving me ahead of her to hide all the clutter under the velvet seat cushions.

  ‘Eh’ve been looking all over for you, Molly,’ said Katie, as if she had seen us ten minutes before instead of almost five or six years. ‘Ricky and me are getting married this morning and Eh wondered if you’d be my witness at the registry office.’

  While speaking, she swept a hand in the direction of the Gary Cooper lookalike at her side. Mum was so surprised she had to sit down. And for once she didn’t tell me off for staring with my mouth open at this gorgeous guy.

  ‘Oh, Eh can’t do that Katie. What would Eh wear for starters?’

  ‘Well it’s like this,’ explained the radiant bride-to-be, ‘Ricky is on leave from Burma and he’s got a special licence for the registry office. The wedding is …’ she looked at a lovely gold watch on her slim wrist, ‘in an hour.’

  While all this chatter was going on, Ricky sat gazing at his beloved while I sat gazing at him.

  ‘You were my first choice, Molly, when we made our plans but Eh thought you were still living in the same street. What a shock Eh got when Eh saw it was knocked down but lucky for me Eh met that pal of yours from Norrie’s Pend – the big woman – and she gave me this address. Now hurry and put something on because the taxi’s waiting.’

  Mum almost choked. ‘What do you mean, the taxi’s waiting? Where is it?’

  ‘Never mind about that. Just get ready. Ricky’s got oodles of money, haven’t you darling?’

  Mum hurried to put on her old plum-coloured costume and a bashed-looking hat that resided at the back of the wardrobe and was the mainstay of my playing at dressing up – when I was younger of course. I was certainly not owning up to any childish pastimes with a film star in our living room. I took my eyes off Ricky for a moment to look at Katie and she caught my eye.

  ‘Maybe you would like to come as well, Maureen.’

  Wouldn’t I just, I thought, leaping out of my chair to get my coat from the pegs in the lobby.

  ‘You’ll have to wait outside because we’ve got our two witnesses, your mum and Sam. He’s Ricky’s friend.’

  Although I didn’t say it, I would gladly have parked myself on Mars in order to go to this grand romantic affair. Mum arrived from the bedroom, looking quite nice I thought. She had put on her pretty blouse and some lipstick.

  ‘This is the best Eh can do for you, Katie,’ she said apologetically.

  ‘You look smashing,’ said Katie, ushering us out into the close, towards the waiting taxi. We passed Betty, who stopped in amazement, her eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline. She opened her mouth but I just said a quick hello before whispering that I would tell her everything later that night.

  The taxi was lovely. I sat on a small fold-down seat with my back to the driver and we made a speedy progress down the Hilltown towards the City Square. I felt like a queen. At the registry office we were joined by another well-tanned man who looked as if could have come from Burma as well. After the ceremony, Ricky and Katie took us to the Café Val D’Or for our dinner, or lunch as Ricky called it. It was a really swanky-looking place and I wished I was as well dressed as the bride, but at least I wasn’t looking like a tink for once in my life.

  ‘When are you going back to Burma?’ Mum asked, between spoonfuls of lovely hot, green pea soup.

  It was Ricky who answered. ‘We’re going away tonight to London then we fly out on Sunday night. I’m on leave from my rubber plantation and the plan was to stay in London until after the coronation.’ He stopped and smiled at the man who was the other witness. ‘But Sam persuaded me to come to Dundee to see his parents and while I was here I met Katie.’ He looked tenderly into her eyes while I almost swooned with the sheer romance of it all.

  Sam nodded cheerfully. ‘That’ll be a couple of hundred pounds for the marriage introduction, Katie,’ he said and we all laughed.

  Later, when the two men went to the toilet, Katie explained her sudden departure. ‘Eh tried to make a go of my engagement but we were two different kinds of people and it didn’t work out. Eh’ve been working in a hotel so Eh didn’t need the house, but Eh was really sorry no to say cheerio to you all. It all happened so sudden. Vi and her man would have been good neighbours.’

  ‘Well, Katie, Eh was really worried about you. After all, you could have been murdered or something equally gruesome,’ said Mum, with a shudder.

  ‘Och, away you go, Molly!’ said Katie, laughing. ‘You read too many murder stories for your own good.’

  The two men returned. Ricky settled the bill and this wonderful, unexpected day was over. Mum declined the offer of a taxi home, much to my dismay, saying the tramcar was handy. We said goodbye to the newly-weds and Sam, and watched them go off in a cloud of bliss. When we arrived home, Mum still wasn’t over the shock and all she could say was, ‘What if it hadn’t been my day off? Katie would have had to get someone else.’

  I almost passed out at the horrible thought of this. That would have been terrible, I thought, until the idea crossed my mind that perhaps I could have been Katie’s bridesmaid.

  Later, Betty listened to all the glorious happenings with a wide-eyed look and open mouth.

  ‘This has been one of the best days of my life, Betty.’

  While Betty agreed with me, she quickly poured cold water over my dream of maybe
having been a bridesmaid.

  ‘You wouldn’t have been allowed,’ she said. ‘Eh think you have to be sixteen so you are too young.’

  I almost said that if the occasion had arisen I would have cheerfully admitted to being a hundred and six.

  CHAPTER 20

  Starting work in Keillor’s factory was like stepping into paradise, especially to anyone who was raised during the sweetie desert of wartime rationing.

  It was July 1953 and this was my first job since throwing off the shackles of school two weeks earlier. The last few days at Rockwell School had been slightly bitter-sweet because I knew I was finally leaving childhood behind. On the other hand, I was gaining freedom.

  On that last afternoon, we all trod the hallowed stage in the assembly hall to receive our Leaving Certificate, the piece of paper we had all worked so hard to get. However, before that final moment, I had to face a career interview with Miss Kemp, the headmistress. These personal meetings to discuss our future plans and employment were held in her sanctum. She beamed at me over the top of her highly polished desk. Her homely pink face was topped with a crown of snowy white hair, a colouring which I thought at the time resembled pink and white marshmallows. But there was nothing soft and squashy in her expression when I mentioned my forthcoming job at Keillor’s sweet factory.

  ‘What about the vacancy I mentioned to you for an office junior? Or the pre-nursing course at Seymour Lodge?’ she enquired, quite annoyed that, in her opinion, the three years’ intensive schooling had been a complete waste of time.

  I could hardly confess to this pillar of the education system that pre-nursing courses cost money, that the initial expense of books and other miscellaneous items were far out of reach of Mum’s pocket. As for the other job, I didn’t fancy being cooped up in some little office with just one other person, which would have been my lot in that vacancy.

  No, I had weighed up the options and, even if it meant taking on a dead-end job which was obviously being frowned upon in this quiet school office, I knew I wanted to meet people and also earn a decent wage. I wanted to burst forth into this new age and be part of the exhilarating atmosphere of a brave new world. In Mum’s eyes, the idea of another wage coming into the house was a happy financial prospect. Regardless of who was right, it was a decision I was never to regret.

  Still, as I approached the factory gate on my first morning, I was apprehensive and my stomach was churning. In fact I thought I was going to be sick. The building had the look of being squashed in between two walls, like a stone sandwich. But the narrowness of its entrance deceptively concealed its length, stretching as it did almost to the edge of the High Street.

  I passed along a narrow corridor and landed in the women’s cloakroom. It was packed with chattering women, all standing or sitting in their own tight, intimate circles. They had a closeness obviously born out of long friendships formed over a period of time. For me, a nervous newcomer, it was like standing on the fringe of some new civilisation, wondering if the aliens were friendly. On that particular day they were not. They were too busy pulling white caps over curled hair to notice a stranger in their midst.

  There was one girl whose face looked familiar. Even before she spoke to the people in her group, I just knew what her voice sounded like. It was such a strange feeling of déjà vu but the more I tried to pin down where I had met her before, the more elusive the memory became. She caught me staring at her and gave a friendly smile before I was whisked off to the Personnel Office for a form-filling episode prior to my entrance into the wide spectrum of the workaday world, or ‘making a bob or twa’, as Grandad often said.

  My eventual destination was the Enrobing Department, a room where sweets were made in their entirety. Their origins were in one of the vast vats of bubbling hot chocolate and they ended up on a conveyer belt which terminated in the cold room. As the soft cream fillings trundled under the chocolate tanks, a group of six women waited to stamp each sweet with its distinctive mark using little hand-held metal stampers. Or the women would dip their fingers in tiny pots of chocolate and deftly draw swirls or circles or lines Then like a battalion of soldiers, the sweets would march under the cool air until reaching the cold room where another group of women waited with fat spatulas in their hands and swiftly slotted the sweets into wooden trays.

  My first day was spent in the cold room and I was almost speechless by the sight of so many goodies. I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to eat any of these finished products but one of the older workers, a tall, thin woman with a highly strung temperament and protruding eyes that suggested she suffered with goitre, waved this misconception away with a flapping hand.

  ‘You can eat as much as you like but you can’t take anything out of the building,’ she said, her voice sounding like machine-gun bullets hitting a brick wall.

  I was aghast at this remark, especially the suggestion that I would pinch anything. The factory dealt with this problem in its own way, namely a spot search every night as the work force streamed out through the narrow doors. No one knew when they would be picked and I only had one search made during my short time with the factory. I was overjoyed that I could eat as much as I wanted. It was a bit like the later Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. At the time, I was puzzled by this lax attitude, thinking that the firm could hardly make a profit because of all the heavy overhead munching costs, but after a few weeks I soon found out that most of the sweeties lost their appeal due to that initial daily intake.

  Still, during that first week or two, I hadn’t reached the sugar saturation point and I sampled everything that arrived before my fat spatula. Mum would laugh when I got home at night. ‘What would you like for your tea?’

  Looking quite green and sick, I was unable to face any food. ‘Eh’ll just have tea and toast, Mum,’ I said, not even needing the toast.

  The firm allowed the workers to buy a sweet parcel once a month. George liked everything but Mum was partial to chocolate gingers. By now I could barely look a sweetie in the eye and the parcel was divided up between Mum, George, Betty and Mrs Miller. Mrs Miller always ate her sweets with a cup of tea in the afternoon and Keillor’s fame was spreading because she started to buy her own from the confectionery shop beside the Odeon.

  ‘What’s the name of yon chocolates with the purply centres?’ she asked me. ‘Eh’m going to buy two ounces tomorrow.’ Obviously blackcurrant creams were her favourite.

  The factory had a lovely large and airy canteen which served subsidised meals to the workers. It was quite a few weeks before I discovered it. Mainly because of my chocolate-stuffed days, I spent the dinner hour either sitting beside the conveyer belt or on a bench beside the museum gardens. When I decided to pay a visit to it, I immediately ran into the girl who had smiled at me on my first day.

  ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Eh saw you on your first day here. Do you no remember me?’

  I tried hard to think but the fragment of memory was still proving elusive.

  She noticed my frown. ‘Eh used to deliver papers in Ann Street and you had a milk round with Sherrit’s Dairy.’

  Suddenly it all fell into place, like the missing piece of a jig-saw, and I felt stupid for not remembering. We had passed one another every morning for months until the milk boy, whose ailment I never did discover, returned to reclaim his milk round.

  ‘That’s right! Eh remember you now. It’s Violet, isn’t it?’ I was relieved to put a name to the face. ‘How long have you worked here?’ I was curious because she seemed to know lots of the women.

  ‘About a year. Eh’m in the Wrapping Department. You put tinfoil on the sweeties and they get sent to the packing room to be put into fancy boxes. What a pity you hadn’t been sent there to work beside us,’ she said, pointing out three young girls who were at the table.

  As I sat down beside this quartet with my threepenny bowl of soup and slice of bread which cost one penny, Violet informed the three girls which part of this huge complex I belonged to. ‘Maureen’s in the Enro
bing Room,’ she told them. Then she turned towards me, ‘Do you like it there?’

  Alas, that was the crunch! She had hit the nail on the head with her question. As the weeks had progressed, I was certain that the gaffer didn’t like me. The reason for this dislike was obscure, at least to me, because I had hardly spoken more than a dozen words to the man since day one. And I was becoming increasingly disenchanted with my brand new first job.

  The majority of the women in this department were older than me and they all had their allocated jobs which they went to every morning. Being a newcomer, and a disliked one at that, I was put in the pool which was a small band of workers who were slotted into whatever job was vacant. There were about five of us and I often wondered if the gaffer disliked us all but no, he always kept his special glare for me.

  Either because of absenteeism or perhaps just because an extra pair of hands was needed, we were sent all over the place. The gaffer always left me to the last, which meant I got all the grotty jobs. One day I would be sent to the room where the workers sorted through huge mounds of brazil nuts or hazelnuts into trays prior to them being coated in chocolate. I always referred to this room as the Nuthoose, which didn’t endear me to Mr Gaffer.

  Then the next day I would find myself in the ginger boiling room, a place I hated. I could never understand how anyone could work here for long but I suppose the women needed their jobs. The ginger roots were boiled in vats similar to the chocolate vats which, like the latter, were always the domain of men. When cooked, these roots would be howked out with large slotted ladles and left to cool.

  We all sat around a big table, a sharp knife in hand, ready to chop these strange shapes into bite-sized pieces. I thought most of these shapes resembled tiny boiled babies, complete with heads and stumpy arms and legs, and I always dreaded handling these ginger root embryos. Of course, this was all in my imagination because no one else seemed to mind this brain-numbing occupation. They sat blithely chopping and slicing bits into gigantic steel basins.