Voices in the Street Page 23

  Like the throngs of jute workers who streamed out of the mills, these women had the same problems, dreams and fears in life. They discussed the same topics, namely their families, money, houses and men in that order.

  ‘Are you going to the pictures tonight, Maria?’ asked one fat woman called Sadie, who was deftly clattering her knife against the surface of the table.

  Maria was an attractive girl with a dark-haired, Italian look. She was in her early twenties and was as lazy as she was pretty. She pondered this loaded question while gazing languidly through eyes that were heavily mascaraed but lifeless and bored-looking.

  ‘Eh expect so. Eh’ve got this new lad now. He works in Briggs on the Ferry Road. He’s taking me out tonight but where we’ll go, Eh don’t know.’ She made it sound like the chore of the week.

  ‘Och, you’ve had too many lads, Maria. It’s no right to carry on like that,’ said Sadie, shaking her head. ‘How many lads have you had this year?’

  The popular Maria thought long and hard, her eyes suddenly taking on a hard calculating look. ‘Eh think it’s ten or eleven up to now.’

  Her tone sounded like mine when Mum asked me to do the dishes twice in one day – fed up.

  I did a quick mental count. We were now in the middle of October and if she had already gone through ten or maybe eleven boyfriends, she was either fickle or careless – or maybe they were.

  Sadie sounded annoyed. ‘Well, Eh only hope my Bert never meets you, “Miss Fickle Annie”. He’s spent three years fighting in Korea but after the armistice at Panmunjom, he’s now home and wanting out of the army. Says he’s seen some awfy sights among the Communists but what Eh’m trying to say is this – thank the Lord he wasn’t writing to somebody like you, Maria.’

  The papers and the Pathé News at the cinema had been full of the death and destruction in Korea. Also, a new word had entered our vocabulary: brainwashing. I hadn’t a clue what it meant, but the Chinese government was accused of using this new method of torture on captured prisoners of war.

  Maria, who hadn’t taken offence at Sadie’s remarks, was now lamenting. ‘My mother has bought me another jumper, would you believe it? Ever since the clothes have come off the ration she’s aye buying me something to wear. Eh’ve got two drawers in my dressing table that have umpteen jumpers no even out of their bags.’

  Although I didn’t say anything, I wished I knew Maria’s mum. She seemed to be a kind-hearted person in contrast to her grasping daughter. Maybe she would throw some of the unused jumpers in my direction.

  Sadie shook her head in exasperation while jabbing her knife into another embryo-shaped ginger root. ‘Heaven help poor fellows like my Bert who put their lives on the line for folk like you, Maria. Your mother must think you’re very ungrateful.’

  I felt sorry for Sadie and all her worry over her son. It was hard having to adjust back into Civvy Street and I knew Bella’s son, John, was planning the same move as soon as his army service was up. It must have been a horrific war but, like World War II, all conflicts had their share of human misery.

  Jean, who sat at the top of the table, turned to look at the clock. ‘Thank heavens it’s finishing time! Eh’ve got my messages to go before Eh get home. If it’s no one thing it’s another,’ she sighed. I had the feeling I was back standing once more at the jute mill gate.

  Sadie heaved herself out of her seat and gave me a big wink. ‘What will you be doing the night, young Maureen? Will you be going out with a fella?’

  I was furious with myself because I blushed scarlet, feeling the warmth spread from the back of my neck to my hairline. The question had been so unexpected that I didn’t have time to appear cool and sophisticated, like world-weary Maria who now looked at me as if she had only just noticed my presence. She gave me a look as if to say this possibility was far beyond my capabilities. I shook my head. ‘No.’

  This statement wasn’t altogether true but Maria had now turned her attention to her little case of mascara which she fished from her overall pocket. She added some spittle to the black oblong block, mixed it with the minuscule brush, and proceeded to add another heavy coat to the already overloaded eyelashes. She wiped away the tiny black specks that fell on to her cheeks. Clearly the eyelashes could hold no more weight and they were shedding the surplus mascara like apples in an autumn windfall.

  By the time the bell went for finishing time, we were all ready to go and we made a hurried exit through the door and down the long corridors. I was almost hugging myself with pleasure. I felt a bit sorry that I hadn’t told the Sadie the truth about my plans for the evening but I was afraid that Maria might have poured cold water over my pleasure. Not only was I going out that night but Betty was coming with me. We were heading for Robbie’s Dance Hall in Well Road, just off the Hawkhill.

  It had all begun a week ago, one balmy autumn evening when Betty and I had been sitting on the close stairs, listening to the dance music from Mrs Ferrie’s radiogram. She lived up the stairs from us and we often listened to the popular tunes that filtered down to us from her wonderful radiogram. Also, she owned what we thought was a great collection of records.

  On that particular night, we decided to have our own private dance club. As we pranced up and down the length of the long close, we didn’t notice John from the next close and his pal. We were dancing to the ‘Golden Tango’ when the two boys appeared beside us.

  ‘Naw, naw, naw, naw, that’s no the right way to tango!’ said John’s pal, who went by the name of Joe, ‘Here, let us show you.’

  With my feet going in different directions, he swept me along the close in a series of twists, turns and jerky movements. The only thing missing was a rose in my teeth. With John dancing with Betty, we spent a hilarious hour doing all the different dances. By now, the original music had stopped but we improvised with a mixture of whistling, singing and humming. In fact, we had such a good laugh that Joe suggested an evening out.

  ‘Eh aye go to Robbie’s Dance Hall. What about a night out there?’

  Betty and I were over the moon and we talked about nothing else for days.

  ‘What about your mum, Betty? Will she let you go to the dancing?’ I asked, sure that the request would be turned down. But it wasn’t.

  ‘Mum says Eh can go with you but Eh have to be home early and no stay till the end.’

  That was fine by me. The next few days were spent in a frenzy of wondering what to wear and, now that the magic night was here, we still didn’t think our sparse wardrobes would yield anything chic and wonderful. As soon as I had my tea that night, I went through to see Betty.

  I had cut off the arms of an old jumper and sewn a colourful floral edging around the armholes. ‘What do think of this, Betty?’ I asked, holding the vandalised garment aloft, ‘Eh thought Eh would wear it with my dirndl skirt. Although it’s two different floral patterns Eh don’t think anybody will notice.’

  Betty agreed. ‘Eh’ve got to wear my slacks but Eh’ll change into a skirt when Eh get there. My mum doesn’t know about this so don’t say a word. If Eh give you my skirt now, you can keep it for me because Eh’m sure my mum will be watching as Eh leave the house.’

  She went to the wardrobe. ‘Eh’ve got a surprise to show you. Shut your eyes.’

  I did as I was told and when ordered to open them, Betty was holding a white, flimsy garment in her hand.

  ‘What do think of my new bra?’ she asked ‘Eh made it out of two hankies, some ribbon and a bit of elastic.’

  I thought it looked lovely and wished that I could have had one as well. Betty’s home-sewn bra would never have given Messrs Gossard and Berlei any sleepless nights but it was functional and well made. Betty, with all the time she had on her hands as well as access to a Singer treadle sewing machine, could easily run things up.

  ‘Oh, Eh wish you had made one for me!’ I said, quite unhappy that I would be venturing forth to the glamorous Robbie’s Dance Hall in my serviceable cotton vest while Betty was blossoming into exoti
c underwear.

  ‘Eh’ll make one another time. After all, my mum has a drawer just stuffed full with hankies.’

  For one fleeting moment, Betty’s two elderly aunties who lived on the Hilltown came to my mind and I could well imagine that they would also have well-stuffed hankie drawers.

  One bone of contention in my mind was the fact that although I was now four months into my job I was still dressed like a schoolgirl. I would set off for work every morning in my old trench coat and, horror of horrors, my white ankle socks. Betty was the same but it now looked like she had the expertise to break free.

  We were meeting John and Joe at the tram stop in Strathmartine Road but we knew this meeting was more of a business arrangement than a romantic date. This was just as well as we discovered John couldn’t make it. No reason was given but we suspected he didn’t have the admission money for the dance. We certainly couldn’t help out because we had the bare minimum of money in our roomy but almost empty handbags.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Joe, cheerfully. ‘We’ll just go as planned.’

  To give him his due, he was very gallant in escorting two giggling youngsters to their very first dance in a proper dancehall. We stood in a queue in Well Road, waiting for the hall to open, shivering in the early evening drizzle but almost bursting with excitement and anticipation. Once inside, we made straight for the cloakroom. Betty wanted to remove her horrible baggy trousers and woollen balaclava, which we added to our coats. The small woman in charge of the cloakroom was almost inundated with a flood of coats but she was obviously an expert in her job as she deftly wrapped each coat into a bundle and shoved it into a boxed contraption behind her.

  We then stepped forth into the glamorous unknown and we were not disappointed. It was all we imagined it would be. There was a medium-sized dance floor and a gramophone was playing ‘I Believe’ by Frankie Laine, which, as with Mrs Ferrie, was one of our favourites.

  A smaller room led off from the main dance floor and was furnished with a few tables and chairs. Quite a few people were sitting here and Betty and I stood on the fringe of this activity, soaking up the wonderful atmosphere. Perhaps because the room was small it had the appearance of being packed with dancers. The beat of the music, the dim lights and the blue haze from countless cigarettes which spiralled up to the ceiling all added to the magic.

  Betty was wearing her bright-pink woollen jumper, the one that her auntie had knitted. It had a wide neckband that emphasised her white slender neck and she had on a floral skirt similar to my own. Meanwhile, I thought I looked like the bee’s knees in my redesigned jumper with the matching trim that didn’t really match. I knew Betty was annoyed that her jumper completely hid her pièce de résistance, namely her bra, and she said so. ‘Eh wish Eh had one of those bonny see-through blouses. You know the ones Eh mean? Yon chiffon models.’

  Personally, I was glad to have something to cover up my unlovely vest.

  Joe arrived from somewhere and gave us a dance apiece before disappearing for the rest of the night. In fact, we never saw him again. Whether he still came to see John, we never knew or, quite honestly, cared. Betty and I were enchanted with this new dancing world and, even although we had to leave at nine-thirty because of Mrs Miller’s curfew, we talked about nothing else on our way home, chattering animatedly as the tram wound its ponderous way along the dark, narrow streets.

  ‘Do you think your mum will let you go next week?’ I asked anxiously.

  Betty nodded. ‘As long as Eh’m back early.’

  Now I was faced with a big, big problem – finance. I gave Mum my wages every week and she gave me some pocket money. This covered my tram fares to work and back as well as my dinner in the canteen. Once back in the house that night, I immediately began to work out ways of saving from this small amount in order to visit Robbie’s every week. I put my savings plan into operation the following morning by ignoring the tramcar and launching myself like a rocket down the Hilltown and onwards to the factory. Savings were also made at dinnertime by eating the minimum of food. Mum would have been annoyed at this but I knew I could always fill up with a chocolate or six during the day. One small cloud settled over me that morning in the shape of Violet and her three chums. They were not as ecstatic as I was when describing my night out.

  ‘We always go to the Palais de Dance in Tay Street,’ said Violet. ‘You should come with us on a Tuesday night. It’s good fun.’

  I made a mental note to mention this to Betty but, as things turned out, my time at Keillor’s was fast running out. At the beginning of 1954, the entire place was abuzz with rumours of a big pay-off. Seemingly, due to the vagaries of the sweet export market, a big order had failed to materialise. I had told Mum about the gaffer and at first she warned me, ‘Eh hope you’re no giving him any cheek.’

  When I shook my head, she said, ‘Och well, maybe he doesn’t like young folk working for him.’

  Things were becoming worse. Before the rumours, everyone in the pool had been slotted into some sort of job in the complex but, now, quite a few of us were totally redundant every morning. The gaffer got round this by giving us cleaning jobs which I didn’t mind but greatly annoyed the rest of the women.

  ‘Bloody cheek putting us to mop floors when we were hired to make sweeties!’ complained one irate woman, while the rest of her pals agreed.

  Although I knew my days were numbered, I have to admit getting quite a shock when the pay-offs were announced and my name was on the list. Surprise, surprise! The works manager was a lovely, kind man, not like the gaffer. He had dark-brown eyes and a concerned, sympathetic manner which made me feel a bit better at losing my job. It was down to losing some lucrative order, he explained, but if things picked up then I would be asked back to work. I almost said ‘Over my dead body’ but he was so nice that I buttoned my lippy lip, as Mum often called it. I met Sadie as I was leaving that last night and I told her all about the gaffer and how he seemed to hate me.

  ‘Och, you must have been married to him in a previous life and given him a hard time,’ she said.

  I was appalled. Married to that old geezer!

  She saw my face and laughed. ‘Eh’m just joking, young Maureen. Cheer up!’

  Cheer up? Well, that wasn’t so easy. Mum and I were devastated by this grim news. George had started his first year at secondary school and was growing out of his clothes almost daily. And there was Miss Kemp. I just prayed I would never meet her on my way to the dole office. I couldn’t help thinking how my bright new dawn was fast becoming the dark night.

  CHAPTER 21

  Ironically, I had noticed an advert for a waitress in Wallace’s Restaurant while scanning the employment section of the paper a few days before losing my job. Mum had other ideas.

  ‘You better sign on at the “buroo” just in case there’s no jobs. After all, there was a lot of you paid off last night.’

  With that pessimistic statement in my head, I set off towards Gellatly Street and the buroo, Scotland’s name for the labour exchange. To my surprise I found the office empty of people and I was seen right away. Perhaps this was because it was a Saturday morning, or maybe I was just lucky. The girl behind the counter was very helpful so I decided to mention the advert. Did she still know if the job was still available? She went away to phone the restaurant in Castle Street and was back within minutes with good news.

  ‘You’ve to go round right away for an interview with Mr Wallace.’

  I looked at her in dismay. ‘You mean right now?’

  I was fully aware that I wasn’t dressed for an interview. Although it was only May, the weather had turned warm and I had left the house in my faithful old cotton floral skirt, a thin blouse and bare legs, my feet thrust into summer sandals. The helpful woman nodded and I set off, wishing desperately that I had something fashionable and chic to wear. Still, with the confidence of youth, I was determined to bestow my limited talents on this new job.

  When I reached the restaurant, my confidence was dente
d slightly when I saw the premises. I gazed at the brown-painted facade and the large window which was blocked off with hardboard. The warm bright sunshine seemed to emphasise the drabness and when I tried to peer through the door, my view was blocked by a high wooden screen. The place looked like a relic from the last century sitting quietly slumbering in the sun. To say I was unsure about this new venture would be an understatement and I hesitated on the pavement.

  The shop next door, however, was a buzz of activity. Also owned by the Wallace family, it was doing great trade and the aroma coming out of the shop was mouth-watering. A large queue had formed and was now waiting patiently to be served with their paper bags of juicy meat pies and bridies. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and marched in for my interview. I don’t know what I was expecting in a restaurant but if I thought there would be lots of people sitting at the tables then I was wrong.

  The room, with its dark-panelled walls, stretched out ahead of me and the tables were all set with white, pristine tablecloths and shiny cutlery. It was like entering the hushed atmosphere of a deserted church and I was quite apprehensive about it all. Mr Alf Wallace was sitting at one of the smaller tables, drinking tea from a china cup. I wondered if he was waiting for me to turn up. Although I didn’t realise it then, I had arrived during the brief, halcyon, half-hour hiatus between the busy morning bridie trade and the frenetic lunchtime crowds. I liked him straight away and if he noticed my casual clothes then he never mentioned them.

  The wage, however, was less than my previous one. ‘We pay thirty shillings a week but you keep all your own tips, which can add up to a few shillings more,’ he said.

  While this piece of bad news was tempered by the anticipation of tips, I wasn’t sure how Mum would react to the thought of ten shillings a week less. But it was a job and I was really pleased when he suggested a start on the following Monday. It now looked as if I wasn’t going to be unemployed for even one day. I thought the interview was over when he stood up but he said, ‘I think Miss Thomson will want to speak to you before you start. She is the manageress.’