Voices in the Street Page 6

  In the classroom one day Miss Innes, the sewing teacher, produced skeins of the same coarse wool as my stockings were made from. She also handed each of us a set of four sharp knitting needles and announced that because of wartime shortages we were to knit a pair of socks for our own use. My heart sank at the thought of a twin for my dreaded stockings and maybe it was this thought that made me hopeless at knitting. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get the hang of the four needles. It was like playing an imaginary set of bagpipes. As a result of this ineptitude I spent many afternoons rattling down and picking up stitches till at the end of the week my sum specimen was an inch of sludge-grey knitting.

  Thankfully, I wasn’t the worst knitter in the class because, in her wisdom, the teacher had included the boys in this recreational pursuit and they were marginally worse than me. Still, I struggled on painfully with my tube of puckered-up greyness until it came to turn the heel. In an effort to help the stragglers, namely the boys and me, she drew a diagram on the blackboard, but I couldn’t transpose her drawing to the three sets of stitches on my needles. This sorry state of affairs lasted for a couple of weeks, until one wet and miserable afternoon she announced that the socks had to be finished by the following Monday – a mere few days away.

  This statement threw me into a situation bordering on panic because I was still on sock number one and what a sorry sight it was. After class I pushed my lap bag in beside my books and rushed home, almost knocking Grandad over with my haste and my tale of woe. ‘Grandad, these socks have tae be finished by Monday. Do you think you can turn the heel for me?’ I asked, more in desperation than hope.

  He surveyed the snarled-up bundle with amazement. ‘Heavens! Eh’ve never seen such a mess before. You’re obviously no one of life’s natural knitters,’ he said in that superior tone often used by people who know they are good at something.

  And I knew Grandad had a talent for knitting. After all, I had the vests to prove it. Mum was also critical when she saw the sorry mess, but in spite of this they each took on the task of a sock apiece. Grandad unpicked my work and started afresh.

  The following Monday, the look on Miss Innes face when I produced the pair of perfect specimens was a joy to behold. Grandad had made me promise to own up to the conspiracy, and although she gave me a long hard look she said nothing and neither did I. I would like to think I tried to own up; I even got as far as opening my mouth, but obviously the socks were now past history because she was placing small squares of material in front of us in order to practise some sewing stitches. So I shut my mouth and said nothing.

  Apart from this sewing and knitting, most of our learning was done in a collective and chanting sing-song manner, especially the multiplication tables. In fact, on warm sunny days this synchronised hum was almost hypnotic enough to send you to sleep.

  Playtimes were the best part of the day and most of us would run up the steep incline of the playground with our rubber balls. These had all seen better days but they were well guarded by their owners because it was impossible to buy another one. Janie Gibb and I had taken the precaution of gouging our initials into the ball’s rubbery surface with a sharp pen nib. My ball was the result of a fortunate find by Grandad just before the war and he had put it in the drawer, where in my usual rummaging manner I had found it. I’m sure it had belonged to a dog in its previous life because it had deep chew marks pitted all over its surface, but it still bounced and that was all that mattered.

  We threw it against the wall and chanted with each movement. ‘Clap your hands, round your back, over your arm, under your legs,’ we sang, making gyrations with each chant. Although I can’t now remember all the moves I do know they required a great deal of agile activity.

  Another enjoyable pastime in the summer was playing a game of scraps. This needed a book, the thicker the better. In fact, if you were lucky enough to own some long-winded saga you were indeed fortunate. On our weekly visits to the Albert Square library I always tried to get Mum to choose a book like War and Peace but she preferred the more sensational Crime Club detective novels. And she warned me in no uncertain manner. ‘Don’t let me catch you taking my library book to the school for your scraps. Eh’ll get a hefty fine if the book gets torn.’

  Every morning in the warm sunshine we would all line up against the school side wall with our scrapbooks clutched tightly in our hands, looking like a row of midget financial dealers. ‘Show us your scraps!’ was the usual opening gambit and, with a quick twist of the wrist, we would flick through the pages to show the three prized scraps hidden amongst the pages. A deal would be made with the purchaser and, depending on the size and quality of her proffered scrap, a set amount of tries were allocated. The tries consisted of opening the book at random and, if the page it was opened at had the scraps, your reward was to take them and put them with your own. As with all games of chance there were days when you could be on a winning streak, while at other times a stroke of bad luck could see you losing everything in ten minutes. One day this calamity happened to wee Rita who ran home that afternoon, seemingly crying bitterly.

  The next morning, to our consternation, her mother was at the school gate, standing guard like some avenging angel. ‘Right then, you lot! Eh want all the scraps you cheated from Rita yesterday!’ she shouted loudly, barring the gate with her plump figure.

  I don’t think we did anything to cheat Rita but because we weren’t allowed to give cheek to our elders there was a great deal of searching and scrambling through various scrapbooks, trying to remember which ones belonged to her. Needless to say, she ended up with more scraps than she lost but she had to pay a high price for this. It was a long time before anyone would play with her again.

  Quite a few of the mothers gathered every day at the school gate. It was like a social club as they all stood around on the street, praising their children. ‘My Jean is really good at her sums. The teacher was saying she’s one of the best counters in her class,’ said one proud mum to the group but this remark wasn’t going to be taken at face value by the other women.

  ‘It’s funny you should say that,’ replied one stout woman who appeared every morning in her well-worn baffies, with her dinkie curlers peeping out from her floral turban. ‘My Mary is getting ten out of ten for her multiplication tables.’

  Because I lived such a short distance from school, Mum and Grandad let me go on my own. Unlike Jean or Mary, whose cleverness was being shouted from the school gate, any talents I may have possessed were not so much hidden under a bushel as buried under an enormous avalanche. Still, this didn’t bother me. What did bother Mum and was to become a big worry on the horizon was Grandad’s health.

  CHAPTER 6

  As the warm days of May 1943 drew to a close it was becoming clear to everyone, myself included, that Grandad was very ill. Our trips to the Overgate and the trams had come to an end and I felt very sad inside. As usual Grandad wouldn’t admit there was anything wrong with him and was determined to trivialise his deteriorating health as something that would soon pass.

  And that wasn’t the only problem in the house. There was also the matter of the household budget. For months on end Mum had been struggling to make ends meet but the money shortage was becoming acute. I was vaguely aware that my father sent money home but he was very erratic with it and there were some weeks when it didn’t arrive. Although Mum got really mad on these occasions she could still rely on some help from Grandad.

  Now, because of the worsening situation at home, she had decided to return to work as a weaver in Little Eddy’s jute mill. A few weeks earlier she had put her name down for a nursery place for George in the Dudhope Street nursery but she had been warned at the time that vacancies were very few and far between. Although she knew her return to work depended on this nursery place, one that might not come about for months or even years, she still went ahead with her plans for me. To ease the burden from Grandad it was arranged that I would go to a childminder. This was one of Mum’s friends, Cathie
Ross.

  Cathie lived on the Hawkhill with her two children, David and Sylvia. There had been a third child, a baby called Wilma who had died of meningitis a month or so earlier that year. Because of this personal tragedy Mum had wanted to cancel the plans regarding me but Cathie was firm. It would take her mind away from it, she said.

  ‘Are you sure about taking Maureen?’ Mum had asked after the terrible event but, as Cathie said yes, the plan remained firmly in place.

  Mum contented herself that her return to work was something to consider for the future as it all depended on the vacancy at the nursery. Then, suddenly, Grandad had to be admitted to Maryfield Hospital. He was diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis. Two days after this awful news Cathie arrived back in the house with Mum. They were both agitated. Grandad had stated that he wanted to come home to his own bed and he had discharged himself from the hospital, much to Mum’s dismay. The two women were stripping his bed and Mum was crying. I stood at the foot of the narrow bed as I always did, helping with the chore of tucking the corners of the sheet in place.

  Mum’s eyes were red and puffy, which alarmed me but, when she dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper, I stopped what I was doing and listened. ‘The doctor says Dad’s got galloping consumption. He says it’s because he was gassed in the trenches during the war.’ She wiped her eyes and began to smooth the thin blankets over the bed.

  I was devastated by this news. ‘Mum, what’s galloping over Grandad?’ I asked, my words sounding extra loud in the tiny room.

  Before Mum could answer, Cathie piped up. She was annoyed by my eavesdropping and she said so. ‘Will you stop listening to grown-ups’ conversation? You’ve awfy big ears for such a wee lassie. Now run outside and play and don’t bother your mum.’

  I would sooner have stayed in the room and heard all about my beloved Grandad but as Mum began to cry again I retreated to the foot of the stairs. I sat there in the sunshine with my book, The Bobby Bear Album which had been a present from Santa Claus at Christmas, a time that now seemed so far away that it was almost forgotten. But not quite.

  Young enough as I was on that morning I knew something was far wrong with Grandad and I sat in the sun with my thoughts centred on him, not entirely leaving the world of illness to the adults. Later, much to my chagrin, Cathie took me home with her and on my return in the evening Grandad was asleep and I wasn’t allowed to disturb him.

  The next morning, before anyone was awake, I crawled silently out of bed and tiptoed to his room. I wanted to see for myself this awful galloping disease that had overtaken him. He lay perfectly still and peaceful. His face had a curious white and waxy look that emphasised his deep wrinkles but, apart from that, he looked just fine.

  I stared at him so intensely that he woke up. Giving me a weak smile, he patted my hand. ‘Eh’ll be as right as rain in a few days, wee lass, and then we’ll go and see Tam. Would you like that?’ His voice was a whisper.

  I nodded happily and went back to bed. The doctor had made a big mistake and whatever had galloped over him was no longer there. I fell asleep thinking about all our trips, past and future. Although I didn’t realise it at the time because I was just a child, these were to be his last words to me. Later that day he was readmitted to Maryfield Hospital where he died the next day.

  Mum was totally devastated, while I was filled with a feeling, not so much of sadness as of horrible emptiness. There was a dull knot in my stomach. I just knew that this wonderful and vital man had gone out of our lives for ever and things would never be the same again. Grandad had been the pivot of our lives. Our world had depended on his quiet strength for all our needs and he was no longer with us.

  It’s strange, but I can remember the funeral tea as if it were yesterday. I hadn’t been allowed to go to the crematorium and I think I cried because of this but I do recall the atmosphere later in the house. It lay like a thick black fog over everyone. Mum was surrounded by people, all her friends and neighbours. Tam had come back to the house but he seemed ill at ease amongst all the women. He drank his tea quickly, gave his condolences again to Mum and then pulled his coat over a well-worn suit.

  I had been sent to a corner of the room with a pile of comics and as he passed me he hesitated. ‘Aye, wee lass, you’ll certainly miss your old grandad,’ he said with a sad shake of his head.

  Cathie had overheard this remark. ‘Och, she’s too young to mind her grandad,’ she said, ‘never mind miss him.’

  This stupid statement shocked Tam and me. He patted my head in passing and he was still shaking his head sadly when he went through the door. It was then, after he had gone, that I suddenly realised how final Grandad’s death was. Large hot tears ran down my face where they lingered for a microsecond before landing with a splash on the brightly drawn antics of Korky the Kat. But he was only a comic character and I don’t think he minded sharing my grief.

  Mum’s brother Charlie and his wife and family lived down south and they hadn’t managed to see Grandad before he died. This upset Mum a great deal. ‘At least we saw your grandad every day,’ she told me. ‘We’ve been lucky to have him with us all these years.’

  If this was meant as a consolation it was a small one. I would have liked to know him for years and years and years. When everyone went home we sat at the fire and Mum cried for hours and hours.

  Later that night as I lay in bed and listened to her muffled sobs I had the strangest feeling that Grandad was in the room. The feeling was so strong that I was convinced I could hear his voice. I knew he had gone away to Heaven but that didn’t stop me feeling he was still with us. It was a comforting thought.

  The next few weeks passed in a blur of grief. Mum was now alone with two children and she missed the help and strength of Grandad. As for me, I just missed him dreadfully. When a letter arrived from the nursery with news that a vacancy had arisen Mum barely read it. In her grief-stricken mind going back to work was the last thing she was thinking of. She was set on turning it down in spite of our pressing money problems. On hearing this, Cathie said firmly, ‘You’ll feel better if you get out of the house, Molly. Eh ken how you feel because Eh was the same after Wilma died but you’ve just got to pick yourself up and get on with life. Especially when you’ve two bairns to look after.’

  Mum was mortified. As she said later, here she was crying every day and Cathie had been through so much more. Grandad had at least had some life while Wilma had had so little. Mum told her this.

  ‘Then you’ll take the vacancy at the nursery?’

  Mum nodded. ‘Aye, maybe Eh should. It might be ages before Eh get another place again.’

  Cathie was pleased by her decision. ‘Well then, that’s settled. Eh’ll look after Maureen during the school holidays and she’ll be good company for Sylvia.’

  The following week Mum returned to her job with the South Anchor jute mill or Little Eddy’s as it was commonly called. Every morning during the school’s seven-week summer holiday she would strap George in his pushchair and we would set off for the warm andcosy day-nursery before heading for West Henderson’s Wynd. We walked briskly along the warren of narrow streets, all lined with tall grimy buildings. The streets that spawned out from Lochee Road and the Scourinburn all had the same murky, depressing atmosphere. It clung to the many jute mills that lay in this area. It was as if the sun never shone on these streets. If it did it never lingered.

  I could never understand why Mum chose to work so far away from the house, especially when the Hillside Works mill was right on our doorstep. It seemed it was all down to loyalty. When she had left school at fourteen she had become a weaver in Little Eddy’s.

  There was also the fact that wages hardly ever varied from mill to mill. ‘It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other where you work,’ she often said. ‘They all pay a pittance.’

  During that long summer holiday she would part company with me at the foot of the Hawkhill. As she hurried towards Brook Street she left me with two warnings. ‘Now mind and go st
raight to Cathie’s house and don’t get into any scrapes with Sylvia.’

  Sylvia was a boisterous girl who, apart from being strong and athletic, was very headstrong. I was hardly the original shrinking violet myself but Sylvia left me far behind. There was nothing she wouldn’t tackle and she was forever jumping or climbing over dangerous obstacles. Being no angel myself, I was quite adept at getting into mischievous situations that were always rewarded by a sharp smack on my bottom, but Sylvia left me breathless most times.

  The entrance to Cathie’s flat lay along a dark and sunless pend and it was four flights up. I was always out of breath when I reached Cathie’s door and by that time Mum’s warnings had been long forgotten. Cathie’s kitchen, because it faced a different direction from the pend, was a delightful place full of sunshine. Her window overlooked an ocean of rooftops that spread out into a landscape of smoking chimneypots. Up until then, I thought chimneypots all looked the same but, when viewed like this in their hundreds, each one had a distinctive and unique character. Sylvia and I would sit on cushions on the coal bunker and gaze at a plethora of tall, yellow-bricked ones and short, stubby specimens. Our particular favourite was one magnificent structure which had smoke pouring out from a multitude of cracks that pock-marked its surface. We nicknamed it ‘Puffing Billy’.

  Another favourite had a steel hood similar to a bonnet and we christened it ‘Grannypot’. ‘Grannysooker’ was one that let smoke escape briefly before sucking it back again and ‘Grannyfatbelly’ had a wonderful, obese rotund shape. Then there was ‘Grannyhaha’. Every morning we would gaze in awe at this chimney with its tin helmet swinging lazily around. Even in the slightest of breezes it would sing out in a wailing ‘hahaha’ sound almost as if it were laughing.