Voices in the Street Read online

  Sometimes, if her mum wasn’t looking, Sylvia would try to open the window to get a better view but, because we were so high up, this used to throw me into a panic. Fortunately, the wooden frame was so warped with dampness and age that it would have taken an elephant to open it. I would often gaze down at the far-off ground and be grateful for this small fact.

  As well as the sun-filled kitchen, the flat had another room which, because it faced the high wall of the pend, was dismally dark. For some unknown reason I detested it. Cathie called this room her parlour. It was hardly ever used but it contained the best furniture. Compared to our house this room was pure luxury but I think my dislike stemmed from its cold, unlived-in look. There was a pristine floral carpet square with an edging of well-polished linoleum. The shining grate with its pattern of fancy tiles had the cold, clammy appearance of never harbouring a cosy fire. In an attempt to disguise the unwelcoming hearth, a painted screen with three huge claw-like feet stood like a sentinel guarding the black hole of the grate. I always thought this was a fussy and prissy room with its neatly arranged oak dining-room suite and the strategically placed easy chairs. An overall musty odour was evident in the chill air and a ribbon of mildew clung to the sides of the thick chenille curtains.

  There was, however, one thing of exquisite beauty in this ugly room. The most gorgeous doll I had ever set eyes on sat on the mantelpiece. Its creamy porcelain face with the vivid blue eyes and rosebud mouth peeped shyly from under a frilly lace bonnet, while its podgy, flesh-coloured fabric arms stuck out from the puff-sleeved, full-skirted, frothy white dress. I never discovered who actually owned this doll but one thing was always made clear to us: the doll could be looked at but never touched.

  Of course Sylvia, being the girl she was, never took a blind bit of notice of any warning and she would drag one of the heavy chairs over and lift the doll from its pedestal. We were then able to hold the doll for a few precious moments before she would clamber back on her perch and place it in its original untouchable position. To be quite honest, I was always on tenterhooks during this ploy in case either of us should drop it. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I would get the blame, whether I was the culprit or not.

  Every morning Cathie would take us out shopping. ‘Will you two hurry up?’ she would shout from the open door. ‘Eh’ve got to get my messages from the Sosh.’

  The ‘Sosh’ was the nickname for the large Co-operative Wholesale Society shops, Maybe the Dundee tongue couldn’t cope with the word ‘Society’ and had simply shortened it over many decades. At least that was Cathie’s explanation. Buying groceries was a ritual in this large shop and so different from our small family-run grocers on the Hilltown where Mum had lodged our ration cards.

  To shop at the Sosh, you had to be a member. Members were issued with a membership number and their own members’ book. Inside the Sosh with its roomy interior was a long wooden counter with a small box placed in the centre. On entering, the customer placed her ‘society book’ in this box before retiring to the dubious comfort of a row of ancient-looking kitchen chairs that were set out on the sawdust-covered floor. Here shoppers waited for the assistant to call them to be served once their books reached the bottom of the pile. Every time the door opened a sharp smell of resin wafted up from this floor and sometime a billowing breeze would play havoc with the sawdust, whipping it into a frenzy of minute particles as they were caught up in the draught.

  This shop was nearly always busy and six assistants darted to and fro, making up the rations for the waiting women. At the back of the counter and running along its entire length was a marble slab with dark wooden shelves above. According to Cathie, in pre-war days these shelves literally groaned with a magnificent array of food. Huge mounds of butter, fat and cheese had sat in glorious ostentation while whole sides of bacon hung from the steel rail. I tried to visualise this scene but couldn’t. It just looked like an empty space to me.

  Two young apprentice lads, dressed in long white aprons that almost reached their ankles, watched attentively while one of the trained operatives deftly manoeuvred a lump of yellow butter between two wooden pallets. After a great deal of patting and pummelling, this little mound was placed on a small sheet of greaseproof paper and handed over as the week’s ration for one large family. The large, circular bacon slicer seemed to be the domain of another expert who sliced a small side of bacon with his usual practised hand. After a few slithering motions the rashers were slapped on to the weighing scales.

  Then there was the biscuit stand. Standing in splendid isolation by the end of the counter it had, in Cathie’s words, once boasted a positive cornucopia of chocolate fingers, chocolate creams and other unknown delicacies. Now it was pathetic, holding only a few tins of Rich Tea and Ginger Snap biscuits. It was the same with the brightly coloured enamel tea boxes that had once held aromatic teas from China, Ceylon and India, not to mention other exotic locations.

  We waited patiently until one woman left the counter, clutching a tiny bag of groceries. The assistant then meandered slowly over to the box, pulled out a book and hollered, ‘Mrs Carmichael! You’re next.’

  Mrs Carmichael rose stiffly to her feet and hobbled over to the counter while the rest of the women chatted amiably. ‘Eh’m telling you, Cathie,’ said one woman, ‘if these rations get any less than they are now, my family will be starving and Eh’ll be bringing in my hankie tae carry them home instead of a message bag.’

  Cathie sympathised with her. ‘Eh’ll be glad tae see an end tae this war. Then maybe we’ll see an orange or a banana again.’

  ‘Eh wouldn’t mind getting my fists on a couple of onions,’ put in a voice from the side.

  The women all nodded wearily, glum-faced at the thought of another imminent mealtime looming and not enough in the larder to feed their families, not even a humble onion.

  Most of this wartime talk of rations went over my head. If the shop was exceptionally busy, Sylvia and I would amuse ourselves by drawing patterns in the sawdust with the toes of our shoes. This pastime, however, usually ended up with Sylvia jumping on my drawing and twisting her feet around in an effort to erase it. My retaliation was swift. I would immediately leap on to her masterpiece and scatter particles of saw-dust into the faces of the waiting women. This state of affairs was always greeted by a lot of annoyance and muttering from the seated clientele, who reminded us in no uncertain terms how children used to behave in their young day. Not like us, the new generation.

  Cathie would stand our nonsense for a few moments before grabbing our collars. ‘Right then, you two! Be quiet or you’ll both get a belting.’

  During term time, Sylvia’s brother David would arrive home from school at four o’clock and retire to the kitchen table to do his homework. I don’t think I ever met Cathie’s husband during my many trips to her house. I had the vague notion he was an insurance man but I’m not certain. Cathie never mentioned him, so he could have been in the army, fighting the Germans, the Italians or even the Japanese. This was something children took for granted, growing up in a strange manless society. The world seemed to be wholly populated by women, children and old people. I know I never gave much thought to it.

  Mum finished her shift at five-thirty and as the time grew near Cathie would bring my coat down from the ornate coat stand and I would rush off down the Hawkhill to meet Mum. I loved this noisy and bustling thoroughfare which, like its counterparts the Overgate, Hilltown and many other communities, absolutely teemed with life. Hundreds of families crammed into grimy and poky tenements and as I passed the ‘Blue Mountains’ area, I would see lines of washing stretched across windows like the ceremonious bunting in the grand displays put on by the residents of Bernard Street at times of national rejoicing.

  When I reached the mill, I waited until the wailing sound of the ‘Bummer’ died away and I knew she would soon appear amongst the throng of mill workers. She knew the nursery liked to discharge their small residents by six o’clock and it was always a rush to
meet this deadline. Still, we always got there in time. This routine lasted until school resumed in August but when Christmas came I was back with Cathie again.

  On Christmas Eve we appeared at the nursery as usual, only to discover that the nurses had organised a party for the toddlers. We peered through the window and saw the tiny children with crudely made paper hats on their heads. They were tottering around on small legs, playing a game. Then they scampered towards the table which held a couple of plates of bread and marge. George and another small boy came into view. They were both dressed in the regulation smocks and they were squabbling over something.

  It soon became clear that the boy wanted not only his own sandwich but George’s as well. My brother, with a fierce obstinate look on his face, held his bread high over his head and took to his heel with the little bully close by. Suddenly and without warning the boy slipped and landed on his own sandwich. How he managed this acrobatic feat was anyone’s guess but as he stood up we could see the doughy white square glued firmly to his bum like a bread poultice. His face crumpled and he threatened to erupt into a flood of tears. His expression was priceless as he searched for the lost sandwich, looking on the ground and under the benches, but in vain.

  Meanwhile George rubbed salt into the wound by standing on the sidelines stuffing his bread into his mouth like a stoker shovelling coal into a boiler. By now Mum and I were reduced to fits of laughter at the innocent antics of the two toddlers and for a brief moment we almost forgot that this would be our first Christmas without Grandad.

  As Christmas Day was a normal working day at the mill we had the usual routine of getting up early and hitting the road. Still, I was full of anticipation at the thought of a visit from Santa. Jumping out of bed on Christmas morning I found to my delight that he had left me a tiny bag of sweeties, a couple of pennies and a newspaper-wrapped parcel. I opened this parcel with trembling fingers and to my intense delight there was a lovely black doll which, before the word ‘racist’ entered our vocabulary, was popularly known as a ‘darkie doll’. However, this doll was dressed in a tartan outfit – it was a Scottish darkie doll with a kilt and a dashing tammy with a real feather. It was a lovely present and I couldn’t believe my good luck that Santa had chosen me for its owner.

  George’s parcel held a tinplate train set. While Mum hurried around getting ready for work she had just enough time to put the rails in a small circle and wind up the train. George sat in wide-eyed fascination as it clicked its way around the track, disappearing for a brief second under the tiny tin tunnel. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to let him play with it and as we hurried along the cold street with the bitter December wind whipping in our faces, he wouldn’t stop crying for his train.

  I was lucky because I was allowed to take my doll to Cathie’s. I clutched it tightly in my arms, keeping a watchful eye on the feather, which happily was firmly attached to the tammy.

  Mum tried to console George. ‘You can play all night with your train set, my wee pet. You can’t take it to the nursery in case it gets mixed up with the other toys. You might never see it again.’

  I was really dubious about letting Sylvia see my doll in case she either broke it or tore its clothes off. But I needn’t have worried because Santa had also brought her a doll. Her doll wasn’t as pretty as mine but that was just my opinion. Hers was a plain doll with pink cheeks and a floral dress and pants, not so nice as my kiltie. Cathie kept asking me if I liked my present, especially the outfit. ‘What do you think about the kiltie outfit? Do you like it? What a braw tammy and a feather! Do you like it?’

  Mere words could never describe my liking for my doll and I simply nodded, my eyes alight with pleasure. I thought nothing about this questioning at the time, and it was only years later that I discovered Dad had sent the two gifts to George and me, but, like all dolls sold then, mine had had no clothes. Cathie had volunteered to make the wonderful outfit from an old tartan scarf. She had even gone to the bother to extract a feather from her pillow with a pair of tweezers. It had taken a few extractions before she had obtained the fat and imposing specimen that had adorned the tammy.

  As she had also made the outfit for Sylvia’s doll it would appear that our wide-eyed love for the parlour doll hadn’t gone unnoticed. Later that night George played endlessly with his train but, although she tried to hide it, Mum cried because she missed Grandad. I missed him as well, in a terrible sad way that even the wonderful doll couldn’t quite erase.

  That was how our first Christmas without him ended – with laughter turning to tears.

  CHAPTER 7

  Living in the next close was a family called Doyle. Mr and Mrs Doyle had five daughters, ranging from May and Rose who were ages with George and myself down to a baby a few months old. There wasn’t a woman in the street that Mum admired more than Mrs Doyle. She was small and pretty with an industrious nature and she kept both her home and her family in a spotless, bandbox fashion. This cleanliness no doubt would be taken for granted nowadays but back in wartime Dundee it was no mean feat. Although the family had the same accommodation as us, namely a cold-water tap, two small rooms and an outside toilet, the girls were always turned out like new pins.

  Also like us, Mrs Doyle had no outside drying facilities and had to hang clothes on a wooden pulley in the kitchen. She extended her drying capabilities by stretching a rope across her window which every night without fail held a row of white ankle socks, vests and pants. Placed along the length of the windowsill were five pairs of white sandshoes which had been whitened with Meltonian chalk paste and left out in the evening sunshine to dry.

  May and I were chums but we were as different as chalk and cheese. This difference was evident after such boisterous games as ‘tig’ or ‘kick the can’ from which May would emerge as crisp as a mountain daisy while I looked as if I had been down a coal mine. Mum soon noticed this state of affairs.

  ‘Would you look at yourself, coming in here like some mucky toerag! Eh can’t understand why you can’t keep yourself as clean as May,’ she said, throwing a disgusted and baleful look in my direction.

  It was the same story when she noticed the family going off to the chapel on Sunday. The girls would be immaculately dressed in cotton frocks and the ever-white socks and shoes while their hair fell in long, rippling ringlets. This soft, spiral hairstyle was achieved by their mum spending an hour or more the previous evening winding long strips of material around thin strands of hair.

  ‘Would you look at the Doyle lassies going away to the chapel? Eh don’t know how their mother keeps them so clean. Eh’ve a hard enough job with just the two of you.’ Mum shook her head in wonder.

  I had a theory about this and it all boiled down to the sandshoes. I had rotten old black ones while May had the spanking white ones.

  ‘Well, if Eh can maybe get white sandshoes Eh could look like May,’ I suggested, quite pleased by my perceptive insight.

  Mum treated this statement with the derision it deserved.

  ‘White sandshoes! White sandshoes! Am Eh hearing you right?’ She shook her head in amazement, ‘If you had white sandshoes, Eh would have to spend half the day whitening them and you would have to sit with your feet hanging out the window for the entire night. And another thing, what has white sandshoes to do with that huge rip in your frock and that tousled hairstyle?’

  Actually, I was hoping she hadn’t noticed the inch-long tear in my frock, a gash that had been caused by the barely submerged nail in the shed at 108 Hilltown where Jessie Matthews, Amy Ross, Marlene Blacklock and myself had all squeezed during a game of hide-and-seek. Mum was now ranting and she seemed to have a bee in her bonnet about this small rip. ‘Eh wouldn’t mind so much if Eh had bought it but you got it as a present from Mrs Knight. What do you think she’s going to say when she sees how badly you’ve treated it?’

  Mrs Knight also lived at 108 Hilltown and her windows overlooked ours. Every night after school I would pick up her shopping list and collect her messages along wit
h our own. She was an elderly woman who, as far as I know, lived alone. I don’t remember ever seeing her dressed in anything other than a black dress over which was tied a tea apron with huge, gaudily printed flowers bursting colourfully over the cotton surface. I think she must have owned an entire wardrobe of these aprons because I can’t recall seeing the same one twice. It was rumoured by the neighbours that these aprons were changed hourly but whether that was true or not I didn’t know. What I did know was that she was a lovely, kindly woman who really appreciated my help with her shopping.

  There was only one thing wrong: I suspected that she thought I suffered from malnutrition. This was the only explanation for her habit of reaching into the bread bin the moment I showed my face in the house. While I watched in fascinated revulsion, she proceeded to spread the bread with a thick layer of margarine and a sprinkling of sugar. ‘Now, Maureen, Eh ken you must be hungry so just tuck in,’ she said as she handed over the obnoxious sandwich.

  I must admit to feeling hungry most of the day but for some unknown reason I couldn’t stomach this culinary delight. Perhaps it was memories of Grandad’s sugar-coated balls of marge that he dished out so regularly when I was ill as a small child that damped down any hunger pangs on my part. I often tried to tell her that I didn’t like sugar on bread but she never listened.

  ‘No, no, just you eat it up. After all, you run tae the shops for me so it’s the least Eh can do.’

  As a result of her inability to listen to my protests, I had no qualms about pushing this revolting sandwich through the metal grille of a drain that was conveniently placed at the foot of her close. I watched as the bread dropped to the dark depths and landed with a squelching plop in the pool of stagnant water that lay forever at the foot of this drain. I hated throwing food away but I consoled myself with the thought that it could be worse. She could have insisted that I eat her delicacy in the kitchen, right under her nose.