The Sunday Girls

by Maureen Reynolds

He turned towards the small window, still talking, but it seemed as if he was speaking to himself. ‘But I survived somehow and we had such a happy life here in spite of having no work. When I think of all the politicians, I could cheerfully choke the lot of them. Maybe they thought we would all be killed in the war and that would have suited them, no doubt – a lot less people to cater for.’

  This was the first time I had heard this story and a wave of realisation swept over me and I suddenly knew how he felt. All the frustration and grief was enough to throw even the strongest man.

  ‘Mum wouldn’t want you to live like this, Dad – all this drinking and neglecting yourself. She would want you to be the person she loved and knew.’

  He placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m trying but it’s very hard without her.’

  ‘Mum would want you to be strong for Lily’s sake.’

  He sighed. ‘It’ll just take time, Ann. Your granny is right when she says that it’s in the lap of the gods when you recover from grief.’

  ‘Has John Pringle no word about a job yet?’ Although I asked the question, I knew what the answer would be.

  ‘No but, when that old employee leaves, then the job is seemingly mine.’ His voice matched the despair on his face.

  ‘I was hearing the other day that the waiting list for jobs at the Transport Department, two thousand names, have been taken off the list because the ex-employees of the Broughty Ferry tramway company have now got first call on any vacancies. What a pity the Ferry trams were taken over by Dundee Corporation.’

  I sympathised with him and wished I could wave a magic wand over all the unemployment in the city. ‘Has the means test man been back here? I met him once in Rita’s house.’

  ‘Don’t mention that,’ he said. ‘I’ve always got to hide when he comes to see Marlene. She’s an out-of-work jute weaver but, if they knew she had a lodger, her dole would be cut off.’

  I almost let the cat out of the bag by looking surprised. I said, ‘Oh, she works, does she?’ I didn’t mention that Bella and Hattie were under the misapprehension that Marlene lived well on the insurance profits from three dead husbands.

  Dad looked equally surprised, no doubt by the tone of my voice. ‘Well, she used to – in the days when the jute mills were busy. Still, she has a few bob tucked under her bed has our Marlene.’ He laughed and winked at me.

  I mentally awarded Bella and Co. ten out of ten for perception.

  ‘I’ll make a cup of tea, Ann.’ said Dad, fishing in his pockets for some loose change. ‘Nip down to the baker and get two hot pies. We’ll have our last meal in this house.’ He grew sad again and his eyes misted over.

  The baker’s shop had a small oven in the back store so the pies were piping hot as I carried them carefully up the stairs. Dad had made a pot of strong black tea – none of your weak Russian tea here, I thought – and we sat and discussed the best way to deal with the furniture. Most of it was large and I knew there was no room at the Overgate for anything. As for Hattie, well, I couldn’t see her welcoming any of our slightly tatty items in her house.

  We agreed to offer it to Rita and Nellie and if they didn’t want it then perhaps the second-hand shop across the road would buy it. Rita looked relieved to see our happier faces but she sadly had to decline our offer. Nellie was the same. They just didn’t have the room in their cramped little houses. They did however offer the services of their husbands to help carry the heavier items downstairs.

  ‘Just give us a shout, Johnny, and the men will help you carry them to the shop,’ said Rita, as we finished the last scraps of our pies and drank the dregs from the old teapot.

  Dad dismantled the bed using a special key that loosened the screws in the two metal bars that held the wooden ends together. We then gingerly lifted the spring base from the metal supports and placed it on its side, where it lay in all its dust-ingrained glory.

  I went in search of a duster but Dad said, ‘Just leave it. It’ll soon get dustier lying about the shop.’

  I didn’t like the shop owner to think we were a slovenly family but further thoughts on this subject were dispelled by the arrival of the man. He was a tiny thin man and almost bald with a face like an undertaker – very serious looking as if viewing a body instead of old furniture. He had small round spectacles perched on his nose and exceptionally large hands which showed deep blue raised veins.

  He viewed the furniture with a calculating and cynical eye. He peered into the sideboard drawers and cupboards before finally doing a disappearing act behind the wooden press. Sharp tapping noises emerged from this direction and Dad gave me a quizzical look which almost made me burst out laughing. The man popped back in view. ‘It’s in quite good condition although a bit old-fashioned, if you don’t mind me saying so, but it’s not bad. No, not bad at all.’

  ‘What will you give us for the furniture?’ asked Dad, trying hard not to sound too eager.

  The man hummed and hawed for a bit before disappearing behind the press again. He then peered into the drawers for a second view. ‘It’s like this – with most folk out of work, I’m lucky if I can sell anything. I’ve had to slash my prices dramatically this year.’ He scratched his bald head and looked at the ceiling. ‘Well, then, let me see. I can let you have five shillings for the bed but I’ll need the bedclothes as well.’

  He stopped when I gasped. I had been hoping to take all the bedclothes with me to the Overgate.

  The little man looked at us, his shrewd eyes summing up the situation. ‘I’m sorry, lassie, but it’s almost impossible to sell a bed without its covers. Some sheets and blankets come as a wee bit extra and it makes all the difference between a sale or not. Aye, it’s hard times we’re living in and no doubt about it.’

  Dad said nothing but I saw the silent appeal in his eyes. I shrugged my shoulders. To a casual onlooker, I probably looked quite unruffled but, inside, I was fumming. This little pile of bedclothes would have been a boon – perhaps making my weekly trip to the wash-house a fortnightly one. Also, with a couple of pairs of extra sheets and some towels in her cupboard, Granny would have had a small surplus instead of the bare minimum.

  We turned our attention to the rest of the items. ‘The press is a bit bashed looking so I can only offer three shillings for that but the sideboard is not too bad. It’s been well looked after.’

  He could say that, I thought bitterly. Mum had spent ages every week polishing it with her rag and small tin of Mansion polish. It had been her pride and joy and now it was being appraised with an eye for resale. I wondered if everything in life came down to the simple arithmetic of pounds, shillings and pence – the common denominator for the working classes without the work.

  The man was still talking, still running his eye over it. For a minute, he looked surprised by the tears in my eyes but sensibly said nothing. ‘I’ll give you nine and a tanner for it. No, wait a minute – because you didn’t want to part with the bedclothes, I’ll throw in another half crown. What do you think of that offer?’

  Dad looked at me but I said, ‘It’s up to you, Dad. It’s your furniture.’

  Dad turned to the man who now stood on the sidelines of our small domestic discussion and said, ‘Right then, we’ll take it.’

  The man whipped out a small pencil from a waistcoat pocket and proceeded to write on the palm of his hand. ‘Now let’s see. That’s five shillings for the bed, three shillings for the press and nine shillings and sixpence for the sideboard.’ He did a quick calculation.

  I reminded him, ‘Don’t forget the extra half crown.’

  He looked up but didn’t look directly at me. ‘That’s five bob, three bob, nine and a tanner plus two and six. That makes a grand total of two pounds.’

  Now that the deal was completed, Dad cheered up. ‘That’s fine then, Mr Bell. You can take the stuff away anytime you like.’

  So that was his name – Mr Bell. Although he had traded on the Hilltown for a good few years, I had always known his shop as the ‘Rake and
Rummage’. This name was due to the large notice in his window which cordially invited the general populace to ‘Come in for a closer inspection. No objection to browsers. You are welcome to rake and rummage.’ This was all very well but Mrs Bell also worked in the shop. She had the stern disapproving countenance of one who would strongly object to anyone turning the stock upside down. But the notice had been in the window so long that it had turned yellow with age and I doubt if anyone ever read it now.

  Mr Bell was speaking again and Dad looked unhappy. ‘I’m afraid I never carry money on me,’ he said. ‘You never know who you’re going to bump into these days with so many folk out of work and I wouldn’t want to be robbed.’

  This statement made Dad even more unhappy. ‘I thought we could get everything settled today. There’s two men next door ready to help and I know they’re planning on going on the Hunger March next week so they might not be available then.’

  Mr Bell pondered on this predicament. ‘Well, I have my horse and cart downstairs but I’ve no money on my person or in the house. I don’t believe in keeping cash around me in these hard times.’

  Because he was in danger of repeating himself over and over again and we didn’t need reminding how hard the times were, I butted in, ‘Can Mr Bell not take the furniture now, Dad, then you can collect the money at his shop tomorrow.’

  Dad looked doubtful. ‘I really wanted the money for you and Lily – to take back to Granny.’

  I was taken aback but also touched. ‘Oh, Dad, what a nice thought! Well, let Mr Bell take everything away now and I’ll collect the money next Monday.’

  Mr Bell beamed. If he was lucky then maybe the furniture would be sold by then and he wouldn’t have to open his cashbox which was hidden in the chimney of his bedroom or wherever it was he kept it. ‘That suits me fine, lassie,’ he said.

  He turned to Dad who nodded reluctantly. ‘Well, we’ll shift the stuff now and the money will be waiting for you next Monday.’

  Apart from Rita, who stood in her doorway, keeping an eye on her little boy, we all mucked in and helped Mr Bell with the furniture. Getting it all down the narrow stairwell was difficult but, with a bit of manoeuvring from Dad and the two neighbours, everything was soon out on the sun-splashed pavement

  The horse, as Mr Bell called it, was no more than a pony, mangy looking but with a sweet placid expression. The pony stood patiently while the first item was loaded on to the flat-based cart. Mr Bell, knowing the capabilities of his little pony, made the suggestion of one item at a time. ‘It’s a long haul up the Hilltown and I don’t want to tax my horse so we’ll take the bed first then the press and finally the sideboard.’

  At that moment, a noisy band of children went running past, following one of the urchins who was on a rickety wooden scooter. Mr Bell looked shaken as they narrowly missed the furniture.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take the sideboard first then the bed. The press can go last.’

  Nellie’s man, who was growing more agitated by the minute, growled, ‘For heaven’s sake, will you make up your mind? We’re standing here in this bloody heat and sweating like pigs while you’re dithering like a gibbering idiot.’

  Dad looked embarrassed but Mr Bell didn’t bat an eye. ‘Right, then, men, it’s the sideboard first.’

  I watched as the small pony struggled uphill with its load and I felt sorry for it. Still, within ten minutes, it was back, looking as placid and unworried as before.

  When the last load went off, Dad thanked his neighbours. ‘I’ll have to give you both a couple of shillings for all your help.’

  They shook their heads in protest. ‘Not at all – if we can’t help a neighbour out, who can we help?’

  Dad accepted this graciously. ‘Right, then, I’ll stand you both a pint in the Windmill bar.’

  Before they all set off, I cornered Dad. ‘I can’t accept the money. The furniture belonged to you and Mum.’

  He stopped me. ‘I don’t want to hear another word. It’s for you and Lily – especially as you had to part with the bedclothes.’

  I knew the money was badly needed. Lily was walking now and she needed a new pair of shoes. Also, Grandad’s shoes were in need of repair. He was using a thick piece of cardboard as an insole which was fine in the dry weather but, once the rain came, it would be another story.

  As Dad hurried up the hill I called after him, ‘Thanks, Dad – we’ll use it well.’

  I went back into the house. Now devoid of all the furniture, it looked sad and faded, without any character – just a small square room. Mum had been so fond of the wallpaper but the faded scuffed flowers were now an anaemic version of their former glory. I smiled when I saw the bare patch where the press stood. Dad had insisted that it didn’t need to be moved so he had papered around it. There were some markings beside this bare patch – just a few pencil lines. I bent down and saw my name and a date beside each line. My parents had recorded my height at various times during my childhood. Suddenly more warm memories came flooding back. Memories of a warm and loving home – like the smell of soup simmering on the stove and the aroma of wet washing as it dried around the fire.

  I picked up the pillowcase with my small pile of treasures and turned to leave. Rita and Nellie stood outside, both looking sad. For a moment, I almost burst into tears but Mum wouldn’t have wanted all this sadness so I lifted my chin. ‘Cheerio, Rita and Nellie – mind and let us know when the bairn comes.’

  Rita smiled. ‘Aye, I’ll do that, Ann. The bells of the auld steeple will be ringing out the glad tidings when it happens,’ she said as she wiped a tear away. ‘Cheerio, Ann, and mind and keep well – you and Lily.’

  I turned to Nellie. ‘Thanks for all your help, You’ve both been so good to us all. I’ll never forget it.’

  Nellie dabbed her eyes with a piece of cloth. ‘It’s for the best, Ann. The man from the means test is always asking questions and he was getting suspicious, wasn’t he, Rita?’

  Rita nodded. ‘That’s right. We keep fobbing him off but he is aye prying and nosing around. Sooner or later he would have worked it all out.’

  Outside in the street, I met Mr Bell. He was heading across the road to his shop. There was something bothering me. ‘Mr Bell, why did you not carry everything over to the shop instead of taking it up the Hill? It would have saved a journey for the wee pony.’

  He gave me a suspicious look. ‘Oh, I don’t keep everything in my shop. I’ve got a wee shed up the road where I store the bigger items of furniture.’

  Rita and Nellie had followed me downstairs and I bade them and the Hilltown a fond farewell. I tried not to think of the little house that had been my home for sixteen years. But, maybe with a bit of luck. Lily and I would return at some future date. I knew Mum would have liked that.

  The following Monday morning, I made my way back to Mr Bell’s shop. He looked surprised to see me. ‘Oh, your dad collected the money last Tuesday morning. Look, here’s the receipt.’ He thrust a small book under my nose and I saw Dad’s signature. ‘Mind you, I did think it was strange at the time,’ he went on, ‘especially as he said you were to get the money. I did hear however through the grapevine that he had to pay his bill at the Windmill bar as he had quite a bit of drink on the slate. Still, I expect he’ll give it back to you when he’s flush again.’ His voice stammered into silence and his fingers gripped the edge of the receipt book. ‘I’m really … really sorry. Aye, really … sorry.’

  I tried to look as dignified as possible. ‘Aye, that’s all right, Mr Bell. It was his furniture and the money was always his to spend as he thought fit.’

  As I walked away with Mr Bell’s sympathetic eyes following me, I thought, ‘Damn you, Dad. How could you do this to your poor little girl? Poor Lily.’

  11

  Danny had good news. He burst into the house the following Sunday afternoon, his young face beaming with pride. Instead of being a lowly message boy, he was now a very junior assistant in the shop. ‘Actually, I’m
not really an assistant yet,’ he explained, ‘I’m in the back shop, making up all the orders but Mr Burnett the manager says that I can work my way up if I stick in and work hard. Maybe this time next year I’ll be serving behind the counter.’ His eyes were sparkling and we were all pleased for him, especially Granny and Grandad. ‘Oh, I always knew you would go far, Danny,’ said Granny. ‘Aye, we always knew that.’

  I was also pleased for him. It was the first bit of good news in ages. I had spent a depressing week at the Ferry, worried about Dad’s drinking and the wasted loss of the hard-earned money from the furniture. I could have spent it so well but it now lay in the pub’s cash register.

  Hattie was full of pride at her Danny’s promotion as she called it. However, she would have preferred it if he had been made an instant manager instead of slowly working his way up the Lipton’s ladder. ‘Well, even if I say it myself,’ she said smugly, ‘I’ve always turned you out well and now it’s paying off although it could have been a higher position you were offered, Danny.’

  Granny screwed up her face. ‘Honestly, Hattie, what a back-handed compliment. Don’t give Danny any praise, will you?’ She turned to him and said, ‘Everyone has to start at the foot of the ladder, son. You’ll make it and we’re all proud of you.’

  Danny turned to me. ‘I’m going to Lochee to tell them about my good luck. Would you like to come with me?’ He grinned, knowing full well that his mother had made a face behind his back. This was her usual response whenever the Lochee relations were mentioned. ‘We’ll take Lily with us and go on the tramcar.’

  I needed no second invitation and I hurried to get my coat. Hattie glared at me because she hadn’t succeeded in prising my treasured coat away from me in spite of a great deal of bribery and wheedling. Now, because she realised it was a lost cause, she merely resorted to scowls and mutterings every time she saw it.

  Lily loved the tramcar and we always took her up to the upper deck so she could stand on the wooden seat and look out the window. As we slowly made our way to Lochee, I told Danny about Dad and the now empty house.