Blue Above the Chimneys

by Fraser, Christine Marion

  ‘Right, you two,’ she twinkled, ‘gather up your caterpillars and put them among the flowers where they belong. Don’t be long, your tea’s nearly ready.’

  The thought of Da’s fat, golden chips comforted me slightly. Sadly I picked up my beloved catties and with Alec trailing at my heels took them to a nearby garden. Soon they were lost in a forest of nasturtium leaves. A face peeked suspiciously from a window. Despite my sorrow I couldn’t help sniggering wickedly at the idea of my catties rampaging through the garden, devouring all the Tom Thumbs in sight.

  We wandered home.

  ‘I wonder how they got out from the box,’ said Alec.

  ‘It was an old matchbox,’ I said regretfully. ‘Maybe the vibration of the chain made it open and they all went marching down the pipes.’ I giggled, ‘Can you imagine old Toilet Paper’s face when one clumped over her knee? I bet she couldn’t get her knickers up fast enough.’

  ‘Wash yer hands!’ commanded Da the minute we were inside. He was retired now and a good help about the house. Mary had recently married, and Ian was away at a home in the country because of his weak chest, so our house was not as crowded as in recent years. We were still a family of six, however, a handful in the cramped quarters of room and kitchen, so Da’s help was more than needed in our busy home.

  After a line-up for hand inspection we all gathered round the table. Only Mam and Da had chairs; the rest of us had to stand. We were not allowed to speak during mealtimes, but we got up to all the usual childish tricks; eyeing each other; kicking under the table; stifling back fits of laughter. The agony of choking back merriment under Da’s stern eye lives with me still.

  It was a lengthy meal when Da’s crispy chips were included in the menu. Second helpings were a must, lavishly sprinkled with salt and vinegar. Scottish dance music flowed from the wireless. At the end of the meal Mam seized a spoon and began tapping it against the surrounding crockery. Each cup, each plate, produced a different note full of a primitive rhythm.

  Before long we were all tapping away merrily. The kitchen was gay with tinkling sounds. Da watched with an expressionless face, shaking his head occasionally to signify that we were all quite mad.

  After a few minutes Mam brought us down to earth. ‘Right, Chris,’ she said firmly, ‘it’s your turn to do the dishes.’

  ‘But I did them this morning,’ I muttered, unwilling to tackle the distasteful chore without a fight.

  ‘I did them this morning!’ cried Kirsty.

  ‘You never did! You only cleared the table!’

  We went at each other till Da quelled us with a mighty roar. ‘Right! That’s enough! Chris, you get in there! Do as yer mother tells ye and no’ another word!’

  I skulked into the scullery. ‘It’s not fair,’ I whispered under my breath so that I could have the satisfaction of the last word.

  ‘Can I go out to play?’ I asked, when the last cup had been hung on its hook.

  ‘Ay, but don’t be late in,’ said Mam.

  Alec clattered downstairs at my side. The old air-raid shelters in the backcourts were the rendezvous for gang gatherings. Here, in the damp, musty caverns, concoctions of mischief had their beginnings, magical plans took shape.

  It was a hot night in July, and outdoor games were decided upon. After we had exhausted the list the old favourite of hide-and-seek took us in and out of closes, abandoned wash-houses, all kinds of nooks and crannies. Dusk approached. We all waited with a tingling apprehension for a warning cry to echo down the backcourts.

  ‘Sandshoe Harry! Sandshoe Harry!’

  No one had ever seen Sandshoe Harry. He was a phantom who walked hand in hand with night. Whenever his name was mentioned the thrill of fear tingled the spine, childish imaginings were stretched to the limit. After the hour of dusk no one dared go near the air-raid shelters. Ghostly apparitions lurked in yawning black spaces, ready to pounce on the unwary wanderer.

  Now we lolled in home-made hammocks strung between corner railings. They were a concoction of rope and tatty coats, arranged in such a way that the weight of our bodies kept them intact. Oh, the glory of lying there! Swinging lazily back and forth. After a long wait in the queue it was my turn for a hammock. The evening breeze fanned my hot dusty cheeks and I looked up at the misty blue sky. Something in my child’s mind stirred to an awareness of the beauty in that patch of blue. Grey towers of chimneys were silhouetted against puff-ball clouds. It wasn’t difficult for me to imagine that the grey chimneys were spires of fairy castles piercing into the cotton-wool clouds. I drifted and dreamed, no longer inhaling the odour of stale cooking from the surrounding houses. Instead I remembered the sweet scent of new-cut grass in the park and sniffed in the imagined smell of it, letting it mingle with my fairy castles and my blue sky.

  ‘It’s my turn,’ whined Alec at my elbow.

  ‘Och … you!’ I scolded, letting him into the hammock only to swing him violently. He yelled so loudly I was afraid he would bring Da to the window.

  Darkness descended gently and our dread of Campbell’s Close made us desert the backcourts for the comparative brightness of the front street. It was a corner close, a shortcut through to another street, but we only dared use it in the daytime. It was full of twists and little dark corners that neither daylight nor flickering gaslight ever reached. The spiral stairs seemed to reach upwards and onwards into outer space, making it a challenge to the spirit to ascend up to the first flight.

  The name of the close so intrigued me that I made up stories of murders and other gory deeds which I attributed to the legendary Campbell, my ability to scare the wits out of my pals satiating me with power. But I was only brave enough to recount such tales in the benign light of day.

  The streets were quietening now; shadows leapt in the closes. In a tight knot we gathered at the close mouth to plead with Mick Mulligan to tell us a story. Mick was older than the rest of us, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, but his magnetic gift for spinning fantasies bridged the gap of years. He was tall and very thin with blue eyes shining vividly in a tanned, grimy face. He lived in one of the little houses that had a door in from the street and the filth and poverty of his home was the talk of the district. Mam had warned us not to go too near Mick in case we got fleas. Mice sometimes leapt out of the window. One had actually bitten me when I was jumping on the low stone walls surrounding the house.

  ‘Even the mice canny bear the guff in that house,’ Mam had said.

  Mick lived with his parents and his grandfather in the tiny single apartment. Beds were made up from old chairs, newspapers and tattered coats served as blankets. If our gang was at a loose end we passed the time by jumping up and down on the wall to try and get a glimpse in through the grimy window. Once I saw old Grandfather lying on two chairs covered with a coat. The street held its breath whenever the Sanitary Inspector tried to gain entry inside. He would have rapped his knuckles raw and never got an answer. The occupants used special knocks to signify who they were. The sounds that came from the house on Saturday nights were alarming. Unintelligible shouts and screams floated into the street. Grandfather was nearly always drunk, yet he was the kindliest old man imaginable, ever ready with a nice word for children. We all liked him, yet dreaded his passing us in the close with his ‘jobby bucket’, an enamel pail filled to the brim with nauseous contents. On his way to empty it in the lavatory at the close back he would put out a filthy paw and pat each of us gently on the head. Kirsty always cringed away from him, her face crimson with revulsion at the idea of his hands near her beautiful shining hair. The rest of us smiled sweetly but the minute he was out of sight we waited with bated breath for the great sludging sound of his bucket being emptied down the cludge, then we would erupt into helpless giggles.

  Mick was cleaner than Grandfather, but it wasn’t unusual to see parts of his anatomy peeping from the back of his pants. We cared not about his appearance. His sense of fun, his sensitive nature, carried him far above his impoverished existence and he was beloved by every
child in the neighbourhood. He took us into other realms with his tales. I was a bedtime storyteller, holding sway over Kirsty and Alec, but Mick, because of his age and self-confidence, was able to command a bigger audience.

  ‘Don’t shout now, Da,’ I said to myself in the midst of a fabled land of wonder.

  ‘Da’s at the window,’ Alec reported nervously.

  ‘Keep in,’ I ordered, but it was too late. Da’s usual bellow soared from above.

  ‘We’re coming,’ I shouted half-heartedly. Before venturing upstairs, I quickly examined my shoes, which were in a dreadful state after slopping through muddy puddles, climbing dykes and kicking stones. ‘I’ll have to give them a wipe,’ I told Alec. ‘You’d better do yours as well.’

  We repaired to a nearby puddle and dipped in screwed-up balls of newspaper which we applied to our shoes. Then we dashed upstairs before the temporary water-shine wore away, praying they would escape attention till the nightly polish and spit faked up all the scuffs. We marched into the kitchen. We always marched because if you slunk Da immediately suspected something was amiss.

  The shoe last was out. Da was obviously embarked on a shoe-repairing session. I shook in my squelching shoes. Horror piled on horror when I looked down and saw my rapidly drying shoes turning a dull streaky grey before my eyes.

  ‘Right, you two,’ he said, not looking up from the last, his specs hanging on the tip of his nose. ‘Get yer shoes off till I see if they’re needin’ a seg or two.’

  Alec looked at me in panic. Kirsty, sitting with her bare feet, looked at us smugly, knowing that her shoes, like the rest of her attire, were immaculate.

  Mam, sitting quietly in her hard little chair crocheting a beautiful rainbow bedspread, saw our dilemma and put her work to one side.

  ‘Come into the scullery, you two,’ she said softly. ‘The dishes weren’t washed properly at teatime so you’ll do the cups all over again.’

  ‘That’s right, Evelyn,’ applauded Da, hammering with gusto. ‘You tell them!’

  Once in the scullery Mam turned on the tap and whispered, ‘Quick, get your shoes off and give them a lick of polish. They’re a disgrace, but I don’t want any bawling matches tonight.’ Raising her voice for Da’s benefit she said, ‘Come on, get that cup washed, Chris. Next time you might no’ be in such a hurry.’

  She swished water round in the sink while we got out the polish. The shoes were duly presented to Da who gave them an incredulous examination. Fortunately for us he had no sense of smell so couldn’t detect the strong fumes of polish. ‘They’re helluva clean lookin’,’ he said. ‘They look like they’ve jist been polished.’

  ‘Och, Da,’ I smirked innocently. ‘It’s just that we weren’t playing much tonight. Mick was telling us stories.’

  ‘Ye’ll get fleas aff that fella,’ said Da and I knew I’d said the wrong thing. ‘I told ye tae stay away from him. Don’t tell me you spent a whole night listening tae a lot o’ rubbish. Are ye sickening for something? Maybe like lazyitis!’

  We stood at the table sipping our cocoa, letting him go rambling on between a mouthful of nails.

  ‘Mick’s a fine loon,’ said Mam gently. ‘He should have been born into the gentry, so he should. He has a refined face … no’ like his parents at all.’

  ‘Ay, well, he’s maybe had a different faither for all we know,’ said Da significantly. ‘But it doesny change the fact he reeks like a sewer.’

  ‘Well, goodnight, Mam, goodnight, Da,’ I said hastily, escaping through to the room before Da decided that we weren’t to hob-nob with Mick again.

  ‘We’re all to go to the shows tomorrow,’ volunteered Kirsty when we were lying in bed. There was plenty of space in the big brass bed now that Ian was away. Margaret slept on a chair-bed in the kitchen and Alec had the recess vacated by Mary. ‘Don’t tell Mam I told you,’ continued Kirsty. ‘Because she wasn’t going to say anything to you till tomorrow. She gets sick of you two pestering her with questions long before we ever get to a place.’

  In my excitement at hearing the news I ignored the somewhat superior tone of her voice. ‘The shows,’ I breathed reverently while Alec’s words came falling over each other from the recess. ‘When did Mam tell you? Are we all going? Is Da going?’

  ‘We’re all to go,’ said Kirsty calmly. ‘Even Margaret, though she’s too wee to know much. It was Da suggested it for an anniversary treat for Mam. It means he won’t be able to go drinking tomorrow night because he won’t have much money left after the shows.’

  We spent the next half hour discussing all the wonderful attractions that the annual fair, held at Glasgow Green, had to offer. Every so often we paused to shout, ‘Goodnight, Mam,’ waiting with love in our hearts for the beloved voice to filter reassuringly through the wall. It took a great deal of restraint for us not to ask any questions next day. The morning passed slowly but eventually we were all on the tram, excitement oozing from us with every turn of the wheels.

  The hot, dusty fairground was a place of magic, a wonderland of bustling happiness. My eyes tried to take it all in at once, Alec’s breath came out in tight little puffs, Kirsty looked with serene yearning at the cheap jewellery displayed in colourful profusion everywhere. But none of us asked our parents for anything that wasn’t offered. It was treat enough to be there, to feel part of the fun-filled world. Music blared, people screamed from huge mechanical monsters that zoomed around in dizzy whirls of motion. There was a maze of side-shows, and we were given three pennies each to spend as we wished.

  Da hoisted a pop-gun to his shoulder and took aim at a row of clay faces on a conveyor-belt. He was a striking figure in his best suit, his watch-chain sparkling against a maroon silk waistcoat. I thought he looked at ease with the gun held so expertly, but at six years old I was too young to realize he must have been familiar with real guns in his younger days. To me, war was just stories that Da told us when he was in the mood, amusing stories to suit a young audience; never once did he touch on the real horror of things he must have experienced. He pulled at the trigger and I held my breath. Pop! Pop! Pop! went the gun.

  ‘Da’s won something!’ I shouted, staring in joyful disbelief when he was handed a scraggy monkey on a string.

  He handed it to Mam, his face transformed in a smile of benevolence. ‘There ye are, Evelyn, a wee mascot for the mantelpiece.’

  Margaret stretched out a chubby fist to grab the dangling monkey and the rest of us looked on enviously when she was allowed to hold it.

  Alec and I wandered along together. Everything was full of delight on such a day. Da’s mood was such that we dared to pass several comments that would normally have been received with sour acclaim.

  Pink candy floss was much in evidence and our mouths watered profusely.

  ‘It looks like rotten cotton wool,’ I growled and Alec nodded feebly.

  ‘Away and get some o’ that pink stuff,’ said Da unexpectedly.

  ‘For everyone?’ gasped Kirsty, and Da nodded jovially.

  I buried my face into the flimsy textured candy, feeling my happiness was complete, till Da reached out a horny hand and took my free hand in his. Well! I had never known such a thing to happen before! I held his dry, hard hand, hardly allowing myself to breathe for fear of a reprimand.

  When every possible corner of the fairground had been explored, we walked to the edge of the Green where barrows were piled high with mouth-watering fruit.

  ‘Get the bairns a bag of plums, John,’ said Mam persuasively. He grumbled for a few moments, then dug into his pocket to count his money. ‘I’ll get them, Da,’ I piped, anxious in case he decided his pocket wouldn’t stretch to a further luxury. He dropped some silver into my outstretched palm and I sped to the barrows. Two paper bags were filled to the brim with juicy Victoria plums. With guilt tearing me in two I popped one in my mouth, gulping it down so quickly I almost choked on the stone, then I hastened red-faced to where my family stood in a tight little knot.

  ‘Right now, Kirsty,’
said Da, ‘you sit on this bench and share oot the plums. I’m taking yer mother for a glass of port. We’ll no’ be long. See and watch Maggie.’

  ‘Right, Da.’ Kirsty was already intent on counting out the plums, the rest of us hovering beside her to make sure she counted right. Alec’s eyes glimmered with tears because he thought Kirsty had given herself more than anyone else. Patiently she counted them all over again. We sat with the heaps of plums in our laps, childishly unwilling to begin eating them because then the treat would be over.

  We sat in the sun, slowly eating our plums, our beings satiated with the rare pleasures of such a day.

  ‘Da was good this afternoon,’ I said wonderingly.

  Kirsty nodded. ‘Ay, and he won’t have the money to go drinking tonight so there won’t be any trouble.’

  Mam and Da were coming back. Mam’s green eyes were sparkling and she was holding on to Da’s arm. They looked intimate and happy. Somewhere at the back of my young mind I realized they had a contentment with each other despite their ups and downs.

  We couldn’t bear Da when he was drunk and made Mam cry, but there were times it was easy to see that, in his own strange way, he adored her as much as we did.

  Chatterina Tottie Scone

  In winter the grey tenements piled up into grey skies. Blurring rain and early darkness forced us to seek indoor pursuits. Yet winter was my favourite time when I was a child. There was a cosiness about it, a feeling of unity in the family circle. There were also so many winter events that it was altogether a very exciting time.

  First of all there was Hallowe’en. Weeks before the witching night we discussed, argued, and fought over our respective ideas for dressing up. When the big night came we were off, long dresses tripping us, faces bright with rouge and lipstick, armed with lap-bags made by Kirsty at school which we hoped to fill with spoils.

  Sometimes we took short cuts to different streets via the backcourts, quiet, dark stretches full of shadows. It was easy for me to conjure up visions of witches flying over the sky on broomsticks. Wickedly I exaggerated my flights of fancy out of all proportion till Alec was reduced to a gibbering mess and Kirsty told me she would never go anywhere with me again.