by Gray, Millie
A protesting cry from Rosebud brought Kitty’s reminiscing to an abrupt halt. Fishing in her pocket she pulled out a dummy-tit that she cleaned by sucking it in her own mouth before leaning forward and pushing into the baby’s mouth.
The dummy-tit did soothe and placate Rosebud but it also brought home to Kitty just what a support system they had left behind in Ferrier Street. Hadn’t it been the jovial, rotund Mrs Grant next door who had said to Kitty when she was trying to get Rosebud to stop her eternal whining to go out and buy a soother? ‘Sure, lassie,’ she had said, taking Rosebud from Kitty and pushing the child’s face into her ample bosom, ‘bairns should be snuggled into their mammy’s breast and they don’t always suck on the nipple for food. Naw, naw, lots of the time they just run their wee tongues round it and it comforts them. They like to know that they’re with their mammy and when they get hungry the milk bar is available and within sooking distance.’ Mrs Grant had lifted Rosebud’s face up to her own and she crooned to her before she added, ‘So, Kitty, this wee mite has no mammy to comfort her so away you run over the road to Johnny Aw Things’ shop and get a dummy. Sure it will be a poor substitute but it’s better than nothing.’
Kitty wanted to cry as she grieved for the loss of not only her mother, whose death had put her in this position, but also that of Mrs Grant and the rest of the neighbours that she had left behind. What, she wondered, would the folk at Restalrig be like? Three minutes later she would find out because there, a few steps in front of her, was her father and his cronies unloading a handcart in front of the tenement that was to be their new home.
Later that evening, once they had moved all their belongings into the new flat, Granny Jenny threw a shovel of coal on the fire and turned to speak to Kitty. ‘Right,’ she announced, taking a deep breath through her nose, ‘that will heat the water so we can get Rosebud washed and settled.’
Kitty’s disdainful response to her grandmother was to shrug. She wanted to scream, ‘Granny, that little brat has only been in this world for a week and she has turned my life upside down. And why do we all in the family, except for Dad, have to dance attendance on her because she is a poor wee motherless soul? Don’t you realise that my brothers and I are also motherless – and it’s all because of her – so why don’t you care about that!’ But she stayed silent because she knew better than to take her granny on.
‘Are you listening to me, Kitty?’ Jenny demanded forcefully.
Kitty nodded.
‘Good. Now as to getting on with the tea’ – Jenny pursed her lips before continuing – ‘no time for cooking now, so put wee Rosebud in the pram and walk her over the road to the chippie and get … Here, hang on till I ask your dad if any of his mates will be staying to eat with us.’
It was nine o’clock before Kitty found herself with only sleeping Rosebud for company. Granny Jenny had left after tea to carry out her duties at the forces welcoming centre. Aunt Kate had arrived after work but she was only able to stay a couple of hours as she was on fire duty at her work. This meant that she and a number of her colleagues slept there in case the building was bombed and set alight and they would therefore be there to deal with the blaze. Dad, of course, was over in what was going to be his new watering hole, the Learig tavern, just down the road. Kitty laughed inwardly. So with my brothers being out socialising with their pals, that leaves me the only sucker left in here – well, two if you count Rose-blooming-screaming-hungry-bud!
Lifting the poker she stirred up the fire. As the flames leapt she looked into them to see if she could see any pictures. She remembered how her mum, Sandra, had often sat with her and they would play the game of looking for moving pictures in the louping flames. She was so engrossed in her memories that the shrill ringing of the doorbell caused her to drop the poker and jump up.
Racing out of the room and along the hallway she called out, ‘I’m coming. I’m coming. For goodness sake, don’t waken up baby greeting face.’ Hauling open the door, Kitty was surprised to see a rather plump dyed-blonde lady standing on the doorstep. ‘I’m your neighbour from next door,’ the woman explained as she brushed past Kitty and walked towards the living room. ‘Is your mammy in?’
Kitty did follow the lady but she did not respond.
‘Hoping that I’m going to get a pal in your mum, so I am,’ the woman chuckled. ‘Need to get a rest from old Mrs Dickson on the ground floor. Forever going on, so she is, about people sticking to their days of the drying green – and whatever your mammy does, she shouldn’t get old Mrs D’s back up by either not sweeping and washing the stair properly, or even worse, forgetting to do it at all.’
The woman now took out a packet of Woodbine cigarettes and after lighting one up for herself she offered the packet to Kitty.
Kitty laughed. ‘I don’t smoke and my mum used to say I never should.’
Running her tongue around the inside of her mouth the woman looked long and hard at Kitty. Eventually she made some sucking sounds before saying, ‘“Used to say.” What do you mean by that?’
Sighing, Kitty picked up the poker and hung it back on the companion set. ‘What I mean is my mum … is in heaven … went there last week, so she did.’
‘I’m sorry, hen. Didnae mean to upset you.’ The woman went over and started to rub Kitty’s back. ‘I’m Constance Sharp, but everybody calls me Connie …’ Before Connie could go on, however, a fretful wail emanated from the bedroom. Connie’s mouth dropped. ‘Is that a baby you’ve got in there?’
Kitty shouted, ‘Aye,’ as she dashed into the bedroom, lifted the protesting Rosebud up and brought her into the living room.
Connie’s eyes bulged and her mouth gaped. ‘You have a baby?’ she exclaimed.
Kitty nodded. Unaware that Connie presumed she was Rosebud’s mother, she then spluttered, ‘Trapped with her, so I am.’
‘Where’s her father?’
‘You mean my dad? Well he’s over in the Learig but before you meet him I think you should know he takes no responsibility for Rosebud.’
Connie’s mouth gaped. She wondered if she was hearing right. Surely, she thought, this lassie is no telling me that her own father is also the father of his grandchild! She gulped and blew out her breath slowly. Things like that, she thought, might happen in Leith but never here in upmarket Restalrig. She knew she should say something of comfort to this young lassie, and in truth she wished to, but what could she say?
Rosebud was now being fed from a bottle that had been heating by the fire and as she suckled Kitty inhaled before saying, ‘My mum died last week giving birth to her and all she does is cry. Know something?’
Vigorously shaking her head, Connie relaxed as warm relief washed over her.
‘It’s me that should be doing the wailing,’ Kitty went on.
‘Am I right in understanding your dad’s not having anything to do with the poor wee mite?’
Kitty allowed her eyes to roll in exasperation but remained silent.
Connie was shocked. In truth she was finding it difficult to keep the conversation going and she was surprised when she heard herself ask, ‘Where does your dad work?’
‘Robb’s Shipyards. He’s employed as a plater and in his spare time he’s the main shop steward.’
Raucous laughter suddenly reverberated around the room. ‘Don’t tell me your pig of a father is Johnny Anderson, the bane of the yard manager’s life?’
Kitty nodded.
‘Well if this is not a turn-up for the books! My Uncle Willie, he’s one of the cops on the gates, got me a start in the stores, so he did. Good pay, better than in the canteen.’
‘Women work in the shipyard itself?’ Kitty huffed.
‘Aye, with most of the unskilled men being away at the war, women are now being employed in the stores to hand out the spare parts and so on.’
‘That must be heavy work.’
‘Aye, but it seems women can now be allowed to lift out the parts that are needed but are not deft enough to do the actual fitting. A
nyway,’ Connie hesitated as she threw her cigarette stump into the fire, ‘wasn’t I on duty last week when your dad called a strike. The whole yard was out. No work being done and all for nothing really.’
‘Are you saying my dad called a strike over nothing?’
Connie nodded. ‘One of the wee engineering apprentices thought he would have a go at hammering out a bit of steel plate in the dinner break and all hell broke loose when he was caught. “Everybody out,” your dad hollered. Then he and the yard manager got into a huddle and it was agreed, yet again, that all apprentices would be given a quick lesson on industrial relations and demarcation. The result was that within five minutes we were all back to essential war work.’
Shaking her head, Kitty said, ‘Connie, if you would like a cup of tea just you make it while I put Rosebud back down.’
‘Tea? That’s no a nightcap; how about I go and get the leftover Christmas sherry and we have a tot?’
‘Oh no. You see, I don’t drink,’ Kitty blustered.
‘Right wee Rechabite, so you are,’ Connie chortled as she playfully elbowed Kitty. ‘Tell you what, you put your sister down and I’ll go back ben the house and get myself a sherry then I’ll make you some tea.’
Kitty had just lifted the teacup to her mouth when her dad arrived back from the pub. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.
‘Dinnae fash yourself, son,’ Connie said, before throwing the last of her sherry down her throat. ‘The lassie and me were just getting acquainted.’ She now began to sashay sensuously over to Johnny. ‘And you never know your luck, big boy, I could maybe take a shine to you too.’
Johnny jumped back as fear and indignation overwhelmed him. It would have been bad enough to have been compromised by a fast piece like Connie in the yard canteen, but in your own home, that was just not on!
JOHNNY’S STORY
Johnny snorted and his thoughts strayed to his own conduct when dealing with the opposite sex. Pursing his lips and cocking his head, he reassured himself that always he treated women, no matter whom, with the utmost respect. This behaviour had been instilled into him by his mother, Jenny, from when he had been just a greenstick teenager.
His meanderings now drifted back, as they always did lately, to when he had first fancied Sandra. He was just a gawky fourteen-year-old laddie then but as he partnered her in a Strip the Willow at the church’s Saturday night youth club she awakened troublesome longings within him. He grinned as he remembered how she seemed to flirt with him as she twisted and turned her way up the male line of dancers, but always coming back to swing him, until he was dizzy with lust for her.
The dance wasn’t to finish until ten o’clock so Johnny had hopes of being danced off his feet several times by Sandra. His hopes, however, were dashed at nine when Sandra donned her coat. At just thirteen she was a ‘stand-in mother’ and therefore responsible for her two younger brothers, whom she had warned to be indoors by nine o’clock. When Johnny realised that Sandra was leaving, he ran up to her and offered to walk her home.
As they dillied and dallied along the road they spoke about this and that and nothing in particular. They had just turned into Sandra’s street when Johnny pulled up abruptly and, seeking Sandra’s hand, he stuttered, ‘Would you like to go to the pictures with me? What I mean is, I might be able to scrape up enough to treat us both during the week.’
Pulling her hand from his grasp, Sandra teased, ‘Oh, so I’m not good enough for the extra you have to pay on a Saturday?’
‘Yes. Yes. You are,’ he blustered in reply, ‘but it’s quieter in the flicks during the week so you have more chance of getting a chummy seat.’
‘A chummy seat? Oh you are a gallus one, Johnny Anderson,’ she chortled, giving him a playful poke.
To add to Johnny’s discomfiture his face fired.
Laughing, Sandra said, ‘But ken something, Johnny, Monday is a good night for me. My aunty comes and looks after the boys then and I get to have a wee bit of time to myself.’
‘Monday?’ Johnny became flustered and stuttered in reply, ‘Look, could you no make it any day but Monday?’
‘Why?’
‘Monday night’s the night I go to the union meeting.’
‘Oh well, if the union meeting is more important than going out with me, let’s just forget it.’ Sandra then tossed her head before flouncing away from him.
‘Look,’ Johnny hollered after her. ‘The union meeting is not more important than you and it never will be. But if we are ever going to be anything to each other then we will need the union.’
‘Need a trade union! And what would they be able to do for me?’
‘Everything. You see, the unions will fight for better rights for the workers, like me and all the lads in the shipyards. Surely you want a better life than …’ They had now reached the East Cromwell Street entrance to the tenement where Sandra and her family were housed. Johnny lowered his tone and indicated with a jab of his thumb to the condemned housing before adding, ‘Than this.’
‘You’re just a snob, Johnny Anderson,’ Sandra indignantly mocked. ‘So you’ve got an inside lavvy to sit your stupid backside on – so what?’ She snorted. ‘That doesn’t make you better than me.’ Sandra then turned abruptly from him and bolted into her stair entrance.
Johnny had made to run after her but her dad was hanging out of the first-floor window and he indicated, in no uncertain manner, that Johnny had best be going. Johnny hesitated. He did so want to run after Sandra but when a pail of ice-cold water cascaded down on him, he decided it would be best to make for his own home in Ferrier Street.
The union meeting always broke up about nine o’clock on a Monday night. The older men, those who were allowed to drink alcohol, would then adjourn to the Volunteer Arms over in Leith Walk and continue with their arguments there as they swilled pints. The young lads would then make for Costa’s chippie.
On the Monday night following Johnny’s clumsy attempt to woo Sandra, he was the last to leave the union meeting. He was just about to run after the lads who were going to the chip shop when out of the adjacent doorway emerged Sandra.
Johnny, still seething about being doused with icy water, growled, ‘And what do you want?’
‘Just to say sorry about what my dad did to you,’ was Sandra’s contrite reply.
‘Huh,’ was all Johnny answered, digging his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
‘Well, if that’s how you feel I’d best be going.’
‘Wait. Would you like to share a poke of chips with me? I’d make sure they were doused in plenty of muck sauce,’ the immature Johnny wheedled.
Sandra nodded and smiled as she thought to herself, Now why did I not realise that the dashing Johnny would think a big dollop of cheap chippie brown sauce was what he should woo me with!
From that Monday night on they had courted and, as he matured, Johnny became more and more involved in the union – so much so that he was nicknamed ‘Red Johnny’. His mission in life was to get a fairer share of the country’s wealth down to the hard-pressed masses of the working class. These people, his people, laboured like slaves to create the profits – profits that were then creamed off and enjoyed by the select few in the upper class. ‘Bridging the gap’ was his dream and slogan.
Years later, when she was nineteen, Sandra’s dad died suddenly, which brought forward Johnny and Sandra’s wedding plans. Just after the funeral Johnny had taken Sandra’s hand in his and said, ‘Look, sweetheart, for the next couple of years or so your brothers will need you to keep looking after them. You also need a main breadwinner – a man’s wage coming in. So let’s solve these problems by us marrying right now and me, now a qualified plater, moving in with you.’
This news was not music to the ears of Johnny’s mother, Jenny. Indeed she was striving with the help of her husband, Donald, and daughter Kate, to save enough to buy a house in a good district in Leith. Oh yes, Jenny prayed every Sunday that God would allow her to amass enough money so sh
e could leave Ferrier Street behind. And now what was she hearing from Johnny? Surely he was aware that she had high hopes for him and that she wished for him to go up in the world. But here he was saying that he had decided to take what she deemed to be a very backward step.
Johnny always gave his mother credit for the brave face she put on when, at the altar in South Leith church, Sandra and he pledged themselves to each other. She had even lain on a lavish family celebration tea in Ferrier Street.
As the years passed, Johnny and Sandra were blessed with children and Sandra’s brothers moved on. By that time Jenny had become more like a doting, grateful mother than an awkward mother-in-law to Sandra.
When Jenny’s dream of buying a house outright came to fruition she had immediately asked the landlord of her Ferrier Street home if he would allow her son to take over the tenancy.
Sandra had given Jenny what she yearned for and was never going to get from Kate – four grandchildren. Within a year of Sandra and Johnny’s wedding, Bobby had arrived, followed a year later by Jack. Ten months later the apple of Sandra’s eye appeared in the form of Kitty, but she was not to be last. No, three years later, just when Sandra thought that her pregnancy days – which she enjoyed – were over, darling David arrived. The family seemed complete. Then out of the blue, twelve years later …
Johnny realised that he should also be thinking of Rosebud as his child. Shaking his head, as if to signal that he would never get over losing Sandra, the love of his life, tears started to gush from his eyes. He felt unable to control the overwhelming grief that had overtaken him. He honestly felt he hated Rosebud because he considered her arrival into the world a poor swap for her mother leaving it. Wiping his dripping nose with the back of his hand he wondered what Robb’s foreman would think of him right now. Would he really still be wary of him? Or would he see that ‘Red Johnny’, the blight of his life, was in fact a man of straw? That he had only been able to appear to be the hard man, the skilled negotiator, because he’d had a woman behind him who gave him the confidence to fight for what he thought was the workers’ rightful due.