Gift from the Gallowgate

by Davidson, Doris;

  I apologised as best I could, but Mrs M. didn’t seem in the least upset. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she laughed. ‘My mother works in . . .’ – I can’t remember the name of the factory – ‘. . . and she keeps me supplied.’

  Sometimes, however, I couldn’t get round a problem so easily, something that I discovered a man can’t understand. Like all the other housewives around us, I was absolutely ‘skint’ by Thursday, paynight, of each week, but I would have done anything rather than advertise the fact. Instead of waiting like the other wives until my husband came home and handed over the housekeeping cash so I could run to the chip van, I did my best to conjure up something from what I had in the larder.

  On one particular Thursday, all I had left was one egg, some bread, a small piece of cheese and half a bottle of milk. After flipping through my old school cookery book – I still have this trusted slim volume, printed by Aberdeen City Council for Rosemount Intermediate School, and now in tatters – I plumped for a cheese pudding, as near as I could manage with the ingredients I had. It rose like a dream, was perfectly browned and I waited hopefully for Jimmy to pay me a compliment on my cooking skills. But he laid his fork into the empty plate when he was finished without saying a word.

  Frustrated, I asked him outright, ‘What did you thank of that?’

  ‘OK,’ he nodded. He’s never been one to ladle out praise.

  ‘It wasn’t bad for just having thruppence in my purse,’ I persisted, putting my foot in it well and truly.

  Well, you’d have thought I had committed some terrible crime, squandered the entire week’s money on something trivial. He glared at me as if he couldn’t believe what I’d said. ‘What the devil do you do with all the money I give you?’

  As I’ve already said, we had our ups and downs then . . . we still do. If Jimmy hears a couple boasting, ‘We’ve never had a cross word in all the years we’ve been married,’ he always observes later, ‘They’re either liars or they’ve had a helluva boring life.’

  I wasn’t the only one to be taken for a sucker, of course. Jimmy had come home from work one Saturday lunchtime, scoffed his meal, washed, shaved and changed from his oily working clothes into a pair of flannels (his only other pair of trousers) and a sports jacket . . . because he was heading for Pittodrie. The Aberdeen football team was playing Rangers that afternoon, and he was a staunch supporter of the Dons. He was in the scullery, cleaning his brown shoes, when someone rang the bell.

  ‘Is your man in?’ asked the stranger on the step, waiting until Jimmy went to the door before explaining, ‘Will you ha’e a look at my car? It’ll nae start.’

  Jimmy pulled a face. ‘Will it no’ wait?’ (He’s from Laurencekirk, remember, and even if he had lived in Aberdeen for twenty-three years at that time, his dialect was still recognisable – still is, another forty odd years on.) ‘I’m gaen to the match, but I’ll tak’ a look as soon as I get back.’

  I couldn’t hear why the car had to be fixed right away; I only know that Jimmy came in scowling. ‘He says it’ll no’ tak’ lang.’

  The game started at three o’clock, but there was no sign of Jimmy . . . nor by four o’clock, and I didn’t even know where he was. I hadn’t recognised the frustrated motorist. The match would have been in injury time before James trailed in.

  ‘Did you manage to fix the car?’ I asked, risking having my nose snapped off.

  ‘Aye, but he’d a bloody cheek! “It’ll no’ tak’ lang”, he said, ‘but the . . .’

  Here he reeled off a list of things he’d had to do and the time it had taken him to locate where the fault lay. Moreover, the man had just said, ‘Thanks’, and driven away.

  ‘Did he not even ask how much he owed you?’ I prompted, hoping that he’d just forgotten to tell me, and was about to hand me a couple of pounds . . . even a ten bob note would have been very acceptable.

  I don’t know how that man knew that Jimmy was a mechanic, but, sadly, there had been no mention of payment. Even so, neither of us ever refused to help if anyone came to us.

  We did eventually get a car of our own. It was another Saturday forenoon (most employees worked five and a half days a week, then), and Jimmy didn’t stop until noon. I was therefore surprised to have a visit from a man who had married one of girls who had worked in McDonald’s Garage with me. He was a driver with Esso, who, I believe, worked a system of shifts.

  ‘I know Jim’s aye been wanting a car,’ he began (I’ll call him Charlie), ‘and I thought he might be interested in an old Austin I’ve been working on.’

  When I explained that he wouldn’t be home till half past twelve, Charlie lifted his shoulders briefly. ‘Well, my brother gave it to me for nothing, but, like I said, I’ve been working on it for a while. I’ve got it going a bit better, but there’s still a lot to be done on it. Take him down in the afternoon, and he can see what he thinks. I’d let him have it for fifteen quid.’

  Excited at the prospect of having a car, never mind what it looked like or how old it was, I said that we’d be there. The next hour and a half dragged past, but at last Jimmy came in, his face and hands absolutely clarted with grease as usual.

  ‘I’ve bought us a car,’ I crowed, expecting him to be as pleased as I was.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ he exploded. ‘What do you know about cars?’

  ‘It’s Charlie’s,’ I explained, ‘and he says he’ll let you have it for fifteen quid.’

  ‘A pile o’ auld rubbish, I bet,’ was his scornful answer to that.

  ‘I said we’d go and look at it,’ I protested, ‘and you’ve always wanted a car.’

  ‘I want a decent car, no’ an auld wreck.’

  But I could detect a glimmer of interest in his eyes, and I kept on about it until he agreed to take a look. Walking down the hill, I was whistling softly, a bad habit of mine. My Granny used to say, ‘Whistling maidens and crawing hens are nae lucky aboot ony man’s hoose,’ but it never stopped me.

  ‘And you can stop whistling,’ my husband barked, ‘cos I’m no’ buying it.’

  When we reached the house, Charlie came out to discuss business, and I went in to have a fly cup with Pat. We hadn’t seen each other for quite a while, and we were so engrossed in catching up with each other’s news that I didn’t notice the time passing.

  It was over an hour before a beaming Charlie and a sheepish James came in. ‘I’m taking it. I’ve had it out for a spin and there’s a lot to be done to it yet, but I think it’ll be fine.’

  Drawing up at our own house, we were pleased to see several net curtains twitching. There was only one other family in the cul-de-sac that possessed a car, and the man was a shopkeeper, not a common blue-collar worker. (They were very nice people, just the same, good friends.)

  Jimmy spent eight weeks repairing our fourteen-year-old Austin Sherbourne, a little angular car that he parked on the verge of the grounds to the old Springhill House – this was before the business with the cattle. At a time when vandalism was just a word in the dictionary, there was no fear of any of the parts, cleaned and spread out around it, being stolen, or tyres removed, or any other damage done. At last, we ventured out on a picnic, our very first in our very own vehicle. Alan would have been about four, Sheila about sixteen, and we had called at the Stocket to pick up my mother – her first run in a car since Uncle Jack paid her £5 for my Dad’s Erskine in 1934.

  I can’t remember exactly where we went that first Sunday, not too far, I know that, but we stopped in a lane at the side of a little wood to partake of our eatables and drinkables. It was a lovely day, and we all enjoyed ourselves . . . until, on our way home, we had a puncture. This wasn’t Jimmy’s fault; he had checked the tyres carefully. In fact, he had said that the wheel nuts were so loose that they would have come off if he had driven the car for any distance without tightening them. It turned out that the damage had been caused by a rusty nail.

  While James did the needful, on his knees on the dirty gravel at the side of the road, Mum, Sheil
a, Alan and I had a walk up a lovely lane, where Alan and his ‘Nanny’ played with ‘carl doddies’ – plantains, in other words – where one person holds out their plant and the other uses his to try to knock the other head off.

  When I was putting him to bed that night, I asked my tired little son what bit of our day out he had liked best, and, would you credit it, he said, ‘Playing carl doddies with Nanny.’

  His first run in a car and no mention of the lovely scenery or even the sheep and cows he’d seen. Just playing carl doddies. The children of today would find that extremely boring.

  GGG315 gave us many, many hours of pleasure, and the puncture on that first day was the only real repair that it ever needed for as long as we had it. Jimmy was always pottering about with it, and it carried us over quite a large part of Aberdeenshire and even down to Fife to see Auntie Jess in Rosyth. There were some tiny flaws – Alan cried out one day, ‘I can see the road through the floor!’ Just a wee gap in the floorboards, that was all.

  On another outing, we were going up a hill, not a very steep hill but steep enough for our little jalopy, when Alan shouted, ‘We passed another vehicle!’ We had . . . a man on an ordinary bike. It was the first thing we had ever passed.

  I think we had that black Austin Sherbourne for about a year and a half when Jimmy won £100 on a football competition run by the Sunday Post. Having had a few drinks to celebrate, he came home, spread the fivers on the floor and told me, ‘You’re not getting a penny of this. I’m buying a better car.’

  He bought another Austin, a black A40, and for one glorious weekend we had two cars sitting at our gate. Then a neighbour bought the Sherbourne for the £15 he knew we had paid for it, not taking into account the amount of time and money Jimmy, a time-served mechanic, had spent in making it more or less roadworthy. No MOT was needed then. The hundred pounds wasn’t enough for the A40 he picked, and for the first time ever, we paid the rest by credit, so much per month.

  ‘It’s not tick,’ Jimmy excused himself, when I complained that he’d never let me buy anything unless I could pay for it outright. ‘Ever ybody’s buying their cars on the never-never.’

  ‘It’s still tick,’ I persisted, coldly, but hire purchase was used for every car we bought thereafter.

  The A40 was followed by a three-year-old, green Ford Anglia, then a two-year-old, wine Ford Cortina and later still a brand new copper brown Ford Escort. This last prompted one wag in William Tawse’s yard to fix a label on Jimmy’s coat, proclaiming to all and sundry: This belongs to James Davidson CBE.’ When asked why the CBE, he grinned, ‘Copper Brown Escort.’

  Jimmy had concentrated on Fords because Tawse dealt mainly with this make and all his tools had been bought for it. It was only when Fords became much too expensive that we bought a year-old, silver Datsun Sunny, which we kept for thirteen years. Jimmy, of course, had cared for it religiously, doing all his own repairs and servicing, so that it was almost as good when we traded it in as it had been when it came off the assembly line.

  15

  Going back to my story, there came a point when my financial situation – non-financial would be nearer the mark – was growing dire. Christmas was looming up and I’d hardly any money for presents. Sheila’s was easy enough, buy more material from the Castlegate for next to nothing and make her a dirndl skirt or two. She had started going to the local Youth Club’s Saturday dances, and was always asking for something new to wear. A dirndl was simplest of all to make, just a seam up both sides, a hem at the foot and two or three lines of stitching at the waist for two or three rows of elastic. It also used far less material than a circular skirt, which fashion ordained needed a special petticoat, stiffened with sugar and water to make it stick out.

  I could just about manage the usual stocking-fillers, an apple, a tangerine, a sugar mouse and some home-made Swiss milk toffee, but what else could I get for Alan? Inspiration came in the guise of an old desk that had once belonged to my sister Bertha and then to Sheila, so Jimmy decided to brighten it a bit. He took home a small amount of green paint from Tawse – a change from Rubislaw grey – and as soon as Alan was in bed on Christmas Eve, he got started.

  I, meantime, was engaged in making the Swiss milk toffee – a softer and better version of the ‘tablet’ now sold in many shops. In fact, it was so good – the recipe, I mean, not my making of it – that my lapsed obsession for condensed milk overpowered me again, and I eventually had to stop buying it, otherwise I’d have been twice the size I am now, and that’s saying something.

  Our labours over, we both sat down at the fireside to listen to the wireless, no such luxury as a television set for us then. They’d been on sale for a few years, owning one was something to boast about, but they were still far too expensive for folk like us. It would have been about 1960 before we managed to get a secondhand one cheap – a twelve inch, dark green screen in a large mahogany cabinet. It lasted for many years and was only disposed of when the tube went. Unable to pay the £20 a new tube would cost, I resorted to ‘tick’ to buy a new TV. But that first set was the best we ever had.

  Back to business. About ten o’clock on that Christmas Eve, I rose to make a cup of tea before we went up to bed, and as I passed the desk I checked to make sure that the paint was drying. Being industrial paint, not known as quick drying, it was still quite wet, so Jimmy pulled it over to the fire, and we sat down again to drink the tea. You’ll have heard the ironic expression, ‘As interesting as watching paint dry’? Well, we sat there doing just that for another two hours, then we heard Alan’s feet padding down the stairs.

  Quick as a flash, we stood up in front of the tacky desk to prevent him seeing Santa’s gift before Santa came. Any adult would have twigged what we were doing straight away, but Alan wasn’t old enough to suspect his parents of any jiggery-pokery. When we told him that Santa wouldn’t come to a little boy who wasn’t asleep, he trotted upstairs again and was soon in the Land of Nod. But it was two in the morning before Jimmy and I got to bed, having not quite filled the pillowcases hanging from the mantelpiece and camouflaged the desk with fancy paper tied roughly round it.

  *

  That summer, Jean Souter, a friend and neighbour and mother of Alan’s chum Graham, gave me a little degree of help by asking if I would stand in for her for two weeks. The small West End hotel where she worked had no one to replace her at this, the busiest time of the year, so I agreed somewhat reluctantly. It wasn’t that I thought working as a chambermaid would be beneath me, just the opposite. I hadn’t a clue as to what would be expected of me, and I didn’t want to let the management down . . . or the guests.

  On the night before I was due to start, I couldn’t sleep a wink for worrying, but it wasn’t half as bad as I’d feared; just a case of making beds and keeping the rooms clean and tidy – particularly the bathrooms. Clean towels had to be provided each day, and every inch of the ‘smallest rooms’ had to be given a thorough going over. Never having stayed in a hotel myself, I prayed that I wasn’t missing something vital, but not a soul complained. In fact quite a few showed their appreciation by leaving tips at the end of their stay. Unexpected, but very welcome.

  I was quite slow that first morning, probably taking twice as long as Jean did, but once I got into the way of it, I nipped effortlessly through the work. I admit that I was tired at the end of the week, but being handed a pay packet more than made up for that. I was only there for the two weeks, of course, but what I earned, plus the tips, did let me replace some of the clothes the children were outgrowing, and that was one worry off my mind for a while.

  Before I knew it, Christmas was just around the corner, and, once again, I couldn’t see a way to buy presents for any of my nearest and dearest. Although Jimmy and I agreed not to give each other anything, there were the children to think about. Sheila knew, but I couldn’t destroy Alan’s belief in Santa Claus.

  Then I spotted an item in the Situations Vacant column of the Evening Express for a part-time assistant in one of
R.S. McColl’s shops, evenings only. I applied and started the following week at 5 p.m. I had to leave the house at twenty to five, but Jimmy, who stopped at 4.30 and had to walk home, would be in about ten minutes after I’d gone. Sheila had left Aberdeen Academy (the old Central School) by this time, and was working with a firm of commercial artists. She wasn’t home until after six o’clock.

  My working ‘day’ ended at eight, but the three hours I served behind the counter were non-stop; hardly time to draw a breath. Was it just a coincidence that I was back amongst sweeties again? Confectionery, cigarettes and ice cream at our side of the shop, newspapers, cigarettes and fancy goods at the other. I sometimes had to take a turn at the paper side, and two years running I’d to take over for a fortnight to let the usual ‘girl’ get a holiday.

  I enjoyed that, too, although I’d to start at seven in the morning to serve all the workmen with their papers and fags, and didn’t finish until two, so it was a long day. More pay, of course, which was not to be sneezed at. Luckily, a neighbour said she would make sure that Alan was ready when her husband was leaving to open his shop. Mr R. had been dropping him off at the Demonstration School since I stopped taking him there myself on the bus. At least I didn’t have to worry about Christmas that year.

  Christmas Day was not widely recognised as a holiday in Scotland. Tawse’s yard didn’t stop work until almost 4 p.m., which gave me plenty of time to prepare a festive dinner. Few working class people had turkey, far too expensive, and a hen (we never thought of eating chickens) was a rare treat. We were lucky in having friends whose parents were crofters, so we were occasionally given a hen as a gift – but it had to be plucked and cleaned, a job for James although I did do it once.