Gift from the Gallowgate

by Davidson, Doris;

  Now, this was 1963 and we had another, rather more upsetting, situation to contend with. An outbreak of typhoid hit the city, and it was virtually cut off from the rest of the country. The gutters in the streets ran with white disinfectant, lavatories in all public places were supplied with cakes of strong carbolic soap for washing hands, and still the numbers of people infected crept up and up. There weren’t many deaths, but the illness took a heavy toll, and by the time it reached its peak, over four hundred had succumbed to it.

  It gradually tailed off, and Aberdeen was at last pronounced free of the virus or whatever it was, but few holidaymakers turned up that year. This fear of picking something up may have carried on for some time had the Queen herself not paid a visit. This proof of the monarch’s belief in our city was enough to make other people see sense. It was a dreadful time, and it started through a tin of infected corned beef in a small supermarket, which was boycotted and finally forced to vacate the premises.

  The results of the examinations were sent from Edinburgh by mail during Aberdeen’s Trades Fortnight – two weeks in July when the tradesmen went on holiday. All firms, large and small, closed down completely – the same as Glasgow at the Fair – so many of the large manila envelopes had not been delivered. We had gone to Surrey to see Sheila and her husband, and a small card was waiting on the doormat when we came home on the Saturday night. (Jimmy liked to have a Sunday to relax before starting work again.) ‘We were unable to deliver a package addressed to you. Please collect from the Parcels Office in Crown Street.’

  I left Alan playing with his chums on Monday forenoon and took the bus into town, trembling with anticipation. Fear of failure? I couldn’t analyse it myself. The man in the parcels office must have seen hundreds of the envelopes, and said, as he handed mine over, ‘This’ll be for your daughter?’

  ‘No, it’s mine,’ I quavered, dying to tear it open, but not wanting to appear too eager.

  ‘Yours?’ he said, in amazement. ‘Well, open it and tell me if you’ve passed.’

  I had passed all three! If there had not been a counter between us, I believe I’d have thrown my arms round that man and danced him round the small floor. It was a wonderful feeling, but now I had to go to the College of Education in John Street to find out about the grant I would be given for the next year.

  Three men inter viewed me, and I listened while they discussed my position, though I hardly took in a thing they said. Then one looked at me gravely, and I knew that it wasn’t good news, yet I couldn’t understand why. Hadn’t I passed what I had sat in my first year? What was wrong?

  ‘I’m afraid, Mrs Davidson, that you have been a little too smart for your own good. Since you were here last, the requirements for mature students have been reduced. Two ‘O’ levels are still needed, but only two ‘A’ levels are necessary now . . . which you have already obtained.’

  ‘Yes?’ I was even more puzzled.

  ‘You have passed one ‘O’ level, so you only need one more.’

  ‘Yes?’ I still couldn’t understand what he was getting at.

  ‘This means that you can take an evening class in whatever subject you wish . . . and there is no grant given for attending one evening class. I’m sorry.’

  I was devastated as I closed the door behind me. I’d worked so hard and all for nothing. Well, not for nothing, but for no grant, that was sure. I had done myself out of that. Then I heard quick footsteps behind me, and turned round to see the man who had introduced himself as the Deputy Principal hurrying after me.

  ‘Wait, Mrs Davidson. I could see you were disappointed, and I sympathise, but I have a little suggestion to make. You only need one ‘O’ level, so you should think about trying the equivalent University Preliminary Examination in a subject of your choice. The exams are held late in August or the beginning of September, and results are not given until the end of October, but we would allow you to start with us at the beginning of the month. Should you fail your chosen subject, however, you would be asked to leave us and try again next year. It is entirely up to you.’

  He left me scarcely knowing where I was or what I was doing, but I soon gathered my senses together. I’d been given a lifeline, and I wouldn’t refuse it.

  My next call was to Marischal College, Aberdeen’s University, to arrange to sit an exam. This wasn’t far, so I hadn’t made up my mind about a subject when I reached the magnificent granite building in the Gallowgate, which sadly no longer functions as a university. They intend turning it into flats. Sacrilege!

  The lady behind the desk took a note of my name and address, and nodded when I told her what had happened. Then she said, ‘Which subject?’

  ‘Botany.’ She looked as surprised as I felt. I had no idea where that came from, but I’d always been interested in flowers, so perhaps I’d be OK. All the same, there was one big problem to overcome: where would I find someone to help me through it?

  To cut a long story short, I had to resort to taking a large tome on botany from the library and copying it down word for word – the only way I could get some of it into my head. It was actually a textbook for ‘A’ level students, so I couldn’t go wrong . . . if I stuck at it.

  17

  The College of Education was a different matter, like transferring from primary school to secondary, especially for the first few weeks. I couldn’t let myself settle in too comfortably when there was every possibility that I would have to leave in disgrace. I was the only mature student in my section, and the lecturers could always remember my name.

  It may not have stemmed from my age, of course. It could have been because of what I said on my first day. In our very first proper class after the registration and welcome from the principal, we went to a lesson marked in our timetables as ‘Speech’. This did not involve, as you may think, teaching us how to make a speech, but rather it taught us how to feel at ease in front of an audience, how to sound our vowels and speak clearly. We had to begin by standing up individually and introducing ourselves to the rest of the class, giving name, home area, age and reason for wanting to be a teacher.

  I don’t know how we were listed, not by age or surname, probably at random, and I came about fifteenth out of twenty-three, so I listened attentively. I wouldn’t remember all the names, but at least it would give me an idea of what to say. They came from all over Scotland, short and tall, dark and fair – only two of us had red hair – and the reasons for wanting to be a teacher were very similar.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, ever since I was very small.’

  ‘I love children and want to teach them.’

  ‘I want to dedicate myself to educating children.’

  And so on . . . ad nauseam.

  I had been so intent on listening that I hadn’t planned what I should say, so when my turn came, I stood up sure that I’d make a fool of myself in front of all these self-assured eighteen-year-olds. I was forty-two, old enough to be their mother, and mothers weren’t always looked on with admiration. When I gave my name, my voice came out weakly, so I repeated it, louder, and with the effort, I found my feet.

  I didn’t feel shy now, and gave my home area as Aberdeen, then I looked directly at Mr M. the lecturer, and said, ‘I think you’ve got a nerve expecting a lady to tell you her age.’ This was when I got my very first laugh, a marvellous feeling, especially when I hadn’t planned it. Ever since then, I’ve always tried to inject a little humour into the talks I give. This usually makes a bond between the audience and me, even more so if it happens spontaneously.

  When the laughter subsided, Mr M., who had laughed loudest and longest, prompted, ‘What made you decide to become a teacher?’

  Again I answered without thought. ‘The long holidays.’

  ‘At least you are honest, Mrs Davidson.’

  ‘Well, I do want to help children to learn the three Rs, but the holidays are just as important for me. I can be at home with my son.’ I waited for a rebuke, but none came. In fact, his eyes were tw
inkling when he asked the others what they thought and thus started a lively discussion.

  I was to learn that most of the lecturers liked a bit of controversy, which was good for me. I had never been able to hold my tongue. In our first History Class, the tutor set us a little test to prove that learning dates etc. by rote was a waste of time. ‘For a few days before your exam, you had crammed all the dates unto your head but, as soon as the pressure was off, you completely forgot them. I’ll give you a small test to prove my point.’

  He read out twenty questions – such as what happened in 1066, which battle took place in 1314, when was the Union of the Crowns, which year was the Battle of Waterloo – and we had to write the answers then hand the page to the person next us to check.

  I’m not boasting when I say that I had most correct. Eleven out of twenty is nothing to boast about, but it still beat the others, most of whom had scored seven or eight, one or two even less. One of the girls now stood up and said, quite indignantly, ‘That wasn’t fair. I haven’t done History since Third Year.’

  She had just left school that summer, and was speaking about two years ago, or three at the most, so I felt strongly enough to say, ‘It’s twenty-seven years since I left school, so that proves that dates do stay in the mind, more or less.’

  Mr L. gave a hearty laugh. ‘It seems like it, doesn’t it?’

  But it’s not dates that are taught nowadays. We were shown how to teach in patches. The Romans, the Vikings, the Picts and Celts . . . and they didn’t have to be in chronological order. The trouble with this method was, as I found out when I was out on teaching practice, the same class could do the Romans with one teacher, move to another the following year and do the Romans again. I’m speaking about the years between 1964 and 1982 here, because I don’t know how anything is taught now.

  *

  We had thirteen subjects to worry about that first year. Apart from English and Maths, we had History (replaced by Geography in our second), Physical Education, Religious Education, Psychology, Biology, Music, Craftwork, Art, Health, Speech and one other which escapes me. I found some of them fairly straightforward – I loved Art and could copy anything that was set in front of me, but I couldn’t do anything out of my own head. One Art teacher told me that children couldn’t understand or do detailed drawings, and I would have to train myself to do big splotches of colour and work in simple outlines. With that, he tore up the picture I had done, which didn’t do much for my confidence.

  The PE teacher drew me aside the first day. ‘You may sit down whenever you feel tired, Mrs Davidson.’

  Awkwardly stubborn as usual, I determined not to give in at anything, so I climbed wall bars, did exercises on the parallel bars, swung myself up on a trapeze and almost broke my arms getting my feet on the floor again, but I didn’t sit down. I hadn’t felt tired . . . until the lesson was over.

  I suffered from my foolhardiness the next morning. Every bone in my body refused to move when I put my feet on the floor, and I had to go downstairs backwards for a few days, at college as well as at home. I was glad to bow to my advancing years after that.

  I thoroughly enjoyed Craftwork. Years of making do and mending, and knitting for my own children, bolstered by many things Jimmy’s Auntie Jess had taught me – she attended craft classes even when she was over seventy, and every year when we stayed with her on holiday, she showed me her latest skill – how to crochet fancy table centres with delicate rose or pineapple patterns; how to make a poodle toilet roll holder and nail and thread pictures, all sorts of things that came in handy when I was teaching. I was astonished to find that quite a few of the girls in my section couldn’t knit or sew, and even when they explained that they weren’t taught that in Secondary Schools any longer I couldn’t understand it. Hadn’t their mothers shown them? Or were they just as handless?

  I got on quite well in Music, discovering at one point that I could put any song or piece of music into tonic sol-fa, a result of many years of playing the piano by ear. The lecturer came in one day enthusing about a boy in Primary 7 of the Demonstration School, how he could write tunes down, and recognise notes being played. ‘Yes,’ he beamed, looking round the class, ‘Alan Davidson’s full of music.’ His voice tailed away as it dawned on him, and he concentrated on me. ‘Alan Davidson? He wouldn’t be your son, would he?’

  Alan was, still is, very musical, but I’ll spare his blushes by not giving details of the places he has played, and the musicians he has played alongside.

  At the end of October, I had to go to Marischal College (our main university then, but alas no more) to learn the result of the ‘O’ level Botany that I had tried some months earlier. This made me late for the Music class, first in the afternoon, but Lillias had told the lecturer why.

  When I did walk into the classroom, he said, ‘Come on, then, Mrs Davidson. Tell us – is it good news or bad?’

  ‘Good news,’ I told him, proudly.

  ‘So we won’t be losing your company? That is good news.’

  I had almost forgotten that failure would have meant banishment.

  Part of the criteria for passing the three-year music course was to play a piece of music of your choice with both hands. I picked a fairly simple version of Bach-Gounod’s Ave Maria, and managed to get through without faltering too often. Playing so much by ear has made me lose the ability to read left and right hand notes simultaneously. I can play the right hand with ease, the left hand a little less easily, but putting them together is a nightmare. I was lucky, of course, in having more than a nodding acquaintance with a piano. To quite a few of my classmates, a musical instrument of any kind was a total stranger. I did admire Catherine, though. Starting from absolute scratch, she learned to play by sheer determination.

  Psychology, a dry subject, was lightened by the tutor, who had the same sense of humour as I have. He came in quite late one afternoon, explaining that he had seen a man lying in Blackfriars Street (round the corner from the College) and, thinking that he had been taken ill, had asked where he lived.

  ‘Echt,’ the man told him.

  This small village was some miles from the city, but the ‘Good Samaritan’ took him there and then asked for the exact address.

  By this stage of the story, we were all listening anxiously to hear what had happened to the poor man, but when the tutor gave us the punchline, ‘He looked up at me and said, “I bide in echt Blackfriars Street,”’ I found myself the only one who laughed. For the benefit of those poor souls without the benefit of the Doric, and for those who haven’t seen the joke, echt is Scottish for eight and Blackfriars Street was where the man had been lying . . . the fictitious man . . . with the fictitious illness.

  This same lecturer had spent ninety minutes another morning discussing why it wasn’t right that the children of wealthy parents should have a better education in their private schools than those who had to go to ordinary schools. It was a lively debate, some (myself among them) holding that private schools were really no better than council-run, but the consensus of opinion, allegedly held by the lecturer himself, was that there shouldn’t be any private schools, that all children should have the same chance.

  When the bell rang for the lunch break, Mr L. said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me, ladies, but I promised my wife I’d collect our two girls from St Margaret’s today,’ and dashed out.

  He turned and winked before closing the door behind him. In his position, of course he would send his daughters to a private girls’ school, and his stance of being against such establishments had been so much hot air. Again, I was the only one who saw the funny side of this; the rest were angry at being fooled.

  Lillias, who had been at Commercial College with me, was also in the same section at TC, and because she had left school two years earlier, she considered the other girls too young for her. I’ve a feeling that she was afraid that I’d be odd one out – twenty-three won’t divide into pairs even if you’re a genius at Maths – but we became very close friends
, having a little stroll round the shops every day after we had lunch in the canteen, or, if it was bad weather, sitting in the huge common room with whoever else was there. Before I go any further, I must tell you that we are still as close, perhaps even closer, today as we were then. She and her husband, now retired as professor at Cardiff University, come to see us every August at the end of their month’s holiday in Cullen.

  Getting back to my tale, it happened that Lillias had to go home one lunchtime, and I went window-shopping on my own. I was walking up George Street when I decided to cross to a ladies’ dress shop at the other side, and stepped off the pavement without thinking.

  I heard nothing behind me, but when I felt an awful thump in my back, I thought I’d been hit by a bus. Fortunately, it was only a boy on a bicycle, but even so, I was knocked to the ground. I must have passed out for a moment or two, because when I realised what was going on, I was surrounded by anxious women clamouring to help me to my feet.

  As I am sure many of you have done, I felt so embarrassed, and foolish, that I shrugged off all help and got up, rather shakily, by myself. The crowd dispersed to go their various ways . . . except one old lady who looked as though she didn’t have two ha’pennies to rub together.

  She took hold of my arm as I negotiated the kerb and astounded me by saying, ‘I’ve got a bottle o’ brandy in my bag. Would you like a wee tootie? You look as if you need it.’

  I thanked her very much, but declined. I couldn’t have gone back into a lecture room reeking of brandy.

  That night, I gave Jimmy my tale of woe, and he was deeply concerned. ‘Was the boy hurt?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Was his bike OK?’

  Ah well! I hadn’t given one thought to the poor boy, but I was almost sure that he wasn’t there when I came to my senses. He must have cycled off. I hope so.