Grandad had managed to find the odd casual job during this time but by 1929 he was jobless once again. This brave soldier who had spent four years in the appalling conditions of the French and Belgian trenches, fighting for King and Country, was now on unemployment benefit which was a pittance. Mum wouldn’t let him forget it.
‘As Eh said, Dad, you fought for King and bloody Country and where did it get you? Living on a pittance from the Parish then having your dole money cut off unless you shovelled snow.’
Grandad, being the gentleman he was, was prepared as usual to be more charitable. ‘Och well, Molly, it’s all water under the bridge now.’
CHAPTER 2
It was eight o’clock on Hogmanay, the last night of 1941, and we were all busy cleaning the house. This annual tradition seemingly had to be tackled before the start of a new year. As usual, Grandad was in charge.
‘Eh must say, Molly, that it’s a great feeling tae have the house cleaned up before the Bells,’ he said, stopping briefly in his task of scrubbing the wooden kitchen table.
While Mum nodded in agreement he threw the soapy water down the sink. Then, after a great deal of rummaging around in the kitchen cupboard, he approached with a tin of Mansion polish and a piece of old flannelette sheet. As he handed me the tin I noticed it was almost empty. There was just a residual ring of dried-up yellow polish clinging coyly to the contours of the tin.
‘Now, just put a wee smear of polish on the sideboard, Maureen, and give it plenty of elbow grease,’ he told me.
I gazed dubiously at the ring of cracked yellow pieces. ‘Is the elbow grease in the tin, Grandad?’
He laughed, ‘No, no, this is elbow grease.’ He took the cloth from me and rubbed it briskly against the wooden surface. ‘You see? It’s your elbow moving back and forward that’s doing the hard work.’
He stood for a moment and watched until I got the hang of it then he said, ‘When you’ve finished polishing the sideboard you can start on the chairs, and mind you do the legs as well as the seats.’
Earlier that morning, before setting the fire, he had set about black-leading the grate with Zebrite. Now the metal frame gleamed brightly under the soft glow from the gaslight, the flickering flames from the fire reflecting against the shiny iron. Meanwhile Mum was scraping a piece of emery paper around the gas jets on the cooker. Grandad poured some pungent San Izal into a bucket of water and padded along the lobby to the small toilet at the top of the stairs.
‘After Eh’ve washed the floor, Molly, Eh’ll leave the doorstep for you. Make sure it gets washed just before midnight.’
Mum was now attacking the oven but she poked her head from its dark depths and promised she wouldn’t forget this important chore. As usual, being nosy, I had to hear the reason for this strange ritual.
‘Well it’s like this,’ said Grandad. ‘It’s supposed tae bring lots of luck into a house when the doorstep gets scrubbed just before the Bells. Then, of course, the first-foot should be tall and dark and that brings more good luck.’
By half past ten, we had finished all our chores, apart from the doorstep. We sat down to admire our efforts. The kitchen glowed with all the hard work and there was a cleanly scrubbed smell in the air, which was a mixture of carbolic soap, polish and disinfectant. The pungent aroma of San Izal also invaded our nostrils. Grandad surveyed his small kingdom for a moment before putting on his coat. On seeing this I immediately ran for mine but he stopped me.
‘No, lass, it’s too cold and dark for you but maybe when you’re older Eh’ll take you to see the auld year out.’
I was peeved and demanded to know where he was going.
‘Eh’m going to the City Square to bring the New Year in but maybe your mum will let you stay up till Eh get back to first-foot you.’
Mum switched the wireless on and laughed. ‘Och, she’ll be sound asleep by then.’
Oh no I won’t, I thought. I sat beside the fire, too full of excitement to ever contemplate going to bed. I felt sorry for George. He had slept through all the earlier frenzied activity and he was now missing out on all this magical anticipation of welcoming in a new year.
At five minutes to twelve Mum dutifully washed the doorstep then brought out six tiny glasses that resembled thimbles, a small bottle of sherry and a larger bottle of raspberry cordial. She had also changed into a soft green woollen dress with long sleeves and a row of buttons down the front – shiny mother-of-pearl buttons that gleamed in the light. She still looked pale and tired in spite of brushing some rouge across her cheeks. This rouge was in a small round box with a minute powder puff and of course I had to have some on my face as well. The effect was comical. While Mum looked fetching with her rosy circles I merely resembled a clown.
I watched the hands of the clock tick slowly round, impatient for this wonderful New Year to start. Suddenly the quietness of the street below was broken by the noisy clatter of feet and the muffled voices of the revellers as they hurried up the Hilltown. Snatches of songs floated up to the window and one lovely baritone voice rose above the disjointed babble. ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary,’ he sang, the notes becoming louder as the unknown singer passed under the window before slowly fading away.
Mum was cynical. ‘Aye, it’s a long way right enough. Still, by the end of the night, he’ll no know where he is. Tipperary, Dundee or Timbuktu, it’ll be immaterial.’
Then at a quarter past twelve, just when I thought I could no longer stay awake, we heard Grandad’s step in the lobby. He swept in, gave Mum a peck on the cheek and picked me up. I felt the rough bristles of his moustache against my face and his breath smelled different. It was similar to the smell that wafted out from the various pubs on the Hilltown. He was carrying a small piece of coal and a calendar with a fat, sleek black cat on the front. It had a smug expression on its whiskered face, as much as to say how honoured we were to have its picture on our wall.
‘A happy New Year,’ said Grandad, ‘A happy 1942.’
He took down the old calendar and pinned the new one in its place. ‘Now, this black cat will bring us lots of luck and good fortune this year.’
Looking back with hindsight, it is clear that he was one of life’s optimists.
Lizzie Callender, our neighbour from the next close, arrived at the door. She also had a small piece of coal in her hand and it was obvious that she had kept a lookout for Grandad, giving him time to be the first one over our well-scrubbed doorstep. Lizzie was older than Mum, a small woman, probably in her late forties. I think she must have been a widow because I can’t ever recall a Mr Callender. However, she did have one son, George, who was in the army. She was also dressed up. Her frock was a lovely powder-blue shade with stitched-down pleats from the yoke to the hipline, a style which emphasised her ample figure. I was quite surprised by this well-dressed vision because it was the first time I had seen her wearing anything other than her usual shapeless pinafore and the turban which she tied closely around her short hair. Grandad was lamenting.
‘Och, it’s no the same atmosphere at the City Square these days. Nor the same crowds,’ he grumbled. ‘Heavens, Eh can mind when thousands of folk would gather on Auld Year’s Night to celebrate. There were dozens and dozens of barrows selling everything from hooters and hats to fancy-dressed herrings. Now, since the start of the war, all the fun has stopped.’
Lizzie was sympathetic.
‘Eh ken what you mean, Charlie. This war has put the tin hat on the merriment.’
I was intrigued by all this talk of yesteryear.
‘Did you bring back a dressed herring, Grandad?’
Before he could answer, Mum snorted and turned to Lizzie.
‘Don’t mention the word “herring” to me,’ she laughed. ‘One Hogmanay before the war, Dad brought back a dressed herring and put it on the mantelpiece. Well, in the middle of January when Eh went to throw it out, it had disappeared. Eh thought Dad had thrown it away and he thought Eh had. Well, this awfy smell appeared that almost made me sick, E
h can tell you. We turned the house upside down until we discovered the herring had slipped down behind the mantelpiece. Believe me, Lizzie, this was one fish that wasn’t only dead but damn near cremated!’
I was sitting on Grandad’s knee and I could see that he was enjoying all this banter. ‘Och, don’t listen tae your mother,’ he said to me. ‘She’s just blethering. When you’re a bit older and the war’s over, Eh’ll bring you back a herring all tae yourself. They’re dressed up in frilly crêpe-paper skirts and you can get them in lots of colours. Red, green, blue or yellow.’
All this talk of the days before the war had put Mum in a reminiscing mood. ‘Do you mind when Charlie, my brother, went to sea with the Merchant Navy? Remember the monkey he brought back?’
She turned to Lizzie. ‘He arrived back tae an empty house so he put the monkey in the kitchen and went out to the shops. When we got home the monkey had broken umpteen ornaments and was busy swinging from the curtains.’
Grandad laughed out loud at the memory.
‘Och, Eh remember that monkey. Eh think we had to give it to a pet shop in the end. But to make matters worse, on his next trip back he brought a parrot.’
By now Mum was howling with laughter. ‘Don’t mention the parrot. It did nothing but screech and squawk and we couldn’t get near it. It fair frightened the daylights out of all our neighbours And us as well.’
To say I was fascinated by all these new revelations would be an understatement. ‘Eh wish you still had the monkey and the parrot, Grandad.’
He was still chuckling at all the revived memories. ‘Well, the monkey and parrot are long gone but one thing Eh learned to do long ago was knit,’ he said proudly.
I knew this was true because Mum owned several garments that had been his handiwork – beautiful, multicoloured, wavy-patterned Shetland jumpers and similar knitted scarves. Lizzie changed the subject to a matter that was obviously rankling with her. ‘Eh wonder what the rations will be like this year. Eh hope it’s no going to be like last year when the government cut the meat ration to one and tuppence [about 6p] a head.’
Mum agreed. ‘Eh don’t know how we’re supposed to keep a family on that pittance of meat and just one egg each a week. It’s getting harder to keep body and soul together.’
Mum sounded bitter. ‘It makes me mad when Eh hear that Lord Woolton and his daft advice to eat more vegetables. It’s easy seen he’s never had to stand two hours in a queue for a single onion.’
‘It’s enough tae give you the scunners,’ said Grandad. ‘Eh mean it’s all very well this “Digging for Victory” slogan. Eh’m sure it’s all right for folk with acres of land but what are we supposed to do – plant turnips and tatties in window boxes?’
On this serious note Lizzie stood up. ‘Well, Eh suppose it’s time for bed. That’s another year brought in and it doesn’t look like it’ll be any better than last year. It’s awfy good to have a real moan, though. It makes you feel a bit cheerier.’
After Lizzie left, we got ready for bed. Outside, the voices of homeward-bound revellers still drifted up from the street. There was also the rasping sound from their cheap and noisy cardboard hooters.
‘Still some stragglers on the street Eh see,’ said Grandad. ‘They would be better off going to their beds instead of catching their death of cold.’
Within minutes of being tucked up in the large squashy bed, I was fast asleep, dreaming, no doubt, about swinging destructive monkeys, colourful squawking parrots, digging for tatties and queuing for that precious commodity, an onion. But it was one Hogmanay I was to remember for many years and look back on as one of the happiest times with Grandad and Mum.
Three days later, with the New Year festivities fast becoming a happy memory, we received a visitor. An official from some department of the wartime hierarchy arrived on the doorstep with a gas mask for George. To be truthful this wasn’t so much a mask as a box. An oblong-shaped soft suitcase with a clear panel on the lid would be a better description. The man placed this suitcase lookalike on the table and proceeded to show Mum how to use it.
‘Now this is what you do,’ he explained in a slightly superior tone. ‘If there’s a gas attack, you put the bairn in the respirator and close the lid.’
Then, before Mum could stop him, he went over to the cradle where George was lying contentedly gazing at the blue rattle that dangled from a piece of wool. He lifted him up and carried him over to the container. At this point George gave a piercing wail as would any self-respecting baby who had been unceremoniously lifted from a warm crib and dumped into a cold rubbery-smelling case. The man ignored his distress. ‘Never mind about his crying,’ he said while closing the lid. ‘It’s better to have a greetin bairn than a gassed one.’
He laughed loudly, no doubt pleased with his witty way with words. By now the muffled howls had reached din force. Mum stood this for a fraction of a second more before pushing him aside and almost knocking the man over in her anger.
‘Right then,’ she fumed. ‘You can just take this contraption away. The poor wee soul doesn’t like it. Shut up like some sardine in a tin.’
She paced back and forth trying to pacify the baby while the man babbled on and on. He insisted that the box had to stay but this official demand fell on deaf ears. Mum wasn’t having anyone tell her what to do with her own child. ‘You can yap on till you’re blue in the face, mister, but Eh’m no putting him in that thing.’
Although she sounded calm, a hint of stubbornness in her voice was unmistakable. By now the poor official was red-faced and very annoyed that his authority was being questioned. ‘Eh’m just telling you this for your own sake, missus. You have to keep it. It’s the law.’
‘All right,’ said Mum, conceding ungraciously, ‘Eh’ll keep it but Eh don’t care if Winston Churchill says it himself – Eh’m no putting my bairn in it.’
A look of relief spread over his face when he realised he had won the first round of the battle. He now turned his attention to me. ‘Now, the wee lassie here will have her Mickey Mouse gas mask, Eh suppose?’
Mum nodded. ‘Aye, she does but she doesn’t mind wearing it because she’s older.’
Personally, I couldn’t understand what age had to do with it. Mum was wrong in her assumption that I didn’t mind wearing the ghastly gas mask. In fact I hated it so much that I dreaded the day I would perhaps have to wear it during a real gas attack. It felt like a cold clammy wet hand against my face and the filter cone lay like a heavy and unwieldy lump under my chin. Apart from the claustrophobic feeling I always experienced on wearing it, I found it difficult to breathe when it was on and the glassy goggles always steamed up, even after a few minutes. Then there was another thing: I had seen a picture of the real Mickey Mouse and this gas mask resembled the Disney character like I resembled Shirley Temple.
Now that his task was completed, the official made his getaway, no doubt glad to escape. He was just out through the door when Grandad appeared. Strangely enough, he was unsympathetic to Mum’s tale of woe and he took the side of the official.
‘Eh think you should persevere with it, Molly. Eh mean, it’s for the bairn’s safety.’
Because of this attitude, George was lifted up at various intervals during the afternoon and placed in the rubber box. This resulted in furious howls every time and Mum was triumphant.
‘See what Eh mean,’ she said, pleased that she had been vindicated in her dislike of the contraption. ‘You can see for yourself that he’s never going to settle down in that, never in a hundred years.’
Grandad had no choice but to admit defeat, but he warned her, ‘Well, put it away but remember if there is a genuine gas attack then we’ll just have to put up with his howling.’
The object was duly stashed away at the back of the kitchen cupboard and I don’t think it ever saw the light of day again. I suppose someone must have collected it after the war’s end but I can’t recall it. Maybe I was out of the house at the time.
Our second clash with of
ficialdom came a couple of nights later. We were listening to the wireless when an almighty knock clattered against the wooden door. The knock was so loud that the door almost rattled on its hinges and we all jumped up in fright. Standing outside in the dark lobby was an ARP warden who looked really furious and was almost dancing with rage. It was Mum who had opened the door and she was also annoyed by the noise. ‘Heavens above! You’ll waken the dead with all that clatter. Is it an earthquake or a fire you’re announcing?’
The warden was a small man with a sour-looking face and an important manner. ‘You’re showing a light!’ he shouted. ‘You must have a hole in your blackout curtain.’
He strode into the room without an invitation and marched over to the window. In the middle of the blind was a tiny half-inch tear. ‘There it is! That’s the culprit,’ said the wee man triumphantly. ‘That’s the light Eh saw from the street.’
While we all peered at the hole, Grandad tried to humour the man. ‘Och, don’t be a blether. That wee hole doesn’t let out much light,’ he said flippantly.
‘No much light! No much light!’ shouted the warden, repeating himself in his anger. ‘There’s enough light here for a Jerry plane to beam in on. Do you no ken that Nazi planes have been spotted on the east coast?’
Although this was true he made it sound like our tiny light was sufficient to alert the entire Luftwaffe to descend on Dundee and at this very moment the military might of the German army was now marching up the Hilltown. Grandad disputed this hotly. ‘Och, don’t be daft man! There’s hardly enough light here to attract a moth let alone a Nazi plane that’s a mile up in the air.’
The warden, who was still dancing with annoyance, ignored the logic of Grandad’s argument. After all, his job was an important part of the war effort and he was one who had to be obeyed. ‘That’s no the point,’ he said. ‘What matters is the fact that you’re showing a light and if Eh can see it then so can a Nazi plane.’
During all this hassle Mum had quietly taken a needle and thread and quickly stitched the offending hole. ‘There now,’ she said to the warden, ‘that’s it stitched up. Does that satisfy you?’
Voices in the Street Page 2