As her nickname implied, Bella was a large woman. Hers was a shape that the wartime shortages had failed to knock a dent into. She had a raucous laugh and a super sense of humour. Her cheerfulness had helped Mum during the grief-stricken months after Grandad’s death.
Nell and Nan, on the other hand, were pale-faced and thin-built women with similar droll and laid-back manners. Nan was a single woman but she did have a serious suitor lurking in the background. Nell had been married but that had been in the far distant past and no one ever mentioned her husband. It seemed that he had deserted her after a year or two of marriage and she maintained that any thoughts of him had long since vanished into the mists of time.
On this particular evening Bella was discussing her favourite subject – food. ‘Just think,’ she said, smacking her lips, ‘after five years of rationing Eh’ll be able tae have bacon and eggs for my breakfast. No tae mention lashings of butter, jam and marmalade plus spoonfuls and spoonfuls of sugar.’
Nell joined in. ‘Don’t forget chocolate biscuits, oranges and bananas!’ She was almost drooling at the thought.
Nan, who was good at bringing everyone down to earth, protested loudly. ‘Och, will you stop speaking about food? You’re making me hungry. Anyway,’ she said darkly, ‘Eh’ll believe in the good times when Eh see them.’
The women laughed but Nan had hit the nail on the head with her statement. Instead of life becoming easier now that peace had been declared, there was an unspoken feeling that things would never become plentiful again. In fact, as the weeks went on, the meagre rations were cut even further.
1945 had barely begun when it was announced that coal was in such short supply that customers could not even count on getting the minimum of one bag a week. Then there was a potato shortage. The resourceful Mona, with her meatless, fatless and eggless recipes, would now have to dream up potato-less concoctions.
The mill workers were also disgruntled that their wage claim for an extra fifteen per cent for women and boys and ten per cent for men had been turned down, especially since the announcement that all ex-employees were to register in case they were needed in the now-booming jute industry. One piece of welcome news was the planned introduction of twelve days’ holiday with pay, a scheme that would certainly enrich the meagre coffers of the hard-working and low-paid shifters.
As usual it was left to Bella to cheer up the weekly meeting. As the women sat drinking their tea and morosely contemplating their unfortunate lot, she suddenly remembered a tit-bit of gossip. ‘Did you lot know that ice cream is back on sale? The only snag is that a slider that cost a penny before the war will now cost a tanner. Eh just hope that my family don’t hear about it because Eh’ll have to fork out three-and-a-tanner!’
Although the women didn’t know it then, a piece of good news to come was that wages in the jute industry would increase in June 1945 from forty-one shillings and eleven pence to forty-seven and a penny per week. The extra sum would easily have treated Bella and her large family to a slider each.
Then in August of that strange year, Japan surrendered to the Allies. There wasn’t as much celebration at this news as there had been on VE day but I think everyone was glad it was all finally over.
And another expression entered our vocabularies – the atom bomb.
CHAPTER 9
I was coming home from school one afternoon in August when I saw a stranger standing at the foot of the close. He was of medium height with fair hair and a moustache and he was dressed in a bright checked sports jacket and flannel trousers. He was very smart. As I approached him, I had the vague notion that he looked familiar but I couldn’t think where I had met him or indeed how I could possibly have known him.
‘Hello,’ he said, looking askance at my puzzled face, ‘Eh’m your dad.’
Of course! This was the figure from the blurred photograph, except for one difference – in the photo he was clean-shaven and now he sported a moustache. I glanced warily at this stranger, unsure what to say but he followed me up the stairs.
‘Put the kettle on for some tea,’ he said, smiling. ‘Eh expect your mum is still at the mill?’
I nodded. ‘Aye, she is and George is at the nursery.’
As usual Mum had left a list of chores for me to do after school. Today, in contrast to my usual apathy in these tasks, I was glad to be able to hurry round the room with the sweeping brush and duster while Dad sipped his tea.
I gave him a quick glance, this stranger in the house. ‘Eh’ve got to go for the messages now and Eh do Mrs Knight’s shopping as well,’ I explained in case he wondered where I was going.
He merely nodded and I lifted the pencilled list from the sideboard.
‘Just you carry on with your normal routine and don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘After Eh finish this cup of tea, Eh’ll head over tae Watery Willie’s for a quick pint.’
This was the nickname for Mr Gray’s pub that stood on the corner of the street. I don’t think this pub sold pints of beer that were any different from other pubs so I’ve no idea how the publican acquired his nickname. As I ran towards Mrs Knight’s house I was ashamed to admit that I was relieved to get out of the house. I didn’t know what to say to this stranger who called himself Dad.
Mrs Knight was dressed in her usual tea apron, a hideous creation in purple and green splodges. She was really pleased with my news. ‘Och, that’s braw that your father is home! Your mum will be pleased.’
When Mum arrived home, however, with George toddling at her heels, she didn’t look so much pleased as totally surprised. And a little bit angry.
‘Heavens above! Could you no have written a letter to say you were coming home? Eh could have taken the day off work.’
He shrugged. ‘The contract is finished so Eh got back a bit earlier that expected. But it does mean that Eh’ll have tae look for another job. Eh hear the Caledon shipyard is looking for painters.’
He picked George up and sat him on his knee. ‘Would you look at the size of you? You were just a wee baby the last time Eh saw you and as for Maureen here, well, you were just a wee bairn as well.’
I racked my brain in an effort to recall that last meeting but then decided I must have been out with Grandad at the time. As far as I could remember I had never set eyes on Dad before. By now Mum had recovered from the surprise and her mind was on more mundane matters, namely the tea.
‘Eh’ve no got enough in the house for us all so Eh’ll send Maureen out for a fish or pudding supper.’ She opened her well-worn purse and took out a few coins.
Dad leaned forward and handed over a few ten-bob notes and a piece of white paper that made Mum gasp when she saw it.
‘A five-pound note!’ she said in wonder. ‘Eh’ve never seen a five-pound note before.’
I ran over to see this wonderful windfall but was quite disappointed with its insipid appearance. As far as I was concerned the ten-bob note was more colourful.
Dad, who was still sitting with George on his knee, looked really pleased by our reactions to his generosity. ‘Mind you, Molly, it’ll have to last a long time – until Eh get another job.’
While I was dispatched to Dellanzo’s chip shop, Mum sat with the five-pound note in her hand. I got the impression she didn’t want to hand it back in case she never saw it again. But there again, she knew Dad well whereas he was an unknown man to me and George.
I met Bella waddling down the Hilltown with a huge steaming parcel of hot chips. Like Mrs Knight she was pleased at my news. ‘Och, you’ll all be pleased at that,’ she said as she trundled off homewards, no doubt contemplating another few hours of work before she could put her feet up.
As I stood in the long queue at the chip shop I felt guilty at not being ecstatic at Dad’s return. To be truthful, my only feeling was of strangeness.
The next day Dad put his name down at the Caledon yard. Apparently their order books were full and he hoped he would get taken on soon. Until then he managed to get a temporary job as a signwriter with
a painter and decorator’s shop in Victoria Road. Over the next few days, I often saw him as I went for the messages.
When he spotted me, he would shout from his high perch on his stepladder, ‘Get me ten fags, Maureen. Craven A if possible.’
‘Smoke Craven A for your throat’s sake’ was how this popular cigarette was advertised. This added burden used to depress me because it made life difficult. It was bad enough trying to get Mum’s cigarettes without having to scour endless shops for Dad’s supply as well. The war may have been well and truly over but supplies of everything were still scanty or even non-existent.
Still, there was one small consolation in the shape of an occasional ice-cream cone. The Italian community owned most of the ice-cream and chip shops in Dundee and were known affectionately as ‘Tallies’. I think the older generations of these families were interned during the war but now that it was peacetime these shop owners started to think nostalgic thoughts about their homeland. In the good old days before the war these shops had displayed a surfeit of brightly coloured advertising material in their windows, but now in this sweetie-less and cigarette-less world their windows were bare, bereft of the colourful cardboard pictures. Why advertise the products when they were virtually unobtainable? Which brings me back to my ice cream.
In an effort to brighten these windows a few of the owners had asked Dad, who was a talented painter, to paint a background mural of sun-kissed Naples or some other relevant scene. These backdrops were usually painted in soft misty blues and greys and were probably more romantic than realistic but they did help to attract the attention of passing pedestrians. Whether or not this ploy led to a higher turnover in sales I don’t know but if Dad was working on one such scene as I passed, I was rewarded with an ice-cream treat.
By the end of August the weather was still lovely and warm and Dad announced one night that he would take us all to Broughty Ferry beach the following Sunday if the weather stayed nice. I could barely contain my excitement at school the following day and I made the mistake of telling Jessie Matthews all about this wonderful forthcoming trip.
She was quite disdainful about it. ‘Och, Broughty Ferry’s no that far away. We went to Oban for our holidays in the summer. We took a train and we stayed in a guest house near the sea front.’
I had never heard of Oban before and, much as I hated to show my ignorance, I asked her where it was.
She pretended to look shocked. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you’ve never heard of Oban?’ she said in a superior tone that made little impression on me. ‘Well, it’s on the west coast. Right next to the sea.’
Not to be outdone, I mentioned that we were also planning to go to the beach by rail but Jessie looked scornful. ‘Doesn’t matter what you go on. We were away for a whole week and you’re just going for the day.’
I had no answer to that because it was the truth. Before the school bell rang at four o’clock we managed to get a sneaky look at the classroom atlas and I was dismayed to see that Jessie was right. Oban was much further away than Broughty Ferry but this discovery didn’t spoil my anticipation of the trip and the prospect of travelling miles and miles in the train.
Sunday dawned bright and gloriously sunny and we set off for the station in high spirits, George and I clutching our gaudily printed tinplate buckets and spades that Mum had bought from Woolworths the previous day. The East railway station was an arch-shaped building that lay beyond the Customs House on Dock Street and when we reached it that Sunday morning the platform was seething with people. It looked as if the entire population of Dundee was hell-bent on heading to the same destination as us. An air of excitement hung over this mass of humanity jostling amicably for space on the platform.
Mum warned us in no uncertain terms. ‘Now, watch you don’t stot those buckets against folk’s legs!’
Our new buckets had a nasty sharp edge so we held them at waist level, not so much to prevent them injuring folk’s legs as to avoid getting them crushed. I loved the railway station with its multitude of unfamiliar noises, like the clanking mechanical sounds and the disembodied voices, not to mention the purposeful bustle. There was a hint of mysterious and exotic destinations in this clamorous cavern with its potent atmosphere of discarded oil cans and smoky smells.
As we watched in silent fascination, a clutch of station porters scurried along the platform. Looking smart and officious in their navy serge uniforms, they weaved in and out through the waiting throng like a swarm of busy bluebottles. Countless conversations hummed over our heads like the dozy, droning buzz from a dozen bee hives. The human clamour rose fractionally louder whenever the rhythmic clattering noise from train wheels passed nearby.
After what seemed hours our train arrived and chugged slowly towards us. It exhaled as it stopped, sending a huge burst of black, sooty steam into the vaulted roof. The sheer power of this delightful whoosh dislodged a flock of pigeons who expressed their displeasure by noisily strutting amongst the feet of the day trippers. We all scrambled on board the train with the charm and decorum of an invading army. The carriages, with their plush upholstered seats, were soon full and George and I had to share a seat. It was by the window, though, and we almost hugged ourselves in anticipation.
On the platform, the imposing and important-looking station master walked down the length of the train, shutting the doors with an echoing thud. The guard then lifted his bright flag and blew hard on his whistle. The train moved slowly forward, just a few feet to begin with as if testing its strength before releasing all its power and energy. It quickly gathered speed and we were soon skimming past the dingy rail yard, the bleak industrial factories and the crumbling tenements of Blackscroft. Meanwhile, no doubt, on the deserted platform the pigeons flew back to their sooty perches amongst the steel girders.
Before long the smoke-hazed skyline of the city disappeared from our view to be replaced with a beautiful, uncluttered landscape of grass and water. I recalled Jessie’s scoffing words about the beach being only a few miles from the city but to George and me this beach could have been on the moon, skirting some lunar sea. When we finally reached the little picturesque station at the Ferry, hundreds of passengers leapt from the train and converged on the street that led to the strip of golden sand.
We were a motley mass of crying children, men in their pin-striped and sober demob suits and eager but pale-faced women who, like Mum, were tired after a heavy week in the mills. When we jumped the few feet between the road and the beach I could feel the uncomfortable hot grains of gritty sand squeeze between the leather straps of my sandals. We all trudged forwards slowly to claim a few feet of space. Within a minute or two the once-empty beach filled up with a crowd of people who threw themselves down on to the sand and spread their coats and message bags around them like some vast multicoloured tapestry.
With Mum and Dad now settled on their small square of sand, George and I decided to construct our sandcastle. We began this task with all the fervour of a gang of navvies. Digging so deep that we thought we would see Australia, we dug down into the lower layer of sand which was dark brown and damp, riddled with fragments of royal blue shells that had the sheen of shot silk.
I ran down to the cold waters of the North Sea with my bucket, intent on filling our castle’s moat. Sensibly, I had taken the precaution of tucking the hem of my frock in the elastic legs of my knickers. After umpteen trips by the both of us to the sea, our moat was still almost waterless and, being ignorant of the laws regarding seepage, we soon began to squabble. George accused me of pinching his water.
Mum stemmed further trouble by calling us over for our sandwiches and lemonade. Because she had an aversion to people drinking straight from the bottle and leaving small particles of food floating in the liquid she always insisted on using enamel mugs that had once belonged to Grandad. We sat down beside our imposing sand creation and munched our fish-paste sandwiches which were liberally sprinkled with a garnish of sand.
I could feel the sharp grains between my
teeth as could Mum. ‘If there’s one thing Eh loathe it’s sand in your pieces,’ she moaned, trying to pick out the particles that clung to the brown fish paste.
Small children with pink chubby legs and moth-eaten woollen bathing costumes ran gleefully to the waves while the majority of men, in deference to the sun’s rays, had their shirt buttons undone and their trouser legs rolled up. These men appeared to be immune to all the screeching around them, content to sit in their comical beach wear and read their Sunday papers. The women, tired and depressed by their five years of war and shortages, were happy to lie out on the sand, soaking up the sunshine, thankful that their menfolk were now free from the ravages of conflict.
Nearby, a group of young women seemed eager to impress the clutch of spotty-faced young men who were busy observing them. These girls emerged from the water like blue-toned and wrinkled prunes. Under the appraising eyes of the youths they pranced on the beach until a thick coating of sand clung to their goose-pimpled arms and legs.
‘Hey, Marlene! Is the water cold?’ shouted one of the boys to the prettiest girl in the group.
Marlene blushed modestly but she was no doubt chuffed at being singled out by this member of the opposite sex. She called out in a casually nonchalant but obviously well-rehearsed manner. ‘No! It was braw.’
George and I returned to our castle, working tirelessly until the sun moved westwards and a stiff cold breeze appeared from nowhere. Dad folded his paper and we made our way back to the train station for the return journey. The beach was still full of noise as people stood up to leave, shaking sand from their bodies and their coats. The pristine patch of sand that the beach had been prior to our arrival now looked as if a thousand demented moles had lived and died there. As the train pulled away from the station, I gave a backward glance at the mutilated beach. At that moment I knew this day would remain a happy memory, even in years to come.
Voices in the Street Page 10