Voices in the Street

by Maureen Reynolds

  We made a few crossings of the river during that summer of 1947. Mum was making a good recovery, which was good news. One return crossing I vividly recall was made on a hot, windless day just as the sun was setting. The sky was marbled with brilliant red and orange streaks that mingled with the ever-darkening azure of the approaching twilight. As we looked backwards, the far-off shores of Newport lay in shadow like an inky and smudgy thumbprint. The fading sun was reflected on the river and turned it into a sea of molten gold.

  The normally dismal and smoke-hazed city silhouette of tall chimneys and grey depressing buildings was transformed by a fiery glow that bathed everything in a shimmering opalescent sheen. Long fingers of sunlight probed deeply into the city streets, searching for any west-facing windows to bounce its dazzling, diamond-bright rays against, turning them into gleaming jewels. It was a sight of magical, picture-postcard perfection.

  As we walked home, the entrapped heat radiated from the pavements and we felt its warmth through the thin soles of our shoes. The Hilltown was abuzz with people. They sat on their ‘pletties’ or at the end of their closes. Pletties were concrete platforms that lead off the stairs and they often had front doors opening off them. All doors and windows were opened wide in a determined effort to catch every ray of sunlight. A multitude of chattering voices drifted on to the street along with sounds from scores of wirelesses. There were appetising aromas from a mixture of cuisines as people dined alfresco.

  We passed lines of bleak houses that normally glowered like a grey shroud but on this golden evening seemed transformed. Lines of washing hung lethargically from a myriad of criss-crossed ropes that converged towards the communal ‘greenie pole’, bearing witness to the fact that, although the women were now relaxing, their work had been done first. The greenie pole was a long pole in a back yard that had washing lines attached to it. These lines were connected to windows by means of pulleys and the idea was that, as you pegged the washing on to the line, you fed it out the window.

  ‘What a difference the sun makes!’ said Mum as we hurried homewards.

  It was certainly a bonus to her as it made her feel a bit better. Regaining good health for Mum was surely just around the corner.

  Sometimes on a Sunday, if we didn’t want to walk along the Esplanade, we would, like many other city dwellers, take a stroll around the docks. George and I liked to look at the big ships but we were a bit afraid of the exotic-looking Lascar seamen. These dark-skinned men gabbled away in their own language which we thought was gobbledegook. Then again, they probably thought the same about the Dundee dialect.

  On one such stroll we saw an American ship docked nearby. As we passed it, a young fresh-faced sailor came running down the gangplank and rushed past us. In his haste he dropped a big packet of coloured fruit drops. They were encased in a clear cellophane wrapper and we had never seen anything like them before. Our eyes were almost popping out of our heads as George picked them up and handed them to the young man.

  The sailor gazed at our faces for a moment before speaking in a super American film-star drawl. ‘Gee, sonny, just keep them and share them with the little lady.’

  Perplexed, George looked around to see who the little lady was and I hissed at him in a stage whisper. ‘That’s me, daftie!’ I said, sounding more like a furious fishwife than a lady.

  Mum was mortified. ‘George, hand those sweeties back to the man at once.’

  The sailor was nervously consulting his watch.

  Mum repeated her command and added. ‘Will you two stop gawking at them?’

  She turned and addressed the sailor. ‘You’ll have to excuse them. They look like they’ve never seen a sweetie before.’

  We had never seen sweeties like this before, all wrapped up in clear cellophane and a huge bagful at that.

  The sailor held up his hand. ‘Gee whizz, ma’am! I sure would like the kids to keep them. I’m sure Mary won’t mind and I must rush because I’m late for our date.’

  With this he hurried away and Mum looked at us with annoyance. ‘Well, Eh hope for his sake that Mary does understand about losing her sweeties to two mooching faces like yourselves. Honestly, Eh’ve never been so black-affronted before. Speak about having your tongues hanging out!’

  As we sucked hard on our ill-gotten sweets, Mum was still ranting about being embarrassed. ‘What will that young lad think of us? He’ll think we’re beggars.’

  Personally I couldn’t see the problem and I didn’t think the sailor would be all that bothered. After all, he must have been used to it. Since the war had brought the Yanks over to Britain, if anyone was lucky enough to meet a native of America, that golden land of plenty, the standard phrase was ‘Have you got any gum, chum?’ or, in the case of the fairer sex at the dancing, ‘Have you any nylons, Hank?’

  Mum by now was back at work and she always came home tired from the mill. Weary of trying to make ends meet, she expected me to take on extra duties to ease her life a bit. One of these chores was usually on a Tuesday after school when I had to take the weekly washing to the wash-house at the rural-sounding Meadows. Tuesdays were often one of the quieter days at the wash-house.

  The preparation for this weekly ritual began on Sunday when the bed was stripped and the sheets and pillowcases were loaded into a battered old tin bath. Then on Monday night our clothes were added to the pile and, as a decoy to any nosy neighbour, a lovely clean cloth was placed over the top. This ploy was used by most women because it didn’t do to let your neighbours see your dirty washing. After all, it wasn’t the done thing to show people how grubby we really were.

  This pretence of taking only clean clothes to be washed was harmless enough unless taken to extremes. One who was guilty of this was a Mrs McDuff who lived at the foot of Tulloch Crescent. She always placed the most lovely embroidered cloth over her washing basket This delight of linen, lazy daisies and French knots earned her the title of ‘Doris the Duchess’ or ‘that toffee-nosed wee besom’. I thought this most unfair and would have loved to own a similar teacloth myself.

  So every Tuesday I would dunt our creaky old pram down the nineteen stairs before loading on the tin bath of washing, the washboard and the Sunlight soap. Our pram had seen better days, but not for many a year. No doubt in its heyday the paintwork had been a work of art and the hood a positive concertina of pleated gaberdine but not now. It also had a wobbly wheel which made pushing it in a straight line very difficult indeed.

  I headed for the Hedgie Road, which was very narrow with only a couple of inches clearance at the sides of the pram, then past the Dudhope Nursery before gathering my strength to push my burden up the steep Constitution Brae. The entrance to the wash-house lay directly across from the lovely-sounding Laurelbank, but this name was deceptive. This grim and grey-stoned building looked as if it could be a relic from the Industrial Revolution. It was a ghastly blot, made more unlovely by its contrasting green grassy meadows that swept upwards to the edge of the red-bricked infirmary while a clutch of allotments skirted its lower edge. These were fenced off from trespassers.

  On sunny days these grounds were occupied by scores of chattering women sitting outside while their washing flapped in white billows. Squares of white clothes dotted the grass, turning the entire park into a patchwork of green and white. The interior of the wash-house, however, was a stark contrast to the idyllic scene outdoors and entering the building was like entering Dante’s Inferno. The steamy heat mingled with the clanking chunter of machinery and disembodied voices. A cacophony of noise echoed from the wet walls while pervading everything was the pungent smell of wet, soapy washing.

  A woman sitting in a small cubbyhole collected the admission money and allocated each customer a cubicle. It was then time to start on this long, hot and very tiring job. The cubicles were small but adequate, each containing two sinks, a boiler and a pull-out drying rack. Sometimes this rack would be full of someone’s washing which meant we had to wait patiently in the corridor until she pulled armfuls of
half-dry clothes from its rails. Pushing the rack back could be hard work and sometimes needed all hands on deck as we pushed the metal contraption back into place, with it protesting and screeching as if it was in mortal agony.

  Our routine never varied. Until Mum could join me from the mill it was my job to start the washing. I stood on a small box to reach the sinks but I was never allowed to touch the boiler with its intensely hot water. I hated the washing board and many a skinned knuckle I got from it. Another thing I didn’t like was when Mum took the sheets out of the boiler and dumped them into the sink full of cold water. Sometimes they would become inflated with trapped air like giant balloons which, when pushed under the water, would send a cascade all over me and soak me almost to the skin. Some women wore rubber-lined aprons but most made do with strong, serviceable hessian versions which helped to keep them dry. I didn’t have that luxury.

  One thing I did like, however, were the conversations. In these conditions it was impossible to have a private chat and the voices which floated overhead were anonymous and entertaining.

  ‘Did you see the new picture at the Plaza this week? Eh thought it was braw,’ said one.

  ‘Was that Margaret Lockwood in The Lady Vanishes?’ shouted another voice over the metallic clatter.

  Before she could answer, another voice butted in. ‘Eh’m really fed up with these coupons. Eh’ve no sweetie coupons left and no fags.’ She sounded down in the dumps.

  ‘And another thing – where’s the bananas we’re aye hearing about? Eh haven’t seen any.’

  ‘Och, never mind. We’re all in the same boat,’ came a sympathetic comment.

  Then a modest voice joined in. ‘Speaking about The Lady Vanishes, some folk say Eh look like Margaret Lockwood.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence while we all digested this item of information. Although no one said anything there was an unspoken feeling that we were indeed fortunate to have a glamorous film star lookalike in our midst and we should be thankful she had condescended to use our humble wash-house. As Mum and I made our way to the extractors, which were forerunners of the modern spin dryer, I looked around for this undiscovered beauty. But as in Miss Lockwood’s film, the lady had indeed vanished.

  I loved the extractors. Sometimes on a quiet afternoon, I would sit on my upturned tin bath and watch the series of wheels and fanbelts that seemed to be the power behind these machines. It was very therapeutic and allowed me to indulge in my favourite pastime, daydreaming. Some women preferred to use the large mangles, which were huge iron contraptions with big creamy-white rollers and a cartwheel for a handle. Sometimes we used one as it cut down on the ironing, but Mum was always careful to make sure that any buttons were well padded in case they shattered.

  We often met Nell, Mum’s pal from Ann Street, at the washhouse. She was quite a small woman, with black hair and a pale complexion, and the heat, which during the summer months could reach tropical levels, didn’t agree with her. Sometimes she would arrive at our cubicle red-faced and panting as if she was on the verge of a heart attack. On these occasions I would be sent to help her carry her basket to the extractors then help her load the washing on to her pram.

  Mum was most insistent about not accepting any reward for any help given. Knowing this, Nell would bring out a ‘Chiclet’ (a small piece of chewing gum) from a wet pocket and give it to me. ‘Now, don’t tell your mother Eh gave you this,’ she would say with a wink.

  I could never eat this piece of chewing gum. It wasn’t only soggy but often had thin strands of cigarette tobacco clinging to it. I’m afraid I always used to throw it away, but never in Nell’s sight. In any case, I was much too preoccupied admiring the pram belonging to Maggie, another of Mum’s pals. It was a Silver Cross high pram and I always thought it looked like Cinderella’s coach.

  I longed for a chance to push a grand pram as this and I finally got my wish one week when Maggie hurt her back and wasn’t able to push it herself. As usual Mum had offered my services and I could barely sleep the night before with my visions of a stately procession to the wash-house. The plan was for me to push it as far as the Meadows, where Maggie would take over. After school I rushed to her door and, sure enough, the grand high pram awaited.

  I set off in great style, hoping some of my pals would see me and remark how grand I looked. Sadly, the street was almost deserted that day and my noble progress went unnoticed. It’s a true saying that pride goes before a fall, and so it was with me that day. I had barely reached the Hedgie Road when I knew I was having difficulty with the handle. The giant bath of washing perched on top didn’t help either as it seemed to have a life of its own as it bounced in disharmony with the pram.

  When I reached the steep brae I almost fell flat on my face and had to dig my heels in as the pram ran ahead with me hanging grimly on to the handle. I had this terrible vision of the pram rolling away down the hill and perhaps crashing into the children’s nursery. Then there was the added worry that the paintwork could get scratched.

  For some unknown reason, George and Alex had decided to come with me and they were trotting along on either side of me like footmen beside a royal coach. I yelled at them like a demented fishwife to help me. With the three of us hanging on grimly, we finally managed to reach the wash-house unscathed. I then had the terrible thought that maybe I would have to push it back home.

  Luckily for me, Maggie’s husband had been press-ganged into this chore and I could breathe a sigh of relief. There was still the added worry that I might be landed with this job every week and I felt sick at the thought. All the way home I carefully rehearsed my speech about not being able to do it. When I got in, Mum asked, ‘Well, how was the braw buggy?’

  I burst into tears and a flood of words came spilling out, recounting all the near-disasters I had experienced in the past hour. Mum said not to worry, she would have a word with Maggie. What I didn’t know then was that Maggie and her husband were moving to a house in Caldrum Street, a street that had its own wash-house. What a relief! I never complained about our old pram again. Even if I should let go of its handle, the wobbly wheel would soon make sure it stopped against the nearest wall and another scratch on its paintwork would never be noticed amongst the million others.

  If Tuesday was washing day, then Friday night was the ironing night. We owned two flat irons and these would be heated on the gas jets of the stove while an old scorched blanket was placed over the table. Mum had the knack of knowing the right temperature of the iron but I was hopeless. That’s why I only ironed small items. While we stood sweating over hot irons, George would be sent outside to play.

  Often, he wore his Roy Rogers cowboy outfit with its cardboard hat, thin waistcoat and furry-legged trousers. I tended to think a real cowboy wouldn’t have been seen dead in this. Then there was the tin gun with caps that didn’t explode as advertised. Instead they made a half-hearted crack, nothing like the guns in the cowboy films where Hopalong Cassidy could shoot a sitting target at a thousand paces.

  One of the visits to the wash-house that I remember most vividly took place on Hogmanay 1947. The place was solidly packed with women, all hell-bent on getting the washing done before the year’s end. I had made my way as usual after school finished at four o’clock but it was six o’clock before I got a cubicle. When Mum arrived she was tired and fed up and her face was a picture of misery when she realised I hadn’t even started the washing. We rushed through it but, when we carted the wet washing to the extractors, there was a queue almost a mile long. It was the same story at the three large mangles.

  Mum took one look and snapped, ‘Right! Put the bath on the pram and let’s go home.’ As decisions went, it wasn’t one of her better ones. We hung the soaking wet washing on the kitchen pulley where it dripped for three days. We placed all our empty containers under these drips and the sound wasn’t so much Handel’s Water Music as a Chinese water torture. The kitchen was turned into a steamy and moist place. Later that night, Lizzie was our first-foot
.

  ‘Heavens!’ she cried, ‘It’s like a Turkish bath in here, Molly!’

  So we toasted another New Year, without Grandad and without Dad. ‘A happy New Year!’ we wished one another, to an accompaniment of drips and drops in various naturals, sharps and flats.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lizzie was excited. Her son George was getting married. Margaret, his fiancée, lived in Lochee but we all knew her well because she was a regular visitor to the street. The wedding was to be held in a church in Lochee with the reception in the Albert Hall at the top of Tullidelph Road.

  ‘You’ll be getting an invitation nearer the time,’ Lizzie told Mum.

  I was more interested in Margaret’s new coat when she appeared in the house to show us her engagement ring. It was the most beautiful coat I had ever seen. Pink-coloured, and cut in the New Look fashion, it fell in long swishy panels from her neat waist almost to her ankles. She twirled around in it to show off the amount of material in the skirt. Such a generous amount was almost unheard of in these meagre and still rationed times when all items carried the Utility label. But Christian Dior, the French fashion designer, had stormed the world with his wonderfully opulent garments that were out of many a reach, mine included.

  Mum was impressed. ‘It’s a braw coat right enough, Margaret. And what a length! It fair puts those Utility garments tae shame.’

  Mind you, we got a laugh when Margaret left because her lovely new coat trailed along each step as she descended into the street, carrying dust and debris with it.

  Although the New Look had arrived with a vengeance, people still needed coupons for everything. The war may have been won but things had become worse instead of better on the home front. People were sick and tired of it. Lizzie told Mum that Margaret’s family were having great difficulty in obtaining all the wedding finery.