by Alan Taylor
It was a tragedy beyond economics. It was not that so many homes lacked bread and butter. It was that a tradition, a skill, a glory, a passion, was visibly in decay, and all the acquired and inherited loveliness of artistry rotting along the banks of the stream.
Into himself he counted and named the yards they passed. The number and variety stirred him to wonder, now that he had ceased to take them for granted. His mental eye moving backwards up the river, he saw the historic place of Govan, Henderson’s of Meadowside at the mouth of the Kelvin, and the long stretch of Fairfield on the southern bank opposite. There came Stephen’s of Linthouse next, and Clydeholm facing it across the narrow yellow ditch of the ship-channel. From thence down river the range along the northern bank was almost continuous for miles – Connell, Inglis, Blythswood and the rest: so many that he could hardly remember their order. He was distracted for a moment to professionalism by the lean grey forms of destroyers building for a foreign power in the sheds of a yard that had dramatically deserted Thames for Clyde. Then he lost himself again in the grim majesty of the parade. There came John Brown’s, stretching along half a mile of waterfront at Clydebank, the monstrous red hull of Number 534 looming in its abandonment like a monument to the glory departed; as if shipbuilding man had tried to do too much and been defeated by the mightiness of his own conception. Then came, seeming to point the moral, the vast desolation of Beardmore’s at Dalmuir, cradle of the mightiest battleships and now a scrap-heap, empty and silent forever, the great gantry over the basin proclaiming stagnation and an end.
A TREE IN ARGYLE STREET, 1935
James Cowan
Argyle Street is one of Glasgow’s oldest and had many fine buildings, most of which have now gone, and not a few trees. By the 1930s, however, it teemed with shoppers and traffic and, as James Cowan records in Glasgow’s Treasure Chest (1951), it had so few trees that one was worthy of remark.
At the west end of Argyle Street there is a four-storeyed tenement known as Franklin Terrace, which has a narrow strip of garden round the front of it. About the middle of this tenement, at No. 1223 Argyle Street, there stands a very tall ash tree, its highest branches reaching far above the top windows of the tenement. This tree is unusually graceful for an ash, its slender trunk being almost as straight as a ship’s mast; and there are no heavy side branches to spoil its symmetry. This slenderness is no doubt owing to the shaded position causing the tree to stretch up to the light. It is quite the most graceful ash I have seen.
Vague sentimental stories are always apt to grow up around any interesting object of which the exact origin is not known, and I found this tree to be no exception; but in conversation with a friend I learned how it came to be there.
A friend of his used to live in the house in front of which the tree stands. A member of this friend’s family brought home some primrose roots from the place he had been on holiday, and set them out in the plot. The earth around one of these roots must have contained the ash-tree seed, and when the sapling came up it was allowed to remain. That story may not be so sentimentally interesting as one or two others which exist about the tree, but it has the merit of being the true one.
Not very long ago an adventurous cat made its way up the branches of this tree on a level with the rones of the tenement, and then found it could not come down again. For nearly two days it remained there, mewing piteously, until a telephone message was sent for the fire brigade to come and rescue it. At first the fire brigade authorities demurred at being called upon for such a purpose, but at last it was recognised that nothing short of a fire escape would meet the case, and the very latest and longest was sent out. An exciting 20 minutes then ensued, during which long lines of traffic were held up, east and west, and at last pussy was rescued, to the great satisfaction of the cheering crowd who looked on.
As Franklin Terrace was built about 1850 (it appears for the first time in the Glasgow directory of 1851) and my informant could himself remember the tree in question as quite a large one in 1877, it is probable that its seed was set only a few years after the erection of the tenement. I estimate its height at about 75 feet, and if its age be taken as the same number of years, I think that will not be far from correct. It looks healthy enough to last for another 75 years, if allowed to remain, as I hope it will.
AN ANTI-SOCIAL NEIGHBOUR, c. 1935
Agnes Muirhead
With so many people living in close proximity to each other, it is little wonder that friction occasionally occurred, and that residents like Agnes Muirhead took it upon themselves to sort it out . . .
This day, it must have been my half day off. And my mother had been washin’ when I came in. I said, ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘I’m after puttin’ out a washin’. Would you have a look at that?’ I said, ‘What is it?’ She said, ‘That’s them settin’ the papers up the chimneys.’ I said, ‘What dae ye mean, settin’ the papers up the chimneys?’ She says, ‘That’s every time ye put a washin’ out here!’ I said, ‘Oh, is it?’ So I cut through tae the wash-house, and I copes this woman at the wash-house door. I said, ‘Excuse me, who set the wash-house on fire?’ ‘Who wants tae know?’ I said, ‘I do.’ ‘It’s oor wash-house, and if we want tae set it on fire, we’ll set it on fire.’ I says, ‘Just do that. But the next time you put out a washin’ ye’ll have tae take it in.’ ‘Why?’ she says. I says, ‘Tae re-wash it.’
So I went tae the neighbour up the stair and I says tae her, ‘Do you get your washin’ dirty?’ She says, ‘Agnes, it’s terrible here, you’ve no idea what we’re made tae put up with.’ I said, ‘Is that a fact?’ She says, ‘That’s right.’ I says, ‘Right, what day do they do their washin’?’ ‘A Monday.’ I says, ‘Right, I’ll have a Monday off.’ I did take a Monday off my work. The washin’ went out. It was coal fires at the time. I says tae Katie Tinley, ‘You have a bucket o’ ashes ready.’ She says, ‘Right.’
Well, where oor ash pits was, their back was open. So I went out with the ash bins. Smack! Right intae their clothes. They came out! I says, ‘Told ye ye would need to take your washin’ in, didn’t I? And every time my mother’s tae do a double washin’ you’ll dae one along wi’ her!’ So that stopped that. We put an end tae that.
A COCKTAIL BAR AT IBROX, 1936
Hugh Savage
In the annals of Rangers football club few figures loom larger than William ‘Bill’ Struth (1875–1956). The club’s second manager, his tenure lasted thirty-four years, during which time Rangers won thirty trophies, including a remarkable eighteen league championships. It was the kind of record which inspired awe even in a Celtic supporter such as Hugh Savage.
After a short spell in the workshop I was actually sent to the next job with Sanny [McIntyre]. It was to fit a cocktail bar in the main stand adjacent to the directors’ box at Ibrox Park. To more than half of all the boys in Glasgow this would have been a dream come true. But I had always regarded myself as a Celtic supporter so my feelings were somewhat mixed. Nevertheless, when entering the empty stadium, the home of Glasgow Rangers, you could not be anything but impressed by the atmosphere.
It was larger than I expected. The stand was built to provide space and the red terracotta brick gave it strength to match its size. The main entrance was most impressive, with its marble floors and columns, and its marble staircase with blue carpets to the fore. What took me by surprise was the friendly atmosphere. Everybody from the wee women who worked in the kitchen to the squad of cleaners who came in to clean the whole stadium, they were all genuinely obliging and helpful.
No one objected when me and Sanny took our tea-can and piece and sat on the steps of the stand watching the players train. Of course the highlight was the trial games they played at least once a week with the reserves playing the first team. It was no stroll either. All the players put their maximum effort into the game and when they left the field they were sweating heavily. I used to smile to myself and wonder what all the fanatic Rangers’ supporters would say if they knew a ‘tim’ was watching p
layers like Davie Meiklejohn, Jerry Dawson, George Brown, Jimmy Simpson, Dougie Gray, Bob McPhail out training. All of the above-named were automatic choices for any Scottish team, with Meiklejohn regular captain.
The job took much longer than was envisaged and additional work cropped up. Many other tradesmen were working in the stadium. In those days we continued going till 12 noon on a Saturday. The second week there I was in the new cocktail bar with Sanny McIntyre when Mr Struth the manager approached and handed us both an envelope. We did not know what it contained. When he held it out to me he said, ‘Now don’t you be giving it away.’
As soon as he disappeared I hurriedly opened the envelope. It was a complimentary ticket for the stand for the match with Aberdeen that same afternoon.
Apparently this had been the practice for a long time and Mr Bill Struth always carried it out himself. The joiner who was there working with us had done some work at Celtic Park and I asked him if this practice prevailed there too. He said to me, ‘Not on your life. I was there for two months and not only did I not get a ticket but I never knew anyone who did.’
Mr Bill Struth was a genuine legend in his own time. He had been a professional football player but he had been an athlete and the Rangers’ Annual Sports day was probably the most attractive athletic event in the entire sports calendar. In those days there were no professionals in athletics but the quality of the prizes and the treatment of the participants ensured that most world-class athletes welcomed an invitation. I remember seeing the great Sidney Wooderson, slightly built with his straight hair parted in the middle and wearing glasses, leaving the world-class field in his wake as he smashed the mile record. The famous Finnish long-distance runer Pavvo Nurmi appeared at Ibrox and lapped the best in the world.
My most embarrassing experience at Ibrox was one weekday when taking material up to my mate in the stand. A player – I think his name was Bobby Mains – asked me if I would close the door after he had put his car under the stand. I never gave it a thought and after closing it I ran up the stairs to the stand and virtually ran right into Mr Struth, who was standing at the top of the steps. I apologised and made to pass him but he stopped me.
‘Excuse me but who told you to close that door?’
‘The driver.’
Mr Struth then said very firmly, ‘your job here is to fit pipes, not to close doors, so go back to your work’.
As far as I remember he told the player off for bringing his car to Ibrox on a training day because it was an unwritten law that all players had to walk from the rail or bus stations. But he never stopped giving me a complimentary ticket for games . . .
MORE A DUMMY THAN A MUMMY, c. 1936
Dirk Bogarde
Room in the family home in London – where his father was employed at The Times – was cramped so Dirk Bogarde (1921–1999) was sent to stay with his mother’s relatives in Glasgow, where he spent three misery-laden but, in hindsight, formative years. It was to Glasgow, perhaps, he owed his love of cinema and his liking of subterfuge. Later, he starred in many movies, from slapstick to art house, including Doctor in the House, The Servant, Darling, Death in Venice and The Night Porter. He also wrote seven well-received memoirs and several novels. He was knighted in 1991.
At lunch-time, instead of eating my sodden meat pie with Tom or whoever else was sitting on the dustbin wall, I just stuck my cap in my pocket, pinned a handkerchief in my Blazer pocket so that it flopped over the give-away crest on the badge, opened my collar, stuffed my tie somewhere else, and, hands in pockets, one and sixpence saved from here and there, I strolled happily down the hill from the school into the busy crowds of George Square and let Glasgow and its allure swallow me up. It was as easy as that, and no one bothered to check. At first, naturally, I was terrified. I was sure that I would be spotted and carted back to the amiable but fearsome Dr Steel. However, with no badges or colours showing, I passed for any other boy wandering about the city. I found deceit very refreshing.
Woolworths was my usual haven. Because it was warm and bright and filled with people. Here was Life. Pushing and shoving, smiling and laughing, talking and living. Music played all day. The record counter had a constant supply of melody. To the lingering refrains of ‘When The Poppies Bloom Again’ I would sit on a high stool eating a Chocolate Fudge Ice Cream and beam happily at the world about me. Guiltless. It was all heady stuff.
Later I grew bolder and went, imagine the bravery!, to the cinema alone. For sixpence, in the middle of the stalls with a packet of peanuts or a Mars Bar, I sat in my element and got two movies, all the Advertising, the Newsreel, the Forthcoming Attractions plus a pink, green and amber lit Organ Recital.
Life was never to be dull and drab again. I would always live like this, and the Hell with Effort, Loyalty and ‘The Times’.
It would be useful to say at this point that it was the moment my whole future was laid before me. The great silver screen, the glamour, the glory, the guns and the chases. Camera angles, Lighting, Back Projection, Split Screen, Fade and Dissolve flew past my eyes twice a week and vanished like dreams. But I was the Original Audience for which these films were made. The refugee from worry, humdrum life, anxiety or despair. I only wanted to be bewitched, enthralled, be-glamoured. The rest of it washed away like silt in a tub. Nothing at all rubbed off at that time. My personal disillusion, even disappointment, was so great, my anger so deep, that I had fixed it clearly that I would try no more. They could come and get me and punish me in whatever way they liked: I had given up. But until they did come to get me, or sent for me, I was going to have as pleasant a time as I possibly could. What on earth was the point of going on any longer? I had tried, and failed again. So be it.
The Paramount was a new, glittering Picture Palace with a deadly reputation. I had heard it spoken of in muted voices in many of the parlours to which I was bidden, or sent, for those Bakings and Teas. It was the meeting place of all the Evil in Glasgow, the Crooks and Thieves and Bookies. Any young girl going there alone, it was said, invariably ended up with a hypodermic in her bottom and a bunk in a boat at the Broomielaw awaiting the next tide down the Clyde for Morocco. Indeed the people Upstairs knew of one girl who, missing her companions, had foolishly gone alone to see Robert Taylor and was never heard of again apart from the fact that an usherette had seen a dark-skinned man helping a young lady to a taxi from the foyer saying that she had had a ‘fainting fit’. It made going to the Pictures much more interesting.
In any case I felt secure because of two things: first I was a boy, secondly I always sat in the middle of the stalls where it was lighter, and never in the shadows where, of course, anything might happen. Armed, this day, with my logic, I went to see a special showing of Boris Karloff in The Mummy. I had seen it two or three times before, ages ago, but it was still my favourite next to The Bride of Frankenstein. I also saw Mr Dodd.
Mr Dodd was almost entirely beige. A beige raincoat, beige face, beige hair and freckles. He sat two or three seats away from me and smiled pleasantly all through the Forthcoming Attractions. And still I didn’t know.
During the interval, when the lights went pink and green and the organ rumbled through a selection from something or other, he smiled shyly across the empty seats and I smiled back, and he moved along and came and sat beside me. He asked if I would like an ice-cream, and I said yes, and we ate together in pleasant, companionable silence. He was very polite, quietly spoken and smiled a lot; and when he took my empty ice-cream tub away from me, plus the wooden spoon and stacked it neatly into his own and tidily placed it all under the seat, he patted my leg kindly and whispered with a secret wink that I was, in all probability, playing truant from school, wasn’t I? Shattered with surprise that he had so quickly found me out, I lied swiftly and said I was ‘off school’ with a sprained ankle. That seemed to content him and the programme started again so that there was no need for more conversation.
It was very nice having someone to laugh at the film with, to share fear with, and to
enjoy relief with all at the same time. He was very attentive and once, in a particularly creepy part he put his arm protectively round my shoulder, which I thought was very thoughtful of him indeed.
By the time the show was over it was well after six, and I would have to leave my new friend quickly and ‘limp’ to the station and Bishopbriggs where my aunt would be waiting to hear from me how well the rehearsals for the school play were going. My excuse, true as it happened, for the lateness of my arrival. Mr Dodd was sad, he told me his name and that I was to call him Alec, and made an appointment for us to see the film again at the end of the week. It was to be his treat, he said, and after we would go to Cranstons for tea but that I could still be home in time so as not to worry my aunt.
* * *
Tea at Cranstons was an impressive affair at the worst of times, and this was the best. Quiet, calm, warm, sparkling with silver, white table-cloths, flowers in fluted vases, motherly waitresses in crisp aprons and little caps, and a silver stand of cakes. Mr Dodd knew his way about very well and was pleasant to everyone and anxious that I should eat as much as I could for, he said, he was a Medical Student and he knew just how much ‘fuel’ the working lad’s mind had to have to keep it going. He told me how his mother had saved and scrimped to send him to School and then on to Medical College where he was now studying. The conversation slid back, inevitably, to the film and he astonished me by saying that he knew exactly how mummies were bandaged and how they were embalmed; it was really very easy to do, he said cheerfully, and anyone could make a mummy if they knew how to bandage. I was overcome with curiosity and asked him more and more questions; he tried to demonstrate with his table napkin but it was too small and too thick, so he suggested that since he lived nearby and had all his books and bandages there we should go at once and he could show me in a trice.