Although it has to be said that we were there in July, goodness only knows when the holiday season began. Perhaps there was a two-week window in August.
As I looked around the scene of devastation, I thought it highly unlikely that the site would ever open that year, and made a mental note to check out the washing arrangements before booking in anywhere else.
We made the decision to drive inland to escape the wind, stopping on a quiet road to make the breakfast. The kettle was almost boiling and the eggs were at the gooey stage in the frying pan when suddenly the Calor gas ran out. I couldn’t believe it and tried to coax the eggs into something edible. However, all was in vain and I had to dump the half-cooked mess onto the roadside verge. And drinking lukewarm tea didn’t help.
Still, we had this immediate crisis and what was the remedy? We were all hungry and I had a vision of my wee ones starving to death. We had to drive almost twenty miles before we found a small café that was open. The owners must have thought we were refugees from a biblical famine, as there wasn’t as much as a crumb left on the tablecloth after we finished.
With no gas, we had to plan the next couple of days around cafés but we had loads of bread, butter and jam so we survived.
Taking the caravanette back after the holiday, Napper asked if we had enjoyed our holiday. When being told about the gas, he laughed and showed us a spare cylinder in a small cupboard. Talk about feeling stupid.
We had set off like pioneers in the great rural outdoors, but quite honestly the matriarchal head of the house was a ‘townie’ at heart.
At the time, I thought Napper just owned the garage, but I later discovered he also sold household items, carpets and linoleum.
Napper died on 25 February 1981 and his family carried on with the business.
As for me, well I will always remember him for his caravanettes with the telescopic striped roofs and the opportunity to sample the freedom of the roads.
It was perhaps just our bad luck that we hit the west coast in the wake of an American hurricane but it all added to the spirit of the holiday. Well, maybe it did afterwards. At the time, I didn’t feel spirited and thought the entire week was one big chore.
One of Napper’s other sidelines was buying up parachutes from surplus war stock. Perhaps a parachute would have made up for the missing sheet that by now was probably a blue floating blob in the mid-Atlantic? Or maybe it’s reached the Bahamas?
4
Spookie Nights
Working in Wallace’s busy restaurant in the 1950s was hectic from the minute it opened at 9 a.m. till closing time at 6.15 p.m.
Not only did it serve a busy lunch and high tea menu, but also had a steady stream of hungry customers who came in for bridies, pies and teas in the morning, or tea with bridies, pies and cakes in the afternoon.
The waitresses and kitchen workers were run off their feet except for a small breather when the lunchtime workers departed for their jobs.
This was the time when arrangements would be made for an exciting evening entertainment, namely the ‘spookie nicht’. This was usually held in someone’s house and, with a meal laid on, we would all gather on the tramcar and depart to whichever house was hosting the event.
The anticipation was intense but someone, usually Nan, always warned us to, ‘mak shair you dinnie gie oot ony information aboot yersel.’
Seemingly, the fortune-teller picked up ‘vibrations’ when listening to chatter at the tea table and was then able to ‘tell yer fortune.’
Because the fortune-teller was also having her tea with us I always thought it made for a strained atmosphere and, speaking personally, I was afraid to open my mouth, which must have been a first in my life.
As we scoffed our bacon and eggs or cold ham salad, I would sit in silence, only nodding or shaking my head when spoken to, and the poor fortune wifie must have thought I was deaf and dumb and daft. But I wasn’t letting any secrets out. After all, she was getting paid to tell me all about my life, wasn’t she?
Sometimes we would all sit in a circle and get ‘oor fortunes telt’ en masse. This was fine because nothing of any interest ever came out. Oh, we were told the usual spiel about handsome men and money coming to us, and trips over water. Well, this was nothing new as most of us had a man in our lives, albeit some more handsome than others, money was always being passed over in the shape of customers’ tips and didn’t we all travel frequently over on the ‘Fifie’, the ferry that took passengers and vehicles from Craig Pier to Newport in Fife?
Sometimes we would get our teacups read. The woman would sit with the cup in her hands like it was the holy grail and turn it around while peering into the mass of dark tea leaves.
Turning the cup upside down, when some drips of tea spilled onto the saucer she would utter in a doom-laden, solemn voice, ‘Ye’ll be shedding tears afore lang.’ But then on a cheerier note, she would suddenly see a long trip filled with wonder: ‘Yer ga’en on a journey ower watter but thir’s joy and money at the end of it.’ And there was always a ring in all our cups. ‘Thir’s a marriage coming.’ Or if it wasn’t a marriage then it would be a christening, lots of money or letters coming ‘ower the sea.’
Oh the pleasure of knowing how happy we were all going to be with such a fortune.
Being young and daft I always longed to hear something scandalous or juicy about a co-worker but like ectoplasm, it never materialised. That is until one night when, quite honestly, we were all becoming a bit jaded by the usual ‘handsome man’ etc.
I remember the night vividly. It was a cold winter’s night and we were all freezing as we hurried into the house. The first surprise was it wasn’t the usual ‘wifie’ but a man and he, seemingly, was a well-known clairvoyant. ‘He kens a’ aboot yer life so dinnie hide onything,’ said the hostess.
Well that was fine by me because it meant I could chatter as I ate my tea. Another surprise was the fact he wanted to see everyone in private. A small bedroom was placed at his disposal and a small fire had even been lit in the tiny fireplace.
I think I was about the middle of the hierarchy to go into the room and I had had plenty of time to listen to the stories as, one by one, the other women emerged. They all spoke in whispers about their consultation and the general consensus was, ‘That man’s braw. He telt me things naebody else kens.’
Well, by the time it was my turn, the hair was standing up on the back of my neck and I was filled with a mixture of anticipation, fear and horror; not quite the normal feelings at these events. I popped my head around the door and he fixed his eyes on me. I almost ran out the room when he said he felt a bolt of excitement on seeing me. However, he was only talking about my aura. I wondered if I’d let anything slip at the tea table but as I had never heard of anyone’s aura, I knew I hadn’t. I won’t go into detail about the reading except to say a lot of it came true.
Afterwards, we all gathered at the tram stop as we discussed our fortunes. Quite a few of us were shivering but whether because of the readings or the cold night, I don’t know.
Later, most of us said that fortune-telling was just a bit of fun; a nice tea, a wee wifie chattering on and finally a song from Emily, a woman who worked in the kitchen who had the most marvellous singing voice.
Yes, going to a ‘spookie nicht’ brought a frisson of pleasure, anticipation and fun into our lives whilst waiting for a good-looking man, money and travel over water. And if it meant playing daft to a wee wifie who picked up vibrations at the table then so be it.
Later, it was back to the mundane job of serving bridies, pies and cakes, soup and steak pie, and egg and chips with tea and toast.
Looking back, was it all mumbo jumbo? Well maybe.
And another thought. Do I still have the exciting aura or has it diminished over the years? I’ll have to consult the crystal ball.
5
The City Arcade
Before the age of the supermarkets and big multinational stores, Dundee was a city of small, privately-owned little s
hops. Places like the Hub in the High Street; a miniscule newsagent’s shop that was the width of a doorway and squashed in between H. Samuel’s jewellery shop and the Maypole Grocery Store.
The Overgate also had a plethora of tiny shops, some of them below street level like the Auld Dundee Rock Shop, and it was the same in most streets with a corner shop that was the hub of the area.
During my childhood, my favourite place was the City Arcade, situated behind the massive bulk of the Caird Hall. It was ahead of its time in the fact that it was a forerunner of the shopping mall. With its two entrances on Shore Terrace, the arcade had a large selection of shops and was a Mecca for the citizens of the town.
It was possible to buy most things here; shops ranged from Imrie’s Flowers to Mitchell’s Poultry, from Cantrell’s Fish to Frank Russell’s Books, not forgetting the butcher and draper’s shops, the linoleum merchant, The Radiant Health Centre and Puckel’s Fancy Goods. It was like entering a vault with shops on either side. Small businesses adjoining each other had the aroma of cooked chickens and fresh flowers vying for attention.
There was the children’s amusement centre with its collection of slot machines and this corner was always abuzz on Saturdays as hordes of children regularly descended with their pocket money, my brother and I included.
At the far end of the arcade, where a tunnel led up to the stairs that took you onto the City Square, was another selection of slot and game machines. This was a place of echoes, ghostly footsteps and distorted voices. There was always a sinister air here, but this was probably due to its isolation from the friendly shops and also the fact that cold winds regularly whistled down the stairs and along the tunnel.
In the Arcade, my favourite shop was Puckel’s. He sold just about everything under the sun, or so it seemed at the time. All I can remember was the window filled with scores of bangles, pairs of earrings, necklaces and ornaments.
If you wanted to buy anything you usually stood at this window and Mr Puckel would accompany you as you pointed out the item. Then it was a simple operation for him to retrieve it and a sale was made. The funny thing was, the window never had any spaces, no matter how many customers there were.
My mother bought her linoleum from Joseph Miller. His shop wasn’t large enough to hold all his stock, hence the rows and rows of patterned linoleum standing to attention outside the shop like sentinels guarding a fortress.
I think there was a chain or rope around these rolls of lino, which in today’s markets wouldn’t be out of place. Away back then, when health and safety didn’t amount to much, it was a forerunner of things to come.
Still, the owner was only being careful of his stock because of the passing trade, the scores of potential customers touching the lino and milling around, not to mention all the noisy children running about in different directions. I often wondered what would happen if these rolls did tumble over. Would they roll out into Shore Terrace, knocking people over like skittles, then swerve into the Corporation buses as they waited at their stances?
Sadly, I never did find out.
My mother’s purchase was a congoleum square. This was a cheaper version of linoleum and was usually brightly patterned. Also, being a square meant that, when laid, the edges of the floorboards were on show.
A tin of varnish darkened the floorboards but it was a devil to keep the floor clean. Dust always seemed to gather in fluffy balls and one day my brother wrote his name in the stour, much to my annoyance.
It was my job to go around with a duster and clean up the dust but I had better things to do that week. Namely to get engrossed in my new library book, which meant I completely forgot the floor chore.
Later on, the arcade continued to survive with different shops and I have been told that there was a coin-operated figure of Trigger, the horse ridden by Roy Rogers in all his cowboy pictures. Although Roy Rogers belonged to a different generation, children seemingly had great pleasure sitting on Trigger. Roy Rogers and Trigger were great favourites of the Picture House and when they came to Britain he was mobbed by adults and children alike. I’ve also been told that this same coin-operated figure has been on sale on eBay, advertised as broken and needing attention and some tender, loving care. Considering what an icon it was, it deserves nothing less.
Unlike the broken Trigger, the arcade needed more than attention and TLC and it was demolished to make way for the towering Tayside House.
Shore Terrace is now a quiet place. The bus stances have long gone, along with the Arcade. No longer do families and hordes of children come to shop or catch a bus. Tayside House now sits in silence at weekends. Not like the Saturdays of old when the place was alive with the smell of diesel and children’s laughter, cooked chickens and fragrant flowers.
As for the stark symmetry of Tayside House? Will writers be reminiscing over this building in the future? Will it be held with the same affection as the old City Arcade?
Maybe. But not, I think, by the hundreds of customers who passed through its doors over the years.
6
The City Centre Bar
My cousin’s father-in-law owned the City Centre Bar, which stood on the corner of Shore Terrace and Dock Street. It was a very busy bar and, along with regular customers who were quite happy to stand or sit with their pints of beer, the bar was also visited by a wonderful group of ‘worthies’.
One customer offered to somersault over a line of chairs in exchange for a pint and he was successful. However, on the offer of another pint to do the trick again, he landed on his head.
There was much consternation but the man picked himself up, shook his head and downed his drink. He must have had a very thick skull. Still, he went away, obviously none the worse for his high jinks.
Another guy would regularly do handstands and on one occasion, two men offered him a free pint if he would do a handstand out on the pavement for twenty minutes.
Now the pub had two doors and whilst the man was faithfully standing on his hands, the two customers left by the other door. After an hour, the barman had to go outside to tell him there was going to be no free beer. He was furious. But quite honestly, I would also have been annoyed. After all a bet is a bet.
One night, just before Christmas, a man came in with two dogs on leads. He had a long coat on with lots of pockets and there were puppies in some of the pockets plus one down the front of his coat. He was a walking dog kennel.
Suddenly a tray was banged down on the bar counter and all the dogs took fright, running off in all directions with the man chasing them onto the street. One or two of the puppies hid under the tables and were purloined by customers.
‘This’ll mak a braw present for the bairn’s Christmas,’ said one man, tucking the puppy down the front of his coat and hurrying off. Meanwhile, the poor original dog owner was probably scouring the entire length of Dock Street for his missing canines.
Whether he ever found them all is a mystery.
Mr McRobbie’s son Alistair also owned a dog called Mac who was often in the bar. One day, a customer drew the shape of a bone on the floor and told Mac to guard it. Another customer laughed and told the first man not to be so daft.
‘Dae ye think the dog will be sae daft as tae no ken it’s a chalk mark?’
When the artist went to the toilet, the man decided to test out his theory of stupidity. Mac however growled so loudly whilst guarding his chalky bone that the customer left with a very white face.
Mac was a character. He would regularly run off home to Craigiebarns or, if he was feeling tired, hop on the bus. One day a bus conductor came into the bar to complain that the dog was standing at the top of the stairs of the double-decker bus and wouldn’t let anyone past.
Exit one disgruntled dog and a bar full of amused customers.
Blind Mattie would also come in on a regular basis, wearing her Salvation Army poke bonnet and selling The War Cry.
Blind Mattie was a weel kent figure around Dundee. Born Martha Wallace in Main Street in 1875, s
he would go round the streets playing her melodeon and singing. One of her favourite songs was ‘My Ain Folk’. With her faithful companion Maggie Nicol who had been with her since they were both young, they managed to make a living for years before ill health and old age meant both going to live in Rowans Eventide Home. Before she died in 1962, Mattie had a standing ovation at the Johnny Victory Charity Concert that was held in the Caird Hall.
Maggie had been hired by Mattie’s father to look after his daughter and it was a splendid example of friendship that kept the two women together for all their lives. Maggie also died at The Rowans.
One Saturday, a football team from the west coast was playing in the city. In those days the bars closed at 9.30 p.m. but it was impossible to get the supporters out of the bar. It was bedlam with men stamping and singing and waving banners.
They were also lighting small pieces of paper and dropping them on the floor so it would seem that the football hooligan isn’t a new thing. It was midnight before the owner got the door closed and even then the men continued to hammer at the doors. Bottles and glasses were jumping around on the shelves and Eleanor, my cousin, recalls it was a hard job to keep everything from tumbling down and breaking. Still, the City Centre Bar wasn’t alone with all this trouble as most of the central bars also had their share of noisy customers. It was a relief when the supporters were all safely on their buses and heading home.
It must have been an exciting bar with wonderful customers, with quite a few of them making a lasting impression.
Do pubs today have such entertaining customers on their premises like somersaulting acrobats and drinkers who stand on their hands? Or a walking dog kennel and chalky bones on the floor? I don’t think so.
Teatime Tales From Dundee Page 2