We used sledges to transport the snowballs and when we used them up we collected more.
We were always on the lookout for untouched snow. In the morning our garden was just a sheet of smooth fresh snow with not one footprint but by the afternoon it was just a trodden mess. From the upstairs window you could tell if a house had kids or not, just by the state of their garden. When we had run out of snow in our own gardens, we’d jump over the fence to pinch fresh snow from our neighbours’ untouched gardens only to be chased off with words I can’t repeat.
Snow was also great for sliding on, it was great, especially for the boys. I remember being jealous of my brother because he had hobnail boots and they made great sliders. We would all queue up and slide down a long stretch of ice. What a fantastic feeling it was whizzing along at such speed, but if you fell over you had to get out the way quickly no matter how much it hurt, otherwise it could cause a pile up and a few bruises.
I hated when my hands went numb with the cold even though I had mittens on, which I remember very well. My mum made mine out of the sleeves of an old jumper along with the pixie hat I wore on my head and my scarf was made the same way.
Everything seemed to be made out of old jumpers, even some of our rugs were made out of them. It was a family effort making rugs. Us children had the job of cutting the old jumpers, which then were all made from wool. We’d cut the woollies up into strips and put them in different coloured piles, where my mum would choose a colour, then pulled them through material that looked suspiciously like old washed coal sacks with a homemade hook of some kind, following a pattern that she had drawn on before she started. Everyone made rag rugs they were the family’s pride and joy. In the summer when we lived in the Blocks the railings at the top of the stairs used to be full of rag rugs hanging over to air. I think it was a way of showing off your creativity. In the Blocks we children never used to have a seat to sit on and the woollen rag rugs were lovely and soft to lie on at the fireside. Now we have a new house and times were changing for the best, the rag rug was demoted to mum’s bedside because in our living room we had a new carpet square that went all around the room leaving just a linoleum border.
The next big event at school was Easter, we all had to bring a hardboiled egg to school, then we would spend all morning painting it ready to roll down the hill on Easter Sunday, but those eggs never saw Sunday, as soon as we got out of school we ate them.
I cannot remember ever getting a chocolate egg at Easter, they was always painted, boiled ones which were our breakfast on Easter Sunday. My brother and I used to sit for hours painting our’s on the Saturday night, then without fail we’d fight over who’s egg was the best.
I remember us taking them to my dad to judge whose was the best, but both my mum and my dad claimed it was a draw and gave us both a warning to get out and stop fighting or the eggs would be throw in the bin.
Although William and I were always arguing and fighting, we stuck up for each other when needed. It was like a love–hate affair, hated him in the house, couldn’t agree for two minutes, but outside we were the best of pals, especially in the dark nights of winter. We never left the street after darkness fell, we’d gather around the street light with all the other kids in our street.
On Easter morning off we’d go with our painted eggs, to the park, usually about two eggs each and roll them down the hill to crack the shell. We were told that it represented Jesus rolling the Stone away when he had risen from the dead.
The hill we rolled our eggs down was no higher than five feet high, and was probably the remains of a pile of earth which had grassed over when they made the park in the first place. I remember that little hill being the main attraction in the park with us kids. We used to roll down on our bellies, or ride down on bikes, sledge down, and of course it was a means to roll our Easter eggs down at Easter.
Once a week the whole school got religious education in the school hall. The Minister who lived in the large house across the road next door to the church knew us all by sight if not by name. I must admit, from what I remember I did like him, he was very nice and spoke very gently.
The Sunday school trip was something you never forgot. To qualify you had to attend Sunday school and get two months regular attendance. Any other time you would make excuses why you didn’t want to go, but you were threatened by your Sunday school teacher that if you didn’t attend, you’d not be going on the trip. That was frightening to me and my brother, it made us scared to miss a week.
My big sister who was thirteen then, had a choice, she could either go to church or stay at home. That really annoyed me, especially when she’d snigger and wave as we walked out the door. Mum was adamant we attended Sunday school, perhaps it was the only time on a weekend she got peace. To her it was worth the penny she gave us to put in the plate to get rid of us. Little did mum know we always spent a ha-penny on sweets and put the other ha-penny in the plate. Sometimes we’d spend the whole penny and drop a pebble in the bag, when it dropped on top of the other coins it made the same jingle.
Two months before the trip we’d crawl to church if necessary, just to get our mark. Of course there was the usual torment when something nice was on the way, that horrible blackmail from our parents always crept in, if we didn’t do what we were told mum would shout,
‘That’s it, you’re not going,’ or ‘You do that again and you’re as far as you’ll be,’ same old cliché, just like Christmas, Gala Day, or anything we were looking forward to. Always glad when the day finally arrived.
On the day of the outing the atmosphere outside the church felt exhilarating. Men gathered in groups, laughing and deep in conversation, whilst women stood chatting as if they hadn’t seen each other for years, but, probably saw one another every day. Occasional there was a shout at us kids to behave, and the odd baby cry with boredom, was it any wonder why.
It felt like hours waiting for the coaches to come with everyone’s patience mounting eagerly, then out of the blue someone shouted, ‘The buses are coming.’ then silence as all eyes gazed at the outline of large vehicles in the distance. When they became recognisable; ‘Hurray,’ we’d shout as we all jumped for joy.
The Minister always ran to the door of the first bus as soon as it stopped waving his clipboard in the air trying to control a multitude of us children all pushing and shoving to get to the back seat of the leading bus. If you had a seat there, you were more than lucky; you were fearless.
Nobody knew where we were going until everyone was on the coach on the big day, it truly was a mystery tour. The usual seaside places were Portobello, Aire, Burnt Island, or Leven. Alternatively, from the beach, it was Edinburgh Zoo or Alva Glens, a large picnic park beneath the Ochil Hills.
The seaside was a favourite with us children, and when told we were going there, we screamed with excitement and everyone on the coach sang in unison, songs like; Oh We Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside. We’re No Awa Tae Bide Awa, She’ll be Coming round the Mountain when she Comes, and the most famous one of all, You Canny shove your Granny of the Bus. Adults joined in singing as well, leaving their worries behind, and no doubt picking them up on the way home.
This was a family day out, which included all the dads, and was the only time I recall my dad being with us on an outing. Everybody was out to have a good time alongside their children. After an hour which seemed a long tiresome journey to us, the anxiousness of reaching our destination brought impatience, every ten minutes or so you’d hear the words ‘Are we there yet?’
Mum always made up a picnic for the beach, and dads only contribution was threatening us with a good hiding if we misbehaved or asked for anything, especially money.
Portobello was my first recollection of the seaside. When we got off the bus we made our way to the beach. On the way there we passed lots of little shops with beach products hanging from the doorways and front of all the shops. Everything from a dumper full of coloured balls, to little windmills blowing in the wind. What struck me more
than anything was hundreds of buckets and spades of all sizes, I daren’t ask for one in fear of dad’s threat, but when he walked into the shop I waited in anticipation wondering what he was buying. As I looked up large beach balls hanging above the doors swung in the gentle breeze we had that day. As I peeped in to try and catch a glimpse of dad the shop looked overflowing with souvenirs which mesmerised mum. Dad bought us a bucket and spade from one of the shops, a red set for me and a blue set for William. He also bought a beachball which as I remember got punctured before it ever received a kick, thanks to my brother Jimmy who bit it and bust it straight away. The beach was crowded with rows of deckchairs, all the same colour, and so near to each other people could quite easily have held hands all the way along the beach. The atmosphere was ecstatic with the sound of voices, laughter, seagulls, and waves lapping the shore, all seemed to mingle into one.
The smell of the sea was like smelling clothes that just came in from the wash line, all fresh and clean, seagulls squawked above us as we sat on a large towel eating our sandwiches and crunching the sand in them. There was nothing else in the world we needed for contentment. As we played on the sand our parents relaxed on deck chairs chatting to the other members of our trip.
It was in Portobello I got lost one year. William and I made a huge sandcastle with a moat.
’Come on,’ he shouted grabbing his bucket, ‘let’s get some water for our castle.’ So, with my frock tucked in my knickers I ran after him with my coloured bucket swinging by my side.
‘Stay together you two and come straight back here,’ Mum shouted her voice fading away and mingling into the background noise.
Reaching the water, it took our breath away as the coldness of the waves rolled around our legs with its white frothy surf; we jumped them in joy and filled our buckets to the top as the waves passed underneath us.
‘Come on, be careful you don’t spill any.’ shouted William rushing out of the sea with the water flowing over the top of his bucket. Following him out, I very slowly walked with eyes peeled on the water swaying from side to side and spilling with every step I took. When I eventually looked up, there was nobody in sight I recognised. Panic struck I looked around in confusion and started to cry. Clutching my half-full bucket of seawater, I wandered up and down crying, looking for a familiar face, but could see no one I recognised. A woman came over, and took my hand.
‘What’s the matter hen are you lost?’ she asked very concerned for my safety.
‘I can’t find my mammy,’ I cried breaking my heart. Clutching my hand, the woman walked up and down the beach, looking for mum, but finally had to take me to the lost children’s nursery. There the nurses sympathised and brought lots of toys for me to play with.
When mum finally found me, I was sitting on the biggest rocking horse I had ever seen. She gave a sigh and rushed over to my side. ‘Thank god, I’ve been worried sick, how did you manage to get lost?’ she cried with relief. I looked at her with disappointment, knowing the time for playing with these fantastic toys, were about to end. I held on to the horse like a leech, I didn’t want to go.
Mum thanked the nurses very kindly, but once away from the nursery, the telling off time began. Dragging me by the hand she marched me along the sand, with a regular tug every now and then for me to keep up yapping on about someone taking me away, and not seeing any of them again. Dad warned me not to leave his side for the rest of the day; to be quite honest I never wanted to. For the last hour we visited the fair where we all had an ice cream and a go on the rides.
After a great day at the seaside, we headed back to the coach to find the Minister with his clipboard checking everyone entering the bus. When all was accounted for the coaches moved out on the way home. Exhausted and contented we slept the entire journey home in silence, no more singing, we were filled with a lifetime of unforgettable happy memories.
My sister Wilma, was the only one in our family that ever went away for a week with the school to a camp called Dunoons Camp, which was for pupils in the Stirling area who was on they’re last year of school. That school camp was before secondary schools came into force. Then, you stayed at the same school from five years old until you left at fifteen. Thank goodness it changed when I was eleven, because I couldn’t stand that school for another four years.
Although there was nearly forty pupils in my sister’s class, only ten were picked to go to the camp. To qualify you had to pass all sorts of hygiene tests and a lot never made it either through having nits or some kinds of health or behaviour problems. But of course with my sister being such a goodie-goodie, what else could you expect? One thing’s for sure I don’t think I’d be one of the lucky ones; I must admit a full week of no ordering about was like a holiday to me, and no doubt my older my brother William as well.
One week felt a long time for one of my family missing, and I actually missed her. When the day came for her coming home, the coach dropped all our school campers off outside the school gate when, it just happened to be our playtime. All the kids ran over to the wall when they spotted the coach.
When my sister stepped off the coach I waved and jumped up and down with excitement so she would notice me. She seemed pleased to see me and waved back with a big grin on her face. She came over and told me she had a present for me and that I’d get it when I got home. I pestered her to show it to me, and when she did my face lit up with excitement. It was a little Highland doll all dressed in a tartan kilt with a bagpipe under its arm, the doll stood about six inches high, with blonde hair and red beret with the tiniest feather at the side. I pleaded to have it there and then which she reluctantly did if I promised not to take it out in the class in case the teacher confiscated it, which I promised I would.
When I got home both my mum and sister were waiting for me.
‘Show mam that doll I brought you,’ she excitedly asked. I was frightened to show mum the doll, so I hid it behind my back, but mum being mum demanded me to show it. As I slowly brought the doll into view, my sister let out a scream at the sight of it. The doll was bald, minus it’s blonde hair and feathered beret.
Mum looked at me with a look of disgust on her face.
‘I only combed its hair, but it must have just been glued on because, it fell off,’ I said in defence, putting my hand in my pocket and taking out the doll’s hair and beret.
When I lay in bed that night, I realised that doll must have cost a lot of her spending money to buy. It made me think my sister had feelings for me after all. That meant more to me than any present. I made my mind up there and then I was going to be nicer to her.
Needless to say the sisterly love didn’t last long, when mum mentioned she was going to visit Gran one night, and my sister was watching us as because dad was on back shift afternoon shift. Before she headed off to catch the seven o’clock bus my brother and I asked if we could play out longer because it was a nice sunny night, she agreed we could stay out until eight then we had to go in and get washed and be in bed for about half-eight. We were playing cricket in the circle, probably about ten of us altogether, when the familiar voice shouted for us to go in. My brother and I looked at each other and realised it was too early as mum had only left for the seven o’clock bus.
‘I’m not going in yet,’ I shouted. ‘You’re only showing off ’cause your pals there with you.’
I could see her run towards me so, I ran off down the street with my pal following me. As I reached the bottom of our street I turned round thinking they had stopped, but no, she was still after us. We headed for the Blocks where there were more hide holes than normal. It was the chase of life or death to me, which soon got out of hand. By this time I was thinking it was the biggest mistake of my life. We reached the Blocks that were nearly all empty of occupants, so we hid in one of the coal houses built in the bottom of the concrete stairs and we shut the door which was made of slatted wood. We peeped out through the slats at the two looking for us. I could tell my sister was really angry and I was beginning to regre
t not going in the house when she shouted, but something inside me thought why should I do what she said because me mam told us we could stay out late? We waited until we could see them heading for home. As they walked home by the main road we headed for the railway line. I ran down that track with my heart thumping out of my chest. When reaching our back garden I climbed the fence and ran in through the backdoor, raced into the bathroom and had the quickest wash of my hands and face I have ever had, listening all the time for my sister walking up the path. I was quickly upstairs where I dropped my clothes and jumped into bed where my brother William already was.
‘Oh, you’re for it when my mam gets hame,’ he said sniggering.
‘It’s not my mam I’m feart of,’ I said covering the blankets over my head. I could hear my sister coming in with her pal. As she ran up the stairs I was under the bed in a flash clutching my clothes, she opened the door and must have seen my brother lying sleeping, well pretending to sleep which I sighed with relief. When my mum came in I could hear her giving out to her all about it, then I heard mum shout,
‘Where is she, is she still outside?’ I could see she was worried so I ran down stairs defending my case, I didn’t want to make mum leave the house to look for me.
‘It was her fault mammy,’ I shouted as I ran into the room, ‘As soon as you left she shouted us for bed, and you told us we could stay out till eight o’clock so I ran away.’ I’ll not repeat the words in our house that night, nor will I tell you how painful the skin on your backside can be when it is slapped with a bare hand when wearing only a pair of knickers.
Of Different Times Page 9
