The Sunday Girls

by Maureen Reynolds

  Granny’s face had been a picture and, although amazed by this new man in her life, she was still unsure. ‘What a pity you hadn’t turned over a new leaf years ago – then maybe my own lungs wouldn’t be all choked up with smog.’

  There was nothing wrong with her lungs or indeed her health but she always felt better after her little protest and she was secretly pleased by her man’s renewed lease of life. Even his terrible cough didn’t seem so bad these days.

  Grandad spotted me as he deftly skirted around the women. He placed Lily in my arms. ‘Take Lily home, Ann. I’ve got a message to go for and I’ll not be long.’ He turned smartly on his heels and headed towards Long Wynd.

  Granny was nonplussed. Her face was a picture of bewilderment when I told her what he’d said. ‘He said he had a message to go for and it wasn’t to the tobacconist’s shop?’ This was obviously something of a novelty for her.

  ‘No, Granny, he didn’t go to the tobacconist’s. He went in the direction of Long Wynd but he didn’t say anything else.’

  The puzzle however was soon solved. We heard a heavy thumping sound, as if something metallic was being hauled up the stairs. The door was flung open in triumph and Grandad stood there like a conquering hero but instead of a sword and shield he held the handle of a battered old pram. To say it had seen better days was an understatement and, in a square mile full of ancient, decrepit prams, this one was a clear winner.

  ‘Well,’ he said, brandishing an eloquent hand over the monstrosity, ‘what do you both think?’

  Granny was almost speechless. ‘In the name of God, Dad, where did you get that?’

  Taking her reaction as a compliment, he beamed. ‘I bought it from Jeemy’s Emporium. Got a real bargain as well. Just cost me half a crown.’

  ‘Half a crown?’ said Granny, spluttering so hard that tiny droplets of spittle erupted into the air.

  Grandad’s smile grew wider. He obviously hadn’t picked up on the angry message that was being directed at him. ‘Well, I got it cheap because Jeemy says if he ever needs anything delivered – just wee things,’ he hastened to add, ‘well, I can deliver them when I’m out with Lily for her walks.’

  Granny stood with her hands on her hips. She looked formidable. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you bought that pram from “Jumping Jeemy”?’ This was the nickname of the second-hand dealer and it came from the fact that the odd flea or four were sometimes observed jumping around the vast pile of musty clothes that lay in an untidy heap in the minuscule shop. In a hard-up, poverty-stricken community, it was a well-known fact that someone had to be almost destitute before purchasing any garment from him. His only real customers were the Lascars, seamen who regularly arrived at the docks and made a foray into the local shops. To them, one second-hand shop was much like another so they didn’t seem to be all that choosy.

  Grandad, his manner now well and truly deflated by Granny’s stance, muttered, ‘Well, the baby is getting really heavy to carry, Nan, so I thought I could give her a wee hurl in the pram every day.’ His face grew stubborn looking. ‘Anyway, it’ll clean up fine after a wee wash.’ He sounded unhappy. His wonderful idea wasn’t proving such a success after all. He had obviously thought his wife and granddaughter would have been ecstatic and falling over the pram with wild cries of delight and complimentary mutterings.

  I smiled. It now looked as if Grandad was also going into the delivery business, just like Danny. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea, Grandad!’ I said it more to cheer him up than anything because he looked so miserable.

  It worked and his face lit up immediately. ‘There you are, Nan. Ann likes it and I was just thinking of Lily. She’ll love her wee hurls in it.’

  Granny relented and moved gingerly towards the contraption as she referred to it. Still, she kept her distance. ‘It’s in not too bad a condition,’ she conceded as she circled it warily. ‘At least the wheels are not buckled but it’ll still need a damn good scrub.’

  Because she wouldn’t let it into her kitchen before its decontamination, we had to work in the confines of the outside lobby. Granny brought an enamel pail filled with hot soapy water and a generous dollop of bleach. After an initial wash, she then added a large amount of San Izal disinfectant which turned the water creamy white. The acrid fumes from this concoction almost knocked the three of us out – never mind any lone lingering flea. The pram was reasonably clean which was surprising and apart from its general scruffiness it was basically sound.

  Grandad was chuffed. ‘I told you – didn’t I say that it was in good nick? Jeemy didn’t keep it in the shop because there was no room so he parked it in the close beside the shop.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness for small mercies,’ said granny, handing me the bucket. ‘It’s a shame to waste this good hot water. Put it down the toilet and it’ll freshen it up.’

  The toilet, a tiny cubicle situated like some afterthought on the communal stair, was shared by ten families. After doing what I was told, I reckoned that anyone foolhardy enough to use it within the next hour could well pass out from the fumes.

  Thankfully, the pram was minus any grimy mattress on which anything nasty could still lurk and, after every nook and cranny had well and truly been fumigated, Lily was allowed to be placed in it. The eiderdown was taken from the bed and folded over to make a comfy base for her.

  ‘There’s just the one thing, Dad,’ Granny warned. ‘You’re not to carry any of Jeemy’s mangy clothes in that pram. If you have to deliver anything, make sure it’s well wrapped up and put in a message bag, not beside the baby.’

  Grandad, who would have agreed to anything now that the victory was his, nodded.

  ‘I mean it,’ she warned him sternly, casting a steely eye at him. ‘If I see as much as one flea hopping about that pram, then it’s going straight on the midden.’

  Much later, I left them sitting at the window with the pram and Lily parked between them. Granny was leaning out and telling Alice all about the new acquisition at home.

  Alice was full of praise for Grandad’s visionary thinking. ‘Oh, it’ll be grand for Lily.’ Then she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I see somebody’s put San Izal down the lavvy. Charley from next door came out with tears running down his cheeks and everybody is moaning about it.’

  Granny sensibly remained silent. It was one thing to be praised for a spotlessly clean pram but having the close up in arms over poisonous fumes was another.

  I wandered down the Overgate, hoping to run into Danny. I knew I couldn’t wait till his deliveries were finished before going to see Dad. I thought I might see him as he circumnavigated the narrow streets on his trusty black bike. It was almost seven o’clock and, although the street was always thronged with people, tonight it seemed to be much busier than normal. Large groups congregated at each corner of the many streets that led on to the Overgate. Crowds of people going towards the High Street hurried past me. A small group of men, dressed in their ill-fitting clothes and with cloth caps on their heads made a circled detour around me, half skipping in their haste. As they hurried past, I heard some of the breathless conversation. ‘Better get a move on or we’ll miss the march.’ On that note, they quickened their pace to a run.

  Lipton’s shop was almost empty, with only a mere handful of customers in the process of buying some essentials in the grocery line. The staff, dressed in long white aprons over their white shirts and blouses were not exactly run off their feet but neither were they slouching around. One man was busy slicing bacon, turning the huge cartwheel handle in time to the slithering sound as blade met gammon joint. Meanwhile, his colleague stood beside a huge mound of butter. I watched in fascination as he pushed his wooden pallet into the golden mound. He then deftly patted the unformed shape into a perfect rectangle which he tossed on to the scales where it weighed an exact eight ounces.

  There was no sign of Danny so I stepped out into the street where, once again, I was almost swept off my feet by the mass of humanity now surging down the Overgate. I
overheard another snippet as I was swept along. ‘It’s a march against unemployment and the Workers’ Movement want as many folk as possible to show up.’ I was suddenly worried about Dad. Most of the men I knew, including Dad and his friends, all supported the National Unemployed Workers’ Movement. It now looked as if the entire population of Dundee was on the move and converging on the town centre.

  By the time I reached the foot of Reform Street, a huge procession of people marching four abreast was heading towards me. As they passed by, they were joined by a fringe of onlookers. A motley collection of women, children and old men tagged along at their rear – whether from sympathy or curiosity it was hard to tell.

  I scanned the faces as they swam in front of me like a vast human sea but I didn’t see Dad. This was not surprising because, in the general noisy hubbub, it was difficult to see everyone. The fact that they were singing didn’t help the noise levels and the street was a seething mass of people.

  Then Danny suddenly appeared. He was cycling at the rear of the ragtag hangers-on who were not exactly marching – jumping along was a better description. I stepped out and waved a frantic hand at him. The bike’s wheels squealed to a sudden halt on the litter-strewn road. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he shouted as he quickly manoeuvred his bike between groups of gawking bystanders. ‘Granny has just heard about the march and you’ve got to come home right away.’

  I saw that he still had a few packages in his basket. Granny had obviously collared him on his round. ‘I’ve got to see Dad. I think he might be on this march.’ I was worried and it showed because a new cry was ringing around the hundreds of spectators.

  ‘The bobbies are coming and they’re on horses!’ screamed one disembodied voice from the crowd. This remark echoed around the street and, in their panic, people began to run in the opposite direction from the policemen. I knew there had been a lot of unrest over the plight of the jobless and all the poverty that was attached to being out of work and, although a few demonstrations had taken place, this one seemed to be different. It had a feel of desperation which was noticeable in the marchers’ faces and now the mention of the police seemed to stoke up this feeling.

  We watched in amazement as the crowds surged forwards and we knew we were in danger of being swept along by the crushing hordes. Although the marchers had been peaceful, even singing as they marched along, the mood was now an ugly one. It was as if people’s patience had finally run out and all the frustration of deprivation and poverty was now about to explode between the law and the people and the sweating horses.

  Danny, afraid that his packages might be looted or damaged, managed to extricate the bike from the mass of bodies. He also grabbed me around my waist. We squeezed ourselves against the wall for a few moments before gingerly edging our way up the street, a few yards at a time. By the time we reached the High School, the crowds had thinned out considerably. A few onlookers stood around, craning their necks in a bid to witness the action while remaining on the fringe – to taste the excitement without the dangers.

  Danny stopped when we were clear of the crowds. ‘Now stay here till I deliver these messages to Barrack Street and then I’ll come back and we’ll go and find your dad.’

  I didn’t want him to get into any trouble with his job. The manager might take a dim view of his delivery boy slinking away early.

  Before I could protest, he said, ‘I’ll nip into the shop and tell them about this melee and how it’s no’ easy to deliver anything in this pandemonium. Maybe he’ll let me work later – after it’s all over.’

  He was back within half an hour. ‘Mr Gould, the manager, has given me an hour off.’

  We hurried up Meadowside, intent on reaching the house safely. As we rounded the corner to the foot of the Hilltown, we couldn’t believe our eyes. Hundreds of people were milling around in an angry throng like a swarm of disgruntled bees. The mounted police were also there and some had their batons drawn. The entire area was like some war zone. It was a real fight between the bobbies and the mass of bodies now scurrying in all directions and screaming at the top of their voices as they ran.

  To make matters worse, residents who lived in the upstairs houses were either viewing the riot or actively encouraging it. The ones who were alarmed by the dramatic panorama under their noses kept strictly behind the protection of the glass but the hardier souls were hanging out and throwing the odd missile on to the heads of the law.

  Three burly policemen were trying to push a crowd of angry youths against a wall but, as soon as they succeeded with one group, another surge of humanity erupted elsewhere. The crowd ran round the horses and the police wagons. The sound of the horses’ hooves against the pavement was terrifying but, above this noise, the shouts of neighbourly comradeship could be heard being hurled down towards the heads of the protesters and these grew louder and angrier whenever they could see demonstrators being herded into the police wagon and taken in to custody.

  ‘What a bloody noise you bobbies are making. No’ to mention your snorting horses,’ shouted one elderly woman whose thin wrinkled face was minus any teeth. She shook a blue-veined feeble arm into the air. ‘But never you mind, lads – just give them hell.’

  From our vantage point on the edge of the riot we were unable to see if Dad or any of our neighbours were involved and it looked as if we would have to run the gauntlet of the fighting mob. I was scared – not for myself but for Danny because the policemen seemed to be collaring all the young men, regardless of the fact that many of them had been minding their own business and had merely been caught up by accident.

  Frightened, howling young children were frantically holding on to their parents but the older braver ones were throwing stones at the horses. They then darted away like thin wraiths into the warren of tenements.

  ‘We’re never going to get past that crowd,’ I shouted to Danny. ‘Maybe I’ll be better on my own.’

  He shook his head. ‘Granny will skin me alive if I leave you here. No, we’ll take a shortcut.’

  He grabbed my hand and we raced along Dudhope Street. When we reached Dallfield Walk, we skirted around the many washing lines in the back courts to emerge at Shepherd’s Pend. This detour brought us out at the Progress Hall and above the riot. The noise was still as deafening but at least our way wasn’t obstructed by shying horses and irate bobbies.

  Just a few steps from our close, we were appalled to see a human bundle lying against the wall. With a feeling of fright and apprehension, we lifted the coat lapel which was obscuring the face.

  ‘Oh, it’s old Mrs Dodds and she’s been hit on the head.’ I pointed to a two-inch gash above her eye. ‘She must have been injured in the riot.’

  She lived a few yards from us on the Hilltown and Danny picked her up in an effortless manner while I put an arm around her waist. Fortunately she was a small wiry-framed woman so it wasn’t too difficult to make our way slowly towards her house.

  Suddenly Rita appeared and I was so grateful to see her. I ran ahead, leaving Danny with the injured woman. I almost bowled them over in my haste.

  ‘We found her lying on the street and we think she’s been hit in the riot.’

  Rita summed up the situation. ‘Better bring her up to my house and we’ll have a look at her.’

  We slowly made our way up the stairs but before we reached the flat, the old woman groaned and Danny lowered her on to the shabby linoleum-covered lobby. She groaned again, her eyes trying to focus on her small audience.

  As Rita knelt down beside her, a loud bellow erupted from the direction of her flat, accompanied by the piercing cries of a child. The man bellowed again. ‘For heaven’s sake, Rita, will you come in and see to this child or we’ll all be deafened.’

  She ignored this summons and inspected the woman’s cut. ‘Oh, it’s just a wee graze you have there, Mrs Dodds. How did it happen? Did you get mixed up in the riot?’

  Mrs Dodds looked at her with a puzzled frown. ‘No, no, lass, I was in the snug bar of
the Windmill Bar and I think I had too much stout to drink.’ She laughed feebly, showing a row of discoloured teeth. ‘What riot are you talking about?’

  Rita sounded incredulous. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know about the fighting at the foot of the street? The noise alone would waken the dead, never mind the living for that matter.’ She pointed behind her where husband and son were now competing for the highest decibel prize. ‘Oh, I expect I’d better get in there and calm things down. What a day it’s been and what a world. No money and no pleasure in life – just a nagging man to contend with day in and day out.’

  Mrs Dodds, who didn’t seem too perturbed at missing all the drama, said, ‘I was too busy supping my stout in the snug to hear any fighting but, when I got outside, I felt real queer-like and my legs wouldn’t hold me up.’ She turned to Danny. ‘Maybe this handsome young man will see me home. If it’s no bother, that is?’

  ‘Mind and give that cut a wee wash,’ shouted Rita as Danny retreated down the stairs with his burden. ‘Imagine that old codger. I aye knew she liked her stout but no’ as much as would make her legless,’ she laughed. Nellie, who had also witnessed this small drama, smiled too.

  I didn’t comment because I didn’t really know the woman that well and I had problems of my own. ‘I’m looking for Dad, Rita. Have you seen him?’

  Before Rita could answer, Nellie piped up, saying, ‘Aye, he’s on the march with Joe and the gang.’ Nellie looked harassed as the wailing cries of Rita’s child echoed in the narrow confines of the lobby. ‘If it’s no’ one thing, it’s another.’ She sounded fed up. ‘I tried to run down to the chip shop for five Woodbines but it’s an absolute madhouse out there. But his majesty, my man, will be looking for his fags when he gets back, will he not?’

  ‘Did Dad say when the march will be over?’

  She shook her head. ‘To be honest with you, Ann, Rita and me don’t see your dad often, especially lately – although we’ve offered to help him out. He says he’s managing.’