After a while, she asked, ‘Have you told Hazel’s Mum what happened?’
I hadn’t thought of that, so out we went again, but by this time, the sirens had blown and there were no buses or any kind of public transport running. We walked all the way to the foot of Bon Accord Street, around three miles I’d think, though it felt much longer than that. We had hardly spoken to each other at the rink and we couldn’t find much to say now. It felt really strange.
Mrs Lamont was much older than my mother, Hazel was the youngest of three, but despite the shock we had given her, she thanked us and offered us tea, which we refused very politely. When the ‘All Clear’ blew, my escort said that he had better go, otherwise he would miss the last bus to Dyce Aerodrome, and he’d have to report what had happened to his friend.
We walked up to Union Street together, and along as far as Union Terrace, where I caught a tram, thank goodness they were running again, and he carried on to the country bus terminus, I suppose. Sadly for me, by the time I reached Mile End, the last bus up the hill had gone and I was left to walk the rest, which was quite scary, with no lights of any kind. I was never so glad to get home as I was that night.
Hazel was off work for some time, but as soon as her leg healed, she went back to the ice rink . . . without me. I couldn’t have gone back supposing I’d been offered a thousand pounds. I never saw ‘my’ Canadian again, and Hazel never saw hers after he left the hospital. She thought their squadron must have been posted.
It was early 1942 now, and we two girls continued to go out together, being ‘picked up’ by various young men in uniform – there were very few young civilian males left in the city. Yet it wasn’t on any of those occasions that life suddenly changed for me. I was waiting at the bus stop across from my house when a naval officer stood up beside me and started talking. He was actually Merchant Navy not Royal Navy but I didn’t know the difference then, and I learned that he was a 2nd Officer on one of the Ben Line ships and was about to start studying at Robert Gordon’s College in order to get his First Officer’s ticket. He was lodging just round the corner from us.
After a few days, he asked me out. I didn’t have to think about it. In fact I was very flattered that a man so much older – six years is a big difference when you’re nineteen . . . or it was then. The uniform, I suppose, also played a large part in making me accept – none of the other boys I knew had any gold braid. We went out twice a week for months. I was still writing semi-love letters to Jimmy, and going out with him when he came to visit us, also with the cousins when they were around, and, of course, ‘Uncle Doug’. I didn’t have any deep feelings for Sandy, but . . . he was an officer.
The more I saw of him, the more I grew to like him and when he asked me to marry him, on the day he was notified that he had gained his First Mate’s ticket, I readily agreed. He had already bought an engagement ring, which fitted perfectly, but he had to report for duty in two days. Mum, still somewhat Victorian in her attitudes, seemed to be quite happy about my commitment. Her daughter was doing well for herself, wasn’t she?
His ship sailed to Oran with supplies for the troops there, but he had also made arrangements for the wedding to be in just over a month in Rathven Church, near his home village of Portgordon in Morayshire. Bertha was only ten, but she was allowed to be bridesmaid, and Sandy’s brother was to be best man.
We had a week’s honeymoon in Preston, where his ship was being refitted, and then they were ordered to join the Murmansk convoys. Unfortunately, in Russia the winter had already set in although it was only October, and they were ice-bound for eight months. It was a long time before I saw him again. Meanwhile, I still went out with Hazel . . . and nothing else changed much either. I did tell all my escorts straight away that I was married. They respected me for it, and I felt smugly righteous at being so honest when so many other married girls were jumping from one lover to another.
Then, it must have been into our autumn that same year, Mum had gone out one evening and I was in what had once been our lounge, now Granny and Granda’s living room.
It would have been around seven that evening in late October 1942 when the bell rang. I answered it and was quite disturbed to see Jimmy on the doorstep. This was the first time I’d seen him since I had written to tell him I was married – a ‘Dear John’ letter – and I had been dreading his next visit.
To let you understand why what happened next came as no surprise to me, I had better make it clear that Jimmy had lodged with my granny before coming to Mum, and that Granny had always had a real soft spot for him. She had understood exactly how he was feeling, and her words were meant kindly, although she couldn’t possibly have foreseen the eventual result.
She was propped up in bed by about a dozen pillows, as she had been for some time now, and she held his hand much longer than necessary when he greeted her. Then she looked at me with her eyebrows raised. ‘You two should go oot for a wee walk, and nae be penned up in here wi’ an auld man and his useless wife.’
I didn’t know what to say, but Jimmy smiled. ‘What about it, Doris? It’s a fine night, just a bit cold.’
Granda, probably shocked at his wife for suggesting it when she knew we had once gone steady, now issued a warning, ‘You’d best keep walking smartly.’
So off we set, each uncomfortably aware of the other and afraid to broach the subject uppermost in our minds. We did keep walking smartly, for most of the hour or so we were out, but we also managed to work round to a point where we knew our feelings for each other were still the same. The first shy kisses became longer and we ended up by breaking away in dismay. We couldn’t carry on like this.
My mother was in when we went back, not looking at all pleased with us, and it was just as well that Jimmy had to leave to catch the last bus to Laurencekirk. I think, however, that Granny had done some diplomatic talking while I saw him to the bus stop, because the maternal telling off I expected never materialised.
I must confess that the interlude really unsettled me. I shouldn’t have agreed to it. I ought to have known what could happen. In fact, it was fortunate that it hadn’t gone any further. It very nearly had. I did feel guilty, and I’m sure he did, too, so our letters were more stilted after that.
As I said earlier, Granny died in December 1942, and we were all shattered. I cried myself to sleep every night and wondered how on earth I’d get through the funeral. I had no one to lean on. Sandy was still away, Mum was comforting Bertha, Doug had his father, my Granda, to turn to. I was feeling at a very low ebb that day, and couldn’t believe my eyes when Doug went to answer the door and brought Jimmy in. He was home on leave again, and had come to see us in a forenoon to save any further embarrassment. It was he who was embarrassed, and deeply upset when he heard about my Granny, for he had loved her nearly as much as I did.
Feeling that he was intruding, he made to leave and, wonder of wonders, it was my mother who asked him to stay. He stood at my back and held my hand all through the funeral service, squeezing it so hard at times that it was quite painful. We didn’t care that everyone had noticed, we needed each other and he was glad to be there for me.
Nothing was ever said about it. My mother must have realised that I wouldn’t have coped with saying goodbye to my darling grandmother if he hadn’t been there.
Doug’s wedding had been booked for the week after, when he would qualify as a draughtsman. He and Reta had planned to ask the driver of the beribboned taxi to take them from the church to Mid Stocket to give his mother the bride’s bouquet, but they wanted to postpone the marriage. Granda, however, was adamant that Granny would have wanted them to go ahead – which we all knew was true – and so they did.
*
Everything was going quite smoothly at our new premises in Bon Accord Square. There were no storemen to tease us, and we all felt quite proud to tell people that was where we worked. It gave a better impression than saying, ‘Inside the Coast Lines sheds’, but there was one real drawback. By this time, t
he city was being assaulted regularly by incendiary bombs and we had to take our turn at fire-watching.
Looking back on this, I am amazed that the safety of several buildings with a caretaker in each was placed in the hands of two flippertigibbets of twenty years old. Peggy had a caliper on one leg, Helen was pregnant and Miss Murray wasn’t asked. I think she must have been over forty-five by then. I suppose each office had to supply at least two for this duty, and Hazel and I had no choice.
It wasn’t as bad as we had feared. We had to spend the night in the room above our office, a huge hall of a place with a wide open fireplace . . . and yes, we were allowed to use it. I suppose Mrs Logan would have had to make sure it was burning properly for us, and a whole pail of coal was always standing at the side. There didn’t seem to be any shortage here, not like at home, where Mum practically counted each lump of coal to make sure nobody had sneaked one into the grate. (She also counted the bags of coal the men delivered in case they cheated her.) Two camp beds were also provided for us, with pillows and blankets. This struck Hazel and me as a poor kind of joke when we saw them first. How could you go to bed and sleep if you were supposed to be watching for fires?
I can’t remember how often we had to take our turn, perhaps once every ten days, and we were allowed to go home at half past seven in the morning and not start work until ten. We regarded this as quite a bad deal. Were we supposed to stay up all night then only get an hour to go home for breakfast and snatch forty winks?
We did try. We sat on the typists’ chairs at first just talking about this and that, mostly boys, I expect, then after a while, we had to lie down to give our backs a rest. We didn’t fall asleep the first time. We didn’t know what to expect and had our pails and stirrup pumps at the ready beside us, but it was a tremendous effort to keep our eyes open. Neither of us smoked then – it was a year later before I was persuaded to try a cigarette and was hooked – so we had nothing to help us keep awake.
Half past seven took a couple of years to come round, and we made our separate ways home after reporting to Mrs Logan. Hazel, fortunately for her, lived in Bon Accord Street, only a short walk from Bon Accord Square, whereas I had to walk a good bit down Union Street to get the No. 5 tram and change at Mile End for the bus.
The only blessing for me was that the bus stop was right outside the door of Murdoch the baker, who sold the best morning rolls I have ever tasted (an Aberdeen speciality found nowhere else), and the smell wafting up my nostrils was too tempting to resist. I went home armed with a bagful, still hot from the bakery and . . . oh, how I long for one now. (The poor excuses that most modern bakers offer as rolls are more than twice the price, less than half the size and nothing like the taste. There are one or two near exceptions with regards to the last.)
Feeling like going to bed after I’d had my breakfast, I had just a short time to rest before starting on the journey back to work. Needless to say, as we were dog-tired by the end of the day, we didn’t think too highly of this procedure, and decided that we would play it differently next time.
So, on our next turn we chatted for a while, read for a while, and then lay down to sleep. Why stay awake when nothing was happening? We would hear if the sirens blew an alert . . . of course we would. In the morning, we went down to report to Mrs Logan before going home. ‘Another peaceful night,’ Hazel ventured, because we both knew by the woman’s expression that something had happened.
‘There was an alert on from two till four,’ she said sarcastically. ‘A couple of fine fire-watchers you are.’
Hazel and I looked at each other, ashamed that we had slept through the crucial period, but Mrs Logan laughed suddenly. ‘I’d have come up and wakened you if anything had been going on, but there wasn’t a sound.’
Safe in the knowledge that she would keep us right, we went to sleep every time after that.
Hazel and I were on duty on Hogmanay, would you believe, but we didn’t really have anything to celebrate and we went to bed as usual. When we went down to the basement the following morning, however, Mrs Logan said, ‘Peggy and her sister came to first foot you about half past twelve, and they threw gravel up to the window but you must have been sound asleep. The noise got me out of bed to see who it was, but they wouldn’t let me go up to waken you.’
We had been caught out again, but that didn’t make us change our ways.
*
Still on the subject of fire-watching, we did have one very interesting evening, but I will have to give you the lead up to it first. Granda, heartbroken at his wife’s death and with his health going rapidly downhill, developed pneumonia and was sent by Dr Agnes to Woodend Hospital towards the end of January 1943. It wasn’t too far from Mid Stocket and Mum went to see him on the Wednesday afternoon.
When I went home at teatime on the day of her first visit, she told me about a poor Norwegian sailor who was in with appendicitis and had missed his ship. ‘Your Granda says he can hardly speak any English,’ she went on, ‘and he can’t read it at all, and he doesn’t get any visitors.’
I didn’t need much persuading to accompany her on the Saturday afternoon. It was exciting to think I would meet a real Norwegian – they were always tall, blonde and very handsome, weren’t they? Besides, I had managed to get some books and magazines for him from the Norwegian Reading Room in Bon Accord Terrace, which I passed on my way to and from work every day. Quite a number of Norwegian ships called at Aberdeen then, and the council had set up this facility for them, a library with everything they could wish to read, in their own language.
Fridjof Hougland (I used his name in Time Shall Reap) was even better looking than I had imagined, and although we did have a problem understanding each other, it soon became obvious that he understood more English than he could speak or read. He did manage to tell me his name, and I told him mine (I was married by then but I’ll come to that later), about the Reading Room and where I worked. I also gave him a humorous account of the fire-watching activities . . . or non-activities, as they were.
He hadn’t been able to tell me anything about himself, so I was quite unaware that he had been in hospital for some weeks and was almost ready to be discharged. I got a shock, therefore, on my way back from lunch on the Monday, when I turned into Bon Accord Terrace and spotted him standing outside the Norwegian Reading Room. I eventually understood him to be saying that he was returning the magazines and books, but he had wanted to see me to thank me. In fact, he wanted to thank me by taking me to the pictures, and I was tempted to accept.
I knew that my mother would go off her head if I, a married woman, as much as thought of going out with a foreigner and I did have a legitimate excuse not to go. ‘I’m sorry, but this is my night for fire-watching.’
This was double Dutch to him, and I tried to explain while he accompanied me down to the office, but I knew he didn’t understand. He had just taken my hand in his to say goodbye when Hazel came round the corner, her eyes popping as she watched him walking away.
‘Who’s he? Oh boy, I could go for a gorgeous hunk like that, Doris, and you don’t need him. You’ve got a man already.’
Despite this being so, I must admit that I did wish I hadn’t been duty-bound that night, but, on the other hand, I felt proud of myself for refusing him.
Hazel kept on asking me about him that night, and I was telling her as much as I knew when we heard a low whistle coming from the street below. We both ran to the window, defying the blackout regulations by opening the wooden louvered blinds to look out, and there he was, looking up and smiling his thrilling, heart-stopping smile.
‘We can’t let him in,’ I told Hazel. ‘What would Mrs Logan say?’
‘’I don’t think she can say anything,’ Hazel laughed, desperate to get to know him. ‘Anyway, she doesn’t need to know.’
He was very quiet when I took him up, and she did most of the talking, but I was conscious of Fridjof’s eyes on me . . . too conscious, as Hazel told me after he had left. Before going, he said
, shyly, ‘You come wiss me tomorrow, Dorees?’
He had obviously learned some new words, but . . . ‘Oh. No, I can’t. I’m sorry. I should have told you before. I’m married.’
‘Yes? You can come?’
‘I can’t. Don’t you understand?’ I pointed to my wedding ring, but oh, how I wanted to go. How could I, though? Anybody could see me.
It was Hazel, bless her, who settled it. ‘Of course she’ll go out with you,’ she told Fridjof, then turned to me. ‘Don’t be so daft. Who’s going to know?’
I went to the pictures with him the following evening. I also went with him to the room in Forest Road that he had booked for the night. I salved my conscience by assuring myself that it was on my way home and he was only being friendly. As it was, we sat closely together on the bed, we cuddled a little, we kissed a little . . . and then I forced myself to break away. I wasn’t an innocent young girl any longer; I knew what this could lead to.
Fridjof saw me home, it wasn’t far, and I could understand from his expression that he was letting me know in his own tongue how sorry he was that he wouldn’t see me again. He had been ordered to join another ship the following day. I, too, was sorry, but it was probably – most definitely – better this way.
It was some time later before I realised how foolish, and how lucky, I’d been. In that situation, most young men would have tried, and likely succeeded, to overcome the girl and taken their pleasure. I’d heard other girls saying that foreigners were out for all they could get and were never heard from again. Fridjof, however, had proved that he wasn’t like that, and although I never heard from him again, I never completely forgot him.
Although Douglas Mackay was now in the Middle East, he still wrote to me. Tommy Duffus, though, had married a girl he met in the south of England and I never saw or heard from him again. Doug Paul (Uncle Doug) was living with his in-laws in King Street and we didn’t see much of him after his father died. It was only Jimmy, then, who was a regular visitor, at around three-monthly intervals. We still corresponded, but there were no more walks or outings. That would have been asking for trouble.
Gift from the Gallowgate Page 11
