The man studied the repair for a moment then went downstairs and gazed up at the window. We heard his voice calling up the stair. ‘That’s better. Now make sure you check your blackout blind every night in future.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mum, as we settled back at the fireside, ‘it makes you wonder if there’s maybe more than one Hitler in the world.’
Every household had their own way of dealing with the blackout restrictions and Grandad had made our blind from thick black material which he stitched to a home-made wooden roller at the top of the window. The only disadvantage with this was that it had to be rolled up by hand every morning. Whoever had done that chore had caught the fabric on one of the sharp tacks. Mum admitted it was her fault. ‘Eh heard it ripping but Eh didn’t think it would be seen. Eh might have known the great dictator was on duty.’
Not long after the departure of the warden we had another visitor – Auntie Ina. She wasn’t a blood relation but she was one of Mum’s best friends. They had known one another for years and had worked together as weavers in the mill. Auntie Ina had married a French naval Petty Officer at the start of the war and she was waiting patiently for the war to end so they could be together again. I was always fascinated by her high platform shoes and her flowery turban – not to mention her delightful tongue-rolling name, Madame Le Corvec. I thought she was exotic. Ina, however, was on a mission. ‘The gaffer in Little Eddy’s jute mill is wondering when you’ll be back to work, Molly. The mill is needing all the workers it can get.’
‘Well, Eh’ve put George’s name down for a place in a nursery but places are very few and far between it seems. And another thing, Ina, Eh’m still no feeling awfy well yet and Eh don’t like to ask Dad to look after Maureen.’
Ina nodded sympathetically.
‘Maybe when the better weather comes Eh’ll be able to get back to the mill,’ Mum said doubtingly. ‘Maybe Eh’ll be feeling much better by then.’
But instead of getting better Mum was to get worse.
CHAPTER 3
It was the last Saturday in January when the spectre of Duncarse Children’s Home blew into my life like a cold north wind. As is usual with life, troubles never come singly and so it was on this occasion. Earlier that week Grandad had departed with the Home Guard to some training course. George was seven weeks old but Mum had never really recovered from his birth. On that fateful Saturday she began to haemorrhage and was rushed to the Royal Infirmary as an emergency case. Lizzie had to summon help immediately from Auntie Ina, who had no choice but to make hurried arrangements for our care. As a result, George was put into Armistead Home while she accompanied me to Duncarse.
I remember we took a tramcar then walked along the Perth Road to the large imposing-looking building. At least it looked large to my eyes, this severe house set in its own grounds. I think she did tell me that my stay was merely a stopover until she could contact Grandad, but to be truthful I didn’t take much notice at the time, mainly because my mind was on the small dolly she had bought in Woolworths before boarding the tram. Because of this inattention my first clear memory of the home was traumatic. Memory can be selective, and for some reason the first thing I can recall about the place is awaking the following morning in the strange narrow bed that resembled Grandad’s bed at home.
I was wearing a long scratchy nightgown and the sheets weren’t the cosy flannelette ones we had but stiffly starched linen, white and cold and slippery. The room was quite large, with a window that let in long fingers of watery sunlight which spread like a yellow stain over the dark green linoleum. A row of beds faced me. There was also a strange alien smell of antiseptic everywhere, even on the thin threadbare blankets. Surrounded by all this unknown territory I reacted by bursting into tears. My flood of loud rasping sobs seemed to disgust a small boy in the opposite bed.
He sat up and surveyed my distress with a mixture of annoyance and glee. A young nurse hurried in, no doubt anxious to trace the source of all the howling.
‘It’s the new lassie, nurse,’ said the boy, ‘She won’t stop greetin.’
‘Eh can hear her, Jimmy, without you giving me a running commentary.’
She stood at the foot of the bed and frowned. She had a round, well-scrubbed face which looked pink and flushed and her hands smelled strongly of carbolic soap. She lifted me from this alien bed and ushered me into an equally alien bathroom. It was a starkly clinical, white-tiled place and the linoleum felt cold under my bare feet. Soon we were joined by a clutch of small children, the residents of the other beds no doubt. They moved dutifully over to the washbasins.
‘Get washed – and mind and do behind your ears and your neck,’ said the nurse, looking at Jimmy, who grimaced but did as he was told. After she left I burst into another flood of tears.
‘What’s the matter with you now?’ asked Jimmy, in a strange grown-up and cynical voice.
‘Eh want my mum and grandad!’ I cried. Large wet globules of tears ran down my face and on to the coarse material of the nightgown, leaving large, wet splodgy splashes.
‘Well, your mother must be dead or you wouldn’t be in here,’ he said.
He sounded so matter-of-fact about death and he wasn’t much older than myself.
‘That’s no true! My mum is in the infirmary,’ I retorted angrily.
I tried hard to recall what Auntie Ina had said but I couldn’t, and the more I tried to remember the conversation on the tramcar the further away and more elusive it became. Jimmy gazed at me thoughtfully for a moment, his thin childish face tinged by a sharp, world-weary expression that for years after I remembered with sadness.
‘That’s what they tell you,’ he said darkly.
On that alarming note the nurse marched briskly back into the bathroom and glared at my fresh bout of tears.
‘Eh’ll help you get dressed this morning but you have to do it yourself tomorrow.’
As she busied herself with my shoes and socks I could hear the sharp rustling of her starched uniform. Her face looked so stern and I had to choke back fresh sobs when I remembered Grandad’s lovely wrinkled face.
We then all trooped down for breakfast. The room was full of long tables and set out with spoons and cups. A bowl of porridge was set down in front of each of us – a thick stodgy mass with the merest trickle of milk smeared over the grey portion. I had never tasted porridge like it in my life. It was full of hard lumps and so unlike the kind that Grandad made every morning. My first mouthful contained such an enormous lump that I knew there was no way I could ever swallow it. This gooey chunk, that felt like a plug of rubber, stuck to the roof of my mouth and there wasn’t enough milk to wash it down in one gulp. I was sitting next to young girl called Sheila who I later discovered was Jimmy’s sister. She whispered in my ear, ‘You better eat it up and don’t mind about the lumps, because if you don’t eat it now you’ll have to eat it cold for your dinner. And if you don’t eat for your dinner the Matron will make you eat it for your tea.’
‘What? Eat it cold?’ I was appalled at the thought.
‘Aye, you do.’
With this warning in mind, I tried hard to eat as much of the smooth mixture as I could, quickly skimming around the grey lumps like some obstacle course. Then, when I thought no one was looking, I transferred the five or six hard lumpy balls into my hankie. Later on, when we were out in the garden, it was a simple matter to chuck them on the gravel path.
‘What will you do if you have to wipe your nose?’ asked Sheila, gazing at my hankie with its traces of cold congealed porridge still clinging to it.
I didn’t know the answer to that question but I felt this was the least of my worries. What I did know was that I would sooner wipe my nose on the sleeve of my jumper than eat the revolting porridge.
Later that night the nurse watched over us as we all crawled into bed. But not before we said our prayers. I knelt on the cold floor by the side of the bed, feeling close once more to tears at the thought of being alone and abandoned. I began to recite, �
�God bless Mum and Grandad and George, Auntie Ina and Lizzie.’ Then I remembered my unknown father and I included him in the list.
‘Where is your dad?’ asked the nurse. ‘Is he a soldier?’
I shook my head and kept my voice at a whisper.
‘No, he works in a boatyard.’
I didn’t want Jimmy to overhear as he would tell me Dad was dead as well as Mum. Although I didn’t entirely believe him, on the other hand I didn’t disbelieve him either. The bed was hard and cold, not like our squashy bed at home. I tucked my head under the blanket and prayed hard to Jesus to let Grandad come and rescue me. Then we heard the wailing sound of the air-raid siren.
The nurse rushed in and darted from bed to bed, getting us all on our feet. I suppose Duncarse Home must have been adequately provided with shelters in the grounds but for some reason that night we were all herded into the bathroom. As we crouched under the wash-hand basins I could feel the damp coldness from the tiled wall seep through my nightdress. I had always been frightened by the eerie wail of the siren at other times but on that particular night I could only recall being bored. My grandstand view of the basin’s u-bend did nothing to dispel this feeling. Then the nurse began to sing. ‘There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover.’
Her clear soprano voice was richly resonant in the small confines of the bathroom. Our thin childish voices joined in but I couldn’t keep my teeth from chattering. When we reached the line about Jimmy going to sleep in his own little room, I looked at him and he was crying. He quickly dashed the tears away as if realising that boys didn’t cry but his eyes remained wet. It was then I wondered if he would ever go home with his sister again. Muffled whispers came from the boys. ‘Eh wish Eh could be outside to see the Jerry planes,’ said one.
Jimmy made the sound of a Spitfire plane. ‘Vroom! Vroom! Vroom! When Eh’m older Eh’m going to be a pilot.’
‘So am Eh,’ said the first boy eloquently.
As I listened to the dreams and hopes of Jimmy and his pal I wondered if I would ever become resigned to this terrible place and if I had really been abandoned. I doubted it.
After what seemed like hours but was only thirty minutes according to the nurse, the all-clear sounded and we all trooped back to bed. I dreaded the thought of the coming morning and the spectre of the porridge loomed large. Most of all I still couldn’t understand why I had been left there. I sobbed quietly, pressing my face into the pillow and soaking it as a result. But I didn’t care about the lecture that would follow in the morning. I just didn’t care.
I fell into a fitful sleep until the middle of the night when I realised I had to go to the toilet. The routine at home was simple. Either Mum walked with me across the lobby to our toilet or else I used the large potty which was kept in case Mum was fast asleep. But I was now in this strange new environment and although I knew my way to the bathroom I didn’t relish the thought of making my way in the dark. Still, I knew I couldn’t wet the bed so I had no choice but to slip my feet on to the cold ground. The room was full of dark shadows and strange sounds. I heard a small voice crying for his mother and I stopped, my heart full of dread and sadness at our shared loss of mums and grandads. Then nature urged me towards the door of the bathroom and I quietly tiptoed towards it.
At the window I pulled aside the curtain and saw a moon peeping out behind scurrying clouds. Being well aware not to show a light during the blackout hours I made my way to the toilet with the help of this watery moon, making sure I pulled the curtain tightly closed again. I wondered if I should flush the toilet but decided against it. If one of the nurses heard it then they would come rushing in and I would get another telling-off. I had overheard two of them discussing my neverending crying and I hadn’t liked what they said. ‘That bairn will have tae settle down some time. Eh’ve never met such a crabbit child before.’
At first I didn’t realise they were discussing me until I saw them both look over at me. I was miffed. I wasn’t crabbit, merely bewildered at my abandonment. Did children ever accept this I wondered. Was I the odd one out?
The next morning brought another ordeal with the porridge. I was in the process of transferring one of the hard lumps to my hankie when one of the assistants noticed. She marched over and stood behind me, her arms crossed over her ample breasts and her face like granite. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Faced by this wrath I had no option but to tell the truth.
She came round to the opposite side of the table and stared at me, her face red with anger. ‘Well, now you’ll just eat that porridge like the rest of us.’
She stared as I skimmed the smoother parts on to my spoon, which like the previous day was a big mistake on my part. I was now left with six lumpy balls and hardly any milk. She glared at me and I was forced to put one in my mouth where it stuck firmly to the roof of my mouth. There was no way I could swallow it.
‘Eat it up!’ she shouted.
I put another two in my mouth and then realised I was choking. The glutinous mass was immovable and I couldn’t breathe. My face must have turned blue because she ran for a jug of milk and literally poured it down my throat. Milk dribbled down my chin and spilled on to the front of my frock, but the porridge wouldn’t budge even with this waterfall of liquid. I was pulled from my seat and taken to the bathroom where I was sick. The staff all glared at me as if this whole horrible incident was my fault. No one thought of blaming the cook, who obviously couldn’t make porridge properly. I was marched back to my seat in disgrace and scores of eyes watched me. Some, no doubt, felt sympathy but the rest looked gleeful.
The assistant who had started it all muttered to her colleague. ‘That bairn has been well and truly spoiled. A good skelp on her erse would do her the world of good.’
I didn’t think I was spoiled. I knew Grandad doted on me and I felt the same about him but where was he? And Mum and George? Young as I was, I knew I could never settle in there. Never in a million years.
The breakfasts must have improved because I can’t recall any more hassle from then on. But still there were tears and unhappiness and I felt I would never see my family ever again. Perhaps Jimmy was right. Maybe Mum had died in the infirmary and Grandad was too busy looking after George. Maybe he didn’t have time for me any more.
But time wore on and after what seemed like years Grandad came to take me home. He was the most welcome sight I had seen since I entered this awful place. Seemingly he had come straight from the station when he heard of my plight, not even taking time to stop for a cup of tea. The Matron was telling him about my bad behaviour, how I wouldn’t eat and wouldn’t stop crying. Grandad was very pleasant with her, nodding his head as if agreeing, but he held my hand tightly as we walked out of the front door towards freedom. The nightmare of the home was now receding with every step I took and I could even survey the lumps of decaying porridge amongst the gravel with a kind of amusement.
‘Grandad, why was Eh left in that awfy place for years and years?’
He laughed heartily. ‘Years and years was it? Don’t be daft! You’ve just been there for a week.’
A week! I couldn’t believe it. It had certainly felt like years and years to me.
He was talking about George. ‘Eh think we’ll leave the bairn where he is in the meantime. He’ll no ken where he is but you on the other hand were no behaving, were you?’
I gazed at him with tear-filled eyes, ready to launch into my tales of woe, but he chuckled. ‘Och, Eh don’t think Eh would like to be in there myself.’
He squeezed my hand and suddenly life was happy again.
We caught a tramcar to the foot of the Hilltown and made our way up the steep slope.
‘Eh think we’ll have our dinner in Edmond’s café,’ said Grandad. ‘It’ll save me cooking.’
Edmond’s restaurant at 37 Hilltown was part café, part takeaway, and was extremely popular with the residents of the surrounding tenements. At dinnertime there was always a long queue of women and
children clutching large jugs, waiting their turn to have them filled to the brim with the speciality of the shop, a thick hot broth. This ready-made soup was a boon to the workers, especially the millworkers who had little time to make anything as nutritious as Edmond’s broth.
But our destination that day was the small seated area of the shop, which meant we had to stand in a queue. This café didn’t cater for fancy Cordon Bleu tastes but there was always the most delicious aroma wafting out of the small kitchen. The menu never varied from day to day. There was broth, mashed potatoes with a thick beefy gravy poured over them and semolina served with half a tumbler of milk. By the time we sat down to this ambrosial meal, I had left Duncarse Home far behind me. However, in the evening, I remembered Jimmy and Sheila. I mentioned Jimmy’s theory to Grandad.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he said, ‘if their parents were dead then surely they would be living in the orphanage. They wouldn’t be in Duncarse. No, Eh think their mother is maybe in the hospital. Just like your mum.’
This explanation suited me because I felt guilty leaving them behind in that terrible place. I snuggled down in the feathery depths of our lumpy mattress, watching the firelight cast flickering shadows on the wall and listening to Grandad as he pottered around the kitchen. He had filled the stone puggy hot-water container and it now nestled cosily at my feet. I felt so happy to be home that my emotion threatened to erupt from my body and shower fragmented pieces of happiness into the air like droplets of joy. I believed in Grandad so much that I never doubted his explanation about Sheila and Jimmy and I hoped they would soon be home again, like me.
Lizzie appeared briefly the next morning to give Grandad the latest bulletin on Mum’s progress. It was then arranged that the three of us would visit Mum that afternoon as it was a Sunday. It was raining heavily, so I had to put on my wellie boots and a thick smelly raincoat with a matching hat. In its heyday, the outfit had been a fetching yellow but Grandad had bought it from a second-hand shop and it was now well past its best. I detested wearing it. I hated the awful ochre colour and its smell but as Grandad’s word was law I had no choice.
Voices in the Street Page 3
