Voices in the Street

by Maureen Reynolds

  Another tragedy which happened almost on the eve of war ending was the death of Sylvia. Always a headstrong girl, she had been running around the edge of one of the gigantic water containers that were placed strategically around the city. The contents of these man-made ponds were to be used in the event of fire caused by bombing. It seems that she slipped and fell in and, although a young man risked his life to jump in and save her, she had broken her neck in the accident. Shock waves ran round the street and no one could take in this terrible event, especially after Wilma’s early death in 1943.

  Cathie was inconsolable and I don’t think I ever went back to her house. Perhaps I reminded her too much of her daughter who was the same age as me. Who knows? Mum kept in touch with her old friend but I was never asked along, so I never saw again the sunny kitchen or the gloomy parlour or the beautiful doll. I still had my darkie doll with its kiltie out-fit as sole reminder of a happier time.

  One night I overheard Mum talking to Lizzie. ‘Maureen was always with Sylvia and, if it had happened through the week, then Eh’m sure Eh would be without my lassie as well.’

  As it was, the accident had happened on a Saturday evening. I think she was wrong with that statement because I don’t think I would ever have played so close to water as I was always wary of it. My last clear memory of Sylvia was of her standing on top of a wall like some conquering hero, defiant, bold and totally fearless. Poor Sylvia!

  Still, on this festive night, nothing could really restrain the relieved and happy feeling that it was all over at last. The city councillors announced that Dundee would hold a Civic Week in honour of the ending of hostilities. Various events were planned, ranging from the planned release of thousands of homing pigeons to the planting of a white, flowering cherry tree in the City Church’s garden.

  I don’t recall ever seeing any of these events but that may have been because they were held during the day when I was at school and Mum was at the mill. We did manage, however, to visit the Electric Wonder Show which was held in the electricity showrooms in Commercial Street. This exhibition was full of the latest wonders of technology, including a photoelectric cell that opened doors without the aid of the human hand. It was a bit like the story of Ali Baba and his ‘Open Sesame’. Although this is commonplace today, in 1945 there was a tinge of magic about this and other wonders on show, especially as the majority of houses in Dundee were still lit by gas-lamps.

  Another visit during this special week was a trip to the museum and art gallery. Along with Lizzie we joined a motley mass who were intent in putting some culture into their workaday and mundane lives. We gazed solemnly at the old pictures of florid-cheeked and fierce-looking men with bushy beards and stern eyes, the tall, statuesque women in full-length satin dresses or the dramatic scenes of the sea, all encased in their ornate gilt frames.

  Without casting doubt on the grandeur of these old paintings I much preferred the Egyptian Room. This time capsule set at the back of the museum contained a wonderful 2,000-year-old mummy and sarcophagus. There were also various weird-looking artefacts from the Land of the Nile as well as a glorious panel inscribed with indecipherable hieroglyphics. George, on the other hand, loved the row of microscopes that showed the greatly enlarged remains of a dead flea or something equally repulsive.

  These events, wonderful as they all were, paled into insignificance beside the best thing on show, namely the captured German U-boat which lay in the calm, oily waters of Victoria Dock. Mum took us to see it one Sunday evening, a dismally damp and dreary sort of night that blended well with the darkly sinister, tube-shaped submarine. We joined a large crowd that stood haphazardly along the stone wharf, all gazing in awe at the boat as it lay in the murky, scummy waters of the harbour. I think it was open to the public but on that particular night no one seemed keen to go and inspect the interior. We all seemed happy to be standing at a safe distance as mere spectators.

  One wee middle-aged woman next to us gave an exaggerated shudder as she turned to speak to her equally small and mild-looking husband. ‘Eh don’t know how folk can go under the water in a wee poky thing like that! It would make me sick being all cramped up.’

  The man pulled himself up to his full five feet four inches and swaggeringly replied, ‘Och, it’s no as bad as that. Eh wouldn’t mind going on one.’

  His wife gazed at him in open-mouthed disbelief. ‘You?’ she emphasised loudly, ‘You go in one of these wee things? Don’t make me laugh. Heavens! You don’t like crossing tae Newport on the “Fifie”.’ (A ‘Fifie’ was the flat-bottomed paddle steamer that crossed the Firth of Tay.)

  As for me, I was torn between my natural nosiness to see inside this sinister submarine and my fear that the German crew were perhaps still on board.

  George had no such qualms. ‘Eh want tae see the Jerries!’ he cried. ‘Will there be any sailors on it?’

  Mum, who was unsure if the boat was still manned by the German navy, tried to keep him quiet. ‘Will you be quiet? Just mind that we’re no at war with the Germany now.’

  With that thought in mind we stood in the midst of the spectators, watching the greasy water lap gently against the smooth hull of the boat, spreading watery circles of shimmering iridescence with every wave. These patches of oil were like miniature entrapped rainbows as they swirled around the captured submarine. We all marvelled that this vessel, which, in the not-too-distant past had been one of Hitler’s famed fleet, now lay peacefully at anchor in this Dundee backwater.

  Soon another treat to celebrate victory was suggested by Mrs Doyle. ‘Let’s have a big street party! We can have it on a Saturday providing the weather is fine.’

  She went round the entire street to drum up support for this great idea and the majority of neighbours promised to help with a contribution towards the party. The children could hardly contain their rising excitement in the days leading up to the great event and when the day finally dawned we were blessed with sunshine. We hung about in tight little groups watching the frenzied activity.

  Tables and chairs were negotiated down the steep spiral staircases and laid in a long line on the sun-dappled pavement. The women spread a kaleidoscope of tablecloths that were as diverse as the thirty-year-old damask cloth that had been a wedding gift, the gorgeous multi-coloured embroidered one and the well-used green bordered one that Mum donated.

  The plates were stacked with a variety of succulent sandwiches that were filled with scrambled dried egg, fish paste and that other American delicacy, Spam. There were also plates containing a superb selection of fairy cakes, each one topped in coloured water icing that ranged from a vivid shocking pink to a barely discernible and anaemic-looking white.

  It was a great adventure and even the tea tasted different in the open air with the soft breeze wafting over the surface and making delightful wavy patterns in the cup. Mrs Doyle, who had been the galvanising spirit behind this successful venture, then produced her speciality: toffee apples. There was one for each child and everyone marvelled at her expertise in managing to produce these delicious treats. I sat on an ancient and scuffed kitchen chair, feeling the red Rexene seat grow hotter by the minute in the warm sunshine and bit into this completely novel confection which was perched on top of a thin rough stick. The toffee had a slightly burnt taste and the apple was green and sour but it was wonderful. Biting through the brittle carcass into the fleshy pulp of the apple was a taste experience that I had never had before and I thought the gods themselves could ask for nothing better.

  Afterwards when the plates were empty and the tables had that forlorn look of having been ravaged by a horde of hungry ants, we decided to play games. A tiring wheelbarrow race soon left us all pink-faced and perspiring. While the children romped around in an orgy of delighted shrieks and howls, the adults sat on their chairs and gossiped about the better times that surely lay ahead.

  ‘What a braw feeling it’ll be when we can throw our ration books away,’ said Lizzie with a faraway look in her eyes. It was as if she could
already visualise the better life. Mrs Doyle had other priorities in mind.

  ‘Well, Eh hope they take the clothes off the ration soon. What a great boon that would be with five lassies to keep clad!’

  ‘Eh’ll be glad no to hear that awfy siren going off. What an eerie wail it is and going down to the shelter wasn’t much fun,’ said Mum, before confessing ‘mind you, we haven’t been in the shelter for ages.’

  Air raid shelters had been provided for the residents of our street in the drying green at 96 Hilltown but because Mum had made up her mind at the start of the war not to use them, George and I had never been inside one.

  ‘If we’re going to be bombed Eh want to be in my bed and no in some dark, wet shelter,’ Mum had said. Perhaps this philosophy would have been different if we had lived in one of the many towns that had seen the horror of bombing. Clydeside had been razed to the ground and the newspapers had reported with black-and-white clarity the terrible carnage inflicted on the residents during the ghastly blitz of 1941. The papers had also reported the full extent of the twenty-four random raids on Dundee but it would seem that we were lucky to have escaped the same fate as Clydeside, London, Coventry and numerous other cities.

  One incident in Dundee which caused a fatality was when a bomb landed on Rosefield Street, sliced through a tenement and killed one woman. Other raids included one which demolished a bungalow in Marchfield Road and a bomb which fell on Taybank Works in Arbroath Road. On that occasion a stone wall deflected the blast away from the workers who were huddled in their shelter.

  By now most of the children had grown tired of running around and we sat and listened to the grown-ups’ conversation.

  Mum recalled an incident in 1944. ‘Do you mind the awfy night when that Nazi plane flew low over the Wellgate?’

  The women nodded while I remembered it vividly. That April evening, Mum had taken us to the pictures at the King’s Cinema in the Cowgate and we were walking home when we heard the ominous drone of a low-flying plane overhead. For a few heart-stopping minutes the homeward-bound crowd stood in amazement before darting for cover in all directions. Mum was carrying George but she quickly threw the edge of her coat over my head and roughly pushed me into a pend at the foot of the Wellgate. As we ran I lifted the coat and peered upwards. The plane was so low that it was clearly outlined in the sky and the echoing, staccato sound from its machine gun was somehow unreal but still very frightening. After what seemed like hours the plane flew towards the coast and we rejoined the shocked crowds who had moments earlier been pouring out of the cinema.

  The rumours were rife the following morning and they ranged from the bizarre to the hilarious. The popular version was that it was shot down in the Stannergate, but one of Mum’s workmates, Big Bella, had heard the story that the pilot had parachuted into someone’s back garden and had got entangled with a line of washing. Everybody found this very funny but no one believed it. In spite of the rumours that were bandied about, the undisputed fact was that the plane had flown low over the Hilltown and Wellgate area and windows were broken in the Hilltown and also Caldrum Street. A piece of fragmented shell was found in Henderson’s Garage in Strathmartine Road.

  There was a similar incident twelve days later when another lone plane flew briefly overhead before heading out to sea. Although the first incident lasted only a few moments it did make Mum think twice before she ever maligned another ARP warden.

  She confessed as much that day of the party. ‘When Eh think how Eh made such a stushie about a blackout curtain one night when my dad was alive! Now Eh can see what an important job they do.’

  Lizzie gave a shiver. ‘And just be thankful that the awfy buzz bombs didn’t reach as far as here.’

  She shivered again, but it was hard to tell whether this was because of the thought of the Germans’ dreadful invention, the doodlebug, or because the sun had slid silently behind a black cloud. Then someone started to sing ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ and we all joined in with the chorus. As the last note died away a heavy feeling of sadness descended on the company. It was as if we all suddenly realised that it was only by the grace of God that we were not among the multitude of war casualties.

  The depression was lifted by Mrs Doyle who announced, ‘Let’s have more games to cheer us up!’

  This suggestion was met with a flurry of feet as the children all jumped up, soon throwing themselves into a rumbustious three-legged race. After an hour of this gaiety the moment then arrived when we had to dismantle the tables. When the furniture and teacloths had been returned to their respective households and the various tea sets had all been washed and stacked away in kitchen cupboards or the display cabinet, it was time to reflect on the day’s glorious happenings.

  The street party had been a resounding success. In fact, it was the unanimous decision that it had been one of the happiest days that most of us could recall. The talk turned to the thorny situation of rationing. ‘Never mind,’ said Lizzie, ‘It’ll soon be over.’

  Mum decided to remove the blackout curtain the day after the party and I was roped in to help. We stood on the wooden coal bunker with a blunt kitchen knife each and tried to prise loose the row of strong tacks that held the fabric firmly to the wooden roller.

  Mum looked sad. ‘Eh mind when your grandad put this curtain up. We couldn’t think how to do it until he had the bright idea of making it into a blind.’

  I felt a lump in my throat and tears gathered in my eyes at the mention of Grandad. I wished with all my heart that he could be with us now that the war was over. There was so much we could have done together and never a day went past when I didn’t think of him or our wonderful outings. After a great deal of tugging at the deeply embedded tacks and a lot of annoyed mutterings from us both, the black fabric suddenly came free and landed in a sorry-looking and dilapidated heap at our feet.

  Mum picked up the curtain, inspected it and gave a deep sigh. ‘What a blessing the war ended when it did because this curtain is finished.’

  What had been a thick and substantial piece of material at the start of the war was now threadbare and well patched. It was fit only for the dustbin but Mum folded it carefully. ‘This is all that remains of your grandad’s war,’ she said sadly. ‘Eh think we’ll keep it.’

  It was carefully placed in a drawer like some revered tapestry or painting. Grandad’s blackout blind … we both cried.

  We weren’t the only ones throwing off the shackles of war. Auntie Ina was hoping to join Pierre, her husband, in France soon while her sister Alice was waiting for her husband, Jock, to be demobbed from the Marines. Lizzie’s son, George, appeared home from the fighting.

  I was in the street one day when she called me in to find a young man was sitting in the armchair. ‘This is my laddie back from the war,’ she said proudly. ‘He’s brought you something back.’

  George was tall and thin with dark hair. He looked really young and not at all like some of the world-weary exservicemen who were appearing daily on the streets. I stood gazing shyly at this newcomer while he brought forward a small suitcase.

  ‘Now shut your eyes for a minute,’ Lizzie told me, ‘and you’ll get a present.’

  I hopped about in excitement with my hands over my eyes until Lizzie told me to look. George had opened the suitcase to reveal the top layer covered entirely with chocolate bars. I was mesmerised and speechless.

  Lizzie smiled at the wonder on my face. ‘You can have one bar for you and one for your brother.’

  I hovered over the open case, completely dazzled and unable to make a choice.

  ‘Well, hurry up!’ said Lizzie. ‘We don’t have the entire day tae gawk into a suitcase.’

  After a great deal of deliberation I finally chose two Mars Bars. When I took them upstairs, George and I gazed at them for ages, unwilling to eat this wonderful chocolate too quickly in case we had to wait another five years before getting another one. I sniffed it as the wrapper came off and I have to admit that even to this day I sm
ell chocolate before eating it.

  Lizzie had accompanied me to the house. She said it was to see the pleasure on our faces but I suspected that she was making sure I handed over one bar to George and didn’t scoff the lot.

  Later, while we devoured the chocolate, Mum and Lizzie chattered about the demobilisation of the servicemen. ‘Och, it’s a braw feeling to have my laddie home at last,’ sighed Lizzie.

  She glanced over at George who was now sitting with a dark-brown ring around his mouth. ‘Will you look at the wee soul covered in chocolate! He looks like Al Jolson in one of his “Mammy” pictures.’

  She picked him up, took out her handkerchief and proceeded to wipe away the brown ring. While she cleaned his face, she turned to me. ‘Well, did you enjoy that?’

  To be quite honest, I had enjoyed it so much that mere words could never convey the intense pleasure I had derived from this unexpected treat. Although we had received some sweeties from our coupons over the last five years, nothing had ever matched the taste I had just experienced.

  ‘Oh, Eh did, Lizzie. Thank you,’ was all I could say.

  At the end of that week Mum had her usual visit from some of her workmates at the mill. Mum always looked forward to these visits because it gave the women a chance to gossip over a cup of tea. Because of the noisy chatter of the looms in the mill it was impossible to have a normal conversation at work and the weavers, winders and spinners resorted to sign language, a language unfortunately also understood by the gaffer. This group of women comprised Big Bella, Nell and Nan. Big Bella lived in Norrie’s Pend with her five grown-up children and a lazy husband who lavished all his care on his two whippets that shared the small, squashed accommodation with the family.