Voices in the Street

by Maureen Reynolds

  Mum was undecided about going to the reception, mainly because of the cost. Our faithful old alarm clock had stopped working a few weeks before and Mum had taken out a Provident cheque to buy another one and the ‘tickie man’ (the man from the Provident who came to collect payments) called every Friday evening. We had tried to do without a clock but Mum was worried about sleeping in for her work. At first she had employed the services of Annie, the ‘chapper-up’, who, for the sum of a few pennies a week, would stand under the window and either shout, tap the window with a long stick or fling a handful of small stones to rouse people from their beds.

  Annie was a true eccentric. Dressed in her own brand of ankle-length coat that had no help from Dior and her shabby boots, she was well known around the Hilltown. She obviously owned a grand alarm clock because she was always on time with her chapping-up. On the Monday morning we were wakened by a loud knock on the window and, completely forgetting our new wake-up call arrangement, thought the house had been hit by an earthquake. Mum leapt out of bed but by this time Annie was already halfway up the Hilltown with her long stick. After a week of this, Mum decided that a shilling a week was a small price to pay for another timepiece.

  The alternative was risking being late at the mill and finding the gate shut. This would result in your wages being quartered and if you were regularly late this would make quite a dent in the weekly take home pay.

  Mum was telling Nan all our troubles, especially the financial reasons for turning the wedding invitation down. ‘It’ll mean the three of us getting rigged out,’ she complained.

  Surprisingly, Nan brushed this enormous barrier aside. ‘Just you go, Molly, and enjoy yourself for once. After all it’s the summer and the bairns can wear their sandals and something cheap and summery.’

  When she viewed it from this angle Mum had to agree that the expense could perhaps be kept to the bare minimum. George had joined the local company of the Boys’ Brigade and although Mr Eggo, the leader, had said that any kind of apparel was suitable, Mum had managed to kit him out in a grey flannel suit, complete with short trousers. This meant he had something decent to wear. Mum decided to get her costume from the closet. Although quite a few years old it had hardly been worn, so that was her outfit dealt with. That only left me.

  With Nan’s words ringing in her ears about putting some enjoyment back into her life, Mum and I set off for the Star Stores. This was a credit shop, with a range limited to whatever stock was available. If they didn’t have what you wanted then that was tough luck, as we were about to discover. Some of the older people in the street frowned on any kind of credit, stating quite bluntly that they preferred to pay cash for everything and being extremely proud of this motto. Mum always said that paying a small amount every week was the only way we could afford even the bare essentials.

  Top of Mum’s list was a wedding present for the young couple and as soon as we entered the shop she spotted a kettle with a copper base. ‘Just ideal!’ she said and it was quickly wrapped up. A new shirt was quickly chosen to go with George’s suit and Mum reckoned a new blouse and perhaps a pair of stockings would be sufficient for her. We were fair rocketing around the store and Mum was smiling at the speed of our purchases.

  But then there was me and I was a different story. I must have been in the middle of a growing stage because my meagre wardrobe at home consisted of a few well-worn frocks that were too short. The hems had been let down time and time again until there was no material left. Also, my sandals were old and scruffy with nearly all the original colour scraped away to reveal the scuffed leather backing.

  In search of an outfit for me we approached the glass-topped counter and the middle-aged woman who hove into view. ‘Can I be of assistance, madam?’ she enquired, her head tilted to one side and her hands clasped together as if in prayer. She had a thin colourless face that wasn’t enhanced by the severe-looking hairstyle. Her grey hair was pulled back into a giant doughnut of a bun at the nape of her neck.

  Mum looked grateful. ‘Eh’m looking for a frock and a pair of sandals for my lassie.’

  The colourless creature surveyed me with a screwed-up face and pursed mouth, as if I had crawled into her view from under a stone.

  ‘Well, that’s difficult, madam,’ she observed in her posh voice. ‘You see, your little girl is in what we term in the dress trade an in-between size, which means she is too big for the children’s sizes and too small for the adults’ range.’ She gave a little titter as if something had amused her then moved over to a rack at the side of the counter. ‘She can try this one on. It should just fit her but there won’t be any growing room in it.’

  I groaned inwardly when I heard the dreaded words ‘growing room’ and could visualise myself at Margaret’s lovely wedding dressed in something overlong and horribly old-fashioned.

  Mum looked dubiously at the proffered blue frock with its smocked bodice. It seemed pretty skimpy. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much material in it and Eh don’t think it’ll fit,’ said Mum.

  The assistant immediately leapt to the defence of the frock, as if Mum had cast a slur on it. ‘It’s got the Utility label,’ she pointed out, turning the garment inside out to show us the black printed mark.

  Mum now realised she had upset the woman’s feelings by casting doubt on the quality of the frock. To my mind it looked cheap and tatty. ‘Och, Eh know it has,’ she said, ‘but what Eh’m saying is that Eh don’t think it’ll fit her.’

  We had now been in the store for over an hour and Mum was becoming fed up with the lack of stock in the children’s department. The assistant, who was now decidedly miffy with us, placed the blue dress back on the rack. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve nothing in stock in a bigger size,’ she sniffed ‘Try upstairs in the ladies’ section.’

  Mum decided to buy my sandals first and leave the dress till later. We sat on comfy chairs with my foot on a small foot gauge. A young girl was busy serving two fat women who sat opposite. She didn’t seem to be making much headway because a dozen shoeboxes were strewn around the floor.

  ‘Well, the foot gauge says you’re a size six and not a size five, madam,’ said the girl, showing the evidence to the clearly unconvinced customer.

  ‘Away you go!’ the woman replied. ‘Eh’ve never been a size six in my life. Have Eh, Ina?’ she demanded of her companion.

  Ina agreed with her. ‘No you haven’t, Jem, but maybe the war has made your feet bigger. You ken, with all the walking we’ve had to do?’ She seemed completely confident in this unlikely theory and it did the trick with her pal.

  ‘Och, Eh never thought of that. In that case, Eh’ll take a size six but Eh don’t like any of these shoes. Can you show some more from the back shop?’

  The young girl didn’t go to the back shop but climbed a ladder to root around on the topmost shelves.

  Mum muttered under her breath. ‘For heaven’s sake! We’ll be here all day and we haven’t bought everything yet.’

  Fortunately for us, the assistant didn’t have any more stock and the two women left in a cloud of disgruntled moans. ‘Eh’ll be glad when these shortages are over. Maybe we’ll get a decent pair of shoes then.’

  Luckily, the first pair of sandals shown to us fitted and the girl wrapped them up. There was still my frock to find but the selection offered and tried on made me look like a series of thirty-year-old midgets. I was glad when Mum shook her head at each one. ‘No, we’ll just have tae leave it till another time,’ she decided.

  I was almost beside myself with misery and Mum didn’t help by suggesting that she could maybe sew a band of contrasting rickrack braid around the let-down hem of one of my frocks.

  ‘But Eh’ll look awfy at the wedding!’ I wailed, feeling quite sorry for myself.

  Mainly because of the length of time we had spent in the shop, Mum snapped impatiently. ‘Look! It’s no you that the folk will be looking at. It’s the bride’s day – don’t forget. It’s no Maureen Macdonald’s day. Eh’ll have to go in my old
costume or have you forgotten that?’

  On that note, the subject was closed. I seriously considered pretending to be ill on the big day so I wouldn’t have to wear the horrible let-down frock.

  Then, out of the blue, a wonderful stroke of luck came my way via Mrs Knight. I had received a couple of frocks from her in the past which she was sent by some relative in America. Fortunately, one came a week before the wedding. It was lovely. It had blue ribbons and pink rosebuds printed over the cotton surface and it was edged with deep-blue braid.

  To say I was happy was an understatement. ‘Imagine Mrs Knight getting a frock from America that just happened tae fit Maureen!’ Mum remarked to Lizzie. ‘She’s got the luck of the devil.’

  Lizzie was pleased by my good fortune but, according to her, clothing problems were universal. ‘Margaret’s mother is in the same boat. She’s just about going barmy with all the bother of getting everybody rigged out. Still, Eh’ve managed tae get a new costume from Style and Mantle at the foot of the Wellgate.’

  In spite of my agonies of anticipation, the day of the wedding dawned bright and sunny. For some reason which I can’t recall, we didn’t go to the church but caught the number 17 bus to the Albert Hall for the reception. A photographer was standing at the door looking flustered and out of breath. He had just arrived from the church where he had taken photos of the bridal party and now he was waiting to take some more. When we arrived he indicated that he would snap us but Mum held up her hand in protest. ‘Don’t bother about us.’

  He wouldn’t take no for an answer so we lined up beside the hall railings, looking like three refugees. I was secretly pleased because it meant that my new American frock was now being recorded for posterity.

  Then the bride and groom arrived along with their families. The bride looked lovely in her long white satin dress and filmy veil. She carried an enormous bouquet of flowers and long trails of greenery cascaded like a miniature bush in front of her dress, completely concealing the skirt.

  We hardly recognised Lizzie. Her floral pinny and cotton turban were replaced by a smart navy-blue costume, sensible-looking navy shoes and a plain felt hat. She was obviously proud of this transformation and as she swept past us she leaned towards Mum and said, ‘Eh’m looking right swanky, eh?’

  Mum, who looked swanky as well in her plum-coloured suit, agreed. ‘You can say that again, Lizzie. You look like a toff and Eh’m no kidding you.’

  We all filed into the hall behind the bride and groom. This large room had long trestle tables laid out. A small group of waitresses in their sombre black outfits and tiny white aprons stood against the wall looking like a row of penguins at the zoo. They waited patiently while the bridal party and guests sat down.

  A stout man sat down next to Mum and remarked, ‘Eh’m starving! Eh could eat a horse.’

  He wasn’t the only one. We had been looking forward with great anticipation to the wonderful wedding meal and it came as a shock when the plates were placed in front of us.

  The children were given half-portions of corned beef, so thinly sliced that it was possible to see the surface of the plate through it, a spoonful of peas and a small mound of mashed potatoes. The adults fared slightly better, being served the gourmet delight of one whole slice of corned beef and a slightly bigger portion of potatoes. This tiny meal was scoffed in moments and a few people, the stout man included, thought that seconds would be forthcoming. Nothing materialised, however.

  The pudding was jelly, topped with mock cream and a cup of tea was served to accompany the speeches. Mum gave us a sharp look that warned us not to fidget or complain of feeling hungry in our usual loud whispers. So we sat upright on the hard chairs and let the voices wash over us. There was still the sight of the wonderful three-tiered wedding cake to take my mind off the boring speeches and I longed for the time when it would be cut and we could all have a wedge of it. The bride and groom stood at its side with a sharp knife and I almost drooled in anticipation. Then, to my utter dismay, the three-tiered cake was lifted in the air and placed on a side table, leaving behind, like an orphan in the storm, a tiny iced cake no bigger than a dinner plate. The fancy three-tiered creation was merely a dummy, placed over the small cake for the photographs! I was almost in tears.

  At seven o’clock, during a lull in the dancing, Mum went over and wished the happy couple a prosperous life together. She then said her cheerios to Lizzie who was still panting after a dance with the stout man at our table. We then headed for home. I was sent post-haste to Dellanzo’s chip shop for three pudding suppers and we sat around the table with mugs of tea and our hot meals.

  When Lizzie appeared the next morning Mum told her what a lovely time we had all had. This was true because we had enjoyed the day very much, despite the measly slice of corned beef. Lizzie was annoyed, though. ‘Margaret’s mother was angry with the caterers. The bairns should have had a whole slice of corned beef instead of a half-slice.’

  Mum didn’t mention our feast from Dellanzo’s because she didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. Instead she placed the blame for the wedding meal where she thought it belonged, with the government. ‘It’s these awfy rations, Lizzie. You would think now the war’s over we would be off the ration books. We all thought everything would be plentiful by now but it’s still queuing for this and queuing for that. It’s a bloody disgrace! It’s about time Mr Strachey got himself sorted out in the Ministry of Food and started to get more things in the shops.’

  Back in 1945 when John Strachey stood for Dundee in the General Election we had all chanted, ‘Vote, vote, vote for Mr Strachey! He’s the man to gie you ham and eggs!’ This promise was never fulfilled and things were even getting worse instead of better. He tightened the rations even further, going as far as putting bread on the ration in 1946. An item that had escaped rationing during the darkest days of the war was now also in short supply.

  The papers had been full of complaints from irate housewives but nothing improved. The war’s end seemed ages ago but you wouldn’t have thought it in Britain. Apparently it was all down to the American dollar. All foodstuffs were now purchased with the mighty dollar and Britain didn’t have the dollars to buy from the world market. Also, the starving masses in Europe that had to be fed put a huge strain on everything. Be patient, the government told us, and good times would soon be back.

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Mum, ‘and Eh’m Betty Grable!’

  Lizzie did have a good bit of news. ‘George and Margaret have got a key to the empty house below the Doyles and they’re moving in right away.’

  ‘That is good news, Lizzie,’ said Mum. ‘Eh’ve just been reading about the squatters that are to be evicted. It’s a damn shame!’

  The papers had reported the plight of homeless families and there was a great deal of bitterness over the planned evictions from all the empty properties. These families had moved to Dundee after the war, perhaps from the bombed cities of Clydebank and Glasgow and other places that had got the worst of the blitz, but there were no spare houses to rent.

  ‘You fight for your country and this is how it treats you!’ complained one incensed man when served with his notice to quit his run-down hovel. That was what most of the squatters’ dwellings were, old decrepit flats in almost-derelict buildings.

  The phrase about fighting for your country echoed the mood of the servicemen after the Great War and it would seem that nothing had changed. Go away into danger and perhaps death for five years but don’t bother the Establishment if you survive the fighting, seemed to be the message. This is your eviction notice so out you go.

  Plans were afoot to help combat this chronic housing shortage. Dundee Council passed plans for the erection of portable houses, or prefabs as we called them. These were to be built at Blackshade and Glamis Road, and so it was that Mum’s brother Charlie, his wife Nora and their two girls were allotted a prefab at 199 Glamis Road.

  We went to visit them a week or so after moving in. The houses lay in pri
stine concrete rows, each with its own front and back garden and tiny garden shed. This new architecture was unlike anything ever seen in the city. Stretching out behind this estate was the lush and leafy green splendour of Balgay Park. Compared to the crowded and cramped conditions of the Hilltown this quiet greenness was like another planet. Before reaching our destination, the number 17 bus had taken us on a scenic tour of the Lochee and Ancrum Road districts. It then deposited us on the pavement right in front of an imposing and grand-looking villa.

  George was quite overwhelmed by it all, especially the large house. ‘Does Uncle Charlie live in there?’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ said Mum. ‘He lives across the road in one of those prefabs.’

  Once we were inside the house, Uncle Charlie insisted on showing us around their new domain, pointing out the fitted cupboards and the stove fire with its glass doors. He even went as far as opening the cupboards, much to Auntie Nora’s embarrassment. ‘You’re showing up all my clutter,’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘Well, how will Molly see what a grand house we’ve got if Eh don’t show it off?’ he asked, refusing to be sidetracked.

  Although the house was a funny shape from the outside, the interior was well planned with features well ahead of their time. The kitchen had a space-saving drop-down table but as far as Mum was concerned the jewel in the kitchen had to be the fridge. ‘Och, it must be braw to keep everything cool, Nora. No more sour milk.’ There was a hint of wonder in her voice.

  Nora agreed. ‘Eh can’t think how we managed without it before.’

  My cousins Eleanor and Carolyn ran over and yanked the fridge door open. Inside was a container with a row of sticks protruding from the top. ‘We’ve made iced lollies!’ they announced. They tugged at one of the sticks until a red oblong appeared.