As a result of this logic Mum relented and we were soon connected to the new system, along with three-quarters of the street. To be honest, we didn’t like it. The harsh, yellow 150-watt glare probed every corner of the kitchen including ones that the soft light from the gas had skimmed over, making the kitchen a space of semi-darkness. Now this bright light showed up all the scratches on our old furniture. Mum shook her head and hoped we would soon get used to the new-fangled light just as we had done with the cream-coloured distemper. And that was another thing – the cream walls and the harsh light were a disaster together.
As usual, Cissy had the last word on the new system: ‘What Will and me don’t understand is this – where does this power come from? If it’s in the wires like everybody says it is, what’s to stop us all from getting elocutioned?’
She stopped for a moment to visualise the terrible spectre of electrocution before continuing, ‘No, we’ve made up our minds. We’re keeping the gas because it’s safer. Mark my words.’
As things turned out, Cissy was lucky in not paying for the power line to be put in because, less than a year after its installation, Mrs Farquhar dropped a bombshell on a shocked street. ‘Eh’ve heard that the houses are to be knocked down,’ she announced.
Her window overlooked the drying green of 96 Hilltown and the spare piece of ground that lay beyond this. This tract of land stretched from the Hilltown to Dallfield Walk, the same length as our street, which ran parallel to it. All through our childhood, all the children had played on this site. Foundations had been laid before the start of the war then lain derelict and abandoned for years. This had made it a wonderful place for all our games. Suddenly, this site was now the scene of frenzied activity.
‘The workmen are running around all day with their barrows and the rumour is that our street is to be demolished to make way for more houses,’ said Mrs Farquhar.
Cissy decided to find out the true situation, using the subtle ploy of giving a cup of tea to two men who appeared in the street outside her door. It turned out that the rumour was true and she relayed the information to the pavement meeting. ‘Eh saw these two men looking awfy superstitious like so Eh took them out a pot of tea and asked them what they were wanting.’ She had a worried frown on her round, placid face. ‘Well, the men were from the town planning department and it’s true what Mrs Farquhar says – the street’s to be knocked down and we’re all being transported to the new housing schemes at the back of beyond.’
Everyone gasped in dismay. Mrs Doyle asked Cissy if she was sure she had got the facts straight. Cissy was annoyed by this slur on her storytelling. ‘Of course Eh’m sure!’ she said confidently. ‘That’s what Eh’m telling you. The men were going round eyeing up the street but the plans are going ahead and right facetious they were about the whole thing.’
The ashen-faced women were too worried to laugh at her – all except Lizzie. ‘Do you mean they were officious, Cissy?’ she prompted.
‘That’s what Eh said,’ retorted Cissy who was becoming increasingly annoyed at this attitude to her fact-finding mission. ‘And another thing – Eh don’t think we can flit tae another house because of Will. No with the contraption in his chest.’
Mum was really annoyed. ‘Imagine moving us just after we’ve put the electric light in. One thing’s for sure, Eh can’t afford the big rents that they’re charging for the new houses.’
The new housing schemes, such as Kirkton and Fintry, were being built in the distant countryside on the rural edges of the city. It was true that these lovely houses had all the mod cons like hot water, kitchens and bathrooms, but at a greatly enlarged rent, far more than Mum could ever cope with. Most of the women were worried and hoped that Cissy had somehow got the facts wrong.
But she hadn’t. Within a few weeks, the tenants received official letters saying that demolition would start in a year and that re-housing would begin as soon as houses were available.
Meanwhile, in the midst of all this upheaval, it was announced that Dundee would host the Royal Highland Show at Riverside Park. The organisers were on the lookout for a permanent home for this show and this meant that the city was eager to highlight its assets and abilities. The site was dubbed ‘Canvas City’. We watched all the tents going up as we walked along the Esplanade, marvelling at the progress and purposeful activity. Mum was still worried about the planned moves from the street and she joked about maybe renting a tent at the end of the show.
Unfortunately, a week or so before its opening, disaster struck in the shape of a storm. Gale force winds whipped savagely under the unfinished tents, tearing them to shreds and leaving the site a devastated shambles. Weeks of work had been ruined in a matter of hours but the organisers put on a brave face.
‘We’ll be OK for the opening day,’ they asserted with supreme confidence.
Hordes of Dundonians, including ourselves, converged on the park to view the damage with their own eyes. It was total chaos. The remnants of scattered wooden beams from the collapsed stands lay over the grass while strips of canvas from the ravaged tents hung like cream ribbons on the broken fences. These strips of fabric flapped noisily in the wind like lines of tattered washing.
Yet the newly elected Lord Provost, Mr Richard Fenton, was unbowed when he stated the same as the organisers. Everything would be shipshape and ready for the opening day. And that was how it turned out.
As if to make up for the dreadful wind damage earlier, the weather was glorious. Sun-drenched days brought record crowds and it looked as if the city would succeed in becoming the host of this prestigious show every year. In fact, this wasn’t to be and the show finally settled at Ingliston, Edinburgh.
It must be said that none of this glory touched our lives in the street. Although many of us paid a nightly visit to Riverside, we were merely onlookers peeping at the fringes of high society, peering through the wire-mesh fence and imagining all the lovely fashions of the Royal party and the pomp and bustle of the visitors. It was an undisputed fact that the show was way beyond our financial means.
Another of our favourite walks was in Camperdown Park, which was officially opened by Princess Elizabeth after the estate had been gifted to the city. When we made our first visit to it Mum couldn’t get over the idea of so much land being owned by one family, that of Admiral Duncan. Still, that didn’t stop us enjoying our trips up the long drive towards the white mansion house that wasn’t open to the public. I had gazed into all the rooms through the large windows and had been duly impressed, but not as impressed as we were by the monkey puzzle tree. George and I were fascinated by this, never having seen anything like it before. One day we were gazing up at it when an old man appeared. Mum said he might be a gardener in the park as he seemed to know all about the tree.
‘Aye, the monkeys can run up it but they can’t get back down because of the spikes,’ he told us. ‘That’s why it’s called the monkey puzzle tree.’ Whether this was true or not is something I have never found out but we loved the story at the time and I still love it now.
The summer was now just a happy memory and autumn was turning all the trees to russet and gold. ‘It’s really peaceful in this park,’ said Mum. ‘It makes you forget your worries, even if just for an hour or two.’
Our final walk that year was on one very frosty morning. The trees were sugar coated in white rime and there were hardly any other visitors. As we set off back down the drive on our way home I remember we left three trails of footprints on the frosty path. In our childlike fashion, both George and I thought they would remain there forever, along with the wonderful monkey puzzle tree.
There was no holding back the tide of change and as the year drew to a close the families from the street were leaving one by one. The Farquhar family moved to Kirkton, the Doyles to Beechwood and Margaret and George to Fintry. Tenants like Mum, who required a cheaper rented house in one of the older housing schemes, had to wait patiently until one became available. The folk from 108 Hilltown watched the mass
exodus with peeved faces, gossiping bitterly about it. ‘It’s all right for some folk to get brand new houses, with hot water and a bath, but what about us? When will our houses get knocked down?’
As far as I was concerned, I wished it was their houses on the demolition list instead of ours because I was missing my pals. At one point, there was a vain hope that the street would get a reprieve but that didn’t materialise and Mum soon got a key for a ground-floor flat at Moncur Crescent.
It was the first week of January 1950 – a new decade.
I walked down the Hilltown that evening to look at the beautiful display of glittering Christmas trees in the front windows of the houses at Shepherd’s Pend. Each house was trying to outdo their neighbour with the seasonal fairy-light show.
Mum was worried about all the costs of moving but Big Bella, who had a huge circle of relations, came to her rescue. She arranged for a cousin, twice removed, to do our flitting. This cousin owned a battered old van but he was cheap and that was the selling point. Lizzie, who was still in residence in the street, came with us, as did Bella.
We walked through the large and empty rooms of our new abode, hearing our footsteps against the bare floorboards. The big windows overlooked a small garden with a gigantic bushy hedge then onwards to Dens Park football ground where scores of supporters would congregate every second Saturday.
We inspected the kitchen and bathroom with naive eyes, turning on the hot taps which, to our disappointment, gushed forth freezing-cold water. Mum said that the fire had to be lit before the water would heat up. This was news to George and me, who thought it came from some underground hot reservoir.
The kitchen was large, almost double the size of our old one, and it had a bare look. Mum said she would never be able to furnish it so we had to make do with the two large sinks, wooden draining board and cooker. High on a shelf sat the gas meter and underneath was a wooden coal bunker. Grandad’s furniture lay in a small and sorry huddle in the middle of the living room, looking forlorn and scratched in the shafts of wintry sunshine that pierced through the smeary windows. Mum looked very unhappy at this new prospect in our lives but Bella, in her usual jovial fashion, made her laugh. ‘For heaven’s sake, woman! You’re no moving to the moon. Eh’ll be up to see you every week and so will Lizzie.’
Before moving away, each family had stated the need to keep in touch with one another but, even as the words were being said, they all knew instinctively that this was just a wishful dream. Mum and Lizzie were now saying the same thing.
‘Now, Lizzie, no matter where you get your house, we’ll keep in touch.’
‘Of course we will,’ agreed Lizzie.
Then Lizzie departed with Bella – two of Mum’s oldest friends. The van drove away and we were left alone in our new domain. Mum looked as if she wanted to cry but instead she began to place the furniture around the room. The only thing was that there was too much of the room and not enough of the furniture so she ended up by putting the kettle on to make some tea.
I think we knew that this mass movement from the street had broken all the old chains of friendship and the camaraderie created by the sharing of hardships through the lean years of the war. This applied even to the communal trip to the tar boiler when any of the children had the whooping cough – according to an old wives’ tale, the fumes from tar helped to cure this disease.
From now on we were on our own. No doubt new friends would soon fill the vacuum left behind from the street but one thing was sure. From this new decade on it would be new voices from a different street we would hear.
PART TWO
NEW VOICES FROM A DIFFERENT STREET
CHAPTER 15
Betty had been a blue baby. The daughter of our new neighbours, the Millers, she had been born with a hole in her heart and weighing a mere few pounds. Her first few months had been spent wrapped in cotton wool and it was touch and go whether she would survive the crucial initial weeks after her handicapped start in life. But she did survive and when I first met her she was almost eleven years old, a year younger than me.
We were now firmly established in our new domain in Moncur Crescent and were slowly becoming acquainted with our new neighbours. Betty resembled a fragile, porcelain doll. Her thin face had, in my first ignorant opinion, a creamy pallor with twin red spots on her cheeks and lips that always had a bluish tinge. The Millers were a lovely couple. Almost equal in height, around five foot two inches, with round, cheery faces, it was difficult to put an age on them. To my young eyes, anyone over twenty was ancient but I guessed they must have been in their fifties.
One day Mrs Miller took Mum aside when they met in the close. ‘Will you make sure your lassie doesn’t encourage Betty into strenuous games?’ she asked. ‘Betty isn’t allowed to run or jump about.’
Mum made sure I got the message loud and clear. In her opinion, George and I were still noisy, rumbustious individuals with ravenous appetites to match. The fact that we were always growing out of our clothes was another permanent worry.
Betty was a pupil at Fairmuir School, which catered for the physically handicapped, and she attended only the morning session. At the time I envied this arrangement because I was now in the final few months at Rosebank School while George was in Primary Five. The dreaded Qualifying Examination was looming on my horizon. This exam sorted out the clever pupils from the not-so-bright or downright dim and was the yardstick for the entire length of your secondary education. Even then it was regarded as unfair and unequal.
Mr Cuthbert, our teacher, was drumming subjects and facts into our protesting brains like a constant hammer against a brick wall. Whether we retained a fraction of it was another matter. He stood before the class on the day before the exam and told us to have a quiet night at home in order to train our young minds on the task ahead. This would be the most important day in our primary education, he said. This was obviously good advice but it was clear he hadn’t reckoned with a gremlin in the works and that the best of plans can go awry. He didn’t live at 14 Moncur Crescent.
It all began when we arrived home from school. Betty, who had been standing at the top of the street, saw us and began running in order to catch up with us, because we were racing each other home in order to be the first one with the bread and jam. We didn’t see her but by the time she reached the close, she was sucking in great gulps of air and her lips were almost purple.
Mrs Miller almost fainted when we hammered on her door and she immediately rounded on me. ‘What did Eh tell you? Betty can’t run around like you two. Heavens! You’re just like a horse galloping about.’
The woman was beside herself with worry until the doctor arrived and I was dreading Mum’s return from the mill. I reckoned I would end up with a smack or a severe telling-off. Neither of these would be conducive to a quiet, contemplative night at home.
When Mum eventually arrived home, I immediately leapt to my own defence, protesting my innocence, with George backing me up. To my amazement, she didn’t make a big issue of it but I was told to go and apologise to our neighbour. I thought this a bit unfair, considering I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I recalled Grandad often saying, ‘You think quickly with your head but you have to make a journey around your heart.’ This statement was certainly true at this point because, although my head was full of innocence, my heart was saying something different – that I had had a big fright.
Betty was sleeping peacefully in her room and I was thankful to see her looking pale but normal. Her parents sat hunched up in their large, well-upholstered armchairs, grateful that the doctor had found no lasting damage other than extreme breathlessness.
I began to speak but Betty’s mum stopped me. ‘Eh ken now it wasn’t your fault. It was just that Eh was so worried. Eh’m going to have to warn Betty that she can’t run about like you and your brother and she’ll just have to accept it.’
I almost burst into tears at this sad statement. I had never given a thought to anyone being different from me or my frie
nds. One of the neighbours in our old street had had a toddler with Down’s Syndrome or Mongolism as the women in the street used to refer to it. But I hardly saw him and he died before reaching school age. I was now faced with a different world of permanent disability and I knew that a special eye would have to be kept on any activities that Betty was involved in.
As it turned out, the day’s drama was far from over. Later that evening while I was trying some juvenile meditation, our cat decided to surprise us by producing a litter of kittens. This cat had been a thin, waif-like stray who landed on our windowsill a couple of weeks earlier. Mum, being kind-hearted, had taken it in.
There I was, trying to cram as much learning into my head as was humanly possible when Mum rushed into the living room and began to rummage in the corner cupboard. She reappeared with a small cardboard box and an old blanket, calling out to me in the passing to come and help her.
Toots, the cat, had decided that the foot of the bed was the ideal place to give birth and one kitten was already born by the time we lifted her into her new cardboard abode. She gave us a baleful look as if suggesting the cold box was no substitute for the mound of warm blankets but, once she was installed by the side of the fire, she accepted it. With the cat now making strange mewing sounds and Mum fussing around, it was impossible to return to any further study.
Anyway, I was sent to strip the bed. ‘Make sure you sponge the blankets even although there’s only a wee mark,’ said Mum. ‘Thankfully, Eh caught her in time.’ She cried aloud in dismay as another kitten made its entrance into our already impoverished lives.
Voices in the Street Page 17
