The theatre was at the end of a lane that ran down beside the imposing facade of the Queen’s Hotel. How well I remember the dancing chorus girls all dressed in skimpy costumes and black fishnet tights that sometimes had little holes in them, with small pimples of pink flesh poking through. Sometimes, if the theatre was a bit cold, the girls’ arms had a goose-pimpled effect that even the orange stage make-up couldn’t conceal. Oh yes, I loved the dancing act, as well as the singers and comedians.
Nellie was still explaining. ‘Eh’m no sure who’s on the bill, Molly. Eh’ve heard Jack Milroy and his Braw, Braw Heilan Laddie is coming but that’s at the start of the New Year.’
‘It doesn’t matter who’s on, Nellie,’ said Mum. ‘You’ve made my day with your kindness and we’ll enjoy whatever is on the programme.’
Meanwhile, back at school, the tattie holidays were looming and I was looking forward to getting out of the classroom and also earning a bit of money. The children had two choices, or three if you counted the fact that you could remain at your lessons. You could go privately and make your own arrangements with a farmer or do what the majority of children plumped for, which was to go under the school’s own scheme. Rockwell School laid on a fleet of buses and we were all allocated a certain farm for the day or, occasionally, for the week. A hot midday meal was supplied in a nearby school or village hall and the pay was eleven shillings and threepence per day. This sum filled Mum with rapture because we could now catch up with our bills after our poverty-stricken times a month or so ago.
I was full of excitement on that first day as I stood beside Sheila in the school hall at an unearthly hour, six-thirty if I remember right. We then filed on to an old-looking bus that slowly drove out of the school playground and on to the far horizons, which was Meigle or Muirhead, but could have been on the moon as far as I was concerned. The morning was crisp with a hint of autumn sunshine peeping through the early mist.
We all tumbled out on to the tattie field and watched as a weather-beaten grieve with strips of sacking tied around his trouser legs marched briskly up the rows of withered, brown shaws, measuring and marking out each person’s bit. The tattie digger churned up the thick brown earth to reveal what looked like hundreds of white-skinned potatoes. It was certainly backbreaking work but not really any harder than Mr Sherrit’s milk round which I had had to give up when the regular boy appeared back at his job.
I enjoyed being out in this different world of fields, trees and quietness. It was such a change from the city. Because we were given our dinner at midday, all we had to carry was a bottle of lemonade and two rolls and butter for the morning and afternoon piece-break. This break was always greeted with relief as it allowed you to straighten up for a quarter of an hour. It was a glorious autumn that year and at the end of the three weeks I was almost as weather-beaten as the grieve on that very first day.
Mum commented on my newly rosy cheeks. ‘Maybe Eh should go out to the tatties as well and get braw red cheeks.’
We did get some rain but it always appeared at the end of the day or at the weekend. There was an unfortunate accident on one of the farms one day. A boy from another school was determined to get conkers and, unlike his pals who were content to throw sticks at the giant horse-chestnut trees that lined the edge of the field, he decided to climb on to the branches. The result of this foolhardy exploit was that the master daredevil fell and broke his arm.
This threw the farmer into a fury. ‘What have Eh told, you wee beggars? Never climb the trees!’
I didn’t recall him saying that but, apart from this one mishap, it was a very enjoyable experience. Not everyone lasted the course and by the time we returned to school, quite a few stragglers had given up and had returned to their studies.
As usual, Betty enjoyed hearing all the stories about the various farms and farm workers, but most of all she enjoyed listening to the slightly bawdy songs some of the boys used to bellow out on the homecoming bus. Unfortunately, Mum overheard me one evening and she was really annoyed by the words. They were quite innocent but I was warned not to sing such shocking songs again. That just made Betty and me laugh all the more.
A couple of days before Hogmanay, Betty announced that her mum said she could visit a couple of aunts who lived on the Hilltown. At first I didn’t believe that Mrs Miller would allow Betty out late at night, even to visit the two elderly women who lived next to Martin’s fishmonger shop, but it was true. She could go provided I went with her. Betty started to make secret plans to visit the City Square to see in the New Year and enjoy the celebrations and festivities. I was really worried about this plan because of the cold and the mass of people who regularly crowded into the square at midnight. But Betty was adamant.
I was torn between the desire to be in the throng of things and the worry about keeping Betty away from the place. Many years before, Grandad had always promised me he would take me to see the old year out but his death had put paid to these plans.
By ten-thirty we were ready to leave. Betty was always well wrapped up every time she went outside and she always wore a woollen balaclava with a scarf attached. On this particular night, we wore our best clothes. Mine weren’t that new but because Betty was dressed in a slightly more old-fashioned way than me, I reckoned we were equal. We were wearing black net gloves that would have been more suited to a French café than a murky Scottish Hogmanay but Mrs Miller had unearthed them during a spring clean and we had pounced on them like some long-lost treasure.
Perhaps it was our whispering manner but Mrs Miller was suspicious. ‘Now, Betty, you’ve just to go to your aunties’ and no further. Now remember.’
Betty nodded. We set off in high spirits, past all the brightly lit tenement windows towards the City Square. By the time we reached the Hilltown clock it was clear that she should slow down her walking pace, and we did. I was getting more worried by the minute. Her breathing was coming in gasps but still she was adamant about getting to her destination. We were at the edge of Ann Street when we heard the bells and within a few minutes we were caught up in a throng of good-natured revellers who were streaming up the Hilltown. To my immense relief we had no option but to turn around and head uphill with this happy, singing band.
Betty’s aunties greeted us with undisguised relief. ‘We thought the pair of you had got lost!’ they cried.
We were handed a large glass of ginger wine which I didn’t really like but I had to sip it to be sociable, trying hard not to screw my face up. The parlour of their small flat was furnished in an opulent if somewhat prim manner that matched the two owners. The antimacassars on the three-piece suite were smooth against the uncut moquette fabric and it was easy to believe that a wrinkle never lingered on the crisp linen. Holding them in place were small safety pins discreetly fastened at the back of the chairs.
The aunties raised their glasses of ginger wine. ‘A happy New Year to everyone and let’s hope we all have health, wealth and prosperity,’ was the toast, then, looking at me they observed. ‘And we’ve got a dark-headed first-foot, which will be lucky for us.’
I was surprised. I had never been a first-foot before and I wouldn’t have bet half a crown on being a lucky one. Ironically, as it turned out, I wasn’t.
During the first few weeks of January, the elderly ladies’ wireless set blew two of its valves and I was told in no uncertain terms not to be a first-foot ever again. And, apart from one other time when I was another unlucky first-foot, I make sure I keep well away from doorsteps at midnight on New Year’s Eve.
Meanwhile, Betty gave me a big wink. ‘We’ll make the City Square next year!’
CHAPTER 19
The school was abuzz with plans for the forthcoming coronation. There was to be a school holiday in June to commemorate the glorious occasion. Most of the girls looked on the crowning of a new, young Queen as the beginning of new horizons and their feeling was that the world was their oyster.
On the other hand, most of the boys seemed only interested in th
e gift each child was to receive as a memento. A list was passed around each class and we had to choose between a propelling pencil and a souvenir mug. A bar of chocolate would be given to each child as well.
The Labour government had been defeated in the last election and Clement Attlee, Nye Bevan and company, who had done so much to alleviate the poverty, hardship and ill health that existed in the country, were now out of power. Winston Churchill was back at 10 Downing Street. He announced that a special allowance of an extra pound of sugar and a quarter-pound of margarine was to be allocated to enable people to put on a street party. I could well imagine Mrs Doyle organising such an event in her new street at Dronley Avenue in Beechwood and I quietly wished that George and I could maybe be invited, because it didn’t look as if any events were being planned in Moncur Crescent.
According to Churchill, the world now had enough food to end all the rationing but Britain didn’t have enough dollars to purchase the necessities. Aggie wasn’t impressed by this statement. ‘Well, Eh’ve heard some excuses in my life but that one takes the biscuit. Heavens! You would think we lost the war instead of winning it.’
Nevertheless, everything in the Robb household seemed to be rosy, as she was about to inform us. As always, her musquash fur coat was duly and carefully taken care of. (Mum always said after one of her visits, ‘Eh don’t think Aggie trusts you with her coat.’) Then she sat down, a smug smile on her face. ‘What do you think we’re getting?’ she enquired, waiting with a pregnant pause while Mum and I looked dumb. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘meh man has gone out and bought a television set. For the coronation in June, you ken.’
Her superior tone suggested that we didn’t know the date of the forthcoming Royal attraction and Mum said afterwards that she had to bite her tongue. After all, we would have had to be living on the moon to escape all the hype of pomp and pageantry. Still, Aggie was determined to tell the world about her new acquisition and she didn’t notice the curtness of Mum’s manner.
‘We got it out of Watts in the Wellgate. It’s just a table-top model with a fifteen-inch screen and it cost meh man sixty-six pounds, five shillings. We’ve put down a deposit and we’ll pay the rest back over the next few months. It’s the only way you can get anything for your house, to pay it on the never-never.’
Mum was trying hard not to be envious because she too would have loved a television. She cheerfully agreed. ‘Aye, it’s well named the never-never. Eh feel like it’s never-ending when Eh’m paying the tickie man every week.’
‘That’s what Eh feel as well, Molly, but meh man says that we would never have furnished our new prefab if we had to pay the money all at once. We wanted everything new so we got a dining-room suite out of Hendersons in the Wellgate.’ She stopped as if struck by a thought. ‘Eh’ve just noticed that we seem to spend all our money in the Wellgate. But never mind, where was Eh? Oh aye, my new suite. Well, it cost us twenty-eight guineas but you put down two bob in the pound deposit and pay the rest over easy weekly terms. When Eh finish paying the television set, Eh’m getting a new bedroom suite and a carpet square.’
She gave a loud sigh, as if exhausted by all this mathematical and financial talk. She finished off the dregs of tea from her cup, swallowing in the process all the residual tea leaves. This habit of hers always made me shudder.
Mum, who was also totally drained by Aggie’s calculations, decided to change the subject. ‘How is Babs’ romance going then?’
Aggie smacked her lips and ran her tongue over the surface of her teeth, obviously thinking hard before answering this loaded question. It was clear that she didn’t approve of Ron the spiv but, to be truthful, following in Marvin’s footsteps would have been hard for anyone. ‘Well Babs seems happy enough but then her lad’s away a lot, him being a commercial traveller.’
Obviously Mum wasn’t going to get any more information from her and as Aggie had run out of new possessions or the benefits of various easy terms it was time for her make her way home on the 1A bus back to Blackshade. Before departing, however, she did invite us up to view the coronation on the television and, although I would have loved to have seen it, Mum was working that day.
She was back in the dairy, now on the inspection side of the milk-bottling plant. It was a task that didn’t require her to use her ‘gammy hand’ as she now referred to it. Because the dairy opened every day including weekends, the workers were on a three-week rota with a different day off through the week and Mum loved this variety. Still, as she confessed after Aggie’s departure, even had she been off on 2 June, she would never have made the bus trip to the prefab, for the simple reason that by the time she made the conducted tour round the house and Hendersons furniture, the coronation could be over and the Queen tucked up in bed.
Meanwhile, back on the school front, the arguments over the commemorative souvenirs was still raging. I was now in the final few weeks of school and as we were studying for our leaving certificates, our noses were to the proverbial grind-stone. Should we be lucky enough to win this prized certificate, we could then burst forth on a surprised world as accomplished French-speaking shorthand typists/book-keepers. Or maybe emerge as scientists destined to find an epoch-making cure for humanity’s ills. That was the teachers’ hope and it was what they had striven for over three long, gruelling years.
As for the souvenirs, the headteachers had ordered these gifts according to the lists from each classroom but there was going to be a spanner in the works. Suddenly and prior to the distribution of the mementoes, a wild rumour swept the school that those who had ordered a propelling pencil did not qualify for a free bar of chocolate. This turned out to be totally unfounded but that didn’t stop the majority of the boys suddenly shifting their allegiance to a coronation mug. All previous thoughts of this being a cissy gift were now forgotten in the anticipation of chocolate.
This anarchy threw all the careful calculations out of the window and would even have taxed the dexterous mind of Aggie. In a state of extreme annoyance, the headmaster ordered the return of all gifts. The next morning, at assembly, he appeared almost foaming at the mouth. While trying to keep his temper in check, he announced through clenched teeth, ‘Last month I sent the monitors round with a list. At that time we had 500 pencils and 200 mugs. It now seems as if we have 100 pencils and 600 mugs in the school.’
He was obviously so incensed by the entire farce of the situation that he hadn’t realised how funny he sounded. Meanwhile, the whole school, standing in dutiful silence, were trying desperately to suppress the laughter which threatened to erupt at any moment.
He resumed his speech. ‘Right then, I want all the original names for pencils to come forward today and claim them and we will deal with the mugs tomorrow.’
As we trooped out of the hall, Sheila and I overheard one wag exclaiming, ‘Only 600 mugs in the school, did he say? Here’s me thinking we’re all mugs!’
Thankfully, by coronation day, the situation was sorted out. As soon as the pupils realised that a bar of chocolate went with each gift, calm reigned once more. This may have seemed a big deal about the chocolate, especially in today’s world where shops like Woolworths have confectionery stacked up to the roof, but back in 1953 sweets hadn’t been off the ration for very long.
Dundee, like many other cities, had a full programme for the big day and the city planners were hoping for good weather. Unfortunately, although the rain stayed off, it was cold and blustery with the temperature well below the seasonal average. In fact, the previous week had seen one of the worst thunderstorms for thirty years. This caused widespread havoc over the Scottish Highlands while the gate at the Western Cemetery was hit by lightning and lots of low-lying streets in the Dock area suffered from flooding.
Betty and I went down the town to see some of the jollities. The town centre had a festive air and there was a feeling of renewed optimism on the faces of the waiting crowds. A thirty-foot-high red, white and blue floral display in the shape of a coronation arch dominated the City
Square while another eye-catching sign was mounted above the frontage of Phins’ ironmonger shop in the Nethergate.
Although we didn’t go there, Riverside Drive was the main showcase for a massed bands display, a twenty-one-gun salute and bonfire, with fireworks planned for later. As we stood on the edge of the crowds in the High Street to see the parade of the Black Watch, Territorial Army cadets and military vehicles, the news reached us that the mighty peak of Mount Everest had finally been conquered by Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing. While the flags waved in the stiff breeze, I could well imagine Miss Calvert likening these two modern-day heroes to the likes of Drake and Raleigh and it did seem as if we were entering a true golden Elizabethan age. On a more mundane level, G. B. Forbes, who owned the pram arcade in King Street, was donating a free pram for every baby born on coronation day.
Later in the week, Mum and I saw an hour-long film at the Odeon, entitled Elizabeth is Queen. Out of the entire footage of this historic film, the one person Mum loved was Queen Salote of Tonga who braved the wet and windy London weather with a smile that had all the warmth of a South Sea island.
Some housing schemes had organised bonfires and outside dancing but if Moncur Crescent had any jollities then I must have missed them. However, the main topic was the televising of the coronation. Aggie would have been miffed to know that the Caird Hall had installed twenty sets to let an invited populace watch the whole pomp and pageant. It was reckoned that thousands of people saw the crowning of the Queen at first hand, but not us.
Grand as all this pageantry was, it was the following Saturday that produced the biggest and best surprise. Many years before in McDonald Street, we had, for a very short time, a neighbour in the empty flat across the lobby. Her name was Katie and she was engaged to be married. She was young, pretty and had a bubbling vivacity. I thought she was wonderful. Every weekend the flat was full to overflowing with a multitude of her friends, all laughing, singing and dancing. Mum said she made the close cheery and I would lie awake in bed and listen to all the latest tunes on her wireless.
Voices in the Street Page 21
