Voices in the Street

by Maureen Reynolds

  I was surprised by all the wooden boards which advertised holiday accommodation but, looking at its lovely setting, I could well believe the holidaymakers would love coming here every year. It was raining as we stepped down from the bus, a fine drizzle that fell from a grey sky, and the mountains were shrouded in a mist that lay in wispy strands across the spring foliage.

  After our dinner in the Tower restaurant, we decided to be adventurous, at least as far as I was concerned, and we hired a small boat on Loch Faskally. The old man in charge of the boating station was quite chatty. ‘This used to be just a river until the dam was built by the hydroelectric scheme. Now it’s a man-made loch.’

  We took our little boat almost to the edge of the great white dam that, according to our informant, had been opened in 1951, just five years previously. The falling raindrops made soft plopping sounds on the surface of the water and flocks of colourful little birds darted out from the trees that edged the calm water. There was a deep silence broken only by their high-pitched chirping, the soothing splash of the oars and our own echoing voices that sounded unnaturally loud in this lovely green and quiet place.

  I didn’t know where Grace Kelly and her prince were at this moment but it couldn’t have been any better than here.

  CHAPTER 26

  The ominous-looking letter was waiting for us when we returned home. Mum said, ‘It looks like your call-up papers, Ally.’

  I stood with bated breath while he read the contents aloud: ‘“Please report to Blenheim Barracks at Aldershot on Thursday 10th May, 1956.” They’ve also sent a travel warrant for the overnight train to London and one for transport to the camp.’

  So that was that, I thought. For a while I had harboured the small secret hope that his name might have got lost in the midst of the thousands of young men but this hope was now dashed. We had decided to stay with Mum for the time being and it now looked as if this time would be brief.

  We both went back to work on the Monday. I mentioned the move down south again but Mum voiced her usual cautious concern. ‘Do you no think you should wait a while before making plans like that? After all, he can get posted to a different part of the country from where he does his training.’

  ‘One of the waitresses at Wallace’s knows somebody that has spent his whole two years at Aldershot so it’ll probably be around there where Eh find a job.’

  Faced with this supreme confidence of youth, Mum just shook her head.

  Ally was going into the RASC as a baker and on the evening of 9 May we all set off for Taybridge station and the overnight train. It looked as if quite a few young lads were heading off for the army as well and the platform was crowded with families in tight little groups all huddled up against each other.

  As with all farewells, there was the usual mixture of emotions, from the suppressed sobbing of one young woman with a tiny baby, to wet-eyed mothers, back-slapping pals who would soon be servicemen themselves. We arrived late on purpose because it would have been terrible to have a long-drawn-out farewell. Ally’s mum, Peggy, and Mum were standing quietly on the fringe of our group. As for me, I had experienced ten days of conflicting emotions and I was now pale-faced and almost drained of feelings.

  The one thing that kept me going was the thought of our wonderful plans which we hoped would bear fruit in six weeks’ time after his training and when he got his permanent posting.

  ‘Eh’ll maybe get some leave after my square-bashing,’ he’d said, referring to his initial training.

  The train steamed slowly into the station and there was a scurry as men jumped aboard with their bags. There was a final slamming of doors and all the onlookers with platform tickets clutched in their hands watched as our loved ones were whisked away to do their duty for Queen and Country.

  Bella arrived unexpectedly when we reached the house. I was glad to see her because it took my mind away from my self-pity which was threatening to erupt at any minute. Peggy had gone straight home as her husband was due to finish his shift. Bella was her usual cheerful self. ‘Och, look on the bright side, Maureen. It’ll soon go in,’ she said, heaving herself into a chair. ‘Still, it’s a shame about this awfy National Service. Eh’ve had three laddies in the army and according to them it was terrible with all the senseless kit inspections and the “bull”.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, Bella,’ I said, not really in the mood for expressing or analysing my feelings. In fact, I was truly down in the dumps.

  Bella was still on her high horse over John, her son. ‘That was a terrible time he had in Korea, fighting the Chinese Communists. Aye, young laddies go away for two years and they never know where they’ll end up. It could be any place in the world.’

  On seeing my face, Bella said, ‘Och, it’s different now. After all, it’s peacetime and they’ll no need so many soldiers in the overseas postings.’

  As I handed Bella another cup of tea, I sincerely hoped not.

  A couple of days later I got a letter from Ally. He had settled in at the barracks but it wasn’t a happy place. The sergeants shouted at the young conscripts and a few of the lads had run away in the vain hope of reaching home. This understandable foolishness earned them the wrath of the army and added to their misery. A second letter was the news from Ken Mackintosh Fan Club and contained its usual list of forthcoming appearances. There was also a bulky, brown-wrapped parcel tied firmly with string. I couldn’t think who would be sending a parcel to me but on opening it, Ally’s blazer and the rest of his clothes spilled out. I panicked at this sight, not understanding the meaning of the returned clothes, and I called out to Mum who was in the kitchen.

  She rushed through and I wordlessly handed her the parcel. ‘What in heaven’s name is this?’ she said, taking the parcel and viewing the pile of clothes.

  ‘Something must have happened!’ I cried. ‘Eh mean, why would they send his clothes home?’ Memories of the awful stories Bella had narrated over the years about her sons’ army days came flooding back and I couldn’t help but worry.

  Fortunately, Mum found the single sheet of notepaper that was tucked in beside the folded clothes in the parcel. ‘You daft gowk!’ she said, after reading the note. ‘Ally’s sent these back because it’s army regulations.’

  I sat down in relief and gathered the things together. The navy blazer was his pride and joy and now he wouldn’t be wearing it for two whole years. I didn’t know if servicemen were allowed to wear their civvy clothes when they were off the camp but I made a mental note to take them with me when I eventually went down south.

  The dance band fan club letter was also lying on the floor and I was suddenly filled with sadness, not only for Ally being so far away but also for that lost and bygone part of my life. The happy, teenage dancing years with Betty and Violet and the girls were now in another world that was a thousand light years removed from my life now.

  Mum said that, if you keep busy, the time passes much quicker and she was right. The weeks were going in and before long I was filled with anticipation of the forthcoming weekend leave. Ally arrived home with a rough-looking khaki uniform and full of the stories of the six weeks’ training.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right once you get the hang of it,’ he told his mum and dad when we went to visit them that first evening, ‘We have to shave in cold water every morning and if you don’t shave the sergeant bawls at you and you get a swearing if your hair isn’t short enough. Then there’s the kit inspection. It has to be laid out on the bed with everything folded up the right way or else the sergeant will throw it on the floor and make you do it again.’

  Peggy was annoyed, as any mother would be at this cavalier treatment of a son. ‘That’s terrible! Some folk shouldn’t be put in charge of young lads.’

  Ally was philosophical. ‘Well, Eh have to say that my time in the Boys’ Brigade has been a help during the earliest days.’ That and also the fact that he had regularly gone camping with his pals to the Sidlaw Hills as a youngster. They had learned to rough it then and thi
s was good training for the sadistic harping on about ablutions and spit and polish.

  ‘There’s one lad in the billet who’s having a terrible time with his kit. In fact, some of the lads made it up for him one night and he had to sleep on the floor so he didn’t disturb it.’

  ‘Are you managing the Blanco on your webbing and the Brasso for your buttons and badge?’ his dad asked.

  ‘Aye, Eh am. It’s a hard job but no so hard as trying to get a shine on my boots. It’s almost impossible,’ he said ruefully. ‘Some of the older recruits burn their boots with a match and then polish them but you have to be careful you don’t burn the boots through.’

  I told them of my stupid panic at receiving his clothes and Peggy said she would have reacted in the same way.

  ‘You know, it’s a funny feeling posting off your clothes like that,’ he said, ‘almost as if you’re giving up your last link with life before the army.’

  Back in the house, Mum was eager to hear all the news of army life and before I could blink the weekend was over and I was saying cheerio at the station again. Ally didn’t know when he would get another leave but promised to let me know the minute he got his posting.

  ‘Nobody tells you anything in the army but surely Eh’ll hear in the next couple of weeks.’ Then he suddenly added, ‘Oh, by the way, don’t send me any money every week when you get your allowance. Just put it in the savings.’

  This had been Mum’s idea. ‘Eh don’t think conscripts get a very big allowance in the army, especially if they have to buy Blanco and Brasso and other things. You should send him a pound a week and include it in one of your letters.’

  I had taken this advice and I had dutifully sent off the pound note every week but, if he wanted me to save it, then I would.

  I had left the restaurant a week before. I regretted it almost at once but I was in a restless frame of mind and didn’t know what to do. I felt I was in limbo, waiting between a job in Dundee and a move to the south. I just hoped and prayed that he would get a permanent posting soon and then we could fulfil all our plans.

  At the end of the week I debated about including the pound note. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings but, after a good deal of thought, I sent it anyway. If it was returned, then I would save it. After all, as Mum pointed out, a married conscript didn’t get such a big allowance because most of it was paid to his wife. Years later he confessed to waiting in a sweat in case I did what he wanted and didn’t send it. After a week of the army’s gourmet meals he was always glad to escape to the NAAFI and one of Lyons’ apple pies.

  By now he was billeted at Number 3 Training Battalion in Farnborough, learning all the intricacies of a field bakery. There was seemingly a strange situation going on and no one knew where they were being posted. Because of this and also because I needed to get another job quickly, I answered an advert for a post in the Vidor factory on the new industrial estate. I reckoned I could work there until the elusive posting came through and I only had to give one week’s notice if I wanted to leave.

  The factory was a vast impersonal place and I was put on a machine which resembled the one in Keillor’s, except the small boxes were filled with batteries instead of sweets. Keillor’s, however, had been a clean job, unlike this place. My machine was right beside the Dolly Shop, a name that conjured up visions of sweet-faced dolls dressed in frilly frocks but was in fact one of the dirtiest places I had ever seen.

  I think men were the only people employed in this section and they worked in a cloud of black dust all the time. At the end of the shift these men would appear with black faces glistening with perspiration and looking like refugees from the Black and White Minstrel Show. I almost expected a rendition of ‘Sonny Boy’.

  On arriving home every night, the first thing was to have a bath and wash my hair but even with this daily routine I still felt my hands were grubby with ingrained dirt. The woman on the next machine to me showed me the bucket of Rosalax, a barrier cream that was supposed to protect the skin against constant grime. I wondered if the men in the Dolly Shop had to smear it all over their faces as well.

  I also hoped and prayed that my next letter would bring the joyful news from Farnborough but there seemed to be a clampdown on information.

  Then, a week before my eighteenth birthday in July, the news broke that the President of Egypt, Colonel Nasser, had seized control of the Suez Canal, much to the fury of the British and the French governments. Nasser in his speech that day said these governments could ‘choke to death on their fury’ and that he would use the canal’s revenues to finance the Aswan Dam. The Prime Minister, Anthony Eden, retaliated by saying that ‘Nasser could not hold a thumb to our windpipe.’

  The rest of the world just held its breath.

  There was also trouble in Cyprus between the Turkish and Greek Cypriots and the exiled Archbishop Makarios was in favour of using armed action to regain the island’s unity with Greece. An army of terrorists, EOKA, was responsible for the shooting of several British servicemen as well as the usual tactics of an insurgent band.

  In September, Ally suddenly appeared home on two weeks’ embarkation leave. He didn’t know where he was going but it was overseas. To say I was alarmed would be an understatement, especially with all these alarm bells sounding in various countries. His weeks of training at Farnborough had been an intensive training course for an overseas field bakery and the rumour was that something big was about to happen.

  To make matters worse, the son of Peggy’s neighbour had been posted to Leuchars with the RAF. This branch of the services was known as ‘The Brylcreem Boys’ and it seemed to be a more cushy number than the rough and tumble of the army.

  Uncle Davie, Peggy’s brother, was a lovely man who worked on the railways. He stayed in lodgings in Perth all week but spent his weekends in Dundee. The neighbour was always chatting on about her son’s National Service. ‘He gets paid danger money, you know,’ she told Peggy one day.

  On hearing this, Uncle Davie quipped, ‘Well, it must be from the sparks from the fireplace!’, a statement that rang true because he was home every weekend. This fact filled me with deep envy.

  By now, all hopes of moving south had gone west and we had no idea how long this overseas posting would last. All we knew was that it was too long.

  Aggie arrived one night as we were leaving to go to the pictures. We got the normal three-minute synopsis in the lobby. ‘So you’re home, Ally,’ she said stupidly, because he was standing beside me. ‘Babs has got a job in California as an office secretary. It’s in the same firm as Marvin and she’s awfy happy. Meh man was just saying what a blessing she met Ron the spiv because if she hadn’t met him, she would still be working in the tattie merchant’s office. No that there’s anything wrong with that,’ she added hastily. Maybe she thought we had a hundred tattie merchants hiding in the lobby cupboard. ‘No, it’s just that her world’s been widened if you know what Eh mean. It’s a different life over there, in California. Apart from the sunshine Eh mean. Naw, folk seem to enjoy themselves more. Go out to dinner parties and barbecues and the like.’

  Mum, who had been listening to this outburst, shouted out to her friend, ‘Aggie! For heaven’s sake, will you let folk get off to the pictures in peace?’

  Aggie, who was never embarrassed in her life, looked surprised at the thought of anyone fancying a film instead of life as lived in California.

  We made our escape. It was good to get away from the house now and again and, although the arrangement suited us at the time, it was a bit of a squash with four of us in two rooms.

  I had taken time off work but the days just flew in and it was time for leaving again. I was beginning to think the interior of the Taybridge station was my bête noire but on this particular evening the platform was packed with khaki-clad servicemen. The situation in Suez and Cyprus was tense and the Territorial Army and reservists had all been called up.

  The men sat on benches or lounged over their kitbags. I wondered if some of thes
e men had seen service in Korea because they had the stern, lined faces of men who had seen death and destruction. They also had the look of men who knew that another conflict was looming and I felt sick as I watched the motley crowd.

  ‘Why do you think these soldiers have been called up?’ I asked but Ally didn’t know. All he knew was he was being sent to some field bakery in order to feed all the extra troops.

  The station had the bleak atmosphere of a transit camp that night and while we stood there the soldiers lit up their Players’ Full Strength, the Woodbines and the Gold Flakes, cupping their hands over the blazing matches. A mini-whirl-wind swept along the bleak platform, catching all the discarded debris and shoving it between the pillars. The pigeons, normally so noisy and predatory, watched quietly from the roof, their beady eyes taking in all the activity below.

  We stood beside a pillar, mostly to escape the chilly wind but also to escape the mass of people. Ally was speaking above the noisy hubbub. ‘Maybe Eh’ll no be that long abroad. Sometimes overseas postings can last just a few months.’

  But we knew that wasn’t to be. Not with all this military presence around. A voice crackled over the Tannoy above our heads but most of the words were disjointed and echoed in the vast cavern of the station. The voice stopped and within a few minutes, a train pulled into the station. It appeared to be fully occupied, again by uniformed servicemen and to my worried eye it seemed as if the entire British Army was on the move.

  There was a rush to get aboard and the men hauled their kitbags on to their shoulders as they waited in the large snake-like queues that had formed at the doors. Ally was one of the last to get on board and he managed to squeeze in beside a small portion of the window which was wound down. The train jerked noisily forward, emitting a great whoosh of steam while the guard closed all the doors before raising his flag and blowing his whistle.

  It then steamed slowly away, carrying Ally and all the other soldiers off to perhaps another war in some far-flung corner of the world. He waved and called out but his words were snatched away by the wind while I stood motionless watching the small white blur of his face as he slowly disappeared into the night. Then even the bright tail light was no more.