The whale was cruelly harpooned on New Year’s Day 1883 and caught in an exhausted condition before finally being landed at Stonehaven on 9 January. I can imagine the excitement of the local population as the huge mammal was finally hauled onto the beach. I don’t know if there was considerable interest in buying it but a Dundee man, Mr Johnnie Woods, bought it for £226, a considerable amount of money in those days.
The whale was then transported to the Victoria dock by the tugboat Excelsior. It was then put on exhibition behind Johnnie Woods’ house in East Dock Street. I think he charged a penny to view the carcass, although I did read somewhere that the admission was sixpence. Whatever, he must have had loads of sightseers because it must have taken a lot of pennies or sixpences to recuperate his initial outlay.
I can imagine the crowds of people who brought their children to see the whale. For people out for a stroll on a Sunday, it must have been the same as going to a local side show and I expect the women would hold handkerchiefs up to their noses, or young courting couples capering near it. The young women maybe protesting, ‘Och dinnie push me near it, Bert. Thir’s an awfy stink comin aff it.’
By all accounts, thousands of people came to look at the poor dead mammal. Entire families must have had a Sunday outing just to have a look.
Unfortunately, I don’t think Mr Woods preserved the carcass because the awful stench soon became unbearable. Not only in Dock Street but also in the surrounding lanes and wynds.
Because of the putrefaction, the whale was then handed over to Professor Struthers of Aberdeen who treated the skeleton.
Afterwards, it was given to the Dundee Museum where it remains to this day. The sad bones of a magnificent whale that took a wrong turning in the sea have lived on in the memories of the thousands of people who came to view it over many years.
It achieved immortality, which is more than can be said for the thousands of whales and seals that were slaughtered in the cold polar seas by the whaling ships.
15
The All-Singing and Dancing Show
Dancing has always played a big part in the history of Dundee. From the many dance halls like the Palais, Empress, Locarno and Robbie’s to the many smaller establishments, patrons have put on their dancing shoes and danced the nights away.
The Palais at 31 South Tay Street opened on 23 July 1938 and was owned by Bertha Wilson and George Dundas. Andy Lothian was a former bandmaster on the Atlantic liner Athenia, with his eight-piece band and Harry Rae as a crooner. This liner was torpedoed at the start of the war.
In October 1938, he came to play at the Dundee Palais straight from the Glasgow Empire Exhibition, but with the start of the war he joined the RAF.
Taking his place was bandleader Johnny Lynch who played at Romano’s in the Strand but came north because of the blitz.
It must have been wonderful dancing in those days because of all the free gifts given out by various dancehalls. In 1939, if you paid eight visits to the Palais you got a free wristlet watch. The hall was refurbished in June 1955. I preferred it before refurbishment because of the large squashy settees positioned around the floor. After its makeover, the seating was recessed in the wall and, in my opinion, not so luxurious.
Andy Lothian bought the hall in 1966 and the dancing patrons continued to flock through its doors. How well we all remember dancing to this great band with Jimmy Barton singing ‘Davie Crockett’ while wearing a racoon hat complete with a tail hanging down. Charlie Coates was the resident crooner while one of the band members with a deep velvet voice sang ‘Temptation’. The shivers still run down my back at the memory of it.
The Palais also opened a Sunday night café from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. Dancing wasn’t allowed because it was the Sabbath but how wonderful to have a warm, exciting place to go to on boring, cold winter Sundays. Some patrons who thought they had the talent for singing also got up on the stage, but we mostly preferred the band and sometimes the poor singers were booed off the stage.
The Locarno was the place to be before the war, with Ron Hyatt and his band from the Ritz in Manchester. The band put on a demonstration of the ‘Blackpool Walk’ and a novice Quick Step competition.
Later, in December 1939, the Locarno was rebuilt and patrons danced to Murray Sheffield and his Dixieland Band. Also on the bill were Monsieur Pierre and Doris Lavelle plus the ‘Blackout Stroll’. Somewhere along the line, the ‘Blackpool Walk’ seemed to have lost out to the wartime restrictions.
Another dancehall, which opened in December 1938, was the Empress, a detached building which lay in the shadow of the Royal Arch. Owned by Mr and Mrs James Duncan, they also owned the chalet Roadhouse in Broughty Ferry. The bandleader was Carl Volti who was advertised as coming straight from the Ritz in London. Dundee was lucky to get all these wonderful bands from such a prestigious address as the Ritz and no doubt one of the songs played was Fred Astaire’s ‘Putting on the Ritz’.
What I remember most about the Empress were the big bands who regularly played there during the 1950s and cost a whopping five shillings entrance fee.
At the time I was earning thirty shillings a week so it was a big whack out of my pay packet, but fortunately I had met my future husband by then and he paid for me.
Before going to the dancing it was the custom to go to the Washington Café in the Nethergate and drink a cup of frothy coffee. The café had a great machine that turned the milk into a frothy mass and it was such a novelty for the teenagers of the 1950s. If you shut your eyes you felt you had been transported to downtown America and this bit of frothy coffee pleasure brightened up the years after the war.
Mr Steve Barbieri owned the café the Chrome Rail restaurant as well as the Crystal Bell chip shop in Union Street.
The Chrome Rail had a downstairs restaurant which had a conventional layout but upstairs was totally different. It had a long bar with high stools, lots of black and chrome fittings and a full length mirror along the wall. It was designed to look like an American drugstore.
I worked there for a short time during the summer of 1955. It was a Sunday job and I had been offered it by Mr Alf Wallace who co-owned Wallace’s Pie Shop. I believe his daughter was married to Mr Barbieri.
I stuck it out for a few months but I can’t say I enjoyed working there. Maybe this was because of the large mirror. It was impossible to turn your back on a customer as they sipped their frothy coffees or milk-shakes. If you were cleaning up the worktop, the customers would be staring you in the eyes. But maybe another reason was the fact I was working seven days a week plus two late nights, serving meals at the dinner dances in the Empress ballroom. Perhaps it was all too much.
The only good thing about the job was I could buy a poke of chips from the Crystal Bell chip shop next door on my way home in the evening.
As for the dances, there were other venues like the J. M. Ballroom in Lochee Road, the West End Palais in Well Road, the posh-sounding Continental Ballroom in the Cowgate and the ever-popular Kidd’s Rooms in Lindsay Street. I was never a patron of Kidd’s Rooms but my husband and his pals were. He has happy memories of spending Saturday nights there.
There was also the Progress Halls on the Hilltown. Nicknamed ‘The Progie’ it played host to dances every Saturday night and what boisterous affairs they often were.
My pal Annie had a sister who regularly went to these dances. I loved watching her get ready for her evening out. Her dressing table was a wonderful jumble of strange things. To start with she would cleanse her face with Ponds cold cream then slap on the wonderfully titled ‘vanishing cream’. I always watched her intently to see if half of her face would disappear but it never did.
Then she would add a thick layer of Max Factor’s pancake stick, followed by face powder from a large cardboard box with a huge puff. Finally, putting on deep red lipstick, she would survey herself in the mirror and ask us, ‘How dae eh look?’ I always thought she looked so glamorous and sophisticated but Annie would reply, ‘You look awfy.’
One night
, after she had departed for the dance, Annie threw the powder puff in my face and I couldn’t see. I gave chase but she darted into the small wardrobe with such force that it toppled over and was only saved from crashing onto the floor by the strong brass bed end.
The door was firmly shut with Annie still inside and I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, deciding to run down to the Progie, I ran out and straight into the burly figure of the downstairs neighbour. ‘Whit’s that bloody racket you twa are making?’ I made some strange strangled noises but he must have understood. He came upstairs with me and managed to get the wardrobe upright but I got such a telling-off by my mum that I was never allowed in the house again when Annie’s sister was out.
Another pal had a granny who was always going on about her expertise on the dance floor. ‘Och you should hiv seen me da’en the foxtrot. Abody wanted tae dance wi me.’ As I gazed at her, I couldn’t visualise this old woman ever being lithe and foxtrotish. To look at her sitting in the sun with her checked slippers and old fringed blanket around her shoulders, it was difficult to imagine, especially as her hobby was now putting her ‘horsey’ line on. The bookie’s runner would appear out of the blue ether and gather these lines. The rule, however, was the punter had to put on a false name on the slip; a nom de plume. ‘Eh jist ca’ mesel “Ma” but meh lassie up the stairs has delusions o grandeur and signs herself as “Mae West”.’
But moving on.
My sister-in-law Ann, although too young to go to the regular dancing, also remembers the times she went to ballet classes. To begin with she went to Miss Watson’s classes that were held every Saturday morning in a hall in North Street, but later she joined Jean Pringle’s School of Ballet at 9 King Street and was entranced by the dance studio.
Run by Miss Pringle who had been a ballerina, either at Sadler’s Wells or Covent Garden, the studio was a delight with its huge windows and a proper barre. Ann recalls loving her class so much that even when confined to bed with ’flu one week, she was so determined to dance at an exhibition, she turned up along with her mother who sat in the front row with a bottle of Lucozade. Ann doesn’t recall if she needed it but it was so typical of her mum to be on hand with the first aid.
Dundee has also been a city of song, from the blues and guitar festivals of today, to the many folk singers and musicians who entertain in the multitude of pubs, not to mention the very talented pop groups.
Playing a large part in this singing tradition are the societies like the Dundee Operatic Society, The Downfield Musical Society, Thomson-Leng Musical Society and Sounds Spectacular.
The Whitehall Theatre plays host to these tuneful groups and their repertoires range from Broadway musicals to show stopping spectaculars. One group of youngsters, judging from their performances in the City Square last year, has such wonderful talent that I wouldn’t be surprised if many of them don’t end up on the London stage. Calling themselves ‘Tread the Boards’ their ages range from around five years old up to teenagers. And boy, could they all sing, even the smallest members.
It’s great to know that singing and performing is still alive and well in the city that spawned Mary Brookbanks with her famous ‘Jute Mill Song’, up to the latter day Sheena Wellington.
The Dundee Operatic Society was formed in May or June 1922 and they regularly held their concerts in the King’s Theatre in the Cowgate until 1961, when The Whitehall Theatre became the venue for all the concerts and shows. Sadly 1961 was the year when the King’s Theatre became a cinema and the stage was removed when the building was refurbished and renamed The Gaumont.
Away back in March 1933, when they were called the Dundee Amateur Operatic Society, they put on the musical The Desert Song in the King’s Theatre.
On the day of the crucial final rehearsal it was felt that an animal should be in the cast. A camel was out of the question but someone came up with the great idea of having a donkey. A man was found who owned two donkeys so he brought both of them to the theatre. One donkey however was a prima donna, lying down when one of the cast members got on its back. I think the actor tried to approach the animal from every direction but the moment it felt a presence on its back it lay down on the floor, no doubt giving a big hee-haw as an encore.
This donkey was eventually given his marching orders, as the cast didn’t want a comical donkey. The requirement was a donkey with acting ability and donkey number two seemed a better possibility. At least he wasn’t supine all the time.
The donkey was brought into the wings and gently cantered around with the leading man on his back. So far so good. However, the donkey refused to go on the stage, no matter how much it was coaxed. The star of the show thought a song would help and he sang one of the numbers from the show. No joy.
Appearing onto the scene were some of the cast who were playing French Legionnaires. They decided to manhandle the beast like proper manly legionnaires. With some pulling his head and others shoving his tail, they tried until they were red in the face and the members of the cast had tears in their eyes with laughing. Still no joy.
The stage manager then appeared and he had the great idea to place a carpet between the wings and the stage but this donkey may have been an ass but he wasn’t a fool. He remained adamant that the stage wasn’t the place to be.
The leading man had another go at cantering around in the wings then made a dash for the stage like some wild-west cowboy, but this ploy was also unsuccessful. Defeat stared them in the face and they gave up. By now everyone who was in the theatre was convulsed with laughter and it must have been a bit of an anti-climax the following night when the show opened. Without the donkey.
The musical societies are still going strong and I wonder if they’ve had any more animal antics over the years.
It’s good to know that the musical and dancing heritage is still going strong. Although the large dance halls of the past are long gone, the Star Ballroom run by Bob and Betty Barty is still surviving.
And there is also disco music to please the young. It may sound loud and discordant to many an older ear but it is still dancing to the sound of music and that can’t be a bad thing.
And finally back to The Desert Song.
Personally speaking, although it is not recorded which song was sung, I think the star of the show sang the wrong song. Maybe he should have sung ‘The Donkey Serenade’. I think the show was a success but it could never have matched the dress rehearsal for drama.
And did the show go on without an animal?
No, they ended up with a pony.
16
The People’s Infirmary
Dundee’s Royal Infirmary has played a huge part in the lives of the citizens of the city. There can hardly be anyone who hasn’t entered its doors since it opened, either as an outpatient, inpatient or a visitor.
The first two-storey infirmary with its two wards was opened in 1798 in King Street where it provided medical accommodation for twenty patients.
The population rose from 30,000 in 1821 to 80,000 in 1851 and because of this expanding growth of people, it soon became clear that the infirmary was too small for all the medical needs of the city.
A new infirmary opened in 1855 in Barrack Road, opposite the Dudhope Park. It had accommodation for 300 patients.
The infirmary depended on charity and donations, and such was the generosity of the jute barons and their families, plus the ordinary man and woman in the street, that a succession of extensions and improvements were added to the original building.
The first ward for children was added in 1883, Gilroy Home in 1892, Sharp Operating Theatre in 1895, Dalgleish Nurses’ Home in 1896, Caird Pavilion in 1907, new Outpatient Department in 1910, a new ENT Department and the Marryat Operating Theatres and X-Ray Department in 1925.
The improvements went on for years with the Dudhope House Nurses’ home in 1926, the Prain Preliminary Training School for Nurses in 1929, the Sharp Maternity Hospital in 1930, and the Duncan Pathology and Dispensary Building sharing the honours in
1933 with the Eye and Ear Outpatient Department.
The Sidlaw Sanatorium for Children was acquired in 1910 and owing to the terrible scourge of tuberculosis in the city, entire families were afflicted with this disease.
As there was no known cure, patients’ beds were put out on open verandas as it was believed that fresh air would cure the disease. Some patients recall wiping snow from the bed covers.
How well I remember the DRI, as my mum was a frequent patient in its wards. I recall reading the plaques above the beds which stated that that particular bed had been donated by some benefactor or other. At the time, I thought the person had donated the actual bed but it wasn’t until much later I realised this donation had been a substantial sum of money.
I also recall it was a cavernous place of long corridors, endless staircases and echoing voices. Visiting hours were strict with two visitors per patient and regulated visiting times.
A few years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Alison Kiddie who for many years was a ward sister at the infirmary. This meeting came about through Miss Japp who had been a teacher at Rosebank during my time there and she and Mrs Kiddie were neighbours.
I spent a wonderful afternoon in Mrs Kiddie’s flat in Dens Road and she told me all about her time at the DRI. She recalled beginning her training and going to G. L. Wilson’s store to buy her pink dress, cuffs, collar and belt, plus a cloak that cost 10/6.
The caps, supplied by the hospital were the Sister Dora type. They also supplied the material for the aprons but the nurses paid for the making up of these garments. The aprons had straps at the back and were about six inches from the floor as it wasn’t deemed nice to show a leg.
The nurses were called ‘Pinkies’ and during a very hot August in 1936, Mrs Kiddie recalls rolling her cashmere stockings down below her knees to keep the air circulating. They also wore sensible, black lacing shoes, which like the rest of the outfit, came from G. L. Wilson’s.
Teatime Tales From Dundee Page 5
