by Millie Gray
First published 2016
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL
www.blackandwhitepublishing.com
This electronic edition published in 2016
ISBN: 978 1 78530 048 6 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 78530 045 5 in paperback format
Copyright © Millie Gray 2016
The right of Millie Gray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore
For Diane Cooper for her assistance when all appeared to be lost. Also I have to thank my sister Mary Gillon for her support and Diane Cooper for her first edit of the book and all the staff at Black & White for their help, expertise and encouragement.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Part One: May 1945
Part Two: Early June 1945
Part Three: July 1945
Part Four: August 1945
Part Five: September 1945
Part Six: May 1947
Part Seven: May 1949
PART ONE
MAY 1945
Johnny Anderson wasn’t aware of the three little tearaways careering along the Leith Links road until one of them bumped into his left side. The sudden, unexpected impact caused Johnny to stagger and reel. In an effort to regain his balance he immediately placed his right hand over his elbowed stump – the upper stump that was all that remained of his left arm.
‘Och, Jimmy,’ one of the laddies blustered, ‘can you no see the man’s a wounded sodier. No got a hand, so he hasnae.’ The lad stopped and spat before adding, ‘Probably had it blown clean aff by a grenade in the war.’
Jimmy sniffed and wiped under his nose with his fingers. ‘Sorry, mister, but dinnae you worry cause ye cannae be hurt nae mair.’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ the only girl in the trio chanted. ‘Listen, mister, can you no hear the bells? Ringing aw day they hae been to tell us that it’s aw ower. Aye, the war’s aw ower!’
‘That’s right, Rena. And ken this, mister,’ Alec added as he nudged Johnny’s right arm, ‘we’re on our way to the street parties. Are you going to one?’ Johnny stayed mute so Alec winked before continuing, ‘See you being a wounded sodier will mean you’ll get the pick of the sandwiches and as many sausage rolls and jellies and ice creams as you want.’
Chuckling, Johnny replied, ‘Like you I’m glad it’s all over. By the way what’s your names?’
‘I’m the biggest, I’m ten and my name is Alec Ross. Rena’s ma wee sister and Jimmy he’s ten tae, but he doesnae act it. Our mammy says he’s no the full shilling so we hae to be kind to him and let him tag along.’
Johnny smiled. ‘And when the three of you grow up what are you going to be?’
Alec huffed. ‘My ma says I havnae to be like my dad and I’ve tae get aff my bahookie. That means I’ll probably hae to get a job in the docks.’
‘Your ma doesnae say bahookie, she says to your dad to get aff his ar . . .’
‘Okay,’ Alec spat, ‘but we’re no allowed to say anything but bahookie . . . are we?’
Jimmy just nodded.
‘Don’t know if getting a job in the docks will be all that easy,’ Johnny slowly drawled.
‘Will be for me, mister, you see my uncle works there, and he’ll speak up for me.’
Johnny smiled and nodded. That was certainly how things worked before the war. But now? He sighed before allowing a wicked smile to play on his lips as he acknowledged that with the winds of change blowing in a new and more just order, who knew what would happen?
‘And, mister,’ Rena said, pulling on Johnny’s trouser pocket to get his attention, ‘I want to be a teacher but my mammy says I’ll be like her and only be allowed into Moray House Teachers’ College to scrub the flairs.’ Rena then sighed long and hard before adding, ‘You see, you hae to be a toff to be a teacher and we’re skint and bide in Sleigh Drive . . . so there’s nae hope of me getting to teach.’
Johnny chuckled, but before he could reply, the children heard the music that was drifting over from several of the Leith Links street parties and they scampered off. As he watched them hurtle over the greens, he allowed his amusement to be replaced by deep contemplation – he was thinking about the aspirations the country had for the future. So deep was he in his ponderings that he was unaware that a number thirteen bus had drawn level with him until the driver, Joe Armstrong, shouted, ‘Here, Johnny, do you want a free hurl up Restalrig Road?’
Johnny shook his head. ‘Naw, Joe. I’m just going to dander up and maybe join in one or two of the festivities.’
Truth was Johnny wanted to reflect – have time on his own to think back.
The declaration of war, on 3rd September 1939, between Britain and Germany, and the subsequent bombings of Leith, had not had the devastating effect on Johnny that his home circumstances had.
He became so immersed in these personal recoll-ections that he had crossed over Vanburgh Place and was ambling up Restalrig Road when he began to be swamped by those poignant memories – memories so painful that he had to stop and lean against the licensed grocer’s shop window for support. Without warning he suddenly convulsed in sobs as he recalled his family’s personal events of 1939.
That was the year when his beautiful and vivacious wife Sandra whispered in his ear that she, at the age of thirty-seven, was pregnant again. He remembered that Saturday afternoon so well because they seemed to be nineteen or twenty again and had just discovered that their first child, Bobby, was on his way. They could not have been happier, and yes the country was now at war, but the hostilities all seemed so far away in Europe that they could not believe they would have any effect on them or their contentment and well-being.
Unfortunately, bombs that burst out of the blue, either real or figurative, cause mayhem and devastation. The ravages, however, are not only felt in the original crater but also in the surrounding areas. Innocent people become swamped by the shock waves, and the merciless fallout. These consequences were no more true than when thirty-seven-year-old Sandra died giving birth to Rosebud. The catastrophic effects from this blast not only affected Johnny but it changed, for the worse, the life of Kitty, pretty Kitty, his bubbly fifteen-year-old daughter. The poor girl, who had so much promise, found herself no longer continually crossing then uncrossing her perfect legs whilst taking her boss’s dictation and then expertly typing up his letters – no, she grudgingly became ‘Mother’ to fractious Rosebud and unpaid housekeeper for her father’s household.
Johnny’s reveries then shifted to his son, Jack. Consequently he felt the need to pull himself away from the shop window and stand erect in reverence. A right ‘Jack the Lad’ his twenty-year-old son had been. He sighed long and hard as he acknowledged that he never ever would come to terms with his ship being torpedoed in the Mediterranean. The loss of Jack was another bomb blast that had knocked him sideways. He nodded as he accepted that it was against nature for a father to mourn the loss of his child. Life, he conceded, was unfortunately like what the Bible promised – oh aye, every life would receive its share of the good years and the bad. Johnny from experience knew that this was true, and how. He also knew that he continually tried to reason and justify why the good and just God, that he worshipped, could take the life of a carefree charmer like his son Jack – a lad who was
just stepping out onto the world’s stage – a lad who had just finished his apprenticeship and was eager to do his bit in the war whilst he sailed the seven seas – and still even today, as the victory bells were ringing out, the answer eluded him.
Johnny was now biting so hard on his bottom lip that he drew blood – warm salty blood that dribbled down his chin. Lifting his hand to wipe away the trickling stream he admitted that the discomfort from his self-inflicted wound was easy to thole. So much easier than the relentless agony of wondering if his selfish actions of bedding and marrying Connie had somehow driven Jack to join the Merchant Navy and then be lost to him forever. Thinking back to the passing of Jack saw Johnny curling his right hand into a vice-like grip. This was because he felt he had to inflict pain on himself to atone for any wrong he may have done.
He was just about to berate himself further when the familiar voice of his longtime workmate and confidant Jock brought him back to consciousness. ‘What was that you said, Jock?’ he mumbled.
‘Just wondering, so I am, if you’re lashing yourself again?’ Johnny shook his head. ‘Well that will be a first. So that leaves me wondering if you’re going up the brae and home to your bonnie lassies or can I tempt you back to the Links Tavern for a double victory dram?’
Johnny hunched his shoulders and contemplated for a minute. ‘A double dram it is because we have things to discuss.’
Jock nodded and smiled when Johnny gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
Meanwhile at Leith Hospital the young, handsome and dashing Canadian doctor grabbed hold of Sister Jean Duff and began waltzing her around the children’s ward. This spontaneous spectacle resulted in the children who were able, to jump up and dance around their cots.
Anderson and Keane, the two second-year – so judged to be senior – probationer nurses did try to quieten the children but both collapsed against a cot as their efforts to suppress and control their laughter failed.
‘Doctor McNeill,’ shrieked a highly indignant Sister Duff, as she disentangled herself from his arms, ‘may I remind you that this is an establishment for healing not . . . reeling.’
Undeterred Dougal grabbed the sister again. ‘I know that. But listen, Jeanie, the bells, the bells are ringing out to tell us it’s over. The bloody war is over . . . all over.’
Jean, eyes bulging, nose snorting, knees buckling, pushed against Dougal in an effort to escape his hold. ‘It may be, Doctor McNeill,’ she panted and spluttered, when she eventually managed to extricate herself from his grasp, ‘that the war in Europe is over but let me inform you that the war in here,’ she gasped again, ‘against disease and pestilence goes on.’
Dougal’s response was to lunge towards Jean again. But before he could recapture her she, in absolute panic, fled swiftly on her hobbling legs from the ward. She had just catapulted herself through the swing doors when, as luck would have it, she careered into Matron.
With a look of complete disdain, which she had spent many years perfecting, Matron hissed, ‘Sister Duff, you are not in uniform.’ Jean looked up but said nothing. ‘Please straighten your cap and where, might I ask, is your right shoe?’ Sister Duff could only sniff and shake her head so in clipped tones Matron continued, ‘Decorum. Oh yes, sister, decorum by senior staff must be observed at all times.’
Back in the ward, to the delight of the children, who were still shaking their cots, an over-exuberant Dougal McNeill was now dancing a protesting Dotty Keane up the ward.
‘Whoa, whoa!’ Kitty exclaimed. ‘Look here’s Matron coming and by the look on her face, we’re all for it.’
Dougal drew up so quickly that Dotty toppled over and slithered directly into the path of Matron.
Matron’s face convulsed before it turned all the colours of the rainbow. Then, snorting like an overheated dragon, she looked contemptuously down at Dotty before hissing, ‘Keane, what on earth do you think you are doing? Have you no regard for the welfare of your young patients?’
By now Dougal had squeezed past Matron, and Kitty could only look on in dismay at his fleeing figure. ‘Matron, madam,’ she spluttered, ‘Doctor McNeill was just . . .’
‘Just what?’
‘Just that he . . . and I’m sure he didn’t mean to but he did get a bit overexcited about the war being over.’
Matron continued to glower before announcing, ‘I am just going to go over to the children’s surgical ward and when I return,’ she glanced down at her fob watch before adding, ‘in exactly five minutes, I expect you, Keane, to be up off the floor, and to see this ward being run as it should be, Anderson.’
Two freshly-drawn pints had just been set down in front of the two pals when Jock said, ‘You seem a bit put out. What I mean is you look as if someone has stolen your tattie scone.’
Johnny bit on his lip and then made a few clucking sounds before replying, ‘Well if someone coming into your patch and walking away with your dream counts as your scone getting nicked then I am cheesed off.’
‘What are you going on about?’
‘Just that the selection committee for the election . . . which by the way is less than two months away . . .’
‘They’ve set the date already?’
‘Aye, and would you believe it is to be 5th July this year!’ Jock frowned. Johnny now adopted a long-suffering expression before adding, ‘But back to what’s bugging me . . . have they no just handed the candidacy for Leith to a foreigner.’
‘What foreigner?’
‘That Jimmy Hoy bloke.’
Jock chuckled before taking a long slurp from his pint. ‘Hoy’s no a foreigner,’ he then replied. ‘Sure the lad was born in Edinburgh. Educated at Causewayside and Sciennes corporation schools, so he was.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ Johnny spat. ‘He’s from above the Leith boundary line and here’s me that has slaved all my days in the Leith shipyards and stood up for the working men there and I’ve been kicked into touch.’
‘Are you saying that after all we’ve done to get you noticed that you didnae get a shot at a seat?’
‘Cannae exactly say that,’ Johnny huffed.
‘You cannae?’
‘Naw, because, right enough, I’ve been handed the chance to bring hame a victory in the Wider Granton one.’
Jock shook his head. ‘Get a grip, Johnny.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that you’re lucky to be getting a chance to fight for a seat in the election. And okay it’s no going to be as easy a seat to win as Leith would be but if you put in enough effort you can still bring home a victory.’
‘That remains to be seen. Besides I wanted to stand for Leith . . . my industrial hame. It’s where I’m known for doing my best for the workers and their families. I’m one of them.’
‘Aye, but “Hoy’s the boy” is the best guy to send that Devonshire Liberal boy, Ernest Brown, back to England to think again.’
‘How could I have no done that?’
‘Forget it. And you will win Granton and hands down at that. What you have to do is get to know your voters.’
‘Oh aye, I can see myself banging on the doors of Davidson’s Mains and asking if they will vote for Labour and them replying aye, son, just as soon as I have stopped counting my money.’
‘Look. I’m no half glad you weren’t at Dunkirk.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well with your attitude we would never have got the men off the blinking beaches.’
‘Are you saying I’m a defeatist?’
‘No. You’re saying that about yourself.’ Jock slurped from his pint again. Before he continued he nudged Johnny playfully. ‘But I ken you can win Wider Granton. All you have to do is stop sulking and start thinking about all you have going for you . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Your family and pals like me that will be knocking on the doors along with you.’
Johnny grunted before a sly smile broke on his face. ‘Have I to start right away or do you think
we have time for another pint?’
‘Well as it’s your round . . . pints it needs to be.’
Johnny’s twenty-year-old daughter, Kitty, was nursing a cup of steaming weak tea in Lanny’s café in Henderson Street when she looked up at the window and saw Doctor Dougal making faces at her.
In feigned disgust, she shrugged and looked away. However, he ignored her rebuff and bounced jauntily into the café. He then threw himself down on the bench beside her. Immediately she tried to put space between them but whenever she did he snuggled up closer to her until the wall prevented her from escaping his advances.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she hissed before banging her cup down.
‘Is that so?’ He just laughed, whilst leaning forward to tickle her chin. Her response was to brusquely brush his hand away. She then found herself squirming as she thought, Why does this man disturb me so? Why am I so pleased to be sitting so close beside him, so close that I can smell that he has recently been smoking his pipe? That blooming pipe, whose lingering wholesome aroma of his Caledonian Mixture Tobacco, has my stomach feeling as if it has been invaded by a swarm of fluttering butterflies.
Trying to control her emotions she inhaled deeply. Her eyes then became fixed on him as he fumbled in his pockets to bring out his pipe and tobacco tin. As the exotic aroma of the Virginia tobacco wafted over her she began to feel like an overexcited, bewitched teenager. Willingly inhaling the exotic scent she became as if hypnotised and she mumbled, ‘How much does that tobacco cost?’
He was now puffing deeply sending more of the redolence over to her and around the room. ‘This,’ he said tapping the tin ‘costs a whole one shilling and three pence per ounce and if you are thinking of treating me you can get it from the tobacco shop at the foot of Leith Walk.’
This impertinent retort brought Kitty down from cloud nine and she countered his insolence with, ‘Me . . . buy you tobacco? With the carry on you had on the ward today the only thing I would be happy to buy you is a one-way ticket for the next ship sailing for Canada!’
