One other outing suggested by the doctor at this time was a trip over to Newport-on-Tay. This was one of the great pleasures in the Dundee working-class summer calendar, this crossing of the river on one of the ‘Fifies’. They made the journey every half an hour and the two I remember well were the Abercraig and the B. L. Nairn.
Motorists had to cross the river at this point unless they wanted to make the twenty-mile journey to Perth. This meant that these ferry boats were always full with an assortment of vehicles ranging from the humble motorcycle to cars and lorries. Large queues of people and vehicles gathered outside the Tay Ferries building at Craig Pier. The long line sometimes stretched right up Union Street as scores of families decided to have a day out. The women wore their summer dresses and their husbands were still clad in sober suits.
Our finances wouldn’t stretch to weekly trips and we often watched the boats sail out across the water from our vantage point at the Esplanade. George and I would be filled with envy at the carefree passengers who would gaily wave at us. Sometimes Mum managed to save the fares for the three of us and would take us out as a treat. We waited with impatient anticipation and barely disguised excitement on the pier as the ferry approached, to knock gently against the jetty before lowering her large gangplank.
Only then did the stream of passengers disembark, followed by the various vehicles which drove up the slope with such a great deal of petrol fumes and revving of engines that we were left wide-eyed with wonder. I liked to look at the water as it slapped against the side of the boat. These small waves made sucking, gurgling sounds and caused a myriad of rippling patterns that were slicked with patches of oil.
One day, while I was standing too close to the edge, a playful wave slowly curled over my feet. Mum, who was forever warning me about standing too near the water, snapped, ‘Have you got your feet wet again?’
‘No, Mum,’ I lied, ‘just a wee bit damp.’
It was one of those typically Scottish summer days – cool, damp and drizzly – and I had to spend my entire afternoon trying to look carefree and nonchalant while my feet got colder and colder. My every move was accompanied by a squelching noise and an eruption of soapy, white bubbles that burst through the black surface of my sandshoes.
Once on board, we gazed over the side of the rails as a throbbing sound from the depths of the boat heralded the cast-off. We watched in fascination as we slipped away from the jetty, the water being turned into a foaming mass by the paddles. The gap between the rails and the jetty widened and we stood in delight as the industrial skyline of the city receded into the distance. Countless chimneys exhaled fluttering ribbons of smoke into the atmosphere, casting a hazy pall over the buildings while ahead the green meadows of Fife beckoned.
The wide upper deck with its glass-panelled salon was our favourite spot. The salon always seemed to be populated by elderly folk, all muffled up against the weather. I could never understand why people wanted to shut themselves away from the exhilarating feeling of standing in the wild blowing wind, the wet sea spray and the tangy smell of the river, not to mention the glorious panoramic view. Mum, however, understood perfectly. Because she couldn’t afford the extra penny or so for the privilege of a salon seat, she always made sure she found a sheltered spot, usually near the box that held the lifebelts.
As long as we promised to behave, we were allowed to roam the boat as if we owned it, playing out fantasies like the adventures of Long John Silver and his pirates or Captain Scott voyaging to the South Pole in his ship Discovery. On one trip I spotted a pile of debris floating on the murky water, swirling around for a brief instant before being carried out to sea on a wave.
I had seen the Betty Grable film Song of the Islands the previous week and it made me wonder. ‘Mum, do you think that rubbish will land on a South Sea island beach?’
Mum, who never felt truly happy on the boat because the motion made her feel queasy, replied rather cynically. ‘Eh shouldn’t think so. It’ll be lucky if it reaches Broughty Ferry beach.’
Also on board that day was our pal Alex. Being a fount of knowledge, he remarked to us, ‘Do you know something? If you fall over the side and you’re drowning, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes.’
George’s eyes were like organ stops but I was unconvinced. ‘How can a drowning person tell you what they’ve seen?’
Alex gave this a bit of thought, which meant he frowned deeply and bit his lower lip while making a series of ‘tch, tch, tch’ sounds. Then his face brightened as he thought of a credible answer – to give Alex his due, he was never stuck long for an explanation of his many theories. ‘Well, Eh expect it was somebody who was drowning but got rescued at the very last minute. Then maybe they said, “Och, it was awfy. My whole life flashed in front of my eyes.”’
We took this explanation with a pinch of salt. After all, Alex was the one who told us about the ‘Dead Man’s Handle’ on the tramcars. According to him, if the driver felt ill he pulled this handle and the tram came to a stop. We had sat behind the drivers for months after hearing this story, only to find the poor men didn’t suffer from as much as a sneeze let alone a tram-stopping illness. Our unflinching gaze at some of the drivers had made them so nervous that they had become quite stroppy.
Still, Alex was forgotten as we neared Newport. The boat docked at another pier similar to Craig Pier and the crowds surged forward in a seething mass into the narrow street that led to the grassy slopes that overlooked the river. This green brae was usually packed with day trippers and it was pleasant to sit there on a sunny day and watch the ferries ply back and forth across the channel, navigating round the exposed sandbanks. From this high vantage point the boats looked tiny as they sat squarely on the water like toys in a bathtub.
After settling us into a comfortable spot, Mum would empty her message bag to reveal the usual fare along with her latest detective novel from the library and our comics. As we sat on the sharp tufts of grass we all agreed that it was lovely eating Spam pieces and reading about the latest exploits of Desperate Dan and Lord Snooty in the company of the river.
The water presented a constantly changing scene as the waves shifted into an endless kaleidoscope of patterns. The waves could change mood from being choppy with white frilled edges to calmly languid and lazy with a mirrored slick finish. Seagulls squawked noisily overhead, diving for almost invisible crumbs which they deftly scooped up in their beaks. It was as if they sensed the food of the picnickers and they massed in furious white clouds above us, filling the air with high-pitched cries. As they fought and jostled for space, their outstretched wings flapped noisily in their desperate bid to grab the tastiest morsels.
We made a few crossings of the river during that summer of 1947. Mum was making a good recovery, which was good news. One return crossing I vividly recall was made on a hot, windless day just as the sun was setting. The sky was marbled with brilliant red and orange streaks that mingled with the ever-darkening azure of the approaching twilight. As we looked backwards, the far-off shores of Newport lay in shadow like an inky and smudgy thumbprint. The fading sun was reflected on the river and turned it into a sea of molten gold.
The normally dismal and smoke-hazed city silhouette of tall chimneys and grey depressing buildings was transformed by a fiery glow that bathed everything in a shimmering opalescent sheen. Long fingers of sunlight probed deeply into the city streets, searching for any west-facing windows to bounce its dazzling, diamond-bright rays against, turning them into gleaming jewels. It was a sight of magical, picture-postcard perfection.
As we walked home, the entrapped heat radiated from the pavements and we felt its warmth through the thin soles of our shoes. The Hilltown was abuzz with people. They sat on their ‘pletties’ or at the end of their closes. Pletties were concrete platforms that lead off the stairs and they often had front doors opening off them. All doors and windows were opened wide in a determined effort to catch every ray of sunlight. A multitude of chattering voices drifted on to the street along with sounds from scores of wirelesses. There were appetising aromas from a mixture of cuisines as people dined alfresco.
We passed lines of bleak houses that normally glowered like a grey shroud but on this golden evening seemed transformed. Lines of washing hung lethargically from a myriad of criss-crossed ropes that converged towards the communal ‘greenie pole’, bearing witness to the fact that, although the women were now relaxing, their work had been done first. The greenie pole was a long pole in a back yard that had washing lines attached to it. These lines were connected to windows by means of pulleys and the idea was that, as you pegged the washing on to the line, you fed it out the window.
‘What a difference the sun makes!’ said Mum as we hurried homewards.
It was certainly a bonus to her as it made her feel a bit better. Regaining good health for Mum was surely just around the corner.
Sometimes on a Sunday, if we didn’t want to walk along the Esplanade, we would, like many other city dwellers, take a stroll around the docks. George and I liked to look at the big ships but we were a bit afraid of the exotic-looking Lascar seamen. These dark-skinned men gabbled away in their own language which we thought was gobbledegook. Then again, they probably thought the same about the Dundee dialect.
On one such stroll we saw an American ship docked nearby. As we passed it, a young fresh-faced sailor came running down the gangplank and rushed past us. In his haste he dropped a big packet of coloured fruit drops. They were encased in a clear cellophane wrapper and we had never seen anything like them before. Our eyes were almost popping out of our heads as George picked them up and handed them to the young man.
The sailor gazed at our faces for a moment before speaking in a super American film-star drawl. ‘Gee, sonny, just keep them and share them with the little lady.’
Perplexed, George looked around to see who the little lady was and I hissed at him in a stage whisper. ‘That’s me, daftie!’ I said, sounding more like a furious fishwife than a lady.
Mum was mortified. ‘George, hand those sweeties back to the man at once.’
The sailor was nervously consulting his watch.
Mum repeated her command and added. ‘Will you two stop gawking at them?’
She turned and addressed the sailor. ‘You’ll have to excuse them. They look like they’ve never seen a sweetie before.’
We had never seen sweeties like this before, all wrapped up in clear cellophane and a huge bagful at that.
The sailor held up his hand. ‘Gee whizz, ma’am! I sure would like the kids to keep them. I’m sure Mary won’t mind and I must rush because I’m late for our date.’
With this he hurried away and Mum looked at us with annoyance. ‘Well, Eh hope for his sake that Mary does understand about losing her sweeties to two mooching faces like yourselves. Honestly, Eh’ve never been so black-affronted before. Speak about having your tongues hanging out!’
As we sucked hard on our ill-gotten sweets, Mum was still ranting about being embarrassed. ‘What will that young lad think of us? He’ll think we’re beggars.’
Personally I couldn’t see the problem and I didn’t think the sailor would be all that bothered. After all, he must have been used to it. Since the war had brought the Yanks over to Britain, if anyone was lucky enough to meet a native of America, that golden land of plenty, the standard phrase was ‘Have you got any gum, chum?’ or, in the case of the fairer sex at the dancing, ‘Have you any nylons, Hank?’
Mum by now was back at work and she always came home tired from the mill. Weary of trying to make ends meet, she expected me to take on extra duties to ease her life a bit. One of these chores was usually on a Tuesday after school when I had to take the weekly washing to the wash-house at the rural-sounding Meadows. Tuesdays were often one of the quieter days at the wash-house.
The preparation for this weekly ritual began on Sunday when the bed was stripped and the sheets and pillowcases were loaded into a battered old tin bath. Then on Monday night our clothes were added to the pile and, as a decoy to any nosy neighbour, a lovely clean cloth was placed over the top. This ploy was used by most women because it didn’t do to let your neighbours see your dirty washing. After all, it wasn’t the done thing to show people how grubby we really were.
This pretence of taking only clean clothes to be washed was harmless enough unless taken to extremes. One who was guilty of this was a Mrs McDuff who lived at the foot of Tulloch Crescent. She always placed the most lovely embroidered cloth over her washing basket This delight of linen, lazy daisies and French knots earned her the title of ‘Doris the Duchess’ or ‘that toffee-nosed wee besom’. I thought this most unfair and would have loved to own a similar teacloth myself.
So every Tuesday I would dunt our creaky old pram down the nineteen stairs before loading on the tin bath of washing, the washboard and the Sunlight soap. Our pram had seen better days, but not for many a year. No doubt in its heyday the paintwork had been a work of art and the hood a positive concertina of pleated gaberdine but not now. It also had a wobbly wheel which made pushing it in a straight line very difficult indeed.
I headed for the Hedgie Road, which was very narrow with only a couple of inches clearance at the sides of the pram, then past the Dudhope Nursery before gathering my strength to push my burden up the steep Constitution Brae. The entrance to the wash-house lay directly across from the lovely-sounding Laurelbank, but this name was deceptive. This grim and grey-stoned building looked as if it could be a relic from the Industrial Revolution. It was a ghastly blot, made more unlovely by its contrasting green grassy meadows that swept upwards to the edge of the red-bricked infirmary while a clutch of allotments skirted its lower edge. These were fenced off from trespassers.
On sunny days these grounds were occupied by scores of chattering women sitting outside while their washing flapped in white billows. Squares of white clothes dotted the grass, turning the entire park into a patchwork of green and white. The interior of the wash-house, however, was a stark contrast to the idyllic scene outdoors and entering the building was like entering Dante’s Inferno. The steamy heat mingled with the clanking chunter of machinery and disembodied voices. A cacophony of noise echoed from the wet walls while pervading everything was the pungent smell of wet, soapy washing.
A woman sitting in a small cubbyhole collected the admission money and allocated each customer a cubicle. It was then time to start on this long, hot and very tiring job. The cubicles were small but adequate, each containing two sinks, a boiler and a pull-out drying rack. Sometimes this rack would be full of someone’s washing which meant we had to wait patiently in the corridor until she pulled armfuls of half-dry clothes from its rails. Pushing the rack back could be hard work and sometimes needed all hands on deck as we pushed the metal contraption back into place, with it protesting and screeching as if it was in mortal agony.
Our routine never varied. Until Mum could join me from the mill it was my job to start the washing. I stood on a small box to reach the sinks but I was never allowed to touch the boiler with its intensely hot water. I hated the washing board and many a skinned knuckle I got from it. Another thing I didn’t like was when Mum took the sheets out of the boiler and dumped them into the sink full of cold water. Sometimes they would become inflated with trapped air like giant balloons which, when pushed under the water, would send a cascade all over me and soak me almost to the skin. Some women wore rubber-lined aprons but most made do with strong, serviceable hessian versions which helped to keep them dry. I didn’t have that luxury.
One thing I did like, however, were the conversations. In these conditions it was impossible to have a private chat and the voices which floated overhead were anonymous and entertaining.
‘Did you see the new picture at the Plaza this week? Eh thought it was braw,’ said one.
‘Was that Margaret Lockwood in The Lady Vanishes?’ shouted another voice over the metallic clatter.
Before she could answer, another voice butted in. ‘Eh’m really fed up with these coupons. Eh’ve no sweetie coupons left and no fags.’ She sounded down in the dumps.
‘And another thing – where’s the bananas we’re aye hearing about? Eh haven’t seen any.’
‘Och, never mind. We’re all in the same boat,’ came a sympathetic comment.
Then a modest voice joined in. ‘Speaking about The Lady Vanishes, some folk say Eh look like Margaret Lockwood.’
There was a moment of stunned silence while we all digested this item of information. Although no one said anything there was an unspoken feeling that we were indeed fortunate to have a glamorous film star lookalike in our midst and we should be thankful she had condescended to use our humble wash-house. As Mum and I made our way to the extractors, which were forerunners of the modern spin dryer, I looked around for this undiscovered beauty. But as in Miss Lockwood’s film, the lady had indeed vanished.
I loved the extractors. Sometimes on a quiet afternoon, I would sit on my upturned tin bath and watch the series of wheels and fanbelts that seemed to be the power behind these machines. It was very therapeutic and allowed me to indulge in my favourite pastime, daydreaming. Some women preferred to use the large mangles, which were huge iron contraptions with big creamy-white rollers and a cartwheel for a handle. Sometimes we used one as it cut down on the ironing, but Mum was always careful to make sure that any buttons were well padded in case they shattered.
We often met Nell, Mum’s pal from Ann Street, at the washhouse. She was quite a small woman, with black hair and a pale complexion, and the heat, which during the summer months could reach tropical levels, didn’t agree with her. Sometimes she would arrive at our cubicle red-faced and panting as if she was on the verge of a heart attack. On these occasions I would be sent to help her carry her basket to the extractors then help her load the washing on to her pram.
Mum was most insistent about not accepting any reward for any help given. Knowing this, Nell would bring out a ‘Chiclet’ (a small piece of chewing gum) from a wet pocket and give it to me. ‘Now, don’t tell your mother Eh gave you this,’ she would say with a wink.
I could never eat this piece of chewing gum. It wasn’t only soggy but often had thin strands of cigarette tobacco clinging to it. I’m afraid I always used to throw it away, but never in Nell’s sight. In any case, I was much too preoccupied admiring the pram belonging to Maggie, another of Mum’s pals. It was a Silver Cross high pram and I always thought it looked like Cinderella’s coach.
I longed for a chance to push a grand pram as this and I finally got my wish one week when Maggie hurt her back and wasn’t able to push it herself. As usual Mum had offered my services and I could barely sleep the night before with my visions of a stately procession to the wash-house. The plan was for me to push it as far as the Meadows, where Maggie would take over. After school I rushed to her door and, sure enough, the grand high pram awaited.
I set off in great style, hoping some of my pals would see me and remark how grand I looked. Sadly, the street was almost deserted that day and my noble progress went unnoticed. It’s a true saying that pride goes before a fall, and so it was with me that day. I had barely reached the Hedgie Road when I knew I was having difficulty with the handle. The giant bath of washing perched on top didn’t help either as it seemed to have a life of its own as it bounced in disharmony with the pram.
When I reached the steep brae I almost fell flat on my face and had to dig my heels in as the pram ran ahead with me hanging grimly on to the handle. I had this terrible vision of the pram rolling away down the hill and perhaps crashing into the children’s nursery. Then there was the added worry that the paintwork could get scratched.
For some unknown reason, George and Alex had decided to come with me and they were trotting along on either side of me like footmen beside a royal coach. I yelled at them like a demented fishwife to help me. With the three of us hanging on grimly, we finally managed to reach the wash-house unscathed. I then had the terrible thought that maybe I would have to push it back home.
Luckily for me, Maggie’s husband had been press-ganged into this chore and I could breathe a sigh of relief. There was still the added worry that I might be landed with this job every week and I felt sick at the thought. All the way home I carefully rehearsed my speech about not being able to do it. When I got in, Mum asked, ‘Well, how was the braw buggy?’
I burst into tears and a flood of words came spilling out, recounting all the near-disasters I had experienced in the past hour. Mum said not to worry, she would have a word with Maggie. What I didn’t know then was that Maggie and her husband were moving to a house in Caldrum Street, a street that had its own wash-house. What a relief! I never complained about our old pram again. Even if I should let go of its handle, the wobbly wheel would soon make sure it stopped against the nearest wall and another scratch on its paintwork would never be noticed amongst the million others.
If Tuesday was washing day, then Friday night was the ironing night. We owned two flat irons and these would be heated on the gas jets of the stove while an old scorched blanket was placed over the table. Mum had the knack of knowing the right temperature of the iron but I was hopeless. That’s why I only ironed small items. While we stood sweating over hot irons, George would be sent outside to play.
Often, he wore his Roy Rogers cowboy outfit with its cardboard hat, thin waistcoat and furry-legged trousers. I tended to think a real cowboy wouldn’t have been seen dead in this. Then there was the tin gun with caps that didn’t explode as advertised. Instead they made a half-hearted crack, nothing like the guns in the cowboy films where Hopalong Cassidy could shoot a sitting target at a thousand paces.
One of the visits to the wash-house that I remember most vividly took place on Hogmanay 1947. The place was solidly packed with women, all hell-bent on getting the washing done before the year’s end. I had made my way as usual after school finished at four o’clock but it was six o’clock before I got a cubicle. When Mum arrived she was tired and fed up and her face was a picture of misery when she realised I hadn’t even started the washing. We rushed through it but, when we carted the wet washing to the extractors, there was a queue almost a mile long. It was the same story at the three large mangles.
Mum took one look and snapped, ‘Right! Put the bath on the pram and let’s go home.’ As decisions went, it wasn’t one of her better ones. We hung the soaking wet washing on the kitchen pulley where it dripped for three days. We placed all our empty containers under these drips and the sound wasn’t so much Handel’s Water Music as a Chinese water torture. The kitchen was turned into a steamy and moist place. Later that night, Lizzie was our first-foot.
‘Heavens!’ she cried, ‘It’s like a Turkish bath in here, Molly!’
So we toasted another New Year, without Grandad and without Dad. ‘A happy New Year!’ we wished one another, to an accompaniment of drips and drops in various naturals, sharps and flats.