Lizzie was excited. Her son George was getting married. Margaret, his fiancée, lived in Lochee but we all knew her well because she was a regular visitor to the street. The wedding was to be held in a church in Lochee with the reception in the Albert Hall at the top of Tullidelph Road.
‘You’ll be getting an invitation nearer the time,’ Lizzie told Mum.
I was more interested in Margaret’s new coat when she appeared in the house to show us her engagement ring. It was the most beautiful coat I had ever seen. Pink-coloured, and cut in the New Look fashion, it fell in long swishy panels from her neat waist almost to her ankles. She twirled around in it to show off the amount of material in the skirt. Such a generous amount was almost unheard of in these meagre and still rationed times when all items carried the Utility label. But Christian Dior, the French fashion designer, had stormed the world with his wonderfully opulent garments that were out of many a reach, mine included.
Mum was impressed. ‘It’s a braw coat right enough, Margaret. And what a length! It fair puts those Utility garments tae shame.’
Mind you, we got a laugh when Margaret left because her lovely new coat trailed along each step as she descended into the street, carrying dust and debris with it.
Although the New Look had arrived with a vengeance, people still needed coupons for everything. The war may have been won but things had become worse instead of better on the home front. People were sick and tired of it. Lizzie told Mum that Margaret’s family were having great difficulty in obtaining all the wedding finery.
Mum was undecided about going to the reception, mainly because of the cost. Our faithful old alarm clock had stopped working a few weeks before and Mum had taken out a Provident cheque to buy another one and the ‘tickie man’ (the man from the Provident who came to collect payments) called every Friday evening. We had tried to do without a clock but Mum was worried about sleeping in for her work. At first she had employed the services of Annie, the ‘chapper-up’, who, for the sum of a few pennies a week, would stand under the window and either shout, tap the window with a long stick or fling a handful of small stones to rouse people from their beds.
Annie was a true eccentric. Dressed in her own brand of ankle-length coat that had no help from Dior and her shabby boots, she was well known around the Hilltown. She obviously owned a grand alarm clock because she was always on time with her chapping-up. On the Monday morning we were wakened by a loud knock on the window and, completely forgetting our new wake-up call arrangement, thought the house had been hit by an earthquake. Mum leapt out of bed but by this time Annie was already halfway up the Hilltown with her long stick. After a week of this, Mum decided that a shilling a week was a small price to pay for another timepiece.
The alternative was risking being late at the mill and finding the gate shut. This would result in your wages being quartered and if you were regularly late this would make quite a dent in the weekly take home pay.
Mum was telling Nan all our troubles, especially the financial reasons for turning the wedding invitation down. ‘It’ll mean the three of us getting rigged out,’ she complained.
Surprisingly, Nan brushed this enormous barrier aside. ‘Just you go, Molly, and enjoy yourself for once. After all it’s the summer and the bairns can wear their sandals and something cheap and summery.’
When she viewed it from this angle Mum had to agree that the expense could perhaps be kept to the bare minimum. George had joined the local company of the Boys’ Brigade and although Mr Eggo, the leader, had said that any kind of apparel was suitable, Mum had managed to kit him out in a grey flannel suit, complete with short trousers. This meant he had something decent to wear. Mum decided to get her costume from the closet. Although quite a few years old it had hardly been worn, so that was her outfit dealt with. That only left me.
With Nan’s words ringing in her ears about putting some enjoyment back into her life, Mum and I set off for the Star Stores. This was a credit shop, with a range limited to whatever stock was available. If they didn’t have what you wanted then that was tough luck, as we were about to discover. Some of the older people in the street frowned on any kind of credit, stating quite bluntly that they preferred to pay cash for everything and being extremely proud of this motto. Mum always said that paying a small amount every week was the only way we could afford even the bare essentials.
Top of Mum’s list was a wedding present for the young couple and as soon as we entered the shop she spotted a kettle with a copper base. ‘Just ideal!’ she said and it was quickly wrapped up. A new shirt was quickly chosen to go with George’s suit and Mum reckoned a new blouse and perhaps a pair of stockings would be sufficient for her. We were fair rocketing around the store and Mum was smiling at the speed of our purchases.
But then there was me and I was a different story. I must have been in the middle of a growing stage because my meagre wardrobe at home consisted of a few well-worn frocks that were too short. The hems had been let down time and time again until there was no material left. Also, my sandals were old and scruffy with nearly all the original colour scraped away to reveal the scuffed leather backing.
In search of an outfit for me we approached the glass-topped counter and the middle-aged woman who hove into view. ‘Can I be of assistance, madam?’ she enquired, her head tilted to one side and her hands clasped together as if in prayer. She had a thin colourless face that wasn’t enhanced by the severe-looking hairstyle. Her grey hair was pulled back into a giant doughnut of a bun at the nape of her neck.
Mum looked grateful. ‘Eh’m looking for a frock and a pair of sandals for my lassie.’
The colourless creature surveyed me with a screwed-up face and pursed mouth, as if I had crawled into her view from under a stone.
‘Well, that’s difficult, madam,’ she observed in her posh voice. ‘You see, your little girl is in what we term in the dress trade an in-between size, which means she is too big for the children’s sizes and too small for the adults’ range.’ She gave a little titter as if something had amused her then moved over to a rack at the side of the counter. ‘She can try this one on. It should just fit her but there won’t be any growing room in it.’
I groaned inwardly when I heard the dreaded words ‘growing room’ and could visualise myself at Margaret’s lovely wedding dressed in something overlong and horribly old-fashioned.
Mum looked dubiously at the proffered blue frock with its smocked bodice. It seemed pretty skimpy. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much material in it and Eh don’t think it’ll fit,’ said Mum.
The assistant immediately leapt to the defence of the frock, as if Mum had cast a slur on it. ‘It’s got the Utility label,’ she pointed out, turning the garment inside out to show us the black printed mark.
Mum now realised she had upset the woman’s feelings by casting doubt on the quality of the frock. To my mind it looked cheap and tatty. ‘Och, Eh know it has,’ she said, ‘but what Eh’m saying is that Eh don’t think it’ll fit her.’
We had now been in the store for over an hour and Mum was becoming fed up with the lack of stock in the children’s department. The assistant, who was now decidedly miffy with us, placed the blue dress back on the rack. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve nothing in stock in a bigger size,’ she sniffed ‘Try upstairs in the ladies’ section.’
Mum decided to buy my sandals first and leave the dress till later. We sat on comfy chairs with my foot on a small foot gauge. A young girl was busy serving two fat women who sat opposite. She didn’t seem to be making much headway because a dozen shoeboxes were strewn around the floor.
‘Well, the foot gauge says you’re a size six and not a size five, madam,’ said the girl, showing the evidence to the clearly unconvinced customer.
‘Away you go!’ the woman replied. ‘Eh’ve never been a size six in my life. Have Eh, Ina?’ she demanded of her companion.
Ina agreed with her. ‘No you haven’t, Jem, but maybe the war has made your feet bigger. You ken, with all the walking we’ve had to do?’ She seemed completely confident in this unlikely theory and it did the trick with her pal.
‘Och, Eh never thought of that. In that case, Eh’ll take a size six but Eh don’t like any of these shoes. Can you show some more from the back shop?’
The young girl didn’t go to the back shop but climbed a ladder to root around on the topmost shelves.
Mum muttered under her breath. ‘For heaven’s sake! We’ll be here all day and we haven’t bought everything yet.’
Fortunately for us, the assistant didn’t have any more stock and the two women left in a cloud of disgruntled moans. ‘Eh’ll be glad when these shortages are over. Maybe we’ll get a decent pair of shoes then.’
Luckily, the first pair of sandals shown to us fitted and the girl wrapped them up. There was still my frock to find but the selection offered and tried on made me look like a series of thirty-year-old midgets. I was glad when Mum shook her head at each one. ‘No, we’ll just have tae leave it till another time,’ she decided.
I was almost beside myself with misery and Mum didn’t help by suggesting that she could maybe sew a band of contrasting rickrack braid around the let-down hem of one of my frocks.
‘But Eh’ll look awfy at the wedding!’ I wailed, feeling quite sorry for myself.
Mainly because of the length of time we had spent in the shop, Mum snapped impatiently. ‘Look! It’s no you that the folk will be looking at. It’s the bride’s day – don’t forget. It’s no Maureen Macdonald’s day. Eh’ll have to go in my old costume or have you forgotten that?’
On that note, the subject was closed. I seriously considered pretending to be ill on the big day so I wouldn’t have to wear the horrible let-down frock.
Then, out of the blue, a wonderful stroke of luck came my way via Mrs Knight. I had received a couple of frocks from her in the past which she was sent by some relative in America. Fortunately, one came a week before the wedding. It was lovely. It had blue ribbons and pink rosebuds printed over the cotton surface and it was edged with deep-blue braid.
To say I was happy was an understatement. ‘Imagine Mrs Knight getting a frock from America that just happened tae fit Maureen!’ Mum remarked to Lizzie. ‘She’s got the luck of the devil.’
Lizzie was pleased by my good fortune but, according to her, clothing problems were universal. ‘Margaret’s mother is in the same boat. She’s just about going barmy with all the bother of getting everybody rigged out. Still, Eh’ve managed tae get a new costume from Style and Mantle at the foot of the Wellgate.’
In spite of my agonies of anticipation, the day of the wedding dawned bright and sunny. For some reason which I can’t recall, we didn’t go to the church but caught the number 17 bus to the Albert Hall for the reception. A photographer was standing at the door looking flustered and out of breath. He had just arrived from the church where he had taken photos of the bridal party and now he was waiting to take some more. When we arrived he indicated that he would snap us but Mum held up her hand in protest. ‘Don’t bother about us.’
He wouldn’t take no for an answer so we lined up beside the hall railings, looking like three refugees. I was secretly pleased because it meant that my new American frock was now being recorded for posterity.
Then the bride and groom arrived along with their families. The bride looked lovely in her long white satin dress and filmy veil. She carried an enormous bouquet of flowers and long trails of greenery cascaded like a miniature bush in front of her dress, completely concealing the skirt.
We hardly recognised Lizzie. Her floral pinny and cotton turban were replaced by a smart navy-blue costume, sensible-looking navy shoes and a plain felt hat. She was obviously proud of this transformation and as she swept past us she leaned towards Mum and said, ‘Eh’m looking right swanky, eh?’
Mum, who looked swanky as well in her plum-coloured suit, agreed. ‘You can say that again, Lizzie. You look like a toff and Eh’m no kidding you.’
We all filed into the hall behind the bride and groom. This large room had long trestle tables laid out. A small group of waitresses in their sombre black outfits and tiny white aprons stood against the wall looking like a row of penguins at the zoo. They waited patiently while the bridal party and guests sat down.
A stout man sat down next to Mum and remarked, ‘Eh’m starving! Eh could eat a horse.’
He wasn’t the only one. We had been looking forward with great anticipation to the wonderful wedding meal and it came as a shock when the plates were placed in front of us.
The children were given half-portions of corned beef, so thinly sliced that it was possible to see the surface of the plate through it, a spoonful of peas and a small mound of mashed potatoes. The adults fared slightly better, being served the gourmet delight of one whole slice of corned beef and a slightly bigger portion of potatoes. This tiny meal was scoffed in moments and a few people, the stout man included, thought that seconds would be forthcoming. Nothing materialised, however.
The pudding was jelly, topped with mock cream and a cup of tea was served to accompany the speeches. Mum gave us a sharp look that warned us not to fidget or complain of feeling hungry in our usual loud whispers. So we sat upright on the hard chairs and let the voices wash over us. There was still the sight of the wonderful three-tiered wedding cake to take my mind off the boring speeches and I longed for the time when it would be cut and we could all have a wedge of it. The bride and groom stood at its side with a sharp knife and I almost drooled in anticipation. Then, to my utter dismay, the three-tiered cake was lifted in the air and placed on a side table, leaving behind, like an orphan in the storm, a tiny iced cake no bigger than a dinner plate. The fancy three-tiered creation was merely a dummy, placed over the small cake for the photographs! I was almost in tears.
At seven o’clock, during a lull in the dancing, Mum went over and wished the happy couple a prosperous life together. She then said her cheerios to Lizzie who was still panting after a dance with the stout man at our table. We then headed for home. I was sent post-haste to Dellanzo’s chip shop for three pudding suppers and we sat around the table with mugs of tea and our hot meals.
When Lizzie appeared the next morning Mum told her what a lovely time we had all had. This was true because we had enjoyed the day very much, despite the measly slice of corned beef. Lizzie was annoyed, though. ‘Margaret’s mother was angry with the caterers. The bairns should have had a whole slice of corned beef instead of a half-slice.’
Mum didn’t mention our feast from Dellanzo’s because she didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. Instead she placed the blame for the wedding meal where she thought it belonged, with the government. ‘It’s these awfy rations, Lizzie. You would think now the war’s over we would be off the ration books. We all thought everything would be plentiful by now but it’s still queuing for this and queuing for that. It’s a bloody disgrace! It’s about time Mr Strachey got himself sorted out in the Ministry of Food and started to get more things in the shops.’
Back in 1945 when John Strachey stood for Dundee in the General Election we had all chanted, ‘Vote, vote, vote for Mr Strachey! He’s the man to gie you ham and eggs!’ This promise was never fulfilled and things were even getting worse instead of better. He tightened the rations even further, going as far as putting bread on the ration in 1946. An item that had escaped rationing during the darkest days of the war was now also in short supply.
The papers had been full of complaints from irate housewives but nothing improved. The war’s end seemed ages ago but you wouldn’t have thought it in Britain. Apparently it was all down to the American dollar. All foodstuffs were now purchased with the mighty dollar and Britain didn’t have the dollars to buy from the world market. Also, the starving masses in Europe that had to be fed put a huge strain on everything. Be patient, the government told us, and good times would soon be back.
‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Mum, ‘and Eh’m Betty Grable!’
Lizzie did have a good bit of news. ‘George and Margaret have got a key to the empty house below the Doyles and they’re moving in right away.’
‘That is good news, Lizzie,’ said Mum. ‘Eh’ve just been reading about the squatters that are to be evicted. It’s a damn shame!’
The papers had reported the plight of homeless families and there was a great deal of bitterness over the planned evictions from all the empty properties. These families had moved to Dundee after the war, perhaps from the bombed cities of Clydebank and Glasgow and other places that had got the worst of the blitz, but there were no spare houses to rent.
‘You fight for your country and this is how it treats you!’ complained one incensed man when served with his notice to quit his run-down hovel. That was what most of the squatters’ dwellings were, old decrepit flats in almost-derelict buildings.
The phrase about fighting for your country echoed the mood of the servicemen after the Great War and it would seem that nothing had changed. Go away into danger and perhaps death for five years but don’t bother the Establishment if you survive the fighting, seemed to be the message. This is your eviction notice so out you go.
Plans were afoot to help combat this chronic housing shortage. Dundee Council passed plans for the erection of portable houses, or prefabs as we called them. These were to be built at Blackshade and Glamis Road, and so it was that Mum’s brother Charlie, his wife Nora and their two girls were allotted a prefab at 199 Glamis Road.
We went to visit them a week or so after moving in. The houses lay in pristine concrete rows, each with its own front and back garden and tiny garden shed. This new architecture was unlike anything ever seen in the city. Stretching out behind this estate was the lush and leafy green splendour of Balgay Park. Compared to the crowded and cramped conditions of the Hilltown this quiet greenness was like another planet. Before reaching our destination, the number 17 bus had taken us on a scenic tour of the Lochee and Ancrum Road districts. It then deposited us on the pavement right in front of an imposing and grand-looking villa.
George was quite overwhelmed by it all, especially the large house. ‘Does Uncle Charlie live in there?’
‘Don’t be daft!’ said Mum. ‘He lives across the road in one of those prefabs.’
Once we were inside the house, Uncle Charlie insisted on showing us around their new domain, pointing out the fitted cupboards and the stove fire with its glass doors. He even went as far as opening the cupboards, much to Auntie Nora’s embarrassment. ‘You’re showing up all my clutter,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Well, how will Molly see what a grand house we’ve got if Eh don’t show it off?’ he asked, refusing to be sidetracked.
Although the house was a funny shape from the outside, the interior was well planned with features well ahead of their time. The kitchen had a space-saving drop-down table but as far as Mum was concerned the jewel in the kitchen had to be the fridge. ‘Och, it must be braw to keep everything cool, Nora. No more sour milk.’ There was a hint of wonder in her voice.
Nora agreed. ‘Eh can’t think how we managed without it before.’
My cousins Eleanor and Carolyn ran over and yanked the fridge door open. Inside was a container with a row of sticks protruding from the top. ‘We’ve made iced lollies!’ they announced. They tugged at one of the sticks until a red oblong appeared.
We didn’t say anything but an ice lolly wasn’t a novelty to us. After all, we had bought one from Dellanzo’s ice-cream shop a few weeks earlier. George and I hadn’t been too impressed with it because one long suck removed all the red syrup, leaving behind a white, anaemic-looking carcass of ice. Carolyn soon pulled four ice lollies from the container like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat. As we sucked them outside in the garden my first impression of this new confection was confirmed. Like the ones from Dellanzo’s, one suck of these lollies left us with a lump of totally tasteless ice.
We loved visiting this prefab with its homely air and wonderful smell of cooking that always emerged from the kitchen, not to mention the added attractions of the Girl’s Crystal annuals and the Film Fun comics. We never paid a visit to Auntie Nora’s house without getting a super meal and although there must have been times when she could have gladly seen the back of us she never showed it. Just like Auntie Evelyn. As we all squeezed round the drop-down table, eating beans and chips, I often thought that paradise must be like this wonderful, funny-shaped house.
Back on the street, the newlyweds moved into their single-roomed flat. The previous tenant had left it clean enough but her tastes had run to dark, sombre paintwork and dismally dingy wallpaper. The young couple were no sooner in residence than they set to work with a tin of cream gloss paint for the woodwork and a sunshiny yellow distemper for the walls. The small room was instantly transformed into a bright and airy place and once the dining suite and the two Rexene armchairs had been installed from Henderson’s furniture store on the Wellgate the effect was stunning and grand.
Mum and Lizzie admired their handiwork while Margaret pointed out the difference a coat of paint could make. ‘Do you mind how dark it used to be in here? You wouldn’t think it’s the same house.’ She tried to sound modest but failed.
Mum agreed. ‘Eh’ve just come from my brother’s new pre-fab and everything is brand new and clean looking. It fair makes me fed up with my house.’
Our own flat seemed suddenly dark, with its old-fashioned furniture that had originally belonged to Grandad. Very soon after our visit to the new flat, Mum, Lizzie and Mrs Doyle decided to splash out on some home decorating.
‘Where did Margaret say she bought the paint?’ Mrs Doyle asked Lizzie.
‘It was some shop in the Overgate but Eh can’t mind its name,’ replied Lizzie, trying to remember, ‘Eh think it was near Franchi’s tearooms.’
At the end of the week, after they got their pay, Mum and Lizzie bought a tin of distemper each and we set to work on the Saturday afternoon. Mrs Doyle had already finished her kitchen a few days’ earlier and it seemed as if the entire street was determined to emulate the newlyweds. Mum rolled up her sleeves with a vengeance before dipping the large unwieldy brush into the cream-coloured distemper and slapping it over the uneven walls of our kitchen.
Mrs Doyle, who was a dab hand at everything, stood in the middle of the floor directing operations. ‘You’ve missed a wee bit in that far corner, Molly,’ she pointed out.
Mum was doing a balancing act on a kitchen chair and she reached over and poked the brush viciously into the offending corner. When all the walls were finished we stood in the same vantage point as Mrs Doyle and Mum surveyed her handiwork. It was clear she didn’t like it very much.
‘Do you no think it looks awfy cold?’ she asked doubtfully.
Mrs Doyle shook her head emphatically. ‘No, Eh don’t. It’s just because it’s new. Wait till the smoke from the fire makes it brown again.’
However, Mum seemed undecided about the new colour scheme. ‘Eh think the walls look awfy bare somehow.’
Mrs Doyle had the answer. ‘Eh stippled mine with a wee bit of colour. Eh’ve got some blue paint left over. Just wait till Eh get it.’
She darted through the door and clattered noisily down the stairs. Within a few minutes she was back, a small tin in one hand and a bunched-up piece of cloth in the other. She began to dab blue patches over the sickly cream expanse.
‘Just dab it like this,’ she demonstrated, making sure we got the hang of it. ‘Eh was really lucky tae get this wee tin of blue paint.’
After she had departed to make the tea for her large family the three of us went wild with our small bits of rag. Soon the walls had the appearance of being splattered by an army of kamikaze pigeons. Mum was still unhappy about this new painted effect but it was now a fait accompli and there was nothing she could do about it. As she prepared to make the tea she shrugged.
‘Och well, maybe we’ll get used tae it. And as Mrs Doyle says, it’ll no stay this clean colour for long. The smoke from the chimney will soon turn it brown.’
She sounded optimistic.