Of all the wonder drugs in the antibiotic range, Streptomycin, which was discovered in 1944, was the magic cure for tuber-culosis. Until the 1950s, TB was still a big killer, a sword of Damocles that hung over and wiped out entire families. There was no cure except for the fresh-air treatment, which saw long rows of beds being wheeled out in all kinds of weather, including snow showers which landed like a white quilt on the patients’ beds.
But now that Mum knew she wasn’t facing a death sentence, she cheered up considerably. Of course, she wasn’t as ill as some of the patients in the hospital, mainly because the X-ray had picked up the shadow on her lung in time to be helped by the new drug. Sadly, for people with the disease now far advanced in their lungs, the initial treatment was an operation to remove the damaged tissue. One such patient was a young girl who was at the far end of Mum’s ward.
‘There’s a lassie in here who says she knows you,’ said Mum, on my third visit. She lowered her voice. ‘She’s due to have an operation this week because her lung is damaged.’ She sounded sad.
When I approached the girl’s bed, I was astounded to see Janie, my old school friend from the Rosebank Primary days. I hadn’t seen her in years because by the time we reached Primary Six her family moved to a new house. This took her away from the school and the terrible house they occupied in Rose Lane. The war had just ended and with houses difficult to come by most people took what they could get. Sometimes these dwellings were pretty bad and run down. I could still recall the day they got the key for a brand new house. Janie’s dad was telling us all about it and he was very excited. Her mum was busy making the family meal but she was as excited as the rest.
We sat and chatted about the old days but I didn’t like to mention the forthcoming operation. I waited to see if she would bring the subject up but she didn’t. Afterwards, I wondered if she had wanted me to say something about it, but that’s life, isn’t it? You hesitate and then you lose the moment. That’s what happened with Janie and me. The final bell went for the end of visiting and I was on my way home.
As I travelled home on the bus, I sincerely hoped everything would turn out well for her. Although she didn’t go back to Mum’s ward, I still visited her a few times and she seemed to be recovering. I never saw her again after she was discharged and I only hope she has had a long and happy life.
Because we were contacts of a TB patient, George and I had to have regular check-ups at the Chest Clinic in Constitution Road, a building that lay right across the road from the old cemetery. During Mum’s many years in the jute mill, we had passed this brick-built building many times on our trips to Little Eddy’s but never knew what lay behind the facade. We certainly knew now. On our first visit, we were both given an X-ray but, because they were negative, we were told to report back in six months’ time.
This was a blessing for me because I was on the hunt for a house. This chore was like searching for gold. Although I had our name down with the Corporation, we were well down on the points list. Even people with two or three children often didn’t have enough qualifying points so I reckoned my only chance lay with the private factors who rented out flats in the older types of tenements. Every day, on my time off, I did the round of these factors, mainly in Union Street and Commercial Street. The answer was always the same: ‘Nothing today, sorry.’ Some days I had to steel myself to enter the offices because the girls who were manning the type-writers always looked at me in exasperation.
As Christmas approached, I was glad that this year was almost over. Ally still had 134 days to go and it was time to make up his festive parcel, which was sent at a cheap rate because it was going to a BFPO address. Peggy and I clubbed together to fill a large box with cake and shortbread, jam, marmalade and chocolate as well as mundane items like razor blades. Mum gave me a couple of pounds to add a wee luxury to cheer up the austere conditions of army life.
George decided he would bake a cake for Mum. He iced it and then spent a few nights painstakingly decorating it. Piping on the ‘Merry Xmas’, he patiently formed the letters and if they went a bit askew he scraped them off and started again. I wasn’t looking forward to the festive season as this was my second Christmas alone since being married. At least Mum had been at home last year and it hadn’t felt so lonely. Fortunately, the restaurant was to be closed only for one day at Christmas and one day at Hogmanay and that didn’t leave time to mope.
We took the finished cake to the hospital on Christmas Eve. The place was looking bright and cheerful with a decorated tree and colourful garlands hanging from the ward walls. Ashludie also had a lovely café which was used by the patients and visitors alike. Mum would meet us there as it took away the hospital atmosphere, for a short while at least. She was delighted with her cake. George apologised for the untidy lettering but she waved this aside.
‘Och, you’re still learning, which is no thanks to the beggars at the Sosh,’ she said, holding the cake up so it could be admired by all and sundry. ‘Now, what have you got organised for tomorrow?’
Ally’s mum and dad had asked us for the day to their house but I felt it was too much work for Peggy, what with Anne, who was still at school, and Peggy’s two brothers Davie and Robbie. I had said we would see them later in the week. Mum was looking at George.
‘Are you going anywhere tomorrow?’
George had planned to go dancing in the evening but apart from that we had nothing planned. Like me, George loved his dancing but he wanted to learn the steps properly, like a ballroom dancer, while I had been content with the music and the company. George was to go on to take part in amateur dancing competitions with his dancing partner, Jean. They always looked so glamorous together – especially at one competition which was held at the Albert Hall in London.
When we got back home, we had a visit from Nellie. She handed over an envelope containing three pound notes. ‘Molly was in the “menage” at work,’ she said. ‘You know, the Christmas Club. We’ve all added a wee thing to make sure you have a bit extra at this time of year.’
I was quite overcome with this unexpected kindness. ‘Oh, Nellie, Eh don’t know what to say! It’s really good of all the workers to think of us. Tell them we said thank you very much.’
We knew what we would buy with this windfall. Now that Mum was spending some time in the day room and the café with her fellow patients, we decided to treat her to a new skirt and blouse from G. L. Wilson’s department store. I would have liked to have gone to Draffen’s but it was too expensive and well out of our price range.
By now, I was working in the Dining Room, which catered for a more middle-class clientele. Unlike the Cottage Room, this part of the restaurant had an à la carte menu which meant you could choose anything from the list as everything was priced individually.
One bugbear was the table stations. Wallace’s had one of the fairest ways of dealing with the thorny issue of tips, a system in which everyone moved around the room like a giant clock and each got their fair share of good and bad tables. Draffen’s, however, had static stations which had the same waitress all the time, week in and week out. This may have seemed a trivial situation to the customers but the tips were meant to top up a low wage. Some people earned a great wage with their tips while some others were on the hardship line.
Hannah was such a person and I often felt sorry for her as we both had rotten stations, tables tucked away in corners that were always the last to be filled. On the afternoon before Hogmanay, some of the girls decided to have a small celebration. ‘Let’s club together and buy a bottle of something,’ suggested Millie, who was a proper devil. Not only did she have the very best station in the room but she wasn’t averse to pinching the best customers if she could.
We were all non-drinkers but as we felt we all needed cheering up we chipped in with two shillings each. Port and lemonade must have been Millie’s tipple because she arrived back with a bottle of each. The dining room was an attractive place with its large corner bay windows (Millie’s station) but another pleasant place was the pantry. This also had a large window which opened inwards like a door and overlooked the busy Nethergate and Tally Street. We all sat with our tiny drinks and voicing our hopes for the coming year.
‘It’ll no be long before your man’s back,’ said Hannah, clutching a small tumbler in her plump, pink hand.
‘Eh know but it doesn’t look as if Eh’ll ever find a house. The office girls are getting tired of seeing me. Eh’m sure they dread it when Eh appear,’ I said, a feeling of despair hanging over me like a grey, wet cloud.
‘You’ll never get a house by going in every day,’ said Millie, butting in. ‘You have to know if someone’s giving up a house then you go and ask for the key.’
So it was as simple as that, I thought. No wonder I was making no headway. All I had to do was camp outside some tenements and watch for a flitting van. I didn’t say anything because she was probably being helpful, which, according to the cynics, didn’t happen often.
I went to see Mum on Hogmanay and George went dancing at night. I stayed in. I was working on New Year’s Day because of the annual sale and, anyway, I didn’t feel festive.
‘Guess who Eh saw tonight on my way to the dancing?’ said George, when he arrived back later. With no answer forthcoming from my direction, he said, ‘Auntie Evelyn and Uncle Jack.’
‘Where was this?’ I asked, feeling guilty over the fact that we never paid them a visit now, not like when we were children.
Evelyn was our dad’s sister but, as he was no longer in our lives since going off to Grimsby all those years ago, we hadn’t kept up with his family like we should have. Evelyn and Jack had been very good to us and we should have treated them better.
‘It was beside Well Road. Just across from Isles Lane where they stay with Granny Macdonald.’
‘Did you tell them Mum was in Ashludie? Or that Eh was married?’ I asked, only to be amazed when he shook his head to both questions.
‘No, Eh just said hello in the passing. Maybe they didn’t know it was me. In fact, Eh wish now that Eh had asked after Granny but Eh was sure they wouldn’t remember me.’
‘Don’t be daft! Of course they would have remembered you. You should have introduced yourself,’ I said.
Obviously this piece of advice was too late and, over all the years since that incident, I’ve always regretted not getting in touch. I’ve told myself that life was too busy with all our worries but that’s just an excuse. I feel like saying, ‘You were so good to us, Evelyn and Jack, and I’m sorry.’
One consolation at this time was the fact that the calendar for 1958 showed the five months leading up to Ally’s home-coming, not like last year when it seemed like an eternity until his discharge. I was glad to get back to work and Draffen’s sale generated a great deal of business. The store was thronged with bargain hunters and most of them found their way eventually up in the lift to the restaurants. The tables were full of weary-eyed women who sat down with loud sighs and piles of parcels around their feet.
‘Two Russian teas and two macaroons, please,’ said one elderly woman who looked like some royal personage. Perhaps she was a Grand Duchess of all the Russias, but her friend kept referring to her as ‘Jean’. The Russian teas were served in tall glasses encased in a silver filigree holder and they always looked elegant with their slices of lemon floating on the top. The macaroons were a speciality of the restaurant. A limited number were made every day by an elderly baker who seemed to bake this item and nothing else.
Occasionally, the clothes department would put on a fashion show. Two or three very slim and pretty models would swan around the tables, weaving sinuously between the piles of parcels, their expensive dresses swishing seductively as they floated around. Every now and then, they would stop to let the customers admire the merchandise and the lovely designer hats, their heads tilted to show them off to the best advantage. Sometimes a fur coat would be draped around a shoulder and these coats were from a different world to Aggie’s musquash.
‘What is the price of the ocelot coat?’ asked one customer, lifting her spectacles to her eyes to get a better look at the garments while the model paused to discreetly tell her the price. Should the customer’s voice be loud, the waitresses, who normally kept out of the way of the haughty models, would overhear.
‘A thousand pounds!’ we would say in awe. ‘In that case, we’ll have two each!’
For us workers, with our paltry wage of under four pounds a week, these desirable clothes were but a dream. I didn’t mind that, mostly because I didn’t fancy any of the fashions on show. One thing that did annoy us was the fact that this wage would have been larger if we didn’t have the three shillings and sixpence a day meal allowance deducted from it. This would have reasonable if the food was decent but, to be honest, it was barely eatable.
Most days we got spiced ham with potatoes and vegetables. The ham had clearly been cut for a couple of days because it was showing signs of old age. Each slice had a dehydrated, curled-up look with an inch of dark red around the rim. This wonderful gourmet meal was followed by reheated two- or three-day-old steamed puddings which had been left over from a previous lunchtime’s menu.
As well as this daylight robbery, another annoyance was the ashtray farce. These were made from porcelain and had the store logo printed on them. They cost twelve shillings and six-pence to make. Should you be careless enough to break one, then the twelve and six was deducted from your pay. One day I did drop one and it broke cleanly in half. The manageress said to take it to the restaurant manager and chef, who ran the place like an omnipotent little god. He pursed his lips as he surveyed the two halves, an expression which annoyed me so much that before he could open his mouth, I waded in. ‘Eh’m really sorry for the breakage but it was an accident and Eh’m no paying for it. It’s a terrible job if you can’t have a breakage without having to fork out twelve and six from a measly wage, a wage that has to have tips to supplement it, and if Eh have to pay, then Eh’m going to see Mr Draffen himself.’
I sat back, fully expecting to be given a week’s notice but I didn’t care. I had watched Mum struggling for years trying to earn a decent wage and I was now in a similar situation. Perhaps if she hadn’t worked herself so hard in her job she wouldn’t now be a patient in Ashludie Hospital.
‘I expect the two halves can be glued together so I’ll say no more about it,’ he said, while I sat in stunned silence.
Later, the manageress approached and warned me. ‘You have a real streak of aggression in you that isn’t very attractive,’ she said, before heading off in the direction of Millie the Minx, who as usual looked so angelic that the only thing missing was her halo.
I gazed after her in amazement. As far as I was concerned, I was only sticking up for myself and if that was unattractive aggression then so be it.
Later that night I met Bella and Aggie at the hospital. Strangely enough, they both had good news to relate. Bella arrived first and this gave her the chance to get a word in before Aggie monopolised the conversation with her garbled stories. ‘What do you think of this, Molly?’ said Bella, handing over a letter. ‘We’ve got the key to a new house!’
Mum was pleased for her. ‘Where about is it?’
‘It’s in St Mary’s Woods and it’s a semi-detached house with three bedrooms and a big garden in the front and a drying green at the back. We’re all pleased and it’ll be such a difference to Norrie’s Pend.’
‘Eh’ll have to come and visit you when Eh get out of here, which should be in four months’ time. Eh’m making good progress,’ Mum said, which was the truth because she had put on a bit of weight and her colour looked quite pink and healthy. ‘The only thing Eh can say is thank goodness for Streptomycin.’
I remembered Janie. Mum said she was also making progress. ‘There’s so much can be done now for TB,’ said Mum. ‘It’s no like in the bad old days.’
Aggie then appeared and Bella stood up to say cheerio. ‘Eh’ll be back in to see you and give you all the gen about my new house.’
She passed Aggie in the doorway and gave her a big wave before she took her ample frame towards the homewards bus. It wasn’t that she disliked Aggie but, like the rest of us, she sometimes found her a bit overpowering with her chatter. Aggie was talking even before she reached the bed. The café was only open for the afternoon, which meant the evening visiting was done in the ward.
‘Wait till Eh tell you my good news!’ she shouted out, while the woman three beds away looked at her in surprise, thinking Aggie was heading towards her as a visitor. The expression on her face was a picture. You could almost see her brain searching desperately to identify this stranger.
‘Eh’m saying, wait till you hear this!’ Aggie repeated while a mere few yards away and much to the other patient’s relief.
‘Heavens! This is the second bit of good news Eh’ve had tonight,’ said Mum in amazement.
Aggie’s face fell at the thought of coming second in the good-news stakes.
‘Well, Aggie, what is it?’
Aggie, who had recovered quickly from the ignominy of not having the monopoly on glad tidings, puffed herself up in readiness to launch forth. ‘It’s Babs, isn’t it? She’s just gone and got married to her man! You know the one – him that took her out for a date and the one that works beside her and Marvin.’
As with Bella’s house news, Mum was really glad to hear this wedding news. ‘Oh, Eh’m pleased for her and Eh hope she has a long and happy life.’
‘Well, meh man and Eh were a bit put out by the suddenness of it but Senga has written to say that was what Babs wanted and maybe after the last time it’s for the better. We’ve promised Senga and Babs and Marvin and Ritchie – that’s his name, by the way – that we’ll go out and visit them. Mr Robb said that he was going to work lots of overtime and save up as hard he can just to pay for the return tickets.’
I had been telling Mum about my search for a house and, after Aggie departed, she asked me how I was getting on. Alas, I didn’t have good news like Bella and Aggie.
Then a week later I met Millie on the stairs as we both did the four-minute-mile dash to clock in.
‘Eh’ve heard about a house key that’s being handed back today,’ she told me. ‘Shepherd, the factor in Commercial Street, is the one dealing with it and the house is in Victoria Road. My pal’s sister had a look at it but she doesn’t want it.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. Was this someone who had the key to a precious house and was refusing it? I was suddenly suspicious. ‘Is there something wrong with the house? Why is she handing the key back?’
Millie was honest about it. ‘The house needs an awful lot done to it and quite a bit of money spent on it. That’s why she’s turned it down.’
I could barely wait until my lunch hour and, deciding to forgo the mummified Spam, I made a beeline for the factor’s office. The girl behind the typewriter gazed at me as I burst in. Her hands were coolly poised over the keyboard while I was all red-faced and perspiring. Here was another unattractive facet to match the aggression, this sweating.
‘I was wondering if you have a key for a house to rent?’ I said, aware that I resembled something the cat had brought home while this delicate creature with her prim, grey twinset, neat tweed skirt and double row of pearls around her neck sat in cool contemplation.
‘No, I’m sorry we don’t,’ she said, looking down at her fingers on the keyboard.
For a terrible minute I thought I was too late. ‘Have you handed a key to someone this morning?’ I almost bellowed at this ethereal creature but she shook her head. So far so good, I thought.
‘We haven’t had a key to give out for weeks now,’ she said.
As far as she was concerned the matter was closed but I knew this wasn’t true – not if Millie had got her facts right. I decided to give it one last shot. ‘Eh heard that a key was going to be handed back this morning. My colleague told me.’
I gazed wide-eyed at her but she gave no sign that this was true. I pushed on regardless. ‘This house is in Victoria Road and this person doesn’t want it so Eh was told to come down here and see you because she doesn’t want it.’ I stopped, aware I was repeating myself, which wasn’t giving out the right image. After all, who wanted a tenant who was daft?
‘The house is in Victoria Road,’ I said again. I couldn’t help all this gabbling.
The woman looked blankly at me for a full minute while I thought I had suddenly sprouted a beard. She then went over to another typist who sat at the other end of this office. After a quiet word with her, she went over to a cabinet and took out an enormous key with a cardboard label tied with blue string. She placed it on the counter before my amazed eyes.
‘This is the key for 63 Victoria Road. You can have a look at it but we need to know right away if you want to take it.’
I almost leapt ten feet in the air with delight but instead I grabbed the key with a shout of grateful thanks and rushed up the road to see it.
The flat was directly above Jessie Bell’s tiny newsagent’s shop and was reached by a long sloping close and a circular stair which led on to a plettie. At first I though it was the flat at the top of the stairs because it looked vacant but the key wouldn’t fit. I then noticed another curtainless window which overlooked the plettie and the clock tower of St Andrew’s church. My delight soon turned to utter dismay. The last tenant had removed the fireplace and taken it away with them. In fact, the entire wall looked like it was in danger of imminent collapse. Apart from that, the rest of the house just needed decorating but it was obviously the partly demolished wall that had frightened off the previous key holder, luckily for me.
I stepped over the grey debris that had landed almost in the middle of the room and had been ground into the floorboards. The sun was shining through the dusty, smeared windows. I then looked at the two bedrooms which were darker and sunless because they faced the road and the bleak stone wall of the jute mill. Before I left to return to work, I knocked at the door across the tiny lobby. It was opened by a chubby, cheery-looking woman who had grey, curly hair and friendly eyes. Dressed in a floral overall, her name was Mrs Ririe and I liked her immediately.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘Eh’d like to introduce myself. Eh’m going to be moving in next door – at least Eh will when Eh get it done up.’
‘You’ll find it’s in an awfy state because him that was in the house took the fireplace out to sell it,’ she said. ‘He was hammering and banging at it for ages. Wait and Eh’ll show you the toilet.’
She returned with another big key and opened the door that was on the plettie. ‘We’re lucky because it’s just the two houses here that share the toilet. We take turns to clean it as well as our turn at cleaning the stairs.’
After leaving Mrs Ririe, I was left with just enough time to visit the factor’s office to accept the house. This was noted in a large ledger and I was told to return to the office the next day to sign the tenancy form and pay a quarter’s rent. By the time I reached Draffen’s, I was over the moon. I felt really lucky because if it hadn’t been for Millie I would never have had the nerve to keep badgering the girl in the office and would have taken at face value her denials of having any vacant houses.
I did feel a bit sorry for Pat, one of my colleagues who was also married and searching desperately for a house, like the entire married population of Dundee. I hoped she would land lucky and I couldn’t wait to tell Mum and Peggy about it. With just over a hundred days to Ally’s release from the army, I hoped to do a bit of cosmetic work to the flat as well as installing a new tiled fireplace. Apart from that, we could spend time decorating it and buying the furniture after his enforced military training was over. Then Mum would have her bedroom back when she returned from the hospital.