Grandad had a large circle of friends but Tam was by far his oldest and most valued one. From their boyhood days in Liff Road, Lochee, to the muddy trenches of the Great War, their friendship had spanned almost half a century. Tam lived in the Overgate, in a dark narrow close that was squashed like some dismal afterthought between two of the busiest businesses in the area, namely the pub and the pawnbroker.
Standing beside Tam’s close on a Saturday was like standing at the world’s crossroads, such was the colourful human tapestry of life that unfolded before my eyes. On sunny days the public house normally wedged open its inner glass door, a practice that enabled me to catch a glimpse of a forbidden world of sawdust-covered floors, blue spiralling pipe and cigarette smoke and the sharp, hoppy smell of warm, stale beer.
There was always a constant babble of voices from the clientele, mainly elderly men who, even on the warmest of days, would be dressed in their thick, serviceable suits and flat cloth caps. Judging from the conversations that filtered out through the open door it would appear that everything was discussed, from the current price of ten Woodbines to the latest news on the war front.
Meanwhile, the pawnbroker on the other side was normally the domain of women. These women stood in a patient queue, pale-faced and weary-eyed, clutching their threadbare bags close to their sides. In this corner, the topic of conversation revolved around the shortage of everything from money to the humble onion, and the emergence of the wonderful new commodity: dried eggs. One woman was praising them so much that Grandad remarked cynically that tins of dried eggs seemed to be a gift from the gods instead of part of the food plan from the good old USA.
The pawnbroker had two busy days in his week, one being Saturday. At lunchtime the millworkers disembarked from crowded tramcars, their week’s wages in their pockets. They would congregate outside the tiny shop, eager and ready to redeem whatever item held some monetary value in their poor financial lives. Then on Monday the same army of women would make the return journey to the friendly neighbourhood ‘Uncle’ in order to have a few shillings to tide them over to pay day.
Tam lived on the third floor of this narrow close. Its whitewashed staircase spiralled upwards between walls so low and narrow that it was possible to touch both walls and ceiling with outstretched arms. His single-end flat was always neat and tidy, from the highly polished brown waxcloth on the floor to the pair of wally dugs that sat ever so primly, one at each end of the lace-trimmed mantelpiece. There was just the one tiny window and that overlooked a damp and litter-strewn courtyard. Very little natural light filtered through the four small panes of glass in this minuscule window but that light was curtailed even more by the pair of thick brown chenille curtains that hung from a sturdy wooden pole. Seated on a fat cushion at the window was Tam’s sole companion, his cat Mouser. This rotund tortoiseshell cat was apparently the scourge of all the vermin in the close, hence the name.
Tam was a small wiry-looking man with a deeply lined face that resembled dried brown leather, caused no doubt by having to live in this dark, smoky room. He looked as if he never saw any daylight. He admitted as much to Grandad. ‘Eh don’t get out as much as Eh used to. It must be auld age, Eh guess, but Eh still manage to totter down for my messages two or three times a week.’
He certainly looked old, sitting there in his collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing surprisingly muscular arms. Still, on reflection, if he was a contemporary of Grandad, then he must have been in his early sixties. I never did discover if he was a widower or if he had never married, but spaced out along the length of the old dresser were lots of photographs. Large dark frames encircled the faded sepiatoned images of upright military men in their khaki uniforms and ladies dressed in long skirts and enormous hats. I would have dearly loved to know the identities of all the photograph people but I was warned not to ask impertinent questions. My curiosity therefore remained unanswered.
Our routine never varied on these visits, beginning with a cup of tea. Our host would gather three enamel mugs from the little cupboard by the window, put the teapot on the ring by the fire and settle back in his high-backed wooden chair with the knitted blanket as sole concession to comfort. He would spoon a dollop of condensed milk into the strong black tea, turning it into a creamy, sweet drink before bringing over the wooden biscuit barrel. Because of the wartime rationing this container never held more than half a dozen Rich Tea biscuits but as I plunged my hands into the dark depths another of Grandad’s warnings flashed through my brain: ‘You can have one biscuit but no more. It’s good manners tae say no to another one, even if Tam asks you to help yourself.’
After the ritual of tea, the real reason for the visit became clear, namely the chat. The two men liked to reminisce about the good, old far-off days of their youth. But before the gossiping began, Tam would rise stiffly to his feet and bring down from the mantelpiece his tobacco pouch and small tin of Pan Drops. Sadly, and to my intense chagrin, because I had eaten a biscuit I had to decline the offer of a Granny Sooker. Grandad was most insistent about this. I would gaze at the tin with my eyes almost popping out of my head. ‘No thanks Tam, Eh’m awfy full up.’
Their favourite tobacco was Bogey Roll, a solid black wedge which was cut and shredded with a sharp pocket knife before being stuffed into their pipes. This produced an evil-smelling blanket of smog that fortunately only seemed to surround the two men. The smoky atmosphere never bothered me because this was the part of the visit I loved. My two favourite spots in the room were the closet bed and the rocking chair.
This bed was tucked away into a small corner recess and had a flowery curtain suspended from a rail. It looked like another window but this was a wonderful and magical secret corner. Above the bed was a long shelf that held all manner of wonderful things, but it was the brightly painted tin which I loved and I was sure it held loads and loads of mysterious items. I was allowed to kneel on the bed but not to touch this array of treasure. Grandad was shocked when I once wished aloud that I could open the tin.
‘It’s full of Tam’s private and treasured belongings and you’re no to be sae nosy.’
Of course this remark only fuelled my desire to know more and I would gladly have given my right arm to learn the secret contents of the tin. Instead I had to content myself by looking at the King and Queen’s garishly painted heads, commemorating their silver jubilee around 1935.
After a good half an hour contemplating the shelf I would then turn my attention to the rocking chair. It was made of dark wood, no doubt further darkened over the years by pipe smoke. Its once resplendent upholstery, which in its heyday must have been gloriously magnificent, was now thin and faded. Still, even now it was possible to see fragments of its former wine and emerald glory. It was impossible to sit quietly in this chair because the old wood creaked and groaned in an alarming manner. While the two men sat engrossed in their gossiping amid the foul fog, I could rock back and forth and daydream about owning a chair like this one day.
A couple of hours later, after all the topics of the world had been well and truly discussed, it was time to leave. On sunny days, I was always taken by surprise when we stepped out into the yellow brightness which was a huge contrast to Tam’s gloomy flat. It was also a relief to be out in the fresh air after all the pipe smoke. Making our way along the narrow pavements, dodging the crowds of pedestrians either out shopping or merely standing around gossiping, we soon reached Greenhill, the chemist, for our weekly dose of sarsaparilla. Grandad swore by this black obnoxious drink and told me it cleaned out your blood, whatever that meant.
Although I wasn’t too keen on the drink I loved the shop with its dark interior and long wooden shelves with deeply ridged bottles inscribed with wonderful gold-painted Latin names. Some even had ‘Poison’ printed on them and my mind boggled with the thoughts of such exotic contents. We made for the back of the shop where there were benches and sat down with scores of fellow Dundonians, all of us eager to clean out our blood.
Every Saturday we would visit the Buster stall in Mid Kirk Wynd, a narrow lane that lay in the shadow of the Old Steeple. This lane also played host to a Saturday market that was always abuzz with people. Rows of barrows and carts lined the lane. They catered for every human need, from rolls of cheap lino to pots and pans. By the time we arrived, there was hardly any room to move and the crush was made worse by small boys on flimsy scooters made from discarded bits of wood and old pram wheels.
Overlooking this lane were the tenements. On sunny days the occupants would lean out of their open windows and chat to their neighbours. Thin flowery curtains would billow out, occasionally wrapping themselves around the owner but she would remain undaunted. Pulling aside this veil she would carry on with the latest titbit, hopefully scandalous.
Because of wartime shortages this market was a mere shadow of its former self according to Grandad, who remembered the halcyon days when it was impossible to walk along the lane because of the amount of carts and traders. ‘Aye, this war is fair putting the clappers on everything,’ he muttered morosely while gripping my hand tightly lest I disappear among the plethora of barrows.
But our destination was the Buster stall, a tarpaulin enclosure with rough wooden benches around three sides. Presiding at the entrance was an old woman who was always clad in warm clothing, a big apron tied around her middle. A pile of saucers lay beside the steaming pans of peas and chips and we waited patiently while she shovelled out a few spoonfuls of these delicacies before making our way towards the bench with our ambrosial meal.
The canvas cover was loosely tied to the tent poles and on cold blustery days the gusts of wind swirled viciously around your ankles. On days like these, the woman would mutter discontentedly to her customers about the rotten weather, while gathering up spoons and saucers.
Her customers were sympathetic. ‘Aye, where are the great summers like we used tae have?’ wondered one old man. ‘Eh blame them Jerry bombs for mucking up the weather.’
On the other hand, if the weather was sweltering, the owner would be so wrapped up that rivulets of perspiration would form on her wrinkled face. ‘What hot weather this is! One day it’s freezing and the next it’s sweltering. It makes you wonder what those Jerries are doing to the weather. One thing’s for sure, this war has turned everything topsy-turvy.’
With this profound statement she proceeded to drop the used utensils into a bucket of water that was placed by the side of the door. With hindsight these washing up arrangements were very unhygienic but at the time no one thought anything about it. It certainly never did me any harm.
If Saturday was our Overgate day then Sunday was our tramcar time. Grandad loved the trams and this love affair rubbed off on me. Standing at the top of the Wellgate steps, we watched as the tramcar appeared, weaving deliciously as if inebriated before stopping in front us with a groaning metallic sigh. We always made for the horseshoe-shaped seat at the front of the upper deck but to be quite honest any seat was acceptable. While the tram moved forward in a series of grunts and bumps, we settled back in our seats and looked down with a bird’s-eye view on the passing panorama.
One of our favourite routes was the Blackness trip to the Perth Road terminus. Skirting alongside the Blue Mountain area with its multitude of tenements whose small cramped rooms housed hundreds of jute millworkers, the tram gave a sharp mechanical shudder before tackling the steep incline. Moving past dark, bulky shapes of numerous mills that lined this part of the route, we soon reached neat stone buildings with their primly curtained windows. Occasionally, if the light was right, it was possible to catch a glimpse inside some of these homes.
On one trip I remember, the tram stopped and gave me an eye-level view into a window where a tiny woman was balancing on a chair. She held a minute feather duster and she was flicking it over an enormous aspidistra plant. Instead of being angry at this stranger gazing into her parlour, she gave me a cheery wave. Unfortunately, this gesture was spotted by Grandad who duly gave me a telling-off. ‘Will you stop peering into folk’s houses? It’s the height of bad manners.’
When we reached the terminus we stood up while the conductor leapt upstairs and began to slide the backs of the seats to the opposite side so that they faced the right way for the return journey. Sometimes I would be allowed to help with this important job and I moved down the aisle pushing the protesting slats of wood along the metal groove by the side of the seat. This was always a noisy chore and the clanking, grinding noises echoed against the vaulted roof of the tram. Then, after completing his duties, the conductor joined the driver who at this point was lounging against a garden wall enjoying a smoke.
Grandad and I watched them from our high vantage point while they talked quietly to one another and blew white streamers of smoke into the air. After a few moments they dropped the stubs and ground them with the heels of their boots. As they jumped aboard the tram I watched the playful breeze swirl over the pavement and scatter the golden fragments from the men’s discarded Capstan cigarettes.
Usually we were the only passengers on this part of the journey and as the tram moved forwards with yelping, spasmodic squeals and a few metallic grunts we were shaken around like pieces of quivering jelly. Grandad held firmly on to the seat in front, trying not to slide along the polished wooden seat. It wasn’t easy. ‘Eh think these auld trams get more shoogly every day,’ he said.
Personally, I loved them and the shooglier the better. I gazed out at people scurrying like ants down the many streets that branched off from the main road. These were dark, depressing streets with a multitude of dark houses and large, imposing jute mills. I also made a mental promise to mind my manners and not gawk at the woman with the feather duster. Should she still be at her window, then I would look away.
At least that was my intention.