As the warm days of May 1943 drew to a close it was becoming clear to everyone, myself included, that Grandad was very ill. Our trips to the Overgate and the trams had come to an end and I felt very sad inside. As usual Grandad wouldn’t admit there was anything wrong with him and was determined to trivialise his deteriorating health as something that would soon pass.
And that wasn’t the only problem in the house. There was also the matter of the household budget. For months on end Mum had been struggling to make ends meet but the money shortage was becoming acute. I was vaguely aware that my father sent money home but he was very erratic with it and there were some weeks when it didn’t arrive. Although Mum got really mad on these occasions she could still rely on some help from Grandad.
Now, because of the worsening situation at home, she had decided to return to work as a weaver in Little Eddy’s jute mill. A few weeks earlier she had put her name down for a nursery place for George in the Dudhope Street nursery but she had been warned at the time that vacancies were very few and far between. Although she knew her return to work depended on this nursery place, one that might not come about for months or even years, she still went ahead with her plans for me. To ease the burden from Grandad it was arranged that I would go to a childminder. This was one of Mum’s friends, Cathie Ross.
Cathie lived on the Hawkhill with her two children, David and Sylvia. There had been a third child, a baby called Wilma who had died of meningitis a month or so earlier that year. Because of this personal tragedy Mum had wanted to cancel the plans regarding me but Cathie was firm. It would take her mind away from it, she said.
‘Are you sure about taking Maureen?’ Mum had asked after the terrible event but, as Cathie said yes, the plan remained firmly in place.
Mum contented herself that her return to work was something to consider for the future as it all depended on the vacancy at the nursery. Then, suddenly, Grandad had to be admitted to Maryfield Hospital. He was diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis. Two days after this awful news Cathie arrived back in the house with Mum. They were both agitated. Grandad had stated that he wanted to come home to his own bed and he had discharged himself from the hospital, much to Mum’s dismay. The two women were stripping his bed and Mum was crying. I stood at the foot of the narrow bed as I always did, helping with the chore of tucking the corners of the sheet in place.
Mum’s eyes were red and puffy, which alarmed me but, when she dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper, I stopped what I was doing and listened. ‘The doctor says Dad’s got galloping consumption. He says it’s because he was gassed in the trenches during the war.’ She wiped her eyes and began to smooth the thin blankets over the bed.
I was devastated by this news. ‘Mum, what’s galloping over Grandad?’ I asked, my words sounding extra loud in the tiny room.
Before Mum could answer, Cathie piped up. She was annoyed by my eavesdropping and she said so. ‘Will you stop listening to grown-ups’ conversation? You’ve awfy big ears for such a wee lassie. Now run outside and play and don’t bother your mum.’
I would sooner have stayed in the room and heard all about my beloved Grandad but as Mum began to cry again I retreated to the foot of the stairs. I sat there in the sunshine with my book, The Bobby Bear Album which had been a present from Santa Claus at Christmas, a time that now seemed so far away that it was almost forgotten. But not quite.
Young enough as I was on that morning I knew something was far wrong with Grandad and I sat in the sun with my thoughts centred on him, not entirely leaving the world of illness to the adults. Later, much to my chagrin, Cathie took me home with her and on my return in the evening Grandad was asleep and I wasn’t allowed to disturb him.
The next morning, before anyone was awake, I crawled silently out of bed and tiptoed to his room. I wanted to see for myself this awful galloping disease that had overtaken him. He lay perfectly still and peaceful. His face had a curious white and waxy look that emphasised his deep wrinkles but, apart from that, he looked just fine.
I stared at him so intensely that he woke up. Giving me a weak smile, he patted my hand. ‘Eh’ll be as right as rain in a few days, wee lass, and then we’ll go and see Tam. Would you like that?’ His voice was a whisper.
I nodded happily and went back to bed. The doctor had made a big mistake and whatever had galloped over him was no longer there. I fell asleep thinking about all our trips, past and future. Although I didn’t realise it at the time because I was just a child, these were to be his last words to me. Later that day he was readmitted to Maryfield Hospital where he died the next day.
Mum was totally devastated, while I was filled with a feeling, not so much of sadness as of horrible emptiness. There was a dull knot in my stomach. I just knew that this wonderful and vital man had gone out of our lives for ever and things would never be the same again. Grandad had been the pivot of our lives. Our world had depended on his quiet strength for all our needs and he was no longer with us.
It’s strange, but I can remember the funeral tea as if it were yesterday. I hadn’t been allowed to go to the crematorium and I think I cried because of this but I do recall the atmosphere later in the house. It lay like a thick black fog over everyone. Mum was surrounded by people, all her friends and neighbours. Tam had come back to the house but he seemed ill at ease amongst all the women. He drank his tea quickly, gave his condolences again to Mum and then pulled his coat over a well-worn suit.
I had been sent to a corner of the room with a pile of comics and as he passed me he hesitated. ‘Aye, wee lass, you’ll certainly miss your old grandad,’ he said with a sad shake of his head.
Cathie had overheard this remark. ‘Och, she’s too young to mind her grandad,’ she said, ‘never mind miss him.’
This stupid statement shocked Tam and me. He patted my head in passing and he was still shaking his head sadly when he went through the door. It was then, after he had gone, that I suddenly realised how final Grandad’s death was. Large hot tears ran down my face where they lingered for a microsecond before landing with a splash on the brightly drawn antics of Korky the Kat. But he was only a comic character and I don’t think he minded sharing my grief.
Mum’s brother Charlie and his wife and family lived down south and they hadn’t managed to see Grandad before he died. This upset Mum a great deal. ‘At least we saw your grandad every day,’ she told me. ‘We’ve been lucky to have him with us all these years.’
If this was meant as a consolation it was a small one. I would have liked to know him for years and years and years. When everyone went home we sat at the fire and Mum cried for hours and hours.
Later that night as I lay in bed and listened to her muffled sobs I had the strangest feeling that Grandad was in the room. The feeling was so strong that I was convinced I could hear his voice. I knew he had gone away to Heaven but that didn’t stop me feeling he was still with us. It was a comforting thought.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of grief. Mum was now alone with two children and she missed the help and strength of Grandad. As for me, I just missed him dreadfully. When a letter arrived from the nursery with news that a vacancy had arisen Mum barely read it. In her grief-stricken mind going back to work was the last thing she was thinking of. She was set on turning it down in spite of our pressing money problems. On hearing this, Cathie said firmly, ‘You’ll feel better if you get out of the house, Molly. Eh ken how you feel because Eh was the same after Wilma died but you’ve just got to pick yourself up and get on with life. Especially when you’ve two bairns to look after.’
Mum was mortified. As she said later, here she was crying every day and Cathie had been through so much more. Grandad had at least had some life while Wilma had had so little. Mum told her this.
‘Then you’ll take the vacancy at the nursery?’
Mum nodded. ‘Aye, maybe Eh should. It might be ages before Eh get another place again.’
Cathie was pleased by her decision. ‘Well then, that’s settled. Eh’ll look after Maureen during the school holidays and she’ll be good company for Sylvia.’
The following week Mum returned to her job with the South Anchor jute mill or Little Eddy’s as it was commonly called. Every morning during the school’s seven-week summer holiday she would strap George in his pushchair and we would set off for the warm andcosy day-nursery before heading for West Henderson’s Wynd. We walked briskly along the warren of narrow streets, all lined with tall grimy buildings. The streets that spawned out from Lochee Road and the Scourinburn all had the same murky, depressing atmosphere. It clung to the many jute mills that lay in this area. It was as if the sun never shone on these streets. If it did it never lingered.
I could never understand why Mum chose to work so far away from the house, especially when the Hillside Works mill was right on our doorstep. It seemed it was all down to loyalty. When she had left school at fourteen she had become a weaver in Little Eddy’s.
There was also the fact that wages hardly ever varied from mill to mill. ‘It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other where you work,’ she often said. ‘They all pay a pittance.’
During that long summer holiday she would part company with me at the foot of the Hawkhill. As she hurried towards Brook Street she left me with two warnings. ‘Now mind and go straight to Cathie’s house and don’t get into any scrapes with Sylvia.’
Sylvia was a boisterous girl who, apart from being strong and athletic, was very headstrong. I was hardly the original shrinking violet myself but Sylvia left me far behind. There was nothing she wouldn’t tackle and she was forever jumping or climbing over dangerous obstacles. Being no angel myself, I was quite adept at getting into mischievous situations that were always rewarded by a sharp smack on my bottom, but Sylvia left me breathless most times.
The entrance to Cathie’s flat lay along a dark and sunless pend and it was four flights up. I was always out of breath when I reached Cathie’s door and by that time Mum’s warnings had been long forgotten. Cathie’s kitchen, because it faced a different direction from the pend, was a delightful place full of sunshine. Her window overlooked an ocean of rooftops that spread out into a landscape of smoking chimneypots. Up until then, I thought chimneypots all looked the same but, when viewed like this in their hundreds, each one had a distinctive and unique character. Sylvia and I would sit on cushions on the coal bunker and gaze at a plethora of tall, yellow-bricked ones and short, stubby specimens. Our particular favourite was one magnificent structure which had smoke pouring out from a multitude of cracks that pock-marked its surface. We nicknamed it ‘Puffing Billy’.
Another favourite had a steel hood similar to a bonnet and we christened it ‘Grannypot’. ‘Grannysooker’ was one that let smoke escape briefly before sucking it back again and ‘Grannyfatbelly’ had a wonderful, obese rotund shape. Then there was ‘Grannyhaha’. Every morning we would gaze in awe at this chimney with its tin helmet swinging lazily around. Even in the slightest of breezes it would sing out in a wailing ‘hahaha’ sound almost as if it were laughing.
Sometimes, if her mum wasn’t looking, Sylvia would try to open the window to get a better view but, because we were so high up, this used to throw me into a panic. Fortunately, the wooden frame was so warped with dampness and age that it would have taken an elephant to open it. I would often gaze down at the far-off ground and be grateful for this small fact.
As well as the sun-filled kitchen, the flat had another room which, because it faced the high wall of the pend, was dismally dark. For some unknown reason I detested it. Cathie called this room her parlour. It was hardly ever used but it contained the best furniture. Compared to our house this room was pure luxury but I think my dislike stemmed from its cold, unlived-in look. There was a pristine floral carpet square with an edging of well-polished linoleum. The shining grate with its pattern of fancy tiles had the cold, clammy appearance of never harbouring a cosy fire. In an attempt to disguise the unwelcoming hearth, a painted screen with three huge claw-like feet stood like a sentinel guarding the black hole of the grate. I always thought this was a fussy and prissy room with its neatly arranged oak dining-room suite and the strategically placed easy chairs. An overall musty odour was evident in the chill air and a ribbon of mildew clung to the sides of the thick chenille curtains.
There was, however, one thing of exquisite beauty in this ugly room. The most gorgeous doll I had ever set eyes on sat on the mantelpiece. Its creamy porcelain face with the vivid blue eyes and rosebud mouth peeped shyly from under a frilly lace bonnet, while its podgy, flesh-coloured fabric arms stuck out from the puff-sleeved, full-skirted, frothy white dress. I never discovered who actually owned this doll but one thing was always made clear to us: the doll could be looked at but never touched.
Of course Sylvia, being the girl she was, never took a blind bit of notice of any warning and she would drag one of the heavy chairs over and lift the doll from its pedestal. We were then able to hold the doll for a few precious moments before she would clamber back on her perch and place it in its original untouchable position. To be quite honest, I was always on tenterhooks during this ploy in case either of us should drop it. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I would get the blame, whether I was the culprit or not.
Every morning Cathie would take us out shopping. ‘Will you two hurry up?’ she would shout from the open door. ‘Eh’ve got to get my messages from the Sosh.’
The ‘Sosh’ was the nickname for the large Co-operative Wholesale Society shops, Maybe the Dundee tongue couldn’t cope with the word ‘Society’ and had simply shortened it over many decades. At least that was Cathie’s explanation. Buying groceries was a ritual in this large shop and so different from our small family-run grocers on the Hilltown where Mum had lodged our ration cards.
To shop at the Sosh, you had to be a member. Members were issued with a membership number and their own members’ book. Inside the Sosh with its roomy interior was a long wooden counter with a small box placed in the centre. On entering, the customer placed her ‘society book’ in this box before retiring to the dubious comfort of a row of ancient-looking kitchen chairs that were set out on the sawdust-covered floor. Here shoppers waited for the assistant to call them to be served once their books reached the bottom of the pile. Every time the door opened a sharp smell of resin wafted up from this floor and sometime a billowing breeze would play havoc with the sawdust, whipping it into a frenzy of minute particles as they were caught up in the draught.
This shop was nearly always busy and six assistants darted to and fro, making up the rations for the waiting women. At the back of the counter and running along its entire length was a marble slab with dark wooden shelves above. According to Cathie, in pre-war days these shelves literally groaned with a magnificent array of food. Huge mounds of butter, fat and cheese had sat in glorious ostentation while whole sides of bacon hung from the steel rail. I tried to visualise this scene but couldn’t. It just looked like an empty space to me.
Two young apprentice lads, dressed in long white aprons that almost reached their ankles, watched attentively while one of the trained operatives deftly manoeuvred a lump of yellow butter between two wooden pallets. After a great deal of patting and pummelling, this little mound was placed on a small sheet of greaseproof paper and handed over as the week’s ration for one large family. The large, circular bacon slicer seemed to be the domain of another expert who sliced a small side of bacon with his usual practised hand. After a few slithering motions the rashers were slapped on to the weighing scales.
Then there was the biscuit stand. Standing in splendid isolation by the end of the counter it had, in Cathie’s words, once boasted a positive cornucopia of chocolate fingers, chocolate creams and other unknown delicacies. Now it was pathetic, holding only a few tins of Rich Tea and Ginger Snap biscuits. It was the same with the brightly coloured enamel tea boxes that had once held aromatic teas from China, Ceylon and India, not to mention other exotic locations.
We waited patiently until one woman left the counter, clutching a tiny bag of groceries. The assistant then meandered slowly over to the box, pulled out a book and hollered, ‘Mrs Carmichael! You’re next.’
Mrs Carmichael rose stiffly to her feet and hobbled over to the counter while the rest of the women chatted amiably. ‘Eh’m telling you, Cathie,’ said one woman, ‘if these rations get any less than they are now, my family will be starving and Eh’ll be bringing in my hankie tae carry them home instead of a message bag.’
Cathie sympathised with her. ‘Eh’ll be glad tae see an end tae this war. Then maybe we’ll see an orange or a banana again.’
‘Eh wouldn’t mind getting my fists on a couple of onions,’ put in a voice from the side.
The women all nodded wearily, glum-faced at the thought of another imminent mealtime looming and not enough in the larder to feed their families, not even a humble onion.
Most of this wartime talk of rations went over my head. If the shop was exceptionally busy, Sylvia and I would amuse ourselves by drawing patterns in the sawdust with the toes of our shoes. This pastime, however, usually ended up with Sylvia jumping on my drawing and twisting her feet around in an effort to erase it. My retaliation was swift. I would immediately leap on to her masterpiece and scatter particles of saw-dust into the faces of the waiting women. This state of affairs was always greeted by a lot of annoyance and muttering from the seated clientele, who reminded us in no uncertain terms how children used to behave in their young day. Not like us, the new generation.
Cathie would stand our nonsense for a few moments before grabbing our collars. ‘Right then, you two! Be quiet or you’ll both get a belting.’
During term time, Sylvia’s brother David would arrive home from school at four o’clock and retire to the kitchen table to do his homework. I don’t think I ever met Cathie’s husband during my many trips to her house. I had the vague notion he was an insurance man but I’m not certain. Cathie never mentioned him, so he could have been in the army, fighting the Germans, the Italians or even the Japanese. This was something children took for granted, growing up in a strange manless society. The world seemed to be wholly populated by women, children and old people. I know I never gave much thought to it.
Mum finished her shift at five-thirty and as the time grew near Cathie would bring my coat down from the ornate coat stand and I would rush off down the Hawkhill to meet Mum. I loved this noisy and bustling thoroughfare which, like its counterparts the Overgate, Hilltown and many other communities, absolutely teemed with life. Hundreds of families crammed into grimy and poky tenements and as I passed the ‘Blue Mountains’ area, I would see lines of washing stretched across windows like the ceremonious bunting in the grand displays put on by the residents of Bernard Street at times of national rejoicing.
When I reached the mill, I waited until the wailing sound of the ‘Bummer’ died away and I knew she would soon appear amongst the throng of mill workers. She knew the nursery liked to discharge their small residents by six o’clock and it was always a rush to meet this deadline. Still, we always got there in time. This routine lasted until school resumed in August but when Christmas came I was back with Cathie again.
On Christmas Eve we appeared at the nursery as usual, only to discover that the nurses had organised a party for the toddlers. We peered through the window and saw the tiny children with crudely made paper hats on their heads. They were tottering around on small legs, playing a game. Then they scampered towards the table which held a couple of plates of bread and marge. George and another small boy came into view. They were both dressed in the regulation smocks and they were squabbling over something.
It soon became clear that the boy wanted not only his own sandwich but George’s as well. My brother, with a fierce obstinate look on his face, held his bread high over his head and took to his heel with the little bully close by. Suddenly and without warning the boy slipped and landed on his own sandwich. How he managed this acrobatic feat was anyone’s guess but as he stood up we could see the doughy white square glued firmly to his bum like a bread poultice. His face crumpled and he threatened to erupt into a flood of tears. His expression was priceless as he searched for the lost sandwich, looking on the ground and under the benches, but in vain.
Meanwhile George rubbed salt into the wound by standing on the sidelines stuffing his bread into his mouth like a stoker shovelling coal into a boiler. By now Mum and I were reduced to fits of laughter at the innocent antics of the two toddlers and for a brief moment we almost forgot that this would be our first Christmas without Grandad.
As Christmas Day was a normal working day at the mill we had the usual routine of getting up early and hitting the road. Still, I was full of anticipation at the thought of a visit from Santa. Jumping out of bed on Christmas morning I found to my delight that he had left me a tiny bag of sweeties, a couple of pennies and a newspaper-wrapped parcel. I opened this parcel with trembling fingers and to my intense delight there was a lovely black doll which, before the word ‘racist’ entered our vocabulary, was popularly known as a ‘darkie doll’. However, this doll was dressed in a tartan outfit – it was a Scottish darkie doll with a kilt and a dashing tammy with a real feather. It was a lovely present and I couldn’t believe my good luck that Santa had chosen me for its owner.
George’s parcel held a tinplate train set. While Mum hurried around getting ready for work she had just enough time to put the rails in a small circle and wind up the train. George sat in wide-eyed fascination as it clicked its way around the track, disappearing for a brief second under the tiny tin tunnel. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to let him play with it and as we hurried along the cold street with the bitter December wind whipping in our faces, he wouldn’t stop crying for his train.
I was lucky because I was allowed to take my doll to Cathie’s. I clutched it tightly in my arms, keeping a watchful eye on the feather, which happily was firmly attached to the tammy.
Mum tried to console George. ‘You can play all night with your train set, my wee pet. You can’t take it to the nursery in case it gets mixed up with the other toys. You might never see it again.’
I was really dubious about letting Sylvia see my doll in case she either broke it or tore its clothes off. But I needn’t have worried because Santa had also brought her a doll. Her doll wasn’t as pretty as mine but that was just my opinion. Hers was a plain doll with pink cheeks and a floral dress and pants, not so nice as my kiltie. Cathie kept asking me if I liked my present, especially the outfit. ‘What do you think about the kiltie outfit? Do you like it? What a braw tammy and a feather! Do you like it?’
Mere words could never describe my liking for my doll and I simply nodded, my eyes alight with pleasure. I thought nothing about this questioning at the time, and it was only years later that I discovered Dad had sent the two gifts to George and me, but, like all dolls sold then, mine had had no clothes. Cathie had volunteered to make the wonderful outfit from an old tartan scarf. She had even gone to the bother to extract a feather from her pillow with a pair of tweezers. It had taken a few extractions before she had obtained the fat and imposing specimen that had adorned the tammy.
As she had also made the outfit for Sylvia’s doll it would appear that our wide-eyed love for the parlour doll hadn’t gone unnoticed. Later that night George played endlessly with his train but, although she tried to hide it, Mum cried because she missed Grandad. I missed him as well, in a terrible sad way that even the wonderful doll couldn’t quite erase.
That was how our first Christmas without him ended – with laughter turning to tears.