Gift from the Gallowgate (10 page)

‘You won’t have if you work here long,’ he smiled.

This puzzled me. All the boxes and jars in the store would be sealed – it was a wholesale business, not retail – so how would I get a chance to sample anything? I was soon to find
out. I may be besmirching characters here, but telling this tale won’t land the people concerned in trouble, because they would be well over a hundred if they were still alive. Let me
explain.

The only other person in the tiny office was around forty years old (in 1937), but was really friendly and very helpful. We sat at one long desk in front of the painted-over window – we
couldn’t see out, and no one could see in. There were two drawers at each side, one shallow for keeping pencils, pens and their nibs, a round ruler, paper clips and elastic bands, the little
necessities, and one very deep, in which Evelyn kept the thick ledgers and an equally thick cash book, plus the large bottle of ink from which, like in school, we filled our inkwells. In mine were
the slimmer daybooks (sales and purchases) and a small receipt book for cash sales.

I think a cleaner did come in at six, but if anything was spilled on the floor during the day, or brought in on people’s shoes, I had to sweep it up or wash it off. If I had done all the
clerical work I was supposed to do, I was allowed to have a wee shot on the typewriter. I was very slow at first, but with Evelyn’s help, I was soon able to make a passable job of typing out
invoices, two-fingered, perhaps, but still passable.

Being office girl and general dogsbody, I had to take the daily takings to the bank every day. This entailed going to the foot of Windmill Brae, crossing the railway bridge into The Green
– a dangerous place to be walking at night but not altogether a salubrious area at any time of day then, although it is far more upmarket now – then up the long flight of stone steps at
the side of Boots’ the chemist. That took me up to Union Street and the North of Scotland Bank. I might point out here that I was only fifteen all the time I worked for Mr Steel – a
child entrusted with sometimes hundreds of pounds; admittedly, mostly in cheques, but there were often quite a number of five pound notes, even tenners, neither of which were all that common then.
Mind you, I was so young that it never crossed my mind that I could be in danger.

In those days, there were no breaks in the working day. I’d been told to start at nine in the morning, that I’d have an hour off for lunch – only time to wolf something down
quickly before I’d to catch a bus back – and finish at six. There had been no mention of time off to have a cup of tea and, accustomed to having fifteen minutes playtime morning and
afternoon at school, I was slightly worried as to how I would survive. I’m happy to say that I did much more than survive.

That first day, Mr Steel and the two reps had gone out on their daily round to collect orders from the shops, Evelyn, my superior and mentor, sent me up the brae to an Ice Cream Parlour, it may
have been called the Washington Soda Fountain, for two bottles of lemonade. She must have paid for them, because I didn’t have any money. Then, wonder of wonders, she said, ‘Go through
to the store and ask Jim for two cakes of chocolate.’

Jim Hay wasn’t my senior by very much, and he went to the end of a shelf, lifted the lid of one box and handed me two cakes of Fry’s Five Boys. I was to find out that he opened one
box at a time and used it until it was empty, then started on another. That way, there was only one open box to camouflage. After about a fortnight, we got Cadbury’s Dairy Milk instead (my
all-time favourite), and then, perhaps, moved on to Rowntrees. I asked Evelyn how much I’d have to pay for this, and she said, seriously, ‘Ach, pay at the end of the week, a penny
ha’penny wholesale price instead of tuppence.’ (In today’s money, that would be roughly a quarter of a penny instead of half a penny, for a two-ounce bar.)

We nibbled at our chocolate, washed it down with a few ‘scoofs’ of lemonade and then stashed the bottles at the back of the tomes in our deep drawers. Being a working girl was going
to be heaven.

At the end of the week, I opened my pay poke, a marvellous feeling, and said, ‘How much am I owing for the chocolate, Evelyn?’ I knew it was six times a penny ha’penny because
we worked six days a week (Saturdays until one o’clock), but to my amazement, and delight, she smiled, ‘I can’t remember how many we’ve had. I’ll start keeping a note
next week.’

My spirits rocketed in the following weeks. No note was ever kept, and for the whole year I was there, we each consumed ninepence per week of the profits – less than five of today’s
pence – not that such reckoning entered my head.

To those who say we were stealing, all I can say is that it didn’t seem like it at the time. Others, more broadminded, may only wonder how we didn’t get sick of chocolate – on
the contrary, I began a lifelong obsession for it – but after a while, Evelyn said to ask Jim for two tins of condensed milk instead. These were the smallest tins that Nestles made, selling
in the shops at two old pence, but, like the chocolate, the wholesale price was one and half – not that we paid for them, either.

In writing this, I do feel ashamed, and guilty, about what we did but I was only fifteen remember, and at that age, you didn’t argue with your immediate boss. You didn’t argue with
anyone older than you . . . except your mother, and you could guarantee that you’d be punished for that.

In addition to what we took without permission, there were the legitimate perks of the job. New lines were constantly being introduced, and a box of the newest was always set on a table behind
us for customers (the retailers) to sample. Evelyn and I usually had a few to see how they tasted, but we once devoured practically a whole 12-lb box – but perhaps I’m exaggerating.
Maltesers weigh very little, so 12-lb would have needed a gigantic container. At any rate, whatever the weight, we disposed of most of it. This would have been in late 1937 or the first half of
1938, and even a handful at a time wasn’t enough for us. Thank goodness most of the shopkeepers had managed to sample one or two before we finished the box altogether, and Mr Steel was very
pleased with the orders that flooded in. Maltesers had taken a trick with the general public, too.

Evelyn had another job – at the dog track on Saturday afternoons – and when she asked me if I would like to make a bit of extra cash, I jumped at the chance. Four shillings (twenty
of today’s pence) for two hours? When I was only getting seven and six (just over 37 pence) for a whole week’s work?

The track was approximately where Asda is now at the Bridge of Dee, so I’d to take the tram down Holburn Street and come off at the terminus. Evelyn was actually quite far up the hierarchy
of employees here, so she showed me where I had to stand and then left the girl at the next position to explain what we had to do. It was simple enough. We were in the same wooden building as the
totalisator (don’t ask) and we paid out to those who had placed their bet on the winning dog via this machine.

Perhaps ten of us stood at a long counter with a sliding hatch in front of each person, which we had to open to pay out, and close to check our cash and get ready for the next race. There was a
bonus in this, a little something that Evelyn hadn’t mentioned. Many of the ‘punters’ left a tip, sometimes as small as thruppence, but helping to add up to quite a decent sum at
the end of the two hours. Some were more benevolent. If there was an odd amount in their winnings, anything up to half a crown, they didn’t pick it up. In contrast to this, those who had
really big wins usually didn’t leave as much as a penny.

I soon realised that the big winners were part of a syndicate, and every member of that syndicate had to get his exact share supposing the total amount was into the hundreds of pounds. Even the
odd amounts had to be shared, nothing for the person who paid out the cash.

We come now to the incident I mentioned. It took place in July, on the last day of the Glasgow Fair week, and the place was packed with Glaswegians – loud, jokey men . . . unless they were
crossed in some way. Then they became even louder and horribly aggressive. We workers weren’t allowed to watch any of the races – the premise being that if we won something people would
say we had inside knowledge. In reality, we knew nothing about the dogs themselves, or of what happened on the racetrack, but on this occasion, having everything ready for the next payout in plenty
of time, and being truly curious as to what went on, I opened my hatch to take a wee peep.

The noise was building up, the electric bunny was flashing round with the hounds in hot pursuit. Every man there was shouting at the pitch of his voice to encourage the dog he had backed.
Suddenly, and most unexpectedly, a jacket was thrown on to the track right in the path of the leading greyhound. The poor terrified animal jerked to a halt, and the others, puzzled at what was
going on, pulled up beside him.

The last dog sauntered past them all to come in first!

We found out later that the jacket had been thrown by a man whose dog, ahead for most of the way, was being beaten in the last seconds of the race, but he couldn’t have envisaged the
result of his action.

Over the din made by men outraged because their dog should have been first, came the announcement on the tannoy. ‘The winner is Wandering Boy.’ This was probably not his name, but
all the names were similar to that.

I had never heard a rabble like that which started now (never since, either), but it hushed hopefully as the next announcement started – ‘The first dog past the post is adjudged to
be the winner, no matter what happened on the track. That is the rule.’

Despite the renewed roars of objection, we inside the booth were instructed to obey the order, and paid out to only a handful of men, who had taken their lives in their hands to push through the
angry mob to claim their rights. All winnings paid, we closed our hatches double quick before the horde of menacing, threatening, waving arms reached us.

Terror-stricken and shaking with fear, we young lassies expected the wooden walls to be knocked down and a vengeance-seeking crowd to swarm in and take all the money . . . and perhaps finish us
off, as well. We wanted to turn and flee . . . but we couldn’t! Each hatch, window and door was mobbed by furious monsters and, after an hour or so, even the most self-confident of us were
tearfully wailing that our mothers would be worrying about us not being home.

Then someone had the bright idea of pulling the night watchman’s camp bed out of a cupboard and setting it up under the skylight. This was on the part of the roof nearest the road, an
outside area blocked off from the public. There was no shortage of young male volunteers to push us upwards from the back, and ignoring where their hands strayed and what we must have been
displaying, we scrambled out on to the corrugated iron, slid down and tore off without looking back.

I don’t think this incident was ever reported to the police. The manager hadn’t wanted any further trouble, nor would he have courted any adverse publicity, so it wasn’t in the
local newspaper, either. It did, however, leave a lasting memory with me, and, I’m sure, with the other girls, too.

My mother
had
been worried about me, but that didn’t stop her from walking into me for being late home. She didn’t believe my excuse . . . not at first, anyway.

There was another benefit to the two extra hours I was working each week. Even giving Mum a couple of shillings extra, I still had enough along with the tips, to buy a coat for myself for the
first time. I took a few weeks to save up the twenty-five shillings (£1.25), but, by Jove, I was proud of it.

(I am writing this in August 2003, so imagine my astonishment to see, in the magazine of Scotland’s
Mail on Sunday
, a picture of that same coat, a brown belted tweed, with the
instructions to today’s young ladies to look out for 1940s style coats – the latest fashion at £140. I bought mine in 1938. I wish I had kept it!)

I would likely have worked at the ‘Dogs’ for years, but I was forced to leave for the good of my health. For some inexplicable reason, it was almost eighteen months before I
contracted scabies, a most annoying and irritating affliction. Having suffered the terrible itch between my fingers for over a week, I went to the doctor, who told me to wash myself with sulphur
soap only, and to change my vest daily, ironing the clean one before putting it on. That applied to both my vests, of course.

‘And you’d better give up that Saturday job,’ he added, darkly. ‘Even when you think you’re clear, you could be infected again.’

The trouble did clear in a few weeks, but I took the doctor’s advice. When most people had seen me scratching, they had kept well away from me, as if I had a dirty disease . . . which I
suppose it was. It originated from handling money – a new meaning to the description ‘filthy lucre’?

I had been working for Mr Steel for almost a year when he told me he wouldn’t mind if I looked for another job. ‘I can’t afford to pay more wages,’ he
explained, ‘so I change my office girls every year. They get better jobs easily enough.’

Naturally, Mum thought that my work hadn’t been up to standard, but she did eventually come round and I took to scanning the Situations Vacant column in the evening paper. There was no
shortage of jobs, and I was soon accepted as junior clerkess by Van den Berghs and Jurgens (Stork Margarine). The wage was 12/6 (an increase of 5/-, or 25p) and would be increased yearly . . . if I
passed The Royal Society of Arts exams in Shorthand, Book-keeping and Typing, at Elementary, Intermediate and Advanced Levels.

This office was situated within the Coast Lines sheds on Jamieson’s Quay, as I mentioned earlier, and the atmosphere was completely different from Steel and Co. There was one lady of
indeterminate age – we did discover it eventually – two juniors, at newly sixteen I was most junior, and one clerk aged seventeen or eighteen. Miss Murray had a beautiful antique
rolltop desk, with dozens of fascinating cubbyholes inside, while the rest of us sat at a long high counter on high stools, with feet dangling and whatever we were working on spread out in front of
us on the sloping surface. There was also one typewriter on a table facing the door, for the use of all. Miss Murray and Hazel had an early lunch break, from 12 to l.30, so George and I had to wait
until they came back before we had ours.