Gift from the Gallowgate (23 page)

As with all houses, old and new, the décor didn’t take long to fade or get dirty, especially as both Jimmy and I were smokers at that time. Of course, cigarettes were far less
expensive than they are now (I can remember how worried I was when they rose to one shilling and fourpence for twenty in a Budget one year), but it didn’t cure us of the habit. I bought
Player’s Weights or another of the smaller brands for myself, and Jimmy preferred Capstan Full Strength, but more often he was reduced to Woodbines, neither of which did his chest any good.
There were no warnings then about smoking being bad for your health, so we gloried on, yet I did sometimes shudder to think what we were doing to our lungs when all our wallpaper and paintwork were
some degree of brown, depending on what they had been originally.

I changed the colour schemes occasionally to cheer myself up, but this presented something of a poser since money never matched up with ideas. As soon as Alan had the back bedroom to himself, he
wanted wallpaper with aeroplanes on it, the colours ranging from the blue of the sky, to the white of the clouds, to the silver-grey of the planes themselves, to the red of the markings. This was
ideal for a boy’s room and quite cheap; the only fly in the ointment was the bright yellow curtains that I’d made to go with the previous paper. As they say, necessity is the mother of
invention, and I got round the problem by using a school paintbox and a sparsely-haired paintbrush to add a touch of yellow to each of the numerous aircraft – hundreds, it seemed like.

On the subject of curtains, I made a proper
faux pas
one day. I was the only one in all the sixteen houses who had a sewing machine – an old Jones box top model inscribed
‘by appointment to Her Majesty Queen Alexandra’ and inherited from Jimmy’s Auntie Ann – and I was often asked to ‘run up’ some curtains. Not literally, of
course; that would have been somewhat beyond my ability, even at eight stone seven. (It’s hard even for me to believe that I was ever as lightweight as that, but it’s the Gospel
truth.)

At first, I didn’t mind obliging my neighbours, and I knew they couldn’t afford to pay me, but I got a bit miffed when they didn’t even supply the reels of thread, sometimes it
needed two or three and they weren’t exactly cheap when you’re on a skin-tight budget. I felt that was a bit thick.

Anyway, that wasn’t what I set off to say. A lady who lived round the corner came to my door one day to ask if I’d make an apron for her little boy who was starting school the
following week. I took her inside until I drew out a shape on an old newspaper, and then measured that against my table, exactly a yard square, to tell her how much material she would need.

While I was thus engaged, she’d been having a good look around my living room. ‘D’you know this, Mrs Davidson?’ she said suddenly. ‘I thought your house would be
like a palace, but you haven’t even got a carpet.’

I was rather put out at this slur, because I knew of at least one other woman in the vicinity who was in the same boat as I was – a couple of mats covering the linoleum on the floor.
Anyway, Mrs M. asked me to go back with her to see if there would be enough material in an old dress of hers.

I was still a bit piqued as we walked round the corner to her house. After all, mine might not be like a palace, but it was as clean as a whistle and I had never expected anyone to criticise it.
As soon as we went into
her
living room, though, I could see why she had. A deep-pile, expensive-looking carpet covered her floor, the furniture was much more impressive than mine and
included a flashy cocktail cabinet, as she informed me, proudly – not the flashy, just the cocktail bit. Not only that, but there were fancy ornaments and knick-knacks on all available flat
surfaces, and even her table was adorned with a wine chenille cover with long fringes. When I told Jimmy all this later, he said that everything had likely been bought on tick, and at least we
didn’t have any debts to worry about – which did cheer me a little.

Harking back to the apron, there was enough material in the skirt of the dress to make two, so she produced a large pair of scissors and told me to cut what I needed; she wanted to use what was
left for something else. Dusters, I daresay. I smoothed the skirt out and laid the pattern on, using the few pins she could supply to fix it in position. Then I started to cut. Her scissors
weren’t as sharp as they might have been, but at last I was back where I had started. I laid the scissors down and lifted up what I thought were two embryo pinnies. I was wrong. There were
three
! On inspection, I was mortified to find that two were cotton and . . . one was in gorgeous wine chenille – with fringes!

I apologised as best I could, but Mrs M. didn’t seem in the least upset. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she laughed. ‘My mother works in . . .’ – I can’t
remember the name of the factory – ‘. . . and she keeps me supplied.’

Sometimes, however, I couldn’t get round a problem so easily, something that I discovered a man can’t understand. Like all the other housewives around us, I was absolutely
‘skint’ by Thursday, paynight, of each week, but I would have done anything rather than advertise the fact. Instead of waiting like the other wives until my husband came home and handed
over the housekeeping cash so I could run to the chip van, I did my best to conjure up something from what I had in the larder.

On one particular Thursday, all I had left was one egg, some bread, a small piece of cheese and half a bottle of milk. After flipping through my old school cookery book – I still have this
trusted slim volume, printed by Aberdeen City Council for Rosemount Intermediate School, and now in tatters – I plumped for a cheese pudding, as near as I could manage with the ingredients I
had. It rose like a dream, was perfectly browned and I waited hopefully for Jimmy to pay me a compliment on my cooking skills. But he laid his fork into the empty plate when he was finished without
saying a word.

Frustrated, I asked him outright, ‘What did you thank of that?’

‘OK,’ he nodded. He’s never been one to ladle out praise.

‘It wasn’t bad for just having thruppence in my purse,’ I persisted, putting my foot in it well and truly.

Well, you’d have thought I had committed some terrible crime, squandered the entire week’s money on something trivial. He glared at me as if he couldn’t believe what I’d
said. ‘What the devil do you do with all the money I give you?’

As I’ve already said, we had our ups and downs then . . . we still do. If Jimmy hears a couple boasting, ‘We’ve never had a cross word in all the years we’ve been
married,’ he always observes later, ‘They’re either liars or they’ve had a helluva boring life.’

I wasn’t the only one to be taken for a sucker, of course. Jimmy had come home from work one Saturday lunchtime, scoffed his meal, washed, shaved and changed from his
oily working clothes into a pair of flannels (his only other pair of trousers) and a sports jacket . . . because he was heading for Pittodrie. The Aberdeen football team was playing Rangers that
afternoon, and he was a staunch supporter of the Dons. He was in the scullery, cleaning his brown shoes, when someone rang the bell.

‘Is your man in?’ asked the stranger on the step, waiting until Jimmy went to the door before explaining, ‘Will you ha’e a look at my car? It’ll nae
start.’

Jimmy pulled a face. ‘Will it no’ wait?’ (He’s from Laurencekirk, remember, and even if he had lived in Aberdeen for twenty-three years at that time, his dialect was
still recognisable – still is, another forty odd years on.) ‘I’m gaen to the match, but I’ll tak’ a look as soon as I get back.’

I couldn’t hear why the car had to be fixed right away; I only know that Jimmy came in scowling. ‘He says it’ll no’ tak’ lang.’

The game started at three o’clock, but there was no sign of Jimmy . . . nor by four o’clock, and I didn’t even know where he was. I hadn’t recognised the frustrated
motorist. The match would have been in injury time before James trailed in.

‘Did you manage to fix the car?’ I asked, risking having my nose snapped off.

‘Aye, but he’d a bloody cheek! “It’ll no’ tak’ lang”, he said, ‘but the . . .’

Here he reeled off a list of things he’d had to do and the time it had taken him to locate where the fault lay. Moreover, the man had just said, ‘Thanks’, and driven away.

‘Did he not even ask how much he owed you?’ I prompted, hoping that he’d just forgotten to tell me, and was about to hand me a couple of pounds . . . even a ten bob note would
have been very acceptable.

I don’t know how that man knew that Jimmy was a mechanic, but, sadly, there had been no mention of payment. Even so, neither of us ever refused to help if anyone came to us.

We did eventually get a car of our own. It was another Saturday forenoon (most employees worked five and a half days a week, then), and Jimmy didn’t stop until noon. I
was therefore surprised to have a visit from a man who had married one of girls who had worked in McDonald’s Garage with me. He was a driver with Esso, who, I believe, worked a system of
shifts.

‘I know Jim’s aye been wanting a car,’ he began (I’ll call him Charlie), ‘and I thought he might be interested in an old Austin I’ve been working
on.’

When I explained that he wouldn’t be home till half past twelve, Charlie lifted his shoulders briefly. ‘Well, my brother gave it to me for nothing, but, like I said, I’ve been
working on it for a while. I’ve got it going a bit better, but there’s still a lot to be done on it. Take him down in the afternoon, and he can see what he thinks. I’d let him
have it for fifteen quid.’

Excited at the prospect of having a car, never mind what it looked like or how old it was, I said that we’d be there. The next hour and a half dragged past, but at last Jimmy came in, his
face and hands absolutely clarted with grease as usual.

‘I’ve bought us a car,’ I crowed, expecting him to be as pleased as I was.

‘For God’s sake!’ he exploded. ‘What do you know about cars?’

‘It’s Charlie’s,’ I explained, ‘and he says he’ll let you have it for fifteen quid.’

‘A pile o’ auld rubbish, I bet,’ was his scornful answer to that.

‘I said we’d go and look at it,’ I protested, ‘and you’ve always wanted a car.’

‘I want a decent car, no’ an auld wreck.’

But I could detect a glimmer of interest in his eyes, and I kept on about it until he agreed to take a look. Walking down the hill, I was whistling softly, a bad habit of mine. My Granny used to
say, ‘Whistling maidens and crawing hens are nae lucky aboot ony man’s hoose,’ but it never stopped me.

‘And you can stop whistling,’ my husband barked, ‘cos I’m no’ buying it.’

When we reached the house, Charlie came out to discuss business, and I went in to have a fly cup with Pat. We hadn’t seen each other for quite a while, and we were so engrossed in catching
up with each other’s news that I didn’t notice the time passing.

It was over an hour before a beaming Charlie and a sheepish James came in. ‘I’m taking it. I’ve had it out for a spin and there’s a lot to be done to it yet, but I think
it’ll be fine.’

Drawing up at our own house, we were pleased to see several net curtains twitching. There was only one other family in the cul-de-sac that possessed a car, and the man was a shopkeeper, not a
common blue-collar worker. (They were very nice people, just the same, good friends.)

Jimmy spent eight weeks repairing our fourteen-year-old Austin Sherbourne, a little angular car that he parked on the verge of the grounds to the old Springhill House – this was before the
business with the cattle. At a time when vandalism was just a word in the dictionary, there was no fear of any of the parts, cleaned and spread out around it, being stolen, or tyres removed, or any
other damage done. At last, we ventured out on a picnic, our very first in our very own vehicle. Alan would have been about four, Sheila about sixteen, and we had called at the Stocket to pick up
my mother – her first run in a car since Uncle Jack paid her £5 for my Dad’s Erskine in 1934.

I can’t remember exactly where we went that first Sunday, not too far, I know that, but we stopped in a lane at the side of a little wood to partake of our eatables and drinkables. It was
a lovely day, and we all enjoyed ourselves . . . until, on our way home, we had a puncture. This wasn’t Jimmy’s fault; he had checked the tyres carefully. In fact, he had said that the
wheel nuts were so loose that they would have come off if he had driven the car for any distance without tightening them. It turned out that the damage had been caused by a rusty nail.

While James did the needful, on his knees on the dirty gravel at the side of the road, Mum, Sheila, Alan and I had a walk up a lovely lane, where Alan and his ‘Nanny’ played with
‘carl doddies’ – plantains, in other words – where one person holds out their plant and the other uses his to try to knock the other head off.

When I was putting him to bed that night, I asked my tired little son what bit of our day out he had liked best, and, would you credit it, he said, ‘Playing carl doddies with
Nanny.’

His first run in a car and no mention of the lovely scenery or even the sheep and cows he’d seen. Just playing carl doddies. The children of today would find that extremely boring.

GGG315 gave us many, many hours of pleasure, and the puncture on that first day was the only real repair that it ever needed for as long as we had it. Jimmy was always pottering about with it,
and it carried us over quite a large part of Aberdeenshire and even down to Fife to see Auntie Jess in Rosyth. There were some tiny flaws – Alan cried out one day, ‘I can see the road
through the floor!’ Just a wee gap in the floorboards, that was all.

On another outing, we were going up a hill, not a very steep hill but steep enough for our little jalopy, when Alan shouted, ‘We passed another vehicle!’ We had . . . a man on an
ordinary bike. It was the first thing we had ever passed.

I think we had that black Austin Sherbourne for about a year and a half when Jimmy won £100 on a football competition run by the
Sunday Post.
Having had a few drinks to celebrate,
he came home, spread the fivers on the floor and told me, ‘You’re not getting a penny of this. I’m buying a better car.’