Gift from the Gallowgate (24 page)

He bought another Austin, a black A40, and for one glorious weekend we had two cars sitting at our gate. Then a neighbour bought the Sherbourne for the £15 he knew we had paid for it, not
taking into account the amount of time and money Jimmy, a time-served mechanic, had spent in making it more or less roadworthy. No MOT was needed then. The hundred pounds wasn’t enough for
the A40 he picked, and for the first time ever, we paid the rest by credit, so much per month.

‘It’s not tick,’ Jimmy excused himself, when I complained that he’d never let me buy anything unless I could pay for it outright. ‘Ever ybody’s buying their
cars on the never-never.’

‘It’s still tick,’ I persisted, coldly, but hire purchase was used for every car we bought thereafter.

The A40 was followed by a three-year-old, green Ford Anglia, then a two-year-old, wine Ford Cortina and later still a brand new copper brown Ford Escort. This last prompted one wag in William
Tawse’s yard to fix a label on Jimmy’s coat, proclaiming to all and sundry:
This belongs to James Davidson CBE.’
When asked why the CBE, he grinned, ‘Copper Brown
Escort.’

Jimmy had concentrated on Fords because Tawse dealt mainly with this make and all his tools had been bought for it. It was only when Fords became much too expensive that we bought a year-old,
silver Datsun Sunny, which we kept for thirteen years. Jimmy, of course, had cared for it religiously, doing all his own repairs and servicing, so that it was almost as good when we traded it in as
it had been when it came off the assembly line.

Going back to my story, there came a point when my financial situation – non-financial would be nearer the mark – was growing dire. Christmas was looming up and
I’d hardly any money for presents. Sheila’s was easy enough, buy more material from the Castlegate for next to nothing and make her a dirndl skirt or two. She had started going to the
local Youth Club’s Saturday dances, and was always asking for something new to wear. A dirndl was simplest of all to make, just a seam up both sides, a hem at the foot and two or three lines
of stitching at the waist for two or three rows of elastic. It also used far less material than a circular skirt, which fashion ordained needed a special petticoat, stiffened with sugar and water
to make it stick out.

I could just about manage the usual stocking-fillers, an apple, a tangerine, a sugar mouse and some home-made Swiss milk toffee, but what else could I get for Alan? Inspiration came in the guise
of an old desk that had once belonged to my sister Bertha and then to Sheila, so Jimmy decided to brighten it a bit. He took home a small amount of green paint from Tawse – a change from
Rubislaw grey – and as soon as Alan was in bed on Christmas Eve, he got started.

I, meantime, was engaged in making the Swiss milk toffee – a softer and better version of the ‘tablet’ now sold in many shops. In fact, it was so good – the recipe, I
mean, not my making of it – that my lapsed obsession for condensed milk overpowered me again, and I eventually had to stop buying it, otherwise I’d have been twice the size I am now,
and that’s saying something.

Our labours over, we both sat down at the fireside to listen to the wireless, no such luxury as a television set for us then. They’d been on sale for a few years, owning one was something
to boast about, but they were still far too expensive for folk like us. It would have been about 1960 before we managed to get a secondhand one cheap – a twelve inch, dark green screen in a
large mahogany cabinet. It lasted for many years and was only disposed of when the tube went. Unable to pay the £20 a new tube would cost, I resorted to ‘tick’ to buy a new TV.
But that first set was the best we ever had.

Back to business. About ten o’clock on that Christmas Eve, I rose to make a cup of tea before we went up to bed, and as I passed the desk I checked to make sure that the paint was drying.
Being industrial paint, not known as quick drying, it was still quite wet, so Jimmy pulled it over to the fire, and we sat down again to drink the tea. You’ll have heard the ironic
expression, ‘As interesting as watching paint dry’? Well, we sat there doing just that for another two hours, then we heard Alan’s feet padding down the stairs.

Quick as a flash, we stood up in front of the tacky desk to prevent him seeing Santa’s gift before Santa came. Any adult would have twigged what we were doing straight away, but Alan
wasn’t old enough to suspect his parents of any jiggery-pokery. When we told him that Santa wouldn’t come to a little boy who wasn’t asleep, he trotted upstairs again and was soon
in the Land of Nod. But it was two in the morning before Jimmy and I got to bed, having not quite filled the pillowcases hanging from the mantelpiece and camouflaged the desk with fancy paper tied
roughly round it.

That summer, Jean Souter, a friend and neighbour and mother of Alan’s chum Graham, gave me a little degree of help by asking if I would stand in for her for two weeks. The
small West End hotel where she worked had no one to replace her at this, the busiest time of the year, so I agreed somewhat reluctantly. It wasn’t that I thought working as a chambermaid
would be beneath me, just the opposite. I hadn’t a clue as to what would be expected of me, and I didn’t want to let the management down . . . or the guests.

On the night before I was due to start, I couldn’t sleep a wink for worrying, but it wasn’t half as bad as I’d feared; just a case of making beds and keeping the rooms clean
and tidy – particularly the bathrooms. Clean towels had to be provided each day, and every inch of the ‘smallest rooms’ had to be given a thorough going over. Never having stayed
in a hotel myself, I prayed that I wasn’t missing something vital, but not a soul complained. In fact quite a few showed their appreciation by leaving tips at the end of their stay.
Unexpected, but very welcome.

I was quite slow that first morning, probably taking twice as long as Jean did, but once I got into the way of it, I nipped effortlessly through the work. I admit that I was tired at the end of
the week, but being handed a pay packet more than made up for that. I was only there for the two weeks, of course, but what I earned, plus the tips, did let me replace some of the clothes the
children were outgrowing, and that was one worry off my mind for a while.

Before I knew it, Christmas was just around the corner, and, once again, I couldn’t see a way to buy presents for any of my nearest and dearest. Although Jimmy and I agreed not to give
each other anything, there were the children to think about. Sheila knew, but I couldn’t destroy Alan’s belief in Santa Claus.

Then I spotted an item in the Situations Vacant column of the
Evening Express
for a part-time assistant in one of R.S. McColl’s shops, evenings only. I applied and started the
following week at 5 p.m. I had to leave the house at twenty to five, but Jimmy, who stopped at 4.30 and had to walk home, would be in about ten minutes after I’d gone. Sheila had left
Aberdeen Academy (the old Central School) by this time, and was working with a firm of commercial artists. She wasn’t home until after six o’clock.

My working ‘day’ ended at eight, but the three hours I served behind the counter were non-stop; hardly time to draw a breath. Was it just a coincidence that I was back amongst
sweeties again? Confectionery, cigarettes and ice cream at our side of the shop, newspapers, cigarettes and fancy goods at the other. I sometimes had to take a turn at the paper side, and two years
running I’d to take over for a fortnight to let the usual ‘girl’ get a holiday.

I enjoyed that, too, although I’d to start at seven in the morning to serve all the workmen with their papers and fags, and didn’t finish until two, so it was a long day. More pay,
of course, which was not to be sneezed at. Luckily, a neighbour said she would make sure that Alan was ready when her husband was leaving to open his shop. Mr R. had been dropping him off at the
Demonstration School since I stopped taking him there myself on the bus. At least I didn’t have to worry about Christmas that year.

Christmas Day was not widely recognised as a holiday in Scotland. Tawse’s yard didn’t stop work until almost 4 p.m., which gave me plenty of time to prepare a festive dinner. Few
working class people had turkey, far too expensive, and a hen (we never thought of eating chickens) was a rare treat. We were lucky in having friends whose parents were crofters, so we were
occasionally given a hen as a gift – but it had to be plucked and cleaned, a job for James although I did do it once.

As instructed by Jimmy’s Auntie Jess, I usually made the Christmas pudding a few weeks earlier, and it only had to be simmered for an hour or so to heat it. Then there
were the vegetables to prepare and cook, the custard sauce (no brandy, so no brandy butter) to be made and the mince pies to be baked. As you can imagine, that took me all morning and part of the
afternoon, but sad to say, my family scoffed the lot in little over half an hour. They were very appreciative, though, so I didn’t mind.

Now came the worst time of the year, for most Scottish women, at any rate. No matter how clean a wife kept her house over the other 364 days, everything had to be absolutely spotless by midnight
on Hogmanay. She could not go peacefully into the New Year if she hadn’t cleaned and polished everything to within an inch of its existence. Blankets and quilts had to be washed, all
cupboards emptied and scrubbed before their contents were replaced. The chimney had to be swept, a chimney sweep was regarded as lucky, but it also meant that the living room walls had to be
brushed down, the curtains had to be washed, also every soot-covered ornament.

To be honest, I often didn’t get my own face washed and clothes changed until a few minutes to the witching hour, by which time I was too tired to enjoy myself amongst the many neighbours
who first-footed us and to whom we usually returned the compliment.

This custom has its drawbacks, depending on where you actually live. In our little group of fourteen homes, if you went to every house, as Jimmy was often determined to do, you would be hard
pushed to walk home, plus . . . it took all night to get round them. We didn’t start until midnight had struck, of course, not like south of the border where they celebrate during the
evening, and I’ve seen it seven or eight in the morning before we got to bed.

In fact, one earlier year I was pushing Jimmy upstairs at five minutes to nine (he did need some help) when the doorbell went. The doctor had come to see Sheila, who had been suffering for some
time with an unexplained illness. He was on his way to see another patient, he explained, and had just popped in. While I took him up to see her, Jimmy went back to the scullery to give the doctor
his ‘New Year’. He has never been very good at distinguishing whisky glasses (tots in those days) from sherry glasses (the only other drink we could afford for a long time), but I was
still mortified when I saw what he had used . . . a thick glass eggcup. For the doctor, of all people.

Mind you, the doc didn’t mind. He was very partial to alcohol and was most likely well-oiled before he reached us. By the way, this was not the doctor who ran me home from the garage many
years before.

His verdict on Sheila? ‘Keep her in bed until I come back.’

He didn’t come back, so after a couple of weeks, when she said she felt better and wanted to go back to school, I let her go.

I’ll never forget something that Dr C. said when Alan was still an infant. Jimmy and I had been kept awake by his screaming for nights, but we had to go to a wedding on
the Saturday afternoon. Sheila had been invited, too, so my mother had offered to stay with the baby. When we got home about 9 p.m., Mum told us she’d had a terrible time with him.
‘You’ll have to phone the doctor.’

This was a time when very few people had such a thing, and I had to run a good bit to find a phone box. I explained what was wrong and Dr C. asked, ‘Have you given him any
whisky?’

When, horrified, I said no, he went on, ‘Try him with a teaspoonful and if that doesn’t work, drink the rest of the bottle yourselves, and you won’t hear him.’

It would have been round about this time that my mother’s Uncle Alex (Granda’s younger brother) died, and Jimmy was given his motor-assisted bicycle. This was a
great help to him. He didn’t have to leave so early for work in the morning, and he was home a little earlier than before. Now, the peculiar thing about this was that his driving licence
didn’t allow him to take his ‘gift’ on the road without L plates. He could drive a motorcycle, a ten-ton lorry, an ordinary motor car, even a tractor, yet it was no to an ordinary
two-wheeler with a little engine inside a square box on the rear carrier. I ask you?

It was the year of the Suez crisis, so although he applied for a licence right away, he had to wait many months before he was allowed to have a test. Fifteenth September at 10 a.m., it said on
the card, so he had to ask time off work. When he left the house, the big L plates on the front and rear mudguards proclaimed that he was a mere novice, yet he’d been driving since he was
seventeen . . . and over five years in the war, on all kinds of vehicles.

‘You’d better have got rid of them before you come back,’ I warned him, in fun, naturally. He couldn’t fail, could he?

Imagine how I felt – and how he must have felt – when I saw the bike coming round the corner into the cul de sac with the white square of celluloid still there, and the red
‘L’ still to the fore.

‘I didn’t fail,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust. ‘They said I was two weeks late, so I’d missed the test.’

I couldn’t credit this. The card had said the fifteenth, and this was the fifteenth, so how could he have been two weeks too late? When we studied the card, however, we realised what had
happened. Whoever had filled in the date on the printed card had written what we thought was a one and a five with a little squiggly ‘th’. What it turned out to be was a one and a big S
with a little squiggle for a ‘t’. Not fifteenth, but first. Fortunately the Licensing Officer got him another test two weeks later, so he didn’t have too long to put up with his
workmates’ jibes.