Gift from the Gallowgate (28 page)

I was told that I would be at Smithfield Primary School, and had the long school holidays to worry about how I would get on there. I missed the stir of the College, I missed having to study but
most of all I missed the twenty-two friends I had made. Life in a school just wouldn’t be the same.

A little back- and side-tracking here, and perhaps some repetition, to explain. I had been a member of the Church of Scotland at Craigiebuckler since I was fifteen or sixteen,
mainly because the old minister had retired and his replacement was a gorgeous bachelor. Betty and I had been too old then for the ordinary Sunday School that went in at the same time as the kirk
and meant that the children trooped in to join their parents in the church itself during the service, so we joined the Bible Class. This met in the afternoon, and was taken by the handsome young
Reverend himself, not a selection of young and old (mostly old) Sunday school teachers.

The membership had soared from what it used to be – quite a lot of other girls besides us had developed a crush on the unmarried, available, young minister – strangely, although I
can picture him still, I can’t recall his name. With such a large number of us hanging on to his every word, he must have thought that he was a phenomenal success as a preacher, and when a
class was started for the Young Communicants, we, like the rest of them, joined that, too. This resulted in us going to the church morning, afternoon and evening . . . just to see our
‘heartthrob’. There were other compensations, of course. Boys as well as girls attended these classes, and two very presentable young lads usually escorted Betty and me back to Ord
Street – halfway to our own homes – where my granny gave us something to eat after our mammoth sessions of religion. Our hearts, pining for our hero, were lifted considerably by their
attentions. It was good to be young!

Then calamity! The war came, and we lost our film-star mentor to the army. His replacement was much older, not so good-looking or so much fun, therefore attendances dropped. The Young
Communicants were sworn into the Church as members and had to force themselves to go to church every Sunday – well, Betty and I had to. For one thing, our parents were there to keep an eye on
us, and the boys kept away from them.

Craigiebuckler had originally been a small country kirk, and although some houses had been built a little way off in the twenties and thirties, it still had this aura of
‘ruralness’, my own word. The huge organ was very impressive with its various-sized pipes behind it, and the beadle (verger in English, I believe) had to pump up the bellows before it
would make a sound. This, of course, was made unnecessary when the organ was connected to electricity in the fifties, I think.

Each kirk member had his or her own pew, paid for yearly, with a card at the end of each row detailing the names of the people who had the right to sit there. Some pews had a cushion (ours
hadn’t) and I suppose this luxury had also to be paid for. Nothing for nothing in those days, either.

There was one rigid rule in Craigiebuckler, though; a reminder of what used to happen in days of yore. The head (doyen) of the family who lived in the largest house in the area was looked on in
much the same way as the original laird of the land must have been looked upon, with great reverence and awe. Everyone had to be seated and the kirk doors closed by the beadle and opened again
before Mrs F. came in, followed by her sons and daughters. A widow since perhaps the Boer War, she was always dressed in black, and looked neither left nor right as she led her
entourage
slowly up the aisle.

Her pew was practically under the pulpit, and I’m sure every incumbent over the decades had been conscious of her steely eyes on him as he gave his sermon. When the organist played the
introduction for each hymn, psalm or paraphrase, there was a rustling of her skirts and some fairly laboured breathing until she got to her feet, always last. At the close of the service, she and
her attendants were first to go, a ritual
par excellence
, while we minions waited until they were outside before making any move.

When we were smaller, Betty and I used to watch the performance with great interest, our mouths gaping as the participants swept past, until our mothers tapped our feet with theirs to remind us
of our manners.

Alas, Craigiebuckler is now surrounded by so many villas, bungalows and manor-type houses, even a library and, until just a few years ago, an Infant School, so that it can no longer lay claim to
being a country kirk, where one family more or less ruled the roost over the commoners who outnumbered them.

After we moved to our new home in Mastrick in 1956, of course, going to Craigiebuckler was out of the question. We’d have had to take two buses, into town and out again
(which we couldn’t afford) or go by Shanks’ pony – a bit too far across country, so to speak. Besides, we had a baby to think of, as well. The best thing for me to do was to join
Mastrick Church. It had been planned along with the housing – this was a large estate to start with and expanded over the years – and by the time we arrived in the parish the first year
or more of services were held in what had become the church hall at the rear of the building.

Liking the feeling of being welcomed by the congregation, I removed my ‘lines’ from Craigiebuckler and became a member of Mastrick Parish Church. It had nothing to do with the fact
that here was another young, handsome minister. I was married, he was married, so there was no ulterior motive for my attendance there. My mother also changed from Craigiebuckler, because she could
get a bus from door to door. Bertha and Jimmy decided to become members as well, but they had to attend a Young Communicants’ class first, which, because all the others were in their teens or
twenties, made my husband feel conspicuous. He would have stopped going if I had let him.

This was a new church, of course, not quite a five-minute walk from us, and what came as a vast surprise to all concerned was the number of children who wanted to come to Sunday School –
over a thousand when I typed out a Cradle Roll. I was the only member who had a typewriter – an old, rattly Olivetti that sometimes missed half a letter, but I managed . . . over a good
period of time.

Eventually, it was arranged that two lots of each age group would be catered for, the problem being finding enough volunteer teachers and leaders, plus a superintendent to make sure that
everything was being handled properly. I’m pleased to say that our family was well to the fore. Bertha and Bill were roped in as leaders, Bertha for one lot of fives to sevens, Bill for one
lot of teenagers. I played the piano for Bertha’s classes (there were about seven little groups) and Sheila and another young girl volunteered as teachers, though they were only in their
teens themselves, plus a few older girls. In time, Alan became a pupil.

Christmas presented the biggest problem. Each ‘Sunday School’ had to be given a party, and they all had to be on a Saturday afternoon because most of the teachers had to go to work
on the other days. What happened was that there were usually two parties in each of the three venues on the same day, one early in the afternoon and one later on, six altogether. Finding a Santa to
give out presents at each party proved almost impossible, but Bertha’s Bill (Jamieson) had a motor scooter at the time. Hey presto! Santa was mechanised that year!

We had been in Mastrick for only a year or so when the young minister was called to another church. The committee organised several hopefuls to come and preach, choosing the one they thought
would best fit into the parish. As the oldest (in years, for it was a young community), my mother was asked to robe Mr T. when he was ordained, a great honour for her. She, Bertha and I were all in
the Women’s Guild by this time and I a member of the Drama Group run by the Deaconess. Bill also helped with the Boys’ Brigade Company, and when Alan was old enough he joined the
Lifeboys, so we were all well involved in church business. Jimmy, of course, was childminder when I was out in the evenings.

Some years on, Bertha and Bill, who had been living with Mum after their wedding in Mastrick Church, bought a new house at the Bridge of Don, at the other side of town and
miles from Mastrick. They became part of the congregation of St Machar’s Cathedral, but the Bridge of Don community kept growing and growing so much that a new church had to be built, still
under the guidance of the Cathedral. The numbers at Sunday school in Mastrick had dropped significantly by that time, and so they didn’t feel too badly about giving that up.

It would have been in 1965 some time that I began to consider moving house. I was out all day, studying every evening, cooking was down to a minimum (there were no ready-made
meals then, no fridge or freezer) and the cleaning was being neglected for longer and longer periods.

Things became so bad, that I can remember saying to Jimmy at one point, ‘If I should die suddenly, get somebody in to clean the house before you tell Mum.’

Visions of moving to a smaller house did sometimes flit through my mind, but it was my son’s little friend who gave me the prod I needed. Graham called in for Alan on his way to Sunday
school every week and always had to wait a few minutes. I was rushing to clear the breakfast dishes so I could spread out my books, so I left the boy standing at the fireside as usual this
particular day, and it wasn’t until much later that I noticed how he had been amusing himself.

There, on the lid of the piano, and in huge capital letters, he had painstakingly written his name with his finger . . . in the thick layer of dust. I was mortified and, as I erased it with my
sleeve, I prayed that he wouldn’t tell anyone. I may have been a slut – I
was
a slut – but I didn’t want all and sundry pointing the finger of scorn at me.

I urgently needed that smaller house, or a house that was easier to keep clean, and with this in mind, I scanned the ‘Houses for Let and Exchange’ column in the newspaper every
night. After a while, I gave up and placed an ad myself, stating a preference for a flat in one of the multi-storeyed blocks at Hazlehead, which was a really nice area. To my amazement, I received
quite a number of letters, making Jimmy wonder if these ‘luxury homes’, built just over a year earlier, were all that they were cracked up to be.

By this time, I had passed my driving test, so I drove over one afternoon to carry out some inspections. There were four blocks, Wallace House, Davidson House, Rose House and Bruce House, and I
thought that it would be appropriate to go to Davidson House first. I fancied receiving mail addressed to Mr and Mrs Davidson of Davidson House . . . It would make me feel quite important.

Davidson House, however, already had its share of Davidsons, and I could well imagine the postman’s dilemma without another one to contend with. I eventually settled on a flat in one of
the other buildings because it had a lovely view. We moved in at the beginning of October 1966 and I was soon thankful for my decision to move from a terraced house. When there had been snowstorms
at Mastrick, it had been a case of pulling on boots and muffling myself in something warm for the back-breaking job of shovelling snow, not only from the front door to the road, but also along the
pavement for the whole width of our garden. I’d also had to clear a path from my back door to the coal cellar and the drying green. None of that at Hazlehead, and most of the ice or mud has
disappeared from our footwear before we enter our flat.

Contrary to most people’s expectations, living in a multi-storeyed block is not normally noisy. The only sounds that travel are hammering and drilling, very deceptive to the ears. A
workman can be doing something on the top (eleventh) floor and it is impossible for other tenants (me, at least) to tell whether the noise is coming from above or below, or even, sometimes,
alongside. This is especially irritating when work is being carried out all over the building, and you can’t judge whether or not you’ll be next to have the door-entry system changed,
or your electricity wiring renewed, or whatever, but it’s something you learn to live with.

I’ve never regretted moving here, although my mail does sometimes go to Davidson House; hardly surprising, since one set of Davidsons lives in the same numbered flat as ours. What is
surprising is that is doesn’t happen more often . . .

One real drawback to living in a tower block is the laundry facility. When we moved in first, I was given my time as 5 to 6.30 p.m. for the huge washing machine, and 6.30 to 8
p.m. for two of the four hot cupboards. Since one load of washing took the full ninety minutes you were allotted, everything had to be done in one go – towels, sheets, underwear, top clothes,
even dark working trousers – so you can imagine the horrible shade of grey all the whites finished up. Not only that, the hot cupboards, although they did dry the clothes, left them as hard
as boards; almost as stiff as they’d turned out in frosty weather at Mastrick.

The biggest problem, of course, was that we all had to take our turn. With forty-six tenants in the building, each having one and a half hours to wash and spin, and one and a half hours to dry,
we could only do our laundry once a week. There was very little spare time available for emergencies.

I had left my own spinner when we flitted, but eventually managed to buy a new one and a washing machine as well, and then it was plain sailing. I could wash as often as I liked, but I had to
find a way of drying. We were not allowed to put up ropes in our balconies, but I can guarantee that almost every balcony had a rope slung somewhere out of sight of the road. As the years went
past, I managed to buy an automatic washing machine, and some years later, a tumble dryer. I am completely independent now. The laundry room, of course, was the place to learn all the gossip, so I
am kept in the dark about who did what, whose husband walked out, whose wife went off with another man, although perhaps this doesn’t happen nowadays.

Some of the original tenants have died, some have moved away, and more than half of the houses are now occupied by single mothers. Not that I have anything against them; I was in the same
position once myself. More to the point, we are really lucky with our neighbours. One elderly man whose wife died some months ago, one young girl with an under-school-age boy, and one girl with a
daughter at the Academy and a son who is due to start there after the summer holidays. Both girls have offered their help to me, but Kim, with whom I share a small passage leading to the waste
disposal chute and the stairs, is my standby.