Shoes Were For Sunday (14 page)

In spite of Grannie’s wizardry with cheap cuts of meat, and marrow bones, and food which would ‘stick to wur ribs’, as Grannie would say, there always seemed to be a space in our tummies which was never quite filled. And in summer-time one of the very nicest ways of trying to fill this space when we had a ha’penny to spare was at the Tallies. I don’t suppose any of us suspected we were abbreviating the word ‘Italians’, as we
raced from school to the Tallies in search of one of the many wonders within its small interior. At that time all the ice-cream in Glasgow seemed to be made by Italians. And I don’t even suppose the lazily good-tempered proprietrix minded being called a Tallie. She knew we loved her. She knew we were dazzled with admiration of the splendid marble counter, the glittering mirrors which lined the walls, the little round marble-topped tables, the neat chairs, all so different from the wooden fixtures in the old-fashioned shops which were her neighbours.

Her broken English was a constant fascination to our ears, and her unruly mop of crinkly black hair and brandy-ball brown eyes two more exotic signs that she came from a faraway country. Before I was big enough to toddle down to buy anything, the bigger girls would take me with them, and the large-hearted Tallie would lift me up on to the counter and break off pieces of thick slab chocolate from an open packet she’d been nibbling, and pop them into my all-too-willing mouth. I’d have to sing her a wee song afterwards, in payment, and of course I was certain I was getting the biggest bargain in Glasgow. She was never too busy to play this game. She was very fond of a wee poem too, which seemed to amuse her, coming from a two-year-old like me. It went:

A house to let, apply within.

A lady put out for drinking gin.

Gin you know is a very bad thing.

A house to let, apply within.

I could almost measure my growing up against my purchases at the Tallies. When I was very small a ha’penny cone not much fatter than my thumb was as much as I could manage. Then, as I grew bigger and was able to earn some pocket money running messages, for the neighbours of course – I didn’t get money for running our own messages – I moved on to penny cones, tuppeny wafers, threepenny sponges, single nougats, sugar wafers and, beyond these, oh unbelievable splendour, to such wondrous delights as a 98, which was a double sponge filled with ice-cream and a half-bar of cream chocolate. The first time my teeth plunged into this delicacy and met first sponge, then the chill of ice-cream, then the strange flavour of cold chocolate and its creamy centre, I thought experience could go no further.

In winter we didn’t eat ice-cream at all. It was purely a summer delight. I had an aunt who was regarded as quite eccentric because she continued to indulge her passion for ice-cream beyond the summer season. She used to send us down for fourpence-worth in a jug, in the depths of winter, and we watched her curiously as she ate it, but refused to touch a spoonful ourselves, for there was something about wintry blasts and ice-cream which offended our sense of correctness.

In winter, our Tallie went over to hot peas, and no peas cooked at home ever tasted half as good as those bought in that wee shop. A penny bought a cup of ‘pea brae’, which was actually the thickened water in which
the peas had been boiled, liberally seasoned with pepper and a good dash of vinegar. There was always the excitement of maybe finding a few squashed peas at the bottom of the cup, and we would feel about with our spoon, eyes lighting with joy if we found something solid and knew we had struck gold. How we dallied over each spoonful so that we could enjoy the warmth and camaraderie of the clean little shop as long as possible, for now it was cosy and heated, and steaming with cooking peas. The lordly ones seated at the tables consumed threepenny plates of peas, which made us sick with envy, but when the day arrived when we were big enough and rich enough to spend threepence in one go, I found to my surprise and disappointment that I preferred the penny ‘pea brae’.

Alas, I lost my taste for hot peas and vinegar altogether the night I took scarlet fever, for I’d eaten this dish earlier in the evening, and the first sign that all was not well with me was the irritation the vinegar caused to my tender throat. Ever afterwards scarlet fever and hot peas were synonymous to me.

But before this disaster struck, that same aunt of the ice-cream orgies would occasionally take a fancy for peas. I was delighted when she’d send me down for sixpence-worth in the jug. Grannie snorted contemptuously at this extravagance. ‘H’m, paying good money to get somebody else to do your cooking for you,’ she’d say to my aunt, ‘and peas biled awa’ to nothing at that.’ But that was precisely what our depraved
tastes enjoyed, and there was a sort of wild indulgence in buying cooked food. We would sit round the fire, the sixpence-worth of peas divided out into saucers, the pepper and vinegar duly added, and our delightful, eccentric aunt would teach me to sing with her in harmony, in between sips and chewing of peas. There we would sit, singing soulfully ‘Let the rest of the world go by’, and she would make me switch from melody to harmony to make sure I knew what I was doing, until my brothers grew fed up and demanded to be told some jokes, and the evenings would end in a riot of laughter.

But Grannie didn’t always object to buying food cooked by other folk, especially when it was fish and chips. Tenement families hadn’t the space or the money to keep a pan of fat for deep frying, and that was where the chip-shops came into their own. They played a tremendously important part in our lives.

There were four fish-and-chip shops within ten minutes’ walking distance of our house (or six minutes if we ran, as we usually did). Each had a subtle advantage over the others, which made choice agonizing when one’s mother forgot to say which shop was to be patronized.

If it was your own pocket money, of course, the choice of shop was dictated by the amount of cash in hand. When it was a ha’penny, Jimmy’s was the only possible choice, for he alone understood infant economics, and he saved all the wee hard bits of potato which floated to the top of the fryer, and kept them in a separate partition, hot, crisp and greasy, ready to be served
out by the fistful at a ha’penny a time, when we hungrily demanded, ‘Ony crimps, Jimmy?’ We were allowed to salt them, but no vinegar was provided. As he reasonably pointed out, he couldn’t make any profit at all if he supplied vinegar on ha’penny sales, an argument which we felt was quite sound.

A penny in our pockets saw us deserting generous Jimmy for the shop at the bend of the road, where the marble counter reached to our noses, and where they sold the most mouth-watering potato fritters for three a penny. What pleasure to crunch through the thin layer of batter and reach the steaming potato in the centre.

When we had the rich sum of tuppence we went round the corner to the shop where they sold pies and black puddings. We had no intention of buying such delicacies ourselves – tuppence wouldn’t have stretched so far – but we went for the sheer thrill of listening to the plutocrats who
could
order such foods, and for the pleasure we derived from watching the assistant lower pie or pudding into the hot fat. We admired his judgement in knowing the exact moment to whisk out pie or pudding, glistening and rich with fat. Sometimes a purchaser would grandly demand tuppence-worth of pickles to enhance the feast, and we gazed at each other with smiles of delight that we were in the presence of such extravagant living.

Across the road and round the far corner was the fourth shop, to which our mothers sent us when we could coax them to buy chips for supper. ‘Very clean,’
my mother would say, ‘everything spotless.’ We weren’t all that impressed with this praise, because the bags in which the chips were daintily shovelled were scandalously small, but we daren’t disobey and go where the helpings were bigger, because at that time this was the only shop using those wee bags.

Quality as opposed to quantity was an unknown factor in our voracious young lives, and we didn’t trouble to hide our feelings as we watched the assistant blow out the diminutive bag in readiness for the disgustingly small helpings of chips. ‘Humph!’ we’d mutter audibly. ‘Hauds practically nane! Some profit they must be makin’.’ At that the assistant would fix us with steely blue eye and say, ‘I’ve a good mind tae take aff a few, just fur yer cheek!’ ‘Aw don’t dae that, Jessie,’ we’d cry in anguish, ‘we were just kiddin’ ye. Pit oan a wee tait mair, go’n, Jessie, some fell aff yer shovel when ye were liftin’ them oot.’ And because she was a good sort she would toss in maybe half a dozen on top of the bag, and we’d sneak out a couple on the way home, for, after all, they were a sort of bonus.

We didn’t often have fish from these shops, for my mother’s tightly stretched budget just wouldn’t stretch to such extravagance. But on gala nights, such as when she was indulging her weakness for flitting, as she did five times in two years, my mother would acknowledge that willing helpers had to be fed after their labours, and there could only be one choice for the feast – fish and chips.

As the last piece of furniture was being dragged round the bend of the stair, and the helpers (all pals of my brothers and myself) panted and puffed to get it into the house unscathed, I was sent to the best chip-shop for three or four fish suppers, and an extra sixpence-worth of chips. This was a far cry from a ha’penny-worth of crimps at Jimmy’s, and I hoped as many of my chums as possible would be there to hear me place this staggering order. This rich feast was wrapped in several thicknesses of newspaper to keep the grease from going through to my jersey, and I ran like the wind back to the new abode, hugging my steaming bundle to my bosom, to deliver it as hot as possible to the weary workers. When I arrived the party would be sitting round the freshly laid table, clean, and flushed with anticipation, empty plates in front of each. My mother carefully divided out the portions – the biggest helpings going to the biggest lads, for they’d done the heaviest work, right down to the smallest person in the house who had only run round with small items like shovels and brushes.

Piles of bread and butter and margarine and lashings of tea were provided, and our voices rose happily as the crisp batter and the golden chips disappeared down hungry throats.

Weirs’ flittings were much sought-after social occasions among our crowd, for the fish and chip feast which ended the evening’s labours was a golden bait which drew more volunteers than we could use.

These flittings were a miracle of neighbourly assistance and organization, for the only item which cost money was the horse and cart, and even that was only hired if the distance was just too far for the helpers to walk. They all took place after the day’s work, for nobody dreamed of taking time off just to move house. After a quick tea, pals and neighbours rolled up, dressed in dungarees or peenies, and the tasks were handed out according to ability or nimbleness. The children ran about like ants with the small items from the fireplace, clearing the place so that the men could move the furniture more easily. Advice was shouted as tricky bends of the stair were negotiated. ‘Aye, a wee bit your wey, Wullie, that’s it!’, or ‘Naw, naw, you’ll hiv to go back – you’re too tight roon’ this corner, ye’ll never dae it’. My mother’s heart would be in her mouth during these operations, in case her precious wardrobe would get scratched, but these men were no amateurs. They’d helped at dozens of flittings and the furniture was in good hands. Meanwhile, another expert would be prising the linoleum up, and rolling it carefully so that it wouldn’t crack. ‘Aye,’ my mother would say with satisfaction, ‘that’s the best of real inlaid linoleum, you can lift it and lay it a dizzen times and never a crack in it!’ Willing hands were taking the big brass covers off the wall and wrapping them in newspapers, and piling them into an empty clothes basket, and other hands raced downstairs with it when it was full, tucked the covers safely beside the bedding, and raced back again with
the empty basket, to have it filled again with the precious china, or ‘cheenie’ as everybody in our tenements called it. This was the women’s work, and most tenderly each piece was wrapped in newspaper, and instructions called out to the couriers, ‘Noo mind ye pit it a’ on something soft, so that it’ll no’ shoogle in the kert. Pit the pillows roon’ it noo, Jimmy, so it’ll no’ break.’

At the other end, another small army was waiting to unload the lorry, and everything sat on the pavement until the linoleum was re-laid in the new house, then more frantic activity to put everything in its new setting. How different everything looked, even if we’d only moved to the next close, which my mother did twice, for we knew our houses so intimately that the slightest variation in a lobby or a window frame, or the size of a fireplace, was of enormous significance. Everybody loved a flitting. Nobody minded the hard work. It was all fun, a real diversion, and it always ended up with a party, and who cared if it also ended up with an empty purse?

But however willingly shoulders were put to the wheel when they were needed, we weren’t angels, and there were plenty of rows to whip up passions and cause the tongues to cluck in fury or sympathy. We lived so close to one another in the tenements, it would have been a wonder if there had been no clash of personalities, no misunderstandings which led to feuds which could last for weeks, until a common bond of suffering or hardship drew the rival factions together again.

One such feud went on for nearly six weeks between Mrs MacFarlane and Mrs Brown. The husbands didn’t enter into it, and, ignoring their wives’ temperaments, went on nodding to one another when they met as though they’d never heard of the word ‘feud’. The two women had fallen out over an argument as to whose turn it was for the washing-house key, and Mrs MacFarlane would pass Mrs Brown with lowered eyes, without a word of greeting. Their children were greatly irritated by this state of affairs. Their social system of bartering was ruined, and they found it maddening not to be able to exchange puzzles or ‘bools’ with each other, just because their mothers weren’t on speaking terms.