The Sunday Girls (7 page)

I didn’t want him to get into any trouble with his job. The manager might take a dim view of his delivery boy slinking away early.

Before I could protest, he said, ‘I’ll nip into the shop and tell them about this melee and how it’s no’ easy to deliver anything in this pandemonium. Maybe he’ll let me work later – after it’s all over.’

He was back within half an hour. ‘Mr Gould, the manager, has given me an hour off.’

We hurried up Meadowside, intent on reaching the house safely. As we rounded the corner to the foot of the Hilltown, we couldn’t believe our eyes. Hundreds of people were milling around in an angry throng like a swarm of disgruntled bees. The mounted police were also there and some had their batons drawn. The entire area was like some war zone. It was a real fight between the bobbies and the mass of bodies now scurrying in all directions and screaming at the top of their voices as they ran.

To make matters worse, residents who lived in the upstairs houses were either viewing the riot or actively encouraging it. The ones who were alarmed by the dramatic panorama under their noses kept strictly behind the protection of the glass but the hardier souls were hanging out and throwing the odd missile on to the heads of the law.

Three burly policemen were trying to push a crowd of angry youths against a wall but, as soon as they succeeded with one group, another surge of humanity erupted elsewhere. The crowd ran round the horses and the police wagons. The sound of the horses’ hooves against the pavement was terrifying but, above this noise, the shouts of neighbourly comradeship could be heard being hurled down towards the heads of the protesters and these grew louder and angrier whenever they could see demonstrators being herded into the police wagon and taken in to custody.

‘What a bloody noise you bobbies are making. No’ to mention your snorting horses,’ shouted one elderly woman whose thin wrinkled face was minus any teeth. She shook a blue-veined feeble arm into the air. ‘But never you mind, lads – just give them hell.’

From our vantage point on the edge of the riot we were unable to see if Dad or any of our neighbours were involved and it looked as if we would have to run the gauntlet of the fighting mob. I was scared – not for myself but for Danny because the policemen seemed to be collaring all the young men, regardless of the fact that many of them had been minding their own business and had merely been caught up by accident.

Frightened, howling young children were frantically holding on to their parents but the older braver ones were throwing stones at the horses. They then darted away like thin wraiths into the warren of tenements.

‘We’re never going to get past that crowd,’ I shouted to Danny. ‘Maybe I’ll be better on my own.’

He shook his head. ‘Granny will skin me alive if I leave you here. No, we’ll take a shortcut.’

He grabbed my hand and we raced along Dudhope Street. When we reached Dallfield Walk, we skirted around the many washing lines in the back courts to emerge at Shepherd’s Pend. This detour brought us out at the Progress Hall and above the riot. The noise was still as deafening but at least our way wasn’t obstructed by shying horses and irate bobbies.

Just a few steps from our close, we were appalled to see a human bundle lying against the wall. With a feeling of fright and apprehension, we lifted the coat lapel which was obscuring the face.

‘Oh, it’s old Mrs Dodds and she’s been hit on the head.’ I pointed to a two-inch gash above her eye. ‘She must have been injured in the riot.’

She lived a few yards from us on the Hilltown and Danny picked her up in an effortless manner while I put an arm around her waist. Fortunately she was a small wiry-framed woman so it wasn’t too difficult to make our way slowly towards her house.

Suddenly Rita appeared and I was so grateful to see her. I ran ahead, leaving Danny with the injured woman. I almost bowled them over in my haste.

‘We found her lying on the street and we think she’s been hit in the riot.’

Rita summed up the situation. ‘Better bring her up to my house and we’ll have a look at her.’

We slowly made our way up the stairs but before we reached the flat, the old woman groaned and Danny lowered her on to the shabby linoleum-covered lobby. She groaned again, her eyes trying to focus on her small audience.

As Rita knelt down beside her, a loud bellow erupted from the direction of her flat, accompanied by the piercing cries of a child. The man bellowed again. ‘For heaven’s sake, Rita, will you come in and see to this child or we’ll all be deafened.’

She ignored this summons and inspected the woman’s cut. ‘Oh, it’s just a wee graze you have there, Mrs Dodds. How did it happen? Did you get mixed up in the riot?’

Mrs Dodds looked at her with a puzzled frown. ‘No, no, lass, I was in the snug bar of the Windmill Bar and I think I had too much stout to drink.’ She laughed feebly, showing a row of discoloured teeth. ‘What riot are you talking about?’

Rita sounded incredulous. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know about the fighting at the foot of the street? The noise alone would waken the dead, never mind the living for that matter.’ She pointed behind her where husband and son were now competing for the highest decibel prize. ‘Oh, I expect I’d better get in there and calm things down. What a day it’s been and what a world. No money and no pleasure in life – just a nagging man to contend with day in and day out.’

Mrs Dodds, who didn’t seem too perturbed at missing all the drama, said, ‘I was too busy supping my stout in the snug to hear any fighting but, when I got outside, I felt real queer-like and my legs wouldn’t hold me up.’ She turned to Danny. ‘Maybe this handsome young man will see me home. If it’s no bother, that is?’

‘Mind and give that cut a wee wash,’ shouted Rita as Danny retreated down the stairs with his burden. ‘Imagine that old codger. I aye knew she liked her stout but no’ as much as would make her legless,’ she laughed. Nellie, who had also witnessed this small drama, smiled too.

I didn’t comment because I didn’t really know the woman that well and I had problems of my own. ‘I’m looking for Dad, Rita. Have you seen him?’

Before Rita could answer, Nellie piped up, saying, ‘Aye, he’s on the march with Joe and the gang.’ Nellie looked harassed as the wailing cries of Rita’s child echoed in the narrow confines of the lobby. ‘If it’s no’ one thing, it’s another.’ She sounded fed up. ‘I tried to run down to the chip shop for five Woodbines but it’s an absolute madhouse out there. But his majesty, my man, will be looking for his fags when he gets back, will he not?’

‘Did Dad say when the march will be over?’

She shook her head. ‘To be honest with you, Ann, Rita and me don’t see your dad often, especially lately – although we’ve offered to help him out. He says he’s managing.’

I bit my lip, unsure what to do.

Nellie continued, ‘This march is a protest against unemployment and now it seems our dole money is going to be cut and we’re all to be subjected to this awful means test. My Wullie is on the march and I’m hoping he’s all right as well. Rita’s man wasn’t well so she put her foot down at him going. That’s why he’s like a bear with a sore head.’

Rita appeared and nodded. ‘Oh, aye, it’s obviously better being out with your pals, shouting and singing and chucking insults at the police.’

‘Aye, you’re right, Rita. Wait till my man gets back and finds I didn’t get his five Woodbines – all hell will be let loose.’ She turned wearily towards her house then stopped. ‘Heavens, I didn’t ask how wee Lily is. I hope she’s fine.’

I assured them that all was well with the baby. After the two women had gone I decided to wait for Dad in the house. There was no need for a key because no one ever bothered to lock their doors.

As I stood on the threshold, I almost burst into tears at the sight of the neglected and untidy room. The bed looked as if it had never been made since my last visit. The bedclothes lay in a heap, some on the bed and the rest on the floor, and not only that – they looked grubby.

Grey ashes had built up in the grate before finally spilling out in a lifeless eruption on to the tin fender. Some had even landed on the little colourful rag rug that Mum had lovingly made one winter from a pile of jumble sale rags. Dad’s boots had trodden cinders into the fabric, making the colours appear subdued under this ashy cover.

A thick layer of dust lay along the mantelpiece, covering the few cheap and cheerful ornaments that had also been Mum’s pride and joy. The wooden kitchen table was minus its oilcloth. There was a stale loaf of bread, a packet of margarine with a knife still sticking in its yellow surface and an almost-empty bottle with an inch of milk at the bottom of it that had long since gone sour and congealed.

The sugar bowl lay on its side, a trail of silver crystals decorating the rough table top in a haphazard pattern before mingling with a dried-up pool of tea stains. Beside this was a brown-stained cup with a thick sugary film clinging to the sides while brown tea drips formed a pattern on the outside. A small teapot lay on the unlit gas ring, holding in its depths something that resembled a petrified fossil.

‘Oh, Dad, how could you end up like this?’ I thought aloud. ‘Mum kept this room like a wee palace.’

Danny appeared back and his eyes opened in amazement. I held up my hand. ‘Not a word to Granny about this but can you help me clean it up?’

He cleared the table, throwing the milk down the sink and putting the margarine in the cupboard while I stripped and remade the bed. Finally I filled a bucket with several scoops of ashes and carried it down to the midden in the courtyard.

When I got back Danny was whistling cheerfully. ‘Your dad’s going to wonder who did all this cleaning for him,’ he said, running a rag over the dusty surfaces. ‘Now I’m not leaving you here so hurry up – I’ve to get back to work.’

I was busy laying the fire, placing the kindling crosswise over screwed-up paper. I then picked up the dirty sheets and, with a quick backward glance, we left. Dad had still not returned.

I was feeling so sad as we headed back for the Overgate, retracing our steps through the shortcut because the crowds were still surging around the bottom of the Hilltown. Although the noise had subsided slightly, the racket was still going on. It was the same scene at Albert Square, which had been the venue for the start of the march. There was still a multitude of people and some of the injured were being ferried away. We saw one policeman with two young men, both of whom had blood streaming down their faces.

‘Better get them to the Dundee Royal Infirmary,’ said a voice from the crowd.

‘This was a peaceful march till you lot waded in,’ shouted another angry disembodied voice from the heaving mass.

There were groups of tearful women with distressed children. Tearful streaks running down their dirty faces gave them a two-toned striped look.

‘You would be better off taking your kids home than have them howling here,’ suggested one policeman.

This was met with enraged shouts. ‘Take the kids home, did you say? And what happens when we get there. We get cut off from the dole and maybe even the parish relief. What do we feed them on? You tell us. Aye, we’ll take them away – take them home to starve.’

The policeman retreated to the far edge of the crowd. He obviously didn’t have the answer to that tragic thorny question.

I was still agitated. ‘Danny, promise me you’ll no’ say a word about the state of the house. It’ll just worry Granny and she’s got enough of that on her plate at the moment. No, I’ll just have to look hard for a job then I’ll be able to look after Lily and Dad.’

Granny was relieved to see us – so relieved that she didn’t notice the sheets. ‘My, I’m glad to see you both. What a night it’s been. Some windows in the Westport have been broken and the rumour is that the communists are behind it. Personally I don’t believe that. The Establishment will need a scapegoat because they’ll not want the riot to be their fault. No, siree.’ She suddenly spotted the bundle. ‘What’s that?’

I looked nonchalantly at them as if seeing them for the first time. I tried to sound unruffled. ‘Oh, these? I decided to change the bed for Dad and I’ll wash the sheets along with our washing at the steamie.’

She looked disapprovingly at me. ‘Your dad will not be pleased. We’ve all tried to help him but he’s that thrawn at times and he says he wants to think things out for himself.’

‘I’m no’ working out his problems for him, granny – just changing the sheets.’

It was important to keep the secret from her. If she saw how Dad was now living, she would be round to the Hilltown in a flash, packing his things and removing him to her caring and orderly domain.

Although I didn’t say it, my plans included a quick visit every week to keep an eye on Dad and on the house.

Granny always said Hattie had a lucky streak. She was the kind of person who, should she fall out a window, would go straight to heaven without the initial impact of hitting the pavement.

But that wasn’t really true. The one time her good luck deserted her was when her husband Pat died, leaving her a widowed mother at twenty-five. She met Pat during the summer of 1913, a year before the Great War started. Instead of going into one of the numerous jute mills like most of her contemporaries, the fourteen-year-old Hattie had gone into service as a housemaid in a large house near Glamis. Pat had been on a day’s hike with a Lochee walking club. The men had stopped for a refreshing drink from a water fountain in the street and he saw Hattie coming out of a shop. When their eyes met, they were both smitten and it was love at first sight. At least that was the story according to Hattie but I always thought it was so romantic.

After a quick courtship they were married. In 1915, two weeks after Pat had left for France, Danny was born. Pat didn’t see his wife or son until he was posted out of the army in 1917.

I could well remember Bella going on about it in her usual garrulous manner. ‘Oh, he was a poor soul. He lost all his toes on his right foot in a shell blast,’ she said, scrutinising her own feet with a sharp glance to make sure her own toes were still intact. ‘Well, he got sent back home but, one Sunday morning, after a visit to his family in Lochee, he got killed by a tramcar – fell right in front of it.’