Part one can be read here and part two here .
Da is far from happy, and I can hardly say as I blame him. When he waived us off on the train for England, he (and everybody else, myself included) thought it was only for a two-week jaunt to see Ma's sister, my Auntie Agnes in Yorkshire.
Ma never breathed a word about us leaving Scotland for good.
Mind, if Da's surprised, 'tis nothing compared to Auntie Agnes' shock. 'Twas only on the final day of our second week here, when Auntie Agnes enquired as to what time we should be setting off for the station, that Ma finally saw fit to clue her in as to the plan. To be fair, it's possible Ma didn't even know of it herself, before she happened to wake up that morning.
Ever the impulsive one, not to mention determined, there's no swaying Ma once she takes the bit between her teeth. We're staying, and that's that.
Did I mention Auntie Agnes, Uncle Ray and my six cousins, all live in a two-bedroom, back-to-back terrace house, with no hot running water, and only one (shared by neighbours) out-door loo?
It's not the sleeping four-to-a-bed arrangement I mind quite so much, as us always having to share it with Pee-The-Bed, Big-Bladder-Sandra every night. Besides, I have my darling Bobby waiting for me at home, as well as my mates and me being all set to begin our new school term next week.
Da's yelling so loud, I hear every word. The beeps interrupt. "Hang on, Alec," says Ma, as she thrusts another tuppence through the slot, "Will you shoosh up, and listen to me, now?"
Someone raps on the pane for us to hurry it up, there's a queue of three standing in line outside, all ear-wiggling it in on the conversation. We avoid eye-contact, and turn our backs.
"Aye, happen so," says she, "But you'll need to catch us, first."
I wish she wouldn't goad him on like that, he's mad enough at her as it is.
"Och, okay then, suit yourself, there's the beeps again, I have to go.. What? Eh? Hello? He-llo?"
The connection severed, we walk back to Auntie Agnes' house, Ma smirking all the way.
"So, are they coming down, then?"
She shrugs, "They'll have to, won't they?"
"But,"
"What?"
"Ma, where will they sleep?"
May is five years older than me, Ian seven, and they too have their school and their own friends to think about. Da has his job. And what about our house, all our stuff?
I'm wishing we'd never come down here in the first place. Auntie Agnes' house is smelly and damp, there's never enough food in my belly, and nobody speaks right, half the time they can't even understand what I'm saying. I just want us to go on home.
Ma and Da continue to talk, she calls his works office twice weekly, and they fetch him to the 'phone. He has notice to serve, our furniture to sell, and bundles of other stuff to tie up before coming down to join us. May writes she's seen Bobby with another girl, not that I believe her. I just wish I had his address to write to, to tell him why I've gone missing.
My cousins start school again, but I don't go. Ma tells me as we're moving to our own place soon, it's best to wait 'til Da gets here, and she'll enroll the Sib's and me properly into our new school then, one nearby to where we'll live.
Time has never dragged so heavy.
Wiping the condensation from the upstairs window, I peer curiously down at the passing streets, as the double-decker bus slowly heaves and inches out of town.
Seated behind, laughing and animated, Ma and Auntie Agnes are happily engrossed, interrupting each other’s sentences, they tut and exclaim over the latest scandalous family outrage, and never being ones to gossip, remember to seal each other to secrecy, before stripping the next skeleton from the flesh. It holds scant interest to me, as most of the names are faceless. Ma being one of ten, and with the majority of them scattered, there are scores of relatives I've yet to meet.
As the shops fall behind us, the route opens on to sprawls of residential landscape, high rise housing schemes, splattered in colourful graffiti. Farther along, the skyline widens, the modern developments giving way to their older counterparts, squat structures erected around the 1900’s.
Everything is built in red brick, capped by sloping roofs of grey tile. The houses are joined all together, side by side, as well as from the rear, creating seam upon seam of double rowed, flat-fronted (no yard or garden) terraces, which (I was soon to learn) are locally known as, “two-up/two down, back-to-back’s”.
A prod in the back jolts my eye from the road. Our stop has arrived.
Moisture coating our suitcase, we lug our way over the damp cobble-stoned streets, to follow Auntie Agnes past row upon row of houses, up the steep hill, to Enfield Place.
“Here we are, c’mon in, dearie, and say a hello to your cousins!”
The door opens straight in to a cluttered living room, filled with a crowd of tall, and not quite so tall, some little, and some down-right toddler-sized, children. A lanky youth greets us, vacating a seat for my Ma, as his younger brother takes our coats.
Once the introductions are through, Auntie Agnes calls up from the foot of the stairs for my Uncle to come on down and welcome us in. (Apparently, Uncle Ray takes to his bedroom for a slice of peace and quiet.)
Auntie Agnes tugs a child out of her space, to settle her ample girth on the sofa, “Fiona, girl, go and stick the kettle on, we’re fair gasping here for a cuppa’.”
Ma had said Fiona was the same age as me. She sure doesn’t look it. I’m a good head taller, and no where near as skinny. She’s a bonny lass, though, and I take an instant shine to her lovely smile.
I go into the scullery to lend a hand, and we chat as I rinse a few cups through. I find I don’t care too much for the Yorkshire clipped accent, where no-one bothers to finish their words. Auntie Agnes still holds her broad Aberdonian brogue, much as she ever did, but her husband and kids are all English, born and bred. I am excited when Fiona promises to, soon as we can decently escape, take me round to meet up with her friends.
And thus it was, how my two week “visit” properly began.
Although she was rather quiet and somewhat timid, Fiona could fall into giggles at the drop of a hat. This earned us frequent punches (to settle down) in the night, from her two elder sisters, who also shared the same bed with us. Barring the fact Sandra pee’d the bed of a night, I didn’t much mind this sleeping arrangement.
Aside from a cold water tap in the scullery, there was no indoor plumbing, and the only lavatory was located outdoors, shared between five other households. Once the lights were out, it was either the pail at the back of the room, or nothing.
(Unless you happened to be called Sandra.)
Too shy to go in the pail, I took to emptying my bladder last thing at night, and held myself in ‘til the morn. Even during the day, I’d only use the outhouse if Fiona posted look-out, because it was dank and smelly and crawling with spiders, and the rough, wooden seat speared splinters in my bum. Besides, there is nothing less conducive to a leisurely dump, than having an impatient neighbour outside, rattling the door frame.
Nevertheless, I found myself having a fine old time. It being the school summer break, we were more or less given free reign to do as we pleased, and we found no end of adventures to keep us occupied.
Some of the houses had taken a direct hit in the war, and their gutted, bombed out carcasses stood gaping and empty, the exposed foundations visible still, some thirty-odd years on. Although bricked up at the front by a chest-high wall, if you cared to jump up to sit on the ledge, and swing your legs round, a fifteen foot scramble would drop you down to the rubble-strewn belly, below. Certainly, climbing out again proved more of a challenge, usually requiring the firm yank from a friend, (which you’d hopefully) pre-stationed above. Deemed too dangerous to play in, we were banned from going anywhere near these places, which of course, made them a natural magnet for us to congregate.
If not out skinning my shins down the shells of these bombed-out playgrounds, I was busy teaching the neighbourhood kids how to speak Scottish (slang), or boning up on my newly acquired competitive skills. I was delighted to discover the English were not only brilliant at football, they also weren’t too adverse as to cluing me in on some manoeuvres, such as how to deliver a blinding "dead-leg" to the opposition, from behind.
I learned a lot from my new friends, such as how a stolen pot of my eldest cousin, Maggie’s, clear nail varnish, could harden the most apologetic of conker’s, transforming it into a sure-fire, winning missile, every time. Also, I’d never played a game of “Find the Lady” not in the entire span of my eight, long years, but well before the end of that glorious, first week, I found myself not only adept, but nothing short of a gifted genius, in the ancient art of sleight of hand.
We came and went pretty much where the fancy took us, only calling by the house when our bellies growled.
Granted, meal-times were a bit hit and miss at my Auntie Agnes’, served on the basis of “first come, first serve”, as they were. Those turfing up last had only themselves to blame. Even when we did catch the odd hot meal, in truth, it was usually more of a challenge than a pleasure to digest. Ma confided, if she ever saw a butterless, boiled-to-mush potato again, she might have to take up refuge with the Pakkies, next door.
(I didn’t like to tell her, I already had.)
Yasmin’s family were from Bangladesh, and she was the most beautiful girl on the face of the planet. I had no word for it at the time, but today I would say she completely entranced me. She wore a rope of thick, dark-brown hair, plaited down the centre of her back, and owned a collection of hand-embroidered doll-clothes to die for – all of which her mother had taught her to hand-stitch, by herself. She was a couple of years older than me, and although she wasn’t allowed to run the streets with us, she was always happy to have us call over. Her mother, ever gentle, kind and welcoming, seemingly never saw cause to raise her voice. Both she and Yasmin dressed in luscious, brightly coloured satin, and I felt sure they were directly related to Aladdin. No matter what time we cared to show up, we were always offered a much appreciated something delicate and tasty to snack on (even if we were made to wash our hands first).
I’d never seen, much less met, any dark skinned person before. I’d heard about them. They were called “Darkies”, and ran about eating each other. Least, that’s what I’d been told. But Yasmin wasn’t like that, and neither was her mother. Maybe her Da was. He worked shifts down at the local biscuit factory, and was always asleep when we called. Perhaps it was only the men-folk who were savage?
A trick of Fiona's was to rise early, and sneak out of the house. The milk-man delivered to the doorsteps before dawn, and whilst the streets were still desererted, we were able to lift the bottles with little fear of being caught. The main thing to remember was to never take from the same doorstep twice in the one week, for the second time around, someone might be there lying in wait for you.
All too soon, the first week flew into the next, and long before I was anywhere ready, the last of our holiday burned close to an end.
Well, so I had thought. In fairness, it came as a shock to us all, when Ma announced we were staying.
Not least of all to my Da, and the sib’s waiting for us at home (never mind to my poor Auntie Agnes).
In truth, the holiday really had come to a close, from here on out things were set to turn a wee bit strained.
In truth, it was His Golden Labrador that attracted me first, and, technically, it was she who made the first move.
We had been passing each other on a daily basis, me on my route home, him, out walking with his (it has to be said, rather flea-bitten) unleashed, and exuberant friend, and I would smile at her (not him, the owner, you understand, girlies my age were far too well dragged up than to ever go about grinning at passing, strange boys in that manner - well, not unless we had the back up of a good mate in tow).
This particular day I must have grinned a bit too wide, or maybe it was just the irresistible aroma of my left-over crusts of lunch (mashed-up boiled egg) which I’d thoughtfully saved, stuffed in my pocket, and forgotten over several days, who can tell? Either way, something spurred her beyond her usual waggly-tailed trot past me, and she unexpectedly leaped to bounce up, knocking me flat off my feet, sending me flying full-force-sideway’s, to land slap-bang up against the cold, hard cracks of the unforgiving pavement.
Before I could draw air, there she was, slobbering all over me.
“Down, Sheena, down, get away, ye’ bad dog!”
This was in the day when dogs had proper, un-original, solid dog-like names, such as Rover, Lassie, Fido or Spot, sometimes you might find the odd Meg or Jock, but even then, that was considered to be pushing it a bit. Even in my dazed state, I found myself asking, "Who calls their dog Sheena?"
“Here, let me give you a hand up..”
I take his hand, and allow him to clean my gritty wounds with his spit-dampened, snot-encrusted hankie. Right there and then, as my eyes met his, and my eight year old heart did a double-backward flip.
From there on out, he and Sheena met me from the school gates, and together they walked me home. Sometimes (if Ma was still working her shift over at McBrides) I’d take them in for the odd slice of bread and jam.
I assumed he went to another school, but it turned out he was being home-schooled. More exotic still, he was adopted! AND his adoptive parents were strict CATHOLIC’S!! It was all too much, I seriously considered pinching myself.
When the kids in class started taunting, singing chants of, “Now we know your boy-friend!” over and over, I happily raised my head up high and smiled back at them, retorting, “Aye, and what if you do?” and with nery a blush, either. They were only jealous. (Naturally - who wouldn’t be?)
One day, as a token of his love, he brought me a gorgeous, bright green and white, plastic, elasticated bracelet. Thrilled, I promised him I’d never take it off, other than to sleep with it under my pillow. Sadly, that proved short-lived, as on the following day his Ma sent him round to fetch it back home again (it belonged to his sister.)
Although I’d never met her, I found I wasn’t too keen on his Ma.
My Ma? Sure, she thought we made quite the couple, he was always welcome to watch the telly with us on a Sunday afternoon, once he returned back from the church. I wouldn’t have been adverse to forsaking morning Sunday School, to go join him at his St. Whatever-it-was where he went to, too, but when I offered, he said his Priest didn’t approve of Protestant’s. This puzzled me some, ‘cos I had always thought I was Scottish, but being awed by him as I was, I held my tongue.
One afternoon, we pooled our resources and bought a single tub of ice-cream from the passing Mr. Whippy van. Whilst sitting on the grass, sharing it out one spoon at a time, Bobby passed over the last of the tub for me to scrape, and turning, casually asked me to marry him.
I nearly swallowed the spoon, in my gallop to say (a studied, nonchalant) "Aye, okay."
Ah, such happy days..
I wasn’t too bothered about a ring (not wanting to land him in any more trouble with that horrible and evil sister of his), but as a symbol of our engagement, I graciously accepted his prize marble, and kept it hidden in the back of a drawer, slipped away beneath my pile of fleecy vests.
A couple of blissful, hand-holding weeks passed, and, just as most young couples do, we planned our future together. Bobby was going to build us a house. We saved every old lump of timber, and scrap of discarded wood we could find, storing it safely under a screen of piled brambles, over by the edge of the field that ran between our gardens.
It was during one of these long trawls for any handy building material, that Bobby tentatively raised the subject of us kissing. He claimed that we should, now that we were all properly engaged, and such. I wasn’t so sure, something told me you needed to be married first, for all that. But no, Bobby was quite certain it only took us being engaged, to make it allowed.
Well, of course, I loved him with all my heart, and the last thing I wanted was to let him down. (Oh, how many young girls fall foul of their heart? It’s that age old “If you loved me..” coercion, isn’t it? But being far too young and tender, I had no idea of that ploy, certainly not way back then.)
He wanted my lips, I compromised and offered my cheek. He snuggled up and placed a peck there, and no more was said. However, oddly enough, for some reason that’s about around the time when things started to go just a wee bit downhill between us. Our innocence had been muddied by curious concerns way beyond our understanding.
A few days passed before he asked for my lips again, and that’s when we had our first row.
Proper broken hearted I was. Oh sure, we made it up again, but things were never quite the same after that. He was a pretty persistent laddie for nine years of age (I wonder now, if maybe he wasn’t actually housed in a reform home? Or maybe I'm being unkind).
It came about as an almost welcome relief then, when Ma surprised me a few weeks later, with the news we were off to visit with her sister (and my six cousins), in England, for a bit. Up 'till this point, the farthest I’d ever been away from Aberdeen was only on a day trip out to Inverness – talk about big news. Two whole weeks of carefree fun, oh, wasn't I the lucky one?
Bobby promised he’d wait for me, and said he would miss me sorely with each and every passing day. I didn't doubt it. Ah, such the romantic, he was!
And so, with a happy heart, and clutching my engagement marble deep in my (still boiled-egg stained) pocket, I waved my Da, brother and sister a fond farewell off at the station, and climbed aboard the steam train set to speed me away on this, a new, bright and exciting adventure.
As it turned out, it proved to be a very different, and much longer adventure, than to the one of which I’d originally expected. And, unlikely as it is, should Bobby really have held true to his promise, then I guess by now I must owe him one very long and well overdue, sincere apology.
I was to never set foot in Aberdeen again.
(To be continued..)
.
