Shoes Were For Sunday (18 page)

When we came home from that first camp, a chum and I arranged a game of tennis for two o’clock the next day, for we were still in school holidays, and we couldn’t understand why we were creeping about the courts yawning and half-dead. After a holiday too. There must be something wrong with us. And then it hit me with a blinding flash. This was the hour when we usually had our rest and already our bodies had formed the habit, and resented being asked to rush about. I was stunned at how quickly a habit, good or bad, can be formed.

As well as the Guides, we filled every seat at the Band of Hope and the Christian Endeavour meetings. The Band of Hope was splendid. We had lantern lectures, and learned the terrible dangers of picking up handkerchiefs in the street, which might be germ-infested. We absorbed gravely the examples of the evils of strong drink. We could see this every Saturday in the tenements, but it drove the lesson home, seeing it up there on the slides, and noting with a shudder every detail of the poor wives and children being thrown into the street because the husband had drunk away the rent money.

In lighter mood we were entertained by visiting artists playing the violin with what seemed to us superb expertise, and singers who sang ‘The Floral Dance’ and ‘The Bold Gendarmes’ so beautifully, we made the rafters ring with our applause.

I can’t remember much about Christian Endeavour
meetings, except that we seemed to collect cash for every sick person in hospital, and I was sometimes thrillingly allowed to accompany the secretary with a basket of fruit or a box of sweets on the visit to the patient in hospital. I had to have a note to get off school for this journey, and I could never understand my teacher’s barely suppressed smile when I said that we had raised the money through Christian Endeavour. It may have had something to do with the fact that I’d never seen the words written down and pronounced them ‘Christian and ever’.

The church activities went on and on, catering for every age, and soon it was my turn to teach in Sunday School and perch on the pew and tell the little ones stories. They listened to me with wide eyes as I acted out the parables, and stammered and gulped with shyness when I made them tell me the stories in their own words. They were very poor, and I decided to save and give them a party in our house. They talked about this for weeks, and when I took them home after Sunday School on the day we’d arranged, their torn jerseys were washed and pressed, their hair slicked down with water, and their shabby boots shining with boot polish. It was the simplest fare, for I only had two shillings a week pocket money out of which I’d saved for this feast, but the table looked festive with my mother’s china set out on a snowy cloth. These children only knew scrubbed tables or American cloth which could be wiped with a damp cloth, and were overawed at the sight of a real
white tablecloth. We had salmon sandwiches, one tin eked out with lots of milk and margarine, but salmon was their favourite and a great luxury, and the mere smell of it set their mouths watering. We had jellies, and I’d baked apple tarts and a fruit cake. To finish up, we had a big dish of cheap sweeties and home-made tablet. When they’d finished the last conversation lozenge, one of the wee boys said it was just like the parable of the Prodigal Son – he’d never seen a fatted calf, but he was sure it was no better than my party.

My mother had been horrified at the idea of ten little boys stampeding into the house, but when she saw their eager eyes, and their appreciation of our humble catering, her eyes filled with tears, ‘God love them,’ she said, ‘they’re that easily pleased. Aye, of course you can taken them ben the room and play the gramophone for them.’ This was the accolade, for only grown-ups were entertained in our ‘room’, which was kept like a shrine for special occasions, and I was as proud as if I’d been awarded the Victoria Cross. The ‘room’ made it a real Christmas party.

Time is very hard to measure when you are very young, and when we were children it was the windows of the big Cooperative up the road which told us that Christmas was near. Nobody at home mentioned it, for when you’re working on a tight budget you don’t go around encouraging your family to wild dreams of turkeys or extravagant toys and presents. You keep as quiet as possible, and try to forget the slimness of your purse, for however many letters are sent up the chimney to ‘Santa’, few are likely to find their way to your room and kitchen.

But the shops flashed the message from every window, and the news would quickly spread the moment the first spy noted that the blinds had been drawn on certain windows, to hide the activity going on behind. ‘The Co’s getting ready fur their Christmas windaes,’ we chorused to each other. ‘It must be gettin’ near time to send a letter to Santa.’ We wouldn’t write a line, of course, until we’d seen what was newest in the way of toys and books. We were in a fever of impatience, and raced up the hill every half-hour to see if we could be first to see the blinds go up.

I was never first to see the exciting display as the
curtain rose, but I was certainly among the first in our tenement. One look at an excited face coming charging down the hill was enough. The blinds were up. I knew it. In a moment I was racing up Springburn Road on winged feet, like a Pied Piper, gathering children from every close as I ran. When we rounded the bend, and light from those magnificent windows spilled out on to the pavements, we automatically slowed down, the better to take in the general scene. It was a wild confusion to our eyes – colour, light, extravagant array of unbelievable toys – mountains of beautiful books – we drew a deep breath, and settled down to the bliss of examining each window item by item. Rapturous cries as we found the things we would love to have, if we were rich. ‘Oh, isn’t that doll
beautiful
!’ I crouched low to the pavement, to make sure the enchanting creature had underclothes that I could take off and put on if she were mine. She had, and they were lace-trimmed! And little socks. And shoes with buckles. Oh, and the bonnet came off too. I felt life could hold nothing better than the prospect of holding that perfect replica of a baby in my arms. But of course I knew it was impossible. Still, I could run up and admire her every single day until somebody bought her. It was always such a long time to Christmas and there would be plenty of time for this satisfying window courtship.

Each of us chose an impossible dream like the baby doll before we got down to the realistic level of things our mothers just might be able to afford. We pretended
it was Santa, but we knew better than to wish for things of an extravagant nature. There were plenty of other delights, though, and in exuberant mood we’d choose about half a dozen each, and we always included a brand-new Children’s Annual. I don’t know who bought the new ones which were in the shop windows, but we always seemed to get one which had been passed down by somebody else, its covers printed by a variety of grubby fingers, and with rubbed-out scribbles down the sides of the pages. We shook our heads virtuously over this defacing of the Annual. If
we
had ever had the good fortune to have had a new book, we’d
never
have put a mark on it.
Never.
More, we’d have put brown paper covers on it to protect the lovely shiny outside binding.

So we chose our beautiful new Annual through the window, and added other coveted treasures, but always with a watchful eye on the price ticket so that we could throw out suitable hints for our mother’s consideration. The sighing over the Meccano sets, the huge Teddy-bears, the life-like dolls, the boxing gloves, the football boots, the train-sets, the scooters, and the skates, whispered away. We concentrated now, with the realism of the tenement child, on modest desires. ‘Oh yes, that wee box of paints at one-and-six, that would be great, and it would go into my stocking too.’ My eyes moved along, ‘Oh and maybe that wee sewing set – I could embroider a flooer on Grannie’s apron.’ How much was it? I nearly turned a somersault to see the upside-down
ticket. ‘Two shillings!’ No, it was too much. What else was there for a shilling, or one and sixpence. ‘Oh gosh, I nearly didn’t see it! A pencil-box with a little painted flower on the lid, for one-and-nine.’ It was empty of course, but I had plenty of wee bits of pencil and rubber to fill it, and a treasured bone pen with a Waverley nib given to me by a neighbour when I’d run her messages for a whole week.

Our final choices made, the letters to Santa started. Grannie was sure we’d set ourselves on fire as we leaned dangerously over the range and tried to float our little notes right up the chimney. It was terribly bad luck if it weren’t wafted up first time, or fell downwards into the flames. Grannie scorned such superstitious ways. ‘Do you think Santy Claus kens whether yer letter fell doon or no’?’ she’d demand. ‘Awa’ tae yer beds, afore ye burn yourself.’ And, as we protested and wanted to write just one more note, she’d threaten, ‘Another word oot o’ ye, and I’ll write a note to Santy Claus masel’ an’ tell him no’ to bother comin’ near this hoose, for I’ll no’ clean the flues to be ready for him.’ This was enough. We crept to bed. Och we could always write a wee letter tomorrow night. There was plenty of time.

And then suddenly it was Christmas Eve and time to hang up our stockings. We had been on the go all day. I’d been sent down to the butcher to collect Grannie’s favourite piece of sirloin. We never had a turkey, or a goose, or any of the larger birds. They were as far beyond our reach as caviare or nightingale’s tongues,
and we were entirely satisfied with our sirloin. We never had mince pies either. The first time I tasted one, it was a bitter disappointment. I thought mince meant meat, and I couldn’t believe it when my teeth met a fruity mixture when I’d expected mince and gravy. How could anybody write so glowingly about Christmas mince pies, I thought in disgust, they weren’t even as good as Grannie’s ordinary fruit tarts.

My mother was late coming home on Christmas Eve. She did the toy-shopping straight from work, and there would be an exciting rustling as she thrust her purchases into the press in the lobby before coming into the kitchen for her tea. We asked no questions, but nearly burst with delight as our eyes met each other’s.

It was an eternity before morning came. The stockings were hung along the mantelpiece, my long-legged hand-knitted stocking made by Grannie, held down by the big darkie bank, that smiling Negro head and shoulders, with the movable arm, and a hand which popped the pennies into his mouth. My brothers’ stockings held down by the tea-caddy and the heavy alarm clock. I thought I hadn’t been to sleep at all, but a movement in the kitchen as Grannie filled the kettle, sent my eyes flying open. It was still dark. ‘Och light the gas, Grannie,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m waken.’ ‘It’s only six o’clock,’ she whispered back. ‘I’m juist makin’ a wee cup o’ tea.’ But she lit the gas, and handed my stocking into the bed. The boys heard us and came running through from their bed in the room. They climbed into the hurley bed
beside me, and we all dived into the stockings. A wee toty doll for me, that I could make clothes for. Lovely! A wee sewing set for making the clothes – my eyes sparkled over the coloured threads. What was this now? Mmmm. A lovely big bar of chocolate, the sort I liked best. And pushed right into the toe of my stocking, a tangerine wrapped in silver paper. ‘Noo, don’t eat that chocolate afore yer breakfast,’ Grannie warned, ‘or you’ll be sick.’ As if I would! That was my treasure, to be broken off and eaten, piece by piece, during the day for as long as I could make it last. And I’d keep the tangerine for after my sirloin. The boys put their new cowboy belts on over their pyjamas, and fired their toy guns at Grannie and at me, and we all turned somersaults on the bed.

While we played, Grannie baked some scones and pancakes just as if it was Sunday, and we had them hot with our tea. Oh, Christmas morning was lovely. My mother wakened, and started to get ready for work, for there was no holiday on Christmas Day for her. Pointing to the mantelpiece, she said to me, ‘Have you looked up there yet?’ I gasped. There, quite unnoticed from the bed, was a luxury I’d never dreamed of owning. I’d put it on my wee letter to Santa, but only as a fantasy. A little toy piano. And my mother had somehow found the money for it. And beside it a set of toy soldiers for each of the boys. Now we knew the reason for all that overtime she’d worked. We could hardly speak for excitement. Carefully Grannie reached up and lifted the
treasures down, and I tried to play ‘God save the King’ from the dozen notes of my piano. The boys ranged their soldiers in battle formation. Grannie sipped her tea and watched us, a twinkle in her eye. Oh, Christmas morning was more than lovely. It was perfect. We never had a tree, but we never missed it.

Everything was extra special to us at this splendid time of the year. After our simple diet, everything provided over and above ordinary meals spelt luxury. The Sunday School party, with its bag of tea-bread, and maybe a prize here and there for musical chairs or races, was a treat we looked forward to for weeks. I remember one terrible time Grannie had bought us new tin mugs, and we had them tied round our necks with tapes and I was warned to see that we didn’t lose them. When the hot tea was poured into them the handles became scalding hot, and we couldn’t hold them. There they were, tied to our necks full of boiling tea, with us leaping back kicking wildly to keep our legs from being scalded, while the tea cascaded to the floor. Oh, how ashamed we were, and it never occurred to us to take the tinnies off. So we lost our tea, and nobody thought to bring us a re-fill. And we didn’t dare to ask. ‘Aye,’ said Grannie, when she’d reassured herself we weren’t burned, ‘that’s the way to learn – by your mistakes. You’ll no’ be so daft anither time.’ But she gave us a cup of tea when we came home.

And one year I had to learn, the hard way, not to ask for things before I ought to have them. The Cooperative
window held a John Bull printing outfit which I coveted above all else. I was terrified somebody would buy it before Christmas. ‘Och, get it now, Mother,’ I urged. ‘I don’t want anything else, if you’ll just get it now.’ My mother held out as long as she could, and then grew tired of my nagging persistence. ‘If I buy it now,’ she warned, ‘you’ll get nothing else at Christmas, for I haven’t the money for two presents.’ It had been a lean year and I knew she spoke the truth. Oh, I didn’t want anything else, I assured her, only the John Bull outfit. So she got it for me. And when Christmas came I’d used up the inked pad and all the special paper that came with it. And I didn’t get anything else. That year the mantelpiece was bare of anything for me on Christmas morning.