It smelled of old grass

and Magnolia paint.

 

My brother and I would ease

our bodies in backwards

pulling the door shut

through coats hanging

on the inside, jangling

half-crowns and florins –

 

Fanny Hill lay on the top shelf.

 

Sometimes, there would be

pickles and cheese in Dad’s pocket

with crackers and wooden spatula.

 

We talked quietly on Mars

it was very dark

my brother was small and hushed.

 

I’d scoop out a fistful

of coins, squeazing tight

for silence, and spend them

into my dress

counting the clicks.

 

He would snake his fist in

for his share – I’d feel his eyes shine

and whisper a coin on to his palm.

 

 

Published in Verse    Spring 1992

 

Sundays were a trial, whit wi straw hats

an elastic under yir chin, an orders

Don’t sit doon ootside; nae paddlin

in the burn; an straight hame; an make sure

the minister disney find oot

yir cousins ur cathlicks; don’t let them

cross thersells – tell them there’s nae

holy watter left. My God!

If yir Anty Mary wiz alive, she’d turn

in er grave – takin’ cathlicks

intae Sunday school.

 

Me an ma bruther an ma muther an the dug

crossin Victoria Bridge, an three lanes

a big rid buses comin o’er the rise

an ma muther dancing a panic in the middle

i the road, an me an ma bruther calmin er doon

leadin er tae safety afore the buses swept roon

ontae Clyde Street terminus.

 

Aye, the bus runs wur the best. Sometimes

we’d catch the shows up oan a field

oot by Bishopbriggs; we wur well-travelled weans

coz thur wuz oany two i us, when some people

wur still hivin loads a weans, but oor muther

didnay dae ‘IT’…well, she must’ve dun it twice!

She’d run us oan thae buses fur oors -

ah really liked er then.

 

Ah saw er tits wance; wan Christmas

when ah wiz peekin tae see whit we’d goat.

Big white baws. Ah niver said anything tae ma bruther

tae anybuddy. It wiz like a stranger wiz sittin

oan the side i the bed wi er hons in nylon stokins  

some big wuman who hid nuthin tae dae wi me.   

                                  

 

My mother was a Mantle-machinist; that means she made the whole coat – she didn’t do piece-work…in fact she sneered at piece-work. Her skills gave her power; she worked to her own timetable and her boss let her away with murder, apparently. I vaguely remember the mention of a company called Silvers. (for security purposes I will give my parents new names). Mum can be Queenie and Dad shall be Father Ted – but he wasn’t Irish or priestly.

 

She made most of our clothes. One of my jobs was to rock the treadle for her sewing machine, though I don’t suppose I did it for more than a few minutes. I couldn’t wait to try on her creations, especially when the dresses had a beautifully long and wide sash that tied in a great bow in my back; there’s a red one in my memory that I never tired of twisting at the mirror to see. The first thing I did with a new dress was twirl to see how high the skirt went – I think I wanted to flash my knickers like Ellenor Powell in the tap-dancing video below; I adored skirts that fanned out around their waists but mine never quite did that. My mother kept my legs well-covered; when other kids were wearing clothes up their legs mine reached mid-calf! I knew I was different even then.

 

Queenie doesn’t appear much in my early childhood, probably because she was always in the background – she couldn’t have done anything too startling to get my attention or really star in my memoirs: my father was the star for opposite reasons; if I got to see him before bedtime that was a real treat – he worked long hours but I don’t know what he did then, after he left the Merchant Navy. When I was very young he worked on the Renfrew ferry. I was told a story about him taking me to work with him and telling me to sit quietly and don’t move – which I did, so I got to go several times. My brother only got to go once and he was barred because he wouldn’t stay still. That must be where I get my sea-legs from.

 

My brother was a holy terror and drove Queenie up the wall. We had a huge back garden with four poles to string washing across the green; after getting up and running after my brother a dozen times my mother tied him to one of the poles with a length of rope so he couldn’t escape out into the street; all she ever wanted was to rest in the sun with happy children around her, not bothering her or anyone else. I know that we were difficult.

she was probably in her early twenties hereyoung enough to have fun

 

My mother spent her afternoons in the parks; every day, rain, hail or shine – only fog kept her in. Fog wasn’t good for the chest. She and her sisters met in various parks around the city and we cousins splashed, jumped and snow-ball fought to our hearts’ content; those of us too young for school, until we moved out to the great suburbs on the very edge of civilization and country.

 

Alexandra Park up Denistoun way; The Botanic Gardens in the West-end, with Kelvingrove Park; Glasgow Green and The People’s Palace on the South-side.

 

When we moved to Carnwadric there was the wonderful Rouken Glen Park with its waterfall and wooded paths; the lake had three islands, a motor launch and rowing boats – every trip there was like a full-blown holiday. We’d play crazy golf, swing, twirl on roundabouts, eat in the cafes, feed ducks and swans, fly on the see-saw, hide and seek in the woods, Pooh Stick in the river from the little wooden bridges – all this within walking distance of home, through the remains of the old internment camp.

 

My Aunty Jean had a veranda; now in my mind that was the most exotic thing in my life. And, they lived on the other side of the train tracks; the tracks had long been ripped up but the sleepers were still there. Arden was a much more modern and exciting place to live; oh, the adventures we had sliding down The Red Hill on a piece of cardboard or linoleum. I yearned for Arden, even the name was magnificent, and the fact that it had a ghost-train track and hills put it top of my list along with London and my father’s ferry boat.

 

Everything was outside in my early childhood; being inside was only necessary to prepare for going out, and sleep came and went so quickly that it seemed invisible. Fog, the most magic of all, called to me but my mother pulled me back, always.

 

 http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/february/6/newsid_2535000/2535961.stm

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/system/topicRoot/The_Munich_Air_Disaster/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Bond_comic_strips

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/newsnight/4743493.stm