Franklin Street

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Early memories.
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Weak sepia sunlight warmed the wooden draining board, tiny feet kicked excitedly at the prospect of auntie Katie's arrival. Seated on his precipitous perch, the little boy could barely contain himself, his baby eyes seen only the chink of light as Katy appeared at the door with his mother

"ma wee soul, come tae Katy ma wee lamb, it's yir birthday darlin' come an' see whit ah've goat fur ye "

Katy pulled his little body into her fur coat and swirled him dizzy in her bosom. She grinned her thin-lipped grin at him, this little firecracker nephew who constantly challenged her to entertain and educate him, much more fun than his solemn and waspish sister who sulked darkly in the corner pretending to read a book

"awwwww, hen, it's the bairn's birthday, his special day, dinnae be sae dour, hen, ah've goat ye a wee present too......."

Curly black hair tumbled into the little girl's eyes, barely fettered by the alice band, perhaps she could forget her indignance and join in the celebration, for some reason she felt her seniority had been usurped by this little blonde upstart.....what was so special about him? the scrawny little rabbit. She rose above it and scurried over to throw her arms around Katy

The two children buried their faces in the beaver fur(de rigeur in Glasgow 1954 for a bus clippie.) She smelled of cigarettes and bus tickets, cheap perfume and strangely.....toast. Katie wiggled her skinny frame at the children, inviting dance and cuddles and kisses. February could be bitterly cold, so she teased her sister in law.

"Hiv youse English nae pity fur a wee bairn?whaur's the bairn's coats Irene?"

Irene laughed at the bold challenge to her responsibilities, she knew Katie was teasing her. Joe, her husband of 5 years constantly reminded her of the sudden and startling manner of Glaswegians and particularly of his sister Katie. She was as warm a soul as you'd find, but street smart, blunt and and confident. Irene wouldn't find a better guardian angel in this sprawling alien city. Suited and booted, the children skittered like puppies, yelping for attention, their manifest for the day was fun and Katy was the girl for the job.

"Ready, hen?" she asked of Irene, who fussed and tidied as she left, worrying about keys and tramcars and basic understanding of this fast and fickle country. She had only recently discovered that "hen" was a term of endearment in Scotland, as "pet" is in Northumbria and Tyneside or "honey" in the USA.

The door closed behind them, hands were held tightly, tiny chubby ones in long bony ones, a solemn acceptance of their vulnerability; Glasgow could be an intimidating place.The little expedition moved slowly down the stairs, stepping carefully on the timeworn, elliptical granite treads. The landing window had a resident cat, a huge ginger tom who hissed and spat at anyone who deigned to intrude on his space. Katy was no exception and his arched spine posture pressed her closer to the balustrade. Gripping the children tighter, she negotiated their passage past this mediaeval beast into the street below.

Irene turned to Katy as they left the beautifully tiled entrance to the Close, its' lustrous, enamelled, Art Nouveau tiles in scarlet, chrome yellow and deep emerald green glistened in the sudden, tepid sunlight.

"If that big cat is there when Joe gets home, he will throw it out of the window...he hates cats..."

"Irene, hen, if thon cat has ony sense at a', it'll mak a move fur the flair above. Joe'll be fair puggled efter climbin' thon brae, it's like Ben Nevis, he'll no huv the energy tae swing a punch."

Irene chuckled with her as they burst into the street, children hanging from them like party streamers.

When they reached the opposite side of the street, Katie went into Jessie Sinclair's to buy some cigarettes and no doubt a "poke" of sweeties for the children.Irene stood with her back to the window holding their hands firmly.

"Look at all those lovely jars! ...can you tell me what's inside them, ducks?"

The little girl scuffed her sandal along the stone plinth and under muted breath began to work her way along the top row, spotting ones she recognized...

"sherbet bon -bons.....jelly babies....fruity pastilles ....honeycomb ....liquorice allsorts..penny danties.... highland toffee...spaceships..sherbet dips...lucky bags" The candied litany squeaked from her like an advertisement.

Although her mummy had taught her many words, she only recognized them in context, large rounded typeface in the comfortable pages of her storybooks; the words on the sweetie jars were formal and upright and meant nothing to her.

The little boy was far more interested in what he could see from his lowest of vantage points, barely over the display counter, through the jars of coloured sweets, he could see his auntie Katy inside, her shoulders quaking as she shared a joke with Jessie.

He loved watching her, with his dark brown baby eyes, her curly blonde hair pinned neatly up inside her hat; a little confection of rusty brown felt with a matching satin band and a little blue feather cocked along its brim, all held tightly in place with a pearl headed pin, jammed optimistically into the pile of curls inside. The little boy kicked rhythmically at the wall, smiling his secret smile of love and admiration for her.

Irene's thoughts were miles away studying the tenement building 40 feet across the street. Fully 4 stories high, it was constructed from squared grey, pitch-faced lumps of grey granite, neatly bedded and pointed in 2 cubic foot lumps, climbing from the shiny dark grey cobbles and scrambling past the high, dirty white, "sash and case" windows to the Ballachulish slate roof. These were typical of the tenements lining the streets of the "sou' side" . Although it was itself intact, the building was propped on either side by piles of rubble from the bomb-damaged neighbours to its left and right, fortified by long, raking timber shores, hastily wedged to preserve its fragile isolation .

Long terraces of apartments were self-supporting, solid cells of structure, but in perpendicular isolation, they appeared fragile, slender and vulnerable. The Germans' jettisoned, bombs had altered the landscape forever. She shuddered slightly as she surveyed the pack of cards...it couldn't have been more different from the dainty cottage she had left behind in Kent ...but this is where Joe had brought her and Irene would have gone to the end of the earth with him .

It was only a 2 room apartment in a fading Victorian apartment block, but it was their home. Joe's fierce independence had given him the wings to fly when he left the army in 1948 bringing Irene with him from the hop-fields of Kent to make a nest in Scotland. He was privately proud of his achievements so far, coming through the war unscathed. He had served in India and Burma and finally in Japan with the Royal Engineers. One of his roles as an Engineer was the debris clearance in Hiroshima which left him with his only wounds; psychological ones buried deep inside his head, never to reappear.

He had taken a job working in Margaret Mason's bar in Calton and worked his way steadily up to chargehand - a pub in those days, with a Cocktail Bar, Public Bar, Snug and Off-License could employ as many as 20 full time staff and Joe was now in overall charge below Margaret, a position he enjoyed. It truly was a grand affair. This public house was a cut above the rest.

Glasgow still boasted a plethora of seedy, back-alley boozers, with sawdust on the floor and spittoons beneath the brass footrails, above which the D.T. victims would cradle their drams. Joe's pub couldn't have been more different....The glass entrance curved inward..like a shop window, full of travelling salesmen's samples; ornate ashtrays and beer mugs of pewter and porcelain..iconic bottles of Glenfiddich and Glenlivet malt whisky, Drambuie and Johnnie Walker would draw customers by force of gravity into its portals.

The centrepiece of the window was slightly jawdropping, a recently stuffed cobra, rising sinuously into a strike posture, its' fangs bared in time-stopped, primaeval threat, glared into the face of a mongoose. Any sober customer would stand and stare at this little tableau, see the sullen lights inside and saunter inside like a moth to a flame.The hypnotised punter would immediately be aware of the smallness of his being, up to 40 or 50 grizzled males would look at him as a matter of course, from a sideways glance to a full-on stare of aggression. The Borough of Calton boasted some Attilesque men and probably still does.

The gantry was splendid, sliver thin brass rails kept the wines and spirits in regimental splendour reflected in the polished mirrors, their optics aimed towards coasters on the copper-fastened bartop. Bronze and pewter measures lined the shelves, sixth and quarter gills polished ancient. Brass chandeliers festooned smoke stained ceilings, bouncing brothellish light to deep maroon flock wallpaper.

This was Joe's world, he would alternate twixt Bar and Lounge, Cocktail Bar and Off-License, serving and selling, ordering and guiding the staff, all control and politics. This bar housed Fenians and Orangemen alike, immigrant Russians and Italians, Jews, Janes and atheists, all courted and skillfully groomed by freemasons, gypsies and whores.

Joe held the reins of this prancing horse, bullish, professional and razor sharp.His little English wife drew teasing from all sides.

"Whit are ye daein' wi' a Sassenach, Joe?, could ye no pull a wee Caledonian? Yir faither's a Polack an yir maw's a Paddy, whit dis that makk ye?"

Joe would ride the banter wave until his slender patience snapped. He would slam his palm onto the counter top, making everyone jump.

"Are ony o' ye wasters gonnae buy somethin' or ir ye just happy pickin' each ither's poackets?"

Every night he would return home to his Irene, secure in the knowledge that she would be waiting for him with a dish of something tasty, filling and suited to his palate. She had only ever made one mistake in that respect, she made him a creamed rice pudding for dessert the night he returned from the Far East. Unbeknown to her, he had lived on little else but rice for more than 2 years and couldn't stand to look at it. She never made the same mistake again, the look on his face told her all she needed to know.

The children's fidgetting jerked Irene from her reverie and she turned to see a beaming Katy tottering towards her on 4 inch stiletto heels, precariously balancing handsful of ice-cream.

"Pokie hats fur the bairns! an' ah've goat ye a wafer wi' chocolate an a wee oyster fur masel'. "

"Oyster.....? "

"Aye, hen, it's shaped like yin o' thae seashells, but fu' o' ice cream ....ah huv yin o' thae, 'cos ah'm inclined tae squirt mine a' ower the place if ah huv a flat wafer...."

They giggled at each other, eyes locked, as they licked the creamy ice, ignoring the devastation on the bairn's clothes two feet below.Irene's dark brown eyes looked into Katie's icy blue, sparkling with faint tears of laughter, spluttering flecks of foam as they shared this unspoken, pointless, but precious moment.

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laplappapillonlaplappapillonover 14 years agoAuthor
nae bother jimmy

Many thanks for your kind comments...what you have read is perfectly true - I once asked my mother (we were discussing earliest memories) how old I would have been to recall those details, she said I would have been 2.

There is another little story on similar lines in the same category entitled "Toni's"

AnonymousAnonymousover 14 years ago
Before my time, but seems real,

Having spent the afternoon with Mogwai, Primal Scream and Jesus and Mary Chain this was a perfect bit of historic Glasgow life to round it off. Just a small time before our town planners did more damage than any German bombs if I haue the correct time period. Very unusual, Cheers. -- UK CYNIC

PostScriptorPostScriptorover 14 years ago
What a charming surprise!

Such a well written little vignette — descriptive, not a lot of plot, but so richly detailed! Not to mention the Glaswegian dialect, a joy for anyone whose ever been acquainted with one of the denizens of the area. Just ask yourself: who, other than they can turn the 'arm' into a three syllable word! LOL! Enjoyed it.

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