Gift from the Gallowgate (25 page)

When Hilda Glennie, née Mathieson, walked into the shop one night in 1963, she was surprised to find me working there. I hadn’t seen her for a few years –
she was the school friend who had later worked in the Co-op haberdashery department in Loch Street – and remembering what she had once told me, I asked, ‘Are you on your way to practise
with your opera company?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m going to evening classes. I want to be a teacher, but I need qualifications to get into the Training College, and here are you, Dux of the school, behind
a counter serving sweeties. What a waste of a brain.’

Before I could ask any questions as to how or where or when, a man pushed his way in front her. ‘Twenty Benson and Hedges, please.’

Hilda left with a smiling, ‘Think about it.’

I was preoccupied for the rest of that evening. As a teacher, I’d have the same holidays as Alan – by this time Sheila was married and living in England – so that would be a
bonus to add to the dangling carrot of the salary. When I went home I asked Jimmy what he thought, and as usual he was cautious, ‘There’s no harm in going to find out about
it.’

‘You wouldn’t mind?’

‘I wouldn’t mind, if that’s what you want.’

After a sleepless night, I waited until my little brood had left for work and school, then dressed carefully to go to the College of Education, better known as the Training College or more
familiarly T.C., to enquire how to gain entrance. I was told that I’d need three Highers (the Scottish equivalent to ‘A’ levels) and two Lowers (‘O’ levels) and the
entrance date was the first week in October, also that I should attend classes at the Commercial College to gain these qualifications. ‘There is no grant for your first year of study,’
the man continued. ‘You have to prove yourself capable of carrying on, but a grant will be paid for your second year, provided, of course, that you have passed the first exams you
sat.’

I went home somewhat bewildered. If I wanted to be a teacher and earn a decent salary, I’d have to attend evening classes. That would mean I’d have to give up my part-time job and
there was no grant for a first year of study. I explained the position to Jimmy that night, and he was more optimistic than I was. ‘You’ll definitely get a grant in your second
year.’

‘Only if I pass what I sit in the first year,’ I almost wailed. ‘I’ll be forty-one in June, and it’s nearly twenty-six years since I left school. How do I know
I’ll cope with lessons again? My brain likely won’t take things in.’

He was exasperated with me now, I could see that. ‘Don’t be stupid. There’s nothing wrong with your brain.’

I left it at that, and the next day saw me applying to the Commercial College for more information. Imagine my surprise to learn that the entrance exams were taking place that very evening. The
clerk noted my name and address before saying, ‘You won’t be thinking of trying tonight’s exams, though?’

When I nodded, he said, ‘There are only two. English for the first hour, then Maths, just enough to let us see if you stand any chance of passing.’

I thanked him and walked out into the lovely May sunshine. He obviously didn’t think much of my chances. He had likely been wondering how an old hag like me could hope to pass one, never
mind two. I sat down when I went home, trying to think what I could do. I could pass English, I’d no doubt about that, but Maths was a different matter. I’d never been exactly happy
with numbers, and I had forgotten most of what I’d learnt.

On my way home, I went in to R. S. McColl’s to tell the manageress that I wouldn’t be in that night, and then agonised all afternoon over the ordeal in front of me. I had quite
enjoyed using algebra at school to solve problems, but I wouldn’t know where to start now. Neither could I recall what the formula was for finding the area of a circle. A square was simple,
length times breadth, and the same for a rectangle, but that was as far as I could go . . . and as for solids and cubic measurements, that was a blank page. I’d never been able to master
logarithms, but surely – oh, surely – there wouldn’t be a question on that in the exam?

As soon as he came home, Jimmy could see how upset I was, and bless him; he did his best to cheer me. ‘You’ll easily manage, don’t worry. Look, I’ll give you a run down
to Holburn Street so you won’t have to scutter about taking two buses. And never mind about the dishes, I’ll soon clear everything up.’

About three quarters of an hour later, I stepped out of the car, the A40 I think, and tried to pull myself together as I trembled up the stairs. There were about thirty boys and girls already
seated at the desks, and they all looked as if they had just newly left school. I stood out like a sore thumb, but I told myself that there was no point in coming this far and copping out now. As
soon as the invigilator told us to turn over our papers and begin, I bent my head to concentrate on the English paper.

There were questions on grammar, on punctuation, on changing sentences from past to present tense and singular nouns to plural, that sort of thing. Kids’ stuff! Then we came to the
business of writing an essay, something I’d always loved. There were about five choices of theme, and I chose: ‘Describe a regular ritual or event peculiar to your own town or
village.’ That may not have been the exact wording, but it’s as near as I can remember, and as soon as I read it, I could visualise Aberdeen’s ‘Timmer Market’.

This was held yearly on the last Thursday of August, and had been a milestone in my life for as long as I could remember. It was held in the Castlegate, a marketplace which, every Friday and
Saturday, held stalls selling secondhand furniture, books, clothes, plus my favourite, the fabric stall. There were also the glib quick-sell men with their dishes and gadgets for the house.

The Timmer Market of the twenties to the fifties and sixties mostly sold items made of wood (timmer being the Doric for timber). There were many stalls selling wooden toys, some selling candy,
plums, monkey nuts, locust beans or other eatables that children liked. During the morning and afternoon, therefore, it was mainly mothers and children who wandered around, and the kids were soon
clutching a monkey climbing a stick, or an acrobat doing somersaults between two sticks, or a handful of balloons. I don’t think helium was on the go then, just ordinary blow-them-up-yourself
types.

In the evening, though, there was only a scattering of older children, and the rest of the throng consisted mostly of men buying wooden guns or large lorries for their sons, dolls for their
daughters or little trinkets for their wives. Because it was pay night, most had already paid a visit to one of the drinking establishments nearby and were in a generous mood, so the stallholders
had found business pretty brisk. This was the most impressive time. The stalls were illuminated by naphtha flares, the smell of which – mingled with the sweet aroma of candy and the stink of
the rotten plums that littered the ground and made you watch your step – was something I have never forgotten. As soon as you came round the corner from Union Terrace into Union Street,
whether in a bus, a tramcar or on foot, your nose could pick up the smell, your eyes were haunted by the flickering flares. It always excited me, even when I was a mother myself and had little to
spend.

A Timmer Market is still held every year, but few wooden items are on sale, just the usual type of cheap-John ornaments and tat . . . at least from what I hear. I haven’t gone for
years.

From what I’ve written about it, you can perhaps understand why I picked that as a subject for my essay, and I’ve always believed that what I wrote about the Timmer Market that night
won me my pass in English. I was very glad that this came first. If Maths had been first, I’d have panicked, but having successfully handled the English part, I felt more confident. The
Arithmetic paper was fairly straightforward, but then came the very things I had dreaded: the formulas that I couldn’t remember. Worse, when I let my eye run down to the last section, dotted
with a’s and b’s and x’s and y’s, I laid down my pencil. There was no point in going any further, so I took my jacket off the back of the chair, handed in my unfinished
paper and walked out. Being the very first to go, I could guess that the others were wondering how I had managed to answer all the questions so quickly. Little did they know.

Jimmy tried to console me, but how could I have passed the Maths exam when I’d only answered half of it? But at least I had tried, and as he said, ‘That’s the main
thing.’

We were very busy the following Saturday evening in the shop with the first influx of holidaymakers, and even with five of us working as fast as we could, there were always
people waiting to be served. I was giving a woman her change when I noticed that the person behind her was the man who had been invigilating at the examination. My heart plunged until it dawned on
me that he wouldn’t have known I worked there and he probably wouldn’t remember me anyway.

But he’d had time to recognise me – I’d stuck out among the youngsters – and he came forward smiling when I said, ‘Next, please?’ How could he smile when he
must think I was an ignorant middle-aged woman who hadn’t a hope of ever setting foot inside a classroom again?

‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mrs Davidson, but you will understand that I am not at liberty to tell you your marks.’

‘Yes, I know.’ I was glad that he couldn’t tell me how badly I’d done, especially in front of a shopful of people. I’d never have been able to hold my head up
again.

‘I’ll just say this, in case you are worrying, you came out on top.’

I could hardly believe it, but before I had time to react in any way, he added, ‘Half a pound of Chocolate Violets, please. My wife’s favourite.’

He handed me the correct money in exchange for the paper bag – closed in the way I’d been taught – and said, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you in August,’
before he turned away and was lost in the crowd.

My head was in a whirl. I had passed! I had actually passed. After missing out half the questions, I had come top. That couldn’t be right . . . could it?

The official result, letting me know that although I had done well in English, I had passed Maths by the skin of my teeth, came with a letter telling me to report on such-and-such a date to give
particulars of which subjects I intended studying in my first year. Higher English was essential, and I chose Higher Geography and Lower Mathematics. That left just one higher and one lower to sit
in my second year, giving me scope for resitting anything I failed in the first.

These were duly noted, but I discovered that the Higher subjects were all day classes; only the Lower grades were dealt with in the evenings. This put a different complexion on things. I had
hoped to change my part-time job to mornings or afternoons to let me have the evenings free to study, but this meant that daytime hours were out, too.

I did wonder if I could possibly manage on Jimmy’s pay when I had textbooks to buy over and above what I’d need for housekeeping. My thoughts went round in a circle – it was
only for one year; I’d get a grant for my second year; surely I would manage if I was extra careful?

Sheila had married and flown the coop by this time, so I had already lost the board money she paid me out of her pay as a trainee commercial artist. I told myself that I couldn’t give up
now, and when Jimmy’s niece was accepted at the Hairdressing part of the Commecial College, I agreed to let her lodge with me. Then I was asked to take her friend, who was training as a
nurse, and because they got very little in wages, I said I would just charge them ten shillings each, provided they helped me in the house. I knew I’d be pushed to do everything myself, when
I would be out so much, plus I’d have to study a lot at home.

I should have known it wouldn’t work. They were two sixteen-year-olds, had never been away from home before and, coming to the city from the small town of Laurencekirk, they wanted to make
the most of their freedom. I won’t go into all the details, but I eventually had to tell them to find somewhere else. This of course didn’t please my sister-in-law, and relations
between us were practically non-existent for quite a long time.

The year flew past, but I found it exhilarating if hard work. There were only five of us in the Higher Geography class, three young lads and a girl who had left school two years earlier and we
all became close friends. Things were made more interesting by having to go to different places for the different classes. For instance, we had to go to Marywell Street School for English, quite a
distance from the College although under its supervision. Geography lessons were in St Katherine’s Club, even farther away. The ‘O’ level Arithmetic class was in the College
itself . . . in the evenings.

Now, this was 1963 and we had another, rather more upsetting, situation to contend with. An outbreak of typhoid hit the city, and it was virtually cut off from the rest of the
country. The gutters in the streets ran with white disinfectant, lavatories in all public places were supplied with cakes of strong carbolic soap for washing hands, and still the numbers of people
infected crept up and up. There weren’t many deaths, but the illness took a heavy toll, and by the time it reached its peak, over four hundred had succumbed to it.

It gradually tailed off, and Aberdeen was at last pronounced free of the virus or whatever it was, but few holidaymakers turned up that year. This fear of picking something up may have carried
on for some time had the Queen herself not paid a visit. This proof of the monarch’s belief in our city was enough to make other people see sense. It was a dreadful time, and it started
through a tin of infected corned beef in a small supermarket, which was boycotted and finally forced to vacate the premises.

The results of the examinations were sent from Edinburgh by mail during Aberdeen’s Trades Fortnight – two weeks in July when the tradesmen went on holiday. All
firms, large and small, closed down completely – the same as Glasgow at the Fair – so many of the large manila envelopes had not been delivered. We had gone to Surrey to see Sheila and
her husband, and a small card was waiting on the doormat when we came home on the Saturday night. (Jimmy liked to have a Sunday to relax before starting work again.) ‘We were unable to
deliver a package addressed to you. Please collect from the Parcels Office in Crown Street.’