Authors: Millie Gray
Pulling her hand from his grasp, Sandra teased, ‘Oh, so I’m not good enough for the extra you have to pay on a Saturday?’
‘Yes. Yes. You are,’ he blustered in reply, ‘but it’s quieter in the flicks during the week so you have more chance of getting a chummy seat.’
‘A chummy seat? Oh you are a gallus one, Johnny Anderson,’ she chortled, giving him a playful poke.
To add to Johnny’s discomfiture his face fired.
Laughing, Sandra said, ‘But ken something, Johnny, Monday is a good night for me. My aunty comes and looks after the boys then and I get to have a wee bit of time to myself.’
‘Monday?’ Johnny became flustered and stuttered in reply, ‘Look, could you no make it any day but Monday?’
‘Why?’
‘Monday night’s the night I go to the union meeting.’
‘Oh well, if the union meeting is more important than going out with me, let’s just forget it.’ Sandra then tossed her head before flouncing away from him.
‘Look,’ Johnny hollered after her. ‘The union meeting is not more important than you and it never will be. But if we are ever going to be anything to each other then we will need the union.’
‘Need a trade union! And what would they be able to do for me?’
‘Everything. You see, the unions will fight for better rights for the workers, like me and all the lads in the shipyards. Surely you want a better life than …’ They had now reached the East Cromwell Street entrance to the tenement where Sandra and her family were housed. Johnny lowered his tone and indicated with a jab of his thumb to the condemned housing before adding, ‘Than this.’
‘You’re just a snob, Johnny Anderson,’ Sandra indignantly mocked. ‘So you’ve got an inside lavvy to sit your stupid backside on – so what?’ She snorted. ‘That doesn’t make you better than me.’ Sandra then turned abruptly from him and bolted into her stair entrance.
Johnny had made to run after her but her dad was hanging out of the first-floor window and he indicated, in no uncertain manner, that Johnny had best be going. Johnny hesitated. He did so want to run after Sandra but when a pail of ice-cold water cascaded down on him, he decided it would be best to make for his own home in Ferrier Street.
The union meeting always broke up about nine o’clock on a Monday night. The older men, those who were allowed to drink alcohol, would then adjourn to the Volunteer Arms over in Leith Walk and continue with their arguments there as they swilled pints. The young lads would then make for Costa’s chippie.
On the Monday night following Johnny’s clumsy attempt to woo Sandra, he was the last to leave the union meeting. He was just about to run after the lads who were going to the chip shop when out of the adjacent doorway emerged Sandra.
Johnny, still seething about being doused with icy water, growled, ‘And what do you want?’
‘Just to say sorry about what my dad did to you,’ was Sandra’s contrite reply.
‘Huh,’ was all Johnny answered, digging his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
‘Well, if that’s how you feel I’d best be going.’
‘Wait. Would you like to share a poke of chips with me? I’d make sure they were doused in plenty of muck sauce,’ the immature Johnny wheedled.
Sandra nodded and smiled as she thought to herself,
Now why did I not realise that the dashing Johnny would think a big dollop of cheap chippie brown sauce was what he should woo me with!
From that Monday night on they had courted and, as he matured, Johnny became more and more involved in the union – so much so that he was nicknamed ‘Red Johnny’. His mission in life was to get a fairer share of the country’s wealth down to the hard-pressed masses of the working class. These people, his people, laboured like slaves to create the profits – profits that were then creamed off and enjoyed by the select few in the upper class. ‘Bridging the gap’ was his dream and slogan.
Years later, when she was nineteen, Sandra’s dad died suddenly, which brought forward Johnny and Sandra’s wedding plans. Just after the funeral Johnny had taken Sandra’s hand in his and said, ‘Look, sweetheart, for the next couple of years or so your brothers will need you to keep looking after them. You also need a main breadwinner – a man’s wage coming in. So let’s solve these problems by us marrying right now and me, now a qualified plater, moving in with you.’
This news was not music to the ears of Johnny’s mother, Jenny. Indeed she was striving with the help of her husband, Donald, and daughter Kate, to save enough to buy a house in a good district in Leith. Oh yes, Jenny prayed every Sunday that God would allow her to amass enough money so she could leave Ferrier Street behind. And now what was she hearing from Johnny? Surely he was aware that she had high hopes for him and that she wished for him to go up in the world. But here he was saying that he had decided to take what she deemed to be a very backward step.
Johnny always gave his mother credit for the brave face she put on when, at the altar in South Leith church, Sandra and he pledged themselves to each other. She had even lain on a lavish family celebration tea in Ferrier Street.
As the years passed, Johnny and Sandra were blessed with children and Sandra’s brothers moved on. By that time Jenny had become more like a doting, grateful mother than an awkward mother-in-law to Sandra.
When Jenny’s dream of buying a house outright came to fruition she had immediately asked the landlord of her Ferrier Street home if he would allow her son to take over the tenancy.
Sandra had given Jenny what she yearned for and was never going to get from Kate – four grandchildren. Within a year of Sandra and Johnny’s wedding, Bobby had arrived, followed a year later by Jack. Ten months later the apple of Sandra’s eye appeared in the form of Kitty, but she was not to be last. No, three years later, just when Sandra thought that her pregnancy days – which she enjoyed – were over, darling David arrived. The family seemed complete. Then out of the blue, twelve years later …
Johnny realised that he should also be thinking of Rosebud as his child. Shaking his head, as if to signal that he would never get over losing Sandra, the love of his life, tears started to gush from his eyes. He felt unable to control the overwhelming grief that had overtaken him. He honestly felt he hated Rosebud because he considered her arrival into the world a poor swap for her mother leaving it. Wiping his dripping nose with the back of his hand he wondered what Robb’s foreman would think of him right now. Would he really still be wary of him? Or would he see that ‘Red Johnny’, the blight of his life, was in fact a man of straw? That he had only been able to appear to be the hard man, the skilled negotiator, because he’d had a woman behind him who gave him the confidence to fight for what he thought was the workers’ rightful due.
‘Dad,’ Kitty had said gently, bringing him back from his memories.
‘Yes, love,’ he sniffed.
‘What’s wrong?’
Johnny just shook his head as he thought,
Oh, Kitty, do you have to ask? Your mum was my life and it is so, so hard to go on without her.
‘Please don’t cry. You see, Dad, I don’t think Connie was really making a pass at you. It was her way of cheering you up.’
‘She’s a …’
‘Rough diamond,’ suggested Kitty, who advanced over to hug her dad and tell him how badly she felt about losing her mother. She also wished to say that she thought they should move back to Ferrier Street. These thoughts came to an abrupt end, however, when they were interrupted by the hungry, demanding wails of the week-old Rosebud, the baby who had brought such turmoil and anguish into the lives of her father and sister.
Johnny shook his head, huffed and exhaled, because these still-fresh memories were all from a year ago. Now here he was, in 1940, still grieving for Sandra – a grief that was accentuated by the dreadful realisation that he was partly to blame for her demise. What was also swamping him right now was his belief that he was failing – not only as a father but also as chief shop steward.
‘Will you get a move on, Kitty? We’re going to be late, seriously late, for the beginning of the big picture, and believe me, the State Picture House isn’t going to hold off starting the film because of your dithering.’
Kitty snorted and huffed before replying to her old school pal. ‘Laura,’ she began, ‘unlike you I’ve not just got myself to think of. Don’t you realise it was so good of old Mrs Dickson to agree to come up here to babysit R-r-r-rosebud? It’s a struggle for the old buddy to get up here from the ground floor.’
‘That right? Well let me also say I am home on compassionate leave for only a week …’
‘Compassionate leave!’ Kitty gasped. ‘But there’s nothing amiss with your mum and dad.’
‘So my granny died again, so what? But back to what I was going to say … I came along here tonight to go out with you, and what do I find?’
Kitty shrugged.
‘That you have turned into old Mrs Dickson.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at you. You’re seventeen and it is six o’clock at night. You’ve still got your hair wrapped up in dinky curlers and swathed in a turban. And for heaven’s sake, take off that bloody awful cross-over overall and dump it. It does nothing for you.’
‘And I suppose you think that because you’ve been working in Coventry that you’re up sides with Ginger Rogers.’
Laura started to dance herself about the room. ‘Well I do like the dancing. Have you been lately?’
‘To a dance hall? Good heavens, no. The Polish refugees are here now – you know them that get the name of being the world’s best lovers …’ Kitty now sucked in her lips to give the impression of being kissed sensuously.
‘Well they’ll sure as hell beat the Scottish men hands down. Especially the like of wee plooky Shug McKenzie!’ Laura laughed in reply.
‘Oh, Laura, forget Shug and listen to what Sally Day told me.’ Kitty stopped to savour the moment then quickly blurted out, ‘She went to the Palais dance hall up in Fountainbridge just last week and one of them Polish refugee blokes asked to walk her home.’
‘And I hope she said no.’
‘No, Laura, she didn’t. And see when they got to London Road Gardens he guided her on to the wooded path and then he tried …’ Kitty gulped. ‘You’re never going to believe this … but he actually tried to … well, you know what. And Sally, like us, is still pure, so she got such a fright!’
‘Sally Day got a fright?’ Laura exclaimed with a wry chuckle. ‘Come off it, Kitty. Everybody, except you, kens she’s as pure as the driven slush. Besides, men trying it on is par for the course nowadays.’
Kitty gasped. ‘Laura, please don’t tell me that it’s happened to you too.’
‘Maybe aye or maybe no … but that’s for me to know and you to wonder. But one thing’s for sure, Kitty, I don’t want to end up like your Aunty Kate.’
‘What are you going on about? My Aunty Kate has never ever even had a boyfriend.’
‘That’s what I mean – when she dies they’ll pin a note to her chest saying, “Returned unopened”!’
Before the girls could continue with their banter, the door opened and old Mrs Dickson hobbled in shouting, ‘Nothing to worry about. It’s no the White Warden – it’s only me.’
‘Who in the name of heaven is the White Warden?’
‘He’s a man who dresses up in an off-white Mackintosh raincoat before he goes stalking around Craigmillar – scares the very life out of all the young women over there, so he does.’
‘Don’t think a white raincoat would put the frighteners on me,’ chuckled Laura.
‘Laura, what frightens everybody is that he suddenly jumps out of stair doors and attempts to …’ Kitty gulped before adding, ‘Well, you know what.’
‘Oh, well at least there seems to be someone trying to lift old Edinburgh out of the doldrums.’
Ignoring Laura’s comment Kitty started to get herself ready. Whilst taking out her curlers and brushing her hair she tentatively began to speak to Mrs Dickson. ‘I made up Rosebud’s bottle, Mrs Dickson. So if she wakens, and I’m sure she won’t, just let her have a sook on it. We won’t be late and as there have been no air raids these last few nights I’m sure there won’t be any tonight either. If there is, don’t panic because no matter what, even if I’m blown to smithereens, I’ll still come straight home.’
Kitty was now dressed to go out and it was then that Laura noted that she was wearing a black band on the right arm of her coat. ‘Oh, Kitty,’ she blurted, ‘please don’t tell me that your brother Bobby …’
‘No. He’s in the Merchant Navy, right enough. A Fourth Engineer now would you believe …’ Kitty stopped chattering to lovingly stroke the band on her coat sleeve. ‘But this band’s for my granddad.’
‘Sorry, I forgot that he was … and how is your granny doing?’
‘It will be some time before she gets over it. You see … it was just so horrible. These blasted German bombers were to blame and they don’t give a damn.’
‘You’re right there, Kitty, they don’t,’ Laura quietly replied.
‘And see their continual air raids on the docks since they killed my granddad … well, they make me so nervous and frightened … I just couldn’t bear it if anything was to happen to my brothers, Jack and Davy.’ She stopped to grimace before adding, ‘Or even my dad.’
Kitty’s thoughts were back in November of the previous year. It was true that before then there had been some heavy air raids on Leith, and in particular the dock and shipyard areas. For a long time, she knew, everybody would remember the date 18 July 1940 when, at eight o’clock at night, two 250lb bombs and six 50lb bombs had rained down on the Victoria Docks at Portland Place. The Gerries had also plastered the surrounding areas including the coal depot and railway line at Newhaven. Kitty and her entire family however would never forget the raid of the previous week. It started at six in the morning of a bright 11 July day, when a 1,000lb bomb, the heaviest to be used against the entire city of Edinburgh, was landed beside the Albert Dock.
Her grandfather, Donald, and his lifelong friend Dodd Brown, were just coming off their Home Guard stint and were heading home when the bomb dropped. The blast blew old Dodd off his feet and he landed in the high-tide polluted water of the docks. He had only a few seconds to call out to Donald that he was being sucked under because of his army greatcoat. The heavy coat became weightier and weightier by the second as it greedily sucked in the salt water. Common sense, which had always been Donald’s byword, eluded him that morning because even although Dodd had disappeared beneath the waves, Donald, without taking off his own cumbersome coat, jumped into the swirling brine in an effort to try to save his friend.