Cyber Seance 14

[Moonwatcher]

Cyber Séance 14. May 1. 2005

The Tenement
Part Two

The early Spring of 1881 found Garngad Hill unrecognisable as the rural paradise it had once been. A thick haze hung over the area on a good day. On a bad day it was difficult to see more than a few yards through the thick smog from factory and tenement chimneys. Tenement blocks criss-crossed the Hill, following the lines of cobbled streets bearing quaint names - Rhymer Street, Rosemount Street, Tharsis Street and Dunolly Street. Garngadhill and Millburn Street still dominated; their parallel lines of tenements stretching west to east across the crest of the hill. Iron, engineering, dye, chemical and copperworks, textile mills, a brickwork, pottery and many more, provided a trade off between a source of income for the masses and the insidious effect on their health from pollution. The acidic atmosphere ate into sandstone walls of tenements and alveolar tissue of lungs with no regard for either.

Isabella coughed as she entered the close of 168, her two bulging message bags stretching her arms as they hung heavily at her sides. At 52 she looked older than her years and she had a feeling she would be joining her husband before to long. A widow, she was fortunate to have her son still living with her. Peter was 29 and worked as a glasscutter in the local glass and bottle works. She would like to see him married and settled but then she would have to face life on her own – the thought terrified her. She cast aside the sudden dread of the Barnhill Poorhouse looming behind sinister grey walls just up the road, and paused at the foot of the stairs before starting the climb to the first landing. Footsteps from above made her look up. From around the spiral appeared young John McGill, obviously in a hurry but, seeing Isabella with her hands full, stopped when he reached the last few steps.
‘Hullo Mrs McNaught. How’re ye taeday? My, thae bags look heavy, can I be givin ye a hand wae them?’
The thick Irish accent wasn’t out of place. In fact, Isabella and her son were among the few native Glaswegians in the close. Virtually every family were Irish, attracted to Glasgow by guaranteed employment and escape from the problems over the water. This was reflected throughout the Garngad, with so many Irish immigrants that it had gained the nickname ‘Little Ireland.’
‘Och naw ah kin manage son. Ah’ve hid plenty ah practice.’
Nevertheless he grabbed the bags and led the way up on to the first floor landing, stopping at the first door and waiting patiently while she fumbled for her key.
‘Urr ye stull steyin wae yer faimly up eh sterr John?’
‘Ach no, Mrs McNaught, I’ve moved in wae the Vernors across the landin. It wis getting jist too crowded in our house.’
She turned the clunky mortice lock and stepped inside the single end, thanking him as he deposited the bags on the wooden floor just inside the door before scurrying off down the stairs.

Alone now, Isabella pulled off her heavy dark coat and hung it from a hook on back of the door. Turning to face into the room she walked over to the black, cast-iron range inset into the opposite wall, her footfalls cushioned on the rug as she crossed the bare wooden floorboards. Grabbing a cloth and kneeling down, she twisted the hot handle of firebox door and swung it open. The heat sizzled her face as she used a poker to settle the red hot coals. Life seemed to revolve around keeping the fire lit. It was the source of all heating, hot water, cooking and clothes drying. Standing up and moving over to an alcove beside the door she had just entered, she dug a small shovel full of coal from a bunker box in the corner. Holding it carefully, she retraced her steps to the range and tipped the fuel into the fire. As it crackled and flared up she closed the door and replace the shovel, satisfied that the range would stay good and hot for the next couple of hours. She washed her hands in the deep ceramic sink by the window. The cold water from the single tap stung her hands as she used the bar of soap to vigorously rub up a lather. Looking out the sash window, she was confronted with a grand view of the backs of the Garngadhill tenements, shrouded in smoke belching from the chimmneys as families followed the same ritual of piling fresh coal, as Isabella had just done, on their ranges, preparing for the evening ahead. Below her, between the middens, she heard the screams of children playing. Leaning forward, she could see some of them running about, chasing each other, bare feet and ragged clothes. Isabella smiled. She remembered her own children, grown up now. The thought startled her back to reality. Peter would be home soon, she’d better get started with his tea. Drying her hands, she filled the heavy iron kettle and placed it on the range. It’s wet base sizzled as it sat on the hot surface. She picked up her shopping bags and began emptying out the contents into the cupboard beside the range, taking care to leave out the things she needed for the meal. The tiny room soon resounded to the clatter of pots, pans, bowls and plates as she went about her business. She tried to make the best of the remaining daylight but, as she began to struggle to see what she was doing, she reluctantly decided to light the oil lamp. It sat on a small cabinet next to the bed recess, a deep alcove on the wall opposite the window. The bed recess was deep enough for a built-in double bed. Since her husband’s death she slept in it alone. Peter made do with a sofa which sat along the remaining wall. It was not an ideal situation, but Isabella was glad she wasn’t part of one of the large families who all shared a single-end like this. As she lit the lamp, her foot accidently knocked against the enamel pot sitting discretely just under the bed. It sounded full, and she made a note to empty it before the night was out. Most families kept a ‘poe’ under the bed. It was no fun getting up in the middle of the night to go down the stair and sit in the cold dark toilet on the landing. It was easier for the men – they usually just peed in the sink!

As the lamp shed it’s warm glow around the room, she turned her attention to wet towels and some clothes she had rinsed out in the sink. After wringing them out with her hands, she uncoiled the end of a taut rope that stretched from the ceiling to a cleat attached to the wall by the recess and lowered the overhead pulley from the ceiling. It squealed as it descended and soon took up the full length of the room. Isabella removed some items that were now dry and hung the damp stuff over the wooden rails. She then pulled the rope, like a sailor raising a sail, until the pulley reached it’s maximum height and she secured the rope on the cleat with a twisting figure of eight. She looked up, glad that this wasn’t the night for bedsheets.

The kettle was whistling now, ‘singing’ as she called it, steam hissing from the spout. Alongside it, the pot with the potatoes and another with meat were nearing the boil, as was the large pot with water for washing. As the steam rose towards the ceiling and condensation settled on the walls, she pulled out a small leafed table from the corner and began setting two places. Looking at the clock on the wall she realised Peter would be on his way home from the ironworks now, probably walking up Garngadhill at this very moment. She went over to the window and began to draw the curtains. It was dark outside now. The children were gone.

Night had settled around No. 168.

[AndrewP]

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