Cyber Seance 16

[Moonwatcher]

Cyber Séance 16. 15 May 2005.

The Tenement
Part 4

1953
Glasgow. Millburn Street, Royston.

2am. Saturday.

The last of the drunks had either found their way home or had been locked up for the night. Nearby, down in the old Townhead, Glasgow Royal Infirmary staff were stitching up, patching up and otherwise keeping alive, the remaining victims of the Friday night violence. Some would not see the dawn. Although the name had been forcibly changed some ten years before, no one had really accepted Garngad’s new title of ‘Royston’ – and never would. It was generally accepted that Glasgow had become a violent city. ‘No Mean City’ as it would become known. But why should Garngad be singled out? And to change it’s name – not even the infamous Gorbals suffered that fate.

Up the close at 168 Millburn Street, the hush of night was held at bay by the crying of a baby, the incessant, draining, howling of a child in distress. The distress was not confined to the baby.

Lily Wilson was at her wit’s end. The wooden, linoleum covered, floor creaked as she paced up and down the single-end flat. She had two month old James was over one shoulder, bouncing him gently, patting his back and whispering soothing words in his ear, desperate to calm him down and quieten him. In the bed recess, her husband Robert was pretending to sleep. His pretence fooled no one. Despite facing the early shift at Braby’s steelworks that morning, both of them knew he would get no sleep that night. Curled up beside him, slept the couple’s other child, two year old Robert jnr. How could he sleep through this she thought. The truth was that he was better at pretending than his dad. Between the curtained recess and the black cast-iron range sat the baby’s cot, empty, as it had been for hours.

Lily was exhausted. This had gone on for nights now. The ‘Green Lady’ had diagnosed colic and said it would pass. Lily didn’t trust the Green Lady, nobody did, and the colic refused to pass. Now, as she paced up and down, she feared the worst. James was a sickly child, like so many others she’d seen in her 25 years. She knew the score. She’d miscarried her first child and thanked her God when Robert had been born healthy. But James was struggling. She feared the worst.

She thought she was hearing things when a low tapping sounded at the door. But she heard it again and called to her husband.
‘Robert! There’s someone at the door.’
‘Probably downstairs complaining.’ He muttered, as he sat up, swung his legs out the bed, and pulled on a shirt and trousers.
Lily stood at the cot, still patting James at her shoulder as she watched Robert cautiously unlock the door and open it a crack.
‘Yes?’ she heard him say.
She could hear a woman’s voice and immediately recognised it as belonging to old Mrs Bulloch next door. Robert immediately opened the door and allowed the old woman in.
‘Ah’m sorry tae trouble ye hen, bit ah could hear the wean greetin an ah thoat ah might bae able tae help.’ She said apologetically.

Mary Bulloch was in her seventies now and lived alone in the ‘Room and Kitchen’ next door. She’d lived there for over forty years and during that time she’d seen them come and go in the close, particularly the young families who passed through this single-end. For many nights now, she’d lain awake in the darkness as the sound of a baby crying filtered through the walls from next door. Tonight she’d got up, wrapped her thick dressing gown around her stocky frame and set out to offer some help. Now, seeing the dark haired, tear filled, bleery eyed, young mother clutching her tiny baby, she was glad she did. She put her arm around Lily and offered to take the baby for a wee while. With great relief, Lily complied.

It was not in Lilian Wilson’s nature to accept help. It was a measure of her desperation that she now sat watching the old lady cradling her baby. Lily’s background, growing up in overcrowded accomodation in the old Townhead area, was one of poverty, domestic violence and distrust. As a young girl, she’d become self reliant and strong willed. Circumstances had forced her to grow up before her time. But tonight she was glad of the help. Glad of the old lady from next door.

Robert busied himself by stoking up the fire and putting the kettle on the hotplate to boil, the very same hotplate that Isabella McNaught and Maggie Brogan had used years before. Lily, pulling herself together, arranged cups on the table for tea. Still cradling him in one arm, Mrs Bulloch seemed to be making some headway in soothing the distressed child and, although it took a further half hour, James began to settle down and was soon fast asleep in the cot. Silence reigned for the first time that night.

Lily, Robert and Mary sat drinking their tea, enjoying the peace and quiet.
‘Thanks Mrs Bulloch.’said Lily for the umpteenth time, running her fingers through her long dark hair.
Mary smiled and nodded.
‘Ye’ve obviously hid a loat a practise wae yer ain weans,’ said Robert.
‘Aye son, mah wee John wid keep us up night efter night. Mah man, worked in the steelworks same iz yersel, an eh couldnae get any sleep. Ah wis at mah wit’s en minny ah time.’
‘Hopefully ah’ll no bae working at the mill much longer,’ said Robert. ‘Ther lookin furr folk in the Corporation tae man the trams so ah’ve goat mah application in.’
‘Well ah hope ye get in.’ replied Mrs Bulloch sincerely. ‘That steelwork’s a terrible place tae be.’
‘Well, the Corporation’s desperate furr staff so ah don’t see a problem.’

Mary went quiet, staring over at the cot. ‘It wiz the pneumonia thit finally goat im. Passed away in mah erms next door at ten months auld.’
‘Sorry?’ Asked Robert, sure he’d missed something.
‘Aw sorry son, ah wiz jist thinkin aboot mah John – he died ah pneumonia ye know.’
Robert quickly changed the subject. ‘Wid like some merr tea Mrs Bulloch.?’
‘Naw thanks, if ah drink any merr ah’ll bae filling the poe furr the rest eh the night,’ she laughed. ‘Ach it wiz a long time ago. Aye, an thers a loat a weans in this close thit hivnae made it. Bit ahm sure these two ull dae jist fine.’
‘Whit aboot yer husband?’ asked Lily, also keen to change track.
‘Oh ah loast him nearly ten years ago hen. Hert attack thae said. So it’s jist me noo.’
Robert collected the empty cups and looked at the clock beside the bed.
‘My gawd is aht the time!’
Ten minutes later, Mrs Bulloch’s door closed, lights went out and 168 was quiet.

Lily and Robert were glad to get the flat at 168. Lily had fought hard for it. Although they could have lived with his mother when they married three years earlier, Lily wouldn’t have it. She was determined to start with a place of their own, to make their own way. 168 had changed little since the days of Isabella, Maggie and all the others who’d lived there over the previous 70 odd years. One big difference was electricity. Although the coal fired range still provided the main source of heating and cooking, the overhead electric light illuminated the room in a way in which no gas mantle, oil lamp or candle could ever hope to compete. Also, there was a wireless in the corner, it’s big dial, when lit up, showing the various wave bands and indicating the settings for the main radio stations of the day. A linen cover was normally draped over it, discretely hiding it from view. A wireless needed a licence – and Lily had decided that food, rent and fuel took priority. A fold down settee along one wall provided an extra bed. Next to it, a tall pantry cupboard stored all the foodstuff, it’s fold down cabinet door serving as work surface when preparing meals. Damp cotton nappies hung in rows from the pulley above. Nappy washing was an endless chore and Lily looked forward to the day when she’d be able to afford one of the new washing machines she saw in the shops. A number of sticky yellow fly papers hung from strategic points in the room, their gooey strips speckled with the black bodies of flies that flew in from the middens outside the window. The lino covering the floor had seen better days, the pattern had faded and, in some places, gone altogether. Areas near the door and sink, where wear and tear was greatest, had worn through completely, exposing the bare floorboards beneath.
Water still had to be boiled on the range. The single cold water tap dripped annoyingly and was prone to freezing during the winter months. The large double bed in the recess was layered with blankets and a thick quilt on top. Coats and jackets provided extra layers when nights got really cold. A curtain screened off the bed recess from the rest of the room and provided a private, albeit cramped, area. The ubiquitous enamel poe sat under the bed, providing an alternative to the outside toilet on the landing, but only for use in emergencies.

Lily sat on the settee that afternoon, cradling a cup of hot, black, sweet tea, cigarette wedged between two fingers, relaxing for the first time in days and reflecting on the events of the previous night. Robert was at work. He’d set off bleery eyed and tired that morning. Robert jnr was with his granny, Lily’s mother, in the next close at 162. Baby James was sound asleep in the cot. As she looked around the room, Lily focused on the large damp patches on the walls and ceiling. The wind outside rattled the rotten framework of the sash windows over at the sink and she shivered as she felt the draught on her bare arm. Ginger, the cat prowled around in the corner, seeking mice and being careful not to trip one of the mousetraps. Looking over again at the cot, she thought to herself that she had to do something about these conditions, for the sake of the baby, for all their sakes. Her attention settled on the pale blue rent book, propped up behind one of the ‘wally dugs’ sitting at either end of the mantlepiece above the range. She stood up and retrieved it.

Lily studied the book closely. The title on the front said,

JAMES M. CAMPBELL & McLEAN
143 West Regent Street, Glasgow C2.
Factors for the Landlord

Inside it gave the name of the landlord as being a Mrs Hill & Another of Hawick. ‘Mrs Hill wants tae get hurr erse up here fae Hawick an spend a night in iss hoose,’ said out loud. She settled down on the settee again with her tea and cigarette, and began to read the small print. Her monthly rent for the single-end at 168 Millburn Street, currently stood at £1 and tuppence. Plus an annual rates payment of 1 shilling and 5 pence due each October. She noted with pride, as she flicked through the pages, that she’d never fallen behind with a payment. She found the really small print, two full pages of it, and homed in on one paragraph,

‘If you consider that the premises are not in good and tenantable repair, or that they are in any other respect unfit for human habitation you can apply to the local authority for a certificate of disrepair. If the local authority grant the certificate they will serve a copy of it on the landlord…’

The small print went on and on. A lesser person might have given up, but not Lily. She perservered and eventually translated the gobbledegook, separating the coal from the dross. She sussed that, before the local authority would grant such a certificate, she would have to pay 1 shilling for the privilege. She noted further down however that she could deduct the shilling off her rent if her complaint was upheld. At the end of the two pages it stated, almost as an afterthought, ‘The local authority is the Town Council of the City of Glasgow, who’s address is City Chambers, Glasgow C1.’

Lily dug out a writing pad and pen from a drawer in the cabinet and began to write a letter to the City Chambers of Glasgow.

There followed a series of visits from housing, sanitation and health officials. She had added her voice to the growing debate and concern over tenement housing conditions in Garngad and elsewhere. Though slow, the wheels of change were beginning to turn. By the end of the decade, 168 and it’s neighbours would cease to exist. Lily Wilson and her family would be away before that, the last residents of that single-end in the close of 168 Millburn Street.

One afternoon shortly after she’d sent the letter, Lily answered the door and was greeted by an enthusiastic young man with a large camera case over one shoulder and carrying a tripod. He introduced himself as a freelance photographer specialising in family photos. On impulse, Lily invited him in. It was completely out of character for her. Robert was at work, they couldn’t afford professional photos, and she didn’t know this young man from Adam. Yet she invited him in. She fussed around as he set up his equipment. The flat was a mess, she was a mess. The chap was very kind and considerate, helping arrange a chair in front of the bed recess and suggesting she close the recess curtains to provide some kind of backdrop. Lily brushed her hair and sat on the chair, tiny baby James on her lap, sucking his fingers. Robert jnr stood beside them, dressed in short trousers, pullover and sandals, clutching a toy car and staring at the camera with a serious look of distrust. The photographer held up the flashlight, chose his moment and pressed the button. The flat was suddenly filled with a brief, dazzling light and the image was seared on to the photographic plate at the back of the camera.

A moment in time.

[AndrewP]

(message to make the Cyber Seance posts appear in sequence)