Shoes Were For Sunday (7 page)

The first thing my mother examined when she was looking at any possible new house was the kitchen range. You could always disguise faulty windows with nice curtains, and put an extra shelf into a press that was too wee or awkward, but you were stuck with a range, and if it didn’t ‘draw’ properly, or had been too neglected, it was a plague and a torment.

So we always made sure we had a good range. It was the centre of warmth and comfort, and the very hub of our busy kitchen. It stood along the dividing wall between us and the next-door neighbour, exactly halfway between the sink and the inset bed, spreading heat and cheer, and enjoyed by all of us from first light till bedtime, for the kitchen was bedroom, cooking place and living-room combined.

Its steely parts were burnished and its black parts black-leaded once a week, and a great ceremony that was. Grannie would spread newspapers out on the floor to protect linoleum and hearth-rug. The long stool which usually held pride of place before the glowing coals would be pushed back out of the way, and the Zebo and cleaning cloths spread out in readiness.

All the movable steel parts were lifted aside – the
‘winter’, as Grannie called the steel piece which formed a small shelf in front of the glowing bars, the ashpan, the front barred section and the oven door.

Then slowly and methodically Grannie would Zebo the stripped monster that remained, making sure every bit of grease disappeared and every piece of cast iron got its black coating. I was never allowed to touch this part of the operation, for, as Grannie scathingly remarked, ‘You’d have the hale kitchen covered in black’ning,’ but I loved watching her, especially when it came to the polishing off of the Zebo. Huge cloths brought everything up to a gleaming ebony, and then when you felt it just couldn’t shine any brighter the final touch was given with a soft polishing brush which reached every crevice, and the range gleamed like dusky satin.

But I
was
allowed to tackle the ‘steels’, as we called the other parts which had been laid aside. With emery paper and a judicious use of a little ‘spit’ on small rust spots these were burnished to a silvery glitter, and as I rubbed and panted I was urged on by Grannie to use ‘plenty o’ elbow grease’. A final polish with a soft duster to remove any lingering dust left by the emery paper, and I glowed nearly as brightly as the steels at Grannie’s praise. ‘Aye, ye’ve made a grand job o’ them lassie, they’re like silver, juist like pure silver.’

The fire, of course, had been allowed to go out so that we could work at the range closely and comfortably, and now, when we had got everything shining and sparkling to Grannie’s satisfaction, and the steels back
in place, came the ceremony of lighting the fire. Screwed-up newspaper went in first, then the sticks were laid criss-cross to support the coal which was laid on top. Nothing must be packed too tightly or the air wouldn’t get through and let it ‘draw’ – it was a great art, and a terrible disgrace if it didn’t burn at first setting and had all to be taken apart, and laid all over again. Soon the flames were dancing and the fire roaring, and reflecting itself a dozen times on the black satin and silver glitter of our polished surfaces.

Once a month there was an additional ritual known fearsomely as ‘cleaning the flues’. I didn’t exactly know what a ‘flue’ was, but it obviously had to be treated with great caution and respect. Grannie would wrap her head in newspapers, looking like one of the mammies in
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
, then she would take a long iron cleek in one hand, while with the other she would open a little sliding hatch above the empty fire, very very carefully.

A shovel and more paper were laid across the fire to catch any falling soot, and then, like an archaeologist after hidden treasure, Grannie would very gently poke the long cleek into the hidden cavern, exploring all the mysterious corners, to dislodge every lurking particle of soot.

We were in constant terror of the ‘jeests’, as Grannie called the joists, catching fire, for she assured us as she poked about the flues that if this happened then the whole building would blaze, and the next tenement
as well, for those joists ran right up the height of the tenements inside the walls and could set flames roaring from close to top flat.

This was no exaggerated fear, for I remember one terrible night, when I was about four years old, wakening to see the kitchen full of firemen, who, under my dreamy gaze, broke the wall with their axes to get at the ‘jeests’, which had indeed caught fire in a flat below ours, and the flames roared into our kitchen the moment the wall was breached. While the tallest fireman fought the blaze, I inquired with interest, ‘Are you Jack and the beanstalk?’, and there was a cry of alarm as I was snatched from the bed, ‘My Goad, I forgoat the wean was there.’

When the firemen were trying to trace the source of the fire my grannie enlightened them. ‘It’ll be thae dirty rascals doon below,’ she said grimly. ‘I ken fine that besom never touches her flues fae one year’s end to the other.’

Every bit of our range was used for cooking. The kettle was always on the side of the hob and only needed moving over the flames at any time to bring it to full boiling point for cups of tea, or pease brose, or anything else we wanted. Beef tea sat simmering at the back of the hob when any of us needed this nourishing brew after illness. The big soup pot stood at the other side, slowly blending the good vegetables into a grand broth which, using a favourite phrase, Grannie declared, would ‘stick to your ribs and see you through
the winter’. The stew pot wasn’t far away, and there was still plenty of room for the pot which held the potatoes.

A small hook at the side worked a grid which let the heat from the fire into the oven and Grannie was expert at knowing just how high the fire ought to be for scones and cakes, and how low it could go so the oven heat would be just right to finish off bread, or the roast at Christmas time.

When the top of the range was covered with pots, and Grannie wanted to make a bit of ham and egg for my mother coming in from work, she would lay strips of ham in a shallow baking tin, carefully break an egg over them, and then prop the tin at just the correct angle in front of the glowing fire to let everything grill gently and evenly. What a delicious smell would waft through the kitchen, and how fascinating we children found this method of cooking, watching with bated breath the tiny bubbles forming as the bacon took the heat of the fire, and the egg slowly firmed but never over-cooked. And, of course, we toasted our bread at the glowing bars, and were warmed through and through at the same time.

In bitter weather, the ‘winter’, that little steel shelf, was unhooked from the front bars of the fire, and a piece of flannel wrapped round it to protect our toes, and how comforting it was to put our stockinged feet against it as we supped our pease brose or hot gruel before we went to bed. Our grannie found the wee
‘winter’ a great economy, for it heated itself at no cost at all, just by sitting in its place on the range and taking its warmth from the coals.

The long stool which ran the length of the range, standing on the hearth-rug, became our favourite dining place as children. We sat on the hearth-rug like worshippers before a shrine, gazing into the glowing heart of the flames, and watched with laughter our distorted reflection in the shining steels, while we sipped our tea or cocoa and munched our rolls before going to school or to bed.

The last sound I heard at night before falling asleep was made by the steel door being shut in front of the bars, to make sure no coal fell out during the night. The first sharp sound when I wakened was the ashpan being drawn out, and the ashes tipped into a bucket, ready to be taken down to the ‘midden’ when I went out for the breakfast rolls. There was a right and a wrong way to empty those ashes. ‘Noo, stand close ower the pail, lassie,’ Grannie would say, ‘and tim it in quietly and slowly, so ye’ll no’ get the stour a’ ower yer claes.’

Each range had its own personality and took a bit of knowing before one understood all its little ways, and I think the hardest thing to part from when we moved house was surely this beloved monster, the kitchen range.

Everything in the tenement kitchens was called into use by the children and used as equipment for games. Among all the kitchen fixtures I think our first favour
ite was the bunker. It was a plain modest thing of varnished wood with a hinged lid on top. A hinged flap on the front let down when the coal was getting near the bottom, so that we could reach down easily with the shovel and get at the last of ‘the churlies’, as Grannie called the small coal. To the right of it was the dresser, of the same varnished wood, its two top drawers filled to overflowing with dusters and tea-cloths and cutlery, plus all the paraphernalia of our games – our peeries, our peevers, our football cards, cigarette cards, skipping rope, bools (or marbles) and jawries. Under this dresser was a cupboard, where the pots and pans were stowed, the pipeclay for the stairs, the black-lead for the range, and the Angier’s emulsion and Parish’s chemical food, two great stand-bys against our winter colds and spring lassitude.

The whole arrangement seemed excellent to us, and we were aghast when we heard of some people who had actually banished the bunker out to the stair landing so that the coalman needn’t come into the house with his dirty boots. Fancy removing such a treasure from the warmth of the kitchen, we thought, and we felt sorry for the children of such finicky folk, being deprived of such a splendid plaything. For that was how we saw our bunker. It was
much
more than a mere receptacle for coal. It was our toy. Our play-pen. A permanent source of joy and entertainment and we never wearied of it all the days of our childhood.

On wet days, when we couldn’t get out to play, the
bunker was a favourite place to hide when we played hide-and-seek, although my heart was always in my mouth in case my brothers, in a fit of devilment, would fasten the wee sneck and keep me there against my will. But it was such an enchanted darkness that I suffered this fear willingly, for the fun of peeping through the line of daylight at the flap-hinge watching the chums trying to find me. Of course, once inside the bunker, you were stuck there until the searchers ran into the best front room or the lobby, and then what a scramble it was to get over the rocky coal, to clatter open the flap and leap out and race for the ‘den’ to announce myself uncaught, with another chance of hiding.

During spring-cleaning times my mother would have the fanciful idea of whitewashing the inside of the bunker, although I can’t think how she hoped to keep it clean for any length of time, considering it was usually full of black coal. Although Grannie and she cheerfully accepted the stour and dust on our clothes when we played in the bunker, they were both surprisingly furious when we appeared streaked with whitewash as well! I never could understand why the whitewash was worse than the coal dust, but I obligingly dusted myself down to please them.

Another favourite game was to lean a wooden plank against the bunker, climb on to the lid, and slide down this home-made chute, landing with a whoop on the kitchen floor. Our downstairs neighbour was most understanding, and accepted with placid grace the noise
that surely must result from the playtime of three lively children when the weather kept them indoors. Mind you, she stood no nonsense when we ran about the house with our heavy boots, which was strictly forbidden by Grannie, and she’d knock the ceiling with her long wooden pole to let us know she was annoyed. When we heard this we’d gaze at one another with stricken eyes and change into our slippers without a word having to be said.

Sometimes the bunker was used by us for more serious things, and its lid became a desk when we spread it with our school books as we wrestled with homework, and pored over our jotters. Occasionally we had to make way for Grannie, so that she could use the top for cooling trays of toffee or pots of jam, and then we’d lean against it with covetous eyes, waiting for the toffee to cool and exasperating Grannie by poking with experimental fingers to see if the toffee was ready for breaking and eating.

About once in four weeks my mother, as she left for work in the morning, would remind Grannie ‘Oh, Grannie, don’t forget to get the bunker ready – the coal’s coming today.’ There was a fierce scurry on our part to move our treasures out of harm’s way, so that the lid could be raised in readiness for the coalman. ‘My drumsticks!’ Tommy would cry, and move them carefully to the top of the dresser. ‘My scraps!’ I’d yell, and take my adored coloured angels and fairies, and lay them safely under the bed as a temporary refuge. ‘My bools!’ Willie would shout, and slide the saucer with his plunkers
and jawries and glessies, the most prized marbles he possessed, to the far end of the dresser. Meantime Grannie took down the brass covers hanging along the back wall so that the lid could go right back unhindered.

Then the first faint cry would reach us, increasing in strength as the coalman mounted the stairs. ‘Yeeee-how!’, which we correctly translated as ‘Coal’, followed by ‘
WEEEEEEEE
… R’, delivered in a long-drawn-out bellow which would have wakened the dead. At last he would stride into our kitchen, a gigantic figure in our eyes. Face blackened with coal dust, lips showing a rim of scarlet behind the black crust which had formed as he licked them, teeth startlingly white and gums gleaming pink as he grinned at us. This visitor in glorious Technicolor fascinated us. We admired the superb strength of him as he tossed the coal into the depths of the empty bunker, and appreciated his thoughtfulness as he smoothed out the bag deftly so that too much dust wouldn’t rise to blacken Grannie’s spotless shelves.

‘How many bags are we gettin’ the day, mister?’ we would ask. ‘Will it be right tae the top?’ ‘Right tae the top!’ he would reply. ‘Yer grannie’ll hiv tae burn plenty o’ fires afore there’s room for you to play in the bunker.’ He knew as well as we did that the bunker was more than just a thing for coal.

The tenements were all lit by gas, and on Fridays when Grannie and I were doing the cleaning of all the brasses in the house the mantle had to be removed from the thin brass gas bracket with its swan-like neck,
and moved to safety, while we set to with busy polish and cloths and made the bracket and the band which ran round the mantelpiece sparkle like beaten gold.