Читать книгу A Life In Pictures - Alasdair Gray - Страница 6

Family Gray: Jeannie Stevenson, Alex Gray , his dad Alex & Agnes Gray, 1915

Standing, family Fleming: Minnie Needham, her husband Harry Fleming, their daughters Amy & Annie, circa 1930

A FAMILY PHOTOGRAPH from 1914 or ’15 shows my father, Alex, in his Black Watch uniform, with khaki kilt standing beside his father and mother, who died long before I was born. At first a weigh-bridge clerk at the Glasgow docks, Dad was just 18, so old enough to join the army when war was declared – he bought his first pipe and tobacco with his first pay. His dour, hard-faced father was a kind man and industrial blacksmith in Bridgeton, then Glasgow’s east manufacturing quarter. Also an elder of a Congregationalist church, he taught Sunday schools and was a friend of Keir Hardie, the first Labour MP to enter Westminster. His sweet, plump, motherly wife had been a power-loom weaver before marriage, an excellent housewife after. Also in the group is a sturdy young girl, my Aunt Agnes, who worked all her life behind the counter of a bakery on London Road and never married.

In the 1914–18 war my dad lost faith in his parents’ God but they never quarrelled about that loss. His father had admired Gladstone and Keir Hardy – was both a Liberal and Labour Party supporter. In post-war Glasgow my dad naturally became a Socialist and the works of George Bernard Shaw converted him to Fabian, non-revolutionary Socialism. After a spell in Stobhill Hospital he received a small government pension for a shrapnel wound in the stomach, and held a job in Laird’s box-making factory until the Second World War. He joined the Ramblers’ Federation, Holiday Fellowship and other non-profit-making societies formed by people of many social classes who liked the inexpensive pleasures of walking, cycling and climbing. He was a founder member of the Scottish Youth Hostels Association, did unpaid work as a hill guide and secretary for the Camping Club of Great Britain’s Scottish Branch. When climbing Sgurr Alasdair in Skye he was told the mountain’s name was Gaelic for Alexander, so it was given to me.

He met his wife in a small Holiday Fellowship group climbing Ben Lomond. Her name was Amy Fleming and a photograph shows her with her mother and father, Minnie Needham Fleming and Harry Fleming on the left, and on the right her younger sister, Annie. Minnie and Harry came from Northampton, where he had been a foreman boot-maker. He had also been an active trade unionist, and was sacked for it and put on the English employers’ blacklist. He found work by coming with his wife to Scotland, where their daughters were born. The photograph shows all four with two Holiday Fellowshippers, probably in the hills near Carbeth that overlook the Blane Valley. The sturdy man squatting in the heather is Bill Ferris, Dad’s philatelist friend, who had a weekend hut at Carbeth. My father is not in the picture but may have held the camera because he was a keen photographer and filled albums with photographs he took when hillwalking and climbing.

My mother Amy was a shop assistant in Campbell, Stuart and MacDonald’s clothing warehouse before marriage, becoming a housewife afterward for reasons already given. She loved music and when the opera came to Glasgow astonished her less daring younger sister (my Aunt Annie) by having a different boyfriend take her to it several nights in one week. She sang in Hugh Robertson’s Orpheus Choir and I am still haunted by the words and tunes of the songs she sang at home. Her wide circle of women friends contained most neighbouring houses, for she had a pleasant discretion that never passed on malicious gossip, so was trusted by some who distrusted each other. She shared that trait with her husband. Only my sister and I knew her austerer side. The photograph of me as a baby like an overfed young Winston Churchill was taken with my granny in the back garden of her semi-detached council house on Cumbernauld Road. I hardly remember this care-worn English woman, Minnie Needham who married carefree Harry Fleming, though the upper photo of us a year or two later in a photographer’s studio suggests we were close. My determined look recalls the time when, about two years old, I could say what I wanted, but not why.

Alex Gray , circa 1932

Amy Gray , circa 1932

Alasdair Gray & Granny Fleming , 1936

Minnie & Harry Fleming in their back garden , circa 1932

Alasdair Gray & Granny in same back garden , 1935

After the evening meal we called tea I pestered Mum and Dad to take me to the kitchen and stand me on a stool before the shallow sink where dishes were washed. (A deeper sink beside it was for washing clothes, and me too before I was big enough to be dipped in the lavatory bath.) I demanded a mixing bowl, knife, cabbage leaf, sliver of soap, milk and other ingredients. I cut up the hard ones and mixed them in the bowl with the rest, expecting a wonderful transformation, perhaps thinking no such mixture had ever been made before. I remember staring down at little dark green squares of cabbage and white flakes of soap, puzzled that they stayed obstinately themselves and were not combining into something new. I was obviously trying to work magic. Seventy-three years after that failed experiment I am amazed by my parents’ tolerance. They were the sanest, least religious folk I ever met, with no irrational prejudices. They gave me magical stories, knowing children liked them, but never suggested miracles were possible. By the age of nine my wish to be a wizard had become the wish to be a great scientist and inventor of spaceships.

The Gray family lived in the tenement shown below. The middle window in the gable belongs to the living room of our three-room-and-kitchen flat. Mrs and Mr Liddel lived below us, as I have said, and above us Mrs and Mr Barclay, he being our local newsagent and tobacconist. Across the landing from the Barclays lived the Steele family, whose father was a printer for the Daily Express newspaper; across from us lived Mrs Bunting, a widow, across from the Liddels were Mrs and Mr Marchant, whose job I did not know or think about. I believed that he, like everyone else in Riddrie, belonged to the British upper class – the makers of things, nurses, postmen, shop-keepers, printers and their wives who kept the country going. Schoolteachers, doctors, civil servants also lived in the kind of tenement and semi-detached villa where my family and grandparents lived. Riddrie was one of the first Glasgow housing schemes built in 1930 under the only Socialist measure passed by the first short-lived Labour government. Like many first things of its kind (Elizabethan stage plays, Hollywood comedy films), it was also the best. It stood between two good public parks, contained a variety of shops, churches and schools, municipal bowling greens, a well-equipped library, allotments, gardens and a tree-lined boulevard. It had no pubs but nobody I knew wanted them. Years passed before I realized Riddrie was not a classless cross-section of Socialist Britain. It housed tradesmen and professional folk who had made the Labour Party our local government, partly because private landlords had been charging them high rents for poor accommodation. So these better-off working folk were first to be allocated homes in the new schemes. Later schemes were built more cheaply, with fewer amenities. Blackhill, frankly called a slum clearance scheme, was divided by the Monkland Canal from Riddrie.

Findhorn Street viewed from Cumbernauld Road. The middle window in the gable (facing south) belongs to Alex & Amy’s flat , circa 1930

Mum or Dad probably posed me with a book for a photograph but I obviously enjoyed the pose. I think the book was The Miracle of Life, a book of essays about natural history, evolution and the human body illustrated with fascinating photographs and pictures. The body’s inner functions were shown as a combination of telephone exchange and chemical factory designed to extract oxygen from air and nourishment, from food and circulate them in the blood while pouring out waste, but it showed nothing of sexual reproduction. At an early age Mora and I were told we had come from our mother’s body when smaller and found the idea amusing as we imagined ourselves occupying a small furnished livingroom in her stomach.

Alasdair and Mora Gray , 1937 or 1938

Sister & brother & Holiday Fellowship hut on hillside above Balloch, 1938 or 1939

At Millport, capital of Wee Cumbrae, Firth of Clyde islands , 1945 or 1946

World War Two brought painful shortages to the prosperous British classes but full employment and better jobs to many lower wage earners. The Grays were at their most prosperous from 1942 to ’44, when Dad became manager of a hostel for munitions workers in Wetherby Yorkshire, because his voluntary work for Scottish youth hostels and the Holiday Fellowship proved he was fit for that. We can be seen here in the garden of the manager’s bungalow. In Wetherby Mora took dancing lessons: here she is dressed as a Sunbeam. I joined the Church of England choir because it paid me two shillings a week for attending it and rehearsals. I also enjoyed the singing. Until ten I usually wore a kilt. Though the only boy with one in Riddrie Primary, I was only mocked for it at the primary school in Stonehouse, a mining town we were evacuated to before Wetherby. Here it was accepted because folk thought all Scots wore them. On my first day an older boy told me, “If anyone’s bashin’ you, just let me know.” I amicably disagreed with classmates about the r in bird and similar words. Like most English they never pronounced it. Like most Scots I did, and by insisting on doing so have perhaps come to prrronounce my r more distinctly than if I had never left Glasgow.

Alasdair Gray studying The Miracle of Life [see chapter 2, page 11], circa 1937

I believe the happiest period of my mother’s life was the months of being the wife of a well-paid manager. She sang in hostel concerts organized by my dad, and was a popular member of the Wetherby Women’s Institute. Two women whose wages were paid by the Ministry of Munitions helped her with housework. One of them, Ethel, asked Mum if she could come to Scotland and serve her after the war, and was told that after the war Mum would probably be no richer than herself, and there was no room for a servant, even in a Riddrie municipal tenement. When the war ended and Dad’s job stopped, before we returned to Scotland, the Wetherby Women’s Institute gave her a patchwork bedcover on which every member had embroidered their signatures in a different colour of thread or wool.

Back in Glasgow Dad was unwilling to return to his box-cutting machine. His applications for middle-class jobs failed so he became a labourer on a building site then, through friendship with the site clerks there, was employed by the Scottish Special Housing Scheme as a costing and bonus clerk.

The Gray family in garden behind the manager’s bungalow, munitions workers’ hostel, Wetherby, Yorkshire , circa 1943

Mora as a sunbeam Both circa 1943

Alasdair, the Church of England chorister Both circa 1943

With camera activated by a time-switch on a tripod Dad photographed himself and family on weekend outings, when I usually posed as an intellectual with notebook or library book. This was not wholly phoney act. When eight I started writing and illustrating wee stories and verses which Dad typed, and when twelve I won a Scottish BBC competition that let me read some on Children’s Hour. But he wanted me to go walking, climbing and cycling with him. I used occasional bad asthmatic bouts to avoid doing these things because he understood them better than me – eventually Mora became his main out-of-doors companion – but whenever I submitted to his guidance I enjoyed the hills. Despite which I went with him to Earl’s Seat on the summit of the Campsies with Maisie Ward’s biography of G. K. Chesterton, got from Riddrie public library, and insisted on reading during our rests.

A day trip outing to Dunoon , circa 1945

Alasdair & Alex on Earl’s Seat, Campsie Fells , circa 1952

In 1949 or ’50 Dad’s lower post-war wage made Mum decide to take a job in a hat shop, then as clerk in Collins the Publishers office, Cathedral Street. She weakened with what her doctor thought was a menopausal illness. After several months she asked for another opinion and cancer of the liver was diagnosed. On a warm day when I was seventeen we sat together in our back green. I had hurt her by failing to get a school leaving certificate in Latin, then a necessary qualification for Scottish universities. Since her death I have been incapable of taking any examination seriously. In our back green I also sat with her kind and witty sister, my Aunt Annie, who lived long enough to be proud of me as Writer-in-Residence in Glasgow University.

Amy & Alasdair behind 11 Findhorn Street, Riddrie, circa 1951

Amy’s sister, Annie Miller and nephew , circa 1953