The Sunday Girls Read Free Page B

his new daughter, he added, ‘She’s just like a wee flower – like her mother.’
    Bunty Grey snapped her bag shut. ‘She’s no’ that wee – she’s a strapping eight pounds and a Sunday girl.’ She bent over the baby and crooned in a soothing, sing-song kind of intonation. ‘The baby that’s born on the Sabbath day, is blithe and bonny and good and gay.’
    Mum smiled weakly but Dad laughed. ‘Well, that makes it two Sunday girls because Ann was a Sabbath day baby too.’
    Meanwhile, Rita and Nellie had heard the good news and they stood outside on the landing, chatting to Danny who obviously felt ill at ease in this women-orientated world.
    As soon as the midwife left they came in. I was sent to make another pot of tea while they gathered around the bed. ‘Imagine such a big baby, Lily,’ they said in unison as they flitted between the bed and the baby. ‘And you almost a month early. Heavens, what size would she have been if you had gone the full term?’
    After I’d done my hostess turn with the teapot, Danny and I sat on the stairs as the tiny room was cramped and overflowing with the grown-ups.
    Granny’s voice wafted out to us as she bustled around the room like a clucking hen. ‘Ann can sleep at the Overgate tonight – just to give you two a bit of time to yourselves.’
    Danny chuckled. ‘Looks like a tight squash because I’m supposed to be staying with Granny tonight as well. Mum wasn’t sure when she would get back from the Perth Road. In fact, Granny was saying that she spends more time there than she does in the house but I don’t mind.’
    Although Hattie had a nice flat in the Westport, it was a well-known fact that she spent so little time in it.
    ‘Anyway,’ said Danny, with a grin, ‘I’ve got loads of relations in Lochee. I can aye stay there.’
    Danny’s father, the late Pat Ryan, had three sisters who were all married and, as well as them, there were Dad and Ma Ryan, his grandparents. They all lived in Atholl Street – an Irish community in Lochee. Nicknamed Tipperary, it housed hundreds of families. The people were descended from the influx of immigrants who had left Ireland at the turn of the century to work in the city’s many jute mills. These families were housed in similar conditions to ourselves and a thousand light years away from people like Mr and Mrs Pringle.
    By now, Danny and I had moved out into the street. Lengthening shadows, heralding the approach of night, patterned the dusty pavements but it was still hot and golden. Groups of children still played noisily, scampering around in the pursuit of their many games. Muffled voices from people still sitting in the sun washed over us like waves on the shore. Cooking smells wafted down from the multitude of open doors, making us both feel very hungry.
    Danny gave an impish grin. ‘Stovies for our tea tonight, I think.’
    I grinned back at him. Granny Neill’s stovies were a legend and the mainstay of her family’s nourishment. This dish, made with large slices of potatoes and onions cooked in a large dollop of dripping, was usually served with thick slices of bread.
    Suddenly Hattie appeared on the opposite side of the road and all my culinary thoughts disappeared. We watched as she weaved her way through the crowds of noisy children. Never one to hurry or even get harassed, she glided gracefully upwards. She was smartly dressed in her Sunday best outfit – a long-sleeved crêpe-de-Chine frock almost the same grey shade as the string of pearls around her neck.
    She didn’t see us as she glided like a grey wraith into the close but we quickly followed her retreating figure, watching in amusement as she skilfully avoided the grimy children.
    It was only because we were hot on her heels that we witnessed her complete surprise at the new arrival. In fact, she was almost speechless when faced with the crying baby in the makeshift bed which was a drawer from the wardrobe. Danny and I coming up behind her also