An Autobiography by a Leither of his Early Days in Ballantyne Road
by
Frank Ferri (now of Newhaven)
The Street
I was brought up in Ballantyne Road, situated opposite the State Cinema, next to Junction Bridge from 1940 to 1950s.
Going down Ballantyne Road, the first house was a main door then the pend (a large entrance) leading you into the main populated area. Beyond this were two entries consisting of two houses, then another main door, finally No 11 tenement stair that we called posh stair or bell-entry, We were simplistic as children at identifying things in our own way - simply because they had inside toilets and at the entrance there were highly polished brass pull door bells for each house. Around the corner was Ballantyne Place.
On the right hand side at the top of Ballantyne Road on the corner were the offices of Harkness Beaumont the manufacturing chemists. I worked there for a year in 1950 and would you believe it, more often than not, even living so close, I was late for my work. Next door there was an open balconied tenement, No 4, overlooking the Water of Leith and the manufacturing chemist. Old Mrs Belle Parker used to stand here every day watching the world go by. No matter how many years went by, she always looked a middle aged woman.
At the bottom of the street there was a dirt road leading you to Bowling Green Street. Firstly, on your left there was a large piece of waste ground that we knew as the Piggery. This was later to become Wingy Robertson`s scrap yard. He used to buy ex government army surplus vehicles. Then it became the warehouses for Robertson`s wholesale groceries.
Beyond this was May`s firewood suppliers. He would chop up and bundle old wood for this purpose. I remember on one occasion he had bought a very large ship`s liferaft that he kept on the Piggery pending processing for firewood. About a dozen kids or so man-handled this raft into the centre of the Piggery on bonfire night (yes, you guessed it, we set it on fire). The best bonfire we ever had, and he was quite dismayed indeed! On with the geography of the street.
Next were a few ramshackle storage huts, then the Light Brigade Hall/Band of Hope, an old religious meeting place. On the opposite side of this dirt road was Browns Yacht /Boat repair yard with slipway into the Water of Leith. Here was also Sinclair`s chemical works. I believe he manufactured acids for preservatives. When you passed by, the fumes would take your breath away. Moving on, you came to a building where a man kept his horses, then the chimney sweeps yard where was stored the soot. A man also bred Scottish Terriers here.
At the end of the dirt road, facing you was the timber yard/sawmill - can`t remember the name of it. Snuffie`s cooperage was also here - again, can`t remember the real name. I worked here for a short time, but was not cut out to be a cooper. You then exited into Bowling Green Street, almost opposite Bangor Lane and close to Bowlng Green Street bridge crossing the Water of Leith.
Also in this area was a gypsy type caravan owned by a Mrs Skivington who sold groceries, soft drinks, and cigarettes. She lived in Great Junction Street and owned a big black collie dog named Sailor. Her house was the stair next to Chalmer`s the newsagent opposite the public toilets at the top of Mill Lane.
Back up the street again, and on entering the pend, you exited into a large quadrangle. Just to your immediate left, if it had been raining, you would see a large puddle that would form due to a choked drain that was rarely cleared. Here we would sail our little paper boats, and in the summertime the water would turn green and stagnant. Adults would shout to you '' get out of there, you`ll catch Scarlet Fever''.
Moving on, facing you was the rear of the tenements at Bowling Green Street separated by a large dyke. On your left were the rear of the tenements of Great Junction Street. To your left were the tenements of No 7, their frontage overooking Ballantyne Place and the Piggery.
Behind you were the tenements of No 3, the frontage overlooking the manufacturing chemist. Nos 3 and 7 tenements in Ballantyne quadrangle had open balconies exposed to the elements and were served by a turreted staircase. I lived on the second flat in No 10 flat of the 3rd stair. During the War years with the blackout, there was no stair lighting. Descending the turreted stairs meant you had to count each of the set of steps between each half landing.
In the early 40s, Ballantyne quadrangle used to be sectioned off in squares with railings, allowing each house a clothes drying green. When the War was in full swing, the iron railings were taken away to make spitfires, or so the stories went. Then brick air raid shelters were built on the site.
Can`t finish this section without mentioning Percy the policeman. This was part of his beat. He knew everbody by name and clipped your ear if he caught you getting up to mischief, even for climbing the dyke. If he didn`t catch you, your name went in his notebook for future reference, and he would shout this to you as you ran off.
Our House 1940s - its mod cons and asides?
Most houses had a personal outside toilet in the communal hallway, the end house sharing between two houses.
On entering the living room from your own hall (lobby) you faced the window where there was a hand basin and a large Piggy (pottery) tub for washing your clothes or for the Saturday night bath. That served until we acquired a large zinc tub that was placed in front of the fire and hand filled with boiling water. Alternatively, your mother might fill a large bath with dirty washing and strap it to the bairn`s pram and make her way to the public wash house or steamy in Bonnington Road.
Back in the house, to the left of the window was the main heating system, a large cast iron fire range with a back boiler that gave a couple of gallons of hot water, that is if you could afford coal, or else apple boxes from Peters the fruiterer. Sometimes pieces of linoleum that were torn up from some unseen part of the floor.
The range was black leaded and the raised embossed parts of it rubbed down with wire wool until it was gleaming. The fireplace did have an oven, but it was rarely used due to the fuel shortages. Before toasters, I remember placing a slice of bread on a fork, wrapping a towel round my hand to protect it from the heat of the fire and toasting against the grill front. To each side of the fireplace were the armchairs and the cocomat carpet between them.
Above the fireplace, the art deco mirror. On the left of the mantelpiece was attached the living room`s only source of light, a gas bracket with a mantle encased by an opaque glass shade. The light cast from it barely travelled more than five feet. If you were a toff, this light source would be in the centre of the ceiling. My father did try to improve it. We did not get electricity installed until 1948.
The gas was paid for by feeding a meter in the coal cellar with the large pennies of the time. Many a time I spent going around the neighbours trying to get change for it. We even tried foreign coins if we were forced to. When the gasman came to empty the meter, we would watch him nimbly count the coins and stack them into piles of one shillings. We waited anxiously to see if mum had got a rebate for overpaid gas. Invariably there was a stack of foreign coins among the pennies that would negate any such rebate.
To the left of the armchair beyond the fireplace stood a tired old upright piano. I remember our penny a week insurance man, Jimmy Bradford from Madeira Street, would call for his money on a Saturday morning. With a little persuasion he would regale us with his piano skills for up to an hour, forgetting all about his insurance duties.
The living room had a recess large enough for a double bed, and curtains were draped each side of it for privacy. Under it was the essential Poe (night time emergency toilet facility).
To the right of the window stood the mandatory `New World Main` gas cooker. On cold winter mornings my father would light up every burner, including the oven, so as to convect some heat into the living room before we got up. Afraid to say that it was not the first time my mother, toiling for money, would leave the window open so that the wind blew the lace curtain across the lit stove. Having been set on fire, my mother gathered the ashes from it and stored them in a match box. She later presented them to the insurance man and put in a claim. Very tough days indeed!
A 1950s New World Main Gas Cooker
If money was tight, as it often was, another source was the provy cheque - the Provident Cheque. The company would give you a cheque for £10 say and you redeemed this for goods in selected shops. You then paid this back by weekly instalments of a few shillings. You could buy almost anything, clothes, furniture, even food. The negative side was that provy shops were at least 10 to 15% dearer than paying by cash.
On the right hand side was the traditional sideboard complete with a runner (a long strip of embroidered cloth) and some basic ornaments. Alongside was the battery operated wireless set. When the battery ran out, you were sent to the wee cobbler`s in a basement shop at the top of Bangor Road. with the accumulator for charging. I remember carrying this acid filled glass container with the wooden handle and wire grip cutting into my fingers, awkwardly holding it away from my body so as not to burn myself with the acid.
The cobbler charged sixpence for a half charge and ninepence for a full one. On many occasions this accumulator would frustratingly go dead when you were listening to a favourite programme such as Housewive`s Choice, or the American Forces Network, AFN. Sunday programmes such as Family Favourites and Radio Luxembourg were also great to listen to. Among them all was my favourite, The Man in Black, tales of mystery related by Valentine Dyall with his deep frightening voice.
I remember baby-sitting my wee brother whilst my parents went off visiting relatives. A banked up fire with the precious coal, lights turned off, the flickering flames casting weird shadows on to the wall in the darkened room, and the noise coming from the draft beneath the door, all contributed to an atmosphere of self inflicted fear while listening to the horror story. Would have made anybody`s flesh creep let alone a child`s.
My parents would quietly return thinking we would be in bed so as not to frighten us. Then came a rollicking to find us for not being so and having too much coal on the fire.
My father, a regular church goer, would call me in the morning to go to the 10.00 am Mass. If I didn`t go with him, and he returned to find me listening to Family Favourites, he would switch the radio off in anger as my punishment.
Back to the house description. In the centre of the room was the highly polished dining table and its four chairs. My mother would often chase me around it but I was too fast for her. The wallpaper was distempered and boxed off in sections using a border strip of decorative paper. Wallpaper was unobtainable during the War.
The small bedroom was connected by a hallway, and here was a recess big enough to hold a double bed and a chest of drawers. We called it the dark lobby due to the fact that there was no artificial light source.
The bedroom with its window overlooking the balcony had a small fireplace (rarely lit) but big enough for a double bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table and a couple of chairs. This had no light as the gas fitting was defective.
In the private toilet we had rectangles cut from old newspapers suspended from a string that we used as toilet paper. Again, no light, but with the door slightly ajar, we wondered how our father managed to study horse form in the newspapers.
Our household rarely had a clock that worked, and as the eldest child yet still quite young, it became my responsibility to establish the correct time. I used to run halfway up the turreted staircase and stop between landings where there was a barred window. Climbing onto the window ledge and at full stretch I could make out the clock face on the Leith Provident building on the corner of Taylor Gardens and Great Junction Street. Being early in the morning, I would sometime carry out this task in my shirt tails and hope no neighbours saw me.
Other memories at this time included an Asian gentleman, complete with turban, who would hawk around the houses with his wares contained in a suit case; a street singer doing his stuff in the Square; another, holding one hand to his ear, singing out parodies of well known songs. Of course, there was the Salvation Army band on Sundays. Others were the knife sharpener with his grindstone; the rag and bone man exchanging balloons for clothes. Sometimes my mother would argue with him over the exchange rate. People certainly found ways of getting around hardship with no Government handouts then. It was either that or the Parish, church charities.
The Blitz
On the night of April 7th, 1941 my area was hit by a mini blitz. German aircraft heading for the shipyards at Clydebank on the west coast were intercepted by our RAF fighters, and in an effort to get away as fast as they could, unloaded their bombs indiscriminately to hasten their exit. The bombs they released in our area were two land mines, suspended from parachutes that silently fell from the sky. They gave no warning until they reached the ground and exploded.
One bomb fell near Largo Place/Keddie`s Gardens destroying the corner tenement killing at least two people. At the same time it badly damaged the Town Hall in Ferry Road.
Running parallel with Ballantyne and Largo Place is the Water of Leith, and the then railway embarkment. The second bomb landed in the deep embankment, thus forcing the blast in an upwards direction. Had it fallen on a more level surface, Ballantyne and the other areas would have been levelled to the ground.
LtoR Largo Place, Embankment, Railway, Junction Bridge, Water of |Leith. Buildings on right made way for the State
I remember the night so well, so indelibly is it inprinted in my mind. It would be about nine o`clock in the evening, and I aged seven was sitting by the fireside reading my comic before going to bed (we were never early bedders). We often went to bed with our clothes on in anticipation of air raid warnings. My father heard an aircraft passing overhead - we were to a degree used to hearing the sounds of different aircraft engines, and if the sirens went off we knew it had been a German. So frequently did aircraft fly over our house we learned to differentiate between friends and foe.
On this occasion my father was right at guessing it was an enemy one, but this time no siren went off. The bomb parachutes fell silently and next thing there was this enormous blast. I was lifted right off my chair and flung across the room into the lobby. The complete window had blown in, the plaster on the ceiling and walls fell off, with furniture, dust and glass strewn all over the place. My father grabbed me, placed my two year old brother in an all enclosed gas mask that looked like a deep sea diver`s suit, and made for the door and balcony. Feeling the rubble of the balcony under his feet in the darkness, he shouted to my mother that he thought the balcony had gone.
Meanwhile thinking that she was behind him, he realised she had gone back into the house to retrieve her purse and had got trapped behind the door with falling debris. He went back for her.
The balcony as it turned out was was safe and we gingerly made our way down the staircase to the sound of exploding shells, shrapnel, tracer bullets, and the sweeping bands of light from our ack ack gun searchlights scanning the skies.
On arrival at the brick shelters in the quadrangle, we found they were all full and had to make our way through a pend leading to Ballantyne Place and the Piggery where there were underground shelters. These were also quite full but we got in. The shelter had bunk beds and chemical toilets with some other basic needs. The whole thing stank of some kind of disinfectant like Lisol or Carbolic. The smell made you wretch.
One of the first faces I recognised in the shelter was Mrs Geddes, our next door neighbour, having fragments of glass removed from her head. People had brought with them some basic belongings and some old ladies had brought along their budgerigars, canaries, cats and dogs. For a while not much conversation went on, people just huddled together for warmth and comfort in the damp, smelly and cold environment. That is until the door burst open with some new residents and a couple of Air Raid Wardens, some drunk. As it turned out, Jamiesons the grocers in Junction Street had its shop front blown in. Some of these late arrivals had purloined the booze, and hence their condition, and their exagerated stories of drama.
One of these was (untrue) that Mrs Gillespie and her 10 children at No 3 top flat were trapped, their balcony having been blown away. As each story unfolded, the children, agog with a mixture of fear and excitement, would scan the adult faces for some kind of reassurance or reaction whether negative or positive. Stories of people with their heads blown off, heroic deeds of someone who, thinking the parachute was that of an airman bailing out, ran towards it to arrest the enemy and getting blown up for his trouble. War did have its macabre yet unconscious sense of humour.
Unlike other nights when we went to the shelters, without bombing, quite looking forward to it because it meant you met your pals, played cards and other games, and of course it was a day off school the following morning, this time it was different. We experienced real fear, because we detected it from the adults, this being their first experience of an air raid so close to hand.
At about nine next morning, we exited the shelters, blinking in the early spring sun and made our way back to inspect the damage. Gingerly climbing the stairs through the rubble to our flats, not knowing how structurally sound the stairs were, we entered our house. We were met with a complete mess of plaster, smashed furniture, strewn clothes and window glass everywhere. Fortunately gas supplies were not fractured.
For many months all we had to keep the wind and rain from blowing in were bright yellow oilcloths sealing up the window frames. Natural light was at a premium.
People came from far and wide to view the damage thus making us feel even more sorry for ourselves.
The bright side of the blitz for the children was when we received parcels containing sweets and toys from the people of Culver City, Burbank, California signed by the mayor. These gifts in the deprived war years were great and treasured luxuries to us.
The major negative side to the raid for me, anyhow, was for some considerable time after the event I suffered (undetected by anybody) from post traumatic stress. I developed a stutter. I would run out of the house, no matter what state of dress or undress, if a flake of lime or plaster, shaken down by a footstep fell from the ceiling. I ran out totally terrified. No treatment for that in those days.
Christmas and Hogmanay
In this area, most working class people were all Jock Tamson`s Bairns. All in the same drifting and ill equipped leaking boat, heading aimlessly in any direction our governments and people in authority would tell us to go. Very little civil disobedience and few chances of trying to keep up with the Jones. All material things, luxuries, and essentials were scarce. We as a nation became one of the most improvising and innovative nations in the world. However, our spirits at this time of the year were never dampened.
Christmas to the children meant clean starched sheets on your bed on Christmas Eve and prayers to Santa for a Roy Roger`s Pony, his guns, real sweets, cowboy outfits, toy cars, and airplanes board games, etc. The morning and reality presented you with home made utility toys acquired from a carpenter friend, an apple, an orange and some seasonal nuts and a few scarce sweets and chocolate purchased with precious food coupons.
You shrugged off your disappointments and got on with it. No turkey in those days, not even a chicken, no Christmas tree: you just opened your presents, snow as you had prayed for on the day, and to all extent and purpose it was just an anticlimatic day. The only luxury we had one up on the neighbours, was a display of pre-war coloured paper Christmas decorations that my father had gently pulled down each year and delicately stored away for the next year.
Hogmanay perhaps was more exciting, as you watched and helped your mother as best you could to clean the house from top to bottom in preparation for the New Year. Scottish people did not spring clean. This was the time of year to clean away all the bad luck and spirits of the previous year. Some people, including my dad would be putting up new wall paper (when it was available) in the living room on Hogmanay itself. The rest of the house probably got papered every ten years or so, but the living room, the main focal point of the family life, had to be done more frequently.
In the war years when wall paper was scarce, the walls were stippled, applying distemper paint using either a net cloth or sponge to give an irregular pattern, then the painted walls were boxed off using strips of colourful border paper.
I can still see my father as midnight approached, minutes before the church bells, ships` and factory sirens sounded off announcing the New Year, still putting the finishing touches to cleaning the windows.
The bunker (the big sink surface) would hold the drinks glasses (pint size and cowboy saloon nip glasses), Dark green screwtop Imperial Pale Ale bottles, Stout, Whisky, Sherry or Port. Lemonade and Cordial, American Cream Soda, Vimto for the kids and maybe V.P or Red Biddy wine such as Eldorado for the teenagers who would take this brew first footing and come home with the bottle still full.
On the table would be the food. Shortbread, Fruitcake, Black Bun, Madeira Cake, Cheese Cubes, Spam Sandwiches, and if you were in the know, and on the black market, a tin of Salmon. Salmon Sandwiches and maybe a pot of stovies or home made soup was on offer.
At Hogmanay, and with food supplies short, if you took a pound of margarine and a bag of sugar, stood in a long queue at Bootland`s the baker in Great Junction Street, he would make you a couple of shortbreads for half a crown.
At midnight you waited expectantly for your first foot and never had to wait long, somebody was right outside your front door waiting for the first bell to be just that. Sometimes someone of your own family would step outside minutes before hand just to make sure you had your first foot. If the first foot happened to be a dark haired, dark featured person, that was supposed to be a lucky omen, especially if he had brought a piece of coal with him
Unlike today, there were no organised parties, the key was left in the door and all were welcome. On many occasions, service and civilian alike, all complete strangers came to the house and were welcomed without question. No television, CD/DVD players or music centres in those days. If you were lucky enough to know a Box player (accordian) you had a great time. If not, you had a singsong.
Schooling, Playing and Working, Entertainment etc. etc.
The primary schools in Leith of my childhood were, Cooper Street, Dr Bells, St Mary`s formerly Yardheads, and now a housing development, Bonnington Road, Lorne Street, Holy Cross, Craighall Road, North Fort Street, Leith Academy, Lochend Road, Links now St Mary`s.
I attended both St Mary`s and St Anthony`s and can still recall many of my contemporaries. Tony Gallo, Alfie McRae, John O`Donnell, Billy Blanche, Vera Hand, Mary Minto, Cathie Hickey to name but a few.
While at school I used to deliver morning milk for the Leith Provident. In Bowling Green Street I would collect my barrow and loaded it with four crates of bottle milk. My run started at the top of Bangor Road, into Burlington Street and on in to Breadalbane Street. My route then took me back to base via Bangor Lane. As it had a pillar in the centre to stop vehicles from entering, I managed to squeeze the barrow between it and the wall with little or no room to spare, sometime grazing my fingers in the process. Christmas was always the time when you made yourself heard as you collected the empties from each door. Obvious reason of course.
The characters I met on this morning job included the man employed to extinguish the stair gas lights. He promised to reward me if I did the job for him on the upper floors. I did it for a few weeks but never met him again to receive the cash. I later changed my job to one of delivering newsapapers. A lot lighter work but did involve two deliveries.
The State cinema in Great Junction Street, built circa 1935 showed programmes consisting of the featured film, a `B`` movie, a cartoon and newsreels. The programmes were changed twice per week, with a children`s matinee on Saturdays. Up until the late 1950s, it was a grand artdeco building, the outline of which was surrounded by green, red and blue neon lights, a magnificent sight in the dark nights. The foyer was flaked with palm trees and the staff all wore uniforms. The manager standing in his tuxedo and the doorman outside the theatre resplendently dressed in what looked like a royal blue admiral`s uniform with gold braid.
Great pictures for us kids were, the Fighting CeeBees, Back to Bataan, Robin Hood (Errol Flynn), Tarzan and Jungle Jim (Johnny Weismuller), Roaring Twenties (James Cagney), Casablanca, Maltese Falcon (Humphrey Bogart), Eastside Kids/Dead End Kids (Huntz Hall and Leo Gorsey). I could go on and on.
Leith had six cinemas at one time including the above - Palace, Capitol, Alhambra, Gaiety, and of course the Laurie Street popularly known as the scratcher for obvious reasons.
Dancing was well catered for. Eldorado, Assembly Rooms, as well as the various halls that featured them as private functions. Corner Rooms, Unionist Rooms, Eagle Rooms at the Tower, Market Halls.
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