Fraser - Blue Above the Chimneys

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

Christine Marion Fraser was the author of over twenty bestselling books, both fiction and non-fiction, and was most famous for her Rhanna series. In total, her books have sold well over three and half million copies. She died in 2002.

To the memory of Mam and Da

It was high summer, the evenings were long and warm. Tall chimney stacks, row upon row of them, prodded into misty skies. The backcourts were alive with suntanned, grimy children. There was no place in our horizons to see the setting of the sun so we had no idea of the passage of time.

The Second World War was two years in the past. In the latter part of its duration I had arrived into the world. It was March. The cold breath of winter still blew on the window panes but our kitchen was warm enough to keep out the chilly winds. The fire crackled in the hearth. All was silent but for Mams gasping sobs as I pushed my way out of the warm shell of her womb. So I was born, in a humble kitchen of a tenement in the Govan district of Glasgow, my first lusty cries shattering the silence. Mams arms waited to hold me in the loving embrace that had cradled my four brothers and three sisters before me.

Early recollections are hard to pin down. There is no clear idea of the sequence of things. When you first spoke and walked. The indignity of being enthroned on a hard-rimmed container when hitherto you had been allowed to let go as you pleased into a nice warm nappy. Perhaps a tiny infant is so busy absorbing all that goes on in its immediate world there are no possible spaces left for memories. Like everyone else I slept, ate, soiled myself and remembered none of it. Later I loved listening to Mam telling me what I was like in those early days and I conjured a cosy picture of myself, tiny, helpless, lovable, not at all like the little warrior I became when infancy turned to young childhood. This is when my memories materialize and where my story must really begin, my story of green acres of happiness and black depths of despair mingling and weaving into my life among the dusty grey tenements of Govan.

Come and buy! Come and buy! Oor wee shop is o-pen! chanted my brother, Alec, peeping above two old tea chests on which were arrayed a number of mangled toys.

Although the clamour of life filled the June night I was aware of my fathers presence even before I looked up and saw his iron-grey head sticking out from our kitchen window one flight up, his eagle eyes raking through the tumbling throng at the boxes in a search for his brood of four.

Sidling backwards along the dusty walls for a few yards I then scurried for the shelter of the close and tried to attract Alecs attention. But his senses were no match for mine. He hadnt spotted Da and was absorbed in fighting off a cheeky urchin who was determined to help himself to the decrepit goods in our shop.

Alec! Chris! Das roar soared through space. Upstairs this minute! If ye see Kirsty and Ian send them up as well Aggression flooded my being at the idea of having to abandon the shop. One snot-nosed boy had been on the point of purchasing a dilapidated pencil case. The sticky penny had been in his hand; now he would have the whole night to reconsider the deal.

Das calling, I shouted to Kirsty, who was in deep conversation with her best friend, a girl who hailed from the landing above ours. The higher the landings, the better the standard of living seemed to be. Morags house was another world, full of cosy carpets and comfortable furniture. She had a young brother my age, who didnt think it the least unusual to own a boxful of toy cars. It was an awesome treat to be invited to his landing to play with his toys and peek covertly into his plush carpeted lobby.

Kirsty came slowly, her four years seniority giving her a restrained dignity. She looked disdainfully at Alec hopping on the stairs, but dropped her cool long enough to call lustily, O-pen! It was a password that we all used when ascending the stairs, in the hope that the door would magically open before we reached it. But it wasnt magic which opened it now, it was Da, wrenching it back on its hinges. I hear ye! he said testily. Ive a good mind to lock the lot of ye outside! Its past ten oclock!

We didnt know, Da, said Kirsty as we piled into the dark lobby and into the kitchen. It was like an oven after the heat of the day, the sashes thrown wide to catch the cool night air. The gas mantles hadnt yet been lit, and dark blobs of furniture merged into the dimness. It was a room of reasonable size, but the faded pink distemper on the walls made it look smaller. Broad shelves ran the length of one wall. Rows of delft cups hung on hooks. Beside them hung one special cup made of china and painted with red roses. It was Mams cup, a small reminder of days when she had known better things.

A varnished brown dresser stood squarely at the window, its scratched surface almost hidden by a jumble of brushes, combs and knick-knacks. To the right of the dresser was the door to the scullery. Mam was at the cooker, making the supper. She had already laid the table, an oblong monstrosity with bulging legs, scrubbed white, protected from stains by layers of newspaper. The huge kitchen range gleamed dully in the half-light. Each Sunday Kirsty polished it with black lead, giving it a satin-smooth surface that was lovely to touch.

On either side of the kitchen door the dark caverns of double-bed recesses were brightened by woollen bedspreads crocheted by Mam.

Muted sounds of life came from the backcourts, filtering in through the jungle of marigolds and Tom Thumbs in Das window box.

Right, everybody, called Mam from the scullery, the cocoas ready. She looked round the door. Wheres Ian?

He wasnt with us, said Alec in his quiet nervous voice.

Ill skin him when he gets in! threatened Da, lowering himself into one of two chairs in the room. It was a rickety little chair, dark with varnish, faded brocade padding the seat, the open-weave raffia of the upright backrest yellow with age. Although it was an ugly chair, it was considerably more comfortable than the other which was hard and straight, with a cushion tied to the seat to soften the unyielding contours. This was Mams chair. She never exploited Das position as head of the house by sitting in his chair.

She emerged from the scullery bearing a tray heavy with mugs of steaming cocoa and a plate piled high with doorsteps of bread and jam. She was a small-boned woman with a sensitive face, green eyes and a thick head of naturally waving auburn hair. An Aberdonian, she had the couthy sense of humour common to the warm-hearted folk of the north-east coast, and she was gifted with the ability to make people laugh.

Normally slim, she now moved with the heavy, awkward gait of pregnancy, her time to give birth imminent. I had seen the change gradually and thought nothing of it, but Kirsty was more knowing and rushed to take the tray.

Thats the door, I piped, breathless from gulping hot, sweet cocoa.

Go and open it, Kirsty, instructed Mam.

Alec and I looked at each other, hugging ourselves in devilish anticipation of the scene we knew would follow that hurried knock. Ten-year-old Ian came in, tumbled and dishevelled, one sock up, the other lying in crumpled folds at his ankle, large smears of dust all over his jersey.

Where the hell have you been? asked Da, his voice ominously quiet.