The Sunday Girls by Maureen Reynolds Page A

on which anything nasty could still lurk and, after every nook and cranny had well and truly been fumigated, Lily was allowed to be placed in it. The eiderdown was taken from the bed and folded over to make a comfy base for her.
    ‘There’s just the one thing, Dad,’ Granny warned. ‘You’re not to carry any of Jeemy’s mangy clothes in that pram. If you have to deliver anything, make sure it’s well wrapped up and put in a message bag, not beside the baby.’
    Grandad, who would have agreed to anything now that the victory was his, nodded.
    ‘I mean it,’ she warned him sternly, casting a steely eye at him. ‘If I see as much as one flea hopping about that pram, then it’s going straight on the midden.’
    Much later, I left them sitting at the window with the pram and Lily parked between them. Granny was leaning out and telling Alice all about the new acquisition at home.
    Alice was full of praise for Grandad’s visionary thinking. ‘Oh, it’ll be grand for Lily.’ Then she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I see somebody’s put San Izal down the lavvy. Charley from next door came out with tears running down his cheeks and everybody is moaning about it.’
    Granny sensibly remained silent. It was one thing to be praised for a spotlessly clean pram but having the close up in arms over poisonous fumes was another.
    I wandered down the Overgate, hoping to run into Danny. I knew I couldn’t wait till his deliveries were finished before going to see Dad. I thought I might see him as he circumnavigated the narrow streets on his trusty black bike. It was almost seven o’clock and, although the street was always thronged with people, tonight it seemed to be much busier than normal. Large groups congregated at each corner of the many streets that led on to the Overgate. Crowds of people going towards the High Street hurried past me. A small group of men, dressed in their ill-fitting clothes and with cloth caps on their heads made a circled detour around me, half skipping in their haste. As they hurried past, I heard some of the breathless conversation. ‘Better get a move on or we’ll miss the march.’ On that note, they quickened their pace to a run.
    Lipton’s shop was almost empty, with only a mere handful of customers in the process of buying some essentials in the grocery line. The staff, dressed in long white aprons over their white shirts and blouses were not exactly run off their feet but neither were they slouching around. One man was busy slicing bacon, turning the huge cartwheel handle in time to the slithering sound as blade met gammon joint. Meanwhile, his colleague stood beside a huge mound of butter. I watched in fascination as he pushed his wooden pallet into the golden mound. He then deftly patted the unformed shape into a perfect rectangle which he tossed on to the scales where it weighed an exact eight ounces.
    There was no sign of Danny so I stepped out into the street where, once again, I was almost swept off my feet by the mass of humanity now surging down the Overgate. I overheard another snippet as I was swept along. ‘It’s a march against unemployment and the Workers’ Movement want as many folk as possible to show up.’ I was suddenly worried about Dad. Most of the men I knew, including Dad and his friends, all supported the National Unemployed Workers’ Movement. It now looked as if the entire population of Dundee was on the move and converging on the town centre.
    By the time I reached the foot of Reform Street, a huge procession of people marching four abreast was heading towards me. As they passed by, they were joined by a fringe of onlookers. A motley collection of women, children and old men tagged along at their rear – whether from sympathy or curiosity it was hard to tell.
    I scanned the faces as they swam in front of me like a vast human sea but I didn’t see Dad. This was not surprising because, in the general noisy hubbub, it was difficult to see everyone. The fact