Free Bitter Water by Gordon Ferris Page B

door at seven o’clock.’
    ‘That’s just . . . great. What’s on?’
    ‘The main picture’s Brief Encounter .’
    The phone went dead.
    I slung my jacket over my shoulder, lit a cigarette and tried to saunter down the dusty street like Jimmy Stewart not giving a damn about a broad.
    The Gorbals was steaming. The smells from back-street middens funnelled through the closes and merged with aromas of fresh horse pish from the coal and fish carts. Kids were everywhere doing
mysterious kids’ things now the schools were out. But among them were the sure signs of deprivation: one with callipers on her legs from polio; several with the rounded skinny legs of
rickets; bare feet, ragged shorts and patched dresses. I’d seen weans in better health in the bombed-out cities of the Third Reich. It was hard to see who’d won. But at least these wee
ruffians seemed happy. If it weren’t for the likelihood of catching something, you’d hug them all.
    As I walked I was reminded again that the Gorbals is a hotchpotch of enclaves. The area is bursting at the seams with refugees from Ireland, the Highlands, Russia, Lithuania, Poland, Italy and
Asia. Life must have been pretty tough to seek haven in this cold wet fastness so far to the north of anywhere. It meant that there were pocket nations throughout the district, each with its own
language and customs. All they lacked were flags and customs posts. You could hear Irish-Gaelic and Polish, Scots-Yiddish and Gorbals-Italian in a twenty-minute stroll across Hutchesontown.
    I’d had enough sightseeing in the heat. I turned round and headed back towards Laurieston and the Jewish quarter – hardly a schtetl , but certainly a concentration of things
Jewish – centred on their Great Synagogue in South Portland Street. As far as I know, Scotland is the only country in the world not to have expelled or murdered its Jews. Maybe it’s
because we share a taste for diasporas. And outlooks. There’s something very Scottish in the Jewish view that good times won’t last and you’d better not get happy thinking they
will. Same applies to our self-wounding sense of humour. Not to mention our reputed interest in money. But I’d like to think it’s because we’re also a broadly tolerant mob,
accepting of strangers from any quarter: Ireland, the Highlands and, if pushed, England.
    I recall back in ’33 signing the petition that resulted in the council boycotting German goods in protest at their anti-Semitism. Much good it did the poor buggers. Of course it’s
not all altruistic; I’m convinced there’s a master plan to improve Scottish cooking. It’s hard to imagine life without Italian chippies and ice-cream vans and I have high hopes
for curry and noodles. As for the tooth-dissolving treats from Glickman’s in the Gallowgate . . .
    The shop was still there, thank God, or whoever was currently looking after this lost tribe of Israel. It wasn’t any god I’d obey. If you asked me, it was time they
traded in their Old Testament guy for someone with a little less rancour in his heart for his followers.
    The sign still read ‘Isaac Feldmann, Tailor and Fancy Linens’ in English and Yiddish above the shop. Two large windows either side of a central door. The window displays were
unchanged in the years I’d been away. Sombre brown curtains starting halfway up and falling to the foot. Above the curtain, in the left window, the torso and head of a male mannequin stared
blindly out towards me. On the right, a female gazed coquettishly at the male. It made me smile to see the dummies dressed in the latest style – of the twenties. I liked tradition.
    I walked over and pushed through the door. The bell tinkled twice. It was dim and cosy, just as I recalled. Even the dust looked the same depth. Same long counter inset with a long brass ruler.
The torso of a dressmaker’s dummy on a base. Shelf upon shelf of bolts of cloth. I waited for the bell to summon assistance, and then