Free Shoes Were For Sunday by Molly Weir

the bunker was used by us for more serious things, and its lid became a desk when we spread it with our school books as we wrestled with homework, and pored over our jotters. Occasionally we had to make way for Grannie, so that she could use the top for cooling trays of toffee or pots of jam, and then we’d lean against it with covetous eyes, waiting for the toffee to cool and exasperating Grannie by poking with experimental fingers to see if the toffee was ready for breaking and eating.
    About once in four weeks my mother, as she left for work in the morning, would remind Grannie ‘Oh, Grannie, don’t forget to get the bunker ready – the coal’s coming today.’ There was a fierce scurry on our part to move our treasures out of harm’s way, so that the lid could be raised in readiness for the coalman. ‘My drumsticks!’ Tommy would cry, and move them carefully to the top of the dresser. ‘My scraps!’ I’d yell, and take my adored coloured angels and fairies, and lay them safely under the bed as a temporary refuge. ‘My bools!’ Willie would shout, and slide the saucer with his plunkersand jawries and glessies, the most prized marbles he possessed, to the far end of the dresser. Meantime Grannie took down the brass covers hanging along the back wall so that the lid could go right back unhindered.
    Then the first faint cry would reach us, increasing in strength as the coalman mounted the stairs. ‘Yeeee-how!’, which we correctly translated as ‘Coal’, followed by ‘ WEEEEEEEE … R’, delivered in a long-drawn-out bellow which would have wakened the dead. At last he would stride into our kitchen, a gigantic figure in our eyes. Face blackened with coal dust, lips showing a rim of scarlet behind the black crust which had formed as he licked them, teeth startlingly white and gums gleaming pink as he grinned at us. This visitor in glorious Technicolor fascinated us. We admired the superb strength of him as he tossed the coal into the depths of the empty bunker, and appreciated his thoughtfulness as he smoothed out the bag deftly so that too much dust wouldn’t rise to blacken Grannie’s spotless shelves.
    ‘How many bags are we gettin’ the day, mister?’ we would ask. ‘Will it be right tae the top?’ ‘Right tae the top!’ he would reply. ‘Yer grannie’ll hiv tae burn plenty o’ fires afore there’s room for you to play in the bunker.’ He knew as well as we did that the bunker was more than just a thing for coal.
    The tenements were all lit by gas, and on Fridays when Grannie and I were doing the cleaning of all the brasses in the house the mantle had to be removed from the thin brass gas bracket with its swan-like neck,and moved to safety, while we set to with busy polish and cloths and made the bracket and the band which ran round the mantelpiece sparkle like beaten gold.
    Sometimes when handing the mantle back to Grannie for replacing on the bracket my fingers would grasp it too tightly and I’d hear a screech, ‘My goodness, that’s anither mantle awa’. Whit’ll your mother say? How often have I to tell you that ye canna handle a mantle like a bool? Awa’ doon to the store and get anither ane.’
    The assistant would cock a quizzical eye as I asked, ‘One inverted gas mantle please.’ ‘Imphm! And who broke it this time, hen? You? Or yer grannie?’ ‘Me,’ I had to confess. As he handed me the little square cardboard box, he’d say, ‘Weel, don’t run wi’ it. Tak’ yer time and walk, an’ no break it afore ye get it hame.’ So I’d walk very slowly, holding the box fearfully, and controlling my normal bouncing step in case I’d jiggle my frail cargo to destruction.
    There was quite a ceremony as Grannie and I carefully raised the lid and gazed inside to confirm that all was well. And there, suspended by its four wee lugs, which hung from neat, cut-out projections of thin cardboard, was our ‘inverted gas mantle’.
    It looked incredibly fragile and white, with a