pale pink, buying the wool in bulk through that same good fairy in the wool warehouse. I don’t think I ever saw Grannie without her steel needles flashing in her lap, summer or winter, for it was a constant task keeping us all clothed all the year round.
She was an expert knitter, and I remember my mother being fascinated by a little waistcoat she saw in a pattern book, and beginning to knit this in brown and mustard shades. Grannie took one look at the size and said, ‘That will fit oor Molly when it’s feenished, but never you, it’s far ower wee.’ My mother was indignant for she had implicit faith that a book must be far more accurate than Grannie’s invented patterns. Doggedly she followed the instructions, pressed out the finished garment and sewed it together. We all looked at each other, and my mother walked out of the kitchen without a word. I felt so sorry that it had turned out this way after all her hard work, for she wasn’t a natural knitter like Grannie, but I must say that sporty little waistcoat kept my back snug and warm for a good few winters, and in the end my mother rejoiced that at least she had made a first-class job of this tiny garment. ‘You’d think it had been bought in a shop,’ she said proudly. ‘You’d never think it had been hand-made.’
My summer ginghams were devised from about a yard of material at elevenpence ha’penny or one shilling and sixpence, and, of course, not a penny was spent on a pattern. My mother just copied whatever style took her fancy. Boys’ clothes had to be bought, you see, for the first attempt to make a pair of trousers was so disastrous that a second was never even contemplated. The boys were far more conventional than I was, and utterly refused to be dressed differently from their fellows. But with a girl it was different – for I didn’t mindmy slightly unusual clothes. Mind you, dresses were easy, and with this girl it was certainly different, I’d been reading quite a lot about a little French girl who came to stay in Scotland, and who looked completely different from everyone else and went sobbing to bed each night because of this; but in the end she triumphed, because a rich lady came and instantly picked out this little oddity because she was elegant and
chic
, and not ordinary like the others, and she took her on a splendid holiday to the seaside. This story reinforced Grannie’s teaching that it didn’t matter if one looked different from other people, and in fact at times could be a positive advantage. Alas, no rich lady picked me out from the crowd, but the upstairs neighbours did take me with them when they went to the sea in the summer, after I’d had flu, and that was almost as good.
When the time came for me to move to the higher school we were at our wits’ end, for now it was demanded that I wear a gym tunic with a blouse underneath. Where on earth could we find the money for a gym tunic? Even the coarsest serge was beyond my mother’s pocket. She looked over her meagre wardrobe. She had a fine navy gaberdine jacket and skirt, and decided she’d sacrifice the skirt for me. This time I was in a panic, for I’d been told it
had
to be serge. How could gaberdine look like serge? It was much finer, and it was a slightly lighter shade of navy, and this time I just had to be the same as the rest of the class. It was a uniform. I was certain I wouldn’t be allowed to studywith the rest of the class, and would be condemned to the junior school for ever.
My mother ignored my anguished cries and sewed on. When I saw the finished result I sat down and wept. Not only was it a light navy, not only gaberdine, but with the curve of the skirt she hadn’t been able to make a square yoke; and the pleats were hung on to a curved yoke, the square corners rounded instead of sharp. Added to this, my mother had decided the best value in blouses was Tussore silk, not white cotton. Not only was it cheap, but it wouldn’t show the dirt, an
She was an expert knitter, and I remember my mother being fascinated by a little waistcoat she saw in a pattern book, and beginning to knit this in brown and mustard shades. Grannie took one look at the size and said, ‘That will fit oor Molly when it’s feenished, but never you, it’s far ower wee.’ My mother was indignant for she had implicit faith that a book must be far more accurate than Grannie’s invented patterns. Doggedly she followed the instructions, pressed out the finished garment and sewed it together. We all looked at each other, and my mother walked out of the kitchen without a word. I felt so sorry that it had turned out this way after all her hard work, for she wasn’t a natural knitter like Grannie, but I must say that sporty little waistcoat kept my back snug and warm for a good few winters, and in the end my mother rejoiced that at least she had made a first-class job of this tiny garment. ‘You’d think it had been bought in a shop,’ she said proudly. ‘You’d never think it had been hand-made.’
My summer ginghams were devised from about a yard of material at elevenpence ha’penny or one shilling and sixpence, and, of course, not a penny was spent on a pattern. My mother just copied whatever style took her fancy. Boys’ clothes had to be bought, you see, for the first attempt to make a pair of trousers was so disastrous that a second was never even contemplated. The boys were far more conventional than I was, and utterly refused to be dressed differently from their fellows. But with a girl it was different – for I didn’t mindmy slightly unusual clothes. Mind you, dresses were easy, and with this girl it was certainly different, I’d been reading quite a lot about a little French girl who came to stay in Scotland, and who looked completely different from everyone else and went sobbing to bed each night because of this; but in the end she triumphed, because a rich lady came and instantly picked out this little oddity because she was elegant and
chic
, and not ordinary like the others, and she took her on a splendid holiday to the seaside. This story reinforced Grannie’s teaching that it didn’t matter if one looked different from other people, and in fact at times could be a positive advantage. Alas, no rich lady picked me out from the crowd, but the upstairs neighbours did take me with them when they went to the sea in the summer, after I’d had flu, and that was almost as good.
When the time came for me to move to the higher school we were at our wits’ end, for now it was demanded that I wear a gym tunic with a blouse underneath. Where on earth could we find the money for a gym tunic? Even the coarsest serge was beyond my mother’s pocket. She looked over her meagre wardrobe. She had a fine navy gaberdine jacket and skirt, and decided she’d sacrifice the skirt for me. This time I was in a panic, for I’d been told it
had
to be serge. How could gaberdine look like serge? It was much finer, and it was a slightly lighter shade of navy, and this time I just had to be the same as the rest of the class. It was a uniform. I was certain I wouldn’t be allowed to studywith the rest of the class, and would be condemned to the junior school for ever.
My mother ignored my anguished cries and sewed on. When I saw the finished result I sat down and wept. Not only was it a light navy, not only gaberdine, but with the curve of the skirt she hadn’t been able to make a square yoke; and the pleats were hung on to a curved yoke, the square corners rounded instead of sharp. Added to this, my mother had decided the best value in blouses was Tussore silk, not white cotton. Not only was it cheap, but it wouldn’t show the dirt, an
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