Our days at Edinburgh University in the 1950’s were a mixture of conformity to a pre-war ethic and the beginnings of the radical ethos of the1960s. As nice young women we wore the New Look and behaved demurely. We also wanted to break out of something we could barely articulate. We would perhaps have described ourselves as Beatniks.
I was eighteen when I arrived for Fresher’s Week and went to all the events knowing no one. Living in Hostel was rather like School except you had your own room and mainly came and went as you pleased. With one friend, who was also in the same residence ,we had a good time exploring Edinburgh.
There were very few rules to follow where we lived but they did seem somewhat peculiar. On the one hand, the hostel allowed men only on the weekend…..during the day….. and with the door to your room open!
On the other hand, many a tryst was made on Arthur’s Seat or in another handy byway .Youth has always found a way, and we were no different.
Usually we managed to avoid the dons. These were faculty members who lived in the Hostel. They were expected to act as role models and inspire us towards academic excellence. There was also an underlying expectation form our parents that their influence would keep us from too much harm.
Apart from the ‘men in the room’ rule, we had to be back in Hostel by midnight, and once a week we made the breakfast toast. This seemed like a lot of liberty to me.
My background was rooted in a middle class parochialism which was strongly influenced by the teachings of John Knox. Fundamentally, if something was pleasurable it was undoubtedly wrong , and probably even wicked. My mother always said that she lived her life with Knox always at her shoulder saying “Don’t do it”. She seems to have put up quite a spirited resistance to this idea.
Some other really helpful rules to live by were as I look back were” Remember to wear clean underwear when going out”. You might be knocked down by a bus and would not want to be embarrassed in the hospital by less than clean knickers.
‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness” was another maxim. In those days, before washing machines and running hot water, being clean was much more of an effort than now.
In the 1940’s in Scotland a great deal of attention was spent on the public health aspects of germs and their role in the spread of disease. Infant mortality was high and polio and tuberculosis were common in the noisesome slums of the big cities and in the overcrowded houses of the rural poor.
I think this was where the emphasis on cleanliness came from . in our home environment. Nanny spent a lot of time doing the wash. Baby diapers had to be soaked and then washed and if possible dried in the sun. In the usual daily rain in Scotland this idea was a challenge.
Thinking about this now, I’m sure her memories of her father being, ”down the pit.” were vivid. All the miners returned home at the end of their shift black, grimy and exhausted. A warm hip bath needed to be ready and this meant often hauling the water and then warming it on the stove. There were no showers at the pit head in those days. So she was no stranger to the cost of being clean.
The only other clear instructions I remember were, “a lady always wears gloves, and has a clean handkerchief and clean shiny shoes.”
None of this was very helpful as a guide to the pitfalls of life as a first year student. I don’t remember being in the slightest phased by my situation. There is nothing like the harsh realities of a girl’s boarding school as good preparation for life at university. I certainly felt no twinges of homesickness. In fact, I was delighted by my ever expanding boundaries.
None of these useful maxims about the wickedness of pleasure or the need for cleanliness came in very useful in my first year. Looking back my early essays into rebellion, were mild. Although my father gave me a clothing allowance, ispent the absolute minimum on clothes. Instead I spent it on a record player and records. Because of this lack of interest I usually wore a pair of tartan trousers, a very dilapidated duffle coat, and a university scarf . My hair was very long so I never went to the hairdresser. In fact, my personal expenses were minimal.
Instead of concentrating on my studies I presumed that I would do fine. I always had done so in the little school I was at until I was 15 and then at the Crammer College in Glasgow. This was a silly mistake but it did not become apparent until the end of my first year when I failed two out of three courses.
How could I concentrate on subjects when there were so many different clubs to join, all looking for new members? So I joined a few and met a small circle of people. Not really friends as yet, but recognizable in the cafeteria where one could pass by and sit in for a while. This was the best position from which to look over the men or any other group you wanted to join.Someone could usually be persuaded to go casually down the room with you, and, as if by chance, stop and introduce you to the desired person. After that you were on your own!
In this way, I joined the Dramatic Society, better known as the DramSoc. The members of this group ,like amateur dramatic groups all over, thought of themselves as very ,’avant guarde ‘ However, most of our rebellious behaviour seemed to consist of bouts of drunkenness followed by contrite sessions of ‘cramming up’ on all the lectures we had missed.
In this group I met Tony, a morose Welshman with a beautiful deep voice , and a black beard. He seemed to be one of those perpetual students. I never saw him attend a lecture or pay a visit to the library. Considerably older than the rest of us, he seemed very experienced to me .He was involved with the DramSoc and I went along with him to rehearsals quite often. These were the,’ way out’ group I had been seeking. I was delighted to watch them make fun of the university government and make scurrilous comments about local politicians.
Because I had failed end of term exams, I found I would have to spend the summer in Edinburgh to study for resits in September.
At first devastated by such an unexpected event, I found this was a great opportunity to study in the morning and join the backstage crew of the DramSoc in the afternoon. They were working on a Variety Show to play during the Edinburgh Festival.
The Hostel was closed, so some of us lived for free in a university property waiting to be demolished. This was somehow like living in a ‘squat’ without the police harassment.
There was a kitchen, and although there was no hot water the toilets worked and we had some mattresses to sleep on.
In the morning, my two roommates and I made strong coffee and ate the soft rolls we ordered every day, still warn from the oven. What a luxury they were, warm rolls delivered to our door every morning from a nearby bakery.
After breakfast I dutifully studied and then was free to spend the afternoon and evening working on the Variety Show.
It was during this period that Tony introduced me to the Shoestring. This was probably the grotiest and most unsanitary cafe in the city. How it ever passed any by-law for cleanliness is a mystery. It was on the Royal Mile. where I have since tried to find it’s approximate location without success .Since the 1950,s the Royal Mile has been gentrified so that the old reeking ‘closes’ are hardly recognizable.
The Shoestring was down two worn step from the street. Usually Margaret’s the owner’s cat could be seen curled up in the otherwise empty window. Inside there were a few tables with candles jammed into wine bottles. These were always lit as the place had a dark dingy atmosphere even on the brightest day. They served coffee and tea and rather dubious sandwiches. There was a record player and a selection of Jazz always playing.
I felt sorry for Margaret as she was quite pregnant and had the transparent skin that goes with auburn hair .She had dark rings under her eyes and did not look very healthy. Everyone thought her husband was’ very cool’. I did notice, however, how little actual work he did about the place.
Whenever we were there Tony and I washed up and wiped the tables. This saved Margaret a bit but I grew to resent her lazy bum of a husband as he swanned about spouting Marxist ideology.
One day when I was there Margaret told me that she had a doctor’s appointment and needed someone to look in on her flat and feed a kitten they had recently adopted. I agreed to do this somewhat reluctantly.
So that afternoon I climbed up the narrow stairs above the cafe to their flat and let myself in. I called the kitten but there was no response. I went looking for it and walked into what must have been the bedroom.
There were two humps on a rather narrow bed and the sound of breathing . There was no other furniture in evidence, the window was closed and so dirty you could not see outside. The smell of unwashed bodies and frowsty bedclothes made me back out hastily into the kitchen. There was no sound from the other room so they had not heard me.
The kitchen had dirty dishes in the sink and there were about fifteen dirty empty milk bottles piled in the fireplace. They smelled too.
I don’t know what came over me, but In a fury I boiled water ,luckily found some soap, and washed the lot. The noise must have wakened the sleepers but they did not budge . There was no kitten in evidence. I never did find it. If it had any sense it must have moved on.
Later,when I got in touch with why my rage boiled over that day, I realized I must reached a limit in my desire to rebel
. How could they possibly be thinking of bringing a baby into that environment?. How could they live in such squalor? Did that man have no care for his wife and child?
After that I quickly lost interest in the Shoestring and although sorry for Margaret I realized there was little I could do for her.
Later I heard that, when the Queen visited Edinburgh and drove down the Royal Mile in a cavalcade of black limousines ,our rebellious Marxist danced into the street in a top hat and tails making fun of the whole enterprise. I wonder if her Majesty was ‘amused’!
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