The Shoestring must have been one of the least appealing cafes in Edinburgh when I knew it in the 1950’s. I have since tried to find its location along the Royal Mile but that whole area has been so gentrified I have been totally unsuccessful.
I was introduced to the Shoestring by a friend from the Dramatic Society called Tony. He was a somewhat lugubrious Welshman with a bushy black beard and a lovely furry voice. I had no idea what he was studying, as he never went to the library or seemed to attend classes. I think he just enjoyed the life style, and the company at the university.
He went on occasion to the Shoestring to help out. It was owned by a young couple, and the wife Margaret seemed to do most of the work around the place. Her husband just wandered about and was rather useless at the domestic side of things. He made pretentious conversation about political theory and Scottish Politics. I would have been more impressed if he had washed a few dishes!
When Tony and I went there we usually washed the dishes that had accumulated, and wiped down the tables. The room was quite large and the tables were decorated with candles stuck in Chianti bottles. Because the place was below grade and the two windows were at street level we often needed the candles even on bright days. The main fare was usually a large pot of soup, which was very filling, with thick sandwiches. The coffee was hot and strong and we always had a pot on the go.
In one corner there was a record player which played a continual diet of jazz all day long. For many of the students this was a slightly leftish place to hang out, without providing a serious challenge to their as yet unformed opinions.
They were quite happy to let Margaret’s husband pontificate and contributed little of their own beliefs. They left to return to their rooming houses feeling that they had experienced LIFE!!!!
I did not get to know the couple well as I did not come as often as Tony.I did notice that Margaret, who was pregnant, often looked frail and tired.
One day she asked me if I would feed a kitten they had adopted while she went to a doctor’s appointment. She gave me a key and later that day I climbed the stairs from the café and let myself into the apartment.
I made encouraging kitten attracting noises, but no wee cat appeared. I made my way into the kitchen and the smell of sour milk hit me. The sink was full of dirty dishes and the fireplace had piles of unwashed milk bottles falling over on one another. My anger flared, and I boiled water and washed everything in sight. My muttered curses made the air blue, as I piled the plates and other crockery in the drying rack. I really do not know why I got so angry. I thought of myself as a fairly tolerant person. At some point I had developed an interest in Communes as an alternative to more conventional ways of living. I am sure had I looked into the prospect more fully, the disorganization and squalor of many would have put me off.
This whole experience with this couple made me realize that Nannie’s training had fully penetrated my way of thinking. The necessity of cleanliness and order had been too early and too persistently inculcated. I really was not cut out to be a Beatnik!
I went back to the café less and less frequently after this as I really could not stand Margaret’s husband. I felt badly about her situation but was helpless to assist her in any meaningful way. I never did find out what happened to them.
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