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Walking Home

Author: Jean Davis

It was mid afternoon when I arrived at Gilmour Street Station in Paisley. My first thought had been to take a taxi, but after having had such a long train journey I decided it would be good to stretch my legs. Despite my age I did enjoy a good walk. It had been many years since I’d last visited the town and I wanted to make the most of it, to remember the carefree years. The walk to my family home, where my younger sister still lived, wouldn’t take long.

As children we three girls often wandered into town, it gave us something to do during the long days of the school holidays. Not having bikes, we walked everywhere. We could easily spend two or three hours doing nothing in particular, just looking at different shop windows, without going inside. We didn’t have money to spend anyway. We had been warned to keep well out of the way of the buses on the busy streets and to be back in good time for dinner. The route home that we now took was well known to the three of us.

We were about to pass a familiar building of flats where a cousin of mine lived, when I noticed that her window on the second floor was open. I knew that windows were opened to let out smells, especially if something like toast got burnt. I’d also seen women shake dusters and tablecloths from these great heights and had heard them call down to friends walking past. I couldn’t remember ever having seen a man leaning out of a window. I was surprised to hear a loud voice calling from above.

‘Hello,’ the voice shouted, ‘are you girls on your way home – would you like a piece?’

The pleased expressions on three nodding faces gave a clear answer. Within minutes a paper bag was thrown from the open window, was successfully caught and the contents quickly and eagerly shared out. My cousin remained leaning out of the window and smiling down on us. We shouted up our thanks before walking on. I, however, remained still. The bread lay flat on my hand, partly opened to expose the contents. My two companions looked on with interest. My cousin asked if there was anything wrong. With childish honesty I replied quietly that I didn’t like jam and butter together. Thinking my cousin hadn’t heard this, my friends shouted loudly to her about the butter and jam. I couldn’t clearly hear the muttered comment from above but knew from the expression on her face, and the abruptly shut window, that I’d probably said the wrong thing. My friends kindly offered to share the extra piece of bread between them.

It was useful to have a cousin. In fact, I had several living around the town. On we walked, me with my head down. It was just a pity it had turned out as it had. I was now not only hungry but worried. My mother would hear about this, sooner or later.

I decided to quickly tie up my shoe lace, just in case I tripped and got marks on my blazer. It was my school blazer and I’d been told to wear it during the holidays, despite my daily protests. Bending down on my haunches, I tied my lace then quickly sprang up. The loud tear as my skirt hem caught on my heel was heard by my friends who turned to see what was going on. This had happened before and the explanation to my mother had been rejected outright. I’d explained that my skirts were much too long anyway, having been handed down from my older sister. I didn’t even like the colours. My mother had looked extremely annoyed.

Coming towards us at a short distance, was a small group of unfamiliar boys. I suggested we cross to the other side of the road and screw up our faces. I’d heard that boys weren’t interested in girls who looked ugly. This seemed to work and the boys swiftly passed by without as much as a second look.

I could see our house now. After skipping along a little I stopped abruptly. I’d just remembered, today was Tuesday and Tuesday was mince day. I didn’t like mince. I decided to take my time now. I reckoned that I might be lucky enough to get a smaller portion if I were the last to sit down at the table.

There had been lots to reminisce about during my walk. Much of the town had changed, old buildings removed, new ones built. I remembered my two friends and wondered how their lives had turned out. One of them had, at an early age, declared that she would be an opera singer, although no-one had ever heard her sing. The other had announced that she would be a missionary, we hadn’t understood what that meant at the time but had been quite impressed. I now rather hoped that her missionary services hadn’t been needed.

None of the memories I’d had on my walk had been significant, or even of much interest really, but they had clearly been important to my younger self to have been etched so firmly in my memory. They told of a girl I no longer recognised, but who was still somehow very much part of my being. I realised those early years might not have been quite so carefree after all. The walk had taken longer than I’d thought it might. There I was, looking at the familiar building that had been my home, so pleased to have arrived back in good time for dinner.