Nostalgia for a Tenement

[Talisker-Himself]

Nostalgia for a Tenement by John Cairney

It’s a sordid derelict wasteland now where not even weeds will grow
But I did on that very spot, many years ago
For here once stood a building proud and clean and neat
Now there’s no trace of that special place in the rubble at my feet
But I can remember long ago and once upon a time
What’s to remember – please yourself – the family bible on the shelf
The jawbox where I washed my feet after tanner ba’ fitba’ in the street
Old zinc bath below the bed where you kept your bike racing red
Black leaded range, soup in the pot, a shilling on Saturday that’s your lot
Kettle never off the boil, nightly dose of caster oil
The squeal of pullies through the wall, the woman’s face that says it all
Grime and grease and sentiment, nostalgia for a tenement

Pipeclay patterns on the stairs, sit in the sun on kitchen chairs
The swan necked well, brasses shining, your granny’s fur coat with its satin lining
The paper blinds with a street light chink, the ne’r day bottle you dare not drink
The clatter of milk cans, the sweet smell of chips, back close kisses from cold pursed lips
The clock on the brace, wally dugs, the house in the close that was bared for bugs
The tablecloth for visitors only, the man in the single end, batchelor lonely
It takes all kinds to represent, nostalgia for a tenement

The Salvation Army’s Sabbath alarm, the cart that came round with eggs from the farm
The girl up the next close married a Yank the day you dropped your bool doon a stank
Tea in a caddy, biscuits in a tin, box in the wardrobe to keep photographs in
Saving up for the school trip, join the ménage, bargains at the barras, up to every dodge
A medal from the first world war, the insurance money in the drawer
The two pound jar of rhubarb jam, the rattle of a Toll Cross tram
Footsteps in the wet cement, nostalgia for a tenement

One, two, three a leery, see a lassie spin a peerie
Dabbities and candy rock, get all dressed up for the Sunday walk
Pitch and Toss at the sheltered spot, watch for the polis – don’t get caught
Beds on the pavement, guidies and girds, skinny black cats and wee broon birds
Step for a hint, a big white jaurry, hudgie rides on the back of a lorry
Allevio, moshey, roller skates, night at the carnival with some of your mates
Doon the water at the Fair, Millport, Rothsay, Saltcoats or Ayr
Kirby grips or a big dod of string, oor kitchen dresser had everything
The messages you were always sent, nostalgia for a tenement

Bunker in the lobby, gas cooker in the press,
the lavi in the landing, the bed in the recess
The midgie man, the roan pipes, washing roon the back,
Tizers at the Tallis, the coalman’s stoorie sack
The fly wee bookie’s runner who hings aboot the close,
The fella in your class at school who aye had a snottery nose
Ashes in the ash pan, wax cloth on the floor,
a neighbour out of sugar, just chap at the nearest door
Friday night at the pictures, see you in the queue
Standing at the corner, nothing else to do
The Cruelty man, the School Board, all the men that came to the door
The Rent man, the Gas man, the man from the Co-op store
The Rag man’s cheeky bugle call, bouncing off the gable wall
The mysterious lodger who came and went, nostalgia for a tenement

And if things were bad, you were never too sad, at least you were never alone
No matter the bother, you relied on each other, for the street took care of its own
The goodies and baddies, the in-betweens, the never will be’s and the never have beens
Gallus courageous playing their part, using the head, sometimes the heart
In that concrete canyon, asphalt veil, already cut off and beyond the pale
Survivors in that common band, safe in their own never-ever land
An accordion's two o’clock in the morning lament, nostalgia for a tenement

Now it is rubble, my boyhood home,
nothing of it left but a vacant space
Devoid of grace, of all dignity bereft,
A playing field of litter, rubbish strewn and bare
And only the ghost of a building now haunts the empty air
But close your eyes and you will see in misty skies of memory
That man-made mountain, great bee hive, a warren of homes that was once alive
A carousel of families going up and down, a tapestry of images, a village in a town
My urban tribe, my city clan, part of my childhood’s innocent span
All that we needed was there in the street, boxed in a building secure and complete
And if it now has returned to dust, so in the end must all of us
But we can still remember the young days spent, nostalgia for a tenement.
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