My world isn’t round, it’s a square

The back green at Rosebery Terrace with
Annie Forrester's hedge pictured  behind.
Note the neat edges on the grass and Uncle Jock's
prized blooms.

Shouted at, threatened, hugged, patted and chased; most of all tolerated, all in a day’s life of a boy in ‘The Terrace’.

That’s what we all called it, ‘The Terrace’. Set across from the Greig Institute on the edge of old Leven, it was a compact collection of terraced houses, built around a common drying green and behind a perimeter wall. A stone’s throw to the east was our ‘twin’, Viewforth Square. Diagonally opposite was Buchlyvie Terrace, and another group of houses – the first to face the bulldozers and whose name escapes me now, but which stood alongside George Harvey’s wee, white photographic studio and behind Cook’s furniture store, later razed by fire.

But I reckon we had the edge, because we had Uncle Jock, and that meant Rosebery Terrace didn’t just have a shared back green, it had a manicured garden. Looking back it was nothing more than a well-cut bit of grass surrounded by well-tended flower beds. Buchlyvie was a bigger block with the drying green divvied up, so it wasn’t a fair comparison. Viewforth? Well, it didn’t have Uncle Jock.

Jock Thomson was just one of our neighbours in what was the centre of my universe. I was seconds away from the beach and Doriano’s hut; a minute from the Shorehead and a minute from the High Street, but Rosebery Terrace – named after the Earl and Prime Minister – was my safe haven, playground, and the residents were the nearest I had to close relatives, hence ‘Uncle’ Jock.

Buchlyvie Terrace on the far left. The South Street car
park stands on the site of another tenement block
and the GW Harvey studio.

As well as tending the green and the garden, Uncle Jock also ruled the shed, and had a greenhouse. I spent a lot of time with him and I have no recollection of him ever speaking to me. He growled a lot and would often yell, “Get that ball oot the gairden and gaun an’ play on the road ...” Yes, despite the enclosed safety of the back green, you weren’t allowed any activities that could harm his precious blooms. The road was his preferred playground for children. Occasionally I would be allowed to help tend his tomatoes in the greenhouse, or watch him at work in his shed, which was a world of wonder, packed with strange tools and implements, and filled with a heady fragrance of oil and creosote. There were certain jobs he entrusted me with. One was doing the edges with the shears, and round the clothes poles. My efforts were carefully inspected and, if not up to standard, I’d be ordered to revisit my efforts until they met with his approval. As we both grew older, and I could manage to push it, I’d have the lawnmower shoved in front of me. I’d pech away while he sat on the bench, shaking his head beneath his cap.

Uncle Jock’s apparent sternness was countered by his wife, Nancy. She didn’t like being called Auntie Nancy so insisted she was Auntie Thomson, and she was probably the nearest I had to a traditional granny. I did have a ‘step’ grandmother in Mountfleurie but that was the other side of the planet, and there was my Polish granny, but she was on the other side of the universe. Auntie Thomson filled the gap, admirably. Jock and Nancy’s house at the top of the stairs as you entered Rosebery Terrace was an open door to me. I could play with my soldiers on the steps, walk inside to use the toilet, sit and talk to Joey their budgie, and Auntie Thomson took the time to teach me to play whist and I spent many a rainy afternoon sitting with her at a folding table by the fire with a pack of cards, a cup of tea and a piece of cake, while Joey practised his few words in the corner. It’s hard to imagine anyone nowadays just allowing a neighbour’s child to wander in and out of your house, any time of day.

Every Saturday, Auntie Thomson would come down to our house for the rare treat of a cup of coffee, made with boiled milk, and a chocolate biscuit. I don’t ever recall Uncle Jock joining her, though I seem to recollect a cup being given to him as he sat in the green on the bench, no doubt pondering in despair at which idiot neighbour had put one of the stretchers back in the rack the wrong way round.

Living below them was Annie Forrester, the area’s school dental nurse, maybe even dentist – I was never sure. Miss Forrester could be ferocious, my football could also be a major aggravation to her, drawing her out from what I saw as a dark lair to tell me to play further up the road. I think I surprised her once when I got all excited when she turned up at Parkhill Primary to give us all an oral inspection. I may even have hugged her, much to her embarrassment.

Miss Forrester certainly didn’t have an open door policy though, on occasions, she did tolerate my presence and her ‘living room’ really was an old-fashioned parlour, filled with dark wood, rich colours and cosiness. I still own two packs of instruction cards she gifted me, one on road safety and one on reading music. Later on, probably when she retired, she gave me quite a collection of dental paraphernalia; this I didn’t keep.

The next stairs along led to two houses. The first belonged to Davy Foote and his mother. Mr Foote ran a fruit and vegetable shop in Commercial Road, opposite what was George Harvey’s shop. I have no knowledge of Mr Foote’s background, but he had a military, 'tweedie' bearing, neat moustache and a cap. He didn’t have a lot of time for me, though his mother was a gentle soul, who sometimes gave me a sweetie. Mr Foote just gave me grief, and didn’t like me playing on his stairs. I have a vague recollection of him being a bit of a ladies’ man and, on one occasion, being chased around the block by a rival suitor while all the neighbours watched the race from their windows.

Tucked into the corner flat was a dear lady, whose family were the Hudsbeths. They visited every year and were a friendly lot, with the two sons always willing to spend some time with me. I think it was their granny they visited upstairs. Some of the houses in ‘The Terrace’ had front doors, either on to Forth Street or School Street, and the ‘old lady’ always used hers so we rarely saw her. As a result, especially with Mr Foote’s determination to keep his stairs clear of children, these were two houses I have no recollection of ever entering.

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Below these flats were the homes of Bella Donaldson and my own, tucked into the corner. Bella was deaf as a post and a gentler soul you couldn’t hope to meet. Her door was often open and I was allowed to peek in and shout hello. She had a wire mesh covered box fixed to her outside wall and that was her ‘fridge’, where she kept her milk, cheese and butter. Bella was only there in my really early years and, I think, she went into care. The new occupants were Mr and Mrs Logie, with she quickly becoming another ‘granny’ to me, and then my own children later in life.

Through the green and up the stairs were Mr and Mrs Kelly, and daughter Marilyn. Marilyn was a good bit older than me and to her I must just have been an irritating, noisy little brat but her mum always had time for me, and a pat for my head. Next door were Mr and Mrs Pratt, and they were a couple with another open door policy for a wee boy. They had a tank of fish just inside the door and I was free to wander in and out, squatting down in front of wee aquarium and enjoying the free entertainment. Again I was allowed to just saunter into their living room on my wanders, without any reproach.

That left two downstairs houses in ‘The Terrace’, both of which had their only entrance on School Street. The first, next door to us, was actually a holiday home – I think it belonged to a family in Edinburgh. It was rarely used and through the years was occasionally let out. Other than Phyllis Bennett and her son, Ross, who became a good friend of mine, we never really got to know the folk who came and went. And, on the end, was Mrs Clow – now she and I had a lot of dealings, and I gave her a lot of exercise. Her kitchen window looked out on the green and as soon as I got up to any mischief, in the absence of Uncle Jock, she’d be banging on her window and, if she was really annoyed, you’d hear the window slide up, and she’d shout, “Right, I’ll be speaking to your mother and father...” She must have kept the window cord wheels well buttered because that frame was up and down like a yo-yo. Of course, there were times when you were out on the road, kicking the ball against the wall and you’d balloon it over, perilously close to her window and you’d hear it slide open with a dramatic flourish. Sometimes, if I hadn’t roused her wrath, I’d race round to School Street and down the wee penn at the side of the house, then sneak quietly to collect my ball … only to hear the whoosh of that window sliding up again and another raging coming. In all the years of Mrs Clow’s irritable vigil though, I don’t think she ever dobbed me in to mum and dad, and she would tolerate the occasional visit from the boy with a ball, but I had to knock.

Her window, looked out over her generously-shared rhubarb patch, Uncle Jock’s greenhouse and shed, and, of course, the wash house. The back green was off limits when that was in use and my mother and Auntie Thomson had no time for me when they doubled up for a day’s laundry. The wash house was like a sauna, with the roaring fire and bubbling boiler stoked to maximum, those seemingly giant mangles, wringers, scrubbing boards, and the smell of soap and bleach. It was hot, hard work, but also a place of wonder. Once the back green was filled, the clothes ropes taut with the stretchers, and Auntie Thomson and mum inside having a cup of tea and a biscuit, the silence, smell and fading heat of the wash house made a memorable impression.

Of course, over time the faces would change in ‘The Terrace’ as would the routines. The arrival of the twin tub did for the wash house and it simply became a communal shed in its redundancy and where I kept my bike. My father used to maintain the path with shingle off the beach, ferried up with a wheelbarrow, but Mr Logie laid a concrete walkway, which is still there today. The flower beds and the grass became a shared chore, and an expense, but ‘The Terrace’ has survived.

Looking at it now, built around a grass ‘courtyard’ and with easily restricted access, Rosebery Terrace and Viewforth Square, actually provided, and still could provide, a good model for community living. I still have fond memories when many of the neighbours congregated, some on the back green, some at their doors and some on their steps, and simply blethered. They let me run among them and make a nuisance of myself … but I had to make sure no shingle was scuffed up on the grass, and, of course, had to stay well clear of Uncle Jock’s flowers.