The Bellfield Runners

By Alexander B. Taylor

This is a nostalgic stroll down memory lane for those of us raised in
Glasgow, Scotland, in the post-war era of the 1950s. I have tried to
invoke the happy times many of us experienced, although there were tears
of joy and sadness shed along the way (not necessarily by us, but most
probably by our parents struggle to give us a decent upbringing).
I look back fondly on the many lifelong friends I made throughout my
school years, many of whom who are no longer with us, but who hold a
special place in my memories.
I hope this book will give you an insight into the happy halcyon days of
my youth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Aug 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465302861

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Alexander B. Taylor.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011912670

ISBN: Hardcover     978-1-4653-0285-4

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4653-0284-7

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4653-0286-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD

THE BELLFIELD RUNNERS

1999 SAINT ANNE’S SCHOOL

Epilogue

Sputtering Gas Lamps

We stayed mid-landing in our tenement

The Hearse:

Street entertainers

Frankie Vaughn:

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thanks to:

•   My family: May, Scott and Sharon;

•   A special thanks to Isabella McGarry for helping the book over the finishing line;

•   A special thanks to the BELLFIELD RUNNERS who are no longer with us;

•   A special thanks to Enda Ryan, Patricia Grant and Louise Boyle of the MITCHELL LIBRARY, Glasgow for their kindness in supplying the photographs of the Gallowgate, Glasgow;

•   Thanks to Lynne Crawford, Archives Department MITCHELL LIBRARY, Glasgow.

FOREWORD

This memoir is a delightful journey into the past of an incredible individual, Alexander B. Taylor. I have known this man for almost my entire life, albeit a number of years of separation living in separate countries, but this is a segment of Alex’s amazing journey into his youth that will be embraced by many people who will easily identify with some of the characters in this memoir. Funny, poignant, rough and a camaraderie of friendship that exists amongst teenage friends.

Alex and I started school in Grade 1, and his family and mine became friends throughout the years, especially his older sister, Lizzie, who was my mother’s best friend, they lived next door to each other for many years. Alex, being the youngest son of a family of 13, showed a penchant for reading, writing, and art. In those days, it was a rarity to show this flare for the arts, due to the environment where he lived. Alex faced this adversity and persevered, rising to the culmination of this memoir.

While reading this book, I found myself actually feeling I was there when Alex described some of the funny anecdotes, e.g. when Alex and some of his very young pals were huddled in a circle, tossing a few pennies, halfpennies and other coinage pretending to be gamblers. They were so engrossed in their game, they didn’t see the local policeman come upon them, round them up and asked if they want to be taken down to the police station or bear the brunt of his size 14 boot on their butts. There are many such stories in his book which Alex so aptly describes. This is definitely a walk down memory lane.

Alex is a man’s man and has a remarkable ability of finding the best in everyone. He has the courage of his convictions and writing this book reflects this. He has so many stories inside that incredible mind of his and I feel this book will only be the beginning of his writing career.

When I discovered Alex had started his book, I asked if I could possibly read it. Being a very private man, he was reluctant to show it to anyone, as he said it was just a personal thing that he was putting down for his own use. I urged him to let me read it. Hesitantly, he did and it blew me away with its charm, humour and rawness of life in the early 50s in the Gallowgate, Glasgow. I laughed, cried and smiled at the memories it evoked in me . . . it actually brought my youth flooding back into my brain e.g. teachers we had, places we had visited and attended, to put it succinctly, it will give those people, who read the book, a true visit into our long, lost youth and rekindle the memories buried in the recesses of one’s mind, some happy, some bitter, but they are our memories. It was then that I literally begged him to continue writing as I had this woman’s instinct that he had a winner with this book.

When Alex asked me to write this foreword, I was deeply honoured. However, because of our friendship and affinity with each other, I know of what he was speaking about when writing this book and I feel qualified to write this foreword.

Sincerely,

Isabella McGarry CPS CAM

St. Catharines, Ontario, CANADA

THE BELLFIELD RUNNERS

By Alexander B. Taylor

Surfacing from the pile of heavy coats that my mother had covered me with on the previous night to try and keep me that bit warmer in bed, I felt the usual damp coldness of the winter morning and a shiver came over me the moment I stepped onto the bare lino. Rubbing the sleep from my half-closed eyes, I quickly made my way through to the warmth of the living room, where the welcoming glow of the small coal fire made me forget the chills. But still half asleep, I pushed the flimsy lace curtain aside and peered out through the window, which was directly above the kitchen sink, onto the dark street below. To quote an old uncle of mine, it was Black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat out there. The rain was torrential, falling monsoon fashion and assaulting the cobblestones as though it was taking its anger out on them. Underneath the canopy of the yellow glow that filtered out from the streetlights, I could see the spray being lifted from the pools of rainwater as the heavy gusts of wind caught the surface, sending it swirling off in all directions.

The weather had been horrendous over the past few days and had shown no sign of improving. It was a mid-November Friday morning, around half past seven, and here I was walking around like a zombie. It had seemed a waste of time going to bed last night, owing to the cold and the noise that was caused by the shuddering and rattling of the old, well worn wooden window frames, as the wind and rain attacked them with gale force severity, causing a disturbing, creaking and moaning sound that seemed to linger all night long. This was the penance being paid for the luxury of living in an old Glasgow tenement, of post-war Scotland. These same tenements must have been strong and sturdy at one time in the past, but, as most things in the by-gone era, they were allowed to fall into an unforgivable state of disrepair, due to the fact that the people, who owned the properties, were quite happy to receive rent, but not so keen to invest any money towards keeping the houses in good habitable condition. So it was a gradual decline over the years, as the lack of repairs took hold, the buildings became slightly better than slums.

I often found myself letting my memory stray back to that time in my life when I lived in that dilapidated building with my older brother and two sisters in a house that consisted of a living room which was heated by a small coal fire and the lighting came from two gas lamps and the cooking was done on a doubled ringed gas stove which, in the winter, was more often than not kept alight to give some extra heat to the room. There was