The memory made Ellen’s fingers twitch with longing, a need to capture that moment on paper

On Renfrew Street, Day 18

The following Saturday, Ellen dressed in a skirt and shirtwaist, buttoned up her wool coat and put on her sturdiest boots.

Then she took the number four tram to the north of Glasgow, past the railway works, down Atlas Road and then Vulkan Street, to her old stomping ground on Keppochill Road.

It was strange to see the soot-stained buildings again, the grocer’s cart leaning against a tree, the lines of washing waving in the chilly winter wind.

Ellen felt as if she’d gone back in time; she almost felt as if she were 12 years old again.

She spent several hours wandering the streets, listening to the sounds of women gossiping and bartering with shopkeepers.

She watched children playing with hoops and balls in the street, dodging in and out, all of it conducted to the distant clatter of the railway works, busy even on a Saturday afternoon.

When her feet were aching and she felt blisters on her heels, she bought a tin mug of tea and a sandwich from a pedlar with a pushcart and retreated to a low stone wall, where she could watch the world go by.

Activity

Memories assaulted her at every turn, yet as she watched all the activity, her gaze was caught by a young woman selecting apples from another pedlar.

She was about the same age as Ellen, her clothes worn and darned several times over, and she examined each apple carefully, inspecting it for dents or bruises, before she put it in her basket.

The pedlar watched her with folded arms, a look of exasperation and pity on his face.

Ellen remembered being in exactly the same place. Like this woman, she had taken her time to examine the wares of every pedlar, and to make sure she got the most for her hard-won pennies.

The memory made her fingers twitch with longing, a need to capture that moment on paper.

She had a lovely bound sketchbook of her own now, but she had not thought to bring it to Springburn.

So, just as in the days of her childhood, she reached for what was on hand: the paper her sandwich was wrapped in, and a pencil in the bottom of her handbag.

As soon as she began sketching she felt as if everything inside her had settled into place. She’d missed this so much: the simplicity of lines drawn on paper, the stark elegance and truth of it.

She had no use for fancy oil paints and canvases on wooden frames, or embroidery hoops or looms or potters’ wheels and kilns for clay. She just wanted this: a scrap of paper and a bit of lead.

Her pencil seemed to fly over the paper, and with just a few bold strokes she had sketched the scene, or at least the beginning of it – the woman’s sorrowful wistfulness, the pedlar’s exasperation, the hint of a deeper story within the simple transaction.

She was gazing down at the creased paper with a glow of satisfaction when a hand grabbed the sheet.

“Excuse me, but is that me you’re drawing?”

Suspicion

Ellen’s head jerked up and she found herself staring into the face of the young woman she’d been sketching.

She had crossed the street and was looking at her with both anger and suspicion, her brows drawn together as she scowled.

“Yes,” Ellen replied. “It is.”

“And what gave you the right to go putting me to paper?” the young woman demanded. “Coming here with your fancy clothes, gawping at all of us –”

“Fancy clothes!” Ellen almost laughed, but then quickly reined it in. “My clothes aren’t fancy.” “They are to me.”

“But...” Ellen looked at herself, the plain skirt and shirtwaist she’d chosen, and realised that eight years ago she would have thought these clothes fancy as well.

“I didn’t come here to gawp,” she went on quietly. “I came because I used to live here on Keppochill Road.”

She pointed to the shabby building across the street, washing strung from its windows, the once-red brick now black with soot. “Right there.”

The woman looked disbelieving, her lip curling scornfully. Ellen hurried to continue.

“Please, you must believe me. I came to remember who I used to be, who I really am.

“I’m at the Art School and I realised I’ve forgotten who I am, why I started to draw in the first place.” She was speaking faster and faster, the words tripping over each other as she hastened to explain.

“I saw you buying apples and you reminded me so much of myself.

“My mother was ill when I was young, and I used to buy her fruit to help her feel better.”

Finally the woman’s face softened, and she glanced at her basket of apples.

“I bought these for my brother. He’s got a terrible cough. I wanted oranges, but they’re too dear.”

Ellen nodded, sympathy rushing through her. “I’m sorry. I know how hard it can be.”

“May I?” The woman gestured to the scrap of paper clenched in Ellen’s hand. “If you don’t mind?”

Smiled shyly

“Of course,” Ellen said, and showed her the sketch. “I’ve only just started.”

“No one’s ever drawn me before,” the woman said. “Do I really look like that?”

“You should be the judge.”

“Dougie would like to look at that,” the woman said, and Ellen suspected Dougie was her brother. “He’s always drawing things.”

“Why don’t you keep it?” she said, and held the paper out. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

“I want you to have it. I can make another. It’s in my head now, anyway.”

“You keep it in your head?” The woman laughed and shook her head.

“Well, I never.” But she took the drawing with a murmur of thanks.

“What’s your name?” Ellen asked. “I’m Ellen Copley.”

The woman smiled shyly, all animosity gone from her expression.

“Ruby,” she said. “Ruby Mcavoy.”

More tomorrow.

On Renfrew Street was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. For more great fiction, get The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

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