With his Elvis quiff and broad shoulders, he had Maisie smitten.

TMoondance

he Fintry bus squelched to a stop, splashing black water on to the shoes of Maisie Green.

It was Friday and she’d just finished another week at Keiller’s Factory, packing chocolates into boxes for delivery to the many Dundee sweetie shops. She boarded the bus and gave the conductor a raised eyebrow as she indicated her shoes and stockings dotted with the muddy water.

“Should’ve stood away from the kerb,” he shouted after her, grinning at her annoyance as she climbed the steep steps to the top deck where she could have a ciggie. The atmosphere up top was hazy with tobacco smoke as she took her seat amongst the busload of coughing and wheezing passengers.

She lit up her Senior Service and inhaled deeply but Maisie had only one thing on her mind and that was the upcoming works dance and Kenny Wilson.

Kenny worked in the Sugar Boiling Room and was the best looking guy around. With his Elvis quiff and broad shoulders, he had Maisie smitten, like most of the other girls at Keiller’s.

At 20, Kenny was dreamily known as a “real man”. The bumpy journey from Reform Street to her home in Fintry flew by as she pictured herself in the arms of Kenny, cheek to cheek in a “moondance”, as all the other girls watched jealously from the balcony of Kidds Ballroom.

Bliss! The fact that Kenny Wilson had barely noticed Maisie at all didn’t hinder her desire for him and, in her young mind, it was only a matter of time anyway, before he realised that she was “the one.” She hurried up the path and unlocked the door. “Anybody in?” she called but there was no response. There was, however, a note on the mantelpiece from her mother.

At Bingo with Ella Henderson, it read. Wallace’s Bridie in oven just heat. Leave board money in tin on shelf. Mum.

Maisie looked round her home.

The Green’s bland living room held a Brown Rexine settee, a couple of brown fireside chairs, a dining table and sideboard and a new television in the corner, which seemed somehow out of place amongst all the brown furniture.

It was cold too in the house and she switched on a bar of the electric fire, which sat in the now defunct coal fireplace, before heading into the kitchen and her Bridie. As soon as she’d eaten, she’d go round to Chrissie’s house to discuss “things” about the dance and Kenny Wilson.

Chrissie was Maisie’s best friend. There was nothing they couldn’t talk about and at 16 years of age, of course, both girls knew EVERYTHING about boys! Chrissie Dalton was a packer, like Maisie and both girls had worked in Keiller’s since leaving Stobswell Girls School the year before.

With only basic qualifications, the other options open to them were shop work at “Woollies” or in the jute mills.

“No contest,” Chrissie had said, “and all the choccies you can eat!” It was a five-minute walk to Chrissie’s house in Fintry and Maisie hurried through the increasing drizzle, head down and a flimsy red chiffon scarf covering her beehive hairdo.

Should have brought an umbrella, she chided herself but decided there was enough lacquer on her hair to keep it in place till she got to Chrissie’s.

Fitba

She hurried up the garden path and knocked. Almost instantly, Chrissie opened the door. “Hurry up,” she whispered, “dad’s watchin’ fitba” on the telly and he’s not in a good mood. United’s not doing too great.” The two girls tiptoed past the living room door and upstairs into Chrissie’s room.

“First things first,” said Maisie, “I need some lacquer.” Chrissie looked at the rather lop sided hairdo and nodded.

“Is that hair going to be all right for the dance the morn?” Maisie grabbed the lacquer and started spraying it over her hair, pushing the beehive gently from one side in an attempt to straighten it up.

“There,” she said satisfied with the result, “now the next thing is a ciggie.” Chrissie obliged and the two friends lit up, blowing smoke into the air in a sophisticated manner, copying the film stars they’d seen at the pictures.

Very soon, the talk turned to Kenny Wilson and the chances of Maisie winning his heart at Keiller’s dance.

“I’m more interested in Rab Skelly,” said Chrissie wistfully, “he’s no’ as good looking as Kenny,” she conceded but he’s got really bonnie eyes.”

“Well,” Maisie countered quickly, wishing to turn the conversation back to Kenny and herself, “you can have Rab and I’ll have Kenny,” she concluded. “Agreed?” Chrissie nodded vigorously. “Now,” Maisie asked, “what are you wearing?” Chrissie frowned.

“There’s not much choice,” she said as she rummaged through the small built-in wardrobe that held her entire range of fashion items.

“There’s this frock,” she announced, holding up a sleeveless dress of pale green Crimplene with a hem that needed stitching and a faint underarm stain. “No, too plain,” Maisie advised, subtly. “Then, how about this,” she said, producing a pink satin brocade dress she’d worn as a bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding.

“Better,” said Maisie, cautiously, “but it’s a bit.... BIG.”

Chrissie eyed the bulky brocade number that almost stood up on its own and duly returned it to the wardrobe.

“Well,” she decided, “it’ll have to be the black pencil skirt and the flowery blouse,” she bemoaned.

“It’s all there is left!” Maisie nodded wisely. “Good choice,” she said.

“And what about yourself,” Chrissie asked, “what are you wearing?” Maisie propped up her chin with her hands as she lay face down on Chrissie’s bed.

Different outfits

She too didn’t have much choice of “evening wear”, not like the lassies from Keiller’s offices, who seemed to be wearing a different outfit every time she saw them, as they sauntered through the factory on their way to and from their offices.

“Well?” Chrissie repeated.

Maisie sat up and lit another cigarette.

“I’ve seen this brilliant frock in Paiges and it’ll be just perfect.” She warmed to her topic.

“It’s sleeveless, black with a yellow and orange flame-like pattern round the hem but.....”

Chrissie waited, “but I need a decent pair of black stilettos to go with it.” She looked beseechingly at her friend. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pair, would you?”

Chrissie pursed her lips. “You know fine, I’ve got a pair, you were with me when I bought them at Birrells last week.”

Maisie pretended ignorance.

“Was I?”

Chrissie produced the box with the shoes, black patent leather with a bow on the front. Maisie’s eyes lit up covetously, wondering what inducement she could offer in exchange for the perfect shoes.

“You could have my circular skirt for the dance if you like,” Maisie said, “the one with the poppies on it.” More tomorrow