‘I hope it’s sunny on Saturday.’
‘I hope it doesn’t rain.’
‘I hope it’s at least dry.’
The conversation would always take place the week before the Gala Day – the event which was celebrated in June in most Central Belt towns in Scotland. We were children growing up in the 1950s, just a few years out of rationing. Our school was situated at the park where the Gala was held every year. The day before, the grass would be cut in preparation for the big day, adding to the excitement.
We would start off the day by walking behind the Pipe Band in the procession up the High Street to the park, our gutties freshly whitened and wearing new crisp, white socks and ribbons in our hair. Some were even lucky enough to have a new dress. After arrival in the park, there would be the crowning of the King and Queen with the local pompous dignitaries sitting on the podium. ‘Stuffed shirts’, some would mutter under their breaths. ‘Neither use nor ornament’, said others.
‘I hope I don’t get a coconut sponge.’
‘I hope I get an empire biscuit.’
We just longed for the ceremony to be over because then we would queue up with our friends to get our ‘box’. A thin, white, square cardboard box which, when you undid the flap, revealed a treasure trove of delights (to us anyway): a pie, a bun and a fancy cake along with a carton of juice. If you didn’t like your cake, you could always swap it with a friend who didn’t like theirs. ‘Swappies my fruit slice for your French cake!’ Suitably nourished, the rest of the day stretched before us. Pony rides, games and, of course, the sports.
‘I hope he disnae win the fathers’ race again – we’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘I hope I don’t fall flat on my face again.’
The sports began – sprints, three-legged races, egg and spoon races – all age related so even tiny tots could join in. Then came the last three, which all we children so looked forward to. First the mums’ race. With skirts tied like pantaloons, they sped towards the finish line, all collapsing in a heap and laughing hysterically. Then the dads’ race. Trousers would be rolled up to the knees and shirt sleeves to the elbows. Then they were off, thundering past the spectators like a herd of elephants making the ground shudder under our feet. Lastly came the piece de resistance: the tug of war. How everyone screamed for their favourite side – the men in their vests heaving away to cries of ‘wullie dig yer feet in man!’, ‘c’mon Tam gie it some welly’, to bolster them on. And the side that lost would be ridiculed: ‘couldny knock snaw aff a dyke’, ‘Archie couldny punch a hole in a wet paper bag’.
By this time, our new socks had grass stains on them and the ribbons had been lost from our hair. We no longer had the urge to kick our heels like young fillies in a paddock as the day came to an end.
But how simple just to hope for some sunshine and your favourite cake.