Jenny and her tins, 1956

Jenny was the daughter of a metalworker, and belonged to a generation that had never known Glasgow during its glorious industrial years. In her grandfather’s day the city was famed for its vast port, which berthed the great ships of the British Empire to keep the kingdom stocked with sugar, cotton and tobacco. The docks were full of workers and the quays overflowed with people; this was a truly wondrous city, with more to see than a man could dream of. The dockworkers were great strong men, the kind you don’t see these days, more’s the pity – built like oxen, carrying enormous crates off the boats on their broad, thick shoulders. Then the market vendors would descend upon the quays to pick out their wares for the Glasgow market. The market was immense, selling every item one could imagine. The city made textiles, carpets, and cigarettes, and even printed books. “It was a modern-day Byzantium,” Jenny’s grandfather used to tell her. “I grew up watching the city change. Now we all work with metal and steel; cold hard things that smell of nothing,” he’d sigh. “All the buildings have been torn down too. We were thrown out of our house...they said the place was unfit, but it was our home! We may have shared a toilet with ten other families, creepy crawlies all around the place, bits of ceiling falling into our soup…but I have only fond memories of those days.”

Today, Jenny had decided to play with her cans, setting up a sort of stall out behind the tenements to display the tins she had collected. She hadn’t quite decided on what game she would play, and the children who’d gathered around were eager to know what the rules would be. All Jenny knew was she had plenty of them.

“We could throw stones at them to knock them over,” suggested the boy.

“That’s a game for boys,” Jenny scoffed. “Why don’t we play shop-keep?”

“Shop-keep? That’s so boring!” replied the boy.

Who would she sell to anyway? Jenny frowned. She hadn’t collected all these cans for nothing. She intended to use them all one day when she was a grown woman. She could keep things in them, like cutlery or wooden spoons. The boy insisted that they throw stones, and Jenny began to get irritated. She had to find something. The other children watched her handling the tins, picking them up and inspecting each one. But was dreaming of other things. She dreamed of selling things, and making her customers happy. Could she perhaps put milk into the cans? Too simple. She could make hot chocolate, mixing cocoa powder with the hot milk, or even just orange juice.

“You can’t drink from a tin,” said the boy. “You’d cut your lips.”

“That’s true, but I don’t want to throw stones,” replied Jenny, undecided.

“So what are you going to do with all these tins?” asked the boy.

She knew exactly what she was going to do. Here in Glasgow, the workers were always in the market for a hot meal. The problem was there were far too many of them, and she didn’t have enough cans. She could go to Glasgow markets and get one of the stall owners to give her a bag of white beans. She knew how to cook beans. You just had to heat them in boiling water and add salt. But what would her father say if he knew his little daughter Jenny was serving hot meals to the working men of Glasgow? Her grandfather, the man who sold sugar in the olden days, would understand. She’d say that she wanted the old Glasgow to live again; she’d say that she wanted to sell something that made people happy like in the old days, and then he’d understand.

Alan Alfredo Geday