Nan Cunninghams

Nan Cunninghams by Linsey Denham December 13^th 2019.



When I was a child in the sixties, we lived on the outskirts of a rough neighbourhood in Edinburgh which had its own little row of shops, for the locals.

My mother once parked my elder brother, in his pram, outside one of those shops and didn’t remember that she was missing something (him) until she put her key in our front door. Can you imagine? Yikes.

In my childhood days, those shops included a grocer, a hairdresser, not one but two chemists, an optician, a bank, a dry-salter and our favourite ice-cream shop, Lucas, where my father went, every Friday evening, to buy us our weekly treat.

My dad was an auto-mechanic and cared for the cars of the owners who were two Italian brothers and their sister, so we used to get very decent portions of ice cream.

That ice-cream shop is no longer there but Luca still exists and has greatly expanded its empire since that first shop-location, where my parents spent time hanging out as teenagers and my younger sister was employed, in her first job. I think my dad had something to do with that gig.

The ice-cream shop was my sisters shop and my brother worked as a prescription delivery-boy, for Allans chemist, when he was at high school. Our mother had worked in Allans and I know that she had something to do with my brother getting the job in his shop.

Which brings me to the shop that I want to talk about, which was my shop and it was positioned between the grocer and the post office and was the location of my second position of employment.

My first employment had been a three-month stint in the ladies hair salon, which was in the group of newer shops at the farthest end from Lucas, which was the closest shop to where we lived. Their usual ‘Saturday girl’ had broken her arm and so my mum, who was a customer, had been asked if I’d like to fill-in for her.

I was thirteen years old and discovered that I loved washing hair and sweeping up…and the tips that the little old ladies would slip into my hand, before leaving.

But, the ‘usual girl’ healed and returned and I was unemployed for the first and last time in my life…briefly.

My mum was working in the Dry-salter, which must get the prize for the oddest shop name, ever. It was a veritable cavern of wonderful oddities and the place you went to buy something that you didn’t have a clue where to begin to look to find it.

From string, to bulbs, to gardening gloves, to wrapping paper and torches, they also sold paraffin, to fill the heaters that we and many others used, to heat our homes, so the Dry-salter was often the place to go.

It was owned by the brother of the owner of the shop that I want to tell you about (my shop) and that family-connection is how I came to work in ‘Cunningham’, the drapers.

It was a shop that I had been in and out of for as long as I could remember, and I loved it.

It was at least four times the size of the Dry-salter which was three doors along, after the post-office and the bookie.

It was a place where everything looked amazing and held wonderful possibility to me, except the staff who always seemed a little bit scary.

As a small child, I was enthralled by the tall, narrow unit of shallow drawers which seemed to contain buttons of every size, shape and colour that I could imagine. It was located on the left wall as you entered the shop, through its double doors, which swung inwards and had knitting patterns stuck to its glass panels.

Beyond the buttons and at right angles to them, was the main counter and I shall call it that because it was where the cash register resided and not because it was the longest or only counter. There were several equally as long ones, but the main counter had a glass top which let you see into the top drawers of it and it fronted a magnificent wool-filled wall of colour…and it is where you paid for your purchases.

My grandmother knitted…constantly, taught me how to knit and how to crochet and we bought our wool and our patterns…and our buttons, from this shop, Nan Cunninghams.

Nan was the owner, but her surname was not Cunningham.

Her maiden name wasn’t even Cunningham.

From memory, I think the shop had been called Cunningham when Nan bought it and the locals just put Nan together with Cunningham and said they shopped at Nan Cunninghams.

Going back to the inside of the shop, it had wooden floors and wooden counters and they sold curtains, they sold clothes, they sold bags, they sold thread, they sold elastic by the yard and I loved everything about it…except the scary staff.

So, imagine my delight when my mum asked me if I’d like to be Nan Cunninghams ‘Saturday girl’.

The delight was only slightly diminished by the thought of the still scary staff and I leapt at the chance to work in that shop, filled with memories of childhood visits with my mum and my gran.

Perhaps I would get discount on my wool?

I did get discount and the ‘old-school’ way of working, in Nan Cunninghams, suited me.

There was rigid routine and a customer-gets-your-full-attention attitude, which set me up brilliantly for my future career as a nurse.

There was a hierarchy of who served customers and I, the lowest of the low, only got to serve when everyone else was already serving or when they were busy in the back shop or on break.

I was sent to the bakers for the goodies for everyone, for tea breaks

I was still thirteen years old.

My routine on a Saturday included:

1.Washing the front windows, in all weathers. I learned that soapy water, a squeegee and some newspaper were all you needed to have sparkling windows. This has saved me a fortune on window-cleaning products, over the years.

2.Cleaning the staff toilet, which was usually in need of a good clean by Saturday. I quickly learned that I was unafraid of bugs which bode well for nursing and motherhood.

3.Sweeping the floors at the end of the day. I learned that you never sweep the dirt out the door because it is bad luck. I still never sweep dirt out of a door because Ina taught me to sweep in from the door and in from the corners.

My Saturday job made me into somewhat of an expert in politeness, customer-service, window and toilet-cleaning and floor sweeping. Not bad things to be expert at and you can add clothes-folder-extraordinaire, to that list.

Most of the clothing that was sold in Nan Cunninghams, was contained in fitted, plastic covers and you had to make sure that the items were refolded to fit back into them, after showing them to a customer. Whilst some of the staff detested customers who demanded to see several items out of their bags, I embraced the refolding as a personal-challenge, to get better and better at it, and it has served me greatly in the ‘folding-laundry’ and ‘packing-suitcases’ departments of our family-of-five life.

I worked in Nan Cunninghams most Saturdays and school-vacations until I left high school and went into nursing at seventeen and a half years old.

Apart from a couple of junior staff-changes, nothing really changed in that shop, in the four years that I worked there. It was as though it was held in some wonderful, old-fashioned time warp.

And I loved it, even the scary staff eventually.

It was the place where I learned negotiating skills and how to make people feel important, even if they were simply looking for the perfect buttons to complete their knitted cardigan.

I honed my organizational and diplomacy skills and believe that the shop-hierarchy deepened my respect for my elders and for those with greater experience than I.

The shop is still there, four decades on. The window displays look the same, stuffed with all sorts of things to buy.

The ‘Cunningham’ sign is old and worn and Nan herself is long gone but those windows evoke feelings of deep gratitude within me, for the years I spent both cleaning them and behind them, in that shop.

Grateful for the wisdom, from a generation of older women, that encouraged me to grow into the young woman that I became.