I've often thought that if there were a way to measure one's aptitude for accidentally finding themselves in historically significant, yet slightly underwhelming places, I would surely be the world record holder. I usually wander into these places during a long walk in a new place.* Which is exactly how I stumbled across Glasgow’s Tenement Museum.
From the outside, the Tenement Museum is a charming, ordinary, if somewhat worn, red sandstone building on a quiet street near downtown Glasgow. Inside? Imagine if someone had invited you to a dinner party at 5 o’clock Friday 90 years ago. It was like stepping into a life-sized diorama of your great-great-grandma’s tiny home, you know, if she was Scottish, something of a tidy hoarder, with a penchant for wallpaper that makes you worry about her life choices.
“Tenement” means something different in Scotland than it does in England and the U.S., where it’s usually synonymous with slums (though many tenements were, indeed, slums). In Scotland, it just means a large stone building with two or more stories, one or more flats or apartments on each floor, and a common entrance and stairs.
Tenements could be adapted to meet the needs of the different social classes. In working-class areas, flats in tenement houses had only two rooms—or even only one, the dreaded single-end.** Properties with two rooms, a kitchen and bathroom, were built for the slightly better off. And larger flats with four, five, or even more rooms were for the rich.
But enough exposition. You can look it up on The Online Wiki Encyclopedia.
Now, most museums showcase the spectacular. This one showcases the spectacularly mundane. It's also very, very small, as museums go. Just three rooms, an entry hall, and a bathroom. It’s a love letter to a fabulously ordinary life in Glasgow in the late 19th to early 20th centuries—the life of Miss Agnes Toward.
The lovely Miss Toward was born in September 1886 just a couple blocks away. Her father died when she was three, and her two sisters died as infants—so it was just her and her mom. They moved into the flat that ultimately became the museum in 1911, where they lived together until 1939 when her mom died. Then it was just Agnes until 1965, when she went to the hospital where she spent the last 10 years of her life.
As I walked in, my attention had gotten fixed on a gorgeous brass doorbell outside the door and the docent notice. Her name was Morag, I assume. Iona? Elspeth? Anyway, she somewhat aggressively greeted me as I came into the entry hall.
“Ring it,” Elspeth said.
“Oh, no, I was just admiring…” I demurred.
“Naw, go ahead and ring it!” she said.
“Oh,” I said, “I don’t want to make a racket.”
“Fiddlesticks,” she said, “it’s not all that loud. Just ring it.”
Oh, lord, I thought, now if I don’t ring it, there’ll be an international incident.
So I rang it.
And it made just the tiniest, most discreet little ring. Whew.
But now she was all over me. She explained everything I was about to see. Correction, everything I was already seeing because, as I said, it’s quite a small museum. And from the entry hall, I could pretty much see everything in every other room.
“We dinnae really gie tours, as such,” Elspeth told me. “It’s just too wee a space for that sort o’ carry on.” Clearly. “But if you have any questions at all, you just give one o’ us a shout and we’ll be happy to help.” Um, could you step aside so I can get a picture of that beautiful dresser you’re standing in front of?
When Elspeth’s monolog sputtered to a halt, I excused myself to the bathroom. It was the only room without a docent in it.
Next, I tried to go into the kitchen and then the living room, but I was deterred because both were swarming with other museumgoers and docents, so I retreated to the bedroom. And by “swarming,” I mean two visitors and one docent in each room. I have mentioned how small this museum was, right?
But I ultimately did wind my way through every room, each offering a taste of everyday, olde tyme life. A highlight was an old cast-iron stove that Fiona (Una? Moira?) mentioned was the "iPhone of its day." If iPhones were coal-powered and caused the occasional house fire, sure, I could see that. The stove had to be cleaned with a special liquid black lead polish called Zebo once a week to make it gleam and protect it from rust in the Glaswegian weather.
The living room, or parlor, was very handsome, but apparently little used. The furniture was mahogany and there was a beautiful fireplace. All of the nice china and crystal were kept here. It just seems odd that the best room in the place—and nearly a quarter of the total space—was set aside for special occasions such as weddings or funerals. And because we know Miss Toward never married, I guess it didn’t get used much.
All of it still looked lived in. Agnes kept pretty much everything. And she never really altered it or updated it in the 54 years she lived there, and nothing changed in the 10 years it sat empty while she was in the hospital. All of her furniture, treasures, household bills, recipes, letters, personal papers, and mementoes are still there.
Here’s what we know about Agnes: As a child, she played with a doll named Rosa and a cat named Tibs. She took dancing lessons. She worked for the shipping firm of Prentice, Service & Henderson for 45 years until she retired in 1959. She waited to have electricity installed until 1960. She listened to the wireless and sent long letter to friends. She worked seven days a week for many years before her employers magnanimously gave their employees every second Saturday off. She liked to travel, attended Wellington Church, and took part in church activities.
“Did I tell you we now get Saturday off every fortnight? It is fine to have a long lie.”
The museum turned out to be way more than just a collection of objects—it was a tableau of a life lived. It was a little like eavesdropping on a hundred years’ worth of conversations. The Tenement Museum is a snapshot of a city's history, but it’s not about battles, kings, or treasures. It’s about people, just living their lives, reminding us that everyday stories often hold the most charm.
So if you're ever in Glasgow and need to take a break from the grandiose in favor of the delightfully commonplace, give the Tenement Museum a whirl. If nothing else, you'll leave with a newfound appreciation for king-size beds, WiFi, and stoves that don’t need polishing.
* “Reconnaissance missions,” I call them.
** This compact living area, which somehow included an itty-bitty kitchen space and a small “bed recess,” Glaswegian for “sleeping hole,” was where, and I’m not even kidding, a family ate, slept, laughed, fought, and pondered the mysteries of the universe.† I’m guessing it would have to be a very small family, in both number and stature. A communal toilet would often be shared with neighbors, making for splendid early morning rendezvous†† and, probably, prime gossip sessions, considering there was no TMZ yet.
† Like where that other sock went. I mean, how does a sock go missing when you only have two pair, and you wash them by hand?
†† Rendezvouses? Rendezvousi?
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