Part 1
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Early Days
Whacko! McDonald's Orchard The Big School The Curse Of The Mummy's Tomb |
Whacko! (II)
Mr. Ducca Rat Dracula School Days Cook's Shop |
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Early Days
Whacko! McDonald's Orchard The Big School The Curse Of The Mummy's Tomb |
Whacko! (II)
Mr. Ducca Rat Dracula School Days Cook's Shop |
My first memories are of living at Woodland Place -- an imposing building in High Street that ran roughly east to west along the north edge of the town. Woodland Place was built in the nineteenth century and had three levels plus roof attics. There was also a large backyard with a ruined building and a well that backed onto the Bonded Warehouse of Scotia Distillery.
My Grandmother lived in the first floor in a two-bedroom flat with her second husband John Smith and her son Archie.
The flat was very dark, the only means of lighting being from gas and in a way this lent a ghostly quality to the place. The kitchen was also the eating area and cold water was obtained from a cran in a cast iron sink. Hot water was produced from a fire in a cast iron range with a permanent oven at one side. Above the fire was a smoke board that was meant to control the draft of the fire.
Thus I was introduced from the East End of London into a quiet Scottish home, or so I thought.
When I was about five years old I was initiated into school life at Dalintober Primary School a grim Victorian building at the end of the high street. Here a severe discipline was maintained with any indiscretion being dealt with. The main means of writing was on dull grey slates with a sharp stone pencil and the screech of forty pencils made a teeth-jarring sound.
About the age of six I had my first foray into the mysterious place adjacent to the school called McDonald's Orchard. Nobody knew the history of the place, there were vague stories circulating that some awful murder had taken place there in bygone times and that the ruined house in the depth of the trees concealed a terrible secret.
All this mystery only made us more curious as to what lay behind the forbidding wall that enclosed the place. The head's rantings about entering the orchard set our minds into scaling the walls.
Therefore, one fine afternoon a friend and I went to the orchard wall, sought out cunningly concealed handholds, and scrambled to the crest. In awe we looked down on the dense overgrown wood, then slid down the buttress on the other side. Like explorers we pushed forward into the bushes tripping over hidden stones, tearing our clothes on the briars and munching at crab apples that had fallen on the ground.
We laughed and played, then a dark shadow fell on our path, the gaping shell of the old house loomed upon us, like a demon the empty window frames stared at us as if saying 'go no further.' Bewildered we thought of the return journey through the trees to the wall with the added dangers of being caught.
"There is only one way out now," quaked my friend, "and that is through the house and into Sadell Street."
"What if we are caught?" I groaned, thinking of the head's wrath and of the stories of people who entered his room and never came out again.
Eventually we headed for the house and ran through the back door and out the front -- our eyes seeing strange shapes rising from the rotting furniture -- and over the low fence and into Sadell Street. The first adventure of my school life had been completed and next day classmates stared at me in awe. The teacher called me to the front of the class:
"What have you been up to Keith?" she snapped, her prominent false teeth clicking nervously.
"Nothing Miss," I stammered, as the class leered at my predicament.
"Well I will tell you have been over in the orchard, for the Head saw you come out of the gate in Sadell Street," she snapped, "Well you know the penalty for entering that place."
I shuddered thinking of what lay behind the Head's door; the strap and maybe worse.
"You will report to the head at eleven o'clock," she smirked, "and let that be a lesson to you all!"
Strangely, when I did report to the Head's office he had been called away and in the run of things the matter was forgotten.
Thereafter I was looked upon as a sort of hero having escaped punishment, and also having evaded the creature who lurked in the orchard.
The incident at the orchard was quickly forgotten with the coming to the picture house of the film The Curse Of The Mummie's Tomb; this caused great excitement and at the appointed day great queues formed at the picture house door.
Now, in those days, the doorman who controlled the entry to the place was a small man dressed in a military style uniform, with a fierce whiskered face, and nicknamed 'Stalin'.
Stalin by name and Stalin by nature -- he ruled entry and exit with fierce pride. Anyone who fell under his gaze would be punished without mercy. The rules were that no talking, laughing, smirking, or any sign of enjoyment was allowed whilst waiting outside.
With bated breath we waited for the doors to open. Stalin took his silver hunter from his pocket and roared "Line forward!" At which command a mass of excited children moved to the entrance then up to the cash desk. The cashier -- a middle aged woman with staring eyes -- peered at you as you handed your sixpence over, snorting if you could not produce the right coins with the phrase 'huv ye no git onything less?' Seizing the ticket spouted from the machine, you were then propelled by Stalin into the bowels of the picture house with the order "Tae the front and keep quiet!" Any protest about the seating arrangements meant being flung back into the street!
Eventually the picture house was filled and the lights dimmed. There followed a few bleak short films on such riveting themes as: Parisian Sewers, Lotus Growing, and Kitchener's conquest of The Sudan. Whilst the screen rolled Stalin and his cohorts scanned the packed throng with torches to see if anyone was committing a misdemeanour. If such an event was detected the culprit was dragged from the seat and put out.
Then the feature film appeared on screen, horrified we gripped our seats as we watched the bandaged mummy lurch about, catching people who were racing away with ease. Eventually the mummy was consumed in flames and the film ended.
We shuffled out in a subdued manner into the dark night, fearful of what lurked round the corner, or awaited us in some dark close; such was the fear in our boyish minds. We thought of the orchard and what lurked there, and even imagined that the chest that Donald Broon kept in his kitchen contained some hellish creature. Accordingly we decided that the next night we would investigate the matter.
Donald Broon lived at Gayfield Place, the latter building faced down the Broom Brae and gave the impression of a prison. It was about four stories high and entrance to the bottom houses was by a dark close. Donald Broon lived in one of the bottom houses.
One dark October night we crept up the close and round to his rear window. Cautiously we peered in and there he was sleeping at his fire side, a half empty whisky bottle clutched in his hand.
The chest was near the sink and as the rear window was partly open one of my pals said he would slip in and look in the chest. Slowly he slid in and dropped to the floor. Fearfully he lifted the lid of the chest -- a furry body leapt out uttering a screech, my pal yelled out and scrambled out the window as Donald Broon awoke. Like some troll he lumbered out of his door, blocking our escape down the close and forcing us to scramble out into the rear yard and up into the hills.
After the incident at Donald Broon's house my pals and I decided to lie low. Rumours abounded about the hooligans who had been annoying poor old Broon -- a harmless fisherman who kept himself to himself whilst he was sober. My step-grandfather ranted about what he would do if he caught the culprits.
However, boys being boys and the fact that we went to see Errol Flynn in Robin Hood, the season of bows and arrows commenced with a vengeance. The manufacture of bows meant chopping down hazel sticks and shaping arrows from thin willow strips. Eventually I succeeded in making a reasonable bow capable of firing an arrow about one hundred yards.
Happy passed the late summer days, with showers of arrows peppering walls, doors and roofs -- much to the annoyance of the inmates. Unfortunately, people started tying lighted rags to the arrows and our game came to an end when a field was set on fire.
Now Campbeltown was a strange place with many odd characters. Perhaps it was because it lay at the end of a long peninsula and was somehow insulated from the vagaries of civilization. Some of the characters would by today's standards be classified as insane, but it was the nature of the place that created the people.
The first encounter I had with a 'worthy' was as I was walking down Main Street when I spotted this figure shuffling along carrying a bundle of papers, at intervals he would stop and cry "gityercitizzennoo" it was only later that someone translated it as "get your Citizen now." One of my pals came up to me and said
"Do you know who that man is?"
Innocently, I replied,
"No, who is he?"
There was a baited silence and my pal said,
"That is Mr Ducca Rat."
My poor young mind boggled at the reply, a man called 'rat', how could this be?
"You are kidding!" I Laughed.
"Well ask him," smirked my pal, turning away his hand over his mouth.
I walked over to the man with the newspapers and spluttered,
"How are you, Mr Rat?"
He turned, his little eyes blazed, a small mouth opened revealing yellow teeth. At first no sound came, then erupted a hideous howl, followed by:
"Ye cheeky imp, ye big ling, am nae rat a ta, am a guid edicated buddy, a hae been tae Glescae tae."
As he uttered these words he raced towards me and with my pal. I was forced to flee at high speed from the wrath of the man. I never did find out what his real name was but whenever I saw him later I gave him a wide berth.
My first school was Dalintober Infants School where I had entered the dreaded McDonald's Orchard. At Dalintober I was taught the rudiments of reading, arithmetic, and spelling. Writing was done on slates with stone pencils that screeched as you wrote. Later pen, paper and ink were issued to those judged competent to use them.
Being adjudged ready to use pen and ink I painstakingly copied out a piece that the teacher had put on the blackboard. Then I waited as she came round to comment on my work, unfortunately, someone fired a pellet at me causing me to turn sharply and in doing so drawing my sleeve over the wet ink. This happened as the teacher drew level with me.
"What's this?" she snapped, her voice developing a steely tone.
"Writing," I lamely replied, fearfully eyeing the smudged mess on the page. The teacher smiled then struck me a sharp blow on the head.
"Writing, you say," she mused, walking on to the next pupil.
Thus ended my first attempt with pen and ink.
Behind Dalintober School lay a huge steep bank -- part of an excavation dug out during the last century. It was covered in gorse bushes (whins) and over the years children had worn paths all over the bank, and it became an ideal place to set up dens. The bank had the local name 'The Broo', whose meaning can only be guessed at. The Head laid down strict rules about The Broo: it was strictly forbidden to be seen on the bank during playtime -- any person on it would be severely punished. However, this did not deter a few daring pupils to sneak up during breaks. Eventually I was coerced into joining a group sneaking up the bank only to be spotted by the janitor, a cruel man who was suspected of being a wizard.
What a reception awaited us at the bottom when we returned. Marched before the head we were given two stokes of the strap, and berated in front of the whole school.
I eventually progressed to Milknowe School on the West side of the town. The former was an imposing building more like a grand country house than a school.
At this school presided the dreaded Purcell, headmaster, supreme lord of the whole establishment, and whose word was beyond question. He was a giant of a man who walked with a purposeful plod and whose voice thundered. People trembled at the sight or sound of him and scurried out of his way.
On his staff there was a teacher called Major Gemill -- ex Indian Army and a veteran of the first world war; sadly he carried his military training into his school work, as I was soon to find out.
It all happened one day when we waited to enter his class. He taught English and Maths and as we milled outside there was much laughter and joking. Suddenly a voice barked,
"Get into line, tallest on the right shortest on the left!"
Such a command we had never heard before and we just gaped, but the gaping soon stopped as Gemill descended amongst us, swinging his cane. The cane swung in a vicious arc, striking the backs of our legs and rapidly causing us to obey the command originally given. It was a Malaca Cane, silver topped, and was Gemill's pride and joy.
Thus commenced the first lesson with 'the major'. We trooped into the class and were directed to various desks. Commands were given in silence, a raised hand meant silence, a hand pointing to the floor, meant sit, two arms swept down Islamic style, meant rest your head on the desk.
Being slow on the uptake, when Gemill pointed to the floor I thought that he had lost something and proceeded to stare at the floor whilst the rest of the class sat down. Gemill marched up eyes blazing.
"Keith, sit on the command I give," he snapped.
"Sit on what?" I asked, as the rest of the class sniggered.
Gemill rapped me on the knuckles with the cane.
"On the desk seat, dolt."
And with that pushed me into the seat. Turning to the class he barked,
"Behold the idiot of the day, and remember all who fail to obey commands will fell the weight of my cane."
As far as education went lessons were conducted in a military form. An example was mental arithmetic where items were written on the blackboard and a problem set for the class to solve. Normally, with other teachers you solved it by writing on your jotter, but Gemill had developed set answers that had to be chanted in unison like a class of parrots at a training school.
We watched as he wrote on the blackboard 'If a man buys ten pounds of sugar at one shilling a pound, what has he to pay?'
Up shot a hand. Gemill peered at a spotty faced boy.
"Yes MacPhee?"
"Ten shillings sir."
Now there was one thing that Gemill loved and that was for someone to call him 'Sir.' He seemed to grow in stature.
"Well done MacPhee. Correct."
He turned to the rest of the class.
"However, you of lower intelligence are not capable of such deduction so I will write each answer and we will all learn it by rote."
Thus began two hours of chanting out problems and solutions with intervals of people being walloped and generally bullied into not thinking. I can remember what a relief it was when the class ended and we could relate to our pals the horrors of Gemill's class.
One day Gemill stood in for the Geography teacher, who was ill. We went through the ritual of the signs that we now knew by heart and he placed a world map on the wall. Great sections of the map were shown in red, which meant nothing to us who looked upon it.
Gemill stared at the class, then pointed his cane at me.
"Keith," he said, "What is the meaning of all the red marks on the map?"
A hush fell over the class, such a question was usually double edged.
"They are ink blots," I replied, as the class sniggered. Alas Mr Gemill did not see the funny side of it and promptly advanced to give me a slap on the side of the face.
"Stupid boy!" he thundered.
"The red marks are the limits of the British Empire where the sun never sets. Repeat after me class: 'Where the sun never sets.' And God bless Her Majesty Elizabeth!"
As the months passed by at Milknowe School I gradually became inured to the strict regime and learned what was taboo and what was not.
The janitor was a small man with a cigarette dangling from his lip so that the side of his mouth was permanently stained with nicotine. He scrambled about the school with a movement that resembled a demented crab, and when he rang the bell for dinner time, he would shout "The bell! The bell! The bell!" causing everyone to laugh.
Friday afternoon was the day that Purcell reserved for punishment. He fortified himself at lunch time at a pub, then returned to swing the strap. I can remember many a Friday, whilst in a nearby class, hearing the thud as the strap came into contact with some unfortunate's flesh and seeing the long queue of offenders waiting outside the Head's door.
In 1949 I sat my qualifying exam in a hot fetid room watched over by a matronly teacher with thick glasses and yellow teeth, and she added to the awful tension by knitting furiously and sucking pan drops so that the saliva trickled down her chin. The tragedy was that the qualifying exam meant that on entry to the Grammar School, a good result was a pass to the Professional Stream -- the creme de la creme, a poor result was a four year session in the Technical Stream and really it should have been called the No Hope Stream.
I received a poor result and was assigned 'Technical' and duly arrived at the portals of Campbeltown Grammar School for the Autumn Term of 1950.
Strange stories abounded about this school. The head was a man called Balfour Downie, reputed to be a wizard. His staff consisted of many teachers, many known by their nicknames -- Bushams, Kubla Khan, Dracula, and The Gypsy Queen to name a few.
What could you say about the place? It was very old, dating back a few hundred years. It had grim dark classes where the sun never set and where deeds too horrible to mention were supposed to have occurred. The front of the building was a near match to Dracula's castle, and the rear a hotchpotch of classes and sheds. Many famous men graced the school over the years and many not so famous. However, the thing I remember about the school was the battered old field gun that sat at the front gate, its muzzle pointing down towards the loch. Various stories circulated about the purpose of the weapon. Some speculated that it was used to fire at truants, others that it was in case the place was attacked by pirates.
Bushams took us for English in a long dark classroom situated at the front of the school; here he eulogised on the merits of correct grammar, parsing, and his favourite subject -- classical poetry. When discussing the latter he would go into a reverie, almost trance like, and as most of us were in the 'doomed' stream we listened in stupefied silence.
Soon our patience abated and we dreamt of the break bell, which would signal release to the lesser horrors of Nesbit's woodwork class. Bushams droned on...
"Oh great Parnasus!" he exclaimed, his teeth gleaming.
"Great is the muse of the gods, great thy son Apollo."
Then his small eyes would alight on some unfortunate who was staring out of the window.
"Duncan MacSporran! What do you understand when I say 'Oh great parnasus'?"
A silence hung on the class, the unfortunate MacSporran stared at the floor looking for inspiration.
"You were talking about how much you enjoyed parsnips, sir," replied MacSporran, as the class burst into uncontrolled laughter.
Bushams mouth hung open. At first no sound came from his throat, then he blubbered:
"Idiot! Am I some kind of greengrocer, some moron?"
Bushams swung on his heel.
"For that you will write out five hundred times the opening lines of The Lay of The Last Minstrel, and the rest of the class will write out one hundred times, 'parnasus not parsnip'."
With that he stormed to his desk, his face red with anger.
Poor Bushams. In later years I found out that he was handicapped, so that his patience must have been stretched to the limit -- though on reflection the teaching of classical Greek poetry to 'the doomed' did not bode for job satisfaction.
Mr Nesbit held sway over the woodwork class. In an upper room we planed and hacked at wood as he prowled amongst us wielding a steel ruler from which, if your work displeased him, you received a blow on the knuckles.
I remember one winter's morning, when the roads were very icy, sliding to school. Unfortunately, I slid too far and fell into a ditch, ripping my trousers. Fearfully I made my way home to Woodland Place where I received a wallop, changed trousers, then sped back to school. A deathly silence hung over the place as I crept towards the woodwork class, conscious of hidden malign eyes watching my progress. In my mind's eye I had visions of the Head reaching up and catching me, or big MacPhail grabbing my arm. I made it to the class door and slipped in. All were busy within, hacking and planing. A sigh of relief escaped my lips -- Nesbit was nowhere to be seen!
Creeping towards my bench I asked my friend "Is the Nes off?"
Fearfully he stared at me, his eyes flicking towards the back recesses of the class. From the back of the class shuffled the portly figure of Nesbit, armed with the dreaded strap, a look of sadistic pleasure on his florid face.
"What time is this, Keith?" he rasped, a trickle of sweat percolating down his nose.
"It is half past nine, sir." I bravely replied as the class tittered.
Incensed by my reply Nesbit roared,
"You should have been here at nine o'clock!"
Confused by what answer he required I replied,
"What happened at nine o'clock sir?"
Nesbit's face changed from florid to purple. The strap hissed in the air as if anticipating the work to come.
"Right Keith. Six of the best. Hand out!" he bellowed.
Fearfully I held my hand out and closed my eyes. The strap swished down striking my palm. The pain was awful, then it was all over.
"Return to your bench Keith, and don't be late again!"
I was never late again for Nesbit's class.
Balfour Downie retired and was replaced by a Mr MacDonald, who quickly was nicknamed 'Dracula', by the way he swished about in his gown and displayed very prominent teeth. His eyes seemed cold and hard to me and almost had a far away look. He seemed to keep in the shadows and this reinforced the theory that he did not like sunshine. Such was the depth of our imaginings that when Dracula appeared at assembly on the stairs of the main hall a shudder went through the gathering.
My first clash with Dracula came not within the school but in Longrow North. Here lay Revie's chemist shop, an ancient emporium whose main display consisted of strange jars filled with liquid of doubtful age, and whose inner sanctum was filled with strange bottles and boxes. Revie's sold many things including cinnamon sticks that gave off a pleasant smoke when lit. They cost a half penny each (0.2 p) and were soon in great demand.
It was a Saturday afternoon that my mates and I, reinforced with our weekly pocket money, purchased our cinnamon sticks and proceeded to retire to the 'Diamond Vaults', a decrepit area at the back of Longrow South. Here we could puff away to our heart's content hidden from view -- or so we thought.
Now the Diamond Vaults had a path that led from Kinloch Road to Longrow South that, though seldom used, was on this Saturday the very route that Dracula took on his way to the shops! Here we were in our 'smoking circle', huddled in a group, when the sound of heavy shoes crunching on gravel made us look up.
"What is this boys, a smoking club?" snapped Dracula, his face grim. We had committed the cardinal sin -- being caught smoking by the Head.
"Report to my office on Monday, and meantime I will reflect on what punishment to mete out. I realise you are only 'technical people', but you have committed a serious offence. Good day."
With that he strode off leaving us gaping with fear and thinking of what Monday morning held for us. Perhaps we would be expelled, or worse still, executed!
Monday morning came and we shuffled into assembly. News of our fame had gone before us and all the teachers seemed to be staring at us as if anticipating some great event. There was an air of menace hanging over the gathering, even the school cat was present, licking his lips.
Dracula began with his usual prayer:
"Help us to remember the poor, and the heathen in the lands ruled by Her Majesty, the infirm and those who are without hope..."
On he drooled through the standard two hymns, the school notices, then a bated pause. This was it, I thought, the judgement!
"Now," he said, "Last Saturday, whilst proceeding to the shops, I had occasion to pass by that place known as the Diamond Vaults where I came across the following, smoking cinnamon sticks:"
Dracula then read out our names as teachers pursed their lips in horror or shook their heads in despair.
"The vile habit that leads to the path to degradation and sin. People concerned will be punished, at a later date to be decided."
As he spoke almost a sigh of relief came from the pupils, and that lunch time there was a rush on cinnamon sticks at Revie's, and the Diamond Vaults were thronged with people puffing and coughing. As to our punishment -- we heard no more about it!
In the High Street there was a shop called 'Cook's Shop', a place hidden by the mists of time. The shop window was of the old blown-glass type straight from Dickens. Years of grime made it difficult to see what was on display; but by close inspection one could discern ancient adverts for 'Bisto', 'Bovril', 'Nestlé' and packets of tea at three pence a packet! On the door was a faded poster mentioning some function on the last day of October at the Kirk Street Hall. However, the year mentioned was 1910!
Euphemia Cook and her brother Johnny were the sole proprietors of the place. When you entered their emporium great confusion met your eyes: Half empty butter casks, drawers full of sugar, slabs of cheese, and large tins of MacVitie's biscuits which were the domain of a large cat and many bluebottles. In the dim interior, still lit by gas in winter, Euphemia Cook and her brother tried to serve, combating very old age and failing eyesight!
Looking back, what we did was very cruel. We used to enter the shop and ask for a stone of potatoes, which were weighed out on the old brass balances. Poor Johnny struggled desperately, spilling the potatoes out on the floor as he piled them into a paper bag and not realising that we were secretly holding the scale down with our hands. When he had loaded about four stones the whole thing would collapse, much to our amusement. This meant a hasty exit from the shop followed by the irate Johnny!
One customer who brought terror to the Cooks was a woman called Mary Brown, the so called 'Witch of Woodland Place', a woman with a grim look and a fearful temper. As Cook's shop was only a few hundred yards from Woodland Place Mary shuffled there for her groceries. She always seemed to be dressed in black like some women do in Spain or other Latin countries and this lent to the aura of terror she projected.
I remember being in the shop when Mary entered, this was the days when ration books were in force. She came to the counter and gave Euphemia an icy stare.
"What do you want?" blustered Euphemia, her lip twitching and eyeing the stout stick that Mary carried.
"Sugar," came the reply, though it was more like a shout.
"But you have had your ration for the week," bravely replied Euphemia, with Johnny nodding vigorous assent.
"Sugar!" shouted Mary, banging her stick on the floor.
Wearily the Cooks gave in and filled a bag with sugar. The same procedure was repeated for other items from butter to soap. When she had filled her bag Euphemia had the temerity to ask about payment; to which Mary replied simply "Tick" and stomped out of the shop, leaving the poor proprietors shaking with fear.
Such was Cook's Shop, now sadly no more, a remnant of a past age. I never did find out if Mary Brown paid what she owed.
Copyright © 1998 Donald Keith.