 |
 |
 |
|
Dan Dare Comes To Town
The Great Blizzard The Knockscalbert Run Bunkum The Gasman |
The Organ
The Edict Lundoon Joe The Bellochauntauy Dancers Martin's Book Shop |
About 1950 adverts appeared in the national papers telling of a new comic for boys, called The Eagle that was due for publication in a few weeks. The main characters in the comic was Dan Dare and his helpmate Digby, about to set of for Venus in search of food supplies to alleviate the chronic shortage on Earth. The story was really the first serialised space adventure.
Great excitement gripped the town as my pals and I hurried to the Courier Office to place our order for the comic. The staff of the office were overwhelmed by the clamour as eager boys queued to get their name down, pushing in front of irate adults.
One of the staff was an ancient woman, grim faced, bespectacled, hair drawn in a severe bun. She glared as I reached the counter.
"Well Keith I suppose you have come to order that stupid comic. If I had my way there would be no comics or papers, in fact I would ban all reading matter, it gives people ideas above their station!"
"Can I order The Eagle comic please?" As I spoke she shrugged her shoulders and scribbled my name down on a ledger.
"Where do you live?" she asked, licking the pencil to give it an edge.
"I live in Campbeltown," I replied.
"Stupid boy!" she snapped, breaking the pencil point in her rage. "I meant 'what is your address?'"
"Woodland Place and twelve Davaar Avenue."
She flung the pencil down, the people behind me groaned.
"Hurry up wee boy," muttered a sour looking man with a torn cap on his head, "wee dinna want tae be here a nicht."
The grim faced woman peered at me.
"You cant live in two places at once, stupid boy."
"But sometimes I live with my grandmother in Woodland Place and sometimes I live with my mother in the prefabs in Davaar Avenue." As I spoke the grim faced woman scratched her head sending a shower of dandruff cascading onto the counter, her black teeth peeked at me from partly drawn lips.
"I will have to summon the manager to sort this out," she turned and shouted, "Mister McGougan! Come to the counter and sort out this wee boy."
In response to her command the bent figure of McGougan shuffled from the back room, where the whirr of the press churning out the Courier could be heard mingled with the snores of the typesetter enjoying his lunch break.
"Whits the metter wuman?" croaked McGougan, lighting up a full strength Capstan, "Kin a buddy nae read his paper in peace?"
"This Keith boy says he lives in two addresses, what one shall I put in the order ledger?" hissed the woman, drawing herself up.
"Whur dae ye leeve wee lad?" muttered McGougan, sucking in a wall of smoke then pushing it out through his nostrils like a great whale, "Ye hae tae pit doon wan address only sae we dinna order twa comics fur the same boy."
"Put down Woodland Place," I said, "That will do."
McGougan turned to the woman, "Thur ye ur Phoebe ye hae gat tae use tak tae deal wie yon wee boys."
"If you ask me Mister McGougan I would not order comics for children, far better a book of well known sermons or a book on Greek heroes, much better for the young mind!" she spoke, in a tone that hinted some strict faith.
"Och wuman!" muttered McGougan, "Thus is a paper shop, sae comics we sell. A know ye wance wurked in Wotherspoon's shop in Main Street, but ye wull hae tae get used tae papers an comics an nae fancy books fur brainy foulks like the heid man at the Grammar School looks at."
Muttering, the woman wrote in the ledger and I hurried from the shop. As I left the man in the torn cap rasped, "Hie McGougan whan ye spake aboot comics did ye include the Courier?"
A roar of rage greeted the questioner followed by laughter from the rest of the punters.
With bated breath we waited for the arrival of The Eagle comic, the delivery day was a Friday and we gathered near the Courier Office. The daily load of papers arrived on the van from Glasgow but no Eagle comic was amongst them; Somehow they were on another van still at Lochgilphead, about ninety miles away, this meant that it would be about three hours before the van reached Campbeltown!
Panic assailed us, what if the van broke down? Or worst still, there were no comics on it! We rushed up to the Mill Dam staring glumly towards the direction the van would come from, even some adults joined us, one peddling up as far as Bellochantauy to see if the van was coming!
Eventually a shout went up, "Here she comes!" The van appeared chugging along towards the Mill Dam, then down into Longrow, towards the Courier office, where it came to rest. Hotl,y we arrived behind it, gasping from the run down from the Mill Dam shouting with delirious euphoria.
"Hurra! The Eagle has come!" we shouted as we rushed into the office. There stood a pile of Eagle Comics. A great wall of excited boys rushed to the counter, where Phoebe stood glaring, arms akimbo, eyes hard and without any show of feeling.
"I will serve none until there is complete silence!" she snarled, "You would think there were no other comics in the world. Form an orderly queue!"
Our euphoria evaporated and we shuffled into line to receive our copies of the Eagle. Outside we eagerly consumed the tale of Dan Dare setting off for Venus and drooled for the next Friday when the story would be continued.
When my uncle saw me reading the comic he laughed, "Och wee Donal yon travelling in space is jist a dream, foulk wull never be able to travel tae other worlds its to far awa, an the wid be awfy auld when they got there. Yer grandad Jock thocht he could gang tae the Moon by hingin a maget oan the wall o Scotia Warehoose an if he stood oan a plate he wid be pulled up tae the magnet, then he wid fling the magnet further up till eventually he reached the Moon; a dont think he could fan a magnet tae dae the job."
"Och," said my grandmother, "Whit blethers! Yon comics pits queer ideas in wee boys heids. Na nae buddy wull ever reach the Moon!"
"Whan I wis a wee boy," said my uncle, "A used a te read aboot Billy Bunter an the remove, they whur rare stories aboot toffs levin in schools whur they dinna gae hame at nicht, but slept in rooms and they had midnicht feasts. Billy Bunter wis aways eatin an he got rare fat. They wur great stories tae read."
"Aye," concurred my grandmother, "they poor rich foulk had a hard time at yon public schools, fancy sleepin in a school an na gan hame tae yer hoose at nicht tae see yer foulk an they must hae been sterved tae need feeds a nicht, it is a disgrace indeed!"
I listened to their banter, but my mind was on the adventures of Dan Dare and Digby, as they approached the cloud enshrouded surface of Venus!
A great snow came upon Kintyre in the winter of 1946, a monumental blizzard that surpassed all others within living memory. Snow quickly descended in great swathes blocking all the roads, until the town was cut off completely and no supply vans could get through the passes.
Crowds quickly gathered at the bakers, Hoynes and Black's, to buy bread. A sense of panic gripped the populace as visions of mass starvation were projected by the imaginations of some worthies. One old man dressed in a tattered coat muttered about the 'meal riots' of 1801, when the townspeople rioted over the price of meal then in short supply.
"Ye wull a sterve in yer hooses if the breed vans canna git through tae the shops an soon al the groceries wull be gan awa an thur wull be nae meat left."
My grandfather happened to be out in the snow at the time and heard the words spoken by the old man; fearfully he returned to Woodland Place to confront my grandmother.
"Wife a better awa oor tae the bakers tae git as many loaves as a can an ye better get Erchie tae gang awa tae the grocers tae buy as much meat as he can, fur thur is gan tae be starvation in the toon, we could be cut aff fur weeks."
"Lord be aboot us!" exclaimed my grandmother, "ur ye sure ye ar nae blowing everything oot o proportion, the rods wull soon be opened."
"Listen wuman!" roared my grandfather, "am away oor tae Hoynes fur ten loaves, a dina want tae see ye die o hunger an cauld and wee Donal as well!"
With that hee raced out of the house and into the swirling snow.
As it was Saturday, my grandmother fetched her purse.
"Here wee Donal, awa oor tae Hoynes an git some rolls as weel an see that yer grandfether disna git intae a barny wie the bakers, ye ken whit he is like when his dauner
is up, al send Erchie oot fur groceries when he cams in."
Off I sped and soon caught up with my grandfather as he reached the Royal Hotel. The queue at Hoynes reached right down to the Christian Institute, three deep in a long snake, right across MichelChere's shop front and across Shore Street.
The queue reminded me of desperate scene from the Russian Front, as the snow was now falling fast and many of the people looked encased in snow.
"Wur na gan tae be bothered stanin aroon in the snow!" exclaimed my grandfather, pushing past the head of the queue, as people roared in protest.
"Awa tae the back Jock we hae been stanin here fur taw oors."
"Och awa we ye!", roared my grandfather, "a hae a wee hungry boy here that needs breed tae live, a ye others can survive on drink, he canna."
We battled into the counter area where Hoynes was serving bread and rolls.
"Twa loaves each per day!", he cried, his flour covered face contorting. "Six rolls each, a can only bake for four days then the flour wull be feenished!" He lit up a Woodbine as the crowd groaned.
My grandfather pushed forward, brushing the ice from his moustache.
"A dozen loaves an twa dozen rolls," he said defiantly.
"Sorry Jock", apologised Hoynes, blowing a smoke ring in the air, "twa loaves each an six rolls that is fair rationing."
"Whit!" exclaimed my grandfather. "Rations me fit, ye hae done weel in the war wie eggs sugar frae the navy an tobacco that Daniels stored roon hus back; dina tak tae me aboot fair, ye leeved o the fat o the land whilst us poor sools were on hunger rations in Woodland Place. See wee Donal here."
He thrust me forward.
He wis skin an bone lak yon sools in the camps, gie me the breed or a wull awa tae the polis an ye wull end up in Barlinnie, ye are wurse than yon Himmler!"
Hoynes listened to the rant as people in the queue shouted about the delay, his face darkened behind the flour coating.
"A canna gie ye twelve loaves the foulk in the queue wull be richt mad."
"Gie hum the breed Hoynes!", someone shouted, "or we wull be deed wie stanin aboot here, ye ken he wull mak trouble."
Hoynes sighed and turned to his assistant.
"Gie hum a dozen loaves an twa dozen rolls an let that be an end tae it."
Clutching the bread an rolls we trudged back to Woodland place as some of the people in the crowd muttered about auld Jock having the cheek of Auld Nick.
"My", said my grandmother, "ye hae done weel Jock, but dinna forget that the bred wull gang stale in a few days, sae ye wid hae been better ganging awa each day fur yer twa loaves!"
Well the roads were opened after about four days and as my grandmother predicted we were left with a large amount of stale bread -- which kept the seagulls happy!
The year of the blizzard meant that sledging could be carried out with gusto, the slopes of Knockscalbert were good for the more adept , but 'The Walk' suited us youngsters as an ideal slope.
The Walk sloped down from the Standing Stone, meeting The High Street at right angles; on the slippery surface good speeds could be attained and as traffic was absent from the High Street, one could get right down into Princess Street on a good run.
The sledges were all home made, some from packing cases, others from frames with wood stapled to the top. The runners were mostly wood, but some cleverer people lined theirs with tin strips which greatly reduced friction and increased speed!
My grandfather made me one with wood runners, being pieces of oak, which by their toughness became highly polished and as the sledging season progressed, the vehicle became faster.
My sledge could hold two people, the driver and passenger and one morning, after a sharp frost the previous night, my pal and I dragged the sledge to the top of 'The Walk' and pushed off on the downward run. The sledge quickly built up speed and we descended rapidly. Someone at the foot of the slope was shouting and pointing up High Street in the direction of Scotia. Vaguely we heard the word 'cart' against the howl of the runners on the packed snow and too late reached the street to see a cart lumbering into our path. Luckily, the cart was travelling slowly and the poor horse snorted in alarm. It was the coal cart, and the sudden stop by the driver caused the coal bags to fall onto the snow packed road.
There was great roaring and cursing by the driver as he saw his load fall on snow.
"Ye we beesoms!" he roared, cursing and shaking his fist. "A ma load lyin in the road an puir foulk shiverein fur want o heat, wait tull a git ma hans on ye."
We were carried well down into Princess Street, and fled fearfully in the direction of George Street, pulling the sledge behind us. Eventually we returned to the High Street, where to our relief the coal had all been cleared up an the cart had moved on.
When I entered my grandfather's house he was busily stoking up the fire. As well as coals, he was heaping on logs and had created such a blaze of heat, that the house felt like a sauna. Sweat dripped from his brow as he turned to face me.
"Ye we scamp it wis you an your pal that caused the coal man tae spill his load; hav a no telt ye tae sledge in the hulls,a no doon ontae the streets, ye could hae been mangled tae bits unner the wheels, an ended up in a box, sae nae mer slegin doon the Walk or all burn yer sledge in the fire!"
"Aye," retorted my Uncle, as he read his paper, "ye could hae been killed, sae keep tae the slopes o Knockscalbert!"
Well, that ended our sledging on the Walk. Heavy snow did not usually last long in Kintyre as the proximity of the Gulf Stream kept the climate temperate as long as the Atlantic winds prevailed. It was the easterlies that caused the snow to remain, as in the winter of 1946-47.
One night when I was up in the attic (this was before my mother and father moved to the prefabs in Davaar Avenue) my father told me a few stories of his young days, just before the first world war.
"We were always hungry", he said, lighting up a Woodbine, "my mother had to take in washing to make ends meet and there was never enough money for boots. Even in winter we had bare feet and the cold gave us chilblains that made us suffer a lot. Anyway, you think the regime at Milknowe school is hard, well, when I was at that place it was run by sadists in the guise of teachers. (My father never spoke in the vernacular like my grandfather, but seemed well versed in English.)
"I remember one day when we were in the class of a teacher called Bunkum. He was a grim faced man with a large drooping moustache and staring eyes. He was very strong and could fell a boy in a second. Well, Bunkum swaggered over to the blackboard and wrote on the surface the words 'stars in the sky'. He then turned and pointed to me. 'Keith,' he snarled, his teeth grinding with menace, 'are there stars in the sky through the day?'"
"'No sir', I replied honestly, 'there are only stars in the sky at night, when it is dark'."
"Bunkum stared at me for a second, then sprang forward seizing me by the arm. I was dragged to the front and sent crashing against the class room wall. The dreaded strap then swished down on my shoulder with a venomous sting."
"'You stupid savage!' he snapped. 'You stupid ignoramus! Everybody knows that there are stars in the sky all the time!' He gave me another belt with the strap, then I was propelled back to my seat in a daze"
"Bunkum resumed his talk on the stars."
"'Above us the heavens, vast myriads of stars and planets stretching away for ever. Now, how high is the sky?' His gaze fell on a ragged-trousered boy with yellow teeth."
"'McSporran, how high is the sky?'"
"'Aboot as lang as as frae here tae Drumlemble sur.' Replied McSporran."
"Bunkum grabbed the rod used for opening the windows and hooked McSporran by the collar. The unfortunate was then dragged to the front like a fish and given a series of blows to the legs with the strap."
"'In all my days of teaching have I heard such a stupid answer. Typical Campbeltown rubbish thinking from no-hopers, who will end their days loitering at Cook's Corner'."
"The lesson dragged on," continued my father, "with punishments galore and we were thankful to get out of the school and to the safety of home."
My father then related the story of what happened when he and his pals decided to plunk school. They spent the morning in the hills, and in the afternoon crept down to the slaughterhouse to peer through the sheeting as the poor cows and pigs were slaughtered. In that period of time the method for dispatching a cow was to pull it forward on a ring, then hit it with a fourteen pound hammer on the head. As for the pigs, they were hung up by the hind quarters and had their throats cut, the blood being allowed to run free -- great gullies carried away the red tide to a drain.
"We were so taken by the scene of horror," said my father, "that we did not notice the blood rushing round our feet and splashing up on our clothes. Horrified, we realised that we were stained all over."
"My mother was furious when I got home, and my brothers sniggered at my red clothing. My mother said that I would have to go to school the next day with stained clothes. (I had lied about missing school that day to her and said that I had fallen into the slaughterhouse drain on the way home from school)."
"Well, next day I crept into the school but was soon spotted, red being a colour that was easy to see! Bunkum dragged me to the heads office. The Head was known as the 'the praying mantis' and had a sadistic leer on his face. Into his office I was propelled by Bunkum. The rest of my truanting pals were already assembled there, trembling as the head flexed his strapping arm!"
"'What's this boy?' he roared. 'Blood on your clothes and absent from school for one day! Where did you hide yourself?'"
"'I went up into the hills, then down to the slaughterhouse sir.' I muttered as he gave me a clout on the head."
"'Slaughterhouse, you say boy. Well you are going to be slaughtered here today!'"
"As he spoke he grabbed his strap and ordered me to put out my hand and I received six of the best. The 'praying mantis' had developed a technique whereby he stood on a box and stepped down with one leg as he delivered each stroke, thus increasing the force of the blow!"
I realised that my father had suffered under a horrendous education system, whereby only the elite prospered and the rest went to the wall. Even at the Sunday School my uncle Archie received a book prize, called The Hero Of The Factory, where a young boy saved his master's factory from going up in flames and perished from his efforts. The Sunday School teacher expounded the virtue of the poor being subservient to the rich as it was the will of God, and that in saving the factory the boy had allowed the master to make further profits. As the teacher put it, it was through increased riches that the rich ensured that the poor had work!
Campbeltown, being isolated at the end of a long peninsula, had to have its own power station and gasworks. The latter was in front of Milknowe School and the smell of the coke retorts wafted across to the classrooms when the wind was in the right direction.
Woodland Place had no electricity and relied on gas being supplied for cooking and lighting via lead pipes, that were subject to frequent leaks. Payment for gas was by inserting pennies into a slot meter.
The meter in Woodland Place in my grandmother's house was in the press and you had to stoop down to insert coins. When the meter was nearly full the gasman came with his heavy bag to empty the coins.
Well, as events run, to satisfy the meter a large supply of pennies were required and eventually the pennies would run out, sometimes in the evening. Such a state of affairs needed remedying and my grandfather came up with a novel idea.
"A hae a pile o washers doon in the shed that are the double o a penny,when the gas runs out we wull pit a few intae the slot an hae gas in abundance."
As he spoke my grandmother looked up at him sharply.
"Noo Jock we wull end up in Castlehill jail if we pit washers in the meter."
My grandfather thought for a few minutes.
"Weel wuman wid ye rether sit in the dark a nicht witin fur the dawn sae ye could bide awa oor the toon tae git a few coppers fur the meter?"
My grandmother looked at my grandfather.
"Raither than ye pitin washers in the meter al aways mak sure thet thur are plenty o coppers in the jar in the press, sae ye canna break the law!"
"Humf," replied my grandfather, spitting into the fire, "ye wull hae tae use washers sometime, onyway yon wee baccle that comes tae empty the meters is as blun as a bat, he widna ken whit the difference wis between a washer an a copper."
A few evenings later, when my grandmother was out, I was sitting reading my comic. My grandfather was tormenting the cat by poking it with a stick. Suddenly, the gas jet spluttered and the room grew dim, then the light was gone. Only the fire gave a glow that cast shadows on the wall. My grandfather leaned across to me in the gloom.
"Weel wee Donal the gas has gone oot an a hana ony pennies tae pit in sae am gan tae try ma washers."
He drew out two washers, opened the cupboard door, then fumbled at the meter. I heard him insert the washers, then clanked into the meter, but no gas came on.
There was a few minutes silence.
"Jings," muttered my grandfather, "yons a queer thing, a heard the washers go in but nae gas has cum oot o the jet."
He stroked his chin, shoving the cat away as it was pushing into the cupboard sniffing the spiced bacon and the two herrings on a plate.
"Weel thur must bae a leak in the pipe."
He took out a box of matches and struck one.
"Stop!" I cried in alarm. "There might be an explosion."
"Ach ye wee feartie!" roared my grandfather. "Yon gas is sae weak it wid jist pop like a damp squid. Ah! a hae fan the leak."
He pushed the match near a pipe an a thin jet of gas ignited. He then got up and took some soap from the sink and packed it round the leak.
"Thur ye are the leaks fixed, nae a wull try tae light the jet".
He held a match to the jet and the mantle glowed; Soft light bathed the room.
"Gran", he mused, "thur ye are wee Donal, free licht an a leak fixed an a!"
We continued with our pursuits. I reading my comic and my grandfather annoying the cat, so enraging the poor beast that it slashed at his hand.
"Ye wee bisom!" bellowed my grandfather. "Ye hae scrabbed me, fur that ye wull git nae mer fish frae me!"
As we sat by the light of the fire and the stuttering gas jet, we became aware of a hissing sound in the pipes, like some snake on the prowl.
"What is that noise grandfather?"
He cocked his ear to one side.
"Och it us ony air in thae pipes, sae carry oan wie readin yer comic an dina fash yersel."
The noise persisted, like a trembling groan, shuddering down into the bowels of the building, then there was a noise like a banger igniting followed by a woman's voice in the bottom close shouting in alarm.
"That's Mary Broon's voice grandfather, she sounds in a right panic!" I said in alarm.
"Git oan wie readin, wee Donal, yon Mary Broons awa wie the faries, she wis takin up hur lum the other nicht, she should be in Lochgilphead Asylum!"
"But maybe something has happened, should we not go down and look?"
My question brought a sour look to my grandfather's face.
"Ah telt ye nae tae fash, yon wuman Broon is an auld witch, she could pit a curse oan us!"
As he spoke my grandmother appeared, she seemed agitated.
"Auld Mary Broon's gas jet blew up, first she had nae licht at a, then a big flare o licht filled her room, there is soot a oor her ceilin; the puir al soul is beside her sel wie fear; the man frae the gas company has come an he says there wis a fire in the pipes, there could hae been an explosion an a the building could hae been flattened; ye twa could hae been deed noo."
My grandfather digested the news slowly.
"Hava noo telt ye wuman that thon Broon has been tamperin wie her meter fur years an she probably wis tryin tae get free gas wie by passin the meter."
My grandmother listened to his explanation, then shrugged her shoulders.
"A hope Jock that ye hana been workin wie the gas while I wis awa oot?"
There was a stunned silence, the clock on the wall seemed to tick louder, the cat let out a snore and stretched itself.
"Naw," replied my grandfather, "me an wee Donal hae spent an uneventful nicht."
As he spoke he winked at me knowingly, as if to say, 'silence is golden'!
Next morning as I went down to the shed in the back yard Mary Broon was leaning out of her door.
"Wee Keith," she hissed, her eyes blazing, "dina a hear ye an yon auld Jock takin aboot pitin washers in the meter, yer voices carried doon the lums an flues, nathin in this place misses ma lugs; it is ye twa that has been wurkin wie the pipes, am gan tae tell Skart an he wull chuck ye oot o the place!"
Her eyes blazed in triumph, she thought she had finally nailed my grandfather.
"Yon gas has pit soot a oor ma ceilin, an a hid jist had it white washed twa months ago, am blamin auld Jock fur whit has heppened!"
When I told my grandfather what Mary Broon had said to me in the close, he spluttered in anger.
"Al awa doon an gut the auld witch, al swing fur her!"
However, he calmed down when my grandmother appeared with her shopping.
"The gas men say the fan a leak in auld Mary's hoose an that is what caused the explosion, it is fixed noo."
She paused looking at my grandfather.
"A hope ye widna try tae mend a leak yersel Jock?"
My grandfather looked up from his paper sheepishly.
"Na am nae say daft, but tell auld Broon tae stop blamin me fur the explosion."
"Al tak tae her when a hae pit ma messages awa in the press"
She obviously soothed Mary's ruffled feathers for we heard no more of the leak incident, but Mary still spat when my grandfather walked down the close to the back yard!
Some weeks later the man who emptied the meters appeared on the doorstep. He was small, wore thick glasses, a stained raincoat and a homburg that sat on his ears. In his hand was the heavy bag filled with coppers from other meters.
"Al be openin yer meter mustress Smith," he rasped, wiping his glasses with a filthy handkerchief.
"Aye al richt Tam", agreed my grandmother, showing the man to the meter in the cupboard.
As Tam opened the meter and drew out the metal tray, he mulled over the contents like a miser over his hoard.
"Ticht", he spluttered, "mm, dear me thar is twa washers in here mustress Smith, ye ken it is an offence tae obtain gas frae the Campbeltoon gas company wie illegal coinage, ye could be fined oor sent tae prison."
"My," exclaimed my grandmother, "an how could washers hae got in the meter, ah dinna ken at al who could hae pit them there; wee Donal awa doon tae the shed an tell Jock tae cum up here av a feelin that he has something tae dae with it!"
At the mention of my grandfather's name, the gasman seemed to pale visibly.
"Wee mustress Smith ah dinna think we need tae bother, some times washers get pit intae the meter by mstake, when its dark; al jist get on an an gae doon tae the next hoose."
As he spoke he snatched his coin bag and raced from the room.
"Will I bother to get grandfather up from the shed?" I asked, as my grandmother watched the gasman dive up the close of the building across the street.
"Aye tell hum tae gang up, fur a ken he pit the washers intae the meter!"
Sadly, like George Washington the fact of keeping secret what had happened was too much for my youthful mind.
"Grandfather put the washers into the meter the other night, the gas had gone out; it was when he had put them in that he discovered the leak and fixed it with a piece of soap!"
"Michty me!" cried my grandmother. "Awa doon an tell theauld deevil tae cum up an face the music, an as fur ye wee Donal, yer like wan oh yon puir souls in Oliver Twist in the grip o Fagin the Jew; whit wid puir auld Jolive think if he wis alive?"
Down to the shed I raced, past Mary Broon hangin out washin,
"Grandad you are to come up to the house, the gasman has arrived and he has found washers in the meter; I had to tell grandmother about the leak as well as the washers!"
"Whit!" roared my grandfather, giving me a wallop on the ear that made my eyes water, "Ye wee clipe ye ur a wee traitor, ye hae betrayed an auld man acting to save money, wait till I get ma hauns on yon gasman, al wring his kneck an shove him hum intae the loch!"
With that he dragged me up the stairs and rushed into the house.
"Wheres yon gasman wumman?" he shouted, his very glasses seemed to steam up. "An a did pit the washers intae the meter fur thur were nae pennies in the jar!"
"Rabs ganged awa tae the next hoose, he says the washers wur pit in by mistake, sae he wulna be reportin us, why ye auld fool we could hae been pit in Barlinnie wee Donal an a, he could hae been weeirn wan o yon suits wie arrows oan thum, frae noo oan nae mer washers in the meter an nae leak mendin."
My grandfather drew a sharp breath.
"Ah weel wife, a suppose a wis wrang, bit wee Donal shouldna hae cliped oan me, a had tae gie hum a winder fur tellin."
Turning to me, my grandmother glared.
"Aye whit Jock said is richt wee Donal, never gie awa a secret, it wis guid o ye tae tell me."
She gave me a wallop on the ear.
"Whit wid ye lak fur yer tea?" she asked.
One summer's day in 1946 my grandmother came back from Cook's Shop in High Street.
"Jock auld Effie wis askin me, if ye wur any good at fixing organs, the case o hur pipe organ is needin fixin an a said ye could pit it the gither agin, nae bother."
My grandfather was polishing his boots by the fire side, spitting at intervals into the flames.
"Aye al dae that the nicht, efter tea al git ma hammer an nails, an me an wee Donal wull gang up tae the shop."
Inwardly the news meant that I could not go out with my pals, so I felt a bit down hearted.
"I want to go out and play tonight," I moaned, my remark drawing a glare from my grandfather.
"Yull bide alang wie me wee Donal, any mer greetin an al gie ye a richt sleevin."
That was the final say in the matter and I moped down in the back yard until tea time.
Cook's Shop was closed as we reached the door. Flies crawled up the glass of the display window. My grandfather knocked sharply on the cracked woodwork.
Silence.
Then there was a shuffling noise at the other side. The letter box opened.
"Whas knockin at this time o nicht, wur closed?" came a shaky voice from the aperture.
"It is Jock Smith an wee Donal cam tae mend Effies organ, sae open up Johny an let us in."
Now poor Johnny Cook suffered from some illness that made him shake and he was also very deaf. Boney fingers protruded from the letter box wiggling feverishly.
"Whits that ye say? 'Rock Stiff an Effie Brogan'? We dina ken ony budy o that name, ye hae the wrang hoose a canna let ye in, ye micht be efter oor sillar.
His remarks drew a bellow of rage from my grandfather.
"Lord be aboot us! Open the door ye deef baccle oor al pit ma shoulder tae it!"
This outburst caused a further bit of muttering and the sound of Effie's voice in the background.
"It is mister Smith and wee Donal come to repair the organ, let them in and straighten your tie Johnny, you looka right tramp."
As she spoke the door was opened. Johnny blinked in the light.
"Cam awa in muster Smith an wee boy, the organ is awa up the stairs in the top room, sae follow me, wull ye be wantin a wee dram afore ye start?"
We were ushered into the inner sanctum of Cook's home. The aged furniture spoke of a once grand opulence, of a style of living that harked back to shipping and money. Here were display cabinets with Wedgewood pieces, china vases, silver ware. On the walls hung oil paintings and rows of past Cooks glaring down at our intrusion.
"I see wee Donal is taking with the paintings, mister Smith." Effie said sweetly as Johny clattered into one of the banisters as we ascended the spiral stairway and found ourselves in the once grand drawing room.
"Aye Effie he is a grand drawer o picturs an he is guid wae his coonts he has a rare music talent he could play the fiddle right guid."
The remark made Effie smile.
"Is he familiar with Vivaldi?"
My grandfather screwed up his face in thought.
"Na a dina like hum ganging aboot wie tallies, thon Mafia micht git thur clutches oan hum ye ken."
Effie laughed at my grandfather's reply.
"No mister Smith, Vivaldi was a composer, he wrote The Fours Seasons, he was a virtuoso in his time."
There was a silence as my grandfather struggled to comprehend the meaning of the word 'virtuoso'. He sighed, then walked over to the organ sitting in the corner.
"A weel Effie al git oan wie me repairs."
He looked at the organ case where one side had come away.
"A six inch nail will soon cure this, here wee Donal han me the hammer an nails."
Effie and her brother looked on in horror as my grandfather told me to place a nail against the casing, then he took an almighty swing with the hammer. The nail was driven in with gusto, the whole organ drumming in protest.
"Be careful mister Smith," warned Effie, "that organ was handed down from my grandparents, it is very delicate."
Again a silence greeted her remark.
"Ach dinna wurry yer heid Effie, yon nail hus done the trick,here wee Donal gie us a tune on the organ, play The Bluebells O' Scotland."
Horrified, I stared at my grandfather. I had never played an organ in my short life.
"But I cannot play," I protested. "You have to learn, it takes years, anyway the teacher says I am tone deaf!"
My grandfather went the colour of the organ case, a deep walnut brown.
"Ach ye wee feartie, gie us a tune!"
Effie looked on.
"Dear me mister Smith, the wee boy is too young to play such an instrument, does he play by ear?"
Again there was a silence.
"Whit play be ear?" snorted my grandfather. "He hus twa hauns tae play wie, his ear wid be gie sore bashin them keys, mind you he wull hae a sore ear if he disna git down an play!"
I approached the yellowing keys of the organ and struck down, a fearful deluge of sound pierced the room, followed by a twanging crack the a kind of crunching sound.
"Lord help us!" Exclaimed Effie, "The main strings have gone in the piano section."
My grandfather peered into the innards and came away with a handful of shredded wire.
"The wire is rotten Effie, al cum up the morro an pit some mer oan, a hae a fine bundle o wire a fan on the shore, it us nice an thick an wilna break."
Effie stared, horrified at my grandfather's words.
"But mister Smith it has to be special wire not any kind!"
My grandfather scratched his head.
"Och the wire al gie ye is telephone wire, ye wull be a real veertuosso whan ye play it at nicht o winter's day."
Silence greeted his remark.
"Oh very well mister Smith," sighed Effie, "will you have a wee dram before ye go?"
"Aye that a weel," grunted my grandfather as Effie poured out a measure of whisky into a glass.
As my grandfather gulped down the whisky he smacked his lips.
"That us a rare malt Effie," he purred, "a wis really jokin aboot wee Donal bein able tae play the organ, though he deserves a richt lunnerin fur bangin doon on the keys the way he did, he isna a real veertuosso, oany wie he hus learned his lesson, nae tae play aboot wie other foulks virtue; any mer o thon malt Effie?"
When we got back to Woodland Place my grandmother asked how the organ repair had progressed.
"Uch," grunted my grandfather, "yon organ us dun, the whole hoose needs guttin frae rafters tae flair an al the rubbish awa tae the tip; we fixed the organ a richt but wee Donal broke the instrument sae nae supper fur hum the nicht."
My grandmother turned to me angrily.
"Wee Donal, Effie Cook us an auld freen o me an yer granfether ye ken, sae awa tae bed the noo, an nae readin tae a oors; al hae tae awa up the morrow tae gie her some soop in way o makin up fur the damage ye hae done, yer grandfether must hae been black affronted wie ye, hum tryin tae fix the organ an ye brakin it."
Off to bed I went without supper, by the gaslight I lay down thankful that I would not be asked to play the organ again!
At sometime in the past, someone at the Scottish Education Department must have decided that no more Scottish history was to be taught. Only the long episodes of the English kings and queens were to dominate the curriculum. Poetry was to be the works of Chaucer and the other English writers and the Shakespeare plays were to be studied. What Edward I and his son had failed to achieve by military might, a latter day official at the Scottish Office had achieved at the stroke of a pen. The regime of learning was strict: Bannockburn was never mentioned nor was Preston Pans. The glories of Agincourt and Crecy were extolled with glee.
Then came the bombshell. A memo was sent to all heads, stating that the use of Scottish words was to be discouraged. the words 'aye', 'whit', 'whaur', were to banned. Anyone heard using them was to be severely punished.
Well such a decree fell into line with Purcell's thinking -- what could be more appropriate: orders from the high command to stamp out the language of 'glen savages', as he so aptly put it. Here was a chance to trap poor pupils into the 'punishment mode': unlimited strappings and detentions. His sadistic urges raced with excitement at what lay ahead.
There was great cunning in the way it was done. No mention was made at assembly on the first day of the order. The plan was put into operation silently. First to fall was Duncan MacPhee, a tall boy with glasses, and a patch on his trousers. Poor Duncan had just entered Gemmil's class, the latter strode in almost as if he was marching onto the parade ground at Cawnpour.
"MacPhee!" snapped Gemmil, his eyes glinting behind his steel rimmed glasses. "If I said to you that, 'what day it is today', what would be your reply?"
There was a silence as poor Duncan struggled to comprehend what his answer should be. As yesterday was Sunday, the required answer was Monday, but he sensed a trap.
"Please sur whit dae ye mean, a dinna ken the answer."
Gemmil's face contorted with rage. Inwardly he was seething with excitement -- only into Monday and he had bagged a 'glen savage'.
"Come out here Macphee, what kind of English is 'whit', 'dinna', and 'ken'?"
As he spoke Gemill drew out the strap. He looked at it with loving care. Macphee stumbled to the front, where Gemill delivered a blow to his ears.
"As from today the use of Scottish words is forbidden. It has been decreed that the use of the vernacular will not be tolerated, only an excellence of English will be achieved in the school. Therefore, Macphee, you will receive four strokes of the strap and any subsequent use of stupid words will mean a visit to Mister Purcell and his strap!"
His voice rose to a crescendo as we sat huddled in our seats terrified to speak, lest some vernacular expression escape our lips.
Gemmil was taking us for mental arithmetic and luckily this did not involve a great deal of talking, that is until we came to the part of the lesson where he chanted out a problem, then stabbed a finger at an unfortunate to supply an answer.
"Mental arithmetic number one." he chanted. "A plum costs a penny. If I buy a shillings worth, how many plums do I get!"
He spun on the heels of his highly polished boots, his hand snaked out like a cobra.
"You, Keith, how many plums?"
I was too busy staring at a seagull that had landed on the window sill of the class room window; Oh I thought to be able to fly far over the oceans, free from school, swilling in the upper air, the world my oyster. Gemmil's question seemed like a distant voice in a dream -- unreal, far.
"How many drums"? I replied. "There is only the birds in the sky!"
A mighty shadow fell over me.
"Keith you idiot, if we all spent our days dreaming we would still be savage nomads wandering about, instead of hard working servants of the sovereign. I will repeat the question. A plum costs a penny, how many for a shilling?"
At that point somehow I forgot about the ban on the vernacular.
"Aboot a dozen plooms sir."
Gemmil's eyes blazed.
"Come out here Keith, you have given the correct answer but used the language of the Highlands. Three of the best!"
With that I received a series of stinging blows to the hand and was returned to my seat.
The regime was ruthlessly applied. Each day long queues formed at Purcell's door to receive a strapping for use of the hated vernacular, but old habits die hard and in the end the edict was forgotten, superseded by a decree that only short trousers of a certain length were to be worn. Only long shorts, not short short shorts. The edict diverted Gemmil and Purcells attention from vernacular violations!
When I told my grandfather what had happened in the school he was furious.
"Whit tryin tae stap the guid scots tongue, whit wid auld Willie Wallace think in his grave oor Rab the Bruce; a tell ye wee Donal, a yon fancy tak might be guid enuf fur yon snobs in Edinburgh Toon and thur pals doon in Lundoon, but nae teacher hus the richt ate stap wee boys takin whoo they want, if I see yon Purcell in the toon al gie hum a piece o ma mind an the toe o ma boot, a think the mans a secret Englishman, an as fur Gemmil stoatin aboot lak a wee sodger, if a see him on the brig al gie hum English a richt afore a fling hum af Dalintober Pier".
Thankfully, in the passage of time all the threats were forgotten as all my grandfather's energy was directed to a firewood scheme!
On the subject of the English, there was a graveyard at the end of the Tomaig road, called 'The English Graveyard' where, in the past, English residents in the town were buried either by choice, or because of their adherence to the Anglican Communion.
When I lived in Campbeltown the graveyard was not used very often, but to us young boys it had the appeal of some dark mysterious place hidden away at the end of the town.
One summer's day we decide to investigate the graveyard and proceeded up to the Tomaig Road to the gate of the graveyard. The place had an overgrown air about it, with many of the headstones buried in fern and briar. The graveyard was surrounded by a small stone wall which we quickly climbed over and found ourselves in the 'lair of the English', as my pals called it.
There we played happily all that warm summer's afternoon, hiding amongst the tall ferns or behind the worn headstones, many of the inscriptions on the latter long faded with the action of wind and rain. Then as evening drew on we made our way home, wondering if the sleepers under the earth had been disturbed by our happy play.
About a week later I happened to mention to my grandfather that we had been up at the graveyard.
"Lord help us he!" he exclaimed. "Ye we hooligan, dancin on the hame o the deid foulk, did a na tell ye the story aboot Lundoon Joe who vanished up at the graveyerd mony a year ago?. Weel he wis a wee man whoo cam af a boat an decicded tae stey in the toon where he merried a wumman, he used tae sell fush doon at the peir heid; as time ganged awa Joe made a puckle money an he dinna believe in banks sae he stashed awa the money unner a heidstone in the English Graveyard.
Noo he kept his wife short o money an she bacam suspicoos o the visits he was makin tae the graveyers, sae she followed hum wan nicht an saw hum pittin money unner a gravestane. When Joe had ganged awa hame she tak some o the money fur hersel. Puir Joe becam demented, as he added money it becam less an less an in the end he went mad an wis sent ate the asylum whur he ended hus days. As fir hus wife she merried agin an had a lot o money. Sae a tell ye dinna gang tae yon graveyerd agin wee Donal lest auld Ludoon Joe cam an catch steelin hus money!"
One of the strangest tales my grandfather told me, was that of the 'Bellochautauy Dancers', named after the coastal hamlet ten miles north of Campbeltown on the A83 road. I will attempt to relate the gist of the story as he talked to me one winters night in the year 1946.
"Lang ago wee Donal, thur wis an af a lot o good social life in the winter up in the villages alang the coast road, foulk dinna spend thur nichts listinin tae radios an playin gramaphone records, thur wis alweys dancin in the village hall an Bellochauntay wis a rare place fur the dancin an winchin. A the ferm lassies an lads cam doon from their feeing. Ye cam imagin the feeling hot warm room, fiddlers playin awa as if the deil wis pokin them way his fork, boys an lassies dancin weel intae the morn, whusky flowed like a river an nae wunner thur wis say many bairns born on the wrang side o the sheets."
He saw that I was puzzled by his remark being that sex was taboo in the framework of the Presbyterian system.
"A see ye dinna ken whit between the sheets means, weel it means that foulk havin bairn afore they wur merried, sae dinna tell yer granny whit a said, fur she disna lak that kind o tak in frnt o wee bairns."
Having delivered that aside he proceeded to his tale.
"Weel aboot the year 1880 wan winters nicht at the end o November when a the ootside ferm wurk wis feenished, thur was a great party wan Seterday nicht in the hall at Bellochantauy. The place wis packed wie ferm hans young an auld, the air shook wie the stampin o feet, reels, strathspeys, quadrilles, flowed like a mighty river, the music pulsed oot intae the dark, suddenly the door o the hall flew open an in walked six young men, bronzed fit, handsome, dressed in neatly pressed trooser bit they had bare feet wie nae a mark oan them; a the foulk in the hall stapped dancin an stared at the six, they dinna look like lak ferm hans, yet they had an air o strength."
"The local meenister who wis fond o dancin (an the lassies, if the truth be known) cam oor tae the six young men who had gone to the bar tae git a drink. 'Whur are ye men frae that cam tae oor dance, ye urna frae local ferms fur we ken a the lads an lassies that ur in yon hill ferms?' One o the men swigged back a double malt. 'we ur the six dancers o the hills, we dance a winter roon the land an in the summer we wurk at the kelp. Oor feet are as fast as the light that cams tae yer eyes, nae jig is twa quick fur us'."
"The meenister seemed fair perplexed. 'whit ferms hae ye wurked in?' he asked, swattin the sweat aff his brow. The leader o the men grinned. 'We cam doon frae Inverarry,' he said, 'we hae heard aboot the rare soirées ye hae doon here'."
"'Wha hae ye nae boots oan?' asked the meenister, 'It must be freezin wakin the hills in the cauld.' Wan o the tall men men clapped his hans, 'We ur nae afeered o cauld meenister we hae danced in the middle o a blizzard'."
"'Whis yer names?' asked wan wee man, 'ye hae a strange accent fur the heilens an ye urna frae Glesca'."
"'We ur frae awa up in the islands north o the Pentland Firth, we ur descended frae the Vikings, oor names are Henrik we ur frae the wan femily.' The reply brocht a murmer o approval frae the crowd. The meenister nodded. 'Let the jigs continue freens! he roared, swiggin back a malt that made hus face fair shine, 'On wie the dancin, fur the nicht is but a bairn!'"
"Weel the oors swept by an cam the dawn, the auld cock at the back o the stables crowed an the dancin stapped. A the lassies wur fair taked wie the six dancers, but lo an behold when the licht o dawn cam, the dancers had fair fleed awa, the had vanished like snaw aff a dike, a moment o blossom, then gone. They wurna tae be fan onywhere, foulk searched a the hills roon aboot, but they wurna tae be seen; the meenister couldna mak sense o it. 'It must hae been ghosts, or bogles that cam intae oor hall yon nicht, disturbed by the skirlin an shoutin'."
"Well we Donal yon is the story o the dancirs, a wis only a wee boy o seeven whan it heppened; foulk still had soirées in the hall efter that but o a winter's nicht that kept a wary eye oan the door in case the six young men cam in."
When he finished speaking, my grandfather sat back and lit his pipe.
"Whit a load o blethers," snapped my grandmother, "fillin the wee boys heid wie nonsense, a leeved up there fur a while an never heard aboot the dancirs, an as fur the meenister gulpin doon double malts, that widnae be allowed by the Kirk Session, he wid be turned oot o his livin. Ye wull hae tae stop tellin wee Donal aboot a these ghosts an queer foulk, it is bad fur his brain!"
My grandfather listened to the tirade for a few minutes.
"Weel wumman, whit a telt wee Donal wis telt tae me by my fether, an he wis a god ferin man."
Winking, he looked towards me.
"When ye ur ould enough tae gang dancin, watch oot fur men wie bare feet, or meenisters swiggin double malts!"
At the south end of Main Street lay Martin's Book Shop. By modern standards it resembled a small cupboard; If there was more than half a dozen people in the place, the shop was packed.
Though small, there was a great selection of books and periodicals. But, alas, for boys to enter the place usually provoked a savage response from the Wotherspoons, part owners of the shop. Sadly we used to stare into the window at the various books, some were very tempting -- such as 'boy's own' annuals, The Beano and The Hotspur year books, aircraft recognition manuals and a variety of pens, pencils and pads for writing and drawing. The cost of the books was beyond our meagre pocket money so we could only wish that we could own one of the publications.
One day, probably about the year 1947, I saw in the window of Martin's a book entitled The Observer Book of Aircraft 1947, priced at five shillings (25p). Luckily I had managed to save up the sum required and proceeded to the book shop armed with two half crowns.
I hesitated at the door of the book shop, looking nervously into the gloomy interior. There were about six people in the shop, rummaging amongst the book shelves. Mrs Wotherspoon saw me timidly enter.
"What do you want boy?" she snapped, as if to enter the emporium was considered a sin.
"Please can I have a copy of the Observer Book of Aircraft year 1947, it is in the front window."
There was a silence. Some of the customers turned round and stared at me, one old woman clicked her teeth in annoyance.
"Are you not a bit young to be reading a book about aircraft. Such books are for specialists and those genuinely interested in aircraft."
Wotherspoon's words echoed round the confined space as if pronouncing some edict that classified me as being beyond thinking about aircraft.
"But I am interested in planes." I protested. "My grandfather once rescued a pilot from a crashed plane near Machrihanish!"
Again there was a stony silence.
"A likely story !" snapped Mrs Wotherspoon. "Jock Smith is your grandfather, how could he have rescued a pilot?"
Some of the customers sniggered as if currying favour with the purveyor of books.
"Have you got the five shillings for the book," rasped Mrs Wotherspoon, realising that trade was trade.
"I suppose I cannot stop you buying it."
I produced the two half crowns, which she greedily snatched from my hands then went to the window and retrieved the book. She thrust the book into my hand.
"Now away with you boy! I hope you saved the money up, for five shillings is a great sum for a boy from Dalintober to have! Really! The people that are coming into this shop now alarms me. Next thing that will happen is Fesak from Kilmorry place will be coming in!"
The woman with the clicking teeth sighed.
"Lord let not that day come upon us, you know education of the working class is a dangerous thing leading to all sorts of evil!"
"Amen to that!" said the customers and Mrs Wotherspoon as I left clutching my copy of The Observers Book Of Aircraft, a book I kept for forty years.
What a strange place Campbeltown seemed to my boyish mind. It was as if class had entered into the world of reading and that for certain people to be seen buying or reading books was frowned upon by those who considered themselves 'the literary elite'.
Copyright © 1998 Donald Keith.