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The Coal Man
The Light Man Cometh Balls The Secret Passage The Tank |
The Railway
The Beast With Five Fingers The Best Seats In The House The Third Dimension Deef Jamie |
During the time that I resided in Campbeltown, there were a large number of houses heated by open coal fires. Coal was usually delivered by the coal man, from a horse drawn cart. The majority of coal sheds were down in the back yards, but many people lived in tenements and the coal man had to cart the heavy sacks up many flights of stairs. He used to stand at the foot of the close
and shout, "Dis oany wan want ony coal?" Or sometimes he would bellow, "coalaoo!" A window would open somewhere above and the reply would come, "aye twa bags up here tae number nine."
Now the man who delivered the coal, was a fearsome sight to behold. Black with coal dust from head to foot, a torn cap on his head, his eyes piercing through the dust like some bygone minstrel, his teeth gleaming from his mouth. He drove a cart pulled by a great Clydesdale, a wise horse that stopped at the various halts as if an inborn sense told it to do so.
We used to follow the coal cart sniggering at the coalman as he heaved great sacks of coal about. At times we would shout, "Who wants a bag of dross, only one and six, guaranteed not to burn!"
This remark drew a roar of rage from the hapless coal man.
"Awa ye go ye wee pests, a tell ye thur is nathin wrang wie Muster McNair's coal, it us best Ayrshire, al tell yer faithers whit ye hae been sayin an ye wull git a richt lunnerin."
We would dart off laughing, only to return later to shout taunts.
One day we espied the coal man in the High Street approaching Gayfield Place. We slipped up the close where Donald Broon lived and hid round the back of the opening, the coal man's voice boomed up the close,
"Coaloo!, dis oany wan want oany coal?"
One of my pals with a scarf over his mouth replied,
"Aye twa hunnerweight tae Broons coal hole roon the back, na mak it fower hunnerweight o best Ayrshire."
The coal man grunted and came staggering up the close into the back yard. As he did so we slipped behind some dustbins. A woman was hanging up some washing as the coal man approached.
"Whurs Broon's coal hole?" he asked, gasping with the weight of the sack on his shoulders.
The woman pointed to a door hanging ajar, creaking in the breeze.
"Yons Broon's coal hole, but he hisna had a fire fur mony a month."
The coal man grunted again.
"Weel he his asked fur fower hunnerweight, sae al fill his coal hole up."
He then proceeded to dump sacks in the hole. Eventually he went to Donald's door and banged on the door.
"Fower hunnerweight o best Ayrshire Muster Broon, that wull be wan poon an ten shullins!"
We crept up to a vantage point to listen to what the outcome of the coal man's request would be. Donal Broons face peered through the grime coated kitchen window, a look of bewilderment spreading on his bloated features. He went to the door and wrenched it open. Spying the coal man, he rubbed his red eyes.
"Whit dae ye want coal man?"
A silence prevailed for a few seconds.
"A want wan poon an ten shullins fur fower hunnerweight o best Ayrshire that a left in yer coal hole jist noo!"
Donal coughed, then scratched his hair.
"A ken nathin aboot coal a hae a wee gas fire noo an a paraffin stove, wan o yon Vallor kind frae Livingstone's shop; oanyway Mustress McDougall up oan the tap landing uses my coal hole noo, sae ye wull hae tae ask hur fur the muney. The coalman glared through the grime on his face.
"Dina cam that wie me ye auld deevil a heard yer voice shoutin back aboot fower hunnerweight o coal as clear as a bell!"
Donal snorted.
"Wha could a shout back ye wid hae seen me, a leeve in the close an a widna shout oot frae ma hoose fur a widna hear ye."
The coalman scratched his head.
"Weel somebody shouted fur coal, sae somebody is gan tae pey fur it, am nae leevin the place tull a hae the muney in ma palm, sae ye better sort it oot Broon or the polis wull ned tae cam an speak tae ye!"
The remark made Donal totter with rage.
"If ye dinna gang awa frae my door al get ma cleever, an ye wull be a heidless coal man, sae awa back tae yer cairt."
The coal man spluttered with anger.
"Al awa al richt but al fetch the polis back tae ye, gettin goods unner false pretenses, thats whit it is!"
As he turned to go Mrs McDougall appeared in the close with her shopping bag.
"Hie coal man could ye pit fower hunnerweight of best ayrshire into Donal's coal hole, am usin hus noo ye ken."
There was a stunned silence.
"A hae jist dun that mustress a thocht Broon wanted it fur it was a man's voice."
The woman stared at the coal man.
"Thus is awfa strange manny, it must hae been thae boys a seen hidin roon at the dustbins, oanyway ye hae left the coal, sae whit dae a owe ye?"
Muttering, the coal man said, "Wan poon an ten shullins mustress!"
Mrs McDougall fished two notes from her purse.
"A wid watch oot in future when wee boys are aboot."
With that remark she headed down to the steps at the Broom Brae, leaving the coal man and Donal staring at each other. Then with a roar they raced into the back yard, but by that time we had ascended the stairs that led up to the hills, and lay laughing amongst the whin bushes.
"Did ye see the look oan auld Donal's face when the coal man asked fur wan poon an ten shullins, why he could hae a rare drink wir that kind o money!"
As we laughed from our hideout, far below we heard Donal and the coal man shouting.
"If we see ye boys aboot agin we wull swing fur ye!"
On reflection what we did was cruel, but pranks like that were considered 'good sport' at the time.
On the subject of pranks, my father told me of a prank that he and his pals had carried out in their youth...
The quay that lay to the east of the old quay was known as the new quay and up from the latter lay a row of tiny cottages in a street called 'New Quay Street'. The cottages were very small and seemed to be built with dwarfs in mind. In one of the cottages there dwelt an old fisherman and his wife and, as usual, the husband had a relish for 'John Barleycorn'. Of a night he would come home from the local to be chastised by his wife even though he concocted weird excuses for being out late!
One such excuse was that he had seen a strange light in the sky and had followed its course until it had vanished behind Bengullion, hence the reason for his lateness! His wife must have conjectured that excess drink was causing him to hallucinate and tried to restrict his visits to the local!
Somehow the story of the light began to circulate amongst the locals and if old Billy was seen lurching home in the 'wee sma oors' people would say "the light man cometh." My father and his friends (I think it was in the period just prior to the Great War) decided to update the light theory and convince Billy's wife that maybe there was some truth in what her husband had seen. It was decided that somehow when Billy had returned home if a light could be made to shine at the man's window and his wife saw it, then Billy would be let of the hook. But how could this effect be made to occur without the hoax being quickly detected?
Well, one of my father's friends suggested if one of them concealed themselves in a tree that stood opposite the cottages and at intervals swung a storm lamp then this would attract the attention of Billy's wife, by the time she came out to investigate the lamp would be safely withdrawn up into the tree, ready to be lowered when she went indoors!
A storm lamp was obtained, and on a Sunday night when Billy was usually in the cottage due to the Sabbath, one of my father's pals ascended the tree when the coast was clear, whilst my father and the rest hid behind a wall to watch the fun. Making sure that no pedestrians were about, the spluttering storm lamp was lowered and swung in a slow arc. No sound came from Billy's cottage, the a white face appeared at the window, voices were raised, a key turned in the lock, at that instant the lamp vanished into the leafy bower as Billy's wife came out into the street.
She peered across into the dark.
"Guid god whit ur ye oan aboot mon, thur is nae licht in the sky movin aboot, its the drink that is causin ye tae haver."
With that she went back inside, at the instant the door closed the lamp reappeared swinging in a slow deliberate arc. After a while two faces peered from the lamp light in the cottage; again a key turned and Billy and his wife came out onto the pavement, again the lamp vanished into the tree.
"Weel wumman!" snorted Billy, "We both saw the licht as clear as the day, jist like the licht a saw oan the wey hame frae the pub!"
His wife glared at him.
"Aye a seen a licht oot there near the tree, but where is it noo?"
Billy spat on the pavement.
"A tell ye wumman, yon licht has a mind o its ane, it sees us commin an hides till we gang back intae oor hoose."
His wife grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back into the cottage.
"If ye keep this nonsense up we wull end up at the Bedlam Hoose in Lochgilpheid, aye thur is plenty in there that see lichts a the time, look whit heppened tae auld Wullie frae Bolgam Street, he kept seein lichts and ended up in the hospital, they nearly sent hum tae the Bedlam Hoose tae they discovered he needed new spectacles!"
My father told me they waited a few minutes then the lamp was lowered again, slowly it swung in the gloom, after a few minutes the cottage door opened and Billy's wife came out with a candle in her hand.
Luckily the lamp was whisked up in time. The woman strode across to the tree.
"A canny unnerstaun whits gan oan here, a see the licht then whan a gang oot it isna there, mind you..."
She stopped mid sentence.
"Thur is a strong smell o parrafin in the air an burning wick."
She peered up into the tree then, muttering, returned to the cottage. The lamp was lowered again. This time the cottage door flew open, too late to pull the lamp up! Billy and his wife rushed across the street, staring at the storm lamp with its attached rope.
"In the name o god some wee blaggards hae been makin a fool o us."
Billys wife untied the lamp and took it back into the cottage.
"Weel," she remarked, "whit ever wains hung yon lamp tae the tree, hae made us a gift o a lamp tae licht oor hoose better!"
Eventually the lamp operator crept from his hiding and joined my father and his pals behind the wall. There they discussed the failed prank and the loss of the storm lamp, the property of one of the fathers! As to Billy, my father never told me what happened about his outings to the pub, perhaps it is as the old hymn goes -- 'lead kindly light amid the encircling gloom'.
Such 'pranks' seemed good fun but though no attack to people or robbery was the motivation, high blood pressure levels to aged people did them no good. Had my father and his pals been caught by the police they would have been given a good 'clip on the ear', and discouraged from repeating the episode. Alas though that was the age of innocence and trust, doors left unlocked, no attacks in the street, all eventually to be 'soured' by the coming war.
About 1952, when I was fifteen, us 'technical no hopers' in the Grammar School where grudgingly introduced, as the teacher said, "to the finer points of Charles Lamb's essays and to the glories of the Regency coupled with a look at the works of Pope and Gray." He also added, "to what use it is teaching 'technical people' about fine writing and poetry, it was like teaching Latin to a herd of cows." Anyway some 'higher up' had said that that we had to taught about the finer things in literature!
I remember the warm spring days, stuck in the huts at the south end of the Grammar School, just past the science block, where the 'professionals' where given massive encouragement at the expense of the 'technical people'. In one particular hut the teacher droned on about Charles Lamb and Beau Brummel the Regency dandy. We imagined that Brummel read the Dandy comic but a blow on the ear from the teacher dispelled all mirth in that direction!
Then came "An essay on Antediluvian Hut" or a treatise on roast pork. All this came down to the claim that the Chinese had discovered the secret of roast pork, when some peasant had by accident burnt down a hut full of pigs! From this boredom followed a grim session on Gray. The teacher entolled the lines...
The plowman homewards plods his weary way
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The teacher paused in his reverie.
"Well boys," he said, "Gray composed the Elegy sitting in a country churchyard. What exquisite prose, the feeling and then there is the line"
"Let not ambition mock their useful toil"
"Well, let us see, Wilson !"
He pointed to a small boy with glasses at the back.
"What does that line mean?"
Wilson stared at the teacher.
"Ye havna tae mock any buddy when yer wurkin".
The teachers face visibly darkened.
"Come out here!" he thundered.
Wilson stumbled out to the front of the class shaking.
"What have I told you before? Talking in local dialect is forbidden. The words you uttered in reply to my question are those of ignorant people and have no place in correct English. You will stay at the front of the class for the rest of the lesson. As to the correct answer: Gray is saying that toil is virtuous, and the humble labourer is happy in his work without feeling the need for advancement. So remember that all of you with lofty ambitions!"
The lesson continued and came to Alexander Pope's The Rape Of The Lock -- a viscous satire on goings-on in the time of 'Good Queen Anne'. Again to our minds it seemed a pointless exercise. The teacher came to the line
Oh!, thou great Anna who sometimes council takes and sometimes tae!"
He paused, then his eyes descended on me.
"Keith, what is Pope saying in the line I just delivered?"
There was a pause, all eyes swivelled onto me.
"Remember the word 'tae' is a spelling of tea!"
Blustering, for I had not been listening I replied,
"Annie liked a cup of tea when she went to see the council."
Alas the teacher's face darkened again.
"Come out to the front and join Wilson!" he bellowed, "Again, not listening, the line says that she was more interested in tea at times, than in affairs of state!"
I blushed, "But sir I said she liked a cup of tea!"
There was a silence, the teacher glared at me.
"Yes but it was not a town council she was with. Your answer is typical of a poor mind -- no deductive qualities, why you will never be able to compose anything, typical 'technical stream' answer!"
About a few weeks after the incident I mentioned, there was a furore in the school about the use of the word 'balls'. One poor boy had seen some film where the character had said 'balls to the lot of ye'. He had said it in school within earshot of Dracula. We were all assembled in the hall to witness punishment.
The unfortunate boy was paraded, then had to listen to Dracula giving him a verbal battering.
"The words 'balls' have connotations of human anatomy, not to be mentioned ever. Scotland prides herself in strict adherence to Presbyterianism, where all mention of bodily parts are strictly taboo as this leads to severe degeneration of the senses and to corruption."
The boy shook with terror as Dracula paused in his homily. He continued,
"For this outburst of filth, you will be given six of the best and let that be a lesson to you and to all who would follow in your footsteps!"
He finished and the poor boy was given six strokes of the strap -- a leather thong split at the end. We looked on in stupefied terror and when the assembly had dispersed we returned to the class. There our teacher warned us that if any other person was heard uttering the word 'balls' within earshot of a teacher, he would be expelled and his parents informed.
A few days went past, then we returned to the class where the teacher continued with his lesson on the finer points of poetry, then the lesson drifted to the time of Charles the Second.
"You know," said the teacher, "in the time of good King Charles and after the rigours of Oliver Cromwell's regime people used to play games in The Mall. One of the games became known as Pall Mall and was played with balls, in a good day you could see many people playing in the sunshine with their balls."
A grim silence rent the atmosphere within the class, the dreaded word had been spoken! The teacher realising why we had suddenly all started to giggle, spluttered,
"The context of the word is in the meaning of the game, you should not read into things what not is there."
The class starting laughing, somebody shouted, "six of the best for you, off to see the head!"
The teacher kept quiet about the incident, but the story went round the school about what had happened and must have reached the ears of Dracula, for the teacher was summoned to his presence.
Again the incident illustrates how words that now are common place in the language, where at that time considered 'taboo' and having connotations towards sex. Such grim 'blinkering' must have given many pupils a life long hang up about the problem.
I have spoken in the past about 'The Walk', that road that rose steeply from High Street to the hills above the town. Right at the top of The Walk, on the west side, stood a large house three stories high, with two large attics. Now, I had befriended one of the boys who lived in the house. I remember his name was Jim, and at holiday time I used to visit him and we would play with his toys up in the attic.
The attic was large by the standards of the time and the view of the loch from the window was very good, it seemed as if we were looking down from an eagle's nest onto the town. The way up to the attic was by a narrow stair, just enough for one person to ascend at a time and this added to the 'secrecy' of the place. Many a happy afternoon was spent playing with toy soldiers on the attic floor, or rigging up a pirate ship, to sail off on some adventure.
One day when we were peering at some comics that we had brought to read, we came across a story about a secret passage someone had found in an old house. Would it not be great if we could find such a secret passage leading from the attic?
We walked round the walls tapping lightly to see if there were any hollows behind, alas without success. As we came down the attic stair, about half way down, Jim noticed a panel in the wall.
"You know," he said, "I have lived here for years and it is the first time I have taken an interest in this panel."
He tapped lightly on the wood.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, "there is a hollow sound from behind the wood. I wonder if we can open the panel?"
He felt round the edges, then his fingers lodged in a crevice.
"I think I have found an opening!" he exclaimed.
The panel swung out with a creak. It was pivoted on hinges that creaked for years of lying unused. Dust filtered onto the stairs. The opening beyond the panel smelt musty. We could see some narrow stairs running up into the gloom.
"Let us explore," said Jim, "I will fetch a torch."
He returned a few minutes later and by the pale beam we moved up the stairs. Eventually we came to another little door which when we entered we found ourselves in the loft space of the roof. There in the corner was the water header tank and a few items put up there by previous occupants of the house. We rooted around for about ten minutes then descended back into the attic. We never mentioned to anyone about our secret passage and, who knows, it may be there to this day.
There was one place that gave me the shivers. There were really two Walks, the one I mentioned and another which started at the junction of George Street and High Street. At the foot of the other Walk stood the 'Wee Free Kirk'.
However the real interest of the story lay on the connecting road that joined the two Walks at their head. The road had a poor surface, on one side lay some large houses once owned by landed gentry and on the other next to some smaller dwellings stood a building like a large barn, sheeted in corrugated iron, rusting in places.
We used to walk past the place wondering what lay beyond the sheeted building, there was no sign of any doors and access to the rear was obstructed by barbed wire. We speculated it was some forgotten secret left behind by the navy after the war, or the home of some 'beast' that only roamed about in the night! One of my pals thought it was the home of a large fish, kept hidden. To look upon it meant certain death, like the Gorgon of old!
Curious minds breed desperate measures and we resolved we must see what lay beyond the sheeted building. Firstly we would tap the memories of our old folk as to the purpose of the tin shed at the top of the Walk. Accordingly I broached the subject with my grandfather one Autumn day in 1946 as he supped some pease brose from a bowl, stopping at intervals to wipe the excess from his Stalin type moustache.
"Grandad," I queried, "What is kept in the tin shed at the top of the Walk?
He paused. A mouthful of brose quivered on the spoon. The dog looked up in expectation. My grandfather's eyes seemed to narrow and I could have sworn that he 'crossed' himself. The spoon dropped back into the steaming brose with a plopping sound.
"Whits that ye said wee Donal, the shed at the tap o the Wak, yon Wak wie the Wee Free at the bottom o it?"
"Yes," I replied, "We think that there is some secret device hidden in it, left from the war."
As I spoke he removed his glasses, gave them a rub, then sat back on his chair.
"Ye ken boy that al no hear o ye ganging up tae yon tank, fur within is a dark cistern, bottomless an fu o great eels. Yon tank wis built years lang by an wance a wee boy fu o deevilment climbed oan the roof an fell in, nae budy wid gang intae the cistern tae fan his body, his bones must lie bleached at the bottom wie the eels watchin oor them. Sae dinna ye go near yon place fur a dinna want tae hae tae tell yer muther an faither ye are in the cistern!"
He ended his tirade with a grunt and continued mouthing down great spoonfuls of brose.
When I met my pals the next Saturday, they had been told similar stories by their parents about the tin shed. Stories about a fathomless deep which had claimed victims over the years and of the strange creatures that lurked in the depths. They were warned to steer clear of the place on pain of a good lunnerin. All this added to our desire to see what was in the tin shed and we resolved to make our attempt near dusk when we would be less likely to be seen.
About five o'clock we sauntered up the Walk, past the grim edifice of the Wee Free and eventually we reached the tin shed. It stood sombre and menacing in the growing gloom. A far street lamp throwing a sinister shadow on one of the walls. Up we crept to the side of the shed and we slipped under the barbed wire fence. No one spoke for fear of someone hearing our voices in the still Autumn air. A large nettle stung my leg, one of my pals scratched his hand on some briars. Then we were against the cold tin of the shed. No sound came from within, only the faint whistle of a breeze playing on the roof.
"Dae ye think we wid find a door roon the other side through yon bushes?"
We looked in the direction he pointed to.
"Let's try." I said and we scrambled forward, the bushes snatching at our clothes.
Eventually we were round the rear of the shed and there we spotted a small opening in the sheeting. One of my pals had a small torch with him. he went to the opening and shone it through.
"What can you see?" I nervously asked.
He made a whistling sound through his teeth.
"Have a look!" he croaked, fear edging his voice.
I took the torch and shone it through the opening. The beam fell on a dark mass of reeds. Oily water bubbled at intervals. There was a smell of rotting vegetation. The rest of my pals had a look.
"It is lak yon swamp in the 'Hoond o ye Basketfu!" exclaimed one boy.
We all laughed.
"Ye mean 'The Hoond o ye Baskers'!" some whispered, again there was a nervous laugh.
From within the shed came a slight scrapping sound. I shone the torch through the opening -- a great bubble had formed on the oily surface, something black was underneath it!
"What can ye see Donal?" asked my pals.
"Something is moving in the tank!" I exclaimed.
Fear took hold of us and with a great cry we crashed through the bushes back onto the road, scratching knees and ripping clothes. We raced down the Walk in a great bunch and did not stop until we had reached Dalintober Pier, where we gathered breath.
"Wha could it hav been ye saw Donal!" gasped my pals, looking back fearfully towards the Walk.
"I am sure it was an eel's head coming up out of the slime!" I replied, as we started to walk across the Esplanade to the safety of the town lights.
What tales we told in the coming winter months in our candlelit den in 'The Meadows'. Tales of the great eel in the tank and of other slithering creatures that lived in the bottomless slime. Alas I had to keep such tales from my grandfather who would not have seen the funny side of our exploit.
I used to wonder in later years what the tank was really for, perhaps the simple answer was a reservoir for supplying some distillery with water and was left abandoned when the latter closed.
Campbeltown once had its own little narrow gauge railway that ran from Hall Street, down to Kilkerran, up the cutting past Limecraigs where it then swung round the Highland Parish Church on its way to Machrihanish Coal Pit. The railway was passenger-carrying as well as coal-carrying and in its halcyon days carried many passengers. The railway had two phases of construction; one was the opening in 1877 with the line to the pit, and the 1906 phase when it was connected up to Machrihanish. In 1932 due to economic fluctuations in world markets, the railway was closed, the track torn up and the rolling stock dumped at the Shipyard at the Trench Point.
I can remember the rusting carriages lying in a heap, forlorn and deserted. Once thronged with day trippers, now the habitat of birds and rabbits.
The cutting for the tracks is still in existence at Limecraigs but is now a leafy walkway through what was known as the 'plantation'. It used to intrigue us boys as to the purpose of the place. We used to hear grown-ups talking about 'the cutting' or the still more mysterious 'hungry hoose'. Apparently the latter was a refreshment place where no bannocks were served with the drink, against the usual custom, thus the punters gave the place its name. Until I found out the facts years later, I thought it was a house full of very hungry people.
Out near the Lintmill are the remains of the bridge abutments that carried the track over Chiscan Water. It must have been a spectacular journey along the route to Machrihanish with views of the coal canal, the latter starting at Drumlemble then routed in a great loop to swing into the north side of Campbeltown. The railway terminated near the Machrihanish Hotel an approximate journey from Hall Street of about six miles.
Thus in the days of the Clyde Steamers, trippers could be sped from the pier at Campbeltown to the Atlantic Ocean, then back, all in one hour, ready to catch the steamer back at three o' clock!
With the novelty of the railway on their doorsteps, the youth of the time used to play hair raising games with the rolling stock. My father said they used to wait near the cutting then, as the train approached, rush across, last one to cross being dubbed a fool. He said that no one was injured, though there were fatalities in the dark when some unsuspecting person blundered into the path of a locomotive or someone was struck by a passing truck. Pennies used to be placed on the line to see whose would be flattened the most, again a dangerous pursuit.
Hall Street was the town departure point, there was no platform and passengers had to embark or disembark by climbing up some steps, this had to be done with thick engine smoke billowing around like a fog. Sometimes youngsters tried to sneak on the train without paying, but the eagle eyed conductor soon detected them and shoved them off!
It seems sad that the railway survived only fifty five years for had it weathered the storm it could have become a great tourist lure like the North Yorkshire Moor Line, or the one in North Norfolk.
The term 'sneaking on' or 'in' brings to mind an incident that occurred at the 'Wee Picture House' in Hall Street. It came about that the film The Beast With Five Fingers was being screened, and children were not allowed in unless accompanied by an adult. As my grandfather or uncle refused to take me, saying that I would have nightmares for the rest of my life, my pals and I decided to try and gain entry by other means. Two plans were hatched. One was to disguise a boy to look like an adult and for him to take someone in, then the fire door could be opened from the inside and we all could sneak in. Plan two was to wait until Stalin was not on duty then rush as a body past the cashier, the latter being an old woman with bad eyesight. Plan one was soon discarded as the 'fake adult' would soon be detected, so plan two was agreed upon.
The film was very popular and we decided to wait for an evening performance when there would be a large crowd milling about outside. The appointed evening came and we slipped along Hall Street until we were near the doorway of the Wee Picture House. As predicted a large crowd was milling about in the dark waiting for the first performance to end. Music drifted out into the street, we could hear screams and groans from the punters.
"Help ma boab!" shouted someone. Another voice exclaimed
"A wilna sleep a wink fur years thinking o yon han mangling the wee mans throat!"
Then the film came to an end, followed by a rush of feet as the audience disgorged into the street.
"A hope ye wee boys urna gan tae try an git into see yon horror!" snapped a tall man dressed in a suit and wearing a homburg.
One of my pals grabbed my arm.
"Dae ye ken wha that man is?"
I shook my head, "No, who is he?"
My pal drew me aside.
"That's the Wee Free minister, sae much fur leadin a life withoot sin!"
There was an a short period as the cinema was cleared of rubbish, then the man who stood in for Stalin came to the door.
"Ye can start formin a line the noo!" he roared, "Nae wains allowed in or dugs, the chapest seats are ninepence an the dearest twa shullins, thur is only the wan fulm oan the nicht an nae alchol is tae be drunk durin the showin an nae person wull be allowed tae stan in the passages!"
He finished his tirade then stepped aside as a mass of adults and children swept forward, so great was the press of humanity that the rule about children could not be applied and we swept past the cashier thrusting our ninepence en route into her sweaty palms, with remarks like
"Am wie yon man in front, he is ma uncle or big brother."
The cashier's voice echoed above the din.
"Mister Smith there are wee boys slipping past the desk contrary to your instructions."
Mister Smith pressed forward but us 'wee boys' had vanished into the dark recesses of the cinema.
"Och," he groaned, his torch beam stabbing the inky black, "Stalin wull dock money aff ma wages fur this an yers tae wumman!"
He glared at the sweating cashier
"A weel we wull hae tae let it go, but when the picturs feenished an the lichts gang up al get a the names o the wains that hus slipped in an gie it tae their teachers."
We dispersed inside the cinema, crouching down so as to present a low target for Mister Smith's torch beam as it swept across the hall. The screen flickered then on came the pictures, adverts and some snippets then the titles for the main feature accompanied by dolorous music that lent an air of mystery to the story. The story was about a pianist who had his hand damaged and some deranged doctor grafted on the hand of a dead person. The catch was that the hand was from a mad strangler and when it was grafted to the pianist he started murdering innocent people, for he could not control the wild urges. Eventually the hand had to be removed, but it had a life of its own and tracked down people to strangle them. In the final scene the hand is playing the piano and suddenly strangles the pianist who appears on the scene!
As the film concluded, there were cries of terror as the hand, having strangled the pianist, then proceeded to slither out of a window, no doubt to continue its deadly work.
One of my pals, waving a glove in the air, shouted "the hand has cam oot o the screen an is in the seats!"
People queuing to leave, laughed nervously.
"Dina be stupid!" snapped one man smoking a Capstan Double Strength, "Ye wull hae a the foulk fleein oot in terror!"
The queue reached the door marked 'exit' and there stood 'commisar' Smith with his notebook scribbling down the names of the youngsters who had crept into the film.
"Jeest as a thocht!" he exclaimed, "Ye boys hae got in tae a fulm that is only fur big foulk sae whit is yer names, sae a can tell muster Ramsay?"
As he spoke he sucked at the lead pencil.
"Weel, name an address?"
The people behind kept pressing forwards and we were swept past Smith out into the street; however he managed to grab one of my pals by the arm, a boy called Archie McPhereson.
"Richt boy whits yer name?"
Archie squirmed to get away.
"Me names Todd Slaughter an a leeve in Dixson's Bleezes."
Smith scribbled furiously in his notebook.
"Is thur twa d's in Todd..."
He paused.
"Here wait a meenit ye scamp, Todd Slaughter wis a hero o the silent picturs, ye ur tellin me lies!"
Archie broke free and in an instant was in the street.
"Never fear!" shouted Smith, "Yer ticket is marked, ye wulna get intae they picturs agin the lot o ye, mustur Ramsay neever forgets a culprit or a face."
As we ran up Hall Street towards the Library Building, Archie laughingly shouted back.
"Am really called Todd Slaughter but a hae gien ye the wrang address, a leeve in the Slaughter Hoose!"
When I returned home at about half past ten, my grandfather, uncle, and grandmother were waiting for me in the kitchen. The look on their faces bespoke of worry and anger.
"Wur hae ye been tae yon time o nicht!" roared my grandfather, giving the dog a slap, as the latter had started barking at me.
"Wee hae been oot o oor minds wie wurry, a thocht ye had been mangled by a D.P. an left deid on the shore?"
Nervously, I replied.
"I went to the pictures with my pals."
There was a pause.
"Whit pictur wis that ye saw wee Donal?" asked my grandmother.
Ashamed, in best George Washington tradition, I blurted out, "The Beast With Five Fingers."
Again a few seconds elapsed.
"Ye wee deevil!" rasped my grandfather, "Who did ye git intae yon horror, when it wis only for grown foulk, yon Stalin must be blun!"
In what seemed a few seconds everyone was shouting in the room, even the dog was growling in disapproval at what I had done.
"Wee Donal", soothed my grandmother, "Yon kind o picturs are bad fur yer brains, if ye see twa many ye could becam suicdal maniac lak Jack the Ripper."
My uncle laughed.
"Mither ye mean homicidal naw suicidal!"
My grandfather grabbed me by the shoulder and thrust me into a chair.
"Whit wis the pictur aboot boy?"
"It was about a man who played the piano and a doctor sewed the hand of a madman onto the man who played, but the hand went berserk and started strangling people. The doctor removed the hand, but it kept following him and others and eventually strangled the piano player; then the hand fled out into the night."
As I finished my précis I received a clip on the ear.
"Lawd be aboot us," sighed my grandfather, "Whit an awfy story, mind you yon wee McCallum the music teacher, a saw hum playin in the Victoria Hall, a yon screchin stuff, if the wanderin han had been aboot a wished it wid hae grabbed hum by the throat. Onyway we wull sae nae mer aboot ye gan tae a horror pictur, but dina dae it agin or al take the strap tae ye!"
Having got off with a warning I retired to my room, where as the night progressed I was gripped by terrifying dreams of hands and pianos slithering through doors and windows and was glad when morning came. As to our entering an adults only showing of The Beast With Five Fingers, nothing more was heard of the matter, as we expected Mister Purcell to descend at morning assembly with his strap; but strangely this did not happen. We gave The Wee Picture Hoose a wide berth for a few weeks and kept well clear of Stalin's Lair.
Another film that was shown at the Wee Picture Hoose was Robin Hood And His Merry Men, the Errol Flynn epic, shot in California. Before the film was actually screened, there was a 'season' of bows and arrows with wire tipped missiles swishing through the night air much to the annoyance of grown ups, or sword battles on the green, ending up with cuts and bruises galore.
The day of the screening arrived and we joined the expectant crowds milling outside the cinema. Stalin arrived resplendent in his livery, complete with gold embroidered officer's-style cap. He quickly viewed the milling crowd, like some general before a great battle.
"Get intae orderly lines!" he bellowed, "Thae line tae the richt is for the sixpenny seats, the wan tae the left is fur wan an six and twa shulliny seats. Quiten doon tae fur al hae noise an nae cadgin wull be allowed. The doors wull open at seeven o clock an thur wull be a matinee at twa o clock on Seterday, fur wee wains."
There we stood in the 'sixpenny' line, staring at the affluent in the higher priced queue. Oh we drooled in our thoughts, if only we could afford two shillings for the plush balcony seats, where we could look down on the peasants grovelling in the pit. But alas two shillings was a week's pocket money and to spend such an amount on a seat would leave us penniless for the rest of the week.
Seven o clock came. Stalin, with a dramatic flourish, pulled open the front doors.
"Wan an six an twa shulliny seats first then the tanner wans."
He said 'tanner' with an air of contempt, as if the purchasers of tanner seats were from some dark underclass. As the balcony and back seats filled we were grudgingly allowed forward towards the cash desk, where the cashier leered through her spectacles at us.
"Whit dae ye want?" she said to a small boy in front of me.
"I want to get intae the picturs," he replied.
"Mister Ramsay!" shouted the cashier, "This wee brat has given me a mouth of cheek!"
A dark shadow descended on the boy and Stalin's hand gripped his shoulder.
"Cheek eh, efter a the trouble muster Green has gan tae tae bring thus pictur doon tae Campbeltoon, weel me lad ye ur oot oan the street!"
With that the small boy was propelled out and I advanced to the cash desk clutching my precious tanner.
"A sixpenny seat please miss," I blurted out as Stalin hovered nearby like a vulture.
The cashier snatched the coin and spewed out a ticket. Stalin seized the ticket and tore it in half at the same time as thrusting me past the dark curtain into the bowels of the cinema.
"Head fur the front wee boy!" he rasped "An remember the wumman at the desk isna a miss she is a mustress, al let ye aff thus time but af seen me slingin oot boys fur nae bein polite."
I stumbled down the dark passage where an usherette picked me up with her torch beam.
"In thur!" she snapped, flicking the beam towards a row of pale faces that looked nervously at her.
I stumbled over feet amidst cursing and muttering and arrived at the designated spot where the beam stopped. Alas there was a space, but no seat, the latter had been removed for some reason.
"There is no seat!" I cried as boys shouted and hissed with rising excitement, "Where can I sit?"
More muttering, then two torch beams descended on my erect figure. The voice of Stalin boomed out.
"Sit doon wee boy, nae stanin allowed in the picturs or ye wull hae tae go oot."
As he spoke the cinema lights dimmed and the first feature film came up on the flickering screen. it was about the Amazonian rain forest. Desperately I crouched down on the space where the seat should have been. My knees ached on the hard concrete floor and my neck seemed to be bent at an awkward angle. Two small boys beside me sniggered.
"Wee Donal must be awfa poor nae tae be able tae afford a seat in the picturs, did ye get in fur nathin?"
More sniggers came from behind.
"Aye he is a freen o Stalin!"
Again there was more ripples of laughter, someone shouted,
"Hey Stalin a they boys in the front ar takin awfy loud, can ye no shut them up?"
A rush of feet, dancing torch beams, then Stalin roared,
"Fur the last time shut up ye wee wains, if a hae tae cam doon again a wull fling ye a intae the loch!"
His outburst seemed to calm down the chatter and for the next half hour of the film there was relative peace. Then up came the credits for Robin Hood and his Merry Men. A roar went up, feet stamped on the floor with pending excitement.
"Cut oot a they names an let us git oan wie the action!", shouted someone as Stalin's torch beam stabbed savagely towards the voice.
Then appeared the bold Robin thundering through Sherwood Forest on his trusty mare, followed by his hardy band of warriors. Hidden in the bushes lay the wily Sheriff of Nottingham with his soldiers, waiting to ambush Robin.
"Look oot!" we all roared, "They ur watin tae grab ye Robin an tak ye tae Nottingham Castle, pull up an awa tae yer left."
Alas bold Robin did not heed our words and the Sheriff rushed out shouting "Hold ye varlets in the name of good King John." There was a clash of swords, then came a swish of arrows from the trees and the Sheriff fell back and Robin and his men rode away to safety. Thus the film unfolded with clash and counter clash, plot and counter plot until poor Robin was trapped and sent to the dungeon. As he ascended the scaffold and the noose was about to be placed on his neck a strange man stepped forth and revealed himself as bold King Richard the Lionheart, escaped from an Austrian prison and home to reclaim his kingdom from his wicked brother John.
Robin is released and made Earl of Huntingdon, he marries Maid Marion and lives happily ever after. A great roar went up at this conclusion -- so great was the excitement that everyone in the row in front of me jerked their feet forward against the seat backs; the combined force was so great that the whole row came adrift propelling the occupants forward into the next row.There was great cursing and swearing as people stood up.
A weasel of a man stuttered, "Hey me fags hae been knocked oan the flair an all they weeboys ur trampin oan them"
Some distraught woman clipped, "Me false teeth hae been knocked oot ontae the flair a hae jist peyed three poons fur the set frae big Large in Union Street!"
All the commotion brought up the main lights as people struggled to get out.
"A ye wee boys stan still!" yelled Stalin, his face rapidly turning blue with rage, "A ken fine wha hus broken the sates its thon Dalintober lot, a ken mony o the faces, wance am feeneshd wie them thull nae darken these doors agin or am a Dutchman!"
He advanced menacingly, but because of the press of people all the Dalintober lot slipped past his flanks, to the freedom of Hall Street. Seeing his prey escaping Stalin resorted to making wild swings at various individuals, if some of them had connected they would have frightened Rocky Marciano, the then current World Heavyweight Champion!
However the Dalintober Mob escaped once more. luckily the 'Rex' had started showing the latest films so we could slip along Kirk Street, then down to the cinema, the Library shielding us from Stalin's searching eyes. Thus ended the strange incident of the broken seats, it was he only film I ever saw crouched on the floor.
About the year 1951 the Americans had developed a way of seeing three dimensional images on a cinema screen, with the aid of special spectacles. A short film had been made of various animals and reptiles in action whereby with the use of special spectacles, the images seemed to reach out to the audience.
In the far flung reaches of the Empire, such as Campbeltown, the news of such an event filtered through in vague snippets. Then one day The Courier blazed, "Pictures that come out of the screen are to be shown at Green's Cinema from next Monday. For a whole week special glasses will be available at the door. Many scenes are of a startling nature -- a tiger walking in the aisles, snakes slithering near your feet, spiders swinging down from giant webs. Green's say that the film will only be shown for a week, so get along early for the show of the century!"
The news of the forthcoming film spread to all the nooks and crannies of the town. Wild speculation about what three dimensional pictures actually were erupted amongst the pupils of the various schools. Some boys were of the opinion that you could end up inside the film yourself. Adults thought that there would be dangerous side effects caused by using the special glasses provided, others thought that the animals and other creatures would somehow escape from the screen and invade the town. (I know this sounds preposterous for people to think such things, but at that time people were a bit uneasy about such inventions and coupled with the inborn Presbyterian suspicion of change, this led to a fear of 'new fangled gadgets'.
Amongst my pals there was great excitement. Eagerly we waited for the Monday, when the film would be shown.
"Whit," muttered Duncan McPhee, "wull heppen if ye tried tae watch the screen withoot the glesses?"
"Probably ye wid end up wie scally eyes, lak yon wee boy up in Glebe Street," replied John McGowan, "Me faither telt me that dangerous rays cam oot o the film an could mak ye blun." We all laughed as he spoke, imagining a town where everyone who had watched the film would be blind.
The Monday dawned when the film was due to be screened. Stalin was there in the morning supervising a great poster on the bill board that proclaimed, 'Three Dimensional Extravaganza! At enormous expense a film portraying real three dimensional figures will be shown. Thrills! Excitement beyond belief! First time shown in the highland regions!'
Within minutes a crowd of adults had gathered plus many schoolboys en route to school, oblivious to the wrath of Dracula or the menace of Purcell. Eventually the 'call of the school' drew us schoolboys to our various places where, for our lateness the 'belt' was applied with glee.
On Monday evening after a scrambled tea, I sped from Davaar Avenue clutching a shilling my mother had given me. As I turned the corner into Hall Street I was confronted with a massive wall of people that mushroomed out from the Wee Picture Hoose. So great was the crush that the whole of Hall Street was blocked. From the head of the crowd Stalin's voice drifted out into the evening air.
"Ye wull hae tae stan in queues an keep order, they oan the richt ur twa shulliny sates an on the richt half a croon!" As he spoke my heart sank, two shillings and two and six for a seat, what could I do as I had only a shilling?
Many of my pals, heads drooping, muttered, "They hae pit up the price o thae picturs, whit as heppened tae the ninepenny sates?"
Many of the adults muttered in anger.
"Aye!" shouted one man, "Whits a this dear sates fur Stalin, dae ye no ken thur is wains tryin tae git in, it us sheer robbery!"
Stalin appeared next to the man, his moustache bristling, his eyes glazed with rage.
"Whit ur ye greetin aboot, thats is the cherge that Muster Green has said we mak the sates, if wains hae nae muny then they can gang awa hame tae their hooses!"
His outburst was greeted with a growing swell of anger among the adults.
"Ye shouldna cherge sa much fur wains!" came the cry from a multitude of voices, causing Stalin to hurry into the cinema where he returned a few minutes later, puffing with exertion.
"I hae been ontae the phone an Muster Green said tae only cherge wains a shullin, but the rest o ye wull still hae tae pey twa shullins or half a croon; noo git intae queues fur the doors open in a quarter an oor".
At that remark a cheer went up and the great press of people moved forward.
It was obvious that from the size of the crowd that only about half would gain entrance for the first showing. With this in mind everyone kept trying to get as near the door as possible, much to the wrath of Stalin, who viewed the crowd as enemies trying to invade his domain. With his cohorts he tried to marshal the mass of people, without much success, then in desperation shouted,
"The doors ur open the noo, git yer glesses after ye git yer ticket an nae food hus tae be taken in tae the picturs!"
At this their was a stampede forward and Stalin, by the sheer weight of numbers, was pressed back to the kiosk where the cashier frantically spewed tickets from the clanking dispenser, even the latter sensed that the demand was too great and started to jam and suddenly vomited great strands of paper onto the floor.
"Whits wrang wumman?" bellowed Stalin as he dished out the cardboard spectacles for the three dimensional feature, "can ye no git the machine unner control?"
The poor cashier, sweat pouring down her brow, peered from her thick lensed glasses.
"The machine is too old Muster Ramsay, I huv telt ye aboot it afore."
Stalin grunted.
"Neever mind, keep thae foulk commin through, tak thur muny, forget aboot tickets."
The cashier obeyed, snatching at the proffered coins like a greedy insect would snatch at grains of sugar.
I tossed my shilling in her direction, snatched the cardboard specs from Stalin's hand and was propelled into the bowels of the place with the others. The usherette seized my arm and thrust me into a seat five rows from the front.
"Keep quiet!" she snapped "A canna be daen wie noise the nicht, fur a hae got a heidache, an a dinna want a ye wains bawlin when the picturs cum oan."
With that I was seated and within minutes the cinema was full. Stalin's voice boomed from the foyer.
"Thur is nae nae mer room sae ye can a awa hame tae the next showing at nine a clock, a dinna want a mob stannin aboot oot in the street fur twa oors watin fur the next show, fur the foulk commin oot wid be stuck, sae awa ye go."
Loud mutterings greeted his words, mingled with children crying and adults swearing.
The lights dimmed and the show began, what a con it turned out to be. The first one hour and thirty minutes was taken up with travel pictures, boring stories of Basutuland and other outposts of the Empire, showing hundreds of 'coolies' slaving eagerly for their masters. Films of rubber plantations, where in the cool of the evening the owners sat on their verandas supping gins and at sunset lowering the flag as everyone faced in the direction of London!. Then the screen dimmed and a message came up.
"The following film will require the use of spectacles for viewing, please put your spectacles on."
I slipped on the cardboard specs and faced the screen as the film came on. Up slipped a tiger from some jungle hide, it sprang forward fangs gleaming, some of the audience gasped.
"It is cummin oot o the screen, its alive, god be aboot us we wull be eatin up!"
Then a snake shot forward, appearing to leap into the cinema and causing a group of punters to leap from their seats with shouts of "we wull be bitten or swallowed whole!"
Realising that as the snake faded from view their alarm was ill founded they returned to their seats with Stalin's voice ringing in their ears.
"Dinna be daft it us only a pictur!"
Now while many of the audience were 'seeing' three dimensional effects some of the rest were seeing only double visions as the specs were not working properly. The pair I had were giving a fuzzy picture, then to my horror I realised that the coloured celluloid lens was missing from the right hand side.
Some people had no lens at all and started complaining aloud. The film progressed with a giant spider scuttling out, its eyes gleaming with menace. Some wag shouted,
"Thur is a few lak yon in Dirty Dick's shop!"
A remark which brought a roar of laughter. Then the film came to an end, with a message telling everyone to hand in their specs at the door. The usual surge of adults and youngsters surged towards the door; Stalin stood with a box to receive the specs.
"Any wan," he shouted, "that hus damaged the specs wull hae tae pey saxpence fur them, fur the next hoose hus tae use them!"
His words filled me with dread, how could I explain the missing lens? And I had not got sixpence to pay the fine. However, as I reached Stalin he snatched the specs from my trembling hands and flung them into a box. One little boy was foolish enough to admit the there were no lens in his specs as Stalin reached forward.
"Whit!" he snarled, "Ye wee mongrel, that wull be saxpence, pey at the desk."
The little boy started to cry.
"Please sur I havna oany muny I hae only got the shullin that got me in!"
Stalin's eyes narrowed.
"Whits yer name?"
The little boy gaped up and mumbled, "John Smith"
There was a silence, "Nae muny, weel a hae yer name noo, sae next time ye come, yer sate wull cost wan an six!"With that he gave the boy a sharp clip on the ear, and propelled him into Hall Street!
Thus ended the three dimensional showing of films. There were never any more brought to the Wee Picture Hoose. The idea was good but because special glasses were needed the idea died. Even now in 1999 there still are no three dimensional screens developed. As to the incident in 1951, the incredible queues, the intense excitement, were symptomatic of a simple age and of a people shielded from the rat race by geographical constraints. Such an event now would not even merit one line in a daily newspaper!
Continuing on the theme of films, my uncle told me of an incident in the thirties, at the advent of the 'talkies'. My grandfather went to the cinema with an old man nicknamed 'deef Jamie', a drinking cronie of the calibre of Fesak. Jamie, being hard of hearing, relied on my grandfather to tell him what was being said and my grandfather obliged with a loud voice, much to the annoyance of the other cinema patrons. My uncle related:
It was aboot the year 1934, there wis a showin at the Wee Pictur Hoose o a fulm called Rendezvous 24. Noo yer grandfaither tak 'deef Jamie' tae see it and he telt Jamie that the fulm wis called Rendesvos Twanty Foor and wis aboot men in the desert. Weel they got intae the picturs and yer grandfaither lit up hus pipe, spittin oan the flair at intervals an slingin burnt matches in the air. Jamie asked yer grandfaither whit the actors wur sayin.
"Weel," said Jock, "the big man is sayin tae the wumman tae shut hur mooth an keep wakin fur they wur loast in the desert."
Jamie clapped hus hand tae hus ear.
"Whut wur they makin toast fur Jock?"
Yer grandfaither loast his temper wie Jamie.
"A said loast, nae toast"
Jamie remained silent for a few minutes.
"Whit wis the wumman daen wie a moth in the desert?"
Jock drew on his pipe
"A said mooth nae moth, the wumman wis annoying the man when they wur tyin tae get tae rendesvos Twanty Foor".
At this point the cinema manager appeared with his torch.
"John," he said, "you will have to keep quiet and your friend as well, or you will have to leave the cinema, I wont tell you again!"
As he stalked off, Jamie leaned over to yer grandfaither.
"Whits thon wee bacle wantin Jock?"
Yer grandfaither spat on the floor.
"He says we ur takin tae much."
Jamie scratched his head and tossed a quid of tobacco in his mouth.
"Whit does he mean we wur barkin twa much, we urna twa duigs?"
Jock coughed loudly then roared.
"Nae barkin Jamie, we wis takin wie oor mooths ye ken, openin oor jaws, am at ma wits end wie ye, ye should hae had yer ears syringed!"
At this outburst the manager arrived with his assistant and an usherette.
"Please leave the cinema John and you too James, you are banned for a month, this is the third time this year you have been annoying the punters with loud talking during a film."
Up stood yer grandfaither at the same time grabbing Jamie by the arm.
"Cam awa auld freen, the manager says we ur a nusiance, a feel inclined tae gie hum a richt lunnerin but a know ye dinna lak violence, sae we wull awa tae the Glue Pot in Lochend Street for a few double malts an toast this bacle o a manager an his monkeys!"
With that the pair lurched out of the cinema. At the door Jamie belched.
"Wie should hae stuck it oot, a wanted tae see if yon wumman got loast."
Copyright © 1999 Donald Keith.
