Part 15

Sergeant Smith

Some years after the end of the Great War a memorial to the fallen was erected on Kinloch Green. It was a fine imposing tower, built of stone, and completed by a contractor nicknamed 'The Chief'. On the four sides of the square tower were tablets on which were etched the names of the six hundred men who fell in the conflict. (The figure represented probably about ten per cent of the town's population.)

Each year on November the eleventh, at the eleventh hour, a great parade took place at the memorial led by civic dignitaries and followed by armed forces and youth groups. At that particular time I was a member of the Sixteenth South Argyll scouts, based at the John Street Hall.

One Friday night during the obligatory game of 'ice hockey' -- really an excuse for be scouts to be battered with wooden staves -- the Scout Leader called us to attention.

"Scouts!" he commanded, "In a weeks time there will be a parade to the War Memorial, there will be all sorts of people parading from the army to the Boys Brigade!"

As he spoke there was a hiss, as the 'brigade' were arch rivals.

"To resume," he said, "as we are parading we will be required to march in good order and not to repeat last years debacle. I have decided to have drill lessons next week on Monday, Wednesday and Friday to lick us into shape!"

A groan met his words. Boy scouts did not march, they shambled along like the trackers they were.

"Does that mean?" muttered a scout called John Black, "that we wull hae tae walk aboot in straight lines, like yon guards at Buckingham Palace?"

The scout leader, nicknamed 'The Goat', stared at the ceiling for a few seconds.

"Yes Black, and after Sergeant Smith of the Territorial Army has had you for three evenings you will be marching straight, on the day of the parade!"

As we left the hall about one hour later one of my pals, John McGowan, turned to me.

"I heard aboot Sergeant Smith frae wan o ma faithers freens, he us a richt terror, he hus been in the 'terriers' fur nearly twenty years an he hus a voice lak a fog horn!"

Monday evening came and we assembled at the hall in John Street. The scout leader appeared accompanied by a grim faced man with a red moustache who walked in a rigid manner. His very tread seemed measured and his eyes surveyed us coldly.

"Scouts, this is Sergeant Smith, I will now hand over to him!"

As he spoke, Sergeant Smith seemed to inflate himself like a balloon, his chest bulged out threatening to burst the blancoed webbing belt he wore. He was attired in standard battle dress and had a campaign ribbon on his breast. His black ammunition boots gleamed like jewels. In one hand he held a Malacca Cane with a silver top. We stared at him like a flock of sheep would a shepherd, waiting for the first command, it came like a thunderbolt!

"Scouts, get feel in, tallest on the right, shortest on the left, dressing, right dress!"

It was not how the command was given, but the volume of it -- his mouth seemed to grow like a cave, a deep cavern where rushed out a hideous cry. The evening song of the birds stopped. People came to their windows, some started to come across Kinloch Green attracted by the noise. Dogs barked in alarm.

Our initial response to Sergeant Smith's shout was for us to stumble into one another and in the end become a confused mob.

"Thus is wurse than yon Gemmel wie hus dreel!" groaned one scout as someone trod on his toe.

Sergeant Smith flew in among us laying about with his cane.

"When I say tallest on the right shortest on the left I do not mean a mob crouched in front of me, never in all my days as a drill sergeant have I seen such a shambles ye are a bunch of jessies!"

He shouted the command again with a similar result and only after about ten attempts did we end up in a line graded height wise.

"Now!" he bellowed, "Dressing!".

We stared back glumly.

"Right hand out to touch your companion!" he barked, spitting out a stream of saliva in the process. This manoeuvre completed, he yelled at the top of his voice,

"Ranks, even numbers one step forward!"

There was a ragged movement which ended with a front rank of twenty scouts and a rear rank of three!

"Whats the good of education my lads if you cannot count even from odd?" snapped Sergeant Smith.

His eyes descended on me.

"You boy, whats your name and what is an even number?"

All eyes turned to me. I had forgotten what the maths teacher had taught us about even numbers!

"Keith , Mister Smith and an even number is different from an odd!" I blurted out, as Sergeant Smith advanced towards me, his cane twitching viciously.

"Call me Sergeant, Keith, in the real army you would be on a charge and even numbers are two, four, six, add infinitum!"

After an hour of bellowing and snarling we mastered forming ranks. A large crowd had gathered making wry comments such as, 'Fred Carnot's army', 'boys of the old brigade', and 'Smith's Fencibles'. The sergeant was oblivious to the remarks.

"Now!" he shouted, "We are ready to do a right turn followed by the march forward, the command will be 'Right turn!' followed by, 'By the right, quick march!' then we will march along John Street, right turn along the Esplanade past the memorial, where I will give the command, 'Eyes right!' thence right again down Kinloch Road and finally right into Lochend Street and thence to Saddel Street where we will finally right turn again into John Street and arrive at the hall. At this juncture I will call squad halt, and you will shout, 'Check, one two!' and we will be at the halt!"

Our minds boggled at the complexity of the operation ahead of us but, as in the words of the hymn, 'great is thy faithfulness'. We executed a ragged right turn and crunched off on the march, those missing the step hopping like ballet dancers to get in sequence as Sergeant Smith bellowed expletives too unmentionable to put in print! Followed by a great crowd of critics we wheeled onto the Esplanade and drew level with the memorial. By this time I was hobbling, as the scout behind me has caught my heel with his boot. The pain was terrific and I could feel my foot swelling in my boot.

"Eyes right!" shrieked Sergeant Smith as the column swayed past the memorial.

Our heads swivelled right. The very act of taking your eye of the road, resulted in a pile of scouts hitting the road and skinning their knees. Bravely, they stumbled up and joined the column again. The rest of the 'march' went off without too many blunders and it was with relief that we slithered to a halt at the hall, sporting cuts and bruises.

"A poor show!" snarled Sergeant Smith, "but by Friday you will be in shape, it is a disgrace in my eyes that an organisation founded by an army man cannot march, but by Friday you will, now squad attention... Squad dismiss!"

On the following Wednesday and Friday those of us who were able turned up for the drill. By the time Friday evening came we reached a basic proficiency in the rudiments of marching and obeying commands. Sergeant Smith drew us up in the hall.

"Remember what I taught you and on Sunday I shall be watching out for you!"

It was a blustery day on the Sunday. We assembled in Kinloch Road. We were positioned behind the Boys Brigade. There was much muttering and taunting, the Sergeant leading the Brigade referred to us as 'Baden-Powell's Plodders' and there was much laughter about our 'Baden-Powell' hats. Eventually from the head of the parade came a hoarse command.

"Parade, parade... 'Shun!"

Automatically we came to attention, then on the command marched off. The Brigade leaders gaped at our proficiency and after that parade to the memorial, the scouts were looked upon as a smart troop.

"Well done!" exclaimed Sergeant Smith after the parade. He had introduced us to our first real discipline, a thing I was never to experience again until I entered the ranks of the Northamptonshire Regiment in the late fifties.

The Black Rock

One facet of my fifteen years sojourn in Campbeltown, was the thrill of staying in the summer holidays in the old canteen building at Seafoyle. As I have previously accounted in my tale about the school at Bellochantuy, there was a great variety of scenery on the coast, long stretches of litter free sand, great rock formations to explore at low tide and it is to a certain rock that this tale turns.

Directly opposite the old canteen building lay such an expanse of sea that if you were to sail straight ahead you would eventually reach the United States. Great waves used to thunder in, uninhibited by land masses on the way, The noise of their arrival was stupendous, they beat on the great pebbles and stones and in stormy weather shifted the latter up towards the main road. Sometime on exceptionally high tides the sea almost checked the flow of Allt Ma Dunaich, the little stream that flowed down from the hills.

To return to the rock I mentioned beforehand... It stood about seven hundred yards out from the shore, and at low tide was half uncovered. When storms raged it poked its black snout out of the waves like a great black whale, the sea made strange noises against its sides, like a booming thudding sound. At slack water the rock seemed asleep, sometimes with an exceptional spring tide, the ebb rolled back to reveal the rock in all its glory. It would have been possible to walk out to the black mass in such conditions, but though I used to walk to the rocks about half a mile to the north, I shied away from approaching the great mass. Somehow I imagined that all sorts of dangers lurked in its path, great eels in fathomless pools waiting to ensnare me, giant jellyfish concealed in the wet sand, or worse still, octopi hiding in the rock to ensnare me with their fearsome tentacles. No, I would never tackle the walk to the black rock.

Sadly my grandfather had other ideas, the area where the black rock lay was ideal for the harvesting of whelks, in great demand at the Billingsgate Market in London. Somehow the rocks in front of Seafoyle seemed to produce a large crop of the succulent crustaceans and my grandfather made up his mind at the next ebb to harvest a few sacks.

One night in the kitchen of the canteen (it must have been the summer of 1946) I watched as he pored over a copy of the 'Courier'. he stopped to relight his briar. Pushing a thick cloud of bogie roll towards the ceiling, he leaned back in his chair and addressed my mother who was reading a book.

"Ye ken Maisie thur wull be a neep tide the nicht and in the morn, yon black rock wull be uncovered; a wull gang oot tae the place an fu a few sacks, fur Hewie tae tak tae Billingsgate, that wull be wurth aboot five poons English.!"

He looked across at me as he spoke.

"Wee Donal wull cam wie me tae help fu the sacks, mind you he wull need tae pit oan hus wellington boots in case the crabs are aboot , ye dinna want yer taes nipped aff!"

He laughed at the last remark as I vivibly shook with terror at the thought of approaching the lair of the black rock. My mother put down her book.

"Wel Jock, yon rock us very far oot, sae ye keep an eye oan wee Donal in case the sea cams back in quick, hoo lang wull ye huv afore the tide turns?"

My grandfather scratched his head.

"Och aboot twa an a half oors Maisie, if we git up aboot half past five in the morn, huv a bite, then awa oot tae the rock, we should be back by nine o clock!"

As they spoke, I literary shook with fear. The rock! I just could not face it. Tears welled in my eyes. My grandfather, noticing my agitation, leaned forward.

"Why ur ye greetin wee Donal?"

There was a pause.

"I don't want to go to the rock grandfather, I am frightened of the place, what if there is eels and jellyfish lying in wait and big fish with teeth?"

Again there was a silence as he digested my plea.

"Whit dae ye mean, yer frightened o gangin oot tae the the big rock?"

I started to cry.

"What if the sea comes back in while we are out there?" I sobbed, as my mother put her arm around me.

"Dinna greet wee Donal," she said soothingly, "thur is nathin tae fear gangin oot tar the rock at low tide, Jock hus a keen sense o when the tide is gan tae turn, sae awa tae yer bed an be redy tae get up in the morn!"

Her words somewhat calmed my fears and eventually I made my way to bed. As my head touched the pillow, I heard my grandfather talking to my mother, then their voices became more faint and I drifted off to sleep.

I was awakened in the dawn by my grandfather. I washed, had my breakfast then, fitted out with an oilskin and a sou'wester plus wellington boots, accompanied my grandfather towards the beach. He was wearing great waders that forced him to walk with a lumbering gait.

"A need the waders tae gang intae deep pools where the big whelks lak tae hide," he mused as we reached the waters edge.

The tide was far out on the ebb and the great rock lay almost uncovered, waiting like some sleeping giant. Great swathes of seaweed in mounds confronted us as we plodded across the sand. Spoutfish popped up in the shallow pools and great crabs scurried round rocks. In places my wellington boots sank quite deep into the sand and came away with a sinister sucking sound.

"Keep awa frae whur the burn cams oot intae the sea wee Donal!" warned my grandfather, "sometimes ther us quicksands that could suck ye doon intae the deep. A remember when a wis a wee boy a scallop fisher wis sucked doon in a quicksand at Machrihanish an the fan hus boots a month later."

I trembled at his words.

"What happened to his body grandfather?" I asked, looking fearfully at a wet patch ahead.

"Och!" exclaimed my grandfather, "he wis devoured by the sand eels that leeve doon in the depths, they huv rare appetites!"

We walked on past large rocks then we were at the foot of the great black one. Its side glistened with large whelks and my grandfather proceeded to pick them off and place them in a bucket. I helped wrenching at the shells until the bucket was filled. Slowly the first sack was topped up, then tied with twine and a metal label attached.

"Noo wee Donal, al swing yon sack ontae ma back and head fur the shore, meanwhile ye keep fillin the pail wie whelks!"

He swung the sack expertly on his back and headed for the shore line. Now I was alone. I peered round the great rock to the mighty ocean, swilling and bubbling about two hundred yards further on, it seemed to be waiting for the signal to rush in and regain the great black rock. Suddenly a rivulet of water sped inwards past the rock. Was the tide marching back?, I started to panic and would have run for the shore if my grandfather had not returned with more sacks.

"Noo," he said, "If a gie ye a shin up the rock ye can pick of they big clusters o whelks up yonner!"

He pointed to a hump in the rock about twenty feet above us. I put my right boot in his locked hands and he propelled me up to a ledge. On landing on it I could feel myself slipping slowly but manage to hang on and pick off large whelks, which I threw down into the bucket. Soon I had edged to the top of the rock and fearfully looked out to the sluggish ocean. The rock seemed to be moving. To the north the rocks I played at stood forlorn in the sand. A wind had sprung up -- at first a gentle breeze, then a steady blast that whipped the sea into waves.

"Cam doon noo!" said my grandfather, "The tide wull be oan the turn soon, we hae got aboot foor sacks o whelks, sae that wull dae us."

I slithered down, jumping the last four feet onto the wet sand. We picked up the buckets and, with my grandfather humping the sack, trudged slowly shorewards. As if sensing our departure the mighty ocean came roaring back, curling round the black rock in minutes, booming on the sea face, then rushing towards the shore. It hissed at our feet, lapping hungrily at our boots as if trying to suck us back. Eventually we made the shore and stacked the sacks on the pebbles. We looked seawards, the black rock was almost three quarters submerged and the tide was lapping the pebble line.

"Aye its a fierce sea the Atlantic Ocean," mused my grandfather as he tied some metal labels onto the sacks of whelks, then carried them to the roadside, where he left them in a stack.

"Hewie the carrier wull pick them up a eleven o clock the nicht."

We made our way back to the house, opening the gate to go up the road. We were met by Callum Keith, my father's cousin. He had just come out of his cottage carrying a pail of slops to feed the hens.

"A see ye hae ben oot at the rock wie the wee boy Jock."

My grandfather took off his cap and scratched his hair.

"Aye Callum that we hae, we hae picked a muckle fine load o whelks!"

Callum turned to me.

"Ye wurna feart wee boy, bein oot at the black rock, ye dinna see the water kelpies skippin aboot?"

I looked at my grandfather as he replaced his cap.

"Och!" exclaimed my grandfather, "A dinna mention them tae wee Donal in case he widna cam oot wie me tae the rock!"

There was a silence, then my grandfather turned to Callum.

"Weel we wull be awa fur oor breakfast Callum, al say guid morn tae ye an gie my regards tae yer auld mither!" Callum nodded an trudged round the back of the cottage to where the hen were clucking in a hungry group. We walked back to the house feeling proud of our early morning's work.

As we sat eating our breakfast I asked my grandfather about the water kelpies. He smiled, lit up his pipe and rocked back on the chair.

"Water kelpies ye say, weel thus coast frae Southend richt up tae Glendarroch Point is the haunt o the water kelpies, they hide a lot in the winter, but at high summer they ur fleein aboot in the gloamin and a nicht. Nae buddy kens whur they bide oor where they cam frae, but some say they hae a lair in Jura, mind you auld Callum kens mair than he us sayin. But ye know wee Donal an auld fisherman telt me a strange tale wan nicht in the Gluepot sae a wull tell it tae ye seein ye helped me wie ma whelks!"

"The auld fisherman wis called 'The Cran' an he leeved in a garret in Fishers Row. Mony years ago he wus followin the fish in his skiff an he cam level wie where we ur sittin the noo, aye oot the ither side o the black rock. The sea wis calm fur wance an he an his mates cam richt intae the side o the rock, a shoal o fish appeared near the rock, so Cran had the net cast oot. Noo the currents are severe up the west side o Kintyre an the ha tae drap an anchor tae keep them oot o the wie o the rock. The net began tae fill wie fish and then the crew heard above the scraith of the seagulls, a sweet voice almost lak a wumman in wan o yon operas."

"At first the thocht it wis jist a trick o the wind but as they swung near the rock, wan o the crew pointed tae a deep cleft in the rock well above the high tide mark, there stood a wee man dressed in green, he wis only aboot a fit high. Frae hus mooth cam a sweet sang in a strange lingo, like a kind o latin. The wee man saw the crew watchin hum, sae he scampered awa doon intae the cleft."

"They crew were feart wie whit they had seen, sae they wanted tae gang awa hame in case mer wee men cam up fra the bowels o the black rock an grabbed their boat, bit Cran thocht they wur fearties an said he wid gang ontae the black rock an hae a look intae the cleft whur they saw the wee man. Wie great fear the set hum ontae the rock an he made fur the cleft. The rock wis very slippery and hus gum boots had a job keepin a grip. The cleft wis aboot five fit high an as the Cran said, 'it went in deep'. He move intae the cleft an wis surprised tae find the little cave dry, even though the rest o the rock wis dreepin wie damp."

"He had ganged in aboot six feet when his boots slipped on a rock an he fell doon intae a pit, he must hae travelled a lang way fur he hit the bottom wie a bang. He stood up in the gloom an shouted fur help, but hus cries wurna tae be heard by his crew. The men wur twa feart tae follow an they hung aboot fur three oors until the sea ganged up in a swell, then they made thur wie back tae the toon tae report Cran missing."

"Weel Cran stumbled aboot the pit he wis in, cryin wie fear an lookin fur a wie oot. Far in the distance he heard the ocean pounding the black rock and the faint skirl o a seagull. Then he noticed a wee opening in the pit wall an wis able tae squeeze through an he fan husel in a big cave; it must hae been unner the black rock since the wurld began, there in the middle o the cave sat aboot twenty kelpies, they wur listenin tae wan o their number takin. The kelpie that wis takin wis usin the scots tongue and he wis gan oan aboot either kelpies that leeved in the rocks near Sanda Island off Southend. They kelpies wur creepin up the coast an stealin frae other kelpies. The leader said that they wid hae tae keep a close watch oan their cave."

"As the leader spak he spotted poor Cran stanin at the back o the cave looking afa feart. The rest o the kelpies leapt up an rushed an grabbed poor Cran an dragged hum intae the middle o their circle! 'Ye ur wan o the big foulk,' they piped, their shrill voices sweeping up tae the roof o the cave. 'We ken ye fish fur the big herrings in the waters roon the coast, we dinna mind that, but when ye cam at low tide an steal oor whelks frae the black rock, then we git richt angry, fur the whelks are oor treasure and oor food supply, we mak soup frae them an if you fishermen steal them, then we wull starve'."

"The leader raised his hand, 'Leeve yon fisherman be, he only taks the herrings, its they big foulk that creep doon at low tide an cam scramblin aboot the rocks an fill up buckets o whelks, they ur the wans that that need chasin awa'. The Cran listened tae a the tak, fur he wis richt feart that the kelpies micht boil hum in their pot, fur he had heard tales o fishermen bein loast in the rocks, never tae be heard tale o agin."

"'A wilna touch the whelks,' he pleaded, 'an al tell a the others nae tae gang near the rocks ever agin, an they that dae ye can chase awa by whit means ye have tae dae it!' The kelpies went intae a huddle, then the leader said, 'weel tak yer wurd fur it, but ye canna leeve this cave fur a while till the midsummer night cams, then ye can gang awa hame'."

"Cran wis fair feart wie the wurds he heard, fur midsummer nicht wis twa months awa, how wid he survive doon in a dark cave unner the sea? The leader o the kelpies saw he wis feart an said 'dinna wurry fisherman, thur is food fur ye tae eat, crabs, herrings, whelks, and sweet seaweed'."

"Weel poor Cran had tae settle doon in the cave, leevin aff whelk soup, fish, crabs; the kelpies seemed to be able tae trap a the creatures that cam near their lair. Efter a few days Cran got used tae hus prison an started tae tak an interest in the kelpies, they wur bonded intae clans wie a leader, the clan at the black rock wis called the 'lang shore clan' efter the shore at Bellochantuy, other clans doon at Southend wur called 'the lands end clan' and the 'mull robbers', the last lot were eways sneakin aboot robbin the lands end clan."

"Poor Cran wis real feart wance when the mull robbers cam swimmin up tae the black rock wan nicht an tried tae steal the whelks frae the store cave. The lang shore kelpies drave them aff wie much shoutin an bangin sticks an only a few whelks wur stollin. Hooever whit Cran dinna see wis when he wis sleepin, when the kelpies sat oot oan the rock an cried tae the fu moon, a long low chant; or when they blew in a big shell an a the night bats circled roon in a big circle makin a strange swishin sound above the waves."

"Oanyway the midsummer day cam followed by the nicht, the leader tak Cran tae the mooth o the cave. A ladder made o strong sea weed hung doon frae the shaft that Cran had fallen doon months before. The leader o the kelpies telt Cran tae climb up, this he did ad they kelpies made a strange whistling sound, then Cran fan himself at the mooth o the cleft an lookin towards the far shore, the tide had ebbed right up tae the rock an Cran jumped doon an floundered tae the shore near Keith's Cottage."

"He started doon the road tae Campbeltoon, fair tired an weary, as he couldna shave durin hus prison in the rock he had a great beard. Eventually a fermer gangin tae the toon oan his cairt gave hum a lift. 'Whur hae ye been man?' asked the fermer, 'ma names John Nicholson known as 'the Cran', a wis loast near the black rock a few weeks ago, but a survived somehow oan the rocks oan fishes an crabs.'"

"The fermer peered at the Cran, 'Michty me!' he exclaimed, 'ye canna be Nicholson, fur he wis loast ten years ago off the black rock, hus crew telt a droll tale about hum bein takin wie kelpies oan the black rock'."

"Poor Cran gaped, 'bit that canna be a wis only twa months loast, nae ten years!' By the time he got tae Campbeltoon he wis in a richt pickle, the fermer had telt the truth, hus crew had selt the boat an they wur a deid. Cran wentaboot tellin wha he wis, but everbuddy laughed at hus stupid tale, sayin he wus droll an wid end up at Lochgilphead Asylum. Weel eventually he tak tae drink an hung aboot the bars, but a wis the only man he telt aboot the water kelpies o the black rock!"

My grandfather finished his tale, winking at my mother.

"Jock!" she snapped, "Dinna tell wee Donal any more o they stupid stories aboot water kelpies an other things."

My grandfather lit his pipe and blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, then he rose and yawned.

"Ach they stories dinna herm nae body at a, mind you the story Nicholson is well known in fishin tak, he wis missin fur ten years presumed drooned aff the black rock!"

I remembered that story about the water kelpies, it must have been part of the folk lore that spun the tales about 'spring heel jack', 'the Carra Broonie' and the 'Piper's Cave'. The black rock tale has remnants of some Irish origin, of little people flitting about in the night.

Yet I still think of the black rock, with the mighty Atlantic beating on its sides.

Corven's Glen

My uncle, in about the year 1952, got a summer job cutting bracken in Corven's Glen. He was employed by the Duke of Argyll's factor at the princely wage of six pounds per week. Cutting bracken was taken seriously as it grew rapidly on the hillsides and became a dangerous trap for sheep and lambs — they could be ensnared and be at the mercy of birds of prey or other predators.

Corven's Glen lay somewhere down off the Learside Road (I have not been able to find it on the map, but it must exist) and to reach the scene meant a hair raising trip down the road for my uncle. To carry out the bracken cutting my uncle was equipped with a fearsome scythe, the blade of which had to be honed at frequent intervals. He rode his bike with the scythe strapped to his back and gave the appearance of 'The Grim Reaper'. Off he would set, weather permitting, speeding away down the Kilkerran Road with his fixed geared bike, the sun glinting off the scythe blade. The job kept him fit and he developed a good tan, which was a rarity in Kintyre. Many people thought he must be lolling about sunbathing, much to my uncle's annoyance, or had secretly been away on a cruise.

One very warm summer's day in July 1953 my uncle asked me if I wanted to accompany him for the day, down to Corven's Glen.

"Mind you wee Donal!" he cautioned, "Ye wull hae tae wurk an no be lollin aboot on the hills, fur the factor micht be lurkin in some hollow an he micht think that ye ur some hooligan doon tae mak trouble in the glen!"

Somewhat taken aback by his attitude, I said that I would work really hard and he was mollified by my keen approach.

"Weel awa in aboot half an oor an tak oor dinner wie us, sae mak sure yer bike is ready an ye huv yer puncture kit wie ye, fur there is a lot o flints on the road doon past Kilkerran!"

It must have been about seven thirty when we set off from John Street, the balmy heat was already filtering into the morning air. My uncle was in the lead setting up a steady pace, whilst I was struggling to keep up with him. The great scythe blade flashed in the sun. Across the Esplanade we surged, down Hall Street, the Kilkerran Road, thence round the point to the Learside and the climbs that lay ahead. Eventually we reached Corven's Glen, a steep sided valley adorned with great swathes of golden brown bracken that reached from the glen floor to the crests.

My uncle removed the fearsome scythe from his shoulder and set it down on the ground, then he took out a whet stone and gave the blade a rub.

"When a start cutting the bracken, ye gether a the cuttings in an an pit them in a big pile ready fur burning!"

As he spoke he advanced to the bracken and took a swipe into the offending plant. Soon a great pile of bracken had accumulated. It was hot work and we had to stop often for a drink from the bottle of cream soda that we had brought. Birds flew up from the path of the advancing scythe, with shrill squawks of anger and rodents scuttled away to safety.

"Watch!" cautioned my uncle, "Thur micht be adders hingin aboot in the bracken an they can gie ye an afa bite!"

His warning made me cautious, having visions of deadly reptiles waiting in the depths. We worked till noon and during that time saw no one. Not one vehicle passed on the distant Learside road, the glen remained silent, brooding. I felt as if I was an interloper.

"Ye ken wee Donal," said my uncle as we sat down to our lunch, "They glens ur afa eerie places tae be in, especially doon the Learside, aye New Orleans glen is a strange place, wie its shore caves whur bones wur fan gangin back tae the stone age men an many a man hus sworn that he hus seen cavemen creepin aboot in the hills; it maks ye wunner if they ur no watchin us the noo!"

We munched at our bacon sandwiches, stopping to take a drink of tea from the thermos. Suddenly on one of the ridges the figure of a man appeared, he spotted us and lopped down towards us. My uncle squinted against the sun.

"Michty me!" he exclaimed, "Its the factor cam tae see whit we ur daen!"

The factor approached with great lumbering steps, he had a red face with being out in the sun all day. He was dressed in tweeds and plus fours with his feet shod in brown brogues. He looked down at us sitting in the grass eating our sandwiches, he frowned.

"Hus Grace The Duke disna pey ye tae eat meat a the time, sae feenish yer breed an git oan wie the bracken, The Duke wants a this glen cleared in three weeks Erchie!"

He stared at me.

"Whas thus wee boy ye hae wie ye?"

My uncle stood up up.

"Am afa sorry muster McPhee," he apologised, "Thus is ma brither's wee son, a tak hum doon for the day tae help!"

The factor scowled, a hardness came to his eyes.

"A hope ye dinna think that we wull pey hum."

My uncle swallowed hard.

"Naw muster McPhee he us wurkin fur nathin," he replied, picking up his scythe.

"Thats gran," purred McPhee, "Al awa oor tae Achihoan Hill tae see whit the wurkers ur daen there, probably skivin aboot!"

We watched as McPhee vanished over the ridge again, my uncle sighed and started cutting at the bracken.

The great pile of bracken was set alight, sending flames surging upwards into the cloudless sky, it was eye watering stuff as the gentle sea breeze wafted the smoke towards us. After a while my uncle looked at his watch.

"Time fur a tea break wee Donal," he said as we sat down.

The tea, sweetened with copious amounts of sugar, tasted delicious. We savoured the brew slowly.

"Uncle," I said, "I was reading a book about John Paul Jones, he organised the first navy of the United States?"

My uncle peered at me.

"Aye me granny mentioned the name wance, she knew aboot an auld man whas gret grandfaither hud seen John Paul's ship the Bonhome Richard, cam tae the mooth o the loch an fire a shot or twa. The battery returned fire, sum o John Paul's men landed oor in yon shore, they wur frae the south o the states, many wur frae New Orleans, an thats why the shore is called New Orleans!"

I listened to his explanation for a few minutes, making a mental picture of the scene. The gallant Americans surging ashore far from their native land.

My uncle stood up and, lifting his scythe, started cutting the bracken again. He worked with a dolorous motion -- a downward swish, then a push forward.

"It us the doonward motion that coonts wee Donal, steady as she goes, nae rushin or ye could lop aff yer fit an ye dinna see ony wan legged men that wurk wie scythes!"

He droned on in the afternoon air. Flies sped round us, strange rustlings came from the grass, often a startled field mouse would dart out under our feet. Eventually late afternoon sped upon us and my uncle looked at his watch.

"Time fur hame wee Donal, mak sure that a the embers are oot afore we leeve the glen!"

Obeying his commands I made sure that there were not any flames or embers left. Then, strapping the scythe to his back, my uncle mounted the bike and, followed by his weary apprentice, we climbed the hill out of the glen and onto the Learside road. Soon Island Davaar hove into site, a grim ex volcano, with its fearsome eastern cliff face staring at us. We free wheeled down the incline and past the bouy on the Dhorlin and on to Glenramskill. As we passed a voice hailed us from the road side.

"Hoy thur you oan the bike an the wee boy behun ye, stap at wance!"

We braked to halt as a large red faced policeman approached us pushing a black regulation roadster with a black cape tied to the handle bars. Sweat gushed from him, his heavy serge uniform not suitable for a warm day. As he came up to us he drew out a notebook and pencil, a grim look encased his face.

"Whits yer name?" he rasped to my uncle.

My uncle, puzzled, replied, "Erchie Keith bracken cutter an wee Donal schoolboy!"

The policeman frowned.

"Ur ye employin a minor tae cut bracken?"

The question took my uncle aback.

"Naw thur is nae need fur miners tae cut bracken in Corven's Glen polis man!"

The policeman's face contorted in rage.

"Ur ye tryin tae be funny Erchie Keith, if ye ur all hae ye in the cells at Castlehill afore ye can blink!"

He opened the note book, sucking the pencil to get the lead running.

"Whur dae ye leeve Erchie?"

My uncle by this time had started to unstrap the scythe.

"Twenty Five John Street, in the auld Nimrod hooses, wee Donal leeves wie sum time!"

The policeman wrote down the address.

"Ye realise Erchie it us an offence tae kerry a scythe aboot oan a bike, ye ur brakin section forty foor o the road traffic act o 1906 superseded wie section seeventy 1912. Yon scythe is classed lak an offensive weapon!"

His words made me giggle inwardly as a few weeks before I had seen 'A Tale Of Two Cities' in the Rex, where scythe wielding mobs rushed through the streets of Paris in 1789!

The policeman peered at the front tyre of my uncle's bike.

"Yon tyre is worn richt awa Erchie sae anm chergin ye wie, keeryin a weapon, employin a minor, an haen a worn tyre oan yer bike contrary wie section seeventeen o the road traffic act 1922. Jist us an efterthocht wa dae ye wurk fur?"

"A wurk fur The Dukes factor!" replied my uncle.

The policeman gaped.

"Michty me ye should hae said mon!" he gasped, mopping his brow with a filthy handkerchief.

His eyes narrowed somewhat.

"Is it factor McPhee ye ur wurkin fur?"

My uncle nodded.

"It is, an ye dinna want tae get oan the wrang side o hum an he is in the Masons tae!"

The mention of the word 'Masons' made the policeman grunt, he put his notebook away.

"Al let ye be oan yer way wie a warnin, if a catch ye agin wae a scythe oan yer bike al hae tae cherge ye!"

He nodded, then stepped on his bike and headed back to the town. My uncle watched him go.

"Wull wee Donal," he mused as we mounted our bikes, "Thats yer furst tussle wie the law, sae alweys keep awa frae the boys in blue fur theirs is no a happy lot!"

My uncle was employed at the bracken cutting for a few years and had no more brushes with the law, except when we had been long gone from the 'Toon'. He was seized in Union Street at five a.m. by four policemen for cycling against a one way system and was subsequently fined ten shillings by the Sheriff!

Groyne Repairs

My uncle had in his time a variety of occupations, from plater at the shipyard to engine attendant at the power station in Glebe Street. One such occupation was Groyne Repairer.

Now, as you all know, groynes are those long timber walls that thrust out into the sea to break up the effect of waves approaching sea walls and also to check the movement of sand from beaches. Many of the groynes eventually perish with wave erosion unless kept in good repair. The repair work has to be done at low tide with a man detailed to watch the ebb and flow of the water. With the sign of the tide turning, the watcher gives three blasts on a whistle or horn to signal to the repair men to head for the shore.

My uncle related to me a story of when he was working on the Groynes off the Low Road one summer in the early fifties.

"Low tide wis early in the morn wee Donal, sae a had tae gang oor ate the shore early wie the other men that wur hired tae day the wurk. We wur given big waders tae weer, because far oot the sand wis saft and ye couldna weer boots. A wis sent oot tae the heid o the groyne wie a man called the 'Bolt', he wis aweys fleein awa, thats why he wis called by that name. He wis hellish nervous an wis wurried that big croobins wid grab hold o his feet an pull hum intae the deeps. He kept bletherin aboot some pictur he had seen wur a giant croobin had cam oot o the sae an ate a thae foulk sleepin in their hooses!"

My uncle continued his tale, lighting up a Capstan Full Strength.

"Weel we arrived oot at the groyne wie a oor tools an bits o wid tae dae the repairs, the Bolt kept lookin aboot in a wurried manner.

'Whits the metter?' I asked.

'A thocht a saw a big croobin oot near yon pool!' he exclaimed, pointing towards a pool about a hundred feet away. I plodded oot tae the pool an the watter nearly cam up tae the tap o ma waders.

'Thurs nae thing hear but an auld mattress some budy hus dumped.'

He stared at me, then we got tae wurk fur the foreman Wullie McFatter cam up tae us. He telt us tae stap bletherin an get oan wir the repairs or we wid git oor cards. We needed nae prompting an got stuck in."

"We had aboot three oors afore the tide started tae cum in but we didna realise whit wis gangin oan on the shore. The man wie the signal horn needed tae gang tae the cludgie an there wis naebuddy tae replace hum let alone a cludgie tae gang tae. As he leeved in Broad Street he decided tae hurry hame an as McFatter wis back at the Cooncil Yerd seein tae wid, the man went hame!"

"'Ye ken Erchie,' gulped the Bolt, lookin at the sea swichin in towards oor feet, 'The tide is cummin in, its lappin oor boots.' I telt hum tae git oan wie hus wurk an said that the signal horn hadna gone. I peered towards the shore somebody wis sittin oan the sea wall near the slip at George Stewart's hoose an a took it tae be the man wie the horn."

"Ten meenits went by an I noticed that the sea wis up nine inches oan oor waders. Efter another ten meenits went by, the sea wis up eichteen inches oan oor waders an we wir gettin real wurried."

"'Erchie!' gasped the Bolt, 'We better git in tae the shore oor we wull be drooned in these waders if the watter cams in oor the tap o them, we wull git pulled doon an the croobins wull hae us'!"

"Hus voice wis shakin wie fear, but a telt hum that we couldna gang tae the shore oor McFatter wid sack us fur leevin wurk afore the horn went. The Bolt made a strange noise, his teeth clicked with terror."

"'Whits the guid o a job if ye ur lyin drooned at the bottom o the loch Erchie'?"

"As he spoke I cupped my hauns tae ma mooth an shouted tae the figure oan the shore, 'Is it time tae gang in, the watters creepin up oan us'?"

"Ma voice seemed weak agin the skriechs o the gulls an the hoot o steams whistles frae the auld pier whur boats were unloadin. The man sittin at the slip cam tae the watters edge, faintly I heard him shout, 'hae ye men caught any fish am partial tae a whiting?' By this time the watter wis half wey up oor waders an rising fast, if we steyed much longer we wid engulfed. I telt the Bolt tae follow me and we stumbled towards the shore. The waders made heavy going and the bolt stumbled into a pool and got soaked. At last we reached the shore, the man who had shouted to us was standin thur.

"'Whurs ma fish Erchie?' he said. I recognised hum as the 'moocher' an auld worthy that wis cadgin drink in bars a the time. 'Guid god man!' a spluttered 'We wis oot at the groyne wurkin an the tide wis cummin in, whur is the horn man?' 'Whit dae ye, horn man, a seen nae man wie horns?' I told the moocher nae tae be sae daft and said we meant the man that wis tae watch if the tide wis cummin in."

"Weel," continued my uncle, "as we wur arguin aboot whur the horn man wis, he cam rinnin along high street, he said he wis afa sorry! We telt hum we wur nearly drooned and had a guid mind tae tell McFatter the foreman, who we spied creepin alang the wa frae George Street and past Wotherspoons Hoose. He cam up lookin at us slyly, 'Whit ur ye men daen stanin aboot an nae wurkin oan the Groyne'?"

"We telt hum the tide wus cummin in an as we spoke the watter wis sloppin oan the slipwey, if we had steyed it wid hae been up tae oor necks and drooned us." 'Aye' said the bolt, 'Muster McFatter ye widna want us tae droon?' McFatter looked slyly at us, 'Mon when I wis a young man a wurked oan a large bridge in Glesca an at times a wis up tae ma neck in river watter an in danger o being swept awa, but a wisna feart!' He spoke wie a leer in hus voice. 'Och,' replied the Bolt, 'am feart o the watter Muster McFatter, since a wis pushed in at the Skeegs when a wis a wee boy!' McFatter looked up into the sky and scratched his chin. 'A weel,' he muttered, 'Al let ye aff this time, sae be here in good time in the morn an dont let yon George Stewart steal ony o the wid we hae stored at the wa'!"

"Thats the tale o ma wurk at the Groynes oan the low road, wee Donal, a dinna last lang at it fur we wis alweys gettin soaked, as fur the Bolt he got the sack fur pinchin wid at the wa an turnin up half cut!"

The Defeat of Stalin

Like all young boys, we never had enough pocket money, what we received we usually spent quickly on comics, sweets and visits to the pictures. A visit at nine pence or a shilling admission quickly eroded our average pocket money of half a crown. This meant that on average we could make about two visits a week to either the 'Wee Picture Hoose', or the Rex -- and at the cheapest seats. We used to dream of going to the 'Golden Divans', luxurious seats at the front of the balcony but priced at two shillings and beyond our puny resources.

It came about that a film was being screened at the 'Wee Picture Hoose', called The Lives Of The Bengal Lancers, an epic of the North West Frontier starring Gary Cooper. The prices were inflated to one shilling and sixpence cheapest and three shillings dearest, much to our dismay. The film was being screened mid week, which meant that our pocket money was exhausted and no more was forthcoming from parents or other family members. Yet we were determined to see the film, but how were six of us going to get into the Wee Picture Hoose and past the ever watchful Stalin, prowling about the place?

"Weel", speculated one of my pals, "We hae tae get in somehow, if we pool a oor muny sae wan o us can get in, then there must be a way fur the rest tae follow, the problem us yon Stalin, even if he wis oot o the wey at the front an we crouched doon an crept in oan oor knees, he wid soon spot us a fling us oot into Hall Street. A saw a we boy tryin tae sneak in tae see 'Tarzan o The Apes', a week ago; Stalin caught hum an swung hum nearly intae the Loch!"

Then as we debated what to do, another pal had a bright idea.

"Whey dont we sen Donal in tae the wan a suxpenny sates an ha can open the fire door doon in yon dark corner near the screen. It us pitch dark there an we could then slip in, the last wan in closing the door!"

There was a moments silence as we digested the outline of the plan. Inwardly I had visions of opening the fire door, then Stalin's talons seizing me, for such a crime I would at the least be missing sine die, or at the worst feeding the fishes in the loch.

"You can't be serious ?" I said nervously, "Stalin has a sixth sense about such matters, he would be on me like a python!"

My pals laughed at my timidity.

"Och Donal!" exclaimed one, "Dinna be a fearty, remember yur auld grandfather Jock, wha challenged Stalin in the picture hoose tae a fight, when Stalin tried tae pit hum oot fur takin in a loud voice, ye can dae it, we wull gang tae the Pictur Hoose the morrow nicht an pit oor plan tae the test!"

The fatal night came. I met my pals at the Christian Institute corner, my entrance money was handed to me, a shilling piece and two brass three pence pieces. My pals said they knew a way round to the rear of the cinema where the fire door was, they had done a survey the day before.

"Guid luck Donal!" they laughed as I made my way to the front door of The Wee Picture Hoose. As I approached my heart leaped, there was no sign of Stalin, perhaps he it was his night off? Alas, as I approached the ticket desk, Stalin came shuffling forward. He stood at the desk as I thrust my money towards the grim faced woman cashier.

"Well!" she barked, her glasses bouncing on her nose.

"One shilling and sixpence!" I said. Her eyes narrowed.

"I know it is one shilling and sixpence you stupid boy, what do you want?"

Flustered, I mumbled, "I want a seat to see the film please."

Stalin peered down at me as I crouched at the pay desk.

"Be quet when ye ur in the picturs wee boy, a dont want tae hear ony bletherin or takin!"

The cashier seized my money, spewed out a ticket, an Stalin tore the later in half with his great red curved thumb nail, then he propelled me into the dark.

"Sit oan the side near the fire door wee boy!" he hissed in my ear.

What luck I thought, to be seated near the fire door, all that remained to be done was to open the door and let my pals filter in. The usherette showed me to a seat, almost opposite the fire door. I glanced nervously towards it, to my amazement it was slightly ajar, with a thin shaft of light peeking into the gloom of the picture house. The problem was, if my pals were in place outside the door and they opened it to gain access, the sudden burst of light would attract Stalin's attention!

Anyway as I pondered what to do, the cinema lights went out and the fanfare announcing forthcoming attractions blared out; such films as They Died With Their Boots On (which my grandfather thought was about inmates of a poorhouse) and The Grapes Of Wrath (which he said was what McGrorie grew in his garden nursery). Then, as the trailers faded away, there came the local adverts, not the slick ones of today's standards, but crude notices projected onto the screen, such gems as 'For all your groceries, shop at Michelchere's' or 'Enjoy Hoyne's tasty scones'. Many a comment came from the audience about the adverts, such as, 'efter Hoyne's scones gang tae Revies fur indegestion tablets!'

In the gloom I looked towards the fire door. A hand had poked through the gap, then a face, they had made it to the first hurdle. One of my pals hissed.

"Hey Donal ur there sates near ye?"

I nodded. As I did so the picture house was plunged in darkness and the screen went blank. Stalin's torch stabbed viscously in the dark, probing round the rows of seats.

"A you wee wains an others, stey whur ye ur, thur has been a power cut an the manager is gangin tae switch oan the emergency generator, it wull tak only a few meenits!"

Hardly had he uttered these words that there was a rush of feet near me and my pals were seated.

"Weel done Donal!" exclaimed one, "Lucky yon door was left open, jist think o whit Stalin wid mak o this, six boys in fur the price o wan!"

Strangely, Stalin must have sensed something was in the wind, for he appeared in the aisle, his torch sweeping our faces, accompanied by a trembling usherette. The beam of his torch fell on the partially open fire door, A strange strangled cry of rage belched from his mouth.

"Wha left thus door open Jessie!" he bellowed to the woman beside him, "If muster Green heers aboot thus ye wull be sacked, its your job tae secure a doors, jist think some ner do weels could a slipped in without peyin, or wurse still some tramp could hae cam in the nicht an bedded doon oan the flair!"

Jessie trembled at his outburst.

"It wisna me Mister Ramsay!" she groaned, it must hae been the cleaners."

Stalin muttered as the lights came on and then dimmed as the projector hummed into action. Pity flooded into his face.

"Ach dinna wurry Jessie al close the door, but if it heppens agin al sack ye!"

He stomped off up the aisle to his den at the rear, followed by Jessie. My pals chuckled at their escape. We sat back to enjoy the main feature, during which one of them had to visit the toilet, which meant going out into the foyer, I followed him, tripping over someone's foot en route and drawing the comment, 'watch ye clumsy wain ye keeked ma bunion'. We reached the toilets and entered, then started back for the rest of the film. As we walked into the gloom, Stalin's torch seared our faces.

"Whurs yer ticket stub wee boy?" he barked at me, like some sinister Gestapo agent. At the same time he seized my pal by the collar.

"A canna remember yur face at the cash desk,a ken a wha enter here, whurs yer stub?"

The question rang in our brains, my feverish hand detected the stub in my pocket plus another one from the previous week. I whipped them out and thrust them into Stalin's caloused hand. A look of rage and bewilderment swept his face, like the lion denied his prey he looked at the top stub.

"Weel a seems tae be in order, awa in tae see the rest o the pictur, but al be keepin ma eye on ye, somethin fishy is gan oan, whit wae yon fire door bein open an a!"

We slipped back down into our seats to watch the rest of the film.

My pals sniggered when they heard how I had outwitted Stalin with the old ticket, and much to the annoyance of the punters, our laughter brought comments such as 'Shut yer mooths ye wains thus is no a comical pictur, it us very serious !' or 'A wa hame tae yer hooses if ye ur no gan tae be quet!"

We settled down to watch the gallant Garry Cooper fight of hordes of Afghan rebels single handed and eventually become a hero. Then the film came to an end and the lights came up, as it was the last showing the National Anthem struck up, as usual there was a rush for the exits, only a few stalwarts standing rigidly to attention, amidst a sea of struggling humanity. Above the strains of the anthem Stalin's voice shrieked, he stood at the head of the aisle arms pumping furiously.

"Ye ur suppose tae stan still fur the soverign ye foulks, an ye wains stan whur ye ur tae the anthems us feenished!"

Some of us tried to obey, but were swept towards the exit, past the irate Stalin and out into the cool air of Hall Street. As we rushed past he snarled.

"A ken somethin went oan the nicht, some o ye hae sneaked in, al remember thus an get ye, mark ma wurds ye wee rascals, yull nae cheat Muster Green!"

We left him raving on the steps like a latter day Alf Garnett and sped off home, we had done the impossible, six people had entered the Wee Picture Hoose for the price of one, a feat that was talked about for months to come at play and at school but, like the saying 'careless talk costs lives', news of the exploit filtered down to Purcell's ears.

The storm broke one Monday morning at the 'line up' outside Milknowe School. There we stood in straight lines in true David Lean fashion; eyes front, shoulders back. Gemmel stood in front of us, Mallaca cane under arm, its silver tip gleaming in contest with his glass polished brown shoes.

"School ready for entry to classrooms sir!" he snapped to Purcell, who slouched at the school door.

Purcell lumbered down the steps and approached the ranks of pupils, his heavy hob nailed boots crunched on the gravel. He stopped in front of Gemmel.

"Mistur Gemmel!" he roared, "Thur is a serious matter cam tae my attention!"

Gemmel stiffened, his eyes glinted.

"What is that headmaster?" he snapped, gripping the cane tightly. Purcell's eyes rolled.

"Mistur Green hus rang me tae say that mistur Ramsay thinks some o oor pupils sneaked intae the Wee Pictur Hoose the other week!"

Gemmel's eyes swiveled along the ranks of boys.

"Which boys sneaked into the Wee Picture Hoose, own up or severe punishments will be dolled out?"

There was a deathly silence. In the distance a ship's horn boomed from the loch.

"Well!" he hissed, "If no one owns up, the lot of you will feel the weight of the strap!"

Our minds raced, should we own up to save the rest from Gemmel's wrath? As we deliberated silently, Purcell lurched along the front rank.

"Nae need fur a this tak Mistur Gemmel a ken the names o some o them, a heard boys takin in the playgrind; wull Robert McDougal, Willie Robertson an Jock Smith step oot, they wur involved!"

I gulped with relief at not being named, but felt guilty as the three accused shuffled forward.

"Tak them intae ma room Mistur Gemmel an dismiss the rest tae thur clesses."

Gemmel sprang into action.

"School attention, right turn, left wheel into your classes!"

He turned to the three accused.

"Guilty boys stand still!"

We tramped up the steps back to our classes, wondering what was in store for our three friends. Later we heard the thud of Purcell's strap and groans coming from his room, followed by the swish of Gemmel's cane and eventually Jock Smith came into our class, tears rolling down his cheek.

Later that day after school, we gathered to commiserate.

"Och it wis wurth it tae be the first tae fool Stalin," muttered one of my pals. "Yon Purcell, Gemmel an Stalin wid be mer at hame in a Polis State!"

Tam Glenn

My father told me a story of a teacher called Tam Glenn. From what I can gather he had been in the Great War (1914-18) and had returned to teaching, brutalised by his experiences in the trenches. Naturally my father had come across him before the Great War and it is during this time that the following incident took place.

From what I can gather my father must have been taught by Tam. One day when he was in a class that must have been pursuing a theme on Geography, Tam asked my father the following question:

"How do we know that the World is round?"

Now for a proficient mathematician, there could have been an elaboration on angles of declination, horizon distances and curves, but my father had none of these gifts and blurted out the answer.

"The wurld is roon because wee canna fa aff it at a!"

Tam was not ken on the answer and, as my father put it, 'he wis grabbed by the hair an dragged oot tae the black board, whur Tam gied hum a richt lunnerin, then flung hum aginst the wa o the clessroom. Then he wis dragged back tae hus desk an slammed aginst the lid.' My father said he felt richt dizzy wie the blow.

Later on during the lesson my father felt sleepy and started to nod off, in the background he could hear Tam droning on about the Black Sea and the Bosphorus, then he heard his name being shouted, vaguely he heard Tam ask,

"Where is the Black Sea Keith?"

My father thought the question was 'why are your teeth black Keith?' so he replied truthfully,

"Because a wis eatin a sugar ally sweetie ma brither gied me."

Again my father was propelled towards the blackboard, onto the wall thence back to his desk, where he received a tremendous slap on the side of the head. He was very dizzy now, and when the bell sounded for dinner time he was glad to make his way home, where his mother told him he should have paid more attention to the teacher.

Again this little tale illustrates that there is a happy medium in the way pupils are punished and what Tam Glen did to my father, would today be classed as a brutal assault, yet at the time was taken as the norm.

Assault And Battery

I was reading in the paper the other day about the poor condition of road surfaces in the county and that 'tar and chips' were still being used as patching even though the method was about one hundred and twenty years old.

I remember the great excitement caused when the council appeared with the tar machine, usually in mid summer on the warmest day. The contraption consisted of tar boiler hauled by a Clydesdale horse and a spreader that squished tar onto the road. Behind this came the chip cart, where men with caps hurled shovels of chips onto the wet tar and the steam roller trundled behind flattening the whole mixture.

You can imagine the smoke, heat, flames, the rumble of the steam roller, and the stench of melting tar as the cavalcade inched along the road. There were dangers too as onlookers could be hit by chips, shot from the edges of the great cast iron roller, or squirted by tar blobs flung from the spreader.

One day the 'tar and chipper' arrived at the head of the Esplanade ready to advance towards Dalintober. A great crowd had gathered to watch proceedings as such an event was of high entertainment value. The tar boiler belched a great waft of thick black oily smoke, flames leapt from the grate, the spreader was coupled on and the great Clydesdale surged forward.

Now it so happened that I had been sent on an errand to McGrorie's to buy a dry cell battery for the radio. It cost a pound and was quite heavy. I duly purchase the battery and made my way back across the Esplanade. As I left the Kinloch Road area I was caught up in the 'tar and chip' spectacle. Fascinated I watched the hot tar squirting on the road, the chips flying down and the great roller crushing them into the ground. There must have been about fifty onlookers making comments about the quality of the work, such as "thur is mair tar oan the road than the deevil hus in hell!" or "Yon chips are the wans Glundie canna sell!", the latter comment drawing a roar of laughter.

One of my pals came up to me.

"Hey Donal whits that ye huv unner yer oxter?"

I nodded.

"Its a battery for my grandfather's radio, it is very heavy and it cost twenty shillings, it is made in Cambridge England!"

My pal stared at the battery.

"It looks lak it us made o tar", he commented, looking at the black pitch that cased the object (the battery was really about a hundred 'AA size' batteries connected in series and held together with a black pitch substance).

"Oh!" I exclaimed, "I don't think it is made of tar!"

My pal tapped the battery.

"Here, gie us a closer look Donal!"

I handed him the battery. Just as he took hold of the object somebody jostled him from behind and to my horror the battery fell onto the molten tar.

"Help!" I cried, "That battery cost a pound, my grandfather will murder me!" (A pound in 1945 was about a fifth of a weekly wage). My pal snatched up the battery, it was coated on one side with about an eighth of one inch of sticky tar, still hot to touch.

"Dinna wurry Donal," he said, "a hae some turps at hame, we can gang awa an git it an the battery wull be as guid as new!"

Some onlooker laughed.

"Aye awa hame Donal, when Jock gits ye it wull be a case o asault an battery!"

We arrived at my pal's house and he produced a bottle of turpentine. It gradually removed the tar, but also took away the paper coating round the battery, leaving the object like a black breeze block, with the AA units gleaming on the surface. The battery was allowed to dry for a few minutes, then fearfully I set of home. As I neared Woodland Place I felt as if someone had applied a brake to my shoes, looking down I was horrified to see a great globule of tar sticking to my right sole. Up the front stairs I crept, then I removed the shoe and went into the kitchen.

My grandfather was poking the fire and my grandmother baking some scones. They both looked up as I entered carrying the battery.

"Hae ye got the battery wee Donal?" queried my grandfather as he finished poking the coals, "An whits that stickin tae yer fit?".

His eyes peered at my right shoe. Before I could speak my grandmother snapped.

"Yon is tar that ye huv got on yer shoe, hae a no telt ye tae keep awa frae the tar boiler, look at the mess ye ur in, gimme yer shoes, they wull need cleanin wie white spirit!"

I took off the other shoe and handed both to her, at the same time placing the bedraggled battery on the sideboard. My grandfather looked at the object.

"Jings, whit!" he exploded, "Whits yon stench comin frae the battery, an whur is the cover?"

A feeling of doom invaded my lower regions, as I desperately tried to speak in a coherent manner. Eventually I mumbled.

"The battery fell into tar on the esplanade and one of my friends tried to clean it with turps!"

My grandfather ground his teeth.

"Dinna gie me that tale ye wee rascal, yon McGrorie selt ye an auld wan, he probably took frae the midden, wait till a gang oor tae hus shop al gie hum a richt batterin!"

My grandmother raised her hands in horror at his outburst.

"Wait Jock, wee Donal must hae been at the tar boiler fur hoo wid he get tar oan hus shoes, unless McGrorie hus tar oan hus flair!"

The logic of her argument reached into my grandfather's seething mind.

"Ach a weel ye ur richt wife, a wis a weee bit hasty; as fur ye wee Donal if thus battery dina wurk ye wull hae nae pocket muny fur twa months at least. A wis hoping tae listen tae Tommy Hanley the nicht tae, sae a hope fur yer sake it wurks!"

He took the battery and plugged in the various leads to the cells, then switched on the set, there was much crackling and hissing, then the announcer's voice was heard.

"This is London. Here is the one o'clock news. Today-------"

My grandfather nodded as switched off the set.

"Aye it us a richt wee Donal, but the poor foulk oan the radio wull be fair scunnerd wie the guff aff yon battery, oanwey here us somethin fur gan fur the battery!"

He reached across and gave me a right wallop on the ear.

"Am awa tae git some baccy frae the Coop, sae keep oot o mischief wee Donal!"

When he had gone my grandmother patted me on the back.

"Jock's bark is wurse than hus bite, he wull be a richt when comes hame, but in future keep awa frae tar an chips!"

Man In The Moon

I had always fancied a telescope, but such an instrument was beyond my reach and most of my pals. I thought of looking up to the moon and the stars, or staring across the sea to Davaar Island, or further to Ailsa Craig and the Ayrshire Coast. To have such an instrument would make me a king amongst the gang, but alas only dreams were available to me.

We often, of an Autumn's evening in our 'hide' (a rickety collection of wood, lit by a candle an situated up at the Broo), mused on the merits of having a telescope.

"We could see the surface of the Moon", I said, "and even Mars, if we knew where to look."

McSporran laughed.

"Aye we could even watch auld Donal Broon in hus hoose frae oor hut without havin tae creep doon tae huv a peek, or we could see the polis comin oot o there station at Castlehill."

Another pal nodded.

"Ye hae tae watch, fur it us breakin the law tae look intae foulks hooses wie telescopes oor tae watch the polis in their station, we could end up in the jail!"

His remark brought a roar of laughter from the bodies huddled together in the hide. However, unless we could obtain a telescope, all our talk was just sheer bravado.

It was the year 1946 and as the war had been ended about a year, suddenly many items, surplus to requirements, had become available to the general public, ranging from clothing to tools and equipment, all available at knock down prices. Amongst such items were all sorts of optical devices, from navigational aids to binoculars and telescopes. However, even at 'knock down' prices we did not have the money to buy a small telescope.

Then one of my pal's relations, who had just returned from the forces, brought home a telescope. As my pal explained, the 'telescope' was quite heavy, so when he brought it the next day to the hide we were amazed at its size. It must have been about four foot long with a six inch lens at one end and an eyepiece of two inches at the other. The body was of some copper alloy and there were mountings where the instrument had once been fixed to a bracket. On one side on a brass plate was the faded inscription 'Carl Zeiss, Jenna'.

My pal, who had brought the telescope, lodged it on a projecting branch of a tree and started to fiddle with the eyepiece and a projecting screw on the side. As it was not quite dark he pointed the instrument down from the hide, towards the back houses of Gayfield Place. After a few minutes he muttered.

"A can just aboot get a bearing on auld Donal's kitchen windae, a can see hum hingin oor hus sink peelin tatties, here the rest o ye hae a look!"

We took turns looking through the eyepiece adjusting the setting to suit our vision; when my turn came, I homed in on the window. There stood old Donal at his sink. He shoved some potatoes into a battered pot, then carried them to the fire, where he thrust them into the glowing coals, then he slumped into a battered chair. I zoomed in on him and got a magnification almost as if I was standing in the room. Then I handed the instrument to the next person in the queue. Eventually one of the viewers exclaimed:

"Guid god, auld Donals stanin at hus windae, starin up as if he kens we ur spyin oan hum, he micht cam up wie his cleaver tae mangle us!"

His remark brought a roar of laughter.

"Naw!" replied one of my pals, "He couldna see us, he wid need eyes lak a hawk!"

Eventually darkness crept in and we removed the telescope from its 'tree rest', after mooching about for another hour we headed home. We were euphoric about having a means to see long distances and mooted plans for looking out to sea and, when the Moon was in the right position looking onto its surface.

The latter project really caught our imagination and wee could not wait to train the instrument towards the Earth's companion. I had visions of great landscapes riddled with valleys and craters and maybe we could see creatures scurrying about on the surface. The news of the telescope spread round the school and pupils kept asking if they could borrow it, but they were refused for it was our prize possession.

The time came when the Moon was at its full disc and excitedly we prepared for our trip to view the surface. We decided to go to the old pavilion at Kintyre Park, where we were clear of prying eyes and could get a good view of the moon, without any obstructions marring our vision. Before I set off to meet my pals, my grandfather asked me, where I was going.

"Dinna be late hame wee Donal, fur a sairts o ner dae weels lurk aboot in the dark, the Esplanade us a bad place tae cross in the nicht, a remember when a wis a young whipper snapper ma freen wis accosted oan the brig by a loafer an he managed tae git awa!"

As I resignedly listened to his words of caution, he suddenly switched tack.

"Whit ur ye daen the nicht eh?!"

I mumbled that we were going to Kintyre Park to look at the Moon with a friend's telescope.

"Whit!" he exclaimed, "Look at the moon, a widna dae that if I wis ye, yer eyes could be ruined, ye micht cam hame blun an end up wie a white stick an a duig tae see ye roon the toon!"

My grandmother who was knitting by the fire, looked up.

"Jock, lea the boy alone, awa ye gang oot wie yer pals, ye canna gang blun wie lookin through a spy glass at the moon, its only the Sun that can ruin yer eyes."

My grandfather made a strange sound which seemed like "Mmmff!", then sat down an picked up his paper.

"Weel be it oan yer heid wee Donal, gang awa tae the park wie yer telescope, but watch oot the Man In The Moon disna see ye wachin hum, oor he wull be doon tae see ye, didna auld Fesak comin hame oor the brig stottin drunk look up at the moon wie a beer bottle, jist look at hum noo, he us a blubberin soul, a tell ye, nae foulk wur meant tae look at the Lords wurk!"

As he finished, I slipped out of the door and headed to my pals home.

We arrived at Kintyre Park with the telescope and stood on the veranda of the pavilion. It was very run down, with the windows boarded up and the roof holed in places. We rested the telescope on the veranda rail and home in on the bright disc that seemed to be just above Beinn Ghuilean. My pal made a few adjustments. Looking through the eyepiece, he exclaimed,

"Wid ye look at yon surface, a can see craters an dark patches that look lak watter and shapes o toons!"

When it came my turn, I saw before me the lunar surface, with its craters, rills and shadows. It was amazing. We spent about two hours that Autumn night, staring up at the moon till it had swung away from our view. When I returned to Woodland Place my grandfather was cutting his toenails by the fire side, flicking the cuttings at the cat who was none too pleased.

"Weel, did ye see the Man In The Moon?" he snapped as he clipped his large toe.

"No, but I saw craters, and valleys and shadows, but no Man In The Moon."

He nodded, "A weel a supose he wid be in hus bed bein it was nicht time!"

At school our 'scanning' of the moon, lead to all sorts of speculation.

"Dae ye think Donal?" said one small boy, "That men could gang tae the moon?"

Before I could reply another boy retorted, "Dinna be daft Dougal, they widna be able tae breathe, thur is nae air oan the moon!"

Again another voice piped up, "Thur is nae air in the Wee Pictur hoose but we survive a filum!"

There was a great roar of laughter as we went into our classes.

"Maybe Stalin uses a the air fur hum sel," laughed a tall boy.

We played about with the telescope for a few weeks, looking out from Knockscalbert, across the Kilbrannan Sound or scanning Davaar Island. But, as usual, the Devil finds work for idle hands and we decided to spy on the Wee Free, in their abode at the bottom of George Street. As I have previously mentioned the Wee Free was a breakaway group from the Church of Scotland (a event that took place in 1823). They followed a grim ritual of dour edicts, no organ, no smiling and hideously long sermons. Upon their faces a look as if they had just been in conversation with auld Nick himself!

One autumn's night when some sort of meeting was in progress in the Kirk, we crept up to one of the rear windows and focused the telescope into the gas-lit room beyond. What we were doing was very naughty by the standards of the time, but boys will be boys. From within the Kirk harsh voices rang out, more like a Munich Beer Cellar meet, than a congregation of brotherly love. What I took to be the Minister's voice, grated upwards from a seat.

"The wurld is fu o sin!" he roared, "Look at the drunks in the toon, the devils brew served with relish, an the yins in the other Kirks wie their music an singin an them at the drink tae, an wurse, some gangin wie wumin o the fallen type. Lord defend us frae a yon things an they that ur wie yon Labour Party, that is the wurk o the devil, makin men speak up agin their maisters!"

In reply to his speech there were interjections of "Amen tae that" and "Lord bless us o thy favoured Kirk."

When I got a turn to look through the eyepiece all I could see was the minister's mouth opening and closing like a giant fish. Then in my intensity I banged the window with the end of the telescope. There was a silence, then a voice from within shouted.

"Whas that oot side o the Kirk, makin a noise at the windae?"

There was the sound of chairs scraping on the floor and the rush of feet to the door. By that time we had sped of up the Walk into the darkness. Behind us light streamed from the Kirk door and figures peered up after us. A voice shouted in the night.

"We ken fine that ye boys huv been at oor windae sae we wull be tellin the polis about yer prank!".

After the near miss of the Wee Free we stopped using the telescope and eventually it became something that we remembered in the legends of our boyhood days in the Wee Toon. Little did we realise that in 1969, some twenty-three years after these events described above, man did land on the moon.

Mister Crerar

The other day I was looking at a book giving potted histories of famous people, when a came upon a heading on Sir Walter Scott, that prolific writer. The article mentioned his famous poetical work Marmion and the poem The Lay Of The Last Minstrel. To the latter can also be attached an incident, that happened at the Grammar School in 1951.

As I explained I was in the 'doomed stream' — the Technical Boys, yet by some quirk we were given insights into poetry, ranging from Wordsworth to Scott and for good measure, helpings of Shakespeare. As to Robert Burns or James Hogg there was never a mention, it was as if someone had decreed that they had never existed. Scott was tolerated for he gave a refined establishment view, a sort of Scoto-English, that stifled the greatness of the 'pure wordsmiths' that Burns and Hogg typified.

It was a Mister Crerar who was in charge of the class that day, as the regular teacher was not available. Crerar taught the 'Professional Stream' and was an expert on languages. He had the habit of clicking his teeth in a nervous manner when expounding some point and also scratched his chin, like a dog does when grooming.

His attitude to the 'technical people', as he called them, was that of an Eton Master asked to teach a band of ruffians. He used to quote Latin phrases and looked askance at pupils who professed to want to become engineers. The latter he considered 'awful men in oily clothes,' so when he entered our class, it was with a look of disdain at the task ahead.

He raised his hands, his nicotine stained forefinger of his right hand twitched spasmodically.

"Class!", he snapped, "Because Mister Carmichael is indisposed, I have graciously condescended to take the class in English Poetry, I will be reading from 'The Lay Of The Last Minstrel' by Sir Walter Scott!"

There was a groan -- more endless stanzas, great complex words, hidden meanings. Crerar noting our demeanour clapped his hands.

"Now Boys!" he exclaimed, "Come, come, let us not be churlish!"

As he spoke he pointed to a small boy at the front of the class.

"You boy, read the first line of the poem!"

The boy, with trembling hands, lifted the book and after some fumbling, spoke:

"The wey wis lang,

The wind wis cauld..."

Crerar seemed to contort. His hands shot up, a look of despair creased his weathered face, he marched to the window, peered out, then wheeled to face the class.

"Since when did Sir Walter Scott write in a Scots idiom?" he snapped, grabbing the small boy by the collar and jerking him in front of the class.

"Words such as 'wey', 'wis' and 'cauld' will not be spoken in this class!"

He looked at the small boy.

"Are you familiar with the Scots idiom?"

The boy peered up with tear filled eyes,

"Aye me faithers been tae Ibrox Park ye ken!"

Crerar delivered a swinging blow to the boy's ear.

"Idiot, get outside the classroom, are none of you capable of speaking the Queen's English; the poetry lesson is suspended, for the rest of the lesson you will chant the following lines that I shall write on the blackboard!"

He scribbled on the board the following:

The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain.

How now brown cow.

The Leith police caught the thief.

Thus the rest of the lesson was spent chanting lines in correct English as Mister Crerar strode amongst us muttering under his breath.

The Chandler

There used to be in Hall Street a Ship's Chandlers shop, this was the place where all sorts of equipment could be bought, ranging from ropes, pulley blocks, binnacles and signal lamps. The shop smelt of hemp and oil and the goods were piled anyway, so one had to negotiate round various obstacles, coupled with this the lighting was not very good and of a winters day the place seemed mysterious and dark.

We used to peer into the dark window on our way to the picture house, and stare at the brass binnacles and the cases displaying compasses and sextants. As only boat owners and yachtsmen frequented the shop, we had no reason to go in, but yet the fascination of the instruments lured us to the window.

The owner of the shop was to us a strange, fierce looking man — eyes that seemed to stare right through you, eyes we imagined had seen all the oceans of the world, and had peered into the mysterious markets of the orient. What tales he could tell, if only we had the courage to ask him, but his manner frightened us away, and especially the rumour that he kept a 'thing' in his back room. One of my pals had said he heard it shuffling about when he went in with his father to purchase some rope.

"A wis richt feart. ye ken," he said to us as we stood round a lamp one winters evening, "a horrible dragging noise seemed tae cam frae his store, the hairs on the back o ma neck stood oan end!"

Well we would have forgotten about the Chandlers Shop by the run of things , if it had not been for the film The Wake Of The Red Witch, an epic starring John Wayne as a hard captain of a China Clipper. In the film the hero battles with all sorts of disasters, eventually perishing in the depths, trying to recover something from a ship wreck. We were fascinated by the diving suit and the air pump.

One day a diving suit appeared in the chandler's window. We stared at the brass headpiece and the great canvas garb that the diver had to wear plus the huge boots and leaded belt. Curiosity got the better of us, we had to go into the shop. Bravely we opened the door and strode in past the great hemp coils and oil drums stacked almost ceiling high. Behind a stack of wellington boots and oilskins lay the counter, itself a mountain of boxes and bottles. Of the owner there was no sign. Then a back door creaked open and a stooped figure shuffled forward.

He raised his weather beaten face towards us, his eyes scanning our nervous bodies. What if the thing in the back room was waiting his command to rush out and devour us, just like in the film The Ghoul? We trembled, straining our ears for the dreaded 'scraping sound'. The chandler drew out a packet of Craven 'A' and proceeded to light up, oblivious to the stacked oil drums and cans marked 'inflammable liquid'.

Drawing in a lungful of smoke, he eyed us cautiously.

"Whit dae ye wee boys want in ma shop, ye urna men o the sea an canna be wantin rope or vitals?"

We stepped back nervously.

"We seen a pictur aboot a clipper the other day mister an a man got drooned in a diver's suit jist lak the wan in yer winda an we wis hopin ye could show us the real thing!"

The chandler stared at us for a few moments.

"A weel seein ye ur interested an bein that am naw busy al show ye the suit."

He went to the window and returned with the canvas suit and helmet, then another journey brought the leaded weights and boots.

"Thur ye are wains!" he exclaimed, "A real divers suit, fur gan doon intae the deep, ye get air frae the pump oan the deck, when ye ur bein pulled back up ye hae tae watch oor ye wull get the 'bends'."

We crowded round to observe the suit.

"How far could you go down into the water?" I asked sheepishly.

The chandler stroked his chin.

"Weel every hunner feet o depth means that aboot forty five poons a square inch wid be pressin oan ye, sae a wid sae aboot two hunner feet at the maist."

As he spoke with an obvious authority, we marvelled at his knowledge. He told us of men who had dived to great depths and pearl fishers who without suits had gone to two hundred feet and more.

"Aye I hae been a seaman mony a year and seen a lot o the wurld" he continued, stubbing the spent cigarette on the wooden floor, "Many a strange sicht I hae seen, sit ye doon oan thae ropes an al tell ye a fright a got in the China Sea."

"We wis gangin frae Shanghai a few years ago oan a big tramp steamer, bound fur Japan, aboot seeven days oot the engine started tae struggle an eventually stapped. Weel the China Sea is a fearfu place tae be adrift, fur big storms cam weeshin alang an can swalla a ship nae bother. The captain a hard Geordie said that the propeller wis stuck an that he wid need tae hae volunteers tae gang oor the side tae free it. Maist o us were feart but because a had done some divin roon ships when a wis young, the captain ordered me tae get oan the divers gear an oor the side tae look at the propeller. Weel a had tae get the gear oan that ye see in front o ye, big boots, the suit an then the helmet. They connected me up tae the air pump an a wis winched oor the stern near the propeller. I wis richt feart as a plunged doon intae the sea an the watter swirled oor ma heid. Luckily a dinna had tae weer the heavy leed weights sae a wis soon near the propeller. A rope had got tangled roon the thing an a soon managed tae hack it awa wie ma axe an knife; a gave a tug oan the line fur the crew tae pull me up, jist as wis startin up a huge octupus cam rushin tae wards me, it wis a richt brute wie a pair o cruel eyes an huge tentacles. Wan o them grabbed ma fit an a wis pulled doon, the crew above hauled wie a their micht an eventually a reached the surface wie the octupus hingin oan tae ma boot, sae great wis the strain that the boot cam aff and the octupus fell back intae the deep. A wis richt thankfu when a got back oan ship an we got unner way."

As the chandler finished his story he drew out another cigarette and lit up.

"By the wey wains a hae got somethin tae show ye in the back room."

A wave of fear swept through our minds, was this the end? We leapt to our feet.

"No thanks mister!" we chorused "we hae tae gang fur oor tea!"

With that we rushed from the shop and from that day kept a wide berth of the place. What the chandler had in his room I never did find out...

Copyright © 1999 Donald Keith.