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Guisin
Holding On A Disturbed Night The Haunted House Anyone For Tennis? |
A Lesson In Mathematics
Matology Dambusters Ooter Mongolia The Fever |
Halloween, that strange half-Christian, half-Pagan festival, celebrated on October the 31ST, meant to us boys of low financial standing a means to enhance our pocket money. The celebrations usually entailed 'dooking' for apples, or trying to eat a treacle scone suspended from a string — a messy business! As well as all the games, there was the 'guisin', known south of the border as 'trick or treat', where young people went round in disguise and by doing some kind of act, would receive an apple, money, or sweets from the house holders.
Well, October the 31ST dawned, and we boys and girls got our disguises ready. As evening approached I dressed up as a pirate with a patch over my eye, teeth blackened, a pencilled moustache and a fearsome cutlass strapped to my side. My grandfather insisted that he make a cutlass from a piece o a scythe blade much to the chagrin of my grandmother who, as she put it, "wey a blade lak yon wee Donal could mangle some poor soul". Anyway I completed my dress and was inspected by my grandfather.
"Mon," he purred, "ye look richt lak a pirate, aye ye ur a real Captain Kidd, the scourge o the Spanish Main."
My uncle, who was reading his newspaper, looked up.
"Mair lak the scourge o High Street!" he sniggered, "Dinna be swingin yon cutlass in the dark!"
He gave a hearty laugh as I made for the door.
My pals were waiting in the street for me and we set off guisin adorned in various costumes, the most absurd being the boy dressed up as a gorilla. We knocked at the door of a house at the foot of the Walk and waited. Eventually there was the crash of bolts, the door swung open and we were confronted by a red faced man. He was munching on a roll.
"Whit dae ye bairnies want?" he croaked, between mouthfuls.
"The sky is blue, the grass is green, may we hae orr Halloween?" we chanted.
There was a silence, then the man put his hand in his pocket and drew out a coin.
"Here ye ur bairns, a penny tae buy sweeties."
With that the door snapped shut and we were left standing on the step. Baffled, we looked at the penny.
"He must be a miser," we grumbled, shuffling up to the next door. Here the resident gave us a sixpence, but for the coin we had to recite The Boy Stood On The Burning Deck and sing Ye Banks And Braes O Bonny Doon. Then in the course of our journey up the street we came to Cook's Shop, the pale gas light guttering from the widow.
We peered into the shop. Johnnie was struggling with a large cheese, attempting to raise it onto a marble slab, whilst Effie was pouring sugar into a drawer. The cat was snoring near the butter, raising its head at intervals to snap at some flies that were wheeling about. One of my pals rapped smartly on the window, the noise made Johnie spin like a top, allowing the cheese to thud onto the floor, Effie gaped in alarm at our fierce faces peering in, especially mine, which must have seemed like something from hell.
"What dae ye boys want at this time o nicht!" she cried, "Lord be aboot us ye look like a bunch o pirates!"
We raised our voices in unison.
"May we have oor Halloween?!" we shouted.
Johnie craned his neck to one side.
"Whits that ye said, mey we hav oor cream?"
We laughed at his words.
"Naw", said one of my pals, "We want some money fur daen an act!"
"Och!" exclaimed Effie, "It is All Hallow's Eve, Johnnie, open the door an gie them some muny!"
Dutifully Johnie obeyed, there was the scraping of bolts and the door swung open. He eyed our apparel with some suspicion, his eyes travelling wildly over our garments. He espied my fearsome looking cutlass.
"Whits that ye got there wee boy?"
"Its a real pirates cutlass, mister Johnnie!" I triumphantly replied.
My pals laughed at my answer.
"Whit wid a wee boy be daen wie a fearsome knife?"
There was silence, then I mumbled.
"Well it is just make believe, Jock made from an old scythe, he said it was too sissy to have a cardboard cutlass."
Johnnie weighed up my answer.
"Weel dina be frightenin poor souls when ye gang roon other hooses, anyhow whit ur ye gan tae dae fur yer muny?"
We had a short discussion then said we would sing Away Down Upon The Swanee River, which we had been learning in the music class. Our toneless rendering sounded like a thousand saws in unison and the cat eventually let out a hellish screech and dived under the counter. Effie and Johnie listened in silence and when we had finished, nodded.
"Aye that takes us back tae oor young days and the Soirees we used tae hae, her is a shullin fur yer efforts."
We took the coin and shuffled out into the dark October night.
After a few more houses we found ourselves in the dark close of Kilmorry Place. We climbed some stairs and knocked at a door where light showed from underneath. After a pause there was the sound of a chair being flung back and bare feet slithering over lino, accompanied by the sound of hellish breathing. Then a key turned in the lock and the door was swung open. There before us stood Fesak in his night shirt, he looked as if he had been in communion with the devil, the gas light beyond revealed a room cluttered with rubbish and wafting the smell of burnt cooking. We had blundered into the lion's den without thinking, this was the last person to ask for money!.
"Whits this!" roared Fesak, peering out into the close, "Ur ye a band o cut throats, cum tae rob an auld man o his pension, let me tell ye this, in ma young days a wis as fierce and strong as Hackinsmidt an a could tackle the best o them, why me an Jock Smith chased the polis awa frae the Green."
He ranted on for a few minutes then one of my pals managed to butt in.
"Mister Fesak we hae cum fur oor halloween, we wull sing ye a sang fur some muny oor an epple or somthin!"
His remark brought a tirade of unmentionable words from Fesak, enraged by the use of his nickname.
"Al gie ye halloween ye wee rascals, if I had ma boots oan ye get them on yer back sides, ye wull na git ony muny oor epples here, sae gang awa an pester some other poor sools!"
We tuned as a body and fled from the close, with Fesak's voice thundering behind us. After visiting a few more houses, we made our way down the other side of High Street, we noticed that there was a light in Peter Finney's shop window. As it was about ten past nine we thought this was peculiar, but then we observed Peter stocking up the shelves of his front shop, where he sold hair cream, soap and razor blades.
We knocked at the window. Peter swung round, picking up a cut throat razor in the same motion.
"What do you want?" he cried, peering at our grotesque faces, with large frightened eyes.
"The sky is blue the grass is green, may we have our Halloween!" we sang with gusto.
Peter took a step forward.
"Away wie ye, Al Hallows Eve is the witches Sabbath when al sairts o fiends an bogles flee aboot the sky pittin curses oan honsest foulk, awa hame tae yer beds afore a tak ma razor tae ye!"
With no more bidding we fled, and that ended our Halloween Evening. I for one was thankful to get home and get my garb off and relate my experiences to my grandmother and grandfather.
"Ach!" muttered Jock, "Ye ur better tae keep awa frae auld foulk in the nicht, auld sool lak Fesak dinna want young wains roarin at hus door when he us haen is rest afore the morns drinkin time, an Peter Finney could a done awa wir the lot o ye an turned intae pies that Joe Black wid sell, aye Peter Finney wisna cauld the Demon Barber o High Street fur nathin!"
My grandfather in his prime had at some time been employed at the Ship Yard, situated at the Trench Point. He used to talk about 'holding on', a process used in riveting before the advent of the pneumatic hammer.
The idea was that the person involved in 'fixing' the rivet, received the rivet red hot, it was then inserted into the pre-drilled hole, and a 'holder-on' stood at the other side with a hammer pressed against the rivet head. The rivet striker then swung a fourteen pound hammer, which sealed the rivet on the plate. The holder-on had to withstand the kinetic energy of the strikers blows, if he did not then the rivet cooled and a seal could not be effected. It followed then that 'holding on' required strong muscles.
As you will recall, we had the good fortune after the war to have the use of the canteen at the now derelict 'Seafoil' factory to use as a holiday home. (How this arrangement was reached, I have no idea). In front of the canteen there was a large concrete plinth and my grandfather decided to erect sheeting round it, to afford a measure of privacy, or as he bluntly put it, "tae stap yon queer fermer up at Ballevain Ferm spyin oan us, an tae keep auld granny Keith frae seein whit we hud got."
It was the summer holiday in the year the war ended. As we prepared to go up to the canteen my grandfather announced.
"A hae got a pile o tin sheets tae pit ron the concrete, al haud it the gither wie wie rivets!"
Looking at me he continued.
"Wee Donal can haud oan fur me."
Not understanding what 'holding on' meant I innocently remarked,
"Holding on to what grandfather?"
He replied gruffly.
"Huad on tae a hammer, ur ye deef ye rascal?"
He paused.
"It wull mak a man o ye, gie ye muscles lak Jock Weesmuller, yon Tarzan man in the jungle!"
My uncle, who happened to be in the kitchen at the time, remarked,
"Jings Jock, wee Donal husna got the strength fur haudin oan, its a mans job!"
My grandfather snorted.
"Weel by the time the sheetins up, he wull be a man a richt!"
We arrived at Seafoil on the bus, and walked up past Keith's Cottage. A large pile of sheets lay at the side of the concrete plinth. My grandfather inspected the pile with an expert eye.
"Weel start in the morn oan the sheetin wee Donal!" he barked, stomping up the steps to the canteen door.
"Sae nae gangin tae the hills tae play, or loafin doon oan the shore, yer here ate wurk!"
Inwardly I trembled, I would indeed have preferred to 'play in the hills or idle on the shore'.
Next morning came and after breakfast the intrepid band of sheeters commenced work. My grandfather seized one of the sheets and a handful of 'soft rivets' that could be worked in a cold state without heating. The sheets had been pre drilled with correct clearance holes and the first sheet was set against the fixing post. Inserting a rivet, I was handed a seven pound hammer and told to place it against the rivet head.
"Haud oan tight wee Donal!" bellowed my grandfather, "When I gie the other end a blow, dinna let the hammer move or al gie ye a clip oan the ear!"
Now by the laws of momentum I was at an immediate disadvantage -- fourteen pounds swung through an arc, striking a rivet that was to be restrained by seven pounds and held by a weakling!
Trembling with fear I struggled to hold the hammer against the rivet head, the weight of the former taking my feeble muscles. After what seemed an eternity a tremendous force struck the rivet, I fell back with a groan, the rivet sped like a bullet across the concrete and the hammer thudded behind me. From the other side of the sheeting came a roar.
"Whits wrang wee Donal, can ye no haud a hammer still, its a this fancy schoolin thats weakened yer body, pick up the hammer!"
I started to cry, fearful of what would happen next. In an instant my grandfather was at my side.
"Dinna greet," he soothed, "A maybe hit the rivet a bit hard like, a wis forgettin that the rivets ur saft, sae next time al be mair gentle."
We recommenced our toil and, as he said, by reducing the force of the blow the process worked and after about two days the sheeting was finished. My uncle came to survey the job.
"Thats a grand job ye done Jock, an wee Donal must hae been as strong as Charles Atlas tae haud oan tae ye."
My grandfather lit his pipe.
"Aye, mind you he wis afa weak tae start wie, but a soon toughened hum up, al mak a rivet man o hum yet, if the Ship Yerd opens up agin he wull be the champiom hauder-oan!"
On the concrete plinth that we had sheeted in stood an old pre-war caravan. It was made from plywood and had only a tiny skylight for access to light. It smelt very musty and it was equipped with two bunks made of wood slats. There was no wash sink or toilet. How anyone could holiday in such a contraption baffled me (considering today's luxury vans) . Yet the van must have belonged to some person who toured in it. Strangely there was no sign of a tow hitch on the van, or rear brake lights, so if the van was used for touring, it must have been moved on a low loader, if such things existed in the thirties.
As to how the van arrived on the plinth in front of the canteen, I have no idea. My mother or father did not know and my grandfather said "Some poor soul maybe got loast in it an abandoned it oan the fermer's road."
One day when I was playing in the van, (the door was kept open in the warm weather), I asked my mother if I could spend the night in it.
"Och Donal," she said, "It wull mean beddin tae be pit in an a storm lamp fur light in the nicht. The place wull be hodgin wie bugs tae, ye could catch some dangerous disease, God knows wha hus been sleepin in yon thing in bygone years."
I was sad that she would not let me stay overnight in the van, but after bringing up the subject with my father, he prevailed upon her better nature and eventually she agreed, provided the van was thoroughly cleaned and that someone spent the night with me . My grandfather, who had been out for a walk with 'Dusky' the dog, came in as they were talking about my proposed stay in the van.
"Dinna wurry Maisie," he said, "al spen the nicht in the van wie wee Donal an Dusky can keep us company, he us a gran watch duig an al gerd us frae vagabonds!"
My mother and father listened to his proposal then nodded in agreement.
"Aye!" exclaimed my mother, "Al be much happier wie you Jock bein in the van wie wee Donal an the duig tae, ye here such stories noo that the war is feenished o Poles an Germans lurkin up in the hills!"
My grandfather nodded in agreement.
"Aye ye ur richt Maisie," he concurred, "It widna surprise me if yon Martin Borman that wis Hitler's side kick, hus escaped oor here an is lurkin up at Tangy Loch, oor yon Himler that they ur lookin fur is wae hum!"
The names they talked about, meant little to me, but I inwardly giggled at the thought of Kintyre being a safe hiding place for such notorious men.
There was much cleaning of the caravan before we took up residence for the night. The walls were washed and the bunks given a good scrub. As the latter consisted of wooden slats, some padding was inserted to give some comfort and blankets and sheets laid on top (this was before sleeping bags had become the norm). A storm lamp, filled with paraffin and the wick trimmed, was also hung from a hook on the roof.
As the day wore on I became increasingly excited, the dog too began to take up residence in the van by alternately sleeping in the two bunks, much to the annoyance of my grandfather.
"We canna hae yon beast creepin intae oor beds in the nicht, he micht smither any wan o us or suck up a the oxygen in the van, ye ken duigs hae a far graeter appetite fur air than us foulk; a think we better keep the caravan door open in the nicht!"
He ranted on for a while, then started to read his paper.
My mother made up a flask of tea and some sandwiches after supper.
"Noo," she said, "Git yer pajamas oan in the hoose, wee Donal, then yen can gang tae the van."
My grandfather returned from his evening walk with the dog.
"Al be sleepin in ma long johns an al be keepin ma semmit oan tae Maisie!"
There was a silence. In the repressed sexual atmosphere of Scotland at that time, such talk was regarded as 'bad form', and for my grandfather to mention the unmentionables was tantamount to perversion.
"Dinna tak aboot unner claes when wee Donal is aboot!" exclaimed my mother, "Things lak that ur nae fur the ears o the innocent, sae watch whit ye say in future Jock!"
Her words had a sobering effect on my grandfather.
"Och its only a turn o phrase a hae Maisie, al tak guid care o the wee soul, nae herm wull cam tae hum oot in the van!"
At last the night came upon us and, accompanied by the dog, we made our way to the caravan. The first task was to light the storm lamp. This proved a bit of a problem, as the matches kept going out and the dog had gripped one of my grandfather's slippered feet, which put the lamp lighter into a foul mood.
"Al be the death o yon beast!" he snarled as the lamp wick took hold.
"A shood hae taken hum tae trainin lessons lang ago, never let a duig rule ye wee Donal, alwas gie hum a clip oan the heid tae show who is maister!"
He spoke for a few minutes as we got into our bunks and the dog leapt into the bunk where my grandfather lay. The atmosphere of the lamp flickering in the gentle breeze and the stars twinkling outside, gave a sense of adventure to our stay in the caravan. I imagined us in the tundra or in the depths of the jungle, or on some high Himalayan peak.
My mother came to see that we had settled down, then returned to the house. Lighting his pipe, my grandfather turned to me.
"Aye its a gran life oot in the open air, better than bein in yon Woodland Place, crooped up in smoky rooms, or listening tae auld Mary Broon snorin in her hoose. Aye when a wis a yung whipper snapper a laked tae gang up intae the hills wie ma duig huntin fur rabbits, noo am too auld fur that sairt o thing"
I listened to him talking for a few minutes, then I felt the tug of sleep at my senses.
"Did a tell ye aboot the hauntin o Drumore na Bodach year ago?"
Instantly I was awake, I knew he could not resist a tale.
"Well tell me," I sighed. He drew deeply on his pipe.
"Weel it was a lang time ago, a terrible plague cam oan the poor foulk that leeved in the hills an many a poor buddy died in their hoose, Wan hoose a the foulk were fan deid an their ghosts haunt the place till this day; o a nicht ye can hear the wains greetin in the dark an the mother an faither moochin aboot in the heather lookin fur their deid wains. The cries are no unlike the peewit in the heather, aye it wis a sad thing that befell the foulk up in the hills near Drumore Na Bodach."
Without drawing breath he finished the story then switched to a new tale, before I could ask any questions.
"Aye there is a story aboot Black Jack McTar a hellish pirate that leeved up near Skipness, he wannered aboot the sounds robbin poor souls o their sillar an when he died his ghost cam lookin for treasure he buried, near Keith's cottage at the fit o the road."
As he spoke, all sorts of horrible visions came into my mind, of pirates rushing up in the dead of night or lost souls looking for their children in the heather. There I was trying to get to sleep and tell my pals about the adventure of a night in the caravan and instead the fear of god was being instilled into my young imagination by the ace story teller!
"Aye McTar leeved hunners o years ago mind you in the days o German Geordie
. He robbed a an sundry an even looted the poorhoose at Tarbert, though he dinna get much there. Eventually auld Campbell the Duke up at Inverrary, gethered a force o Heilenmen that were idle efter Sherrifmuir, anyway they managed tae ambush Black Jack at Glenacardoch Point, as he was marchin on Glenbar and the pirates wur scattered far an wide. Black Jack made it tae hus ship 'The Piece o Cracklin' an vanished tae warmer climes. He cam back an auld dun man years later an naedudy kent hum; it us said that he buried his loot near the well at Keiths cottage an his ghost cams lookin fur it oan summers nichts. Thets whey Callum Keith canna sleep very weel , fur he keeps hearin Black Jack moogerin aboot ootside at the well, though the real truth is Callums twa fond o the malt."
"Anyway wee Donal al nae bother ye ony mair, sae guid nicht tae ye an dont let the bogles get ye!"
As he concluded his yarn, he doused his pipe, spat into a bowl and fell asleep. Dusky slid up near his face and the combined snores, sounded like a heavy swell pounding off the shore.
Somehow I was jerked awake. Outside a half moon was casting its rays on the side of the canteen. The sea gently lapped the shore, hissing in the pebbles. From the hills above a strange 'caraking' sound, then my heart raced, somewhere in the direction of the road came the crunch of a heavy boots on gravel!
Purposeful treads advanced towards the canteen steps, stopping at intervals. What could it be? The hands of the clock at my grandfather's side showed three o'clock, who could be abroad at this early hour? Then the evening tale of the Bodach ghosts and Black Jack came into my memory. What if the steps belonged to some dead man looking for his dead children, or Black Jack searching for his loot?
I peered out of the small rear widow of the caravan. Keith's Cottage was bathed in pale moonlight, a faint light flickered near the well, probing slowly round. Shaking with fear I shook my grandfather, both he and the dog awoke with much grumbling and barking.
"Whits wrang?" he gasped, rubbing his eyes and pushing the dog onto the floor. The latter peered out of the door its back hair on end.
"Can a man nae get peace tae sleep in the nicht?"
Haltingly I blubbered, "There is somebody walking up the road and somebody is down at the well with a light."
My grandfather pulled on his trousers and his boots, cursing as the dog savaged his laces.
"Get oot o ma way ye wee brute!" he roared, "an git yer slippers oan wee Donal an cam wie me ootside!"
The moonlight shone on the road, reflecting off the sea pebbles that were its surface. We crunched down towards the cottage. A light came on in the canteen, probably the noise my grandfather had made had aroused the occupants. When we reached Keith's cottage, all lay in silence except from the odd clucking of roosting hens.
"Thur ye ur we Donal, nae sign o oany buddy aboot the cottage oor wakin oan the road!"
As he spoke, my grandfather's voice rose in pitch.
"A fools errand ye wee scamp, draggin an auld pensioner frae his bed in the deid o nicht wie tales o lichts an foulk wakin in the nicht!"
His loud voice set the dog barking and a light came on in the cottage, followed by Callum Keith appearing in his night shirt, flanked by a tall tom cat that spat viscously at Dusky.
"Whits a the row aboot Jock?" rasped Callum, now joined by his aged mother clutching a club.
"Can puir souls nae sleep in their beds noo, without a row gan oan?"
His mother nodded in agreement.
"Aye a thocht it wis a gang o German war criminals tryin tae steal oor eggs frae the hens!"
"Dinna wurry muther Keith," soothed my grandfather, "It wis wee Donal havin a bad dream, he reads twa mony comic cuts a day an a nicht, they pit strange fancies intae hus brain, al gie hum a lunnerin in the morn!"
The Keiths nodded in agreement.
"Aye wains read far tae much noo adays, its comic cuts that started yon Hitler aff oan his waks an noo he us deid!" they chorused in unison.
The hubbub resulted in my father appearing with a torch.
"Whits wrang Jock?" he said, "Maisies nearly wrang in the mind when she cam oot and fan the caravan empty, she thocht robbers had cam doon frae the hills an takin ye an wee Donal awa in the nicht!"
My grandfather spat on the ground as my father spoke.
"Robbers be dammed big Donal, wha wid steal us, an auld man an a wee boy, nae guid tae man an beast. Naw it wis wee Donal had a fancy he saw some buddy doon at Callum's well, it wis jist hus imagination wurkin flat oot as ususal!"
My father turned to confront me.
"Weel, is this true?" he rasped.
Blushing I turned to my grandfather.
"But you frightened me with your tales of Back Jack McTar the pirate and the family searching for their long dead children!"
There was a bated pause.
"Ach ye wee clipe a wis only amusin ye till ye fell asleep in the nicht, yon stories are a oot o proportion, aye thur is a element o truth in them, but they urna real ye ken!" snapped my grandfather, shuffling in his boots.
My father scratched his head.
"Weel Maisie wus sayin when we wur in bed that Jock wid be fillin wee Donal's heid wie stupid stories an this is the result o it, sae back tae the caravan wie ye till the morn!"
Bidding good night to Callum and his mother, and rescuing Dusky from the clutches of the tom cat, we trudged back to the caravan. As we settled down under our blankets, the dog gave a warning yelp. Crunching footsteps could be heard on the road -- steady, measured, but strangely not getting nearer or yet receding. My grandfather sat up.
"Michty me yon soonds lak somebuddy wakin!" he exlaimed, going to the door and peeing out.
"Jings thur is naebuddy there wee Donal, it must be a lost sool wannerin in search o hus soul!"
The noise continued, but we were too afraid to venture abroad in the dark. Eventually sleep overcame us and we awoke to my mother arriving with a cup of tea for us.
"Donal hus telt me aboot the rumpus last nicht doon at Callum's cottage, an ye tellin wee Donal droll stories, its the last time ye wull be sleepin in the caravan, sae thats that. Whit must auld mother Keith think o bein wakined up wie ye twa moochin aboot hur hoose in the nicht, an ye Jock wie nae shirt oan in front o a wummin. Callum must think ye ur loonies escaped oot o Lochgilphead Asylum. Aye thur wull be nae mer sleepin in caravans, sae thats an end tae it!"
Next day as I was walking up the farm road, I saw a gate swinging in the wind, its free end scraped the pebbles giving an imitation of someone walking. The mystery of the phantom walker had been solved. Later that day I saw the sun reflecting off a tin plate on top of Keith's well, thus the mystery of the strange reflection in the night was apparent.
When I told my grandfather about the gate and the plate, he shrugged his shoulders.
"Whit ye see and dinna see is a whit life is aboot wee Donal!"
Now to a more serious vein. As I have previously mentioned, in the back yard of Woodland Place there stood a ruined house, two stories high. It must have been at one time part of the original scheme of houses and when Woodland Place was built it became 'trapped' in the yard.
We boys who played in the back yard, seldom ventured into the shell of the ruined house. Its forbidding interior, cluttered with fallen stonework and intermingled with great fronds of weeds and decaying furniture, seemed somehow threatening and, coupled with my grandfather's story of a foul murder committed in the building, kept us at arms length from the place.
The main back wall of the yard ran hard up against the west side of the ruined building and there was a little ledge that you could walk along . We used to traverse this ledge, after scaling up the wall and from here we could look down onto the innards of the ruined house and speculate who once had dwelt there.
When the dark nights came we played a game of rushing along the ledge and then down again. The darkness seemed to throw up a variety of shadows and the bedroom lights from Woodland Place flitted in and out amongst the debris within the building, bringing the place to life as if ghostly occupants were huddled in the ruined chairs. You can imagine the tales we wove, and we drooled on who would be the first to enter the building in the dark. Such a person would be a hero in the eyes of those who played in the yard of Woodland Place.
"It insna ony good takin aboot gangin intae tae ruin, some buddy hus tae dae it, even though Donal's granfether says an auld man had hus throat mangled lang ago in there in hus bed, aye an my uncle said that that a wummin jumped oot o wan o the windaes tae hur end and that a wee bairn wus drooned in the well at the back o the yerd."
So spoke Duncan Ferguson one night as we loitered by a street lamp in High Street, wondering what to do next.
"Aye an some foulk say that Mary Broon prowls aboot the place at the deid o nicht wae hur cat!"
His statement conjured all sorts of visions in our minds, the principal one being Mary Broon, stealthily gliding in and out of the ruin.
"A tell ye whit!" exclaimed Duncan, "Weel hae a race up High Street, doon the Broom Brae, then intae John Street, up Princess Street then back tae the lamp where we ur stanin, the wan tae feenish last wull hae the honour o gangin intae the ruined hoose in the dark an if he steys half an oor wee wull al gie hum a penny!"
There was a stunned silence as he delivered his challenge, I dreaded racing round in great big boots and sports was not my forté. The rest were fleet of foot and the majority were wearing sandshoes (a type of rubber soled trainer that quickly wore out).
"Listen Duncan!" I exclaimed, "I have big boots on, can't I go home and change into my sandshoes?"
He leered at me like Big McPhail did at school.
"Nae gangin hame ye fearty, ye run as ye ur, when I count doon tae wan, aff we set an may the best wan win."
"Nine, echt, seeven, sax, five, foor, three, twa, wan, ... go!"
As his voice trailed away in the night we sprang forward, my boots made a hellish clatter on the pavements. As predicted I quickly fell behind and after two severe falls in John Street and one in Princess Street I trailed in last, utterly exhausted.
"Richt!" gasped Duncan, "Donals the loser, sae the morrow nicht we wull escort hum doon the close and watch as he enters the ruin, he wull be allowed a torch-----"
He was about to continue, when my grandfather's voice boomed from the stair.
"Ur ye there wee Donal, its time fur yer bed, tell yer pals tae gang hame afore Jack the Ripper cums oot oan the prowl oor Mary Broon cams flein up frae the close oan hur broom stick!"
He cackled as my pals scattered at the sound of his voice.
Next night we gathered at the lamp. I had secreted my Uncle's torch, a silver Ever Ready. Silently we crept down the close, past Mary Broon's door. The latter was partly ajar, snoring came from within, somewhere above a radio played. My pals took up position at the coal sheds abutting the Wash House and I advanced to the dark maw of the ruined house.
I reached the open doorway, then switched on the torch. The beam revealed a great pile of debris. I advanced into the centre of the ruin and sat on a ripped chair. The torch beam cast strange shadows on the walls. The memory of the supposed grisly murder came flooding back. Fear gripped me, but somehow I held my place. I was determined not to show cowardice. One of my pals came to the open doorway and said that they would sneak up the close and wait for me at the lamp in one hour's time. I heard their stealthy footsteps fade away in the distance; now I was all alone in the ruined house!
As I sat there in the semi-darkness I was able to see the bedroom windows in Woodland Place that faced into the yard, all were in darkness. Then a gaslight spluttered to life in the room where my grandfather slept, its pale beam probed out into the yard, I switched off the torch for fear that it would be noticed from the room. My grandfather's face came to the bedroom window. I thought how like Joseph Stalin he looked. He seemed to staring down into the yard. Surely he had not spotted the torch beam? Then he turned away. Strange noises seemed to issue round about the ruined house: rustlings, scrapings, then a slithering motion.
Two bright eyes were staring at me, then there was a hiss and a black cat sped out into the yard. I peered towards the dark opening of the close, I could make out the shape of a figure standing there. Who was it? Was it one of my pals, or was it some nocturnal visitor, some 'being' returning to the scene of some dastardly deed? I craned forward to see, but the dark was too deep. Should I switch on my torch? Such a course of action would give the game away. Then I heard a shuffling from the direction of the close, the being was advancing towards the green, then I could make out an arm reaching up as if to untie something. Perhaps it was the ghost of the man who had mangled the old mans throat? I shrank back into the ruin and as I did so my foot became wedged between a stone and the gable wall. I dare not cry out, now the being was muttering. A voice croaked out.
"A wish thur wis a licht in this yerd sae a could tak in ma claes in the nicht!"
It was the voice of Mary Broon out in the dark to collect washing from the line. Suddenly the window of my grandfathers room flew up and he poked his head out.
"Whas doon in the yerd at this late oor o the nicht, is that ye wee Donal?" His voice boomed out into the yard.
"Michty me" snapped Mary Broon, "Its only me Jock takin ma claes in frae the washin line, its time Skart pit a licht in the yerd, sae poor buddies lak me can see whur they ur gan!"
Her reply was meet with a seconds silence, then my grandfather rasped.
"Och whoo could Skart pit a gad licht in the yerd it wid blow oot wie the wind, the trouble is ye shouldna be oot in the dark hingin up claes ye auld bisom, ur ye sure ye urna haen a Witche's Coven down in the grass, runnin aboot in yer birthday suit!"
His remark brought a snarl from Mary.
"Yer a coorse auld man Jock Smith, mer lak ye wid be rinnin aboot in the buff, a ken fine whit ye got up tae in yer young days!"
This riposte drew another from my grandfather.
"Ach awa in tae yer hoose ye auld gossip, am mer interested in whur wee Donals wannered aff tae!"
As he spoke he slammed the window down and Mary shuffled back to her flat muttering about my grandfather's bad manners.
What was the time I wondered? I tried to move my foot, but it seemed locked rigid, I switched on the torch and the beam revealed my boot was also lodged in a bed spring. I tugged and heaved but my foot would not budge. Then all sorts of weird fancies came to mind, trapped in a ruin and slowly starving, with only cats to look upon my bleached bones, or worse still, to become the meal of giant rats that were rumoured to frequent the ruin in the night, or to be the victim of the throat mangler who prowled the place in the night. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. Then I remembered that my pals would return looking for me!
Ages seemed to pass. Through a crack in the wall I could see my grandfather peering out of the room window. Later I heard his voice in the High Street.
"Hae ye seen wee Donal, its nearly ten and he hussna cam in, when he does al mangle hum!"
The Town Hall clock chimed eleven, the dolorous stokes tolling my impending doom, I was in deep trouble, trapped in the ruin. If I shouted out and was heard I would certainly be mangled. Then as I despaired one of my pals spoke from the doorway.
"Whits up wee Donal, we dinna cam back doon fur yer grandfether wis roamin aboot the street lookin fur ye and sae wis yer uncle. Jocks in a right rage, said he hus missed the repeat o Dick Barton Special Agent oan the radio."
"My foots stuck!" I moaned, shining the torch down. My pal tried to move my foot.
"Aye it us stuck fast, but undae yer laces an lee the boot behind lak the did oan yon picture Blazin Saddles.
"But that means I will be minus a boot, to go home bootless, means certain death!"
My pal stroked his chin.
"Its the only way wee Donal, dae it!"
I undid the laces and with a tug drew out my foot, as I did so my stockinged foot sank into some soft substance, the torch beam revealed it was paint and my foot was now a bright pink colour!
"Never mind wee Donal!" exclaimed my pal, "Get yersel hame tae yer hoose, tell Jock some boys stole wan o yer boots and ye stepped oan paint on the wey hame!"
Nodding, I hobbled to the close with my pal, then stealthily past Mary Broon's open door and onto the High Street. How I made it to my room I do not know. I managed to get rid of the sock, have a wash and slipped into bed. I could hear my grandmother in the kitchen, but soon I was fast asleep.
Suddenly somewhere in my sleep, a hand shook me awake. I opened my eyes to see my grandmother and grandfather peering down at me.
"Whoo," said my grandmother, "can ye be in bed, when ye hae been missin, its wan o clock an Jock an Erchie hus been wannerin a oor the toon lookin fur ye?"
My grandfather was scratching his head.
"A could hae sworn a looked in the bed wummin, sae he must hae been hear a the time; jist as well fur hum, fur if he hadna been a wid hae battered hum!"
I tried to answer them, but sleep swept me back into her fold.
Next morning I told the tale that my boot had been stolen by some boys as well as my sock. My grandmother was angry at first and my grandfather rage about hooligans in the green.
Later that morning he returned from a trip to the shed in the yard in a grumpy mood.
"Whits wrang?" snapped my grandmother.
"Och yon Mary Broon is ravin aboot a pink footprint oan the close, she says it must hae been made made by a wan legged man. Ye ken she wull end up in Lochgilphead!"
Later that day I visited the ruined house in the back yard with my pals and retrieved the boot, we managed to clean it up with white spirit and when I proudly showed it to my grandmother with the story it was found on Kinloch Green, she gave me sixpence for my trouble. Thus ended the saga of the ruined house. In the eyes of my pals, I had risen in their estimation as being one of the few to stay in the ruin in a dark night.
Down from Stewart's Green, behind a high stone, lay a mysterious place. We could hear the thud of balls on a summer's day and the strange cries of 'fifteen love', 'thirty all' and 'deuce'. What kind of game was this, we pondered as we stood at the high stone wall, the latter being too tall for us to look over?
"It must be some kind of game with a bat," I said as we leaned against the wall one Saturday in July. It was a balmy day, when the weather seemed settled and not the usual wind and rain. John McGowan, one of my pals from Smith Drive, scratched his head.
"A think the game they ur playin us called tennis, played on grass or cley, ye ken thase courts oor at Lochend Street that ur naw in use, they ur made oot o cley!"
We all smiled at his remark.
"Whur did ye ken all this John?" said Duncan McSporran.
"A read aboot it in a book o knowledge a fether hase in hus hoose."
There was a moment of silence, then one of my pals muttered.
"It wid be great great tae play a game o tennis, it wid pass the time o day, noo we ur oan oor holidays frae school!"
We all nodded in agreement at his suggestion.
"But where can we find a place to play the game and to get hold of bats?"
There was a roar of laughter from John McGowan.
"Uch Donal its no bats they play wie, its called racquets, things wie string across them an they use balls and play oan a court, a read aboot it in ma fether's book!"
We decided that we would have to somehow get into the tennis courts that lay behind the high wall, this would have to be done in the evening when no one was about. Accordingly we made plans and returned late one evening to assess the wall for hand and foot holds. There were many foot holds, due to the cement in places having been eroded away over the years.
First up was Duncan McSporran, followed by John McGowan, then myself. The wall was about fifteen foot high, a considerable climb, but we accomplished it by looking up and not down. Then we were astride the coping and beheld below us a perfect tennis court with the net in place. There was a sort of Club House at one end, constructed of wood with a veranda and rail to the front. We descended to the court by means of two flying buttresses and cautiously walked around.
One of my pals noticed that some racquets and balls were lying on a seat and we picked these up. They had the name 'Dunlop' on them and they felt heavy.
"Tell ye what!" exclaimed Duncan McSporran, "Weel hae a game o what they call doubles, me an Donal, agin John and Tam!"
Excitedly we lined up at each end of the court.
"Ye serve first," said John to Duncan, "Then if we canna hit it back that's fifteen points tae us an if ye canna return oor shot thats fifteen tae us, hooever reaches forty and scores wie the next serve wins the game; first ate six games wins the set!"
We reeled at the complexity of the scoring system, but manfully Duncan served, or should I say 'patted' the ball. John reminded us that as it was doubles the whole court was the 'scoring area'.
Oblivious to time we hacked and punched at the ball till the sweat rushed down our faces, our cries echoed over the wall and as the shadows lengthened we changed to singles, so preoccupied were we with our game that we failed to note the sudden appearance of a tall man through a side gate. His voice stabbed into the night like the thrust of a sabre.
"Whit ur ye wee boys daen in here, thus is a private club fur guid tennis players and gentlemen and ladies, git oot or all send fur the polis!"
Dumfounded, we dropped the balls and racquets.
"We only wanted tae play the game mister!" we pleaded backing towards the gate.
"Play the game!" he roared, "Ye wull never mak tennis players, its only guid class people that play tennis, nane o yer wurkin foulk!"
With that we fled the place, and for years afterwards considered tennis the domain of the rich.
Again I return to my latter school days at the Grammar School. As part of the mathematical syllabus geometry was taught, though us 'no hopers' were only given a minimum.
The finer points of Euclid or Pythagoras seemed to us meaningless jargon, squares on hypothenuse, or chords of a circle, all added up to confusion in our minds, so when one day a substitute teacher appeared for our lesson in geometry, we sensed we were in for an easy ride.
I remember him appearing with his briefcase, dark suit and highly polished shoes. He had a very sad look on his face, like some high ranking member of the Russian Politburo. He faced us, peering over his glasses.
"I have come in place of your usual teacher, who is indisposed, today we will be looking at the proposition viz; if from a point outside a circle, a secant and also a tangent be drawn to the circle, the rectangle contained by the whole secant and that part of it outside the circle, is equal to the square on the tangent!"
A stunned silence greeted his outburst, he might have as well repeated the Gettysburg Address, for all the sense his statement to the class of 'no hopers' made. What was a secant? Or for that matter a tangent? I kept wondering if a tangent was some kind of orange, or a secant was Scots for a second, so parlous was my knowledge of mathematics.
The teacher perused the register, "Mmm... I see we have a lot of 'technical' people here, no professionals, they are always excellent at maths and geometry. However we must press on, my name is Mister McDuff. I have come down from Lochgilphead on supply."
There was a ripple of sniggering as he spoke. Minds boggled at the name Lochgilphead (the local lunatic asylum) and that McDuff came down on 'supply', perhaps the name of his horse? Anyway, he sensed the mirth and seizing the strap from the hook on the side of the desk, cracked it viscously in the air.
"Silence!" he snapped, "Any more sniggering and Sir Strap will be put to work!"
The class fell silent. He went to the cupboard and drew out a large set square, tee square, compass with chalk point and a large ruler and then advanced to the blackboard.
"A circle!" he exclaimed, "Of any diameter!"
He plunged the point into the board and sent the chalk end screeching round. The noise set all our teeth on edge. McDuff persisted and, having drawn the circle, proceeded to draw a line through the circle, then outwith it.
"Now we have a secant!" he purred, "A line through a circle to somewhere outside!"
Then he placed the ruler against the edge of the circle and drew a line to touch the end of the secant. The ruler slipped and crashed to the floor sending up a cloud of chalk dust making McDuff sneeze. A snigger surged through the class. McDuff blew the chalk from his hands.
"Now comes the hard bit, to prove the proposition!"
He glanced at the register.
"Donald Keith come to the front and start the proof !"
His voice seemed to come at me from a distance, how could he have picked me, how could I prove such a complex thing, having hardly done any geometry? I stared blankly at him.
"Proof of what?" I asked.
A great silence came upon the room.
"Stupid boy! In year three and not aware of basic geometric proofs!" snapped McDuff, gripping the edge of the desk.
He paused.
"What is the sum of the angles in an equilateral triangle?"
Desperately my brain feebly tried to grasp the meaning. McDuff stamped his foot with impatience on the wooden floor, it sounded like a drum.
"Well, what is the answer!?"
Groaning, I uttered the first desperate thing that flitted into my mind.
"The sum of the angles is equal to the quadrangle of the angle of dangle!"
A great roar of laughter swept the class, Mc Duff's face turned a deep crimson. The vein in his neck bulged.
"Angle of dangle, you idiot, stand in the corner with your face to the wall, the angles of an equilateral triangle are sixty degrees each and sum to one hundred and eighty degrees, now Duncan McPhee come forward as I go through the proof of the original theorem, when I am finished you will explain to me what a rhombus is!"
I will not bore you with the original proof of Euclid, it seemed to last for hours. Then attention swung on Duncan.
"Well McPhee, what is a rhombus?"
Poor Duncan gaped at the teacher, like me he grasped at the first thought.
"It us a kind o bus, naw wait a meenit, a ken noo, it us a dance frae Latin America!"
McPhee grabbed him by the collar and thrust him beside me facing the wall.
"I will give you dance, you failure, in fact you are all failures, when this lesson is over I will be seeing the head, he will know how to deal with this stupidity!"
When the bell shrilled for the end of the period, we were not allowed to leave the class whilst McPhee beetled off to find the head. Fortunately he was off at some meeting and McPhee arrived back with the dreaded Mathers who was his deputy for the day. Mathers arrived, his eyes beetling round the class.
"I hear that there has been a lot of stupidity in the class concerning the proofs of geometric proofs, when Mister McDuff told me what had happened I was appalled, but then I realised that you are all technical people and do not have the capability of such deduction, therefore I will let the matter rest and not report it to the Head."
He paused.
"However Keith and McPhee have displayed outstanding stupidity in the matter and as an example will receive three strokes of the strap each!"
A strapping by Mathers was something. I was first and my hand stung furiously, then came Duncan's turn. After the first stroke he yelled, tears rolling down his face.
"Am fed up bein the stool pidgeon fur a ye lot, its no fair, us fer ye Mathers am gan tae tell ma fether an he wull be up and ye can think o me when ye ur in the loch!"
Mather's face turned a bright purple, his eyes glinted.
"What!?" he roared, displaying a row of gleaming teeth, whilst cracking the strap viscously in the air.
"I decide who is to be punished, direct threats to me will result infurther strappings and a trip to the head. For such insolence three more strokes of the strap!"
The further punishment was delivered in stunned silence from the class, at the end we were all dismissed, and a crowd accompanied the sobbing Duncan home. As for myself, I hid the fact from my parents and my uncle, that I had been strapped. The fact that we had been taught virtually no geometry in the 'technical stream' appeared to be no excuse in the eyes of those who taught us. Whether Duncan's father ever appeared to 'throw Mathers into the loch' I do not know, but shortly after that there was a 'slackening of punishment'.
Such was the terrible position of the 'technical people', thrust into maths classes with no real grounding in the subject at hand and expected to expound proofs on obscure geometric theorems.
About 1953 I was staying with my uncle in John Street. The following incident came from him reading an advert in the Sunday Express.
He had been dozing by the fire and suddenly he awoke with a start.
"Hey wee Donal whit time is it a seemed tae hae been sleepin fur oors?"
I looked up from the Annual I was reading.
"It is half past two, you have been asleep for over an hour."
He looked at me through his glasses.
"Mmm..." he said, drawing a Capstan Full Strength from its packet and lighting up.
"Ye ken it wid be gran if a could find some wurk noo I am peyed aff frae Springbank fur the summer, the broo money disna gang far these days"
He paused, his eye catching an advert.
"Hey wee Donal, listen tae this, "Mak fifty poons a week clear, by makin mats oot o leather cuttins, send ten poons fur a bag o leather cuttins an wire tae join them the gither, send yer muny tae Makamat, twa Herbor Row, Grimsby Lincolnshire!"
He paused, his eyes gleaming.
"Jist think wee Donal, fifty poons a week an the mair mats ye mak the mair muny ye get-----------"
There was a pause, then he continued.
"Thur is mair tae, if ye mak thirty mats a week, fur a month, ye become champion mat maker and get a free holiday in Hull at the lodgins o yer choice; dae ye think a should send awa fur the bag o cuttins?"
I thought for a few seconds as to what my uncle had said, perhaps there was a catch in the advert. How could you make thirty mats a week from old leather cuttings? And would you not need some sort of press to cut out the leather? Then there was the postage to Grimsby, that would involve a carrier. There seemed to be all sorts of pitfalls, the initial one being to sending ten pounds. What if my uncle sent the ten pounds and heard no more? Ten pounds was a lot of cash in 1953, roughly a good weekly wage.
"I do not know uncle Archie," I said, looking at the advert, "Lincolnshire is a long way away."
He nodded in agreement.
"Weel git he Gazetteer doon frae the shelf an look up whit it says aboot the place, especially Grimsby!"
I obeyed his orders and quickly turned to the section on English Counties.
"It says here that Lincolnshire is in East Anglia and the Wash is the notable feature on its coast line. The principal town is Lincoln, with its famous Cathedral and the Imp, carved on one of the walls is a puzzle to historians. The main coast port is Grimsby, busy with fishing fleets and to the south is Skegness a famous holiday resort."
As I finished my discourse, my uncle scratched his head.
"Whit wid a mat factory be daen in a fishin port, fishermen dinna need mats in thur boats, an whoots this aboot a wee imp hingin ontae a wall in the church, dont the polis naw chase hum awa?"
I laughed at his remark.
"The Imp is made of stone and is hundreds of years old!"
I smirked at his misconstruing of what I had said. He stared at me for a few seconds.
"A kent fine weel it wis made o stone, ye wee scamp!" came his brazen reply.
The upshot of the whole business was that my uncle sent off the ten pounds for the bag of leather cuttings. Weeks elapsed and there was no sign of the sack of cuttings. His patience began to wear thin.
"Och some cheat doon in England hus takin ma muny an that o other poor heilenmen an he is probably haen a gran time in Monte Carlo; mind you it micht no be an Englishman, it micht be some Glesca Exile leevin doon there an wie an eye tae robbin hus fellow men, Jock always warned me tae keep a look oot fur Glesca cheats!"
He finished his tirade and lit up a Capstan.
"Aye its a sad time fur poor foulk in this toon wee Donal!"
Eventually about a month after he had sent the money, the GPO van came trundling round the back yard. The little postman staggered to the door with a sack, on opening the door my uncle's face lit up, the thought of fifty pound a week positively charged his ambition
"Us that ma leather cuttins ye hae got postie?" he almost shouted.
The postman dumped the sack on the step and drew out a battered pad an pencil.
"Leather cuttins is it Erchie?" he wheezed, a half burnt Woodbine dangling from his lips.
"Whit ur ye gan intae competition wie Kennedy's shoe shop in the Langra?"
My uncle rasped, "Nae am gan tae be makin mats fur foulk in Grimsby an can mak up tae fifty poons a week!"
The postman shrugged his shoulders, thrusting the pad towards my uncle.
"Sign here Erchie an mat the lord be wie ye!"
He went off roaring with laughter at the joke, but my uncle snapped.
"Some foulk hae the cheek o auld nick wee Donal."
Excitedly my uncle carried the sack into the lounge and cut it open, out poured a torrent of leather oddments, some about ten inches long. Amongst them lay a letter and a crude diagram, I picked up the letter and read the following:
"Dear mat maker to be, welcome to the happy band of matologists (those who study mats). Soon you will be turning out a torrent of mats and enjoying a holiday in Hull, remember the finished mats are sold to all sorts of people from Spanish peasants to China men in the Orient. Please follow the drawing supplied, to cut the leather into the required 'link' formation you will need our pressomat punch, which can be hired from this address at the cheap rate of two pounds per week. When you send off the mats you will have to pay the carriage charges, please send to Make-a-mat, three Fishhook Drive, Grimsby Lincs. Upon inspection by our quality control team, you will receive your remuneration, yours William Knitt, Managing Director and fellow of the ancient guild of mat makers."
"Whit!?" roared my uncle, staring at the pile of cuttings on the floor, and at the same time trying to make sense of the mat construction drawing.
"A canna afford tae hire a press, al hae tae cut oot the 'links' by haun, an ye wull hae tae help tae; weel hae tae wurk nicht an dae jist tae break even---------" he paused, "Wait a meenit, a could git the loan o a punch oor press frae Kennedy, me bein a guid customer fur boots an shoes, an maybe they wid hae leather cuttins the dinna want; whit dae ye think wee Donal?"
"Kennedy will not give you cuttings or a press uncle, he will think you are going into shoe repairing."
My answer washed over him.
"Naw dinna wury wee Donal weel awa oor in the morn tae the shop, a wish poor Jock wisna doon in Kilkerran, he wid git the leather aff yon Kennedy an the press as well!"
It was a Saturday morning when we entered Kennedy's shop. Kennedy appeared from the bowels of the workroom, hammer in hand.
"Whit dae ye want Erchie, a new pair o boots oor shoes, specially stretched fur yer bunion, oor is it slippers ye need?"
My uncle looked at the rows of shoe boxes admiringly.
"Man ye hae got gran boots here, frae licht wans tae hob nailed wans wie curls in them, that Duncan Ralston weers, sae he can rock in the wind!"
Kennedy frowned. The name Ralston brought a nervous fear to his eyes.
"Mmm..." he muttered, "Ralston, aye strange feet, anyway ur ye wantin tae order boots?"
My uncle stared at the floor for a few minutes.
"Naw" he said, "A wis wunnerin if ye had oany spare leather cuttins, am gan intae makin mats an wee Donal is gan tae help me!"
Again there was a strange silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. Kennedy drew in a great lungful of air, the hammer dropped onto the counter with a thud.
"Leather cuttins ye want Erchie, naw a canna let ye hae them, they ur twa valuable, a dinna believe ye want them fur mats, mair lak its fur makin shoes oor wurst still, half solin yer boots, sae ye dae me oot o trade. If a gied ye leather a wid soon be in the poorhoose!"
Kennedy's reply drew a burst of anger from my uncle.
"A hae been a gran customer fur mony a year an thus is what a git, naw a widna be oany threat tae yer half solin business, as a telt ye am gan tae mak mats, sae ur ye gan tae gie me leather?"
Kennedy stroked his unshaven chin.
"Whit ur ye daen makin mats, nae budy wants mats in Cameltoon, ye can git guid yins frae the ironmongers, sae wid hae tae mak real guid yins!"
My uncle ground his teeth.
"Ach am gan tae be makin them fur 'Makamat', wha leeve in Lincolnshire England, an a wull mak fifty poons a week, when am in full production, al a want frae you is some cuttins an a punch tae cut oot some links!"
Kennedy snorted at the last request.
"Awa oot a ma shop the noo, punch ye say, weel am tempted tae gie ye wan oan the fezog, naw naw, Erchie, ye wull hae tae gang tae the toon miden tae git leather!"
My uncle glared at him savagely.
"Cum oan wee Donal, weel awa hame, an as fur ye Kennedy al nae be cummin tae ye fur boots in future!"
With that he turned and marched from the shop.
Back in the house, he stared gloomily into the fire as he puffed on his cigarette.
"Ach wee wee Donal", he sighed, we wull hae tae try an mak as many mats as we can frae the leather Makamat gied us an we wull hae tae try an cut the links oot wae scissors!"
I nodded in agreement but knew that the task of cutting out the links would be beyond the scope of ordinary scissors, as the leather cuttings were on average about an eighth of an inch thick.
"We will have to make sure that the scissors are sharp uncle!" I exclaimed, looking at the cuttings on the floor, "And we will need more wire to thread the links onto."
He looked at me for a few seconds.
"Aye we wull manage fine wee Donal, fine indeed!"
With great industry we set forth on the making of the first mat, but alas by the time a week had elapsed we had only made one and there was not many cuttings left in the sack! The threading wire we had supplemented by using wheel spokes and we had improved the cutting arrangements by using tin snips. However, we decided to send off the mat number one; This meant paying a hefty postage charge and the clerk at the post office was not very helpful.
"Whit dae ye want tae be sendin a mat tae Lincolshire fur?" he quizzed, "oany wey that wull seeven shullins postage!"
My uncle taken aback and fished for the money.
"Its only England the mat is gan tae, nae ooter Mongolia, seeven shullins ye say?"
He handed over the coins to the clerk.
"Ah weel wee Donal ", he sighed, "we best awa hame an wait fur oor money tae cam frae 'Makamat' an fur them tae sen mair leather cuttins!"
The weeks elapsed, then one day a parcel arrived addressed to my uncle; eagerly he opened it, inside was a note from the GPO at Grimsby, saying that the could not find 'Makeamat' of Harbour Lane, no such address existed and that they were returning the mat, they also said that the Grimsby police were following up a massive fraud case, where hundreds of people were 'robbed' of their money!
My uncle exploded into a rant against English swindlers. When he had cooled down he lit a cigarette.
"See wee Donal, thats the last time al follow up an advert fur quick muny, noo al hae tae gang oor tae Kennedy's an mak ma peace we hum, fur al end up bootless if he thows me oot!"
As I have said in previous yarns, we often went up to the old canteen near Keith's cottage in the summer holidays. Now there was a burn called Alt Na Dunaich, that came down from the central hills of the Peninsula and gushed out under a dry stone arch that carried the A83 up to Tarbert.
Up in the hill beyond the now derlict Seafoil factory, the stream entered a miniature gorge, where the water rushed down with fierce pressure. The water supply in the time of the factory was used in the production process and a concrete cill had been constructed to trap any large objects that came down the stream. The cill was about ten foot long and about a foot thick at the top and two at the bottom. The cill stood roughly about twelve feet high and was coated with a slimy moss.
The small gorge lent a certain mystery to the stream and I used to play there in my boyhood innocence, slithering down the bracken slopes and walking across the cill top like some intrepid explorer.
The year was 1946, the war had only finished the previous summer, and the exploits of the 'Dambusters' were still fresh in peoples minds. There was a great rush of books about the war now moving onto the market and the Dambusters were portrayed in a story in the Hotspur comic, which made gripping reading for weeks. My mind moved to the cill on the stream. Could I build a wall on top of the cill and produce my own dam, then I could roll a stone against the wall and send a deluge down to the sea?
One day I went up to the cill and started my 'project', I equipped myself with a spade and started to cut turfs from the gorge side. By mingling the turfs with some gravel and stones I slowly raised a wall on top of the cill that reached about three feet in two days. Nobody bothered about my long sojourn in the hills, my grandfather was engrossed in fishing for gleshins and my mother and father were pottering about at the canteen trying to cure a leak in the roof of one of the bedrooms. The stream of water was quite reduced that summer and by the time I had sealed the wall I had a little lake of still water trapped with only a trickle filtering down to the sea. Then one evening a rain storm came as I lay in bed. I thought of the dam, which I presumed must now be washed away. I felt sad and resolved to go in the morning to look at the site.
As I sat at breakfast, my grandfather came stomping in, smoking his pipe. He sat down heavily.
"An awfu strange thing hus heppened Maisie, a wis takin tae the fermer frae Putcheun Ferm doon at the brig this morn, an he wis sayin that there is hardly oany watter cumin doon tae the shore, even efter yon storm last nicht, he thinks that some trees haus blocked the stream further up near Cnoc Buidhe!"
My mother who was frying some bacon and eggs, sighed.
"Och Jock thae fermers ur eyways greetin aboot sumthin, if its nae lack o water, its twa much, if it us cauld, its twa hot, an they ur sayin they are reduced tae beggin, a widna wurry aboot it, dae ye want sum breakfast?"
My grandfather nodded. He lit his pipe, which had gone out, and turned his attention to me.
"Whit ur ye gan tae be daen the day wee Donal?"
I paused for a few seconds.
"O just playing in the hills!"
He frowned, digesting my reply.
"Weel keep awa frae the stream, a dont want ate hev tae gang up wie me grapplin hook lookin fur yer body unner some rock, thur is some awfu deep pools up in the hill, some ur fathomless, wie a sairt o creatures lurkin in the bottom!"
My mother looked sharply at me.
"Aye keep awa frae the water Donal, dina gang near deep pools and steer clear oh the rocks doon at the shore!"
I listened for a few seconds then nodded.
"I will keep away!"
It was afternoon before I was able to slip away up to the cill. As I approached there was only a trickle of water falling down past Seafoil. When I reached my dam I was amazed to see that the wall was still intact. On gaining the crest I saw a great lake had formed behind the turf wall. The lake must have been about one hundred feet long and fifty wide and was lapping the top of the turf. The depth seemed unfathomable as murky spirals swirled up from the bottom blurring my vision. I felt slightly nervous, what if a great mass of water gathered, then suddenly burst down on the factory, washing away the canteen? I had visions of my grandfather floating out to sea on a table and me clinging to bed with Dusky the dog sleeping on it! At that moment I resolved to burst the wall.
I spotted a large piece of tree lying on the bank. With this as a battering ram I swung it against the turf wall, at first there was no impression made, then the whole wall collapsed with a crash and a deluge of water roared down the gorge. I sped from the scene of my dam and returned to the canteen.
My mother was sitting knitting by the fire.
"Go and wash yer hauns Donal," she smiled.
When I returned my grandfather had appeared with some whiting he had caught that afternoon.
"Thur wis a great wave o water cam unner the brig as a wis wakin back frae the rocks, al mud an grass an bits o trees, the stream is runnin fine noo!"
Then he looked at me, his eyes twinkling.
"Ye hanna been damin the stream wee Donal?"
Before I could reply my mother interceded.
"Jock!, dinna be puttin ideas in the wee boys heid!".
In Union Street there was a hardware shop, where if you had the means, you could book a holiday to some far flung clime (usually the far flung clime turned out to Glasgow or, in extreme cases, London). There were no posters portraying any destination, such as you have now, nor a battery of clerks behind computers giving you the holiday of your choice. Instead the prospective client approached the shop owner and muttered something in his ear out of listening distance of gossips, whereby he was ushered to the end of the shop and shown some documents, and a holiday was then booked.
All sorts of rumours abounded about the destinations and we used to speculate where certain people were going for their holidays for that particular year. Some of my pals thought that you could book to India or even the South Pacific.
"The Sooth Pacific," muttered one of my pals one night as we sat round a lamp post on High Street, "Aye jist imagine gangin intae yon shop in Union Street an bookin a holiday tae Timbuctoo!"
His remark brought a roar of laughter from the rest of us.
"Thurs nae such a place," retorted one boy as he aimed his peashooter in the direction of a window in Woodland Place.
The pea rattled against the glass, bringing an anxious face to the window. At this we hid in the shadows for a few minutes, then resumed our seats at the lamp.
"Dae ye think we could gang intae the shop an ask fur information oan a holiday in Ooter Mongolia?"
Again we laughed at his suggestion, but agreed to 'spy out the land', and the following Saturday we would descend on the hardware store in Union Street.
Saturday came and we approached the hardware store. There were about ten customers within so we were able to slip in without drawing to much attention to ourselves. The store smelt of oil and all sorts of strange aromas. The shelves were packed with items ranging from nuts and bolts to cleaning materials, centred round a pyramid of galvanised buckets and brushes.
As we mooched about the displays, one gentleman came in and marched up to the proprietor.
"Hae ye got yon magazine aboot the holidays in Norfolk a asked aboot, me mither haes a cuzin that leeves doon there an we wur thinking in gan doon tae see hur!"
The shop owner straightened up and raised a finger to his lip.
"Keep awfy quet Dougie, cam oor tae this corner an al gie ye yer magazine, thur is plenty o ludgins doon in Norfolk, sae if ye want ate book up a can git in touch wie wan o the agents in Glesca!"
As the client shuffled over to a corner with the owner other punters in the shop craned their ears to hear what was going on. The 'gossip express' was getting up steam, soon to send its tales ringing from lip to lip from Longrow to the Milldam.
As Dougie was handed a a magazine displaying the title 'Holidays In East Anglia', we gasped in amazement.
"A wunner where East Anglia is?" queried one of my pals.
"It must be where the Angles leeve," mumbled Duncan McIssac, "A heard Kubla Khan takin aboot it wan day, when he took us fur a lesson!"
There was a pause as he spoke, for the client with the magazine said to the shop owner that he would take the thing home and 'tak it oor wie hus wifie'.
With the client gone the owner homed in on us.
"Whit ur ye wee boys daen hingin aboot ma shop?.# If ye dinna want tae buy onything get awa hame tae yer hooses, a canna dae wie wee boys clutterin up ma shop!"
He advanced menacingly towards us. As he did so, Duncan McIssac stepped forward bravely.
"We wis wunnerin if ye had any broochoors oan holidays tae Ooter Mongolia, ma uncle hus freens there an he thocht it wid be gran tae gang tae yon place tae see them!"
Duncan's request took the shop owner by surprise. He paused.
"Whit freens hus yer uncle in Ooter Mongolia, a dinna ken o any chinamen in the toon?!"
Duncan thought for a few seconds.
"Weel it wis chinamen he met when he wus in the Orient," he said as we all backed towards the door, expecting a clip on the ear at any moment.
The shop owner stroked his chin, not sure whether Duncan was telling a whopper. It was within the realms of truth that people of the Toon, by virtue of joining the Merchant Navy, could have reached remote climes.
"Whit is yer uncle's name wee boy?" purred the man as he took of his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief.
"Ma uncles name is McIssac!" replied Duncan.
The owner clicked his teeth.
"McIssac ye say, was he in the Merchant Navy?"
There was a pause as Duncan continued his fabrication.
"Aye he wus in the Merchant Navy!"
Again the shop owner paused.
"Whit a canna unnerstaun wee boy is hoo he managed tae git tae Ooter Mongolia, thur is nae sea near the place?!"
Duncan screwed up his face in intense concentration.
"Och but he met some Mongols when he landed at Shanghai an they telt hum, if he wus ever in thae perts agin, he wus tae gang tae Monglia tae see them!"
The owner scratched his head, sending a gush of dandruff spilling onto his jacket.
"It al soons awfa far fetched tae me, a canna be ringin up the agents in Glesca tae fan oot aboot gangin tae Ooter Mongolia, withoot be gein a deposit!"
Duncan frowned at this.
"Whits a deposit?"
The owner's voice boomed out.
"Deposit wee boy, muny ye pey in advance, in yer case ten poons, get me ten poons an al ring the agents in Glesca!"
As he spoke, a woman with a severe hair style and thick glasses came stomping up.
"Mister McFeart! dae ye no ken thase boys play pranks a the time, wee McIssac wis behun yon prank o tyin auld Donal Broons door hanel tae his neighboors, then bangin oan baith an watchin the auld sools tryin tae open thur doors; as fur gangin tae China, the nearest hus uncle got tae the sea wus when he fell intae the loch at the Weehoose steps, efter haen takin a drap twa much!"
McFeart turned an unhealthy green colour.
"Whit!" he roared, "Thanks muss Melrose, an as fur ye lot o scamps, git oot an dinna cam back agin, the black affront o tryin tae gang oan a holiday tae Ooter Mongolia, a wid be the laughin stock o the Holiday Trade in Glesca!"
As we raced for the door, I turned to McFeart.
"Any information on holidays at Troon?"
A hideous roar greeted my question and we sped out into Long Row followed by the furious McFeart. When he gave up the chase at the junction with Main Street, Duncan shouted,
"Thae agents ye tak aboot in Glesca, ur they Foreign Agents?"
In the days long before the advent of the welfare state and the National Health Service, any medical advice sought from a general practitioner had to be paid for. To many this meant seeking home made remedies, because there was no money to pay for treatment.
In the case of epidemics the system worked slightly differently, in that all 'fever victims' were taken to the fever hospital at Witchburn. Such was the fate that befell my father and his brother, my uncle, in the early part of their lives. My father related the following incident in the years before the Great War.
A terrible epidemic of scarlet fever came upon the town. The root cause may have been a sewage problem, as all effluent poured into the loch. The fever took hold quickly and my father, his brothers Archie and Neelie were loaded onto a horse drawn ambulance. They were stacked one above the other in true military style and carted off to Witchburn, where they were interned in the grim institution. My father said that they were cramped into a great ward.
The ward was very hot and stuffy and some inmates eventually expired as there was no antibiotics to hand in those days. Food was of a primitive kind, a watery gruel soup, and something that passed as a 'main course'. My father remembers being given sulphur and treacle and some other home made remedy. The three brothers were kept in the fever hospital for a week, then returned home. One of the results of the epidemic was that my uncle somehow was diagnosed as having rheumatic fever and, as this weakens the heart, the doctor said he would not live more than a few years and he would be a cripple. (In fact he lived in good health for the next eighty years).
Such was the grim side of the Wee Toon, in an age when the majority of youngsters in the place were shoeless and bootless and lacked a basic nutritional diet, where homes were without toilets and in many cases proper heating, where mortality reached epic proportions and where the only escape was to do well at school, a dream reserved for only a few souls. For the majority a life of hardship and hunger beckoned.
When my father was discharged from the fever hospital, he developed bronchitis and, as there were no inhalers or steroids, he suffered great breathing difficulties. Only in later life did he find relief by means of the new medicines at hand.
Copyright © 1999 Donald Keith.