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The Gentleman's Club
The Holy Grail Afloat Donal O' The Black Gun The Bed In The Wall |
McDuff The Elder
George Stewart Return To Glasgow The Necropolis |
There were in Campbeltown a definite 'upper class' of self-made people and those who had inherited money from one source or the other. Many lived in the big houses on the High Road or those sitting back from the Kilkerran Road amidst leafy Palms, the latter nurtured by the Gulf Stream.
To pander to the needs of the 'upper class' there was an establishment near the Town Hall, commonly known as the 'Gentleman's Club'. It was a lovely old building built of a kind of sandstone with superb mullioned framed windows with blown glass panes. A heavy oak door led to the interior, where the so called 'gentlemen' entered to pursue games of snooker, billiards and cards, or to partake of various wines, beers, and whiskies.
How did one class oneself as a gentleman, or indeed as being of the 'upper class'?. Alas many who entered were really only shop owners, tradesmen, or people with money to idle the day away. Yet the place had to be run by a steward and the latter was of the 'working class'.
The steward required helpers, to wash glasses, tidy up and to serve drinks in the lounge and to that end my father and uncle became for a period 'helpers'. Lowly though the job was, it was a means of earning a few shillings a week to supplement their income. People whispered as they were seen entering the place, envious of the esteem such a job generated. My uncle told me as he approached the club door there would be comments from the crowd that gathered to watch their entry, such as
"Yon Erchie hus a job in the club an look at hum wey a collar an tie oan an his bruther tae. They wull be seervin a the 'big men' when they cam fur the nicht."
Then others would quip, "A neever thocht a wid see fowk that leeved in Woodland Place, seervin in the Gentlemans Club, the steward must be scrappin the barrel tae hae them wurkin yonner, its lak haen keelies frae the Gorbals servin the King at Balmoral!"
When the gentlemen arrived for a night at the club, further comments would ring out, such as,
"Wid ye look at hum wey al hus airs an graces, a remember when he sold fish frae a kert in Glebe Street!" or, "Hum gan in noo hanna twa pennies tae rub the gither a few years gan by!"
When real 'gentry' arrived, my uncle said, "a huge crowd o folk wid gether, starin at the gentlemen and there wis much doffin o caps an sookin up tae them."
Inside the walls of the club the so called gentry and those who qualified by birth, turned out to be in many cases very rude to the serving staff. The rule of the club was that in the realm of drinks a 'slate' system operated and that all drinks must be paid for at the end of the month. There were no exceptions to this rule, from the highest gentry to the lowest self made man, yet human nature being what it is, there were certain individuals who tried it on. The following incident happened when my uncle was on bar duty, sometime in the nineteen twenties.
The son of some shipping magnate on holiday from Glasgow, was staying in one of the large houses on the High Road. He came along to the club one summer's evening, as my uncle related to me:
"Thur he sat doon an ordered a bottle o whisky for hus freens an when they cam in they a started drinking; thur tak wis aboot the nineteen twenty six general strike and they said a the lazy workers should be shot. Then they went oan tae tak aboot sport an wummen an this magnates son ordered mair whiskies. When the nicht was gan auld they had a rare drink in them an the steward o the club telt them tae gang hame."
"The mood got richt bitter an the started shoutin they could stey a nicht if the wanted, but the steward insited an with my uncles help got them ootside where a car wis waitin fur them. Whit a racket went oan in the Main Street, but the 'toonies' still gaped in awe at the antics o the gentlemen. 'Jist high spirits' said some."
"Fur the next fortnight they turned up, the magnates son orderin bottles o whisky. A kept a tally o a the drink oan the slate, then wan nicht the magnate's son wisna wey the rest o the party, they said he had ganged aff oan the Davaar withoot warnin. The steward asked the other freens tae pey fur the bottles o whisky, but they said it wisna their problem. Wan o the so called 'gentlemen' wurked for a lawyer in Glesca an said that drink oan 'tick' couldna be redeemed in law, so the muny was loast. The steward reported the metter tae the committee, but they said it wis hus fault fur no gettin the muny in!"
Well the outcome of the matter was, that after another visitor from Glasgow pulled the same stunt, the rules were changed, so that visitors paid for their drinks on the night.
My uncle said "Sae ye see, efter that I loast a respect fur 'gentlemen'."
My father sometimes helped to sweep up the place and stack chairs, he also made tea for serving in the lounge, where the 'gentlemen' sat in great deep black leather chairs. Many of the gentlemen were of the Masonic Order, a society that did good charitable work in the town and published their order of business in the Courier.
One night my father was on 'tea duty' when some Masons came into the club, having just been to their Lodge. One of them nodded to my father.
"Haw Donal three cups o tea oor here, we ur fair parched!"
My father prepared the tea, then came over with the tea on a tray. As he approached the group. one of them said aloud,
"This matter o the Holy Grail bein in a Scottish Abbey is news tae me, they say it wis brocht oor wie the Knights Templers when they fled France in 1310 an Bruce let them settle in the land!"
The rest of the Masons nodded as the man talked and my father placed the cups on the table.
"Mind you!" exclaimed another Mason, "Yon legend aboot gold coins belangin tae Prince Charlie bein buried unner the Stanin Stone, taks some belevin!"
My father returned to the bar, where my uncle was drying glasses. The Masons' talk had electrified his curiosity.
"Hae Erchie", he said, "Yon men oor there ken whur the Holy Grail is beeried and they sae thur is gold unner the Stanin Stane!"
My uncle put down the dish towel he held.
"Look Donal," he replied, glancing towards the group of Masons, "The Masons have harsh penalties fur thae that listen in tae their tak, if they thocht that ye wur repeatin whit they said tae me a non Mason, we could end up in the Loch in a barrel an keepin the fish company!"
My father was taken aback by his brother's reply.
"Whit Erchie?" he spluttered, "Whits secret aboot the Holy Grail an gold unner the Stanin Stane, if Jock hears aboot this he wull be up wie hus pick an shovel in a flash, ye canna be richt surely?"
His brother nodded.
"This man coming to the bar will tell ye aboot the Holy Grail!"
As he spoke one of the local clergy who frequented the club came up to the bar.
"A double malt Erchie" he commanded, "And nae watter!"
Taking the glass in his hand, he downed the measure in one gulp.
"Same again!" he said. As he placed the glass to his lips, my father blurted out,
"Meenister, us it true that the Holy Grail is in a Scottish Abbey?"
The Minister paused, his eyes flickered from side to side.
"Nae body taks aboot the Holy Grail in the Reformed Church, its smells o Popery an al yon rituals that Papists tak up in thur worship o the scriptures; na a canna tell ye onythin aboot the Grail, sae forget aboot it or foulk wull think ye ur leanin tae Rome!"
With that he gulped down the whisky and returned to a table in the far corner of the lounge, where he lit up a 'Craven A'. My father turned to his brother, who shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of 'I told you so'.
"Well Erchie," said my father, "a dinna think I had asked onythin oot o the ordinary, a canna unerstaun a this hatred o the poor Catholics?"
My uncle smiled.
"Its the way o Scotland, though Cameltoon is usually vury tolerant tae thae o other faiths, mesel a canna be daen wie churches an a yon prayin, the places are fu o pee heers
and snobs!"
My father received some paltry sum for his work at the Gentleman's Club. When he returned home he mentioned to Jock about the Holy Grail and the gold buried at the Standing Stone. Jock 'wis richt taken wie the tale'.
"Aye he had heard o the Grail, mony a man had spent a fortune oan lookin fur it an had wannered the earth, but ner laid eyes oan it; he knew a man wha heard frae a auld priest thet the Pope had the Grail in hus press an took it oot when nae buddy wus lookin an had a wee dram in it. As fur the gold up at the Stanin Stane thet wus a auld wifies tale an mony a droll man went tae dig fur the gold, a man called 'useless' wis the last ate gang up wie hus spade an the fermer chased hum awa."
Many years later my father told me that the night he told Jock about the gold he had gone up to the Standing Stone with his lurcher and spade and a storm lamp to look for the gold!
Such was the life and times of the Gentleman's Club, a haven for the pretentious, a place outwith the reach of the majority of the 'toonies', a place where my Uncle and Father became skilled in Billiards and Snooker and many card games. My father became a skilled player and even scaled the heights by playing bridge!
Being a seaside town, Campbeltown, lent itself to being an ideal place to play games on the shore, such as 'pirates' or 'treasure seekers'. Now it so happened that a film came to the 'Wee Picture House', called Atlantic Convoy and as you can guess it was about the North Atlantic Convoys and set in the year 1942. The star of the film was Bogart himself, portraying a tough skipper of a cargo steamer. Eventually the steamer was torpedoed and Bogart and company spent many days on a piece of floating debris, supported by oil drums.
We were so taken with the idea of a raft that we decided to build one and sail it from Dalintober pier across to the slip way on the Low Road. George Stewart's house lay opposite the slip way, but this fact did not deter us and we pressed ahead with acquiring empty oil drums, rope, and planks of wood to lash to the drums. We started construction in the back yard at wood land place and soon Mary Broon became attracted to our activities.
"Whit ur ye we wains daen makin a raft, ye wull a be drooned in the deep, ye should stick tae playin in the hills; if auld Jock had been alive he wid richt mad wey whit ye ur daen, he wus eyways wurried aboot haen tae gang oot wie grappling hooks tae fish drooned waens frae the loch!"
We ignored her remonstrances and soldiered on with lashing the drums to the planks and eventually after about a fortnight's work the raft was completed.
It was about eight feet long and six feet wide and had six drums lashed to the underside with rope. We reckoned that the raft would hold about six persons and that we would be able to cross from Dalintober Pier in a stable condition if everyone was spaced correctly on the top platform.
The day of the launching arrived. We manhandled the raft up the close, then carted it up the High Street and down to Dalintober Pier where amidst a crowd of 'experts' we attempted to launch our craft. Luckily the water level at the pier was not high and we were able to use the stone steps to get down to the raft. The steps were very slippery with a thick seaweed like growth on them and one of pals Willie Anderson, lost his footing and, luckily, fell onto the raft causing it to buck violently in the water. With much groaning and cursing the raft was steadied and gingerly we stepped onto the raft until all six of us were crowded onto the platform.
The water lapped greedily over the planks. We must have ignored the displacement however by keeping steady we held the sea at bay. Then some bystander gave us a push off and the crowd of onlookers made a few snide remarks such as 'watch and dont fan yersel oan a foreign island' or 'a hope ye can al swim, fur thur is a big ray that laks tae bask in the shallows'.
The raft sluggishly swung out from the pier. One of my pals with the aid of a large piece of drift wood was attempting to steer a course towards the slipway opposite George Stewart's house. Having no bow, the raft became a clumsy object and seemed to have a mind of its own for instead of moving in the general direction of the slipway it teetered out into the central waters of the loch.
"Can ye no steer better than that Tam?" we chorused in dismay. Thoughts of landfall on Island Davaar or Ailsa Craig dominated our young minds -- or worse being swept round to the Mull and Paterson's Rock!
"Am tryin ma best!" pleaded Tam, "it us a brute tae steer an a think we ur caught in a current!"
Willie Anderson attempted to assist but as he moved the raft tilted dangerously, allowing the cold waters of the Loch to seep towards our clothes.
"Ma mither wull murder me!" croaked one little boy, clinging to his companion.
"It is near ma dinner time!" exclaimed another, looking fearfully at the receding coastline.
The raft was now pedantically moving along parallel along the Low Road coast, we were now past the house with the whale bone arch in its front garden, past Major Pongo's home and in next to no time we were opposite Craigard Hospital. At this point, the raft grated on the shingle bottom. At least now we could wade ashore, for if we continued we would be approaching the 'Deep' off the Trench Point, where there was a deep trench, rumoured to be the home of a great serpent!.
"Let us a gang off into the watter!" exclaimed Willie Anderson, "it us oanly aboot twa foot deep, sae shoes a socks aff!"
There was much groaning at his suggestion, but there was no other alternative. We complied reluctantly and slid into the cold water. As predicted the water came up to our knees and we sloshed shore to the slipway that lay nearby. As we sat waiting for our feet to dry, on of my pals pointed to the raft.
"We forgot tae tie her doon, she us driftin awa oot fur the point!"
We followed his pointing hand, and sure enough the product of weeks of labour and material gathering was speeding out on the current for the Trench Point.
"What a waste," I muttered, "all that wood and rope, gone, what will become of it?"
We put on our socks and boots and debated what to do next.
"Maybe," mused one boy, "we could follow the raft to the other side of the point, it might be swept ashore!"
We all shook our heads.
"No." we said, "It is heading for the sound and then anywhere, we have lost it!"
Sadly we trudged back to the road and headed home. The great raft adventure had come to a quick end. No foreign shores for us or far away exotic islands. When I told my uncle what had happened, he was none too pleased.
"Ye shouldna hae ganged oot oan a raft ye could hae been swept awa an never seen agin, or wurse still stranded oan some hostile shore an robbed o yer claes!" When I sked him where such 'hostile shores' existed in Kintyre, he replied, "Och thur is still wild men lurkin aboot in the hills frae the days o the clans, aya Kintyre is a strange place!" He winked as he spoke.
In Saddel Street near Glundie's chip shop there appeared an emporium run by a man called Findlater. Within the shop there were a variety of goodies to tempt the youth with some pocket money to spare. There were a variety of toys, games, books, etc. and many other items too numerous to mention.
When it opened, the shop drew a crowd of excited boys and girls, eager to purchase some novelty and one day as I sauntered idly up Saddel Street, I spotted in Findlater's window a large western style six-shooter. On the box in which it sat there was a bit of a write up: 'Genuine six shooter replica. When the trigger is pulled a wooden round is released followed by a puff of white smoke. Smoke is made from a reservoir filled with flour. Weeks of endless fun. Price including twelve wooden rounds, five shillings.'
I had dreamt of owning such a weapon instead of the usually noisy cap firing pistols that my pals wielded. As to the five shilling price tag, I could manage that as I had some money given to me at Christmas. With this in mind I hurried home and withdrew from my savings tin the required amount. Clutching the two half crown pieces I sped down to Findlater's and entered the shop.
Findlater was lounging over the counter, a cigarette dangling from his nicotine stained lips. He peered up from the paper he was reading, made a snuffling noise then, noticing the half crowns in my hand, rasped,
"De ye want tae buy a wee toy, boy, oor is it sweeties ye ur efter, oor a bottle o cream soda?"
For few seconds I was dumb struck then, summing up courage, I croaked,
"The gun in the window, mister Findfatter, I would like to buy it!"
He frowned at my request.
"The name us Findlater no Findfatter, if I thocht that ye wur tryin tae be funny awid gie ye a clip oan the ear, but seein ye ur here tae buy I wull oorlook the metter!"
With that he stroked his unshaven chin, his small greedy eyes darting from side to side.
"So ye want ate buy the gun in the windae wee boy?"
He spoke as if the weapon was his personal property and that he would regret it being sold.
"A weel seein ye hae the muny al gang tae the widae an git it!"
He shuffled over to the window and withdrew the gun from the shelf. Back he came and handed it to me. It was quite heavy and had a revolving six shot chamber into which you inserted the wooden bullets. He loaded up the chamber with the six bullets.
"Noo al gie ye a demonstration wee boy!"
Aiming at a box at the back of the shop he pulled the trigger. There was a crack and the box rocked where the round had struck. In the instant this happened a puff of white smoke sped from the barrel and wreathed Findlater's face in a cloud of white flour, making him look like one of Joe Black's assistants. He gave a raucous cough, spat on the floor then rubbed off the flour with a filthy rag.
"Thur ye ur wee boy, a rare weapon tae ficht yer freens wie, ye wull be king man indeed. Wan thing tho, dinna be pointin yon barrel at foulks heids, ye could cause an injury!"
With that he replaced the gun into the box , replaced the wooden bullets, then handed me the package.
I left the shop clutching my new found toy and hurried home to Woodland Place. There I withdrew the revolver from the box, clicked out the six chamber magazine, inserted six wooden bullets, then pushed the magazine back. The question now remained, what could I use for target practice? It was too dangerous for me to fire the weapon in the bedroom, so the back yard seemed the best place. Accordingly I hurried down to the grassed area and set up some tin cans on the window sill of the ruined house. Clumsily I swung the revolver up in the direction of the cans and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled crack and the first shot clipped one of the cans, causing it to wobble. A wave of satisfaction swept over me and in the next half hour I was able to hit the cans repeatedly with very few misses. The flour 'smoke' was a problem though, as after six shots there was quite a cloud of white powder swirling in the air.
A large black cat hove into view. I took aim and pulled the trigger. The wooden bullet flicked across the animals back. It gave a yowl of rage and spat viscously at me, showing a rare set of fangs, then it fled towards the back of the ruined house and took up position against the blackened chimney piece. I felt like one of the great wild west sharpshooters and I strutted up and down the yard firing at imaginary enemies. Then my eye caught sight of one of the windows of the unoccupied house, next to my grandfather's. What if I could take out the glass with one clean shot? It was quite a range but I was sure I could do it. I swung up the revolver, took aim, then pulled the trigger.
The revolver cracked, emitting a puff of flour, but lo and behold I must have moved my aim at the last second, for the upper pane of glass on my grandfather's bedroom window erupted in a shower of fragments, falling to the close opening with a crash. I stood horrified, then spun on my heel and fled to the shed, which was luckily open. There amidst piles of boxes and junk I crouched awaiting the wrath to come.
At first there was silence, then I heard from above my grandmother's voice crying,
"Michty me, Jock's windae is brokin, some rascal hus been playin wie a sling or a bow an arrow. Jock wull be richt mad when he cams hame frae the Gluepot, a pity the sool that hus done thus, hus life wilna be worth leevin!"
The words seemed to my ears like a death sentence; Here I was trapped in the yard, with no escape. If I rushed up the close I would be spotted and worse still, if Mary Broon had been spying on my shooting spree then I was done for, for she would gleefully clipe on me. Sweat poured down my back as I crouched with the revolver, then I heard my grandfather's voice grate from above,
"Whits thus ye ur tellin me wumman, ma windae smashed, al be frozen stiff in the nicht in ma bed, whur am a gan tae gless an putty at this time o the dae tae repair the windae, al hae tae git a bit o cardboard tae pit across the opening an that al hae tae dey till the morn. A hope wee Donals noo behun this escapade, if he us al skelp hum frae Long Row tae Tarbert, uch it wilna be hum its maist lak yon Coffield crowd next door, a saw the wee boy wey a sling the other day!"
I listened in horror as he ranted on, then his voice faded only to reappear in the close as he marched towards the yard.
Peering through a crack in the hut wall I saw him stride towards the place where I was hiding. He reached the door then for some unknown reason swung round and headed back towards the close.
"Ach!" he exclaimed, "A thocht a had some gless and putty in the shed, but a remember Skart tak it tae dae some repairs tae a windae at the front!"
Then he was gone up the close. I slipped out of the shed and somehow managed to get back into the house without anyone spotting me. I hid the revolver in its box under the bed and went into the kitchen where my grandfather was cutting out some cardboard.
"Wee Donal!" he rasped, rage filling his face, his moustache twitched nervously.
"Some wee boy, oor boys hae brokin the tap pairt o ma bedroom windae wey a stane oor sumthin, did ye see ony blaggards loiterin doon in the yerd!"
He peered into my eyes, as was his way. Filled with terror, I blurted out an untruth.
"I saw some boys race up from the yard as I was coming down the High Street, one had a sling, they ran up the steps at Gayfield Place, heading for the Broo, I think Douglas was amongst them."
My grandfather drew back and nodded.
"A micht hae known, weel al be watchin oot fur them, an when a catch them al be givin them a good lunnerin)!"
As I sat having my tea a great sense of guilt weighed wearily on my senses. I had told a lie and blamed some innocents for a crime that I had perpetrated myself. I thought of the Oscar Slater trial where an innocent man had spent twenty years in jail because someone had said they had seen him commit an act of murder. Now I must like George Washington tell the truth.
"I broke the window Grandad," I spluttered.
An awful silence greeted my remark. My grandmother made a strange sucking noise with her teeth and sat down from stirring a pot of soup.
"Whit!" roared my grandfather, "Ye broke ma windae ye hooligan, wis it wey a stone or a sling shot!?"
I paused, then shook my head.
"I shot the glass out with a revolver!"
Both my grandparents made a gasping sound.
"A revolver!" bellowed my grandfather, rising from his chair, "Whur did a we boy lak you git a revolver frae in thus toon, ye realise ye could kill a body wey it?"
The air in the room was now positively electric. Even the dog, sensing rising temper, started to savage an old slipper in the corner whilst the cat hissed in a menacing fashion.
"A tell ye whit!" snarled my grandfather, grabbing me by the shoulder, "Awa an fetch yer revolver tae me, frae whur ever ye ur hidin it!"
When I mentioned that I had hidden the revolver under the bed with a box of bullets, my grandmother wrung her hands in anguish.
"Lord be aboot us, hidin unner the bed, we wull al end up in Barlinnie prison, the loat o us, aye poor Erchie tae!"
My grandfather spat into the fire.
"Dinna be daft wumman, Barlinnie is fur men only, thur is nae place fur wumman at a!"
I returned with the revolver and the box containing eleven bullets, minus the one lost in the window incident.
"It is only a toy grandfather!" I exclaimed, "It fires toy bullets and releases a cloud of flour at each shot!"
As I spoke my grandfather seized the revolver, and cast an expert eye over the piece, he flicked open the chamber with the six round chambers, then examined the wooden bullets.
"Mm..." he said, "A fine replica gun, the bullet is hurled oot wie a spring, even so it us very dangerous fur a wee boy, ye micht hae pit oot ma eye, if I had been lookin oot o ma windae."
He paused to light his pipe then sat down.
"Whur did ye get thus gun wee Donal?"
The vital question had been asked. I drew in a deep breath.
"I bought it for five shillings in Findlater's shop!"
Again a silence hung over the place, the clocks's tick seemed loud and dolorous.
"Sae yon man Findlater keeps dangerous guns in hus shop , tae sell tae wee wains an ye peyed twa half croons fur the gun tae. Av a good mind tae gang doon tae hus shop in the morn an gie hum a richt chinnin, but seein it us only a toy al let ye keep it, but ye wull hae nae mer pocket muny fur a month, an al gang tae bed at nine o clock in the nicht!"
That was the end of the matter. The window was repaired and I was subject to 'restricted pocket money' for a month, but it was not the end of the 'revolver' for when a month had elapsed I was able to take it out onto the streets to show my pals. I was the talk of the street, 'wee Donal wie the big gun' was the cry, and we spent many happy hours playing at gangsters in the hills. I became quite an expert shot with the weapon, being able to knock down cans with ease.
Then one day near the Christmas Holiday Purcell announced in one of his rare kind moments "that we could bring in some game or such and that there would be a, bit o a pairty by kind permission o the heid wans!"
This certainly was a dramatic departure from the strict regime of previous years and became the talk of the school. Many said they would bring snakes and ladders, ludo, or toy train sets. I decided to bring along the revolver, much to the annoyance of my grandfather.
"Wee Donal, ye canna be firin thae bullets aboot Milknowe School, whit if ye hit yon Purcell, a hear hae hus a richt temper aboot him when he hus had a dram oor twa, ye wid be better takin a book oor playin kerds!"
However my grandmother won the day.
"Och Jock he us only a wee boy, let hum hae a bit o fun, he wull be carefu wie the gun!"
The day of the party arrived and I proceeded to the school. Many pupils had arrived with games, hoops and spinning tops. One boy had brought a chemistry set, which Purcell seized gleefully, then his eyes fell upon my gun. He lurched forward and picked up the weapon.
"Whits thus ye hae got here wee Keith?" he rumbled, peering down the barrel, "It looks lak a gun if am a Dutchman, whur did ye get it?"
Sheer terror filled my shy mind. Even though it was approaching the season of good will, such rules did not apply to Purcell.
"I purchased it at Findlater's shop sir, in Sadel Street!"
His eyes narrowed as he worked at the trigger.
"A ken fine whur Findlater's Shop is Keith!" he rasped as he pulled the trigger.
Luckily there were no bullets in the chamber, for I kept the box in my pocket, but as the gun cracked, a jet of flour mixed with soot flew out and landed on the bottom half of Purcell's face and his shirt front. Instantly he was transformed into a minstrel, the pupils sniggered at the sight. Purcell grabbed me by the shoulder.
"This means a strappin Keith!" he spluttered as some of the soot got into his teeth, "Stan ootside ma room tae a hae a wash an bring that gun wey ye!"
So as the rest of the pupils moved into the party room I was paraded outside Purcell's Office.
"Ye ur for it noo Donal!" yelled some of my pals as they viewed a table filled with sandwiches and cakes plus jellies. At that point my courage failed me and I sped from the hall clutching my gun and raced for home. Because there was a party taking place, all the teachers were in the party room, even 'eagle eye' Gemmil was missing from his patrol route.
When I reached Woodland Place I was in tears and my grandmother asked what was the matter. When I related the incident with gun she sighed,
"Weel wee Donal, dinna be feart, yon Purcell should a had mer sense that tak look doon a barrel an pull the trigger, it serves hum richt, an if the school officer cams tae the hoose al send hum awa wie a flea in hus ear. Naw dinna wurry ma wee boy, ye stey at hame the morrow, though it us the last day afore the holiday!"
The next day arrived and about ten o'clock there was a knock on the door. My grandmother opened it to be confronted by the school officer, clutching a leather bound note book.
"Mustress Smith, wee Donal ran awey the school yesterday, efter firin soot oor Muster Purcell at the pairty, he wull hae tae come back to face the heid!"
My grandmother stood erect, eyes blazing,
"Git yer facts richt school officer, yon Purcell pulled the trigger humsel an blew the soot oor his claes, wee Donal wis unfairly accused, how wid ye lak tae be belted by yon big brute, a tell ye a wull b taken this further, by gangin tae the polis an Jock wull be up tae see the heid, sae pit that in yer pipe an smoke it!"
The school officer shrank back and scribbled something down.
"Weel al hae tae see the heid aboot this!" he croaked, looking behind my grandmother to Jock who had appeared in his night shirt.
"Thur us nae need for Muster Smith tae cam up an see Purcell at a, al tell hum whit ye said!" With that he turned sharply and shuffled out the hall, muttering under his breath. My grandfather stared after him in an aggressive manner.
"Uch!" he snapped, "If I hae tae gang up tae see Purcell, he wull be taken early retirement!"
Strangely nothing came of the matter. The holidays came and went and I returned to Millknowe School, where for weeks afterwards I was aware of Purcell's beady eyes following me, and of the sniggering of my pals. I became known as 'Donal O' The Black Gun'.
After the incident of the gun I kept a low profile and in the course of time th matter faded into the short memories of my pals. In this period a version of Oliver Twist was shown at the Rex. In one of the scenes Fagin lies in a bed set into the wall. This bed in the wall intrigued me and when I returned home I asked my grandmother in she had ever seen a 'bed in the wall'.
"Bed in the wa?", she smiled as she spoke, pointing to a curtained partition set in the wall, the latter having escaped my attention in all the years I had stayed at Woodland Place. She walked over and drew the curtain back, as it slid on the rail a cloud of dust swirled up.
"Aye wee Donal, this is the bed in the wa, mind you it hisna been slept in mony a year, an a s ye can see it is used as a press fur auld books Erchie hus been gettin frae book clubs; ony wey ye can hae a rummage through, maist o the stuff wull end up in the midden!"
I beheld a dark recess with a pile of books and old papers in the middle; the actual bed consisted of wooden slats covered by a musty mattress, the top clothes being removed for reason of not attracting mice. The roof of the recess sloped because above that was the attic stair. Lengthwise there was enough room for an average size adult to lie down.
"Gosh" I exclaimed as I looked at the pile of books and papers, "Can I look through these granny?"
She nodded, "Aye ye can, in fact ye can sairt them oot an weel see whit is tae gang tae the midden."
What an Alladin's Cave it turned out to be. There were numerous novels by Edgar Wallace ranging from Sanders of the River to The Secret Room; Great tomes with a religious theme; A book called The Leisure Hour 1856 and two volumes entitled The Life and Explorations of David Livingstone plus In Search of Livingstone by Stanley. One book which drew my attention was entitled The Natural History of Selborne by the Reverend Gilbert White. On the fly sheet lay the inscription 'Awarded to Christina Smith for educational excellence 1885'.
This was the first time that I realised that my grandmother was of a hidden calibre in the world of education. What she had won was The Kintyre Club Prize -- a rare honour in a time when education was only for the few. As I rummaged through the books I found other prizes she had won for a variety of things from knitting to perfect attendance.
I sorted the books into neat piles on the sofa then I looked at the old papers and magazines. The Picture Post predominated in the magazine section. Many of the editions were from the year 1938 and were full of articles and photographs of the Spanish Civil War. Later editions of the magazine were from the war and showed many dramatic scenes from the fighting in Europe and the rest of the world. There were a pile of old Campbeltown Couriers featuring various events in the town.
Eventually I had cleared the bed completely and my grandmother fetched some old cardboard boxes and we filled them with books and papers.
"When Erchie cams in he can look through thae books an see whit he wants tae keep, aye ye hud done a gran job wee Donal, a had meant tae clean oot the thing fur years, Jock wisna interested in cleanin it oot fur he said cleanin wis fur wummin tae dae!"
She sat down by the fire as she spoke and poked the coals, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. I looked at the bed space. What a great den to spend the night, yes even sleep there, just imagine the dark room, the faint glow of the fire, the ticking of the clock! My grandmother must have latched on to my thought pattern.
"Sae ye wid lak tae sleepin the bed in the wa wee Donal; weel ye wull hae tae help me tae gie the bed a guid clean, fur ye dinna want mice creepin oor ye in nicht or wurse still some rat come up frae the yerd. A dinna ken whit auld Jock wull think when he cams in, he hates beds in the wa!"
To have my grandmother sanction my scheme sent my mind buzzing. My grandmother set to with her pail an scrubbing brush and in few hours the bed was in ship shape order, complete with fresh sheets, blankets, and pillows.
"Ye ken!" she said, "that ye canna hae a candle in the bed in case o fire, sae if ye want tae read ye wull hae tae use a torch."
I nodded in concurrence, "I have my 'Ever Ready' torch if I need it."
Later that evening as I sat reading my Hotspur, my grandfather came in with the dog, having been for a walk.
"It us a fine nicht," he said, sitting down at the fire side chair and cutting himself a quid of Bogie Roll which he then tossed into his mouth. He rolled the quid about for a few seconds, then spat a stream of juice into the fire. Staring at the flames for a few seconds his eyes alighted onto the pile of boxes containing the books and magazines then his gaze shifted to the 'Bed in the wall'.
"Whits been gan oan here?", he snapped, "It looks as if ye hav been oan a spring clean?"
My grandmother nodded.
"Aye Jock, wee Donal an me hae cleared oot the Bed in the Wa fur Erchie hud jist been usin it tae store a they books he bocht frae yon book clubs. At the same time we cleand the bed oot an wee Donal us gan tae sleep in it the nicht!"
My grandfather's face changed at the mention of me sleeping in the bed, his mouth chomped savagely on the tobacco quid.
"Na!" he exclaimed, firing another stream of juice into the fire, "Nae buddy sleeps in there na more, thur is nae air in there an he could git smothered wey the pillows, whit aboot the auld soul that passed away in there in years gan by, fan deid in hus sleep, ma faither telt me aboot it?"
As my grandfather spoke, my grandmother raised her hands in the air in despair.
"Michty me, Jock, the bed hus been scrubbed oot an new claes pit oan, wee Donal al be us snug as a bug in a rug!"
"Bug in a rug," retorted my grandfather, "aye the bugs wull be snugglin intae hum, they auld walls ur fu o beetles, fur yon Skart willna dae oany thin tae the property, naw he canna sleep in thur the nicht, ma mind is made up wumman!"
With that ultimatum he picked up his daily paper and started to read. My grandmother nodded to me, then turned to my grandfather.
"Wee Donal hus a wee touch o a cauld an a canna pit oan the room fire fur the chimney ye promised tae sweep still husna been done, if he slept in the 'Bed in the Wa', the fire frae the range wid keep hum warm in the nicht, ye dinna want hus cauld tae gang intae hus chest noo?"
My grandfather looked up.
"A wee cauld ye say wumman, weel a widna want hum tae git wurse, sae he can sleep in the 'Bed in the Wa' until a get roon tae sweepin the room lum the morrow."
As he spoke my grandmother nodded to me, her stratagem had worked.
I could hardly wait for the evening to draw to a close, then at nine o'clock I washed my face and hands, went into the bedroom to change into my pyjamas, then returned with my Ever Ready torch. As I climbed into the bed my grandfather turned on the radio for the nine o'clock news bulletin.
The voice came in after the last stroke of 'Big Ben', 'this is London, here is the news…' There followed a long discourse on various calamities from the 'ground nuts scheme' to the capture of some Chinese city by the communists. As each item was explored my grandfather would burst in with asides, such as "yon wee Atlee is ruinin the country!" or, "whit aboot the workers?" When the sport section came on there was much comment on the forth coming boxing match between Joe Louis and some challenger; being inclined towards fisticuffs my grandfather waved his arms in excitement.
"That wull be a rare ficht reminds o the time Jimmy Wilde fought the 'Pampas Bull' fur the world championship, whit a ficht that wus!"
The news bulletin concluded with the weather, then the announcer said, "the next programme will be from the Blackpool Tower Ballroom, featuring Sandy McDonald, then at ten o'clock Victor Sylvester will play."
This drew a rude comment from my grandfather to the effect, "ach a this dancin an singin, gimme a guid Scots sang lak Scots Wa Hae; a this namby pamby dancin is fur pee hee foulk, real men dina dance, dancin us fur wains a wummen!"
My grandmother looked up from her knitting.
"O Jock, ye used tae lak the dancin in yer young days afore a met ye, ye cut a real dash at the Victoria Hall, dinna wan o yer freens dance in hus stockin soles?"
There was a silence, followed by a kind of mumbling.
"Ach weel a suppose a did gang tae the Victoria Hall!"
As he spoke he switched off the radio and started to read his paper. Whilst all this banter was progressing I was busy reading a copy of the Eagle and following the adventures of Dan Dare as he battled with the Mekon on Venus. The torch provided adequate light and I felt secure within the confines of the 'Bed in the Wall'. As the clock in the hall struck ten my grandfather stretched his arms, knocked out his pipe on the hearth, then rose.
"Al be awa tae my bed, sae al say guid nicht," he turned to me, "Did a tell ye the story aboot Burke an Hare that smoothered foulks in their beds an sold thur remains tae doctors, a lot o the wans that wur smoothered wur in beds in the wa?!"
I put my comic down. By the pale glow of the gas light my grandfather's shadow made a gigantic shape on the wall where the bed was. The flickering fire almost gave life to the shape. Here I was in a bed in the wall and now he was going on to one of his sinister tales by gaslight. As he slumped back into his chair, my grandmother put down her knitting.
"Jock!" she snapped, "awa tae yer bed an dinna pit the fear o god into wee Donal, fur the last time ye did this we baith dinna get a wink o sleep a nicht!"
My grandfather smiled, "Och it only a five meenit story, then al awa tae ma bed!"
My grandmother resumed her knitting.
"A weel," she sighed, "Sae be it oan yer heid Jock, if wee Donal hus nicht terrors!"
There he sat by the fire, on that long ago Autumn night, with astory to tell.
"Weel Donal, Burke an Hare cam oor frae Ireland tae fan wurk in Scotland an drifted tae Edinburgh whur a thae toffs leeved. Thae ludged in a terrible close oor wynd as it wis called then, an wan dae they saw an auld shepherd gaspin fur breath in hus bed, sae they smothered hum an sold hus body tae a Doctor Knox wha cut it up at the hospital. Soon they wur smootherin any soul wha they thocht wis a alone in the toon. But then a young lassie wis strangled an sum wan recognised her body in the hospital, an the polis fleed roon tae Burke an Hare's ludgins an they wur arrested. Burke cliped oan Hare an Hare wus hung an Burke fleed tae Lundon, sae watch yursel in yon bed the nicht, a dinna want tae hear that yer body hus been selt tae wee Cameron!"
He finished his story and headed for bed. As he passed he said, "The morrow nicht a tell ye aboot the man that wis strangled wey his coat, ye ken yon coats that hing in the hall, weel at nicht they cam alive an wak aboot in the dark!"
My grandfather vanished into the bedroom. I heard him muttering as he lit the gas ,about the poor quality of the coop mantles and aboot the fact that the dog was already in his bed.
"Time ye went tae sleep wee Donal, an dina wurry aboot Jock's droll stories, he is a big fearty, if he saw a ghost he wid run fur hus life, sae snuggle doon an in a meenit al turn oot the licht an then al awa tae ma bed."
I switched off the torch, then lay down on the pillow. The bed was quite warm. I heard my grandmother moving about then I must have dozed off for suddenly I opened my eyes to find the room in semi- darkness lit by the dying glow of the fire. Fantastic shadows sped across the ceiling and walls. What was that shape on the mantle piece, was it a snake and what was that long arm that seemed to be reaching up near the press? Something was hanging on the door of the press – it seemed like a body. My mind raced to the words of my grandfather -- the coats that moved in the night! Then there were Burke and Hare who smothered innocents for money, perhaps I was next?. Oh the wildness of youthful imagination, simple things built into fearsome nasties. Suddenly the clock clanked out twelve dolorous strokes, each stroke competed with the snores of my grandparents. Midnight had arrived. A scampering noise seemed to be coming from under the couch. Something was sitting on my grandfather's chair, what could it be?
Sweat trickled down my brow. I dare not cry out, for to do so would invoke the wrath of my grandfather. Then to add to my terror something came onto my feet, then with a sigh of relief I realised it was the cat. The whole house seemed to have come alive with nocturnal noises – squeaks, slithering, a dripping sound, from somewhere down in the close came a sighing sort of sound, somewhere somebody coughed. From above in the empty attic came a thud followed by the sound of heavy breathing. In the hallway a creaking sound started, I heard the dog growl in my grandfather's bedroom, followed by his voice telling the animal to wheesh.
I wondered as I lay awake how old Woodland Place was? What strange things had taken place in these rooms? What tragedies had been enacted in the building? Did the past linger in some spirit form, to be re enacted when conditions were right? Then I heard the hall door open, a steady footfall came to the kitchen opening. By the dying light of the fire a great shadow loomed on the wall! This was it, I thought, Burke had arrived to carry out his deed! The figure was standing at my bed. I heard myself yell, "Don't smother me Mr Burke I am no good for the doctors!"
The gas light was suddenly ignited. There stood my uncle resplendent in a heavy overcoat.
"Whits wrang wie ye wee Donal, an whit ur ye daen in the bed in the wa an whit ur a ma books daen in cardboard boxes?"
His loud voice brought my grandfather stumbling through attired in a night shirt followed by my grandmother in her dressing gown and holding a guttering candle. In between the dog crouched, snapping viscously at the cat.
"Whits a the hulabaloo aboot, Erchie, we heard wee Donal scraichin in hus bed an thocht it wis robbers?"
My uncle took off his coat.
"He said that he dinna want a fella called Burke tae smother hum, whit nonsense is this?"
My grandmother put down the candle and went and poked the fire.
"Jocks been tellin wee Donal aboot yon awfu men in Edinburgh in the last century, a telt hum the wee boy wid be frightend oot o hus wits, its no fair!"
My uncle glared at my grandfather.
"Ye should tell hum somethin nice like Babes in the Wood, oor Pinochio, yon widden dummy that leeved in Italy wey the auld shoe maker."
My grandfather reached for his pipe, filled and lit it. Drawing in a lung of smoke, he muttered,
"Ach weel maybe a should hae nae telt hum a bad story bein he us young, al awa tae ma bed noo, good nicht!"
With that he shuffled off followed by the dog and cat, the latter trailing one of my grandfather's slippers as if it were a prize kill. As he entered the room my grandmother cried after him,
"Pit that pipe oot Jock, oor we wull be sendin fur the brigade!"
When my grandfather had gone my grandmother turned to my uncle.
"It us neer wan in the morn Erchie, whur hae ye been tae such an oor, a hope ye huvna been wie some woman o ill repute, ye ur only a young man?" (At the time my uncle was only 46!)
There was a silence.
"Och a wis playin kerds wie some o ma freens in a back room o the Gentlemen's Club, af nae lakin tae be gan wey wummen!" he replied. My grandmother sat down on the chair,
"It us time ye were merried an had some wains lak yer brother Donal, we dinna want the line tae die oot!"
As all this banter was proceeding I began to fell sleep creeping upon my tired brow. What, I thought, was a woman of ill repute? Foolishly I piped up.
"What is a woman of ill repute? I have never heard of such a place?."
For my trouble I received a clip on the ear from my grandmother,
"Dinna tak lak that agin, such things ur oanly fur grown up foulk, awa tae sleep, while a mak yer uncle a drap o tea!"
I heard them argue as I slipped away, then I was in the folds of a dream, where someone was trying to smother me with a pillow and the dog was pulling the bedclothes off me, then the scene shifted to Cook's Shop where a queue of people were waiting. In the window of the shop a notice said, 'pillows for sale, suitable for smothering people in Woodland Place, futher details from Burke and Hare.' In my dream I ran aimlessly up and down High Street trying to persuade people not to buy pillows from the shop. Then a man said that Burke and Hare had just arrived on McBrayne's bus and that point I came to my senses to find my grandmother preparing breakfast on the range.
"Awa an git washed wee Donal!" she exclaimed, "Whit a nicht, whit we ye cryin oot in the dark an Erchie cammin in in the wee sma oors, the sooner Jock gits the room lum swept the better, an ye can sleep in a proper bed!"
So ended the episode of the bed in the wall. On looking back Woodland Place to my young mind was a frightening place and coupled with my grandfather's tall stories both frightening and sinister no wonder for years afterwards I was terrified of the dark, but such is the way of life, we have little say in our ultimate destiny!
As I have said before, my encounters with the church and in this context, the Church of Scotland, were awful Sundays at the so called 'Sunday School'. My grandparents my uncle and his brother never attended church, but my mother was a regular attendee. My grandfather considered the church as an institution of the state, that did the state's bidding in a circumspect way, and stood aside when its voice should have been heard. It preached the love of Jesus, but in practice it was driven by reactionaries who wanted only the status quo. My grandfather used to rail me with such matters, which at the time I did not understand a lot, but in later years realised there was an element of truth in his ideas. The church to him was heavily loaded with snobs, though why this should be I have no idea. Anyway the sum of his opposition meant he never went to church, or attended the obligatory communions.
As to my father and his brother, they just never attended, feeling out off place in the 'stiff collared regime' that was the church in the early part of the century and later. I used to see my mother speed off to church on a Sunday, smartly dressed, or of an evening she would attend the guild. Then one particular day she returned to say that 'an Elder would be calling' to inquire about the non attendance at church of my uncle, father, and grandfather. The long hand of religion was reaching out to call its lost sheep back to the fold!
I vaguely remember my grandfather muttering to my grandmother about Kirk folk, as he called them.
"A hae never been wan o they holy joes, screchin oot hymns an takin aboot guid deeds, when in the next braith they wid cut yer throat!. I weel I remember as a we boy bein sent tae the Sunday School, the meenister wis there rantin an ravin an tak aboot brotherly love, he had a look oan hum that wid mak auld nick shiver wie fear!"
My grandmother nodded.
"Ah weel Jock, nane o yer foulk wur church goers, whit pit me aff wis awe yon dressin up an paradin aboot lak stuffed hens, na am afraid maist o the Smiths an Keiths ur loast tae the fold."
My grandfather shuffled his slippered feet.
"When yon Elder cams al be in ma room tae he leeves, am nae listenin tae a yon tak aboot prayin an singin; a know Erchie an big Donal wull be keepin oot o they wey tae, if am naw mistaken!"
His words brought a pained expression to my grandmother's face.
"Does that mean ye wull be leain me tae mak a the excuses unner the sun fur ye, whit if the minister cams tae?"
There was no reply to her question.
As luck would have it in the natural turn of events the coming of the Elder coincided with our six o'clock tea, when my uncle and grandfather were seated at the table.
The first I knew about the matter was a heavy footfall on the hall floor.
"Whas that comin tae oor door?" exclaimed my grandmother, "a dinna recognise the feet, it isna Maisie oor Fesak or yon George Stewart, wha can it be?"
We all shook our heads, then there was a thunderous knock on the door, the kind of knock that signifies look out whoever answers the door.
"Awa an answer the door wee Donal an see who it is, if it us a tinker sen hum oan hus way!" commanded my grandfather, as I reluctantly rose and headed for the door.
I turned the handle and swung the door back. Before me stood a tall man, slightly stooped. He was dressed in black suit, white shirt and dark tie. On his feet were a heavy pair of brogues. His face had a severe look, eyes that glinted and darted side to side as if surveying the very soul of the person that they looked upon. On his head nestled a black bowler hat.
The tall man spoke sharply in a voice that demanded quick answers.
"Us mustress Smith in an hur man Jock Smith?"
He drew out a notebook from his pocket.
"Us Erchie Keith leevin here as weel?"
Overwhelmed by the questions, I simply replied, "If you are a tinker my grandfather said I was to send you on your way!"
My reply brought a hiss from the tall man.
"Am nae tinker am mister McDuff yer elder frae the Kirk, cam tae see wha this hooshold husna been tae the Kirk fur mony a year!"
There was a scramble behind me and my grandmother appeared.
"Come in McDuff, Jock and Erchie ur jist havin their tea, Maisie telt me ye micht becomin tae see us, this is hur son, wee Donal!"
McDuff glared at me.
"A cheeky wee boy, the Sunday School wull soon knock that oot o hum!"
McDuff was ushered into the kitchen where my uncle and grandfather had taken seats at the fire and were pretending to read newspapers. They looked up as McDuff towered over them.
"Ur ye Jock Smith?" he rasped, "ye hana been tae the Kirk fur nigh oan twenty years!"
My grandfather put down his paper.
"Aye am Jock Smith an al naw be comin at a, a canna stan the snobs an they that think they ur high an mighty!"
McDuff frowned, took out his notebook and scribbled out something, he then turned to my uncle.
"Ye must be Erchie Keith Mustress Smith's son, ye hana beeen tae the Kirk sinc ye wur a wee wain, ye wull hae tae start agin, fur the godless shall perish as it says in the bible!"
My grandmother tried to defuse the growing tension that was building between the three men.
"Wid ye like a cup o tea or a drap o malt an tak a seat tae rest yer legs?"
McDuff sat down.
"Al hae a drap o tea, drink has never passed ma lips, as the sang says, 'yield not tae temptation'; many a soul has been takin awa wie the drink an in ma time as a faithful elder o the Kirk a hae seen the curse o drink amang the wurkin classes!"
My grandfather put down his paper.
"Weel elder McDuff, a ken many o yer fellow elders that knock back drams in the Glue Pot oor in the Davaar, a man that disna lak drink is nae a man in ma eyes!"
McDuff glowered across at him.
"Ye ur intitled tae yer opinions Jock Smith, noo the Kirk says ye should attend wance oan a Sunday an al communions in the year an that applies ate al in this hoose, ye tae Mustress Smith!"
He finished speaking as my grandmother handed him the tea, which he downed in one gulp, making a slurping noise in the process.
"Al sae agin afore a gang off, its yer duty tae gang tae church; noo here us three communion kerds, wan for each o ye, communion is next Sunday, sa al expect ye there!"
He handed the three cards to my grandmother, then rose to go. My uncle looked up.
"Whit us the kerds fur McDuff, they look like dance tickets?"
McDuff seemed to grind his teeth.
"Thae ur nae dance tickets, its an invitation tae the Lords Supper as a christians ken!"
With that, led by my grandmother, he trudged to the door. Then he was gone, his heavy footsteps thudding on the landing, then fading away in the distance.
"Thur ye ur!" exclaimed my grandmother, "Ye hae shown me up, baith o ye an in front o an elder o the Kirk, whit did ye need tae tak aboot drink fur Jock, an say only men drink, I wis black affronted, noo weel hae tae gang tae yon communion on Sunday!"
My uncle yawned, as if bored.
"This Kirk is awfy severe oan us poor workin class, oany kind o wrangs can be done aginst us by the rulin powers, but the Kirk couldna care less as lang as ye attend an kerry oot the rituals!"
My grandmother sighed.
"Weel when Sunday comes then we wull see which o ye gangs oor the brig tae the Kirk!"
Sunday came, the bells tolled, the 'unco guid', as the bard put it, paraded to the Kirk, but from Woodland Place, no one ventured, we all sat reading by the fire, like heathens round the pot. To me the elder seemed a terrifying character, a figure that seemed to radiate hate and not love, a tool of regulations not a pastoral servant. I grew up with the view that the Church of Scotland was a rigid institution, and had lost the ideals of Knox, that it be a place of care and brotherly love.
In the hills above Campbeltown there foraged masses of rabbits. Of an evening they came out from their burrows to face the dying sun then hop off to eat some farmer's crop. Round the Standing Stone they would run, dipping and rolling, or simply stand as if in a trance. Such large groups of rabbits were to the 'toonies' a poacher's delight and many people sported lurchers to give chase and capture the rabbits, ready for the next day's dinner table, or for sale on to some other person.
Some of the poachers were legends in their feats of rabbits caught in one day's or night's poaching. Stories abounded amongst the loafers who stood at the Christian Institute, stories of dogs as fast as the swiftest greyhound. There were also tales of ghostly poachers seen in the night, flitting amongst the shadows, of strange lights shining up on the slopes of Bengullion or Knockscalbert, dogs that howled away in the depths of the dark Autumn nights in search of huge rabbits. Of the latter, my grandfather told me of 'The Big Un' a rabbit as big as a large dog that could outpace the swiftest lurcher. So, imbued with startling tales of famous poachers in the past, it was inevitable that I should be drawn into some poaching scheme that my grandfather's mind had concocted.
It fell about an early Autumn evening, the Autumn of 1945. My grandfather took me over to George Stewart's house in the Low Road, with my grandmothers voice ringing in his ear that he was not 'to keep me there till the wee sma oors,and to be drinking whisky in front of me'. My grandfather had other plans for the evening though.
As we approached George's house, my grandfather gripped my arm in a vicelike hold.
"Listen wee Donal, it us gan tae be a fine moonlicht nicht, the nicht, an we ur headin fur Knockscalbert fur a spot o rabbit catchin; George hus got hold o a lurcher and we are gan tae get a real pile o rabbits, sae when we git up into the hills dinna be makin any noise tae frighten aff the rabbits!"
We reached George's door and without a knock my grandfather burst into the lounge cum kitchen. George was cleaning his false teeth at the sink. He looked up startled. His toothless mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"Whurg ur ye wanteen!" he spluttered, in an incoherent mumble, as he reinserted his worn plate.
Like a Napoleon, my grandfather sat down by the feeble fire.
"Whurs the lurcher mon?" he almost shouted.
George, his dentures back in order smiled, "The dug is in the back room, dae ye naw hear hum scrabbin at the door?"
My grandfather went over and flung open the door. A waft of damp air surged into the kitchen, from the black depths of the room a poor dog shuffled into our presence, a look of fear in its eyes. It did not look starved, but it was old. Grey whiskers adorned its face.
"Whits its name?" snapped my grandfather.
George screwed his face up in concentration.
"The wumman said its name wis Jasper, its a rare lurcher!"
A silence followed his reply to my grandfathers question. The dog came up to me a licked my hand.
"In the name o god!" roared my grandfather, "Whit namby pamby name is Jasper fur a duig, mon!"
George hung his head in shame.
"Whit did ye pey fur it?" asked my grandfather as he spat into the fire, watching the spittle sizzle on the hob.
"A peyed the wumman ten shullins Jock!"
"A weel", sighed my grandfather, "ye wis robbed, sae weel hae tae mak the best o it, we wull leeve fur the hills in half an oor, wee Donal can kerry the torch. Meanwhile al hae a glass o double malt, donal can hae a glass o water!"
George drew a half empty bottle of malt from a filthy cupboard, pouring out two measures. He mumbled, "A wis keepin this fur New Years Eve, Jock."
My grandfather swigged back the measure.
"Same agin George, an dinna be a meanie, New Year is months awa."
As he chuntered away, I sipped the clouded water in the broken tumbler.
Well the poachers, having refreshed themselves, set off in the bright moonlight along High Street, up The Walk and on into the lower slopes of Knockscalbert. We approached the great dark hump, the moonlight spread strange shadows on the ground. To our left as we gained altitude on the slope, the pale sheen of Auchy Lochy glinted.
"Aye," mused my grandfather as George Stewart tugged at Jasper, "Yon loch is an eerie place in the nicht an eerier still us Loch Ruan, a fathomless pit."
I shivered as he spoke, remembering past adventures near the loch. We trudged up a few more feet.
"This us where we wull wait fur the rabbits, the wull be comin oot soon, then Jasper can get tae wurk!"
He turned to George Stewart.
"Be ready wie the torch, when I say rabbits, shine the torch intae their eyes tae mesmerise them."
George nodded, then undid Jasper's lead. The dog promptly slumped down on the grass. As we stood there waiting for the rabbits to appear, I looked at the panorama of Campbeltown spread out before us. The lights on the pier, those along the Kilkerran road, the far lamps on the Stewarton Road and the pulsing beam of the Davaar Lighthouse stabbing out across the Kilbrannan Sound, where the bow lights of some steamer moved slowly along. Far in the distance lights flickered on the Arran Shore and still further back the Turnberry light probed out into the night. I had never seen the town from such a position before and in the dark. My reverie was rudely interrupted when my grandfathers voice snapped,
"Rabbits tae yer left!"
George Stewart flicked on the torch, the beam cut a swathe in the night, then some eyes stared back at us transfixed -- rabbit's eyes.
"Awa ye go Jasper!" exclaimed my grandfather, but the dog remained on the grass. It raised an inquiring eye, then promptly shut it. Exasperated, my grandfather advanced upon the hapless animal.
"Gang an git the rabbits, ye galoot!" he roared, "Oor a fling ye intae Loch Ruan!"
George Stewart raised the torch beam upwards. The rabbits released from the light scampered away in the into the dark.
"Perhaps John?" he cautioned, "We should talk in quieter voice, or we will frighten the rabbits away and maybe the dog would not feel so nervous, with all this shouting?"
There was a long pause.
"We cam here tae get rabbits an ye hae brocht along a stupid duig, that disna want tae gang efter them,sae whit ur we gan tae noo?"
There we stood, all three of us, up on the dark slopes of Knockscalbert. George scratched his head pensively.
"Weel we could shine a licht doon wan o the burrows an when the rabbit cam tae see whit wus wrang, we could dazzle it, then grab it!"
The solution drew an unmentionable word from my grandfather.
"Guid god man, hae ye tried tae catch a rabbit wey yer bare hands, who dae ye think ye ur, Tarzan o the apes?"
George recoiled slightly at the savage rebuff to his idea.
"Weel John I wis oanly tryin tae help, whit dae you suggest?"
My grandfather shrugged his shoulders.
"We micht as weel gang hame, a the rabbits wull be doon in the burrows laffin at us, twa men an a wee boy, tryin tae poach wie a torch, if this gets oot, al be the laffin stock o Cooks Corner!"
After much muttering we started back down the hill, using the torch to guide us round hidden gullies. Eventually we came to the Standing Stone and stopped for a few minutes, then we headed for the Walk. As we approached the latter a bulky figure hove into view, it was a policeman! What could an officer of the law be doing at the top of the walk on an Autumn evening? My grandfather peered at the policeman.
"Gran evenin, we hae jist been fur a wak tae the Stanin Stane, me an me pal an wee Donal an Jasper the duig."
The constable shone his torch at us.
"A ken you twa men, dinna I?"
George and my grandfather made a grumbling noise in reply.
"Ye ur Jock Smith an George Stewart, the twa o ye cut up yon Navy Buoy fur fire wid last year, we kent it wis ye but we couldna prove it."
George's voice squeaked in a high falsetto key.
"It wisna us, the ony wid we cut up wis oan the shore, legitimate salvage, Jock wull back me up oan that."
The constable pressed forward, his great red face glinting in the moon light.
"See hear ye twa, dinna be cheeky wey me oor ye wull hae tae accompany me tae the station, fur further questioning, al be keepin a close eye on ye twa in future!"
His voice rasped out, then drawing out his notebook, he snapped.
"Oany wey, whit ur ye daen up in the hills at nicht wey a duig an a minor?"
George and my grandfather seemed puzzled.
"Wee Donals nae miner, he us jist a wee school lad," said my grandfather.
The constable's face contorted.
"Richt fur that stupidity al be assumin that ye hae been up in the hills efter game, thur hus been reports o lichts bein seen by the Dukes gamekeepers in the hills, thae last few weeks, sae am gan tae pit doon that ye hae caught somthin an hidden it, al be reportin tae ma superiors; noo al tak yer names!"
It was rather difficult even in the moonlight for the constable to write in his notebook, so he asked George Stewart to shine the torch on the book.
"Name an address?" he said to my grandfather.
"John Smith, o Woodland Place, Cameltoon."
The constable seemed irritated with the reply.
"Ah ken fine ye ur frae Cameltoon, Woodland Place is guid enough!" he snapped turning to George Stewart,
"Name and address?"
George leaned forward.
"George Wilson MacBeth Stewart o Low Road terrac behun whur Peter Finney leeves!"
The constable grunted.
"Am nae interested in Peter Finney, Low Road is guid enough fur me!"
My grandfather yawned.
"We ur gettin richt cauld stanin oot here in the damp air, wee Donals shiverin in hus boots, we should be awa hame."
The constable shoved the notebook into his pocket.
"Richt ye wull be hearin mair aboot this soon, sae dont leeve the toon!"
As he plodded off my grandfather turned to George Stewart.
"Yon polis ur a bunch o loafers in the pey o the toffs, peterin auld men an wee boys in the nicht, they should be oot huntin murders and robbers; they ur really feart o real criminals!"
George nodded in agreement as we descended the Walk. When we reached High Street, George shuffled off with Jasper towards the Low Road and we went to Woodland Place. The great rabbit hunt had resulted in nil rabbits and a clash with the boys in blue.
"Whur hae ye been till this time o nicht?" asked my uncle, "Mae mither has ganged tae hur bed, she us wurried aboot wee Donal catchin cauld."
My grandfather looked at the clock, which showed, half past ten!
"Ach we wur jist oot fur a wak, wie George Stewart, roon the toon," replied my grandfather, sitting down and removing his boots, "George likes tae wanner aboot in the nicht, fur the good o his health, Doctor Cameron telt hum tae tak plenty o exercise!"
My uncle smiled wryly.
"A dinna like wee Donal gangin aboot wie ye auld men an sittin wey yeese in yon hoose oan the Low Road, he wull be pickin up bad manners, lak spittin an sweerin, an dont ye twa hae drams oor there?"
"Naw," replied my grandfather, reaching for his pipe, "we oanly hae wan dram a nicht, an a tell George aff ,if he sweers in front o wee Donal."
My uncle poked at the fire.
"Wan dram a nicht, ye say, mair lak wan bottle a nicht; aye a yon George has been roon the Wurld and he must hae picked up queer ideas."
The retort brought a cough from my grandfather.
"Uch, believe whit ye want, am awa tae ma bed!"
When he had gone, my uncle poured me a cup of tea.
"Weel Donal, did ye gang tae the hills the nicht?"
I nodded.
"We went up Knockscalbert to hunt rabbits!"
Then I related the fiasco – the useless Jasper, George's idea to catch the rabbits by hand and the encounter with the policeman. My uncle laughed.
"Weel yon polisman wull be keepin an eye oan ye three, a can tell ye that!"
As he grew older, my uncle became concerned about the grave of a relation of the family, who had been buried in Glasgow, in a place called the Necropolis. He felt that someone should go and visit the grave, to see if the grass was being cut as money had been endowed by a relative for the upkeep of the grave.
As Glasgow was approximately 138 road miles away, such a journey would entail a few days stay in the city.
"A hae been meanin tae gang up tae see ma cousin's grave for many a year, but a hae never got roon tae it, noo a hae saved up a puckle money an can pey fur the bus a ludgins." mused my uncle one day as he sat by the fire.
My grandfather had by this time passed on and my grandmother was not keen to accompany my uncle to the city as duty bound her to. The year was 1949 and the previous year my uncle had taken me to the city for a treat, so I did not hold any hope of being taken again.
"Ye ken mither a can gang tae Glesca ma sel tae see tae the business in hand, sae ye can bide here, a wis thinking aboot gan on the Monday bus an changin at Tarbert tae McBraynes."
My grandmother put down her knitting.
"A dinna lak ye gan on yer own, thur a sairt o perils lurkin in Glesca fur single men!"
She looked at me.
"Wee Donal hus a week aff fur the Easter Holiday frae hus school, he could gang wey ye lak he did last year."
Excitement gripped me as she spoke. Another trip to the far off city, I would be the talk of the town.
My uncle stroked his chin.
"Mm, its a lang wey fur a wee boy tae sit in a bus an it wid be awfa borin trekkin oot tae the Necropolis wey an auld man, but if ye want tae cum yer welcome, whit dae ye think?"
I almost jumped for joy as he spoke.
"I would love to come Uncle, can we go to Lewis's store, they have loads of toys there and books?"
My grandmother raised her hands.
"Yer uncle husna muny ate be spendin oan toys an books, he wull need a hus muny tae pey fur ludgins!"
Her words made my uncle think for a few minutes.
"Uch weel see if we hae time tae gang tae the shops."
The Sunday before the departure date was very exciting. I had my small case packed by the afternoon, my father gave me some spending money as did my grandmother and I was all ready to go. I could hardly contain myself as the evening wore on and sleep seemed almost impossible as I went to bed.
"Ye wull mak yersel ill wee Donal thinking aboot the trip" warned my grandmother as I snuggled down in bed, "Yer mother has telt Erchie nae tae be buyin ye a load o sweets, sae dinna expect a feast each day when ye ur in the city. Thur is also extra socks in the case tae keep ye warm an Erchis hus a hot water bottle wey hum, fur yon city ludgins can be awfy damp."
I listened to her reel off a list of does and don'ts, then thankfully drifted off to sleep.
In the early dawn we set off from Woodland Place and headed for the bus stop, which was outside the Town Hall. Even at that early hour there was quite a crowd of potential passengers and idlers standing at the bus stop. As we approached the bus came trundling down from Castlehill and came to stop in front of the Town Hall. The driver alighted and swaggered into the parcel office, then the conductor appeared.
"Ye can a git in the bus noo, change at Tarbert fur Glesca, le yer cases fur loadin intae the boot, nae boxex allowed in the gangwey!"
His voice boomed in the morning air as the waiting passengers surged forward to the bus entrance. My uncle and I having left the cases at the rear, entered the bus and managed to find a seat near the front. Eventually the bus was adjudged full and the driver and conductor appeared, the latter with a Woodbine dangling from his lips. The bus engine sprang to life and with much crunching of gears the vehicle lumbered into Longrow, thence onto the A83 for the journey to Tarbert. The journey was uneventful and Tarbert was reached in about an hour.
As we arrived at the dismal quay head the McBrayne bus was waiting, The luggage was taken from the Campbeltown bus and transferred to the Glasgow Bus. As we waited to board the latter a small man came up to my uncle.
"Are ye fur Glesca Erchie?" he asked, his eyes darting from side to side as if weighing up all those people near him.
"Aye am takin me nephew up tae the city, we ur gan tae the Necropolois, tae see tae a freen's grave," replied my uncle, nervously watching the man.
He grinned.
"Whit a droll place tae tak a wain, the wee soul wull be fair feart in yon place, ye must be jokin!"
His remark made my uncle frown.
"Think whit ye want thats whur we are gan, though we ur spendin a week in the city."
The small man edged closer.
"Ye must hae plenty o muny tae stey in Glesca, am a bit short me sel, ye couldna see yer wey clear tae lendin me twa quid, al pey ye bak when a git ma broo muny?"
There was a silence, then my uncle stepped forward.
"Al gie ye nae muny ye baccle, a dinna gie muny tae cadgers, ye ur alweys in the Glue Pot beggin fur muny oor drinks!"
The small man scowled, shrugged his shoulders, then shuffled off to accost some other traveller.
"That is Wullie Smith, the cal hum ' The Rich Beggar', he hings aboot pubs a nicht, pesterin drinkers!"
The conductor of the McBrayne's bus announced that we could board; soon we were seated and the bus was on its way to Glasgow. As my uncle paid for the tickets he asked the driver if we could be dropped off at the Clyde Bridge.
"Naw" rumbled the man, swiveling a burnt match in his teeth, "Ye wull hae tae gang tae Robertson Street in the Broomielaw, that us the only stop allowed!"
Eventually we reached Robertson Street and had to make our way on foot until we came to the long road called Sauchiehall Street. Along there we reached our boarding house (not the same one as the year before). Above the door was the sign 'Peace Haven Guest House'. My uncle swung the great brass knocker. A few moments elapsed and the door was opened by a tall woman with piercing eyes.
"Am Erchie Keith," said my uncle, "A wrote tae ye last week, fur ludgins fur a week, tae Seterday, fur me an wee Donal."
The tall woman smiled weakly.
"Am Missus McParland, a hae a room in the tap fur ye, bed, breakfast an evenin dinner, six poons fur ye and foor fur the wain!"
She paused.
"Hoose rules ur, nae smokin in the room, pets, oor eatin meat other than I serve. If ye ur oot at nicht, the door is locked at eleveen an ye wull hae tae ring tae git in, and by the by, thur is nae drinkin beer or whisky in yer room!"
My uncle nodded in concurrence with the arrangements and Mrs McParland ushered us forward into the dark hallway. As we ascended numerous stairs a fellow lodger passed us on the way down. He seemed very nervous whilst looking at Mrs McParland fearfully.
"Evening Muster Lomax," said the landlady, "Ur ye awa fur a wak?"
Lomax mumbled something and stumbled down the stairs. We continued our ascent to what seemed the upper reaches of the clouds then we arrived at a door, which the landlady flung open, to reveal a tiny room with two single beds and a solitary wardrobe. She threw a switch and a dim light filtered into the room.
"It is wan o'clock, dinner us a seveen, sae al bid ye guid day, the lavatory is at the end o the passage!"
She clomped away and silence returned, safe for the faint roar of traffic far below. My uncle surveyed the room.
"A sma room wee Donal, but we wull be snug enough here, but we wull hae tae gang doon tae the ootside tae git somethin tae eat, fur dinner us six oors awa."
Down the long flights of stairs we descended, past doors from behind which no sounds could be heard. Where were all the lodgers? I thought, perhaps sleeping or working in the city?.We reached the ground floor and opened the front door. Behind us dishes rattled and the waft of cooking reached our noses.
"Smells lak mutton stew!" exclaimed my uncle, "Am nae very keen oan it, that an tripe an onions a dinna lak!"
We stepped out into the street. Traffic roared by. Great trams, their electric conductors sparking above, lumbered along shining rails. Dull faces looked from within, tobacco smoke trickled from the door. Cars competed with the trams in a deadly race. Horns tooted in anger. Pedestrians dashed across the stream. People leapt onto moving buses, or descended in a similar manner. The whole thing was mind boggling for a small boy from the heilans. Even my uncle seemed a bit nervous as we walked along the crowded pavements, being jostled by the throng and listening to the different accents. Eventually we came across a cafe which purported to sell 'snacks and hot meals, with pie and chips a speciality'. In we went and sat down.
"Am fair famished," sighed my uncle as he eyed the menu.
There were about ten people sitting in the place. The tables were covered with oil cloth, some of it worn in places. At the end of the cafe lay a counter with a glass display cabinet brimming with cooked pies and pasties. Behind that was the chip fryer, a chrome monster that belched forth clouds of steam and smoke and a searing heat that reached even our table. The operator of the fryer was a small man in a white apron. He was covered in brown stains and his face glistened with sweat. The sweat ran onto the Woodbine that dangled from his nicotine stained lips. At intervals he would draw on the Woodbine, then give a raucous cough. The cigarette was then withdrawn to allow him to spit up some mucus. As we waited for someone to attend to our needs the fryer bellowed through a curtained door.
"Haw Jeanie, thur is twa customers oot the front, git yersel awa frae the paper an cam oot tae see whit they want!"
In response to his command, the curtain was drawn aside and a young woman, about twenty years old, sidled out. She chewed a great wad of gum, her heavily lipsticked mouth jerking with the effort. She was dressed in a white smock that had a large tea stain on the front. On her feet she wore black sand shoes, one of which had a large hole in the toe. Pulling a battered pad from her pocket, she leaned forward.
"Whit dae ye want men?" she slurped as the gum jammed in her teeth.
My uncle peered at a battered menu.
"Pie an chips twice," he said.
The waitress screwed up her face.
"Dinna be cheeky man, a heard ye the first time!"
My uncle seemed puzzled.
"Naw miss a meant chips an pie fur wee Donal as weel."
A moment of confusion reigned.
"Weel mak up yer mind wull ye a hana a day tae hing aboot!" spluttered the waitress as she scribbled the order and went and handed it to the fryer.
The fryer turned to us.
"Whit cana pies dae ye want, mutton, steak, oor tripe?"
The question drew a froan from my uncle.
"Nae tripe fur us, gie us steak pies."
The fryer seized two pies and put them into a heater.
"They wull be ready in five meenits!"
Eventually the waitress sauntered over with the pies and chips. Plonking them down on the table, she coughed.
"Dae ye want a drink?"
My uncle nodded.
"Aye twa glesses o iron brue."
The waitress scratched her hair, dandruff spiralled down onto the table.
"We hana got iron brue, oanly, Tizer, Fanta, oor American Cream Soda!"
Again there was a silence.
"Och gie us twa glesses o Tizer, lassie."
The waitress shuffled off, to return with the two glasses. We ate our meal, then my uncle asked for the bill.
"That wull be foor shullins an saxpence," said the waitress as my uncle fished out two half crowns from his pocket. She returned a few minutes later, but without the sixpence change.
"Whurs ma change?" asked my uncle.
"Thur is nae change!" exclaimed the waitress, "That us ma tip!"
My uncle's face hardened.
"Tip!" he snapped, "Al gie ye a tip lassie!"
The waitress smiled, "Whit another tip?"
The fryer was looking at us as my uncle replied.
"Gie yersel a good wash an stap chewin gum, that is ma tip!"
The waitress burst into tears.
"Tam!" she cried to the fryer, "The heilanman wie the wee boy hus insulted me, whit ur ye gan tae dae aboot it?"
The fryer approached our table, fish slice in hand.
"Ye hae better leeve ye yins!"
Then he whispered into my uncles ear.
"Jeanie us a wee bit droll, sae a wid furget aboot the saxpence an clear aff, she tries it oan when she kens ye ur frae the heilans!"
He finished speaking, then puffing up his chest bellowed, "Gang aff ye twa an dinna cun in here agin!"
At that we beat a hasty retreat.
"Weel", said my uncle, "Wummen are a queer crowd wee Donal, if ye ever git merried keep a wary eye oan them, they dont think lak us!"
With that pearl of wisdom we went off sightseeing into the city.
We spent an enjoyable afternoon at the Art Galleries, looking at the paintings. The place was so large that it was six o'clock before we realised the time and had to beat a hurried retreat to Mrs McParland's lodgings. We entered tabout half past six and plodded our weary way up the stairs to our room, where we had a wash. After a few minutes rest we began the descent to the first floor. We were joined by other 'inmates' stumbling eagerly forward to the dining room. One decrepit looking man almost fell as he rushed down the steps.
We entered the portico displaying the sign 'Dining room, guests only' to be greeted by the landlady hovering over a great tureen with a white enamelled ladle in one hand. The landlady signalled us to a table in the corner, as the room rapidly filled with guests.
"It us mutton stew the nicht, ladies an gentlemen!" she announced, "best mutton frae the butchers, an efter that spotted dick an custard!"
Her words brought a faint groan from some of the older inmates.
"That us the third time in ten days we hae had mutton stew, she must hae shares in some ferm", whispered an old woman, with her hair drawn back in a bun.
As if in unison the 'inmates' rose with their plates and shuffled up to the tureen where Mrs McParland, like a latter day Mr Bumble, proceeded to ladle out dollops of stew. I joined my uncle in the line, I could see he was not keen on the stew, but dutifully he took his ladlefull. I followed him back to the table, then we proceeded to eat.
"It wid be better if we hud sum breed tae eat wey the stew," he groaned, downing a mouthful.
I found the stew quite tasty and soon finished my plate.
"Any wan fur mer!" shouted Mrs McParland, as some eager diners rushed forward.
"Thats whit I lak tae see!" she exclaimed, "Guid appetites!"
Soon the tureen exhausted its supply of stew and a bent looking man crept in to remove it.
"That's the landlady's man!" said my uncle, "Though he hus white hair he oanly forty five, it must be bein crooped up in yon kitchin o hurs that hus dun it!"
Another old woman appeared to collect the empty plates onto a trolley that had a squeaky wheel. As she picked up our plates, she noticed half the stew remained on my uncles.
"Al hae that fur ma supper," she said in a voice filled with hunger.
When she had moved on an old man leaned across to ma uncle.
"Yon auld wumman started wurk here as a lassie, nae look at hur!"
My uncle nodded.
"Could she naw hae gan tae anither job?"
The old man shook his head.
"Naw, they McParlands ur lak the lodgin hoose mafia, wance ye ur oan thur books, ye ur there till they fling ye oor the Clyde Bridge, when ye ur nae use tae man oor beast!"
I laughed out loud at the absurd notion of being a boarding house slave and my laughter brought Mrs McParland over to our table.
"A see the wee boy is enjoyin humsel, that us whit a lak tae see in ma dining room, whit are ye laughin aboot wee boy?"
I was about to relate what the old man had told my uncle, but the latter gave me a rap on the shins and stunned me to silence. The old man paled visibly at the thought of me blurting out the truth.
"He wis laffin aboot a cheeky waitress in a cafe the day, that wanted a bigger tip, an a telt hur tae git a wash!" replied my uncle, countering my confusion.
"Humph!" snapped Mrs McParland, "quite richt tae, yon lassies gie Gleca a bad name, soonds lak ye wur in Greasy Toms, the place is boggin wey dirt, a could hae telt ye o a beter place tae eat, but ye had gan oot afore a could see ye!"
She finished her tirade, then sped of to talk to some other guest. The old man nodded to my uncle.
"Thanks fur stappin the wee boy, hud he spoken a wid hae been a candidate fur gan oor the Clyde Bridge!"
The spotted dick arrived and was ladled out to the waiting inmates. The scrape of spoons on bowls rang out in the dining room then the old woman returned with the squeaky trolley to collect the dishes.
"A really enjoyed that puddin," murmered my uncle as he scrapped up the last remnants of watery custard.
The old woman seized his plate.
"It us a shame ye dinna lea some fur the kitchen foulk tae hae later!" she complained.
My uncle wiped his mouth with his paper napkin.
"Dont ye git enough tae eat?" he said.
Mrs McParland approached with a dark frown on her face before the old woman could answer.
"Leza!" she thundered, "No talking to the guests, get awa ate the kitchin wae the dishes an bring oot the tea urn!"
Leza scuttled away and returned a few minutes later with a great copper tea urn, whose arrival precipitated a rush to form a queue.
We each drew a mug full of a bitter brown liquid. It tasted like melted shoe polish. As I finished my mug, my uncle beckoned Mrs McParland over.
"Us there any chance o sum cheese an biscuits?"
A silence fell on the diners, fearful faces looked towards our table. Perhaps, I thought, such a request had never been asked before?
Mrs McParland leant forward.
"Whit dae ye think thus place is, the Lundon Ritz?" she snapped, "Naw a ye get is twa courses fur yer dinner!"
She strode off and vanished behind the curtained doorway.
The old man sitting next to us whispered, "Ye twa better watch yer step, wance she thinks ye ur trouble makers, ye could be be in fur a rough passage!"
We rose from the table and headed for our room in the heights. As we toiled upwards, my uncle turned to me.
"We wull mak enquiries the morrow aboot gangin oot tae the Necropolis an tracin ma cousins grave, when we hae sorted oot the business, we can hae a look roon the shops an maybe lak last year see a show!"
His words cheered me up as we prepared for bed.
Our toilet completed, we snuggled down into the separate beds. Far below, the hum of evening traffic filtered up to our room. Somewhere near voices were raised in anger, there was the sound of a dog barking and furniture being moved. Footsteps passed our bedroom door, paused, then moved on.
Sometime later I heard a voice say, "A wee boy an auld man ludge in there, they ur heilanders frae Camelton; the auld man is awfa greedy wie hus grub, he asked fur cheese an biscuits the nicht!"
Somone replied to the speaker.
"Keep yer voice doon, it us gan eleeven, McParland can hear a pin drap,she wull be up here in a shot!"
There was a muttered response, a key turned in a lock near us, then whoever it was entered their room. Soon silence reigned.
My grandfather's tales of being smothered in bed began to gnaw at my mind. What if there was a character like Burke lurking in the lodgings, waiting for the wee small hours to do his deed? I could see the headlines in the paper, 'Uncle and nephew smothered in lodgings' or 'Visitors vanish in boarding house'. I tossed in a shallow sleep, my mind churning helplessly. Then I had visions of Mrs McParland slithering down the passage with a cleaver in hand. She cackled in a high pitched voice, "We wullna be short o meat this week!"
I awoke with a start. The room was in darkness, my uncle was snoring strongly. In other rooms snores responded in a strange symphony. My dreams subsided and deep sleep took me. Morning palely streamed through the skylight. My uncle was up, towel in hand, razor kit in the other.
"Grab yer washin bag an towel wee Donal, an we wull awa tae the washroom!"
Obeying his command we entered the passage and followed the faded sign which said, 'To wash room, if bath is required, apply to patron for hot water tap'. Eventually we swung round a turn in the passage to come upon about six people standing in a queue waiting to gain entrance to the washing facilities. At the head of the queue stood a plump man dressed in trousers and singlet, his feet were bare. He glared as we approached.
"Am furst in the line, am haen a bath, sae al be in the washroom fur at least an oor, ye can a gang aff till um finished!"
There was a groan from the rest of the waiting guests. A woman in a dressing gown and with curlers in her hair hissed.
"Ye wull be haen nae bath Fat Wullie, ye wull jist hae tae huv a face wash an shave, the rest o us hae tae git oot tae oor wurk; baths ur fur the weekend!"
Fat Wullie spat on the floor and swore.
"Nae wumman us gan tae tak tae me lak that, shut yer mooth oor al gie ye a lunnerin!"
The woman stepped towards him.
"Al tel Mrs McParland that ye huv been oot drinkin in the nicht an ye hae pinched a pass key, sae pit that in yer pipe an smoke it!"
The threat seemed to knock the wind out of Fat Wullie's sails and he mumbled "Nae need fur that Kirsty, al oanly be haen a wash and shave."
Eventually we gained entrance to the wash room to look upon a stained, chipped wash hand basin and a bath with a black tide mark near the rim. As my uncle shaved in the tepid water I managed to have a wash. Then we went back to our room and dressed, then made the descent for breakfast. After consuming a plate of lumpy porridge and burnt sausage and toast we went out in our quest to find the Necropolis.
A friendly tram conductor told us to take a number ten bus towards the south of the city, this bus would stop near the Necropolis. This we did. The conductor came round for the fare.
"One and a half to the Necropolis", said my uncle confidently.
The conductor peered at us.
"Whit ur ye gangin tae a graveyerd fur?"
His teeth made a clicking sound as he spoke.
"We ur gan tae see tae ma cousin's grave" replied my uncle.
"That wull be, wan a six, watch yersel in the Necropolis, its big, many a soul hus vanished in there lookin fur foulks grave, mon at nicht nae buddy wull gang near the place!"
My uncle took the tickets that spewed from the conductor's machine.
"Thanks fur the warnin mate!" he laughed.
The bus drew up at some high railings and we alighted. The railings seemed to stretch for ever. We walked along and eventually came to a gate. It was open and we entered and beheld the vast vista of the Necropolis. As far as the eye could see lay forests of gravestones, ranging from simple crosses to might sculptures. Many were covered with a layer of moss, signifying a great age, others lay at drunken angles. Beyond the main vista of stones rose mighty tombs, the province of the wealthy. We walked on for what seemed hours. From time to time my uncle stopped to examine a faded paper on which was some sort of writing.
"Aye!" he exclaimed, "A hae the place whur ma cousin is beeried, but a canna seem tae git ma bearings!"
Then ahead of us stood a stone building with a sign saying 'Site attendant and grave information'. We walked up and pushed open the door to find ourselves in a small office, one end of which was lined with ancient files. In the middle of the office was a desk and at the desk sat a small man with a bald head. He looked up as we came in and drew the briar from his mouth, at the same time releasing a smoke ring which wafted to the brown ceiling of the office.
Whit dae ye want?" he asked, "Ye ken thus is ma dinner oor?"
My uncle nodded in sympathy.
"Weel we hae cam up frae Cameltoon tae fan whur ma cousin is beeried an we ur a wee bit loast!"
The words brought no reaction from the small man, except for him to start picking his teeth with a pen nib. He eyed us quickly.
"Frae Cameltoon ye say, whit wus yer cousins name an when whus he beerid, if a ken that a can look at me records?"
The question drew a thoughtful look to my uncles face.
"Am Erchie Keith an ma cousin wis called Eddie Keith he died sometime about the first World War oor maybe a lang time afore it an he wis beeried in the Necropolis!"
The small man nodded, yawned, then arose and pulled a large file from one of the shelves. Flicking through a few pages, he stopped and looked up sharply.
"Edward Keith, died 1906 o lung fever, beeried in row 306 slash 700!"
The last figure had us baffled.
"Whit does 306 slash 700 mean?" ssked my uncle.
"306 slash 700 is a reference, lak oan a map," replied the small man. "Here look at this chart oan the wa."
He pointed to a great map with a maze of paths on it, in one corner a box proclaimed, 'You are here, site office.'
"Noo," said the small man, "All gie ye the reference, then ye can gang aff an see the grave, the cherge fur the reference us ten shullins."
Grumbling, my uncle fished a note from his wallet.
"Here ye ur, but afore we gang aff, thur wis money left fur the upkeep o the grave, us that stil bein done?"
The small man flicked open a battered ledger.
"Naw freen, the money ran oot fifteen years ago, if ye want ony mer wurk done ye wull hae tae pey."
My uncle drew out ten fivers and placed them on the table.
"Is that enough?" he asked.
The small mans eyes bulged with greed at the site of the notes.
"Aye that wull dae fur twa years care o the grave!"
He snatched up the notes, stood up and reached for a key on a hook.
"All personally tak ye tae the grave freens, sae follow me!"
He locked the office door and we set off along a great avenue flanked by gravestones. Soon we reached a grave where the grass stood about three feet tall. The small man drew back some large docking leaves to reveal the words 'Edward Keith, died 25th June 1906, R.I.P.' My uncle took off his cap.
"Ah weel cousin," he mused, "We wull git the grass aff ye."
The small man led us back to the office, then bade us farewell and we made our way back to the main road.
As we reached the main road my uncle looked back at the massive graveyard. Evening was approaching, a far city clock chimed five.
"We better be gan along tae oor ludgins, wee Donal, yon Necropolis gaes me the shivers, a wance read a book aboot a bigger place in Lundon called Highgate Cemetery, al sairt o queer things go oan in the nicht there, thur wus even tak aboot Vampires lurkin in the tombs!"
As the bus arrived, I was thankful to see the last of the place. Soon we were back at Mrs McParland's lodging house awaiting a gastronomic delight, which turned out to be tripe and onions!
Somehow my uncle struggled through the greasy mound of tripe on his plate. I found it quite palatable and quickly devoured my helping. The old man on the table next to us leaned across.
"Hey did ye ken auld Tom up in room 36 was fan deid in hus bed this morn, stiff as a fozen fush he wus, the polis was here tae, then the undertaker tak the body awa. Doctor said it wus natural causes!"
My uncle looked at me.
"Naw me an wee Donal wur oot at the Necropolis lookin fur ma cousins grave, we hae been awa a day ye ken."
He paused.
"Wus auld Tom ludgin here lang?"
The old man picked a piece of tripe from his teeth and flicked it on his plate.
"He cam here as a young man sellin galishes an hus ludged here since; must hae been in the thirties when he cam!"
I was amazed that anyone could have survived in Mrs McParland's lodging house all that time.
"Do you think he died at the thought of tripe and onions being served tonight?" I asked my uncle.
His face creased with a grin.
"Ha, ha wee Donal!" he laughed loudly, "Some o the grub here wid mak a tramp vomit!"
As his laughter cascaded round the room the other diners looked fearfully towards the curtained opening. The old man seemed to go grey. Even his black boots seemed to dull.
"Dinna laugh aboot the food here Erchie, the last man that cracked a joke aboot a boiled egg, wisna seen agin!"
His warning had hardly been uttered when the curtain swept aside and Mrs McParland stormed into the room.
"Muster Keith!" she snapped, her yellow teeth grinding savagely, "Nae laughin when foulk ur eatin an especially when auld Tam hus gan tae hus final rest, oanwey whit whur ye laughin aboot?"
My uncle wiped the tears from his eyes.
"We wur laughin aboot yon man in the chip shop, spittin oan the flair when he wus servin chips!"
Mrs McParland paused, somewhat wrong footed by the answer.
"Its nae lafin metter, yon chip man wull end up in the jail, fur hus dirty shop!"
Having delivered the verdict, she stomped off, back into the kitchen. The diners gave a sigh of relief, the old man turned to my uncle.
"A guid piece o hoodwinkin Erchie, had ye telt the truth,ye wid hae been headin fur the Clyde Bridge!"
Well the next two days were spent looking at the Art Galleries, Museum, and various department stores, including the famous Lewis's, where my Uncle bought me a Meccano set. Then one morning it was time to depart from our lodgings. My uncle paid the bill and after a curt farewell from Mrs McParland we trudged off bound for Robertson Street and the McBrayne bus. Even as I left the lodgings I sensed hidden eyes watching from the room windows, pleading to go with us and release them from their bondage.
A mist hung over Robertson Street as we reached the bus. It was half full and the conductor was lounging against the door. We placed our cases at the rear and approached the man. My uncle handed him our return tickets. He examined them closely through scratched spectacles, then handed them back.
"Cameltoon eh, change at Tarbert, nae throwin crusts oan the bus flair if ye hae breed wie ye. Thur wull be a stap at Lochgilpheid and Inverarry fur the cludgie an a cup o tea. The bus leeves in a quarter o an oor!"
He stood back to let us enter the bus. We found seats to the rear and made ourselves comfortable. More passengers entered the bus. One man had a fierce looking bull terrier that eyed me with a mean stare. Then the engine roared and we lumbered out into the city, north towards Loch Lomond, thence onto the A83 and into the mountains.
Copyright © 2001 Donald Keith.