Part 2
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Big MacPhail
Kubla Khan Ohara's Punt The Museum The Sunday School |
Physical Jerks
Casablanca Fesak Off The Ration Finney The Demon Barber |
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Big MacPhail
Kubla Khan Ohara's Punt The Museum The Sunday School |
Physical Jerks
Casablanca Fesak Off The Ration Finney The Demon Barber |
My next encounter at the Grammar School was with the formidable English teacher known as 'Big MacPhail', a giant of a man who walked with a lumbering gait like a hunter stalking his prey.
I vaguely remember he taught Geography, History and some subject called 'natural science' and his class lay just inside the main school entrance.
It was one of those very balmy days just before the start of the summer break, when we dreamt of the six weeks freedom amongst the hills or lolling on the seashore and not enduring MacPhail's droning voice, that sounded like a blunt saw.
"Kenneth MacAlpine was the first king to unite the Picts and the Scots and begin the process that was to lead to a united Scotland," rasped MacPhail, drawing his hand across his fat lips.
"I will now ask one of you to come out and point on the map where Kintyre is."
A hush fell on the class, who would it be? Feet shuffled in a slow rhythm. MacPhail pointed to Duncan MacIssac, the latter gaping in fear.
"MacIssac, come to the front and show us where Kintyre is!"
MacIssac hurried to the front and stood at the map.
"Well. Where is it boy?"
Duncan pointed to the centre of the map. MacPhail's face darkened.
"You stupid idiot! That is Stirling!" he roared, striking MacIssac a hard blow on the head.
As the class watched the drama unfold I noticed a bird on the window sill; my mind thought of soaring through the air. What it must have been like to be able to fly. I thought of the film that was currently showing at the Rex, called Angels One Five, where the hero bagged six enemy aircraft. I could see myself diving down through the clouds and shouting 'tally ho' like the hero did in the film. Through my reverie I heard a voice dimly say:
"Keith. Point out where Shetland is."
I thought of Scapa Flow -- he might be a spy trying to get information! I remember staring vaguely in the direction of the blackboard and saying:
"Sorry. I cannot sir. There may be spies listening."
A heavy hand seized me and I was dragged to the front of the class, where further blows were delivered.
"You blithering idiot Keith!" raged MacPhail, his eyes blazing.
"What nonsense is this. You have not been paying attention. You are a day dreamer and will not succeed in life, you will end up in the gutter!"
I was then propelled back to my seat and the class was made to chant "Keith is a day dreamer."
A few days later my pals and myself decided to get our revenge on MacPhail.
We knew that he lived in a small cottage at the top of 'The Walk', a steep rise that led to the hills and started at the junction of High Street and Princess Street. One dark Autumn night we crept up the walk and peered in the window of MacPhail's cottage. There he was in his supine splendour snoring away at the fire whilst his wireless blared out one of the Dick Barton episodes.
Tying a bobbin to the top of his window frame with a thin piece of twine, we let it swing against the glass so that it made a tapping sound. We then retreated a short distance holding the end of the twine and waited.
The noise must have eventually wakened MacPhail for he came to the door and peered at the window, but we had pulled the bobbin out of sight. Muttering, he shuffled back inside and we lowered the bobbin back in place until he was forced to come back out again to examine the window, only to find nothing there! Hellish oaths came from his lips and sadly, as the hour was getting late, we had to give up our prank and return home. Sometime later MacPhail was heard to mutter to one of the staff, "You know, I think that cottage of mine is haunted."
At the start of a summer holiday there was a fine spell of weather, so one day I decided to go out in one of Ohara's punts. Ohara was a retired fisherman who hired out punts at sixpence a time for half a hour from the slip way at the New Quay.
On boarding the punt Ohara would snort "Nae gaun oot past bouy, keep awa frae yon Dhorlin, nae stain up and skiving aboot, an keep tae the time or if ye are late I will cherge ye extra." As he spoke he would spit a large quid of tobacco juice in the water.
Nervously I rowed away from the slip way and pulled round to the old Quay where, out of sight of Ohara, my friends waited to board the punt so a boatload could be had all for one sixpence!
Off we sped across the calm waters of the Loch to the far shore, which ran parallel with the Low Road. Then we slipped along the shore towards the Trench Point, which was very near the mouth of the loch. We did not go as far as the point for dangerous currents could pull us into the Kilbrannan Sound, and we would not be able to get back! At this distance Ohara would not be able to spot us with his eagle eyes and we were able to play at pirates, landing on the beach, then embarking again. Time sped by and the evening drew on. Ohara, realising that our half hour was now more like two, set off on his bicycle down the Kilkerran road with his megaphone, yelling "Came awa in nummer twa, yer time is up ye ken!"
His pleadings were of no avail as we were too far away, so by the light of the gloaming we made our way home, cunningly beaching the punt at the Esplanade and making our way home.
Sometime later Ohara appeared at the esplanade cursing and swearing and vowing never to let us into his punts again!
My mother, in her wisdom, sent me to the Highland Parish Sunday School, which was housed in a grim building in Kirk Street. The first time I went to the Sunday School I was dressed in my best clothes and, as I proceeded across the Esplanade, I saw something bobbing in the water so I decided to investigate. It was very near the out fall pipe of the town sewage system and meant clambering down a tar-encrusted slip way.
As I reached down into the water for the object, which turned out to be a float, I pitched forward and fell into the tar, the latter covering one side of my Sunday best.
A sense of terror filled me as I desperately tried to clean the substance off, an action which only made matters worse. In this frame of mind I stumbled wearily to the Kirk Street Hall and took my place. Fellow inmates stared at me and held their noses. "What a pong!" they groaned, moving away from where I sat until everyone was crushed at one end of the hall. The Sunday School superintendent entered and peered over his glasses.
"What is this?" he hissed, "Why are you all except Keith sitting at one end of the hall?"
A stony silence, then a little brat called 'know-all' chirped,
"Please sir! Keith has fallen into tar and he stinks."
"Tar!" thundered the super as he strode towards me with a raised fist.
"How dare you enter the Sunday School in a filthy state! Clean living is the Christian way. I give up with you Keith, you would bring tears to the eyes of a Saint!"
The tirade finished, he pointed to the door.
"Go home and do not darken these portals again until I see fit to recall you."
As I trudged into Kirk Street I heard the organ strike up and the super announce the hymn As I come to Jesus. Such was my first taste of Christian charity!
The next event at school was when the powers that be decided that the technical stream would be taught the rudiments of chemistry. The person who would instil the learning was the dreaded Mathers, a man of deep moods who wore rimmed glasses, which gave the effect of some Gestapo official, behind the glasses eyes that missed nothing.
The chemistry lab was, by today's standards, poorly equipped: a few Bunsen burners, retorts, test tubes and the fume cupboard. Great speculation abounded as to the purpose of the latter, some said that was where dangerous chemicals were stored, but the general consensus was that it was where Mathers lived, as he was never seen leaving the school!
It so happened that at that time the film Casablanca was screened at the Rex. In one of the scenes the hero, played by Bogart, ended up hiding in an alcove in an Arab doss house. Naturally our minds thought of Mathers and the fume cupboard and led to great laughter when we entered the lab. However, as usual I was sniggering and had actually opened the fume cupboard door, suggesting that Mathers was not in, much to the class's enjoyment. Suddenly they all went silent.
A great blow caught me on the side of the head sending me spinning across the room. Then I was roughly dragged to my feet and shoved against the blackboard. Mathers stared into my face, his eyes cold with fury.
"Keith, you are an idiot. I suppose you think that it is funny suggesting that I live in a cupboard? Well, for that impertinence you will stand facing my so-called 'home' for one hour and will write out one thousand times tonight 'I am an idiot'."
There I was, having to face the fume cupboard, at intervals receiving a wallop across the head. That is why Casablanca remains in my memory!
In 1948 the austere rationing of sweets was relaxed by the hard pressed Labour Government, a move that had an alarming effect on the worthy citizens of the town. When the announcement was made on the radio, the next day saw the forming of large queues at the sweet shops and such was the run on chocolates that rationing by the shopkeepers was quickly introduced. This move set the local black market into action and strange men would mutter at street corners "Want tae buy some Mars Bars or Fry's Cream?"
Unfortunately, some of the shops were not equipped to cope with the crush and Cook's in the High Street became swamped with people. I remember being packed inside the counter area with everybody trying to buy chocolate. Such was the clamour that Euphemia and Johnny were overwhelmed in the panic, their goods being swept away in record time, as were a few other items.
About the same time (1949) cigarettes were taken off the ration. The main tobacconist, Daniel's, was soon inundated with eager smokers. As supplies dwindled it was rumoured that 'Dirty Dick's' shop had adequate stocks of cigarettes.
Now Dirty Dick's shop was like Cook's, trapped in a time warp, hygienically like something from Dickens. It lay next to Eaglesome's and was dark and crowded with boxes. There was no order: Groceries piled with meat, sugar next to butter, stiltons of cheese on a filthy stone floor next to which snored a large dog! Near where sausages were kept a large ferocious cat sat licking the counter or snapping at the myriad black flies that wheeled round the sweet shelves.
My uncle sent me to join the queue that was rapidly forming to buy cigarettes and eventually I found myself inside the shop. The stench was almost overpowering. Dick, a stooping figure with red bleary eyes, cigarette dangling from his nicotine stained lips, drew the weed from his lip, spat on the floor, swatted the cat which had crawled onto the scales then, rubbing some grime from his hands, peered at me menacingly.
"Whit dae ye want youngan?" he croaked, coughing horribly, saliva dribbling from mouth.
"Ur ye nae afa wee tae be smokin noo?"
The queue behind shuffled impatiently, anxious to be out of the place.
"Twenty Capstan and twenty Players please, Mr Dirty Dick." I blurted out, thrusting a ten shilling note onto the counter. Dick's face contorted like some demon. Roars of laughter came from the people behind me.
"Ye wee scamp! Git oot oh ma place this meenit or all sleeve ye aye al swing for you ah will!"
Bewildered, I fled back home to report to my uncle who laughingly told me that 'Dirty' was his nickname and that he had better get the cigarettes himself!
About 1953 I found myself in the class of the English master Mr Banks, nicknamed 'Kubla Khan'. I think he had originated from south of the border, from his well-oiled accent and his reveries on Oxford and Cambridge. He taught in a very professional manner and was one of the few teachers who seemed to keep his calm, that is until one spring day when he set us an essay for homework, the subject being 'The Court of Louis XIV'.
A groan came from the class at his words -- oh what a boring subject!
"Get on with it," smiled Mr Banks, "There is great scope to go to the library and research the subject. Just think: the Sun King! Versailles! Paris!"
Bewildered, I went home. It was easy enough for Kubla to tell me to go to the Library, but for someone like me it meant running the gauntlet of Carmichael the librarian, a man whose main aim in respect of young people was to prevent them reading books!
Carmichael treasured the books under his care and tried to keep borrowing to a minimum, as did his assistant, a grim woman who wore her hair in a bun style and was dressed in black.
Over the following weekend I puzzled as to how I was going to construct the essay: should I not bother with the essay, or should I head for the library? Eventually I decided on the latter and to try to find what I was looking for. It was a damp day as I made my way to the imposing building at the bottom of Hall Street. I pushed open the heavy oak doors.
Within utter silence prevailed, a silence that must have vied with that of the grave! As I made my way down the reading hall towards the library section I glanced towards the desks, and to beyond where a sign said 'Museum -- no children allowed'. I felt tempted, but a quiet voice hissed in my ear.
"What do you want?" It was Carmichael towering above me, a menacing look on his face.
"You know that children must be accompanied by an adult?"
Flustered, I blurted out,
"Mr Banks has set an essay on the court life of Louis XIV, and I need some facts, sir."
The use of the word 'sir' visibly made Carmichael grow in height. Smiling, he propelled me to the Library, thence past his assistant Miss Glen, her mouth flying open in amazement.
"Mr Banks! That Keith boy is not a member, his parents have never read much and as for that wild grandfather of his, well! My blood runs cold!"
"Tch, tch," mused Carmichael, annoyed that a mere woman had dared to question his authority. Firmly gripping my arm he turned to Miss Glen:
"This boy has been sent by Mr Banks on a most important assignment -- to find out about Louis XIV!"
Perhaps the long decades of keeping strict silence had somehow affected Miss Glen's hearing, for a strange look came to her beady eyes.
"Why would a bank send a boy to find someone called Louis in a Library?"
Carmichael leered at her.
"You have been here too long Glen. I refuse to answer such a stupid remark like that."
Still holding my arm he pushed me to the History section where he extracted a leather bound tome, then went back to the desk.
"Miss Glen. Book this out to Keith, then I want to see you about your hearing!"
I was rushed from the place with my book, with dire warnings that if it was not returned in two weeks I would be hunted down!
The book was entitled Louis the XIV, the Sun King and was by someone called 'Falsey of Balliol'. From the book I managed to glean a few notes and set about producing an essay. The great day arrived when the essay had to be handed in. Mr Banks seized each script, flicked a professional eye over it, rolled his tongue, a bad sign, then purred,
"You shall have them back in two days. Bad spelling and grammar will mean the loss of many marks!"
It was a Wednesday when he strode into the class. The essays were placed in a neat pile in front of him. He read out each persons name in turn and commented on the work.
"I have read all the essays and I must say that the standard is average," he spoke, in a quiet voice.
"However, there are three essays that I will comment on as being worthy of discussion, namely MacPhee's, Townsley's and Keith's."
He produced the relevant scripts and proceeded to read.
"MacPhee has put a lot of effort into the essay, he has pointed out that King Louis loved building, fountains, and gardens, hence the creation of Versailles. Townsley, on the other hand, has emphasized the fact that Louis set up an efficient accounting system."
At this point Mr Banks voice hardened.
"Keith has just hacked something from a text in a book, listen to this: 'There were a lot of ladies at King Louis' Court and he spent a great time with the courtesans'!"
A bated silence followed his remark.
"Stupid boy! 'Courtesan' means prostitute. Words like that are not used by god-fearing upright people. If the Head hears of this you will feel the weight of his belt. This essay will be destroyed forthwith!"
With that he tore up the script.
"MacPhee gets the best essay award and you, Keith, will be closely watched!"
So much for freedom of speech!
A few weeks later my friends and I decided to somehow slip past Carmicheal's watchful gaze and enter the museum. We approached the building one dark autumn afternoon and slowly opened the heavy outer doors; within all lay silent, but we could hear the distant murmur of voices. What luck! The guardian of the place was deep in conversation with someone so we were able to slip through the reading room and into the museum. There stood the place we had long dreamt of -- the glass cases, the model ships, and many other things. There was a case displaying relics of the Napoleonic Wars: one of Wellington's boots, the sleeve of Napoleon's Great Coat reputedly torn off by some stout soldier, and a glass eye that Nelson reputedly lost. Two paintings by Sir William McKinnon entitled New Year's Eve At Campbeltown Cross. There were also numerous cases with Stone Age implements and racks of spears, but pride of place was the ancient penny farthing given by some important personage many years ago. Behind the penny farthing stood a moth-eaten stuffed bear with one eye missing.
One of my pals thought that it would be a good idea to ride the machine, so he climbed up onto the saddle and with his feet just touching the pedals tried to move the contraption. A great groan came from the axle then a hellish squeal. The machine toppled sideways and my pal thudded onto the floor. Some of the rest of us had been playing around with an old Lee Enfield rifled musket and a spear when the crash came. It vibrated through the library like a dolorous stroke. There came the sound of feet and Carmichael appeared, his face the colour of chalk, and behind him strode Miss Glen, her face almost blue.
Carmichael surveyed the fallen penny farthing, then looked at the spears and the musket in the hands of my pals.
"You have desecrated the inner sanctum of the building, you hooligans!" he shouted, "Get out! You are all banned from this place sine die!"
As we hurried to the exit, one of my pals, as he passed the irate Carmichael, asked
"What does seen dee mean?"
"I think it means that we can't come back until Sunday," I replied, starting to run as Carmichael roared like a demented bull and followed us out onto the road.
The next person who came into our life at the Grammar School was Jim Burgoyne the Physical Training Teacher. He strutted around oozing fitness and had us pounding around the gym doing press-ups and other exercises. The only trouble was that there were no showers so you had to go home soaked in sweat.
Burgoyne had his favourites and I was not one of them. Only the super-fit were of any interest to him as he lived in a world of physical prowess. Those who lacked the stamina to compete were relegated to the 'also ran brigade', which meant standing watching others vaulting over horses, swinging on wall bars, or doing upward circles on beams.
Another terrifying experience consisted of lying on the floor and someone dropping a medicine ball on your stomach. The balls were made of solid rubber and were very heavy, which meant that at the end of the lesson you were very sore!
The very athletic of the group were treated like Greek heroes and when us poor mortals tried to emulate them there was much sniggering and laughing, which deflated one's ego and self-esteem. I must confess that Jim Burgoyne's class was the only one where there was no scope for any pranks and, with hindsight, this may have been due to the fact that physical effort demanded most of one's energy and left nothing for other activities.
I first came across 'Fesak' one autumn day on the esplanade as I made my way home from school. I had heard my grandfather (Jock) talk of him to my grandmother, and noticed her face twist in horror at the mention of the name or she would poke the fire to distract her mind. I had seen Fesak from afar many times but took no interest in him.
He came towards me that autumn day, shuffling like some zombie, clad in a ragged coat, his legs attired in horribly stained trousers, his face was battered and clothed in stubble, yellow teeth peered from his gaping mouth and his eyes watered continuously, burning deep grooves on his cheeks. His hands were black with dirt, his finger nails broken, in his hands wrapped in a handkerchief lay a large cod fresh from the boats, its eyes wide open. Fesak stopped in front of me, wiped his running nose, spat on the pavement then peered at me with his blood shot eyes.
"Yer Jock Smith's grandson from Woodland Place ur ye no? Ah ken yer granny. Hurry ye on tae tell her that Fesak is cain oor the brig wae the fush she laks, aye fresh frae Davy Jones' locker!"
I was so terrified that I ran all the way home, my mind whirling. Fesak coming to our home, what would my grandmother think? The very name smelt of some Arabic origin. Was he really some genie that had been washed up in a bottle?
"Granny, granny!" I shouted as I raced into the kitchen.
"Fesak is coming to the house with a fish!"
"Weeshed boy gither yersel agither," soothed my grandmother as she stirred a pot of soup.
"Fesak widnae cam here withoot seein Jock first, an hees awa oor tae the plantation tae cut wid fir the fire."
"But he is coming!" I cried, "I met him on the esplanade near the War Memorial!"
"Awa an wash yer hauns," said my grandmother, "Yer dinners aboot ready."
Sadly, I did as she asked and sat at the table. My grandmother poured out two plates of soup and we started to eat. Suddenly her ears pricked up. A shuffling noise came from the landing, followed by a slobbering cough, then a dolorous knock on the door.
"Lord be aboot us!" exclaimed my grandmother, "It is him, all huv tae let him in!"
Wearily she went to the door and opened it.
"Cam in John a see ye huv some fish."
"Aye," said Fesak, making a strange rasping noise as he came into the kitchen, "fish fresh frae the sea."
He then proceeded to unwrap the cod, whilst eyeing the soup on the table.
"Man thon is awfa gran soup ye hae in yur pot," he smacked his lips appreciatively, saliva dribbling down his cheek.
"Sit ye doon at the table John," invited my grandmother, ladling out a plate of soup. Fesak proceeded to spoon the liquid down his throat whilst munching into a thick wad of bread. He would pause at intervals to scan the room, his eyes alighting on some object.
"Aye this is a fine abode ye have here mistress Smith, an yon Jock is a fine man, we hiv had mony a drink in oor youth, and mony a nicht o fun."
My grandmother visibly reddened at his remarks, quickly she drew a sixpenny piece from her purse.
"Here tak this fur the fish John then awa hame tae yer hoose efter ye hae takin yer soup."
Fesak put the plate to his lips then, letting off a great belch, rose from the table and shuffled to the door
"God bless all whay leave in Jock's hoose mistress," he croaked as he opened the door and went into the hall.
As his footsteps receded my grandmother wiped her brow.
"Thank the Lord that yon man is awa hame tae his hoose. See her boy dinae ye tak the drink fue ye will end up like him, aye yonner goes a livin photo o the evils o drink."
I hurried out to the steps and watched Fesak plod up past Cooks to his home in Kilmory Place.
Now opposite where Fesak abided were two shops, one a grocery run by an Englishman called Smilie, and next door Finney the barber or as he was known, 'The Demon'. It was at the latter's place that my tale now turns.
Jock, my grandfather, was a man of many talents and strengths. He had a body like iron, and in his young days he was the talk of the town, though when he was the worse of drink he was the talk of the police station, as he quite often ended up spending the night there! His one talent was a leaning towards saving money and one day when my mother decided that I needed a hair cut, Jock said that he would perform the task without delay. In an instant he had me on a stool with a pudding bowl on my head, and scissors to hand!
The sight of the scissors made me cry, so I received a severe wallop on the head and a reminder that "only bairns grat". Having said that, Jock proceeded to cut my hair with the skill of a butcher preparing a joint of meat. When he had finished he held up a mirror for me to inspect his handy work. The result was that I resembled a monk of some order and again I burst into tears, only to be walloped by an irate 'Vidal Sassoon'.
When my mother saw what had happened she ordered me to Finney's and told my grandfather to accompany me, and bear the cost of having his handy work put right! With much cursing and grumbling he dragged me along and we entered the dark interior of the shop. The latter had a front part like a little shop where such items as Brylcream, lotions, razors and a product called 'Flakestravegance' were sold. The decor of the shop consisted of dingy green paint work and lime coloured walls with faded adverts for Pears' soap and carbolic cleanser. Just past the shop part lay a small waiting room where two benches served as seats and beyond this point was the place where Peter Finney performed his trade.
My grandfather thrust me into Peter's presence oblivious to the protests of some aged customer in the waiting room.
"The boy needs a trim!" he barked, "An mak it quick oor al nae be payin ony money, an mind you dinae mak him grat."
"But John," protested Peter, his face glowing with anxiety.
"Mr MacDougall is first, he has been waiting for twenty minutes."
He might as well have spoken to a robot for my grandfather thrust me into the chair and, turning to the now shaking Peter, growled,
"Git on wae it mon an give the back o his neck ah good shave."
At the mention of the word 'shave' I blanched, the mere thought of that open razor on my neck!
Peter proceeded to snip away at the hair and in no time had brought some semblance of order to my grandfather's handiwork. He then reached for a large bottle and sprayed some liquid all over my head. The liquid stung my eyes, then hardened.
"Nothing like a good dollop of Flakestravegance for the hair!" purred my grandfather, as Peter swept the open razor down the back of my neck!
"Keep a steady haun mon," chided my grandfather, as the ordeal came to an end.
Copyright © 1998 Donald Keith.