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Dragnet
The Battle Of Campbeltown The Kennedys Something For The Weekend Healing Hands |
MacKinven The Vampire
Scouting For Boys The Circus Comes To Town The Coal Rhee VE Day |
It so happened that everyone was out that night and when my mother returned home she discovered that I was still out. Looking at the clock, she became alarmed as it was nearly eleven.
My grandfather appeared from some haunt to be informed of my absence and immediately speculated on what could have happened, in his calm manner:
"Dinae worry Maisie," he gasped, "Wee Donal will nae hae gaun far the nicht, he is propably awa tae his bed, ye ken."
"I have already been tae his room, he is nae in his bed," replied my mother, "An am no daft no tae check his bed first."
"Weel Maisie, weel hae tae start searching fur him in the streets an hills an failin that al hae tae get ma grappling hook oot tae drag the watter near the quay. If that disnae work then ye will hae tae resign yersel tae the fact that he is is loast in the deep, or mangled in the hills."
Such pessimistic talk made my mother redden with anger.
"We will start searching the streets tae start with, then we will tell the polis."
As I sat in Coffield's playing at snakes and ladders I could hear voices in the street shouting, "Are you there Donal?" followed by muttering and somebody crying "He is awa, gone!"
Coffield looked out of the window.
"There seems to some sort of search going on. I can see your granda across at Stevenson's talking and waving his erms. He is in a right rage."
"Probably out looking for my Uncle. He would be better going to the Gluepot, that is where he will be."
The noises in the street died away, then I noticed the time was half past eleven
"I better get back home, so I will see you in the morning, John."
The lights were on when I entered the house. 'Where was everybody?' I thought to myself. Then I noticed my grandmother fast asleep by the fire. Not wishing to waken her, I washed my face, then retired to bed, where I soon fell asleep.
Outside people were combing the street and shining torches in dark corners. Down at the quay my grandfather was leaning over the parapet and shouting "Are you there wee Donal, or are ye in the deep?"
Getting no reply he shook his head and trudged home to be met by my mother.
"You will hae to resign yourself to the fact that he has gone, Maisie. A hae got the feelin that he is at the bottom o the loch, gaping up frae the depths, jist like the drooned sailers dae, trapped in the wrecks."
As they entered the house my Uncle was sitting at the fire.
"Mither is sleepin Jock. Whits a the fuss aboot?"
"Wee Donal is loast in the loch, he has been missin fur oors. Am afraid that it will mean the polis a grapplin hooks tae."
"Och he is at Coffield's next door. He telt me afor a went oot, an as the rest o ye were awa, there wis naebody else tae tell."
"Ye gowk!" roared my grandfather, "We hae a been searchin up an doon the place. Maisie's fair done wi a the wurry o it an here is you knowin al the time an sittin in the Gluepot, while yer wee nephew is gone."
"But hoo could I ken he wis missin a nicht, if a dinae know he wis missin?"
"Och whit blethers!" hissed my grandfather, "Go an wake Donal up so as I can gie him a leatherin, afore he goes tae sleep agin."
However, my mother thought that it would be better if I was allowed to sleep and the great drama was soon forgotten in the light of morning, though I remembered in future to make sure more than one person knew about my whereabouts.
In 1941 the loch was crowded with Navy vessels, ranging from corvettes to heavy cruisers and some submarines. Many of the vessels were of Dutch origin, and I think that there was one Polish ship.
Strict blackout procedures were enforced in the town, with the fire wardens going round checking on suspect lights.
My grandfather had a black blind fitted to the kitchen window and he would go out into the street to check for any gaps. My job was to make sure that no light could filter through the blind, and if any did there was a lot of cursing and swearing
"Whit dae ye think would happen boy if German invaders saw yon licht? Why they would rush up tae Woodland Place and capture it and in nae time High Street wid be in their hauns and we wid hae tae tak tae the hills like gorrillas!"
In 1941 the German Airforce launched heavy attacks on Clydebank, and then on the route home they headed down Kilbrannan Sound.
I can't remember the exact night when the following events happened, but suddenly the night air was filled with the uneven beat characteristic of the Dorniers. Like a flight of bees speeding home they approached Campbeltown and would probably have passed over if suddenly searchlights had not blazed into the night sky.
"Quick boy!" shouted my grandfather, "Grab the dog and get under the soafa and take a bottle of water will I gae and get ma knife tae ward aff invaders if they cam near the hoose."
What a scramble ensued! The dog, resisting the confined space, kept biting my grandfather's bottom till he gave it an almighty slap. Tremendous bangs and blasts rent the air. The blind was snatched from the window. Woodland Place shook, slates rattled.
The ships in the loch opened up with their boffers, lighting the sky. Then... silence. The air-raid siren on the top of the police station at Castlehill, its sound drowned by the explosions, switched to 'all clear'. The sound of fire engines racing along was accompanied by people out in the street.
There was a rush of feet in the lobby and my uncle came in.
"Are ye there wee Donal and Jock?"
As my grandfather, myself, and the dog scrambled from under the sofa, my uncle stared at us.
"Ye auld fool!" he said. "Whits the point o hidding under furniture in a hoose when ye could be buried under rubble? Ye should hae gaun doon tae the back yerd and hid in the wash hoose."
"Wash hoose!" bellowed my grandfather, "If a bomb had hit that we wid hae been drooned when the pipes burst."
"Och!" My uncle shook his head in despair. "He we are bletherin whilst the Royal Hotel has been hit and parachute mines hae cam doon near the Trench Point an a lot of hooses have had their windows broken!"
At the mention of 'parachute' my grandfather became wildly excited and started waving his hands in the air.
"They hae come! We wull hae tae take tae the hills! Where's my scythe? Al hae tae tell the others, go and see if Fesak is in his hoose."
"Och!" said my uncle. "It isna Germans on the parachutes, its bombs. Anyway whit good wid you ans yer cronies dae against Hitler's elite? Especially yon Fesak, he is never sober!"
My grandfather sobered down as my uncle calmed the air.
"A weel," he sighed, "but mark my words: Yon wee Hitler is on his way and we will give him a right lunnerin if he attacks Campbeltown!"
Sadly the bomb damage was quite severe, with the front of the Royal Hotel being demolished, the Victoria Hall peppered with shrapnel and one of the residents was killed near the Trench Point when a land mine destroyed his home.
The suppliers of footwear in Campbeltown were the Kennedy brothers and they had a shop in Longrow South next to Morrison's the hairdressers who went under the nickname 'Soap'.
The Kennedys worked in a back room, repairing and hammering, singing through mouthfuls of tacks, and giving the atmosphere of a scene from Grimm's Fairy Tales. The room was very dark and at times their eyes were the only part of their features that could be seen.
Naturally there was great speculation amongst my pals as to whether the brothers were fairies who did most of their work in the night. To this end we used to listen outside the closed shop in the evenings, hoping to catch a glimpse of some nocturnal happening within.
One day my Uncle pushed a pair of boots towards me.
"Here Donal, take my boots over tae Kennedy's an ask them tae half sole them an while yer there see if my shoes hae cam in."
He handed me a sixpence as I left.
I met my grandfather as I descended the stairs.
"Whur are ye gaun?" he rasped, grabbing me by the arm.
"I am going to the shoe shop with my uncle's boots to get them half soled," I replied.
"Weel boy, when ye go intae the shop, ask Kennedy how his father is, and wink at the same time, he likes people to say that an he wull half sole the boots like lightening."
I duly arrived at the shoe shop and nervously crept into the semi-gloom of the place, there was no one in front of me, and one of the Kennedy brothers looked up sharply as I entered. I placed the boots on the counter and stepped back.
"Whit dae ye want boy?" wheezed the Kennedy, wiping away a stream of saliva that had dribbled past the tacks stuffed in his mouth.
"Please sir, will you half sole my uncles boots and has his shoes come in?"
A strange look appeared on Kennedy's face
"A dinae see ony shoes commin intae the shop," he chuckled, "They walk a the way frae Glesca ye see an they get afa tired!"
The other Kennedy came in from the back of the shop and roared with laughter
"Aye they hae cam in but thae are having a wee rest after their walk, tae save their soles like,"
Their humour baffled me. For the fact that my pals considered them to be some kind elfs, I was worried that they might cast a spell on me or something worse.
The mirth subsided and one of the brothers seized my uncle's boots and peered at the soles.
"Aye Erchie Keith has fair worn awa the leather an the heels tae, one o them is awa doon at the uppers. He must hae been drunk a lot tae hae walked like that, al half sole them an heel them for the morrow."
Remembering what my grandfather had said, I plucked up courage and said, winking,
"How is your father?" followed by another wink.
A deathly silence came upon the air. The brothers faces turned pink, then red. Their eyes bulged till the veins stood out like webs.
"Ye we scamp!" roared the brothers. "Dae ye no ken whit that means? An me a pillar o the Kirk!"
"But my grandfather told me to ask you about your father, he said it would make you half sole the boots at high speed."
"I micht hae kent that yon Jock Smith wid hae told ye tae say sicht a thing, and fur a bairn tae utter sicht wurds. Far that yer uncle wull hae tae wait fur his boots, an a hivnae feenished stretchin his shoes tae clear his bunnion. So awa hame an tell him tae come himself the morrow an if a see yon Jock in the street he wull see the back o ma han!"
When I returned home I told my uncle what had happened and he roared with laughter but never explained the significance of the phrase 'how is your father'.
Morrison's had a plush exterior with a smart display in the window, whilst within everything was gleaming: art nouveau mirrors, plush chairs and spotless wash basins.
With this upper class image came a certain snobbery, where certain punters were frowned upon if they attempted to come in for a hair cut and the place was 'no go area' for the likes of Fesak, Ducca Rat or Doshels.
The day for cutting boys hair was Saturday and one such day I was sent to 'Soaps' for a 'short back and sides'.
As I entered the shop Dan Morrison pointed to the waiting area and I sat down. There were about six people in front of me from different areas of the town and one or two were in the same class at school.
The door opened and in strode one of the local ministers, resplendent in his dog collar and with an expression that would have given Dracula a right scare. He glared round at the boys waiting their turn then walked over to Dan Morrison who was snipping at a small frightened boy's hair.
"I have a wedding in the afternoon, Morrison, and I need a trim," he said, removing his homburg to reveal two strands of hair on an otherwise bald head.
A titter rippled through the waiting boys. One of my pals whispered to me, "That's the man from the Wee Free. He could do with a wig instead of a haircut! I dare you to ask him if he has left his wig at home."
The thought of such a dare was too much for me and I declined. The frightened boy had been ejected from the chair and the man from the 'Wee Free' had taken his place.
Dan Morrison made a professional fuss of the minister, whirling round him like a latter day Vidal Sassoon.
"What a fine head of hair minister," he purred, staring at the two strands of hair on the gleaming scalp.
"I pride myself on my appearance," gloated the minister, "for did not the angels shine in their radience, and so shall I."
As he spoke in strode Gulla, resplendent in his ragged trousers and muddy boots. Dan Morrison eyed him as would a constable a wanted criminal.
"Are you not out with the milk?" he snapped, "This is schoolboys day and I don't think I can fit you in."
"But Davy has sent me tae git a haircut for he says that he keeps tripping over my hair an it is bad fur business. He has gave me half a croon."
At the mention of money Dan Morrison changed his attitude.
"Wee... um... sit down and keep quiet."
He snipped at the minister's two strands then, squirting some liquid, combed them back, dusted the minister's jacket, whipped off the gown and with a flourish said:
"Well minister, what a fine head of hair you have! That will be one and six please."
As the minister handed over some coins Dan Morrison went to the cash desk. As he did so Gulla stood up and strode over to the seat vacated by the minister and sat himself down.
Dan Morrison bellowed:
"Wait your turn Gulla, get back in the queue. Keith is next."
"But I am in a hurry Mr Morrison, and my dad asked me to get him something for the weekend."
At that remark a hellish silence prevaded the room. The minister's face turned a deep purple. Dan Morrison's mouth opened like a fish struggling for air, strange noises came from his throat.
"What did you say, you stupid boy? And in front of a man of the cloth!"
Gulla shrugged his shoulders,
"Ma dad asked me tae git him something fur the weekend, whits wrang wae that?"
The minister snapped like a snake from hell:
"Boy you should not know about such things, they are the devil's tools, abominations, only spoken about by sinners, perverts, and weak minded souls. Get from this place and I shall tell your teacher of what was asked by you and I can imagine what punishment will be doled out!"
Dan Morrison chirped in, his eyes blazing,
"Yes get out and do not darken these premises again."
Afraid, poor Gulla fled from the shop as we all wondered what the fuss was about. He was followed by the minister shaking his fist in rage.
"Next!" shouted Dan Morrison, and I sped to the chair, Whilst my hair was being trimmed I heard one of my pals asking "What did something for the weekend mean?" only to find himself ejected into the street.
When I got home I asked my mother "What did 'something for the weekend' mean?" and received a terrific slap and told to mind my own business.
Such was the savage repression of any sexual matters and in later years I wondered if the bravado of the Scots was really a cover up for sexual inadequacy, imposed by a tyrannical church, that covered a multitude of sins behind closed doors.
One of the main ingredients in the war against rats, was arsenic and it so happened that doctors prescribed the latter for indigestion, in a diluted form.
One day my grandfather decided to mix up a batch of rat killer, but found that he had run out of Arsenic, so drawing half a crown from his pocket he beckoned me over to him.
"Here boy, take this half crown and away over tae Revie's the chemist and get a small bottle of Arsenic. Tell him it is fur Jock Smith o Woodland Place and it is fur puttin doon rats and other beasties".
Off I sped to the chemist's and entering the shop went up to the counter.
Revie, a kindly soul, peered over his glasses, his large eyes scanning me as if I was some strange being.
"Well Keith, what do you want?"
"A bottle of arsenic for Jock Smith of Woodland place, sir."
I might as well have asked for the Crown Jewels, for Revie threw his hands up in the air, and his teeth grated with fear.
"Arsenic!" he gasped, sweat gathering on his brow. "Lord help us! What is that Jock Smith doing at Woodland Place; Last week he was over for saltpetre, sulphur, tincture of Iodium and sulphuric acid and now he has sent a minor for a deadly poison. No, you cannot have arsenic for I have to put it in a register against the name of the purchaser and if the police see it, I will be in serious trouble."
I returned home to my grandfather and told him that I could not get the arsenic and that Revie said that he could not sell it to a minor.
My grandfather seemed puzzled and he stroked his chin for a few moments, eyeing me curiously.
"Weel boy al hae tae go oor the morrow tae yon Revie an gie him a piece o my mind, fancy makin oot that ye are a miner doon a pit, whit wid a miner want wae arsenic. Dinae wurry lad al soart it oot."
He must have been able to get some of the poison for he proceeded to mix up another batch of rat killer the following night.
I had the misfortune to be playing with the innards of a torch, when I stuck my finger into the reflector and the edge started to cut into my skin and any pulling made me howl with pain. My uncle tried to pull it off and during the operation my grandfather arrived.
"Whits wrang wi the boy?" he snorted, spitting into the fire.
"He has stuck his finger into a bit o the torch an a canna git it aff," replied my uncle.
My grandfather seized my hand.
"Mm... al need tae heat the meatal up tae expand it, then pull it off wae a pair o nippers. Stop howlin boy, fur if ye get blood poisoning the finger micht hae tae cam aff."
With that he lit a spill from the fire and proceeded to heat up the reflector on my finger, whilst my uncle held me in his firm grip. As the metal heated, so did my skin, my screeches rent the air to which end my grandfather gave me a wallop by way of a soother. Seizing the metal he yanked the thing of my finger, then put some home made salve on the wound, and bandaged it up, completing the operation with a slap to my head.
"Thur ye are boy, greetin like a big Jessie. Ye hae got tae be brave in this life, no sneevlin aboot like some o yon Glescae folk."
This remark made me burst into tears and I fled from the room, nursing my injured finger.
One day I was playing in Saddel Street when someone threw a stone which struck me behind my left ear. The blow caused a nasty cut and I fled home with blood trickling down my collar and onto the ground. As I stumbled into the house, I was met by my grandfather who seized me by the hand.
"Whits wrang boy!" he roared, peering at the cut behind my ear. "Michty me it is an awfy deep gash, it should really be stitched, but a ken a way o avoiding that, a read aboot it in a paper, a ye need is a bit o gummed paper an some hot watter."
"Ye gowk!" snapped my grandmother, "Yon boy needs tae go tae see doctor Cameron at wance, or be taken up tae the Cottage Hospital. He disnae need your skills, you could kill hum wie blud poisoning. Weel a remember auld Tam, he had a cut an his wife cleaned it wie some liquid. He wis deed next day, an buried by the Friday!"
"Stop bletherin wuman!" bellowed my grandfather, "a ken as much as yon doctors, the boy will be right as rain when am feenished wie hum."
All this time I was gradually losing blood and petrified by the gloomy banter that was taking place, but my grandfather had his way and hot water was duly applied. Then the wound was pulled together and held with gummed paper, whilst I was gripped by my grandmother as I howled with pain.
The savage remedy did the trick, and in later years I have read that glues are now often used in preference to stitches!
When you went in you were greeted with a pungent smell of rotting cabbage, mingled with the odour of tobacco smoke and other strange smells. The shelves were lined with tins of this and that, boxes of sweets, and on the walls faded posters proclaiming long past events.
Jack MacKinven was a thin wizened creature -- slightly stooped, unshaven, red eyes and stained teeth. He considered himself am intellectual and an artist, and he was certainly good at drawing, though as to the former there were few people who would listen to his views on the world, they being too interested in what was happening in the way of gossip and chit chat.
Such a person caused my pals and I to speculate on what really went on in the shop, we had heard of strange goings on in the back room, rumours that he was working with black magic abounded and some people said that he dabbled in witchcraft.
One day we saw Jack carry a strange object into the back shop. It was in the form of a long box slightly tapered at one end and we immediately concluded that it was a coffin!
"What could he be up to?" muttered one of my pals as we hovered near the shop doorway, "Perhaps he lives in there at night or maybe through the day!"
"Do you think he is a Vampire?" said another pal, "Just think we hardly ever see him in the day and he seems to thrive in the dark."
This was in the years before the 'Hammer' movies, and the only vampire picture we had seen was a revamped silent one called 'Night of the Living Dead'.
A chill came over our boyish minds, what if he really was a Vampire, who crept out in the night, sucking blood from sleeping maidens, then returning to his shop in the dawn, to sleep?.
"I thought that vampires slept in castles, deep in the vaults?" I said, "There is not much room in a back shop for a coffin."
"Well," retorted one of my pals, "we will have to come back tonight to look in the back window and see if he is in the coffin."
After much talk we decided to do as was suggested and return after dark. We knew there was a back window through which we could look into the rear room and one of my pals said he would bring a torch.
As I was having my dinner that evening at about six I decided to ask my grandfather if he had heard about vampires.
"Vampires?" he muttered, "Vamps boy, isnae that wuman that leed men away frae other wuman, like yon sirens that lured sailors awa frae safety and drooned them wie their singin."
"Och!" muttered my grandmother, "The boy is on aboot yon men that suck blood frae puir buddies lake in yon fulm wie Bella Lugosi that we seen lang ago."
"A see," said my grandfather taking a swig of tea and rolling it around in his mouth, "There isnae ony o yon blood suckers in this toon, except the landlord Skart!"
"Whit dae ye want tae know aboot vampires fur Donal?" asked my grandmother, throwing a piece of meat to the dog.
"My pals had heard thet there was a new picture coming to the Picture House, called Night of the Vampire and that we wanted to find out if vampires were real."
"Ye wull nae be goin tae ony picture like that!" retorted my grandfather, "Ye wull hae nightmares a nicht an a canny be daen wie a the upset. Eat up yer tea, then awa oot tae play wie yer pals."
That night, as the dark settled on Saddel Street, we crept round the rear of Jack MacKinven's shop and peered into the rear window of the shop.
There was a light in the back room and through the grime of ages we saw Jack hunched over the box and putting something into his mouth. He then scooped a mass from the depths and poured it into a bag. We could hear him muttering as he reached for another bag.
"What do you think he is doing?" gasped one of my pals.
"He must have something awful in that box," said another as he shone a torch through the window. The beam fell on Jack's face and he turned and stared. Something red trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"Who is that at my window!" he roared, leaping up and making for the back door.
"Look!" we cried, "Blood! We will be next, and the night has only begun!"
We fled as Jack crashed out the back door shouting and cursing.
"You young scallywags, can a man not enjoy his supper in peace?"
Saddel Street was out of bounds for a few weeks after that; but one day my Uncle said to me:
"I was talking to Jack McKinven the other day and he said that some boys were peering in his rear window the other night. They gave him such a fright that he squirted sauce on his face and dropped his fish supper in a box of bird seed that he was bagging. He says he thought he saw you running away with some boys."
Fearfully, I replied:
"I was at the Scout Hall last night."
There were no cubs in the troop so when I joined up one September evening I was cast into the mysteries of scouting.
The scoutmaster was a tall, weedy man who gave the appearance of tolerance and understanding combined with a savage temper. Any difficulties the scouts had were soon solved by the application of a stave to the back or a plimsolled foot to the behind.
A programme of sorts was set out for the evening, this included flag parade, an oath to the Queen, badge work and finally 'ice hockey' played with staves and using a heavy slab of rubber as a puck. Finally the flag was lowered and a hymn was sung, usually Fight The Good Fight.
One night whilst participating in 'ice hockey' I received a blow to the head with a stave and crashed to the ground where I lay winded. The game continued all around me, oblivious to my cries. Eventually a pair of hands seized my ankles and I was dragged to the side, where the scoutmaster peered down at me. His eyes seemed devoid of sympathy and his lips were curled back in a contemptuous leer.
"Whits wrang wie you Keith?" he snapped, "Can ye no tak yer medicine like a man, an no be greein like a big jessie? Git up or al gie ye something tae make ye really cry!"
Painfully I dragged myself to my feet and staggered back to the game which thankfully ended a few minutes later.
When I got home I told my mother what had happened, and she was all for going back to the hall to give the scoutmaster a right lunnering. My grandfather said he was going as well and would be taking his clasp knife with him.
"Ye canna be too careful in deailin wie yon scouts, fur they are armed tae the teeth wie sheath knives and clubs. The guid Lord disnae know whit goes on in yon hall. When go past some nicht there is awfu sceechin an groaning an shoutin 'dub dub'."
Fortunately, nothing came of the threats for when they reached the hall it was locked up and the scoutmaster long gone.
Once a district official came to inspect the troop and we were all lined up in our uniforms which included the 'mountie hat' of Baden-Powell fame.
The official was a small man with rimless glasses which gave his gaze a look of menace. He had a little moustache which made us all conclude that we were looking at Hitler.
Perhaps he had escaped from the war we all thought -- from the Berlin bunker to the John Street hall!.
He spoke in a high pitched voice which echoed round the small hall and, combined with the mugginess of the unventilated space, the scouts began to fidget and shuffle their feet.
"Scouts of the sixteenth Argyll Troop it is a great honour to come here and view your work; your scoutmaster has done an excellent job and from the progress made you are one of the best troops in Campbeltown (we all knew that we were the only troop). I have been in scouting for many years and once had the privilege of being inspected by his lordship The Duke of Argyll".
With this statement he puffed up his chest and looked at the packed ranks before him, whilst our scoutmaster nodded in servile concurrence.
"Remember scouts," he continued, "scouting will make a man of you. You will go forth from this place to serve in the Empire, where the sun never sets and, when you are in some foreign field, you will be able to say 'I served in the Sixteenth South Argyll Scout Troop'!"
He spoke on in the same condescending tone until, when we thought we would all faint, he said,
"And now I will hand you back to your scoutmaster."
"Scouts!" roared the scoutmaster, "Fall in for ice hockey!"
A dread feeling swept my timid frame; The dreaded game! But what could I do? As the other scouts grabbed staves and marshaled in teams I went up to the scoutmaster and shyly mumbled:
"Please sir, my mother says that I have to be excused ice hockey because last time I got hurt."
The scoutmaster and the visiting official went the colour of the lime green walls in the hall. Sweat coursed down their faces.
"What did you say?" bellowed the scoutmaster. "Keith you are a coward, a snivelling wretch. Of course you will get hurt playing games. Many is the bruises I got in my career in this noble movement."
He whispered to the official for a few minutes, then turned to me.
"You are excused playing in the game, but after the meeting you will remain behind and sweep out the hall."
Dolefully I had to endure watching the rest of the scouts battering each other with staves in the pretense of playing 'ice hockey' and being glared at by the scout master and the sneering official as if I was some sort of misfit.
When the meeting finished I was handed a broom and had to brush out the hall. Years of dust swirled up making me cough and eventually the scout master told me to clear off home, and only to return to the meeting if I was prepared to 'join in the fun'. Somehow I managed to overcome my fear of 'ice hockey' and duly got through a few games unscathed.
The first camp that the Sixteenth Argylls went on when I was a member, was to the Laggan Glen, about ten miles north east of Campbeltown. It was a dark damp place with a deep river that swirled down to the sea and with many pools of unknown depth.
We were housed in bell tents -- heavy, awkward to pitch and humid when filled with sweating humanity. Our cooking utensils were heavy iron dixies supplemented by two large frying pans. Cooking was on open fires fueled by wood that was invariably wet and sent up clouds of reeking smoke that blinded the cooks. It was just as well, for the menu of porridge followed by mashed potatoes and burnt Lorne Sausage tested the toughest constitution. The meal was usually washed down with thick black tea or milk.
After the meal the scoutmaster would light up his pipe and, spitting in the fire, decide on the events that we would take part in. As the camp was only for a few days we usually took part in fieldcraft, which meant skiving in the woods, or knot tying which involved being tangled up in coils of hemp. However, on this particular camp the scoutmaster decided on a swimming session in one of the pools in the river.
Now some of the scouts could swim reasonably well, but the majority of us were scared of the water even though the sea was on our doorstep. My grandfather told me of fishermen who had sailed the seas for decades and could not swim a stroke. Well, you can imagine the tension when the swimming foray was announced by our leader.
"Hoo many o ye hae clase
tae intae the watter?" he asked, slipping into
the vernacular.
A chorus of voices replied.
"We did not know that we were going into the water sir, or we would have brought our costumes."
The scoutmaster drew on his pipe, spat in the grass, then stood up and stretched.
"Well you will have to go in with no clothes on. Do not be shy there are no girls about, so go and get ready on the double!"
Taking out his whistle he gave a sharp blast.
"To the river. Move!"
We removed our clothes and hurried to the river and stood looking at the dark water, then inched into the current. The water was freezing and we shook with the shock, trembling as we advanced into the middle.
"Get under the water!" shouted the scoutmaster from the bank, puffing away on his pipe.
Bravely we dipped under, but quickly surfaced and rushed back to the bank complaining it was too cold.
The scout master shouted with rage:
"You are a bunch of jessies! Why, at your age I could swim from Dalintober to the New Quay and back again."
As he spoke his foot slipped and he fell into the water with a great splash, his pipe vanishing into the depths of the river. He arose soaked and spluttered:
"That's it, no more swimming this weekend. I will be glad to get home tomorrow. Call yourself scouts, do you? You are a bunch of idiots! As for you Keith, you are a big ling. You will never do well in life. You are hopeless, and the rest of you are close behind. I think sometimes that you are from another planet."
The tirade finished, he stomped off to his tent, muttering under his breath.
After I had been in the troop about a year, the scoutmaster announced one evening that we would be going on a summer camp for two weeks to Dunoon -- Loch Eck, to be exact. We would be traveling by sea on the Duchess of Hamilton and that the cost would be fifteen pounds for the fortnight.
A thrill passed through our young minds. Dunoon! Loch Eck! A sea journey! We felt like explorers setting out into the unknown.
When I told my mother the cost, she shook her head saying she could not afford the sum mentioned, and that she was worried about me going away with the scoutmaster, being he had such a down on me.
However my uncle came to my rescue and offered to help with the cost and when it became known that the scoutmaster would have two helpers, my mother was placated and consented to my going.
An old kit bag was found and my name was stenciled onto it and my kit was sorted out.
The great day arrived and as most of the citizens had been talking about the trip for weeks, a great crowd gathered at the pier head to see the Sixteenth Argylls march down to the pier end. This suited the scoutmaster who strutted about like Napoleon bathing in the adulation of the crowd.
The Duchess of Hamilton duly arrived, packed with trippers from Glasgow and all points south. They surged down the gangplank laughing and joking and then it was the turn of the Sixteenth Argylls to embark.
This operation would have been trouble-free but for the fact that a large mass of people surged past them and up the gangplank, and the scouts became fragmented.
I found myself swept to the far rail, as the mob swirled around, and only the frantic whistles of the scoutmaster and his helpers drew us together. So great were the numbers trying to get on that the ship developed a list and the captain had to announce that people were to keep away from the near side rail to even out the list.
Eventually the 'Duchess' got under way and we swung past Davaar Island and out into the Kilbrannan Sound for the three hour journey to Dunoon.
Loch Eck was a midge-infested place and we were plagued by the 'terrors' for the whole fourteen days. I cannot remember any events at the camp, except that I had a bad stomach upset and that I burnt the porridge.
Finally came the headline 'Safety Fears -- What If Tigers Break Loose?'
Thankfully, all the fears were allayed and the banner headline trumpeted 'Circus Is On Its Way!'
Great excitement gripped the town and hourly progress reports told of convoys of wagons moving round Loch Lomond, then at Arrocher and finally arriving at Tarbert Loch Fyne. People reported hearing tigers roaring from the depths of canvas shrouded trucks, and seeing elephants pounding along, there were even rumours of strange creatures peering from cages and even of a caveman reportedly found in darkest Tuscany.
As the great convoy lumbered towards the outskirts of the town, the whole populace surged up to the end of Milknowe and thence followed the wagons to the site in Kinloch Green, where they got in the way of the hands trying to get the camp set up.
My grandfather became involved with the erection of the big top, yelling at the hands to pull this way and that, and when one of the lions was seen bounding along a tunnel between two cages, the shout went up that it had escaped.
Such a foot rush was never seen before. En mass the crowd shouted "A lion has escaped!" and then a horde of humanity tore towards Kinloch Road and towards the sea wall.
My grandfather grabbed my arm and hurried me back to Woodland Place,
where he thrust me into a press.
"Dinae wurry boy!" he exclaimed brandishing a clasp knife, yon lion wilna get you."
He went to the window and peered out.
"Na there isnae ony sign o the beast. Its probably eatin some puir auld wife caught in her close. Cam tae think o it where is Erchie an a the others, it micht hae fan them an be eatin them fur its tea."
He pushed his way into the press beside me and told me to keep quiet.
"It wilna like tae eat through wid ye ken, but sum o yon beasts are right canny, so keep quiet boy."
We remained in the press for about ten minutes, then the door opened and I heard my uncle's voice, speaking to my grandmother.
"I wunner where Jock is? Mother a saw him running wi young Donal up the stairs aboot ten minutes ago."
"I was up at MacShannon's shop aboot that time an a wee boy rushed in an said that a lion had escaped frae the circus, an al the fowk in the shop were fair feart that it wid cam in an eat them."
"Och! Mother a saw a body runnin aboot on the green but it was a false alarm, the lion wis still in its cage."
My grandfather pushed at the press door, but it seemed to have jammed.
"Whur in here Erchie."
There was a stunned silence on the other side of the door.
"Whur are ye Jock?" asked my grandmother.
"Whur stuck in here. A cam in tae hide wi Donal when a seen the lion escape frae its cage. Wie were feart that wie wid be eatin up an only oor claes wid be left."
My uncle wrenched open the door laughing, tears rolled down his face, as my grandfather and I spilled out into the daylight.
"That wull teach ye to think before ye act!" admonished my grandmother as she started to prepare the tea.
"Whit are we haen fur oor tea?", queried my grandfather.
"We are haen Jock Smith stew!" she laughed, "Followed by Lion pie!"
My grandfather took a long time to live down the lion incident and once news of it spread there was much sniggering in the street.
As for the circus, I saw one performance and was part of the crowd who followed the wagons to the Mill Dam as the convoy made its long journey north to Glasgow.
When the circus had gone rumours abounded that the caveman had escaped, and was living in the hills.
In the winter of nineteen forty-five only one boat load arrived at the
old quay, and that was the winter ration. The coal was deposited at the
Coal Rhee in Kinloch Road and the owner announced that only one hundredweight
bag would be allowed per person, and that each bag had to be collected
personally.
Well, a sense of panic swept the town and the morning after the coal delivery the Coal Rhee owner opened his gates to find a great queue, armed with prams, trolleys and buggies, massed at the gate.
I was sent with my grandfather to get the coal ration armed with a 'truck' -- a frame with two rubber wheels at one end.
It was a very cold morning and the poor man who had to weigh out the coal became overwhelmed with the press of people. The weighing apparatus consisted of a scoop, balanced on a lever, against a series of brass weights. When the scoop was filled, the coal was tipped into a sack which the customer had to provide.
In most cases some of the weighed coal missed the sack and fell to the ground. Picking up the coal was not allowed as the weigher would spit on the ground and snarl, "Lee it alon, dinae touch, Muster MacFadyen wull think ye are steelin his coal".
I noticed that some people by shaking the weigher's hand and winking received a couple of shovels extra and, when it came to our turn, I said to my grandfather innocently
"Grandad, are you going to shake the mans hand and get two extra shovels of coal?"
"Whit!" hissed my grandfather, "Shake hauns? Whit fur, ye must be haverin boy."
He opened the sack and the weigher swung the scoop at the open mouth. The coal cascaded in, but quite a lot fell to the ground.
"Pit the coal that fell on the grin intae the sack Donal!" exclaimed my grandfather. "It is oors by richt, yon MacFadyens no takin whit is oors." As I stooped to toss the lumps into the sack, the weigher loosed a spittle on the ground.
"Oor ma deed dody wull ye tak yon coal. It belangs tae Muster MacFadyen, thats the rool, a coal that fas doon on the grin is his, its been lak that since the days o yore."
"Throw it in the sack Donal," roared my grandfather, "An touch yon boy an al swing fur ye, see yon pile o coal in the corner?"
"Aye" said the weigher.
"Wull ye will be in top o it in a meenit, shovel an a!"
"Ye dinae frightin me Jock Smith, Muster MacFadyen kens his richts, he wull git the polis doon here in a jiffy."
"See this fist!" barked my grandfather.
"Aye."
"Weel it wull be landin on your chin in the next second!"
At that the weigher lost his nerve and tossed two shovels of coal into the sack. We trundled the load out of the yard and home.
As we left the red faced weigher shook his fist
"Dinae cum back here tae the Coal Rhee Jock Smith, al tell Muster MacFadyen."
"Och shut yer mooth ye sneevlin bugger," replied my grandfather, "Al see ye in hell first".
When we arrived back at Woodland Place I told my grandmother what had happened.
"Och!" she said. "His bark is worse than his bite."
We went back to the Coal Rhee every fortnight that winter for our bag of coal, and the weigher never uttered a word, even when my grandfather picked up loose coals on the ground and placed them in our sack!
My grandfather decided to construct a super bonfire that would surpass all other bonfires. Large quantities of wood, paper, oil petrol, tyres, paint drums and many other combustibles were procured either by legitimate means or by other methods best left unexplained.
The bonfire was sited at the bottom of the back yard in Woodland Place, over the old well that lay unused for years. An A-frame was made and the wood stacked then all manner of things that could be burned were piled on. Finally the whole thing was covered with old tyres and an effigy of Adolf Hitler placed on the top. Fireworks were stacked nearby ready for use and a liberal supply of drink (alcoholic and otherwise) was made ready.
The night of May seventh came and a large group of people gathered in the back yard. My grandfather applied the torch to the bottom of the stack, a few puffs of smoke issued from the bottom, then there was a whoosh, followed by a bright ball of flame that seemed to linger, then the stack erupted in a great holocaust of flames. The temperature rose alarmingly and pieces of flaming debris rocketed up into the night.
Uncle, eyeing the mounting column of fire, said,
"Dont you think Jock that we should hae some watter handy, tae control the bleeze, fur at this rate al the windeas wull be cracked in the hooses!"
"Dinae fash," said my grandfather, "Yon fire wull burn itsel oot, an in the morrow al that wull be lef, wull be some ashes."
As he spoke there was an almighty explosion that sent great tracers of burning material sweeping into the sky and caused the onlookers to fall back in alarm.
"Weel a be burned!" shouted some, whilst others made for the close.
Mary Broon came stomping down from her room.
"Ye auld gowk!" she shouted, "Yon fire has blackened a my windaes an
the smell o soot is a oor the place, al hae tae tell Skart that ye hae
caused an awfy mess."
"Stop blabbering Mary," grunted my grandfather, "This is a celebration for oor deliverance oot o the hauns o yon deevil called Hitler. If he had wan, we wid hae been a slaves like yon poor souls that laboured unner the Egyptians. Surely a wee fire is no too much o a sacrifice fur ye tae mak fur the great victory."
"A canna be daen wi o this ceelebratin ye ken!" retorted Mary, waving her stick towards the fire, "We could jist hae sang a few hymns an then went tae oor beds."
Again the fire erupted in a torrent of debris and, this time, a gush of oily smoke which swirled round my grandfather and Mary. When they turned round they looked like characters out of a minstrel show.
Mary gasped in rage.
"Am blackened like some poor African! Al hae tae go hame an wash, an this al mean that al hae tae get mair sape frae Cook's shopie the morrow, an al tell them tae cherege it tae yon Jock Smith!"
With that she sped off and the party continued, with liberal drinking and singing far into the night.
Sometime later there was a yell of indignation in the close. Again it was Mary Brown, this time dressed in her night attire.
"Yon Fesak is lying drunk oot side o my hoose, an he has been urinating, the swine!"
Her protests went unanswered and when morning came the gallant Fesak crawled up the stairs to our house looking for breakfast from my grandmother.
"Hae ye got ony meat, fur am fair famished an all yon whusky has maid a rare hunger in me belly."
My grandmother was horrified at the state Fesak was in and thrusting some bacon into a couple of slices of bread, showed him the door.
"Git awa hame Fesak," she said firmly, "You an Jock have drunk a drop too much, he wull no be havin ony breakfast this morn as he is in the land o nod!"
"A weel," mused Fesak, "Widna it be great if there wis an ither war so that we could hae anither bonfire and a drink!"
Copyright © 1998 Donald Keith.