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| Jolly Jack Tar
Eagle Cottage The Hyman Sisters The King Is Dead The Sharpening Craze |
Grumoli's Cafe
Spring Heel Jack Kilkerran Cemetery The Bicycle Healing Hands (II) |
Being a port and a safe harbour, Campbeltown attracted many navy ships and consequently this meant that the bright lights of the town attracted 'jolly jack tar' when he was given shore leave.
Onto the old quay they would spill, their different accents lilting in the air, surging up to the pubs to quench their thirst and, when this was done, staggering to the Victoria Hall where dances were held.
The local constabulary roused from its slumber kept a few officers near the hall, with a back up squad on bicycles hidden from view but ready to rush down Castle Hill when trouble brewed.
Trouble usually came a few minutes after a mob of sailors entered the dance hall and started grabbing the partners of local men. Fists would rain on jaw, glasses were smashed and then chairs thrown. The bandleader would appeal for calm with the aid of a megaphone -- but to no avail. Then the police would enter, whistles shirling, batons raised, helmets flying. Then, as they manhandled drunken sailors and civilians out into Kinloch Road, the bicycle squad would come hurtling along and at the command "Down bikes!' rush into the hall.
News of a fight at the hall would spread like wild fire, and soon a great press of people would have gathered at the quay head, to urge on the civilians and sometimes the sailors.
Then the Navy Police would appear, wielding batons and dragging off sailors towards the waiting ferry boats as the Campbeltonians cursed and shook their fists. A fair proportion of sailors also ended their night at the cells at Castle Hill Police Station, where next day a special court would be set up to try offenders.
The worthy citizens bemoaned the fact that the Victoria Hall attracted violence and suggested that instead of going to dances the sailors might prefer tea and buns at the local church halls, followed by hymn singing and prayers!
The Campbeltown Courier duly reported the cases of affray that were tried at the special court. The sheriff presided over the court and took the proceedings very seriously indeed.
As the Courier reported:
"At the Sheriff's Court yesterday the following ratings were fined for offences under the Civil Order Act (Scotland): ratings Smith, Wilson, Peters, Johnson and Scott; able seamen Ruthven, Stuart and MacHarg; and artificer Williams, all resident on 'Douglas Castle' a ship of Her Majesty's Navy.
The accused willfully did cause an affray at the Victoria Hall in that they punched civilians who were in pursuance of leisure, causing bodily harm and bringing alarm to residents. Also a window in the hall was broken.
P C McPhee was first on the scene and had his helmet knocked off by a sailor. In his report constable McPhee said: 'Whilst proceeding in a westerly direction I came upon a crowd struggling outside the Victoria Hall. On entering the latter my helmet was knocked off by a sailor and then a window was smashed, it was broken both inside and outside. I was joined by fellow officers and one of the latter was sent to fetch the bicycle squad. When order was restored, the dance was restarted.'
Fining all accused ten shillings each, and binding them over to keep the peace, the Sheriff summed up: 'This violence has got to stop. Fighting in dance halls is sinful and corrupts youth. Any future outbreaks of trouble will be severely dealt with and prison sentences will be given.'"
However the clashes continued for many a year, until the number of Navy ships using the port declined.
My uncle had a cousin on his mother's side called Duncan Ralston, a bachelor who lived in Eagle Cottage, at the junction of High Street and the Low Road.
Eagle Cottage was a strange place; A low dark building facing part out to the loch and part to High Street. It was a two bedroom dwelling with a gloomy kitchen. Above the front door was a stone eagle in the manner of the United States emblem, its eyes seemed to glare down at anyone approaching, like a mute guardian conveying the message 'Keep Out!' The roof was slated in dark slates that glistened when the rain fell on them and the whole front of the place was rendered in a faded whitewash that was starting to peel in places due to the corrosive nature of the salt air near the loch.
The incumbent of the place was as dark and mysterious as the cottage itself. Dressed in a black suit that had shiny patches on the elbows and seat, Duncan gave the impression of a broken down undertaker, with his unshaven stubble, cracked teeth, and eyes that reminded me of Robert Newton in the part of Long John Silver. They seemed to stare right into your soul and the fact that they were bloodshot gave Duncan's face a hideous look. As far as footwear was concerned he wore great hobnailed boots that curled up at the front, and enabled the wearer to rock backwards and forwards to and angle of about forty-five degrees and further when the wind was blowing. He smoked a curved pipe and the rocking helped the draft to the burning tobacco.
One day my uncle and grandmother decided to pay a visit to Duncan and they dragged me along protesting.
"Whits wrang wie ye?" snapped my grandmother as we walked along High Street, "Ye wid think ye wer guan tae yer funeral wie the fuss ye ar makin!"
"I don't want to go to that cottage, the eagle will eat me up."
"Who has been tellin ye such nonsense?" said my uncle, gripping me by the shoulder.
"Grandfather told me that the eagle was real and that Duncan Ralston was a cannibal, who ate young boys when he was hungry!"
"Eh, whit?" my grandmother's eyes blazed with anger, "Wait till I see Jock, fillin young Donal's heid wie a load o tripe. Onyway ye are going tae see Duncan, fur I hae heard that he has been drinkin an no eatin."
"Maybe he is waitin till Donal comes so that he can hae a meal!" chuckled my uncle, ignoring my grandmother's gaze.
We reached the cottage and my uncle knocked at the door. There was the sound of bolts being drawn and the grating of a key in the lock.
The door swung open and Duncan clad only in a vest and stained trousers appeared from the gloom of the hall.
"Whit dae ye want? Dae a ken ye? Ye ar nae some robbers cum tae rob me o my sillar
fur a sairt a bad folk lurk aboot in the streets, especially yon Glesca foulk, doon fur the fair!"
"Ye auld gowk! Its me yer relation wie cousin Erchie an his nephew Donal, oor tae see whit yer up tae," said my grandmother, forcing her way past Duncan.
"Och am fair sorry, its awfy dark Christina. How are ye doin, an how is Erchie?" Duncan mumbled as we squeezed into the hall.
"There is an awfy smell o damp in this place, hae ye no been puttin fires on, al hae tae come an gie this place a right guttin, a hae telt ye afore tae keep a fire goin!"
Sheepishly Duncan ushered us into the kitchen, which smelt of decaying food. We were seated down at a rickety table, covered with faded oilcloth and badly stained. An old cat dragged itself towards us mewing in anticipation of a tit bit, only to receive a kick from Duncan's bare foot which sent it scuttling into the corner.
"Wull ye be haein a cup o tea, a hae just brewed sum fur my breakfast an a can gie ye a slice o breed a jeely as weel in case ye are feelin famished?"
There was a moment's silence as we contemplated what horror a cup of tea from Duncan could do to us.
"Tea wull be fine, but nae jeely pieces fur us," replied my grandmother, eyeing the torn rug on the floor and the tilting shelves on the wall, the latter lined with cobwebbed cups and plates. As she looked a mouse scuttled across the floor to be followed by the old cat who was easily outpaced by the mouse.
Duncan put three cracked cups filled with a dark brown liquid onto the table and sat down.
"It is awfy nice tae see ye al, a pass Woodland Place sum time but a dinae like tae cam up, fur a know that ye ar aye busy. Am keepin fine I am."
He paused, eyeing me nervously. His eyes seemed to grow larger, then he grinned.
"Sae ye are wee Donal, man ye look a sturdy lad, sound o wind an limb, a kent yer fether weel."
My grandmother looked out of the window, through the years of grime.
"Yons a fine view ye hae o the loch, can ye hear the waves at nicht?"
Duncan pondered on her question for a few minutes, tilting his head to one side.
"Whit waens wid I hear at nicht, am nae merried?"
"A said waves nae waens. Waves that cam in tae the shore, ye are needin yer ears syringed," replied my grandmother.
Duncan muttered something, took a draw on his pipe, then spat on the floor.
"Ye wull hae tae stop that bad habit," retorted my grandmother, "It is bad fur yer health, a keep tellin Jock nae tae spit in the fire when he is at hame."
"Whits this aboot Jock sittin in the fire when he is lame?"
"Lord be aboot us! Erchie, yer cousin is deef an daft tae," sighed my grandmother, "Ony way the Ralstons couldnae tell a bee frae a bull's fit!"
For the next hour the conversation dragged on, with Duncan's deafness leading to some strange talk. Eventually we made our farewells and returned home.
"Remember," said my grandmother as we walked along, "Get yourself a good education Donal, or ye wull end up like Duncan Ralston an auld batchelor bide his time in an auld dark hoose, till he dees."
On the route to Eagle Cottage there was a Post Office cum General Store, at the corner of George Street and High Street. It was owned by the Hymans, two elderly spinsters. They were very cautious ladies, and eyed any child who entered the shop alone with an air of hostility as if communicating a hidden message that said 'come in here at your peril'. To adults they served only 'respectable' people, and Kirk attendance was looked upon as the highest credentials for entering the shop.
As well as dispensing stamps, pensions and postal orders, they had a great selection of sweets of which macaroon bars were tops.
One day my grandfather drew two half-crowns from his pocket.
"Here wee Donal, awa oor tae Hyman's an get me a postal order fur four shullins an get yersel sum sweeties as weel."
"The mention of sweeties, sent a thrill through my body. I could not wait to taste a macaroon bar and perhaps some dolly mixtures.
Off I ran and soon arrived at Hyman's shop. I threw open the door and rushed up to the counter.
"A postal order for four shillings and a macaroon bar."
The mere fact that I had burst in and blurted out my errand completely threw the two spinsters who were used to sedate entrances by respectful punters and not some youth in an excited mood.
One of the sisters glared over her glasses.
"What do you mean bursting into this shop! Go outside and come in quietly and show some reverence and respect."
Sheepishly, I obeyed the command and returned a few moments later. I stood at the counter in silence.
"Yes, what do you want Keith?"
"A postal ord..."
As I spoke a well dressed gentleman with a Malacca cane entered and the sisters attention was riveted on him. I tried to speak and one of the sisters glared at me.
"Silence Keith! Major Gemmil will be served first."
"Quite right too," snapped Major Gemmil, "I will have half a pound of boiled sweets and a bar of milk tray, ladies."
A great scramble ensued to serve him and in her haste one of the sisters dropped some of the boiled sweets on the counter, whilst the other reeled in confusion.
Eventually the Major was served and he went off clucking and muttering something about lack of discipline.
The sisters then turned to me
"How dare you speak whilst a gentleman was being served! Get out at once and do not come back unless accompanied by an adult!"
When I returned home my grandfather was speechless with rage and, grabbing me by the shoulder, stormed back to Hyman's shop. In he plunged and banged his fist on the counter.
"Here ye couple o auld biddies! Why wid ye nae serve wee Donal afore yon Gemmil?"
The two sisters went the colour of the faded green wall covering on the shop
"It was a mistake Mr Smith. We did not see him standing there, he is very small."
"Wull ye must be blun as bats, gie hum yon postal order fur foor shullins an sum sweeties, or yer name wull be mud."
There was a wild scramble as the postal order was processed and the sweets bagged.
"Here you are Mr Smith, we hope to see you again"
As we made for the door my grandfather turned and smiled,"Al see ye al in hell furst afore a darken yer premises agin!"
There after the upper class image of Hymans took a severe dent!
In 1947 King George the Sixth died and upon the town a great gloom descended as the ruling powers vied with each other to produce new heights of sombre silence and waves of platitudes. The Scots may give the impression of being outspoken but inwardly they are rigidly held by long outdated conventions that tend to stifle their selves and keep them in a rigid straightjacket.
At school the Headmaster addressed us all. We were hurriedly gathered in the hall, packed in like sardines. All the teachers had hellish looks on their faces, as if they were about to enact some Shakespearean drama.
A deathly silence hung over the gathering as the Head strode in, his gown billowing out. He was like a liege lord about to meet his vassals. Such tension produced giggling amongst the pupils. Those spotted were glared at by the teachers and their names noted for subsequent punishment.
"A great blow has been struck to the nation," intoned the Head, sweat trickling down his brow, "It is with profound sadness that I have to inform you all that His Majesty, King George the Sixth, has died. The King is dead, long live the King!"
As he spoke, the teachers suitably followed his lead with tears and cries of, "The King is dead!"
"Let us remember," continued the Head, "The King is dead, but the heir to the throne is alive, long live Elizabeth our future Queen! May her reign be as glorious as Elizabeth the First! Return now to your classes. Remember that this nation shall triumph over all. Our Empire will survive until the setting of the final sun!"
With a flourish of his gown, the Head swept away to his office, head bowed in a posture of grief. The rest of the teachers herded us back into the classrooms.
Unfortunately I was in Gemmil's class for mental arithmetic and, as we entered, he rapped his cane sharply on the desk and called us to attention.
"Boys, the King is dead. His most noble majesty, ruler of our kingdom and our great Empire, is no more. As a mark of utter respect I shall recite the following lines:"
He opened a leather bound volume and with a sharp intake of breath read,
"Oh great lord who art no more
Gone from the living world
We will remember thy glory
As the funeral banner unfurls..."
The poem ground on for about twenty minutes, but to our small minds it seemed like twenty days. Eventually Gemmil finished and with tears trickling down his cheeks pointed to the door.
"As it is near four o' clock you can leave, but observe strict silence. Any laughing will be severely punished!"
Well, what gloom prevaded the town! Flags at half-mast, shop windows draped in black, sombre faced people shuffling along, cinemas closed and a non stop wave of dirge-like music blared from the radios.
My grandfather took a more realistic view on the proceedings. Sitting at the tea table he took a sip of black tea as well as chewing a quid of bogie roll.
"Weel yung Donal, noo that the King is deed weel be bluttered wie a sairt o foulk creepin aboot sneevlin, a meenisters o the Kirk oot biddin wan anither wie a sairt o pious tak. Yon man in the Hielin Parish Kirk wull be roarin wie grief an a the guid foulk in the pews wull be sair feart wunnerin whit the new queen wull be like. Fur me sel a dinae ken fur ony o' them, Scotland's real rulers are oor the watter in France, mony are the hairts that broke in twa."
My grandmother glared at my grandfather.
"Dinae be puttin nonsense intae young Donals heid, wie a this tak aboot puir meenisters greetin aboot the deid King, an tellin hum that King George wisnae the real King. Why wur ye no telt aboot it a school, that the hoose o Hanover wis the true Protestant line an that yon Stuarts wer nae wanted a ta?"
"Och wumman!" retorted my grandfather, "Ye can tak a ye want, but my sovereign is a Stuart, the Duke o Orleens!"
"Whit!" exclaimed my grandmother, "Hoo can some biddy frae Orleens Glen be the King o this country?"
"Dinae be daft wumman!" laughed my grandfather, "A meant Orleens in France, wur a yon jazz foulk bide."
They argued for quite a while about the merits of who was the rightful king, but what they had said registered in my memory.
Just before the King was actually buried I went to the pictures. The film was to be Custer's Last Stand but was canceled and Hamlet was shown in its place. Even before the picture started the National Anthem was played and everybody had to stand. Then during the picture the film was stopped and Handel's Death March was played and again everybody was asked to stand, though this time with much groaning and muttering. When the film finished there was two minutes silence in memory of the dead King.
About a week after the funeral, the head summoned the school to a special assembly. Resplendent in his stained gown, Purcell bellowed out. His voice echoed in the ancient hall of Milknowe School.
"Tomorrow we are going to the Rex."
A great cheer went up. Going to the Rex! The film showing was The Man From Planet X. Good old Purcell!
"Silence!" roared Purcell, his face going purple, We are going to see the film of the King's funeral in London, followed by a service in Lowland Church. Any person who absents himself from school tomorrow will be given six of the best by my hand. The only excuse for non-attendance will be death of the pupil concerned."
As he spoke he drew the leather strap from his pocket and brought it crashing down on the lectern, grinning sadistically as a groan went up from the assembled multitude.
We talked about how we could escape from attending the film. Some suggested faking illness, others of fleeing to the hills, or even escaping to sea. But in the end we resigned ourselves to enduring the film.
What a doleful hour and a half it was, cramped in the Rex. The sickly smell of sweating bodies, the grating voice of the commentator, suppressed giggles and snorts, the smack of teachers hands on faces and the uproar when someone threw something from the balcony to land on Gemmil's head. At the service afterwards in the Lowland Church the minister kept repeating 'Lord Jesus Christ' but because of his accent it sounded like 'Lord Cheese and Crust' which brought more sniggering and shuffling as we wondered when the cheese and crust would be served!.
Next day Purcell and Gemmil dealt out punishment with strap and cane. Yes, the King's death remained in my memory for a long time for the misery it generated amongst the People of Campbeltown. (I often wondered why such outbursts of loyalty by those in authority took place, as most of it was over the top and at times sickening in the way it was done. Perhaps it was because the anglification of the education system and the Scottish Institutions made those in authority feel duty bound to act in this way, as if in doing so they would be noticed in the upper echelons of Westminster, or by their immediate superiors).
Because of the employment situation in Campbeltown, where the bulk of people where reliant on the herring fishing for a living, when a downturn came many fishermen became unemployed for a few months.
This resulted in crowds gathering at various corners to pass the time away in idle chat and speculation. The two most famous corners were Cooks Corner and the Christian Institute. Cooks was at the junction of Main Street and Longrow and The Christian Institute was at the junction of Main Street and Hall Street.
At the Christian Institute a line of fishermen slouched along the wall facing the loch. Here they talked and whilst they did this they sharpened their knives on the sandstone window sills. Such was the severity of this sharpening that the sills were nearly worn through and, though the police moved the fishermen on, they still drifted back and started sharpening again.
When my pals and I were able to buy pen knives and in some cases sheath knives, we decided to join in the 'sharpening craze'. But we could not stand at the Christian Institute, so we made a beeline for Gayfield Place, whose window sills were made from the soft sandstone that was ideal for sharpening blades.
As previously told we selected Donald Broon's back window as a sharpening stone, making sure that the incumbent was out before we started on our blades.
One day I was busy drawing my blade across the window cill, when Donald Broon returned from the pub at quite an early hour. As the door to his house was in the close I did not realise that he was in the vicinity, so I carried on scraping with my blade.
Broon staggered into his dingy room and slumped into a battered easy chair, which had a large spring sticking out of the side. Blearily he drew a half bottle of malt from his tattered jacket and took a swig. As his eyes swiveled towards the window they met mine peering in.
Horror swept through my mind. Caught in the act, what could I do? To run for the back yard would mean a climb up some steep stairs to the hills behind and to attempt the close would mean certain capture.
I stood my ground as Donal leapt from his chair within, the door crashed open in the close, and he was upon me!
"Ye wee rascal! A wis wunnerin hoo wis weerin awa me windae sill, noo a ken fine! A hae heard you an yer pals afore sniggering ootside ma hoose. Gie me yon knife, a ken fine hoo ye are, ye are Maisie Wulkinson's son and hur fether wis a sea captain. Wait till a tell hur, she wull gie ye a richt lunnerin!"
"It was not me that started the sharpening. It was my pals. My grandfather said he used to sharpen knives on the window sills at Gayfield Place, and nobody minded at all."
Donal Broon stared at me, then taking a swig of malt from the bottle he clutched in his hand, grabbed me by the shoulder.
"Yer granfether ye say, that widna be Jock Smith wid it?"
"Yes," I replied, "John Smith of Woodland Place."
"I micht hae kent it wid be yon Smith, the cheeky deevil! A richt trouble maker, weel he has nae richt teelin a young boy tae dae that tae a auld seafarin man that has sailed the oceans."
As he spoke he snatched the knife from me and gave me a clip on the ear.
"There awa hame tae yer hoose an tell yon Smith that he is a criminal, hum an his cronie Fesak. Tell hum that if he tells ye tae come sherpinin knives on ma windae agin, al send the polis roon an he wull end up in Barlinnie!"
I returned home crying, minus my knife and fearful of what my mother would say, because the knife had been a Christmas Present.
"Whits wrang wie ye boy, ye hae a gob like a soor proon, hae sum o yer pals been hittin ye?" said my grandfather as he read the Daily Mail. "Ye should hae hit them back. When I wis young boy I could gie them a good sleevin fur I wis strong fur ma years. Sum foulk thocht that I would be anither H H Hackensmidt."
When I told what had happened, he flung the paper down and reached for his jacket.
"Weel lad, we wull be payin a visit tae Broon. Robbin a young boy o his knife, the drunken bum, just wait till I see him!"
Whistling to his dog, he grabbed me by the arm and propelled me up the High Street towards Gayfield Place.
"Mister Broon said that you and Fesak were criminals, grandad and that you would end up in Barlinnie."
My words further incensed him as he stormed into the close and thundered on Broon's door. From within came the sound of shuffling and a key turned in the lock. Broon peered out, his bloodshot eyes screwing up against the light.
"Whos there?" he bellowed, "Can an auld seaman git nae peace tae sleep in his hoose?"
"It is me Jock Smith and wee Donal who ye robbed. If ye dont gie hum his knife back ye wull be peacefully sleepin in Kilkerran the nicht an as for beeinn a seaman the only boat ye hae seen wis a punt in the loch!"
Broon's face blanched.
"Yon wee Donal wis sherpin knives on ma windae an he his fair worn away ma sill," he stuttered, gasping for breath.
"Did ye no sherpin knives yer sel when ye were yung ye auld moocher an tak it as yer richt?"
Broon seemed flustered and mumbled something.
"A weel noo ye mention it a did. Here is the knife back an al say nae mair."
"Richt!" snapped my grandfather, "That is settled, an wee Donal will be back tae sherpin knives when he needs tae as yours is the nearest windae sill. The wans at Woodland Place are tae hard"
Donal Broon seemed deflated.
"Ah weel a think it wull be a richt, ye are a hard man Smith, but maybe a got oor angry wie the wee boy, it must be the drink."
"If ye hadna geein Donal his knife back, ye wid hae been in Kilkerran the nicht, so think yersel lucky!"
As we walked back down high street my grandfather winked at me.
"Donal when ye are in the richt stand fast!"
The fact that I had been damaging the old mans property made no difference to my grandfather's philosophy.
In Hall Street there was an Italian Ice Cream Shop called 'Grumoli's Cafe'. It was a splendid place with its marble front and gleaming chrome interior. Within this emporium ice cream of a delicious nature was sold as were tea, snacks and chips.
The man who 'ran' the place was small with piercing eyes, a little moustache and silvery hair. He always whistled as he worked and at times burst out into a rendering of O Sole Mia.
We used to go into the cafe for one of the delicious ices or a bag of chips, but we never ventured into the 'seated area' because Mr Grumoli did not like young boys to sit in his establishment.
About this time there was a film showing at the Rex called Murder Inc., a story about gangsters and the notorious Mafia. Having seen the film we noticed the strong connection with Italy, and particularly Sicily, and assumed that all Italians must know the workings of the secret society. Accordingly we discussed the merits of the likelihood of Mr Grumoli being privy to the workings of the Mafia.
One of my friends, as we idly sat on the sea wall of the Esplanade staring at the waves lapping the breakwater, turned to me enquiringly.
"You know Donal, ye ken wee Grumoli, weel dae ye think he wid ken aboot any o yon Mafia folk that we saw at the picturs?"
"Why do you not ask him then?" I replied, flicking a pebble into the sea.
"All right," he replied, "let us go over noo and ask him."
We walked the few hundred yards to the cafe in Hall Street and casually sauntered in. There was only one person in front being served, and as they left, my friend approached the counter.
"Well boys," purred Mr Grumoli, "What do you want please, some cheeps or maybe an ice cream?"
"We want some info from ye Muster Grumoli aboot yon Mafia folk that lives in Italy and hads everybudy tae ransom," blurted out my friend.
"Yes we saw the picture at the Rex," I lamely said as a back-up.
Mr Grumoli's face darkened, the smile vanished, his eyes narrowed.
"You ask too much, you cheeky hooligans. I no tell you about anything. Mafia very bad, you get out of my shop, and wait till I tell your teachers, much strapping you will get!"
"We wis only interested, fur we had tae dae an essay on yon Mafia, ye ken fur oor English teacher, he is awfy interested in yon soart o things."
The dark look on Mr Grumoli's face lightened somewhat.
"An essay you say, on the Mafia. Well I am pleased that your teacher has an interest in Italy, what is your teachers name?"
The depth of our deceit flustered us somewhat, but my friend smiled broadly.
"Our teachers name is Mr Lamont, a great lover o Italy an the folk that bide there."
"I shall collect what information I know from some books and give it to Mr Lamont who will then be able to tell you all about it".
"But!" spluttered my friend, "We could give it to Mr Lamont ourselves. It would save you a lot of trouble."
Mr Grumoli, however, would not hear of it and insisted that he would deliver the information to Mr Lamont. And, after a free ice cream, we left the cafe with trepidation and fear. Our prank had misfired badly and meant that we would have to face up to 'gentle Lamont', teacher of English at the Grammar School.
Strangely, a few months elapsed and the incident sped from our memories. Mr Lamont took us for lessons, but no mention of Italy or the Mafia came from his lips.
Then one day he strode into the class, his face hard with anger. The nickname 'gentle Lamont' was inapt for beneath the surface raged a demon. Clenching his fists he faced the class and snarled.
"The other day Mr Grumoli gave me some books on Italy when I was in his Cafe enjoying an ice. He said two boys had asked him for information on the Mafia, but he had failed to take their names. As I am not enamoured with Italy as a country I was quite annoyed that he should think that I was particularly interested in the Mafia, and I told him so in no uncertain terms. The poor man was very annoyed at what had happened and after he offered me a free meal, we parted good friends. However, as the perpetrators of the deed remain unknown I have decided to punish the whole class, by making them write out The Lay of the Last Minstrel ten times each, unless the culprits own up!"
A bated silence hung over the whole class. My friend and I exchanged glances, but to confess would have meant a severe strapping, followed by further strapping from 'Dracula'. We held our tongues and faced the grueling task of copying out Sir Walter Scott's epic poem ten times.
For months afterwards we kept silent of our prank and also marked Hall Street as a no-go area, even though our classmates kept trying to find out who had asked Mr Grumoli about the Mafia.
One winter's night we went to see the film Robber of the Dark, a strange tale of Victorian London about a man who robbed rich people's homes by springing over walls of great height, when chased by the police he leapt away at enormous speed and was never caught, the police named him 'Spring Heel Jack' and his identity remained an unsolved mystery.
When I reached home and related to my grandfather the plot of the film, his eyes lit up. Reaching for his pipe he filled it with bogie roll and ignited it with a taper. Taking a deep draw he leaned over to me and laid his hand on my shoulder.
"Wee Donal," he mused, "Did a no tell ye the tale o a robber in this very toon who sprang awa frae the polis mony a time, an robbed the rich folk o a their sillar an made them destitute,so that the ended their days in the Poor Hoose instead o livin o the fat o the land. Aye sicht a mon did spring aboot thae very closes an streets an up tae the posh hooses our the shore, he wis a Spring Heel Jack an very fierce at his wurk."
My grandmother who was sitting knitting at the fire and listening to my grandfather blethering to me, poked him with a knitting needle.
"Dinae you be tellin wee Donal a load o blethers. Weel ye ken there wisnae sicht a person in a the toon. If ye keep telin hum a sairt o tales, he wilna be able tae no whit is richt an no richt!"
"Listen wumman!" retorted my grandfather, "Me ain grandfether telt me aboot the robber, an fair feart wis I o a winter's nicht that auld Spring Heel wid get me in some dark close on his way tae the thevin."
There was a silence for a few minutes, then my grandfather continued.
"It wis aboot the late seveenteen hunners when Spring Heel sterted tae rob folk in the big hooses in the toon. At that time there wisnae ony polis as such, ony sum watchmen, pied by the Toon Cooncil an maist o them wur awfy slow in followin up crimes. The provost wis awfy wurried aboot Spring Heel an pied fur sum quick watchmen frae Glesca tae cam doon an tak awa Spring Heel tae the jail."
"Weel even thae watchmen couldna keep up wie Spring Heel an as wan o them said, 'He jist sprang doon the High Road an bounded awa oor the Loch tae land near the Puttin Green, an wis awa hame tae his hoose lang sine afor we got oor the loch'."
"Soon legends abounded aboot Spring Heel an he became a hero in the eyes o the poor foulk that stied in the toon, fur sometimes he left money on their windae sills tae help feed their bairns. Some o the rich gentry thocht that he wis wan o them but nae body kent who he wis."
"The years went by an then wan nicht the road watchman saw a dark figure boundin awa up the Glesca Road wie a case, an there efter there wis nae mer thevin, an a the rich foulk slept a nicht in their beds peacefully, weel knowin that Spring Heel wis awa fur good."
"Weel aboot the middle o the eighteen hunners an auld wumman in Shore Street fan a box in this hoose wi a pair o boots wi soles aboot wan fit an six inches thick. She tak them tae the polis who fan that the cavity in the soles had big springs in them, so ye see they noo kent who Spring Heel wis able tae flee awa frae the polis sae quick."
"An auld professor frae Oxford cam up tae the toon an said that the weerer o the boots wid be able tae leap aboot wan hunner feet wie wan bound an maybe mair if he dinae feel wabbit"
"That really is a that happened, but bairnies that grat in the nicht an dinae coddle doon when their murther telt them, were warned that Spring Heel wid cam in their hoose an tak them awa tae the land o Nod."
My grandfather finished his tale with a deep draw on his pipe then blew the smoke into the dog's face.
"Ye auld blether Jock!" snapped my grandmother, "Tellin wee Donal o all these stories aboot springin aboot in boots, a widnae lake tae spring oor the Loch in a pair o Keenedy's boots, or even mae cousin's Duncan. Ye wid fa intae the Loch an droon. Onyway a hae never hae heard o such a thing when I wis young an I hae leeved in the toon a guid number o years!"
"Whit!" hissed my grandfather, "Ye were frae the country an dinae ken whit went on in the toon, a wis only tellin wee Donal a legend so he could tell others when he is growin up."
"A these stories there jest nonsense, at times a think that a ye Smiths are droll, a bunch o moogers, a tell ye tae stop fillin wee Donals heid wie tales aboot droll things."
My grandfather spat in the fire, then turned to my grandmother.
"Wumman, if a wee boy canna learn aboot culture when heis young, then he might as weel stie in a box a day an grow up tae be a feartie!"
They argued for a few minutes then silence reigned. Eventually my grandfather fell asleep. My grandmother looked sharply up at the clock. then at me.
"Wee Donal awa tae yer bed an dinae dream o yon Spring Heel cammin intae yer room tae tak ye awa. Mak sure ye hae washed yer face afor ye tak tae yer bed."
Some days later I was telling my pals, in our den up in the Broo, about the story my grandfather had told me about Spring Heel. The part about the boots with the powerful springs got us thinking -- perhaps we could fix powerful springs to a pair of boots and beat the world high jump record! Just think, Campbeltown boy clears one hundred feet!.
As we mused about the possibilities, common sense prevailed, perhaps a more modest aim would be to see what lay behind Clark's garden wall in John Street.
Clark's garden was a mystery. Enclosed by a wall twelve feet high and never seen by the eyes of curious schoolboys. What entrancing delights lay within its keep? Hidden treasure? Succulent fruits? Grapes? Or some hidden temple? All guarded by grumpy Clark, a man of mystery, last seen years ago at Glundie's, buying a fish supper!
Now how were we going to construct the spring boots? We would have to find suitable boots and springs and someone light enough and tall for the actual jump. The plan was to spring up above wall height, look at the garden with a flashlight then down again. Darkness was essential, for daylight would attract attention.
To cut a long story short, boots were acquired. Somehow springs were attached and at the trials up in the Broo a height of three feet was attained, with only minor bruises to the 'test pilot'. As three feet was far short of the twelve feet required it was decided to get some step ladders and for the 'springer' to make his jump from the top of them!
(Why nobody thought of just getting a ladder and climbing up to look over is a mystery that will never be explained).
Eventually, all was ready. One dark winter's night the ladder party advanced down John Street, which was always deserted, and the night chosen was when Glundie's chip shop was closed. Great care was taken in maintaining silence and the ladder was set parallel to the garden wall.
Duncan Fergusson was the 'springer', and he had to be lifted with his huge boots strapped to his feet up to the top of the step ladders.
"I can see ower the wa," he said, "There isnae ony need tae spring up!"
"Never mind," we said, "give it a go and tell us whit ye can see."
Duncan started to pump up and down, groaning at the effort.
"It is awfa hard wurk, am fair sweatin an I feel tired," he gasped, "Thae springs are noo wurkin at a."
As he spoke, he was suddenly jerked in the air about a foot, then with a shout of horror toppled over the garden wall into Clark's garden, where he crashed into some bushes, judging by the sound of snapping twigs.
With hearts pounding we shouted.
"Are ye all right Dunc?"
A muffled groan came from behind the wall, then a door creaked open, and we heard Clark's voice in the dark.
"Whas oot there in ma gerden at this oor, a wis jist listenin tae The McFlannels, an a got sicht a fright?"
Poor Duncan muttered from the depths,
"It is only me Muster Clark. A keeked ma ball oor yer wa an a went tae get it oot."
"Whit! Playin fitba at this late oor when ye should be in yur bed, an look ye hae fair mangled me poor bushes, al hae tae hoke ma gerden agin. Git yur ball oot an awa hame, use the door in the wa."
An ancient door creaked open in the wall an Duncan staggered out in his giant boots.
"Whits wrang wie yer boots boy?" queried Clark, peering in the dark at Duncans feet, "They look awfa big fur yer size?"
Luckily, because of the dark, Duncan was able to mumble something about sore feet as Clark shut the door behind him.
"Dinae be playin fitba agin in the dark oor al hae tae gie ye an backhander!" he shouted as he went into his house.
Thankfully, we grabbed Duncan and carried him back to the privacy of a close way, where we removed the boots and disposed of them. Thereafter the legend of Spring Heel faded from our memories, and in later years I realised that the force of gravity was greater than our imaginations.
On the south side of Campbeltown Loch, down near a point called 'The Battery', lies Kilkerran Cemetery, an ancient burial ground still used to this day.
It nestles under the lee of Bengullion, a mighty hill rising about a thousand feet above the town.
Kilkerran has graves dating back to before the time of William the Conqueror, many faced with massive slabs and moss filled emblems. Here lies also the remains of the ancient kings of Dal Riada and of Irish chieftains. There is also good examples of Celtic Crosses and rune carvings. Of a later date there are also massive headstones erected to citizens of the town varying from heraldic angels to horses and cherubim.
To be fair, only the wealthy could erect such statues yet some of the poorer people had many delightful stones set up.
Now Kilkerran had a fascinating attraction for the people of the town, as it was a favourite walk at weekends or on pleasant summer evenings, where to wander round the graves seemed to give a sense of pleasure as the stillness generated a great peace.
The panoramic view from the graveyard was breathtaking: the still loch, the mighty ramparts of Island Davaar at the mouth and the distant finger of Arran's Goat Fell pointing to the heavens. All lent to paint a picture of peace and tranquility.
The walks to Kilkerran became a ritual, with a steady stream of people moving in and out of the graveyard, exchanging pleasantries, and musing over the departed.
It took about half an hour to reach Kilkerran from Woodland Place and if the weather was fine it made a pleasant walk.
My initiation into the 'walking season' happened one summer day when my grandfather decided to head for the graveyard.
"Weel Donal, it is time tae show you whur yer relations lie unner the grin an at the same time I can show ye roon the other graves."
The thought of such a visit horrified me, as my pals had told me hair-raising tales about Kilkerran and about strange figures seen lurking about in the gloaming; Tales of witches flying over the wall on the 31st of October, or strange noises heard at Michaelmas coming from the gatehouse. Stranger still, when a sea mist crept in loud groans could be heard from some of the crypts!
"I do not want to go grandad!" I wailed, tears running down my cheeks.
Giving me a hefty clip on the ear, my grandfather roared.
"Whit, a wee walk wilna hurt ye, when I wis a boy a rin tae Kilkerran at high speed an back, so we ur gan awa tae Kilkerran if I hae tae drag ye there me sel."
Protesting, I was frog marched down Princess Street, across the Esplanade, into Hall Street then down Kilkerran Road with its fine houses.
"Ye can greet a ye lake wee Donal!" snarled my grandfather, firmly gripping my arm, "Ye are guan tae see whur a the Smiths, Keiths and Wulkinsons are at rest. Its a thing I hae done a my life an me foulks before me, aye thur is nae thing better than a walk tae the graveyard."
It was no good protesting and eventually the imposing gates of Kilkerran Cemetry were reached.
"Noo dinae be makin ony noise that is disrespectful, fur a the deed unner the grin can hear a wurd ye are speakin an it could coont agin ye when yer time comes tae join them!"
I felt horrified at the thought of ending up 'unner the grin' as my grandfather so aptly put it. As we walked along the gravelled path, our feet crunching on the pebbles, I wondered who was listening to our progress; disturbed from their eternal slumbers by our progress.
We stopped at an ancient part of the graveyard where moss and lichen had won the day. Here great slabs lay across the graves, with strange carvings etched on the surfaces. At one particular slab there was an inscription which my grandfather proceeded to decipher.
"Here in lasting peace lies Sir William guid Knight, Anno Domini 1345, be strong me shield, to my liege lord I pledge eternal faith."
The mention of the word 'knight' took hold of my vivid imagination for I had just finished Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, maybe this was the grave of Ivanhoe, the hero Knight of the tale?
"Weel wee Donal, hae a no telt ye aboot a the auld knights an kings that lie in this place, biding their time till the last trump".
"Are they playing cards in their graves grandad?" I innocently asked.
"Ye wee dolt!", roared my grandfather, "Cun ye no unner staun the Queen's English, dae a no tak richt fur ye? A dinae mean kerds trump, a meant yon trump in the bible."
Giving me a clip on the ear, we resumed our tour of the graveyard looking at where the various branches of the family were laid to rest. Sadly, on a slight ridge we came to the place where his step daughter lay. The view looked down on the rest of the burial ground and commanded a magnificent panorama of the loch, looking towards Campbeltown.
Taking off his cap, my grandfather stared at the grave.
"Aye she died in 1941 during the war, an she wis quite young, she wis yer auntie."
His hard candour had somehow melted for an instant, as a tear trickled down his face, but seeing me watching his look hardened again.
"Cam awa noo young Donal, it disnae dae tae greet, it maks a man awfa saft tae be seen greetin. Its ony fur wummen tae greet, its the way o the wurld."
With that he gripped me by the arm and we continued our tour.
As we neared the exit and were passing a great monolith of a headstone, suddenly a man peered round one side. He was about middle age, slightly gray, clean shaven, and dressed in a black suit. His eyes were a piercing blue, his face slightly lined, but still young looking.
"Guid day tae ye Jock," he spoke in a slow drawl as if in keeping with the place, "Oot fur a stroll in the hallowed grin, an who is this wee boy wie ye?"
"Guid lord a got sicht a fright wie ye creepin roon the stone Wullie!" said my grandfather, "Ur ye lookin oor yer domains?"
"Who is that man grandad?" I whispered, becoming slightly nervous.
"This wee Donal is thae Coont o Monte Cristo, Coont o a this place fur yonks."
I laughed so loud that the Count glared down at me, his blue eyes hardening.
"So ye dinae think am a count wee boy? Weel I am an a keep guard oor this place in the daylicht oors, coontin a yon graves, tae mak sure nae go missin."
My grandfather whispered in ma ear.
"Donal the mans droll, but jist kid on that he is a Coont an he wull soon gae awa tae bother sum either puir soul wie his daft tak and blethers."
Trying to avoid sniggering I innocently asked the Count,
"Do you know Count Dracula?"
"Nae boy I dinae ken Dracula whit dis he look lak?"
My grandfather gripped my arm.
"Och we wull hae tae be goin noo Wullie yon either Coont wurks at nicht."
"Oh a see," said the Count, "That explains why I hana seen hum aboot in the day licht, he must be fair tired wie nicht wurk."
"That he is," said my grandfather as we parted, "He wurks gie hard but he gits a drink tae compensate."
"A widnae licht tae wurk fur hum," sighed Wullie, "He sounds lak a wurk demon who wid tak yer last drap o blud."
I was glad when we reached the exit and were back on the Kilkerran Road, turning to my grandfather I asked,
"Fancy that droll man not knowing about Dracula."
My grandfather looked fearfully round.
"Keep yer voice doon wee Donal. A hie heard that yon Wullie hings aboot the place at nicht and efter a burial he is aye lurkin aboot the grave, ye jist canna tell whits gan on in this wurld."
We hurried home, I terrified at my grandfathers words, himself grinning like a Cheshire cat.
My uncle was angry when I told him what had happened.
"Jock ye wull hae wee Donal in Lochgilphead wie a yer daft tak an blethers, in future al tak hin tae the graveyard, at least he wull be wie a sensible person."
One spring day, when the air was still and the loch like a millpond, when thoughts of the coming summer loomed in our young minds, I dreamt of being able to ride a bicycle and speed to Machrihanish or venture down the 'leerside' the road that swung down the east side of the peninsula towards Southend. What freedom a bicycle would give me, no longer trapped in the confines of the town, but able to venture far away.
The problem was, where to obtain a bicycle? It was beyond the means of my parents, so who else could obtain a machine for me?
Needless to say, when my grandfather heard of my desire to own a bike, he promptly swung into action.
"Dinae wurry wee Donal, George Stewart in the Low Road maks up bikes frae bits an pieces an he wull soon hae wan ready when a tell hum. He wull nae cherge much either."
A week slipped away, then one day my grandfather took me down to the shed in the back yard, and flung open the door.
"Thur ye are wee Donal, a braw bike, better even than yon Harris fellow, that wun the wurld race."
I beheld a grim iron framed monster -- fixed wheel, single ratio, lever brakes and a saddle that looked like a spike.
"Is that no gran wee Donal! A fine machine, built by Stewart when he wis sober, when ye git on it ye wull be able tae race roon the wurld!"
"But grandad, I dont know how to ride a bike!" I exclaimed.
"Whit, lord be aboot us, dinae ken who tae ride a bike, why it is just lak eatin an sleepin, ye jist dae it withoot thinking. Dinae be feart wee Donal, jist git oan noo an hae a burl roon the back yerd!"
He wheeled the machine out of the shed, told me to mount and gave me a graet push in the direction of the wall at the back of the yard.
"Awa ye go, an good luck tae ye!"
Propelled forward at great speed I flew about six yards then crashed to the ground, grazing my knee. Howling with pain, I limped back to my grandfather who was glaring at me.
"Can ye no keep an even keel, are ye feart or something? Git on agin an stop greetin or I will gie ye a wallop!"
The process was repeated many times until I could cycle round the yard, my leg muscles aching as I pushed the heavy machine forward. Then I was taken on to the High Street and along to the Low Road for my first major run.
"Awa ye go boy!" roared my grandfather, "Al gie ye a push, then heid fur the trench point, be back in an oor or al gie ye a right lunnerin!"
With that he pushed me forward and away I went hurtling towards the Trench Point. As I built up speed and did not fall off, I became more confident and in a short time reached the Trench Point, where I swung round and headed back for home.
When I reached home my grandfather gave me sixpence.
"Noo ye can flee a oor the place, at this rate ye wull be able tae gang tae Glesca in nae time at a!"
Thus began my cycling adventures round the area, but like all things confidence can be dented -- the laws of dynamics cannot be overcome!
I had set off to tackle the road that went past Kilkerran, then down round the gap between Davaar Island and on towards the higher hills. This road was called 'The Leerside', possibly a corruption of lee side. It was reasonably flat until you reached 'New Orleans' glen where a steep declivity led onto another glen called Corvans Glen.
I negotiated the slope down into New Orleans but on the one down into Corvans my rear brake failed and I was left tearing down into the depths. I cant remember much of what happened next, only coming to in some bracken, which must have cushioned my fall. Sadly my front wheel was buckled and I had to trudge home arriving about two hours later.
"Whur hae ye been?" rasped my grandfather.
When I told him that I had crashed in Corvans Glen, he became livid.
"Hae I no telt ye nae tae go far into yon glens, the tinkers could hae got ye or ye could hae fell aff some cliff an be drooned in the sea. Or wurst still ye could hae crashed on The Bastard an be lying mangled in the bracken, wie only the burds tae look on yer bones. Ye said yer brake failed, weel we wull be visitin yon Stewart noo tae tak hum tae task."
And so poor George Stewart was descended upon that summer day.
"Ye auld mooger! Fancy sellin me a bike wie a failed brake, puir wee Donal could hae been lyin deed amang his claes and ye wid be responsible!"
"But John I dinae sell ye a bike wie a failed brake, it failed efter wee Donal wis on it, it isnae meant fur gan on the leerside," protested poor George.
"A pied ye half a croon fur thon machine, an ye telt me it wis a racer, whit ye selt me wis a wreck, gie me ma money back or ye wull end up on the scrap heap yersel, ye crook!"
Poor George quickly handed the coin over.
"That is fine," said my grandfather, "Noo al awa tae Elder's tae see af I can get a decent machine fur the wee boy".
As time would have it even the machine from Elder's was too heavy, and my uncle bought me a Raleigh with a three speed, from the iron mongers.
The former lasted me many a year and even followed me to Corby where I used to cycle to work on it.
I used to be bothered with boils, for what reason I cannot explain. Sometime, just after the war a horrible boil appeared on my throat and grew to the size of a small tomato.
It became quite painful and I knew that I would have to visit Doctor Cameron at his surgery in Long Row South to receive treatment.
However my grandfather, considering himself a great healer, decided that he would attend to the boil without delay!.
"Al hae yon lump aff yer neck afore ye can say Jack Robinson!" he said, peering at the offending boil with a skilled eye.
"Watch whit yer daen Jock," warned my grandmother, "Yon boy is Maisie's son, an ye dinae want tae be causin hum blud poisonin that micht pit hum unner the grin."
"Awa wie ye wumman," snorted my grandfather, "I hae jist the thing fur yon boil, dae ye no trust ma ken aboot cures, did a no cure yon wee cat by choppin af its leg in the wash hoose."
"Aye," retorted my grandmother, "A ken the puir wee thing was fair howlin fur days, but wee Donal is a boy an ye are noo a doctor".
"A can dae jist as weel as yon wee bachle Cameron, ye dinae need fancy papers fur makin foulk better, anyway it is only a boil."
"Whit ur ye ganna dae tae hum Jock?" queried my grandmother as he produced a box of dark paste.
"Yon stuff looks like tar, are ye sure ye hana got a box o grease?"
"Ur ye daft wumman a got this frae doctor McKenzie fur ma sair feet twa years ago."
"But ye canna pit fit ointment ontae a wee boy's boil, its a wrang."
My grandfather's face reddened with rage.
"A ken weel fine whit an daein an the boil wull be awa in the morn, jist you wait an see."
"That a wull," said my grandmother.
The ointment was duly applied to my throat as I howled with pain and I received a clip on the ear as a reward.
"Stap greetin boy," hissed my grandfather, "Ye are wurse than yon wee cat that had its leg aff wie nae chloroform. In the morn thur wull be nae boil tae be seen."
Next morning my throat was badly inflamed and the boil looked very angry. As luck would have it, Doctor McKenzie was calling to see my grandmother and, noticing my distress, looked at the boil with a clinical eye.
"This needs lancing at once!", he snapped, "Cottage hospital within the hour! By the way, who put that black ointment on the boys throat?"
"It wis me, doctor," replied my grandfather sheepishly.
"Well John you could have caused blood poisoning, that ointment is for feet."
"Weel doctor it wis good enough fur ma feet, sae I thocht it wid be gran fur the wee boy's boil."
"Tch, tch." said doctor McKenzie, "Each to his own, that ointment is for your athletes foot."
As the doctor left I became dismayed by the thought of going to the Cottage Hospital.
"I want chloroform!" I howled, as I made ready to go, "I will be dead if they cut my throat!"
"Stap greetin ye wee baby," roared my grandfather, "A hae neever heard such greetin, why a wis stitched wance wae nae chlooroform at a, an Fesak had his finger tap aff wie naethin at a."
"Lee hum Jock," said my grandmother, comforting me, "Ye wull be a richt wee Donal, dinae wurry; dinae listen tae yon Jock, hum an Fesak wur growin men when they wer stitched, onyway Fesak had drunk sa much drink that he wis oblivious o any pain."
Off I set to the Cottage Hospital accompanied by my mother. I was ushered into the operating theatre and told to lie on the table. Some freezing liquid was put onto my throat and I did not feel a thing. A large plaster was then affixed to my skin, and I was on my way home, now quite a hero. Later I heard my grandfather talking to my Uncle in the kitchen.
"Wee Donal wis real brave, but a ken it wis ma ointment that got the boil unner control, am richt prood o whit a dun."
Copyright © 1998 Donald Keith.