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| The Troll Of Bengullion
Sports Day The Phantom Of Glebe Street The Rare Parrot The Trip To Glasgow |
Smilie's
McShannon's Dairy The Dentist The Mod The Lum |
Whilst I was recovering from the boil fiasco, my mates came along and suggested a trip up to Crosshill Loch which lay to the south of the town, in the lee of Bengullion.
Off we set up past Castlehill, onto Limecraigs, across the old army rifle range, then into the valley where Crosshill Loch lay.
The latter was like Auchy Lochy and Knockruan; Brooding, silent, its waters dark and deep, hardly a bird sped across the surface, our voices echoed against the wall of Bengullion, rolling up to the dark crest, where the Pipers Cave lay hidden in the bushes.
Yet Crosshill Loch was really what you would call a reservoir, having a pumping tower, stone parapets, and faced sides to prevent erosion. Yet there was still this air of menace that seemed to say that some dark secrets lay in the depths, or that the spirits of those who had drowned there were watching us, ready to reach up and catch us if we disturbed their domain.
The loch was in use in the middle part of the nineteenth century as a decent water supply to the town, and for its time was a model of an efficient water system and it certainly provided a happy play ground for us.
As to the disused rifle range (once the province of the Argyll Territorials) the old butts with their rusting target mechanisms made an ideal back drop for war games and trench warfare, much to the annoyance of the sheep who used to graze near the range.
That particular day we buzzed around the butts, our excited cries echoing in the gorse, and from the town our figures must have seemed like tiny spots moving about the ridge.
The afternoon waned and we set off home, down towards Limecraigs, then along the old railway cutting and out onto Kilkerran Road. As luck would have I met my grandfather pushing a pram-wheeled bogie loaded with drift wood from the shore.
"Whur hae ye been wie yer pals wee Donal?" He asked, his eyes sweeping up to Bengullion.
"We were up at Crosshill playing in the butts." I replied, noticing his face colour slightly.
"Hav a noo telt ye tae noo gae up tae that water. Why many a wee boy has sank tae a watery grave in the depths. Sum foulk hae seen the drooned faces gapin up frae the bottom on a clear day, an eithers hae heard deid voices speakin in the water. Many a wumman haes ended hur days in the water an a lot o droll foulk haes dun awa wie their sel an they ur a lyin deid amang their claes tae!"
He ranted on for a while about the dangers of the place, but we just sniggered quietly as we walked home. Back at Woodland Place he drew me aside.
"A hae telt nae buddy whur ye hae been, fur yer mother wid be fair daft if she kent ye whur awa tae yon dark loch and micht hae had tae be pulled oot wie grapplin hook,; sae al sae nay mer aboot it."
He paused for a few seconds, then his eyes twinkling,
"Hae I telt ye aboot the Troll that used tae leeve at the bottom o the Ben in the auld days afor a the noise o the toon scunnered hum an he went tae some other place tae stey?"
Stupidly I replied, "I did not know that there was a Troll up at the Loch, what happened?".
"Weel wee Donal," said my grandfather, pulling a plug of tobacco from his pocket and tossing it into his mouth, "Lang ago in the days when there wis only a few hooses in the toon, a puir fermer thet had sheep up near the Ben wis oot wan nicht when heard this awfa noise cammin oot o hollow near his hovel, it sounded like some puir buddy thet wis sufferin wie wind, sae he went tae look."
"Thur sleepin in the hollow wis a wee man wie a grate big heid an short stumpie legs. He wore big boots tae. As he slept he kept snorin and rufting an slevers kept dreepin oot o his mooth."
"The fermer noticed that thur wis a leg o wan o his sheep lyin half eatin near the man. This made the fermer fair scunnered an he prodded the man wie a stick till he cam tae wie a horrible grunt that could be heard awa as far as Peninver."
"'Whit ur ye eatin ma sheep fur ye blaggard, hae ye no got ony meat in your hoose?' shouted the fermer as the wee man sprang up his eyes red wie anger. 'Hae ye takin tae eatin a puir fermer oot o hoose an hame?' The troll glared at the fermer, an spat on the grin, as he did sae he showed a row o molars that wid hae done a crocodile prood,a yellow they wir, an broken in places."
"'Leemealon yaglecked oolet!' rumbled the Troll, his mooth twistin wie sheer deevilment.
"The puir fermer couldna unnerston whit the Troll wis sayin. 'Can ye no tak the Kings Eenglish ye cannibil?'"
"'I am thehull mon wie eats a he taks an I hae leeved here fur a time!'"
"'Whit!'roared the fermer, 'weel ye can bide awa frae this loch tae yer hoose an dina cam near ma sheep!'"
"As he taked the Troll sprang on tae the puir fermer an started tae eat him wie his big molars till a that wis left wis his claes, (the Troll dinae lak claes especially femers troosers), fur they buttons got trapped in teeth."
"Weel the puir fermers bones wur fan by the toon foulk an a great search wis started a oor Bengullion an even on the loch, but nae trace o the troll wis fan. Then wan day a wee boy wis eaten an the heid man in the toon sent fur a noble from the coort o the King, a think it was Robert II, the son o yon Bruce whae walloped the English at Bannockburn, an chased them awa oor the border tae Lundon toon."
"This noble wis called Sur Cherlie MacDunt, an he soon got on the trail o the troll an wan day he fan him loungin near a place called Charlie's Well. He was awfy tired an the brave Sur Cherlie gied hum an awfy lunnerin, an the troll ran greetin up tae the top o Bengullion wur he wis forced tae leeve on roots an berries, fur he wis feart tae go doon near the toon tae eat sheep an foulk in case Sur Cherlie gied hum anither lunnerin."
"Ye must be wunnerin why Sur Cherlie dinae kill yon troll, weel he hanna ony weapons as he had left them at hame in hus castle, sae he jist kept the troll awa wie lunnerins till he wis fair scunnerd wie it an the toon foulk made sicht a din that he coudna bide tae sleep at nicht."
"Eventually he slipped awa tae the north, wur he terrorised the foulk at Clachan wie his antics, but the diet o berries had made hum awfy weak fur eatin folk an sheep sae he had tae eat fush from the sea. Then wan day he wis fan deid in his claes near Drumore Na Bodach an the fermers buried hum in a hole, efter they had taken his big boots aff. Thats why Duncan Ralston weers huge boots, his ancestors inherited them awf an auld fermer who leeved at Putchecan."
"Sur Cherlie becam a hero an merried an auld widow frae Carradale an he dinae return tae his castle."
"So tae this day they say on a moonlight nicht ye can see his ghost gien the troll a richt lunnerin an ye can here the sound o his molars grindin awa at the loch side, Sae wee Donal keep awa frae yon loch or the troll micht cam doon an hae ye fur his dinner."
My grandfather finished his tale, and spitting out the well chewed plug of tobacco into the fire, watched it sizzle for a few moments.
"Dae ye no think wee Donal that Campbeltown is an awfy strange place, wie a its ghosts an bogies an things that creep aboot in the dark tae pit the fear o death in puir souls in their hooses?"
"But grandad, surely trolls live in Norway, how could a troll end up at Crosshill Loch?"
He considered my question for a few minutes, then lobbing another quid of tobacco into his mouth, smiled.
"A guid question wee Donal, a ken ye huv had a good larin at Dalintober School, but my feyther telt me o trolls that cam oor the seas floatin on the watter in their boots, an thats good enough fur me, sae awa tae yer bed noo an dinae be thinkin o yon troll lurkin up at Crosshill."
With that parting shot, the story of the troll of Crosshill was terminated, like you switch off the radio.
Now I must relate a tale of my induction at the Milknowe School Sports Day, to the world of racing and physical effort. I was to the world of runners an also ran.
Purcell gathered all the school together in the playground and delivered a tirade about the forthcoming Sports Day, his face seemed bloated and his nose had a deep blue tinge.
"Pupils!" he bellowed as a sergeant would to squaddies, "On Wednesday next we will have our Sports Day, where at Kintyre Park, a series of events will take place, from running to high jumping. All will take part and will compete with zest and maximum effort, no person will be excused except only if they have died. Mr Gemmil will be in charge of discipline at the event, and Mr Burgoyne from the Grammar School will be present to assess pupils that will be potential gymnasts and athletes."
"Milknowe School has a great tradition of excellence in sport and I expect you all to do well, any person who falls short of the mark will receive suitable punishment as devised by Mr Gemmil or, should I say, Major."
He paused for a few moments as Major Gemmil exulted in his military title, his beetle eyes roving along our ranks seeking out some ditherer who was already feeling weak and useless. Such persons existed, namely Donald Keith and some of his pals -- Gulla, MacSporran and MacPhee.
My great failing at that school was, being ten years old, I was caught up in a savage system that brooked no weaklings, that only excellence was the required norm and nervousness, shyness, was looked upon as a failing and that the causes of what triggered these problems was never considered by those who operated the system.
Purcell continued his oration about what was expected at the Sports Day, yet if he was an example of excellence, then in the consumption of liquor he certainly had reached the heights and probably beat Fesak into a poor second.
"Now return to your classes where you will be told what races you have been entered for and what equipment you will need. Go then and do you best. As a treat if great effort is shown then you will have an extra half-day's holiday. Go to it!"
Major Gemmil seized upon Purcell's words like a ferret upon a poor rabbit.
"School, Headmaster Purcell has shown a noble strain in offering a holiday. Three cheers for Mr Purcell!"
Stupidly we gaped forward.
"Hip hip!" roared Major Gemmil as if it were the parade ground at Kanpur or Madras.
A feeble "Hoora" slipped from our lips, then silence.
Purcell beamed with delight, here was Nero in all his glory savouring the crowds adulation at the temple. Supreme power that is what it was, it could have been at the quadrangle of Eton or Harrow in front of 'rich brats', but sadly it was an illusion enacted in front of 'no hopers' doomed by a 'rigid system' in a class-conscious society.
"Thank you Major," purred Purcell, "Now back to your lessons school!"
"School... 'Shun!" shouted Major Gemmil, malacca cane firmly wedged in his armpit. "School right turn, quick march, by the right, left right, left right!"
Back in the classroom, the teacher read out a list.
"MacPhee, the quarter mile. Thompson, the half mile. Keith, the one hundred yards. Equipment needed: sand shoes, shirt and shorts. Training to start tomorrow at lunch time."
Dazed I trudged home, sand shoes, shorts, a shirt, where could my parents get such items as money was tight and as for the hundred yards how could I train for such a race in the space of a week?
My mother frowned as I told her of what was required for the sports day.
"Does Purcell think that we are made of money? No, I will run you up some shorts and find a suitable shirt, as to sand shoes we will be able to afford a pair at the week."
Next day at lunch time I was lined up in the graveled playground with six other boys, only one of whom was equipped with sand shoes. The rest of us were decked with boots in various stages of repair. The hundred yard mark was a rope at the far end of the playground, for the longer races the trainees had to pound round the streets near the school.
We lined up, then Major Gemmil put a whistle to his lips and blew a sharp blast. As the last echoes trilled away we surged forward, our boots slithering on the gravel, the pupil with the sand shoes raced to the finish, whilst the rest of us struggled home gasping for breath. I came second last followed by some poor soul called McIvor.
"Tut tut", snapped Major Gemmil, "this will not do. Why has only one boy been equipped with sand shoes?"
McIvor put up his hand.
"Oor foulks hae nae muney, ye ken," he replied as Major Gemmil's face turned beetroot red, his Malacca Cane twitching in anticipation.
"McIvor," he snarled, "What kind of spoken English refers to 'muney' and 'ken'? You should have said 'My parents have no money to purchase shoes'. Have I not spent months drumming into your feeble brains, the curse of Scotland lies in drink and the use of hideous vernacular speech and the latter must be eradicated by the teaching of proper grammatical speech?"
We stared glumly as Major Gemmil ranted on. What, I thought, had good speech to do with training for a race?
"Well," said Major Gemmil, "Money or no money, I expect you all to be fully equipped by next Monday, and meanwhile more training will be needed. Return now to your class, except McIvor who will accompany me to the Head!"
Later we heard the dreaded strap swishing down on poor McIvor's hands and Purcell roaring out,
"When addressing a teacher you will reply in the Queens English and not as some savage from the glens!"
The rest of the week was spent in training, but the performances were still poor, with many people receiving grazed knees on the rough gravel and as for those running round the streets on the long distances -- one boy fell into the water near Dalintober Pier!
At last the great day arrived and we were ushered towards the hallowed turf of Kintyre Park. This was to the north of Limecraigs and consisted of a lower field where football was played and was also the site where Campbeltown Academicals beat Glasgow Rangers in the twenties in the Scottish Cup.
Above the football field lay the sports ground where rough lines had been laid out with sawdust, to mark the running tracks.
A reasonable crowd had turned up for the Sports Day, including some teachers from the Grammar School and Dalintober. Amongst them hovered Burgoyne, the elitist gym teacher, the athletic 'god', come to watch the feeble efforts of the 'doomed'. He stood on a podium with Purcell, dressed in a blazer and slacks, whilst the head slouched in a stained suit, a cigarette dangling from his florid lips.
Major Gemmil marched about at regulation pace, barking orders to other teachers, who then assembled the pupils for the various events.
The competition proceeded through the afternoon at what seemed a dolorous pace. The victors were hailed in their victory, whilst the failures were sniggered at. Many injuries were incurred, from sprained ankles to pulled leg muscles.
At last I lined up for the one hundred yards, equipped in my home made shorts and my sand shoes. The whistle shrilled and we surged forward, a great pain ripped through my lungs, but I kept going, then I fell. Getting up I staggered towards the line, where I slumped down, I was last, and felt awful.
Major Gemmil towered above me, his eyes glaring down.
"Get up Keith! The race through life will be hard, but I am afraid that you are an 'also ran' doomed to some wretched life, through your inability to compete in manly sports. Where will you be in thirty years if you cannot win a simple race. When you get to the Grammar School you will not survive the rigours of Mr Burgoyne's excellent training!"
So the great Sports Day drew to a close with plaudits to the winners, and derision to the losers. Purcell praised Burgoyne, whilst the latter praised Major Gemmil, who in turn heaped adulation on the two others.
As we trudged home we thought of those who had won their races and of those who had not.
When I told my grandfather what had happened, he told me not to worry as long as I did my best.
"Dinae be feart o yon teachers. Yon Purcell wis a great fitba player in his time, bit he wis oor fond o drink an noo he is jist a puir academical wi nae place tae go, except doon. As fur yon Boorgoyne, weel ye ken whit a this fitness did tae yon Germans unner Hitler, they were sae fit that they ended up gettin a lunnerin frae us they wull ner furget!"
Campbeltown at one time had many whisky making premises, to the total of approximately twenty-six and, when the decline came, there were streets where many disused bonded warehouses lay. One such street was Glebe street, which ran from the Milknowe School down towards the junction of the Machrihanish Road and Main Street. Towards the latter there were dwellings where, at a later time, my Aunt Mary came to live. Up towards the school end Glebe Street was dark and forbidding, all sunlight seemingly cut off by the tall buildings that cast long shadows. Even in warm summer days, the street felt cold and hostile. At the school end lay the power station that supplied the town with electricity. (My uncle worked in the station for a few years.)
You can imagine in the dark autumn evenings, to walk down the dark length of Glebe Street was considered a great dare, and all sorts of legends were concocted to give us a scare, yet one gave us a great fright.
It must have been one October evening in the late forties when we decided to brave the Glebe Street shadows, then head for the comparative safety of Main Street.
We walked past the Cattle Market that ran parallel to the school, then turned into Glebe Street.
One of my pals became a bit nervous.
"I wis hearing aboot a story of the Phantom o Glebe Street that cams oot in the October nichts an flees up an doon moanin a the time, till a body is scared daft. Wan wee boy that saw the phantom was sae feart that his hair turned white, an he becam an auld man!"
"Wha telt ye that?" laughed another of my pals, "It wis probably auld Fesak lookin fur wan o his auld drinking haunts, whur he used tae guzzle pook!"
"Naw, the phantom is the ghost o an auld wifie that wis murdered in hur hoose by her drunken man, who fled up the Laggan an drooned humsel. They say she keeps lookin fur hur man, wunnerin where he is. Anyway its ony a story, but it wis in October when the bluddy deed wis done!"
As we started to walk down the street the words of our pal began to conjure vivid pictures in our young minds. The tall dark buildings seemed to loom over us, their boarded windows like malignant eyes watching us, the full moon suddenly sending a shaft of light towards a doorway. Was that a huddled shadow in the corner rising up at our approach? We quickened our pace, but the street seemed to be closing in on us, long fingers of shadow reaching out to snare our bodies. Then a rustling noise. Could it be the old woman's dress, was that breathing we were hearing? A thudding sound, followed by a creak. Was it a door opening? We had visions of some dark room, a chair being raised, then a squelch, followed by more scrapping.
The pace quickened.
"Thur is something sluthering along the other side o the street!" cried one of my pals, "Lets git awa tae Main Street whur there is lichts tae see!"
We needed no second urging and with a yell fled along the street, our boots pounding on the pavement, sending up a fearful din.
The slithering noise followed us, seeming to increase pace as we did.
"Yon phantoms followin us!" cried one of us, "He wull catch us, or wurse if we see his face we wull be turned intae auld men!"
"But a thocht the phantom wis an auld wummin that wis murdered?" we all cried in reply as we gained the safety of the Gentleman's Club corner.
Then the phantom was upon us -- a large black dog trailing a sack which smelt of fish. The dog wagged its tail as it approached us and we fell about laughing.
"Thurs yer auld wummin!" we roared, "Mer lak an auld bag!"
Thus ended our transit of Glebe Street, and a few days later I happened to mention to my uncle that I had seen the phantom of Glebe Street.
"Funny ye should mention that Donal, but there wis a murder away back at the turn o the century but it wis up in the Mill Dam end o the toon, an auld wummin wis battered by her man an he fled up the Tarbert road. The polis on their bikes caught hum an he wis hung in Barlinnie. Even so when a wis in the power station a could sweer that a wis being watched by something, ye see we kept the door open maist o the year fur the deisels made it awfy hot. Na ye canna say that thur isnae ony phantoms in the toon."
The main and only paper at the time I resided in Campbeltown was The Courier, the source of all news and, as my father used to say, 'a good two minutes read'.
It was launched far back in the last century and at one time had a rival called The Argyllshire Herald, which eventually became defunct. (At the time of writing the Courier is now controlled by Argyllshire Papers based in Oban).
The Courier had its own unique style of reporting, and the typesetting was done in a room behind the main office in Longrow South.
We used to peer in the back window as the compositors set the type by hand and then watch as the Courier was printed.
As to format, the paper consisted of four pages: The front for the latest news; Page two devoted to various articles of local interest; Page three for births, deaths and marriages; And page four for sports news.
Many a strange headline was trumpeted across page one. I remember one that my father told me about which said 'Strange bird found alive on Machrihanish beach: could be rare parrot that flew from America'!
The article then went on to relate that an expert had hurried up from London excited in the fact that that a bird had been able to travel so far against the prevailing wind, and still be alive. He had hardly arrived when the parrot's owner from Drumlemble came to claim his bird that had escaped two days previously. This led to great hilarity and many red faces!
Another great headline was 'Man protests about his door being painted green by council'.
Another headline that was a classic:
As the Courier put it,
However the London expert pronounced that the violin was an imitation one given as a prize at fair grounds. An old parishioner verified this when remembered his brother won it at a fair in Tarbert!
The proceedings of the Sheriffs Court was reported verbatim and even the most minor offence was given front page tratment.
I remember reading one day the following article:
"Sheriff McMaster in summing up said that he had never heard of such an outrageous case of breach of the peace. That a lowly Tinker could disturb the peace of god-fearing citizens and that he must be punished accordingly. As this was Townsley's fifth appearance before him in two years he had no option but to sentence him to two months detention in Barlinnie. He admired Townsley's attempts to get educated, but an assualt on the Library was not the way!"
On the same report there was stated:
Another facet of Courier reporting was in the readers letters column. Strangely, most of letters were from people all over the country, and the subjects ranged from ancient monuments to people seeking information on lost ancestors.
One such letter was from a Mr MacDonald in Sidney seeking some relation from the Campbeltown area, it read as follows:
Some months later came a reply from someone near Tunbridge Wells, Kent saying that the MacDonald referred to actually came from Southend on Sea in England, clearly a great muddle somewhere!
Another great source of enjoyment was reading the births, marriages and deaths column. Typical entry:
I can just imagine some Chinese editor reading the Courier!
Other sources of enjoyment where the errors in printing, a classic was a report of the Duke of Argyll going to the Bahamas for a holiday:
Or:
"Rabbit owner dismayed by the loss of her pet said 'she was caught on the hop'." Tide tables were published for the benefit of sailors. One such entry stated that low tide would be at a certain time at level ten feet with high tide following at 200 feet, clearly Campbeltown would have vanished beneath the waves that day and became another Dunwich.
When the steamer was not plying from Gourock to Campbeltown, the only other way to reach Glasgow was by MacBrayne's bus, a journey of about 138 miles.
My uncle decided that he would treat me to a 'trip' to Glasgow by bus and when he announced the fact, it was like being informed that I had been selected to go to the Moon! I was, to say the least, spellbound and when I told my pals they were agog; Glasgow was like some distant Xanadu, where all sort of wonders were to be seen. News of my trip spread like wild fire and even in school Major Gemmil broached the subject.
"I understand," he said, "that Keith will be going to Glasgow for a short break. Beware of large metropoli where in all manner of evil lurks; Glasgow has a hidden side, keep from all dark streets, and keep close to your uncle. Beware of pickpockets and purveyors of vice and licentiousness; it is a lesson I learned in Madras as a young subaltern in His Majesty's service!"
When I told my grandfather what Major Gemmil had said and that I was to keep away from people selling vices, he glared at me in a doleful manner.
"Ye ken wee Donal he shouldna hae been tellin ye aboot vices, he meant foulk selling sex fur money!"
"Whits that ye are tellin wee Donal?" queried my grandmother as she stirred a pot of soup on the fire. "He is gie yung tae be heerin about sex it isnae guid fur his wee mind, anywa a dinna ken whit a this haes tae dae wie gaun tae Glesca?"
"Weel," said my grandfather, "yon Gemmil at the school wis tellin hum tae be right feart aboot gaun tae Glesca, way al thon keelies lurkin aboot, an a wis jist puttin hum richt."
As they were bantering away, my uncle came in.
"Whit are ye a arguing aboot?"
When they told them, he gave a chuckle, and sat down.
"Glesca is changed from your days, Jock" he laughed, "Actually it is a gran city noo, an they are evin thinking o pullin doon the Gorbals an buildin new hooses fur a the foulk."
"Eh?" retorted my grandfather, "Pullin doon a they fine tenements, whur wull a the puir soul leeve when they are dain that?"
"It wull be done slowly," replied my uncle, "an they are startin new schemes oot in the ootskirts, tae hoose they Gorbal foulk."
"A remember gaen tae Glesca when a wis a young lassie" interrupted my grandmother, "I had a great time an a went tae stey wi some relations awa oot near Loch Lomond."
"Weel," said my uncle, "wee Donal wull nae cum tae ony herm when is wie me, we wull be stayin at Mrs McKay's in Sauchiehall Street up near the University and the art galleries an wee wull be gaen tae see the museums an a show in the King's Theatre."
"Oh mee!" exclaimed my grandmother, "Stayin at Mrs McKay's, a hope the beds arnae damp, sum o yon Glesca foulk are no particular wie heatin rooms, an dina tak a room up in the attics, an mak sure ye lock yer door in the nicht fur ye dinae ken who might be lodgin there!"
"Dinae wurry mother," calmed my uncle, "I hae stayed thur afore an it is a gran place tae leeve in, an we wull be in a double room."
"Whit can o room is that ?". asked my grandfather, "its no wan o they rooms whur twa lots o foulk hae tae bide, whit heppens if there is a man an a wummin sharin the room?".
"Look Jock," replied my uncle, "Double bed meansa bed fur twa foulk tae sleep in, nae four double people tae sleep in."
"Weel a hope ye are richt," said my grandfather, shovin a plug of bogie roll into his mouth followed by a swig of tea, "Fur ye hear in the papers o queer things goin on!"
"Whits the name o the show ye are goin tae."
"Its called 'Half past eight' an its at the Kings Theatre wie Dave Willis as the star."
"Erchie," said my grandmother, "we dinae want tae ken the time o the show, whits its name?"
"Thats whit is called mother."
My uncle was getting a bit irritated by this time.
"'Half past eight' that is whit it is called, an it is a comedy."
"Awfy daft tae call a comedy wie a time," muttered my grandmother, " bit thats progress fur ye."
Eventually the day arrived for to board the McBraynes bus at the parcel office in Main Street, near the clock tower.
A large crowd followed us over to the stance including my grandfather.
"They are awfy lucky gan tae Glesca," sighed one old man, "a hae nae been oot the toon a my life."
"Whit wid ye dae gaun tae Glesca Tam?" replied someone, "Ye wid be loast in the streets an the keelies wid git ye."
There was a roar of laughter at the remark as we boarded the bus.
"Look efter wee Donal, Erchie!", roared my grandfather, "An watch yer wallet in yon Glesca, many a true heilanman cam tae grief in the Gorbals."
The bus driver started the engine and engaged first gear, with a shudder we drew away followed by an excited crowd which fell away as we gathered speed. The conductor, a small man with beady eyes, started up the aisle, ticket machine at the ready.
"Furst stoap Kilkenzie!" he bellowed, "Next stoap Bellochantauy, then on tar Tarbert, fifteen meenits at Tarbert!"
When he reached our seats he leaned forward.
"Whur are ye gaun tae?" he asked as he sneezed suddenly, "Is the boy wie ye tae?"
"Twa returns tae Glesca, half price fur the boy." Replied my uncle, taking out his wallet.
At the sight of the wallet the conductor's eyes bulged.
"Man thons a fine weeng "Na," replied my uncle, "am jist hus uncle, hes ma brothers son."
The conductor thought for a few moments.
"Hae a guid time then," he said, moving off up the aisle.
The journey to Glasgow lay north up the A83, the first 38 miles being to Tarbert at the mouth of Loch Fyne, thence up into the mountainous north Argyll massif, within whose peaks lay 'Rest and Be Thankful', a road to test the stoutest vehicle. The gateway to the massif was Inverrary at the head of Loch Long and seat of the clan Campbell. The nearby field of Inverlochy marked the spot where Montrose, after an epic march over the mountains, defeated Arichibald Campbell in 1644, in the closing stages of the English Civil War. (Montrose was Charles' Captain General).
The bus ground up towards Bellochantuy and stopped at the post office where parcels were deposited and taken. The driver slopped off for a 'wee dram' and a smoke, and a few curious villagers peered in the window of the bus at the passengers as if they were freaks, even a decrepit highland cow came and snorted in the door.
Once again the bus was on the move north. A passenger at the front asked the driver if he could go any faster than 35 miles per hour, as he had an appointment in Glasgow at 3pm.
"Whits yer hurry?" grunted the driver taking a draw on his Capstan full strength, "A canna gie mair faster oan this rod an we ur jist cummin up tae Tangy Bends, so haud yer wheest!"
Tangy Bends was where the road convoluted round rock outcrops, more like a racing track; anyone coming in the opposite direction had to sound their horn to indicate their approach, or someone had to advance on foot waving their arms in alarm.
As we negotiated the bends my uncle pointed outside to the grim rock formations.
"See yon rocks wee Donal, weel years ago robbers used tae hide there tae rob the mail coach on its wey tae Tarbert, they were awfy fierce men wey clubs an dirks."
"Just like in the Wild West!" I replied taking out my Beano to have a read.
Tarbert was reached and many of the passengers alighted and a great drove scrambled on, grunting and jostling for seats.
"Next stoap Lochgilphead!" roared the conductor advancing down the aisle. His remark brought a few sniggers, as Lochgilphead was the site of the County Asylum.
"An be the look o some o ye ye should stey there fur guid. A remember wance wan o they droll foulk got oan the bus bit a soon spotted hum an pit him aff at Arrochor where the polis nabbed hum."
"Whit did he look like?" asked my uncle as the conductor shoved up the aisle round a fat lady dozzing with a ferocious cat on her lap, the latter spitting in anger at the conductor.
"He looked lake Jeekel an Hyde yon mad man that turned into a monster when he drank a gulp o some mixture an a hair grew oot o his heid an face an his teeth were a yellow an sherp."
"Who was Jeekel and Hyde?" I asked my uncle.
"Oh its only a wee story by Rab Stevenson, ye can get the book oot o the Library when ye git hame," he replied as the bus lurched round a hairpin bend, with a shear drop on one side.
We reached Inverrary in a drizzle that sieved down from the hills. The bus drew in to the Pier Head and the driver switched off the engine.
"Half an oor tae streetch yer legs an git a cup o tea!" he barked, pulling a pipe from his pocket.
We stood at the pier head in the rain gloom, staring across at the troubled waters of the loch. Oily waves lapped the breakwater sending an odd plume of spray against rusting railings. The town was deserted, except for an single fisherman leaning against concrete lamp post and spitting into the gutter. Above us the ramparts of the castle, modelled in the French style with tapered roofs, looked down through the mist. A silent guardian of power and of all the treachery that ruined Scotland in the past.
My uncle buttoned up his coat as we headed for McHarg's Tea Room.
"A dont like this toon at a wee Donal, nae wunner Rab Burns called it 'Heiln scab an hunger' when he cam here mony years ago. Jock telt me wance aboot ludgins he took here when he wis a youg man, he said he wis nearly sterved wi the poor meet he wis gaen an had tae ful himsel up wie breed frae the bakers. A hope we git a decent cup o tea when we gie intae the tea room."
The tea room was very dingy -- tables covered with oilcloth and on the walls faded pictures and notices. One such notice, yellow with age, proclaimed a garden fete in the grounds of the castle at 3pm on Saturday the 10th of June 1906! Another picture showed Kitchener pointing an saying 'your country needs you, will you march too or wait until March second 1916'.
The woman behind the counter stared at us as we sat down and my uncle signaled her over. "Twa cups o tea an twa iced buns."
The woman shuffled away and returned with the items, swatting off a fat bluebottle that was gorging on one of the iced buns!
"That wull be twa an sixpeence sur," she mumbled, scratching her head.
As my uncle gave her the coins she peered at me.
"A havna seen the wee boy aboot but a ken ye frae when ye used tae trevel up tae Glesca oan the bus, ur ye gan tae the city fur a wee holiday?"
"Aye we ur," replied my uncle.
"Weel a hope ye hae a guid time an watch yer muney in yon place. Many a poor heilun man has had his sillar wheesked awa in the night an wurse. Why look whit yon Boorke an Hare did in Edinburgh Toon, ye could be smoothered in yer beds an becum mummies in a museum!"
As she walked away my uncle shook his head.
"Dinae be feart wee Donal thet disnae heppen noo, the only danger is haen yer purse taken wie pick pockets or beggars takin yer money when ye ar nae lookin oot. But we will watch oot fur nae do weels an drunkin keelies especially in the Gallowgate, fur that is an awfy dangerous place!"
The bus ground on into the mountains then up the 'rest', on one side a fearsome drop with rusting wrecks littering the valley and on the other the towering cliff faces gushing torrents onto the road. Then we were at the crest and speeding onto Glasgow, into the outskirts of Luss then finally the great city closed into us, with its buses, trams, and myriads of people surging like ants in pursuit of their daily business.
Journey's end was at Jamaica Bridge bus station where we all alighted and joined the throng of people.
"Remember," shouted the conductor above the din,
"Return journey frae Robertson Street on the Broomielaw, nae frae thus place!"
My uncle looked at a small map he taken from his pocket.
"Weel get a tram frae here tae Sauchiehall Street an be there in nae time at a!"
A swaying, groaning contraption thundered upon us, its sides flexing. Above an arm sparked against a mesh. The tram ground to a halt, and there was a rush of bodies to get on.
"Room at the tap fur mony o yees!" howled a small conductor, "Next stap Glasgow Bridge then intae Sauchiehall Street."
We found a seat in the bottom and stared out at the rushing traffic and listened to the din, so strange to our country ears, and to the Glasgow dialect as various people bantered good naturedly with one another.
At last we reached the far end of Sauchiehall Street and alighted in front of a dark close way in a high tenement building. The building was tarnished with years of soot that hid its true beauty and many of the windows had a dull look due to fumes from traffic.
"This is four hunner an twenty, and Mrs McKays ludgins are awa up at the tap o the place, weel hae tae climb up a few stairs tae git there," coughed my uncle as the fumes went for his throat, "Still we are a soond o wind an limb."
Up the dark stairway we climbed and reached a dark oak door with a brass name plate on which the name 'J McKay' was stamped. My uncle pressed an ornate door bell, there was the scrape of bolts being pulled, and the door swung open. There stood a small woman with a pleasant smile, her blue eyes sparkled, and as she opened her mouth she revealed a row of gleaming dentures, at her feet a black tom cat purred in contentment as he rubbed against her leg. From within the lodgings wafted the smell of cooking.
"Ah," said Mrs McKay, "you will be muster Keith an his nephew up frae Cameltoon in the heilans. Cam awa in, yer room is ready, its up in the attic an there is a wash basin fur ye ta kerry oot yer ablootins."
As she spoke the cat darted out into the landing and through an open door at the end of the corridor.
Mrs McKay led us up some dark stairs then to a door, which she opened with a key, and then ushered us in with a flourish.
"As ye can see this is a spacious attic wie plenty o room fur ye an the wee boy, yon skylight wull let in plenty o licht, an a the sheets oan the bed huv been weel aired so there isnae ony risk o damp. Al be leein ye noo so as ye can get settled in, dinner is at seeven when the gong goes."
After Mrs McKay had left we surveyed the attic. It was reasonably big, with a large double bed in one corner and a great wardrobe in the other. Lighting was by means of a skylight, the latter being dull with years of grime.
We had hardly unpacked and stowed our gear away when from the bowels of the place came a deep boom signifying the dinner hour. Hardly had it died away than there was the sound of doors opening and people hurrying along.
"Weel Donal," said my uncle, "we better get doon tae yon dining room, fur I hav heard that some o they Glesca foulk hae the appetites o Rab Ha an can eat at a awfy rate."
The dining room was already nearly full when we entered. Mrs McKay ushered us to a small corner table for two.
"It is potato soup, steak pie an rice pudding the nicht sae take it or leave it!" she snapped, glaring at an old man on the table opposite who seemed to be complaining about the soup to one of the servers.
"Weel tak the lot," said my uncle, "We hae been on the road a lang time an are fair famished."
Mrs McKay turned her attention to the old man.
"Whits wrang wie the soup?" she queried, her eyes hardening, so that the old man seemed tae shrink in his chair.
"Oh it is awfy cauld, alak it hot ye see," the old man mumbled nervously, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
"Weel Mr McTavish ye are the first tae complain aboot ma soup bein cauld an ye hae been a ludger here fur twenty years, gie me that soup spoon tae a taste the brew."
She then proceeded to scoop up a mouthful.
"Nae thing wrang wie that!" she exclaimed, "git oan wie ye dinner an if ye keep complainin ye wull hae tae pack yer bags, a canna be daein wie trouble makers."
With that she swept from the room an old Mr McTavish eagerly slurped his soup as if spurred on by the threat of being evicted.
The few days we had in Glasgow sped by, with visits to museums, art galleries, parks and the trip to the Kings Theatre. The great city seemed like another world to my mind, full of strange noises, accents and the gurgling of the River Clyde as it pushed towards the sea.
We crossed on the ferry to Govan to visit a relation of my uncle's, whose house backed onto the Harland and Wolf shipyard. What a strange house! With the kitchen window looking onto the plating yard, speaking was virtually impossible during work hours with the hammer of pneumatic rivet machines that sounded like machine guns, drowning all speech, so that signs had to be made by hand!
Another trip involved a visit to the vast Necropolis Cemetery where an uncle of my uncle lay buried. The place was so vast that a grid system was needed to identify a required plot, and it took nearly an hour to traverse the burial ground.
Eventually we bade Mrs McKay farewell and boarded the bus at Robertson Street, the latter being in the autumn sun a dismal place, where hidden eyes seemed to be watching us from the tall warehouse buildings.
Back in Campbeltown, armed with a train set my uncle bought me in Lewis's department store, I became the talk of the school and the locality. To have actually stayed in the city and visited a theatre was to have in the eyes of many, crossed the rubicon to some fabled land that they could only read about in books, and to have a train set was the present supreme.
My grandfather did not help by telling people where I had been and extolling the facets of my travel as if I where another David Livingstone; Even to Fesak, whom he met in the street one day as we crossed the Esplanade, he let forth a gush of praise.
"Aye Fesak", he purred, "Wee Donal has jist been tae Glesca wie Erchie an mon did they see sum sichts, away hunners o miles intae unknown land, full o keelies a kerd sharps a lookin oot fur puir hielmen tae rob an tooss intae the Clyde, but they kept their heids an had a great time a tell ye. Why Erchie even bocht wee Donal a train set wie rails an a an he his been playin a day wie it a day. Erchie took hum tae a theatre whur there wur actors an a kinds o foulk daein amazing things a nicht; foulk whur even singin tae real tunes."
Fesak, his red eyes watering, sniffed a few times, then peered at me as if I were some specimen in a jar. His breath stank of spirit. Wiping his eyes with a dirt ingrained handkerchief, he opened his mouth.
"Glesca hae ye been tae, did ye no bring me back a bottle o whisky fur a havnae had a swallow this morn, an am fair parched ye ken?"
"Dinae ask the wee boy aboot drink. Here is half a croon tae get ye a dram in the Gluepot or the Davaar; Donals tae excited wae bein in Glesca tae be takin tae ye!"
Fesak snatched the coin, and giving an almighty sneeze, shuffled off muttering about the price of whisky being grim for a poor old man on his pension.
So ended my trip to Glasgow and for months I was an object of wonder, as people stared at me in the street and whispered, "He has been tae Glesca!"
Now my tale moves to High Street, where next to Peter Finney's barber shop was a grocers called 'Smilie's'.
It was a dark shop, a window yellow with age, green paint encrusted with grime. The display in the window included a pyramid of tins ranging from soup to rice, whose labels were faded with age and whose metal bore tinges of rust.
On entering the shop one was confronted with a wall displaying adverts for 'Bisto', 'Bovril', 'Nestlé's Chocolate' and 'Fynon Salts' -- which was supposed to 'fortify the over forties'. On the far wall were various notices for functions, some years out of date and yellow with age.
The other side of the shop held the counter, a heavy oak construction, and behind it shelves stacked with various grocery items ranging from pepper to digestive biscuits.
Where the sugar and butter were kept swarms of demented flies swirled overhead whilst others dived onto the sugar. An ancient flypaper encrusted with dead flies flapped in the breeze that filtered through from the back of the shop, as did the smell of cooking, ranging from stale cabbage to fish.
As to the owner of the shop, Smilie, what can I say looking back from fifty years in time? I believe he was English, perhaps from the East End of London, a small man whose head just came above the counter. Though he had a Scottish accent, my pals and I thought it would be good idea to try out some 'Cockney Slang' on him to see if he would respond and there by get in his good books.
We managed to smuggle a book about 'Cockney Slang' past the x-ray eyes of Carmichael at the Library. From the book we picked up the phrase 'how are you my old china?' After a lot of hard work we proceeded to Smilie's one dark autumn evening and entered the shop, dimly lit by the stuttering gas lamps which cast weird shadows on the walls.
The sound of our footsteps brought Smilie shuffling from the back room, a cigarette dangling from his lips. A moth swept past his face and settled on a jar of boiled sweets.
Smilie's breath came in rapid gasps followed by bursts of coughing and spluttering.
"Whoot dae ye scamps want?" he wheezed, taking a deep draw on his cigarette and rolling his eyes slowly. "A dinae sell toys ye ken, only leemonade an sweeties, sae dinae be askin fur droll things, fur a ken whit ye scamps hae been daein oor at Cook's Shop."
One of my pals stepped forward, "A bottle o leemonade me auld china," he said in a loud voice.
Smilie clapped a hand to his ear and leaned forward.
"Whoot did ye say, a bootle o leemonade wie china? Whoot dae ye want china fur, can ye no drink it frae the bootle, a dinae sell ony cups in here."
"Jist gie us the leemonade," said my pal as we tried another phrase of slang.
"Does your plates of meat hurt, climbing the apples and pears?" I said, as Smilie stared at me, his lips parting slightly to reveal broken teeth.
"Whoots that ye said Donal Keith, is this whur ye meet fur prayers? Why ye scamp git oot o my shop the lot o ye, trying ma patience, wait till a see yer grandfether, ye wull git a right lunnerin!"
"But Muster Smillie ", protested one of my pals, "We wis only tryin oot sum 'Cockney Slang' on ye fur we thocht ye wur a Cockney, an we thocht ye wid be gie pleased wie us."
"Al gie ye Cockney!" roared Smilie, "Am frae an auld line o Scotch, sae git oot o ma shop noo"
We rushed from the shop laughing, leaving Smilie waving his arms with rage.
When I told my grandfather what had happened, a grim look came on his face.
"Ye shouldna hae annoyed wee Smillie, he used tae be a rare boxer in his young days, he could hae floored ye al wie a few upper cuts."
Whilst on the subjects of shops, across from Smilie's lay the marble fronted emporium known as 'McShannon's Dairy' where milk products and novelties were sold, it was the latter that attracted our attention and our pocket money.
In 1945 few toys were filtering onto the market as industry switched from arms to consumer goods and what toys that were made came from abroad. In the summer of 1945 McShannon's took delivery of paper planes powered by an elastic band and at the cost of one shilling. When you wound up the band, the plane would swoop upwards then glide forward. Many came to a watery grave in the loch, whilst others became trapped in trees or church steeples. They caused great annoyance to people and led Purcell, before school broke for the summer recess, to pronounce from the school steps 'that practice of flying paper planes was to stop, any pupil causing annoyance during the summer holidays would be strapped at the start of the autumn term, without mercy'.
That summer McShannon's had a delivery of another novelty, this time it was a type of gun, made of wire bent into a 's' shape and firing a round pellet, the pellet being propelled by a spring. There was a terrific rush to buy the guns and soon everyone was taking pot shots at one another and the ping of pellets striking windows and people rang in the streets. The guns soon sold out and we were forced to make our own pellets from bits of cork or wood.
The summer sped by and we enjoyed a spell of warm weather playing games with our wire guns up in the hills until the latter broke and the hazards of flying pellets became a thing of the past.
McShannon's Dairy, as I previously mentioned, sold milk and various other items including eggs. One day my grandfather handed me a florin (two shillings) and told me to go to McShannon's and buy half a dozen eggs. As I left he gripped my shoulder tightly.
"Dinae break ony eggs and get ootsize wans. Nane o yer sma wans."
I was puzzled by the word ootsize and wondered what it meant, then I remembered in the Beano a story about 'Desperate Dan' eating ostrich eggs for his breakfast. Perhaps my grandfather wanted half a dozen ostrich eggs? As I turned to confirm this I discovered that my grandfather was fast asleep and to disturb him would be like wakening a raging bear, so I set off on my errand to the dairy.
On entering I went up to the counter. McShannon glared down at me.
"Weel boy whit dae ye want?"
"Half a dozen ostrich eggs please, sir." I replied, thrusting the florin onto the counter.
"Ye wull hae tae go a lang way fur ostrich eggs boy they keep them in the Veldt whur thae Hotentots leeve."
I thought for a few minutes, thinking that the Veldt was some kind of cupboard at the back of McShannon's shop and that the Hotentots worked there. I bravely replied,
"Please get the eggs from the Veldt so that I can take them home and can I have a macaroon bar as well?"
McShannon's face turned purple with rage, his eyes blazed with anger.
"Ye wee scamp hus thon Jock Smith pit ye up tae this tell hum that we ony keep hens eggs, so awa hame an tell hum tae cum humsel."
"But ostrichs are only large hens sir," I replied, heading for the door as McShannon's face contorted with rage and he made strange spluttering noises.
When my grandfather heard what had happened he gave me a clip on the ear.
"Ah telt ye tae git half a doozen eggs o the big size, nae ostrich eggs they wid be awfy hard tae eat, so al hav tae gan up tae McShannon's fur the eggs masel, ye and yer book larnin, it addles yer brain, a kent a man that read sae much that he went daft, na readin is fur clever foulk like meenisters an lawyers an dochters; sae in future listen tae whit I say afore ye go fur messages."
As with the wear and tear of life so the Scottish diet of sweeties leads to attacks on the teeth. Thus I developed a toothache in one of my eye teeth in about the year 1948 and was forced to pay a visit to the dentist.
The latter was called 'Large and Son' and was based in a grim building in Union Street. The street itself was something from the pen of Robert Louis Stevenson, dark tall tenements where the sun never cast its warming rays, narrow doorways and a smell of decay and damp.
I reached the doorway of the dentist's. Some passer by gave me a strange look as I went into the hall, as if to say 'beware of what lies ahead'. My pals had told me stories of what went on in Large's rooms, of strangled groans and cries, frightened faces peering from curtained windows. Of Large himself no one knew much about him, he was very old, keeping the practice open for his son. He seemed to flit out from the building at night, moving swiftly in the dark and this frightened me greatly. The fact that I had just seen the film The Phantom of the Rue Morgue did not help me as I entered the gloomy hall and ascended the dark stair towards a door which had the notice 'Waiting Room' upon it.
Somewhere in the distance a whirring sound followed by a sharp cry of pain made me feel sick. I opened the door and entered a dim room with dark blue walls, faded prints of highland scenes and a framed certificate saying 'James Large, Batchelor of Dentistry, Dundee'.
A woman was peering at some papers on a desk. She looked up as I entered, her severe face tightening, her eyes glinting behind frosted glasses.
"What do you want child ?" she hissed, adjusting her specs, her teeth clicking as she spoke, "This is a dentist's you are in."
"Please miss, I have a toothache." I blurted out, my hands shaking.
"Upper or lower, molar or incisor?" she snapped, opening an appointments book.
Having not studied dentistry I was oblivious as to the meaning of molar or incisor.
"My front tooth hurts."
"Very well stupid child, wait here and Mr Large will see you in a few minutes. Are you National Health or private?"
"I am a boy miss" I replied, not knowing what National Health meant.
"Stupid boy, what is your surname?"
"Sir Donald Keith, miss", I said, thinking that surname meant sir name.
"Idiot!" she spluttered, "Donald Keith is your name."
"Have you any other names?"
"Donal" I lamely replied, causing her to grind her teeth.
"What is your address?"
"Milknowe School."
"No, not your school!" she roared, "Where do you live?"
"Woodland Place."
"I might have guessed!" she exclaimed, "People from Dalintober are not blessed with much gumption. Wait here whilst I see Doctor Large."
With that she arose and went through an inner door, where I heard muffled voices and grunting, like pigs do at feeding time. A few minutes later she returned.
"Doctor Large will now see you Keith!" she snapped, her tiny eyes blazing. I remembered the phantom picture and shook.
Sadly, I arose from my seat and entered the inner door where the hunched figure of Doctor Large was fiddling over some instruments. The room smelt of disinfectant and a variety of other things. Instruments lay on trays. The belt-driven drilling machine seemed to engulf the chair where the patient sat. A small suction machine lay to the right of the drill. On the wall was a colour print of 'The Stag At Bay', framed in gold, as well as other scenes and grim prints of past dentists who had worked in the room in days of yore. The light in the room was very poor, filtering through a heavily curtained window, the only supplement to this being a vintage Boer War period lamp on a bracket.
Large turned as I entered, his face was impassive as that of a statue, his eyes grey and without feeling, a great flock of white hair fell down over his brow, which he swept back with a flourish. He was dressed in a white smock, green trousers and dark brown brogues that creaked as he plodded forward to greet me.
"Are ye Donal Keith?", he asked, his mouth opening to reveal stained teeth -- a poor advert for a dentist.
"Ma secretary says ye hav a toothache, so sit ye doon in the chair an al have a look."
Terrified, I placed myself in the embrace of the chair and Doctor Large switched on the lamp.
"Open yer mooth Donal!" he commanded, his sickly breath wafting over me.
"Mmm, aye it is yer right eye tooth, thur is an area o decay, a wull nae pull it oot but a wull drill, it wull be gie sore as it is near the nerve an a havna much cocaine left, so a can ony gie ye a wee drap."
As his words rang in my ears, I shook with fear; he reached for a syringe plated with chromium.
"Wide!" he said, pushing my lower jaw down. The needle stabbed into my gum sending a stoun of pain through me.
"Oooh!" I groaned, "Eeeh!"
"Shut up!" snapped Doctor Large, "Al gie yon cocaine a few minutes tae wurk then al get crackin wie the drill, ye wull feel a bit o pain, then ye wull be a right."
A slight numbing came on my gum, then the drill descended. A noise like thunder echoed through my head as I cried out, my shouts vibrating off the grim walls. The pain seared through me, a wall of darkness, then silence. Doctor Large inserted the filling.
"That wis a big fillin Donal, but ye wull be a richt, awa oot an fill in some forms at the desk an remember noo tae eat ony sweeties fur a few days."
I stumbled from the room, to face the receptionist, who was busy knitting a scarf whilst sucking a pan drop "Sign here at the cross." She pointed to the bottom of the form.
In my stupid youth my mind could not grasp what 'sign at the cross' meant. I looked at the form but there was no cross, what was I supposed to do?
The receptionist glared at me.
"Here!" she snapped, her eyes blazing with anger, "You are the most stupid boy I have meet, no wonder you come from Dalintober."
I scribbled a weary signature on the paper and stumbled down the stairs to freedom. Union Street seemed like paradise compared with Doctor Large's rooms!
Back home my uncle, noticing my swollen face, patted me on the shoulder.
"Dinae wurry Donal," he soothed, "a weel remember the time when Jock went tae the dentist, na come tae think o it it was the doctor, an he pulled maist o his teeth fur they wur a rotten wie drinking pook. By the way yon Large isnae really a dentist, he is a doctor lookin efter the practice fur a relative who was awa in the war!"
In the social life of Campbeltown there was an event each year called the 'Mod', very much like the Welsh Eisteddfod, where songs in the traditional language were sung, mixed with poetry readings, dancing, and other cultural delights. As the language used was Gaelic, unless one was competent in the tongue it could be very boring in the extreme for young people to sit through a three hour concert.
The venue of the Mod was the Rex and the 'supremo' was the redoubtable Mr McCallum, head of music at the Grammar School. He exulted in the adulation he received in being an organiser of the event and he put a lot of work into the programme of music.
However, the pupils of the school and the other educational establishments were not carried forward by the music teacher's enthusiasm and when the time came for the Mod to proceed there were groans from many of the participants who thought with dread of sitting through the long hours of music, singing, and reading.
Many of the classes at school were devoted to rehearsals as the date of the Mod drew near, and sadly one day I was caught up in a rehearsal as part of a music lesson.
Mr McCallum strode into the class, his moustache bristling, eyes blazing with zeal, sweat trickling down his brow.
"Pupils!" he bawled "What great event is taking place at the Rex in a few weeks, an event steeped in history?"
Now the only events that took place at the Rex as far as I was concerned was the latest film and it so happened that next week the film Run Silent, Run Deep was being screened, starring John Wayne.
The class remained silent fearful of giving a wrong answer to Mr McCallum's question. His eyes probed round the tense faces as if willing an answer. You could hear the sharp intake of breath, feet shuffled under desks. Someone sniggered behind me.
McCallum's eyes popped, the colour drained from his face.
"Who sniggered? The question is very serious."
He looked straight at me.
"Well Keith, seeing you find it funny, what great event is taking place at the Rex in the next few weeks?"
Confused by his direct attack I blurted out what I thought was the required answer.
"Run Silent Run Deep, sir."
As if in some great moment from King Lear or MacBeth, a gasp arose from the class, followed by laughter. But no laughter came from Mr McCallum's lips.
His body seemed to convolute in the air like a banana shape, his feet rising clear of the floor, foam seemed to froth from his mouth as he snatched the strap from its hook on the desk.
"You idiot, run what run where, come out here!" his voice seemed to shriek like some religious zealot.
Fearfully I stumbled from my desk and received three strokes of the strap for being funny.
"Now class, will someone tell this no-hoper what is on at that the Rex in a few weeks?"
A small boy at that back piped up, "Please sir I know!"
"Yes McNiel," chortled McCallum, glaring at me as if I were some wretch from the work house.
"The Mod is on, a festival of drama a Scottish art centuries old!" came the reply from McNiel.
"Excellent!" purred McCallum, "There you are Keith, an intelligent answer from a well read person, anyway I don't suppose there is much reading in Woodland Place. A lot of the Dalintober people are quite glecked He would not have been so pleased if he had known that McNiel was looking at a cutting of the Courier pinned to the side of his desk!
"Well class," continued McCallum, "We will continue with some practice of a great song at the Mod: 'Mari's Wedding', also I believe a popular country dance. The first line is 'Step we gaily as we go'. By the way what does the word 'Mod' mean?"
Again the question drew a veil of silence over the class, all eyes looked in the direction of McNiel who looked down at the floor.
McCallum peered forward as he sat down at the piano, fingers raised above the keys.
"Well, does anyone know? You McPhee, you come from highland folk, tell us."
He addressed a tall, red haired boy with a freckled face.
McPhee thought for a few moments.
"I think it means Ministry o Defence sur", he croaked, his lips trembling with fear at the coming storm.
McCallum leapt from the piano stool, grabbed his strap, strode to poor McPhee and gave him four strokes across the legs.
"This class is a idiot's class!" he snarled, as he sat down at the piano again and struck the first bars of Maris Wedding.
Desperately we sang the song, trying to forget the punishment we had received. Thus passed a whole lesson and we were glad when it was finished!
The night of the Mod came and I went with my uncle to the Rex and stood in the queues waiting to be admitted.
The concert proceeded with various pieces, recitals, and McCallum conducting the Campbeltown Choir, his body contorting in weird shapes.
"My," said my uncle, "five shullins tae hear a yon skrachin My uncle continued to pass comments during the evening about various artists.
"Wull ye look at at yon wumman, no a pun o hur hingin the richt way an look at hum wie his fancy claes a ruffled up, he looks a richt snob."
"Look at the airs an graces o yon wumman an hur comin frae Fishers Row."
The concert moved on and eventually came the finale -- a gathering of all the artists singing popular ballads with McCallum furiously conducting as if he were at the Albert Hall. Then came the National Anthem sung with great gusto by the gentry, but muttered by others with different leanings.
As we left the Rex my uncle shook his head sadly.
"My wee Donal, wie ur a sad race us Scots, oor leaders sold us intae a union wie the English an really nae foulk wanted it even the puir English wid hae preferred tae be left alone. A this singin an dancin is sad an weerin kilts, why the English weer the kilt mair than the Scots an mony o them are champion dancers."
"Hid auld Scotland been left alane she wid hae been poor nae doot but she wid hae survived an still been freens wie the English. Jist think an we could hae been singin oor ain National Anthem."
In later years I realised that my uncle was more nationalistic than I thought.
Sports Day
The Phantom Of Glebe Street
The Rare Parrot
"Mr Mactavish of John Street, an ardent Glasgow Rangers supporter, was horrified when council workmen turned up to paint his blue green. He said to a Courier reporter, "When I heard what the colour was, my face turned blue with anger!"
"Stradivirus iolin found in cupboard, experts called in, incredible find by cleaner!
Mrs Agnes Walker, cleaner at Lochend Church, whilst rummaging through a cupboard found a violin with the initial 'J,S, Vienna 17----'.
The minister of the church, Reverend W. Hislop, said, 'I rushed to the phone and 121 George Street
got in touch with an expert from London who is on his way north this very day'.""The whole town is reeling with speculation about the find and crowds have gathered outside Lochend Church demanding to see the minister, so great was the crush the other night that the police had to move people on."
"John Townsley, no fixed abode, tinker, was before the sheriff last Tuesday. Charged that on the twelve of October last, did cause an affray outside the Weighouse, in that he was drunk and swearing horrible oaths to passing gentlewomen, much to their distress. Another drunk, one William McPherson then attacked Townsley who hit the former over the head with a bottle. Townsley then tried to gain admittance to Grumoli's Cafe but he was ejected. He then tried to enter the Library in Hall Street, saying that he wanted to be educated. Mr Carmichael called the police and Townsley was arrested by constable McTavish who was quickly on the scene by bicycle."
"When asked if he had anything to say before he was sent down Townsley replied 'Wull I be able tae gang oot at nicht when am in Barlinnie fur I had heard that there wur gran drinking places in Glesca.' (gasps of horror from the court).""Sheriff McMaster bound over able seaman Hutchinson for urinating in a close way in Fishers Row much to the annoyance of the residents. In mitigation the defence council said that 'Hutchinson had been caught short'"
"Sir,
Can anyone shed light on my great great uncle who sailed from Campbeltown in the Brig, 'Maid o The West' in the early years of the nineteenth century. I believe that he may have had a small holding near Southend: he settled near Sydney in about 1807.""Suddenly at his home 'Shangri-La', on the fourth of September 1948, Colonel MacDougall, late of the Seaforth Highlanders, aged 98: Chinese papers please copy."
"The Duke has gone Bananas yesterday"
"One of the dignitaries attended a lunch in the Royal Hotel with an old fiend."
The Trip To Glasgow
o notes ye hav there, ye must be gan fur a rare time. That wull be twa poons an fifteen shullins. Oan yer wie back git the bus at Robertsons street on the Broomielaw. A wid watch yer wallet in the city, an keep a tight grip on the wie boy. By the way is he yer son?"
Smilie's
McShannon's Dairy
The Dentist
. A trickle of saliva percolated down her left cheek, she put the knitting down and pushed some forms towards me.
The Mod
."
an watchin yon wee man whirlin a stick aboot his heid. A remember whin he hadna twa peenies tae scratch the gither. A dinae like maist o whit wir heerin but a kak yon songs lak 'wull he nae cam back agin'."
