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| Eaglesome's
Fesak's Rabbits McGrorie's Time Machine The Dhorlin A Round Of Golf |
The Bicentenary
Fruit! (again) The Black Market Healing Hands (III) The Attic |
In the course of my fifteen years in Campbeltown, I was at one time employed in Eaglesome's Wine and Grocery Store as a message boy, Saturdays only.
Eaglesome's lay adjacent to Dirty Dick's shop -- the sublime and the ridiculous.
The wine part of the shop had a selection of the finest Scotch whiskies, ranging from Spring Bank Malt to the rarest Islay brands. Whiskies were dispatched all over the world from the shop.
The grocery side purveyed tea, sugar and coffee; The latter being ground on a special machine to order. The aroma of the coffee took precedence over all other smells that emanated from the shop.
By the standards of the time the shop, though very old, was well laid out with two smart counters: one for whisky, the other for groceries. No animal was allowed into the place, nor were any children.
The manager of Eaglesome's stalked about the shop as if he were on the bridge of a ship. No humour appeared to be in his manner, only a dull efficiency born of exactness. Mistakes were a cardinal offence punishable by a wage reduction or loss of a day's holiday. He endlessly counted the bottles of malt in the back store, fearful less one should disappear or that the servers should as he put it, "partake of a wee nip" and become unfit to serve.
He kept an eagle eye on me, as I was the lowest of the low, a mere boy, a Saturday hand, subject to any misdemeanour.
My duties were to take out orders to customers on a mighty machine called a bicycle and to help in the store with stacking shelves. For this labour I was paid six shillings from which was deducted one shilling towards a Christmas Club. I had to supply a cape and sou'wester for wet weather, and buy my own batteries for the cycle lights. Any breakages meant a shilling deducted instantly from my pittance.
I was not entrusted with the delivery of whiskies to customers as the manager did this himself by car, the mere thought of me dropping a bottle of malt gave him nightmares!
Two old women served in the shop. One looked and dressed like an escapee from a Russian tank factory and the other like a faithful female retainer who had served Eaglesome's for centuries.
The former had a very harsh voice, piercing eyes, and hands like a Turkish wrestler and she was very strong; With one blow she could fell you if you made a mistake. She seemed to be on good terms with the manager -- she called him by his first name. As to her timid companion, Miss Lippin, her voice was so weak that to hear her you had to lean close to her mouth, which could be very annoying if she moved her head. She was right under the manager's iron rule. His very footstep caused her to shake and if he spoke she visibly sweated with fear. Her eyes showed no apparent emotion, but at times they glowed slightly especially if I offered her a jub-jub
. This had to be done very carefully, as partaking of a sweet during working hours meant an instant fine of two shillings!
Being adjacent to Dirty Dick's annoyed the manager greatly, for the dark smelling shop downgraded Eaglesome's image of an up-market purveyor of spirits; especially if the local gentry called to purchase a bottle.
One day in early summer I was cleaning the inner window of the display when I noticed a grim face looking in. It was Dirty Dick himself, leering at the display of fine malts. He tapped on the glass, his grubby hands making marks on the surface.
"Hey wee un!" I heard him shout, "Whits the price o a half bottle o Spring Bank, us there a sale oan the noo?"
At that time a bottle of Spring Bank retailed at eleven pounds, depending on vintage, and a half bottle was seven pounds. I cupped my hand to the glass and shouted, "Seven pounds for half a bottle."
Dirty Dick made a slobbering kind of noise as he leaned against the glass.
"Whits that ye said wee un?"
"Seven pounds."
"Eh? Seeven poons, whit dae ye think am made oh, am nae Lipton!"
A heavy hand descended on my shoulder. The manager's voice grated in my ear. The two women gaped. Miss Lippin turned grey with fear.
"To whom are you talking, Keith?", he hissed, his nails digging into my arm.
"Dirty Dick wants to know the price of half a bottle of Spring Bank, sir," I replied as he pulled me back from the glass.
"We do not conduct business through windows, boy. That is why I employ two servers to sell within. That creature outside is persona non grata. Spring Bank is beyond his palate, his tastes are limited to Bells or a bucket of pook, drunk in some wash house."
The manager banged sharply on the window.
"Get back to your hovel or I shall call the police!"
Dirty Dick gaped for a few seconds, then shuffled back into his shop.
"See," exulted the manager, "That's how to deal with the lower orders. Now I am going to deduct one and six from your wages which means this week you will only earn four shillings. As to the two servers they will lose three shillings each which means they will only take home four pounds!"
Miss Lippin croaked horribly at the announcement. The manager turned to the other server.
"Annie, if you do me a special favour I will reconsider your deduction."
Again Miss Lippin croaked some word.
"Get on with your work!" snapped the manager, "Idle hands breed idle thoughts."
At the weekend I received the princely sum of four shillings for my Saturday's labour. When I took this home my grandfather was incensed when he heard of the regime I had to work under.
"Yon gaffer oor in Eaglesome's must be a slave driver. Fancy peyin a wee boy four shullins fur a days wurk, a hav a good mind tae dauner oor tae the shop on Monday an gie hum a piece o ma mind! A this tak aboot lower orders, if he disnae watch he wull get the order o ma boot!"
"Noo Jock," warned my grandmother, "dinae be gan oor tae wurry the man in the shop fur he wull jist sack wee Donal an it is better that he gits sum muny than nane at a."
My grandfather reflected on what his wife said then, giving his dog a cuff, sighed,
"Weel whit ye say maks sense, but if a hear o mair violations o workers rights al be awa oor tae gie hum a right lunnerin!"
The following Saturday I was back at the shop, when the manager summoned me to his office.
"Keith," he snapped, "I want you to take two bottles of malt to Dell House. A visitor from England desires to sample our best brews. You will carry them in a basket by hand, and on foot. Be very careful. I myself am unable to come because Mr Eaglesome is due to visit the shop. Remember -- utmost care, if you break the bottles, you will be working for nothing for the next five years!"
Miss Lippin packed the bottles of Springbank in a box with straw and then placed them in a basket. She shook as she did it, her lips shuddering violently, her face like chalk.
"You realise, Keith that this is an errand of great importance you are about to undertake. Never in my memory has a 'Saturday boy' delivered a malt. Remember -- extreme care on your way to Dell House!"
I could not see what all the fuss was about -- two bottles of whisky, a ten minute walk. I lifted the basket and set of into Longrow South, thence right tun up to the corner where the Gentleman's Club was. On reaching the latter I met some of my pals coming down from Glebe Street.
"Whit hae ye got in the basket?" said a tall boy who was nicknamed 'Al Capone'.
"Two bottles of malt for Dell House," I replied, sensing his eyes on the lid of the box. In an instant he had snatched the basket from me, whipped off the box lid, then lifted up a bottle of malt. With a deft flick of the wrist he undid the cork, and took a swig, then replaced the cork. He then handed me the basket.
"Man that was a real drink Donal, awa noo tae Dell Hoose."
Terrified, I cried, "The customer will see that someone has drunk some of the whisky, what am I to do?"
"Thats yer problem Donal, onyway wee boys should nae be kerryin drink, if the polis catch ye, ye could end up in Peterheed Prison!"
Al Capone made off with some of my pals down Main Street. Sadly, I wondered what I should do next. To return to Eaglesome's meant certain 'death' at the hands of the manager, to deliver the malts to the customer was equally prone to disaster.
One of my pals put his hand on my shoulder.
"Dinae wurry Donal, a hav a wee bottle o leemonade in ma pocket, lets slip doon tae Glebe street tae a close whur we can tap up the bottle an then ye can tak the box tae Dell House."
"But the customer will know by the taste."
"Och! They English wull na know the difference, twa bars in the toon watter doon their whisky a the time an nae buddy is ony the wiser."
We slipped down into Glebe Street, and in a dark close topped up the bottle with cream soda and returned it to the box.
"Thanks Willie!" I said as we parted and I made my way to Dell House.
The landlord came to the door, a balding man with a scowl on his face that would have given Dracula a fright.
"Whur is yon manager? He usually cams wie the whisky, ye are awfy young tae be carryin drink, its a wunner the polis dinae stap ye. Still the box is intact, here is a tanner fur yer trouble."
He handed me a silver sixpence and snatched the box. As he banged the door shut I hurried back to Eaglesome's clutching my sixpence and entered the shop.
The manager was talking to someone in the office, his gruff voice grating from behind the partition. Miss Lippin was filling a grocery basket, her breathing sounding like a drugged person. As I entered she looked up sharply.
"Well Donald you have delivered the malts, no problems I hope?"
"I dropped one of the bottles," I laughed, "You should have seen the rush of people to lick it up, Fesak was leading the way."
"Miss Lippin's face seemed to contort in a hideous mask, her eyes watered.
"Oh dear Donald! We are all doomed. What happened? The manager will have a fit and he is in the office with Mr Eaglesome.
"I was only joking, Miss Lippin. Actually I got a sixpence from the landlord of Dell House."
"I think joking about dropping bottled malt is not on. Get ready to take out this grocery basket to Huie's up on the High Road. That hill will soon knock out your humour!"
As she spoke the manager and Eaglesome came out of the office.
"Is this the Saturday boy you have taken on?" he said to the manager, the latter cringing in a posture as befits servant and master.
"Yes sir, his name is Donald Keith from Dalintober."
"Mm... Keith from Dalintober. Where do you live boy?"
"In Dalintober, sir."
Eaglesome stared at me.
"Don't you understand the Queens English?"
"I know the Queen is English, sir."
The manager gaped at me in horror, sweat trickling down his brow. Eaglesome scratched his ear, his lip shuddered as if about to fly open; then he gave a laugh.
"Ha ha! We have a comedian! I like someone who has a bit of spirit, and I don't mean the kind kept in this shop. Well done young Keith, here is a shilling!"
He tossed me a coin, then strode out of the shop laughing.
When he had gone the manager turned to me, cold fury in his eyes.
"If you pull a stunt in front of Mr Eaglesome again, I will sack you without hesitation and as for you Lippin, I heard you tittering in the background. For that you will both have a shilling deducted from your wages!"
I spent a few more months at Eaglesome's as the Saturday boy. Eventually I found another job helping with the harvest at Peniver and was thankful to get away from the reign of terror that hung over the establishment. I felt sorry for Miss Lippin and Annie who had to endure the 'terror' and harsh conditions in the days before shop unions and appeal boards.
My grandfather was extremely fond of rabbits (for eating) and the hills above Campbeltown abounded with them. In the warm summer evenings the rabbits lolled about in the hills in droves and were in such abundance that anyone with a ferret could make a haul each night. Many rabbiters had dogs that could catch a rabbit easily and my grandfathers lurcher never failed to catch a brace for him when he forayed up into the hills around Knockscalbert.
As with all hunting certain areas produced finer rabbits, that had certain superior flavours to those, say, caught on the Bengullion side of the loch and to get a brace of rabbits caught up in the Bellochantauy region was like receiving a case of vintage wine.
One evening in early summer in the year 1945, June to be exact, a knock came to our door in Woodland Place. It was about nine o'clock and my grandfather was listening to Tommy Handly in Itma, the popular radio show started at the beginning of the war.
"Thur is somewan at the door wife!" he exclaimed, "Am fair enjoying the show, so awa tae the door an see who it is."
"Och! Ye an yer radio, ye canna hear richt, hae a no telt ye tae git yer ears tested wie Doctor McKenzie."
She went to the door and returned a few minutes later followed by Fesak, who was clutching a brace of rabbits.
"Here is yer freen Fesak frae Kilmory Place wie twa rabbits tae sell!"
My grandfather stared up at Fesak, the latter dressed in his stained raincoat, torn brown trousers and tattered plimsols.
"Whit dae ye want at this time o nicht Fesak?" he muttered, cocking an ear towards the radio, "Hae a no telt ye tae keep awa frae me hoose in the nicht so a can listen tae ma radio, onyway whur did yon rabbits ye hav in yer hauns cam frae?"
"Thur frae up near Drumore na Bodach Jock, best in the whole coonty, a tinker caught them yesterday wie hus doog."
"My they wull be richt tasty Fesak! Al gie ye three shullins fur the brace."
Fesak's eyes narrowed.
"A wis thinking o five shullins fur the pair."
My grandfather's bottom lip curled down.
"Three shullins is a al gie ye plus a plate o my wife's potato soup!"
Fesak licked his lips and eyed the soup pot simmering on the hob.
"Weel am richt famished," he croaked, "so all hae the soop an three shullins."
As Fesak slurped his way through the soup that my grandmother had ladled out for him, my grandfather put the rabbits behind the cupboard door. His dog had been watching the proceedings and slipped into the cupboard silently as my grandfather shut the door.
"Man!" he said, "Ma wife wull mak a gran pie the morrow fur me frae yon rabbits, so eat up yer soup Fesak an awa hame tae yer hoose an dinae spend the three shullins on whisky!"
When Fesak had gone ma grandfather resumed his listening position at the radio. After some time a scraping noise could be heard coming from the cupboard where the rabbits hung. There was knocking and scuffling, followed by grunting.
I drew my grandfather's attention to the noise, but he glared at me.
"Wull ye shut yer mooth wee Donal, the news has jist cam on, Paton has reached Prague an the Russians are at Beerlin, the war wull soon be oor."
"But there is something in the cupboard grandad!", I exclaimed, "It sounds like the dog."
"Weel open the door then ye wee pest!" he roared, "A biddy canae get ony peace in hus ain hoose when he is listening tae great events!"
On opening the door, the dog bolted out with one of the rabbits clenched in his teeth, to disappear out the front entrance, which had been left open due to it being a warm night.
"Lord be aboot us!" shouted my grandmother, "Look the wee doog has eaten wan rabbit an left only fur an is awa wie the other. Jock ye hae pied three shullins fur naethin tae yon auld rogue Fesak!"
My grandfather sprang from his seat.
"Cam awa wie me wee Donal we wull soon track doon the wee doog an git the rabbit back, he is probably doon the back in the auld ruined hoose."
Sure enough when we went down into the back yard, there was the dog finishing off his meal. All that remained of the rabbit was some fur and bones.
"Al gie ye a richt lunnerin dog fur this!" bellowed my grandfather, his face purple with rage. He aimed a boot at the dog, who darted back up the close with a howl.
Then turning to me he gave me a clip on the ear.
"thats fur no spottin the wee dog goin intae the cupboard and ruinin ma evenings listening on the wireless!"
On the theme of radios, most of the sets were powered by a dry Pye battery and an accumulator to supply current. The supplier of batteries and accumulators was A P McGrorie in Main Street and he did a roaring trade in recharging the accumulators, the latter having a life of about a week.
It fell about an autumn night in 1946 when Joe Louis was defending his World Heavyweight title against some foreign challenger at Madison Square Gardens, New York. The fight was being relayed live and because of the time difference it meant sitting up until 2 am.
My grandfather, imbued with fighting spirit, set himself up to listen to the fight. That afternoon he raved about past fights and fighters and I had to listen to a long litany on bouts from the past.
"Ye ken wee Donal thur wis wance Geentleman Jim Corbett, he wan the title efter fighten fur nearly a hunner roonds, then thur wis Battlin Seeki, he had a pet tiger that he took oot on a leed lak a doog. Puir Seeki ended up stabbed in Skid Row."
"Is that near Fishers Row?" I asked innocently.
The answer was a wallop on the ear.
"Skid Row wis in New York ye wee scamp, so listen tae whit a tell ye!"
I did not share his enthusiasm for the history of fighting and would much rather have been out playing in the streets with my pals.
The hour of ten drew on and my grandmother looking at the clock said,
"Its time for bed now wee Donal sae awa an wash yer face an brush yer teeth, am fur ma bed tae."
Turning to my grandfather, she leaned forward.
"Weel Jock cam tae bed when the fights oor, an dinae forget tae switch aff the gas because we are short o shullins fur the meter an pennies as weel."
We left him fiddling with the radio control as the set whistled and howled with static. As I lay in bed I could hear him cursing about interference and blaming it on the Russians, then I drifted of to sleep.
Next morning as I was having my breakfast my grandfather entered, his eyes blazing.
"How did the fight go?" I asked.
"Och!" he snapped, "Yon radio packed up jist at the weigh-in, jist fur a meenit mind ye, then when a got the sound back the fight wis oor, Louis knocked the challenger oot in thirty seconds. A still think the Russians blotted oot the fight fur they havna ony biddy tae meet Louis, they are awfy weak yon Russians fur they dont get any meat and their hooses are a freezin!"
A P McGrorie's shop in Main Street was a haven of toys, books, puzzles, fishing tackle and weaponry. The shop had been there for a great number of years and we used to stand there gazing at the window display with its centrepiece -- an air rifle with telescopic sights and capable of firing a 0.22 calibre bullet as well as flighted darts. As we looked we imagined ourselves as owners of the weapon out hunting in the hills or fighting imaginary battles up near Knockscalbert. But alas such a weapon was beyond our meagre resources.
There was an air rifle called a 'Diana', made in Birmingham, which you could buy for about eight pounds and which fired little pellets at paper targets. One of my pals was given a second hand one by a relative.
We decided to go target shooting and decided to purchase some pellets from McGrorie's shop. In a large crowd we descended on the place, swarming into the low-ceilinged main store, laughing and giggling.
As usual McGrorie's chief server was a ferocious woman called 'Batwoman' -- not that she was some lithe female of the legendary book character, but that she resembled a bat, the way she flapped about and shrilled in her stacatto voice.
"What do you boys want? May I remind you the rule in this shop is silence whilst viewing a good with the prospect of purchasing it. The second rule is to approach myself or Miss Roach or failing that the owner to say that you wish to buy an item. May I remind you also that the following items may not be purchased by those under fifteen years old unless accompanied by an adult of good character, viz., pellets for air guns, darts, air rifles, sheath knives, archery equipment and fireworks in season."
We sniggered inwardly at the tirade she spouted, as if she had been programmed.
"We want a few pellets for Cherlie's air gun an we are oor fifteen miss."
The woman reddened visibly.
"Mrs not miss to you!" she snapped, clicking her teeth in annoyance.
"We want some pellets Mistress!" we said in unison.
There was a bated silence.
"A mistress is a kept woman, boys. It shows the ignorance of you Dalintober people! Anyway Mr McGrorie will have to decide if you can have the pellets."
With that she shouted through to the back room where the owner had his repair shop. He stepped into view.
"Whit dae ye boys want wie pellets if ye havna got a gun tae fire them?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes as if we had disturbed his nap, "Ye ken that air guns are dangerous an shouldna be pointed at foulks eyes, a weel remember a wee boy frae the Roading that was made blun in wan eye years ago wie a pellet. Ye wull hav tae go hame an bring the gun back tae a see it."
We trooped out of the shop and about half an hour later returned with Cherlie and the air rifle.
"Och," said McGrorie, it's only a wee Diana ye can have a packet o pellets."
He passed across a packet.
"That wull be twa shullins."
As we left the shop one of my pals whispered in my ear.
"Ye ken that McGrorie is daen secret experiments in his back shop. A heard awfy skirlin and whines comin oot his yerd the other nicht. Maybe he is gan tae build a time machine!"
The mention of 'time machine' set my boyish imagination racing: Moving into another time, going backwards or forwards. Why one could look back into Campbeltown's past or reach into what was to come!
"Is there anyway we could see what is going on in the back shop, such as a way into the yard?" I asked, "We would have to use darkness, slip into Bolgam Street and over the wall."
We walked round to Bolgam Street and noticed that we could scale the wall into the back yard. The plan was hatched to slip over the wall that night.
Night fell and we slipped round into Bolgam Street and started to scale the wall. The night was fine and no one was about. toeholds were easy to find in the mortar and in no time we were over the top and dropping into the yard. A light streamed from the workshop window. Whining eddied from within followed by a blue glow that pulsed up into the night sky.
"That must be the time machine at work," gasped one of my pals, "A saw a fulm aboot wan twa years ago in the Rex, a the foulk were trapped in the future an couldna gat back tae there hooses!"
We peered into the window on the gable of the workshop. McGrorie was huddled over a screen with flickering lines. Suddenly the lines merged to highlight a scene from some castle rampart with a man looking at a skull. The picture faded. Muttering, McGrorie fiddled with the controls and the picture returned this time of someone getting into a plane.
"Al hav tae git a better arial tae improve the signal, a these hills are makin it hard tae receive a pictur o things."
We gaped at the instrument.
"That maist be hum lookin itae the future or itae the past. Yon castle must hae been frae Rab Bruce's time an yon skull must hae beeen some biddy he murdered," whispered one of my pals.
As he spoke McGrorie stood up and switched off the machine
"Al hae tae adjust the machine afor the Coronation next year, aye this is the future we are lookin at!" he enthused, "Yon Logie Baird had a gran brain."
The workshop was plunged in darkness and we made our way back over the wall. We heard McGrorie leave his shop and walk away up Main Street. The Town Hall clock struck ten,
"Time we went home mates," I said, "McGrorie must have invented a machine that looks backwards and forwards, we will have to see if he suddenly vanishes someday, then we will know that he has been trapped in time!"
Some days later one of my pals informed me that he had not seen McGrorie in his shop since the previous Monday. This was unusual, for McGrorie prided himself in always being in the shop from morning until night, unless illness prevented him.
"Whit dae ye think Donal, hus McGrorie got caught up in time?" said my pal as we walked down Main Street, "if he hus, whit will happen tae his shop?"
"We will have to see how long he is absent," I replied, "Perhaps the best thing is for us to go into the shop, in the pretense of buying something. Someone is bound to say something."
On entering the shop, I went up to the counter, where the chief server was peering at a manual.
"Could I have some coloured pencils?" I asked, as the server looked up sharply, her eyes hardening.
"A shilling for a box of six assorted colours," she snapped, irritated by my request.
"Well do you want them or not? Stop gaping boy!"
"All right I will take them, by the way where is Mister McGrorie?"
"He has gone away for a period of time. Anyway, it is none of your business boy. That will be a shilling."
When I left the shop I told my pal what had happened and that McGrorie had gone for a period of time, he was all for rushing round the rest of the gang to tell them the news. However, I persauded him to wait until the evening.
That night in our den, over a stuttering candle, we debated the fate of Mr McGrorie.
"If he is loast in time, naebuddy wull be able tae gang efter hum tae bring him back, fur he wis the ony wan tae wurk the machine," said Willie Ralston, a small boy with glasses, "Dae ye think we should tell the teacher whit hus heppened tae hum sae he could tell the polis?"
"We wid be better tellin the science teacher, fur he kens aboot time, but a dinae fancy speakin tae Gestapo Mathers. He gave me a right lunnerin the other day fur bein late!"
"I know," I said, "we will tell Nesbit, he is a great cronie o Mathers, and I have seen him going golfing with McGrorie."
My solution was accepted and it was agreed that I should face the 'Nes' the next day, as we were in the woodwork class.
The class took place in the first part of the afternoon and so, during the class, I went up to the Nes and asked,
"Please sir! Mister Nesbitt we think that mister McGrorie has got trapped in time"
Now the fatal flaw in my plan was that you never ask a teacher a question after lunch, especially if his digestive system is churning over two veg and a bowl of spotted dick. Nesbit was half dozing at his desk and when I asked the question he opened a bleary eye, like a dog slumbering would.
"Whits that ye said Keith, McGrories trapped by the tide?. Whit blitherin nonsense is that tae ask, we are no havin a class in the sea. Onyway a dinae ken we had a McGrorie in the cless?"
"Please sir Nesbitt," I blurted, "It is McGrorie with the shop in Main Street whom I meant, we saw him fiddlin with his machine the other night in his workshop, then he has not been seen again!"
"Machine? Workshop? whit dae ye mean boy?" roared Nesbit, reaching for his strap, a sadistic gleam in his eyes.
"Al gie ye something tae waken ye up, haud oot yer haun."
With that he delivered three strokes of the strap. I winced with pain but managed to keep a straight face.
"Noo git awa tae yer bench an git oan wie yer widwork."
My pals stared at me in sympathy, as I had received punishment for only a 'bit of nonsense' and when the class finished there was a lot of condolence towards me.
We still kept an eye on McGrorie's shop for the next few days hoping that he would never return to vindicate our 'time machine' theory. But return he did, as he had been on holiday, and to further confound our theory a few days later an advert appeared in the Courier, which said, 'new television sets are now in stock at McGrories, get one for the Coronation'. Lo and behold there was a picture of the screen we had spied in the back room workshop, so time travel was put on the back burner.
Island Davaar lies at the mouth of Campbeltown Loch. At low tide it is connected to the mainland be a shingle bar called 'The Dhorlin'. It is possible to walk out to the island along this shingle bar, but care must be taken for the water is very deep on the Trench Point side. To walk too close to this side could plunge you into an abyss.
One summer's day my pals and I, fired by stories of the 'Cave Picture', decided to venture across 'The Dhorlin' to visit the island. There was another mode of travel which meant spending three shillings on a return trip by motor boat from the old quay -- a price beyond our means -- so the 'Dhorlin' method was the only option.
We walked down past Kilkerran Cemetry onto the Leerside road. How massive the island seemed with its sheer cliff on the south side and steep slope on the west one. The Dhorlin seemed to snake away like a glistening snake just above the gentle swell. How were we going to walk over such a thin ribbon with the menacing sea on each side?
At last we came to the start of the Dhorlin next to the concrete light that fixed the mouth of the loch, and proceeded to advance outwards along the shingle. On each side the tide had receded, but now and again a small wave would surge forward and lap at our shoes, until our socks felt damp.
"Are you sure the tide is going out?" I said to one of my pals, eyeing the water a few inches away, "the water seems very close to our feet."
"Dinae wurry Donal," he replied, "the tide wulna cam in fur aboot twa hoors a ken that fine fur I asked the Herber Maister this mornin, onyway if it does cam in when we are oan oor way back hame, the watter wull ony cam up tay oor waists, an we can easily wade back, an dry oot wakin up the Kilkerran Road."
A shudder of fear went through me at this pronouncement.
"We will have to keep an eye on the time then, has anyone got a watch?"
The answer to this was a shake of the head.
"Dont worry," said one small boy, "If we watch the position of the sun's shadow, we will be able to tell when two hours is nearly up."
We trudged on across the Dhorlin and after what seemed eternity reached the rocks at that point of the island where the Dhorlin joins solid land. The rocks were very slippery, being covered with green algae and razor sharp limpets, and I cut my knee on one.
Island Davaar is really the remains of long extinct volcano, active millions of years ago when the Earth was young and when what is now Scotland was a hot tropical land. The rock that the island is composed of is billions of years old and almost as old as Lewisian gneiss.
Historically the island held a strategic role in that it was a natural defense at the mouth of the loch and served as a lookout in the days of the Viking raiders.
As I said before, the part of the island facing towards the Ayrshire coast was a steep cliff and it was along its base that the path to the Cave Picture lay. To reach the cave meant a scramble over great boulders and seaweed-clad stones. The sea lapped hungrily only a few feet away as if beckoning the unwary traveller to a watery grave!
Before continuing further with the story it is worth while to digress on the history of the famous painting in the cave.
It is a painting of the crucifixion done on the rock face in the last century by the great benefactor to Campbeltown, Sir William McKinnon, an artist of great standing. He painted the picture in secret, passing over at night to the island and working on his project by the light of oil lamps. Fishermen saw the light from the cave, but never investigated the source as they imagined it must be tinkers camping, or worst still, smugglers.
Eventually the picture was discovered and crowds flocked to view its cunning artistry, where the water dripping from the rock seemed to be coming from the saviour's hands.
As the years went by the ravages of time weathered the masterpiece and Sir William, now an old man living in the south of England, admitted he was the artist and came back to do some touching up. Sadly, when he died the picture was neglected as no artist felt up to repainting it, until the art master at the Grammar School revamped the work.
So that summer's day my pals and I stumbled along the rocky path and came to the entrance of the cave. The great dark opening lay before us. We were through into the inner chamber and beheld Sir William's masterpiece. There, on the back wall, was the figure of Christ on the cross looking down on us. His calm face seemed alive.
We spent about half an hour looking at the picture, then turned for the journey back to the Dhorlin. As we clambered over the rocks we noticed to our horror that the sea was up against the cliff face in places and was creeping in behind us. It made a strange sucking noise as it sloughed into the rocks and soon we were wading up to our knees. I remembered the tales my grandfather had told me of people sucked away by the sea, never to be seen again. Panic set in and we pressed on, panting and gasping.
"Whit," said one of my pals, "if the watter is oor the Dhorlin an we hae tae stey the nicht in the island? There is nae place tae sleep, unless we gae up tae the lighthoose keeper an ask fur a bed fur the nicht."
"We canna dae that," said another of my pals as we came to that part of the island where the Dhorlin starts, "al oor foulk wid be fair wooried if we dinae cum hame."
There was a thin film of sea water over the shingle bar, followed by a slight swell, we knew that the tide was on the flow and we would have to move quickly to avoid being swept into deep water.
Our feet were soon soaked and, as we advanced out, the water level rose to our knees until at the half-way mark the smaller boys in our party were up to their waists.
Behind us the island loomed, almost frowning at our desperate efforts to gain the dry land on the Kilkerran shore. "We wull a be drooned!" was the cry as one of our party fell into a hole and reappeared soaked.
At last we gained the Kilkerran shore and not a moment too soon! For as we looked across to the island, we noticed that the Dhorlin had vanished beneath the hungry waves.
Home we trudged, pleased that we had made it on foot and saved ourselves paying three shillings for the trip in Newland's motor boat and as a result became the talk of the school, in that we were amongst the elite band of heroes who had 'walked the Dhorlin'.
At the head of Kilkerran Road, that is that part nearest the town, lies the Municipal Putting Green. It was of eighteen holes, and ran parallel to the loch.
It was an excellent green and competitions were held on it during the season with the record score being a sixty-four.
One day we had been discussing The Open, held that year at Troon, and decided to try to break the putting green record.
"You never know," I said, "perhaps one of you will be a future champion!"
"Aye," replied Duncan Fergusson, "I hae been practicing wie an old wood that Donal fan in his grandfether's shed in Woodland Place. I can belt a ball nearly twa hunner yerds!"
"Whit!" said a boy called Donald McMaster, "Ye canna drive a ba wie a driver oan the puttin green, the Pirate wull hae a fit!"
'The Pirate' was the nick name of the putting green attendant, a small man with fierce eyes whose main aim was to discourage boys from playing on the green. I cannot remember his name, but what I do remember is that he could move at rapid speed from his hut to chastise any wrong-doing!
"Och dont worry!" replied Duncan, "A wull ony be usin a putter, so when the pirate is no lookin a can gie the ba a mighty swipe."
We approached the putting green and walked up to the hut, where the 'pirate' was reading a newspaper. He looked up sharply, angered at the disturbance.
"Ur ye boys wantin play on the green?" he snapped, taking off his glasses to give them a wipe.
"Aye we are," replied Duncan, pulling a ten shilling note from his pocket, "Am peyin in five boys at a shullin a roond. Wull there be any discount fur a block bookin?"
"A dinae ken whit ye ur takin aboot Fergusson, bit a dinae usually let boys play on the green, but a see ye huv got money, sae al let ye a on at wance. Tthur is a few rules tho tae bide by."
We all nodded in agreement and the Pirate proceeded to list a set of rules:
"Furst," he said, "nae sweerin, spittin, swinging clubs, oor hittin bas intae the loch, any bas lost are tae peyed fur. Nae runnin on the green or takin up divits an nae tryin tae go roon agin without peyin. If ye dae ony o these things ye wull be straight aff, dae ye a unner staun?"
"Aye," we said as he handed us a club each.
"Awa then an play an al be keepin an eagle eye on ye all!"
We set of from the first tee, and Duncan took the first hole with a stunning two.
"Its naw fair", complained my pals, "he has been practicing wie Donal's wood, we hae nae chance o beatin hum."
We moved down to the ninth hole with Duncan on twenty-eight and myself on thirty-four. We were now at the maximum distance from the Pirate's hut. We could see him craning his neck to see what was going on.
"Noo!", exclaimed Duncan, "Am goan tae take a swipe at the ball an send it doon tae the Quarry Green. Keep an eye on the Pirate, if he starts runnin, drap yer putters an flee fur the cuttin an then up Limecraigs."
Duncan placed the ball on the ground, then took a mighty swipe at it. On contact the ball swung away in an arc, but in flight struck a tree and rebounded back to the Pirate's hut, where it clanged on the tin roof.
The Pirate came dancing towards us, his arms jerking wildly. His voice carried in the breeze.
"Ye wee hooligans a wull gie ye a a richt batterin!" he roared, speeding towards us.
"Run!" shouted Duncan and away we raced, never stopping until we reached Kintyre Park. Of the Pirate there was no sign, so we made our way home via Meadows Road and thence into Main Street.
"Ye better keep clear of the puttin green fur a week or two," laughed Duncan. But he forgot that the Ppirate knew his father and when the latter heard what had happened, the unfortunate Duncan was given a right 'lunnerin'.
In 1950 the two hundreth anniversary of Campbeltown's Royal Charter fell. Great preparations were made to mark the occasion, with parades, dances, concerts and a special Highland Games in Kintyre Park. The Lord Provost strutted about in all his regalia, led by his Beadle carrying the Town Mace and all the officials and councilors.
At the Grammar School (I was in the first year then) the greatness of the event was extolled by the various teachers.
Mr McPhail, conducting a history class, hurled facts at us, expecting our brains to assimilate the facts even though many were exceedingly boring.
One warm spring day he unrolled a great paper scroll on the blackboard; the latter was done in neat copper plate with a wax seal and ribbon attached to the bottom corner.
"Boys," he growled, his eyes swiveling round the class, "what is this document that I have placed on the blackboard?"
One bright eyed pupil shot up a hand.
"Yes McKay, you know the answer?"
"Please sir. It is a charter."
McPhail's face broke into a smile, the effort giving him a slightly sinister look.
"Well done McKay, it is a charter and what place do we know that has a charter?"
This time he pointed to a boy at the back.
"Well McPhee, what place has a charter?"
McPhee stared at McPhail, his eyes wide open like a fish out of water.
"Please sir, my mother says that I am the worst chatter in the house."
McPhail smiled and advanced towards McPhee. He moved in a strange sliding motion like a snake creeping up on some poor animal.
"Well I can see McPhee that your ears do not function." As he spoke he seized McPhee and propelled him towards the blackboard, ramming him face towards the charter.
"This is a copy of the Town Charter, given most graciously in 1750 by his majesty George II. Let all of you look upon it and savour the honour of the said document. As McPhee does not understand the rudiments of the English language he can only wonder as stupid boys do. When he is loafing at Cook's Corner he will wonder what it is all about."
With that McPhail gave the unfortunate McPhee a clout on the head then pushed him back to his desk. He then resumed his lecture on the Town Charter.
"With the granting of a Royal Charter the town was entitled to bear a coat of arms inscribed with a Latin motto and also to appoint a Lord Provost."
He paused at this point and his eyes alighted on me. I felt myself shake with fear.
"Keith!", he bellowed, "What is the town motto in Latin?"
"I do not know sir," I replied, "I cannot speak Latin."
"Fortuna Favitus Repugna!" snapped McPhail, "Did I not tell you a month ago in the history class, what is the translation in English?"
Blindly I searched the depths of my memory.
"Fortune favours the Republic...?"
"Come out here!" snarled McPhail, "You are an idiot Keith, doomed to the technical stream. I shall not tell you the translation but keep it for the professional class later. Meanwhile I am going to make an example of you, by giving you two strokes of the strap, so hold out your hand!"
The strap crashed down and nearly brought tears to my eyes. I stumbled back to the desk, inwardly sickened by the word 'charter'.
The celebrations in the town proceeded with a great surge of band playing, singing and concerts -- conducted by Mr McCallum, the latter blue in the face with the exertions of the task. There was also a special play enacted in the Rex called The Wee Toon, a cavalcade of town history.
The final act in the celebrations was the massed pipe bands playing Scotland The Brave, Blue Bonnets, and finally The Barren Rocks of Aden.
The Provost then gave an oath of loyalty to the King followed by the National Anthem.
As my grandfather commented afterwards, "A they foulk wie their oaths an singing, when they should be gien an oath tae the Prince or his kin, rightfu heirs tae the croon o Scotland. Remember wee Donal that yer ancestors cam oot in 1715 wie Bobbin John an mony a Keith wis in the ranks that marched doon tae Derby in 1745 wie the bonnie Prince an went into exile wie him. Dinae forget that yer loyalty is tae the Stuarts!"
I often look back in what he said. Like all highland Scots he had a root memory of the Stuart cause and the ill fated risings, just like the men of Devon and Cornwall have a memory of the cause of Monmouth, or the Welsh of their great hero Owen Glendowyr.
Fruit, as I have already mentioned, does not feature in the Scottish diet to a marked degree, the consumption of fruit was limited to the upper classes or the 'gentry' and the mention of the word 'grapes' sent a thrill down our young minds. 'Grapes' meant visions of exotic islands, of far-off blue seas, of distant lands, so you can imagine the furore that came upon the town in 1946 when Michelchere's received a box of grapes at the shop in Main Street. The news spread like a wave, and crowds descended towards the shop, to gape at the box in the window display. Mouths hung open, eyes bulged. There in front of the townspeople lay the treasure of the Orient, something that a few weeks ago had hung from some vine in a hot land.
So great was the crowd, that the police had to come to control the surge of people at the front door of the shop and Michelchere himself became worried that his emporium could be overwhelmed.
He went outside and addressed the crowd,
"Go back to your homes at once!" he commanded, bedecked in his white apron, "The grapes are priced at eight shillings a pound, they are the finest South African seedless and are being reserved for privileged customers and though some of you may be able to purchase them, I will have last say on who has them."
Even after Michelchere made his speech the crowd hung on, and as a privileged customer drew up and went into the shop, the mob surged forward into the interior. The customer was handed a pound of grapes, expertly served by Michelchere and a loud gasp went up.
"Imagine haen a yon grapes tae eat tae yersel, whit a rare treat tae look forward tae!" exclaimed an old man, as he spat on the ground.
"Aye!" said another, "A yon gentry hae plenty o sillar tae live oo the fat o the land."
Eventually, in the late afternoon the crowd filtered away as the novelty wore off, but the real reason was the McShannons had taken delivery of Walls ice cream -- a new type of cream wrapped in paper, so there was a rush across the Esplanade to the shop!
Next day at school the Head at Dalintober Primary addressed Morning Assembly.
"Boys and girls," he snapped, "Yesterday Michelchere's had a delivery of grapes. I suppose you all went to look at the fruit?"
There was a chorus of "Yes headmaster sir."
The Head pulled himself erect, lauding in the power that our reply gave him.
"I will now ask you about where grapes come from. Can anyone tell me?"
One little boy with thick glasses put up his hand.
"Yes?" said the Head peering over his glasses to focus on the small boy.
"The grapes cam frae McDonald's Orchard, sir."
"Stupid boy! There are no grapes in Scotland," snapped the Head, "Stay behind after assembly boy for using the words 'cam' and 'frae'. English will be spoken in this school, that I will insist on!"
The small boy, whose name was Willie Patterson, kept his hand up.
"Well," hissed the Head, his patience wearing wafer thin, "You know the answer to my original question?"
"No," said Willie, "but I know the answer to the answer you gave"
"What!", roared the Head, his voice booming in the hall, vibrating against the panelling.
"Explain!"
"You said there are no grapes in Scotland sir, but Michelchere has a box in his shop!"
The Head's face turned a bright red colour. He marched forward and grabbed Willie by the collar and dragged him to the front.
"You ignorant little boy! Trying to be funny, grapes come from warm countries. Get into my room for punishment!"
Turning to the assembled school he said, "Let that be a lesson to you all, now where do grapes come from?"
"From warm countries headmaster sir," we all chanted, wondering at the same time what punishment lay in wait for Willie.
You may wonder why a box of grapes could cause such wonder, but Campbeltown then was an insular and parochial place, cut off from mainstream culture and subject at times to the mentality of island natives confronted with new wonders for the first time.
As to poor Willie, Michelchere's grapes led indirectly to three strokes of the strap!
On the subject of food and fruit, an incident I remember took place in the year 1945 towards the last months of the war in Europe.
Campbeltown being a Naval Base meant that there was an underground black market in the supply of cigarettes, tobacco, dried eggs, sugar, and tools of a great variety. The Naval authorities must have known what was going on, but choose to turn a blind eye to these clandestine activities.
One day in spring a Petty Officer arrived at Woodland Place with a parcel for my grandfather. Some money changed hands. The officer left and my grandfather placed the parcel on the table and proceeded to unwrap it.
"Whits that ye hae got their Jock?" muttered my grandmother as she polished the fender, "A hope its naw some illegal goods frae the Navy, fur ye ken Fesak wis nearly caught wie tools in his press an he only got awa wie it by throwin them intae his gerden!"
"Wha telt ye that wumman?" bellowed my grandfather, "Fesak's as honest as the day is long!"
"Weel Effie Cook telt me when a wis up at that shop, she hears a sairt o things."
"Ach the wummans a blether," retorted my grandfather as he finished unwrapping the parcel to reveal a large tin painted dark green, with no visible lid.
"Yon Cooks are droll, a wunna be surprised that she hannals 'goods'."
"Na na!" exclaimed my grandmother, "The Cooks are god fearin souls wance faithful attenders o the Highland Parish an Johnis wis a gran singer in the choir!"
"This is a strange lookin tin wife," muttered my grandfather, "There is nae lid, hoo ur ye supposed tae open it?"
"Whits in it?" asked my grandmother.
"The Navy man said it wis iron rations, guid food that they gie tae poor souls that are adrift in the ocean, a real treat he said, thurs jam an biscuits and tea an a other things".
My grandmother peered at some writing on the side of the tin.
"It says 'rations, emergency, the use of'."
"Al hae tae get a tin opener tae open it," said my grandfather, pulling open the kitchen table drawer.
With much cursing and swearing the green painted tin was opened, to reveal a selection of items. Opening a package marked 'biscuits, sea' my grandfather placed one in his mouth and bit. Nothing happened. His face contorted with the effort. Suddenly there was a sharp crack and one of his false teeth fell on the floor!
"Jings thae biscuits are awfy hard fur tae eat, al hae tae steep them in water."
"A thocht as much," sniped my grandmother, "Ye an yer bargains, fancy buying rations that they gie tae foulk adrift in boats; did ye no ken that they wurna fur use on land?"
"Al mak use o them wumman, why these biscuits efter they ha been steeped in water wull be fit fur wee Donal tae eat, you wait an see!" replied my grandfather as he opened a tin marked 'jam fruit the use of'.
Swallowing a tablespoon of the latter, he smacked his lips.
"My that is rare jam, here wee Donal hae a moothfa o that."
I was forced to take the brown mixture, it tasted very strong, not sweet, but with a varnish-like flavour. I screwed up my face.
"Whits wrang wie it ye wee scamp?"
"I do not like it , it tastes like paint!"
"Awa wie ye," he said, "Al feenish it off, na I dinae waste onything, it wull be a rare treat fur ma supper, jam an yon steeped biscuits!"
Well, for the next two nights my grandmother and I had to sit and watch my grandfather munching through jam and biscuits, whilst at intervals he would remove his top dentures to rinse out the crumbs at the sink.
Other items circulated on the black market, as I previously mentioned, but the most prized items were hand tools such as spanners, wrenches, drills and saws. They were unobtainable in the shops, but the navy stores had an abundance of them.
One night just as I was going to bed, I looked out of my window down into the back yard. There was a light in the shed where my grandfather kept his tools and wood and I could hear voices coming from the building.
Curious, I slipped out the door and crept down into the back yard. There was a window, grimy with years of dirt and covered with rusting mesh.
Peering through, I saw my grandfather and another man, nicknamed 'The Hodler', looking at a wash basket filled with tools of all sizes.
The hut was illuminated with a storm lamp and the two men's shadows cast distorted shapes on the wall.
"Whit wis that ye wis sayin Jock?" asked the Hodler, as he rolled a cigarette.
"They tools were brocht up frae the pier twa nichts ago by the 'Clincher', they are classed as broken an can be selt on tae onybody that needs them."
My grandfather spoke in a deft manner, as if he was a hardened buyer.
"Aye thur fine tools Jock," he replied, taking a draw on his fag then spitting on the floor, "Tho we wull hae tae keep a look oot fur the polis, especially the navy wans, they are watchin like hawks at the pier heid, why only last week they raided a hoose in Glebe Street wie the toon polis an fan a box o groceries unner some poor souls bed, a here he is tae be tried next week in front o the Sherrif!"
My grandfather lit up his pipe, drew deeply, blew a smoke circle in the lamp light, then sighed.
"Ach we wull keep a guid lookoot when foulk cam tae buy tools, al get Fesak tae watch the close."
"Mak sure he isnae at the malt," retorted the Hodler, "fur whisky maks hum mad."
At that moment the box I had used to stand on to get a better view,suddenly collapsed, and I fell to the ground with a yell.
Within the hut silence reigned, then my grandfather came bursting out through the door.
"Whas there?" he roared, "Ur ye some spy cam tae clipe tae the polis, if ye are ye wull nae mak it oot the yerd fur a hae ma clasp knife an al gut ye!"
Terrified I revealed myself.
"It is only me grandad, I heard you speaking and saw the light in the window."
"We Donal ye should stey in the hoose when auld foulk are abroad in the nicht wie business tae dae, whit ye hae heard is nae fur ye an has nae tae be repeated tae nae body, not even Erchie or ma wife, so here is a shullin an awa tae bed."
I took the coin and sped back up the close with the Hodler's voice ringing in my ears: "Remember wee Donal if ye speak tae ony buddy aboot what ye hae seen ye wull end up in Davy Jones' locker!"
Later that night I heard the sound of footfalls in the close and muffled voices in the yard, followed by things being carried or dragged up the close. Later I heard my grandfather come into the kitchen and start frying something in the pan. Later still I heard my grandmother:
"Whur hae ye been tae wan in the morn Jock, a heard ye moochin aboot doon in the shed, ye ur no drinking pook wie Fesak or yon Hodler man, baith need a good bath."
"Na wife a hae been sortin oot some stuff its 'hush hush' fur the Navy an a canny say a wurd tae onbuddy ye ken."
"Weel," replied my grandmother, "a canny unnerstaun whit ye an the Hodler hae tae dae wie 'hush hush', but al warn ye if it turns oot ye hae been up tae some black market ye wull get ma tongue, remember puir wee Donal bides in this hoose an he disnae want ate be sleepin amangst a den o thieves."
One evening about three days later, towards ten, my grandfather rushed in, his face flushed.
"Quick wee Donal, get yer boots on an yer jecket an bring the torch, follow me doon tae the shed, we are tae carry a basket doon tae Dalintober Pier, whur it wull be picked up. Ask nae questions fur there is half a croon in it fur ye tae keep mum!"
He seemed in a state of wild excitement, and kept peering out through the curtain into High Street.
"A canna see ony sign o the polis on their bikes, sae the coasts clear wee Donal, sae let us get doon tae the shed an grab yon basket o tools."
My grandmother was dozing by the fire and as we slipped out, she stirred, opened an eye, then promptly fell asleep again.
Down into the dark yard we slipped, tripping over a cat who screeched with rage at being disturbed; then into the shed. Stooping, my grandfather picked a basket of tools and, with me leading the way, we sped down the High Street to the Shore Road then out onto Dalintober Pier. The pier during the war and for few years afterwards had been extended with a tubular construction so the naval boats could moor. We arrived at the end of this structure and my grandfather placed the basket on the deck of the pier.
"Grandfather are we going to be met by a boat?" my young mind imagining some pirate boat slipping through the dark to the pier.
"Naw wee Donal, the tools are gan intae the drink, fur they wull be safer there."
As he spoke he swung the basket out in an arc and it fell into the sea with a splash.
"Quick!" he said, "We better awa hame an here is yer half croon, mind keep awfu quiet an tell nae body at a."
Home we went. My grandmother was still asleep and I quickly got into bed. My grandfather sat down on the chair and started reading his newspaper. Sometime later my uncle appeared.
"The polis are lookin fur foulk wae tools that belang tae the Navy an thur efter illegal food parcels an drink that sailors hae been sellin tae a an sundry. Wan or twa hae been arrested an taken tae Castlehill fur questioning. Main Street is buzzing wie polis on bikes an Greensticks was caught wie tools in his close."
From my bedroom I heard my grandmother speaking to my grandfather.
"A hope Jock that ye an yon Hodler hae naw been wurkin wie tools an whit aboot yon tin o rations the other day?"
"Och!" grumbled my grandfather, "Thae rations wur pied fur wumman."
"Aye ye micht hae pied fur them, but yon officer that selt them tae ye dinna, sae ye could be arrested."
"An sent tae Barlinnie Prison!" laughed my uncle.
Next day, when I was at school the Head at Morning Assembly stood up and said,
"I have been informed by the Police Inspector that many of your parents have been in receipt of naval rations, spirits, and tools. Despite searches by the constables nothing has been found, but all boys who know of anything must report to me after assembly. May I remind you that it is your duty to report any theft as the goods belong to the King, and you are stealing from the King!"
No one came forward with information and the episode ended with some people being fined in the court.
About this time I became covered with a rash, the worst part was on my face and my mother took me to see Doctor Cameron, who prescribed a lotion, and a reduction in sweet things.
"It is your body changing," he muttered, peering over his glasses, "It happens to wee boys all the time."
"What does he mean, my body is changing?" I asked my mother as we walked back to Woodland Place.
"O be quiet," she snapped, "When you are older you will understand."
Back at Woodland Place my grandfather asked me what had happened at the doctor's.
"Whit did wee Cameron gie ye fur yon rash?"
"A lotion," I replied.
"Ach lotion me fit, whit does he ken, it is yer blud boy."
"Dina tak lake that Jock, aboot wee Cameron, he is a guid doctor though we baith are on Doctor McKenzie's books an dina be gein wee Donal any o yer mixtures, fur his mother wud be fumin!" retorted my grandmother, rising to put the kettle on.
"The boy needs a good dose o sulphur an treacle, a hae a packet in the press an a tin o treacle, so I wull mix some tae gie hum the nicht, afore he goes tae bed." On saying that my grandfather went and fetched the sulphur and treacle and proceeded to mix a quantity in a bowl.
"Thur," he said as he completed the task, "A we dose o that the nicht wull mak ye better an get rid o yon rash, am no known as Doctor Smith o Woodland Place fur nathin!"
"Wull be it on yer heed Jock!", retorted my grandmother, "Fur sulphur an treacle is fur stomach disorders!"
Evening came and I was given an enormous spoonful of the mixture, it tasted like burnt oil residue and made my stomach heave. As I spluttered and coughed, my grandmother gave me a sweet to take away the taste.
A few hours later my bowels erupted and I spent a miserable night hurrying to the outside loo down in the yard, a journey that involved passing Mary Broon's door. She had a habit of standing in the doorway even late at night peering into the close and muttering under breath.
As I sped past on my second visit she cackled, "A wis listening up the lum an heard Jock takin aboot sulphur an treacle, sae ye wull be vistin the cludgie a nicht. The auld fool! Fancy gein a bairn a dose on yon mixture, he should tak it humsel but he is drank sae much pook he wid explode!"
She gave another cackle and shuffled into the room.
Next day I could not go to school and had to stay in bed and, strangely, the rash went by evening.
"Ah!" said my mother, "Doctor Cameron's lotion worked, but it was a shame that you had to stay in bed."
Later that evening my grandfather returned from the pub, and proceeded to fry some sausages in the pan, he reached for the salt and flicked some on the sausages not realising that it was the packet of sulphur. As he tucked in, he peered at me as I was reading the Beano.
"I telt ye wee Donal that yon rash wid gang awa wie me mixture. Yon stomach disorder ye had wis caused wie twa much sweeties."
He munched away at the sausages until he had devoured the lot, then he dozed off.
I was awakened in the early hours of the morning with groans and curses, the thump of feet, my grandmother's voice raised in anger.
"Ye auld guts, eatin al thae sausages an pittin sulphur on them, nar wunner ye are haen tae go tae the toilet a nicht. Ye are disturbin a the foulk in the hoose wie yer shinanigans, a wudna be surprised if ye hae no poisoned yersel."
"Oh!" groaned my grandfather, "Al hae tae go agin doon tae the yerd, yo auld witch Broon is hingin aboot in the close, laffin at me, av a guid mind tae tae gie hur a good sweerin."
"Ye wull haud yer tongue Jock, she is a wumman, sae watch yer step."
I heard the clatter of feet, then footsteps rushing down the close, followed by groans, and a shout.
"Thurs nae paper left!"
This was followed by a raucous cackle from Mary Brown, followed by my grandfather's voice.
"Awa ye go ye auld witch, al use yer curtains if ye dina get in yer hoose!"
Next morning my grandfather lay in bed, pale and tired. As I went into the room he caught me by the hand.
"Wee Donal keep awa frae twa much sulphur an treacle."
On the subject of doctoring, some months later I developed a pain in my groin, it felt like a strain, but the spasms worsened and my mother sent for Doctor Cameron.
As he arrived in his little car complete with black bag, my grandfather met him at the door.
"A ken fine whit is wrang wie wee Donal doctor, thur wis nae need fur ye tae cam along tae oor hoose. The wee boy has pulled a muscle, a he needs is a poultice on his side."
"Tch, tch", said Doctor Cameron, "Well John that is for me to decide, where is the patient?"
My grandfather led him into the kitchen where I lay, with my mother and grandmother anxiously looking on, plus the cat and dog, the latter barking with excitement at the influx of people.
"Shut up dog!", roared my grandfather swinging a hobnailed boot at the unfortunate animal.
Doctor Cameron poked my side, pressed my stomach.
"Raise your leg", he commanded, seizing my calf.
"The pain shot through my side.
"Oooh!" I yelped.
"Stop greetin," snapped my grandfather, "Only wee babies greet when they are feart."
"Mmm..." muttered Doctor Cameron, "A bad sprain. Two days in bed, hot bottle, take some aspirin if the pain gets bad."
With that comment he bid us good day and left the house.
When he had departed my grandfather looked down at me, his moustache bristling with irritation.
"Well wee Donal yon wee Cameron has nae got a clue aboot whit tae dae, ye need plenty o heat, al away an get the hot watter on fur a poultice, ye wull be as right as rain in a few days!"
My mother glared at my grandfather.
"Jock ye canna be overruling Doctor Cameron's diagnosis. Surely rest is a that is needed?"
"A hae been treatin sprains and knocks a my life," retorted my grandfather, "A poultice wull dae the trick ye ken, if it dina wurk, then nae herm haes been done."
My mother sighed.
"Well tae keep the peace ye can try it, but a warn ye noo, that if ye cause mair trouble al gie ye a sleevin, fur am fair scunnered wie a yer tricks an remedies, a the foulk are takin aboot yer daft ways!"
"Dinna wurry Maisie," muttered my grandfather, "I hae got a feel fur remedies, its an instinct us heilen men hae got fur nature, no lake yon Glesca buddies or a thass moogers frae the borders!"
The poultice was duly prepared. It consisted of a mixture of hot bread, pulped and mixed with olive oil, wrapped in a thick cloth.
"Lift up yer nicht shirt!" snapped my grandfather.
Nervously I obeyed, and the poultice was applied. It was very hot and I cried out in pain.
"Och shut up!" roared my grandfather, "Ye hae got tae be a man, only cowards greet, heilen men bear a pain."
Eventually the heat subsided and I fell asleep, lulled by the aroma of hot olive oil.
Next morning the pain had gone, and I was able to walk.
"A telt ye it wid wurk!" exulted my grandfather as he tormented the dog by blowing smoke into its face. "Noo gang awa an tell yer mother that ye hae been cured by a real doctor, an no some wee man thet learnt his doctorin frae books!"
At the time of the 'sprain' incident, my mother and father lived in an attic above where my grandmother lived.
The attic consisted of a room cum kitchen, with a tiny bedroom, the latter being illuminated by a tiny sky light. Gas was the only means of night light and cooking had to be done on an open fire. As the attic was in the roof space it was very cramped and at night when lying in bed, I could hear mice scuttling in the rafters.
To reach the attic there was a small spiral stair rising from the lobby of my grandmothers house; The stair was very narrow and steep and meant in the winter care had to be taken.
At the top of the stairs opposite the door into my parents attic there stood another door. Yellow with age, cracked, its paint long faded. What lay beyond intrigued my young mind. I used to peer through the keyhole but only darkness seemed to lay beyond. One night I heard footsteps ascending the stair, careful deliberate steps. As my parents were both seated at the fire I thought that it must be my grandfather or grandmother on a visit. The footsteps stopped on the landing, but our door did not open, instead there was a grating of a key, then silence.
The night was windy, and the draught surged through the rafters rattling the slates.
"Somebody has come up the stairs mother," I spoke nervously.
"Awa an sleep Donal, nae body has cum up the stairs. Faither hae ye heard anydody on the landing?"
My father who was reading his paper, looked up sharply.
"Away an sleep boy, you have been listening tae Jock again, have ye not?"
"No dad I have not, but I did hear someone coming up the stairs."
My father put down his paper, arose and walked to the attic door, the stuttering gas jet making his shadow seem huge. He opened the door and looked out.
"Nobody here boy, only the wind."
"Maybe somebody went into the other attic dad."
"No," replied my father as he came in and shut the door, "that attic has been empty for years, since the thirties. Now off to sleep, that vivid imagination of yours will give you bad dreams."
Slowly I fell asleep only to be ushered into a dream world where shadowy figures loomed on the attic stair, shapeless masses slithered past my bed. Suddenly I was at the other attic door in my dream, turning the handle, the door swung back and I entered a cobweb blackness, sitting at the window was an old woman, she turned as I entered, her face was gnarled, her eyes hard. It was Mary Brown! She reached forward with talon-like hands, cackling horribly from a twisted mouth that revealed yellow broken teeth.
I yelled in terror as she gripped my shoulder, her nails digging into my flesh.
"Help", I yelped, "I did not mean to look in your window Mrs Witch!"
Suddenly I was awake, sweating, the anxious faces of my parents looking down on me.
"You were having a dream Donal," said my mother.
"This attic is too cramped," complained my father, "you had better sleep down below in my mother's hoose. A know that Jock is doon there but at least ye wull have mair room."
My mother looked at him.
"We have put our name doon fur a prefab an noo that the war is over we might not have long tae wait, so it sounds like a good idea."
"So wee Donal ye are comin doon tae stey fer a we while", chuckled my grandfather as I walked in with my case of belongings.
"Yer faither haes telt me that ye wur haen nichtmares aboot the attic sae ye wull be a richt doon here."
As he spoke he winked at my grandmother.
"Is that no richt wife?"
"The boy wull be a richt Jock, sae nae stories aboot the dark side o Woodland Place."
"As if I would be tellin hum droll stories..."
Later that day, as I sat at the fire reading the Hotspur, my grandfather came in having just walked the dog. Filling his pipe, he lit up, drew a mouthful of smoke, spat in the fire, then sat down in his chair.
"Whit wur ye wunnerin aboot the auld empty attic fur wee Donal?"
"Well grandad I was wondering why nobody ever seemed to go into the attic, my father says that the place was empty from the thirties."
Jock stroked his chin, at the same time his expression changed, you could almost hear his brain pulsing with energy.
"The thirties ye say, why it has been empty for mony a year afore that, aye weel before the time o Skart the factor."
He paused as he spoke to relight his pipe, flicking the match into the fire. He continued:
"Ye ken Woodland Place wis built away back in the last century during the reign o Victoria. It was a fine building for its time, but like a places it fell intae ruin due tae factors no bothering tae repair places."
"When Skart inherited the building frae an auld relative he did a few alterations such as new cludgies wae watter flushin, but he never pit in electricity, but kept the auld gas lamps."
"A sart o foulk rented rooms an the attic ye mention wis the hame o an auld man called John the Bodach, a puir auld soul that winna sae boo tae a goose, he kept himsel tae his sel, creepin hame at nicht alang the Mussel Ebb an makin his way up tae his lonely attic. Nae foulk kent whit he did in his attic, but he wis heard tae groan a nicht, sae that the neebors wur right lathered wie wurry. Weel wan day he dina cam oot o his attic an when a week past awa the factor cam fur his rent an haen a key he went in tae the Bodach's attic. He fan the auls soul deed, his eyes wide open an a gape o terror on his mooth, as if he had seen Auld Nick himsel. The factor was awfy feart an when the polis cam tae tak the Bodach awa there wis an awfy smell o burnin sulphur in the attic an a big mark on the wa, lake a talon had been scraped doon it. The story had a body wunnerin fur years whit had heppened tae John the Bodach; Ye see he had nae freens an went tae a paupers grave. Naebudy wid leeve in the attic agin, sae the factor kept it locked up."
My grandfather paused again to spit in the fire and toss a wad of tobacco into his mouth. After chewing for a few seconds, he continued.
"Weel when a wis a young man o a winters nicht as a passed Woodland Place wie ma pals, we wid look up at the attic windae where the Bodach had perished, sometimes we wid see whit wis like a face pressed agin the gless, the mooth agape as if cryin fur help, but nae sound cam oot an other times some queer shape wie a big claw scrapin doon the gless. The foulk that were in this hoose at the time, heard screamin an groans mony a nicht an were gled tae fan another hoose tae stey in. Sae frae that day tae this nae buddy has steyed in the attic, except Mary Broon fur a few months. Mind she is well in wie Auld Nick, sae she wouldna ken any difference, But when she moved doon tae the close, the attic has remained locked."
As he finished I plucked up courage and asked, "Grandad has anybody got a key for the attic?"
He raised his eyebrows.
"Key ye say, na only Skart the factor has wan, mind you thon bunch o keys doon in the shed might hae wan that wid fit."
He winked as he spoke, letting a squirt of tobacco explode in the flame of the fire
"Watch yersel if ye fan wan, a ken naethin aboot it."
With that he rose and went out, followed by the dog, even the latter looked back at me knowingly.
A few days later I went down to the shed and after a long search found some rusting keys. Taking them back to my room, I cleaned them up and then waited for a chance to go to the attic door. That chance came in the form of a day when both my mother and father were out and my grandmother had gone with Jock to visit a relative 'over the town'.
It was a Sunday afternoon when I ascended the spiral staircase, as I did so I felt as if unseen eyes were probing my actions, the very spiders that scuttled under my feet seemed aware of my purpose, even the stair treads creaked in protest, the noise seeming to echo all over High Street.
At last I reached the door and inserted a key. Nothing happened. I repeated the operation, until on trying the seventh key there was a creak from the lock and the noise like a rifle shot as the bar crashed back. Sweat poured down my brow. Had I been heard? Then, turning the handle, I pushed and the door swung back, the hinges groaning in protest. Stale air wafted out, air that had been trapped for years. I walked into the semi-gloom. Cobwebs brushed my face, something scuttled past my feet and out the open door.
The attic had a few items of furniture: a chair with only three legs, a side board and a faded picture of some man with side whiskers on the wall. Some yellow newspapers lay on the floor. I picked one up. The headline mentioned some battle on the Somme and the fact that nearly four hundred men had died in France to date, that being September 1916. As I read something seemed to move in the corner of my eye. I looked away, then back. A face seemed to be peering at me in the gloom, a chill crept over me. I must get out! A sound like the rushing of wind was followed by a thud, something fell onto the rusting hearth of the fire place. I glimpsed a small claw. That was it! Turning, I fled out of the attic down the stair. Trembling, I returned the keys to the shed then waited in the warm afternoon sun until my grandmother and Jock hove into sight. Thankfully, I went forward to meet them.
"Bless ma soul!" said my grandmother, "Wee Donal looks as if he has seen a ghost or a goul."
"Na," muttered my grandfather, "He is suffering frae nichtmare-ities"
"Och!" laughed my grandmother, "Whit droll words ye mak up Jock, ye wull end up turnin wee Donal intae a stupid boy, na knowin whit is real or noo real. He wull end up as daft as a they droll Peniver foulk."
Later that day my mother and father returned home and went up to their attic. It was then that I realised that the other attic door was still open. How could I explain the open door?
Loud exclamations came from the landing, followed by a rush of feet down to my grandmother's house.
"Jock!" exclaimed my father, "Hae you been in the other attic, the door wis left open."
"Na me," replied my grandfather, as he swigged a cup of tea, "It micht hae been Skart the factor, a seen hum wakin oor the Esplanade. Sunday is good day fur hum tae inspect his hooses, he wis probably wurried aboot the place being closed sae lang fur damp can set in."
"Weel," said my mother, "ye better get some keys frae yer shed an lock up the place, fur Skart hasna. Am no steyin in an attic wie yon place across the landing open tae a an sundry, ony tramp could get in an doss there."
"Al richt Maisie," sighed my grandfather, al tak wee Donal doon tae the shed an weel fan the keys an cum up an lock the door."
"Good," said my mother.
We went down to the shed and after a few minutes the keys were located.
"Sae ye were up in the attic wee Donal?"
"Yes grandad," I replied meekly, "I took the hint, thanks for covering up for me, my father would would have given me a right leathering if he known that I had been in the attic."
We returned with the keys and entered the attic before we closed the door.
"Aye yon stuff lyin aboot is before the time o the Bodach, why look at yon papers a yellow wie age"
As he spoke he picked one up.
"Dear me, the first warr, the Somme, a they men deed, it wis a sad time, we used tae gather at the Post Office as the posted the casualties up on the winda."
He looked at the old furniture and the picture on the wall.
"That's a pictur o Provost Greenlees auld grandfather, how it got hear a dina ken."
Something caught his eye.
"Whit wis that?" he gasped, peering into the gloom, "A thocht a saw a face near the winda."
He looked at the fireplace.
"Michty me get oot quick wee Donal!"
We rushed out onto the landing where my father stood.
"Whits up we ye twa?"
"Thurs something in there Donal, a claw wie a black thing!" gasped my grandfather.
Laughing, my father went into the attic and came out with the newspapers and a dead crow in his hand.
"Thur is yer claw, only a deed bird, al hae a read o yon newspapers though. Gie me the keys an al lock up."
Eventually he found the right one, locked the door, then went back into the attic. Sheepishly we trooped down to my grandmothers house.
"Weel wee Donal," muttered my grandfather, "Yon attic is a strange place sae we wull sae na mair aboot the place."
The attic remained closed until Woodland Place was finally demolished a while after my grandmother moved to John Street.
Copyright © 1998 Donald Keith.