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Christmas Spirit
Pan Cod Ingin Johnies The Indian The Trossachs |
The Mad Axe Man O' Glen Kinglas
The Man Who Knew Everything The Clock Waggeta Wa The Amethyst |
As you will gather I was an infrequent attendee at the Highland Parish Sunday School -- the grim ritual put me off religion for many a year. The way the Bible was taught by rote became an endurance test and even though my mother dragged me to the Sunday School I used to find ways for not attending -- which included playing truant. The following story concerns a Christmas Party that I went to. It must have been about the year 1948 for that was the Christmas I received a copy of the Enid Blyton book Five Go Adventuring Again.
The Christmas Party was held in the Kirk Street Hall. At that time it was lit by a combination of electricity and gas and the effect was to give the hall a Victorian atmosphere.
Within the hall there were little side rooms -- musty, damp, some stacked with mouldering texts and other religious books. On the walls hung faded prints of past dignitaries of the Highland Parish Church including an oil of a minister from the eighteenth century. I remember the grim look on his face, he always reminded me of some South American dictator! There were also various texts -- one prominent one with the motto 'The labourer is worthy of his hire'. Sadly the text hung under a faded oil entitled 'The Slave Market in New Orleans 1830'! In one of the rooms lay an old organ, thick with dust, and some of the Sunday School pupils itched to play it. The main part of the hall had partitions that swung on rails, thus enabling the space to be divided up for privacy but when I arrived at the hall for the Christmas Party the partitions had been pushed back.
My mother thrust me into the dim lit doorway where the superintendent hovered to greet each new arrival.
"Weel Mustress Keith," he grated, eyeing me suspiciously, his memory bank thinking of the 'Tar Incident'.
"Ye hae brung wee Donal tae the party, he should hae a gran time playin games wey a the boys and lasses and hain a gran feed efter; the party wull feenish aboot nine o clock, sae ye should collect hum then".
My mother pushed me into the hall, where other boys and girls milled about in awkward silence.
"Noo Donal," said my mother, "hae a guid time and dina be kissin oany lasses, an al pick ye up at nine."
She laughed as she spoke, noticing my shyness at the mention of kissing girls.
"Dina wurry I wis only jokin, ye ur oor young fur that kind o thing".
Eventually the hall was nearly full of party people. The superintendent strode in and clapped his hands whilst the Sunday School teachers lined up beside him. They were two men and three women who seemed ancient to our young eyes. One of the women in particular seemed ready for departing this world at any moment!
"Noo wains!" bellowed the super, "Welcome tae the Highland Parish Sunday School Christmas Party, we wull hae some sangs first frae Miss Wilson accompanied by muster McPhee oan the piano, then some games, then ye can hae yer tea. Efter that the minister wull lead us in prayers an then the presents wull be gein oot by Santa, sae a wull hand ye oor tae Miss Wilson".
An inward groan came from our lips as Miss Wilson took her place at the piano side and Mister McPhee flexed his fingers. Miss Wilson seemed to be about a hundred years old, dressed in a black gown that stretched to the floor. Round her neck hung a string of yellowing pearls, her hair was drawn back in a tight bun complemented by severe round lensed glasses. The pianist wore a dark suit and a waistcoat from which hung a gold hunter chain. His face bore the expression of someone who had actually seen what hell was like, and his eyes were hard and cold under the dim light of the hall.
Miss Wilson raised her hand.
"We will commence with, 'Ae Fond Kiss', followed by 'Come Into The Garden Maud', then 'I Wandered Through Marble Halls', finshing with the lament 'Ye Heilans and Ye Lowlands'."
Most of us had never heard of the songs and as the piano burst into life we started sniggering. Miss Wilson's voice shrieked into the upper register. One boy whispered,
"Fancy kissin Miss Wulson, it wid be lak pittin a gooseburry in yer mooth!"
Boys clutched their sides to suppress laughter.
One little girl sniggered, "Yon dress Muss Wulson is weerin cam oot o the museum."
As we wriggled about the concert ground on and finally the lament was reached. What a dirge! -- more like a funeral march. The bonny Earl of Murray, who was murdered, was in fact the lover of the wife of King James The First. His assassian The Marquis of Huntly was in the pay of the king. When the song ended to a half hearted round of applause we all felt the any Christmas Spirit we had had been severely diluted.
The super moved into the centre of the hall.
"Noo boys and girls efter that fine bit o singin an playin we wull hae some games starting wie pass the parcel, when the music stops, the wan hadin the parcel is oot."
The game progressed and I was soon 'out'.
"Ye hae nae coordination wee Donal" hissed the super as he shoved me back into a seat at the side of the hall.
The next game was the old favourite 'hide and seek'. One little girl was blindfolded then we all hid. The object was that the first person detected took her place. Off we sped to our various lairs and I found myself in one of the side rooms, in fact the one where the old organ lay. I noticed that there was a space under the machine and managed to squeeze in. As I crouched in my den I could hear people whispering in the next room from their hides. People were getting detected and taking the place of the original girl. Now the space inside the organ was very warm and I began to feel drowsy. Suddenly I felt my neck jerk. I could hear voices in the distance, clattering and laughing. I dragged myself from my hiding place and made my way to the hall.
In true 'Rip Van Winkle' style I walked in. Everyone was finishing of the cakes and jellies, the superintendent whirled round.
"Keith where have you been, the meal is over; we have even had people looking in the streets for ye, we feared the wurst, even the minister hus been doon at the peir in case ye went oor the side?"
I was concious of a thousand eyes upon me, some of the boys were sniggering at my discomfort.
"I fell asleep in the organ sir!" I blurted out as the super's face turned blue, then red.
"Whit?" he roared, "the auld organ in the back room?"
There was a pause.
"Yes Sir" I meekly replied.
"You dope!" snapped the super, "you could hae perished in that thing an yer banes fan years later, oany wey there us nae cakes left sae ye wull hae tae mak dae wie jeely an breed an when yer mother cams fur ye a wull tell hur o yer bad behaviour."
There I sat, forlorn, supping thin jelly and bread as the minister arrived to take the next part of the 'entertainment'.
"Let us all pray," he said.
"Thank you Lord for all that we have received and remember the hungry Hottentot in his hut, the Chinaman in his shack, or the poor of this town in their humble rooms; even the poorest man in his hovel can rejoice that he is saved even though he is hungry. Thank you for our leaders who watch over us".
He finished then, raising his hands said,
"We will finish with the carol, 'While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night, followed by 'Lead Kindly Light Amid The Encircling Gloom'."
When the prayers and singing were over the super stepped forward. He waved his hands and a figure clad as Santa lumbered forward with a sack of presents.
"Boys and girls," rumbled Santa, "get in line and you wull each be gein a present"
We all dutifully obeyed. As a flimsy parcel was thrust into my hand Santa grudgingly muttered "Happy Christmas boy". I tore off the wrapping to find an exercise book and a pencil and rubber. I was lucky -- one little boy received only a pencil and he started to cry with disappointment, receiving a clip on the ear for his troubles from the super.
Then the Christmas Party was at an end. My mother arrived at the door.
"Huv ye had a guid time wee Donal?" she asked, "I hope ye huv behaved yersel?"
As she spoke the super came over.
"Mustress Keith, wee Donal got loast in wan o the rooms an we thocht he had wannered doon tae the pier an fell oor; even the menister wis oot lookin fur hum, but he turned up but missed hus tea".
My mother glared at me.
"I am black affronted wie ye, first it wis fain intae tar at the slip, then drappin intae a hole at Southend; can awa hame the noo".
She turned to the super.
"Am richt sorry whit hus heppened al gie hum a richt lunnerin when I get hame an when Jock hears whit hus heppened he wull hae something tae say!".
With that and clutching my exercise book and pencil I was hurried home to Davaar Avenue.
Thus ended my first Christmas Party at the Kirk Street Hall. When my grandfather heard what had happened he was incensed.
"Dinna wurry son," he said soothingly, "oany wee boy could hae been loast in hide an seek, why legend hus it that a man up at Tangy went intae hiding during a game when he wus a wee boy an he turned up twenty years later a grown man!"
I went to a few more Sunday School Christmas Parties, but all ended with the feeling that religion was being forced upon those who attended. To me it seemed that if a more relaxed attitude had been adopted to the children, then many would have continued on to become members of the Kirk and averted the present day crisis when the national church is declining in the face of a rampant secular society.
Who was 'Pan Cod', the man who sped across the Esplanade on his tricycle? Many a time I heard my father speaking of him. One day I asked who this Pan Cod was, surely that was not his name?
"Weel Donal, Pan Cod wis a wee man who lived away oor in Dalintober, every day he cam oor the brig on his tricycle tae dae his shoppin in the toon. As boys we used tae wait for him as he cam speedin along, heid doon, hus message basket hingin oan hus hanel bars. We used tae shout, 'hae ye any cods in yer pan?' He would shake hus fist at us then speed oan tae the toon. He wid then park his tricycle in the Main Street. As he went roon the shops we used tae follow hum laughing and he would turn and chase us.
One day we tied a chain to the back axle of the tricycle, when Pan Cod wisna lookin. He cam oot o the bakers wie a loaf an sprang oan tae his machine; off he sped only to be brought up with a jolt, he strained forward on the pedals, cursing and swearing but could not make any more progress; then he spotted the chain, with a roar of rage he race after us and we did not shake him off until we had reached Princess Street. There after fur a few months we steered a wide berth of 'Pan Cod'.
A reply from the grandson of 'Pan Cod'.
There was a mysterious building on Kinloch Road, west of the Victoria Hall. Strange noises came from within -- clanking, clicking, hissing. If you put your ear to the door you could here women talking against a background of machine noise. What went on within these walls had us baffled, sometimes you would see groups of women hurry from a side door, or early in the morning they would enter.
Baffled I approached my grandfather one day in the year 1945, as he worked in the shed down in the back yard. What he did in the shed baffled me and my pals, perhaps he was a great inventor or a scientist? Any way I was more interested in what lay in the building next to the Victoria Hall.
"Grandfather?" I asked, "The building next to the Victoria Hall, what is made within the place?"
A long silence greeted my question, he looked up slowly.
"Whit dae ye want tae know fur wee Donal?"
I paused then said, "My pals think it is a secret factory where weapons were made to fight the Germans!"
He put down the chisel he was sharpening.
"Its a factory boy, a net factory, whur duzzens o weemen weve nets fur use in the fishing, its called Grundie's Net Factory; durin the war they made nets fur hidin unnner, but Grudie disna lak foulk lookin in at whit he is makin incase other competitors get had o his wurk; ye hae tae watch ye ken fur a they Spaniards and Frenchies are aye sneekin aboot stealin secrets in the disguise o sellin onions; noo let me git oan wie me wurk".
With that he plied himself to sharpening the chisel and I went back to meet my pals. They listened to what I said with interest.
"Whit a net factory," said one boy, "a thocht as much."
Another boy piped up, "My faither telt me that they made dance shoes fur the dancers in the Victoria Hall".
This remark brought a great peal of laughter.
"I an maybe the wommen pit the nets in their hair when they are dancin!" said another boy. We laughed again, then decided to find a way of seeing what lay within the Net Factory to satisfy our curiosity.
It was dark when we approached the building. The Autumn air made us feel cold. Within the building yellow lights peeked through high windows, there was the hum of machinery and the sounds of muted voices, then I noticed a side door was slightly ajar. What luck!, We crowded forward and peered through the opening.
There before us in the dim light sat rows of women clicking away with 'net needles'. They bent over their tasks making idle conversation as they worked. Some whistled popular tunes whilst others picked up bales of hemp. To one side lay a bank of machines over which two or three men tinkered slowly. We watched the operation for some minutes, then slipped away, the whole thing was a bit of an anticlimax and as we trudged home along the sea wall we commented on what we had seen.
"Whit a boring job," muttered one boy, "fancy sitting all day making nets."
We all nodded in agreement.
"I thought we would see some great machines churning out great swathes of nets, not row o wemmen clacking awa wie needles!" exclaimed another boy as he hurled a stone at a lone seagull on the wall.
"Mind you Donal", said another boy, turning to me, "Whit yer grandfaither telt ye aboot Spanish an French spies prying roon the net factory micht be true, for a seen twa ingin Johnies
cummin aff the Glesca bus twa days ago an they wur stanin aboot ootside the Royal Hotel wie their ingins hingin frae their necks oan strings!"
His remark made us all think as we bade each other good night, and I climbed the stair at Woodland Place.
About a week later I was sitting in my grandmother's kitchen when there was a knock at the front door. The dog growled a salutary warning. My grandmother looked up at the clock.
"Wha can be aboot oor hoose at this time o nicht, awa tae the door wee Donal an see who it is."
Dutifully I went and opened the door, to be confronted by a little swarthy faced man with gleaming teeth, he was dressed in a faded suit and wore a dark beret on his head. In one hand he held a string of onions.
"Please sir you buy lovely onions, come all the way from Espana, only one shilling for six of the best, or two shillings for twelve plus two more sie?"
My grandmother arrived at my side.
"Och its you Johnny, gie us twa shullins worth, al gang awa an git ma purse."
I stared at the little man as he peeled off a string of onions, remembering what my grandfather had said about spies at the Net Factory.
I blurted out, "have you been near the Net Factory with your onions?"
The little man paused.
"Zee what, zee nets, I sell no nets I only sell zee onions, one shilling for zee six!"
At this point my grandmother arrived with a florin and took the onions from the seller. He bowed graciously.
"Gracias Senorena, good night to all within these walls."
With that he shuffled down the lobby and vanished into the night.
"Whit were ye takin aboot wee Donal?" asked my grandmother.
I told her what my grandfather had said about the ingin johnies being spies at the Net Factory. She smiled.
"A tell ye dina listen tae Jock's stories, thae puir Spanish men hae been aboot fur donkey's years; oanway jist listen whit heppens, the puir soul is awa doon the close tae sell hus wares tae Mary Broon!"
We waited for a few minutes, I could hear muffled voices in the close way the strident screech of Mary Broon's voice leapt up from below.
"Na a dinna want yer ingins ye greasy diego, awa back tae yer freen Franco, see if he wants any."
There was a muffled protest, followed by another outburst from Mary.
"A dont care if Jock's wife hus bocht ingins yon man wid ony thing that wid fit intae hus mooth."
We watched from the window as the seller wearily climbed up the steps to High Street and crossed over to Stevenson's house.
"See whit I mean?" said my grandmother, "Yon puir wee Spaniard couldna be a spy fur Mary Broon wid hae sniffed hum oot years ago; no dina tell Jock whit Mary said aboot hus mooth or the war tae end al wars wull start, an a canna be daen wie all the shoutin an sweerin that wull erupt!"
When my grandfather came home he eyed the onions for a few seconds.
"A see the Spaniards been roon, man they grow fine ingins, they ur great fried!"
About a week after the onion seller had visited us I happened to be over at the Town Hall as the Glasgow bus arrived with its load of travellers. The majority of the passengers were 'townies' returning from a trip to the city lights or soldiers back on leave. As the last few passengers descended from the bus, there emerged a small dark skinned man carrying a large suitcase and on his head a turban, He turned to the conductor who was checking his ticket machine.
"Please sir is there an hotel I can stay at?"
The conductor, a crabbit man, looked up sharply, eyeing the turban and the case.
"Ye ur a lang wey frae hame, whit pert o India dae ye cum frae?"
The small dark skinned man shuffled nervously as a curious crowd gathered to watch, drawn by the fact that dark skinned people coming to Campbeltown was an extreme rarity.
"Me come from Calcutta sir, Muhamed Singh at your service, traveler in fine ties and trinkets, with all purchases a lucky bead given!"
The conductor pointed to the White Heart Hotel.
"Awa oor there Muhamed an they wull gie ye a room!"
As he spoke and the little man struggled with his bulging suitcase, the crowd followed him to the hotel door and came into the foyer as he approached the desk. People gasped.
"Weel a hae seen sum miracles they last few months, first a box o bananas at Michelchere's an noo a dark man frae India steyin in the White Hert!" muttered one man as he lit up a capstan.
"Its the war that hus caused it!" exclaimed a woman, "we used tae go oor there wie beads in the days o the Empire, noo they are comin here sellin us beads an claes".
The crowd remained until the the small man had booked his room and was escorted upstairs by the manager. The latter came out in the street a few minutes later.
"Awa hame guid foulks, dina hing aboot the door, its bad fur business, he is only a puir indian far frae hus native shore."
As we all walked away I hurried back to Woodland Place, excited with what I had seen. My grandmother was stirring some soup in a great cast iron pot, over an open fire. My grandfather was cutting his toenails having just had a 'hip bath' (there was no bathroom in the house). My uncle was reading a periodical at the fire, whilst the cat was attacking something under the couch aided by the dog.
"Grandmother!" I shouted, "A black man has come of the Glasgow Bus, he comes from Calcutta, he is staying at the White Heart Hotel, he has a case of lucky beads and ties!"
My grandmother raised her hands to the heavens.
"Michty me hae ye been in the Gluepot wee Donal, or hae ye been smokin cinnamon sticks at Revies?"
The fact that I had mentioned Calcutta drew a stinging response from my grandfather.
"Nae black man wid come tae this toon wee Donal, sellin ties an beads, na, it must be wan o the Burma Army boys back hame frae the war a read a lot ur bein demobbed in Calcutta!"
I turned to my uncle.
"I am telling the truth, there was a dark man got of the bus!"
Putting down his periodical my uncle yawned.
"A tell ye whit, efter ma tea a wull tak a donner oor the toon and look intae the bar at the White Hert".
His remark drew a sharp stare from Jock.
"If thur isna oany black man wee Donal yer pocket muny wull be stopped fur a week an al tak the strap tae ye, ye hae a vivid imagination, it wull be the ruin o ye in later life, whit blethers indeed, why the oanly black man a know in the toon is the labourer at the Coal Rhee an hus colour is due tae hus wurk."
My uncle after he had finished his tea departed for the 'toon'. He returned about one hour later, rather breathless.
"Wee Donals richt enough!" he exclaimed, "Thur is a coloured man steyin in the White Hert, his name is Mohamed Singh; thur is a huge crowd hingin aboot the hotel watin fur hum tae cam oot, Willie Paterson says he is weerin a turbin an he is gan tae be selling ties an beads".
My grandmother scratched her head in puzzlement.
"A dinna ken Willie Paterson had a turbin an whit does he want wie sellin beads?"
My grandfather spat into the fire.
"Ye daft gowk, Erchie meant the Indian wis weerin a turbin, nae Wullie Paterson, hus family are a Christians, nae muhamedans!"
My grandmother gripped the spurtle in her hand. "Och a ken weel whit a said, onyway a yon foulk hingin aboot the hotel must hae very little tae dae in a nicht."
The conversation died away as the time was drawing on to nine o'clock, when the news was broadcast on the radio, the prelude being the chimes of Big Ben and the announcer saying, 'This is London'. My grandfather switched on the set and waited for the news. At that time their was a lot of trouble in India with the conflict between Muslims and Hindus gathering momentum, prior to partition of the great continent many months later. Naturally a greater part of the bulletin was taken up with the 'Indian problem' and one commentator suggested that to save conflict all passport carrying Muslims and Hindus should be repatriated to Britain and that there were vast tracts of land in Scotland that could be used to settle them!
The news bulletin ended shortly after this and my grandfather switched off the radio as the announcer said the next programme would be Jimmy Shand playing from Glasgow.
"A telt ye all mony a time!" he spluttered, his face reddening, "If wee Atlee an hus cronies allow thus, hunners o Indians fleein oor here, al never vote fur Labour agin, why the toon wull be seethin wey them an we wull a be facin the east every morn even hum up in the Heilan Parish Kirk, whit wid John Knox say aboot that. Yon man that cam doon in the Glesca Bus, whits he called, Singh, he is maybe the advance guard".
He turned to me.
"Jist think wee Donal ye could be gan tae a Hindu Sunday School perty next year, an yer granny wid hae tae weer a shawl oor her heid!"
My uncle raised his hands in horror.
"Och Jock the wee man on the wireless wis only speculating, the Indian trouble wull be settled in the end; onyway the poor Indians wid freeze up in the Heilans, they havna tthe claes tae survive the winters."
As he spoke, my grandmother sat down on her chair.
"Aye Erchies richt Jock its a tak an a dina fancy weerin a shawl oor ma heid, why I widna be able tae see where a wis gan an a wid fa oor the pier an be drooned!"
Muhamed Singh set off on his rounds the next day, followed by a curious crowd, that latter speculating on the contents of the case he struggled along with. Bravely he climbed stairs, knocked on doors, sometimes he made a sale, sometimes he was rebuffed. Eventually he progressed to the Dalintober side and one morning arrived in High Street.
The interest in him had somewhat waned, but there were still about twenty or thirty people who moved after him. As we boys spotted him entering Kilmory Place, we hurried to the close entrance and watched as he chapped on the door of none other than Fesak. There was no reply to his first knockings, then came awful scrapping sounds followed by a hellish roar.
"Whas knocking at my door at thus time o morn?"
Fesak's voice sounded harsh and full of menace. Muhamed hesitated.
"Please sir Muhamed Singh at your service, purveyor of lucky ties, for every tie bought, lucky bead given, all ties very good silk!"
There was a pause as Fesak's drink-addled brain swung into action. There was a grating of a bolt and the door swung open. Fesak eyed the poor Indian with his case open on the close floor.
"Whit!" he snapped, "ur ye Sabu the elephant boy, a dina wany yer ties or yer beads, git frae ma close or al tak ma cleever tae ye, ye travelers are pests next tae tinkers an Glesca foulk, sae awa back hame tae the jungle!"
With that racist outburst he slammed the door shut and poor Muhamed was left to close his case and totter out into the street, where he drew breath as we sniggered and pointed at his turban. Sufficiently recovered he made a bee line for Cook's Shop, as we followed behind. As he entered the emporium, Johnny was struggling with a sack of potatoes. On seeing Muhamed, his eyes rolled wildly.
"Euphemia!" he cried, "Thur is a man wie a turban cam intae the shop.
From the inky blackness of the back room came Euphemia's dulcet tones in reply.
"Whats that, a man from Durham, it must be the traveler from Nestlé, tell him we will need two cases of condensed milk and a case of cream chocolate."
Johnny stuttered and blurted out to Muhamed.
"Euphemia wants twa cases o coondeensed mulk an wan case o mulk chacolat!"
Muhamed stared at him.
"Pleese many ties for sale, all ties get lucky bead!"
Johnny peered over his glasses.
"Naw nae ties oor beeds, jist mulk."
At this Euphemia came in sucking a jub-jub. She stared at Muhamed and pointed to the door.
"Sorry no travelers, please leave the premises or I shall call the constabulary."
Johnny shuffled to the door.
"Aye awa an sell a tie to Mary Broon in Woodland Place, she fine laks tae weer ties ye ken" he gave a wink as Muhamed trudged from the shop and headed for Woodland Place.
By this time I had sped on ahead to warn my grandmother of the approach of the salesman.
"The man with turban is coming!" I cried, "He was up at Cooks Shop a few minutes ago."
My grandmother went to the kitchen window and peered out.
"Aye he hus cam tae the fit o the stairs, but he is awa doon tae Mary Broons close."
At her words my grandfather chuckled.
"He wulna sell mony ties tae hur wumman let alone lucky beads."
A few minutes elapsed then there came an almighty roar from the close, it boomed upwards like the cry of some awakened giant.
"Whit, me want tae buy ties, dae ye think a am some kind o peervert, awa oot o my close afore a gie ye a winder wie ma stick!"
There was a scuffle of feet and Muhamed Singh came scuttling upwards with his case, he stopped at the stairs up to my grandmother's house, then ascended slowly. Soon his heavy footsteps came slithering along to the door, then there was a dolorous knock. My grandmother looked at my grandfather.
"Awa tae the door Jock an see whit the indian wants an keep a tight grip on yer temper!"
My grandfather rose from his chair.
"Al keep a tight grip on ma money!" he hissed, "a heard tales o yon indians makin yer wallet disappear in front o yer eyes, wee Donal can cam wie me incase the indian maks a grab fur ma money!"
With that we both advanced to the door. The door was swung open to reveal the beaming face of Muhamed Singh.
"Pleese sir you like to buy ties, good quality cloth, best woven in Calcutta, many colours, lucky bead given with each tie, each tie costs one half crown."
My grandfather looked at the small turbaned figure before him, then at the array of ties proffered by the slim hands. I was expecting a torrent of abuse to pour on the hapless salesman, but instead my grandfather took two of the ties.
"A lak the look o them al tak them an gie wee Donal the lucky beads!"
Muhamed bowed slightly.
"Very kind sir, may Allah bless this house an upon all your people may their be great fortune."
He handed two packets from his case and to me thrust two black beads about the size of a small marble into my hands.
"That will be five shillings sir!"
My grandfather handed him the coins in the shape of two half crowns and the Indian bowed his way back out of the landing. Closing the door my grandfather resumed his seat; my grandmother glared at him.
"Whit did ye buy twa ties fur ye auld galoot and twa half croons tae, al the indians in India wull be heedin fur Woodland Place noo the wurd hus got oot, that auld Jock is a saft touch."
My grandfather looked at the two ties in their packets and at the lucky beads.
"Well wumman a felt richt soory fur the poor soul, a know a go oan at times, but efter a hoo wid wee lak tae tramp aroon India wie a case o ties, amangst a they elephants an crocodiles tae; onywey he wull soon be gangin awa hame!"
Some days later Uncle Archie came in.
"The Indian went awa in the Glesca bus frae the Toon Hall the day, a hear ye bocht twa ties frae hum?"
My grandfather smiled in satisfaction, he showed the two ties in their packets to my uncle. There was a silence, then my uncle said, "Weel let's see the ties ye bocht."
At this my grandfather opened the packets and spread out the ties on the kitchen table.
"Ye galloot!" hissed my grandmother, "the ties are fur wee boys, why they ur only aboot seeven inches lang, ye hae been done, did ye no ask tae see them afore ye bocht them?"
My grandfather's face darkened in anger, his teeth ground nervously.
"A micht hae known it, us poor heilenders ur at the mercy o a kinds o rogues, frae Gleca keelies tae fly indians; am gan tae the polis tae tell them tae get the indian off the Glesca bus!"
He looked at his watch.
"Thull be past Inverrerry the noo, sae thur is still time tae git hum aff an brocht back tae the toon tae face the sheriff. A seen a pictur whur a man wis pulled oot o stagecoach in Dodge Cty by the sherrif!"
My uncle laughed at the suggestion.
"Jock ye canna dae onythin aboot it, ye bocht the ties in good faith an he selt them tae ye, he dinna say boys ties oor gents, so ye wull jist hae tae lump it!"
Common sense prevailed in the end with my grandfather giving a parting shot on the incident.
"A tell ye al no!" he spluttered, "if yon indian cams tae the toon agin he wull swing on his ties!"
You might think that the people of the 'Wee Toon' were imbued in racist inclinations, but in fact there was great toleration to 'foreigners' who happened to be passing through, or decided to stay to make their living.
On the theme of the Glasgow Bus and travel...;
In the late forties I went on a trip to the Trossachs, a journey of over a hundred and twenty miles to the top of the Clyde waters via spectacular scenery to a rendezvous at the village of Teighnebruach.
My co-passengers were my mother and sister and a large number of people from the Highland Parish Kirk Women's Guild. The happy band of travellers boarded the bus at Kinloch Road where it met the Esplanade. Here the operator ran many excursions, displayed on boards, such as 'Glasgow Shopping', 'Oban Sightseeing' and the 'Trossachs' -- the latter being the show piece.
I was shaking with excitement as I boarded the bus, as if I were about to head for darkest Africa. Crowds used to gather to watch the 'the trippers' depart, ogling at the sheer luxury of those who were about to leave the confines of the Kintyre peninsula and gaze upon the wonders of the mountain massif of north Argyllshire. With comments of "Watch yersels in the mountain passes, that ye ur na robbed wie bandits" or "Dinna get caught in the bogs, or drooned in the sea", we pulled away in the ancient Leyland trundler with a groan of gears and a squeal of brakes. It was the days before the advent of power steering and the driver had to have the strength of Hercules to keep the bus on a straight course.
Out we rumbled, past the Milldam, curious people staring at us, the ten mile run to Bellochantauy past the silent graveyard of Killkenzie, the ruins of 'Seafoil' adjacent to Keith's cottage, then the first hazard of 'Tangy Bends', which the driver negotiated with much grinding of gears and cursing, as the engine struggled to produced the required power.
Past Bellochantuy, then the long straight and up into Glenbarr, with its ruined abbey down to our right. As we trundled along the conversation in the bus consisted of the latest scandals, the weather, and how long it would take to reach the Trossachs. As I was seated with my mother and my sister was somewhere else in the bus, I had to listen to the chatter.
"Huv ye heard Maisie aboot auld Cookie Dan, the puir auld soul hasna much o a life wie hus dochter, the other day she telt me that every body got rid o their burdens except hur?"
The woman who spoke to my mother had a rigid 'presbyterian face'. She wore a dark coat and a grim hat, her eyes glinted from round spectacles. She was called Mrs Stott, a stalwart of the Highland Parish Kirk and a purveyor of scandal and lurid tales. Nothing escaped her eyes or ears. She reminded me of a Gestapo Official.
My mother listened as she worked on some knitting, the needles clicking in time to the throb of the engine.
"Weel Mrs Stott" she calmly said, "Someday Cookie Dan's daughter wull be in the same position as her auld faither an she wull be a burden on some soul!"
Mrs Stott nodded in agreement.
"Did ye hear aboot the greed at the Wumman's Guild, when they announced that the tea wid be served, there wis such a rush an yon Mary Prior frae Glebe Street, wheeched a whole plate o fancies fur hersel, even the meenister wus fair ashamed, fur he had jist gien a tak oan sharin oot things."
My mother nodded.
"Uch a yon foulk frae the toon are awfy greedy, no lak the souls frae Dalintober, some o the wans in Glebe Street are wurse than the hooligans frae Park Square."
There was a murmur of agreement from some people behind as she spoke.
The bus eventually clattered into Tarbert. The town was almost deserted, with only the odd loafer lounging at the pier, yet one got the impression than a thousand menacing eyes were peering from behind faded curtains. There was an air of menace, as if we were encroaching on some hallowed shrine. My mother nudged me.
"Noo wee Donal, dina be gettin aff the bus here, fur Tarbert foulk are as mean as Scrooge, they wid tak yer eyes, sae sit still!"
The bus halted for a few minutes, then the conductor got on -- a bent man, with twisted teeth and an eye that seemed to swivel rapidly from side to side. A ticket machine hung from a strap on his neck. He was dressed in a shabby black suit. From his lip hung a Capstan cigarette, burning slowly. He eyed the passengers like a captain would a crew.
"Am Wullie frae Craigs, al be yer conductor till we reach The Trossachs, al be takin the fare noo, its twa poons fur auld foulk an a poon for wains, pensioners wull pey wan poon an ten shullins."
With that he started to advance up the bus collecting the money. As he moved along the aisle he croaked,
"The trip wull tak a few oors, so thur wull be a stop at Inverrary sae foulk can gang tae the cludgie."
Intrigued by the word 'cludgie' I turned to my mother and asked,
"What does the word 'cludgie' mean mum?"
I might as well have asked whether there any prostitutes in Campbeltown for my question drew a stinging slap from my mother on the ear.
"Wee boys shouldna tak aboot such things in the presence o wummen, cludgie means toilet, sae dinna ask any mer such questions or a wull tell yer faither, and worse a wull tell auld Jock when a git hame!"
The bus rumbled out of Tarbert on the A83 and headed up towards Inverary via Ardrishaig and Lochgilphead. The latter two towns lay across the loch from each other and as we approached Lochgilphead the conductor rose and coughed.
"We ur gan tae hae a stop o half an oor, sae be back oan time or we wull gang aff withoot ye."
He winked at me.
"Wee boy dinna wander awa oor the asylum foulk wull wisk ye awa, thur is mony a poor Campbeltown soul held in the 'big hoose' aye men an wummen an lasses."
Lochgilphead was a pleasant place, but one still felt that 'hidden eyes' were watching from behind curtains.
"Wee Donal," hissed my mother, seizing my hand, "Stey close tae me an Mrs Stott an nae stupid questions."
We shuffled along the main shopping area, looking in shops, then we went into a cafe called 'The Spoon and Bucket'. The title made me snigger.
"Weeshed!" snapped my mother as we sat down at a corner table.
"Maisie the cutlery isna very clean!" complained Mrs Stott, "and the flair needs a good scrub."
A bent figure slithered across the floor towards us, a very old woman with a pad and pencil in her hand, her face reminded me of an inmate from a Russian Camp. There was an air of despair about her. My mother examined the menu.
"Three cups o tea and twa scones, the scones ur fur me an Mrs Stott, the wee boy can hiv a current slice."
The old woman scribbled the order on the pad, licking the pencil at intervals, then she headed off to return a few minutes later with the order. As she placed the dishes on the table Mrs Stott leaned forward.
"Excuse me dearie, there is a fly on my scone."
The old woman expertly flicked the insect off with her finger.
"Thur ye ur wumman."
Then she swayed off to serve someone else. My mother glared at her.
"They heilan foulk dinna care aboot hygine at a !"
We ground through Inverary then crept down the fearful declivity between Glen Kinglas and Glen Croe known as 'Rest and be Thankful'. Fearfully we stared at the rusting wrecks in the valley floor as the driver struggled with the brakes and the conductor passed remarks like,
"Akent o a man that went oor the edge wir hus loory and fell to his death on the rocks an Huie's van loast a wheel oan wan oh the bends; wan bus had brakd failure near the bottom an ended up in yon burn!"
His comments drew groans of terror from many of the passengers and I am sure I saw someone cross themselves.
After we left the grim valley of the 'Rest' we swung round Arrochar and entered the Trossachs where for the next hour we trundled about listening to the conductor extolling the virtue of the place then we headed down south to Tignabruach a village overlooking Bute at the Kyles.
"Ye can huv twa oors here," rasped the conductor, "then we wull be aff hame."
With that we trooped off and moved along the little sea front, staring at the near shape of the island of Bute. It was quite a pleasant day, with the mild sea breeze wafting from the calm waters of the kyles.
"Stey awa frae the watter!" snapped my mother, "a dinna want tae hev tae tell Jock that ye ur lyin at the bottom o Rothsay Bay drooned!"
The two hours slowly went by and eventually we returned to the bus, where the conductor counted heads then signaled to the driver to start the journey home. I dozed for a large part of the return journey and eventually we approached Campbeltown, arriving at Kinloch road at about one a.m.
"Mak sure!" exclaimed the conductor as we alighted, "that ye huvna left ony claes or drinks oan the bus, an a guid nicht ate ye all."
At that particular time I was staying with my mother in Davaar Avenue and as we walked home she said,
"A hope ye enjoyed yer wee trip Donal, but dinna sae twa much aboot it tae Jock fur he wull fill yer heid wie wild tales!"
Two days later I went down to Woodland Place. My grandfather was sitting at the fire toasting bread with a fork. He looked up as I entered, "Weel wee Donal, a hear ye had a gran trip tae the Trossachs, man ye wur richt up at the gatewey tae the heilans, many a dark deed wus done up at rest an be thankful. Let me tell ye o the mad axe man o Glen Kinglas!"
I knew it was no good saying that I had not time to listen to his stories, so I took a seat by the fire.
My grandfather lit his pipe, then blew a smoke ring in the direction of the dog, the dog snuffled with irritation, then my grandfather sat back, half closing his eyes.
"Let me see, aye it wus aboot foor hunner years or maybe it wis six hunner ago, in the time o Good King Robert, the wan that gied the English a lunnerin at Bannockburn. Noo in the Heilans thur wis a loat o wild men that robbed poor souls wakin along the roads aboot their daily toil, mony a soul wis killed by the savages an the King wis powerless tae stap the bludy wurk. It got sae bad that fowk wur feart tae leeve their hooses. No the leader o the wild men wis called Duncan the Belcher. He wore a lang plaid frae neck tae feet, hus hair was red an must hae been twa fit lang an he belched like a pig. Hus weapons wur a big club wie nails in it an a sword red wie unwashed blud."
My grandfather paused for a few seconds to re light his pipe.
"Weel thur cam intae the land an English Knight that hud tae flee frae hus land fur something he had done. He wus wild wie grief an carried a great axe at hus side. King Robert, though he had fair beatin the English tak the knight intae hus service and telt hum tae gang tae Glen Kinglas an watch oot fur Duncan the Belcher. Weel wan dae Duncan spied the knight ridin alang on hus war horse, a grand beast wie a fine saddle. Duncan rushed doon wavin hus club. 'Gie me yer horse ye loon' he roared at the knight takin an almighty swipe at the man's heid, but the knight snarled wie rage an chopped aff Duncan's heid an kerried it back tae show king Robert. The Knight telt the King that as he he cut aff Duncan's heid the latter let oot such a belch that it blew the snaw aff the top o the mountains. King Robert wis richt gratefa tae be rid o the bandit an called the knight Lord o Glen Kinglas and Belcher!"
As he finished the tale my grandfather spat in the fire, then looked up at the ceiling.
"See we Donal, auld Scotlands fu o strange fowk an tales".
As he droned on I thought that I was listening to the the strangest of the lot!.
Another tale that my father told me as we sat by the attic fire in Woodland Place...
We had been listening on the long wave programme on the radio, to a tale about 'the man who knew everything'. When it had finished my father looked up at the clock.
"Wee Donal jist afore yer mother cams back frae the guild al tell ye aboot a man in Campbeltown that knew aboot everything, an canna remember whit year it wus, but that disna metter."
"We used tae gether alang at the Christian Institute wall o a summer's evening, takin an bletherin aboot sport an a sort o daft things. Weel wan o the men that used tae frequent the wall wis called 'Neelie Know All', any subject ye could mention he would voice an opinion, he had done everything, been everywhere, seeen a the sights o the world, sae he said. Eventually we a got richt fed up wie hus superior tak, an decided tae 'pull a fast wan oan hum'."
"Thur was thus man who called McGrory wha had a shop up at Stewart's Green, next tae the Grammar School, at the back o hus shop he hud a big Orchard whur he grew a sorts o vegtables an fruits. He decided tae grow seedless grapes but dinna ken how tae start. Whan o hus freens wis stanin gassin at the Christian Institute wall wan nicht, when he mentioned aboot tryin tae grow seedless grapes; Neelie wis listening tae the conversation an as usual he butted in, 'a ken who tae grow seedless grapes a wis a richt keen gerdener in ma youth, thur in nathin a dinna ken aboot fruit.' McGrory's freen wis fair pleased, 'al tak ye up oan that Neelie, cam along tae see McGrory the morn an ye can advise hum oan yer expertise'."
"Noo in the past Neelie had not been taken up on his claims, by the people who listened to him at the Christian Institute Wall, they wer richt feart tae tak aboot whit he said, but somewan had asked Neelie tae back up his claims. As McGrory's freen drifted awa Neelie turned tae the rest o us, his face pale, 'whit am a gan tae dae a wis only kiddin when a said that a could grow grapes, the only grapes a hae seen is the wans ye use tae hoke yer gerden, if a gang tae McGory's an tell hum a dinna ken aboot grapes, he wull be richt mad'!"
"We al had a guid laugh at hus shame, he hung his heid doon lak a dog does when he is feart o ye. Efter a while we tak pity oan hum, the best thing ye can day is tae buy some grapes frae Michelchere's shop an kid oan tae McGrory that ye grew then yersel. Neelies face fell, 'but grapes cost aboot three shullins fur half a poon, an a hae only got six shullins tae last me in baccy an drink tae Friday.' We listened, then turned to walk away, 'its up tae ye Neelie' we a chorused. 'A richt he groaned al hae tae buy the grapes'."
"Weel aboot twa days later a meet McGrory's freen at the Weighoose. 'Whit heppened when Neelie went tae see McGrory aboot the grapes?' The man spat on the grin. 'Yon Neelie cam wie some grapes tae McGrory an when McGrory asked hum how he had made them grow, Neelie stuck some o the grapes into the grin an said they grew lak that. McGrory let oot a roar o rage an chased Neelie awa an Neelie lamentin aboot spendin a yon money oan grapes'."
Efter that wee Donal, Neelie kept quiet, but wie the passage o time he wis back bragging at the Christian Institute Wall. Ye see the moral o the story is, always back up yer knowledge wi hard facts!"
As I have mentioned before my grandfather was always game to try his hand at any kind of repair. Now we had a pendulum clock in the house in Woodland Place, a smart wall clock in a walnut case, brass faced and a long pendulum with a gun metal fob. My grandfather considered that only he alone was allowed to wind the clock each seventh day and to make any adjustments. Annually the clock received its clean, this involved inserting a paraffin bath under the mechanism, then tickling the mechanism with a feather dipped in meths, the idea was for the fumes to dislodge foreign bodies in the mechanism and then to sweep them out with feather.
The day of the annual clean arrived, the clock was ceremoniously 'stopped', the bath inserted, then the fumes were allowed to act for a few hours, whence the 'tickling' commenced. That was the general plan, but my grandfather did not allow for my boyish curiosity.
When he had departed to get his morning paper from the Courier Office, I looked at the clock, now silent. The feather with a bottle of meths near it lay on the kitchen table. 'What,' I thought, 'if I carried out the cleaning, restarted the mechanism, would not my grandfather be pleased?' Seizing the feather, I dipped it into the meths then proceeded to poke it into the dark innards of the clock.
This is easy I thought, as the feather swished around -- more meths needed! After about ten minutes I noticed that the feather had been stripped bare! Then to my horror I realised that the majority of it was lodged in the mechanism! Panic swept over my trembling body -- more meths that was the answer! I soaked a rag with the stuff and stuffed it into the innards. Meths started to drip onto the floor, forming a pool.
Hearing my grandfather's voice in the street, I quickly tidied up, then realised that I would have to replace the feather quickly. But where could I find a feather?, then I spotted a gull's feather lying near the sink. Quickly I placed the feather near the meths and sat down near the fire. My grandfather entered the room clutching his newspaper and sat down opposite me.
Sniffing the air, he looked up at me.
"Ye hinna spilt yon meths oan the flair wee Donal?"
I looked innocently at him.
"No grandad I have not."
He opened the newspaper and started to read, then after a few minutes put the paper down and looked at his watch.
"Ah weel time tae start cleanin the clock."
He rose and walked over to the silent timepiece.
"Michty me a must hae pit an awfa loat o meths intae the works, the case fair reeks wie it."
He reached over for the feather.
"This seems an awfa big feather, it seems different frae the wan a usually use?"
He dipped the feather into the meths, then proceeded to tickle the clock's innards.
"Guid god!" he exclaimed, "thur seems tae be an awfa loat o auld bits o feather stuck in here, a must hae left it frae the last time a cleaned the clock, nae wunner it wis losin time!"
He struggled for the best part of an hour, then satisfied that the works were clear, he remounted the pendulum and set it in motion. To my relief the clock started ticking, then my grandfather set the correct time. He returned to the fire place, tossed a few coals onto the flames, lit his pipe, then drew in a mouthful of smoke.
"Ye ken wee Donal fur a meenit a thocht ye hud been playin aboot wie the clock when a wus oot, but ye ur only a wee boy an widna unnerstaun whit a they wheels dae".
The clock ticked away slowly. Tick, tock, tick, tock, this is Jock's clock. Then the beat changed slightly. Tick tock, tick tock, who's been playin with Jock's clock. Oh! I thought to myself, if he knew what I had done -- instead of the pendulum swinging, it would have been me!
Remaining on the theme of clocks, my grandfather's prowess with timepieces eventually filtered down to the bowels of Woodland Place, where his 'enemy' Mary Broon heard of it, probably through the agency of Effie Cook, whom she usually browbeat for information when on a 'raid' for provisions.
One day I was down in the back yard playing on the green with my pals, when Mary came stomping down the back steps towards my grandmother, who was hanging out washing.
"Hey Mustress Smith!" she snapped, her eagle eyes riveting on to me and my pals, "am havin trouble wie ma Waggeta Wa, thur is somethin wrang wie the chain!"
Her remark brought a great roar of laughter from my pals and I. What on earth was a Waggeta Wa, was it an animal or a snake? My grandmother glared at me.
"Dinna wurry Mary, Jock al soon fix it, he is richt handy, he hus jist repaired auld Effie's organ."
Mary frowned somewhat.
"A heard he wus good wie things, tell hum tae cam doon an see me the nicht, mind ye a canna pey mutch as I am oan ma pension an a heard aboot auld biddies bein cheated wie sharks!"
My grandmother smiled.
"Och Jocks nae shark, he wull be doon the nicht tae see tae yer Waggeta Wa!"
Mary Broon grunted, then shuffled off up the close. My grandmother returned to hanging out her washing. Noticing that we were still sniggering about the Waggeta Wa, she lifted up her clothes basket.
"A see ye boys are still wunnerin whit a Waggeta Wa is, weel it us a clock wie a chain an a weight hingin oan the end, an as the weight fas doon, it maks the wurks go roon, they are awfy bonnie clocks an are mounted oan the wa!"
That evening my grandmother waited until my grandfather had finished his tea, then she broached the subject of Mary Broon's Waggeta Wa clock.
"Auld Mary Broon cam intae the back yerd this mornin Jock, she wants ye tae hae a look at hur Waggeta Wa, it isna wurkin richt, a telt hur ye wid cam doon the nicht efter yer tea!"
My grandfather, busy picking his teeth, looked up sharply.
"Whits that ye said wumman, auld Mary Broons Waggeta Wa wilna wurk? weel whit does an auld witch need wie a clock she can tell the time by lookin in hur christal bowel!"
My grandmother laughed.
"Ye mean ball Jock, bowel is below yer stomach!"
My grandfather glared at his wife.
"Am fed up gan doon past yon auld biddie in the close, she us awas snipping at me, look whit she did a few months ago, accused me o interfearin wie her gas supply; a tell ye whit, she hears every wurd we speak, bie listen up her lum an yon cat o hers, am sure it can speak, fur it is always followin me aboot wie a richt fly look in its eyes, then gangin aff ate tell its mustress whit it has heard!"
"Och Jock," soothed my grandmother, "ye git kerried awa wie yer mind, the puir auld soul hus been oan hur ain fur mony a year an husna a man tae fa back oan."
My grandfather finished picking his teeth.
"A widna like hur fain oan me!"
At this my grandmother snapped.
"A telt hur ye wid be doon, sae doon ye wull go!"
My grandfather blanched then muttered,
"A weel oanythin tae keep the peace, wee Donal can cam wie me fur company sae ye wullna cast a speel oan us, or yon cat git hus teeth into oor troosers!"
Down the stairs we trod and into the close. Mary stood at her door, the cat at her feet.
"A heard ye commin Jock," she rasped, "un ye huv taken wee Donal wie ye."
Her sharp eyes seemed to focus onto me. My grandfather nodded.
"Its the Wagetta Wa ye are hain trouble wie, lets hae a danner at it wumman."
Mary led us into the room, festooned with ancient furniture. She pointed to a dark clock on the wall from which hung a long chain with a weight at the end. The cat hissed alarmingly at our heels.
"Yons the clock Jock!" she croaked.
My grandfather advanced to the clock, flicked the chain, then stood back.
"The wurks are a gummed up wie years o dirt, al hae tae gang awa an git ma meths an feather tae tickle the clock innards, al only be twa meenits!"
With that he trudged off, leaving me alone with Mary. She peered at me closely.
"Dae ye want a sweetie wee Donal, it wull pass the time till Jock cams back."
Wild visions of sweets heavily drugged sped through my mind, maybe I would be sent to sleep for years, like Rip Van Winkle, to wake up in the next century. Or I could be turned into stone, and take my place on Mary's mantle piece. From afar I heard myself saying 'yes please'. Mary thrust a hard sweet into my hand.
"Sook oan that," she said, "thur is nathin like a pan drop."
As I struggled with the hard sweet, my grandfather eventually returned with the meths.
He removed the clock from the wall and proceeded to remove the back, slowly he cleaned out the dust and started tickling the mechanism with the feather dipped in the meths. Eventually he seemed satisfied and replaced the back, remounted the clock and drew the weight up. The clock started to tick. He reset the hands and stood back to view his handiwork.
"Thur ye are Mary, as guid as new, that wull five shullins!"
His remark drew a frown across Mary's face.
"Five shullins, yer wife said ye dinna cherge auld fouk, an me bein oan a pension ye ken; al no gie ye oany money, ye can hae a few pan drops!"
My grandfather laughed.
"A wis only jokin Mary it wull cost ye nathin!"
We left Mary looking at her Wagetta Wa. I was thankful that a confrontation had been avoided.
In 1949 the Nationalists in China were finally overcome by the Communists after a long civil war and were driven back to the Island Formosa. In the great turmoil of the final collapse a British destroyer called The Amethyst was trapped in the upper reaches of the Yangste River and had to face a journey to the sea past hostile batteries.
After many weeks of fighting the destroyer limped into the South China Sea and into the pages of Royal Navy Legend. When the crew returned to the United Kingdom they were feted and duly rewarded.
Now in what way did the Amethyst Legend affect the humble pupils of Dalintober School? Well, from the high echelons of the education command, there was issued an order that a special assembly was to be held in each school, on an appointed day, to tell the pupils of the glorious deed. And, so it was, one Monday we were massed in the hall.
Packed like sardines we faced towards Purcell's Office. We could see his great bulk behind the frosted glass, pacing about. Gemmel stood rigid to attention in front of the remaining teachers waiting for the 'great one' to appear. In precise military mode Gemmel shrieked, "School... school... 'shun!" as Purcell swept out of his office. We all knew what 'shun meant and there was a great scuffling of feet. Then Purcell stood in front of us. He raised his arms. A deathly silence hung in the musty air of the hall. Gemmel jerked his Mallaca Cane upright, the signal that Purcell was about to speak.
"Scholars!" he bellowed in his brutish manner, "We assemble here today to pay homage to the brave sailors of the Amethyst, that noble destroyer that fought through the hordes of Chinamen to the sea. Against great odds they endured savage bombardment, their feat equals that of HMS Campbeltown on the St Naisere raid in 1942. Remember the heroes of the Amethyst. When you have children, tell them of the brave men on the Yangste River. Remember the courage of this island race, superior in all ways to the eastern hordes. One British man to ten Chinamen. And now three cheers for the heroes of the Amethyst!"
Now for anyone to pour such words to children, the majority of whom who had no idea where the Yangste River was seems in retrospect almost racist, but one had to remember it was the dying flames of the British Empire and men like Gemmel and Purcell were imbued with the elitist philosophy that still prevailed.
Gemmel brought his cane sweeping down and a feeble cheer rent the air, followed by a stronger one as the cane on its second sweep made contact with the legs of some of the front row. The third cheer was delivered with gusto following a few clipped ears administered by the rest of the staff.
Purcell swept back into his office, leaving Gemmel to dismiss the assembly.
"To your classes right turn!" he shouted, "My class await my return."
Unfortunately I was due to be in Gemmel's class and shuffled wearily towards the door. We took our places at our desks, then the door swung open as Gemmel entered.
"What the Head said is of great importance, we must be on our guard of the Yellow Peril."
As he spoke his eyes flashed with a zeal.
"Great hordes of Chinese are now poised on the boundaries of the empire, we must be ready for the coming task, long live the British Empire!"
He paused to wipe the lens of his glasses, then without warning he stabbed a finger in the direction of a boy called Strang.
"Where is the Empire boy?"
There was the usual silence, Strang frowned.
"The Empire is in Glasgow sir, where the comedians live."
Gemmel's eyes glazed over.
"What did you say Strang?"
Again a pause.
"The Empire is in Glasgow, sir."
Gemmel brought his cane crashing down on the desk.
"You dolt! I meant the British Empire, where the sun never sets!"
Strang gaped.
"But the Empire is Scottish sir if it is in Glasgow!"
At that Gemmel advanced forward and dragged Strang to the front of the class.
"Stand in the corner facing the wall and maintain complete silence!" he snapped, applying the cane to the back of Strang's legs. Then he turned to the rest of the class.
"Before we commence the mental arithmetic, I shall ask one more question. What do the British Diplomats do at sunset when abroad?"
I sniggered inwardly because I had seen a film some weeks before about planters in Malaya, where they lounged about at sunset drinking pink gins or saying 'the natives are restless tonight'. Gemmel must have detected my inward mirth, for suddenly he was pointing at me.
"Well Keith, what do they do at sunset?"
I was completely flustered by his sudden change of tack.
"They sit about drinking gin sir," I confidently replied.
Gemmel's face turned the colour of the grey distempered walls that adorned the classroom.
"What!" he roared, advancing towards me, his cane raised in anger, "Drinking gin? Sitting about? You idiot! Come to the front and join Strang!"
With that I was hustled to the front of the class, receiving a quick blow across the legs with the cane.The two of us stood there sheepishly facing the wall, whilst Gemmel addressed the rest of the class.
"Contrary to what Strang and Keith have stupidly said, again showing a low level of intelligence, the diplomats turn to face the direction of London at sunset. I consider that act in its self the epitome of good taste and devotion to the crown and the Empire. You have today witnessed the words of Mr Purcell eulogising the heroic act of the Amethyst in China and I repeat his sentiments. The British Empire shall never fade when there are noble warriors in the mould of the Amethyst sailors!"
Strang and myself had to stand all through the remainder of Gemmel's class as he intoned the ritualistic chants of mental arithmetic by rote. We were eventually released by the ring of the school bell, receiving from Gemmel a final clip on the ear as we trudged out.
Looking back on the incident, it is hard to imagine the imperialist attitude of men like Gemmel and Purcell, the ruthless punishments for not giving the correct answers as they saw them, the constant reverie on 'The Empire'. At no time did they comprehend that the Empire was on its way out and that more liberal attitudes were needed.
Copyright © 1999 Donald Keith.