Part 14

Healing Hands (IV)

One of the favourite play areas for my pals and myself was at the top of the Walk, where it joined onto the low hills that swept up to Knockscalbert. There was a deep channel cut in the ground for about five hundred yards and on one side of the latter lay a bank of nettles, many of the nettles being about four feet high.

Many a time we would receive minor stings in the leg, the remedy for which was applying a dock leaf; the leaf juice seemed to have the property of relieving the sting of the nettle.

It was a Sunday in early summer, I had been to Sunday School, and met my pals on the way home across the Esplanade, we decided to go up to the Walk to play. The fact that I had still my 'Sunday best' on did not deter me and I raced eagerly up the slope, oblivious to the sharp stones scraping my shoes.

At the hilly ground above the Walk we played at 'pirates': rushing about in the hollows, looking for buried treasure, our excited cries ringing in the still air. Desert Islands were imagined in the long grass, and the channel was considered the ocean, with the nettles being the deep seaweed at the bottom.

I was rushing along the top of the channel bent on boarding a pirate ship when my foot slipped on the grass. With a cry of horror I spun in the air, then plunged headfirst into the nettles. The shock was tremendous, a massive sting seemed to surge into my legs, arms and face. With a cry of pain I stumbled into the centre of the channel. My eyes seemed to have closed up. My lips were like rubber pads. Through my streaming eyes I dimly saw that my jacket was torn and that there was a great stain on my shirt.

"Help!" I sobbed to my pals, "I have been stung by the nettles!"

My pals were busily rolling about in the grass, or sword fighting with pieces of hazel stick. At first they took no notice of my cries then, realising that something was wrong, came rushing to my side.

"Guid god," shocked one boy, "Donals been stung a ower wie the nettles."

The others crowded round.

"Wid ye look at yersel Donal, thur is lumps a ower yer face an legs and yer guid claes ur a torn an stained!" chorused the rest. "Yer muther wull be richt angry wie the mess ye ur in."

The banter went on for a few minutes then one boy suggested a liberal application of the dock leaf treatment to take away the stinging -- which by now was becoming quite severe, causing me to cry.

I was led to a flat piece of grass, and a pile of Dock Leaves were procured. Soon my legs arm and face were being rubbed with the juice. The smell became quite strong. As this remedy was being applied my main concern was the state of my Sunday clothes. I had visions of my mother's wrath at the state of me. Surely I would receive a right lunnerin, followed by some unimaginable punishment? Then there was the great swellings on my face and legs. Would I become disfigured, and be pointed out as the 'Nettle Man' in the street? I remembered a film I had seen a few months ago where some intrepid explorer had been stung in the Amazon Jungle by a deadly plant and ended up a demented zombie, his system poisoned by the deadly plant juices.

"Thats al we can dae noo fur Donal," said my pals, "we wull tak ye hame tae yer mother sae that ye can sort yer sel oot, a think ye micht hae tae gang tae the doctor the morrow, fur yer eyes ur gie swollen"

Having made their diagnosis they led me stumbling down the Walk, like some wounded veteran back from the front. Luckily it was Sunday and the High Street was deserted.

"Take me to my grandmother's," I pleaded, knowing that she would be more sympathetic to my predicament, "she will help me clean my clothes and smooth things over with my mother."

My pals left me at the foot of the stairs at Woodland Place. I mounted the worn stone steps then went into the flat. My grandmother was reading a paper at the glowing fire. A pot of stew simmered gently. My grandfather was asleep on the couch, snoring loudly, with the dog at his bare feet dozing. My grandmother looked up from her paper, at my sight her mouth flew open.

"Michty me wee Donal, whit wer they teachin ye at the Sunday School, fur ye tae get inta such a mess, look at yer claes a torn an ye legs erms an face a puffed up. A hae telt yer grandfether that yon man in Kirk Street is tae lax wie the wains unner hus care, onywey git yer troosers aff an jecket an al git some water ready tae wash ye an some linament fur yer stings; onyway whit did heppen?"

"After Sunday School we went to play up at the Walk and I fell into the nettle bank, we were playing at pirates."

As I spoke my grandfather stirred, much to the annoyance of the dog who, in anger, nipped his toe. The effect of this 'reviver' was to bring forth a curse from the dozing grandparent.

"Whits a this fuss?" he shouted, "Can a buddy nae git a sleep in peace oan the Sabbath; whits wee Donal daen wie his troosers aff an nae jecket oan?" he peered close at my swollen face, his eyes travelled to my legs an arms. "A thocht ye wur supposed tae be at the Sunday School, ye look as though ye hae been trailed through a fermer's Kale Yerd."

I started to cry and as the tears rolled down my grandfather took pity on me.

"Thur," he said, "dinna greet wee Donal, thats fur wee lassies tae dae, ye hae tae be brave lak William Wallace wis!"

My grandmother looked across sharply at him.

"Wid ye naw greet yer sel Jock if ye had fan doon intae nettles and been stung a ower yer body?"

She filled a basin with warm water and added a liberal doze of 'Dettol' as she spoke.

"Noo wee Donal lets wash yer stings."

The effect of the 'Dettol' in the first instance was like being placed in a bath of iodine. Then slowly the stinging died down. My grandfather watched the proceedings with a critical eye.

"A widna hae used yon 'Dettol'," he muttered, "ye should hae used olive oil an vinegar, a trusted remedy since time immoral."

"Ach ye should hae said 'time gang by', big wurds hae got tae be used correctly, a ken many wurds fur a won the Kintyre Prize when I wis a young lassie!" laughed my grandmother as she bathed my face.

Her remarks somewhat angered my grandfather. He scowled savagely.

"A ken fine whit I mean wumman!" he snapped, looking closely at my eyes, which were very puffed.

"A dinna lak the look o wee Donal's eyes, they ur a swollen, he could gang blun."

As he spoke he reached forward and pulled down the bottom eyelid of my right eye.

"Thae eyes need bathin in boracic crystals, a hae a we box in the press that wull dae the trick!"

He rose and went to the press and returned a few moments later with a small box. He flicked a small amount into a saucer, then added some warm water from the kettle. Dipping a piece of cotton wool into the mixture he grunted, "Noo open yer eyes wee Donal and al gie them a rinse wie the mixture!"

Now anything to do with the eye, particularly the application of remedial cures, filled me with an inborn horror.

"There is nothing wrong with my eyes grandad!" I cried in alarm as he pulled down one of my eyelids again and swished a dollop of the mixture into my eye.

The crystals stung like a thousand bees. Where once I had vision, now I had a watery blurring, like looking through a frosted panel.

"Oooh that hurts!" I cried, only to receive a clip on the ear.

"Ye ur a wee coward!" roared my grandfather, "A this gangin tae Sunday School hus made ye intae a wee Jessie, sae tak yer medicine lak a man!"

All the shouting and bawling alarmed my grandmother.

"The wee boy us feart Jock, dinna be sae hard on hum, an as fur bein a Jessie whit aboot the time ye cut yer finger an had tae gang ower tae see Doctor McKenzie, ye wur greetin yersel when he had tae stitch it!"

Her remonstrance subdued my grandfather's rage and he finished bathing my eyes in a more gentle mode. My grandmother completed the washing of my stings and produced a shirt and some trousers to wear. She looked at my ruined Sunday School clothes.

"Michty me thae claes ur fur the midden, whit Maisie wull say when she sees them a dinna ken"

My grandfather nodded in agreement.

"Aye ye ur un fur a richt lunnerin wee Donal, Maisies got a richt temper, she taks it frae the Wulkinsons o Argyll Street an thon fisherman brothers o hurs."

My grandmother put down the clothes.

"Weel Jock tak aboot the pot callin the kettle black, yer ain side wer richt battlers wie tempers, whit aboot yer brother Angus fechtin wie the polis in hus young days!"

What would have developed into a banter about the relative merits of family traits was suddenly curtailed with the arrival of my mother. As she entered the room her eyes spotted the soiled clothes on the table, then me puffed up with nettle stings, Her face seemed to freeze.

"A thocht ye wer at the Sunday School?!" she thundered, "An look at yer troosers an jecket, a marked an torn, an yer face an legs a puffed up!"

My voice seemed to reply from a distance,

"I fell into nettles mum" came my feeble reply.

"Nettles!, whit nettles, thur is nae nettles in Kirk Street!"

My mother's face contorted in anger.

"An ye hae ruined yer jecket an troosers that a peyed five poons fur in the toon!"

"He wis up the wak," interrupted my grandmother, "playin at pirates wie hus freens an he fell into yon bank o nettles at the bottom o the path that leads up tae th Stanin Stone"

My grandmother's statement seemed to add fire to my mothers brewing anger.

"Up the wak wur ye wee Donal, weel hae a no telt ye tae cam straight hame frae Sunday School, an instead ye wanner up the wak wie yer guid claes oan; whit if ye went aff tae the lochs, ye could hae ben drooned by noo an Jock wid hae tae gang up wie his grapplin hook tae look fur ye!"

My grandfather nodded in agreement with her statement.

"Aye it us michty dangerous tae wanner up tae the lochs in al innocence, many a buddies sank intae the depths, wee boys playin o a Sunday!"

At this point I received a sharp blow on the ear from my mother.

"Its enough tae mak a saint weep!" she raged, "an al these stings on yer skin, ye could be marked fur life, a know that yer grannie hus pit dettol oan them, an Jock hus bathed yer eyes, but the morrow am takin ye ower tae see wee Cameron in case ye hae damaged something!"

Again Jock nodded in agreement.

"Mind ye Maisie a hae dun whit Cameron wid hae dun oany way!"

My mother glared at him.

"Git yer claes the gither wee Donal, an wel awa hame tae Davaar Avenue an in the mornin we wull gang tae see Doctor Cameron. In future am takin ye tae the Sunday School an cummin back fur ye, sae as ye wullna git up tae mischief!"

The next day I was taken to Doctor Cameron's surgery in Long Row South. There the good doctor pronounced that I would recover and that by bathing my eyes quickly, my mother had prevented me being blind for a few days, as the boric acid crystals had reduced the swelling. My mother did not mention to the good doctor who had actually bathed my eyes as Doctor Cameron regarded my grandfather as a 'medical meddler'.

Thus ended the episode of 'the nettles'. In later years I read that massive nettle stings could in some cases lead to permanent damage of surface nerves, so I suppose I was very lucky.

Park Square

In any town, village , city, throughout the length and breadth of the land, there is always a no-go area, or a place where one kept well clear if possible. Such a place in Campbeltown was Park Square.

Park Square lay along Kinloch Road and Lochend Street. As the name suggests it formed a square and entrance to the square was gained through two openings. As boys we looked upon the square with an inborn fear. The windows facing onto Kinloch Road gave an air of menace, they appeared as 'eyes' staring towards us and the openings into the square as 'gaping mouths', ready to devour us. Tales abounded as to who dwelt within the square. None of my pals had ever seen anyone enter or leave the place. Yet one got the impression that hidden faces were always watching from the windows. Of a winters evening, pale yellow lights flickered from some windows, but others remained in darkness, often we heard cries from the square, followed by cursing and swearing.

Once on a dark December evening as we were walking down Lochend Street we saw a shuffling figure stumble from one of the openings in the square. His appearance was dreadful to behold -- clad in torn stained raincoat, ragged trousers, feet shod with old wellingtons, his face taut, eyes like lizards and on his head a bunnet. Was he one of the creatures who dwelt within square, a thing that slept in the day and ventured out at night?

We had heard stories of the horrors that lay in the square for those foolish enough to stray into the place -- child-eating dogs that prowled round the middens, cats so ferocious that their cries could make your blood run cold, old women whose stare meant death and children who never darkened a classroom and spent their days scurrying up and down stairs, only venturing out in the dark to haunt the Longrow or Kinloch Park.

That December night we followed the man in the torn raincoat at a discreet distance. He shuffled up Lochend Street then entered The Gluepot, an emporium previously mentioned. We hung about out side speculating on what he was doing inside the pub. Was he buying a drink or purveying illicit goods purloined in some shady deal? Perhaps he was watching us, ready to pounce like some latter day Dracula?

"Ye ken," said Duncan McIssac, "yon fowk in Park Square, ye never see the wains gangin tae the school, or the auld fowk gangin tae the shops fur messages, an their hooses are awfy dark. Wan nicht when a wis passin the square a saw a face at wan o the windaes a white, a ran hame in a richt lather an telt ma mither. She telt me tae keep awa frae the square fur nae decent fowk went there. Even the meenister or the priest only entered when somewan had passed oan an only fur a few meenites an she said if a cam across oany wains frae the square a wis tae gie them a wide berth!"

We all nodded in agreement at his statement. The square filled us with horror.

"Aye," said Willie Patterson, "Ma faither wance had tae gang intae the square in the course o hus wurk an he wis fair feart when he cam hame. He said that half hus tools were missing, an a cat tore his troosers in wan o the closes, he said it grabbed his boot but he managed tae shake it aff. At wan o the hooses he had tae get intae a drunk man wis lyin across the door. Inside the wumman o the hoose wis smokin like a chimney an wan o hur wains wis playin wie soot frae the lum. Ma faither wis fair pleased tae get oot o the place!"

Again we nodded in appreciation at Willie's story. It all fuelled the growing catalogue of stories about the square and in our boyish zeal we never paused to think of what was fact and what was fiction.

We waited outside The Gluepot for about twenty minutes. The man in the torn raincoat was still inside. Eventually we grew bored and sauntered back up Broom Brae and into High Street. As we hung round the lamp post opposite the Co-operative shop we debated what we should do next.

"Let us gang intae Park Square an see fur oorsels whit it like," suggested Duncan McIssac, "If we gang in as a big group then we wull hae safety in numbers, some o us hus pen knifes sae we can fecht aff the cats an duigs!"

His statement made us gasp.

"Whit?" spluttered Neil McPhee, "if we ur attacked some o us could be captured an vanish intae the depths o the place, never tae seen agin in the land o the livin."

Mutterings of approval greeted his words.

"If we go in one opening then out the other," I said, "then we could be in an out in a few minutes before any dogs and cats, spot us!"

Again there were murmurs of approval at this plan.

"Okay," said Duncan McIssac, "we wull gang in as Donal says, then oot the other side."

We left the safety of the lamplight at the top of the Broom Brae and walked slowly down Saddel Street, then Lochend Street and towards Park Square. The latter lay in almost total darkness, except for an odd window with a pale light within. A dog howled from within the square as if sensing our approach. Something raced from the dark jaws of the opening then away into the night. We were at the opening now, its jaw seemed to envelop us. our hearts pounded.

"Now!" whispered Duncan, and we rushed forward into the void.

A dustbin fell over with a clatter, a cat screeched in alarm, a window flew up and a voice roared.

"Whas oot there at this time o nicht prowlin roon the midden, canna a poor soul get a meenits sleep."

We broke into a run as the voice boomed out. More dustbins were knocked over, a dog snarled to our left, we heard the thud of paws on the ground.

"We ur gan tae be eatin," groaned Willie as we reached the other opening and plunged to safety into the street. Another window flew open and a head snaked out.

"Whit ur ye wains dain fleein aboot at nicht disturbin a us souls in oor beds, if a cam doon al gie ye al a richt lunnerin!"

As we set off towards Kinloch Park, the man with the torn raincoat appeared, he was staggering from side to side, and had a bottle in his hand.

"Whit wur ye wains daen in Park Square, am nae daft a seen ye following me earlier tae the Gluepot, ur ye up tae stealin ma siller frae ma hoose?"

His words spurred us forward and we swept past him and onto the green, not stopping until we reached the net drying frame near the Scout Hall.

Breathlessly we discussed the next move.

"Weel," muttered Duncan McIssac, "we hae gan intae the square an its a richt frightening place, a the fowks stories ur true aboot savage duigs and wild cats."

We all nodded in agreement at his comments, now we could boast that we had entered the square in the dark and came out alive.

We were about to disperse and make our way home, when Tom McGowan suddenly felt in his pocket.

"Help! I have dropped my clasp knife in the square, my father bought it for me last week, he will be mad if I tell him I have lost it!"

A chill ran through us. We knew the answer to the dilemma, we would have to sally back into the square to retrieve the clasp knife. But we would need a torch, for how could we find the knife in the dark, and if we waited until daylight, the knife would be spotted by the predatory eyes of the inmates of the square. Duncan McIssac said he would return home and fetch a torch. He sped off and returned about twenty minutes later with a big silver 'Ever Ready' that gave off a powerful beam.

We advanced again on the square. As we reached the opening we suddenly realised that the time was drawing on to half past ten.

"I am staying at Woodland Place at the moment and my grandfather will be in a rage, if I am not home by eleven, because he imagines that all sorts of things will happen to me, from drowning under the skeegs to sinking into a bog at Crosshill Loch."

My pals laughed.

"Neever mind wee Donal it wull only tak us twa meenits tae find Tom's clasp knife wie Duncan's powerful torch!"

Into the dark of the square we crept. Only an odd light was visible in the upper rooms. Duncan switched on the torch and did a sweep round the midden area. The light revealed all sorts of rubbish heaped round the bins, from an old pram to a chest of drawers. We searched the area carefully but could not detect the clasp knife.

"Maybe Tam, ye drapped the knife ootside o the square or maybe yon queer looking soul we followed to the Gluepot, fan it." whispered Duncan, making a further sweep away from the midden.

As we crept about one of my pals said,

"Dae ye remember yon pitur at the Rex, when the hero wis escapin frae a German Prison Camp an he had tae avoid the searchlights?"

We all nodded in agreement.

"Weel the torch beam reminds me o the searchlight!"

As he spoke Duncan raised his hand.

"Thur is the knife lying near yon door!"

We rushed forward and, as Tom picked up the clasp knife, the door creaked open. In the dim light of the hall stood the man we had followed from the Gluepot; he was wearing a tattered vest and ragged trousers.

Peering forward he squinted in the light of the torch which Duncan had allowed to play on his eyes.

"Whits this?" he croaked, "Ye scallywags ur back ploodering aboot ma midden, can ye naw lea an auld man in peace, an whits that yon boy picked up frae the grin?"

Tom stepped forward.

"I lost my clasp knife the other day and we returned to find it."

The man stepped a pace towards him.

"Loast yer clasp knife eh, ye ur nae frae the square ur ye, that knife belangs tae me, sae hand it ower at wance!"

There was an air of menace in his challenge and guided by Duncan's torch we fled out onto the street, followed by the man.

"Help, polis, a hae been robbed wie brigands frae Dalintober!" He shouted.

His cries brought many of the square residents to their windows and doors.

"Shame, thae hae robbed auld Tam, they boys frae across the green, somebody send fur the polis!"

We ran right back into High Street, then slipped up into the back yard of Gayfield place, breathless with excitement. Only then did we realise that the time was half past eleven so we scattered to our homes. I crept down to Woodland Place, noticing that my grandmothers light was still on. With bated breath I entered the room.

She was sitting reading the newspaper.

"Whur hae ye been wee Donal, it us half past eleeven an Jock is reeling wae wurry, he us awa doon tae the skeegs tae see if ye ur at the bottom o the loch, he us been gan aboot an oor!"

Her words sounded like the death knell to the guilty.

"I was out with my pals and one of them lost his clasp knife, so we had to search for it!" I feebly replied.

She looked at me for a few seconds.

"Weel wee Donal ye should hae been in at half past ten!"

From the street came the sound of my grandfather's voice, raised in anger, then the clomp of his boots on the stair. The door flew open and in he entered.

"Thur is nae sign o hum wumman, a hae searched the pier and even been tae Kilkerran he must..."

His voice trailed off as he spotted me at the fire.

"A hae been wrang in the mind wunnerin where ye wur!" he stormed, his face reddening with excitement, "A had visions o ye lyin at the bottom o the loch or at the bottom o some cliff, whur hae ye been?"

Before I could answer he replied for me.

"Al tell ye whur ye hae been, ye whur in Park Square tormentin auld biiddies in their hooses, as a wis comin hame across the brig Jack McDougall telt me he had seen ye an yer pals runnin oot o the square chased by 'the ling' an fowk shoutin fur thr polis!"

"Help ma boab!" cried my grandmother, "wee Donal in Park Square, in amongst they rabble, wie their middens an duigs an chased wie 'the ling', yon creature o the nicht a drunkard tae, if he hud caught ye ye wid hae ended up in the midden!"

She sat down on her chair as my grandfather gave me a clip on the ear followed by a severe belt on the bottom.

"Never gang intae yon place agin or al swing fur ye."

He seemed to exhaust his spleen after the tirade and sat down.

"Wash yer hans and face wee Donal," exclaimed my grandmother. "Then awa ta yer bed withoot supper an let that be an end tae the matter!"

Well, so ended the 'Park Square incident', and I never found out why the stigma of the name drew such looks of horror from grown ups. In later years my father told me that poor people were housed in the square and those afflicted with drink problems. As to who 'the ling' was, he thought it was the nickname of an unemployed fisherman.

Hallelujah!

Mister Macallum, the music teacher at the Grammar School, was a stickler for excellence; both academically and in the field of music appraisal. He assumed that all music was to be enjoyed even though the recipients did not, from the 'heavy stuff' like Wagner, to the 'light' of Eric Coates. He frowned upon jazz, this he considered not pure, it was as he called it 'hack music'.

About 1951 when I was in the second year at the Grammar School, Mister Macallum initiated a class called 'classical music appreciation'. This was held once a week in the music room: a decrepit place, dusty, in one corner an ancient upright plus an equally ancient radiogram capable of playing 78's. The room was poorly lit, because the windows were high up.

It came the day of the class and we all trudged into the room thinking glumly of the ordeal ahead. We took our place in the worn desks and awaited the arrival of the 'maestro'. In due course he appeared, face red with exertion, his moustache bristling and under one arm a pile of records.. He placed them on his desk, selected one, removed it from the jacket and inserted it on the turntable of the radiogram.

"Class!" he bellowed like a little Napoleon, "today we are going to listen to a piece by George Frederick Handel. Perhaps the most famous, 'The Hallelujah Chorus' from 'The Messiah'. The record will last about ten minutes, then I shall be asking questions on what you heard!"

A silent groan went up from the class. Who had ever heard of such a thing! It sounded awful. Mister Macallum (nicknamed Mickey Mouse) turned the radiogram on. There was a click then the first bars of music floated up towards our reluctant ears. The tempo increased. Mister Macallum entered a world of tones and pitches, his hands jerked in unison with the music, his mouth flew open, then closed.

"Dum, dum, dee dumm!" he shrilled.

Then the voices in the record reached the 'Hallelujah' piece.

"Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

As they sang one of the class noticed that the phrasing fitted another call, i.e. 'Close the window! Close the window!' It so happened that a window was open so, at a level below the music we started to chant "Close the window! Close the window!" as Mister Macallum waved his arms in time with the music. Sniggers erupted from the girls and someone laughed out loud. We all enjoyed the joke but we did not realise that Mister Macallum's ears could detect all sounds at once. In a microsecond he had switched the record off leaving us chanting "Close the window! Close the wi..."

We feel into a horrified silence. Macallum's face became blotched with rage. He seemed to swell up. He stamped the floor with his heavy brogues.

"You blithering galoots, what future is there if you mock the works of the masters, I suppose you would rather I played hellish jazz record. Well seeing you were not listening to the music I will still ask you questions, any wrong answers will mean a strapping for those concerned!"

His eyes swivelled round the class, eventually alighting on a little girl.

"Cathrine Morans!" he rasped, his eyes glinting savagely, "Who composed the piece we just heard?"

Cathrine stared at him glumly.

"Mister Messiah sir."

A silence hung in the air.

"Out!" roared Macallum and the unfortunate girl came to the front where she received a stinging stroke from the strap that made her cry.

"The next wrong answer will receive two strokes and so on!" he bellowed, sweat trickling down his brow.

"George Fredrick Handel wrote the music and lyrics!" snapped Macallum, "Now what nationality was Handel?"

He pointed to a timid boy near me called 'the dormouse' -- because he was always nodding off.

"You! William Smilie, what is the answer?"

William stared at him with glazed eyes, a tear dropped to the desk.

"Was he a Nazi sir?" he whispered, as the class laughed out aloud.

Macallum rushed forward, his brogues pounding on the wooden boards. He gave poor William such a blow that I am sure Rocky Marciano would have flinched.

"You stupid day dreamer!" he cackled, "There were no Nazis in Handel's time, Handel was a German, remember that!"

He returned to the front of the class.

"I can see that if I ask any more questions I will receive the answers of idiots, so we will discuss musical scores."

He went to the blackboard, where script lines had been painted along with bar divisions. Taking a piece of chalk he spun round. His eyes descended on me, like a snake at its prey.

"Donald Keith, what key is denoted by the second line up from the bottom of the script, come out and mark it on the script lines?"

His question caught me unawares, I had not be listening in previous classes, but had been thinking about a film due at the Rex in a few weeks, called Last Train to Tombstone. What did he mean by key? Was it some code? My eye alighted on the piano lid and the keyhole used to lock it. Was this the answer?

I rose from my desk, took the chalk from him, went to the piano lid and made a mark at the keyhole.

"That is the key of 'G' sir," I said.

A dark shadow loomed over me, a mighty hand struck me on the back of the head sending me to the floor with a thud. Gales of laughter erupted somewhere behind me. A savage hand jerked me upright and whirled me against the blackboard. Macallum's eyes were only a few inches away.

"Keith, you are the prize idiot of this school, no wonder abiding in Dalintober in that denizen called Woodland Place, you have no brain, there is no hope for you, so you can stand facing the wall for the remainder of the lesson!"

There I stood as he rabbitted on about clefts etc. Then in the last ten minutes of the lesson he put on a record called 'The harps that played in Tara's Halls'. Right at my ears it boomed, and when the lesson ended I was glad to see the light of day again.

Such savage ways of teaching musical appreciation and theory, meant that a great number of pupils were put off from ever taking up an instrument in their future lives.

Christmas Morning

It was Christmas 1946, the second Christmas after the war. Toys were in short supply as well as books. This particular period also heralded the start of Christmas being celebrated in Scotland almost in line with the English festivities.

Prior to the war Christmas was looked upon as just another day in Scotland, with New Year's Day being the main holiday, so when children started being given toys and books there was something to look forward to. People even began to have a Christmas Dinner and, though turkey was out of the question, chickens were in big demand -- this was in the days before frozen food was king.

Thus upon Christmas Eve 1946, I was sent off to bed to await the coming of 'Santa' and the expected presents of Christmas Morning. I was staying at Woodland Place, ensconced in the 'back room' with its stuttering gas lamp and the Valor paraffin heater hissing in a corner. Strange shadows played on the wall, from the living area the radio pulsed out suitable Christmas Music and my grandfather's voice boomed at intervals.

"A hope wee Donal is fast asleep in hus bed an no hingin aboot listening tae whit we wull be pittin in hus stocking. When a wis a wee boy as wis lucky tae git an epple an a bar o Fry's Cream, thur wis nae dinner either fur fowk wur twa poor, the dinner wid be tatties an herrins wie soor mulk!"

His voice droned on then my grandmother would speak.

"Keep yer voice doon Jock, wee Donal wilna be asleep sae we wull hae tae wait till later tae pit hus presents in the room an dinna forget tae keep the cat oot o the wey, fur we diina want it tae eat the sweeties wee pit in yon poke!"

Their voices bantered on, then sleep overcame me.

Morning dawned. Faint paraffin fumes hung in the air. The room seemed pleasantly warm. I opened my eyes and spotted a paper sack near my bed. Quickly I was on the floor and had it opened. Out came an orange, a bag of sweeties, some chocolate, a colouring book with a box of pencils, a junior carpenter's set and three books. From the bottom of the sack I extracted a tin biplane of the Tiger Moth design with a clockwork engine.

The room door opened and in walked my grandmother and grandfather followed by the cat and dog, the latter sniffing greedily at the sweeties. My grandfather proudly puffed at a new briar, thrusting clouds of smoke upwards in great dark rings.

"A gran Christmas wee Donal!" they both exclaimed, "A hope ye lak yer presents, the books are frae us an yer muther an faither hae sent the plane an the colourin book!"

My grandfather picked up the plane.

"Man whit a rare present, its jist lak yon planes frae the furst war whit a the men fought duig fights, an a colourin book tae, ye wull be a great artist in days tae cum an a thase books tae read ye wull be up a nicht!"

My grandmother listened to him for a few minutes.

"Onyway yer breakfast ready, sae cum through tae the fire."

After breakfast I played about with my presents, then started colouring in the book. My mother and father arrived at dinner time with my sister in her pram. They had brought a cooked chicken and some dainties and after about an hours preparation we all sat down to the feast. For post-war standards it was a reasonable meal, being that most items were still 'on ration', and we made merry. At three o'clock we listened to the voice of the Monarch on the radio then continued with our party until about six, when tea was served. The long winter's night had descended and the gas was lit, casting great shadows on the walls. My grandfather regaled us with tales of the unexpected, stories of sadness and mirth whilst my mother talked to my grandmother on the latest 'toon gossip'. My father produced a bottle of malt and my grandfather and him imbibed whilst they smoked away.

"Heres a tale ma granfaither telt me when a wis a kid," mused my grandfather, sucking in in lungful of bogie roll.

"Thur wis this fermer who had a ferm up near Drumore na Bodach, he had a hand called Jamie. Noo Jamie hud the job o gangin tae the shore tae load seaweeed fur tae pit oan the fields wie a horse an cairt. Jamie wis awfy slow an the fermer got richt wild wie hus laziness, sae he said tae Jamie, 'Jamie dae ye ken whit that wee bird is chirpin on yon tree?' Jamie looked at hum an shook his heid, 'Na a dinna ken'."

"The fermer grinned. 'weel it is sayin, 'a cairt an oor, a cairt an oor'.' Jamie listened fur a few meenits, then replied, 'wee that other wee bird on the cairt is sayin somethin different.' The fermer stared at hum, 'whits it sayin Jamie?' Jamie smiled, 'its sayin, work as ye ur peyed, wurk as ye ur peyed!'"

My father and grandfather roared with laughter, though I did not see why the story was the cause of such mirth.

"Jock!" said my grandmother, "Ye an yer droll stories, wha wid be able tae tak lak that, wee Donal al think ye ur roon the bend!"

My mother nodded in agreement.

"Uch the fowk that leeved up at Drumore na Bodach wur richt queer lak that lot up at High Ballevain!"

The conversation halted for a few minutes as my grandfather stoked up the fire and adjusted the smoke board. My father lit up a Capstan and settled back in his chair, a glass of malt in one hand.

"Noo heres a tale when wee wur young boys. Ye ken George Stewart that bides oor in the Low Road, Jock knows hum weel. Noo George wis a lang time awa in Australia an he loved the hot sun. When he cam hame tae the toon he dinna lak the cold climate an the damp, sae wan summer there wus a heat wave, sae George decided tae gang oor past the 'Trench Point' dae dae a bit o sun bathin. He thocht naebody kent whit he wus up tae, but we boys kent an we followed him. Weel the rascal wis sun bathin wie al hus claes aff..."

At the mention of George removing his clothes my mother piped up.

"Donal you shouldna be takin aboot men wie nae claes on in front o yer son, ye wull mak him a prefect!"

Her words brought a laugh from my father.

"Ye mean 'pervert' Maisie a prefect is wan o they boys frae a public school!"

There was more laughter as my grandfather added his pennyworth to the conversation.

"Och let big Donal tell us whit heppened, thur is nae herm in takin aboot men wie nae claes oan, we Donal kens fine whit we mean, its a you Heilan Church fowk wie yer grim view o the world that maks young fowk queer!"

There was a bit of muttering and head shaking as my father continued his tale.

"Weel wan day we followed George ower tae where he did hus sun bathin, he took a hus claes aff, lit up hus pipe an lay doon in the grass. Efter a few meenits he fell asleep, we crept forward and let oot a roar lak a lion maks. George sat up in a real terror, his false teeth flew oot, then he saw us an as we ran awa, he chased us lettin oot awfa oaths. We reached a point whur we met some men an weemen ganging tae a picnic at Kirkcousland, they gaped when thae saw wha wis chasin us an the weemen let oot a wild shriek when they saw George wie nae claes oan. George beat a retreat an vanished intae some trees. The picnic fowk were real upset, an asked us who the wild man wis, we said we dinna ken, for if poor auld George wis caught he could git a lang term in Lochgilphead or Barlinnie. Fur weeks efter that George kept weel oot o the wey an disguised humsel wie glesses an a big overcoat, which in the heat wave may hum sweat buckets!"

My grandfather laughed as the story finished.

"Och auld George us a buddy o mine, sae bein naked wis natural fur hum, bein that he wus oot in Australia wie they Aborigines, he telt me aboot them runnin aboot wie nae claes oan!"

My grandmother and mother tut tutted in a disapproving manner.

"Whit a queer story tae tell o a Christmas nicht!" they exclaimed, "thur is nathin funny ina man wannerin aboot wie nae claes oan, they poor wummen gangin tae the picnic must hae been awfy feart that they wid be molested!"

There was a pause in the evening's events as my grandmother busied herself preparing the supper, assisted by my mother. Whilst all this was going on my grandfather refilled his briar and my father lit another Capstan. Eventually they were rejoined by my mother.

"When I was aboot fifteen or sixteen I went intae service in wan o the big hooses doon Kilkerran Road, I wis employed by fowk that had never done a hans turn in their life. I had tae scrub an clean an mak meat fur them a day an sometimes in the nicht, they wur richt queer always creepin aboot tryin tae catch ye oot!"

As my mother spoke, my grandmother sat down at the fire and picked up her knitting, listening as my mother told her story.

"Wan dae in the efternoon the maister, a richt holy wullie an always greetin, sais tae me, 'Maisie Wilkinson awa tae the toon an git me a gill o Whusky oot o Eaglesome's an here us foor shullins.' He handed me the coins an pit ma coat oan an went awa tae the toon. A reached Eaglesome's an went in, wan o the shop servants a deef auld biddy we called 'the witch' asked me whit a wanted an a said a gill o whusky fur the man in the big hoose. She said a couldna hae it fur a wis twa young tae git drink, but Auld Eaglesome humsel cam in an oan hearin the whusky wis fur the man in the 'big hoose', said a could hae the drink. The bottle wis wrapped up an awf a set doon the Kilkerran Road, but sadly jist as a reached the hoose a drapped the bottle and the whusky ended up in the grin. A wis horrified an started tae greet; when a went intae the kitchin the cook asked whit wis wrang an a telt hur but she took an empty gill bottle frae a cupboard, pit some chape whusky in the bottom an filled the rest wie cauld tea. 'Thur' she said, 'aw tae hus lordship wie the bottle he wul neever ken the difference!' A did as she said a gave the maister hus drink. A few days later he met me in the hall. 'Ye ken Maisie Wilkinson' he muttered, 'yon whusky ye bocht me frae Eaglesomes wus a rare treat, best a ahe tasted fur months!'"

As my mother finished there was a great roar of laughter.

"Noo!" exclaimed my grandmother, "Yer tea us ready, sae sit ye doon at the table, wie hae heard enough droll stories tae last us tae next year!"

After tea we played a game of snakes and ladders, followed by ludo then, as the clock struck ten, my mother decided that we should be making tracks home.

"Ye can stay the nicht at yer grannies," said my mother to me, "an dinna be sittin up a nicht listening ate Jock's wild stories."

After they had gone I looked at some of the books I had received. The main book was Five Go Adventuring Again, an Enid Blyton story about the 'Famous Five'. When I was snugly in my bed in the back room I started to read the adventure, to the pale glow of the gas jet. The story was about a big house with secret passages, smugglers, and strange goings on in the night and reading by gaslight made the story come alive.

The wind playing on the window made me look up at times. The creak of a roof timber seemed to spell the approach of some imaginary intruder. Somewhere in the back yard a cat shrieked, making me jump. As I read I imagined a secret passage from Woodland Place to the old ruined house in the back yard. Perhaps there was one? I thought, or perhaps there was a secret panel in the room that led down into the depths?

Boxing Day

I awoke with the light streaming into the room. The alarm clock said nine. I slipped out off bed and made my way to the living room. My grandmother was frying bacon and eggs in a pan.

"Sit ye doon wee Donal," she mused, ladling the eggs and bacon onto a plate.

"When ye huv had yer breakfast ye can hae a wash, then read yer books or gang oot tae play wie yer pals. Jocks awa oot fur a walk wie the duig sae he wullna be back till near dinner."

After my breakfast I went back to my room and read a few more chapters of Five Go Adventuring Again. The story ran on in true Enid Blyton style and before I knew it, I had finished the book. The tale of secret passages intrigued me. Perhaps if I went up to the deserted attics I would find a passage!

The access to the attic lay up in winding stair of the entrance hall to my grandmother's flat. I quietly crept up the stairs having first procured the key from a hook in the kitchen. The attic door creaked as I opened it and I entered the attic. The air seemed musty, something rustled in the skirting board. In the ceiling was a hatch, but where did it lead? I fetched a broken chair from the corner and stood on it, pushing upwards the hatch opened suddenly and swung up into the dark void beyond. A rush of dust fell down, some got into my eyes. Reaching into my pocket I pulled out the small Ever Ready torch and switched it on, then I pulled myself up into the hatch opening. A thick cobweb swished across my face, making me shudder with fear.

The torch beam revealed a cobweb-filled roof space. I had to step on the rafters as there was no floor. Then I noticed the chimney piece with its dust-encrusted bricks. Closer inspection revealed a metal door, about two foot square with a handle on one side. Was this the entrance to he secret passage? I tugged at the handle.

At first nothing happened, then the door swung open with a grating sound, a rush of hot air swept into the roof space. Away below I could hear my grandmother talking to herself, her voice seemed to echo upwards. I realised that I was looking into the chimney from the flat. My opening the door must have upset the draft system, for my grandmother started to complain up lack of draft in the range, then my grandfather's voice echoed up.

"Whits wrang wie the fire wumman, the chimney wis swept only a fortnight ago, probably auld Mary Broon's been havin big bleezes an made a lot o soot, onyway whurs wee Donal ganged awa tae?"

My grandfather's voice seemed as if it was beside me and I felt tempted to answer back, but I knew the consequences if I did so.

"He us awa oot tae play wie hus pals," replied my grandmother.

"That is funny?" rasped my grandfather, "A cam oor the brig wie the duig an a dinna see hum at a, ye ken it is Boxin Day an maist o hus pals will be in their hooses, sae where hus he ganged awa tae? If he hus wannered doon tae the skeegs al gie hum a richt lunnerin when he cams hame!"

The voice swept up the chimney towards me. I listened for a few minutes, then decided that my secret passage'expedition would have to be curtailed. As I closed the iron door a piece of soot must have become dislodged from the wall. I vaguely saw it plummet down into the void. Below a cry of anger came from my grandmother.

"Jock a thocht ye said the chimney had been swept, fur a dod o soot hus jist fell intae the fire an on tap o my soup pot?!"

There was a rasping of a chair, then grunts, then my grandfather's voice bellowed.

"A swept the lum three weeks ago an dumped the soot oor Dalintober Pier, a tell ye it us auld Mary Broon wie hur bleezes, hur flue cams intae oors at wan place, when she lichts a fire in hur room, the smoke cams intae oor chimney, a telt Skart aboot it, but he us as slow as a crippled snail; onway al tell hum aboot it next week, ye can hae a wurd wie auld Mary."

Their voices died away to a muffle as the iron door was closed and I made my way back to the hatch, careful not to make a noise. I waited for about ten minutes, then descended to the lobby, replaced the attic key and entered the kitchen.

My grandmother was trying to clear up the soot, helped by my grandfather. There was much muttering and cursing. He looked up as I entered.

"Whur hae ye been wee Donal, yer dinner is aboot ready..."

He paused.

"Whits a that soot oan yer face ye look lak wan o yon men frae Africa, yer face is covered wey soot, look in the mirror boy!"

Horrified, I peered into an oval mirror above the mantle piece. Before me was a vision of a minstrel.

"I was playing up in Smith Drive, grandad, in a friend's garden. There was a pile of soot and I got some on my face!"

He listened for a few seconds.

"A ken fine weel whur ye got yer face blackened, ye whur up at the toon midden, hae a no telt ye tae keep awa frae yon place its full o disease an rats as big as duigs!"

After administering a clip to my ear, he escorted me to the sink, turned on the cran and washed my face.

"Noo sit ye doon an hae yer dinner, ye wulna be gangin oot the day!"

As we ate our dinner my grandfather smiled.

"When ye cam in wie yer face a black ye reminded me o a book called Oleever Twast, it wis aboot a wee boy frae a workhoose that wis sent up lums tae brush the soot doon, Oleever leeved in Lundon. He eventually made guid an becam the son o a rich man, sae jist imagine if ye had tae climb lums in Woodland Place, ye widna last lang me boy!"

I smiled as he talked, as did my grandmother. Eventually she rose.

"Ach," she sighed, "Jist think wee Donal, o the conversations ye wid hear if ye wur up lums a day, a the secrets o fowk wid be heard, frae auld Mary takin tae hur cat, or Jock takin tae hus crony Fesak!"

If only they had known where I had been, they would have been in a less cheerful mood!

I was still determined to find a secret passage so, on the day after Boxing Day, I decided to explore the empty flat next to my grandmother's that had lain empty for a few years.

The key was on a hook on the lobby wall and, waiting until my grandmother and grandfather had gone out, I approached the flat door.

The surface of the door was cracked from lack of paint and the original finish was barely visible. I inserted the key into the lock. There was a grinding noise. I turned the knob and pushed the door inwards. The hinges protested loudly and I entered the flat. A musty smell mingled with that of damp assailed my nostrils. In the semi-gloom I made out some furniture: a broken table and a chair with no back. On the wall a faded photograph of a grim bewhiskered man glared down at me, as if I had disturbed his rest. On the floor a tattered carpet lay. My feet brought up little puffs of dust that spiralled up, glinting in the pale sun beams that pierced the ragged window blind. There was a cupboard on the wall near the sink, it must have been a larder for on one shelf was a rusting tin of baked beans and a piece of bread encrusted with mould. A mouse scampered past my feet and vanished into the fire place.

Then, like Alice, I spotted a small door about two foot six inches square down near the fire grate. I pulled it open and saw in the void a ladder leading upwards. My heart raced -- at last a secret passage! But where did it lead to? Switching on my Ever Ready I squeezed in and started to climb hand over hand. The shaft lead up into the darkness. There was just enough room for my body but, at times, I grazed my knees on the rough brickwork.

After about ten minutes climbing the shaft suddenly ended in a trap door. Gingerly, I pushed it. It creaked upwards and I thrust myself into the space above to find I was in the roof space above the flat and adjacent to the one I had visited on Boxing Day. Moving over to where the chimney stack passed through to the roof, I saw a small iron door set in the brick work. I pulled the door open and shone my torch downwards. Far below a faint glow pulsed in the dark, then I heard Mary Broon's voice filtering up. She was taking to herself.

"Ach," she complained, "Its an awfa thing tae grew auld and end up sittin in a garret, moonin oor yer fire way nae company but a cat an listenin tae auld Jock up above moanin aboot somethin, they lums carry voices al oor the place, its a guid job naebuddy replies tae me!"

She muttered on then, I thought to myself, why not put on a bit of dialect and shout down to her? I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled.

"Thus is auld Jock Mary, a ken fine whit ye ur sayin, a see al an hear al, ye ur bein watched a the time, ye an yer cat!"

There was a silence, then far below the sound of heavy breathing.

"Whas up there!?" gasped Mary, "Is it auld Jock, or is it a sprite, al hae tae git me lum swept!"

I listened for a few minutes, then made a loud moaning noise.

"Ahhh----Ooo----Weee am Jocks lum ghost cam tae watch ye Mary!"

At this point I beat a hasty retreat, closed the door, descended the shaft, then locked the flat door.

Later that day when my grandfather and grandmother returned, they were hailed by Mary from the close. There was the sound of angry voices, then my grandfather came clomping up the stairs.

"Wad ye believe it wee Donal, yon auld witch Broon says she heard ma voice takin doon hur lum, weel if she continues tellin stories lak that she wull end up in the van gangin tae the Bedlam Hoose at Lochgilpheed, thur is plenty there wie similar stories!"

After that my passion for secret passages waned. You needed grand houses with great studies, panelling and dark cellars to capture the true romance of high adventure, so I stuck to reading my books!

Grandfather Jock

At this point I will give a brief synopsis about my grandfather Jock. His full name was John Smith and as you can guess he was my 'step grandfather', if such a title is permitted in law. He married my grandmother sometime after she lost her husband Donald Keith. From her first marriage she begot the following children: Donald (my father), Archibald, Neil, Angus and Florence. When she married John Smith he had been a widower with a son of the same name. His son survived a convoy sinking in the Atlantic by swimming under burning oil.

Well, Jock in his young days prided himself in trials of strength, such as lifting blacksmith's anvils and carrying hundred weight sacks over distances. He liked his dram and many times because of this tested his strength on the local police! Like the proverbial 'Pa Broon' of The Sunday Post, to him life was a series of gambles. In a low income area, he was always devising schemes for making money but because of his kind nature he ended up handing out more money than he made!

To him authority was something to be overcome because he suspected those in 'high places' where in the pay of the lords of the land. The Kirk he regarded as a club where hypocrites gathered on a Sunday, oblivious to the rampant poverty in the town. Yet he admired 'Pongo' who gave to the poor without comment. The Kirk, to Jock, had let Scotland down: telling the displaced Highlanders during the 'clearances' that it was the 'will of god' that their masters were taking such action, and turning a blind eye to the Act of Union in 1707, because the sop of the Presbyterian Faith remaining unchained and oblivious to the fact that the English Army lay at Berwick ready to impose the Union by force, if the people had resisted. Jock seized on these snippets of history to reinforce his views.

On Sundays he dressed up in his dark suit, and wore his bunnet. With his bristling moustache he looked the double of the aforementioned Sunday Post character. In his young days he worked in the Shipyard at the Trench Point where he lost part of his nostril when someone dropped a red hot rivet from above onto him. Even so he still cut quite a dash, and when he came to live in Woodland Place with my grandmother he brought a breath of fresh air to the place.

Having arrived in Campbeltown in 1939 aged two, I really only knew Jock from about 1942 until his death in 1947, but his powerful character and his 'doings' were deeply marked in my long term memory, coupled with the strange aura of Woodland Place where we lived.

What of Woodland Place? When we came to stay there in 1939, it was already a very old building, slowly decaying. Built of stone, access to the top flats was by means of stairs reaching up from the street and, to the bottom flats, there were stairs leading down below street level to the close. The attics, in one of which my mother and father lived in when they came from London, were reached from a spiral stair in the lobbies. Woodland Place lay on the High Street just in from the junction with Princess Street. When we came to stay there most of the building was occupied, but after the war many of the occupants drifted away and at the time mentioned in Campbeltown Life, 1943 to 1950, only part of the building was tenanted. The landlord, or 'factor' as he was known in Scotland, was called Skart and I never knew his real name. He was responsible for the general upkeep of the building, which in the end became too costly for him.

Woodland Place had a large back yard bounded on all sides by high walls and to the south lay a derelict building, once a Bonded Warehouse. On the West side lay the ruined building that I have mentioned before: A two-storey affair, built of stone, that in its day must have been a most imposing place. The boundary wall to the West ran a foot beyond the building, and you could run along this wall and hide during games. Then there was the well, covered over and talked of in hushed tones by the adults.

For youngsters Woodland Place was really an Aladdin's Cave for acting out boyhood fantasies -- the ruin, secret, menacing in the dark; The mysterious well, brooding under the earth that covered it; The 'Wash Hoose', where Jock and his cronies drank pook, or the shed where he carried out strange experiments and stored all sorts of bric-a-brac.

There was no electricity in Woodland Place, gas jets being the norm, or paraffin lamps. All cooking and heating was from the range fire and the cast iron oven that was part of it.

Returning to Jock... For all his gung-ho attitude to life, he was in essence quite a shy man and would go off for hours on his own. In his young days he did go on picnics to Kirkcousland, yet he had an inbred fear of the sea, which I found strange for someone living in a port. But the short years I lived with him at Woodland Place were happy years from, what I can recollect, as were the days spent in the ex-canteen near Keith's Cottage. Why, you may ask, did I stay with Jock so much and not with my mother? I suppose it was because in the attic there was not much room, so it was more convenient for me to stay down below in my grandmother's flat, being that she had two bedrooms.

I remember when Jock died in the early summer of 1947. He had taken to his bed some weeks before with jaundice and, as antibiotics were still in the future, the illness became fatal. He lay 'in state' in his coffin in the back room for his close friends to come and say their last farewells. I remember his face: pinched, but still defiant. Then I remember watching as he was taken away by the men folk, the women and I remained behind. That then is the brief synopsis of John Smith, born 1873 died 1947, his grave is in Kilkerran Cemetery under the lea of Bengullion.

The Great Flood

The winter of 1945 was very stormy and one November a fearful wind swept in from the Atlantic. Savagely it beat onto the town, swirling down Long Row and churning the Loch into a maelstrom of frothy waves that pounded on the sea wall with dolorous strokes. Then it attacked the slates and chimney pots sending them whizzing down onto the roads. The storm had really got going into the mid afternoon, whilst I was sitting in the Rex watching Sabu The Elephant Boy. The noise of the rising wind started to interfere with the sound effects of the film, and when the film ended and I made my way to the foyer. There was a noise like an express train. Out into Hall Street I trudged as the rain started to fall. Huge waves were crashing over the harbour wall and the moored boats jerked savagely at their hawsers.

Grimly, I struggled down Hall Street to the Royal Hotel, dodging a dustbin that hurtled past, thence out along the Esplanade. By this time I was completely soaked with water dripping down my neck and the dye starting to run from my blue Burberry. I reached Woodland Place with the water running out of my shoes. On entering the attic my mother was none too pleased with the soaked state I was in, for most of the dye had run down my legs giving me the appearance of a Celtic tribesman. She was boiling something in a pot as I entered. She rose from the chair she was sitting on.

"The Burberry is ruined," she snapped, reaching for a towel.

Outside the wind shrieked across the slates and the rain battered down.

"Whur am I gan tae get money fur a new wan, wae yer dad nae able tae wurk at the building trade in this weather, an look at yer shoes an troosers, am nearly wrang in the mind wie yer careless use o claes. Whit tak ye tae gang tae the picturs wie guid claes oan, an in this weather?"

"I am sorry," I pleaded, "the weather was fine when I set off and it was the last showing of 'Sabu The Elephant Boy'."

She considered my reply for a few seconds.

"Git yer claes aff an dry yersel doon, then al mak ye a hot drink, yer faither wull be in in a few meenits an he wull be drooked tae by the look o the weather" I took off my wet clothes and dried myself, my mother gave me fresh clothes and a hot Bovril. As I sipped the warm liquid, there came a clomping on the attic stair and my father entered, resplendent in black oilskins and sou'wester. Water dripped onto the floor.

"Awa tae the landing wie Donal," said my mother, "A that water wull drip doon intae Jock's flat"

My father retired to the landing and returned a few minutes later, minus oilskins ans sou'wester.

"Sae wee Donal ye wur at the picturs an got drooked camin hame oor the brig, a remember gan tae see 'Sanders o the River' when a wis a youth, I lak a guid adventure pictur nan o yon romance an blethers, wie snobs prancin aboot a nicht."

He looked up as a slate came away from the roof and flew into the air.

"Thus is a gran storm, thur wull be mony a roof leekin afore the nicht is oor an mony a soul driven ontae a lee shore!"

Footsteps sounded on the attic stair and my grandfather entered.

"Ye wull hae tae watch in case mair slates cam doon, the wind must be up tae seeventy miles an oor!" he exclaimed, going to the window and looking out, "Aye yon 'Skart' should hae done an overhaul o the roof instead o boozin in the Gluepot, still the morn wull tell, Fesak telt me in the morn that the Herbour Maister was gien a warnin o severe gales oor the telephone, sae al bid ye a guid nicht."

He clomped off muttering about something. Outside a great blast shook the building, making the walls tremble.

"Michty me!" exclaimed my mother, "thur must be a tornado commin, aye the Deils abroad the nicht, sae wee Donal keep close tae the fire an ye wull be a richt!"

As the night wore on, the storm increased in severity. The window in the attic shook. Water poured from the High Street down into the back yard at an alarming rate. The sky light outside the attic door started to leak and my father had to put a bucket underneath.

About ten o' clock my grandfather came clomping up the stairs.

"A fishin boat hus broke clear o its moorins an is up against the sea wall on the Esplanade, an the Lang Ra hus flooded. If thus rain keeps up Kinloch Park wull be knee deep in water an the hoose wull be fu o watter tae. It reminds me o the great flood befoor the first war when I wis a young man..."

He paused mid sentence as my grandmother appeared in a state of great agitation.

"Auld Mary Broon hus cam up tae the hoose richt feart, the water is lappin her door in the close an she thinks she wull be drooned in hur bed, can ye oor big Donal dae somethin tae help the auld soul?"

My grandfather made a grinding sound with his teeth.

"Whit, that us whit she gets fur leevin doon in the close, Skart telt hur last year tae move back up tae the flat at the other end, weel a suppose al hae tae get some sand an bag it an pit it at hur door, cam doon an gie us a han Big Donal, an tak wee Donal wie ye!"

There was a great bustle as my father put on his oilskins and I put on mine, plus some wellington boots. Then we all descended the stair to where Mary stood, muttering.

"Ye wull be carefu wae ma stuff Jock?" she rasped, "A dinna want ye trapsin intae ma hoose wie muddy boots!"

Her remark brought a sound from my grandfather, like a file being drawn across a glass edge.

"Al gie ye muddy boots wumman!" he croaked, as he put on his oilskins, "we ur gangin oot into the storm tae stap yer hoose floodin an al ye can wurry aboot is muddy boots, weel let me tell you this, whit dae ye want, a flooded hoose oor some mud?"

Mary sighed.

"Ach weel gang aheed Jock, al cam doon when ye fix the flood!"

We went down into the close. The water was running about six inches in depth and starting to lap over the cill on Mary's door.

"We wull awa tae the shed an fu up some bags wie sand, wee Donal can haud the bags!" exclaimed my grandfather as we headed down into the back yard.

Grimly, I held the bags as my father and grandfather swung shovels of sand into them. Then, after about ten sacks had been filled, they were transported to the close. My grandfather supervised the laying of the barrier, which reached about two feet when finished.

"Mak sure the bags are richt tight tae stap the water cummin oot," he said to my father, "Al awa up an tell auld Mary she can cam doon tae hur hoose!"

With that he headed upstairs.

Mary looked at the barrier. Her face visibly paled in the gloom.

"Whits this?" she moaned, "Who am agan tae git in an oot o ma hoose oor yon wa, am nae some high jumper frae the Olympic Games?"

My grandfather waved his hands in the air in exasperation.

"Dinna fear Mary we wull gie ye a lift oor the bags!"

With that my father and him took hold of Mary and lifted her into her house.

The sand bag wall did the trick and prevented the water entering Mary's house. By the time morning came the water in the close must have reached a foot in depth. When I awoke from my late night the storm had abated and the flood waters had receded. After breakfast I went to the Esplanade to look at the fishing boat marooned on the sloping buttress below the sea wall. Luckily, it was not badly damaged but great tangles of flotsam was washed up all along the Esplanade, including a 'wall' of seaweed. In many of the streets lay the shattered remains of broken roof slates and the council workmen were kept busy clearing up.

The night of the storm spent in the attic at Woodland Place remains in my memory. As to what Mary Broon thought of the sandbag wall at her door I have no idea, but any gratitude she may have felt towards Jock must have soon evaporated, for a few days later she was moaning to my grandmother about the sand on her carpet and that Jock had frightened her cat!

The Biro

It was the Christmas of 1948, my mother was installed in the prefab in Davaar Avenue and a I was spending Christmas there. One cold day just before the school closed for the holidays, my mother came into the living room of the prefab. Her footsteps echoed on the floor, for there was a great void underneath due to the way the building had to be constructed on a rising slope.

"Whit dae ye want fur yer Christmas?" she asked, "Al be awa tae the shops the morrow an al be lookin oot fur presents fur ye an yer sister, noo dinna ask fur onythin stupid such as aair pistol oor a scout knife or tools, fur thon carpenters set ye had last year, meant ye sawed the leg o ma table, an yer faither spent days tryin tae get the other legs level."

I listened as she talked. My mind went back to a conversation I had had with some of my pals a few days before, where they talked of a new pen called a 'biro', where the ink was in a tube and flowed through a ball point. No more blotting, no more bottles of ink!

"I would like a Biro mum!" I boldly said.

Her mouth opened.

"Is that some kind o gun?" she spluttered.

"No" I replied, "its a new pen with a cartridge of ink and it lasts for weeks, without a refill. They are on sale in the Courier Office and they cost a pound each!"

"A poon!" she gasped, "Thats aboot a fifth o yer faithers wage at the bricklayin, a dinna ken if we can manage it, onyway al speak tae yer faither when he cams hame the nicht; mind you if ye get the pen, it micht be the only present ye get this Christmas!"

My mind reeled at the thought of becoming the proud owner of a biro -- swaggering into school, writing away, no more blots, the centre of attention, teachers amazed at the device I held in my hands, Purcell gaping as he struggled with his Parker -- it seemed at last as if I would have the means to become a 'writer'. My imagination created visions of novels flowing from my neat hand, of my pals following me around chanting, 'There goes the man with the biro!'

Christmas day came. There were a few parcels at the foot of my bed -- some books, a pair of socks, a geometry set, colouring pencils, a pad and a small oblong package. Excitedly, I tore the wrapping off the package and there, in a neat box, lay a slim blue coloured pen with the word 'Biro' etched on it. My hands shook as I took the top off and applied the point to the writing pad. The blue writing flowed and soon I was scribbling away.

"Dae ye lak yer pen wee Donal?" said my father, "Erchie chipped in towards the cost, sae ye huv hum tae thank!"

The pen was used repeatedly through the holiday for writing and drawing but, as with all new innovations, teething troubles developed. The biro was susceptible to cold, as it affected the viscosity of the ink, and the pen started to jam. The only way to cure this was to heat the pen at the fire. Eventually the pen gave up towards the end of the Christmas Holiday and I became disconsolate.

"Whits the metter wee Donal?" said my mother, seeing me crying one day.

"My pen wont work any more mum!" I cried, tears dripping down my cheeks.

She took the pen from me.

"Weel it is dry, sae we wull gang doon tae the Courier Office noo an ask fur a new wan, am nae peyin a poon fur rubbish!"

She fetched her coat and off we set towards the town, eventually entering the building in question. The place was empty of customers and the manager cum editor was lounging on a chair smoking his pipe whilst an old woman shop assistant was stacking magazines on a rack, muttering something as she did so. A small cat scooted between her legs and into a dark corner, where it rummaged amongst some papers.

"Thurs a wumman an a wee boy wantin servin!" the editor snapped at the old woman, as she turned round, looking at the clock on the wall.

"Whit dae ye want?" croaked the old woman, scratching her side and peering over at my mother and I as if we were aliens.

My mother placed the biro on the counter.

"I bocht thus pen for wee Donal's Christmas an its empty efter aboot ten days, a want a new wan oor ma money back!"

The tone of her voice made the manager look up.

"Och ye need a refill, they ur five shullins each!" he rasped, relighting his pipe and flicking the spent match towards the small cat, which by this time was on the counter and trying to climb up a postcard stand.

"Am nae peyin five shullins tae you oor any others!" snapped my mother, "A bocht the pen afore Christmas an a wis telt it wid last fur ever, wie nae mer ink required, sae gie me a new wan oor al cum oor the coonter an tak wan!"

The belligerent challenge from my mother brought the manager to his feet, his face turning an ashen colour.

"Thur is nae need fur a this anger, wha telt ye that the pen wid last fur ever, wis a liar, ye need refills an they are five shullins each, yer son must hae been dain twa much writin tae run oot o ink sae soon!"

A belligerent challenge countered by a verbal rebuff! My mother's face darkened. The gritty Wilkinson temper was rising.

"Ye said the person that selt me the pen wis a liar, weel yon auld wumman abin the coonter sold the biro tae me afore Christmas!".

The woman shop assistant went pale.

"A neever telt yon wumman that the biro wid last fur ever, she must a heard wrang."

My mother glared at the woman.

"I heard whit I heard!" she snapped, "sae a want a new pen or a refill, or al gang up tae the polis!"

The threat of 'polis' seemed to gell the manager into action,

"Ach! gie hur a refill Bessie, onythin tae keep the peace!"

Bessie took a blue refill from a box and grudgingly passed it to my mother.

"Ye ur gettin this wan free oot o the manager's kind heert, but ye wull hae tae pey fur any others ye need in future!"

My mother glared at her and the manager.

"Dinna wurry yersels al no be cummin in here agin al jeest gang tae Mertin's Book Shop in future!"

As we left the shop I heard the manager hiss to the hapless shop assistant, "Al be takin the price o yon refill aff yer wages Bessie, let that be a lesson tae ye!"

Having a Biro made me a king amongst my pals until, in the progress of time, the novelty wore off.

Before that event, however, in my ignorance I took the pen to Dalintober School on the assumption that I could use it during a writing lesson, instead of the scratchy nib and inkwell. How wrong I was !

Deeply ingrained in the education system of 1948 was the need to write in longhand, with ink and pen. The screech of forty nibs on the jotter page still lingers in my mind and the tension as the teacher prowled up and down the aisles, suddenly pouncing on some soul who had 'blotted his copy book', reached unbearable heights.

It was a stuffy afternoon as the writing class commenced and, of all days, the dreaded Purcell lumbered in to take charge. He glared at us, his eyes darting about.

"Boys and girls!" he roared, his voice vibrating against the walls.

"A am here the day tae tak ye fur writin, in place o yer ain teacher, Miss Phillips, wha is noo weel!"

He paused, as we inwardly sniggered at his use of the vernacular.

"Sae git yer books oot an yer pens an copy whit am gan tae write oan the black board."

He took a piece of chalk and wrote 'We keep our rollocks in Ralston's yard and our rope in the chandler's store.' He finished writing and slumped down on his seat.

"Yon writin is a bit oo a tongue twister sae be carefu, oany mistakes an al be strappin ye!"

With that he drew the strap from its lair and flicked it down with a thud on the desk top. We set to on our task.

"Write the line oot fifty times!" snapped Purcell, as he opened a bag of pan drops and popped two in his mouth.

I drew the biro from my pocket and started to write. The line was quickly accomplished. This is great, I thought. In no time I had completed twenty lines whilst many of my class mates were still on their tenth. At this rate I would be finished in record time and receive the plaudits of Purcell! I imagined myself at the front being congratulated on my neat work. Like all day dreamers, however, reality comes swiftly like a hunter upon his prey. A great shadow loomed over me. I looked up, there stood Purcell, swaying at the same time as crunching a pan drop. He saw the biro in my hand. His face jerked into a mask of rage, a gob of spittle trickled down his chin. The biro was snatched from me.

"Whits this wee boy, writin wie wan o they new fangled pens, whurs yer ink, ye wur supposed tae write wie a nib?"

I looked around wildly for a means of escape, but there was none. A great hand seized me by the scruff of the neck and propelled me towards the blackboard. I was whirled round to face the class. Purcell held the Biro up for all to see.

"Boys and girls we have a smert alick amongst us, writin wie a biro instead o ink!"

He placed my jotter at the black board.

"Whits yer name?" he rasped, grabbing hold of the strap.

"Donald Keith, sir," I stuttered.

There was a silence.

"Weel Keith ye wull git twa o the strap fur yer cheek an am keepin yon 'biro' as they ur called tae mIss Phillips cams back an she can gie ye a strappin tae!"

Without more ado, I was told to hold out my hand, the strap swung in the air.

To this day I can still hear the leather hissing down towards my outstretched palm, then a sharp stab of pain. My hand tingled. Tears welled in my eyes, then came the second stroke.

"Ye wull stand here until the lesson is oor!" rasped Purcell, popping another pan drop into his mouth, his stained teeth glinting in the pale sunshine.

"Av used a pen an ink a ma life Keith an a dont hold wie yon biros!"

The rest of the lesson passed slowly, then the period bell clanged and the class trooped out.

"Aff ye gang Keith!" slurped Purcell, scratching his chin, "An if a catch ye agin wie a biro, it wull be another strappin fur ye!"

Sadly, I went out to my next class, which was Mental Arithmetic under the eagle eye of Gemmel. What horrors awaited me there...?

Gemmel strode in, Malaca cane firmly grasped in one hand. His eyes fastened upon me.

"Keith to the front!" he barked.

I shuffled forward in a dejected manner.

"Class!" he hissed, "Keith has been caught using an illegal pen during Mr Purcell's writing class, namely a biro, a horrible contrivance with filthy ink. Mr Purcell has punished Keith for his crime!"

As he delivered his rant, the Malaca Cane whipped down and caught me a blow on the knuckles.

"Return to your desk Keith!" commanded Gemmel, "Should you produce another biro in my class, you will be severely punished. Now to work. If ten yards of cotton cost seventeen shillings and sixpence three farthings, what will three and one eighth yards cost?"

The brains of the 'no-hopers' stream groaned as they grappled with the problem and I nursed my throbbing hand and knuckles.

Strangely, Miss Phillips returned my biro to me some days later with the proviso that they were the pens of the future, but best kept from the view of those who were against change! The whole episode showed how hard it is when you go against the rules of a rigid education system.

Carmichael's Library

You may recall the episode at the Grammar School when I was embroiled in trying to write an essay on the 'Sun King' and became a suspect at the local library. In about 1952 I had started reading more extensively and somehow managed to gain membership of the library, a feat of no mean standing, considering the ruthless vetting system operated by Carmichael.

I had started reading history books and became interested in the American Civil War, partly through the influence of Western films, where the hero was either a veteran of the Union or Confederate Armies.

As many people know, the great leaders of the conflict were Robert E Lee on the Confederate side and Ulysses S Grant on the Union side. Grant's father hailed from Aberdeen and, being there was a Scottish connection, I decided to find out more about the illustrious General who commanded the Union forces in Virginia from 1864 to 1865 and was instrumental in forcing Lee's surrender at Appamatox on April 7^TH 1865.

One Saturday morning I set off to the Library armed with my membership card. As usual the place had an air of forbidding silence as I entered through the rotary door -- a novelty in its time. Then the long walk to the library section where Carmichael sat hunched over a ledger, writing in a laborious hand. He looked up as I walked past towards the book laden shelves.

"Just a minute Keith!" he snapped, pulling a silver hunter from his waist coat, " The library shuts in an hour, so be quick with your selection, I am going on a picnic to Machrihanish in the afternoon and do not want to be held up!"

I nodded and strolled into the depths of the place.

There were sections of the place that had never sensed the presence of human hands for years -- rows of books untouched for decades that seemed to say 'leave us alone to our eternal rest'. Great tomes unmoved for years, hiding in the dark shelves that was their home. It was towards this area that I made my way, following the sign in faded letters which read, 'History: World Wars and Biographies'. All sorts of campaigns, from Kitchener's Battle at Tel El Keber, The disaster on the Moder River in October 1899 and swathes of volumes on the Great War; then the multitude of biographies and those termed 'auto' from Hannibal to Wavell. My eye traced along the rows, but there was no sign of a book about U.S. Grant, where could it be?

I walked deeper into the bowels of the place. There was a distinctly musty feeling in the air, a feeling of age. Then I came across a row of gold-spined volumes. My heart leaped as I read the titles: Stonewall Jackson, James Longstreet, AS Johnstone, Robert E Lee and U S Grant. I reached up to dislodge a book but found it tightly wedged. I tried to get my fingers round the end, but still it would not budge.

Then, with a mighty tug, it came away bringing about ten other volumes with it. They crashed to floor with a bang that reverberated upwards, sending a great swirl of dust gushing towards the ceiling. I paused and looked wildly along the passageways between the shelves. There was the sound of feet swishing towards me, like a stalking tiger homing in on its prey. Desperately I tried to reinsert the fallen books onto the shelf. A dark shadow fell across the passage way.

I looked up at the white face of Carmichael, his mouth clenched, his nervous hands clawing at his jacket, his eyes burning like the famous tiger in the night. He signified that I, Donald Keith, minor, residing in Davaar Avenue and sometime John Street, had committed the creme de la creme of offences, in that I had dropped books onto the hallowed ground that was the library floor. For such an offence the least punishment would be a life suspension from Carmichael's jealously guarded kingdom.

"In all my days as custodian of this fine place, Keith, no mortal has ever dropped books upon the floor!"

He picked up a volume with reverent care, as if it was a new baby, and replaced it on the shelf.

"Books cost money Keith!" he hissed ,serpent like, "Noble citizens of this town have donated hard earned money to stock these shelves, or donated priceless volumes from their own libraries, never imagining that they would be vandalised by some working class boy!"

He read the title of one of the volumes.

"Whats this? 'Robert E. Lee -- The Life Of A General'? Of what interest to a schoolboy could such a work be? When I was at school religion was uppermost in my mind!"

He looked at the other volumes, before replacing them.

"Please Mister Carmichael!" I pleaded, "I want to borrow the book about the life of U.S. Grant, the Union commander in the Civil War, the one you have now in your hand!"

My plea made him frown, he peered over his glasses at me.

"I don't think I can let you borrow such a fine volume without someone vouching for its safety. I well remember you dropped a book into the sea!"

I hesitated at his words.

"Can you," he said, "bring someone along on your behalf, then I will consider your request?"

At this I paused.

"I will bring my uncle, he is a great book reader and an expert on Edgar Wallace!" I said.

Carmichael nodded.

"Very well, but I cannot remember Archie Keith ever being in the library!"

When I went back to my uncle's house at 25 John Street, he was reading the newspaper at the fire (he lived on his own now as my grandmother had died in 1950). As I entered the room, he looked up.

"Weel wee Donal whit hae ye been up tae, no gettin intae trouble at the Grammar School a hope?"

I sat down opposite him, feeling awkward as to how I should broach the subject of the library book.

"Whits up?" he quizzed, drawing a Capstan from a packet and lighting up.

"Well," I said, "I went to the library to borrow a book but Mister Carmichael said I have to have someone to vouch for me, he says it is a rare book and is afraid that I will damage it!"

There was a silence after I had spoken. My uncle arose and went to the window and peered out.

"A thocht ye had a ticket tae borrow books frae yon place, whits Carmichael daen no gien ye the book, it must be some book!"

I hesitated.

"The book is called 'The Life Of U.S. Grant', he was a General in the Civil War."

My uncle peered at me, a puzzled look on his face.

"A thocht a knew a the leaders that focht in the Civil War, such as Cromwell, Fairfax, Prince Rupert, Montrose, but a never heard o Grant."

I laughed out loud.

"No he was a General in the American Civil War!"

There was a long pause.

"Och ye mean the war tae free the slaves, the wan John Wayne focht in!"

More laughter, then my uncle sat down.

"Aye," he said, "al gang awa oor the nicht wie ye, a dinna ken whit a the fuss is aboot, ye wid think ye wur askin tae borrow some priceless book lak wan o Capstan's early editions."

Again I laughed.

"You mean Caxton, uncle!"

We reached the library about seven o' clock. As we entered a few people came out carrying books. One old man nodded to my uncle.

"A dinna ken ye wur a reader Erchie, nane o the Keiths wur much guid at school!"

His remark drew a riposte from my normally placid uncle.

"Al gie ye nae guid at school auld Tam!" he snapped, "Am a great reader ye ken an al ma foulk were guid at their coonts, sae haud yer tongue; frae whit a hear maist o yer foulk couldna tell 'B' frae a bull's fit an yer auld faither wis cauld 'the dunce o Dalintober'!"

Old Tam, as he was called, shook his fist.

"A havna time tae argue wie ye Erchie Keith, sae al awa hame tae ma hoose!"

With that he stormed off.

"Cheeky auld deevil!" snapped my uncle as we walked up to the desk where Carmichael stood, writing in a ledger, whilst a woman assistant stamped books in the dim light.

"I huv cam tae speak fur wee Donal here, John."

Carmichael looked up at my uncle, then at me.

"Tch tch," he muttered, "Really I cannot understand why wee Donal, as you put, wants a book about a general. Its a rare volume, one of Major Duncan's collection graciously given to the library by that fine pillar of the community. I would really prefer it if the book remained here!"

"Whit!?" exclaimed my uncle, "Wid ye deny a wee boy the richt tae read ony book in the library, is no a library fur takin books oot tae read, an a public wan means fur a fowk be they tramp or millionaire?!"

Carmichael took a step back, his face blanched.

"Tramp!" he gasped, as the woman assistant made spluttering noises at his side and a man wearing a homburg hat glared at the sound of raised voices as he perused a book.

"No tramp would enter these doors, if they did it would be over my dead body! I am charged by the Provost and Councillors of this ancient burgh to dispense books to who I see fit and I shall discharge that duty until I am taken from this world!"

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

"Cam awa in tae git yer book wee Donal, if John tries tae stap ye then al be tellin the Courier, that a wee boy has been denied the richt tae tak a book frae the library, whit wull the Provost sae then!?"

Carmichael spluttered.

"Well really Archie, I did not mean to make an issue of the matter, of course he can have the book!"

Swiftly, I went to the shelf and took the volume, then returned to the desk where the assistant stamped it.

"Remember!" she snapped, "If the book is damaged, you will be required to pay for it!"

My uncle laughed.

"Guid god wumman, the boy is no a Park Square hooligan, mind you if auld Jock had been here, he widna hae pit up wie a this 'red tape', he wid hae had the book oot in a flash, an gien Carmichael a richt lunnerin intae the bargain!"

You would think that I had wanted some priceless rare edition from the shelves, but that was how Carmichael ran his 'ship', lending only to those he considered fit to have books and effectively barring people of 'poor means' to have access to the library. To my young mind he cast a terrifying figure, with his set ideas on 'suitable readers' and his adulation of those 'benefactors' from the great houses on the Low and High Roads. Thankfully all that changed in the years that followed.

Milk Monitor

At Milknowe School, when I was there, and also at the Grammar School, free milk was given out at morning play break, also orange juice was distributed. The milk used to arrive in small bottles set in crates and each week two or three boys were detailed to distribute the milk to the rest of the pupils. They were called 'milk monitors' or 'creeps', the latter name being applied because somehow it was thought that the monitors were 'sucking up' to the teachers.

It was in my first year at the Grammar School that I was selected as a milk monitor for two weeks. My pals thought that I had been creeping to the teachers, but my selection was purely by chance. The duties of a monitor involved being ready at the break time of ten o' clock with the crates, ready to dish out the milk. The milk was delivered by a small, grim faced man in blue denims who gave the appearance of being an escaped prisoner of war.

At the clang of the ten o' clock break bell my two fellow monitors and I rushed out to the cloakroom area. The small man in the blue denims was just finishing stacking the last of the crates.

"Tak guid care o yon crates!" he snapped, "they belang tae the Creamery an a dinna want ony o them gan missing, if any bottles are broken, the school wull be held tae account!"

As he delivered his verbal warning, the supervising teacher, a Mister Lamont, lumbered up to us. He was a strange man, of few words, but beneath the quietness lurked a savage temper. He eyed us suspiciously.

"Are you boys on duty all week?" he asked, scratching his chin.

"Yes sir!" we chorused in reply, "we are on for two weeks!"

Lamont stared at me.

"Boy, what is your name?"

I had not been paying attention, my gaze had wandered to the rapidly forming queue of pupils waiting for their milk ration.

"Milk monitor sir!" I replied.

Lamont made a clicking noise with his teeth like a rattlesnake on the prowl, at the same time he dealt me a savage blow to the side of the head with the flat of his hand. My ears rang.

"You stupid boy, do you not understand English!" he rasped, "Have you no name?"

With tear filled eyes I mumbled back.

"Donald Keith sir, of class 1b, technical stream."

Lamont leered down at me, his bottom lip curling back to reveal nicotine-stained teeth.

"I can see why you are in the no-hopers league, fit only to serve milk!"

He looked at the restless queue.

"Anyway, Keith and you two other 'technical men', get serving the milk. Let the five thousand be fed, as it was in the good book!"

We started handing out the bottles of milk, with Lamont towering over us. Eager hands reached up for the milk. There was much jostling and sniggering until one little boy dropped a bottle on the floor. As the contents slowly formed a pool, Lamont seized the culprit by the scruff of the neck.

"You realise you have destroyed Creamery property, you galoot, and the Head has said any more breakages will be charged to the pupil concerned, so that will be one shilling and sixpence!" The boy, whose name was Robert Miller, started to cry.

"Please sir I have not got any money!" he sobbed, as Lamont kept him pinned against the wall in a savage neck lock. Lamont sneered.

"So we have a greetin Jessie in our midst!"

There was a note of triumph in his voice.

"No doubt the Head will give you a taste of the belt, so keep your crying for then!"

Robert, with tears rolling down his face, was released as 'Dracula' suddenly appeared from a doorway, his gown swirling out.

"Lamont, why is that boy crying!" he roared, in best sergeant major fashion.

"My break has been disturbed by the noise and my tea has gone cold!"

Lamont, sweat dripping down his cheeks, made a noise like a fish out of water.

"He broke a bottle of milk sir", he weakly replied, "His name is Robert Smith, class 1C, technical stream!"

The head glowered at the cowering Robert.

"Well boy!" he snapped, "That will be two shillings and three pence, payable by Friday, failure to comply will entail three of the best on Monday!" The head turned on his heel and swept away.

Now, in my young innocence, an inner voice said: 'This cannot be just. Lamont said one shilling and sixpence and the Head said two shillings and three pence, this meant nine pence was adrift. Surely the Head was not on a scam?' My brain whirled. Should I remain silent, or say something?

My mouth opened, the words came as if in a dream.

"Please sir, why did you say that the broken bottle cost one shilling and sixpence and the Head said two shillings and three pence?"

Lamont's face turned a deep colour of red, his eyes peered at me.

"The Head stipulated the correct price Keith, I was mistaken, how dare you question the words of he who is in command!"

There was a silence, broken suddenly by the bell for classes. The queue shuffled off to their various rooms. As I went to go Lamont grabbed me by the collar.

"Not so fast clever Dick!" he rasped, "What were you really insinuating?"

Now at that time I had a grasp of some 'big words' and I thought he said incinerating. What did he mean by 'What could I burn?' Vaguely, I stared at him.

"I was not burning anything sir" I replied.

Lamont ground his teeth in despair. He raised his eyes heavenward.

"Lord help us!" he exclaimed, "O get back to your class, I give up with you Keith, you are beyond the pale!"

As I headed towards McPhail's history class I frantically looked for the pail that I was beyond!

On the Friday of that week as I was on my milk monitor duty Robert turned up with his father.

"Whars the heeds abode!" snarled Robert senior, "Av cam alang tae gie yon heed a piece o ma mind an whar is yon Lamont that manhandled ma wee boy?"

I pointed towards the door marked 'Headmaster'.

"The head is in his office, sir" I weakly said.

"A richt all awa tae see hum the noo!"

With Robert junior in tow he rushed up to the door and, without a knock, burst in. There followed a great altercation. Voices were raised in anger, followed by hands thumping down on a table. So great was the row that some of the teachers came out of their classes and stared towards the Head's office.

Lamont appeared and entered the room. There was a great roar of rage. Robert senior's voice yelled.

"If ye touch ma wee boy agin al strap ye frae here tae Kilkerran, then al bury ye. Na al nae be peyin ony mony fur a broken mulk bottle!"

With that he appeared in the doorway and, followed by Robert, stormed out of the hall.

"Ma wee boy wull na be gan tae school fur a few days!"

'Dracula', followed by Lamont, came out of the office. Seeing some teachers standing at their classroom doors, the head snapped.

"Return to teaching gentlemen, and all pupils to their class rooms!"

I made my way towards the hall door to proceed to the 'technical drawing' hut at the south end of the school.

"Keith where are you going!" snapped the Head.

I turned round.

"I am going to Mister Leys's drawing class sir" I replied.

"Are you finished as a milk monitor?"

I paused.

"Yes sir!" I replied, as I hurried outside.

I was never detailed to be monitor again, nor did Robert receive his strapping or pay his two shillings and three pence.

Again the 'milk monitor incident' illustrates the rigid discipline applied to even a simple job as dishing out free milk. Lamont became my bogie man. His silent moods hid a hardness that often erupted into violence, the culmination being when he hurled a boy called Douglas against a black board and there was inquiry which resulted in Lamont being exonerated!

Copyright © 1999 Donald Keith.