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| The Toffee Apple
A Lesson In Metalwork A Lesson In Woodwork Glundie's Stringfellow's Fair |
The Gluepot
The Distillery Nimrod The Piper's Cave The Lang Nicht |
When I was at the Grammar School there was a little shop at the side of the building called 'McGrorie's', a sort of emporium where everything was sold from fruit to aniseed balls. The owner of the shop and the adjacent nursery was called 'wee Mcgrorie' -- a bent individual who shuffled around and seemed to have perpetual cold. He was assisted in the shop by his two sisters, who seemed to be about a hundred years old.
When you entered the place you were assailed by an array of fruit, bottles, sweets and all sort of goods, all piled in a confused manner. Ancient adverts faded on the walls, prices that were incredibly cheap were shown and the fact that lighting was by means of gas made for a sense of mystery.
The sweet that attracted the attention of the pupils most was the toffee apple, coated in thick toffee, the apples being grown in the orchard. Each apple cost three pence and meant that on a warm day one was pursued by wasps and other insects.
One day after lunch, on my way back to school, I purchased a toffee apple and proceeded back to class. The afternoon period was devoted to art and the teacher in charge of art was called MacInally. I can't remember whether he was English or Irish, but he had a cruel temper and for an exponent of art was lacking in patience.
I duly arrived at the class sucking the toffee apple and took my place at the desk, which was really a table so one could draw. Pencils and paper were already laid out and the subject to be drawn was a still life of an apple, book and jug.
MacInally marched in, glared at the class, then sat down at his desk. I had just finished the apple or at least most of it, but some of the toffee had dripped down onto my drawing sheet. Frantically I tried to wipe away the substance but only succeeded in covering more of the sheet. I cast the still sticky stump onto the floor and looked at MacInally who had started to speak.
"Class," he barked, "today we will draw a still life, then colour it using the medium of water colours. Use all of the drawing sheet that I have given and I shall be round in few minutes with the water paints".
The class bent to the task, using the pencil to gauge perspective. As one proceeded MacInally had the habit of snapping questions about some subject in art he had talked about in the past. It could be anything and instant answers were expected.
As I struggled to draw round the syrup on the paper I rapidly created a gluey mess since I had tried to use the eraser. I heard my name shouted out.
"Keith, who were the Impressionists?"
The struggle with the paper and the syrup was consuming all my faculties; I weakly looked in the direction of the questioner.
"I think it was people that made dents in things."
The class sniggered as MacInally rose from his desk, his beady eyes peering at me as he strode up to my place. "So we have a comic in our midst and..."
He stopped mid sentence as his hand pressed onto the syrup on the paper and his shoe squelched onto the sticky core on the floor.
"What is this?" he roared, his face turning the same colour as the syrup, "A jam making class? You stupid boy... and look at the mess on the paper".
As he spoke a horde of hungry wasps surged in the window and settled on the paper. MacInally grabbed the paper and stuffed it into the waste bin. "No more art for you today Keith, go and report to the head and tell him what has happened".
The class twittered as I shuffled of to the Head's office, knowing I could expect no sympathy from him.
MacDonald, the Head, had replaced Balfour Downie (the previous incumbent of the office) and was a stickler for discipline. Fearfully I knocked at his door. From within a voice tolled: "Enter". I pushed open the door and stood facing MacDonald. He was writing in a ledger. He looked up -- his face had a stony look, his balding scalp glistened with sweat.
"Well?" he asked, "What do you want... er... um... name?"
"'Keith' is my name. I have come about the syrup in the art class. Mr MacInally sent me." MacDonald looked at me; His eyes seemed to glaze over as he tried to comprehend my answer.
"Keith Syrup? What a strange name -- are you of Norman descent?"
Before I could reply the telephone on his desk shrilled. He lifted the receiver and listened to the caller. Then, replacing the instrument, he looked up.
"That was Mr MacInally checking if you had reported to me and briefing me on what happened. Do you realise that you must not eat toffee apples in class as it is against the rules. Furthermore, you have wasted the teacher's time and his paper and ruined his brogues. I shall give you three strokes of the strap and you shall write out five hundred times: 'I must not eat toffee apples in art class.' Mr MacInally will ask you for the lines at the next art class. Now put out your hand and prepare to receive punishment."
Fearfully, I stretched out my hand and closed my eyes. The strap swished down, cracking as it hit my palm. The pain brought tears to my eyes, then it was over and I was outside the Head's room. Luckily the bell for end of classes went and I made my way home, concealing my red hand from my parents.
When I next entered Mr MacInally's class I handed him the completed lines which he duly scanned.
"That will teach you a lesson, Keith, and I will ask you the following question: Who were the Cubists and where did they work?"
Again my young mind, in all its innocence, could not visualise a cube as being an art form -- it must be trick question. 'Try geography,' I thought.
"Were they people who lived in Cuba, sir?" I lamely answered, knowing by the look on MacInally's face that I had blundered badly.
A heavy hand struck me on the head making me reel.
"Idiot! For that stupidity you will stand at the front of the class and repeat fifty times: 'The Cubists were a group of artists who drew in cubic form as opposed to flat two dimensional drawing and the impressionists were a group who exaggerated drawing style to create effect.'"
Looking back on that Incident over the years, for young minds to grasp such erudite teachings was asking a lot, but such was the Calvanistic hand in Scottish education.
Because I had been channeled into the so called 'technical stream' I was sent to learn metalwork under the tuition of Mr Leys and his son Robert, who were in charge of the workshop, which lay at the back of the school.
Part of the syllabus involved technical drawing, which considering I became a design engineer later, I was utterly hopeless at. The drawing class was an old hut near the workshop and the boards were of the fixed angle type resting on wedges. Each board was supplied with a tee square and two set squares plus a set of instruments which included a compass. Sadly, the whole syllabus consisted of drawing pipe developments, that is to say a conical shape with a cylinder cutting into it. The idea being to lay the thing out as a flat sheet so that a tinsmith could then cut a sheet to the drawing and then produce the finished article.
What utter boredom it was! The lighting in the hut was not very good and, as we had to draw with HB pencils, smudging soon became a hazard.
Mr Leys (senior) used to sit watching us; At times flicking away offending flies or reading some golfing magazine. He had a habit of picking his teeth with the end of a compass point, or making sucking noises whilst he chewed a bonbon. His eyes at times seemed bloodshot as if he kept very late nights. Sometimes he would rise from his chair and shuffle over to view our efforts on the board.
One day he came over to look at what I had been attempting to do on the board. The exercise was a cylinder with a branch projecting out of it at an angle of forty-five degrees.
All I had managed to do was two lines and a lot of smudges.
"Mm", he muttered, peering over his glasses. "You will never make it as a draughtsman Keith. All I can see in the future for you is a builder's labourer, or the broo."
Now, as previously mentioned in the story, the 'broo' was the name given to the excavation behind Dalintober School. Not realising that it was also the slang for the Unemployment Office I wondered why I was to spend the rest of my days in a hole behind a junior school.
"Would it not be a bit damp sitting in the broo, sir?" I queried, thinking I had said the right thing.
Leys clutched at his thinning hair. His eyes seemed to roll wildly. A kind of slackness came upon his features, as if they were made of rubber.
"You know Keith, you must come from a family of stupid people. You know very well that 'broo' is a slang for the Unemployment Exchange. Everybody knows that, even my cat could figure that out."
As he shuffled wearily back to his desk, shaking his head, I pondered on what he had said. What was the point of all this drawing if I was already consigned to the scrap heap in his mind?
The rest of the period went past at a snail's pace. Then came the break, after which we had Leys (junior) in the workshop or, as the place was nicknamed, 'hell'. I know we were allocated to the technical stream and should have been looking forward to the lesson but the very nature of the place, with its low ceiling, made it very depressing.
The bell went and we entered the workshop, where Leys was huddled over the forge muttering. Clouds of acrid smoke billowed up, followed by gushing flames, resulting in the temperature rising in the workshop until it felt like some tropical place.
"Get to your places!" bellowed Leys , "And listen to what I have to say."
Dutifully, we trotted to our benches and sat down.
"Today we are going to make a poker: steel forged down to a point, screwed. After which we will cut a rod, get a die, make a thread and screw the rod into the point. All that remains to be done is to make a handle from hexagonal brass and, hey presto, we have a poker."
Having spoken he then proceeded to dish out drawings of the poker, after which he simply pointed to the various materials and said, "Get on with it."
Immediately there was a great rush to seize various implements: hammers, saws, brass. Luckily I found a suitable material for the point of the poker, or so I thought -- in fact what I had chosen was brass cunningly concealed by some varnish.
Leys was supervising the forge as I approached the 'monster'. Sweat poured from his brow. He had just seized one of my friend's poker point from the flames with some tongs. Swinging the object down onto a black anvil, he struck it with a ten pound hammer, sending sparks showering all over the place.
"Throw your point into the flames, Keith!" snapped Leys, wiping his brow.
Timidly, I flung the object into the flames. When Leys finished working on the anvil he dipped the point into a bath of water, sending clouds of steam swirling upwards. Turning to me, his face now thoroughly blackened, he grinned, his twisted teeth glowing against the blackness of his face.
"How is your father?" he chortled.
"He is very well, sir." I replied meekly.
Leys sniggered. To this day I cannot fathom out what he meant by the question as it caused great mirth amongst the class.
He turned to the forge and grabbed at the material I'd put in. Instead of a glowing ingot of steel all that came out was a splodge of dripping metal. His face contorted in a mask of fury. A vein in his neck throbbed wildly. It was like a scene from Dantë's Inferno. Wildly, he ground his teeth.
"You big ling! You big yahoo Keith! A poker with a brass point! If I was not a tolerant man I would throw you into the forge, then use you as a point. Wait till I tell my faither about this. Go and cut a rod of steel while I get on with real work. God knows what is to become of you. You would bring tears to a glass eye!"
Eventually I made a poker which, on inspection, Leys classed as rubbish and his father just shook his head.
A further episode occurred in the workshop some months later when we were given the task of forming an ashtray. To the layman this meant getting a disk of tin plate and trapping it against a former that was locked in the jaws of a lathe head stock. The tail stock was then screwed forward to meet the plate. As the plate spun a bar, lubricated by liquid soap, was forced against the tin plate forcing it over the former and the end result was an ash tray.
We had to act in pairs to make the ash tray and my companion was a John McKay who wore thick glasses. Manfully we struggled with the whirling disc, fearfully watching as the bar howled across the surface and we attempted to 'form' the shape. Unfortunately John had not screwed the tail stock up tight enough and the disc took of across the room and hit the wall near where Leys (junior) was enjoying an apple whilst reading a sport magazine.
The noise of the impact was deafening, even above the roar of the forge and the grind of the saws. A deathly hush came as Leys pulled the master switch, cutting all power, and leapt from his chair, advancing on John and myself.
"I might have guessed you two would have been behind this, Tweedledee and Tweedledum. You are banned from all machines till the end of the term."
Looking back on the incident one wonders what the safety people would have made of a forge in a room were people worked -- no guards on the lathe to stop objects flying out and many times we worked with sheets of asbestos!
As well as Nesbitt's woodwork class, which was within the school grounds, there was a class held in a building at the other side of 'Stewart's Green' -- a dark old house with the workshop on the ground floor and the teacher's living quarters on the first floor. Over this class presided Mr Miller, whom I think originated from England at some past time.
Mr Miller was an expert at carpentry and his chosen method of keeping control in the class was to hurl a mallet at any offender, or to lash out with a four foot wooden ruler.
To spend an afternoon in Mr Miller's class was like being released from prison as it meant leaving the confines of the school and all its hidden menace.
I remember one spring day arriving at Mr Millers class and taking my place at the woodwork bench.
"Today," he began, rapidly drawing on the blackboard, "we will attempt a tenon joint to slot into a shaped leg, being held in place with glue."
He finished drawing, dusted his hands, then pointed in the direction of the wood pile.
"Draw two pieces of wood each, shape a tenon in one and a mating slot in the other, get a mallet and, after gluing, tap home."
There was a rush towards the wood pile, then the class was filled with the noise of sawing and hammering.
"Keith, get the glue pot boiling."
Timidly I approached the object -- a cast iron pot like the type witches used -- and lit the gas jet underneath. As flames curled round the base, I dropped toffee-like slabs of glue into the pot and watched it bubble. The stench was terrible and I felt sick as the fumes wafted into the class.
"Half cock!" snapped Mr Miller as he turned away to attend to someone. The command did not register with me as I thought he was talking about someone's work, when in fact he meant me to turn down the gas tap. Too timid to ask, I walked back to my bench to carry on with my joint as the glue bubbled over the brim of the pot and oozed down onto the floor. The dark mass crept towards the benches, setting shavings alight as it progressed until it reached Mr Miller's boots
"What on earth!" he exclaimed as he felt the heat on the leather. "Did I not tell you Keith to half cock the tap, you nincompoop?"
He sprang forward and turned off the gas. "When the glue has hardened you will chisel it off the floor then sand the boards. You certainly will not be making a joint my lad." Thereafter my pals used to call me 'the glue man', which caused a lot of sniggering in the class.
Of all the emporia that graced the fair streets of Campbeltown there was none greater than that run by the MacKinlays -- the chip shop at the junction of John Street and Saddel Street.
The locals nicknamed the place Glundie's, a name of no known origin. It was a dark gloomy place with two large fish fryers that spat and hissed as 'Glundie' hurled great dollops of dripping into the depths, followed by pails of chips. To one side battered cod sizzled in a fryer.
The staff consisted of two women, dressed in shiny aprons, who wielded scoops with great gusto. In the back room the chip man peeled and prepared the chips in a foggy atmosphere of steam. There was a door in the back room that led out into the street, which was left open to reduce the heat.
We used to peer into the fog, watching the dark figure of the chip man hacking and chopping potatoes to keep up with the voracious demands of the fryers. Who was the mysterious chip man? Was he a real person, or some ghoul taken from India for chip labour?
Well, one day the fog cleared and there, sitting at a stool wielding a chopper, was the chip man. He was small and well built with muscular arms, a sharp protruding brow and small cunning eyes that darted from side to side as he brought the chopper swishing down on the unfortunate potatoes.
"It is daft Robinson frae Princess Street," said one of my pals, "he has got a mean temper."
Robinson stared at us, his florid face colouring slightly, "Awa ye gae hame an no be starin at me an my chips, it is no higeenic."
My pals sniggered at Robinson's remarks, and started putting out their tongues.
"Hey Robinson!" shouted John Smith, "Is it true that Glundie uses rotten potatoes, and makes the chips with engine oil?"
His remark brought a roar of rage from Robinson, who then rose from his stool and, wielding his chopper, raced after us as we scampered down John Street then away across The Green.
Luckily Robinson soon tired and we were left to contemplate what we had achieved by annoying the poor man. We did not visit Glundie's chip shop for a few weeks, until Robinson had calmed down.
The green that we crossed was known as Kinloch Green and was bounded on its four sides by Kinloch Road, The Esplanade, John Street and Lochend Street. A path crossed diagonally from Kinloch Road to John Street and the green was the traditional pitch for the annual fair, called Stringfellow's Fair.
From the dark ages the fair had come to Kinloch Green and Stringfellow had made the long road journey from Glasgow each year, usually to coincide with what was called 'The Glasgow Fair Holiday'.
The latter was in July when hundreds of workers came surging down from Glasgow on the 'steamers' to the Clyde resorts, some braving the three hour journey to Campbeltown.
Thus it came about one July that Stringfellow arrived with his lorries and trailers and an army of helpers. The worthy citizens flocked to the green as the fair was assembled, gaping at the various contraptions and booths and getting in the way of the helpers.
My grandfather in his young days considered himself a bit of a roustabout and often related to me tales of how he won weightlifting competitions, shooting matches, and fist fights with some of the vendors whom he thought were cheating him.
Came the opening night of the fair and accompanied by my grandfather we hurried to booths as the air rang with organ music and the excited cries of the townspeople.
"Whit dae ye want tae go on?" he hissed, taking a coin from his pocket.
"I want to go on the Rib Tickler grandpa!" I replied excitedly, eyeing the barrel-like contraption.
"All right lad," he replied, "but I am cummin oan tae, fur yon thing will pit the fear o death into yer young bodie."
The Rib Tickler consisted of an outer drum which spun freely round an inner boat where the punters sat. The effect was to make you feel as if you were going to turn head over heels and the faster the outer drum was spun, the greater the effect.
In we trooped and the door was closed; Then the attendant started to rock the boat as the outer drum was spun.
My grandfather gradually turned green and started to snort.
"Whit a bad thing this is lad am fair worried that weel a end up wi oor brains in oor boots, an nae buddy will bother wi us when we git oot o this thing."
He gradually became more irate and above the groans of the others in the boat he roared:
"Stop the burlin mon an let us a oot!"
"Dinae fash mon," retorted the operator, "yer time is up the noo."
With that the boat stopped rocking and we stumbled out of the door only to be pressed back by eager punters surging into the contraption.
"Make wi fur mee an the boy!" bellowed my grandfather, pushing savagely at the people in front -- the result being a proper log jam where no one could get in or out.
A large man in front of my grandfather turned round, anger etched in his wrinkled face.
"Stop pushin Jock Smith or al gie ye a right loonerin ye auld fool, ye will hae us a died wi nae breath in oor bodies."
His remark made my grandfather steam and he tried to grab the man, but at the moment of action the crowd suddenly rushed forward and we were swept out into the milling throng crowding the various sideshows.
Wiping his brow, my grandfather sorted his bunnet
. Then, taking me by the hand, led me towards the shooting gallery where three bulls meant you won a fruit bowl.
"Now lad," he said, "watch while a fire a few shots an tak the furst prize. A used tae be a crack shot when a wis a young un. 'Dead eye Jock' thae called me."
The attendant, a small Glaswegian with shifty eyes, took the coin offered by my grandfather, then handed him an air rifle with six darts.
"Cam along fowks," he shouted, "six shots a tanner, three bulls fir furst prize!"
My grandfather seized the rifle, broke it, inserted the dart, then aimed at the target. The rifle bucked and the attendant shuffled to the target.
"A miss, yer aimin awfy high ye ken!"
"Whit!" snapped my grandfather, "yer sichts are a wrang ye swindler. Look ye hae filed them a doon."
"Clear aff ye auld troublemaker or al git Mr Stringfellow tae sort ye oot!" retorted the attendant, sweat coming to his fore head.
"He disnae bide bad losers!"
At that my grandfather snapped the remaining darts into the rifle and fired into the stall, one shot hit a bottle above the attendants head and the other vanished into the night. By this time the illustrious Stringfellow arrived on hearing the commotion.
"Now the what's all this nonsense?" he queried. On seeing my grandfather he seemed to go the colour of chalk.
"He says that yon guns hiv had their sichts filed Mr Stringfellow, he says am a cheat!"
Stringfellow lifted up the gun and examined it.
"Mm... What Jock says is correct. Give him a bowl and have the sights replaced and set. That's all right by you, Jock?"
"Fine Stringfellow, yer a guid sport an keep an eye on yon attendant o yours."
As we walked away with the bowl my grandfather turned to me and, winking, said, "See lad, it pays to complain yon Glesca fowk are fly an sharp, an al cheat yi if yer weak."
I was always puzzled by the attitude of the Campbeltown people to the people of Glasgow, whom they considered as being untrustworthy and sly. Perhaps it all came from experiences with salesmen from the city, who thinking that the 'west folk' were a 'soft touch', used to cheat them. Another aspect of this paranoia was the fact that all Glaswegians were considered as drunks despite the fact that large quantities of whisky were consumed every day in Campbeltown -- resulting in many being under the weather by dusk. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!
On the subject of alcohol... There were many pubs cum watering-holes in the town, as the latter was divided into two areas, namely 'The Toon' and Dalintober. I will relate incidents that happened at two pubs, The Gluepot, and The Davaar, the former was in Lochend Street, and the latter was in North Shore Street; both in the Dalintober area.
One night in the late nineteen forties my uncle took me out for a walk and as we were on our way home he turned to me and said, "I feel a right thirst on me wee Donal, so lets drop in to the Gluepot. I will buy you a lemonade and if you stand right at the back the landlord won't mind, but don't mention this to your mother or father."
"But uncle," I protested, "I am under age. What if the polis should come in?"
"Dont fash boy," retorted my uncle as we reached the pub door, "The polis are awfy canny for they don't go in till late at night, and only then for a 'quick one', if ye see what I mean."
I did not see what he meant, but by that time we were inside and I was thrust to the back, hidden by the throng of sweaty bodies and thick tobacco smoke.
The Gluepot was well named. The very atmosphere was thick and turgid, sawdust crunched underfoot and spitoons rang as punters spat bogie roll into their depths. The lighting was no better than a dim glow from a tiny bulb supplemented by two gas jets on the wall. Faded adverts proclaiming various whiskies peered dimly through the haze and a notice about licensing hours could be made out -- if a magnifier was used.
The bar was a horseshoe shape with two or three pumps and behind this struggled the owner and his assistant to assuage the thirst of the punters. By the look on the landlord's face he had long ago given up hope of a satisfying life and mechanically doled out pints with grunts and groans, as if some great burden lay upon his mind. There was very little talking, as the business of 'drink' was serious and time was not to wasted in droll pleasantries.
As my uncle got to the front to be served the landlord saw me. Leaning across he hissed:
"Hear Erchie keep the yung un weel tae the back o the room as a dont want the polis rushin in an takin us tae Castle Hill."
"Dont worry man," replied my uncle, "all have a pint of McEwans and a gless o limonade for wee Donal an give the pint a kick."
The landlord rolled his eyes as if surveying in an instant all the punters. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose.
"Dae ye want some Buckfast or VC?"
"Och Buckfast is gran, give it a good douse."
The landlord whipped a bottle from under the bar and poured a liberal amount from a dark bottle into my uncle's pint.
My uncle came over and gave me the glass of lemonade.
"Dinae tell anybody about this Donal, yon wine fair gives the beer a kick." As he spoke he gulped down half the contents of his glass.
A disheveled man shuffled up to my uncle attired in a filthy old raincoat, torn gum boots and a badly soiled cap nesting on his head. His face was an unhealthy grey, unshaven, and when he opened his mouth a hideous stench wafted the air from his broken yellow teeth.
"Hae ye got the price o a half Erchie being we are related somewhat?"
My uncle winced, then spoke to the man.
"Weel Jim ye are a poor soul, aye al gie ye a half for auld times, here is a florin, awa tae the bar an have yer drink. Ye are a cousin o my step faither an a canae step past ye." The man snatched the coin and rushed to the bar where he downed the whisky in one gulp.
"See here Donal," said my uncle, "yon poor man has ruined his life wi drink, but what can you do."
The night, in the words of the Bard, 'drave on' and the one pint that my uncle initially came in for turned into five, plus liberal halves. Voices sang old refrains and the language became blue. The air thickened under the onslaught of tobacco smoke and, as the hour of closure neared, the pace of drinking increased and tempers became frayed.
I was becoming worried as I knew that my mother would be at 'high doh' (as she put it), wondering where I was and, if my grandfather got a sniff of an impending crisis, all hell would break out. But what could I do? My uncle was in no state to walk home himself if I left on my own. The man called Jim came to our aid, though he himself was well away.
The landlord bellowed above the hubbub, "Weel geentlemeen, ye best awa hame as it is time. Sae oot ye al go and good nicht tae ye a."
"Dinae worry Donal," said Jim, taking my uncle's arm and ushering us out into the street. "Weel see yer uncle back tae Woodland Place."
Off we set up the Broom Brae, then into High Street. People stared at the two men staggering about, followed by a small boy who wondered what reception they would receive at Woodland Place.
Up the stairs we ascended, into the lobby, but before my uncle could open the door it was flung open by my grandmother with a face grim to behold.
"Whit's the meaning o keepin Donal oot in the dark, ye said that ye wer ony goin fur a wak and that wis three hours ago, a had visions o ye lying at the bottom o the loch!"
Sheepishly my uncle mumbled about stopping for a drink at the Gluepot and time had gone past very quickly.
At the mention of 'Gluepot' my grandmother put her hand to her head.
"Michty me, ye dinae tak young Donal into yon den of iniquity, an whose this tramp ye hae brought in tae ma hoose?" She peered at Jim then recognition dawned.
"Weel its yer cousin Jim, a thocht it was yer stepfather's son for a meenite. Get ye awa hame to yer hoose Jim afore yer father sees ye in yon state, but thanks fur seein Erchie hame and young Donal a the same."
"Good nicht mistress Smith," mumbled Jim as he staggered out of the lobby and down the stairs.
When he had gone my grandmother pulled my uncle into the room and as I followed she sat down and stared at us.
"Look at the time ye poltroons, half past ten, a hope young Donal wisnae near drink?"
"I was granny. Uncle Archie got me a lemonade while he had a beer with wine in it!"
There was a pause. My grandmother's eyes widened in horror.
"Ye dolt Archie, you could go tae jail for taking 'fortified wine' and taking a young boy into see al that. Weel I maeself will nae say a word tae any body, so keep quiet. It is a god job that Jock is awa oot an Masie is awa tae the Church Guild. Think yersels awfy lucky."
The next tale was one my uncle told me about the McGinty sisters who ran the Davaar pub.
The sisters had strict rules concerning one's conduct when entering their establishment. An atmosphere of 'upper class' hung about the place -- marble tops everywhere, carpeted floors, neat prints on the walls and a series of draconian notices proclaiming the following rules: No Smoking, Talking Allowed Only In Whispers, No Whistling Or Singing, No Large Groups To Gather At Tables, No Politics, Dress To Be Collar And Tie, and finally No Cadging Drinks.
In this atmosphere it was very hard to enjoy a night at the local, as the hawk like eyes of the McGinty sisters were constantly scanning the cowering punters for signs of trouble.
One night my uncle, because it was raining, decided to go the Davaar. As he entered the place, water dripping from his mac, a stern voice snapped:
"Wipe your feet Mr Keith and hang your raincoat on the peg!"
Quickly my uncle obeyed, and went up to the bar. "A pint of heavy and a chaser!"
A cardinal sin in the first few minutes. The McGinty sisters seemed to puff up in anger like brooding hens.
"In this place Keith we serve only ales and select malts. We have McEwans, and various whiskies such as Highland Glen and Campbeltown Loch. Please state your preference."
Sheepishly my uncle asked for a measure of Campbeltown Loch and a pint of McEwans then took the drinks to a table, where sat a man he knew.
"Hallo Erchie. A terrible night. Drink up and I will get the next round in."
"Thanks Willie. How did the town council elections go yesterday?"
Willie looked apprehensively at one of the McGinty sisters who was staring in their direction.
"Keep your voice down Erchie. The sisters don't allow politics to be mentioned in the bar."
My uncle leaned forward and Willie whispered:
"Labour gained a few more seats, it will be in the Courier on Thursday. A few more elections and we might gain control!"
As he spoke one of the sisters went to the table nearest them on the pretext of clearing up empty glasses but really to listen to what the conversation was about. When she had returned to the bar, my uncle whispered to Willie:
"This is good news, we could do with a change of council. Keep the Red Flag flying eh?"
One of the sisters came up to them, a hard glint in her eyes. Her teeth gleamed between her slightly parted lips.
"What are you two talking about? A few words are allowed, but you must keep quiet. My sister and I believe that silence is a virtue!"
"Sorry Miss McGinty," apologised Willie, "I had not seen Erchie for a week or two. We were only commenting about the weather."
This seemed to satisfy Miss McGinty, who returned to the bar as another customer had come in. The new arrival was a man nicknamed 'Doshels', usually he was quite reasonably dressed but because of the weather he had forgotten to take his shoes with him and had turned up with his gumboots on.
The sisters eyes descended on the footwear. Their face seemed to blanche.
"Get out you tramp and dont come back again!" they snarled, hopping about with rage at the thought of the violation of dress code.
Poor Doshels spluttered in protest, but the decision was final and he slunk out the door as the other punters silently commiserated with him.
"We don't want ill dressed louts in here," smirked the sisters, "it lowers the tone of the place. Anyway there is too much drinking in Campbeltown. Where they get the money from, I dont know!"
A few days later my uncle had occasion to enter the portals of the Davaar to have a drink. As usual a grim silence hung over the place, with only a few punters quietly supping their ale fearful of making any noise to annoy the McGinty sisters. As my uncle took his seat the bar door swung open and in shuffled Fesak, resplendent in his torn mac and wearing worn plimsols on his bare feet.
His entry brought a startled gasp from the sisters. Only in their worst nightmares could such a being enter their bar. One of the sisters, her face red with anger, bore down on the hapless Fesak.
"Leave this bar at once you foul creature!" she shrieked, her fist clenched and rage welling in her face.
Fesak stared at her, his eyes watering. He gave a harsh cough and spat a dollop of mucus onto the floor.
"Gie us a drink dearie," he gasped, "I havna had a swallow since Jock gied me a gless o pook at seven o clock, an am fair parched."
"You will get no drink here!" screamed the sisters in unison, "We will phone for the police. They will have something to say about you trying to buy drink in this place. Get out at once!"
Fesak stood his ground, related my uncle, and the sisters grabbed hold of him in an attempt to drag him to the door.
"Git your hans of me ye old trollops or all chuck ye in the loch!" snarled Fesak, for once displaying a hidden savagery that caused the sisters to back off and slump against the bar defeated.
"What are we going to do?" they wailed, retreating to the other side of the bar.
"Gie the man a drink an he will gae awa tae his hoose like a lamb, fur if ye stir him he will be like a raging bear!"
The sisters gasped, then one of them drew a pint and shoved it towards Fesak.
"Whisky!" he snapped "Nane o yer beer, gie me a double malt, an if I lak it al hae anither, an fur all yer cheek al no be payin."
A stunned silence hung in the air, only the ticking of the wagata-wa clock could be heard above Fesak's heavy breathing. The punters kept their faces close to the table lest they burst out laughing.
"A double malt," croaked one of the sisters as she poured the drink. Fesak gulped it down
"Gie us anither ye auld crone," he drooled, " then al be awa hame tae ma hoose efter a hae been tae the cludgie."
He gulped the second whisky down then lurched towards the toilet. Unfortunately he did not quite make it and urinated on the floor, as the sisters howled in anguish. Cursing, he then lurched out into the street and stumbled home whistling some obscure Jacobite tune.
Well that incident somewhat tempered the regime of the MacGinty sisters for after that they allowed talking in whispers, quiet singing and politics provided that it was in support of the Tory Party. The only song that was allowed to be sung with gusto was the National Anthem.
The drinking of 'pook' had been going on in Campbeltown for ages. Pook was the raw spirit whisky tapped from the sieve -- at times it could be nearly one hundred per cent proof. It was smuggled out in the dark from the Scotia Distillery in High Street, right under the noses of the excise men.
My uncle told me that at one time one of the bonded warehouses of Scotia backed onto the yard of Woodland Place and that there were two windows very high up.
My grandfather, as usual, became in his young days involved with some friends who concocted a scheme whereby by giving a signal in the dark, one of the Scotia workers would open a window in the warehouse then lower a bucket of pook to the eager punters below. Payment was then placed in the bucket which was hauled back up. The bucket of pook was then taken to the wash house where it was consumed with relish.
The authorities must have known about this illegal drinking, but no action was ever taken against anyone. The effect of this powerful drink was to cause many a fight in the long years of distilling in Campbeltown.
My uncle, in the early fifties, found employment at Springbank Distillery, which was situated off Longrow. One of the traditions of working there entailed the issuing of a stiff drink prior to finishing work for the day. In some cases the drink issued by the employer was almost one hundred per cent proof, and as my uncle cycled home, the tradition caused problems.
I remember him wobbling across the Esplanade, cursing and singing and many times falling off. When he eventually arrived home he would be in a right lather and took quite a time to come to his senses. One day he was so befuddled that he started eating some sausages and, finding no salt on the table, went to the food cupboard and fetched what he took to be a packet of salt. He shook the contents over the sausages and proceeded to eat, muttering about the strange taste.
"Mither where did ye get yon sausages frae?" he spluttered, "They are awfy sweet, the dont taste like Kerr's sausages!"
My grandmother peered at the packet, then put her hand to her head.
"Ye daft gowk Erchie! Ye hae pit Semolina powder on the sausages. Nae wunner they hae tasted awfy sweet, ye hae made it intoa puddin."
My uncle steadfastly ate all the sausages then, leaning back, asked my grandmother:
"Whit are we havin fur puddin mither?"
"Ye hae jist had it Erchie. Meat an puddin a at once, whit a brainy man ye are."
My uncle grunted.
"Aye whit a good idea."
As he spoke he slumped into a deep sleep and with my help my grandmother helped him into an armchair near the fire, where he slept on.
"Wee Donal," she said, wiping her hands on her apron, "Let yon be a lesson tae ye. Keep awa frae drink at wurk, an dinae tak any if it is offered tae ye."
About a year or two after my grandfather (Jock) had passed away Woodland Place was deemed by the council as not being a fit abode to live in. The landlord, nicknamed 'Skart', was reluctant to carry out the required repairs and my grandmother was allocated a two bedroom house in John Street, looking out onto Kinloch Green.
The housing block had been finished at the start of the war, then seconded to the Navy who named it 'Nimrod'. It was the base for the ASDIC underwater detection school. When the Navy left, the block lay empty for a few years, then the council revamped the place into flats, and my grandmother was allocated number twenty-five.
What a strange place it was! The entrance hall was L-shaped; One leg running down into a lounge off which was a kitchen. At the other end of the hall were two bedrooms and a bathroom.
The great advantage of the place was that there was electric light, a gas cooker, and a fire with a back boiler. The disadvantages were that being on the ground floor the footfalls of the neighbours above sounded like zombies trudging about and people stared in from the road outside, giving the effect of a glass bowl.
Preparations to 'flit' to John Street went ahead and my grandmother and uncle packed items in tea chests and took up carpets. People shook their heads when they heard about the move.
"Whit took ye tae lea Wudland Place?" was the standard question, "wid ye no feel feart tae bide doon at yon park, fur the sea cams richt unner the grin, an ye could a be drooned in yer beds."
Another view was: "They say that if ye lea the hoose ye hae bided in fur a lang time, ye wull dee awfy soon. Its a good job pur Jock is unner the grin, or he wud hae deed awfy soon."
Eventually the flit took place and we settled down at John Street, with a nice view of the Loch and Bengullion.
One day as my uncle and I were walking along John Street a rather plump woman hailed us from an open window. My uncle muttered under his breath, "It is yon Nicholson woman. She could blether till the end of time. Keep walking!"
However, as our path led directly past her window we had to stop. Mrs Nicholson hung out of the window. In appearance she reminded me of an Italian woman: dark swept back hair, piercing eyes that seemed to probe your soul and a lined face bleached with the sun and teeth that had seen better days.
She held her plump arms in the akimbo position and on her fingers she displayed three gold rings.
"Fine day Erchie and wee Donal, hae ye been awa fur a walk?"
Before my uncle could reply she had fired another question.
"It is gran tae be living in John Street. They are rare hooses wae a kind o new contraptions tae gie a buddy an easy life. Whit does yer mither think o the coal hole in the hall? It saves a buddy an awfa lot heavin buckets o dross frae the back yerd. No that the stuff we get frae the Coal Ree is much good. A prefer Ayrshire coal. An just think ye hae a wee gerden at the front that ye can hoke tae yer herts content; a keep tellin hum inside tae keep hokin but he is always sleepin in his chair; anither thing tae, the drains are gran, whits yer cludgie like?"
My uncle tried to answer the first question, but the torrent flowed on.
"We like the hoose fine mistress Nicholson..."
Oblivious, she continued:
"Hae ye heard the latest aboot Dousan being fu oor the toon an causin a lot o noise near MacGrory's shop. He is an awfa man, mind you in his prime he wus noted for his memory, he could tak aboot anyduddy or anything ye ken. An whit dae ye think aboot Blun Jamie, he spotted a rare bird doon at the New Quay, near where O'Hara keeps his punts. Och they are rare boats indeed, a remember the time when a wis a lassie gaen oot wie a freen an we ended up at the Dhorlin."
At that point Mrs Nicholson was called back into the room as a garrulous voice shouted:
"Wuman where is ma tee! Stop bletherin tae a an sundry!"
"Quick!" gasped my uncle, "back to the hoose Donal or that wuman will be the death o us."
We hurried along and were thankful to get indoors. As we sat down my uncle put his hand onto my shoulder and said,
"Donal let that be a lesson tae ye. Never git merried tae a wumin, fur they will tak a night an a day, an ye will git nae sleep till yer deed in the grin!"
There is a legend about Bengullion, that mighty hill rising above the south side of Campbeltown. How it came about is unclear but the following is a rough guide to the events surrounding the Piper's Cave.
The cave lay well up on the north face of Bengullion, the entrance a cleft in the rocks near the summit and hidden by thick gorse and heather.
Long ago there was a piper who could play the most wonderful tunes on his instrument, almost like a pied piper. The lilt of the notes captured the soul of those who listened to him. Some people said he was a the only man to escape the Dunaverty massacre and, with his little dog, played for money to buy food.
Time drove on and the piper grew old and feeble, his hair white, his frame bent with age but his playing remained virile and strong. Strangely his dog kept his strength and followed his master bravely, warning him of approaching dangers.
Eventually the council decided that the piper was an eyesore to the town, with his ragged clothes and the constant wail of the pipes. They decided that he should put in the care of the parish and his dog drowned in the loch.
The piper must have had supernatural powers, for he sensed that the council was going to act against him. Gathering his few belongings, he headed up to the cave on Bengullion then turned to face the town far below. Taking up his pipes he blew the lament of Flodden. The notes beat down on the town and the council leaders were filled with remorse at their attitude to the piper.
Runners set off up the hill to bring the piper back down, but the lament grew weaker and then died in the stillness of the day. The piper could not be found nor his little dog. People searched into the cave, for one of his shoes were found, but that was all.
Sometime later near Southend a farmer out tending his sheep saw a little dog appear from an opening in some rocks. He noticed that the dog had lost most of its hair as if scraped off by rocks. As the farmer listened at the opening he heard far in the depths the wail of the pipes, haunting notes of Scotland's sad history. He took the dog home and cared for it and when it died he buried it near the opening where it had appeared to him many years before.
That is the legend of the Piper's Cave. Did the dog make it all the way to Southend, after his master had perished? Who can tell.
Yet when we used to go near the cave in the hot summer afternoons of the school holidays you could, if you listened carefully, hear in the depths the faint drone of the pipes mingling with the flitting insects and wonder if the piper was still striding in the dark with his pipes.
My father told me the following story, of a prank they played on an old couple, when they were in their teens.
Old John lived with his wife in a little house in Fisher's Row. They were retired and often slept late, sometimes until well into the morning. As 'boys will be boys' my father and his friends decided to give John and his wife an extended night, at the expense of a black piece of board.
Accordingly, one dark autumn night when the couple were fast asleep, my father and his friends, slipped into Fisher's Row and placed a piece of black board on old John's window.
They returned next day and listened at the couples door to what the occupants were saying. As the time was now about midday they could hear John's wife talking to him.
"John, is it no time tae get up? A feel as if it is a lang nicht, a can hear burds whistlin oot side an fowk takin?"
"Bide yer time wuman its only midnight, we hae eight oors tae sleep yet in oor bed."
"But a hear fowk in the street goin tae work an a boats siren goin its dinger in the loch."
A note of exasperation came into John's voice at his wife's questions. He got up and lit a candle.
"Al awa tae the window an look oot, an then wull ye believe me?"
He peered out but only saw an inky void.
"There ye are," he sighed, "it is as dark as the Earl of Hells Waiscote. We better get back tae oor beds an sleep."
My father and his friends were sniggering at the effect of their prank but the approach of a constable made them beat a hasty retreat. The constable plodded past the house but never gave a second glance at the blackboard on the window.
At about tea time my father returned to Fisher's Row and listened at John's door. The couple were still in bed and he could hear them talking.
"A ken not Mary, but we seem tae be sleepin for ages an a have a richt hunger. The clock says seevin in the morn, but it is still pitch black. A cana unnerstaun it a ta!"
"Wid ye nae be better tae gaun oot in the street an ask fowk whit time it is?"
There was a pause, then John said wearily:
"Are ye daft wuman, we hae a fine clock -- a German Waggata-wa. How can I go oot an ask fowk when they are a asleep in their beds? Git up an mak me a piece o breed an jam, them weel awa back tae bed."
As my father listened he could hear Mary moving about and he saw the glimmer of a candle through the door. A heavy hand gripped his shoulder and, alarmed, he turned to see constable MacLaren staring at him.
"Well! Up to no good Keith? Pestering old fowk. Get back home and I will see your mother about this hooliganism."
As he spoke he gave my father a wallop that sent him scurrying away. On his way home he met his friends and they decided to carry on listening at John's door.
About midnight John sprang from his bed cursing.
"Mary wheres ma troosers am goin oot tae see if its daylight."
My father's friends scattered as John appeared at the door to be confronted by the dark night. He peered into the gloom at the faint street lights.
"Michty me! Thur is something wrang wae the time am sure, the world must be a tae pot!"
As he spoke a man stumbled past, the worst of drink.
"Hey pal!" shouted John, "Whit day is this is it the morrow, or is it yesterday, or is it na any day?"
The drunk peered at him.
"A dina ken whit day it is pal, but a ken it is nicht a the time."
With that he staggered of into the night, leaving John scratching his head.
In the long night that followed the wind came to the couples rescue, blowing the black board from the window and when the true dawn filtered down they arose hungry, and went outside.
My father never told me the final outcome of their prank, only to relate that John was nicknamed there after 'John Miss-a-day'.
Copyright © 1998 Donald Keith.