The Cat Glutton

At the festive season, especially at New Year, home made ginger wine was a great refreshment; made with boiled water and sugar, to which was added Co-op essence. The resultant beverage was hot beyond description. The stinging tang as it entered your gullet brought tears to your eyes, your gums seemed to be on fire, your teeth darkened with the reaction, so that to bring relief after a few glasses one had to resort to numerous glasses of water.

My uncle prided himself in the preparation of the wine. Only the finest essence was used, and the best sugar. It was one year's end when he prepared the mixture, ending up with a jelly pan of cooling ginger wine.

"Al lea that the nicht tae cool." he said, placing the basin under the kitchen table, unaware that the cat was peering from the dark recess of the hole-in-the-wall, its staring eyes fixed on the hot liquid.

"That wull be a rare drap o ginger wine," mused my grandfather, "a remember when a wis a wee laddie sweeging a cupfa wan Hogmanay, it nearl blew ma heid aff, aye wee Donal as lang as ye keep tae the ginger ye wull be a richt, its when ye git a taste o John Barley Corn that the deevil gits had o ye, aye whusky is the ruin o Glesca foulk,us heilanders ur mair refined in our drink."

He made the pronouncement with the air of some grandee looking out on a field of peasants toiling in the vineyards. My grandmother put down her knitting.

"Och Jock, ye ur aways oan aboot Glesca foulk drinking, thur is mair pook an whusky dooned in thus toon, than in a o Glesca, sae keep a guid word fur foulk frae the city, remember Donals faither wis born in Govan!"

My grandfather yawned.

"Aye al gie ye that, but a dinna trust drunk Glaswegians they dinna know how tae behave when they are drunk!" He looked at the clock, "Ony way its time we wur awa tae bed an that mans wee Donal an Erchie as weel."

Safely tucked up in bed, I drifted off to sleep to the snores of my grandfather and my uncle. The morning came and I arose to find my grandmother busy making the breakfast. Eggs sizzled on the pan, with sliced sausage and bacon. My grandfather was shaving at the sink. Uncle Archie strode in and peered under the table.

"Al jist check on the ginger wine it wull..."

He stopped mid sentence.

"Michty me!" he cried "The jeely pan in nearly empty, some buddy haes drank it in the nicht, wha wis it?"

My grandfather brushed him aside.

"Jings yer richt its nearly a drunk, whit glutton haes done this?"

He turned to me.

"It wisna ye wee Donal, wis it, dinna be feart tae own up?"

"No," I replied, "I could not drink all that wine."

There was a silence followed by my grandmother inspecting the pan.

"Maybe you drank it Jock, being ye telt us that ye wance swigged a cup o wine when ye wur young," she laughed, "here look at the paw marks oan the flair, whoots that unner the settee?"

My uncle and grandfather pulled the settee away from the wall and there lay the cat, its belly grossly swollen. The cat snored fiercely!

"There yer drinker!" she exclaimed, "it wis the cat, the sweet essence must have attracted it an it drank the loat with oot stoppin."

My grandfather seethed.

"Whit a waste o wine, the greedy cat, av a guid mind tae sling it aff Dalintober Pier, whur it can drink the loch dry!"

My grandmother smiled.

"Weel Erchie that wull teach ye tae mak wine withoot coverin the pan ower sae nae animal can creep up in the nicht an sweeg the loat!"

Every New Year after that, when ginger wine was mentioned, the tale of the 'cat glutton' was retold giving great pleasure to all who heard it -- as to the feline who swallowed all the essence, there was no lasting ill effects!

Christmas Spirit

As you will gather I was an infrequent attendee at the Highland Parish Sunday School -- the grim ritual put me off religion for many a year. The way the Bible was taught by rote became an endurance test and even though my mother dragged me to the Sunday School I used to find ways for not attending -- which included playing truant. The following story concerns a Christmas Party that I went to. It must have been about the year 1948 for that was the Christmas I received a copy of the Enid Blyton book Five Go Adventuring Again.

The Christmas Party was held in the Kirk Street Hall. At that time it was lit by a combination of electricity and gas and the effect was to give the hall a Victorian atmosphere.

Within the hall there were little side rooms -- musty, damp, some stacked with mouldering texts and other religious books. On the walls hung faded prints of past dignitaries of the Highland Parish Church including an oil of a minister from the eighteenth century. I remember the grim look on his face, he always reminded me of some South American dictator! There were also various texts -- one prominent one with the motto 'The labourer is worthy of his hire'. Sadly the text hung under a faded oil entitled 'The Slave Market in New Orleans 1830'! In one of the rooms lay an old organ, thick with dust, and some of the Sunday School pupils itched to play it. The main part of the hall had partitions that swung on rails, thus enabling the space to be divided up for privacy but when I arrived at the hall for the Christmas Party the partitions had been pushed back.

My mother thrust me into the dim lit doorway where the superintendent hovered to greet each new arrival.

"Weel Mustress Keith," he grated, eyeing me suspiciously, his memory bank thinking of the 'Tar Incident'.

"Ye hae brung wee Donal tae the party, he should hae a gran time playin games wey a the boys and lasses and hain a gran feed efter; the party wull feenish aboot nine o clock, sae ye should collect hum then".

My mother pushed me into the hall, where other boys and girls milled about in awkward silence.

"Noo Donal," said my mother, "hae a guid time and dina be kissin oany lasses, an al pick ye up at nine."

She laughed as she spoke, noticing my shyness at the mention of kissing girls.

"Dina wurry I wis only jokin, ye ur oor young fur that kind o thing".

Eventually the hall was nearly full of party people. The superintendent strode in and clapped his hands whilst the Sunday School teachers lined up beside him. They were two men and three women who seemed ancient to our young eyes. One of the women in particular seemed ready for departing this world at any moment!

"Noo wains!" bellowed the super, "Welcome tae the Highland Parish Sunday School Christmas Party, we wull hae some sangs first frae Miss Wilson accompanied by muster McPhee oan the piano, then some games, then ye can hae yer tea. Efter that the minister wull lead us in prayers an then the presents wull be gein oot by Santa, sae a wull hand ye oor tae Miss Wilson".

An inward groan came from our lips as Miss Wilson took her place at the piano side and Mister McPhee flexed his fingers. Miss Wilson seemed to be about a hundred years old, dressed in a black gown that stretched to the floor. Round her neck hung a string of yellowing pearls, her hair was drawn back in a tight bun complemented by severe round lensed glasses. The pianist wore a dark suit and a waistcoat from which hung a gold hunter chain. His face bore the expression of someone who had actually seen what hell was like, and his eyes were hard and cold under the dim light of the hall.

Miss Wilson raised her hand.

"We will commence with, 'Ae Fond Kiss', followed by 'Come Into The Garden Maud', then 'I Wandered Through Marble Halls', finshing with the lament 'Ye Heilans and Ye Lowlands'."

Most of us had never heard of the songs and as the piano burst into life we started sniggering. Miss Wilson's voice shrieked into the upper register. One boy whispered,

"Fancy kissin Miss Wulson, it wid be lak pittin a gooseburry in yer mooth!"

Boys clutched their sides to suppress laughter.

One little girl sniggered, "Yon dress Muss Wulson is weerin cam oot o the museum."

As we wriggled about the concert ground on and finally the lament was reached. What a dirge! -- more like a funeral march. The bonny Earl of Murray, who was murdered, was in fact the lover of the wife of King James The First. His assassian The Marquis of Huntly was in the pay of the king. When the song ended to a half hearted round of applause we all felt the any Christmas Spirit we had had been severely diluted.

The super moved into the centre of the hall.

"Noo boys and girls efter that fine bit o singin an playin we wull hae some games starting wie pass the parcel, when the music stops, the wan hadin the parcel is oot."

The game progressed and I was soon 'out'.

"Ye hae nae coordination wee Donal" hissed the super as he shoved me back into a seat at the side of the hall.

The next game was the old favourite 'hide and seek'. One little girl was blindfolded then we all hid. The object was that the first person detected took her place. Off we sped to our various lairs and I found myself in one of the side rooms, in fact the one where the old organ lay. I noticed that there was a space under the machine and managed to squeeze in. As I crouched in my den I could hear people whispering in the next room from their hides. People were getting detected and taking the place of the original girl. Now the space inside the organ was very warm and I began to feel drowsy. Suddenly I felt my neck jerk. I could hear voices in the distance, clattering and laughing. I dragged myself from my hiding place and made my way to the hall.

In true 'Rip Van Winkle' style I walked in. Everyone was finishing of the cakes and jellies, the superintendent whirled round.

"Keith where have you been, the meal is over; we have even had people looking in the streets for ye, we feared the wurst, even the minister hus been doon at the peir in case ye went oor the side?"

I was concious of a thousand eyes upon me, some of the boys were sniggering at my discomfort.

"I fell asleep in the organ sir!" I blurted out as the super's face turned blue, then red.

"Whit?" he roared, "the auld organ in the back room?"

There was a pause.

"Yes Sir" I meekly replied.

"You dope!" snapped the super, "you could hae perished in that thing an yer banes fan years later, oany wey there us nae cakes left sae ye wull hae tae mak dae wie jeely an breed an when yer mother cams fur ye a wull tell hur o yer bad behaviour."

There I sat, forlorn, supping thin jelly and bread as the minister arrived to take the next part of the 'entertainment'.

"Let us all pray," he said.

"Thank you Lord for all that we have received and remember the hungry Hottentot in his hut, the Chinaman in his shack, or the poor of this town in their humble rooms; even the poorest man in his hovel can rejoice that he is saved even though he is hungry. Thank you for our leaders who watch over us".

He finished then, raising his hands said,

"We will finish with the carol, 'While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night, followed by 'Lead Kindly Light Amid The Encircling Gloom'."

When the prayers and singing were over the super stepped forward. He waved his hands and a figure clad as Santa lumbered forward with a sack of presents.

"Boys and girls," rumbled Santa, "get in line and you wull each be gein a present"

We all dutifully obeyed. As a flimsy parcel was thrust into my hand Santa grudgingly muttered "Happy Christmas boy". I tore off the wrapping to find an exercise book and a pencil and rubber. I was lucky -- one little boy received only a pencil and he started to cry with disappointment, receiving a clip on the ear for his troubles from the super.

Then the Christmas Party was at an end. My mother arrived at the door.

"Huv ye had a guid time wee Donal?" she asked, "I hope ye huv behaved yersel?"

As she spoke the super came over.

"Mustress Keith, wee Donal got loast in wan o the rooms an we thocht he had wannered doon tae the pier an fell oor; even the menister wis oot lookin fur hum, but he turned up but missed hus tea".

My mother glared at me.

"I am black affronted wie ye, first it wis fain intae tar at the slip, then drappin intae a hole at Southend; can awa hame the noo".

She turned to the super.

"Am richt sorry whit hus heppened al gie hum a richt lunnerin when I get hame an when Jock hears whit hus heppened he wull hae something tae say!".

With that and clutching my exercise book and pencil I was hurried home to Davaar Avenue.

Thus ended my first Christmas Party at the Kirk Street Hall. When my grandfather heard what had happened he was incensed.

"Dinna wurry son," he said soothingly, "oany wee boy could hae been loast in hide an seek, why legend hus it that a man up at Tangy went intae hiding during a game when he wus a wee boy an he turned up twenty years later a grown man!"

I went to a few more Sunday School Christmas Parties, but all ended with the feeling that religion was being forced upon those who attended. To me it seemed that if a more relaxed attitude had been adopted to the children, then many would have continued on to become members of the Kirk and averted the present day crisis when the national church is declining in the face of a rampant secular society.

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!

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.

Copyright © 1999 Donald Keith.