"Please God, Which Side is Up?" is the memoir of an ordinary family man, who relates here snatches of his life from his invalid childhood in Scotland to training as a commando in the Royal Marines, to working as a journalist in Africa in the unsophisticated ‘50s and '60s; and latterly as a public relations specialist in South Africa - so that his grandchildren may know something about him and the life he has lived. It has not been an ordinary life... The author relates with sincerity - and sometimes disarming candour - his experiences and adventures as a boy dancing with the "ghosties" on Culloden Moor; serving with the elite 3 Commando Brigade in Malta; covering the chaotic, exciting and often comic events in Kenya during the Mau Mau Rebellion - or in Ian Smith's collapsing Rhodesia; and promoting the historic flight of a highly flammable hydrogen balloon over the mighty Drakensberg mountains in South Africa. This is a warm and whimsical story that will transport you to the countries and (frequently weird) situations that he encountered in his rich and interesting life. These memoirs reflect his inquisitive, often provocative, stance on life - its beauty and its people, as well as the idiocy of some of our world leaders and governments - all of it begging the rhetorical question: "Please God, which side is up?"
"Please God, Which Side is Up?" is the memoir of an ordinary family man, who relates here snatches of his life from his invalid childhood in Scotland to training as a commando in the Royal Marines, to working as a journalist in Africa in the unsophisticated ‘50s and '60s; and latterly as a public relations specialist in South Africa - so that his grandchildren may know something about him and the life he has lived. It has not been an ordinary life... The author relates with sincerity - and sometimes disarming candour - his experiences and adventures as a boy dancing with the "ghosties" on Culloden Moor; serving with the elite 3 Commando Brigade in Malta; covering the chaotic, exciting and often comic events in Kenya during the Mau Mau Rebellion - or in Ian Smith's collapsing Rhodesia; and promoting the historic flight of a highly flammable hydrogen balloon over the mighty Drakensberg mountains in South Africa. This is a warm and whimsical story that will transport you to the countries and (frequently weird) situations that he encountered in his rich and interesting life. These memoirs reflect his inquisitive, often provocative, stance on life - its beauty and its people, as well as the idiocy of some of our world leaders and governments - all of it begging the rhetorical question: "Please God, which side is up?"
"Please God, Which Side is Up?" is the memoir of an ordinary family man, who relates here snatches of his life from his invalid childhood in Scotland to training as a commando in the Royal Marines, to working as a journalist in Africa in the unsophisticated ‘50s and '60s; and latterly as a public relations specialist in South Africa - so that his grandchildren may know something about him and the life he has lived. It has not been an ordinary life... The author relates with sincerity - and sometimes disarming candour - his experiences and adventures as a boy dancing with the "ghosties" on Culloden Moor; serving with the elite 3 Commando Brigade in Malta; covering the chaotic, exciting and often comic events in Kenya during the Mau Mau Rebellion - or in Ian Smith's collapsing Rhodesia; and promoting the historic flight of a highly flammable hydrogen balloon over the mighty Drakensberg mountains in South Africa. This is a warm and whimsical story that will transport you to the countries and (frequently weird) situations that he encountered in his rich and interesting life. These memoirs reflect his inquisitive, often provocative, stance on life - its beauty and its people, as well as the idiocy of some of our world leaders and governments - all of it begging the rhetorical question: "Please God, which side is up?"
Born and bred in Scotland, William Harris is a retired
journalist who lives in Johannesburg, South Africa
with his second wife of more than 40 years. These memoirs were inspired by friends and family urging him to write down the experiences he sometimes recounted about his life as a child living in Scotland and later as a member of the elite 3 Commando Brigade, Royal Marines. The latter half of the book is devoted to his exciting, often frightening, experiences as a journalist in Kenya, the Belgian Congo, Rhodesia and South Africa.
Dedication
For Beth who gave me her life and made sense of mine and for my children and my grandchildren, many of whom dont know me. Too many grandfathers complain that the family isnt interested in their stories but, in my case, the fault is mine I wasnt there.
Copyright William Harris
The right of William Harris to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 184963 839 5
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2014) Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LB
Printed and bound in Great Britain
Chapter One
You hoped for nothing before you were born so why hope for so much when youre dying?
Look at what you got when you hoped for nothing
This is what I got
Please God, which Side is Up? is obviously a stupid question and a ridiculous title for a book or is it? I mean, you can answer it, cant you? If you were to shoot a rocket from the North Pole and then shoot another one at the South Pole which one would be going UP? A lot of life is just as inexplicable when you go back through the foggy forests of your memory. You can see the whole wood but the individual tree is difficult to remember unless you marked it in some way. Are the scars on the tree or do you carry them on yourself? My first memory is of sharing my worms with my buddy, a chap called Alex Seath. We were both about four years old at the time. I had dug up three beauties from the little midden at the back of our garden and I carefully sliced each of them in two with my mothers butter knife. I solemnly gave Alex half of each one and then my dad suddenly interrupted us by insisting: Worms are for fishing. It was too late, Alex had already eaten his. He said they werent very nice. Apart from not showing much promise as a
gourmet Ill take any bets that Alex still doesnt know which way is up any more than I do. But that grand enigma also presupposes for me at least the existence of God or The Force as Star Wars puts it so beautifully, and for that I am eternally grateful! Both of my mythical rockets are supposedly going UP, although in opposite directions, and they will obviously try to avoid colliding with the asteroids, satellites and all the other junk thats floating around up there but in order to get where? At the last count, there are close to nine billion human beings as directionless as the rockets. We have no idea what we have to do to get to what objective and theres an enormous amount of junk, mostly human, that we have to avoid. But its still worth debating over a glass of wine or ten while we enjoy life and share as much love as possible on this amazingly beautiful planet that somebody (or something) created
*****
Of Belts and Bootnecks
The rain was pelting down, drumming on the vaulted roof of Edinburghs Waverley railway station arcing high above as he stood silently on the platform regarding the empty train carriages lined up in front of him. The rain was also sliding in cold rivulets down his neck from the catchment area of his curly hair but he was not really aware of the discomfort. It was a truly driech and gloomy day but he was oblivious. He was too full of anticipation. He was about to head off into England, a foreign country, and join the Royal Marines, the elite British corps of crack troops that also incorporated the Commando Brigade, the men of the Green Beret. He wanted one of those berets.
His name was Billy and he was on the brink of a new life that promised real excitement and the challenge of a manhood he had previously doubted he would ever achieve. He was wearing a cream coloured raincoat darkly cream coloured because it was certainly no raincoat; it was sodden, having endured a full two minutes of a typically Scottish downpour for the last hundred yards of his ungainly dash to the station, laden with a suitcase bulging from the efforts of an overly concerned mother. His mother might well have been over enthusiastic in the packing but the raincoat was his own fault. He recalled the words of the salesman at Burton's tailors two years earlier: Well now laddie, its no exactly what you might call rain proof, if ye ken what I mean. More like resistant like. A gentle pause: But its verra smart and a bit like the one Humphrey Bogart wore in yon fillum where he was a detective. A highly effective sales pitch to a sixteen-year-old cadet journalist with a desperate need to improve his self image. The years between eleven and sixteen had been spent as an invalid, deprived of the exuberance and physical joy of developing youth. He had been totally demoralized which had created a deep hunger to at least appear normal; perhaps even give the impression of the hard-bitten, cynical, investigative journalist; the look would be enough he had thought at the time. Not that the military-style trench coat really did it for him but he had thought it did and that was a much needed comfort. Truly it was more mirage than image, as he was wont to reluctantly concede in the privacy of his bedroom and the unforgiving reality of the night. But on this wet and miserable Edinburgh day the world was beautiful, including the rain and his sopping military-style raincoat. Seven years earlier the world had not been beautiful, it had been terrifying
*****
The sun was shining brightly outside the classroom but none of the thirty children noticed it. The classroom was silent, waiting. All of the eleven-year-olds were sitting very still at their worn old desks; nobody moving, nobody making any noise except for Hamish at the back of the room softly scuffing his dusty shoes. There was no feeling of the child in this room; no giggling, no mocking, no squealing, no bright eyes, no child. It was uncanny in its unnatural stillness, a tableaux of nervous expectation. Nobody was looking at anyone else, or anywhere else, except at Miss Mabel Marshall whose eyes were slowly roving across the faces of the children in front of her. She also seemed to be waiting; waiting for the right moment to break the tension. It was close to the end of the class. The previous nights homework sat neatly piled at her left hand. Slowly and with great deliberation, Miss Marshall opened the right hand drawer of her desk and drew out the rolled up tawse, the heavy leather belt split at the end into two thick thongs roughly twelve centimetres in length. She placed it carefully on the desk. Margaret Leach in the front row started to weep silently, two tears spilling slowly down her cheeks. Miss Marshall ignored her and read out three names. Archie Brewer, Douglas Montgomery and Billy Harris come forward for punishment, she said in her high, thin voice. Your homework was sloppy, dirty and carelessly done despite my warnings. I have told you many, many times. If you dont listen, you must learn the hard way. Archie and Doug struggled out of the ungainly, joined seat and desk contraptions that enclosed them and moved reluctantly up to the front of the class. Billy watched them with blank eyes. His legs were rubbery and he wondered vaguely if he could stand. Billy, Miss Marshall said sharply. Come forward, now! He took a short, nervous gasp of breath and levered himself up with his hands, immediately conscious of the
tenderness in both his hands and his wrists from the two strokes of the tawse he had taken on each just the other day, wasnt it on Tuesday? Today was Thursday. And it had been going on for weeks, at least twice a week, for weeks and weeks. He could not remember how many. Archie and Doug, standing to his left, each took one stroke on either hand, doubled up in pain and crossed their arms, thrusting each hand under the opposite armpit, as everybody did to ease the pain, and went back to their seats. Billy was aware of them and could hear Doug stifling a sob, and then he was slowly raising his right hand at waist level in front of him and screwing his eyes tight shut so he wouldnt see it coming. It struck like a heavy, red hot thunderbolt and he yelled in agony, falling to one knee and beginning to sob. Miss Marshall stared at him and a curious wave of uneasiness touched her. Perhaps it was too much. The boy was falling apart in front of her. Clearly he would not be able to take the second stroke. You may return to your seat, she said stiffly. At once now! Billy stayed on one knee, unable to get up, sobbing and gasping great gulps of air. Miss Marshall looked at Martha McKinnon sitting wide eyed, staring at the crouching Billy. Martha, help him to his seat, Miss Marshall said sharply. When Martha had eased Billy back into his seat, he sat hunched over the desk, his right hand buried deep under his left armpit, holding it tightly in a vain effort to ease the burning. The bell ending the school day rang with shocking effect on all of them, including a tense and slightly uncertain Miss Marshall. There might be trouble here, she thought vaguely. But of course discipline had to be maintained particularly with unruly, slipshod boys such as these. Nevertheless, the boy had better pull himself together quickly before he was noticed by some other member of staff,
most of whom had really no idea what discipline was all about and might question his condition. She pulled her lips together firmly, gathered up the homework which she had already marked and did not need, and left the classroom ahead of the children. She had never done that before in their memory. Billy was the last out of the classroom, led by Martha who had a comforting arm around his shoulders. He turned away from the door to the playground where all the others were heading and moved straight ahead towards the empty gymnasium. Its OK Martha, he mumbled. Just leave me. He shrugged off her arm and stumbled on into the gym. Heather Biggar found him there half an hour later. Heather was in the B class, complementary to Billys. Both classes were preparing for the Qualifying Exams, the prelude to secondary school. The pupils had been split into two groups because there were too many for effective teaching in a single class. Heather was a strongly built girl with dark curly hair and she was Billys next door neighbour in King Street, part of the new housing development where they lived. She stood looking down at him as he sat silently on a wooden bench just inside the door of the gym. He didnt answer when she spoke to him. Billy, what are you doing here? She kneeled down beside him with her hand gently touching his arm. He slowly pulled his hand out from the safety of his armpit and held it out to her. Heavens, she said, staring at the red weals burning on his palm and running angrily up his wrist. Were going home now Billy, she said firmly. No more school today. She put her hands on his upper arms and lifted him up from the bench where he had been sitting quietly in a world of his own. He didnt look up at her. He just stood. He walked silently with her, saying not a word on the one mile walk to his home.
(Footnote: The tawse was very rarely used on children until they entered secondary school and even then it was used with caution and invariably only to curb bad or unruly behaviour. There were exceptions but they were rarely disciplined, either because they were not known by those in authority or a quiet word to the offending teacher was considered sufficient).
Chapter Two
Snowy the Invalid
Decades later, when Billy had achieved the relatively more mature title of Willie, he was often heard to comment, as he eased himself contentedly under the duvet in the darkening of an African night, Heavens, bed is beautiful. That was certainly not his opinion during those bleak days and months of enforced bed rest in Scotland following his defeat at the hands of the tawse. Dr David Marshall, cousin of the woman who had come so close to destroying him, was the family physician whose task it was to put the bits back together, physically at least. Dr Marshall was no psychiatrist and none was thought necessary. In the early days of his collapse, Billy was often asked: But why did she give ye the belt sae often, Billy? He had no idea and would simply shrug helplessly. I think maybe she didnae like me much. It emerged that Miss Marshall had one of her nephews in the same class as Billy. There was nothing wrong with Alan Marshall. Only thing was, he and Billy were constantly challenging each other. They were always pushing and shoving, making faces at each other, doing their alpha male bit and enjoying every minute and frequently disturbing the class but, curiously, it was never sufficient to bring out the much feared tawse. Billy was told he had chorea, a nervous condition marked by a murmur at the heart and it would take a long time to heal. Nobody said how long. Nobody told him what damage his heart had taken or what a murmur was. Nothing was ever explained. As an accompaniment to the bad heart, he had another condition called St Vitus Dance which was part of the nervous disorder. This led to a most curious, and repeated,
repositioning of his facial features in which he attempted to put his nose where it was not supposed to be. He watched himself doing it in the mirror and thought that his friend Archie Brewers description pretty much fitted: You look like Snowy (Archies pet rabbit) getting tucked into a piece of lettuce and not liking it much. It was indeed a curious circular motion of the nose done at phenomenal speed and difficult to copy although both Archie and Doug tried manfully and repeatedly without success. Archie and Doug visited him periodically, mostly on Sundays to avoid going to church. Alan Marshall wanted to visit but didnt know how. He told their classmates that he felt guilty. His aunt had done him no favours. Heather Biggar also came often to visit since she was living right next door and she felt protective although she didnt come on Sundays because she enjoyed church. She was a girl. And, just because she was a girl, Heather made him feel vaguely uneasy. He could not stop looking at her breasts and had no idea why he did it or why it gave him such pleasure, not to mention that curious but fabulous sensation in his groin! What an extraordinary cause and effect that was! Billy knew nothing of cause and effect at that stage in his life but he did know and enjoy the results. Unfortunately, Heather didnt come very often. She was a very busy girl fighting off the other boys who wanted to do more with her breasts than just look at them. But she was wise in the ways of women. She didnt tell Billy about the other boys because she instinctively knew it would upset him. Apart from those vague recollections, memory afforded him few details of that period in his life. It was a dreaming time, a soft time with no fear other than the unwelcome and baffling and constantly demoralising knowledge that he was an invalid. It was a lonely time of hours spent sleeping or reading comics were great but that was all about boys becoming men, athletes who stood apart from the ubiquitous studious weed, which appeared to be his probable fate.
A time of much fussing and tearful care from a deeply distressed mother. A time of comics and toys from a grimly cheerful father who did not know what to say but said it anyway with a clumsy pat on the shoulder. A time of bright, multi-coloured flames dancing in the small fireplace in the shadowed bedroom. He could stare into the fire for hours and dream his dreams which offered immense and wonderful opportunities for escape and try unsuccessfully to accept the implications of the word invalid. Sure, he was tired. And sure, he didnt have much energy. But he felt OK! There was nothing wrong with his legs or his arms. Maybe his heartbeat was funny sometimes; maybe he did sweat occasionally when there was nothing to sweat about. So what? He wasnt a cripple or anything. Frustration lived inside him. He could feel it often, quietly chewing away in his belly. Two months later, or was it three, he was allowed out of bed. This was a major breakthrough. He was supposed to rest for a couple of hours in the afternoon but despite everything his mother could do, this was not an acceptable option. He fought it on a daily basis and eventually his mother conceded defeat. She never really won a battle after that but she never gave up trying and, in his memory, he blessed her for it. But the breakthrough as Billy saw it, came when Dr Marshall strongly recommended a drastic change of treatment which devastated his mother and gave him a queasy mixed feeling of both unease and excitement. He was to go off and recuperate, and he was to do it somewhere else! Not at home! He was to spend a few weeks with his uncle and aunt and two cousins in the wee post office at Croy in Invernesshire on the fringes of the bleak and haunted Culloden Moor, and he was to do it on his own! This complete break, resolutely recommended by the devoted Dr Marshall who was still making amends for his cousins infamy, was probably as much for Billys harassed
mothers sake as his own, although it did not give her the peace of mind that it eventually gave him.
Please God, I hope youve given Dr Marshall the traditional room with a view up there cause he did a grand job. He got me fit for the doctors at Edinburgh General and a whole new future.
Chapter Three
The Ghosties on the Moor
The wind that flickered in gusts across the sodden moor carried with it what the locals called the sma rain, a million tiny droplets that left a cold but gentle caress on the boys cheeks as he stood with his hands thrust into his coat pockets sharing himself with the elements. The black and grey clouds swirled above him threatening a downpour but holding back as is often the way of it in the Highlands. The windblown clouds stretched away in slow, waltzing sweeps to the horizon beyond the big stone cairn. The horizon was as bleak and stark as the cairn, the famous memorial to the bloody defeat of the clansmen at the hands of the English and not a few Scots who did not support the Jacobite rebellion and were not in favour of the Frenchified Stuart family. Billy stood in front of the cairn hearing the angry shouts of the grimy, straggle-haired clansmen as they tore steel from scabbard and began the bloody charge against the ranks of the Hanoverian muskets lined up below them on the gentle slope. A little later, as he slowly walked the moor checking the marker stones naming the clans in memory of the men and boys who fell there, marking the tufts of rough moor grass with their blindly passionate blood, he felt strangely at peace with those long dead and with himself. The Highlands had a unique and mystic presence and he had long become immersed in it, seduced by it, accepting it as part of himself over the many years the family had been coming back to where his parents had been born, his father in Inverness and his mother in Elgin. This particular day, with the small rain and the slow moving dark clouds so close above him, suited his mood and was a perfect setting for the moor and its memories. And he
was quite alone. All the tourist buses had gone. There were no stragglers. He could hug the imaginings to himself. And he was increasingly, nervously, getting the feeling that he was not truly alone. He was very much aware of a shivery sensation all over his chest and his back and up into his neck as he watched the misty swirls gathering around him, dancing a slow reel in the whispering gusts of wind. There were often as many as a dozen at any one time, suddenly appearing to his left or his right or directly in front of him as though created out of the mist. They would appear and turn in slow graceful spins towards him and then dissolve as if they never existed. He could hear their faint, moaning song and the distant music of the pipes. He walked on, his pace slowed by the tufted grass and the growing feeling that he was the centrepiece in a ghostly dance of the spirits of the moor who were trying to tell him something. He did not feel threatened but he did feel distinctly uneasy and his skin was alive with a most uncomfortable tingling. He lengthened his stride a bit as he neared the edge of the woods and suddenly it was over. He was quite simply a boy standing on the edge of a moor on a wet and cloudy day. The people of the moor had gone but he knew they would be here at Culloden forever. He felt strangely at peace with himself. It was one of his last days of recuperation at Croy and it was now time to go home and back to school. He would think about that last scary part when he absolutely had to. For the moment there was the peace and the marvellous feeling of belonging that he felt for this lonely place. He had been up here, alone on the moor, half a dozen times and it had always been a bit spooky but never like the last half hour of sharing with the dead what he would forever afterwards call the dance. He stopped and looked about him, absorbing the gentle rain, the sweeping clouds, the dull, heavy feel of the air around him. His weird spooky experience with the ghosts of the brave men who had died on this lonely moor had touched him deeply. He was convinced they had been saying good bye and he was also sure he understood their message was one of
encouragement. They were telling him that he was of Highland blood as they were and so he could be no less brave, he would have to dominate his fear in the future the courage would come from somewhere Some miles later, as he came to the edge of the strip of pine trees leading to the post office, he stopped and looked around the rolling, grassy hills that surrounded the village. He had walked most of them during the past three months and he would remember them with deep affection and a powerful affinity for the remainder of his life. He smiled, wiping away the sma rain from his wet face as he remembered his arrival
* * * * *
Billy and his parents had been coming up North to spend their annual two-week holiday with the rest of the family, uncles, aunts and numerous cousins, since Billy could remember. And every year, without fail, his mother would make the same comment as the train was coming into the station at Inverness: Oh, just smell that air. Its real Highland air. Its just grand isnt it? And it was. It was different from the harsh, salt tang of the air coming cold off the North Sea in Kirkcaldy, the coastal town in Fifeshire where they lived. And also very different because the town was famous for its manufacture of linoleum, the material used to cover the floors in most Scottish homes, and it stank to high heaven in the production process. Up in the Highlands you could smell the pine trees wherever you went and, if you had Billys mothers imagination, a lot more grand, if unidentifiable, scents besides. His mother, Muriel, was a stout, smiling woman with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes. In her early forties she was the picture of a motherly woman, a role which fitted her most comfortably. She was also an opera singer of considerable talent having sung solo under the baton of Sir Malcolm Sargent before her marriage.
Consequently, she could carry herself with a genuinely imperious air which could be quite intimidating when she used it which was quite often. It did not, of course, intimidate his father, William (Snr) a dapper man of some five feet seven inches if you included his socks. Known as Bill there is a certain insane logic surrounding the name William he was a senior teller in the Bank of Scotland, a quiet man of fine manners, easy going and sensitive to Muriels increasingly frequent nerves brought on by the onset of menopause and now exacerbated by Billys heart condition. Bill had a long tether but, when he was at the end of it, for whatever reason, he was a sight to behold. His cheeks would flush and his eyes would bulge like steel grey ball bearings threatening to blow out of their sockets and tear your head apart. It was therefore no surprise to people who had seen him lose it when they were informed that he had been a twenty- year-old sergeant in the Gordon Highlanders during the last, frightful year of the First World War. Inevitably, his favourite quote to Billy who was also on the small side, was: Its not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog. It was always said firmly and with the absolute conviction of having been personally put to the test many times. It was also, inevitably, an axiom that Billy would always thereafter call to mind for courage and reassurance on perhaps too many challenging occasions in his own life.
* * * * *
The Croy Post Office was a big, sprawling white-painted house with a recently painted black roof, built of pine and standing like a large, emphatic full stop at the end of a long, thick stretch of the trees that had been used to make it. It was the only building on that road for close on a mile; to the left of the house and beyond it were fields of pasture dotted with
dozens of slow-moving brown and white Ayrshire cattle. On a hill in the distance, about a mile away, was the dairy farm. To the left of the house, way down at the end of the dusty road they had just driven up, was the crossroads and if you turned left you would end up in Inverness. If you turned right you would be in the House of The Lord which stood there in silent black aggression, right on the crossroads, in order to catch sinners from whichever direction. The Williamson family, of which Billy was about to become an integral part, would turn right into His House three times every Sunday for the next three months but Billy, blessedly, was in ignorance of that inescapable duty on this, the first day of arrival. The church was a raw and naked stone-built structure entirely lacking in beauty or grace either outside or inside but it was home to the Wee Free Kirk, one of many memorials to a hard God and his equally unforgiving disciple John Calvin. In days to come Billy would recount how he had tried so very hard to meet God by visiting His House three times on the Sabbath, every Sabbath for all of three months and that was a matter of six miles walking on each pilgrimage day! That, Billy would point out, meant he had walked near a hundred miles to see God. Despite that incredible effort, Billy would say with a deep sigh, An I never did meet Him! Now would ye be believing such a thing? The sun was hot and bright as they got out of the car. Billy took a last look to his right and followed the white, pebbly road for a mile or more as it disappeared round a bend, swamped on both sides by far-reaching pine forests that stretched right up into the distant hills beyond. There was a simple, three-stranded wire fence surrounding the house which Billy knew was right and proper for any self respecting village post office in the Highlands of Scotland. A stout wooden gate with a latch separated the property from the road. It was now being opened by a tall, slimly built boy of fifteen with dark glossy hair and a face like an eagle, Billys cousin, Hugh.
Standing on the grass behind the fence and shyly drawing lines and circles with her right shoe in the stony path leading up to the house, was his other cousin, Jessmar. Two years younger than her brother and, amazingly, crowned with thick fair almost blonde hair, Jessmar was a pretty young girl, the same sharpness of nose softened by red, freckled cheeks, her slender body showing a delicate promise above the waist as Billy duly noted. Beyond Jessmar, and coming quickly down the path was his Aunt Jen, fair of complexion like her daughter but grey- haired before her time. She was a sturdily built woman and small like his Dad, with a strong angular face and a generous smiling mouth. She was to become one of the loves of Billys life which was immediately entrenched by the strong hug she gave him before even greeting his parents. No fussing, no kissing, just a powerful grip that told him he belonged. Last to come down the path was a figure that made Billys eyes widen. He was a giant of a man with huge shoulders and a broad deep chest who stood at least a foot above his Dad. Billy cricked his neck looking up at the man whose granite face split into a warm smile that was totally dominated by his massive, hooked nose. This was the true golden eagle of the high Scottish hills and the bleak moors that had sired Hugh. He did not bow down like most large adults do to small boys but he bent a little at the knees and stretched out a huge hand to Billy who watched his own hand disappear into a mass of bone and muscle. There was no squeeze and no pressure, just an encompassing warmth which Billy found immensely reassuring. This is your Uncle Alec, Billy, his Dad said with his own right hand hanging oddly at his side, taking the gentle air obviously Uncle Alec was not as kind to other men as he was to small boys. They had tea and scones with real farm butter and fresh strawberries heaven had arrived and then Billys cousins were sent off to show him his bedroom, the rest of the house and, inevitably, to explore the woods which came right up to
one side of the house where his room was and right round the back where the chickens were. Real live, noisy chickens with fluffy yellow chicks that would eat out of your hand. Old hat to his cousins maybe but immensely exciting for Billy the townie who was also amazed and impressed by the constant cooing and coughing of the wood pigeons that seemed to fill the wood. The sound of the pigeons and the smell of the pines became part of his life, not only for the three months he shared with them but for all of the years ahead. The house captivated him. It creaked all the time. The walls were built of pine, the roof was built of pine, and the floors the same. Every step you took, the house talked to you. Later that night, sleepless and still excited, he found that the house continued to talk, if only to itself. It was just a bit scary at first but he got used to it and often in the many lonely nights to come, he would have conversations with the house when the paraffin lamps had been extinguished and the night was silent. Every night, as he huddled under the blankets, he would have the joy of listening, fascinated, to the night sounds of the woods just outside his window; the pines whispering in the wind, the soft hooting of the owls, the mysterious scrapings and scrabblings, the eerie cries and squeals that stirred his imagination. But his chats with the house were just as satisfying, particularly on Sunday nights after the repeated pilgrimages to The House of The Lord. On those nights Billy would find himself talking to his God and exchanging points of view: Ye ken that man, the one with the tuning fork that he bangs on the pew to get the right sound and then starts to sing, to get everybody on the right note? Well hes no very good is he? He canna really sing can he? I mean it sounds right terrible and him aways so pleased with himself. And God would creakily agree and wait patiently for the next one: They say they willna have an organ cause its the instrument of the devil but thats daft is it not? And God
would grin from the knotty pine ceiling and give him a couple of quick cracks of agreement.
* * * * *
In the first week after his parents said their tearful (Mum) and clumsy (Dad) goodbyes, Billy was introduced to Mr and Mrs McLeod who ran the dairy farm up on the hill. It was to be his daily chore to fetch the fresh milk in a steel milk can that had a fitted lid so the milk wouldnt spill. It was only a couple of pints so it was not too heavy and Aunt Jen thought he was up to it which pleased him mightily. And it was probably the real beginning of recovery for Billy. That two-mile hike up the hill to the farm and back, changing hands every now and again, charging the unimpressed cows on the way up, not with the precious milk built up his bed-floppy muscles and gave his bored heart something worthwhile to do. Within the month Billy was walking the hills with a thick sandwich in his pocket and a light, untroubled step. Ten miles in the day, across the tough grassed moors, through the crackling bracken and across the sparkling streams, tawny from their sand and pebbled beds; life was under his feet and in his heart. But this joyful freedom of movement and action, this incredible release from the prison of physical restriction was hard won and not only by Billy but also by his Uncle Alec who sacrificed one day and a great deal of sweat to carve the beauty of the Highlands forever in Billys heart
* * * * *
Alex pumped up the tyres on the red post office bike and wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve. It was going to be a long, long day and he was under no illusions about just how tough a ride was ahead of him as he looked at the wee boy standing with his legs straddling the front wheel and his hands steadying the handlebars. He and Jen had decided that wee Billy must be bored half to death with nothing to do all day,
reading books or wandering alone in the woods. His two cousins bussed to school in Inverness every day and did not come back until the early evening. Truth be told Billy was quite happy hunting Red Indians in the woods or away in his own imagination with the books but they didnt know that so the trip on the bike had been organised by a determined aunt and a reluctant uncle. Alec unscrewed the pump connection and stood up, stretching his back to relieve a touch of cramping. Well now, I think theres plenty of air in those tyres right enough so lets be off laddie. He swung his right leg over the bike and steadied it with his backside on the saddle, lifting Billy up into the front, wide steel pannier which Jen had padded with a couple of good cushions from the settee in the lounge. Billy perched in the pannier with his legs dangling over the front, one of the cushions protecting his thighs from the unyielding steel bar as he gripped the sidebars with his hands. Alec assessed the weight, swinging the bike just so from right to left and said Holy Jesus under his breath. He had not used such words since his days of horror on the Somme battlefield but he shook off his feeling of guilt at the blasphemy by vowing atonement. He was to make that atonement on the hot, dry and dusty hills of his posties round during that never to be forgotten ride with the uncomfortable, red faced Billy wriggling in front of him. It was a total of about ten miles with only three important parcels and one telegram to deliver to croft style smallholdings existing in a telephone free, country tranquility; but it was ten hard, uncomfortable miles they would both remember. There is a feeling of silence that is not a silence in the pine-bedecked hills of northern Scotland. The sandy, gritty roads, not much more than paths really, scrabble under the slow moving tyres and you can hear birds, most of them pigeons, making critical comments to each other as they watch your slow, and painful progress up the hill.
Down in the valley you can see the cows having a good time doing nothing and way across the hills you can see a half dozen foresters harvesting the trees. You can faintly hear the sound of the power saws in the stillness of the warm air under the dominant sun. Its a beautiful Highland day. A grand day for being a cow, not a postman. And certainly not a postman on a bike bearing a squirming eleven-year-old boy in the front pannier. A sparkling stream of clear water meandered through the hills and they crossed it three times in their odyssey. Each time Alec stopped on the hump backed bridge for a breather and to consider his beloved trout. They were small, about a pound was reckoned a good fish, but there were plenty of them. You could see them clearly in the bright water which tasted so sweet and fresh they both scooped eager handfuls of it at each sweating stop. Kneeling together on the green banks of the stream was the kind of bonding ceremonial that stays in the mind. Billy would remember it and the taste of the crystal water for the rest of his life. Alec probably did too.
Please God Have you conferred a sainthood on Uncle Alec yet? Not that he would want it mind you. Im sure hes still a stubborn Wee Free man so maybe just give him a couple of difficult trout to stalk every day and make them two pounders. Hes never as good as my Grandpa Bill a rose by whatever name? but hell get them no matter how long it takes. And he has all the time in the world has he not?
Chapter Four
A Fond Farewell
Goodbyes were ever miserable occasions and this one was no exception as the five of them sat around the kitchen table drinking tea. Alec monosyllabic and young Hugh no better (although when he went to university he found his tongue right enough and particularly with the girls so, not surprisingly, he failed first year but gained a reputation to rival Lothario himself as Billy found out many years later). Billy tried to put in his share of words but he had never been a great talker and the three months he had spent roaming the woods and moors alone in all kinds of weather had opened his heart but failed to loosen his tongue. It was the women, as always, who kept the talk going, inconsequential perhaps but maintaining a level of warm affection that the three males understood and appreciated as being the way of it. Jessmar, who had come to love Billy as her own brother, had a sparkle in the eye and a determination to be frivolous. Aunt Jenny occupied herself making sandwiches for Billys trip home to Kirkcaldy, accompanied by light and teasing observations such as Well, yell no be having to get the milk from the McLeods on this Saturday will ye Billy? Which remark produced a chuckle all round the table and a flush to Billys cheeks. It was a reminder of one of his early Saturdays when the vast welcoming expanse of the moors had led to a Wandering Willie and a forgetting of his duty to fetch the milk, which in turn led to no milk for the tea or the porridge or whatever the following Sunday it being the Sabbath no member of a Wee Free Kirk congregation would dream of making such an ungodly trip! The goodbyes were a mixture of the tearful and the cheerful with Aunty Jen managing to maintain a stiff upper lip (something the Scots mastered centuries before the English