Across the Bridge

by Robert Grieve Black

  Across the Bridge

  By Robert Grieve Black

  1. BACK HOME

  May 1945

  The Western Highlands of Scotland.

  The train skimmed round the edge of Loch Etive and pulled into the station at Connel. A soldier stepped onto the platform while another tossed his kit bag out the window to him. He turned to wave, shout some goodbyes, and then moved out through the gate and into the street. He looked across Connel Bridge to his homeland and imagined once again the villages round the point, Benderloch, home of his bride to be, Barcaldine and its lovely forests, Appin where he had spent his childhood, the Lyn of Lorne cutting deep into the picturesque Highland landscape just as he had dreamed it so many times, and across to the island of Lismore, birthplace of his ancestors, behind in the distance the island of Mull. Land of legend, Campbells, Stewarts, MacDonalds, MacKenzies, Livingstones, Blacks; land of music and song; Highlands and Islands separated, yet joined, by loch and sea, a land to come home to.

  This soldier was coming home and his mind was in turmoil. Nearly six years he’d been away. In front of him lay bushes of perfumed broom but in his nostrils still the stench of war, of death and dysentery. Emotions swirled. Drops of summer rain brushed his cheek and hid the tears. Love, hope, fear, joy, pain, deep longing and intense trepidation, a state of mind that would stay with him for many years. Like so many of his time this man was not really a soldier but a quiet, gentle man in warrior’s garb. He was a man who had turned his hand to many arts, shepherd, gardener, forester, carpenter and metalworker and could make and grow things with the skill of the artisan.

  The rain had eased off now leaving a few puddles that reflected in the sun.

  He turned again toward the bridge, the cantilever span of steel that carried the single-track rail line half a mile across the loch. He looked at the bridge and a shudder of fear ran down his spine.

  His thoughts flipped back just days and weeks to Germany, the River Elbe. That last bridge was the worst, below the bridge ran the river and above it flowed a river of human misery. An army on the run carrying with it thousands of prisoners, German soldiers’ wives and children, displaced people of all kinds. Plane after plane screamed down spitting out hellfire on friend and foe alike. Allied planes relentless in their path of destruction. Nowhere to hide: nowhere to run to. Just forward, run and dodge and hope and pray. Listen to the engine pitch and rattle of bullets and dive down flat just before it passes over; up again and run and listen for the next one. Step over the bodies. Keep one eye open for the tanks and trucks that crunch over fallen corpses and hapless souls that can’t move aside fast enough, images of carnage imprinted on the brain. There were many who didn’t get across that last bridge.

  A motorbike was crossing from the other side of Connel Bridge, taking advantage of the space between the trains, its ill-tuned motor spluttering. It came off the bridge and its rider throttled back to take the downward curve more slowly. But the soldier didn’t hear this harmless sound. He heard instead a plane coming in, flying low. As the bike passed the motor backfired. Gunfire! Get down! Instinct took over and down he went, face down on the street, face down in a puddle of water, his kit bag over his head and his body curled in foetal form.

  As the sound of the bike faded away he picked himself up slowly, shaking from the remnants of fear and from anger at his own stupidity. The front of his sparkling new uniform was soaked. An old man came and helped him up while some young kids sniggered at the show.

  “Don’t worry son. It’ll be all right” consoled the old Highlander.

  But they both knew it wouldn’t be all right. The human body can endure extremes of abuse, of pain and suffering but the mind bears the scars. Shadows, images, ghosts will always be there. They don’t go away.

  He picked up his bag and headed back into the station. The Benderloch train puffed in and he climbed aboard. A few minutes more and he would be home. The smile returned to his tortured face.

  The soldier’s name was Ian Grieve Black. This is his story.

  Connel Bridge

  2. THERE IS A CITY BRIGHT

  The North West of England, 1911

  Barrow-in-Furness lies at the northwest corner of Morecambe Bay a little north of Liverpool and south west of Lake Windermere. It is sheltered from the Atlantic by the Isle of Walney a long narrow strip of marshlands that absorb the wrath of the sea. Between Walney and the town of Barrow is Barrow Island, a peninsula really but almost totally surrounded by water.

  At the end of the 19 century this little corner of the British Empire became one of the most important shipbuilding yards in Europe. The company of Vickers occupied Barrow Island and converted it into docks. In the run up to the First World War and in subsequent years it became the centre of the construction of submarines in Britain. They built a bridge across Walney Water and reclaimed some of the marshland to build Vickerstown, a handful of terraced streets built back to back. Ocean Road went from the new bridge across the small island to the seafront. They also built a school and with modern housing and with a pleasant seaside location, they attracted craftsmen from their competitors, from Glasgow, Belfast and Tyneside.

  And here it was that Donald and Mary Black had set up home coming from Glasgow in search of a better life. First they lived in a small house in a neat little row called Jason Street but then the newer houses were built in Avon Street with bay windows looking out across the marshes and with Donald’s promotion to foreman the Blacks moved into number 10. Both Mary and Donald were born in Argyllshire in Scotland in the village of Port Appin on the shores of Loch Linnhe overlooking the beautiful island of Lismore. Mary’s father was the gardener in Drumneil Estate and Donald’s father was the carpenter and sawmiller. Donald came from a family of carpenters but became a blacksmith, learning his trade in the local smiddy of Tynribbie. They married in Appin on the second day of January in 1896 and soon after they moved to Partick in Glasgow where Donald found work as an ironsmith in the shipyards of the Clyde.

  When they moved south to Barrow their first two sons, Johnny and Bobby, were already born and then in 1903 came Donald and the youngest, Ian in 1906.Now the year was 1911 and Donald Black was heading home from the docks across the bridge. He was a hard man, a man of iron and steel who could handle hot metal and hotheaded men. He was now foreman of the angle-iron gang whose job it was to cut, form, weld and rivet the large angled sections of the outer shell of the submarines. He had learned the basics of his craft in the old blacksmith’s shop in Appin while his brothers, John, Dugald, Duncan and later Angus followed the family line as carpenters. Just the year before the father and sons had set up a joiners shop and sawmill in Appin. Making doors, windows and coffins was the routine of the day.

  Dugald and Donald had been very close and there were many times when Donald missed his brother who in his spare time practised the gentler art of violin making. He liked to make and play “the fiddle” as it is called in Scotland. Donald on the other hand was the man of iron.

  And today Donald, like most hard men really soft at heart, was thinking of home in Port Appin and of his brother. As he walked along the road he was furtively concealing a piece of wood under his work jacket. Having crossed the bridge he turned left along the Promenade of Vickerstown. The piece of wood had little real value but he had taken it from the yard and he knew that it could cost him his job and with it the house. Not a happy prospect but he knew that Dugald would like this wood. Mahogany, the best quality, it was an off-cut from the elegant stairways of the Mauritania. This wasn’t a Barrow built ship; the Tyneside yard had won that contract, but some angle sections had been sent by rail to Donald and his team for cutting. Supporting the metal plates were some discarded pieces of carpentry and they had been
lying around the yard for more than a year. Who was going to miss just one?

  The Promenade split, right up Ocean Drive or left along the waterside on Express Drive. Donald went left. A couple of streets more and then the drive curved round into Jason Street and then a few steps more took him to Avon Street. Between the two streets was a yard that served as washing green and playground. There were small vegetable gardens, pigeon lofts and greyhound kennels. Each house was nicely kept and there was an air of moderate prosperity. The shipyard was doing good trade. He knew that Mary would be waiting for him with the kettle on and little Ian, six years old, would no doubt be with her. Johnny, the eldest at 14 was now also working in the shipyard but he would have met some friends and would not show face until dinnertime. Bobby, in his last year of school, and Donald would be home soon when they had finished their game of football or whatever.

  Donald, the father, thought himself lucky with a comfortable home and happy family but a frown crossed his face as he thought of Mary. She was never in the best of health. Maybe it had not been such a good idea taking her away from the shores of Port Appin, but she herself had been keen to taste life’s adventures. Donald Black was not a man of God but he found himself, sometimes, mouthing a silent prayer that Mary would be all right. Now into August the weather was good and Mary brighter with it. The evening sun shone warmly on Donald and he didn’t really need the jacket except to hide the piece of wood. It started to slip out from under the jacket as he neared the house and he quickly pulled it back up in case any nosy neighbour might see it. Young Ian met him in the doorway and followed him in.

  “What’s that Father?” asked the lad.

  “It’s a fiddle, son” replied Donald with a sly smile.

  “Doesn’t look like a fiddle,” argued Ian.

  “Some day, Ian lad, your Uncle Dugald will use that to make the most beautiful fiddle you have seen or heard,” he enjoyed teasing the boy whose curiosity was endless.

  “Hmm” said the boy and skipped off to the scullery to his mother.

  Donald laughed to himself. Not much of the mahogany would go into fiddles, perhaps just the support bridge or the fingerboard. Norwegian spruce or local sycamore made the finely shaped body of the violin. He would never have the patience. But anyway, Dugald would like the wood and spend many hours admiring it before doing anything with it. He went to the kitchen to look for his cup of tea.

  Mary hadn’t felt so good that afternoon so she hadn’t gone to the shop. Now she needed potatoes so she gave “tuppence” to Ian and sent him for two pounds of golden wonders. Off he went out the back door and through the yard. A minute later there was a gargled yell and he re-appeared at the door, crying, gasping for breath and clutching at his throat. Both mother and father went forward to see what had happened, Donald crouching down to hold his son.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “It was Mrs McCafferty’s washing line,” answered the lad. “I ran into it.”

  “Don’t be daft, Ian!” said his mother, “A washing line is high up. You would pass under it.”

  With obvious difficulty Ian answered his mother. “But she has one between our coal bunker and their dog kennel.”

  Mary could see what was coming. Her mad Highlander husband leapt up and out the door. He ripped the washing and line off in one pull, tossed the bundle angrily against the neighbour’s door and stormed down the street to the shop for the potatoes, still raging as he told the shopkeeper that he didn’t have any money, that she would get it tomorrow and the potatoes were too bloody expensive anyway. He had cooled off by the time he re-entered the kitchen. He put a comforting arm round both mother and child and then lifted a knife to start peeling the potatoes. He turned round, looked at them and they all started laughing. At that Donnie and Bobby came home and Ian, still fighting for breath, and laughing, insisted on telling them the whole story. With the potatoes starting to boil on the stove they all went through to the sitting room. Johnny came in and the story went another round, more graphic this time in the telling.

  “Why is there a bit of wood on the table?” asked one of the older boys.

  “It’s a fiddle,” laughed their mother, feeling better than she had all day.

  Young Donald picked it up and started prancing around the room, playing the piece of wood like a fiddle.

  “Put that down and go and help your mother in the scullery,” growled the father. The piece of wood went down immediately on the nearest chair and the older three scurried off followed by their mother, still laughing.

  “Ian, take that and put it under the big bed,” ordered the father.

  “But, how will you get it to Uncle Dugald?” queried the lad.

  “Aye,” sighed the Highlander rubbing his chin, “we’ll think of something.”

  The boys set the table and brought through the “tea”. It’s strange how in the north of England dinner is called tea. It was boiled potatoes and the other half of yesterday’s meat stew. Mary offered the customary thanks to God while the “menfolk” waited impatiently to start. Over dinner the boys chattered about their uncle in Appin who made wonderful fiddles but whom only Johnny and Bobby had ever seen and Bobby couldn’t remember what he looked like.

  The working week was Monday through to Saturday mid-day and the only holidays were Christmas, Boxing Day and New Year and a couple of days for the local fair. When they moved to the new house they had called in a photographer to take photos. They had stood proudly in front of the house and this photo had been printed as postcards to send to all the family. That was how people kept in touch in those days. Nobody had a camera except the professionals. Nobody had time to travel except sometimes for weddings and sadly most family reunions took place at funerals.

  Later, with dinner finished and cleared away, Mary asked, “Ian, have you still got the tuppence?”

  “Yes, Mammy.”

  “Then off you go and pay Mrs Gullit for the potatoes.”

  “But the shop’s closed now.”

  “Well knock her door and tell her you’ve come to pay for the tatties. Now off you go.”

  Ian went round to the shop to pay the dues to Mrs Gullit.

  “A right temper has your daddy. I don’t know what his trouble was,” complained the shopkeeper, who then took the lad to the backshop and gave him two cinnamon boilings, his favourite sweet.

  Wandering back to the house he met Tommy McCafferty.

  “Why did your daddy throw our washing in the muck?” asked the young McCafferty.

  “Because it nearly choked me. Look!” Ian displayed his wounded neck.

  “What are you eating?”

  “A cinnamon ball. Do you want one?”

  “Yes please.” The sticky ball passed hand to hand.

  “Do you want to come with me?” asked Tommy.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Down to Thorny Nook to look for wild raspberries.”

  “I’ll have to tell my mammy.”

  “OK. I’ll wait.”

  A few minutes later they were skipping along the road the best of friends, the clothes line incident just a memory. They went down past the marshes passing through the tiny village of Biggar and on to Thorny Nook. There was lots of undergrowth and small bushes and nettles, which stung their legs, but they couldn’t find any rasps.

  “My daddy says you can make soup from nettles,” proclaimed Tommy.

  “I don’t think I would like that. Does it not sting your tongue?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hey, look!” shouted Ian “There’s some,” as he spotted some red fruit growing round a small bush. The berries were bright red in little clusters.

  “I’m not sure if they’re rasps,” said Tommy trying one, “but they taste good.”

  Ian tried one then spat it out. It tasted bitter after the cinnamon sweet. Tommy had a few more then his eye caught the real thing, a bush of beautiful red raspberries. No mistake, these were the real thing and they both attacked the fruit
with delight ignoring the scratches of the little thorns.

  “Let’s go to Sandy Gap,” said Tommy, “and we can skim stones in the water.”

  “OK. Race you!”

  The two boys ran along the seaside track past the pavilion at the end of Ocean Drive and on to Sandy Gap, nearly two miles in all. The full length of the island had a stony beach line, flat black stones of all sizes. When the tide was out there was one part like a sort of river bed where there was some sand, hence the name. But if you have ever skimmed stones you ought to know that Walney Island is the “Paradise” of stone skimming. Big ones, small ones, millions upon millions of beautiful flat stones. Tommy’s went further but Ian managed more skips so they called it a draw and set off for home, dawdling this time, not so much of a hurry.

  “Your daddy speaks funny,” commented Tommy, “Is he Irish?”

  “Don’t be daft. That’s your dad. My daddy is from Port Appin.”

  “But sometimes he speaks different, not English.”

  “That’s Gaelic. My mammy speaks that too when she doesn’t want us to know things but we usually understand. And she sings Gaelic songs to put me to sleep. They’re nice.”

  Tommy wasn’t totally satisfied. “Where’s Port thingamee?”

  “Port Appin? My daddy says if you go into the sea and keep going you come to it but that’s by sea and really you have to go in the train and it takes a whole day and you have to change trains at Preston and in Glasgow.”

  “Wow! That’s a long way. I think! Glasgow is a big city. I hate big cities,” decided Tommy with the pure uncluttered philosophy of a six year old.

  “Aye, but Port Appin’s a lovely wee village by the sea and there’s an island like Walney called Lismore. My mammy says that’s “island of flowers” in Gaelic and she sings a song about it but I don’t understand the words because it’s Gaelic.”

  “But you said you understand.”