Back in Barrow-in-Furness Donald decided that it was his turn to pay the cab and off they trotted across the bridge and home to Vickerstown. Two goldfish, one coconut, two silver cups and a pocketful of money, it had been a good day despite the sore foot.
Home in Avon Street, Mary put on the kettle for tea and Donald announced that his hero son had earned a “dram” of whisky so father and the two elder sons had a glass of whisky while Mary had her tea and the two younger boys attacked the coconut. They all chattered about the day and then mother and father began retelling stories of their young days in Lismore and Appin and of the great Highland Gathering and Games in Oban. Tartan kilts, pipe-band music, shinty, tug-o-war and real men’s sports. Half in English, half in Gaelic they laughed and joked and recounted stories that the kids had heard many times but still sounded good.
“Sing us a song, Mary!” demanded Donald and they all agreed “Yes, Mammy.”
So Mary sang, in Gaelic, first an island weaving song and they all clapped hands in time. Then her eyes flickered across toward her husband and she began to sing “Fàgàil Liòsmor”, a poignant song for most people but more so if you are from the little island of Lismore. Donald, his voice deceivingly soft and mellow, joined in the final chorus. The next day being Sunday their private little ceilidh went on till midnight but when the clock touched the Sabbath it was bedtime.
The old station at Barrow in Furness
The main gate at Vickers
Donald and Mary Black
The Black’s outside the house in Walney
4. MAN OF IRON, BOYS OF STEEL
Barrow to Appin, March 1912
Nineteen twelve was a cold winter right through to March. Mary Black took to bed in mid February. On the 16 of March she died leaving behind a husband and family distraught and bewildered at their loss. By this time the doctor had diagnosed cancer and her last few weeks were hard for her and the family.
Another time to the church to say goodbye, young Ian was deeply affected by the loss of his mother but his older brothers rallied round especially Bobby who, as the eldest still at school, became a mother substitute to the two younger boys. Donald and Johnny had to keep working. Number 10 Avon Street was no longer the happy home of just a few months before.
Later in June of that year Donald called the two younger boys together, Donnie aged 9 and Ian aged 6. He told them that he felt that now it was impossible to hold the family intact. He wanted them to go and live with their aunt in Port Appin.
“But that’s a long way from here,” said Donnie.
“Yes but you will have a home and a family that I can’t provide here.”
“Yes, you can,” cried Ian “Bobby looks after us. We’re OK here.”
Donald stood up and turned to look away from them. He couldn’t look at them as he said; “Your brother Bobby finishes school this week. He has signed up to go as apprentice engineer on the big ship that’s in the docks. The vessel sails next Tuesday.”
“But he’s not yet 14,” protested Donnie, “You have to be 16 to go to sea.”
“He lied about his age. He looks older,” sighed the father.
“Well you have to stop him. Go and tell the Captain,” begged Ian.
“I can’t do that. His mind is made up. I will miss him as much as you but I can’t hold him here against his will. You know he’s a stubborn lad.”
Ian felt as if the whole world was crashing in around his ears. He ran out the door and up the hill across the island. He didn’t stop until he reached the shore and stood looking out over the wide Atlantic. Somewhere up there to the north was Appin and somewhere else out there next week Bobby would sail away out of their lives. He didn’t cry. The tears wouldn’t come. He was too confused.
Sunday arrived, more dismal than ever, and Donald decided despite his own agnostic nature that they should all go to church. So they dressed in there best, a little crumpled without Mary’s caring hand to iron things. The church in Walney was and still is St Mary’s, ironic in the circumstances. They sat sombrely through the service and at the end they walked home in silence. Bobby suggested that they take some bread and cheese and have lunch by the sea. They walked to Sandy Gap where Ian and Tommy had been throwing stones the year before and sat quietly eating some roughly cut sandwiches. Nobody felt like talking – so many things that go unsaid – too difficult to say.
On Tuesday evening at high tide Bobby’s ship was ready to sail. His father and brothers stood on the quay and watched it unberth and sail down the channel of Barrow Island. Bobby would be in the engine room seeing for the first time his new home. Several years would pass before they met again.
The first Saturday in July was set as the day for going north and the two young boys started to prepare and pack a big wooden chest. At the bottom of the chest went the piece of mahogany for Uncle Dugald. Donald could not get time off from Vickers so he had written to his sister Sarah to ask her to come and escort the boys. She arrived on the Thursday and spent the whole of the next day cleaning and tidying, muttering as she went about men and their slovenly ways.
They got up with some trepidation on Saturday morning. Donald had managed to get away from work early so he went with them to Carnforth. A trap came to the house for Sarah with the boys and the big wooden trunk and they met Donald as he crossed the bridge from Vickers. At the station a porter put the “kist”, as Donald called it, on a trolley and took them to the train, the same one as had taken them to Ulverston. But this time they went through Ulverston and on to Carnforth. Here they would change to the Royal Scot as it stopped to change locomotives on its journey north from London.
At two o’clock precisely the Royal Scot thundered into the station. And what a train! The two boys gaped in wonder at this great machine. Two hundred and thirty yards in length with fifteen coaches to accommodate some two hundred and fifty passengers, four hundred and fifty tons of steam belching steel. It had left Euston station in London at ten in the morning and would arrive in Glasgow at five minutes to six in the evening. Donald smiled to himself as he watched the boys. This had just become an adventure. He helped them into their compartment and slid down the window to catch the trunk from the porter. He held his sons for a moment, ruffled their hair, and then hurried off lest he got carried north too. Sarah and the boys leaned out the window to wave goodbye and the stationmaster blew his whistle to start off the train. Two sharp blasts more on the whistle and the driver responded with two blasts on the steam whistle. They were off!
As they pulled steadily out of Carnforth neither boy was aware that he would never return to Barrow in Furness. They were about to become Scotsmen. By tomorrow they would be Highlanders like their father. Quite a different life now lay ahead.
The first hour was the slow climb over Shap Fell to Penrith and then down to Carlisle. A few minutes out of Carlisle they were into Scotland and with full steam they rolled through the border hills not stopping till they reached Symington just south of Glasgow. Here the great train split in three parts, one to Edinburgh, one to Aberdeen and the main part to Glasgow Central station. They arrived on time at 5.55 PM. The steam, the smell of coal smoke, the clamour of locomotives, rolling luggage trolleys, people shouting, railwaymen’s whistles, for two small boys the impact was immense.
Donald had given his sister sufficient money to take care of the boys so she decided to stay the night at the Central hotel rather than try to push on further north that night so they deposited their big trunk in the room and went to take a look at the city. In 1912 Glasgow was a thriving city, a whirling mass of people and commerce. Trams and trolley buses passed in rapid succession throwing out sparks from their pantographs as they clicked across the joints in the overhead cables. There was a tramline in Barrow in Furness but here was a maze of tramlines each one swinging abruptly to the left or to the right as it came to the street corner. On both sides of every street were enormous shop windows with displays of all kinds. Weaving between the trams came large carts pulled by clattering horse
s, aproned boys on bicycles, railwaymen pushing hand carts loaded with luggage and lots of the new cars, vans and lorries that were beginning to add to the congested throng of Glasgow city centre. Donnie and Ian just stood enthralled by the sheer mass of it all. Ian liked it but Donnie at that moment fell in love with Glasgow.
Next morning they had to cross to Queen Street station, a smaller station but just as bustling. No big shops here, instead the open grandeur of George Square, grand opulent buildings of red sandstone and granite, both boys felt sure this was a place to come back to. It smelt of excitement.
They took the Oban train on the West Highland Line. They left at 10.00 AM and within half an hour they were in sight of Loch Lomond. This train was smaller and slower than the Royal Scot but no less exhilarating. Advertising posters for the Highland line claimed:
“Crossing bridges and viaducts, through tunnels and cuttings – this is one of the most exhilarating journeys in the world.”
If you are a first time visitor this holds true. If you are a Highlander going home this description is ineffectual. Our two young lads were a curious mix of the two. They were “going home” to a land they had never seen. Each mountain side, each mountain peak, each glen, each glittering loch, each river and waterfall, each curve of the line brought gasps of wonder from the boys. And as the train rounded the last curve before Connel there were whoops of delight as they caught their first glimpse of the Connel Ferry Bridge. Their mother had told them about it but she had never seen it. The bridge came into service the same year Donnie was born. Before that they had to take the longer route up to fort William and come down by Ballachulish or take the little ferryboat across the loch at Connel.
On the journey up Sarah had chatted to the boys enjoying with them the excitement of the adventure. She had never married and so had no children of her own. She was going to enjoy looking after these two lads. She was aware that beneath the surface the boys were still hurting from the absence of their mother but with time she was sure she could make them happy in Appin.
The train stopped at Connel Ferry and here it was time to get off. Another short trip over the bridge through Benderloch and Barcaldine would take them to Appin. For this they had to wait about an hour for the train coming from Oban, the biggest local township. On arrival in Appin another horse and trap was necessary to take them from the station to the little hamlet of Tynribbie. The Blacks were the local carpenters. Both boys knew this but they were quite surprised to see the name board above the carpenter’s shop. They felt a little famous. They took their trunk, one handle each and went into the little ironclad house across the road from the workshop, next to the church. This was called Mossend, home of their uncle Dugald and his wife Flora.
5. THE GREAT GLEN
Appin, July 1912
“Go on boys. Just take a look all round,” invited Aunt Sarah, “Aunt Flora and I will just get us something to eat. I don’t know where that useless brother of mine is, probably whittling at a piece of wood somewhere. He’s never around when you need him. Go over the road to the workshop. You’ll probably find him there. Don’t worry about the dog. He barks but he won’t bite you. A bit like myself sometimes.” She smiled.
The two boys went out and sure enough a big Collie dog came bounding over, barking to sound its arrival. Donnie backed off but Ian just said ”Hello dog,” and the animal sensed the friendliness in his tone. It came up and started licking his hand. They went over to the small wooden workshop.
“JOHN BLACK & SONS Joiners and Undertakers” said the sign above the door.
“What’s undertaker, Donnie? Asked the younger brother.
“How am I supposed to know,” retorted Donnie.
They pulled open the door and went inside. Like their aunt had said there was a man sitting whittling at a piece of wood with a knife. Ian started back with fright. The man was sitting on a coffin and there was another coffin behind him with the lid off.
“Hello boys. Come in! Come in!” he welcomed them into his domain.
“You must be Ian, and you’re Donald just like your father. The young lad’s more like his mother. Oh boys it’s great to see you. Where’s your aunty? Has she given you something to eat?”
“Why are you sitting on a coffin?” asked Ian, still not sure of this strange man. “Are you Uncle Dugald?”
Dugald rolled back laughing and cackling in Gaelic. They had no idea what he was saying.
“Yes. I’m your Uncle Dugald. Didn’t you know I make coffins? That’s my work. I’m a joiner.”
“But my Daddy says you make fiddles.”
“Indeed I do valich but I would be rather poor just doing that. There’s more people in the Great Glen needing coffins than what’s needing fiddles.”
“What’s the Great Glen’” asked Donnie.
“Goodness but you two are full of questions. Gleann mor na-h Albin. Come! I’ll show you the Great Glen. Did your father teach you nothing?”
They went out and Dugald pointed out over the Loch to the hills beyond.
“There you see The Great Glen of Scotland. When God made Scotland he decided to cut a great river through the middle but he must have been interrupted because he never quite finished it. Away up at Inverness on the East side is the start of Loch Ness where the people say is an old sea monster. And then coming this way you have Loch Oich and then Loch Lochy and then at Fort William is Loch Eil and at the foot of Ben Nevis is the start of this loch here, Loch Linnhe.” He paused to make sure they were listening. “ And then man came along and joined them all up with canals. That’s called the Caledonian Canal. And from here you pass down by “Liòsmor” island there and past the island of Mull and you’re at Oban and then there’s nothing to stop you sailing all the way across the Atlantic.” He paused. “You do know what the Atlantic is?”
“Of course we do,” answered Donnie indignantly, “Walney is on the Atlantic.” He fought back a tear as the conversation reminded him of home.
“What’s the dog’s name?” asked Ian, down on his knees playing with the dog’s ears.
“Och, that beast. We called him “Gleann Mor” when he was a little puppy but now I just call him “dog”. He answers just the same.”
“Can we call him “Glen”? It’s easier.
“Call him what you like valich. I’m sure the dog won’t mind as long as you don’t pull his ears. He doesn’t like that.”
Aunt Sarah came out and called them in to eat. On the table were “Highland Tea”, treacle scones, ginger bread, pancakes and loads of butter and strawberry jam to spread on them. A big pot of tea lay in the centre of the table and for the boys Sarah had two big tumblers of lemonade that she’d brought from Barrow. The boys waited to see if Dugald or Sarah would say grace but instead Dugald urged them to help themselves and the cakes and scones began to disappear.
When they had finished Dugald said, “I believe you boys have something for me.”
Without replying the two boys ran off to their “travel kist” and turned most of their clothes and things out onto the floor until they reached the piece of mahogany. Donnie claimed the honour of presenting it to his uncle, and back they went to the sitting room.
“My, that’s a fine piece of timber boys,” enthused Dugald.
“Will you make a fiddle with it?” asked Ian.
“Well, I don’t know really. Some bits maybe. Perhaps I could get a nice neck from this side here but I like sycamore for the body. It gives the nicest sound especially for Scottish music. Look! I’ll show you.” And he stood up and went over to a fiddle propped in the corner.
“See here boys. You need soft wood in the body because we have to bend it to give the shape.” He rubbed his fingers gently over the curves of the violin. “The neck has to be stronger and the finger board needs to be hard for all the work when you’re playing. We usually use ebony for that”
“Can you play, Uncle Dugald?” asked Donnie.
“Aye Donnie lad. That I can. Would you like a wee tune?”
So Dugald took them through a recital of his favourite tunes. They recognised some that their mother had sung but others were new to them. The fiddle lends itself well to the bouncy dance tunes, the jigs and reels and both boys preferred these to the slow Scottish airs. One of Dugald’s tunes seemed to appeal particularly to Ian. It was a march.
“Can you play that again?” he asked.
What he didn’t know was that it was his uncle’s favourite too, so Dugald’s bow danced across the notes of “The Bonnie Lass o’ Bon Accord” even better than the first time.
He finished and put the violin back in its corner.
“Can you teach us to play like that?” asked Donnie.
“Don’t be daft lad!” interrupted Aunt Sarah, “He hasn’t got the patience but Mrs Macgilvery at Duror is good at teaching the violin. Anyway we have to get your school organised first. We’ll go tomorrow and see the headmaster, Mr Macpherson.”
Dugald was a bit put out at his sister’s lack of confidence in him.
“Listen boys! I’ll tell you what. If you can learn to play The Bonnie Lass I’ll make a fiddle just for you.”
The boys didn’t reply. They just nodded; aware of the task they had been set. Like most kids their attention turned quickly to the next question.
“Can we go to see Lismore?” It was Ian who was most anxious to see the island.
“Aye, we can go down to Port Appin now and you can see it from there but if you want to go across we can’t take the dog. He chases the sheep.”
“How do you get across?” It was Donnie’s turn to question.
“Oh, goodness, you boys and all your questions. There’s a boat. How else would you get across? Do you want to fly?”
Across the Bridge Page 3