The Last Lady from Hell

by Richard G Morley

  We were downstairs by ten, not bad for a couple of college boys on a Saturday morning. My Mom was more than happy to fix a classic home-cooked breakfast, which was warmly appreciated by us starving students.

  After going online for directions to the Veteran’s Hospital we hopped into my Datsun. I brought along a tape recorder, a pad of paper with a trusty ballpoint, and the issue of The Voice.

  Within twenty minutes, we had arrived at the Vet’s home and were walking up the front steps to the entrance.

  All old-folks homes seem to smell the same, I thought as we walked through the door. It was a kind of antiseptic cleanser odor, mixed with the scent of urine that has been in a Depends far too long. Then there was the smell of old things, a combination of mothballs and passing years that clung to the possessions these old warriors brought with them in an attempt to make this final stop a little more tolerable. They were bits and pieces of their lives, simple reminders of a better time and place.

  At the front desk, I asked the receptionist about the gentleman who was featured in the article in the Guelph News.

  “That would be Mr. MacDonald,” she said. “I believe he’s in the TV room.”

  “Do you think it would be all right if we interviewed him for a university paper?” I asked, holding up my recorder.

  “Oh, another paper, that’s grand,” she said brightly. “I know he loves the attention. Bear in mind, though, he is 109 years old and he tires quickly.”

  I nodded, proving my understanding, but neglected to correct her misunderstanding about my being with a paper instead of just writing one.

  “So, you’re Clark Kent now, eh?” Mike whispered as we followed the receptionist down the hall to the TV room.

  “A harmless misunderstanding,” I quipped. We entered a large room with twenty or so old armchairs, most of which were occupied by old folks. Some were sleeping, while others read the paper or chatted with their neighbors, who might or might not have been listening or even caring what was said. Very few, it seemed, were actually watching the television.

  The receptionist walked over to an elderly man sitting in a large, high-back chair. His back was to the television and he was staring out the window, alone in his thoughts.

  “Mr. MacDonald?” the receptionist called loudly. It appeared the old man’s hearing was not what it once was.

  “Mr. MacDonald, I have two young men here that are from a university newspaper. They would like to speak with you.”

  “Who? Where?” he asked, coming out of his daydream.

  “Right here, behind you,” she said waving us around to the front of him. “Boys, this is Mr. Ian MacDonald.”

  Mike shot me a scolding glance for allowing the newspaper ruse to continue, as we walked around the chair to see this very old man.

  Ian MacDonald was neatly dressed with a white shirt, a tie and a jacket. His trousers were pressed and shoes shined. He had a full head of white hair, and his enormous ears conspicuously gave away his advanced age. With a wry smile, he looked up at me with clear eyes.

  “Forgive me for not getting up, boys,” he said. “How do you do?”

  I had never met anyone over 100 years old and didn’t quite know what to expect. “Very well, thank you,” I answered.

  He held a hand up to his large ears. “I can’t hear very well, even with these bloody hearing aids, so I’d appreciate it if you would be so kind as to speak up.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said loudly. “Good to meet you, sir. My name is Brian Way and this is my friend Mike Hanniford. We are from Queens University and I would like to interview you for my paper, if that’s okay.”

  Mike shot me another sour glare.

  “I’m happy to speak to you young men, I happen to be a Queen’s alumni myself — and you don’t have to shout,” he said cheekily.

  My eyebrows shot up. This is getting better and better, I thought. He’s an alumni and a joker.

  “I understand you were in World War One,” I said fumbling for an opening. I was not a seasoned journalist and it showed. I had no prepared questions, no direction, and no thought as to what information I needed to glean from this fountain of knowledge.

  “You haven’t asked my name!” he barked, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.

  My face reddened, and I knew instantly the old man could see right through me.

  “Well, I, uh, I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I already know your name from the newspapers and the receptionist.

  He held his hand up and chuckled. “I’m razzing you young man. What is it that I can help you with?”

  I relaxed. This guy is sort of cool, I thought. How can someone be so old and still be cool? I was about to ask Mike this question, but he was focused on the television, watching a rerun of Gilligan’s Island. To be fair, I knew I had a lot more interest in the information this man possessed than Mike, so I was happy to see that he was being entertained.

  I turned back to Mr. Macdonald and noticed a small pin on his tie. It looked like a bagpipe.

  “Is that a bagpipe on your tie?” I asked, pointing to it.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.

  “Are you a piper?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t played in many years. I don’t have the lungs for it anymore.”

  “I’m a piper myself,” I said.

  He smiled and nodded, and an awkward silence took over. This is painful, I thought. Why is this so difficult for me? This man is living history. He possessed first-hand recollections of some of the most historically horrific battles in modern civilization. I needed to find a way to tap into these personal insights before this window to the past was closed forever. Then I remembered The Voice in my jacket pocket and took it out. I unfolded the cover photo and held it up before him.

  “I understand you were at the Battle Somme.”

  Ian took the magazine and squinted at it. He reached into his pocket and removed a pair of thick reading glasses. He put them on and inspected the photo. As he looked, his expression changed. He stared intently for several minutes. It seemed that he was no longer looking at the photo, but was looking deep into it, recollecting something long forgotten or perhaps buried.

  “Mr. MacDonald, sir?” I said quietly.

  His eyes refocused and he said, “Terry Manning.”

  “Pardon me?”

  He pointed at the piper and looked up at me with tired, sad eyes. “Terry Manning,” he repeated.

  “You know the piper in that photo?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it was possible. What were the odds of that?

  “Yes” he responded softly, putting the magazine in his lap. “He was one of the best pipers I ever knew. We were good friends.”

  The old man reached into the side pocket of his jacket and produced a beautiful, ornate white bone pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He packed the bowl as he continued to gaze down at the magazine. Then he lit a match and produced a large billow of sweet aromatic smoke. Ian drew deeply on the pipe and began to speak in a low hypnotic voice. I turned on the tape recorder and leaned in closer to hear him more clearly.

  PART TWO

  THE STORY

  1915 – Queens University, Kingston, Ontario

  [Transcribed from Ian MacDonald’s recording]

  I APPROACHED THE UNION ST. Athletic Field, which would later become the site of Richardson Stadium in 1919, and could hear the crowd loudly singing the Queen’s fight song.

  Oilthigh na Banrighinn a’ Bhanrighinn gu bràth!

  Oilthigh na Banrighinn a’ Bhanrighinn gu bràth!

  Oilthigh na Banrighinn a’ Bhanrighinn gu bràth!

  Cha ghèill! Cha ghèill! Cha ghèill!

  (same tune as “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”)

  “We must have scored a touchdown,” I thought. It is traditional to sing this song after every score. This was McGill versus Queens, one of the biggest rivalries in Canadian higher education.

  I was late for the kickoff, but I was really far more interested in the halftime show anyway. The pipe
band in particular. I had received a partial scholarship that hinged on my getting into the pipe band and, later that afternoon, I was to be at band practice for the tryouts.

  Queens University was known to have one of the best college pipe bands in Canada and I wanted to get a good look at them before the tryouts. The halftime show was the perfect opportunity for this.

  There was a lot riding on my qualifying for the band and securing the scholarship. I came from a farming family on Wolfe Island, the largest of the Thousand Islands. We had limited resources and Queens University was very expensive. This was my only avenue toward a higher education.

  It was a warm fall day, but you could still feel the crispness in the air. It had that smell of fall. A light haze hung in the air that muted the vibrant colors of the trees, like an impressionistic painting, everything blended together.

  As I walked toward the bleachers, the halftime cannon went off, causing me to jump. What a wallop that thing gave. I was just in time.

  On the sideline, I could hear someone yelling out orders, then the drums marked time and the pipes began playing. Out marched the band, looking fine and marching in perfect unison. Their playing sounded grand and was very tight.

  The band wore full dress military attire: kilt (Royal Stewart Tartan), long tunics, glengarry hats, horsehair sporrans and white spats. The Royal Stewart tartan, an overall red with a cross hatch of muted green and thin white lines, has long been one of the most recognizable tartans, and it makes anyone wearing it look sharp. The thought of being in one of those uniforms and marching with this band gave me a flash of excitement, and I smiled at my mental image.

  Most of the tunes they played were familiar to me. Most marching bands tended to have standard repertoires, including “Scotland the Brave,” “The Minstrel Boy,” and “Marie’s Wedding.”

  The Drum Major led the Queens band out to the field, followed by the pipes. Bringing up the rear was the drum section. The drums were powerful and precise. They sounded like one drum with the thunder of twelve. Supporting it all was the bass drum, huge and commanding. The drummer pounded out the cadence and signaled the band to start and stop with an air of total confidence. All the starts and stops were clean and crisp, not one pipe or drum sounded too soon or lingered beyond the last note, a sign of a good band.

  The pipe major called for pipes down. The drummers snapped out rolls as the pipers brought their pipes down in unison and marched off to a single tap of a side drum. A well-disciplined unit, I thought.

  I wanted to introduce myself, so I began to make my way around the stands to where they were gathered. But as I did, a knot of doubt formed in my stomach. What if I can’t cut it? I had played pipes for years, but never in an organized band.

  As I approached the group, the first person I came to was the drum major. He was a massive imposing fellow, well over six feet tall, and with his feather bonnet he appeared even taller. In his right hand he held a five-and-a-half-foot staff with an orb on top called a mace. It gave him an air of superiority, and grandeur, almost like royalty. The drum major must have weighed 250 pounds, but he carried his large frame with ease. He had a prominent mustache that came down each side of his mouth. He didn’t seem all that happy — perhaps it was the effect of the mustache, which gave him the appearance of a perpetual frown. Maybe this is not the fellow to talk to first, I thought, but I took a gamble and introduced myself.

  “Pardon me, sir,” I said tentatively. “My name is Ian MacDonald and I’m a freshman at Queens. I have received a bagpipe scholarship and…”

  Before I could finish my rambling announcement he spun around and glared at me. I swallowed hard. This guy looked mad. His expression was enough to make my knees start to knock.

  “Perhaps I should speak to…” I began.

  “What?” he bellowed. “A freshman?”

  I feared he would roar “fe-fi-fo-fum” next, but to my immense relief, he smiled a broad toothy smile and said, “Yah mean fresh meat!” Then he roared with laughter at his own joke. Poor form, I thought, but wasn’t about to call him on it.

  “Congratulations!” he said. “What did you say your last name was? Was it MacDonald? Any relation to Al?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Alan is my older brother.”

  “One hell of a rugby player and an all-around good egg,” he said, slapping my back hard enough to knock me off balance.

  “I’m Dan McKee. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the fellow you really want to speak with, our pipe major.”

  He turned and walked through the crowd of kilted pipers and drummers, which parted with his approach. Those who did not move, received a friendly poke with his mace which accomplished the desired result with no malice intended or perceived. He led me toward a lean, sharp looking piper whose uniform was the same as the rest except for a red sash draped across his tunic, and four chevrons or military type stripes on his sleeve. His face was youthful and he exuded the air of leadership and responsibility that was necessary to function as a pipe major. His ramrod posture helped to accentuate this authoritative perception.

  “Terry,” McKee bellowed, “We have more fresh meat, I mean another freshman.” He laughed again deep from his belly. Poor form.

  “This is Terry Manning our Pipe Major,” he said by way of introduction. “Terry this is Ian Mactavish!”

  “MacDonald,” I corrected.

  He slapped me on my back again even harder and laughed. “That’s what I said—MacDonald.” I wondered whether my brother liked this guy.

  Pipe Major Manning looked at me with a raised eyebrow and an analytical gaze.

  “Ian MacDonald” I said, thrusting my hand toward him. My father always said that you can tell a lot about a man by his handshake and the shine of his shoes. Terry had a firm, genuine grip. He smiled as we shook hands, but it struck me as more businesslike than friendly. I supposed that to maintain a position of authority, one must exercise a degree of aloofness.

  “Be at Grant Hall, room 110 at 1600 hours. Bring your pipes and have them warmed up and ready,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” Then he snapped around and briskly walked into the crowd.

  My heart was pounding in my chest as the reality of the moment caught hold. This was really happening, I thought as I headed back to my room. I’m going to be a piper at Queens. The exhilaration was short lived, though, as I overheard two pipers discussing the latest news of the war in Europe. My thoughts turned to my older brother, Alan. Alan left ten months earlier with the first Canadian wave to fight for England. The reports coming back were mixed and my family had not received a letter for some time.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. It was three o’clock. I had an hour to prepare for my audition. I walked up the limestone steps of Grant Hall. The buildings of Queens University are made of limestone, as is almost every building in Kingston, Ontario, which, as a result, had been tagged with the not very original nickname “the Limestone City.”

  My pipes were stored in a case that my grandfather had made for me when I was twelve years old. He was a real craftsman with cabinetry and his skill was evident in this velvet-lined case. I purchased a new set of Macgregor pipes when I was seventeen. Though they were slightly larger than my first pipes, they still fit snugly into the case.

  I took the pipes from the case and practiced scales for the next forty minutes, as Terry had requested. Warming up the pipes and reeds before a performance diminished the tendency of this finicky instrument to go out of tune. The practice enabled the pipes to provide a modestly consistent tone.

  Being an all-wood instrument, except for the bag, of course, the bagpipes are often at the mercy of the elements. The blow stick, three drones, and chanter are made from African blackwood, a very hard wood that provides a maximum volume with minimal reaction to temperature or moisture changes. The chanter—the part on which the tune is played–has eight finger holes and a hard, double reed, which gives it plenty of crisp volume. The cane reeds, however, are more susceptible to temperature and moisture and
can pull a bagpipe out of tune smartly.

  When a solo piper is tuned and playing, one would seldom notice the tonal changes brought on by environmental factors. But get a band of twenty pipers whose pipes all react to climate at a different rate and you have tonal chaos. Therefore, it is essential that a band be tuned as close to a parade step off as possible.

  I could hear the sounds of pipes being tuned as I opened the large oak doors to Grant Hall. As I entered Room 110, the combined noise of twenty plus chanters being played up and down the scale blasted me.

  Pipe Major Manning was keenly focused on the tuning and either didn’t notice my arrival or chose not to acknowledge it. I preferred to remain anonymous at the time anyway. I moved quietly to the periphery, content to watch and listen. Tuning is an important process, and requires some time to complete. A good piper with a good ear and a ready band can, however, make the process move along at about three minutes per piper.

  “You! Pipes up!” I was jarred from my thoughts to see the Pipe Major looking in my direction.

  A thump of adrenaline coursed through me as I hurried to the center of the room.

  “Blow up and tap off!” he barked.

  The reed of a drone is softer and more flexible than that of a chanter, so it makes a sound with less air pressure in the bag. To silence the drones, you tap your hand on top of the drone opening and it quiets. I can’t explain why it works, but it does. When all three are tapped off, you can blow more pressure into the bag and the chanter reed will sound.

  I quickly blew up my pipes, tapping off my drones, and continued to blow evenly into the blow pipe to keep constant pressure. Manning stepped directly in front of me and made a sideways fist, with his pinky outstretched. To me it looked as if he were choking an imaginary chicken in a dainty way. My puzzled look was all he needed to see.

  With his blow pipe still in his mouth, he continued to blow air into his bag. Between breaths, he commanded, “A! Give me a low A!”

  Then it dawned on me what his hand gesture meant. To produce a low A, you cover all the chanter holes except the one covered by your right hand pinky. I blew harder and squeezed the bag until the chanter barked out a low A.