“What they really do wi’ it, Jum, iss to tak’ it awa’ and study it.”
“Study it!” cried Sunny Jim. “Why dae folk want tae study a bit o’ rock for guidness sake!”
“I don’t know aal the ins and oots of it,” admitted Para Handy with a shrug, “but it’ll be for museums and the like. Then again maybe that’s how they cam’ to find oot in the first place that there iss good slate at Ballachulish and Seil Island, and tip-top granite at Ailsa Craig and at Furnace, and roadstone at Alexandria and aal the rest. Wee men in plus-fowers and sonsy bunnets crawlin’ aal ower the country and chust chip-chippin’ awa wi’ their hammers, and takin’ great lumps of Scotland hame in their luggage when they’re done. Nae wonder folk are aalways sayin’ the country’s no’ half whit it was fufty years ago!
“Hurricane Jeck met up wi’ wan o’ them when we wass laid over in Portree for a day or two a few years ago, and sent him home wi’ aal the wrang ideas aboot Skye, that’s for sure …
“It wass this way,” he continued in a moment, once his pipe was going to his satisfaction, and the puffer had run the cheeky gauntlet of half-a-dozen youths in hired rowing-boats off Millport Bay. “Jeck and me wass crewin’ a puffer that belonged to a man in Brodick, and we had gone to Skye wi’ a cargo of early Arran potatos, and to pick up a load of peats for wan o’ the Campbeltown distilleries.
“There wass a delay in gettin’ the cargo in. I think mebbe it wass a deleeberate delay, for the skipper wass a Skye man and he chust went off hame for a few days, leavin’ Jeck and me and the boy in the harbour at Portree.
“Jeck and I spent some time in the inns at Portree till oor money ran oot and it wass there that we met wi’ this English gee-oligist. He was a hermless enough fellow, but there wass nothin’ to him, he wass aboot five foot two in hiss stockin’ soles and ass skinny ass a Tiree chicken. Effery mornin’ he’d be off first thing wi’ a hammer and an empty sack and effery evenin’ he’d come staggerin’ back into Portree bent double wi’ the weight of whateffer he’d pit in it that day.
“It wass peetiful! There wass times you wud think he wud drop on the spot!
“Wan night he wass that trauchled that Jeck went up from the boat and gave him a hand to get the sack to his Hotel, and pit it in the cellar wi’ aal the rest he’d collected. There wass mair than a dozen of them, aal whuppers, wi’ big labels roond their necks sayin’ where the rocks in them were from, and whit day he’d foond them.
“The upshot wass that he offered Jeck a chob for the next day to go out with him and help fill his samples and then, come the evenin’, cairry them back to Portree. Five shullings he offered and Jeck chumped at it, for we wass oot of money except for a couple of coppers and some foreign coins the Portree Inns wudna take. ‘I’ll split the money wi’ you, Peter’, says Jeck: ‘You stay here and keep an eye oot for our peats comin’, and I’ll go and help the mannie.’
“Next mornin’ Jeck wass up at the crack o’ dawn and up to the Hotel, and I saw the two of them headin’ off, the mannie wi’ a wee knapsack and his hammers, and Jeck wi’ two huge empty sacks draped ower his shoulders.
“Six o’clock at night, Jeck appeared on the quayside and you wud not think he had walked a yard nor cairried a pound for he wass as fresh ass a daisy: but you must remember he wass at the height of his powers at the time, full of natural sagacity and energy, built like a brick oothoose and with the strength of three.
“ ‘You’re lookin’ quite jocko, Jeck,’ says I, ass we made oor way along the harbour towards the Inns. ‘It wass not too hard a day then?’
“ ‘It could have been,’ says Jeck. ‘Wud ye believe we went aal the way to Sligachan, a good eight miles along the main road, and then off we go into the hills and he leaps aboot the rocks wi’ thon hammer hammerin’ awa’, and he fills the sacks till I could scarce lift them off the ground. He says it makes sich a difference havin’ a fine strong chap to do the cairryin’, and for sure he took advantage of it!
“ ‘When it comes to dinner-time and I’m thinkin’ the least he can do iss tak’ me and treat me at the Sligachan Inn, here he ups and opens the wee knapsack and brings oot some bread and cheese and two bottles of milk. Milk!
“ ‘Towards fower o’clock, when the sacks are full to the very top wi’ lumps o’ rock of effery shape and size and description, he thanks me very politely for my services, and gives me the five shullin’s we’d agreed on for the feein’.
“ ‘Then he says that he’ll go back to Portree the long way roond, takin’ the track that runs along the coast beside the Sound of Raasay: but that I can chust tak’ the main road hame for the sake of speed and comfort. So I did, and so here I am. There’s no sign of him back at the Hotel yet but his sacks is aal safely snugged doon and labelled in his cellar.’
“ ‘You look very fit on it, onyway,’ says I. ‘The sacks couldna have been aal that heavy for you look chust ass fresh ass when you set off and there iss no’ ass much ass an ounce of perspiration on you.’
“ ‘There would have been, if I’d let it,’ said Jeck. ‘But did ye think I wass goin’ to be daft enough to hump half of Sligachan eight miles up the road to Portree? Wan stane is like any ither stane ass far ass I can tell, so I chust waited till he wass well oot o’ sight and then I emptied the sacks oot at the roadside at Sligachan, hung them round my neck, and when I got back to the town I filled them up again wi’ rocks from yon big pile of roadstone lyin’ at the pierhead.
“ ‘He’ll neffer ken the difference …’ ”
FACTNOTE
Lying at the mouth of the Firth nine miles west of Girvan Bay, Ailsa Craig has become familiar to anyone in the UK who has ever watched transmission of the Open Golf Tournament from the nearby Turnberry links. Cameras make a habit of zooming in on the dramatic silhouette of the rock when there is not much happening on the course!
For decades the very best curling stones were indeed regarded as those made from Ailsa granite. There was little else of any material value on the islet, though it was tenanted from the Earls of Cassilis, into whose estates it fell, for a tiny rental which, at least till the beginning of last century, was paid in kind — young gannets for the table, and seabird feathers and down for bedding and cushions. It was still tenanted just a generation or so ago, but the fisherman’s summer bothies, the remains of which can still be seen on the north-east coast, have been deserted for much longer.
THE ARRAN CONNECTION — Here in all her late Victorian, splendour is the Glasgow and South Western Railway Company’s Glen Sannox, which gave 33 years service on the Ardrossan to Brodick crossing, her speed helping to reduce the Glasgow to Arran journey to under 90 minutes. She ran her trials on 1st June 1892 and it is probable that this photograph was taken then. This is obviously a ‘new’ vessel, and there are no members of the public on board.
Most of the eminent travellers in Scotland, from Monro in the 16th century onwards, have visited and been over-awed by the rock. Many of them, coincidentally, were geologists — though their travels were not solely motivated by that specialised branch of science. John McCulloch, who criss-crossed the Western Highlands and Islands in the first two decades of the 19th century, has left the most comprehensive account. Much of it may be almost unreadably turgid but nobody, not even Pennant in the late 18th or Muir in the late 19th centuries, covered so much ground. McCulloch visited virtually every rock and atoll in the north west and left a unique account of their society as well as their geology in four volumes published in 1820.
It is interesting how early travellers in Scotland seemed to come in surprisingly well-defined categories in an evolutionary progression.
The enquiring — such as Monro or Martin. The curious — Johnson or Boswell. The polymaths — Pennant or Garnett. The geologists — Jamieson or McCulloch. The antiquarians — Cordiner or Grose. The economists — Newte or Anderson. The historians — Selkirk or Logan. The natural historians — Kearton or Harvie-Brown.
And (at regular intervals) the downright eccentric,
such as the formidable Englishwoman, the Honourable Mrs Murray Aust of Kensington, who undertook a journey through the Highlands which included the crossing of the notorious 2,200 feet Corrieyairack pass from the Spey Valley to the Great Glen in a post-chaise carriage and pair, and wrote a two volume account (published in 1810) to prove it!
22
Taking the Needle
Para Handy stared, fascinated, at the approaching figure of the Vital Spark’s engineer. “My Chove boys, come and take a look at this! What on earth hass Dan been up to?” The Vital Spark was berthed in Campbeltown, and Macphail had just appeared in sight staggering along the quayside with a large square wooden contraption cradled in both arms, his face only just visible peering over the top of it. Behind him came a man carrying in one hand what looked like an oversize megaphone and in the other a large brown suitcase.
“It looks like he went to that hoose sale right enough,” Dougie observed, “and it looks ass if he bought the half of it ass well.”
Indeed, his eye caught by an advertisement in that week’s issue of the Campbeltown Courier, Macphail had at breakfast announced his intention of attending a roup taking place that morning, at which the effects of a recently-deceased citizen of the burgh were to be sold at auction. Para Handy and Dougie had had enough of auctions for the time being, following a couple of unfortunate experiences at such occasions in the recent past and Sunny Jim was, as usual, suffering from a chronic shortage of funds. So the engineer had gone off on his own, announcing that he would stay just a few minutes “for the entertainment value”.
“It seems you got more than chust entertainment then, Dan,” the Captain observed as the engineer puffed his way on board and, with a sigh of relief, laid his burden on the hatchcover of the hold. His companion did the same, and then, after a short consultation during which a few coins changed hands, scrambled up onto the quayside and made off.
“What on earth is aal this?” Dougie asked as Macphail picked up the giant ‘megaphone’ and inserted its narrow end into a metal-rimmed hole in the top of the wooden box. This itself had, let into one side, a brass handle which was in shape something like a miniature version of the handle on the puffer’s anchor winch and on the top, a circular plate with a convoluted brass contraption alongside it.
“What d’ye think,” asked Macphail sharply. “It’s a grammyphone, of course.”
“And what might that be when it’s at hame?” asked Para Handy.
“For peety’s sake,” said the exasperated Macphail. “D’ye live in the Erk or somethin’? Grammyphones is a’ the rage in the big hooses nooadays. Listen and I’ll show ye!”
And opening the leather case to reveal a stack of black shellac records, he pulled one out, set it on the turntable on top of the instrument, birled the handle to wind up the spring-driven motor, swung the playing arm over and carefully lowered the needle into its groove.
A tinny version of Rule Britannia, sung by an enthusiastic but breathless soprano who sounded as if somebody was standing on her foot, blared from the horn of the gramophone and across the harbour. Heads turned to stare at the Vital Spark from all directions.
Para Handy, Dougie and Sunny Jim retreated towards the puffer’s bow.
“My Cot,” said the Captain. “Whateffer wull they think of next? How on earth do they get the wumman to fit into the box — never mind the baun’!”
“Very funny,” said Macphail sarcastically. “Ye ken fine hoo it works, ye’ve seen them aften enough in the shops.
“It’s the thing o’ the future! A concert-hall in every hoose! A few years frae noo the harmonium and the piano wull be things o’ the past. Nae mair frien’s an’ relations makin’ eejits o’ themselves tryin’ tae play choons they cannae play and wraxin’ tae sing sangs their voices wisnae built for. Instead a’body can hae entertainment tae suit every taste at their command jist so lang as they hiv plenty o’ these!” And reaching into a small recess on the top of the machine beside the turntable, he held up a small, fancily-decorated tin full of tiny needles.
Sunny Jim, meanwhile, was picking through the selection of records in the leather case.
“There’s no mich here for the likes o’ us, Dan,” he said. “This all looks gey highbrow stuff tae me. Who’s Dame Nellie Melba and whit’s an operetta when it’s at hame? Whit aboot Dan Leno or Marie Lloyd, or even some Harry Lauder? And I dinna see onythin’ that wid be suitable for a baal or a soiree. Nae Gay Gordons, nae Dashing White Sergeant: jist waltzes and polkas an’ that.”
“Exactly,” said Macphail, whose ideas of the appropriate sort of musical taste for a gentleman to assume had been honed and moulded by many years acquaintance with the glamorous world of his penny novelettes. “That’s the point! None o’ this popular trash, jist class, class at yer fingertips!”
“Cless!” said Dougie pointedly. “I’ve no’ had a cless since I left the school and I’m no’ stertin’ noo! Jum’s right, this iss aal right for the chentry, but it’s no’ the same as a good birl on the melodeon, when Jum’s in good trum.”
“Nor better nor yoursel’ on the trump,” conceded Para Handy generously. “Mony’s the spree we’ve had with them both.”
“Jist wait you and see,” said Macphail defensively. “Every hoose in the land will hae yin o’ these afore lang. And besides ye can get every type o’ music ye care tae think of for it, so if ye wantit onything at a’, from the Hokey Cokey to the Reel o’ Tulloch, ye wud jist awa’ oot and buy it.”
“Fair enough,” said Jim, “if ye could afford it! But there’ll aye be a place for the melodeon, and the trump come tae that.”
Over the next few days, though, the Mate and Sunny Jim became more enamoured of the new-fangled plaything and for most of the time the puffer was on passage, the instrument sat on the hatchway and blared out a selection chosen from a collection of records which proved, if nothing else, that their departed owner had been a man of eclectic, not to say strange, tastes.
Only Para Handy remained aloof, and lost no opportunity to play down the worth of the new acquisition, and stress the value of having available for entertainment purposes on board any vessel such extempore live musicians as Dougie and Jim.
The performances of Macphail’s travelling open-air concert-hall received what the newspaper columnists would have referred to as ‘mixed reviews’. Some of the river traffic detoured towards the puffer in search of the source of the mysterious sounds but others beat a very hasty retreat to distance themselves as much as possible from it.
Which reaction occurred, and how quickly, usually depended on what particular record was in concert at the time. Italian opera did not, as a general rule, go down very well with either mariners or yachtsmen on the Firth: American brass band music on the other hand was very much more popular — and nothing more so than Liberty Bell, which acted like a magnet for approaching vessels and which, as a result, Macphail aired so frequently and repeatedly that Para Handy remarked that in no time at all the groove would be worn right through to the other side of the gramophone record.
Matters came to a head at Arrochar, where the Vital Spark arrived one Saturday afternoon to discover that a dance was being held that evening in the village hall. Jim was sent ashore to acquire tickets for all, and the senior members of the ship’s company spent a couple of hours on a toilet as elaborate as it was unusual.
“Look at the three o’ ye,” said Jim sardonically, “three merrit men that should ken better gettin’ all spruced up tae dance wi’ lassies young enough tae be yer ain dochters! You should tak’ shame at it!”
“What you should take shame at, Jum, iss the way you aalways cairry yon melodeon wi’ you to the country soirees, for you ken fine that you’ll aye be asked to perform when the band iss at its refreshments, and it gives you a shameless chance to flirt wi’ aal the gyurls and impress them wi’ your general agility on the unstriment!” retorted the Captain. And sure enough, Jim had already looked his melodeon out and was wiping it with a cloth to bring out the shine o
n its brass fittings.
“Not,” continued the skipper, “that I aaltogether begrudge you that, Jum, for you’re a better player than maist of the bands and I fair enchoy a good selection on the melodeon myself!”
The crew’s consternation, therefore, when they reached the Hall to find that the band which had been booked had not arrived on the steamer from Helensburgh, and that the organisers were thus intending to cancel the event, may be imagined.
Macphail was the first to recover his composure.
“There is no need for that at all,” he said. “For on the shup Ah’ve got a cracker o’ a grammyphone, wi’ a fine selection o’ music. Jist gi’e me the len’ o’ a couple o’ your chaps tae get it up here and this’ll be the best soiree Arrochar ever had!”
And so, indeed, it seemed.
The vaunted instrument — or ‘implement’ as Para Handy had now christened it — was indeed a great hit with the folk of the village, and Macphail found himself the unaccustomed centre of attention of a flattering coterie of ladies — young, and not so young.
Sunny Jim, who had taken his melodeon back down to the puffer in despair earlier in the evening, looked on in disgust.
“Stole my thunder, so he has,” he complained. “And him a merrit man that age! Arrochar’s aye taken kindly to my melodeon in the past but the nicht, they never even wantit it!”
And he went to sulk at the far end of the hall and sat with his back to the posturing engineer.
Five minutes later Para Handy tapped him on the shoulder and winked in conspiratorial fashion.
“Jum, I think it would be no’ a bad idea if you wass to go on doon to the shup and retrieve your melodeon. You could bring Dougie’s trump at the same time, for there’s goin’ to be a demand for some real music here in a few minutes, and it wudna be fair if you had to play aal night. You should be allowed to enchoy the dancin’ too, and I know fine that Dougie wull be only too pleased to spell you every noo and then so that you can have a circuit or two o’ the floor wi’ some o’ the gyurls.”
Complete New Tales of Para Handy Page 16