by Ian Stephen
It was about the turn of a century. 1900. A good time for engineering. That’s the year they completed the lighthouse out on the Flannans. They were doing things that just didn’t seem possible. But there was a cost in illnesses and injuries. Working men were learning to get organised. But very few employers were willing to eat into their profit margin to help the march of social progress. So they just had to organise themselves. Dr Grant was not employed by the quarry owners. They were not far-sighted enough to see that the health of the workers was in their own interests.
The doctor would ask what was causing the coughs, the accidents. So he’d be worrying away at the company, negotiating improvements. They got fed up of him. So some bright spark decided they’d sack him. But how do you sack a man you don’t employ?
We’re speaking about a company that made its own rules. You couldn’t just club together and buy a job-lot of tools. That wasn’t allowed. You’d to supply your own but you’d to buy them from the company.
Dr Lachlan wasn’t happy with any of that. He and the men became a strong team. When the company tried to exclude the doctor employed by their workers, the men all pulled together. It was a very early example of the lock-out. They took the bread out of their own mouths. But they couldn’t hold out alone. And the doctor did his bit, writing for the campaign. The boys from the Clyde, they backed the quarry-workers. One day there was a visit from another man in a suit. His name was Keir Hardy.
They won but that’s not the end of this story. This was not just about one quarry, gaining acceptance of one doctor’s right to be there. Dr Grant broadened out the aims. The Highland Development League, the start of an idea for a Health Service – an entitlement not a favour – he was a leading light there.
I might have taken this research a bit further. As it stands, this is only an approach to a line of investigation. I was getting hungry for the details – the data that hints at the story. But I got wind of another cove doing a book on the same subject. Now I do realise that there is more than one work on the bureaucracy of the Third Reich, for example but the timing wasn’t great either. There was a completion certificate to win and I’d need to organise my own working space. When I signed off watch I’d grab some rest then get up a ladder. I couldn’t get the image of the slate-splitters out of mind.
The past lives of workers, nibbling at slate. The crimps putting the pressure on, gradually, so the slate snapped in the right place. An art to it. Like everything else.
I recently helped place some of their work on a roof in SY in the year 2000. It should last longer than the member of the generation sheltered by it. And it should also outlast those who graded the slates and nailed them in place, for her, even though we used galvanised clouts rather than copper.
Lax 1
I told the builder he could have the door from the yellow van. That was a bit of a score we’d acquired, for spares to try to keep the red one going. Our long-term project. We’d sell the Type 3 when the red van, last year of the Type 2, was roadworthy. That’s the Hebridean idea of progress.
I didn’t want anything for the door. But he wasn’t to tow the van away. I needed the other bits.
He asked me again how much I wanted for it. I said that was OK, he’d have a bit I’d need sometime. Next time he saw me he put some notes into my hand. Worrying.
When I went out to the yellow van, for parts for the red one, the door wasn’t there. Fine. But neither was the bumper I’d come for. And the factory-made towbar just wasn’t there either. My watchmate, Charlie, had got that for me quite a while back. Perfect for towing a dinghy. A long connecting bar distributed the load to another strong point.
It had been cut off at the connecting bar. Must have been done in the dark otherwise the guys would have realised it was only a U-bolt in the middle and two studs either side to take it out clean. I’ve done it with a socket-set in three or four minutes.
I had a look at the builder’s blue, two-litre, Type 2 crewbus, when it came out of wraps. It had a newly sprayed bumper and a fitted towbar. This was no longer the standard, factory-built version that went all the way back to the rear axle to distribute the load. It had been adapted. I just asked him where he tracked all the bits. See that place you pass, near Ellon, on the Aberdeen road. You must have clocked a yard full of VWs. That guy was good for spares. If I needed anything, he’d have a look out next time he had the works wagon away, to pick up a kitchen and stuff.
‘Aye, strangely enough, I need a bumper and a towbar.’
Weird things happen. One of his squad did us a couple of big favours. This was the guy who was ace on the grinder and spray paint. Another of these dudes, like Charlie, who can fix anything. But Charlie had got word of his promotion move so our dream team could not last much longer.
‘You were looking for a nice stone slab for under the olaid’s stove,’ this cove remembered.
A piece of Penryn but not just any piece. It was part of the slate bed from the billiard tables in the castle. Guys were just throwing stuff like that from a height into skips. He’d another bit set aside for me, too.
That’s how we acquired a section of the bed of Leverhulme’s billiard table. It might even have been an original purchase for Matheson, the opium lord of the Long Island. Under new legislation it could probably be confiscated as the proceeds of that trade even though supported by the then PM of the realm. Of course we had to go to war in China to protect the interests of our merchants. It’s difficult to say PM out loud without thinking of post-mortem but we’re talking about Mr Disraeli, another prolific novelist.
He was the cove who coined the name McDrug for a character bearing a close resemblance to the fabulously wealthy Sir James Matheson Bart. You can’t say the old PM’s name without thinking of the Cream album. Disraeli Gears. Tales of brave Ulysses, how his naked ears were tortured, by the sirens…
Our heroes. But for the sake of historical accuracy it might be worth checking out Mr Clapton’s reference to Enoch Powell’s ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech. Total psychedelia was fine but it looks like at least one of those guys was against the idea of any more black in the make-up of the UK.
Talking of colours, think of the whin-yellow, the loganberry-orange and the raspberry-red of Type 2 VW vans. Pretty well the shades of the skoosh I used to find in cupboards in a pre-fab in West Road, Fraserburgh. I don’t think any pineapples were damaged in the making of that pineapple-ade. We’re looking at a coastal town situated not a million miles from the rural empire of a VW buff, on the outskirts of Ellon. But let’s move on from that. It’s circumstantial evidence.
Except that something even more strange happened. Now I wouldn’t have said that any builder I’ve come across so far was in a great hurry to give you anything buckshee. The finishings were being put on the olaid’s house just when I got the raspberry and cream van through the MOT.
With some help from Charlie.
‘I never thought you would do it,’ the builder said. ‘And you found a bumper?’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘Just went for a Brazilian one from German and Swedish. I went over it with yacht enamel on the roller. Charlie Morrison’s paint. Came up OK.’
‘What did that ross you?’ he asked.
‘There’s a word I haven’t heard for a while. About a hundred notes,’ I said.
It turned out, the original door I’d got stripped – to go back between the kitchen and the porch – was warped. No use. And the reclaimed flooring that Charlie and me stripped for facings so it had that proper old pine look – that didn’t go as far as we thought it would. But the builder found a half-decent door and more wood and didn’t charge for extras. Interesting.
I no longer have the appetite required for the maintenance of Type 2 vans. Our red one got legalised and went on for a few years but then we found severe rot in the chassis. Not impossible, just what you’d call beyond economical repair. And yet, if you had the time or money, you could have brought it back to near-new condition. The body might be like a machine
but you can’t really do that with humans. I’m in reasonable nick for my age, for example, but some parts have muscle damage which is beyond renewal. Like an area of my lower back. There was no drama. It didn’t happen up on a roof. It happened when I was bending to stack the bramble fruits of Ballachulish, on a pallet.
Then again, there are generations of vehicles as there are of people. As far as I’m aware the Type 4 VW is a very common van, these days though there might be a Type 5 or 6 when you read this.
Willum’s Mary
Her speech never really recovered from the big stroke. In The Broch they say a body has ‘taen a shock’. Her eyes seemed to move that bit faster. So you had no doubts she was taking everything in. She got her home-helps trained. None of them would talk down to her. Otherwise the olaid would get aggressive. No wonder.
But you could tune into her new voice. She’d a memory for turns of phrase. I offered to get her to the kirk one week, if she wanted. We might need a shottie o a chair.
‘A hope it’s ane wi wheels you’re speakin aboot and no ane wi electricity tae fry me,’ she said.
The kirk means the Church of Scotland. Not the one on Kenneth Street. Definitely not the one on Scotland Street. Nor the Bayhead division, nor the new one, out Sandwick way. And of course the new Catholic Church, also on Scotland Street isn’t in the equation. Hope you’ve got all that.
‘No, dinna worry, Peter, loon. I’m nae bothered aboot goin tae the kirk.’
I knew she was worried about how long she could go without the toilet but she saved face.
‘Last time I went there I got naethin but cheek. We’d just seen a coffin oot o the kirk and oer tae the men tae carry her. A neebor fae Westview cam up to claik. You knew her well, Mary? she asks. Aye, says me, weel enough, poor soul. She’s at peace the noo. Was she a good age, Mary? the other ane asks. No really. I dinna think she was saxty-five. How old are you yourself, Mary? Saxty-four, I says. My word, she says, do you think it’s worth your while going home?’
But the olaid seemed able to accept it when she lost this and that. As long as it was physical. Stuff got delivered to her modified house. It was the zimmer first. Later, we needed the Social Work wheelchair to get out of the house. We still called it a stroll when I took her round the block. She kept asking if I could understand her. She missed talking to Canada on the phone but she got flustered when Kirsty couldn’t make out what she was saying. I told her not to worry, I’d let her know if she wasn’t making sense.
I remember telling her about the time I went to borrow the tractor. We were towing a heavy boat to the harbour. A favour for a favour. Anyway, my mate was on the dayshift but he said to pick up the tractor – the grey Fergie painted red. But I’d to see his sister first. Aye, Portrona Drive, the urban croft.
Nobody came to the door when I rang so I went out to have a look at the beast. I was going to give her a warm-up anyway but nothing happened with the starter. Right then the bodach came running over. I’m not kidding, he was like a whippet. He’d been dozing in the chair, out the back door but he just woke up and came running.
‘The battery,’ he said. ‘It’s the battery. John’s got terminals in a box.’
So we found them together. It wasn’t long before I had one connected to replace the cracked one. But before I could step aboard, the bodach was in the seat and the Fergie was away and nearly took the gate off.
The daughter came running out then and waved her arms till he stopped and dismounted. She’d been on the phone. They had a few words and he went meekly back to his seat.
‘John puts that cracked terminal on whenever he leaves the house,’ she said. ‘That’s why he asked you to see me first. The bodach’s grounded. He’s lost it for driving anything.’
You had to admire him grabbing the opportunity.
But when the olaid heard that one from me, she leaned over quietly.
‘A wee word in yer shell-like. Am fair enjoyin the fitba an th athletics an th snooker on the telly,’ she said.
‘Aye?’ I said.
‘Aye, but promise me somethin. If you ever call by an catch me watchin the cricket on the telly, get somebody tae shoot me.’
She wasn’t finished.
‘I jist like tae ken there’s enough tae cover the funeral. That’s all we’re needin in the kitty,’ she said. ‘But a dinna think there’s muckle tae be anxious aboot. It’s like my ain grannie. Grannie Bruce. When ane o the loons tellt her to behave herself or they widna bother aboot a funeral, she says till him, Weel if ye’ll nae bury me for love ye’ll bury me for stink.’
Noble Anvil
First, grow some dill and that flattish-bladed Italian parsley. If you’ve the use of some ground, use that, otherwise put a grow-bag in a fishbox. Plastic is fine. Wooden ones are collector’s items now.
Go to a hidden loch. It has to be a long way from the road. It’s best to go a few days after a decent rainfall.
Leave the fly rod behind because it will get in the way. Late season on Lewis, there’s likely to be squalls too fierce to cast against. Worms are good bait if you can bear to put them on a hook. If not you could cast a spinner.
When you’ve caught enough for the number of people who’ll be eating, leave. You’re unlikely to get done for poaching with rod and line but they’ll take your fish.
Have a dram and start cooking while you’re still hungry from the bogslog.
Gut fish, leave heads intact and make several slashes across the thick backs so the seasoning and butter will enter the pink.
Stuff the cavities with as much parsley and dill, maybe chives, as you can fit.
Stuff more butter in the cavities as well as in the slits, or olive oil if you’d rather. A fair turn of pepper. A fair squeeze of lemon.
A grill at the top of an oven is best so they’re kind of half baking as they’re browning. Look for the skin crackling. Turn with care.
Best if there’s some new potatoes, home-grown. If you don’t have a plot of ground, you can grow them in a tub or inside a couple of tyres, holding soil.
You can dribble on the buttery juices from the pan, maybe with a drop of white wine stirred in but I wouldn’t bother doing the cream sauce bit.
More greenery wouldn’t go wrong.
Let’s stay with this. Going to take a sea trout. Going out over the hill. This is research. You don’t want to postulate a pattern too soon. You don’t want to assume this is like that. This proves that. Or that causes this.
There are false friends in history as in language – words that you think you know because they sound the same but have a different meaning in a different context. Like ‘cuddy’, as I may have mentioned before – that mad way the mainlanders use the word for a fish to mean a horse. Just the one example.
The example in my own mind now is ‘Allied Forces’. There was an occupation, of many countries, in lines out, in several directions, from something called Germany, at the time. These advances were halted, most notably on the eastern fronts. The lines of invaders were eventually beaten back, in Italy and in North Africa, as well as in the Soviet Union. These wars ranged over deserts and over vast, formerly fertile plains. Then a counter-invasion began in Normandy, France. This led to allied forces, advancing through western Europe, as the Russians advanced from the east. So it was also a bit like a race. But Allied Forces is also a computer game. Version 4.0 is best, Anna will tell you. It’s also a term that’s been applied to conjoined efforts to deal with the horrors that occurred in sections of the continent of Europe about fifty years after the recognised end of World War Two. The continent of Europe was still far from peaceful in the last year of a millennium.
A strong case was made for the urgent necessity of collective action of members of the Nato organisation, resulting in the bombing of the country formerly known as Yugoslavia, which took place between March 24th 1999 and June 11th 1999.
Atrocities which became known in allied countries as ‘ethnic cleansing’ but as ‘Operation Horseshoe’ in Kosovo, were
documented beyond all reasonable doubt. Systematic human rights abuses directed at the Kosovan population were an obvious precursor of an escalation of violence against civilians. These actions were already well documented in the Balkan conflict.
This was officially confirmed in 2005 when the United States Congress passed a resolution declaring that ‘the Serbian policies of aggression and ethnic cleansing meet the terms defining genocide’.
This is the obvious reply to those who point out that the decision to bomb, though taken jointly by Nato members and not solely by the USA, did not in fact have the backing of the United Nations at the time of its execution.
At the time, I’d alternate between the Guardian and the Independent for coverage of these conflicts. This also happened to be about the time I realised I couldn’t juggle all the demands of being a decent coastguard, father, husband and son. So I quit the job. Thus I no longer had a meal break to spend in a rest room, catching up with a world outside the mapped environs of Stornoway Coastguard’s area of responsibility. (Out to thirty degrees west and abeam the Outer Hebrides, as it happens.)
But my real understanding of the war only began when I ran away with the milkman. I was still living with Gabriele at the time but I’d like to summarise the points in my defence. Mitigation before litigation.
This guy hovered around on pay day. He was in no hurry to get the cash but would lean back and ease himself into Lewis yarning mode. He spoke of fishing. You could map the seasons by his stories. In April we’d be out into the Tolsta moor, way past the bridge-to-nowhere and he’d name the deep lochs which hid a stock of fit native trout. He’d describe the shades of their speckles and the depth of their taut bellies. The wide muscle in their dimpled dark backs. The pallid nature of the pink in their flesh, falling off the strong but delicate-seeming structure of light bones.