by Ian Crofton
‘I prefer the English,’ he said.
Joyce asked whether she could take his picture.
‘I’m not really a fan of photographs,’ he said.
‘That’s ok,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’
If we hadn’t already eaten, we would have ordered a Special Feast for Four just to cheer him up.
There was a very different mood at Rajdhani Spice, Coldstream’s only curry house. I’d seen a poster by the bridge saying ‘Happy Civic Week From Rajdhani Spice Indian Restaurant & Take Away’.
‘We are in Coldstream just one and half years, so we are not very well known about this place,’ the patron explained. ‘Very nice place, calm and quiet, people are very friendly. You want to take some pictures with us? You take some picture? You take some picture?’
Another young man appeared. ‘Is this a family business?’ I asked. ‘Your brother?’
‘This is my nephew,’ he replied. ‘Family business. Originally we’re from Bangladesh. You been Bangladesh? We’re from Newcastle. I learn cooking from South London.’ Then he produced a photograph of a baby. ‘This is the kaffir, the boss. Any drinks for you?’
I politely declined. It was clearly going to be a night for pacing oneself.
Among the ‘English Dishes’ on offer at Rajdhani Spice were Tikka roll, Mixed roll, Skeek roll, and Fish and chips. A Tikka roll sounded more Brick Lane than Burton upon Trent. A Mixed roll obviously had some kind of identity crisis. And I’ve no idea what a Skeek roll is – the only skeek turned up by Google is an entry from www.urban-dictionary.com. I leave it to the reader to pursue the definitions there.
But the place to go for fish and chips in Coldstream is Anthony’s. Anthony himself has got a strong Mediterranean face, as mobile as his gestures, quick and deliberate like the way he shovels chips into a poke. On his pale blue T-shirt it says ‘ITALIA’. He’s been in Coldstream for fourteen or fifteen years. Before that he’d lived in Edinburgh. His family came from the coast between Rome and Naples.
I observed that it seemed to be the Chinese, Bangladeshis and Italians who fed Coldstream. ‘They’d all starve without you guys,’ I said.
‘Not many people appreciate us,’ Anthony replied. He had a big smile on his face.
I asked him why the Italians were so good at fish and chips.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Must be a natural thing. All the good things’re Italian.’
‘Haggis and chips, please,’ said a customer. The place was hoaching.
There was also a young man serving. I took him to be Anthony’s son until I heard him speak. His accent was southern English. I asked him how he’d ended up here. He laughed. ‘I’m from Edinburgh,’ he said. I think he was joking.
‘We’re all the same,’ said Anthony.
I asked if he’d still got family in Italy. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I go summer, winter, whenever I can. Whenever I get the chance.’
Outside on the High Street it was buzzing. Police officers in high-viz jackets paced up and down. The citizenry milled about in the balmy evening. The sounds of karaoke leaked out of the Newcastle Arms, drinkers spilled out onto the pavements. Further along three young people with guitar, moothie and bongo sat on a step belting out ‘Whiskey in the Jar’.
As I was goin’ over
The far-famed Kerry mountains
I met with Captain Farrell
And his money he was counting.
Two men in party hats were waving light sticks about, blowing huge bubbles out of some bubble-blowing thing.
Yella yella yella!
Any colour you like!
Very cheap!
‘Are you travellers?’ I asked.
‘He asks a lot of questions, this man,’ said the older man. He had a Geordie accent.
I first produced my pistol
And I then produced my rapier,
I said stand or deliver
Or the Devil he may take ya –
Yella yella yella!
Any colour you like!
Very cheap!
‘Asks a lot of questions,’ said the younger man. He had a Geordie accent too.
‘Show people,’ the older man said. ‘We’ve got the fair up at the top there. ‘We’ve got hookah-dooks.’
I wasn’t sure what they were. ‘Cool hats,’ I said.
‘Flashing hats,’ the older man said.
Yella yella yella! shouted the younger man.
Musha-ring dum-a-do dum-a-da.
Whack for my daddy-o,
Whack for my daddy-o
There’s whiskey in the jar!
‘You’re going to exhaust yourself twirling that around,’ I said.
‘They’ve got batteries in them.’
‘But your arm hasn’t.’
‘Look at the camera, Jack,’ said the older man. Woohoo, free bubbles!
‘Can I have a light?’ said a passerby.
‘What kind of light d’ye want?’ said the younger man. Yella yella yella!
I took all of his money
And it was a pretty penny.
I took all of his money
And I brought it home to Molly –
‘Are you related? I asked.
‘I’m his father,’ said the older man. Woohoo, free bubbles!
‘That’s me dad over there.’
‘You ask too many questions,’ said the older man.
‘He’s the taxman, I swear,’ said the younger man.
Yella yella yella!
I denied this, told them I was writing a book about the Border. I asked them where they worked the shows.
‘We do all over the country,’ said the older man. ‘Bournemouth to top end of the Hebrides.’
Woohoo, free bubbles!
‘What’s the season?’ I asked.
‘March, May, June, like this is the peak.’ In the winter he did painting and decorating work in the northeast of England. Three years before he’d won a big plastering contract in Fort William.
‘So you were there through the winter? I asked.
‘Ooh, fuckin aye,’ he said. ‘I felt it as well. Then you’ve got the helicopters landing, these crazy people who want to go and climb Ben Nevis. You know when they die in the middle of Ben Nevis, you know how they find them? In the spring when the birds are flyin’ aroond. We were there when the helicopters were landing, at daft o’clock in the morning. Do you get paid for this?’
‘Barely,’ I said.
‘It’s the dream,’ he said, then burst into song. ‘Life is but a dream . . .’
Yella yella yella!
‘I’m down Hartlepool tomorrer,’ he continued. ‘There’s a big parade there. I’m going down with all this first thing, then I’m down Whitby. Whitby’s nice, beautiful place.’
‘And here’s the police,’ I said. ‘Out in force. Just making sure.’
‘Aw hell,’ a woman said as she walked past.
‘Aw hell,’ said her friend.
She swore that she loved me
Never would she leave me
But the Devil take that woman
For you know she tricked me easy –
I could hear a faint drumbeat in the distance. All around there was drunken laughter, shouting in the street.
‘You like bubbles, eh?’ the older man asked Joyce. ‘When I’m moving away like that?’
‘You’ve done this before,’ I said.
‘All over the country, mate,’ he said. ‘For photographers.’
Woohoo, free bubbles!
Yella yella yella!
Musha-ring dum-a-do dum-a-da.
Whack for my daddy-o,
Whack for my daddy-o
There’s whiskey in the jar!
Yella yella yella!
I looked at my watch. There was just time to grab a drink in the Besom before the parade arrived, if the place wasn’t stowed out.
The cheerful young woman behind the bar pulled me a pint of Old Golden Hen. I asked where it was brewed.
‘I’ve no
idea,’ she said. Her accent was from this side of the Border. ‘Dunno.’
‘Way down south,’ a man said.
‘After a hard night’s pulling pints, you’re standing up to it very well,’ I said. She laughed. ‘I thought it’d be more crowded in here.’
‘They’re all waiting for the parade,’ she said.
A big motherly woman at the other end of the bar was in full flow. ‘The girls’ll get your money,’ she told a customer. ‘I’m pulling pints on this side.’
‘Two pints of cider and a red wine,’ said someone.
‘That’ll be five thirty-five,’ said the younger woman.
‘It was me you were serving,’ someone else said.
‘Oh it’s been a long day,’ she said.
‘And it’s not over yet,’ I said.
Outside people were rushing past. There was a feeling of growing excitement. Someone peered out the door. ‘Aye, they’re comin,’ she said, and everybody piled out onto the pavement.
You could hear the drums, then the pipes. They were playing ‘Scotland the Brave’ – no lamenting now, just sheer bravura. A police four-by-four cruised into view, blue light flashing. Then the Coldstream Pipe Band, the drum major at its head, marching out proudly. They’d abandoned their kilts and dress jackets for jeans and hoodies. Then came troops of kids with their parents. Some shook buckets at the crowd, raising funds for who knows what.
Oggy oggy oggy! someone shouted.
Oi oi oi! came the reply.
Danny!
Penny!
Hip hip!
Hooray!
Scores, hundreds of people – mothers, fathers, kids – processed past, many holding small torches. There was nothing as outrageously dangerous as the flames of Lerwick’s Up-Helly-A or the whirling fireballs of Stonehaven or the burning tar barrels of Burghead.
Yella yella yella!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
This was not the dark-defying of the midwinter fire festivals further north, not a demonstration of pagan machismo. Nor was it the proud show of yesterday’s horsemen and horsewomen, riding high above the crowds. This was a family occasion. The faces all bore big smiles, flickering in the torchlight. It was more of a harvest festival, a night to celebrate family, food, contentment, community. For the children, it was the last late night of the summer holidays, before school started. I remembered the words of the minister, praying at the Abbey Ceremony: ‘Remind us that home is not gourmet meals or fancy furniture, but commotion mixed with contentment, problems mixed with prayer, gentleness, kindness, laughter and love.’ There, before me, walking happily down Coldstream’s High Street, were just some of Jock Tamson’s bairns.
Then it was a rush down to Tweed Green again, to welcome the pipers and the marchers after their tour through the town. In the old days, the marchers would hurl their fiery brands into the river, but now they more decorously dunk them in a bucket.
The spectators lined up in rows on the steep banks on the town side of the Green. Dress was informal compared to the smart riding costumes of the day before. Only the female teens were done up to the nines, many in long dresses, tricked out in jewellery and slabs of make-up. They wandered about, arm in arm, making eyes and giggling. It was the place to be seen, perhaps the one night in the year when the town had its very own passeggiata. The teenage boys seemed largely indifferent. Or perhaps they were too drunk or too shy to make a move.
Everybody was looking at their watches, waiting for 10.30. There were still some streaks of light in the west. Then, at the appointed hour, the sky across the Tweed was filled with multi-coloured explosions. The crowd roared with approval.
There were crackles, pops, bangs, wheeees. Ooooh, went the crowd. Aaaaah.
As the fireworks grew to a climax, the air filled with a crescendo of furious screaming. The crowd screamed back. It was as if all the devils of hell were after the souls of the slaughtered.
It had been my intention to go to bed straight after the fireworks. Tonight I was prepared for a better night’s sleep. I’d bought earplugs.
But I had not reckoned on the hospitality of the drum major. I was just returning from brushing my teeth at the hosepipe when I found myself lured into his capacious campaign tent with the promise of beers unlimited. He and his friends from the Coldstream Pipe Band turned out to be a fount of stories.
When I asked the drum major about the big police presence in the town, he said that in the old days the police would intercept English revellers heading for Coldstream during Civic Week and turn them back. Otherwise there was always trouble. The police effectively acted as border guards.
He used to go the other way, south across the river, to get into trouble. ‘When I was young,’ he said as he pulled the ring on a can – ‘I was young once, believe it or not – the pubs closed at ten o’clock and we used to go to Cornhill for the last half-hour. Same on the Saturday, pubs used to close at two o’clock, half two here, three o’clock in England, so we used to go across the Border for the last half-hour.’
He was rightly proud of the Coldstream Pipe Band. ‘There’s three guys who started in our band who went on to be drum majors in the KOSB. It’s an amazing achievement for a little band.’
I said it was good to see a lot of young faces playing the pipes and drums.
‘We’ve always had kids, always have,’ he said. ‘But the problem with the kids is you get them in the band, you teach them, they get to the age of sixteen, seventeen, eighteen – and other things take over. But they always come back. I was away for a good ten years, came back. It was because I got an ultimatum, my marriage or the band. And in the end I got divorced so I wish I’d kept with the band. That’s rock and roll for you.’
He remembered that when he was young the band used to play Thursday night in Berwick, and when they stopped playing they’d close the bar. ‘So we’d go to the nightclub and get absolutely hammered. And some of the lads had to get up for school the next day. I don’t think I was a bad influence. All part of growin’ up. I think they had a good upbringing. They werenae roamin’ the streets, they were in the band.’
I told him I’d seen English home rule posters on the back of the sign welcoming visitors to Cornhill, on the other side of the Tweed.
‘Ah, I wouldnae pay any attention to that,’ he said.
‘The English Defence League?’ I asked.
‘I dunno. It’s no goin’ to happen anyway. My sense is that the Borderers are dead against it. Cos if they get it – I live in England, just, and I get a lot of work in Scotland. So where do I pay my taxes? Do I pay them to Scotland, do I pay them to England? Do I have to show my passport every time I cross the bridge?’
‘The vodka’s finished,’ said a woman with an English accent. ‘And the flat coke’s half empty.’
‘The vodka’s finished?’ he asked.
‘There was only a little bit in it,’ she said.
‘Bloody English, drinkin’ all ma drink.’ He laughed. ‘Have you ever got off the train at Berwick? Well, if you were going down onto the platform, there’s a big sign saying that this station is on the site of the Great Hall of Berwick Castle. And that’s where Edward I held court, where he summoned the contenders to be king of Scotland, and he decided on John Balliol. That’s where that happened. And during the Wars of Independence the English captured Robert the Bruce’s wife and they hung her in a cage frae the walls of Berwick Castle for weeks . . .’
He looked wistfully into the middle distance, as if the past lay there, then took a sip from his can. ‘In 1296 Edward crossed the Tweed here. The English ransacked the abbey and the prior of the time wrote to them and asked for compensation, and he got it. Got money in compensation.’
He laughed. ‘And then fae here Edward went to Berwick and he slaughtered seven thousand people. They reckon he only stopped because he saw one of his soldiers with his sword in a pregnant woman. And he said that’s enough. Seven thousand.’ He paused. ‘He was a vicious man.’
There wa
s a silence. Then in a quiet voice he said, ‘History’s a funny thing, in’t it?’
TWELVE
A PLEASANT PASTORAL STREAM
Coldstream to Horncliffe
. . . the Tweed . . . is a pleasant pastoral stream . . .
– Tobias Smollett, The Expedition of Humphry Clinker (1771)
It wasn’t until November that I travelled back north to complete the journey begun six months before. At the top edge of Berwick a Cross of St George flew in the garden of a pebble-dashed semi backing onto the East Coast Line. It must have been the most northerly Cross of St George in England.
Over the Border, as the sun lowered across the Merse, the ploughed fields turned deep red, then purple in the dusk. Other fields were green and purple with beets, neeps, cabbages, sprouts. Beyond lay unseen cliffs dropping into the steel-grey sweep of the North Sea.
It was dark by the time the train drew into the caverns of Waverley. Walking up the steep ramp out of the bowels of the station I’d expected to be greeted by the chill, damp gloom of a November evening. Instead there was light, colour and music. Above me the stern Victorian façade of Jenner’s department store had been transformed by pink floodlighting into something French and frothy. And on the corner of Waverley Bridge and Princes Street, where for years an old lag had belted out ‘Scotland the Brave’, ‘Speed Bonny Boat’ and a couple of other standards, there was a fresh-faced young piper – it might have been a boy or it might have been a girl – in a beanie hat playing passionate pibroch, weaving dazzling variations out of reeds and wood and air. The notes spiralled like a buzzard in an updraft.
Day Nine: Friday, 15th November 2013 And so I found myself on a chilly morning back at Coldstream, this time on the English side of the bridge. Below me the Tweed rushed through the narrow passage between the bank and the wide weir called the Cauld. My old friend and climbing partner Bob Reid had given me a lift south from Edinburgh, and he was going to accompany me for the last two days of the walk.