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Excerpts from a work
in progress - a sequel to A Slight Mist on the Horizon
“OCH WELL –
THERE YE ARE FOR WHERE YOU’RE GOIN !”
“You
fuggin idiot !! – what the ‘ell is goin’ on !!” – Lackie’s face was
crimson with disbelief and horror as he realised what was happening.
The wire snapped taught, the boggie came to a shuddering halt and the yacht –
a classic and much loved Hilliard, slid………….and slid !
This was 1976 and l was working as a designer at a yard on Scotland's West Coast,
a beautiful sailing ground attached to the north side of the Clyde and for some
reason l cannot quite remember now, l was helping in the launch of a well
cherished craft of beauty. That is, a craft of beauty and grace, until the
“black squad” got hold of it.
I was first introduced to the “squad” on a cold and wintery March morning
– a typical Gareloch morning with the mist gently moving over the water’s
surface and a winter’s golden sun filtering through the low cloud over the
snow clad mountains at the head of the loch – a scene of tranquillity and
enough to get any man in the mood for a good day – a good day that is, until
you swivelled round to face the motley crew standing in front of me – and then
the heart sank as the complete corollary to nature’s natural beauty sank at
the feet of what man can knowingly do to nature – five men of such awful
demeanour and total uselessness.
To the left stood their leader, a certain Mr. Lackie – erect and strong
from his feet to his stomach, after which his body took an alarming incline to
the left like a weakened strand of grass to lean heavily onto an object as wide
as it was high – it’s girth sheathed in an ancient apron of incredible filth
above which rose a cardigan of ragged holes, a face of bulbous alcoholic stuper
topped with a bonnet permanently glued in place and sporting a blunt pencil
behind the ear – l give you Gibbie Cartwright – and to his left the “hurry
brothers” – twins of ancient years with limbs that seemed to entwine each
other so that it was difficult to work out who’s was who’s (but needing to
stand entwined to remain upright) and given the name in honour of their complete
inability to start any work on time.
I was going to turn quickly from this scene of awfulness to drink in once again,
natures’ bounty as an antidote to the scene in front of me, when my eyes fell
on the last member of the squad. Member, may not be the correct word – perhaps
“appendage” may be better, for stuck on the end of the line was “Wullie”
– sometimes known as “Barlinnie Wullie” – diminutive in size, diminutive
in stature, diminutive in any form of intelligence but, as l learned later,
lethal with his weaponry – namely, his “jaggy bonnit!” – a greasy piece
of headgear laced along it’s forward peak with sewn-in razor blades – a
deadly piece of equipment when Wullie wielded it in one of his favourite
past-times – the traditional fist fight at the end of a Friday night drinking
session in one of the less salubrious drinking establishments in Port Glasgow.
So there they were – the crew to launch a thousand yachts ! Five men all
complete with around five brain cells between them and nine eyes – yes, just
nine – you could not count Wullie’s left eye which seemed to have a mind all
it’s own wandering off to vistas far away from what we were trying to do.
Back to the yacht –this craft of resplendent beauty in it’s lovely Donegal
green paint job, lovingly finished with gold leaf on it’s cove line, was being
lowered down the slip and out of the shed on a boggie and carriage. As usual,
the yacht was allowed to run out and
cross the coast road onto the lower slip ready for final launching.
Wullie was to watch for traffic along the road and warn the winchman, Lackie if
any approached, in good time for the boggie, with the yacht on top, to be slowed
and stopped gently…….but this was the morning after the weekend before and
Wullie was suffering the after effects off his usual state of total inebriation
over the weekend – his attention was on his bladder and he did not see the
approaching car until too late – my immediate thought was, that in relieving
himself beside the shed he had unfortunately been stung on his “dapper” by a
thistle or nettle, for he spun round, “dapper” in hand, spraying the road as
he rotated whilst doing an impression of a dervish on heat – the words
“there’s a fuggin motor comin’ doon the road!” shot from his mouth as he
frantically signalled too late for the winchman to apply the brake which Mr.
Lackie did, by jumping on the brake lever with such force that the boggie simply
stopped dead – the problem was, that 5 tons of yacht was not going to stop
dead and it continued on it’s way towards the water – off the boggie and
stood teetering on it’s keel with no visible form of support.
But the car was fine – it was just Mrs. Shaw on her way to the post office in
Rosneath and she gave a cheery wave and a wee toot on her horn as she sped past
the gormless five - they watched and prayed – l watched and prayed, our six
mouths open as the yacht – now a glistening thing of beauty bathed as it was
in the golden winter sun light, teetered………and teetered, until finally –
slowly at first but then quicker, fell sideways onto it’s hull shattering
it’s complete starboard side into matchwood !
Lackie sat, Gibbie pulled his bonnet down over his eyes and tried to hide under
the rim, the Hurry Brothers looked at each other, limbs inter-twined and Wullie,
dapper in hand walked away up the road and disappeared into the morning mist.
“Is that Mr. Wilson ?”
“Aye it is – is that the yard? – how’s ma boat? – is she in the water
yet? – l know it’s high tide early this morning, so there isn’t much of a
time window to get her in and l want to come up this weekend with the family and
take her down to Dunoon”
I leave the make-up of the rather stilted explanation and it’s effect on poor
Mr. Wilson, to the reader’s imagination !
That afternoon l travelled to the Companie's other yard to take measurements off
one of big T’s yachts – 'Slack Alice 3' which was in the sheds awaiting a
new Teak deck (and the scene of an amazing scrap between his two mistresses –
“wee Linda” and “big Linda”) – but l’ll describe that another time.
I was still a little shocked and down over the demise of such a fine yacht that
morning but ran into Doogie, the Yard Manager who sat back in his old leather
chair in that old lime painted office with it’s reminiscences of the Second
World War – old E-Boat binoculars hanging from the wall, an old gas mask box
(now filled with odd brass yacht fittings) and lurid fading pictures on the wall
of leggy, scantily clad show girls with “come-on” smiles – he leant back
in his old chair and sucked on his pipe, filling the room with grey shag smoke
and after hearing my dreadful explanation of the mornings’ events muttered the
immortal words – “Och well – there ye are, for where you’re goin !”
– a completely meaningless saying, but one which seemed to sum up what
sometimes, appears to be the complete insanity of life !...................................
..............................................
“I
hear tell, ye have a fine wee bairn, a wee hen!?”
“Er yes, my wife gave birth just last night”
“Well, ye must teach her to protect herself! Teach her to kill !!”; and with
this, John went off into a stumbling dance, where he fought an imaginary foe
with kicking feet and punching paws until he fell over in a whirl of flaying
limbs.
Actually, John was said to be an expert in self defence; and for that matter,
unprovoked attack!! It was said that he had killed a man. “Aye, l did, in the
bog at the head of Fort William jetty, panned his head against the “Shunk”,
l did !!”
I know what you are thinking, that John the Horse got his name from the cowboy
series Bonanza. Not so, John had been a horse breaker around the West Highland
Estates and had broken his back by falling from a colt. His back, was mended
with a steel plate, and he lived amongst the hedgerows of Mill Brae, overlooking
PortKill Bay by the twin villages of Cove and Kilcreggan; one of several
outlandish characters scrapping a living in an outlandish but extremely
beautiful area, overlooking the fine waters of the Firth of Clyde, hugging the
north peninsular shore with Loch Long and the forested hills of Argyll to it’s
West and the Gareloch with the ever snow capped peak of the “Rest and be
thankful” to it’s East, beyond Rosneath point.
Typical of the older inhabitants in this idyll, John was prone to imbibing a
little too much of the local, strictly illegal spirits along with the local
bobby who, was known for his arriving two hours late at a house fire, due to the
state of his head. This after partaking of a little “nippy sweetie” with
John. The “spirit”, deep red in colour and only to be taken in the smallest
quantity if you wanted to continue to have any control over your legs, was the
product of our neighbour Hendry. Hendry was once the village cobbler, and the
proud but secretive owner of a “worm”. This device, for distilling his
spirit from secret ingredients was heard, by my wife and l, to be dragged from
under the flagstones of his kitchen each night. The resultant liquor was drunk
with due reverence as the moon rose over the lush hills which form a back-drop
to this peninsular community. It was on one such day, after John had taken a
little too much of the ruby spirit, and lay comatose under the bushes between
our Manse and the village church, (both beautifully designed by the famous
architect Greek Thompson in Victorian times), that we were able to remove from
him his old kilt, which had never before been washed and which stank to high
heaven.
Before we describe the cleansing of John’s kilt, let us stay for the moment
with matters spiritual. At one time, the villages boasted two churches, one
beside us at the top of the long winding brae with powerful views over the
Clyde. From his high pulpit, the Vicar could espy his wayward parishioners, out
sailing in the Sunday regattas, when they should have been kneeling and
listening to him droning on. The other church was at the bottom of the brae and
was more puritan and consequently ugly in it’s form. At one time, many years
ago, it was decided that there was not a big enough congregation to fill both
churches (so many having taken up the sport of sailing one presumes) that one
church should close. It was decided, by the then fairly youthful church goers to
keep the church at the top of the hill – “sure it’s so much more beautiful
and the steep walk will do our bodies good as we go to cleanse our souls”,
forgetting that age and infirmity would make the climb in later age almost
impossible or simply not worth it, to hear the vicar’s droning sermons. So
now, the aged parishioners have to be bused up!
Back to John’s stinking kilt. During the spring and autumn, the bushes here
about, always swarmed with pesky midges that would bite with wicked tenacity all
the inhabitants except John. It was believed that this was due to the awful
stink that emanated from under his kilt. Not even a hungry midge could survive
up that skirt for long and if the wind was blowing from the North whilst John
did his ritual bagpipe playing on the Middle Road just above our Manse, his
stench could be sampled all the way down to the Shore Road which is the main
thoroughfare for the village and the main road out, east and west. This road is
bounded on one side by large Victorian and Edwardian houses, owned at one time
by the Glasgow rich and which all had great festoons of rhododendron in their
front gardens, and on the other by the northern shores of the Clyde. In the
evening, many of the villages would walk with their dogs along this road and sit
on one of the bench seats to look over to the opposite side of the great river
where the lights of Greenock, Gourock and Port Glasgow twinkle.
John could not play the pipes to save his life, but no-one dared complain, not
with those great paws of his ready to strike! It was the brave Mrs. Summers, who
washed his skirt, only to find that the threads holding it together shrunk,
giving the kilt a distinctively feminine bell-like shape. To give us more time
during this awful crisis, John was kept in anaesthesia with more spirit, whilst
we all decided how best to save our skins when he found out! The solution was to
resew the kilt.
Now, John would often be seen imbibing with his mate Larry in the Linga-Longa
bar of the local Hotel and it was he who l bumped into on my way to Maro’s,
the village store, to get some thread to resew John’s kilt. The hotel itself
is a rather magnificent gothic pile, set in resplendent grounds on the Western
edge of Cove, another of what used to be summer houses for the Glasgow elite
which would have had it’s own jetty onto the Clyde so that the owners could be
delivered in style by steam yacht. Now, it is a smoke filled repository for the
locals who sit around the great hearth fire talking of old sailing and poaching
days. In fact, poaching was obviously what Larry had been doing. Poor old Larry
could not hide the still living salmon, flapping furiously under his coat as he
transported it illegally from Clyde to hotel kitchen where it would pay enough
to keep Larry in whisky for half a week.
Kilcreggan still boasts both a Post Office and Maro’s, the village store,
which is a cross between a large off-licence and a small supermarket at the head
of the pier. The off-licence has to be large in order to cater for the twenty
bus loads of “Bears” who arrive daily at 5pm for the trip on the McBrain
ferry back across the water to Gourock Pier. At all costs, avoid going to
Maro’s at 5pm, the queue off the buses snakes for several hundred meters as
each “Bear” waits for his “carry oot!”, usually two cans of McEwens and
a half bottle of Bells whisky, all to be consumed on the twenty five minute
ferry journey; and this is only the second part of the day’s drinking spree.
The first starts when they join the ferry in the morning for the journey across
the water from Gourock to Kilcreggan. Most get on the early ferry at 7.30 which
gets into Kilcreggan Pier at around 8am. The bar on the ferry does not open for
this journey but does open for the journey back, so the “Bears” remain on
the boat and go back to Gourock partaking of the treasures in the ferry’s bar
as they go. They then wait on the ferry once more, to journey back again to
Kilcreggan. Three journey’s, one ferry fare and, by 9am, most have consumed at
least two or three cans plus a goodly amount of the amber nectar; and this
before they are bused from Kilreggan pier to RNAD Coulport where they work as
“industrials”, unskilled labour, in a facility producing Trident and
Chevrolen nuclear missiles for the Navy!
As an aside, l soon learnt that, apart from avoiding Maro’s at certain times,
it was a good idea to avoid Gourock pier at 5.30 on Thursdays. To greet the
“Bears” on the pier at Gourock, the day they received their weekly pay
packets, were their wives, complete with rowdy “bairns”. The exercise was
simple enough. The wives had to wrestle the pay packets from their men, before
the men drank it all. Trouble was, the women folk were often the worse for drink
too; the spectacle was interesting and even exciting the first time l observed
it, but then l became sickened at this awful Dickensian spectacle which still
goes on to this day.
On heading for Maro’s, to get that life saving thread for John’s wretched
kilt, there would be no doubt that l would bump into another of Cove &
Kilcreggan’s infamous characters. Little Miss Flaherty and her little black
poodle “Typhoo”, as she walked her continuous daily patrol along the Shore
Road. Miss Flaherty’s mind had largely left her several years before and her
only concerns were to continuously ask what time of day it was and to ask for a
“jamy piece”. Where she lived in the village, l do not know, but it was
almost certainly amongst that strange community who resided in little wood
shacks just above the shore line at Portkill bay; strange people indeed as the
rather plump women who lived there would often walk the Mill Brae mid summer
sporting gaily coloured French Parasoles and large resplendent bare breasts, the
sight of which had almost caused me to drive into the Clyde on more than one
occasion!
Miss Flaherty caused the vicar so much trouble with her continuous questions
concerning the time of day, that he bought a large clock for her as a Christmas
present one year, only to receive it back again as a Christmas present from Miss
Flaherty, the next year.
Talking about driving reminds me that keeping speed down on the roads here
abouts is essential. Half way up the hill on which Cove and Kilgreggan is
perched and behind the shore – side dwellings, is Middle road which spurs off
the Mill Brae following a contour around the south face of the hill with
resplendent views over the Clyde and which strangely comes to an abrupt end
where it meets School Road. This sudden end has, in the past, been the death of
several motorists who, in the wee small hours of the morning, after a long
session in the Linga Longa bar, have forgotten the road’s end. Forgotten that
is, until their speeding motor has hit the low dry stone wall and attempted to
fly over the gully that allows the School Brook to wend it’s way down to the
Clyde. This event last happened, not long before l left the village for the last
time, a young idiot, the worse for wear with drink, managed to sail clear over
the wall and land with aplomb in the branches of a large Horse Chestnut on the
other side of the brook. The driver didn’t
wake and he was not found until the next day when a little boy
undertaking his nature project on the nesting habits of the local bird
population, remarked to his teacher ”hey miss, there’s a motor nesting in
that big conker tree down the road!” The tree, the wall and the young idiot
still bare the scars!
Eventually, I got the thread and delivered it to Hendry's wife who deftly sewed
John’s Kilt back into a good shape just before he woke from his alcoholic
stupor. I don’t think he liked having a washed kilt and he delighted in
getting it dirty again quickly, but, at least we were saved the anger he would
have had if he had seen it directly after it was washed.
And so, as always, the sun would set over the snaking Clyde after another
typical Highland day. As we used to peer South across the water, the Cloch
Lighthouse would spread it’s beam to flash over Dunoon and the Holy Loch and
then to seep down towards the island of Arun. The lights of a far off car would
be seen as it snaked it’s way down over the hills above Greenock far to the
south towards Kilmacolm. From the east, the panorama would end with the upper
reaches of the Clyde over Port Glasgow and the wreck of the old rusting sugar
boat lying on it’s side, a black hump in the water and the only thing
seemingly dead in this scene.
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