Sibling Love

 My Father at the start of WW2

 My father had a big red book of Scottish songs and music in his possession for years and it was eventually passed to me. 

 

It was just a fixture when I was growing up and I never had a proper look at it. My oldest son, Christopher, looked after it for me when I lived in Tenerife.  It was only after I moved back to Scotland in 2017 did I take the time to have a proper look at it and I must confess it was an 'eye-opener'.

My father was 23 when this book was bought for him in 1941 by his youngest sister, my Aunt Minnie (16yrs old, nearly 17 yrs old then). She must have had a deep love for my Dad.

At that time my father and his brother Charlie, both of the 8th Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders were in a german stalag having been captured at St Valery-en-Caux. 

My father is at the end, bottom left, and my Uncle Charlie is bottom, 2nd from the right.
 

Now she wouldn't have known at the time whether she would see either of them alive again and given her age and in the midst of a war, even buying it 2nd hand (it is a large and beautiful book) must have been an enormous commitment for her and she must have had a deep love and faith that they would return.

 She sent them a photograph (above) of her to the POW camp probably with a message that I don't have.

 

She had inscribed the book saying it was the property of Bertie Gibson, (my father's family called him Bertie and my mum's family called him Bob. My mum and dad were married in 1949)

 
 and if you look closely, whilst very faint, she drew an outline of her head and my father's head.

And also inside the book there is a pressed flower.

My Aunt Minnie then lied about her age and joined the women's army in England.

 

 My Aunt Minnie is 2nd from the right.

 

  And my father was the best man when she married before eventually emigrating to Australia where she is survived by her daughter Heather and her two sons Euan and Clyde and their families.

 

Memories of a bye-gone age 2

 Carrying on from yesterday.

My Dad

This is my Dad before going off to WW2 where he served in the 8th Argylls. He's be about 20 in this photograph.

 

My Dad (bottom far left) and his older brother, my Uncle Charlie (bottom, 2nd from the right) in a POW camp after their capture at St Valery in 1940 where they remained despite many escape attempts until the war ended. Little is said about why the fight at St Valery happened and while it was happening Dunkirk was being evacuated (I think) and the link is here if you would like to learn more. 

 

This is my Mum and Dad's wedding photograph (1949?) with my Mum's younger sister, my Aunt Isabel, and one of her younger brothers, my Uncle Stewart.

 Part 2

Every son I think looks up to their dad and I was no different.  My Dad served his apprenticeship as a Painter and Decorator in Dunoon before signing up to serve in the war, He was in the 8^th Argylls and he was captured at Saint Valerie in France which was very early in the war.  My father never spoke about it much, just that they were to hold the Germans back at all costs.  They were also in part a sacrifice to try and bolster the French.  I am no expert, however my father and his older brother Charlie who served in the same regiment, were captured by the Germans and served the rest of the war out in a POW camp.  After numerous attempts at escape the Germans threatened to shoot them all if they tried again.  One of the very view stories my Father told, as much to teach me about the human mind as about the war, occurred during another escape attempt, he and a number of others were running across a field when the Germans opened fire, one of the hopeful escapees was shot in the legs but continued to race across the field until some shouted to him, you’ve been shot in the legs at which time he promptly collapsed.

 

As I said my father never really spoke about the war however without doubt it was a harrowing experience.  As a wee foot note to my father’s war experience, his oldest sister who settled and lived in Canada died off a ripe old age in her nineties, her daughter, my cousin Marion, discovered postcards from the POW camp to her Mum and a photograph too showing my very young Dad and his brother my Uncle Charlie. (Shown at start of this post.)

 

My Mum and Dad got married in 1949 which is the time they moved out of Dunoon through to West Calder where they eventually lodged with two brothers, Johnny and Willie. I had only ever known my father’s mother and my mother’s Father who were alive and living in Dunoon, we did see them but not to often which is why Johnny was such a blessing, he had lost an eye and therefore took early retirement (I think), he was like a surrogate Grandfather with a massive kind and generous heart.  Willie was great too, but he had his own life. When we were small and visited them, they still had a big black fire range on which they could cook. Incidentally my sister Moira was born and lived there before my Mum and Dad and her moved to Polbeth where they settled in the two-storey tenement in Chapelton Drive.  My twin sister Isabel and I arrived in June 1952.  There was no double glazing, central heating, microwaves, automatic washing machines or any of the conveniences we take for granted now.  It seemed too little me a big drafty, cold house. We were continually warned, be quiet, you’ll disturb Mrs McClafferty, the lovely old lady who lived below us.  During the winter waking up to frost covered widows, we knew that my Mum was already up and would have the fire going. My Father didn’t really get many holidays then, in fact he used to work Christmas day also.  I remember wakening up with my twin sister Isabel, we shared a room when we were small, to see our presents, and my dad coming in and helping me put up my Indian tepee before he went to work. 

 

My Dad years later got a job with the BMC in Bathgate, eventually to be known as British Leyland.  He was a viewer in B Block, I think.  One of his colleagues wrote a wee poem about him called “Bob the Viewer”.  I mention that because it showed me more of what my dad was like as a person and he obviously was popular as a work mate.

 

Talking about work, my Uncle Angus one of my Mum’s younger brothers told me this story about him and my dad where in Dunoon everyone new everyone.  My Uncle Angus had a job as a telegraph boy, hardly any telephones, no faxes, computers, emails etc.  His job entailed wearing a small round hat with his uniform; his company vehicle (it may even have been his) was a pushbike.  As soon as a telegraph arrived it was his job to deliver it speedily to the recipient. In the meantime, my father had returned to work in Dunoon after the war and resumed his job as a Painter and Decorator. He was walking down a hill as my Uncle Angus as a telegraph boy was making his way up the hill, his mind set on his soon to be new career as an apprentice painter and decorator.  My father called out to him with a big smile on his face “I hear you’ll be joining us soon young MacKay.”  At that point my Uncle Angus new he would be okay and be looked after.  He tells the story with a laugh finishing by saying “it was only because he had his eyes on my big sister (my future Mum). 

 

My Dad’s early life was very hard, he came from a very large family of 14, I think, where there was never enough to go around and everything was hand me downs.  My grandmother was a great woman, very gentle.  She came from I think a reasonably well to do family in Dundee.  My Grandfather whom I never met wasn’t the nicest of people, he had one leg, used to drink and gamble and had a violent streak which he used to take out on his family including my grandmother.  That is partly why I have relatives all over the world, once they were old enough (pre-war) they moved away.  My Dad said he used to run about in his bare feet as a boy.  He told me he once played truant from school and was spotted by the truancy officer at which my father promptly took flight and ended up scaling a lamppost.  Well, we live and learn!  My Dad always seemed so laid back however I think he always had a concern about me driving in my younger days as he used to say to me “Remember, better being ten minutes late in this world than ten minutes early in the next!”

 

After living at Chapelton Drive for 20 plus years, my parents got the opportunity to finally move to Langside Crescent, the wooden houses as they were known.  We had a much nicer terraced house which became a great family home.

 

When the opportunity to move arrived my father tried to figure out a way to get the removal done inexpensively as money was tight.  In these days of coal fires, we had the Briquette Man.  For those of you who don’t know what a briquette is, I am not a 100 percent certain either, it is like a brick made out of coal dust which you burned on your coal fire.  The Briquette Man used to come along once or twice a week selling briquettes from the back of his lorry and he must have passed when my father was in thinking mode for, he came up with the idea of asking the Briquette Man to move us on the back of his lorry.  My Father was a very clever man who could do many things including playing chess well (which is something I never mastered).  However, whilst his idea was sound in principle, he hadn’t thought it out fully which included ASKING MY MOTHER!  The first part of the plan was to ask the Briquette Man, my dad asked me to ask him, I resisted to no avail, I asked the Briquette Man, yes, he would do the move on Saturday at 12 after he finished his “run”.  I should mention here that my mother was immensely house proud, not in a restrictive way, just that she liked everything to be clean and polished and God forbid that the neighbours should ever see anything less.  I was 20 I think at the time of our move and it kind of left a lasting impression on me when my father told my mother and how she responded, we all ducked for safety. Of course, it didn’t take her long to discover that I was involved, she wasn’t angry with me as such, I think she couldn’t understand how I could have been silly enough to go along with my dad’s master plan, to be fair I thought at the time it was an okay idea, like father, like son.  Saturday arrived and there was gentle rain falling much to my mother’s horror, not only were her prized possessions going to be displayed on the back of an open lorry for all to see, but it was also going to be on the back of a black, dusty and now damp if not wet lorry.  I had my car, so I transported some of the stuff, everything else went by lorry.  My poor father was nearly left without a name.  It took my Mum days to clean everything up when it was unloaded after its short 10-minute journey.  Of course, loading and unloading took a lot longer than that.  Langside Crescent was a good move for us, a much better place once my Mum had settled down and forgiven my dad!

 

Moira (my older sister) and James her husband at the time, had two daughters, Helen and Gael whom my Mum and Dad took to see a children’s play or Panto in Bathgate, now I mentioned already that my dad was quite a laid-back person, however when it came to sitting and waiting, well that was a different matter.  He sat there with my Mum, Helen and Gael 9who were realy young) who were no doubt being good but anxious for the production to start. His patience got rather thin, then he said quite impatiently “Jesus Christ when will this thing start?” at which Gael replied with complete innocence and seriousness “is Jesus here too Papa?” which effectively restored my Father’s good humour immediately.

 

My Father used to love walking; when I was young, we walked a lot, so when my first son Christopher was able to walk my dad took him out as well.  One day my dad took Christopher and another wee boy out who Christopher played with when he was at Polbeth, this wee boy lived a few doors away from my Mum and Dad. Out they went and as they were crossing a field my dad cautioned them as there was some cow droppings in front of them.  My Dad as I said earlier never swore or used colourful language in front of women or children said, “Watch out boys for the cow Aa’s!” Christopher’s friend said, “that’s not Cows Aa’s that cow shite!”

 

My Father was a man’s man, he never swore in front of “the kids”, he seemed to know everything and most of all he was totally supportive when necessary.  I think I was in first year at the old West Calder High School, we had finished for the day and all the pupils who needed the school bus home trooped along to the buses.  I got on the single deck bus which went to Polbeth, the front seat behind the driver was free so I plumped myself down on it and sat back. The conductor asked me to move and when I asked why, he said he was keeping the seat for someone else.  I have a stubborn streak which kicked in then, I thought I have as much right to this seat as anyone else and promptly but not cheekily refused to move, after some discussion he grabbed me and pulled me on to the floor. He then reported me to a teacher who was about to board the bus.  I got a row of the teacher and may even have got some lines.  When my father got home, I told him what happened, that was it, he got his jacket and we were off to the teacher’s house, incidentally the teacher lived in Langside Crescent (where we would eventually move to and he would be one of our neighbours in the future).  Needless to say, my heart was in my mouth, this was not what I had expected, however my father was not very happy about my treatment and so we arrived at the teacher’s door, my dad ready to speak his mind.  The teacher, Mr Santini was actually very sympathetic when he heard the full story about what had happened, it was a relief and I was so glad that my dad had not only been sympathetic but had taken immediate action.  I got to know Mr Santini better when I was in his art class when I went to High School, he always addressed us all with great good manners saying, young man or young woman to whoever he was talking too, treating us like adults.  You could not have found a kinder, gentler person.  In the new High School, we had a Kiln and started learning pottery, one day after the class as I was tidying up, thinking nothing of it, Mr Santini came up and said to me “Gibson, if you ever need a reference, come and ask me, you are the only one who ever tidies up afterwards!”  or words to that effect.  Sure, enough I looked around and everyone had gone.

 

My Dad and I had been chatting about Turkish baths and we had both wanted to try it, I had my car so getting there wouldn’t be a problem.  I managed to locate Turkish Baths in Portobello, Edinburgh and that is where my dad and I went one Saturday afternoon.  We didn’t have a clue what to expect as we arrived at the door of a very large imposing Victorian bath house.  We paid at the door and walked into the bath section.  We pushed through the wooden double doors and entered a different world where men walked about wearing only towels wrapped around their waist.  The attendant met us and established quickly that we required some help, so he kindly gave us a quick tour of the establishment.  We started with the changing rooms which were quite warm, then he took us through another door and as we followed him my dad whispered to me “it’s really hot here.”  The man looked over his shoulder as we followed and told us boldly that this was the cooling down room.  My Dad just looked at me with a strange expression on his face.  We then proceeded to the dry heat room which for me at that time was like walking into a furnace, there were wooden beds where men lay back and ‘cooked’.  We then moved to the steam room which had wooden slatted benches around the wall, the room was filled with steam and was a totally different type of heat from the dry heat room.  My Dad and I then were introduced to the plunge pool which we were advised to use when we were finished so that our pores would be closed down.  My dad just nodded his head.  We got changed and had a great afternoon, the first of many that I spent there over the years.  When we were finished my dad stuck his big toe in the really cold water of the plunge pool and shook his head saying that he wasn’t going to jump into any plunge pool.  The plunge pool was set in the middle of the floor between the changing rooms and the hot rooms, it had a plastic curtain hanging down to the water so that when you plunged in you had to duck underneath the curtain and come out the other side.  The attendant who was in the changing rooms spotted my dad and I and came through to advise us again to take the plunge, I can still see my father gritting his teeth as he discarded his towel and took the plunge.  He was like a dolphin the way he hit the water and flew out the other side.  I have to say that I was probably exactly the same although it is always so much more fun watching another take the “plunge” for the first time.

 

My dad took early retirement from British Leyland. Just too short a time after he was diagnosed with Cancer, dying of cancer of the Pancreas at 63 in 1981.