From primary school 'hell' to high school 'heaven'

As you will have read elsewhere, I was very unhappy at primary school, especially at George Watson's College. Fortunately, I was taken away from that school and went to Dalkeith High School instead. Strangely enough - in a way - in had nothing to do with me (and my unhappiness), it was all to do with my older brother, Donald, or more precisely my parents hopes for his future.

Watson's made a claim that something like 98% of their final year students who applied to university were successful. It was a very good promotional claim. What prospective customers probably did not know was that there was another 'promotion' - a set of exams by that name that determined whether or not pupils entering their final senior years would have a chance of gaining university entrance.

In those days, the 1950s/60s, you had to have a 'Higher' entrance exam pass in a language (other than English) t gain admittance to university. At the end of year 3 of senior school, all pupils sat their 'promotion' exams and Donald failed French. As a result, he failed to make it into 4 'U' - the university form - and was assigned to 4 'N' which meant he could not take a language - and therefore he was destined not to qualify for university.

My father was furious and went to see Dr Ian Macintosh, the headmaster (who was about to become headmaster of Fettes College where one of the pupils in his charge was the future PM, Tony Blair), to insist that Donald be given the chance to get to university. Dr Macintosh was not to be moved. He told my father that Donald was good at Mathematics and - with his Watsonian tie - he would have a first rate career in banking or insurance - and be much happier in life as Donald was not 'cut out' for university. 

My father's reaction as to say he that he was not prepared to pay fees to a school that was not going to afford his son the opportunity to try for university entrance. He would now withdraw his sons, both Donald and Angus, from Watson's and send them to the local state high school.

The 'old' DHS in 2007, abandoned since 2003 - a sad sight - and now demolished

And so in the autumn of 1957 I went to Dalkeith High School - although there was a rumour among my old classmates at Watson's, related to me by one of them when we met at Edinburgh University many years later, that I had been expelled from Watson's. 'We all felt bad about it, and somewhat ashamed,' I as told, 'Rattray really had it in for you - and we should have supported you instead of 'enjoying' your discomfort.' 

As for Dr Macintosh's assessment: Donald was able to take French at Dalkeith HS and passed his 'Higher' French and gained an MA and BD from Edinburgh University, a Masters from Columbia University, New York, and a Doctorate from Richmond University, Virginia.

And I escaped the tyranny of Watson's! Was DHS 'heaven'? Well, perhaps not, but all things are relative - and compared to my years at Watson's my years at Dalkeith High were just so much better.

'How the study of Latin... sort of... set me up for academic success!'

This is a classical tale of serendipity, and has little to do with declensions, the dative case, conjugating verbs, exploring Latin roots, or even reciting ditties with vague Latin connotations, like 'Amo, amas, I loved a lass...' In short, it was the result of a totally unplanned and unforeseen interaction involving three rather eccentric and out-of-the-usual characters.

As recorded elsewhere on this site, my primary school days were an unmitigated disaster, but the saving grace was that in my final year at George Watson's College in Edinburgh, I was introduced to Latin (as indeed were all pupils, regardless of their grade, in final year of Junior School). 

Our Latin master was something of a legend at Watson's, the eccentric 'Sandy Mac' (Alexander MacKenzie), who was a renowned crossword compiler for 'The Scotsman' newspaper. To me at age 11, Mr Mackenzie was a very old man. He had a square, lined face, a high brow accentuated by the fact that he combed his silver hair straight back. He was also a heavy drinker, probably an alcoholic, and a heavy smoker, because there was always the scent of whisky and tobacco about his person. He never seemed to learn any boy's name but would refer to each of us as 'Boy,' his stock-in-trade question always began, 'Well, boy' (with the 'e' vowel elongated so that the 'well' was always drawn out... 'Weeeell, boy?). 

My father, a pharmacist, had a passing interest in classical languages given that he had had to learn the meaning of pharmaceutical components. When it was clear that, as with the rest of my studies, I was not applying myself to this new academic challenge, my father arranged for the assistant Church of Scotland minister in our parish to tutor me in Latin. He was a young man, straight out of  the University of Edinburgh's New College, the faculty of divinity, and somewhat awkward and not very popular in the parish. It didn't help that he was rather short and tubby, with a very round face, piggy eyes, red shiny cheeks, with a dark, almost black, permanent '5 o'clock shadow' on his jowls; and worst of all, he suffered from halitosis and the corners of his mouth constantly showed a string or two of thick saliva appended to top and bottom lips. I think he jumped at the opportunity to tutor me, not for any extra money he might earn, but because it enabled him to 'interact' with a family in a situation, where unfortunately he was both shunned by many and regarded by most as a figure of fun.

The one-on-one tutoring forced me to start to learn my Latin declensions and conjugations and build up a reasonable vocabulary. My earnest but foul-breathed churchman-tutor used his own copy of Kennedy's Revised Latin Primer to guide me through - and eventually gifted it to me when he felt I had gained a certain competence in the language - and I have retained in my possession to this day: a kind of talisman of a book (and learning experience) that probably changed my life.

The result of the tutoring was that I began to do rather well in Latin, something that must have registered with Sandy Mac, not that he made it clear to this particular 'Boy.' However, when I came to leave Watson's at the end of that year (see From primary school 'hell' to high school 'heaven'), Mr Mackenzie sought me out and told me that he was very disappointed that I was leaving as he thought I had the 'makings' of a good Classics scholar. It was the first compliment ever paid to me by a teacher.

The final part of the 'triumvirate' (to use an expression from the one part of my 'Latin' studies that I really enjoyed, learning about ancient Roman history) was Dr George McCowan, the principal of Dalkeith High School. Dr McCowan was a much respected but greatly feared headmaster, often referred to as 'the beak.' He stood erect, with a craggy weathered face and piercing gimlet eyes, his head topped by short tufts of grey hair, not quite a 'crew cut' but very short. If one word summed up his appearance and bearing, it would be 'grim.' And the one word to describe his reputation had to be 'fearsome.'

He was an old fashioned socialist and a card carrying member of the Labour Party. In fact, in those days, you had to be Labour to gain a headship, primary of secondary, in Midlothian with its Labour controlled County Council dominated by the National Union of Mineworkers. He had a loathing for anything that smacked of privilege, including private schools, something that worked in my favour when I fronted on day one for an interview with Dr McCowan.

My mother had given me my George Watson's College report cards to present at interview, something she felt sure the headmaster would wish to peruse. I was dreading that part of the interview as my grades were awful and the teachers' comments, including those from the head teacher, Mr Rattray, were worse. Comments like, 'lazy'; 'does not apply himself'; 'insolent' did not read well and I was ashamed at the thought that the headmaster of my new school would read these appraisals.

However, when I told Dr McCowan that I had school reports from Watson's, he scowled and told me he had no interest in reading them, my relief was almost palpable. Instead, he asked me what subject I liked best. Given my recent success in Sandy Mac's class, I replied, quite truthfully, 'Latin.' As a result, Dr McCowan assigned me immediately to 1A, the top first year form. Without my Latin, I would possibly have ended up in 1C or even the lowest form, 1E, and almost certainly have been destined to leave school at 15 - perhaps to take up an apprenticeship in a kitchen, destined to be a chef (something my father had mentioned as a career unless I improved my grades).

Being assigned to 1A did not guarantee being in the top academic stream for the rest of the year: there was a sifting out process in the tests at the end of first term. Once again, the saving grace was Latin. Given that everyone else in the class was being introduced to Latin, whereas for me it was 'revision,' I topped the class - well, I was first equal with about four others - and my place in 1A was secured. Even at year's end, I was still one of the best performers and so I 'sailed' into 2A. However, in truth, I then suffered a slow decline in Latin performance to the point where, although I passed my 'Lower' Leaving Certificate or 'O' level Latin, I failed my 'Higher' Latin. However, by then my school days were over and I had qualified for university entrance.

Teachers, Tyrants, Tawse: my primary school days

My memories of teachers are varied. There were many I feared, few I liked, but most I respected - sort of!

My first 'teacher' was Mrs Tucker who ran a kindergarten at her home in Luanshya. I loved playing in the sand pit. And, although I have no actual memory of the lady herself, I 'loved' Mrs Tucker. In all probability she had little or no qualifications, but was a mother-figure.

My first year teacher was in Dundee at Harris Academy. Again, I have no recollection of her, but I do recall enjoying the singing lessons - Early One Morning, My Little Pear Tree or The King of Spain's Daughter, All Through The Night, Bonnie Dundee (of course!).

Back in Luanshya, I had a teacher I liked but again  can't recall anything else about her. I iked playing with plasticine and drinking flavoured milk - and listening to records on a wind-up, megaphoned His Master's Voice (I remember the picture of the dog listening) gramaphone.

My next teacher was Miss Palm. She seemed tall (to me) and she had straight black hair - and I didn't like her - and she didn't like me. Her report card has me as below average in Reading and generally Lazy. I recall her saying to me on one occasion that was a 'smart Alec' - and I replied that I didn't think she was very nice to speak to me like that 'cos my father was called 'Alec'! Sh'ee wrote a letter to my parents which she gave to me to give to them. Instead, I showed t to my brother, Donald, who kept it - and blackmailed me into doing all sorts of 'errands' for him - like cleaning the sweaty dust from between  his toes when we got back from school! How long this went on for,  forget, but I know that I had to tell Miss Palm day after day that I had given the letter to my parents and that they hadn't yet given me a reply for her. 

Eventually, my mother found the letter in the pocket of Donald's school shorts (we all wore a kind of khaki uniform like boy scouts). Se was very angry with us both - me because of Miss Palm's comments and Donald because he had kept the letter.  Mum told us to wait in our room until our father came home. It was an anxious wait, the expectation of a thrashing with a leather belt. We listened as our mother told father about our misdeeds. He then came into the room and closed the door. He had a large belt in his hands - the kind used to wrap around suitcases and the like. He spoke loudly to us, telling us off, before he winked and held a finger to his lips. He then whispered that we were to yell as if being beaten - and he proceeded to whack a bed with the belt. He then told us to stay in the room until our 'tears were dried' - and then come out and apologise to him and our mother. 

It was a relief to leave school in 1953 to return to the UK as I continued to have Miss Palm as my teacher - and I'm sure she would have 'poisoned' the rest of the staff against me.

The remainder of 1953 and 1954, I was in and out of many schools before spending a term or so at Ormiston Primary where I won my first playground fight (probably because as we tussled and fell, I was able to push - and keep pushing - the other boy's head into the bars of te fence that surrounded the playground - anyway, I was never challenged again there). I had a few weeks at Pathhead Primary School where I was mocked because I could not yet 'do' Long Division. Years later, when I was at Edinburgh University, one of my classmates from those days said to me, 'Ye ken, Angus, how did you get to university? Because at skill (school) you were sae donnert (so dumb).' I replied, 'Billy, it is a mystery to me, too.'

Then in September 1954, I started at George Watson's Boys College, a Merchant Company school in Edinburgh. In my interview, I met Mr Rattray, the Head of the Junior School. One question he asked me - and I failed to answer - was 'What are 6 7s? then on my first day at my new school as my class lined up for Assembly, Mr Rattray swept passed and called out, 'Edmonds, what are 6 7s?' I was taken aback and flustered and mind a blank. It was not a good beginning - and my relationship with Mr Rattray went from bad to worse.

George Watson's College

The Junior School covered the last three years of primary education and each year was divided into three classes by ability: J1, J2, J3  for that 5th year of primary; J4, J5, J6 for the next year, and finally J7, J9, J9; with J3, J6, and J9 being the class for the brightest pupils. Despite, my failure to answer Mr Rattray's Arithmetic question, I was placed in the mid-range class, J2. My class teacher was a woman. We didn't get on. Somehow  never felt I fitted in, and that was made worse in April or May 1955 as the General Election of that year approached. 

'Miss' organised a class 'mock' election. There were two candidates: one for the Conservatives and another for Labour. I had no idea about either of these parties, but it was clear that the vast majority were supporting the Conservative candidate. The Labour candidate was one of the cleverest and most able in the class, a fellow called David Tweedie. We had had very little to do with each other, but I admired his pluck in standing against the majority view and when the vote came - by raising a hand - I and one other voted for Tweedie (and therefore Labour). I sensed immediately, my teacher's approbation. I'm not blaming that prejudice for my failure - that was caused by my own laziness and my total inability to get the hang of Maths (well, Arithmetic really) - as again I was the only one who couldn't 'do' Long Division (and I again suffered the taunts and jeers of my peers until finally, but not very well, I was able to 'do' Long Division too). My nervousness about anything Arithmetical stayed with me throughout my schooling so much so that although I gained 'Higher' Mathematics (Algebra, Geometry, Trigonometry and the like) I failed my 'Lower' Arithmetic! (My Maths teacher in my final year of school told me, when the results came out, that he had never heard of such an odd result in all his years of teaching.)

I ended up bottom or next to bottom of the class and moved up year but down to J4 with class teacher, Mr Smith, a very tall, thin youngish man, always very well dressed with sharp collars and a neat conservative tie, navy or maroon mostly. He seemed rather prissy to me. I had a couple of run-ins with him that had me sent up to my nemesis, Mr Rattray for punishment. 

I continued to see quite a bit of Mr Rattray's office in the following year. I recall clearly he had a print of Bruegel's Hunters in the snow and his Census in Bethlehem on his office wall just inside the doorway. Although, given that I regarded Mr Rattray as something of a tyrant, Bruegel's Massacre of the Innocents may have been more approprate! Punishment came in two forms: a long lecture on my shortcomings followed by two or more of the strap (or tawse, but I don't recall Mr Rattray using that Scottish expression) administered with some force on my hands held together (making in harder for the hand receiving the strap to fall away with the blow). 

The saving grace was that it was a longish walk back to the classroom in the Junior School wing as Mr Rattray's office was in the main building at the front of Watson's College. It meant I had time to recover somewhat before presenting in class where all the boys (if not the teacher) would be watching to see if I had tears in my eyes or how badly my hands were shaking.

My visits to Mr Rattray's office continued in my final year of Junior School despite the fact that I quite liked my new teacher - whose name I've forgotten but it was a 'strong' sounding name, like Mr Savage or similar. He was a big man, tall and well built, with a bald pate and a trimmed short moustache. I think he must have been under instruction from Mr Rattray to send me up to see him if I 'erred' in any way.

I had a couple of friends, both like me apparently academic dullards, but nice guys. One was very small with blonde hair. He was a doctor's son but suffered very badly from asthma - and had missed many days of school. The other was a ginger haired lad, with a jovial smile. He was a member of the Magic Circle and clearly, at that time learning and performing magic tricks took precedence over his studies.

Apart from my two friends, I was probably considered a bit of an odd-ball, an outsider. I certainly never felt that I 'fitted in' at Watson's - and in some ways I didn't help my cause by taking on authority, that is in speaking back to teachers if I though they had 'wronged' me in some way. I recall one occasion that led to a visit to Mr Rattray. 

I could not fully, and without hesitation, recite a piece of poetry that had been set as homework (in my day learning passages of Scripture and poems by heart was de rigeur). It might have been King Arthur's final speech from the barge in Morte D'Arthur by Lord Tennyson - about how 'God renews the world in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world' (lines I have recited in part many times throughout my life). Anyway, I was told that the teacher was 'sick of me not doing my homework,' and I replied by saying something like, 'I did do my home work - and I can prove it!' 


I then explained that my father had listened not only to my recitation of Morte D'Arthur but to my Latin homework too - the declension of the future tense of Amare, to love, the third person plural of which is 'amabunt' (they will love). I tied to explain that my father and I thought it oddly funny as it sounded like 'I'm a munt' ('munt' being a common but also somewhat derogatory word for 'an African' - from muntu the singular of Bantu, meaning 'people' or 'humans,' and also the ethnicity and language of the native peoples of central (and indeed eastern and southern Africa). 'Enough! I'm tired of your insolence/excuses/whatever... you can go and report to Mr Rattray!'

We had three teachers other than our class teacher. One was the Assistant Music Master, a Mr Telfer, a very pleasant man (More about him in the post 'My early encounters with Scottish Nationalism'). The head of music. the Music Master was Mr Hyde, or to give him his nickname: Pongo Hyde. He was a very rotund and pompous man who fancied himself as a conductor. I only knew him when I joined the all-school Watson's College Choir as a boy soprano for a performance of Handel's Messiah, including the Hallelujah Chorus. It was planned, or so we were told, to make a record of this work, but that never materialised. Nonetheless, I thoroughly enjoyed the rehearsals and the final performance.

The biggest bully in the whole school as the head of Physical Education, 'Butcher' Watson, a sadist who was eventually, many years later, jailed for his cruel treatment of pupils. His pet punishment was to apply the 'slipper,' a large rubber sand-shoe plimsole  to the backside of whoever was last out of the changing room - no matter how quickly we got changed for 'gym.' 

It was always a race from our classroom to the changing room to try to be first or as close to first in line. When Mr Watson opened the door we rushed in and undressed making sue that our clothes were carefully attached to the peg and our school shoes and socks neatly placed below - because 'Butcher' would equally punish any boy whose clothing was not properly stowed. My brother had been a boarder in Mr Watson's school boarding house where one of his favourite punishments was to make a boy crawl from one end of the long dining table to the other while all the boys sitting on either side of the table kicked out at the boy as he crawled passed. Any boy who was suspected of not kicking hard enough would be subjected to the same punishment.

The third teacher was the Latin master, Mr Alexander MacKenzie, or 'Sandy Mac' as he was known, an eccentric alcoholic and inveterate smoker. The smell of whisky and tobacco hung about him constantly. I have more so say about him in the post entitled, How the study of Latin... sort of... set me up for academic success!

My days at Watson's thankfully came to an end after that final year in Junior School. How this came about is in the post From primary scool 'hell' to high school 'heaven.'

Growing up at Peth-heid

From the age of 9 until 21, my family home was 66 Main Street, Pathhead, Midlothian, Scotland, except for about two happy years in the same village at 5 Crichton Terrace on the council estate while major renovations were carried out on the property at 66 Main Street. The Main Street was the A68, one of the three major roads to England; a road that linked at Melrose to the ancient Roman road, Dere Street and before that through Lauderdale and over the Soutra to the medieval Royal Way (Via Regis). 

Ford House built 1680

There was a story that Bonnie Prince Charlie had ridden through Pathhead before lodging for the night at Ford House - at the foot of the 'path' that led to Ford. the tiny hamlet associated with the ford over the river Tyne. 

Since 1831 the ford could be bypassed using the Lothian Bridge 

built by Thomas Telford, the prolific designer of roads and bridges who was dubbed The Colossus of Roads.

The rather prosaically named Pathhead village is surrounded by farms, estates, and hamlets with names that resonate with names that evoke the language, history (social and political) of Lowland Scots: 
Whippielaw, Dodridge, Salters Burn, Muttonhole, Haugh Head, Longhaugh, Crichton, Burnside, Tynebank, Turniedykes, Newlandrig, Chesterhill, Byersloan, Cranstoun Riddell, Fordel Dean, Cousland, The Temple, and further to the south, Fala and Soutra Hill. 

The big estates were owned by the nobility and gentry: The Earl of Stair (and his mother, Lady Elphinstone) at Oxenfoord Castle; Major Henry Callander at Preston Hall, his son Major Charles Callander at Preston Mains - the Callanders also owned Crichton estate to which the owners of property in Pathhead paid their feu duties;  and the son of the 'Bully Beef Baron' Thomas Borthwick, Lord Whitburgh at Whitburgh House. 

Many of the farmers were tenant farmers, well respected men - and in many ways the pillars of the community. During my late teenage years, the lairds started to remove these tenant farmers and replace them with managers. I recall the shock of learning that some of the finest of these were no longer to farm 'their' properties - and the sadness when one committed suicide.

In 1882-4, Frances Groome's Ordnance Gazetteer of Scotland describes Pathhead like this:

Pathhead, a village in the northern extremity of Crichton parish, Edinburghshire, on the right side of the river Tyne, in the eastern vicinity of the old decayed village of Ford, 5 miles ESE of Dalkeith, 37/8 N of Tynehead station, and 11 SE of Edinburgh. Standing 500 feet above sea-level on the slpe and crown of an ascent from the Tyne, it takes its name from being at the head of this ascent or path; extends along both sides of the road from Edinburgh to Lauder; and has charmingly picturesque environs, including parts of the Oxenfoord and Vogrie estates, but chiefly consisting of feus from the Crichton property... 

Until sold in 1919, the Vogrie estate was owned by the Dewar family, their name retained in the nearby hamlet of Dewartown. 

While Pathhead was/is not a pretty village it is surrounded by some beautiful farmland and estates with grand houses and landscaped grounds. Nearby is the historic Crichton Castle, at the head of the River Tyne. The castle was built in the late 14th century as a tower house and expanded into a full castle in the 15th century. The building to the right of the castle in the photo was either a chapel, a slaughter house or stables.

Queen Mary of Scots stayed in the castle for a few nights after a cousin's wedding. The artist JMW Turner painted the castle, and the castle also features in Marmion by Sir Walter Scott.

Nearby is the pre-Reformation Crichton Collegiate Church. Originally built in the shape of a cross, the sanctuary (head of the cross) was destroyed by ardent Reformers - see a part remains to the left of the tower. Built in 1449, it has been in continuous use as a place of worship for over 550 years. We used to walk from Pathhead to this church at least once a month. It was a lovely walk, even in winter if the weather was dry. 

I recall the church was always cold. I was fascinated by the beadle, Tommy Farmer, who 'disappeared' behind a curtain screen into a cupboard-like room where he hand-pumped a lever to provide air for the organ before returning to his place in a near-by pew where he slumped and appeared to sleep - but never missed rising in time to prep the organ for the next hymn or psalm. The organist for many years was Miss Inglis, a spiritualist who conducted seances in her cottage at the head of the village (Pathhead) and attempted to teach my sister the piano.

My boyhood homes

I've had many 'homes' - houses I've lived in and considered 'home' (or in the case of the first first 'homes' they were places that I lived although I have no recollection of them whatsoever). I was born in a top flat overlooking the river Teviot in Hawick in the Scottish Borders before moving for some months to a cottage at Cavers, just outside Hawick. 

Then, aged about 18 months, my family moved to central Africa where my father had been posted as a pharmacist in the British Colonial Service. There my home became first a colonial service bungalow at Livingstone not far from the Victoria Falls and then another in N'dola in what was then Northern Rhodesia. My father then joined the mining company Rio Tinto, working in hospitals set up by  his new employer on the Copper Belt . We relocated to a mining company bungalow in 'A' Avenue, Luanshya, home on the Roan Antelope Mine.

After three years my parents separated and I moved with mother, brother, and sister back to Scotland to my mother's 'home' city of Dundee where lived first with her mother, my formidable grandmother in city-centre Panmure Street

Overgate, Dundee 1950s

before moving close-by into a small flat in Dundee's Overgate. I started school in Dundee at Harris Academy, but by year's end my parents were reconciled and we moved back to Africa and into a house that I remember well, again a large mine company bungalow, 134, 'E' Avenue.

It was a large sprawling brick and tile house with red polished concrete floors - anything wood was subject to attack from termites. The front of the house had a long verandah, enclosed with a fine-mesh wire intended to keep mosquitoes out; it was out indoor play area - especially during the Wet Season. Each house door was 'guarded' by rough coir matting laid out across the doorway to prevent, or so it was claimed, snakes from slithering into the house. It was not entirely successful as I recall on at least one occasion a snake coiled in a corner of my bedroom, until dispatched by my father.

My best memories of 134E are associated with our 'house-boy,' Daason, a tall, strong, handsome 'native' servant, who was something of a second father to me. He played football with my brother and me on the large front lawn; he amused us with silly antics, clowning , 'dancing' with cloths tied to his feet while he polished the floors. He taught me and spoke to me in Swahili. he gave me rides on the back of his bicycle. Daason and my mother seemed to get along very well; she spent time trying to teach Daason to read and write and to tell the time by looking at the clock and there would be much laughter. Looking back now, I am sure that there was some flirting going on; but at the time, it was to me just fun.

My other memories of that home were having braaivleis (Africaans for 'grilled meat') - usually cooked on our small brick-built 'braai' (barbecue) or when larger groups gathered for a party - over long shallow trenches dug in the back yard filled with burning logs and covered by sections of wire. These were always enjoyable evenings - staying up well beyond the usual bedtime, playing in the shadows with friends, enjoying the chatter and laughter of the party atmosphere.

When my family moved back to the UK, my father was not keen to 'settle' and he stalled for time which meant we travelled widely while he took on what seemed a never ending number of two-week 'locums' - and we lived in a succession of guest-houses. Finally, he took a more permanent position as pharmacist manager of a Co-operative chemist shop in the East Lothian village of Ormiston - and our new 'home' was the house attached to the chemist shop. We were there for about six months before he bought a property on the main street of a nearby village, Pathhead in Midlothian about 12 miles south of Edinburgh on the A68, one of the main routes to England, and opened his own chemist shop with us living in the flat above the shop.

At last - after almost two years, we had a place to call 'home' - and it remained my home for the next twelve years.

First time back in Scotland

My first memory of Scotland was arriving at Tay Bridge Station on a steam train. 

Dundee Tay Bridge Station

It was 1950: I was five years old. I had travelled back to Britain on a Union Castle liner with my mother, brother and sister and we must have taken an overnight 'sleeper' from London, having arrived from South Africa at Tilbury Docks near the mouth of the Thames. Perhaps we changed at Waverley Station in Edinburgh - I can't remember.

We took the short journey in a taxi from the station to Panmure Street where my grandparents lived in the top floor apartment. 

Panmure Street near Albert Square, Dundee

I recall climbing the wide stone stairs up three or four flights to the top landing and being greeted at the door by my grandmother, Grannie Mem (short for Grandma Jemima). She struck me as very old, her face thin and drawn, her grey peppered hair pulled back tight in a bun; her lips tight, her eyes more critical than welcoming, her face pale but with strangely rouged cheeks. She was simply quite frightening - to my child's mind she was more like a witch than a grandmother.

I have no recollection of my grandfather being there. Perhaps he had been at the station to greet us and bring us back in the taxi. It's strange because he was very much a grandfatherly figure - not tall, but portly, always dressed in a brown tweed three-piece with a fob watch on a chain in his waistcoat pocket, white wispy hair around a bald crown, his face round and weather beaten, his smile quiet but jovial enough, and on him the sweet aromatic smell of pipe tobacco. 

We sat at a table in Grannie's large kitchen. The fact that everything was spoken of as 'Grannie's' - and the frequent absence of my grandfather (visiting his mother on her small holding in the country at Drumlithie in the Howe of the Mearns) - emphasised that she was very much the boss in this household. Grannie had prepared supper, and even before it was served I was apprehensive as there was a smell of something unfamiliar and unpleasant - a fishy smell. When plates were brought to the table and Grannie told us that she'd made some scrambled eggs, I couldn't believe my eyes. We had our own chickens in Africa and scrambled eggs had always had a rich yellow to almost orange colour and a crumbly appearance - but what Grannie served was a pale yellow and finely grained, like the smoothest blancmange- and it was the source of that horrid fishy smell!

I instantly earned my grandmother's hostility and my mother's fiercest rebuke, by saying, 'This isn't scrambled eggs!' My mother's response was to tell me not to be rude; to inform me that Grannie had made supper from powered egg as fresh eggs were scarce; and ordered me to eat it all up! My mother chastised me for my rudeness saying I was 'an ungrateful brat.' It wasn't the best of starts to our visit.

 Even before that disastrous and disgusting supper (I'm sure my younger sister was 'excused from table' without eating much, my mother explaining that the child - only three - was too tired to eat after the long journey), I knew that we were in a different world. When I went to the bathroom to wash hands before supper, I saw the strange toilet seat imbedded in a wooden box-like structure and on the door a plaque with a warning :

Not much of it made sense to a five-year-old, but I got the drift - there were rules in this house and it would pay to keep them! 

The King is dead!

Like the then Princess Elizabeth, I was in Africa on 6th February 1952 enjoying the great outdoors when King George VI died. The future Queen was in Kenya staying  at the famous Treetops safari lodge. I was in the grounds of the Luanshya Club (on the Copper Belt of Northern Rhodesia) in a 'tree top' of kinds -  playing with some other kids on some jacaranda trees. 

I don't recall us being particularly noisy, but no doubt we were, as children do, shouting out words of encouragement, challenge or claiming some bragging rights as to who had climbed highest as 'King of the Castle.' However, our game was abruptly interrupted when a woman - politeness being very much the order of the day, we would have said 'a lady' - in the then standard floral summer dress ran out to us and ordered us to be quiet.

King George VI

'Be quiet, children! No more shouting - and get out of the tree! The King is dead!'

There was instant quiet. We'd heard those awful words, 'The King is dead.' 

I recall a sense of shock. We knew who the king was and it was hard to believe that he could be dead. We all collected stamps in those days, and most stamps, particularly those steamed off envelopes and parcels from 'Home' seemed to bear the silhouette head of King George VI. 



And we knew the pomp and circumstance of kingship too from the Pathe newsreels at the Bioscope (as the Luanshya cinema was called). And at the end of each picture show we would stand and sing'God Save The King.'

The king was dead and it took some time in my young mind to realise that his daughter, Princess Elizabeth, was in fact no longer 'princess' but the new monarch, Queen Elizabeth. About two weeks later (the film reels would be sent out on Union Castle mail ships and then sent by rail from Capetown) we saw Queen Elizabeth for the first time as she descended from the BOAC airliner to be greeted by Prime Minister Sir Winston Churchill on the tarmac runway. The aged PM's appearance accentuating the youthful image of the new Queen.

However, despite the age-old tradition of 'The King is dead, long live the King (or in this case the queen)' it was difficult for me to think of anyone else as the King (or Queen) other than George VI - something was accentuated by the newsreel of his funeral at Windsor. It wasn't until the preparations for the coronation the following year that the Queen became The Queen. By that time, the insistence on her being called Queen Elizabeth the Second was offending our sense of Scottish identity and history (she was after all the first Queen Elizabeth of Scotland) - and as a family we followed with excitement the story of the 'stolen' Stone of Destiny from Westminster Abbey. For the first time,  I felt stirrings of Scottish nationalism.