Complete New Tales of Para Handy Read online

  Stuart has taught himself his craft so well that some stories could pass as the real Munro.

  Lorn MacIntyre, The Herald

  Hilarious!

  Shetland Times

  What a superb tribute to Neil Munro’s stories of Para Handy and his crew. This book is a joy to read, and the ‘factnotes’ giving the background to each tale serve to make the stories even more enjoyable. A double treat of delightful seafaring tales and local history in one book.

  Review by GA Kerr on Amazon

  Stuart Donald’s

  Complete New Tales of

  PARA HANDY

  The continued voyages of

  the Vital Spark

  Chronicled with affection,

  acknowledgement and apology

  to Neil Munro

  www.vitalspark.co.uk

  To the memory of my parents

  MY FATHER

  who had the kindness and good sense

  to introduce me to Para Handy at an early age

  MY MOTHER

  who worried about my childhood wanderings on the Firth

  but still encouraged me to make them

  and

  For our next generation

  ANDREW and SUSAN

  with love

  THE AGE OF THE VITAL SPARK — This fine picture of passengers disembarking from Williamson’s turbine Queen Alexandra captures perfectly the atmosphere and the ambience of the turn-of-the-century Clyde as Para Handy knew it. Here are the well-dressed daytrippers he longed to carry, the gentry en route to their estates, the curious crowds thronging the pierhead for the social event of the day, and the confident elegance of the new breed of ships, with the grace and the silhouette of liners in miniature. Sadly we shall never see their like again!

  Contents

  Publisher’s Note

  Introduction

  1The Encounter at Inveraray

  2The Marriage at Canna

  3The Race for the Pier

  4Trouble for the Tar

  5Up for the Cup

  6An Inland Voyage

  7Those in Peril on the Sea

  8Macphail to the Rescue

  9The Kist o’ Whustles

  10Hurricane at the Helm

  11The Vital Spark at the Games

  12A Spirited Performance

  13Things to Come

  14Look Back in Agony

  15The Incident at Tarbert

  16The March of the Women

  17The Missing Link

  18The Cadger

  19The Blizzard and the Bear

  20The Launch of the Vital Spark

  21Rock of Ages

  22Taking the Needle

  23High Life at Hunter’s Quay

  24Flags of Convenience

  25Hogmanay on The Vital Spark

  26A Girl in Every Port

  27Going off the Rails

  28The Cargo of Cement

  29The Pride of the Clyde

  30The Downfall of Hurricane Jack

  31Pushing the Boat Out

  32The Umburella Men

  33A Naval Occasion

  34The Centenarian

  35High Teas on the High Seas

  36A Stranger in a Foreign Land

  37Cavalcade to Camelon

  38Scotch and Water

  39Many Happy Returns

  40Here be Monsters

  41The Tight White Collar

  42That Sinking Feeling

  43A Boatman’s Holiday

  44Santa’s Little Helpers

  45The Black Sheep

  46On His Majesty’s Service

  47All the Fun of the Fair

  48Cafe Society

  49The Sound of Silence

  50Twixt Heaven and Hell

  51A Matter of Men and Machinery

  52May the Best Man Win

  53The Appliance of Science

  54The Gunpowder Plot

  55Nor any Drop to Drink

  56Para Handy’s Ark

  57Follow My Leader

  58The Rickshaw and the Pram

  59Sublime Tobacco

  60Hurricane Jack, Entrepreneur

  Author Biographies

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  I first met Stuart Donald in 1992 in that bastion of Cowal bookselling, Fiona and Gregor Roy’s Bookpoint in Dunoon, and after we got talking he mentioned that he was working on some Para Handy stories, written in Munro’s style and set in authentic West Coast locations. In that wonderful timbre which he exuded when taking someone into a confidence he lowered his head to my level and murmured conspiratorially, “I can’t expect them to compare with Munro’s originals, but I think they are fairly good!”

  Some sample stories duly arrived and it did not take me long to agree with Stuart’s belief. They were very good stories indeed. We agreed that there should be a trilogy of tales brought out a couple of years apart under the titles Para Handy Sails Again, Para Handy All At Sea and Para Handy At The Helm. The first two books sold quickly and reprinted, but sadly, the final volume never made it to press. In September 2000 Stuart lost a long and brave battle against cancer.

  My quandary was what to do with Stuart’s literary legacy and after taking advice from both Gregor and Stuart’s wife, Maureen, I decided to reissue the first two books as a compendium volume in order to maintain the corpus. This is it and I am proud to publish it.

  Stuart wrote of Munro’s creation in Para Handy Sails Again, “Nobody could ever manage to recreate that world with the same matchless quality of craftsmanship, affection or accuracy. My hope is that my own efforts in that direction will entertain rather than irritate, and provide an acceptable extension to the Para Handy repertoire.”

  Well, Stuart’s misgivings were unfounded as he did manage to recreate Para Handy’s world and his stories have irritated no one. Long may they remain in print.

  Neil Wilson, September 2001

  Introduction*

  Anyone who is planning to tamper with a national institution approaches the task with some trepidation and, in my efforts to extend the repertoire of the much-loved tales about the Clyde puffer Vital Spark and her kenspeckle Captain and crew, I am no exception.

  Neil Munro’s characters are a national institution to many Scots, and the tales have a remarkable provenance. They were first created to feature in Munro’s anonymous columns in the Glasgow News, on which paper he rose to become editor. Although they were dismissed as ‘slight’ by their creator (who saw them as an interruption to the writing of his serious, and nowadays sadly neglected, historical novels) they have rarely, if ever, been out of print for three-quarters of a century. Year on year new generations of readers are captivated by the gentle humour and kindly atmosphere of these chronicles of a long-lost world and a gentler society, on which we tend to look back with much affection, and nostalgic regret for what has gone for ever.

  Trying to live up to the expectations of such enthusiasts while having the impertinence to try to recreate Para Handy and his people was always going to be a daunting task.

  However, at the risk of offending the purists, I have to say at once that writing these stories has been great fun — which, in an ideal world, all writing should be; and that there were occasions when they wrote themselves, in the sense that I would embark on a particular tale with no clear idea of where or how it would come to its conclusion.

  In retrospect, however, I am surprised that a volume of new Para Handy tales has not been attempted before this. There have been no less than three television reincarnations of the Vital Spark and only in the most recent of them was there any serious attempt to dramatise some of Neil Munro’s original storylines: the others were, basically, ‘new’
creations. The most faithful of all the attempts to transfer Para Handy from the printed page was, in my view, the 1953 film The Maggie which, though never formally acknowledged as being based on Neil Munro’s own characters, so obviously and so successfully in fact was.

  Whether I have succeeded in creating an acceptable extension to the original tales will not be for me to judge, and I offer no attempt to defend my efforts in terms of their authenticity or readability. That is a matter for the personal judgement of those who may read them.

  I would, however, defend the concept of writing new tales built round Neil Munro’s creations, for I believe it has in fact been done before — and during his lifetime. In my documentary volume In The Wake Of The Vital Spark I put forward the proposition that the 18 ‘new’ stories published for the first time in the recent Birlinn edition of the original tales were, in fact, the work of hands other than Neil Munro’s. I won’t reiterate the arguments here, but my conviction about that point was one of the factors which encouraged me to proceed with the present work.

  I close the case for the defence by stressing that I believe Neil Munro to be one of the finest writers of humorous fiction which this, or any other, country has ever produced. I grew up with the Para Handy tales, and know them — literally — almost off by heart. I therefore approached the whole task with both affection and respect for their creator. I like to believe that Neil Munro would not be taken too aback by imitation, for it is, we are told, the sincerest form of flattery.

  And I am certain that he would not look too unkindly on whoever was rash enough to attempt it — for that surely is the kind of sympathetic and forgiving man he was.

  I certainly don’t ask the readers to be either sympathetic or forgiving, however — but simply to read on, and come to their own conclusions and form their own judgements!

  My one intention and my only wish is that these new tales might entertain and amuse, for if they fail in that, then they fail in everything.

  Sandhaven, Argyll

  September 1995

  * This is the same introduction which appeared in Para Handy Sails Again.

  1

  The Encounter at Inveraray

  As the Vital Spark chugged past the hamlet of Newtown, tacked almost as an afterthought onto the Lochgilphead road at the southern limits of the Burgh of Inveraray, the town’s capacious pier came into view. Para Handy was astonished to see a huge crowd thronging both that structure and the stone quayside onto which it abutted, all of them staring across the water towards the approaching puffer.

  “My Chove, Dougie,” he said, “we’ve not always been such a centre of attention in the past! But I’ve always said, the time would come when the finer points of the shup would at last be recognised by the public at large. I’m glad we gave the lum a fresh coat of pent at Tarbert yesterday mornin’, for she’s neffer looked bonnier and plainly the news hass got around!”

  “It’s either that, or the Inveraray polis huv managed tae work oot jist whose punt wis up the mooth of the river Shira wi’ a splash net efter the Duke’s salmon the last nicht we wis by here,” called a doom-laden voice from the engine-room at the Captain’s feet. “Is there no sign of a Black Maria at the head of the quay?”

  “I’ll thank you to attend to your enchines, Mr Macphail,” said Para Handy with some dignity. “And Jum! will you look lively and break out our best heaving-line ready for when we tak’ our berth. There’ll be no problem today findin’ someone to catch it for us seein’ ass we’re the star attraction at the pier!”

  The traditional place for the puffers at Inveraray is on the inner, west side of the pier and the Vital Spark was manoeuvred round the quay-head with just a little -difficulty, for the tide was turning and the current threatened to push her back out. In the event, with some dexterous application of the helm and a touch of extra power to the propeller, Para Handy brought the boat safely into the slack water of the inshore berth.

  “Right, Jum,” he called, “stand by to heave the line!” And he turned triumphantly towards the pier preparing to wave a happy acknowledgement to the crowds who must have been watching his manoeuvres with interest and approbation, and who would now be surging forward to welcome the little vessel to her Inveraray berth — only to find that he was looking at some 200 disinterested backs, for the people on the quay had taken not the slightest notice of the approach and ultimate arrival of the puffer, but were still standing, as they had been when he had first caught sight of them, staring out towards the middle of Loch Fyne as if hypnotised.

  “The Chook of Argyll himself must be expected aff a yat,” said a somewhat chastened Para Handy to Dougie once they had finally secured the puffer to the quayside — Sunny Jim, as usual, having to leap for the jetty with the handline and haul the hawser in to the first bollard on his own. “And this iss his loyal lieges with their reception committee.”

  Squeezing their way through the crowd, the crew managed to gain a viewpoint, but found themselves staring across an empty loch with not so much as a fishing smack in sight.

  Para Handy was just turning to seek some enlightenment from the nearest bystander, when there was a collective gasp from the assembled throng, followed immediately by a ragged cheer.

  A squat, grey rectangular object was rising slowly out of the waters of the loch about 200 yards offshore.

  The Captain had heard all about submarines but this was the first which he and the crew had ever encountered at such close hand. They watched in awed fascination as the conning-tower, then the gun, and finally the hull of the vessel emerged from the sea.

  When the figures of the submarine captain and three seamen appeared on the bridge there was another spontaneous cheer from the Inveraray crowd, and the vessel turned in towards the pier where eager lookers-on fought for the privilege of catching and securing the heaving-lines which two seamen now threw ashore from bow and stern of the grey hull.

  Half-an-hour later the onlookers had dispersed homewards to discuss the excitement of the day over their teas.

  On the pier, the submarine crew had deployed a spick-and-span gangway from her foredeck to the quay, a small pillar placed at the head of it carrying a coat-of-arms and the ship’s name, HMS Bulldog. The white ropes which looped from posts at either side of the gangway were finished with turk’s head knots and two seamen, immaculate in white jerseys and navy-blue bell-bottoms, stood guard at either hand with grounded rifles. On the ship’s deck sailors in fatigues were polishing glass and brass on the bridge of the conning-tower, and from somewhere deep within the vessel came the constant deep throb of one of the new-fangled diesel engines.

  The crew of the puffer, crammed into the wheelhouse, stared with undisguised and undiminished curiosity at their unexpected neighbour on the far side of the pier.

  Eventually Para Handy squeezed his way out on deck without a word and vanished down the hatchway to the fo’c’sle.

  Ten minutes later he reappeared in his best — indeed his only — pea-jacket, and wearing the cap with the white top and the splash of gold braid which he had picked up cheap at the Barras in Glasgow some years previously, but (thanks largely to the considerable amusement with which his crew had greeted its acquisition) had rarely had the courage to wear.

  “Boys,” he said, scrambling up the iron ladder let into one of the pier uprights, “it iss only right that I should present my complements to a fellow captain when we find oorselves neebours in a strange port.”

  And he straightened his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and marched across the quay towards the submarine’s gangway.

  Later that evening, in the bar of the George Hotel, the Captain and Dougie sat in a corner by a narrow window nursing two halves of beer. Sunny Jim they had left on the pier fishing, more in hope than expectation, for the makings of the next day’s breakfast. Dan Macphail was in animated conversation at the far end of the bar with one of the engineers from the submarine and had been promised a guided tour of her diesels the following morning.

 
Para Handy’s reception at the submarine’s gangway had exceeded even his wildest imaginings.

  “Whit way are they all keepin’ at the Admirulity?” had been his opening sally to the sailors on guard duty. Before either could think of an appropriate reply, the submarine’s Captain had appeared on the conning tower to take a breath of air, seen the puffer’s skipper on the quayside, and invited him on board.

  “A proper chentleman,” Para Handy now enthused to the mate. “A proper chentleman, Dougie. But a hard life. They have no space at aal on the shup. Chust like livin’ in wan of the caurs on the Gleska Subway, but wi’ watter aal round ye.

  “I would not wish to change places with them, for aal their chenerosity” — the Captain had enjoyed the hospitality of the wardroom, including the very first Pink Gin he had ever encountered — “for why would ye want to run a smert shup and then hide her under the watter where naebody can admire her?”

  The immediate effect of his kindly reception aboard HMS Bulldog had been a change in the attitude of the burghers of Inveraray towards the puffer. From the moment that Para Handy was spotted leaving the submarine and shaking hands with her Captain at the foot of the gangway, the status of the Vital Spark was revised upwards.

  As if to underline that fact, the landlord of the George Hotel now appeared with a cloth in his hand, wiped the top of the table at which the Captain and Dougie were seated, and placed two drams on it.

  “Compliments of the house, gentlemen,” he said, and whisked their empty beer glasses away.

  “My Chove,” said Para Handy. “What’s got into Sandy McCallum tonight?”

  “You were goin’ to tell me why the submarine iss in Inveraray at all, Peter,” prompted the mate.