Complete New Tales of Para Handy Read online

  Some of the finest singles would have been as familiar to Para Handy as they are to the whisky connoisseurs of today — like the world-renowned Islay malts, product of that fertile island lying west of the Kintyre peninsula. They are among the very greatest, the most distinctive (and, for many English or overseas visitors anxious to sample them in public house or off-licence, among the most unpronounceable) names in whisky lore and legend.

  Lagavulin. Laphroaig. Bruichladdich. Bunnahabhain.

  Names to conjure with!

  13

  Things to Come

  The whole of Arran seemed to be asleep this Saturday afternoon in August. An air of somnolence as heavy as the unexpected heatwave, now entering its second week, hung across the island and Brodick pier was deserted, but for a solitary black-hulled puffer lying, empty of any cargo, against its inner face.

  A line of washing stretched from a hook on the forward face of the wheelhouse to the mast of the Vital Spark and water dripped spasmodically onto the tarpaulin covering her hold. As befitted a vessel on which all men were “chust Jock Tamson’s bairns, wan effery bit as good as the next” as her Captain put it, it was a very democratic line on which Para Handy’s best jersey jostled for space with Macphail’s socks, these latter having more holes in them than a gruyere cheese.

  From the fo’c’sle chimney a thin column of smoke drifted upward and in the bows of the puffer Sunny Jim was rinsing the crew’s dinner-plates in a bucket of seawater. Replete with herring and potatos, the three other members of the ship’s company sat on upturned fishing-boxes on the pier with mugs of thick sweet tea, and contemplated the view in companionable silence.

  “There is nothin’ in the world beats the Clyde,” said Para Handy conclusively, “when the weather is in the right trum! You could not ask for a finer sight than Brodick Bay and the Goat Fell on an efternoon like this! You could be sellin’ tickets to towerists chust for a look at the view!”

  Macphail snorted. “Towerists is wantin’ mair than jist a view nooadays,” he said. “Wi’ them it’s all go! Jist look at whit’s happened in Bute! Tram-caurs, an’ sweemin’ baths, an’ concert halls, an’ baun’staun’s, an’ gowf, an’ boats an’ yats tae hire, an’ an aqua room.”

  “Aquarium,” corrected Sunny Jim, as he clambered up the ladder and onto the pier.

  “Or whatever,” conceded the engineer, “but Ah’m sure it gi’es a richt fleg tae veesitors: there’s plenty Glesga fowk think a fush is somethin’ only tae be foond in cans, they dinna realise it’s a wild animal that swums aboot in the watter jist as free as a burd!

  “And besides, if it’s scenery ye’re wantin’, Scotland’s got a long way to go to be upsides on some o’ the places Ah’ve seen when I went foreign.” Macphail’s much-aired experience of the world was at once an irritation and a challenge to the crew and in particular the Captain, who never knew whether to give total credence to the engineer’s pronouncements in that area. Indeed Hurricane Jack had, on occasion, been known to hint darkly that he for one didn’t believe the engineer had ever been furth of the Irish Sea.

  “I wouldna be sure on that, Dan,” offered the Mate who, though normally of a peaceful not to say diffident disposition, took umbrage at any criticism — whether direct or implied — of his West Highland homeland. “You would go far to find a finer sight than the view from Oban of a sunset over Mull.”

  “Or Brodick and Goatfell,” repeated Para Handy.

  “Mull! Goatfell! Ye’ve nae idea o’ the world, neither the pair o’ ye. If ye’d seen Capetoon an’ Table Moontain, or New York an’ the Statue o’ Luberty, or Rio de Janwario and the Sugar Lump, ye’d no’ be blawin’ aboot yer ain kail-yerd.”

  “Rio,” mused the Captain. “Jeck wass there wance: he said it wass awful over-crooded wi’ foreigners o’ every description and neffer a wan o’ them spoke a word o’ English and there wassna a dacent gless of whusky to be had! He thocht New York wass chust much aboot the same, for none o’ the Americans he met could speak much English either!

  “Go to ony o’ those places indeed! I’d ass soon go to — iss it Spain? — onyway, where aal the Onion Chonnies come from, chust aal garlic and chokers and berets and bicycles! No: we are Brutain’s hardy sons, livin’ in the land o’ the free, here we are and here we stay!”

  “Man, Captain, you’re jist a richt stickin-the-mud,” protested Sunny Jim. “Whit way d’ye think Brutain got the Empire in the first place? It wisnae thanks to auld fogeys that widnae stir frae their ain firesides. If it had been left up tae the likes o’ you, we widnae ha’e colonised the Cumbraes yet!”

  The topic came up again the following week as the puffer lay at Inveraray waiting for its cargo of oak-bark to be carted down from Glenshira.

  Captain and crew were seated on deck enjoying the last of the evening sunshine, and studying the latest crop of Inveraray tourists with covert interest, in continuing good weather. The fine spell, indeed, had now lasted so long that local worthies seated on benches outside the Inns with a schooner of beer were talking of record temperatures, and local farmers nursing a whisky at the bar were complaining endlessly to anyone who was prepared to listen about the lack of rain.

  It did seem, however, as if the weather might be on the change for the clouds were gathering over the hills at the head of Glenaray, and the drivers of tourist charabancs waiting on the seafront were rigging their canvas awnings — just in case.

  Among the full house of summer visitors staying at the Argyll Arms Hotel, which stood within sight of the pier, and just across the road from the driveway leading to the impressive castle seat of the Dukes of Argyll, was an American family comprising father, mother — and two very slender, very tall and very blonde daughters in their early twenties.

  The parents were a conspicuous addition to the attractions of Inveraray with their — by the standards of that douce Highland town — garish and unfamiliar clothes, nasal conversation never delivered at any level under a shout, and a predilection for hiring boats or carriages at the drop of a hat and tipping with a reckless generosity that had the townspeople lost for words.

  The girls in particular had made an immediate and overwhelming impact on the community — or at least on its young men, many of whom took to hanging around the fore shore opposite the hotel at all hours of the day in the hope of catching just a glimpse of the objects of their admiration as the family went about its peregrinations.

  Jim, who had lost no time in calling at the public bar of the hotel in search of further information about the visitors, was able to report that the paterfamilias was originally of Scots extraction — a Campbell, no less — and that he had made his fortune in the United States steel industry.

  “He’ll have come back to Inveraray in search of hiss family’s roots,” suggested the Mate, digesting this snippet.

  “Naw,” said Jim who, seemingly seeking any escape from the pervading heat, had been soaking his head under the ship’s pump and was now vigorously towelling it, “for he didnae stert oot as a toff, his roots is in Glesga, in the Gorbals accordin’ tae the barman. He’s come tae Inveraray tae try an’ buy a piece of land frae the Jook, tae build a hoose tae use on his holidays, for the barman says the man’s fair determint tae come back tae Scotland year on year frae noo on.” And with that he stood up, stretching, and clambered down into the fo’c’sle.

  “Neffer!” said Para Handy as Jim disappeared. “Think o’ the expense, think o’ aal the discomfort o’ the journey.”

  “Havers!” chipped in the engineer. “For a stert, money’s nae object wi’ a millionaire: and the journey’s a dawdle nooadays, since they built the Lusitania. You could jist as weel be in a hotel! We’re no’ talkin’ aboot tryin’ tae cross the Atlantic in a tarry auld tub the like o’ the Vital Spark. We’re talkin’ aboot real shups!”

  “She’s aalways real enough for you when you iss collectin’ your wages at the end of the week, anyway,” said Para Handy with some anger. “That’s no way to talk aboot a shup that’s
kept you and your femily in the way they iss accustomed to for mony a year!”

  “She’ll never be an ocean greyhound, that’s for sure,” replied Macphail heatedly. “Ocean tortoise, mair like!”

  “Weel,” said the Captain, “since you’re the man that’s supposed to be in cherge o’ the enchines, dinna look to fault me on that score! Look to your own laurels iss my advice to you!”

  “All Ah’m sayin’,” retorted Macphail, “is that we’ll be seein’ mair and mair American veesitors in the future, wi’ the fancy new ways o’ travel that’s aboot the noo. Wait you and see! The maist o’ the towerists on the Clyde’ll be frae overseas, and the Glesga fowk wull stert traivellin’ abroad!”

  “Away with you,” said Dougie incredulously. “Where would they go? Spain, I suppose, to save the Onion Johnnies a journey?”

  “And why not?” asked the engineer. “Ah’ve been tae Spain when I wis deep sea: there’s mullions o’ fowk livin’ there so it canna be a’ that bad a place. Lord knows, it’s usually hot enough.”

  “It’s hot enough here for anyone,” replied the Captain. “I doot the average Gleska faimily wud have more sense than to trevel to a country that’s chust choc-a-bloc wi’ foreigners who canna even speak English — even if they had the money for it.”

  “You’ll see,” said Macphail darkly. “The Americans is comin’ and the boardin’ hooses on the river’ll hae tae set oot mair than jist a fush tea fur them, and the resorts mair nor a penny peep-show and a hurdy-gurdy man, if they want tae stay on in business.”

  “So what are they to do, then?” asked the Captain with heavy sarcasm. “I suppose you think restrongs’ll stert dishin’ out curries and rice and aal the other fancy gew-gaws you’re aye blawin’ that you ate when you wass on yon tramp-shup in the Indian jute trade? And that the Chook’ll open up the castle doors at sixpence a time for folk to troop through and gawp at him and herself takin’ their teas?”

  As Macphail was flexing his thoughts in search of a suitably vitriolic response there came the most horrendous crash of thunder, which echoed off the watch-tower hill of Duniquaich and round the bay.

  Within seconds the skies had opened and raindrops the size of pan-drops were bouncing off the parched ground: within minutes there was not a soul to be seen anywhere out of doors, puddles gathered on roads and paths, and the grassy area in front of the Argyll Arms Hotel was like a quagmire.

  “My Chove,” gasped Para Handy from the safety of the fo’c’sle, “that’s some thunderbust! Check the diary, Dougie, and see if this iss no’ the day o’ the Argyllshire Gaitherin’, for if it iss we should have known fine what wass comin’. It aalways rains for them in Oban, puir souls!”

  “Which,” said Macphail, resuming the thread of his earlier argument, “is exactly why the Glesga fowk wull soon be awa’ abroad for the Ferr: sunshine guaranteed, no’ like Loch Fyne. The only things guaranteed here is rain and mudges!”

  “At least the Americans’ll no’ come back, wance they see rain like this,” observed Dougie. “And when the word gets roond, aal the foreigners’ll bide at hame.”

  “That’s jist where ye’re a’ wrang,” said Sunny Jim, pulling on his jacket and picking up his melodeon from the shelf at the head of his berth. “Mandy and Carrie tell me that they come tae Scotland tae get awa’ frae the constant heat o’ their own place in Texas. And they dinna caal it rain, lads: they jist caal it Scotch Mist: and they love it!”

  “Stop you a meenit,” said Para Handy in surprise as Jim made his way towards the companionway. “Where are you goin’? And who are Mandy and Carrie?”

  “Jist the American lasses at the Argyll Arms,” said Jim: “I had a word wi’ the family when I was up there earlier the day and I’ve been invited to gi’e them and their faither and mither a recital o’ reels and strathspeys on the melodeon.

  “Their faither says they fair tak’ him back tae his youth and he particularly asked me tae jine them tonight, for their havin’ a ceilidh before they leave tomorrow.”

  “But…but what about the rest of us?” spluttered the Captain. “Are we chust to be left here like lost sheeps?”

  “Naw,” said Jim. “A’body’s welcome: but jist leave me a clear road wi’ the lasses.

  “You could fill in yer time mair better in fact, for the Jook wudnae sell Mr Campbell ony land: maybe ye could persuade him that the Vital Spark is a yat — and get him to buy her tae use her each time he comes back hame!”

  FACTNOTE

  It goes without saying that tourism as we know it today had not been invented in Para Handy’s time — and that the weather on the Firth remains as unpredictable today as ever!

  Patrons of the Clyde resorts at the turn of the century fell into two categories. Most daytrippers were from the ‘working class’ areas around Glasgow. Longer-stay visitors ranged from factory workers to professional men and came for anything from a weekend to a month, some in hotels or boarding-houses: some, the first self-catering holidaymakers, in rented property.

  Many Glasgow business-barons, however, either rented a house for the entire summer, or built their own: and, while their families enjoyed the sea and summer air, they commuted daily to their office using the efficient, speedy steamer network.

  Few tourists came from farther afield: Scotland was not yet established as a holiday ‘destination’ for the English, never mind the overseas market. Long-distance travel was confined to the wealthy. Most English visitors and most of the very few from foreign countries, were ‘gentry’ coming either to their own estates, or those of their friends. Society moved north in season for the highly specialised pursuits of fishing and shooting, and to a lesser degree, yachting as well.

  TECHNOLOGY, EDWARDIAN-STYLE — A Kintyre Motor Company charabanc arrives at the Campbeltown quayside, about 1910. This one has a solid roof, but many had canvas hoods which were folded down in fine weather. One lad runs alongside, the feet of another chasing the vehicle can be seen to the rear, behind the back wheel. Hanging onto the back of buses or lorries for a free ride was a popular, if highly risky, pursuit!

  Macphail was right in seeing that increasing speed and comfort on the Atlantic passage would bring Americans over in growing numbers. There was fierce rivalry between the shipping lines of Britain, France and Germany to capture their share of the profits to be had in catering for the travel whims of wealthy Americans. Para Handy, however, could never have imagined that air-travel would open up Europe, and then the world, to all his countrymen, whatever their social or economic background.

  ‘Onion Johnnies’ usually came from the Basque country in the foothills of the Pyrenees and were a common sight throughout rural Scotland well into the second half of this century. They would travel as a group but then work as individuals, sharing a central base where they could store their stockin-trade: and criss-cross the country on bicycles so festooned with strings of Spanish onions that they could hardly push them, never mind ride them, at the beginning of each circuit.

  The Dukes of Argyll, so far as I am aware, have never hosted expensive ticket-only dinner-parties for socially-hungry American or Japanese tourists, though some of their opposite numbers in the English aristocracy certainly have. However, in common with almost every stately home everywhere, only by opening its doors each summer to the curious tourist has Inveraray Castle been able to finance the repairs, upkeep and general investment essential to the maintenance and enhancement of its structure.

  14

  Look Back in Agony

  The Vital Spark, all way off her, almost at a standstill, was drifting the last few feet onto the fendered face of Rothesay pier when there came the most spine-chilling, ear-piercing howl from the engine-room under the wheelhouse.

  Startled bystanders jumped in alarm, and heads swivelled towards the source of the banshee tocsin which sounded for all the world like the puffer’s own steam whistle but set an octave higher and with a far greater capacity to discomfit the hearer.

  “My Cot, Dan,” shouted the
Captain, bending down to peer into the stokehold at his feet, “if you’ve been and stubbed your big toe or whacked your foot wi’ the shuvvle again, wull you for peety’s sake keep the noise doon to a dull roar, for the Ro’say folk’ll be thinkin’ we’ve come to deliver aal the de’ils o’ hell to the island instead o’ chust a cargo o’ coals!”

  “It’s no’ ma toe, ye clown,” howled the Engineer, “it’s mah back: talk aboot white-hot pokers gaun’ through it — Ah cannae move a muscle.”

  Some five minutes later, with the vessel safely secured at her berth, the crew assembled in the cramped engine-room to examine the stricken engineer, diagnose his problem, and offer their consensus advice.

  Macphail was on his feet, but bent forward from the waist at a right angle so that the upper part of his body was virtually parallel to the deck, and his arms dangled loosely in a posture reminiscent of the ape in Hengler’s Menagerie.

  “Man, Dan,” said Para Handy at length: “this is a fine to-do to be sure. How did you effer contrive to get in such a fix?”

  “Ah’m sure an’ Ah didnae contrive it,” said Macphail with some exasperation, “d’ye think Ah’m enjoyin’ masel’? Every meenit’s jist agony an’ Ah cannae budge! Ah’m stuck!”

  “Well you cannot chust bide there for ever,” said the unfeeling Mate, “it’s your shout for the refreshments up at the Harbour Inn for a start and, besides, we need a fourth for dominos.”

  However it soon became clear that the Engineer really seemed quite unable to straighten up and Para Handy’s attempts to free him from his predicament by forced manipulation — “Chust the wan wee tug, Dan, and you’ll be ass straight ass a ramrod again!” — had the effect of producing blood-curdling shrieks of protest compared with which the Engineer’s earlier howling was as birdsong at evening.

  Thus bystanders and passers-by on Rothesay pier, and on the esplanade itself, were treated to the remarkable spectacle of one adult male, body locked into a kind of inverted L-shape, being pushed along the pavement standing in a small wheelbarrow propelled by one, young, man while two older men, one at either flank of the barrow, held the stooped man by the arms to stop him from falling out of the conveyance to one side or another.