大象传媒

My Dad鈥檚 name was Hubert, Mum was Ella, my older sister was Daphne and I was born at 48 Greenwood Road, Hinchley Wood, Surrey on 27 September 1938. World War Two started after a year when Dad, in khaki for the duration, decided his family would be safer with Mum鈥檚 widowed mother in Scotland. Not yet a toddler, I remember nothing of the rail journey north because 鈥淪leep and eat, eat and sleep, that鈥檚 all you did鈥� as Mum would tell me. My life from 1939 to 1945 revolved around the Angus towns of Arbroath by the North Sea, Dundee on the River Tay and Kirriemuir by the Angus Hills, and around my Granny Elsie Johanna Brown, my Aunt Jean and Uncle Jimmy Brown, and the Gunns, McWatties and Simpsons, aunts, uncles and cousins living in Arbroath, and the Prophets in Kirriemuir to whom we weren鈥檛 related.

I have happy memories of living in Arbroath. My Granny lived at 8 Addison Place. On the ground floor was a dining room looking onto Addison Place, and a living room at the back with a cast-iron range Granny black-leaded every morning. A front-to-back passage
led to an extension at the rear of the house where, down three steep steps, was a kitchen and a bathroom further back. The stone-floored kitchen had cupboards, a gas cooker, two porcelain sinks and a gas-heated copper, while the add-on bathroom had a bath, hand basin, the house鈥檚 only loo and was as cold as a Polar Bear鈥檚 nose drip. Upstairs was a landing with large bedroom and box-room to front, and slightly smaller bedroom to rear. I found loads of foreign coins in a dresser drawer on the landing, thrown there by my late Grandfather, William Stormont Brown, following his sea trips during the late 1800s and early 1900s. My sticky fingers ensured I still have some of them. At the foot of the stairs was a portrait on buffalo hide of an acquaintance of Grandfather, Chief Sitting Bull. The back door, off the kitchen, led to the grassed back garden, and a greenhouse Uncle Jimmy, who had no garden, used to grow tomatoes and as a workshop. Fishing was carried out from Arbroath for a millennium and the harbour, which was always busy whether the fleet was in or out, was a constant draw for me. The arrival of the then huge fishing fleet caused crowds to gather: owners; auctioneers; buyers; customs and excise; crews鈥� relatives; crowds of hangers on like me.

Granny Brown, a widow for many years, had raised four children, William, James, my Mum Isabella, and Elsie, all of whom had married and moved on, only Mum having gone to England. The arrival of our Leggatt mini-Clan for an uncertain length of stay must have presented worries Granny could well have done without but anyway Daphne slept in the box-room, while Mum and I shared the back bedroom. My three abiding memories of Granny are: her sombre mode of dress, everything black from her head down to her toes; her 1-pint and 陆-pint milk jugs being filled by ladle from a churn brought to her door by a dairyman in pony and trap, seven mornings a week; her striding to the shop that charged the two accumulators that powered the gigantic radio on the living room鈥檚 window ledge. They had stout wire and wood carrying handles and she toted one in each hand.

Addison Place鈥檚 front gardens were bordered by metal railings, their bases cemented into the low granite walls and their shoulders connected by a strip of metal an inch and a half wide. They resembled spears. One day some Burgh workmen cut them down with oxyacetylene torches, leaving just stubs sticking out of the granite. I asked why they鈥檇 done this and was told the railings were being turned into tanks and guns to help defeat Hitler but thought this odd, as the spears themselves would have made good weapons.

With Dad on military service, Uncle Jimmy Brown was my closest male adult relative. He was good with children generally, amiable and clever with his hands, and he carved and painted toys for me out of spare wood. These varied - a Tommy Gun, SMLE rifle, several model military aircraft with Perspex discs for propellers - but fortunately Political Correctness was still decades away. Uncle Jimmy was a medal-winning bowling green bowler and he and Aunt Jean lived at 8 Carnegie Street and had two children, my cousins Hilda, who died aged 16 in 1944, and Scott, five years older than me. Daphne said if I called him 鈥楬amish,鈥� Uncle Jimmy would go berserk for me but, as I didn鈥檛 understand berserk, I didn鈥檛 dare try it.

Arbroath鈥檚 famous, although long ruinous, red-stoned Abbey, near which the Browns lived, was built by King William the Lion in tribute to St Thomas a Becket and 250 years worth of Granny鈥檚 predecessors are buried in its kirkyard. Family outings to it were frequent and usually coupled with trips to the harbour or the town鈥檚 West Links. The West links had a lot of attractions for me, putting, paddling, swings, roundabouts, a penny-in-the slot arcade and the lovely miniature but passenger carrying railway. We also visited Victoria Park, north of the harbour and to me Victoria Park always meant rolling Easter eggs, and vice versa.

Uncle Jimmy said he used to own a car. I asked why he didn鈥檛 have one still and he said they couldn鈥檛 afford to but there were few motor vehicles on the roads, fewer still private cars. Milk, bread, coal and farm produce were brought to the door on carts, drawn by pony or horse. Women on foot, carrying fresh fish in creels, called selling the previous day鈥檚 catch, except Mondays as fishermen don鈥檛 fish on the Sabbath and, after completing their Arbroath 鈥榬ound,鈥� walked to Dundee eighteen miles away to sell the remainder.

While in Arbroath, I developed persistent whooping cough and we moved to Kirriemuir for my health in 1942. Initially we rented 鈥楢nne Caw鈥檚 flat,鈥� over the Co-Op, on Bank Street in Kirriemuir鈥檚 main Square, near the house on Brechin Road where Sir James Matthew Barrie penned Peter Pan. The flat was sizeable but we used only the kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms and I never got to meet Anne Caw.

A few months later, we moved to a 2-storey house with garden in Morrison Street and once there, I virtually lost the use of my legs. However, this was for the nicest possible reason as I was picked up and carried by one Prophet or another as they encountered me on the street and handed me on to the next Prophet at a convenient shop, road junction or pub. Some of our unrelated friends lived in No. 8, a cottage across Morrison Street from our house but I never could remember our number. The Prophets I knew best lived at No. 8, 鈥楪ranny,鈥� 鈥楪randpa鈥� and daughters Mary Anne and Belle and among the others were Mabel, Norrie, Marjorie, Big Rhona, Wee Rhona, Peerie, Wullie, Bruce, Sandy, Ernest... Prophets took me on trips by pony and trap, into the Angus glens of Prosen, Doll and Clova, for picnics and walks, contributing to a very happy childhood.

One morning a letter arrived. Mum read out some words and Daphne started crying and seemed to cry for days and days. Perhaps she did. Mum told me something had happened to Daphne鈥檚 friend and I would have liked to help my big sister but didn鈥檛 know how. In Hinchley Wood our house was semi-detached and in the other half, No. 46, the Palmer family lived. Numbers 50, the Dyers and 52, Mrs Bolton were to the right. Opposite were another four houses and directly opposite ours lived the Chase family, including Daphne鈥檚 friend, and Mum had read out that Germans bombs had flattened these houses and Daphne鈥檚 friend was dead, her mother and sister too. An older son was at boarding school but the tragedy was both heightened and lessened, by Mr Chase being out walking the family dog at the time, returning only to find three fifths of his family dead, his home in ruins.

I started Kindergarten in September 1942, at Webster鈥檚 Seminary, Kirriemuir and took well to the social experience and loved the smell and uses of plasticine. I had a great time in and out of class and was in the group of laddies who one lunchtime famously demolished the enormous coke heap behind the school. Our misdemeanour was as obvious as the black dust on our hands and faces and the teacher, accompanied by the vexed janitor, easily picked out for punishment those who鈥檇 spread precious coke over the playground. However, seated quite far back, I saw what was coming and spent two frantic minutes under my desk, spitting on my hands and rubbing off evidence of my evil doing with my hanky, so escaping the dreaded tawse. Mum dined out on this for years.

North of Kirriemuir is 鈥楾he Hill鈥� and playing there one weekend, with Daphne and Mum, I found four live 庐303鈥� rounds in the grass. I prized their metallic feel and brassy colour and begged to be allowed to keep them but commonsense prevailed, and I handed my
treasure to two uniformed soldiers who came strolling by. Uniformed soldiers, on The Hill or anywhere, weren鈥檛 unusual as the whole country was an armed camp, with servicemen of several nations at every turn. Arbroath had HMS Condor on the road to Brechin, and HMNAS Peewit on the seaward side of the Arbroath-Dundee road. The Dance Hall near Victoria Park was a Royal Marines barracks and more were stationed at HMS Condor. Polish soldiers were billeted on land north of Victoria Park and hundreds more in Barry Buddon鈥檚 training area, near Carnoustie. RAF Edzell air base was inland and nearby was a hospital for burned servicemen who wore light-blue uniforms, white shirts and red neckties and had a friendly disposition towards inquisitive young boys.

Our rented house on Morrison Street had two bedrooms up, a living room, bathroom and kitchen downstairs. The owner, a merchant sailor James Low, visited when ashore although I don鈥檛 know where he stayed. He took me by bus to Dundee once, showing me over his ship, berthed in the harbour. It smelled oily, with cold dark-grey metal sides and hundreds of rivets, and I clattered over metal grille floors, peering into the depths at noisy machinery and saw enough to convince me Life Afloat wasn鈥檛 for me. Another time he gave me a 3-inch tall pottery man, squatting and bending forward at the waist. The man was wearing a bowler hat, blue trousers and jacket, and his bum was bare. In the middle of his posterior was a hole and into this I stuffed a tiny silver paper-wrapped cartridge, which I would light and this grey 鈥榮nake鈥� came curling out. Mum鈥檚 only comment was 鈥淣EVER let Granny Brown see this!鈥�

My Dad visited once at Morrison Street, on leave in uniform on his way to Italy, the first time I was aware of meeting him. He scared me stiff by wearing his gas mask and making monster noises through the tube connecting the face piece to the filter box, so I avoided him for the rest of his stay!

I moved into the 鈥榖ig鈥� school in 1943. Lessons were fine and I really took to Sports, where 30-a-side soccer matches were not unusual and the resultant injuries ensured the school鈥檚 full-time nurse was kept fully stretched. At close of school, I鈥檇 run home, throw my satchel over our high wall and yell to Mum I was going to see Granny Prophet who, from her bed in the living room recess, would be holding court to a roomful of people. My regular place was on the little wooden stool to the right of Granny鈥檚 ever-burning fire. Granny鈥檚 daughter, my special friend Belle, worked at the Spinning Mill and got home around 4 p.m., made soup and eventually 鈥榝orced鈥� a bowl on me. The tiny cottage was nearly always full of mainly Prophets but also neighbours, railway men, farm labourers, off duty postmen, a Minister, the doctor, the baker, delivery boys... 鈥淏ut ne鈥檈r a polis!鈥� The living room was to the right of No. 8鈥檚 front door and a porcelain sink with cold running water was within the east-facing window鈥檚 ledge, and a gas cooker stood by the window facing west. The room to the left was Mary Anne鈥檚 and there were two bedrooms upstairs but only the two downstairs rooms had fireplaces. There was no kitchen or bathroom. An unheated flushing toilet was outdoors, against Mary Anne鈥檚 bedroom鈥檚 exterior wall and next to the toilet was the washhouse, with a copper and hand operated mangle. A cold tap served the copper and water was heated by lighting a fire in
the oblong recess beneath. After a couple of hours, I鈥檇 cross Morrison Street and Mum would say, 鈥淚 thought you were never coming home. I see you鈥檝e been sitting too close to Granny鈥檚 fire again, your right cheek鈥檚 all red!鈥� The soup on offer was always tattie, lentil or Scotch broth and Granny asked me which I liked best. I said lentil but she said she liked it least 鈥淏ecause o鈥� they wee black bitties.鈥� They didn鈥檛 bother me as they made me think of the shot I found in pheasant farming Prophets sometimes gave Mum.

Poor old Grandpa Prophet was made to leave the house after breakfast, and not allowed back until his Tea was ready. He spent every day in all weathers on one of the benches located around town, wearing his dark suit, collar-less shirt, boots and 鈥榖unnet,鈥� puffing on his pipe. Grandpa would while away the hours chatting with his identically dressed, pipe-puffing pals, all of whom had been similarly ejected, while the womenfolk got on with their women鈥檚 work. A couple of Grandpa鈥檚 friends had a silvery metal cover, pierced with holes, on top of their pipes鈥� bowls, and I guessed these were the rich ones.

Another adult pal from these days was Joe Herd, a master baker with his own bakery, which I had to pass on my way to and from Webster鈥檚 Seminary. Joe might have been too old for military service or maybe, as a baker, he was in a protected profession but I always got a warm greeting and sticky bun when I called into his bakery.

In 1943 when I was 5, I had to have a tonsillectomy at pre-NHS Arbroath Infirmary. There was no pillow so Mum asked for one and, after my operation, she was getting me ready to leave and we found my pillow was all my street clothes, rolled up and stuffed into a pillowcase.

The 1943/1944 winter at Kirriemuir was terribly cold, indoors and out. The snow seemed to fall forever and steep sided channels were ploughed by hand along pavements by
Burgh workmen, and kept clear to allow children to get to and from school and shoppers to get about. The top of the snow was above my head in these channels, which were connected to shops by corridors cut by shopkeepers.

Although the Second World War caused many shortages, living in north east Scotland had distinct advantages and things like butter, bacon, milk, eggs, beef, lamb, bread, potatoes and vegetables were plentiful. I was keen on milk, although Daphne wasn鈥檛 and we both liked baked beans, especially me, but only the Heinz variety. Daphne鈥檚 nickname for me was and still is 鈥業ainie Beanie.鈥� Mum had difficulty finding Heinz and her efforts to serve up other, inferior brands, disguised with butter, sauce or mixed with mashed potatoes, never succeeded in fooling us.

I understood 鈥榯ime鈥� in 1944. On my 6th birthday, Aunt Jean gave me a new sixpenny piece and Uncle Jimmy explained about Fid Def, Dei Gratia and the date. Even English translation meant nothing, but the concept of 1944 representing the year in which we lived, moving up a notch next year and so on, stayed with me. I linked this with a noun I heard much of then, 鈥淎rnhem,鈥� but it was a long time before I appreciated the ferocious 10-day battle had ended on my 6th birthday, or that so few our troops made it back to similar celebrations with their kinfolk.

In June 1944 the newsagent near Webster鈥檚 Seminary sported a hoarding proclaiming 鈥淒 Day in Normandy鈥� which Mum explained. I understood the D Day bit meant lots of soldiers were fighting Germans in a new big battle, but Norman Dye was a boy in my class. What a buzz there was about the events in France, even in an area where we felt remote from the war. A few bombs had fallen in coastal Angus and east Fife and had hardly registered, well with me anyway, but after D Day it seemed sunnier, people seemed warmer and friendlier and chatted more, and wore less drab clothing, except of course Granny Brown.

In May 1945, the hoarding read 鈥淰.E. Day鈥� and we had street parties for children. The Beginning Of The End,鈥� as a phrase had meant nothing to me, although fact that, because of what happened on D Day and subsequently, my Dad would be coming home all the sooner, did. I just hoped that he wouldn鈥檛 be wearing a gas mask.

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