Carrie’s shop was an irresistible attraction to a young child, and Carrie, who would have been a fascinating patient for a psychanalyst, always encouraged her sisters’ children to come to the shop, trysting with sweeties so that we would like her best. Possibly she had a strong maternaI instinct: I don’t know. She was friendly with dominie Walker too, although I don’t think she was trying to mother him. He used to appear after school with a paraffin can to filled, and if I was hanging around, she would tell me , “Wait there, John, Mr Walker has something to tell me”. Off they would go into the paraffin shed that he could impart his information and get his paraffin tin filled, shutting the door behind them. Pre-war children, unlike today’s knowing brats were not very sophisticated, and I just thought he was telling her something about some of his pupils. I suppose I must have been about 40 when the penny suddenly dropped, Apparently it was common knowledge locally.
Quite apart from Carrie’s efforts, all the gulshach in the shop was a great attraction, much better than the kibbled maize and lumps of oilcake from the steading at home, shared of course with the rats and mice, which however many eats were kept, were never absent from the farm steadings. In winter, the shop was heated by a flat topped American iron stove, and sometimes we would be allowed to roast a mealie jimmy in a tin lid on top of it: sheer bliss! All this gourmandising led to a Lack of appetite for food at home, unfortunately, and caused many rows and tears.
Nearly all or the merchandise on sale in the shop came in bulk, and items like sugar had to be weighed out into brown paper bays which were then folded over and neatly tied with string. Mitchell’s XXX Bogie Roll, which many of the men smoked, came in rolls, like black rope. packed in straw. There were two notches on the edge of the counter to measure out an approximate ounce. Bacon came in long rolls, wrapped in cheesecloth, and was sliced with a big knife. Cheeses, in cheesecloth, weighed I suppose about 50lb, and were either cut with the bacon knife (wiped first, usually), or with a wire, which didn’t need wiping. The cheese was covered up and the bacon hung from the ceiling at nights to keep them away from mice. All the water had to be carried in buckets from the outside tap at the farm, but hygiene was not neglected and there was always a dishcloth to wipe things clean (Prof Pennington, eat your heart out!).
The LNER railway lorry, universally known as ‘the Liner’, which delivered most things, came on Saturdays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. The driver was Sandy something, a big cheery fellow, not very politically correct, and with a taste for grabbing any young woman rash enough to get too close. I suppose he would embellish the sex-offenders’ register nowadays. Sugar came in huge bags, while treacle and syrup carne in barrels. The dispenser for the syrup and treacle had been supplied, I suppose by Tate and Lyle. It was a double, metal, barrel-like contraption which stood on top of the counter, the lop being about 7 feet above the floor. The front or it was a representation of the Royal Coat of Arms or something similar, with a unicorn on one half and a lion on the other. The contents were tapped from the original barrel into buckets in the paraffin shed, carried into the shop, and then the buckets upended over an aperture with a flap lid, on top of the dispenser to drain. There were guillotine type taps in front to fill the assorted jars and containers that customers brought, and below the taps were small sliding drawers to catch the drips. The main containers were in constant use, and so kept quite fresh, but the drip drawers were never, to my knowledge, cleaned, and of course as well as drips, caught dust und flies. The contents tasted so horrible that one try was enough, even for a small boy. There were however steps up to the rear of the dispenser to assist filling, and if the main containers were not too empty, it was just possible, by raxing a bit. to dip a grubby finger in the contents.
Pre-war, there were grapes, which came in barrels packed in cork sawdust, Canadian apples, and Fyffe’s bananas, but the war put paid to all that. Paraffin came in tankers which did not look all that different to modern ones, although much smaller. The contents, however were not pumped, but carried manually by the driver in five gallon containers and decanted into the tank in the shed. A five-hundred gallon delivery must have quite a daunting prospect. Most of the coal was delivered by round-fronted, chain driven steam Sentinel lorries, which were almost as fascinating as the mill traction engines or the road-roller which was sometimes parked overnight, hissing quietly to itself, by the roadside at our steading.
There were few cars in the parish before the end of the war, and of course the regulars were well known. Dr Eddie at Echt had a black, and as befitted such an important person, rather opulent looking Rover, while the District Nurse, the gentle and hard-working Sister Gauld, who lived with her mother in Waterton, had an Austin 7 provided. Nurse Gauld’s cottage was just west of Ritchie’s garage, and had a sign at the garden gate saying, “Queen’s Nurse”. I used to wonder how she managed to nurse the Queen from Dunecht. Mr Mackay the Chemist had his Pharmacy in Dunecht also, but whether or not he had a car I don’t know. If we needed a prescription, which was not often, because Carrie stocked the staples — Syrup of Figs, Milk Of Magnesia and Zine Ointment – someone used to have to cycle across to get it, a much sought-after errand. Prior to departure, we were always well warned to be careful on the Kinnernie Brae leading from Manse down to the main road. An unfortunate traction engine driver had once missed his gears there, and his rig had careered, out or control, down the brae and across the Alford road, with fatal results. There were a few other cars in the parish, but I doubt if there were more than a dozen all told.
Another form of transport that we saw was a tinkies’ shelt and spring cart, usually with a couple of lean lurcher type dogs running underneath the rig with their noses to the axle. Sometimes these travellers would be total strangers, sometimes “our own ones”, the from the Shooting Greens at Potarch- The Shooting Greens people were scarcely travellers at all by this time, being householders, and well on the process of transition to being General Dealers. They were well known and accepted as just being local people with a different style of life. Davy Stewart, in particular was noted being one of most honest of men, although he could drive as hard a bargain as any; always pleading poverty, but with a big roll of notes in his pocket. Some of the menfoIk always attended the farm roups, and box after box of odds and ends which failed to find a bidder would be knocked down with a flourish “Thruppence — Stewart, Shooting Greens!” Old Mrs Stewart, who may well have been Davy’s mother used to do rounds regularly on foot with a big basket on her arm, selling home made heather pot-scourers and clothes pegs, and usually accompanied by younger female members of the family. Always just known as “the aal wife Stewart”, she was tall and erect, with a proud carriage, and must have been an outstandingly fine looking woman in her day. She was always dressed in black, with a grey knitted woollen shawl round her shoulders. Her while hair, slightly yellowed at the front by wood smoke or by the clay pipe she smoked, was invariably severely drawn back into a bun. Always she finished her speil with a plea for “a wee pickie tea or sugar”, and I don’t think she was often disappointed, although no one believed for a minute that she was really in need. It was just part of her act.
Sometimes real strangers would appear, occasionally even Gaelic speaking tinks from the West Coast, and the braver loons would shout at them from the school gate, “Tinky tinky tarry bags, yer bags is nae yer ain, ye got them fae an aal wife, coming doon the lane”. This would usually produce a furious reaction, and sometimes a complaint to one of the teachers, in which case there would be an inquisition and the strap if the culprits were identified. Some of the men were pipers, and occasionally came into the shop asking for a spoonful of syrup or treacle to keep the bag of their pipes supple. We were totally ignorant of the fact that many of these people were descendants of clans broken and homeless after Culloden, or of pathetic survivors of highland clearances. They kept themselves to themselves, and if they were inclined to drink too much and fight, then if they were not interfered with they kept that among themselves too. They were very different from the milestone inspectors – the tramps who could never be trusted not to creep into the barn to sleep, and who presented an ever-present risk of fire.
Mention of school for reason reminded me of the importance of footwear to small boys, and the long and sometimes heated arguments we used to have over, “faa hid the best beets”. Our role models were nearly all farm workers of some sort, so tackety boots were de rigeur if one was to have any shred of credibility. The footwear was divided roughly into juvenile and adult classes- “Little eens” wore boots or shoes shod with steel ‘protectors” which were basically rectangular in shape, or “studs”, which were circular. Their wellingtons had cris-crossed soles. “Big eens”, by contrast, wore wellingtons with proper cleated soles, or boots with heel rings and toe plates, and shod with proper tackets. Nothing but the proper pattern of tackets would do — there had to be a double row along each side of the sole. with a straight row and curved rows in the centre. Krupp horse-hide hoots were best, of course, if only a dream, and themore of a sprung last (i.e. turned up toes), they had, the better. Proper tackets were good for making sparks on the tarmacadam of the play ground, which we still usually called the play-green, although the grass had long been replaced by tarmacadam.
We nearly all wore shorts in Summer, but in winter there were quite a few pairs of breeches, probably allbought mail order from J D Williams, who were popular suppliers. Their catalogue had pictures of impossibly smart farmers in Norfolk jackets and breeches (English, of course; all our ones wore dungarees or moleskins with some of the buttons replaced by nails, and held up by two and a quarter inch wide “Royal Stag” galluses). With the breeches we wore length leather leggings, or sometimes puttees, either khaki or navy: both the soldiers and the police still wore them, and they were quite easy to come by.
In frosty weather, if conditions were right, the area near the gate of the little eens’ play-ground would commandeered by the big loons for their slide, which if it developed a really good surface was called a “glesser”. It had to there, because there was a suitable gradient, followed by a granite step leading down onto the footpath and roadway. In really good conditions. and if the glesser was not sabotaged by ashes from the dominic’s fire, the boIder looms could keep their balance and slide right down over the step and onto the roadway. At times there was always a frantic effort to get as many as possible on the slide at once, to “keep the potty bilin”‘. Some of us should certainly have killed, but I can not recall anything other than minor injuries.
Bill Adam, whose name was always elided to “Bledem”, was the Midmar joiner, and had his premises at Shiels, employing a couple of journeymen. He was primarily a joiner, but in fact he did everything as he was the only tradesman I can think of who lived locally. Spuddy Duncan had been the last local mason, electricity was still years in the future, and there were so few houses with inside plumbing that there was no living for a plumber. Bledem’s willingness to tackle anything was highly thought of and very useful but it didn’t always work out. In the late forties, the old man embarked on a scheme to get a better water supply, as our existing one was not good. Not only was there about half a mile of ancient lead pipe which often burst and needed attention (Bledem could wipe joints with the best), but the spring in wet weather used to get contaminated by the sharn bree from Pat Carnie’s midden so that water was discoloured and a bit stinky.
The pantomime of getting the new water supply up and running could the subject of an article on its own, so I’ll stick to the bathroom. We had recently had a new wooden scullery built on to the gable end of the house, and the plan was to convert the milkhouse at the hack to a bathroom. To keep it warm, the hot water cylinder was to sited there. Bill was doing the plumbing, but somehow or other the fact that hot only convects upwards was forgotten, and the hot pipe from the (new) range boiler had to dip to get into the bathroom. This was probably Father’s fault; he tended to think that natural laws should be subservient to his wishes. In any case, the initial result was lots of steam, but no hot water in the bathroom, and the cylinder had to re-located. Even before this, there was the plastering of the bathroom walls. Space was tight, so it was decided that the walls would have to be plastered on the hard rather than waste space with framing and plaster-hoard, which had just newly come on the market. Either proper lime for plastering was not available, or perhaps it was too expensive, I don’t know, but after a deep discussion, Bledem and the old boy decided between them that ground limestone was the same stuff really, so it should do fine. There was plenty of that for putting on the fields, so the walls were duly plastered with ground limestone, with a rather finn finish. Then they waited for it to dry and harden, And waited. And waited. And waited. After a week or two they had to admit defeat, and the ground limestone was replaced by cement. The walls always ran with condensation, but at last we had a bath, and the dry lavatory was pensioned off. Real high living!
After the war, the early settlers arrived, one of the first being an Englishman; a Cornishman, I think, who took the croft at Carter’s Fauld. Overnight a sign appeard at the road-end; “Joshua Plumbridge: Contractor and General Handyman”. He didn’t stay very long; I don’t think Midmar was quite ready for General Handymen with exotic names. Another incomer was lang Stewart, who took the deceased Spuddy Duncan’s croft, built a new bungalow and set about making his living as a henner from intensive poultry-keeping in moveable pens. I never did know very much about Mr Stewart, except that he was very tall, gruff, and was ignorant of rural etiquette. I remember that because of the corn hags. He had bought a quarter of corn from my father, presumably to feed his hens, and at this point it should be noted that corn hags were made of heavy material, and the property of the seedsmen, who charged half a crown (12 ½ p) if they were not returned. The corn was duly delivered in two half-quarter bags, the old boy expecting to get the bags back in course. Months later, the bags had not appeared, and Father, seeing Stewart walking by one day, decided to tackle him about them. Up to this point there was nothing very noteworthy, except that local people never needed to he reminded of things like that: if you lent something, you gave it hack. It must have been a mealtime of some sort, because were seated at the table when we heard infuriated bellows coming from the road in front of the house. There was no need to wonder about the source, as we knew all too well who was making the noise. Sure enough, there was Father telling Stewart exactly what he thought about his hens, his pedigree, his background, his competence, his intelligence and his manners. The vocabulary was limited but expressive, and the volume was sufficient to scatter the hens and send the dog to bed with his tail between his legs. They made a rather comical duo, the old man was 5’ 8″ and Stewart must have about 6′ 4″. After a while the tirade tailed off, and Father came into the house. After he had cooled off, we learned that when he had brought up the subject of the bags, Stewart had first of all been dismissive, then, when their value was pointed out to him, had thrown a couple of half crowns in front of the old boy. Father had picked them up and thrown them hack at him, in his fury fortunately missing. I never did find out what happened to them: I couldn’t find them.