My father and I sat in the corner of the long lounge bar of the Cherry Tree Inn, each nursing three-quarters of dark beer topped with the remains of the foaming head that showed it had been expertly poured by the barman now leaning his elbow sociably on the bar as he chatted with a couple of regulars. Dad and I sometimes dropped in here from the next village where I’d been brought up and he and Mum still lived. Not often enough to be considered regulars but often enough that the barman would greet us with a “Hello again” and ask how we’d been since our last visit while he poured. Normally we would have gone to Dad's favourite place, a lovely little pub out in the rolling countryside, but tonight he’d wanted to stay closer to home.
We were probably talking about something fairly inconsequential: like why the beer was called 80/- {eighty shilling} as that’s how much a barrel of it would have cost when the beer originally came on the market. There were various beers named like that and Dad always liked an occasional ‘pint of eighty’ while I would sometimes go for a 60/- instead. These were never big drinking nights. Neither he nor I could be described as any kind of boozer. A pint would last an hour of easy conversation: two would be a rarity before we made our way the couple of miles back over the hill to home. These nights had become more important to us after a heart attack some time before and we both enjoyed affirming our closeness in this way. Just the boys out together for an hour or two, usually just the two of us, but occasionally my older brother would be able to come and join us too.
I lived a couple of hours drive away on the other side of the country but I tried to come through every other week or so for an overnight stay if I could. Mum would be glad I’d take him out from under her feet for an while as they could be a sparky combination and an hour in my company ensured he would come back chilled out – an effect that could last for days apparently.Sometimes we’d play pool on the table in one of the back rooms, but tonight we were just sitting talking. Our drinks slowly drained and eventually Dad got up to go to the loo which usually indicated he’d be looking to make tracks for home fairly soon. While he was gone I people watched the interactions around the bar and the comings and goings of Friday night in this popular wee bar. The door tinkled its bell as two men came in. They were in their fifties, one taller and heavier than the other, a lean man of below average height with a shock of unruly greying hair tumbling down to the shoulders of his pale jacket. They found themselves the last two high stools at the bar and ordered drinks while they remained deep in conversation.
Dad returned, no doubt making his usual old man comment about having ‘needed that’ and we started talking our way through the final inch in the bottom of our glasses. A few minutes later he glanced up at the bar and his head perked up, a sure sign he’d seen something interesting. I was just about to ask what when he reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet and pulled out a fiver. He added a pound coin to it and thrust it at me.
“Och, let’s have another half, eh? There’s no need to rush back home is there?”
I made some sarcastic comment about not realising it was Christmas in acknowledgement of his munificence and asked if he was sure - to which he nodded, still looking towards the bar.
“And while you’re up there gie the barman money for a pint for yon skinny article wi’ the pale jacket and the lassie’s hair. Don't gie it tae him yourself though. Get the barman to when he’s finished whit he’s drinking the noo.Jist get yersel’ back here sharpish.”
Bemused, I headed to the far end of the bar and got us another drink, telling the barman to ’stick one of whatever that fella along there’s drinking in the tap for later’ and heading back for an explanation. When I got there Dad was finishing the last of his first drink with an expression of self-satisfaction. As I plopped down beside him I asked what the heck was going on but he smiled at me and said,
“Just wait and see. It’ll not be long.”
We chatted on and a few minutes later I noticed the barman move along the bar to the long-haired man with a newly poured beer in his hand. He sat it down beside his hand and I saw the man start in surprise. Even though he had his back to us I could see him ask a question which was answered with a few words and a nod of the head in my direction. The man swivelled on his stool and as he did so I saw for the first time that he wore spectacles with lenses just about as thick as the bottom of the glass he’d just had delivered. He leaned forward on his seat, peering at us and, even along the length of the bar I could see his eyes magnified owlishly as he squinted, trying to get a focus on his unknown benefactor. As he did so he raised his new drink in salute and I did the same in return.
I heard a chuckle and an “Anytime now” from my side as the man turned back to his drinking crony and spent a moment clearly excusing himself as he carefully detached himself from the high stool and turned to make his way carefully across the room in our direction. A moment later the man was within hailing distance and as he again squinted myopically at us he said, “Hello friend. Thanks for the pint but I don’t think I know you…..”
At that my father leaned forward from where I’d been accidentally obstructing the other’s view and said, “Hullo Charlie. That pint was from me!” The man leaned forward and focussed a second before saying, “Oh……Sam. It’s yourself. I…um…. never saw you there.” He made a face like his drink had just gone sour. “I’ve……. Well…….. I’ve been meaning to phone you.” Dad smiled a smile of beguiling innocence; one of those beamers that enchanted old ladies and young girls alike. “Have you Charlie? Well, no need now.” He turned to me and gave me a discreet dig in the ribs. “Alistair – get this man a seat will you?”
I pulled a chair over but took it myself indicating to the man that he should take the bench seat next to my father which he did with some reluctance as my father winked at me for my gift of a captive seated right beside him. I knew he was up to something but not what. It soon became clear that the rest of the nights conversation would not involve me, but the area of blind welfare social work that Dad and this man clearly both worked in. Twenty minutes and half a pint later the man left with the remains of his beer and an entry in his diary which matched the one my father had just made in his.
I raised an eyebrow in Dad’s direction. “And? What was all that about?”
He lifted his glass and savoured the last few dregs of his beer like they were nectar. “I’ve been trying to get hold of that bugger for almost six weeks now and he’s been giving me the run-around, never answering calls or voicemails and ignoring emails. I’ve got him now though.” He smiled,"it’s a terrible affliction – a double affliction even: being blind as a bat and nosey as a fish-wife. I knew he would have to come over to find out who sent him that beer. I knew too that once he’d come over he wouldn’t have the balls to refuse the offer of a friendly chat with someone who’d just bought him a drink!” He potted an imaginary black ball in the corner pocket with his hands and said “…in the bag!”
Later as we neared home:
“So – that was the real reason you were so keen to go there rather than to ‘The Stair Inn’ tonight then was it Paw?”
I felt him smile in the dark and smiled back as I heard his two-tone response.
Freddie Mercury, the charismatic lead singer of rock band Queen would have been 65 today. I heard this on the radio as I travelled across the country to see a friend and was stunned to realise that, had he lived, this great musician and character would have been a pensioner picking up his bus pass today.
I always enjoyed Queen’s music, although I was never a true fan. I always thought they were talented musicians, good songwriters and exceptional showmen, whose songs have the rare balance of intelligent lyrics, great tunes, and fantastic delivery. As a lover of live music, they were a band I'd have loved to see but never did. Much of their music holds up well to the passing years, unlike many and Freddie, if at all possible, is a bigger star today than he was when he was alive. Who knows what fantastic tracks he and the band would have made since, had he lived.
There are many tracks I could choose to play as a tribute in memory of and no doubt there will be more than a few across the Internet today. Here are a couple of my favourite tracks from the band.
Ursula was an oddity. She was my lovely G's mother too which is how I came to meet her in the first place all those years ago. A woman with an occasionally wacky, always distinctive sense of dress and a huge stride that virtually made you run to keep up with her, she was the kind of woman that stood out in any crowd, normally for the wrong sartorial reasons as colour co-ordination was never her strongest suit, but that must have come in very handy for her husband and children when she needed to be found. Having come to the UK in the early 60's from her native Switzerland to complete her training as a nurse, she met and married a Scotsman and never went home again except for regular holidays.. Despite having lived here for 35 years she never lost her Swiss accent or that same Swiss bluntness of approach. She never quite mastered English either which could be inadvertently hilarious, often at the most unfortunate moments. It's never a good thing to burst out laughing when a woman is angry and in full flow no matter how mangled the phrases coming out of her mouth. She loved to speak the Swiss-German dialect of her homeland and shared it with her daughter who learned it at her knee and came to cherish it in the same way. The regular and long phone calls to her sister back home left her enthused and flushed with pleasure every time.
Ursula's grasp of English could be highly entertaining, with her sometimes odd take on pronunciation { thoroughly was 'thuruffly' in her eyes for many years} and often managed to misremember a phrase in a way which still retained enough of the original that you would get the message but be rendered helpless with laughter. So, a phrase like 'without batting an eye' would come from Ursula as 'without flapping an eyebrow'. She found incidents like this confusing and would watch the resulting paroxysms of her family -and much later me - with a disbelieving stare. If you asked Ursula a question there would normally be a slight delay in her response which added a certain frisson to talking with her given that you never were quite sure what kind of response you were going to get. I always believed that no matter how long she had been in this country, she translated the English she heard back into Swiss-German, thought of an answer, translated it back into English and then delivered it to you. I think it was this that led to the 'close but not quite' replies that often came back in such hilarious ways. She loved the crosswords which she did to improve her vocabulary but - although I would never have told her - she was an inveterate cheat and constantly looked up the answers when she thought no-one was looking. She was an avid communicator though and loved to sit and chat. She made family occasions like Easter and Christmas - traditional Swiss Christmas - truly special with unforgettable meals and an incredible attention to detail. She loved walking and she and her husband walked - or in her case marched - the hills and mountains of Scotland for many years, sometimes dragging a breathless G and I behind them.
Ursula and her husband were very involved in the church and in village life. She was a great singer and used her beautiful singing voice to great effect in the church choir. She was a Kirk elder too and I often wondered how the elderly parishioners she visited took this kaleidoscope of colours coming charging up the garden path to hammer on the door like a police squad on a raid. How did they cope with her grasp of English. It would seem they did well for she was well liked and respected for her efforts over the years.
She loved movies that were 'nice', had dashing male leads and happy endings. She hated science- fiction and couldn't watch a film where there was even mild violence. She had a penchant for silly board games and loved 'Pictionary' where clues are drawn to be guessed by your partner before the other team get the answer. She was such a hopeless artist that her birds had four legs and ears and most of her attempts were illegible and obscure, or she would pretend not to understand the clue so Ken, her husband, had to follow her into the hall to 'explain' - which was a euphemism for a little kiss most of the time. Often the Lovely G and I would be left waiting to carry on with the game while those two fifty somethings had a snog in the hall. If you couldn't work out her unintelligible scrawl you were likely to get a punch on the arm in her frustration with you and we laughed so much during those games tears ran down our faces.
Ursula and I had issues initially. When I started seeing G I came with baggage, had previously been married and separated and was seen as a threat and not to be trusted. Our relationship was tense to begin with and could be taught with friction. Over the years though we came to understand and appreciate each other. She saw that I wasn't out for what I could get and I saw that she was more than the sum of the resistance I encountered. Slowly our defenses came down and we found that we could both lay our reservations and prejudices aside and that we actually had a lot in common. We came to have the strongest of relationships and would often choose to spend time together because we enjoyed it so much. We could banter and poke fun at each other and we could laugh at ourselves.
In her late fifties she developed a slight lisp. Quickly it progressed to slurring of words. Some of those narrow minded people you always find in every small village gossiped that a drink problem was probably the cause. She ignored them with Germanic determination even though it hurt. She began to have light choking episodes and over time these became more frequent and more serious. She knew I'm sure, what was wrong before everyone else did. After all as a child she'd seen her own mother suffer similar symptoms. It was her deepest and secret fear and she knew what the future held even before motor neuron disease was diagnosed. With startling speed things moved on and this dreadful, deceitful, wicked disease took firstly her song and then her speech. For a while she communicated via notes in her illegible hand until it was clear even this effort was beyond her. Eating and drinking became impossible, her body wasted and she became unable to walk and to have a normal life. Her husband nursed her for two long, increasingly difficult years, watching her become completely debilitated and seeing the woman he loved slip out of his grasp no matter how hard he tried to prevent it. She fought with all the strength and courage of the bear at the root of her name but ultimately it was in vain.
I had a dream last night. It was one of those oddities where, while not being a nightmare, you're not sure if you're exactly comfortable. Oh, I know exactly what triggered it alright. That's right Mornings Minion, it's all your fault!
The other day she posted a story from her 'family history' I suppose you'd have to call it. An innocuous wee tale of a young lad illicitly dipping into some of his Mums home-made mincemeat which had been stored away for Christmas and, having taken too much not to be noticed, he then had to stand and own up to it rather than watch it all thrown away as having been 'got at' by mice and therefore possibly be unfit for eating. Rather than lose that delicious stuff, he 'fessed' up like a man and ultimately all was well.
As I read that story yesterday I remembered clearly the impact of being a young lad with - shall we say - 'intimate knowledge' of some nefarious deed and standing in line with my brother and cousins in front of a Granny who was trying to puzzle out what had happened and who should be held responsible........
Don't get the wrong impression of me by the way. I wasn't a bad kid - just....... well....... unfortunate! {That means I usually got caught.}
Never a particularly good liar - even now I almost cave in at the merest security question at an airline check in; Did you pack this yourself? 'Yes' I say looking at the ground. { in reality my lovely G does the packing and I generally just throw in a book or two. What can I say - she's a control freak! - or if you're reading this sweetheart - an amazingly talented and organised suitcase packer.} Could anyone have tampered with your luggage? - No! {Actually almost anyone in the queue could have tampered with it because I've been bored out of my face for the last half hour standing in your bloomin queue, but probably not as many people as could tamper with it after YOU'VE got your mitts on it Mrs bloomin airline!} I know I know! I'm the only one in class who would have failed my 'Ordinary grade' basic terrorism exam caving in at questions like that!!!
My childhood tactic of trying to look cool and collected and as innocent as a baby in those rare {ha} situations would be given away by an over reactive blushing mechanism when under pressure and the unfortunate tell-tale sign of a perspiring forehead and upper lip even before I had the chance to let the storyexcuse explanation lie trip pure and sweet from my childish mouth. In any case I usually had forgotten to get rid of any offending article, wash my hands clean or empty my pockets/hands/mouth of all incriminating evidence or even to make the most basic preparation such as get the story straight in my head before the grilling began. Granny Robertson had undoubtedly one of the most penetrating looks I had ever come across in situations like that. Her eyebrows would gather together and her nose would wrinkle, she would lower her head and stare at you over the top of her glasses with eyes that could look into the soul of an angel and find dark secrets there, or make that angel feel there was darkness to be found. She would match her inquisitorial look with folded arms and a soft and beguiling tone of voice that almost hypnotised you into believing that if you only told the truth all would be well. {and that was a lie if ever there was one} I'm sure at one time or other she trained the secret service in interrogation techniques, and she probably taught old Obi-Wan Kenobi that "This is not the droid you're looking for" trick. Sometimes I would find myself standing there sweating, face on fire, ready to blurt out an admission to stuff I hadn't done, just to get it over with. The effect was increased when there were multiple potential miscreants as she would line us up and scrutinise each one in turn until the criminal broke down and gave himself up. Grown men would have thrown themselves howling at her slippered feet and begged for mercy rather than endure more than a minute or two of Granny Robertson's patented torture treatment for misbehaving young persons.
Mere children had no chance.
But no matter how bad it was, it was never so bad that after a certain length of time, you didn't think that next time you would do much better and after all it wasn't really that bad anyway. Yes, next time you would be able to stand there and fool the lie detector on legs that was my dear old Granny. No question about it at all!!!
But believe it or not, that's not what this story is all about. I merely pass on this wee glimmer of the woman that was my Granny by way of hinting at the kind of impact she had on my formative years.
And my backside.
This could be my early life -
right down to the poem beneath....
It's not a mile off my Granny that's for sure
Granny Robertson was one of those women who would rightly be called a Matriarch. She was, for my entire childhood, the glue which held my family and indeed my universe firmly together. She was babysitter, confidante, refuge, hospital, historian, maker of sense for all things perplexing, storyteller, fount of all knowledge, knitter of multitudes of embarrassing jumpers,socks and, most cringe-worthy of all, 'Balaclava's, as well as being the family's chief-cook-and-bottle-washer and as described above, 'Witchfinder General'. She would also sometimes be consulted by village folk outside the family on local or more delicate private issues - always accompanied by a pot of tea and - infuriatingly for inquisitive wee boys - behind closed doors. She was the scourge of any authority figure or family member she felt was performing beneath reasonable expectation. As a result she was well known, probably with some of the same trepidation I felt, by our local councillors. I remember standing beside my Father at her funeral and the local councillor saying to him " Nell would be pleased. This is the biggest turnout for any woman's funeral that I've ever seen." {He was probably there mostly to check that she had actually gone!} Sure, she could be intimidating for a small boy or a local politician, but to think of her as just that would be selling her way, way short. Although her decisions were like edicts pronounced from on high and the merest hint that Granny was looking for you meant that you better run as fast as you could either towards the house or away, depending on your recent activities, most of the time she was a benign power, a happy, beaming and forgiving, Buddha like figure.
As my Grandfather was bedridden due to injuries from WWI and she needed help with some aspects of his physical care, we spent a lot of time as a family or as individuals, at her house. Hers was the place where any far flung family would come to visit and hers was the place where we would all congregate for special - or even ordinary - occasions. She had the main care of my brother and I during school holidays as both my parents worked - something I remember as being somewhat of a minor bone of contention between her and my equally strong willed mother - and we would all eat at her house once, twice or more often each week through the summer and at least once a week during the rest of the year.
She was the most fantastic, and I mean just fantastic, cook and baker. This could become the longest post in history if I began to wax lyrical about all the incredible stuff that could be produced en masse from her wee kitchen and primitive stove, but I still yearn - really yearn - for her sublime potato and leek soup, her roast chicken or her Irish stew, or those amazing potatoes boiled then rolled in oats and fried until nutty and crispy and her supreme gift to a hungry child - her clootie dumpling. Just writing this, more than 40 years later, I can almost physically smell the soft yet dense aroma of fruit and spice that rose as steam as it lay on the hearth by the fire still wrapped in the cloth that gave it its name and held it together as it cooked. I can feel the cloth in my hand as I would turn it every few minutes, supervised by a satisfied Granny, to help dry the cloth and form its skin. What an exquisite torture for a hungry wee boy that was! I can still feel the wonder of trying to imagine where the hidden thruppeny pieces, or that one shiny silver sixpence that she always included in the mix, would be.
But the clue to this post is in the header. Granny Robertson's mince was - to use a Scots parlance - MINCE. It was a dish that now, as an adult, I can see was formed in her own upbringing in rural poverty and perhaps honed in the times of the great depression after the first war, when food had to be eked out to go as far as possible, waste was unforgivable and every morsel had to be used to provide sustenance. None of that occurred or mattered to me in the sixties and early seventies when faced with a steaming mound of Grannies indigestible mince. I was always a fussy eater in my childhood. My parents and grandparents all worried that my physical development would be affected by my lack of appetite and limited range of foods that were acceptable. {By the way SNB, I can hear you say " That must have changed!" and I will get you for that. lol} It was, as I'm sure you will understand from all I've written about Granny Robertson above, a major cause of antagonism between us and an ongoing battle that we were both equally determined to win. But, dear reader, I digress.
Grannies mince was appalling. It had a secret ingredient - added no doubt for all the right reasons and as I said above - for all the deep seated traditions and conditioning of my Grandmother's upbringing. It had beaten egg stirred through it. Now maybe it's just my imagination, but I can hear you go "Is that all?" but please, this was disgusting. It came to the table in huge quantities and to me it looked yellow, a horrible greeny yellow flecked with mince and studded with diced onion, carrot and turnip. It was without question the foulest concoction known to man and the worst thing anyone has ever EVER put in front of me. The mere sight of it would be enough to reduce me to a quivering tearful wreck in acknowledgement that this would be yet another interminable battle of wills between me and Granny. I would cry, I would winge, I would howl and I would beg my brother and sometimes my cousins quietly to take some off my plate to no avail as they all felt the same. I would try and attract our dog across to my feet where I would try and get her to scoff some, but even that gluttonous canine, faithful friend and defender balked at Grannies mince, leaving me with soggy dog-sniffed handfuls of the stuff. It was very much a case of "You're on your own pal".
But I tried. Really I tried.......
For each closely scrutinised scrap that I put in my mouth I would need a huge gulp of lemonade or milk and then I would manfully gag it down before sobbing my way to the next tiny, tiny smear on my spoon. I quickly would run out of lemonade and would ask for more which sometimes I would get, sometimes not. I would mix it with the veg on the plate or with the mashed potatoes in the hope of masking the flavour, but all I succeeded in doing was making the mash and veg taste like the mince and the plate appear more full of the noxious stuff than when I had started. Granny was a great believer in no one leaving the table until every scrap had been polished off and plates were gleaming clean; for which purpose bread and butter were generously provided. It was hell on earth and for many years cancelled out all the good memories of the amazing things that she could produce. One particularly bad day I found that every time when Granny wasn't looking or had gone to the kitchen or through to Grandpa as she often did, and I bent down to try and force the dog to eat some, my brother and my cousin who was with us that day, would each spoon some of theirs onto my plate while I wasn't looking. For ages I couldn't understand what was going on. I was eating the stuff, even the dog seemed to be more obliging than usual and yet the pile on my plate wasn't getting any smaller. {Gordon had a different strategy to cope with this meal than I did. He would scoff the dreadful stuff as fast as possible and then wash it all down at the end with a whole glass of lemonade. It worked for him but the only time I tried it I threw up!} As I screamed my dismay at finding out what was really going on that day long ago I attracted an annoyed Granny back into the room and made sure her determination to see me finish the plate was burning brightly. No amount of accusation or explanation could make her see that I was the victim of an enormous injustice. Who would have believed that two such innocent souls such as my conniving brother and swine of a cousin could do such a thing. No, it was terrible that I was prepared to accuse them of such things when they at least had finished their plates like the good boys they were. Absolutely smug, grinning little B's more like. { Even now my teeth are clenched at the memory. GRRRRR}
And so manfully I struggled on, weighed down as much as by the injustice of it all as the heavy weight of at least a pound of Grannies incredible inedible mince in my stomach. The plate was eventually finished without the assistance of any more lemonade and tearfully I was allowed to leave the table but only after having to face the further indignity of seeing my brother and cousin get my dessert which was forbidden me as further punishment for my bad behaviour. What a pair of absolute gits! They even managed to get out of the washing up and escaped my retribution by zooming off on their bikes before I managed to get away from the house to barf up my lunch and go hunt them down.
Even all these years later I hate mince unless its done as bolognese or chili. I am still occasionally haunted by memories of Grannies mince and egg hence the dream that wasn't quite a nightmare at the top of the page. A couple of years ago I had my cousin Elspeth and her husband come to stay with us here for a holiday and as we hadn't seen each other for many years, spent time reminiscing as you do about past times and things fondly remembered. Despite all the great memories of Granny and the fabulous times we had growing up there was one over-riding negative memory we shared.
Guess what that was boys and girls?.............
see you later.
Listening to The Waterboys, 'All the things she gave me'
