Minstrel Heart: A Life in Story by David Campbell sampler
Minstrel Heart sampler
Minstrel Heart sampler
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david campbell has been a lover of stories, poetry and people from<br />
an early age. These passions have directed the course of his life <strong>in</strong>to<br />
teach<strong>in</strong>g, broadcast<strong>in</strong>g, writ<strong>in</strong>g, perform<strong>in</strong>g and storytell<strong>in</strong>g. Born <strong>in</strong><br />
Ed<strong>in</strong>burgh, he spent his childhood <strong>in</strong> the story-and song-rich North-<br />
East of Scotland. After graduat<strong>in</strong>g with Honours <strong>in</strong> English from the<br />
University of Ed<strong>in</strong>burgh, he worked as a producer with bbc Radio<br />
Scotland for many years devis<strong>in</strong>g, script<strong>in</strong>g and direct<strong>in</strong>g a wide variety<br />
of radio programmes. Mentored <strong>in</strong> storytell<strong>in</strong>g <strong>by</strong> Duncan Williamson,<br />
<strong>David</strong> has gone on to mentor many others <strong>in</strong> the craft. One of Scotland’s<br />
f<strong>in</strong>est storytellers, he has toured worldwide with his repertoire of talks<br />
and stories and currently lives <strong>in</strong> Ed<strong>in</strong>burgh.
By the same author:<br />
Tales to Tell 1, Sa<strong>in</strong>t Andrew Press, 1986<br />
Tales to Tell 11, Sa<strong>in</strong>t Andrew Press, 1994<br />
The Three Donalds, Scottish Children’s Press, 1996<br />
Out of the Mouth of the Morn<strong>in</strong>g, Luath Press, 2009<br />
A Traveller <strong>in</strong> Two Worlds Vol i, Luath Press, 2011<br />
A Traveller <strong>in</strong> Two Worlds Vol ii, Luath Press, 2012
<strong>M<strong>in</strong>strel</strong> <strong>Heart</strong><br />
A life <strong>in</strong> story<br />
DAVID CAMPBELL
First published 2021<br />
isbn: 978-1-910022-25-2<br />
The author’s right to be identified as author of this book<br />
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.<br />
The paper used <strong>in</strong> this book is recyclable.<br />
It is made from low chlor<strong>in</strong>e pulps<br />
produced <strong>in</strong> a low energy, low emission manner<br />
from renewable forests.<br />
Pr<strong>in</strong>ted and bound<br />
<strong>by</strong> Bell & Ba<strong>in</strong> Ltd, Glasgow<br />
Typeset <strong>in</strong> 11 po<strong>in</strong>t Sabon<br />
<strong>by</strong> Ma<strong>in</strong> Po<strong>in</strong>t Books, Ed<strong>in</strong>burgh<br />
© <strong>David</strong> <strong>Campbell</strong>, 2021
Contents<br />
A Man 8<br />
Preface <strong>by</strong> Tom Pow 9<br />
Prelude 11<br />
1 A Charmed <strong>Life</strong> 13<br />
2 Little <strong>by</strong> Little 14<br />
3 Across the Border and Back Aga<strong>in</strong> 15<br />
4 Granny Howl<strong>in</strong>g 19<br />
5 A W<strong>in</strong>dy Boy and a Bit 23<br />
6 A Boyhood Fantasy 36<br />
7 To Be Young Was Very Heaven 44<br />
8 Varsity Meet<strong>in</strong>gs and Mat<strong>in</strong>gs 50<br />
9 The T<strong>in</strong> Room 56<br />
10 Highland Frolics 60<br />
11 The Tug of Curiosity 63<br />
12 Lay<strong>in</strong>g a Ghost to Rest 68<br />
13 A K<strong>in</strong>dl<strong>in</strong>g Spirit 78<br />
14 We Ran Our Heedless Ways 84<br />
15 Into the Dark 97<br />
16 Paradise Lost 103<br />
17 Musical Chairs 118<br />
18 The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth 125<br />
19 The Heretics 139<br />
20 T<strong>in</strong>ker and Sa<strong>in</strong>t: George Mackay Brown 150<br />
21 In Chase of Beauty: Sorley MacLean 154<br />
22 The Beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g of a New Song: Ia<strong>in</strong> Crichton Smith 159<br />
23 In Search of Simplicity: Norman MacCaig 167<br />
24 Embro to the Ploy: Robert Garioch 177
25 A New Buzz 180<br />
26 The Society 186<br />
27 A Ceilidh Decade: Dundas Street <strong>in</strong> the 1980s 191<br />
28 Passionfruit and Pangkor Island 197<br />
29 Eurydice 206<br />
30 Bert 210<br />
31 Camphill 212<br />
32 In the Listen<strong>in</strong>g Place 215<br />
33 More New Worlds 220<br />
34 A Torn Land 224<br />
35 On a Quest 229<br />
36 A Land <strong>in</strong> Transition 233<br />
37 In the Footsteps of Robert Service 237<br />
38 An Independent People 241<br />
39 A Lucky Break 247<br />
40 Elegies 250<br />
41 A Fateful Day 254<br />
42 Girl Friday and Rob<strong>in</strong>son 256<br />
43 West Coast Retreat 259<br />
The Sweetest Music 261<br />
Thank Yous: A Fairy <strong>Story</strong> 262<br />
Copyrights and Permissions 263
For my brother John
8<br />
m<strong>in</strong>strel heart<br />
A Man<br />
A man held out a promise<br />
that he could not keep:<br />
A promise, hope, illusion that he held,<br />
a dream that love could compass all.<br />
But his defeat was that it was,<br />
as once his father said, so long, so long ago,<br />
that he was ‘<strong>in</strong> love with love’.<br />
And he pursued it all along the decades of his life,<br />
Tore off deception as a layer<br />
of love’s onion sk<strong>in</strong><br />
And married truth<br />
th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g this was the golden r<strong>in</strong>g,<br />
But found truth<br />
was too stern an <strong>in</strong>quisitor at many fleshes<br />
For it needed wisdom and compassion<br />
to f<strong>in</strong>d half an ounce of worth,<br />
And these were weighty companions,<br />
not easy to fall <strong>in</strong> love with<br />
But to be earned <strong>by</strong> patience and humility.<br />
So on he trudged, the boy <strong>in</strong> love with love,<br />
And every meet<strong>in</strong>g was a joy,<br />
and pa<strong>in</strong>,<br />
Not one without the other.<br />
So, he came to know, as age came on<br />
That all he’d found was still,<br />
as a rough stone on the shore,<br />
In need of tides of time<br />
To smooth it <strong>in</strong>to someth<strong>in</strong>g beautiful.<br />
(<strong>David</strong> <strong>Campbell</strong>, 2010)
9<br />
Preface<br />
a surpris<strong>in</strong>g omission from <strong>David</strong> <strong>Campbell</strong>’s memoir is any mention of<br />
his hair. When he was my English teacher <strong>in</strong> 1966, he wore it short at the<br />
back and sides and with a long, fall<strong>in</strong>g quiff. It was g<strong>in</strong>gerish then, as I recall<br />
and, when he returned work to us, he swept his hand back through it, before<br />
he delivered a comment. It was a micro-performance from a handsome man,<br />
f<strong>in</strong>e featured and with the strong body of an athlete, a good centre I would<br />
have thought if he had been a rug<strong>by</strong> player. He has rema<strong>in</strong>ed a handsome<br />
man – even <strong>in</strong>to his 80s. The pony tail he has worn dur<strong>in</strong>g the ‘storytell<strong>in</strong>g<br />
years’ is now white, but his delight <strong>in</strong> the moment and an awareness of how<br />
it might be best shared have been constants from those flop-haired times.<br />
A ‘performance’ of course presupposes an audience and the memoir<br />
shows how <strong>David</strong> found his at an early age among his playmates, while he <strong>in</strong><br />
turn was drawn to elders who could tell a story or a joke. Now he can look<br />
back and share the moments – the texture of a tale – the future storyteller<br />
<strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ctively saved. Of course, the performer is helped immeasurably <strong>by</strong><br />
the extent to which he or she has ‘charm’. <strong>M<strong>in</strong>strel</strong> <strong>Heart</strong> tells the story of<br />
someone who I have witnessed charm audiences of school students, university<br />
students, family, friends and folk with whom he just happens to be shar<strong>in</strong>g<br />
space. Some readers may question his assertion that he has pursued, through<br />
his many relationships, an understand<strong>in</strong>g of the nature of love. However,<br />
I th<strong>in</strong>k of Edw<strong>in</strong> Morgan’s late collection, Love and a <strong>Life</strong>, <strong>in</strong> which long<br />
term relationships and the briefest encounters are alike viewed <strong>by</strong> the poet<br />
as manifestations of love.<br />
Lest ‘performance’ sound too egocentric, it has to be balanced – even for<br />
an audience of one – with a sense of welcome. As a storyteller, <strong>David</strong> saw<br />
how, with Duncan Williamson and other Travellers he came to know well,<br />
this quality is bred <strong>in</strong> the bone; <strong>M<strong>in</strong>strel</strong> <strong>Heart</strong> shows the extent to which<br />
<strong>David</strong> himself has always welcomed people <strong>in</strong>to his life and <strong>in</strong>to his flat.<br />
Whether they were needy, <strong>in</strong> want of encouragement, or merely pass<strong>in</strong>g,<br />
they were welcome to the ceilidh. There is then a depth to his charm; the<br />
m<strong>in</strong>strel heart may have wandered, but it has always been capacious. In<br />
fact, a def<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g feature of the poems which thread through <strong>M<strong>in</strong>strel</strong> <strong>Heart</strong><br />
is their welcom<strong>in</strong>g tone, the desire to <strong>in</strong>vite the reader to share a memory<br />
of a moment or of a person.<br />
One of the attractions of the memoir is its buoyant sense of forward<br />
propulsion. (‘Every age has its compensations,’ he once told me.) Blessed<br />
with confidence from a young age, <strong>David</strong> has trusted his <strong>in</strong>ner voice to make<br />
the decisions that have shaped his life – and to defend what is important to<br />
him. Discard<strong>in</strong>g what no longer held him, thrust<strong>in</strong>g himself towards fresh
10<br />
m<strong>in</strong>strel heart<br />
experiences and new people, we can see how the life ‘understood backwards’<br />
has resulted <strong>in</strong> a coherence which his bl<strong>in</strong>d choices could not have foreseen.<br />
His memoir is, as we would expect from a storyteller, an engag<strong>in</strong>g tale; the<br />
story of a richly satisfy<strong>in</strong>g life. What makes it of greater value, as a historical<br />
and cultural document, is what it says about the times it was lived though:<br />
most especially, Scotland <strong>in</strong> the last 50 years. Through <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ation, choice<br />
and chance, <strong>David</strong> has been a central figure <strong>in</strong> the cultural and political shifts<br />
that have seen Scotland’s identity move decisively from a British/Scottish<br />
accent to a Scottish/British one <strong>in</strong> which the British element is more and<br />
more dim<strong>in</strong>ished.<br />
His <strong>in</strong>terests <strong>in</strong> folk song, poetry and drama, at a time when there was<br />
a sense of rediscovery of Scotland’s past and present contribution to each,<br />
swept him up <strong>in</strong> Hamish Henderson’s ‘carry<strong>in</strong>g stream’ of song, story, music<br />
and dance. <strong>M<strong>in</strong>strel</strong> <strong>Heart</strong> vividly gives us a portrait of the excitement<br />
of the young teacher whose active <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> drama led to a bbc post<strong>in</strong>g<br />
which brought him <strong>in</strong>to contact with Scotland’s foremost writers, among<br />
them Norman MacCaig, Ia<strong>in</strong> Crichton Smith and George Mackay Brown;<br />
whose <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> live events led to his <strong>in</strong>volvement <strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong>timate and large<br />
scale read<strong>in</strong>gs; whose <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> Scots and Gaelic culture deepened <strong>in</strong>to<br />
the appreciation and practice of storytell<strong>in</strong>g, which has absorbed him, as<br />
practitioner, teacher and writer, over the last 30 years.<br />
In <strong>M<strong>in</strong>strel</strong> <strong>Heart</strong>, you will read portraits of many of the significant figures<br />
<strong>in</strong> oral and pr<strong>in</strong>t literature over the last half century. I began this preface<br />
with my own brief portrait of the poet/storyteller as a young man. Alastair<br />
Reid told how, when his prose pleased Mr Shawn, the legendary editor of<br />
The New Yorker, it caused a spot of joy to blush on Shawn’s cheek. I once<br />
wanted to see someth<strong>in</strong>g similar <strong>in</strong> Mr <strong>Campbell</strong>’s comments, after he swept<br />
his hair from his face. It seems so unlikely therefore that I am writ<strong>in</strong>g this<br />
about him <strong>in</strong> my 70th year. Yet, from what better po<strong>in</strong>t to observe that<br />
<strong>M<strong>in</strong>strel</strong> <strong>Heart</strong> is testament to the many lives he has enriched along his way.<br />
I consider it most fortunate that m<strong>in</strong>e has been one of them.<br />
Tom Pow,<br />
May 2021
11<br />
Prelude<br />
Memory<br />
One had a lovely face<br />
And two or three had charm<br />
But charm and face were <strong>in</strong> va<strong>in</strong><br />
For the mounta<strong>in</strong> grass<br />
Cannot but keep the form<br />
Where the mounta<strong>in</strong> hare has la<strong>in</strong>.<br />
this wb yeats’ poem expresses for me how place and date and detail fade<br />
like a ‘glimmer<strong>in</strong>g girl’ ‘<strong>in</strong>to the brighten<strong>in</strong>g air’, but the emotions rema<strong>in</strong><br />
like the hare’s <strong>in</strong>dentation <strong>in</strong> the soft grass.<br />
When I reflect over the eight decades of my life, I can see from my earliest<br />
years a boy <strong>in</strong> love with words and with stories, with poetry, with people<br />
– loves which were to connect me with s<strong>in</strong>gers, poets, writers, actors; with<br />
writ<strong>in</strong>g and perform<strong>in</strong>g myself. I recall <strong>in</strong> my early teens overhear<strong>in</strong>g my<br />
father say<strong>in</strong>g to my mother, ‘Our <strong>David</strong> is <strong>in</strong> love with love.’<br />
S<strong>in</strong>g not the song that others have sung. S<strong>in</strong>g only what you<br />
yourself have realised <strong>in</strong> your own heart. (Guruji)<br />
What I’ve realised <strong>in</strong> my own heart is that its song is for many, that it<br />
s<strong>in</strong>gs for whom it meets on its way. It does not rema<strong>in</strong> at home, but is a<br />
wander<strong>in</strong>g m<strong>in</strong>strel heart.<br />
I started fall<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> love when I was at Fraserburgh Primary School,<br />
aged five. I was <strong>in</strong> love simultaneously with three girls <strong>in</strong> my class. No one<br />
knew except myself. They were Nad<strong>in</strong>e Soutar, Vivien Stafford and Norma<br />
Bissett. Nad<strong>in</strong>e’s face was soft and pear-shaped. I suppose she became June<br />
Allyson, the film star of my adolescent <strong>in</strong>fatuation. Vivien was def<strong>in</strong>itely<br />
Rita Hayworth, and Norma a sultry G<strong>in</strong>a Lollobrigida. I had no difficulty<br />
<strong>in</strong> ador<strong>in</strong>g each of them equally and separately.<br />
This ‘fall<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> love’, be<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>explicably drawn to someone, has been a<br />
constant <strong>in</strong> my life, as has the tendency to be <strong>in</strong> love with more than one<br />
person at a time. In my mature years it has evolved <strong>in</strong>to the conviction<br />
that we are married to the person, or persons, that we are with at the<br />
present moment. Right now, it is to myself as I make this entry <strong>in</strong>to my<br />
life stories.<br />
This seem<strong>in</strong>gly <strong>in</strong>born, karmic, or whatever, tendency was to become<br />
the source of great loves, pleasures, vexations and complexity, as well as
12<br />
m<strong>in</strong>strel heart<br />
a pilgrimage <strong>in</strong> search of understand<strong>in</strong>g my own nature, and the nature of<br />
love itself.<br />
<strong>David</strong> <strong>Campbell</strong>,<br />
Ed<strong>in</strong>burgh,<br />
May 2021
13<br />
1<br />
A Charmed <strong>Life</strong><br />
when i was a ba<strong>by</strong>, our family lived <strong>in</strong> a house <strong>in</strong> Craigleith Hill Avenue <strong>in</strong><br />
Ed<strong>in</strong>burgh. I slept <strong>in</strong> a cot adjacent to the room of my mother and father.<br />
One day when my father returned from his work <strong>in</strong> the then labour<br />
exchange, my mother <strong>in</strong>sisted, ‘We have to move <strong>David</strong> <strong>in</strong>to our bedroom.’<br />
There was no apparent reason for this except my mother’s <strong>in</strong>tuition and<br />
adamant <strong>in</strong>sistence, but my cot was moved <strong>in</strong>to their bedroom.<br />
That night the ceil<strong>in</strong>g came down <strong>in</strong> my room. Lumps of heavy sodden<br />
plaster fell directly where I had been ly<strong>in</strong>g.
14<br />
m<strong>in</strong>strel heart<br />
2<br />
Little <strong>by</strong> Little<br />
how could i know how big the world was? Why would I need to know?<br />
It was simple. I had a big brother and a big sister, a wee brother, an old<br />
comfortable granny and a mum who made breakfast every morn<strong>in</strong>g, except<br />
Sundays when Dad brought everyone breakfast <strong>in</strong> bed. This was the world.<br />
Our house was white and had a garden. These houses, built <strong>in</strong> the ’30s,<br />
occupied only one side of the street s<strong>in</strong>ce we were so far on the outskirts<br />
of Ed<strong>in</strong>burgh that we still had a farmer’s field <strong>in</strong> front of the house and the<br />
playground of a disused sand quarry at the back. It was a cosy cradle of<br />
childhood, nourished <strong>by</strong> bedtime stories my dad told my wee brother but that<br />
I eagerly eavesdropped to hear. They were always about a boy adventurer<br />
called Johnny Morey who travelled the world.<br />
I remember how I loved my sister’s tortoise. He was a small explorer. I can<br />
see him still, brown and ponder<strong>in</strong>g on the green back lawn. He lived under<br />
a hard smooth shell; the shell seemed to be made of pieces glued together,<br />
brown as chestnuts. This tortoise sometimes poked his head from under his<br />
shell house. His neck was as long as my three-year-old middle f<strong>in</strong>ger, but dry<br />
and crackly as if it would creak when it came out of the shell. But it didn’t;<br />
it was completely quiet. Sometimes he would go for a walk across the lawn<br />
on his four padded feet. He was very, very slow. I called him Little <strong>by</strong> Little<br />
and loved watch<strong>in</strong>g him mov<strong>in</strong>g always as if he knew where he was go<strong>in</strong>g.<br />
I was very fond of Little <strong>by</strong> Little. He was my friend.<br />
One day Little <strong>by</strong> Little seemed especially clear about where he was go<strong>in</strong>g<br />
and I watched a long time as he made his way out of the garden gate <strong>in</strong>to the<br />
field across the road. The field was vast, full of sun-ripe tawny barley, and <strong>in</strong>to<br />
that vastness Little <strong>by</strong> Little made his way watched <strong>by</strong> my affectionate eye.<br />
When my sister enquired where he was, I <strong>in</strong>nocently replied – so I am<br />
told – ‘Oh, he went for a walk.’ This, a preface to sister’s horror and tears<br />
when she discovered where he’d taken his walk.<br />
The family, except Granny, searched the field for what seemed ageless<br />
hours until dark fell and the harvest moon rose. That talismanic tortoise still<br />
visits me, his lone and fearless journey<strong>in</strong>g to adventure, freedom and danger.<br />
Like my father’s Johnny Morey and the tortoise, I was from my earliest<br />
days an explorer. I was an explorer because I knew that always I could return<br />
to that cossett<strong>in</strong>g cradle, unlike my friend the tortoise. Even aged three, the<br />
toddler me would stray along the road to the neighbours, some 300 yards<br />
away, who would phone my mother to say, ‘Mrs <strong>Campbell</strong>, don’t worry<br />
about <strong>David</strong>, he’s visit<strong>in</strong>g us.’
15<br />
3<br />
Across the Border and Back Aga<strong>in</strong><br />
it was out of this cosy world that my father’s temporary position <strong>in</strong> the<br />
Civil Service drew our family to the village of Sprotbrough <strong>in</strong> Yorkshire,<br />
a difficult and alien world for five-year-old me. A photo of my face and<br />
posture eloquently expresses an anxious, fraught child. Not only was the<br />
language at first un<strong>in</strong>telligible, but as a stranger I was harried and ran from<br />
the school gates, first to the brief sanctuary of my father’s office and then,<br />
the coast clear, home.<br />
Two memories of Sprotbrough <strong>in</strong>dicate an early sense of empathy. One<br />
day brother John, <strong>in</strong> help<strong>in</strong>g to clean the brasses <strong>in</strong> the house, had <strong>in</strong>serted<br />
his f<strong>in</strong>ger <strong>in</strong>to the t<strong>in</strong> to gather some scrap<strong>in</strong>gs. In no way could he extract<br />
it. This filled me with tears and <strong>in</strong>consolable alarm as I had visions of a lost<br />
f<strong>in</strong>ger or a brother with a Brasso t<strong>in</strong> appended to his hand forever. Huge<br />
relief when it was removed, I don’t recall how.<br />
My mother did not like liv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> England and longed to be back <strong>in</strong><br />
Scotland, and so with my little brother she returned to stay temporarily with<br />
her mother <strong>in</strong> Pitlochry. Dur<strong>in</strong>g this time, my father took me to a circus. I<br />
still recall my eyes stream<strong>in</strong>g with tears. The r<strong>in</strong>g master smartly dressed <strong>in</strong><br />
red tunic and white trousers sacked a little clown for some misdemeanour. As<br />
the little disconsolate figure <strong>in</strong> floppy jacket and baggy trousers was walk<strong>in</strong>g<br />
away, stooped and sad, the r<strong>in</strong>gmaster called him back,<br />
‘Hey, where did you get that jacket?’<br />
‘From the circus,’ said the clown, tak<strong>in</strong>g it off and hand<strong>in</strong>g it to the r<strong>in</strong>g<br />
master.<br />
‘The shirt?’<br />
And so on it went until the little fellow trooped out and away wear<strong>in</strong>g<br />
only loose floppy underpants, leav<strong>in</strong>g my father to put his arm around me,<br />
dry my flood<strong>in</strong>g tears and expla<strong>in</strong> that he was not really sacked but would<br />
be back for the next show.<br />
My childhood propensity and desire to enterta<strong>in</strong> and do tricks found an<br />
exemplar <strong>in</strong> a cheery, rotund, eeh <strong>by</strong> gum, Yorkshire friend of my father,<br />
Sam Leadbetter, who <strong>in</strong>trigued me with his bowler hat trick. He would put<br />
on the hat, stick his middle f<strong>in</strong>ger <strong>in</strong> his mouth, puff his rubicund cheeks and<br />
strenuously blow, and lo the hat would tip up from his head. Magic! Despite<br />
my huff<strong>in</strong>g and puff<strong>in</strong>g till red <strong>in</strong> the face, my efforts were <strong>in</strong> va<strong>in</strong> until he<br />
revealed the secret. He stood back to the wall, and the brim be<strong>in</strong>g firm,<br />
leaned gently back simultaneously with the blow<strong>in</strong>g and elevated the hat!<br />
It is <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g how early these personality characteristics manifested
16<br />
m<strong>in</strong>strel heart<br />
themselves and how different the nature of sibl<strong>in</strong>gs. Neither my little brother<br />
nor my sister had any desire to enterta<strong>in</strong>, and brother John was a talented<br />
but modest pianist play<strong>in</strong>g for pleasure, and not an enterta<strong>in</strong>er like me!<br />
It was also at this time that my love of words was ignited. I briefly had<br />
a marvellous teacher who <strong>in</strong>troduced poetry <strong>by</strong> read<strong>in</strong>g it and encourag<strong>in</strong>g<br />
us to listen. A poem that moved me deeply with a sense of compassion and<br />
joy was ‘Abou Ben Adhem’:<br />
Abou Ben Adhem<br />
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe <strong>in</strong>crease!)<br />
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,<br />
And saw, with<strong>in</strong> the moonlight <strong>in</strong> his room,<br />
Mak<strong>in</strong>g it rich, and like a lily <strong>in</strong> bloom,<br />
An angel writ<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> a book of gold:–<br />
Exceed<strong>in</strong>g peace had made Ben Adhem bold,<br />
And to the presence <strong>in</strong> the room he said,<br />
‘What writest thou?’ – The vision raised its head,<br />
And with a look made of all sweet accord,<br />
Answered, ‘The names of those who love the Lord.’<br />
‘And is m<strong>in</strong>e one? Said Abou. ‘Nay, not so,’<br />
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,<br />
But cheerily still; and said, ‘I pray thee, then,<br />
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.’<br />
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night<br />
It came aga<strong>in</strong> with a great waken<strong>in</strong>g light,<br />
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,<br />
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.<br />
Leigh Hunt<br />
I <strong>in</strong>clude this poem s<strong>in</strong>ce its sentiments went so deep at that age; I learned<br />
it and still recall it.<br />
My father’s application for a transfer back to Scotland had him posted<br />
as manager of the local labour exchange <strong>in</strong> Fraserburgh, where amongst his<br />
other duties was the plac<strong>in</strong>g of evacuees from the war.<br />
In Yorkshire, my mother had vigorously made clear my adoption of<br />
the local dialect was certa<strong>in</strong>ly not for home use, and when I arrived <strong>in</strong><br />
Fraserburgh aged five, I rapidly had to learn Doric, that highly dist<strong>in</strong>ctive<br />
North East dialect so different that not even Lowland Scots can understand<br />
it. But I can still fall <strong>in</strong>to it with a fluent and congenial ease like meet<strong>in</strong>g a<br />
long-lost friend. This language too had to be abandoned as soon as I crossed<br />
the doorstep <strong>in</strong>to our house.
across the border and back aga<strong>in</strong><br />
17<br />
Learn<strong>in</strong>g the language was not the only challenge. In Primary One<br />
Fraserburgh Infant School, I was rapidly acqua<strong>in</strong>ted with the fact that on<br />
the next Friday I was to fight the class champion, Charlie MacDonald, a<br />
sturdy, well set up, local fisherman’s son! Luckily my big brother John was<br />
home on leave from the raf and took it upon himself to give me box<strong>in</strong>g<br />
lessons, and the advice to attack rather than defend.<br />
On that Friday, a circle surrounded Charlie MacDonald and me with<br />
cheer<strong>in</strong>g encouragement for Charlie from classmates. He seemed formidable<br />
but five-year-olds are not capable <strong>in</strong> fisticuffs of <strong>in</strong>flict<strong>in</strong>g serious damage.<br />
Anyhow, <strong>by</strong> luck or <strong>by</strong> John’s advice, I landed a blow on Charlie’s nose<br />
which gushed with blood, the sight and realisation of which brought tears to<br />
the champion’s eyes conclud<strong>in</strong>g the combat with me as victor and new class<br />
champion. The threat however rema<strong>in</strong>ed of the ‘best of three’. Fortunately,<br />
that was never realised.<br />
Inside the classroom th<strong>in</strong>gs were peaceful. We had a beautiful young Polish<br />
teacher called Miss Petroshelka. One day, reluctantly I suppose, she took<br />
me out from my seat at the back of the class to be belted for talk<strong>in</strong>g. It was<br />
then a universally accepted part of school life that this was the punishment<br />
for misdemeanours: to be strapped on the held-out hand <strong>by</strong> a leather belt.<br />
I returned to my seat and cont<strong>in</strong>ued talk<strong>in</strong>g – perhaps <strong>in</strong> part a result<br />
of the leniency of Miss Petroshelka <strong>in</strong> deliver<strong>in</strong>g the strokes. Asked why I<br />
still cont<strong>in</strong>ued to talk, I apparently replied, ‘I hadn’t f<strong>in</strong>ished what I was<br />
say<strong>in</strong>g, Miss.’<br />
This charm and leniency did not prevail <strong>in</strong> the Central School, to which<br />
we graduated aged seven. Our Primary Three teacher was to be the grisly<br />
Miss Cranner. In today’s teach<strong>in</strong>g world, she would not have survived – one<br />
of her habits was to hurl the leather belt across the room at miscreants. How<br />
she failed to <strong>in</strong>jure or escape censure is a mystery.<br />
My younger brother and I were too young to appreciate the dangers of<br />
frequent German bomb<strong>in</strong>g raids on the targets of vass’s munitions factory,<br />
Maconochie’s food t<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g factory or the prosperous and important fish<strong>in</strong>g<br />
fleet. Dur<strong>in</strong>g the raids, my mother turned the sofa upside down and put my<br />
little brother Eric and I under it until the long shrill blast of the all-clear. My<br />
brother’s red and black P<strong>in</strong>occhio-like gas mask seemed more fun than my<br />
standard black pig-snouted model.<br />
Because of the importance of the fish<strong>in</strong>g, the crews had extra rations so<br />
as a bonus we had plenty meat and endless supplies of fish from the seaport.<br />
On our Sunday walks with my father, farmers would supply him with freshlaid<br />
eggs. At a time of severe ration<strong>in</strong>g, we were never short of food. At the<br />
top of our road was an anti-aircraft gun site where we kids visited and the<br />
soldiers gave us chocolates.<br />
We children were happy, unafraid and unconscious <strong>in</strong> any deep way of
18<br />
m<strong>in</strong>strel heart<br />
the perils around us. The presence of the war was a daily reality. When our<br />
mother took us down to the harbour, we’d see the herr<strong>in</strong>g girls with their<br />
lightn<strong>in</strong>g f<strong>in</strong>gers at the quayside gutt<strong>in</strong>g the fish and throw<strong>in</strong>g their <strong>in</strong>nards<br />
<strong>in</strong>to the air where the swoop<strong>in</strong>g, shriek<strong>in</strong>g gulls would snatch and gobble<br />
them before they neared the ground. On Sundays, the harbour was thronged<br />
with little fish<strong>in</strong>g trawlers <strong>in</strong> bright primary colours bear<strong>in</strong>g mysterious<br />
women’s names, and smell<strong>in</strong>g of tarry rope and fish, but above them floated<br />
huge barrage balloons to protect the little boats from enemy dive bombers.<br />
In wartime Fraserburgh, life for a child grow<strong>in</strong>g up was wonderful. There<br />
was space and freedom – space and freedom except on Sundays when we<br />
could watch the families <strong>in</strong> black, like big crows followed <strong>by</strong> docile little<br />
crows, mak<strong>in</strong>g their doleful way to church. None of our family attended<br />
church. My father, who had seen a woman’s name struck from their family<br />
Bible because she had conceived out of wedlock, vowed at an early age he<br />
would never attend a church which could do such a th<strong>in</strong>g. Hence, we didn’t<br />
go to Sunday School or church. My mother’s sole stated religion amounted<br />
to the wise dictum, which she exemplified, ‘Do as you would be done <strong>by</strong>.’<br />
The sw<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> the playground were cha<strong>in</strong>ed, like the local children, <strong>in</strong>to<br />
silent obedience to the Lord’s Day of rest, but my father took my brother<br />
and me on wonderful walks along the sand dunes, and one of the longest and<br />
most beautiful beaches <strong>in</strong> Scotland. We were also warned not to go near the<br />
big awesome pronged enemy m<strong>in</strong>es beached on the shore that could blow<br />
us to smithereens, wherever that was! We also walked the lighthouse wall<br />
breathtak<strong>in</strong>gly exposed to the wild waves and dramatic sea sprays.<br />
An occasion which wakened delight <strong>in</strong> me was a family visit to Aikie<br />
Fair. At this fair was a stall <strong>in</strong> which you rolled a penny down a little chute<br />
and it had to land centrally on coloured squares with numbers or blanks<br />
on them. My penny landed on the unth<strong>in</strong>kable riches of a ten shill<strong>in</strong>g note!<br />
I was wealthy beyond dreams.<br />
But I was wakened to a wealth of the heart <strong>in</strong> a tent where a dark-eyed,<br />
black-haired t<strong>in</strong>ker woman stood still and solid and s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g. The ballad<br />
she sang was ‘Son <strong>David</strong>’. her name, Jeannie Robertson. I was mesmerised.<br />
The rest of my family were completely unmoved <strong>by</strong> her voice, and oblivious<br />
to the electric effect it had had on me. Someth<strong>in</strong>g was k<strong>in</strong>dled. I love that<br />
ballad. It was a foretaste of the great Traveller s<strong>in</strong>ger-storytellers I was to<br />
admire, meet and become friends with later – Lizzie Higg<strong>in</strong>s, Sheila Stewart,<br />
Stanley Robertson, Duncan Williamson, folk who were to take me <strong>in</strong>to the<br />
treasury of their tradition, lore and ways of th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g. Duncan Williamson<br />
was to become a friend, teacher, companion, pa<strong>in</strong> and <strong>in</strong>spiration and part<br />
of my life for 20 years.