Digital Commonwealth Creative Writing Anthology: Writing for the Common Weal [JUNE 2015]

DIGITAL COMMON WEALTH

WRITING FOR THE COMMONWEAL

Writing for The Commonweal An anthology of creative writing produced by the 2014 Digital Commonwealth Project Introducing work by‌ Jolanda Bastein Lizanne Black Alison Boyes Maureen Bryceland Harry Burns Maureen Crabtree Betty Davie Katie Dunn Stephen Frate Jim Gibb

Lorna Glen Oliwia Gmyz Linda Godfrey Georgie Howie Helen Kerr Nela Kokocinska Chrissie Love Arthur Mclellan Ellen MacLeod Esraa Mohamed

Compiled and edited by Andrea McNicoll

Harry Mulvenna Ena Neil Yasmin Ocansay Eddie Phillips Betty Rodger Jean Sneddon Jacqueline Sorbie Gill Stanyard Agnes Williamson

Acknowledgements I would like to thank, first and foremost, the Big Lottery for their generous grant: without it the University of the West of Scotland would not have been able to deliver the Digital Commonwealth Project of which this anthology is but one part. The project has been managed by Professor David McGillivray and coordinated by Jennifer Jones of the University. Their drive, commitment and vision has pushed the efforts of workshop leaders and community participants to successful outcomes, as this anthology demonstrates.

Thanks are due to Andrea McNicoll, research student at the University, for designing and delivering the creative writing workshops that resulted in this volume, and for collating and editing the work.

I would like to thank Neil Mackinnon, lecturer at the University, who documented with great sensitivity the participants reading and talking about their writing on film for the project’s digital archive.

We are grateful to the administrators in the community centres who helped advertise and build the groups.

But most of all, we applause all the new writers whose work is showcased in the following pages.

David Manderson Lecturer in Creative Writing and Screenwriting University of the West of Scotland

Introduction Everyone has agreed that Glasgow’s hosting of the 2014 Commonwealth Games was a resounding success. Not only did our small nation achieve sporting success with a record number of medals but the games were managed skilfully by organisers and an army of volunteers who were on hand to ensure everything ran smoothly. Glasgow, so often stereotyped in the past as a polluted city with a violent undercurrent, proved that nowadays it is rather a city of architectural elegance and state of the art facilities. The conviviality of its citizens is legendary too. ‘People make Glasgow’ the posters insisted.

The Digital Commonwealth Project was created to take advantage of the unique opportunity that the 2014 Games provided to bring together groups and communities across the whole of Scotland to tell their own stories. In particular, the Project aimed to target those individuals and communities whose voices are often overlooked or marginalised by the mainstream. The Project organised community media clusters, involved schools in digital storytelling and social media projects, and delivered three creative voices projects – documentary film, community songwriting and creative writing –through participatory workshops in Lanarkshire, Dumfries, Renfrewshire and Ayrshire.

It is the creative writing strand that is represented in this volume of work. Four groups across Scotland came together to produce pieces of writing that reflect the four main themes of the Digital Commonwealth Project: people, place, culture and exchange. In so doing they have created an archive for future generations of the global community. Through these pieces of prose and poetry a rare and beautiful light is shone on the thoughts and concerns of those whose lives just happened to intersect with the 2014 Commonwealth Games.

Andrea McNicoll Editor

Lochbrae Court Sheltered Housing Complex, South Lanarkshire Harry Burns Betty Davie Jim Gibb Chrissie Love

Harry Mulvenna Ena Neil Eddie Phillips Jean Sneddon

The first group of participants who took part in the Digital Commonwealth Creative Writing project all live in a sheltered housing complex in South Lanarkshire, just outside Rutherglen. They are all over seventy, and most over eighty, at the time of writing and of the eight who contributed creative work, only one had done any kind of creative writing before. The residents have written vividly about their lives, sharing precious memories of the Second World War, the Clydeside bombings, evacuation, dance halls, loved ones, housing conditions and what Glasgow was like in the ‘good old days’.

The creative work in the following section brings to life some of the vivid discussions that took place during the project. Each workshop ended with a sense that the discussions had brought everyone together in a therapeutic way. Eight pieces of individual writing reflect the different memories of people and place that the participants chose to share. The final piece is a communal poem that was written in response to listening to Glenn Miller during one of the workshops. The poem brings together the spontaneous anecdotes that the music elicited from four of the residents.

Harry Burns The War Years Some of my most vivid memories come from when I was evacuated during the war. In 1939 I travelled with my sisters and brother from Maryhill up to Aberdeenshire by train. I was nine at the time. I spent four years on a farm in Buchaam, Strathdon with a family called the Bremners. I learnt a lot about the countryside during those years: how to fish and hunt and farm. There were two hills on the farm: Mel Beg and Ben Newe, and Ben Newe was a real climb. About halfway up there was a spring and we used to climb all the way to this spring for a drink of water. It didn’t matter how warm the day might be, the water in that spring was always ice cold. Long after I went back to Glasgow I used to visit Strathdon: I remained friends with the family for sixty-six years. All through my working life I would take a week off at Easter to go and help out with the lambing, and then a week off in September to help with the harvest. I’ve written about these experiences in a book called Dig Where You Stand: History Comes Alive in 1990 that was published as part of a local history project by Towie School – the school I attended while I was an evacuee. My experience of being evacuated was very rich: life in Strathdon was very different to life in Glasgow.

I came back to Glasgow when I was fourteen, towards the end of the war, and started work in the post office, as a telegram boy. I remember a boy called Tiny Graham – he was a bit older at seventeen and something of a giant at over six feet tall. He was built like the gable end of a tenement. His great wish was to join the Scots Guards. He got his wish on his eighteenth birthday when he enlisted. About six months later his rifle backfired and blinded him. I never ever heard any more about him after that.

After the invasion of France a lot of priority telegrams came in for delivery. Normal telegrams were sent in wee, three by two inch, buff envelopes but if the telegram came from the M.O.D. it was a bit bigger and it had a three quarter inch blue line down one side with ‘priority’ on it. It was usually bad news for the recipient. One day, a woman fainted when she opened the telegram I was delivering. I ran about trying to get someone to help her. After that I used to knock on neighbours’ doors before delivering those telegrams. I would find a woman that was friendly with the person to whom I was delivering.

What was strange was how calm some of those poor women were when I turned up with their telegrams.

They’d tell me to wait a minute and they’d go and fetch half a crown, a ten bob note, or even a pound.

This was in 1943 and 1944 when you thought you were getting a good tip if someone gave you sixpence or even threepence. So they’d give you a tip and then the floodgates would open.

I remember one occasion when I’d just come into the post office after completing my run and parking my bike. There were six of us working in that office. A girl on the teleprinter told me that the postmistress wanted to see me so I went up to her office, wondering what I’d done, what trouble I was in. There was another boy working there at the time called Alec Doggart, and his brother was a fighter pilot. The postmistress told me to deliver a priority envelope to his mother. She gave it to me and said ‘go out the back door and away, don’t speak to a soul, and deliver that. If Mrs Doggart is not in, put it through the letterbox.’ I was a bit surprised – I thought maybe she’d tell me to hang around after delivering it.

Anyway, Mrs Doggart was out when I called – she worked in the mornings – so I delivered it through the letterbox and came back to the office. All the boys were asking me how I’d got on with the postmistress.

I told them ‘it was just a wee bit of bother’ but when Alec went out the office I confessed about delivering a telegram to Alec’s house. Alec must have been working near his house that day and had gone to call in on his mum to see if she needed anything. Before long he was back in the office with a ten shilling note in his hand for me. I gave it back to him, saying I didn’t want it.

‘My mother’ll no wear that, you’ll have to take it,’ he said. So I took the easy way out and accepted the money.

Working Life I was in the post office for two years before my father got me a job serving time as an electrician. My father was a riveter but vowed that none of his children would follow him into the shipyards. I had a notion to go into the shipyards but not as a riveter. My father fell off the scaffolding – the scaffolding was very amateurish in those days – and he had a bad leg. He walked with a terrible limp because one of his ankles was all twisted from the fall. He was a keen boxer but had to stop after his accident. He became a trainer instead, and finished up as a keeper in the Corporation Parks. His main job was to look after the bowling greens and tennis courts.

I spent more than twenty years working for Paterson and Hughes Engineering Company, building cranes and conveyor systems, assembling and testing them on site. Then they decided to close the place. A guy came up from London and he was quite angry because there was about three years work still on the books. I applied for a job with Collins the publisher and started work with them. I worked with them for over twenty three years, repairing the machinery, doing breakdowns and installations. I retired in 1990, at Christmas. My first wife was very ill then so I asked for early retirement. I’ve been retired for twentyfour years.

My Mother My mum was a hard working woman. She was good company though, and a keen ‘co-operater’ – she was on lots of committees. The Cooperative was a big concern back then and had many branches everywhere.

She was a clever woman who kept herself busy. My father would never go on holiday with her because the summer was his busiest time: he’d be working fourteen hours a day. When my father died at age sixty-four, however, my mother travelled all over the world. She went on some organised trips to England and Ireland, but she also went to Canada with my aunt to visit my aunt’s son and daughter-in-law. Later on she went back to Canada with a pal and her pal’s man. While she was there she decided to give her friend a bit of time alone with her husband so she packed her bags and went to the nearest Greyhound Bus Station and caught a bus to Quincy, Massachusetts, to visit her friend, Cissy Crumb. When she got off the bus she asked a taxi driver to take her to Cissy’s address. When the taxi arrived she asked the driver to wait while she went to see if anyone was at home because Cissy had no idea she was coming.

She was in her seventies by then! She pressed the bell but there was no answer. A neighbour came out and told her that Cissy was away on holiday.

‘Oh, I’m just an old neighbour from Glasgow. I thought I’d come and see her,’ said my mother, going back to the taxi.

‘Take me back to the Greyhound Bus Station,’ she told the driver.

She went from Quincy to Boston to visit my cousin and his wife and spent a couple of weeks with them before going back to Canada. All on her own!

Holidays Thousands of Glaswegians used to go away over the September weekend holiday. They’d catch a bus to places like Blackpool or Morecambe. I remember those buses lining up for all the people to get on. We’d travel overnight. That was in the days before the motorway was built and the buses had to drive over this big hill called the ‘Shap’ – it was really dangerous. Your bus would get on to the Shap and end up stuck behind a heavy lorry; all the lorries used to travel at night as well. You’d be climbing up and up behind a lorry, going slower and slower and then at the top of the hill it felt as if the lorry just let the brakes off and down it would hurtle at about sixty miles an hour! The buses would do the same, speeding down the hills to try and make up a bit of time. It was very dangerous. You’d see cars that had gone over the side, rolled down and then just been abandoned because they weren’t worth the bother of saving.

I used to stay in Morecambe but I remember going to Blackpool for the day on the bus from Morecambe.

The finale of the day would be a bus tour at night to see all the lights. After that we’d all go to the Tower Ballroom. It was mobbed; you couldn’t even get your coat in the cloakroom so we’d plank our coats in corners. I remember this old guy who stood in the middle of the floor holding a long stick. He’d turn round with the music and if you were taking too long to start dancing, he’d tap you on the backside to make you move! We used to head home at lunchtime the next day and arrive in Glasgow late at night.

Then back to work on Tuesday. You’d be in the same boarding house every year.

The Last Tram I remember seeing the last tram in 1962. I was living in the Gallowgate at the time, number 636. We were right on the main road and the trams used to rattle up and down. Last thing at night, there was always one tram that I liked to say had square wheels because it was louder than all the rest; you could hear it from miles away. That was the tram they must have used for the very last run. It went from Clydebank to Shettleston, right along Argyll Street and up the Gallowgate. Everybody turned out to watch that last tram. It must have been about half past eight or nine o’clock at night, and getting dark. You could see people at their windows, and thousands standing in the streets: I think that tram was watched all the way from Clydebank to the Shettleston depot. The trams were a great transport system. When they took them off, they replaced them with trolleybuses for a number of years. The trolleybuses were called

‘the silent death’ because their motors were so quiet. They could swing right into the pavement to pick up passengers. In those days there was a lot of fog in the city because everyone had coal fires, and the fog made them invisible as well as silent. Eventually they took the trolleybuses away and we got a bus service. The trams were the best though. They never went off their lines and you knew they were coming because of the clang! clang! clang! sound they made.

Betty Davie The New Hoose I was born in 1943 and from then till I was around four and a half our family (Mum, Dad and me) lived between my granny’s and a spare room which was rented out by an old lady called Mrs. McDonald. The name aside, she was an old Irish woman who kept hens and I remember the highlight of my day was when she would give me a coffee bun or, better still, one of the potatoes in their jackets that she was cooking for the hens! Bliss! I loved them both!

As Britain was getting back on her feet after the war, the government decided to build temporary housing for families and that was when we got the good news we were eligible for a new hoose! – a prefab.

Well, wonder of wonders these houses had everything: there were two bedrooms, an inside toilet, a (very small) hall, lots of cupboards (my favourite being the dirty linen cupboard which had two doors into it which meant if you climbed inside and put one of the flaps down, you had a perfect place to play at shops – never mind the dirty washing on the floor!). Along with all of this, in the kitchen we had the luxury of..... a fridge! Yes, gone were the days when you had to put out your butcher meat in a covered pie dish by a window to keep it cool. This was posh.

The wee house had a few pieces of ground surrounding it, so we had a front and back garden where Dad did his best to grow potatoes, turnips and carrots, and some flowers – though not many.

When my fifth birthday was approaching, my mum said I could have a party. Well, as we had lived in my gran’s tenement nothing would have it but I had to invite my friends. If you can imagine the Bash Street Kids and the Belles of St. Trinians converging on this ‘mini-mansion’ you’ll have an idea of what it was like: kids climbing in and out of windows, jamming their fingers in doors, getting up to all sorts of scrapes.

I think my mum was a walking emergency room with Dettol and Elastoplast but it was a great party!

The thing I remember about the prefabs was that because there were virtually no cars we had a field day in the streets. The boys had a great time playing football or kick the can. The girls played at Beds (Hopscotch) or ropes, often with parents joining in. Once there was a photographer going around taking photos for families and my mum had her picture taken skipping with her peeny (apron) on: she loved it.

It was all young families in the scheme (there would be about 200 in all) and it wasn’t always easy for mums to go shopping so we used to have a selection of vans. There were the Co-op, baker, grocer and fish vans, as well as the Ice Cream Man. We also had a man who came round with a horse and cart selling vegetables – his cry was Vegetabaaals, Potatoes!

My dad worked as a miner and was entitled to a ton of coal which would be delivered to our front door – literally dumped on the pavement outside the gate. We made a procession wheeling coal to the coal cellar at the back of the house till it was cleared away.

There was a grand community spirit in the scheme; everyone knew everyone so if any child got lost or got into bother the parents weren’t long in hearing about it and dealing with it. They had a Tenants’ Association which dealt with all sorts but the thing we children liked best was the trip to Ayr. In those days there were beach huts all along the shore in Ayr, and we would race to see who could ‘bag’ one so that we could spread our rugs out and have our sea-picnic in comfort.

As we were a good distance from any of the churches we would have visits from the clergy, as well as the ‘Sunshine Corner’. This was a group from the evangelical church which would go round the scheme in various places, pitch up an easel where they would put various religious texts and pictures and sing songs. I loved that.

Then they would ask questions and I was always annoyed if I didn’t get asked! Not until much later did it dawn on me that they only asked the children who went to their Sunday School and I wasn’t one of them unfortunately!

As I mentioned earlier, we had a garden – more like a mini-race track – it was quite big. Our family increased and I got a brother and sister. My brother was given a dog – a wee mongrel who, because he was all black with a white spot on his face, was called Spot! As he grew older the spot disappeared. Spot thought that our garden fence and all places surrounding were his and only his domain; and he would launch himself at anyone who came within a yard of this. He also chased cars. As I said earlier, there were few cars in the street. Our neighbour, Mr. Kelly, had a car – he was a mechanic and used to test the motors. One day he asked my dad if he would like to go for a drive to test the car. Dad said okay so Mr. Kelly, Dad, Margaret Kelly and I all got into the car and drove off, only to be followed by Spot in hot pursuit for at least three miles – there and back – he wouldn’t get into the car.

The houses were meant to be temporary accommodation but they remained standing for at least thirty years. We left when I was fifteen but I will always remember when we stayed in the prefabs.

Jim Gibb My Life I was born on 11-10-27 in Bathgate, West Lothian. My sister Elsie died of pneumonia in 1932 when I was five years old. Over the Xmas period when I was seven I spent one month in Bo’ness Hospital. I complained of headaches and was kept in for another month. Over the Xmas period when I was eight I was in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary to get my appendix out.

The janitor at Bathgate High School had a cane and he used it on pupils who came in late (not me!). I left Bathgate when I was nine and went to live in Stra’ven, Lanarkshire, where dad was mill foreman. I helped in the mill, fed the hens and ducks at the weekend and went round the farms with the delivery trucks.

I delivered papers when I was twelve for 3/6d per week (17 ½p) and at thirteen I delivered milk for 7/(35p) per week (6am start, seven days a week). I left school at Xmas in 1941 and started in the local bakery. It was a 6am start till 4pm for 12/6d (62 ½p). I finished in the bakery (Lightbody’s) because we had moved to Larkhall when dad got promoted and it cost 3/6d a week for a twelve journey ticket from Larkhall to Stra’ven. I had to get a bus at 5.30am to Stra’ven so was working for only 9/- a week so I changed jobs. I lost my job in the middle of 1942 and was idle for six weeks. I got a job in a blacksmiths – Wm. Prentice and Sons – for 4 ½d (4p) an hour. I got on quite well there then got my call up papers for 3rd January 1946. I went to Alexandria (Dumbarton) for six weeks training then down to Southend-on-Sea till the barracks were ready at Farnborough, Hants, for more training. I got my first leave for one week in Easter 1946, then two weeks embarkation leave during the 1946 Glasgow Fair. Then I went to Bury-St-Edmunds Holding Co. till we were sent abroad. Army pay in Britain was 3/- a day (15p). We got a rise for going abroad to 3/6d a day (17 ½ p). From our 21/- a week we had to send 7/- home but my mum always sent a postal order back to me and that kept me and my two mates going for the rest of the week. We used to go round the canteens – the Salvation Army or churches – and sometimes get a cake of chocolate or sweets to send home to mum as she liked sweets. The rest of the cash we spent on Brasso boot polish and cigs, then ‘squandered’ the rest! Then we got from Dover to France and down near Toulouse for a ship to Egypt. We landed at (a very different) Alexandria and had a few weeks in a holding company before being sent to the company at Gedera.

As well as being a blacksmith, I always liked driving. When the trucks went out on convoy, we were sent as guards but used to take a turn at driving so it finished up we could drive the tank transporters or any of the other wagons. We were going up to Damascus on the Mafrac Pass in a six wheeled Mack lorry carrying the fuel and food supplies and it was my turn to drive, going up and down. At one point there was a three hundred foot drop and no barriers, and the trucks were all left hand drives so the ‘wee’ mechanic wasn’t very happy to be looking at that drop on the way down but everything went well. We went back to Egypt over the Sinai Desert, and because we were moving out of Palestine, M.E.L.F. main depot got moved to Kenya.

So that’s where we headed: on the S.S. Orbita to Mombasa. It looked fantastic as we sailed into Mombasa, seeing all the lovely green trees and grass after all the sand we saw in Palestine and Egypt. I remember the large soldier ants in Kenya that climbed up and bit your legs – you had to pull them off and it took a piece of skin or left the ant’s head stuck to your leg. We went to Mombasa airfield and occupied huts the BAF had used. Our workshop was at the far end of the airfield, and we used any vehicle to get round the main runway to the workshop. The airfield was run by a Frenchman and we only saw French aircraft landing.

Going on guard duty at the workshop we used any vehicle to go back, anything from a motorbike to a tank transporter. So a number of vehicles were used till the camp commander called us all in because we had taken a shortcut down the main runway while a plane was coming in, so the Frenchman wasn’t too pleased.

We had to wait a few weeks for trucks and equipment to arrive. One day the sergeant said, ‘Gibb, you can drive, you take this truck’. It was empty so I got going for supplies etc. and no one ever asked if I had a licence. I’d never even had a lesson! Then we moved up to Mack Road camp, sixty miles from Mombasa.

The roads were only tarred for twelve miles then it was dirt roads after that so if it rained you had to sit for two hours after the rain stopped so you didn’t stir up the road. One of the officers shot a lioness that was prowling around the camp. I left Kenya in May 1948. It took six weeks to get to Port Toufic and halfway up the Suez Canal. We were taken off the ship to let more soldiers from Palestine go home, and then we sailed to Liverpool at the end of June. It was snowing, I remember, and the snow melted by the time it hit the sea. I went to a camp in Yorkshire to get demobbed. I got a civvy suit and had leave until mid-August then I started work back in the smiddy. I was put on to doing gates and railings and forgings.

I left the smiddy in September 1970 because my health wasn’t too good. I got a job servicing machines – jukeboxes and kiddie rides – and retired at sixty-five on a Friday then started part time work at a local butcher’s on the Monday for three or four years. I gave that up because my legs weren’t up to heavy carrying. I spent time in hospital in 2012 and 2013 then finished up in Lochbrae Court.

Jim’s Poems The Kingston Bridge

Glasgow’s Art

The Kingston Bridge is not too far It’s covered up by trucks and car Speeding traffic east and west It really is the very best At times you cross it in five minutes On busy days it’s not so good Takes twenty-five, makes you late for food But without it, don’t you see It really makes you late for tea

Botanic Gardens and Glasgow Green They grow flowers we’ve never seen The beauty of the gardens When they are in full bloom Is the “Art” I love to see Even out, under the moon The gardens change from year to year Its colours and designs It brightens all the city up Wherever you may go To see a lovely garden Is an “Art” to go on show.

Eddie would not miss his food Fish supper shops are very good He knows them all about this place Prefers the haddock to the “plaice” Black pudding, fried eggs, tomatoes, beans Fill him up, or so it seems Two diet cokes to wash it down Makes him smile - and not to frown (P.S. “Bridges” the hunger gap....).

Chrissie Love My Life One of my earliest memories from during the war is of coming home from school and letting myself in.

I would light the fire for my mother and father: it used to all be set in the grate for me to light. One day there was a knock at the door and outside stood a man in soldier’s uniform. He introduced himself as my cousin Jimmy, my mother’s sister’s son. He was stationed in the training camp out at Dechmont, near Cambuslang. When my mother arrived it wasn’t long before she was inviting him and some of his friends round for tea. My mother was always cooking – she was a cook by trade and could make a meal out of anything. So my cousin used to come round with four others from the camp and two of them were brothers. I remember one of them took a fancy to my sister but it didn’t come to anything. The youngest of the brothers was called Harry and he was a nice boy. Jimmy told us that there were another two brothers from the same family in the camp; and he ended up speaking to his officer, saying that maybe Harry shouldn’t be sent out to war, given that it would mean four boys from one family all being away, so Harry was kept back when the rest were sent out. But Harry was called up later on, and in the end he was the only one who didn’t come back. He was taken prisoner by the Japanese.

I grew up in Halfway in a room and kitchen. My parents were great, strict enough but very kind. Neighbours were always calling for my mum, Mrs Frew. When babies were born, it was go and fetch Mrs Frew! I can remember my mother looking after two tiny baby boys who were born early to a family across the landing. They were so small they were wrapped up in cotton wool. It was my mother who looked after them until the birth mother could take over. Eventually we moved into a prefab nearby.

I got my first job when I was fourteen. I went to work in Margaret Forrester’s, a four storey department store on London Road, not far from the Barras. It was eventually taken over by Frasers. I was the lift girl at first but I worked my way up and in the end I became a buyer. I was in the baby department, selling prams and cots and so on. I used to get to travel about with my manager, on trips to London. I’ve always loved clothes and fashion. I remember my sister asking me one day if I knew what people called me.

No, I said. The best dressed girl in Halfway! she told me. I used to give my mother all the money I earned but I would often say to her, oh there’s this beautiful dress just come into the shop, and she’d give me the money to buy it. Then I’d see it in a different colour and want that too!

I stopped working for a while when I settled down to have a family but my mother encouraged me to go back out to work. She was always there, you see, to look after my children. One day my mum bumped into a girlfriend of mine who told her that I should go into Galls, which was a shop that sold wool, haberdashery and knitwear – there were several branches across Glasgow. My girlfriend told her that if I’d worked in Margaret Forrester’s then I’d have no trouble getting work in Galls. So I went in and got a job.

I ended up as manageress of one of their branches.

I used to go to the dancing all the time. The Locarno was my favourite dance hall. My girl friends and I would meet American and Canadian servicemen there. After they were sent abroad the barracks were empty for a while, then the Polish soldiers arrived at Dechmont. My friends and I used to go to the Masonic Hall in Cambuslang and if I met someone, we’d all walk up the road together and I’d end up inviting them in for tea. My mother was the soul of hospitality and she felt sorry for all those boys in the training camps: she knew how hard it was for them. I often wonder if my mother was relieved in more ways than one when the war came to an end – she knew she’d get a bit of peace and quiet from all the visitors I brought back then!

It was all very innocent though – just dancing and going out for meals. That was what I was most interested in – being taken out for meals! I love my food, you see! We used to meet up with different servicemen and go for dinner in the hotels, then on to the dancing. I liked the Locarno because the overseas men went there – I think they went there because it was right in the city centre, on Sauchiehall Street. And there was a balcony upstairs, where you could sit and have a cup of tea. I remember one time my friend and I were seeing these two American servicemen and they invited us out for dinner in their barracks in Greenock. It was the night of a victory celebration; I think it was the Allied victory against Germany. My friend and I decided to go – we knew we’d get a good dinner there! I used to always catch the 10.10pm bus home from Waterloo Street in the city centre – my father would be watching at the window for me to get off that bus in Halfway. That evening when I looked at my watch I realised I’d have to leave Greenock pretty soon in order to get back to Glasgow in time for my bus so I asked one of the servicemen to fetch my coat from the cloakroom. I saw him giving his friend a look. I asked again and he didn’t budge to get my coat so I looked around the room until I found the man with the most braid on his uniform. I walked straight up to him and said, I need to get home and that soldier over there won’t fetch my coat for me so the officer called him over and ordered him to get my coat and walk me

to the bus stop straight away. I was worried all the way home because we’d had to catch a later bus than my usual one and I didn’t want to worry my father. But when we arrived in Halfway, everyone was celebrating the Allied victory! The whole back court was full of people dancing and my brother, who was an electrician, had strung lights from our building across to the men’s club. So I didn’t get a row after all – we just started dancing and joining in the celebrations! I saw that American soldier again in the Locarno two weeks later. You got me into trouble, he said. I told him it was all he deserved for trying to keep me there against my will! I don’t think he was best pleased.

I met my husband Jimmy in the Locarno. He was a gold medallist and when I danced with him I thought yes, I’ll dance with you again! We were engaged for ten years before we got married – that was my fault; I made Jimmy wait all that time. I suppose I was a bit scared at the thought of starting a family, giving birth and being in hospital; and I liked my life, living at home and going out with all our friends. My mother made home life very comfortable for us all. Then one day Jimmy said to me that if I didn’t start making plans for the wedding he was going to emigrate to Canada. So we were married in the Cooperative Tea Rooms in Rutherglen. It was a big wedding, with over one hundred guests and afterwards we had our honeymoon in Morecambe. Jimmy and I were very happy together – he was a good man and my sons and grandchildren doted on him. He worked as an engineer, in the shipyards in Finnieston then later at the Rolls Royce plant in East Kilbride. When we were first married we stayed with my mother because by then she was on her own. We were ten years on the waiting list before we were allocated a house in Cruachan Drive, just down the road from where I am now. My mother moved in with us – Jimmy was as fond of her as I was – but she got her own house for a wee while later on. Jimmy and I moved into Lochbrae Court 17 years ago and Jimmy died 4 years later.

When I think about it, I’ve had a really good life.

Harry Mulvenna My Life I grew up in Cambuslang. The place has changed completely now. Back then there were coal mines, steel works and factories all around this area and no matter which way the wind blew all the dirt landed here because Cambuslang is so low lying. Beyond here, however, was all farmland and fields. You associated yourself with Glasgow because you could be in the city in twenty minutes by tram but actually you were almost in the countryside out here. Because of all the industry and pollution, the only place you could get fresh air was the public park in Cambuslang. We went there to play football; we didn’t have money for anything else so we went to the park in the evening and ran about. East Kilbride was just a wee village back then.

When I was at school, my best friend’s father was a coal merchant. In those days the coal was delivered in bags by the merchants. I remember an old goods yard across the road from Kirkhill train station – it’s a housing complex these days – the coal would get dumped there for the merchants to bag up and deliver with their horses and carts. Just down from the goods yard, tucked away in a wee lane, there was a stable and that’s where my friend’s father kept his horse. After school we used to go and look after the horse, groom it and clean the harnesses, and I thought it was marvellous. Upstairs there was a hayloft and we used to play there too. It was idyllic, when you think about it, even though this was during the war.

I was born in 1929 so I was ten when the war started. I remember air raids but they didn’t worry me because I was just a wee boy. If an air raid lasted until about midnight, it meant you didn’t have to go into school until ten o’clock the next day and if it went on until two o’clock, you didn’t go in until dinner time and if it went on longer you’d get the day off, so you and your friends used to hope it’d go on longer so you’d get the day off school! How ridiculous! We all lived in tenements back then, with wash-houses round the back. The wash-houses were brick buildings with corrugated iron roofs. Before the bomb shelters were built people were advised to go there during air raids and it was so stupid when you think about it – these wash-houses wouldn’t have kept the rain out, let alone shrapnel! But people thought they’d be safer in there, so that’s where they went.

My grandfather came from Ireland and he settled in Hallside, near Newton. It’s called Drumsagard now. He’d seen a farm in Ireland he wanted to buy, so he came over to Scotland with his cousin with the intention of working for a year to save enough money to buy this farm. The farm cost sixty pounds.

But while they were here someone else bought the farm. At that time, in about 1913, Glasgow was full of folk handing out leaflets trying to get people to emigrate to Canada. So my grandfather decided to emigrate. By then my grandmother had died. He and his family landed on the eastern side then travelled to Saskatchewan. The way it worked was this: when you arrived you’d be allocated a number and a guide would take you out to your land. He’d walk you round the four posts that marked out your land and then leave you to get on with it. You had to build a house, plant a crop and produce a harvest within eighteen months or you’d lose the land. It depended on your luck whether you got a good or a bad bit of land.

When the First World War started my father and some of his brothers joined the Canadian army. He was sent to France and, after the war, he came back to Cambuslang. That’s where he met my mother and got married. She didn’t want to go to Canada so they settled here. Apparently it was horrendous in Canada in those days, especially in the winter when everything was frozen over. If you came from somewhere like Scotland or Ireland or Eastern Europe then maybe you were tough enough to handle these conditions but I think they were handing out these leaflets in the middle of London and some of those Londoners would go to Canada without knowing the first thing about farming. I’m sure they didn’t last any time at all.

My mum was a great person. Everyone exaggerates about their parents but my mother was a great baker. She was a humble soul though, so if people asked her to write something or count something up, she’d say no, you do it, you’re better at that than me but if there was a family occasion or event and food was needed she’d say, well I’ll do the baking because I’m a better baker than anyone else!

I had two brothers and two sisters. I’m the youngest so I was spoiled – my father used to take me to Kelvinhall, to the circus and so on, but nobody else got to go as far as I remember. My maternal grandmother was the district midwife so she was well-known in Cambuslang. That was a great position back then; a bit like being a doctor. She ruled the whole clan and anything she said, that was it! Every year she used to hire a house down in Millport for the summer – just a room and kitchen – and all the different branches of her family got a week each. If you played your cards right and were good, you’d maybe get kept on the following week with the next family so by the end of the week you’d be doing everything for everybody so that you’d get kept on. These are great memories, right enough.

I knew my wife from school – she was always very smartly dressed but I was a bit of a ne’er do well and I was too frightened to talk to her then. She seemed too sophisticated for the likes of me. The only thing you could do at night once you’d left school was attend youth clubs. I joined St. Bride’s youth club and they taught you how to dance on Thursday nights. Everyone thought this was very sophisticated. It was just an old record player – that’s all they had. We learned to dance to Victor Sylvester and his ballroom orchestra. Once you felt confident you started going to dances. Up the road was the Cambuslang Institute and they used to have dancing there on a Saturday night for youth clubs. You used to have to show a special club card to get in. St. Bride’s didn’t issue them to us but one boy had a card. I don’t know where he got it from but a few of us would go to the Institute with him and he’d show the card and get in. Next to the door was a gent’s toilet with a window open at the top. He’d go in first and hand the card out the window for the next boy to get in. The man at the door must have known exactly what we were doing but he never said anything – he knew we were only there to have fun. We thought we were so clever! From there I graduated to the Denniston Palais and that’s where I met my wife Anna. She was on her own and I asked if I could take her home – that’s when we started going with each other. Things were very strict in those days. Her mother only let Anna go to the Palais because she had a sister-in-law who worked in the cloakroom who would keep an eye on Anna. We got married in St. Charles church in Newton – the church doesn’t exist anymore, it’s that long ago. We got a new house in Halfway, in Woodlands Crescent and we thought we were in heaven because we’d had to stay with Anna’s mother to begin with.

I lost my wife four years ago. It was horrible. She was the one with all the determination; it was her who made sure things got done. She took a job as a dinner lady and eventually she was sent to college and became the assistant cook in Trinity High School. She was great at making clothes too – she could take an old bit of cloth and before you knew it, she’d sewn beautiful dresses for the girls – we needed that because we had such a big family. Every penny was a prisoner! She made three kilts once, from tartan cloth our neighbour gave her. We had a really good life.

When my mother died my father lived alone in Cathkin. One of my sisters in Toronto encouraged him to emigrate – he was seventy by then and did all he could to save up to go. One day I was visiting him and I felt sorry for him because he couldn’t really cook for himself so I came back home and asked Anna if she’d mind if he came and stayed with us. We had six of a family at the time but Anna got on well with

my father so he came and stayed with us for a year before he emigrated. He used to write to me a lot from Canada; he loved it out there. He had brothers and sisters there he hadn’t seen for about fifty years. He even discovered he was due a pension from the Canadian Army. He met an old friend there he’d been in the war with and they used to spend a lot of time together. One night they were both found dead in the friend’s garage. The door was blown shut and the car engine switched on. I think he would have preferred that to being dependant on his brothers and sisters if he had been ill. The funeral was out there – it was too far for us to go. He’s buried out in Seskatchewan.

We used to go to Ayr every year with the children. We rented a wee cottage near Newton on Ayr, about five minutes walk from the beach. The cottage belonged to an old woman who kept hens in her back garden. The children used to love watching the hens as much as anything else. We thoroughly enjoyed it.

Anna and I also used to spend time in Oban, where her younger brother settled. You can catch the ferry from there to Mull and Iona. We’d always wait to see what the weather was like before we caught the morning ferry. I remember the last time we went to Iona. This was before I took a stroke, and we were going to walk as far as we could around the island. When we got off the boat, we walked past the shops and along to this wee cove – the sand was absolutely white. It looked over on to the Sound of Mull. We sat down and never moved for two hours. The peace on Iona is incredible. John Smith, the Labour politician is buried on Iona, in amongst all the Scottish kings. The crystal clear water there makes you feel like you’re in another world.

Art and Painting One Christmas my daughter bought me a set of poster paints and a wee brush and that’s what got me drawing and painting. I remember one Sunday in winter. There were no flowers to paint so I cut some branches from the hedges and put them in a jar on a chair. I sat in front of the chair, started painting and was there the whole day! After that I couldn’t get enough so I said to myself, I’ll need to go and learn about it and that’s when I went to night school. I was working for an insurance company at the time which meant I finished work at five o’clock so I had the chance to go to night school and study art. I was in my late fifties by then. I can sit down and lose myself in whatever I happen to be painting and a whole day can pass without me realising it. Art’s different for everybody, you know.

My best painting is a Renoir copy. It’s acrylic, right enough, and usually I work in watercolours. I did that painting many years ago. I was through in Edinburgh with my daughter and son-in-law; they took my wife and me, and my son-in-law and I went into the National Gallery. The Renoir painting just caught my imagination and when I came back home I couldn’t get it out of my mind. About a week or a fortnight later I went into Glasgow and got a train to Edinburgh on my own and went back in just to see this painting. It was the first time I realised why people would buy a painting for themselves and keep it. I was completely taken by it. I got a wee postcard of the painting and made a grid on it and that’s how I did it.

The light is absolutely fantastic in the original – the quality of the light – I don’t know how Renoir does it, it’s absolutely marvellous. These people are geniuses.

I used to spend a lot of time in Kelvingrove Art Gallery – I could spend hours in there. You eventually find painters and paintings that you like. A lot of Scottish artists never got the credit that they should have.

There are some beautiful paintings done by Scottish artists. There’s one by James Guthrie called ‘Old Willie, The Village Worthy’. It’s a painting of an old man standing face-on, his scarf round his neck, no collar on his shirt, wearing a waistcoat, and when you look at his face it’s absolutely incredible, especially the expression in his eyes. There’s another one by Guthrie called ‘A Funeral Service in the Highlands’. When you look at the shoes of the figures, you can see the tacks on the soles. The expressions on their faces and the whole atmosphere of the funeral are caught perfectly.

I used to spend a lot of time in Kelvingrove Art Gallery – I could spend hours in there. You eventually find painters and paintings that you like. A lot of Scottish artists never got the credit that they should have.

There are some beautiful paintings done by Scottish artists. There’s one by James Guthrie called ‘Old Willie, The Village Worthy’. It’s a painting of an old man standing face-on, his scarf round his neck, no collar on his shirt, wearing a waistcoat, and when you look at his face it’s absolutely incredible, especially the expression in his eyes. There’s another one by Guthrie called ‘A Funeral Service in the Highlands’. When you look at the shoes of the figures, you can see the tacks on the soles. The expressions on their faces and the whole atmosphere of the funeral are caught perfectly.

Ena Neil My Father This family story is a tribute to my wonderful Dad. We always went to Millport for our holidays. We would go down at the weekend and Dad would then come back up to go to work. In 1931 my Mum died while we were there, but as I was only months old at the time, I didn’t know what was happening. We lived in 82 Jamieson Street which was a flat on the third floor with a toilet on the landing. It was a room and kitchen with two set-in beds. I remember having measles and having to stay behind the curtains to protect my eyes. We had a housekeeper to look after us during the day while Dad was at work. My Dad had two sisters, and Aunt Jean was a great help at sewing clothes for us.

Dad always played cards or jigsaws with us; he always managed to keep the last piece of the jigsaw so that he won! As we got older we realised he was cheating in a way.

We had a happy house. We didn’t think we were any different from our friends, and we had good neighbours who always helped us. The only drawback was that when Dad was on backshift we would stay out a bit later than we were allowed, and he always found out when we were naughty. One day my sister Helen gave Dad a real fright. He came into the close and heard a lot of shouting. Helen was hanging out of the close window and was afraid! When her friends saw my Dad coming they ran off. Helen had a week in the house for that.

We had birthday teas and Dad would do some magic tricks; he was a bit of a magician. He put red stuff on his nose one time which wouldn’t come off and he ended up having to go to work with it on! He only did it the once!

Dad did get married again when we were grown up. He lived to ninety-four and died peacefully in his bed.

My Glasgow When I lived in Govanhill, my favourite park was Queens Park. We walked up Victoria Road which we called Burma Road. It was a beautiful park with lovely gardens. It’s still nice now but not so well maintained.

The taste I associate with Glasgow is fish and chips from a paper plate or bag. You can get them anywhere but they use plastic plates nowadays.

Eddie Phillip My Life To Date I was born on 10/3/42 at Dunfermline Maternity Hospital – the first child of Susan and Harold Phillips – at 4.10pm. Being a war baby my early years were spent with my mum while my dad was serving in the Royal Navy aboard the mine sweeper H.M.S. Gowan Craig. I was aware at an early age of my mum anxiously waiting for news of my dad and can remember her joy when he came home on leave. My mum was a hard-working woman and throughout her life held down several cleaning jobs where she could take me along too. I was never far from her side.

Education I began school in the autumn of 1947, attending Pittencrieff Primary, which was about one and a half miles from our first home in Bothwell Street, situated at the bottom of the New Row (the big hill leading up to the High Street). I can remember how proud I was when I got my first blazer, complete with my Pittencrieff school badge. As you may remember, 1947 was a very harsh winter and mum and I used to take a shortcut through Dunfermline Glen. I can remember seeing the snow as high as the top of the telegraph poles. My dad was demobbed in 1946 and took up employment at RNAD (Royal Navy Armaments Depot) Crombie, which is still there to this day. He worked there until he retired in his late seventies. He was a wonderful gardener, specialising in carnations and roses, and won many prizes at various horticultural shows.

After ten years in our attic flat we were rehoused during the major house building progamme of 1952 into a brand new two bedroom council house with back and front gardens (my dad was thrilled to bits).

I was now in the catchment area for St. Leonards School where I went for six months before moving on to be in the first primary seven class in the new Blacklaw Primary School. On passing the Eleven Plus exam I gained a place at Dunfermline High School in 1952. I did not do well enough academically and left when I was fifteen years of age in 1957.

Employment I started work as an apprentice grocer with Dunfermline Cooperative, working in various branches before being promoted to assistant manager at the age of eighteen. I was promoted on a further two occasions before leaving to join the SCWS (Scottish Wholesale Cooperative Society) retail branches. At that time I was twenty-one and the youngest branch manager in the country.

I spent four happy years as a branch manager in Cromarty, where I led a full social life – spending very little money in the process. I joined the bowling club, the badminton club, the yachting club and the drama club, and the annual membership was only five pounds for each. I very much enjoyed attending all these clubs and made many friends. Perhaps the thing that gave me the most satisfaction of all, however, was helping out the church organist, Mrs Ritchie, to run our junior choir. We had over sixty members who all attended on a very regular basis. They managed to perform in concert once per year to a packed church hall of parents and friends. I was the conductor and Mrs Ritchie was the accompanist.

With regard to business matters, I managed to secure the school meals contract and this brought the branch into a profit making situation. Sales soared and all targets were met. The SCWS retail branches had promised to find me accommodation but this unfortunately never materialised so I moved away.

As the bus went up the hill leaving Cromarty for the last time there was a tear in my eye. I really enjoyed my years on the Black Isle.

Employment Post-Cromarty I left Cromarty to join Denny and Dunipace Coop mainly because there was a one bedroom flat with the job. The rent was only 1/3d per week, equivalent to 6½p today. Our first child Gary was born here and at that time we were a very happy family. After four years we moved down to England to join the Cambridge Cooperative where I was manager of their Waterbeach branch. Again we had a flat above the shop for very reasonable rent. Waterbeach, six miles outside Cambridge, is a lovely village. Our living room overlooked the village green. We were there for seven years but the opportunity arose to go back to Scotland to manage the Menstrie branch of Alloa Cooperative. After five years I went to Glasgow University to study for the Ministry of the Church of Scotland but unfortunately due to financial pressures failed my first year. This left me unemployed so I went to sign on in the labour exchange. This, for me, was quite

a degrading experience. However, I was quickly offered a job as postman in Alloa. After two years I was promoted to postal officer on the counter and then to TV licence area manager for Stirling and Falkirk, before finishing off as regional manager for Scotland and Northern Ireland.

Personal Life I was married to my first wife in St. Ninians Church Dunfermline on 31st March 1964 by the Reverend Douglas Beck. She was eighteen and I was twenty-four. We were divorced after being together for thirty-five years. After being on my own for three years I met and married my late wife Mary and we had eight happy years together. I moved into Lochbrae Court three years ago. I am very happy here and have made a lot of good friends.

My Glasgow If I had just one afternoon to show someone my Glasgow, I would take them to the Botanic Gardens in the summer time when the floral displays are quite magnificent. The glass greenhouses have many exotic plants on display. Just to sit there soaking up the peace and tranquillity is a real bonus and a welcome escape from a busy, busy world.

The sound I most associate with Glasgow is the croaking of the pigeons when I am feeding them in George Square. It is almost as if they were trying to say ‘thank you’ for the food. It is a great feeling to think you are doing something for God’s creatures.

Jean Sneddon Life In My Young Days Life in my young days was peaceful, with little crime. The people who lived in our area had no cars so we walked or travelled by bus.

The War 1939-45 When I was a young girl, war was declared and at first other than the blackout nothing much happened in our part of the country. Then one night the siren went for the first time and a house in Calderwood Road took a direct hit; our house shook, so we knew it was close. This left us shaking and we became frightened of what was ahead. Life carried on though, and we went to school for half a day, always carrying our gas masks. I remember walking there, taking my wee brother by the hand.

The bombing gradually increased as they were aiming for our industries: the steel works and shipyards, etc. were fairly near. My father was a train driver and one night I remember he was stuck on the bridge near Dalmarnock Power Station. The siren sounded and they had to stop the train, dousing the fire so as not to be seen. As he looked out he could see the German planes flying overhead. They very quickly started dropping bombs. It lasted hours. He and his stoker were too frightened to move. He returned home late from his shift and we later learned that the tenements nearby the power station had taken a direct hit with everyone killed. They never got the power station but it cost all those families their lives.

As a family we were visiting Partick during the time of the Clydebank Blitz. That evening the siren went at 9pm and we had to shelter in the entrance of a close. My mother enclosed me in her arms as we were bombarded until the following morning. I have never been so frightened in my life. At about 6 am the All Clear sounded. When we stepped out of the close there was glass everywhere. There wasn’t one window left in the shops and houses surrounding us. Clydebank suffered terrible loss and devastation.

There were ration books for food and times were really hard: we queued for hours. When you finally got to the front at the butcher’s, sometimes there was nothing left or you just had to take what he had. My mum dug out the grass at the side of our house and started growing our own vegetables. The potatoes were easy and, with a bit of boiling beef, she made soup so we always had that to fill us up.

When I reached fourteen I left school and went to work in Paterson’s the bakery. I started out in the packing and progressed to work in the bakery. This meant a 6am start so I had to walk to work in the blackout. My older sister worked there too, and we just had to get on with it even if we had been up all night. The area suffered from frequent bombing and families were lost as they struggled to make it to the shelters. I have vivid memories of running to the Anderson shelter in a neighbour’s garden, shrapnel falling all around us. Sometimes we couldn’t make it and hid under the bed. You knew the sound of German planes from the chug in their engines and I will always remember the search lights trying to spot them and the boom of the big guns at Dechmont trying to shoot them down.

The war carried on and good friends were called up to join the forces. Letters passed back and forward and families dreaded the telegram coming. My friend and I started going to the dancing and I met my future husband. He was dressed in a dinner suit and wore patent dance shoes. He tried to join every armed force but each time they learned he worked in the steel works he was turned away as this was a reserved occupation. He didn’t feel his contribution was enough though, when people were away fighting for their country.

We got married in 1945 and I had a proper wedding dress because of the kindness of neighbours. They had saved their clothing coupons and gave them to my mother. My dress was made of satin and had a high collar. I wore a full length veil with it and later had a studio photo taken. My wedding took place in the Co-operative Tea Room in Rutherglen.

The night the war ended my husband and I came out of the theatre to singing and dancing in the streets. We walked home as there were no trams. Everyone was so happy the war was over at last.

Life has changed considerably since those days. Some things are not so good but most things are for the better. Life is so different for the young today. My mother greatly influenced my life. There were five children in our family and my mother did her best to teach us the right way to live.

Marriage is a good way of life as long as you understand and love one another. A bit of give and take on both sides. I always maintained you should never go to bed on an argument and it served us well over the years. I met my husband in Denniston Palais Dance Hall. They did not allow bad behaviour and I have many happy memories of learning to dance there. We were married for 56 years.

Present Day I am now 87 and my home circumstances have changed very much owing to age and health problems.

I just have to be content. It is more about living closer to my family and in the sheltered housing where I now live we share a kind of community environment.

I believe the Commonwealth Games has many good points. It brings countries together, competing against each other in sports while providing opportunities for making new friends. However, it is coming at a time when our economy is causing suffering for many. Building stadiums and providing accommodation in the form of the Commonwealth Village is an added expense. The surrounding area is being given a facelift for the benefit of those people who are coming. We are told it will bring tourism and money to Glasgow but only time will tell.

Lochbrae Court’s Communal Poem We Had The Best Of It, Back Then.....

We had the Barrowland, the Playhouse, the Albert and Savoy And the F&F in Partick where my brother found love’s joy, We had the Berkeley with its mirror where the girls wore longer skirts, And the Plaza with its fountain and those would-be Fred Astaires.

We had the Palais down in Denniston, where I met my husband Bill And the Locarno on Sauchiehall Street where the Yanks would pick up girls.

We learned to dance with chairs in church and burgh halls, The hostess in the Kinema used to pull boys off the walls.

When a line of girls turned you down you never could quite guess – Was it that they didn’t like you, or couldn’t dance the steps?

I recall a hefty man who jitterbugged the best And Davey from the shipyard who used to practice in his breaks On footprints that he’d drawn out on giant-sized steel plates.

One time I wore a sweater knitted from angora wool And left fur all over my partner’s suit when the dance came to an end!

I remember going to Blackpool at September weekends When we filled the Tower Ballroom with our soft-soled Glasgow shoes.

The last number of the night was always the same old song About who would take you home that night after the dance was through, About who was going to hold you tight and whisper, “I love you, I do”.

Composed by Ena, Jim, Harry and Eddie

Women’s Group, Dumfries and Galloway Multicultural Association Jolanda Bastein Alison Boyes Oliwia Gmyz Nela Kokocinska

Esraa Mohamed Yasmin Ocansay Gill Stanyard

The second group of creative writers who participated in the Digital Commonwealth Creative Voices project are members of the Dumfries and Galloway Multicultural Association’s Women’s Group. The contributors come from Holland, the United Kingdom, Poland, Egypt and Ghana.

The creative pieces the group have produced are about the meaning of ‘home’ and ‘belonging.’ The writing was preceded by group discussions during which all the women shared their feelings about ‘home’ and the dislocation experienced when you move to live in a different culture. Some of the writing was generated in response to an exercise in which the participants were invited to imagine a walk they often took. The others used a precious belonging – a stick, a box, a dress and a spatula – as the inspiration for creative pieces written around the theme of ‘home’. Instilled in their concise and varied pieces are the themes of culture, exchange, people and place.

Jolanda Bastein Coming To Scotland My name is Jolanda Bastein. I came to Scotland in 2004, leaving the Netherlands and everything I owned behind, except for what fitted in my car.

I had been to Scotland before, in 1999 with a Scottish friend and in 2002 to be a voluntary co-worker in a therapeutic community for people with mental health problems. On my last return I had difficulties readjusting to my built-up, fast-pace, competitive home; I had fallen in love with the landscape, the space and the easier pace of life that I’d found here – which in fact reminded me of the rural area in Holland where I’d grown up.

Unbelievably I’ve been here 10 years already. The honeymoon is over, the relationship with Scotland has survived some rocky patches and I more than made up with my own homeland. The scales of where to be are in balance now – home is where you make it.

Walking The Circuit Today the sun is shining. The frost on the grass glistens and glitters – no rain today!

The tits are enjoying their breakfast on the birdfeeder. A few sparrows are waiting for their turn in the hedge. A robin forages for the fallen seeds on the ground.

I close the door behind me, put my gloves on and my ear band – the wind is cold.

The smell of frost in the air. Snowdrops.

I pass the old oaks. My thigh muscles protest a little as I’m climbing up the hill – still not used to inclines after all these years; should exercise more. I inhale deeply; the cold air sharply fills my lungs. I smell the dung heap before I can see it, by the dry stone wall on my left. Coming to the T-junction I hesitate – going left this time, enjoying the sunshine on my face. The big beeches say hello to me. I slow down and greet them back. Red beeches, like the beloved one in our garden at home. On I go, the straight stretch uphill –

snowdrops everywhere. On my left the calves have just been fed and are eating eagerly, too preoccupied to pay any attention to me.

I stop and inhale their lovely warm sweet smell – again transported back in time. Was I eight? Ten? In the field next to our home lived ten red-and-white Frisians. In the dark evenings they would sometimes startle me with their unexpected coughing and sniffing, sounding surprisingly human. I loved their smell, their curiosity, their calm presence and I often spent time just looking at them over the fence.

The old, bent farmer must be at least eighty. He is a man of few words, but his toothless smile is friendly.

I can still hear the sound of the milking cart coming down the dirt track – creak-creak – from where I know his farm is, about a mile away. Then – creak-creak – past the canal, around the corner and finally into the corner of the field by the round water well. He coaxes the cows towards him, offering them cake and making friendly sounds. Slowly the cows approach him, comfortable with their twice-a-day routine. One by one he milks them, using the machine on the cart. When he has finished he pours an old rusty can full of water down the old pump to bring the water level up and starts moving the long rusty handle up and down until the brown, peaty water comes out. With endless patience he keeps pushing and pulling the handle until the round trough is full. Then, apparently effortlessly, he lifts the full milk containers on top of the cart and slowly barrows it back home again. Creak-creak. Creak-creak. Creak-creak.

I’m a woman now. The country is different. The times are different, but some things don’t change. Trees.

Cows. Kindness. Simplicity.

The memories have warmed my heart and I go home.

Alison Boyes Spatula The object which reminds me of home is an ordinary wooden spatula. It is old – it was old even when I first used it – and worn from long years of use. Home for me means family, and cooking countless meals for them. I have spent many hours using this spatula in my kitchen, stirring soups, frying onions and garlic to make a pasta sauce, or lifting the edges of omelettes and pancakes.

Two years ago, I visited Auschwitz. In the museum were collections of objects taken from those who perished there. They had packed suitcases of possessions, not knowing where they were going or for how long they would be away from home. I remember looking at piles of kitchen implements, including cooking pots and cheese graters, and wondering what on earth these people were thinking when they chose those objects. Now I think that these were the tools that they had used, day after day, to express their love of home and family. They remain as a poignant symbol of a lost future.

My daughter Sarah now uses this same spatula and I hope that the feel of it in her hand as she cooks will speak to her of home and of the gift of love through providing food which nourishes both body and soul.

Oliwia Gmyz My Little Box A green wooden box covered by colourful folk calligraphy decorates my room. It reminds me of my home.

My home is my country – Poland.

Sometimes I open the box and smell it. It has a fragrance of wood, which takes me easily to the wonderful, holiday moments of my childhood.

One day I went to Wisla in southern Poland, a village which is situated in Beskid mountain range. This is a place where I enjoy freedom from the every day turmoil in peace and silence.

On a beautiful, blissful day I was climbing the trail which led me comfortably along a mountain ridge to the Trzy Kopce Pass. Magical was the moment, to be walking on that ridge and suddenly see the wonders of nature. I couldn’t just pass it by; I had to stop for a while.

I saw a hoopoe which is one of the most beautiful Polish birds, it was jumping from one branch of the tree to another, singing sweetly. I also met lizards, snakes, dragonflies, a coloured beetle and many other insects. Nearby a small meadow covered by dandelions stretched out. A mountain stream passed quietly by. Nature made such a picturesque scene.

Eventually I found myself at the top of mountain where a beautiful view opened out of the whole mountain range, all the way to the Czech Republic. I marvelled at the landscapes, feeling closer to God. I admired the vivid colours of the green trees and golden fields, all under a gorgeous blue sky.

I walked back down through villages where I found many old houses with wooden walls, next to little orchards full of fresh and juicy fruit.

Time there moved slowly, far away from urban style. Everything was more real, less plastic.

People passed by, looking peaceful. They walked then sat down for a while to take everything in, just like me.

Finally I climbed down to the village, passing the market filled with local sellers. There I bought a box named Wisla and I keep it with me.

Now that I am far away from home the smell of this takes me to my summer memories, to the mountains, to my home.

Nela Kokocinska The Stick In this small piece of wood is contained so many memories. Whenever I take it in my hand I am moved to the happy days of my childhood. I remember a beautiful, sunny spring and spending most of the time in the woods, next to the home of my grandparents. I collected flowers, waded in mosses.

However, I liked to look at the sun tilting between the trees best of all.

I am fascinated by the smell of nature that surrounds me. This little twig is always with me in my journey through life to remind me that I am part of nature. Whenever I move to a new place the first thing I look for is a forest, so that I can start to feel at home.

Esraa Mohamed Best Of Egypt When I close my eyes and think of what makes me happy, I will see Egypt and its amazing places, kind people, wonderful weather, seashores, ancient temples and different cultural places. I feel at home.

Home is Egypt. When I think of Egypt, the first place that comes to my mind is Cairo. Although Cairo isn’t the quietest city in the world, it has a hustle and bustle which touches my heart. When I speak about Cairo, I have to remember the river Nile and Kasr El-Nile Bridge.

This was taken by my husband, Abdullah on Kasr El-Nile Bridge.

Alexandria is also considered one of the most beautiful places in Egypt. I like the blue sea, the shore and library of Alexandria. These photos were also taken by my husband, of the library and the sea.

I am very proud of my ancestors who built the pyramids of Giza. The Great Pyramid is one of the seven wonders of the Ancient World.

In this photo my cousin Fatima and I are at the pyramids.

We enjoyed the day in Giza seeing the Sphinx and the historical buildings, but it was really hot.

I love being together with my family in the month of Ramadan,fasting, reading lots of Qur’an and praying taraweeh (specific Ramadan evening prayer). The last photo is of my daughter’s lantern, which is a traditional toy in Ramadan for children.

After recalling these memories, I now have a deep longing for my country and family!

Yasmin Ocansay Technicolour Magic I would like to introduce you to my dress, my magnificent Technicolor Boubou; my hand made tie-dye dress, finished off with elaborate embroidery all the way round the neckline. My dress which normally hangs forlorn in the wardrobe of my Dumfries home, almost forgotten, does not seem to belong there.

It is strangely out of place among the jackets, cardigans and warm woolly scarves; yet I keep it hanging there through all the seasons, a memento of home, of Ghana, my native country.

My Boubou is very precious, it was a parting gift from my sister on my last visit home. It reminds me of family, of love and laughter, of trips to the beach and palm trees swaying in the breeze. I think about barbecues sizzling with an assortment of freshly caught fish, grilled chicken and corn-on-the-cob, sliced roasted plantains with peanuts, a favourite Ghanaian snack. It is my happy dress.

This dress is magical... it seems to have a life of its own; it literally comes alive each time I look at it. It seems to speak to me. I shut my eyes, and I am magically transported from the cold, dark, wet climate here in Scotland, to the warm, sunny shores of Ghana.

This fascinating dress is a combination of all that I love and miss about Ghana – the rich warm tones of red and green on the soft gold damask fabric, the big circular patterns, so typical of tie-dye design, look like a million suns exploding in a kaleidoscope of colour, like the fireworks display on New Year’s day, heralding the start of a new season.

This dress is a true reflection of the warmth and hospitality of the Ghanaian people, of the culture and vegetation of Ghana; a country with a diverse range of ethnic groups, each with their own dialect: a vibrant nation of people who love to celebrate life with various festivals and ceremonies, drumming and dancing.

It represents the many facets of our rich culture and is an icon of African fashion.

The dress also mirrors perfectly the colours of our national flag; three horizontal stripes of red, gold and green, with a black five-pointed star in the middle of the gold stripe. The red in the flag represents the blood of our ancestors who died in the nation’s struggle for independence from the United Kingdom.

The gold stands for the mineral wealth of the country, reminiscent of the abundance of gold found by

the Portugese in the fifteenth century between River Ankobra and the Volta. There was so much of it that they called the place ‘Mina’ or mine. Ghana became known as the ‘Gold Coast’ during the colonial days.

The green symbolises the country’s rich forests and natural wealth. It is a picture of the magnificent evergreen rain forests, full of valuable trees like the cedar, mahogany, odum, ebony and the giant silk cotton; forests teeming with monkeys, snakes, and antelopes, and an array of different species of birds, where once upon a time large mammals like elephants and lions used to roam, but are now confined to nature reserves. And the black star, an emblem of African emancipation.

This dress, in a sense, is Ghana; the first African country south of the Sahara to gain independence from its colonial masters, the British. A country where despite our independence, English is still the official language.

Ghana still bears the vestiges of British colonial rule: I was educated in a school that used to be called ‘The Prince of Wales College.’ The school was founded in 1924, by Sir Frederick Gordon Guggisberg, Dr. James Emman Kwegir Aggrey and Rev. Alexander (Alec) Garden Fraser. It later became known as Achimota School, and was formally opened in 1927, by Sir Frederick, then Governor of the British Gold Coast colony. Incidentally, Alec Garden Fraser was born in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Achimota School is a boarding school, whose houses were named after British worthies, like Sir Charles MacCarthy, Lord Luggard, Mary Slessor and David Livingstone. I spent all seven years of my secondary school existence in Clark House. The school’s administration block boasts a tower clock, just like Big Ben. It was at school that I read about British history and culture. We read ‘A Man For All Seasons’ by Robert Bolt, and studied Robert Burns for our literature exams. I had no idea then that I would end up living in Dumfries, the town where he spent his last years. I read about daisies and buttercups, fields of heather and snowflakes, all the time wondering what such things were really like. It was only when I moved to the UK that I realised daisies and buttercups were weeds, pretty weeds, but weeds nonetheless. Snowflakes still fascinate me... dainty and delicate, and yet with such definition and structure. Each one is so unique, as delightful and as magical as this dress.

This dress is steeped in history, my history: it is part of who I am. It is my liberty and freedom. I wait patiently for the summer, when I can slip into its loose comfortable folds and step into the sunshine for a picnic in the garden, or a stroll on the beach, wearing flip-flops and eating ice-cream and listening to children playing happily in the sun.

This is summer’s Technicolour Magic.

Gill Stanyard Dark Walk The water in the burn gurgles and spills its salty innards onto the braille tarmac, as if reaching out to touch the broken flow of the white lines. As I reach the top of the hill, I hear the cows groan into the dusk, stamping their hooves on concrete stalls as they edge their warm mouths through the metal bars towards the feeding trough. Their breath puffs into the cold air and I inhale their dreams of sunshine and buttercups. Sentry beech trees flank me as I walk, their silver armoured branches arched overhead, like passing under the shirt-sleeved arms of a childhood game. In the darkness, I am as young as the buds and as old as the lichen graffiti on the stone wall. I welcome the sight of a white empty sheep feed bag lying crumpled against the gate to the top field. Its deflated form is like a fallen flag, illuminating the last corner home.

The Magic of Words Disability Resource Centre, Paisley, Renfrewshire Katie Dunn Lorna Glen Helen Kerr

Stephen Frate Arthur Mclellan Jacqueline Sorbie

The third group of participants is a writing group with a prolific creative output. The Magic of Words meet once a week in the Disability Resource Centre in Paisley. Led by Jacqueline Sorbie, the group set themselves a writing challenge each week and have produced an impressive folder of poems and stories in the years since they first began.

The poems and pieces of short prose included here were for the most part written in response to writing exercises based on the themes of people, place, culture, sport, the Commonwealth and what commonweal means. The members of this small group bear testimony to the notion of commonweal itself in the ways that they help and encourage one another as friends and writers. Indeed, several of the poems included here were written communally. Their work is organised thematically.

Welcome Poem

The Group

Thanks for inviting us to the Commonwealth Games I hope you like our names I hope we all do well Of that I’m sure you can tell We can only do our best And maybe pass the test

A group of writers we are The best around by far Ground rules laid down from the start Each one must take it to heart No bad language, i.e. no swearing No insults that are daring Be respectful to each other If you want to shout, don’t bother For we are the Magic of Words.

Lorna Glen

We like to get out and about Of that there is no doubt Reciting stories and poems Mostly at old folks’ homes.

We invite the occasional expert Who will help us not to divert Away from our aims and quest And to do our very best For we are the Magic of Words.

Arthur McLellan

Poems and Prose about Place Home

For a Smoke

I’m on a bus, going to a place That place looks like home With the smell of food That tastes like heaven The welcome you get feels like home.

Here I am all alone, waiting For a pair of lips to come And suck upon me. One, two, Three... they pass me by. Waiting, Waiting, waiting. How much Longer will I wait? Here Comes a hand and Snatch, I’m off. Round The corner we are running, up A close we are safe. Here Comes the match to Light me up. A pair of lips Sucks me in: Ah, what a relief.

First draw, second draw: Lovely, I hear the lips say.

I’m finished now.

The hand drops me On the ground and Walks away...

Helen Kerr

Helen Kerr

Glasgow I think Glasgow has become a lot cleaner since we’ve become smokeless. You used to go into Glasgow and everything looked dirty and grey. The tenements looked dirty and grey, and terrible.

Lorna Glen

Porridge Makes You Think

The Place in My Mind

Porridge makes you think Of days gone by Of growing up Of rebirth and nature Haggis and neeps Tatties and scones Butlins and Maplins Scarborough and Ayr Girvan and Troon Largs and Dunoon Irvine and Oban Going to Arbroath Learned all the writing games Hangman and battleships Crosswords and anagrams It passed the time Drawing the diagrams

The place in my mind Is home For that is where I spend so much time It can be so sublime Doing your pastime Thinking in rhyme To write a poem Is to travel in mind To find the right kind The right feeling The right notion For the promotion Of sight, taste and smell So you can tell Where inspiration can propel To get the proper mood.

Stephen Frate

Stephen Frate

A Sense of Place

The Likes of Scotland

Let me take you back to the beginning To the ‘Dirty Wee Port’ that was ‘minging’; A happy yet dour, wet place to be, Behind shipyard walls with no sight of the sea.

Living in grey tenements with a close And all the troubles it would pose: The drunks on a Saturday night, Feuding neighbours having a fight, Toilets in the landing to be shared – Use them during the night if you dared!

The washhouse and the drying green out the back, Coal bunkers they filled from the sack, The men would work until five at night, Riveting and hammering way out of sight.

The yard gates opened as the horn would sound And hundreds would flood out all homeward bound, Back to their houses with dirty faces For then they had no airs and graces.

We’d play in the streets and scream and shout For then there were fewer cars about.

Then the glorious day, and what a thrill; The family flitted and moved up the hill To a three-bedroom house up at Hillside With a wonderful view of the River Clyde.

Shipyards, the Clyde and the hills to roam Was my sense of place; the place I called home.

Like the fresh breeze on your face Like the smell of the sea Up the Clyde on the Waverley That’s heaven to me Kilchattan, Kilcreggan, those names Like music to my ears Fine drizzle falling gently Like angels with tears The mountains stand proud Their peaks still with snow Like white haired giants That watch as you go For wha’s like us Others may not understand This pride that we have For the likes of Scotland.

Arthur McLellan

Arthur McLellan

Memories I’m a Paisley ‘Buddy’ through and through So proud of my wee, historic town The sights and sounds that make it my home Are why I’ll always stay around.

Listening to the Town Hall clock Chimes striking hour after hour As the seasons come and they go Never interrupted by a passing shower.

Paisley Abbey stands mighty and proud Memories encased in every wall Haunting echoes of a historic past Touching them makes you stand tall.

The picturesque waterfall known as ‘The Hamills’ As ‘Little Niagara Falls’ it was known The sight and aroma of water rushing by Flowing gently into the unknown.

These are just a few of the reasons Paisley will forever have a place in my heart It will always be the place I call home And has been right from the very start.

Jacqueline Sorbie

Poems and Prose about People To My Mum

Mum

The life of a parent Is full of caring It fills you with daring The things that they do When you discover You can’t see it through.

She is so good You feel a strong desire To give your entire Life for a cause Without a pause Dancing and singing She knows it all Inspiring others To have a ball When you hear her call.

You gave Dad a good life And you were a fine wife I hope your future brings All the best of things.

Stephen Frate

Dad You gave Mum a good life She was a fine wife I hope your future brings All the best of things.

Me I had a lovely childhood As every child should But some parents are bad And that makes me sad.

I left home years ago I’m really slow But I enjoy life With all its trouble and strife.

Lorna Glen

A Tribute to my Mum

Memories of my Granny

Sometimes we leave it too late To tell those we hold so dear How much we love and appreciate While we still have them here.

Don’t laugh at me, cos I’m a fool, Is the song my granny would sing Every Hogmanay party To bring the New Year in

So if you were to ask me Who I admire more than anyone Standing head and shoulders above all others For me, it would be my mum.

We’d all get together All our friends and kin There’d be laughter and tears of joy As we’d all join in

You were my greatest inspiration My beautiful and kind-hearted mother A woman of strong moral character You could never be replaced by any other

The music would be blaring out We’d all get up for a dance My granny shakin’ her walking stick Oh how it made me laugh

A gentle person in a hard, tough world With a loving, caring heart You rose above adversity That set you worlds apart.

Although you are no longer with me In my heart you will always stay My mum. My friend. My hero: I miss you more than words can say.

But those happy days are over Those we loved have long since passed Now all that’s left are happy memories Deep down within our hearts.

Jacqueline Sorbie I dedicate this poem to my mum, Annie Muir MacSephneyMcInnesSorbie, 1925-2009.

Rest in peace.

Jacqueline Sorbie

The MacSephney Women Such strong and formidable women Were the females of the MacSephneyclan Their words and wisdom spoke volumes Thanks to them this is where it all began.

I give thanks to these MacSephney women Who taught me to be myself, always be true To stand firmly for all I believe in My love always I send from me to you.

Handed down from generation to generation A no-nonsense approach to life Times were very hard in those days You had to work hard if you wanted to survive.

Jacqueline Sorbie

They instilled this hard work ethic Passing it down through the years Ensuring the next generation would be strong But never be afraid to show tears.

Good manners and morals were taught To be self-reliant, strict, but fair Respecting other’s beliefs and feelings While still showing how much they care.

These emotionally strong no-nonsense women Who with one look could say it all At times no words were ever needed That’s how it’s always been as I recall.

So I dedicate these words to my family Especially my mum and my gran Whose guidance helped me through life To become the woman I am.

This poem is dedicated to all the MacSephney women who helped guide me through life.

Sweet dreams to you all in heaven.

A Man of his Time I’ve lived under the shadow of an enigma A controversial figure of a man A product of his time and place Please believe me if you can

Sadly brought up an orphan With a ‘bible thumping’ aunt at hand Suffering so much in his youth Maybe now I understand.

A truly gigantic character Of modest physical height Very much a man’s man Never shied away from a fight.

Arthur McLellan

A hardened, solid, robust man Those early days would produce Akin to a brave-hearted Wallace Or a diligent Robert the Bruce The original Good Samaritan Always ready to help you out Yet, a lovable rogue known to all Of his notoriety there was no doubt A champion for the countries youth Making councillors sit up and think A creator of youth clubs A man who liked a good drink The life and soul of the party Quickest dad in the 60 yard dash Always generous with his money And always short of cash

Sport A Sporting Occasion

Wings on His Feet

Years of training for an occasion so grand Sportsmen and women will prepare Primed and ready to go Anxious just how they might fare

Three miles is quite a distance Just how far he didn’t know But this young lad entered the race Keen to have a go.

A sporting occasion brings them together To show off what they can do Spectators and fans urge them on It’s a grand hullaballoo!

He asked a harrier, whom he knew The secret of his running Keep a constant rhythm son By singing to yourself, or humming.

Arthur McLellan

Only three primary school boys In a group of around a dozen Many came to watch Soon the place was buzzin’.

There were a few big lads With long legs, and they did stride Yet the lad in his naivety Was oblivious and full of pride.

On the ‘bang’ of the starter’s gun Our lad he really flew For a distance race, the others Felt this, the wrong thing to do.

Tearing away from the rest As far as he could get Still there was far to go More than two miles yet.

To him this was heaven He really liked to run He ran a little faster He was having fun

In a record time He crossed the finishing line Still with plenty of puff And still feeling fine.

Wiser people watching Advised, you’re going too fast Slow down a little This pace it cannot last.

The opposition were astounded Though gracious in defeat For this twelve year old boy that day Had wings upon his feet.

But this advice he did ignore And kept up his running speed To him there was no problem For he was happy indeed.

Arthur McLellan

Moving like a gazelle In the fresh, warm breeze Free as a bird Gliding along with ease.

This adrenaline rush It can blow your mind A more powerful drug You could never find.

Round and round he went Lapping the rest of the field Zipping past the rest His victory surely sealed.

Seconds Out, Third Round The ref raised his hand in the air: The brave lad had won fair and square.

Though he easily won his bout, The young lad’s mind was full of doubt.

Lads willing to show their prowess Our lad: worried and in distress – They were older, stronger, bigger How would our wee lad figure?

When at a young age, not yet ten He went to the gym now and then; This was because he liked to skip And strengthen his legs from toe to hip.

He ducked and jabbed and threw a hook This kid knew every move in the book Everyone around would agree This boy had a fighting pedigree.

Boxing never entered his mind Whenever asked he politely declined; He was a bit skinny and small Hardly the boxing type at all.

One by one he disposed of them The club had a fighting gem A puny pugilist in the team To our lad this was all a dream.

That year there was a glut of boys, All was a buzz and full of noise; The trainer had his work cut out He called all the boys about.

Although the opponents may have been raw The trainer was happy with what he saw Coming soon was a boxing show Our lad was requested to go.

The boxing team selection will Involve a system call the ‘windmill’ Another selection method then Was ‘Daniel in the lion’s den’.

There he was on the night In club colours ready to fight Stood waiting, his bout was next A diminutive figure all perplexed

It was in the ring everyone The weeding process had begun By all four corners boys waited As the trainer contemplated.

His opponent looked impressive So big, mean and aggressive In his mind he’d get a doing The crowd would laugh and start booing.

Seventh Heaven Our lad was good, he had great pace Had to protect his fragile face His hard training had done him well It got him through his boxing hell

The last Briton to win Wimbledon Was Fred Perry seventy-seven years ago The question was could it happen again The answer always seemed to be no.

Stamina was his secret strength So he kept his opponent at arms’ length Until he heard that final sound Last bell, seconds out, third round.

Our greatest hope was Henman Who tried his very best But try as he might He failed the final test

Arthur McLellan

Then along came our champion A young man from Dunblane Who took us to the final Any Murray was his name So on the seventh day of the seventh month Face-to-face with the number one seed The nation watched him with bated breath Would he finally succeed?

With joy the centre court erupted History was made at last The question was finally answered Murray: Champion First Class.

The Magic of Words

Rugby

Ball Sports

Rugby is a game and a school Rough and tumble as a rule Bottom of a scrum is like a ferrule It gathers all the dirt Makes you gasp and drool Makes you feel a fool Started in Wales Off the rails Cat of nine tails Getting to the top of the league.

Wimbledon and the World Cup Kicking it, hitting it It makes no difference, the money is there Everyone gets a share No matter how the players fare They don’t really care The fans, that is The viewer is watching The listener is listening The audience roars As the player then scores Football and tennis Not really a menace See you next time For something sublime

Stephen Frate

Stephen Frate

Five Sporting Limericks 1.

Golf

2014 is all about sport The ball is in your court The way of the world With many flags unfurled.

There was a young man called McIlroy To win the Golf Open was his ploy In America he won There in the sun He lifted the Cup with great joy.

2.

With many a doughty whack You never lose the knack Tennis, golf, cricket, baseball You will never get slack.

3.

It can make you feel small It can make you feel tall Sport can be a provider It can also be a divider In all things a decider.

4.

It has been called the beautiful game It has been called a dirty shame But who takes the blame?

Football is the name That you take hame.

Stephen Frate

Katie Dunn

Commonweal Living for the Commonweal

Commonweal

C is for caring people The ones we know and love; O is for the overall power That comes from God above.

M is for the meaning of life As we struggle along the way; M is also for the many Who struggle from day to day.

O is for the occasions When we’re feeling low; N is for the nurturing That other people show W is for the wisdom Of those who are wily and wise E is for the energy That helps us to survive A is for all the people Of the Commonweal L is for the lasting memory That only time reveals.

Community is the essence of the Commonweal; Often misunderstood; Much is made of the diversity of the Many who enter the fold.

Observation of the effects of togetherness, New horizons we challenge as one: Wealth, wellbeing and happiness: Everything and everyone; All moving forward in this world: Lasting progress can be achieved.

The Magic of Words

The Magic of Words

Commonweal

Commonwealth

Commonweal. The bringing together Of the many nations of Men and women whose very existence Makes a difference to the lives Of those communities who should Never be afraid to Welcome the winds of change to Encourage a lasting unison of the Awareness and understanding of a Legacy of health and happiness.

C is for the company we share O is for the observation that’s there M is for the many people to come M is for the meaning of it all O is for the other things to come N is for the noise we all hear W is for the welcome cheer E is for the early rise we’ll have to make A is for all the people that bake L is for the lovely weather we hope to have T is for all the time it’ll take H is for all good health

Jacqueline Sorbie

Lorna Glen

Commonwealth

Countries of the Commonwealth

C is for celestial magic, O is for the obvious union M is for miscellaneous ideas M is for magnetic appeal O is for the organisation of life N is for the new deal W is for the world of strife E is for everything you hold dear A is for all that you feel L is for the love all around T is for the treasure of understanding H is for the hunger to believe.

The Commonwealth has had centuries To colonise the world To see the places unfurled Botswana and Ghana, Cameroon too Kenya, Malawi, Lesotho true Mauritius, Mozambique, Namibia curled Rwanda, Uganda, Sierra Leone Zambia, Seychelles, Swaziland thru Nigeria, Tanzania, India, Malaysia All very new, out of the blue With the Maldives, Pakistan and Brunei All asking the question why?

Sri Lanka, Singapore and Bangladesh All sounding very aloof and so fresh Antigua and Barbuda, Barbados, Belize Sounding so much exotic and sneeze Grenada, Guyana, Canada dry St Lucia, St Vincent, St Kitts and Nevis Just like the mountain crevices Here at home it isn’t the same The Grenadines, Trinidad and Tobago UK, Malta, Cyprus, Fiji crew Kiribati, New Zealand, Nauru anew Tuvalu, Vanuatu, Samoa and Guinea Solomon Islands, Papua and Tonga Everything lasts a little bit longer

Stephen Frate

Cromwell’s idea in the seventeenth century Who could have foreseen His union to lean That it would be such a serene To unite all the nations Causing such vibrations For future generations.

Stephen Frate

Creative Writing Group, Voluntary Action South Ayrshire Lizanne Black Maureen Bryceland Maureen Crabtree Linda Godfrey

Georgie Howie Ellen MacLeod Betty Rodger Agnes Williamson

The fourth and final set of creative writing workshops took place in Ayr with a creative writing group who meet at the Voluntary Action South Ayrshire offices. The participants range in age from mid sixties to late eighties, and are an interesting group of women with some fascinating stories to tell. A core group has been meeting every fortnight since last year, whilst a few new members joined when the Digital Commonwealth Project was advertised. During the course of the workshops, the participants shared precious, sometimes very moving, memories with one another. The sense of camaraderie was important, and members vouched for the fact that the group they had formed was as important for forging friendships and reducing isolation as it was for writing.

Whilst a few of the members are from Ayr, or have spent many years there, the writing about place reflects other places too, such as Paisley, Edinburgh, Southend-on-Sea and much further afield. Two of the writers spent many years abroad in Commonwealth countries and have written evocatively of those places. The work of this group is a rich selection of poetry and prose, memoir and essay.

Lizanne Black People My late husband Robert Black, known to all as Bob, was the most important person in my life. He was born in Kelso in 1941, an only child. We met in 1958 and married two years later while Bob was training to become an electrical engineer at Rosyth Dockyard. He was 5ft 10in tall with brown eyes and black hair.

In 1964 we migrated to Australia with our two small daughters. Bob had a very successful career and ascended to senior management positions across the globe.

In the eight years we were in Australia he played rugby and also coached at junior level, and our son, Tony, was born in Australia in 1972.

On our return from Australia, Bob worked for the Pye Group where he wrote a manual for the Ministry of Defence on the safety of Pye products. He then went on to work for the American Digital Equipment Corporation as senior safety and quality assurance manager, based mainly in Ayr with three years away in Galway then another three years in Munich.

Bob was dedicated not only to me and his children and grandchildren but to the team who worked for him. He was an exceptionally good, strong people manager: he was often told he was like a second father to them.

His biggest enemy was ill health which forced him to take early retirement at 53 but it meant that he could then indulge his passion for freshwater fishing.

He was always at the centre of things, making jokes and winding people up. He just delighted in other people’s company and I am sure he had enough stories from his travels to write volumes of books. Sadly, he died on January 25th, 2004. This year, on the tenth anniversary of his death, I wrote my first poem, which I have called Memories.

Memories Memories are like treasure Recalled to bring pleasure For good or bad, Happy or sad, Without them I could not survive Bob, you taught me to jive, I was sixteen and happy to be alive, Then came marriage And a baby carriage And babies one, two then three, We were proud parents And even prouder grandparents To grandsons one, two then three We looked forward to a long retirement But it was not to be All too soon you were gone No chance to say goodbye But the bonds of love can never Be broken We are together, forever, in memories.

Place I was born and brought up in Edinburgh. Life in the 1940s was very different to what it is today. We lived in a flat; we had an inside toilet but no bathroom. When we needed a bath we had to go to the public baths.

We had no running hot water or washing machine. I used to accompany my mum to the steamie to do the washing, pushing an old pram with the basket of washing, and of course there was no T.V. My mum, two aunts and I used to go to the cinema at least twice a week. We had a choice of cinemas to go to: the ‘Blue Halls’, La Scala, New Victoria to name but a few; there was also the Empire Theatre for live shows.

In such a vibrant city there was always something to do and as both my grandmothers and most of my aunts and uncles lived in the area there were lots of family gatherings.

As my paternal grandmother came from Dailly we always had a connection with Ayrshire. Her brother Tom and his wife Mary had a farm near Maybole and this is where I spent my summers. After the city it was like being on another planet but I thoroughly enjoyed my time spent there, even though I once fell into the pigsty on top of two very large pigs! I was terrified that they would eat me!

So when my late husband’s job took us to Ayr 32 years ago, I was delighted, and even more so when we ended up buying a house in Alloway near to where Aunt Mary and Uncle Tom had retired to after they sold their farm.

Culture and Exchange When I went to live in Australia fifty years ago, nothing could have prepared me for the different way of life over there. The hot summers meant you could be outdoors most of the time but for me it was always too hot; being fair-skinned meant I could get sunburn very easily.

The food, too, had to change. In Scotland you need a lot of hot food which is not what you want in hot weather. In one country town we lived in – Armadale – there was an area where Aboriginal people lived.

They were not allowed to mix with the white people. In the cinema, the first four rows were roped off for the Aboriginal people. It horrified me that things like that could go on in 1964, but that was the way it was.

When we moved to Queensland there were dirt roads and hitching rails for horses outside the shops.

Women didn’t go into pubs which were strictly ‘men only’ – my husband said he would not like me to go into a pub there anyway. There was sawdust on the floor and spitoons in each corner.

Over the years, of course, things have changed. I made many friends in Australia who I am still in touch with today, and as my daughter Julie and grandson Ryan and his wife Stephanie all live in Perth, Western Australia, I am a regular visitor. It is a truly spectacular country despite all the bugs, snakes, etc! It is now very modern and reminds me more of America in the style of their houses and shopping malls. Thankfully, nearly everywhere has air conditioning!

Maureen Bryceland People There were five children in our family: three girls and two boys. I was the middle girl and always felt the odd one out. Margaret, as the eldest sister, looked out for her younger sisters but my brothers were never part of our family as I remember: they attended boarding school so when they did come home they felt alien to us. It was an odd situation.

Hence, when I moved away, I felt no attachment to my family. I was so caught up with raising my own children.

We brought our young children to visit their grandparents, but no real bond was formed. We just didn’t show any affection, and that was true on both sides, although we all were aware of what was happening in each others’ lives... like when my parents died, my elder brother’s death, the arrival of babies – that sort of thing.

I knew that Margaret had divorced, moved out and was now on her own. I knew she had a good job as a cosmetic consultant. She was a very pretty girl and used her looks to further her career, and ended up working firstly for British Caledonia as an air hostess, then for British Airways. She retired in her sixties after long employment in her chosen career. She contacted me seven years ago. We met up and renewed our relationship, becoming devoted sisters who were trying to catch up on lost years. We holidayed together and she became very involved in my family’s life. She really enjoyed all that as she had no family of her own.

When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, I helped her with all the emotional and physical challenges that came with the disease. I decided I wanted her to live near me, so arrangements were made to sell her house and buy her a place of her own just close by. She won the fight with the disease and was coping well, making a new life and new friends here. She even joined a walking group,walking ten miles at one go, and was delighted with the way things were going in her life.

Sadly, a year ago her demon raised its head again. This time the outcome was not so favourable. She died twelve months ago. She travelled to every corner of the earth, on holiday or following the golf competitions she was so wildly enthusiastic about. She was so proud of her tartan uniform, of being one of the original Caledonian Girls.

I am so proud of the things she did. She met lots of famous people in the course of her work and some remained her friends to the end. One of the best things she did for me was to introduce my young sister and brother back into my life so we could make up for lost time: that was her legacy to me.

And if I could look into her bag I’d find her passport, all up to date and ready to go...

Place I was born in 1945 in Paisley: a large town outside Glasgow. I married in my teens and moved away from my friends and family: to say I was green is an understatement as I knew nothing about married life or homemaking, but I was willing to get on with my new life and decided I wanted a job.

I know that the gentry have always been amongst us but I had never thought about their private lives of privilege. They seemed to live in a glamorous kind of bubble, unaware of normal life. Then I obtained employment in the grand baronial home of a notable, regal lord and lady and their vastly extended brood of snooty and obnoxious children. I was housekeeper in the grand house. The elderly parents had just handed over the large family pile to the next generation, having decanted to the Dowagers house on their vast estate.

One of my jobs was to assist the new lady of the house to decorate their newly inherited abode and bring it up to its original regal standard after many years of neglect, mostly through damp and lack of ready money. After a return on their investments, they were now in the fortunate position of attending to the business in hand; namely restoring the house for posterity.

No popping out to B&Q for this project! Each room was given a different theme. I worked alongside interior designers from London and Nice who were flown in specially to give these rooms the ‘wow factor’.

All the wallpaper was taken back to the original design, and so special silk printing companies were sourced from Turin and Milan to supply the necessary materials. Curtains and counterpanes were sourced from the Far East, mindful of the truly authentic colours required. This was the early sixties so there was no sourcing materials over the internet!

Furniture was a bigger headache than the wallpaper. The old furniture was eaten away by woodworm and rot. It was deemed unfit for purpose and went straight on to the bonfire, much to the elderly

parents’ disgust. They had lived with it all their lives; the furniture had been handed down from their forefathers. Personally, I thought it went further back... perhaps the pieces were made out of timber taken from Noah’s ark?

Much of the replacement furniture came from the family’s other estates dotted about Europe. Pictures and mirrors were sourced from the London branches of Bonham’s and Christies, no less. We went to great lengths to create a wonderful space, a timeless creation. You have plenty time to see it because it will last for hundreds of years.

I assisted in the restoration of only five rooms, leaving the remaining forty-three rooms unfinished.

Now I think differently about these gentry folk: they really do have a tough life! As I said earlier... no popping out to B&Q for them, poor sods!!!!!!!!!!!!

Culture and Exchange One of my most memorable holidays was spent on the beautiful island of Malta. The climate on Malta is subtropical, with very mild winters and long hot summers. It is reported to have the best climate in the world. It’s an ideal place to rest and relax,and still do quite a bit of sightseeing. It boasts many historical monuments,including nine Unesco world heritage sites. The inhabitants speak two languages: Maltese and English, which makes communication for British people very easy – so there’s no excuse not to get on with the locals.

Malta is on an archipelego, consisting of a small group of islands in the Mediterranean Sea which lie fifty miles south of Sicily. The island is a very Christian nation, it is reported that St Paul was once shipwrecked on Malta. The origin of the term Malta derives from the Greek word for honey or honeysweet, which possibly refers to the honey produced from the endemic species of bees that live on the island.

Napoleon captured Malta on his way to Egypt in 1789. He requested safe harbour to restock his ships, and then turned his guns against his hosts once safely inside Valetta harbour. It has been recorded that Napoleon Bonaparte reformed the Maltese government, including abolishing the slave trade, then left for Egypt leaving a massive garrison in Malta.

In 1814 Malta officially became part of the British empire and was used as a shipping station,due to the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869. The island’s situation, halfway between Gibraltar and Egypt, was very important to the people of Malta as it opened up trading with other countries. Bacon, wheat and many other items were imported.

During World War II Malta played an important role. The bravery of the Maltese people during the Siege of Malta moved King George IV to award the George Cross Medal to the island for its heroism and devotion.

He declared that Malta would be famous in history. A depiction of the George Medal appears in the upper part of the Maltese flag. Mosta, a town outside Sillema, had its Cathedral bombed during the war.

An enemy bomb dropped through its dome while mass was in progress. It was a miracle no one was injured, and the shell of the bomb is still there, where it landed.

Malta became independent from the UK in 1964. Malta adopted neutrality in 1980 and became the venue for a summit between President George W. Bush and Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev. This meeting signalled the end of the cold war.

This is a very small island with a very large history; it’s people who are at the heart of it...

Maureen Crabtree People Influence Was it my grandpa showing me a Bird’s nest with tiny baby birds?

Was it my granny showing me how To knit and make pancakes?

Was it my aunt with all her pretty things?

Was it my uncle swinging me round and round?

Was it my brother: he was just a pest!

Was it my dad, the best in the world?

Was it my mum who taught me how to care?

Not one, but all of these lovely people have been an influence in my life.

Place I was born in Ayr on 5th May 1940. I had a happy childhood. I have one brother called Billy and we spent a lot of time together. My friends, Sheena, Ishbel and Muriel were sisters and their dad was a vet. He came from Skye and played the bagpipes every day and when I went to visit he would play the chanter and we all danced. He also had beehives and each year he would bring the honeycombs down to jar the honey.

This was all done in the garage where the honey was kept in large urns. The girls had a swing in the garage and one day I was on the swing and wanted to be pushed higher and higher – too high – as I knocked over one of the honey urns and it spilled all over the floor!! I was not a popular girl for a while. The sisters also had a ferret as a pet and I remember taking it for walks. He was called Peter!

Every summer holidays Billy and I went to my gran’s in Girvan. My mum ‘let’ the house for summer. That was the kind of holiday people from Glasgow went on; just to get to the seaside. My grandpa had fishing

boats and many a time Billy and I went out to the fishing. My grandpa would take the boat up against the rocks of Ailsa Craig and collect gulls’ eggs. When he returned on board Billy and I would stand with our mouths open and Grandpa would crack the eggs and we would swallow them. Grandpa said we would never have a cold or sore throat – not true! My gran was a typical fisherman’s wife. Many memories I have of her sitting out in the back garden with the nets spread out on the grass so that she could check for any holes and mend them for the next casting. The only way to eat lobster is my gran’s recipe: Fill a large pan with water one quarter of the way up the pan. Place a large lobster in a colander and steam for twenty minutes. Place it on a large platter and crack open the shell. Serve with butter and pepper – no sauce to mask the great taste of the lobster.

School days were happy – Holmston Primary (which was called Smith’s Institute until 1944). High school was the Grammar School. My best subjects were English and Geography and I excelled at sports, playing in the 1st hockey team at the age of thirteen.

Ayr was always a very good place to live, with good shops and a market on Tuesdays when the cattle and sheep were sold. All the farmers would meet for lunch, mostly at Lloydston’s which was a family owned store and still did silver service. It had models moving around the tables to show off the latest fashions.

As I grew up my leisure time was spent at the ice rink. I loved to skate and Friday was ice hockey – that’s where all the boys went! The ice rink was where I met ‘the love of my life’, George – a match made in heaven. To cut a long story short, we were married young and had four children, eight grandchildren and one great-grandchild. We were married for forty years before I lost him to the dreaded ‘Big C’. We had a good life together and we saw many unusual things when we lived in Natal in South Africa before coming back to Ayr, the town of our birth.

Place Guide me to a lonely place, Leave me alone with my thoughts, By a burn playing nature’s melodies In the heather-clad hills of the Scots.

Let me be part of the place where I sit And dare not disturb the calm Of the silent hills and the sentinel trees And the plaintive bleat of the lambs.

Culture and Exchange South Africa On a cold winter morning on 15th August 1971, our plane touched down at Jan Smutts airport, Johannesburg, and so our new adventure began. My husband George was an engineer and we were going out with his company, Glacier Metal UK, to Pinetown, Natal. Our four children, Maureen, Garry, Ian and Louise, were excited to see what was in front of them. The following morning we boarded the train for Durban, Natal. We wanted to go by train to see all the countryside – wonderful. Once settled in Pinetown we had to see to schools. Jan and Louise to Ashley Primary, uniform pale blue dress and maroon blazers and felt panama hats. Maureen and Garry to Pinetown High – Maureen royal blue pleated kirt, blue blazer and straw boater, Garry – winter uniform grey flannels and blue blazer, summer uniform safari shorts, grey, but no straw boater! Thank God it had been discontinued the year before.

We settled into our house and life began to take on structure. One morning there was a knock on the door and there stood a young African woman asking if she could come and work for me. I said no but she said that her auntie worked next door and had told her there was a new family and no maid. She said, ‘Please madam, I have babies to feed’ and so entered our lives Miss Astrith Mphlope. Astrith was with me during all our years in S.A. She was Xhosa from Transki. In Natal the majority tribe are Zulu so I had quite a problem getting her registered but I persevered and so she became part of the Crabtree family. In the

beginning I would help her until one day she said, ‘Please madam I do not need your help’ so I left her to it. I started work as a personnel manager for a car component company, Bus Bodies.

It took a wee while to settle in as things are so different, such as language. S.A. is bilingual: English and Afrikaans. Also the native Zulu, so I had to learn a bit of both Afrikaans and Zulu. I also took a while to get used to apartheid. Astrith announced she was pregnant. During her time with us she had four babies, all boys. Their custom is that the man asks the father for the woman’s hand and then pays a dowry called a lobolla which is usually cattle and money. Then the girl shows she is fertile by producing two children, which Astrith did four times but twice the men let her down. Then her father and brothers find the man and take cruel retribution – I will not go into what.

As a family we saw a lot of beautiful S.A. Every weekend found us at the beach. The kids surfing and swimming – a lot of sunburn! In 1971 we were not aware of how cruel the sun is. We also saw a lot of magnificent wildlife. We did Kruger National Park, Umfolozi and Hluhluwe. In Kruger it could take up to two hours for a herd of elephants to pass in front of the car, up to two hundred led by the matriarch.

Now you are lucky if you see twenty all together – poaching.

I changed job in 1978, still working in personnel but with M.A.N., a German company. I fought for pensions for the African, Asian and coloured staff. I won through and succeeded. A little story: Robert was company driver and died. I had his wife down as next of kin so she should get the pay out but his brothers and uncles said it should be theirs. I got his wife into the office and showed her the cheque for R10,000.00. She did not understand but I got one of the workers to speak to her in her dialect. She was overcome and hugged me, saying that now her son could go to university. I took her to the bank to deposit it but Robert’s two brothers and uncle were there and tried to get the cheque. The bank staff threw them out but I later heard they got Martha to give them the money. Women were not allowed to have money in their own right: who was I to change their traditions!

My four children all married there and to date are still married to the same people. We decided to come back to Ayr in 1982; we could see the writing was on the wall. Violence was becoming the norm and I never left home without my gun under the seat of my car. Our life became very restricted and the relaxed, lovely life had gone. This was one of the reasons most people had big houses with swimming pools because the beach was no longer safe so all your entertainment was done at home. All the Zulus

I came into contact with were really good people and I knew more good ones than bad. We had two grandchildren when we left but were back out in 1986 and 1990 on holiday. We were there when Mandela the terrorist was released. He did what the Muslims are doing now: killing innocent people, mostly his own. Yes, he did become an icon and tried to do good but unfortunately he couldn’t give his people what they wanted. Winnie was the worst thing that ever happened to him. After George died in 2006 I have been out twice and it is a scary place. My son, who is a master mariner, asked me to go out to see my great grandson. I said no as the last time I didn’t feel safe. When I went in 2007 I did not tell my son I was going so that I could surprise my granddaughter for her 21st birthday. After I checked into my hotel I wanted to take a walk along the front and the doorman would not let me go because I was on my own.

In his words, ‘No madam – you not going, black skbengo mug you.’ His words, not mine. By the way the doorman carried a gun. Not the lovely S.A. that I remember, one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Cape Town and Cape Peninsula are magnificent.

I had many happy years there and made good friends who I still keep in touch with. None of them are still in S.A. – all back in the U.K. My three daughters came back to Scotland and I now have 8 grandchildren aged between 33 and 21. My son is still in Durban – he’s had many offers from the oil industry but his wife would not leave S.A. She has 2 daughters and they have all become used to the situation. My hope for South Africa is peace among the tribes and that they learn to live with each other.

Linda Godfrey People and Places: Reflections I lived in Southend-on-Sea from 1945 when I was three years old until 1957 when I was fifteen years of age.

My first memory of Southend is sitting on an orange box drinking tea without milk, in a dark kitchen lit only by a candle in front of a kitchener.

I lived with my nana and step grandad. These two people have affected my life in every way possible: domestically, morally and in the way I brought up my children, especially my love of the sea and nature.

May, my nana, was a disciplinarian, not to my advantage. My grandad, Charles, was tall, kind and protected me. He rode his bicycle until he was ninety years of age. He passed on at ninety-three. My nana died in 1974 in London, near my mother, unhappy.

Southend-on-Sea in the late 1940s and 1950s was a thriving seaside resort with the longest pier in the world: one and a half miles in length, with an electric train to transport people, especially visitors, of which there were many at that time. The sides of the train were open, with just a rail to hold. The seats were reversible: not really in line with health and safety! From the pier, the Royal Daffodil left, the last steamship in 1953 to operate in the south of England. I was lucky to experience this. At the end of the pier there were amusements: the penny arcade, what the butler saw and many others. Shows were regular and often during the summer season, featuring famous singers and comedians of that time. How I enjoyed the space and breeze at that time, especially on the open-sided train. The Kursaal, a leisure park, was the biggest draw for visitors. It had a big dipper, roundabouts, swings, coconut shies, candy floss and a water shoot. When The Kursaal closed, Southend resort closed down but the char-ladies from the East End would enjoy their day off on Mondays drinking stout and guinness outside the public house on the sea front. They still visited regularly.

The other attraction was ‘The Skylark’: a sail-boat that I could dangle my hand over the side of into the sea. Before I left it had a motor and noisy music, plus commentary, so not the same for me.

When I lived near Blackpool with the illuminations yearly and old-fashioned trams, this reminded me of Southend, the good part. The rest of Blackpool, apart from the two theatres, left me cold. St. Anne’s I loved, with sand dunes and clean beach, kite flying – I loved all this, and only six miles from Blackpool!

I came on holiday to Ayrshire by chance. I visited a friend in St. Anne’s and a friend of hers gave me a lift to Prestwick. I stayed one night in the Beach Hotel in Prestwick, fell in love with it and I returned three times on holiday with family and friends, and then moved here on the 24th March 2014, to Prestwick.

It is good to be back by the sea. It makes me feel less stressed, more peaceful: great therapy. Creative writing is great!

People This character profile is of Keith John Sinclair, surname Monaghan at the time of birth forty seven years ago in Mill Hill, at home.

Keith is of a tall, stocky build. He has dark brown eyes, black hair, an aquiline nose and a square chin.

Keith’s bodily appearance is a combination of both his mother and Scottish father, Gordon John Sinclair, who died of alcoholism when Keith was four years of age. His father was a kind, loving person, and had a DFC medal from the RAF, Second World War: he is remembered with love.

Keith grew up in a world of poverty, child of a single parent, late 1960s and 1970s, moving frequently due to rogue landlords, lack of money. By the time he was five years of age, he had lost a baby brother and sister to cot death and pneumonia.

By the time Keith was eight, permanent housing at last. Social workers became involved because mother suffered from depression so Keith was sent to a boarding school two hundred miles away. Disastrous decision for both parent and child. Keith left boarding school at fourteen and had his last year at a comprehensive school in Purfleet, Essex.

Keith was unemployed at sixteen years of age but went ‘totting’, finding metal and selling it to dealers.

He worked as a waiter then joined the Hare Krishna movement at eighteen where he became a cook, cleaner, labourer and devotee. Keith moved out from the temple in Soho Street to stay with his mother who now lived in London. Keith trained to do furniture restoring at Camden and ran a stall in Camden Market selling Hare Kirshna paraphernalia. Keith became involved in drug dealing and became an addict, mainly of marijuana, which led to mental health problems. He became a total stranger. He had a friend named Charlie who owned a large house, so he moved to Hackney for a while: a safe place.

Keith’s worst enemy is his addictive nature and being too trusting and kind-hearted to the wrong people.

Keith’s favourite pastime used to be cycling around Scotland in all weathers. He is now a full time Hare Krisha devotee with a wife and four children.

Loyalty and determination are Keith’s main strengths, despite his past weakness for drugs which led to his attempted suicide last November. Luckily it was unsuccessful, fortunately for his children.

When Keith was unemployed and travelling his pockets would have been full of string, tobacco, Rizla papers and milk.

The ways in which Keith has influenced my life are very mixed. There has been stress, heartache and struggle but also love, endurance and communication. Keith has given me, his mother, a reason for living too.

Culture and Exchange I lived in north London for forty years: the capital of England, a busy, built up city full of businesses, museums, a palace, docklands, the River Thames, Houses of Parliament. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the east end of the city was the waterway for ships bringing exotic foods and cloth from around the world. The west end of London was theatre-land, with some sleazy clubs as well. There are great restaurants – and workmen’s cafes – everywhere. Lots of tree-filled squares also.

Where my son and I lived in Haringey in north London, the cafes were mainly Greek and Turkish. In Finsbury Park you could find West Indian people and shops selling plantain, ackee, monkey tail, mangoes, pomegranates and other exotic fruit, not forgetting bananas. I met my friend Monica and her son Tony in the early 1970s. We shared a house and Monica introduced me to rice and ‘peas’ (red kidney beans), fried dumpling, spiced chicken, Jamaican stew – like ours but spiced. We shared our meals, and Monica and I are still friends after forty-two years.

Ekon and Alison from Ghana in West Africa introduced me to African stews that consist of okra, fish, salt fish and cornmeal mixed with water and heated into a porridge consistency. The mixture was then put out into a large bowl in the middle of the floor. We took the corn porridge with our fingers, rolled it and dipped it into the stew: a community meal that would have been shared in a communal hut in Africa.

Urnda, a Hare Krishna devotee, is an Indian lady married to a Scottish man who is also a devotee. She cooks proper Indian food in ghee – a mixture of oil and butter. They are vegetarian and vegetables are deep fried and spiced, as is the curd – a product of curdled milk that tastes better than it sounds and is good for the digestion. The main ingredients of Indian sweets are sugar, flour, honey, rosewater and milk – absolutely wonderful. Rice is the mainstay of Chinese, Thai, Indian and Greek foods.

Traditional West Indian clothes for women are colourful patterned cotton kaftans: a long, loose style dress appropriate for warm climates, and, of course, sandals. African dresses are similar to West Indian dresses but African women traditionally wear a turban as well to protect them from the sun.

Indian women traditionally wear Punjab suits which are loose, cotton, long or short sleeved tops reaching the knees, and sandals. Saris are also traditional Indian dresses for women: a long strip of material which is wound around the waist and tucked in a few times. The top is a short, fitted blouse to the midriff with short sleeves and sandals appropriate for warm climates. Men wear white or beige, plain, loose cotton trousers with a long shirt down to the knees. Sikhs wear a white turban; their long, black hair is wound into the turban. They are not allowed to cut their hair. This also applies to the women, who usually plait their hair. African and West Indian men and women also plait their black, frizzy hair. Most ladies straighten their hair now.

Traditional Indian weddings can last three days; two days for feasting, one day for prayers, chanting and the fire ceremony where the bride leads her groom around the fire to show she accepts him. The bride’s and groom’s wrists are tied loosely by a relative to bind them for life.

Traditional African marriages consist of one chief who is usually wealthy enough to be able to afford enough cattle to keep many wives and children. Wife number one is in charge of the rest of the wives.

There is communal child-care, weaving, cooking. The men of the village are the hunters and the women sleep in a communal hut with the children.

Trading with other countries has made my life more colourful in diet, choice of clothes and lifestyle, but my life has been especially enriched through meeting and knowing people from different cultures.

Georgie Howie Place The Place Where I Grew Up I was born in Ayr on Friday 13th in South Lodge private nursing home which is now a residential private housing complex. I have always lived and worked in Ayr and there have been many changes. I have vivid memories of my own and some stories passed on from my gran who lived to the ripe old age of 94. She was a character and a well-known seamstress. We lived with her and it was a room and kitchen with beds in recesses in the walls. It certainly was cosy but I remember it being a bit niffy as Mitchell the ham curers was behind the building. Every Monday when it was gran’s turn for the washing house and clothes-line, everybody bailed in. Then as a treat I would at night be carried down to the washhouse and, believe it or not, had a bath in the boiler with the ashes still smouldering below. Sometimes it was a bit hotty on the botty. Then I believe mum and dad later made use of the sapples as they called it. Can you imagine suggesting now to bathe children in water that had already done the weekly wash? Yuck.

Ayr was a very popular seaside resort and droves of visitors from Glasgow came ‘Doon the Water’ as they say during the Glasgow Fair. The Glasgow Fair was and still is in July and for two weeks the beach and Ayr Low Green would be taken over by them. For many it was all they could afford and the only break they would get from the smog of Glasgow air. The air would be filled with the smell of fish suppers.

We had a barracks where the Royal Scots Fusiliers were stationed and Princess Margaret was Colonelin-Chief of the regiment. It is said that when she visited the barracks all the houses within her view had been cleaned up and whitewashed. Some years later Princess Anne opened a function suite at Ayr Racecourse and visited Western House where she made use of the toilet facilities. Apparently the toilet was removed so it could not be used again. Funnily enough my wedding reception was in Western House.

My father was a well-known butcher in the town and I met my husband as he was my father’s messenger boy. We went on to have four children, seven grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

Ayr Burgh Band played in the grandstand every Sunday on the Low Green. Most folk walked along the promenade licking their ice cream cones with the melted ice cream dripping down them after attending

church. We had a very successful Ayr Pipe Band and everyone jigged along to the pipes and drums. At our busy harbour it was normal practice for folk to rise early in time for the fish being landed and sold.

Sometimes the odd fish would flip out of the boxes and they were immediately snatched up and would end up on someone’s plate for tea. It was another tourist attraction with a fish filleting and ice factory facility close by. The smells from the newly landed catches reached your nose long before you were there.

Ayr did not have any bathing lake or swimming baths and local swimmers formed their own swimming club which met in the harbour. They were strong swimmers and in fact my mother met my father when she saw him sitting looking into the harbour. She apparently gave him a helpful push, thinking he was a member of the club and immediately had to dive in herself to rescue him as of course he could not swim. He did of course learn to swim after his encounter. Being a local businessman and having failed his medical, he became part of the Home Guard during World War II. My father’s brother, however, had been taken prisoner of war at the time I was born and being the first grandchild in my father’s big family I was named Georgina to remember him as at that time it was not certain how many soldiers would return.

There was an airport at Heathfield and a larger airport at Prestwick, which is an adjoining town. Prestwick Airport was used for training purposes at that time as planes could take off over the sea thus lessening the risk of accidents. Many women worked at the airport, taking on jobs as fitters, etc., as the men had all been called up. My father’s sister Margaret worked there maintaining the planes.

We had a carpet factory known as Gray’s Carpets which exported their famous carpets worldwide. We also had a woollen mill known as Templeton’s nearby. There was a slaughterhouse as it was called then and a tannery nearby where the animal skins were treated. You can imagine the awful smells emitting from that area. As there was a shortage of workers, my father could kill his own cattle. It will be fairly obvious by now that I was certainly not a vegetarian but my brother who was born ten years after me hated the sight of blood which caused a few problems as he obviously had no intention of carrying on the family business.

But of course our greatest claim to fame is the poet Robert Burns, known world-wide. Many Burns Clubs have been formed abroad in his memory. He was born in Burns Cottage in Alloway, an adjoining village.

He worked as a farmer, attended school and wrote his famous poem ‘Tam O’Shanter’ in which the witches and warlocks try to catch the hero’s grey mare’s tail as she gallops over the Brig O’Doon.

There certainly was a lot going on in the town of Ayr and I am proud to be a part of its history, having been born and bred here. What’s happening now is that the small shops are slowly disappearing from the town centre and moving into outlets. I think it should have been a rule that if a popular high street shop moved their main branch out of the town centre, they should have to also leave a smaller branch in town.

I have briefly given you an insight into what the town of Ayr meant to me, my parents and grandparents who were all born and bred here too. I am writing this report in the month of May in the year 2014.

Doon the Water I They’ll be coming doon the water to Ayr It’s that time of year again: it’s the Glasgow Fair

Ayr Races was the order of the day Where you squandered your well-earned pay

They’ll arrive in droves off buses and trains With buckets and spades and dozens of weans

People trusted one another and went out at night Knowing they would be alright

There’s not a square foot of sand to be seen They have even taken over Ayr Low Green

We could go back to these good old days If everyone attempted to change their ways

Then you could run about in your bare feet There never has been a greater heat

Ayr would become that beautiful town again Burns even wrote of its honest men

I jumped up, My God, what was that?

You’ve just sat on a pokey hat

So let’s all pay attention to the things that matter Then more folk would come Doon The Water.

The air was filled with greasy fish suppers Some over indulgent folk ended up in the gutters

Doon the Water II The good old days: how often have you heard those words?

Now those words don’t seem so absurd Long warm sunny days Everyone going their separate ways The funfair blaring out the old favourite tunes And messing about in the sand dunes The burgh band playing on the low green And not a cloud in the sky to be seen It was great rowing doon the water Bumping off the bank with a bit of a clatter I remember queuing up for a boat With my brand new bonnet and bright red coat Now don’t you get that coat in a mess And sit there nicely and don’t be a pest You could go for a swim in the River Ayr Even strip off if you dare In the freezing winters the river would freeze It was great fun scrambling about on your knees You could get a bag of chips for tuppence a go A shilling got you a seat at the flicks in the front row Ah, those were the days when you hadn’t a care Sailing doon the water on the River Ayr.

The Pocket The contents of a pocket: a fly on the wall would have been more exciting. In all walks of life people will carry different things in their pockets that are meaningful to them. Just thinking about that has put my mind into overdrive now. I am thinking what might have been in President Clinton’s trouser pocket and what some other well-known celebrities should have had in theirs.

When I was a guide captain many years ago we used to do what was called a random pocket inspection and they had to empty them out in front of them. Some items were compulsory to carry and these were: a piece of string, a clean handkerchief, loose change for an emergency phone-call, the nearest doctor’s name and number, safety pins and your own name, address and phone number (if you were lucky enough to have a phone). What was sometimes found were: photos of boyfriends, chewing gum either stuck to the pocket or paper, empty sweetie wrappers, sweets, usually a dirty hanky that was of no use, and pieces of paper on which notes were written, even the odd dirty joke. Imagine trying to stuff all that into your pocket today. Nowadays girls carry bags like suitcases with mobile phones, chargers, photos, address books, make up galore, hair-brushes, tongs, hairdryers, books and even extra shoes. I could go on and on. Now on the other hand, the queen carries nothing in her pockets and even her traditional handbag contains no money.

However, looking back to the time I was born – in 1940 – it was interesting to find out that my Uncle George, who was my father’s brother and a prisoner of war at that time always carried photos of me (I was named after him) that my parents sent him. Everytime he was moved between stalags my photos were stamped on the back. Before he died, a few years ago, he returned the photos to me and I will always treasure them.

I am sure many members of H.M. forces would have such treasured possessions in all their pockets at that time too. They were sent to do a job for their country and had no choice. For most I am sure they would rather have been at home with their loved ones.

The contents of a homeless person’s pocket may be the only way to trace who that person was if they were found dead from hypothermia or malnutrition. He might have been a very educated man, a doctor even and lost touch with his family who he loved so much. He may even have lost his memory and not even remember who he was, so finding out information would be so helpful otherwise their existence would never be known.

I often wonder what a minister would carry in his pocket. Does he have a pocket in his cassock? He surely would not need to carry anything to remind him of God as that should be in his heart, not his pocket.

So the contents of someone’s pocket is an interesting subject after all. But much more interesting is the contents of our heart which we gather from the day we are born until the day we die and these contents can never be taken away.

In summing up I believe the contents of a pocket contain items of importance to the owner and offer an insight into the kind of person they are.

A Commonwealth Culture I have never lived in or visited a commonwealth country These were luxuries I could not afford But believe you me I certainly never got bored As I brought up four children who are all adored All I had to do was walk down the street And almost every nationality I was bound to meet Maybe not in our little town of Ayr But in the city of London it certainly was not rare My daughter and my grandchildren have lived there for some time And I have mixed with many cultures when I would visit them from time to time.

Especially at the market stalls where they would sell their goods And all the wonderful ornaments made from wood Everyone is so friendly and cheery as you look around With all sorts of colourful clothes and headgear to be found You can learn about all the different places where they live Without having to travel thousands of miles to lift the lid As you make your way down some of the cobbled side streets You never know who you are going to meet All the different smells and aromas fill the air

You feel as if you could almost be there The shops spill out on to the pavement filled with all kinds of exotic fruits And you feel you have almost gone back to their roots Chunky, bling jewellery was my downfall I was get so carried away I almost bought it all You can sample all their traditional food And I would stuff my face which was not so good I wish I could have visited some of the far off places I can see they would have many stories to tell just looking at their faces They have brought their beliefs and customs to our land Making it easier for us all to understand I don’t think I could have learned much more Than I would have by knocking on their door We strive to obtain peace and understanding throughout the world I only hope our efforts will be fulfilled If we all hold hands together and join in the fight We could form a shiny bright circle of light It may not happen straight away But I know it will happen one fine day.

Ellen MacLeod People William McArthur Carswell was 78 years old when he died of a heart attack after playing a round of golf.

He was my father and his death was a great shock to everyone because he was never ill or needed a doctor.

He was always of slim build, 5ft 11in tall and quite good looking. In his youth he had blond hair and lovely fair skin. To his great annoyance he hated losing his hair and tried all sorts of ‘cures’ to try and prevent it happening – even an electric comb which was supposed to stimulate the scalp!! However, eventually he must have accepted the inevitable as I never saw him use anything other than a hairbrush for the hair he had left. He was always pointing out the fact that he still had hair on top and didn’t have a shiny dome.

Willie served his time as an apprentice joiner with the Co-operative and in those days men went to work wearing a collar, tie and cap – flat workman style and, believe it or not a white apron. Foremen wore bowler hats. Dad’s aprons were made from cotton flour sacks which my mother bought at the grocer’s and in the summer-time they were bleached on the grass by throwing water over them and letting the sun do its work. When this process was finished they were taken in, boiled and washed and dried and made into aprons. The joiners wore them with the bottom tucked into their waist to form a pocket for their tools.

Dad had many, many friends because he was great fun to be with and enjoyed a joke. However, his very best friend was his wife Elizabeth (Betty) whom he had known from the age of sixteen. He was nine months older than Betty as his birthday was 14th February and hers was 22nd December, 1906. Betty’s world revolved around Willie. A sobering thought to realise they would be 108 years old this year.

He hated laziness or anything which signified laziness like lying in bed too long in the morning because that was considered to be a WASTE OF TIME. I think this maybe stemmed from the fact that he was never allowed to lie in bed because of the cramped conditions he grew up in. His sisters would be up getting organised and everything had to be perfect as if no one had ever slept. Another pet hate of his was people who keep procrastinating instead of getting on with the work plus shoddy workmanship. The only person I knew that he disliked was his sister-in-law (my mother’s younger sister Daisy) who because of her circumstances came to live with them in her latter years.

Football and golf were his passions. He played football for the YMCA in Paisley and they won an amateur league cup for which he got a medal and there was also a runners-up medal for another time. He followed the home team St. Mirren and every New Year’s Day attended the match which took place against Kilmarnock. The teams took it in turn to play one year in Paisley and the next in Kilmarnock and so on.

His family lived in Love Street beside the football ground. On a Saturday, as children, my brother and I had to be very quiet while he checked his pool coupon listening to the radio and eventually the television.

He kept a special book (like a ledger) with all his pools formulae but alas, never had a big win. He was always optimistic and every week thought this would be the one! He also did the Evening Times competition every week called ‘Spot the Ball’. This was a picture of a football scene and you had to put a cross on the picture where you thought the ball was. As a life-long member of Paisley Golf Club (formerly Bushes Golf Club) he played twice per week while working – every Tuesday evening and every Saturday afternoon.

On retirement he was there every afternoon. In the winter when the weather was too bad for golf he played bridge or whist in the Clubhouse. He was always practising his swing and wrote an article for the GOLF Magazine on how to improve your putting.

Willie was a man of very high integrity, very loyal and meticulous in everything he did. He could always turn his hand to fixing broken things without replacement. He enjoyed making toys for his son, son’s friends and charity for raffling and eventually his grandchildren. He collected the tops of Robertson jam jars to use as wheels (which he re-painted), for the toy trucks etc. that he made.

Thinking about him now, his ‘other side’ conveyed him as being very set in his ways eg. meal-times.

8am was breakfast; noon was lunch; 5.30pm meant tea and 9pm signalled supper. He could be quite impatient if his routine was upset. On retirement he had a routine of visiting friends and doing wee jobs for them or at the church then home for lunch and up to the golf course and back for tea. This caused some irritation to my mother at times. He refused to use anything but white toilet paper because he thought the dye might rub off on him! He never swore except when watching football on the TV – “Ye stupit lookin bugger ye (or craiter)” and my mother would shout from the kitchen “Willie – the kids”.

He stubbornly refused to go to the opticians for glasses and used a magnifying glass to read and this was kept down the side of his chair as he didn’t want everyone to know about this weakness. He had very good long sight because he had no difficulty in finding his golf ball and his friends depended on him too.

Despite the fact that he was a very clever man with a good brain he didn’t really want responsibility and although he accepted a promoted post when he returned to work after being demobbed after the army; he would not go any further. There was a situation at work when he took over the post of Clerk of Works on a temporary basis. He was then offered the post on a permanent basis – someone even came to the house to try and persuade him but would not do it and got around it by recommending one of his friends who got the job, but he depended on Dad advising him!!

My mother always wanted to own her own house as some of their friends had done but he said that was “a mill-stone round their neck” and would not do it. However, Mum got her way after he died because she bought the Council house she had lived in for over fifty years.

He lived simply and within his means – no debt, and within his trouser pockets, I think I would find a wee pen-knife, some loose change, a handkerchief and, in his hip pocket, a leather key case to prevent the keys wearing the material. There would also be a packet of twenty Players or Capstan medium strength cigarettes, a lighter and a small box of menthol IMPS. The wallet would contain a few bank notes and a membership card.

This exercise has made me focus on the many aspects of my father, some of which I really had to think about. He was not an overly ambitious man but in his own quiet way enjoyed life within the parameters he set himself. He was also very strictly T-Total and only drank ginger wine (home made using Co-operative ginger essence) at New Year. The first time he was ever in a pub was when he was in the army and nearly caused a riot when he asked for water!! The publican thought he was having him on – a Scotsman asking for water.

As previously written, he always wore a collar and tie – even when on holiday and he was well into retirement before my mother and I persuaded him to wear a polo shirt. His face and neck to the top of his collar was tanned (through working outside and golf) and from his fingers to where his short sleeves stopped. The rest of him was never exposed to the elements and his fair skin was pure white.

Having said all of that he was a wonderful, loving father and actually I think I have some of his traits but not so extreme. His ambition for me was to work in an office as a secretary but that wasn’t what I wanted. My thoughts at that time were to stay on at school to gain Highers and then on to College

to study Domestic Science but Dad didn’t believe in educating girls. I had no option but to leave school with my 4th Year Leaving certificate at sixteen. I enrolled for evening classes to learn shorthand and type writing, having gained a job as an office junior in the draughtsman’s office of an engineering firm.

It was good experience of working life and eventually I moved to another company. However, it was not what I wanted to do long term. At seventeen and a half I enquired about nurse training in the Western Infirmary, Glasgow, as one of my friends was attending Logan and Johnstone Pre-Nursing College and planning to go there. When Dad hurt his fingers at work it was me who used to bathe them and put the bandages or plasters on. I was interviewed, sat the entrance examination and passed. My father wasn’t pleased and told my mother if there were any forms to sign he would not sign them. In defiance of my father I went off to the Western to start my nurse training and this was the best decision I ever made.

Dad accepted my decision and enjoyed hearing about my success in various things. Sadly he died without the knowledge that I went on to graduate with a Master of Science degree from Strathclyde University.

He would have been very proud of me.

Dad helped to make me the person I am to-day and I think I also have some of his traits because I too am meticulous, love making things as he did, and I like routine; but I am able to adapt to situations more willingly than he could.

Place I was born on 27th December, 1936 in the town of Paisley. Paisley is a very large town twenty miles from Glasgow and, at that time, was highly industrialised. This was the case right through to the 1950’s. The town revolved around the thread mills.

In the east of the town, the Anchor Mills produced thread and embroidery thread. This was owned by the Clark family. In the west of the town the Coates family owned another mill which produced bias binding and crochet thread. These two mills employed thousands of people and at Paisley Fair – the first fortnight in August, everything closed down.

Other industries in the town consisted of heavy engineering – Fullarton, Hodgart and Barclay and Whites.

There was Wotherspoon, the starch works, Brown & Polson, Isdale & McCallum (A1 Soap Powder), Eadie Brothers who made engineering parts and many others. Nearly all of my family worked in Anchor Mill

either in the offices or departments such as spooling and gassing. My Dad was a joiner who became manager of the case-making department.

I was my Mum and Dad’s first child and was born in the council house I grew up in and which my mother eventually bought. It was an end block two-bedroom cottage flat and my Dad had made some improvements to it which wasn’t allowed at that time so Mum had to be careful if any Council people called. The main thing he did was open up the coal store between the hallway and the kitchen. This was converted so that we went into the kitchen this way and not through the living room. The original ‘stable’ type door was kept so that it still looked like the coal store. Imagine the mess if a coal man was to come up the inside stairs to deliver coal!!

Dad was a wonderful craftsman and was more than a joiner – he could turn his hand to anything and was an expert cabinet-maker.

Mum and Dad met when they were sixteen years old because Mum’s elder brother and one of Dad’s sisters (he was the youngest of eight) got married and so brother and sister married brother and sister so as to speak!!

Although they met when they were sixteen they didn’t get engaged until he had completed his apprenticeship and was a journeyman. They were lucky to get a brand new council house in a new development and he went about making furniture in my Grand-father’s loft then assembled it in the new house when they got the keys. A French polisher came and finished it. I still have the sideboard and display cabinet which I’m sure my family will dump when I go.

Growing up within a very loving family who all helped each other resulted in a very happy childhood. I went to the John Neilson Institution (in the 1970’s it changed its name to John Neilson High) which was fee paying at that time and the rival to Paisley Grammar. It was known as the ‘Pudding Bowl’ because the dome resembles an upturned bowl. It is no longer a school but the building still dominates the skyline of the town.

School was a happy time too and games were compulsory – girls played hockey in winter; the boys played football and in the summer we played tennis and cricket. We had great sports days and invitation relays with other local schools. There was an interschool sports day and swimming gala in Paisley Baths,

Storie Street – now long gone. It was great fun cheering the team or individual on to victory or not. I can still feel the excitement and smell the chlorine as we screamed from the balcony.

Wartime wasn’t really a problem – we were lucky in that we were not being bombed the way some places were. My Dad was a member of the ARP and then the Home Guard where he became a Lieutenant and expert in bomb disposal. He hoped he would escape call up through this but did not and was eventually called up and drafted into the Royal Army Ordnance Corps (RAOC) where he became a warrant officer. I can remember a night spent in the Anderson shelter, holding my Dad’s hand as he chatted to neighbours having returned from his other duties. I remember to this day the bright red sky over Renfrew because it had been the Clydebank Blitz which I had slept through. My wee brother was in my Mother’s arms inside the baby-gas mask.

I grew up in a house where Dad was always making or repairing things and I love the smell of wood because I used to hold the end of wood when Dad was sawing it and the smell of wood reminds me of home in Paisley and remember Dad with love and pride in all that he achieved.

Culture and Exchange I found writing about this subject quite challenging and didn’t quite know where to start because I have not visited any of the Commonwealth countries.

However, I visited the Tapestries of Scotland Exhibition in the old Anchor Thread mill building in Paisley and became inspired. This is a history of Scotland depicted in various embroidered panels by embroiderers all around Scotland and they show how people coming to our country from the ice-age through to Scots going to other countries over the centuries which has made us who we are to-day.

Thinking about the Commonwealth, I began to research how it had started in 1884. The latter stages involved a series of imperial conferences that ran up to 1926 it was offically established by declaration.

There are 54 member countries and all but two members were former members of the British Empire.

The objectives of the Commonwealth of Nations included combating poverty, ignorance and disease; and promoting a representative kind of democracy that ensures individual liberty and protection from discrimination. The objectives were first mentioned in 1971 in the Singapore Declaration after which the

Lusaka Declaration in 1979 added the protection from gender discrimination. The Langkawi Declaration in 1989 brought in aspects of environmental sustainability.

The Commonwealth of Nations, commonly known as The Commonwealth (formerly, the British Commonwealth), is an intergovernmental organisation of 54 member states. It is headed by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth ll (first of Scotland) and the Secretary General is Kamlesh Sharma.

The Commonwealth Games were first held in Hamilton, Canada in 1930 and eleven countries participated in the event, sending a total of four hundred athletes to participate in the fifty events across six sports.

The event was known as the British Empire Games between 1930 and 1954, then the British Empire and Commonwealth Games between 1954 and 1970. They were called the British Commonwealth Games between 1970 and 1998. The Commonwealth Games are an international multi-sport event involving athletes from the Commonwealth of Nations. Since 1930 they have taken place every four years with the exception of 1942 and 1946 when they were cancelled because of World War ll. The games are the third largest multi-sports event in the world, after the Olympic Games and the Asian Games. It is a truly wonderful thing to be happening in Glasgow, during July 2014.

Immigration is spoken about a lot just now and it is very difficult to put it into a proper perspective in this modern world. My late father-in-law was a Highlander from Sutherland who came down to Glasgow as a young man and whose mother tongue was Gaelic. He wrote about the depopulation of the Scottish Highlands and the decay of the crofting system which were deplored by the ardent speakers at Highland Gatherings in Glasgow and elsewhere.

In the early 19th century the Counties of Sutherland, Ross and Inverness supported a large crofting population, relics of the ancient clan system. They were, by necessity, self- supporting. The wool from their own sheep was carded, spun and woven into the necessary clothing to protect them from the weather. Hides from their cattle were tanned and made into leather for boots. They kilned their own corn and ground it into meal with hand mills. Home grown hemp was spun into twine for their fishing nets.

They were adept at making ropes from heather and straw for securing corn stacks and thatch for their houses. Long fibrous fir roots were dug up from peat moss, and after being dried were separated into fine

strands and twisted into ropes. Necessity was the mother of invention, and whatever their needs, they were able to have them supplied by the produce of the land and their own handicraft.

Immigration schemes were propounded, in most cases with the best of intentions, but the people were reluctant to leave their homes. Unfortunately the carrying out of the ‘immigration’ was left to underlings and it became a case of “man, proud man, dressed in a little brief authority” acting in the most cruel and heartless fashion, writing a page of Highland history almost as black as Glencoe. The tragedy of this period is left in the minds of Highlanders to this day.

With the passing of the years communications with the south began to be opened up. Roads were made and as time went on the railway reached Inverness, extended to Wick and Thurso and branched westwards to Kyle of Lochalsh. Travelling to the south was less of an adventure now and young men and women ventured forth, obtained employment, found life more congenial in the south and settled there.

Others followed their examples and the exodus had begun.

To return to the Commonwealth Countries, my late sister-in-law who was a nurse went to work in Northern Rhodesia in Lusaka and married a Rhodesian but immigrated to Australia where they died. Africa has strong Scottish connections and the most famous Scot associated with it is David Livingstone, a missionary and explorer who was born on 19th March, 1813, to a working class family in Blantyre, Scotland. He was the second child of seven children and started work at the age of ten years and was taught to read and write by his father. David also attended evening classes provided by the mill company where he worked and taught himself Latin. At nineteen he was promoted by the company, and with his increased wages saved enough money to (by 1836) go to Anderson’s University, Glasgow to study medicine. He moved to London where he continued his medical studies and also trained as a missionary. From 1841 to 1873 when he died, Livingstone explored the interior of central and southern Africa. His initial aim was to spread Christianity and bring commerce and ‘civilisation’ to these regions but his later missions were more concerned with exploration, firstly of the Zambezi and its tributaries, and later to find the source of the Nile.

Livingstone was the first medical missionary to enter Southern Africa, the first in Central Africa, and the first European to meet local tribes. He won their trust as a healer and medicine man. In 1971 David Livingstone was the first Scot to appear on a Bank of England bank note and was on a £10 Clydesdale Bank note.

Mary Slessor who was born in Aberdeen on 2nd December 1848 had a difficult childhood with a drunken father who lost his job as a shoemaker. The family moved to Dundee, and Mary started work as a weaver when she was eleven. By the time she turned fourteen, she was an expert weaver. She attended evening school and loved books. The stories of Livingstone in Africa were especially interesting to her. She trained as a missionary and sailed to Africa on 5th August, 1876.

Mary eventually got charge of the mission work alone and often risked her life because the secret of her power with the natives was to become one of them. She lived exactly as they did. The twin murder superstition of the dark continent, which caused parents to murder one of the twins born to them, thinking it was devil-sent, was an evil which Mary hated. One day a twin which had been left for dead was brought to her. Mary took the child and brought it up as her own. This was the beginning of a marvellous career of twin rescuing which finally resulted in the natives abandoning the practice entirely.

In 1891 the British Government made her Vice-Consul of Okoyong and though she disliked the duties of judge and official she was distinctly fitted for this work.

The native woman’s station in life was little above that of a beast. Mary made this evil a matter of prayer and prayer was answered in the establishment of the Slessor Industrial Home for women and girls where women were trained for native trades and made self-sustaining.

King George V presented Mary the silver Cross of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem. The official letter stated that the honour is “only conferred on persons distinguished for philanthropy”. Mary’s work was at an end and she dreamt of visiting home but the first World War made travelling conditions unsafe. In 1914 she developed a fever and was treated in the Slessor Hospital at Itu where she died being cared for by one of the twins she had rescued. She too, has been on a £10 Clydesdale Bank note.

I have relatives and friends in Australia, in both Queensland and Victoria and hope someday to be able to visit them. Australia needed workers between 1832-1850 and about 1600 Scots became ‘assisted immigrants’. They boarded chartered ships liked the 50 ton ship called ‘The Stirling Castle’ chartered from Allan Kerr & Co., Greenock. They were skilled stonemasons, engineers, carpenters, blacksmiths and even professors. The majority were from the Lowlands but around 10,000 Highlanders boarded chartered ships to Australia between 1837 and 1852.

In 1839 Catherine Helen Spence immigrated to Adelaide. She had been born in Melrose and became Australia’s first woman journalist. She campaigned for women’s suffrage and is often called Australia’s Greatest Woman. She appears on the $5 Bank Note.

Between 1852 and 1857 the Highland and Island Immigration Society responded to the potato blight by sending 4910 Highlanders, many from Skye and the Hebrides to Australia. The Society aimed to promote measures for aiding persons in some parts of the Highlands – especially the Island of Skye who desired to go to the British Colonies, but who were prevented by the want of sufficient means. Among the list of benefactors were Queen Victoria who gave £300, and Prince Albert who donated £105.

Australia’s Official National Anthem – ‘ADVANCE AUSTRALIA FAIR’ – was written by a Scot – Peter Dodds McCormack who was born in Port Glasgow, Scotland. Scots have played a major role in shaping Australia from the time of Captain Cook and convicts to the £10 Poms and 21st century immigrants. Australia is full of stories of Scots explorers, outlaws, convicts, politicians, musicians, etc.

New Zealand is another part of the Commonwealth where I have friends and relatives, in Auckland and Dunedin. Here are some facts about the development of New Zealand: • The first Scots to set foot in New Zealand were among the crew of Captain Cook’s ship Endeavour in 1769.

• Approximately 20% of the original European settler population of New Zealand came from Scotland, and Scottish influence is very strong in the country.

• Dunedin is twinned with Edinburgh – the Scottish capital and it is known as the Edinburgh of the South.

• Dunedin’s main rugby team is the Otago Highlanders.

• In 2006 the Census revealed 15,000 people were from Scotland and just over 29,000 residents said they had been born in Scotland.

• Between 1844 and 1950 four New Zealand prime ministers were born in Scotland.

• The main streets in Invercargil, one of the most southern cities in the world, are named after Scottish rivers – Dee, Don, Esk, Tay and Spey.

In writing this I hope I have illustrated how important the exchange of people to other countries has been for the good of the world.

We live in troubled times and the sight of poor people, such as refugees and migrants, on our television screens has really made me think but I have no answer for this very serious problem. What has struck me is how these people have risked their lives to travel to Europe to find work and make a better life for themselves and families. However, it is important that entry to a country is legal like the examples I have given down the centuries.

In regard to the Commonwealth, the early settlers to Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Canada etc. also risked their lives and many were drowned at sea – never making it to their destination and, of course, without means of informing the family at home of their plight, or at least not for some time.

On Sunday, 1st June, 2014 I attended a concert in the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall entitled “Voices of the Commonwealth”. This was a concert of wonderful singing from male voice choirs throughout the United Kingdom and also from Australia, Canada, Seychelles and Isle of Man, interspersed with solo voices from Gordon Cree, Cheryl Forbes and Master of Ceremonies Jamie McDougall who also sang. Other guest spots were The Swingcats and Jai McDowall, the Kirkintilloch Brass Band and Glasgow Police Band. It was a musical feast and a wonderful example of music bringing people together from different cultures. It was a very memorable evening and the proceeds went to Alzheimer Scotland (Action on Dementia).

My conclusion is that we do need cultural exchange as well as people exchange to constantly keep us refreshed and exposed to new ideas. I finish with this poem by a Spanish writer – Joan Margarit. It is a tableau of reflection on a relationship:

Autumn Path The male blackbird with dark wings has received us like an old god of harvest.

The young wine sits on the tablecloth, in a bottle that catches the light, rosy as the fortune teller’s crystal ball.

In it can be seen – between two rows of vines – a path with footprints that you and I leave, together and on our own.

We are inside the coldness of the glass. When we touch it we vanish, but you smile at me real, on the other side of the white table.

The bottle between us two – our life has the light of the setting sun, which is that of the dawn.

Betty Rodger Place Ayr Around 1940 Ayr was a lovely town; there was plenty to do, especially for teenagers. There were five picture houses, a gaiety theatre, a large ice rink and two dance halls: the Bobby Jones and the Pavilion, where I met my husband. We had a lovely beach, and on the Low Green we had a bandstand and a small boating pond which everyone enjoyed, and we had some nice parks and plenty of places of interest, like the Burns Cottage at Alloway, the Carnegie Library on Main Street and the tram sheds at Newton-on-Ayr, to mention a few.

Then you come to the shops and food was still rationed. For example, if you had a baby or young child, you would have a green ration book to get fruit and bananas – you usually had to stand in a queue for them. Then you had a white ration book for adults to get butcher meat and groceries, and if there were no eggs, you could get powdered egg instead.

We also had some nice churches. We had Ayr Newton Old which stood in the main street: you had to enter it through a gate under a clock steeple. The church has gone but the steeple remains.

We had some lovely times. Everyone was happy and we all got on with life. I got married and had three lovely children: two girls and a boy. Well, how things have changed in this day and age. Now it is mobile phones, laptops and digital goods, and what is still to come, I do not know.

Culture and Exchange Malta Malta is an island in the Mediterranean Sea. In 1964 Malta became an independent nation. In 1979 the last of the British troops left and Malta was at last free to govern itself.

Today many British relics still remain along with their traditions. There are many historical sites to visit, such as St. John’s Cathedral in the capital, Valetta. There are lots of lovely churches to see. We stayed in

the resort of Bugibba which had lovely rocky beaches and a rugged coastline. Two languages are spoken: Maltese and English and the food is very British in style. The people are very friendly and some of the women make chunky Aran knit and lace work sweaters.

Mdina was the old capital and is a walled town situated on top of a hill in the centre of the island. Mdina is known as the ‘silent city’ and is a beautiful place to visit. The flowers are out of this world. Tourists can ride in a horse and carriage as vehicles are limited. It is a quiet, restful place which means it can be a little eerie but what a lovely place it is to visit. As you travel along the roads you see lots of pumpkins sitting on top of houses, huts and walls to ripen in the sun.

We took the ferry over to Gozo. From the Citadel Fort on Gozo you can see all over the island though the climb up to the top is quite steep. On a Saturday night you can see local families out strolling in their lovely costumes. The children have their hair all done up and look so pretty as they enjoy the evening out with their parents.

The local buses, which are very cheap, can take you to some little fishing villages and into many other places of interest.

We enjoyed our holiday here, walking through the quaint little streets and enjoying the sun on our backs.

We have now been three times to Malta and I would recommend it to anyone. It is such a lovely place with so much to see and a walk down to the harbour to see all the different boats is not to be missed.

Please go and visit this beautiful island! I am sure you will enjoy it: there is so much history here you could write a book about it!

Agnes Williamson People My father, or Josie as everyone called him, was one of eight children: four male and four female.

He was a person who could and did tackle all that life hurled at him. A very non-religious person, scornful of those who followed blindly, be it Sunday schools, churches, ‘wee meetings’ et al, yet year after year won first prize at school for religious knowledge, according to his eldest and proudest sister, Meg. He had no need for the school when he reached the age of twelve, having to face the necessity of helping in the survival of the family. He walked to the nearest pit where he worked as a miner for small return, bringing home some cash to supplement the poor housekeeping.

Joe had no knowledge of music, except what he could whistle, or hum, but he found he could play a button-keyed melodeon, and so reels, strathspeys, jigs, and melodies of all categories soon filled the home.

When any fault developed in the instrument Josie took it apart, retuned the reed and put it together.

He mastered so many challenges: built a hut in which he kept and bred caged birds, canaries, chaffinches, goldfinches among others, but no budgies.

He married, fathered three sons and one daughter, smoked ‘Willie Woodbine’ all his life and died in his late seventies.

Culture and Exchange Cultural differences exist worldwide. Similarities also exist mainly due to immigrant people adopting and adjusting to where they eventually settle.

The rule governing tenancy of the flat at 38 Berkeley Street, Charing Cross, Glasgow (where I lived for several years) was that there would always be an overseas student tenant in amongst the mix. This rule was made by the flat’s owner who was away studying at the London School of Economics. Thus I found myself, along with my husband and one year old son, moving into what became a very interesting situation.

Henry Adefope, a Nigerian student studying gynaecology and obstetrics at the Western Infirmary, suddenly found his wife and months old baby boy at the door, unexpectedly, from London. Until they found their own flat in Scotia Street I became very involved with the mother, Dotun Adefarasin, bedding the tiny baby into my son’s pram while my son sat at the rear, handle end. We would stroll in Kelvingrove Park and those who came to peer in the pram saw the different colours of the countenances!

Adefope’s closest friend was Ezekiel Ifaturoti and he, in turn, became a tremendous influence on my family. I learned so much from him and his wife Tinuola. They had six children eventually and were my adopted family in a way. I learned all about their country, governments and tribes, languages and customs: all that encompasses the various aspects of such an interesting land. My life has been so enriched by such contact.

DIGITAL COMMON WEALTH

School of Media, Culture and Society University of the West of Scotland www.digitalcommonwealth.co.uk @DigCW2014 #DigCW2014