Old Greenock Characters - Tara to the Pope

From John Donald's Old Greenock Characters, which we present as they were written...

William Cranmer was a respectable hard-working man, employed about the quays; but on Saturdays he broke out. On that day he would come up Charles Street, literally by leaps and bounds, shouting aimlessly, “Tara to the Pope!Tara to the Pope!" His original cry (it was supposed by some people) was intended to consign His Holiness to the regions below, but a strong hint from the police sufficed to tone the slogan, and Tara was so impressed as, even in drink, to remember it. That is not correct, however. I am informed by a lady who lived near him that she had often heard him, in his own house, bawling, "My name is William Cranmer, and I'm a terror to the Pope." On the street his "terror" sounded like "tara," and Tara he was called by us boys. So while he shouted "Tara to the Pope! Tara to the Pope!", the ubiquitous urchin would dart in, pull his coat tails, and dart off again. Tara in his cups heeded not the boys ; but the misguided lad who attempted the coat-pulling process on Tara sober, usually had his ears cuffed for his pains.

Tara once figured in an extraordinary incident which occurred at the junction of Charles Street with Hamilton Street, opposite the jeweller's shop then occupied by Mr Menzies. He was well-fuddled, and turned to chase, good-naturedly enough, a boy who had tugged his coat-tail and saluted him in the usual manner. The boy ran off, and, as a cab was slowly turning the corner, darted under the belly of the horse, while Tara bumped against a wheel of the cab and was thrown back on the street, slightly shaken, but otherwise uninjured. The truth of this incident is vouched for by an eye-witness.

Old Greenock Characters - Preachin' Mary

Another of John Donald's Old Greenock Characters, presented, as ever, as the text was written....

Mary O'Neill, otherwise "Preachin' Mary," felt impelled occasionally, when in her cups, to favour townspeople with unsolicited views and opinions of things in general, and of the liquor question in particular. In that respect she is said to have followed the example of her mother, the original Preachin' Mary, a very old woman, who kept a little huckster's shop in Dalrymple Street, which, in turn, kept her. The daughter was a fruit hawker, plying her vocation in Greenock and at various coast towns on the firth of Clyde and adjacent lochs; and, latterly, her "entr’acte" cry of "Apples or Oranges "was familiar to habitues of the Theatre Royal.

Mary was a somewhat slim woman of middle age, with jet black hair sparsely sprinkled with silver grey, and dark complexion. She was clad in a dress of sober hued material, a shoulder shawl and a straw bonnet.

Everybody knew when Mary was in eloquent mood. Mounted upon an upraised barrel, a barrow, or whatever could be readily and easily utilised as a platform, she held forth to the delight, and-who knows? -perhaps the edification, of a quickly gathered audience. Strange to say, whatever other topics she might touch upon she invariably veered round to the curse of drink, and, as a friend of the writer remarked, “preached a very good sermon, too." She sought not to excuse herself, but rather put herself forward as an "awful example" of the effects of indulgence. Those who had never tasted intoxicating drink she specially addressed, wisely advocating total abstinence as the only sure safeguard against the insidious enemy.
“If ye never drink a first glass, ye'll never drink a second," she declared, beating her right fist against the palm of her left hand. "The first glass is the damned yin!"
To a lady who besought her to take the pledge, Mary replied:-
"I could easily tak it, but I could na' keep it; for if I could get haud o' a pailful o' whusky I wad drink it if ma body wad haud it."

Mary's outbursts were periodical, and while they lasted she would part with all she could command – stock-in-trade, baskets, and all-to procure the beverage she denounced, yet could not reject. When the bout was over, an appeal to some kindly shopkeeper enabled her to redeem and replenish her baskets, and, to her credit be it said, she never failed in the punctual repayment of such loans. In her sober intervals, Mary O'Neill was a quiet, well-behaved, and industrious woman.



We were very excited recently by the suggestion from Black Cassidy that we should create a range of Old Greenock Characters Top Trumps for if you get stuck in during a rainy playtime or teabreak. Let us know what you think about this potentially awesome timewastery...

Old Greenock Characters - A Thrilling Adventure!

So aye, we told you what we did last year, and what we're doing this year, but y'know what...it's been awhile since we've had an excerpt from John Donald's inspirational Old Greenock Characters - here is a tale from John Donald's own childhood memories...

I may here relate an unusual· and interesting experience I had along with some companions shortly after the West Burn had been filled in between Crawfurd and Dalrymple Streets.

A square hatchway was left behind Mr. Beaton's premises already mentioned, so as to give access to the stream for some purpose, and it was quite a common practice for boys to remove the cover and drop down into the bed of the burn in order to sail boats or otherwise amuse themselves.

We were engaged in the nautical pastime, under the direction of Jamie Docherty, whose father carried on a fruit business at the corner of West Burn and Crawfurd Streets. Jamie had made the traditional voyage to Quebec, and so was an acknowledged authority in navigation.

It was a strange conventicle. An odd professor discoursing to odder students in the oddest of all lecture-rooms. Seated on stones in an irregular ring in the centre of the murmuring stream, illuminated by a glare of daylight from above, which also weakly revealed the dull red brickwork of the side walls, but failed to pierce the darkness on either hand, we listened with deep attention to our "lecturer," when the order, "Come up out of that!" rang out from above, and smote us with awe.
"The skufter," someone whispered; and we backed hastily and noiselessly into the gloom.
"Come Up out of that!" again came the stentorian command.
There was no response.

It was Hughie Reid, and each of us knew very well what to expect if we should clamber up the hatchway while Hughie with his cane stood by, so we maintained a discreet silence, knowing that he would not dare to come down, and hoping that he would go away.
"Come up out of that, or it will be the worse for you."

Still no reply.

Docherty whispered: "It's all right, boys; let him shout; he can't stay there all day; he'll soon go away;" and we were comforted.

The bobby's repeated orders to ascend continued to be ignored, and at length, to our great relief, we saw him straighten himself up, and apparently pass from the aperture. Our gratification was short-lived; for suddenly the hatch cover was thrown on with a bang, and we were imprisoned in Cimmerian darkness. With sinking hearts we heard Hughie's retreating footsteps; yet we believed that we might be able to push up the cover from below. But even that hope was taken from us. Imagine our feelings when the constable returned, and we realised by the heavy thuds which followed that he was piling ponderous granite blocks on top of the hatch cover! These stones had been left over when the burn was built in.

We were in despair. What should we do? What could we do?
Somebody whimpered.
Docherty heard, and said, "Bubblin' won't help us. We've either to tramp down to Caird's yard or up to the cooperage at the heid o' the square. Which is it to be? "
Either alternative seemed dreadful, and no one spoke.
The silence was broken only by a partially stifled sob, and the lapping of the water.

 At length one of the boys faltered, "It's no sae faur to Caird's."
"Aye, but whit's yon?" exclaimed another.
 ''What!" we all cried, startled.
"Aweh up the burn-see!"
We looked, and lo ! a pin-point of light was visible.

It seemed a long, long way off; but, as Patrick McGill says: “Nothing looks so cheerful as a lamp seen through the darkness," and the tiny spark decided us. It should be our beacon, our guiding star! So we waded up the stream with lightened hearts, for that luminous atom gave us courage and awoke the spirit of adventure within our breasts. When a rat scuttled across the burn, followed by another, and another, we laughed.
"Splash, you wi' boots on, an' frighten the rats," said Docherty; and we splashed.
Some of the boys were barefooted, and the fear of broken bottles possessed them; but in the pitch darkness they had to take their chance.

 An exclamation and a splash, followed by an unearthly yell, brought us to a sudden stop. Our hearts were in our mouths. The yells continued, and I think Docherty said a bad word. Guided by the noise, he stepped over to investigate.
"Whit's the .matter?” we heard him ask; “Hev ye cut yer fit? "
"N-n-o-o," came a quivering reply from someone apparently in terror.
"Then, whit the duvvle's wrang wi' ye? " demanded Docherty angrily.
Then silence.
"Ugh! Hoo! Gurr-r-r! Hurry up oot o' this. That wis awfu'," and Docherty splashed ahead. We speedily followed, although quite unaware of what had happened.
"Whit wis it? " a lad asked, a few minutes later.
"A-a don't know," replied the wee chap who had stumbled. He was still trembling.
“It wis a deid dug," said Docherty.

Bigger and bigger grew the light as we plodded on under West Burn Square, until our guiding star assumed the prosaic dimensions of a tallow candle stuck 111 a bottle on the top of a cask.

There was no one about, and none of us was sorry when, having climbed over the wall opposite Rennie's spirit store, we stood again in West Burn Street.

Tales of the Oak - Our Year In Review

2013 has been a great year on the blog, we've had tens of thousands of visits, new writers, new friends and more folklore and stories than we've shared for a long time. Here's a wee stroll down memory lane, to our most (statistically) popular posts of the year...

As ever, John Donald's Old Greenock Characters remain a firm favourite - so I think folk will be pleased with one of the projects we have coming up next year, but stealing the show, beating out even the legendary Tommy Matches, was our trip to The Winter Fair...

Concern around the proposed windfarm development On Lurg Moor actually ensured lots more people discovered our local Roman heritage. Hats off to the group who continue to campaign - we have a few pieces from them coming in the new year.

We enjoy posting fiction inspired by the area on here as well, and this year, it was the mysterious Captain Nemo's shipyard visit which edged ahead.

The introduction of Sir Glen Douglas Rhodes proved to be one of the most popular posts of the year, which maybe goes to show that people enjoy a good yarn as much as they enjoy historical facts and figures.

Our major projects this year were of course Wee Nasties and Tales of the Oak, both still available to read for free on Scribd / kindle / ipad. Most popular pages related to this project were our Wee Nasties "deleted scene" featuring the Catman, and an explanation of how Andy and myself have been creating the comic pages so far.

2013 has been a big year for folklore and heritage all round, from Richard III to abominable snowmen, here's IO9s rundown of the year in international historical discoveries...

A big thank you to everyone involved in our projects this year, from directly helping out, to simply downloading and sharing what we have done or supporting our projects by buying our ebooks. It's not all just for fun, we do have a mission, and it's to celebrate the history and heritage of this area in a different way - with imagination and magic. That can be a hard sell down our way, so we need your help for that.

There's new books, comics and stories for 2014, and we look forward to telling you all about them very soon...

Old Greenock Characters - The Winter Fair (Part Two)

Another classic winter time moment from John Donald’s Old Greenock Characters Winter Fair chapter, presented, as ever, as the author intended. Just in case you don’t know, as it’s relevant to the wee story below, a feeing market is where farmers would come to hire labourers for the next year.

The fair afforded an excellent opportunity to carry on the business of the Martinmas Feeing Market, and bucolic visitors were to be observed in couples and small groups here and there in the Square, or strolling aimlessly about the adjoining streets, the arms of the amorous swains being, in not a few cases, around the ruddy necks of their “fair” companions, who gaped and glowered delightedly, heedless of the amused looks or attempted witticisms of the “toon folk”.

At the corner of Church Place a few lads and lassies were approached by a wench known to at least one of them.
“Hallo Jean, hae ye got a fee?” exclaimed a half tipsy youth, who had been her fellow servant.
“No yet Rab.”
Rab turned to a companion.
“Here, haud ma lass,” said he, “til ah get a gless wi’ Jean.”
The lass having apparently no objection, rab and Jean moved leisurely across to David McCammonds Wheat Sheaf Inn, followed by another couple on a similar errand.
On their return, some twenty minutes later, it was evident that MCCammond kept a dram with some pith in it. Rab felt game for anything.
“Ere ye are lads,” cried the owner of a shooting stand close by, “ere ye are. Try yer skill. O’ny a a’penny a shot. Fun for yer money, an nuts for nuthin!”
“Ah’ll haud ye ah could pit the pin in the wee ring,” exclaimed Rab boldly.
“Don’t believe you could,” returned the stall man; “but ‘ave a try; it on’y costs a a’penny.”
Rab received the gun and put it to his shoulder with a serious air. He took so long to fix his aim, that his friends became impatient, and made sarcastic remarks. At length, he fired – and almost missed the board at the back of the stand.
A shout of derisive laughter greeted the result.
“Aw, ma fit slippit. See’s anither,” said Rab.
“Right you are sir,” replied the showman briskly, and to the gentlemen spectators added: “Ho, yes, it’s right enough. The gentleman’s foot slipped…Now then sir,”
Rab fired again, and with rather more success; the pin was not inside the ring, but came pretty near it.
“That’s better,” cried the showman, encouragingly. “Very near it. This time you’re bound to win. Luck in hodd numbers you know sir,” and he replaced the gun in Rab’s hands.
Practice makes perfect. Rab’s third shot landed the pin within one of the larger circles and his success was hailed with hearty shouts of “Weel done, Rab,” “Fine, man,” from his beaming companions, amidst which Rab laid down his gun with an air of such lofty indifference as to indicate that he could easily ring the pin whenever it might please him to do so.

Declining (wisely) however, further practice, he paid the man and was about to receive his guerdon of nuts, when down came the tall backboard of the stand on the top of his and the showman’s heads. The girls screamed, the showman swore, and Rab was dumbfoundered; but there was little harm done. Some boys had got behind the stand, loosened the cords which held the backboard in place, pushed it over and then made off – a common prank of theirs.

The incident had been fully discussed, and Rab’s “neif-fu’” of nuts distributed among the lassies, when a farmer strolled towards the group. An elderly man of medium height and stout build, with one hand in the pocket of his tweed shooting coat and a thick ash staff in the other, he regarded the females of the party with keen eyes peering from beneath bushy eyebrows. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, he slowly stepped forward, and, catching Jean’s eye, indicated with a jerk of the head his desire to speak with her. Jean approached him, when the following conversation ensued, with much deliberation on both sides, the questions being cannily put, and as cautiously answered:-
“Are ye fee’d?” he began.
“No’ yet.”
“Wad ye tak’ a fee?”
“Weel, if it was a guid yin a wad tak it. That’s what I’m looking for.”
“Are ye a guid milker?”
“Ou aye; ah can milk weel eneuch.”
“Can ye churn? Are ye a guid dairymaid?”
“Ou aye, ah’m yaised tae the dairy.”
“Iphm!”…”Ye’ll hae references?”
Jean nodded and produced a couple of certificates which the farmer carefully perused by the aid of his spectacles, and returned:
“And-eh-what wages wad ye be seekin’-what had ye in yer last place?”
“Twal poun’ ten.”
“Aye-imphm-an’ what wad ye be wantin noo?”
“Weel, ah was thinkin’ seven poun’ in the hauf year.”
“Ah’m thinkin’ ye’d be weel enough aff if ye got sax poun’ ten, that’s thirteen poun in the year. What dae ye say? Will ye fee?”
This was the utmost Jean had expected; but it would never do to be too eager. She seemed to hesitate the sly minx.
“But whaur is it til?”
He mentioned the name of his farm, of which Jean had received creditable reports.
“Ah, weel,” sh said at last, “Ah suppose ah maun jist tak it.”
“Come awa’ ower then, an we’ll settle about it. Here’s a shullin; that’ll earle ye,” and the farmer led the way to the White Hart Hotel at the corner of the Square, in order to have the contract signed.
As they passed, Rab whispered, “Hae ye got a fee?”
Jean nodded and smiled, “Aye Rab, ahm fee’d noo.”
“Ye’re lucky,” sighed Rab; “Ah wish ah wis fee’d.”


The original spirit of the Winter Fair lives on in The Dutch Gable House this year, with all manner of handcrafted gifts, prints and books available. It’s open Tuesday – Saturday from 9 – 5. Pop in and say hello! We're especially excited about the Violet Skulls Market on Saturday 30 November. Keep yer Christmas local. You can download the new Dutch Gable House app for FREE now.

 

 

Here's a wee vid from bysharonwithlove who is gonnae be selling prints and cards at the event (full disclosure...Sharon and I are married, she takes lovely photies)

 

 

 

 



  

  

Don't forget Magic Torch's fundraising

Ghost Story Collection, on sale now for kindle

priced only £1

All profits are reinvested in local heritage projects.

From doomed love to haunted industrial wastelands

via ruined Roman roads and abandoned castles,

there's something for everyone to be feart of.



Old Greenock Characters - Cockin' Kirsty

Another of John Donald's Old Greenock Characters, presented as intended by the author.

Miss McKellar, or “Cockin’ Kirsty” as she was called, resided at the junction of Tannerie Close (Harvie Lane) with Dalrymple Street. She was of medium height, fresh complexion, mincing gait, precise in speech and manner, dressed eccentrically in an old fashioned silk gown with flounces, an equally out of date pelisse, and an early Victorian hat of most intricate trimming. Never without her green silk parasol (in all weathers) and her old, almost blind, dog, her principal object in life while out walking appeared to be to keep the unfortunate animal either immediately in front of her or close by her side, and the parasol was chiefly used for prodding the dog so as to effect her purpose.

She was approaching her residence after an outing one afternoon when she observed her purblind companion trotting dully towards the edge of a deep excavation in the street, apparently unaware of his danger. “The hole, the hole,” she screamed; but she was too late. Over went the dog. A navvy was digging below, and when the brute landed on the back of his neck, his yell of “murder!” might have been heard at Rue-End.

“Miss McKellar and her auld, broon, culy dog,” was the title of a song which I heard sung by the author, a man called Docherty, and known as “the Taylor’s Close poet.” That the lady’s habits were as singular as her dress may be inferred from the fact that it was her invariable custom to bathe in the river below Fort Matilda about six o’clock every morning, rain or shine, frost or snow, all the year round.

Miss McKellar was the daughter of a deceased ship-master and the owner of certain heritable subjects in town, whence she derived her income.

You can read about another unfortunate animal who was acquainted with Cockin' Kirtsy in the rare tale of Cockin Kirsty's Monkey

Old Greenock Characters - Wee Erchie

Princes Pier, Scotland's Places

Another of John Donald's Old Greenock Characters. As ever, we make no presumption to edit the pieces, presenting them as they were originally intended by the author.

Wee Erchie the Cripple Whistler was to be seen every day about West Burn Square. He would be from ten to twelve years of age some forty-five years ago, and was a really fine performer upon the tin whistle, with an inexhaustible repertory of reel, strathspey, jig, march and song music. Not over three feet high, supported by two crutches, with large head and eyes, pale, intellectual features, square shoulders, small arms terminating in thin hands with long delicate fingers, and short legs, which, often crossed, seemed to dangle between the wooden props. Erchie’s aspect was interesting and apthetic. His skill as a performer brought him such showers of coppers from sympathetic and admiring auditors that he extended his sphere of operations to river steamers and special gatherings, such as cattle shows and sports meetings. A boy himself, it is no wonder that he was often accompanied by a swarm of youthful sycophants, who tumbled over each other in eagerness to do him service, sing his praises, and, incidentally, collar a big share of the good things Erchie bought with his cash, if not of the cash itself. “The child is the father of the man.” How true!

On returning to my native town after a long absence, I was informed that as he grew older Erchie developed an undue partiality for strong drink, which brought him to a tragic end. On an occasion when the late Duke of Argyll (then Marquis of Lorne) passed over from Princes Pier to his castle at Rosneath, wee Erchie stationed himself as near as possible to the gangway leading on board the steamer and played up “The Campbells are comin’” with great vim. He “tuned his pipe” and blew with such “birr” as to attract the notice of the Marquis, who conferred a handsome douceur on the musical oddity. Fatal generosity! Poor Erchie, got tipsy, fell over the quay, and was drowned that night.

Old Greenock Characters - Smeek the Paurrot

Another  from John Donald's Old Greenock Characters. There are only a few women detailed in the books, and the only one pictured is 'Smeek the Paurrot'. Like Tattie Wullie, she is also described as 'kenspeckle' - we've decided to try and get this word back into regular usage, very many of the folk ye see in the town today are kenspeckle. 

As we've said before, Donald's books are of their time, and some of the language and descriptions of folk seem inappropriate to us today, we've still to introduce you to Slavery Hughie or Sam the Drunkard, but we're presenting them as Donald preserved them.

I may here record what I know of a respectable woman whose odd appearance, I believe, more than anything else, brought about an unenviable notoriety.

One of the most interesting figures to be seen in Hamilton, West Blackhall and adjoining streets of Greenock during the “seventies” of the nineteenth century was the peculiar female so well-known to the inhabitants, and particularly to the rising generation, as “Smeek the Paurrot.” Rather poorly clad, a shabby, old-fashioned bonnet, trimmed with loops of black velvet ribbon and adorned by a red flower of modest dimensions, surmounted a wrinkled complexion of somewhat dingy yellow, small, half-closed eyes of a Mongolian cast, suggestive of, if indeed one of them did not actually possess, a cast of a commoner western type, Mrs. Martha Allison or Carsewell was kenspeckle, and those who met her frequently would have felt that something serious had happened if by any extraordinary chance the decent woman had appeared in public without her dark grey shoulder shawl or her wicker message basket with the double lid.

She was, as she appeared to be, of a nervous and excitable temperament, and the slogan cry of “Smeek the Paurrot,” “Smeek the Paurrot,” fairly set her on edge. Tightening the shawl about her spare shoulders with then, long fingers (the basket being slung by the handle from her left arm), Mrs Carsewell would turn on her tormentors and screech :-

“It wisna’ me that smeeked the paurrot; it wis ma man’s first wife.”

Her voice is indescribable, but some idea of it may be conveyed by stating that it was a kind of throaty screech, very high pitched and in crescendo. When more than usually pestered and, consequently, more than usually excited, she would become confused and exclaim:-

“It wisna’ me that smeeked the paurrot; it was ma first man’s wife!” and it has been said that getting more and more muddled, she would attempt a correction by hastily adding – “Ma wife’s first man!!”

Old Greenock Characters - Tommy Matches

A favourite of many folk from John Donald's Old Greenock Characters....

Thomas Kincaid, called “Tommy Matches,” because those useful articles formed the principle item of the stock of small wares peddled by him in the streets of Greenock in 1890, and for a good number of years afterwards, was born in Co. Donegal, Ireland, in 1845. He was a pitiable creature whose woe-begone features were in perfect harmony with his shabby attire, which usually included a long dark overcoat buttoned up to the chin, and a dirty cloth cap. Such dignity as might have been imparted to his appearance by a full bushy dark beard was dissipated by a shambling gait and the watery eyes, mouth and nose which too clearly indicated mental weakness. Although quiet and inoffensive, he did not escape the rude attentions of street urchins. They occasionally pulled his coat and cried “Tommy Matches” but he never retailiated in any way, and, fortunately for his peace, the boys found little sport in teasing so tame a quarry.

For a time he sold newspapers and subsequently he appeared as a street musician with a concertina. When he blossomed out as a “general merchant” the late Mr W.C. Orr, grocer, in his kindly way, presented Tommy with a wooden box having the word “matches” legibly printed on the front, for the display of his stock-in-trade. No doubt Tommy was proud of his new box and grateful to the donor; but he was too dull to evince either pride or gratitude. One day a man, nodding to the box, said to him –

“Hallo, Tommy! I suppose we’ll need to call you a timber merchant now.”

“Naw, ye’ll naw; a’m a gen’ral merchant.”

This unusual display of wit rather bewildered the interlocutor, who passed on, pondering.

Now, Tommy used the box not only to show his goods but also (a corner of it) as a cash box, and it seems to have suggested wicked thoughts to wicked minds. Unscrupulous rascals, aware of Tommy’s ignorance and simplicity, would present a silver coin and ask him to “oblige” them with change for it. Tommy, being quite unable to count change, would tell them to take it themselves, when the knaves would abstract more than their due. That was done repeatedly, and the offence was sometimes aggravated by passing off on the unfortunate man counterfeit or foreign coin.

Much amusement was caused when Tommy varied his profession and appeared as a street musician, provided with a wheezy old melodeon. He had no idea of tune and pressed the keys in haphazard fashion while he pulled the bellows out and in. When facetiously requested to favour his audience with a particular melody, he would gravely nod his head in token of comprehension and compliance and continue as before.

Tommy was playing outside a bank while the solemn tolling of the Mid Kirk bell reminded citizens that the remains of Queen Victoria were being conveyed to their last resting place. The agent of the bank, who held high rank in the local volunteer corps and was a most loyal subject, happening to come out, was scandalised to hear Tommy’s jarring notes in shocking contrast to the funeral bell. It is questionable whether Tommy knew that the Queen was dead, and highly probable that he was quite indifferent; but he was certainly amazed when the incensed gentleman berated him for a performance to which no one had hitherto troubled to take exception. The bankers tirade was perhaps unduly prolonged, and Tommy’s amazement gave place to anger. It was great fun, and rather astonishing to the little crowd that had gathered when the worm turned and Tommy blurted out in his blubbery way all the opprobrious epithets he could muster against his assailant, who quickly realised that his dignity could be saved only by an abrupt retreat. Such a display of spirit by Tommy may seem incredible to many who knew him, but there is no doubt of its occurrence.

During a coal strike, Greenock was visited by a colliers’ band, out to raise funds. Displayed in various ways – on boards, musical instruments, caps and collecting boxes – were appeals for assistance such as “Help the Miners,” “Remember our Wives and Children” and the like. A wag obtained from a collier the inscription he carried on his cap, and knowing Tommy to be unmarried decorated him with it and set him off in a different direction grinding away at his melodeon and bearing the touching appeal – “Help my Starving Bairns.”

One of Tommy’s favourite pitches was in Bank Street and another in Regent Street, opposite Mr Gregor’s tutorial academy, where he often disturbed the serenity of the spot by unmelodious strains, Mr. Gregor’s daughters, taking pity on the poor man, and perhaps, for self protection) organised a cake and candy sale and with the proceeds purchased for him a nice portable hand-organ, whose notes were a desirable substitute for the monotonous braying of the old melodeon.

Illness in 1898 first brought him to the notice of the Parish Council authorities, and he was subsequently, at intervals, an inmate of Smithston Poorhouse, where he died in 1910.

Old Greenock Characters - Tattie Wullie

The Old Fish Market - McLean Museum

Another in our irregular series from John Donald's Old Greenock Characters, this one features Tattie Wullie and cheery tales of sugar theft.

William Campbell (“Tattie Wullie”), whose portrait is included in John Baird’s very interesting and now comparatively rare print of “The Scene of the Old Fish Market, Greenock,” was well known in the town up to the late ‘sixties. Above middle height, and clad in a suit of white moleskins, apparently fresh from the wash-tub, no matter when or where you saw him, with long lapels to the jacket, which a present day “knut” might envy, he was easily distinguishable at a distance. Stoutly formed, his spare visage was surrounded by a large Kilmarnock bonnet and “toorie.” This bonnet and the coachman’s long whip, which he was seldom without, combined with the white moleskins, to make him kenspeckle.

He was occasionally engaged as a carter, and it is said that once, when not overburdened with cash, Wullie tossed with his horse as to whether the animal should get a feed or he (Wullie) should have a drink. The horse won. Gazing at the coin in his hand, Wullie pondered, and then looked thoughtfully at the patient horse….It was a conflict between honour and thirst, and thirst prevailed. “Aw, yer cheatin’,” said Wullie, and he disappeared within the precincts of an adjacent pub. In about a couple of minutes a boy rushed in crying excitedly, “Hey, tattie, yer horse hes tum’lt doon,” and Tattie answered quietly enough : “Aw, weel, ye must have been leanin’ on him!”

He was frequently employed to guard merchandise discharged from ships, and he used the long whip to chase off sugar “scobers”. “Scobers” was the term applied to those Greenock urchins who pilfered sugar from casks or bags landed from West Indian and other traders. Younger boys were, for the most part, content to scoop the brown sticky substance through open seams of casks or renst in bags, sometimes with a small flat piece of wood, oftener with their fingers; but the older and bolder spirits would not hesitate, given the opportunity, to rip up a bag, break open a lid, or, indeed, to smash a cask. The advent of beet-root sugar was viewed with grave disapproval by the “scober”. It was not to his taste. His enthusiasm was only temporarily damped, however, for quite recently I observed a string of kiddies, some of them little more than toddlers, following up a sugar cart along Rue-End Street, with obvious intention. And so the scobing game goes merrily on, and there is no Tattie Wullie to scare the scober.

Speaking of those daring delinquents reminds me of some comical titles of imaginary drams which formed catchwords of a sort in those days, such as “The Haunted Hogshead, or The Scobers Revenge” “The Bursted Bug, or The Bloody Bowster” and others which I must decline to print.

To return to Tattie Wullie, when I saw him last, he was sitting on the steps at the entrance of the large outer court of the Flesh Market in Market Street. He was minus the long whip and his moleskins were less white than of yore. He looked aged and wearied, with a pensive, far-away expression, as if, while reviewing past events, he was conscious of present misery.  

Old Greenock Characters - Dan's Band

This is a story I wrote a good few years ago for Downriver, but which we ultimately never used. It's my wee tribute to John Donald and his "characters", concerning a Fair Friday performance from a band of misfits. It's a bit long for one post, so for added dramatic effect, I'll run it over two. 
Have a nice fair weekend whatever yer up tae.

Most folks agree, that the whole thing wis Scutcher Dan's idea. Across the years, this itself has been a matter of no small disagreement what with Dan's record in the ideas department being almost as impressive as his record in the "stayin' sober fur a whole Tuesday" department.

But that's whit they say. And whit they say is all we've got tae go on, so Dan, Scutcher Dan it was who hauled together the ragtag gang of chancer's and ne'er do well's, who started a wee band the likes o' which the Free and Easy's had never seen. And okay, he mebbe didnae get them aw playin' in time, or in tune but the spectacle of this mob on stage was more entertainment than you'd usually find in a whole summer of steamboats. Wee stories of their few memorable performances and the chaos which ay followed efter have been told, retold and exaggerated over the years, and now the only thing anyone knows fur sure is that if they were actually any good tae listen tae, they would have been nae fun tae watch.

In his day, ‘Scutcher’ Dan McKinnon had the voice of an angel, but the demon drink had long since robbed him of that particular virtue. Dan, like so many before him, and jist as many since, had turned to the dram efter having his heart well and truly bust. A young lady domestic, employed in the West End had been the object of Dan's not inconsiderable affections, and having succumbed to our man's charms, the two were betrothed. This is, as I'm sure you can guess, where it all goes wrong. Unhappy with Dan's trade and his constant singing, the lady exercised her prerogative to change her mind and ran off with a pub landlord. Given poor Dan's subsequent descent into careless pleasure, this was bitter irony indeed. Forever after, this particular pub - The Eagle Tavern - was distinguished by being the only public house in Greenock where Dan refused to drink.

In his later years, which is where our wee story takes up, Dan was in far from fine form. He had been dossing in a tug boat for a number of months, and during the day, he was wandering the street, looking for alms. Saddest of all, Dan, a well respected time served cooper, was visiting cooperages where he had been employed there to gather spales for to sell as firewood.

On this particular day, Dan had been passed a few pennies by an old foreman of his, and had stopped to take refreshment. As he stumbled out of whatever pub it was that had been nearest to him, with the day looking altogether rosier, he began singing. This was not unusual; unusual would be if he managed to sing more than two lines from the same ditty.

"My name is Norval, on the Grampian hills...Napoleon was a hero, stout, brave and bold, he fought upon...The bonnie bunch o' roses..."

Someone passing by and hearing the calamity, jokingly remarked to Dan that a voice like his needed music behind it. Ye can only assume that the person in question meant really very loud music in order to maybe drown out Dan's creaky wails. Nevertheless, this, they say, is when Dan had his Idea. "Right enough." he thought, "I need a band."

And he thought of all the folk he knew that could play an instrument, or sing. It was no small coincidence that many of the folk Dan knew were able to play or sing, for mainly, Dan knew vagabonds and vagrants. And as you know, such folk are wont to ply a little street-trade to raise cash for lodgings, food or even a little refreshment.

So it was, that Dan rushed intae town to see who he could see. Havin taken a rather roundabout route through the West Brig, it was small wonder that the first person he happened upon wis Jumpin' Jamie O'Donnell. And when I say "happened upon", I mean "fell over".

Jamie was, as usual, hopping, jumping and skipping at the corner of Dalrymple Street, amusing both himself and anyone who saw him. Someone who did not see him, was Dan Scutcher, who in his hurry to assemble a band while the notion was still upon him, was paying very little attention to anything. The two collided and fell oer, rattlin aboot on the ground like a sack of no very well kept cats.

“Sorry Jamie.” said Dan, finally regaining his legendary composure, “Let me help ye up.”

“Aye right.” said Jamie, “Ah wouldnae take your hand if it wis dipped in sugar. Ah don’t know where ye’ve been.”

This was a wee bit rich comin fae Jamie, but Dan let it pass. And then he had another idea, for among his many other skills, Jamie was a chanter.

"Would ye like tae be in mah band?" said Dan.

"Whit dis it pay?" asked Jamie.

"Whitever we make singing, we split between us."

"Aye equal split but eh? And whit's the name of this band?"

Now, since his epiphany some time earlier, Dan had thought long and hard about this.

"Dan's Band" he said "It's called Dan's Band."

"Oh aye? And how come it's Dan's band eh?"

"Because it's mah idea."

"How is it?"

"Well let me put it this way, did you come up tae me when ah wis jumpin' aboot on a street corner like a daftie and say 'Do you want tae be in a band?' "

"Might've"

"Aye. Well ah must've missed that."

"Nae surprises there Dan, ye wur probably steamin'. So. Jamie's Band it is."

"Jamie, ye'll be oot the band in no time if ye don't shut it. It's mah idea. It's mah band. Dan's Band."

And that, it would seem, was that. Except, as Jamie quite reasonably pointed out,

"Some band we are"

"Ye whit?" asked Dan.

"Two singers?" said Jamie, and then he looked at Dan and added "And wan o them naw even very good. This isnae a band. This is hauf a choir."

Much as he didnae like tae admit it, Dan knew Jamie was right. This was a start, but they needed more folk.

"Okay well." he said "Whit next?"

"We need a fiddler."

"Oh ah dunno, mah wee corned beef tin sounds a bit like a fiddle.", and at this, Dan scratched out a few bars of "The Auld Fingal".

"It sounds like a banshee being strangled." said Jamie, not altogether unfairly, for Dan's corn beef fiddle was famed for it's ethereal howling. "We need a real fiddler."

"Blind Dom?" asked Dan.

"Blind Dom." smiled Jamie.

So they headed off to Hamilton Street.

Dominick O'Donnell hailed from Glenties in Donegal, he'd travelled to the new lands with the best of intentions, but a bout of sunstroke robbed him o his sight. He left the Americas and settled here in Greenock, where for a goodly number of years he had been making a few pennies playing the fiddle. If he had a vice, and he did, it was that his temper often got the better of him. Dom was wont to refer to this rather grandly as his "Celtic fire", most folks though, jist stayed oot his road when he was on the whisky.

"There he is." said Dan, marching swiftly over to the fiddler.

"Haud on Dan. That's no Dom."

"Walking stick. Fiddle. Daft bunnet." said Dan, pointing, "How many blind fiddlers do you think there are up this end o the town Jamie?"

Dan's tones were never the most quiet and restrained, so the answer to his question came from the fiddler himself.

"Two." he said "But there's only one here the now."

"Stevie!" exclaimed Jamie "How ye?"

Inexplicable as it may seem, this was indeed another blind fiddler, a contemporary and chum of Blind Dom's who, although not from Greenock would often visit when there was good trade on the steamships. And while sure enough, he was blind and a fiddler, there was scant chance of you confusing Blind Dom with Blind Stephen, for the one was forever telling you he wasn't the other, and explaining that he was the better musician. The truth is, that Blind Stephen probably was more musically inclined than his compatriot, certainly he was more of a showman, popular particularly with the ladies. Now Jamie knew this, and it was his feeling certainly that one fiddler was as good as another.

"Stevie, would ye like tae be in mah band?"

"Mah band." said Dan "It's mah band Stevie. Dan's Band."

"Aye whitever." said Jamie "Whit d'ye say Stevie? Ye game?"

Stevie, who wisnae very busy that day anyhow, agreed.

"Okay." said Dan "We've two singers and a fiddler, whit next?"

And they walked on, with a view to maybe havin' a wee look around doon the docks, they didn’t go too far before running into trouble.

"Dominick!" hissed Jamie. "Here Dan look. It's Dom."

Dan looked, and sure enough, it was Dom wandering towards them, clearly having enjoyed a wee drink. Jamie wis smiling and trying tae look all pally, but he was wasting his time, 'cos Dom couldnae see him and everyone else knew he wis at it. They all knew that the minute Dom found out they'd chosen Stevie to be in a band instead o him, they were all likely to be on the wrong end o his Celtic temprament. The smart thing to do would have been to walk the other way. But none of our lads were ever famed for their

"Who's this I'm hearing? Could that be James O'Donell now?"

"It is Dom. It is aye. I’m havin a wee chat with yer man Stevie. How’s you?”

"Och a disaster today on the boats James. Disaster!"

"How come?"

"Ah! Did I not have another one o mah wee disagreements wi somebody?"

The last time Dominick had a wee disagreement with somebody, he was without income for a number of weeks on account of him having broken his fiddle over a passenger's head.

"And did this wee disagreement end up wi you gettin' put off the boat?" asked Jamie.

"It did James. It did. Sure there's no justice."

There was a wee awkward silence, because everyone thought that Dom being put off the boat was most likely a shining example of justice.

"So whit ye doin' bletherin' wi Stevie here?"

"Ahm gonnae be in a band Dom!" said Stevie, ever eager to get one over on his pal.

"Yer what now?" said Dom, the merest spark o fire in his eyes.

"Jamie and Dan huv asked me to be in a band."

This clearly did not fly well with Dom.

"Oh did they?" he asked. Dan wisely backed off and Jamie, hardly a diplomat at the best o times, but well oot his depth here tried to explain with

"Well we wanted a fiddler Dom, but ye weren't about, so we've asked Stevie and…"

But Dom wasn't for having it.

"And here I thought ye said ye wanted a fiddler! His fiddlin's no better than that big drunken eejit Scutcher Dan on his daft wee corned beef tin."

"I'm standin' right here Dominick. It's mah band."

"Dan! It's yourself!" said Dom, knowing full well, then with a dash of wickedness he added "How's the missus?"

Jamie fetched Dominick a clip round the ear, and Dominick, aggrieved by this assault, swung his stick to and fro about him with the sole intention of catchin' Jamie in the mooth. In point of fact he succeeded only in clouting poor Stevie across the ear, and Stevie in turn lashed oot and belted the already greatly distressed Dan. The four of them fell aboot howlin, punchin' and scratchin'

There was already a wee crowd o' folk gatherin', so wee Erchie, passing by and never one tae miss a trick, hauled oot the tin whistle and started promptin' the crowd for coppers. And they were the lucky few, because they were the ones who saw the very first performance of Dan's Band. And by all accounts, it wis vintage.

When aw the bleedin' and greetin' wis over, and everyone had a wee keek at the haul in Erchie's cap, the mood brightened considerably.

"Here," said Dan "we could actually make a few coppers oot o this after all."

"Aye." said Jamie

"We need a singer."

"Ah can sing." said Dan. And he belted out a few bars of ‘Bonnie Ship the Diamond’, or at least, something with roughly the same tune. There was another wee moments silence following this recital.

"John Bone." said Dominick "Yon's a grand singer."

So with Dan lookin awfy crestfallen, they went to find John Bone.

to be continued....

Old Greenock Characters - A Man In A Boat

From John Donald's Old Greenock Characters (Second Volume)

Once upon a time, that is to say, some fifty odd years ago, a strange being dwelt in a  boat at Garvel Park. Although his features were not, in themselves, unpleasant, they were so unclean and so framed by amass of long unkempt hair as to give him the appearance of a "wild man of the woods". His weird appearance was such as might have inspired fear and trembling in the timorous, if, unaccompanied, they had met him in the gloaming. It was said that his name was Andew Barr, and that he had, at some remote period, been a baker in Port Glasgow, and afterwards a worker in Cairds shipyard, but little definite was know regarding him.

The boat in which he lived was a yacht of about five tonnes, named the 'Ocean Pearl' which had been built by a number of young tradesmen. She had been a good sailor and a prize winner at Port Glasgow Regatta; but for some reason or other, her owners, one set after another, desired to get rid of her, so that she frequently changed hands. Presumably, her latest owners had abandoned her; for it is impossible to conceive that Barr purchased the yacht. At the period of which we write, the vessel was propped up on even keel, behind what was known as 'The Divers Hut' at Garvel Park, and entrance to her was obtained by means of a ladder.

It could hardly have been a commodious residence, yet it seemed to suit the occupant, for he lived there for four or five years. How he lived is a mystery, as he did comparatively little in the way of fishing, and did not appear to follow any other regular occupaton. At the end of this period, heidsappeared, and the place thereof knew him no more.

Old Greenock Characters - Blind Dominick

From John Donald's first volume of Old Greenock Characters...

The mere mention of this well known and well remembered individual recalls many memories of youthful days long past; for it is impossible to think of Dominick without conjuring up contemporaneous persons, places and things. He was a blind fiddler named Dominick O'Donnell, a native of Ireland, from the town of Glenties in County Doengal who spent several years in America where, it is said, he was deprived of sight by sunstroke. On his return to this country he settled in Greenock and, until his death about thirty years later, earned a subsistence as a street fiddler, his income from that source being augmented by the generosity of shopkeepers and others upon whom he called periodically.

Tall, well set-up, with full beard and good features and decently clad in a tweed suit with a round felt hat, Dominick presented quite a respectable appearance.

While his performances as a violinist were in some respects striking, they by no means suggested the genius of a Paganini. His repertory was limited, very limited. The strains of 'The Girl I left behind me' and only they, come quevring through the past. Dominick may have essayed other tunes, but I cannot recall them. With a courage worthy of a great cause, he would tackle the special request of a patron, valiantly tackle any melody - and conquer it; for it speedily became absorbed in a fantastic fantasia of the irrepressible girl he could not leave behind him.

The story goes that Dominick was one day sawing away at his favourite melody when the late genial Dean Gordon of St. Mary's passed. Slipping a coin into the blind fiddlers hand, he said, smiling pleasantly "Hurry up Dominick, or the girl you left behind you will soon be before you."

When Dominick approached Provost Dugald Campbell with a request for a certificate of character to support an application to play on certain river steamers, the provost, with a due appreciation of the applicant, referred to him as "a man whose character is good, but whose music is not of the best!"

Dominick had a narrow escape from drowning at Sandbank one summer Saturday afternoon. The steamer 'Vivid' was embarking passengers, and Dominick, one of the last, stood on the quay outside the gangway with one hand on the rail while with the other he held his favourite instrument under his coat. Evidently thinking he was on the gangway, he stepped forward, and, before he could be prevented, fell into the water between the steamer and the quay. The screams of some women who had witnessed the accident and cries of "A man in the water" instensified the bustle and excitement which had immediately ensued.

It was at once observed that Dominick was not only uninjured, but that he was a powerful swimmer, and sufficiently self-possessed to follow exactly the instructions shouted down to him by the Vivid's crew. Captain Campbell, who was in command, kindly delayed the steamer until not only Dominick but his fiddle also, had been picked up by a small boat and taken on board. He had a great reception from passengers, who vied with each other in efforts to restore him to comfort and prevent ill-effects of the immersion. He was well plied with liquid refreshment while his clothes were being dried, and, as he bewailed the 'ruin' of his fiddle, a collection was promptly instituted which yielded the sum of about 30 shillings to enable him to replace the instrument, which, it may be said, sustained little injury, and was as good, or as bad, after its bath as before it. Indeed, he was so well treated and compensated that, before reaching Greenock, he declared his willingness to have it all over again.

Old Greenock Characters - Scutcher Dan

Here is another of John Donald’s Old Greenock Characters, from the first volume of his collection, the story of Scutcher Dan…

His is a sad tale, the story of a young man gifted by nature with a fine physical appearance and endowed with gifts which, properly cultivated and directed, should have achieved popularity and success; but whose weak will, further weakened by self-indulgence; dram drinking (even in its earlier and not immoderate stages) and the flattery of his associates unfitted him to withstand a reversal of fortune, so that he fell an easy victim to the insidious imp which lurks within the cup of false cheer and inebriation.

Daniel McKinnon was a cooper to trade and reputed to be an excellent craftsman duly appreciated by his employers, Abram Lyle and Sons, Nicolson Street; Thorne and Curtis, manse Lane; and others. He had receieved a fair education and possessed musical ability both vocal and instrumental, so that being a violinist of parts, able to sing a good song, good looking, good natured, and rather gay, his appearance was welcomed whether on the concert hall platform at the “Free and Easies” or in more select private gatherings.

Such a young man, handsome and open handed, was sure to find favour with the fair sex, and Dan set his affections upon a prepossessing young domestic, employed in the west end of the town. His love was apparently returned and the pair were betrothed,

“Oh, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun
And by and by a cloud takes all away.”
The lady changed her mind and discarded the fervent lover for a richer suitor. From that day Daniel McKinnon was a broken man.

He sought forgetfulness, or at least relief, in an excess of careless pleasure and dram-drinking, neglected his work (to the sorrow of John Watters, his foreman at Thorne & Curtis’s, whose good advice fell on deaf ears), became the associate of degenerate companions and sank lower and lower in the social scale, until we find him as “Scutcher Dan”, a labelled waif, homeless and harmless, the butt of street gamins and fools barely wiser than himself, and an object of pity – generously tempered with sympathy, however, by people to whom his story was known.

The woman who jilted Dan became the wife of the then proprietor of an old-established and well known tavern in the east end (the Eagle Tavern, established 1815), and acquaintances of Scutcher, meeting him near the place, would, in a spirit of mischief, press him to have a drink therein. Fond as he was of liquor, that was an invitation which Dan stoutly declined.

“No, no!” he would cry “not there, not there;’Push-up’s’ or any place but there. She jilted me, she jilted me. Anything I would drink in there wid pizen me. She jilted me, she jilted me.”
On one occasion two or three thoughtless young men actually dragged Scutcher within the premises and right up to the bar. His old sweetheart stood smiling behind the counter.
“Come away, Dan, come away,” she said, persuasively.
But Dan continued to struggle with his captors.
As soon as he was free, he threw his arms aloft and glared at his former fiancé.
“Curse ye, curse ye, you’re the cause o’ this,” he hissed, and fled from the shop.

 For years before his death, Scutcher did little or no work; indeed he was said to have become heart-lazy, and would not even wash his face, while his garments were so torn and tattered that his skin showed here and there through the rents. The fact, too, that he, a jorneyman cooper of acknowledged ability, visited cooperages in which he worked, and there, in the sight of former fellow workmen, humbly gathered up spales to sell as firewood, showed only too plainly his complete loss of self-respect.

His musical taste and ability, however, enabled him to convert a corned beef tin into a crude kind of fiddle, from which he extracted weird music – strains from another sphere. In the lower streets of the town, where most he played, his queer instrument and strange sounds attracted many people and drew many coppers.

There are two accounts of his death – one, that he was drowned by falling between logs floating in the East India Harbour; the other, and probably correct version being that, after “dossing” on board of a tug-boat, which he often did, he was coming ashore in the darkness of an early morning when he missed his footing and fell from the gang-plank into the harbour. He died in, I believe, the late (eighteen) sixties.

Old Greenock Characters

It is very likely that anyone interested in the history of the area will have come across the work of the wonderful John Donald, in particular, his two volumes of gently humourous "sketches" of the waifs, strays and ne-er-do-wells that populated the backstreets and docksides of Greenock at the turn of the 19th Century. The "Old Greenock Characters" books can be found in the Watt Library locally, and occasionally come up for sale online, you can see a video of some of the images here.

Taken alongside Williamson's "Views and Reminiscences of Old Greenock", they vividly bring to life a period in our local past, the ghosts of old characters wander down streets we now barely recognise. Donald does not seek to mock or malign the people he writes about, far from it, but reading from a modern perspective, it's hard to imagine how a book of the "characters" who have lived and died in Greenock over the last fifty years would be viewed so positively. And yet we must all have "characters" that we remember from our own period of growing up...for me, growing up in the seventies and eighties that means "Mandy" Millar, Billy the Bagman and the near mythical Catman...

We bought our copies of "Old Greenock Characters" a few years ago from a second-hand book shop down in London, and were delighted to find "bonus material" inside, a clipping from an issue of the Greenock Telegraph, containing a chapter which Donald had left out of his second collection for reasons of space. We reprinted it in a slightly different format in our book "Downriver"; enjoy the now rather curious sounding tale of "Cockin' Kirsty's Monkey" concerning the unfortunate passing of a local lady's pet monkey named (no kidding) Jacko...

Cockin' Kirsty's Monkey

“Hey, Jamie see yon. Whit’s that wife daein’ ower there?”

Jamie looked.

 “Oh crickey! That’s Cockin’ Kirsty. I think she’s diggin’ a hole; but I canna see richt for thae gracestanes.”

The boy’s, with a few companions, had been playing in the street outside o’ the Old West Kirkyard, when wee Jock, peering through the bars of the iron gate, called Jamie’s attention to the mysterious movements of the lady so rudely alluded to.

Miss Christina McKellar was the more than middle-aged daughter of a deceased shipmaster. She was financially independent and well known in the community by reason of those eccentricities of dress and demeanour which, especially the mincing gait, gave rise to her nickname of “Cockin’ Kirsty.”

The oddness of her attitude, her smirks and smiles of affected cheerfulness, the superficiality of her short primly spoken sentences, led friends and acquaintances to think that she was, as they expressed it, “happy in her own way.” Further thought of her they dismissed with a tolerant smile. No picture occupied their minds of an old maid sitting pensive in a room of her house (furnished comfortably enough) in a poor part of the town- the home of her earliest years, to which she clung for old association’s sake her thoughts drifting back to the mother of whom she could recall only as in a misty dream, to the father who had tenderly cared for and educated her and who had made provision for the material comforts of her later years. She thought of her childhood’s playmates, her schoolfellows, most of whom now enjoy the society of prosperous husbands and devoted children while she-nay, she was not unhappy, for she had her pets and she loved her pets, her canary, her  “wee broon curly dog,” and chiefest joy of all, her monkey. Life without love would rend the heart: she loved her pets and perhaps, after all, she was “happy in her own way.”

Jacko’s Death

           

But, as the old saying is, “There’s aye trouble rapping at somebody’s door.” Master Jacko sickened and died, to the inexpressible grief of his devoted mistress. With stony face she sat gazing at the lifeless form, never again to caper nimbly in his lady’s chamber. Sorrowfully she recalled his antics and found a sad consolation in the fact that even when he had torn to ribbons her best lace cap she had merely chided, she had not been too severe with him.

Gladly would she sacrifice a dozen laced caps could he but tear them now-now, alas! Dear Jacko’s gambols and tricks were over forever, forever: he must pass out her life, but not from her memory. Sighing heavily, she moved to a chest of drawers from which she took a small bag of nuts, and mourned over her dear one’s favourite food. Her bosom swelled as if the over-burdened feminine heart would break until tears, blessed tears, burst forth for her relief.

“Oh, Jacko, my poor Jacko,” she sobbed.

Now, less such grief should seem misplaced and extravagant, let us remember Charles Reade’s injunction and put ourselves in her place. A warm hearted elderly spinster who, having no human being as the object of her affection, had become attached to the only other occupants of her home, her pets might quite naturally have been grievously affected when death suddenly claimed her greatest favourite.

She mourned secretly. No kind of interment other than in consecrated ground could, it seemed to her confused mind, sufficiently honour the memory of her dead monkey: although she realised that the authorities would certainly forbid such a course of action, while her neighbours would deride it. She, therefore told no one of Jacko’s death, but privately prepared the little body for burial by wrapping it tenderly in a white linen cloth and laying it out in her room table.

The Burial

Mrs Waugh was a respectable widow woman who lived at the foot of Nicolson Street, opposite the gate of the Old West Kirkyard, of which she kept the key, visitors to the Kirk ground were apprised of that fact by a small wooden notice board at her close mouth; and as their gratuities eked out her scanty means the decent woman was very pleased to see them. She opened the door to Kirsty with a smiling face.

“It’s a fine day, Mrs Waugh.”

“Aye, it’s a’ that. Oh, its yersel’, Miss McKellar; ye’re keeping weel, I hope ma’am?”

“Quite well, thank you, Mrs Waugh; and I trust you enjoy good health?”

“I’m won’erfu’, thenk ye, ma’am. The rheumatiz brothers me whiles, but it micht be waur, an’ I hae muckle to be thankfu’ for. But will ye no’ come in ower the door-?”

“Thank you Mrs Waugh,” Kirsty interrupted, “but I called merely to borrow the key of the kirkyard.”

“Shairly, shairly, Miss McKellar; an’ gin you wait a meenit. I’ll gang doon an’ open it for ye.”

This was alarming, for Kirsty McKellar had left the dead monkey and a small spade in an obscure corner at the foot of the stair.

“No, no” she said, hurriedly, “I couldn’t think of troubling you to come down- not at all necessary, I assure you. I can open the gate quite well myself, and I may wish to spend some time in the ground.”
“Weel, well,” returned Mrs Waugh, seeing that Kirsty preferred to be unaccompanied, “here’s the key; an’ ye needna hurry, for it’s no’ likely to be wanted sune.”

Kirsty lost no time in getting down the stair and allowing the remains and spade to lie where she had placed them, crossed the street and soon had the gate open, There was no one about. She quickly went back, returned with the carefully covered body and the spade, locked the gate again, and made her way to the spot she had selected as the most fitting resting place for the remains of her pet.

Sorrowfully, yet with grim, tearless face, she applied the spade. The earth proved to be soft and yielding, she was both surprised and gratified to find that in much less time than she had anticipated a hole of the sufficient proportions for her purpose gaped before her. Kirsty then took the shrouded from and, having reverently placed it in the shallow grave, hastily filled in the earth and hurried from the kirkyard.

The Exhumation

Poor Jacko was not to remain long undisturbed. No sooner had Kirsty disappeared than the boys clambered over the gate (which she had locked after her) and sped to the scene of the recent operations. There was no mistaking the spot and the earth was speedily removed.

“Hallo! What’s this?” cried Jamie as he pulled up the shroud. “Oh crickey! (his favourite expletive). “It’s a monkey: here’s a lark.”

“Wheech?” from wee Jock, who was a bit of a wag. “A beast or a bird?”

“Shut up,” was in only reply Jamie vouchsafed as he caught the monkey by the tail and pulled it out of the hole.

“Come on, boys, we’ll hae some fun wi’ this,” and he darted off with his gruesome plaything to the gate, followed by the other boys, all shouting delightedly as they ran.

And now Jacko performed unconsciously his last acrobatic feat when, to the eager cries of “Ower wi’ him,” his body described a curve in the air and landed on the pavement outside. The boys surmounted the gate and headed by Jamie dragging the dead monkey behind him, started on a madcap run through the streets, their numbers increasing as they ran. Up Nicolson, along West Blackhall and down Westburn Square capered the merry crew. At this point the much begrimed corpse became the central figure of a series of high jinks which were interrupted by the alarm,

“Here’s the skufter cumin’” when “Skeleton” the policeman was descried at a distance.

Off they went again, past Mr Currie’s tripeshop at the corner of Sugarhouse Lane, which gave Jamie a great idea. Off along Crawford Street, down past the sugar stores in Charles Street, always dragging the now nondescript carcass over the cobbles and through the viscous deposits of that thoroughfare, to the corner of Dalrymple Street, they stopped opposite Mirren Paul’s eating-house. It had been Jamie’s original intention to carry on down the West Quay to the riverside, where a final glorious splash might worthily terminate their escapade; but the sight of Mrs Currie’s shop suggested another plan. The buxom figure of that lady in the doorway, however, was a bar to its accomplishment, so he ran on to Mirren Paul’s, where he and his followers paused.

Let us pause, too, for a moment to reflect that in her home, only a few yards away, sat Cockin’ Kirsty, satisfied that she had the day performed a meritorious act in consigning to hallowed earth the mortal remains of her cherished puggy. There, she thought, will Jacko lie in peace, at rest. With what horror would she have regarded the disorderly proceedings of that afternoon had she but known of them! She was mercifully spared the knowledge-and so we leave her, dejected yet complacent.

Mirren Paul had thriving business, and this was one of her busy days- known as “The Clerks’ Pay Day”-when many quill-drivers repaired to Mirren’s to regale themselves a bowl of tripe. In order to adequate supply their wants, the goodwife’s large cauldron was always “on the boil,” as she frequently declared.

           

Now Jamie and his keelie gang had been waiting and watching for an opportunity, and when Mirren’s back was turned, Jamie darted into the shop, dropped the dead monkey into the seething boiler and darted out again, without being observed.

Mirren came out of the back shop a few minutes later and, peeping into the boiler, was astonished to see a dark coloured amorphous mass slowly revolving among the bubbles of ebullient soup; yet her business instinct enabled her to stifle the scream which would have attracted attention to her mischance. Suspecting the cause, she hurried to the door and looked about her, but nothing unusual was to be seen. The young scamps, probably realising the wickedness of their conduct and dreading the consequences thereof, had all disappeared.

For the rest of the day, in Mirren Paul’s shop, tripe was “off.”

Author’s Note – The main facts of this story were told to me by an aged Greenockian with an excellent memory who died recently.

Certain details are, of course imaginary.    JD                                                      

We'll be looking at the Old Greenock Characters and John Donald again later in the year, in particular, digging out the legend of "Scutcher Dan's Band".

A number of the Old Greenock Characters feature on a graphic by Andy Lee, recently installed at The Dutch Gable House; it shows a few of them congregating on William Street alongside the enigmatic Sir Glen Douglas Rhodes...