please god, which side is up? by william harris

8/11/2019 Please God, which side is up? by William Harris

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Born and bred in Scotland, William Harris is a retired

journalist who lives in Johannesburg, South Africa

with his second wife of more than 40 years. These

memoirs were inspired by friends and family urging

him to write down the experiences he sometimesrecounted about his life as a child living in Scotland

and later as a member of the elite 3 Commando

Brigade, Royal Marines. The latter half of the book is

devoted to his exciting, often frightening, experiences

as a journalist in Kenya, the Belgian Congo, Rhodesia

and South Africa.


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Dedication

For Beth who gave me her life and made sense of mine andfor my children and my grandchildren, many of whom dontknow me. Too many grandfathers complain that the family

isnt interested in their stories but, in my case, the fault is mineI wasnt there.


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Copyright William Harris

The right of William Harris to be identified as author of this work

has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to thispublication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 978 184963 839 5

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2014)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary WharfLondonE14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain


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Chapter One

You hoped for nothingbefore you were born

so why hope for so much

when youre dying?

Look at what you gotwhen you hoped for nothing

This is what I got

Please God, which Side is Up? is obviously a stupid question

and a ridiculous title for a book or is it? I mean, you cananswer it, cant you? If you were to shoot a rocket from the

North Pole and then shoot another one at the South Pole which

one would be going UP?A lot of life is just as inexplicable when you go back

through the foggy forests of your memory. You can see the

whole wood but the individual tree is difficult to remember

unless you marked it in some way. Are the scars on the tree ordo you carry them on yourself?

My first memory is of sharing my worms with my buddy,

a chap called Alex Seath. We were both about four years old at

the time. I had dug up three beauties from the little midden atthe back of our garden and I carefully sliced each of them in

two with my mothers butter knife.I solemnly gave Alex half of each one and then my dad

suddenly interrupted us by insisting:Worms are for fishing.It was too late, Alex had already eaten his. He said they

werent very nice.Apart from not showing much promise as a


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gourmet Ill take any bets that Alex still doesnt knowwhichway is up any more than I do. But that grand enigma also

presupposes for me at least the existence of God or TheForce as Star Wars puts it so beautifully, and for that I am

eternally grateful!

Both of my mythical rockets are supposedly going UP,although in opposite directions, and they will obviously try to

avoid colliding with the asteroids, satellites and all the other

junk thats floating around up there but in order to getwhere?

At the last count, there are close to nine billion human

beings as directionless as the rockets. We have no idea whatwe have to do to get to what objective and theres an

enormous amount of junk, mostly human, that we have toavoid. But its still worth debating over a glass of wine or ten

while we enjoy life and share as much love as possible on thisamazingly beautiful planet that somebody (or something)

created

*****

Of Belts and Bootnecks

The rain was pelting down, drumming on the vaulted roof of

Edinburghs Waverley railway station arcing high above as he

stood silently on the platform regarding the empty traincarriages lined up in front of him.

The rain was also sliding in cold rivulets down his neckfrom the catchment area of his curly hair but he was not really

aware of the discomfort. It was a truly driechand gloomy daybut he was oblivious. He was too full of anticipation. He was

about to head off into England, a foreign country, and join the

Royal Marines, the elite British corps of crack troops that also

incorporated the Commando Brigade, the men of the GreenBeret. He wanted one of those berets.


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His name was Billy and he was on the brink of a new lifethat promised real excitement and the challenge of a manhood

he had previously doubted he would ever achieve.He was wearing a cream coloured raincoatdarkly cream

coloured because it was certainly no raincoat; it was sodden,

having endured a full two minutes of a typically Scottishdownpour for the last hundred yards of his ungainly dash to the

station, laden with a suitcase bulging from the efforts of an

overly concerned mother.His mother might well have been over enthusiastic in the

packing but the raincoat was his own fault. He recalled the

words of the salesman at Burton's tailors two years earlier:Well now laddie, its no exactlywhat you might call rain

proof, if ye ken what I mean. More like resistant like. Agentle pause: But its verra smart and a bit like the one

Humphrey Bogart wore in yon fillum where he was adetective.

A highly effective sales pitch to a sixteen-year-old cadet

journalist with a desperate need to improve his self image. The

years between eleven and sixteen had been spent as an invalid,deprived of the exuberance and physical joy of developing

youth. He had been totally demoralized which had created adeep hunger to at least appear normal; perhaps even give the

impression of the hard-bitten, cynical, investigative journalist;the look would be enough he had thought at the time. Not that

the military-style trench coat really did it for him but hehad

thought it did and that was a much needed comfort.Truly it was more mirage than image, as he was wont to

reluctantly concede in the privacy of his bedroom and theunforgiving reality of the night.

But on this wet and miserable Edinburgh day the world

was beautiful, including the rain and his sopping military-styleraincoat. Seven years earlier the world had not been beautiful,

it had been terrifying

*****


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The sun was shining brightly outside the classroom butnone of the thirty children noticed it. The classroom was silent,

waiting. All of the eleven-year-olds were sitting very still attheir worn old desks; nobody moving, nobody making any

noise except for Hamish at the back of the room softly scuffing

his dusty shoes.There was no feeling of the child in this room; no giggling,

no mocking, no squealing, no bright eyes, no child. It was

uncanny in its unnatural stillness, a tableaux of nervousexpectation.

Nobody was looking at anyone else, or anywhere else,

except at Miss Mabel Marshall whose eyes were slowly rovingacross the faces of the children in front of her. She also seemed

to be waiting; waiting for the right moment to break thetension.

It was close to the end of the class. The previous nightshomework sat neatly piled at her left hand.

Slowly and with great deliberation, Miss Marshall opened

the right hand drawer of her desk and drew out the rolled up

tawse, the heavy leather belt split at the end into two thickthongs roughly twelve centimetres in length. She placed it

carefully on the desk.Margaret Leach in the front row started to weep silently,

two tears spilling slowly down her cheeks. Miss Marshallignored her and read out three names.

Archie Brewer, Douglas Montgomery and Billy Harris

come forward for punishment,she said in her high, thin voice.Your homework was sloppy, dirty and carelessly done

despite my warnings. I have told you many,many times. If youdont listen, you must learn the hard way.

Archie and Doug struggled out of the ungainly, joined seat

and desk contraptions that enclosed them and movedreluctantly up to the front of the class.

Billy watched them with blank eyes. His legs were rubbery

and he wondered vaguely if he could stand.Billy,Miss Marshall said sharply. Come forward, now!

He took a short, nervous gasp of breath and leveredhimself up with his hands, immediately conscious of the


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tenderness in both his hands and his wrists from the twostrokes of the tawse he had taken on each just the other day,

wasntit on Tuesday? Today was Thursday.And it had been going on for weeks, at least twice a week,

for weeks and weeks. He could not remember how many.

Archie and Doug, standing to his left, each took one strokeon either hand, doubled up in pain and crossed their arms,

thrusting each hand under the opposite armpit, as everybody

did to ease the pain, and went back to their seats.Billy was aware of them and could hear Doug stifling a

sob, and then he was slowly raising his right hand at waist

level in front of him and screwing his eyes tight shut so hewouldnt see it coming.

It struck like a heavy, red hot thunderbolt and he yelled inagony, falling to one knee and beginning to sob.

Miss Marshall stared at him and a curious wave ofuneasiness touched her. Perhaps it was too much. The boy was

falling apart in front of her. Clearly he would not be able to

take the second stroke.

You may return to your seat,she said stiffly. At once now!

Billy stayed on one knee, unable to get up, sobbing andgasping great gulps of air.

Miss Marshall looked at Martha McKinnon sitting wideeyed, staring at the crouching Billy.

Martha, help him to his seat,Miss Marshall said sharply.

When Martha had eased Billy back into his seat, he sathunched over the desk, his right hand buried deep under his

left armpit, holding it tightly in a vain effort to ease theburning.

The bell ending the school day rang with shocking effect

on all of them, including a tense and slightly uncertain MissMarshall. There might be trouble here, she thought vaguely.

But of course discipline had to be maintained

particularly with unruly, slipshod boys such as these.Nevertheless, the boy had better pull himself together

quickly before he was noticed by some other member of staff,


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most of whom had really no idea what discipline was all aboutand might question his condition.

She pulled her lips together firmly, gathered up thehomework which she had already marked and did not need,

and left the classroom ahead of the children. She had never

done that before in their memory.Billy was the last out of the classroom, led by Martha who

had a comforting arm around his shoulders. He turned away

from the door to the playground where all the others wereheading and moved straight ahead towards the empty

gymnasium.

Its OK Martha, he mumbled. Just leave me. Heshrugged off her arm and stumbled on into the gym.

Heather Biggar found him there half an hour later.Heather was in the B class, complementary to Billys. Both

classes were preparing for the Qualifying Exams, theprelude to secondary school. The pupils had been split into two

groups because there were too many for effective teaching in a

single class.

Heather was a strongly built girl with dark curly hair andshe was Billys next door neighbour in King Street, part of the

new housing development where they lived.She stood looking down at him as he sat silently on a

wooden bench just inside the door of the gym. He didntanswer when she spoke to him.

Billy, what are you doing here?She kneeled down beside

him with her hand gently touching his arm. He slowly pulledhis hand out from the safety of his armpit and held it out to

her.Heavens, she said, staring at the red weals burning on

his palm and running angrily up his wrist.

Were going home now Billy,she said firmly. No moreschool today.

She put her hands on his upper arms and lifted him up

from the bench where he had been sitting quietly in a world ofhis own. He didnt look up at her. He just stood. He walked

silently with her, saying not a word on the one mile walk to hishome.


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(Footnote: The tawse was very rarely used on children

until they entered secondary school and even then it was usedwith caution and invariably only to curb bad or unruly

behaviour. There were exceptions but they were rarely

disciplined, either because they were not known by those inauthority or a quiet word to the offending teacher was

considered sufficient).


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Chapter Two

Snowy the Invalid

Decades later, when Billy had achieved the relatively moremature title of Willie, he was often heard to comment, as he

eased himself contentedly under the duvet in the darkening of

an African night, Heavens, bed is beautiful. That was

certainly not his opinion during those bleak days and monthsof enforced bed rest in Scotland following his defeat at the

hands of the tawse.Dr David Marshall, cousin of the woman who had come so

close to destroying him, was the family physician whose task itwas to put the bits back together, physically at least. Dr

Marshall was no psychiatrist and none was thought necessary.

In the early days of his collapse, Billy was often asked:But why did she give ye the belt sae often, Billy?

He had no idea and would simply shrug helplessly.I think maybe she didnae like me much.

It emerged that Miss Marshall had one of her nephews in

the same class as Billy. There was nothing wrong with AlanMarshall. Only thing was, he and Billy were constantly

challenging each other. They were always pushing and

shoving, making faces at each other, doing their alpha male bitand enjoying every minute and frequently disturbing the

class but, curiously, it was never sufficient to bring out themuch feared tawse.

Billy was told he had chorea, a nervous condition marked

by a murmur at the heart and it would take a long time toheal. Nobody said how long.Nobody told him what damage

his heart had taken or what a murmur was.Nothing was everexplained.

As an accompaniment to the bad heart, he had another

condition called St Vitus Dance which was part of thenervous disorder. This led to a most curious, and repeated,


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repositioning of his facial features in which he attempted to puthis nose where it was not supposed to be.

He watched himself doing it in the mirror and thought thathis friend Archie Brewers description pretty much fitted:

You look like Snowy (Archies pet rabbit) getting tucked

into a piece of lettuce and not liking it much.It was indeed a curious circular motion of the nose done

at phenomenal speed and difficult to copy although both

Archie and Doug tried manfully and repeatedly withoutsuccess.

Archie and Doug visited him periodically, mostly on

Sundays to avoid going to church. Alan Marshall wanted tovisit but didnt know how.He told their classmates that he felt

guilty. His aunt had done him no favours. Heather Biggar alsocame often to visit since she was living right next door and she

felt protectivealthough she didnt come on Sundays becauseshe enjoyed church. She was a girl.

And, just because she was a girl, Heather made him feel

vaguely uneasy. He could not stop looking at her breasts and

had no idea why he did it or why it gave him such pleasure, notto mention that curious but fabulous sensation in his groin!

What an extraordinary cause and effect that was!Billy knew nothing of cause and effect at that stage in his

life but he did know and enjoy the results. Unfortunately,Heather didnt come very often. She was a very busy girl

fighting off the other boys who wanted to do more with her

breasts than just look at them. But she was wise in the ways ofwomen. She didnt tell Billy about the other boys because she

instinctively knew it would upset him.Apart from those vague recollections, memory afforded

him few details of that period in his life. It was a dreaming

time, a soft time with no fear other than the unwelcome andbaffling and constantly demoralising knowledge that he was

an invalid.

It was a lonely time of hours spent sleeping or reading comics were great but that was all about boys becoming men,

athletes who stood apart from the ubiquitous studious weed,which appeared to be his probable fate.


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A time of much fussing and tearful care from a deeplydistressed mother. A time of comics and toys from a grimly

cheerful father who did not know what to say but said itanyway with a clumsy pat on the shoulder.

A time of bright, multi-coloured flames dancing in the

small fireplace in the shadowed bedroom. He could stare intothe fire for hours and dream his dreams which offered

immense and wonderful opportunities for escape and try

unsuccessfully to accept the implications of the wordinvalid.

Sure, he was tired. And sure, he didnt have much energy.

But he felt OK! There was nothing wrong with his legs or hisarms. Maybe his heartbeat was funny sometimes; maybe he

did sweat occasionally when there was nothing to sweat about.So what? He wasnt a cripple or anything.

Frustration lived inside him. He could feel it often, quietlychewing away in his belly.

Two months later, or was it three, he was allowed out of

bed. This was a major breakthrough. He was supposed to rest

for a couple of hours in the afternoon but despite everythinghis mother could do, this was not an acceptable option.

He fought it on a daily basis and eventually his motherconceded defeat. She never really won a battle after that but

she never gave up trying and, in his memory, he blessed herfor it.

But the breakthrough as Billy saw it, came when Dr

Marshall strongly recommended a drastic change of treatmentwhich devastated his mother and gave him a queasy mixed

feeling of both unease and excitement. He was to go off andrecuperate, and he was to do it somewhere else! Not at

home!

He was to spend a few weeks with his uncle and auntand two cousins in the wee post office at Croy in Invernesshire

on the fringes of the bleak and haunted Culloden Moor,

and he was to do it on his own!This complete break, resolutely recommended by the

devoted Dr Marshall who was still making amends for hiscousins infamy, was probably as much for Billys harassed


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mothers sake as his own, although it did not give her thepeace of mind that it eventually gave him.

Please God, I hope youve given Dr Marshall the

traditional room with a view up there cause he did a grand

job. He got me fit for the doctors at Edinburgh Generalanda whole new future.


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was quite alone. All the tourist buses had gone. There were nostragglers. He could hug the imaginings to himself.

And he was increasingly, nervously, getting the feelingthat he was not truly alone. He was very much aware of a

shivery sensation all over his chest and his back and up into his

neck as he watched the misty swirls gathering around him,dancing a slow reel in the whispering gusts of wind. There

were often as many as a dozen at any one time, suddenly

appearing to his left or his right or directly in front of him asthough created out of the mist. They would appear and turn in

slow graceful spins towards him and then dissolve as if they

never existed. He could hear their faint, moaning song and thedistant music of the pipes. He walked on, his pace slowed by

the tufted grass and the growing feeling that he was thecentrepiece in a ghostly dance of the spirits of the moor who

were trying to tell him something.He did not feel threatened but he did feel distinctly uneasy

and his skin was alive with a most uncomfortable tingling. He

lengthened his stride a bit as he neared the edge of the woods

and suddenly it was over. He was quite simply a boy standingon the edge of a moor on a wet and cloudy day. The people of

the moor had gone but he knew they would be here atCulloden forever.

He felt strangely at peace with himself. It was one of hislast days of recuperation at Croy and it was now time to go

home and back to school. He would think about that last

scary part when he absolutely had to. For the moment therewas the peace and the marvellous feeling of belonging that he

felt for this lonely place. He had been up here, alone on themoor, half a dozen times and it had always been a bit spooky

but never like the last half hour of sharing with the dead what

he would forever afterwards call the dance.He stopped and looked about him, absorbing the gentle

rain, the sweeping clouds, the dull, heavy feel of the air around

him. His weird spooky experience with the ghosts of the bravemen who had died on this lonely moor had touched him

deeply. He was convinced they had been saying good bye and he was also sure he understood their message was one of


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encouragement. They were telling him that he was of Highlandblood as they were and so he could be no less brave, he would

have to dominate his fear in the future the courage wouldcome from somewhere

Some miles later, as he came to the edge of the strip of

pine trees leading to the post office, he stopped and lookedaround the rolling, grassy hills that surrounded the village. He

had walked most of them during the past three months and he

would remember them with deep affection and a powerfulaffinity for the remainder of his life.

He smiled, wiping away the smarain from his wet face

as he remembered his arrival

* * * * *

Billy and his parents had been coming up North to spendtheir annual two-week holiday with the rest of the family,

uncles, aunts and numerous cousins, since Billy could

remember. And every year, without fail, his mother would

make the same comment as the train was coming into thestation at Inverness:

Oh, just smell that air. Its real Highland air. Its justgrand isnt it?

And it was. It was different from the harsh, salt tang of theair coming cold off the North Sea in Kirkcaldy, the coastal

town in Fifeshire where they lived. And also very different

because the town was famous for its manufacture of linoleum,the material used to cover the floors in most Scottish homes,

and it stank to high heaven in the production process.Up in the Highlands you could smell the pine trees

wherever you went and, if you had Billys mothers

imagination, a lot more grand, if unidentifiable, scents besides.His mother, Muriel, was a stout, smiling woman with

wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes. In her early forties she

was the picture of a motherly woman, a role which fitted hermost comfortably. She was also an opera singer of

considerable talent having sung solo under the baton of SirMalcolm Sargent before her marriage.


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Consequently, she could carry herself with a genuinelyimperious air which could be quite intimidating when she used

it which was quite often. It did not, of course, intimidate hisfather, William (Snr) a dapper man of some five feet seven

inches if you included his socks.

Known as Billthere is a certain insane logic surroundingthe name William he was a senior teller in the Bank of

Scotland, a quiet man of fine manners, easy going and

sensitive to Muriels increasingly frequent nerves brought onby the onset of menopause and now exacerbated by Billys

heart condition.

Bill had a long tether but, when he was at the end of it, forwhatever reason, he was a sight to behold. His cheeks would

flush and his eyes would bulge like steel grey ball bearingsthreatening to blow out of their sockets and tear your head

apart.It was therefore no surprise to people who had seen him

lose itwhen they were informed that he had been a twenty-

year-old sergeant in the Gordon Highlanders during the last,

frightful year of the First World War.Inevitably, his favourite quote to Billy who was also on the

small side, was:Its not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the

fight in the dog. It was always said firmly and with theabsolute conviction of having been personally put to the test

many times.

It was also, inevitably, an axiom that Billy would alwaysthereafter call to mind for courage and reassurance on perhaps

too many challenging occasions in his own life.

* * * * *

The Croy Post Office was a big, sprawling white-painted

house with a recently painted black roof, built of pine and

standing like a large, emphatic full stop at the end of a long,thick stretch of the trees that had been used to make it. It was

the only building on that road for close on a mile; to the left ofthe house and beyond it were fields of pasture dotted with


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dozens of slow-moving brown and white Ayrshire cattle. On ahill in the distance, about a mile away, was the dairy farm.

To the left of the house, way down at the end of the dustyroad they had just driven up, was the crossroads and if you

turned left you would end up in Inverness. If you turned right

you would be in the House of The Lord which stood there insilent black aggression, right on the crossroads, in order to

catch sinners from whichever direction.

The Williamson family, of which Billy was about tobecome an integral part, would turn right into His House three

times every Sunday for the next three months but Billy,

blessedly, was in ignorance of that inescapable duty on this,the first day of arrival.

The church was a raw and naked stone-built structureentirely lacking in beauty or grace either outside or inside but

it was home to the Wee Free Kirk, one of many memorials to ahard God and his equally unforgiving disciple John Calvin.

In days to come Billy would recount how he had tried so

very hard to meet God by visiting His House three times on the

Sabbath, everySabbath for all of three monthsand that was amatter ofsix mileswalking on each pilgrimage day!

That, Billy would point out, meant he had walked near ahundred miles to see God. Despite that incredible effort, Billy

would say with a deep sigh, An I never did meet Him!Nowwould ye be believing such a thing?

The sun was hot and bright as they got out of the car. Billy

took a last look to his right and followed the white, pebblyroad for a mile or more as it disappeared round a bend,

swamped on both sides by far-reaching pine forests thatstretched right up into the distant hills beyond.

There was a simple, three-stranded wire fence surrounding

the house which Billy knew was right and proper for any selfrespecting village post office in the Highlands of Scotland. A

stout wooden gate with a latch separated the property from the

road. It was now being opened by a tall, slimly built boy offifteen with dark glossy hair and a face like an eagle, Billys

cousin, Hugh.


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Standing on the grass behind the fence and shyly drawinglines and circles with her right shoe in the stony path leading

up to the house, was his other cousin, Jessmar. Two yearsyounger than her brother and, amazingly, crowned with thick

fair almost blonde hair, Jessmar was a pretty young girl, the

same sharpness of nose softened by red, freckled cheeks, herslender body showing a delicate promise above the waist as

Billy duly noted.

Beyond Jessmar, and coming quickly down the path washis Aunt Jen, fair of complexion like her daughter but grey-

haired before her time. She was a sturdily built woman and

small like his Dad, with a strong angular face and a generoussmiling mouth.

She was to become one of the loves of Billys lifewhichwas immediately entrenched by the strong hug she gave him

before even greeting his parents. No fussing, no kissing, just apowerful grip that told him he belonged.

Last to come down the path was a figure that made Billys

eyes widen. He was a giant of a man with huge shoulders and a

broad deep chest who stood at least a foot above his Dad. Billycricked his neck looking up at the man whose granite face split

into a warm smile that was totally dominated by his massive,hooked nose. This was the true golden eagle of the high

Scottish hills and the bleak moors that had sired Hugh.He did not bow down like most large adults do to small

boys but he bent a little at the knees and stretched out a huge

hand to Billy who watched his own hand disappear into a massof bone and muscle. There was no squeeze and no pressure,

just an encompassing warmth which Billy found immenselyreassuring.

This is your Uncle Alec, Billy,his Dad said with his own

right hand hanging oddly at his side, taking the gentle air obviously Uncle Alec was not as kind to other men as he was

to small boys.

They had tea and scones with real farm butter and freshstrawberries heaven had arrived and then Billys cousins

were sent off to show him his bedroom, the rest of the houseand, inevitably, to explore the woods which came right up to


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one side of the housewhere his room wasand right roundthe back where the chickens were. Real live, noisy chickens

with fluffy yellow chicks that would eat out of your hand.Old hat to his cousins maybe but immensely exciting for

Billy the townie who was also amazed and impressed by the

constant cooing and coughing of the wood pigeons that seemedto fill the wood. The sound of the pigeons and the smell of the

pines became part of his life, not only for the three months he

shared with them but for all of the years ahead.The house captivated him. It creaked all the time. The

walls were built of pine, the roof was built of pine, and the

floors the same. Every step you took, the house talked to you.Later that night, sleepless and still excited, he found that the

house continued to talk, if only to itself.It was just a bit scary at first but he got used to it and often

in the many lonely nights to come, he would haveconversations with the house when the paraffin lamps had been

extinguished and the night was silent.

Every night, as he huddled under the blankets, he would

have the joy of listening, fascinated, to the night sounds of thewoods just outside his window; the pines whispering in the

wind, the soft hooting of the owls, the mysterious scrapingsand scrabblings, the eerie cries and squeals that stirred his

imagination.But his chats with the house were just as satisfying,

particularly on Sunday nights after the repeated pilgrimages to

The House of The Lord. On those nights Billy would findhimself talking to hisGod and exchanging points of view:

Ye ken that man, the one with the tuning fork that hebangs on the pew to get the right sound and then starts to sing,

to get everybody on the right note? Well hes no very good is

he? He canna really sing can he? I mean it sounds right terribleand him aways so pleased with himself.

And God would creakily agree and wait patiently for the

next one:They say they willna have an organ cause its the

instrument of the devil but thats daft is it not? And God


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would grin from the knotty pine ceiling and give him a coupleof quick cracks of agreement.

* * * * *

In the first week after his parents said their tearful (Mum)and clumsy (Dad) goodbyes, Billy was introduced to Mr and

Mrs McLeod who ran the dairy farm up on the hill. It was to be

his daily chore to fetch the fresh milk in a steel milk can thathad a fitted lid so the milk wouldnt spill.It was only a couple

of pints so it was not too heavy and Aunt Jen thought he was

up to it which pleased him mightily.And it was probably the real beginning of recovery for

Billy. That two-mile hike up the hill to the farm and back,changing hands every now and again, charging the

unimpressed cowson the way up, not with the precious milk built up his bed-floppy muscles and gave his bored heart

something worthwhile to do.

Within the month Billy was walking the hills with a thick

sandwich in his pocket and a light, untroubled step. Ten milesin the day, across the tough grassed moors, through the

crackling bracken and across the sparkling streams, tawnyfrom their sand and pebbled beds; life was under his feet and

in his heart. But this joyful freedom of movement and action,this incredible release from the prison of physical restriction

was hard won and not only by Billy but also by his Uncle Alec

who sacrificed one day and a great deal of sweat to carve thebeauty of the Highlands forever in Billys heart

* * * * *

Alex pumped up the tyres on the red post office bike andwiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve. It was going to be

a long, long day and he was under no illusions about just how

tough a ride was ahead of him as he looked at the wee boystanding with his legs straddling the front wheel and his hands

steadying the handlebars. He and Jen had decided that weeBilly must be bored half to death with nothing to do all day,


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reading books or wandering alone in the woods. His twocousins bussed to school in Inverness every day and did not

come back until the early evening.Truth be told Billy was quite happy hunting Red Indians in

the woods or away in his own imagination with the books but

they didnt know that so the trip on the bike had beenorganised by a determined aunt and a reluctant uncle. Alec

unscrewed the pump connection and stood up, stretching his

back to relieve a touch of cramping.Well now, I think theres plenty of air in those tyres right

enough so lets be off laddie.He swung his right leg over the

bike and steadied it with his backside on the saddle, liftingBilly up into the front, wide steel pannier which Jen had

padded with a couple of good cushions from the settee in thelounge.

Billy perched in the pannier with his legs dangling over thefront, one of the cushions protecting his thighs from the

unyielding steel bar as he gripped the sidebars with his hands.

Alec assessed the weight, swinging the bike just so from right

to left and said Holy Jesusunder his breath. He had not usedsuch words since his days of horror on the Somme battlefield

but he shook off his feeling of guilt at the blasphemy byvowing atonement.

He was to make that atonement on the hot, dry and dustyhills of his posties round during that never to be forgotten

ride with the uncomfortable, red faced Billy wriggling in front

of him.It was a total of about ten miles with only three important

parcels and one telegram to deliver to croft style smallholdingsexisting in a telephone free, country tranquility; but it was ten

hard, uncomfortable miles they would both remember.

There is a feeling of silence that is not a silence in thepine-bedecked hills of northern Scotland. The sandy, gritty

roads, not much more than paths really, scrabble under the

slow moving tyres and you can hear birds, most of thempigeons, making critical comments to each other as they watch

your slow, and painful progress up the hill.


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Down in the valley you can see the cows having a goodtime doing nothing and way across the hills you can see a half

dozen foresters harvesting the trees. You can faintly hear thesound of the power saws in the stillness of the warm air under

the dominant sun. Its a beautiful Highland day.A grand day

for being a cow, not a postman.And certainly not a postman on a bike bearing a squirming

eleven-year-old boy in the front pannier.

A sparkling stream of clear water meandered through thehills and they crossed it three times in their odyssey. Each time

Alec stopped on the hump backed bridge for a breather and to

consider his beloved trout.They were small, about a pound was reckoned a good fish,

but there were plenty of them. You could see them clearly inthe bright water which tasted so sweet and fresh they both

scooped eager handfuls of it at each sweating stop. Kneelingtogether on the green banks of the stream was the kind of

bonding ceremonial that stays in the mind. Billy would

remember it and the taste of the crystal water for the rest of his

life. Alec probably did too.

Please God Have you conferred a sainthood on Uncle Alecyet? Not that he would want it mind you. Im sure hes still a

stubborn Wee Free man so maybe just give him a couple ofdifficult trout to stalk every day and make them two pounders.

Hes never as good as my Grandpa Bill a rose by

whatever name? but hell get them no matter how long ittakes. And he has all the time in the world has he not?


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Chapter Four

A Fond Farewell

Goodbyes were ever miserable occasions and this one was noexception as the five of them sat around the kitchen table

drinking tea. Alec monosyllabic and young Hugh no better

(although when he went to university he found his tongue rightenough and particularly with the girls so, not surprisingly, he

failed first year but gained a reputation to rival Lothariohimself as Billy found out many years later).

Billy tried to put in his share of words but he had never

been a great talker and the three months he had spent roamingthe woods and moors alone in all kinds of weather had opened

his heart but failed to loosen his tongue.

It was the women, as always, who kept the talk going,inconsequential perhaps but maintaining a level of warm

affection that the three males understood and appreciated asbeing the way of it.

Jessmar, who had come to love Billy as her own brother,

had a sparkle in the eye and a determination to be frivolous.Aunt Jenny occupied herself making sandwiches for Billys

trip home to Kirkcaldy, accompanied by light and teasing

observations such as Well, yell no be having to get the milk

from the McLeods on this Saturday will ye Billy?Which remark produced a chuckle all round the table and a

flush to Billys cheeks. It was a reminder of one of his early

Saturdays when the vast welcoming expanse of the moors had

led to a Wandering Willie and a forgetting of his duty to fetchthe milk, which in turn led to no milk for the tea or the

porridge or whateverthe following Sunday it being theSabbath no member of a Wee Free Kirk congregation would

dream of making such an ungodly trip!The goodbyes were a mixture of the tearful and the

cheerful with Aunty Jen managing to maintain a stiff upper lip

(something the Scots mastered centuries before the English

please god, which side is up? by william harris

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