For crying out loud, here’s Jimmy Cameron!

 

Jimmy Cameron (1850-1937)

Picture courtesy of the St Monans Heritage Collection

There are certain particular names in each of the East Neuk of Fife villages that crop up with regularity throughout their history with St Monans being no exception and having its fair share of them.

Normally those can be traced back through the ancestry of long-established families, a common feature in close-knit communities.

But come the late 1800s in St Monans, there is one surname heavily woven through the daily life of the town, Cameron.

In some instances it is difficult to unravel the intertwined threads of those Cameron tales. One thing is for certain though and that is if all these characters were indeed walking the same streets in their shared lifetime, then there is no doubt if they all came together the craik of this cohort would have been as fascinating as it would have been colourful.

There was James Cameron, fisherman and respected representative of the local fleet whose common sense and authority was a vital attribute in the hey-day of the herring fishing. Then there was James Cameron, licensed grocer and, occasionally, unlicensed grocer, who at times appears to have sailed close to the wind with the authorities in terms of his premises and his business dealings. There was also James Cameron, the long-serving town crier and a well-kent character whose booming voice could, apparently, be heard a mile beyond the burgh’s boundaries.

Adding to that Cameron mix, there was also the James Cameron who served as the town’s cobbler; the James Cameron who served as sheriff officer; the James Cameron who was the town’s bill poster; the James Cameron whose job application rattled the Pittenweem town’s fathers; the James Cameron who was a convicted poacher; and, last but not least, the James Cameron who was at the centre of a bizarre alimony case in Renfrewshire.

That’s quite a Cameron clan to be birling through the burgh at the same time. But further research reveals that, fisherman aside, it would seem all the other Camerons were one and the same. Now that may, or may not be the case, but the circumstantial evidence is strong.

St Monans Heritage Collection, at 5 West Shore, has a photograph of the town crier on display, along with his now clapper-less handbell. But there is definitely a lot more to this Jimmy Cameron, and his tales must earn him his place as one of the town’s true characters and one who deserves a permanent place in the history spotlight.

But before exploring Mr Cameron’s kaleidoscopic contribution to the community, the first clarification is that his name wasn’t Cameron, and, like those other venerable worthies, teacher and writer John Jack and pharmacist and photographer William Easton, he wasn’t from St Monans, but an incomer.

It is best to start at the end, and then try to unravel the many faces of Jimmy, whose home was on the West End in St Monans. A widower, his wife Jane predeceasing him, he died on July 1, 1937, at the age of 87. His daughter, Jane Cameron, was with him when he passed.

His death certificate states that his parents were unknown, and his occupation was given as ‘Retired town’s officer’. In both cases, that is an over-simplification.

The fact that his death was reported in The Scotsman newspaper illustrates the renown of ‘Auld Jimmy’. The brief obituary read: “Former town crier of St Monance: The death has occurred at St Monance, in his 88th year, of Mr James Cameron, who held the post of town crier for about 50 years. At the time of his retirement a few years ago he was one of the oldest bellmen in the country . Deceased had been in failing health for some time.”

There is no online record of Jimmy Cameron’s birth certificate as he pre-dates the 1855 collation. Church records are a possibility but even that is not straightforward as his entry into this world is considerably more vague than his exit.

A brief colour piece published on him gives his place of birth as Nitshell, a village three miles outside Linlithgow. That location has proved elusive but there is, or was, such a place in Renfrewshire. That county, which seems correct from census records, provides a valuable piece of the jigsaw and opens up one of his tales. Though his parents were recorded as ‘unknown’ that would not be strictly accurate, with Jimmy and his father actually being quite well-acquainted through somewhat acrimonious dealings.

So, accepting that Renfrewshire connection, who was the real Jimmy Cameron?

It would appear, despite being recorded as orphaned or abandoned, he began his journey through life as James Cameron Colville, born c1850. Neilston, in Renfrewshire, is the most likely hometown with the 1861 census showing James to be the third of five children born to Hugh and Mary Colville.

As a young man he trained as a cobbler, securing a position with a reputable bootmaker in Edinburgh, and married Jane Melville in November 1872 at Hope Terrace, Edinburgh. He was 22, she 24.

Unknown circumstances brought the couple to St Monans, where Jimmy, dropping the Colville in favour of Cameron, set himself up as a shoemaker. That business venture doesn’t seem to have been enough to provide for the family and, by the 1881 census, James and Jane had two daughters, Jane and Elizabeth, and his trade was now listed as grocer.

That change or addition of profession appears to have followed an incident when James found himself before the small debt court in the Parish of Cathcart, Renfrewshire, defending a claim against him by his own father.

According to the Fife News in October 1880 it was “a case of more than usual interest” in that Cameron’s father had raised an action for aliment through the Parochial Board of Cathcart, seeking repayment for advances.

In defence, Cameron’s solicitor argued that the father had abandoned his children to the mercy of strangers, and Cameron was not in a financial position to support this newly-emerged parent. It wasn’t a clear-cut case and the Sheriff decided to continue proceedings to allow representation from the Parochial Board. When no representative appeared the next day the Sheriff immediately found in favour of the defendant, granting Jimmy a decree of absolvitor and 10 shilling in expenses.

With the court case behind him, the shoemaker’s business needing supplemented, Cameron then turned to his grocery enterprise but this also seems to have had its share of difficulties. The local press covered various rejected and approved applications for licences, as well as Cameron being forced to return to legal representation, this time to pursue unpaid bills.

By 1887 it would seem Jimmy Cameron had decided the role of St Monans trader, be it stitching soles or selling spirits, was not for him. Public service beckoned and it is here his true colourful character now starts to emerge.

A change of scene and a change of career offered itself in Pittenweem that August with the town looking for a new sanitary inspector. The Public Health Acts in the 1870s aimed to reform the health and hygiene of Victorian Britain and Jimmy reckoned he was the right fit for that task which brought with it a £3 annual salary to supplement his other streams of revenue.

When Pittenweem’s town council considered his application, it split the members. The provost thought Cameron had a “good tongue” and would be perfect for the job, but others saw him as an incomer where a resident would be better suited for the position. Before reaching a decision the council felt it also needed clarification as to which body would, after appointment, have the power to dismiss him – the local authority or the Board of Supervision. So with hiring and firing to be determined, and a decision made on local or ‘stranger’, it was agreed to re-advertise the post.

Later that month, the council reconvened. It is uncertain what had occurred in the intervening days

but Jimmy had decided to withdraw his application, and did so in writing with some panache. The use of language caused much amusement amongst some, while others were insulted by the disrespect. The town’s bailie tried in vain to stop it being read out and after the eyebrow-raising letter had been publicly aired, the audience demanded the right to comment. This was refused and no further interruptions were allowed.

It would appear, following this episode, Jimmy secured a similar position in St Monans, and another as sheriff officer. Then, in 1892, he again found himself within the legal system and reported in the local press, this time as the victim of an assault from a fisherman who had fancied a square go.

A few years later though, our now respected legal officer was again facing justice, on this occasion not as a victim but as the accused; the charge being heard at Cupar Sheriff Court was that of poaching.

Under the headline ‘A sheriff officer’s temptation’, the Dundee Courier report read:

James Cameron, shoemaker and sheriff officer, St Monance, was charged with having, on the 22nd November last, on field on the farm of Ardross, known as Caliart Hill Park, on the south side of the road leading from St Monance, trespassed in pursuit of game and, by means of lurcher, killed a hare. Accused pleaded not guilty.

“Mr R. J. Davidson prosecuted behalf of Mr Baird of Elie, the proprietor of the lands. Mr J. Kerr Tasker, who defended, adduced evidence with the view of proving that the hare was killed at the side of the road, and that it had come from fields on the north side of the road.

“His Lordship said could not get over the very distinct evidence of the two gamekeepers. He must hold that a technical offence had been committed. Though he must convict, he could not but look on the offence as a very slight one.

“It was very probable that accused did not out with the intention of poaching, but when temptation had come in his way had been unable to resist it.

“He would pass the modified fine of 1s, but the expenses that fell to paid were £2 13s. The alternative was 21 days' imprisonment. The fine and expenses were paid.

Other press reports indicated Jimmy would be required, or was urged, to dispose of his hare-hunting hound, and that would appear to be his master’s final brush with the law, but brushes now became his business.

In the following years he became a daily familiar figure as the town’s street sweeper, bill poster and, of course, town crier.

He held these posts into his 80s and while it is possible to piece together a ropey record of his life with just possibly two surviving photographs of this worthy, there is another valuable dimension of the man left to us.

In May 1930, the Dundee Evening Telegraph carried a feature ‘Mrs A.R. Rowlands introduces...’ It would appear to have been be a regular column, focusing on a different character. In that issue, it was ‘Jimmy Cameron, Town Crier of St Monance’ and the writer offers a unique insight into this character by retaining his dialect in her personalised copy:

I’m up every mornin' at fower o'clock. I like to get my streets soopit afore ony body's up. There's nae body to speak to an' pit me aff my wark at that time i' the mornin', an' it's grand for the folk to rise an' see a’thing clean," said Mr James Cameron, for almost 60 years town crier of St Monance.

"Forbye," added Mr Cameron, " I like a blaw o' the clean caller air in the mornin', an' forbye that" -with a pawkv twinkle -"there mith be twa three bits o' things lyin' aboot," an' he looked down suggestively.

Mr James Cameron was born over 80 years ago in the village of Nitshells, three miles from Linlithgow. A shoemaker to trade, he was some time employed in a well-known shoe shop in Prince's Street, Edinburgh.

Owing to the increased use of machinery in bootmaking, the services of fewer men were required, but, as Mr 'Cameron says, "Cobblers are aye needed, but ye've to work a long time afore ye mak' ony bawbees."

Coming to St Monance, Mr Cameron married and settled down in the quaint fishing town on the shores of the Forth.

During his many years' residence in "St Minnans," Mr Cameron has filled the offices of town's crier, town's officer, and billposter.

For some years also he was the local sanitary inspector “afore a' they new-fangled weys o' daen cam' in," and for 16 years he was sheriff officer for the district.

The last-named office was sometimes not altogether to Cameron's liking. He had some unpleasant jobs while fulfilling this post, "but it was his work, an' he had to dae't.

Enemies were occasionally made, and sometimes the officer was blamed for matters with which he had nothing whatever to do, except in an official capacity.

"Oo, aye," said he, "I was gaun tae be killed an' gaun to be drooned often enough, but I'm aye livin' yet."

In his youthful days, Mr Cameron was a great lover of dancing, taught many a one the intricate steps of the old-fashioned " lancers" and " quadrilles," and had it not been for a touch of rheumatism in his knee, he would have given a demonstration of the polka and Highland Fling.

Mr Cameron was possessed of voice of remarkable power, and it said that his proclamations have been heard in villages at least a mile distant.

In spite of his advanced age, his voice is almost as powerful as ever, and when he "cries through the toon " every word is heard clearly and distinctly.

Although not tall, Mr Cameron is strongly built, and shows signs of having been very agile in his youth. He tells with great glee of an encounter he once had with an opponent, who had threatened to catch him one dark night " between Pittenweem and St Minnans," and leave him "for deid".

" Oo aye," said Jimmy, when he heard the threat, and went on his rounds unperturbed.

One dark night his assailant, a tall, powerful man, met Jimmy on the road, and made a rush at him. Jimmy merely stooped down, and catching the other man by the legs, " threw him clean head over heels".

It was the other man who was left, not Jimmy.

Mr Cameron's unusual strength is still shown by the fact that he is yet employed at his usual vocation of town's crier, and can ring the heavy " toon's bell " as vigorously as in days of yore.

Although 80 in years, he affirms that he is still young in spirit, and that "he's gaun to live to be a hunder an' fifty," and from his appearance he may live to be what he terms "an auld man".

In days of old, tradition tells us, the " wee folk " were heard building the auld kirk of St Monance through the still hours of the night.

Now when all else is hushed, in the quiet morning hours the sound of a brush is heard, while a hale and hearty old man who loves the sweet and caller morning air "soops” the quaint streets and winding lanes of old St Monance.

Other than a little published nod to his veteran service in those streets and lanes, that was the last published record of Jimmy until that brief 1937 obituary in The Scotsman.

His is quite the tale and deserves to sit alongside the stories he could have recounted from the gossip and goings-on in St Monans, stories that he witnessed and was often a part of.

Neighbours lay on festive treat

In November 1950, while the austerity of the war years was still being felt, three Kennoway neighbours, – Mrs Harper, Mrs Baillie, and Mrs Cunningham, all of Myreside Avenue – came up with the idea of a Christmas party for all the youngsters in their neighbourhood.

But with 200 children in Myreside alone, that was a bit ambitious so, instead, they settled on an area around their own doors, enlisting the support of 18 other families to entertain around 50 boys and girls.
Each week in the build-up to Christmas, two shillings was donated by the households for food and presents.

The local fruit merchant, Mr Taylor, sold 50 oranges and apples for ten shillings; the baker, Mr Tullis, provided the catering; and the Temperance Hall was booked as the venue.

Mrs Harper's brother-in-law apparently had a direct link to Santa who turned up to distribute the gift for every child.

Such was the success of the party and the example of community spirit, the Leven Mail sent out a photographer to take the picture shown here.

Elie Auxiliary Hospital: A cause that united the East Neuk

 

Members of staff at Craigforth Auxiliary Hospital, Elie.

When the guns fell silent at the end of ‘The Great War’ the world took stock of the conflict’s horrendous toll on human life.

When the call went out to enlist ‘To assist Belgium’ and ‘Protect the Empire’ after the declaration of hostilities on August 4, 1914, many of those who rushed to sign up did so with excitement and anticipation of a great adventure, one that would be over by Christmas.

The Joint War Committee and the War Office, however, were already preparing for a bloodier and longer conflict than most could have imagined. It would see 887,858 British servicemen and women making the ultimate sacrifice and 1,675,000 wounded.

While the sea and no man’s land would provide the resting place for many of the lost and fallen, there was the logistical issue of dealing with the injured and maimed on an unprecedented scale. There weren’t the facilities behind the front lines to deal with those numbers, many of whom needed time to convalesce, physically and mentally. 

They had to be brought home.

So, in addition to the machinery of war, a chain of mercy had to be established. Ships were fitted with  infirmaries; a fleet of ambulances was needed from quayside to station; adapted railway carriages were required for the wounded; then more transport required from destination platform to hospital bed.

After war was declared an appeal was launched for buildings that could be adapted as ‘cottage’ hospitals; there were more than 5000 offers. While the general military hospitals would deal with the most severe cases, much more space for care and nursing would be needed, and this resulted in a nationwide network of 3000 auxiliary hospitals, administered by the Red Cross. These were housed in a variety of properties, from castles to schools, and could be found in urban and rural settings.

Although there were a few adapted residences outwith that network, Fife had eight official auxiliary hospitals – Dunfermline, Leven, St Andrews, Ceres, Wemyss, Kinghorn, Springfield and Elie.

All, undoubtedly, have a tale worth telling but this article concentrates on Elie and Earlsferry, purely for personal reasons. Firstly, it was on my doorstep and, secondly, it was a cause well supported by all the East Neuk communities.

The War Office provided basic financial support, calculated on the number of patients receiving care, but donations of money, food, treats and ‘luxury’ items from the community helped supplement those government grants. 

Local support also came in the form of members of the Voluntary Aid Detachment (VAD) who had first aid training. These volunteers were the backbone of each auxiliary hospital whose official staff usually comprised a commandant, quartermaster and a matron.

The choice of Elie, along with other rural settings for the hospitals, is intriguing. It is difficult to imagine a location further removed from the cauldron of carnage that was the Western Front. Peaceful with stunning seascapes, the very place must have felt as though it had healing qualities. Just 25 years later,  soldiers of the 1st (Polish) Independent Parachute Brigade, many of whom had witnessed the terror of Nazi occupation, would also be billeted there.

Yet, while welcoming this respite of tranquillity, the servicemen who found themselves in this part of the East Neuk of Fife, would also have known this peaceful retreat was temporary. Once deemed fit for service they would be returned to action, be that the trenches of the front line or, in the Poles’ case, the Dakotas and gliders over Arnhem.

Elie’s auxiliary hospital was initially located at Craigforth, a stunning property donated by Mary Outhwaite, at the tip of Earlsferry, on the edges of Chapel Green. It opened on April 22, 1915, providing 20 beds. It was, and remains, an imposing building, facing out over the estuary. Its story is a fascinating read in itself, provided by Elie & Earlsferry History Society (https://www.eliehistory.com/craigforth-and-the-outhwaites/). 

The house already had a military connection with Mrs Outhwaite being the widow of Lieutenant-Colonel Francis John Outhwaite, of the Highland Light Infantry, who died at Craigforth in 1896. The Lt-Col was obviously 'old school', decreeing after his death - and leaving a sizeable estate - that should his wife re-marry, her husband take the name Outhwaite; that he be buried in the cheapest coffin that could be had; that expenses for his funeral be kept to a minimum with the exception of hospitality of "all classes" present; that all his horses and other animals that his wife and two sons did not wish to keep, not be sold, but be destroyed and buried.

Craigforth served as the area’s auxiliary hospital until May 1917, when it transferred a few hundred yards eastwards to what was referred to as the ‘White House’, also known as ‘The Cottage’, and this provided 25 beds.

It was donated by merchant banker and financier Gerard Alexander 'Monty' Moncrieff, from Bandirran Estate near the village of Balbeggie, Perth & Kinross. Mr Moncrieff also owned Seaforth, on the other side of Telfer’s Lane from The Cottage, and was a well-known figure in the village.

Craigforth in Earlsferry and (below) 

what was 'The Cottage' - the two

 buildings that  served as Elie Auxiliary

 Hospital during World War One.

During the war years approximately 600 patients were admitted to the two hospitals.

According to Red Cross records the medical officer was Dr Pentland Smith of Elie. The longest serving members of staff were: Miss Edith E. Scott Moncrieff (VAD, commandant); Mrs Kathleen M. Erskine (VAD, assistant commandant); Mrs Susan Willis (certificated nurse, sister-in-charge); Miss Margaret Niven (VAD, president); Mrs Mary Grieve (VAD cook).

The VAD nurses were: Mrs Agnes Patterson, Mrs Sophia Miller, Mrs Helen Bisset, Miss Cathels Aitken, Miss Susanna M. Scott Moncrieff, Miss Elizabeth Maclaren, Miss Charlotte Dingwall, Miss Mary Short, Miss Margaret Campbell, Miss Juliet Galloway, Miss Effie Bell, Mrs Mary Balsellie, Miss Margaret Reekie, Miss Isabel Ramsay, Miss Mary Hepburn, Miss Barbara Brown, Miss Jemima Watt, Miss Margaret McKay.

While the staff members, in addition to their medical duties, were also active in generating fundraising and support in the East Neuk burghs, the military patients came ... and went.

Early in the war years The Scotsman carried details of the servicemen being transferred to the auxiliary hospitals. An entry in 1915 shows the spread of the regiments of the patients admitted to Craigforth: Thomas Campbell, William Henderson, William Graham, Piper Archie Maxwell, John Brisco (Kings Own Scottish Borderers), William Duffy (Highland Light Infantry), Sapper John Dargo (Royal Engineers) Gunner Patrick Trainer (Royal Field Artillery), William Affleck, Archibald Thorpe, Dennis Blakely, James Frew (Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders), J. Falconer (Black Watch), L/Cpl William Hamilton (Cameron Highlanders), Robert Berriman (Royal Scots Fusiliers), Henry Rosini, Joseph Moore, A. Holmes, Sgt George Stormont (Royal Scots).

One of the wards at Craigforth.

Throughout the duration of the conflict individuals from the East Neuk and surrounding areas made regular donations to the hospital. An entry from the East of Fife Record in 1917 details the gifts, and donors, for a single month.

These included eggs from local farms, rhubarb and vegetables from gardens, a wide variety of home baking, hand-knitted socks, slippers, playing cards, walking sticks, deck chairs, golf clubs, flowers, magazines and cigarettes.

While the landed gentry at Montrave, Balcarres, Balcaskie and Grangemuir regularly supplied game along with other treats, the fishing community also played its part in supporting the wounded.

Skipper Alex Wood and the crew of the Pittenweem small line yawl ‘Present Help’, for example, made the newspaper columns in May 1918 when a box of codlings was put up for auction at the market to help soldiers and sailors. With keen bidding between merchants and buyers, it fetched £7 10s, £3 of which went straight to Elie and the remainder to a Leith hospital for sailors.

While these were listed in the local news columns, the generosity shouldn’t be under estimated as the communities were also doing what they could financially to help those in action through many other war charities. The listing of all these donations, be that a single pair of socks or cash, sat alongside an even more regular entry - ‘The toll of the battlefield’ with brief, respectful paragraphs naming another son of the parish who would not be returning.

Tennis on the lawn in Earlsferry.

And while individuals constantly supported the auxiliary hospital there were, of course, also organised activities to raise much-needed funds for the continuing care. Flag days and prize draws were regular occurrences in all the villages but there were also much bigger co-ordinated events.

Although fund-raising was ongoing, 1917, just when the auxiliary hospital moved from Craigforth to The Cottage, seemed a particularly busy year with the East Neuk delivering a spring and summer of musical treats, all carefully chronicled by the East of Fife Record.

The grandest event was, arguably, the first of that season - a concert in late April, organised by the Anstruther and District Fete Committee.

In aid of the Red Cross and the auxiliary hospital, this was endorsed by the celebrated contralto Clara Butt and brought to the East Neuk some national stars of the day, such as recording artists Henry Turnpenney, David Brazell, as well as the virtuoso violinist Dora Garland who pioneered women taking their place in the male domain of orchestras.

The expense of bringing these celebrated performers to a Fife stage was offset by money provided by the Clara Butt-Rumford Fund, set up by the singer and her husband, the baritone Kennerley Rumford.

The East of Fife Record was effusive in its praise for the programme, which must have been a respite for the locals from the continuing and growing grief of a seemingly neverending war, and must rank to this day as one of the most star-laden stages a curtain has risen on in the burghs.

“There has been no want of enterprise on the part of the Anstruther and District Fete Committee in doing everything possible in the shape of musical attractions on behalf of war charities,” said the newspaper, “and it may safely be said that the venture essayed excelled all previous efforts as regards superiority of the entertainment provided and the large and enthusiastic audience that assembled in the Town Hall, the platform of which was finely decorated with the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes.

“On this occasion the proceeds were in aid of the Scottish Red Cross Society and the Elie Auxiliary Hospital, and the result exceeded the most sanguine expectations.

“The company that took part in the proceedings were eminent London artistes. A most attractive programme was gone through, opening well with a quartette, ‘Come to the Show’, taken part in by Miss Sophie Rowland, Miss Etty Ferguson, Mr Henry Turnpenney, and Mr David Brazell, other quartettes given by them being ‘Hail to the Chief’ and ‘Finale’, all of which were most tastefully rendered.

“Miss Sophie Rowlands has an exceptionally sympathetic soprano voice, which enabled her to give the parts allotted to her tastefully and expressively. Miss Etty Ferguson was also very successful in the contralto solos, ‘A Memory’ and ‘Jessie’s Dream’. Mr David Brazell has a baritone voice of rare quality, and this was emphasised in the ‘Prologue to Pagliacci’ and ‘Big Steamers’. Mr Henry Turnpenney gave a finished rendering of the tenor part, singing with much feeling and expression the solos, ‘Out of the Past’ and "O, Day Divine’. He and Mr Brazell were also heard to advantage in a duet, ‘The Twins’, containing at good deal of humour.

“Miss Dora Garland, a young violinist of wonderful powers, who was stated to be at present far from well, played several solos most effectively, while Mr Lloyd Powell, who was accompanist, also played several pianoforte solos with perfect expression and rare finish. Most of the selections were loudly encored and had to he partially repeated.

“The proceeds amounted to over £40.”

Then, in June, the East of Fife Record reported that Kilconquhar and Colinsburgh had joined together to organise an event to further boost the funds of the Scottish branch of the Red Cross Society.

“This took the form of a combined church service held in the Parish Church, Kilconquhar,” reported the Record. “The commodious church was well filled, many being present from, besides Kilconquhar and Colinsburgh, Elie and St Monans and surrounding district. It was practically a musical service, taken part in by the hand of the Lancashire Hussar Yeomanry, who came from St Andrews, and the combined choirs of Colinsburgh and Kilconquhar.”

Towards the end of the service, after a busy programme of hymns and individual performances the Rev. A. Legge. Kinneuchar Kirk’s minister, spoke on "Whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain" (Matthew, Ch 5, vs 41).

The Record continued: “He touched on a true Christian being a patriot of the highest cast, and this he emphasised by declaring that never before in this country, and never in the memory of any living being, was there greater need for everyone going the second mile when called upon to do so.

“Taken as a whole, he considered that our men and women had nobly done their bit for the welfare of the Empire, and many noble self sacrifices had been, and were being.”

The two-hour service closed with a collection being made by some of the nurses from the Elie Auxiliary Hospital, realising £20 1s 6d, which, today, would be in excess of £1400.

That same month a concert was held in Earlsferry Town Hall in aid of the hospital, which this time brought together residents and patients as performers. Again the East of Fife Record carried a comprehensive report of the event.

“Dr Pentland Smith presided over an exceptionally large audience. An excellent programme was opened by the choir rendering ‘The Sea is England's Glory’. Miss Mayes was heard to advantage in ‘Angus Macdonald’, and she was obliged to respond with an encore. A note of pathos was struck by Miss Simpson in the recitation, ‘The Gallant Royal Scots’, which was given with telling effect.

“The comic element was admirably sustained by Corporal Howe, while a fine exhibition of dancing was given by Misses Gerrard, Barclay, Davidson, Black, Westwood, Bowman; and Masters Forrett. Moyes, and Watson.

“The patriotic sentiment was aroused by Master Willie Watson in "Sergeant Daddy VC," while Corporal Massingham was equally successful in his fine reordering of ‘The Village Blacksmith’.

“Violin, mandolin, and pianoforte solos were contributed respectively by Miss Wilson, Private Pritchard, and Corporal Dick. The duet, ‘Where are you going to my pretty maid?’ cleverly enacted by Hughes Bowman and Willie Watson was greatly appreciated, while in ‘Ready Waiting’ Mrs Boyle and Miss Jean Wilson were also heard to advantage.

“The grand finale consisted of the choruses ‘The Soldiers of the King’ and ‘Rule Britannia’, which were rendered in fine martial strain, the convalescents and audience joining in.

“At the close, the Rev. Mr Ellis voiced the feelings of the audience when he said they had had a most enjoyable evening, it being evident that the young folks of Elie and Earlsferry were not the only pebbles on the shore. Mrs Boyle must have had lot of work and great patience before her party were able to perform so well.

“They were also very pleased to see several of the wounded soldiers taking part, and trusted they would have a very happy time, and be able to return to their unit much better. (Applause.)

“In proposing a hearty vote of thanks to the artistes, Mr Ellis said he need not assure them that their efforts had been appreciated, it being evident from the hearty response given to the various items. The proceedings terminated with the singing of the National Anthem. The sum of £9 7s 6d was realised.”

Music was very much at the centre of most of the fund-raising for the auxiliary hospital and one event that attracted widespread interest and attention in the East Neuk was a performance of a comparatively new children’s operetta, ‘The Princess of Poppyland’ by C. King Proctor.

An advertisement for the operetta

 that appeared in the East of Fife Record.

This ‘Fanciful operetta in three acts’, as it was billed, has slipped out of sight in recent times but was a popular show in the early part of the 20th century and the two performances in Anstruther Town Hall played to packed houses.

Again, it was the East of Fife Record that reported on this piece of musical history in 1917:

“Mainly through the exertions of Miss Hepburn, West Anstruther, who takes a keen interest in the new auxiliary hospital at Elie, an effort on behalf of that deserving institution has been attended with a large measure of success, both financially and otherwise. This took look the form of two performances of the operetta ‘Princess of Poppyland’, given in the Town Hall on Friday evening and Saturday afternoon by over 60 children, assisted by a string orchestra. The platform was exceedingly well adapted for such an operetta, and the display of colour was most effective, artificial poppies being skilfully intertwined with plants, flowers, flags, and other decorations. There was a bumper house on Friday evening, both area and gallery being fully occupied, and the performance was greatly appreciated.

“The story and plot of the operetta was very skillfully portrayed by the various performers, who consisted of Misses Winnie Johnston, Jenny McDonald, Maude Melville, Effie Budd, Nettie Watson, Mona Gilmour, Gladys Brown, Molly Burge, Helen Brodie, and Isobel Boyter; Masters Wilfrid Masson, Ernest Taylor, George Saunderson, and Wm. Cunningham. The leading characters were Mr Arthur Roscoe as ‘King of Poppyland’, Mr Alfred Travis as ‘Court Chamberlain’, Mr Alfred Gilmour as ‘Honourable Dozy’, and Mr Alastair Robertson as ‘Baron Insomnia’, who enacted their respective parts with consummate ability and success.

“It should be mentioned that the plants and flowers in the scenery were generously granted for the occasion by Mrs Erskine, of Grangemuir, and the dresses were not obtained from outside sources, as is usual on such occasions, but were provided by Miss Hepburn and Miss Johnston.

“The music contributed greatly to the success of the performance, and those comprising the orchestra consisted of - 1st violins, Misses Guillan, Lawson, and Thomson; 2nd violins, Misses Fortune, Murray, and Mitchell; cello, Mr W. Watson; pianist, Miss M.J. Johnston.

“Many of the nurses and convalescents from the hospital were present and greatly enjoyed the performances.

“At the close, Provost Readdie voiced the feelings of the audience when he expressed appreciation of the skilful way in which the various performers had acquitted themselves, and stated the proceeds that evening amounted to about £28.

“A hearty response was made to the proposal that votes of thanks he accorded to the ladies and gentlemen who had so successfully carried out all the arrangements, special mention being made of what had been done by Miss Hepburn, Miss M.L. Johnston, Miss M. Brown, Miss J. Johnston, and Mr Watson.”

“A repetition of the performance was given on Saturday afternoon, when the hall was again well filled and everything went through without a hitch.

"At the close Miss Scott Moncrieff, commandant of the hospital, spoke in terms of high appreciation of the efforts that had been made by the various performers ... and also gave an interesting outline of the work that was being done at the hospital, pointing out the necessity that existed for public support. The sum of £53 3s 9d was realised.”

A group of patients at Craigforth.

Direct entertainment for the servicemen at the auxiliary hospital was also a regular occurrence with the local estates opening their gates and those carriage outings must have made an interesting procession.

As one local newspaper from 1917 reported: “The patients, numbering about 20, proceeded to Balcarres in brakes, where they were entertained by the Countess of Crawford. The party was shown through the garden and grounds by Mr Paul, the gardener. The ideal weather, the beautiful flowers, the blossom of the early fruit trees, and the rich verdure of tree and shrub presented a fairylike scene that must have done the war-worn heroes a world of good. Tea was served on the lawn. The party returned in the evening laden with daffodils, and greatly delighted with their outing.”

Similar outings took place to Balcaskie and Grangemuir, where tea and games were provided on the lawns; these usually ending with three cheers for the hostess and the men returning to Elie with gifts of cigarettes and sweets.

Unfortunately, information is hard to come by on the impact such outings made on the soldiers. There is no doubt from reports that they were great appreciative of the kindness and hospitality but they must have made the thought of returning to the front lines even more nightmarish.

For over three years wounded servicemen convalesced in Elie and, by the end of the conflict, hundreds had spent time in the East Neuk. Community support was strong and consistent throughout that time, despite the austerity, hardships and loss. Likewise, the auxiliary hospital enjoyed a stable staff, rooted in the communities. The VAD nurses were well-known in their own villages and became figureheads for many of the fund-raising and charitable activities.

But through all of these there was one ever-present name – Edith E. Scott Moncrieff, the commandant of the hospital. There can be no doubt, despite the energy of her staff, that she was a dominant and motivating figure in keeping the welfare of her patients in the public eye … and conscience.

Edith E. Scott Moncrieff

Miss Scott Moncrieff, and her family, were well known and respected in the area. Her father was Major Alexander Scott Moncrieff, of the Bengal Staff Corps who fought in the Indian Mutiny.

After the war years she was elected as the Fife representative on the Scottish Red Cross Council, and was a founding member and honorary secretary of Elie District Nursing Association

She was a member of the Parish Council and, later, a member of Elie Town Council. She was the organiser of Elie’s Poppy Day collection and it was fitting that in 1921 she was chosen to perform the unveiling of Elie War Memorial.

Prior to that ceremony, the Dundee Courier carried a profile of this much admired woman and, of course, acknowledged her role in tending the wounded who found themselves in Elie and Earlesferry.

“From its inception she took an active interest in the Red Cross movement,” stated the Courier. “This enthusiasm was recognised by her being appointed commandant of the auxiliary hospital. It is a well-known fact that this hospital was conducted with conspicuous success combined with undoubted cheerfulness and tact.

“During those momentous years 576 patients passed through her hands, and not a single death fell to be recorded.”

Forgotten Fife Tales,
 available from Lulu Publishing 

Remembering Leven's 'Buckie Hoose'

Out of all the places that have disappeared from Fife’s landscapes, one keeps resurfacing with lasting affection – the Shell House in Leven.

Commonly known as ‘The Buckie Hoose’, for the few who have no knowledge of the attraction this was a house and gardens at the west end of Leven, near the Shorehead. Trinity House, sat at the junction of Henderson Street and the Seagate while the gardens were on the edge of the Prom’, with the tall wooden-gated entrance opposite the junction between Seagate and School Street.

The gardens would go on to open its doors to the public, accommodating a small menagerie and was a local and visitor attraction.

There are still a lot of postcards circulating of the Buckie Hoose, though there are more copyright claims than there are images, which probably underlines its lasting popularity though it closed and was demolished 40 years ago.

Trinity House still stands but the ‘Shell Gardens’, as they were originally called before the Buckie/Shell Hoose tag, have all but disappeared though some remnants of the decoration still remain on walls around the Seagate.

Though posts on community pages that focus on Fife’s heritage fondly recall the mini zoo and shell covered enclosures, there is also indignation that such a landmark was permitted to be cleared for a new-build house. 

A detailed record of what exactly occurred is hard to find. The local paper, the East Fife Mail, did carry reports of its demise and the plans for a new family home but there was not a clamour of buyers willing to take the venture on. Approaches to the local authority to take it over came to nothing and, in hindsight, it would have been quite an asset for Kirkcaldy District Council, but that wasn't to be.

And while I can personally vouch for the Bisset family’s care of the animals in the menagerie, times were changing and the legal and health requirements probably would never have allowed its continued existence in its present form, charming though it was.

My personal interest in the Buckie Hoose is easy to explain. It was at the end of my street and my big sister and I were regular visitors. I was so enchanted by the place that I got to know James Bisset, the son of the original creator,Wull, whom I would have known too though he would have been a good age.

Mr Bisset must have decided I’d spent enough thruppennies on admission and told the lass on the wee admission kiosk at the gate just to let me in whenever I turned up. During the season that would have been at least twice and day, maybe more. I came and went as I pleased and was enlisted during the off season to occasionally help out with the care of the animals that were kept in the Bissets’ workshop in the middle of School Street, just along from my door.

So, the Buckie Hoose was a major part of my childhood and like so many others I remember fondly the monkey, fox, parrot, birds and everything else, and the sheer joy of sitting beneath the tree at the aviary and watching the world go by.

But other than those shared memories that appear in ‘comments’ on Facebook posts, I haven’t been able to pull the entire story of the Buckie Hoose together. I do recollect the East Fife Mail’s cutting files which had at least one brown envelope containing all stories and references to the Shell House. Unfortunately, that was binned a few years back. These articles will be lying in the paper’s archives … somewhere, as will references in the Fife Free Press and Kirkcaldy Guardian, the Fifeshire Advertiser and the Dundee Courier.

Getting access to these, especially during lockdown, is well nigh impossible and then it would be like searching a for a needle in a haystack because you would not be looking for a particular incident or event, just a feature or colour piece, and these are few and far between.

If this article manages to reach an audience I would dearly love to hear first hand memories of visits to the Buckie Hoose and any other details locals could provide on this much loved attraction. I am pretty sure someone, sometime, must have pulled together a booklet with pictures and memories, along with its history. Sadly, if such a publication exists, I have yet to find it, and it would likely settle the competing copyright claims on the pictures that are out there.

So, what do I know? My personal knowledge is based on my own memories and remembering the new house being built though I honestly do not recollect any widespread community anger at the Buckie Hoose’s passing. If I recall correctly, my own sadness was not even shared by my fellow reporters along the road at 7 Mitchell Street.

The internet offers a few in-roads to the story but for a landmark that stood for nearly 60 years, and one that is still so vividly remembered, full honour has not been done.

The Buckie Hoose name does crop up here and there, not always in connection with it being a visitor attraction. Remember it was also a home to the Bisset family, cropping up in newspapers quite far afield when there were rooms to let and the creative and craft skills of the Bissset family obviously also extended to another son, Henry. He made the newspaper columns in 1948 for his handiwork in making a cabinet for Leven Old Men’s Club, which operated out of the band hall.

The Buckie Hoose also crops up as a recognised geographic point in Leven, even surfacing in court reports where an accused bicycle thief, the worse for drink, recalled passing the Buckie Hoose then heading along towards the Jubilee…

And there were times when it made the headlines itself. One such occasion was in September 1940 when it provided the backdrop for a story where a sheriff, sitting on the bench in Cupar, made the news by expressing his preference of sentencing a young offender to the birch, and his frustration at not being able to do so.

The little menagerie at the Shell House had not been the attraction at the heart of the case but a donation box to help offset expenses. At that time Mr Bisset made no admission charge but had a goodwill box and it was that which tempted a 14-year-old Methil boy who, together with a 17-year-old brick worker, stole seven shillings (35p) in the change that had been donated.

“The Procurator-Fiscal explained that the Shell House was a private building, the walls of which were covered with shells. It attracted a large number of visitors. There was also in the grounds a small private zoo,” reported The Scotsman.

The reason this tale of the snatched 7/- made the news was because Sheriff JW More, presiding, had commented: “I would far rather order you to have a birching. In my long experience I have found it has good results, but, apparently, it is not in favour these days.”

While the support for birching made the national newspaper columns, the 14-year-old probably would rather have taken the beating. Sheriff More, with his long experience, decided the raid on the Buckie Hoose box merited a three-year stint in an approved school. The older accomplice was given probation.

So there we have the Buckie Hoose as an address and even a crime scene, but what about its story as one of Leven’s most enduring and loved attractions.

It would seem work on ‘Wull’ Bisset’s house began around 1920, opening to the public some seven years later. Like many Levenmouth folk then he made his living at the local pits, employed as a coal trimmer. He began the shell decorations as a hobby, one that literally grew to take over the house and the gardens. Such was his skill that this wasn’t just a case of using tidal debris as harling but a growing elaborate work of art.

In the summer of 1931 the Dundee Courier carried a wonderful first-person piece by a “special correspondent” who spent some time with Wull Bisset, hailed as “Leven’s artist extraordinary”.

“Others may etch and draw,” reported the Courier, “or paint in oils or water colours, but this genial coal trimmer has a different medium. He decorates in shells. His work is photographed and reproduced on picture postcards as one of Leven's wonders, and a possible enticement for tired city-dwellers to come to Leven, where, within sound of the waves rolling from the wide span of the Forth, mixes King Neptune's colours on canvas of cement and stone. The white of sea-worn seashells predominates, but there is a tinge of blue, of red and yellow in the patterns he has woven. He uses coloured glass to relieve the whiteness of the shells.”

The Courier correspondent tells us how Mr Bisset devoted all his spare time to his hobby, creating such wonders as a shell-covered buffalo skull, with giant mussel shells for ears and eyes of red sea glass.

But the masterpiece was deemed to be the bus. Many people today will remember that and it features prominently on many a postcard with a Dundee destination plate. Some sources, such as Outsider Environments Europe, reckon this was erected by Wull’s son, James, much later and possibly as an intended dining car. He may have replaced it and while it would have made a great cafe there was a bus in situ by 1931 and that carried Arbroath as the destination though it was reckoned to be the first Kirriemuir to Dundee bus.

“Wull Bisset has bricked up the bus body, built the bonnet in bricks and cement, made cement wheels, and overlaid the entire cement work with shells from the nearby shore,” stated the Courier.

“ ‘Built this as a summer-house,’ said Mr Bisset ‘It is an ideal hoose for that very purpose, for you've light all round with the glass on every side.'

“Through the bus windows I could see the sands of the far-famed Largo Bay and the Berwick side of the Forth estuary jutting out from the faur haze on the water; the sound of the sea was clearly audible with a soft wish-wash, and the rattle of the surf on the shingle. It was idyllic spot.”

Mr Bisset said his sole aim had been to brighten the house and gardens up, and he felt the shells had helped him achieve that.

“I looked at the hundred different designs in shells and thought of the hundreds of visitors who came to see the spot, and the hundreds more who could only admire its beauties by picture postcard, I quite agreed,” wrote the correspondent..

“Mr Bisset was a real artist.”

But he also took a great deal of pride in something else in the gardens – the aviaries. In 1931 they were populated with budgerigars, scarlet macaws, cardinal birds, a couple of owls, kestrel hawk, two parrots, scores of canaries, and golden pheasants.

“Here was where Leven's artist extraordinary spent his odd moments,” concluded the Courier.

“I said goodbye him by a wall on which dozen designs had been wrought in shellwork and coloured glass. Before we parted he spoke of his pheasants. ‘Phesians’, he called them.

“It was long time since I had heard such good south country word as that, but as I left him by the shell-covered wall I felt I had met a man worth knowing.”

While the Buckie Hoose menagerie would remain an attraction for decades to come, some of its residents did, on occasion take to the road.

For instance In November 1935 Mr Bisset headed to Anstruther and District Cage Bird Society’s annual show in West Anstruther Town Hall and the Commercial Hotel hall. With him for the trip along to the East Neuk were his Amherst pheasant, pet black and white mice, tawny and barn owls, a kestrel hawk, four guinea pigs, four monkeys, two macaws, an African parrot, an Amazon parrot, along with a number of the smaller varieties of cage birds.

Wull died in 1964 at the age of 95, while son James passed in 1978 and, soon after, the Buckie Hoose also faded into Leven’s history.

But what memories it left. During the 1930s, it was reckoned it attracted over 30,000 visitors each season but it remained popular, especially among locals, right into the 1970s.

I would welcome comments and memories on the Buckie Hoose but just three years after Wull Bisset began this treasured project - his “canvas of cement and stone”, as the Courier called it - was already being admired.

In 1923 the Leven Advertiser carried this poem from a T. Ure that will probably resonate with those who remember their visits to Seagate.

Now, if that was Tommy Ure who owned an ironmongers at the Shorehead, just a few yards from Wull Bisset’s house, we will probably never know. But it would be nice to think that the growing beauty of the Shell House brought daily joy to those on its doorstep. Its memories still do.

The Shell House, Leven

The work of a local miner, exhibiting rare patience, taste and skill; and visited and admired by the hundreds of summer visitors who come to Leven in search of recreation, health and pleasure.

0! Have you been to Leven Toon

And seen the "Bucky" Hoose?

If no, you've missed a brew, braw sicht,

Tho' ye be rich and spruce.

But if you've been to Leven Toon,

And the "Shelly" Hoose you've seen,

You've seen a sicht that's rare to see,

Tho' far you've travelled been.

The architect o' Nature's plan,

Showed handiwork most fair;

And he who planned the "Shelly" Hoose

Revealed an art most rare.

How rich and gay the flowers appear,

To give you invitation;

And much that's seen, yet canna' name,

Add to your delectation.

The Lovebirds flit on happy wing,

Unmindful of the passing gaze;

While varied birds o' varied hue,

Combine to sing their Maker's praise

In Nature's realm and Art's domain,

Are some most charming things to see;

But the "Shell" Hoose and its bonnie birds.

Are dear, aye dear to me.

T. Ure

Leven

The push to get rid of the Poles

Polish troops parade along Leven prom' during the war.

If I was asked what was the greatest lesson I had learned in all my years as a reporter my answer would be, “There is always another side to every story, and each side comes with more layers than you can ever imagine.”

History is like that. The more you read, the more avenues you venture down and what perhaps seemed simple becomes complex. The black and whites all turn grey.

So historical superficiality reigns supreme, even on a personal level. The older I become, it seems the less I know – be that the realities of the Great War, the supposed heroes and villains of the last century, the many disturbing dimensions of World War Two, the community I grew up in. All of these and more, probably everything, is so much more complicated than I ever imagined.

That realisation also brings so much regret. I never took the opportunity to quiz my great-grandparents, grandparents and parents. In some instances I was too young to understand but certainly, as far as the previous two generations went, I was old enough but, unfortunately, not interested enough. Now it is too late.

And that makes it particularly frustrating when another layer of history reveals itself and you realise that you could have had first-hand accounts of what shaped the lives of those who shaped us. And how, in many instances, attitudes have not changed.

I grew up aware that there had been anti-Polish sentiment in my community. Graffiti such as “Be a man, go home” was daubed outside the homes of some of the ex-soldiers who settled in Fife. But I was led to believe this was rare but I had a wake-up call when I was 16 and my girlfriend received a black eye from her father for dating “the son of a dirty Pole”.

Perhaps, I would have been more aware of that undercurrent if my father had immediately settled here after the war. However, through the schemes set up when hostilities ended, he and my mother emigrated to Argentina. They returned in the 1950s and, by then, the ill-feeling towards Poles had, if not disappeared, certainly diminished.

Of course I now understand what was going on. Most of the Poles who served during the war opposed the Soviet system and wanted no part of a socialist federation, controlled by Stalin in Moscow. As a result, returning to the motherland was perilous, possibly fatal. My father received ‘coded’ messages from his family warning him not to return and it would be the dawning of the 1960s before he could be reunited temporarily with his family behind the Iron Curtain, and then his protection was his British naturalisation.

But whatever his tale, he missed the first hand experience of the wider local community’s attitude to the Poles just as the war ended. He was based in Germany then there was a brief stay in the UK before his marriage and departure to South America.

For others in my home area of Fife, the ‘Polish question’ at that time was a controversial and heated issue. It received a full airing on October 16, 1945, in the Jubilee Theatre, Leven. Ironically, just 15 years later the Jubilee would be my playground, and a stone’s throw from where we lived.

Without pulling back too many layers, such as the trade union support for the USSR, which, at the time, is both valid and understandable, the 70,000 Poles in Scotland were seen as a major threat to jobs, and likely to be stealing work from the soon-to-be demobbed Scots.

The Jubiliee, location of
the 1945 public meeting.

Around 600 people from Leven, Buckhaven and Methil, crammed into the theatre for what turned out to be an ill-tempered meeting over the early repatriation of the Polish exiles.

“Platform speakers and speakers from the body of the hall were applauded, jeered and howled down … and the fact there were mixed feelings on the matter was obvious by the frequent interruptions, caused to a considerable extent by womenfolk,” stated one newspaper report. “There were times when the meeting got beyond the control of the chairman and threatened to become a farce.”

The Fife Free Press reported that the feeling was that the Polish soldiers were billeted and “having a good time” in Scotland and if they were not sent back there would be a work crisis.

“Polish soldiers were being trained in building and other skilled trades while many of our own countrymen, already skilled in various kinds of trades, were still serving in the occupied countries of Europe and the Far East,” reported the Press.

One speaker pointed out that Scotland, prior to the war, had been designated a depressed region so the country was in no position “to cater for immigrants”.

A resolution was then put forward for the “immediate repatriation” of all Polish forces.

There was an amendment from the floor, taking into account the stance of the British League for European Freedom, that the Polish troops should not be forced to return to Poland.

That was challenged by one spaker who stated: “If the amendment is adopted you will be seriously jeopardising the happiness of the country in not being able to provide employment and homes for our own people.”

That prompted a stern rebuke from a local minister, the Rev. G.J. Edwards, who said: “I do not stand in support of the Polish troops but I strongly deprecate the inhospitable and antagonistic attitude which has taken the place of a very friendly and harmonious relationship.”

The amendment went to the vote first, drawing 110 hands in support. No count was taken for the resolution given the show of hands indicated an overwhelming majority for the motion: “That the Leven Town Council follow the example of Peebles Town Council and pass a resolution urging the immediate repatriation of the Polish Forces in Scotland.”

Following that historic decision, it was agreed to recruit volunteers and organise a Levenmouth-wide petition to send the Poles home with the signatures being forwarded to the Secretary of State for Scotland.

As it was, forced repatriation did not come to pass, but the occasion did offer a valuable lesson, one that has been lost from local history. The fears and the sentiment expressed then still, unfortunately, have a resonance today.

Murder most fowl in Henderson Street

Henderson Street, Leven

I hadn’t long returned as editor of the East Fife Mail, based opposite the Caledonian Hotel in Leven’s Mitchell Street, a stone’s throw from where I grew up. 

It was a sort of homecoming and, for a while anyway, seemed the right fit. Having grown up in the town everything felt very comfortable. As a youngster I stood outside what was now my office listening to the clicking of the typewriters. My mother had taught at the secondary across the road, the Jubilee Theatre was one of my playgrounds, right on the borderline with the posher part of Leven – Links Road. 

A cafe hadn’t long opened a couple of doors up from the Mail and had a few old framed photographs on the wall. One lunch time I popped in, probably for soup, and while I was waiting to be served I had a good look at these pictures. One leapt out at me – Henderson Street. 

Now long demolished, this little street had made a huge impression on me. While the Jubilee and Mitchell Street were 50 or so yards to the east of where we lived in Rosebery Terrace, the same distance to the west, or thereabouts, was Henderson Street leading to the Shorehead. 

My best pal Vic Pilka stayed between the two in South Street so I probably made at least four journeys a day down this last remnant of ‘Auld Leven’. 

Even as a child, it felt as though it was from another time. If you look at the picture, the house at the far end with the two windows was, in my time, the home of Ella Meek, the leader of Leven lifeboys. 

Although you can’t quite make it out, between the gable end of her house and the start of Henderson Street there was a single lane track – one wide enough to accommodate a 1967 Triumph Herald trying to out-run, outwit and out-manoeuvre the police: more of that later. 

Just behind the corner on the left side of the Henderson Street houses was the entrance gate which took you to the rear of the properties. As a youngster you really did have free rein to venture just about anywhere in your neighbourhood, especially in the common areas of Viewforth Square, the back of Viewforth, Buchlyvie and, of course, Henderson Street. 

It was typical of the usual square set-up with individual areas divided up for the houses, just across from a communal path and the coal bunkers. Some had been kept as low maintenance drying greens, others had well-tended flower beds and, just as you came in the gate there was a wire-mesh aviary which was also probably a pigeon coop. 

I don’t ever recall becoming too familiar with those ‘plots’, probably because I don’t think there was an exit at the top, so I always tended to use the road in the front of the houses. 

That all stopped I would reckon when I was around eight or nine years of age. I’d been out playing and came home for my lunch, soup and pudding at the table in the living room. However, there was a bit of a scene that greeted me this occasion, with a worried and stern-faced mum and dad anxiously awaiting my arrival. 

They’d had a visit from a mother and daughter from Henderson Street. The mum has come to warn my parents that I could never venture near Henderson Street again as her husband had vowed he would “kill me”. The reason for this terrifying threat was that I had killed all the birds in his aviary, with an airgun, and not only that, the daughter had seen me do it. 

My parents protested my innocence, the police weren’t involved but I was warned off – for all time. 

As a youngster I don’t know how all this panned out among the adults but I do know the wee girl, who I have a vague recollection of being a couple of classes above me at Parkhill, was adamant that she saw the bird killer and that boy was me. Of that, she was in no doubt and totally unwavering in her testimony. 

I can’t recall how many birds were slaughtered and while there is no way I would harm one of God’s creatures, not then or now, there are certain aspects of the alleged crime that still bother me to this day. 

Firstly, I have never possessed an airgun. In fact, the only time I have fired one would have been at the shows on the Prom when they were chained to the counter. The target then was either a wee tin can shape, each in an individual alcove, or a row of dented ducks on a pulley. The showman had to load the gun for me as I could break it for loading, and then I was a lousy shot, failing to come even close to ever winning a gonk. 

So … hitting a veritable flock of birds would have acquired a great deal more marksmanship than I possessed if I had owned or had access to a gun, and would surely have taken quite some time? Also, this was at the back of a row of houses; surely someone would have seen the assassin (other than the daughter of the bird owner!) and stopped him, or her? Plus there would have been the repeated crack of the rifle and the frightened squawks of the fowl. 

No. This was a frame up, though the reasons to this day still bewilder me. 

Some time later the lass crossed my path on the road between Woolworth and what was then Cook’s highly flammable furniture store, whose subsequent blaze, I hasten to add, saw no blame attributed to me! I asked her why she had said I’d shot all those birds, and she took to her heels, screaming she was going to get her dad. 

So my detours around Henderson Street continued. Vic moved up to Scoonie and the bulldozers moved into the area. Henderson Street didn’t fall immediately. The rear was demolished, the residents relocated and it became a grim and depressing wasteland of rubble. 

Re-exploring it I made the acquaintance of an old tramp who camped there and always welcomed me round his wee fire and regaled me with his tales of life on the road. You can’t imagine anything like that happening nowadays, and I’d be beside myself if my grandchildren disappeared to spend time alone with a homeless stranger. But I thought nothing of it, he was kind and funny, and I remember being sad when he just up and left without saying a word. 

That nearly ends my connection with Henderson Street, but not quite, at least not with that lane that ran down the side of it. 

One night, having not long bought my first car, a quite beat-up 1967 Triumph Herald, I drove my pal home to Methil. On the way back to Leven, I attracted the attention of the boys in blue and found a police car sitting very close to my tail. There was no flashing light just the psychological tailgating. 

At one point I pulled over to let them pass, but they just stopped a short distance behind me and waited. When I pulled away, they came too. By the time I crossed the Bawbee Bridge and was nearing home, my unease started to give way to what I suppose would have been adolescent arrogance, so I decided to give them the slip. 

This was my backyard. 

A couple of changes of gear and speed, though always within the limit, and I dropped down that lane and on to School Street, nipped to the end, took a left into Forth Street, then another to the wall at Rosebery Terrace and my back door. 

Having just parked and opened the car door, I was suddenly caught in full beam, and by the collar. One of the officers heaved me to the front of the vehicle and slammed me into the wall. As I thudded into that, I could see my mother’s face peering out the scullery window, and then the light as she opened the back door. 

The policeman, obviously having watched too many American cop shows, then heaved me across the bonnet of the Herald demanding to know what I was doing, where I stayed, whose car it was. 

I tried to tell him this was where I lived, but he was having none of it. 

Just then, I heard a loud, “What’s going on here?” 

I managed to twist my head from the policeman’s grip to see mum in hairnet and candlewick dressing gown. 

“Do you know this boy?” the officer said. 

“That’s my son,” said mum. “He lives here. What’s he done? He was just dropping his friend off.” 

There was an awkward pause. 

“There’s been a lot of car thefts ma’am,” said the policeman. “Just making sure everything was in order here.” 

And at that, they were off. 

And that really does end my connection to Henderson Street. So seeing the picture in that cafe brought back all those memories. I asked if I could have a copy of the photograph, but the owner refused. I then asked if she would allow me to take a picture of the picture! But she refused me that as well. 

I even carried a small piece in an edition of the East Fife Mail, asking if anyone had a picture of Henderson Street, to no avail. 

Then, an appeal on the Facebook page, Auld Fife & Its People, duly brought Henderson Street back to life, and, to this day, it still remains one of my favourite pictures.