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. 

The Methilhill lass who saved Christmas

Mary Mitchell in 1933

The Andy Warhol quotation on “fifteen minutes of fame” has become almost derogatory about celebrity status. Yet, for many ordinary people, they can be briefly thrust into the spotlight for all the right reasons, and some of these may be life changing, or life saving.

In the days before that short piece on the regional news or local radio, the newspaper was the dominant source of sharing a story and giving someone that fifteen minutes in the spotlight.

The ‘down side’, if you want to call it that, is that after that brief appearance in newspaper columns, these folk just disappear from media interest. When I come across these stories, wonderful though they may be, that is what saddens me. What happened to these people in later life?

Do their descendants today know of their actions that earned them public acclaim?

While researching those who sprang to the rescue of others, I came across another tale. This one only appears to have featured in The Courier and Evening Telegraph but it attracted me because central to it was a Methilhill teenager, 19-year-old Mary Mitchell.

There is no clue as to where Mary hailed from in Methilhill or any details about her family, but on Christmas Eve 1933 she went from being a Levenmouth lass to a Tayside hero.

The drama unfolded at a grand property called ‘Stormont’ in West Park Road, Dundee, the home of an 82-year-old widow from Blairgowrie, Jane Panton.

A rug had been draped against a wall in the kitchen, accidentally tripping the switch on the iron and, eventually, fire broke out. It quickly spread through the kitchen then into the bathroom on the floor above.

Mary was roused from her sleep by the smoke and sprang into action, waking Mrs Panton and her nurse/housekeeper Miss Lawson.

In an interview with The Courier, Mary said: “When I ran to the front bedroom where Mrs Panton and Miss Lawson sleep, I banged on the door but could not get them to answer. The smoke was thick and I had to run back to my own bedroom, where I was able to get some fresh air at the open window.

“Three times I ran to their bedroom but could not get them to hear me . The dense smoke in the passage always drove me back … when I heard Miss Lawson’s voice.”

The women were unable to get downstairs to call the fire brigade so Mary and Miss Lawson helped the old lady out to a balcony and comparative safety.

“How they did it is a mystery,” Firemaster Weir told The Courier later. “It must have needed superhuman strength.”

The women raised the alarm from the balcony and the emergency services were duly summoned with all three being rescued thanks to breathing apparatus and chemical extinguishers.

The blaze and rescue made headline news, “Women’s peril in Dundee fire – Smoke cuts off staircase” and “82-year-old lady carried to balcony”, with the paper declaring: “But for the timely awakening of Miss Mary Mitchell, the household would have been in the gravest danger of their lives.”

So what happened to Methilhill's Mary Mitchell, that teenage hero? There may be more stories to tell.

My world isn’t round, it’s a square

The back green at Rosebery Terrace with
Annie Forrester's hedge pictured  behind.
Note the neat edges on the grass and Uncle Jock's
prized blooms.

Shouted at, threatened, hugged, patted and chased; most of all tolerated, all in a day’s life of a boy in ‘The Terrace’.

That’s what we all called it, ‘The Terrace’. Set across from the Greig Institute on the edge of old Leven, it was a compact collection of terraced houses, built around a common drying green and behind a perimeter wall. A stone’s throw to the east was our ‘twin’, Viewforth Square. Diagonally opposite was Buchlyvie Terrace, and another group of houses – the first to face the bulldozers and whose name escapes me now, but which stood alongside George Harvey’s wee, white photographic studio and behind Cook’s furniture store, later razed by fire.

But I reckon we had the edge, because we had Uncle Jock, and that meant Rosebery Terrace didn’t just have a shared back green, it had a manicured garden. Looking back it was nothing more than a well-cut bit of grass surrounded by well-tended flower beds. Buchlyvie was a bigger block with the drying green divvied up, so it wasn’t a fair comparison. Viewforth? Well, it didn’t have Uncle Jock.

Jock Thomson was just one of our neighbours in what was the centre of my universe. I was seconds away from the beach and Doriano’s hut; a minute from the Shorehead and a minute from the High Street, but Rosebery Terrace – named after the Earl and Prime Minister – was my safe haven, playground, and the residents were the nearest I had to close relatives, hence ‘Uncle’ Jock.

Buchlyvie Terrace on the far left. The South Street car
park stands on the site of another tenement block
and the GW Harvey studio.

As well as tending the green and the garden, Uncle Jock also ruled the shed, and had a greenhouse. I spent a lot of time with him and I have no recollection of him ever speaking to me. He growled a lot and would often yell, “Get that ball oot the gairden and gaun an’ play on the road ...” Yes, despite the enclosed safety of the back green, you weren’t allowed any activities that could harm his precious blooms. The road was his preferred playground for children. Occasionally I would be allowed to help tend his tomatoes in the greenhouse, or watch him at work in his shed, which was a world of wonder, packed with strange tools and implements, and filled with a heady fragrance of oil and creosote. There were certain jobs he entrusted me with. One was doing the edges with the shears, and round the clothes poles. My efforts were carefully inspected and, if not up to standard, I’d be ordered to revisit my efforts until they met with his approval. As we both grew older, and I could manage to push it, I’d have the lawnmower shoved in front of me. I’d pech away while he sat on the bench, shaking his head beneath his cap.

Uncle Jock’s apparent sternness was countered by his wife, Nancy. She didn’t like being called Auntie Nancy so insisted she was Auntie Thomson, and she was probably the nearest I had to a traditional granny. I did have a ‘step’ grandmother in Mountfleurie but that was the other side of the planet, and there was my Polish granny, but she was on the other side of the universe. Auntie Thomson filled the gap, admirably. Jock and Nancy’s house at the top of the stairs as you entered Rosebery Terrace was an open door to me. I could play with my soldiers on the steps, walk inside to use the toilet, sit and talk to Joey their budgie, and Auntie Thomson took the time to teach me to play whist and I spent many a rainy afternoon sitting with her at a folding table by the fire with a pack of cards, a cup of tea and a piece of cake, while Joey practised his few words in the corner. It’s hard to imagine anyone nowadays just allowing a neighbour’s child to wander in and out of your house, any time of day.

Every Saturday, Auntie Thomson would come down to our house for the rare treat of a cup of coffee, made with boiled milk, and a chocolate biscuit. I don’t ever recall Uncle Jock joining her, though I seem to recollect a cup being given to him as he sat in the green on the bench, no doubt pondering in despair at which idiot neighbour had put one of the stretchers back in the rack the wrong way round.

Living below them was Annie Forrester, the area’s school dental nurse, maybe even dentist – I was never sure. Miss Forrester could be ferocious, my football could also be a major aggravation to her, drawing her out from what I saw as a dark lair to tell me to play further up the road. I think I surprised her once when I got all excited when she turned up at Parkhill Primary to give us all an oral inspection. I may even have hugged her, much to her embarrassment.

Miss Forrester certainly didn’t have an open door policy though, on occasions, she did tolerate my presence and her ‘living room’ really was an old-fashioned parlour, filled with dark wood, rich colours and cosiness. I still own two packs of instruction cards she gifted me, one on road safety and one on reading music. Later on, probably when she retired, she gave me quite a collection of dental paraphernalia; this I didn’t keep.

The next stairs along led to two houses. The first belonged to Davy Foote and his mother. Mr Foote ran a fruit and vegetable shop in Commercial Road, opposite what was George Harvey’s shop. I have no knowledge of Mr Foote’s background, but he had a military, 'tweedie' bearing, neat moustache and a cap. He didn’t have a lot of time for me, though his mother was a gentle soul, who sometimes gave me a sweetie. Mr Foote just gave me grief, and didn’t like me playing on his stairs. I have a vague recollection of him being a bit of a ladies’ man and, on one occasion, being chased around the block by a rival suitor while all the neighbours watched the race from their windows.

Tucked into the corner flat was a dear lady, whose family were the Hudsbeths. They visited every year and were a friendly lot, with the two sons always willing to spend some time with me. I think it was their granny they visited upstairs. Some of the houses in ‘The Terrace’ had front doors, either on to Forth Street or School Street, and the ‘old lady’ always used hers so we rarely saw her. As a result, especially with Mr Foote’s determination to keep his stairs clear of children, these were two houses I have no recollection of ever entering.

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Below these flats were the homes of Bella Donaldson and my own, tucked into the corner. Bella was deaf as a post and a gentler soul you couldn’t hope to meet. Her door was often open and I was allowed to peek in and shout hello. She had a wire mesh covered box fixed to her outside wall and that was her ‘fridge’, where she kept her milk, cheese and butter. Bella was only there in my really early years and, I think, she went into care. The new occupants were Mr and Mrs Logie, with she quickly becoming another ‘granny’ to me, and then my own children later in life.

Through the green and up the stairs were Mr and Mrs Kelly, and daughter Marilyn. Marilyn was a good bit older than me and to her I must just have been an irritating, noisy little brat but her mum always had time for me, and a pat for my head. Next door were Mr and Mrs Pratt, and they were a couple with another open door policy for a wee boy. They had a tank of fish just inside the door and I was free to wander in and out, squatting down in front of wee aquarium and enjoying the free entertainment. Again I was allowed to just saunter into their living room on my wanders, without any reproach.

That left two downstairs houses in ‘The Terrace’, both of which had their only entrance on School Street. The first, next door to us, was actually a holiday home – I think it belonged to a family in Edinburgh. It was rarely used and through the years was occasionally let out. Other than Phyllis Bennett and her son, Ross, who became a good friend of mine, we never really got to know the folk who came and went. And, on the end, was Mrs Clow – now she and I had a lot of dealings, and I gave her a lot of exercise. Her kitchen window looked out on the green and as soon as I got up to any mischief, in the absence of Uncle Jock, she’d be banging on her window and, if she was really annoyed, you’d hear the window slide up, and she’d shout, “Right, I’ll be speaking to your mother and father...” She must have kept the window cord wheels well buttered because that frame was up and down like a yo-yo. Of course, there were times when you were out on the road, kicking the ball against the wall and you’d balloon it over, perilously close to her window and you’d hear it slide open with a dramatic flourish. Sometimes, if I hadn’t roused her wrath, I’d race round to School Street and down the wee penn at the side of the house, then sneak quietly to collect my ball … only to hear the whoosh of that window sliding up again and another raging coming. In all the years of Mrs Clow’s irritable vigil though, I don’t think she ever dobbed me in to mum and dad, and she would tolerate the occasional visit from the boy with a ball, but I had to knock.

Her window, looked out over her generously-shared rhubarb patch, Uncle Jock’s greenhouse and shed, and, of course, the wash house. The back green was off limits when that was in use and my mother and Auntie Thomson had no time for me when they doubled up for a day’s laundry. The wash house was like a sauna, with the roaring fire and bubbling boiler stoked to maximum, those seemingly giant mangles, wringers, scrubbing boards, and the smell of soap and bleach. It was hot, hard work, but also a place of wonder. Once the back green was filled, the clothes ropes taut with the stretchers, and Auntie Thomson and mum inside having a cup of tea and a biscuit, the silence, smell and fading heat of the wash house made a memorable impression.

Of course, over time the faces would change in ‘The Terrace’ as would the routines. The arrival of the twin tub did for the wash house and it simply became a communal shed in its redundancy and where I kept my bike. My father used to maintain the path with shingle off the beach, ferried up with a wheelbarrow, but Mr Logie laid a concrete walkway, which is still there today. The flower beds and the grass became a shared chore, and an expense, but ‘The Terrace’ has survived.

Looking at it now, built around a grass ‘courtyard’ and with easily restricted access, Rosebery Terrace and Viewforth Square, actually provided, and still could provide, a good model for community living. I still have fond memories when many of the neighbours congregated, some on the back green, some at their doors and some on their steps, and simply blethered. They let me run among them and make a nuisance of myself … but I had to make sure no shingle was scuffed up on the grass, and, of course, had to stay well clear of Uncle Jock’s flowers.

The pie that shell-shocked the Press

Fife’s local newspapers are packed with forgotten stories, but there are quite a few occasions when the titles themselves have a story unfold around them.

In many instances that tale will never be told. There are instances where that is a good thing but there are others which, because of circumstances and legal implications, the story begins, unfolds and ends with only the key players ever being party to what actually happened.

There won’t be a newsroom in the entire world that won’t have a good collection of stories behind the stories. Some are shocking, others surprising, and some silly.

Here’s one that, in hindsight, might fall into that last category but, at the time, it was no laughing matter; well the legal bills weren’t anyway.

Although the tale is now nearly 30 years old, the names have been withheld, just in case this prompts a return visit to legal offices.

The story, dating from the early ’90s,  centres on that esteemed journal, the Fife Free Press, Then located near the foot of Kirk Wynd, Kirkcaldy.

It was the season of goodwill and while the staff at the Press were working out the rota for the festive editions, an official-looking letter landed on the editor’s desk. This was from a firm of solicitors and the threats of legal action therein did not come from the usual suspects of court reporting, council coverage or interviews. No, the source of ire on this occasion was a pie.

The previous week, to add some colour to the sports pages dominated by Raith Rovers and Fife Flyers, it had been decided to re-introduce the once popular ‘Good Pie Guide’ - one journalist’s reviews of the savoury treats, or otherwise, available at the football grounds Raith visited, and a regular feature of the hack’s press box fare.

“Once again our fearless judges will queue in the rain for some odd bits of cow stuffed in cardboard pastry,” was how the reporter launched his column.

And, with just the first sample tested, he added: “Already we have a candidate for worst of the season.

“A texture like jellied eel, wrapped in a case of floury paper, combined with a taste which defies description.

“It was so bad that our guinea pig, normally noted for a cast iron stomach, was unable to complete the judging and was last seen heading for the toilets.”

Granted it was not a glowing endorsement but then again, ‘wan man’s meat is anither’s poison’. The baker responsible for the creation of this delicacy did not take kindly to the review, and hot-footed it to a legal firm, demanding action.

“The article was brought to our clients’ attention and they are extremely perturbed at the allegations contained therein,” stated the legal missive delivered to the editor. “The bakery has provided pies for 25 years and was voted second in Scotland with regard to the quality of the product.

“Our clients are extremely displeased with the coverage which their product received within the Fife Free Press. Our clients have instructed us to apply for a retraction to be printed as soon as possible, failing which it is their wish to begin court proceedings against you for defamation and damages.

“We look forward to hearing from you within the next seven days together with your proposals for a retraction, failing which we shall take our clients’ further instructions regarding raising the appropriate court proceedings.”

Now when a newspaper faces an official legal threat, it invariably means turning to the legal eagles it has on retainer. The complainer and the publisher, then sit on the sidelines while two sets of solicitors embark on the legal equivalent of chess and a square go.

This proved to be an open and shut (pastry) case. Firstly, the review focused on one particular pie, not all pies. If you were to, or could, challenge that review, it would have to be against that exact same pie. That would only have been possible if the reporter had retained some portion of crust, gravy and filling. This could then be retrieved, probably from below the seat of a Ford Fiesta, then presented in court perhaps 18 months later. It is hard to imagine many jurors queuing up for a lick of what would now surely be a putrid petri dish casserole of beef and bacteria.

Secondly, it was an opinion piece. Like a restaurant review or a crit’ of a show, if you charge money for something you take your chances on what the buying public’s response will be.

Finally, other than being described as “bad”, there might be those who found the potential of a “jellied eel” texture appealing, likewise, floury paper and a taste beyond description. Telling people what one particular ‘gourmet’ thought of a product could be viewed as helpful and enlightening.

With no surviving remnants of the particular pie to present, the Fife Free Press lawyers, responded, if not tersely then certainly briefly: “We respectfully suggest that our client’s comments on the pie in question fall into the category of fair comment on a matter of public interest.”

And there ended the matter. For those with an appetite for a little more, the ‘Good Pie Guide’ no longer features in the sports pages of the Fife Free Press, but the pies are still going strong, and remain popular.

The forgotten art of setting a fire

Respect, it’s all down to respect. That was the message drummed into me by my parents, grandparents and neighbours - and that covered all aspects of life. 

But there’s one area where this childhood ‘respect’ has surprised many through my life, especially those closest to me … fire.

Certainly in this day and age you’d have social services banging on your door with much hand-wringing at case conferences amid deliberation over your family’s capabilities to provide responsible care.

Now, let me set my stall out here right at the start. I was never allowed to play with fire, not once, not ever, but that doesn’t mean I was herded to the other side of the room, and constantly kept a safe distance from the fireguard and behind the clothes-horse.

I reckon it has a lot to do with Fife being a coal-mining community, and with my father, grandfather and great-grandfather all making their living down the pits, coal was a key part of our lives. And that meant so was the fire. You had to understand it, control it and always respect it.

The fire was central to our daily existence. It didn’t just warm us and the house, it was, certainly in my grandparents’ house, a cooking facility, it dried the clothes on dreich, drizzly days, and it provided our hot water.

I remember the arrival of our first immersion heater and my father keeping his eye on the electric meter and his watch and almost working out the cost of a bath on a summer’s day.

“Should be warm enough now,” he’d say as you traipsed off for a barely lukewarm scrub.

It was a different matter entirely with a blazing fire and the damper out, then you could have the water tank rumbling and not only a hot bath but near enough a sauna as well – a wee skoosh of Sqezy washing-up liquid and a drop of your dad’s Old Spice and you were in suds of luxury.

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My relationship with the fire began on the street. That was where my dad’s ton of coal from the pit was dumped. That meant the wheelbarrow being dug out of the communal shed in the square, buckets utilised, shovels distributed from the big long-handled one dad used to the wee one for the children, and that black mound was slowly but surely transferred into the coalbox. None of this sack-to-box delivery back then. What would be left was some irretrievable dross and a big black circle that would tell the world for a week or so that there had been a coal delivery.

We also kept a sledgehammer in the coal bunker that was used to break the huge lumps but, as I got older and was given more responsibility for loading, I had my own system of organisation. In one area there was the easy-to-shovel, easy-to-burn pieces, around the size of golf balls or smaller. Next, and still accessible from the wee sliding door at the side of the coalbox were the bigger pieces that provided the more solid construction of the fire. Then, I stacked the muckle lumps that could only be reached by opening the front of the box. They were our reserves, able to be further broken down, or used for the long burn. These were the sort of pieces that would almost fill the fireplace and burn slowly, allowing you to go out and when you got back, you whacked them with the poker, allowing the glow to turn to flames. Add some smaller pieces, and you had a rare blaze going. These big chunks had another use too, but more of that later.

But what about the fire itself? Well this is where those who didn’t grow up with a coal fire really don’t get it, and certainly not child involvement. I reckon everyone had their own ‘style’ and, like a good broth or mince recipe, we all had our own secrets.

The respect started in the morning when the fire needed cleaned. This was, I suppose, the safest introduction for a youngster. Raking though the grate, shovelling up the ash from beneath it, taking it out to the bin – watching out for a ‘blaw’ from the wind as you dumped it. But helping with the clear, didn’t mean the fire was dead. There were often embers, still hot that could easily roll on to the back of your hand. I reckon these were my earliest burns, and you soon learnt to hover your palm over the charred remains to get an idea of where the heat still lay. Carefully, with the tongs and wee hearth shovel, these pieces could be put to one side of the hearth for a quick light and heat.

This donkey work being done, the hearth would be cleaned, ash wiped from between the tiles, and the new fire set. By the time I was at primary I knew how to set a good fire. You’d make the paper twists out of the East Fife Mail, just the right tightness and density. Too tight and they wouldn’t take, too loose and you risked them burning out without catching anything else and having to start all over again. Then, if you had it, kindling. If you had some dry wood, a fire was easy-peasy (sorry, no skill set required at all for those using firelighters). I had my own way of laying the kindling, allowing just enough air in, with the right size of coal pieces perched at the point of maximum combustion. You left two or three edges of paper sticking through the front of the grate, light them, and off you went.

Then it was down to your preference. To really get the day’s blaze going, if you were pushed for time or it was a cold winter’s day, you had to draw it. I’ve often thought if the nation had only ever known tabloid newspapers, the art of drawing with a broadsheet over the front of the fire would have been lost. You could do that with the damper on a slight pull to get a full-on sook. You had to learn that as the flames licked up they would drop drastically when you pulled away the paper. But, leave the newspaper in place too long and it would ignite. That brought its own emergency procedures with you often having to let the blazing paper scoot up the lum, hoping it wouldn't catch the soot. So you’d watch carefully, monitor how brown the paper was turning and you’d recognise the smell coming off the paper – your senses told you when it was time to pull away. Once caught, the damper could be fully extended; you’d hear the roar and that was you.

After that it was all down to feeding that family friend though the day.

From very early childhood I was instructed in this magical art, and the ways to deal with burning coal that fell into the hearth, sparks, balancing the different sizes of coal for the fire you wanted. How to use dross, how to manage the damper and all its secret powers. The one thing I remember is we were definitely a ‘coal family’. On occasions when we had logs, or sticks off the beach when money was tight, a coal-wood fire was a different proposition, burning faster with explosions of sparks that had you diving ahent the couch for cover then scouring the carpet for the smouldering shrapnel. Wood is definitely a primitive alternative!

But there is one fire I remember vividly, and with pride. My parents had gone out to a dance and I decided I would have a bath, with the hottest water mankind had ever known. And that meant the best fire ever set, ever.

Having evened up the existing fire, given it a good going-over with the poker, I then laid my magical combination of small coal, larger pieces round the side, then, opening the front of the box I chose a perfect slab, maybe three inches deep, foot long, eight inches wide. I laid that on top of the tried and tested foundation, whacked it with the poker so it cracked then filled in around it with coal pieces around a two-bob bit size … then, once it had a good glow all round, I pulled out the damper, full.

What a heat! I had to push my chair further and further away from the fire. Then I heard a banging. Looking into the scullery, the water tank was vibrating. Now science isn’t my strong point but even I knew the hottest water you can get is steam! And sure enough when I turned on the taps that’s what I got, along with shards of rust. Terrified, I was going to blow the side of the house off, I rammed the damper in and, using the washing-up basin, started to douse the fire.

Much to my relief nothing did blow up but I was left with a filthy hearth and mantelpiece, and the living room stinking of coal steam … and a pathetic fire. By the time I cleaned up I was filthy, the fire was a sodden mess, and almost impossible to get going again.

It was a pretty cold bath I had to clean myself up, brown water, which left quite a tidemark, and a silt of rusty metal, but what a fire that was!

The coal fire – it’s a lost art form these day.

Picture: Alicja_ from Pixabay

The destruction of David Mach's bike

The tank blocks at the edge of Leven Links.

A human cannonball, that was me. Soaring fast and high. I had time to say, “Look at me Wendy, I’m flying”, or “I can almost see my house from here”, but I didn’t. Physically, I was fine, unscathed, uninjured, at least for a few seconds. Staying that way was going to be the tricky part. 

So, how did I become airborne? Well, that was down to David Mach’s bike. Now an acclaimed and celebrated sculptor, the future artist's machine was the envy of all his pals. My memory may be failing me now but I’m pretty sure it was a 10-gear racer, though it might have been five. It was his pride and joy; he didn’t lend it out easily and now this sleek, dropped-handlebar racer had propelled me into the unknown. 

The take-off was unplanned so, obviously, the need for a landing strategy was unforeseen. 

The countdown had begun a short while earlier. David lived on Kinnarchie Crescent in Aberhill and he, his neighbour Norrie ‘Bicycle Repair Man’ Walker and myself hung out for a while together, united by various escapades on our bikes. 

The fact David and Norrie lived in Aberhill meant the launchpad for most of our adventures began on Kinnarchie Brae, the steep, but wide, approach to the Bawbee Bridge. Then, that was the main road with junctions feeding down into Lower Methil and on to Methilhaven Road. Coming off the brae you had right of way and a clear view right down to Bridge Street in Leven and through the Shorehead to the pier. 

Given the visibility and our youthful recklessness, we, as young teenagers, had become ‘test cyclists’ on a variety of experiments, including a memorable but highly dangerous descent down the side footpath at the top of the brae on a fixed wheel bike. This was undertaken on a Sunday with minimal traffic as, with a fixed wheel, stopping was well nigh impossible until you hit the Leven Prom stretch between Seagate and Forth Street. 

Kinnarchie Brae, however, was the main road and a much safer route. 

We had relatives staying with us at Rosebery Terrace in Leven and I’d spent the afternoon in Aberhill at David’s house, and probably kicking a ball around in the park. For some reason I had to report home and I asked David for a loan of his bike for the quick trip to Leven. I imagine he reluctantly agreed, so I had the rare treat of unleashing his prized racer on the brae. 

All of this is vague; the next few minutes, 50 years on, remain crystal clear. 

Pedalling out on to the brae, the brickworks facing me, I crossed the road and turned towards Leven, then started pushing through the gears. By the time I rounded the curve, the bike was in full flow, the gradiant accelerating the bike faster than my legs could. Was I within the speed limit? I doubt it but I had a clear run into Leven; I would be home within a couple of minutes. 

The car was dark blue, and I reckoned it was a Ford Anglia. That registered because I had never seen one that colour. It approached the junction to Methilhaven Road from the Bawbee Bridge. I was closing the gap, quickly, and I was about to squeeze the brakes, but the car halted. With it safely stopped, I let the bike pick up more speed. 

Then when I was within just a few feet of it, he suddenly cut across me. I didn’t have time to react, not even to get the lightest squeeze on the brake, then I felt the thud and the take-off. 

At the same time there was a crunch of metal and I was in full flight, probably at more than 40mph. I didn’t realise it but the bike was following me, having somersaulted over the roof of the car but without my trajectory it would crash and tumble into the road, while I sailed on. 

My most vivid memory of this seconds-long silent flight was my speed. I was going fast, very fast. 

Now here I need to mention my father. Dad wasn’t a lot of fun. He was strict, but fair, disciplined and pragmatic. He never kicked a ball with me or flew a kite or built a sandcastle. 

But he taught me to respect people, animals and plants, to make my bed properly, polish my shoes and change spark plugs. 

Often we’d walk along Leven beach, up to Silverburn to pat the horse in the field adjoining the links, up and across the old bing, then back home. 

These walks usually took place in total silence. I’d run ahead, run off, lag behind – I knew his route and would re-join him at intervals for another silent leg of our walk until I got bored and went off exploring again. One of the shared features on these outings were the tank blocks embedded along the edge of the golf course. These wartime relics were perfect for clambering on and, as I got older, I was able to jump from one to the next. 

This antic irked my father, but not in the way you’d expect. One day I leapt off a block, all arms and legs, enough to stop him in his tracks, and he looked at me with a mixture of concern and exasperation. 

Dad had served with the 1st Polish Independent Parachute Brigade and while he never shared his experiences of the war years, he must have reckoned teaching his son how to land and fall was a useful lesson, that coming from jumping out of planes and his martial arts training. 

And so began the impromptu lessons until I had mastered the art: feet together, knees slightly bent, chin and elbows tucked in. When falling, distribute the weight, protect the head … 

And so it was as I whizzed in the air at the foot of Kinnarchie Brae that those childish games of leaping off the tank blocks or hurling myself off the beach grass on to the sands helped me find some sort of a landing position. 

“Tuck your chin in,” was my last thought before everything went black. 

I was out for only seconds. People were still running towards me as I focused. Although I was told not to move, I needed to try to get up and although I fell back at the first attempt I knew then nothing was broken ... and my head was intact. 

I remember some folk expressing their surprise at my lack of injury and how lucky I’d been. Undoubtedly, I was, but I definitely had a bit of help. 

With no fatality on his hands, the driver of the car, who had joined the gathering crowd, jumped back in his car and sped off – and that’s another story. 

Personally, most distressing was the mangled remains of David Mach’s bike, beyond repair. Perhaps it might still provide inspiration for a future work of art? 

Picture: © Copyright Euan Nelson and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Fife’s continuing war with influenza

As the Covid-19 epidemic forces Fife into a near shutdown with panic buying, self-isolation and social distancing now becoming a way of life, it is to be hoped the government-recommended messages work in curtailing the virus.

As of yesterday (Thursday, March 19) confirmed cases in the Kingdom had reached nine, according to the Fife Today website, with 266 having contracted coronavirus across Scotland, resulting in six deaths.

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At the time of writing it is expected these numbers will rise, though the full human impact of the epidemic is impossible to determine.

It is to be hoped that the measures proposed and the common sense of Fifers will stem a tide of tragedy which has swept across the region so many times in the past through influenza.

Local figures are not readily available for Fife but the flu epidemic which raged across the UK in the 21-week season of 2014/2015 resulted in more than 28,000 deaths.

The Office of National Statistics stated: "The first part of 2015 (5 to 11 January) also saw weekly deaths at 15,000, the highest number in any given week since the last two weeks of December 1999 and first two weeks of January 2000, when flu levels were very high."

However, it is likely earlier epidemics, before the introduction of vaccines, modern methods of germ control, improved hygiene, and better medical care and medicines, produced a much greater national toll.

Fife was particularly badly hit in the winter of 1891/92 with the parish of Dunfermline suffering especially badly. In November 1891, respiratory complications from the flu had claimed 84 lives in a single month. One miner in Kingseat lost his wife and two children, a couple in Crossford died within hours of each other, and a 96-year-old woman buried two of her daughters before succumbing herself. In the first two weeks of December, 46 more deaths had been recorded in Dunfermline with the epidemic showing no signs of abating.

The 1920s appear to have been a particularly bad decade. On average, nationally, the death rate was approximately 14.8 per thousand, running at 350 per week during an outbreak.

In 1922, influenza gripped Levenmouth with an estimated quarter of the population of Methil and Buckhaven diagnosed. In 1927 another epidemic swept across the British Isles, causing thousands of deaths. At the height of the outbreak deaths in Scotland were averaging 60 per week.

Then, in 1937, the first three months of the year saw 170 people across Fife die from influenza-related conditions – the second highest cause of deaths in Fife, behind heart disease. Again, this time, the epidemic seemed particularly virulent in West Fife. In January, Lochore and Glencraig pits were on the point of closure with over 250 miners struck down by the virus.

In the winter of 1954, Fife braced itself again after a particularly virulent outbreak in the north east of England, that seemed to be affecting children the most. In November the bug blast reached Kirkcaldy and within one single week a third of all the Lang Toun’s children had caught it. The Wemyss area was next with 50 per cent of all children going down with the virus. This epidemic was viewed by the medical authorities as “mild” and lasted little more than three weeks.

Times have changed and though the 2014/15 figures are disturbing, the 2018/19 statistics show a rapid decline in flu fatalities with 1692 victims – the lowest for five years.

Firemen's frantic efforts to save child

A cutting from the Fifeshire Advertiser showing the crowds
 that gathered to watch the blaze.

Firemen unable to reach a poor wee girl caught in an inferno – now there’s a Fife tale worth rediscovering and re-telling. 

Moreso because it happened in an area and I knew well, but it was a story I had never heard of before, happening on the edge of Innerleven and Lower Methil.

Although I grew up in Leven by the time I was in my teens I had pals in Innerleven, Methil and Aberhill, and we used to regularly play football or cricket in Kinnarchie Park by the ICI filling station, opposite Central Farmers. 

Often I’d take the ‘low road’ to Aberhill, crossing the railway line and bridge by the power station, then head along past the Innerleven Hotel and up the Waverley Steps to Aberhill.

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My ‘Auntie’ Bunty, bestowed with that title because she was a friend of my mum’s, worked in the dry cleaner’s in a wee shop on the oppiosite side of the road from the steps and I’d pop in just to say hello.

But now I’m wondering if the shop where she worked had risen from the site of that blaze 20 years previously.

That happened at 124 High Street at the premises of Wizard Dry Cleaners. On Sunday, September 25, 1949, proprietor Gordon Hartley was working in the shop with his sister-in-law Jean Porteous while his seven-year-old daughter Kay played. Suddenly, the building was rocked by an explosion.

Mr Hartley tried to tackle the ensuing blaze but, injured and unable to quell the flames, he raced to summon the fire brigade.

Within three minutes firemen, under the supervision of Company Officer Thomson, were on the scene, and a large crowd had gathered in the street and packed the Waverley Steps.

According to the newspaper coverage from the time, the Fifeshire Advertiser and Leven Mail reported that it was believed little Kay was still trapped in the blazing shop.

“On entering the premises the firemen noticed a scorched child-like figure lying on the floor,” said the Advertiser. “The word went round that Kay had been playing in the shop prior to the explosion.

“Sheets of flame drove the firefighters from the shop.”

One can only imagine the desperation of the firemen and the horror that rippled through the crowd of hundreds at this apparent tragedy.

One person unperturbed by it all though would have been wee Kay who was watching the fire from the other side of the road, and no doubt wondering what had happened to her doll that she’d left in the shop when she went out to play seconds before the explosion.

“It was a relief to hear the child was safe,” said Coy Officer Thomson later.

With the dry cleaning chemicals reacting with the fire, the shop turned into a blazing inferno with telephone lines destroyed amid rising pillars of smoke, and neighbouring houses’ windows cracked.

The firemen, using foam, eventually managed to bring the flames under control leaving Mr Hartley with damage estimated at £2000 for the business he’d started just two months before – and a lot of Methil folk with cremated clothing that had been put in for cleaning.

The Waverley Steps: https://tour-scotland-photographs.blogspot.com/2019/09/old-photograph-waverly-steps-methil.html

Fangless Fifers had NHS gnashing its teeth

While we all love our National Health Service and are rightly proud of it, the present strain on its resources is not a new phenomenon.

In 1949 Fifers had local health chiefs gnashing their teeth over the spiralling cost of replacement dentures.

It was the Fife Executive Council of the NHS, at its September meeting in Kirkcaldy, that stepped up to the plate and gave the community something to chew over.

The issue was the rising number of claims for replacement dentures, and it prompted one doctor to proclaim, “If we don’t do something to deter people from losing their teeth then there is going to be no end to the claims, and no end to the cost of the service.”

And how Fifers were losing their wallies made interesting reading.

According to the Fifeshire Advertiser one man who swallowed a mouthful of salt water while swimming was duly sick and lost his top and bottom set in the briny.

Another managed to smash his false teeth when he tripped on some rocks, and then there was another claim from one man who simply lost his dentures on the “extremities of Leven pier”, with no explanation as to how he managed that.

In some cases the executive council was expected to pick up the full cost of replacement sets; in other instances the gormless gummies were asked to come up with half the cost.

Given the sums involved it was agreed to look at the financial options but ex-Provost Blamey (Cowdenbeath) cut to the chase, giving the committee something to chew over.

“The people don’t appreciate the service,” he said. “If everyone who lost their teeth had to pay at least 50 per cent of the cost then there would be less cases.”

Heavy cost of a rich haul

'Protect Me' - A cutting from the Dundee Evening Telegraph

It seems we like our history to be like our newspaper headlines – dramatic, sudden and exciting. Maybe that has its roots in the fact that all of creation has been condensed to just six days in the opening verses of Genesis?

There’s probably a popular misconception that the age of dinosaurs ended with a big bang overnight. While on the grand scale of time the extinction period was certainly swift, it created a necessary evolution so, while dramatic, it was still gradual. That concept is so much duller when it comes to storytelling.

Likewise, on a local level, Fife’s thriving fishing industry didn’t just stop as one day everyone hoisted empty nets. The decline featured times of “glut and famine” over decades, with the squeeze tightening as the lows became more dominant than the highs.

According to Peter Smith’s The Lammas Drave and the Winter Herrin’ the spring of 1934 delivered the best landings since 1902 and that unexpected boom would continue up until the start of the war.

But March 1935 would produce a harvest that proved troublesome in its abundance, possibly best illustrated by the St Monans yawl ‘Protect Me’ which made the columns of the Dundee Evening Telegraph with its mixed fortunes.

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By mid-March, the winter fishing was again producing poor catches but fresh shoals were arriving with the ‘Hakes’ fishing ground providing a particularly rich reward for the nets.

“Many boats returned to the Fife ports heavy with herring,” reported the Telegraph.

“The crews had a hard struggle to get the nets, which in some cases were absolutely full of fish, on board. The spots in some areas were extraordinary and nets were swept away or torn to ribbons by the weight of the fish.”

The ‘Protect Me’ was forced to lie ashore on Friday, March 22, because of damage to its gear caused by hauling in its laden nets.

According to the newspaper the boat had to take on extra crew and it still took nearly six hours to get the bulging nets on board.

“The gear recovered, which was badly torn, yielded about 50 crans, while a number of nets were carried away. Other crews encountered dense shoals and found that they had also netted too big a catch and their nets were destroyed.”

It was also reported that feelings were running high between the Fife crews and the ring-net vessels which were believed to have caused a lot of damage to the anchored nets.

‘Protect Me’, according to Smith’s listings of landings, continued to fare well through 1936 and 1937 but would appear to have been fortunate to do so, having made the news in January 1934. It had been caught in a gale off the May Isle when she lost her mast and rigging.

The newspapers then reported that she was being carried towards the island when, in response to flares, she was taken in tow by another St Monans vessel, ‘The Endeavour’.

The little Santa in the window

Lower Methil

'Forgotten Fife Tales’ is all about rediscovering those stories that have been lost or buried beneath the louder headlines through the years.

These little gems can pop up anywhere and when you come across personal recollections you invariably strike a rich seam of memories and anecdotes.

The brief autobiography of Thomas (‘T.T.') Fordyce, provost of St Andrews from 1961-70, does, as you would expect, contain a wealth of stories of his time as the civic head of the Auld Grey Toun. But in his ‘Memoirs of a Provost’ (Alvie Publications, 1981) it was his early days starting out in the drapery trade in Fife that really caught my attention.

T.T. made what must have been a massive leap from life in Banffshire to Methil High Street during the boom time for the pits and, of course, the docks.

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He offers a fascinating insight into what life was like in the months before the 1921 strike when the mining community was prospering, describing how the wives and mothers would hold out their lap to receive the cash that hadn’t been kept for personal pocket money by the menfolk.

But while his recollections capture the bustle of a busy town, the story that made a particular impression on me was an advertising stunt T.T. pulled to boost his festive sales.

“There were many children in the area around Methil, especially in Buckhaven and Leven, which gave confidence to stock toys for Christmas.," he wrote. "Having bought a considerable stock and range of toys it was essential to advertise well and make a good display.

“The greatest attraction in the toy window which brought children and their parents from miles around was a mechanical Santa Claus.”

So far, so good, but the stunt wasn’t from buying a mechanical Father Christmas, but from pretending to have one!

“A boy was employed to enter the shop by the back entrance every evening,” recollected T.T. “He was robed in crimson and white fur with mask, beard and gloves. He was then carried into the window and set on a chair, remaining for a while perfectly still. Then his arms began to move and point to the various toys in the window just as if he was a mechanical toy. After about an hour he was carried from the window and ultimately left by the back door.

“He proved one of the best advertising stunts I have known. The street was packed with people, and children had their noses squeezed flat on the window glass.”

Not sure that gimmick would be tolerated nowadays, but it is a wonderful image.

The 'accidental' book, born from repeated failures

'Forgotten Fife Tales'
The original magazine concept
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Also available as a Kindle Edition.

All my life I imagined the process of writing a book was about channelling the urge to tell a story that you felt needed told. I still believe that and so I am somewhat bewildered that I’ve put my name to an accidental one.

How can you write a book by accident? Well, actually, it is very easy; you just need to fail repeatedly and emphatically at a number of endeavours and the outcome can well be seeking out an ISBN number to salvage hours and hours of work, and just moving on.

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Not only that, I have self-published but it is not a vanity project. I’ve had my name attached to articles for nearly 50 years so there is no great personal thrill, well, not anymore. I suppose when I wrote for the school newsletter there was a wee buzz at the byline and certainly the first time I made the front page of my local paper as a reporter, but that was a long, long time ago.

What I am passionate about, and always have been, are stories, particularly local ones. For some reason my community’s history has always fascinated me but, probably because of a limited attention span, I tend to like that in bite size chunks. That’s most likely why I devoted most of my working life to local newspapers – I simply love tales of ordinary folk and that snapshot of social history, and being part of recording it. There is just one thing better ... and that’s discovering it.

At the end of my employment I was offered the chance to write features for a Scottish nostalgia publication. In some respects it was my dream assignment, given carte blanche on a publication where I was trusted to come up with the stories, write them, illustrate them, design the pages and take it right up to the point of print. There was just one downside to that, it wasn’t ‘my’ community or ‘my’ history. Nevertheless, I grew to love that part of Scotland, its people, and its stories, and I still do. And that project allowed me to make the case for a similar publication for Fife and, for a while, that looked like a possibility.

I started to take notes of Fife stories but my focus was on the 'paying job'. But all good things come to an end and I found myself somewhat tarred with the label of “protracting” the work required for this publication so when someone appeared who could do it cheaper and a lot faster I suddenly found myself as a writer with nothing to write for. So here was ‘Failure #1’, and the trigger to all that followed.

It really was, in hindsight, a daft  endeavour, especially since my track record in commercial ventures lies between disastrous and comical.

I decided to launch a Fife publication, similar to the one I'd been working on for a couple of years,  and that very idea was definitely ‘Failure #2’. The physical production of a tabloid wasn’t an issue; I’d had decades of experience, but there were problems, and one major issue on the editorial side that I couldn't solve -  the use of photographs. Copyright, which is normally clear-cut and I understand and don’t have an issue with, proved to be a great deal more complicated when it came to historical images. Many are held in archives and collections, some of which, contentiously and arguably, may actually be in the public domain, and there were some that were still the property of the photographer, though I actually owned the print, but, of course, not the rights for commercial gain.

It hindsight there was a lot of naivete on my part in thinking these fees could be allayed and then calculated on sales, or as a percentage of the profit, if any, the publication might make. Without exception though everyone wanted the money up front, with no contra-deal acceptable. I'd been there before. One of my last commissioned articles saw me file nearly 2000 words on a story I came up with, researched, wrote, designed … and provided images for. When the sums were done, my fee was £40 for around 20 hours’ work, roughly £2 an hour. The pictures I needed for a single use were 70 years old and came from an archived collection ... and carried a reproduction price tag of £225. You can see that the maths of  copyright is an uncomfortable flaw. These image costs, together with those of design, prints etc, forced a major re-think.

Meanwhile, I was still chipping away at the writing.

The next idea (‘Failure #3’) was to abandon the format of an illustrated tabloid journal, and simply go for words and spaces. I decided to do something different here and, looking at 17th century journals,  came up with an A5 format I liked and one I thought might be eye-catching on the shelves, sticking out as 'something different'. The problem here was the pagination. There was a limit on what could be ‘stitiched’ (stapled) with any other form of binding doubling the production costs. Given approaches to potential advertisers I’d struck a blank on the tabloid and A5 proposals, so without having to give up space that would have offset some of the costs, the olde worlde ‘Colourful Cornucopia...’ concept was finalised.

That only left distribution (‘Failure #4’). This was one aspect where the only cost-effective approach was for my wife and I to do it ourselves. However, this is where I came unstuck again. The cover price would obviously need to include a share for the retailer. What I discovered very quickly was that the cover price would actually only include a small share for me, and then there was the 'sale or return' issue. Going back to the sums there was a simple conundrum. You either had to charge a ridiculous price or sell a ridiculous number of copies. If they didn’t shift, then the entire production costs, with no advertising support, would be mine to bear … and I had no income.

By this time I had called a halt to the writing; it seemed pointless to continue. My wife suggested that it might be worthwhile seeing if a publisher might be interested with what I had penned so far, and so began another fruitless exercise (‘Failure #5’ ). To be fair, there was some interest though I was warned by a publisher that if I hadn’t heard anything from them in a year I could take it they weren’t interested. A year is a long time to wait for a rejection slip.

And so someone mentioned self-publishing. The financial outlay only involved some help with formatting and I was advised to abandon my A5 ‘Colourful Cornucopia...’ concept, which, I suppose, didn’t really match the style of writing, and opt for a cover. A graphic designer took on my idea, so there’s a bill for that (‘Failure #6’) .

So there you have it,  that's how the tabloid morphed into the magazine that morphed into the 'accidental' book. Given the royalty set-up on self-publishing I’m already resigned to the fact that I won’t make a penny profit (‘Failure #7’) but if I sell around 1000 copies, which is highly unlikely, that will generate enough to pay for the cover and formatting.

At this point, my pay-off comment should be that this has been a hard-learned lesson and I won’t venture down this path again but … to be honest, I still like the A5 ‘Colourful Cornucopia...’ idea, so much so I reproduced it on page 3 of the book and it is shown above.

So, if there are any contributors, retailers or advertisers who are as daft as I am, drop me an email – fifetales@scotlandmail.com, I’m just about ready for ‘Failure #8’.

All aboard the drosky...

'Drosky' and 'Phaeton'. Now these are two words you don't hear very often! I had to look them up to find out they were types of carriages.

I suppose in their day it was the equivalent of talking about an SUV or a Hybrid, or a Bond Bug or Bubble Car.

Death of a female pitworker at 70

Given the enthusiasm of some political figures in the United Kingdom to extend the retirement age, and the financial clobbering already given to the WASPI women, here's how it used to be.

Jeanie Seath is, unfortunately, just a footnote in history, but this little obituary from 1917 shows how hard a life she, and so many like her, had to endure.

You'd have thought a century on we would have progressed a little further, never mind legislating on turning the clock back.

The battle to build a kirk

Pittenweem Church Hall that began life as the burgh's Relief Church in 1846.
Picture © Copyright Richard Sutcliffe and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons Licence

The kirk hall, sitting just back off the main road in Pittenweem, isn't really a building that tempts you to stop and admire or explore.

Yet a little research into its history reveals a fascinating tale of sectarianism, vandalism, pastoral opportunism, and there’s even a grassy knoll!

But, most of all, it is a story of admirable community resilience, hard work, generosity and faith in the late 1700s which, eventually, created this historic building.

Its foundations were laid at the Relief Church (1846). A year later it became the United Presbyterian Church, then the United Free Church (1900) and St Fillan’s (1929). In 1941 it took on its present identity at the church hall.

Its very beginnings, leading up to the opening of the Relief Church, were chronicled by the minister, Mr Kerr for the Relief Magazine in 1846. The extract below was published in the Dundee Courier in 1865.

Sketch of the United Presbyterian Church of Pittenweem

In 1774, or about ninety years ago, the Rev. Mr Nairn, son of the minister of East Anstruther, was presented to the then vacant parish of Pittenweem by the patron, Sir John Anstruther.

The appointment was by no means congenial to the majority of  all the parishioners, many of whom strenuously resisted the settlement. A number of the objectors including Messrs Rodger and David Lawson, finding all opposition ineffectual, resolved to identify themselves with the Relief Church, as had been done at Colinsburgh by those parishioners at Kilconquhar who, in 1760, had resisted the settlement of Dr Chalmers, the grandfather of the distinguished founder of the Free Church.

The little band, although few in numbers, were resolute in spirit and they at once applied to the Relief Presbytery for sermon, which was readily granted.

The Rev Mr Scott, of Auchtermuchty, was appointed to preach and this being the first time dissent had made a public appearance here, the incident excited the most deep and general interest, and hundreds flocked to the service, which was conducted on the grassy knoll adjoining the old meeting house.

The discourse, the text at which was from Psalm xxxviii 5, was well suited to the occasion, and did much to animate and strengthen the hearts of the earnest and hopeful community, who, in the face of great discouragement, and even persecution, had thus fearlessly asserted the liberty of conscience.

The weather was remarkably calm and beautiful; but as Mr Kerr finely writes, "It was but the sunshine before the gloom - the smoothness of the stream before the dash below- for, as far as the Relief cause in Pittenweem was concerned, darker and heavier waves were to lash upon our shore."

After receiving preachers for some time from the Presbytery, the congregation at length resolved to apply for ground in order to build a church, and call a minister for themselves, the greater part of the ground for feuing belonged to the Kirk Session aad Magistrates, and to other public bodies of the town.

The open hostility of the first rendered an application hopeless to that quarter. But by the other parties, with one or other of whom they fondly expected to succeed, their offers were contemptuously refused, and had it not been that Sir Robert Anstruther uttered them the feu on which the old meeting-house stands, they must have continued to worship on the exposed sea- beach as before.

Having thus procured the ground, their hopes heightened, and they immediately set about pulling down an old house that stood upon it, which Sir Robert had formerly used as a kennel. As may be expected, the little band had great pecuniary difficulties to encounter in the building of a church, for the people that had as yet rallied round the Rebel standard were not only few, but, for the most part, very poor in circumstances; and, of course, in those sectarian times, they had nothing to expect from the general public.

But zeal and perseverance overcame every obstacle, although these in their case were of no ordinary kind.

In the first place, they were, by an undue stretch of magisterial authority, refused the common privilege of quarrying the rock on the seashore for stones; but this difficulty was removed by the discovery that the site of the church – their own property - was capable of yielding an abundance of material.

A greater grievance, however, than being refused the privilege of quarrying, was the cowardly and malicious conduct of some unprincipled or fanatical person who frequently pulled down during the night what the workmen had reared during the day. In order to expedite the undertaking, and to prevent the recurrence of these dastardly acts of malice, it was resolved to proceed with the work as unremittingly as possible and, accordingly, a number oi individuals belonging to the congregation volunteered their services for that purpose. Some quarried stones, some prepared the lime, and others carried stone up the scaffolding to supply the masons. In short, all did what they could to assist in the building, which was carried on night and day until it had been completed.

In these enlightened days we do not think there is an individual amongst us who will not admire the noble and heroic resolution of that little band who denied themselves sleep and made such sacrifices to accomplish what they conceived to be for the good of religion and for the advancement of their Saviour's glory.

It furnishes a melancholy illustration of the bitter and intolerant spirit of these times that, after the church had been roofed in, and so far completed as to admit of the congregation assembling in it, they were ruthlessly disturbed on the first Sunday while engaged in praise by some persons without breaking the glass in the windows with stones. So frequent, indeed, were such depredations committed, that it was found necessary to protect the windows with shutters.

After hearing a number of probationers, a call was given to, and accepted by, Mr Nicolson, who laboured with much apparent acceptability to a rapidly increasing congregation for about five years, when he was translated to Wamfrey.

There was a peculiar circumstance connected with Mr Nicolson's translation which deserves to be noticed. At the very time he was called to Pittenweem, he received a call from the church of Wamfrey also, and, although he preferred Pittenweem, he seems always to have thought that Wamfrey had the first claim upon him, and that he had preferred Pittenweem from an improper motive -the church here having held out to him the prospect of a larger stipend.

This impression appears to have disturbed his peace the whole time he ministered in this place, and when the church of Wamfrey became vacant, he made known his impressions to that people, and told them that if they were of the same mind regarding him, and gave him a second invitation, he would gladly make the sacrifice of stipend, and accept the call which he had formerly rejected. They eagerly embraced his offer, they called him, and, at his own request, he was translated to Wamfrey.

This was a severe blow to the Pittenweem congregation, who, up to the ordination of their late beloved pastor, Mr Kerr, were remarkably unfortunate in their ministers. One after another of their ministers were either called away to some other charge, or were obliged to leave them on account of moral impropriety, so that, in about sixty years previous to Mr Kerr’s induction, the congregation were seven times deprived of a spiritual guide.

The delicacy of the subject forbids us going into details, but we cannot withhold the following instance of spirit and zeal on the part of one of the female members of the church in that period of change and disaffection.

On account of the adverse circumstances of the church- the members being so few - debt had been contracted to pay the minister's stipend, to liquidate which it was proposed to sell the church. Hearing of this proposal, Mrs Greig, a devoted adherent of the church from the time it was first planted, called upon one of the elders and thus appealed, "David Mitchell, you've got a house and I I’ve got anither, and shall we keep oor ain houses allow the house of God to be selt?”

Fortunately the church did not require to be sold, nor was Mrs Greig required to make a sacrifice which she was ready to do.

Readers not acquainted with the locality, may gather from the foregoing the difficult position which Mr Kerr was called upon to assume when he accepted of the pastorate of the church in 1838, and it furnishes a gratifying instance of the success of his ministry that, in nine years afterwards, or in 1847, the congregation, which had greatly increased in numbers, undertook and effected the erection of the present ornate and commodious church, and, but a few years since, they also purchased a comfortable manse, while, for some time past, they have been altogether unburdened with debt.