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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
In 'In Highland Harbours with Para Handy', Neil Munro takes readers on a delightful journey through the Scottish highlands aboard the Vital Spark. Through a series of interconnected short stories, Munro captures the essence of small-town life along the coast, combining humor, wit, and keen observations of human nature. Munro's writing style is rich in dialect and vivid descriptions, immersing readers in the landscape and culture of the Scottish highlands in the early 20th century. The book is a classic example of Scottish regional literature, offering a glimpse into a bygone era. Neil Munro's lively characters and engaging storytelling make this a charming and entertaining read for anyone interested in Scottish literature or maritime fiction. The book's timeless charm and enduring popularity are a testament to Munro's skill as a storyteller and his deep connection to the landscapes and people of his homeland.
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In Highland Harbours with Para Handy
Table of Contents
I. NEW COOK
The s.s. Texa made a triumphal entry to the harbour by steaming in between two square-rigged schooners, the Volant and Jehu, of Wick, and slid silently, with the exactitude of long experience, against the piles of Rothesay quay, where Para Handy sat on a log of wood. The throb of her engine, the wash of her propeller, gave place to the strains of a melodeon, which was playing "Stop yer ticklin, Jock," and Para Handy felt some sense of gaiety suffuse him, but business was business, and it was only for a moment he permitted himself to be carried away on the divine wings of music.
"Have you anything for me, M'Kay?" he hailed the Texa's clerk.
The purser cast a rapid glance over the deck, encumbered with planks, crates, casks of paraffin oil, and herring-boxes, and seeing nothing there that looked like a consignment for the questioner, leaned across the rail, and made a rapid survey of the open hold. It held nothing maritime--only hay-bales, flour-bags, soap-boxes, shrouded mutton carcases, rolls of plumbers' lead, two head-stones for Ardrishaig, and the dismantled slates, cushions, and legs of a billiard-table for Strachur.
"Naething the day for you, Peter," said the clerk; "unless it's yin o' the heid-stanes," and he ran his eye down the manifest which he held in his hand.
"Ye're aawful smert, M'Kay," said Para Handy. "If ye wass a rale purser wi' brass buttons and a yellow-and-black strippit tie on your neck, there would be no haadin' ye in! It's no' luggage I'm lookin' for; it's a kind o' a man I'm expectin'. Maybe he's no' in your department; he'll be traivellin' saloon. Look behind wan o' them herring-boxes, Lachie, and see if ye canna see a sailor."
His intuition was right; the Texa's only passenger that afternoon was discovered sitting behind the herring-boxes playing a melodeon, and smiling beatifically to himself, with blissful unconsciousness that he had arrived at his destination. He came to himself with a start when the purser asked him if he was going off here; terminated the melody of his instrument in a melancholy squawk, picked up a carelessly tied canvas bag that lay at his feet, and hurried over the plank to the quay, shedding from the bag as he went a trail of socks, shoes, collars, penny ballads, and seamen's biscuits, whose exposure in this awkward fashion seemed to cause him no distress of mind, for he only laughed when Para Handy called them to his attention, and left to one of the Texa's hands the trouble of collecting them, though he obligingly held the mouth of the sack open himself while the other restored the dunnage. He was a round, short, red-faced, cleanshaven fellow of five-and-twenty, with a thin serge suit, well polished at all the bulgy parts, and a laugh that sprang from a merry heart.
"Are you The Tar's kizzen? Are you Davie Green?" asked Para Handy.
"Right-oh! The very chap," said the stranger. "And you'll be Peter? Haud my melodeon, will ye, till I draw my breath. Right-oh!"
"Are ye sure there's no mistake?" asked Para Handy as they moved along to the other end of the quay where the Vital Spark was lying. "You're the new hand I wass expectin', and you name's Davie?"
"My name's Davie, richt enough," said the stranger, "but I seldom got it; when I was on the Cluthas they always ca'd me Sunny Jim."
"Sunny Jum!" said the Captain. "Man! I've often heard aboot ye; you were namely for chumpin' fences?"
"Not me!" said Davie. "Catch me jumpin' onything if there was a hole to get through. Is that your vessel? She's a tipper! You and me'll get on Al. Wait you till ye see the fun I'll gie ye! That was the worst o' the Cluthas--awfu' short trips, and every noo and then a quay; ye hadn't a meenute to yerself for a baur at all. Whit sort o' chaps hae ye for a crew?"
"The very pick!" said Para Handy, as they came alongside the Vital Spark, whose crew, as a matter of fact, were all on deck to see the new hand. "That's Macphail, the chief enchineer, wan of Brutain's hardy sons, wi' the wan gallows; and the other chap's Dougie, the first mate, a Cowal laad; you'll see him plainer efter his face iss washed for the tea. Then there's me, mysel', the Captain. Laads, this iss Colin's kizzen, Sunny Jum."
Sunny Jim stood on the edge of the quay, and smiled like a sunset on his future shipmates. "Hoo are yez, chaps?" he cried genially, waving his hand.
"We canna compleen," said Dougie solemnly. "Are ye in good trum yersel'? See's a grup o' your hold-aal, and excuse the gangway."
Sunny Jim jumped on board, throwing his dunnage-bag before him, and his feet had no sooner touched the deck than he indulged in a step or two of the sailor's hornpipe with that proficiency which only years of practice in a close-mouth in Crown Street, S.S., could confer. The Captain looked a little embarrassed; such conduct was hardly business-like, but it was a relief to find that The Tar's nominee and successor was a cheery chap at any rate. Dougie looked on with no disapproval, but Macphail grunted and turned his gaze to sea, disgusted at such free-and-easy informality.
"I hope ye can cook as weel's ye can dance," he remarked coldly.
Sunny Jim stopped immediately. "Am I supposed to cook?" he asked, concealing his surprise as he best could.
"Ye are that!" said Macphail. "Did ye think ye were to be the German band on board, and go roon' liftin' pennies? Cookin's the main thing wi' the second mate o' the Vital Spark, and I can tell ye we're gey particular; are we no', Dougie?"
"Aawful!" said Dougie sadly. "Macphail here hass been cookin' since The Tar left; he'll gie ye his receipt for baddies made wi' enchine-oil."
The Vital Spark cast off from Rothesay quay on her way for Bowling, and Sunny Jim was introduced to several pounds of sausages to be fried for dinner, a bag of potatoes, and a jar of salt, with which he was left to juggle as he could, while the others, with expectant appetites, performed their respective duties. Life on the open sea, he found, was likely to be as humdrum as it used to be on the Cluthas, and he determined to initiate a little harmless gaiety. With some difficulty he extracted all the meat from the uncooked sausages, and substituted salt. Then he put them on the frying-pan. They had no sooner heated than they began to dance in the pan with curious little crackling explosions. He started playing his melodeon, and cried on the crew, who hurried to see this unusual phenomenon.
"Well, I'm jeegered," said the Captain; "what in aal the world iss the matter wi' them?"
"It's a waarnin'," said Dougie lugubriously, with wide-staring eyes.
"Warnin', my auntie!" said Sunny Jim, playing a jig-tune. "They started jumpin' like that whenever I begood to play my bonnie wee melodeon."
"I daarsay that," said Para Handy; "for you're a fine, fine player, Jum, but--but it wassna any invitation to a baal I gave them when I paid for them in Ro'sa'."
"I aye said sausages werena meat for sailors," remarked the engineer, with bitterness, for he was very hungry. "Ye'll notice it's an Irish jig they're dancin' to," he added with dark significance.
"I don't see mysel'," said the Captain, "that it maitters whether it iss an Irish jeeg or the Gourock Waltz and Circassian Circle."
"Does it no'?" retorted Macphail. "I suppose ye'll never hae heard o' Irish terrier dugs? I've ett my last sausage onywye! Sling us ower that pan-loaf," and seizing the bread for himself he proceeded to make a spartan meal.
Sunny Jim laughed till the tears ran down his jovial countenance. "Chaps," he exclaimed, with firm conviction, "this is the cheeriest ship ever I was on; I'm awful gled I brung my music."
Dougie took a fork and gingerly investigated. "As hard ass whun-stanes!" he proclaimed; "they'll no' be ready by the time we're at the Tail o' the Bank. Did you ever in your mortal life see the like of it?" and he jabbed ferociously with the fork at the bewitched sausages.
"That's richt!" said Macphail. "Put them oot o' pain."
"Stop you!" said Para Handy. "Let us pause and consuder. It iss the first time ever I saw sassages with such a desperate fine ear for music. If they'll no' fry, they'll maybe boil. Put them in a pot, Jum."
"Right-oh!" said Sunny Jim, delighted at the prospect of a second scene to his farce, and the terpsichorean sausages were consigned to the pot of water which had boiled the potatoes. The crew sat round, staving off the acuter pangs of hunger with potatoes and bread.
"You never told us what for they called you Sunny Jum, Davie," remarked the Captain. "Do you think it would be for your complexion?"
"I couldna say," replied the new hand, "but I think mysel' it was because I was aye such a cheery wee chap. The favourite Clutha on the Clyde, when the Cluthas was rinnin', was the yin I was on; hunners o' trips used to come wi' her on the Setturdays on the aff-chance that I wad maybe gie them a baur. Mony a pant we had! I could hae got a job at the Finnieston Ferry richt enough, chaps, but they wouldna alloo the melodeon, and I wad sooner want my wages."
"A fine, fine unstrument!" said Para Handy agreeably. "Wi' it and Dougie's trump we'll no' be slack in passin' the time."
"Be happy!--that's my motto," said Sunny Jim, beaming upon his auditors like one who brings a new and glorious evangel. "Whatever happens, be happy, and then ye can defy onything. It's a' in the wye ye look at things. See?"
"That's what I aalways say mysel' to the wife," said Dougie in heart-broken tones, and his eye on the pot, which was beginning to boil briskly.
"As shair as daith, chaps, I canna stand the Jock o' Hazeldean kind o' thing at a'--folk gaun aboot lettin' the tear doon-fa a' the time. Gie me a hearty laugh and it's right-oh! BE HAPPY!--that's the Golden Text for the day, as we used to say in the Sunday School."
"I could be happy easy enough if it wassna that I wass so desperate hungry," said Dougie in melancholy accents, lifting the lid to look into the pot. He could see no sign of sausages, and with new forebodings he began to feel for them with a stick. They had disappeared! "I said from the very first it wass a waamin'!" he exclaimed, resigning the stick to the incredulous engineer.
"This boat's haunted," said Macphail, who also failed to find anything in the pot. "I saw ye puttin' them in wi' my ain eyes, and noo they're no' there."
Para Handy grabbed the spirtle, and feverishly explored on his own account, with the same extraordinary results.
"My Chove!" he exclaimed, "did you ever see the like of that, and I havena tasted wan drop of stimulants since last Monday. Laads! I don't know what you think aboot it, but it's the church twice for me to-morrow!"
Sunny Jim quite justified his nickname by giving a pleasant surprise to his shipmates in the shape of a meat-tea later in the afternoon.
II. PENSION FARMS
The Vital Spark was making for Lochgoilhead, Dougie at the wheel, and the Captain straddled on a water-breaker, humming Gaelic songs, because he felt magnificent after his weekly shave. The chug-chug-chug of the engines was the only other sound that broke the silence of the afternoon, and Sunny Jim deplored the fact that in the hurry of embarking early in the morning he had quite forgotten his melodeon--those peaceful days at sea hung heavy on his urban spirit.
"That's Ardgoil," remarked Macphail, pointing with the stroup of an oil-can at the Glasgow promontory, and Para Handy gazed at the land with affected interest.
"So it iss, Macphail," he said ironically. "That wass it the last time we were here, and the time before, and the time before that again. You would think it would be shifted. It's wan of them guides for towerists you should be, Macphail, you're such a splendid hand for information. What way do you spell it?"
"Oh, shut up!" said the engineer with petulance; "ye think ye're awfu' clever. I mind when that wee hoose at the p'int was a hen farm, and there's no' a road to't. Ye could only get near the place wi' a boat."
"If that wass the way of it," said Dougie, "ducks would suit them better; they could swim. It's a fine thing a duck."
"But a goose is more extraordinar'," said Macphail with meaning. "Anyway it was hens, and mony a time I wished I had a ferm for hens."
"You're better where you are," said the Captain, "oilin' engines like a chentleman. A hen ferm iss an aawful speculation, and you need your wuts aboot you if you start wan. All your relations expect their eggs for nothing, and the very time o' the year when eggs iss dearest, hens takes a tirrievee and stop the layin'. Am I no' tellin' the truth, Dougie?"
"You are that!" said the mate agreeably; "I have noticed it mysel'."
"If ye didna get eggs ye could live aff the chickens," suggested Sunny Jim. "I think a hen ferm would be top, richt enough!"
"It's not the kind o' ferm I would have mysel' whatever o't," said Para Handy; "there's far more chance o' a dacent livin' oot o' rearin' pensioners."
"Rearin' pensioners?" remarked Macphail; "ye would lie oot o' your money a lang while rearin' pensioners; ye micht as weel start growin' trees."
"Not at aal! not at aal!" said Para Handy; "there's quick returns in pensioners if you put your mind to the thing and use a little caation. Up in the Islands, now, the folks iss givin' up their crofts and makin' a kind o' ferm o' their aged relations. I have a cousin yonder oot in Gigha wi' a stock o' five fine healthy uncles--no' a man o' them under seventy. There's another frien' o' my own in Mull wi' thirteen heid o' chenuine old Macleans. He gaitbered them aboot the islands wi' a boat whenever the rumours o' the pensions started. Their frien's had no idea what he wanted wi' them, and were glad to get them off their hands. 'It's chust a notion that I took,' he said, 'for company; they're great amusement on a winter night,' and he got his pick o' the best o' them. It wassna every wan he would take; they must be aal Macleans, for the Mull Macleans never die till they're centurions, and he wouldna take a man that wass over five and seventy. They're yonder, noo, in Loch Scridain, kept like fightin' cocks; he puts them oot on the hill each day for exercise, and if wan o' them takes a cough they dry his clothes and give him something from a bottle."
"Holy smoke!" said Dougie; "where's the profits comin' from?"
"From the Government," said Para Handy. "Nothing simpler! He gets five shillings a heid in the week for them, and that's £169 in the year for the whole thirteen--enough to feed a regiment! Wan pensioner maybe wadna pay you, but if you have a herd like my frien' in Mull, there's money in it. He buys their meal in bulk from Oban, and they'll grow their own potatoes; the only thing he's vexed for iss that they havena wool, and he canna clip them. If he keeps his health himsel', and doesna lose his heid for a year or twa, he'll have the lergest pension ferm in Scotland, and be able to keep a gig. I'm no' a bit feared for Donald, though; he's a man o' business chust ass good ass you'll get on the streets o' Gleska."
"Thirteen auld chaps like that aboot a noose wad be an awfu' handful," suggested Sunny Jim.
"Not if it's at Loch Scridain," answered Para Handy; "half the time they're on the gress, and there's any amount o' fanks. They're quite delighted swappin' baurs wi' wan another aboot the way they could throw the hammer fifty years ago, and they feel they're more important noo than ever they were in a' their lives afore. When my frien' collected them, they hadna what you would caal an object for to live for except it wass their own funerals; noo they're daft for almanacs, and makin' plans for living to a hundred, when the former tells them that he'll gie them each a medal and a uniform. Oh! a smert, smert laad, Donal'. Wan o'Brutain's hardy sons! Nobody could be kinder!"
"It's a fine way o' makin' a livin'," said Macphail. "I hope they'll no' go wrang wi' him."
"Fine enough," said Para Handy, "but the chob iss not withoot responsibilities. Yonder's my cousin in Gigha wi' his stock o' five, and a nice bit ground for them, and you wouldna believe what it needs in management. He got two of them pretty cheap in Salen, wan o' them over ninety, and the other eighty-six; you wouldna believe it, but they're worse to manage than the other three that's ten years younger. The wan over ninety's very cocky of his age, and thinks the other wans iss chust a lot o' boys. He says it's a scandal givin' them a pension; pensions should be kept for men that's up in years, and then it should be something sensible--something like a pound. The wan that iss eighty-six iss desperate dour, and if my cousin doesna please him, stays in his bed and says he'll die for spite."
"That's gey mean, richt enough!" said Sunny Jim; "efter your kizzen takin' a' that trouble!"
"But the worst o' the lot's an uncle that he got in Eigg; he's seventy-six, and talkin' aboot a wife!"
"Holy smoke!" said Dougie; "isn't that chust desperate!"
"Ay; he hass a terrible conceity notion o' his five shillin's a-week; you would think he wass a millionaire. 'I could keep a wife on it if she wass young and strong,' he tells my cousin, and it takes my cousin and the mustress aal their time to keep him oot o' the way o' likely girls. They don't ken the day they'll lose him."
"Could they no' put a brand on him?" asked Dougie.
"Ye daurna brand them," said the Captain, "nor keel them either. The law'll not allo' it. So you see yersel's there's aye a risk, and it needs a little capital. My cousin had a bit of a shop, and he gave it up to start the pension term; he'll be sayin' sometimes it wass a happier man he wass when he wass a merchant, but he's awfu' prood that noo he hass a chob, as you might say, wi' the Brutish Government."
