Читать книгу The Firefighter Blues - Alan Bruce - Страница 6

I was born in Scotland and, although very young when my family immigrated to Australia, I can still recall events, places, feelings and smells like it was yesterday. I’m not sure if it’s because my parents continually spoke of ‘home’or if it was such an exciting upheaval in my short life that remembering that period is easy for me. I certainly don’t want to forget where I came from so maybe my subconscious forces me to remember.

In Scotland, we lived in Letham, a small rural village in the county of Angus. My parents rented a tiny council house at 49 Dundee Road. At the time, Letham had a population of 800 and that included the surrounding farmers and their families. Today I believe it’s closer to 2000. Our home was a typical two-bedroom, two-storey flat with an open coal fire for the harsh Scottish winters, living room, a tiny kitchen and not much else. Although the house was small, to my eyes, during our final year there when I was four years old and my sister, Jennifer, was five, it seemed huge.

Nursery rhymes, music, warm fires and the aromas of simmering porridge and sweet homemade jam fills my head when I think of our Letham home. I recall open fields behind our house where giant sheep roamed freely. I was terrified when on occasion they would venture up to our back fence. When you’re four years old, the world is full of giants.

Days spent camped at the local farm while Mum picked tatties (potatoes) infuses my mind with vivid memories of stinging nettles, creepy-looking jackdaws and the smells of tarpaulin and freshly ploughed earth.

My father, Wallace (Wal), was from a large family. His mother gave birth to twelve children, although four died at a young age, including twins who passed away a few days after their birth. I never knew Dad’s father, George Bruce, who passed away in 1945 but I do have a few vague memories of my granny, Eliza Bruce, who was still alive when we left for Australia. In comparison, my mother’s family was quite small. She was born Elizabeth Gray, but everybody knew her as Betty. She had only one sister, Sheena, who was quite a bit younger than Mum.

Letham had a central village square consisting of a handful of shops and, of course, a couple of pubs, the Commercial and the Letham Hotel. To earn extra money my father would tend bar at the Commercial on Saturday nights.

He liked a drink, a singsong and a chinwag and both the hotels were within walking distance from anywhere in the village, including our house.

The nearest town was Forfar, which we would occasionally visit when my father could borrow a truck from his work. Very few people owned cars in our village so you either caught the bus or walked. Our family was one of the lucky ones. At that time, Dad worked in the furniture removal business and quite often he was able to borrow the boss’s truck on a Sunday. All four of us crammed into the cab – no seatbelts, no heater and no worries. If the weather permitted, he would occasionally take us to the seaside at Arbroath or Montrose. Compared to Australian beaches, it had a different look to it, as sand seemed to be non-existent. I remember stumbling over metre after metre of pebbles just to reach the water’s edge.

Although we were working class and probably considered quite poor, we never wanted for food. Living in a rural area had its advantages. The local farms, particularly the potato farms, could always provide for the villagers. When I was very young, one of the few things I would eat was a delicious Scottish dish called ‘stovies’. It was basically potatoes half boiled , half fried in a large pot with oil, onions and maybe a little ‘munce’ (minced meat) if you had any. My sister, Jenny, and I would fight over the burnt onions left on the bottom of the stovie pot. It was a staple in my house for years. Even when I married and left home, I loved visiting my parents for a huge plate of Mum’s stovies.

One of my strongest memories of Scotland is how cold it was and how I hated putting on layers of clothing only to take them off five minutes later when we arrived at our destination. To a small child, all this did was interrupt playtime. An enjoyable winter recollection that stayed with me all these years is when Mum dragged me down to the local shops on a sled as the snow was too deep for me to walk. I can still feel the icy wind on my face though my body was toasty and warm. My sister was in her first year at school so it was just Mum and me, and the family had to eat. Although it was hard work for my mother, it was great fun for an adventurous four year old.

Enjoyable as that was, I think even then I knew there must be better places to play. My Uncle's family, Rosemary and Dave Binnie, were already living in Australia on the outskirts of Sydney and would often mail photographs and letters home to their family. I remember Mum spent ages trying to convince me that the scene I was looking at in one particular black-and-white photo did not portray any snow.

‘No, Alan, it’s white sand, not snow,’ she would say.

When the penny finally dropped, I spent my days dreaming of paddling in the ocean and playing with my pet kangaroo. I couldn’t believe that, in Australia, kids played in shorts, no shirts and bare feet.