Читать книгу The Firefighter Blues - Alan Bruce - Страница 8

My mother was well educated; she topped most of her classes at school, was dux of her local nursing college and came second in all of Scotland in her final year. She wrote poetry, could play anything on the piano, spoke a little French, loved studying history and would read just about anything she could get her hands on. She was born in the city of Dundee but moved to the countryside once war with Germany broke out. Most families with children were advised by the British Government to vacate the cities and move to rural areas as the larger towns were more vulnerable to bombing raids. Her father, John Gray, a World War I veteran, died when she was fourteen, so she helped raise her younger sister, Sheena, while their mother ( Mary) was forced to find work.

As a teenager, Mum and a couple of girlfriends took to the road on their pushbikes and toured all of Scotland, staying in youth hostels and mingling with like-minded teenagers from around the globe. She also taught Sunday school and was heavily involved in the Girl Guide movement. One thing she did share with my father was her love of music. Mum was a member of a band called The Heather Loupers. They entertained audiences throughout the county of Angus for many years. Some time later, Dad who was a wonderful singer, would occasionally team up with Mum and perform at various small concert parties throughout the county. I can imagine the atmosphere in the tiny, cramped, smoke filled, village halls. Mum on piano while providing vocal harmony to Dad’s Bing Crosby-like voice. They often spoke fondly of those days.

Our house was always filled with music. It was either Mum serenading my sister and me with children’s songs and nursery rhymes or Dad singing one of their old favourites. They seemed to know hundreds of songs, mostly tear-jerkers about leaving Scotland, missing Scotland or going home to Scotland. The Scots must be notorious for leaving, coming back, then leaving again. Great fodder for songwriters, I suppose. I’d heard stories of Dad singing for beers at various pubs once his drinking money had run out. Although Mum was embarrassed, we all knew, deep inside, she also thought it amusing.

She was an exceptionally hard worker and I’ve often told friends that I have very few memories of my mother sitting down. Strange as that may seem, when I picture her, she is at the kitchen sink, cooking something on the stove, doing laundry or cleaning something around the house. She always had a full-time day job yet still managed to look after her family and would only relax late at night with a book or in front of the television. For Mum, daytime meant work time. She was a very stoic woman at times but very loving and caring towards us, her children. She seemed able to endure just about anything life tossed up to her.

Like Dad, she didn’t feel comfortable displaying certain emotions. I think she saw it as a sign of weakness, the British ‘stiff upper lip’ was hardwired into their generation. Although emotionally guarded, she was one of the kindest ladies you could meet. That kindness was usually displayed by actions rather than words. She had quite rigid moral boundaries which often clashed with my father’s, sometimes misguided, morals. I suppose opposites do attract. Even though, like most of her generation, she bottled up a lot of her feelings, every now and then the contents would overflow; she would explode and huge arguments with my father would ensue, lasting for days, sometimes weeks. No-one ever gave in or apologised, they just seemed to carry on as normal once both had calmed down. Maybe their apologies were carried out away from us children; who knows? My sister, Jenny, and I learned all sorts of Scottish slang and swear words at a very young age. Although I still think even the vilest cursing sounds comical when spoken with a Scottish accent.

‘Hud yer weesht! No, you hud yoors!’ Scottish slang for ‘hold your tongue’ or ‘shut your mouth’ was commonly heard around our house.

‘Stop yer havering or I’ll skelp yer lug,’ was often directed at me.

'Quit yer greetin or I'll gee ya something tae greet aboot' was another.

I definitely don’t remember my parents having harsh words or anything resembling a robust argument on our voyage to Australia. Our cabin was so cramped that privacy was non-existent; I only remember smiles and laughter and the odd bout of seasickness.