Complete New Tales of Para Handy (18 page)

A
N
E
DWARDIAN
L
EGACY
— I was unable to trace any ‘untouched' pharmacies which might resemble my late father's shop in Kilmacolm or the pharmacy in Rothesay described in ‘Look back in Agony', but the MacGrory collection includes this photograph — taken, presumably, on the occasion of the formal opening of the business — of Campbeltown grocer Eaglesome. It is still there in Reform Square, virtually unaltered in 90 years. The photographer and camera can be seen, reflected in the glass of the doorway.

He also devised and sold many specifics of his own, as did many pharmacists of that generation. I am told this would be illegal nowadays. More's the pity. My father's hand lotion, headache powder, midge repellent, cough mixture and many more were much in demand in the village, and were mailed to customers not just in this country but overseas as well. Sadly, the secrets of all of them died with him.

Kilmacolm was once well-known for its Hydropathic or spa hotel sited on a prominent hill on.the northern edge of the Parish. After it closed there was a brief unsuccessful attempt to turn the building into a Casino in the l960s before it was torn down and houses built on the site.

Rothesay's Glenburn Hydropathic was the most palatial of all the Clyde hotels, built in 1892 to replace an earlier version which had been destroyed by fire, and it is still in business today though no longer as a Hydropathic: the last hotels to carry that name, to the best of my knowledge, are Dunblane and Crieff Hydros in Perthshire and Peebles Hydro in the Borders.

I'm not sure if Rothesay had donkey-rides in Para Handy's day but it had everything else! It was the premier Clyde resort and as well as a huge range of boarding-houses and hotels for all tastes and pockets, it offered a yacht club, boat hire, water sports, bathing both indoor and out, tennis, golf, cricket, an aquarium, camera obscura, concert halls and much more.

15

The Incident at Tarbert

T
here is a very genuine camaraderie amongst the vessels which crowd the Clyde. In part it stems from the struggle with the common enemy, the sea, which unites all those who go about their living upon it, whether on a crack transatlantic liner or an inshore fishing dorey.

What particularly binds the puffer crews on the Firth, however, is an even deeper tie than that.

It is the need to show solidarity against the slings and arrows of outrageous disdain to which they are all too often subjected by those ‘establishment' figures who see their own calling or their own position in the marine hierarchy as being inherently superior to the humbler workhorses of the river.

Such solidarity has rarely been better demonstrated than by an episode which occurred recently in East Loch Tarbert and news of which has now filtered through to Glasgow. The
Vital Spark
, of course, was well and truly involved in events, although Para Handy insists that her role was that of supporter rather than instigator.

Given her reputation, coupled with Hurricane Jack's presence on board in Dougie's absence on leave (his wife was on the point of presenting him with their twelfth child), I have my doubts about that.

The Tarbert piermaster is notorious for his brusque treatment of the puffers which are such regular visitors to the busy harbour. The huge local fishing-fleet he will tolerate (but only just) because on its activities is much of the wealth of the community founded. For him, though, the proudest moment of every day comes with the arrival of the
Columba
, unmatched jewel of the MacBrayne fleet, on her Glasgow to Ardrishaig run.

Her posted berthing time on her outward passage — and rarely does she deviate from it by more than a minute or so — is five minutes before midday. By that time the pier is thronged with bystanders and sightseers, and traps and carriages stand at the pierhead ready to whisk those passengers bound for Islay or Jura across the narrow isthmus to the waiting steamer at West Loch Tarbert.

On a recent Friday morning the
Vital Spark
lay at the small stone jetty in the innermost recesses of the East Loch, in company with three other Glasgow-registered puffers, unloading building materials for a local contractor.

“Would you look at that,” Para Handy suddenly exclaimed, “where does the
Tuscan
think she's goin'? McSporran will no' be at aal pleased when he sees this!” McSporran was the notoriously high-handed piermaster who presided over maritime proceedings at Tarbert.

Another puffer had appeared in the harbour and was edging her way alongside the main steamer pier with the obvious intention of berthing in an area normally reserved exclusively for the passenger vessels and, on occasion, larger cargo carriers such as the
Minard Castle
.

“No, Peter,” said Hurricane Jack, joining Para Handy at the rail and shading his eyes against the morning sun to stare across the water at the new arrival. “She's aal right, she's cairryin' a flittin'.”

There was an unwritten concession, usually honoured by all the piermasters in the large Firth ports, that a puffer carrying a domestic as opposed to a commercial cargo would be allowed to use the main piers. Sure enough, the
Tuscan's
deck was covered with a jumble of wardrobes, bedsteads, chairs and the like, and a horse and cart were waiting to receive them at the inner corner of the pier, where their unloading would not interfere with the berthing arrangements of the
Columba
, expected within the next half hour.

Since the new arrival's skipper was a cousin of Para Handy's whom he had not seen for some months, he and Hurricane Jack strolled round towards the steamer pier to exchange the gossip of the river.

They got there just in time to witness the events which transpired as the
Columba
appeared round the protecting Tarbert headland, her decks thronged with passengers.

The unloading of the puffer was in full swing when McSporran came rushing out onto the pier from his office at the turnstiles, waving the silver-topped ebony stick which was his unofficial staff-of-office.

“MacFarlane,” he shouted to the skipper of the
Tuscan
, “will you get this rust-bucket aff my pier at once, and away to where she belongs, ower there wi' the rest of the screp-yard fleet!”

Para Handy bristled.

“There's no call for language like that, Mr McSporran,” he protested before his cousin Tommy could get a word in. “Besides she's cerryin' a flittin' and it is chenerally agreed that the coal piers iss no place for hoosehold goods.”

“You keep oot o' this, Para Handy,” roared McSporran. “Besides this is the Royal Route, and what may be good enough for the likes o' Wemyss Bay or Brodick is certainly not good enough for Tarbert.

“Get that thing shufted — and this dam' cart as weel!”

Before anyone could stop him, or take evasive action, he lifted his stick and struck the patient Clydesdale, waiting in the shafts of the cart, smartly across the rump. The horse kicked out once and careered off up the pier, the cart bucketing in its wake and spilling its contents onto the quayside.

Ignoring the rumpus which that created, McSporran loosed from their bollards first the forward and then the stern ropes securing the
Tuscan
to the pier, and threw them contemptuously onto her deck.

“Get oot of this, MacFarlane. And from noo on stick to where ye belong. This pier is for the gentry. The Coal Pier is for the likes o' you. And that's the way I intend to run this harbour!”

“Somethin's goin' to have to be done aboot that man,” said Para Handy half-an-hour later as the crews of the two puffers stood lined up along the bar of a shoreside hostelry.

“You can say that, Peter,” said Tommy MacFarlane. “He's cost me a lot of money today, wi' the damage to the flittin' and me no' insured for it. Not to say the damage to my reputation at the same time.”

“I know he's an awkward duvvle, boys,” said the barman, wiping the wooden counter with a damp cloth, “but he's under a lot of pressure because of what's happenin' the morn.”

“Eh?” said Para Handy. “What's that, then?”

“Hiv ye no heard? The Chook o' Hamilton's taken a shootings on Islay for the month, and he's chartered the
Duchess of Fife
from Ardrossan to Tarbert first thing tomorrow, en route for Port Askaig, wi' a whole gang o' toffs.

“Ass weel ass a wheen o' Bruttish gentry there's a couple o' Princes frae Chermany or somewhere. Every carriage and trap in the coonty seems to have been hired to meet the steamer and take them ower to the West Loch chust after breakfast, and auld McSporran's up to high doh aboot the whole thing.”

“Iss that so indeed,” said Hurricane Jack. “Well, well” — and he drained his glass. “Boys, I think we should awa' and have a considered word with our colleagues at the Coal Pier…”

Anyone up and about in Tarbert at three o'clock the following morning would have been aware of mysterious goings-on in the darkness of the harbour. The silhouettes of the steam-lighters moored at the Coal Pier seemed to be moving, though the engines were silent. Closer examination would have revealed that the dinghy of each puffer had been lowered into the water and, with two men heaving at the oars, was painfully towing its parent puffer across the water — apparently toward the steamer pier a couple of hundred yards away.

When McSporran strode onto the pier just after eight o'clock to inspect the arrangements for the arrival of the
Duchess of Fife
and her very special passengers, he could not believe his eyes.

Its entire length was occupied by a row of five puffers moored stem to stern. A skiff could not have been manoeuvred in to the jetty.

As for the expected steamer…

McSporran spent 30 frantic minutes trying to get the puffers shifted. But the crews had all mysteriously disappeared and, though he could cast off the mooring lines, he could do nothing to move the boats for not only were their anchors down (but no steam up to allow them to be raised again), they were also chained tightly together.