The eldest of my brothers and sisters was James, although throughout his lifetime he was always called Sonny, no doubt on account of his very blonde hair as a small boy. He was a superb sculptor and modeller, with a marvellous artistic bent and a truly outstanding ability in crafting with wood. I have remarked elsewhere how very accomplished he was at woodcarving, but he could also perform the more mundane tasks quite effortlessly. I once watched him make a cabinet in which the top and sides were jointed by hidden, mitred dovetails and although he seemingly made no special effort (and by gosh he was quick), every joint was absolutely perfect.
I never forgot that particular demonstration and much later in life, when I had acquired a bit of woodworking skill, I tried (just as a personal test) the same joint on a drawer, All I can say is — I was very glad that my mitred dovetails were of the hidden variety!
Sonny produced some exceptionally artistic work which would have graced any gallery, and, had he chosen, could have made a handsome living in the art field. Unfortunately he did have more than a mite of personal indiscipline, which surfaced sometimes and definitely tempered his later life.
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Maggie, the next in line and the eldest of the three girls had a quite amazing capacity for knowledge, and enjoyment of acquiring the same. Very capable and accomplished in whatever sphere she was operating, she had many remarkable natural skills, which when coupled with her tenacity made many tasks appear as if they required negligible effort. I think that the amount of inner strength with which she was endowed, gave Maggie a personal sense of worth that occasionally showed as a little intolerance towards others, perhaps not so well equipped. She had a great sense of fun and was a born raconteur although, like many a good storyteller, she liked to embellish a narrative and could be a trifle economical with the facts on occasions. I loved the stories she told to us. They were often in the form of serials and thus she would make us wait in eager anticipation for the next episode. One story from Maggie’s imagination was an ongoing saga about three schoolgirls, Belle, Avice and Claire who got up to all sorts of improbable pranks while in Boarding School or during the holidays. This particular story was in serial form, and Maggie knew just at which point to end an episode so that the next one was eagerly awaited.
At some period someone had given her a book entitled “Three hundred and one things a bright girl can do”. Well she was most certainly a bright girl, and three hundred accomplishments were rattled off in double-quick time. One of the chapters concerned the making of various types of toffee, so regular raids on the sugar stocks became the norm.
Maggie possessed a wonderful memory (she inherited this from Mamma) and now, when I would be grateful to avail myself of her great recall in writing this wee book — alas! she has gone.
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Brother Norman was the second eldest of the boys in the family and had inherited the black hair and faintly olive skinned complexion of Mamma’s side of the family. Easily the best looking of we boys, he was, even as a small boy, brave almost to the point of foolhardiness.
He had a great depth of artistic and practical ability too often hidden by a naturally outgoing, fun-loving and generous attitude to life. This might have stood him in good stead in later years, had he not been killed at 29 years old during World War 11, while serving in the Royal Air Force. He had an easy-going charm about him and, as the saying goes, “could sell refrigerators to Eskimos”.
His rather risque, outrageous sense of humour could send Mamma into fits of laughter like none of the rest of us could do. I for one, sadly miss his cavalier philosophy on life and entertaining observations and anecdotes on everything. A lovely man whose life was all too short.
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So we come to sister Dorothy, born in 1917 in Wigtown. Having actually been born there, she had a tremendous affection for South West Scotland and one of her favourite reads was a book called Raiderland, All about Grey Galloway, written by S.R. Crockett. A fascinating book, incidentally.
She was the possessor of a unique imagination and a rare depth of artistic talent that should have made her a wealthy woman. However, in concord with many creative personalities, her business acumen might have been a trifle sharper.
Dorothy found commercialism gave her little satisfaction, and she tended to dream her way through commissions which could have provided her with a handsome return.
Don’t let me give the impression that she was lazy. Far, far from it, but time was to be thought about and not just prostituted in haste. I have often felt that dear Dorothy would have benefitted from a little more worldliness and maybe a tad less of a compassionate nature, but then — she wouldn’t have been Dorothy.
In comparison to Maggie’s stories, tales by Dorothy tended to be more fantastic and were nearly always tinged with a bit of horror — maybe ghosts, witches or just some plain old terror which kept us spellbound for a while. Both the elder girls were great storytellers and, I guess, we small ones were at our very quietest when the imagination of either of them was being plumbed.
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Kathleen, my youngest sister (just two years my senior), was my special person as a wee lad. Very pretty and universally liked by everybody, she somehow contrived not to get into scrapes with the same facility that came so easily to Angus and myself. How I used to admire the quiet confidence and self-contained ability with which she coped with school, homework, friends and younger brothers, and yet she joined enthusiastically in all the games.
Kath would very often read to me (and a great little reader she was), and I remember several romantic novels such as “The Scarlet Pimpernel” and “Beau Brocade”. Of necessity, the books would have to be serialised and a brief recap was usually provided by Kath before the commencement of the next episode.
Sometimes one or another of we children would sit with Grandma, to give her a bit of company, and Kath would take me with her and the reading session would continue in Grandma’s room. She was very deaf and came out with lots of interjections at the most inappropriate places in the narrative, sending Kath and myself into helpless laughter much to the amazement of Grandma.
I suppose many girls probably indulged their younger brothers and sisters in interesting ways and I often muse as to whether they got much satisfaction out of it. I have never ceased to be grateful to all my sisters unstinting, entertainment of we younger, and no doubt very trying brothers.
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Angus, the other half of the “Wee Boys”, in common with Norman, had manifestly no sense of fear. When he was very small he managed to climb out of the bedroom dormer window on to the roof and was seen by an old gentleman, Mr. Fyvie who lived opposite. He could see Angus clambering about on the slates quite oblivious to the danger. How my folks got him in I have not the foggiest idea, but one false step and it would have been curtains for younger brother as he would have fallen through the glass roof of the conservatory 30 feet below!
My legs go weak at the thought of it even now. But this was Angus, and he still survives through no fault of his own. He was a more open character than me, and I think a slightly more traditional naughty boy, though not, I hasten to add, in any unkind way, just a bit wilder than myself. He was lots of fun and we had some very happy times together