One of Butch's descendants became equally famous for exactly the opposite qualities of character and was for obvious reasons called Spitty. She spat at everyone except me to whom she was devoted - a real one-man or should I say one-child cat. She guarded my bedroom and let no one except myself in. She stood in the doorway with arched back spitting fire if faced by any intruders.
It would seem from these reminiscences that it was always warm and sunny and that we spent most of our time out of doors. Well the latter is certainly true and I believe the Thirties did have a succession of long hot summers, but one of my most vivid memories is of walking in the fields with low lying mist hiding our feet and the sound of rooks cawing in the nearby trees. Whenever I hear rooks even today I once again think of my childhood, walking these fields.
But it was not always summer and there were long hard winters' evenings when we huddled round the fire trying to keep warm. There was no television but we listened to the wireless, played cards or board games and, when absolutely necessary, did our homework. One winter's evening in 1936 it was very cold and snowing heavily outside and inside we were sitting in the dining room in front of the fire listening to the radio announcement of King George V's illness when there was a loud hammering on the front door, followed by excited voices. It was a neighbour of the Dorwards who had struggled through the deep snow for over ½ mile asking us to phone for the doctor as Mrs Dorward had been injured. As it happened the phone lines were down and the roads impassable so it was only later we heard the full story.
The snow had been falling thick and fast when she went out in the dark to open the gates for the 6.15 train. As soon as she got one gate clear the other one had stuck in the drifts. She was clearing the snow frantically and did not hear the train approaching. The weight of snow had moved the signal to 'Go' and the train crashed through the gates just missing her, but a piece of gate hit her on the back of the head and her foot was badly injured. Shortly after, a knock came on her door and who should it be but the doctor asking her for help! His car was stuck in the snow about 100 yards away. Later that night the old King died.
One afternoon early the following winter, in December 1936, I came off the school train and went into the village shop to buy a pennyworth of sweets. The wireless was on and I heard this sad, sad voice. It was King Edward's abdication speech and I rode home feeling full of pity for him - and for the world in general.
There was beginning to be heard another voice on the wireless, altogether different - angry, sinister and ranting - which left one full of foreboding. Even today an over-rousing speech, especially if accompanied by repetitive responses from the audience, touches an inner core of fear in me and I quickly turn off the radio or TV.
With all this fresh air and good food with masses of vegetables (to this day I like my lettuce piled high on my plate and not just one or two artistically arranged leaves) our health should have been good and on the whole it was, especially mine. I considered Bob very lucky because if we caught colds he ran a temperature and I didn't, and I had to go to school feeling very sorry for myself while he was allowed to stay off school. One day we went outside to play and Bob said he couldn't because his ankle was painful. "Rubbish," said I, "there is nothing wrong with you." Imagine my guilt when he became worse and worse. Doctor Anderson, whom I loved dearly, was called and Rheumatic Fever was diagnosed. The slightest movement caused him to cry out in pain and he had horrible medicine to take every day. My sister Nicola used to carry him down to the couch in the dining room every morning and upstairs to his bed at night. Only she was permitted to do this. He made a slow but complete recovery and during the war was passed A1 and became a pilot of fighter bombers in Burma.
That year there had been an outbreak of scarlet fever in the village and it may be that I was the reason so many children, including Bob and some of the Dorward children, went down with it. There was to be a children's show in the village hall and one day I had a slight sore throat but otherwise felt quite well. As the Great Day was nearly upon us the children came to the castle for the rehearsal. I felt fine the following day and preparations for the show went on but it was only two weeks later, when a shower of skin flew out as I undressed, that it was realised I had had scarlet fever. The show, I may say, was a great success but soon other children in the village began to go down with the dreaded fever and not all were so lucky as I was.
My luck soon ran out. Several weeks later I developed a large abscess on the side of my neck which did not settle and eventually it was decided it should be drained. A table was set up in the passage room and a surgeon from Perth was called in to perform, to my mind, a major operation. The last thing I remember before going under was hearing him say "Have you the scalpels ready?"
The next day was worse. Dr Anderson was ill and a locum doctor came to change the dressings and re-pack the cavity. To put it mildly it was agony. I kept very still and did not say a word or move a muscle. When it was over the doctor told me he had packed in 2 yards of ribbon gauze and to my mother he said: "It might have been better if she had had an anaesthetic". I had to have it packed daily after that for 4 - 5 weeks but it was never so painful again. My main grievance was that I had chosen to be ill during the summer holidays and I lost no time off school. It also gave me a deeper understanding of how much Nellie must have suffered with her multiple abscesses.
My pet hate when I was a very young child was going to the hairdresser. I dreaded the ordeal and can one blame me? You were plonked on a chair in front of a mirror, a white sheet tied round your neck, and then the lady started to snip and snip and snip; you watched your hair getting shorter and shorter but there was no attempt at styling or shaping. Just straight across the fringe and straight round the back - a real pudding bowl cut. It did little for one's ego, I can assure you. I never did have a high opinion of my looks but I had a hundred times less when I came out of the hairdresser. The dentist was preferable any time - until one traumatic experience.
I had an appointment for a tooth extraction under gas and was not in the least worried about it. Just before we left home my father told me: "Remember to close your eyes in case you go to sleep with your eyes open". I took this advice very seriously as I had a vision of a large hand with enormous pliers approaching my mouth. I felt quite calm when the dentist gave me the anaesthetic mask to inhale and after a few breaths, remembering dad's advice, I dutifully closed my eyes. Immediately the dentist took away the mask and attempted to extract my tooth. I thought I was quietly telling him I was not asleep but in reality I was fighting and screaming and causing quite a commotion. He never did get the tooth out that day but made an appointment for me to return in a week's time.
There followed one of the worst weeks of my life. I was in a state of acute anxiety and dread which got worse as the days passed. I found it difficult to eat, I could not play or occupy myself with the usual pastimes. My sister Nick took me for long walks, talking to me about everything under the sun except teeth and dentists! But my mind could not be distracted. I can honestly say it is the only time in my life when I suffered from severe acute anxiety. There have been plenty of long term worries and tensions but not that acute uncontrollable fear. The day of reckoning eventually came round; I walked into the surgery and there was my beloved Dr Anderson and all my fear evaporated. I walked to the chair and sat down as calm as could be. I took the anaesthetic and had the extraction with no problems but this time I did not shut my eyes deliberately. Such is the power of faith.
I had enormous trust in Dr Anderson and thought he was truly wonderful. He was not at all the idealised picture of a family practitioner, being rather a severe man, with possibly a slightly distant manner with adults but certainly not with children. Always immaculately dressed, in pin-striped trousers with black coat or a lounge suit and grey spats, he was driven around the countryside on his calls in a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. He believed in plenty of fresh air and good food etc., and when Bob and I suffered from hepatitis we had a wonderful time playing outside for most of the summer term. We often had good summers in the Thirties. It wasn't until Dr Anderson went off ill and a locum came in his place that we were chased back to school! Perhaps that is one reason why we loved him.
Another hate I have and which I retain to this day is that of bad language, and I don't mean the odd damn and blast or bloodyhell, but foul language. We never heard it in the home nor have I allowed it in my presence and I can't stand it on the telly. But for a short time Bob and I were the biggest culprits of all. This boy, a little older than Bob (though I can't remember his name), came to stay nearby. I think he came from Glasgow - in any case he spent a lot of time with us. His language was quite an education to us - not for the good - and I remember one day while walking up the drive with Bob and this boy, I fell and let forth a string of oaths which really shocked me, and there and then we decided to cure ourselves of swearing and devised an ingenious method. In the castle, at intervals up the spiral staircases, there were metal rings where lamps used to be placed to light the dark stairs. We arranged to hang by our fingers with our feet off the ground for varying lengths of time depending on the "badness" of the word. For example for a word like bloody we might hang by our fingers while we counted slowly to 30, but for a really bad word it would be 100 or more. We stuck to our bargain and, believe me, our fingers were painful and swollen but it certainly cured us. One of the most difficult things was trying to explain our strange behaviour to older members of the family.
I could relate many more family anecdotes but I think it is time to move on. After weeks of tension, war was finally declared on 3rd September, 1939. Mother sent me out to the garden on some pretext. She and I had been alone together when we heard the final announcement over the wireless. She may have wished to discuss its implications with my father, she may have wished to have a weep. I don't know, but I do know I stood in the vegetable garden feeling very alone and dejected.
* * * * * *
To myself the onset of war brought no immediate changes, but to my parents it must have been very different. My eldest brother Harry, who was now an officer in the regular army, was almost immediately sent to France and Donald, who was working in London with a big timber company and was in the TA's, was called up straight away. Less immediate but bringing with it more subtle changes were the tax increases, which meant a marked lowering of income. Soon the servants left and later our gardener was called up and not replaced. Actually this is not quite true; my sister Bumpy left her job in England and came up to look after the garden - which she did as well as any man. It was also company for me as by this time Bob had grown away from me, and no longer wanted his young sister trailing after him. There were no more formal dinner parties although plenty of informal entertaining.
My father soon joined the Home Guard although he was 67 years old, as did Bob who was fifteen. His job was to act as a sort of messenger. Father later had a special job of escorting army convoys through the back roads of the area for many miles. We set to, making Molotov cocktails which were stored in the byre at the old steading. One fateful night, sometime after Dunkirk, we were sitting in the Drawing Room when the telephone rang. The door opened and Father burst in with dramatic gestures: "It has come! The Germans have invaded".
Bob got out his push bike and cycled as hard as he could rounding up everyone up from the outlying farms who had no telephone. One man would not come because he had tooth ache! Father never forgave him. As it happened it was all an anti-climax. After being on red alert all night the all clear came during the following morning.
For the first few months of the war I was more concerned with school as it co-incided with my entry into the senior school. I was one of the brighter pupils and was in what was called the Latin Section which included Maths and Science as I had long since decided to study medicine. Infact I can not truly remember a time when I did not want to become a doctor and this always seemed to be accepted by other members of the family. When minor medical procedures were called for eg the painting of a sore throat it was I, even though a small child who performed it. When I listen to the Radio nowadays I frequently hear women complaining how difficult it is for girls to study science subjects but there was certainly no problem in Dollar as there were several of us who went on to become Doctors.
Dollar was in those days somewhat of a unique school. It was a co-educational Public School and in the Thirties that was exceptional. All local children had free education with free books and uniforms and as they formed a large percentage of the pupils they did not feel different from the rest of us. People from all over the world sent their children to Dollar as boarders, so you met people from all walks of life: from an Emperor's son to the local chimney sweeps. One of Hailes Salass'es sons and a grandson were both pupils at one time. The discipline was firm but not excessive and the pupils were treated with respect. For example the girls were always addressed as Miss MacDonald or Miss Moncrief, whatever their surname happened to be. There was very little corporal punishment and when there was some serious breach of discipline and a boy got the belt this was a matter of great importance for many days.
I liked school though and never had any trouble passing exams except for two subjects and there was good reason for this. The first subject was Latin. Initially there was no great problem but in 2nd Year this young man came to teach us Latin. He was extremely nervous and gentle but discipline was chaotic. Pupils talked all the time, moved around the room, threw the usual paper pellets and walked in and out of the class room. It was hopeless and so were our marks. Eventually another girl called Kay McArthur and myself decided to approach Mr Bell the headmaster which we did. He received us courteously and listened gravely to our story. A short time later it was anounced that Mr X, I can't remember his name was leaving. Imagine our feelings of guilt and remorse and worse by the fact that he was such a nice man. We all clubed together and bought him a farewell present. It was not hyopcritical because we all liked him and were genuinly sorry to see him go. I have often wondered what happened to him. Did he join the Services? Did he survive the war? Did he go back into teaching?
Anyway my Latin never recovered and I gave it up at the end of 2nd Year and took German instead and at which I did very well. Like an idiot I gave that up at the end of 3rd Year for the sole reason that I would then have a free period nearly every day. Needless to say I have often regretted this. Recently I have had the inclination to study Latin again and perhaps I will do this now that I have more time on my hands and yet again I might, not knowing that I have a definite lazy streak - mentally not physically.
The other subject I did badly in was French and that is a longer story. For the first three years I had no major problem - passing the exams with average marks but my marks dropped dramatically and this coincided with having a different teacher, Miss Little, who did not like me - and here I must digress. Since later childhood to this day I have suffered from a sudden spasm of the diaphragm - or hiccough - and just one isolated and loud hiccough. I have no control over it at all and it got me into trouble at the University as well, where a specialist thought it was due to iritation of the vagus nerve caused by scar tissue from the neck abscess. It can occur 2-3 times in one day or not at all for several weeks. Unfortunately the other pupils tended to laugh when I hiccoughed, but I did not and Miss Little was convinced I was putting on an act. During one French period a knock came to the door and someone announced "would Miss Moncrieff please come to Miss Donalds room" (Miss Donald was the gym teacher). I went downstairs and along the corrider, wondering what on earth was going on. I knocked on the door and went in. There was the school doctor and Miss Donald both looking very grim. The door was locked behind me and I was asked to strip to the waist and sit down, and this without explanation. I had well developed breasts of which I was highly self conscious and it was at a time when I was rather quiet and withdrawn as it was not long after my father's death. The doctor was obviously annoyed, muttering under his breath repeatedly "This is ridiculous, this is ridiculous" I did not know what was ridiculous, or indeed what it was all about.
When I arrived home that evening my mother could sense something was wrong and when she questioned me I burst into tears and the whole story cam out. She phoned Mr Bell, of course, who explained that Miss Little was convinced that I hiccoughed deliberately to annoy her. Mother tried to explain that I really could not help it and the other teachers with whom I got on very well, did not seem to mind. Miss Little totally ignored me after that. Towards the end of the last French period on the last day of the last term of 4th year Miss Little addressed her first question to me of the whole year. She asked me to read a short passage in French. I felt very nervous and stumbled over the words hopelessly and besides that my accent was deplorable. Miss Little blew her top and only the bell at the end of the lesson stopped her angry tirade.
More trouble lay ahead for me. The following term we sat our prelims for the Higher Leaving Certificate. I obtained the princely marks of 26% and when Miss Little asked the class to "put up your hands all who intend to take Higher French" I put up mine. She really blew her gasket. She called me everything under the sun - cheeky, impudent, lazy, etc etc. I was given no chance to explain my reasons and again she did not stop shouting for 15 minutes when the bell went. Believe me, I had no intention or desire to upset her and my reasons for wishing to sit Higher French were entirely serious. I wished to study medicine, if possible without staying on to 6th year and I needed French Higher Grade to have an adequate number of Highers.
Once again when I returned home I was more than usually quiet and subdued and eventually the tears came. These followed days of discussion between myself, Mr Bell and mother. A great deal of pressure was put on me by all three, Mr Bell, mother and Miss Little - to stay on till 6th year, sitting my Lower French in 5th year and Higher French in 6th. This was no doubt sensible, as in those days if you failed one subject you failed them all and had to resit every subject. But I was determined and not a little stubborn and after Miss Little agreed to call a truce and give me some attention and I agreed to do some extra work, I got my way and my Higher French. And so my first major battle was found and won.
* * * * *
As the spring of 1940 advanced I sensed a mounting tension in the house. There was a great deal of talk and study of maps and one late evening in May I came into the dining room before going off to bed. It was raining outside and so quite dark in the long high room.
Mother and Father were standing by the table on which was spread a map of Europe. A lit paraffin lamp was between them. I went to join them and our three heads were together over the map. They were discussing the movements of troops in France and for the first time in my awareness there was deep disagreement between them. Their voices were rasied and mother was in tears and Dad's were not far away. He was saying, "They will have to move south." "No, said mother, "they will try to get away from here," pointing to the Normandy Coast.
"If they do that they will all be killed or drowned," shouted Father. And so it went on with them both getting more and more upset. I slipped away upstairs leaving them still arguing and lay in bed listening to their voices, wondering and fearful.
The days went by and it became obvious that Mother had been correct. The troops were trying to get out of France via Normandy and Dunkirk. And still there was no news of Harry. Mother and Father were now very quiet. There was no more arguments. We just waited and waited, until one day I was sitting in the dining room reading when the telephone rang. Mother hurried up from the kitchen to answer it.
"Yes... Yes... Yes. Oh thank you" I heard her say before she put down the receiver and staggered across the room to collapse crying into a chair crying. I was terribly alarmed for a moment until I saw that she had not fainted and she was crying with job and relief. The next thing she did was to phone the Kirklands Hotel where Dad had gone for a pint after doing the shopping, and tell him the wonderful news that Harry was alive, and he came hurrying home with a bottle of champagne. That was my first taste of bubbly.
Eventually poor Harry did arrive home, worn and very weary. He would sit for long hours without speaking but eventually his story came out bit by bit. He had seen the refugees, thousands of them thronging the roads and hiding in ditches. Seen the women and children being machine-gunned by the Germans. He kept his company together and was with them on Dunkirk beaches for 72 hours. For 12 of these he was waist deep in the water and he always hated water, often getting cramp when he went swimming. At one time he was offered a place on a ship but did not take it because they were unable to take his men along with him. If he had taken up the offer he would not have survived because the ship suffered a direct hit on the officers' quarters. As it was, he remained with his men until they were all lifted to safety.
These experiences had a profound effect on him, especially the plight of the refugees. He was very pessimistic, convinced that Germany would invade Britain and spent the most part of his leave trying to persuade my parents to send me to America. The argument went on and on. Harry was adamant that I should be sent away but my parents were reluctant as they foresaw the dangers of the sea voyage. In the end, after Harry had convinced them of the horrors of a German invasion, they relented and agreed to make enquiries. Mother wrote to her cousins who had a ranch in Wyoming and it was arranged that I should go and stay with them. And then came the news of a disaster. A ship carrying refugees to America had been sunk and on it had been a local church warden who was accompanying a group of children to the USA. That was it. There was no more talk of America or anywhere else.
Harry went back to his Regiment at the end of two weeks - still very quiet and withdrawn. He was sent to the South of England, Salisbury Plain, and was injured during a bombing raid in the Battle of Britain - only a minor wound, thank goodness. Some time later he was mentioned in Despatches for his part in the Dunkirk evacuation.
A few weeks after Dunkirk Mr Bell called a special school assembly where he told us that one of the former masters, Mr ?, had been killed in action. He had been seriously wounded during the retreat to Normandy and because of the severity of his injuries had asked his companions to leave him behind andhurry on to Dunkirk. He was taken prisoner by the Germans and died a few weeks later. All my pent-up emotion came to the surface and I started to cry and couldn't stop. I cried all that day and in every class. I could not stop. I just sat quietly with the tears streaming down my face but no one suggested I should catch an earlier train home or even took me aside and encouraged me to talk about my feelings. I had more or less recovered by the time I did get home and did not tell anyone there how distressed I had been.
* * * * *
It was in 1939 that I reached puberty and my body began to change. My breasts began to develop and I was painfully self-conscious of these small protruberances under my blouse and did my best to hide them by taking pillowcases from the linen cupboard and pinning them as tightly as I could round my chest. Sometimes I would try and pinch a bra (or B-squared as they called them) from Bumpy's room but they were too big. Mother never noticed and certainly never spoke to me about these things and it was not until Moira and Nick came home for the holidays and took charge that I got my first bra. I remember them giving my mother a row for neglecting me and then she phoned Jenners in Edinburgh and they sent a selection for me to try.
My first period came not as a shock but as an acute embarrassment. I was too shy to tell anyone in the morning when I noticed it, and went to school with my knickers full of hankerchiefs. It was only when I came home and was walking in the garden with Moira, that I was able to whisper to her what had happened. She laughed, took my hand, and marched me back into the house, and all was well again.
It used to amaze me afterwards that my father felt no embarrassment when mother asked him to bring some some sanitory towels when he went shopping. My periods would cause me quite a lot of misery for another couple of years, as I was the first of our group at school to mensturate and was totally unable to explain things when changing or when I couldn't go swimming, etc. It all seems so ridiculous now but that is how it was - these things just weren't talked about, even among the girls - not until we were considerably older anyway. I dread to think how I would have managed without my sisters. It is lovely to see the young girls of today proud of their 'boobs' and talking quite naturally of their bodies. It can only be for the good.
1940 was not all a year of gloom and doom. We had two weddings in April - Moira's and Nicola's so you can imagine the work and excitement that had prevailed during the previous months. There had been a tremendous amount of coming and going, cooking and sewing, and all the hustle and bustle that precedes one wedding, far less two which were only eleven days part.
Moira had become a Roman Catholic and her wedding was held in the RC Church in Kinross. Nicola, like most of the family was Episcoplian and Eric was a staunch Presbyterian and threatened to upset the service by refusing to kneel at the appropriate times. It was arranged that he would be firmly kicked behind the knees if this happened and he would kneel whether he liked it or not. Of course this was not necessary and the service went off smoothly, as planned. Both receptions were held at home and luckily the weather was fine and guests were able to spill out onto the lawns. They were happy family occasions.
Moira had met and fallen in love with a dental surgeon, called Sqn L Cyril Wilkie, who had been stationed in England. He came from Cork in Eire and was a charming Irishman with a gift for words and a strong introspective side to his character. Nicola was marrying Eric Gifford a fellow student at Edinburgh University. He had graduated and was now in the army. He seemed to me rather an intense young man, but perhaps that was only because he was not particularly interested in his fiancee's 12 year old sister or, more likely, it was because of the difficult times in which we lived. It cannot have been much fun to have only a short honeymoon and then an immediate separation when he went back to the army. After their respective honeymoons, Moira went down to live in Skegness where Cyril was stationed and Nicola came home for a short time before renting a small cottage in the village when she became pregnant. But before that there had been Eric's last leave.
He was in the Royal Artillery and knew he was being sent to North Africa, but more unfortunately he knew he was not coming back. During that week he had been determinedly cheerful and on his last night everyone went down to the village pub for a farewell get-together. There was Father, Bob, Nick and Eric. When they came back they were all more than a little tipsy, but Eric still seemed quite sober despite valiant efforts to the contrary. Later the proprietress told us he had had twenty-three whiskies. In the morning it was a sad little party who drove to the station at Kinross to see him off - just Dad, myself and of course Nicola. He never came back.
* * * * *
After Eric's departure life went on more or less smoothly. Nicola found she was pregnant but continued to live at home until after the baby was born. Bumpy was now living at home and looking after the garden. Bob was still at school but longing for the day when he could leave and join the RAF. Father became more involved with the Home Guard and was assigned special duties escorting military convoys through the small side roads of Perthshire. He kept up his fishing on Loch Leven and was a member of Tullibole Fishing Club. The outings of the latter were especially enjoyable and usually ended with more than a few drinks in the Kirklands Hotel. Poor mother could never settle until he was safely home when she knew he was out with the Fishing Club. Unless he was out on a fishing expedition he was seldom late home but if he was, it did not take much imagination to guess who he had been with - Davey Young. "I have only been with Davey Young," he would say apologetically when asked where he had been. David was a local solicitor and bank manager and quite a character. Highly intelligent, learned, friend of poets and artists, and totally unsuited for his chosen profession. His only hobby was reading, which he did hour upon hour. Among his friends he numbered Hugh McDiarmid, Sidney Goodsir Smith, the artist Westwater, and Ezra Pound, but despite his intellectual friends he always had time to talk to young people and could make local history, both ancient and modern, come to life. He lent me many books on history and later he and I became firm friends, but more change in the family was to come before that.
* * * * *
It was early December 1941 and there was a Christmas party in the village hall to which all of us except Father were going. I remember we were all sitting round the dining room table having an evening meal before setting out for the village and I had a tiff with Father - not serious but unusual in my case as I was a fairly compliant person. Bumpy, Mother and I set off for the village leaving Father sitting in front of the fire in the dining room. He had been rather unwell for a few days with a blood-stained spit but fit enough to have tramped miles over the hills with the Home Guard a few days before. We went to the party and enjoyed ourselves. When we came back Bumpy and I went into the kitchen to make tea and Mother went straight upstairs to the dining room to see Father. The next thing we heard was Mother running along the room and calling for help. We rushed upstairs and Father was lying in a pool of blood on the floor - a blood-stained hankerchief clasped tightly in his hand and he was deeply unconscious, if not actually dead. We phoned the doctor but he was out on calls. We tried to phone the district nurse but there was no reply. Even the minister was unavailable. They had all been at the party and were probably visiting. It was decided I should try to get help. I got out my bicycle and found that it had a puncture and the front torch was not working. The night was absolutely hellish with wind and driving rain. Nevertheless I set off in total backness with my lame bike. Eventually I made it to the village but how, I shall never know. It was so dark I could not see the houses or even the outline of the roofs against the sky. At last I managed to find the nurse's house literally by feeling my way along garden walls and gates, etc, but she was not in. Then I decided to try the manse which was even more difficult to find through gates and up the drive between tall bushes.
I made it though and luckily Mr McCorkey, the minister, had returned and the district nurse was with him and his wife having a cup of coffee. He every kindly drove us back to the castle. By the time we