Another Time, Another Place

 

Dr Arthur Philip Motley

Pat-Paddy Corry My mother was devastated when she had to leave the surgery as we were living too far away. When I was 17 and went to live in the States he came to the flat and had a long chat with me about the difficulties I might face. How good you and your family were to him. 

I remember tea at Jenners being a very special treat, sitting near a window to see the view. More often it was a film and high tea at the Playhouse. Remember I am talking about the 1950s! We must have been seeing Dr Motley before your flats were built! We saw Dr Motley from the very early 50s. I remember my mother looking at all the building going on and saying how clever he had been settling there. His practice must have grown tremendously.

Peter Hoffmann Yes, I think you're right Pat in that he appears to have got rid of the small branch practice at Gorgie Road circa 1947 perhaps recognising the potential, but serendipity too moving to Colinton Mains circa 1936. The NHS general practices were paid on a capitation basis so yes it would have become lucrative - a long way and a long journey from his recent ancestors working in the cotton fields in The Deep South.

Pat-Paddy Corry with her aunt at Duddingston Camp

Pat-Paddy Corry Thank you for bringing him back to me. Did you know that our connection with him started in Duddingston Camp? (Note the Duddingston Camp was one of the camps in Edinburgh that provided temporary housing for the homeless who were not eligible for Council Housing, following the end of World War 2.) When we came from Auchtermuchty to Edinburgh in 1947, we had to stay in Duddingston Camp in a hut. You didn't get a whole hut. As a family of four we got 2/3 (two-thirds) and a mother and her daughter got the rest bricked off of course. 

We had cold water, electricity and communal baths and toilets. It was awful for my mother but I loved it. There was acres of grass to play on, trees to climb and loads of children to play with. But we were viewed with horror. 

At school I was the only one from the camp to get in. I was initially resented or pitied until I proved myself. I cut my foot badly one evening. The National Health Service had just started and people were thrilled to see me set off for a free doctor‘s visit. My foot was stitched and a little later the doctor committed suicide. His wife couldn't come to terms with her husband not working privately any more and having to deal with the riff-raff. 

I thought it was my fault, going from the camp to his house in the evening. I don‘t know how my mother got hold of Doctor Motley but he came to the camp for a house visit. My mother and sister had lots of health problems. I remember following him out and asking him to please not kill himself. I'll never forget the look on his face. He told me that not only would he not kill himself, he'd come back to torment me. He gave me a sweet he had in his pocket - they were still rationed - and we parted with laughter. 

We moved soon after to a respectable address where we had to play on the street, and he remained our doctor until, I think, the late 60s or early 70s when he no longer could cope with patients so far away. My mother never did find another doctor she liked. It was always a case of: "Well, he‘s not Dr Motley."

Please note my father‘s little garden where he grew a few flowers so I could take them to the teacher like other children.

Peter Hoffmann Thanks for this Pat - I must add this to Two Worlds - fascinating and so interesting that he was the Camp’s doctor.

Pat-Paddy Corry I don't know if he was the Camp‘s doctor or whether my mother managed to get hold of him privately. She went to work for the Tory Party. That‘s how I got into Portobello School. We also got the flat in Montgomery Street after two years in the Camp and I was still able to stay at the same school even though I was miles out of the area. A lot of strings were pulled. I think Dr Motley only came to us. He was very brave because of his colour. There was no-one of colour in the Camp and he was the first black man I ever met. So I am sure he was not the Camp doctor and came out of area. Montgomery Street was totally different - a complete mixture of nationalities and colour. Sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps in those days, he didn't have so many patients (pre 1950) and was willing to travel. As far as I know we didn't visit him until we went to Montgomery Street. I‘m so sorry if I confused you.

Peter Hoffmann No not at all Pat - all very helpful and interesting helping to give a more rounded picture of his life - I’m greatly enjoying reading your memories of him. 

Pat-Paddy Corry I now remember a second visit to the Camp by Dr Motley. He came to see my mother. When he was leaving, my father was shouting at my sister and me. He went back into the hut and told my mother to get out of bed as Dad wasn't fit to look after us. It was a bit unfair to my dad who did shout a bit but never laid a hand on us unless Mum stood over us and made him. He then made a big show of it and I knew I had to cry but he never hurt me.

Peter Hoffmann Thanks for the clarification - I'd assumed it was your mother. As Jessie Kesson might remark, from a number of different angles, such a fascinating insight into 'another time, another place' indeed, another world.

Church Going

Church Going by Philip Larkin

Once I am sure there's nothing going on

I step inside, letting the door thud shut.

Another church: matting, seats, and stone,

And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut

For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff

Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;

And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,

Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off

My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

 

Move forward, run my hand around the font.

From where I stand, the roof looks almost new

Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.

Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few

Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce

'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.

The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door

I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,

Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

 

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,

And always end much at a loss like this,

Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,

When churches fall completely out of use

What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep

A few cathedrals chronically on show,

Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,

 And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.

Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

 

Or, after dark, will dubious women come

To make their children touch a particular stone;

Pick simples for a cancer; or on some

Advised night see walking a dead one?

Power of some sort or other will go on

In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;

But superstition, like belief, must die,

And what remains when disbelief has gone?

Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

 

A shape less recognisable each week,

A purpose more obscure. I wonder who

Will be the last, the very last, to seek

This place for what it was; one of the crew

That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?

Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,

Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff

Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?

Or will he be my representative,

 

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt

Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground

Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt

So long and equably what since is found

Only in separation - marriage, and birth,

And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built

This special shell? For, though I've no idea

What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,

It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,

In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,

Are recognised, and robed as destinies.

And that much never can be obsolete,

Since someone will forever be surprising

A hunger in himself to be more serious,

And gravitating with it to this ground,

Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,

If only that so many dead lie round.

 

  

Easter and The Half Hearted or In a Time of Churches

Between the years 1958 and 1972 I loved to hear the St John's Church bell ringing out to the parish of Oxgangs to celebrate Easter Sunday. 

Easter was always a very special time. 

Back in the 1960s my sister Anne, brother Iain and I would join the Blades (6/6) on some Easter Sundays at the former Oxgangs Evangelical Church. 

Paul Forbes and I also attended Charlotte Chapel too, through the influence of Fifi and Liz Blades. And when we were very young children we were taken along by Father to Belford Church. And yet despite all this we weren't religious at all. It was something which we just did. I guess we were just stumbling along on life's journey. In a half-hearted way. Without any formal analysis. And like other young people we were searching for our path in life.

But I enjoyed going along to each of the churches. I liked the sense of occasion. I instinctively realised the importance of Sundays being different to the other days in the week. I liked seeing people going along to church dressed in their Sunday best. With the church bell ringing out I enjoyed looking out our sitting room window seeing families walking together up Oxgangs Road North to attend church, either St John's or Oxgangs Evangelical. Outside the front of the house we could similarly see people going in to St Hilda's Episcopal Church.

And from The Stair I would hear or see the Duffy family from 6/8 heading off along the Avenue with other scattered groups walking to St Mark's Church whilst the Swansons from next door at 6/1 went off very smartly dressed to celebrate Easter at Colinton Mains Parish Church.

Looking back we were surrounded by churches. 

Whatever your religious or non-religious views one could argue we were better for that. 

I liked seeing the minister interact with and embrace members of the congregation. 

I liked seeing old spinsters or widows feel part of a larger family. 

I liked the sense of fellowship. 

I liked being part of a group - a community - an extended family. 

But I also felt uncomfortable with it too. I wanted to be a part of it. But I wanted to remain apart from it too. A conflicted position. And on reflection perhaps an ongoing personal characteristic too. An un-comfortableness with being subject to the mores of the group instead preferring to have my own voice and take on the world. And yet recognising how we all thrive within a community. Thus, not independence - not dependence - but inter-dependence.

But as long as I didn't get too fidgety - pass the pan-drops grandfather! - I enjoyed the service - the biblical stories - the sermons - and many of the values promulgated. I liked the sense of occasion and the mix of formality; history; tradition; and warmth. 

Most individuals enjoy and naturally feel more secure with such structures in the worries and uncertainties of their day to day lives. 

Somehow people generally felt better for Sundays. 

It didn't make things perfect but somehow the world felt a better place. During the church service I found myself, even as a young and occasionally rebellious teenager, enjoying those moments of quiet reflection. And yet I was never religious. I was never a believer.

Arthur Blessit

When the charismatic Reverend Derek Prime invited the equally charismatic Arthur Blessit to preach at Charlotte Chapel and 'hypnotise' half the congregation, I was most concerned about Paul joining many others to 'Come on down if you've felt the spirit!'

Despite never being well off as a family, Anne, Iain and I were well looked after at Easter by our mother and our grandparents. 

On Good Friday we received an attractive little mug with a cartoon figure emblazoned on it; sitting on top was a simple milk chocolate egg. These were inexpensive items yet we set great store by them because this was our personal cup for the rest of the year, from which we enjoyed our morning and evening cuppa of tea, milk and two sugars. 

Come the Saturday our grandfather (Gaga) brought each of us a large Cadbury's Milk Tray chocolate egg or similar with individual chocolates arrayed along the bottom.

We knew how lucky we were because outwith Norman Stewart at 6/3, compared to our pals in The Stair we did pretty well. 

On Easter Sunday we would be collected by our grandfather and driven down to Durham Road, Portobello enjoying the novelty of being in the car rather than on a bus. I loved the route, in particular seeing the women and gentlemen dressed up in their lovely coats and hats walking happily to Easter church services at Greenbank; Morningside; the Grange; and Duddingston Village. We would hear the sound of the ages - the peal of the church bells ringing out calling the followers to worship. 

Our grandmother had made hard boiled eggs for each of us which she had attractively painted. We would go out into the warm spring sunshine in the back garden and roll the eggs until the shells broke. I'm unsure whether we quite realised the significance of this, although I'm sure it would have been explained to us. 

It’s been interesting hearing of how others on the Oxgangs Facebook page spent Easter and their distinct memories there-of, particularly from the ladies who have different memories to me featuring new dresses and the prospect of summer.

Jackie Hamilton I recall us going to Braidburn Valley and rolling our painted hard boiled eggs down the grassy steps. We had two large blossom trees at the front of our house on Oxgangs Drive – one white one pink which were planted in 1965 and we watched them grow every year until my late Mum moved to Redford Road in 2007. I often wonder if they are still there.

Susan Logan I miss the Smarties eggs - they were the best. If Easter Sunday was at the end of the school holidays we had half an egg each day for our play piece.

Catherine Hayes; Susan Cooper; Sheila Henderson and Jaqueline Gollogly on a trip to Iona with the

St John's Bible Class circa 1966

Marlyn Noble Going to Iona with St John’s Church bible class. It was great fun long before there were any hotels on the island – the pure white sand, turquoise water and seeing lambs being born in the fields. Happy days. The only reason I went to bible class was so I could go to Iona. I think I went two years running. It was great fun.

Anne Matthews I went to Iona several times with the Bible Class - it was the perfect place for early spring and great fun.

Margaret Aitchison We moved to Oxgangs in 1957 and going to church on Easter Sunday meant a new summer outfit including hat and gloves! This was when the church was in the wooden hut. I went to Iona in 1962 with Anne Lawson, Christine Haddow and the late Joan Dickson. What a wonderful time we had. Anne and I also went in 1963 representing the Girls’ Guildry at the 1400th anniversary of the foundation of Iona abbey.

Caroline Cairney Smith For me it was rolling our Easter eggs down the grassy steps at Braidburn Valley and then in for a paddle; also the new Clarks sandals for Easter and a new dress. Happy days.

Marion Hogg We rolled our eggs at the Braidburn Valley but we weren’t allowed to paddle. We got our new Clarks sandals as well and white gym shoes for playing in. Sunday school was at Central Halls Tollcross with our straw hats, new dress, sandals, white socks and white gloves and we prayed it was warm. Oh happy days.

Linda Robson Easter was always the start of summer. There was a new summer dress and new sandals and white knee length socks to look smart for Easter! There were lots and lots of Easter eggs from my aunties and uncles inevitably leading to feeling hugely sick after stuffing your face with chocolate all day!

Lesley Wells I remember going to the Braidburn Valley and rolling my eggs down the grassy steps . After the Easter egg rolling and joining up with other pals, we would lie down and roll down the hill; we would join together holding hand and do a double act. A distant memory, but great fun Oh and the new ‘frock’ and of course the Easter bonnet.  I still have my perfect attendance bible from Sunday school. I wrote my name on it with joiny up writing . I must have been a BIG girl 

William Anderson I used to play the church organ at St John’s  for the dawn service. After that I went with the Reverend Jack Orr to the Princess Margaret Rose Hospital where he'd do a short service in a few wards and I would play the piano for the hymns.

Lesley Wells Does anybody remember having a concert in St John’s hall . I have a vivid memory of a group of us, perhaps the Brownies: we were all singing ‘She wore an itsy bitsy, teeny weeny , yellow polka dot bikini’. The chorus quite often comes in to my head.

Although we can't enjoy the peal of the St John's Church bell ring out today, fortunately I've captured it for posterity. 

And in these very strange times with Coronavirus and another Lockdown, wherever you are, have a lovely and Happy Easter. 

And if you get a moment to pause for reflection, enjoy that too. 

P.S. The Half Hearted is a very early less well known, but enjoyable novel by a young John Buchan - worth a read.