Easter and The Half Hearted

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

In the Hoffmann household Easter was always a very special time at 6/2 Oxgangs Avenue.

Back in the late 1960s/early 70s Anne, Iain and I would have joined the Blades (6/6) on some Easter Sundays at the former Oxgangs Evangelical Church. Paul Forbes and I also attended Charlotte Chapel too, probably through the influence of Fifi and Liz Blades. And when we were very young children we were taken along by the old boy to Belford Church too.

And yet despite all this we weren't religious at all; certainly not in the true sense. It was something which we did; I guess we were just stumbling along on life's journey. In a half-hearted way - without any formal analysis; and like many other young people, we were finding our path in life.

However, I enjoyed going along to the churches.

I liked the occasion.

I liked seeing people dressed in their Sunday best.

I liked seeing families together.

I liked the sense of fellowship.

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

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

I liked being part of a group or an extended family.

I enjoyed the service - the mix of biblical stories; sermons; and many of the values promulgated. I liked the sense of occasion and the mix of formality; history; tradition; and warmth too. I found myself, even as a young and occasionally rebellious teenager finding and enjoying these moments of quiet reflection during the service.

And yet I was never religious. I was never a believer. When the charismatic Rev Derek Prime invited the equally charismatic Arthur Blessit to preach at Charlotte Chapel hypnotising half the congregation, I was most concerned about Paul Forbes 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 very well looked after at Easter by our mother and our grandparents.

Each year, on Good Friday we received an attractive little mug with a cartoon figure on it; sitting on top was a simple milk chocolate egg. These were inexpensive items yet we set great store by them. Yes we quickly broke up the egg into pieces and enjoyed eating it; but the mug was special, because that was our cup for the rest of the year, from which we enjoyed our morning and evening 'cuppa' of tea, with milk and two sugars.

On the Saturday we were very lucky, because every year, our grandfather Gaga brought each of us a large brand name egg e.g. a Cadbury's Milk Tray chocolate egg with individual chocolates arrayed along the bottom. We knew how lucky we were with this, because outwith Norman Stewart (6/3) who always outclassed us all we did relatively well compared to our pals at The Stair.

On Easter Sunday itself we would be collected by our grandfather and driven down to Durham Road, Portobello; I loved the route and in particular seeing the women and gentlemen dressed up in their lovely coats and hats walking happily to church services at Greenbank; Morningside; the Grange; and Duddingston Village. Usually we would hear the lovely sound of the peal of the church bells ringing out and calling the followers to worship.

Easter Sunday, perhaps appropriately, was a simpler affair.

Our artist-grandmother had made three hard-boiled eggs for each of us which she had painted very attractively. We would go out into the warm sunshine in the back garden and roll the eggs until the shells eventually broke. I'm unsure whether we realised the significance of this - but I'm sure we will have been told.

In the decades after I left childhood at Oxgangs I've always found Easter a special time of the year.

I've occasionally written poems about it or had the oddest dream, once combining the two involving Arthurs Seat.

Easter Away

‘…Like a magnet, drawing me in

Wanting to whisper something to me

I’d like to listen. But can’t

Easter’s a strange time. And the world is whizzing

And to stop. And maybe find out

That you were only a dream.’

In later years when we married we enjoyed Easter with the extended family up at the farm in the Highlands.

And over the past eighteen years or so the fun and competition of the 'famous' Easter Egg Hunt with 'Atticus' and 'd'Artagnan' and cousins and friends. This year, 'd'Artagnan' is competing at the Birmingham International Open but Unc (Iain Hoffmann) and I have been in strict training to outfox Diane and 'Atticus' in today's egg-hunt - Unc' has his walking stick at the ready, so watch out Atticus for dastardly tactics!

And although we can't enjoy the peal of the St John's Church bell ring out today have a lovely and 'Happy Easter' wherever you are; and if you get a moment to pause for a moment of reflection, enjoy that too.

ps 'The Half Hearted' is a very early, but enjoyable novel by John Buchan - well worth a read.

On The Cusp Of the Year

Today is Thursday, 15th August, 2013. It's the last day of the year since, on a whim, I first started the blog, The Stair, on Thursday 16 August, 2012. On the cusp of the year, both for the blog and when late summer is just turning to early autumn I thought I would display this lovely photograph of the season. 

The photograph has been taken up at Swanston Road with the T Woods in the background on the lower slopes of the Pentland Hills. A local farm worker is atop a cart and horse carrying hay; they are making gentle progress up the slope on a golden afternoon at the cusp as summer turns to autumn.

It was on such afternoons throughout the 1960s and on to 1972 that I along with the other twenty four children from The Stair contemplated our return to the classroom. Quite often the weather remained similarly fine and sunny which made it a struggle to return to stifling classrooms at Hunters Tryst, Firhill and Boroughmuir Schools. Those of us with an awareness of the English system would be envious that our peers across the border wouldn't return until September.

For most of the kids we didn't really want to go back-even if by the back end of the holidays being off school had perhaps lost a little of its sparkle. I've no doubt though that a few others like Gavin Swanson who were more studious actually looked forward to the start of the autumn term and the new school academic year. I don't think I ever did, but there was always a certain 'buzz' about going back. 

The boys had visited Ben Mackenzie for a haircut-Michael; Boo-Boo; Brian and Alan Hanlon will have had their number ones, whilst Iain Hoffmann and I had our hair plastered down with jungle juice. 

For those with new schoolbags (and that unforgettable smell of leather) or new school clothes and ties or perhaps those going up to secondary for the first time many will recall these days with a mixture of excitement and pleasure, but pain might be too extreme a word choice!

Many of us were keen to squeeze the last drops from the summer fruits and as the countdown began we managed to play amongst the hay in the fields at Swanston; have grass fights with the mown grass in the front garden of 6/2 Oxgangs Avenue; or late evening games of kick-the can or British Bulldog at The Field. Bike runs were still taking place-I note that in August 1972 Paul Forbes; Boo-Boo Hanlon; Iain Hoffmann and I cycled through Arthur's Seat to Portobello whilst young Colin Hanlon cycled so far. On another occasion Boo-Boo, Iain and I watched a world record at the Edinburgh Highland Games-little did I realise that a few years later I would take part myself. 

There was still a certain continuity in our lives as milk runs and paper runs were still being undertaken, because not many of us at The Stair went away on holiday other than Liz Blades to Stonehaven; Anne Hoffmann to our New Town cousins; or Alison and Fiona Blades; Iain; Paul and I camping at Stobo, Peebles. 

For a few summers we enjoyed our Mini-Olympics at the army's former running track at Redford Barracks which were great fun. We might even manage a final visit to go jumping the burn at Colinton Mains through to the Braid-Burn Valley, but by then the grass and wild flowers and weeds and nettles had perhaps become too overgrown. 

And if it was wet, Iain, Paul and I would enjoy card games at The Blades with Fiona and the girls or play mischievously with their giant tape-recorder with Paul blowing great rasps onto the tape.

The cusp of the year was further illustrated and articulated through the school calendar.What was truly lovely about the summer was that it brought many of us at The Stair together whilst school would unfortunately divide us. At the start of the autumn term The Duffys returned to St Augustine's whilst The Hanlons; The Hoggs; Norman Stewart; The Swansons; and The Hoffmanns were divided up between Boroughmuir; Firhill; The Royal High; and of course Hunters Tryst. The cusp was thus metaphorical and literal.

And on this last day of the year of the blog whilst it should perhaps be a time for reflection I'm not inclined to go down that road, and for whatever reason I'm not inclined to quite bring down the curtain on it-and certainly not before I do a Where Are They Now blog-and even that of course is unlikely to be a final hurrah.

So, on the cusp of the year after a golden 2013 summer good luck in your adventures-and I look forward to meeting and hearing from old acquaintances and making new. And by way of update, one former member at The Stair, Fiona Blades has been accepted to undertake a PhD whilst I'm joining Iain Hoffmann on holiday to Portugal. Any updates from others would be welcome!

CONGRATULATIONS To Fiona Blades!

Many congratulations to Fiona Blades who's added an M.A. with merit to her qualifications-brilliant news about one of the original members of The Stair!

Fiona at The Stair circa 1964

Fiona, Autumn 2012

Dreeping-Ruth Kaye (Blades) and Peter Hoffmann

Hello Peter
I cannot remember if you mentioned about the dreeping off the shed roof at the back we used to do that often. The stair fashion also fascinated me everyone was very into the 70's look I remember fiona and Liz with their loons. My mother always used to dress the 3 youngest in the same outfits all the time. Bu I guess it was easy for her. She always had our play clothes laid out on our beds when we came back from school. I had forgotten your mother was always a natty dresser and very colourful I do not think I ever saw her in trousers whereas my mum wore trousers all the time. I know your mum loved sewing and made a lots of dolls clothes I am sure she could have made a very successful business out of it
Kind regards
Ruth

Excellent-that one passed me by-I used the term with d'Artagnan not so long ago when he was up in the attic and he just gave me this blank look...duh!...Dreeping-what's that? Yes, it was very popular-we sometimes had to coax one or two people down who would take fricht and end up in the hanging position for five minutes so good was their power to weight ratio! 

I don't remember Mrs Anne Hoffmann making doll's clothes-I'm likely to catch up with her and Anne Junior on Saturday when I'm down in Edinburgh for the weekend with d'Artagnan-she certainly was brilliant at making her own clothes-if we came in from school or out playing and cloth covered with patterns and pins encompassed the sitting room floor we made a quick body swerve out of the house as we knew from experience that the language might get rather colourful and choice if things didn't always go to plan! We could have done with your creative thinking back then Ruth-it would have been good pin money-sorry, me and my pins, uh, puns again!

ps Iain and his wife are up staying with us over New Year-he was saying you were always his favourite and how he enjoyed chatting with you coming back from Firhill School-he said you were always great fun!

Summer Has Gone

On Saturday 15 July, 1972, five of us set off for a camping holiday to Stobo, Peebleshire. The five were Alison Blades; Fiona Blades; Paul Forbes; Iain Hoffmann; and me. We got a lift down there from Douglas Blades in his red Austin pick-up.

Douglas's van could only seat two passengers in the cabin, so Alison and Fiona sat inside. Paul, Iain and I meanwhile sat in the back with all the camping gear and luggage; we were completely open and exposed to the elements, although fortunately the weather was set fair. It was a great feeling sitting in the back of the pick-up with the rushing breeze blowing our hair back. We felt cool, metaphorically and then literally, as the journey progressed through the wynding, open roads of the Borders. After we travelled through Penicuik we passed Leadburn Junction and made our way to Eddlestone where we turned right for the drive over the gentle Meldon Hills and then on through old Lyne Station, Stobo Castle, Stobo Kirk and the tiny hamlet of Stobo.

To keep sheltered from the wind we had to snuggle up together and kept as low down in the vehicle as possible. Fortunately we didn't come across any policemen en-route-although it was a laxer age, they might well have stopped us if they'd seen us sitting in the back of an open vehicle.

Stobo is a sylvan spot in Peebleshire set amongst the gentle and beautiful Borders landscape. It's little known unless you are perhaps familiar with the early works of John Buchan. Forty years before James Patrick McIntosh, the great Dundee artist painted a well known painting of the kirk; the painting is in the collection of Edinburgh's City Art Centre. Today, Stobo is a little better known because of the exclusive health spa at Stobo Castle.

Stobo Church (James Patrick McIntosh)

We had managed to borrow a large tent from the church - I think it belonged to Oxgangs Evangelical Church rather than Charlotte Chapel - I note from my diary that it was Fiona who got it for us. I had borrowed a sleeping bag from my grandparents and bought in lots of food from The Store, including a few flagons of cider - looking back it seems amazing that teenagers could buy alchohol and tobacco so easily.

Paul Forbes; Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann trying to keep up!
(Heather Robertson)

The farmer gave us the go ahead to camp in his field. I note from my diary that after setting up the tent that evening (with a hand from Douglas) we thereafter managed a swim in the River Tweed followed by a good supper washed down with cider - a deadly combination! According to the diary we were tipsy - a rather quaint word. Paul had clearly consumed too much and was sick. I recall him swearing that he'd seen a shooting star during the night, but we were dubious, much to his dismay.

Normally the problem with camping in Scotland is the weather - people often get washed out and have to give up and go home. Ironically, we had some difficulty with the weather too, but for the opposite reason. We chose one of those very rare occasions when Scotland had a heatwave!

The week we'd chosen to go camping was the hottest of the summer. In the following days the temperature was mostly in the eighties. Indeed it was so hot that most of us began to suffer from heatstroke. By the following Tuesday our grandparents were good enough to drive down to take Alison and Iain back home to The Stair to recover. The group photograph shows how badly Alison was suffering. Again, from my diary I noticed that I too was sick that evening, noting that I was feeling crap!

Grandfather (William Robertson); Alison Blades; Paul Forbes; Fiona Blades; Grandmother (Josephine Robertson); Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann
(Heather Robertson)

However, in between, we had a lovely time. We were up early with the light and stayed up late into the evening sitting around our camp-fire. Sometimes we'd cook a fish that had been gifted to us by local fishermen during the day. The bus-driver on the Peebles to Glasgow late night bus used to flash his lights at the happy young campers as he drove the country bus along the old B712 road. From the spring through to the summer we'd all enjoyed occasional card games back at The Stair, so before turning in for the evening we sat and played games of trumps. Before we all drifted off to sleep inside the tent, the craic was always good with much story telling, nonsense and hilarity. We'd be awoken in the morning by the sounds of birdsong. The only sound during the night was the gentle plashing of water as it lapped against the small pebbles, but once or twice during the night there might be a strange sound or screech which broke the silence - What was that? (or if it was Paul What the fuck was that!) was the usual refrain from one of us, but we felt safe and secure in one another's company and soon fell back to sleep.

Paul Forbes; Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann
(Heather Robertson)

During the day we used to spend a great deal of time in the River Tweed. It was a glorious spot. Adjacent to our tent was a small still pool which kept our submerged drinks cool and which we also used for bathing. We used the opposite side of the bank, which was a good four or five feet higher up for diving into the main body of the river. Here the water was around eight feet deep. It was wonderful to begin the day with a dive into the pure clean water. Throughout the day, whenever we sizzled with the heat, we'd stroll across and dive and dive again into the water.

Paul Forbes and Peter Hoffmann diving; Iain Hoffmann watching, learning and admiring-not! Iain was the diver par excellent!
(Heather Robertson)

On most days a few families came for picnics and were often friendly. Entertained by our exploits they were often kind offering us some of their food. Half a mile away there was a tiny wee shop in the little hamlet of Stobo. Paul and I usually wandered down early each morning to pick up a pint of milk, some bread and lemonade or coke to keep the fluids up.

Peter Hoffmann (Heather Robertson)

The lovely county town of Peebles was six miles away. On one occasion Paul and I began walking there but it was terribly hot and exhausting. We stuck our thumbs out to a couple of passing vehicles but without any success. Being a quiet country lane there was very little traffic on the road. Of a sudden we heard a car in the distance. I immediately lay down on the road whilst Paul leapt up and down and waved down an older, charming English couple and told them rather dramatically that I'd fainted with the heat. They kindly offered us a lift into town. Rather like Stanley Baxter in The Fast Lady I of course made an immediate recovery and we were soon conversing happily with them on the drive into town!

Peebles for pleasure runs the old motto and we sauntered around enjoying games of putting and of all things playing with swans down by the River Tweed. I assume we got a country bus back to Stobo as I suspect walking the six miles back to our camp-site would have been beyond us. Fiona, Paul and I stayed on for the rest of the week. We gathered firewood from the local wood, swam, conversed, played cards and generally lapped up the sun and the experience, before Douglas kindly came down to collect us and drive us back to The Stair.

When that summer of 1972 came to an end it marked a point in time - a line in the sand - the bell was ringing for the last lap and the end of my boyhood. It wasn't long afterwards, indeed only a few weeks later that I decided to leave school. A few months later, at the start of winter I left The Stair, only to return for occasional visits.

Summer Has Gone’ 

I have tidings for you,

The stag bells;

Winter pours;

Summer has gone

Wind is high and cold;

The sun is low;

Its course is short;

The sea runs strongly…

Cold has seized

The wings of birds;

Season of ice.

These are my tidings

       (Early Irish Lyrics, Oxford 1956)

How Can Sundays Be Saturdays?

How can a Sunday be a Saturday?

Traditionally Sunday was a quiet day of rest and religious contemplation for many people.Certainly the atypical Sundays which we spent in the 1960s are a quickly disappearing thing; not quite extinct, but not far off...

The 1960s were a crossroads-at the end of the decade the culture was rapidly moving on and changing-fewer people were attending church; one or two shops were starting to open for longer; and young people in particular were keen to break away from what for many people could be quite a stifling day.

The Hoffmanns had a general Sunday pattern for many years which revolved around being collected at The Stair by our grandfather any time after 11.00 am to be taken down to Portobello for the day. We didn't have a telephone and of course mobiles weren't even dreamed of back then. Anne, Iain and I used to stand at our parents' front bedroom window to look for our grandfather's car coming down the hill at Greenbank. It's uncanny to think we could see that far, but this was when the prefabs were still there and before the new blocks of flats were built which replaced them.

Oxgangs House development and the last remaining prefabs at Oxgangs Avenue
(Photograph Douglas Blades)

We couldn't be entirely certain that it was his car, but there were relatively few cars on the road there on a Sunday. A cry would go up That's Gaga! and we'd all rush to get ready. Sometimes of course it wasn't and we'd go back to our waiting stations.

Over the years we attended church services intermittently before going down to Portobello. When we were very young we visited  the Bellvue Church with our father at the west end of Edinburgh.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s we children went along to the new Oxgangs Evangelical Church which we generally enjoyed. I remember two spinster sisters-the Darnleys who took separate bible classes. I attended the elder of the sister's class. I liked her. I note from a diary entry of Saturday, 9 January, 1971 I went to a party at Miss Darnley’s (Bible Class teacher) at the bungalow she shares with her sister at Craiglockhart. Not bad. Good night. I think some of the Blades girls were at the party too-I vaguely recall Fiona and Gail being there). The sisters were kind-Miss Darnley gave us all a small present. She gave me a copy of King Solomon's Mines by Rider Haggard-a thoughtful present for a fourteen year old boy. I was clearly disappointed with myself and it was most unlike me not to be up early, but I noted in my diary of the following day (Sunday 10 January, 1971)...I got up at 10.30 am. I missed Bible Class. I was annoyed as Miss Darnley  had thrown a party the night before. I clearly felt guilty. 

In the summer-time the family often went for an outing in the car with our grandparents. It was a traditional thing for the expanding British car owning population. If it was a run down the coast of East Lothian and home through the rich red soils of the farming landscape, we always stopped at Luca’s Café, Mussleburgh to enjoy their spectacularly good ice cream. My grandfather would treat us and buy each of us a cornet or wafer-he was a very generous man. We all ‘oohed and aahed’ at the creaminess of the flavour; today they have a very modern, fashionable up-market branch at Churchill where I give my custom every day of any visit to Edinburgh. The ice cream is still as good, particularly when it’s been freshly made.

We also went for regular picnics, but these tended to take place at Lauder Moor or Peebles.

Sometimes we were so full of food and had such an active day at our grandparents' house that on the way home to Oxgangs and The Stair we fell asleep as we cuddled up to each other in the Ford Zephyr or whatever car our grandfather had. The combination of the quiet drone of the engine, the car heater warming up and a dark winter’s night were a powerful sedative. At Christmas time, we managed to stay awake and played a game-we counted the number of Christmas trees we could see in house windows. In the summer, because of the light it, was easier to stay awake and on many occasions we had competitions to see who could count the most Mini cars.

Throughout the 1960s for the other members of The Stair and also the Stairs at numbers 2.4 and 8 too Sunday was a very quiet day. Oxgangs resembled a ghost town. Out-with a few people collecting Sunday papers and rolls the streets were very quiet. The roads and the traffic were quiet too. The field out the back was empty of kids with no games of football played. The pre-existing culture from previous decades continued and dominated. Was it difficult for families to keep in and contain energetic young children?

As previously mentioned The Duffys attended St Marks RC Church; I never recall The Hanlons going to church or The Smiths; The Blades were regular attendees at both Oxgangs Evangelical and at Charlotte Chapel; neither The Stewarts or The Hoggs attended church; The Swansons attended the Colinton Mains Church of Scotland at Oxgangs Place opposite The Store.

In the late 1960s things began to change for us very slowly. We started to go to our grandparents' house on alternative Sundays and therefore got into the habit of playing outside. Very gradually some other families were the same. Michael Hanlon arranged football matches against other local street teams; despite being at Boroughmuir I still occasionally turned out for his Red star team. However, Sundays still remained quiet-I sense there was still a reluctance to allow Sunday to become just another holiday when children could run free and wild.

Even today, if I'm in Edinburgh and on a Sunday I retrace the route which my grandfather took to Portobello-down Greenbank; past the old tenements and large houses at Morningside, Churchill and the Grange; and from there though the Queen's Park and past the 12th century Duddingston Kirk, one can still see and get a sense of that weekly Sunday trip which we took throughout the decade of the 1960s-there are still well heeled and well groomed people, albeit fewer and fewer making their way to these large old churches.

Change came slowly, but steadily-a change in the culture-a change in values-and the children were getting older and less keen to be contained. In the early 1970s Paul Forbes and I went along to Charlotte Chapel-we must have been introduced to the church through the Blades family-I note from a diary a church barbecue at Gullane Beach, in the company of Fiona and Liz Blades amongst others.

The minister then was the rather engaging Reverend Derek Prime who we liked very much. Often Paul and I would arrive for the evening service carrying large bags of sports kit which the minister hid behind the pulpit for us!

We'd been training in the morning and then hanging around Meadowbank Sports Centre in the afternoon. John Anderson had an international squad there, but for some reason he allowed two scruffy and cheeky kids from Oxgangs to join in, much to the surprise of our contemporaries-perhaps he saw something there which few others did.

Thereafter we would chat up any girls who were around-usually Petrina Cox and Fiona McCaulay who were good fun. Once they'd left to do sensible thing-like homework, we'd remain there and either sneak in to the table tennis room and play at table tennis until we were thrown off. Sometimes the great Boroughmuir Basketball team were playing against the likes of The Hornets-again we'd slip in without paying and soak up the atmosphere cheering on 'Muir.

All the while we'd stretch out our limited finances, sometimes having to share a single plate of chips.We developed a very mixed reputation-the names Peter and Paul tended to ring too easily and too often off the tongue! We were certainly regarded as characters and had our ups and downs. We were often chastised and told off, but we kept coming back Sunday after Sunday as well as regular evenings throughout the week. Although I'm happy to say we were never mature, by attending week in week out, we began to get fitter and fitter, better and better.

If we weren't going to Charlotte Chapel from Meadowbank Sports Centre then it might be on our way back from an athletics competition at Perth or in the Borders.As this blog only covers the period to 1972, I can safely say that I certainly never achieved anything athletically at this time, although I did manage to break the school record in the 200 metres that summer and be part of an Edinburgh Athletic Club team which won the East of Scotland Championship relay. Paul meanwhile was relatively better than me and getting some good results at cross country picking up East of Scotland and National team medals.

.

Boroughmuir School Sports Day 1972 200 Metres Final. In the background the great and legendary TAS Taylor
(Photograph by Miss Anna Beattie, Mathematics School-Teacher)

A big attraction of Charlotte Chapel were the lovely girls there. In my memory, the girl who stood out was Moira Cameron who was beautiful. I'd see her on church outings and at the Youth Fellowship which was held in the minister's house at Morningside on Sunday evenings. I never plucked up the courage to ask her out. I notice in my diary of 14 June, 1972...I won the 200 metres in a new school record time...scived the afternoon...went orienteering with the YPM...Moira Cameron very nice looking...got a run home....

Moira Cameron
(Photograph Douglas Blades)

Along with the ever changing culture the most dramatic factor which essentially changed Sundays into Saturdays was the Sunday Trading Act, 1994 which permitted large retail shops to open on Sundays. People no longer had to rush to pack everything into a Saturday. People could now shop on a Sunday. The public could watch a Premier League football game-even a game of international rugby on a Sunday.

Sundays would no longer be quite the same; in my mind a Sunday still feels slightly different to a Saturday-gone is the Victorian suppression of the Sundays of the 1960s, enabling people to shop, work, play, but also to participate in religious worship and contemplation if they so wish-a halfway house which works for us all? Although I suspect some followers of The Stair may disagree!

Scraps And The Great Divide

Over the fourteen or so years that I spent at The Stair I had a relationship at various times with all the children apart from perhaps the Duffy girls, Ann, Laura and Mary; where we would simply acknowledge one another.

I don't think I ever thought of a separation between the boys and the girls. Depending upon the season and the passing of the years things just seemed to naturally fall into place. Some activities were gender neutral whilst with others a natural separation took place.

I can recall having great fun going off on adventures to Morningside Park with Fiona Blades or to Portobello Pool with the ballet girls-Audrey Smith, the McKenna sisters and others; at other times Boo-Boo Hanlon; Iain Hoffmann; Les Ramage and I would head off to Edinburgh Castle; or I would go to church barbecues with Liz and Fiona Blades to Gullane Beach. The great chasey games that were held in the winter involved boys and girls including Carol Ramage, Jaqueline Burnett, Jonathon Taylor, Michael Hanlon and many others. In the summer time we would play British Bulldog in the front garden of 6/2 The Stair with Ruth and Alison Blades, Ali Douglas, Colin Hanlon and many others too. In the summer jumping the burn was a mixed activity, but one which mainly featured the boys, more of which in a future blog.

Where there was a great separation or divide in the 1960s was football which was dominated by the boys-it was very rare to see a girl playing, although I can recall Ruth Blades being atypically enthusiastic and indeed still have the bruises on my shins from such encounters!

On the girls' side there were two distinctive activities which come to mind that were female exclusive domains. In the summer they always had the really annoying habit of creating brilliant tents from blankets pegged up against the fence which separated the field from the washing green. The Hogg girls, Christina, Maureen and Eilleen and also all the Blades girls did this over the years.

These were girls only zones-boys were excluded. The tents always looked so cool-actually it was probably far too warm in there-and they always seemed to be getting up to interesting things inside that would irk our curiosity. Some boys were stupid enough to pull the tents down-not something I would contemplate doing having been on the losing side of several toy wrestling matches against Fiona Blades who I had total respect for-I wouldn't have wanted to get into a scrap with her!

Talking of scraps-the other activity, and one which I think mainly fell into the autumn and winter seasons of the year were scraps. Many of the girls including Eilleen Hogg and my sister Anne Hoffmann Junior collected scraps. I could never see the appeal of this hobby and I think it was boy free. Was it a gender thing or was it something that was indoctrinated into us so that we were all stereotypes?

Looking back I can see a greater rationale for the activity-it's probably similar to why many people go to the pub for a drink rather than sitting at home with one-it was a social activity-a vehicle where the girls got together in each others' homes to admire, comment and swap scraps together. The late 1960s must have marked the passing of collecting scraps as an activity for girls.

Happiness

Most often the paper run was done alone. 

On the rare occasions when one had company, the run was a doddle. Sometimes my sister Anne Hoffmann Junior would accompany me on Saturday mornings. During the run I would send her up to a house to deliver a newspaper-when she came back, I'd vanished behind a tree or a wall, only to leap out and scare her. I'm afraid I haven't changed-d'Artagnan (16) and I (56) still do the same to each other!

The other person I occasionally paired up with was Fiona Blades-sometimes it was to learn a new run for which one might have to provide holiday cover for or simply to learn a new run that one was to take future responsibility for.Raymond Carver's poem, Happiness, below, captures some of the feelings of doing a paper round in company.

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Working at Bairds' Newsagents-Hong Kong Improving The Lives Of Paper Boys And Girls!

The 1960s were very much an age of change - a rapid movement from the austerity of the 1940s and 1950s to the pop movement of the 1960s with a change in attitudes embracing a youth culture in clothes, music and technology. 

All the way from Hong Kong the advent of technology made a positive impact on the quality of life on our early morning paper runs too. 

We could now work to music! 

In the late 1960s there was an explosion of cheap mini radios that came on to the market.

For many of us of a certain age it was a must have purchase. 

So, instead of solitary contemplative walks we could now enjoy the dubious charms of Tony Blackburn on the Radio 1 Breakfast Show.

I remember on one occasion down at Morningside, Fiona Blades and me teasing an old postie who we were friendly with. 

I'd got a tiny, minuscule plastic toy radio out of a Lucky Bag - although the technology was fast moving, it hadn't quite reached that stage - the size of a large postage stamp - however passed it off to him as being the real thing, whilst we had the mini radio switched on whilst hidden in my paper bag. 

He held it towards to his ear and declared it 'A marvellous thing!'

Working At Bairds' Newsagents-The Darkness and The Light-The Darkness

Mr Andrew Baird, the son of the founder of Baird's Newsagent
(Photograph courtesy of Louise Baird)

From behind the keyboards it's too easy to romanticise the past. And it's ridiculously too easy to romanticise getting up early to do a morning paper run and reflect upon its character-building qualities. 

Getting up early in the dark was rarely easy; even if you had gone to bed early the evening before. However, once you had got over the initial shock of the Big Ben repeater alarm going off and got a bit of tea and toast into your system, the travelling down to Baird's Newsagents, Morningside Drive for our paper rounds on the 6.00 am Number 16 bus wasn't too bad in the winter months - the bus was cosy - the company of Liz, Fiona and Gail Blades and Christina and Maureen Hogg was good and the craic between the conductor and the cleaners was funny. 

Once inside  the shop you were out of the cold, the wet and the dark. For half an hour it was quite Dickensian - like a small factory through the back of the shop where we folded the newspapers on the worktop in preparation for Pamela Baird arriving later to make up the paper runs.

Being Morningside most of the newspapers were broadsheets. Liz and Fiona were like robots - the speed at which they folded the papers was uncanny - they were like lightning. I could never keep up with them. When they weren't about I enjoyed appearing fast to the novices. When we had finished, our hands were dark and dirty from the ink.

Pamela Baird

I liked Pamela and warmed to her; I also admired the way she assumed responsibility for the business after her father died. She wasn't an early morning person so it was a struggle for her too; and running the business must have placed a heavy burden upon her at that time - in the afternoon she could be fun. I wonder what became of her in the decades after the shop was sold?

She came from a different class to us; Fiona and I would give one another knowing smiles and glances when Pamela answered the telephone and put on a posh accent for the benefit of her customers - there would be exaggerated pauses as she said 'Mmmh, yaass....mmmh yaass...mmmh yass'. 

I liked working for Baird's, however, the thing which brassed me off slightly was that although we arrived at the shop half an hour earlier than the children from Morningside Pamela would make up their runs first - I always felt this was class discrimination; I assumed they were the children of friends and neighbours and who attended more local schools such as George Watsons School. However, Fiona was smart as a whip and actually memorised her run so she didn't have to hang around.

I did the Morningside Drive run which was one of the biggest runs at the shop - I had to collect a second bundle of papers from Pamela's brother, Stuart, who dropped it off on the garden wall at St Clair Terrace from his little Triumph Herald car; what was even more irritating was that he was always late!

The Baird family with Stuart and Angela at the front

Although this was effectively a double paper round, Baird's paid well at a pound a week it was double the going rate and our bus fares were paid for too. We also felt a certain ownership too - despite the size, length and time taken I regarded the Morningside Drive run as mine, (until I took over the City Hospital from Douglas Blades) and took a certain pride in ensuring the post got through no matter the obstacles. Was it Tuesdays or Fridays that were the worst because the Daily Telegraph had a magazine insert in it which considerably added to already heavy bags.

Saturday bags were also heavier, with a weekend magazine, but somehow, Saturdays were never a struggle.

Once you had set out from the warmth and company of the shop we cut lonely, solitary figures - the winter mornings were dark and often quite bitter - Morningside Drive was quiet; the graveyard was on the opposite side of the road for a stretch - lovely mansion and town houses by day were surprisingly spooky and shadowy in the dark, especially when the wind blew through the swaying, leafless branches of the big old trees that lined Morningside Drive.

Looking back it was certainly character building - athletics training in such conditions in later years I took in my stride, probably because I had been steeled and inured in those earlier years working for Baird's. And whilst I do see a certain value in the overall experience, it was not conducive to performing well at school and reaching one's potential - when d'Artangnan asked me a few years ago if he could do an early morning paper run I admired his chutzpah and work ethic, but I said no, because I wanted him to get as much sleep as possible to grow and to be fresh for school; and today I guess we're more aware of the health & safety dimension too.

More in later blogs on life at Baird's and observations and reflections - under The Light where I also want to mention a poem Happiness by Raymond Carver.

Postscript

Much to my delight, on Saturday, 17^th March, 2018, I met up with Pamela Baird for coffee at Burr & Co, George Street, Edinburgh for the first time in at least 46 years. She looked very well - vibrant and chatty - it was absolutely lovely to see her once again and to catch up on what happened to Baird's Newsagents in the years after I stopped working there.

Pamela left the year after I finished working there (1971) to get married in 1972 and she moved away to West Lothian where she has lived since. The shops (there were three adjoined - a toy shop and a card shop too) were sold on to an American, who only ran the businesses for a year or so afterwards.

In many ways Pamela was glad to move on as managing the newsagents placed a heavy burden on her young shoulders - she was only nineteen years old when her Dad died in 1966 and she had to leave working at the bank to take up the reins and the hours were long. Prior to this, she used to give her dad a break from the shop for an hour to allow him to nip home to watch the wrestling on a Saturday afternoon, so she gained some experience then of running the shop.

It was very gratifying for me to be able to convey my thanks to her for being able to work there - I loved working for Baird's - they were good employers - it was an important part in my young life for three years - it left a deep impression upon me and taught me much about the values of discipline, hard work and resilience and depending upon yourself as well as being part of a team and of course the importance of earning your corn.

ps Pamela mentioned to me that one of her younger sisters, Angela, who lives in Australia, said she recalled me taking her out to see the film, Grand Prix, at the Dominion Cinema and being young, nervous and naive that instead of taking her for a coffee afterwards, spotted a number 16 bus saying ‘Oh, here’s my bus home’ and leapt on - I don’t recall our date, but it sounds just like me!

Happy Families?

At Konditorei & Feinbackerei-Fiona Blades and Peter Hoffmann -'Nana Mouskouri' behind the camera this week!   

Fiona Blades, Anne (Hoffmann) Duncan, Anne (Hoffmann Junior) Kennedy-complicated! and Peter Hoffmann met up for coffee and cakes on Saturday morning at Bruntsfield-theme?, Happy Families (not!)-the ups and downs of life at The Stair and the legacy in the four decades since and the never ending circle of life weaving similar and different patterns-serendipity-an hour later, Paul Forbes, Keith Fisher, Tom Hoffmann and Peter Hoffmann met up at St John's West at Princes Street for afternoon tea.

An hour before midnight, late night texts going back and forward between Peter and Paul-topic?, aye you've guessed it, Happy Families, (not!).

Still, all and all,considered a very pleasant and unusual Saturday! And this morning, awoke to a beautiful sun-kissed Edinburgh morn'!