1 August 1942

Did some washing and mending.  Out from 5.30 to 6.30.  Walk round only.

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Not that much drinking was done.  I suppose the maxim allowance of whisky per man did not exceed a couple of drams altogether, but as all were very abstemious, as indeed the great majority of Scotsmen in Scotland are, even the smell of the cork, as the saying is, was enough to make them jolly and in high fettle to celebrate Hogmanay.  The supper which was the real Scotch ‘high tea’ in its finest form, used to be sat down to, I think, about 10pm in the kitchen.  Two tables were set, one for the grownups and one for the children, both completely covered with good things to eat.  The ‘piece de resistance’ was invariably a plateful of sliced cold meat or ham for each person with plenty of bread and butter and good strong tea, and an abundance of plain and sweet cakes, fruit and sweets.  A feast fit for a king.  then there were the Christmas crackers at each plate which had to be pulled before the serious business of eating commenced and the paper hats donned and fortunes read which each contained.  Such a noise of joyous excited babble and merriment as would have thawed the heart of any misanthrope.  We children, I imagine, were too much occupied in giving our attention to the good things to eat to do much else, but the grownups’ table was the centre of almost continuous laughter as the one amusing anecdote or funny story followed the other.  This reminds me of an amusing incident which occurred one Hogmanay supper in a later year when I myself had already qualified for a seat among the grownups.  For some reason or other, on that occasion, probably as an overflow from the children’s table, my little cousin George Rickart, then about six years old was seated with the grownups.  The usual stories were being told when, after the burst of laughter following the conclusion of some yarn had almost subsided, little George, in his shrill treble piping, shrieked out, ‘I know a story – I know a story’, until to silence him someone said, ‘Well, tell us your story, George.’  And George delivered himself at the top of his voice of the following:

‘There was a boy sitting in the class and there was another boy sitting behind and the teacher asked the boy, ‘Boy, who made you?’ and the boy stuck a pin in him and the boy said, ‘Oh, Christ!’

Poor George!  I doubt if a funny story ever fell flatter.  There was absolute dead silence for a moment while each one round the table avoided looking at the other then everybody started talking at once, desperately intent on changing the subject.  On the whole, self control was wonderful.  Only my aunt Margaret’s feelings got the better of her.  I still see her clapping her hands over her mouth and rising hastily from the table and leaving the room precipitately, to reappear some five minutes later still wiping her streaming eyes, having had her laugh out in the privacy of her bedroom.  Talking of funny stories, it is interesting and amusing to recall the type of story which was considered improper in those far off days and I ask myself whether it is a good or a bad sign that what was looked upon as improper then appears trivial and even childish to us at this day.  For instance, I remember a party given at our house round about one New Year to which the family Primrose, who occupied the flat above ours, had been invited.  Now, Johnny Primrose was a jolly, fat little man, always brimful of good spirits and apparently just the sort of person to keep the fun going in any company.  All went well until we were seated at supper.  Johnnie Primrose had fulfilled all expectations, and everybody was in high good humour and spirits when our guest, no doubt emboldened by his success as a fun maker, overstepped himself and lost face with that company for all time by telling this tale:

‘A boy, carrying a baker’s basket, entered a railway carriage and deposited the basket on the luggage rack above the seat.  At the next station, an old gentleman came into the same compartment and seated himself, by chance, under the basket.  After a time he became conscious of some slight discomfort and casting his eyes above beheld the basket.  Removing himself hastily to another part of the compartment he said to the boy, ‘Boy, your pies are leaking.’ ‘It’s nae pies mister’, replied the lad, ‘it’s puppies’.

Believe it or not, the assembled company simply froze nor did they thaw during the whole rest of the evening, Johnnie Primrose had put himself beyond the pale once and for all.  Poor innocent man!  One shudders, contemplating his crime, to think of what must have been really acceptable as funny stories in those days.

But to get back to our Hogmanay gathering of the clan.  We rose from the table shortly before midnight and returned to the sitting room where glasses were hastily charged and the windows thrown open to catch the first strokes of the hour which heralded the passing of the old and the coming of the new year; and in a hush in which the whole town, nay, the whole world, seemed to be listening, there would boom out from the far off steeple of St Nicholas Church the first stroke of twelve, to be immediately taken up by church bells in every part of the city and by the sirens of all ships in the harbour.  And then such a hand shaking and embracing among our company in that really sacred moment when hand clasped hand and foolish misunderstandings of the past year were wiped out as if by magic and eye met eye and heart met heart with pure love and affection.  And then one seats himself at the piano and, all standing, ‘Auld Lang Syne’ is sung with full voices and hearts eye, and with a tear as well.  For to whom does ‘Auld Lang Syne’ mean so much as to a Scotch company and what memories come crowding in upon us when we hear that refrain on Hogmanay night?  Even now my eyes are wet when I recall all the associations whcih it has for me.  Hogmanay such as I have described and others later with a steadily and sadly diminishing family circle.  Hogmanays spent in solitude, a stranger in a strange land and far from my ain folk with only memories for company.  But there, let me thank God in all gratitude for such memories.  Immediately after the New Year had been thus ushered in with due ceremony occurred the great event of that wonderful night for us children.  All at once there would come a thunderous knocking at the outer door and our hearts would jump into our mouths because we knew that that wonderful person, Santa Claus had again condescended to hear our petitions and had come laden with the most marvellous yet vaguely familiar voice – nothing more.  One of my aunts, Innes most probably, would go to the door, and opening it just a crack would ask, ‘Who do you want Santa?’, while we congregated in the dimly lit lobby, agog with excitement mixed with awe of the unknown.  Then the mysterious voice would say a name and the child called would go to the door.  And beyond, the door would be opened and nobody would be seen without.  But see – there on the mat, what is that?  A parcel, two, perhaps even three parcels, all bearing the name of the child whose name had been called.  And so in turn, until Santa has delivered his gifts to all.  No need to describe excitement and shrieks of childish joy attendant on the opening of the  parcels, which, in the majority of cases, contained the recent heart’s desire of every child present.  And so the Hogmanay reunion comes to an end and already the reaction of the unwonted late hour and emotion has set in for the still very little ones.  The break up of the clan commences, the married folks with their kiddies returning to their own homes, while the younger members depart on a round of ‘first fittin’ which would probably continue till dawn.  And so the years ended and began in the halcyon days of my happy childhood.

28 July 1942

Went to the doctor who comes Tuesdays and Fridays.  Suspect chill in bladder.  Excessive urinating during the morning and forenoon.  Must send sample of mine tomorrow morning.  Out 5.40 to 6.30.  Usual routine.

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To revert to the show itself, the final item was a sketch in which Stratton, Monty and myself took part in the characters respectively of the winsome heroine, the heavy villain and the soldier lover.  The piece started with a discussion, before the audience, between Gus and Monty as to how the audience could be further amused and on their deciding to present a play, the plot was arranged and the parts assigned.  I myself being called, as a half witted stagehand, to have my part explained to me.  This explanation took at least 10 minutes, during which time Monty harangued me as to what was expected of me with the help of good old ‘slap stick’ while all I had to do was to stand and look foolish.  I must have possessed a natural aptitude for looking silly and half witted because on a number of occasions the audience shrieked so much with laughter at the sight of my face that Monty had to turn my back to the public in order to be able to continue his injunctions.  In self defense I must, of course, mention that my face was to such an extent made up that even my mother would not have recognised me.  The ‘slap stick’ which was applied to my face about every ten seconds, was, I should explain just a piece of paper folded a few times, to a breadth of about four inches and a slap with it across the face is quite painless, although the report of the blow sounds like a revolver shot and is very effective.   However, the play having now been fully discussed and arranged, the action now commenced.  The audience were invited to imagine that the platform was a lake on which the villain represented a rock on which the soldier lover was on sentry duty.  The boat was an ordinary table turned upside down with the legs in the air while the oars consisted of a couple of sweeping brushes.  Gus was wonderfully arrayed in a dress which had probably once served as window curtains and a picture hat sporting a woebegone imitation ostrich feather.  Owing to the fact that the item preceding the sketch was of the nigger minstrel variety and in which Gus was the entertainer, there was no time to clean off the chocolate coloured grease paint so that with a wig of dark brown tresses hanging over his shoulders, Gus portrayed a very dusky damsel indeed.  Monty wore a top hat and the typical villain’s sweeping black moustache.  I had on an old Army tunic and a paper cocked hat and was armed with a rusty old air gun.  I caused quite a mess and got a good telling off one night, when, having had one of those brainwaves which all actors suffer from in an effort to improve their roles, I endeavoured to render a firing of the air gun more realistic and effective by filling the barrel beforehand with face powder.  Although the effect was undeniable, the results did not justify repetition.  Not only Monty and Gus, but the first few rows of spectators looked as if they had just passed through a flour mill!  After a lot of nonsensical but extremely humorous dialogue, the villain succeeds in enticing the coy maiden into the boat, and the oars being wielded vigorously one is supposed to imagine that in due course the middle of the lake has been reached.  Then and only then does the bold bad villain reveal his intentions.  He must have the necklace, the valuable family heirloom which the fair one wears round her dusky neck.  ‘No, never – by Heaven’ she cries.  ‘Curse you, give it to me’ hisses the villain, ‘or else I will throw you overboard and leave you in the watery grave!’  ‘Spare me, spare me,’ sobs the damsel.  ‘The necklace then, the necklace’.  ‘No, no, rather death than that!’  And with a prayer, ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke.John, hold the donkey till I get on,’ the brave girl casts herself into the water and lies floundering on the boards while the villain endeavours to manoeuvre his craft so that he may still snatch the coveted necklace before the fair one sinks for the fourth and last time.  Piercing shrieks from the drowning damsel pierce the air – will the villain succeed in his fell design?  Ah but see, the soldier lover on yonder heights awakes from his forty winks and taking in the whole situation at a glance levels his rifle and fires and the villain falls back in the boat; shot through the heart.  And now for the rescue of his loved one.  But first, he must divert himself of his tunic, from under which are cast off, one by one, no less that 14 waistcoats.  During the striptease act, the yells of the heroine continue, but at last the soldier lover stands revealed in his shirt (and trousers, of course) and leaps into the water to be immediately caught up and carried off the stage by the heroine.  The lowest of low comedy, I suppose, but it never failed to evoke shrieks of merriment from the audience and it was just real good clean fun.

Well, after this rather lengthy preliminary, I come back to the nearest I have ever been to prison in my life before.  It so happened that after a few months, it was decided to revisit a number of places but with, naturally, a complete change of programme.  A new sketch was, therefore, called for and Gus had an idea for one which had a policeman as one of the characters.  For a policeman, we had to have a helmet and where were we to procure a helmet?  Somehow or other, the task of procuring a helmet was assigned to me and I set about the task in the only way which occurred to me.  One reads of valiant and daring souls for whom no Boat Race night would be complete if they did not succeed in securing a policeman’s helmet to mark the end of a perfect day, but as Boat Races are unknown in Aberdeen, I had neither the excuse of opportunity.

27 July 1942

Washed pyjamas, towel, undershirt and socks. Did some mending and darning. Not very neat jobs. Out 5.30 to 6.30. Usual routine.

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Gus Stratton was a much younger man, about 30 at that time, I suppose, and was the real mainspring of the troupe. He was of a medium height and proportionally built with the mobile features of the born comedian. He was extremely energetic and had all the aplomb and self confidence, amounting practically to self conceit, which is quite a usual characteristic of the professional comedian. The skin of his face always struck me as having been made specially for the reception of grease paint. He was certainly a live wire both on the stage and off it and thanks to him in the main, I feel, the general organisation of the tour left nothing to be desired. Whether transport, ‘digs’, or getting hold of a lorry to bring Mrs Macdougal’s hired piano to the hall, he arranged everything perfectly and in fact displayed to a marked degree those qualities of determination and getting things done which were later to carry him to the top of the profession. The Scotch act performed by Gus and Mrs Stratton was definitely one of the very best on the program and consisted of humorous dialogue, song and dance. An incident in the act where Gus, after a mock quarrel with his ‘Bonnie Jeannie’ (Mrs S) used to jump off the stage and walk up through the audience to the front door of the hall until recalled by a plaintive ditty from the lips of his Jeannie, was one which never failed to thrill and amuse the country folks greatly. Mrs Stratton was a dainty little woman with a very sweet oval face. She had also a very sweet disposition, rather timid, and somehow or other I always had the impression that she stood rather in awe of her husband, whose energy was certainly enough for two and whose forceful personality no doubt impressed itself very strongly on her much softer nature. Little Gladys Stratton certainly, had from a child’s point of view, a rather wonderful time of it. How Gus managed it I do not know but presumably had a dispensation from the School Board authorities which allowed her to travel and perform, but with the stipulation that she would attend the local school in whichever town or village we happed to stop at. It speaks for itself that the exigencies of travel very often interfered with the routine, but even when she did attend the local schools it must have been quite a pleasant and interesting experience, what with a class of new schoolmates every time, not to mention the homage and respect paid to her by her sister pupils as a real little actress. But it did not spoil her in the least. she had been accustomed to the footlights since her birth practically and her position was so natural to her that I do not suppose it ever occurred to her that she was very different from other children, or the same age in the matter of her upbringing. she was then about 10 years of age, I imagine, a pretty little girl with lively brown eyes and long brown ringlets, with her mother’s sweetness of face but the softness qualified by a trace of her father’s determined character about the chin. She was a clever child and I do not doubt but that her training as Thelma had much to do with her ability to learn and remember her lessons so well.

Heartie Collins, our pianist (I remember her name now) was a frisky young thing of, I suspect, rather more than 30 summers. She was slightly built, with a mass of fluffy fair hair dressed with bow on top of her head and rather protuberant china blue eyes. Poor Heartie was rather susceptible to male attention and lost her heart to one swain or other at every place. She was a capital concert party pianist and did yeoman service every night after the performance as well. It was the custom, and a very good idea it was, to hold a dance or ‘shilling hop’ after the show. From the management’s point of view it was a golden opportunity for increasing the takings and as far as the audience was concerned it was an additional inducement to make a night of it after having come miles, many of them, to attend the show. The only new fangled dance on these occasions was the ‘one step’ which had just come into fashion. For the rest, the dance programme consisted of the real hefty stuff, like ‘Strip the Willow’, ‘Highland Scottische’, ‘Eightsome Reel’, ‘Lancers’ and ‘Quadrilles’, etc. and how the lads and lasses used to go at them. None of your fancy dancing pumps on these occasions, but good solid low heeled shoes and heavy tacketty boots which used to make the floorboards crack and skirls and hoochs enough to lift the roof clean off!

Good Friday?

For some time past no bread had been procurable and I had taken it upon myself the task of providing ourselves with this commodity, calling upon the lore of my planting days when I used to watch my cook making bread in my bungalow up on the estate.

On this Good Friday at 11 am I was busily engaged in kneading dough in the kitchen when that bird of ill omen, Mrs Graven, came for a second time, accompanied by her shadow, the traitor Niekerk.

This time the sword definitely fell.  There was no respite possible.  We had to be out of the house by 2 pm as two Japanese officers were moving in.  We could take clothes with us and other personal belonging but the house furnishing must remain as they were.

This was my first meeting with Mrs Graven.  She was rather tall and solidly built for a Japanese woman with typically Nip features and not a bit attractive.  Her age, I guessed, would have been about 40.  She stayed for some time and I must admit that she was by no means unpleasant in her manner but gave the impression that she was just carrying out an order which she found neither pleasant or unpleasant.

In the course of our conversation I asked her, on my part jokingly, if we could take our Beckman baby grand piano with us.  To my surprise she replied "Boleh" (You may), perfectly seriously.  A little later, going through the house, she passed the large GE frigidaire which stood in the lobby outside the kitchen.  "You can take this too," she said.  "Those who are coming in need not know that there was ever a frigidaire here".

This was very gratifying but we could not but wonder how we were to get it away, as we had no means of transport.

She also agreed that we could leave a couple of trunks in one of the small store rooms to be called for some days later.  When we wished to fetch them, we must call at her (Sparkes) house for the key.

On this occasion too, I had some conversation with Niekerk who acted as a sort of Dutch echo to Mrs Graven's Malay and he then volunteered the facts about himself which I have already set down.  He also told me that he had known Mrs Graven for about 30 years and according to him, had helped her in her private affairs for a long time and as now merely standing by her in her present job.  I can hazard a shrewd guess as to the nature of the link between them both before and after the Japanese invasion.

As soon as our visitors had gone, I dashed to the telephone breathing a silent prayer that it would function.  It did.  I just got on to the firm from whom we had bought our piano and asked the owner, whom I knew very well, if he could store the Beckman for us and, if so, to send coolies immediately to take it away.  He agreed and within an hour we had the satisfaction of seeing the instrument being carried down the hill, safely out of Japanese clutches, at any rate for the time being.

My second call was to our good friend, Lt Kagee of the Dutch Military Police.  As soon as  I told him about what was happening, he said "We'll be right along".  And they were - six of them within 10 minutes of bringing with them a 15 cwt truck and a passenger car.  We shall always feel a debt of gratitude to these grand chaps who just came in and said, "Now show us what you want us to do."  And the whole bunch set to work helping us pack our belongings into trunks, suitcases and baskets.  The faithful Amat took upon himself the task of packing our dinner service.  We decided that, in Mrs Graven's own words, "as those that were coming in need not know it was here", and what Mrs Graven herself did not know of, we should take with us, and thanks to our friends, the MPs, we were able to take away with us much that would otherwise had had to be left behind and irretrievably lost.  And thanks to Ena's mother to whose house the stuff was brought, we recovered practically everything after the liberation.

The frigidaire was man handled on to the truck, which was then loaded up with other things, as was also the car, and while Ena and I and two of the chaps carried on feverishly with the good work of packing, the first load was rushed down to Dagoweg 31e, quickly unloaded, and truck and car brought back to Dennenlust again for the second load.

One of the articles taken in the car on its first trip was a Firefoam extinguisher which I had presented to the MPs as they seemed keen on having it and I did not consider it worth while salvaging.  The chap who was driving had put the extinguisher on the seat beside him and coming back from Dagoweg, turning a sharp corner, the things fell of the seat on to the floor of the car.  It fell unfortunately on the knob which has to be pressed to set it working and the result can be better imagined than described.  The inside of the car was a mess of spattered soap suds.   The poor chap had had to drive most of the way back with his thumb on the valve to keep the thing from completely emptying itself.  When he drove in, he called to us in his predicament and we went to his aid, all of us doubled up with laughter.  And just to finish a fitting climax to this amusing contretemps, just as he was easing himself out of the car, his thumb slipped off the valve and all of us got a generous share of the suds.  It was just like an old fashioned slapstick comedy film and had the same salutary effort on our somewhat dampened spirits.

The truck and car were loaded up for the second time, including ourselves and all the livestock and, with our military escort, said goodbye again to 'Sunny Corner' and descended once more on poor old Ma, who in spite of all the difficulties attendant on our unexpected arrival, was delighted to have us back with her.

Wherever those good chaps may be now, Ena and I say bless them for what they did for us on Good Friday, 1942.

***** to be continued