I’m sure, like me, you’ve heard people being referred to as being “of their time”. It’s usually to excuse something about their lives that today we would find reprehensible or unacceptable. The Me Too movement is just the latest manifestation of our long painful progress towards the concept that all people should be treated equally regardless of gender, colour, creed or orientation. And that it’s not alright just to sweep it all under the carpet and leave the burden of getting over it on the victim’s shoulders.
Does it make a difference when we discover that our heroes have feet of clay? When we learn that Charles Dickens had a secret mistress, Nelly Ternan; or that Chaucer is likely to have raped a woman, one Cecilia Chaumpaigne; or that the charismatic John F Kennedy turned out to be a terrible womaniser and numbered Marilyn Monroe among his probable conquests? I don’t know… Perhaps one does look differently at an author’s work when you understand more about the dark side of where it came from. Or can the truth, the art, stand independently from the artist? I am mindful of a couple of quotes from the late, great George Harrison:
I play a little guitar, write a few tunes, make a few movies, but none of that’s really me. The real me is something else.
Forget the bad parts, you don’t need them. Just take the music, the goodness, because its the very best of me and the part I give most willingly.
I suppose I’m largely content to go with that and read a book or listen to music on the understanding that I am sharing a vision, a truth, wherever it might have come from. That is valid in itself. If I know or learn something detrimental about the writer, that may or may not cause me to look differently at the work. After all, many of the lessons we learn in life come from our mistakes, our dark times. And I still feel inspired by the words of JFK when he declared in his inaugural speech, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country”. Whether or not he actually ‘borrowed’ that phrase from his old headmaster or was a less than faithful husband, they are nonetheless stirring words, worth repeating.
And I still think of Charles Dickens as a great Victorian novelist who cared about the social conditions of his day and wrote most movingly about the plight of the poor. If he wasn’t in truth the unblemished family man he’d have you believe, he did on the other hand engage in many philanthropic deeds including setting up a home for “fallen women”. Perhaps I will read the cosy fireside scenes with a somewhat more cynical eye and make a mental nod to the hidden Ms Ternan, but I can still enjoy these marvellous books and wonderful writing.
As to more contemporary transgressions. With each new revelation about the movie industry, I find there are now certain films I can never watch in the same way again, if at all. Fiction or not, I don’t want to be drawn into falling in love with that handsome leading man, or a director who, it turns out, sees sex as a weapon to be wielded. These are more than private indiscretions, this is an abuse of power, a whole rotten system which needs to be called out for what it is. Me too!
So I suppose I’m saying that moral ambiguity does surely make a difference and does force you to encompass a wider picture of what you thought you knew. You might think “How amazing that someone like that could produce something so beautiful” or “No wonder he says that, look what was happening in his life when he wrote it”. Of course all this only highlights how little we really know of another person’s soul, of their motivations – someone like what, exactly? We see everything through the prism of our own experience, understanding and yes, preconceptions. Not to mention what we read in the press or social media.
What about right and wrong, black and white? Yes, there’s that too. If a thing’s wrong then it’s wrong – isn’t it? It’s wrong to kill. Even if it’s in self-defence or to save someone’s life? It’s wrong to steal. Even if it’s to feed your starving family? It’s wrong to lie. Is there anyone who hasn’t bent the truth or concealed it in order to protect the innocent? I suppose what I’m saying is that I always want to know the WHY; the story behind the headline, the circumstances, the mitigating factors, the actual facts and why they are being presented in the way they are.
Here’s a final headline for you to ponder: BODY OF PROSTITUTE FOUND IN ALLEY. I remember being stopped in my tracks by that one. I suddenly found myself feeling angry that some poor woman whose life had been cut short in the most brutal way possible had to suffer the final indignity of that heartless and judgemental headline. I found myself wondering what had happened to her in life to have brought her to the point where she was selling her body to men in a back alley. She could have been someone’s mother or sister or daughter or wife. She was a woman.
The paper could have chosen any of those words to describe her; they could have said ‘female body’. They could have had some consideration for the family who might have had to read about their loved one in such dismissive terms. But no, they went for the sensational. They summed her up in an attention grabbing headline for the sake of selling more papers and making the rest of us feel quite comfortable and safe, because, after all, it hadn’t happened to US, but to one of THEM.
I took a bit of a break last month, what with Easter and all that; spent a few days in Cork with the Irish grandchildren, which was lovely. And it seems that, however haltingly, spring has arrived at last.
But now that the welcome Easter hiatus is over, it seems as if it’s back to the same old same old on the political front. Even front page news such as the fire at Notre Dame Catherdal, the shocking killing of the young journalist, Lyra McKee, on Good Friday, and the terrible massacres in Sri Lanka seem to offer only a temporary respite from the interminable debate over how to progress with that most poisoned of poisoned chalices, the great Brexit debacle. An issue that seems to have sucked the oxygen away from all other debates.
Most Members of Parliament in any country say they got into politics to make a difference. That may or may not be true, and I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt, but to be honest it becomes increasingly difficult to suspend one’s disbelief when you look at the absolute dog’s dinner that is being made of the so-called negotiations for Britain to leave the European Union. The only thing that everyone in our divided country seems to agree upon at the moment is that our politicians are hardly covering themselves in glory as day after day we hear spokespersons from one side or the other endlessly rehearse what have become increasingly tired old arguments.
I regard myself as quite a political animal. I always go out and vote, brought my children up to do the same – “People died to give you the vote, the least you can do is get out there and use it!” I love that feeling that in your own small way, you are participating in the march of history when you stand there in the polling booth and mark the paper with your cross. These days you can keep up with the results on the internet, but in the olden days (!) you had to stay up all night tuned in to the BBC as one or other Dimbleby told you the results as they came in, with Jon Snow in the background analysing what it all meant on his his famous swingometer.
Of course it’s all much more sophisticated nowadays, with computer graphics and animations, and endless polls from social media giving you continuous updates. If I’m honest I do feel a certain nostalgia for those rickety old sets and the ponderous pronouncements of the great and the good. But one thing that hasn’t changed is the way the candidates all have to assemble behind the Returning Office as s/he announces the results of the ballot one by one. Long may that tradition continue – how else could we see the spectacle of Theresa May in the same lineup as Lord Buckethead, Elmo and Mr Fishfinger. That’s democracy for you….
Now, if we could only get over the current obsession with Brexit, perhaps we could go back to the cut and thrust of proper politics. Honest politics where politicians gain support because of their ability to inspire and unite us rather than cause us shame and embarrassment as they muddle around in ever decreasing circles in a mire of their own making.
I started this blog coming up to Mother’s Day 2017; I write this one on Mothering Sunday 2019. Didn’t really know back then what the blog was for, other than a desire to share what was in my head. I am somewhat surprised to find, looking back, that I have actually carried out what I intended to do – write about family ramblings, history and observations. I don’t even need to edit my “About” page – except to note that I’m now 65 – as it’s pretty much what I would say today.
I don’t know why I should find this so surprising. I suppose its reassuring to find that I can look back on my 60-odd posts with a degree of pride, and realise that it was probably in me all the time to write consistently and regularly, instead of my rather sporadic attempts in the past. I suppose there was a fear at the back of my mind that I’d make a start only for it to peter out after a while. But it hasn’t. I have what you might call a body of work behind me now and I no longer worry that I’ll run out of things to say. I have screeds of topics lined up that will keep me writing for weeks, months, years to come.
Some posts almost write themselves, pop in to your head practically fully formed. Others (like this one!) are more of a process of discovery, of delving into one’s skull to try and find out what it is I want to say about a topic. Even when there’s a lot of research, there’s always the question of how to present it, what to leave in, what to leave out. Because I’ve realised that the way you tell a story reveals much, above all, about yourself. You don’t necessarily write it all down, but the process forces you to examine and perhaps re-evaluate what you thought you knew. If you are delving into the past it’s almost inevitable that you will find pain and hurt, whether its your own or someone else’s.
I’ve mentioned before that my intention here is not to uncover dark secrets, but rather to appreciate better the circumstances that made people – and yes, myself – who they were. And more than that, to understand and forgive. The stories, the facts, are always fascinating, the truths universal, and, I venture to suggest, worth sharing!
I have to confess I felt a bit bereft when I recently came to the end of what turned out to be the 10-part saga of the history of my childhood home. I’d imagined it would be worth two or three posts when I started, but once I got into it…! And the latter part of course was largely about my mother, whose story, for more than half of her long life, was inextricably entwined with that of our house.
And yet she left it without a backward glance. I always felt, in that time when she became confused and lost the ability to safely be left on her own, that it was a kindness that her brain had drawn a veil over that period. She didn’t know it, but we sisters took over the care of the house from her, cleared it out, gave it a fresh coat of paint and, not without some considerable soul searching, let it pass on to someone else.
The one thing my Mum never forgot was her love for all of us. Names would come and go, but those feeling were at her core. I could (and probably will!) grumble on about the shortcomings of my upbringing, but at the end of the day none of that matters any more. I read once that one’s parents’ shortcomings are what make us who we are. I really hope that’s true because, though we do our best, we’re only human and we all fall short in one way or another. I never cease to be grateful and proud of the amazing, delightful people that my own children have turned out to be.
In the end, what matters to me on this Mothering Sunday is the love of my children and grandchildren and the infinite tenderness of my memories of that singular woman who was my mother.
This is the lane that runs down the side of our house. It’s called Sandringham Lane and we’re going to take a walk down there today and have a look. See that bricked up doorway? That marks 6½ Sandringham Lane. It was blocked off during the time of the great repairs, but when I was a child there was a door there, a green door leading to something we knew as the paint store. I haven’t mentioned it before because this back corner of the building didn’t belong to the rest of the house, couldn’t be accessed from our basement, or from the adjoining wash-house. Through the years it was owned by – or rented to – various small businesses as a storage space for goods or materials.
The first of these, who I think owned it from 1874, were Fairley and Reid, who were joiners, wrights and builders, and probably heavily involved in all the new building development work that was going on at the time. They were just the first in a succession of tradesmen who found it a convenient spot to use as a base. Here are just a few of them: 1883-93 John P Scott, slater and plasterer / 1896-98 John Logan, gardener / 1900-01 James Wilson, painter and decorator /1904-06 Charles McGrory, cooper / 1914 James McAlpine, plumber and gasfitter. There was even, in 1902-03, a manufacturers of baskets, hampers, cane and wicker furniture, toys and mail carts. I don’t imagine that S Fredericks & Co would have done any manufacturing in that small cellar, but they obviously needed a storage space for a year or so. And so on through the years.
By the time the MacFarlanes (us) took possession of the house in 1963, the store must once again have been owned by a painter/decorator – hence our name for it. I can’t actually remember being aware of anyone using the paint store, but I think it might have been broken into a couple of times. Or that might have been after I’d left home… I should have paid more attention! Suffice to say it was just there, an unremarkable feature of the building that we felt had nothing to do with us.
Until the whole edifice started needing major repairs in the 1980’s, as we’ve already seen (parts 7 and 8). As Mum watched her beloved Victorian house stripped bare, I think more than ever she began to see the building as a whole. You can perhaps get an inkling how she was thinking from this sketch she made around that time…
In the mid 80’s, with yet another round of renovation work looming, it occurred to Mum to inquire about who actually owned the paint store and the wash-house. This resulted in her taking possession of number 6½ Sandringham Lane in September 1989, having purchased it from one James Duffin for the sum of £850. As to the wash-house, it turned out ownership was divided equally between herself and the various owners of the flats at number 10 – eight shares in all. So she set about asking, through her solicitor, whether the owners would sign over their shares to her, if she agreed to pay the legal bills. There was a certain degree of urgency about all this as Mum had a plan, as we can see from a letter written to the Council by the neighbour in the first floor flat, Sheila Morrison.
This is to verify that I approve the plans of Mrs MacFarlane to put a door from her basement into the now derelict wash-house and store space in the common close. This will enable the area to be aired and kept damp free and will benefit the building. Sheila Morrison. 12 December 1990.
Most of the others agreed with these sentiments and it wasn’t long before Mum had secured ownership of most of the space, together with Planning Permission from the Council for use of washhouse/store as extension to maindoor flat and external alterations, just in time to have incorporated the changes in the major works which were due to commence in 1991. The ‘external alterations’ would have meant restoring the windows at the back, which had been bricked up years before.
However, the Planning Permission was dependent upon having approval from all the co-owners and by the time the works were under way Mum only owned a five eighth share of the wash-house and didn’t have full permission from the others who for various reasons had not agreed to the proposals in time. So the work went ahead without incorporating her plan and the quest to gain full ownership of the wash-house space became a bit of a saga. It took well over a decade for Mum to finally gain her goal. She never gave up the idea though and renewed the Planning Permission twice in the intervening years.
The above-mentioned Sheila Morrison seems to have been Mum’s primary supporter, or should I say partner in crime, in the matter of the wash-house and indeed it was this Sheila who had originally initiated the moves to have the back green reinstated. I rather think she might also have been active in the campaign to save the Botanic Gardens Garage. You may remember the Garage had been under threat due to the development plans of Arnold Clark Motors. This campaign also turned into another saga which finally succeeded in its goal in 2007 when the Botanic Gardens Garage was designated a Category A Listed Building.
From the point of view of Mum and Sheila, the main objection to the development plans had been proposals to make use of Sandringham Lane for access to the back of the garage. Indeed there was always some kind of running battle going on regarding the lane and its use or abuse. In 2007, the new owner of the premises across the lane at number 6, a cafe called Naked Soup, also joined battle and, together with the residents, successfully saw off all attempts at development of the lane.
Naked Soup typifies many of the new enterprises when were starting to spring up in and around Byres Road during the 80’s and 90’s, so that by the millennium the area was taking on a much more cosmopolitan outlook. Over the years, most of the old fashioned grocers, butchers and fishmongers had disappeared, to be replaced by supermarkets, cafes and a whole range of stores from charity shops to fashionable niche boutiques. Even that stalwart of the high street, Woolworth’s, where we used to go to spend our “Saturday penny” disappeared in 2008, and the City Bakeries where I had a Saturday job as a teenager was eventually replaced by Gregg’s.
Naked Soup opened at 6 Kersland Street in 2007, just about coinciding with the end of the era when the house was earning its keep as a theatrical digs. It’s under new ownership now, but the original young men who ran this popular takeaway and cafe were very kind to my Mum and would pop across the lane to make sure she was okay and sometimes drop in any delicious sandwiches which were left over from lunchtime. Mum was 86 when she waved goodbye to her final guest in June of 2009. She marked the day by writing this rather sweet note on the flyleaf of her Visitor’s Book:
By that time, my nephew David had become a permanent fixture in the basement… We would eat fish and chips and watch the snooker. She was always wandering about the house singing. In the later years she slept on her chair a lot. I’d sneak in and she’d wake up pretending she’d been awake the whole time. I never called her out on it. Whenever she wanted a cup of tea it became almost a creative challenge to her to describe the smallest receptacle possible so not to be considered an inconvenience in any way. She settled on ‘a thimble full’. I described her as my flatmate to anyone who knew me. I thought it was cool, some people maybe saw me as a 28 year old living in his grans basement. Wouldn’t change a minute of it…
In those latter years Mum’s forgetfulness became more and more marked and one day in 2013, she walked out of the house and forgot her way home. She never again returned to the dwelling she’d lived in for 50 long years and from then on when she talked to us about ‘home’ she meant her childhood home of Davros in County Mayo. She passed away peacefully in 2015 at the grand old age of 92.
So we, her six daughters, sold 8 Kersland Street, our childhood home. We had one last ‘saying goodbye to the house’ party, and I like to think that in turn the house said goodbye to us. But a house never really belongs to you, does it? You belong to it, whether it is for a short while or a long one, but in the end you move on to somewhere else, taking your memories with you.
I suppose in some ways things haven’t changed all that much in the 166 years since the house was built – most of the streets and buildings would have a familiar feel to anyone who’d lived there and came back for a visit. But change happens nonetheless and even a short stroll around the block would serve to illustrate how things have moved on. The West End of today shows a new, more open and creative face to the world than I could ever have imagined when I was a child…
From Oran Mor, we can look across the road to the gates of the Botanic Gardens, beloved of children – and grown ups – for generations. Today you can do so much more than take a stroll in the fresh air. For example, in July it becomes an important hub for the West End Festival, an annual celebration of culture and the arts which grew from its humble beginnings in 1996 to become the biggest street festival in Glasgow, with events happening in dozens of venues all over the West End. And it’s not just July. There’s plenty on to catch the eye or tickle the imagination all year round. Here’s just a taste…
We’re not going in to the Botanic Gardens today though. Let’s continue on past Oran Mor, down Byres Road and round the corner into Vinicombe Street, where we come to the two iconic – now listed – buildings facing each other on either side; the Salon Cinema and the Botanic Gardens Garage. As you can see from this picture from 2015, there’s a much more relaxed feeling in the street than in the days when it was dominated by the constant movement of cars in and out of Arnold Clark’s garage. With the end of the road now closed off, cafe culture is thriving – the sunny side of the street is already busy and once the sun has moved round, the Hillhead Bookstore Restaurant, which took over the old Salon Cinema building, will soon start to fill up. The Botanic Gardens Garage Building, a little further up on the other side will shortly start undergoing renovations.
8 Kersland Street is home to another family now. Another family who can pop in to Naked Soup for lunch, or take a stroll in the Botanic Gardens, or a bus into town from the stop around the corner; just as we did; just as all those that lived there before us did. Perhaps one day someone might blow the dust off that old planning application and fulfill Mum’s dream of extending the basement. Be that as it may, the house has seen many residents come and go through many decades. It has survived two world wars, rising damp, subsidence, and the ever-shifting political and economic climate. In 2073 it will reach it’s 200th birthday and I’d like to think it’ll still be going strong then.
The repairs to 8 Kersland Street had involved stripping everything back to the bare bones, so it took a while before the interior was restored and redecorated so that it felt like a home again instead of somewhere you just camped out while you waited for the storm to pass. Sadly, Dad’s painstaking work on the lounge cornicing didn’t survive and was one of many features needing the attention of a plasterer. But there could be no regrets, no looking back. Central heating was installed, a new shower room downstairs, a new cooker in the kitchen. Some of us (not me I’m afraid) helped out with the decorating, and in particular, my sister Mary’s flair for interior design did much to give the house a fresh new face.
I’m not sure where the idea came from, but after she retired (ridiculous notion!) Mum hit upon the idea of becoming a theatrical landlady. She’d already been quite used to having waifs and strays stay in the house for varying lengths of time (yes, even in the throes of the repair work!). Sometimes it would be one of us needing a place to stay while our lives were in transition in one way or another, or just coming home for a visit, families in tow. Sometimes a friend, or a friend of a friend needed a bed for a night or three. There was plenty of room and Mum just took it for granted that we’d come and stay in the old family home when we were in Glasgow.
Anyway, she signed up with the accommodation registers of the BBC, STV and various Glasgow theatres, bought the Visitors Book you can see above, and in 1994 launched herself and the house on a new career. The next 14 years saw a succession of musicians, artists and actors who came from all over the UK, and indeed the world, to perform in Glasgow. They would enter their names and where they came from in the Visitors Book, and often add a comment or two or a note about what had brought them to Glasgow, from cast members of Evita at the King’s Theatre to artists from Slovenia stopping off for the Glasgow stage of their European tour – next stop Berlin!
As you flick through close on 70 pages of visitors, you quickly see that many of Mum’s guests came back time and time again. When you look at the comments you start to understand that it wasn’t just because of the house’s proximity to the BBC studios at Queen Margaret Drive (literally 5 minutes away) or the short trip into town to reach the King’s or the Theatre Royal.
‘Thanks for the fry-ups, I’ll be back! A welcome return, lovely warm room – many long discussions over cups of tea.Such a wonderful refuge and warm welcome. Many thanks as always for tolerating my quirks and seeming inability to use a wardrobe! Thank you so much, I felt so at home. Hope to return, would not dream of staying anywhere else. Fantastic poached eggs and even better conversation.Ellen it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m so glad you enjoyed the show and that I have got myself a granny…
As you can see, Mum didn’t just give them bed and breakfast and send them on their way; she had the knack of making them feel at home simply by being genuinely interested in them, in their lives. With her great love of culture, she was in her element interacting with artistic people and would often attend the shows or concerts where they were performing, especially if they could wangle a complementary ticket for her! I’m sure the catering side of things was no bother to her, having been used to running a household of eight, and I know from the many favourable comments that the guests appreciated very much the good, simple home-made fare, poached eggs a speciality! Conveniently, a small laundrette had opened in the premises on the other side of the lane, so the laundry was a breeze as she could just pop a bag of sheet and pillowcases in for a service wash and pick it up later in the day, all ready for the next visitor.
Intrigued by the entries in the book, daughters, grandchildren and partners started writing comments too when they came to stay or even just have tea with her, “Not so much a daughter as a visitor now”; “It’s like coming home!”; “Just wanted to sign the book, love you Granny.” “Thank you for tea and biscuits.” “I only come for the rich tea biscuits.” We all signed the book when we got together for a party to celebrate her 80th birthday in 2003. Grace wrote “Happy Birthday, Mum. Here’s to radiant days.” and Ann: “The Trossachs, a party, all in one day – what stamina! Love and kisses”. I remember we were all most amused when we weren’t allowed to put up any cards or banners with “80” on them as she didn’t want the guests to know how old she was!
Mum’s Hynes relatives from Ireland also signed when they came to stay and we see regular visits from Rita and Bobby Aird who’d gone to live in Inverness years before after being neighbours round the corner in Vinicombe Street. Mum used to go and stay with them sometimes in Inverness. They had a strong bond.
Those were busy years for the house, always someone coming or going, bringing news from the world, updating their story from the last visit, adding colour and vibrancy and companionship; keeping Mum occupied with the bookings, the shopping, the room preparation. She embraced all comers, and one by one they fell under her spell and felt that 8 Kersland Street was a home from home and not just some anonymous digs which had to be endured until the end of their engagement.
But don’t just take my word for it. I’ve been in touch with one of those guests (just googled her and up she popped!) On the 21st of March 1994, Lauren Bullingham, later Scott, a harpist from London, was the first visitor to sign her name in the Visitor’s Book, and was one of the most frequent guests in the years that followed. Further down that first page is one Andrew Scott…
“Andy and I had only just met when I first started working in Glasgow and staying with your mum, so it was just at the start of our relationship. Lauren tells me that she and Andy met when they were both freelancing with the Halle Orchestra in Manchester, “playing – wait for it – Romeo and Juliet!” It was obviously written in the stars! Andy and Lauren settled in Cheshire, where I think they are to this day. Have a look at Lauren’s website or her blog if you want to know more about her career as a harpist, composer and teacher: http://www.lauren-scott-harp.co.uk, http://www.lauren-scott-harp.co.uk/harpyness.
I absolutely loved staying at your Mum’s house. Very happy times. My husband stayed with her too, she was very significant in our lives at the time as I did quite a bit of work at that time with the BBC SSO and always stayed with her, and my husband (although we weren’t married then) did the odd bit of work with the orchestra as well. At that time there weren’t many (pedal) harpists living in Scotland which was why I was always being asked to travel up from Cheshire. I stopped working regularly in Scotland when I had my kids, but I do remember going up at least once to work with my son as a baby (he’s 23 now!) and I think when we were on a family holiday we stopped off at your mums for tea when we had both kids. So she did get to meet our kids. I did work for a while in Glasgow when the kids were babies (and left them at home with family to look after) and just enjoyed being able to sleep! Your mum was so lovely and sweet and always went out of her way to look after me, and my husband when he was up working in Scotland. We did try to keep in touch with Christmas cards for a few years…
That 1996 entry (Lauren, Stanley and Linda)is when my mum came up with me with my son (Stan) and she looked after him whilst I was at work. Stan was born in April 1996 so he must have been only a few months old. My mum passed away nearly 10 years ago now. Andy and I always called your mum “Mrs M” which used to make her chuckle I think. And we had a lot of fun diving to the grill – one of those eye level ones above a gas cooker as your mum was forever forgetting about the toast. She always insisted we sat down in the kitchen whilst she made breakfast for us, but whilst chatting would forget about the toast. Hence there was always this dash to save the toast. It became a running joke. She was a real diamond your mum.
How did you find her? I asked the BBC for a recommendation and they gave me her number. Music world is quite small really. I always recommended music friends to go to her if they were in Glasgow, and likewise I imagine everyone else did too.
Your mum was always very sociable and caring and was like a surrogate Granny. One more thing – your mum was forever pottering about, EXCEPT when the snooker was on the TV!
You know, I had intended to talk in this post about the changes that were going on in Hillhead at this time, but I’ve been totally diverted by delving into that fascinating Visitors book, so let’s leave that for the next time. Today, 4 March, would have been Mum’s 96th birthday, and it seems rather fitting on this day to celebrate that interesting time in the life of the house when she became a surrogate granny to Lauren and many other artistes who came looking for a bed for the night and found so much more. I’ll ask Lauren to play us out with the haunting old Irish melody I Love My Love in the Morning. Mum would have loved this.
We resume our tale in 1987, right in the middle of the continuing program of remedial work…
With a bore hole outside her front door and the back green covered in exploratory pits, Ellen MacFarlane, Mum, must have had moments when she felt as if the whole edifice was about to collapse about her ears. After all, she only had to look across the street to see the gap where number 7 had once stood. But if she did, she never let it show. She took each successive wave of bad news with an almost miraculous stoicism, rolled up her sleeves and did what had to be done. Perhaps it’s just as well that Dad was out of the picture by then, I can’t imagine him coping with it all with quite the same equanimity. I can imagine him being very proud of the way his Nellie took on this battle, and in the end prevailed.
It turned out that the various surveys showed that while the external walls were built on a layer of boulder clay overlying the bedrock, the internal ones were founded upon a layer of “mottled brown sandy clay fill which contained gravel, cobbles, shale, ash, etc.” In other words, the rubble left over from various historical quarrying and possibly coal mining activities. The upshot being that the inner walls were suffering from settlement at a different rate from the outer ones. This of course is a gross oversimplification of a complicated situation, but you get the idea.
Reading over the surveyor’s report is almost like lifting the petticoats of number 8 and having a peek underneath. The borehole extended to over 25 metres and it’s like a trip into the far distant past as you follow its progress down past the various geological layers to the bedrock at the bottom – “sideritic micaceous carbonaceous laminae” ; “pyrite knots” ; “ripple laminae”; “deposits of glacial origin”. If I had a degree in geology, I could tell you the significance of all those terms!
But it’s fascinating to start thinking about what lies beneath, and to realise that once upon a time – in fact some 300 million years ago in the Carboniferous period – this whole area would have been part of a vast swampy river plain when various plant and animal deposits were laid down. Deposits which over the eons would turn to stone, including various grades of sandstone and seams of coal, all ready for humans to discover and use for their own purposes all those ages later.
I remember our family visiting the Fossil Grove in Glasgow’s Victoria Park when I was young. We were all fascinated to see this collection of 11 fossilised roots and stumps left over from an ancient forest which had lain underground for millennia until discovered by the Victorians in 1887 when they were laying out the park. Thankfully it was decided to preserve the stone forest and a building was constructed to protect the fossils from the elements. It quickly became a popular visitor attraction – in fact the most ancient in Glasgow – so one realises that all of the previous tenants of number 8 could have gone along to see it, just as we did.
Let me take you on one more geological diversion before we come back to the surface. The sandstone found and quarried extensively in the Glasgow area is of the blond, or yellow variety. But we also have many buildings constructed of red sandstone, which it turns out comes mainly from the Ayrshire and Dumfries areas, and from a different, slightly later, geological period, the Permian (from 270 million years ago). During this time a vast and expansive desert stretched across Scotland, resulting in massive dunes and arid conditions. Today the evidence of this desert can be found in that red sandstone with its grainy striations and rich red colour, representing an iron-rich coating of the sand grains. This phenomenon can still be seen today in the sands of the Sahara.
Once the surveys had been done, steps were taken to remedy the structural problems and render number 8 stable again. New foundations were installed and the rear basement walls rebuilt – this was mainly in the washhouse area. The ‘lateral drift’ which had caused the gable wall to bulge was solved by strapping the outside wall to the inner timber floors. Various windows were given new lintels. At the front, the access bridge, stone coping and handrail were found to be in poor condition, partly due to settlement and partly to the support steelwork having rusted badly. New concrete copings were constructed and a new bridge made of reinforced concrete. Regretfully, the lovely Victorian railings also had to be replaced.
So, by the early 1990’s, the building had undergone a complete overhaul and, if not exactly as good as new, was at least structurally sound once again, and secure, we were assured, for at least another 100 years!
As you can imagine, the entire 1980’s were characterised by one wave of disruption after another as the seemingly endless series of repairs were carried out. I am mindful of the fact that this was all in the wake of Mum becoming a widow and facing the challenge of remaking her life as a single person, a task which she tackled with her usual single mindedness. Not only was she still working in the Western Infirmary, but she’d signed up for the extra mural classes at Glasgow University which would take her away on her foreign trips to Russia and the Balkans, travels which I’ve written about before.
One can see these travels now as brief periods of respite from what became, in effect, her role as informal master of works for whatever was the latest phase of the building refurbishment. I think she must have learned from the earlier debacle when communal repairs were held up for lack of a signature or two from the owners of properties in the close next door and from then on she maintained close contact with the property managers on the progress of each successive claim for grant funding, and wouldn’t be above popping next door to leave a note, or knock on the door of anyone who was being slow to sign their mandates or pay their share.
And of course she always made sure she was on the spot to liaise with surveyors, council inspectors, building control officers, contractors, loss adjusters. Would it be going too far to say that it was Mum never keeping her eye off the ball that in the end saved the building from deteriorating so far that it couldn’t be saved? I don’t think so!
Once awakened, the sleeping tiger wasn’t going to lie quietly down and go to sleep again! In the aftermath of the remedial work, the back green had been left in a terrible mess, as described in this letter: “Due to extensive remedial works on our building and drilling for the Consolidation Scheme in our back courts, the drainage and surface have been badly damaged and the fencing by the lane for 8/10 Kersland Street has disappeared. This back court in particular is open nightly to intruders from the nearby bus stops and is being used as a toilet area. We do not have any bin shelters and consequently a great deal of rain-soaked litter lies about.”
A sorry state of affairs indeed! The above extract comes from a request for funding for environmental upgrading from the members of the Kervin Residents Association, formed in 1991. Secretary of the Association? One Ellen MacFarlane!
Nothing is ever straightforward and while the merits of the case were unquestionable, there was another factor complicating matters. Arnold Clark’s proposed redevelopment of the Botanic Gardens Garage, round the corner in Vinicombe Street. This would involve access to the rear down our lane to the side of the house. We would have to wait for the outcome of the planning application.
You’ll perhaps remember that we encountered the Botanic Gardens Garage in 1929 when it was celebrating its 25th anniversary. The Art Deco building had been taken over in 1968 by Arnold Clark Automobiles, becoming the company’s first accident repairs centre and causing, truth to tell, a lot of annoyance to its neighbours by the constant comings and goings of the mechanics as they shunted cars in and out of the various workshops and parked wherever they could along the street.
Arnold Clark was an interesting chap. It seems he started out in 1954, when he used his demob money to buy a 1933 Morris Ten-Four which he restored and sold on for a profit. Thus began the company which eventually became Europe’s biggest privately owned car retailer with a turnover of billions. I suppose by the late 1980’s the company had outgrown the Vinicombe Street premises and had applied for permission to demolish, then redevelop the site, something that the Council initially looked upon with approval.
But there had been a sea change in attitudes in the intervening years since 1968. No longer were the inhabitants of Hillhead – and Glasgow as a whole – content to just sit back and allow business interests to determine the fate of what was increasingly recognised as a wonderful Victorian heritage that should be preserved for posterity. The development plans encountered stiff resistance and the Campaign to Save the Botanic Gardens Garage was born.
Other conservation groups sprang up around this time – the Glasgow West Conservation Trust and the Friends of Glasgow West are just a couple of examples. Buildings started to be given Listed Building status in order to protect them from inappropriate development. Glasgow West (i.e. Hillhead and adjacent districts) became a Conservation Area, defined as “areas of special architectural or historic interest, the character or appearance of which it is desirable to preserve or enhance”. Legislation was enacted or updated to force landlords to comply with building and safety regulations. The Landlord Registration Scheme was introduced.
Mum, in her 70’s, became Secretary of the Community Council and of course kept a finger in every pie. There wasn’t much going on in Hillhead that she didn’t know about! As a private individual, she spoke up for a street trader, Sherbanu Halai, who sold flowers just round the corner at the top of Byres Road, when it looked as if his Street Trader’s Licence was going to be withdrawn. Mum succeeded in persuading the Licencing Section of the Council to change their minds and renew it after all. Sherbanu never forgot what she’d done for him and would often send round a big bunch of flowers left over at the end of the day. Sometime if you stopped to buy Mum flowers on your way to visit her, he’d recognise you and wouldn’t take your money: “No, no, it is for Mrs MacFarlane, no pay for Mrs MacFarlane” and he’d push a whole armful of blooms at you to add to your own modest offering. He even invited her to his daughter’s wedding, an event which she joyfully attended.
But I digress. 8 Kersland Street hadn’t been the only address where extensive rehabilitation was needed. The whole area had been built upon old quarry workings and coal mines, and was generally subject to ground settlement and subsidence. Not every building survived. It’s just fortunate that the growing awareness of the merits of preserving one’s heritage, together with new sources of funding, came along just in time to turn Hillhead from a rather down at heel locale to one with a much brighter future and sense of its own worth.
We’ll explore that idea further, together with what it meant for our house, in the next instalment.
What? WHAT? Had she really just heard those words coming from his lips? Then she saw where he was looking. The wall in front of them was covered in graffitti, with a great big heart in the middle and the words sprayed over it in foot high letters. He nodded towards it and strode on, enigmatic as ever.
She skipped to catch up, turning her head away slightly so that he wouldn’t see the red flush she knew would be spreading over her cheeks. This is ridiculous, she thought. Why don’t I just tell him how I feel? But somehow she couldn’t; he seemed so self contained, so unmoved by other people. And yet he was always the centre of attention, sought after by all the girls – boys too for that matter. Yet somehow it seemed to her that although he was perfectly polite and pleasant to everyone, he was holding something back.
They spent a lot of time together – thrown together by their work for the student’s representative council. They were on their way there now, delivering leaflets for the forthcoming elections. “You should be standing for president, not me,” he’d said to her. “You’re the one with the people skills!” She’d laughed and told him she was too shy, was happier to be a number 2. He’d given her a long look but had said no more.
She thought about that conversation now, and the look he had given her – she was always fantasizing conversations with him. What did he see when he looked at her? Did she in any way stand out from the crowd? He would always come and sit with her in any meeting, but she couldn’t really tell if that was just habit, or convenience. They’d never been on a proper date… She was such a clutz.
They’d reached the union building now, he was standing outside watching her as she caught up, slightly out of breath and not a little upset at the thoughts that were swimming around her head. She tried to bustle past him, be busy with the task in hand, but he took the box of leaflets from her and placed it on the ground beside his. He put his hands on her shoulders and made her look at him.
“It’s Valentine Day,” he said, “seems to me its about time we told each other how we feel.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her. And, gentle reader, she kissed him right back.