Today’s post is really just a few more pages from the family album, as we only managed to get to 1957 the last time (“The Man with the Box Brownie”). Mary makes her first appearance on this page in a photo dated April 1958 (Dad used to take advantage of the odd ray of sunshine to take snaps of us in the house.)
And then in Sept ’58 here’s Mary waving to her fans from the family pram.
And here she coming up for two years old in August ’59. Although, I’m questioning whether this is in fact August. Grace was born in June of that year, so where is she? I think Mum could be pregnant in that lower picture (she’s wearing a pair of her earrings, can you see?) In which case this would be earlier in the summer…
And here’s Grace finally on the next page! Ann has her arm in a sling – she broke it when she fell off the bed! We used to get in trouble for bouncing on our parents’ bed, but it was one of our favourite games.
As you can see, we had the odd outing to Inchinnan, where a friend of Mum and Dad’s had a caravan, and down the coast – I think on the train/ferry – to places like Helensburgh and Dunoon. And as well as the Elder Park, they also seemed to like taking us to Bellahouston Park. I have to smile at that second page to see my Dad all formally dressed in his suit and tie just for a trip to the park – different times!
The next page heralds the appearance in 1962 of yet another character that was to become an integral part of our family – the Vauxhall Victor which would serve as our family car for many years to come. I’m quite surprised to find “Victor” making its appearance quite so early in the story, while we were still living in Rathlin Street, but the evidence is clear.
And of course that wee Vauxhall Victor gave our family freedom. Whenever they could, Mum and Dad would bundle us up in the car and head off up Great Western Road, destination all points north. I can never travel along that road to this day – you can see the mountains in the distance – without getting that feeling of excitement and anticipation that comes as I read the destination boards – Dumbarton, Helensburgh, Loch Lomond, Crianlarich, The Trossachs…. And I am reminded of some words from John’s letter to his mother in 1931 (as written): “The May holiday was very wet and we stayed in ecept in the afternoon we went in the bus for a hurl to Corpach and back.” He was a great one for a wee hurl was our Dad!
And then, the following year, comes the move from Govan to Hillhead. Look back at the post entitled “Sisters, Sisters” if you want to be reminded of the difference that made to the family, and how “Number 8” became our family home for the next fifty years. Here we all are at the beginning of that era enjoying the sun in our very own newly acquired back garden. Jane was born in the January of that year, just before we moved house – unfortunately she was maybe taking a nap during this photoshoot.
I think it must be rather frustrating for my sisters that there are far fewer baby pictures of them than of me. My first couple of years are well documented – as new parents do – whereas they have to make do with the odd shot here and there, and in fact Jane has pointed out that there are NO baby pictures of her at all. Which is very unfortunate, but perhaps not altogether surprising considering how quickly Eleanor followed on her heels a mere 15 months later in April ’64. Not to mention in that same time period the acquisition of a car, a house, a mortgage, a new neighbourhood, new school for older siblings. Our parent probably barely had time to stop and eat, never mind take photographs! However, they did manage to take this one of baby Eleanor with Mum in the Botanic Gardens, our new local park. After this though, there aren’t so many snaps of us all in the park, as Victor would take us to more exciting destinations where, sure enough, Dad would get out the Box Brownie and line us all up for the family photograph. (Click on each photo to see the captions).
Caol, August 1968
Head of Glen Nevis, August 1968
Edinburgh Castle, August 1968
The Trossachs, August 1969
Well, we’ve made it to 1969! It’s kind of funny when you look through old photographs – you know it’s you, but it also seems like somebody else that you struggle to remember. I kind of love the way I look in these photographs, so competent and confident, and sure of my place in the family and in the world. It’s good to be reminded of that, and to appreciate the wonderful close relationships that sustained you growing up – things can get so much more complicated as life unfolds.
It was a great disappointment to me that I failed to find a single photograph of my mother on my trip to County Mayo in April. However, once she had left Ireland to seek her destiny, she did then have the good fortune to fall in love with and marry a man with a box brownie camera – my Dad! So, happily for us, our family history was recorded from its earliest days – in fact I should say meticulously recorded, for Dad would carefully enter all the snaps, with captions, in a big leather bound album with black pages separated by tissue paper. This album became an essential part of our childhood and survives more or less intact to this day, give or take a few gaps where sisters have “appropriated” various pictures of particular significance to themselves. Here’s the first page:
This lovely old book tracks our family’s development, not to mention each new arrival as she came along, and especially in the early pages, provides evidence of events none of us can now really remember. This was how I knew that Mum and Dad visited Ireland with me in September 1955, the year after her father died. These are among my favourite images of my mother, seeing Nellie through John’s eyes in the early years of their marriage. (You can click on the individual pictures if you want to have a closer look.)
Unfortunately Dad seems to have been so enamoured with his own little family that he forgot to take any snaps of my grandmother, Maggie Hynes, who would still have been alive then, or any other members of the Hynes family that he was meeting for the first time. Maybe they were too shy…
He’s done slightly better in these pictures of a holiday in Fort William in June 1957, when my sister Ann was just one year old and I was three and a half. This time he has also captured Grandpa (George) and Auntie Catherine, the youngest of George and Jessie’s six children, my Dad’s half siblings. Catherine must have been around 10 in these photos and I do have a memory of her pushing me on the swing and patiently spending hours playing with me in the garden – I absolutely adored her! I think we must have stayed in the house at 50 High Street, or The Barn (an adjoining annex), and by the look of it we had a lovely time. But as far as I know that was the first and last time Dad took his family to stay in what had been his childhood home.
Another selection from the family album shows an occasion when Ann and I were taken to visit Dad’s ship, the MV Bhamo when it was laid up at Princes Dock in August of 1958. I’ve also included a picture of Dad taken during the course of a voyage, and one of his radio room – a whole other life that had nothing to do with us! Again, I have no memory of this visit…
Dad was always very interested in gadgets and how things worked – the radio officer had been a boy who recounted such exploits as building a bogey and writing with invisible ink in the letters he wrote to his mother during the time she spent in the TB Sanatorium before her death in 1932. This letter is from 1931, when he was coming up for 10…
Don’t you just love that his trousers were “past mending”? I wonder what scrapes he’d got into to get them into that condition. John never lost the boyish playfulness and enthusiasm that’s displayed in this letter. If any of us ever collected stamps (I did for one!) or made a model or showed the slightest interest in morse code or how a valve radio or a car engine worked, he’d be there, explaining, showing, joining in. He tried, I’m not sure how successfully, to teach us to play bridge and he loved corny jokes. He once brought something home for Mum and patiently bided his time until she gave the answer she was in the habit of giving when asked if she wanted a cup of tea, “Just half a cup”. Whereupon he whipped out his prize – HALF a cup! Mum didn’t have much of a sense of humour for that kind of joke, but we all thought it was hilarious!
The piano playing too carried on into later life. The familiar sound of him playing away on our upright piano would let us know he was home. Here’s how Mary remembers it, “He’d play Chopin and Debussy, and had a gift for arranging the popular songs of of his youth into his own lovely versions, like Stormy Weather and Stardust. He was a romantic person and bought Mum a pair of earrings every week, which she kept in a chocolate box.” Ah yes, Mum’s earrings, I wonder what happened to them, I used to love being allowed to look through them and try them on. Dad’s piano playing reminded me of Russ Conway, a popular performer who used to appear on the Billy Cotton Band Show on a Saturday night. We would all squeeze up on the family sofa to watch. Dad often arrived home halfway through TV shows, depending on his shift pattern, and would be shushed by us when he wanted to know what was going on, ungrateful children that we were!
In many ways, the boy who wrote the letters points to the man he would become. The man who collected, in blue binders, the entire set of “Knowledge, the new colour magazine which grows into an encyclopaedia”; the man who spent endless painstaking hours constructing a model bungalow (long gone) entirely out of spent matches, setting the walls in place according to his detailed plans. You only have to look at these notebook pages (preserved for 60-odd years from when he was studying for his radio certification) to see how neat and meticulous he could be.
He was also meticulous in the way he kept control of the family finances, assigning the cash from his pay packet to the bills and the household expenses, from the largest to the smallest amounts, including our weekly dinner money. He would count this out on a Sunday night and wrap it up in little brown paper parcels complete with our names and amounts, ready for us to pick up on a Monday morning. Beatrice 4/11d, Ann 4/4d, Mary 3/9d. I think those are the right amounts though I can’t remember what Grace had to pay. I think he’d probably given up doing it (had he?) by the time Jane and Eleanor started school. I don’t know about my sisters, but there was no way I was going to hand over this pre-packaged payment intact as intended – I would unwrap mine (always sellotaped) and hand over the cash to the teacher in the normal way, just like everyone else!!
With hindsight, I suppose I’d have to say that Dad was just a tad obsessive-compulsive in his manner of fulfilling his responsibilities, as he saw them, as head of the household! But you know, I also see someone with a rather inflexible personality who struggled to accept and deal with some very hard blows that life had dealt him. I’ve said before that he never really got over the death of his Mother when he was only 12. And it’s perfectly obvious even from his boyhood letters that his expectations were somewhat different from the way his life turned out.
As a mother and grandmother I know that you have to learn how to be a parent, instinct will only take you so far, the rest has to be learned as you go along. The way I see it, Dad coped by doing what he always did – by faithfully carrying out what he saw as his duty and staying true to his beliefs and principles. Among the possessions he left behind are some items that say it all – his wedding ring, his wartime service medals, his rosary beads, awards from the Road Operators Safety Council for 5, then 10, then 15 years of safe driving. And this one, a tiny wee drawing done by his mother, our long lost granny, Beatrice.
I think what I’m trying to say is that, with Nellie by his side, John grew into the role of father, became less uptight and more accepting. That whatever his faults and failings, they were tempered by his sense of fun and romantic soul. And that he always loved Mum and his six daughters with all his heart – you only have to look at our family pictures to know that the photographer was in love with his subject. I find it very striking that when I look through albums Dad made of his time in the RAF and then at sea, there are lots of photos taken of the places he’d been to. Whereas the family album contains pages and pages of just us, with hardly a view in sight. In fact I’ve only scraped the surface of those family pictures, so we’ll need to come back to them another time.
In the meantime, with Father’s Day coming up on Sunday, I’m going to leave you with my last loving memory of my Dad. It was 1981, he had come home from hospital – come home in fact to die – and his bed had been set up in our light and airy lounge at the front of the house in Kersland Street. We knew it wouldn’t be long and I had come up from London to say my goodbyes – my own four little ones were very young so it couldn’t be a long visit. I was sitting by the bed just quietly chatting with him before I was due to depart when he crooked his finger for me to come closer. As I leaned towards him he tapped his chest three times with his forefinger and said “Number one daughter”.
Take a good look at these six photos – notice anything?
That’s right, we are all wearing the same First Communion dress! And of course me being the oldest (Beatrice, 1961) I got to wear it new, AND I probably got to choose it too – tough luck little sisters! I think that by the time it reached Eleanor in 1971 there had been an invisible mend or two (Mum was good at those – she had to be) and the veil seems to have totally disappeared. In fact if you look at Jane, 1970, that’s not the original veil at all. I’d love to know what happened to that hardworking outfit – maybe we could resurrect it for a new generation, these things never really go out of fashion, do they?
The other thing I notice about this array of pictures is that it not only graphically illustrates the hand-me-down nature of being a family of six girls, it also tracks the movement of our family over the years. My first communion picture was taken outside St Anthony’s Church in Govan, which was where our family lived in a tenement flat within hooter distance of Fairfields Shipyard on the Clyde. In 1963 when the frock had been passed on to Ann, we had gone up in the world and were having our pictures taken outside the front door of what became our much loved family home in the West End of Glasgow. As you can see from Mary, 1964 and Grace, 1966, having your picture taken at the front door became something of a family tradition, and carried on long after our dear Dad left us in 1981 and the life of the house carried on without him. Here are a couple of examples from my own collection, and I know that members of the family will have many more…
It was a momentous event for us when we came to sell 8 Kersland Street in 2014. Mum had lived there for a total of 50 years, half a century since we had migrated over the river and taken possession of what seemed to us a palatial home on two floors, not to mention a garden, compared to the room and kitchen with tin bath and loo on the landing that we were used to in Govan. I still remember the wonderful imaginative games we used to play together downstairs in the “big room”, including one where we had to traverse the room by climbing over the furniture – anyone who touched the floor was out, and many arguments ensued over whether this one or that one’s foot did or did not make contact with the floor. And we did argue, of course we did, like any family. We would split into factions – The Big Ones, The Wee Ones, The Babies… I’m afraid I used to resent terribly always being made responsible for the behaviour of my sisters and I would often lead the daily crocodile to school “hold hands with your sister” in a bad mood and would walk too fast for the wee ones, and hold their hands too tight. I hope it’s not too late to say I’m sorry.
But you know, mostly what I remember about growing up in our little corner of the West End is the feeling of closeness with my sisters, of knowing that this was our own little world that we could rely on and feel safe in. My memories of all the things we did together come in random waves – Mum taking us to the Botanic Gardens and the Art Galleries: watching Doctor Who from behind the settee: counting how many times you could run round and round the back garden; standing for hours watching our Dad tinkering with “Victor”, the car, occasionally being allowed to hand him a tool; days out at the Trossachs where we would light a fire and cook sausages for tea and spend a lot of time poking sticks in streams; going down Byres Road to Woolworths to spend our “Saturday penny”; the summer we went to Church Street Baths every day and learned to swim… I could go on and and on, and yes, all these memories are of sunny days!
One last recollection is of my “Give a Show” projector, a kind of magic lantern toy I was given for my birthday when we were still living in Govan, so I must have been 9 or younger. I used to love this toy, and would line up my sisters on top of the coal cellar cupboard we had in the hall of our tiny flat, with a sheet hanging over the front door for our screen. I’d then make them watch the entire collection of 16 slide shows, doing all the voices in fine dramatic style, everything from Cinderella to Popeye – “Avast ya swab, leggo my goil!” This of course continued once we were in Kersland Street in our more commodious auditorium (the aforementioned Big Room), the audience enhanced by the addition of Jane (who had been just a baby when we moved) and Eleanor (who arrived in a bit of a hurry the following year).
They say, don’t they, that your position in the family affects who you are. Oldest children are supposed to be smarter and more successful than their siblings. Well, I don’t know about that (I’m not), but I certainly think my leadership qualities (bossiness) and organisational skills (desire to be in control) do stem from those early days of being the oldest. This picture says it all really …
The years – in fact the decades – pass, and our siblings gradually transform into real people, and wonderful friends who are always willing to understand and forgive you in a way no-one else can. At least mine do, and for that I am very grateful. Here we are all together celebrating Eleanor’s wedding day in 2011: not a hand-me-down in sight!
Here’s the wedding party gathered at the Grand Central Restaurant in Jamaica Street for my Mum and Dad’s wedding breakfast. I wish that the photographer hadn’t made them wait so long with their ankles daintily crossed and their smiles fixed. You just can’t help feeling that they were all taken unawares when the flash bulb finally did go off and captured – slightly the wrong – moment. But I suppose setting up your camera with its flash bulb, etc, was a lot more of a palaver in the 50’s than today’s profligate age of digital photography and you just had to take what you could get! I do have a better, more smiley photograph of just the bride and groom you’ll be glad to know.
My cousin Catriona remarked that the priest (whose name I think might be Father Kavanagh) looks like someone out of Father Ted, and I can see what she means – poor chap’s probably wondering when he’s going to get his cup of tea, or something stronger. And my Uncle Donald (standing, far right) certainly looks a bit shell shocked. Though mind you, at that point young Donald, his firstborn, was only about 9 months old, so maybe he and wife Mary (seated, far left) had just been up all night with the son and heir.
It could also be that my Dad’s other sibling, Mary (standing far left) had also recently done a night shift as I believe she was training to be a nurse at that time, in Helensburgh. In fact, apart from the priest and the seated Auntie Mary, I don’t think any members of this group actually hailed from Glasgow. The other individuals in the front row comprise George MacFarlane, Dad’s father, his sister Muriel (Aunt Moolie) and his wife Jessie, all from the Highlands. The people in the back row are, I think, Mum’s relatives from Ireland, though I’m ashamed to say I can’t just at the moment say which is which.
Looking at the handsome young man in his uniform (Dad joined the Merchant Navy as a radio officer after he was de-mobbed from the RAF after the war) and the pretty woman on his arm, I am reminded of the story of John and Nellie and how they met. Nellie had come to Scotland from County Mayo in Ireland in the late 1940’s. She had taken a position as housekeeper/nanny to a family of six children, the MacFarlanes at 50 High Street in Fort William. Jessie was George’s second wife and the children were the offspring of this marriage. Dad, Mary and Donald were the children of the first marriage and had grown up and left home by the time Nellie arrived. I’ll tell the rest of the story in the words of my sister Mary:
‘Nellie thrived in her new life in Scotland. One day around 1951 at 50 High Street, she heard a man’s voice calling down the stairs, “Who is staying in my room?” It was John MacFarlane, the oldest son of the first family, returning home for a visit. The two fell deeply in love and were married on 18th March 1953 in St Joseph’s Church, Clarkston’
Which is where we come in with our photo … If Jessie was annoyed at losing her marvellous mother’s help, she’s managing to hide it very well! By the way, I have the invoice here in front of me, and the bill for the entire breakfast, including 14 persons @ 6/6d a head; Rental of Rooms @ £1.1s; Wedding Cake @ £4.10s and Sherry, Port & Beer @ £2.14s comes to a princely £12.16s. That’s about £340-odd in today’s money, still a modest little celebration and nothing like the lavish amounts spent on weddings today. I suppose that brings it home to you just how different were those years of austerity following the Second World War, not to mention people’s expectations. It really does seem like a lost age, even though it’s not even 100 years ago.