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Father
(In memory of Sergeant Charles Evans of the Royal Scots, Casualty of the Boer War, spring 1902 the last real Father Ive had)
As with much of Jamies childhood, I have very little visual memory of his parents and only a few recollections of any other kind, especially of his mother. Jamies father, on the other hand had a great influence on me then and, I believe, still now, despite his being killed when Jamie was still a toddler. His name, Im almost certain was Charles and he was the model of what a father should be; respectful and loving to his wife, firm yet fair to his offspring and not minding spending time messing about or explaining things with them. The type of man who led by example and led by example rather than threat and command; would tell you why something you did was wrong, not merely yell at you. He taught my elder brothers their manners and they, in turn made sure I learnt the same. I also believe Jamie became the kind of young man he would have liked and been proud to have as his son.
There is little else to offer in way of concrete description. In looks, mannerism and sense of humour, he was very like my brother Andrew: in fact he also looked very like the effigy of Walter Campbell in Cruachan Church at Loch awe in Scotland. I believe we were somehow related to that family. On the other hand, he possessed at times the studious intelligence and serious turn of mind as Will although Will was really much more like Mother. It is ironic perhaps that the person Brother Andrew is now has that side to him as well.
I know Father was a religious man but not in an oppressive way. He liked singing hymns and was Presbyterian or some other non-conformist which is the denomination in which we boys were brought up. Mother, Im fairly certain was really Anglican but when we moved to England we became Methodist as she deemed it closest to what wed been used to. I have a vague notion he was good at drawing wildlife, especially birds, as well as scenery or buildings while his usual work was something to do with engineering (iron bridges always spring to mind) or construction of some sort
We are living in the Glasgow area. A man steps into the dark narrow hallway before me as I leave the kitchen. I am wearing one of those frill-layered dress-like garments that infant boys were put into then; he has on what could be a uniform. He looks very tall to my three-year-old eyes; tall and dark-haired, with a moustache. I wonder what to do. Whilst Im doing so, he grins at me, says something and laughs amused at my obvious puzzlement.
Does he think I should know who he is?
Hmm, a thought passes through my mind as I drop the half-eaten biscuit Im carrying and stick my finger in the corner of my mouth to think Carefully, I examine him up and down or mainly up, considering my height Kilt. Khaki tunic with three white arrows pointing down one sleeve two black vertical lines near the wrist, thin and only about an inch long. On his head, a narrow black hat with red and white squares fringing its bottom, a woolly ball on top and a shiny badge in the shape of a thistle is on one side.As the man crouches, two black ribbon tails swing round from the back of this hat and settle on his shoulder. He holds out his arms
Ha ye fgotten ye Daddy, ma Wee Bairn?! Don ye know im?!
So this was my father? Of course! The man in the picture on the sideboard near Mothers favourite chair that she kept showing me! The picture was of their wedding, and he looked much younger and a bit thinner, but it was definitely the same man! I had misty memories of him but hed been away What for?....Ah! He was a soldier, that was it! He had been in the Reserves, brother Andrew had explained to me, which meant the army wasnt his normal job but hed been ordered to go along to the head quarters of his battalion because People were fighting in a place called Africa and he might be needed. Andrew had shown me this place on big world ball he had in his room but I couldnt relate the picture to real countries, distances and any reason for Africa to need our Dad more than we and Mother did. I was also mildly annoyed in a three year old way that the king could make my Daddy go when he didnt want to.
Wheres y Mammy? Father lifts me to his strong shoulders, speaking in a fairly deep Scottish voice: this voice was not quite like that of the people in nearby Glasgow, nor like Mammy who came from the north of England but more like my Grannys from further up where there are mountains, thick forests and a big loch called Lomond that she and mother would sing to me about In here?
We move from room to room, my father opening each door, peering in and softly calling mothers name. I try to tell him she is in the yard hanging out washing, and that my brothers are at school but hes too excited to listen properly Just says things like Aye, Laddie or Good boy. He is telling me about something that Im evidently supposed to automatically understand something about being put up to the Second Battalion. Young as I am, a quiet, cold sense of foreboding just trickles across me but I dont comprehend it and Father seems so delighted and proud at being a proper Royal Scot that I try and look pleased too.
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