Fife

Oakley was an old village in a rural setting in which huge numbers of cheap government houses had been built; council houses. We lived in a council house. Any aesthetic or historic appeal the township may have had was lost amongst the hundreds of cheap houses. These buildings must have been thrown up in part solution to the post-war housing shortage. They were as unimaginative as it was possible to be. That seems so typical of Britain. They consisted of long rows of adjoining houses, and between each pair was a close that allowed access to the rear entrance. I used to play in the close. It echoed in there, and as it got dark it became a bit scary. It must have been narrow because I recall being able to climb up the walls by bracing myself horizontally with my hands and feet against the opposite walls. It was a dry place to play when it rained. It was also the sort of place where drunks would pee. There was a tiny front garden with a square of lawn, and a bit more space in the back yard where a few vegies were grown. My father cut the tiny square of grass with a pair of hedge shears. He never used a lawn mower. He would get down on his knees and clip away at it with the shears until done. The neighbours probably wondered what he was doing. Perhaps, as father of a young family, he just couldn’t afford much. Though, by all accounts he got paid quite well for a labourer. Miners got quite a good wage, and he suffered a comparative salary reduction when he came to Australia. I also remember him turning the soil in the back garden each year, and planting a potato crop.

It was common for of agricultural labour to be recruited locally. Every year in Oakley, gangs of taughtie howkers (potato pickers) would be taken on by the local farmers, and my mother signed up on a few occasions. When he was old enough, my brother joined them too. No doubt the cash was welcome, but like many of these jobs it was hard and dirty work. The farmer generally provided transport to and from the farm. People would wait at designated spots in the street and a tractor with a trailer in tow would come by to pick up the teams of workers, and they would ride the trailer sitting on the flat try top. Everyone wore old clothes and the women would tie their hair up tight under a scarf. If you can imagine the image of peasants riding a tractor, you’ll have the scene exactly. This would have been a rough ride for the oldies, but the younger people loved it, and a job as taughtie howker was sought after, and yes, I was jealous of those who could go. At the end of the day it was common for the younger people to arm themselves with potatoes pieces for the return trip, and on the way home as the tractor drove past their friends they would be pelted with spuds.

On one occasion my mother took me along with her. The field was marked out and divided into sections, with everyone allocated their own section. A tractor pulling a harvester would drive by digging up the earth with a huge spinning contraption that threw the potatoes into the air. Everyone was provided with a metal basket to carry the harvested potatoes. After the tractor had passed, the potatoes would be collected in the basket, and when your section had been cleared of potatoes, the basket would have to be carried and emptied into a bin. If you could collect the potatoes quickly there was some time to rest before the harvester came past again, but if you were on the slow side you were barely able to empty the basket before the harvester went by and another load had to be picked up. It was backbreaking work. Most of the time was spent stooped to the ground, and the basket of potatoes would have been heavy to carry. The more tired you got, the more difficult the work became, and the rest periods between loads became shorter. The farmer or his staff would strut about watching everyone to see that they were pulling their weight. Not only would they point to potatoes you had missed, but if he noticed any that were half buried in the soil, he would dig them out by prising them with his cane or stick, and it would be expected that you would run up and add it to your basket, as well as taking the abuse for missing it in the first place. The farmers seemed unreasonably spiteful.

The house in Oakley was on the high side of the road, allowing a fine view of the street and beyond from the front window. The city planners didn’t actually do such a bad job. The main road through Oakley ran behind our house bypassing the bulk of the heavy traffic from the residential areas. There were also a lot of cul-de-sacs throughout the area, which restricted through traffic. This was just as well, because of the number of children in the area. There were so many kids in every block that you could make or lose friends from one day to the next and still have plenty of others to play with. It must have been the effect of the baby boom. Our house backed the main road, and one of my entertainments was to sit in the gutter as cars and trucks sped by, and throw stones at them as they passed. If you hit any and they stopped you’d have to run like the blazes. But what were they going to do; chase after you through some hole in the hedge? Not likely. It was great fun.

The front street was on a slight slope. I used to have the time of my life when frost came in the colder weather. All the kids loved to create slides on a smooth surface or on the footpath. I would pour buckets of water on the footpath to form ice on the cold surface. This made a superb slide. Perhaps it was a bit too good. There were a row of flats nearby where old folks lived, and they probably hated us for turning slippery surfaces into dangerous ones.

We lived in a three bed roomed house, and though small I suspect my parents considered it luxurious compared with the flat in the Gorbals. Entering through the front there was a small hallway with enough space to take off your coat and hang it up. A door immediately on the right led to the living room. To the left was a flight of stairs, and straight ahead, the scullery. It’s curious the scullery was never referred to as the kitchen; perhaps because of its size. It was truly small. It had an electric cooker, a small bench and sink on one side. A small table (the wee table) was positioned on the other wall, where breakfast was taken, and it doubled as additional bench space when required. There was a serving hatch to the living room in the wall adjacent to the table. There was a pantry in the corner near the door. To complete the clutter, a ‘pulley’ hung from the ceiling. These brilliantly useful wooden and metal-framed clothes driers, that are raised and lowered by rope and pulley, can still be purchased in shops specialising in restoration items, and often described as Edwardian Airers. It was an absolute necessity in winter when the washing was likely to freeze on the line, our scullery was often cluttered with damp laundry from the ‘pulley’.

There was no washing machine in the house. There was no laundry. The washing board was an essential item. The back door exited from the scullery, and a coalbunker was located across the path from the back door. The living room ran from the front to the back and had a window at either end. There was a formal dining table by the front window which was used on special occasions and its chairs were strategically placed around the room probably because there was no space for them at the table. This table was used for formal occasions only. A writing bureau next to the table was seldom used for writing and held the ‘big books’; my parents’ term for their encyclopaedia. As my parents became more comfortable a bottle of sherry or liqueur was also kept in the bureau. They were proud of this piece. A three-piece settee was arranged around the fireplace to complete the main furnishings. Meals were often had in the living room. The wee table would be carried into the living room partly set and we’d have our meals in front of the fire.

It was an open fire, and it could belt out some heat. One of the perks of being a coal miner was that my father got very cheap coal, the main heating source of the house. Our coalbunker was never empty, and there were at times certain jealous comments made by those who couldn’t afford to buy as much coal as they needed to keep warm through the winter. It was not uncommon to hear of people stealing coal from their neighbours. The hot water service was heated by the fire; an idea that unfortunately seems to have gone out of fashion somewhat in modern houses. Sometimes the fire was loaded with so much coal and roaring like a furnace that the water in the tank and pipes would boil. A gurgling sound of the water beginning to boiling in the pipes would quickly turn to a loud bumping and banging noise. The noise distressed my parents driving them into a panic and forcing a dash to the scullery to turn on a hot tap, which relieved the situation. There was no electric emersion heater in the hot water service. The fire had to be kept burning constantly if you wanted hot water. At the top of narrow stairs was the bathroom and toilet, and a passageway to three bedrooms.

One of the really good things about living in Oakley as a child was that there were always plenty of things to do. Though I might have had a different opinion of Oakley when I left school and began to scout around for work. I expect the range of job opportunities might have been limited had we stayed there. My parents may have had reasonable foresight to get us out of that place. Though, it wouldn’t have taken much to move to Glasgow or somewhere in England to where the work was. Mind you, Australia has its own unemployment problems like any other country. Oakley was located in a rural area, which meant there were always places to play and explore. The kids had names for all the favourite haunts; some were descriptive, others imaginative. A few blocks in front of our house was The Hill and a fine view of it was had from our living room window. At the base of The Hill was The Burn, which was great for coofling, damming, and just generally having a great time with the water. There were some fields behind our house, just across the main road that bypassed Oakley. Beyond the fields were The Moors, and not too far away was The Black Loch. The Moors was definitely not a moor in the true sense, but an area of water-logged land and woodland, not yet cleared for pasture or agriculture, but it was a great place to play. Nearby was the Tower Woods, and on the other side of town on the outskirts just past the sawmill was a true adventure park, the Green Carpets. This was a forest of tall trees with a wonderful understorey of shrubs. There were other places some nearby some farther away and included the railway line to Comrie pit, various deserted houses and barracks, and the towns of Carnock, Saline and Blairhall were not too far away and were full of adventure. My father worked in Comrie when we first moved to Oakley.

The Hill was just an ordinary hill where sheep or cattle would occasionally be seen grazing. It was quite steep in parts, but some areas were perfect for tobogganing in winter (though tobogganing was a term that was never used). To the kids it was a mountain of fun. This was also the place of choice for the bonfire on Guy Fox night. Just across The Burn and before the slope of The Hill steepened there was a flattish area that was just right for a bonfire. During construction, the bonfire had to be guarded to prevent other potential bonfire builders stealing the wood, and if you didn’t have someone posted on guard duty, it would be rifled by other bonfire builders.

There was a low growing shrub that grew all over The Hill. The old growth dried off in the warmer weather turning these bushes into tinderboxes. They were just perfect to be set alight. Every year someone would sneak some matches from their home and make a B-line for the biggest clump of these bushes. Within minutes the entire hillside was ablaze as the flames leapt from one bush to the next, and we would stand back and gloat. The Tower Woods underwent the same fate a number times too, and the fire brigade was called at least once that I know of. It took its name from the fact that there was a tower at one end. It may have been nothing more than an old water tower, but to us it was a Roman castle or Fort Apache, as the mood took us.

You could reach The Moors by way of the Tower Woods or by trudging through the field just behind our house. Sometimes it was fun to go through the field if there was a crop coming up. You could pull out the parsnips, turnips or whatever else had been planted as you went, and have pretend-battles by throwing the vegetables at each other, or just throwing them in the air for fun. If the crop was wheat you could lie in it rolling around the ground flattening the stuff. Flattening the crop into the shapes of rooms and corridors. Some of us tried to create a maze with intricate passages from the flattened crops, but generally too many passage-makers got dizzy and lost their direction. We would scamper up The Hill to view our handiwork from a height. No wonder the farmers hated us. There was an attitude amongst farmers with their airs of superiority; farmers as landed gentry. Property owners: maybe. Gentry: unlikely. And of course, everyone else: commoners or peasants. Of course, if you behave like a peasant, perhaps you deserve to be treated as one. The attitude flourished not only because they felt entitled, but also because others often kowtowed to them. But in those days, at my age, that didn’t bother us too much.

I loved the silver birch trees that grew in the area, and I still like them, as it happens. The Moors were full of young silver birch saplings and heather grew all over this area. There were also a few piles of shale that were great to climb and play on. I wonder whether this was just a huge pile of road fill or noxious tailings from some mining activity.

There were a few derelict houses in The Moors too in various states of decay. They may have had some historical value, but these things are of no interest to kids. Especially the young larrikins we were then. There was no glass in the windows, and the doors were ajar. You could always find something interesting inside. They were great places to explore, and on one occasion even greater entertainment to destroy. The roof of this particular building had long since decayed leaving only the rafters exposed. For some reason, we began climbing all over it for no other reason than that someone was already scrambling onto it. There must have been about six of us. In no time, we were all standing on top of the thick stone walls. Stepping over the roof trusses must have shown some movement as we brushed by them. Without any particular plan in mind we began tugging at the timber trusses, and they moved a bit. So, we all began pulling and pushing them together whilst still standing on top of the walls. The seesaw action eventually swung them more and more until the whole lot swivelled over and fell into the innards of the building. This was great fun. We could have been killed or injured. We all let out a great “whoopee” and laughed as it keeled over. No one liked farmers anyway. No one cared, and we trooped off to see what the next adventure would bring. What little bastards we were.

A large shed was spotted through some trees. Was this the same day or some other? I can’t remember. We managed to squeeze through an open window at the back. With little regard as to who may or may not have owned it, we took to picking up anything that was lying around on the shelves and in drawers, and played wars by throwing the stuff at each other; nuts and bolts or anything that came to hand, and hiding behind the various benches that were there. Such a clatter must have been made that the owner may have been forgiven for thinking some sort of explosion had gone off. There was no intention of stealing anything. Why bother, you’d have to carry it away with you. It was much more fun just throwing the stuff around. Within minutes a noise was heard from the outside. It was probably the owner fumbling with the lock. We all darted for the window and fled. The police may well have been called, but I knew nothing of this. We slipped back into the woods. One mob of kids looks just like the next, and if anyone asked, “No, it wasn’t us.”

The Black Loch was not a loch at all. It was an abandoned quarry located in an out of the way place that had filled with water. The surrounding rocks on the cliff walls were black, and so the water was very dark too. Someone suggested it might have been a disused mineshaft. It was a fabulous swimming hole as far as the older kids were concerned, and some would dive or jump from the adjacent rock face into the deep water. There was never any fear of them hitting the bottom. No one knew how deep it was. No one could touch the bottom. It was bottomless as far as we were concerned. The water’s edge was choked with weeds. I went in a few times at the shallower end. It was icy cold which was probably an indication of its depth. I couldn’t swim, and was too scared to go in far as the water got deep very quickly. A better name for this place would have been the Drowning Pool. It should have been filled in or fenced off. I only went there twice, and once with much pride I showed the place to my parents. They were shocked at how dangerous it was, and ordered us never to go there again. You look back on life and wonder how on earth you ever made it so far without mishap. Another such incident involved the nearby sawmill.

Huge venetian blinds covered the class room windows which faced the playground, and beyond the playground over the perimeter fence was the sawmill. When the blinds were up, my eyes were often drawn to what was going on outside rather than on what I should have been doing. The teachers were good at creeping up and scaring the hell out of you if they caught you staring out the windows or daydreaming. Maybe sneaking up on their pupils was a game they played to amuse themselves. Perhaps they pulled the blinds up because they knew you would stare out the window. There was one teacher in particular that I hated. The memory of her is stamped permanently into my mind. I didn’t like arithmetic, and she must have decided it was beyond me. She had the class bring our jotters to her desk for marking after each problem. After every sum was completed everyone had to line up in front of her desk and have their work marked. As it happened, I couldn’t do long division. I just couldn’t get it. It was this teacher’s solution to put a tick against my work, as she would for everyone else, if I got the correct answer. But, if I had made a mistake she would just sit looking at the page waiting for me to go away. She would make no signal of any kind, she would not say anything, nor look away to indicate she had finished checking it. Of course, I had no idea as to whether she was just sitting there naval gazing or whether she was still pondering my work. On some occasions she would turn to me and just tell me to go away. This was totally humiliating and stressful. I have to wonder how some people get into the jobs they do. Perhaps I was a dunderhead, at the time, but I suspect a more likely scenario was that she was just a poor example of a teacher who had little talent or interest in the welfare of her pupils. Ironically, it was my brother who gave me my first clue as to how long division was done. I found the memory of the experience ironic years later when I enrolled in the School of Mathematics at Flinders University.

Anyway, you could see the sawmill clearly from the classroom window, and something unusual was happening. Places of industry always had great potential for interest and play, and the sawmill was no exception. There was a fence around the mill, but the storage yard extended beyond the lockup area. This area was just another adventure park. Bark skimmed from the logs prior to milling would be dumped in a heap and routinely set alight to dispose of it. The timber waste was a great resource, and I used to cart a lot of it home on top of the bogie (billycart). In addition to the bark there was always some of wood attached, and I would saw it up and chop it into kindling, and sell it by the basket load to the locals. The old folks who lived in the block near us were the best customers. My price was probably okay, and it was home delivered, after all. The money earned went toward that movie camera I was saving for that was to be purchased in Aden, during the voyage to Australia. The bark was also a handy building resource for kids. My brother collected a heap of these off cuts to build a shed to store his bicycle. This was a flashy racing bike that had been given to him (sold cheaply by a relative), and with the risk of theft it was important to lock up things of value. I helped him erect the posts for the framework by holding them straight while he stood above me on an adjacent wall and hammered them into the ground using the back end of an axe as a hammer. My assistance didn’t last long when he miss-hit a post I was holding. The wooden shaft broke, the axe head flew off and collided with my head. I presume the blunt end struck. Talk about the old joke, “You nod your head when you’re ready and I’ll hit it.”

Anyway, I was looking at the sawmill from the classroom one bright sunny day, and a load of logs was delivered. Huge, shiny, smooth-barked tree trunks were stacked on a grassy part of the yard outside the lock up area. The part that was accessible to us kids. You could see the load from the classroom window. There must have been thirty or more of these huge logs off loaded by crane from trucks and piled in the yard outside the mill. Little work had been done to them except to remove the main branches so that when they were stacked on top of each other, to about two to three logs high, the various branch remnants and natural twists of the trunks caused them to lock into each other. I’m sure none of us gave any thought of how dangerous this pile of timber might have been.

At lunchtime and after school a mass of kids including myself raced to this log-mountain-playground like moths to a light. In some places the trunks were touching as they rested on top of each other. At other places there were gaps between them due to the different shapes of the trunks. These gaps were just perfect for squeezing through from one side to the other, for no other reason than to see if you could. The bark was so smooth to the touch it helped you squeeze through the gaps without fear of splinters. You could tuck yourself underneath them in the cave like gaps they formed between the trunks and the ground, and because they had been placed on a grassy patch of ground it was as though they were resting on a carpet. And of course, jumping from one log to the other was great fun. We were over and under that log pile like ants in a bowl of fruit. This load of loosely packed timber was an accident waiting to happen. Fortunately, none of the logs moved, and nobody slipped and fell. The idea of crushed bodies or broken bones was furthest from our minds. Nothing happened except that the teachers announced at school the next day that no one was to go near it. I wouldn’t doubt for a moment each trunk weighed several tons. The slightest movement in the log pile could have had devastating results.

Dunfermline was the nearest city of any note. This town is steeped in history, and was not really much more than a long walk from Oakley. I have fond memories of going on walks with my mother in The Glen in Dunfermline. The Glen was the common name for one of the public parks in Dunfermline. Pittencrief Park was established on land donated to the city by Andrew Carnegie; the same Carnegie who made a name for himself in America. The park was virtually Dunfermline’s botanical garden, and it did them proud. It was a wonderful park that would sometimes be the venue for outdoor music recitals. There were a number of pathways winding through ancient trees. It was a wonderful park, but the management spoilt it somewhat by posting ‘keep off the grass’ signs. The Abbey and castle ruins were adjacent, and a truly ancient cemetery. The Abbey hosts the burial site for King Robert the Bruce, one of Scotland’s ancient icons.

My brother and I went to school in Oakley; the “wee school” (Inzeivar infant school) first, and later the “big school” (Inzeivar primary school). It must have been school policy at the time to routinely test their pupils and seat them ranked in order of their test scores. The brightest child positioned at the back corner and the dullest in the opposite front corner of the class. I was somewhere in the middle. Presumably it was organised in this way to allow the teacher access to those who needed most attention. One of the most surprising things I experienced when I went to my first Australian school was the necessity to take examinations, and pass them before qualifying to move on to the next class. That was a real culture shock. Right through infant and primary at Inzeivar the progression was automatic. A really big deal in the UK, of course, was the ‘Eleven-plus’ which referred to the pupils age, and was essentially an examination that directed you into one of two streams. But we didn’t stay in Scotland long enough for me to go through that experience as we emigrated for Australia before I had my chance at it.