Western Winds
Pab Roberts
Now let's be clear, I didn't wash up on the latest Bovril boat coming up the Clyde from Sassenach regions. I'm not the child of Lord Har-Dee-Har fallen on hard times and relocated to this palm-island of the West Coast. No, my friend, my family are following a long tradition we Glaswegians have pursued since the 1770's when ordinary folks would sail out to this island to sample the restorative delectations of the local goats' milk. It's just that, in my case, in all their wisdom, my folks have decided to uproot for good from the blessed city of Alan McInally and Glen Michael's Cartoon Cavalcade. This island is boke.
The classroom is tiny, but with only fifty-some kids in the school all primaries three, four and five are sharing it with chairs to spare. The teacher reads out a letter from Stuart, who's off round the world on his daddy's containership. He's leaving Hong Kong and bound for Mexico. We all get a few jelly beans out of the long tube he's sent back for us. For them. I won't meet the boy for six months. His collar bone won't be smashed by my elder brother in a go-karting accident for another five years from that.
Morning break and an older girl called Theresa takes me under her wing. I've never heard the name Theresa before. I think I love her. She takes care in showing me how to play the 'netball-line game' before showing me where the head lifted Craig off a tree branch that had skewered him on the, now banned, mud-slide.
Late morning and I'm thrown into rehearsals for the island musical festival, 'gotta pick a pocket or two' sung with panache and flair by a boy who would later die in a drunken brawl in Dundee whilst on leave from the Royal Engineers 12 years after this shining, cheeky performance.
Mr Stewart from the High School pops in to ask who will be joining the village junior football team on Saturday. Eagerly I raise my hand, only to be told that only primaries four and above are allowed. I must instead spend my days running through the forest, climbing in the hills, swimming in the sea and making bonfires in the garden.
'Oh, raaaaaaaaaather!!!!!!' The reply comes when I try and join-in a kickabout that lunchtime. I am confused. I try and join in again. 'Oh, raaaaaaaaaaaaather!!!!!!!' the rebound comes louder and longer, other kids starting to giggle. 'What?' I ask. 'Oh, What!!!!!' comes the reply. 'You think you're better than us.' States the child, and he's only a child, a boy of seven, who is making these strange noises in my direction. I soon realise over the days and months and years that having English parentage is not only frowned upon by society here in these islands, it is despised. Kids from Yorkshire move to the island and in some intuitive survival ace adopt the local accent within seconds. Yet I, growing up in the inner city, having never before encountered racism, find it here in this idyllic prison, unable to put-on any accent other than that my parents foisted on me I struggle to stay afloat. And it gets worse when the bell goes for afternoon lessons and it is revealed that this 'posh' new kid can READ!
I gather my books at the end of the day, miserable and alone. Shuffle off through the playground to walk the mile or so home. 'Hey!' Calls a voice, it's some of the kids from primary four. Big kids. 'Hey!' She calls again, 'are you coming to play or what?'
