Complete New Tales of Para Handy (52 page)

I suppose we only had a third
Iona
actually on the Clyde because the American Civil War was coming to its end as she was being completed!

She was the largest vessel on the river at the time of her launch and for style and opulence she was not to be surpassed till 1878 when David MacBrayne, now controlling director of the Hutcheson fleet, ordered (again from Thomson's Govan yard) the incomparable
Columba
, a full one-fifth again bigger than
Iona
but very much based on her proven, successful design.

Columba
had a long career as MacBrayne's adored flagship before going to the breakers in 1936 at the venerable age of 58, but here she had to give best to
Iona
which had seen an astonishing
72
years service when she, too, went for scrap that same year.

Who could have foreseen a hundred years ago that industrial, commercial Glasgow would indeed become a serious holiday destination — though Para Handy and his wife did not have the lure of such delights as the Burrell Collection or the restored Merchant City or the Mackintosh legend to tempt them!

T
HE
E
LEGANCE OF
H
ORSEPOWER
— The suspicion is that this photograph was commissioned from the MacGrory brothers on the day that its Campbeltown owner-driver took delivery (probably by a steamer and possibly even by a puffer) of this handsome Hansom-cab, a fashionable conveyance designed in the mid-19th century by its eponymous inventor Joseph, but in fashion till well into the early years of the 20th century.

44

Santa's Little Helpers

I
encountered Para Handy and Hurricane Jack quite unexpectedly as they emerged from the Buchanan Street doorway of the Argyll Arcade late on Christmas Eve, the Captain's oldest friend clutching a large rectangular parcel wrapped in shiny brown paper printed overall with the name of the shop on which every schoolboy's hopes would that night be concentrated — the Clyde Model Dockyard.

“Last minute shopping indeed, Captain,” I exclaimed : “and from the Clyde Model Dockyard itself! Who is the lucky lad?”

Para Handy, looking rather embarrassed, just mumbled something unintelligible and made to move off but Hurricane Jack, laying his burden carefully on the pavement, straightened up with a sigh and remarked pointedly, “It iss real thirsty work, this shopping business : and a rare expense ass weel : I'll tell you that for nothing.”

Sensing a story, I persuaded the two mariners to join me for a seasonal dram in a convenient hostelry in neighbouring St Enoch's Square. But it took a second glass to start the flow of the narrative, and then a third before the whole sorry tale was unfolded for me.

It had all begun three days previously…

A freezing fog had enveloped the lochside village all day, and darkness was rapidly closing in on the short December afternoon when the indistinct silhouette of a steam-lighter loomed out of the gloaming and the fully-laden little vessel eased its way into the basin at the Ardrishaig end of the Crinan Canal.

In the wheelhouse of the
Vital Spark
Para Handy breathed a sigh of relief as he bent down to call into the engine-room at his feet. “Whenever you're ready, Dan,” he said, and with a rattle and a clank the propeller-shaft stopped turning and the puffer drifted the last few feet onto the stone face of the quay.

“My Cot,” said the skipper, as Sunny Jim leapt ashore with the bow mooring rope and slipped its bight over the nearest stone bollard, “I wass neffer so relieved to see the shup safe into port. Ever since we came round Ardlamont I have been frightened that every moment wud be our next.”

Indeed it had been an uncomfortable passage up Loch Fyne, for it was there that the weather had closed in on the puffer and Para Handy had steered his course towards Ardrishaig more by instinct than anything else in fog which restricted visibility to less than fifty yards.

“It's chust ass well that Dougie iss not here,” said Hurricane Jack, materialising out of the gloom on the cargo-hatch just forward of the wheelhouse. “A fine sailor when we are safe in port but tumid, tumid when we are at sea.”

It was four days before Christmas and Dougie the family man had bargained with the bachelor Jack to stand in for him on this unexpected last-minute charter to Inveraray with a cargo of coals. Not that the Mate himself was particularly keen to spend the festive season cooped up with ten screaming children in a tenement flat in Plantation, but the Mate's wife was determined that he should do so, and she was certainly not a lady to be argued with lightly by anyone, and least of all by her husband.

Once the puffer was safely berthed, Para Handy went ashore and up to the Post Office to send a wire to McCallum, the Inveraray coal merchant, explaining why his cargo had been delayed.

McCallum's response, delivered to the
Vital Spark
half-an-hour later by a diminutive telegraph boy, proved that the spirit of the season of peace and good will to all men had not reached certain quarters of Upper Loch Fyne.

“You wud think that we was responsible for the fog,” complained the Captain as the crew made their way up the quayside towards the Harbour Bar. “Well, all I can say iss that he will get his coals tomorrow if it lifts, but I am not prepared to risk the boat chust to keep Sandy McCallum's Campbell customers happy.”

Next morning the fog had indeed dispersed and the puffer made an early start for Inveraray. Since one and all were anxious to get home in time for Christmas, the unloading of the coals was achieved in record time. As soon as the cargo was safely ashore in the early afternoon, and carted to McCallum's ree, the crew prepared to set sail at once without even a cursory visit to the bar of the George Hotel.

However, just as Sunny Jim was loosing the last mooring rope, the owner of the Hotel himself appeared on the quayside, quite out of breath, and carrying a large cardboard box.

“I heard you were at the harbour, Peter : I wonder if you would do me a kindness,” he asked, “and deliver this for me? It's my nephew's Christmas present — my sister's laddie — and it should have gone up to Glasgow yesterday on the steamer, but with the fog the
Lord of the Isles
turned back at the Kyles and I've no way of getting it to town in time other than with yourself.

“My sister's house is just off Byres Road, and I'll give you the money for a cab…”

“Would you take a look at this!” cried Hurricane Jack fifteen minutes later, emerging from the fo'c'sle with the box — minus its lid — cradled in his arms, and an excited grin on his face.

Para Handy was about to protest at the cavalier way in which Jack had satisfied his curiosity, but when he saw the contents of the box for himself, he peremptorily summoned Sunny Jim to take the wheel and hurried for'ard to join his shipmate.

The box contained a magnificent train-set — a gleaming green and gold locomotive, three pullman coaches, and a bundle of silver and black rails.

“My chove,” said the Captain enthusiastically. “Iss that not chust sublime, Jeck! There wass neffer toys like that when I wass a bairn and needin' them, or if there wass, then I neffer saw them.

“I'm sure it wouldna' do ony herm if we chust had a closer look at it aal…”

In no time at all, the rails — which formed a generous oval track — had been laid out on the mainhatch, the carriages set on one of the straight sections : the two mariners were peering curiously at the engine itself.

“ ‘Marklin, Made in Chermany',” said Para Handy, reading the trademark stamped on the underside of the chassis. “Clever duvvles, but I canna see the key and I canna imachine chust how on earth we're meant to wind the damn' thing up.”

Hurricane Jack took the engine out of the skipper's hands and looked closely at it. “This isn't a clockwork injin at all, Peter,” he said at length, reaching to the box and taking out of it a small tin which he opened to reveal a number of round white objects like miniature nightlights. “It's wan o' they real steam ones. You put some watter in the wee biler, and then you light wan o' these meths capsules in the firebox, and off she goes.

“I'm sure it wouldna' do ony herm if we chust tried her oot chust the wan wee time…”

However, despite their best efforts, neither Para Handy nor Jack had any success in getting the model engine fired up.

“Can I not have a shot at it please, Captain?” called Sunny Jim plaintively from the wheelhouse, whence his view of proceedings down on deck was frustratingly limited.

“Haud your wheesht and mind the wheel, Jum,” replied Para Handy brusquely, “and leave this business to men who are old enough to ken what they're doin'. But you could maybe give Dan a call and ask him to come up here for a minute.”

It was of course the puffer's engineer who finally cracked the problem of propulsion and in a few minutes the little train was chuffing importantly around and around the oval track, the three seamen on their hands and knees, spellbound, beside it.

Jim's repeated pleadings to be allowed to join in the fun were totally ignored.

“Is that aal there is to it?” Jack asked after a while. “I'm sure she wud run faster withoot all they carriages…” An experiment which was soon put to the test, and as soon shown to be true. Even that improvement, however, palled after a few minutes more.

“I'm sure and she wud be able to go faster if we took her aff the rails,” suggested Para Handy : “and she'd certainly be able to go further…”

Moments later, with Para Handy on his knees at the after-end of the mainhatch and Jack at the fore-end, Macphail having retired to his lair with a snort of derision, the rails had been packed away and the little locomotive was racing to and fro the full length of the hatch, set on its way by one of the mariners, and then caught at the far end by the other, turned about, and sent on the return trip.

“Careful, Jeck,” cried Para Handy : “dinna drop it, whatever you do!”

“Can I no' come doon and have a wee shot wi' it?” pleaded Sunny Jim again from the wheelhouse, and in that one fatal moment the damage was done.