Prose

 

Childhood moments in Glasgow Around 1944

I shall never forget a nightmare which haunted me till my late forties. It portrayed an event in which, as a toddler, I had been perched on top of the polished granite balustrade, or wall, running the length of a bridge. It was a substantial bridge, and it spanned the river which ran between the Botanic Gardens and home on nearby Botanic crescent. My father had sat me on the edge, I suppose to let me have a view of the river far, far below. The nightmare began with that setting, then had me falling, falling, falling … till I woke, screaming, or in a sweat. Some of the nightmares may have included impact with the water, and then beginning to drown, but I can’t be sure. Over the years, I learned to recognize the developing scene, and usually managed to make myself wake in time. Why did this action on my father’s part lead to a nightmare, and why did it keep recurring all those years? * * *

I was about six, and clutched three books. Where had I been? I don’t recall, but I would have passed the mysterious domed glass buildings of the Botanic Gardens on my way home. The books were from my father’s boss, Professor Boase. I remember there had been some talk of familiarising me with books, even though I could scarcely read. These appealed to me for their pictures, and one included black and white line drawings of ships. The books were a size for children’s leisure reading, about quarto, and hardbacks. One, maybe the one with the ships, had a yellow cover. At that point in my journey, as I was tired, or curious about the books which I had looked at briefly – at the professor’s home? – I sat down. And there I sat, on the stone footings of some railings, and opened one. Three boys, older, came up and asked to see them also, to which I agreed. And when they wanted to hold them so as to look more closely, I let them. Then off they went, and the books with them. My calls of protest were ignored. I continued on my way, agitated, and on reaching home was scolded by my mother. I was made to believe the loss was not mine – so there was no reason to feel sorry for myself – it was the professor’s, and I had put my parents in an embarrassing situation. I had been irresponsible, and ungrateful. I think I was sent back then, pointlessly, to find the culprits and ask them to return the books. Or was I just given the rounds of the kitchen? Both, I believe. I don’t recall. But I do remember that I was punished severely, and remember wondering why I was the one being punished. The whole episode would have taken half an hour, and occurred about seventy years ago.