"Food, glorious food!"

By Ronald (Ron) Rodger CASEBY.

A 64^th Birthday photo of Ron taken by Eveline Allison (WILLEY), his wife, on 07/11/2000.

In 1994, Rachel(DIFFLEY), my daughter-in-law, told me by telephone that her class at School were preparing an exhibition about the conditions children lived in during World War 2. I still had my last unused Ration Book which was issued in 1953, and valid until 1954. I sent to her as a teaching aid with her 8 and 9 year old pupils at Thame, Oxfordshire, England.

The fact that I was allowed so little confectionery amazed her young students. My ration of sweets was 4 ounces per week. As cost was also a problem for my parent my pocket money was only enough to buy about half this sweets ration between 1939 and 1945. It was such a surprise to the children that anyone could survive on just 2 ounces for they consumed about 2 pounds of sugar on average, per week, some 55 years later. This revelation, and others I had made about meals during WW2, raised a spate of questions about food, and diets in general. I attempted to satisfy these questions with the following notes which may be of interest to other readers.

"Food, glorious food!"

I think that we six healthy and fast growing children living at The Manse, Newmills, Fife, Scotland, during WW2 were more fortunate than most. Here we all are in August 1939.

Back row, Grant (partly hidden), cane, brown paper and flour paste kite, and Sandy.

Middle row, Margaret, Cyril, and Charlie on a gifted rocking horse.

Front row, Ronnie, sitting in a large red, blue and green wooden train made by father.

We were fortunate because my late father used all his agricultural skills to grow and store a profusion of vegetables, salad greens, and fruits. These were used to bulk up the meagre protein rations of milk, meat, fish, eggs, butter, and cheese, and other essentials, such as sugar and flour.

We were not keen on sweet foods and so most of our sugar rations were exchanged with the Howie family for their cheese allowance. We enjoyed cheese moulds where corn flour was cooked with it to bulk it out. This concoction was also served with salads or as a filling with cress for fresh bridge rolls. As I write I can imagine the delicious smell of grilling (broiling) Marmite (a brewer's yeast extract) covered toast topped with grated bubbling cheese rind. This was an alternative use, for the hard dirty looking rind of the cheese could also be used for other treats. If the cheese was maggoty them grilling it on toast with added Lee and Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce produced a "Welsh rarebit", or grating it as a topping for a warming winter main course of Macaroni Cheese, were other way to capitalise on our cheese ration. I can remember being quite delighted to look through my father's magnifying glass at the wild life moving within the cheese before it was cremated. My parents, like everyone else, could not afford to waste any food during wartime.

Mr. Howie, who bartered his family cheese ration for our sugar one, owned the "flea pit" called "The Kinema" cinema. There we children could have an enjoyable and magical Saturday afternoon watching films of "goodies", such as Tom Mix or Roy Rogers, riding the range, and beating the "badies". All this for the price of an empty jam jar, or lemonade bottle, entrance fee. The glass was used to help the war effort. The darkened cinema was a retreat but it was far from serene. The good people would be clapped, cheered, whistled at, and egged on when chasing, or fighting, the villain. The rogue, in turn, would be booed, hissed, and sneered at, and have rude raspberries sounds blown in his direction whenever he appeared. All of this oral symphony accompanied by much jumping up and down, and gesticulations. We all loved a film with catchy words and tunes in it and Roy Rodgers was the best actor for leading such community singing. The words would be shown on the bottom of the screen as a song was sung round a camp fire set in the middle of some prairie. A little white ball would dance along the words from syllable to syllable in time to the music. We would sing, and clap and stamp our feet as directed on the screen to songs by our idol, songs like, "Deep in the Heart of Texas", or "She'll be coming round the Mountains, when she comes", or "Little Doggie".

We also took some of our sweetie rations, or cakes, sandwiches, apples, pears or plumbs in season, to eat at the cinema, for there were no Ice Cream Sellers before, at the interval, or after the performance in those days. This bringing of snacks provided the opportunity to barter for the treats that others had brought. This "little market in the dark" meant that there were scurries of movement when goods were exchanged, and much noisy paper rustling, loud munching, and shouts of thanks, and approval, about some bargain mouth-watering morsel. Needless to say, these forays meant that others had their toes trodden on during the movement of people along, between, or even under, the rows of tip up seats. In turn, this bargaining talk, and activity, led to shouts of complaint, about the sound track being drowned out during its quieter, or serious, spells of screen dialogue, as did the view being blocked by folks standing. The Usherettes would appear from the front-of-house, flash their torches in the direction of the offenders, and demand that they sit down and shut up, or be thrown out if they did not behave. Then the hullabaloo would calm down for a while. Those picnics in the dark were fun.

Often the projection equipment would break down, or the film would break and need to spliced and glued. Usually these disasters happened at a most exciting bit of the weekly a Flash Gordon Serial, such as when Dale was about to be captured by the Clay Men at Merciless Ming's command. We would mouth loud "boos" and scream "rhubarb, rhubarb" at the unfortunate operator, clap our hands, and stamp our feet in unison until the thriller was once again on the screen. If the entertainment was slow to start then we would sing meaningless songs to entertain ourselves. One I remember had the strange words; "Skinny Malinky Longlegs, him with the big banana feet, went to Howie's but could not find a seat, when he found a seat he had to sit on the floor, the Kinema's electric lights are lit by candles, so don't stand up or you will break the mantles (incandescent gas ones)." When these diversions ran out then someone would probably tickle Willie Bowie, or tell him a joke, and so make him laugh. Poor lad, he was blessed with a very loud, sustained, and highly infectious braying donkey like "hee-haww-haa" laugh. In a matter of moments everyone else joined in the fun of laughing at his laugh until our sides were sore and throats were hoarse.

The same capers could also erupt spontaneously if a film had long, or seemingly wordy, or "soppy" sequences to we lively young boys. The main culprits for this were swashbuckling Pirate adventures on the seven-seas, and Gangster films. These offending dramatic parts could be very sad ones where a minor character took too long a time to die of wounds. They could also be a romantic one where the hero took over long to sweep the heroine of his into his arms, or onto his horse, and kiss her, to save her from the villain. When this sort of frustration was forced upon the audience it would react. Paper aeroplanes would be flown, paper pellets would be shot with the aid of elastic bands, and any unsecured hat, or other soft item to hand, would be hurtled ceiling-wards into the bright projection beams high above our heads. There, for a brief instance, they would make the boring images on the screen appear to be a little more exciting. Then a hastily hand-written slide would appear on the screen asking for calm whilst the manager wound the film onto the next more robust, and faster moving, sections of the movie. There never seemed to be such problems with comedy films starring Bing Crosby and Bob Hope in them, or Bud Abbot and Lou Costello, Laurel and Hardy, or "The Stooges". Going calmly to a relaxing Saturday young people's afternoon matinee at Newmills "Kinema" in the 1940's always guaranteed leaving it in a state of happy high excitement, and near voiceless exhaustion.

Afterwards, if we had seen a wild Western film, I would gallop home, whacking my bottom with my left hand as my horsewhip, and with my right hand shaped like a pistol, shooting at everything, and anyone that moved, and shouting "bang, bang, bang", alongside my older brother Charlie, or my best friends Bobby Talbot and Sinclair Swanson. Sometimes the show would be about aeroplane dog fights. Then we would run home with arms outstretched as our wings shouting instructions such as ,"Wilco", "Rodger over and out", "Maintain radio silence", "Bandits at ten o'clock high", making high pitched screeching propeller sounds like "ni-ne-nea-how", interspersed with the "eh, eh, eh, eh," of sham machine gun fire, and so pretend strafing all before us. Sometimes we would see a "Mark of Zorro", or an Errol Flynn Pirate film as the main feature. Then, on our homeward way, the nearest stick would suffice as a sword, a scarf or handkerchief as a face mask. Then, thus-wise disguised we would fight our way homeward oblivious for a space to the WW2 dangers around us for a few hours. On such magical afternoons, we hurried home for our favourite high tea of the week which was on Saturdays.

We would stop our gallop home at "Batty" Makin's Bakery. There we would happily wait for his rolls, "Curly Kate" tall bread loaves, flaky pastry bridies, minced beef and lamb pies, savoury sausage rolls, treacle scones, huge round sticky ginger biscuits, and fruit slices to come straight from his Dutch oven on his long handled wooden "shovel". All the while we would savour the cooking smells in the warm bake-house, especially on a chilly winters day. As we waited we would tell "Batty" about the big film we had just seen. If he enjoyed our version, and answered his questions about the plot, and the outcome, to his satisfaction, then he gave us coconut tasting hard biscuits. They were sticky with runny icing sugar, and had half a red cherry on top, as a treat to chew on the way home, "for being good boys", as he would say.

Then we would carrying home Mum's big wickerwork basket now loaded with some of these previously ordered goodies, and sometimes with a home-made Stake and Kidney pie he had "fired" for our Sunday lunch. Charlie, or one of my friends, and I would gallop, fly, or sword-fight our way home at full speed to enjoy our weekly feast of good things for tea with family and friends.

"Batty" Makin had been a sailor for most of his life. He was never without a hand rolled cigarette in his mouth as he kneaded the dough for the bread. He rolled his cigarettes using only one hand like the "badie" cowboys did. The "badies" could always be spotted for they wore black clothes. The "goodies" in the films wore white clothes, their handguns were silver with white handles, and they never smoked in those days. Battie's right and left handed cigarette rolling skills impressed our young mind greatly. With secretive chuckling we would watch as the ash on his "fag" (cigarette) grew longer and eventually fell into the bread dough. Later at home it was considered by we children to be very good luck to have a slice of his bread with a length of his ash still recognisable in it for tea.

At the end of each day's work "Batty" would have a collection of odds-and-ends mixtures and contents in jars and cans from the days baking on his working surface. Wanting to waste nothing, he would chop and mix with porridge oats, suet, molasses, the dregs from several liquid egg cans swilled out with water, spices, lots of dried currants, sultanas, raisins and re-hydrated dried apple rings. (I think the molasses came from farmers who were supposed to use it in the making of silage for their over-wintering cattle.) All this would be used as the filling between sheets of a thin shortbread pastry. This was then pricked all over with a board of nails. This made evenly spaced holes over the surface, right down to the filling. Then it was fun to help spread the remains of the egg wash over the surface, and sprinkle on some precious brown sugar. Next, each 2 foot square trays would be baked until these cakes were deep brown and shiny looking on top. After being allowed to cool the large cakes were cut into 4 inch squares. The resulting delicacies were called a "fruit slices". They were one of my favourites. My Dad often said jokingly that lots of dead flies also went into them so they were "fly trap slices". I did not like to assure him that he was not far off the truth from my own personal knowledge of what went on in the Bakery. Despite this, Dad, like me, loved this concoction then, and afterwards.

Battie drank rather too much whisky and rum as he worked which he claimed were the only cure for all his aches and pains. His long working day started before 3-00 a.m., and by afternoon he was nearly always in a jolly, merry, generous and expansive mood. If the weather was cold or wet I went with one of my brothers, or with my best friend Bobby Talbot, to offer him help in his bakery around 3-30 p.m. Battie would reward our labours by showing us his arms, chest, and back tattoos of lions, dragons, mermaids, anchors, and hearts with initials. He would describe what they meant, where they were acquired, how much they cost, and how painful it had been to have them done. He would also tell us exciting, and frightening tales of gales, dangers, fights, and accidents at sea, and of the temptations he had avoided in exotic foreign ports in Japan, China, Hong Kong and the South Seas.

Drinking all the while Batty would thus entertain us right royally as we were pressing out pie cases, or cutting out scones, cleaning out bread tins, and wooden shop trays, or sweeping up the floors. His final words to us were usually exhortations to live a better life than he had done, go to church, not to drink, or smoke, or have tattoos applied, or to become involved with worldly women. We usually left him asleep, and snoring gently, with a contented smile on his face, slumped on the floor by his warm Dutch Oven at about 5-00 p.m. I always imagine that he simply remained there quite comatose until the call of work woke him in the early hours of the next day. Some morning my father would say over the breakfast table that there had been a fight in Findlay's Pub and that the instigator had been "Batty Makin". This hostelry was situated on Main Street almost directly opposite the Bakery Shop. When such a fracas happened Dad was called out by the landlord as the only one who could calm "Batty" down. "Batty" respected Dad as a brave soldier, and so allowed only father to take him to sleep off his "skinfull" at his lodgings with Mrs. Williamson who lived in a cottage adjacent to our Manse.

Our milk supply came from "Geordie" Hedrick's farm at the top of village, near the border with Valleyfield. Most good days I would accompany one of my older brothers to collect the milk in a quart capacity metal container with a tight lid. What fun it was for me to watch the cows being milked, to see the hot milk running through the sieves, filters and coolers, and into the white enamelled milk pails. What sheer delight it was to be given a glass of fresh buttermilk. What comfort it was to enjoy some of the thick cream from the top of the milk can on a bowl porridge before going to bed on a cold winters evening, or with a rare spoonful of golden syrup.

Once I became old enough I was entrusted to collect the milk from Hedrick's Farm, and bring it home on my own. The Dairy was near to the cinema, so it made sense to collect the Saturday evening milk supply after the "pictures" to save a double journey. My first collection was made just after seeing a Carmen Miranda film, partly in colour and with superimposed cartoon characters, in which a conjuror swung a pail of water over his head in a circular motion without spilling a drop. I decided to try this trick with the milk pitcher. Unfortunately, I drenched myself as my resolution wavered when the churn swung directly overhead! I went crying to Mrs. Hedrick, told her what had happened, and said I would be spanked when I got home. She wiped me down as best she could, and replenished the milk to disguise my crime. As it was a quite hot summers evening it was not long before my cheesy smell was noted at home. Thus my stupidity was soon discovered, and I went to bed with without any supper, and with a well "slippered" and sore bottom that night.

Dad always had to do the spanking when we were naughty. It was Mum who decided the punishment, and saw that it was carried out in case Dad was taken in by our sob stories and was too lenient ! As you may have guessed Dad always used the sole of his "baffie" (slipper) because he said our thick hides hurt his hand, and so he would feel more pain that we boys would which was unfair! I never liked to be spanked. My bottom may have hurt after such a punishment. My punishments were always justified and made the less severe when I confessed my guilt, said sorry, and promised never to repeat the unacceptable behaviour for which "slippering" was administered. The soreness inflicted in my rear end soon faded, but the hurts I had caused my parents by acting stupidly has never left my conscience to this day. As a result, my intentions in later life have always been directed to doing only those things that would cause my parents to be proud of the mature and responsible man they had nurtured and coaxed out of a sometime silly and irresponsible child.

In hot or thunderous weather the milk would go "off" quickly, even in the cool larder. So, nothing ever being wasted in our household, there would be lovely hot girdle treacle (molasses) scones or Scottish thick pancakes for tea, sometimes with fruit in them. The curdled milk had the effect of making those baked tea-bread items much lighter and fluffier than usual. They were mouth-wateringly good when munched hot and with a little butter, plus lots of home-made strawberry, raspberry, plumb, or rhubarb and ginger, jam on them.

At Junior school in Torryburn the third of a pint milk bottles with their collectible round cardboard tops would arrive early in the morning and be frozen solid. Then the teachers would heat the crates by the big pot bellied stove in the central hall, and so we would enjoy a warm drink with our "leave piece" at about 10-15 am. In an attempt to experiment with nourish everyone better during wartime the Ministry of Food seemed to use Torryburn school pupils as guinea-pigs for some of its nutritional tests. For example, I recall having daily white coloured, oily looking and fishy smelling Crook's Cod Liver Emulsion, malt with and without fish oil, foul tasting concentrated orange juice and, worst of all, milk tablets.

These latter mentioned rancid smelling square milk tablets replaced our daily fresh liquid supply for a time. They seemed to be made from dried milk, chalk, and vitamins, and to be flavoured with vanilla, orange, raspberry, strawberry, peppermint, or almond. All tasted revolting, especially the almond which put me off marzipan for life! Few pupils would willingly eat this "confection" after their first trial of it. Many were violently sick after their first bite, especially when it was the bright green, almond flavoured, tablets that were handed out. Regardless, because records were being kept as part of the test, we had to accept the tablets, say we were not hungry and promise to eat them later. Then most of us threw them into the sea on our way home after school for the fish to enjoy. After about six months of this deception by most students in our school the experiment came to an end and our liquid milk deliveries restarted.

My "leave piece" which I mentioned earlier was always a large round "Batty" Makin white bread roll (called a bap) filled with something tasty such as butter and straw-berry jam, scrambled dried egg or salad mixture, taken in a thick brown paper bag to keep it clean. I would sit on this parcel from start of lessons until our first break time when this warm flattened delicacy went down very well with the school milk. Many children would not drink milk for their parents could not afford it at home, and so they were suspicious of it, therefore I often had two or three one third pint bottles to slake my thirst, otherwise it would be wasted.

Occasionally, a pigs head would come from the butcher. This led to frenzied activity in the kitchen. I would watch with gruesome fascination as this head with its large ears sticking out from the stock it would boil away in the copper jelly pan on the big black kitchen range. As I write I can still imagine the pigs bulging eyes sadly staring at me for the indignity being done to it. Then the messy and macabre ritual would continue as my mother would strip everything edible from the skull including the grey brains. She would chop it all finely so that nothing could be recognised, season it with salt and lots of black pepper, and put an even portion of this meat into a large number of small jelly moulds. The assorted moulds were in a variety of shapes which looked like fruits, vegetable, fish, and animal shapes, the sort normally used for party jellies. These were carefully filled to the brim with the further rendered down juices which had herbs such as chopped parsley added from the jelly pan to enhance the flavours.

The moulds would set overnight in the cool larder into rubbery, glutinous and translucent shapes. These tasted very peppery when they were served up cold with salad things, or hot with vegetables. I always had to shut my eyes and swallow hard when I ate my "potted heid" pig's brawn. I hated every mouthful but knew that Mum was doing her best to feed us on the small stipend Dad had then as a Missionary. Fortunately, Mum always made many jars of chutney of every description and the stronger ones, such as apple or beetroot and onion, green tomato, or mustard pickled vegetables, could be spread over, or eaten with, the "heid" to disguise it, and kill its flavour, and hide its odour. To my young mind, one pigs head seemed to make enough to last for weeks. It also seemed as if one lot was no sooner finished than another would turn up! How curious, I used to think, eating a pigs head that when it was turned out of its jelly mould onto my plate finished up shaped like a rabbit, raspberry, castle, clam shell, or a star, surrounded by a cold salad or hot vegetables!

The pigs head brawn may have been off-putting as well as nutritious like the "soused" herring. Sometimes herrings were plentiful and cheap from the fishmonger's van and a large quantity would be bought. I would cover my eyes with my hands and squint through my fingers in horror as my mother would clean the entrails out of the fish and chop off their fins and heads. The cats, Chona, Trixy, Cora, Ann, and Nation, would have the heads, and Dad would bury the "guts" in a trench under a fruit tree in the garden. He told me it was "a valuable fertiliser".

One of my favourite fish dishes, herring fried in oatmeal. The remaining fish would be rolled up, each tied together with precious string, arranged in rows in a deep dish, covered with vinegar and chopped shallots and then baked gently in the slow oven of the open coal fired kitchen grate. This dish kept well in the larder and was then usually served cold with salad on a Sunday lunch time. For me it was another excuse for eating more than my fair share of chutneys, or pickles, to disguise the taste! There was one fish dish that I thought was wonderful fried to a crisp golden brown on the outside, and that was cod's roe. That, and poached smoked haddock fillets, I would happily have eaten every day.

Food parcels came to us from Texas, America, which were covered in thick cloth and stitched with string. Their arrival brought much joy, some luxury to our diet, and activity in the kitchen. These much welcomed, but all too occasional parcels, contained goods like tins of Spam, corned beef, pineapple and condensed milk, milk powder, chunky bars of confectionery chocolate (called Candy), peanut butter, packets of cake frosting, and pancake mixes. Also included in colourful illustrated packaging were "Jell-O" fruit jelly crystals, powders to make fizzy drinks like American Cream Soda, desiccated coconut, marzipan, a slab of solid fruit cake and a big lump of what looked like coal. The "coal" was in fact dehydrated beef. Sometimes, there was also a selection of dried fruits such as plums, figs, dates, bananas and grapes, chopped nuts, and several small packets of fruity tasting "polo-mint" shaped sweets call "Life Savers" or "Refreshers".

There was always an enclosed letter from the sender and although appreciative thank you letters were sent I can never recall any resulting correspondence. Sometimes there were fat and colourful comics used in the wrapping by the thoughtful donor and these were avidly read and exchanged amongst all the children in the village until they fell to pieces with wear and then were put into the waste paper collections to aid the war effort. This was when I first learned of "Dick Tracy" and all his secret detective gadgets, and the sad tales about "Little Orphan Annie".

The parcel's cotton cloth covering and securing strings were carefully recovered, cleaned and used for other purposes such as for boiling "Clootie" dumplings which were a must for birthdays and all festive occasions. What fun that was for the gooey liquid soap had to be bailed out of the copper boiler in the outside Wash-house. Then the giant copper had to be removed and swilled clean. Next the copper basin was half filled with water and a fire started in the grate underneath.

Afterwards the precious and carefully saved flour, beef suet, spices, treacle and sugar together with the dried fruits, condensed milk and egg powder that came in the food parcel, were mixed with an enormous wooden spoon in a great bowl. All we children were allowed to have a final stir, and taste, before making a secret wish! Finally silver 3d pieces wrapped in greaseproof paper were added before the glutinous mixture was put into the cloth (or "Clootie") which was tied with string to make a round shape.

This bundle was dangled in the boiling water in the copper. It was suspended by string tied round the clothes posser which lay across the top of the copper. There the dumpling boiled for about two hours making delightful smells all the while. We children guarded and enjoyed every moment of this process sniffing at the rich steam like "The Bisto Kids" in the gravy adverts.

What joy it was to have a steaming slice of dumpling with "Bird's" custard, to chew the tasty outside thick rubbery skin and to be lucky enough to find a silver 3d piece into the bargain. Father, always the joker, was usually the first to find a 2/6d piece in his portion. It was years before I discovered it was "one he had prepared earlier" and produced by sleight of hand.

Dad would pretend he had swallowed something and was choking. Then after a last mighty cough he contrived to have the silver half-crown coin appear from his right ear! This find always set me to polishing off every delicious morsel in the hope of having similar luck! There was always enough of the dumpling left for a breakfast meal. Then, when it was fried in bacon fat it became crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside, and took on an even tastier flavour!

There were also treats to be made for birthdays from the other parcel "goodies". There were sweets like prettily decorated sponge cakes with butter icing, fairy cakes, coconut ice, peppermint lumps, condensed milk hard vanilla tablet, fruity fudge, toffee apples, nutty toffee, puff candy, fruit and nut chocolate crunches. Also moulded were marzipan and fudge slabs which were reshaped into small fruits. These were realistically painted with food dyes. Other treats included dates and fruit slices enrobed in chocolate, chewy Turkish delight, and fizzy sherbet filled sweets.

The dried egg powder was made into runny scrambled eggs. The Spam was mashed with boiled potatoes to extend it. Both of these concoctions were used together with lettuce, or cress, to fill bridge rolls, or to be piled on small different party shaped toast portions produced with pastry cutters. Those latter treats were made to look more attractive to eat by each being garnished with a sprig of dark green parsley, and half a red radish. There were colourful arrangements of cooked vegetables galantined in aspic crystals which made an exciting and filling centrepiece to any party table. Another tasty use for stale bread, left over reconstituated egg, and softening tomatoes was to make "French Toast" for afternoon tea. The stale bread would be soaked for a few minutes in the watery egg mixture, then gently fried in lard on each side until it cooked, and then this was served with halved and grilled tomatoes.

Never to be forgotten in my memories of "sweets", or "pudding" as a last course for lunch, or at a party, were the tasteless wobbly rabbit shaped thick gritty chocolate custard moulds surrounded by chopped green grass jelly which had a harsh citric acid aftertaste. Lastly, but by no means least, I remember with gratitude the magical bowls of trifle made from successive layers of sponge cake fingers, diced pineapple, different coloured jellies, yellow custard, some sort of cream made from whipped condensed milk and all topped with multi-coloured hundreds-and-thousands vermicelli sugar "worms". No party was complete without its trifle.

Other treats came from the Firth of Forth seashore were we could collect winkles and whelks, boil then in an old tin can, and fish out the delicious morsels with a safety pin. The same pin with a raw winkle on it, and attached to a long bit of string, could be used to catch a hand sized partan crab from amongst the rocks at high tide. It made a tasty snack when boiled, or roasted. Wild Duck's eggs were also sometimes available. Although they tasted very fishy when fried on an old shovel they were still consumed with enjoyment, and as proof of our self-catering skills.

I was taught how to do fishing and cooking by my four older brothers, and also by the gypsies who often camped near the village tennis courts (which used to be the "Bleaching Green") which were located next to "Quoits" green at the east end of Newmills village. Our Romany friends also invited us to try other of their main meal delicacies, such as hedgehogs, rabbit, or conger eels. These creatures were cleaned, salted and covered with dried herbs from the hedgerow, covered in clay, and baked with big potatoes in the ashes of an open fire. The potatoes I willingly tried, but nice as the other foods smelled I could never bring myself to sample them.

My very best friend Bobby Talbot had a mother who was a super cook and never better than when she was frying potato chips in beef fat, or making sausage sandwiches with lots of onions and mustard in them. I always wished to taste her cooking because of the tempting smells, but was never invited to join Bobby for tea with his younger brother Jimmy.

When the Circus came to town for its annual visit, Jimmy, hand-in-hand, and safe with his big brother Bobby, went to sit on the front wall of the Co-operative Society Shop complex at the foot of the steep hill west of the village centre. I was not allowed to join in this parade excitement as we had distant relatives visiting us that day. On such high days the presence of the whole family was required for Mum's special high-tea which we knew we would to enjoy.

Bobby and Jimmy's purpose was to watch the fairground equipment vans struggle up the steep slippery cobbled hill when wedges had to be continually shifted forwards as the heavy loads proceeded upwards. Unfortunately one of the men slipped and did not place a restraint in time and the heavily loaded van rolled swiftly back to crush Jimmy instantly to death - still
holding Bobby's hand.

The Talbot family was housed in very cramped accommodation high above the local shops. On my parents insistence Jimmy was "laid out" for his family and local friends to visit him and pay their last respects in our peaceful Living Room. This was a quiet room overlooking the lawn and flower garden, and with a view of the Firth of Forth waters. It was at the front of the Manse, next to Dad's study and adjoining the large bedroom that I shared with two of my elder brothers. Seeing Jimmy's corpse was the first time I really had to face death. I just could not grasp why the naturally happy, bright, lively and ever smiling Jimmy was so still and cold in his wooden box, and unnaturally white. I could not comprehend why everyone in the village was so sad and had their own home front room blinds down during daytime.

After Jimmy's funeral I was often asked into Bobby's house for tea. I imagine that for Mrs. Talbot I was taking her loved Jimmy's place. In those days the local Road-man would carve various notches on the kerb stones to show where there had been accidents, and to tell of their seriousness. I suppose this was meant as a timely warning to other pedestrians. Such marks were constantly used by village parents to instruct children on road safety. A few days later I watched with Bobby as a stonemason cut a large "X" into the shiny black edging stone about three feet from the spot where Jimmy's brief life had suddenly, and unexpectedly, ended amongst a crowd cheering happily as the sad event unfolded. More than 55 years later I find myself wondering if there is still a death notch for Jimmy outside that red sandstone faced shop at the foot of the once stone cobbled Newmills "brae".

Part of the above narrative has an interesting sequel. In 1998 the Dunfermline Millennium Project was developing nicely all but for one thing. The constructors could not find a complete Dutch oven as used by most Scottish Bakers before about 1950, and for at least 300 years before that. The project was to build a small village into a living Museum of homes, shops and businesses which honoured sons like Andrew Carnagie would have known. I offered my knowledge of "Batty" Makin's Bakery to the Project Director.

After remaining derelict for many years the Bakery had become a Butcher's shop in the 1980's, and was run by a Mr. Knox. This Mr. Knox spoke to me at my home some 500 miles away in Chichester by telephone one lunchtime. He rang to insist that my information about the Dutch Oven to the Project Director which was published in the local press was wrong. He said that if there ever had been an oven then it was long gone. He claimed that the only room beneath his shop was a small storage cellar. I could tell that he was very annoyed at being questioned by the local press from the tone of voice, and his unnecessarily curt and abrupt manner with me.

I changed the subject by asking him if he was related to the Mr. John Knox who owned the Chemist's shop in the 1940's some three doors along from his shop. After a brief conversation on genealogy it transpired his father had lost touch with his brother during WW2, and that I had just solved a 50 year old mystery within his family. I was able to tell the Butcher how his Uncle had bought the Manse were I was born, converted it into flats, and died there just a few years before the Butcher's shop was opened. He was then anxious to hear more about his shop when it was a Bakery.

I explained that his shop was level with the main road but that in the 1940's. Also that it had a 45 degree slope down to the Bakery at the left hand side. He conceded that there must be more to his premises than he realised. A few days later he phoned to say the Dutch oven had been found bricked in behind the back wall of his cellar. The oven was intact, and all the tools, and trays, were stored inside it. I half expected him to add that the skeleton of "Batty" Makin had been found resting on the floor beside the oven still holding an empty bottle of rum - but no.

A few weeks later I learned form friends that it had been removed and built into the Dunfermline Museum. Mr. Knox the Butcher had much good publicity from the media for his wonderful discovery. My part in the matter was not mentioned anywhere. I do not mind, for I have memories that cannot be taken away from me, they can only be shared, and, I hope, enjoyed.

That will have to do for now. The reminiscing has made me quite hungry. Sadly, it will be another 12 hours before I have my tasty Museli and banana breakfast. These days I have to diet quite strictly to control my weight around 12 stones and 6 pounds to aid joint mobility due to tubercular osteo-arthritis, this being one consequence of my frugal WW2 diet, and a mining accident on 17/03/1953, as I approach my 65^th Birthday on 07/11/2001 - but that is another story!