Growing up in the Borders
During world war 11

This is my story about my memories of growing up in The Scottish Borders during the Second World War. My Father left home in 1939 the year I was born and was away fighting the war in Burma and like hundreds of other children of my age I never met my Father until 1946 when I was seven years old. This was quite a traumatic event in my life as I am sure it was for many. My Mother used to tell me stories about my Father whilst looking at a photo of him in his RAF uniform which used to sit on top of the china cabinet in our living room. To a child growing up this photo took on a whole life of its own and became in my mind my Father. So when this strange man, because that is what he appeared to be to me, suddenly was introduced to me at seven years old at the railway station in our local town as my Father one can imagine the feelings and thoughts which ran through my mind. This of course is another story. My story begins from my earliest recollections as a small child.

My Mother was born a farming girl and had three brothers the eldest of which had to leave school at the age of twelve years old to take up the job as a shepherd in order to keep his mother, my Mother and the other two brothers as my grandfather died when in his early thirties. This was way before my memories which are from the time when my Mother used to take me to my Grandmothers during the war. Grandmother, or Granny as I knew her, stayed with my Uncle on a farm in the Scottish Borders. My other two uncles were by this time married like my mother. One uncle stayed and worked on a neighbouring farm. My other uncle was like my father away fighting the war in the deserts of North Africa and Palestine as it was known then. His wife my Aunt and my two cousins stayed on the same farm as my Uncle and Granny and lived at the other end of the row of farm workers cottages.

I remember sitting with my cousin on my Uncles knee. My Uncle smoked a pipe and there was a strong smell of tobacco mixed in with the smell of sheep wool and dogs. When I close my eyes I can still conjure up that sweet smell and remember how homely and secure it felt. Uncle used to tell many stories but one in particular always comes to mind. After settling down one on each knee uncle would produce from the depths of his jacket pocket a Pan-Drop sweet each which had invariably bits of fluff and tobacco sticking to it. This did not deter us as sweets were like gold dust. He would then tear two small square pieces of news paper and proceed to stick them to his forefinger. My cousin and I of course wriggled with anticipation while this ritual was carried out. Then the story began. "There were once two jackdaws one called Peter and one call Paul and they sat cawing on this wall" Then Uncle would cry." Fly away Peter fly away Paul" As he Cried he would lift first one arm and then the other arm into the air as we looked on in amazement. When he brought his arms back down both pieces of news paper had disappeared from his fingers. "Come back Peter come back Paul" Uncle would cry again as he repeated the arm lifting. Low and behold when the arms came down for the second time the pieces of news paper had returned to his fingers. This simple story would keep my cousin and I amused for ages as we tried to puzzle out how Uncle did this. Many years later I can still remember the disappointment I felt when I discovered that this was not some magical feat but that uncle had replaced his forefingers with the fingers next to them.

I used to look forward to going to my Grannies it was the highlight of my life. Especially in the summer months when there was so much going on at the farm. Long summer days watching the harvest being cut. Waiting with a big stick as the tractor and reaper got nearer to the finish at the centre of the field so that we could chase rabbits and try to kill them for the dinner table. My cousin and I would swing on the back of the Cart as the sheaves were brought into the stack yard to be built into huge stacks. We used to have a snack in the middle of the day with the farm workers at the edge of the field. Bottles of milk and cheese sandwiches were the main meal.

My cousin and I would get small pieces of wood from the log pile at the back door of the house and nail the lids cut from tins onto the side to make toy tractors. There were no toys to be had in those days (only if you were really rich). We used to use an old pair of sheep shears and cut the grass at the side of the garden path, tie it into small bundles and load it onto our small toy tractors. We would build small stacks and play for hours pretending to be farmers.
I remember once the two of us crawled along in between the rows of garden peas growing in the garden. It was one of those old fashioned warm summer days. Lying on our backs we opened the pea pods and removed the peas leaving the empty pods still fixed to the stems. Imagine the horror when Granny came to pick the peas for dinner only to find all the pods empty. Granny was angry but all my Uncle could do was laugh which saved us getting a spanked bottom and only sent to bed early which was a huge punishment for us two boys (missing the jackdaw story).

Once when playing at being cowboys in the Wild West we herded all the young bullocks into one corner of the field. My Uncle who saw us from a hill on the farm ran all the way to the field. We could have been trampled to death if the cattle had decided they had had enough of our taunting. That time we did get hot bottoms.
I can remember the long summer days. At least they seemed long then. The tar melting on the road! We could not resist the temptation to burst the warm bubbles of tar. This of course led to being covered in tar. It even got into our hair! Oh the pain of being cleaned down with Basso. The smell of Brasso still lingers with me to this day. Another early night in bed!
Another highlight of the year would be the visit of the threshing machine. This would arrive very early in the morning and sometimes late at night depending on when the thresher men got finished at the previous farm. My Granny would have spent hours baking scones ready for the breakfast. A ham from many that hung from the ceiling curing would have been taken down the day before and sliced by my Uncle. On returning from feeding the sheep in the morning you could smell the cooking of bacon and eggs from a way off. Again if I close my eyes I can conjure up that special smell. Once the steam engine to drive the thresher had been hitched up the threshing would begin. I still hear the noise, taste the dust and smell the corn being threshed. I remember one time the big leather drive belt broke with a loud crack and one of the threshers was caught across the forehead with it. The women there managed to get it dressed and he was taken to the farmhouse to wait on the doctor coming from the town some six miles away. I remember all the blood as we children were ushered away from the scene.

At that time my Granny kept pigs in what was known as a (sow cravey) pig sty at the foot of the garden. Twice a year when reaching maturity the pig was slaughtered. Once the pig was cut up the hams were put into wooden barrels packed with salt and allowed to pickle for some weeks after which they were hung from the ceiling to dry out. My Granny made black puddings from the blood and what we called mealy puddings with the washed pig intestines. My Uncle used to blow up the pigs bladder and us children and some of the adults used to play football. Neighbours and friends used to come and help on that day and there was always a big dinner for everyone after followed by dancing to accordion and or fiddle music.

My Granny also had her own cow which she milked in the early morning along with all the other cows on the farm. The milk when brought home had some put aside for using throughout the day, some went to the neighbours and the rest was put through the Separator which separated the cream from the milk. This machine used to sit on a small table at the side of the kitchen. It was my job when I was there to wind the handle. It had to be wound at a certain speed not too fast and not too slow in order for the cream to be separated. The skimmed milk which is the liquid left after the cream has been separated was made into oven scones, girdle scones, milk bread, curds and any left over was put in a pale with other leftovers of food and fed to the pig. Another of my jobs was to turn the handle on the butter churn which was as hard as the separator to allow my Granny to make butter. Again the residue liquid from the butter making (Buttermilk) was used to make other goodies. My Granny also made cheese which was kept in the cool pantry where it had to be turned every day (another of my jobs). The hens which my Granny also kept had to be fed and the hen house cleaned/ Jobs which I also had to help out with.

Of course there came a time when my Mother and I had to return home to the town. This was always a very sad time for me. My mother would receive a parcel from my Uncle which contained lots of goodies including a small ham, some bottles of milk, some butter, some eggs, and some of Grannies home made scones. My Uncle would walk with me and my Mother to the farm road end where we had to catch the bus back. I would be dragging my heels all the way there as I did not want to go home. I hated the tearful goodbyes During the winter months the bus would arrive out of the gloom of the night hardly visible as the headlights were all covered save for a small slit left for some light for the driver to see with. The windows were all covered in black blinds so there was nothing to look at out of the window during the journey. Inside the bus was dank and musty with the smell of damp clothing, cheap scent and stale cigarette smoke.