What constitutes courage?
What makes one man a hero?
To be admired and emulated. To be praised.
And another, a dull figure in the background.
A shadow. Forgotten.
No story can ever be complete without mention of the
supporting cast. In the case of the East Fife Technical
College, Lower Methil Annexe, that cast would consist of
one man - the Jannie.
Or Janitor, if you insist on using the formal title.
Archibald McCrae.
Origin - unknown. Age - unknown. Command of the English
language - limited. Keeper of the keys, cleaner of the
toilets and about as forthcoming as the coal he shovelled
into the furnace that powered the Annexe's heating system.
The heating was ineffectual at best, rarely worked on a
cold wintry day, and was usually absent when you really
needed it. Archie McCrae was the man for the job. He and
the furnace were soulmates.
Archie was there before I started work at the Annexe, and I truly believe that he will be there when they knock the place down; sifting through the rubble, looking for any trinket that he could sell to some passer-by. If Archie had a weakness (let's face it - Archie had many, but we'll consider his main failing!), it was the drink. Drink costs money. Jannies aren't at the top level of salary scales. The need for drink meant a need for money. And Archie knew a thousand ways to extract a little extra cash. For the drink.
Archie was never an alcoholic. Oh no! In those days, some
people just drank more than others. Substantially more.
Archie would sell (or pawn) anything that he could get his
hands on. He never stole anything. Just borrowed whatever
was left unattended, and the drink made him forget about
bringing it back. The occasional forceful reminder to
return (borrowed) property, usually resulted in some other
object vanishing. One item pawned to redeem another. The
students called him 'Jesus' McCrae. The original redeemed
souls. Archie redeemed pawn tickets. The only area where
Archie was ahead, was wine. Archie could transform anything
into wine!
Nobody really minded. Archie was a fact of life. If you
left anything lying around, you suffered the consequences.
Everybody had an Archie story to tell. As I often worked on
to cover the night-school classes, I encountered Archie
more often than most. Archie was a 'background' kind of
guy. During the day, you rarely saw him. Only a hacking
cough from the boiler-room betrayed his presence.
The night belonged to Archie (and, of course, anything he
found lying about!). If he wasn't down the Brae, in the
Boat Tavern or along at the Tower Bar, he would wander the
corridors of the Annexe. Out of the light but somehow,
always near.
The day classes finished at four o'clock and the
night-school ran from six to nine, with a ten minute break
at twenty five past seven. It was hardly worth the effort
to travel home at four and come back at six, so anyone who
was doing night school would hang around the building.
Getting prepared for the classes, brewing a cup of tea or
simply reading a book. Teachers (and me) would relax in the
staff room, whilst the students would lounge around in the
common room. Reading, playing cards or dominoes, or trying
to extract a free bottle from the soft drink machine.
During the classes, Archie would be trying to extract the
money from the machine - a wasted effort as the students
were very good at obtaining their soft drink at zero
expense. After a few muttered comments, Archie would give
up. Soft drinks? Archie? No way!
On one occasion, at the night school, I had lent one of my treasured book collection to one of the teachers, Jimmy Baxter. When he wasn't practicing his golf swing, Jimmy liked a good read. Especially mysteries and ghost stories. Anything spooky. And I had a classic. H. P. Lovecraft. 'At the Mountains of Madness'. A horror classic. Howard Phillips Lovecraft was a strange, strange person. And he wrote horror stories that were uncomfortably realistic. Great writing, but spooky. Jimmy was loving it.
Alas, the bell rang for the start of night-school, and
reluctantly, Jimmy had to break off the narrative at one of
the more exciting twists in the story. He carefully marked
the page with a Sterling cigarette coupon, and laid it on
the staff room table.
"Good stuff, this. I'm quite looking forward to the next
bit, at the break."
I nodded my head. I'd already read the book, and Howard
knew his stuff.
"I'll bet that you can't guess what happens next."
As it happened, even my guess was nowhere near the mark.
Off we trudged, up the stairs to the classrooms. Two
gladiators entering the arena. Night-school students are
usually there because they want to be, but after a long
day, you're tired, and so are the lions. One careless slip,
one unfortunate remark, and you can add another scar to
experience. Nobody's fault. Just tiredness. Hot soldering
irons and high voltages can be very educational.
All in all, though. Willing students are good students, and
I enjoyed night-school.
Come the break, I was ready to brew up a cuppa to wash away
the solder fumes from my throat, and Jimmy was mentally
re-reading the book, ready to face the next exciting twist
from Mr. Lovecraft. We rattled down the stairs - ten minute
break, remember? - and into the staff room. Jimmy headed
straight for the table. Stopped. Looked around. Looked at
the table.
"The book! Where's the book?"
"On the table, Jimmy. Where you left it."
I was spooning tea into the pot as the kettle started to
boil.
"It isn't, you know. It's gone."
"It has to be there!" I said. "Nobody's been in here but
us."
"See for yourself." retorted Jimmy. "Just that ..."
Jimmy's speech just seemed to trail away.
"That ... On the table ..."
"What on the table?"
I headed across to stand beside Jimmy.
"Oh that!" I exclaimed. Then more cautiously "What's that
... ?"
The 'that' in question, was a cheese sandwich. A processed
cheese sandwich with one bite out of it. Slightly
distressed and very cheap cheese, dry and curled up at the
edges. No book. No 'Mountains of Madness'. Just a small
mound of cheese and stale bread.
"You were right" stated Jimmy. "I never would have guessed
what would happen next."
Spooky. Definitely spooky.
The book was gone. Never to appear again to mortal man. We
reckoned that Archie had 'borrowed' it to pay for the
drink, but no-one was prepared to do a forensic comparison
between the bite in the sandwich and Archie's false teeth.
H.P. Lovecraft would have appreciated the reasoning. There
are some mysteries best left unsolved. I did buy another
copy eventually, and Jimmy did learn what lay beyond the
'Mountains of Madness'. Recommended, if you like a good
horror story.
The cheese sandwich went into the bin.
Archie? Well Archie kept on doing what Archie did. He rarely bothered anyone - no money in that! Did his job in a passable manner (when he was actually present at the Annexe, and not occupying a bar stool or a pawn shop counter), secure in the knowledge that no-one would ever report him. This was Methil. We all knew someone ten times worse than Archie. He caused little fuss, rarely offended, and asked for very little.
He did ask a favour one night.
His bus hadn't turned up - the last of the evening - and he
lived miles away. Jimmy and I often shared cars. We lived
in the same direction, and it halved our travelling costs.
Archie lived well off our route home, but we'd never see
one of our own stuck. A bit seedy, a bit the worse for
drink, but still one of ours. Jimmy was driving that night,
and agreed.
I surrendered my usual front seat perch in Jimmy's little
two door Hillman Imp. Archie would be getting out first,
and it would save the hassle.
After the last night school class, we all clambered into
Jimmy's car.
Archie lived in Mountfluerie, so we headed in the direction
of Leven. It was quicker to take a shortcut over the Iron
Brig, rather than take the main road over the Bawbee Brig
into Leven. It was dark, and the Iron Brig route was a
narrow, unlit winding road. We were in no rush, and Jimmy
was a careful driver.
Good job, too! As we drove onto the actual Iron Brig
itself, Jimmy just managed to see a dark figure pushing an
overloaded - and unlit - bicycle. A quick tap on the brakes
and a sharp swerve, and we were by. Some old age pensioner,
with his bing bike and a bag of sea coal. The bike, like
many of its kind, had no tyres, so it would be unfair to
expect a red rear light. It's a long push with a bag of
coal, all the miles from the Wellesley bing to
Mountfluerie. It was better than charity in the minds of
many a retired worker.
"Thud!"
Archie was unprepared for the avoiding action, and the
drink kept his reactions about two seconds behind the rest
of the world. His head smacked off the windscreen, then
Archie rebounded back into the seat. Seatbelts, if fitted
at all, were pretty much optional in those days.
"Are you OK, Archie?" I asked to the back of his greasy,
dark hair.
"Aye. Ah'm alright. Ah'm alright." came the reply after a
two second delay.
"Ah'm alright."
"As long as you're sure, Archie ..."
"Aye. Ah'm fine. Just a wee knock. And here's mah hoose.
Jist drap me aff here."
Well, two seconds past his 'hoose'.
Archie got out, clutching his wee bag o' bits and pieces,
and wandered, slightly erratically, back the way we had
come. I struggled out from the back seat, and dropped into
the front passenger seat.
"Do you think he'll be allright? He looks a bit dazed."
asked a concerned Jimmy.
I studied the retreating figure for a moment.
"He's OK. He normally walks like that."
As Jimmy headed off up the road, I returned my view to the
front screen. Everything looked kind of blurry. Then I
realised that there was a big, greasy mark on the
windscreen. Where Archie's head had bounced. I pointed out
the grease-spot to Jimmy.
"Must have been his Brylcreem." returned Jimmy. "It'll be
murder getting it off!"
I made a closer - but not too close - examination of the
offending mark.
"Not Brylcreem, Jimmy. I'd recognise the smell if it was. I
reckon that it's Echo Margarine. You should be able to get
it off with a couple of slices of pan bread."
Couldn't help it. We both burst out laughing. Methil
humour, I suppose. Never big on obvious sympathy. Archie
would never waste good money on grooming, when there was a
drink to be had.
Archie McRae. A quiet little nobody. Passing through life
in an alcoholic fog, leaving no mark and never amounting to
much.
Or so we thought ...
There was nothing special in the way that day started. Just
another Thursday. And Thursday meant night school. A long
day.
The day-school went smoothly enough. Nobody got
electrocuted in the Electrical Engineering class. Wee
Wullie made it through School's Day Release with only the
occasional outburst. Jimmy finished 3 under par in the
Colour Television Room. The Police never came near the
Motor Vehicle Department (not since last Thursday, anyway!)
and the College Principal stayed in Kirkcaldy, and his car
retained its wheels for another day.
The time between day-school and night-school was filled
with a couple of bridies from Lightbody's Bakery and a cup
of Eastern Rose tea from the Co-op, followed by a pleasant
hour of Arthur C. Clarke's 'Childhood's End'. (If you only
ever read one book in your life, that would be a fair
choice)
By the time the bell rang for the start of night-school, I
reckoned that we were over the Hump, a few hours of setting
out projects for the next day. Then Friday ... and the
weekend.
The book went into my overall pocket ( I was learning! )
and I settled down comfortably in the Lab Technician's
Room. I pushed the door to, not anticipating any
interruption from the two upstairs classrooms, and focussed
on the projects for the next day. By quarter past seven,
the job was done. I checked my watch, and considered
nipping down early to the staff-room to organise the tea.
Any further thought was shattered by the appalling screech
and wail that erupted outside the door.
"What the ...!"
You can guess the rest, but the words would have been
drowned out by sheer volume of noise out there in the
hallway. My battered brain and assaulted ears finally
struggled towards recognition and amazement.
"Bagpipes! That's all it can be. They're bagpipes!"
Don't get me wrong. I have a fondness for the pipes. I grew
up with regular parades of pipe bands and highland games,
colliery bands and Miner's Galas. I'm Scottish. I know I
am, because the sound makes the hairs on my neck rise, and
the blood rises to thoughts of valour and great deeds. I
had never before heard them played in a small corridor with
stone walls. Never mind the Lone Piper on the battlements.
Try them at full volume inside a stone vault!
Bloodcurdling! And that was with the door closed!
I had to know. Who on earth was playing the pipes in the corridors of the Annexe? At the risk of possible permanent loss of hearing, I pushed the door open ...
There he was. In the full regalia of a Pipe-Major. Face set
and blowing like a champion. Kilt swinging as he marched up
the corridor, and at just the right time for the music,
smartly about-turning and heading back.
Archibald McCrae. Giving everything to 'The Black Bear',
and I'll swear that the walls were playing the drums right
back at him.
When I finally managed to divert some of my attention from
Pipe Major McCrae (I never, ever thought of him as the
Jannie, after that), I noticed all the other awestruck
faces, gaping out from the part-open classroom doors. Every
face had the jaw sagging open. Like mine. No one knew what
to think, or what to do. Except Archie.
'The Black Bear' swung handily into 'Blue Bonnets o'er the
Border'. Feet everywhere started tapping, and hands began
to complement the rhythm. He was amazing. Not a single
person thought to stop him. Archie was playing, and we were
carried along with it. And loving it.
The jaunty 'I love a Lassie' was followed by 'Lovely
Stornaway'. 'Scotland the Brave' brought in the cheering,
and 'The Barren Rocks of Aden' raised a unity and pride, as
nothing before had in the Lower Methil Annexe.
At last, a pause. A building of breath for something more.
The cheering faded, the feet were stilled. We waited, all
fired up and tensed with excitement. The silence stretched
out further ...
The strain was unbearable ...
Let slip the leash ...
Then Archie started playing. His final tune. Beginning low,
and quiet. We strained to hear ...
'Lochaber No More'. A lament. Soft, and yet with power
beyond reasoning. And with its quiet draw, the martial
audience was swept into sorrow and remembering. The battle
over. The blood stilled. And now the price. Few will admit
it now, but there were tears in many an eye.
There might have been in mine ...
The music done, the pipes silent, the Lone Piper made a perfect about turn. The shoulders straight, the head proud, Pipe Major MaCrae marched away, down the corridor. Left-wheeled, and was gone.
I have no idea how long we all stood there, before someone
moved and broke the spell. No one spoke. There were no
words possible. Perhaps later, we might wonder, but not
now. My mind sought sanctuary in the simple things.
A cup of tea ... Yes! A cup of tea ...
The rest of the evening passed. Leaving no mark, and never
amounting to much. Friday too. And then the weekend.
By Monday, we had all talked and talked. Wondering why and
what? No-one had the courage to ask Archie. We had
witnessed something amazing, and I certainly never wanted
to bring the ordinary and mundane in, to ruin the moment.
Archie was back to being Archie, and the Piper never played
again.
In Scotland, Pipers are heroic and legendary figures. Piper
George Findlater VC, playing the pipes, proud and to the
fore, as the Gordon Highlanders stormed the Heights of
Dargai, or Pipe Major Donald MacLeod, with the Seaforth
Highlanders in their last stand at St, Valery-en-Caux.
Great pipers doing great deeds in battle.
So what do you do if you are a great piper, and the battle
never comes? How can you stand there, leading the regiment
forward and putting the Fear of God into the enemy, when
the call never comes? And how can you salute the fallen
comrades, that peace preserved, who never fell?
Life gave Archibald MacRae a great talent, but never called
him to service. If there had been great battles and heroic
deeds, then Archie might have stood there with the other
great pipers. Instead, he became a Jannie. Someone to laugh
at when the drink was holding him down. Someone to ignore
when he worked unseen. Never amounting to much ...
... until that Thursday, when he stormed the heights. And made us take our spirits on to glory. The Lower Methil Annexe of East Fife Technical College will never be an Honour on a Regimental Banner.
But it should be!