Around the Rowan Tree, Day 25

I did, however, develop a sixth sense when something went wrong for any of them but which one, what was wrong or where, I had no idea

The next time the boys were caught throwing chuckies about one accidentally hit the bottom pane in the village telephone box and cracked it. Most of us thought a sound telling-off by the village bobby (there was one at that time) would have been sufficient punishment. But no, they brought an inspector down from Perth and made a major issue of it.

Around this time Ronnie was 15 and determined to leave school. We were disappointed as Ronnie had been one of the clever ones and in the days, just before comprehensive schools, had earned a place in Perth Academy. Only three or four graduated there from Errol every year. Father Ronald had recently insisted on our youngsters leaving school with some qualifications. Ronnie had none.

“I’ve an idea,” he said to me one evening. “Let’s see if Ronnie’ll consider going to Elmwood agricultural college. He’s the most keen on farming so far. He’s been most conscientious with those breeding sows he bought with his own pocket money. Remember how he rang up every day from school at lunch time from a telephone kiosk to see how they were when they were farrowing? He could get O levels there and learn something of farming at the same time.” Ronnie agreed to go to Elmwood.

“Come to think of it,” Ronald said to me later, “it might not be a bad thing. It’ll change the pattern, get him away from that teenage nonsense that’s going on up in the village, give him something else to think about. He’s a clever lad.”

Heading south

His father had been right. When Ronnie came back from college with a few O levels, he no longer sought the companionship of his former friends to the same extent, things had moved on. The pattern had been broken.

“What are you going to do now?” his father asked. “Can I stay and work on the farm for a bit?” Working on the farm for his father didn’t last long. Both had too explosive a temperament. However, with the wages he had made he was able to buy an old banger of a car and get his driving licence.

“Oh I don’t know,” he said evasively when I asked him about his plans. “I think I’ll just blow, go further south. See if I can get a job on a farm if nothing else turns up.”

His mind was made up. He set off early one morning, a dreich cool summer’s day. I couldn’t help worrying. He hadn’t been driving long and his vehicle was an old banger. Worse, he didn’t know where he was going.

“Ring me when you get to your destination,” I told him. I worried all day, imagining all sorts of things. The phone rang in the early afternoon. I hardly recognised Ronnie’s gruff voice. It was gruffer that ever.

“Mum, I’m in Hull. It’s terrible weather here, a dense fog and there seems to be so many one-way streets, I’m completely lost at the moment. To make matters worse, I’ve developed a cold and don’t feel too good but I hope to find somewhere to stay for the night soon. I’ll phone you later when I’m settled, thought I better phone when I saw a phone box, I thought you might be worried.”

I had to think quickly before his money ran out. “All right, Ronnie. Find somewhere to stay for the night and phone me to let me know where you are. Make your way home tomorrow and stay here until you’ve recovered. Then you can start again.”

Waiting for the next phone call was agonising. It came at midnight. Never had I been so relieved to hear anyone’s voice.

“Ronnie, where are you?”

“I’m okay,” his voice was a little clearer. “I’m at a pub in a village outside Hull. The landlady’s very kind. She’s given me a hot toddy and a room for the night. I’ll phone you tomorrow and let you know my plans.”

Carlisle

Ronnie didn’t come home. He stayed for a few days in that pleasant inn and then took to the road again. He changed direction and landed in Appleby where he got reasonable lodgings for a week. He bought a local newspaper, went through its small ads and found a job on a sheep farm.

It was wonderful countryside and Ronnie liked the animal side of farming. In his spare time he read a lot and after working for a year, decided he would like to go back to college. There were courses in psychology in a college in Carlisle. He enrolled. He stayed a year at college and came back a different person. He had grown his red hair long, which I didn’t think suited him one little bit. His jeans were patched and his T-shirts garish.

With this new rig-out went new ideas. Strange ideas to us country folk, urban ideas, radical ideas, the talk was of communes and communities, a new society where everyone would share and share alike.

It wasn’t until a much later date that he said one day: “You know why communes don’t work?” “No, why?”

“It’s the women’s fault; they simply can’t share a kitchen!”

After returning from college Ronnie had no particular idea what he wanted to do, other than to make enough money to travel and thus increase his knowledge of the world. Fortunately, by this time Richard had left the navy and had bought a flat in Aberdeen. This was to become a useful rendezvous for most of the family.

Over the Pyrenees

Work might have been scarce in the rest of Scotland but in Aberdeen, during the oil boom years, it was not. It wouldn’t matter what the job was, Ronnie would attempt it as long as it paid good money. He was a hard worker and he could stay with Richard and once he had saved enough, Ronnie was off on his travels again.

“Where are you going to this time?” I asked him. “Dunno exactly. France, Spain, Morocco, maybe end up in Greece. Expect me when you see me.”

By the rattles and bangs it made, I didn’t think that the old car he planned to travel in would take him further than the bottom of the farm road.

“Could we not help him a bit, to get something better?” I suggested to his father.

“No, leave him alone. Let him find out the hard way. Don’t mollycoddle him,” was the answer.

So off Ronnie went, rattle bang, rattle bang. I was wrong, the car did get him, albeit with some difficulty and several minor repairs, over the Pyrenees. Before crossing to Morocco, he gave the car away to a young hitchhiker. It still had some life in it.

It wasn’t until long afterwards that I heard about the scrapes the young people got into abroad. They appeared to have the grace never to tell me at the time. I would have been worried sick. I did, however, develop a sixth sense when something went wrong for any of them but which one, what was wrong or where, I had no idea. It was a useless sense in that I could do nothing about it, only have this awful sinking feeling. Comparing dates afterwards, the times were pretty accurate. Mother had always believed in telepathy. I did now too.

More tomorrow.