Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

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Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Iain » Thu Oct 31, 2013 4:49 am

Hi all ! As mentioned in the “Family Tree” post; viewtopic.php?f=60&t=16023&start=30

..., here’s the follow-up post from Liz....

Quote:

Hi Iain
Shona has suggested that I ask you for help.
My grandfather, Joseph Black b.18/10/1879, d.1/6/1960 (m. Agnes Paterson) had 10 brothers and sisters which I had no idea existed. My head is spinning with all the info I'm getting and thanks for your imput. But I'm slightly confused, can you tell me is Euphemia Black and Phoebe Black the same person. Both(?) were born about the same time 1887/88. I have a birth and a death cert. for Euphemia, she died at Lochgilphead and states divorced. Her son Alexander Burnfield is the informnant. Phoebe I cannot find a birth or death cert. Is Phoebe a proper name or short for something. It is not a common name up here in the Highlands. Also I cannot find a marriage cert.
I wish I had started all this when my aunt, Chrissie MacGregor was still alive or maybe not. Who did all these girls marry - Mary Currie Black b. 10/11/1875, Helen Munro Black b.6/12/1877,
Elizabth Black b. 1881, Agnes Black b. 1883, Margaret Black b. 18/9/1885, Euphemia Black, Phoebe Black, Martha Black b. 20/9/1891, I found she married a Colin MacKinnon.
Anyway can you please help me. Not living in the area is a bit of a nuisance.
Regards
Liz
--------------------------
Why I question Euphemia and Phoebe is that in 1911 census, Phoebe Burnfield is with her father and mother, aged 23 at 21 Saddell Street. Her parents being Joseph Black b. 1/12/1852, Londonderry who married at Dalintober on 6/8/1874 Agnes Munro b. 19/1/1855 Campbeltown. Phoebe is obviously married to a Burnfield. But on Euphemia's death cert. 16/11/1943 at Lochgilphead, she is divorced and her son Alexander Burnfield is the informnant.
Maybe I have all the Blacks mixed up as there seems to be hundreds of them.
Looking forward to hearing from you sometime.
Regards
Liz
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Iain » Thu Oct 31, 2013 5:12 am

Hi Liz ! Phew ! :lol:

I had a look at my tree and there’s no mention of those first names. So they could be total strangers to me. Nonetheless, there’s no smoke without fire ! Quite busy for the time being so I'm unable to do much research !

As for the “bakers,” there again I’m somewhat confused ! Perhaps Bill could help you with this one as I seem to remember that he worked for a baker called Black..., and even had a photo of a horse and cart.
Emdee could also reply to that one ! (20th century of course ! Lol)

..., Iain.
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby lizspean » Thu Oct 31, 2013 12:11 pm

Yes Iain, you are quite right , I do not find using this site easy and don't understand it at times. I have also sent old photos to down memory lane but they haven't appeared either. Thank you for starting a new thread as having two topics "Family Tree" was confusing. In the previous pages of info I didn't reply as I did not recognise any of the names and of course didn't know how to reply. So thanks Iain for explaining. I am not with Ancestry though have been on other researches but have joined Scotlands People.
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Iain » Thu Oct 31, 2013 6:57 pm

Lol ! :wink:
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby EMDEE » Fri Nov 01, 2013 2:52 am

Iain wrote:
Emdee could also reply to that one ! (20th century of course ! Lol)
..., Iain.


I have many fond memories of this shop. Joe Black's products were second to none, and I am sure that any forum members of similar vintage to myself will be able to confirm this.
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Iain » Fri Nov 01, 2013 7:05 am

Thanks for Liz Emdee ! I PM'd Bill about this because I seem to remember him posting an image of a horse and cart with Black written on the side. And I also seem to remember a remark about the difficulties relating to milk deliveries.

Concerning my line of Blacks, Granny Mary MacArthur married a Black. Mary's brother had the bakers shop accross the road in Longrow and Grandad Daniel Black had family members who were also in the trade. So I suppose the above could be related.
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Shona » Fri Nov 01, 2013 10:20 am

Delightful account of Joseph Black from Donald Keith's 'A Campbeltown Life'.

Baker Black

In Saddel Street there was a baker's shop. It was a dark sinister place, painted a bottle green on the outside. In the display window lay tiers of loaves and pastries that seemed to have been there since the Reformation, The goods were under constant attack from droves of demented bluebottles that wheeled in battle formation and made a fearful noise.

Within the shop the gloom seeped into your soul. Behind the counter were shelves, some sagging, on which lay trays of pies, pastries, buns and doughnuts. The bluebottles paid close attention to the doughnuts!

On the grim dark brown walls faded notices hung. Some advertised McDougall's flour, others extolled the virtues of a holiday at Machrihanish, whilst a yellow piece of paper told of a church outing to Southend in 1920!

The counter was made of a dark wood and on it sat dust covered glass jars. Most were empty, but some held sweets like mint humbugs, pan drops, or aniseed balls.

One wall had an open doorway, that led to the bake house and from the counter you could see the oven glowing in the gloom and the smell of dough cooking wafting outwards. The oven set up a draught which caused the thick cobwebs in the corners of the shop to vibrate.

The man who worked the oven was Joe Black, master baker, a large man with a red face tanned by the fierce heat of the flames. Joe's eyes peered through a casing of dried flour and as he worked at the oven it was as if he was enacting a scene from Dantë's Inferno. He would whistle, sing, swear or just roar. His feet shuffled along the stone floor. Sometime in relief from oven duties, he would stand outside the shop puffing a Woodbine.

What a contrast! Joe Black slaving at his oven, whilst across the road 'Glundie' was hurling great pats of dripping into his fish frier. The opposing smells used to mingle in the road to produce a haze called 'Saddel Street Fog'.

Joe Black made succulent pastries, and his loaves melted in your mouth.

As fate would have it, one day my grandmother sent me to Joe's for two loaves and half a dozen rolls. She gave me three shillings and with the change I was to buy some sweets or a comic.

I entered the shop. It was an early autumn evening and the gas light was lit, its stuttering jets casting great shadows on the wall. At my approach Joe rose from behind the counter.

"Whit dae ye want wee boy" he slavered, as he lit up a Woodbine at the same time lifting a snoozing cat from the counter where it had made a nest amongst some paper bags!

"Two loaves and half a dozen rolls Mister Black", I said.

"Man ye ur a veery polite boy", rasped Joe, blowing a smoke circle towards the ceiling which was brown with age. "Am lookin fur a wee boy tae gang oot wie breed on a Seterday, a day mind you fur five shillings an a few pastries tae tak hame at nicht, whit dae ye say?"

"I will have to see my mother first, but five shillings is fine, when do you want a reply?"

Joe scratched his head, a shower of dandruff cascaded onto the floor.

"Al hae tae ken the nicht fur there are plenty o boys efter a Seterday job, so let me gie ye yer breed an rolls an awa hame tae yer hoose tae see whit yer foulks think."

Clutching the bread and rolls I hurried home to Woodland Place. Luckily, my mother was visiting my grandmother. I blurted out my good news.

"Weel", said my mother, "Ye can go to work for Joe, with my blessing, but be careful in the dark when you are delivering bread up dark closes."

My grandfather who had just came in, on hearing the news of my impending employment, lit up his pipe, loosing a spittle into the fire. He grinned.

"Weel wee Donal we wull be a richt fur free cakes an breed no ye wull be wurkin fur Baker Black, when ye start tell hum nae tae pit sae much sawdust in his breed or use less gum in hus cakes."

"Jock!", snapped my mother, "Leave the wee boy alone, he will say no such thing. Go on son, tell Mister Black ye will start on Saturday."

"Watch he disnae pit ye in the oven wee Donal!" laughed my grandfather, "Ave heard queer tales aboot foulk never been seen agin efter gan intae Blacks the bakers, whan ye cam hame let me tell ye aboot Sweeney Todd the demon barber o Fleet Street!"

I hurried back to Joe and told him I would be ready to start on Saturday.

"Gran", he purred, picking a piece of cake from his teeth with a pencil, "ye hae been richt prompt wee boy, ye say ye are Maisies son, weel a ken hur fine, sae ye wull start at seeven o clock on Seterday next."

Saturday came round and I arrived at Joe's rear entrance. The door was open, so I strode in. Joe was struggling with the oven, the heat was intense, great mounds of dough were being pounded into loaves by a thin hatchet faced assistant whom I never suspected existed.

"Thus is Donal Keith," roared Joe above the snarl of the oven, "he wull be deleverin breed a day."

The assistant, his face covered in flour, grinned. His broken black teeth contrasting with the white flour.

"Am Tam the floor man, a mix dough a the time fur Joe tae mak breed."

As he spoke, Joe swung open the oven door, whisked out a tray of risen bread, then inserted a fresh tray, he slammed the door shut, then turned to me.

"At nine o clock ye wull gang oot wie yer furst delivery o breed, a havna a bike tae gie ye so ye wull hae tae wak, a hope ye hae guid boots."

At nine, Tam loaded up a great wicker basket with bread, an thrust a piece of paper into my hand.

"Here ye are Donal, twa loaves tae four Fishers Row, three tae sixteen Parliament Place, four tae eighteen Gayfield Place and wan Rosemount on the Low Road, ye better head fur Rosemount furst, the Fishers Row next and feenish at Parliament Place."

The thought of walking to Rosemount seemed daunting, but the lure of the five shillings gave me courage, so I set off with my laden basket and was soon on the Low Road.

Rosemount was half way along the road. It was set back, ivy covered, and had a gateway arch made from a whale's jawbone. In places the ivy had covered many of the windows and the play of the sun on the glass gave the place an air of brooding mystery. The windows seemed like eyes watching the approach of strangers.

My feet crunched on the gravel as I approached the front door and rang the bell.

From the bowels of the house a booming echo surged upwards, sending some crows on the roof spiraling down with racous cries of rage.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. Perhaps, I thought, there was no one at home? Then in the distance came the sound of feet -- deliberate, slow. The sound of heavy breathing, then the scrape of bolts being drawn back and the door slowly opened to reveal an old bent man with darting eyes. He wore a threadbare suit with leather patches on the elbows, on his feet slippers.

"Whits this ye hae got, ur ye frae Blacks the bakers?"

"Yes", I replied, "Two loaves for Rosemount." I handed the bread to the old man.

"This breeds cauld wee boy!" he snapped, "The maister laks his breed warm sae the butter runs aff it."

Alarmed at his remark I muttered,

"I had to come a long way with the bread, it was warm when I left."

"Weel it is not warm noo wee boy," hissed the old man, grinding his teeth in annoyance, "Al hae tae complain tae Black, we ur nae guantae pey fur cauld breed, ye ken."

He shook his head in annoyance.

"If thus continues we wull hae tae go tae Hoyne's fur oor breed, sae awa back tae Black an tell hum we want hot breed deelivered."

"Could you not heat the bread in an oven then your master would not know the difference?" I queried, "It is worth a try."

The old man man glared at me.

"Ye wee scamp, ye think am stupid, me maister wid ken fine it wisnae really warm if a heated it in an oven, sae awa wie ye an tell yon Black that his breed wilna dae unless it is delivered warm."

With that he shut the door and I headed back along the road to Fishers Row.

Fishers Row lay on the town side of the loch. It was a mean dark street, where the sun barely reached. In bygone times, as the name suggests, it was the home of fishermen, when the fleet was large.

I knocked at the number given on the slip of paper, the door was opened by an old woman with an ear trumpet.

"Two loaves as ordered from Joe Black's" I said, lifting the bread from the basket, "The bread has been freshly baked this morning."

The old woman snatched the bread from me, her talon-like hands digging into the dough.

"Whits this aboot Joe Black loafin on his back in the morn?"

"No", I said, "The loaves were freshly baked this morning, you misunderstood what I said."

"Na na," chortled the old woman, "A ken fine whit ye said. A yon bakers are loafers, thur is nathin fresh aboot Joe Black."

Wearily I turned to go.

"Whits yer name wee boy?" asked the old woman, "Ur ye a Wulkinson, a ken the look o yer face, ye look like the captain humsel."

"My name is Donald Keith," I replied.

"Am no interested in yer teeth!" snapped the old woman, adjusting her ear trumpet, "Dae ye no ken guid English?"

"Keith not teeth," I said, "my name is Keith."

She peered at me for a second.

"Yer Maisie's wee boy, a kent yer grandfaither, the auld captain, he bided in Argyll Street, aye the captain humsel, a god fearin soul."

Desperate to get awa from the thralls of a boring conversation I said, "I live with my grandfather in Woodland Place, Jock Smith."

The old woman leaned forward with her ear trumpet.

"Na the captain disnae leeve in a wood, he is a seaman."

With that I fled from Fishers Row and headed up Kinloch Road into Lochend Street, then up to Parliament Place where I delivered the last of the bread, then back into Saddel Street and to Joe's shop.

He was leaning over the counter as I entered, combing his hair, which he took a great pride in.

"Ye got roon wie the breed fine Donal," he said, taking a gold hunter from his pocket and glancing at it, "Wur there ony complaints aboot the breed?"

I related the complaint from Rosemount about the cold bread. Joe listened casually, picking his nose at intervals.

"Dina wurry Donal, yon lot at the big hoose are always greetin aboot the breed being cauld, as fur yon sneevlin servant, al gie hum hot breed when he cams in tae pey for his loaves, al gie hum wan sae hot that he wull flee awa hame in a right lather."

I then related the difficulties of the old woman with the ear trumpet.

"Ach yon is auld deef Jessie, dina tak tae hur, jist pit the breed in the grun an wak awa tae yer next hoose."

I was glad when the first Saturday elapsed, and night came. Joe pulled the shutters and damped down the oven, whilst his assistant swept the floor and turned off the gas. Joe went to the till and drew out some coins.

"Here ye are wee Donal, a promised ye five shullins, sae here if four and six"

"But you promised five shillings Mister Black", I protested feebly.

"That I did wee Donal," purred Joe, reaching for his coat, "but the sixpence is fur yer Christmas club. When Christmas comes ye should hae aboot six shullins extra tae come."

"Oh," I said, "Thank you Mister Black, that will be great."

As I left the shop, Joe laughingly said, "Dina gae spending yer four an six in the Gluepot wee Donal."

When I returned home, I told my grandfather about Joe Black deducting sixpence from my wages for a Christmas Club.

"Whit!" roared my grandfather, "The deevil tak hum, fancy cheatin a wee boy o his wages, he hus nae richt , al awa oor oan Monday an gie hum a richt blastin, its like peying tae go tae wurk!"

My grandmother became alarmed at my grandfathers temper.

"Listen Jock ye wull dae nae such thing, al awa oor oan Monday an hae a word wie Joe, we wur freens fur years, when a tak tae hum he wull see reason."

"If he disnae tell hum he wull end up in wan o his pies lak yon Sweeny fella used tae dae tae puir souls in London Toon!" retorted my grandfather, furiously puffing on his pipe.

Monday came, and true to her word, my grandmother visited Joe Black.

That evening as we sat by the fire listening to the latest episode of Dick Barton, she put down her knitting.

"A saw Joe today and he said he made a mistake and has given me a shilling to give to you."

She handed me the coin and continued, "you will have no more bother in that shop and Joe has sent some pies fur yer grandfather."

The following Saturday I reported for duty and Joe smiled at me.

"Sorry about the sixpence deduction from yer wages wee Donal a thocht ye wur full time an forgot ye wur only a Seterday boy, yer granny cam roon tae see me,a kent hur frae awa past, a fine wumman she wus in hur youth."

He winked at his assistant as he spoke.

Well I had no more trouble at Joe Black's and spent a few months in his employ until he told me that as trade was slack he did not require my services any more.
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Iain » Sat Nov 02, 2013 4:04 pm

Lol ! Can always count on you Shona ! :wink:
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Shona » Sat Nov 02, 2013 6:10 pm

*blushes*
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Shona » Sat Nov 02, 2013 6:11 pm

And if anyone wants to buy Donald's book...

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Campbeltown-Lif ... 0755212800
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby Iain » Sat Nov 02, 2013 7:17 pm

Shona wrote:And if anyone wants to buy Donald's book...

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Campbeltown-Lif ... 0755212800


I'll be first in line ! :wink:
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby howlsatthemoon » Sun Nov 03, 2013 9:25 am

Shona wrote:And if anyone wants to buy Donald's book...

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Campbeltown-Lif ... 0755212800


Reviews about this book here ;-

viewtopic.php?f=2&t=623
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby chrisjmcc2015 » Sat May 09, 2015 3:14 pm

Black families from Rathlin Island.
Came across this in my own family lines - may be of interest. Am researching the McCouaigs, (McQuaigs, McQuigs and more recently McCuaigs for those who emigrated to Canada and US) If anyone can explain the different spellings of the surname would be very grateful.

Isabella Black, from the Glens, was married to Neil McCoy c1820 . Their daughter Alicia McCoy born 29/7/1825 married Michael McCouaig (McQuaig) (1806-19/8/1896 ) on 27/7/1847 in St Thomas' Rathlin Is. Michael and Alicia also had a daughter
Isabella (26/2//1852 - 1915) She married John McQuig from the island townland of Ushet on 7/3/1887.

You have lots of the Black families from Rathlin and I noticed san Isabella amongst the children in more recent times but this connection possibly explains the name being continued.
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby petewick » Wed May 13, 2015 5:49 pm

Shona wrote:Delightful account of Joseph Black from Donald Keith's 'A Campbeltown Life'.

Baker Black

In Saddel Street there was a baker's shop. It was a dark sinister place, painted a bottle green on the outside. In the display window lay tiers of loaves and pastries that seemed to have been there since the Reformation, The goods were under constant attack from droves of demented bluebottles that wheeled in battle formation and made a fearful noise.

Within the shop the gloom seeped into your soul. Behind the counter were shelves, some sagging, on which lay trays of pies, pastries, buns and doughnuts. The bluebottles paid close attention to the doughnuts!

On the grim dark brown walls faded notices hung. Some advertised McDougall's flour, others extolled the virtues of a holiday at Machrihanish, whilst a yellow piece of paper told of a church outing to Southend in 1920!

The counter was made of a dark wood and on it sat dust covered glass jars. Most were empty, but some held sweets like mint humbugs, pan drops, or aniseed balls.

One wall had an open doorway, that led to the bake house and from the counter you could see the oven glowing in the gloom and the smell of dough cooking wafting outwards. The oven set up a draught which caused the thick cobwebs in the corners of the shop to vibrate.

The man who worked the oven was Joe Black, master baker, a large man with a red face tanned by the fierce heat of the flames. Joe's eyes peered through a casing of dried flour and as he worked at the oven it was as if he was enacting a scene from Dantë's Inferno. He would whistle, sing, swear or just roar. His feet shuffled along the stone floor. Sometime in relief from oven duties, he would stand outside the shop puffing a Woodbine.

What a contrast! Joe Black slaving at his oven, whilst across the road 'Glundie' was hurling great pats of dripping into his fish frier. The opposing smells used to mingle in the road to produce a haze called 'Saddel Street Fog'.

Joe Black made succulent pastries, and his loaves melted in your mouth.

As fate would have it, one day my grandmother sent me to Joe's for two loaves and half a dozen rolls. She gave me three shillings and with the change I was to buy some sweets or a comic.

I entered the shop. It was an early autumn evening and the gas light was lit, its stuttering jets casting great shadows on the wall. At my approach Joe rose from behind the counter.

"Whit dae ye want wee boy" he slavered, as he lit up a Woodbine at the same time lifting a snoozing cat from the counter where it had made a nest amongst some paper bags!

"Two loaves and half a dozen rolls Mister Black", I said.

"Man ye ur a veery polite boy", rasped Joe, blowing a smoke circle towards the ceiling which was brown with age. "Am lookin fur a wee boy tae gang oot wie breed on a Seterday, a day mind you fur five shillings an a few pastries tae tak hame at nicht, whit dae ye say?"

"I will have to see my mother first, but five shillings is fine, when do you want a reply?"

Joe scratched his head, a shower of dandruff cascaded onto the floor.

"Al hae tae ken the nicht fur there are plenty o boys efter a Seterday job, so let me gie ye yer breed an rolls an awa hame tae yer hoose tae see whit yer foulks think."

Clutching the bread and rolls I hurried home to Woodland Place. Luckily, my mother was visiting my grandmother. I blurted out my good news.

"Weel", said my mother, "Ye can go to work for Joe, with my blessing, but be careful in the dark when you are delivering bread up dark closes."

My grandfather who had just came in, on hearing the news of my impending employment, lit up his pipe, loosing a spittle into the fire. He grinned.

"Weel wee Donal we wull be a richt fur free cakes an breed no ye wull be wurkin fur Baker Black, when ye start tell hum nae tae pit sae much sawdust in his breed or use less gum in hus cakes."

"Jock!", snapped my mother, "Leave the wee boy alone, he will say no such thing. Go on son, tell Mister Black ye will start on Saturday."

"Watch he disnae pit ye in the oven wee Donal!" laughed my grandfather, "Ave heard queer tales aboot foulk never been seen agin efter gan intae Blacks the bakers, whan ye cam hame let me tell ye aboot Sweeney Todd the demon barber o Fleet Street!"

I hurried back to Joe and told him I would be ready to start on Saturday.

"Gran", he purred, picking a piece of cake from his teeth with a pencil, "ye hae been richt prompt wee boy, ye say ye are Maisies son, weel a ken hur fine, sae ye wull start at seeven o clock on Seterday next."

Saturday came round and I arrived at Joe's rear entrance. The door was open, so I strode in. Joe was struggling with the oven, the heat was intense, great mounds of dough were being pounded into loaves by a thin hatchet faced assistant whom I never suspected existed.

"Thus is Donal Keith," roared Joe above the snarl of the oven, "he wull be deleverin breed a day."

The assistant, his face covered in flour, grinned. His broken black teeth contrasting with the white flour.

"Am Tam the floor man, a mix dough a the time fur Joe tae mak breed."

As he spoke, Joe swung open the oven door, whisked out a tray of risen bread, then inserted a fresh tray, he slammed the door shut, then turned to me.

"At nine o clock ye wull gang oot wie yer furst delivery o breed, a havna a bike tae gie ye so ye wull hae tae wak, a hope ye hae guid boots."

At nine, Tam loaded up a great wicker basket with bread, an thrust a piece of paper into my hand.

"Here ye are Donal, twa loaves tae four Fishers Row, three tae sixteen Parliament Place, four tae eighteen Gayfield Place and wan Rosemount on the Low Road, ye better head fur Rosemount furst, the Fishers Row next and feenish at Parliament Place."

The thought of walking to Rosemount seemed daunting, but the lure of the five shillings gave me courage, so I set off with my laden basket and was soon on the Low Road.

Rosemount was half way along the road. It was set back, ivy covered, and had a gateway arch made from a whale's jawbone. In places the ivy had covered many of the windows and the play of the sun on the glass gave the place an air of brooding mystery. The windows seemed like eyes watching the approach of strangers.

My feet crunched on the gravel as I approached the front door and rang the bell.

From the bowels of the house a booming echo surged upwards, sending some crows on the roof spiraling down with racous cries of rage.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. Perhaps, I thought, there was no one at home? Then in the distance came the sound of feet -- deliberate, slow. The sound of heavy breathing, then the scrape of bolts being drawn back and the door slowly opened to reveal an old bent man with darting eyes. He wore a threadbare suit with leather patches on the elbows, on his feet slippers.

"Whits this ye hae got, ur ye frae Blacks the bakers?"

"Yes", I replied, "Two loaves for Rosemount." I handed the bread to the old man.

"This breeds cauld wee boy!" he snapped, "The maister laks his breed warm sae the butter runs aff it."

Alarmed at his remark I muttered,

"I had to come a long way with the bread, it was warm when I left."

"Weel it is not warm noo wee boy," hissed the old man, grinding his teeth in annoyance, "Al hae tae complain tae Black, we ur nae guantae pey fur cauld breed, ye ken."

He shook his head in annoyance.

"If thus continues we wull hae tae go tae Hoyne's fur oor breed, sae awa back tae Black an tell hum we want hot breed deelivered."

"Could you not heat the bread in an oven then your master would not know the difference?" I queried, "It is worth a try."

The old man man glared at me.

"Ye wee scamp, ye think am stupid, me maister wid ken fine it wisnae really warm if a heated it in an oven, sae awa wie ye an tell yon Black that his breed wilna dae unless it is delivered warm."

With that he shut the door and I headed back along the road to Fishers Row.

Fishers Row lay on the town side of the loch. It was a mean dark street, where the sun barely reached. In bygone times, as the name suggests, it was the home of fishermen, when the fleet was large.

I knocked at the number given on the slip of paper, the door was opened by an old woman with an ear trumpet.

"Two loaves as ordered from Joe Black's" I said, lifting the bread from the basket, "The bread has been freshly baked this morning."

The old woman snatched the bread from me, her talon-like hands digging into the dough.

"Whits this aboot Joe Black loafin on his back in the morn?"

"No", I said, "The loaves were freshly baked this morning, you misunderstood what I said."

"Na na," chortled the old woman, "A ken fine whit ye said. A yon bakers are loafers, thur is nathin fresh aboot Joe Black."

Wearily I turned to go.

"Whits yer name wee boy?" asked the old woman, "Ur ye a Wulkinson, a ken the look o yer face, ye look like the captain humsel."

"My name is Donald Keith," I replied.

"Am no interested in yer teeth!" snapped the old woman, adjusting her ear trumpet, "Dae ye no ken guid English?"

"Keith not teeth," I said, "my name is Keith."

She peered at me for a second.

"Yer Maisie's wee boy, a kent yer grandfaither, the auld captain, he bided in Argyll Street, aye the captain humsel, a god fearin soul."

Desperate to get awa from the thralls of a boring conversation I said, "I live with my grandfather in Woodland Place, Jock Smith."

The old woman leaned forward with her ear trumpet.

"Na the captain disnae leeve in a wood, he is a seaman."

With that I fled from Fishers Row and headed up Kinloch Road into Lochend Street, then up to Parliament Place where I delivered the last of the bread, then back into Saddel Street and to Joe's shop.

He was leaning over the counter as I entered, combing his hair, which he took a great pride in.

"Ye got roon wie the breed fine Donal," he said, taking a gold hunter from his pocket and glancing at it, "Wur there ony complaints aboot the breed?"

I related the complaint from Rosemount about the cold bread. Joe listened casually, picking his nose at intervals.

"Dina wurry Donal, yon lot at the big hoose are always greetin aboot the breed being cauld, as fur yon sneevlin servant, al gie hum hot breed when he cams in tae pey for his loaves, al gie hum wan sae hot that he wull flee awa hame in a right lather."

I then related the difficulties of the old woman with the ear trumpet.

"Ach yon is auld deef Jessie, dina tak tae hur, jist pit the breed in the grun an wak awa tae yer next hoose."

I was glad when the first Saturday elapsed, and night came. Joe pulled the shutters and damped down the oven, whilst his assistant swept the floor and turned off the gas. Joe went to the till and drew out some coins.

"Here ye are wee Donal, a promised ye five shullins, sae here if four and six"

"But you promised five shillings Mister Black", I protested feebly.

"That I did wee Donal," purred Joe, reaching for his coat, "but the sixpence is fur yer Christmas club. When Christmas comes ye should hae aboot six shullins extra tae come."

"Oh," I said, "Thank you Mister Black, that will be great."

As I left the shop, Joe laughingly said, "Dina gae spending yer four an six in the Gluepot wee Donal."

When I returned home, I told my grandfather about Joe Black deducting sixpence from my wages for a Christmas Club.

"Whit!" roared my grandfather, "The deevil tak hum, fancy cheatin a wee boy o his wages, he hus nae richt , al awa oor oan Monday an gie hum a richt blastin, its like peying tae go tae wurk!"

My grandmother became alarmed at my grandfathers temper.

"Listen Jock ye wull dae nae such thing, al awa oor oan Monday an hae a word wie Joe, we wur freens fur years, when a tak tae hum he wull see reason."

"If he disnae tell hum he wull end up in wan o his pies lak yon Sweeny fella used tae dae tae puir souls in London Toon!" retorted my grandfather, furiously puffing on his pipe.

Monday came, and true to her word, my grandmother visited Joe Black.

That evening as we sat by the fire listening to the latest episode of Dick Barton, she put down her knitting.

"A saw Joe today and he said he made a mistake and has given me a shilling to give to you."

She handed me the coin and continued, "you will have no more bother in that shop and Joe has sent some pies fur yer grandfather."

The following Saturday I reported for duty and Joe smiled at me.

"Sorry about the sixpence deduction from yer wages wee Donal a thocht ye wur full time an forgot ye wur only a Seterday boy, yer granny cam roon tae see me,a kent hur frae awa past, a fine wumman she wus in hur youth."

He winked at his assistant as he spoke.

Well I had no more trouble at Joe Black's and spent a few months in his employ until he told me that as trade was slack he did not require my services any more.

I wouldn't count too much on Donald Keith's memories, lot of inaccuracies and in one particular instance downright frick disrespectful.
KGB
BALD AND EXPLOSIVE AN' JEEST GET THE BEER UP
petewick
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Re: Black, the Bakers, Saddell St.

Postby bill » Sun May 24, 2015 10:10 am

Shona wrote:Delightful account of Joseph Black from Donald Keith's 'A Campbeltown Life'.



In total agreement with your comment Petewick.

As we know Donald Keith's "fairy tale" has been mentioned before on the forum,and for all us oldies who were there ,we know whit a load o keich it is....Donald Keith ? Hans Christian Anderson mair like.

Tommy Ralston's comment in this previous thread on the subject sums it up perfectly ........
Tommy Ralston wrote:I am utterly amazed by the comments I have read here on 'Campbeltown Life'. In my opinion this publication is nothing more than rubbish and worse still, it attacks the reputation of people, especially teachers, who are no longer with us and who are therefore unable to defend themselves against these cowardly, sneering and snide remarks! In most cases they are total fabrications, written in an attempt to portray a town that is populated by congenital idiots!
That Mr.Keith was unable to write anything good of his teachers tells me more about him than he would wish to disclose. Furthermore, his grasp of the English language is tenuous, to say the least - he should have tried to pay more attention to Mr. Banks when he sat in this gentleman's class, or he should make sure that the 'spell checker' on his computer is switched on.




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I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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