My Stroma Home part 3 School days.

 School days

I left home on my first day of school clutching my brother's hand. I held fast although we didn't like each other very much. At the top of the hill and in sight of the playground, he refused to take my hand any more. He obviously didn't want this friends to see him  hold his little sister's hand!

 There were four of us new entrants, three girls and a boy.  The school consisted of two ends, the Beeg end for the older kids, and the Peedy end for the younger ones. Once upon a time, there were two teachers, one for each end. When I started there was only one. Mrs Wares. and we all sat in the Beeg end warmed by a small stove. On rainy days, we hung our coats near the stove to dry. No matter how far away we lived, we had no choice but to walk.

There were two doors, one for the boys and one for the girls, but the boy's door was permanently shut, again due to lack of numbers. Our toilets were outside, again separate toilets and consisted of buckets beneath wooden seats with the customary hole. 

The school building is no more and used for dipping sheep.

To one side was what we called the Cookery. Made of corrugated iron, it still stands defiantly against the elements and is mistakenly referred to as the School Room by day trippers, possibly since many of the exercise books were taken from the school rooms and stored there. 

The cookery was originally used to teach girls cooking, hence its name, but when I lived there it was the equivalent to a village hall for the islanders. After our Christmas treat, where the children put on a concert and received gifts from Santa, there was a dance for all in the Cookery. A white powder called Slipperine was liberally sprinkled on the floor and we loved sliding up and down on it. We were ordered to behave when the band struck up and the adults took to the floor.

Looking back over the years, it can be imagined how busy and thriving the island once was by the number of children attending school. 

This early photo is dated 1907.

This early photograph is dated July 1932. Back then Children could be educated in the school until they were ready for university if that was their aim. Many had to leave as soon as the law allowed,  at age thirteen, as they were needed on the land or to help at home. My mother had to become a full-time carer for her grandmother who was housebound.

Unable to find a date for this one.

The below photo was taken before I started. We joined those children for a year and then the majority of them left for secondary school.

.

And finally, the last two pupils left before the school closed for good.

As you see, a busy school, a busy island. I believe there were four shops on the island and a pub at one time. Also, the Floating shops from Orkney visited every fortnight. they came to buy as well as sell. I will deal with that in a later episode. 

When I lived there there was only one co-op shop built in the center of the island. 

My Stroma home part 2 Life on an island.

Stroma is divided into two areas. The north is Nethertown and the South side is Uppertown. We lived on the south side looking over the firth towards John O'Groats. 

Our cottage was a typical Butt and Ben, the design found all over the Highlands; a rectangular shape consisting of three rooms and attic space, with an outside lavatory. According to Wikipedia, it is a two-roomed dwelling, perhaps because the third room is very small, but in many cases still held a double bed and a chest. The Butt is an all-purpose room, a kitchen, living room and bedroom in one tiny space, the bed encased in an alcove in the wall and hidden by a curtain or shutters. The Ben room was usually the best room. Again with a box bed, fireplace and possibly easy chairs. 

Some cottages had extra porches at the front, and others had extra rooms added on with their own door, a granny flat would be the modern-day equivalent. 

We had a black Dover Range with a boiler to one side, so there was a supply of hot water. The box bed had been converted into fitted cupboards. We had a table and chairs, two comfortable chairs by the range and a chaise longue in worn brown leather which could be converted into a bed.  

No TV in those days but the wireless (radio) was constantly on, giving us news of the outside world. I particularly remember the children's program,  'Listen With Mother,' at about two o'clock every day. 

Before the days of Calor gas, I vaguely remember the Tilly lamp being suspended from the ceiling. 

Later that was replaced by the most modern of modern inventions, Calor gas.  Gas lights replaced the oil lamps, and cooking was now done on a gas cooker. For washing clothes, we had a gas boiler, a Godsend for my mother who had previously scrubbed my father's boilersuits which stank of oil and fish, on the step outside. She even had a gas iron! 

Being the gas engineer for the district was yet another job for my overworked father. He was now a crofter/fisherman/occasional lighthousekeeper and Gas representative. During the time he did spend at home, he taught us to play chess, draughs, Monopoly and cards (the only games we owned) and played hide and seek with us or read from Alice and Wonderland, which seemed to be the only children's book we owned. He read it in put-on voices and always made it sound different somehow. We loved those readings! Other indoor games we played were Hide the Thimble, I Spy, Consequences and The Minister's Cat.

Our small back room was referred to as the Closet, or scullery. In there we stored food, drinking water brought from a well, and a small table holding a basin beneath a tap. Water for washing came from two large tanks outside and was piped through the wall. they either caught rainwater or were filled manually during dry periods. Our roof was not slate, tile or even thatch, but flagstones quarried locally and cemented together. 

My parents slept in the Ben end, and the children slept in the attic. My father was handy and fashioned two bedrooms up there, one for my two brothers and one for myself and my sister. It wasn't a high attic and standing upright was impossible for an adult. The staircase was very steep, not dissimilar to a wooden stepladder, for comparison.

We often had relations come to stay for a holiday. At those times my parents gave up their bed and somehow managed to squeeze in beside us! Our wee room was than wall-to-wall bed!    

 Left was the view from our skylight. We called it The Chapel, but it was never used as a place of worship in my lifetime.           

The kirk, standing roughly in the middle of the island, is the kirk. It was well attended on a Sunday and still stands proud to this day. With its steeple, it can be seen clearly from the mainland.

The manse is attached to the far end and is now used as a home for the owner. 

 The public phonebox was not added until 1953.

The interior, in my memory, is reminiscent of all old churches, smelling of books, wood and beeswax, that unique smell only churches seem to have. The triangular dome above the pulpit was bright red. 

After the last sad service, the bible was left open at the last reading, the hymn books left open at the last hymn ever sung in that wee kirk, 'God be with you till we meet again.' 

That must have been a very poignant service indeed. I can just imagine the congregation filing out in silence, hearts too full to speak. I was just a young child, and none of it touched me.  

Unfortunately, the building has been emptied and is now used as a store.

Above are the children of the Sunday School on that same last day. I'm the one with the long legs in the middle!

My Stroma home part one, an introduction

 Looking over the firth from John O'Groats, one might assume that Stroma Island is still populated. These sturdy wee houses, built many years ago by the crofters themselves, have withstood the test of time and only on close inspection can one see the devastation caused by the elements, the birds and the sheep.

The Norse gave Stroma its name, Straumsey, the island in the stream. The first written history of the island is by Norsemen who we know inhabited the island in the eleventh century. There is evidence that a Pictish community existed there before that. 

On the 1872 Ordnance Survey map, there are two castles on Stroma. Castle Mestag, of which a few pieces of masonry remain, is on a stack off the southwest side of the island and the other is simply marked as 'Castle' on a rocky promontory at Flendie Clett on the Southeast side.I believe a chambered tomb exists near the North End, but I don't know of anyone who has been able to find it.

From the mainland, Kennedy's mausoleum is also plainly visible near the shore on the Southest side. Built in the seventeenth century, it still stands defiantly against the elements with only part of the upper story, a dovecot, in partial ruins. All around it is the graveyard, where many tombstones bear testament to the thriving population who lived, worked and died on the island.

My claim to fame is that I was the last baby to be born on the island. Thereafter babies were born on the mainland. 

My parents bought a cottage formally known only as Eben's, and they flitted in. That same evening my mother went into labour, The following morning, on a beautiful sunny October day, I was born. And there I lived until I was nine years old. 

The cottage was a typical Caithness croft house, with three downstairs rooms, an outside toilet, and an attic space which my father later converted into two bedrooms, one for me and my sister, and one for my two brothers.

At the front was my mother's vegetable garden. The only flowers there were poppies and a few daffodils. The garden was bordered by small trees with an evergreen at one side.

Sadly, we were the last family to live in that house. We sold our livestock, including our beloved Petty the sheep who we had reared from an orphaned lamb.

Updates on my life

 Follow the Dove: Book one of the Raumsey saga (Raumsey series 1) eBook : Byrne, Catherine M: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Reviews: Follow the Dove (3)

Paperback edition

 

 

 

 

by Reynold

“Review of 'Follow the Dove'”

Title: Follow the Dove
Author: Catherin Byrne
• ISBN-13: 978-1848768062
Publisher: Matador
Published: December 2011
Copyright © 2011
General Subject Matter: The life of a young woman in Scotland, and the families with

 which she became involved.
Theme: Lifestyle of the early 20th century in Scotland.
Thesis: The story surrounding 2 families living on 2 small islands off the coast 

of Scotland in 1899, and 1900. Here we find that the poor were not an exception 

to the normal population; the poverty stricken were the basis of most of the 

population.

Jobs were almost impossible to find, and if a man could get work on a fishing boat, 

he would be away from home most of the time, leaving his wife, and children

 to find whatever was available to stay alive. The land was not highly fertile, so 

only small patches of vegetables were available, and any grass was for the sheep, 

whose lambs brought small inputs of cash when they were sold at the summer 

market. Bartering was the main method of obtaining anything needed for the 

house, as cash was just too rare to be thought of.

Description:
The reader is introduced to Isa Muirison in the first sentence of this novel, and

 she becomes a window into the lives of the Muirison family, and the Ried family. 

‘The first time she saw him Isa forgot to breathe.’ This sentence sets the atmosphere 

for the entire book. It allows the eye to naturally flow from page to page while 

the story of Isa’s coming of age unfolds. The narrative descriptions are used in 

every scene just enough to give the reader the background needed to continue, 

while the dialog of the characters tells the reader just how important every word is. I

sa’s life is followed closely during her triumphs, disappointments, and disasters. 

The effects of these events and their ramifications upon those close to Isa make 

this book into a compelling story for every reader.
The Author, Catherin Byrne, is Scottish, and her knowledge of her country and 

its history comes out in every word spoken by her characters. Authentic older 

Scottish names, and dialog reinforce the story further, and the fact that it takes

 place on the islands of Kirkwall, and Raumsey, just off the coast of Scotland is 

the icing on the cake. This author can write. Her story remains compelling up to

 and including the last page. Catherin Byrne has written a novel that is worth far 

more than the price of the book. RB

8th October 2017

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Paperback edition

 

 

 

 

by Torvaig

“A great story set in the Far North of Scotland”

I started to read "Follow the Dove" by Catherine M Byrne and found myself 

immersed at once in this compelling story so vividly written by newcomer 

Catherine M. Byrne from Wick.
After the first few pages I knew I had to keep going, I was desperate to get to 

know the characters better, to understand them and to get involved in the way 

they lived their working and private lives in very remote and sparsely populated 

areas.
"Follow the Dove" is a strong story and very relative to the period and the setting.

 The characters involved become very real. You feel their pain, frustation and 

anger at what life throws at them.
Many older readers, especially those from the North of Scotland and the Northern 

Isles, will be able to relate to this harsh way of life which existed before and for 

some time after the turn of the 20th century. Catherine Byrne leads you into the 

islanders way of thinking, working and socialising until you believe they really 

existed.
Thank you Catherine for filling a space on my bookshelf with a wonderful, 

wonderful read; you most certainly have a winner on your hands!

14th January 2018

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Paperback edition

 

 

 

 

by JanetW

“A compelling read”

Once I started on this book I could hardly put it down. It is set in Orkney in 1

900 but it could be any farming, fishing community in those days. 

I could relate immediately to the characters. Within a few pages 

they felt like family and I kept reading wanting to know more. 

The plot moves along at a cracking pace with humour and tragedy never 

far apart. I would heartily recommend this novel.

2nd February 2018

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Beyond the Pain

Abdul Mkith's early years are told in the harrowing true story A Locket and a Five Taka Note.  

It begins with his early life in Bangladesh, and how, after relentless persecution, his family sent him to the UK to a place of safety -- or so they thought. There then follows a catalogue of abuse and unbelievable cruelty, highlighting what is going on under our very noses. It's not just to children brought from foreign lands. Abdul meets with a young English girl in what he describes as the Hell House. He also sees many more white teenagers going and coming. 

Once he became a teenager, he was forced into delivering drugs. The one time he rebelled, his finger was cut off with a bolt cutter.

This is not a doom and gloom story, however. Abdul was one of the lucky ones who was rescued during a drugs raid. Eventually he was fostered by a loving family, and the book ends on a positive note. 

 The picture above is of Abdul just before he was sent to England.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Locket-Five-Taka-Note-story-ebook/dp/B071RKSXZS

Of course childhood abuse does not leave anyone undamaged. Abdul's fight is far from over. Now, having spent so much time with a Scottish family, he feels part of the community, but half of him is still at home in Bangladesh. Subsequently his struggle is not just with the effects of his abusive past, but also with his identity, with racial abuse, as a child coming out of care, with his lack of education and finding his place in the world.

Through his self-made coping mechanisms, Abdul hopes to help others struggling with any of the above issues. Beyond the Pain is the story of how Abdul rises above adversity, where he is in the world today and how he copes with coming face to face with the man who initially tore his family apart.

This book should not just be read by his fans and those struggling with above issues, but by all professionals trusted with child care.

The above picture is Abdul, how he looks today.

Beyond the Pain will be available in shops and on Amazon from the 4th of April.  

How to format in word for kindle

How to format for kindle in Word.

1.       Select all. The entire document should now be highlighted.

2.       Click on backward P (see snip)

3.       Click on ‘Remove formatting. (see snip)

Remove formatting

4.       Line spacing options and do these settings (see snip)

6.       Click OK.

7.       Highlight every heading or chapter. You can then change the colour and/or position.

8.       Hit return for the number of spaces you want to leave between chapter heading and text.

9.       Hit return button once for new paragraph

10.   At the end of each chapter hit control + return  only once.

11.   To list your chapters, set curser at beginning of book.

12.   Click on references

13.   Click on ‘table of contents’

14.   Chose table. I choose number one.

15.   Your table will then appear automatically.

There may be other ways, but this is what I do successfully.

Oh, and remove any page numbers.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

The day had begun like any other. At the bus stop she removed her boots and thick stockings. Bare legs and well-worn shoes were marginally better than roughly-knitted socks, a present from an aunt she never met, and well-worn shoes. They would still draw cheers and sniggers of course. She shrunk against the wall of the shelter as the other children filed in. Girls grouped together and laughed. Largely they ignored her, sometimes they looked her way and tittered. She turned her eyes to the sky and pretended she didn't care, that she didn't want someone to speak to her, show her some act of kindness, that she didn't desperately want to be part of the crowd. She hated being the odd girl with jug ears who sang to herself and wore hand-me-down clothes.

Miss Thomson, the music teacher, asked for anyone who wanted to sing in the upcoming festival to come to her room after school for an audition.

Singing was the one thing Beth loved, the one thing which lifted her from her life and made her heart soar. Her father would not be home until seven o'clock anyway, so there was nothing to stop her from staying behind.

'I'm so glad you came along, Elizabeth,' said Miss Thomson when she saw her. 'I've heard you sing in class. This audition will be a walk in the park for you.' Miss Thomson was nice; she was young and slim and smelt of flowers. 

Afterwards, as Beth left the building, a boy who had also been auditioning, a boy she knew as Magnus, ran up behind her. 'Wait a minute,' he shouted.

Unused to talking to boys, her face reddened.

'You're a really good singer,' he said.

And time stood still. She smiled. Knowing she was.

'The best there today,' he continued.

'Not better than you.'

'Different. Why don't you come and sing with our group? We're meeting up at the hall on Friday night.

'I'd love to,' she said. At the same time panicking because she had nothing to wear. But knowing she had to do this.

On Friday night, she washed and ironed her hair and dressed in her jeans and a blouse which she thought looked half-way decent.

'I've made scrambled eggs,' she said when her father returned from the fields. 'You can heat them up. I'm going out.'

He raised his eyes and looked at her as if he'd never seen her before. 'Going out where?' he asked, an edge in his voice.

'I've been asked to sing with a group.'

'Boys?'

'Yeees, I suppose.' She fisted her hair and pressed her knees together to stop the tremble. She wanted this more than she wanted anything, except, perhaps, her mother to return.

Robbie's face grew red. 'No,' he shouted, banging his fist on the table, making her jump. He had never raised his voice to her before, ever.

'But why?' Her scalp prickled.

'I know what boys are like. You're too young.'

She felt her anger bubble up. She never asked for anything from him. 'I'm only going to sing. Please, I want to.'

He levelled his finger at her. 'Whores and comic singers. You start going out, drinking, getting up to who knows what, next you'll be leaving, just like your mother.'

It was the first time in her memory he'd mentioned her mother without prompting. Suddenly singing with the group was far from her mind. 'Why did she leave, Dad?' Beth pulled in her chair. Talk to me, she pleaded silently. Please tell me what happened. She would have stayed here with him, forgotten the band, if only he opened up and told her what she wanted to know.

'You will not sing with a band and you will not leave this house tonight.' He rose quickly, the chair falling to the ground behind him and clattering on the floor. With a final glare at her he stormed over to the cooker and lifted the lid from the pan. With his voice suddenly calm again, he said, 'Eggs look good.'

'Please, Dad, I want to know about my mam.'

He turned. 'Your mother's dead to us. I never want to hear her name mentioned in this house again, understand?'

'But I need to know...'

She was rewarded by the turn of his back.

Damn him, she thought, years of frustration welling up inside her, threatening to explode. 'I'm going to my room,' she shouted. 'And I don't want to speak to you ever again.' She ran upstairs and slammed the door. Pans and plates rattled downstairs as he heated up the eggs, his anger making his movements fast and clumsy.

'Are you coming down for your dinner?' he called after a while.

'No,' she screamed, kicking the door.

She eased her window open and looked at the ground one storey below. She had to go tonight. If she didn't they might not ask again. She wondered if the tree outside her window would be strong enough to bear her weight and decided it wasn't.

'Have you fed the hens?' Robbie was shouting again.

Wordlessly she marched down the stairs, went to the back porch and got the feed bucket. The chickens had been fed, but she wouldn't tell him. Slamming doors and stamping her feet, she went outside and round the back of the house. From the barn she dragged out several packing cases, which were used to shelter new lambs in the spring, and built one on top of the other, testing them for safety as she went along. If she climbed out of her window and lowered herself as far as she could, her feet should touch the top box.

She went back indoors.

'Are you going to eat something?' said her father.

'No,' she screamed at him.

'Then the dog'll get it.'

'Fine by me.'

She slammed her bedroom door and turned her transistor up as loud as it would go. Once more she opened the window and this time climbed out, carefully lowering herself onto the boxes, jumping from one to the other before the top one wobbled and fell. She hit the ground and stood still, listening for her father's roar as he came round the corner. It never happened. She wasn't afraid he would hit her, he never had, but then she had never defied him before.

Backstage she froze. Sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't have come. I can't go out there.' She closed and opened her fists. What had she been thinking? She was dressed like a tramp and looked like a monkey, she would make a fool of herself and everyone would laugh at her. She felt physically sick.

Magnus opened a large coke bottle and handed it to her. 'Have a drink, it'll calm you.'

'Coke?' She screwed up her face.

The others laughed.

'With a wee bit o' Dutch courage added,' Magnus thrust it at her.

She put the bottle to her lips and drank. It burned all the way down, and it seemed there was very little coke in it. She drank again, forcing the liquid past her throat that tried to close in protest.

'Hey, leave some for the rest of us.' Magnus took the bottle from her. 'That's my dad's best vodka in there.'

Unaccustomed to strong liquor, Beth had already stopped shaking. By the time they were due to go on stage she was stepping on air, the room spun and she could have sung for the queen. 

That was the beginning. Once she started to sing she forgot her father's wrath, forgot her big ears, forgot everything except that it was her turn to shine. By the time her song ended, tears were streaming down her face.

There were many such nights afterwards, and as her love of singing grew, so did her father’s anger, until the cold atmosphere dwelling within the house, became hostile and restrictive.