Gettin' The Goat
(by Brian Mitchell)
Brian Mitchell is a History Teacher and Principal Teacher of Guidance at Brechin High School
"Mrs. Mitchell ane o' yer goats iz chasin' the Wifies it Strachan's Park," our youthful neighbour spoke with a sense of urgency substantially spiced with amusement. "Oh michty, no agin!" was the weary response from my mother as we peered from our front door towards the small adjacent housing scheme, a single line of buildings that bordered one side of Black's wood yard. Father was confined to bed, as he frequently was when there was an emergency concerning the livestock, so it was left to mother to resolve the situation.
Born and bred in Broughty Ferry, mother had had no experience of animals other than cats - which she disliked immensely - until she married and at times she must have had some regrets regarding her spouse's determination, despite having a serious heart condition, to have some kind of farm or small-holding. At one point he had considered acquiring a croft but the expense of the deal, including the move to Aberdeenshire, was too much of a gamble even for his enthusiasm to justify. He remained insistent, however, that if he could not be a full-time farmer he would grasp any opportunity which would permit him to practise animal husbandry at some level.
His love of animals had developed when he was quite young and he had been well known among his siblings for his pets and his attempts at procuring them. He had arrived home one day with a fawn in a tattie poke having in ignorance believed that it had been abandoned by its mother. Needless to say, the 'rescue' was immediately vetoed by parents who, no doubt fearing that the local constabulary and gamekeepers were in hot pursuit, ordered the tiny creature to be returned to the Hill Wood which stretches across the hill that overlooks Brechin from the south. Thereafter, father's juvenile quests for pets were restricted to birds and smaller animals which included the field-mouse - none of your white mice for working class loons in those days - he 'trained' to do tricks with a matchbox.
On leaving school, he was employed briefly as a farm worker before his health problems became so serious that, at the age of eighteen, he was incarcerated for many months in Brechin Infirmary. His health was permanently impaired with recurring bouts that seriously incapacitated him for the remainder of his life. However, his desire to work with animals persisted and eventual marriage and fatherhood meant that his penchant was passed on to his sons........ if not his patient wife.
During the 1930s, like most Scottish towns, Brechin suffered high unemployment and father, no longer able for the strenuous labour demanded on farms, had great difficulty in securing work. Eventually, he served as a baker's sales-cum-delivery man, pushing an enclosed hand cart through the streets of the burgh. At the same time he attended evening classes whereby, within a year or so, he qualified for clerical work and became one of the first employees of an English firm, Coventry Gauge & Tool Ltd., which moved into Brechin just before the outbreak of war to set up an engineering factory. A few years afterwards, our family moved from The Square - now re-developed - in River Street, where I had been born, to one of the houses built in Guthrie Park by the War Department for the factory's workers. I have no memories of the move but it must have been a considerable transition from cockroach-infested hovel with shared toilet and a near guarantee that it would be flooded at least once a year by the waters of the South Esk, to four-roomed terraced dwelling with all mod. cons. and front and rear gardens - something far from common in 1942. But the transfer was to bring father even more delight.
Next to the row of houses where we now lived were two small parks which were, I believe, along with the house and outbuildings, the remnants of Bog Dairy Farm. The fields had been taken over by the town council for housing but no date had been set for building and it was considered to be years away. It was an opportunity quickly seized and father took over the fields on a short-term tenure. Soon we were the proud owners of a couthie pony, Daisy, followed by a younger animal, Donald.
But, of course, it didn't stop there. Within weeks father had recruited a smart platoon of geese, an undisciplined squad of ducks, a full company of chickens and numerous squadrons of bees quartered in a dozen or so hives.
It's from this time that my own memories begin. I can recall being stung frequently or so it seemed - by angry bees; pecked by 'clockin' hens objecting to the theft of their eggs; whacked by the wings of an unreasonably irate goose; forced into being an impromptu trick rider when I slid off the back of Donald who had bucked slightly on being skelped on the rump by my older brother who was impatient for his 'shottie' at bare-back riding.
The same pony created mayhem with the residents of White's Buildings, two tenement blocks with an extensive drying green, adjacent to the fields. It was the bonny green grass of the drying area that attracted Donald and, at the time, I found it extremely funny to see the brown shape of the gallivanting cuddy amidst a confusion of white long-johns, bloomers in a variety of pastel shades and bed-sheets. Needless to say, my amusement was not shared by the fuming and ranting housewives who had no doubt spent the best part of the day in the wash-houses. Eventually, their wrath subsiding with the realisation that little or no damage had been done, father's apologies were accepted and Donald was returned to his field to be secured with a stronger tether.
But most of my memories are related to father's next acquisitions - the goats.
First to arrive were the two nannies: Big Nan, a cannie beast who was, as I recall, completely white, and Little Nannie, a smaller, less phlegmatic animal who was mainly black with a few brown and white markings. Both, but particularly Big Nan, were gentle and easily handled even by a four-year old. Soon, having developed my skills as a goat-herd, I was introduced to the billy. At least, he was pointed out to me by my proud dad. Almost completely black, he was tethered near to the hedge that partly divided the two parks. Believing that I had another friend with whom to pass my time, I was more than happy to comply with the request to take a quantity of oats to him. As I approached Black Bill, he stopped grazing to stare (or was it glower?) at me. I placed the offering before him, speaking in what I considered a friendly and encouraging way. On straightening up, ready to accept any indication of gratitude, I was rewarded with a butt which knocked me to the ground gasping, while Bill calmly consumed his oats. Father, trying to console me, maintained that Bill was being friendly and that butting was part of goat etiquette. I remained totally unconvinced and reluctant to have further dealings with this particular animal.
So it was then, when we were alerted by our excited neighbour that Black Bill had absconded and, for the second or third time, was raiding Strachan's Park, I was less than enthusiastic to support mother in the renegade's apprehension. Mother shouted to my father, whose bedroom was upstairs at the back of the house, what she was about to do. His muffled response indicated that he had not heard properly whereupon she repeated cryptically but at a considerably higher rate of decibels, "Eh'm awa gettin' the goat!" Despite my fears, I followed her to the neighbouring row of houses and to the source of skirls and raised female voices.
Bill was not pursuing the 'wifies' in whom he had not the slightest interest; he was making a meal of the treasured flowers in the front gardens, to the consternation of the housewives. Mother had armed herself with a sizeable piece of loaf which she now held at arm's length as she advanced exceedingly slowly shouting or, rather, almost bleating such was the degree of her anxiety: "Bill......B..i...l..I ...come awa' noo...come awa'.". A dozen housewives, now hushed, looked on from windows or, in the case of a few braver ladies, from behind several low walls some distance from the black raider. Black Bill had stopped munching the pansies and was staring at mother. Gradually, he moved from the garden, nibbling as he did so, but seeming to look at my now stationary parent or, just possibly, it was the bread he was eyeing. Now he stood on the road about thirty feet from her and, to me, they were like adversaries about to duel in some Hollywood western. Again she called for his surrender. In response, he lowered his head but at an angle so that he was targeting her through one eye. He charged.
Keeking from behind quivering skirts, I witnessed the onslaught as mother, in near panic, pleaded, "Bill ....piece.... p..i..e..c..e." (I report correctly the phonetics of the last word but I may be incorrect in the spelling and meaning!). Bill thundered towards us until, with little more than inches to spare, he braked suddenly into what was the next thing to a skid, raised his head to sniff and then bite the loaf. Courageously, mother grasped his horns with both hands and - to the spontaneous applause of the Strachan's Park 'wifies' - slowly, awkwardly escorted her prisoner back to the penitentiary.
Not long afterwards we had a visit from Eck, a work-mate and friend of father's, who resided at the bottom of the smaller field and who was kind enough to keep and eye on the stock particularly since some of our laying hens had been stolen. As he sat down by the bed, drawing heavily on his pipe, it was obvious that he was concerned. Apparently an elderly lady, well-known both for her ill-temper and her eccentricity, had begun to exercise her dog in the field where the goats were tethered. The animal, a large terrier, was allowed to rush barking and snarling at the goats. Knowing that at least one of the nannies was pregnant, Eck had naturally asked the woman to control her dog but she had retorted that it was town council land and her dog had as much right to be on it as the goats.
"Ah'm thinkin' we'll need tae get the boabbies, Doug," said Eck, sucking on his pipe and blowing the smoke away from the bed before continuing, "The nannies are fair upset an', of coorse, it bides well clear o' Bill."
"Ye ken yersel, Eck, she's a pair sowl in mair need o' peety than onything else an' Ah'm fell sweired tae bring in the boabbies. Bit, if ye didna mind, Eck, here's fit Ah'd like ye tae dae."
Eck listened and began to chuckle quietly, "Weel, Doug, it micht jist dae the trick."
Early that evening, Eck was in position at the hedge beside Black Bill when the crone came hobbling along the track towards the field accompanied by her yelping, whining dog. She unleashed the excited animal. Eck untied Bill who was already snorting and blowing steam at the sight of the dog. The barking, growling menace attacked the hooves of first one and then the other of the nannies who, restricted by their tethers, were panicking in their efforts to escape. At times, the dog would break off its attack on the nannies to rush at Black Bill but being careful to keep well outwith what he thought was the he-goat's range. During one such sortie Bill, stamping his front hooves and lowering his head threateningly, realised that he was a free agent. As the dog rushed towards him, the black head was lowered and set at an angle and the billy moved forward, slowly at first but then with sudden acceleration. The dog stopped in its tracks, its short tail still wagging in the momentum of pleasure but diminishing by the split second.
It was only when the charging goat was a few feet from contact that it dawned on the canine bully what was happening and with a startled yelp it turned and fled. Black Bill was in hot pursuit and the terrier would have done justice to a fully trained greyhound as it raced across the park, passed its gob-smacked mistress, and down the lane by White's Buildings onto Montrose Street and out of sight. Eck caught up with the victorious Bill as he returned from Montrose Street - there being no gardens on that street and so no ready meals to entice him to stay - into the lane.
Guiding the billy back to his admiring wives, Eck warned the woman that next time she allowed her dog to worry the goats he would shoot it. The woman, in a state of high dudgeon and hard of hearing at the best of times, misunderstood and went directly to complain to the local constabulary that Eck had threatened to shoot her! The two constables sent to investigate were readily convinced of the facts and, as there was no law regarding livestock worrying dogs, they left and were probably still laughing when they made their report to the sergeant at Bank Street Police Station nearly a mile away.
Of course, the purpose of having the nannies and the billy was to bring in some return from milk and it was not long before the kids were safely delivered. Father, out and about again, started to milk the nannies. His first attempt was supervised by Mrs. Young, the kind and gentle lady whose dairy it had been and who still resided in the small farm house. She was not impressed. "Michty, Douglas, ye're nae huddin' them richt," she exclaimed in her very quiet way as she lowered herself into the shallow pit that served as a milking station, and took over. Within minutes both nannies had been expertly milked and father had received another valuable lesson.
Soon both my parents were competent if not expert 'milkers'. But what to do with the milk?
Father loved cows' milk and would drink it straight from the bottle, a pint at a time, but for some reason he would not consume the nannies' milk. Unknown to him, however, his loving wife would fill an empty 'soshie' milk bottle with fresh goats' milk, press the cardboard top back into place and take it to her trusting husband who would drink it with relish and make a comment such as: "Ach ye canna beat the coos' milk."
Despite this regular ploy, there was still and abundance of milk being produced on the Mitchell small-holding and its entrepreneurial head decided to go into cheese production. And so he did. And I remember it well. On the olfactory scale this cheese ranked (!) higher than ripe Gorgonzola. The white or, rather, greyish white cheese was formed into small segments, wrapped in grease-proof paper and then newspaper. It was stored in the sideboard in the living-room. As to taste, I have no recollection of eating it. Indeed, I have no recollection of anyone eating it. A few pieces were given away - as keepsakes possibly - but no-one seemed to consume it. Whether it would have matured into gourmet titbits we were never to discover for, as the smell developed to become an odour and then a stench of a potency that was, for mother at least, unbearable, it was used surreptitiously as fire-lighters!
When his health permitted, father liked to keep active and, although having a full-time job and the holding, he was active on the factory's social committee and it was after one of its functions that he went missing. The 'do' had finished about midnight. Mother, who had remained at home with my brother and me, had had a hard day washing and catering for the livestock and retired early. Flo and Betty, our lodgers - it was a common war-time exigency for households with a spare room to accept incoming workers - had finished their shift, returned home and, not realising that father was still at large, locked the doors.
Mother woke very early next morning to discover that she was alone in bed. Growing concern struggled with panic as she ran to seek the assistance of Eck and Bob, Mrs. Young's son-in-law and another friend and colleague of father's. Their enquiries revealed that father had been in excellent spirits during the social but had consumed nothing more potent than a pint of milk and had left the factory just after midnight.
The morning was cranreuch cold. Had his frail heart failed him coming up the steep Mill Brae? Was he lying somewhere? A small search party failed to find any trace of him on the route to the factory. As the sun began to rise, worried friends and neighbours checked the fields in case he had collapsed there. Nothing. Perplexed, considering what to do next, they stood beside the redundant pig-sty which now housed the nannies and their growing kids. Two of the young goats followed by Big Nan emerged into the small run and then was heard a most ungoat-like yawn-cum-groan. There was an exchange of looks accompanied by a chorus of "Doug is that you?" Silence. Then a totally incoherent but totally human response. Crawling out of the stone hut came father, hair and clothes covered in straw. "Fit's gain on lads?" he queried from all fours looking up at his friends who now surrounded the enclosure.
"We're a search party, Doug," Eck replied, drawing on his pipe, "We're searching for a missin' man." The "Oh aye" that followed was muted and embarrassed.
The explanation was simple. On returning home he had found the doors locked and himself without keys. Pebbles thrown at the upstairs bedroom windows failed to rouse anyone. Rather than stand in the cold he decided to check the animals and to ensure that the hen-houses were secure. Because of the coldness of the night he felt that the goats would be the better of more bedding and fodder. As he pushed a few armfuls of straw and hay into the hut he was struck immediately by the warmth from within compared to the cold exterior. He crawled in and, surrounded by warm friendly bodies, was soon asleep.
Father always maintained that on that night he received fewer kicks than he did in his regular bed! But for weeks after, as he carried out his duties in the offices and factory floor, he was subjected to a cacophony of bleating whereupon he would shout, to much laughter, "G'wa, ye sully goats!"
Unfortunately, the time did come when the goats and most of the other livestock had to go. The council was to build houses and a pre-school nursery on the fields. Some of the chickens and ducks were transferred to a run in our back-garden adjacent to the Brechin Cricket Club and a few hives were re-located, but all the other creatures had to go.
Black Bill was the first of the goats to depart and he by way of Brechin Railway Station which, with returning and departing servicemen and women, was quite a busy place in 1945. When father turned up with Bill, who was less than happy at his sudden divorce, station staff were disinclined to deal with him particularly as he, in father's perception but certainly not theirs, tried to be friendly with a few tentative butts. The porters were for no such nodding introductions but eventually he was secured in the back of the guard's van and the train chugged out of the station taking Black Bill out of our lives.
Soon after, father had a serious relapse and it was left to my long-suffering mother to take Little Nannie to the station. While she was quite a spirited animal, she was friendly and certainly showed none of the aggression of her 'ex' although her colouring and Bill's were somewhat similar. To the porters, however, they simply saw another potentially dangerous goat and ignored mother's request for help other than, that is, to open the guard's van and point. Nannie was coaxed into the van and was tethered amidst the large array of parcels and a variety of goods. After a wee clap and a brief "ta-ta" mother, lump in throat, left the vehicle to the tune of a plaintive bleat. She stood on the platform talking to some acquaintances as the train started to move out of the station and after a cursory glance she continued chatting only to be surprised moments later when the engine drew to a grinding halt. The head-porter hurried forward to investigate as the guard emerged waving his fists and shouting - very loudly: "That bliddy goat has eaten a' the labels on the parcels." But mother had departed.
Sadly but not unexpectedly, a few months later my father died. He was still a young man but for a brief time he had lived his dream. We kept the poultry for a few more years - I can remember heaving buckets of left-overs from the dining area of Andover Primary School to help with their feeding - but these too were eventually sold when we moved to a flat where the rent was considerably more affordable for my mother.
I have inherited my father's love of animals and I have a dream that one day I will have a place where I can keep a puckle hens, a few ducks, one or two geese, possibly a couple of ponies for my grandchildren. And goats? Well....... we'll see.