There is a vast difference between overseas mission work and the parish ministry in Scotland. In Central Africa, the people were so happy to find a new way of life, free from disease, famine, fear of other tribes and cruel tribal rituals. It was real salvation to them and instead of’ man-made gods to worship, they found freedom and inward peace, to worship God Almighty. The transformation to a new life was free for the delightful Africans — so very different from the penalties demanded by witch doctors of former days.
The founder of Livingstonia, Dr Robert Laws, had difficulty in getting two or three together in 1875—6 to listen to him. In 1925 many thousands came to meetings, some travelling over forty miles on foot, to hear the Gospel proclaimed.
Now that I was back in Scotland it was not easy to get to the hearts of people. They came to church, they enjoyed the service, singing with great fervour and, in silence, listened to the scripture readings, prayer and sermon.
In Africa, many came after a service asking, ‘What can I do for Jesus?’ ‘May I have a booklet my son can read?’ and ‘Please come to my village, many old people are longing to hear the story of “The Saviour who cares”!’
Though weak from recurring bouts of malaria and often rushed to nursing homes, hospitals and infirmaries for emergency treatment, I found time to go out to various places to speak on foreign missions. I was always taken by car to some church or hall and in each place I had a loyal welcome.
In April 1933, the Foreign Mission Committee wondered if I was able to undertake a tour of the east Coast of Fife. This I was very pleased to do. I sent out twenty-four cards to various organizations. Within three days I had replies from all. It was a triumphant tour — Leven, Methil, Buckhaven, Elie, St Monance, Pittenweem, Anstruther, Crail, Cupar, Largo and Newport. My reception was most cordial. In each place I found congregations well-informed on parish affairs which was natural, but lacking in knowledge of the many missionary enterprises in different parts of the world.
My health improved and by the summer of 1933 I had completed all my deputation work and added a large sum of money to aid missions and interested nearly 4,000 in Overseas Evangelism.
When I returned home from my missionary work in Central Africa in 1929, body racked with malaria, I was desperately ill. The long journey from Livingstonia to Scotland was a nightmare. It lasted thirty-two days. On the ship I was too weak and ill to assist in caring for my wife, daughter Margaret and the ten-month-old twins. Our homecoming was marred by my constant malarial attacks in Miss Little’s Nursing Home, Perth Road, Dundee.
I knew I was very ill as a nurse never left my bedside. It was just on midnight when Professor Price and two other specialists examined me. Without moving me much, they went through the routine of examination.
I remember the words, ‘The malaria is bedded in the spleen.’ Then, after a pause, the Professor said, ‘Poor chap, he has a killer germ. What’s his age?’ On being told thirty-two, he stroked my face with his handkerchief, saying sadly, ‘Thirty two, how unkind. He’ll not see the light of morning.’
The words seem to cut deep. I replied, ‘I’ve too much of the devil in me to give way, I’ll see the morning!’
The noted surgeon was taken aback. He bent down, his cheek touched mine and proudly he whispered, ‘Good man, you’ll make it, that’s the spirit.’ (The poor Professor and both specialists died a few years later!)
For a number of years I was desperately ill. Many types of injections, medicine and rest treatment were tried, all with indifferent results. Doctors said work was out of the question, I must resign myself to poor health. I wouldn’t accept this. I knew my faith would triumph.
Within three years I was minister of a busy parish. I had recurring attacks of malaria, suffered from severe headaches, collapsed once or twice from overwork, but I worked and enjoyed my duties. Between bouts of malaria I was taken by car to conduct services in many churches.
On one pulpit engagement in Denbeath, Fife, I noted an elderly minister in the congregation. After the service he called on me in the vestry. He liked my sermon, but did not approve of the manner I came to church.
‘Why,’ I said, ‘for once I travelled in a bus and it was comfortable.’
‘Bus indeed,’ quipped the old man, ‘I saw you get off and I also saw nearly a dozen golfers in the bus. Was that the way to come to The Lord’s House to preach — mixing with golfers?’
I’m afraid I smiled at his narrow-mindedness, which riled him. ‘Wrong to travel in a bus with Sunday golfers?’ I replied. ‘Do you think that is evil? Why I’d ride on the back of the devil himself, weekday or Sunday, to do the Lord’s work.’
In August 1933 The Very Rev Dr Donald Fraser, D.D., wrote and informed me about a vacant Parish at Newmills, Torryburn, near Dunfermline. I found out that over a score of applicants had applied. Mr Adamson, the local headmaster, a most delightful gentleman, told me repairs were urgently required to the church and fourteen-roomed manse; also the congregation was only a handful and had no funds. A short list of three was drawn up and I was the first to preach.
Later, the voting results were Mr Caseby, 46, Mr X, 0 and Mr Y, 0. My appointment was unanimous.
We moved into the manse in early October, 1933. My wife was happy. For three years we had bought articles of furniture at sales and had it stored. When we saw the huge manse, twelve fine rooms and two large attic rooms, we set about furnishing them to live in. Friends came to our aid. Most work done, painting, papering and decorating was done free. There was a huge garden.
The day we settled in the church was packed. So too, the social evening that followed. It was a red letter day for Newmills. To my wife and myself, we were joyful— before us lay a new adventure in evangelism. The manse, overnight, became a home of beauty. My wife, with her accustomed good taste, soon had carpets down, furniture sited and curtains up. Visitors marvelled at the transformation. So too with garden, paths and lawns. Within three days of arrival, all was neat and tidy. Friends came with winter plants — broccoli, savoy and leeks; and for the borders, wallflower, forget-me-not and sweet William plants. One gardener brought a box of about two hundred tulips and daffodil bulbs.
After my first service in church there was an overflow problem so I intimated special meetings for those willing to help in some capacity such as Elders and Deacons or organizers for a planned Women’s Guild, Bible Class, Sunday School, Band of Hope and for choir members. At the same time I appealed for a permanent organist and a Beadle. To my surprise over a hundred people waited after the service and all my invitations to individuals to do particular duties were willingly accepted and a system of steering and organising committees was formed and early dates agreed for their first meetings.
God moved that congregation to service like a rushing wind, blessing everything we attempted with success.
It was just nine thirty p.m. on my first Sunday. Feeling a bit exhausted and pleased with the day’s events I was about to sit down to a cup of tea when the back door knocker sounded. Two men on cycles arrived with a note from Valleyfield Colliery asking me to come at once as two miners were trapped underground.
The headmaster took me in his car to the pit. The manager gave me details of the two men and their injuries and as the ambulance had only a driver I accompanied the injured men to Dunfermline Hospital, waited until I had the surgeon’s report, returned by ambulance to the two homes and assured the wives that all was well. It was my first contact with the homes of miners, a privilege I have cherished for all of my life.
Midnight was chiming on the manse kitchen clock on my first Sunday in my new parish. No one was needed to sing me to sleep that night. I was back into harness and felt happy.
Within six weeks, eight elders and six deacons were appointed: a permanent organist took up duty and gathered around him a choir of sixteen. The Women’s Guild, under the direction of my wife, enrolled twenty-four women. A Church Officer was taken on; ten teachers supervised the Sunday School of sixty children; twenty young teenagers attended my Bible Class; eighty-four youngsters joined the Band of Hope and forty joined the Mixed Fellowship each Sunday at seven thirty p.m.
In the same period of six weeks, the Church membership increased from fifty-eight adults to exactly two hundred. My first communicants class numbered forty. Financially, my wife and I had a struggle as I had to work three months before the salary became due. The money gifts I received on my appointment from many friends took a heavy burden from my wife’s shoulders and to add to our joy, the Foreign Mission Committee, acting on pressure from two of my African colleagues, Very Rev Dr Robert Laws and Very Rev Dr Donald Fraser — granted me an invalid allowance of £120 in excess of my annual ministerial salary of £120. We were actually down to our last £1 when a cheque for £30 arrived, the quarterly payment of my invalid allowance.
I was in front of three medical consultants in three months in an attempt to find a cure for my ailments and each report said, ‘This patient is suffering from tropical disorders. Must lead an orderly, quiet life’.
As we neared Christmas 1933, three months from my appointment, I had made a hurried visit, with elders, to all in the parish. There were many aged, infirm, disabled and sick under my care. I was able to help most in many different ways. Hospital patients alone numbered on average thirty per week.
One Sunday a little boy was absent from Sunday school and his parents from evening service. An office-bearer told me the child had tonsillitis.
After my fellowship meeting I walked to the next village and called at the child’s home. The parents were very distressed. The doctor suspected something worse than a cold and enlarged tonsils. He took a swab and sent it by special messenger to Dunfermline Fever Hospital. I stayed in the room with the boy. He lay as if in a coma.
Two friends called to be with the family so I left about ten o’clock, to be roused at eleven thirty p.m. The boy had died from diphtheria. I hurried to the house of mourning. The parents were sitting stunned, unable to move. Their friends were terribly upset. Upstairs I found the boy lying curled up, covered by a sheet. I felt limp as I turned the little corpse over, straightened out the curves, placed the hands and arms across the body. The boy looked so very beautiful, a smile on the little lips. I had known death in many forms, of all ages, in Africa. But this was my first real testing.
I prayed with the parents who were the local school headmaster and his wife and other friends who had gathered, including the doctor. All I remember was the father rising up, clasping me in his arms, saying, ‘Thank you. I understand. I must be brave, my faith counts now.
I got home about three a.m. I felt confused and exhausted. Having a family of our own we were very sorry for the parents. We tried everything in our power to bring a sense of consolation and sympathy to them.
By way of vivid contrast, that Monday afternoon I was called to the house of a lady, aged ninety-five. She told me in a strong voice, ‘I pray every hour to be taken back to my Lord.’
At the child’s funeral hundreds of folks wept, there were masses of flowers and gloom hung over the village.
At the old lady’s one the next day there were one dozen relatives as mourners exchanging happy reminiscences afterwards and just a single wreath to mark the end of a life well spent.
At odd times I was drawing up a rota of schemes for 1934. Already, the finance of the congregation in three months exceeded the previous two years.
On Christmas Eve 1933, I was called to Valleyfield Colliery office. The general manager told me he appreciated all I had done to help the miners and their families. As a thank-you offering and a token of regard, he was allowing me, free of charge, two tons of No. 1 coal each quarter and any extra coal required at half price. Also all the coal required for the church furnace would be half price.
On 1st January 1934,1 had planned a full programme for the year. Seven students and three lay preachers had promised to stand in for me if I did not feel well. For all other organizations, twenty-two people, with many talents, agreed to speak and help me. People were very kind and as far as possible, I was willing to help them. Newmills Church was known beyond the Presbytery of Dunfermline and Kinross. Ministers were eager to exchange pulpits with me. They knew they would get a full church and hearty singing.
In February 1934, my wife gave birth to our fifth child. Like the other children, he was a sturdy, lovely baby, a boy. We called him Charles John, after his two grandfathers. I loved children and was always pleased to be in their presence. We had made many friends and we were fortunate with the kindly people who came to assist in the home.
One evening I exchanged pulpits with a Dunfermline minister. He was in our manse when I returned.
He asked me, ‘How have you managed to have such a large congregation and so generous collections? I saw office-bearers tearing up envelopes, so I asked one what the collection came to. He told me morning £12, evening £1 1.’
I gave him the secret. Unnumbered freewill envelopes. He had never heard of them.
He told me he had eighteen in the choir and 107 in the pews and he loved every minute in my pulpit. I had had no choir and only twenty-one in the pews in his church. He said that was about the usual out of 580 members.
I was short of good books in my study. I had a list of ten books I desperately needed. In an Edinburgh book shop, I saw all ten priced at £18. I had not mentioned the list of books to anyone. One evening the headmaster said, ‘Would you like a car run to Kirkcaldy?’ I was free to go. We arrived at a house.
A retired minister once stayed here. His daughter wondered if I required books.
On a large table stood piles of books. After a cup of tea I was told to choose my books, all were free. There was one bundle of ten, exactly the ten I had on my list, the ones the bookseller wanted £18 for. In all, I got sixty valuable books free. The books were indeed an answer to my prayers.
One afternoon I came home soaked to the skin. I had three funerals in three different cemeteries: a miner, young woman and an elderly man. All were sad events.
Our family doctor was vaccinating our youngest child. When he had finished, he said abruptly, ‘Get to bed at once. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ He came back from the chemists with powdered quinine, etc. He examined me: ‘Your pulse is far too high, your spleen too big, your temperature is 101 degrees.’
I was never so glad to rest. Dr McDougall gave me a ‘shot in the arm’. I woke up next day at ten a.m. To my surprise my wife had arranged for friends to take services on two Sundays and others to fall into line in other organizations.
The children loved Daddy in bed. It was, ‘Tell us another story,’ and I obliged by creating the character of Cleekum and inventing new adventures for him and them over many years.
In June 1934, after a medical check-up in Edinburgh, I decided it was time we had a holiday. At the beginning of July, I took the family to Balbie (pronounced Ba’bee) Farm, a few miles from Kirkcaldy and fairly high up. It was an ideal spot. The Lawries, who had the farm, were charming; house and appointments were first-class and food excellent. The children loved the animals, fields, rocks and hedgerows. We played all sorts of games outside and came in hungry at mealtimes.
I carried a notebook with me every day, writing stories, poems, sketches, children’s yarns and sermons.
On Sunday I walked down the hillside about one mile to get the Kirkcaldy bus in good time for services at Inverteil church, where I had arranged to preach during July. I enjoyed the services. Most of the sermons were ones I had composed and preached in Newmills.
NOTE: Appendix 5, Part 6, ‘Obituary for Dr Robert Laws,’ records a sad duty lovingly done.
Holiday over, we had a lot of work to catch up with. I found twelve members of my congregation ill in four different hospitals in Dunfermline and Edinburgh and a score badly ill at home, men recovering from accidents, women from operations and two young men with TB.
Fortunately, two elders had regularly visited the home sick and a colleague had called on all in hospital.
Many accidents happened just before miners’ holidays and the few days after the holidays. In the two collieries there were eight mishaps, two serious.
Visitations took me into strange places and among strange people.
One such was the hostel in Newmills, frequented mostly by Irishmen, who were laying water mains and cables along the highways. Although they were nearly all Roman Catholics, they gave me a friendly welcome.
A few were over the hotplate grilling chops, sausages and steaks. Nearby a large pot of potatoes in their jackets was cooking. Other men were reading, a few reclining on their beds. Two such men caught my attention. I thought they were dead! They lay white and stiff. In the air I could smell methylated spirits. At one place I saw a bottle of cheap scent.
The man who escorted me around noticed my alarm.
‘Don’t bother about them, sir,’ he said. ‘They’ll be like that until eight o’clock tomorrow morning, maybe midday. They’re dead drunk with milk.
‘Drunk with milk? What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘It’s like this,’ my companion explained. ‘This one put the gas tube into a bottle of milk, he gassed it for a minute, then drank the lot. He’s blotto for twenty-four hours. The other mixed liquid polish and milk and swallowed the lot. He’s drunk for a period.’
Some homes were beautiful outside and in, reflecting the character of the owners. Others were plain, giving a feeling of warmth and happiness. Others again, with bare necessities, conveyed thrift, self discipline and strict buying from earnings.
One area in particular filled me with uneasiness and discomfort. A long row of dismal houses having few amenities. Some dwellings were slums, damp, bug-ridden, cheerless hovels.
One day in such a place a fire burned brightly. The mother and four children looked ill. They had no food, the cupboard was empty. I asked many questions and received evasive answers. I gave the eldest child 2/- to go to the bread van nearby to buy bread and a pot of jam. The mother was sweet, apologetic and unwilling to talk about her husband. He arrived with a whippet dog and disappeared into the kitchen. I followed. He had two eggs. He cracked one and was about to separate white from yolk in a handleless cup when I asked what he was up to.
‘Oh, the dog gets the white. It’s running tonight in a big race.
I was furious. ‘You rotter,’ I bellowed, picking up the other egg. ‘Your wife and children come first. They’ll get these, not the dog.
The man was speechless for a moment, then he turned to go out the back door. I barred his way.
‘Your wife and children are hungry, have you any money?’ He handed over 3/-. I let him go out with his precious whippet.
The grocery van was near the house.
‘Here,’ I said to the wife handing over the money, ‘go and buy something and give yourself and the children at least one meal.’
On my way home I called at the colliery office and asked the manager if he had a hard job for a lazy man. When he heard the name he held up his hands, ‘Sorry, he’s worthless.’
I pleaded, ‘I’ve never seen a woman and family so dejected and miserable. Give him hard work on the pit bing, starting tomorrow. I’ll bring him myself.’ It was agreed.
I retraced my steps to the house to find the man sharing a meal of hot soup with bread, followed by pies. I certainly laid down the law.
‘I’ll be at the pit gate tomorrow morning at seven a.m.,’ I told him. ‘If you are not there to start work, I’ll report you to the police and the NSPCC for neglecting your children.’
Next morning he was at the pit gate. He worked on the pit bing and it proved the turning point not only to the man, but to his wife and children.
From friends I managed to get enough food for one week, even articles of clothing for the family. The wife joined the church, the children Sunday school.
Though the man had bouts of beer drinking, he never neglected his work or family again.
During the autumn of 1934 I visited every house in one street, noting all ages in the families. In this way I found jobs for unemployed, assisted many with financial difficulties and arranged for many elderly people, unwanted by their families, to be admitted into old folks homes and other institutions.
Most of the houses in the street were bug infested. Each time I arrived home I changed my clothes and had a bath. As we had a young family I did not want them to suffer.
Only once did a bug get in my clothes and it was removed from my shoulder by a miner.
One day, during my visitation, I saw a door open. Previously it had always been closed and my knocking ignored. Three times I knocked, then walked in, to be met by a dignified elderly lady and another younger person, beautiful but crippled. On introducing myself, I was made welcome. The old lady turned out to be most charming and the daughter equally so. They told me a moving story.
About a year before, they lived well, in a big house, with a thriving business. One morning, the elderly lady’s husband handed a large order to a traveller. The traveller was apologetic, saying his firm declined to supply goods until previous bills were honoured. Shocked, the old man phoned up his bank manager to be told there was a big overdraft. Within days the firm was insolvent. Shop contents and house contents were taken over. The old man died of a broken heart.
Widow and daughter were allowed to choose certain articles of furniture, kitchen utensils and clothing. A friend took their belongings to a vacant house in my parish, where they hid themselves for weeks, living on food they had brought. They were on the verge of poverty. I promised to help. From a local parish fund the trustees gave me a sum of money.
Later that day my wife accompanied me with a basket of essential foods. The couple were too proud to accept charity. They would die first. I got round the difficulty by applying to an Edinburgh society which supported business ladies who had fallen on evil times and had few resources.
They were given £3 per week, articles to sew, knit, embroider and tapestries to make. Both highly skilled, they turned out wonderful work and became quite independent.
In another home I discovered an ex-matron of a large London hospital living in poverty. She had taken her pension in a lump sum to buy property she had not inspected. The property was worthless. Again I helped. Three ladies’ indigent societies combined to assure her of £4 per week for the rest of her life.
With my health much better, I started house services, six to eight people from neighbouring homes meeting in one. I explained my mission to bring the church to those who were not able to walk to church. It was very successful.
In six weeks I had twelve meetings in all; one hundred very old, crippled, maimed, poor sighted, two with miner’s lung and convalescent patients attended. I read the psalm, offered prayers, New Testament reading, ten minutes talk and the Benediction. I talked with each, then the host provided tea and biscuits. It is very interesting to note that out of the hundred, eighty-eight became church members.
By the end of 1934, Newmills Church was self-supporting, and giving to fourteen outside projects, had paid all its debts, for painting the church and four rooms in the manse and there was a balance of £18. I had held two communion services, twelve weddings, twenty-eight funerals, sixty-four baptisms, visited eighty-one in hospital and waited at Valleyfleld Colliers on thirteen occasions, for dead and injured miners. I had twenty-five house meetings and I could say every house in the parish had been visited and every man, woman and child was added to my church records. It was a wonderful feeling to realize my efforts were appreciated, the church pews full, twice every Sunday, plus two sessions of Sunday School and one of Bible Class. The Bible Class was dear to my heart, for I had forty teenagers, twenty-five of whom joined the Forces at the outbreak of World War II.
One forenoon a military-looking man knocked at the manse back door at Newmills, Fife. He asked politely for a cup of tea and something to eat. I asked him into the kitchen saying my wife would gladly make him a meal. My visitor declined to enter, but if I brought out a chair he would wait my convenience.
My wife soon had a kettle on. We set a tray, made sandwiches and found some jellied cakes. When all was ready, I took it out. From a window, I saw the man. He divided the eats, wrapped half in paper, then removed his hat and bowed his head as if in blessing. He ate the meal slowly. When he finished, he knocked at the door and thanked my wife and our young family. I walked out into the garden with him.
To make conversation I told him of my army days, years in Africa, my illnesses and the great courage and kindness of my wife and our young family. He stopped near an apple tree, bowed his head, then I saw tears in his eyes. He took a Bible from his pocket. On the inside flyleaf was a photo of a very pretty young woman.
With great emotion, he told me his story. He was a teacher and engaged to be married when he was called up. His young lady taught also. She saved and, early in 1918, took an option on a house. Together they gradually gathered furnishings.
The war ended, he rejoined his school and the wedding was fixed. His bride took ill and before the marriage, died.
Heart-broken, he left everything behind, vowing never to reside in a habitable dwelling, sharing any kindness and ‘food he received with others. For seventeen years he tramped the country.
‘I’m not mad,’ he told me. ‘Sometimes I stop at a tinker camp and teach children. I even share my meal and, if necessary, clothing and footwear.’
I tried to reason with him but he wouldn’t listen. He would not break his vow. He was a brave man. Perhaps in his own way he was doing as much good as I was.
Later that evening an elderly couple came to the manse door. They were frequent visitors, a husband and wife out of Dunfermline Council Home. At times they would leave the home and walk as far as Stirling.
On their outward journey, our house was their first call for food and sixpence. On the way back, our house was their last place of call for something to eat. They were cheerful in their own way.
This particular evening they didn’t want food.
‘We had it from the Samaritan. He shared with us the food you gave him this forenoon. He’s the kindest man on the road and doesn’t drink or smoke. He’s a mystery man, so polite. Do you know anything about him?’ they enquired.
I shook my head. I could not betray his secret. I never met him again. But time and again other beggars and gypsies told me he was still doing his good work all over the East Coast.
Another so-called tinker lived in a rude dwelling on a waste piece of ground. She was a fine woman. Her husband took a good dram at times, but not enough to get drunk. He was a great reader of good books. I gave him quite a number. He was a good worker on the land, never staying long in one place. The inside of the tent was clean. Most cooking was done on a double paraffin stove. They liked good food.
One day, when both were in, I sat inside the tent on the only collapsible stool. They sat on logs. We had a delightful talk over a cup of very strong sweetened tea, coloured by a dash of condensed milk.
The woman made flowers from crepe paper, teapot stands from wood and ‘links’ of crochet. She sold them to other traders, possibly door-to-door sellers.
Before leaving the cosy tent, with its twin beds of deep heather and beautiful bedspreads, the woman allowed me to read what her life was patterned on.
‘Life is not governed by clothes, nor the colour of skin, but by the purity of the soul within!’ It was a faded piece of paper, in large clear bold handwriting, her own work many years previously.
The last instance of travellers on the Queen’s highway concerns a tinker evangelist. His parents, grandparents and generations before that, were tinkers. He lived as one of the groups he was visiting. He liked to preach to ‘ones and twos.’ He told stirring Bible stories to wayside children. According to his commission, he married, baptized and buried. He was a sincere Christian.
One of my great delights was working in the manse garden. It was a big one and required a lot of attention. Many people wondered how it was kept so clean and tidy. It can be summed up in one word — method. Perhaps the army started it. Certainly the mission field advanced it. My ministry perfected it.
Method is a must in everything. My wife had the same qualities. Despite now having a family of six, a large manse and being interested in all church work, our home was always in excellent trim. So too her colourful flower plots, rockeries and lawns.
At four o’clock on a Monday morning she was in the washhouse (no washing machines then) and, if fine, four clothes lines were soon full.
One day, a miner said to me, ‘Mr Caseby, a number of my work team have a bet that your wife washes her clothes on Sunday and puts them out on a Monday morning.’ I told him the truth. ‘I’ve won 5/-,’ he said.!
Mid-summer 1938 was clouded by the arrogance of Hitler. Many elderly people who knew the distress of the South African War and the First World War, were very anxious indeed.
Month after month, the tension grew. Organizations in Civil Defence, Observer Corps, Ambulance Duties and the erection of shelters, trench digging, sand bag filling and other semi-military classes took place. The day came for the issue of gas masks and the setting up of Aid Raid Warden Posts. Young men and women joined up. We, who had gone through World War I knew the struggle would be long and bitter.
In September 1939, a Sunday at eleven a.m., I had just time to hear the Prime Minister say, ‘We are now at war’ before I entered my pulpit. I carried through the service and after the benediction, I said to my packed congregation: ‘We are now at war with Germany. Go quietly home. I beg you to instruct your children to keep indoors if raiders come.’ I had just reached the word ‘come’ when the sirens sounded. It turned out to be a false alarm.
Outside, a number of mothers were waiting for their children. Quite a number of elderly mothers were weeping —two for lost sons in the First World War and because their grandchildren were now of calling-up age. It was a sad Sunday. For the first time since trenchwork in France during the First World War, I dug soil on a Sunday, making a pit for our Anderson air raid shelter.
We were at war indeed. Blackouts went up on all windows:
window panes were criss-crossed with sticky brown paper tape. The church bell was silenced: organizations ceased, rationing was started overnight; a nation was geared to war. As in every emergency the Scots stood united, determined, alive to the problems to be overcome. Every person had an identity card.
We didn’t have long to wait to realize war had reached our village. A German plane flew over in daylight. Anti-aircraft guns were in action, shells bursting near the plane. People rushed out to see what was going on. Children ran to open spaces for a better view. Few had any idea of the danger from flying shrapnel, unexploded shells coming down, bombs, gas or bullets. I advised them to take shelter, as splintered shells could wound or even kill.
One of our twins said to me, ‘Have a heart Dad. We love the fun.’
Two days later, a German plane flew over at roof-top level, machine-gun fire and anti-aircraft shells crashing around at five hundred feet, splinters pitting the ground and splitting roof tiles and slates. An enemy night raider dropped bombs in a wood a mile away, doing no damage except for cracking a few window panes. At first, when sirens sounded, it was a rush to our air raid shelters , most of which were fitted with beds and heaters.
Schoolchildren hoped for night raids after ten pm, for the next day was a school holiday! We had only a few isolated anti-aircraft guns, also a few Lewis machine gunners on rock shore posts.
One day I was visiting a post when sirens wailed. Within seconds a plane, flying low with clear German markings, passed up the Firth of Forth. A young officer, Lieutenant Jones, of Larbert, took the Lewis gun and sent bursts of fire into the aircraft. I was behind him and distinctly saw tracer bullets enter the fuselage. The plane wobbled and took evasive action, but something was wrong. It lost height and came down on the south side of the Forth. I notified Edinburgh Command and Rosyth Dockyard of the action of Lieutenant Jones and the accuracy of his firing. Later, I was told an anti-aircraft crew was credited with the kill, a statement I disputed. During the whole action I didn’t see one shell anywhere near the plane.
Two or three days before the end of October, I was in Edinburgh for a medical. On the bus we were asked to show our identity cards. This happened again at the railway stations and in a tram. It was the only time I had to exhibit the card during the entire war, except for entry into Rosyth Dockyard and Edinburgh Castle. The reasons were the Mrs Jordan spy scare and stories of a spy impersonating a high ranking Naval Officer who was supposed to be in the Forth area.
On my return home the twins told me a Naval Officer had spoken to them at Crombie Point. The gold braid on his tunic was different from the braid on an Officer we knew so at once I got in touch with Rosyth and an alert was put into action. We learned later the man in question was caught inside the dockyard.
Soon I was Honorary Chaplain and Welfare Officer to various military units, and my wife started supper evenings in the Manse for soldiers on anti-aircraft gun crews. A valuable service in which members of the Women’s Guild helped. The commanding officers of all units were helpful. They sent a car for me to help in welfare cases and problems arising from billeting and evacuees.
A very different calamity from air warfare struck our community. One of my church Elders called on me before going out to night shift in Valleyfield Colliery. He was a young, strong man. Tonight he looked pale. His words sent a chill down my spine.
‘I’m afraid this is goodbye. At my funeral service please sing “Nearer My God to Thee”,’ he said quietly and unafraid.
I tried to reason with him saying, ‘In many of my serious illnesses, I have felt like you, but the mood passed and faith triumphed.’
Calmly he spoke again – ‘It’s bound to happen. So many illegal things are happening down the pit. An explosion can take place any time. I feel it will blow up tonight.’
My wife was upset, so was I. He walked with his head erect towards the pit, a very brave man. Many other miners probably felt the same way that night. Duty called them and they obeyed. I understood their motive from my war service days.
Early next morning I was called to Valleyfield Colliery office. Hundreds of people were gathering and by the time I came out of the office a dense mass of people stood in silence. The only movement was rescue men equipped for emergencies and boys and girls carrying their pet canaries in expensive cages.
The general manager handed me the casualty list — he whispered, ‘Thirty-six dead, seventy injured.’ I read the names of the dead. Physically I felt weak, but my spirit was strong.
‘May God bless us all,’ I began. ‘Here are the names of the men who have died this morning in Valleyfield Pit. ‘Robert McFarlane’ (the Elder who came to say goodbye the previous evening).
As I named the dead, a low flying German plane machine-gunned the pit. Anti-aircraft shells burst overhead, but no one looked up. It was an ordeal reading the names of men I knew and respected, young lads I loved and admired. The women were marvellous; no screaming; no panic. Sobs yes and long sighs. One girl, expecting her first baby, fell at my feet when her husband’s name was called.
When I had finished the manager offered me a glass of brandy which I declined — tea was poured out of a flask which I gratefully accepted. I moved among the crowd, offering imperfectly, but sincerely, my sympathy and politely requesting people to go home.
We were in the midst of another war, the war against black damp and gas in the bowels of the earth where miners worked. It took a long time to get all the bodies out of the exploded coal seams. My wife and I felt that God had endowed us with spiritual strength to help the needy in their hour of trial.
The night before the disaster I had managed to patch up a quarrel between a couple who had been separated for some weeks. Later the same night the couple walked down to the pit gate together, kissed and said cheerio. They were never to do so again.
The church was packed for Bob McFarlane’s funeral service. We sang ‘Nearer My God to Thee’. Bob was a twin. His brother died with him.
For fourteen days I spent ten hours daily visiting the bereaved and the homes of the injured and in hospital, also conducting many funerals. I often marvel how God’s precious words gets into the hearts in time of crisis, whereas when things go well, God is left out.
Welfare work in the army unit took up a lot of my time, so I decided to start a Church of Scotland canteen in our church hall. It was an outstanding success. Men and women in the services came privately to me with their problems, most of them I solved. My wife drew around her a capable band of workers and when the war was over my wife had worked 1,008 days without a break; and 52,000 had passed through the canteen.
On Sunday evenings there was always a service in church before canteen time. It was a happy get-together. RCs, Anglican, non-conformists, Jews, Agnostics attended. I based the idea on what I had learned from Padre Read in 1916 to 1918. The singing was impressive.
After the canteen closed at nine o’clock, the men would ask for more hymn singing, which was granted. Once a week I organized lectures in the church which were part of an announced series with titles like, ‘Life Abundant’, ‘Patriotism and Profit’, ‘Soldiers and Duty’, Spiritual Freedom’, ‘Reward from Obedience’, ‘Bible Heroes’, ‘What Makes a Church?’, ‘Volunteering for Christ’, ‘Honesty’, ‘The Price of Freedom’, ‘Security and Peace’ and ‘Triumphant Grace’.
The addresses were popular, so much so that I visited other units some miles away to repeat them. Most of the addresses were based on my own experiences in World War I and on ideas gleaned from Tubby Clayton who had formed ‘Toc H’.
The Valleyfield disaster brought a great sense of unity to the whole parish. On Sundays the many churches in the district had a spiritual revival. Unfortunately it was short-lived. The increased tempo of air raids, Sunday activities of the Observer Corps, air-raid women joining the armed services and weekend employment in fields, mines, factories and Rosyth Dockyard caused depleted congregations.
One day I was called to Rosyth Dockyard for an interview with the Senior Welfare Officer. The question of our big manse was raised. A billeting officer had called on me the previous week, asking for two or three rooms for evacuees. I explained I wasn’t very fit, we had six children and it was impracticable to expect my wife to look after and feed several evacuees. But we were willing to assist in any other direction with senior serving personnel belonging to the services, or civilian technicians.
My offer was accepted. I had a clause inserted in our agreement that alcohol would not be consumed in the manse. On the whole the plan worked well. Only twice was a complaint lodged, once when a Rosyth technician arrived without luggage, very drunk, a bottle of whisky in each pocket.
As Welfare Officer I had to provide reports on the sixteen men boarded in the area. During the whole period of the war I submitted about sixty reports and only five were unfavourable. Troops of various units came into the district — Royal Ordnance Corps, Pioneer Corps, Royal Army Service Corps, an Anti-Aircraft Unit and a Polish Corps. Two unit commanders asked me to act as their Chaplain. I was happy to accept. I kept two evenings apart for interviews. The soldiers made good use of my time. They had many problems of a nature they didn’t want to discuss with their officers. These concerned the withholding of passes, too much ‘bull’, family problems, pay deductions, bad food, poor accommodation, lack of entertainment and service conditions.
I had a code number for every man, wrote down every complaint, no matter how trivial and discussed them with the officers concerned. All the officers were sympathetic and, over a cup of tea in my study, most of the grievances were resolved. It’s pleasing to record that my investigations set a pattern of understanding between officers and servicemen. Quite a number of soldiers could neither read nor write, so I provided the link between separated families by writing letters home for them.
I remember one wife writing to her husband saying: ‘Get yon bloke to write again. He knows what to write. Just the things I want to know.’
Another wife wrote to her husband: ‘You big cheat. You couldn’t write before. How come you write so well now?’
The need for letter writing help grew as more servicemen passed through the evening canteen I had opened in the church hall for them and many of my congregation helped soldiers, sailors and airmen of many nationalities to put down on paper what came to be for so many fine young people their last fond thoughts to loved ones. This was a harrowing and sad event for the willing helpers but a comforting and somehow ennobling one for those helped who seemed, as a result, to become more resigned to the death or injury they fully expected to be their future.
For me and the others with front-line experience of the 1914—18 War, it was a devastating time for we knew of the unbelievable carnage they would soon face and the seeming futility of the individual sacrifices made to the loved ones left behind. My own faith was sorely tried and my heart was heavy for all concerned. So I started brief interdenominational services in the evenings after the canteen had finished. I was astonished at the favourable response from the servicemen and their fervour and faith in the goodness of God and in the ultimate victory of Christ over evil inspired me and all visitors who attended. I doubt if Sankey and Moody hymns and choruses were ever more meaningfully sung or so many tears of joy shed by so many tough soldiers who previously showed so few signs of faith.
One evening a Polish soldier came into the canteen. He had tea, cakes, twenty cigarettes and a 6d bar of chocolate — and tendered a £100 note! — None of the canteen helpers had ever seen one! — I was notified. I hadn’t seen one before, but the visitor let me see nine others! Having large denomination notes and big sums of money were giveaway signs of a possible German spy. Posters, visiting Government cine-film vans and the radio told us to watch out for such signs. I telephoned the bank manager, explaining the size, wording, signature etc on the note and he confirmed that it was genuine. I gave the Pole his note back, asking him to look in the next time he was passing and pay his 2/9 bill. He called next evening to square up. He was the first of many fine Poles to visit our canteen who we all came to admire and respect in our little community.
We had a few rush periods outside of normal canteen evening hours. One forenoon a dispatch rider called to let me know a column of marching soldiers was about three miles from the village. They were to be picked up by transport vehicles outside our area. I sent word to as many people as possible to boil kettles and bring them to the canteen. My wife got out all the cups and saucers, bowls of sugar and jugs of milk. Within minutes hot water arrived and was poured into the tea urn. Sandwiches were hurriedly made, biscuits and cake produced and twenty volunteers were ready to serve the marching men.
An officer in a staff car arrived at our gate. A Norwegian Colonel, he could speak only a few words in English. He was surprised when he heard of our arrangements. He spoke to his men, who cheered. Then the tea brigade went into action. Over four hundred cups of tea disappeared, plus all the food within twenty minutes. Villagers brought out precious sweets, cigarettes and fruit and handed them around. The colonel and his men were overjoyed. We were proud to do our little bit for brave men who had scorned the dangers of the North Sea to help in the war.
Later that evening a man stopped his car in the village and spoke to me. He had heard about our welcome to the Norwegian soldiers. Then he asked me if we were out of pocket.
‘It was an act of faith and generosity. As a minister, I find faith always pays,’ I said. The man praised our good deed before handing me an envelope. It contained £4 — more than enough to square our outlays.
The man, I only knew him as a chemist in Dunfermline, then shook me by the hand before going away.
One afternoon a young New Zealand airman called at the manse. He told us his grandfather was once minister of Newmills.
‘Your name must be Lundie,’ I said. His father had told him about Newmills manse and an enormous stone-built underground tank under a bedroom window near the back door.
The airman explained his father and two uncles had been put to bed at eight p.m. and the bedroom door was locked. When all was quiet the boys tied a rope on the huge four-poster bed, opened the window and slid down to the ground. The boys would romp round with pals until nearly ten o’clock then shin back up the rope to bed.
One night the boys were nearly caught. They hid in the tank, up to their knees in water.
Young Pilot Officer Lundie was familiar with every corner of the manse. He loved going over every room relating stories his father had told him. He had lunch with us, then wrote a letter in my study to his parents in New Zealand about his visit.
The lad’s uncle, Dr Lundie of Cupar, called on us a fortnight later to say his nephew had lost his life on an air mission over Germany. I wrote to his parents in New Zealand. Some weeks later we had a reply saying the last letter they had received from their son was a precious one — that written in my study.
A number of Land Army girls took up residence in hostels created to house them in the area. The girls did mainly the heavy manual work on various farms normally done by strong country lads who had all been called to military service. They needed good feeding to help them do the work and were allowed extra rations which went to the hostel owners.
One harvest morning I spoke to three girls. They were anything but cheerful. I asked what was wrong. Hesitatingly I was told they had a slice of bread and a kipper between two for breakfast that morning. One of the girls opened a small bag and showed me two meat paste and two jam sandwiches, plus a biscuit which was her lunch. The meal the night before had consisted of one sausage, potato and some turnip as the main course, then rice with raisins and tea to complete the meal. Hardly sufficient to keep them working well or to keep them fit.
That forenoon I telephoned a few farmers, who had Land Army girls and asked them to find out quietly about the meals. All confirmed what the girls had told me. A friend took me in his car to the authorities in charge of the hostels. They were furious.
That evening, two members of the committee called at the hostel in question at meal time. They just could not believe what they saw, a group of girls toying with a meal similar to the one of the previous evening. Swift action was taken and the matter put right. The food meant for them probably finished up on the Black Market.
One day, about one o’clock, we were waiting for the news on the radio when a dreadful explosion shook our manse at Newmills, Fife and surrounding houses. We hurried outside and looked towards the Forth. All we saw was a huge column of water and smoke. We could smell cordite fumes. Each day at the same hour a barge of naval ammunition passed slowly down. This day it had blown up, probably the result of sabotage.
I was acquainted with a few bargees, so I hurried to a nearby village. There I found that a lad missing in the explosion was the son of people I knew.
The lad’s father pressed the question, ‘Why should it be my boy?’ He had believed that his son was far from the tumult of war. ‘To think it happened so near and so suddenly,’ he said.
We suffered losses — bright young lads sacrificed in war. As new fronts were opened so too our units were moved around, some overseas. New faces entered the canteen, some very young lads. They were quite shy to begin with. It was the first time some had been away from home.
During the drab days of war many things made us smile. One day at Presbytery I saw two ministers with brown paper bags. I was told they contained tomatoes — and they told the secret of how to get them in Dunfermline. Follow the queue in the High Street.
‘When you get to the counter put down 2s 6d and ask for one UTC (under the counter).’
Later I saw a queue and joined it. When my turn came I did as suggested and asked for one UTC. The assistant replied,
‘They’re in two’s.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Ladies’ suspenders,’ she whispered. Talk about a red face, the joke was on me.
One day our three eldest sons came to me with a proposal. In a shop in Dunfermline a box of good carpentry tools was for sale at £5.
‘What about buying the lot, Dad?’ they asked.
‘Five pounds is a lot of money,’ I said. ‘What will you do with the tools?’
They gave me a long story and showed me plans of ships, planes, barrows and other kinds of wooden toys.
‘We’ll pay you back, Dad,’ they chorused. I agreed. I discovered they wanted to raise money for a gift for their mother.
Soon we had a fine workshop in the attic. Local joiners gave me all sorts of ‘off-cut’ wood. The painter gave me paint. And, when I bought the tools, the ironmonger gave me a box full of wood ornaments, dowling, nails, fine wire and sandpaper. In return, he asked for a toy for a little boy who lived near him.
It was a red-letter day when the tools arrived. The first five toys were a ship, trolley, horse, engine and a plane. Then the boys set to with a will. My wife and Margaret, my daughter, were not to be outdone by my sons Sandy, Grant and Cyril. They sewed and knitted bunnies, teddy bears, dolls, squirrels and ducks. The toys made by the boys were very good — ships in warpaint, colourful engines, camouflaged planes and bookends. As promised, I took a toy barrow into the old ironmonger. He turned it over admiring the smooth finish.
‘What are your boys charging for this?’ he asked. When I told him 4s 6d, he just stared at me. ‘Make as many as you like and I’ll give you 10s each,’ he said.
When I told him all the toys were to be offered to the soldiers in the canteen, to send home to their children before embarking at Christmas, he was disappointed and more than a little ashamed at his selfish motives.
Night after night the stock of toys grew. Six weeks passed. They received their final coats of varnish.
Then the sale! Ships 5s 6d, trollies 4s 6d, wood dolls 4s. The articles made by the ladies were low-priced also. The sale brought in over £30. Some soldiers paid more than was asked for. From various homes in the village came brown paper and string which were precious and scarce in wartime. The parcels were tied up and sent off to loved ones at home. Our family really worked hard and learned more about the joy in helping others.
They had started with a scheme to show their love for their mother and ended up helping over one hundred children to have a happy Christmas.
The work did not end there. The workshop was well-used during the long winter nights in making other articles and doing repairs especially on shoes which were scarce and costly and did not last long on the feet of our active daughter and five boys.
NOTE: Appendix (6), Part 6, ‘Cynicus,’ gives a brief account of a boyhood hero about whom we loved to hear as children.
With so many lovely girls in Newmills, Fife, it was only natural that young soldiers found favour with quite a number. There were whirlwind romances. One concerned a man in a unit which was on ‘stand-by’ alert. No one was allowed to leave the camp.
The emergency proclamation of banns was announced to a group of villagers near the church and the notice pinned on the church door.
Guests gathered next forenoon for the wedding and a reception was arranged. Papers were in order, the bride arrived with her bridesmaid, but the soldier bridegroom and his best man didn’t put in an appearance. It was impossible to phone the unit on ‘stand-by’ alert, so I got into a car and made for the camp. The orderly officer told me the soldier in question had left in the early morning on an urgent transport mission to the South of England. He wouldn’t be back for forty-eight hours. I returned to the church to tell the bride and her parents, then the guests.
As the reception had been arranged through friends supplying ‘points’ from their ration cards it was agreed to eat the meal and attend the wedding two days later. We had just started to eat when I was handed a note from the unit commander. It said he regretted the inconvenience caused, but he would make arrangements for the bridegroom’s return the following evening. Sure enough the couple were married within forty-eight hours. To add to their happiness, the soldier was given a seven-day pass.
Another exciting romance took place between a girl and a Petty Officer in the navy. Twice a date was fixed for the marriage but naval duties intervened. The third time was lucky and the wedding was a lovely occasion. Again I was pleased to help with getting seven days’ leave for the Petty Officer and the couple honeymooned in the south.
From time to time I had letters from both. The husband had a shore establishment position for a few months, then he was posted to a warship. The girl returned to her mother in Dunfermline.
Within a year I learned a baby was expected. The young wife soon had ready all the things necessary for a baby. The young husband, on one of his Atlantic convoys, managed to buy pleasant surprises for his wife and American layettes for his coming child.
One evening a message reached me saying the wife was very ill. I hurried to the hospital in Dunfermline only to learn the baby was well, but no hope was held out for the mother. I took a car to Rosyth, hurried to the Welfare Officer and, within minutes, was escorted to a senior naval officer.
He acted quickly. Signals were sent out to the husband’s ship, which was located off the Isle of Man. He arrived next morning. It was my sad duty to inform him that his wife had died, although the baby was well. As minister I officiated at the funeral.
Before the service, at his own request, I ushered the broken hearted young man in to have one last look at his departed loved one. He kissed her cold cheek, put on his hat and gave her the naval salute. He was brave. On high seas he had encountered many trials, but the death of his wife stunned him.
The funeral over, a conference was held about the baby’s future. It was agreed that his parents and teenage sister would take charge of the child in their home in the South of England.
War wounded were directed to many hospitals all over the country. A small committee was formed in Newmills, Fife, to visit the war-wounded, take them out to visit rural areas, escort them on tours and, if necessary, to provide accommodation for wives and mothers.
We had one very sad case. When our troops had occupied a village in Europe, villagers came out of their homes cheering and waving bunting. Some women jumped on the trucks, handing out fruit, sweets and drinks. One woman hugged a gunner and pushed a bottle of wine into his hands. He pulled out the cork, took a drink, then tumbled off the truck into the road in agony. The woman had given him vitriol which had burned the lining off his throat. He was picked up unconscious and rushed to hospital.
After his third operation, he was moved to Dunfermline to gain strength before yet another operation to his throat and stomach. I was allowed to have him out to our manse, along with his wife, for a day at a time. He was so happy and we were all very fond of him. The day came for his big operation. He was very optimistic and cheerful. But, alas, he died. His death caused a great gloom among the wounded.
One morning I received a letter from a young lad in the Far East. He said, ‘So far I have been fortunate. Now the road to Mandalay is open, I hope my luck holds…
It was a cheerful letter of thanks for his mother’s bright notes. I called on her to read the letter.
She was alone at a blacked-out fire. On her lap lay a telegram. She looked up but didn’t seem to see me. Her son had been killed. She was stunned and speechless. She had endured many hard blows. Her husband, daughter and father-in-law had died. Then one of her twin sons in the Valleyfield disaster. Now the other twin had died in a far away land.
One evening, a young lad told me an elderly sick man was outside his house creating an uproar. I was taken to him. We managed to get the man to bed, then I listened to his story. He wanted rum. He did not like any drink except rum. The doctor had told his sister to switch up an egg, add a teaspoonful of rum and give it to him three times daily. He’d had a row with her over the switched egg.
‘Tell me Mr Caseby,’ he appealed, ‘is it fair to give me switched raw eggs? I never liked eggs but I like rum!’
‘Leave the tonic to me. I’ll see you get what you like. But you must keep to bed and not swear at the people who are so good to you.
That evening I mixed black treacle, pepper, sifted sugar and an eggcup of rum together. Enough to fill a quart bottle. I asked a sailor in the canteen to test it. His comment was that it was rotten — and to add more pepper!
Next morning I was at the old man’s bedside and offered him a small glass of my concoction. He sipped it once or twice then emptied his glass.
‘That’s fine. Do I get it three times a day?’ When I told the Doctor he was amused.
‘Do you want another dozen patients?’ he asked.
The old man lingered for three months, enjoying his tonic and never once causing trouble.
One evening he said he just wanted to sleep and not to mix up any more medicine. I had a little prayer reading and benediction. He smiled, then drawing an envelope from under his pillow said, ‘All my folk like their food. In the envelope are thirty names and £20. After my funeral give them all a steak pie.’
His wishes were faithfully carried out, a caterer supplying steak pie to thirty mourners.
VE (Victory in Europe) Day was celebrated quietly and humbly. For the first time since the outbreak of war the church bell tolled out its message of peace and hope. We lit a bonfire on the common and set off fireworks, including Verey lights. It was a welcome sight. The army supplied the fireworks which were really giant signal rockets. One rocket fell onto the ground after the fuse was lit and it shot along the ground making the youngsters rush about screeching in fun. Happier days seemed to be ahead of us all.
At last the day came when the war totally ceased and the church bell rang out this message: black-outs were torn down; lights were lit again; schools resumed; and church services started again. Back came the people; young and old, to church and all its organizations. It was a new beginning and the fellowship of the church came into its own again. Mission and service became the order of the day. A revival, quick at first, blossomed into radiant evangelism.
NOTE: Appendix 7, Part 6, ‘The lovable Wayfarers of Brother Douglas’, recalls another great heart whose behaviour influenced the lives of many.
Late one dark afternoon in 1949, while I was a minister at Blackridge, West Lothian, a man arrived at the manse and said I’d forgotten to be at a wedding in Armadale at three p.m. I checked my diary and noted I had weddings at six p.m. in Armadale and seven p.m. in Blackridge. But nothing for three p.m.
I discovered that everything had been done about arranging the wedding, except telling the Church Officer and contacting me! The whole bridal party had come from Armadale by car and the bride was in tears. I gave her my ‘hankie’ while I got my case with gowns etc. Then I jumped into the car and off to Armadale we went.
The church was quite warm as it was being heated for the later wedding. About twenty guests were in the pews. The service started and I announced the first hymn. The organ would not start and we were left standing in darkness when the lights failed. I had my torch. I knew there were candles in the vestry. So, with the bridesmaid holding one candle and the best man another plus my torch, the couple were married. In the vestry, they signed the certificate by candle-light too. It was all very romantic.
The following week I had another unusual wedding.
All was ready, the bride arrived, but there was no sign of the bridegroom and the best man. Guests set out in different directions to try to trace them. All returned without success. The bride was trembling, convinced something serious had happened. I was standing in my robes at the kerbside when a car drew up. I looked in and saw a sorry sight. There was the bridegroom, pads and plaster on his face and neck, jacket and collar splashed with blood, hands bandaged.
I told the bride what had happened, then the guests and asked everyone to relax till we got the bridegroom cleaned up.
With sticking plaster, powder and liberal use of turpentine on his clothes we got him looking respectable. Nearly an hour late, the wedding took place.
The doctor arrived with the district nurse and attended to the bridegroom’s and best man’s injuries.
Apparently, en route to church, they had had to travel a short distance by bus to collect the best man’s car from its garage. Rounding a bend, the bus swerved and the bridegroom, who was standing on the platform, was hurled into the road. His wounds were dressed at the garage, from the first-aid box. Fortunately, though ugly, they soon healed up.
As I mentioned earlier, I’ve always had a soft spot for gypsies, tinkers and others on the road. While visiting hospital one day I saw what I took to be a coloured woman in a bed. She was one of the travelling folk. I went over to speak to her. She was pleased to see me. She asked me to ask if she could smoke. The ward sister was most sympathetic, but explained: ‘Her pipe is vile, the smoke dreadful and the patients object. I’ll leave it to you.
I got the dirty clay pipe half-filled with tobacco and went back to the ward. To the other patients I said: ‘Can dear old Granny here have twenty puffs (under a towel) of her pipe? Laughingly they agreed and Granny got her pipe.
‘Bless you, sir, I’m all right now,’ she said.
Next day, I gathered a posy of wild flowers — campion, heather, buttercups and others — bordered them with fern leaves and took them to her. She was asleep. I got a vase from a nurse and put the flowers into it and placed it on Granny’s locker, along with sweets and biscuits.
An hour later I returned. The old woman was sitting up, speaking and admiring her ‘precious’ flowers. When she saw me she was full of smiles and thanks. She told me I had made her very happy giving her such pretty flowers. She wouldn’t need her pipe any more now that she had them to look at.
One summer afternoon, there was a knock on the door of the manse in Blackridge, West Lothian. On the step I saw a young tinker woman. Shyly, she told me that she and her husband wanted her baby Christened. So, a day or two later, I made my way to the tinkers’ tent which was pitched on the bank of a stream. The couple were ready and waiting, with their baby dressed in a beautifully worked gown. Inside the tent was decked with wild flowers and laid out on a rush mat were the baby’s clothes, all knitted with wool gathered from the hedgerows and spun by the mother. Solemnly, the baby’s father handed me a tin mug filled with crystal clear water from the burn. And there, with the door of the tent thrown wide, I took the child in arms and Christened it. As I asked God’s blessing on the little one, a mavis burst into song outside.
When the simple ceremony ended, the tinker poured the water from the mug into a bottle and put it carefully away, telling me that it would be used to Christen any other children that might come to them. It wasn’t the grandest Christening service I conducted, but in its way it was the sincerest and most memorable. I often wonder how life treated this lovely young family.
NOTE: Appendix 8, Part 6, ‘The beggar woman with the well kept hands,’ records an incident where things were not as they seemed.
Every parish church was a challenge to my wife and me working as a team, a job we put our hearts into to bring spiritual energy to people starving for the Word. The manse was very large, the huge garden walled in and the extensive Glebe on the banks of the River Dee, some eleven miles from Aberdeen city. The church was half a mile distant, on high ground, of perpendicular Gothic style built in 1835. It was built to replace the very ancient Kirk of Dalmaik, on the river bank. Dalmaik was built in 997 AD but it was a site of worship long before then. There was a third church under my charge, the former UF West Church at Park Village.
During my ministry, the West Church was acquired by the community as a public hall in 1957. The place of worship was the handsome Drumoak Kirk. In Newmills (Fife) and Black-ridge (West Lothian) I had fine church choirs. At my Induction I was delighted to find there was a large enthusiastic choir.
It was late in February, 1954, when we settled in. The weather was sunny and warm, like a summer’s day. The day before my first Sunday service, a blizzard blew up. Snow swirled everywhere and it was very dark. All Saturday night the storm was at its height. Sunday morning was quiet, but huge drifts surrounded the manse. To add to the discomfort the phone was out of order. At breakfast, we heard voices outside. Farmers with tractor snowploughs were out. They had cleared paths to the church and to my joy, there was a fine congregation at the eleven o’clock service and a bigger one when I preached at six the same evening. In my first sermon, I said it was my intention to take the church to every home in the parish. In this crusade, I would be accompanied by an elder. To all sick and aged, there would be regular visits, especially to those in hospitals.
Our youngest son, Ronnie, in a plaster cast, was removed by special ambulance from Bangour to Drumoak and a month later, to Strachathro Hospital, near Brechin. For seven months he was the ideal patient, full of fun, a studious reader and continued his correspondence classes to university level.
Within a month of my Induction, all the organizations of the church were visited and grounded on sure foundations. To my intense satisfaction I had a group of fine young teenagers with keen interest. They co-operated in my projects.
I enjoyed my visits to farm houses, farm cottages, small holdings, distant hamlets, Park Village, the school, Linn Moor Home for Children and to the Oakbank Approved School for Boys. The farms had pleasing names: Quartains, Quiddies Mill, Rashenlochie, Candieglearech, Drum, Dalmik Park, Belskevie, Newhall, Tersets, Kinclunie and Rosehall, to mention only a few.
There were quite a number of aged people between ninety and ninety-nine. The latter prayed every day, ‘Lord preserve me until I am one hundred.’
She died before she had reached one hundred and was buried in Old Dalmaik Kirk Yard, the last to be buried there.
On searching old church records, I found the old lady was actually in her 10 1st year when she died.
The ancient Kirk of Dalmaik interested me. I had the inside of the ruins with its crumbling memorials tidied up and each year I had an open air service within the ruins to commemorate the faithful ministers and people who had worshipped there for over nine hundred years. People came from far distances to attend the services at which psalms were sung.
Eddie Bichan, a farmer, sent a tractor plough and three men into the deserted walled manse garden. Our own boys joined in the clearance operation. A mason repaired the steps between the upper and lower gardens. It took ten days to clear up the overgrown shrubs, nettles, thistles and giant hemlocks. We had three spectacular bonfires. The neglected top lawn was raked and reseeded. Borders were refashioned. In three months what was wilderness became a place of order, growth and beauty. By the end of July 1954, we invited the Church Office-bearers and their ladies to a picnic on the lawn. They just looked and looked. A riot of colour in flowers and in the lower vegetable garden, all kinds of crops.
All our life it has been our pleasure to turn jungles into places of beauty.
On 7th August, 1954, HM The Queen and her husband were due to pass the top of the Manse Avenue. With my wife and daughter, Margaret, I waited in the cool afternoon air. A truck of royal luggage passed, followed by a police car and not far behind, the royal car. As the car approached, cows rushed on to the road. The royal car halted, I rushed on to the road and herded the animals down the avenue. My reward, as the car accelerated, was a charming smile and a bow from the Queen.
Later that evening, a police officer called at the manse and thanked me for my alertness.
I have spent many hours with dying people. One old man, Charlie Davie, a life-long member of Drumoak Church and for over sixty years, an office bearer, comes to mind.
One evening he was very low, his two sisters and son around his bed. I held a short service after which Charlie said in a weak voice, ‘Mr Caseby, I am waiting inwardly for the Master’s call!’ He raised his feeble arm and took hold of my hand and in a surprising strong voice he recited the twenty-four lines of a poem he had composed and written that day. He handed me an old large envelope. ‘I had to write, I had to speak,’ he said. ‘This is my faith, my testimony. These words have been my trust and my hope, all my days. Use them to bring others to Christ’s side.’
We, who gathered to assure the old man God’s peace and Christ’s comfort, found radiant assurance and comfort ourselves. Yes, we, who had come to pray for Charlie Davie, realized he had pointed out the illuminated way to us. We looked upon a very feeble helpless body, but in its shell, a glorious triumphant faith. He gave me the old envelope and slipped back on his pillow. He had spoken his last words on earth.
Drumoak Church was packed for the funeral service, at which I read the poem, part of which reads:
Saviour, Lord and King of glory
We approach Thy Throne of grace,
Casting all our sins before Thee,
In our weakness and distress.
Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy.
Mercy Lord, we cry to Thee,
Spread Thy covering wings around us.
We are safe, all safe in Thee.
Glory, glory! Hallelujah,
Saints and angels shout and sing,
Unto Christ, our only Saviour,
And to God our Heavenly King.
Eighty-six year old Charlie Davie died as he had lived, loyal to Christ.
A shining light and a powerful influence in my ministry has been my wife. She saw and heard things that did not impress me, but following her advice, I was able to do what was necessary. My ministry had been richly inspired by her wisdom and sound judgement. Together we have been a good team in God’s service.
One day an elderly farmer was in church with his wife. I spoke to them at the close of the service. Wattie Greig did not see my hand outstretched to him. Later my wife told me old Wattie had some difficulty in finding his son s car.
On Monday forenoon, I walked to the Greig’s farm at Dalmaik. Wattie was in the pig court looking into a sty.
‘Mr Caseby, can you count, do you find seven pigs there?’
‘No,’ I told him. ‘There are six!’
Over a cup of tea he confided, ‘Bees keep buzzing in my ear and sometimes I step back, instead of walking forward.’
A few days later, Wattie was going around dazed, once or twice he fell. The doctor was called; two specialists called. Wattie was advised to go to hospital. He refused and for some days he lay in bed irritable and could not sleep. With Charlie Kidd, an Elder, I held a short communion service at Wattie’s bedside. When it was over, Wattie looked at me.
‘Why have you brought the sacrament to me?’
‘We believe it will help you to co-operate with the specialists. Will you go to the hospital?’
‘On one condition,’ he replied. ‘If I have an operation, you will be beside me.’ I promised.
I was at his bedside when preparations were made for the operation. I saw him go to the theatre. Five hours later, I was at his bedside when he came round. I was at his bedside next morning. He was so pleased to see me.
‘Thank you for bringing communion to me. I believe God told you to do it.’
The operation was a severe one, a brain tumour the size of a ping pong ball was removed. Wattie never looked back; he was a new man. He lived for sixteen years after his major operation. In my time I had many cases like Wattie’s one.
I believed in faith healing, in prayer healing and the laying on of hands. I lectured to brother ministers on my revelations. On my missions, I always had another minister with me and he was made aware of my methods. No gimmicks, no snapping of fingers, no loud sounding phrases, no magic. Plain words, invoking God’s Holy Spirit, to come, dwell, reveal and if it be His will, cure.
Two cases come to mind. Two very ill people who enjoyed ‘New Life’ through Prayer Healing, offered me money, or gifts. I very politely refused.
‘The honour belongs to God and the Holy Spirit, through His Son. If you feel like giving, give something to the church.’ Both gave generously and worshipped regularly.
My wife noted many things were required to enhance the beauty of the inside and outside of the church. A committee was set up. An architect, a decorator, a heating engineer, a mason, a joiner and a church furnisher, gave their services free. A story I wrote about Drumoak appeared in an Australian paper. From that story, a sum of money came to install a stained glass window. From another story, I got a very beautiful communion table. Money came in from many quarters and soon my wife’s vision came to pass. A lovely decorated church, many repairs carried out, furnishings and carpets in place, the outside painted and a very beautiful window, by Douglas Hamilton, dedicated. To crown all, every penny was raised and at the same time, the church became self-supporting. God was indeed kind.
Malaria still haunted me and to add to my difficulty, I fell off a push bike. I damaged my spine, near an old war wound. I was bedded for two months and visited hospital for injections. For six months I was encased in a leather harness from shoulder to hips, but in spite of my difficulties, I got back to my pulpit. I was happy, so were my very fine people. While very pained and strapped in my leather and steel harness, words came from Aberdeen Royal Infirmary that a young mother was dying and she wanted to see me.
A farmer took me to the infirmary and to my annoyance, the lift was out of order. I had to crawl up two flights of stairs, then helped to the patient’s bedside. The girl was so pleased to see me.
‘Tell me how to die without fear,’ was her first question. I told her, in very simple language, how Jesus died and how He rose from the grave and ascended up to God’s right hand. ‘And will he be with me when I die?’ came her words, without trembling.
She just slipped away, the lady doctor told me later. It took me a long time to struggle down two flights of stairs, but heedless of my intense pain, I was happy. I had assured a lovely young woman.
My ministry at Drumoak was one long period of progress. A delightful parish, quiet and sincere people. Many church activities, all manned by efficient office bearers. We had many tragedies; sad, sad cases, accidents to fine folks of all ages. And each one seemed to bring spiritual awakening and a real need for worship. My wife had a serious operation in a nursing home. Her courage and strong faith pulled her through. Doctors, specialists, consultants, surgeons were all worried about my health. Scores of injections, manipulations on my spine, many tablets for malarial complications and war wounds did little to ease my pain. Faith kept me going. In the end however, I had to listen to reason. Retire! At sixty! It was not to be. I would try for a quieter parish. Out of the blue, a call came to me from Carlops parish church, a tiny village ten miles south of Edinburgh on the Pentland Hills. It was a call I could not refuse.
The day before leaving Drumoak, I had two sad funerals, one on the Isle of Arran, to officiate at the funeral of Mr Douglas Hamilton, the eminent artist in stained glass windows and the other, the funeral of Mrs Kemp, who was killed by a car on her way home from my farewell Communion Service. I had travelled long distances by road, rail and steamer, for seventy two hours, with only four hours’ sleep.
When I saw Carlops Manse and church, for the first time, I phoned my wife.
‘The manse is small, hidden in a jungle of trees, shrubs and wild growth. The back door is broken, with ivy growing into the kitchen, which has two boxed-in beds. At the back of the house, ashes are up to window level. Major joinery, painting and decorating is required. There is a big hole in the church roof, cracks in the ceiling, no heating, damp discoloured walls, the pews are in need of repair, there are many broken panes of glass, the church surrounds are filthy.’ I heard my wife sigh, then her words, ‘What do you think of the place?’
‘It is a challenge, a fine opportunity to show what we can do. In nine months we can have everything in perfect order,’ I replied. Such was my confidence.
We arrived in Carlops on 9th April 1959. We had to cut down bushes and lay down wooden planks for the removers to take in the furniture, most of which had to be stored in one room.
In my sketch book I had previously written, ‘Cut down eight foot high towering hedge, uproot twenty overgrown trees and bushes, remove fifty tons of ashes at the back of house, build a retaining dry stone wall, modernize house.’ I left the removal men and walked down to Church.
In the sketch book I wrote, ‘Clean up pews, brush down walls, paper over cracks, scrub the floors, secure six bottles of liquid gas, six gas heaters, repair church steps, clean up church surrounds.’
My wife also had a notebook — she knew where everything had to go in the four habitable rooms. When I got back from the church, all four rooms were in order, curtains up and a meal prepared. The removal men had their lunch in the Alan Ramsay Hotel.
Events moved swiftly. Men with saws cut down the jungle, a farmer with his tractor pulled out roots and double ploughed the whole frontage of the manse. A young Edinburgh Minister (Rev George Jack) managed the bonfires, ash clearance and the tidying up of the outhouses. On our second day in Carlops, I had a conference with joiners, electricians, builders plumbers, plasterers and decorators. They were all concerned about down payments. I told them I had no money, only an abundance of faith. Everything would be squared up after my Induction on 15th April.
The chosen contractors started work that afternoon. Men seemed to pop in to help. A path was put down in front of the manse, stone chips were also laid. Plants we had brought from Drumoak were planted and before nightfall, a transformation had taken place. On 14th April, all the temporary work, in and around the church, was completed, including bottle gas convectors. The church was warm. The previous minister inducted at Carlops was fifty-five years ago.
On 15th of April, the day was crisp and clear for my Induction. There was a record turnout of the Dalkeith Presbytery, of local ministers and three ministerial colleagues who were to speak at my social. The church was full. It was a happy event. Later, in the village hall, Carlops ladies had a fine tea for members of the Presbytery. In reply to the Moderator’s fine words, I said, ‘Gentlemen, I hope you will return before the end of the year, when you will see a beautiful church, fully furnished, electrically heated, the surrounds of the church neat and tidy, also the manse and the gardens, a pleasure to look at. This is my dedication.’
One or two ministers smiled, others questioned my vision. One man said, ‘What about the money?’ I had only one Elder and thirty-six members — half of them up in years but I knew God was on my side.
The church social, on the evening of the Induction, was an outstanding success, a fine meal, fine speakers and fine music.
In my address, I said, ‘It is my intention to have Elders and Deacons appointed within one month, organizations functioning and a modernized church, operational by mid-October, 1959.’
Dr John Kellas, Presbytery Clerk, pulled at my sleeve— ‘Tut, tut, Caseby, you are making a promise you can never fulfill; the Presbytery takes nearly one year to pass plans.’
I just laughed, remarking that Lord Asquith once said, ‘Wait and see.’
As minister, I had access to all records, bank books and Communion Roll. It was lambing season, so I found joy in going around the hills with shepherds, nine in all, also visiting the farms and crofts. The parish was well scattered, there were many lovely homes, so, too, Carlops village. I got around all the homes, a welcome in each.
By the end of April, I had visited each home, had plans for church and manse complete and on the first Sunday in May, elders and deacons appointed. The Bottle Gas Company allowed me a free use of the convectors until summer, so we had a cosy church for our Sunday services. We had fine congregations and without asking, money came in for all my projects.
On 2nd August (with the approval of Presbytery), the church was closed for modernization and the reconsecration of the church and dedication of furnishings was to take place on 11th October. We worshipped in the church hall. All tradesmen worked hard. The roof was stripped and relined with felt and new slates. Free gifts were offered from many quarters:
Communion Table, Minister’s Chair, Elders Chairs, twelve Choir Chairs, Praise Boards, Baptismal Font, Collection Stand, Individual Communion Service for 120, four Bread Platters, money donations towards carpeting, lino, pulpit fall, curtains, lecturn, Bibles, hymn books, piano, organ, electric shades and pulpit heater.
On the appointed day, 11th October 1959, the West Linton policeman had to direct traffic.
The church bell tolled again after fifty years silence. People streamed into church, it was a magnificent sight, extra seats had to be brought in, the service was impressive.
I gifted an autograph book, listing every gift; many signed it. It was open day for church and manse; many members and visitors accepted the invitation. All marvelled at what had been accomplished in so short a time. My vision and vow had come to pass and all accounts were settled.
On 18th October, Holy Communion Services were held, a memorable occasion; it was most moving and many wept with delight. From that day the church was open every day during daylight hours.
I had a notice outside the church ‘Carlops Church is always open for Quiet, Rest, Mediation and Prayer’. Many people took advantage of the offer and some were very revealing.
An American, on a world tour, landed at Edinburgh Airport. Having three hours to spare, he took a taxi, telling the driver to take him into some pretty country; the driver took him to Carlops. The church door was open, the American walked in, saw the open Bible on the Lectern; he read, ‘If you love Me, keep My commandments’. (St John 14: 15), my text the previous Sunday.
As I walked into the church, the man told me, ‘I have been in nearly forty countries, in as many days, seen the sights of the world, yet this is the only moment I have found peace and been brought to my senses, by God’s Holy Word. Tell me what the text means.’
He listened in profound silence for five minutes. I said a short prayer. Tears were in his eyes.
‘To think I have missed so much down the years.’ He put £1 in the church box.
On leaving he read aloud, ‘Carlops Church is always open, for Quiet, Rest, Meditation and Prayers. Tonight I have experienced all four.’ I often wondered how his life progressed.
Carlops is neatly tucked amid the Pentland Hills. The houses are mostly white, all very beautiful, about thirty in number. Areas around have sweet-sounding names — Kittleknowe; Pyet-Hall; The Latch; Harbour Craig; Fairliehope; Fairslachs; Paties Hill; Habbies Howe; Nine Mile Burn; Spital; The Carpet; Maybie Hill and Marfield, to mention a few. Harbour Craig is a series of rocks, many caves are cut out of soft stone. Nearby is a huge outcrop of stone called The Pulpit Rock. During the Covenanting times, hundreds gathered under the Pulpit Rock to hear the word of God preached. I held open air services at Harbour Craig. The poet Allan Ramsay, known as the ‘Gentle Shepherd’ and remembered with a statue that stands by the famous Floral Clock in Princes Street, Edinburgh, lived at Newhall in the eighteenth century.
Carlops was the birthplace of many other famous people. The scientist who invented the Cloud Chamber which made a breakthrough in atomic physics and won a Nobel Prize, Professor C.T.R. Wilson, was a member of my church. When he died, at ninety, scientists from all over the world attended his funeral. They wore their multi-coloured robes. It was a most moving experience for me to speak to such a learned company about the son of a shepherd and shepherdess who was proud of his roots and never denied the faith he learned at his mother knee. He detected God’s hand clearly in all his research and wondered at the beauty and order he found. His love of art and nature also came from his parents who were accomplished in many skills such as carving and water-colour painting.
Only on four occasions did I have to ask for money for the church. Only once in Carlops. Yet money came in, in small change, at one service nearly £200.
At the end of my first year as minister in Carlops, all the money, except for a small loan, was raised to pay off all tradesmen’s bills, for work on the church and on the manse.
Dalkeith Presbytery Members came to visit the church and manse. They were all amazed and those who doubted my word were now my firm friends. They had tried for years to get things done in their parishes and failed. What was my secret? It was simple: getting to know everyone in the parish, telling them to become involved, to bring another to church and at times, explaining in simple language, the wonderful Gospel stories and the majesty of the Holy Bible. It may sound easy, but it involved hard work, careful planning and at every point, showing interest and appreciation of all work.
One church, interested in our progress, offered me cushions for every pew in the church; also to my wife, for the Woman’s Guild, a set of china with the W.G. crest. It came to the point when I had to say, all we require now are two brass vases for the Communion Table and silver-plated clips for holding Communion linen in place on the pews. They were donated, after which money gifts were accepted.
I have always been interested in tramps, beggars, gypsies, deformed, ex-service personnel and the mentally ill. I went out of my way to find and help them. Behind each case there was a story and a longing to belong to someone. I was the friend of all and held them in high regard.
In beautiful and friendly Carlops, I found a sad case. Behind a large house, there was a cottage, among trees one hundred yards distant. I noticed smoke coming from the cottage chimney. With difficulty I got to the door, knocked and getting no reply, I walked in and to my surprise I saw a very ill-looking woman, lying on a filthy bed. Near a black-out fire a well-dressed woman, sitting on a stool; she was smoking a cigarette. The elderly husband of the invalid was snoozing in a chair.
‘Off your backside and put on a kettle,’ I ordered the young woman. I shook the old man, ‘Get cracking, clean out the fireplace and warm up the room with a fire.’ Both did respond.
The invalid was dying; she was very dirty. She was able to tell me there was neither tea, sugar, milk, or any eats in the house. I saw the old man had a South African medal, dangling from a watch chain, his name on it. I hurried to the manse; my wife got some food together. I phoned the doctor, district nurse, National Assistance Board and the Secretary of the Earl of Haig Benevolent Fund.
Within an hour I was feeding the invalid with soup, the fire was burning logs, the floor was cleaned. Within forty-eight hours, willing hands had stripped the bed and new mattress, sheets, blankets and pillows were put on. The invalid was washed and gowned. A new table and chairs were brought into the cleaned house, the old filthy ones, like the bed clothes, were burned outside. Crockery, food of all kinds, were provided and a home-help brought in to take the place of the overdressed lazy daughter. The old man had new underclothing, boots, suit, hat, even a pipe of tobacco. Then there was death — not the invalid, but the old South African and First World War warrior. Regimental funds paid for his funeral. He had drifted from one place to another, perhaps too proud to ask assistance. Recognition came too late; the invalid survived him by months. I also saw she was buried beside her husband and all accounts paid.
My days were too short, even in a quiet place. One thing stands as a sacred memory, the splendid response of my members to people in distress. Over fifty were helped, without fuss of any kind. The Life and Witness of Carlops’ church progressed, from strength to strength, in church worship, lively organizations, good deeds and generous liberality. Like all my parishes, Carlops became an example to other parishes. Success, as we mortals measure success, was brought about by minister and people working in close harmony with God’s purpose always to the fore.
Willie Davie’s case was perhaps unique amongst the ones I helped with at Carlops. He was a vagrant for many years. For a time he lived in a disused lime-kiln, then in a farm out-house, doing odd jobs for the farmer. The big-hearted farmer bought a second-hand caravan, made it comfortable and saw to it that Willie got meals.
One day he took ill and was removed to hospital. In conversation, I could never get to know Willie’s background. He was tight-lipped when I mentioned the earlier part of his life. The evening he was taken away, I phoned the hospital and spoke to a doctor. He was glad I called. They could get nothing out of Willie and asked me to come in and have a go, as he required surgical treatment soon.
Next forenoon the screens were put round Willie’s bed. I was soon jotting down what he told me. I was at first suspicious as his story seemed so far fetched. It began:
‘I don’t know where my six sons are. When the youngest was born my wife turned insane and she was taken to an asylum. The boys were taken from me and put in a home. That’s more than thirty years ago. I left Edinburgh and took to the roads, wandering all over the country. Some years ago, I heard that a lad Davie had married a Fife girl. Her father was a cemetery keeper and lived in a lodge with white gates.’ Willie concluded, ‘My wife’s name was Christina Cox.’
On reaching home, I phoned Cupar County Council and asked to be put in touch with the Superintendent of Fife cemeteries. I gave him the slender evidence. Fife police were helpful, so were the police in the Midlands and Southampton. Old Willie rallied for a short time after his operation. He was removed to East Fortune Hospital. There was a happy ending as far as the family was concerned. They all met — also two grandchildren — around old Willie’s bed. The family had thought him long dead.
The last time Willie had seen his youngest son was when he was three weeks old. Next time the family met was around their father’s grave at Athelstaneford Cemetery on 22nd December 1960. The sons called on me later at the manse to express their thanks for my kindness to their father.
Month by month, God’s glorious work quietly proceeded at Carlops. It was a joy to be set in the midst of such Christ-loving people. There were many fatal road accidents, hill-climbing deaths, maiming accidents and severe illnesses. My heart went out to all. It became evident my own health was failing, my wife was always at my side to help.
Alas, the day came when I was rushed to hospital very ill. My faith was not weakened, other patients came to my bedside for help, which was greatly appreciated. Retire! retire! retire! seemed to come from all quarters. I laughed them off, hobbled about on crutches, then two walking sticks; in the end, I threw them away and was back in my pulpit, preaching to my well-beloved people. Alas, something new came into my life, major surgery. I faced the operation with the faith that had governed my life for sixty-seven years. The operation demanded retiral in 1965 and saying goodbye to the active Ministry.
God knew differently for He had other plans for me which were as exciting as any that had gone before, but that is another story!
NOTE: Appendix 9, Part 6, ‘Beggars of today,’ recalls some of the problems an active minister has to deal with.