Uncle's D-Day.

'Ye ken, I wis at the D-day landing,' said Uncle. He adjusted the pansy in his blazer button hole, took a long swallow from his half pint of beer, a drag of his fag, moved the accompanying nip of whisky to the side, then leant an elbow on the bar counter. 'Aye- me an' Poopie MacLeod.'

Uncle was the barmaid's favourite customer. She didn't know why he was called that: only that it suited him. Maybe it was because he was a bachelor and as far as anyone knew, never a father and, reflected the barmaid, it was certainly a better name than Poopie.

Uncle continued, 'I wisna expectin' tae ken onybody on the boat, but when I got intae it, I saw somebody wi' the Forres Gazette. "God Almighty," I said. "It's Poopie MacLeod! Whit are ye daen here?"

'Same as yersell,' he said and went back to reading the paper.

'It must've been a terrible crossing,' said the barmaid.

'Aye- it wis that an' I wis that sick, I wisna off the boat till last.... an' ye ken this?' Uncle paused to take a long drag on his fag. 'When I did manage to get off- there wis Poopie being carted back in.'

'That wis quick, Poopie,' I said.

The bar maid wanted to ask if it had been a bad injury, but this was Uncle's story and he was pressing on.

'Weel, I managed to get to firm ground right enough, but I'd tae run for cover afore I found a bit of shelter.There wis poppies there, ye ken. And a deid body.' He mopped his brow, and for a moment was lost in recall, then he said,  'He wis a Canadian. I found a letter in his jacket. It wis fae his mither. She wrote that it was nearly harvest time in Ontario.'

Uncle sighed, ground his fag into the ash tray, finished his whisky then sighed. 'Some hairst!'

GLOSSARY'

ken           know                        daen                 doing
wis            was                          yersell                yourself
.wisna        wasn't                      weel                   well
onybody    anybody                   afore                 before
intae          into                           deid                  dead
wi'             with-- --                    hairst                harvest.
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Meet the family.

You know, I thought this photograph had been lost. It used to sit on the mantle piece of a house that meant a lot to me in my childhood. I've been writing about growing up on a Scottish North-east farm. This photograph has brought back such a lot of memories, the faces look out at me and tell of a different times- oh-so very very different.

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Visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk