Ackie’s rare remedy for insomnia
July 2004
One of the clarions of every community in Scotland is that there are no characters left. Supposedly, the exotic and distinctive souls of our past have not been replaced by souls equally exotic and equally distinctive. Passing years have made us more bland and less colourful.
I can understand that, but beg to differ. There was a full choice of devil-may-care souls within a four-mile radius while I was growing up in the howe, and I don’t doubt that every other parish, hamlet, town and village could tell similar tales.
You may be sure, however, that 40 years ago, 80 years ago and 120 years ago, our forebears were lamenting just as loudly the passing of characters who had brightened life and had launched dozens of tales.
The truth is that we’re as blessed with characters now as ever we were; it’s simply that we don’t appreciate them yet. Aberdeen’s roll call of worthies would fill several Leopards just as a list, but the woman I would most have wished to meet was Tattie Meg, who patrolled the George Street, Loch Street area between the wars and who had no visible means of support save the charity of neighbours and acquaintances.
Her nickname came not from selling potatoes, for she had no job, but from her legwear: thick woollen stockings a couple of sizes too small. This hosiery had passed its best so long before that small holes up and down the legs had become bigger holes and the white flesh of her legs was bulging through in assorted places.
Apparently, these bulges look like perfectly round and white new potatoes, hence Tattie Meg’s nickname. There was Black Bob on Deeside; not the loyal collie dog of cartoon strips, but a man who made a career of attending any and every funeral in the district, whether he knew the deceased or not.
Buchan residents in their 70s and 80s will tell you of Wull Dreep, who travelled the highways and byways of the 1930s trying to sell battered old pans and worn old rags, none of which anyone in her right mind would have wished to purchase.
Wull Dreep’s distinguishing feature, as you might have jaloused, was the permanent drip at the end of his somewhat prominent beak. Rain or shine, winter or summer, that drip would catch the light and sparkle, my contacts tell me, and would inspire great delight among between-the-wars Buchan youngsters who would listen for the vigorous sniffing signalling that Wull was patrolling the streets. No matter how vigorous the sniff, I’m told, the drip stayed in place.
One of my favourites was Ackie. I didn’t know him myself. I never met him. His exploits were reported to me so often by journalistic colleagues in the 1970s and 1980s, however, that I came to feel that he was a long acquaintance. Indeed, I used Ackie as the basis for war hero, drouth and perennial tapper Erchie Sotter in the Stronach stories. Most of the Ackie tales are too long and involved for exploring now, but I have room for two.
Ackie was in his usual position at the end of the public bar in his wee north-east village one evening when a couple of strangers arrived. You have to understand that this particular village wasn’t accustomed to newcomers and the arrivals caused a great deal of interest in the pub, although from a respectful distance.
When one of the two made idle conversation with the barman to the effect that he was having difficulty sleeping thanks to a combination of light summer mornings, the deathly quiet of the countryside and the lumpy mattress at their bed-and-breakfast, Ackie saw his chance.
He sidled over and introduced himself before mentioning that he knew a surefire cure for insomnia. Mercy, had it not been handed down through generations of his family? The strangers were reportedly impressed and offered to buy Ackie a drink so that they might continue the conversation in comfort. Mission accomplished.
Ackie said: “I ca it the three-hat method.”
“The three-hat method?” said the stranger.
“Aye,” Ackie said. “Ye get a bottle o whisky and a hat. Ye pit the hat at the end o yer bed and syne ye climm in atween the sheets and lie back. Ye tak a skoof o the whisky and ye stare at the hat for twa minutes. Syne ye tak anither skoof and stare anither twa minutes. Then anither skoof and anither stare. Skoof-stare, skoof-stare, skoof-stare, for as lang as it taks. Keep it up.”
The strangers looked puzzled. “Keep it up until what?” said one.
“Until ye see three hats. Then it’s time tae sleep.”
The second tale also involves Ackie doing his best to help an ailing soul, while trying to tap a free dram in the process. I don’t recall if it involved strangers or one of his fellow-worthies from his village, but it’s safe to suppose that the victim must have been a stranger, for none of his regular acquaintances would have been such an easy target.
Let’s say that it was a stranger who turned up in the bar, obviously suffering an extremely heavy cold.
Ackie sidled up again and, by way of a conversation opener, mentioned that it was clear that the man was struggling with a sore throat, bleary eyes, runny nose and a thumping heid. The stranger confirmed it.
“I’ve the perfect solution for the caul,” Ackie said, before pausing while the stranger took the intended cue to offer to stand his hand.
When the dram came, Ackie began his ministrations. “Get the barman tae gie ye a half-pint gless,” he said. “Pit in a skite o export, twa drams, a sup brandy, anither twa drams, anither skite o export, mair brandy and anither dram until yer gless is near full.”
“And that cures my cold, does it?” the stranger said.
“Weel,” Ackie said, “efter ye finish aa that, ye’ve still got the caul, bit ye couldna care less aboot it.”
Norman Harper enjoys hearing about the characters of old, mainly because he says he is not sufficiently colourful to qualify as one himself.
This is an article from the July 2004 edition of Leopard Magazine. To read much more like this every month, see our subscription details.