First posted on SPDG.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
An old Glasgow street rhyme goes...
"Ther is a happy land, doon Duke Street Jail,
wher aw the prisoners staun, tied tae a nail.
Ham an eggs thae nivir see, dirty watter furr thir tea,
ther thae live in misery, God Save the Queen!”
Duke St Prison was built in 1798 at the junction of Duke St and John Knox St in Townhead, next to the Drygate, in the oldest part of the city. It grew haphazardly over the years, extending over that hilly part of the city just down from the Cathedral. Conditions, as you might imagine, were poor but it was as a place of execution that it is still remembered. Twelve hangings between the turn of the century and it’s closure in 1955 ensured it a place in history. For the record, the following people swung from Duke Street’s gallows;
1902 Patrick Leggett – 30yr old who stabbed his wife to death.
1904 Thomas Gunning – 48yr old who battered his girlfriend to death.
1905 Pasha Liffey – 20yr old circus boxer who cut the throat of a 63 year old woman.
1917 Thomas McGuiness – 25yr old who battered a 5 yr old child to death.
1919 James Adams – 32yr old who cut his girfriend’s throat.
1920 Albert James Fraser – 24yr old who battered a man to death.
1920 James Rollins – 22yr old involved in the same murder. Both executed together.
1922 William Harkness – 31yr old who battered and asphyxiated a girl to death.
1923 Susan Newell – 30yr old who battered/strangled a 13yr old newspaper boy to death.
1925 John Keen – 22yr old who stabbed a man to death.
1928 James McKay – 40yr old who battered his mother to death.
1928 George Reynolds – 41yr old who battered a man to death in a bakery.
By the 1970s all but one wall of the old building was gone; replaced by a different kind of prison...
Glasgow Royal Infirmary, Casualty Dept. Winter's night 1970s.
Another hooded, be-gloved figure trudges in through the automatic doors of the A&E department, face shrouded in plumes of condensation off expired breath; stamping feet and clapping hands to keep circulation going. It’s cold out there. Very cold, and you’re glad when the doors slide shut and the heaters begin to re-fill the reception area with warm air. It’s been dark outside for more than a couple of hours now, although it’s only around six o’clock. It gets dark early at this time of year in Scotland. We were due off shift an hour ago and you watch expectantly as I talk into the ambulance phone at the desk, anticipating that our controller will tell us to head home. Alan appears from behind the scenes, his expression giving away the fact that the new nurse, prime target for a date later in the week, has given him the cold shoulder – as if it’s not cold enough tonight. He zips up his uniform outer jacket and digs out the gloves from it's deep pockets. As he strolls towards me he lets out a groan as he sees me writing in my notebook. It can mean only one thing – another job!
‘Whit hiv wae goat?’ he asks resignedly.
‘Nice easy wan.’ I announce to both of you as I hang up the telephone receiver.
An old lady to be returned home from the casualty department to an address just around the corner in the Drygate. Then we’ve just to motor on back to the station and finish up. Couldn’t be simpler, or more straightforward.
The old lady's easy to track down, sitting on a wheelchair in the waiting area, decked out in heavy coat, scarf, fluffy hat with ear muffs, woolly mitts, frown, and a blanket over her lap. You notice one of her ankles, missing it’s boot, is heavily bandaged.
‘An whit hiv you bin up tae hen? Faw et eh jiggin did ye?’ says Alan with a big grin as he grabs the back of the chair and releases the brake.
‘Naw, no me. Ah tried tae get oot furr some messages an slipped oan the ice.’
As we wheel her towards the door she begins to tell us her tale of woe; of not being able to get out for days because of the cold weather and how nobody seems to care; how long she's been waiting for an ambulance home; how the side street she lives in hasn’t been visited by the gritter and …’
Conversation stops as we pass through the doors into the deep freeze of Castle Street and the icy air catches our breath. There’s no wind or breeze, just a dense, icy mist hanging in the darkness. Thick frost covers everything. A world of white, glistening in the streetlights. Even the ambulance, sitting solitary in the entrance bay, seems whiter than normal – closer examination reveals it’s coated with a thick layer of frost that can be scraped off with a gloved finger; only the fact that we’ve kept the engine running has prevented the windscreen from freezing over. Thick clouds of condensation rise from vehicle exhaust and our exhaled breath. We waste no time in getting the old dear into the vehicle, sat down, strapped in and covered up. The heaters are blowing full belt and, with the steps up and the big back door closed, we’re soon cosy comfy inside. We move cautiously out the main gate of 82 Castle St.
The roads are quiet, few venturing out now that the freeze is taking hold for the night. The thaw during the day, allowing road surfaces to become wet, has given way to those same surfaces becoming skating rinks. Driving in these conditions is not for the faint hearted. Main roads are gritted and salted but patches stubbornly refuse to comply with the treatment and provide deadly traps for the unwary. Ungritted side roads can be no-go zones! We drive slowly around Cathedral Square, pass by the front of the Cathedral and down the steep curve of John Knox St. Alan takes it very carefully. Our passenger is still berating the authorities about how the old folks in her block are trapped and how nobody cares and… Half way down John Knox St, Alan goes down the gears, avoids braking, and prepares for the sharp right turn up into the side street of Drygate and the block of modern flats providing home to our disgruntled patient. From the moment we enter the street and begin to climb the slope, we realise we’re in trouble. Wheels spin on the ice and the ambulance travels only a short distance up the street before sliding to the side. Luckily we come to a halt against the kerb, alongside the concrete path leading to the entrance of our old lady’s address. We sit for a moment, taking stock of the situation. We’re facing uphill on a street which has a surface of pure ice. To our left the block of flats, to our right and running up the length of the street, the remains of the outer wall of the old prison. A nearby mound is said to be where the executions took place. A tall lampost just in front of us, bathes us in a pool of light. All around us sparkles and glistens in the misty darkness. Alan jumps out the driver’s door – and is immediately mugged by gravity as his feet slide from under him on the ice and he ends up on his bahookey! He desperately tries to grab at the ambulance as he slides past it down the slope. He gets hold of the back bumper and raises himself up onto his knees as I open the back door and grab his hand. We’re all in stitches as we help him clamber in the back door. ‘Ah felt lik John Wayne daen the stagecoach thing’ he says laughing, brushing white frost off his backside. ‘Ye looked merr lik Bambi.’ I retort.
‘I told yeez so!’ says our old lady. ‘Bin lik this furr days, naebiddy cares aboot the auld folk, naebiddy…’
Closing the door against the cold, we discuss how to get her safely out the ambulance, across the pavement and up the path towards the building. A cunning plan is hatched. We throw blankets out the back onto the ground, then carefully lower ourselves out on to them. Spreading them out provides some grip on the ice and, when ready, we unload our collapsable wheelchair and unfold it. After lowering the back steps we gingerly lift the old lady out of the ambulance and on to the chair.
‘Thae jist don’t kerr aboot us auld yins ye know, don’t give a…’ she barely stops for breath. We get her on the chair and wrap her up. Moving the chair across the iced pavement (sidewalk for any US readers) proves extremely tricky. We make it to a metal rail and all cling on for dear life, at the same time grasping the chair to prevent it sliding off down John Knox St with the old dear aboard – creating a scene something akin to some geriatric winter olympic version of the luge!
‘Thae jist don’t think aboot us pensioners…’
The three of us fight the temptation to just let go of the chair!!!
It’s soon my turn to go end over butt, as I lose my footing and slither helplessly across the footpath. Eventually, we reach solid ground and we soon have our charge safely delivered in her upstairs flat. Each level is accessed by a long outdoor balcony that runs the length of the building. People, mostly elderly, emerge from everywhere, grateful for contact with the outside world. It becomes clear that our old lady was right in what she was saying. The cold weather has been with us for over a week and, during that time, this street has been completely frozen over and cut off. An old guy points out that the block of flats sits on the site of the old Duke St Prison – he doesn't miss the irony of the situation. I promise them that we’ll radio their plight to our control and assure them that the authorities will be assisting them very soon.
'Ach ye kin try, bit it'll dae nae good.' the old guy sneers cynically.
We’re watched by a large number of the residents from the balconies as we grapple our way back along the rail towards the ambulance. Once inside we're tidying up in the back, preparing to leave - when all hell breaks loose!
It starts with the loud noise of a lorry engine revving. Then we feel a sharp bump and the ambulance shudders as something hits us. Alan leads the sprachle through the bulkhead door into the cab to see what's going on.
The paraffin tanker driver means well. He knows his regular customers on this street are mainly old people, who depend on a regular supply of paraffin as their main source of heating (many just cant afford gas or electricity for winter heating). He has taken a run at the Drygate slope with enough speed that he hopes will see him to the top. But as he passed alongside our ambulance he experienced the same difficulties we had earlier. As the back end of his tanker slid in towards the kerb it clipped the rear corner of the ambulance before continuing on it's forward momentum up the slope. By now the three of us are hunched in the cab, silent, eyes wide, watching this fuel tanker desperately struggle, wheels spinning, up towards the top of the hill. For a moment it looks as though he'll make it but then, horror of horrors, his wheels just spin uselessly and he begins his slow slide back down again – straight towards us! Alan and I mouth a barrage of expletives, [innapropriate for the sensitive ears of SP cyberseancers]. We find ourselves rooted to spot as we watch the tanker gain speed and get larger and larger in our windscreen. We grip whatever we can get hold of and prepare for the worst.
It's nearside rear wheels mount the pavement in front of us before the rear of the tanker smashes into the streetlamp. The lamp bends abruptly before it's base is torn from the pavement, exposing the electrical wiring. Incredibly it remains connected to the ground and holds the lorry in check. Sparks shoot from the base, then the flourescent light assembly at it's top explodes! A shower of sparks, like a firework display, erupts over us as the light goes out. There follows a deathly silence, punctuated with the occasional sizzle, bang and flash, as we assess our situation. The rear of the tanker is only a few feet from us and we can clearly see a trickle of liquid running from a damaged valve. The lampstandard sparks again. More expletives. I reach for the handmike.
'ECHO 6 TO GLAS AM OVER.'
'RECEIVING ECHO 6. OVER.'
'EH...GLAS AM. WE HAVE A PROBLEM HERE!'
A lengthy explanation follows. It involves a request for the power to local streetlighting to be cut off as a matter of urgency, fire service and police support, local authority gritting service, and backup for potential evacuation of local residents.
Meantime the lorry driver has inspected the rear of his tanker and confirmed a leak of paraffin. He's also confirmed a full load of the stuff. We cut all engines, heater and lights, and shout to everyone in the flats to stay indoors. They ignore us completely of course! Well wrapped up against the cold they stand along the balconies sharing mugs of tea and coffe, watching the real life drama unfold before them. In the distance we hear the sound two tone horns. Then all the streetlights lights go out!
The fire tenders line up in John Knox St, waiting for gritters to arrive. Flood lights are aimed at out position and we find ourselves in the glare of a spotlight. Firemen slither and slide their way around us as they assess the situation. Police, holding desperately to the rail we clung to earlier, enter the flats to brief the residents. When the gritter arrives, guys busy themselves shoveling salt/grit on the road, around our vehicles and surrounding pavements and paths. At last we can get out and walk around. Damage to the ambulance is minimal, the fibreglass tear on the rear corner will be easily fixed in the bodyshop. Copious amounts of sand are being shovelled on the ground under the tanker valve to soak up the fuel and prevent it trickling down the gutter and into the drains. A no smoking ban in strictly enforced. It's cold and we're freezing. Your toes ache and you move around to try and keep warm.
The old guy we spoke to earlier approaches with a delegation from the flats - all carrying trays with steaming mugs of coffee and tea, sure footed on the now gritted pathway.
'Here ye go gents, wae reckoned ye could use this.'
We all grab a hot mug and cradle it in our hands.
'Aw thanks mate yir a life saver', says Alan. 'Any biscuits?' Firemen, police, the lorry driver and council workers make their way over to us, eager to participate.
'Least we kid dae. Ye certainly kept yir promise in gettin us help. Yir methods wir a bit extreme though!' he laughs. We all laugh.
'Hopefully we'll bae able tae get oot noo an get some messages innat.'
We ask the tanker driver what's happening and he explains that another tanker is on it's way. The plan is to decant the fuel from one to the other.
Sure enough the second tanker duly arrives, the decanting process begins and everyone is told to stand down. As we take our leave of the residents of Drygate, and the the old prison site, we feel as though we've been inolved in a breakout - and in a way we have.
'ECHO 6 TO GLAS AM. ALL CLEAR, HEADING BACK TO THE STATION. OVER.'
'ROGER THAT. CONTROL OUT.
We leave the scene to the strains of 'Folsom Prison Blues' thumping out from the radio/cassette player between the seats.
ECHO 6 - Incident at 'Duke Street Prison'.....
Moderators: Global Moderators, AnneM
-
Moonwatcher
- Posts: 207
- Joined: Mon Dec 13, 2004 8:38 am
- Location: North West Highlands. Scotland
-
Guest
The first time I read this when I joined the other group whose name is only a passing memory I had tears in my eyes.I read it to my son who's just turned 9.He wanted more.This time with your permission I would like to copy it for him.Anything that encourages him to read is a blessing.Don't worry about any colloquilisms he learned to read with the help of Oor Wullie and The Broons.Thanks to them he went from not knowing most of his alphabet to reading at 2 levels above his age group.
HK
HK
-
STUARTDALGLEISH
- Posts: 145
- Joined: Fri Jan 28, 2005 7:57 pm
- Location: PAISLEY
-
CatrionaL
- Posts: 1519
- Joined: Fri Dec 10, 2004 11:11 pm
- Location: Scottish Borders
-
Guest
-
DavidWW
- Posts: 5057
- Joined: Sat Dec 11, 2004 9:47 pm
I don't recall an election 
-
Guest
-
DavidWW
- Posts: 5057
- Joined: Sat Dec 11, 2004 9:47 pm
Nae prob!, nae apology necessaryHeatherK wrote:Sorry davie it was due to a remark made in a letter to Rob from Bob.If you like Robbie can be the president of the jr Fan Club or the Canadian Branch,or even the Nova Stotian Branch.Your choice.
HK
Sounds like Robbie is the Canadian Branch president, with you as the president of the Nova Stotian branch
Orraverybest
Davie