Robert Darroch 1932--2026. RIP.

I spotted Robert Darroch at Gartnavel about seven years ago. He was sitting chatting to my partner’s mum in a greenish high-backed chair. He was quick to offer us the easy-to-wipe seat and move on. I said his name, but he didn’t recognise me. I’m not good with names. He was the opposite. Rarely passed without a smile and a quick word. He was especially good remembering children and old folk’s names (I guess I fit that category now) but that was before he got dementia.

He looked much the same as he always did. Clean shaven. Dapper, dressed in the jumper, shirt, creased trouser ensemble. Brushed grey hair. No shiny black shoes. An understandable allowance for being in hospital. Plastic slippers worked just as well.

I have no memory of him being young. When Robert Darroch was born in 1932, Home Rule for Scotland was debated in the House of Commons. Scottish flyer Jim Mollison’s flight in his Puss Moth plane smashed the record from Britain to Cape Town in South Africa. Four days, 17 hours and 19 minutes. Motherwell were Scottish champions. Rangers lifted the Scottish Cup. On Radio, ‘Keeping Fit for Winter’. And milk was still being delivered by horses pulling carts from the Coop in Clydebank.

When I met him he’d more or less retired. Just beyond 60. Signing on. But not really looking for work. My mum knew him through Nan McGinlay. He was her older brother. My da was great pals with John McGinlay. He liked a good bucket as did my da. Robert would take a glass of whisky and sniff it before he drank it. Whereas McGinlay would crane his neck and look behind you to see if you had another bottle stashed. Robert would put his hand over his glass. ‘That’s enough,’ he’d offer a tight smile.

Robert had to retire twice. He stayed just down the road from us, Swann Street. My mum got his to emulsion our living room and hang woodchip. Fake-brick effect wallpaper around the fireplace. (We were pretty snobby in that way.) She slipped him twenty quid.

Robert didn’t want to take the money. It was a favour. That was the price old biddies loved. Nan and my mum were home helps. Soon Robert was standing at the bus stop on Duntocher Road, getting into the shopping centre early. Loading up with paint and primers and fancy wallpapers such as flock velvet or orange swirl.  Before Job Creation in the Singers Hall, Robert was doing the job of four men. He had to take my mum aside—‘no more,’ he said.

He was one of those old guys who always remembered children’s names. He’d even talk to them, rather than shout at them. Another of his projects was taking other people’s children on outings. It might be local. Dalmuir Park duck pond and burns. More far flung, Hellensburgh or Balloch. Even Culzean Castle on the Ayrshire coast, which is a two-train job and an all-day event. An elderly bachelor wouldn’t be thanked for that nowadays.

Robert was a holy kind of guy. Many of us mumbled into our Sunday missals at Mass. Shut hymn books and let the choir get on with it. Sneaked out early. Or didn’t bother going. Robert’s voice would soar up above the organ and was like a guiding hand placed on your shoulder. He and the angels had it covered.

But he wasn’t a religious nut. He believed what he believed. And he said that the Virgin Mary had appeared to him in a dream. He saw it then as his duty to visit every Christian church in Scotland. Protestant and Catholic. Local churches in Clydebank and the surrounding areas were quite easy to get to by public transport. Then he started hitch-hiking to those further away. I’m unsure if he included the Highlands and Islands.  He said that was a way of making new friends. Perhaps he was right.

I think he did it. Visited every Christian church. He wouldn’t remember, of course. Dementia does that to you. I’d quite like to see the journal he kept. I guess that’s gone too. Maybe the Virgin Mary will wait on the other side holding it. Clean sheets. He certainly believed so. I hope he’s right. RIP.  Funeral Mass, 7^th January 2026. St Stephen’s Park Road, Dalmuir, 10am.