KIRK-DOUGLAS LIKE HAIR

Danny was our longest-staying lodger. He was a charming Irishman,
who attached himself--perhaps, in his bachelorhood--to our family. He
always was around the house, doing little odd jobs.
He was Granny's favourite, always flattering her and chatting her up
with his artful, Irish tongue.

Raymond, whom we once took in as a lodger, was young and from England,
as we might have already suspected from his posh, unusual in-our-parts,
name.

He carved his place in our Hall of Fame by building us a sled. Not
just a sled, but the biggest, soundest-built, fastest sled in the whole
of Ayrshire. He turned up with it on Xmas Eve, during a lunch break at
his building site. A joiner by trade, he had built the sled using
"borrowed wood," available at his work and had taken the liberty of
lining the runners with borrowed, steel strips. Next day, unimpressed
with our tales of speed in the snow, he withdrew the sled for "fine
tuning," removing the steel runners and replacing them with (borrowed)
11/2 inch hollow copper piping. The sled lasted us years and is
probably still going strong in some other family now.

Danny was always slipping us half crowns and took a great interest in
my brother and me, always acting proud as punch to hear we did well in
school exams. I recall that he had a Fred Astaire skinnyness and
Kirk-Douglas type hair.

One Xmas we got a Meccano Set, consisting of nuts, bolts, perforated
steel strips and girders for building "models"--i.e., boats, cranes,
trains, etc.--of differing degrees of difficulty. Danny spent hours on
the floor helping us with these models; showing us how to be patient
while building; daring us to attempt harder models; painstakingly
dissembling, fault-rectifying and re-assembling things for us.

His small weakness was a fondness for strong drink, especially on a
Friday evening. Often on a Saturday morning, I would hear him
apologizing to my Granny: "Mrs. Smith, you're looking at a changed man.
I'll never behave like that again. It's a terrible thing, the
drink."

When we were twelve and transferred to the local academy, my parents
stopped taking in lodgers. We carried on with our young lives, trying
to fill the vacuum left by Danny and the others, best we could. Then
one Friday evening, when I was 16, I came downstairs from our
study-bedroom for a quick biscuit and was surprised to meet a slim,
ruddy-brown faced man, with glossy brylcreamed hair, slumped over in a
chair. He was slurring, appeasingly, "Mrs. Smith, tonight's special,
because I run into B___[my father], but I'm a changed man. I won't ever
be touching so much drink again!"