As you get older, your mind often returns to memories of people and happenings of the past. I'm no different in that respect as those memories can either offer some succour and joy as ageing takes its toll, or they can bring back feelings and thoughts of less happy times. I'm a positive kind of person, so I tend to look back, less in anger, but more with a degree of thankfulness for everything that I have experienced and survived. Nonetheless, those retrospective musings also leave me with questions, particularly when people have been involved? Where are they now? What have their lives been like? Could I or should I have done any differently in my interactions with them? This little story is of one such incident, or perhaps I should say a series of incidents, that I have recalled as best as possible given the span of time that has elapsed.
The recall left me with all of the questions that I set out above: Where are the people now, particularly the main 'actors'? What have their lives been like? Could I or should I have done any differently at the time, or later? Without those answers there will always be some doubt about my decisions and my behaviour. Nonetheless, capturing the story in writing has been cathartic for me. I hope the main protagonist will also find it illuminating and comforting if she still around and ever reads this. More importantly to me, I hope that the passage of time has allowed her to offer some forgiveness.
So, where do I start? I suppose Kirkintilloch Cross is as good a place as any.
In the early 1970s, Kirkintilloch and the area around the Cross had become part of our ‘cruising’ zone once we had grown out of Bishopbriggs, before we moved on to Kilsyth and, believe it or not, Banton. ‘We’ were me and my friends.
It was the late ‘60s - early ‘70s, I had left school a year earlier than most of my schoolmates, but despite making my own way in the world, I was still naïve in many ways. Like many in their mid-teens, I was a bit cock-sure on the outside, unsure on the inside, and despite my demeanour and appearance, lacked self-confidence. This was especially where the opposite sex was involved. I was a bit gobby too, partly to cover up my unease and make myself look confident, and partly because I was in my apprentice stage of ‘your mouth will get you into trouble’ time, as may father often said. He was correct of course but at that time I never realised it.
Being chatty, the smallest of my coterie, and easily led, I was convinced, persuaded, or otherwise manipulated into being the 'chatter-upper' whenever we ventured across young ladies. I had to do my mates’ bidding as they were older, had cars, and a bit more money than me, despite the fact that I was working full-time in Glasgow: £4 per week minus deductions didn’t go far. Without my friends, I wouldn’t have reached Kirkintilloch (aka Kirkie) very often.
My task was easy. We (the car and driver, and up to three others including me) would drive up and down the main street of Kirkintilloch, Cowgate, and into Townhead. We would travel particularly slowly at the start near the Cross and its shops where young people hung out, and again after the canal which dissected the town. Coincidentally, that was where the local police station sat (now a pub). We sped up slightly in that middle part to make us look normal if there were any police present. How four young guys in a mini car, noses pressed to the window on the look-out for talent, ever looked normal, I don’t know, but we were never pulled over. Once past the station we were in Townhead where there were older shops, including a café that was always a useful place for a stop to be manufactured
Kirkintilloch Town Centre: The Cruising Location
On our trips up and down the street, if we saw any girls around our age, the horn would be tooted, hands would be waved, and, at times, the odd wolf whistle would be tendered from a now open window.
On one occasion, the one that I will go on to narrate, the scenario played out well. In fact, surprisingly so. I did my bit, got out of the car in the middle of town, chatted to about five girls, of which at least two, maybe three were still in remnants of their St Ninian's High School uniforms, waved the car down, and then flirted as best as possible. The car owner, who I will call Alex for sake of his anonymity, another lad, who I will call Gordon, and me, were persuasive enough to entice three of the girls in. Actually, I’m ashamed to say that I did most of the enticing as I was the one that the girls had been speaking to for a while, and they seemed to (sort of) have confidence in me. Whatever was the precursor, three of the five girls that I chatted with did fancy a run. Let’s think about this: three teenage boys and three teenage girls in a mini car is a tight squeeze.
A mini of the type that took 6 young adults
I was relatively happy with that as I was now in the back seat, and that is where the girls had to squeeze. But it was tight, so tight that one of them had to move into the front seat and sit half in the lap and half off the lap of Gordon. That only lasted a short time before she asked to be dropped off to go and do her homework: A euphemism for 'get me out of here as I don’t fancy where it is leading.' I assumed that she wasn’t sure about the gear stick or whatever it was prodding her leg.
Whatever, three became two.
We dropped her off at the Cowgate end of the main road and then tootled around Kirkintilloch, onto the roads of Kilsyth, out towards Milton of Campsie and Lennoxtown, before heading back to Kirkie again. We felt obliged to head back as the girls wanted to be taken home, but we were keener that they stayed with us. This made for a slow and roundabout journey. We chatted our best chat but as time moved on the girls definitely wanted to return to their hometown, or safety as they probably viewed it. I agreed with the girls but as yet couldn’t say so. Alex and Gordon were by far the eldest, more mature than me, and much less keen to go back. Nonetheless, I knew that it was the right thing to do and, in a way that avoided me losing face, I persuaded Alex to drive back towards Kirkintilloch. I think my quickly thought-out rationale was that “If anything happened, we would be nearer home.”
We dropped the second girl off now as she was playing at being strong while being definitely a bit panicky. The last girl who lived close to Hillhead Road, let’s call her Rose (I know her name but would rather keep it a bit more private here), had been by far the chattiest of the three, the cockiest, the most comfortable in the situation, the most confident, and she liked me. I could tell. Well, she was happy to stay for a bit and we drove back out to the country. Hearts were pounding. Mine definitely was.
While in the dark gloom of the countryside that surrounded Kirkintilloch, Gordon said, "Are you giving us it tonight?" Even I, the naïf that I was, knew that ‘it’ referred to sex.
"You’re joking?" Rose replied.
At this point Alex pulled the car over into a quiet farm track and as it stopped, I could feel Rose tighten up as she was still sitting close to me.
"Well, no I wasn't joking. In fact I am thinking that you should cock it or walk it," Gordon said quite straightforwardly.
I went silent and thought that everyone would be able to hear my heart beating, it seemed so loud. Rose also went silent, either through fear, worry, or because she was trying to think her way out of the situation.
Gordon said again, "Cock it or walk it," but this time Alex echoed the statement.
Eventually, and to my surprise, Rose agreed but with a condition. She said, "Yes, but not out here. I’m not daft. You’ll just shag me and then leave me out here miles away." I was gobsmacked.
She continued, "I know a place in Kirkie. Take me back and I’ll show you where it is."
Alex needed no further encouragement. He started the engine, flicked the lights on, and roared us off, in the direction of Kirkintilloch’s orange luminescence. True to her word, Rose directed us up the Hillhead Road, to a set of garages, if my memory serves me well, about 50m or so from Hillhead Road at the intersection with Whitehill Road or Fellsview Avenue (I’m not absolutely sure). Anyway, it all made sense as I found out later that she lived about 150 yards away just beyond Hillhead Road (I remember the name of the road, the number and even the placement of the house but will keep that to myself as a gesture to decency, anonymity, and respect for the girl who is now obviously an older adult). It was a location well chosen, near to her home, secluded, and with some built-in safety; she wouldn’t be left in the countryside.
East High Street. The road we drove along as we headed to Hillhead Road
which started just to the left of the photo
We slowly drove into the darkened lane, continued about 25 to 30 yards along to its end, and drew to a halt. Alex cut the engine.
The two boys in the front turned round immediately. They looked like a couple of depraved lechers and were certainly up for it. Me? I was distinctly uncomfortable. Rose had agreed to have sex with us all, but my sensible mind overrode my hormones, and I suppose my morality overrode natural teenage urges. The set-up wasn’t right in my eyes. First, I felt that she agree to it under duress. My feeling was that the situation could be easily construed as being coercive. It didn’t seem to me that Elle had been persuaded by our wit, glamour, or personality. She had been pressured into agreeing, not quite strong-armed but definitely, in my mind, bullied and intimidated into it.
My senses wouldn’t let me agree with this. I also had a moral code, and this was breaking it. Smashing it apart in fact. While sex is what makes the world go around, I was still a virgin, and this wasn’t how I imagined my first circumnavigation would be. I didn’t want to be part of this. I had to think of a way out of it that would save Rose from a gangbang that I was sure she did not really want and yet save my face.
From somewhere, in the recesses of my teenage mind, a plan was quickly hatched. I was in the back with Rose and so I said to the other two, "Me first. I did the chat-up and she’s with me, so I’ll go first." The two other boys acquiesced, rather ungraciously but still enthusiastically enough as they wanted their turns quickly. So, they got out and gave me my ten minutes. Yes, ten minutes 😊
As the door shut behind the boys, I turned to Rose who had already moved towards, fumbling with her coat buttons. By the time I had made myself more comfortable it was open, and she was sitting beside me wearing a blouse that enveloped what I thought were a lovely pair of boobs.
I quietly said to her, "Listen, I’m not up for this."
She asked, "Don’t you fancy me?"
I told her that it was the contrary, I did fancy her but hated the situation. I didn’t tell her that I was also unwilling to perhaps be framed for a sexual assault, or having sex with a minor, a few weeks down the road.
"What about your pals?" Rose said. "They’ll still want it."
"Well, we’ll have to persuade them otherwise. You are too good for this."
Rose nodded and started to cry.
I tried to comfort her while also thinking hard. I said, "Can you sniffle or cry a bit more ?"
She nodded again.
"Good."
I told her that we were going to get out of the car, and I would take her home but that she had to make sure that she kept her head down and try to cry when we got out, oh, and could she keep her coat open and undo some buttons on her blouse. That was a masterful stroke as it gave credibility to the next episode.
Opening the door, I stumbled out of the back seat of the car onto terra firma with Rose following me. The boys were at the end of the garages and turned towards us on hearing the car door open. They approached for their ‘turns’. I made a show of fiddling with the zipper on my jeans (which actually wasn’t down), then demonstrably pulled Rose towards my side and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her jacket around her but not closing it. That allowed the guys to see Rose in a state of partial undress, blouse open, with her cleavage being held in place by a cream bra. And she looked decidedly upset. Turning her face into me, she sobbed a few times and sniffled, while I looked at the astonished faces of the two guys, shrugged my free shoulder, and spoke into the gloom towards them: "The minute I touched her she went rigid. By the time I got her blouse unbuttoned and my zip down, she was in tears."
The boys were still and staring at us both. Our act was having the desired effect.
I then said, "I tried to calm her down but couldn’t." Now for the final thrust, "She needs to go home. I’m taking her across the road to calm her down."
Thankfully, neither of the guys wanted to push it any further, realising (I hope) that it would only lead to trouble.
"‘Wait here for me and I’ll be back in 5 minutes," I said, and with that we were past them and heading out from the garages towards Hillhead Road, me holding Rose close, still tearfully play acting, or maybe not.
Just as before, Rosie showed the way, but this time she was much spritelier. By the time we got to the main road she had buttoned her blouse and was thanking me for getting her out of that situation. By the time we got near her house, she was definitely more cheerful but still a bit sniffly. I remember helping her to wipe away the tears. I like to think were caused by her realisation that she had met someone who cared but in truth were probably just through a sense of relief.
We walked slowly along Newdyke Road towards her house which sat on a corner. As we approached the gate to her home, I remember being relieved. A gangbang with a slightly less than enthusiastic 15- to 16-year-old wasn’t part of my repertoire nor my raison d’etre.
Happy with the way things had turned out, I walked up to her door with her, a little bit hesitatingly in case anyone came out and saw an obviously tearful girl with a strange guy. Two and two could easily make five in that situation. Rose assured me that nobody would come out as I wiped her last tears away.
"Are you ok?" I asked.
Rose responded positively and, by way of an additional thanks, grabbed me and hugged me close.
She looked up at me, into my eyes and asked in her husky, and as I noticed later in time, sexy voice, "Will you call me if I give you my number?"
"Yes," I replied. I was really keen to see her again, not to get inside her knickers quickly, but because I did like her. She seemed fun and spunky.
At that she opened the door and dived inside, telling me to hang on. She returned with a pen and two small sheets of paper, stood in what I remember was a very brightly lit doorway, scribbled her number on one piece of paper, and handed it to me. Next, she sought mine, wrote it on the other piece of paper, folded it, smiled, and put it down her cleavage.
After that, I left her to return to my two less-than-chuffed mates for a relatively uneventful journey home. I was glad the boys had waited on me as Kirkintilloch is a long way from my home and I had no money on me. Not only that, but the last buses had also been and gone. I was surprised that my mates seemed relatively relaxed about things, albeit that they were full of questions, mainly along the line of, "What the fuck happened?"
My explanation was simple, even if a bit of a fabrication. OK, a lot of fabrication.
I said, "Everything was going well, I had her blouse open and was kissing her and playing with her tits but when I started to open my zip… she started to cry." I paused for some effect.
The ploy of having Rose leave the car with her blouse undone and her bra on show was truly a consummate ruse as they had witnessed for themselves that I had ‘tried’.
I continued, "She started crying and saying that she didn’t want to do it but only agreed as she was scared that we were going to rape her and dump her in the country."
My story was growing legs, but I stopped to let my last sentence sink in. The other two fell silent before acquiescing with my actions. Now, instead of being majorly upset with me, groupthink was that I had done the right thing to calm her down and get her home. They were sensible enough to realise any other action could have spelled trouble. Or at least it could have if it was true. Rose’s tears and our joint actions (acting) persuaded them that it wasn’t on for tonight. We trundled home in Alex’s mini with my two mates being more upbeat than I thought they’d be. After all, the initial stages showed that the ploy might work with other girls and that might lead to more productive results. Ever the optimists.
To this day, Alex and Gordon have no idea of what really happened that night and I’m not about to tell them.
The next evening. I was no sooner in from my work than my sister told me that an Rose had called and that she would ‘phone me later. I blanched at the thought. Although working and 17 years of age, I was still quite immature. I was fairly bright, sensible but not experienced with girls. Moreover, I was absolutely embarrassed that my sister and my family might be talking about me being with girls or even having a girlfriend. Boy meets girls is the most natural thing in the world, yet I wasn’t ready to be open about the opposite sex with my family. They were nonplussed but I was majorly unnerved at that the idea of my teenage instincts becoming public knowledge.
True to her word Rose called that night and we had a conversation of sorts. A conversation that went on for a few weeks until Christmas was past. She called again immediately after Christmas to invite me to a New Years Party in her home. I made up some excuse as I truly wasn’t secure about meeting her friends and family as a boyfriend, especially when I hadn’t met them at any other time. I was always worried that people would think of me as predatory, as opposed to being a normal boy. Also, there was a bit of pragmatism in my decision: I had no idea how I would get there and back on New Year’s Eve when public transport would have been very limited, if available at all.
Early in the New Year, she called again asking if we could meet. I was desperate to do so, therefore, this time I said, "Yes!"
We duly arranged to meet under the clocktower at Kirkintilloch Cross on a Saturday in early January 1972. I had no idea what we were going to do other than perhaps walk around as the Black Bull Cinema across the road was closed.
The Back Bull Cinema in the '70s
Excitedly, I prepared to go out. Smart but casual. I wore my best navy-blue Levi’s Sta-Prest, a shirt, and a light blue cotton jacket. Yes, light blue! And cotton! Not ideal for a winter’s night in Kirkie but it was all that I had other than a suit that I used for work. I also reeked of Faberge’s Brut deodorant; the deodorant that had at last made it manly to smell nice, or should I say smell differently. I definitely used the deodorant and not the aftershave as I still wasn’t shaving much at the time, if at all. On reflection, the smell was overpowering; or perhaps I just hoped that it would be.
Looking up to the Steeple at Kirkintilloch Cross:
The Scene of My Tryst that Never Was
I walked to Springburn Road from the house and jumped on the blue bus that travelled out past the ‘Briggs, through the Torrance roundabout, and along Kirkintilloch Road until I readied myself to disembark as we neared Kirkintilloch itself.
At school, I'd had a girlfriend, but that came to an unrequited and probably fortunate if tortured end – another story for another time. Other than that, I had only had a few other dates that never came to much; once more probably due to my lack of confidence/experience. So, I was both excited and nervous at meeting Rose but salved my concerns with the fact that I knew that she seemed to really like me going by her persistent calls.
Arriving at Kirkie Cross, I got off the bus and made for the steeple. There I waited, trying to look nonchalant amongst the other would-be-lovers who were also meeting there. And I waited, and waited, and waited until there was only me there. I was frozen to the core but wanted to hang on in case she arrived late. She never did. After two hours at the Cross, I walked along the Cowgate hoping to see some of her friends that I might recognise from that first night’s escapades. Nope. I used the local telephone box to call her house, a major step for me, but there was no response. By the time 9.00 pm arrived, I realised that I wasn’t going to see her that night and dejectedly awaited the next bus home. I was deflated. My ego was fragile enough, but now it had taken a bit of a battering. I felt sick.
Alexander's 'Blue' Bus: The Type that Took Me to Kirkintilloch Cross
On my way home, I sat in the bus and tried to rationalise things in the manner of everyone who has ever been stood up. Why hadn’t she turned up? Was it a mistake? Had she met someone else? Surely not in the twenty-four hours or so since we last spoke. I knew that she liked me, and I knew that she was excited to meet up and show me off a bit in the town. I had no answers to offer myself for why I was ‘dizzied’.
For the next few days, I tried to get a hold of her but with no luck.
A few weeks later, in fact it might have been months later, I answered the telephone at my parents’ house and was met with the still husky but definitely sexier sounding voice, "Hello John?" (not my name but to preserve what little dignity I have, just like Rose, I changed it for the tale). I was taken-aback.
"Hi John? It’s Elle here. How are you?’
I was gobsmacked, remembering the date that never was. Probably a reply of "OK" was as much as I gave.
She came straight to the point. "Do you fancy going out? I’m sorry about the last time."
I was doubly dumbstruck. A question about whether we could meet up again, followed by an apology about the previous occasion. The next few minutes were like a scene from a play: a farce to be precise.
I answered straightforwardly, "No."
"Why not?"
"You stood me up."
She replied, "I couldn’t help it."
"Of course you could, or at least you could have had the decency to call and let me know what happened."
She went very quiet. I didn’t. I was in full flow.
"You left me at the Cross. I stood there like a tit freezing for hours. If you couldn’t have made it at least you could have got one of your mates to come and tell me."
She only answered with a much quieter than normal, almost reverent, "I couldn’t. I would have been there if I could have but I couldn’t."
"Don't talk rubbish. You just didn’t and I was left looking like a turd."
Rose didn’t try to counter my claims, just repeated, "I couldn’t make it. I really wanted to but couldn’t that night."
I stuck the barbs in further, "Were you grounded for being a bad girl or getting drunk or what?"
"No, that wasn’t it."
"Well, what was?" I asked her directly.
She said, "My wee brother was in an accident that day and was in hospital."
I thought that I had heard every excuse known to man for all sorts of things, but this was a new one. So, I did what any argumentative, less rational teenager who was trying to show how little he cared to save his damaged ego, would do, I laughed disdainfully and said, "I don’t believe you. That’s a rubbish excuse."
"It’s true!" Rose said in a hurt tone that I thought was trying to get a sympathy vote. "He was in a car crash. He hurt his leg and needed some stitches on his chin."
I think those were the two injured areas, but memories are a bit cloudy, it could have been his nose and ankle.
I just laughed sarcastically.
"I can prove it if we meet, if you come to my house. He has the scars to prove it."
I laughed again, thinking that this was another ruse to get me out to Kirkintilloch again to meet up. Rose never got angry, she just repeated, "I can prove it. Honest."
"You arranged to meet me, couldn’t do so ‘cause your brother was in a crash, had a sore leg and a cut, and that stopped you meeting me? And you weren’t able to get your mates to let me know? C’mon."
I tried to make this sound as sarcastic as I could, presumably as a way of getting back at her for not meeting me. "Come on, be truthful."
"I was in hospital with him and couldn't leave."
"All because he had a sore leg and a cut lip?" I questioned, "That’s a bit much."
"No, he got a badly broken leg in the crash and needed loads of stitches."
The conversation went on for a bit and to me it seemed to get more and more ridiculous as she was putting her side of the story. The injuries moved from a sore leg to multiple fractures, from a cut chin to loads of stitches. I was just unwilling to accept any of it. I thought that I was being strung along.
Eventually I asked, "Who was driving?" Rose had only said that it was an accident. So I was intrigued as to who had caused his apparent mayhem.
She went quiet then said, "It was in my dad’s car. He was driving."
"So, what happened to him" I asked mockingly, "did he end up with two broken legs?"
Rose was even more subdued at the end of the ‘phone, then, with a catch in her breath she whispered, "He died."
"Aye right. That’s a terrible thing to say. Imagine making that up."
"It’s true. He died in the crash. He died," she said.
Her voice now betrayed her emotions as she relived that night.
I was shocked, deeply apologetic, and now wished that the ground would swallow me up. Rose was in tears, not sobbing but enough that I could make out her crying. And, I had no idea what to say. Here was I acting the tough, couldn’t care less guy: an act. But I was now caught like a politician being questioned at a hustings, mentally ducking and diving, trying to think what to say that would be right and proper and not dig a deeper ditch. All I could say was that I was sorry.
Rose was upset, rightly so, and said that she would have to get off the ‘phone now as someone else needed it. I knew then that I had hurt her badly, opened old wounds, and shown no empathy when it was necessary early in the conversation. I wished that I could change things, but I couldn’t.
As with many of us, life moved on, Rose and I continued to speak on the ‘phone at times but things were different. She left school to start nursing (I think at Lennox Castle Hospital) and I was working in Glasgow. Without a car, a relationship would be difficult, and I think we both knew it. She called, regularly at first, and was always polite and never pushy. I remember another New Year getting a call (out of the blue I think) and being asked if I wanted to go to a party with her. I did, but travel was the problem for me.
A few years later, I can't remember if she called me or I called her, but a chat took place and I asked if she would like to go to a party in Edinburgh with me and two friends (who were long-term boyfriend/girlfriend). I had every intention of using that party night to mend broken bridges and show her that I cared. The night started well but finished less well. Disastrously so.
I had borrowed my brother's car, picked up my friends, then went out to Lennox Castle for Rose. All was well until we reached the party. Most of the partygoers were university students from Glasgow or Edinburgh, many were my friends. I wasn’t a big drinker but felt that I had to show off to Elle, so I got absolutely rat-arsed before I knew it.
The night was a blur but, at the end, I remember collapsing into a bed. Or to be more exact, I vaguely (very vaguely) recollect being taken to bed by Rose, undressed by her, covered over and then the room began to spin. I made a rush to the loo, just in time but remember cuddling close to her in bed, and apologising for my condition, but also for the fact that in this state there was no way she was going to have any fun with me. I just slept fitfully and awoke the next morning with a hangover from hell. Unfortunately, I still had to drive us all home. It was a quiet journey, and an even quieter moment when I dropped Elle off. We promised to call each other. I didn’t as I was seriously too embarrassed to do so. I think that she was just fed up with me sort of stringing her along and she needed someone who cared for her more than I had been able to evidence.
The next time that I tried to contact her, she was married and had a child.
This wee story was written in part for some catharsis, to get things down on paper and off my chest. It has helped organise my thoughts and although some parts might be clouded by the passing of time, for the great part, I have been true to myself, my mates, and especially Rose. If she ever reads this, I’m sure that she will recognise herself and her story in it. If it was being published, I would dedicate it to her; dedicate it to a young girl’s life blighted by tragedy, exacerbated by her fancying a young boy who was too stupid to reciprocate as warmly or as fully as she wanted.
I heard recently that Rose had divorced and remarried but there is no way of confirming it. I hope that, if this is the case, she has had a great life. I hope it has been as fulfilling, wonderful, and happy as she deserved. Rose will undoubtedly have a great story to tell. Go for it but make sure you send me a copy at glasgowboyafoot@gmail.com when it’s published. 😊
If anyone recognises the cast of this story, then please get in touch. I am truly interested to know how things worked out.
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