It must have been another lifetime, or maybe someone else.

Lat week, driving through Springburn, I passed what used to be
Vulcan Street. Vulcan Street with its cast iron memorial fountain at
one end of its two hundred yard length and the main gate of the
North British Locomotive Company at the other was for me,
for a time, the very centre of my universe.

For a moment or two I could almost hear the whine of the machinery,
the bumping fall of the heavy hammer and the barking call of a Glaswegian
master slinger guiding the huge cranes that lifted the engine chassis.
I could hear, like a wind, the chattering noise of the workers as they
tipped themselves out of that gate at the shift's end.

"See ye the moara, John"
"Aye, Right.. Gawn tae the dugs at Shawfield the night"
"Mind and pit a shillin' oan fur me, Wullie"

Noises from the past, I mused and carried on.
As I travelled the next half mile, it was as though those now non existent
tenements of Springburn Road rose up and presented themselves like the
backdrop of a stage.

The fire station at the cross between Flemington Street and Keppochhill
Road came into view, but it was not the same as today. Further yet, I came
to the Caley Bar and Thomson's Bar next to the old dilapidated swimming
baths.

All at once, in no particular order, sights and sounds flashed out at me
from god-knows-where. I saw the public library , clearly, and Balgray Hill
with the wee red church and Quinn's busy pub at the foot of the hill.
There was the bustle of the old tram cars' running centre-street.
They screeched on the rails and dinged their bell as they turned into the
terminus at Elmvale. Soon a whole community of people, butcher shops
and clothiers and bakers, and a Fishmonger & Poulterer,
the like of which I haven't seen for years came alive.

Women pushed prams and engineers in dungarees.went into a chip shop,
and a coal heaver roared, "Eraaaaa...cooal fur Andersooooon" jostling
a hundredweight of dross into a wally close from a traction engine.

And then I saw George Frew. "Where's the meeting the night, Geordie".
He made no reply and walked on and up a close near the cross.

All at once, I found myself sitting in the wee Labour Party Hall in
Keppochhill Road. I felt funny, calm but strangely detached. I looked
over and could clearly see myself sitting taking some notes.
I got to thinking, what an earnest young man I was...skinny and studious,
and 'where did yer black hair go, son'.

And there were others there Andy McGregor, Tommy Harrison
and Betty Johnstone And maybe another dozen Enough to make
up a rank bad football team with reserves.

Bob MacCall was our leader, but I thought that he was a long time dead.
He spoke with all the passion of an evangelical socialist about the oncoming
revolution. He frequently quoted from Keir Hardie's writing and mimicked
the manner of Lenin. We called him ...Comrade.

Next, and unexpectedly I found myself at the fountain in Vulcan Street.
I knew where I was, but when.and how did I get here.? Unanswered
questions began to tumble in on me and I could feel the mood of the
moment as I harangued a small crowd on the virtues of the socialist way.
Yet, somehow the certainty was gone. It was an uncertainty I had never
experienced. And there was an echo that I'd never heard.

All at once I became aware of a car's headlights shining not more than ten
feet away and the blast of its horn. I was in Hawthorn Street near the
old Eastfield marshalling yard. I had come to a juddering halt.
I was shaking.

"Are ye awright, mister, A' thought ye were sent fur",
a voice called in the eerie coldness.

I slid the window down and saw the friendly face of Comrade McCall
I didn't know he was only ten years old.



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