Once upon a time, in a far away land called 'The Past', I had
a friend called ADAM COWIE (not quite his real name, but close
enough). From the age of around 7 years old until I was about 22, I
considered him one of my closest pals. I'm not quite sure why, as he
was a liar, a fantasist and a thief, who, as a child, was always getting into
trouble. (This is the same boy who stole the moon-suit, as related in the
previous post.) His parents, who were both blind, were members of the
local Baptist Church, and had an annoying tendency (as do many par-
ents) to attribute their son's constant bad behaviour (at school and
outside of it) to others, rather than to his own natural propensity
for landing himself in the soft and smelly brown stuff.
One Saturday, in 1970 or '71, myself and my pal were wander-
ing around the town centre and called in to the Pet Shop to have a
look-see. (Incidentally, the shop only relatively recently relocated
to new premises after being in the same place for well over 40 years.)
Our eyes spotted a white mouse, which was inexpensive enough for
me to purchase if I so wished. I was half-inclined to, and Adam en-
couraged me, saying that he would give me half the cost at a later
date, and that we could take turns looking after it.
And so it came to pass that we became the proud owners of a
new pet. We went back to his house first, whereupon his parents
said he wasn't allowed to have it, not even on a part-time basis. He
threw a strop, and his father, fetching a cane from the outside garden
cellar, marched his son into the house for a whipping. He turned in my
direction as he went through the door, saying "See the trouble you've
brought to this house?!" It goes without saying that I considered it
unfair of him to place the blame for his son's reaction on me. (It
wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.)
Anyway, I became the sole owner of QUICKSILVER, as he
came to be known, and looked after him until I had to find him
a new home when we went on a fortnight's holiday to Largs in 1971.
(I didn't really want to part with him, but couldn't let him starve.) Many,
many years later, someone pointed out the fellow to whom I'd given him,
and said that he was well-known for maltreating (if not outright torturing)
pets he'd owned when younger. As I type this, I'm overcome with horror
and guilt at the fate to which I'd unwittingly delivered poor Quicksilver,
and can only hope that he didn't suffer too much. If there's one thing
I could go back and change in my life, it would be to not hand my
mouse over to the sicko who I thought he'd be safe with.
(I have a nagging memory of running into him months later,
in '71 or '72, and asking him how my former pet was. "It's deid!"
he muttered as he passed. I was slightly stunned at the news, but it
wasn't until I learned of his disturbing proclivities long after the
fact that the sinister significance of his words dawned on me.)
But I digress. Earlier I'd said that Adam's parents were blind,
which was true, but 'though his father had one glass eye, the blind-
ness in his other eye was caused by a cataract, which, in 1976, was
operated on, resulting in him having some partial-but-restricted sight.
Adam's mother had died in 1975, and he and his father moved into a
flat not far away from me several months later. It was while living in
this flat that a female neighbour would sometimes chap their door
and hand in a pot of home-made soup for the pair of them,
purely out of the goodness of her heart.
One day, while handing in some soup, she mentioned that
her radio had expired. "Bring it over and I'll take a look at it,"
said my pal's pater, and she duly trotted across the landing to fetch
it. It turned out to be a simple matter of a blown fuse, but rather than
replace it, Mr. Cowie just affixed another plug and retained the original.
(It may even have been the complete power cord.) Once it was working
again and handed back, I heard him crowing to his son at what a far better
plug it was, and what an inferior, cheaper, age-worn plug he'd supplied in
its place. He was positively gloating at having put one over on the neigh-
bour who'd never been anything but kind to him. I almost felt like
saying "That'll be why Adam's such a lying, diddling, scheming
b*st*rd who's always getting himself into trouble - it's the
example you've set him!" I didn't, of course.
While still at primary school years before, Adam and a class-
mate came into school one morning with two diecast toy cars. I can
no longer recall if they were CORGIs or DINKYs, but Adam claimed
that they were both presents from an aunt of either him or the other boy.
(I still remember the second lad's name, but I'll spare his blushes as what
I'm about to relate was uncharacteristic of him.) Turned out they'd stolen
them from a young boy playing outside his house on their way to school,
as we all discovered when the boy's mother descended on the school to
complain. If they'd kept the cars in their schoolbags and not shown
them off, they might have got away with it, but having flaunted
their ill-gotten goods, it was easy to track down the culprits.
His parents were obviously in denial over their inabilty to
control their unruly offspring, and often blamed me for his way-
ward exploits, as we sometimes got into bother for trivial misbehaviour
together. However, the fact that I was seldom ever in any trouble myself,
while he was often in trouble either by himself or with others, was lost on
them. It was always "that Gordon Robson's fault", whether I was even
present at the time of an incident or not. Years later, he admitted to me
that he sometimes told his parents that I was the cause of several of his
various misdemeanours, simply to shift the blame and assuage his
parents' anger - even if we hadn't been together at the time
of his transgressions.
If you're interested in what eventually became of this fellow and
our friendship, further details can be found here. Thinking things
over now, if my former friend and a mouse were hanging over a cliff,
I'd be sure to rescue the rodent first (the furry one, that is). In fact,
I'd be tempted to call it quits after saving the mouse.
This has been another completely self-indulgent, non-
comics related 'Rambling Robson Reminiscence' - in
case you hadn't already noticed. Comments, anyone?