Two months later, Gordon Buie and his grandson Duncan arrived at Dulce Cor cottage in the grounds of Sweetheart Abbey School and sat silently in their car for a few minutes, taking in their surrounds. The old stone building had stood stoically in the centre of New Abbey village where it had been marking time for centuries in the shadow of the looming bulk of Criffel Hill.
The journey by car to the Solway coast in Dumfries and Galloway had taken a leisurely three hours and, as he opened the driver’s door, Gordon Buie turned to his grandson and said: "This school could be the making of you. I want you to look upon today as the start of an exciting adventure, Duncan. You know how much I love you but I am getting on laddie and you need a better start in life than the one I can give you.
“Now remember, no one is expecting an answer immediately and it’s not exactly the army these days, so if you don’t like it you can say so. There’s a perfectly good school waiting for you back at Stirling, but I really feel this one can give you so much more.”
Duncan looked into his grandfather’s eyes then stepped out of the car. The spindly youth was almost as tall as the old man who these days was slightly stooped and walked with the aid of a stick. “Grandfather, I don’t want to leave you; you are all I’ve got and what about you? And this place looks scary, and I’m afraid.”
The old man patted his grandson on the shoulder and said: "When your mother was alive, she rarely left your side. I’m told your Moses basket was perched in her laboratory next to the Bunsen burners, test tubes and glass flasks. God knows what Health and Safety monitors would’ve said. However, I know for a fact she would never have sent you away in a million years but what I do know is both of them wanted the best for you.
“And this is the best,” he said waving his arm around. “The educational opportunities here at Sweetheart are really first-rate and I should know! Before you make any decision, and ultimately it will be your decision, lad, sit down and talk to Mr Petrie and see what you think.”
The old man opened the rickety garden gate and the pair walked down the flower lined path. As Gordon reached out for the brass doorknocker, he paused momentarily. It was a menacing looking lion’s head, but the door opened before he could lift it. There stood a welcoming Mr Petrie. Within minutes of introductions, some piping hot tea was being poured into china cups bearing the pattern of a Celtic-style cross. Traditional shortbread biscuits were neatly arranged on a lace doily over an oval plate with the same Celtic designs.
“So young Duncan, you’re thinking of coming to Sweetheart Abbey then, following in your grandfather’s footsteps, eh? A wise choice,” said Mr Petrie. “I’m told you’re a bright lad with a head for maths and science but what do you know about Scottish history?”
His eyes widened in horror as he was unable to utter a word having just taken a mouthful of shortbread; Duncan had literally bitten off more than he could chew and he froze as the piercing gaze of the history master seemed to penetrate through to his brain.
Without waiting for him to answer, Mr Petrie continued: "The trouble with the youth today, Gordon, is they don’t know their history, who they are or even where they are from. They can all talk about Bannockburn and recite a little Burns and sing Flower of Scotland but there’s more to this great nation than bagpipes, kilts and haggis; the land is awash with heroes and great martyrs and it is almost criminal they know so little about their heritage or the sacrifices made for future generations.
"Do you know I’ve had my own battle just to keep some of the history in the curriculum after complaints from parents and meddling governors that I have an anti-English agenda? Me? Anti-English? The trouble is, those south of the Border who send their children here to be educated want me to resort to an Imperialist ‘Rule Britannia’ agenda, but I won’t. We must tell it like it is, warts and all. That is my duty, and I won’t deviate from it!
“I believe history should not just be written by the pen of the victors and our own Scottish story must be told. Otherwise pupils will leave here thinking we are all savages who guzzle Irn Bru, eat deep fried Mars bars, avoid green vegetables, paint our faces blue and get stocious every night on Buckfast and whisky.”
Gordon Buie slapped his knees and roared with laughter: "After all these years, you still have a passion unrivalled; God bless you, Mr Petrie. You’ve reminded me about something I’ve long forgotten, the importance of our heritage, who we are and from where we came.
"I’m sure my grandson will shine wherever he goes but he’s got his mother’s very quiet, gentle nature and I don’t want him pushed around by bullies. My life was made miserable by some of the thugs at Sweetheart back in the day. You must remember, Mr Petrie. You pulled me out of a few school ground scrapes but that was more than forty years ago.
“In truth I was surprised when you came to my workshop as I thought you would have retired long ago; in fact I thought you had…well, I wasn’t sure you’d still be here. You don’t seem to have changed at all, may be a few extra grey hairs, but…”
Mr Petrie jumped up and exclaimed: “Yes, well, we need to focus on the here and now and what young Duncan needs and wants. I’ll look out for you, you can count on it, Dewar my boy,” he said as he gave him a reassuring firm hand on his shoulder and then swiftly turned to point at an old wall clock near a bookcase.
“What do you think? Can you revive it?” Duncan ran over and shouted excitedly at his grandfather: “It’s a mid-seventeenth century Lantern clock! Yes, we can fix that. I’m sure,” beamed Duncan who suddenly seemed much more at ease. Everyone laughed and set about inspecting the antique silver clock. “She is a beauty. I don’t think I’ve seen one in such good condition before. I didn’t realise teachers were so well paid these days,” remarked Gordon.
Mr Petrie laughed nervously and said: “It was a wedding gift. I think it was made around 1660 and is the forerunner to the grandfather clock, you know before the weights and pendulum were enclosed altogether to stop the pendulum being knocked accidentally.”
Like a country doctor, Gordon never left home without the tools of his trade which he carried in a black leather Gladstone bag. Retrieving it from the car, he laughed: “My bare essentials.” As he set about dismantling the clock, he said: “They’re like human beings, you know. Each one sensitive and needy of love and attention. Clocks have been known to stop at very poignant moments, births, deaths and the like.”
Duncan piped up: “Well, this one stopped just before 3 pm.” Petrie’s face began to fold inwardly as his eyes welled up and said: “Yes, you are right. The clock stopped just before my wife died and I’ve never been able to get it going since. She was its master and wound it up using this silver key.” He handed over the key which was tied around a fraying and fading pink, silk ribbon.
There was an uneasy silence as the clockmaker stripped the timepiece lovingly, while Duncan meticulously cleaned each section and within two hours of painstaking work, it was back working again. The ticking sound was deep, rich and satisfying.
Refusing to charge a fee, he turned to his old history master and said: “Thank you for a very satisfying visit. We will be in touch. I think we might walk around the school grounds, if you don’t mind, and I will recall my old school days with the lad.” The men shook hands and then Mr Petrie turned to Duncan and used both his hands to clasp the boy’s outstretched palm. “I will be seeing you in September. I’m sure.”
As they walked back down the garden path, the old man turned to his grandson and said: “Did you smell something sweet in there? I got a vague waft of something, something from my childhood, but I’m not sure what.”
“It was Parma Violets’ granddad. The best sweets ever,” replied Duncan.
“Nonsense, lad,” he replied, laughing. “There’s no way Mr Petrie would have Parma Violets in his house. He’s more of a Soor Plooms man.”
When the two got back to Stirling, they spent the evening and the next day checking the website of Sweetheart, reading about the traditions and past pupils. In the end, Duncan reluctantly decided this is where he would have his education. The prospect filled him with fear and dread of the unknown as well as being apart from his grandfather for the first time in as long as he could remember.
That September the fresh-faced youngster joined a host of other first formers at Sweetheart Abbey’s Middle School. Wide-eyed and wary in their brand new navy blazers, V-neck jumpers, school ties and charcoal grey trousers, they sat cross-legged for their first assembly.
The headmaster, Andrew Collins, gave a hint of a smile as he addressed the new arrivals, most of whom sported short, tidy haircuts as though they’d been recruited for a military academy. "Welcome to Sweetheart Abbey. This will be your home for the next seven years and I want you to look upon the experience as one which will give you the best foundations from which to build your future.
“Education here is like an artist’s canvas; it is up to you what landscape and image you want to create and it will depend on you the opportunities that are created from it. In other words, we will supply the paint but you are the artist who will use it to maximise your opportunities. So if you want to be a Van Gogh, Gauguin, Renoir or Monet, that will be your decision.”
The boy sitting next to Duncan whispered: “I’d rather be a Banksy.” To Duncan’s horror, the headmaster stopped talking momentarily and looked down on Duncan and Ninian Swithers. “Sorry boys, is there something you want to share with the school?”
Both crimson-cheeked boys looked up at the grim-faced master and almost in unison shook their heads vigorously, too choked to speak.
Mr Collins continued: "Here at Sweetheart, we encourage you to think beyond and outside of the box and we will encourage creativity and innovation. We will work tirelessly to give you an education which will prepare you for the world outside.
“I and the rest of the teaching staff have an open-door policy. If you need help and advice, come and ask for it and we will do our utmost to deliver,” added Dr Collins.
As Duncan Dewar sat and listened to Dr Collins, he could never imagine a situation where he would dare go and knock on the headmaster’s door. The older boys had already regaled him with tales of how ‘The Doc’ as he was nicknamed by the pupils, used horrific psychological torture in order to obtain information of wrongdoing.
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In the three years he’d been at Sweetheart, Duncan never tested Dr Collins’ ‘open door’ policy and neither did any of his classmates. While he had lost some of the shyness and timidity since joining Sweetheart, he still maintained a lower profile than most of the other boys preferring to remain in the background.
Now he was a third-year student and a pupil at the senior school. He was still wiry in build but his short back and sides had changed into an overgrown mop of curly, ginger hair, thanks to a recent change in school regulations over haircuts being relaxed. He wasn’t trying to be fashionable, far from it as Duncan didn’t follow trends or fashion.
Today he was sitting at the back of the Scottish History lesson as Mr Petrie regaled the class with the horrific tale of the demise of Clan Moffat. Although recounted numerous times over the years, he never got tired of telling the story in all its graphic and gory detail.
Predictably, the boys recoiled in horror as they imagined the hellish scene as the Moffat men, women and children were locked inside burning buildings by their adversaries from the Johnstone clan. “Lights, Dewar,” roared Mr Petrie as he concluded the bloody history of the Border family.
“Crikey! You’d think Old Petrie had witnessed the whole bloody thing himself. He can’t half belt out a good story even if he is a pain,” whispered Jacob Thornberry, son of wealthy industrialist Lord Thornberry.
“I’m only surprised he didn’t blame the English. We get it in the neck for just about everything,” retorted Crispin Sparrow, son of an eminent city lawyer whose clients included a sprinkling of European royals and aristocrats. Thornberry and Sparrow were typical of the privileged and elite who were enrolled at the exclusive sixteenth-century boarding school.
Ironically, the school was never meant for the rich and famous or privileged classes. Its honourable beginnings came about in 1585 when King James VI bestowed a grant and special status on what had been an old abbey. He endowed the abbey school with the intention of educating orphans and children from nearby farming communities, towns and villages.
A giant painting, depicting the occasion, hung in the grand reception room known as ‘The Caledonian Suite’, adjacent to the school’s rather magnificent ballroom on the ground floor. Wearing very elaborate regalia, King James is captured in oils signing the charter while his more modestly dressed entourage look on.
It was a period when Scotland had grand ambitions to educate its children whether they were paupers or princes and as a result, nearly every town and village had a school which opened its doors to the poor and needy.
Sadly, dwindling funds forced this one, like so many others, to turn to the private sector by the nineteenth century and today only the very wealthy could afford to send their children to Sweetheart Abbey.
The school had produced several prime ministers, esteemed politicians, philanthropists and inventors as well as a handful of arms dealers and other equally shady businessmen. The elite favoured it above Eton simply because it wasn’t Eton while others who wanted to keep alive their Scottish ancestry thought educating their sons north of the border would somehow achieve that.
In addition, the school had an internationally renowned reputation for academic excellence. Despite that, it still bestowed a few places every year to the under privileged and one of the ‘freebies’ as they were bluntly referred to by Thornberry and his posh friends was orphaned Dewar.
The tragedy of his parents’ demise – both were killed in a car accident near the remote fishing village of Kylesku in Sutherland – cut him no slack or mercy from Thornberry or Sparrow. Duncan, barely a toddler at the time, was also in the car but had somehow miraculously survived after being thrown free from his baby seat before the vehicle went up in a fireball. A passer-by found him half-standing, half-crawling near the wreckage the following morning, distressed but otherwise unharmed.
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