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the world. A mere two years later he also witnessed the terrible disaster, although he was not actually aware of it at the time.
    It so happened that my great-grandmother, a widow, who was known as Helen Hay and lived in Leuchars in the Kingdom of Fife, was spending Christmas with her daughter and son-in-law. On 28 December 1879, she was preparing to leave on the evening train back to her home in Leuchars. During the day the weather worsened. Angry white horses galloped across the Tay and thundered against the pebbles on the beach. My grandparents became alarmed. Great-grandmother, a determined old lady who disliked having her plans altered, was in the end persuaded to stay overnight. She was fated never to cross the bridge. In the evening, when the force of the gale had reached the highest pitch, grandfather decided to inspect the garden for any damage. He donned his heavy coat and struggled down to the foot of the garden. The furious lashing of the waves against the shingle, the screaming of the wind like some demented soul, all fused into one horrifying roar. In the pitch darkness, he could see very little beyond a few lights from the opposite shore and the winking eyes of the lighthouse.
    Involuntarily he glanced to the west where a long ribbon of lights could be seen spanning the river. A small red light appeared to be moving from the opposite side towards the high girders of the bridge. As he watched, the lights vanished and everything plunged into darkness. He struggled back to the protective warmth of the house. The two ladies were sitting beside the glowing fire enjoying their cup of tea. “IТve just seen the lights on the bridge go out,” he told them. “I donТt like the look of it,”
    he added. A few hours later the news of the Tay Bridge disaster reached the house. The train and passengers had all been swallowed by the angry waters of the Tay. In the cold grey light the following morning my grandfather rose and went down to the beach. The storm had abated, but the waves were still lashing against the shore and already throwing up the broken wreckage of the carriages.
    In my father, grandfather found a good listener, one who asked many questions and was interested in everything that was said. Scotland was still comparatively new to my father. He wanted to know everything about her customs, traditions, her way of life, so that he in turn could feel, absorb and understand everything and in this way perhaps would be accepted.
    Lunch over, all adjourned to the drawing-room. Gherman, not wishing to overstay his welcome, rose to take his leave, but was persuaded to remain for tea.
    In a house where a strict Presbyterian rule never permitted any music other than psalms or hymns to be played on a Sunday, the family were amazed to hear their father asking Nelly to play some Scottish airs. She obediently sat down to accompany Mary, who had a fine contralto voice. One by one all gathered round the piano. My father, who possessed a good voice and was by now familiar with the well-known songs of Scotland, joined in the singing. Later Nelly played some of the favourite pieces she knew by heart. Gherman was surprised and delighted, for she had never mentioned that she had this accomplishment. Back in the dining-room they all sat down to a Scottish tea. The table was laden with home-baked scones, cream cookies and cakes. A friendly relaxed atmosphere prevailed. Gherman began to feel as if he had known them all for a long time. After tea, the girls, along with Stephen and Henry, prepared to set off for the evening service in the church.
    Father bowed and thanked my grandparents for their hospitality. They in turn invited him to come back again and to treat this house as his second home. “Haste ye back,” my grandmother said, dropping her habitual aloofness and reverting to the homely vernacular.
    Gherman walked with Nelly behind the others. They said goodbye at the church gate and my father continued on his way back to his