shatter the family.
In 1957, children were kept in ignorance of sexual matters and few of us had effective strategies to deal with flashers, or someone touching us inappropriately on the bus or at the pictures.
Then people avoided discussing sex with their children, through embarrassment. Facts had to be gleaned from playground pals, who were mines of misinformation. I was so naïve about the monthly
cycle that when my best friend at primary, Carol Fairley, told me with a giggle one day that she had a period, I said in all innocence: ‘I’ve got one too – bet mine’s better
than yours! I’ve made a great pattern.’
Her shocked face puzzled me till it dawned on her that I had thought she’d said ‘peerie’. (We were very proud of these small wooden toys which we spun on the ground using a
special whipping cord. They would birl for ages, depending on the skill of the player, and I had discovered from some older girls the trick of colouring circular bands of rainbow chalk on the
surface, so that a really good shot produced a wonderful, mesmerizing kaleidoscopic blur of vivid hues.) Then she dissolved into giggles, until she realized she had a chance to show off her
superior knowledge of what I could shortly expect to happen to me each month.
Although my father made a brief reappearance shortly after my eighth birthday, on 7 January 1957, I was told by my mother that he would be going away again. She spoke in tones
of misery, so I knew that I would not see him for a long time. This filled me with a mixture of relief and shame that I could not have explained to anyone, even if I could have found someone
willing to listen.
When he disappeared again, it was spring, and by that time the search for Moira was in full swing.
What do I recall of the actual weekend of her disappearance? When my mother and I discussed it, many years later, our memories dovetailed together in the jigsaw of events. It had been a landmark
for us both, and for quite different reasons.
My mother said that my father had had an early rise that day, to take the miners to the Annathill colliery, then had been home mid-morning before going out after lunch to do a two until ten
shift. She told me that she could recall that weekend in some detail because her parents had had a visitor from Australia. Grandpa Frew’s sister, Auntie Cis, who had emigrated years before,
had come for a reunion. A family gathering was held on Saturday evening at Ashgrove to celebrate her arrival, and my mother was annoyed that my father had not arranged for someone to swap with him,
particularly when he had already done an early-morning shift. She organized us to attend the party, then had to call it off anyway; like many others in the town, I had succumbed to Asian flu, which
was sweeping Scotland.
It was the first time I had ever been ill with a high fever, and I remember it well. It was not until Sunday, on cotton-wool legs, that I went unsteadily to my grandmother’s, having been
off school all week. I was delighted to be given pretty handkerchiefs embroidered with kangaroos, from the Australian guest of honour. My mother told them I’d been put straight to bed with
the younger ones, the night before, in the recess bed in the wall. At ten o’clock, she had debated whether to send for the doctor as my temperature was sky high, and she kept looking for my
father parking his car in our yard.
There was no sign of him, but she found that once she had sponged me with a flannel and water I was a bit better. Worried by his non-appearance when the snow had been so bad earlier, she decided
not to go to bed but to keep an eye on me while she made some vegetable soup for the Sunday.
It was nearly midnight before my father’s car drew up outside in the yard, and he let himself in. She told him about me and reminded him to go next day to say hello to her aunt. Then she
offered him some soup. He said he was tired, and she noticed he did look exhausted, but the
In 1957, children were kept in ignorance of sexual matters and few of us had effective strategies to deal with flashers, or someone touching us inappropriately on the bus or at the pictures.
Then people avoided discussing sex with their children, through embarrassment. Facts had to be gleaned from playground pals, who were mines of misinformation. I was so naïve about the monthly
cycle that when my best friend at primary, Carol Fairley, told me with a giggle one day that she had a period, I said in all innocence: ‘I’ve got one too – bet mine’s better
than yours! I’ve made a great pattern.’
Her shocked face puzzled me till it dawned on her that I had thought she’d said ‘peerie’. (We were very proud of these small wooden toys which we spun on the ground using a
special whipping cord. They would birl for ages, depending on the skill of the player, and I had discovered from some older girls the trick of colouring circular bands of rainbow chalk on the
surface, so that a really good shot produced a wonderful, mesmerizing kaleidoscopic blur of vivid hues.) Then she dissolved into giggles, until she realized she had a chance to show off her
superior knowledge of what I could shortly expect to happen to me each month.
Although my father made a brief reappearance shortly after my eighth birthday, on 7 January 1957, I was told by my mother that he would be going away again. She spoke in tones
of misery, so I knew that I would not see him for a long time. This filled me with a mixture of relief and shame that I could not have explained to anyone, even if I could have found someone
willing to listen.
When he disappeared again, it was spring, and by that time the search for Moira was in full swing.
What do I recall of the actual weekend of her disappearance? When my mother and I discussed it, many years later, our memories dovetailed together in the jigsaw of events. It had been a landmark
for us both, and for quite different reasons.
My mother said that my father had had an early rise that day, to take the miners to the Annathill colliery, then had been home mid-morning before going out after lunch to do a two until ten
shift. She told me that she could recall that weekend in some detail because her parents had had a visitor from Australia. Grandpa Frew’s sister, Auntie Cis, who had emigrated years before,
had come for a reunion. A family gathering was held on Saturday evening at Ashgrove to celebrate her arrival, and my mother was annoyed that my father had not arranged for someone to swap with him,
particularly when he had already done an early-morning shift. She organized us to attend the party, then had to call it off anyway; like many others in the town, I had succumbed to Asian flu, which
was sweeping Scotland.
It was the first time I had ever been ill with a high fever, and I remember it well. It was not until Sunday, on cotton-wool legs, that I went unsteadily to my grandmother’s, having been
off school all week. I was delighted to be given pretty handkerchiefs embroidered with kangaroos, from the Australian guest of honour. My mother told them I’d been put straight to bed with
the younger ones, the night before, in the recess bed in the wall. At ten o’clock, she had debated whether to send for the doctor as my temperature was sky high, and she kept looking for my
father parking his car in our yard.
There was no sign of him, but she found that once she had sponged me with a flannel and water I was a bit better. Worried by his non-appearance when the snow had been so bad earlier, she decided
not to go to bed but to keep an eye on me while she made some vegetable soup for the Sunday.
It was nearly midnight before my father’s car drew up outside in the yard, and he let himself in. She told him about me and reminded him to go next day to say hello to her aunt. Then she
offered him some soup. He said he was tired, and she noticed he did look exhausted, but the
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