Another trip to Scotland soon after the first one — this time to meet some Richardson relatives and this time we went by the Caledonian Sleeper:
We left Euston Station in London on the 11.30pm train. It wasn’t a very restful night. Our compartment was too hot and the train kept stopping because of what was later described as “technical problems”. Every time the train pulled up, we were awakened by the feeling that we were about to roll from our bunks onto the floor.
We arrived in Glasgow at 9am, 45 minutes or so late, and were met by my father’s cousin, John Richardson Wilson (in the Scottish tradition, the Richardson is used as a family middle name, not part of a hyphenated one). We had no trouble picking John out because he was so obviously a Richardson descendant. The more we saw of him the more we realised that he was a dead-ringer for my younger brother Jeffrey. Take off 30 years, give him an Aussie accent, and he would have been Jeff’s twin. To say that John gave us a warm welcome would be an understatement. He got quite emotional and at one stage we thought he was going to burst into tears.
We caught a train to Paisley, an outer suburb of Glasgow, and a taxi from there to his home. His wife, Net (short: for Janet), made us at home and immediately set about cooking a large breakfast. She was very well-meaning, but I don’t think I’ve ever known a woman who talked so much. It was never-ending, and we felt like two matchsticks swept along in an uncontrollable flood of words. Poor, mild-mannered and uncomplicated John really didn’t have a hope. “The Richardsons were a fine upright family”, she insisted. "Granny Richardson was a lovely woman”, "I'm a Good Christian woman who believes in tolerance” — except, we felt like adding, when it came to Catholics, Salvation Army members, and other members of the Wilson family; “I don’t smoke — I only have one vice, my husband John”, “I always speak my mind - when I’ve got anything to say, I say it. I don’t know why John puts up with me”. That, we must confess, was a thought that passed through our minds more than once.
After lunch (well, it really wasn’t lunch — it was more a sort of afternoon tea, because Net was nattering so much she forgot to cook lunch until too late) we all drove to the nearby suburb of Renfrew to the home of John’s sister, Margaret (wife of John Boyd), for the re-union.
With the aid of the Renfrew Press, a suburban newspaper in Glasgow, John had rounded up the extended Scottish Richardsons:
About 15 members of the Richardson Wilson extended family turned up. Our big disappointment was the non-appearance of the sole surviving member of grandfather Richardson’s family, Hannah (Mrs McMillan, more recently Mrs Morton). Hannah was 88 and re-married about two years before. She was said to be incredibly fit for her age. Her daughter told me it was almost necessary to make an appointment with her because she was rarely home. Someone else told me she was going to Canada next year for her holidays. Margaret Boyd had hoped to surprise Hannah with the reunion, but Hannah misunderstood the invitation and didn't think it was important enough to make a special trip on a cold day. We made a tape recording of everyone chatting about the Richardsons. Some of it is quite amusing, and the Scottish accents are marvellous.
A reporter and a photographer from the Renfrew Press came to the re-union and did a story on it. I think it was the best story they’d had all week -- especially as rain had washed out the local football match!
The family were a gold mine of information, because they grew up with great-grandmother Isabella Richardson (née Walker) who died in 1931, aged 85. They described her as a small tough woman, who was terribly strict but at the same time terribly good hearted. Her mother was Irish and a farmer’s daughter. She is said to have eloped with the farm foreman and fled to Londonderry, with her brothers in hot pursuit. They were armed and very angry. She eventually made her way back to Scotland and was married two days after she turned 16 to William Waugh, a coal mine official, who was about 33 years her senior. Waugh was mixed race, and so was his Irish father who was a seaman involved in the slave trade operating out of the West Indies.
William Waugh died a few years later, leaving Isabella a widow with two daughters. She later married John Smith Richardson I (my great grandfather). He was the illegitimate son of William Richardson, an itinerant miner, and Betsy Smith, a farm servant. He was brought up and educated by a clergyman. He alternated between being a very heavy drinker and being teetotal. He was prominent in a fire-and-brimstone evangelical church and a founder of the miners’ union in Lanarkshire.
As a result of his union activities, he was unable to get work in Scotland for a time and went to the mines in the Newcastle area where my uncle Jim Richardson was born. He returned to Scotland and Isabella finally refused to make any more moves. John, meantime, had begun to drink very heavily, apparently after he became ill with influenza and his doctor was reported to have suggested whisky for relief. He became quite a roamer, while Isabella and the family stayed put in Selsburgh. He was finally picked up in the street dead drunk outside Falkirk and taken to the home of his son, Alexander, in Glasgow where he died. He was 64. The death certificate gave the cause of death as “cirrhosis of the liver”.
We learned quite a bit of fascinating information about my Grandfather Richardson. He was born in Larkhall, Lanarkshire. His name was registered at birth simply as John Richardson, and his grandmother’s surname, Smith, was added some time before his marriage to my nana, Elizabeth Mary (“Bessie”) McDearmid. More on his fascinating story is in Chapter 1 of this memoir.
We asked the Wilsons about a reported row between my grandfather and his brother, James. They were quite sure that the row was between John and James on one side and Alexander “Sanny” on the other. “Sanny” was apparently prepared to turn his hand to anything for a quick quid, and John Wilson says the row was apparently over a shipment of salted herrings to Russia. The money in dispute amounted to £115, which would have been a very large sum in those days, but John did not know the details.
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The re-union was a fascinating experience and went on for about seven hours. We returning to John Wilson’s for a much-needed night’s sleep. We were numb from tiredness and barely stirred before 10am the next morning.
After breakfast we drove back to Renfrew for lunch with George and Betty Allwright. Betty, like myself, is a great-grandchild of Isabella Richardson. About nine years previously she returned from Australia where she spent some time in Sydney, working for the Education Department part of the time and on the staff of Lord Dunrossil (when he was Governor-General) the rest. Betty met her husband when he was a steward on the ship that brought her back to Britain. They have two lovely little girls with gorgeous Scots accents, which we have recorded on tape.
After lunch, a friend of the Allwrights drove us into the city to catch the afternoon express to London. We had to wait a while to board the train because of a bomb hoax, but it left on time and we did the 400-mile trip in just over 6½ hours.
Always enjoy the chapters..
Scotland for me especially as my grandpa Waa born there and with his family of l think 12. moved to Australia when he was 6 yrs old .
Your writing makes me feel like lve travelled myself...without the expense!
Thanks to you and Rosemary..
Cheers Helen 🇦🇺 🪃