Mr Learmouth’s office the following day, after I’d finished work, to hear important news. My heart was in my mouth. Why should I suddenly appear before a lawyer? I went through all possible misdeeds, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t guilty of anything except for the gooseberry incident, though I doubted that would bring a lawyer into action. You have no idea the feeling with which I went to bed after hearing this. I hardly slept that night, my mind racing. The next day at work, my head was probably not always in the right place either, for I was desperate to know why I had to see Mr Learmouth, now, of all times. I made sure to leave the distillery on time, and, very excitedly, I went to his office and, with sweaty palms, knocked on the door. He invited me in and told me to sit down, as he had something important to tell me. Spellbound, I sat in the armchair in front of the desk that my mother always kept clean. “Well, Jim,” he began, “your mother has told me that you want to learn the trade of barrel maker. As Mr McColl has already told you, the distillery is one employee short in that profession. So it would seem to be impossible for you to continue. But, in actual fact …!” The pause that now followed seemed endless, but he continued: “I have taken the liberty of looking into this matter and have written to Glasgow to point out that this clause makes no sense on Islay. You would have ideal conditions here in a well-established distillery and your teacher would be the nationally and internationally respected Mr Bell. Therefore, it should not be of any real importance whether four or five barrel makers accompany the training.” He had therefore moved that, in this case, a special exception should be made and that, under the circumstances, the apprenticeship be approved after all. Once again, he paused, and looked straight at me. There was something hopeful and positive flashing in his eyes. “Well, Jim McEwan, the reply arrived from Glasgow yesterday. I am extremely pleased to inform you that from next week you will be allowed to learn the trade of barrel maker with Mr Bell. Congratulations!” It was now I who paused, a long pause in fact. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. So my dream could come true after all? “Mr Learmouth, how will I ever thank you and how will I ever pay you?” “You don’t have to pay me. All I ask of you is that you take this opportunity and become a good barrel maker. And I expect a report from you from time to time on how that’s going. Now off you go, you’ve got a lot to do, budding cooper McEwan.” That evening I experienced what it feels like to be both happy and grateful. Here was a very busy man who had recognised the importance of my situation, written the right words to the right addressee, who had then made the right decision.
My world came crashing down around me. Mr McColl told me about the situation as gently as possible.
Could that have been a coincidence? But I don’t believe in coincidences. In retrospect, I am firmly convinced that these encounters were meant for me, both with Mr Learmouth and with Davy Bell. When I was in the early stages of my career, I had a long conversation with the Round Church minister, Frank Gibson. I had always had a special connection with him. When he preached, I hung upon his every word. He knew very well how to link the contents of the Bible with my life and my little world on Islay. In his own special way, he reached out to me with his thoughts and his personality. I loved going to the Round Church on Sundays and was very involved in church life. We were talking one day, about topics of great depth, during which he spoke of subjects that left a lasting impression on me. He talked about how our lives had been carefully prepared by the great man above, the book of our lives having been already written by the time we see the light of day. Our job is only to turn its pages. There are no coincidences – everything obeys a plan. I find these thoughts to be very comforting to this day, providing security and confidence in all our lives and actions. Everything has its higher plan; I am taken care of, the course for my future has been set, something I have been able to experience again and again in the course of my life. It was on that very evening at Mr Learmouth’s that I realised this for the first time. There are people around us about whom we have not the slightest idea, from one moment to the next, as to how important they can become in our lives. Isn’t that a wonderful concept?
4 Inspiring People – James McColl
In addition to Davy Bell, in the early days there was someone else who was incredibly important to me: James McColl. In the early sixties he was the manager at Bowmore Distillery, the man who pulled the strings. For me as a young, wild man, he was a role model through and through, with a stature possessed by no one else in the village. No matter when or where I met him, he was always smartly dressed, his light temples reminding me of a Hollywood hero from those days. Having adopted this man as one of my idols inevitably I someday wanted to become like him and radiate that sense of dignity.
Perhaps it was the fact that our birthdays were on the same day, 23 July, of which we were both well aware. Whenever I met him on that day, even before I worked at the distillery, he always said, “Well, Jim, today is a special day for us! All the best, my boy.” That phrase meant a lot to me … and it said a lot about Mr McColl. He treated everyone as an individual and forgot about no one. He knew a good word didn’t cost much, but achieved a lot; at least it did for me. There was an uncanny kindness expressed in James McColl’s words and tone. He knew how to command great natural respect and authority with just a few well-considered words. His demeanour and speech were characterised by a sense of decent morality, marked by honesty and sincerity. His word was his bond. If he promised something, you could count on it. For as long as I knew him, I never heard him swear, a real achievement for an Ileach in those days. It was certainly also one of the qualities that fascinated me about this great man, and for whatever reason, I never wanted to disappoint him. I always wanted to do my best in the presence of the man who gave me my one chance to realise my dream at Bowmore distillery. He changed my life. You never forget your first job; you never forget the day you got your first wage. I had grown up, left my childhood behind, and become a breadwinner. Such moments are among the greatest in anyone’s life. I don’t even like to think what would have happened if Mr McColl hadn’t given me that chance back then. Surely my life would have been completely different. Who knows what would have become of me? But today I know that there is no such thing as coincidence, for even then, my story was written somewhere, and it was now time for me to turn a new page, start a new chapter. And James McColl was instrumental in this.
Wanting to do my best was my way of saying thank you, but when I think back, a particular story always comes to mind, which I would like to tell you here.
In the distillery’s administration offices there were two fireplaces that had to be lit in winter. One was in the Customs and Excise office, the other in the distillery office. Every day the fire was lit by the cleaning staff early in the morning, so that the offices were pleasantly warm at nine o’clock when the employees and the manager arrived for work, in the days before central heating. One day, however, the cleaning lady was absent, and there was no one there to light the fire. I had only been employed for a few weeks, so I didn’t know too much yet, therefore I was often given jobs that were not necessarily part of the core tasks of a barrel maker. It must have been November 1963, but in any case it was my first winter at the distillery. I was told to look after the fire, because, after all, my working day started well before nine o’clock. Mr McColl showed me in great detail how the fires should be lit. I have to admit, because it was tedious work, I was not very enthusiastic about the task. First, small and tiny pieces of wood had to be collected from the endless expanses of the cooperage, which then had to be lit with paper and other easily combustible things. Often the fire went out and you had to start all over again; sometimes it didn’t burn properly and it smoked. Then it was a matter of bringing in broken barrel staves as fuel. Anyway, it wasn’t my idea of fun, so I looked for creative ways to get the job over quickly and effectively with as little effort as possible, coming up with what I thought was a brilliant idea. Next to the cooperage was the peat fire over which the malt was dried in the kiln. So all I had to do was grab a shovel, pick up a good portion of embers and take them upstairs to the office. “Jim McEwan, you’re a clever guy!” I thought to myself, feeling very proud of my idea. It saved me a lot of work. My plan was to open the office door, before carrying in the shovel full of glowing
