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Patricia Bridgen Farley was a Wren (Womens Royal Naval Service) stationed at Portkil, Near Kilcreggan, Scotland during World War II, living in a house affectionately known to the group of Wrens that were based there as 'The Barn'. The Wrens came to be known as the 'Barnites'.
For night-time security, the Fort employed two male retirees. They took turns staying overnight until we opened up the offices in the morning. They were two very different personalities, indeed.
John Turner was a lanky, taciturn man in his mid 60's, grey in face and grey by nature. He was not friendly to the Wrens, 'those females' as he called us. I do feel sorry for him now, as I learned later on that he had committed suicide soon after we left Portkil. He must have suffered terrible worries or problems. But, at that time, we all thought he was just a disagreeable old man.
MacNeill, however, was a different matter. Stocky, with a sunburned, wind-burned, reddish face, sparse of hair but plenty of smiles and chuckles, and a decidedly wicked grin. MacNeill loved to tease us, 'his girls'.
He would come plodding into the station after the long walk from Kilcreggan accompanied, as always, by his faithful terrier, Boots. It would be four o'clock, and he would expect the kettle to be on the boil. His wife would have prepared his supper and, sometimes, she slipped in a few cookies for us.
MacNeill was a joy to talk to. He presented a kindly, grandfatherly appearance so you wanted to confide in him. As most of us were away from home, it was nice to have someone like that around when your own grandparents were not available.
Once you got over the gruff voice, he was as they say, a pussycat. But he could scare you with tales of life on the Glasgow docks. He had been a policeman there for many years. It was a rough and crime-ridden area, and stories of slashed throats, drowned Lascars and cocaine running made all of us look around the path when we trudged on home to the Barn.
I remember so well how the old policeman made fun of the way I made tea 'You've got to let it come to a roiling boil', he would say, time after time in his inimitable Scottish accent.
Years later, when I returned to Scotland for the first time after marriage and two children, I walked on that familiar beach at Kilcreggan looking for MacNeill and Boots. That had been their custom, an evening walk before settling down for the night.
There he was a little bent over and not moving as quickly as before, but still the same old MacNeill with the HMS sailor hat pushed back off his brow. 'Do you remember me?' I called out. He looked at me for a few seconds, then laughed and said, 'Why, you're the little lassie who couldna' boil water!'
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