


Born on 11th May 1911, it's fitting that (some of) Alister William James' works are online in time for the centenary of his birth in 2011.
His father, our grandfather Alexander (Sandy) James was for many years the well known head doorman at the Caledonian Hotel in Edinburgh. This illustrious position has him photographed in the company of many a posh patron although I don't have the evidence.

Dad's parents - must be about 1914 and the famous (in our family anyway) picture of Sandy the doorman, on duty outside the Cale' Hotel.
Alister
was born the
youngest of five, with four older sisters and by all accounts was a
much loved son and little brother. He married the 20 year old Margaret Selkirk
Hay in Edinburgh in 1939 at the age of 28 and went on himself to become a
father of six (their firstborn dying shortly after childbirth).

The James' - Dad aged... four?

A newly married Mum and dad.

Here he is in all his piper's finery.
Turnhouse (now just 'Edinburgh') Airport... 1939/40
During WWII he was a driver in the RAF with 603 squadron and was stationed in India and Ceylon for five years. Being away from wife and child for so long made (could only make) a huge impression on his life. None of us remember him as a great driver (although he taught the boys to drive) so we've often wondered how he fared out there!

Dad at Drigh Road (?) Ceylon (Sri Lanka) during the war and looking dapper with Rosemary on his knee before he left for there. She was not pleased to see him on his return by all reports.



He worked in Thynes the printers but in the early 1950s the family moved to the borders... he was to be a forester and was keen to keep chickens and live the farming life with a kitchen garden and all things countryfied.
This didn't really catch on after all (it was in the middle of the back of beyond according to mum) but it was a pleasant enough interlude until they came back to live in Edinburgh shortly before I was born in 1954, where he sold newspapers on the corners for that bit extra money.
The love of gardening stuck, but as we were by now living 3 flights up a tenement his frustration spilled over onto the top landing. Ours was a colourful entrance to say the least and the huge skylight was adorned with ivy.

No. 38 Broughton Street, top flat + turret. Also showing the turret room which became a menagerie and aviary at one point.


All of us in early 1955,
just before we moved into no. 38.

Looking ready for the off around 1968.


Dad in his beloved garden at Poltonhall, and Sonny.
Spot the resemblance?
Dad's piano playing was legendary in the family, not least because he basically couldn't. This did not deter him from performing at any family party for many years. The subsequent demolition of this upright, in the back garden at Poltonhall, created an hysterical jingling and a-jangling in the neighbourhood for the hours necessary to demolish it.
His singing was actually not bad and his rendition of 'I never felt more like singing the blues' or 'I'm going to buy a paper doll...' - two favourites often accompanied by a wee shuffle he figured fitted the tune - was always that bit more animated after the 3rd whiskey (water, no ice!) and the braces were always hanging by that time.

With two of his much loved (then surviving) elder sisters Etta (left) and Nellie - 1973
His last occupation as copy-reader with the Edinburgh Evening News and Scotsman, gave him great pleasure as it coincided nicely with his own ambition of having someone edit his own writings for publication. These were many (if of no wide renown) and varied greatly in both content and value, but always, always, gave him personally, great satisfaction, which is all that really counts. His immediate and wider family all considered him a writer and shared in his joy when anything was deemed good enough for publication by some magazine or other. The money earned was always a welcome if not particularly significant addition to the bank balance.
Alister died at home way too soon, on the 28th of February 1976 at the age of 64, from lung cancer, following the ubiquitous long-drawn-out period of suffering. Smoking to the end, the fact that he could no longer type (to say the least), was of huge annoyance and a cruel inconvenience to him.
His rattling two (four?) fingered style on his old portable will always be remembered, and was long missed.