I heard about the secret of Glasgow’s Gold after starting an office junior job in the City Chambers back in ninety-seven. They called me a GS3, which they thought officious, but to me sounded like a grubby Vauxhall. My old da’ had seen an advert in the paper. He had retired from the council having worked in the museums, and retained a few connections.
“If you get in the cooncil, you could have a job for life son, and a decent pension.”
Quality da’ advice. Always dispensed from a sedentary position, sitting in his chair in our living room, smoking his pipe whilst listening to the radio or reading a book or newspaper.
A few weeks later I got a letter through. The job was mine. I hadn’t even been called for an interview. My old da’ winked at me from over the top of his glasses when I passed him the acceptance letter.
On my first day I was in some God-awful storeroom down in the basement of the city chambers, a real dunny. The place stank like damp cardboard, and whenever I was down there I felt wheezy.
This was where I met my soon-to-be work best pal Paul Watson. We were just two heid-the-baws, as my old da’ would say. He was a ducker and diver, and the spit of the cartoon boy they used to advertise Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers. Aye, it would be fair to say Paul and I clicked from the get-go.
About a week in, I had been asked by the gaffers to go to the dunny for a box of files. I was given a Post-it note with a list of file numbers, and told to get on. When Paul bumped into me that day, he took pity on the new guy.
“Right Stefano,” he said cheerily. Within only a few days of knowing each other we had cemented our own lingo. He was Pablo, I Stefano.
“’Mon I’ll help ye oot. This place is a maze if yer no used tae it.”
I was grateful for the camaraderie. The only other soul I saw down there was a strange old man who was in charge of the aging photocopiers which lurked in a special copy room. He was like Oz the Magnificent, operating these creaking hulks they called copiers from behind a council curtain. The amount of paper the council produced down there was incredible; council tax reminders, alcohol licences, building warrant enforcement notices, all sorts of crap.
His hands were black (from copier ink) and brown (from cigarettes), and he sported a light-blonde mullet and pearly gnashers that made him look like Peter Stringfellow. He was probably the same age as my old da’, but doing his best to hide it.
He was a chain smoker; ash trays were in abundance and the entire basement was a powder-keg, now I think of it. Underneath the smell of damp paper and the smell of smoke, he reeked of oranges. He ate them constantly, licking the juice from his tobacco-stained fingers and leaving the curls of peel in his ash trays. I realised later that the oranges were to hide the smell of alcohol on his breath.
Paul gave me a salutary lesson about how to deal with old Peter S.
“Just don’t touch any of they copiers, Stefano. If you git a copy job, just gie it to him to do, and wait.”
“He seems a bit precious about the machines,” I ventured.
“Precious? He’s a loon! Trust me, Stefano. Last year there a high heid-yin cooncillor down here, tried to use one of the machines hersel’. He went mental – didnae know she was a cooncillor. She went back up the stairs, tail between her legs, and big black paw prints on her shoulders were he grabbed her.”
A couple of weeks later and Paul and I had clocked off at 4pm (the joys of flexi-time) to meet his big pal Finbar in The Press Bar. That pub was a great leveller. You had people of all ranks in for a swally. Seniority was left at the oak doors and by Christ the punters could pack it away. Hollow legs is what my old da’ would say, eyes twinkling over his specs.
When we arrived Finbar, a team leader in debt recovery, was with another older guy, introduced to me as Gerry. Gerry was wearing a green council fleece and had a weathered face with a shock of spongey-looking white hair atop it. Soon enough the bar-patter got round to our colleague from the dunny, Peter Stringfellow.
“Ah, old Black-hand!” mumbled Gerry as he took a swill of his Guinness.
“D’ye know lads, I think ye can count on wan haun’ the times he’s left that dunny. The only time I ever saw him above deck was when they were moving aw that gold. Mind that, Finbar? Old Peter S was fuming; as if all his copy machines were mair important.”
Paul was quick to nip in.
“Gold, Gerry?”
“Aye, when they moved aw that war-bullion with the big, armoured trucks. What a shit show that wis; they had to leave some behind.”
I looked at Paul and Finbar. Was this some sort of wind-up?
My face did the talking for me. Gerry smiled, revealing a sparkling gold tooth, and took another swig of his Guinness, draining the glass.
“It’s no’ some big state secret. It was Churchill’s war gold. Finbar, you tell him, I’m going for a piss. And get the next round in.”
Finbar caught the eye of the barman.
“Same again, Vinnie.”
“Is big Gerry at the mickey?” said Paul.
“No lads. Like he said, it’s no’ a big secret. At least, I don’t think it is,” said Finbar.
“During the war, Churchill moved a lot of gold up here from London – for safe keeping. You must have seen the catacombs underneath the chambers.”
I practically heard the penny drop in Paul’s mind.
“D’ye mean that corridor past the copy-room – the wan with the secured entry?”
“Aye. Down there somewhere. There was big fuss a few years ago when Maggie Thatcher wanted the gold back. The council had to close off the Square for a day but it was typical cooncil – they’d no’ brought enough trucks. So, some of the gold went, and some stayed.”
“There you are lads,” said Vinnie, placing our pints down, his face inscrutable as a sage.
“I guess she wisnae content stealing all the milk from the weans, she wanted the gold too,” purred Finbar.
The evening wore on, and I must have staggered onto the last train, fully blootered. The story of Glasgow’s secret gold was just another far-fetched flight of fancy. But that Monday after lunch, Paul careered down a corridor to confront me.
“Stefano! Stefano!” he called, hushing me over in conspiratorial fashion.
“I know where the gold is.”
“Don’t be daft ya stupid bugger. That was all nonsense.”
“Nae Stewart Grainger, Stefano! Just grab these files and follow me.”
Soon enough we were down the marble staircase and in the dunny. I could hear the whirring of the photocopiers down there, doing the good work of the city whatever it may be. As expected, old Peter S was around, obsessing over his machines like a brothel-keeper. He was like some sort of mad spider, running up and down the bank of copiers, spinning invisible webs.
“Doon there, Stefano,” Paul whispered. We ducked, and sneaked past shaky tables which creaked under the weight of boxes filled with who-knew-what. Worst case, we could just pretend we were having a lark.
Down another corridor and we had reached a door, very much “out of the way”. It had an old-fashioned metal number-lock handle with polished steel buttons. I had no idea what the code might be, but Paul winked. He knew! He pressed four digits, then gently turned the handle. The door clicked open, and we bundled in, stifling giggles like two little schoolboys sneaking into the tuck shop.
An impressively long corridor sat before us, waiting for us. “Nae camera’s doon here, Stefano. The place is ours, for a while anyway.”
“You don’t really believe there’s gold down here?”
“Listen – who knows Stefano. But maybe there’s a wee clue. And maybe we’ll end up knowing more about it than big Gerry. He’s a pure show-off. Let’s see if we can get one-up on him.”
I saluted, and we crept along the corridor. It was well-lit with naked electrical bulbs burning away, using up all the council tax money that was being collected by my bosses upstairs. After taking a couple of turns, Paul stopped us.
“You know where we are now, Stefano?”
I thought about it and got my bearings.
“We’re under George Square, aren’t we?”
“That we are.”
On the last turn, there was a huge steel door in front of us. It had a digital keypad next to a three-pronged metal wheel which looked like a cross between a safe and a submarine door.
“D’you know the code for this as well?”
“Nah. It’s just typical cooncil, they never change these things. One-one-two-two seems to work on most of the doors … maybe this one too.”
He cleared his throat. He rubbed his chin. He wiggled his fingers. “Aye, awrite, Indiana – just get on with it,” I said, laughing at his impression.
He pressed the soft keys on the digital pad. 1 1 2 2.
The little box bleeped red. No dice. He placed his ear to it, as if the gold might be calling to him, and with a sad look etched on his face he clicked his fingers. It was worth a try, pal-o-mine.
We trudged back along and gingerly opened the door which led back to the photocopying dunny. I peered round. Peter S was nowhere to be seen.
“Liquid lunch,” Paul ventured from behind me, lifting an invisible glass to his lips. I snorted. There was one machine sitting right in the middle, conspicuous by its inactivity. Paul marched up to it and had a look under the hood. There was nothing on the glass plate. He stared at me with a look of childish mischief and before I knew it he squashed his face down on the glass, and held the hood over his head.
“Quick, Stefano, hit the green button!” he mumbled.
I grasped the opportunity for tomfoolery. I typed “99” and hit COPY. The machine kicked into life, and I saw the flash of light scanning Paul’s face. But then, all the other machines stopped. I mean, they all just quit and gave up the ghost.
“Whit’s happened?” Paul asked. I shrugged.
The only machine whirring was the one we had used to copy Paul’s silly face. It was only then I noticed the sign on the wall just above it.
MASTER NETWORK COPIER – DO NOT USE
The other copiers then fired up again with a grunt, like a row of old men struggling out of their Chesterfield’s at the nursing home lunch gong. A cacophony of copying commenced. Every single machine was churning out copies of Paul’s stupid face. Paul, panic at fever-pitch, was bustling up and down, pulling them out as fast as the machines could print them.
It was at this very minute that old Peter Stringfellow himself swanned in, cigarette hanging from his lips, and gaped as the two of us dashing up and down. I’ll never forget the look on his face. It was the same look my girlfriend’s dad had given me a few nights before, when he walked in on us canoodling on the couch. He spoke briefly, and the words resonate with me even now as pure, unbelieving shock and searing anger.
“What the feckle-nuts is this.”
Paul’s face was as red as the red hand of Ulster, as my ol’ da would say.
“Get the feck out of here you two clowns!” old Peter Stringfellow hollered, his flashy row of white teeth bared like a predator about to take down his prey.
As we tried to salvage the last copies, Peter S grabbed a broom and chased us around the dunny like he was Basil Fawlty. Paul and I made a dash for it up the marble staircase, collapsing in paroxysms of mirth (as Billy Connolly would say).
Later that evening, Gerry and Finbar howled with laughter as we told the tale over some pints in the Press Bar. But I’d saved the best for last. I had kept one of the copies of Paul’s ugly mug on the fly.
When he popped to the loo, I pinned it up on the pub notice board, like a WANTED poster in an old saloon. When he came out, the whole boozer was laughing. He looked around in mild confusion, and upon clocking the poster ripped it down and threw it at me with joyful menace. As the pub collected itself, Gerry was chewing on his inner cheeks, and had a glint in his eye to match his tooth. “It’s a shame yous two boys didn’t know the code for that door,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Even if we did, Ger, I cannae see us two stumbling about with gold bricks,” Paul laughed.
“Aye son, but just to get a look at it. Just to see it. All these years the council have had to deny all knowledge. Imagine you were the one to expose the secret.”
Finbar was looking antsy. “Ger, this is Official Secrets Act stuff. If you did find leftover gold down there, you’d get the jail.”
“Don’t be so frigging dramatic,” Gerry harrumphed. Some half-baked idea was cooking away in his brain. I had no idea what Gerry did for the council but he was the most senior of our little company. I’d asked my old da’ about him. My ol’ da was a fount of knowledge when it came to the council.
“Big Ger? Aye, I remember him, son. He’s in wi’ the bricks. He’s yer top man at LES.”
LES was Land and Environmental Services. I took this to mean he was in charge of all the parks. This would explain the green fleece. It was never off his back, and I guess he was working outside most of the time. Gerry gathered the three of us in. It was time for a clandestine pow-wow, of sorts. He put his cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on the bar.
“I know the boy that installed the security pad. He did the same job for me down at the Fossil Grove. Too many numpty’s trying to get in tae pish on the trees,” Ger whispered.
“I’ve a fair idea what that code might be. He’s a daft Celtic man.”
Paul and I knew if this were true, the guy may have set the code as 1 8 8 8, or 1 9 6 7.
“What d’ye think Stefano? Can we chance sneaking past old Peter S again?” Paul asked.
Before I had the chance to answer, or even think, Big Gerry was in like a flash. “Frigging right ye will. Only this time, I’m coming along for the ride. If there is any gold left over down there, I want to see it.”
Finbar was having none of it. “You’re mental Ger, if you get caught down there you might get the bullet. You’ll lose your pension.” But Gerry lifted his Guinness like it was the Jules Rimet trophy.
“Fin my lad, I’ve been working for the Corpy for thirty-five years. Aye, I’ve got a good pension coming. And I’ve got this frigging fleece. But I’ve hee-haw else. After I retire, what am I gonnae talk about? Ordering ten thousand hanging baskets for the Garden Festival? Hiring Italian rat-catchers when the Glasshouse in Queens Park was overrun with the dirty wee bastards? Nah, I think I need a better story to dine out on, don’t you? This is it, lads, this is it.”
It went like clockwork on the day.
Peter Stringfellow disappeared, cigarette in mouth, for his liquid lunch as expected. Once the coast was clear I collected Gerry at the corner of John Street and George Street, and escorted him down. I remember thinking it was funny seeing him in a setting other than propping up the bar. He was a swarthy big guy, but he pirouetted down those marble stairs like a cat burglar and in no time at all, our triumvirate was confronted by the submarine door.
“Best be quick, Ger,” Paul muttered. I caught a waver in his speech, which I guessed was the adrenalin. My hands were shaking.
Gerry winked. I watched his fingers type 1 9 6 7, the year Celtic won the Big Cup. I had never felt tension like it. The keypad blurted out in failure, and a red light flashed. “Don’t worry lads, I have faith,” Ger whispered, making the sign of the cross. I watched his long finger press the buttons again. This time it was 1 8 8 8, the year Celtic was formed. The keypad flashed green and we heard a huge clunk.
“Jesus Christ, he’s done it!” I blurted out. Paul and I were practically falling over each other, but Ger made us take a step back. He held up his hand, facing the door, with Paul and I bobbing and weaving behind him like a couple of schoolkids.
Do you know, out of everything that happened, it is this image that comes back to me the most. Big Gerry, standing with his back to us in that bloody green fleece of his, big right hand raised for calm.
“Take a chill pill, boys. Savour this.”
Gerry used both of those big hands to turn the wheel. It took a minute or so, and felt like an eternity. The door slowly opened.
At last, the three of us could see what lay beyond. It was a cavernous storeroom!
Dimly lit emergency lights were suspended from the ceiling and buzzed like horseflies, but the room was in almost total darkness. As our eyes adjusted, all I could see were rows and rows of empty shelves and wooden pallets.
I couldn’t believe how high the ceilings were. It was funny to think that George Square was above us. I looked around but the place was empty; abandoned. Or was it?
“Over here boys.”
Gerry had found something!
There, on a waist-high shelf, was a long, rectangular wooden crate. The side of it had been emblazoned with some reference number, and I saw the city council crest. It was like we had found some Glaswegian Ark of the Covenant.
“Just one box left,” Gerry muttered. “In this whole fecking room, there is just one box left. But … one is enough to tell the tale.”
Gerry opened the crate. I kept my eyes closed. I was not for my brain turning to jelly and my eyeballs melting down my cheeks. And then, after some moments of silence, Gerry began laughing. It started as a naughty chuckle, before exploding into a roaring, bear-like guffaw.
“It’s okay, boys, you can look.”
It was full of old papers. Gerry pulled one out and examined it. “Incorporation of Gardeners,” he said. I had no idea what that meant. He handed it to me and I examined it. It was an old-fashioned certificate.
“These are Burgess Tickets,” said Gerry. “They used to give these out to folk who were connected to the old Glasgow trades, like masons and fleshers. Or in this case, Gardeners.”
“Nae gold then,” said Paul, disappointment in his tone.
At this, the whole room was suddenly basked in illumination, so bright we threw our arms up to protect our eyes. Someone had turned the lights on. A ragged voice came from the steel door, and echoed through the empty storeroom to underline our foolishness.
“Aye, lads, nae gold.”
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realised who had spoken. It was Peter Stringfellow!
“Gerry, long time no see.”
“Aye Gordon, how’s the family?” asked Gerry sheepishly.
Paul turned to me and mouthed Gordon? That was his real name? Gordon? I still can’t bring myself to call him that. He’s either Peter Stringfellow or at a push, old Black-hand. Never a Gordon. Never.
“You’re an old fool, Ger. What did ye think? That you were actually going to find Fort Knox under here? Don’t be so fecking daft. I’m not surprised at these two idiots. I am very surprised at you, Ger.”
The three of us walked towards the door. Gerry shook Peter S warmly by the hand. There was a broad and childish grin on his face.
“Best fun I’ve had in years,” Ger thrilled.
Peter S put his arm around Gerry and laughed as we strutted back. We all did. When we reached the copy-room, Peter S stopped and looked at me. I’ll never forget it. It was the look a rifleman gives his target down the sight just before pulling the trigger.
“You should ask your old da’ about the gold.”
“You know my old da’?”
It was Gerry and Paul’s turn to look confused.
“Don’t you know who are conspiring with, Ger?” said Peter Stringfellow.
“This here’s Dr Kilbride’s boy.”
Gerry’s eyes opened wide. “You’re William Kilbride’s son?”
“Aye,” I think I muttered.
“Well for Christ’s sake lad, if there is wan person who knows what happened to the gold, it’s your old da’,” blustered Gerry.
Paul was looking at me incredulously. “Stefano?” he ventured. “Who’s yer da?”
“Aye lad, tell yer wee pal who yer old da’ is,” said Gerry, starting to laugh again.
“He was … he was in charge of the museums, or something like that,” I offered. I had never really understood what his job entailed. Peter Stringfellow put us all out of misery.
“This lad’s old da’ was the one in charge of listing all the antiquities owned by the council for insurance. Every painting, every piece of armour, every silver necklace, and even all of Churchill’s gold.”
Gerry cackled. “Yer old da’s a top man. He and I go back some. But he’s tighter than a badger’s arse. Trying to get anything out of him wis like trying to close a box of frogs. He’ll know exactly what happened to the gold, I’m sure of it, but you’ll get hee-haw oot of him.”
I was speechless.
“I need to get down to Bellahouston,” said Gerry. “We’ve got a flash flood down there and I’ve got Simple Minds on stage next week. You, Stefano – tell yer old da’ we were asking after him. And see if you can make him tell you about Churchill’s gold.”
The rest of the day was a blur. When I got home, there was my old da’, throned in his usual place. He had his pipe lit, and was reading the paper.
“Da,” I said. “Tell me the secret of Glasgow’s gold.”
He looked up at me from over his glasses, and his eyes twinkled.
*****
JS Apsley is an aspiring author based in Glasgow, Scotland.
