A Scots Quair (85 page)

Well, they got out there at the dinner-time, the staff all drawn up ready for inspection, and Puller, of Puller and Grind's, the contractors, was there with the finest of feeds made ready for the Duncairn Council and afore you could wink the contractor had wheeled in Jimmy the Provost and all his tail and sat them down to a four-course gobble, specially made and sent up from the Mile, with wines in plenty—they needed them after the heat of the drive. Mr Piddle nipped in and sat by Ake and wolfed into the fodder like a famished ferret, with his wee note-book held brisk at hand for words of wisdom from the City Fathers. But they'd
hardly a word, Provost Jimmy or the lot, they'd gotten such an awful thirst to slock.

That was about noon; about three the Fathers made up the mischances they called their minds to go up at last and look at the works. Jimmy Speight stood up and started a speech about how these works were a fine piece of work (aye, a habbering gawpus with his words, poor Jimmy), and carried through in every particular a credit to Duncairn and Puller and Grind. He might have gone on for God knows how long but that Ake beside him pulled the old sod down and whispered
You haven't seen the thing yet
. And Jimmy said
Neither we have; that's suspicious
, and turned on Puller with a gey stern look, but got suddenly mixed in a yawn and a hiccup. When Ake had slapped his back out of that they all set out for the new waterworks.

It was nearly a quarter of a mile from the shed where Puller had spread them their brave bite of lunch, hot as hell the sun; and the first man to fall by the wayside was Labour's respectable Bailie Brown, he sat down and said he would take it on trust, the workers knew that he was their friend, he was awful tired and would need a bit sleep. So they shook him a bit and syne left him snoring like a pig let loose overlong on a midden, and went on a bit further till the Dean of Guild, he'd been swaying a bit with his meikle solemn face, suddenly wheeled round on wee Councillor Clarke and told him he'd never forgiven him, never, for that time he had voted an increase in the tramwaymen's wages the last year of the War—September, it was. And wee Clarke said the Dean was a havering skate, it wasn't the last year, but the year afore; and they started to argue the matter out till wee Clarke had enough, he punched the Dean one, all the folk around you may well be sure looking shocked as hell and enjoying themselves, the Dean sat down of a sudden on the path and looked solemner than ever and syne started to sing; and the Lord Provost who'd been looking on at it all, very intent, but with both eyes crossed, got fairly as mixed in his mind as his eyes and thought he was down at the Beach Pavilion adjudicating on the Boxing Finals, and started a speech about
the manhood of Duncairn, how pleased he was to see the young men were taking up the manly art of defence, and not rotting their minds with seditious doctrines. And Ake, standing by and wondering quiet what the hell they'd do if they ever met in with a real booze-up, he himself was as drouthy as a lime-kiln, near, saw Mr Piddle, with a fuzzy bit look, taking it all down in his little note-book with a carbon copy for the
Tory Pictman
; and they left the Dean singing that his Nannie was awa', and resumed the trek to the High Scaur works.

Well, believe it or not, they never got there, Puller had the wind up by then just awful, he saw he'd drammed up the Councillors over-much, if he took the boozed Bulgars up to the works they'd more'n likely fall head-first in. So he rounded them back to the lunch-shed again, Ake dandering behind with a bit of a laugh, Jimmy Speight stopping every now and again for another bit speech, he was fair wound up. Puller tried to sober them up with coffee, two of the workmen carried the Dean, they found Bailie Brown had started to crawl home and when they tried to get him to stand he said he was only playing at bears, couldn't a man play at bears if he liked?

Ake saw Mr Piddle taking that down as well, he was just a kind of stenographic machine by then. But the Council wouldn't have much of the coffee, the Dean said if Puller and Grind expected them to pass the new water-works, the works in the disgraceful state they were in, they were sore mistaken he could tell them that. And Jimmy Speight started his seventeenth speech, this time about corruption rearing its ugly head like the sword of Damocles in every avenue. So Puller called to the waiter childes to bring in the whisky bottles again, they might as well go home soaked as go home soft.

So our City Fathers lay the afternoon there, soaking up truly, but Ake drinking cannily—
and I guess if a pickle of
those Communist childes had been there they'd have got enough
propaganda to start a Soviet the morn's morning
. It was seven o'clock before Mr Puller could get the soaked whoresons
back in their coaches. Then he routed out Mr Piddle from a sleep in the grass and told him he expected he'd say nothing of this, and Mr Piddle took that down in his note-book as well, but said
he-he
he knew discretion, he was a man of the world as well. And old Puller muttered something about Christ help the world and then dosed Mr Piddle with a dram or so to put him into a right good tune and bunged him in aside Bailie Brown; and off they all drove back to Duncairn, the coach-drivers were told to take it slow and see they didn't get back till dark.

Well, they halted up at the top Mile rank and pushed the Councillors into taxis; but Ake and Mr Piddle made for a tram; and were soon at their lodgings in Windmill Place; and syne the bittie of trouble began.

Ake took the creature along to his room, and took off his boots and gave him a bit shake, and went off to his own bed, thinking no more on't. But it seemed that the outing to the High Scaur works had fair let loose the ill passions of Piddle, he made up his mind to go up the stairs and pay his respects to little Miss Johns.

So, forgetting he'd taken off most things but his breeks, he padded up the stairs and knocked at the door, and went in,
he-he!
Miss Johns was in bed, the lass sat up and asked what he wanted and he closed the door and giggled at her, soft, it doesn't seem she was frightened, much. But she nipped out of bed as Piddle came nearer, and called out
Εwan!
; and a minute later there was a hell of a crash.

Ake was taking off his boots when he heard that crash, and he tore from his room just as Mistress Colquohoun tore out of hers, she'd less of a wardrobe on than he had and fair looked a canty bit dame for a man to handle, he couldn't but think. Ake cried
What's up, up there, would you say?
and she laughed in her cool-like, sulky way
Sounds more as though the ceiling
was down
; and up the two of them ran together and there Ake set eyes on as bonny a picture as he'd seen for long, Mr Piddle lying over the bed like a pock, the lassie Ellen Johns in a scrimp of a nightie, all flushed and bonny, red spot on each cheek, and young Ewan Tavendale looking at Piddle—the
two young creatures with their earnest bit faces and their blue-black hair a sheen in the light looking down at Piddle like a couple of bairns at a puzzling and nasty thing on a road.

Ake cried to the quean
Has he done you harm?
and she answered back cool,
Not him. He's just drunk
, and looked at Ewan that was standing beside her:
You shouldn't have hit
him; that was quite unnecessary
.

Syne they all looked at Ewan's knuckles and saw they were skinned and dripping blood, it seemed he hadn't known himself, he looked kind of dazed and now wakened up.
Yes,
sorry. Damn silly thing to do. Ake, will you help me carry him
down?

So the two of them carried him off like a corp leaving the women to redd up the soss, the Piddle childe slept through it all like a bairn. Ake said to Ewan as they laid Piddle in bed that he'd given the poor sod a gey mishandling, and Ewan said so it seemed, he knew little about it. He'd heard Miss Johns call and then things had gone cloudy—interesting, supposed it was much the same thing happened to stags in rutting time.

Ma said B'God 'twas the best tale she'd heard since a gelding of her father's at Monymusk had chased a brood mare into a ditch—
why didn't you let on to me about it?

This was to Chris after dinner that day, Chris shook her head, it wasn't worth mention. Mr Piddle had made a fool of himself, there was no harm done, he was only a bairn.

Ma said
And what about your Ewan, then?
and Chris said she thought that that had been straightened, Ewan had told Mr Piddle he was sorry and Mr Piddle had asked him
He-he!
What for?
he'd had no memory of the happening at all. Now Ma mustn't worry, she was just to lie still, the house would be fine and all the things in't.

Ma shook her head:
And to think of me lying flat on my back
when there's all these fine stravaigings about! Speak of New
York—damn't, it's not in't!

October came in long swaths of rain pelting the glinting streets of Duncairn. Going up and down the Windmill Steps
with her baskets of groceries Chris would see the toun far alow under the rain's onset move and shake and shiver a minute like an old grey collie shaking in sleep. The drive of wind and rain cleared the wynds of the fouller smells; down in the Mile, shining in mail, the great houses rose above the wet birl and drum of the trams, buses creeping about like beasts in a fog, snorting, and blowing the wet from their faces, Duncairn getting out its reefers and bonnets, in drifting umbrella'ed afternoon tides the half-gentry poured down the Mile every day. Up in the house it was canty and fine, the wind breenging unbreeked into room after room whenever you opened a shutter a bit, Miss Murgatroyd thought it was Such Rough, and John Cushnie came home from Raggie Robertson's store and said they were doing a roaring trade, him and Raggie, in selling a new line in raincoats. Jock the cat shivered so close to the range Chris wondered he didn't get in and look out.

Ma got up the second day of her illness, she said it was no more than sweirty, just, she must redd out the kitchen press today. But half-way through she gave a bit groan, Chris caught her as she tottered and turned white, Meg was at hand and lended a hand, they got her to sit in a chair in a minute. Then Chris said
It's back to your bed for you, my woman
, and back to it they took her, Ma puffing and panting,
God
Almighty, lass, don't look feared about a small thing like this.
There's more old folk than me in their time been ta'en with a bit of
a patch, you know. Get out for a bit of fresh air yourself
.

Chris went for a walk to fetch the doctor, a thin young country childe with pop eyes, he came in his car and looked at Ma and gave her a prod and listened to her lungs and said what she wanted was quietness and rest and not to excite herself on a thing. But to Chris he said she'd a swollen heart, serious enough, she'd have to look out. Chris asked what she'd better do, then? and the doctor asked were Ma's relatives near, and Chris remembered about the niece, only she didn't know where she bade. The doctor said that it couldn't be helped—
try and find out without fearing the old
wife
.

So Chris waited till Ma was sleeping again and then went and took a bit look through her desk, beside the great curtain, worm-eaten, old, bundles of papers tied in neat pilings, a fair soss of ribbons and cards and circulars, paid bills and bits of tow and old brooches and safety-pins and a ring or so, and some letters fading off at the edges, Chris didn't read them or heed to them except to peer at the writer's name. She found no trace of the niece's address in the pigeon-holes, Ma sleeping as the dead in the bed out under the shadow of the patterned wall. So she opened the lower drawers, old clothes, old papers, a bundle of photos, a little pack tied up in tape which came away in her hands as she looked, she stared at the thing a puzzled minute.

It was the photo of a little lad with Ma's nose and eyes and promise of her padding, keeking at something the photographer did, no mistaking Ma's face in his. And below was written ‘James at 2' and inside the package two other things, tawdry and faded, a hank of bairn's hair, brown soft, dead and old, it had lost its shine, and a crumpled scrap of ancient crape. Long, long ago it all had happened. Why had Ma never told she'd a son?

And Chris stood with the things in her hand in a dream looking at the faded, puctured face of the little lad who had died, she supposed, when he was no more than a little lad, he'd finished quick with a look round about and gone from Duncairn and gone from Ma, queer that such things should be—all the care and heed and tears of pain that had once been given this little childe far back there in the years where he twiddled his toes. And he'd ceased with it all, a mistake, a journey he would not make, no rain to hear or grow to knowledge of the dark, sad things of life at all, no growing to books and harkening to dreams, like Ewan—no growing to be a queer young man far from Ma and all she had hoped, only leaving her a searing memory awhile and then a quiet glow that lasted forever. Not leaving an unease that washed as a tide through one's heart, unending … dreaming on Ewan.

How she hated the splatter of the driving rain!

As that rain held on and pelted Duncairn with the closing in of the storm-driven clouds, great cumulus shapes that came wheeling down from the heights of the far brown lour of the Mounth, the roof-tops glistered in the lights of the Mile and far and near the gutters gurgled, eddied and swam, piercing down to a thousand drains, down through the latest Council diggings, down to dark spaces and forgotten pools, in one place out through an antique tunnel that the first Pict settlers had made and lined with uncalsayed stones, set deep in earth, more than two thousand years before. And far and near as the evening came under the stour a thousand waters by gutters and wynd and the swollen Forthie, dark, brimming, wheeled down through the darkling night to seek the splurge and plunge of the sea pelting beyond the dunes of the beach. Ellen heard its cry long ere they reached it, harsh, soft, the patter of the rain on the waves.