A Scots Quair

  And then, as Εwan stood there and whistled under-breath, indifferently, far away in his thoughts, he became aware of Ellen Johns by his side wiping her eyes in helpless mirth: History’s the funniest of jokes sometimes. If we’d had the courage of our convictions do you know what we would have done back there?

  He said No, and stared a cool surprise.

  —Why, STOPPED AND SANG HIM SOME WILLIAM MORRIS!

  Ma Cleghorn had taken Chris to the Talkies, to get out of the stew of the house for a while, she said she was turning to a cockroach, near, and Chris to an earthworm out in that yard. Meg would see to the tea for the folk, wouldn’t she, eh? and Meg said she would, Meg had kittled up a lot of late, Chris thought as she went to her room to change. When she came down Ma was waiting for her, dressed all in her braws with a big black hat, with bead work upon it, and a meikle brooch pinned in under one of her chins. There you are, lass, though, God be here, you’re wearing so little I can see your drawers. And Chris said Surely not, and stooped to see Anyhow, I can’t wear more than I’m wearing. And Ma said maybe but it was a damned shame to go about with a figure like that, half- happed and stirring the men to temptation. And they’d better get on, near the time already, what in Auld Nick’s name were they gossiping for?

  So they got on the tram and soughed down Royal Mile, and up Little James Street to the Pictured rome; and paid for their seats and went in and sat down; and Chris felt sleepy almost as soon as she sat, and yawned, pictures wearied her nearly to death, the flickering shadows and the awful voices, the daft tales they told and the dafter news. She fell asleep through the cantrips a creature was playing, a mouse dressed up in breeks like a man, and only woke up as Ma shook her: Hey, the meikle film’s starting now, lassie, God damn’t, d’you want to waste a whole ninepenny ticket?

  So Chris had to stay awake and see that, all about a lassie who worked in New York and was awful poor but awful respectable, though she seemed to live in a place like a palace with a bath ten feet in length and three deep, and wore underclothes that she couldn’t have afforded, some childe had paid for them on the sly. But the picture said No, through its nose, not her, she was awful chaste but sore chased as well, a beast of a man in her office, the manager, galloping about the screen and aye wanting to seduce the lassie by night or by day. And instead of letting him and getting it over or taking him a crack in the jaw and leaving, she kept coming home in tears to the bath, and taking off her underthings one by one, but hiding her breasts and her bottom, fair chaste. Syne she met with a man that managed a theatre, though he looked from his face as though he managed a piggery and had been born in one and promoted for merit, a flat cold slob of a ham of a face with little eyes twinkling in the slob like currants, he was the hero and awful brave, and he took the lass to the theatre and made her sing that the skies were black and she was blue, and something that rhymed with that, not spew, and all the theatre audiences went wild not with rage, but joy, they’d been dropped on their heads when young: and the lassie became a famous actress and the film did a sudden close-up of her face with a tear of gratitude two feet long trembling like a jelly from her lower eyelid. And she and the slob were getting on fine, all black and blue, my lovely Lu, when along came the leader of a birn of brutes, a gang, and kidnapped the lass, grinding his teeth in an awful stamash to sleep with her; and took her away to an underground den; and was just about to begin at last, and Chris was just thinking it fairly was time, would they never get the job over and done?—when in rushed the hero and a fight began and chairs were smashed and vases and noses, and the lass crouched down with her camiknicks showing, but respectable still, she wouldn’t yield an inch to anything short of a marriage licence. And that she got in the end, all fine, with showers of flowers and the man with the face like a mislaid ham cuddling her up with a kiss that looked as though he was eating his supper when the thing came banging to an end at last.

  Ma said God be here, now wasn’t that fine? It must be a right canty place, this New York, childes charging about like bulls in a park trying to grab any lass they saw—even though the creatures were all bone and no breast and would give a man as much joy in bed as a kipper out of an ice-box, you’d think. Ay, she’d fair made a mistake a twenty years back when she stopped her Jim emigrating, faith. He’d been keen as anything on going to America, a man had loaned him a bit of a book about Presidents being just plain working folk, born in cabins and the queerest places; and maybe Jim thought that he had a chance, he’d been born next door to a cabin, near, his mother was bairned on the trawler Jess. But Ma’d put him off, like a meikle fool, to think she might now have been out in New York with big Jews chasing her in motor-cars and offering to buy her her undies free…. And God, the bit show was over, it seemed.

  But she wouldn’t have it that they should go home, they’d have tea at Woolworth’s in the Royal Mile. And in they went in the Saturday crush, full of soldiers and bairns and queans, folk from the country, red and respectable, an eident wife with a big shopping bag buying up sixpenny tins of plums and her goodman standing beside her ashamed, feared he’d be seen by a crony in Woolies, and she’d be telling him, Look, Willy, such cheap! Mighty, I’ll need a pound of that; and buy and buy till he’d near be ruined. And hungry Broo folk buying up biscuits, and queans with their jingling bags and paint, poor things, trying on the tin bits of rings, and mechanic loons at the wireless counter, and the Lord alone knew who wasn’t in Woolies, a roaring trade and a stink to match, Ma fought her way through the crush like a trawler taking the tide from Footforthie and Chris followed behind and felt sorry for a man who’d left his feet where Ma’s came down, he cried Hey, you? and Ma said Ay? Anything to say? and he said Ay, I have. Who do you think you are—Mussolini? And Ma cried over her shoulder Faith, I could wear his breeks and not feel ashamed. You never had a thing under yours, you runt.

  So up at last, sitting down in the tea-room, Ma ordering eggs and scones and pancakes and butter and honey in little jars, Chris gasped But whatever’s all the feast for? Ma said Och, she was sick of cooking herself, and the sight of those feeds that they had in America fairly stirred up a body’s stomach. Losh, wasn’t it fine to think of the lodgers sossing on their own?—though your Εwan and our Ellen, the sleek wee cat, are out again together the day. Would you think the two of them are getting off?

  Chris said not them, they had just gone Socialist as young folk would, some plan they had to link up the Labour folk with the Reds. Ma nearly choked on a mouthful of egg, God be here, whatever did they want to do that for? Chris said for good—or so the two thought, and Ma said they’d think mighty different soon, the Reds were just awful, look what they did in Russia to that poor Tsar creature back in the War—shot him down in a cellar full of coal, and buried the childe without as much as God bless you. Chris said she didn’t know anything about it though it sounded as though it maybe messed up the coals, as far as she knew neither Ellen nor Εwan had yet shot anybody, even in a cellar. Ma said No, but she wouldn’t trust Ewan, a fine loon, but that daft-like glower in his eyes—Och, this Communism stuff’s not canny, I tell you, it’s just a religion though the Reds say it’s not and make out that they don’t believe in God. They’re dafter about Him than the Salvationists are, and once it gets under a body’s skin he’ll claw at the itch till he’s tirred himself.

  Chris said she supposed she thought the same, had always thought so, but that didn’t matter, if Ewan wanted God she wouldn’t try and stop him; there was plenty of mess to redd up in the world on the road to where He was maybe to be found. Ma said she didn’t believe there was, this daft Red religion was maybe needed in places where there was a lot of corruption, coarse kings that ran away with folks’ silver and prime ministers just drunken sots. But where would you find the like in Duncairn? … Now, don’t start on me, we’ll just away home. Eh me, to think of those New York childes tearing after the women like yon! Where would you see the like in Duncairn?

  With one thing and another it was late that night afore
Chris went up the stairs to her bed, Ewan had looked round the kitchen door and cried good night a good hour before, Ma had gone off to dream of New York, the rest of the lodgers were sound in their beds. And Chris was taking off her clothes, slow, tired to death with the evening’s outing—why did folk waste their time in touns, in filth and stour and looking at shadows when they might have slipped away up the Howe and smelt the smell of the harvest—oh! bonny lying somewhere on a night like this! … And just as she sat and thought of that, not sad but tired, she heard a commotion above her head, the clatter of footsteps, and syne a door bang, a woman’s voice—for a minute she was back in the Picturedrome, watching and hearing that shadow-play that was never limned in a toun like Duncairn—And then as a bigger stamash broke out she opened the door and ran up the stairs.

  Ake Ogilvie told the tale the next day to Ma Cleghorn, Ma lying at rest in her bed, she’d gone to bed with a steek in her side and was lying fair wearied till Ake looked in. He said Ay, woman, I hear you’re not well? and Ma said his hearing was still in fair order—sit down and gie’s a bit of your crack. How are you and your Provost creature getting on?

  So Ake filled up his pipe, sitting sonsy, green-eyed, with his curling mouser and Auld Nick brows, a pretty childe as Ma had thought often. And he said the Provost’s bit influence had been fairly heard in this house last night, hadn’t the mistress been waked by the noise? And Ma asked What noise? Was the Provost here? and Ake said No, God, the lass escaped that, it was only one of his Bacchic chums.

  Syne he started to tell of the Saturday outing of the Duncairn Council to High Scaur Hill. Ma knew of the new waterworks built there?—Ay, she’d known, faith, or at least her rates had. Well, the official inspection had been billed for the Saturday and the Provost had come to Ake at the sawmill and said that he’d want him to join the bit outing, he’d want his opinion on the timber-work. And Ake had said Ay, he didn’t much mind, though he’d little liking for councillors and such. Still, the poor Bulgars have to live somehow, haven’t they, Jimmy? and the Provost grinned sick and said he was still the same old Ake.

  Well, the whole lot set out on the official treat, Speight, Bailie Brown and the Dean of Guild, all the Bailie billies and a wheen hangers-on, two coach loads hired with the Duncairn rates to give a treat to the City Fathers. And who should the Daily Runner send but the wee Mr Piddle, like a snake on the spree, he squeezed into the back of the Provost’s coach, he-he! and sat down by the side of Ake with his little note-book fluttering, grinning like an ape, the City Fathers all brave in their braws. And off the jing-bang had rolled to the Scaur.

  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.