A Scots Quair

  … Oh, less kind to you than I might have been. And I can’t help it now, that’s by and put past, nothing helps now, as little as you can I ever see a way out of all the ill soss. Not that I think I would look if I could, I’ve no patience with crowds or the things they want, only for myself I suppose I can plan. And I stand in the bareness, alone, tormented, and you … Oh, Robert man, had you stayed to help somehow we might have found the road together….

  Daft old wife to weep over something long by that couldn’t be mended, her nature hers, his his, all chances gone in that dust of days they’d known together in Segget, in love, in estrangement, in fear and disgust—all ash with him and finished forever. And on this day of all she must try to decide … sell herself like a cow, a cow’s purpose, in order to keep a roof over her head.

  And abruptly she was minding Robert’s study in Segget, the panelled walls black-lined with books, the glint of peat-light on the chairs, the desk, Robert sitting deep in a chair, head in hands, she herself looking down at him in pity and disgust because of that weak God he feared and followed. And with that memory something seemed to blow through the room, blowing out the picture like a candle-flame … she had finished with men forever, and could never again stir to a semblance of life that something which died when Robert died. Better a beggar in Duncairn’s wynds than sell herself as she’d almost planned.

  And so she would tell Ake Ogilvie tonight.

  When Alick Watson reached home in the Cowgate after coming off picket at Gowans and Gloag’s he met the old woman going trauchling out, away to her afternoon cleaning up for a widow body that bade in Craigneuks. She said God be here, are you back again? Well, try and do something for once for your meat. Your sister’s lying in her bed, no well. If she wants anything, see that you get it her.

  Alick said he could do that without being blackguarded, Meg was his sister, wasn’t she? And the old woman said not to give her his lip, the useless skulking striking sod, wasn’t he black ashamed to live off his folk’s earnings? And Alick said Away to hell. Did I ask to be born in your lousy bed in this lousy toun? and brushed past her, swearing soft to himself because of that stricken look in her eye.

  Inside he got ready a cup of tea, bread and corned beef, and sat and ate, Meg asleep in the other room, he heard her turn and toss once, and stopped and listened, better to busy himself with souch sounds he needn’t think then of what he had done … slipped the pepper poke into Ewan’s pouch, Christ! if the other chaps ever found out—

  And then Meg called Alick, I heard you come in. Will you bring me a drink of water?

  He carried it to her and put his arm under her, lifting her, she was heavy already though he was the only one of the silly sods that had seen it yet. And because he aye had liked her so well, as she him, though they’d never let on, he found a sharp pain in his breast as he held her. Then she pushed him away in a minute, and was sick.

  Alick said that he’d better go get the doctor, and she said not to talk like a neep-headed cuddy, couldn’t a lassie be sick now and then?

  —Ay, but not that kind of sickness, Meg. When was it you were bairned?

  She said Eh? and then lay still for a minute, staring; he said it was no good to look at him like that, he’d known a long time and she might as well tell.

  She turned her face to the pillow then, away from him, and whispered Six months ago. Oh, Alick! and began to cry, soft, in the littered bed, in a misery he couldn’t help, could only stare at helpless. Where did he do it, the bastard? Up in his toff’s room in Windmill Place?

  She turned her head and stared again, and he saw the flyting quean in her eyes: Windmill Place? What was he havering about? The beast was never at the Place in his life.

  Alick said Listen, you bitch, and answer me straight: and bent over the bed and caught her wrists, crushing them in sudden, frantic nieves. Who’s the father? Be quick and tell me!

  When he heard her say Steve Selden, he knew he’d been done, had played the fool. And Oh Christ, Ewan—if Εwan were caught ——

  He tore from the room and out of the house, banging the door behind, down the steps, the old whaler captain was out in the court, lurching home and singing a hymn, Ake saw his old wife peering down in fear. But he brushed past the old carle and ran for the entrance, two chaps that he knew were entering the court, they tried to stop him, for a joke, and he flung them aside, and paid no heed as they cried was it daftness or dysentery? And out in the Cowgate he started to run, dodging in and out the ash-cans on the pavement, a black cat ran across the street in front, that for luck, hell, there was a bobby.

  So he slowed to a walk going by the bobby, if a childe were seen by a bobby running in the Cowgate he was sure to be chased and caught and questioned. Out of range Alick took to his heels again and gained Alban Street the same minute as a tram.

  Only as he climbed the steps did he mind that he hadn’t even a meek upon him, and turned to jump off as the tram with a showd swung grinding down to the Harbour: suddenly shining in a glint of sun, gulls above it, the guff of the Fish-Market meeting the tram like a smack in the face, it grunted and sneezed and galloped on through it. But the conductor had seen Alick and caught his arm: Look out, you whoreson, jumping off here. You’ll bash out your brains—if you’ve any to bash.

  Alick said he’d found he’d no money on him, he was one of the strikers at Gowans and Gloag’s in the hell and all of a hurry to get down with a bit of news for the rest of the lads. He’d jump off here—

  But the trammie held fast, a squat, buirdly bird with a face like a badly-made barn door. And he said Not so fast, wasn’t he Union as well? Here, he’d pay the ticket. Sit down and wait.

  That shortened the run, in a minute the Docks, the trammie slowed down at a bend where he shouldn’t, the nearest to Gowans, and Alick jumped off and cried his thanks and took to his heels and ran like the wind.

  When the four o’clock picket went on that day there hadn’t been as big a birn as usual of idle folk to look on and claik. The cold was biting across Footforthie gnawing through the thin breeks and jackets of Broo men, sending them talking off to the Library to read last Sunday’s Sunday Post, the racing news and the story of a lassie raped, bairned, killed, and fried up in chips—Ay, fairly educative, the Scottish newspapers…. But a dozen or so still hung about, not expecting much of a shindy at all: but you never knew when a strike was on, there might be a bit of snot flying ere long.

  There was only one of the bobbies there, the young country cuddy, he grinned at the picket and one cried him the old tale of the bobby whose beat was fair littered with whores: and a new sergeant came on the beat one night and set the bobby to jailing each whore: but at last the bobby put his splay feet down: I’ve run in my sisters and my auntie to please you, my wife and my daughter and my cousin Jean, but I’m damned if I’ll run in my mother as well—

  And they all guffawed, they’d no spite against him, he none against them, funny a chap like that should have joined up with the lousy police though you couldn’t much blame him, fine uniform to keep out the cold, good pay and a pension and perks for the picking. And you blew your chilled hands and spat in the Docks and were just thinking about dandering away home again when you looked up and saw a half-dozen police coming swaggering down to the Gowans gates, the meikle sergeant, Feet, in the lead. You cleared your throat and spat on the ground to get the stink of their wind from your thrapple, but the birn went by with hardly a look, they were all speaking low and chief-like together: what dirty sodding were they planning now?

  The only chap of the picket who stood in the road was the young toff childe folk said was half-Red. He drew back a bit to let the bobbies gang by, but they weren’t looking and one of the stots gave a stumble and nearly tripped over the toff. Then, afore you could wink, a queer thing was on, the bobby had grabbed the young toff by the neck and Feet cried out: What’s that—assaulting the police? Right, my lad, you can come on up to the Station.

  Young Tavendale said not to talk rot,
the constable had been stumbling all over the street. Some others of the picket came out from the lithe, hanging round the bobbies, and called the same, the cuddy of a bobby had had the staggers, or water on the brain—if he had a brain. But Feet cried Stand back, or well take you as well; and he asked Tavendale if he’d come peaceable or not and Tavendale lifted his shoulders with a laugh and said he supposed so, he was cool and unfeared: and turned round sudden on the bobby that had bumped him: I can see that this is a put-up show—

  Afore he could say another word, Christ, what a crack! the bobby had his stick out and smashed him to the ground. Then he looked to Feet and the meikle swine nodded: In self-defence, Dickson. All right, pick him up.

  You saw the toff as they carried him past, he was only a kid, his hair dripping with blood, he hung like a sack among their fat hands. The picket tailed after crying that they’d see about this: but at that the rest of the bobbies faced round and in half a minute had cleared the street, Feet said the picket was trying to prevent an arrest.

  And off they carted young Tavendale; and just as you were slipping off home yourself to spread the news in Kirrieben you ran bang into a white-faced young fool, panting and habbering, What’s on at Gowans? You told him, and he cried Oh Christ, he’d never meant it, and you thought he was probably drunk, or daft, or both, and left him to it, he looked soft enough to pitch himself head first in the Docks—

  Every movement he made sent a stream of pain down his legs and body, he thought, but wasn’t sure, that his right arm was broken where they’d twisted it; and thought again Not likely, that would show too much; and fainted off in the fire of the pain.

  When next he woke he thought it near morning, his throat burning, he tried to cry for a drink of water. And after a minute the cell door opened, a blaze from the passage on the blaze in the cell, he saw a dim face, big, it floated, and the face said he’d get a drink if he owned up now it was him that had drowned Johnny Edwards and organized the throwing of the pepper at the Docks? And Ewan moved his swollen lips, dull mumble, and heard himself say You can go to hell! Then his head went crack on the bobby’s boot….

  When he’d come-to after that time at the Docks he’d found himself on a bench in the Station, they’d started to ask his name and address and take it down in a big case-book. He’d asked what charge he was arrested on, and the big sergeant at the desk said he’d know soon enough, none of his la-de-da lip here, the bastard. Right, boys, rape him.

  Two bobbies had taken on the job, in a minute they’d come on a bag of pepper, he’d stared, how the devil had that got there? The sergeant had cried What say you to that? and Ewan, half-blind with a headache, had said Rats. Some groceries I was buying for my mother, that was all, and the sergeant said by Christ, was that so? If his mother knew him when he finished with the Force she’d be a right discerning woman, she would: Take him off to No. 3 cell, Sergeant Leslie. See he doesn’t try to assault you again.

  He’d thought that a lout joke, suddenly it wasn’t, three of them came into the cell behind him. And he’d minded in a flash of a story he’d read of the ghastly happenings in American jails. Rot: this was Scotland, not America, the police were clowns and idiot enough, but they couldn’t—

  Two of them held him while Sim Leslie bashed him, then they knocked him from fist to fist across the cell, body-blows in the usual Duncairn way with Reds, one of them slipped in the blood and swore, That’s enough for the bastard, he’ll bleed like a pig. Lying on the floor, Ewan had heard a queer bubbling, himself blowing breath through bloody lips.

  Then, the cell wavering, they’d picked him up and flung him down on the wooden trestle. Now, answer up or you’ll get the works—And they’d asked him again and again to declare it was he had caused the drowning of Edwards; and he’d bitten his lips, saying nothing, till their fumblings at last brought a scream shrilling up in his throat, a bit of it ebbed out and the bobbies left off, standing and listening, feared it might have been heard even down this deserted corridor of cells. Then they said they’d leave him alone for a while, they’d be back in a wee to the mucking Red sod….

  And still he’d said nothing, setting his teeth, though the pain behind his teeth had clamoured to him to let go, to confess to anything, anything, they wanted, Oh God for a rest from this. But that real self that transcended himself had sheathed its being in ice and watched with a kind of icy indifference as they did shameful things to his body, threatened even more shameful, twisted that body till his self cowered in behind the ice and fainted again…. And now, as he thought, the morning was near.

  He moved a little the arm he’d thought broken, it wasn’t, only clotted with bruises, the dryness had left his throat, he lay still with a strange mist boiling, blinding his eyes, not Ewan Tavendale at all any more but lost and be-bloodied in a hundred broken and tortured bodies all over the world, in Scotland, in England, in the torture-dens of the Nazis in Germany, in the torment-pits of the Polish Ukraine, a livid, twisted thing in the prisons where they tortured the Nanking Communists, a Negro boy in an Alabama cell while they thrust the razors into his flesh, castrating with a lingering cruelty and care. He was one with them all, a long wail of sobbing mouths and wrung flesh, tortured and tormented by the world’s Masters while those Masters lied about Progress through Peace, Democracy, Justice, the Heritage of Culture—even as they’d lied in the days of Spartacus, lying now through their hacks in pulpit and press, in the slobberings of middle-class pacifists, the tawdry promisings of Labourites, Douglasites…. And a kind of stinging bliss came upon him, knowledge that he was that army itself—that army of pain and blood and torment that was yet but the raggedest van of the hordes of the Last of the Classes, the Ancient Lowly, trampling the ways behind it unstayable: up and up, a dark sea of faces, banners red in the blood from the prisons, torn entrails of tortured workers their banners, the enslavement and oppression of six thousand years a cry and a singing that echoed to the stars. No retreat, no safety, no escape for them, no reward, thrust up by the black, blind tide to take the first brunt of impact, first glory, first death, first life as it never yet had been lived—

  Trease said Ay, well, we’ll do what we can—and a wee thing more. But I wouldn’t advise you to come to the court.

  Chris asked why, and the big man with the twinkling eyes in the great pudding face got up from the sofa in the sitting-room and looked at her as though passing a mild comment on the weather: I’m feared your Ewan’ll have been bashed a bit—all in bandages, you know, and a bit broken up.

  Chris stared: But he didn’t try to resist! All the rest of the picket saw his arrest.

  Trease twinkled his little eyes a bit, a mild joke: Oh ay, but he’s a Communist, you see, or he’ll be by now, for his fancy League was no more than the dream of an earnest lad. Anyway, the bobbies think him a Red and they aye get Reds to ‘resist’ at the Station, they generally mash them in No. 3 cell. And this is your Ewan’s first go, you know, they try to kill off the Red spirit right off.

  Chris said that was daft, they couldn’t do things like that in this country, anybody knew the police were fair and anybody accused got a fair trial. Trease nodded, faith ay, if you were of the middle class and wore good clothes and weren’t a Communist. Och, anything else—a sodomist, a pervert, a white slave trafficker, a raper of wee queans—any damn thing that you liked to think of. But if you were a revolutionary worker you got hell. Fair enough, for the Reds weren’t out to cure the system, they were out to down it and cut its throat.

  He waited while Chris got her coat and hat and left the house to look after itself. At Windmill Brae they found a tram and were down at the court by ten o’clock.

  Outside were already a birn of men, down-at-heels, unshaven, they cried Hello, Jim, and stared at Chris and came drifting around Trease, unwashed, their stink awful, their faces worm-white, Chris stared at them with a sinking heart. Were these the awful folk that Ewan had ta’en up with?

  Bobbies all about the entrance door, one or two had come down
in the street, big-footed, and were pushing about, beefy and confident, truncheons out and shoulders squared. Trease stroked his chin and twinkled at the Broo men and strikers: We’ll demonstrate later, lads. You’d better disperse and not raise a row.

  So the two got into the court at last, Chris had never been in one before, panelled in dark wood, with a witness box with a curling bit of wood above it that vexed her because the thing looked so daft. She whispered to Trease, asking what it was, and he twinkled back ’twas the sounding-board, and then leaned back in his bench and yawned, they’d not have her Ewan on for a while, they’d wait till the Bailie got hot up a bit.

  They finished at last with the street queans ta’en up, a soldier who’d stolen cigarettes from a stall, a man who’d knocked over a boy with a lorry. But there wasn’t much in any of the cases, Bailie Brown, the leader of Duncairn Labour, rapped out his sentences snell and smart, fair a favourite with all the bobbies and giving double the sentences a Tory would have given—to show that he was impartial, like. Then Chris saw an inspector go whisper to him and the Bailie look at his watch and nod; and the far door opened and some body in a bandage came in unsteadily between two bobbies, Chris knew one, Sergeant Sim Leslie of Segget.

  And then she knew Εwan, and some body cried Order! and Trease gripped her knee so hard that it hurt, left her breathless and she couldn’t cry again, couldn’t do anything but stare and stare at the bandaged figure pass in front of her and stand in the dock, the bobbies all a-glower. A little neat man got up with a paper, and hitched his gown and gave a quick gabble, talking down his shirt-front low and confidential. Then he asked for a remand … death of John Edwards … brutal assault on police at Docks … incriminating evidence…. Violently resisting arrest—