A Scots Quair

  She’d glance up at him, deep in his book, and not heed the book, but only him, nice arms bare and the curve of his head, strange and dear, nice funny nose, lips too thick, like her own, brown throat—she could catalogue them forever, over and over, and know a fresh thrill every word every time—oh, damnable and silly and lovely to be in love!

  And they’d drink the tea in a drowse of content and talk of his books and the men of old time, the Simple Men who had roamed the earth before Civilization came. If ever men attained that elemental simplicity again—

  And Ellen would rouse: But then, what’s the use? If we don’t believe in that we’re just—oh daft, as you Scotch people say, wasting our lives instead of—And Ewan would ask Instead of what?—Saving up to get married? and laugh and hold her face firm between his hands, young rough hands, the look in his eyes that made her responses falter even while at his laugh and the thing he laughed at something denying struggled up in her, almost shaped itself to words on her lips. Sometime, surely—Oh, sometime they’d get married when the Revolution came and all was put right.

  And sometimes, she’d feel just sick and desolate the way he would talk of that coming change, he didn’t expect it would come in their time, capitalism had a hundred dodges yet to dodge its own end, Fascism, New Deals, Douglasism, War: Fascism would probably outlast the lot. Ellen said that she didn’t believe that a minute else what was the good of all their struggles, what was the good of dissolving the League and both of them joining the Communist Party? And Ewan would smile at her: No good at all. Child’s play, Ellen, or so it’ll seem for years. And we’ve just to go on with it, right to the end, History our master not the servant we supposed….

  He’d fall to his books again, dryest stuff, economics she never could stick, she would reach up and catch the book from him and his eyes meet hers, blank a while, cold, blank and grey, horrible eyes like a cuttle-fish’s—like the glint on the houses in Royal Mile, the glint of grey granite she thought once, and shivered. And he asked her why and she said she was silly and he said he knew that, eyes warm again, and they fooled about, struggling a little in the fading June night: and then were quiet, her head on his knee, looking out of the window at summer-stilled Duncairn, little winds tapping the cord of the blind, far off in the fall of the darkness the winking eye of Crowie Point lighting up the green surge of the North Sea night. And Ellen would say Oh, aren’t we comfy? Fun, this, he’d say nothing, just cuddle her, staring out at that light wan and lost that bestrode the sky.

  In bed, beside him, breathing to sleep, the little sleep after those moments that she still thought fun, she would tickle his throat with her hair, feel sure and confident as never in the light, here in the dark he was hers unquestioned, hers and no other’s, breathing so, sweat on his brow, hair curling about her fingers from the dark, sleek head. He would stroke her with a swift, soft hand, like a bird’s light wing, into that little sleep till somewhere between two and three she would awake, he wakeful as well, and they’d kiss again, cool and neat, and slip out of bed, slim children both, and stand hand in hand and listen, all the house in Windmill Place silent. Then they’d pad to the door and lug it open and peer out, nothing, the lobby dark below, no glimmer about but faint on the landing the far ghost-radiance of Footforthie. Ewan would open her door for her, sleepily they’d hug, and yawn at each other in the dark, giggle a bit because of that, and Ellen close the door and slip into her bed, asleep before she had reached it, almost.

  But one morning she saw his hands cut and bruised and asked why, and he said oh that was from his new job, up at Stoddart’s, the granite-mason’s, he’d been taken on there as a labourer.

  The table looked at him, the first any had heard: Chris asked if he liked it, were the other folk nice?

  Miss Murgatroyd simpered she was awful glad he had found Respectable Employment, like. Such Pity not to be in the office though; they were awful respectable folk, the Stoddarts.

  Mr Piddle said he-he! and ate like a gull landed famished on the corpse of a whale.

  Mr Quaritch cocked his wee beard to the side: You’ll be able to study the proletariat at first hand now. Tell me when you get sick of them, lad. I might be able to find something better.

  Ena Lyon sniffed and said she Just Hated gravestones.

  Ellen sat and stared in blank, dead silence, feeling sick and forgotten while they all talked. Oh goodness, hadn’t they heard, had they all gone deaf? Ewan—EWAN A LABOURER!

  July came in slow heat over Duncairn, and with it the summer-time visitors. John Cushnie took his feeungsay down to the Beach every night that his mecks would meet, in to hear Gappy Gowkheid braying his jokes in the Beach Pavilion, awfully funny, Christ, how you laughed when he spoke the daft Scotch and your quean beside you giggled superior and said Say he was sure the canary’s camiknicks, she was awful clever and spoke a lot like that that she’d heard at the Talkies—though if you had mentioned her camiknicks she’d have flamed insulted right on the spot.

  Or you’d take her down of a Wednesday afternoon, when Raggie’s had closed, birring on the tramcars loaded for the Beach, wheeling out from Footforthie, there glimmering and pitching and reeling in the sun the Amusements Park with its scenic railway, Beach crowded with folk the same as the cars, you and your quean would sit and listen to the silly English that couldn’t speak proper, with their ’eads and ’ands and ’alfs and such. Then off you’d get and trail into the Amusements Park, you’d only a half-dollar but you wouldn’t let on, your feeungsay was so superior and you only the clerk in Raggie Robertson’s. She was fairly gentry and said how she’d enjoyed her holiday away with her Girl Friend, they’d gone for a week out in the country, and the farmers were awful vulgar and funny. And you said Yes, you knew, hicks were like that, and she said You’ve spilt it—with their awful Scotch words: Tyesday for Tuesday, and Foersday for Friday, and no proper drainage at all, you know. And you said again that you knew; she meant there weren’t real wc’s but rather would have died than say so right out.

  So you asked if she’d like the scenic railway, and she said It’s okay by me, on you got, she screamed and grabbed you and the hair got out from under her hat, you were awful proud of her but wished to hell she wouldn’t scream as though her throat were chokeful up of old razor blades, and clutch at her skirt, and skirl Oh, stop! Christ, hadn’t she legs like other folk and need she aye be ashamed of them? So you gave her a bit grab about the legs and she screamed some more and hung on to you: but when the ride finished she was real offended and said she wasn’t that kind of girl, Don’t try and come it fresh on me.

  You said you were sorry, so you were, and were just trying to make it up with her when she saw her friend and cried Cooee, Ena! and the quean came over, all powder and poshness, and who should it be but Miss Ena Lyon that you’d known at the lodgings in Windmill Place. She said she was just having a stroll about, and no, she hadn’t a boy with her. And your quean giggled, and Miss Lyon giggled and you felt a fool, queans were like that; and as you followed them into the tea-tent you wished a coarse minute they’d stop their damned showing-off and be decent to a chap that was treating them—wished a daft minute you’d a quean who didn’t care about Talkies and genteelness or was scared at her legs being touched or her feelings offended—one that would cuddle you because she liked it, liked you, thought her legs and all of herself for you, and was douce and sweet and vulgar and kind—like a keelie out of the Cowgate…. Christ, it must be the sun had got at you!

  Your quean and Miss Lyon were at it hell for leather talking about their holidays and where they had bade, and how much they paid for digs in Duncairn. And Miss Lyon said she thought she’d move hers, the landlady had once been a minister’s widow but now she had married an Awful Common person, a joskin just, that lorded it about the place and wasn’t a bit respectful at all. Worse than that, though, the landlady’s son was a Red…. You said that you’d known that, that’s why you’d left, Raggie Robertson was dead against the Reds…. And your quean said Don
’t be silly. Go on, Ena.

  And Miss Lyon said that another of the lodgers was a schoolteacher, Red as well, and she was sure there were Awful Things between them. She’d heard—and she giggled and whispered to your quean and you felt yourself turn red round the ears, what were the daft bitches gigg-giggling about? And your quean made on she was awful shocked and said she wouldn’t stay there a minute, the place was no better than a WICKED HOUSE, just.

  Miss Lyon said that she’d got no proof, of course, and your quean mustn’t say anything, and your quean said she wouldn’t but that Ena could easily get proof and show up the two Reds and then leave the place. And then you all talked together about the Communists, coarse beasts, aye stirring up the working class—that was the worst of the working class that they could be led astray by agitators, they’d no sense and needed to be strongly ruled.

  You told the queans that but they didn’t listen, they were giggling horrified to each other again, your quean said What, did you really hear the bed creak? and Miss Lyon said Yes, twice, and their faces were all red and warmed up and glinting, they minded you suddenly of the faces of two bitches sniffling round a lamp-post, scared and eager and hot on a scent…. But you mustn’t think that, they were real genteel.

  For your quean was the daughter of a bank-clerk in Aberdeen and Miss Ena Lyon’s father had been a postmaster, some class, you guessed, you didn’t much like to tell them yours had been only the hostler at the Grand Hotel, what did it matter, you were middle-class yourself now and didn’t want ever to remember that you might have been a keelie labourer—Christ, living in some awful room in Paldy, working at the Docks or the granite-yards, going round with some quean not genteel like yours but speaking just awful, Scotch, no restraint or knowing how to take care of herself, maybe coming into your bed at night, smooth and fine and kissing you, cuddling you, holding you without screaming, just in liking and kindness…. Your quean asked Whatever’s come over you, red like that? and you said Oh, nothing, it’s stuffy in here.

  And home you all went on the evening tram, your quean and Miss Lyon sitting together and your quean telling Miss Lyon what fine digs she had, the landlady so respectful, a perfect old scream: and Ena should wait about tonight and catch the two Reds and show them up, and then leave the place and come bide with your quean.

  And Miss Lyon said that she would, too, she was sick of the place, anyhow—the dirty beasts to act like that, night after night…. And they giggled and whispered some more and for some funny reason you felt as though you’d a stone in your gall, sick and weary, what was the use?—what was the use of being middle-class and wearing a collar and going to the Talkies when this was all that you got out of it? And your quean, whispering some direction to Miss Lyon, turned round and said Don’t listen a minute, and you nearly socked her one in the jaw—och, ’twas the summer night’s heat that was getting you.

  Chris’s roses were full and red in bloom, scentless and lovely, glowing alive in the Sunday sun as she herself came out to the little back garden. Εwan and Ellen were out there already, their backs to the house, one kneeling one standing, their dark hair blue in the sunlight, young, with a murmur of talk and laughter between them. And she saw indeed they were children no longer, Ellen a woman, slim, a slip of a thing, but that pussy-cat dewiness lost and quite gone, Ewan with the stance and look and act of some strange species of Gallowgate keelie who had never hidden or starved in a slum and planned to cut all the gentry’s throat, politely, for the good of humankind…. And Miss Ena Lyon was no doubt right in all she had said: Chris must tell them somehow.

  But standing looking at them she knew that she couldn’t, not because she was shamed to speak of such things to either but because they were over-young and happy to have their minds vexed with the dirty sad angers of Miss Ena Lyon, poor lass. She’d never had a soul slip into her room of a night, maybe that was the reason for her awful stamash about Ellen and Ewan exchanging visits…. She’d bade up last night, she had told to Chris, and waited on the stairs to confirm her suspicions. And sure enough it had happened again, oh, Disgusting, at Eleven o’clock Miss Johns slipping into Mr Tavendale’s room. And she couldn’t stay on any longer in a place like this, it was no better than a Brothel, just.

  Chris had looked at her in a quiet compassion and said there was no need to stay even a week, she’d better pack and get out at once. Miss Lyon had stared and flushed up raddled red: What, me that’s done nothing? You’ve more need to shift those—

  She’d called them a dirty name, Chris had said without anger You’ll pack and be gone in an hour; and left her to that and gone down to the kitchen and shortly afterwards heard a tramping overhead as Miss Lyon got her bit things together—thrown out of her lodgings for trying to keep keelies respectable.

  Working in the kitchen with Jock the cat stropping himself up against her legs, Chris had thought that funny for a moment, then it wasn’t, she’d have to ask the two what they meant to do. And she thought how awful it was the rate that things tore on from a body’s vision, only a year or so since she’d thought of Ewan as a little student lad, her own, jealous when he talked to the pussy-cat: and now she’d have to ask him when he meant to marry!

  So she’d made the oatcakes and scones all the lodgers cried for, Ake had come swinging in from outbye, out to buy his bit Sunday paper, no collar, his boots well-blacked, his mouser well-curled, he’d sat down and eaten a cake while he read. Chris had brought him some milk though he’d said he’d get it for himself, he’d taken to saying that kind of thing, queer, though she’d paid it little attention, looking at him quiet and friendly, just, this business of getting a job was a trauchle. She’d asked was there any sign of work and he’d said not a bit in the whole of Duncairn, and folded back his paper and looked up at her with green-glinting eyes as he drank his milk! A job? Devil the one. And I’m thinking I know the reason for that.

  Chris had asked What reason? and he’d said Jimmy Speight, no doubt he’d sent a message all round Duncairn to the joiners and timber-merchants and such, warning them against employing Ake. Chris had said that surely he’d be feared to do that seeing that Ake knew the scandal about him, Ake had shaken his head, Ay, but he’d promised never to use that knowledge again and Jimmy knew that he’d keep the promise, a body must keep a promise made even to a daft old skate like the Provost.

  And then he’d said something that halted Chris: I’m sorry, mistress, that I drove you to marrying me.

  Chris had said Why, Ake! in surprise, and he’d nodded: Ay, a damn mistake. Queer the daft desires that drive folk. I might well have known you’d never mate with me, you’d been spoiled in the beds of ministers and the like. I’d forgotten that like an unblooded loon.

  Chris had stood and listened in a kind surprise, beyond fear of being startled or hurt any more by any man of the sons of men who brought their desires their gifts to her. She’d said she’d done all she could to make them happy, and Ake had nodded, Ay, all that she could, but that wasn’t enough, och, she wasn’t to blame. Then he’d said not to fash, things would ravel out in time, he was off for a dander round the Docks.

  So he’d gone, leaving Chris to finish the cooking and set the dinner and watch the taxi drive up and take away Miss Lyon’s luggage, a pile of it, and hear the cabman ask if she shouldn’t have hired a lorry instead? And Miss Lyon had said she wanted none of his impudence, she’d had enough of that already, living in a brothel. Chris had started a little, overhearing that, but the cabman just said Faith now, have you so? Trade failing that you’re leaving? and got in and drove off.

  And now, the pastry browning fine and Jock the cat purring away, Chris had come out to the noon-time yard to ask Ellen and Ewan what they meant to do over this business of sleeping together without the kirk’s licence and shocking Miss Lyon.

  But the picture they made took that plan from her mind, she saw now what it was they were laughing about, they’d gotten in the baby from over next door, the bald-headed father had been left in charge and had w
anted to mow his lawn awful bad and the bairn had wakened up in its pram and started a yowl, frustrating the man: till Ellen looked over and said Shall I? And he’d handed it over, all red and thankful, and now Ellen squatted by the rose-bush, the bairn in her lap and was wagging a bloom in front of its nose. And the bairn, near as big and bald as his father, was kicking his legs, gurgling, and burying his nose and mouth in the rose, sniffing, and then kicking some more in delight. And Chris saw Ewan looking down at the two with a look on his face that made her stop.

  Not the kind of look at all a young man should have given his quean with a stranger’s bairn—a drowsy content and expectation commingled. Instead, Ewan looked at the two cool and frank, amused and a little bored, as he might at a friend who played with a kitten….

  And Chris thought, appalled, Poor Ellen, poor Ellen!

  Gowans and Gloag’s had quietened down after the strike, the chaps went back and said to themselves no more of listening to those Communist Bulgars that got you in trouble because of their daftness, damn’t, if the Chinks and the Japs wanted to poison one the other, why shouldn’t they?—they were coarse little brutes, anyhow, like that Dr Fu Manchu on the films. And wee Geordie Bruce that worked in Machines said there was nothing like a schlorich of blood to give a chap a bit twist in the wame. But you, though you weren’t a Red any longer, said to Geordie that he’d done damn little bloodletting against the bobbies; and Norman Cruickshank took Wee Geordie’s nose and gave it a twist, it nearly came off, and said Hey, sample a drop of your own. Christ, and to think it’s red, not yellow!

  You took a bit taik into Machines now and then for a gabble with Norman on this thing and that, the new wing they’d built, called Chemicals, where the business of loading the cylinders with gas was to start in another week or so. Already a birn of chaps had come from the south with a special training for that kind of work, Glasgow sods and an Irishman or so. You and Norman would sneak out to the wc for a fag, and you’d ask if Norman had seen anything of Ewan? And Norman would say he’d seen him once or twice at meetings of the Reds down on the Beach, he’d fairly joined up with the Communists now and spoke at their meetings—daft young Bulgar if ever there was one, and him gey clever and educated, Bob.