Читать книгу Courtin' Christina - J. J. Bell - Страница 6

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Mrs. Robinson conveyed sundry dishes from the oven, also the teapot from the hob, to the table.

“Come awa’,” she said briskly, seating herself. “We’ll no’ wait for Macgreegor.”

“Gi’e him five minutes, Lizzie,” said Mr. Robinson.

“I’m in nae hurry,” remarked Gran’paw Purdie, who had come up from the coast that afternoon.

“I’m awfu’ hungry, Maw,” piped a young voice.

“Whisht, Jimsie,” whispered daughter Jeannie.

Said Mrs. Robinson, a little impatiently: “Come awa’, come awa’, afore everything gets spiled. Macgreegor has nae business to be that late.” She glanced at the clock. “He’s been the same a’ week. Haste ye, John.”

John opened his mouth, but catching his wife’s eye, closed it again without speech.

Excepting Jimsie, they came to the table rather reluctantly.

“Ask a blessin’, fayther,” murmured Lizzie.

“Shut yer eyes,” muttered Jeannie to her little brother, while she restrained his eager paw from reaching a cookie.

Mr. Purdie’s white head shook slightly as he said grace; he had passed his five and seventieth birthday, albeit his spirit was cheerful as of yore; in his case old age seemed to content itself with an occasional mild reminder.

John distributed portions of stewed finnan haddie, Lizzie poured out the tea, while Jeannie methodically prepared a small feast for the impatient Jimsie. Gran’paw Purdie beamed on the four, but referred surreptitiously at brief intervals to his fat silver watch.

* * * * *

It is eight years since last we saw the Robinson family. Naturally we find the greatest changes in the younger members. Jimsie from an infant has become a schoolboy; he is taller, more scholarly, less disposed to mischief, more subdued of nature than was Macgregor at the same age; yet he is the frank, animated young query that his brother was, though, to be sure, he has a sister as well as parents to puzzle with his questions. At thirteen Jeannie is a comely, fair-haired little maid, serious for her years, devoted to Jimsie, very proud of Macgregor, and a blessing to her parents who, strangely enough, rarely praise her; her chief end seems to be to serve those she loves without making any fuss about it.

As for John, he has grown stouter, and to his wife’s dismay a bald spot has appeared on his crown; his laughter comes as readily as ever, and he is just as prone to spoil his children. But by this time Lizzie has become assured that her man’s light-hearted, careless ways do not extend to his work, that his employers have confidence in their foreman, and that while he is not likely to rise higher in his trade, he is still less likely to slip back. She is proud of the three-roomed modern flat in which she and hers dwell, and her sense for orderliness and cleanliness has not lost its keenness. In person she is but little altered: perhaps her features have grown a shade softer.

* * * * *

“Ye see, Maister Purdie,” John was explaining, “Macgreegor’s busy the noo at a job in the west-end, an’ that’s the reason he’s late for his tea.”

“’Deed, ay. It’s a lang road for him to come hame,” said the old man. “An’ is he still likin’ the pentin’ trade?”

“Ay, ay. An’ he’s gettin’ on splendid—jist splendid!”

“It’s time enough to be sayin’ that,” Lizzie interposed. “He’s no’ ony furder on nor a lad o’ his age ought to be. I’m no’ sayin’ he’s daein’ badly, fayther; but there’s nae sense in boastin’ aboot what’s jist or’nar’?—Na, Jimsie! it’s no’ time for jeelly yet. Tak’ what Jeannie gi’es ye, laddie.—Ay, the least said——”

“But his employer’s pleased wi’ him; he tell’t me as much, wife,” said John. “An’ if ye compare Macgreegor wi’ that young scamp, Wullie Thomson——”

“Oh, if ye compare a man wi’ a monkey, I daresay it’s no’ sae bad for the man. But, really, John——”

“Maw, where was the man wi’ the monkey?” enquired Jimsie through bread and butter.

“I’ll tell ye after,” whispered Jeannie, and forthwith set her mind to improvise a story involving a human being and his ancestor.

“It’s easy seen,” said Gran’paw, once more consulting his watch, “that Macgreegor’s workin’ for his wages. Surely he’ll be gettin’ overtime the nicht. I hope his employer’s a kind man.”

“I’ve nae doot aboot that,” Lizzie returned. “He gi’es Macgreegor money for the car when he’s workin’ in the west-end.”

“That’s a proper maister!” cried Mr. Purdie, while John smiled as much as to say, “Ay! he kens Macgreegor’s value!”

“An’ I’m thinkin’,” Lizzie continued, “that Macgreegor walks hame an’ keeps the pennies to buy ceegarettes.”

“What?” exclaimed the old man; “has the laddie commenced the smokin’ a’ready?”

“Oh, naething to speak aboot,” said John, a trifle apologetically. “They commence earlier than they did in your day, I suppose, Maister Purdie. No’ that I wud smoke a ceegarette if I was paid for ’t.”

“He’s far ower young for the smokin’,” observed Lizzie.

“I can smoke,” declared Jimsie indiscreetly. Jeannie pressed his arm.

John guffawed, Gran’paw looked amused until Lizzie demanded: “What’s that ye’re sayin’, Jimsie?”

“But I’m no’ a reg’lar smoker,” mumbled Jimsie, crestfallen.

“Ay,” said John, with a jocular wink at his father-in-law, “ye’re feart ye singe yer whiskers, ma mannie.”

“John,” said Lizzie, “it’s naething to joke aboot.... Jimsie, if ever I catch ye at the smokin’, I’ll stop yer Seturday penny, an’ gi’e ye castor ile instead. D’ye hear?”

“Hoots!” cried Gran’paw, “that’s a terrible severe-like punishment, Lizzie!”

“I wud rayther tak’ ile twicet an’ get ma penny,” quoth Jimsie.

“Hear, hear!” from John.

Lizzie was about to speak when the bell rang.

Jeannie slipped from her chair. “I’ll gang, Maw,” she said, and went out.

“It’s Macgreegor,” remarked John. “Ha’e ye kep’ his haddie hot for him, Lizzie?”

“What for wud I dae that?” retorted Mrs. Robinson in a tone of irony, going over to the oven and extracting a covered dish.

“Haw!” laughed John. “I kent ye had something there!”

“What for did ye ask then?”

She came back to the table as her son entered, a very perceptible odour of his trade about him—an odour which she still secretly disliked though nearly three years had gone since her first whiff of it. “What kep’ ye?” she enquired, pleasantly enough.

It is possible that Macgregor’s dutiful greeting to his grandfather prevented his answering the question. He appeared honestly glad to see the old man; yet compared with his own the latter’s greeting was boisterous. He returned his father’s smile, glanced at his mother who was engaged in filling his cup, winked at his young brother, and took his place at the table, between the two men.

“Ye’ll be wearied,” remarked John.

“No’ extra,” he replied, stretching his tired legs under cover of the table.

“Did ye walk?” his mother asked, passing him his tea.

“Ay.”

“It’ll be three mile,” said John.

Jeannie came from the fire and put a fresh slice of toast on his plate. He nodded his thanks, and she went to her place satisfied and assisted Jimsie who had got into difficulties with a jam sandwich that oozed all round.

“What way did ye no’ tak’ the car, laddie?” enquired Lizzie.

“I’d as sune walk,” he replied, shortly.

“It’s fine to save the siller—eh, Macgreegor?” said Mr. Purdie.

Macgregor reddened.

“It’s something new for Macgreegor to dae that,” Lizzie quietly observed.

“Tits, wumman!” muttered John.

“Wi’ their cheap cars,” put in Mr. Purdie, “Glesga folk are like to loss the use o’ their legs. It’s terrible to see the number o’ young folk that winna walk if they’ve a bawbee in their pooch. I’m gled to see Macgreegor’s no’ yin o’ them.” He patted Macgregor’s shoulder as he might have done ten years ago, and the youth moved impatiently.

“I’m no’ complainin’ o’ Macgreegor walkin’ when he micht tak’ the car,” said Lizzie, “but I wud like to see him puttin’ his savin’s to some guid purpose.”

At these words Macgregor went a dull red, and set down his cup with a clatter.

“Ha’e ye burnt yer mooth?” asked John, with quick sympathy.

“Naw,” was the ungracious reply. “It’s naebody’s business whether I tak’ the car or tramp it. See’s the butter, Jeannie.”

There was a short silence. An outbreak of temper on Macgregor’s part was not of frequent occurrence. Then John turned the conversation to a big fire that had taken place in Glasgow the previous night, and the son finished his meal in silence.

At the earliest possible moment Macgregor left the kitchen. For some reason or other the desire to get away from his elders was paramount. A few minutes later he was in the little room which belonged to him and Jimsie. On the inside of the door was a bolt, screwed there by himself some months ago. He shot it now. With a towel that hung on the door he rubbed his wet face savagely. He had washed his hands in turpentine ere leaving the scene of his work.

He donned a clean collar. As he was fixing his Sunday tie a summons came to the door. He went and opened it, looking cross.

“Weel, what are ye wantin’, Jimsie?”

“Did ye bring ma putty, Macgreegor?”

“Och, I clean forgot.”

Jimsie’s face fell. “Ye promised,” he complained.

Macgregor patted the youngster’s head. “I’ll bring it the morn’s nicht, as sure as death,” he said. “I’m sorry, Jimsie,” he added apologetically.

“See an’ no’ forget again,” said Jimsie, and retired.

Macgregor closed the door and attended to his tie. Then he looked closely at his face in the mirror hanging near the window. He was not a particularly good-looking lad, yet his countenance suggested nothing coarse or mean. His features as features, however, did not concern him now. From his vest pocket he brought a knife, with a blade thinned by stone and polished by leather. He tried its keen edge on his thumb, shook his head, and applied the steel to his boot. Presently he began to scrape his upper lip. It pained him, and he desisted. Not for the first time he wished he had a real razor.

Having put the knife away, he looked at his watch—his grandfather’s prize for “good conduct” of eight years ago—and proceeded hastily to brush his hair. His hair, as his mother had often remarked during his childhood, was “awfu’ ill to lie.” For a moment or two he regarded his garments. He would have changed them had he had time—or was it courage?

Finally he took from his pockets a key and two pennies. He opened a drawer in the old chest, and placed the pennies in a disused tobacco tin, which already contained a few coins. He knew very well the total sum therein, but he reckoned it up once more. One shilling and sevenpence.

Every Saturday he handed his wages to his mother, who returned him sixpence. His present hoard was the result of two weeks’ abstinence from cigarettes and walking instead of taking the car. He knew the job in the west-end would take at least another week, which meant another sixpence, and the coming Saturday would bring a second sixpence. Total in the near future:—two shillings and sevenpence. He smiled uncertainly, and locked up the treasure.

A minute later he slipped quietly into the passage and took his cap from its peg.

The kitchen door opened. “Whaur are ye gaun, Macgreegor?” his mother asked.

“Oot,” he replied briefly, and went. Going down the stairs he felt sorry somehow. Sons often feel sorry somehow, but mothers may never know it.

When Lizzie, hiding her hurt, had shut the kitchen door, Mr. Purdie said softly: “That question an’ that answer, ma dear, are as auld as human natur’.”

* * * * *

As Macgregor turned out of the tenement close he encountered his one-time chum, Willie Thomson. Macgregor might not have admitted it to his parents, but during the last few weeks he had been finding Willie’s company less and less desirable.

Willie now put precisely the same question that Mrs. Robinson had put a minute earlier.

“I’ll maybe see ye later,” was Macgregor’s evasive response, delivered awkwardly. He passed on.

“Ha’e ye a ceegarette on ye?” cried Willie, taking a step after him.

“Na.”

“Ye’re in a queer hurry.”

“I’ll maybe see ye later,” said Macgregor again, increasing his speed in a curious guilty fashion.

Willie made no attempt to overtake him. He, too, had been finding a certain staleness in the old friendship—especially since Macgregor had stopped his purchases of cigarettes. Willie was as often out of employment as in it, but he did not realise that he was in danger of becoming a mere loafer and sponge. Yet he was fond of Macgregor.

Macgregor passed from the quiet street wherein he lived into one of Glasgow’s highways, aglow with electric light, alive with noise out of all proportion to its traffic. He continued to walk swiftly, his alert eyes betraying his eagerness, for the distance of a couple of blocks. Then into another quiet street he turned, and therein his pace became slower and slower, until it failed altogether. Beneath a gas lamp he questioned his watch, his expression betokening considerable anxiety.

It was a fine October night, but chilly—not that he gave any sign of feeling cold. For a space he remained motionless, gazing up the street. Possibly he would have liked a cigarette just then.

As though rousing himself, he moved abruptly and proceeded slowly to the next lamp post, turned about and came back to his first halting-place, where he turned about again. For a long half-hour he continued to stroll between the two posts. Few persons passed him, and he did not appear to notice them. Indeed, it may as well be frankly admitted that he shamefully avoided their glances. When at last he did stop, it was with a sort of jerk.

From one of the closes a girl emerged and came towards him.