Читать книгу The Song in the Green Thorn Tree - James William Barke - Страница 13

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New-Year’s Day of Eighty-Five came with a Saturday blink of sunshine and a touch of white frost. It was a day on which little work was done about the farm. First there was the family well-wishing. As soon as Robin and Gilbert were out of bed they were clasping hands and wishing each other all the best. Downstairs the hand-shaking went round the family. The cloud of Betty Paton was forgotten about. Even the boy John, sickly and pining (but uncomplaining) seemed to be in a cheery mood; and when the orra lads, John Blane, Willie Patrick and Wee Davoc came into breakfast sleepy-eyed from the stable loft there was a festive spirit in the air. Robin got the whisky and sugar and prepared drinks (some of them well watered from the boiling kettle till the strength of the spirit was rendered almost innocuous), and everybody got their Ne’erday dram.

There followed more toasting, merriment and jesting, till even Mrs. Burns relented sufficiently to laugh at Robin’s irresistible sallies.

The good mood and excellent spirit prevailed through the simple breakfast. Eggs had been saved for boiling and they added the touch of luxury to the meal.

“Ye micht as weel be happy, weans: Ne’erday comes but aince i’ the year; and them that greet or fecht on Ne’erday will be greeting and fechting a’ the year to come. And if it’s the Lord’s will, maybe we’ll hae a better year than we had last.”

“Never fear, mother,” said Robin. “We’ll get by a’ our troubles—those of us that hae troubles. What about you, Davoc: you’ve nae troubles, hae you?”

“No, Maister: jist my chilblins.”

“That’s a pity now. But wait till the snaw comes an’ I’ll soon cure your chilblins.”

“Na, na, Maister: they get chappit in the snaw. I like them rowed in a bit o’ red flannin warmed at the fire.”

“Well, I’ll see you get them rowed in warm flannel the nicht, Davoc. Mother! hae you got a bit o’ red flannel?”

“I’ll see what I can lay hands on. But when I was a wee lassock and was sair forfochen wi’ the chilblins we waited for the snaw, made a big snawba’ an’ rubbed them weel wi’ it. It was a grand cure. It had to be: it was the only ane we kent o’.”

“And what about you, Willie? Hae you nae chilblins?”

“I hae nane the year, guid be thankit, Maister Robert; but Jock Blane has twa-three meikle blae anes.”

“I hae that, Maister.”

“I hae big anes too,” said John. “Mither, will I get red flannin too?”

“Aye, son: you’ll get red flannin.”

Bell said: “Ach, what’s a’ this fash about chilblins: we a’ hae chilblins.”

“Ah, but what’s chilblins to you, Bell?” said Robin. “It’s a life and death matter till a wee sodger like Davoc here.”

Davoc’s old-fashioned talk delighted Robin. His cheeks were red with the heat of the kitchen and his small bright eyes twinkled, for he was delighted with the attention he was receiving. The Mossgiel household had been gloomy this while back but now even Gilbert smiled on the table; and when Gilbert smiled it was a grand omen.

But Isa was not to be outshone by Davoc. She too was delighted that everyone seemed happy and in carefree mood.

She waited her opportunity.

“Hae you no’ a poem for us seeing it’s Ne’erday, Robin?”

“Noo, what kind o’ poem would you want aboot Ne’erday, Isa?”

“A poem aboot Ne’erday of course.”

“Just like that?”

Nancy said: “You ken he takes a’ his verses to Machlin now?”

“Oh, is that the way the wind’s blawing, Nancy? I don’t take my poems anywhere.”

“Och, I didna mean onything, Robin.”

“Hae you got a poem, Maister Robert?”

“You wanting a poem too, Willie?”

Willie said: “We a’ want a poem—if it’s a good one—a funny one.”

“Oh! So you’re becoming a critic, are you?”

“Oh, come on, Rab,” said his mother. “Read them a verse or twa if you’ve gotten something for the occasion. Then we’ll redd the table.”

“Well, I have a wee bit of a verse. It’s about an auld grey mare. I wrote it out this morning afore I’d my clothes right on—that right, Gibby?”

“Aye—that’s right,” agreed Gibby with a ready lie.

“What’s it ca’d, Maister Robert?”

Robin fished in his pocket and drew out the folded sheet.

“Let me see now. It’s called The Auld Farmer’s New-Year Morning Salutation to His Auld Mare Maggie—on giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the new-year.”

“Oooh! This’ll be a guid ane.”

“Wait now, wait now. Wait till you hear the first verse. A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie; tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie, I’ve seen the day thou could hae gaen like ony staggie out owre the lay.

“Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy, an’ thy auld hide’s as white’s a daisie, I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie, a bonnie grey: he should been tight that daur’t to raise thee, ance in a day.

“Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank, a filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank; an’ set weel down a shapely shank as e’er tread yird; an’ could hae flown out owre a stank like ony bird.”

“Oooh! that must hae been a gran’ mear, Maister Robert.”

“Oh, she was a topper, Davoc.”

“Was she yours, Maister?”

“No, Willie... I’m no’ just as auld a farmer as that yet. But I kenned her weel. Listen now.”

Robin sat tilted back in his elbow-chair at the head of the table, Gilbert on his left hand, his mother, back to the fire, on his right. The orra boys sat at the foot of the table nearest the door. The family were all attention. It was a rare experience for them to hear Robin read one of his own compositions. And this one promised to be first-rate. But he was in such a rare good mood that anything he read would have sounded first-rate. He could have read all day and they would have listened to him, so pronounced was his ability to hold them in the spell of his mood-magic.

Mrs. Burns felt warm towards her first-born—the child she had never been able to understand—the man whose moods she had never been able to fathom, whose ideals and aspirations she had never been able to comprehend. Why couldn’t he content himself sitting at his own fireside, one of the family and at one with the family. He was just a big open-hearted laddie for all his queer moods and wayward habits. Aye; and wi’ Lizzie Paton to warm the bed for him and wi’ a bairn to dandle on his knee he would soon find out that the fireside was better than all the howffs in Machlin or Masons’ Lodges in Tarbolton. God! Listen to him and you’d think he had all the wisdom and experience of three-score and ten on the brow of him that was black and brent.

“When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow, we took the road aye like a swallow: at brooses thou had ne’er a fellow, for pith an’ speed; but every tail thou pay’t them hollow, whare’er thou gaed...

“Thou was a noble fittie-lan’, as e’er in tug or tow was drawn! Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun, on guid March-weather, hae turned sax rood beside our han’, for days thegither.

“Thou never braing’t, an’ fecht’t an’ fliskit; but thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, an’ spread abreed thy weel-filled brisket, wi’ pith an’ power; till sprittie knowes wad rair’t, an’ riskit, an slypet owre.”

Damned, thought Gilbert, his ears tingling with the impact of the incomparable imagery and perfection of description, that’s unbeatable. How by all hell’s black magic and heaven’s blessing does he do it? The God’s own truth, every word of it. Six roods of a good March day—there wasn’t another farmer in the West could add another rood to that. Go on, Rab, go on till the crack o’ doom: heaven’s own breath o’ inspiration filling the sails of your fancy.

“When thou an’ I were young and skiegh, an’ stable-meals at fairs were driegh, how thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skriegh, an’ tak the road! Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abiegh, an’ ca’t thee mad.”

The laddies gurgled with delight. Willie Burns had a broad grin on his broad face. Nancy’s eyes danced and Bell beamed. Robin gave a quick glance round the table to catch the expressions; he had known from the first verse that he had their interest and attention. And he had to admit, as he took a deep breath, that never before had he got so much pleasure from reading his own verse.

“In cart or car thou never reestit; the steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it; thou never lap, an’ sten’t, an’ breastit, then stood to blaw; but just thy step a wee thing hastit, thou snoov’t awa’.

“My pleugh is now thy bairntime a’, four gallant brutes as e’er did draw; forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa’ that thou hast nurst: they drew me thretteen pund an’ twa, the vera warst.”

Agnes Burns bowed her grey head and clasped and unclasped her hard toil-calloused hands. Whatna kind of laddie was this she had brought into the world? Oh, but his father would have been proud to have sat and listened to him this day; and to think that last new year he had been lying on his death-bed in gloomy Lochlea. But he was better away. He could never have survived the disgrace of Lizzie Paton. How could a son of hers sit and read verses like this and betray a lass like Lizzie at the same time? He couldn’t plead that he didn’t understand. A mind that could think up verses like that had all the understanding it could carry. Robert, my son: if only you would take a lesson from your brother Gilbert. Ah, but Gilbert had been named after her father, Gilbert Broun: he was more Broun than Burns.

“Monie a sair darg we twa hae wrought, an’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! An’ monie an anxious day I thought we wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, wi’ something yet.

“An’ think na, my auld trusty servan’, that now perhaps thou’s less deservin’, an’ thy auld days may end in starvin’; for my last fow, a heapet stimpart, I’ll reserve ane laid by for you.”

John’s breathing was more rapid; a bright flush was high on his cheeks; he felt so tensed and excited that he feared a coughing fit would be upon him before Robin had come to the end of his verses. And he didn’t want the verses to end. If only mornings could be like this to all eternity.

“We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; we’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether to some hained rig, whare ye may nobly rax your leather wi’ sma’ fatigue.”

There was a pause as Robin brought the legs of his chair to the floor and folded the sheet of paper.

Gilbert thought (and his thought was echoed in Nancy and Bell): Almighty God! But what kind of man are you? There’s something about you and your verses that thaws out anger and spleen and sends the flood-waters of forgiveness surging in their stead.

And then Gilbert rose, placed a hand on Robin’s shoulder and gripped hard. He went swiftly to the door. There was a lump in his throat.

“Maister Robert! Will the auld farmer gie Maggie her stimpart the day?”

“Aye, Davoc lad: the Auld Farmer has a prodigious lang memory—and heapet stimparts frae here till the moon. Now away wi’ you; and see what you can do to make Peggy look like a lady, for I’ll need her gin afternoon—but no’ too sair wi’ the curry-caimb, you deil’s buckie!”