Читать книгу Linmill Stories - Robert McLellan - Страница 12

IN THE AULD horse days, afore the fruit-growers in Clydeside had motor lorries to send to Larkhaa and siclike places for loads ο keelie tounsfolk to pou their strawberries, fetchin them ilka mornin and takin them back at nicht, aa the berry-pouin was dune by weemen and laddies frae Kirkfieldbank and ither bits of places roun aboot, and by squads ο gangrel Irish, caaed Donegals, that bade at the ferms in barns and bothies till the season was ower, whan they moved awa to the upland ferms for the hey and the tatties.

Ae sic squad cam to Linmill ilka year. The mairrit anes had the auld bothy abune the milk-hoose that had been biggit for the byre lassies, but the single weemen bade at the tae end ο the big barn, and the single men at the tither, wi a bit raw ο auld blankets hung up for a waa atween them. To get into the milk-hoose bothy ye had to gang into the barn and up a lether, sae whan the Donegals were aa beddit doun at nicht they were aa ahint the ae barn door, and that was lockit aye by my grandfaither, at ten o’clock, whan he lockit the muckle yett at the closs mou.

He had whiles a gey job to get them aa in for the nicht, wi the aulder anes gey aften taiglet on their wey back hame frae the Kirkfield Inn, and the younger anes oot amang the hedges or in the ditches daffin, wi nae sense ο time. But he was weill respeckit amang them, and though they whiles blarneyed him in the maist droll fashion, the mair whan he had a bit dram taen himsell, they did his biddin aye whan he grew douce wi them, and nane eir daured to lift a haund against him, ein whan he gat crabbit wi them, as he did whiles, and ordert them to their beds like a pack ο bairns.

Whan they were aa in and the barn door lockit, and the closs mou yett, he wad come into the hoose and mak ready for his bed, and nae maitter what unco steer he micht hear frae the barn as the Donegals made ready for theirs, he wadna set fute ootbye in the closs again that nicht. Let them howl and skrech for aa they were worth, and they gaed their dinger whiles, I can tell ye, he gaed intil his bed aside my grannie in the kitchen closet, poued the claes ower his heid, and snored like a grumpie.

Save ance, on a Setterday, and it was a dreidfou nicht that, as ye shall hear.

But first ye maun ken that amang the Donegals that cam to Linmill ilka year, like the peesweeps to the tap parks, there was an auld couple caaed Paddy and Kate O’Brien. Auld they maun hae been, for they had poued strawberries at Linmill afore my minnie was born, and aye whan they cam, and had settled doun in the best corner ο the milk-hoose bothy, neist to the fire and awa frae the door, they wad seek oot my minnie, to hinnie and dawtie her as if she was a bairn ο their ain, no forgettin to tell her what a bonnie laddie she had gotten, kecklin around me like clockin hens, and clappin my heid and cuddlin me till I could smell the smeik aff them, for they were aye beylin tea in a wee black can.

This pair, Paddy and Kate, for aa their great age, behaved aye when they were sober like a trystit lad and lass, and ein whan they were thrang on the berry beds, whaur they were aye pairtners, they wad rookety-coo in ilk ither’s lugs like cushie doos. But whan they were fou, and they were baith deils for the drink, they seemed to hate the grun ilk ither walkit, and it was a diversion to watch them gaun aff at ein to the Kirkfield Inn, wi arms linkit and heids thegither, to come back at nicht pairtit, Kate walkin aheid dour and grumlie, and Paddy stacherin efter her, a lang way ahint, cur sin and sweirin at her, and flingin stanes.

Ae Setterday nicht, the wild ane I hae mentioned, they had gotten byordinar fou, for they had gane to the Lanark races and won some siller on a horse, and a sair job my grandfaither had to get them into the barn. But get them in he did, and lockit the door, and syne the closs mou yett, and in the end he won to his ain bed, weary for sleep, for he had a guid dram in him that nicht himsell.

A while efter, whan the steer in the barn had deed doun, and the rummle ο Stanebyres Linn had come into its ain, there was a skrech frae the milk-hoose bothy that wad hae curdlet yer bluid. The haill barn bizzed again like a bees’ byke, and the dug on the chain at the stable door lat oot a yowl.

Syne there was sic a fleechin and flytin, and duntin and dingin, as we had neir heard in the barn afore in aa oor days. In the end the barn door itsell was dung and daddit, and there were cries ο murder.

My grandfaither juist had to rise to see whit was whaat.

He turnt the big key in the barn door and poued it open, and oot stachert auld Kate O’Brien, wi her hair doun her back, her claes torn gey near aff her, and bluid rinnin doun her face and breist. And she was cursin her man Paddy wi sic dreidfou spleen that it was terrible to hear.

My grandfaither waitit wi his muckle neive liftit for Paddy to come oot tae, but a wheen ο the younger Donegals were haudin him doun inbye, and they cried to my grandfaither to fetch a raip, for they thocht that Paddy had gane wud athegither, and suld be weill tied up.

My grandfaither peyed nae heed to their clavers, but gaed into the barn, took Paddy frae them by the scruff ο the neck, and mairched him oot into the closs. In the closs he had to let him be for a while, to fin the key ο the closs mou yett, for he was gaun to pitch him aff the ferm athegither, and as sune as he lowsed his grip he gat a clowt on the lug. Paddy had gane for him.

That wasna to be tholed, sae my grandfaither gaed for Paddy, and a bonnie fecht it micht hae been, hadna Kate, whan she saw her man haein the warst o it, turnt her coat athegither, and gane for my grandfaither like a cat wi kittlins. Atween the twa he was in a fair wey to bein torn to daith.

The ither Donegals lookit on frae the barn door, feart to interfere, and though I was fain mysell to fling a stane or twa I didna daur, for I micht hae missed the pair I was aimin at and hit my grandfaither.

I had reckoned withoot my grannie. She ran to the kitchen for the big claes beetle, gethert up her goun, and laid aboot her.

That settled it. Kate and Paddy ran to the barn and poued the door tae ahint them.

That micht hae been the end ο the haill affair, but my minnie, whan she had seen my grandfaither in a fair wey to bein murdert, had taen fricht, and no waitin to see my grannie’s pairt in the affair, had let hersell oot at the Linmill front door and run for Airchie Naismith, and Airchie had yokit his gig at ance and driven helter-skelter for the polis.

Whan the polis cam, a muckle weill-fed lazy craitur by the name ο Gilfillan, he and my grandfaither gaed into the barn, and ye could hae heard a preen drap, the Donegals were sae awed. In a wee while oot they cam again, Gilfillan leadin Paddy wi the ae haund and Kate wi the tither, and my grandfaither cairryin their bundle ο claes and their auld smeikie can.

My grandfaither convoyed them oot ο the closs, lockit the closs mou yett ahint them, and came into the hoose. And afore lang there wasna a soun to be heard bune the rummle ο Stanebyres Linn.

I had thocht that Gilfillan wad tak Paddy and Kate to the jeyl, and nae dout that was what he ettlet whan he left Linmill, but it seems that, whan the three had won doun the road a wee, the twa auld Donegals had stertit to blarney, and priggit sair to be lowsed, and whan Gilfillan, gey angert at bein trailed frae his warm bed sae late at nicht, tried to quaiten them and gar them hurry, they stertit to taigle him wi aa the wiles in their pouer. The upshot was that he grew hairt seik ο them afore he gat them the length ο the Black Bog, and in the end he telt them no to gang near Linmill again, and left them skaithless.

On the Saubbath we saw naething ο them, though we heard they had been beylin their black can in the wuid on the Hinnie Muir road, and thocht they maun be makin for the upland ferms, and we wad be weill redd ο them, but on the Monday mornin, whan my grandfaither was leadin his squad ο warkers across the Clyde road to the field aside the waal orchard, he fand Paddy and Kate wi their bundle aside the waal yett.

They rase as he cam forrit and stude in his wey, and their blarney wad hae saftent the hairt ο the Lanark factor. It was Kate that stertit.

‘Sure now, master, and ye wouldn’t be after giving us the sack, a poor owld couple the like of us, that has worked our fingers to the bone for ye, year after year, with never a word of complaint. Sure ye wouldn’t be after sending us away from ye, and we never wishing ye any ill at all. He hit ye, master, but ye wouldn’t be blamin him for the like of that, and ye with a fondness for a drop yerself. And didn’t ye give him as good as ye got, ye owld warrior, for be looking at the eye he has on him. It’s as black as a tinker’s pot.’

And syne Paddy.

‘Look at the poor owld sinner, master, and have pity in yer heart. She’s not fit to be travelling the roads and sleeping outbye. She would die on me, so she would, for her breast’s black and blue, master, with the lamming I gave her when my head was fuddled, God help me, and my five senses dulled with the drink. Take us back, master, like the kind man ye are, for it’s sorry we are for all the trouble we gave you, and that’s the solemn truth. Take us back, master, for the love of God, and not be sending us both out to die on the roads.’

My grandfaither felt gey sorry for them, I hae nae dout, but he daurtna tak them back again against my grannie’s will.

‘I cana dae it, Paddy. Ye’d better baith gang awa up and speir at the hoose.’

They lookit gey taen aback whan he said that, for weill they kent my grannie was anither nuit to crack. But there was nae help for them, for my grandfaither shouthert his wey past them and led his squad doun to the field.

The pair sat for a while and argle-barglet, and syne maun hae made up their minds, for in the end they cam to the hoose door, timrous like, and gied a blate wee chap.

My grannie cried oot frae the kitchen.

‘Wha’s that?’

‘Sure it’s meself, mistress, and me poor wife Kate, come to beg yer pardon.’

‘What! Ye’ll get nae paurdon here. Awa wi the pair ο ye, or I’ll lowse the dug. Awa I tell ye or I’ll send for the polis again. The thowless lump suld hae putten ye baith in jeyl.’

And no anither word wad she say, though they stude at the door, disjaskit lookin, for hauf the mornin.

They had their denner by the hedge at the Falls road-end, and they were there still, beikin in the sun, whan I gaed doun the Falls road in the efternune, on my wey to the shop to buy sweeties.

Auld Kate saw me comin and sat up.

‘Sit up, Paddy dear, and just look here. Isn’t he the little darlint with his curly hair, and the freckles on the nose of him? The Lord bless ye, honey boy, and yer lovely ma, for she’s the prettiest lady in the broad land, and it’s the truth I’m telling. Isn’t she, now, Paddy dear, and isn’t he the living image of her?’

I kent it was aa blarney, for my minnie had black hair, and mine was reid. But there was mair to come.

‘Where would ye be after going, now, on a day like this? Is it for Clyde ye are?’

‘Na.’

‘For the Falls, then, maybe?’

‘Ay.’

‘He’ll be for buying sweeties, the little treasure, at Martha Baxter’s shop. Is that what’s in it?’

‘Ay.’

‘There now, and I after saying it. Sure, and that’ll be a penny ye have, shut tight in yer hand?’

‘Ay.’

‘A penny. He couldn’t be buying much with a penny. Could he now, Paddy dear?’

‘A penny. No. A few sweeties, maybe, or a lucky bag, or maybe a little box of sherbert, but what’s sweeties, or a lucky bag, or sherbert itself, on a hot thirsty day the like of this?’

‘It’s a bottle of lemonade he should be buying, to quench his thirst.’

‘Yes, indade.’

‘And a swate biscuit or two.’

‘Ah sure, a swate biscuit or two, for drink should never be taken on an empty stomach, and there’s nobody in the wide world knows that better than meself.’

‘Ach wheesht now, Paddy, and give the boy a sixpence.’

‘A sixpence, is it? Sure now, and haven’t ye a sixpence yerself in yer petticoat pocket?’

‘I wonder now. Ah yes, indade I have. Come here, little swateheart, and be holding your hand out.’

I kent I suldna tak the sixpence, but the temptation was mair nor I could staun, and though I held back, blate like, I didna rin awa till she pat the sixpence in my haund and tried to kiss me.

I ran then.

Whan I had gotten the sixpence, though, I was feart to ware it. My heid gaed roun like a peerie whan I thocht ο aa I could buy, but I was shair that if I gaed hame wi my pooches fou my minnie wad speir, and wad think shame ο me whan she fand whaur I had gotten the siller. I thocht for a while ο hidin it to ware some ither day, but that wad hae made things waur. In the end, for I was ower greedy to gang and gie it back, I gaed to my minnie to show it to her, and tell her they had forced me to tak it.

I fand her by her lane in the front gairden.

‘Kate O’Brien gied me a sixpence, minnie.’

‘Dear me, a haill sixpence. Let me see.’

‘She forced me to tak it.’

‘She forced ye, did she? Hou that?’

‘She stude on the Falls road and blarneyed me, and wadna let me bye, syne she pat the sixpence in my haund and tried to kiss me and I ran awa.’

‘She blarneyed ye, did she? What did she say?’

‘She said ye were the bonniest leddy in Clydeside.’

‘Did she? And what else did she say?’

‘That I suld buy some lemonade. But I dinna want lemonade. I want sweeties, and a luckie bag, and a box ο sherbert. Minnie, can I ware the sixpence, or shall I gie it back?’

‘Na, na, ware it, but dinna mak yersell no weill.’

Whan I had been to the Falls shop I gaed back to the Linmill kitchen for a tumbler of watter. My grannie saw me wi the sherbert and strauchtent her back, for she was bendin ower the girdle.

‘Whaur did ye get that trash?’

‘At the Falls shop.’

‘Wha gied ye the siller?’

My minnie was tappin and tailin some grossets.

‘Kate O’Brien gied him a sixpence.’

‘A sixpence. Tryin to win favour.’

‘Ay.’

‘It’s a woner she had sixpence to gie him, efter Setterday nicht.’

‘Ay.’

Nae mair was said till my grandfaither came in for his supper. By that time Paddy and Kate were sittin wi their bundle on the dyke fornent the closs mou yett.

My minnie spak first.

‘Paddy and Kate O’Brien are at the yett, faither.’

‘Ay. They want back into the bothy, puir sowls.’

My grannie flared up.

‘Puir sowls! Did they no try to kill ye on Setterday nicht?’

‘They didna ken what they were daein. They were baith fou.’

‘They’re fou ower aften.’

‘Ye canna blame them, wi the life they hae. And I missed them on the field the day.’

‘Ye missed auld Kate’s flaitterin tongue, nae dout, but ye didna miss them for ony wark they wad hae dune.’

‘Oh but I did, for they’re gey guid warkers. The best in the field.’

My minnie spak then.

‘Ye canna gainsay that, mither, for ye hae said it gey aften yersell.’

‘Oh ye’re as bad as yer faither. They hae saft southert ye and aa, wi the sixpence they gied the bairn.’

My grandfather cockit his lugs.

‘Did they gie the bairn a sixpence?’

‘Ay, this efternune.’

‘Weill, I declare. It maun hae been gey near their last.’

‘Nae dout.’

‘Then damn it, wumman, they’re gaun back into the bothy!’

‘They’ll gang back to the bothy ower my corp!’

And she stude in my grandfaither’s wey.

He pat his twa haunds to her waist and liftit her aff the flair.

‘Ye’re for the closet, then.’

He had lockit her in the box-bed closet ae Burns’ nicht, when he was fou efter a spree, and had left her there till she had gien ower her flytin and stertit to greit. And nou whan he had made up his mind on a thing, and she wadna gie in, he wad threaten her wi the closet.

She lauched.

‘Aa richt, hae it yer ain wey, ye big saft sumph.’

And she gied him a dad on the lug.

He gaed awa oot to the closs mou, and in a wee while there was a great cheer frae the Donegals, as Paddy and Kate gaed forrit to the barn door.