The Nickum

by Doris Davidson

  When Willie came running in at just after five she was busy preparing the supper, so she let him ramble on about what had happened during his day.

  ‘An’ d’ye ken this, Mam, the teacher’s a little wee toot, nae muckle bigger nor me, an’ her name’s Miss Cow, an’ she gied me a row for sayin’ “Moo”, an’ she said it was cheeky, an’ bad manners to mak’ fun’ o’ fowk. An’ she said it’s nae spelt the same as a moo-cow, there’s a extra e at the end. I didna ken what she meant wi’ that, though.’

  Stopping to take a decent breath, Willie also took a piece of carrot to crunch. ‘An’ d’ye ken this, Mam? We’re getting a readin’ book next week, a primer, she cried it, an’ we’ve to learn some words every nicht. I’ll be able to read afore I ken faur I am.’ Chomp, chomp! ‘I dinna ken if I like her or no’, for she was aye telling me aff for fidgeting, but she surely doesna expect me to sit still a whole day without movin’, but she said I’d jist ha’e to learn. An’ some of the other bairns had their soup in flagons, like Dad gets oor milk in, and they set them along the range first thing when we went in so they’d keep het. She said twelve o’clock was dinnertime, an’ when I said I couldna tell the time, she glowered and said I would ha’e to learn that as weel.’

  Chomp, chomp! ‘I’m nae gan to like the school, Mam. There’ll be ower muckle stuff to learn. But she did tell us a story afore we come hame. It was aboot a wee black boy cried Pammy something.’

  ‘Epaminondas?’ Emily supplied, for the name had conjured up a memory of her own early days at school.

  Willie related the story, ending each little episode with, ‘An’ his Mammy said, “Oh, Pami thingummy, you ain’t got the sense you was born with.” He was ayeways daen something wrang.’

  ‘Like you,’ his mother said wryly. The pot of stew now simmering gently, Emily straightened her back. ‘So you liked the story, then?’

  ‘Aye, Mam, it was real good, an’ real funny. We was a’ laughin’.’ Emily could just imagine – especially her son. ‘An’ Miss Cow says she’ll tell us mair stories if we’re good. But I wisna happy to get a slate to write on, wi slate pencils, she cried them, but they mak’ a affa noise when you write. Scraichin’ like a stuck pig.’

  His mother was outraged. ‘What d’you ken aboot stuck pigs?’

  ‘Nae much, but Poopie …’

  ‘Cecil.’

  ‘Aye, Poopie-Cecil tell’t me he’d seen it once, an’ he made the noise, an’ it was just the same as the slate pencil mak’s. But Mis Cow wrote up some numbers on the blackboard, an’ we’d tae copy them on oor slates, an’ we’ve to practise them at hame. Mair stuff to learn. My brain winna be big enough to keep a’ that in it.’

  ‘You’ve got to keep on working at it, Willie, that’s how you learn.’

  For two days all went reasonably well, with the boy sitting down to do his ‘home lessons’ as soon as he came home in the afternoon, and Emily was wondering if she had misjudged her youngest child. He wasn’t too bad when he was doing everything his teacher told him. That was Progress with a capital P, and he’d soon get into the habit of learning.

  It was on the second Monday that things started to go awry. Willie was almost half an hour late in coming home, and she had begun to wonder what had happened. Maybe the teacher had kept him in as a punishment for something? Maybe he’d been climbing a tree on his way home, or a wall, and had fallen down and hurt himself? Maybe he was lying somewhere unconscious with nobody to see to him?

  But Poopie Grant would have been with him surely? He’d farther to go than Willie, so they’d be together all the way. She wasn’t really worried, not really, but it was a bit upsetting just the same.

  It was almost six, just before Jake was due in for his supper, when the two little boys trailed in together, Poopie-Cecil’s lip was bleeding and Willie had a scrape on his cheek. ‘Have you two been fighting?’ she demanded to know, anger welling up inside her at the thought.

  ‘No, Mam.’ Willie turned accusing eyes on her.

  ‘He was defendin’ me,’ Poopie whispered.

  ‘What … ?’ Emily couldn’t understand.

  ‘It was twa loons in the control class,’ the older boy explained, his cut lip clearly giving him some pain.

  ‘They was playin’ fitba’ wi’ his schoolbag,’ added Willie, ‘but I got it back for him.’

  ‘Good lad!’ Jake was standing in the doorway, having heard his son’s last statement. ‘I’m richt prood o’ you, standin’ up to bullies.’

  ‘No! He shouldn’t be fighting like that. You shouldna encourage him.’

  Jake ignored her. ‘You got the bag back, I hope?’

  ‘Aye,’ he nodded, ‘I punched the biggest lad in the face, and they baith ran awa’. Big fearties!’

  Jake turned a stern eye on his wife. ‘Get Poo … Cecil’s face cleaned up first an’ I’ll see him hame.’

  His voice showed that he would brook no refusal, and Emily hurriedly filled a bowl with hot water and sponged the cut lip gently.

  ‘Now, then, Cecil my loon,’ smiled Jake, ‘come on. I’ll let your Ma ken it wasna your fault.’

  Not even waiting for them to go, Emily tended to her son’s injured cheek, and then said, her voice just a fraction more sympathetic than it had been, ‘It’s all right for the men to praise the fighting, but it’s us women that have to do the cleaning up and seeing to the injured. Now, sit down and learn your letters and numbers, and when your Dad gets back we’ll get our supper.’

  About to point out that he was hungry now, Willie thought better of it. He’d got off lightly, considering. He’d expected his mother to smack him and his father to wallop his backside, so it was better to leave things as they were.

  By the following August, Willie being what he was, and Poopie-Cecil being what he was, it had become accepted that it was always the younger who defended the older, and, as he assured himself, his mother would just have to get used to ‘seeing to the injured’. Coming to the end of the summer holidays, he didn’t want to go back to school. Why should he waste the lovely weather doing reading and practising his letters and numbers? It tired him out much more than when he was running all over the place playing tick and tack or hide and seek with his pal. And he would have to go to school till he was fourteen. He’d asked Connie how long that was and she’d said, ‘About eight years yet, but it’ll soon pass. It’s two years since I left and it just feels like two weeks.’

  This helped to put some cheer in the boy’s soul, but he was even happier when he discovered that schoolchildren would get a week off in October – the ‘tattie’ holidays, when farmers expected local children to help with harvesting the potato crops. Willie offered his friend and himself to his father for the job but Jake had to turn them down. ‘I’m sorry, son. I can manage mysel’ wi’ my wee tattie patch an’ besides, I canna afford to pay you. See, the fairmers’ll pay you for workin’ for them.’

  Reasoning that the bigger the farm, the more money they would get, Willie suggested the Mains first, then Ricky Muirhead at Easter Burnton, but his father just laughed. ‘I’ll see if McIntyre’ll tak’ you. He’s nae a bad boss, an’ he’ll nae cheat you.’

  Johnny McIntyre of Wester Burnton, a roly-poly of a man with a big wart on his cheek, said, ‘Ach weel, Jake, they’re a bit young yet, but if they’re prepared to work hard, I’ll gi’e them a try. My horse an’ cart goes round the cottar hooses at six every mornin’. So tell your laddie to get himsel’ to the Grants on Monday, he’ll get lifted wi’ the rest o’ the bairns.’

  There was great excitement on the big day before Willie was ready in his oldest clothes, a pair of wellies on his feet and an old peaked bonnet of his father’s on his wellbrushed hair. Emily had been at her wits’ end making him stand at peace until she made sure all his buttons were fastened, that he had a handkerchief in his pocket, that he remembered to take his dinner with him, but at long last he skipped out, leaving her to collapse on a chair and pour herself a cup of tea. Jake had already gone, taking Bec
ky with him to help him with his ‘crop’. Connie had already left for her work at the Mains.

  Willie ran as fast as his podgy legs would carry him and was knocking on the Grants’ door before any of his fellow tattie-pickers were assembled.

  ‘You’re in plenty time ony road,’ laughed Mrs Grant, ‘but my Poopie’ll nae be lang. I made him gan to the privy to be sure …’

  Guessing why, Willie couldn’t help a little smile, but he didn’t have long to wait for his aptly nicknamed chum, who said sharply, ‘Come on, then, Willie, or we’ll be late an’ Da says they’ll nae wait.’

  By the time they reached the end of the dirt track that led to Johnny McIntyre’s clutch of houses for his workers, there were a good dozen boys of all ages already there, a motley crew in their varied modes of dress, hand-medowns from fathers or older brothers, which were mostly of the over-large size, or old clothes of their own, which were too small and too tight.

  Most of the younger boys were there for the first time, showing their nervousness by shuffling their feet (whether in Wellingtons or tackety boots) and giggling quite a lot. The older boys wore an air of boredom to prove that they had been doing this job for years and knew they were good at it. For once, Willie thought it better not to ask questions, but was somewhat disappointed to find that their transport, when it arrived, was an old cart, drawn by an equally old looking Clydesdale, not the splendid modern bus, as he had imagined.

  Still, what did it matter? It did the same job and their journey wouldn’t be very long. It was farther than he had thought, however, as they were taken to one of McIntyre’s more distant fields, a huge expanse of green vegetation among the evenly distanced furrows. The drills were marked out with branches of broom for the pickers: one length for the older boys and the few retired men who had turned up, half lengths for the younger boys and the few handicapped men. McIntyre himself came over to the two youngest. ‘I’ll let you tak’ half a dreel atween the two o’ you,’ he stated firmly. ‘You should manage that, and if you canna manage that, you needna come back anither day. Is that understood?’

  Willie Fowlie did not join the chorus of ‘Aye, Maister McIntyre.’ His eyes and his total attention were taken up by the big wart on the man’s face. ‘I’ve seen some big warts afore,’ he muttered to Poopie-Cecil as they looked for their designated area, ‘but yon’s like a … a …’ He searched for an appropriate description and finally came up with, ‘… like a bloody aipple.’

  Flabbergasted at the swear-word, for he’d never heard Willie swearing before, Cecil made no reply. He didn’t want them to lose the job before they’d even picked up one tattie.

  It was a back-breaking task going behind the tractor (Clydesdale pulled, not motorised) and picking up the potatoes, large and small, and putting them in the wooden container they had been given for the purpose. The day grew warmer, then hot, then almost suffocating, and within a couple of hours, most of the younger ‘howkers’ were stripped to the waist. Only the older, wiser from past experience, kept on their semmits for protection and wore a handkerchief knotted at the corners to protect their bald heads.

  The farmer’s wife and daughter came round at half past nine with some tea and a biscuit, and by noon both Willie and Cecil, and probably several other youngsters, were feeling that they couldn’t go on much longer. Half an hour was allowed for eating their dinners, sitting round the grass verges at the edges of the field, and then it was back to the grindstone again. The sustenance had given them all a good boost, so they set to with almost as much vigour as they had had first thing in the morning. It didn’t take long to fade, however, as Cecil observed, ‘My backbone’s broke, I think. I can hardly bend.’

  Wiping the sweat from his face and out of his eyes, Willie warned, ‘Dinna let onybody see you’re tired. We’ll nae get back again.’

  ‘Yokin’ time, lads,’ came a voice from somewhere on their right. ‘The grieve’ll be roon’ to collect your boxes an’ you’ll get your wages ower yonder.’

  Both boys swivelled round to see where the money was to be given out, and were pleased to see the farmer himself standing at a wooden trestle table set up just inside the field gate. The reward for all the excruciatingly hard labour would be coming, very very soon.

  They watched as the horse went up each drill, stopping for Frankie Wilson, the grieve or farm foreman, to pick up the boxes and write in his little book which box belonged to which worker. Several other collections had been made during the day from those able to work at a good speed, each one being marked with the number of the collector, and they would be added together when the final tally for the day was made.

  ‘Weel, then, lads,’ came the greeting in a few minutes, ‘let’s see how much you’ve got.’ Frankie swung their box on to the cart. ‘Nae bad, nae bad. You’ve daen better than I thocht. Ower you go, then, an’ wait in the line. It’ll nae tak’ lang, jist the weighin’ o’ this last lot.’

  It didn’t take long, for which the boys were extremely glad. Having to stand in the sun, even at seven at night, was hard on poor exhausted bones, but at last it was their turn. Their day’s work was weighed, Mr McIntyre stating, ‘You’re two grand wee workers, I’ll say that for you. Are you thinkin’ on comin’ back the morra, or can you nae face it again?’

  It was Willie who said boastfully, ‘Oh we’ll be back, we’re nae that tired.’

  Poor Poopie-Cecil, scarcely able to make a move, just nodded, but both faces lit up when they were handed a half-crown each.

  Willie had been watching what the co-workers in front of them had received; most of the other boys got a good few coins, some of the older youths even pocketing a paper note of some kind. Ten shillings, maybe, or, like the men, a pound note. As they left the field and stood waiting for the cart to take them home, Willie whispered, ‘Will you manage the morrow, Poo … eh … Cecil? You’ll get another half-croon.’

  His chum heaved a telling sigh, but murmured, ‘I’ll be fine if I get a good night’s sleep.’

  When he reached home, struggling to keep upright for the last hundred yards or so, Willie handed his half-crown to Emily. ‘See that, Mam? If I gan evey day this week I’ll ha’e … what’s seven times half a croon, Becky?’

  ‘Not seven,’ warned their mother. ‘You’ll not be tattiepickin’ on the Sabbath, even though Johnny McIntyre’s heathen enough to expect it.’

  ‘Eight half-croons mak’ a pound,’ announced thirteenyear- old Becky, looking smug, ‘so four would be ten shillings, an’ two would be five, so six would be fifteen shillings.’

  She looked hopefully at her father, who said, ‘Na, na, lass, I canna afford to gi’e you as muckle as that.’

  The following morning, however, told a different story. Becky wasn’t wanting to gather potatoes with her back aching in every bone, and Willie felt every bit as sore. Furthermore, his bright red skin was burning up under the old shirt, but he didn’t want to admit to such a weakness. Emily could tell by his gait, however, that he was not as fit as he was making out, and felt a touch sorry for him. She waited until the boy went out to the privy, then said to her husband, ‘He’s only five, Jake. He’s not fit to be picking tatties.’

  ‘He’s fine. He’ll need to learn to put up wi’ a lot harder work than that if he wants to be cottared.’

  ‘He mebbe doesna want to be a farm servant,’ she snapped.

  ‘He’s ower young to ken what he wants to be, and you havena aye been so worried for him.’

  Their son’s return stopped their bickering before it became a full-blown quarrel, but Emily was hurt that her husband would argue with her like that. Where was the old gentle Jake, the man who had come back from the war quieter even than when he left, and had never been able to speak about his experiences, not even after all this time, and not even to her?

  That week was the longest week Willie had ever lived through, or, as he said to Poopie-Cecil, ‘I’m sure this tattie howkin’ll tak’ a year aff’n my life.’

  ‘Mair like a year aff f
or every day,’ nodded his friend.

  Chapter Five

  The trouble had begun long before this, of course, but had developed as time went on. He’d never had anything to do with girls before, and it seemed to him that they were fair game for tormenting. He would pick his victim, find a decent place of concealment, then jump out on her with a ‘lion’s roar’. The resulting flood of tears pleased him, but he discovered that it also led to a reprimnd from Miss Cowe, and that several reprimands led to a smack over the fingers. This didn’t hurt so much as the ignominy of being punished in front of the whole class. The other boys, however, didn’t laugh at him as he had feared, but treated him with some respect, thus prompting him to find various other ways of annoying the poor little girls.

  The next few terms followed much the same pattern as Willie’s first – gradually including fights with the bigger boys who targeted Cecil as a prime recipient for all their bullying, but learning fairly soon that he had a protector who could give as good as, if not better than he got. Eventually, they gave up altogether and Willie turned his energy in other directions. Most of the girls wore their hair long, some being fortunate enough to sport lovely dark curls, or fair tresses, and one even had lustrous auburn hair. Each female head was also adorned with a ribbon, tied with various sizes of bows which were like red rags to Willie’s bullish humour. In the playground at playtimes, he would manoeuvre himself into such positions that he could, with one little quick tug, undo the bows and send the owner’s hair cascading down around her shoulders and sometimes, hopefully, over her eyes.

  He always ran off laughing, which encouraged the other small boys to point their finger at the victim and laugh their heads off. This carried on for some weeks, with Miss Cowe threatening to report him to the dominie, but never carrying out her threat. Willie was becoming a bit of a hero to the boys in his class, a composite of five, six and seven-year-olds, but a wicked being to be avoided by the poor girls.