A Scots Quair

by Lewis Grassic Gibbon

  Ake cried to the quean Has he done you harm? and she answered back cool, Not him. He’s just drunk, and looked at Ewan that was standing beside her: You shouldn’t have hit him; that was quite unnecessary.

  Syne they all looked at Ewan’s knuckles and saw they were skinned and dripping blood, it seemed he hadn’t known himself, he looked kind of dazed and now wakened up. Yes, sorry. Damn silly thing to do. Ake, will you help me carry him down?

  So the two of them carried him off like a corp leaving the women to redd up the soss, the Piddle childe slept through it all like a bairn. Ake said to Ewan as they laid Piddle in bed that he’d given the poor sod a gey mishandling, and Ewan said so it seemed, he knew little about it. He’d heard Miss Johns call and then things had gone cloudy—interesting, supposed it was much the same thing happened to stags in rutting time.

  Ma said B’God ’twas the best tale she’d heard since a gelding of her father’s at Monymusk had chased a brood mare into a ditch—why didn’t you let on to me about it?

  This was to Chris after dinner that day, Chris shook her head, it wasn’t worth mention. Mr Piddle had made a fool of himself, there was no harm done, he was only a bairn.

  Ma said And what about your Ewan, then? and Chris said she thought that that had been straightened, Ewan had told Mr Piddle he was sorry and Mr Piddle had asked him He-he! What for? he’d had no memory of the happening at all. Now Ma mustn’t worry, she was just to lie still, the house would be fine and all the things in’t.

  Ma shook her head: And to think of me lying flat on my back when there’s all these fine stravaigings about! Speak of New York—damn’t, it’s not in’t!

  October came in long swaths of rain pelting the glinting streets of Duncairn. Going up and down the Windmill Steps with her baskets of groceries Chris would see the toun far alow under the rain’s onset move and shake and shiver a minute like an old grey collie shaking in sleep. The drive of wind and rain cleared the wynds of the fouller smells; down in the Mile, shining in mail, the great houses rose above the wet birl and drum of the trams, buses creeping about like beasts in a fog, snorting, and blowing the wet from their faces, Duncairn getting out its reefers and bonnets, in drifting umbrella’ed afternoon tides the half-gentry poured down the Mile every day. Up in the house it was canty and fine, the wind breenging unbreeked into room after room whenever you opened a shutter a bit, Miss Murgatroyd thought it was Such Rough, and John Cushnie came home from Raggie Robertson’s store and said they were doing a roaring trade, him and Raggie, in selling a new line in raincoats. Jock the cat shivered so close to the range Chris wondered he didn’t get in and look out.

  Ma got up the second day of her illness, she said it was no more than sweirty, just, she must redd out the kitchen press today. But half-way through she gave a bit groan, Chris caught her as she tottered and turned white, Meg was at hand and lended a hand, they got her to sit in a chair in a minute. Then Chris said It’s back to your bed for you, my woman, and back to it they took her, Ma puffing and panting, God Almighty, lass, don’t look feared about a small thing like this. There’s more old folk than me in their time been ta’en with a bit of a patch, you know. Get out for a bit of fresh air yourself.

  Chris went for a walk to fetch the doctor, a thin young country childe with pop eyes, he came in his car and looked at Ma and gave her a prod and listened to her lungs and said what she wanted was quietness and rest and not to excite herself on a thing. But to Chris he said she’d a swollen heart, serious enough, she’d have to look out. Chris asked what she’d better do, then? and the doctor asked were Ma’s relatives near, and Chris remembered about the niece, only she didn’t know where she bade. The doctor said that it couldn’t be helped—try and find out without fearing the old wife.

  So Chris waited till Ma was sleeping again and then went and took a bit look through her desk, beside the great curtain, worm-eaten, old, bundles of papers tied in neat pilings, a fair soss of ribbons and cards and circulars, paid bills and bits of tow and old brooches and safety-pins and a ring or so, and some letters fading off at the edges, Chris didn’t read them or heed to them except to peer at the writer’s name. She found no trace of the niece’s address in the pigeon-holes, Ma sleeping as the dead in the bed out under the shadow of the patterned wall. So she opened the lower drawers, old clothes, old papers, a bundle of photos, a little pack tied up in tape which came away in her hands as she looked, she stared at the thing a puzzled minute.

  It was the photo of a little lad with Ma’s nose and eyes and promise of her padding, keeking at something the photographer did, no mistaking Ma’s face in his. And below was written ‘James at 2’ and inside the package two other things, tawdry and faded, a hank of bairn’s hair, brown soft, dead and old, it had lost its shine, and a crumpled scrap of ancient crape. Long, long ago it all had happened. Why had Ma never told she’d a son?

  And Chris stood with the things in her hand in a dream looking at the faded, puctured face of the little lad who had died, she supposed, when he was no more than a little lad, he’d finished quick with a look round about and gone from Duncairn and gone from Ma, queer that such things should be—all the care and heed and tears of pain that had once been given this little childe far back there in the years where he twiddled his toes. And he’d ceased with it all, a mistake, a journey he would not make, no rain to hear or grow to knowledge of the dark, sad things of life at all, no growing to books and harkening to dreams, like Ewan—no growing to be a queer young man far from Ma and all she had hoped, only leaving her a searing memory awhile and then a quiet glow that lasted forever. Not leaving an unease that washed as a tide through one’s heart, unending … dreaming on Ewan.

  How she hated the splatter of the driving rain!

  *

  As that rain held on and pelted Duncairn with the closing in of the storm-driven clouds, great cumulus shapes that came wheeling down from the heights of the far brown lour of the Mounth, the roof-tops glistered in the lights of the Mile and far and near the gutters gurgled, eddied and swam, piercing down to a thousand drains, down through the latest Council diggings, down to dark spaces and forgotten pools, in one place out through an antique tunnel that the first Pict settlers had made and lined with uncalsayed stones, set deep in earth, more than two thousand years before. And far and near as the evening came under the stour a thousand waters by gutters and wynd and the swollen Forthie, dark, brimming, wheeled down through the darkling night to seek the splurge and plunge of the sea pelting beyond the dunes of the beach. Ellen heard its cry long ere they reached it, harsh, soft, the patter of the rain on the waves.

  Then Ewan and she had climbed through the Links and up the railings to the desolate front, wet-shining, with hardly the glimmer of a light. Here the rain caught their faces in swaths, warm rain, like corn felled in a reaper’s bout, some Reaper high in the scudding lift. Ewan said There’s a shelter further along. Let’s run for it, and caught her hand and they ran together, both hatless, both wet, and gained its lithe and sat on the bench, panting, staring out at the dark.

  Ellen closed her eyes and leaned back her head and stretched out her nice legs, she knew they were nice, and lovely and tingly, and put her hands up behind her wet hair. That run was fun, hard to believe that this was Duncairn, here in the darkness with the forgotten sea.

  She peeped at Ewan, sitting near, queer Scotch boy, solemn and not, wonder if he’s ever kissed a girl? And she thought not likely and was angry with herself behaving just like an idiot shop-girl. She’d been tired and drowsy tonight with that long, stuffy meeting of the League, Semple had come and talked for the Reds, she’d thought him a catty and smelly bore. So when it finished and they came out into the rain flooding the Crossgate she’d said to Ewan Let’s go a walk before we go home, half-expecting he’d snub her, he could do that easily. But instead he’d said Yes, if you like, where’ll we go? and she’d said The Beach and he’d said Right-o, not thinking her silly as any other would, Duncairn had stopped going down to the Beach no
w that Snellie Guff and his Funny Scotch Band had finished their season assassinating music. So down through the squelching Links they’d come and here they were, and there, a creaming unquiet, the sea.

  And Ewan said suddenly out of the darkness This would be a splendid night for a bathe.

  Ellen turned to the glimmer of his face: What, now?—Why not? The rain’s warm enough and I’m sticky still with the Crossgate heat. The glimmer grew blurred: I’m going to. Shan’t be out long.

  Ellen said You can’t. You haven’t a bathing-dres—or towels—or anything.

  —That’s the beauty of it. Nothing at all.

  And supposing he caught cramp down there alone? Ellen swallowed: It might be fun. I’m coming in as well.

  As she threw off her coat and unbuckled her shoes she saw him about to go out of the shelter. Funny the tingle that touched her then, cool enough though she was: There’s plenty of room for both of us, isn’t there?

  He called I suppose so, and stripped in like haste with herself, it was cold in the shelter, a long pointer of wind stroked Ellen’s back as she wrenched off her stockings, Ewan asked suddenly out of the dark if a girl always took off her stockings last?

  Ellen raised her head and saw him a white glimmer, goodness, shouldn’t look; but why shouldn’t she? He was looking at her, she supposed, thank goodness couldn’t see much. She said Yes, I think so. I’ve never noticed. Oh, hell, it’s cold!

  Ewan said It’s not. Come on. Can you swim? And Ellen said she could or was trying to say it when the rain-laden wind whipped the words from her mouth, on the promenade they were caught and twirled, she thought in a sudden panic, This is mad we’ll never get back, and next minute found Ewan had caught her wrist: Down together. I know the way.

  They ran. The way lay over the sand, soft and wet and slimily warm, the pelting on the water drew their feet, they forgot Duncairn and the lights behind, all the hates and imaginings that drowned those sad children lost from the winds and tides, rain at night, sting of flesh smitten under rain. Suddenly Ellen’s legs seemed stroked with fire: they ran out into the play of the sea.

  Beyond the shore-beat they met a great wave, Ewan tried to cry something, failed, dived, vanished, Ellen felt herself lost, laughed desperately, dived as well. Ewan suddenly beside her: Let’s get back. Over-rough, and she turned about, she seemed sheathed in fire, saltily grainily slipping through water, she fought off cramp, struggled, and found her feet abruptly on the shore again…. Idiots! Goodness, what idiots!

  Next minute, wading, she gained the wet sand, saw a glister beside her, Ewan Tavendale, head bent and wiping the water from his hair. Then he whispered Sh—look at that!

  Ellen peered up at the promenade and her heart peered up in her throat. The shelter had squatted dark on the slope but now it was lighted with a moving light: Some man or other had gone in there and found their clothes, he’d switched on a torch—

  Ewan whispered there was nothing else for it but to tackle him, and they ran up, the wind in Ellen’s hair, she thought I don’t care, it’s fun, she felt warm, suddenly tingling from head to heel. Ewan glimmered in front: at the sound of the pelt of their feet on the sand the light switched about and Ellen for a moment saw Ewan, she thought He’s nice hips, and at that the light vanished, Ewan had caught it and flung it down the Beach.

  Now then, now then, what’s this that you’re up to? Do you know you’re assaulting the police, my lad?

  Ellen nipped past and caught up her clothes, struggled into her vest, into her knickers, the bulk of the bobby hiding Ewan from her. He was saying You’ll come along to the Station with me, the two of you, there’ll be a bonny bit charge, public indecency down at the Beach.

  Ellen gave a gasp, Ewan said nothing, she could see him move quickly and dimly, getting in his clothes, he was dressing more quickly than she was, she knew, her shift stuck to her, it didn’t matter, yet she felt cold now, her mind a tumult. Oh, they couldn’t charge anybody with that, just for nothing—

  Come along, you’re all ready. Mind, none of your tricks. Here you—this to Ewan—have you matches on you?

  Ewan made on that he hadn’t heard, the bobby swore and made to come between them. It was then that Ewan acted, Ellen saw the play, an instant, dim as a bad-made film, the bobby vanished, there came a crash and a slither from below, Ewan had said There’s a match for you, and flung him from the top of the high Beach steps.

  He grabbed her hand Run like hell! and they ran like that till she gasped that she couldn’t do more, else she’d burst. He told her not to do that, it would be a mess, and released his hold, and halted beside her.

  Out in the Links they stood listening: Nothing, nothing but the far cry of a seabird desolate about the turning tide, forward the glimmer of Duncairn in the rain warm and safe and all unaware. Ellen asked with a sudden catch of breath: What if the bobby has been badly hurt? and Ewan said Let him hurt, it will do the swine good, cool and unperturbed, she felt sick a moment. It was only that half-wit Sergeant Sim Leslie who used to dig with my mother, you know.

  Things were fair kittling up at Gowans and Gloag, a lad had to keep nippy with the new tools that came, packing and storing and wondering about them, damned queer frames for new castings, too, nobody kenned what the bits were for. But there were orders enough to hand and the management was taking on folk again, it just showed you the papers were right what they said—that the Crisis was over and trade coming back.

  And meeting Ewan Tavendale outside the office you cried to him, Ay! Ewan, what about the collapse of capitalism now? Doesn’t look very much like it, does it? He said No? D’you know what the new orders are for? You said you didn’t and you didn’t much care as long as it gave a bit work to folk, better any kind of a decent job than being pitched off on the bloody Broo.

  Ewan said And better getting ready stuff to blow out another man’s guts in his face than starving yourself with an empty guts? Is that what you think? Then your head’s gone soft.

  You’d never seen him look angry before, you felt angry yourself and damned hurt as well, you asked who the hell he was calling names and he said Clean your ears and you’ll hear quick enough. Bob, be up at the League room tonight. There’s a meeting on of all the chaps I can bring.

  Who the hell did he think he was ordering about? But you went to the meeting all the same, a fair birn of the Gowans and Gloag chaps there, half the young lads from Machines and Castings and that thin-necked Bulgar who worked in the Stores, Norman and Alick and wee Geordie Bruce. No League folk and thank Christ no queans, Ewan sat behind the chairman’s table alone and banged it and stood up and began to speak: and afore he’d said much there was such a hush you’d have heard the wind rumble in the belly of a flea.

  He said they’d all noticed the new orders coming into Gowans and Gloag’s. Did they know what the orders were for—the new machinery, the new parts they made? Especially had they noticed the new cylinders? He could tell them: he’d found out that morning. They were making new ammunition parts, bits of shells and gas-cylinders for Sidderley, the English armament people.

  Somebody cried up Well, hell, does it matter? and Ewan said if a man were such a poor swine that it didn’t matter to him he was making things to be used to blow Chinese workers to bits, people like himself, then it didn’t matter. But if he had any guts at all he’d join the whole of Gowans and Gloag in a strike that would paralyse the Works. Gas-cylinder cases: he hadn’t been at the War, none of them had, but they’d all read and heard about gas-attacks. Here was an account by a hospital attendant that he’d copied from a book:

  I RECEIVED AN URGENT MESSAGE FROM THE

  HOSPITAL TO BE IN ATTENDANCE IMMEDIATELY. I HURRIED THERE AND ALMOST AT ONCE THE STREAM OF AMBULANCES WITH THE UNFORTUNATE PRISONERS BEGAN TO ARRIVE. AT FIRST SCORES, THEN LATER HUNDREDS, OF BROKEN MEN, GASPING, SCREAMING, CHOKING. THE HOSPITAL WAS PACKED WITH FRENCH SOLDIERS, BEATING AND FIGHTING THE AIR FOR BREATH. DOZENS OF MEN WERE DYING LIKE FLIES, THEIR CLOTHES RENT TO RIBBONS IN THEIR AGONY, TH
EIR FACES A HORRIBLE SICKLY GREEN AND CONTORTED OUT OF ALL HUMAN SHAPE—

  There was plenty more, but that gave you a taste. Well, that’s what he’d summoned this meeting for. What were they to do about it in Gowans?

  Christ, you’d felt sick at that stuff he’d read, but then wee Geordie Bruce at the back of the hall sounded a raspberry and everybody laughed, high out and relieved, you laughed yourself, only Norman and Ewan didn’t. Ewan said if the chap at the back had anything to say let him get up and say it, and at that wee Geordie Bruce stood up and said Ah, to hell with you and your blethers. What do you think you’re trying to do?—play the bloody toff on us again? It doesn’t matter a faeces to us what they’re going to do with the wee round tins. If you’re a Chink or a Black yourself, that’s your worry. And other chaps called out the same, who the mucking hell did Tavendale think he was?—daft as all the bloody Reds. And afore you could wink the place was in a roar, Ewan you could see sitting at the table, listening, looking from this side to that. Then he stood up and said that they’d take a vote—those in favour of a strike hold up their hands.

  The noise quietened away a bit at that, you looked round about, nobody had a hand up, and och to hell suddenly you minded the stuff that Ewan had been reading about chaps caught in gas, and you felt fair daft, up your hand shot, and so did Norman’s, and so Alick’s, and Ewan was counting: For—three. Those against?—But there was never a real count, chaps started whistling and stamping, raspberrying and banging out of the room and knocking over the chairs as they went. You sat where you were feeling a fair fool, in a minute there was only the four of you left.

  Syne Ewan called out: Bob, close the door. We’ve to make ourselves into a Committee of Action.