At half past five it happened again. Running down the stairs Chris met Ake Ogilvie who’d newly letten himself in at the door. Ake, Ma Cleghorn’s ta’en ill again. Will you run for the doctor? and Ake said Eh? Oh, ay, I’ll do that, and asked the address and nodded and went stamping out into the dark, Chris glanced from the window and saw it coming down, dark early now the winter was near. Syne she turned and ran up to Ma’s room again to ease her out of her stays, poor thing, lying black-faced and gasping and swearing like a soldier.
The doctor came as he’d done before, had another look, gave another sniff, and said that Ma must be kept fell quiet. Chris told him she’d found out the relative’s address, should she send for her? The doctor pulled at his lip and said Oh no, just keep the address by handy-like. And don’t worry too much, Mrs Colquohoun. I’ll send up medicine, and off he went. Chris went down to the kitchen to get ready the tea, Ma ill or Ma well folk would need their meat.
She went to bed dead tired that night. But she couldn’t sleep, getting up every hour or so to look in Ma’s room, after midnight the breathing grew easier. It had grown cold and looking out of the window Chris saw that snow had come on, soft-sheeting, the early soft seep of November snow whitening the roofs in a spilling fall. And she stood and looked at it a little while in the still, quiet house above the stilled toun, in a cold no-thought till the clock struck three—suddenly dirling beside her head.
Far away through the snow beyond Footforthie the lighthouse winked on the verge of the morning, and a feeling of terrible loneliness came on her standing so at that hour, knowledge of how lonely she had always been, knowledge of how lonely every soul was, apart and alone as she had been surely even at the most crowded hours of her life. And she went up the stairs in a sudden fear and listened outside Ewan’s room a minute and heard his breath, low and even. In the next room the door hung open unsnecked, she’d have to see to that lock tomorrow. Closing the door she saw Ellen Johns a dim shape curled like a baby in sleep, and stood, the snow-hush upon the panes, looking at her in a kind of desperation, half-minded to waken her up to talk.
Then that daft thought went from her, she went down the stairs and into the kitchen, cold even there, the fire in the range had drooped to ash, she stirred it a little and Jock the cat purred a drowsy greeting a minute, grew silent; she sat and stared in the fading ash, alone and desperate—what would she do?
It was plain enough Ma wouldn’t last long. And then— Chris hadn’t enough money to carry on the house herself and whoever heired Ma mightn’t want to come in with her. So out again, looking for some other thing in this weary life of Duncairn, seeking out some little shop, she supposed, somewhere where she and Ewan could bide and trauchle and fight with the going of the years, he wouldn’t earn money of account for years. And so on and on, streets all about, slippery with slime, the reeking gutters of Paldy Parish, the weary glint of shop-fronts in the Mile—till she grew old and old and haggard, thin—who would have dreamed this for her long syne that night she wedded Ewan in Blawearie, just a night like this she minded now, lights, and Long Rob and Chae at the fiddle, dancing, warmth, the daftness of being young: they’d seemed eternal, to outlast the hills, those moments when Ewan had first ta’en her in his arms, naked, unshielded, unafraid, glad to be his and give and take for the fun and glory of being in love … all far away in the snowing years down the long Howe on Kinraddie’s heights.
And she thought of the croft in the north wind’s blow, of the snow driving about it this night lashing the joists and window-panes, the fly and scurry of the driving flakes about the Stones high up by the loch, the lost rigs sleeping under their covering, the peesies wheeping lost in the dark. Oh idiot, weeping to remember that, all things gone and lost and herself afraid and afraid and a morning coming she was feared to face, lost and alone.
And again she got to her feet and wandered through the hush of the sleeping house, and stood in her own room, with the sickly flare of the gaslight behind her and looked at herself in the mirror, hands clenched, forgetting herself in a sudden wild woe that wouldn’t stop though her mind clamoured it was daft, things would redd up in time, she wasn’t hungry or starved, she had friends, she had Ewan…. SHE HAD NOTHING AT ALL, she had never had anything, nothing in the world she’d believed in but change, unceasing and unstaying as time, light after light went down, hope and fear and hate, love that had lighted hours with a fire, hate freezing through to the blood of one’s heart—Nothing endured, and this hour she stood as alone as she’d been when a quean in those wild, lost moments she climbed the heights of Blawearie brae. And she covered her face with her hands and sat down and so stayed there awhile and then rose and put on her clothes, coldly, mechanically, looking at the clock…. Trudging in the track of those little feet as a tethered beast that went round and round the tethering post in the midst of a park—
The Young League dance was fair in full swing, chaps had gone flocking to buy up tickets at Gowans and Gloag’s and all over Footforthie, a tanner hop was a good enough chance to take your quean to on New Year’s Eve. And she’d said But aren’t those creatures Red? and you said you were Bulgared if you knew, did it matter? And she said Reds were awful, they believed that women—och, stuff that you wouldn’t speak about. And you said you wouldn’t but these Reds were different, the head of them was a toff kind of sod, Ewan Tavendale—
And your quean said Bob! or Will! or Leslie—don’t use those kind of words to me, and you nearly went off your head at the runt, trying to make a lad speak genteel. But she turned up ready to go to the dance down in Long Hall, and there was that Tavendale, you’d never spoken to him, standing at the door and taking the tickets and nodding to folk; and up on the platform Jake Forbes’s band that was wee Jake Forbes all on his own, hard at it banging out the Omaha Pinks, Jake tootling away with his big white face like a bowl of lard on the melt by a fire, queans and chaps all over the floor, your quean looked the bonniest and awful posh, how the hell did queans manage to dress up like that?
Then the Pinks struck up and you gave her a grab, she hadn’t on stays or much else below, and off you all went, slither and slide, one foot in and another out, like a cock with concussion, tweetle the flute. And Jake stood up and hit the drum and banged the bell and clattered the cymbals and looked as though with a bit of encouragement he’d have kicked hell out of the nearest wall. Christ, what a row: but it kittled you up.
It was cold outside but the chaps didn’t heed, you took out your quean for a squeeze between dances, cold though it was, she breathed You mustn’t, not here—to hell, she liked it. Then she’d fix up her dress and back you’d go, New Year coming fast, some of the chaps nipped over to the pub and brought back a gill of the real Mackay, kittling everybody up, you forgot you’d got sacked the day before, and father was cursing like hell and said he’d have to keep you on the pac … or that your job was a bloody stalemate with no chance of earning a penny piece more. Funny how fine your quean felt and smelt, other queans as well as you changed with chaps. And there was that toff Ewan Tavendale, only he didn’t look a toff a bit, just one of the lads, he was dancing like hell when Jake put on a Schottische. Every body cried Hooch! and wakened up more, a daft old dance, not up to date, but you fair could swank and give a bit prance, in and out, now on your own quean’s sleeve, now on that of the schoolteacher folk said was Red, only a kid, she was dressed in red, with black hair and a flaming skirt, she laughed and cried Hook! not Hooch!: she was English.
Jake quietened a minute to wipe his fat face and Ewan carried him something to drink; and Ewan called The New Year dance is next. Just a word to you all before it comes on. You know who’re the people who’ve got up this dance. They say we’re some kind of Reds: let them say. We’re workers the same as all of you are and as fond of taking a girl to a dance and giving her a cuddle on the sly as the next. In fact, that’s why we believe what we do—that every one should have a decent life and time for dancing and enjoying oneself and a decent house to go to at night, de
cent food, decent beds. And the only way to get those things is for the young workers of whatever party to join together and stop the old squabbles and grab life’s share with their thousand hands. And he stopped and looked down at the chaps and queans, all kittled up as they looked, with flushed faces, the lasses bonny in that hour though they came from the stews of Paldy and Kirrieben and Footforthie, their thin antrin faces soft in the light: And isn’t it worth grabbing? And that’s all the speech. And as they cheered him and cried his name, the dirty, kind words of mates in the Shops, a great chap that Εwan, just one of themselves … it seemed to Ewan in a sudden minute that he would never be himself again, he’d never be ought but a bit of them, the flush on a thin white mill-girl’s face, the arm and hand and the downbent face of a keelie from the reek of the Gallowgate, the blood and bones and flesh of them all, their thoughts and their doubts and their loves were his, all that they thought and lived in were his. And that Ewan Tavendale that once had been, the cool boy with the haughty soul and cool hands, apart and alone, self-reliant, self-centred, slipped away out of the room as he stared, slipped away and was lost from his life forever.
And then Ellen Johns was pulling at his arm: Ewan, you look funny, is there anything wrong? and he moved and came out of that dreaming trance, and smiled at her, and Ellen’s heart moved, not the cold smile at all, it might have been that of any kind boy. Hello, Ellen. You look lovely tonight. Can I have the next dance? and she said, wide-eyed, You can have them all if you want them, Ewan.
And he took her hand and drew her close and waved to Jake and Jake started it up, tooootle the flute, claboomr the drum, off they all went in the wheel of a waltz, winkle the lights and Ellen’s head close under Ewan’s shoulder as they spun. And he looked down and suddenly smelled her hair, strange and sweet, and felt dizzy a minute, at the tickle of it up under his chin, at the touch of her up against him close, breast and belly and legs, soft, sweet, something ran with a torch and fired all his body. And Ellen looked up and saw his face, white, and suddenly knew what she’d always known, that she was his for as long as he liked, and she would like that till the day she died.
And she knew then that all the old stories were true, while they wheeled together, while they paused and rested, standing together so that they just touched, her hand touched his and his fingers closed on it, quick and glad—troubling fingers—Oh, all true that they’d sung in the olden times in this queer Scotland that had felt so alien, the dark, queer songs of lust and desire, of men and women and this daftness of love, dear daftness in soft Scotch speech, on Scotch lips—daftness like this that she felt for Ewan, and it didn’t matter what he thought or did, whatever he might do or say or believe, the glory of it would last her forever….
Jake cried A last one ere Ne’ersday comes. What’ll it be? and they cried back A reel!, all the chaps smiling by then to their queans, the queans that had lost their clipped, frightened looks, their distrusts of men and hands and lips, forgetting the dark and the cold outbye and those dreary dawns that haunted Duncairn, thinking only of touches kind and shy, weak faces they loved, a moment to snatch when all this was over, somewhere, anyhow—to hell with risk when you liked him so well! And they flushed at their thoughts and said flyting things; and all lined up for the last of the reels; and Jake crashed out the tune, walloping the drum till it boomed like a bittern, tankle the melodeon, tootle the flute, and off they all went. Round and faster and faster still, Ewan with Ellen and holding her so she was frightened and struggled a wild-bird moment, Ewan lost in a queer, cruel flame of wonder, desire, and—heart-breaking—a passion of pity. Play on, Jake, play on, never stop, Ellen and I, Ellen and I….
And far away Thomson Tower clanged midnight across the toun and into Long Hall, the long dark hall where the League had its dance; and Jake stopped in the middle of his clatter of playing and they all stopped and laughed the queans pulled at their dresses, and Tavendale stood with the schoolteacher close, close as though glued, jammed up against Alick and Norman and their queans; and Jake cried out Join hands—here’s New Year:
So here’s a hand, my trusty frere,
And here’s a hand o’ mine—
And Ellen wished the mist would go from her eyes; and then they’d all stopped and the music was done and queans were being pushed into their coats, and coddled, and everybody crying goodnight. A happy New Year! Goodnight, then, Εwan. Goodnight to your lass—what’s her name? —Ellen? Ta-ta, Ellen. And she cried Ta-ta, standing by Εwan, the mist quite gone, alive and tingling not heeding at all that some cried back Hell, it’s snowing like Bulgary!
They left Jake to lock up the hall and went out, snow sheeting down on the snow-rimed streets, all around the lighted wynds of Ne’ersday, first foots and greetings and drams poured in tumblers, the bairns crying Is’t time to get up? and their mothers, tired, happy, crying back to them: Mighty be here, get into your beds. You’ll get all your presents on New Year’s Day—
But the streets were nearly deserted as they hurried, Ellen and Ewan, from the Cowgate’s depth across the Mile and the Corn Market, the cold air blowing on Ellen’s face, Ewan looked down and saw her face a winter flower and wanted to sing, wanted to stop and say idiot things, to stop and go mad and strip Ellen naked, the secret small cat, slow piece on piece, and kiss every piece a million times over, and hit her— hard, till it hurt, and kiss the hurts till cure and kisses and pain were one—mad, oh, mad as hell tonight!
And she tripped beside him, sweet, slim and demure in act and look, dark cool kitten, and inside was frightened at the wildness there. So up Windmill Steps through the sheet of the snow, a corner with a mirror, here the snow failed, Ewan halted panting while she made to run on.
But he caught her arm and drew her down, she wriggled a little, the light on her face, startled, eyes like stars and yet drowsy, he drew her close to him and they suddenly gasped, with wonder and fear and as though their hearts broke and were shattered in the kiss, sweet, terrible, as their lips met at last.
Thin and lank, with a holy mouth and shifty eyes, she sat in the kitchen and had tea with Chris: Eh me, and you think she won’t last the night? And Chris said, No, I don’t think she will. Another cup of tea, Miss Urquhart? and Ma’s niece Izey sniffled through her nose, godly, and pecked at her eyes with a hanky: Have you had the minister up to see her?
Chris said No, she hadn’t, Ma had told her in a wakeful moment that day she didn’t want any of them sossing about, if St Peter needed a prayer for a passport he’d be bilked of another boarder, fegs. And Niece Izey held up her hands in horror, But you don’t believe that, do you, now? and Chris said more or less, she didn’t care, and Miss Urquhart drew in her shoggly mouth, prim: I’m afraid we wouldn’t get on very well. I believe in God, I’ve no time for heathen. And Chris said No? That must be a comfort. Try a cake, Miss Urquhart, and sat watching her eat, she herself couldn’t, over tired with running up and down the stairs and seeing to the lodgers’ meals as they came, they needed something special on New Year’s Eve, and letting Meg go early though she’d offered to stay…. And suddenly the lank Izey said I suppose you know that I heir it all?—the share in the house and the furniture?
Chris said she’d heard that and knew it to be true, whatever intention Ma had once had of altering her will to surprise Niece Izey she’d never had the time to carry it out. And Miss Urquhart pursed up her holy-like mouth and said she would realize her share, she’d no fancy for the keeping of lodgers herself, not a decent work, she’d always thought. Maybe Mrs Colquohoun would buy her out?
Chris said I’ve no idea what I’ll do. But I’m dead tired now. Will you watch by your aunt? Niece Izey gave a kind of a shiver: Oh, but I don’t know a thing about nursing. You won’t leave me alone with her, will you?
Chris looked at her in an idle pity, too tired to hate the poor, fusionless thing, a black hoodie-crow scared of a body not yet quite a corpse but ready to pick out its eyes when it died. I’m going up to rest in my own room a while. If there’s any chan
ge you can run up and tell me.
Without taking off her clothes she lay on the bed and drew the coverlet over her, not intending to sleep, only rest and lose her aches in the dark. But afore she knew it she was gone, sound, the last whisper she heard the fall of the snow pelting Duncairn in its New Year’s Eve.
She woke from that with a hand on her shoulder, the lanky niece had lighted the gas, she was all a-dither and the long face grey. I’m feared she’s gey ill, and Oh, how you were sleeping. I thought I would never waken you.
Chris got off the bed and tidied her hair. And as she did so she heard from Ma’s room an antrin sound—a blatter of words, then a groan of pain. She was down the stairs and into the room, Izey trailing behind in a lank unease, and saw that it couldn’t be very long now, she had better send for the doctor at once.
Ma Cleghorn was fighting her last fight with the world she had jeered at and sworn at throughout her life, gallant and vulgar, untamed to the end, her arms beating the air in this battle. Chris wiped the spume from the swollen lips, the smell of death already in the air, and did not move as she sat by the bed, the niece went out of the room to be ill, down in Duncairn a late tram tootled; and the dreich fight drew to its close, begun a sixty years before, ending in this—what for, what for?
And suddenly Ma’s lips ceased to twist and slobber with their blowings of brownish spume, her hand in Chris’s slackened with a little jerk; and she stepped from the bed and out of the house and up long stairs that went wandering to Heaven like the stairs on Windmill Brae. And she met at the Gates St Peter himself, in a lum hat and leggings, looking awful stern, the father of all the Wee Free ministers, and he held up his hand and snuffled through his nose and asked in gawd’s name was she one of the Blessed? And Ma Cleghorn said she was blest if she knew—Lets have a look at this Heaven of yours. And she pushed him aside and took a keek in, and there was God with a plague in one hand and a war and a thunderbolt in the other and the Christ in glory with the angels bowing, and a scraping and banging of harps and drums, ministers thick as a swarm of blue-bottles, no sight of Jim and no sight of Jesus, only the Christ, and she wasn’t impressed. And she said to St Peter This is no place for me, and turned and went striding into the mists and across the fire-tipped clouds to her home.
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