And then the lot of you saw you were trapped, in the flickering light and the scud of the water, a gang of the bobbies had raced across and cut you off, big and beefy, they were crying We’ve got you, you sods!
And you all half-halted a minute and swore and ebbed back a bit, you couldn’t see the bobbies’ faces or they yours, they wouldn’t mind, bash down and bash till their arms grew tired and then haul a dozen of you off to the nick.
Then two of the chaps cried Come on, lads! and ran straight for the line of running bobbies, all of you like sheep at their heels, gritting your teeth, nieves ready for the crash. Then you saw the foremost of the running chaps throw up his hand and wave it in front of him right in the bobbies’ faces, swish, the other did the same and a yowl went up, bobbies dropping their truncheons and clutching their eyes, you got a whiff running and staggered, and near sneezed your head off. Christ, that was neat, whoever thought of it.
But there’d be a bonny palaver the morn!
And next day the Daily Runner came out and told of those coarse brutes the Gowans strikers, and the awful things they’d done to the working folk that were coming decent-like from their jobs. And all Craigneuks read the news with horror, every word of it, chasing it from the front page to the lower half of page five, where it was jammed in between an advertisement curing Women with Weakness and another curing superfluous hair; and whenever Craigneuks came on a bit of snot it breathed out Uhhhhhhhhhhhh! like a donkey smelling a dung-heap, delighted, fair genteel and so shocked and stirred up it could hardly push down its grape-fruit and porridge and eggs and bacon and big salt baps, fine butter new from the creamery, fresh milk and tea that tasted like tea, not like the seep from an ill-kept sump. And it said weren’t those Footforthie keelies awful? Something would have to be done about them.
And the Reverend Edward MacShilluck in his Manse shook his bald head and pursed his long mouth and said to his housekeeper Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, what they needed in Duncairn were folk like the Fascists, they knew how to keep tink brutes in trim. And this nonsense about the keelies being on strike because Gowans were making shells and gas-cases— well, wasn’t a strong man sure in defence? Wasn’t it the best way to avoid a war for a country to keep a strong army in the field?
The housekeeper simpered and said she was sure, that must have been why the last War had happened, those coarse brutes the Germans and Frenchies, like, had had hardly an army to their name, would it be, and that was why the war had broke out?
The Reverend MacShilluck gave a bit of a cough and said Not quite, you wouldn’t understand. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, a fine thing the War in many a way. Did I ever tell you the story of the nurse and the soldier who was wounded in a certain place, my Pootsy? And the housekeeper, who’d heard it only a hundred times, standing and sitting and lying down, upstairs and downstairs and ben in the kitchen and once in the bathroom, shook her bit head and made out she hadn’t, she’d her living to look after and she’d long grown used to that look that would come in MacShilluck’s eyes, a look she’d once thought in a daft-like minute that stank with the foulest of all foul smells….
. . . . .
Bailie Brown said it was that damn fool the Chief Constable, why hadn’t he kept enough bobbies on hand? The workers were all right, though misled by the Reds, if they’d trusted their natural leaders, like himself, they wouldn’t be in the pickle they were in, drowning a foreman that had aye been a right good Labour man, and throwing pepper in the bobbies’ eyes. They should wait till the next Labour Government came—
. . . . .
The Chief Constable said it was that bloody Inspector, he’d told him to look out for trouble at Gowans. Pepper flung in the eyes of the men—by God, you’d find it revolver-shots next. He was to tell the Council that unless he had powers—
. . . . .
The Provost motored out to his sawmill to get away from the stir and stew, and wandered around, with his long dreich face like a yard of bad milk, till he lighted on Ake level-testing a lathe. And he said Seen the news in the Runner this morning? And Ake asked what news, and the Provost said about the murder down at the Docks, the strikers drowning the old foreman Edwards and then throwing pepper in the police’s eyes. Ake said he’d seen it and hadn’t wept, a scab was a scab wherever you found him though ’twas swollen water-dead in the Duncairn docks or bairning a quean that screamed in a hedge…. And the Provost gave a bit hurried hoast and Ake thought if ever he was walking alone on a dark-like night and Jimmy came on him, he with his bare nieves and Jimmy with a knife, he’d stand as much chance of getting home safe as a celluloid cat that had strayed into hell….
. . . . .
The sub-editors’ room gave a yawn and a grunt Piddle had done a nippy bit work stealing the photo of that drowned Edwards bloke. Any chance of a few of the bobbies being coshed good and proper in the next few days?—half a dozen of them drowned would make a good spread. Damned neat stunt that pepper-throwing, the Chief would blame it on the Reds for sure. Tell the boy to get out Trease’s photo, bet he was under arrest by now—
. . . . .
Chris read the news and thought, far away, Awful…. Three more days to decide on this house.
. . . . .
The Cowgate read it and a queer sound started, in tenement and wynd and went wriggling on like the passage of a flying train of powder, twisting and glistering and louping to and fro, back to Footforthie, up to Kirrieben, a growl of laughing and cursing, Christ, some Bulgar had dealt with the bobbies fine. And hungry Broo men that had made up their minds to sneak down to Gowans and into the gate and try and steal one of the striker’s jobs gave a bit rub at their hunger-swollen bellies—ah well, they must try the pac again—
. . . . .
Jim Trease the Red leader gave a roar of a laugh and called to his wife to bring him his boots. They’ll be coming for me in an hour or so. Get on with the breakfast, will you, lass, I’ll ll be hungry enough before they finish their questioning down at the Station. His mistress said What, are they after you again? placid as you please, he’d had so much arresting off and on in his life that she thought no more of him marched off to jail than when he marched off to the wc. And what have your gowks been doing now?
He told her and she said that sounded gey clever, that pepper business, and Jim Trease puffed Clever? Some idiot loon has been reading a blood. What we need are the masses with machine-guns, not pepper…. To hell, and I suppose if they heard me say that they’d chuck me out of the Communist Party!
. . . . .
Ewan said to Alick Watson he thought he’d more sense— who’d bought the pepper, Alick himself or that dirty little swine Geordie Bruce?
Ellen met in with Ewan after dinner that day, he’d come up from watching the pickets at Gowans, the bobbies were keeping them aye on the move, a great birn of folk had been there all forenoon. He told Ellen this as they went out together, she to her school and he back to Gowans, in the clearing weather she looked up in his face, he down at hers— queer what a thrill that faint line of down sent through one, funny biological freak, thought the old-time Ewan that wasn’t quite dead—
You can kiss me inside this nook, she said, light-heartedly; and when he’d finished kissed him in return in a sudden terror: Oh, Ewan, be careful down at the Docks. I’m—I’m frightened for you!
Making early tea in the kitchen next morning Chris looked out and saw that the rain had cleared, Spring was coming clad in pale saffron—the sun hardly seen all the winter months except through the blanket of Duncairn reek. She stood and looked out an un-eident minute till she heard the sound of feet on the stairs, Ake Ogilvie, big, with his swaying watch-chains and his slipperless feet, swinging into the kitchen: Ay then, mistress.
She said absently, her thoughts far away, still looking out at that blink of sun, Morning, Mr Ogilvie, her worries forgotten for a lovely minute. Ake sat down and tamped out his pipe on the range: Well, what are you doing about the bit house?
She’d told him something of her plight before, and
he’d listened, douce, with his ploughman’s face, his stare of impudent, grey-green eyes. Ay, a gey bit fix, he’d said, and no more, he wasn’t much interested; why should he be? Now, she thought with a twinge of resentment against him, did he think it light gossip to be taken through hand in the early morning to pass the time? Pouring him a cup of tea she said shortly I’ve no idea. Sell it up, I suppose.
—And after that?
—Oh, something’ll turn up. She turned away with the brimming tray.
He said Well, just gi’es a minute of your crack. Let the sweir folk wait for their tea a while.
Chris put down the tray. Well, a minute. What is’t?
He sat and looked up at her, drinking his tea, a man from the farms and the little touns, the eternal barbarian Robert had once called him. Now he laid down the cup and gave his mouser a dight: Ah well, this is it: I’ve a bit of silver saved myself—about enough to buy the share of the place that Mistress Cleghorn left to her niece. And I’m willing to come in as your partner, like.
—Ake! Oh, Ake, you really mean that?
He said Oh ay, he meant what he said—a habit of his, like. Mistress Colquohoun was willing to take him on, then? He’d look after this lad of hers, Εwan, all right.
Something queer about that: Ewan—what’ll he have to do with it?
—Well, damn’t, as his stepfather I suppose I’ll have more than a bittie to do with him.
Chris stared: One or other of us has gone daft. You were proposing to share my house, weren’t you, Ake?
He looked up and nodded, douce and green-eyed: Ay, lass, and your bed.
Chris went through that day betwixt anger and laughter, the last would come on her in the funniest way, pour over her in a sudden red, senseless wave. Marriage?—marry a lout like him, lose all that she’d ever gained in her life with Robert, the Manse, Ewan her son? The impudence of him—Oh, the beast, the beast! And she’d stand and suddenly picture him, the sneering, half-kindly, half-bull-like face, the face of the folk of the Howe throughout, canny and cruel and kind in one facet, face of the bothies and the little touns … and she’d shiver away from the thought of him, thought of impossible touches, caresses, those red, creased hands and that sun- wrinkled body … awful enough to make her feel ill.
At the dinner hour he came back with the others, she served him and them, sitting where Ma Cleghorn once had sat, no faces missing from about the board. And Neil Quaritch looked at her: Neat piece of goods. Sulky and sweet in a breath as one of those damned unbreeked little novelists would put it. Queer the resemblance between her and Ogilvie —chips of the same bit of stone in a way—
John Cushnie, sweating, looked over his tie and wondered, lapsing to keelie-hood a moment, if she were as put-you-off as she looked. Should start with a woman twice your own age, he’d heard…. And he coloured richly over his pimples, not decent to think of a woman like that, especially now he’d ta’en up with that nice girl from an office, real superior, that he’d met at a dance—
Archie Clearmont thought, switching off Stravinsky, Lord, what a thrill to kiss her just once!
Ena Lyon thought she was putting on side, as usual, and her just a Common Servant.
Ellen looked up from her plate at Chris and smiled at her, dark, and thought she looked nice and queer in a way, as though newly cuddled.
Εwan had come back from the picket at Gowans, he thought Chris looks queer, and then forgot her, trying to work out in his mind the balance likely to be left in the voluntary fund when they’d paid out the first week’s pay to the strikers.
Miss Murgatroyd called Eh me, Mrs Colquohoun, You’re fairly looking Right Well today. Has your lad been sending you a love-letter, now? and beamed round the table like a foolish old hen, all the others looking down at their plates, uncomfortable … silly old bitch … blithering old skate … randy dame … silly thing … sex-repressed … half-witted old wombat. … And a sudden impulse came on Chris, looking down the table and smiling at Miss Murgatroyd:
No, though it’s something much the same. I had a proposal of marriage this morning.
There was a dead silence round the table a second. Εwan hadn’t heard, Chris saw his indifferent face and her heart sank, on that impulse she’d thought he’d ask Who proposed? and she’d tell the whole table and watch Ake’s face. But he hadn’t heard; and the others began a babble: Who was the lucky man? Was she to accept? Chris laughed and shook her head and said nothing and the talk passed on to other things.
Ake sat and ate up his meat, calm and sonsy, but biding when the others had gone. Then he looked up and pushed back his chair, slow, certain: and looked over at Chris.
Ay, mistress, you cook a gey tasty meal. But a word in your lug: try no tricks on me. I’m not your fool nor any body’s fool.
Chris looked at him in a curious pity, It was a silly caper, Ake.
He said that that was fine, then; and when would she let him know about this partnership business?
Chris said she didn’t know, but soon, anyhow; and was moved to a stark curiosity: Ake, why do you want to marry me so bad? Just to sleep with a woman: that all? I’ve been married twice already, you know, and it doesn’t seem it was lucky for the men.
He said he was willing to take his risk; and he didn’t suppose that Colquohoun or Tavendale had thought themselves cheated, however they ended.
She said she had little mind for any man again, that was the plain truth of it. If she married at all it would be with little liking, necessity only the drive.
Ake nodded: We’d soon alter that, never fear. And fear itself leapt in her heart at his look. There’s no woman yet that I couldn’t content.
Trease wouldn’t squeal, an old hand him, and the Station Inspector wouldn’t let the chaps go into his cell and give the bastard a taste of what he needed, he could raise hell in the courts over-easily, he knew the law inside out and bottom up. So he was letten out, laughed, and went home; and still there wasn’t the ghost of a clue to point to the names of the striker sods who’d flung the pepper or drowned old Edwards.
The Gowans gates pickets had a fair dog’s life, bobbies badgering them backward and forward, keen to have out their sticks and let fly. The manager had ta’en on a bouroch of blacklegs with a bit of the plant on the go again, but bobbies or no to march by their side the scabs were scared to their marrow-bones to be seen going in or out of the Works.
Sergeant Sim Leslie went to the Inspector and said he wasn’t sure, but he had an idea, that the striker at the bottom of most of the business was the young toff Tavendale from the Gowans office. He’d known him back in the toun of Segget, as coarse a loon as you’d meet anywhere.—And the Chief said Is this a moral homily? or what have you got to say about him? And Feet habbered a little and then got it out: That assault on him at the Beach last year when he was taking a couple in charge for naked bathing—ay, not a stitch—he was nearly sure ’twas the Tavendale loon; besides, his stepfather had been a Red, a minister that fair demoralized a parish. And the Chief said he wasn’t interested in genealogy, had Feet any clue to this Tavendale having drowned Johnny Edwards or thrown the pepper?
Feet said he hadn’t; and went back on his beat on the Docks patrol that centred now round the Gowans gates. The picket was dozing away in the lithe from a stiff bit blow of wind from the harbour as Feet came bapping along the calsays. He stopped and looked at the nearest picket, a surly- looking young sod he was, cowering down in the shelter of a barrel. And this picket instead of raspberrying him as most of the impudent muckers would do, looked round about him sly and said low: Hey, Feet, a word with you, there.
Feet asked if he knew who he was talking to, and the picket said Ay, fine that, think I’m blind? Look here, if you want to know who started the pepper business look out for the next birn of pickets that relieves us and spot a long, dark-like chap of my age.
Feet nearly louped in his meikle boots, but he showed not a sign, just gave a bit purr: Tavendale, d’you mean? and the picket said Ay. The bastard h
asn’t been able to keep his hands to himself—or other things about his rotten self either. He’s done me dirty and it’s my turn now.
Feet said You’ll come and give evidence? but the picket said Away to hell with you. Think I’m your pimp, you bap-faced peeler? Find out your evidence for yourself.
Feet thought of taking him a whack on the head, with his truncheon, like, to teach him manners; but the rest of the picket was getting suspicious and rising to its feet and dandering near, it wouldn’t do to rouse the coarse brutes, they might heave even a sergeant into the Docks, they’d no respect for the weight of the Law. So Feet swung away down to the Gowans gate to the constable body that was stationed there; and the picket came up and cried Hey, Alick, what was that whoreson gabbing about?
Alick Watson turned up the collar of his coat, and the chaps thought it funny he was shivering like that.
Chris stood in her room and looked out of the window at the quick-darkening February afternoon. It was this day only a year ago that Robert had died in the pulpit of Segget, the blood gushing suddenly up on his lips as he preached his last sermon with a broken heart, Robert, kind, a dreamer, a lover of men, lover of his Chris once with passion and humour, sweet and leal and compassionate. And the world had broken his heart and his mind, his dreams grey ash that had once been fire. In that last sermon he’d preached for salvation ‘A stark, sure creed that will cut like a knife, a surgeon’s knife through the doubt and disease—men with unblinded eyes may yet find it—’ not Christianity, or love, or his Socialism, some dreadful faith that he might not envisage. And then he had died; and she minded his lips, stained red, bubbly red, and the curl of the hair on his head, dear alive hair on a head that was dead….
A Scots Quair Page 71