‘Ach, jist let him be, lass. Ye should be gled the bike’s keepin’ him oot o’ yer road.’
Jeems Wilson knew that their eldest son was Lizzie’s favourite, although she was forever complaining about him. If only this bronchitis would stop bothering him every winter - that’s what really upset his wife and made her take it out on the boy, but it seemed to get worse every year. He’d been off work for three weeks so far this time, with no sign of him being fit for a while yet, and he was worried that Geordie Milne, the farmer at Mains of Mucklefour, wouldn’t keep his job as first horseman open for him much longer.
It was just as well that there wasn’t so much to do at the farm, it being the middle of winter, but there were still certain jobs that had to be done. Sandy Fraser, the cattleman, had told him last week that it was taking them all their time to manage without him, and that old Doddie Morrison had offered to help out with the horses at nights.
Jeemsie was feeling quite excited. He’d been cleaning and oiling all the bicycle parts he’d managed to pick up, and he only needed a fork to fit the handlebars to the frame. ‘Tam Fernie says his dad’s got some aul’ bikes a the back o’ the smiddy,’ he confided to his mother one night before he went to bed. ‘I’ve to gan roon’ the morrow straight fae the school to see if there’s onything there that would work.’
‘That’s fine,’ she said absentmindedly, too busy drying the stack of dishes to take much heed of her son, but it suddenly penetrated her mind what he had said, and she looked at him sternly. ‘Dinna be late hame for your tea, then. For I’m needin’ you to gan to the Mains for me. I hear they’re to be killin’ a pig the day, an’ I want some o’ the bleed to mak’ black puddens. Your dad hasna been feelin’ like eatin’ much lately, an’ that might kittle him up a bit, for he just loves black puddens.’
‘I’ll be hame as quick as I can, Mam, I sweir. An’ if I get a fork at the smith’s I’ll be able to finish the bike an’ use it to gan to the fairm. I’d be back in time for you to mak’ the puddens after suppertime.’
His round freckled face was turned to hers earnestly, and his smile revealed the gap where he’d knocked out two teeth jumping the paling to catch a sheet that had blown off the washing line a few weeks earlier. Then she remembered that the sheet had been torn when he caught his foot in it, but it wasn’t his fault that things went wrong every time he did anything for her.
What lay in the blacksmith’s outhouse proved a treasure trove for Jeemsie the next day.
He found the required fork, and two wheels with better tyres than the ones he’d pulled out of the dump. He ran all the way home to assemble the last pieces, then stood back to admire his handiwork. It looked perfect, and with a lick of paint on it, nobody would ever know he’d made it himself - except Tam Fernie, the smith’s son, of course, but he was Jeemsie’s best friend, so he wouldn’t tell.
Washing his filthy hands at the outside standpipe, he went into the kitchen, leaving his masterpiece propped against the wall of the coalshed. ‘My bike’s ready noo, Mam. You can get a’thing ready for makin’ your puddens, for I’ll be back afore ye ken I’m awa’.’
‘Change your claes then, an’ I’ll ha’e the bucket ready for you fan ye come doon.’
He sauntered out a few minutes later with the pail slung over his arm, lifted his creation reverently, then put his foot on the pedal and swung his leg over an imaginary bar. The seat, even at its lowest, was too high for him, but he’d manage fine without having to sit on it. As he wobbled on to the rough track, his mother called, ‘Watch yersel’ noo, Jeemsie.’ It was a wonderful feeling, to be going along at such a speed with the wind blowing in his face, on his own bicycle, though the pedals were a bit stiff and he’d have to oil the chain again. But he reached the farm in record time and was soon on the homeward way with the pail slopping full.
It was much harder to keep his balance now, weighed down on one side, and he couldn’t see all that well in the darkening late afternoon. He had forgotten that he would need a lamp, but he knew every step of the way and he could look for one the morrow. Coming to the beginning of the track up to the cottar houses, he swung round carefully and made a perfect right turn. Sadly, however, he soon found himself wobbling uncontrollably and, in trying to control his steed, he forgot to watch out for the hole in the track. THUMP! Crack!
Picking himself off the stony round, dripping with blood, he wondered fleetingly if he had been mortally wounded, but when he got his breath back and felt himself gingerly all over, all he could find were skinned hands and knees. Then he realised, with a sinking heart, that it was pig’s blood that was oozing from his clothes. His mother would be angry about that, and doubly angry at not being able to make the puddings, and he turned cold at the thought of what she might say - or do - to him.
He rose slowly to his feet and picked up the empty pail before noticing that his beautiful bicycle was lying in two parts - the fork had snapped. He could never wheel it as it was, so he’d have to leave it and come back in daylight with some tools to see if he could fix it. Laying down the pail, he threw first one piece of his construction and then the other over the dyke into a field.
His mother’s first reaction, on seeing the small bloodied figure appearing at the kitchen door, was concern for her son. ‘Jeemsie! Michty me! What happened? Are you bad hurt?’
He was quick to take advantage of the situation. ‘I’ve cut my knees an’ I feel real queer.’ He limped with great exaggeration into the room and placed the empty pail on the table.
‘I’m sorry aboot the puddens, Mam, bit I scaled the bleed an’ my bike’s broke.’ He looked up at her pathetically.
Lizzie was aware by now that it was not her son’s life-blood that had so shocked her and, in her relief, couldn’t summon up the anger that she should have felt at the loss of the main ingredient of her delicacy. She contented herself by snapping, ‘Get yoursel’ cleaned up. It’s a good job you hadna on your school breeks.’ But she felt like giving him a good shake for the scare he’d given her.
In the school playground the following morning, a large knot of boys had gathered in one corner by the time Jeemsie arrived, so he ambled over to find out what was going on. His bosom pal, Tam Fernie grabbed his arm in great excitement. ‘Hiv you heard aboot the murder, Jeemsie?’
‘Murder? Fa’s been murdered?’ He could feel the morbid interest of the uninvolved rearing in his breast.
‘Naebody kens, but it wasna that far fae your hoose, an’ aul’ Doddie Morrison saw the bleed in the licht o’ his lamp fan he wis comin’ back fae the Mains last nicht. He says the track wis fair covered wi’ it, an’ the bobby’s gan roon askin’ if onybody’s missin’. There wis a broken bike in the tattie park as weel, so the murderer must’ve knocked the victim aff his bike afore he killed him.’
Tam was almost jumping off the ground with the thrill of the vile crime that had been committed in their midst, but it had slowly dawned on Jeemsie how the story had originated. He couldn’t tell a soul the truth, not even Tam, not if the bobby was asking questions. There would be a real murder - his - if his mother connected him to this.
He couldn’t concentrate on his lessons that morning, and received several raps over the knuckles from the dominie’s round black ruler.
At a quarter to one, the two friends were standing behind the lavatories eating their dinner pieces - Tam’s contained butter and beef, while Jeemsie’s just had a scrape of dripping - when Tam asked, ‘Did you get yer bike finished last nicht? I thocht you’d be bikin’ to school the day.’
‘It’s nae quite ready yet. ‘Twis mair fikey than I thocht, an’ I havena got a lamp yet.’ Jeemsie mixed fact and prevarication and felt pleased at his ingenuity.
‘You ken, I wondered at first if it was you that got murdered,’ Tam was saying. ‘It wis the broken bike, you see, and I wis richt glad to see you this mornin’.’
Willie
laughed half-heartedly. ‘Na, na, I havena been murdered … yet,’ he added, thinking of his mother’s wrath, still to come. They munched on companionably, each busy with his own thoughts about the event that had taken place the previous day.
‘I jist minded!’ Tam’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. ‘You wisna here in time to hear aboot the ither crime that happened. The Mains’s hoose was broke into last nicht, as weel, an’ the bobbies think the buggular must’ve murdered the man ‘cos he saw something - maybe him comin’ oot o’ the farmhoose - an’ could indentify him.’
‘Oh!’ It was all Jeemsie could say. He was thinking that he’d been lucky not to have been the victim after all, although never a soul had he seen on the road.
When he arrived home that afternoon, he tried to sneak up to the attic bedroom without his mother hearing him, but she came out of the kitchen with the rolling pin in her hand. ‘Come ben here this minute, Jeemsie!’
Her tone warned him that he’d better do as he was told, so he followed her on trembling legs and stood studying the American cloth on the table as though his life depended on him knowing every inch of its pattern.
Lizzie was making oatcakes, and the lump of dough was ready to be flattened into a circle. She attacked it savagely as she fired her question. ‘Where’s yer bike, Jeemsie?’
The unexpectedness of it floored him. He hadn’t taken time to prepare a plausible story, and he couldn’t tell his mother a barefaced lie. She always found him out. The rolling pin was still. ‘I asked you a question, Jeemsie.’
‘I threw it in ower the tattie park.’ He waited with bowed head for the explosion.
‘Mmmmmm.’ Lizzie drew out the sound in a satisfied manner. ‘That’s what I tell’t the bo … em … Constable Taylor you must’ve done, after you fell an’ lost a’ the pig’s bleed I sent you for. He wis here in the forenoon but he’s comin’ back at suppertime to speak to you.’
The game well and truly up, Jeemsie supped his brose automatically at suppertime, dreading the coming interview. Constable Taylor would be anything but pleased about the trouble caused by the spilled blood - the murder that had never taken place.
As soon as his bowl was empty, he rushed upstairs. In no time at all, there came a loud knock at the door, but he remained sitting on his bed, waiting for the summons. It came almost immediately.
‘Jeemsie! Here’s the b … Constable Taylor to speak to you.’
He went down, squaring his shoulders to meet his fate, and was astonished, and very much relieved, to find the policeman sitting in the kitchen with a smiling face.
‘Come awa’ in, Jeemsie. Well, we’ve sorted things oot and you’ve naething to be feared aboot. In fact, loon, you’re a bit o’ a hero.’
The boy’s spirits lifted - but what had he done to be a hero?
Harry Taylor began in his official voice. ‘When we were lookin’ for the body in the tat … potato field, we found something else aside the broken bike.’ Pausing, he looked around his three listeners to make sure they were taking everything in, before continuing, ‘We found a sack wi’ a’ the articles stolen fae the Mains. The thief must’ve heard you comin’ on your bike an’ been feared you would see him.’
Jeemsie decided that he may as well give the story a helping hand. ‘I did think I heard something afore I fell aff my bike, but I thocht it was a futteret. It must’ve been the buggular.’
‘Aye, that’s mair nor likely.’ Gratified that his supposition had proved correct, the constable nodded his head so vigorously that the boy had to make a great effort not to laugh at the sight of the hat wobbling precariously.
‘He’d thrown the bag in ower the park wi’ the intention o’ comin’ back for it later, nae doot, but wi’ me an’ Davey - the ither bob … policeman - bein’ alerted, an’ the two o’s searchin’ for him, he was seen an’ apprehended at eleven hundred hours. So you see, Jeemsie, we wis lookin’ for a body an’ if your ma hadna tell’t me aboot the bleed you scaled, the thief would likely have gotten clean awa’ wi’his ill-gotten gains.’
The boy chanced a quick glance at his mother, and was pleased that she was smiling and looking proud of him, and his father, usually pale and weak, was looking brighter than he had been for a long time.
‘But there’s even better news than that for you, Jeemsie,’ the policeman continued. ‘Fan we gaed to the Mains to tell Geordie Milne the case was solved, he tell’t us he’d been meanin’ to offer a reward for the recovery of his property. He thinks, in the circumstances, it should come to you, laddie, an’ he says yer faither’s job’s there for him as lang as he wants it. You’re to get the £25, enough to replace your bike and ha’e a bit left ower.’
Looking just as stupefied as he felt, Jeemsie soon recovered his equilibrium and laughed importantly. ‘Na, I’m nae buyin’ a bike, for it’s mair fun makin’ ane for masel’. I’m gan to gi’e a’ the money to Mam to buy food for us, an’ mixters for my Dad till he’s better o’ the brownkatis.’
He looked round at his mother, and was disappointed to see tears rolling down her cheeks, when he’d thought she’d be pleased with him, grateful to him. But Lizzie, deeply affected by everything that had happened, soon showed her gratitude. ‘Oh, Jeemsie,’ she sobbed, throwing her arms about him, ‘you’re a right bobby-dazzler, so you are.’
Word count: 2863.
Written 27 January 1986.
Sent to New Writing Scotland - rejected 7.5.86
Sent to Scottish Arts Council - rejected 25.8.86
Sent to Scots Magazine - rejected 11.10.86
This story was never published. It was actually based on a true story, an incident in the life of a man I knew, and graphically described by him. It appealed to my sense of humour, which is why it remained in my mind for so long. I had not looked at these short stories until after I had written my novel The Nickum, and didn’t realise until too late that I had used the same anecdote - but to better effect second time around.
Paul, First and Foremost
The kettle spilled out its tears in streaming rivulets and Anne MacIntosh watched it dispassionately. If only she could relieve her turbulent feelings like that, she wouldn’t be eaten up by this sick gnawing at her heart.
Poor Paul. Once again, she felt pity for him struggling to master the intense anger she felt at Debbie. When Paul had told her about the poor girl in his office whose home life was so tragic, Anne had said involuntarily, ‘Ask her to tea some time.’
She had glowed with the inner satisfaction of a philanthropist when Paul phoned the next day to tell her that he was bringing Debbie home with him that night. ‘She was so grateful, there were tears in her eyes,’ he had added. ‘She’s really a pathetic little thing.’
She had replaced the receiver and glanced at the hall mirror. There had been tears in her own eyes, but she was looking forward to meeting someone who worked with Paul. She might find out more about his work - not that he was secretive, as if he had anything to hide, but he just wouldn’t discuss it with her.
The girl had seemed such a nice person at first, her brown spaniel’s eyes serious between their dark fringes. Anne had felt sorry for the teenager whose father had married a young woman not much older than his daughter. It would have been bad enough that her mother died when she was only ten, but having a stepmother in the same age bracket as herself must be awful.
Anne wished fervently now that she had never encouraged the friendship. If Debbie hadn’t become a regular visitor to the house, Paul would probably never have fallen in love with her. He had never looked at any of the other girls, as far as she was aware. He was normally shy and rather unsure of himself in strange feminine company.
Debbie was a lovely girl, much shorter than Paul’s five feet ten, and so willowy slim that Anne had felt lumpy and gauche beside her. Her silky black tresses, long and swinging round her face, were in direct contrast
to Paul’s fair curls, and Anne had been conscious of her own mousey hair, lank and neglected. She must have been blind not to notice the tell-tale signs of Paul’s attraction to the girl.
Debbie had made herself at home straight away, hadn’t been in the least shy when she sat down to that first meal with them. ‘It’s great to have something decent to eat,’ she had laughed. ‘Kate, my father’s wife, can’t even boil an egg properly.’
In the comfortable fullness following the good square meal, they had leaned back in their chairs for a few moments, and then Debbie had jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll help with the washing-up, Mrs MacIntosh.’
‘No, no. I’m accustomed to doing it myself, and please call me Anne,’ she had insisted.
But the girl had been determined, and unusually for him, Paul had helped, too, laying past each dish as Debbie handed it to him. They relaxed in the sitting room afterwards, and the other two had laughed together about some of the actions of their colleagues, giggling over little in-jokes, until Anne felt completely excluded and leaned across to pat Paul’s hand. ‘What about pouring us a drink, dear?’
‘Oh, sorry!’ He had leapt to his feet at once. ‘Sherry for you as usual, but what do you drink, Debbie?’ ‘Sherry’ll be fine, Paul.’
The remainder of that first evening had passed in companionable near-arguments on a variety of topics until Debbie got up to leave. ‘Look at the time. Dad’ll be creating.’
‘Why don’t you run Debbie home?’ Anne had suggested, and that’s when it must have started. ‘Feel free to come round at any time,’ she had foolishly added, while Paul held Debbie’s coat up for her.
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