“God Almighty. Mistress Scott, you look like one of those black men we see coming off the boats.”
The goggle-eyes looked back enquiringly, so Kate bent down to the dressing-table, lifted the soot-encased hand-mirror, and after wiping it with her fingers, she held it out to the old woman. Mrs Scott peered myopically into the mirror, then her shoulders started to heave with laughter. She went on laughing until the tears ran down her cheeks, leaving white funnels through the soot, thus further emphasising her ridiculous appearance. Kate joined in the gales of laughter, thinking to herself that this was the best way to diffuse what might otherwise have been a disastrous – if not fatal – situation, had she herself not arrived so timeously on the scene.
“Thank God you came today after all, Kate. Otherwise, I’d have been stuck here in my bed until you came next year. I fell yesterday evening. It didn’t seem very bad at the time ... but ... my legs have all stiffened up lying in bed. The cold after the soot came down and my rheumatism hasn’t helped. I did try to get up, but I couldn’t. Could you help me to the toilet?”
Kate soon had the room clean. Mrs Scott washed and dressed up in a fresh nightie and mohair bed-cape and a pink ribbon in her hair, and soon there was even a bright fire blazing in the newly-scrubbed and polished hearth.
Kate rubbed her hands in satisfaction as she surveyed both the scene and her employer. They exchanged conspiratorial smiles as they each remembered not only what the situation had been but also what dire consequences might have resulted had the old woman been left alone to freeze for days on end in an unheated flat. Kate bent forward and adjusted Mrs Scott’s pink hair ribbon to a more fetching angle.
“Mistress Scott. Sure and there’s no need for you to be lonely this night. You’ll be more than welcome at my fireside this Hogmanay night, or at any other time, for that matter.”
For reply, Mrs Scott clutched on to Kate’s hand, as if to a lifeline of which she would never let go.
“Kate, I want you to know, you’re the best–in fact, the only – friend I have in the whole wide world. And believe me, I do appreciate your kind invitation – even though I’m now too old and too stiff to be going gallivanting; far less first-footing. But I thank you kindly. Now, did you say something about a cup of tea?”
As Kate bustled about the kitchen getting the tea-tray prepared, she stopped.
If Mrs Scott can’t come to my Hogmanay party tonight, we’ll have one right now. The pair of us.
So Kate looked out a much bigger tray which she set with a white crochet-edged cloth, on top of which she put all the dainty sweet-bites she had brought with her, and alongside them, the two home-made presents from Hannah and Jenny. When she bore the over-laden tray back in triumph into the bedroom, Mrs Scott’s eyes widened in surprise and delight. After examining the contents of the tray she frowned and in a mock-serious tone said: “Oh, Kate. You’ve forgotten something.”
Kate raised her eyebrows and cocked her head in an inquiring manner as she waited for the old woman to go on.
“You’ve forgotten two glasses and the medicinal bottle from the sideboard in the front room.”
Kate needed no second bidding. She positioned the tray on Mrs Scott’s knees and at once set off to forage for the requisite booze. Once back in the bedroom and with their glasses filled, Kate raised hers.
“Now, we know it’s supposed to be bad luck to eat shortbread or toast in the New Year before the set-time. So here’s what we’ll do. This is not a Hogmanay party we’re having. But what we’re really doing is celebrating the birth of Jenny’s baby; we’re wetting the baby’s head.”
Mrs Scott smiled her agreement and delight at this arrangement, then paused with glass half way to her lips.
“Hold on a minute, Kate. Like I said, you’re my only friend. So, if you’re the baby’s Granny ... I’d like to have the honour of being its Godmother. How would that be, Kate?”
At once, Kate’s face was suffused with colour.
“Oh. Mistress Scott, I couldn’t let you do that. You see ... well ... to tell you the truth ... the bairn ... wee Theresa ... she’s ... er ... illegit–”
Mrs Scott waved aside Kate’s words, refusing even to let her finish.
“Listen, Kate. If you’re trying to tell me the baby’s a bastard, forget it. I’ve already worked that out for myself. I’m not as green as I’m cabbagelike, you know. I’m an old woman and believe me, I’ve seen all that life has to offer.”
Kate laughed. “Aye. but even so, Mistress Scott, I still think that –”
“Kate, if you’re happy about the baby, so am I. And I’d count it a real blessing if you’d grant me the honour of being the bairn’s Godmother.”
Kate’s eyes filled with tears.
“No problem. So, let’s drink to both the new baby and her Godmother. Cheers. or as the wild Highlanders all say, slainte mhath”
Mrs Scott took a gulp of the whisky, then she put down her glass.
“Right. Now we’ve got that settled; what about a wee present for my god-daughter? Do you think that one of those fancy, lace-trimmed cots would be suitable?”
Kate placed her glass on the tray and clapped her hands in delight at the co-incidence. She then told Mrs Scott the tale of Shuggie and his barrowload of goodies. When every facet of that memorable day had been related, Mrs Scott pursed her lips as if deep in thought. Then she smiled.
“Since it rather looks as if you yourself have more or less cornered the market in the range of baby wear, here’s what I’ll do. But first of all, tell me this, what is the baby’s full name?”
The proud grandmother at once replied: “Theresa Rafferty Kinnon. But why do you ask, Mrs Scott?”
“I’ll need to get the silver Christening-mug engraved, won’t I ?”
Kate smiled in delight.
“A silver Christening-mug. Sure and ’tis only the gentry that have such things. Oh, the wonder of it .”
Without further ado, Kate rose to her feet and, coming over to the bedside, she enveloped her employer in a hug, much to the danger of the many items then wobbling about on the tea-tray. Mrs Scott laughed in delight. Then she extricated herself with some difficulty.
“Hold on a minute, girl. I haven’t finished yet. Hear me out. I need the full name for another reason as well. I plan to open a bank account in the name of Theresa Rafferty Kinnon.”
Pearce, despite his diatribes against the pregnant Jenny, now that the baby was born became very much the doting grandfather and, enfeebled as he now was, he spent hours talking to the baby and playing with it.
Chapter 29
As the last moments of 1899 ticked away, Kate paused and looked around her gleaming kitchen and at her family gathered there in anticipation of the delights to come. Already the over-heated room with its blazing coal fire and linen bedecked table groaning with shortbread, black bun, Madeira cake and slices of cluthie dumpling, was crowded. As ever, Granny was fussing with Hannah and tonight’s game seemed to be that of retying, with a mock display of reluctance and much sighing and rolling of rheumy eyes, the girl’s tartan hair-ribbon each time that Hannah managed to work it loose.
Jenny and the now ever-watchful Pearce could hardly take their eyes off the sleeping one-year-old baby Theresa. With this particular New Year being one of such importance, Pearce had decided that for once, he would stay and at least usher in the new century within the bosom of his family. The arrangement was that if later on he became too tired, or if the resulting ceilidh was too boisterous, then Jenny would help both her Dadda and wee Theresa into the quiet haven of Granny’s single-end.
A silence stole on the group as, with every eye on the grandmother clock, they watched not only the old year, but the old century die away into the mists of time.
As the clock chimed out twelve times, Granny confirmed each stroke with a nod of her wizened face and balding head. On the last beat, the party was already awash with tears, especially when Kate rose to her feet and said: “Right. Time to let go of the o
ld. And usher in the new century.”
She crossed over to the sink, where, bending across the black steel cavern, she pushed up the kitchen window, at the same time reflecting that it was more than she could ever have done in her first home in Glasgow. It was more than a blast of cold air which entered, for a cacophony of vibrant sound: bells ringing, hooters blaring, excited voices shouting from the back-courts and the crowded, city streets beyond. Turning from the window, Kate, with tears glistening in her green Irish eyes, went over to her husband. She bent over him, threw her arms around him.
“Happy New Year, Pearce, my darling.” Her voice choked with emotion. “Happy New Century.”
Even as she said the set-words she knew what a hollow wish it was, for what possible happiness could lie ahead for the poor done old man that he had now become? But as he raised his head and patted her arm with a palsied hand, she fancied that, at least for a fleeting instant, she saw a glimpse of the young Pearce who, for all his faults, had nevertheless done his duty by her and stood beside her in trouble and in gladness – not that there had ever been much of the latter – throughout their many long years of marriage. Finally, it was the sound of Granny’s cackle which caused her to turn aside from the deep wells of love, longing, sorrow and remembrance she could read in her husband’s eyes.
At once she enveloped Granny in a hug. Then holding her old friend at arm’s length, she saw the tears trickling down the life-lined face.
“Come on now, Granny. No time this, for tears. Happy New Year to you.”
Granny tried to stem the flow of tears with the back of her hand.
“Kate. I’m only crying because I’m that happy. A new Century, begod. Never thought I’d live to see it.”
“Well, you have. So, let’s get this party under way. Come on, now Jenny, suppose you hand round the shortbread fingers? And I’ll see that the glasses are filled to toast the year of our Lord nineteen hundred. And listen, Jenny, best be quick, before the rest of the revellers start battering down the door.”
No sooner was their somewhat subdued toast made and tossed back than there was indeed a thunderous tattoo at the door, accompanied by a strident ringing of the brass bell-pull.
Kate and Jenny both ran to the door, which they opened and threw wide to the wall. Into the narrow hallway erupted a jumble of singing, laughing, rioting humanity led by the dark-haired first-footer, Baldie McFarrel. Baldie, the local Primary School’s martinet of a janitor, had obviously borrowed for this auspicious occasion the heavy brass hand-bell which normally summoned laggard children to school. Like a town crier, he clanged this bell, as all the while, he yelled: “Happy New Century to one and all. Happy Nineteen-Hundred.”
As if all this were not enough excitement, Kate nearly lost her eyesight in amazement when she saw who was bringing up the rear of the party. It was none other than her old pal Shuggie, carrying a set of somewhat moth-eaten bagpipes which he was, even at that very moment, in the process of tuning-up. Kate gave a scream of delight and reaching out, dragged the would-be piper into the confines of her home.
“Shuggie. I just don’t believe it. Oh, this is great. Great. I’ve never had a piper in my house before. I’m sure it’s meant to be a lucky omen. What a way to celebrate the new Century. Come in, come in.”
Auld Shuggie allowed himself to be drawn into the hall, which although dimly lit with borrowed light from the gas-lamp on the stairhead, was bright enough to reveal an amazing fact.
The bold Shuggie was dressed overall in full Highland dress regalia, right down to kiltie top-hose and silver-buckled brogues. Seeing this vision of splendour in her home, Kate clapped her hands in delight and then raced ahead to the kitchen where she announced to the waiting assembly:
“You’ll never believe it: We’ve got a piper. Is that not the grand start to the new century?”
Scarcely were the words out of her mouth than Auld Shuggie came marching in, kilt swaying and pipes blaring. The volume of sound in the confines of the small, stuffy kitchen had to be heard to be believed and not a few of the guests winced in real pain as the noise physically assaulted their ear-drums. Shuggie chose to ignore this minor embarrassment and, with measured tread, dictated by his liberal intake of whisky, he paced to and fro in the tiny room, slapping down first one silver-buckled shoe, then the other, with all the while his bagpipes screaming at full pitch. At long, weary last, his ragged and ear-splitting rendition over, Shuggie lowered his bagpipes and gazed expectantly at his captive and by now nearly-deaf audience. But instead of the riotous applause which he so obviously expected, there was instead silence, a strained silence which could be felt. Whether people were too overcome by the emotion of the event, or were just plain stunned by the noise of it all, would have been hard to define.
There was a smattering of somewhat belated applause for the piper, who acknowledged their appreciation by hiking the front of his kilt waist high. This brought a roar of approval from the revellers, amid such ribald shouts as,
“Aye. No mystery noo”
“Good on you, Shuggie, lad. Mind you, there’s no much there to do a song and dance about, is there?”
Shuggie took it all in good part, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, sunshine, big or wee, there’s one thing sure, at least it’s livened up the party a bit. I was beginning to think I’d often been at a cheerier wake.”
Strangely enough, the one member of his audience who appeared most of all to have enjoyed the medley of tunes was Hannah. Throughout Shuggie’s recital, she had kept up a spirited rendition of her own by banging on the sides of her go-chair with a spoon, which had been thoughtfully provided by Granny for this express purpose. Hannah’s face was still aglow with delight when the red-faced and perspiring piper staggered over to her. Between the exertion of his piping, the furnace heat of the small, crowded room and the streaming cold which he was hellbent on sharing with everyone else in sight, it was clear that he was in urgent need of a handkerchief, and not just for his fevered brow. After a fruitless search through every pocket, in the course of which his half-bottle of cheap whisky was in danger of crashing to the floor, he finally gave up the unequal struggle. Tucking his bagpipes more firmly under his left armpit, he drew the arm of his sleeve across his dripping nose. That did it. One of the ornate silver buttons on the cuff somehow got jammed in his right nostril. In his befuddled, drunken state, and with a look of utter amazement on his vapid face, he chugged and chugged at the offending obstacle. If anything, this served only to lodge it more firmly. It was left to Kate, well-versed in such matters over many years of dealing with Hannah and her equally dramatic crises, to help get the luckless Shuggie out of his predicament. With one last tug from his rescuer and a screech of pain from the gallant piper, he was freed. The offending button dislodged itself not only from Shuggie’s, by now, red-raw nostril, but also from his jumble-sale kiltie’s jacket. As if released from a cannon, the button shot across the room, just missing Pearce’s left eye by an inch. It was at this point that Hannah happened to look up and, finding herself eyeball to eyeball with the beady eyes of the indeterminate and flea-bitten animal whose life had been sacrificed to make a sporran for the Piper’s full-dress regalia, she let out a scream of terror.
“Mammy, Mammy. Big monstra.”
It took all of Kate’s persuasion and Granny’s offer of a sweet bite to reassure poor Hannah that it was not in fact a monster after her. Shuggie was having problems of his own, since he was being actively dissuaded from scrabbling about on the floor to hunt for his lost and suddenly precious ‘silver’ button. At last, Kate, with her most ingratiating hostess smile pinned to her face, managed to convince him that the sweeper-up would get it in the morning and later return his property to him. Thus reassured, Shuggie, as was his due, seeing as he was the only one wearing a kilt, again adopted the mantle of Master of Ceremonies. He cast a bleary eye over the assemblage.
“Right then, you lot, this is supposed to be a party. And at a Scottish Ceilidh, everybo
dy’s supposed for to do their party-piece.”
This announcement was met with a stunned silence. Then Stoorie Sanny, from the next close, recovered sufficiently to say: “Awa and bile yer heid, Shuggie. If you think I’m going to get up and dae a clog-dance or give a wee recitation, you’re away with the fairies.”
There was a murmur of assent from the other guests and reluctant performers. When it was clear that not one party-goer was willing to act the goat for the enjoyment of his fellows, Auld Shuggie frowned in perplexity. Then as his face brightened, he rubbed his hands before announcing his latest brain-wave.
“Right. If you’re all going to be stick-in-the-muds, there’s only one thing for it.” Here he cast his eyes around the room, as though seeking something other than his precious silver button. At length, his eyes lit on an empty whisky bottle where it still rested by the side of the fireside kerb where an inebriated guest had laid it.
Shuggie crossed the room and, bending down, retrieved the bottle. Then holding it aloft, as if some hard-won trophy, he again addressed his captive audience.
“Now we’re really in business, folks. So, here’s what we do. It’s quite easy and nobody needs to get themselves in a fankle about it: We spin the bottle on the floor and when it stops, if it’s pointing to you, that means you’ve to do a turn. Fair, isn’t it?”
Then without waiting for either agreement or denial, Shuggie bent down and gave the bottle a hefty spin. When it fina ly came to rest, it was pointing at Jenny. She blushed scarlet then, egged on by the prompting of the other guests who were only too relieved that it wasn’t their turn, she mumbled her way through a half-forgotten poem, a relic from the dim and distant days of the Kinnon ceilidhs of blessed memory. This rendition was greeted with loud cheers and much back-slapping, so much so that the poor girl regained her seat in some confusion. Next to be chosen by the spin of the bottle was Donny McGinty. For some reason best known to himself and despite being in a fine state of intoxication, he chose of all things, A Ballad of the Drunkard’s Poor Wee Bairn. This ran to several verses and was accompanied by much posturing, beating of breast and flinging wide of arms.
Fortunes of the Heart Page 26