by Ian Todd
“Give me the Alexander Brothers anytime,” Packer shouted, looking aboot, daring anywan tae disagree wae him.
“Naw, that’s it. Ah cannae cope wae this. Aw youse want is songs aff ae a shortbreid biscuit tin and Ah don’t know any ae that shite,” Paul pleaded.
“Sing us your favourite song, Paul,” Whitey pleaded.
“Aye, Paul. We won’t laugh, I promise,” Molly McTavish said, as they aw burst oot laughing.
“Right, here ye go, ready or no,” he shouted, strumming the guitar and bursting intae ‘Living Doll,’ the only shite song that he could remember, as everywan joined in wae aw the words, while his backing band, consisting ae Innes oan the fiddle and Isabella oan the spoons, gied it laldy in the background.
Chapter Fifteen
Saturday Morning
He wis trying tae keep the honey fae running aff ae his slice ae breid, bit wis failing miserably. He felt the stickiness between his fingers ae baith his hauns and wis so engrossed in trying tae lick it aff ae them, that it took him a while tae glance o’er in the direction ae Whitey and Innes, who wur baith sitting at the table opposite him, observing his contortions.
“Whit?” Paul asked.
“Nothing. Don’t mind us, laddie. You just carry on,” Innes said, smiling.
It hid been late before the crowd hid left the night before. PC McTavish hid disappeared at wan point, tae nip doon and check oot that everything wis aw right doon at the Gala field. Paul and Packer hid needed tae help him oot and up tae the polis car at the entrance tae the croft. He couldnae staun as he wis as pished as a fart.
“I’ll be okay now that I’m sitting back down, lads,” he’d slurred, putting the car intae reverse instead ae first gear, before speeding aff, gears crunching, towards Ardgay.
Paul hid hung aboot fur aboot another hour or so, listening tae the patter and the singing fae the crowd in the living room. He’d jist lain doon oan his bed, when his room hid lit up wae flashing blue lights. McTavish hid arrived back and started tae get tore in, where he’d left aff. In the morning, he’d heard Innes get up tae gie him a push tae start the polis car. He’d left the heidlights, including the blue flashing wan oan the tap, oan aw night and hid run doon the battery. It must’ve been seen fur miles across the Kyle.
“No running this morning, Paul?” Whitey asked him.
“Naw, Ah don’t feel that well. Ah don’t know whit wis in that whisky, bit it’s gied me the auld jittery doos. Ah’ve been oot in that cludgie twice awready since Ah goat up.”
“Aye, you’ve got a bit to go before your body gets used to the good stuff, son,” Innes said sympathetically, wae a smile oan his coupon.
“So, whit’s the plans the day then?” Paul asked.
“Bothan Macpherson will be picking us up anytime now. I’ve made up a bag of sandwiches and a gallon container of fresh lemonade,” Whitey said.
“Aye, and I’ve got my wee hip flask, in case of emergencies,” Innes said, putting the biggest hip flask…or, the only hip flask…Paul hid ever seen, intae the inside pocket ae his poaching jaicket.
It wis the sound ae the bugle o’er the sound ae the singing that alerted them that their taxi hid arrived.
“Here you go, Paul. That should do you until later this evening,” Whitey said, taking two hauf croons oot ae her auld purse and haunin them tae him.
“Aw, ur ye sure, Whitey? Ah’m sure Ah’ll manage.”
“Of course I’m sure. You’ll need some money in your pocket.”
“Right, let’s be having youse,” Innes shouted eagerly, heiding fur the door.
At the gate, two big Clydesdale horses stood in aw their finery. The sun wis dazzling aff the polished badges oan their bridles. Attached tae the horses wis a long cart wae aboot twenty adults and as many weans piled oan tap ae it, aw shouting and singing at wance.
“Hello there, Bothan,” Innes sang, as he lifted Whitey up oan tae the side ae the cart, before getting up and sitting beside the driver.
“Is that us?” Bothan shouted tae everywan oan the back.
“Aye!” a chorus ae voices shouted back.
“This is Paul,” Innes turned and shouted tae everywan, pointing at Paul, who’d managed tae squeeze in and plap that arse ae his doon, above the back wheel.
“Hiya.”
“Hello.”
“Give us a song, laddie!”
“My name’s Jock,” the freckle-faced boy sitting next tae Paul said.
“How ur ye daeing, Jock?” Paul replied, eyeing up his taxi companion.
“How old are you then?” Jock asked him.
“Fourteen.”
“Snap, same as myself.”
“So, dae ye live in the valley then?” Paul asked him.
“They call it a strath, and aye, I was born over in Rosehall. It’s about four miles back the way,” Jock said, wae a nod ae his heid in the direction ae Beinn an Eoin.
“So, dae ye work then?” Paul asked him.
“Aye, when I’m not at school in Golspie. There’s three families all work on our croft. My father and his two brothers were all born there and have never moved off it, apart from when they go to the Ardgay Games and the cattle mart up in Lairg once a year.”
“So, ye’ve lived a sheltered life then, Jock?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been to Tain once or twice,” Jock said, laughing.
Paul looked at the boy sitting beside him. He reckoned he wis aboot his ain height…five feet eight or nine…curly red hair, face a mass ae freckles and a permanent, big cheesy grin oan that coupon ae his.
“So, whit dae ye dae aboot winching then?” Paul asked him.
“Winching?”
“Aye, y’know, how dae ye go aboot getting yersel a girlfriend?”
“If you’re lucky, you catch the eye of a local beauty.”
“Whit, in Rosehall?”
“No, no, down at the Ardgay Games. I’ll be looking about today and then I’ll try my luck at the dance tonight.”
“And then whit?”
“Hopefully if she likes me, I’ll see her again next year.”
“Ye’re kidding me oan, so ye ur.”
“Aye,” he admitted, laughing.
“Fuck, Ah thought ye wur serious fur a minute there.”
“Have you got a girlfriend then?” Jock asked, as everywan burst intae ‘Mhairi’s Wedding’.
“Ah’m working oan it.”
“Oh aye, anybody I would know?”
“Her name’s Morven. She works part-time up at the castle. A wee blonde thing who’s quick wae the wan-liners.”
“Morven? Oh aye, I know Morven. She gave me a knock-back when I was six. It took me at least three years to get over it. You’ll need to watch out. It’s said George Sellar has high hopes there.”
“Well, hopefully she’ll be here the day so Ah kin get in wae a shout fur next year’s games, eh?” Paul said as they baith laughed.
Everywan oan the cart took a turn tae belt oot a song that everywan else joined in oan the chorus wae. It wisnae exactly chart toppers, Paul thought tae himsel. In fact, they wur aw fae nineteen canteen or as ‘auld as the hills’, as that auld granny ae his wid’ve said. He recognised the tunes ae some ae them as they wur the same wans that Innes played. Jock gied him a running commentary oan the stories behind them and whit they wur called. There wur gems like ‘Dancing In Kyle’, ‘The Four Marys’ and ‘The Waters ae Kylesku’. He knew ‘Fur These Are Ma Mountains’ and ‘There Wis A Sojer’ fae when he wis in primary school. Paul couldnae remember anything as magic as being oan that cart, in amongst a bunch ae Highlanders, aw singing and howling, crawling slowly alang the road. The scenery wis breath-taking and the tenements in the Toonheid back in Glesga seemed a million miles away. As they entered the trees near the estate, Paul sensed a slight change in those roond aboot him. It wisnae anything ye could see or touch, bit he felt the mood change. The weans calmed doon a bit, the singing trailed aff, and only a few joined in oan the chorus ae the last song. Beside
him, Jock never goat roond tae telling him the name ae the song before he tae, fell silent. Paul looked aboot. It hid aw gone quiet. They wur jist slowly moving past the big castle gates oan their right, when wan ae the wummin let rip and opened up singing ‘Tae the lords and convention, ‘twas Claverhouse spoke’ and that wis that. The whole cart burst intae song again.
“Bonnie Dundee,” Jock shouted in Paul’s ear, in between the singing.
“Whit aboot it?”
“Montrose…it’s about the Earl of Montrose, who fought for our freedom and was captured on the other side of the Kyle of Sutherland, just over there, by our present Duke’s ancestors,” Jock shouted, pointing through the trees tae the water oan their left.
It hid taken them aboot an hour tae reach the humped-back bridge across the River Carron where he’d met Morven the day before. Paul looked across at the field. Hauf the Highlands must be here, he thought tae himsel. Everything wis happening at wance. A piper wis gieing it big licks as a group ae wee lassies, aw done up in Highland outfits, wur prancing aboot, daeing the sword dance up oan a wee stage in front ae a table ae judges. He looked o’er towards the roar ae the crowd as a big bearded bear in a white vest and kilt ran forward, haudin his caber upright wae baith hauns, before unleashing it forward in front ae him, where it tottered before falling forward, tae the delight ae everywan. The field looked as if it hid been taken o’er by ants. The whole place seemed tae be seething back and forth. He noticed there wis a crowd roond the boxing ring and a couple ae young wans wur hivving a go at each other, cheered oan by the crowd. He turned tae look as he heard the crack ae a starter pistol and a group ae runners heided aff the starting line tae run at full speed roond the perimeter ae the field. The wailing ae the pipes and tapping ae the snare drums wis coming fae aw directions, particularly fae the far right haun corner, nearest tae Ardgay, where the pipe band competition wis in full swing.
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday Efternoon
“Morven, stop looking about like some kind of groupie strumpet with your tongue hanging out...and keep up with me. If he’s as keen as you’ve said he is, he’ll track you down,” Saba scolded her, entering the Wummin’s Rural Institute tent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m looking at the marquees and who’s selling what to whom.”
“Now, listen up and do me a favour. Give me five minutes maximum with Dodo and then come and inform me that I’m late for meeting up with my father. Don’t keep me waiting any more than that, okay? Have you got that?”
“Got it.”
“Dodo, how lovely to see you,” Saba cooed, walking across tae her ex-governess, who wis pacing up and doon in front ae a table full ae auld wummin, sitting knitting scarves, hivving entered the ‘Knit A Scarf In Thirty Minutes’ competition.
“Saba, Saba, how wonderful to see you, darling. I heard you were back. Look at you, all grown up and beautiful,” Dodo exclaimed, kissing Saba oan the cheek and gieing her a big hug.
“So, how are they doing then, Dodo?” Saba asked her, looking at the ten auld dears who wur sitting in a line, knitting furiously.
“Oh, you know, the outcome will be the same as last year. It will be between Mrs Forbes and Miss Stone, with Miss Calderwood, sitting down at the end there, last as usual,” Dodo whispered, as they baith looked at the two competing champions whose scarves wur awready trailing doon in front ae them on tae the trampled grass, compared tae Miss Calderwood, who hid aboot three inches ae scarf showing in front ae her busy fingers.
“I wanted to come and visit you sooner, but I’m still trying to come to terms with being back in the strath,” Saba apologised.
“Yes, I did hear that you were here under duress, darling. And how is your dear mother?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. I’ve not heard from her since I’ve been back. Too busy having a good time, I expect, to be bothered with worrying about me.”
“Oh, Saba, I’m sure that’s not true. She loves you. It’s not easy bringing up a young feisty Scottish redhead on your own these days, especially in a place like New York. I daresay she’s missing you too,” Dodo said, cuddling her again and kissing the tap ae her heid.
“Excuse me, Dodo, but Saba’s late. She’s supposed to have met The Duke ten minutes ago,” Morven said.
“Oh, Morven, you never were a good liar, dear. I do understand though. If I could, I would be off looking at all the young stags strutting about here, rather than standing listening to an old battle-axe like me,” Dodo said wae a knowing smile.
“Oh, Dodo, I do miss you,” Saba said, cuddling her, before moving aff towards the entrance wae Morven.
Efter saying cheerio tae Innes and Whitey, Paul tagged alang wae Jock, who seemed quite happy tae show him aboot the place. They stood watching the tug o’ war semi-final between the teams fae Bonar Bridge and Lairg, which Lairg won easily. They then moved across tae the hammer-throwing competition and wur jist in time tae watch the semi-finals, wae Ardgay against Golspie and Dornoch against Tain. The final wis between Ardgay and Dornoch, or rather, George Seller and a guy called Campbell. Paul noticed the younger brother, Cameron, who wis staunin haudin wan ae the Irish Wolfhounds oan a leash beside him, egging oan his aulder brother, alang wae an aulder guy.
“That’s John Sellar…George’s father. Right ugly bastards, eh?” Jock said tae him, as George let fly wae his first shot.
“Fault!” shouted the wee man in the white coat and bunnet.
“Yer arse is at fault, Cardle!” John Sellar snarled at the steward.
“He touched the trig with that right foot of his, Mr Sellar,” Hugh Cardle pleaded.
“The quicker you get those eyes tested the better,” Sellar, the elder, stated menacingly.
“Next,” Cardle quavered, as the guy fae Dornoch stepped forward, grabbed the shaft ae the long hammer, spun it roond his heid a few times and let fly wae a perfect shot.
Paul looked across at the Sellars, huddled thegither, murmuring tae each other.
“Fuck you!” George said tae Cardle, walking oot ae the throwing circle, efter letting loose wae his second shot that landed aboot two feet further oan than the Dornoch boy’s shot.
The second Dornoch shot landed behind George’s. Paul kept looking across at the Sellars. Again they wur huddled up wae the auld man gieing instructions tae his auldest son. Efter a minute or so, young George stepped forward, rolled his erms and shoulders aboot tae loosen them up, before coating his hauns wae powder tae soak up the sweat. He lifted up the hammer and stepped tae the back line, scowling at Cardle. The large crowd went silent as he started tae swing the shaft aboot his heid, before moving forward oan his right fit and letting it go wance he’d swivelled his body intae two fast turns. It flew through the air like a rocket and landed aboot seven feet beyond his last throw.
“Beat that,” George sneered at his opponent, while looking across at Hugh Cardle, daring him tae challenge his fitwork.
The Dornoch guy stepped forward and entered the ring. He went through the same limbering-up process as George hid done. Paul knew the Sellars wur up tae nae good as soon as he clocked them huddled thegither, whispering like a bunch ae school weans in the playground. He jist couldnae figure oot how they’d be able tae interfere, other than by threatening the wee man in the white coat and bunnet. The boy fae Dornoch stood breathing, his chest swelling in and oot, looking forward, concentrating and then he started his swing. He moved his body forward oan his right fit and began tae accelerate the swinging motion. Jist before he wis aboot tae release the hammer, he cancelled his throw. A murmur rose up fae the watching crowd.
“Sorry,” he said tae Cardle apologetically.
“No bother, son. Just take your time now,” Cardle responded, under the scowls ae the watching Sellars’ eyes.
Paul looked aboot quickly. He wis sure the Sellars hidnae interfered in the cancelled throw, at least, no that he could make oot. He looked across at the hammer thrower and then across at the Sellars. The fa
ther and two sons, wae the dug sitting watching in front ae them, wur staunin smirking as the Dornoch boy made his move. It wis aw o’er in a flash. Wan minute the thrower wis twirling roond and the next, a painful-sounding howling shriek, like something oot ae the ‘Hounds ae The Baskerville’, aboot deafened the spectators, who aw jumped back in fright.
“Fault!” shouted Cardle, as Campbell, the Dornoch boy, hid his throw disqualified fur stepping oan the trig wae his left fit, as his hammer sailed past where George’s hammer hid left a dent in the grass.
Uproar ensued when the Dornoch supporters and the hammer thrower started tae protest tae Cardle. Paul wisnae sure which wan hid done it, although he thought Cameron wis the maist likely, seeing as he wis haudin the dug oan the leash.
“Wan ae they dirty basturts stood oan the bloody dug’s tail, jist as he wis aboot tae let go,” Paul growled, turning tae Jock.
“Do you think so?” Jock replied, smiling.
“Ah cannae well believe that. Surely the judge isnae gonnae accept that, is he? It wis pure interference, so it wis,” Paul protested in disbelief tae Jock.
“Aye, those Sellars are something else,” Jock grunted, as they heided aff towards the marquees and tents.
“Right…where next, Tonto?”
“Let’s go and buy a bag of fruit scones. Old Molly Ross, the finest baker in the Highlands, usually has a stall in here,” Jock hid jist finished saying as they passed through the tent opening and bumped intae the lassies.
“The Gardener’s Daughter!” Paul exclaimed to Saba.
“The Rabbit Thief!” Saba yelped, oan recognising who she’d bumped intae.
“What, you two have met then?” Morven asked, looking at the two ae them wae a puzzled look oan her face.
“Let’s go, Morven, I don’t think my father would wish me to be seen talking to thieving poachers.”
“Poacher? I’m not a poacher. Get your facts right, Saba. I’ve never been caught doing anything,” Jock replied indignantly, laughter in his eyes.
“Stay out of this, Jock McGregor.”
“Saba, this is Paul, the boy I was telling you about. Paul, this is Saba. She lives in the castle,” Morven blurted oot, trying her best tae ease the sudden tension that hid flared up.