his warm bed sae late at nicht, tried to quaiten them and gar them hurry, they stertit to taigle him wi aa the wiles in their pouer. The upshot was that he grew hairt seik ο them afore he gat them the length ο the Black Bog, and in the end he telt them no to gang near Linmill again, and left them skaithless.
On the Saubbath we saw naething ο them, though we heard they had been beylin their black can in the wuid on the Hinnie Muir road, and thocht they maun be makin for the upland ferms, and we wad be weill redd ο them, but on the Monday mornin, whan my grandfaither was leadin his squad ο warkers across the Clyde road to the field aside the waal orchard, he fand Paddy and Kate wi their bundle aside the waal yett.
They rase as he cam forrit and stude in his wey, and their blarney wad hae saftent the hairt ο the Lanark factor. It was Kate that stertit.
‘Sure now, master, and ye wouldn’t be after giving us the sack, a poor owld couple the like of us, that has worked our fingers to the bone for ye, year after year, with never a word of complaint. Sure ye wouldn’t be after sending us away from ye, and we never wishing ye any ill at all. He hit ye, master, but ye wouldn’t be blamin him for the like of that, and ye with a fondness for a drop yerself. And didn’t ye give him as good as ye got, ye owld warrior, for be looking at the eye he has on him. It’s as black as a tinker’s pot.’
And syne Paddy.
‘Look at the poor owld sinner, master, and have pity in yer heart. She’s not fit to be travelling the roads and sleeping outbye. She would die on me, so she would, for her breast’s black and blue, master, with the lamming I gave her when my head was fuddled, God help me, and my five senses dulled with the drink. Take us back, master, like the kind man ye are, for it’s sorry we are for all the trouble we gave you, and that’s the solemn truth. Take us back, master, for the love of God, and not be sending us both out to die on the roads.’
My grandfaither felt gey sorry for them, I hae nae dout, but he daurtna tak them back again against my grannie’s will.
‘I cana dae it, Paddy. Ye’d better baith gang awa up and speir at the hoose.’
They lookit gey taen aback whan he said that, for weill they kent my grannie was anither nuit to crack. But there was nae help for them, for my grandfaither shouthert his wey past them and led his squad doun to the field.
The pair sat for a while and argle-barglet, and syne maun hae made up their minds, for in the end they cam to the hoose door, timrous like, and gied a blate wee chap.
My grannie cried oot frae the kitchen.
‘Wha’s that?’
‘Sure it’s meself, mistress, and me poor wife Kate, come to beg yer pardon.’
‘What! Ye’ll get nae paurdon here. Awa wi the pair ο ye, or I’ll lowse the dug. Awa I tell ye or I’ll send for the polis again. The thowless lump suld hae putten ye baith in jeyl.’
And no anither word wad she say, though they stude at the door, disjaskit lookin, for hauf the mornin.
They had their denner by the hedge at the Falls road-end, and they were there still, beikin in the sun, whan I gaed doun the Falls road in the efternune, on my wey to the shop to buy sweeties.
Auld Kate saw me comin and sat up.
‘Sit up, Paddy dear, and just look here. Isn’t he the little darlint with his curly hair, and the freckles on the nose of him? The Lord bless ye, honey boy, and yer lovely ma, for she’s the prettiest lady in the broad land, and it’s the truth I’m telling. Isn’t she, now, Paddy dear, and isn’t he the living image of her?’
I kent it was aa blarney, for my minnie had black hair, and mine was reid. But there was mair to come.
‘Where would ye be after going, now, on a day like this? Is it for Clyde ye are?’
‘Na.’
‘For the Falls, then, maybe?’
‘Ay.’
‘He’ll be for buying sweeties, the little treasure, at Martha Baxter’s shop. Is that what’s in it?’
‘Ay.’
‘There now, and I after saying it. Sure, and that’ll be a penny ye have, shut tight in yer hand?’
‘Ay.’
‘A penny. He couldn’t be buying much with a penny. Could he now, Paddy dear?’
‘A penny. No. A few sweeties, maybe, or a lucky bag, or maybe a little box of sherbert, but what’s sweeties, or a lucky bag, or sherbert itself, on a hot thirsty day the like of this?’
‘It’s a bottle of lemonade he should be buying, to quench his thirst.’
‘Yes, indade.’
‘And a swate biscuit or two.’
‘Ah sure, a swate biscuit or two, for drink should never be taken on an empty stomach, and there’s nobody in the wide world knows that better than meself.’
‘Ach wheesht now, Paddy, and give the boy a sixpence.’
‘A sixpence, is it? Sure now, and haven’t ye a sixpence yerself in yer petticoat pocket?’
‘I wonder now. Ah yes, indade I have. Come here, little swateheart, and be holding your hand out.’
I kent I suldna tak the sixpence, but the temptation was mair nor I could staun, and though I held back, blate like, I didna rin awa till she pat the sixpence in my haund and tried to kiss me.
I ran then.
Whan I had gotten the sixpence, though, I was feart to ware it. My heid gaed roun like a peerie whan I thocht ο aa I could buy, but I was shair that if I gaed hame wi my pooches fou my minnie wad speir, and wad think shame ο me whan she fand whaur I had gotten the siller. I thocht for a while ο hidin it to ware some ither day, but that wad hae made things waur. In the end, for I was ower greedy to gang and gie it back, I gaed to my minnie to show it to her, and tell her they had forced me to tak it.
I fand her by her lane in the front gairden.
‘Kate O’Brien gied me a sixpence, minnie.’
‘Dear me, a haill sixpence. Let me see.’
‘She forced me to tak it.’
‘She forced ye, did she? Hou that?’
‘She stude on the Falls road and blarneyed me, and wadna let me bye, syne she pat the sixpence in my haund and tried to kiss me and I ran awa.’
‘She blarneyed ye, did she? What did she say?’
‘She said ye were the bonniest leddy in Clydeside.’
‘Did she? And what else did she say?’
‘That I suld buy some lemonade. But I dinna want lemonade. I want sweeties, and
