na, ware it, but dinna mak yersell no weill.’
Whan I had been to the Falls shop I gaed back to the Linmill kitchen for a tumbler of watter. My grannie saw me wi the sherbert and strauchtent her back, for she was bendin ower the girdle.
‘Whaur did ye get that trash?’
‘At the Falls shop.’
‘Wha gied ye the siller?’
My minnie was tappin and tailin some grossets.
‘Kate O’Brien gied him a sixpence.’
‘A sixpence. Tryin to win favour.’
‘Ay.’
‘It’s a woner she had sixpence to gie him, efter Setterday nicht.’
‘Ay.’
Nae mair was said till my grandfaither came in for his supper. By that time Paddy and Kate were sittin wi their bundle on the dyke fornent the closs mou yett.
My minnie spak first.
‘Paddy and Kate O’Brien are at the yett, faither.’
‘Ay. They want back into the bothy, puir sowls.’
My grannie flared up.
‘Puir sowls! Did they no try to kill ye on Setterday nicht?’
‘They didna ken what they were daein. They were baith fou.’
‘They’re fou ower aften.’
‘Ye canna blame them, wi the life they hae. And I missed them on the field the day.’
‘Ye missed auld Kate’s flaitterin tongue, nae dout, but ye didna miss them for ony wark they wad hae dune.’
‘Oh but I did, for they’re gey guid warkers. The best in the field.’
My minnie spak then.
‘Ye canna gainsay that, mither, for ye hae said it gey aften yersell.’
‘Oh ye’re as bad as yer faither. They hae saft southert ye and aa, wi the sixpence they gied the bairn.’
My grandfather cockit his lugs.
‘Did they gie the bairn a sixpence?’
‘Ay, this efternune.’
‘Weill, I declare. It maun hae been gey near their last.’
‘Nae dout.’
‘Then damn it, wumman, they’re gaun back into the bothy!’
‘They’ll gang back to the bothy ower my corp!’
And she stude in my grandfaither’s wey.
He pat his twa haunds to her waist and liftit her aff the flair.
‘Ye’re for the closet, then.’
He had lockit her in the box-bed closet ae Burns’ nicht, when he was fou efter a spree, and had left her there till she had gien ower her flytin and stertit to greit. And nou whan he had made up his mind on a thing, and she wadna gie in, he wad threaten her wi the closet.
She lauched.
‘Aa richt, hae it yer ain wey, ye big saft sumph.’
And she gied him a dad on the lug.
He gaed awa oot to the closs mou, and in a wee while there was a great cheer frae the Donegals, as Paddy and Kate gaed forrit to the barn door.
ΤΑΜ LAUDER HAD a place caaed the Gill, no faur frae Linmill on the Clyde side ο the Kirkfieldbank road. It had been a mansion hoose at ae time, and though Tam ran it as a nursery it had the air ο a mansion hoose still, wi its stable and coach-hoose at the road yett, its braw drive leadin doun to the front door, and the smell ο roses hingin aa aboot it.
Tam had a bonnie dochter caaed Mary, a friend ο my minnie’s, and a great favourite ο my ain, for she had shown me my first tam-tit’s nest, and it was sic a bonnie thing I neir forgot it.
Someane else had haen his ee on Mary, though, for ae simmer whan I had won to Linmill for my holiday and stertit priggin at my grannie for news ο my friends she telt me that Mary was mairrit, to Dan Finlay ο Nether Affleck. I grew dowie to think I micht neir win ower to the Gill again, for it was a winsome place, and Mary had aye made a fuss ο me, and gien me jeelie in a saucer, if her big brass pan was on, or hinnie in the kaim, for Tam keepit bees, or mebbe some tomaities, for Tam had a gless-hoose, a new thing in Clydeside in thae days.
But my minnie took me to the Gill that simmer efter aa, for she heard that Mary’s mither was badly, and thocht she suld pey a caa. We fand the auld body sittin in the big front paurlor wi a shawl ower her knees, and bye and bye my minnie and she were crackin, first aboot hou I was daein at the schule, and syne aboot Mary and her new man and syne they began to whisper, and I was telt to gang awa doun to the kitchen and ask for some cake.
I creepit doun the daurk back stairs wonerin wha wad be there nou that Mary had gane, and gat the fricht ο my life.
There were twa weemen there, strangers baith. Ane ο them, a muckle lang baney craitur wi coorse tacketty buits and a tattie-bag apron, was bendin ower a beyn at the back door, thrang at a washin. The tither, a delicate bit thing that a souch ο wind wad hae liftit aff her feet, was staunin at the faur end ο the big table, haudin something ahint her back, as if she had been stealin and didna want me to ken. The big ane turnt and lookit roun. She was a fair terror, her een were that wan and sichtless lookin, and she had twa lang peyntit teeth that slaivert ower the corners ο her mou. I kent I couldna ask her for cake. I lookit to the wee ane.
Ye could hae said she was bonnie, for she had bricht blue een and cheeks like a frostit aipple, but for aa that I didna like the look ο her aither.
‘Hullo, little boy,’ she said.
Juist like that. She was English.
That was queer eneuch, for there werena mony English aboot Clydeside. There were whiles a wheen amang the folk that cam frae Hamilton in fower in haund brakes to see the Falls. And Fred Jubb the horse-breker was English. He had mairrit a Kirkfieldbank lassie and bidden on aside his wife’s folk. But an English wumman in service in a hoose was new to me.
Then I saw what she had been hidin ahint her back, and aa at ance I kent whit was whaat.
It was a doll, wi a cheenie heid, and
