A Scots Quair Read online

  And then Long Rob of the Mill was making a speech, different from McIvor’s as well it might be. He said he’d never married himself because he’d over-much respect for those kittle folk, women; but if he’d been ten years younger he was damned if his respect would have kept him from having a try for Chris Guthrie, and beating that Highland childe, Ewan, at his own fell game. That was just Ewan’s luck, he thought, not his judgment, and Chris was clean thrown away on her husband, as she’d have been on any husband at all: but himself. Ah well, no doubt she’d train him up well, and he advised Εwan now, from the little that he knew of marriage, never to counter his wife; not that he thought she wasn’t well able to look after herself, but just that Ewan mightn’t find himself worsted though he thought himself winner. Marriage, he took it, was like yoking together two two-year-olds, they were kittle and brisk on the first bit rig—unless they’d fallen out as soon as they were yoked and near kicked themselves and their harness to bits—but the second rig was the testing-time, it was then you knew when one was pulling and one held back, the one that had sheer sweirty—and that was a word for Mr Gordon to put into English—in its bones, and the one with a stout bit heart and a good guts. Well, he wouldn’t say more about horses, though faith! it was a fascinating topic, he’d just come back to marriage and say they all wished the best to Chris, so sweet and trig, and to Ewan, the Highland cateran, and long might they live and grow healthy, wealthy, and well content.

  Then they all drank up again, and God knows who mightn’t have made the next speech if Chae then hadn’t stood up and cried The night’s near on us. Who’s game for a daylight dance at Chris’s wedding!

  So out they all went to the kitchen, it was cold enough there from the heat of the room, but nothing to the coldrife air of the barn when the first of them had crossed the close and stood in the door. But Mistress Melon had kindled a brazier with coal, it crackled fine, well away from the straw, Rob tuned up his fiddle, Chae squeaked on his melodeon, it began to feel brisk and warm even while you stood and near shivered your sark off. Chris was there with the men, of course, and the children and Mistress Gordon and Mistress Mutch and Mistress Strachan were there, Mistress Munro had stayed behind to help clear the tables, she said, and some whispered it was more than likely she’d clear most of the clearings down her own throat, by God she couldn’t have eaten a mouthful since Candlemas.

  But then Chae cried Strip the Willow, and they all lined up, and the melodeon played bonnily in Chae’s hands, and Long Rob’s fiddle-bow was darting and glimmering, and in two minutes, in the whirl and go of Strip the Willow, there wasn’t a cold soul in Blawearie barn, or a cold sole either. Then here, soon’s they’d finished, was Mistress Melon with a great jar of hot toddy to drink, she set it on a bench between Chae and Long Rob. And whoever wanted to drink had just to go there, few were bashful in the going, too; and another dance started, it was a schottische, and Chris found herself in the arms of the minister, he could dance like a daft young lad. And as he swung her round and around he opened his mouth and cried Hooch! and so did the red Highlander, McIvor, Hooch! careering by with fat Kirsty Strachan, real scared-like she looked, clipped round the waist.

  Then Chae and Long Rob hardly gave them a breather, they were at it dance on dance; and every time they stopped for a panting second Chae would dip in the jar and give Rob a wink and cry Here’s to you, man! and Rob would dip, solemn-like as well, and say Same to you! and off the fiddle and melodeon would go again, faster than ever. Εwan danced the schottische with prim Mistress Gordon, but for waltzing he found a quean from the Mains, a red-faced, daft- like limmer, she screamed with excitement and everybody laughed, Chris laughed as well. Some were watching to see if she did, she knew, and she heard a whisper she’d have all her work cut out looking after him, coarse among the queans he was, Ewan Tavendale. But she didn’t care, she knew it a lie, Ewan was hers and hers only; but she wished he would dance with her for a change. And here at the Petronella he was, he anyway hadn’t been drinking, in the noise of the dance as they swayed up and down the barn he whispered Well, Chris? and she whispered back Fine, and he said You’re the bonniest thing ever seen in Kinraddie, Long Rob was right. And she said she liked him to think so and he pulled her back in the darkness away from the dancers, and kissed her quickly and slowly, she didn’t hurry either, it was blithe and glad to stand there kissing, each strained to hear when they’d be discovered.

  And then they were, Chae crying Where’s the bride and the groom? Damn’t, they’re lost! and out they’d to come. Chae cried was there anyone else could play the melodeon? and young Jock Gordon cried back to him Ay, fine that, and came stitering across the floor and sat himself down by the toddy- jar, and played loud and clear and fine. Then Chae caught Chris, he said to Εwan Away, you greedy brute, wait a while till she’s yours forever and aye, and he danced right neatly, you didn’t expect it from Chae, with his grey eyes laughing down at you. And as he danced he said suddenly, grave-like, Never doubt your Εwan, Chris, or never let him know that you do. That’s the hell of a married life. Praise him up and tell him he’s fine, that there’s not a soul in the Howe can stand beside him, and he’ll want to cuddle you till the day he dies; and he’ll blush at the sight of you fifty years on as much as he does the day. She said I’ll try, and Thank you, Chae, and he said Och, it must be the whisky speaking, and surrendered her up to Ellison, and took the melodeon from Gordon again, but staggered and leant back against the sack that hung as a draught-shield behind the musician’s place. Down came the sack and there among the hay was the minister and the maid from the Mains that had scraiched so loud, she’d her arms round him and the big curly bull was kissing the quean like a dog lapping up its porridge.

  Chris’s heart near stopped, but Chae snatched up the sack, hooked it back on its hook again, nobody saw the sight except himself and Chris and maybe Long Rob. But you couldn’t be sure about Rob, he looked as solemn as five owls all in one, and was playing as though, said Chae, he was paid by piece-work and not by time.

  Between eight and nine Mistress Melon came out to the barn and cried them to supper, the storm had left off, all but a flake that sailed down now and then like a sailing gull in the beam from the barn door. On the ground the snow crinkled under their feet, frost had set in, the folk stood and breathed in the open air, and laughed, and cried one to the other, Man, I’ll have aching joints the morn! The women ran first to the house, to tidy their hair, Ewan saw everybody in, except Munro of the Cuddiestoun, he was nowhere to be seen.

  And then Ewan heard a funny bit breathing as he passed by the stable; and he stopped and opened the door and struck a match, and there was Munro, all in his Sunday-best, lying in the stall beside Clyde the horse, and his arms were round the beast’s neck, and faith! the beast looked real disgusted. Ewan shook him and cried Munro, you can’t sleep here, but Munro just blinked the eyes in his face, daft-like, and grumbled Why not? Syne Alec Mutch turned back from the house to see what all the stir was about, and both he and Ewan had another go at the prostrate Munro, but damn the move would he make, Alec cried To hell with him, leave him there with the mare, she’s maybe a damned sight kinder a bed-mate than ever was that futret of a wife of his.

  So they closed the door of the stable and went into their supper, everybody ate near as well as at tea-time, fair starved they were with the dancing and drink. Chris had thought she herself was tired till she ate some supper, and then she felt fresh as ever, and backed up Long Rob, who looked twice as sober as any of the men and had drunk about twice as much as any three of them, when he cried Who’s for a dance again? Mistress Melon had the toddy-jar filled fresh full and they carried that out, everybody came to the barn this time except Mistress Munro, No, no, I’ll clear the table.

  And young Elsie Ellison, wondering for why the creature should stay behind, stayed herself and took a bit keek round the corner of the door: and there was Mistress Munro, with a paper bag in her hand, stuffing it with scones and biscuits and cake, and twis
ting her head this side and that, like the head of a futret. So Elsie, fair scared, ran off to the barn and caught at her father’s tails and cried The Cuddiestoun wife’s away home with the pieces, and Ellison, he was whiskied up to high tune by then, cried Let her run to hell and be damned to her.

  Syne he started a tale about how once she’d insulted him, the dirty Scotch bitch. But Long Rob and Chae were striking up a dance again and Chris heard no more of the Ellison story, dancing a waltz with young Jock Gordon, it was like flying, Jock’s face was white with excitement. The fourth dance Alec Mutch, the fool, began to stiter the floor, backwards and forwards, he was a real nuisance till he passed Long Rob and then Rob cried Hoots, Alec, man, you’re feet are all wrong! and thrust out a foot among Alec’s and couped him down and Chae shoved him aside to the straw with a foot and a hand, and played on with the other foot and hand, or maybe with a foot and his teeth, a skilly man, Chae.

  Mistress Mutch said nothing, just standing and laughing and smoking at her cigarette. There were more men than women in the barn, though, even when the men made do with a little quean, and soon Chris found herself dancing with Mistress Mutch, the great, easy-going slummock, she spoke slow and easy as though she’d just wakened up from her sleep. Chris couldn’t tell what way she looked with that gleying eye, but what she spoke was Take things easy in married life, Chris, but not over-easy, that’s been my ruin. Though God knows it’ll make not a difference in a hundred years time and we’re dead. Don’t let Ewan saddle you with a birn of bairns, Chris, it kills you and eats your heart away, forbye the unease and the dirt of it. Don’t let him, Chris, they’re all the same, men; and you won’t well steer clear of the first or second. But you belong to yourself, mind that.

  Chris went hot and cold and then wanted to ask something of Mistress Mutch and looked at her and found she couldn’t, she’d just have to find the thing out for herself. Long Rob came down to dance with her next, he’d left the fiddle to old Gordon, and he asked what that meikle slummock had been saying to her? And Chris said Oh, just stite, and Rob said Mind, don’t let any of those damned women fear you, Chris; it’s been the curse of the human race, listening to advice. And Chris said But I’m listening to yours, Rob, now, amn’t I? He nodded to her, solemn, and said, Oh, you’ve your head screwed on and you’ll manage fine. But mind, if there’s ever a thing you want with a friend, not to speak it abroad all over Kinraddie, I’ll aye be there at the Mill to help you. Chris thought that a daft-like speak for Rob, kind maybe he meant it, but she’d have Ewan, who else could she want?

  And then the fun slackened off, the barn was warm, folk sat or lay on the benches or straw, Chris looked round and saw nothing of the minister then, maybe he’d gone. She whispered to Chae about that, but he said Damn the fears, he’s out to be sick, can’t you hear him like a cat with a fish-bone in its throat? And hear him they could, but Chris had been right after all, he didn’t come back. Maybe he was shamed and maybe he just lost his way, for next noon there were folk who swore they’d seen the marks of great feet that walked round and round in a circle, circle after circle, all across the parks from Blawearie to the Manse; and if these weren’t the minister’s feet they must have been the devil’s, you could choose whichever you liked.

  No sooner was the dancing done than there were cries Rob, what about a song now, man? And Rob said Och, ay, I’ll manage that fine, and he off with his coat and loosened his collar and sang them Ladies of Spain; and then he turned round to where Chris stood beside her Ewan and sang The Lass that Made the Bed to Me:

  Her hair was like the link o’ gowd,

  Her teeth were like the ivorie,

  Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,

  The lass that made the bed to me.

  Her bosom was the driven snaw,

  Two drifted heaps sae fair to see,

  Her limbs, the polished marble stane,

  The lass that made the bed to me.

  I kissed her owre and owre again,

  And aye she wist na what to say,

  I laid her between me and the wa’,

  The lassie thought na long till day.

  Folk stared and nodded at Chris while Rob was singing, and Ewan looked at first as though he’d like to brain him; and then he blushed; but Chris just listened and didn’t care, she thought the song fine and the lass lovely, she hoped she herself would seem as lovely this night—or as much of it as their dancing would leave. So she clapped Rob and syne it was Ellison’s turn, he stood up with his meikle belly a-wag and sang them a song they didn’t know.

  Roses and lilies her cheeks disclose,

  But her red lips are sweeter than those,

  Kiss her, caress her,

  With blisses her kisses,

  Dissolve us in pleasure and soft repose,

  and then another, an English one and awful sad, about a young childe called Villikins and a quean called Dinah, and it finished:

  For a cup of cold pizen lay there on the ground

  With a tooril-i-ooril-i-ooril-i-ay.

  Chae cried that was hardly the kind of thing that they wanted, woeful as that; and they’d better give Chris a rest about her roses and lips and limbs, she had them all in safe-keeping and would know how to use them; and what about a seasonable song? And he sang so that all joined in, seasonable enough, for the snow had come on again in spite of the frost:

  Up in the morning’s no for me,

  Up in the morning early,

  When a’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw

  I’m sure it’s winter fairly!

  Then Mistress Mutch sang, that was hardly expected, and folk tittered a bit; but she had as good a voice as most and better than some, she sang The Bonnie House o’ Airlie, and then the Auld Robin Gray that aye brought Chris near to weeping, and did now, and not her alone, with Rob’s fiddle whispering it out, the sadness and the soreness of it, though it was long, long syne:

  When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye

  are a’at hame,

  And a ‘the weary world to its rest has gane,

  The tears o’ my sorrow fa’ in shooers frae my e’e

  And Auld Robin Gray he lies sound by me.

  and all the tale of young Jamie who went to sea and was thought to be drowned in an awful storm; and his lass married Auld Robin Gray; and syne Jamie came back but couldn’t win his lass away from the old man, though near heart-broken she was:

  I gang like a ghaist, and I carena’ to spin,

  I daurna’ think o’ Jamie, for that wad be a sin,

  But I’ll try aye my best a guid wife to be,

  For Auld Robin Gray he is kind to me.

  Old Pooty was sleeping in a corner; he woke up then, fell keen to recite his timrous beastie; but they pulled him down and cried on the bride herself for a song. And all she could think of was that south country woman crying in the night by the side of her good man, the world asleep and grey without; and she whispered the song to Rob and he tuned his fiddle and she sang, facing them, young and earnest, and she saw Ewan looking at her, solemn and proud, The Flowers of the Forest:

  I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,

  Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day;

  But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning,

  The Flooers o’ the Forest are a’ wede away.

  Dool and wae for the order sent oor lads

  tae the Border!

  The English for ance, by guile wan the day,

  The Flooers o’ the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,

  The pride o’ oor land lie cauld in the clay.

  Chae jumped up when she finished, he said Damn’t, folk, we’ll all have the whimsies if we listen to any more woesome songs! Have none of you a cheerful one? And the folk in the barn laughed at him and shook their heads, it came on Chris how strange was the sadness of Scotland’s singing, made for the sadness of the land and sky in dark autumn evenings, the crying of men and women of the land who had seen their lives and loves sink away in the
years, things wept for beside the sheep-buchts, remembered at night and in twilight. The gladness and kindness had passed, lived and forgotten, it was Scotland of the mist and rain and the crying sea that made the songs—And Chae cried Let’s have another dance, then, it’s nearly a quarter to twelve, we must all be off soon as midnight chaps.

  And they all minded what midnight would bring, and Chae and Rob had the melodeon and fiddle in hand again, and struck up an eightsome, and everybody grabbed him a partner, it didn’t matter who was who, McIvor had Chris and danced with her as though he would like to squeeze her to death, he danced light as thistle-down, the great red Highlander; and no sooner was one dance finished than Rob and Chae swept forward into another, they played like mad and the lights whipped and jumped as the couples spun round and round; and the music went out across the snowing night; and then Chae pulled out his great silver watch, and laid it beside him, playing on.

  And suddenly it was the New Year, the dancing stopped and folk all shook hands, coming to shake Chris’s and Ewan’s; and Long Rob struck up the sugary surge of Auld Lang Syne and they all joined hands and stood in a circle to sing it, and Chris thought of Will far over the seas in Argentine, under the hot night there. Then the singing finished, they all found themselves tired, somebody began to take down the barn lights, there was half an hour’s scramble of folk getting themselves into coats and getting their shivering sholts from out the empty stalls in the byre. Then Chris and Ewan were hand-shook again, Chris’s arm began to ache, and then the last woof-woof of wheels on snow thick-carpeted came up the Blawearie road to them, it was fell uncanny that silence in the place after all the noise and fun of the long, lit hours. And there was Mistress Melon in the kitchen-door, yawning fit to swallow a horse, she whispered to Chris I’m taking your room now, don’t forget, and cried them Good night, and a sound sleep, both! and was up the stairs and left them alone.