“Not me!” said he promptly. “I wasna at my tred at a’ last nicht; I was wi’ Jinnet at the Clachnacudden conversashion. My! but we’re gettin’ grand. You should hae seen the twa o’ us sittin’ as hard as onything in a corner o’ the hall watchin’ the young yins dancin’, and wishin’ we were hame. Och, it’s a fine thing a conversashion; there’s naething wrang wi’t; it’s better nor standin’ aboot the street corners, or haudin’ up the coonter at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults. But I’ll tell ye whit, it’s no’ much o’ a game for an auld couple weel ower sixty, though no’ compleenin’, and haein’ their health, and able to read the smallest type withoot specs. I wadna hae been there at a’, but Macrae, the nicht polisman that’s efter Jinnet’s niece, cam’ cravin’ me to buy tickets.”

“‘I’m no’ a Clachnacudden native,’ says I till him. ‘If it was a reunion o’ the natives o’ Gorbals and district, it micht be a’ richt, for that’s the place I belang to; and if a’ the auld natives cam’ to a Gorbals swaree I micht get some o’ the money some o’ them’s owin’ me. But Clachnacudden! – I never saw the place; I aye thocht it was jist yin o’ thae comic names they put on the labels o’ the whisky bottles to mak’ them look fancy.’

“Ye’ll no’ believ’t, but Macrae, bein’ Hielan’ and no’ haein richt English, was that angry for me sayin’ that aboot Clachnacudden, that he was nearly breakin’ the engagement wi’ Jinnet’s niece, and I had to tak’ the tickets at the hinder-end jist for peace’ sake. Jinnet said it was a bonny-like thing spilin’ Sarah’s chances for the sake o’ a shillin’ or twa.

“So that’s the wye I was wi’ the Clachnacudden chats. Dae ye no’ feel the smell o’ peat-reek aff me? If it wasna that my feet were flet I could gie ye the Hielan’ Fling.

“But thae natives’ reunions in Gleska’s no’ whit they used to be. They’re gettin’ far ower genteel. It’ll soon be comin’ to’t that ye’ll no’ can gang to ony o’ them unless ye have a gold watch and chain, a dress suit, and £10 in the Savin’s Bank. It used to be in the auld days when I went to natives’ gatherin’s for fun, and no’ to please the nicht polis, that they were ca’d a swaree and ball, and the ticket was four-and-six for yoursel’ and your pairtner. If ye didna get the worth o’ your money there was something wrang wi’ your stomach, or ye werena very smert. Mony a yin I’ve bin at, either in the wye o’ tred, or because some o’ Jinnet’s Hielan’ kizzens cam’ up to the hoose in their kilts to sell us tickets. There was nae dress suits nor fal-lals aboot a reunion in thae days; ye jist put on your Sunday claes and some scent on your hanky, wi’ a dram in your pocket (if ye werena in the committee), turned up the feet o’ your breeks, and walked doon to the hall in the extra-wide welt shoes ye were gaun to dance in. Your lass – or your wife, if it was your wife – sat up the nicht before, washin’ her white shawl and sewin’ frillin’ on the neck o’ her guid frock, and a’ the expense ye had wi’ her if ye werena merried to her was that ye had to buy her a pair o’ white shammy leather gloves, size seeven.

“A’ the auld folk frae Clachnacudden in Gleska were at thae swarees, as weel as a’ the young folk. Ye were packed in your sates like red herrin’ in a barrel, and on every hand ye heard folk tearin’ the tartan and misca’in’ somebody at hame in Clachnacudden. The natives wi’ the dress suits that had got on awfu’ weel in Gleska at the speerit tred or keepin’ banks, sat as dour as onything on the pletform lettin’ on they couldna speak the tartan. Ithers o’ them – that had the richt kind o’ legs for’t – wad hae on the kilts, wi’ a white goat-skin sporran the size o’ a door-bass hung doon to their knees foment them, haudin’ in their breaths in case the minister wad smell drink aff them, and tryin’ to feel like Rob Roy or Roderick Dhu.

“In thae days they started oot wi’ giein’ ye tea and a poke o’ fancy breid – penny things like London buns and fruit-cakes; and between the speeches oranges were passed roond, and wee roond hard sweeties, fine for pappin’ at the folk in front. Ye aye made a guid tea o’t, the same as if’ ye never saw tea in your life afore, and preferred it weel biled.

“When the tea was bye and the boys were blawin’ as much breath as they had left into the empty pokes, and bangin’ them aff like cannons, the chairman wad stand up on the pletform and make a speech aboot Clachnacudden. I used to ken that speech by hert; it was the same yin for a’ the natives’ reunions. He said that Clachnacudden was the bonniest place ever onybody clapped eyes on. That the Clachnacudden men, were notorious a’ ower the world for their honesty and push, and aye got on like onything if they were tryin’, and didna tak’ to the drink; and that the Clachnacuddem lassies were that braw, and nice, and smert, they were lookit up to every place they went. When he said that the natives o’ Clachnacudden kent fine it was the God’s truth he was tellin’ them, they got on their feet and waved their hankies and cheered for ten meenutes.

“Havin’ taken a drink o’ watter frae the caraffe at his side – efter makin’ a mistake and tryin’ to blaw the froth aff the tumbler – the chairman then begood generally to say that Gleska was a gey cauld, sooty, dirty, wicked place for onybody to hae to live in that had been born in the bonny wee glens, and the hulls, and hedges, and things aboot Clachnacudden, but still

‘Their herts were true, their herts were Hielan’,
And they in dreams beheld the Hebrides.’

At that ye wad see the hale o’ the Clachnacudden folk puttin’ whit was left o’ their pastry in their pouches and haudin’ their hankies wi’ baith hands to their e’en to kep the tears frae rinnin’ on their guid waistcoats or their silk weddin’-goons. And the droll thing was that for a’ they misca’d Gleska, and grat aboot Clachnacudden, ye couldna get yin o’ them to gang back to Clachnacudden if ye pyed the train ticket and guaranteed a pension o’ a pound a week.

“Clachnacudden bein’ Hielan’, they aye started the music efter the chairman’s speech wi’ a sang frae Harry Linn ca’d ‘Jock Macraw, the Fattest Man in the Forty-Twa,’ or some ither sang that kind o’ codded themsel’s. Then the minister made a comic speech wi’ jokes in’t, and tried to look as game as onything; and the folk frae Clachnacudden leaned forrit on their sates and asked the wifes in front if they had mind when his mither used to work in the tawtie field. ‘Fancy him a minister!’ says they, ‘and tryin’ to be comic, wi’ his mither jist yin o’ the Mac-Taggarts!’ A’ the time the puir minister was thinkin’ he was daein’ fine, and wonderin’ if ‘The Oban Times’ was takin’ doon a’ his speech.

“And then a lot o’ nyafs in the back sates aye began to heave orange-peelin’s at folk that was daein’ them nae hairm.

“Efter the swaree was ower, the weemen went into the ladies’ room to tak’ aff their galoshes, and tak’ the preens oot o’ their trains, and the men went ower to the Duke o’ Wellington Bar, rinnin’ like onything, for it was nearly eleeven o’clock. The folk the hall belanged to started to tak’ oot the sates for the dancin’, and sweep the corks aff the floor; and at eleeven prompt the Grand Merch started. Whiles they had Adams’s or Ilfs band, and whiles they jist had Fitzgerald, the fiddler that used to play on the Lochgoilhead boat. It didna maitter, for a’ the Clachnacudden folk were fine strong dancers, and could dance to onything. Man! I aye liked the Grand Merch. The man wi’ the reddest kilts aye started it at the Clachnacudden, and when the Grand Merch got a’ fankled, they jist started ‘Triumph,’ and did the best they could.

“That was in the grand auld days afore they got genteel. Nooadays, as I’m tellin’ ye, it’s a’ conversashions, and they work aff their speeches on ye wi’ no tea at a’ and no pokes o’ pastry, nor naething. Ye’re no use unless ye hae the lend o’ a dress suit, and your pairtner has to ‘hae pipe-clyed shoon, a muslin frock no’ richt hooked at the neck, her hair put up at Bamber’s, and a cab to tak’ her hame in. It’s naething but the waltzin’. I’m prood to say I never waltzed in a’ my born days, though they say I have the richt kind o’ feet for’t, me bein’ so lang at the waitin’. And a’ they auld classic dances, like La-va and the Guaracha Waltz and Circassian Circle’s oot o’ date \ I havena even seen Petronella for mony a day.

“And the music’s a’ spiled; it’s a’ fancy music they hae noo, wi’ nae tune ye can sing to’t as ye gang up the back or doon the middle. Ye’ll see them yonder wi’ their piano, three fiddles, and a cornet. If I was gaun to hae a cornet I wad hae a cornet and no’ a brass feenisher.

“Ye’ll no’ see ony o’ the dacent auld Clachnacudden folk at their modern reunions; the puir sowls has to bide at hame and gang to their beds early that they may get up in time to mak’ a cup o’ tea for their dochters that was at the conversashion. No; Jinnet and me’s no’ keen on Clachnacudden or onything o’ the kind nooa-days: we wad faur sooner stay at hame and read ‘The Weekly Mail.’”

XVIII MARY ANN

I see frae ‘The News,’” said Erchie, “that Mary Ann’s no’ gaun to see her kizzen on her nicht oot the noo, but has the kitchen table cleared for action wi’ a penny bottle o’ Perth ink and a quire o’ paper to write letters to the editor, telling him and his readers that the country doesna ken her value.

“If ye’re in the habit o’ tryin’ to keep a general, ye canna be shair but at this very meenute she’s doon the stair, wi’ her sleeves rowed up and her fingers a’ Perth Blue Black, paintin’ your wife’s photograph as a slave-driver, and givin’ your hoose a character that would mak’ ye lose your nicht’s sleep if ye kent it. Faith, it’s comin’ to it!

“The servant problem is the only ane that’s railly o’ ony interest to the country, as far as I can mak’ oot frae hearin’ things when I’m either beadlin’, or waitin’ at waddin’-breakfasts. Twa women canna put their heads thegither ower a cup o’ tea withoot gaun ower a list o’ a’ the lassies they’ve had since last November; and the notion ye get is that they change frae place to place that often they must hae motor cairrages.

“Mary Ann sails in with her kist and a fine character frae her last place on Monday at 8 p.m., and aboot ten minutes efter that she’s on the road again. She is the greatest traveller o’ the age; it is estimated by them that kens aboot thae things, that the average domestic, if she keeps her health and gets ony chance at a’, gangs 15,000 miles every three years shifting her situation.

“It is the age of the lairge-built, agile, country girl; no ither kind can stand the strain o’ humpin’ kists up and doon area stairs. An aluminium kist that when packed weighs only fifteen pounds has been invented specially for the ‘strong and willing general, early riser, no washin’, fond o’ weans’; but in spite o’ that, she canna get ower mair nor 250 to 263 different situations in the year.

“The Hielan’s is the peculiar home o’ the maist successful domestic servants, though a very gude strain o’ them is said to come frae Ayrshire and roon’ aboot Slamannan.

“They are catched young, carefully clipped, curry-combed and shod, and shipped to Gleska at the beginnin’ o’ the winter, wi’ fine characters frae the U.F. minister. On the day they start their first situation they’re generals, that say ‘Whit is’t?’ quite angry, at the door to folk that come to their mistress’s efternoon teas; on the Wednesday they’re wanting their wages up; and on the Thursday they start in anither place as experienced hoose-and table-maids. At least, that’s whit I gaither frae overhearin’ the ladies: we have nae servant in oor hoose, – Jinnet does everything hersel’.

“When Mary Ann’s no’ packin’ her kist, or haein’ confabs wi’ the butcher, or trimmin’ a frock for the Clachnacudden natives’ swarree and ball, she’s lookin’ the papers to see the rate o’ servants’ wages in Kimberley, near whaur the wars were. Some day she’s gaun to Kimberley, or Australia, or ony ither foreign pairt, whaur intelligent cooks get the wages o’ Cabinet Ministers, and can get mairrit jist as easy’s onything.

“In the fine auld times servant lassies used to bide wi’ ye till they were that auld and frail ye had to have somebody sittin’ up wi’ them at nicht.

“Yince they got a fit in yer hoose ye couldna get quat o’ them: they fastened their kists to the floor wi’ big screw-nails, and wad scarcely go oot the length o’ the kirk for fear ye wad shut up the hoose and rin awa’ and leave them. As for the wages they got, they were that sma’, folks used to toss up a bawbee to see whether they wad keep a servant or a canary.

“But nooadays a man that’s in the habit o’ payin’ ony heed to the servant lassies that opens the door for him or hands him his letters, thinks it’s a magic-lantern show he’s at, wi’ a new picture every twa seconds.

“He doesna see his wife except on the Sundays, for a’ the ither days o’ the week she’s cyclin’ roond the registries wi’ five pounds o’ change in silver, payin’ fees.

“‘Hoose-tablemaid, ma’am? Certainly, ma’am; we’ll see whit we can dae for ye between noo and the next Gleska Exhibeetion,’ says the registry, rakin’ in the half-croons as hard’s she can.

“When there’ a rumour gets aboot Dowanhill that a servant lass, oot o’ a situation, was seen the week afore last, hundreds o’ ladies mak’ for the registries, and besiege them in the hope o’ catchin’ her; and of late, I’m tellt they’re engagin’ trained detectives for trackin’ plain cooks.

“Domestic service is the only profession in Europe the day whaur the supply’s less than the demand, and if I had twa or three boys ready to gang oot and work for themselves, I wad sooner mak’ them into scullery-maids than apprentice them wi’ an electrical engineer.

“In the last ten years wha ever heard o’ a servant lassie oot o’ a situation ony langer than the time she took to rin frae ae hoose to anither, if she had the richt number of hands and een?

“She disna need to gang ony where lookin’ for a place; the sleuth-hounds o’ Dowanhill track her to her lair as soon as she’s landed at the Broomielaw or Buchanan Street Station, and mak’ a grab at her afore she learns enough o’ the language to ask her wye to a registry.

“A new servant in a hoose is like a Field Marshal back frae the front, – she’s trated wi’ sae muckle deference. Ye daurna mak’ a noise through the day for fear it’ll spoil her sleep. Ye pit on the fire for her in the mornin’, and brush her golfin’ buits afore ye start for the office. Ye pay sixpence a day o’ car fares for her to go and see her kizzens in case she’s wearyin’, puir thing! And if ‘Rob Roy’s’ on at the theatre ye’ll be as weel to let her know and gie her tickets for it, or she’ll gie notice when she reads the creeticism in the paper and finds oot she missed it. Mair nor a dizzen societies have been started for giving medals and rewards to servant lassies that have been a lang lang while in the ae situation; they’re worked oh a graduated scale: —

“Hoosemaids, in one situation two months – Bronze medal of the Society and 30s. Generals, three months – Silver medal and fountain pen.

“Plain cook, six months – Gold medal, £5, and gramophone.

“Whit the country wants is the municeepilisation o’ domestic service. The better h’oosin’ o’ the poor’s a thing that there’s nae hurry for. Plain cooks and general servants that ken the difference between a cake o’ black lead and a scrubbing-brush are a communal needcessity; they can nae mair be done withoot than gas, water, skoosh cars, or the telephone.

“The Corporations should import and train Mary Anns in bulk, gie them a nate uniform and thirty shillin’s a week, and hire them oot ‘oorly, daily, weekly, or monthy, as required, reserving for them a’ the rights and privileges that belong to them, wi’ limitation o’ workin’ ‘oors, strick definition o’ duties, stipulated nichts oot, and faceelities for followers. Look at the polis. Ye can depend on gettin’ a polisman nine times oot o’ ten if ye want him; a lassie to gang oot wi’ the pramlater, or a hoose-tablemaid, should be jist as easy got by every ratepayer when wanted, and that’s only to be secured by the Corporations takin’ the domestic service into their ain haunds.”

XIX DUFFY’S, WEDDING

I did not see Erchie during the New-Year holidays, and so our greetings on Saturday night when I found him firing up the church furnace had quite a festive cheerfulness.

“Where have you been for the past week?” I asked him. “It looks bad for a beadle to be conspicuous by his absence at this season of the year.”

“If ye had been whaur ye ocht to hae been, and that was in the kirk, last Sunday, ye wad hae found me at my place,” said Erchie. “Here’s a bit bride’s-cake,” he went on, taking a little packet from his pocket. “The rale stuff! Put that below your heid at nicht and ye’ll dream aboot the yin that’s gaun to mairry ye. It’s a sure tip, for I’ve kent them that tried it, and escaped in time.”

I took the wedding-cake. To dream of the one I want to marry is the desire of my days – though, indeed, I don’t need any wedding-cake below my pillow for such a purpose. “And who’s wedding does this – this deadly comestible – come from, Erchie?” I asked him.

“Wha’s wad it be but Duffy’s,” said Erchie. “‘At 5896 Braid Street, on the 31st, by the Rev. J. Macauslane, Elizabeth M’Niven Jardine to James K. Duffy, coal merchant.’ Duffy’s done for again; ye’ll can see him noo hurryin’ hame for his tea when his work’s bye and feared ony o’ the regular customers o’ the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults’ll stop him on the road and ask him in for something. His wife’s takin’ him roond wi’ a collar on, and showin’ him aff among a’ her freen’s and the ither weemen she wants to vex, and she’s learning him to ca’ her ‘Mrs D.’ when they’re in company. He wasna twa days at his work efter the thing happened when she made him stop cryin’ his ain coals and leave yin o’ his men to dae’t, though there’s no’ twa o’ them put thegither has the voice o’ Duffy. I wadna wonder if his tred fell aff on accoont o’t, and it’s tellin’ on his health. ‘She says it’s no’ genteel for me to be cryin’ my ain coals,’ he says to me; ‘but I think it’s jist pride on her pairt, jist pride. Whit hairm does it dae onybody for me to gie a wee bit roar noo and then if it’s gaun to help business?’ I heard him tryin’ to sing ‘Dark Lochnagar’ on Friday nicht in his ain hoose, and it wad vex ye to listen, for when he was trampin’ time wi’ his feet ye could hardly hear his voice, it was that much failed. ‘Duffy,’ I says till him, takin’ him aside, ‘never you mind the mistress, but go up a close noo and then and gie a roar to keep your voice in trim withoot lettin’ on to her ony-thing aboot it.’

“Yes, Duffy was mairried on Hogmanay Nicht, and we were a’ there – Jirinet and me, and her niece Sarah, and Macrae the nicht polis, and a companion o’ Macrae’s frae Ardentinny, that had his pipes wi’ him to play on, but never got them tuned. It was a grand ploy, and the man frae Ardentinny fell among his pipes comin’ doon the stair in the mornin’. ‘Ye had faur ower much drink,’ I tellt him, takin’ him oot frae amang the drones and ribbons and things. ‘I’m shair ye’ve drunk a hale bottle.’ ‘Whit’s a bottle o’ whusky among wan?’ says he. If it wasna for him it wad hae been a rale nice, genteel mairrage.

“Duffy had on a surtoo coat, and looked for, a’ the warld like Macmillan, the undertaker, on a chape job. He got the lend o’ the surtoo frae yin o’ the men aboot the Zoo, and he was aye tryin’ to put his haunds in the ootside pooches and them no’ there. ‘Oh, Erchie,’ he says to me, ‘I wish I had on my jaicket again, this is no’ canny. They’ll a’ be lookin’ at my haunds.’ ‘No, nor yer feet,’ I tellt him; ‘they’ll be ower busy keepin’ their e’e on whit they’re gaun to get to eat.’ ‘If ye only kent it,’ says he, ‘my feet’s a torment to me, for my buits is far ower sma’.’ And I could see the puir sowl sweatin’ wi’ the agony.

“The bride looked fine. Jinnet nearly grat when she saw her comin’ in, and said it minded her o’ hersel’ the day she was mairried. ‘Ye’re just haverin’,’ I tellt her, gey snappy. ‘She couldna look as nice as you did that day if she was hung wi’ jewels.’ But I’ll no’ say Leezie wasna nice enough – a fine, big, sonsy, smert lass, wi’ her face as glossy as onything.

“When the operation was by, and the minister had gane awa’ hame, us pressin’ him like onything to wait a while langer, and almost breakin’ his airms wi’ jammin’ his top-coat on him fast in case he micht change his mind, we a’ sat down to a high tea that wad dae credit to F. & F.‘s. If there was wan hen yonder there was haulf a dizzen, for the bride had a hale lot o’ country freen’s, and this is the time o’ the year the hens is no’ layin’.

“There were thirty-five folk sat doon in Duffy’s hoose that nicht, no’ coontin’ a wheen o’ the neighbours that stood in the lobby and took their chance o’ whit was passin’ frae the kitchen. Duffy hadna richt started carvin’ the No. 6 hen when a messenger cam’ to the door to ask for the surtoo coat, because the man in the Zoo had his job changed for that nicht and found he needed the coat for his work; so Duffy was quite gled to get rid of it, and put on his Sunday jaicket. ‘Ask him if he wadna like a wee lend o’ my new tight boots,’ he says to the messenger frae the Zoo; ‘if he does, come back as fast’s ye can for them, and I’ll pay the cab.’

“Efter the high tea was by, the Ardentinny man never asked onybody’s leave, but began to tune his pipes, stoppin’ every twa or three meenutes to bounce aboot the player he was, and that his name was M’Kay – yin o’ the auld clan M’Kays. Macrae, the nicht polis, was awfu’ chawed that he brocht him there at a’. Ye couldna hear yersel’ speakin’ for the tunin’ o’ the pipes, and they werena nearly half ready for playin’ on when the bride’s mither took the liberty o’ stoppin’ him for a wee till we wad get a sang frae somebody.

“‘James’ll sing,’ says the bride, lookin’ as prood’s ye like at her new man. ‘Will ye no’ obleege the company wi’ “Dark Lochnagar”?’ “‘I wad be only too willin’,’ he tellt her, ‘if I had on my ither boots and hadna ett thon last cookie.’ But we got him to sing ‘Dark Lochnagar’ a’ richt. In the middle o’t the man frae Ardentinny said if Duffy wad haud on a wee he wad accompany him on the pipes, and he started to tune them again, but Macrae stopped him by puttin’ corks in his drones.

“Jinnet sang the ‘Auld Hoose.’ Man! I was prood o’ her. Yon’s the smertest wumman in Gleska. The Rale Oreeginal!”

“Don’t you yourself sing, Erchie?”

“Not me! I’m comic enough withoot that. A flet fit and a warm hert, but timmer in the tune. Forbye, I was too busy keepin’ doon the man frae Ardentinny. He was determined to hae them pipes o’ his tuned if it took him a’ nicht. I tried to get him to gang oot into the back-coort to screw them up, but he aye said they were nearly ready noo, they wadna tak’ him ten meenutes, and he kept screechin’ awa’ at them. It was fair reediculous.

“At last the bride’s mither got him put into the kitchen, and was clearin’ the room for a dance. Duffy was very red in the face, and refused to rise frae the table. ‘Whit’s the use o’ dancin’?’ says he; ‘are we no’ daein’ fine the way we are?’ And then it was found oot he had slipped his tight boots aff him under the table, and was sittin’ there as joco as ye like in his stockin’ soles.

“The young yins were dancin’ in the room to the playin’ o’ a whustle, and the rest o’ us were smokin’ oot on the stair-heid, when the man frae Ardentinny cam fleein’ oot wi’ his bagpipes still gaspin’. He said it was an insult to him to start dancin’ to a penny whustle and him there ready to play if he could only get his pipes tuned.

“‘Never you heed, Mac,’ says I; ‘ye’ll hae a chance at Macrae’s waddin’ if ye can get the pipes tuned afore then; he’s engaged to oor Sarah.’

“I was that gled when the cat-wutted cratur fell amang his pipes gaun doon the stair in the mornin’; it served him richt.”

“And where did Duffy and his bride spend their honeymoon, Erchie?” I asked.

“They took the skoosh car oot to Paisley; that was a’ their honeymoon.”