Ah'm still waitin...

It's been said lang syne that Embra fowk are a wee bit oan the unfreenly side, that they can be awfy staun-affish an a bit cauld-fishlike. This is usually said when we're bein compared wi the Weegies fae Glesca toun, but aften it's jist said oan its ain. Ah cannae agree wi this masel, ah've aye found fowk in Embra tae be warm an welcomin as much as the next toun's fowk. They've aye welcomed me, even though ah'm a whelp o a Black Bitch masel an no a native Edinburgher, an ah ken fer a fact that they welcomed ma pal Jean. Ah've mentioned ma pal Jean afore if ah'm no mistook, an ah think it's time ah telt ye Jean's story...

Jean wis a Huguenot, yin o the Protestants fae France wha had been sufferin persecution at the hauns o the Catholics. It wis oor ain Queen Mary's guid-mither, Catherine de Medici, wha lay at the centre o this web o persecution, an it wis her that instigatit the Massacre o St Bartholomew's Eve in the August o 1572, a month-lang orgy o murder an wickedness that drove mony o the Huguenots fae their hame. Mary by this time wis enjoyin her time at the Virgin Queen's 'pleasure', an her son Jamie Saxt wis oan the throne o Scotland. Bein o the 'reformed' religion hissel, Jamie invitit some o these Protestant refugees tae come bide in Scotland, an let them big a wee refugee camp at the tap end o Leith Loan jist abune Broughton village. In turn the Huguenots brocht wi them their skills as weavers an manufacturers o cloth an paper. Jean's faither, Monsieur D'Armerie wis yin o their maister-weavers.

Ah first met Jean yin day doon oan the Shore at Leith. Ah wis waitin fer a shipment o sherry tae come in fae Spain, ah aye liked tae hae first-pick, an Jean wis oot lookin fer some fresh fish. Oor een met ower a barrel o deid haddock, an it wis love at first sicht. He had thon dark pools o een that ye jist wantit tae jump intae an droon yersel, a jawline as solid as the Castle Rock, an an erse like twa steamin haggis in a clout. Ah didnae ken whaur tae luik first, an ah wis that flustered at the sicht o the man ah endit up buyin three haddock insteid o sherry! Ah wis fair mad at masel that nicht ah can tell ye...

Ah never got talkin tae Jean that day, luikin as ah did like a cherry-beetroot an haein completely lost the power o speech aw o a sudden, but it wisnae twa weeks later, when ah jist happened tae be hingin aboot up the tap o the Loan, afore ah bumped intae him again, near cawin the puir lad ower an giein him sic a fricht he let oot a big "Merde!" Jist as weel ah kent some o the lingua francais, fer a meenit ah thocht he had cried me a horse, but insteid ah kent he wis jist sweerin. Yince ah'd steadied him oan his feet again we got tae talkin an we hit it aff somethin fierce, like a great big Beltane bonfire that's jist had an auld settee chucked oan it...

We were lyin up oan Mr Moultray's hill this day, up whaur the St James Centre's ugly auld hulk noo stauns, an we were luikin doon the hill tae wee Picardy, whaur Picardy Place still reminds us o the french weavers, an past that doon tae Broughton village an the Canon's Mills ahint, snugglin doon by the Water o Leith. We'd jist feenished oor picnic o corn-breid an cheese washed doon wi a couple o flagons o ale, an a few fresh-picked brambles. We lay back oan the sward an got tae talkin aboot whit gifties we wantit tae gie each ither. Ah says ah wid like tae knit Jean a pair o thon awfy-awfy-ticht cyclin shorts, ah thocht they wid help bring oot his, err, his physique, an then Jean asks me whit ah wid like fae him...

Ah thocht fer a meenit, an then ah says "Jean, ah wid like tae hae yin o thon rid silk petticoats like Rhett Butler gave Mammy in thon story 'Gang wi the Wind', yin that wid rustle when ah walked." "Sophia" says he, "Sophia, votre souhait est ma commande."

Ooh, ah loved his french accent so ah did, it aye made me gang jeely-like at the knees, e'en lyin oan ma back. True tae his word tho, Jean went back doon the hill tae wee Picardy that nicht, had a wee word wi his faither, an they pit in an order tae the auld country tae import some mulberry bushes an a wee colony o' silkworms, which they then plantit up oan the very spot oan that hill whaur we had lain that day...

Jist like the thing tho, oor Scottish weather no bein sae clement as the French, neither the mulberry bushes nor the silkworms thrived, an six month later aw ah had tae show fer it wis a wee rid silk hankie, finely embroideret wi SP an JA in the corner. Ah said tae Jean, tryin tae encourage the puir wee lamb, that ah still wantit that fine rid silk petticoat, but ye ken whit? Ah'm still waitin...