Shootin fae the Shin

Flooer o the mountain...

2011-12-23T19:57:00.000Z

So here we are then, it's Hogmanay again, an we've made it through anither year. Maist o us made it onyhow, tho many didnae. Hogmanay's aye been a guid time tae stop an mind them that nivver made it through, a sad wee epilogue tae the year, afore we pick oorsels up an face the New Year wi a smile oan oor face...

Here, ah'm feelin a bit darin th'day, why dae ah no chuck caution tae the winds an break oot the Black Bun a bit early, eh? Ah'll nivver eat it aw masel onyhow, ah'm no ower-fond o the stuff tae tell the truth, an Mr Pangloss jist turns his nose up at it. Ah really dinnae ken why ah still buy it, but ye ken how it is, some things ye jist hae tae dae, it's Hogmanay! Ah'll pit the kettle oan...

Right then, here's yer tea. an here's yer Black Bun. Are ye settled then? Guid...

Noo, this bein Hogmanay of course, ah couldnae tak ye onywhaur else except up the High Street tae the Tron Kirk. This is whaur fowk in Embra hae gaithered fer hunners o years tae see in the New Year, tae stand an tae huddle th'gither in the cauld an the wet tae worship the great god o Passin Time, afore gaun first-footin, intae the warm an the dry, tae worship ither, gey cheerier gods...

Of course, if ye gang up tae the Tron th'nicht ye'll no find many fowk, they've aw been shepherded doon tae Princes Street tae listen tae some pop band daein turns at the bandstand an watch fireworks gaun aff fae the castle, an they'll clap their hands an tak lots o photies afore gaun hame, aw weel-behaved. But if ye'd gone up the Tron up until say the 1980s, ony Hogmanay, ye wid've been met wi a different sort o beast. Hunners, thoosans o fowk, aw dressed up in their best, aw jostlin an bargin, aw half-cut, aw singin, aw dancin, aw pals th'gither. Fowk wid be bletherin awa in the run up tae the bells, catchin up wi aw the news. There wis aye somethin worth passin comment oan, somebody that had shown thersels up, got thersels hung or left their man. An ye met fowk ye hadnae seen fae the last Hogmanay, which aye pit me oot a bit back when we aw bided in the same street...

Then some wag wi a watch wid start up a coontdoon tae the actual bells, 10... 9... 8... doon tae twelve o'clock, an then it wis Hurray! Happy New Year! an ye had tae wish it tae aw yer pals, an their pals, an their pals' pals, an so oan an so forth. There were times up at the Tron ah've felt like the hale world wis ma pal, ah wid jist swing fae crowd tae crowd, gaitherin kisses like they were flooers, an ah wis some daft young thing in a dress made fae drapes runnin aboot in a field, bendin ower tae grab a haunfu o edelweiss, the wee flooer o the mountain, er... ... ...where wis ah?

Oh aye, ah wis gettin ye a bit Black Bun. There ye go... Naw, take it, ah've got plenty! Onywys... ah wis tellin ye how guid up at the Tron yaist tae be, except fer when it wisnae...

Ah mind this time, 200 years ago this very nicht, the 31st o December 1811, when ye widnae hae wanted tae be up the Tron. We were aw in a fowl mood. Times were hard, the Tories were in power (again), we'd fell oot wi France (again), there were riots (in England (again))... ye get the picture... no a guid year... Onyhow, fer whitever reason, or fer nae reason at aw, this gang o lads, ca'ed thersels the Keelie Gang, that hung aboot doon the fit o Niddry Street doon fae the Tron, had decided that they fancied some new hats, an that Hogmanay up the Tron wid be jist the very place tae get their hands oan some. So they ganged up wi anither er, gang fae doon the Canongate, an arranged tae meet up at the Fleshmarket Close, jist up fae North Bridge Street, at 11 o'clock...

Their first target wis the polis, who were few in number in thae days, an whit there were werenae awfy weel trained in riot control. Yin o the polis watchmen, Dugald Campbell, wis attacked jist up fae the Fleshmarket Close at the heid o the Stamp-office Close, an beaten tae the groond wi big sticks. The ither polis jist fled the scene an fae then oan, till aboot 3 o'clock oan New Year's mornin, the gang had the run o the street an rampaged aboot the Tron, attackin onybody that looked like they may hae somethin o value oan them, stealin watches, purses, money, an of course, hats...

Ah wisnae actually aware o ony o this at the time, ah jist thocht it wis a particularly noisy an rumbustious Hogmanay. Me an ma pal Jessie Knox were late in comin oot fae the Gropin-hoose up Parliament Close ye see, oan accoont o her gettin intae a rammie wi some caddie fae up the Castlehill ower whit ah cannae mind noo. She wis aye pickin fechts wi fowk wis Jessie, she had a face made fer arguments. Suffice tae say we were a bit, er oblivious, an we nivver got much past the Mercat Cross that year, an no long efter the Bells wi heided back tae the Gropin-hoose cos Jessie wanted tae hae anither go at the wee caddie...

Dugald Campbell, the polisman, an James Campbell, a clerk, baith died that nicht, an many mair were left wi serious injuries. Though the gang tried tae flee the toun, some o them gettin as far awa as Glesca, they were soon enough roonded up an sent fer trial in March o 1812. Three o them, Hugh McIntosh, Hugh McDonald an Nicol Sutherland were sentenced tae hing, tho only Hugh McIntosh fer murder, the ither twa laddies, an they were laddies, aw atween sixteen an nineteen, got the sentence o death fer stealin watches. Aye, fer stealin watches...

Ah mind their hingin in the April, whit a turnoot, ye couldnae bare move in the High Street. They built a gibbet specially at the top o the Stamp Office Close, jist at the spot whaur the polisman died, an had fower hunner sodjers linin the path fae the Tolbooth tae the gibbet. The laddies had been hard worked at by the meenisters while they were in the Tolbooth an they stood prayin fer near three-quarters o an hour afore the drop. Ah'll tell ye it felt like an eternity, cos their wis a cauld wind blawin up fae the sea an ah'd come oot withoot ma coat, thinkin it wis warmer than it wis cos it hadnae been a bad mornin ye see an the sun had been oot. That's April fer ye ah suppose...

But look, this is January, or it will be efter th'nicht, an we've got a hale New Year tae look forrit tae noo. We shouldnae dwell oan whit's past, but sometimes it's nice tae hae a wee peek at whit we've left ahint us, like hingin weans fer stealin watches, an pay a thocht tae them that huvnae made it this far. But then we hae tae turn an look aheid o us, paint oan a smile, stick a stupit hat oan oor heid an charge oor glesses. Ah hae a guid feelin aboot the future, tho when ah look at the news ah think ah must be gaun doolally, but ah dae, ah really dae, ah've got a feelin in ma waters, an in a guid way. Ah wish ye aw the best o health an happiness in the comin year fer yersel, an ah hope 2012 brings ye aw ye could wish fer. Happy New Year, an lang may yer lum reek!

Wid ye like some Black Bun tae tak awa wi ye...?

Get oot o ma hoose!

2011-01-15T20:03:00.001Z

Weel hullo there! Come in come in, ye're jist in time, ah've jist took ma rock-buns oot the oven, so they're nice an fresh fer ye. Ah hope ye like yer currants a wee bit incineratit, that's how ah like ma buns onyroads. Guid an crunchy oan the ootside, light an crumbly oan the inside. Ah hae tae admit it, ah dae a smashin rock-bun so ah dae. Weel there's nae guid hidin yer licht unner a bushel is there? If ye've got a talent ye should flaunt it, as ma auld pal Fanny Craddock yaist tae say. Ah wish ah could make tablet like ma auld grannie yaist tae make, but ye cannae hae awthin can ye? Ah'm no a bad baker if ah dae say so masel...

Whit's that? Ma title? Oh that! Naw naw, that's no aimed at yersel, dinnae be daft. Ye're aye welcome here, onyday. Naw that title's somethin ah heard anither auld wife shout yince, a guid few year ago noo, but ah'll come tae that in time. First tak yer coat an yer hat aff, an let me get ye settled aside the fire. It's still a bit parky oot there is it no? Ah've got a rerr fire gaun th'day, an that's nae mean feat giein the quality o the coal ye get these days. Last week ah got a bag that wis mair dross than onythin, ah had tae hae a wee word wi the coalman when he came roond. He wisnae awfy pleased at me either, ah'll hae tae keep an een oan him noo, tae mak sure he disnae try stickin hauf-bricks in ma coal!

Right, is that ye settled noo? Here's yer tea. An here's yer rock-buns. Aye they are guid, thanks. Ye dinnae think they're a bit hard dae ye? Sometimes, jist sometimes, they come oot mair rock than bun. Ach weel, if they dae then they're aye handy fer chuckin at Mr Pangloss, say if he starts snorin, or if he'll no wash the dishes. He's an awfy man fer baith. He's haein a wee lie-doon th'noo ben the hoose, can ye no hear him? Ah'm surprised ah dinnae get wee laddies comin tae ma door askin tae see ma train! Ah've nivver kent a man tae mak sae much noise lyin oan his back. Ah've aften stood ower him wi a cushion, wonderin if ah could, if ah should, if ah wid hae the strength...

Actually ah shouldnae joke aboot it. Ah'm awfy lucky wi Mr Pangloss, he disnae knock me aboot an ah should be thankful fer that. There's an awfy lot o wummen in worse situations, wi menfowk that batter them aboot or hit their weans, or even worse. Ye read aboot it aw the time in the News, an hear aboot it in the line at the butcher's. Naebody can be blamed fer makin a bad match, but some wummen seem tae mak a habit o it an gang fae yin bad man tae anither, Worse still, some wummen mak the same mistake twice, leavin their man efter gettin a hard time but then takin him back again. They ken whit they're gettin intae but somethin tells them it'll aw be different second time aroond. Let's tak a walk up the High Street an ah'll tell ye aboot a couple o them...

We're gaunnae tak a wee daunder doon the Old Assembly Close. Noo, ye'll mind this place fae when ah telt ye aboot the night ah helped start the Great Fire o Edinburgh. It's aw been re-bigged since then of course. If we'd come doon this close a few year ago durin the summer, we'd hae had tae squeeze past the queue fer the Fringe Festival box-office which stood at the tap o the close, an the wa's wid hae been covered in reviews cut fae the papers. It made fer some guid readin, an it wis aw free! Saved ye haein tae buy a paper.

But we'll no stop tae read them th'day, there widnae be much point anyroads oan account o this no bein August an the shows aw bein feenished. We'll walk further doon the close, past the auld wireworks, an doon tae Tron Square. The lower pairt o the square's a big C-block facin doon tae the Coogate, wi balconies facin the square itsel. It wis a guid bit tae raise a faimly fer ye could keep an een oan yer weans playin oot in the front coort, an ye could staun oan yer balcony an blether tae aw yer neebors.

Noo back in 1954 ah wis stayin ower wi ma auntie's sister's man's cousin's wife, fer the puir lassie's wean wis doon wi the whoopin cough an she hadnae slept in a week. Ah offered tae sit up wi the wee yin while she rested, which wis how ah heard the rammy that night, ower the noise o the coughin. It wis a dread noise ye ken, that noise o a wean fechtin tae catch its breath atween coughs. Ah'd had it masel as a wean, an ah can still mind the worrit look oan ma ain mither's face as she watched ower me. Like her, ah sat there that nicht worryin awa as ah watched ower this lassie's wee yin...

Upstairs fae us, at Number 57, George Robertson had returned tae his wife an faimly fer the last time. Him an Betty had had twa weans, George an Jean, by this time they were 18 an 16. George wis aboot tae start his National Service an Jean worked in a paper mill. Noo Betty had feenished wi George years afore an had divorced an even re-mairrit, but the second mairrage hadnae lastit mair than a few month. George had come back oan the scene, an Betty had let him in, hopin ah suppose that he had mendit his violent ways. Needless tae say, the leopard hadnae chynged its spots, the man wis still a callous an jealous thug, an afore long Betty had shown him the door, again. Sae feart were Betty an the weans o this terrible man that they kept a chair jammed agin the door at nicht, in case he decidit tae come back. Except this nicht, the 28th o February 1954 they had forgot...

Ah'd been aware o somethin gaun oan upstairs fer a wee while, thumpin an bangin an shoutin an the like, whit ah didnae ken at the time wis that this wis George attackin his faimly. Betty wis in aw likelihood deid awready when George the son, jist oot his bed an stabbed in the heid, had made a run fer it. He had ran doon the stairs an along the balcony, leavin wee bloody footprints in the snaw, an jumped in the scullery windae o the Hay's hoose at Number 42, richt through the wa fae whaur ah wis sittin watchin the sick wean. George the faither wis hot oan his heels, follaed his son intae the Hay's an continued his attack. "Get oot o ma hoose!" ah heard Mrs Hay screamin, but there wis nothin they could dae faced wi an angry man wi a knife...

George cairrit his dyin son back up tae Number 57, an thinkin he had feenished aff his faimly, he set aboot feenishin hissel aff. He turned the gas oven oan an lay doon, expectin no tae waken up. The Hays by this time had gethered thersels an run tae the Polis station up the High Street. When the polis arrived they found Betty an wee George lyin deid, Jean terribly woundit but alive, an George lyin unconscious wi his heid in the oven. George's defence at his trial wis that he had suffered a 'brainstorm', but he wis still convictit o double murder an sentenced tae hing at Saughton Jail. Oan the 23rd o June 1954, George Robertson became the last person tae be executit in Edinburgh...

Here, hae anither rock-bun, afore ah eat them aw masel. Naw, ah didnae go tae George's hingin. Weel, it's no like in the auld days is it, when ye actually got tae see the dirty deed yersel. Staunin ootside a jail waitin fer them tae pin up a wee notice, weel it's jist nae fun. Ah think ah went dancin up at the Fountainbridge Palais insteid...

Ah dinnae ken if it wis somethin in the water at Tron Square, but less than 20 year later, anither wumman had mairrit badly, saw sense an kicked him oot, then took leave o her sense an let him back in. Margaret Bain had got mairrit tae Andrew durin the war, but it only lastit till 1948 when the pair had got divorced, no an easy thing fer a wumman tae gang through in thon days. Margaret had suffert a terrible abuse durin the mairrage, bein burnt wi a poker, threatened wi a knife, haein cigarettes stubbed oot oan her airms, awsorts o devilish tortures. Why then, ye hae tae ask yersel, had she allowed Andra back intae her life? But let him back she did, an sure as guns the rows an fechts startit up again...

The nicht o the 16th o October 1973 they'd been haein yin o their rows, her gettin oan tae him aboot gettin a job, him, pished as usual, haein a go at her aboot her cookin. She couldnae help that, puir lassie, we cannae aw be Fannys can we? Durin the row Andra reached up, took a pair o Margaret's nylons doon fae ower the fire, an pit them roond his neck. "Gaun then!" he says, "Tak an end. Hing me if ye want! Ah'd raither be deid than eat yer lumpy mince onyway!"

Noo whether or no Margaret actually strangled her man we may nivver ken, ah dinnae think she kent hersel. She said she did, she turned hersel ower tae the polis sayin "Ah killed the bastard", she even pleadit guilty in the coorts, but durin the case a psychiatrist said it widnae hae surprised him if Andra had done aw the pu'in hissel. In the end, even though she pleadit guilty, the jury found itherwise. Why dae wummen get thersels intae sic situations ah'll nivver ken...

Naw it's like ah say, ah'm an awfy lucky wumman wi Mr Pangloss. He disnae hit me, he disnae bite me, he disnae stub his fags oot oan me. In fact he wid be the perfect man, if only it werenae fer that damned infernal racket! In fact, if ye're no wantin that last rock-bun, ah think ah'll awa ben an chuck it at his heid, or mibbe ah'll stick a couple o burnt currants up his nostrils. Ah ken, he's a puir battered husband an nae mistake...

This wumman's work...

2011-01-10T23:36:00.000Z

Weel, wid ye look at the time! Ah tak a couple o weeks aff writin, an the next thing it's next year! Ah'm no proud o masel, in fact ah'm black-affrontit. Ah've been hidin in here, squattin ahint ma settee wi a cushion ower ma heid, meanwhile ah've got fowk shoutin at ma door, chuckin chuckie-stanes at ma windaes, postin messages threatenin tae sing bawdy songs in ma stair, ah'll be gettin a bad name fer masel so ah will...

But ye're right, ah've brocht it aw oan masel, ah've naebody else tae blame but me. If ma auld grannie wis still wi us she wid say "Wyte yer teeth if yer tail be smaa" tho tae be honest we nivver kent whit she wis oan aboot hauf the time. Neither did ma granda. Ah think ah owe ye aw an explanation...

Ye see, ah've been sufferin fae an auld affliction. Ma doctor cries it SAD, but ah think o it mair as CAD. Ah hate Christmas an aw that gangs wi it. As suin as December shows up, ma mood gangs doon, an ah turn intae this crabbit auld crone, ye widnae recognise me ah tell ye (an that's enough o the sniggerin at the back) Ah dinnae go oot, ah dinnae answer ma phone, ah sit an shout at the telly when aw thae Christmas adverts come oan wi loads o happy faimilies aw wrapped up in their scarfs an duffelcoats wi their airms fu o presents, an smilin. It's the smilin that gets me mair than onythin. When ye're feelin crabbit, there's nothin worse than bein telt tae smile, tae laugh, tae be happy. Ah'll smile when ah'm guid an ready thank ye very muckle...

Ah wis nivver yin o auld John Knox's biggest fans. Tae ma mind he wis far ower-interestit in ither fowks' personal affairs, he kept gaun oan aboot how God could see through yer curtains richt intae yer bedroom, an richt through yer bedspread, even through yer flannelette nightie! When he stuid up there in St Giles kirk an shoutit at us, ye could see he wis enjoyin the thocht, salacious auld midden that he wis. But ah will say this fer the man, he had the richt idea aboot Christmas. Aw jist popery an frippery he wid say, a confection fer the senses wi nae foondation in fact nor meanin. He banned it alang wi Halloween durin oor Reformation, no that we went in fer it in a big way afore that, an it wis only made legal again in Scotland back in the 1950s, mainly oan account o the BBC wantin an excuse tae pit oan big films an 'Morecambe an Wise' shows. Ah'd happily go back...

Ah used tae be able tae jist pit ma heid doon, ignore aw the tinsel an the flashin lichts, an content masel wi the thocht that we were gettin closer tae Hogmanay. Noo that wis a nicht ah aye luikit forrit tae. Aw the preparations, the scrubbin, the polishin, the washin, the bakin, the cookin, it aw meant somethin tae me. We were cleanin the auld year aff oor backs, ready tae face the new like a fresh-bleachit sheet. Oan the nicht itsel ye had that frantic rush tae get awthin done an dustit, leavin ye jist enough time tae get yer peeny aff, pit yer face oan an fix yer hair afore the bells went. Then ye wid hae a wee quiet toast tae yersel in the hoose afore yer first-fits startit showin up. Then it wis singin an dancin, laughin an greetin, Black Bun an shortbreid, drinkin an mair drinkin, mair singin, mair laughin, even mair greetin, till the sun wis comin up. Ye wid get up oan New Year's Day an dae it aw ower again, mibbe wi yer faimily oan the ither side, an mibbe again the next nicht, till ye had fair broken the year in...

Except its no like that these days is it? Naw, noo it's jist yin big burst o fireworks, wakin the weans an scarin the cats, the streets are fu o drunk teenagers fer a couple o oors, then awbody gangs aff tae their beds. Nae first-fits, nae Black Bun, nae wee turns. Mr Pangloss an masel sat up fer a wee while, but naebody chapped oor door this year. Ah dinnae ken whit we were waitin up fer, naebody's chapped it fer years...

Ach...

See, this is why ah've no been at the postin lately. Ah cannae help masel ye see, ah stairt aff wi guid intentions, but the blackness aye comes doon ower ma een. Ah'm missin the auld days, ah'm missin freens an neebors, ah'm missin the community we aw yaist tae share. Fireworks, nae maitter how many or how big, dinnae mak up fer whit we've lost. So, ah said ah widnae bother ye aw wi ma dark thochts, parteecularly when ye were aw enjoyin yersels. Keep it tae yersel ah said tae masel. Naebody wants tae see yer moanin coupon at their pairty. An that's why ah generally keep ma ain company in December...

But that's enough aboot me. How's yersel? Fer aw that ah've jist said, ah hope ye aw had a happy yin yersels, that ye found comfort in yer faimly an freens, that ye got yersels unco fu an happy, an that ye survived it aw. Ah did, an ah'll be fine till come St Andrews Day, then it's aw doonhill again. Ah'm fu o guid intentions fer the comin year, an tap o ma list is gettin back intae the swing o things an tellin ye mair o ma wee stories. Promise. Until then, an ah'm sorry it's a bit late, ah'll wish ye aw a Happy New Year! Lang may yer lum reek!! Slainte!!

Leave it open...

2010-11-20T14:15:00.002Z

Ye ken, some fowk tak their games awfy serious. Ye can see it at the fitba maist weeks, an at the bools an aw. Auld Arthur McArthur that yaist tae bide up oor stair, ye aye kent how he had got oan at the bools by the noise he made when he cam hame. If he'd won, he wid be singin auld songs comin up the stair, like "Bonnie wee Jeannie McColl" or "Stop yer ticklin Jock", but if he'd lost he wid clatter his baw-bag against the bannister railins, an ye'd be lucky if ye got a "Be kind tae auld Grannie" oot o him. Then ye wid hear him abusin wee Effie tae aw hoors. He wis an awfy bad loser...

Anither yin that wis a bad loser wis John Porteous. Aye, that John Porteous. No only did he no like tae lose, but he didnae like it if onybody else kent he'd lost, sae ye imagine how bad he felt efter he'd lost a roond o gowf tae wee Alex Elphiston up oan the Bruntsfield links, an they went an pit it in the papers! In fact, that game, the yin he lost, wis the verry verry first "solemn match o gowf" ever tae be reportit in the papers, back in 1724. Fowk follaed him aboot fer weeks efter, shoutin things like "Fore!" an "Loser!" an makin wee L signs wi their fingers oan their foreheids. He hated that. Ah think that's whit made him him turn oot the bad-temperit curmudgeon he wis.

Whitever it wis, he wis weel-kent fer his soor-face. Ye mynd ah telt ye aboot whit he did tae ma puir wee hen Meg? Weel he wis like that aw the time. He wid sweer at fowk in the street, abuse weans an auld wummen, no tak his turn in a line, say, at the fleshers or baxters' stalls, he wid jist push hissel richt tae the front. Of course, naebody wid stop him, fer he wis the heid o the Toun Gaird, an ye didnae want tae get oan the wrang side o them, so a'body jist stuid aside, an mibbe mutterit wee curses he couldnae hear...

There wis this yin time in 1731 when the Kirk were fillin a lectureship doon at the Auld West Kirk, St Cuthbert's. There had been a close contest atween a Mr Dawson an a Mr Wotherspoon. Dawson had won the presbytery, but Wotherspoon had appealed an won at the synod. Feelin wis sae high they sent the Toun Gaird doon tae keep an een oan things when Wotherspoon wis tae deliver his first sermon. When Porteous got there, here had the bold Dawson no turnt up an taken possession o the pulpit! Porteous walked richt up the stairs o the pulpit, grabbed Dawson, an dragged him back doon, batterin lumps oot him aw the way doon. When Wotherspoon shows up, aw Dawson's pals jumped oan him an batterit him better!

Baith the young men died a few days later...

That's the kind o man Porteous wis, hard, uncouth, angry tae the core. If there were sides tae tak, maist fowk in the toun wid tak against Porteous. Sae we come tae 1736. Noo, tae pit ye in the picture, ye've got tae mynd this is ony thirty year efter that damned Union took place, an suddenly there were taxes an laws an awsorts bein landit oan us fae a palace fower hunner mile awa that nane o us had ever seen, an fewer cared fer. Onybody that could get aroond or unner these taxes wis awricht in maist fowks' een. When this couple o smugglers fae Fife were brocht ower an tried, an then condemnit tae hing, Embra took a wee shine tae them. When yin o them, big Andra Wilson, helped his pal Robertson tae escape when they were at a service in St Giles Kirk, by haudin twa gairds wi his hauns, an anither yin wi his teeth, he became whit ye micht cry a 'Local Hero'.

Robertson, by-the-by, managed tae get awa oan account o a'body staunin aside tae gie him a clear run, then gettin in the road o the gairds as they chasit him! He even managed tae get oot the Pottorraw Port when it wis supposit tae be shut, this bein the Sabbath, escapit tae Holland, an wis still runnin his ain pub in Rotterdam twinty year later!

Onyroads, they still had Andra Wilson, an oan the 14th o April they took him doon tae the Gressmercat fer his hingin. The atmosphere wisnae guid that nicht, Andra wis weel-likit, in fact ony smuggler wis in thon days, an there wis a richt ominous grumblin fae the crowd. The hingin went aheid, we aw watched in silence, an ye can imagine how loud a silence comes fae thoosans o fowk crammed intae the Gressmercat. When the hingsman went up tae cut Wilson doon fae the gibbet, ah couldnae help masel ony langer, ah had tae mak ma wee protest. Yin solitary stane flew through the air, an lamped the hingsman richt oan his neb. That wis aw it took...

Eruption. Thoosans o fowk suddenly let their anger oot, an there wis mair stanes, sticks an bottles, an bawlin an shoutin, a great mass o noise that soonded like a muckle monster comin fae its lair. Porteous, wha ah dae believe had been drinkin, didnae drap a second, he bawled oot "Fire an be damned!" an let aff his ain pistol, richt intae a wee laddie that worked in a sweetie-shop up the West Port. Some o the Gaird follaed him an shot richt intae the crowd, ithers thocht they wid play it safe an shoot ower their heids, except they jist shot fowk at their windaes! Porteous had the Gaird mak a retreat up the West Bow, whaur again they turnit roond an fired. There were bodies lyin aw ower the place, aboot a dozen fowk lay deid, an dozens mair injured. The bluid wis runnin doon the gundies...

Lucky fer Porteous, the Welsh fusiliers were oan staun-by up at the Lawnmercat, an they managed tae escort Porteous back the Gairdhoose, which wis the ugly squat wee howf in the middle o the High Street, aboot the tap o Cockburn Street, though Cockburn Street wisnae there then. He couldnae stay there lang tho, an he wis soon taken up tae the Tolbooth tae wait fer his trial...

The trial wis a lengthy complicatit affair. Porteous made oot that the magistrates had allowed the Gaird tae cairry loadit weapons, an he wis ony daein his duty. The magistrates, watchin their backs, said that the loadit weapons were ony tae guarantee that the hingin went aheid withoot anither darin escape, an as suin as it wis compleat, Porteous had nae richt tae open fire withoot the Riot Act bein read. Porteous said that readin o the Riot Act wis the cooncil's duty, an they had aw gaun an hid thersels awa when things got ugly, leavin him an the Gaird tae defend thersels, which they did. Back an forth it went, till at last a guilty verdict wis brocht, an Porteous wis condemned tae hing hissel...

In steps London. The government wis awfy feart o their fragile Union, an had guid reason tae be, fer nane o us were enamourit o that dismal concoction. We had awready had the '15 an the '19, an we werenae far fae the '45, we were quite the rebellious lot, us Scots, an they widnae hae mynded crushin us, if that's whit it took. The King, George II, wis oot the country at the time, he wis back hame in Hanover, an his Queen, big busty Caroline o Ansbach, wi the Prime Minister Walpole, took it upon thersels tae gie Porteous a reprieve, expectin George tae gie a fu pardon when he got back. Embra wisnae gaunnae staun fer that...

The nicht o the 7th o September, 1736, the mob gaitherit at Wester Portsburgh, up fae the West Port. There were thoosans o us, an thoosans mair jyned the crowd as it mairchit through the toun, doon the Coogate an up tae the Netherbow Port. The gate wis taken an secured, tae prevent ony sodjers comin up fae Holyrood. Then we went up an mobbed the Gairdhoose, tyin up the Gaird an takin aw their weapons. Then oan up tae the Tolbooth, where Porteous wis bein held. He kent whit wis gaun oan mynd, cos ah'd laid that wee curse oan him a few year earlier. Puir wee Meg...

The Tolbooth door wis a great heavy thing, an stood up tae a lengthy batterin. Eventually we had tae set fire tae it tae get in, an Porteous wis dragged fae his cell. He wis cairrit up the Lawnmercat an doon the West Bow, aw in near-silence apairt fae the slow thump o the lynch-drum at the heid o the mob. We had awready arranged wi the wife fae the rope-shop oan the Bow no tae lock her door that nicht, but tae leave it open. Yin o the men went in, selectit a guid strang length o towe, an left a nice new guinea oan the coonter. Naebody can say we dinnae pay fer oor pleasures in Edinburgh...

There wis nae gibbet set up fer Porteous, but that nivver stopped us. The rope wis thrawn ower a dyer's pole near the Coogateheid, an Porteous wis strung up. Things got a bit messy at this pynt, fer he wis up an doon an up again, stripped nakit, beaten an battered, even set fire tae, but efter a bit it wis aw ower, we had taen oor justice, an the mob meltit awa, drappin the weaponry, the lochaber axes liberatit fae the Gairdhoose, aw ower the Gressmercat.

Oor leaders in London didnae like this as ye can imagine, an fer a while there wis a threat tae diminish Edinburgh, revoke oor charter, bar the Provost, pu doon the toun wa an aw the Ports, make us suffer, but in the end aw they did wis order the Netherbow Port tae be cleikit or jammed open, an fined the toun £2000 tae be paid tae Porteous' widow. Fer aw the enquiries an rewards fer information, not a soul blabbed in the toun. The wa o silence wis bigger an stronger than ony toun wa...

Porteous hissel wis buried in the Greyfriars burial-groond, his only marker bein a wee stane wi 'P' an '1736' oan it, but this wis replced in 1973 wi the heidstane ye see noo, wi the inscription "John Porteous, a captain of the City Guard of Edinburgh, murdered September 7th 1736. All passion spent, 1973"

Ye ken, thinkin aboot thon nichts, when mobs o fowk could take oan a life o their ain, an commit crimes that individually they wid nivver dream o, has left me feelin the same -

All passion spent...

Strange phenomena...

2010-11-17T19:03:00.000Z

Oh hullo, it's yersel... Ye'd best come in... Whit d'ye mean, of course ah'm gled tae see ye, ah wis jist in the middle o somethin that's aw... Sit yersel doon by the fire, jist clear a space wid ye, pit that stuff oan the flair, ah'll be wi ye as suin as ah've fixed ma face... Ah'm sorry aboot the mess, ah've eh, ah've no gotten roond tae daein ma hoosework this mornin...

Ah ken, afore ye stairt oan me, ah've been awfy bad. Keepin ma curtains drawn, ignorin aw the bangin at the door an shoutin through the letterbox, barely settin fit oot the hoose. Ah ken some o ye hae been wantin tae come in tae hear ma stories, but tae be quite honest wi ye ah've no been feelin up tae it. Ah might like tae gie aff like ah'm this happy-go-lucky, aye laughin, aye drinkin sort o wumman, but like maist fowk ah hae ma doon-times. Like every yin o ye ah hae days ah jist want tae pu ma blankets ower ma heid an forget the world. Except mine can go oan fer weeks...

Of course ah've no been shut up aw this time. Aw naw. Ah've had tae go oot tae dae ma messages an the like, pick up ma prescriptions, that sortae thing. Ma doctor telt me ah should go a walk in the sunshine when ah can, tae tak masel oot o masel if ye ken whit ah mean. So ah did. Ah took masel wee daunders roond graveyairds tae lay flooers, doon back-closes tae luik at auld murder-scenes, across bridges tae see how high they are, an alang the Water o Leith...

Ah wis trauchlin alang this day past yin o the weirs oan the Water, an ma mynd wanderit back tae aw the weirs ah've kent ower the years. There wis this yin couple fae a while back, brither an sister they were, an a richt antlin couple they were an aw. He wis a bit obsessed if ye ask me, quite the purist so he wis, aye threapin at fowk tae luik forrit an tae raise their een tae the sunny uplands aheid...

The sister oan the ither haun wis a richt droll doll, she aye wis, she yaist tae spin awsorts o unco tales, supposedly stories fae her past an her upbringin in the aulden days, an here's the queer thing, she thocht she wis a witch...

Oh hing oan a meenit, ah can see whit ye're thinkin. Ye think ah'm talkin aboot Tom an Molly Weir din't ye?

Naw naw, they're no the Weirs ah'm talkin aboot. Naw, ah'm talkin aboot Major Thomas Weir an his sister Grizel Weir. At least, we yaist tae cry her Grizel, though ah think her real name wis Jean. The twa o them hailit fae Lanarkshire an were aff sheep-fermin fowk. Thomas wis born in 1599 an he had focht in the Covenantin Wars ower in Ireland in 1641, an rose tae the rank o Major. When he retired in 1650 he wis apointit heid o the Embra Toun Gaird.

The twa o them bidit in a land near the tap o the West Bow, that awfy steep creukit street that runs fae the Lawnmercat doon tae the Gressmercat. The Bow itsel, or the auld city gate, stood at the first turn oan the way doon, jist aboot whaur Victoria Terrace crosses it noo. There a muckle widden gate hung oan twa enormous hinges, an back in the auld days this gate wis shut fast every nicht. The Bow yaist tae be whaur aw the tinsmiths, silversmiths an hammermen had their shops, an fowk wid talk aboot the 'tinklin o the Bow' fer it wis a noisy wee bit. Some o the hooses oan the Bow had stood langer than maist fowk could mynd, an lookin at the yin at the tap o the street, ye hae tae wunner how they stood at aw!

In the Covenantin days, in the latter hauf o the seeventeenth century, the fowk o the Bow had a reputation fer religious purity second tae nane in the toun, an they were sae up thersels we yaist tae cry them the 'Bowheid Saints'. Major Weir wis the godliest o the godly, the purest o the pure, an his prayers an sermons were sae fervent, sae birsie, that he got the name o 'Angelical Thomas'. He wis byorner a dour man, tall an lanky wi a big neb, aye luikin doon tae the groond, but when he stood up tae pray, leanin oan his cruikit thornwood staff, his een were aw alicht an the power seemed tae thrill through his body as he warned his flock o the comin o the End o Days an the great fecht atween Guid an Evil. He wis a bit dramatic tae ma way o thinkin, but the Bowheid Saints lapped it up an thocht he wis somethin special...

Of course, we werenae aw taken in by the Saints o the Bow, an there were some queer tales went roond, in parteecular aboot Major Weir's thornwood staff. Some said it yaist tae go his messages fer him, some said it answered the door fer him, ithers even said they had seen it bouncin alang the street afore him at nicht, cairryin a lamp fer him! It wis a cursed stick, fowk said he got his preachin powers fae it, some said the verry Devil wis in it, but some fowk'll say onythin fer a laugh...

But fer aw the gossipin that went oan aboot Angelical Thomas, ye can imagine the stir that went roond the toun when we heard that he had stood up tae preach yin nicht, but insteid o comin oot wi his usual firebrand holier-than-thou sermonisin, he launched intae a confession.

An no jist ony confession it wis either, nane o yer 'ah'm a puir sinner nae fit fer God's mercy' stuff. Naw, this wis a confession o true evil, o bein in league wi Auld Nick hissel, o practicin sins that didnae hae names, sins o the flesh an o sorcery. He claimed tae be a warlock o the worst sort. The first ah heard o it wis the mornin efter, staunin in a line doon at the Fleshmercat doon Halkerston's Wynd. Jessie Knox telt me she had heard it fae her auntie's cousin that had a button stall up the Lawnmercat, an she had heard it fae her neebor's sister's man, him bein a porter doon the Bow. Nane o us believed it at first, it wis jist the sort o tattle ye aften heard in the toun, here th'day gone th'morn sortae story. Even the Provost didnae believe it, an refused tae hae the Major arrestit, hopin the thing wid jist blaw ower...

But then Grizel stepped up, an claimed the twa o them had been th'gither, as man an wife so tae speak, fer years, an had gotten up tae awsorts, an caused aw kind o strange phenomena. She said that they had inheritit their witchcraft fae their mither, an regularly toured the countryside in a fiery coach, gaun tae coven meet-ups. She confirmed that the Major got his diabolical powers fae his cruikit staff. It wis the incest that did it fer them tho, an so the three o them, Thomas, Grizel, an the walkin-stick, were aw locked up in the Tolbooth...

Ah mynd Major Weir's trial weel, fer it wis ma birthday, the 9th day o April, 1670, an ah treatit masel tae a new hat an a nice broch fer ma shawl. It wis fair, quite warm fer the time o year, wi wee fluffy clouds, nae sign o rain. We didnae find oot much mair at the trial than we awready knew, fer the Major widnae let oan. He said he had said aw he had tae say an he wisnae aboot tae say nae mair. When he wis asked if he had ever actually seen the Deil, he answered that 'the only feelin ah ever had o him wis in the dark'. That raised a wee titter, but aw in aw it wis a bit o a disappointment, but ah still had the hat an the broch, which wis nice...

So, anither trip doon tae the Gallowlee oan Leith Walk it wis. Afore they strung the no-sae-Angelical-noo Thomas up, they asked him fer his repentance, but he wid gie them nane o it. "Ah hae lived as a beast, ah will die as a beast!"

An so he did. Efter the hingin they threw the Major oan the fire, as per witchcraft rules, an they threw his stick oan efter him, an ah hae tae admit, it crackled an spat an twistit an louped aboot like, weel, like a stick posessed...

Grizel wis taen doon the Gressmercat fer her hingin, an she managed tae gie us a wee bit o entertainment at the end an aw. She took it intae her heid that she had tae die wi aw the shame she could, an it wis aw the magistrates could dae tae stop her fae rippin aw her claes aff. Puir mad auld sowel...

An that's the tale o the Weirs o the West Bow. Noo ony similarity ye micht see atween them an Tom an Molly Weir is fae yer ain fervid imagination, nothin tae dae wi me. Ah hope ye're gled ye got me tae answer ma door, tae be honest ah'm gled ah answered it an aw. It's nae fun tellin stories tae yersel, fer a stairt ah'm aye askin questions ah dinnae ken the answers tae. So if ye're done ah'll let ye get oan, ah think ah've got some hoosework tae get oan wi masel. Noo dinnae be a stranger, Cheerie!

Runnin up that hill

2010-09-28T10:04:00.002+01:00

We hae, or we used tae hae at least afore the smokin ban cam alang tae kill them aff, a muckle great auld pubs in Embra. Yin that some o ye may be familiar wi is the Guildford Arms, up ahint the auld Woolworth's shop on Princes Street. Aye awricht, ah ken, there's nae Woolies there noo, jist a hamburger shop, but ye ken whaur ah am, up aside the Register Hoose. It's a braw drinkin palace inside, weel worth a visit if ye've no been in, but the reason ah bring it up is the path at the side, oan the right as ye look at the photie. Ye see that wee path? It goes at an angle up the side tae the Cafe Royal, ye wi me? Weel, that wee bit path, that's aw that's left o an ancient auld road ah yaist tae ken weel. Let me tell ye aboot Gabriel's Road...

Ma tale affsets way back in 1607, when yin o King Jamie Saxt's pals, Tam o the Coogate, found siller ore oan his property oot by Linlithgow. Bein the guid pal he wis, the king relieved Tam o his discovery, fer a sma fee of course, opened a mine, an sent the ore tae be refined doon at a new mill he built oan the Water o Leith. Sadly the silvermine wisnae the goldmine the king hoped it wid be, an suin eneuch the ore ran oot an the venture foondert, but fer a few year it gave up ample tae pay its way.

Bein as ah am the whelp o a Black Bitch (an proud o it!) ah grew up no far fae this mine. Ah mynd as a wee bairn playin in the auld abandoned mine-workins, practisin ma yodellin skills an scarin the livin bejeesus oot o aw ma pals. This great daurk gash in the earth, hunkert awa doon at the bottom o a wee glen, we thocht wis the very gates o Hell itsel, an hid aw manner o beasties an monsters, dragons an trolls, daemons an deils. No that there were ony, but ma pals werenae tae ken that...

The Silvermills that King James sent the ore tae are aw built ower noo, but they yaist tae staun doon near Stockbridge, jist ahint St Stephen's kirk. The path fae the toun doon tae the mills wis kent as Gabriel's Road, we cryed it that efter the auld man Gabriel that kept a drinkin-howf doon by the mills. Nane o us kent his real name but he blew a mean trumpet an had sic an angelic wee face. Ah christened him efter a heavy session yin Friday nicht an the name, weel it kinda stuck...

Gabriel's Road struck aff fae the end o the dam that held back the Nor Loch, across fae the fit o Halkerston's Wynd, near tae whaur we dooked Betty Trot yin day. The dam stood roughly whaur the North Brig stauns noo, an the path climbed up the steep slope tae Moultrey's Hill, afore descendin doon the ither side taewards Silvermills. Oan a warm summer's day there wis naethin nicer than takin a daunder ower tae Moultrey's, tae a wee fermhoose inn by the road cawed 'Peace an Plenty', whaur the Royal Bank Heid Office is noo, fer some lovely curds an whey. Nane o yer Mr Whippy or Jerry'n'Ben's rubbish fer us. Aw naw, we had curds an whey! Ah wid get a wee bowl o the stuff, find masel a wee tuffet tae sit doon oan, an ooooh... scrumptious... mmm...

Moultrey's Hill itsel stood at the end o a wee ridge, alang the line o which George Street wis laid oot oan. This wis anither braw bit fer a walk oan a fine summer's day, alang the ridge tae the bit field that went by the name o Barefit's Park. Noo, ah ken whit ye're thinkin, "Whit wis it cryed Barefit's Park fer?" an ah wid dearly love tae tell ye it wis oan account o aw us young hippy lassies skippin merrily through the gress wi nae shoes nor stockins oan oor pretty feet, runnin up that hill singin hippy songs, spreadin hippy free love an gettin up tae awsorts. Ah ken at least a couple o ye that wid prefer that onyroads, pyntin nae fingers...

Sadly tho, it wisnae. It wis cryed that efter the owner, a Mr Bearford fae oot East Lothian. Sad ah ken, but true. Dinnae let that tak onythin awa fae the place tho, it wis a bonnie field. Ah spent mony a summer's day wanderin through the whins, pickin flooers or catchin butterflees, strollin doon the hill an across the Lang Dykes path tae the banks o the Nor Loch. It wis bonnie jist sae lang as the wind wisnae blawin ower fae the Auld Toun, fer it could get a bit smelly in the summer. If ye lay oan yer back an shut yer een ye could imagine ye were awa oot in the country, while in fact ye were ony a hauf-mile fae yer hoose. Ye had tae keep in mynd that onythin ye did in Barefit's Park could be seen fae the back windaes o the High Street, which brings me tae Robert Irvine an his terrible deed.

Noo this widnae be Embra, an it widnae be Shootinfaetheshin, if there wisnae a terrible deed lurkin there amangst the bushes, wid it?

Robert Irvine wis a probationary meenister that had taken up a job tutorin twa young laddies, the sons o a Mr Gordon o Ellon, that bidit doon in Broughton village. Noo like a lot o young gentlemen he enjoyed a wee bit o dallyin oan the side, an he wis dallyin this day wi the Gordon's scullerymaid, when he wis seen by the young laddies. This they happened, in aw innocence, tae mention tae their mither at tea-time.

Of course this upset the young Casanova, thinkin that if word got oot he wid get barred fae the meenistry. He broodit oan this, turnin his anger at the laddies intae a monster inside hissel. Oan the follaein Sunday, efter kirk, he took the twa laddies fer a walk up tae Barefit's Park, an there, in broad daylicht, an in fu view o the back windaes o the toun, attackit an murderit the laddies wi a clasp-knife...

It didnae tak lang tae chase the brute doon, seen as he wis by sae mony witnesses oan the toun side o the loch, an when he wis chasit doon, he wis still coverit in blood fae the terrible deed. He wis caught, as we yaist tae cry it, 'ridd-haundit', that is tae say, wi the blood still fresh oan his hauns. This meant that there wis nae need fer a trial, an first thing oan the Wednesday mornin, the 1st o May 1717, the beast had baith his hauns cut aff, an wis strung up oan the gibbet doon by Broughton toll-hoose...

There's a wee somethin fer ye tae think aboot next time ye're doon Princes Street Gairdens lickin yer Mr Whippy. Oan second thochts mibbe naw. Tell ye whit, jist think oan me dancin barefit through the whins wi ma butterflee net an endin up flat oan ma back in Barefit's Park. That'll dae ye noo, ah'm awa tae mak masel some yummy curds an whey. Cheerie!

An dream o sheep...

2010-09-17T19:15:00.000+01:00

Weel whit a day that wis an nae mistake. The first veesit fae the Pope fer near thirty year. Wha o us kens if we'll still be here the next time he comes roon tae see us? Ah mynd askin masel that question the last time the Pope cam tae see us, tho in ma favour ah wid pynt oot it had taken him near 2000 year tae get aroon tae it at that time. An noo he comes back barely thirty year later? Popes are a bit like buses ah suppose. Ah wid say trams, but ah bide in Embra mynd, an jist want tae greet onytime trams are mentioned. Pass me that box o hankies oan the sideboard wid ye...

It's awricht, ah'll be awricht, jist gie me a meenit...

Right. Aye. Whaur wis ah? Popes. Aye, it wis nice tae see aw thae happy wee faces shinin wi adoration, aw thae men no feart tae wear dresses oot o the hoose, aw thae Saltires wavin an no a Union rag in sicht, the auld Queen an her man still oan the go, an maist o aw oor beautiful toun, Edina wi the bonnie cheeks. She luikt stoatin in the sunshine so she did, the star o the show as far as ah'm concerned. Ah'm aye fit tae burst wi pride when a big name comes tae the toun, an gets tae see whit a braw wee place we bide in, an they pit yin o thon cameras in the sky tae luik doon ower the toun.

It wis a wee shame tho, that they nivver brocht the auld man up tae see the Auld Toun. Apairt fae Holyroodhoose he nivver got tae see the real heart o the city up close. Tae ma mynd it's a peety they nivver took him tae see the statues o John Knox an Davie Hume, nivver took him up tae the High Kirk o Saint Giles. Ah cannae fer the life o me think why no...

Talkin o Saint Giles kirk, me an ma pal Jenny had arrangit tae meet up there efter work this Saiturday efternin a few year ago. Ah had been daein stairs aw mornin an ma heid wis spinnin, she had been at her stall doon by the Tron sellin cabbages an the like. She wis a greenwife ye see, an selt aw manner o vegetables an fruitstuffs, bawlin oot her "Neeps like succar! Wha'll buy neeps?" an her "Fower-bunch a penny, wha'll buy ma caller radishes?" She had sic a loud voice oan her, ye could hear Jenny's cry aw the way up at the Luckenbooths ah'm nae kiddin ye!

We met up aboot fower o'clock, an it wis sic a hot an sunny day we took a wander doon the Gressmairket an sat oot in the sun an knockit back a wheen o ales. Ye dinnae aye realise how much ye're drinkin when ye're enjoyin yersel. We were aw bletherin aboot the tale o that Betty Trot an her farce o a dookin. As the nicht wore oan we found oorsels up at the Greppa inn ahint the Parliament Close. Even tho it wis a bricht summer's nicht, when ye went doon thae shadowy back-stairs an intae the gloom o that tavern it wis sae daurk ye had tae feel yer way tae the bar. No fer nothin wis it cryed the Gropin-hoose...

Eventually we endit up gaun dancin at the auld Assembly oan the West Bow. It wis a ricketty auld joint by this time, no far fae fawin doon aroon oor ears, but the dancin wis rare, the ale wis flowin, an we were haein the time o oor life. Jenny wis a grand mover, she had slinkier hips than ah could ever dream o haein. Ah'm nae sure whit time we got hame at that nicht, aw ah ken is that the sun wis risin, an even Jenny wis gettin hoarse fae aw the singin an laughin. Ah said cheerio tae Jenny at her stair door an telt her ah wid see her in the mornin fer the kirk...

Oh but did we no pay fer oor sins in the mornin? Ma heid wis loupin fit tae burst, an it wis aw ah could dae but tae splash ma face wi water an drag ma guid frock oan. Ah went up tae collect Jenny, an she luikit as bad as ah felt! Her faither Mr Geddes wisnae best pleased wi us either. He telt Jenny she wis gaunnae hae tae clean oot their cludgie fer a week fer stayin oot sae late, an gied me a bellin-aff fer leadin his dochter astray. Me? Leadin her astray? Chance wid be a fine thing, Jenny wis the rabble-rouser, no me! But ah said nothin, ah jist held ma tung. If truth be telt ah kept quiet cos if ah'd startit tae talk ah think ah wid've chucked up aw ower his guid shoes. Ah jist luikit doon at the flair an kept swallaein...

We walkit up tae the kirk in silence. Ah could tell by the luik oan Jenny's face it wisnae worth startin up a conversation. She wis in yin o her moods. Ah think she had took the hump wi me cos ah got mair gropes in Greppa than she did, but then ah think ye can pit that doon tae her loud voice, ye didnae hae tae grope tae ken whaur Jenny wis. We got tae the kirk, foldit oot oor wee creepie-stools an sat doon. Ye see, ye had tae be somebody tae get a proper pew in thon days, lassies like us had tae bring oor ain seats.

There wis an awfy atmosphere in the kirk that mornin, an it wisnae aw doon tae mornin-efter-nicht-afore sair heids. That auld monster King Chairlie the First wis intent oan sweepin awa oor Reformation an tae oor mynd wantit tae bring the Popery back. He had brung back Bishops tae oor kirk, an this mornin, the 23rd o July 1637 he had decreed that the meenister wis tae read fae a new Englis prayer-buik. Noo Popery's yin thing, but Anglicanism? Noo he wis gaun too far. Fowk werenae happy an ye could feel it in the air, ye could've cut the tension wi a knife...

Ah wis barely aware o aw this tho, haein ony havin had a couple o oors sleep. As suin as the kirk went quiet an Jimmy Hanney, the Dean, had stairtit dronin oan, ah stairtit noddin aff. Ah wis jist gettin intae a guid sleep, leanin against Jenny's shooder, an fer some unkent reason stairtin tae dream o giant sheep, when Jimmy had got tae the meat o the service an began tae read fae the new prayer-buik. He hadnae got twa words oot when Jenny let oot this ear-shatterin yell an leapt up, cowpin me richt aff ma stool an landin me oan ma erse oan the flair!

"Wha daur say Mass in ma lug?" she screams, "Ah hope ye get piles, ye auld fart!"

She picks up her stool an launches it at the pulpit. Suddenly there's uproar in the kirk, fowk are bawlin an shoutin, they're chuckin stools, bibles, walkin sticks, breid rolls, onythin they had tae haun really, an there's me lyin flat oan ma back like a cowpit sheep, no able tae get tae ma feet, nor even tae ma hauns an knees. By this time there wis a riot gaun oan ower ma heid, fit tae match the riot gaun oan inside o it. Ma skirts were gettin tramplit oan in the melee an it wis aw ah could dae tae crawl ma way tae the kirk door an oot intae the street. The door slammed shut ahint me, an sae ah jist kept oan crawlin...

Ah think ah must've crawled aw the way hame that mornin, judgin by the state o ma frock the next day. It seems Jenny had stairtit somethin in the kirk that day. They even pit up a wee memorial tae her, tho ye'll notice they pit the wrang stoll up oan it, that there's a cuttie-stool, no a creepie-stool. Anyroads, the riot went oan aw day lang, an even efter the Toun Rats had managed tae evict maist o the rioters fae the kirk they went oan chuckin sticks an stanes at the windaes till gaun oan six at nicht. The unrest led tae the men o the toun signin up tae a National Covenant the next February, tellin King Chairlie whaur he could stick his ideas, an sae began the troubles that went oan fer twinty-odd years, bringin an end tae Chairlie, the comin o the tyranny o Cromwell, an the birth o Leith Walk. There's aye some guid tae come fae bad is there no? That wid be the same Leith Walk that wis meant tae hae brand spankin new trams wheechin doon it by noo...

Pass me thae hankies ower...

The waddin list

2010-09-12T19:36:00.001+01:00

As a professional stair-cleaner that taks her wark gey serious, ah dinnae mynd tellin ye how gled ah wis when they opent up the New Toun mansions, an efter that the Victorian tenements, fer an awfy lot o them had straucht stairs, ken, aw in a line, apairt fae mibbe wee bends at the tap an at the bottom. They were an awfy lot easier tae clean. Easier that is than the auld turnpike stairs the Auld Toun wis fu o. Efter a mornin o scrubbin turnpike efter turnpike ah tell ye ah wis as dizzy as a heidless chicken an wid be stoatin aw ower the shop. Fowk yaist tae stop an ask me if ah'd been at the sherry, an it wid ony be ten in the mornin!

Of course there wis some mornins fair enough, if it wis awfy cauld say, or awfy hot, or mibbe if it wis awfy wet, or awfy dry....

Anyroads, ah wisnae the worst. There wis some richt dizzy dames bidit up thae stairs. Ah kent this yin wumman, Eleanor wis her name, she wis a scatty besom so she wis, an flirty intae the bargain. She wis fae quite weel-aff stock, moneyed fowk, an she'd mairrit oantae the Primrose faimly, sae she'd done weel fer hersel, but she wis still as wanton as a wet hen an as gullible as a fat goat. Eleanor kent how tae pairty richt enough, she wid hae big crowds at her do's, an made aabody feel like they were her favourites. Ye could say she wis easy wi her favours, but she meant nae hairm, she wis jist haein fun, an she aye kent there wis a limit. Her man tho, he wis a gey rum yin, richt anti-social an door. He had a green streak o jealousy that went richt doon tae his rotten core.

Eleanor telt me how this yin Saiturday nicht, at yin o their pairties, her man had got this thocht intae his heid that Eleanor had smiled ower much at sic-an-sic anither man, that she had been tryin tae catch his een aw nicht, nivver mynd how much she denied it. The next mornin, she had got up, an wis sittin at her dressin-table daein her hair an touchin up her pocks, when she had caught sicht o her man in her wee haun-mirror, creepin up ahint her wi his sword oot, an a murderous look oan his face.

Quick-witted as she could be at sic times, Eleanor reached back an sprayed her can o lacquer in his face, jumpt up, an leapt oot the windae! Lucky fer her she wis ony yin flair up an she landit oan the midden so she nivver hurt hersel. She ran oot intae the High Street, bearin in mynd noo this is near ten in the mornin, she's in her nightie an covert in shite, an aabody else is in their Sunday best oan their wy tae kirk, she waves at them aw an smiles, says 'mornin!', runs ower the street, an up the close whaur her guid-mither bides. Brave wumman.

She gets her guid-mither's protection, fer athoot haein tae say it the auld wife kens whit her son's capable o, an he's sent aff tae Europe tae dae a Tour, in disgrace. His wife Eleanor gets the hoose an the bairns an life gangs oan...

This meant nae mair pairties fer Eleanor tho, nae socialisin an nae flindrikin fer her nae mair, it meant spinster buik-readins, nichts at the fire daein samples, an it got her doon puir sowel. So when ah saw a billpost fer a wee show that wis oan doon the Canongate, ma first thocht wis ma pal Eleanor, "this'll cheer her up" thocht ah, "jist whit she needs"

The show wis yin o thon mediums, that boastit he could answer ony o yer questions aboot fowk ye kent but that werenae wi ye nae langer. Sae we went alang tae the mannie's wee parlour room, doon jist past Pirrie's Close, whaur he had it aw done up like a Turkish bazaar, aw hung wi fancy ridd blankets, an lit wi wee teapot lamps. We're aw crammit in, a crowd o aboot a dozen aw th'gither, an there's a richt expectant hush... The wee dark man in the black silky coat gies a wee shpiel aboot gettin his powers aff some genie he'd trapped in Egypt, dis some hurdie-gurdie incantations, an then says how he could tell ye onyhin aboot onybody onywhaur, onybody at aw... Then he taks Eleanor by the haun, an leads her through ahint this arras...

When Eleanor cam oot she wis as white as a new-bleachit sheet, an she grabbed ma elbae an hurrit me oot an back tae her hoose. Whit a worrit, troublt luik wis in her een. As suin as we were in the door, she gied me a pen an a bit o paper, an made me scrieve it aw doon. When the mannie had took her through, he'd sat her doon afore this mirror, waved his haun aroon, an in it she'd seen, aw fu o colour an movin, like in a dream, this waddin, an then she listit aw she saw...

The Waddin List...

It wis in a kirk

There wis a bride an a groom

The bride wis beautiful

There werenae miny fowk

The waddin stairts...

In runs a man, ah ken him

It's ma brither

He runs up tae the groom

and draws his sword

the groom draws his

it aw goes fuzzie

...

An we baith signed an datit it, she sealt it wi wax, an lockit it awa in a drawer in her desk.

Then aboot three month later, when, aye, ye'll hae guessit it but ah'll tell ye onywy, when her brither comes back fae daein his ain Grand Tour, Eleanor taks him aside, an asks him if he'd heard onythin aboot her husband, wha hadnae been heard o fer ages. He sits her doon an tells her aye, he'd seen him richt enough. When he wis passin through Holland he'd heard there wis a waddin gaun oan wi a man fae Embra, an so he thocht he wid gang alang, see if he kent him. He slaverit somethin aboot bein caught in a canaljam whitivver that wis, an turnin up late, but when he got there did he no find oot it wis his ain brither-in-law that wis gettin hitchit! Sae he said he had enlichtenit the puir lassie, stoppit the waddin, an chasit her man oot the toun...

Then Eleanor made him gang tae her room an get the sealed letter, an open it. Ye've guessed it, this waddin wis aboot tae tak place at the exact time Eleanor had seen the apparition in the mirror...

Eleanor's brither didnae ken whaur the Lord Primrose had run aff tae efter that, but it wis only a couple o year later in 1706 that Eleanor got word that he wis deid, likely, she said, in some ither floozie's airms. She nivver moornt fer him. He'd left her a wealthy, still young, an beautiful Dowager Lady Primrose. She enjoyed bein a Dowager Lady an wis in nae rush tae get re-mairrit, e'en though she got plenty offers. Eventually though, on 27th o March, 1708, she mairrit John Dalrymple, the 3rd Earl o Stair, an became Lady Stair. Dalrymple wis a hard husband tae haunle tae, he likit his drink, an Eleanor had her work cut oot controllin him. Eventually, efter giein her an awfy batterin yin nicht, he agreed that the only drink he wid touch fae then oan, wid be whit she hersel had passed tae him, an nae mair. He stuck tae it tae...

Eleanor bigged up her reputation as society hostess wi the maistest, an efter she boucht the hoose that still bears her name, doon Lady Stair's Close in 1719, she saw tae it that her pairties were the pairties tae be seen at, she entertainit like nae ither grand-dam in Embra, an wis remenberit lang efter she wis gaun fae this life in 1759.

Ah still curst her tho when she made me scrub thae turnpike stairs o hers, roond... an roond... an roond... an roond...

Atween a man an a wumman...

2010-09-10T12:32:00.001+01:00

Weel hullo! It's guid tae see ye again, come in an sit doon. Ye'll be gled tae ken ah'm in a guid mood this mornin. Ah dinnae ken whit's got intae me, mibbe it's the darker nichts drawin in an the cauld weather comin back. Ah've nivver really been yin fer the heat o summer ye see, ah prefer the winter masel. Noo, ah've been haein a luik at me wee stories, an tae be honest they've been gettin gey grim hae they no? Weel ye can relax, th'day ah'm gaunnae tell ye a cantie wee tale that ah howp'll pit a wee smile oan yer face. Weel it's twa tales, but they baith hae happy endins, an they shouldnae gie ye nichtmares...

Ah'm takin ye th'day, doon the hill fae the High Street, doon the wynds tae the auld Nor Loch. Noo, ah dinnae hae tae remind ye that through the years, as Embra got bigger an busier an mair crowdit, that the Loch got dirtier an smellier an fouler an- weel, ye get the picture, it wis a rank puddle withoot a doot. Mynd when St Davie Hume fell in? It wis nivver really yaised as a pleasure-groond, fowk didnae gang doon there fer a wee paddle or a swim, weel, no willinly at least. There were some that went fer a swim in the Loch, but they tendit tae dae it agin their wills. Ye see that wis whaur we yaised tae dook oor witches, tae see if they were in fact witches efter aw. Ye ken the score, if they drooned, then they were innocent, but if they floatit, then that must've meant Satan wis protectin them, sae we took them back up the hill tae the Castlehill an burnt them. Ye cannae say fairer than that...

Hunners o puir wummen, an a fair few men, went through the 'worryin' ower the years. It wis aw the rage durin the time o King Jamie Saxt, him that ran awa tae England the meenit auld Queen Bess wis deid an nivver cam back, he had a thing fer witches. That an smokin, but let's no gang there, it'll jist get ma blood pressure up again. Naw let's leave the witches fer th'noo, ah'll tell ye aboot them some ither time. Ah'm gaunnae tell ye aboot anither use the Loch wis pit tae, an that wis as punishment fer mair earthly sins. Back in the 1560s the toun cooncil wis gettin awfy worrit aboot the rise in fornicatin an ither misbehaviours gaun oan in the toun, an how tae punish them that widnae mend their ways, an sae in 1565 they erectit a dookin stool doon at the fit o Halkerston's Wynd, richt at the deepest pairt o the Loch. If ye gang intae the Waverley Station these days, in the back entrance fae Mairket Street, then ye're near enough at the spot.

Up in the Lawnmairket there wis this wife, Betty Trot wis her name, right gob oan her she had. She wisnae unlike that Big Mo oan the Eastenders show oan the telly, aye shoutin the oods aboot somethin or ither, an aye oan the make. She had a dirty wee stall whaur she selt odds an ends, buttons, ties, hairgrips, semmits, aw that sort o stuff, an unner the coonter bits o jewellry. Ye had tae be wary when ye boucht owt fae Betty's stall, ye nivver kent whaur it had cam fae, though ye could guess that maist o wis pinched or purloined fae somewhaur. Then, in 1635, there had been this fire in yin o the lands, an a load o jewellry had gaun missin fae the hoose. When the missin jewels were foond in Betty Trot's stall, it wis decidit that the wumman wis tae be dookit fower times in the Nor Loch as punishment fer her an as a warnin tae ithers. Betty wis nane too pleased, an let aabody ken it...

Picture it, we're aw gaitherit doon by the lochside fer the show, an the toun hingsman's leadin Betty ower tae the dookin stool. She's bawlin an shoutin "Get yer hauns aff me! Ah'm an innocent wumman! It's a set-up! Ah've nae idea whaur that stuff cam fae!" aw that sort. Then, jist as they're at the stool, she taks a breenge at the hingsman, knockin him aff the wee jetty they've got there, an richt intae the water hissel! Then she taks aff alang the lochside tae whaur there's a wee boat sittin, no far fae the yin ah pit wee Andra Gray intae, jumps in, an starts rowin aff ower the loch.

Some o the men jump intae ither boats an gie chase. The first yin that reaches her, Betty grabs the side o it an yanks it up, cowpin the puir laddie in it richt ower an he ends up gaun heidfirst in the stinkin water! By this time, us staunin oan the bank, thinkin we were gaunnae get the entertainment o a dookin, were laughin an cheerin at this muckle better spectacle. "Gaun yersel Betty!!" But then three o her pursuers catch up wi her an it luiks like the game's up. Betty pits her hauns in the air "Awricht, it's a fair cop, ye've got me." she crys, an they come up alangside o her. Twa o the men tak haud o her by the airms. An then she dis it again! She chucks the fu wecht o hersel, an Betty wis nae shilpit wee sparra let me tell ye, agin the men, upendin baith the boats an launchin aw o them intae the foul spume! It wis that funny watchin them aw splashin an thrashin an fechtin their way tae the shore, we were aw doublit up screamin an cacklin. Ah near wet masel it wis that funny! Even the cooncillors there were creased up, an they decidit that, seein as how Betty had gied us aw sic a merry laugh, an in effect had dooked hersel, that they widnae push the maitter ony further, an she wis bound ower tae behave hersel in future, if indeed she survived efter takin even a moothfu o that skanky ditchwater...

But here, ah said ah wis gaunnae tell ye aboot a happier tale, an this yin's aboot love. Aboot the love an loyalty atween a man an a wumman. It wis ony a couple o year efter Betty's wee circus-show that this young lassie moved intae oor stair fae somewhaur oot in the country. Naebody kent muckle aboot her. She wis a bonny wee lassie, unmairrit, gentle-spoken, weel-behaved, an quiet. Quiet wis the word richt enough, fer it soon becam obvious that she had a lot tae keep quiet aboot. The puir lassie, nae man mynd, began tae show that she wis wi bairn. Noo that jist wisnae the done thing back then. A mither athoot a man? Naw. She wis pit upon a lot tae gie it up an tell us wha he wis, this man that had left her in trouble an then vanished. Aw she wid say wis "Ah hae done nae wrang" That wis aw, nae names, nae details, nothin. Accordin tae the kirk an the cooncil tho, she had broke the Seeventh Commandment, that's the yin oan adultery fer aw you heathens oot there, an she wis sent fer a dookin.

Sae yince again we aw gaitherit doon at the fit o the fleshmairket at the dookin-stool. The puir lassie wis led tae the stool, tied in, an the hingsman, fer it wis aye him that got tae dae the dookin, let oot the rope, sendin the wee sowel under the filthy water...

But then this amazin thing occurrit. This man oan a horse cam chargin alang the lochside, leapt aff his horse, barged through the crowd, knockin fowk helter-skelter intae the water, an jumped intae the loch hissel, picked the wumman up in his airms an cairrit her tae the shore. "Wha daur dook ma wife?" he shouts. "An wha the hell are you like?" crys the baillie in chairge o the dook. "Ah'm William Stewart, Baron o Ochiltree, that's wha ah am, an this is Lady Stewart!"

It turns oot ye see, that the young lassie wis an orphan that the auld Baron o Ochiltree had taken intae his hoose. Noo, he had set his mynd tae marryin his son aff tae some high-falutin heiress fae the aristocracy, but his son had fell heidlang in love wi the young lass, an so they had mairrit in secret. The auld Baron, suspectin some funny business gaun oan, had sent his son abroad tae Europe oan yin o thae Grand Tours. Meantimes the fair lass had startit tae show, an sae the Baron had turnt her oot o his hoose, which is how she cam tae Embra. Tae the puir lassie's eternal credit she nivver broke her vows o silence tae the young man, even efter the auld Baron had passed oan an she could've claimit the title o Lady Stewart. She wid ony speak yince he had releasit her fae the promise, which thank the lord he cam back jist in time tae dae. Weel, he micht hae cam back jist that wee bit sooner an saved her the dookin, but at least he did come back, a lot o men didnae...

That lassie wis the talk o the toun fer weeks efter, she wis aw that a wumman should be we said, bonnie, loyal, an patient. Her young man took her back oot tae Ochiltree an ah dae believe they spent miny a happy year th'gither. In't that sweet?

See noo, no aw ma wee tales are gruesome dark an morbid. Maistly, ah'll grant ye that, but ye need a wee ray o sunshine here an there tae pit thae daurk clouds intae perspective. Noo, awa ye gang, an mynd an keep smilin...

In the warm room.

2010-09-07T16:14:00.000+01:00

Oh! Ah wisnae expectin ye th'day! Ye've caught me ridd-haundit haein a wee fly puff, gie me a meenit tae feenish it will ye? Ah ken, ah ken, ah shouldnae really smoke, no wi ma chest, but we aw need oor wee indulgences dae we no? an the menthol fair clears ma passages...

There, ah've pit it oot. Noo dinnae get oantae me, ah've been guid lately, ah've cut doon quite a bit, an ah dinnae smoke in ma bed ony mair. Weel ah'm nae wantin tae be burnt in ma sleep am ah? Even tho ah've got ma smoke detector an ma fire extinguisher, ye can nivver be too carefu can ye? No like the auld days. Naw, no like then, when we were aw at risk o gaun up in a puff o smoke at ony meenit. Ye mynd ah telt ye aboot wee Andra Gray settin fire tae the Provost's hoose an how he could've burnt the toun doon? Weel, let me tell ye how close we cam tae that back in 1824...

It wis a great day fer Embra, the day that Geordie Drummond laid the foonds fer the North Brig back in 1763, fer it opened up the fields tae the north fer the auld toun tae expand intae. Afore that day, abody in Embra wis crammed intae the tenement lands oan the High Street, an the ony way tae big wis up. Lords an ladies, merchants an wrights, labourers an servants, we were aw packed cheek by jowl intae great towerin edifices. It got sae owercrowdit that eventually it wis mair like erse-cheek by jowl! As soon as the New Toun development took aff, them that could afford it moved oot, leavin them that couldnae tae suffer in the Auld Toun. The lands got a bit dilapidatit, but nae less crowdit fer it.

Anyroads, tae get tae the pynt, ah had been oot drinkin this nicht wi ma pal Jessie Knox, ye mynd her? We had stairtit aff doon in John Dowie's alehoose in Libberton's Wynd, but it wis a bit deid in there that nicht sae we went oan a crawl, endin up doon in the Gressmairket, an by the end o the nicht ah wis fleein ah hae tae admit it. We were in the Last Drop, an ah wis richt in the mood fer a laugh an a cairry-oan, but Jessie wis haein nane o it. Her face had been trippin her aw nicht, as per usual, an ah'd jist aboot had enough. Ah telt her her girnin wis gettin oan ma wick an she'd be as weel gettin back up the road tae her mammy, an so she did, she upped an left, leavin me sittin oan ma tod...

Ah wisnae oan ma ain fer lang tho, an this fit young lad came an sat aside me. Turns oot his name wis Lachie, he wis a richt teuchter fae up north, an he worked in Kirkwood's the engravers up at the Auld Assembly Close. When he offert tae walk me hame ah jumped at the chance, bein left in the lurch as ah wis. We climbed up the West Bow an he telt me aw aboot his wee hame up in the Heelans, how he missed his hills an his lochs an his sheep. 'How can ye miss a sheep?' thocht ah tae masel, but ah nivver let oan, ah wis enjoyin his funny accent that much. We were saunterin doon the High Street past his work, when he asked me if ah wid like tae come up tae the workshop fer a cup o tea an tae see his etchins? Weel, it wis a cauld nicht, this bein November, an ah could've done wi warmin up, plus ah'd aye wantit tae ken whit an etchin wis, sae ah goes "Aye, ah'll come up, but ah'll hae nane o yer funny business mynd". "Oh no Sophia, ah'll behave masel" says he.

Ah wis michty disappointit ah can tell ye, when he brung oot aw these wee drawins o hills an lochs. "Here's sic-an-sic a mountain" an "That's sic-an-sic a loch" he went oan. Tae ma mynd they aw luikt alike. Ah nodded an smiled an tried no tae yawn. Efter whit seemed like an age ah'd seen enough, an ah wis chitterin wi the cauld. "Whaur's that cup o tea ye promised me then?" says me. "Come awa through tae the warm room wi the stove an ah'll pit the kettle oan" says Lachie, an he taks me through tae this dark smelly workshop.

There's tins o paint an bottles o spirits an bits o metal an sheets o widd aw ower the shop. Lachie lichts up the big black stove, pushes a big pot sittin there tae the back an sticks this battered auld kettle oan. Then he stretches up like he's reachin fer a cup aff the shelf abune me, pressin hissel up agin me, an tries tae plank a kiss oan me!

Aw here we go again! Ah dinnae ken whit it is aboot me, ah aye seem tae attract men like this, ah must hae 'mug' or 'floozie' written aw ower ma face. "Er, Lachie, gaunnae show me some mair o yer braw drawins will ye?" says ah. Onythin tae chynge the subject an get oot o his clutches. He luikt a bit disappointit at this, but took me up oan it, ah think he wis flatterit that ah thocht somethin o his art. So back through we went tae the cauld room an startit luikin at mair hills, an mair lochs, an mair hills...

Sniff... "Whit's that smell? Is that burnin?"... "Oh Jings! Crivvens!! Help ma Boab!!! Ah've left that linseed oil oan the stove!" crys Lachie, an goes runnin through. But he wis too late. The flames fae his pot o linseed are shootin up the wa an yin o the shelves is awready aflame. Lachie wis aboot tae run in tae try an pit the fire oot, but ah grabbed the scruff o his neck. There wis nae way he could dae onythin aboot it, tins an bottles were startin tae explode, an the smoke wis chokin us awready. Ah dragged the lad back an slammed the door, opened the windae an screamed "FIRE!!!"

Fire, as ah've said afore, wis a big problem in the Auld Toun, an 1824 had been an awfy bad year fer them, we'd had a fire every month that year. Indeed, it had been that bad that the Toun Cooncil had set up a municipal fire brigade, the very first onywhaur in the world, under a young builder by the name o James Braidwood. Unfortunately, it had ony been set up the month afore this an they werenae quite prepared fer a big blaze. It took the men aboot an oor tae get their machines oot, an when they did they werenae awfy organised. Aw the cooncillors, sodjers fae the Castle, an Braidwood hissel, they aw thocht they were in charge, an consequently naebody wis.

Within a few oors abody wis oot oan the street, or else they were tryin tae save their furniture an chattels fae tenements in danger. The wind got up, fannin the flames an blawin embers fae hoose tae hoose. Ah mynd at yin pynt ah wis staunin doon in the middle o the street an a saw these twa men oan the roof abune the auld Fishmarket Close wavin doon tae me an shoutin. So ah'm wavin back, as ye dae, wunnerin wha they were, an whether mibbe ah kent them fae the dancin. It wis hard tae mak them oot, whit wi aw the noise an the smoke an the dancin licht fae the fire. Turns oot, ah later discoverit, that they were shoutin doon fer a hose, tae play water oan the roof tae try an stop the fire spreadin. Ah felt that stupit.

The fire burnt aw through that nicht, the nicht o Monday the 15th, it wis terrible tae behold, burnin aw the hooses oan that stretch o the High Street, richt doon tae the Coogate. We thocht we were through the worst o it when it petered oot aroond noon. But then the cry went up again, "Fire!" an this time it wis the Tron Kirk. The Tron had a widden steeple in thon days, wi a leed coverin. It wisnae lang afore the steeple wis a roarin furnace an the leed wis runnin doon like molten lava. Some fowk thocht this wis a sign o divine retribution oan the toun, an yin auld wumman ah heard said it wis a judgement oan us fer haein a wee musical festival a few week afore this. God only knows whit she wid mak o the toun if she were alive th'day. Ah'm assumin she's deid like...

Thankfully the firemen managed tae pit that fire oot afore the entire kirk went up, but we still lost the steeple an maist o the roof. That Tuesday efternin the toun wis in shock. Hunners o fowk were millin aroon in the street, faimilies that had naewhaur tae stay, that had lost aw their possessions, their jobs, their hooses. It's funny, durin the nicht ah mynd this auld Irishman had come runnin oot yin o the entries, cryin that his hoose wis gaunnae burn an he wid lose aw he had. Me an a few ithers had gaun runnin up his stair tae see whit we could save fer him, an yet when we got tae his room, aw that wis in it wis a pile o straw an an auld chair! "Aye!" says he, "But it's still aw mine tho!"

We thocht things were bad enough, but when the cry "Fire!" went up again at ten that nicht we could bare believe it. This time the fire wis up at the Parliament Square, up whaur the highest tenements in the toun were, some o them eleeven stories high at the back, higher than ony fire hose wis gaunnae reach, an so it burned an burned, aw nicht lang. Fowk were weepin an wailin, thinkin the world wis comin tae an end, naebody had slept fer twa nichts, the licht fae the flames wis turnin the sky a fiery ridd an playin oan the Castle an the Crags. It wis like livin in sheer Hell...

That fire burnt aw through the nicht, an by the time it abated there wis hardly a buildin left untouched fae St Giles' Kirk aw the way doon tae the Tron, an aw the way doon the hill tae the Coogate. Utter devastation. We'd been blitzed.

Fower hunner faimilies had lost their hames, an a dozen fowk had lost their lives. Thankfully there were a lot o lessons tae be learnt thae nichts, an James Braidwood wis the man tae learn them. He wis a pioneer o firefechtin, an efter knockin the Embra fire brigades intae shape he went aff an did the same thing in London toun, sadly losin his life in a fire at the age o sixty. Ah wis awfy gled when they pit up a wee statue o the man in Parliament Square a year or twa syne, he's yin o Embra's treasures an nae mistake.

An as fer me? Weel ah nivver got ma cup o tea that nicht, an Lachie nivver got whitivver he wis luikin fer either, mair fuil him. If ony he'd stuck tae brewin up...

Whit ah did learn thae nichts wis that ye cannae be too carefu whaur fire's concerned. Ah went hame efter that an took the ashtray oot o ma bedroom, an it's nivver gaun back in. Ah've aye been fu o thanks fer oor firemen syne then tae, fer athoot them the Great Fire o Edinburgh wid've been an even greater calamity, respect whaur it's due...

Thon heavy people...

2010-08-31T19:52:00.002+01:00

Oh hullo there! Come in, come in an' sit doon, ah've jist pit the kettle oan tae byle. Ah've got some fresh pancakes ah jist made this mornin that'll pit a smile oan yer wee face. Settle yersel doon by the fire, get yersel comfy, an' ah'll tell ye a wee story aboot a couple o' hingings ah went tae up at the Gallowlee oan Leith Walk a few year ago. Noo, afore ye start cryin me a morbid auld craw let me stop ye richt there. Things were different back in the 1750s. Ye've got tae mynd we had nae pictures, nae telly, nae 'Edinburgh Festival' in thon days. Nae fitba matches tae shout at, nae Big Brother evictions tae tak sides oan. We had the penny gaffs aye, if ye wantit a wee laugh, an' there were aye the balladeers up the Mercat Cross if ye wantit tae hear the news, but if ye enjoyed a big crowd an' lots o' bawlin an' shoutin, then the hingins were yer thing.

Hingins were great places tae meet aw yer pals an' catch up oan the gossip. Ye wid see fowk there that nivver cam oot their hoose fer orner, fowk ye had thocht lang-deid. They were great places fer gettin aw the local news, the latest fashion tips, new recipes, an' whit constitutit a 'capital crime' that week. Ye had tae hae that last yin so ye widnae get caught oot yersel. Public mores an' scruples were aye oan the chynge sae it wis better tae be weel-informed oan whit an' whit no tae dae tae avoid the rope. Life an' deith were gey near-neebors back then an' ye were nivver sure ye werenae gaunnae be next up oan the gibbet...

Certain things tho nivver chynge, an' certain crimes were aye seen as beyond the pale. Murder obviously wis nivver luikt kindly oan, an' cannibalism neither, but we'll get tae that in time. First ah want tae tell ye aboot how ye can mak somethin sae bad as murder even worse by tryin tae spin a yarn tae cast a better licht oan yersel.

Wee Norrie Ross had a hard start in life. He wis a bricht young lad fae Inverness, but his fowks baith died when he wis jist fifteen an' he couldnae feenish his education an endit up in service. He managed tae get hissel a guid position as valet-de-chambre tae a young officer in the airmy an' traivellt in Europe wi him durin the war ower Marie-Therese's accession, but he returned tae Embra when peace came in 1748 an' took up as a fitman. It wis at this time that he fell in wi a bad lot an' startit wi the drinkin the sweerin an' the fornicatin. He took up a job wi this auld dowager madame that had a big estate in Berwickshire, but bein the lad he had become, he managed tae get yin o' the scullerymaids in the big hoose pregnant. This caused an awfy drain oan his pockets as he had tae provide fer the lass as weel as hissel, he needit tae get his hauns oan some easy money an' sae yin nicht he decidit tae rob the auld wumman as she wis sleepin.

These things nivver seem tae gang as ye plan them tho. Norrie waitit till aw the hoose wis asleep, climbed the stairs, took his shoes aff an' crept intae the wumman's bed-chamber. Kennin that she kept her safe-keys unner her pillae he drew back her bed-curtains an' tried tae slide his haun in tae retrieve them, but woke the auld bird. She of course startit bawlin. Panickin, Norrie grabbed a clasp-knife fae her dressin-table an' cut the puir wumman's throat tae stop her fae cryin oot. Panickin even mair at whit he had done, he then forgot aw aboot robbin the auld wumman an' jumped oot the windae, runnin fer miles afore he stopped an' hid in a field. He forgot aw aboot the robbery aye, but he had forgot aboot his shoes intae the bargain...

It didnae tak ower lang tae apprehend wee Norrie, an' he wis broucht back tae Embra tae staun trial fer his lady's murder. Here he made a grave error. He tried tae mak oot that the auld wife wis in the habit o' invitin him intae her bed, an' that wis why he had left his shoes at her door. Says he discovered his lady deid in her bed that nicht an' jumped oot the windae tae chase her attacker. Noo murder's a bad enough crime, but castin aspersions oan an auld wumman's guid name in the process wis seen as doublin the sin, an' tae mak the punishment fit the crime Norrie wis sentenced tae hing, but no afore his right haun had been cut aff, an' the murder-knife driven through it, baith tae be hung abune his heid oan the gallows.

Norrie wis taken doon tae the Gallowlee oan the 8th o' January, 1751, an' broucht tae the gibbet. He managed tae draw a fairly big crowd despite it bein a bitter-cauld mornin wi a smirr o' rain in the wind. His right haun wis hacked aff an' speared wi the clasp-knife, then tied up ower his heid, we aw oohed an' aahed a bit, then fower chimney-sweeps hauled oan the rope tae hoist him up. As Norrie's body convulsed he drew his right airm up an' slapped at his face wi the bloody stump. The sicht o' that upset a fair few o' the weaker-mindit fowk in the crowd, which wis a bit rich tae ma way o' thinkin, seein as how we had jist hung the laddie! We watched till he went still, gave him a wee roond o' applause, then we aw driftit aff tae oor work, or tae dae oor messages. We thoucht little mair o' wee Norrie Ross, an' jist got oan wi oor day. Here, hae anither pancake...

There wis tho, this wee story that did the roonds a few weeks efter this. Supposedly this bunch o' men were haein a drinkin session doon yin o' the ale-hooses oan Leith Walk. They were aw fu o' thersels, likely they were still celebratin the New Year, an' haein a braggin contest tae see whit yin o' them wid dae somethin the ithers widnae. Yin o' them, this butcher-man, says there wisnae a cut o' meat that he widnae eat, an' anither yin daurs him tae eat a steak fae the gibbet up the road. Broon the butcher, fer that wis his name as ah heard it, goes an' gets a ladder, climbs up tae whaur Norrie Ross's body's still hingin, an' cuts hissel a hunk o' Norrie's rump, which he taks back tae the pub, grills ower the fire, an' eats wi a slice o' breid an' a tankard o' ale.

Ye heard a lot o' stories like that when oot gettin yer messages, ye were nivver sure whether tae believe them or no. Ah pit that yin doon tae ower much bevvyin an' thocht nae mair o' it. Weel, ah mean, can ye imagine? Cannibalism? In Auld Reekie? Awa an' stop haverin...

Ah wis a wee bit pit oot, ah will admit, when this couple moved intae oor close up the High Street. The Broons were a rough couple nae mistake, him a butcher an' the baith o' them heavy drinkers. He cam fae Cramond an' she fae Ireland, need ah say mair? Ah nivver liked tae run intae him in the common passage, mair sae if it wis a dark nicht, ah couldnae help but think it might be him fae the story ah'd heard, an' her? Well, ye couldnae help but run intae her, she wis aw ower the shop! Fae the luik o' her she could gie as hard as she got, an' ye could hear it o' a nicht. The rammie's the twa o' them wid hae if they'd had a drink in them were legendary up oor stair. Bangin an' shoutin an' sweerin an' crashin. It wis comical tae hear them an' used tae draw a wee crowd oantae the stair tae listen at their door.

There wid've been aboot twinty o' us this nicht, crammed oantae their landin listenin tae the twa o' them at it. We used tae try tae work oot whit wis gaun oan by the noises we could hear, Yell!WheechCrash!! -Aah! She's chucked his tea at the wa, Bang!Thud! -Ooh! He's knocked her aff her chair... We could hear thumps an' bumps, couldnae quite mak oot whit wis happenin, it soundit like they were in a wrestlin grapple oan the flair... Then-

'Murder! help! fire! the rogue is murdering me! help, for Christ's sake! '

Weel that made us sit up! Ah rapped oan the door. "Mrs Broon! Are ye awricht in there?"

Nothin, sae ah hammert hard. "Mr Broon! Let us in! Come oan! Mr Broon!"

Sae ah bent doon tae their keyhole an' peeped in. Oh My God! Ye widnae believe it, whit ah could see wis him liftin her up by the waist wi a big carvin knife in his ither haun, an' stickin her tap-hauf in the fire! Get the polis!!!

By the time the polis got there an' we'd forced the door, Mrs Broon wis lyin hauf-deid oan the flair wi a big gouge oot o' her shooder, an' he wis lyin sleepin in his bed, wi gravy aw ower his lips. When we grabbed him an' he cam tae, he tried tae act oblivious, sayin he didnae ken how it had happened an' she must've fell intae the fire. Weel, ah kent whit ah had seen, that picture'll nae lang leave me, an' we were aw witness tae whit Mrs Broon had screamed. He wisnae gettin aff wi it that easy. Luckily ah wis staunin near enough him tae get in a guid slap or twa afore the polisman pu'ed me back.

We aw had tae gie evidence up at the coort at Broon's murder trial. Ah got a braw new hat fer ma turn. It turned oot a nice day ah mynd. There wis nae contest really, we aw kent whaur he wis gaun, an' sure enough, we had anither wee trip doon Leith Walk tae luik forrit tae. August the 14th, 1754 it wis, beautiful day, hot, but jist a wee breeze tae stop ye fae sweatin ower much. The hingin itsel wis a quick an' unsatisfyin affair. Broon nivver admittit his guilt, nivver showed nae remorse, nae repentance, nothin. Wicked wicked man...

A few days efter they hung Broon his body went missin fae the gibbet. It wis found a couple o' days later in the Greenside burn, taken back ower tae the Gallowlee an' hung up again. A few days efter that it went missin again, but this time they nivver found it...

Are ye sure ye dinnae want anither pancake?

The man wi the bairn in his een

2010-08-22T18:43:00.001+01:00

Come wi me a wee daunder doon the High Street o' Auld Reekie. Ye'd best stick close tae me, it can get awfy crowdit this time o' year, whit wi this damned Fringe Festival cairry-oan. Some days ye can barely see the street fer aw the fowk, but back in its hey-day the High Street wis this busy fae dawn til dusk, every day exceptin the Sabbath, aw year roond. Ye've got tae mynd there were near enough ten times the number o' fowk bidin here as there are nooadays. Then there were the shops, the Luckenbooths, the mairkets, street hawkers, porters, water-cairriers, balladeers, gangs o' bairns an' thoosans o' gossipin wummen, aw jostlin, shoutin an' cairryin oan. Can ye imagine the din?

Let's stop here by the Mercat Cross fer a meenit. Stop an' listen fer a meenit. Imagine aw that throng an' bustle an' noise, can ye? Is it daein yer heid in yet? fer it is mine. An' then imagine it aw fadin awa tae nothin. Imagine it aw gaun quiet. Silence. Desolation. A deithly quiet...

Let's walk doon a bit further, doon past auld John Knox's hoose. Here, haud oantae ma airm, ignore the crowds. Listen tae the hush, the hush o' a toun wi nae life in it, the quiet an' stillness o' a graveyaird. This wis how it soundit in the year 1645. That wis the year we had oor hintmaist visitation o' the Black Deith, oor last plague epidemic. Them that had the means an' somewhaur tae go aw fled the toun, them that didnae had tae take their chances. Great canvas camps were set up oan the Burgh Muir sooth o' the toun, whaur Marchmont an' the Grange noo staun, fer aw the seek fowk tae be quarantined. Houaniver mony fowk widnae go there an' preferred tae stay shut up in their ain hooses.

If ye cam doon wi the plague ye had tae hing a white sheet fae yer windae as a sign fer the plague doctor tae come visit ye, an whit a sicht he wis. He wore this mask wi a big beak oan it, filled up wi flooers an' herbs tae protect him fae the evil air (an' smells) an' a great lang leather coat. Oor first plague doctor, Mr Paulitious, didnae last lang, he wis deid by June, but his successor, George Rae, managed tae see the epidemic oot alive, an' got weel-paid fer his troubles, eventually. The Toun Cooncil ye see, bankin oan the plague doctor no bein aroon at the end o' the epidemic, advertised the job wi a fantastic wage o' a hunner poond a month! Puir George had tae fecht them aw the way tae pay oot, some things nivver chynge...

Ah wis lucky masel, ah've aye had a guid constitution, ah pit that doon tae the sherry, an' ah spent maist o' that year gaun roon ma pals, ministerin tae them that werenae weel, dressin them that had succumbed, an' daein ma best tae cheer up the survivors. It wis hard gaun but ye did whit ye could, ye ken how it is. Ma stairs jist had tae gang dirty. As the year wore oan though, the toun got quieter an' quieter, the mairkets stopped, the shops shut, hooses got boardit up, even some closes, like Mary King's fer instance, got bricked up aw th'gither, though, despite whit fowk like tae tell ye, we nivver bricked fowk up inside them. Eventually it got sae desertit there wis even gress grawn thick atween the causey setts richt in the middle o' the High Street. The toun wis deid, an' we were aw feart o' whit the future wid bring. An' then the Pirates showed up...

Pirates ye say? Aye, Pirates, ye heard me richt. Wid ye credit it, jist as the toun's at it lowest ebb, this big Pirate ship cam sailin intae Leith Roads. There wid've been mass panic in the toun, if we'd had enough fowk tae muster a mass panic. As it wis, we could bare scrape th'gither sixty able-bodit men tae defend the toun, an' they were nae match fer a band o' brigands wi intent. We were aw feart fer oor lives, an' us wummen were feart fer somethin even worse, even ma pal Josie Lafferty wis scared!

The day the Pirates arrived they came intae the Canongate through the Wateryett at the fit o' Abbeyhill, an' cam mairchin up tae the Netherbow, whaur they demandit tae meet wi the Provost. The few o' us that were up an' aboot were cowerin at aw the windaes thereaboots, keekin oot tae catch a glimpse o' the savages, but no wantin tae be seen oorsels. Ah mynd seein the Pirate Captain, a big broad tower o' a man, dressed like somethin fae anither world, aw exotic an' fu o' colour, an' feelin this odd tremble gaun through ma body. No the usual tremble ah got when ah saw an ootlander, this wis different. There wis somethin aboot this man, somethin in his een, somethin burnin there, somethin strange an' yet weel-kent at the same time. Whit wis it? Ah had tae hae a couple o' big sherries jist tae steady ma nerves.

Listenin tae the parley gaun oan doon in the street we could hear the Pirate King tellin the Provost that he wantit a huge ransom fae the toun, somethin like a hauf o' aw oor wealth, or he wid butcher us aw, an' he wantit the Provost's eldest son as a surety in the meantime. Oor Provost telt the Barbar that he didnae hae a son, jist yin daughter, an' he startit greetin as he telt him that she wis in her bed wi the plague an' aw. Somethin saftened in the Pirate's features at this news, a chynge cam ower his face, an' he offered the Provost a new deal. He said that he wid tak the Provost's daughter an' try tae cure her. If he managed it an' the lass survived, the Pirates wid lay aff the toun an' leave us in peace.

Of course the Provost jumped at this chance an' invitit the Pirate up tae his hoose in the Cap an' Feather Close. But naw, says the Pirate, he wid tak ower yin o' the empie hooses in the Canongate an' she could be broucht tae him. So broucht doon she wis, an' he set tae work. We aw held oor breath tae see whit wid happen...

Within the fortnicht the lassie wis sittin up an' seemed tae be oan the mend. The toun breathed a huge sigh o' relief, we werenae gaunnae be slaughtert in oor beds efter aw, an' when word got roon that the Pirate an' the Provost's lassie were gettin, ye ken, close, we aw felt that oor troubles were ahint us. Things were still bad dinnae get me wrang, fowk were still ill, but we could at least look forrit again. Ah startit ma visits up again, an' ah wis oan ma way doon the Canongate this day, gaun doon tae veesit a pal at the White Horse Close, when the big Pirate King suddenly steps richt oot in front o' me. "Sophia ma darlin, can ye still dance the Jig o' Life?"

Weel! Ye could've cowped me ower wi a feather! "Oh. My. God." says me, "Is that you in there Andra?" thinkin fer some reason that this big Pirate had eaten ma wee pal o' aw thae years ago. "It's me Sophia! It's Andra! Ah can hardly believe ye're still alive amangst aw this deith an' pestilence. Ye've even managed tae pit oan the beef!"

That deserved a hearty slap, but insteid ah threw ma airms aroon the big man-mountain an' plonked a big kiss oan his cheek. Turns oot wee Andra had managed tae escape the country aw that langtime ago, got hissel selt intae slavery, an' endit up at the Sultan o' Morocco's coort. Andra wis aye a sharp tack an' had got intae the Sultan's favour an' worked his way up in the piratin business till he had his ain ship. He had returned intendin tae wreak his revenge oan the auld toun, but found yince he got here that he couldnae gang through wi it, thank the Lord. Andra swore me tae secrecy aboot his real identity oan account o' him still bein sentenced tae hing, an' ah've nivver telt anither soul aboot it, no until ah telt you that is, sae dinnae go spreadin it aroon.

It wisnae lang afore Andra an' the Provost's lassie got mairrit, which pit me oot a wee bit, but the way ah see it, there's aye plenty mair fish tae land, ye've jist got tae cast aroon a bit. Still, he wid've been a michty fine catch that yin, especially the way he'd filled oot, if ye ken whit ah mean. He wisnae the bairn ah had rescued fae the Tolbooth cell, he wis a fu-grawn man an' aw the better fer it, though ah could still see wee Andra in thae twinklin een o' his. Him an' his new wife settlet doon in that same hoose in the Canongate, an' tae mark his gratitude tae the Sultan o' Morocco Andra pit up a wee statue o' him oan the front o' the hoose an' named the hoose Morocco Land. Ye see it, up there, see? The hoose has been rebigged ower the years, but the statue remains tae this day, a wee marker o' yin o' Embra toun's closer scrapes wi fate.

Ah aften invitit Andra up tae ma hoose fer a wee sherry an' a blether, but he aye remindit me o' that vow he took oan the banks o' the Nor Loch aw thae years afore, that he wid nivver set fit in the toun again, an' richt enough he nivver went a step beyond the Netherbow, stayin in the Canongate till the day the bonnie lad breathed his last...

The Jig o' Life

2010-08-21T14:33:00.000+01:00

Intit funny how a thing can get ye sae fired up at the time, then when ye luik back ye wunner whit aw the fuss wis aboot? Whether it's gettin intae a lather aboot an Englis prayer-buik, or gettin intae a fankle aboot a poll tax, or even gettin intae a stushie aboot the price o' a loaf o' breid, we've aw been there, an' yet, in the words o' a famous doctor we aw "learned tae stoap worryin an' love the bomb." Weel mibbe that's pushin it but ye get ma drift. The sair edges saften in time an' the grass graws thick. Jist like the auld quarry-holes oan the Bruntsfield Links aw things get smoothed ower by the passin o' the years.

That's no tae say that at the time the bluid disnae bile up in yer heid an' gie ye that ridd-mist ower yer een. Ah can mind that mist comin doon a few times ower the years an' ah kept up ma membership caird o' the Embra Mob fer mony a season. Ah wis mair a pairt o' the supporters camp raither than the first team, ah wid help oot whaur ah could but ah wis content tae leave aw the rough work tae the menfowk. Yin o' the rammies ah mind o' wis when that rogue King Chairlie the First cam tae the throne in 1625. We could smell trouble fae the word go, especially efter he mairrit that French Catholic lassie Henrietta Maria an' it wisnae lang afore we were oot oan the street nicht efter nicht riotin. As ah wis sayin it felt like a maitter o' life an' deith back then, but noo it disnae seem sic a big deal at aw. We were aw scared o' the Popery comin back ye see, feart that Chairlie wis oot tae turn oor precious Reformation roon. There we were, staunin oan the brink o' the Enlightenment, an' yet we were fechtin ower whit leid oor clerics spake at us in, an' whether or no we wummen had tae keep a wee calender at oor bedside...

Talkin o' bedsides ah wis hingin aboot wi a braw wee laddie at the time. Wee Andra Gray wis a fiery wee wirey wee sparkler o' a boy, he wid sit in a corner fer a while, smoulderin awa, but he wis aye ready tae burst intae life an' terr roon a room, jabberin awa wi his grand ideas an' plans fer the future like a sputterin caunle-flame. Andra wis a Leveller, an early-doors Communist, an' ah jist loved his passion an' frenzy, an' he wis a great dancer tae boot. Wi his wild shock o' rid hair an' his lean frame when he took his claes aff an' capered aboot ma room he luiked jist like a wee matchstick man, waitin tae be struck...

Mibbe that accounts fer Andra's weakness, his pyromania thing. He jist couldnae help hissel puir laddie, he wis aye settin fire tae stuff, an' it wis nae surprise tae ony o' us in the Mob when he set fire tae the Provost's hoose yin nicht, while we were haein a wee riot doon the Coogate. It wisnae an awfy guid riot that nicht, it wis kind o' routine an' ordinar, but Andra's wee spot o' incendiary fairly brichtened things up an' made the nicht gang wi a bang. No that the Provost saw it that way. The very next day Andra an' a hauf-dozen o' his comrades were roundit up by the Toun Rats an' banged up in the Tolbooth.

Arson's a serious business at the best o' times, but back in the seeventeenth century it wis a gey risky yin an' aw. Whit wi aw the widden hooses, dae-it-yersel biggin, an' lack o' fire-fighters, yin flamin hoose could burn the entire toun doon, so it wis anither yin oan their list o' 'capital crimes' an' puir wee Andra got the fu weicht o' the doomsters ca brung doon oan his heid an' efter a speedy trial wis sentenced tae hing fae the Tolbooth gibbet.

It'll likely come as nae surprise tae ye that ah wisnae gaunnae staun fer that. They werenae takin ma wee Andra fae me, nae way Jose! That wee human dynamo had far too much life in him tae end up swingin fae Embra's tree o' deith, an' ah set tae work oan ma plan...

The nicht afore Andra's execution me an' ma pal Josie Lafferty cam stoatin up the Krames next tae St Giles an' fell agin the Tolbooth door. We were singin an' laughin, an' makin oot like we were blind drunk. Noo this wis weel past curfew an' were chancin oor airms, by rights we should've been liftit fer oor behaviour. The Tolbooth Gairds though, as we had predicted, liked tae chance their airms as weel, an the next meenit the door opened an' we were 'invitit' intae the Gairdhoose. As ah mynd it we were mair dragged than invitit in.

Josie wis aff a lang line o' 'wummen-o-th-nicht', her ma, her grannie an' her grannie's grannie were aw whoors an' prood o' it (her grannie's ma didnae hae it in her tho) an' Josie kent her trade weel. She starts up wi aw the flindrikin an' teasin, gettin the Gairdsmen intae a guid fettle. Meanwhiles ah dae a wee wiggly dance, unbutton ma jaiket, an' whip oot twa bottles o' fine sweet sherry tae which ah had previous addit a wee dash o' hemlock. Ah pretendit tae swig fae yin bottle, then let yin o' the Gairdsmen chase me roon the room a bit till he'd managed tae grab the bottles fae ma haun. Thae Toun Gairds were a glaikit lot an' nae mistake, an' ten meenits later the bottles are baith empie an' the Gairds are aw lyin comatose oan the flair. Ah buttoned ma jaikit up, telt Josie tae pit her claes back oan, an' riflet the Gairds' pockets till ah found the cell keys.

Ye should've seen the luik oan Andra's wee face when ah opened his cell door. His een lit up wi a dancin flame. "Sophia!" he crys, "Ya Brammar!" The puir laddie thocht he wis seein in his last nicht oan Earth, an' suddenly me an' a hauf-dressed whoor are at his door, ye could see why he wis fair chuffed. He grabs ma airm an' starts tae swing me roon. "Whit are ye daein Andra ye wee monkey ye?" says ah. "Ach Sophia, ah'm daein the Jig o' Life, will ye jyne me?" an' sae we had a wee dance aroon the Tolbooth, him an' me.

We couldnae dance fer lang tho, ah kent we had tae get a move oan, the hemlock wid suin enough wear aff. We chucked an' auld shawl ower Andra's heid an' hurried him back doon through the Krames, ower an' through Mary King's Close, an' doon tae the edge o' the Nor Loch. There ah had a pal waitin wi a wee boat tae get Andra ower the loch tae the road tae Leith, whaur he might find a way tae safety. Ah took Andra in ma airms an' held him ticht. "Oh ma wee Lucifer-stick, will ah e'er see ye again?" ah whispert tae him, an' he replied "Weel Sophia, if ye dae it'll no be in auld Embra toun. By faith ah tell ye, ah'll nivver again set fit in that blasted toun as lang as ah live!"

Ah stood there oan the edge o' the loch, aw by masel, watchin the wee skiff fade intae the darkness o' the nicht, wonderin whit wid become o' ma wee man, he wis ony a bairn really, an' whether ah wid ever see thae sparkly een again...

Night Scentit Stock.

2010-08-13T18:36:00.000+01:00

"Gardyloo!!"

That wis the cry ye wid hear aw ower Auld Reekie, ten o'clock at nicht an' six in the mornin. They were the twa times ye were allowed tae chuck yer refuse oot the windae doon intae the close, aw that ye couldnae burn. If ye were in luck it wid reach the bottom an' the scaffies wid shovel it awa, if yer aim wis oot, or it wis windy weather, then yer slops widnae reach the groond, but wid end up splattered doon yer wa, an ye wid hae tae wait fer rain tae clean it aff. It gave the toun quite a scent at nicht, but it didnae smell like a bouquet o' flooers.

Ye'll hear fowk maintain that Auld Reekie got its name fae aw the smoke belchin fae a thoosan chimneys an' envelopin the toun. That's mince. The toun wis ca'ed Auld Reekie lang afore we could aw afford tae buy coals, an' cam fae the stench o' the daily ootpoorins fae aw the windaes. Oan a hot summer's day, wi a Sooth wind blawin, were ye tae staun ower the Nor Loch in Bearford's Park, whaur they bigged the first New Toun, the smell wid've knockt ye oan yer back. Ah wis aye endin up oan ma back in Bearford's Park, but that's anither story fer anither day...

The scaffies, wi their wee barries, wid come an' take maist o' the dirt awa, but in the auld days we had ither ways o' cleanin the closes an' aw. A lot o' fowk kept swine an' hens, sometimes in their ain hooses, sometimes in an oothoose, an' they wid grub aroon in the mess eatin whit pickens they could find. Ah kept a few chickens masel, mainly fer their eggs, but haundy fer a roast come the Daft Days. Noo an' again ah wid leave the eggs an' let a docker raise a brood o' chicks ah could sell or pass oan tae ma neebors.

Ah had this yin braw hen fer years, ah cryed her Meg efter the big gun up the Castle fer she shot oot eggs the size o' cannonbaws, an' she wis a grand layer, kept me gaun in chicks fer as lang. Ah got quite attached tae Meg, she wid aye come runnin when ah ca'ed her name. It didnae maitter how far doon the close she wis, up she wid trot, wi a wee train o' chicks ahint her aw cheepin merrily. Meg wis great, Meg did awthin richt, Meg wis the best hen in aw Embra. She had ony yin fault, an' that wis that she wid aye get under yer feet when ye least needed it. When ah wis in the hoose say, an' ah wis mibbe brushin ma flair, everytime ah turnt roon she wid be at ma ankle, gettin tanglt up in ma skirts, if ah wis wearin them. Ah warned her time an' time again, but she widnae listen. Peety that, or she might hae been wi us still...

Ah wis hingin oot ma windae this night, it wid be aboot seeven o'clock, an' ah wis watchin aw the bairns playin doon Libberton's Close. The close ran aff the High Street doon tae the Coogateheid, near enough whaur the George IV Brig noo stauns. Ah stayed up the stair fae John Dowie's alehoose an' there wis aye somethin gaun oan in the close, somethin tae watch. Ah wis watchin this auld boy haein a pish in yin o' the doorways when ah noticed this figure comin up the close. Ah recognised him richt awa, it wis that Captain Porteous fae the Toun Gaird. Bumptious big eedjit that he wis, a'body hated the man, an' ye could see fowk joukin tae get oot his road, pressin thersels intae doorways an' the like. Exceptin Meg. Ah saw her jist at the last meenit come wanderin richt oot intae the middle o' the close, an' ah tried tae shout, but too late.

Porteous tried tae avoid her by takin a wee trip-step, but still managed tae catch her, did a wee skip an' a birl, spun roon an' landit hard oan his erse in the gundie runnin doon the middle o' the close. A dozen heids lookin oot fae their windaes aw laughed at yince, sic wis the popularity o' the man. He got hissel tae his feet, his face like thunder an' looked aroon fer the hen that caused his fa fae grace, then he liftit his walkin-cane up, an' brocht it hard doon oan Meg's wee heid! The murderous rogue!

Ye could see by fowk's reactions, an' the sounds o' their bawlins an' cursins, that Meg wis a weel-loved hen. Men an' wummen were appearin at every door an' windae barrackin the arrogant Captain. Ah wis fair blazin masel, an' near tae greetin. Ah yelled a torrent o' unprintable assaults doon at him, an then shoutit that "As God is ma witness ah wish ye hae as mony fowk celebratin at yer ain hinter-end as there were feathers oan that puir chicken!" an' ah picked up ma chamber-pot an' emptied it doon oantae his heid.

By rights he could've come right up the stair an' arrestit me, it wis far too early fer poorin-oot, but the cheerin that wis resoundin roon the close wa's made him see better sense an' he jist brushed doon his shooders, shook his heid, and struttit aff up the close. Leavin me tae collect ma puir deid Meg an' bring up her brood o' chicks oan ma ain sel.

It wis a couple o' year efter this that Captain Porteous met his ain sorry hinter-end. He had been locked up in the Tolbooth, that dark an' dreary pile oan the High Street, whilst he waitit fer word o' his appeal tae come through fae London. That wis the appeal against his sentence o' execution fer openin fire oan a crowd o' us that were haein a peaceful riot yin nicht. It's a lang story. When the messenger arrived, the nicht o' the 7th o' September 1736, wi the news that he had been reprieved, Porteous startit celebratin wi his pals, an' telt them the story o' ma hen an' how ah had cursed him. Called me an auld witch so he did. Said he had cheatit the curse so he did. Said ma pish smelt o' roses so he did, which wis nice o' him...

Ten meenits later, while they're still aw carousin awa, laughin an' jestin, they hear the sound o' the 'deid-drum' thumpin its doleful beat at the heid o' his lynch-mob oan their way up fae the Grassmarket.

Porteous, kennin whit the noise meant, crys oot "Damn the auld wife! She wis right!!"

An' ah wis. It wis a busy nicht in the Grassmarket that nicht. There were as mony fowk there as feathers oan a hen.

Hammer Horror

2010-08-09T10:41:00.000+01:00

Ye might expect a tale wi a title like that tae be a bit saucy an' no awfy serious, but ah'm sorry tae disappoint ye. This tale's a gey tragic yin, an' if ye're no in great fettle mibbe ye should look awa fer a meenit. Ah'll gie ye a shout when ye can turn back. Ma story starts aff up the High Street, but ends up somewhaur we've been afore...

The Shaws had bided oan oor landin fer years. Ah could barely mind Mrs Shaw, she had passed awa giein birth tae wee Cathy, an' Wullie Shaw had nivver re-mairrit. He went right intae hissel efter that, an' kept wee Cathy awfy close. She kept the hoose fae a young age while Wullie scraped a livin as an upholsterer in the Coogate. They had precious few freens an' no much in the way o' faimly, but fer aw their hardships Cathy turned oot a bonnie lass, weel-mannert an' quiet-spoken.

Though she nivver went oot o' an evenin Cathy had got hersel close tae a wee jeweller fae yin o' the Luckenbooths up at St Giles kirk by the name o' Johnny Lawson. They must've been seein quite a bit o' each ither, fer it seems that Cathy had set her heart oan mairryin the laddie. Howanever Wullie had ither ideas an' in his een the young Johnny wis aw the wrang sort fer his lassie. Mibbe he'd heard aboot the boy's drinkin, or his fondness fer gamblin at the races doon oan Leith Sands, or mibbe it wis aw the jewellery he wore, whitever his reasons were, Wullie barred Cathy fae seein him an' widnae let the lad come near the hoose, little kennin that Cathy wis seein him ahint her faither's back.

Insteid, Wullie had set his lassie up wi the son o' yin o' his ain pals, Sanny Robertson fae the next close but yin, an' wis adamant that Cathy went through wi the match. Cathy fer her pairt wis jist as adamant that she wid nivver be Mrs Robertson, an' the twa o' them were at loggerheids oan the subject. The rows got worse an' worse till this yin nicht things were reachin burstin point.

The first ah kent things were sae bad wis when auld Mr Morrison came bangin oan ma door. He stayed through the wa fae the Shaws an' though he wis nae nosey-parker he couldnae help but hear the rammy gaun oan through fae him. The puir auld sowel wis near greetin as he telt me whit he had heard. Apparently, in amangst aw the rowin he had heard Cathy shoutin the words "barbarity, cruelty an' death" a number o' times, follaed by Wullie leavin the hoose, slammin an' lockin the door ahint him. Efter a while o' quiet Mr Morrison wis sure he could hear Cathy groanin, like as if she wis hurt, an' that wis why he had come tae get me. We went runnin back through intae his hoose an' listened at the wa.

Sure enough ye could hear the puir lassie moanin clear as onythin, an' when ah pressed ma ear tae the wa ah could jist mak oot these words, "Cruel faither, thou art the cause o' ma death!" Thae words put a chill tae ma heart, an' they'll bide wi me forever. We ran tae the Shaws' door an' startit bangin, but got nae response, an' yet still we could hear Cathy's groans, so ah chapped oan the door ower the landin an' got yin o' the bairns tae run fer a constable. When he got there he pit his shooder tae the door an' burst in. Puir Cathy wis lyin oan their front room flair drenched in blood, white as a sheet, an' wi a big knife lyin at her side. The polisman wis first at her side an' asked her if it wis her faither that had done this.

Cathy gave a wee nod o' her heid, an' expired, right there in front o' us...

Jist at that very meenit in walks Wullie Shaw. He wis awready kind o' shocked at his door bein wide open an' us aw staunin in his front room, When he looked doon an' saw Cathy lyin there he sortae sagged an' shrunk at the same time an' went doon oan his knees. It wis at this point that we noticed the bloodstains oan Wullie's shirt. We aw jist looked at yin anither. Wha wid've thocht that wee Wullie Shaw wis capable o' sic an evil act?

The trial wis a short yin. Though Wullie admitted that the twa o' them had been rowin, he maintained that he had left her alive an' weel that nicht, an' that the blood oan his shirt wis his ain blood fae a cut he had got at his work a couple o' days afore. The jury though, oan hearin the words that we had heard her say, took a different view an' Wullie wis found guilty o' murder an' sentenced tae hing till he wis deid. He wis taken doon tae the Gallow Lee oan Leith Walk an' hung in chains. This wis in the November o' 1721.

The hoose lay empty fer a few month, but by August o' the next year a new tennant had been found. As he wis settlin in he noticed that the fireplace in the front room wis comin loose fae the wa an' wis a bit shoogly so he startit work tae fix it. When he moved it he noticed a bit o' paper had dropped doon ahint the mantlepiece. This is whit wis written oan it:-

BARBAROUS FATHER, —-
Your cruelty in having put it out of my power ever to join my fate to that of the only man I could love, and tyrannically insisting upon my marrying one whom I always hated, has made me form a resolution to put an end to an existence which is become a burthen to me. I doubt not I shall find mercy in another world; for sure no benevolent being can require that I should any longer live in torment to myself in this! My death I lay to your charge: when you read this, consider yourself as the inhuman wretch that plunged the murderous knife into the bosom of the unhappy
CATHERINE SHAW.

The handwritin wis confirmed tae be Cathy's. Puir Wullie wis innocent o' the crime efter aw, an' the order wis made tae tak his body doon fae the gibbet, where it wis still hingin efter aw these months, an' gied a proper Christian burial. A pair o' flags were waved abune his grave as a testament tae his innocence.

As ye can imagine it took a while fer me tae get ower these events, an' puir auld Mr Morrison wis nivver quite the same again. We've got tae be michty thankfu fer the advances they've made in thae forensic maitters, an' that these days a puir faither's life disnae rest oan whit neebors hear through a connectin wa. At least Wullie's body didnae end up in the mortar fer buildin the New Toun, an' that's a sma mercy...

Right, ye can look back noo, ah've feenished. Ah think ah'll awa up an' lay some flooers fer Wullie an' Cathy Shaw.

The handsome cabin-boy

2010-08-05T18:04:00.002+01:00

Ma pal Jessie Knox fae up the Lawnmarket wis a torn-faced dreep o' a lass. Ah'm sorry, but she wis. Fowk were aye comin up tae her tellin her tae keep awa fae their bairns oan account o' her face makin them greet. They used tae say she had a face 'as lang as Leith Walk', which is a fair length right enough. It stretches aw the way fae the Tap tae the Fit, as ye can see oan this braw photie. If ye screw yer een an' look really really hard - hing oan a meenit till ah stretch - ye can see me wavin ma hankie oot ma windae, see? there jist up fae the Fit, up aboot the Shin, can ye see me? Yoohooo!

If ye wis tae luik at a map noo, or an aeriel photie like the yin abune, ye wid think that Leith Walk wis built whaur an' how it is oan account o' it bein the maist direct route fae Embra tae Leith, but as ah've telt ye afore it wisnae aye the main route. The main route atween city an' port used tae be the Easter (or Eastern) Road, or else doon by the Water o' Leith an' roon by Bonnington. There wis aye a path cried the Leith Loan runnin doon atween the fields, though Leith Walk as a street owes its birth tae that auld bugger Oliver Cromwell. It wis his invasion o' Scotland in 1650 that set it rollin.

Oor great General Sir Sandy Leslie wis chairged wi protectin the city an' port fae the invadin Parliamentary airmy, an' so he dug his Royalist airmy intae a trench ahint a great lang rampart, bigged atween the corner o' Leith toun wa, an' the north slope o' the Calton Hill, an' then he placed his artillary guns oan the flanks o' the hill. Picture at that time nae hooses, jist fields an' moors, an' fae this lang rampart Leslie's troops had a grand firin-line aw the way tae Restalrig. King Chairlie II, no lang crooned King o' Scots at Scone, cam ridin up alang this rampart when he visited Embra, tae review his troops, sae ah suppose ye could say he wis the first person tae use it as a road proper.

When Cromwell decided tae attack, oan the 24th o' July he wis makin a great error, he should've kent the toun wis too weel-defendit fer him, an' his sodjers were cut doon afore they got onywhere near the King's troops, an' he had tae retreat tae Dunbar. The mistake the Scots made wis tae gang oot efter him, an' as per usual we got beat at the Battle o' Dunbar an' Cromwell took Scotland.

The rampart Leslie left ahint him made a handy road fer gaun tae Leith an' in time it got paved, an' leveled, an' bigged-up till it's the great street ye see th'day. Fer a lang time though, it stayed a rural road atween twa touns, wi ferms an' fields, an' country hooses on either side. It wis aye a magnet fer the shows as weel. There were aye circuses, an' gypsy camps, fortune-tellers an' panoramas, an' even a waxworks at Haddington Place. It wis aye heavin oan Sundays an' holidays, aw the bairns cam doon tae savour the thrills o' Leith Walk.

There wis jist this yin time ah mind o' tho, that wisnae sae thrillin. It wis aw the fault o' ma pal Jessie Knox, her wi the dreepy visage. Ah'd bumpt intae her in the line at Stobie's the soutars at the Luckenbooths. Ah wis pickin up a pair o' shoen ah'd pit in fer re-solin, she wis in complainin aboot a pair she'd jist had re-soled. We'd got talkin, she wisnae in sic a bad mood that day, an' we got oantae whit shows were playin at that time, an' ah mind her tellin me aboot this handsome sailor-boy she'd seen doon Leith Walk the Sunday past. He had his ain boat she says, an' he'll tak ye a ride oan it if ye want, an' he'll get ye back in time fer yer tea, an' he could tell ye loads o' adventures he'd been oan aw ower the Seeven Seas wi the King's Navee. She went oan tae talk aboot his lovely een, an' his lovely smile, an' his lovely accent. She telt me ah jist had tae get masel doon there. "Oh" thocht ah tae masel, "Ah widnae mind a wee hurl oan that right enough", an' ah set masel tae haein a wee dauner doon the Walk the next time ah had a Sunday aff.

Ah couldnae stop thinkin aboot him, this braw sailorboy that Jessie had telt me aboot. Ooh, they were quite rugged thae sailors, mibbe he wid tak me oot oan his boat an' no bring me back fer ma tea, mibbe he wid kidnap me, an' we wid get shipwrecked oan a paradise island, an' ah wid hae tae luik efter him, make his claes fae leaves an' his tea fae nuts. It worried me that ah might no find ony stairs tae clean, but aw in aw it soundit fair romantic, ah could barely concentrate oan ma scrubbin...

Come ma next free Sunday, which wis aboot a month later, ah wis up at the crack o' dawn, washed ma face, pit oan ma best frock an' hat, an' awa ah went tae see this sailor oan Leith Walk.

An' whit d'ye think ah found when ah got there? A Sailor? Oh aye. There wis a sailor richt enough, but no yin ah wid want tae end up marooned oan a desert island wi. Whit ah'm ah talkin aboot onyroads, there wis nae water fer his boat tae sail oan! Did ah say boat? Ah had bigger boats tae play wi when ah got ma tin bath doon oan a Sunday nicht! There, jist doon fae Elm Raw, sittin in this wee dinghy wi a broomstick fer a mainmast, unner a tree jist aside the road, wis this gristled auld soak, wi a neb like the biggest strawberry ye ever did see, wi yin een, an' aboot fower teeth. When ah gets near, this auld tar pipes up "Oooaarr!! Oooaarr me purty, woi downt ya sid eer own moi kneey an oil tellee a stowree!!" an' starts slappin his leg...

Aye, disappointit again. Ah guess Jessie Knox wisnae sae dour as she liked tae mak oot, knockin a rise oot o' me like that. The auld sailor as it turned oot, went by the name o' Commodore O'Brien, an' he liked tae make oot that he wis grantit his boat by the King, which is why he named it the 'Royal Gift'. Kennin whit an eedjit George IV wis, ah could fair believe that, tho whether, as he said, he had sailed it across the Channel tae France oan loads o' secret missions, weel, ah'll let ye mak yer ain judgement. He sat in that boat aside Leith Walk fer years an' years, tellin stories tae bairns fer pennies, an' takin them awa fer 'voyages', an' at the very least ah'll say this fer him. He aye had them back in time fer their tea.

Blawn awa...

2010-08-04T17:05:00.002+01:00

Ah'm jist back fae daein ma messages. Ah went doon intae the Kirkgate. When ah left the hoose ah wis quite geed-up, the sun wis oot an' the streets seemed fu o' licht, but when ah walked intae the Kirkgate the life jist sapped oot o' me. It aye dis that tae me these days, it's a sorry excuse fer the street it used tae be, aw bare concrete, mean shops an' meaner fowks. Wummen oot daein their messages in their pyjamas, bairns joukin aboot at yer legs an' screechin like craws, auld men shufflin fae bookie's tae drinkin-hoose an' back again. It's no the place it yince wis.

The Kirkgate used tae be the High Street o' auld Leith, an' it wis aye heavin wi life. Shops, ale-hooses, churches, playhooses aw jostlin up agin each ither, an' fu o' happy fowk gaun aboot their business, cryin oot tae each ither, auld biddies hingin oot at their windaes an' wavin tae the bairns, cairts an' horses gaun up an' doon, even a sedan chair noo an' again. The days when say, Queen Mary or Queen Anne fae Denmark cam ridin up fae the Shore oan their way tae Holyrood the entire street wis hung wi banners an' flags o' aw colour an' design, an' thoosans o' the tounsfowk wid cry an' cheer their passin. Happy days.

Still, like aw streets, the Kirkgate had its darker side. Some o' the ale-hooses were rough an' ready places, filled oan Saturday nichts wi rough an' ready sorts, an' bare a weekend wid go by withoot a fight brekin oot somewhere 'doon the channel', though nivver usually amountin tae mair than a bloody neb or a scartit fist. There wis this yin nicht tho...

Ah wis workin in auld Mr Broon's ale-shop jist doon fae the Trinity Hoose, a couple o' nichts a week, there werenae an awfy lot o' tenements in thon days an' stair-cleanin work wis hard tae come by. Ah wis servin in the saloon bar this nicht when John Mackenzie the young Maister o' Tarbet cam in wi a crackin-bonnie young sodjer by the name o' Andrew Mowat. They had come doon fae Embra tae visit Tarbet's cousin Mr Sinclair o' Mey, an' his wee pal Jamie Sinclair, wha were bidin in the lodgins at that time. Tarbet, wha wid go oan tae become the Earl o' Cromarty, an' Sinclair o' Mey were richt young Turks, men o' guid means an' staunin, baith wi bricht futures aheid o' them. Tarbet though, wis a wee bit heidstrang, a wee bit skelly, a wee bit up hissel, a jumped-up wee nyaff in fact, an' that nicht a wee bit 'unco fu an' happy' if ye ken whit ah mean. Him an his pal the sodjer had stopped in at a few hostelries oan their road doon fae Embra an' tae be frank they were hauf-cut afore they'd even reached Broon's.

As ah mind it they had been haein a guid time in the saloon that nicht. Tarbet an' Sinclair were happy tae see each ither, Jamie Sinclair wis readin oot yin o' his stories. (He used tae write these strange wee stories o' whit wid be gaun oan in the Embra an' Leith o' the far future, like three hunner year hence. He wis nivver awfy sure if he wis gaun ower fowks' heids, but they seemed tae pit up wi them aw the same, they even laughed. Sometimes they startit laughin afore he'd even startit talkin.) So the hoose wis noisy an' lively an' abody wis haein a grand time.

Jamie Sinclair had jist sat doon, an' the young Maister cried oot fer anither roond o' drink. Ah wis hopin they widnae ask, fer ah wis gey tired an' ah wantit tae shut the bar an' get up the stair tae ma bed, but when ah took ower anither joog o' ale the bold yin starts at me. "Come ower here a meenit Sophia, sit oan ma knee an' let me gie ye a wee shoogle!" Weel, ah wis haein nane o' it. "Awa an' bile yer heid ye glaikit tickle-heided malt-worm ye!" says ah. Ah wis nivver shy.

Thing is, neither wis he. He staggers tae his feet an' comes roon the table at me. Noo, if it had been his pal the sodjer ah might've stood ma groon an' took whit wis comin tae me, but no wee Tarbet, naw, no him. Ah wis aff an' runnin. Ah nipped ahint the bar, through the backshop, oot intae the scullery, took a richt-turn, up the backstair, through the billiard room, oot intae the lobby, took a left-turn, up the frontstair, alang the lobby, up the garretstair an' intae ma ain room, an' slammed the door shut ahint me. Ah'm quick oan ma feet when ah need tae be. Tarbet meanwhile, had come staggerin ahint me till he lost me oan the backstair, an' insteid o' runnin up the frontstair he took a richt-turn an' burst intae yin o' the front rooms...

This puir wee Frenchman, Monsieur Poiret wid ye believe, wis fast asleep in there, or he wis till Tarbet crashed through his door. Quick as a flash he draws his sword. He must've been sleepin wi it in his haun, an' there they froze. A meenit later Mowat appears ahint him (damn) an' a rammy ensues as they baith jump tae get the sword fae the wee Frenchman. Ah cam back doon the stairs an' walked in oan this rumpus, an seein that they had got the sword fae him, ah shut the Frenchie back intae his room an' telt Mowat tae tak his drunken pal an' get oot o' ma pub! They were aw shoutin an' yet laughin at the same time. Ah went doon an' sent abody else packin fae the bar, pit the lamps oot, an' we aw went tae bed.

It might've endit there, had the young cock no realised he wis still cairryin the Frenchman's sword an' got it intae his heid that he had tae return it pronto an' apologise, bein sae weel-reared. So back they come an' start knockin oan the Frenchman's door. Weel he, jist gettin back tae sleep an' thinkin they were back tae assault him again, likely oan account o' him bein French an' aw, an' him no haein a sword tae haun, taks the coal-tongs an' starts bangin oan the ceilin, kennin that his twa brithers were bidin in the room aboon his. They cam runnin doon the stairs wi pistols in their hauns, an' run richt intae Tarbet an' Mowat, wi the sound o' the first Frenchman wailin an' greetin fae his room. It wis daurk mind, an' mibbe in the moonlicht the steel flashed, scarin the Frenchmen, mibbe Tarbet jist staggered, or tried tae grab at a pistol, whitever, but the fower o' them endit up in a tussle, an' then got intae a grapple, an' then a shot rang oot...

By the time ah had got ma hoosecoat oan, roused auld Mr Broon an' got doonstairs, yin o' the French brithers wis lyin deid oan the lobby carpet, he'd been blawn awa, an' the ither had hauf his finger aff. The Toun Gaird werenae lang in comin, an' they didnae tak lang tae find Tarbet hidin oot the back, ahint the cludgie, wi the sword still in his haun, covert in blood tae the hilt, whimperin tae hissel. He an' Mowat, an' that Jamie Sinclair were aw arrestit, (Sinclair fer the quality o' his scrievins maist likely) but o' course, them bein young gentry an' aw that, position spake its truth, the case wisnae proven an' they aw got aff wi it.

Tarbet as ah telt ye went oan tae become the 2nd Earl o' Cromarty, an' had reached the guid age o' seeventy-five whaun he died in 1731. His son the 3rd Earl went oan tae be yin o' the Bonnie Prince's men at the '45. The wee French man nivver got tae be a guid age though, endin his life that night oan the 8th o' March, 1691, in auld Leith Kirkgate.

It could aw hae been different, if only it had been the bonnie sodjer that had chased me...

The Big Sky

2010-07-27T23:57:00.004+01:00

Jamie Tytler wis a funny wee earnest sort o' man. He aye luiket tired, like he could dae wi a guid nicht's sleep. Likely he nivver had mony o' them, fer he wisnae the maist successfu o' businessmen, an' he wis aye runnin fae his creditors. He cam doon tae Embra fae his hame up north in Angus tae study the medicine, tried tae mak it as ship's surgeon oan the whalers, an' endit up in a pharmacy business in Leith. That didnae work oot weel, an' he ran aff tae England wi his wifie an' bairns in tow. Efter lyin low fer a few year, he cam back tae Embra an' took up a job editin the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the 2nd Edition, fae his wee hoose in Duddingston. Can ye imagine writin that book? By caundle-licht? Mibbe that explains his tired-luikin een...

It wis whilst he wis editin the Britannica, the 2nd Edition that is, that Tytler read aw aboot the Montgolfier Brothers an' their flyin exploits in a hot-air balloon ower in Paris. They had caused a great excitement aw ower Europe an' mony a man wantit tae emulate them, nane mair sae than the bold Jamie. It's likely that he had thocht he could mak some money wi this venture, fer he wis aye runnin intae debts, he had turned by this time tae drink, an' the puir laddie's wife had left him, takin the five bairns wi her. He set hissel up in the New Register Hoose at the end o' the new North Brig, which we aye used tae cry 'the biggest doocot in the land', it been left empty an' hauf-feenishet ye see, oan account o' the city runnin oot o' money an' aw. We were aw runnin oot o' money in thon days. Times were hard...

Jamie charged fowk 6d a time tae come intae the hauf-bigget dome tae see his 'Grand Edinburgh Fire Balloon' an' whaun the time cam, he took his balloon doon tae Comely Green, ahint the Palace, jist aff the London Road, an' oan the 27th o' August 1784 he flew it up an' ower tae Restalric village. It wis the first ever manned flight in Britain, an' ye'll be gled tae ken that there's noo a Tytler Coort, an' Tytler Gairdens jist aff Milton Street, where he took aff fae, tae mark the event.

Ah mynd staunin up oan the Calton Hill that day, ah wis bleachin some sheets, an' watchin Tytler's balloon soarin up in the air, an' ah thocht tae masel "Oooh! Ah'll hae tae hae a go at that yin day, so ah will." Little did ah ken that ah wid ony hae tae wait a year, fer the follaein September, Embra got a visit fae Mr Vincenze Lunardi, a dashin young Italian gentleman, a flyer, a showman, an' a proper charmer. Ah jist happened tae hae popped intae the Black Bull Inn at the fit o' Leith Street fer a wee sherry when Lunardi's cairrage arrived fae London. Oh! he wis a handsome young thing, aw clean an' perfumed, he smelt like a bunch o' spicey flooers, no like yer Embra gadges, an' it wisnae lang afore we were sharin a bottle o' sherry ower a caundle-lit plate o' oysters...

A couple o' weeks later Vincenze had set up his balloon in the gairdens o' George Heriots Hospital up the soothside. Whit a crowd had gaithered, jist aboot abody in the toun wis there, aw the shops were shut fer the day, the toun cooncil were oot dressed in their finery, the Toun Rats had bothered tae show up, bands were playin, an' aw the posh wummen were wearin their biggest 'Lunardi' bonnets, it wis quite the pairty. Ah felt like the cat's whiskers so ah did, as ah stepped up ontae the wee stage, an' Vincenze took ma haun (he wis sic a gentleman) an' helped me up intae the wee basket affair hingin ablaw his big balloon. Ah ken ye're supposed tae be aw patriotic aboot these things, but oh! did his balloon no luik a damn sicht better than Tytler's auld bag, even if it did hae a big Union Flag aw ower it. Ah wis that excitit ah couldnae hae cared less if it had a big picture o' the Pope oan it, ah wis gettin tae fly an' that's aw that maittered.

Three o' clock came an' up we went. Oh the excitement! Ma wee heart wis poundin as we flew up ower aw the heids o' the tounsfowk, an' ah wis wavin ma hankie at aw ma wee pals, luikin like wee beasties crawlin aboot oan the grund. The noise o' aw the cheerin, an' the sounds o' the band, that loud they had been startin tae gie me a sair heid, soon drifted aff in the breeze, an it aw went quiet. Silent even. Jist me an' Vincenze, up in the big sky, wind rufflin through oor hair, wi aw o' Embra laid oot afore us like a wee toy toun. An' that's when he startit...

"Ah mi Sophia, siamo come gli uccelli e gli api!" an' then "Siete il vento sotto le mie ali" he went oan, aw the while pressin hissel up closer tae me an' cooin in ma lug. Suddenly ah wisnae sae excitit. Ah should hae realised this afore ah got intae his basket right enough, but aw men are alike, whether Scots, Italians or Chinamen. They're aw jist efter yin thing an' yin thing alane. Well, he wisnae gettin that fae me, no awa up there in the sky, ye nivver kent wha could be watchin ye!

Sae then we startit this wee dance, him pressin up close tae me an' makin wee smoochie noises wi his lips, an' me shufflin awa fae him. Ye've no really got far tae run in yin o' thon wee baskets, sae we jist went roon an roon in wee circles, an' him comin oot wi aw this Italian keich. Ah've nae Italian masel, but ah could get the jist o' whit he wis sayin, an' ah didnae like the sound o' it. Whitever ma 'amore-tratta' were, he certainly wisnae gettin his hauns oan them!

The silly eedjit wis concentratin that hard oan chasin me aroon his basket that he hadnae been keepin track o' whaur we were gaun, an' whaun we luiket doon, suddenly we were ower water!! We had flew richt ower Embra, richt ower Leith, an' we were heidin oot tae the North Sea, except we cried it the German Sea in thae days. The ony thing that wis gaunnae save us wis that we were losin heicht, an' we were gaunnae ditch in the sea jist aff Inchkeith!

So ah took ma chance, an' jumped fer it. We were ony aboot ten fit up, but as soon as ah jumped oot the balloon went shootin up again, an' disappeared ower the tap o' the island, wi Vincenze wavin his flooery hankie at me an' greetin. Ah heard later that he had flew richt ower Fife, an' cam doon in a field near Ceres, scarin aw the crofters shitless. Of course he wis feted an celebratit the breadth an' length o' the country, made member o' St Andrews Golf Club an' a Freeman burgher o' Embra toun, whilst aw ah got wis drookit wet. Ah swam the wee distance tae the island, trampt ma way ower tae the fort, then had tae wait fower days fer a fishin boat tae bring me back tae Leith.

Ye'll nivver get me back up in yin o' thae infernal machines again, guid view or bad. Oor ain wee Jamie Tytler couldnae hae enjoyed his flyin days neither, fer it wisnae lang afore he wis back tae editin the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the 3rd Edition this time. An' it wisnae lang efter that either afore he wis oan the run again, but this time it wis fer writin seditious pamphlets, an' this time he endit up in Massachussetts in America. But that's a story fer anither time, ah'm awa tae pit ma Ovaltine oan. See yersel oot...

Symphony in blue

2010-07-24T12:38:00.002+01:00

Ah've aye got oan weel wi the polis. Ah wid aye hae a cup o' tea ready waitin fer them if they were thirsty, ah wid pynt them in the direction the criminals had run, even if they werenae chasin ony, an' ah wis aye ready tae blaw oan their whistles fer them. Some o' ma freenemies used tae say ah wis a wee sook, but ah jist thocht ah wis bein a guid law-abidin citizen masel. Of course, ah wis right in wi them oan account o' ma pal Jean D'Armerie, he had jyned up wi them the meenit they formed in Embra, an' he even made his ain uniform, tho ye'll be gled tae ken it wisnae in rid silk. Ah'm gled masel fer he wis meant tae be savin his rid silk fer me!

Some days, ye ken whit Embra weather can be like, Jean wid come up tae ma hoose soaked tae the skin, an' it wid tak three, sometimes fower sherries an' a guid rub tae dry him oot. It wisnae fair, ah used tae think, makin him walk up an' doon Leith Walk in aw weathers, wi naewhere tae hide, sae ah wis gled tae read in the paper aboot this new-fanglet idea fae England where they wid gie the polis a wee box tae staun in oot o' the rain, an' it wid e'en hae a wee kettle fer their tea an' a wee phone in it, if they wantit tae ca some biddy fer a wee blether.

Ah wisnae ower-chuffed tho when ah actually clapped een oan the thing. It wis jist an auld type-40 Tardis! Ah thocht tae masel we cannae be haein thon monstrosities appearin aw ower Embra, fowk'll be thinkin there'll be Doctors turnin up oan every street corner, playin havoc wi the timelines an' threatenin Blinovitch limitation explosions aw ower the shop! (Though tae be fair Sylvester Pangloss assures me this ony happens wi Brigadiers, but fowk can get awfy feart regardless) So ah mindit masel tae pit a stop tae it...

Lucky fer me ah kent whit oor Chief Constable luiket like at the time. Roddy Ross wis the spit o' the King, this bein the early '30s an' the King bein auld King George V. Ah also kent that Roddy bidet up Calton Hill, whaur ah used tae dae the stairs. He had no lang moved fae Whisky Raw (that's Royal Terrace if ye want its Sunday name) roon the corner tae Regent Terrace. Every time ah went up there ah had tae pass the scene o' that accident ah telt ye aboot, an' ma cheeks burnt every time. Puir auld nag.

But gang up there ah did, every chance ah got, an' ah wid hing aboot ootside number 28 till Roddy showed face, an' then ah wid chase him doon the street shoutin at him that he must be mad if he wantit tae bring thae blue English monstrosities tae oor streets. Tae start wi he wid stop an' talk, wi his funny Teuchter accent, an' he offered tae follae the Glesca example an' paint them aw rid. Ah tried ma best negotiation technique an' offered tae accept them if he paintit them pink, but he jist walked awa, an' efter that he wid run as soon as he saw me...

Efter aboot twa month o' this ah wis gettin tired o' it aw, an' ah couldnae be botheret wi climbin that hill every day, sae ah thocht ah had better settle wi the man. Ah waited till he cam oot his door this day, an' a waved ma hankie tae show him ah wantit tae treat wi him, so he stopped tae talk. Ah suggestit tae him that he could bring his wee boxes tae Embra, jist sae lang as they fitted in wi aw oor bonnie Neo-classical architecture, an' ah wis fair pleased when he said he wid get oantae it right awa. Ah think he wis tired tae, o' aw the runnin awa fae me!

Roddy got in touch wi the Corporation, an they pit wee Ebeneezer McRae, the City Architect, tae work oan giein us a box that wid complement oor streets, an' that's how Embra came tae hae its unique Tardises, though tae me they look suspiciously like type-69s. Ah aye had ma doots aboot wee Ebeneezer...

It's funny, well it's no really but ah'll tell ye onyroads, but Roddy wis Chief Constable o' Embra fer gaun oan 35 year, an' in that time he made great changes tae the safety o' Embra's streets, bringin in automatic traffic lights, speed-cobbles, zebra crossins, aw sorts really. Ah say it's funny cos yin day in '34 ah happened tae be up Regent Terrace, ah wis oan ma way tae lay some flooers, an' ah saw Roddy comin oot o' his front door, so ah shoutit an' startit tae run taewards him, jist wantin tae thank him fer his work. Weel, did he no gie a funny wee yelp, tak tae his heels, run richt oot oantae the road, an got hit by an Empire breid-van!!

Post-script:- Ah thocht ah wid add yin o' these, ma first, fer a ken some o' ye dinnae aye look at the comments, but Mr Conan the Librarian seems tae think ah might hae somethin tae dae wi this wee bit o' work. Ah wid love tae be able tae pit ma hauns up an' tak responsibility, but ah'm afraid ah cannae, ma back pit me oot o' the decoratin business years ago. Ah'm chuffed tho that there are ither fowk in Embra wi a bit o' taste an' a sense o' fun, it's jist a shame they've no got roon tae daein the rest o' the boxes, fer some o' them are sorry sichts th'day. Mr Conan, pit yer hauns oot, ah want tae check under yer nails fer pink paint...

Ah'm still waitin...

2010-07-23T19:28:00.002+01:00

It's lang been said 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 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 James VI wis oan the throne o' Scotland. Bein o' the 'reformed' religion hissel, he 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. 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 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 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 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, that 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 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 that 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...

The Confrontation

2010-07-16T19:07:00.002+01:00

Oh Hullo there! It's you again, come in come in, sit yersel doon. Oh, afore ye sit doon wid ye pit that kettle oan? Ah wid dae it masel but ah'm a bit wearied. Ah've been sittin here tellin ma stories aw mornin an' tae be honest wi ye ah'm right done in. Ye ken, sometimes this storytellin malarkey's like floggin a deid horse so it is. Ah'm a martyr tae ma art so ah am, but then, it's true whit they say, a wumman's got tae dae whit a wumman's got tae dae...

Actually ah shouldnae say that, ah mind ah got intae bother fer sayin that yince. Weel, tae be fair it wisnae actually me sayin it that got me intae bother, it wis the reply ah got an' whit happened efter that that did. Oh, let me pit that tea oantae brew an' ah'll tell ye aw aboot it.

Noo let me see, this widda been ooh aboot 1904, no, wait a meenit, it wis 1903. That's right, it wis jist a fortnight efter thon Wright Brothers had took their flight in America, an' we were aw still buzzin wi the news. We wid likely hae been buzzin onyroads, fer it wis Hogmanay, which wis aye a big nicht in the auld toun. Ah wis lookin forrit tae feenishin ma work, gettin the hoose straight, an' then heidin up tae the Tron fer the Bells. Ah fair loved the first-fittin, gettin oot the sherry, pairtyin aw nicht, singin alang wi aw the turns, dancin til dawn, gettin loads o' kisses aff the boys. But first ah had tae feenish ma work, so ah wis hammerin oan.

Ah had a guid position at the time, daein stairs up alang Regent Terrace up oan the Calton Hill. It wis a nice area, fowk up there kent how tae keep a stair clean. Ah wis scrubbin awa, singin merrily tae masel, at the stair ootside number 20 when ah noticed the St Cuthbert's milk float comin alang the street. Ah didnae much care fer the milk-laddie tho, Jimmy Dobbie, big lanky dreep o' a boy, his mither stayed up the street fae yin o' the lassies ah kent fae the dancin, an' she wis yin o' thae lippy sorts, aye needlin ye, thocht she wis a cut above, ye ken the sort. Her laddie wis a bit like her an' aw.

Jimmy comes by, an' ah heard him gettin his joog aff the back o' the float an' comin up ahint me. "Ye haein fun there Sophia? Ye've missed a bit there ye ken."

Ah wisnae risin tae him. "Weel, a wumman's got tae dae whit a wumman's got tae dae." says I. "Aye, an' a scrubber's got tae dae whit a scrubber's got tae dae" he comes back. Oh he wis gettin ma goat.

It's likely he wis bashin oan a bit fast cos like me he wis thinkin o' the nicht aheid an' whaur he wid be seein in the New Year, but that's nae excuse fer whit he did. He swung his joog aroon that fast that he skailt milk aw ower ma fresh-cleaned stair. Oh ah wis beilin! Ah startit layin intae the big eedjit, ca'ed him aw the names o' the day. Ah probably shouldnae hae ca'ed his maw a lippy auld mare, but there ye go, ah said it onyway.

He goes runnin back ower tae his float an' climbs up, picks up a breid roll, like as no his breakfast, an' launches it at ma erse. Ah spun roon an' launched back at him - wi ma scrubbin brush!

Weel, ma aim's nae guid at aw, nivver has been, ah've nivver won a sod oan a cocoanut shy, an' ah beltit the puir horse slam-bang oan its backside. Up it rears, an' taks aff at a gallop alang the street! Up oantae the pavin-stanes it went an' the first thing it hit wis the railin ootside number 27. That thump saw Jimmy flyin intae the air, alang wi the maist pairt o' his milk.

But that nivver stoapped the nag, an' it went careerin alang, till it reached the corner whaur the terrace turns intae Carlton Terrace, whaur it beltit across the road, cairt gaun up oan yin wheel, right intae the rails across fae number 6. Crash! Bang! Wallop! ye could say...

Aw this, mind, is occurrin at 6 in the mornin. Windaes are flyin up aw aroon us as fowk are lookin oot tae see whit the noise is, an' number 6 only belongs tae Geordie Mackie, the posh-biscuit manufacturer o' the shop oan Princes Street, him that had made biscuits fer the auld Queen, an' still made them fer King Edward. His face wis purple, which wis nice fer it matched his language. He had guid reason tae be mad mind, the railins were aw broken tae bits, the cairt wis lyin in pieces, an' the horse? Weel ah'm sorry tae say the horse had got an iron railin in the throat an' wis lyin deid in the middle o' the road right in front o' his front door.

There wis hell tae pay right enough, an' a bill o' £4/5/- intae the bargain. Jmmy got right intae bother an' had tae pay this oot his wages fer the next ten month fer no lookin efter his horse. Ah got let go an' aw, but ah wisnae that bothered, there's aye stairs need cleanin, an' it saved me the climb up that hill every mornin. At least ah had a story tae tell ma pals that nicht when it cam tae daein ma wee turn at the New Year's pairties.

An' if ye're wonderin why ah stuck that sign oan the horse, it's because we were jist up the hill fae the North Back Canongate, an' the fowk doon there were awfy puir an' mair than a wee bittie rough. The sort that wid flog a deid horse if they got a chance...

Ach look, ah've went oan that lang ah've stewed the tea. Pit that kettle oan wid ye?

Night o' the swallow

2010-07-15T14:34:00.001+01:00

Durin the War, that wid be the Second War, it wis vital that we aw did oor bit. Ah tried makin a case tae the panel that stair-cleanin wis an integral pairt o' the war effort, but they wid hae nane o' it, so it wis intae uniform fer me. Ah've nae heid fer heights so the Spitfires were oot, ah'm nae much o' a swimmer sae the convoys were oot, an' the way ah feel aboot enclosed spaces kicked the submarines intae touch. But ah quite liked the look o' the ARP rig-oot, an' ma pal Bella Semple said ye got a right laugh wi them. Mind, Bella wis the sort that wid get a guid laugh at Warriston Crematorium. She wis aye gigglin an' ticklin yer ribs. She wis a lady gowfer, an' onytime she got a gin-an'-tonic inside her she wid kick her legs in the air (she had a tidy pair o' ankles) an' cry "Dalmahoy!!"

It wis a shame that ah nivver got posted wi Bella, she worked oot o' Edinburgh City Control up at Buckstone Drive seein as how she had guid connections through her Uncle Bert, while ah wis pit doon tae Barnton quarry. Here's a wee photie, but it looked better back then when it wis fu o' life.

Ah cannae really complain aboot oor lot, we had it easy compared tae some places. The nights aw the bombers passed ower oan their way tae Clydebank were the worst, ye jist knew they were takin a batterin an' there wis nothin ye could dae fer them. We had a couple o' raids oan the docks, an' o' course the Bridge wis a big target, but aw in aw we cam aff lightly.

Policin the blackoots wis the major pairt o' ma duties. Ah had tae walk aboot wi ma wee slit-torch shoutin at fowk tae shut their doors or fix their blackoot curtains. This yin nicht ah wis patrollin aroon Princes Street, it wis a dark dark nicht, nae moon, an' ye had tae be gey carefu whaur ye were walkin. Ah mind passin by the back-end o' St John's Church an' ah could hear this wierd wheezin an' groanin noise, ah couldnae work oot whit it wis, an' at first ah thocht it might be a Tardis comin intae land. Yince ah shone ma wee torch ower the railins intae the bushes tho, ah got a better idea o' whit wis makin the noise.

Mibbe ah should've stopped them, sent them packin back tae their mammies, but ah didnae hae the heart. They were jist laddies, an' they probably didnae ken when they wid get the ca-up tae gang aff tae the fight. In thae days ye took yer pleasures whaur ye could find them...

So ah kept schtum an' heided aff alang Princes Street, checkin that aw the cars had their heidlight-dippers oan, an' turned up Frederick Street. Ah had jist got past Rose Street when ah felt this ticklin oan ma ankle. Ah yelped, an' ma first thocht wis that mibbe it wis a sodjer hidin doon a basement area, waitin tae surprise foxy wummen like masel, so ah cried oot "Stop yer ticklin Jock!" as ye dae. Nae answer. Next meenite ah felt anither tickle, so ah switched ma torch oan an' shone it doon.

Rats! Big stoaters o' rats! An' when ah cast the licht aboot ah could see that the pavement wis covered, an' the road an' aw! There must've been thoosans o' them, millions even!

Ye see, it wis at this time that the Corporation were diggin up Princes Street Gairdens tae pit in air-raid shelters, an' obviously the rats were movin, en masse, as they say in France, ower tae Queen Street Gairdens. Like as no they wid hae relatives ower there that could pit them up.

Ah'm up oan the railins in a flash, weel, no in a flash obviously fer that wid hae broken the blackoot regulations, but ah wis fast onyroads. If there's yin thing ah cannae stand it's rats, especially at ma ankles. Ah tried screamin fer help, but o' course this wis late at nicht an' there wis naebody aboot. Ah wis stuck up that lamp-post fer hoors, an' aw ah had tae drink wis ma wee hip-flask o' sherry. An' that didnae last long.

By-an'-by tho the rats thinned oot, an' ah felt able tae climb doon again. Ah tottered up the street till ah got tae the corner o' George Street, shooshin them oot the road, till ah could find a polisman, ah threw masel intae his airms, aw greetin an jibberin so ah wis, an' he helped tae get me hame...

The funny thing is, it wisnae lang efter that ma Area Warden cam up tae me an' said that stair-cleanin had been re-designated as pairt o' the War Effort, an' he telt me tae get me bucket oot an' get back tae scrubbin. At least ah think that's whit he said. Humourless wee smout so he wis.

Deeper Understanding

2010-07-13T09:47:00.007+01:00

Oor wee toun o' Embra's been hame tae mony a great mind ower the years, an' nane greater than the 'eminence grice' that wis Davie Hume. Born up the Lawnmarket in 1711, this wee laddie wis sae unco bright an' sharp-mindit that he uptook a place at the University when he wis bare ten year-auld. Can ye imagine ony o' oor wee tykes fae the present day bein sae keen oan the learnin when they've got their X-boaxes an' their Nintendos tae amuse thersels wi? Ah cannae see it masel.

But study the lad wid, an' study weel he did, an' by the age o' twenty-six he had produced his 'Treatise oan Human Nature' which ah'm telt is yin o' the foundation stanes o' Western philosophy. Ah say ah'm telt it is fer try as ah may ah couldnae get past the first chapter. Let's jist say its a bit oan the dry side, an' some o' the words he uses are awfy awfy lang...

Ah'm nae alane in this, fer it didnae exactly set the heather alicht at the time, it nivver selt, an' Davie eventually had tae tak up tutorin rich bairns tae earn his livin. Still, he worked up his thoughts, kept oan at the scrievin, an' in time he wis grantit the acclamation he deservit. Noo part o' the reason he wisnae popular cam fae the fact that the man wis - God forbid - an atheist. There werenae mony o' us aboot at the time, an' them that were tendit tae keep it tae thersels. But no oor Davie. In fact, no lang efter the '45 he published his deeply atheist work 'An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding' which upset the kirk sae much he wis charged wi heresy! The ony reason he got aff wi it wis by arguin that, seein as he wis an atheist, he lay ootside the kirk's jusrisdiction! Clever laddie. Lucky laddie tae, fer it wis ony a few year afore this that Tam Aitkenheid, a right smart-alec student up at the University, had got hissel hung jist fer sayin Christianity wis a lot o' keich. Served him right tho, ah nivver took tae the jumped-up wee nyaff...

Anyway, tae ma wee story. Yin sunny morn ah wis takin the air wi ma pal Jean an' we were walkin the Lang Dykes, which used tae run alang Barefoot's Park jist up fae the Nor Loch. They were layin oot the New Toun at this time, an' the Lang Dykes wis soon tae become St Giles' Street, or at least it wis supposed tae become St Giles' Street, till auld King George stuck his neb in, said we couldnae cry it that name fer there wis a slum area in London toun cried that an' could we no cry it efter his sons, the bonnie princes? So, Princes Street it became, an' Princes Street it still is. Interferin auld bugger so he wis.

We were daunerin alang when we spied a commotion doon in the loch. Noo, tae pit ye in the picture the Nor Loch wis still a big feature in thon days, it hadnae been drained yet, an' filled the vale atween the Old an' New Touns. It stretched fae whaur Ramsay Gardens stauns noo, doon tae past whaur the North Brig had no lang been built, an it must hae been aboot fower hunnert feet wide in the middle. It wisnae awfy deep though, an' jist doon the hill fae the Lawnmarket there wis a sortae steppin-stane-brig across the loch. Geordie Boyd the draper fae Gosford's Close had startit it when he couldnae be bothered walkin aw the way doon the High Street tae the North Brig tae get across tae see the new works, it wis kent as Geordie Boyd's Mud Brig. In time of course it got bigger an' bigger an ye'll ken it th'day as the Earthen Mound, on tap o' which staun the twa Art Galleries.

Fae whit we could see, some auld bloke had been tryin tae cross the mud brig, slipped or tripped, an' tumblit intae the loch. Noo that's somethin ye widnae want tae dae fer it wis a stinkin myre at this time, back in the days o' 'Gardy Loo!' an' aw the piss an' shit fae the auld toun found its way doon the closes an' wynds an' intae the loch, it wis in effect an open sewer. So we ran doon tae see if we could help the puir auld man.

We got doon there, an' as we were nearin we could see that the auld bloke wis that fat he couldnae get hissel up. He wis lyin oan his back in aboot three inch o' smelly foul water, yelpin an' greetin an' cryin 'Help me, ah cannae get up, help!'

It wis Jean that first noticed that the man wis Davie Hume. He bided up Mylne's Court at the time, but he wis biggin a new hoose at St Andrews Square, yin o' the first in fact, an' wis oan his road ower tae see how the work wis progressin. Jean an' I had been, er, partakin o' a wee refreshment fae ma hip-flagon o' sherry afore this an' we were in a jestin mood, so ah cam up wi a wee jape tae amuse wersels. We baith pit shawls ower oor heids an' pit oan like we were fisherwummin fae Newhaven, aw rough-like, a bit like yer chavs an' chavesses o' the present day.

"Whit ye waantin Mister? Ur ye aawright thair? Ur ye waashin yur herr? Div ye waant a wee drinkie innit?" that sortae thing. Jean wis puirless laughin by this, then ah went oan "Wid ye likie a wee haun up? Tell us the Lord's Prayer an' the Creed an' we'll see whit wee kin dae fur ye!" me kennin he wis an atheist an' aw. Ah think it wis aboot this pynt that Jean doublet up laughin an' ah'm sure ah heard the tinkle o' pish...

Tae the man's credit tho, he lay there oan his back in the dirty water, shut his een, an' recitit the prayer an' creed, an' sae yince we had composed oorsels we hitched oor skirts up, waded in as dainty as we could manage, an' hoisted auld Davie tae his feet. Puir auld sowel, he looked a sicht. Ah'm thinkin he must've drunk some o' the water when he fell in the loch, fer ah heard that he telt this story tae a pal o' his efter this, an described us 'Newhaven fishwives' as "the maist acute theologians ah ever did meet" an' the bold man only went an' convertit tae Christianity fae that day forth! Bit o' an ain goal that if ye ask me, haein spent maist o' ma life tryin tae convert fowk the ither way roond! Ah suppose ye cannae win them aw.

Ah'll no bore ye wi ma tales much further, exceptin tae add a wee dessert. A few month efter this occurrence Davie had bigged an' moved intae his new hoose. As ah telt ye it wis yin o' the first in the area, an' the streets hadnae been furnished or named or onythin. Ah had been carousin up the High Street this yin nicht, an' me an' Jean were stoatin back doon the road tae Leith when we happened tae be passin by Davie's new hoose. Ah mind sayin tae Jean how we had tae commemorate oor Holy Conversion somehow, so ah got oot ma bit chalk that ah aye kept haundy, climbed up oan the railins ootside his front door, an' wrote "St David's Street" oan the side o' his hoose.

Intit funny how some jokes stick, lang efter ye've finished laughin at them? The cooncil cam along, saw ma wee bittie grafitti, an' thocht that wis the street's official name, so St David's Street it remains tae this day...

The Hound o' Love

2010-07-11T16:32:00.004+01:00

Here, ah'm gaun tae start aff th'day by sayin somethin some o' ye may find a wee bit controversial, but ah'll say it onyroads.

Ma auld mither, bless her soul, is a Black Bitch!

She's prood tae be cried yin, ah'm prood that she is yin. Fer ma ain sel, ah can only lay claim tae bein a whelp o' a Black Bitch, but that'll hae tae dae me, sae there's nae pynt in greetin aboot it...

Let me tell ye ma wee story. It's a story aboot love an' loyalty, it's aboot cruelty an' vindictiveness, it's aboot stayin loyal tae the past. Ma story concerns the wee toun o' Linlithgow, some o' ye may ken it, it sits aroon 16 mile west o' Edinburgh in the coonty o' West Lothian. Lithca' (as it's cried by the locals) may coont as a wee toun these days, but mony year ago it wis yin o' Scotland's foremaist burghs. In fact in 1368 it wis yin o' the Court of Four Burghs alang wi Edinburgh, Stirling and Lanark, an' it wis langtime a favourite o' Kings an' Princes. There wis a royal hoose in Lithca fae at least as faur back as King David, weel afore the Wars o' Independence, an' whit ye see th'day is but a ruin o' a great an' gracefu Royal Palace. Ma auld pal Walter Scott couldnae hae put it better whan he wrote in his novel Marmion:

"Of all the palaces so fair
Built for the royal dwelling,
In Scotland far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling."

This Palace sae fair sits in a park upon a hill owerlookin a loch aboot a mile in width, in the middle o' which stauns an island, a wee island, an' upon this island stauns a solitary tree. This tree played a central role in the life o' medieval Lithca, fer it wis the chosen place o' punishment fer the miscreants o' the toun.

In a less enlightened age it wis the practice o' the toun's magistrates tae sentence criminals tae be tied tae this tree, an' left tae die. Noo bearin in mind that ye might get sentenced fer as little as stealin a loaf o' breid, some wid say that this wis a gey harsh thing tae dae, but then, ye've got tae mind they had less tae entertain thersels wi in thon days, an' watchin a puir auld biddy sterve tae death helped pass the time an' geied the tounsfowk somethin tae blether aboot.

Sae ye can imagine their displeasure this yin time when, haein tied this auld bloke tae the tree, ony time they lookit oot at the island, there he wis, bold as brass, hale an' hearty. They couldnae figure oot whit wis gaun oan. Until at last yin day some eagle-eye in the toun espied a figure swimmin oot tae the island!

Weel! Wis it no the mannie's faithfu dug swimmin oot, wi a piece in its mou! Noo dinnae ask me if it wis a piece oan cheese, or mibbe a wee ham piece, ah dinnae ken, but either way ye get the gist. The hound wis keepin auld Mr Convict alive, a shinin example o' love an' loyalty that wid pit wur ain Greyfriars Bobby tae shame. They say that a dug is a man's best freen, an' that man sure had whit they nooadays cry a BFF in that dug.

So sure as guns ye can tell whit they did next. That's right, they tied the puir dug tae the tree! Cruel cruel people that they were though, they still endit up celebratin the dug by pittin it oan the toun's crest, which ye can see at the tap o' ma story. A black bitch dug, tied tae a tree, oan an island, in a loch.

An' tae this verry day, if ye're born within the bounds o' Lithca toun, ye hae the right tae ca yersel a Black Bitch, an' regardless o' the march o' politically correct progress, fowk like ma auld mither still haud their heids high an' say it wi pride.

"Ah'm a Black Bitch fae auld Lithca toun!"

How tae be invisible

2010-07-03T12:51:00.006+01:00

Ah wis rakin through ma box o' auld photies an' ah came across this yin o' me an' a tram up at Pilrig. That's me wi ma new hat oan, ye can jist see me ower the shooder o' the auld man in the bunnet. Ah mind buyin that hat, it cost me seeventeen an' six in the New Year sale at PT's up the Bridges. Ah had tae staun in the queue fer three 'oors listenin tae ma pal Mima McCrudden gaun oan aboot her man an' the bother she wis haein wi him. He wis either at the Clan or the bookies she says, an' if he wis up at yin, he'd be doon at the ither. He aye went oan aboot how he wis a great yin fer the form an' he could pick a winner fae a mile aff, but if he ever did, then he drank aw he won fer nane o' it ever got back tae Mima. Aw she had tae feed the bairns wi wis whit she got fae her cleanin jobs. She did offices in Queen Street fae six till eight in the mornin, then stairs up Easter Road efter she'd fed an' dressed the bairns, an' then she cleaned the school kitchens efter dinnertime. It's nae wonder she couldnae be bothered cleanin her hoose when she got hame. Noo ah'm nae yin fer talkin, but Mima wis a clarty besom. She swore like a trooper, smoked like a chimney, had no a tooth left in her heid, fartit when she felt like it, an' she nivver cleaned her windaes. No beatin yer rugs every week, or missin yer brasses noo an' again's yin thing, but haein dirty windaes? Well, there's nae excusin laziness is aw ah'm sayin.

Ah'm no even sure why she wis there that day. She wisnae yin fer spendin money, an' PT's stuff wisnae her style onyway. She wis mair o' a coats-fae-auld-rugs than a rugs-fae-auld-coats sortae wumman. Ah hadnae expectit tae see her there, an' jist happened tae end up staunin next tae her in the line. Ah kent her fae when she wis a bairn in Lorne Street an' her mither auld Mrs Fleming used tae serve in the Alhambra picture hoose ticket booth. She wis a quiet lassie, bonnie wee thing wi long jet black hair, rosie cheeks an' bowdie legs. Ah used tae laugh at the bairns when ah watched them aw playin in the street an' the laddies wid try tae ride their guiders atween Mima's legs, or get her tae be the goalposts. She jist laughed an' telt them they'd be thankin her soon enough fer her legs.

She might no hae been there tae buy right enough, a lot o' wummen in thon days couldnae walk past a line withoot jynin it. Ye aye wantit tae find a bargain whether ye needed it or could afford it or no. She might hae been oan the thieve, ye nivver ken. She widnae be the first an' it wid hae been easy fer her tae sneak past the flairwalkers, bein sae wee, an' ye wid nivver see her in a sales crowd. Mibbe she wis missin her work whit wi the holidays an' that, an' jist wantit somebody tae talk tae. It can be a lonely life if ye've no got yer work tae go tae. So ah let her rabbit oan. She soundit like she wis haein a right hard time wi her man an' the bairns. That still disnae gie her an excuse no tae wash her windaes though.

Whitever she wis daein there ah'll nivver ken, fer ah lost sicht o' her yince auld Mr Fraser the commisionnaire opened the doors an' we aw rushed forrit. She seemed tae be headin fer ladies' underwear when she jist vanished. Ah ran aw the way up the stairs tae the millinery an' found this lovely broon felt hat wi a wee yellae ribbon reduced fae yin pound fifteen shillin, ye cannae see the ribbon in the photie cos it wis oan the ither side. Ah wore that hat tae the kirk fer years, week in week oot, lasted me weel it did. Ah passed it oan tae some bairns fer a jumble sale in Buchanan Street, alang wi some tea-cosies ah'd knitted an' three pound o' ma best pink-an'-white coconut ice. It wis a grand hat so it wis, see, ah'm mistin up jist thinkin aboot it...

Ah'm tryin tae mind why ah had this photie taen. If ah mind right this wis taen the day they jyned the tramlines atween Embra an' Leith, the last day o' the Pilrig Muddle. Ye see, fer nigh oan twenty year, Leith Toun Cooncil had been runnin fast new electric trams, whilst Embra Corporation had still been oan the auld cable cars. Consequently, when ye were gaun by tram up tae Embra ye had tae get aff at Pilrig, cross the toun line, an' climb oan an Edinburgh Corporation vehicle, which then dragged ye oan up the hill tae Greenside, past the auld Gallow Lee, past whaur stood the elm trees that ah wid meet ma pal Jean fae Picardy under, past the Tabernacle an' Admiral Haldane's thrillin sermons. Thae auld cable trams were creaky affairs tho, an' they were aye breakin doon, cable snappin or some such, an' it wis a joke ye wid hear aw the time tae say that if ye were gaun tae Edinburgh, then yer quickest way wis tae take a tram tae Pilrig, an' then walk the rest!

That wis aw many year ago, an' even though we voted eighty percent tae stay independent o' Embra, wi control ower oor ain affairs, we've accepted the 'union' that wis brought upon us. We Leithers are nae yins tae haud a grudge, not at aw. Let bygans be bygans, aw water unner the brig, nothin tae see here. Sae why are Edinburgh Cooncil tormentin us, threatenin tae revive the auld joke?

"Whit's the quickest way tae get tae Leith?"

"Ah dinnae ken, whit is the quickest way tae get tae Leith?"

"Take a tram tae York Place, get aff there cos ye huv tae, an' walk the rest."

Somewhere in between

2010-06-26T16:26:00.013+01:00

Ah wis staunin up at the Tap o' the Walk the other day. Ah had been up toun layin flooers, an' ah jist stopped fer a meenit oan the way hame, an' tried tae picture in ma mind's een the new developments they're proposin fer the area. They're important plans, fer the entry fae Leith intae Embra's aye been a busy urban junction, wi a lang history, yin that cannae be easy shoved aside an' forgotten. Ah've lost count o' the nummer o' times ah've passed that way, on fit or oan a tram, oan the back o' a bus or the back o' a tractor, up an' doon, an then back up again. Aw the time Leith Walk's been open, ah've used it, an' afore they built the Walk, ah wid come up the Leith Loan tae Greenside, mibbe nip in at Picardy an' see ma pal Jean, then tak the Lower Calton tae the fit o' Leith Wynd, then up the wynd an' in at the Netherbow Port, say if ah wis headin tae the High Street. Sometimes ah wid jist stop at Jean's.

If ye bide in the toun long enough, ye're sooner or later bound tae find yersel swingin roon that big roundabout, bein glowered ower by the twa lumberin beasts o' Calton Hill an' the St James, wi big wa's o' gless an' concrete flashin afore yer een, wee shop-fronts an' statues an' trees, an' corners wi streets aw gang aglay an' church-fronts wheechin past yer vision. It can feel a bit like bein oan the Jungle Ride at the shows, in fact a lot o' the folk walkin past the area look like they've jist got aff the shows. Mibbe they're lookin fer a shootin gallery or a chairoplanes.

It's a lively area, lang kent as a gaitherin place, as a place o' fancies an' dances. Ah mind, no sae many year ago, how excited we were as we aw gaithered tae watch the Kinetic Sculpture when it wis up. Ye can see the Kinetic Sculpture in the photie up there. The roundaboot wis a lot bigger then, an' there were nae trees, they had knocked doon the Greenside tenements an' left a big dryin green, an the pavements were aw huddled against the sides. It wis like three hunner square yaird o' barren concrete an' gress, wi a dozen scaffoldin poles rigged up in the centre as a tower, wi fluorescent tubes attached tae the poles. The idea bein that the tubes wid light up dependin oan whit way the wind wis blawin an how hard it wis blawin, an' it wid look like a Space-Age Christmas Tree, 'Europe' come tae Embra. It wis oor Atomium, Modren Airt, in oor ain wee toun, were we no the bees knees? Me an' ma pal Maisie Crabbit had got loused an' 'oor early tae come doon fer the switchin-oan, expectin there tae be a big crowd an' a lot o' shuvin tae get tae the front, but it wis sic a dreich efternin an' sae bitter cauld that naebody else showed face! The streets were emptier than a Sunday.

Ye see, tae pit ye in the picture, this wis durin the Emergency in '73, when Ted Heath wis gaun in the huff wi the miners, an' the Arabs were gaun in the huff wi everybody, an' the country wis runnin oot o' petrol, coal, power, sugar, even tinned pineapples, an' a'body wis depressed. Ye had tae keep an eye oan the telly tae see when ye were gettin cut-aff, an' ye couldnae keep yer fire oan aw day, an' ah had tae wear troosers under ma frock. The cooncil had tae be seen tae be daein their bit o' belt-tichtenin, so aw they had sent along wis a man wi a box, an' aw he could play wis "Green Green Grass" an' "Chirpy Chirpy Tweet Tweet" an' he looked a bit skelly when he smiled, which he wis daein too often so ah had tae pit masel atween him an' Maisie. Ah had telt her if she cam doon Leith Street wi me she wid get a thrill but that's no whit ah had in mind. At last the corporation laddie threw a switch fer the lights, an' ye ken whit Maisie an' I got? We got a minute. One minute o' flashin lights then nothin. Darkness. An' "Chirpy Chirpy Tweet Tweet"

The cooncil couldnae afford tae pay fer the electricity. Consequently the thing wis nivver switched oan an' it jist stood there lookin like a bit o' left-ower scaffoldin. The cooncil took it doon eventually an' tried tae pretend it nivver existed. It's still takin up space in yin o' the cooncillors' gairden huts. Ye aften hear folk stoppin in the street an' gaun 'Intit a shame' an' 'ah fair miss it me' but ah cannae see them pittin it back up somehow. They couldnae switch it oan anyhow, ah'm sure it had a roond-pin plug oan it.

Of course there nivver used tae be a big empty space there. There used tae be a triangular block o' tenements facin ontae Picardy Place, Greenside Place, an' the top pairt o' Broughton Street, which used tae continue up past the cathedral till it met Leith Street. If ye imagine the Greenside frontage as bein oan a line wi a lower continuation o' Little King Street, which by the by is a wee joke ah'll tell ye some day, ye'll hae the picture. This block wis demolished in the 60s tae make way fer an inner ring-road intersection that nivver came, thank the lord. We're lucky that sae many o' their great plans fer oor touns nivver come tae pass, but then mibbe it wis aw fer the best, fer if we hadnae levelled aw thae hooses, whaur wid we have put the Kinetic Sculpture?

Breathin

2010-06-17T19:15:00.010+01:00

Some o' ye might hae heard o' ma pal Margaret fae Musselburgh. Ah bumped intae her yin Auld Year's Night an' we hit it aff right awa. She wis a right tearawa when she wis a lassie, her mither near sent her tae the Puirhoose mair than yince. She wid come up tae the toun oan a Friday efter dinner, an' nivver got hame till early Sunday. Ye could say she had 'smilin een', though ah think grinnin wid be closer tae the mark. We had some rare times, drinkin up the Bow, dancin at the Assembly rooms, an' canoodlin doon the back closes. If Maggie couldnae get a click she wisnae happy, but thae times werenae aften. We were young, life wis hard, an' ye had tae take yer pleasures whaur an' when ye could.

Through the week Maggie selt fish fae her sculley, like her maw an' her grannie afore her, trudgin up the Fishwife's Causey o' a morn, an' back doon every night, bent double wi a load o' herring oan her back, an' it wis nae surprise when she mairrit ontae Wullie Dickson, a fisherman fae Inveresk. No lang efter their waddin though, did he no get the ca up fae the pressmen tae fight fer King George, leavin Maggie oan her ain. There wis nae social in thon days, sae Maggie got a position servin in a pub near Kelso, hopin Wullie wid mak it back tae her, an' wonderin how tae fill her time till then...

Maggie, bein the lass she wis, didnae tak lang tae mak freens, an' she only took five meenutes mair tae get compromised. It wis either the landlord or his son, Maggie wid nivver let oan, but either way, she didnae want tae admit it, Wullie bein awa an' aw. So she hid it, the daft sow. Ye see, back then, they wid hing ye as soon as look at ye, an' gettin pregnant an' then hidin the fact wis yin o' their 'capital offences'. She lastit as lang as she could afore she startit showin, but then she had tae leave, an' wandert the streets. Noo, Maggie aye swore that her bairn wis born still, an' that's as it may be, but leavin it sittin oan the banks o' the Tweed wisnae her brightest idea, an' the basket wis soon discovered, alang wi' her prayer-book, the yin wi' her name, written in copperplate, in the inside cover.

They couldnae prove murder, no that they had tae, concealment o' the pregnancy an' the birth wis enough, an' puir Maggie Dickson wis tried an' condemned tae hing in the Grassmarket, right near tae where she used tae pairty sae hard. Well ah couldnae very well jist stand by an' dae nothin, could ah? Lucky fer Maggie, ah kent the rope-maker's sister's laddie, so ah ca'ed in some favours an' got him tae fiddle wi Maggie's noose, if ye get ma drift...

The next mornin wis awfy, ah dinnae like tae think oan it. They hung Maggie up oan the gibbet, oh ah wis greetin, fer whit seemed like an eternity, the gallow-boy pu'd doon oan her legs twice, an' Maggie gurgled a bit, then went aw limp an' silent. Efter a bit they cut her doon.

Ah saw then that Maggie had obviously been tryin tae grab at the rope an' had managed tae get her wrist caught in the noose. It didnae seem tae hae saved her onyroads, nor did the supposedly 'fixed' noose. Ah wis gaunnae hae tae hae words wi that laddie. Nae mair favours fer him. So, we put Maggie in her kist an' put her oan the cairt. The meenister at Inveresk had said he wid bury her, which wis awfy guid o' him. So aff we set, we were gaun the auld drover's road, oot Bristo Port an' roon by Craigmillar. Nae sooner had we got tae the tap o' Candlemaker's Raw though, did this mob o' surgeon's laddies no come runnin through the entry fae Argyle Square an' set upon the kist! We had tae fight them aff, me wi ma whip an' Shuggy an' Peery wi clubs. They were tryin tae get her body fer thon anatomists tae butcher an' were jumpin up oan the cairt, yin even took a swing at me, but ah shimmied oot the road an' he slammed at the kist wi his hammer! Split it open at the end! Ah mind at the time thinkin 'oh, ye'll thank me fer that Maggie" Ah jist thocht she had, ye ken, passed wind as she'd passed awa, but oan reflection that wis jist Maggie. She farted a lot.

They were jist laddies, an' a bit saft at that, sae we soon had the back o' them, an' aff we set again. We got through the Port an' took the auld road tae Dalkeith. It wis hard gaun, fer the road wis only fit fer kye an' sheep, we were gettin shoogled aw ower the shop, an' we'd only got as far as Peffermill by dinnertime. So we stopped fer a wee sherry an' a filled roll. While we were inside, twa joiners cam ower tae the cairt, yin o' them said they had heard somethin, but ah think they had their een oan Maggie's knockers masel. They were at the cairt when we cam oot, an' here, right enough, there wis moanin an' bumpin noises comin fae the kist! When we got the lid up, up sits Maggie, aw gaspin an' greetin an slaverin an' prayin, an' breathin...

Peter Purdie happened tae be drinkin in the pub at the time, so we got him oot an' he opened a vein oan Maggie's airm tae let the blood oot. That made her sit up, though she wis still ravin an' greetin. We took her doon tae Musselburgh that night, an' then tae her brother's hoose the next day, where great crowds o' nosy neebors an' fisher-wummen flocked tae see her an' brocht her cairds an' floo'ers an' bars o' tablet. The very same crowds that wid hae happily sat in kirk an' sniggered an' pointed at her as she sat there at the front oan the penance stool, while the meenister tormentit her fae the pulpit fer gettin spoiled, which wis why she tried tae hide it in the first place. She couldnae staun the shame o' it.

Whitever it wis that saved her, or whitever it wis that revived her, Maggie nivver gied me a word o' thanks ye know. The selfish besom widnae even let me in when ah went doon tae see her the next week. She wis too busy, sittin up in her bed wi a wee bed-jaiket oan, surroundit wi blooms an' writin 'thank-ye' cairds tae aw her pals an' weel-wishers, drinkin port an' lemon an' giein interviews tae the Evenin News. Ah saw her through the windae. In fact it wis me that named her Hauf-Hingit Maggie when ah wis talkin tae the News reporter ootside her gate. Ah had tae pit the record straight, Maggie had been spinnin the laddie a line aboot divine intervention an' how she didnae ken whit she wis daein, but noo she did cos she wis 'saved'. She wis gaunnae tak a new name an spend her life helpin puir bairns. She wantit tae be kent as "Saint Margarita Cervica, Queen o' folk's necks" Ye've got tae mind she had jist had her neck hauf-broke an' her brain wis addled wi lack o' oxygen an' surfeit o' port an' lemon! It's jist as weel ah kent that reporter's grannie's Avon Lady.

Noo, ah've pit up yin o' the English papers that covered the story, tae gie ye a flavour o' how it wis seen doon there, fer there wis a lot o' interest in Maggie's tale. The funny thing is, an' ah've checked ma diary twice, is that Maggie wis hung in 1728, nae doobt aboot it, an' yet this paper says it wis in 1813. Mibbe news disnae travel as fast as whit fowk aye say it dis, or mibbe 1813 wis jist a slow news year...

Maggie thocht she wis somethin special efter that, "Hauf-Hingit Maggie Dickson" she aye went by, she opened an alehoose in Musselburgh an' folk came fae aw airts an' pairts tae see her. Her man Wullie even cam back tae her fae the war. They had tae hae anither waddin, fer Maggie wis legally deid, which wis why they couldnae hing her again. They had seeven bairns an' Maggie kept the howf gaun till she wis an auld wummin. Ah nivver went but ah heard it wis an awright pub. Bit tatty. Sortae run-doon an' dirty. But that's jist whit ah heard, an' ah'm sure it couldnae hae been true.

Houdini

2010-06-12T17:10:00.009+01:00

Hae ye ever done somethin that stupit that ye're black-affrontit wi yersel, but that ye're gled efterwards that ye did? Well here's a wee situation that ah got masel intae, an' believe me, ye'll be thankin me that things turned oot how they did.

We're gaun back a wee bit now, it was afore the war startit, back when whit's noo the Festival Theatre in Edinburgh toun went by the name o' the Empire Theatre. That wis back in the day when we actually had an Empire. Ma wee pal Maisie Crabbit wis aw excitit because The Great Lafayette wis comin tae the Empire, an' she had managed tae get twa tickets through her Uncle Dod, wha used tae dae joinery-work oan the scenery there. The Great Lafayette wis yin o' thae 'illusionists'. No ma cup o' tea, but Maisie wis besottit wi' him, she had photies o' him oan her bedside cabinet an everythin, thocht he wis the bees-knees so she did, an' he wis supposed tae be yin o' the better turns o' that sort, so ah agreed tae gang along wi her.

Ah picked her up aboot half-six. She came bouncin oot her stair door, aw dolled-up wi a touch o' slap an' a big cheesy grin oan her face. She wis that het-up she forgot tae even look up at her Golden Boy. Noo that shows ye the state she wis in.

Usin that as ma excuse, ah managed tae drag her intae Rutherford's Bar ower the road. "Ye'll be needin somethin tae settle yer nerves Maisie" says I, "Come oan, jist the yin an' ye'll feel a lot better"

Ah couldnae help but laugh at the look oan her face when ah got her inside. Ye wid think ah had taen her intae the auld Queen's private cludgie insteid o' a fairly ordinary wee drinkin-shop! She wis like a startilt rabbit lookin doon the barrel o' a fairmer's gun her een were that wide. Ah'm sure she thocht the men in there were gaunnae bite her arse. Awfy sheltered life she led, it wis a shame really...

So aye, efter a few sherries we daunered ower tae the theatre an' got settled doon. The support acts werenae up tae much if ye ask me. Some auld wife singin oot o' tune, a wummin wi' a dancin dug, a wee laddie that looked like yin o' thae eunuchs an' singin the same way, that sortae thing. Ah wished ah had brought ma big gong wi me, an' ah wid hae been beltin it non-stop ah tell ye. Then, at last, oan came The Great Lafayette. He wis quite entertainin actually, ah'll gie him that much, an' ah wis really warmin tae him. Ah couldnae make oot how in heaven he wis daein some o' his tricks. Maisie, as per, wis near greetin wi adoration, her cheeks aw pink an' rosy-lookin, her een as big as ashets. When the Great Lafayette looked oot tae the audience an' asked fer volunteers fer his next trick, well, ah couldnae help masel, the sherry wis workin its magic, an' up shot ma airm...

Weel! Did ma handbag no flee up in the air, get caught oan yin o' the gas mantles at the side an' cowp it right ower oan tae the front o' the stage, an' a big flame shot oot an' set light tae the curtain! Maisie's face wis a picture!

There wisnae really ony panic. Theatre fires were run-o-the-mill in thae days, hooses were aye burnin doon, so the band struck up wi' the National Anthem, we aw stood up an' made fer the doors, an' the big safety curtain startit tae descend. Aw the way doon it came, tae aboot a fit-an-a-half aff the stage, where it ground tae a halt. An' ye ken whit that meant.

Mind when ye were settin yer coalfire o' a mornin an' ye wid haud a newspaper ower the front o' the hearth tae draw the flame? Well that's exactly how the Empire Theatre behaved, an whoosh! up went the back half o' the hoose. Murder polis it wis, an absolute inferno. Gutted.

Me an' Maisie had tae go back tae Rutherford's fer another wee sherry or twa tae settle oor nerves again. A'body wis askin whit had happened, an' ah jist had tae play dumb, ah wisnae wantin the polis at ma door, no again. Maisie near gave the game awa so ah had tae kick her under the table, quite a few times as it so happens. Next day ah went back up tae the Empire tae retrieve ma handbag. Here ye can see me tryin tae find it (that's me in the big hat) Needless tae say ah nivver found it an' had tae shell oot 4/6d oan a new yin. Daylight robbery so it wis.

The Great Lafayette perished in the fire ah'm sorry tae say, an' they found his body the next mornin, then again efter dinner, an' again later that night. "Eh?" ah hear ye say, "Three times?" That's right, three times in aw they found his corpse. Ye see, the great 'illusionist' wis actually a great 'imposter', an' he had aw these body-doubles, the cheeky swine! Nae wunner ah couldnae follae his act an' how he wis daein his tricks. The only way that they could be sure it wis actually his corpse wis by the ring oan his finger. Ye see, him an' Houdini were great pals, awfy close they were, an' Houdini had slipped his ring oan tae Lafayette's finger!

That raised a few eyebrows...

So how am ah gled that ah caused the fire that burnt oot oor biggest theatre an' knocked aff a world-famous stage act? Because tae this day, aw ower the world, when ye sit doon in a theatre, an' afore the show starts, they'll aye bring doon the safety curtain, aw the way doon tae the stage an' back up again, jist tae show ye that they can, an' that ye're no gaun tae burn in yer seats.

Are ye no awfy gled that ah had that bottle o' sherry?

Under the ivy

2010-06-10T18:40:00.006+01:00

Ye wid think, wid ye no, that Edinburgh's New Toun wid be a grand place tae bide. Aw thae sweepin crescents, wide open boulevards, an' elegant spacious apartments. As soon as it wis bigged it became the residence o' choice fer aw the high-an'-michty o' Embra toun. Fae the sainted David Hume doonwards, the cream o' Embra came flockin ower that big new North Brig tae stake their claim tae a wee bit o' the Enlightened City. Enough they had had o' smelly closes an' draughty entrys, they wanted tae fu their lungs wi guid fresh air, an' be thought o' as civilised, as polite, as rational.

That aw sounds fair enough, ah hear ye say. How could ye argue, how could ye no want tae follae them? How could ye resist the lure o' thae clean modern lines an' that pleasant architecture?

Easy. Ah wid raither get a slater stuck up ma nose than bide there, but tae explain why ah'm gaunnae hae tae take ye a wee dauner doon the hill, doon guid auld Leith Walk.

Here. Take a haud o' ma haun. The roads are awfy busy roon here these days, an' ye've got tae watch ye dinnae fa doon yin o' thae holes they keep diggin. They're busier than they were three or fower hunner year ago, when this street wis ca'ed Leith Loan. Back then there were nae tenements or shops, jist a rough road atween fields, wi' mibbe a wee sma'holdin' here an' there, an' a couple o' kye lowin at us as we pass by. This wis the straightest road fae Embra tae Leith. No the main road, that wid be the Easter Road, but the road folk wid tak if they were oan fit, which ah aye wis. Nae cars, nae buses, nae tramcars, jist folk traipsin up an' doon fae city tae port.

But, hing oan, whit's that ower there? ye say. Whit's that dark, ominous object swingin fae thon stand oan that wee hill? ye say.

Where? Oh that? Weel that wee hill wid be ca'ed the Gallow Lee, jist up a bit fae the Shrubhill, an' aye, that shape hingin there's an auld corpse. Ye see, oor lords an' maisters, in their wisdom, thocht it wid be a rare laugh tae hing miscreants in the maist obvious an' public spots they could find. Doon oan the Shore, up at the Mercat Cross, doon in the Grassmarket, or right by the Loan. They wid use the Loan fer hingin when they were worrit aboot 'crowd control', when they were feart o' riotin in the High Street. Many o' the Covenanters ended their days up oan the Gallow Lea, an' then they jist left them there tae dangle in the wind, swingin there as a warnin tae us aw tae behave oorsels. Swingin there fer the craws an' ither birds tae feed oan.

Efter a time, yince the craws had had their fill, they wid cut the bodies doon, burn whit wis left, an bury the ashes on the sandy hill.

Here. Ah can see ah've upset ye, ye're lookin a bitty green at the gills. Let's nip intae the Half-way Hoose fer a wee cup o' tea. Thae days may seem gruesome tae us lookin back, but at the time it was par fer the course, aw pairt o' life's rich tapestry as ye might say, an' complainin wid only get ye locked up in the Tolbooth. Or worse.

Are ye awright? Yer tea hot enough? Wid ye like a wee piece oan cheese tae go wi that? Fine then, ah'll get oan.

Noo. When Big Geordie Drummond had his great idea, tae extend the city oot tae the north, an' create a 'New Town', he had tae cast aroon fer buildin materials. Maist o' the stane wis dug oot fae thon enormous quarry doon at Craigleith, where noo stauns a huge shoppin centre. Beautiful clear sandstane by the ton wis hewn oot by big brawny navvies, an' cairted up tae Barefoot's Park, where they were layin oot the Princes' Street. But lo! Whit were they gaunnae use tae stick aw thae stanes th'gether?

Well. Did they no go an' find a sandy hill, dig oot aw the sand, an' mix it up wi' lime tae make mortar? Are ye still wi' me? That's right, they dug up the Gallow Lee, alang wi' aw thae ashes, mixed it up fer cement, an' bigged the New Toun!

Aw through oor World Heritage Treasure run the remains o' martyrs, miscreants, an' common criminals, hung an' then hung oot tae dry, pecked tae bits by craws an' daws, burnt tae cinders, then mashed up wi' sand an' slaked oan the very stanes that tae this day hae folk open-moothed in awe at the 'grandeur' at the 'magnificence' at the 'beauty' o' Edinburgh's New Town.

Gie me ma wee tenement doon at the Shin o' the Walk. Ah'll no be daein wi bits o' the deid pepperin ma wa's. Ah like tae be able tae sleep at night. Noo awa hame wi' ye. Ye'll have had yer tea.

Not this time

2010-06-08T21:27:00.003+01:00

Noo here's a thing. Ah'm no aboot tae tell ye yin o' ma stories, no this time. Naw, ah want tae take a wee minute o' yer time, jist a minute, tae talk aboot a wee pet love o' mine, an' ye're no tae laugh at me.

But afore ah tell ye, ah want tae pit doon oan record ma gratitude fer the nice things ye've aw said. Ah wisnae awfy sure why ah wantit tae write yin o' thae blogs, an' ah still think it's fer ma ain pleasure first an' foremost, but when folk take the time tae read it, an' then make a comment, well, it gleddens ma heart tae be sure. Ye're no a big crowd, but ah prefer it that way, ah dinnae like big crowds onyway, an' tho ah dinnae ken whit ye's look like, ah'm feelin' that wee bit connection. Whit mair can ye ask fer in this big noisy atomised world we live in?

See. Ah'm gettin' a bit mawdlin' noo, ah kent a wid. The tablets dinnae aye work, ye know? Ah get a bit up'n'doon sometimes, which is why ah couldnae keep up the rate some o' ye dae. Ah'm no able tae jist sit doon an' write, ah've got tae be in the mood. That's why ah'm no gaunnae try tae be a news/politics blogger, ye've got tae be right up-tae-date fer that. Ah can only pit doon somethin' ye can read weeks later, cos ah'm aware that naebody's gaunnae check me day-in-day-oot, tae find the same thing sittin' there. Pop in noo an' again, an' ah'll try ma best. Ah'll find ma strength, an' ah'll play tae it.

Right. That said, ah'll get oan. Ma wee pet love, drum-roll.... is River City!

Ah've aye loved ma soaps, ever since Florrie Linley put her name abune the door o' the shop at the end o' Coronation Street an' Mrs Sharples had a go at her. Ah've enjoyed watchin' aw thae wee folk graw up, graw auld, an' then snuff it. Whit wi' crashes oan the viaduct, knockin-doons in the square, armed seiges in the close, ah tell ye ah've had ma work cut oot keepin' up. But nane o' them have felt real, they've aw jist felt like dramas oan the telly.

No till River City came alang that is. Tae be mair exact, no till the minute Johnny Beattie came through fae the scullery an' said tae his daughter "Wid ye like a wee piece oan cheese?"

That did it fer me. Ah felt right at hame. Noo it's got Johnny, Eileen McCallum, an' Una Maclean, ah feel like ah'm sittin' in the Citizen's Theatre, oan a wee day-trip tae Glesca toun. It's that real ah huv tae hae a bath when ah get hame!

Ah wis near greetin' the night, whit wi' the bother Scarlett's haein' wi that wee toe-rag Theresa. When she blurtit oot, right at the end, that wee Bob's no hers, but is in fact her sister's, well ah don't mind tellin' ye, ah swore at ma telly.

It crossed ma mind tae dae a weekly RiverCityUpdate sortae thing, fer there isnae yin oan the internet, wid ye credit it? But then ah thocht, ah awready watch it every week, so ah widnae find oot onythin' new.

Aw wait, ah'm gettin' masel confused noo, am ah no? Onyroads, ah'm weel aware naebody watches it but me, so ah'll jist keep it as ma dirty wee secret.

As Iona wid say, "Cheerie!!"

Tap o' the city

2010-06-03T19:50:00.008+01:00

Ah wis comin past Drummond Street oan the tap deck o' the number 5 th'day. Ma myne went right back tae ma wee pal Maisie Crabbit. Puir sowel. Ah used tae pick her up early oan a Saturday mornin an' we wid gang doon tae Newhaven fer fresh-landit fish. Everytime, every week, she wid come oot o' her stair door, look up an' squeal "Is he there? Well? Is he there?"

She wis lookin up at this wee laddie, the Golden Boy, oan tap o' the University dome. She maintained that the laddies fae the University used tae climb up, tak the wee man doon, an' parade him aroon the toon. Then, the next mornin, she wid say, ye got up, an' the Golden Boy wis back!

She aye got excited when she startit talkin aboot the student laddies, 'her' student laddies, an' their high-jinks. "Oh aye!" she wid start, "We aye had students up oor stair, we saw aw sorts, aw colours an' religions, we were very cosmopolitan." She actually said that.

An' yet, if yin o' them looked at her she wid run a mile. She wis crippled wi' shyness ye see, an' she wis jist a wee draft o' a wummin, nae much mair than the claes she stood up in. Aw the same she wis a hardy wee wife, she wid aye gie ye a guid day's work, awfy guid wi' brasses.

She wid look up, smile, an' shout "Is he there? Well? Is he there?"

"Aye Maisie, he's still there"

Ah aye felt ah wis lettin her doon.

Ran Tan Waltz

2010-05-28T14:37:00.010+01:00

When ye bide up a stair ye get tae ken a lot aboot fowk. It wis nae secret up oor close that Mary wis a bit o a drinker. Ye wid catch her gaun fer her messages at fower in the efternin. Far too late tae get fresh fish ah wid say. No that ah wid say it tae her face mind, ye widnae speak tae her then, no afore she'd been doon the street, or she wid bite yer face aff. She aye had her heid doon an wid hurry by ye. She wis aye half-runnin, fashin tae get everythin done afore her man got back fae his work. Big Tommy McGuigan wis a dark-lookin cloud o a man. He looked like it wis aye jist aboot tae rain. He rarely went oot, bar fer his work an tae the kirk. When he telt Mary he wis gaunnae get rid o her, ah couldnae help but feel a wee bit happy fer her, fer she wis never gaun tae be settled till he wis deid an buried, an she'd been sae happy a bairn, everybody's pal, aye smilin, an she remained sae till she met him an got snuggled in under his thumb. We aw kent she wis drinkin, ye could see fer yersel it wis obvious, no gettin up till aw hoors, no pittin her washin oot till it wis gettin dark, she wis aw erse-afore-elbae, it's a wonder she got oan at aw!

We'd heard a whisper right enough, some weeks back, that she'd been seen hingin aboot doon the fit o' Leith Wynd yin nicht. Bold as brass, jist staunin there at the auld Trinity kirk corner. Ah ken it's hard makin ends meet, but hawkin yersel oot's no the answer. Mary wis jist lettin hersel doon, an half o me wonders if she did it purely tae get Tommy riled up, whit wi him bein aw strict Brethren an that.

Well, if that wis her game it worked a treat right enough, mair than she wis bankin oan ah expect, for ah doubt she coulda foreseen whit wis comin. God only knows whit fear he must've pit intae her, or whitivver else he pit in her drink, fer she must've walked aw that way, fae her hoose tae the Grassmarket, wi that sign roon her neck. Can ye ever imagine the shame o it? Hats aff tae the lassie, fer yince she wisnae half-runnin, naw, this night she wis jist shufflin alang at Tommy's side, lookin even weeer than usual. Aw the way up the High Street they walked an doon the West Bow. We were aw gethered in the Grassmarket, some o the shows were up, an it wis a grand nicht. Bein as it wis a Wednesday it wis half-day, an it had been too hot tae dae much in the way o' hoosework. Me an some o' the lassies were sittin up at the fit o the Bow haein a right laugh, joshin the wee laddies an pu'in faces at the auld wummen. Tae be honest we were aw half-cut, we'd been there since dinner, an ah wis oan the sherry, ah think ah must've had aboot fower pints, an some o' the faces ah wis pu'in ah nivver meant tae...

There they came doon the Bow an right past us. Him big, dark an stridin, wi his guid suit an hat oan, her wee shilpit bauchle o a figure aside him, wi this cardboard sign aroon her neck "To be sold by public auction" an an auld rope aroon her waist, him leadin her alang like a coo gaun tae market. Seems Tommy had awready fixed this affair up an had an auctioneer oan haun ootside the White Hart pub. Ah think the wee man had been inside the White Hart since it opened that mornin, fortifyin hissel, likely kennin whit wis comin his way that nicht. McGuigan must've paid him weel, but smellin as much like a brewery as wee Jocky did cannae hae come cheap, an he'd be lucky if he had a ha'penny left o his 'fee' by the time it came tae gettin up oantae his box an tryin tae start the sale.

Whit ah rammy there wis gaun oan doon there that nicht. Thoosan's o folk, aw shoutin an bawlin, awbody had sumthin tae say tae it. Some were haranguin Mary fer her so-ca'ed 'crimes'. Noo, how could it be a crime tae be a drunk? We were aw half-pished back in thae days! Sherry an beer wis aw ye had tae drink. Nane o yer bottled watter or Barcardi Breezers then. Aw Naw. No even Irn-Bru, they hadnae invented it yet. Ye got pished, or ye went dry. Ye could try the watter fae the wells if ye wanted, but it smelt o horse manure if ye asked me. Ah aye went fer Harvey's Bristol Cream if ah wis in the hoose, but ah wid drink onything if ah wis oot, no wantin tae get a name fer bein high-falutin. Other folk were shoutin at her that it wis awright tae be a lush, but she shoulda nivver hae tried sellin her body. "That wis the limit!", they were shoutin, an "Jezebel!" an suchlike. There wis anither bunch, sittin ower by the Corn Exchange, haein a sit-doon demonstration in support o drunken-sex-industry-workers-rights. They were only sittin doon cos they couldnae stand up straight mind. Ah think they had come doon fae the Art College. Ah ask ye, why dae thae lassies dae that tae thersel's? Dae they no want tae get a man?

By-an-by, wee Jocky manages tae get things quietened doon, mainly by bangin twa biscuit tins th'gither. Fowk eventually shushed each ither, an it aw went a bit quiet.

He calls oot "Dae ah hae ony bidders fer this fine wife?" an there's shouts here an there amangst the crowd. First this auld Shepherd fae the Heelan's, an then a Pig Jobber fae Killarney mak their bids. Yin pound ten bob, noo can ye imagine bein pit up fer that price? £1.50 in th'day's money. That's no funny. Mary didnae deserve that...

This is where it got wild. This braw big muscley Irish soutar comes bargin oot o the Black Bull, he's heard aboot the £1/10, an he's no happy. Ah heard efter that this big Irish laddie had a thing fer Mary, an as weel as that ah heard that he haed been yin o her 'clients' doon Leith Wynd. Whitiver the reason, he pushes up tae the auld pigger, an lamps him yin in the bread-bag! The wee fat pigger's doon oan the grund, squealin like a, weel, like a wee piggy. Aw hell breaks loose!

There's screamin an bawlin, folk are gaun "Fight! Fight! Fight!" like as if they were back at school. Next thing, this big Irish guy's up oan the auctioneers box, tells him he wants tae buy Mary, then punches wee Jocky in the heid! Knocks the wee man right aff the box an splits his heid! Merry Hell ensues. At least this pits a smile oan Mary's face, an she starts hee-hawin awa, ah'm thinkin she must've kent this Irish laddie efter aw, an the crowd's aw laughin alang, ye could barely hear yersel think such wis the kerfuffle.

It wis at this point that ah became aware o thon lassies fae the Art College. They had aw gaithered up aroon the Cowgateheid, an had massed a crowd o hunners o wummen an lassies th'gither. They were startin up chants o "Nae sellin o wifies!" an "Doon wi men!", an haein wee impromptu workshoaps oan 'Raisin yer self-esteem through shoutin' an 'How tae get black-lead oot o yer hankies' A section o them had hi-jacked a builder's cairt, an were passin oot muckle big stanes an hauf-bricks tae the ither lassies. They were pittin these stanes intae their hankies an shawls, some were drappin their knickers an turnin them intae slings. Then at a loud cry fae yin o them, yin that ah hae tae say looked parteecularly peed-aff, they aw come steamin across the Grassmarket, straight at the auction...

Fowk were gettin pushed oot the way, knocked aw ower the shop, by this monstrous creature, formed fae hunners o lairy lassies, screechin like banshees an swingin their knickers abune their heids. Never let onybody tell ye the Grassmarket's gettin awfy rough. It wis nivver ony other way. Ah'm right up fer it by this time, aw the excitement had got tae me, that an the sherry, so ah'm aff wi the knickers an ah'm up an runnin wi them.

"Doon wi men!" ah'm screamin, "Gie us oor hoosekeepin'! Aw ae it! Gie us it noo!" Ah'm haein a rare time tae masel. Some o the wummen hae set upon Jocky an they're giein him a right batterin. Aw o a sudden ah find masel staunin square in front o big Tommy McGuigan, if ah may say the real villain o the piece. He's the man that thinks he can jist pick up a wummin, an drap her jist as easy if he's no happy wi her. Whit aboot Mary ah say? Where does she gang? Whit dis she dae if he turns her oot? It's nivver the man's problem, is it?

Big Tommy's glowerin afore me like a thunderheid aboot tae burst, an ah've got a hauf-brick in ma haun. Well, the invitation wis wrapped up wi bows oan it, so ah battered him. Flat-oot. Kyboshed...

Untill he got back up an skelped me in the face. Ma nose wis aw burst, ah'd cut ma lip, the paper said ma een came up like twa October cabbages. No that ye should aye believe whit ye read in the papers, but ah neednae tell ye that. It said ah wis a sweep's wife! Jist cos ah hadnae had a chance tae wash ma face that mornin, ah'd slept in an ah wis in a hurry tae get ma messages in. Ah'll sweeps wife them...

It wis guid o Lachie the Lum tae step in fer me tho, ah'll hae tae mind him come Hogmanay. Luckily he had his brushes an poles wi him. He wis jist aboot tae lay intae big Tommy when the polis arrived, late oan the scene as ever, an things startit tae quieten doon again...

Still, efter aw that bother, Tommy insistit oan gaun through wi the sale, an it aw startit again fae scratch. Jocky got some young laddies fae the Scouts tae staun guard fer him, they did it fer sixpence atween them, whit they'll dae fer a bob ah've yet tae find oot. The twa Irishmen pu'ed oot o the auction as bein mair bother than it wis worth. First this camp auld sailorman comes up, slaverin oan aboot his tarry top-lights, an makin crude references tae her tight riggin. Mary? Tight riggin? Ah've nuthin against the lassie but the only ship ye could compare her tae wid be the Vital Spark. Aw puffin an blawin an nae amount o scrubbin's gaunnae turn her intae a Maid o' th' Mist...

We were aboot tae turn oan the auld sailor, jist tae shut him up, when up rides this fermer fae Ecclesmachen, says he lost his wife tae the pox September past an needs a new yin. Here he says, he's got two pound five shillin an could he hae her?

So, £2.25 it wis. £2.25 eh? It's no much is it? Fer a wumman's life. Still, Ecclesmachen's supposed tae be a nice place, an Mary aye said she fancied livin in the country. The last ony o us saw o Mary Mackintosh wis her sittin oan the back o a horse ahint her new man gaun through the West Port, swggin fae a bottle o Buckfast fortified. Ah hope she settles...

If ye dinnae believe me that this aw happened, jist tak a look at the newspaper. Ah'm tellin ye it wis aw aroon 6 o'clock oan Wednesday the 16th o July, in the year 1828, in the Grassmarket in Embra. Because it wis in the papers awbody wis talkin aboot it fer weeks efter. It's no a night ah'm likely tae forget in a hurry. Tae this day folk are aye comin up tae me an askin how come ma een are sae cabbagey. If ah've got a hauf-brick in ma haun an a sherry in ma belly ah show them...

There gangs a tenner

2010-05-28T00:33:00.005+01:00

The Eurovision Song Contest is in its mid 50s. Can ye believe it? No a wrinkle in sight. Now, ye may think it's an ugly crater, ye may think it's a bit like yer embarrasin cousin Elsie that could only get a job in the bakehoose, that turned in oan hersel an' got aw religious. Mind she widnae come oot oan bonfire night cos she felt sorry fer the guy? She wisnae bonnie...

Aye she looks a bit simple, an' she's let hersel get a bit hairy, but the Eurovision Song Contest's a beauty tae behold. She wis startit thru the idea that if ye sing th'gither, ye'll no shoot each other. Disnae aye work like that as we aw ken, but we'll gie that a bye. They were unco tired o' shootin each other back then, an' wid dae onythin fer a pairty. They were desperate. It's been a guid habit tae get intae tho. It's as naive an idea as ma auld christenin shawl, but that's no a reason fer fault. Back in 1957 it wis aw 'von Trapp' an' a bit twee, fu o' yodellin Austrians an' cheese-oan-a-stick fae the Netherlands, but ye cannae say, no efter 'Diva' an' 'Hard Rock Hallelujah' that it's no at the very least developed a sense o' irony. An' that wee bit o' self-mockery dis ye good. The fact is that we're aw daein it, fae Malta tae Iceland, fae Ireland tae Israel. It's the yin time o' year ye can put away political difference. It's only other folk, sittin roon their tellys, laughin their tits aff, fae yin end o' Europe tae the ither, jist yin Saturday night a year.

Ma ain Eurovision pairty startit wi' Sandie Shaw, wi' her classy tune 'Puppet oan a string'. It wis aye a big night in oor hoose. Ye kent that cos ye got ice-cream fae Cabarelli's. It wis the only time o' year ye got tae see Miss Katie Boyle, she obviously had history cos she wis dressed like a lamp-shade an' wis fadin away tae skin an' bone. An' whit ye've got tae mind is we sent big stars, an awright their songs were a bit cheesier than their usual, but no by much. Cliff wis giein it 'Hello Sam, Goodbye Samantha' just as much as Lulu wis 'I'm a Tiger'rrring. They were cheesy. Pop wis cheesy. Whit's yer point?

Aye folk laugh at ye. Well if they're gaunnae laugh, ah'd as raither hae it fer that than onythin serious. They still end up watchin it bye an' large, just'll no admit it.

Ah'm no gaun tae labour the point an' assault ye wi' aw ma thochts oan this year's entrys, but ah will gie ma tips at the end, fer whit they're worth. An' forbye, dinnae be thinkin ah'm gaunnae blog aboot Eurovision aw the time. It'll jist be nice, every year, when Eurovision comes roon, tae think 'oh aye, ah startit a blog so many year ago', if ah've still got ma mind that is.

Now, ah'm no a gambler, but if ah had went intae the bookies a fortnight ago an' got ma purse oot, ah widda put ma money oan Azerbaijan. An' ah wid be regretin it now, efter her tepid performance in the Semi-final. Ower-rehearsed an' self-conscious, Safura's likely lost whit wis hers tae win, wi' a great tune, an' aw the help that money could buy. Ah cannae see her in the top 5 now, an' there goes ma tenner.

Ah think we're now lookin at a German win, an' mibbe that's as well, seein as how they'll be the only country that can afford it next year. Lena's awready been number 1 aw ower the continent, it's a sweet wee tune. Ah can see Norway makin it top 5, Didrik's the maist likely o' the power ballads tae hit the notes. That Israeli guy Milim wis flat as a pancake th'night. Belgium hae another contemporary entry, an' if Tom Dice cairrys it aff, they'll make the 5. The biggest performance dividend ah wid gie tae Portugal. The song's straight doon the middle, but the lassie can belt it, an' she's sittin pretty, third fae last, a great position. Ah'm aware they're aw western countries, so tae balance it ah've gaun fer Armenia tae fill the top 5. That's no true, ah love their song, it's the dark horse o' the contest. Ethnic but awfy catchy. Gets ye a bit misty tae, aw lovin yer motherland, an' plantin things, warm feelins. Bless.

Whit ah dinnae see in the top 5 is UK an' Josh Dubonnet. Ah dinnae think Pete Waterman's seen the show fer donkeys, judgin by his reaction oan the telly th'night. Ah dinnae think he grasped the possibility, an' that's a shame. He's no done hissel ony favours an' we'll be lucky tae be aff the flairheid. Bottom 5 ah say.

Whitever happens, it'll be a great night. It aye is.

Be kind tae ma mistakes

2010-05-27T12:34:00.001+01:00

"Bloggin eh? Whit's thon then?"

That's a question ah've been askin masel a lot lately. Is it a diary? Is it tellin stories? Is it like a megaphone oan the Internet? Is it jist a sign o' an inflated ego?

Well dinnae expect me tae gie ye an answer. No yet onyway. See, ah'm no verry sure masel. Whit it feels like is hard work. Hard work if ye're postin regularly that is, an' a bit pointless if ye're no. This big messy Internet seems tae be littered wi' half-startit blogs, fu o' great intentions but tailin aff intae occasional mutterins an' apologies. That may be ma fate an' aw, wha kens? Ah've got stories tae tell, but wha disnae? an' ah want tae tell them, through a megaphone so folk'll hear them, but tae be honest ah've no got a big ego. Ah'm sairly aware that ah'm jist a biddy bidin up a stair in Leith, jist up fae the Fit o' th' Walk (hence the 'shootin fae the shin' joke, an' aye, ah'm sorry) an' ah've nae great insights intae the workins o' this world. Jist ma ain opinions.

So, ah got up this mornin an' ah says tae masel "Sophia, ye're jist gaunnae hae tae gie it a go." "Whit hae ye got tae lose," ah says "except yer dignity, an' ye've no got much o' that onyways." Ah should stop talkin tae masel ah ken, ah only get cheek.

Whit can ye expect fae me then, that ah think's sae great tae publish oan the Internet? Well firstly, as ye've probably sussed awready, ah'm bloggin in ma ain Scots tongue, the yin ma mither gie'd me. Ah love ma leid an' ah'll use it as ah see fit. Ah'll try tae be consistent wi the words an' the spellin, but seein as it's aw comin fae ma heid an' no fae a book it'll likely vary wi the weather. Sae bite me if ye dinnae like it.

Ah'll likely be talkin aboot whit's 'current' in the world, especially ma wee corner o' it, whit's gaun oan in Leith, in Embra, in Scotland, in the 'United' Kingdom o' 'Great' Britain. Ah'll tell ye ma story, an' how it fits intae Scotland's great an' untold story, but if ye're lookin fer facts then ye may be disappointit. Awa ye gang tae Wikipedia if that's whit ye're efter.

This is Sophia Pangloss's blog, like it or lump it.