The Big Sky

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 King George hissel 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 gist 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 Salem Massachussetts in America, the place wi aw the witches, but only till he got washed awa in a storm an never seen again. But that's a story fer anither time, ah'm awa tae pit ma Ovaltine oan. See yersel oot...

Symphony in blue

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 at the 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 doon tae dry him oot. It wisnae fair, ah used tae say tae him, 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 up 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 buildins, 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 paintin Polis boxes pink. 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...

The Confrontation

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, no that ah wis buzzin tho, cos if ye mind ah'd awready been fer a fly, but abody ah kent wis buzzin. 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 awa 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 ah. "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 an wha wis gettin his first fit, 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 richt in front o his front door.

There wis hell tae pay right enough, an a bill o £4/5/- intae the bargain. Jmmy got intae an awfy 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 again wid ye?