Flooer o the mountain...

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 we 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!

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...

Runnin up that hill

We hae, or at least we used tae hae, afore the smokin ban cam alang tae kill them aff, mony a great auld pub 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 shop that says it sells aipples an disnae, 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 lang syne 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 that he wis, the king relieved Tam o his discovery pronto, 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 soon enough 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 daylights 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 ah had some awfy gullible pals...

The Silvermills that King James sent the ore tae are aw built ower noo wi posh single-ends, 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 baptised him efter a heavy session yin Friday nicht an the name, weel it kinda stuck... The baptism wis an accident by the way, ah wis a lot younger then an ah couldnae haud ma drink as easy as ah dae now, ah went tits-ower-erse an the drink went tits-ower-Gabriel, but that's anither story...

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 that day. The dam stood roughly whaur the North Brig stauns noo, an the path climbed up the steep slope whaur they built the North British Hotel tae Moultrey's Hill, afore descendin doon the ither side taewards Silvermills. Oan a warm summer's day there wis nothin nicer than takin a daunder ower tae Moultrey's, tae a wee fermhoose inn by the road cryed 'Peace an Plenty', it wis 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. 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 an got corrupted intae Barefit ower the years. 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 twa young laddies. This compromisin scene 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, he attacked an murdered the laddies wi a clasp-knife...




It didnae tak lang tae chase the brute doon, seein as how he wis seen 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, awa ye go, ah'm aff tae mak masel some yummy curds an whey. Cheerio!

An dream o sheep...

Well, whit a day that wis an nae mistake. The first visit fae the Pope fer nearly thirty year. Wha o us kens if we'll still be here the next time he comes roond tae see us? Ah mind askin masel that question the last time the Pope came tae see us, tho tae be fair ah wid jist point oot it had taken him near 2000 year tae get aroond tae it that time, which is why we got sae excited. That wis the time ah ended up in the middle o Pastor Jack Glass an Reverend Ian Paisley's counter-demonstration, but that's a story fer anither time. An noo he comes back barely thirty year later? Popes are a bit like buses in that way ah suppose. Ah wid say trams, but ah bide in Leith mind, an ah jist want tae greet onytime trams are mentioned. Pass me that box o hankies oan the sideboard wid ye...

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

Right. Aye... Whaur wis ah? Aye, 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 sight, 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 mind 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 arranged tae meet up there efter work yin Saturday 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 ma 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 no 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 knocked 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 braw bricht summer's nicht, when ye went doon thae shadowy back-stairs an intae the gloom o that tavern it wis that dark 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. That wis a ricketty auld joint by this time, no far fae fawin doon aroond oor lugs, 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 tongue. 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 wi her, 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 special 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 mind he wantit tae bring the Popery back. He had awready 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 English 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 only managed a couple o hours' sleep. As soon 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 his sermon 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 wis aw split doon the side an aw clarty at the knees. 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 stool up oan it, that there's a cuttie-stool, no a creepie-stool! Anyroads, the riot she stairted 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 so began the troubles that went oan fer twinty-odd years, bringin an end tae Chairlie, the comin o the tyranny o Cromwell, an eventually it led tae 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... trams...

Pass me thae hankies ower...

The waddin list

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...

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...