Cloud Howe. Lewis Grassic Gibbon
his vest. When he heard of a cottar that was needy or ill he’d wheel out his old bike and swoop down the roads, he rode with old brakes and they sometimes gave way, and then he would brake with a foot on the wheel, his thoughts far off as he flew through the stour, if he hadn’t a broken neck it was luck. That was his way and Chris liked him for it, though she herself would as soon have thought of biking that way as of falling off the old tower by the kirk, and lippening to chance she would land on her feet.
Well, so, and most likely sparked up with glaur, he’d come to the house where the ill man lay, and knock and cry Well, are you in? and go in. And sit him down by the bed of the man, and tell him a story to make him laugh, never mention God unless he was asked, and that was seldom enough, as you knew, a man just blushed if you mentioned God. So Robert would talk of the crops and fees, and Where is your daughter fee’d to now? and The wife looks fine, and I’ll need to be off. And syne as he went he’d slip a pound note into the hand of the sick bit man; and he’d take it and redden up, dour, and say Thank you; and after Robert went they’d say, What’s a pound? Him that gets paid as much as he does.
Chris knew that they said that kind of thing, Else told her the news as they worked in the kitchen; and she knew as well how the news went out from the Manse of every bit thing that was there—Ewan, her son, how he dressed, what he said; and the things they said and the things they sang and how much they ate and what they might drink; when they went to bed and when they got up; and how the minister would kiss his wife, without any shame, in the sight of the maid—Oh, Chris knew most and she guessed the rest, all Kinraddie knew better than she did herself how much she and Robert might cuddle in bed, and watched with a sneer for sign of a son…. And somehow, just once, you would hate them for that.
You knew these things, it was daft to get angry, you couldn’t take a maid and expect her a saint, especially a lass from a cottar house, and Else was no worse than many another. So in time you grew used to knowing what you did—if you put your hair different or spoke sharp to Ewan or went up of an evening to change your frock—would soon be known to the whole of Kinraddie, with additional bits tacked on for a taste. And if you felt sick, once in a blue moon, faith! but the news went winged in the Howe, a bairn was coming, all knew the date, they would eye you keen as you stood in the choir, and see you’d fair filled out this last week; and they’d mouth the news on the edge of their teeth, and worry it to death as a dog with a bone.
But Chris cooked and cleaned with Else Queen to help, and grew to like her in spite of her claik, she’d tried no airs since that very first time, instead she was over-anxious to Mem! Chris couldn’t be bothered in a while to stop her, knowing well as she did that in many a way she was a sore disappointment to Else.
IN OTHER BIT places where a quean would fee, with the long-teethed gentry up and down the Howe or the poverty put-ons of windy Stonehive, the mistress would aye be glad of a news, hear this and that that was happening outbye, you’d got it direct from so-and-so’s maid. But Mrs Colquohoun would just listen and nod, maybe, polite enough in a way, but with hardly a yea or a nay for answer. And at first a lassie had thought the creature was acting up gentry, the minister’s wife: but syne you saw that she just didn’t care, not a button she cared about this place and that, and the things that were happening, the marryings and dyings, the kissings and cuddlings, the kickings and cursings, the lads that had gone and the farmers that broke; and what this cottar had said to his wife and what the wife had thrown at the cottar. And it fair was a shock, the thing wasn’t natural, you made up your mind to give in your notice and go to a place where you wouldn’t be lonesome.
So you’d have done if it hadn’t been Ewan, the laddie that came from her first bit marriage, so quiet and so funny, but a fine little lad, he’d sometimes come down and sit in the kitchen and watch as you peeled the potatoes for dinner, and tell you things he had read in his books, and ask, What’s a virgin princess like—like you, Else? And when you laughed and said Oh, but bonnier a lot, he would screw up his brows, I don’t mean that, is she like you under your clothes, I mean?
You blushed at that, I suppose she is, and he looked at you calm as could be. Well, that’s very nice, I am sure—so polite you wanted to give him a cuddle, and did, and he stood stock still and let you, not moving, syne turned and went out and suddenly went mad in the way that he would, whistling and thundering like a horse up the stairs, with a din and a racket to deafen a body, but fine for all that, you liked a place with a bairn at play; though not aye making a damned row, either.
So you stayed at the Manse as the summer wore on, and you liked it better, and sometimes you’d stop—when outbye or gone up home for a day—in the telling of this or that at the Manse, and be sorry you ever had started the tale. And your father would growl Ay, and what then? and you’d say, Oh, nothing, and look like a fool, and whoever was listening would be sore disappointed. But you’d minded sudden the face of the mistress, or young Ewan, polite, who thought you looked nice: and it didn’t seem fair to tell stories of them.
And then, in the August, you were ill as could be, and they didn’t send you off home to Segget, as most others would, to the care of your folk. Faith! you half thought as the mistress came in and dosed you with medicine and punched up your pillows and brought you your breakfast and dinner and tea, that she was well pleased to do all the work, you heard her singing washing the stairs, the minister himself went to help in the kitchen, you heard of that through the half-open door, then laugh as the mistress threw water at him and the scamper of feet as he chased her for that. When next dinner came the minister himself came in with the tray and his shirt-sleeves up, you blushed, and tried to cover your nightie, he cried, All safe, Else, you needn’t be shy. I’m old and I’m married, though you’re pretty enough.
And somehow you just didn’t tell that outbye, folk would have said that he slept with you next. So you lay in your bed and had a fine rest but that they tormented you to read books and brought great piles to put by your bed, and themselves were so keen that you fair were fashed, they would read you out bits, the mistress or minister, sometimes them both, and you never had had patience with books in your life. You could never get in them or past the long words, some thing there was that stood fast between, though you knit up your brows and tried ever so hard. And you’d drop the damn book when a minute was past and listen instead to the birds in the trees, as the evening drew in and they chirped in their sleep, and the low of the kye in the parks of the Mains, and see through the swinging of the casement window the light of the burning whins on the hills, smell—you smelled with your body entire—the tingle and move of the harvesting land. And then you’d be wearied and lie half asleep, wondering what Charlie was doing to-night, had he taken some other quean out to the pictures, or was sitting about at some bothy fire? And would he come to see you as he’d written he’d come?
He came that Sunday, and the mistress herself it was brought him up, he stood with his cap in his hands and he blushed, and you did the same, but the mistress didn’t. Now sit down and talk and I’ll bring you both tea. And off then she went, and you thought then, as often, she was bonny in a way, in a dour, queer way, with her hair dark-red and so coiled, and the eyes so clear, and the mouth like a man’s, but shaped to a better shape than a man’s, you stared at the door even after she’d gone, till Charlie whispered, Do you think she’ll come back? And you said, No, you gowk, and peeked at him quiet, and he looked round about as slow as a sow and then cuddled you quick, and that was fair fine, and you wanted a minute to cry in his arms, because you were ill and weak and half-witted. You told yourself that and pushed him away, and he smoothed his hair and said, You’re right bonny, and you said, Don’t haver, and he said, Well, I don’t.
The mistress and Εwan brought up the tea, then left you enough together alone for the two of you to have wedded and bedded, as you thought in a peek of a thought that came. And you looked at Charlie, he was sitting there douce, telling of his place and the hard work there was, he’d as soon have thought ill as of dancing a jig. Like a fool you felt only half-pleased to know that, of course you didn’t want anything to happen, but at least he should try to make out that he did, it was only nature a man should want that, especially