Linmill Stories. Robert McLellan
Reading the Linmill stories reminds me of my own schoolboy holidays at my grandparents in Lanarkshire—guddling for trout and on occasion fishing with the worm when allowed to accompany an uncle; doukin in the pools of the River Nethan; organised runs with our iron girds; getting hurls on carts and rick-lifters; herrying wasp bykes; whiles helping the farmer in the byre or feeding the calves in their paddock. Young Robert did all these things at Linmill too, but he has presented his multifarious activities in fictional form with a skill that arouses our interest and holds our attention.
As I noted earlier in this introduction, most writers confined their use of Scots to recording dialogue. McLellan conveys the speech of both children and adults accurately but he also has long swatches of description or narration where he uses a rich mixture of Scottish idioms and vocables. It is refreshing to note how he reverses the usual practice of English narration and reported Scots speech. In ‘The Black Stallion’ for example we have this passage:
Fred Jubb was warkin at the harness, but as sune as he tried to lowse the belly-band the stallion liftit its heid and tried to rise.
‘Will one of you sit on its head?’ askit Fred. He was an Englishman.
The substance of the stories however is not restricted to the activities and interests of the laddies. The affairs and thoughts of adults seventy-odd years ago also find a place. Following the work and observations of Rab’s grandfather will give an accurate account of fruit-farming in the area between Kirkfieldbank and Crossford where the practices are much the same today.
Several of the adults in these stories are memorable people. Rab’s grannie is a real ‘character’ and the giff-gaff with her husband, with the occasional plea from the boy, make an interesting study, illustrated almost entirely by conversation. Fred Jubb the horse-breaker, Tam Baxter the neighbouring farmer, Paddy and Kate O’Brien from Donegal, and the two contrasting ‘polis’ at Kirkfieldbank and Lanark, all help to widen the scope of these stories beyond an account of mere boyish on-goings.
The publication of this volume in the Canongate Classics will be welcomed by many admirers of Robert McLellan’s work. They will now be able to place alongside his work as poet and playwright the full extent of his achievement as a writer of short stories. There can now be no doubt that he will be recognised as the greatest writer of Scots prose in the twentieth century.
J. K. Annand
LINMILL WAS A FRUIT ferm in Clydeside, staunin a wee thing back frae the Clyde road aboot hauf wey atween Kirkfieldbank and Hazelbank, close to Stanebyres Linn, ane ο the Falls ο Clyde the tounsfolk cam to see, drivin doun frae Hamilton in fower-in-haund brakes, whan the orchards were in flourish in the spring.
My grannie and granfaither bade in Linmill, and my minnie took me there for aa my holidays. I had been born there, my minnie said, and I wad hae been gled neir to hae left it, but that couldna be. My faither had his business in a toun.
It’s queer that I can hardly mind a haet aboot the toun whaur I bade in my bairnhood, whan I can mind ilka blade ο the Linmill grass. Ein whan I’m lost in the praisent, and the ferm seems forgotten lang syne, things like the taste ο a strawberry, or the keckle ο a hen whan it’s laen an egg, can bring the haill place back.
Juist the ither day I had a drink ο soor douk. That brocht the ferm back tae, for juist by the scullery door, on yer wey oot frae the kitchen, there was a soor douk crock wi a tinnie hingin frae a nail abune it, and whan ye wantit a drink ye dippit in the tinnie and gied the milk a steer, and syne helpit yersell. Syne ye syned the tinnie at the back entry, and pat it back on its nail.
I wasna juist shair ο that scullery. The ae winnock that gied it licht was sae smoored wi ivy that the place was eerie, and whan I gaed in for a drink ο soor douk I keekit ower my shouther aye for bogles, and whiles it was hard no to think that bogles were there, for there were twa hams and a roll ο saut fish hinging frae cleiks on the ceilin, and whan ye saw them black against the licht they were haurdly cannie.
But I couldna keep oot. There was a muckle bunker alang the waa neist the kitchen, for hauding pats and pans, and that had a raw ο drawers in it, and I wonert aye what was in them; and on the ither side, against the waa neist the stable, there was a wuiden stair, wi a press aneth it for hauding besoms, and that stair drew me tae. I gaed ower to the fute ο it whiles and lookit up, but there was nocht to be seen. It was as black as the inside ο the press aneth it, and that was as black as nicht.
Ae wat day, it was on an Easter holiday, I was sittin by the winnock at the back ο the kitchen lookin oot on the closs, feeling gey dowie, for I wantit to be oot and aboot wi my grandfaither, and my grannie wadna let me. The closs was dowie tae, for there was naething to be seen bune draps ο rain jaupin aff the causies, and the hens in the cairt shed at the faur end, roostin on the tail brods ο the cairts, and giein a bit girnie keckle whaneir ane ο them wantit a wee thing mair room, and tried to dunch its neibors ower a bit.
I had gotten tired watchin the hens, and was thinkin ο turnin roun and askin my grannie to let me mak a wee scone at the side ο the brod, for she was bakin, whan I heard the dug barkin at the closs mou, and my grandfaither cam in frae the yett. My hairt gied a lowp, for I thocht he micht be comin inbye and wad let me play wi his watch, but he lookit up at the lift for a while and syne gaed into the stable. I turnt to my grannie.
‘Can I gang oot to the stable, grannie?’
‘Bid whaur ye are. The horse wad kick ye.’
‘My grandfaither’s there.’
‘He’ll be ower thrang to bother wi ye.’
‘I waad staun at the door.’
‘Content yersell. Yer grandfaither’ll be in for his tea sune.’
I was gey near stertin to greit whan the ootside door ο the scullery opened, and I heard the clump ο my grandfaither’s buits. I ran through at ance to get a lift on his shouther, but he wasna for comin ben. He had gane to ane ο the bunker drawers. My een fair gogglet.
‘What are ye lookin for in there, grandfaither?’
‘A gullie.’
‘What for dae ye want a gullie?’
‘I’m mendin the harness for ane ο the cairts.’
‘Can I watch ye?’
‘Ay, ay.’
‘What else is there forbye gullies?’
‘Juist odds and ends.’
‘Can I hae a look?’
‘Na, na, ye’ll taigle me. Come on, I’m gaun up to the bothy.’
He shut the drawer and turn to the fute ο the wuiden stair. I was puzzled a wee, for aa the bothies I kent ο were the barn and the garret abune the milk-hoose, whaur the Donegals and their weemen-folk sleepit in the simmer whan they cam to pou the strawberries.
‘What bothy, grandfaither?’
‘The bothy up here.’
I keepit weill ahint him, for I was feart. My grannie had aye telt me there was a bogle up the stair.
‘Is there a bothy up there?’
‘Ay, for the kitchen lassies, but we dinna hae ony nou.’
I kent that, for it was Daft Sanny that gied the help in the kitchen.
‘Had the kitchen