Linmill Stories. Robert McLellan
gaed up the first wheen steps wi my hairt dingin, but whan I had taen the turn to the richt I felt no sae feart, for my grandfaither had opened the door at the tap, and through it I could see a bricht wee garret wi a bonnie paper on its was, aa yella roses like the anes my minnie had plantit roun at the front whan she was a lassie.
I followed my grandfaither in, and lookit roun, haudin on to the tail of his jaiket just in case. But I had nae need to fear. It was a lichtsome wee room: bare a wee, for the two built-in beds werena made up, and there wasna a stick ο plenishin. I likit the sky licht, though, and the paper wi the yella roses, and wonert if my grannie wad let me come up nou whiles and play at hooses. Then I gat roun fornent my grandfaither and saw that there were twa sets ο harness hingin frae airn cleiks aside the door. He was takin the bit aff ane ο them, a coorse cairt-horse set, but I didna pey muckle heed. The ither set had taen my braith awa.
It was like toy harness, it was that wee, and it had sic a polish on it ye wad hae thocht it was new frae the saiddler’s. The brecham and blinkers had a gloss like my grandfaither’s lum hat, and the rings for the reyns glissent like siller. The reyns themsells were sae delicate ye wad hae thocht they couldna haud.
‘What harness is that, grandfaither?’
‘It was harness we had for yer mither’s pownie.’
‘Had my minnie a pownie?’
‘Ay.’
‘Whan?’
‘Afore she mairrit yer daddie.’
I began to wish she hadna mairrit my daddie.
‘It maun hae been gey wee, the pownie.’
‘Ay, it was wee.’
‘Was it a sheltie?’
‘Ay.’
‘What did she drive it in?’
‘The bogie.’
‘Bogie?’
‘Ay, it’s in the cairt shed.’
‘I haena seen it.’
‘I wadna woner. It’s awa at the back.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘It’s juist a bogie. A wee kind ο cairt affair for gaun jauntin in.’
‘Juist like the gig?’
‘Na na, the twa saits are ower the wheels and rin back to front, an there’s a wee door in the back, wi an airn step up to it.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Ay, if the rain’s aff. Come on and we’ll see.’
I followed him doun and oot through the scullery to the back entry, whaur the pails ο clean watter stude that Daft Sanny cairrit frae the waal. The rain wasna bad. He gied a cry to my grannie.
‘I’m takin Rab oot to the shed.’
‘Aa richt, but see he doesna get wat.’
‘Ay, ay.’
We crossed the wat closs and gaed ower amang the hens. They flew awa skrechin to the midden and left the shed fou ο feathers. My grandfaither gaed through atween the cairts and shiftit the reaper to mak a wey for me. Syne he shiftit the big wuiden plew that he used in the winter for clearin the snaw aff the roads. I hadna seen it for a gey while, for Yule had been green that year. He had an unco job, shiftin that plew, but in the end he gat it oot ο the wey and telt me to come on. It wasna easy to see at the back, for the stour in the place wi the hens aye scartin ticklet my nose and gart my een watter, but I gropit my wey ower aside him and felt for his jaiket tail.
‘That’s it, then.’
I blinkit like a bat. I could mak oot naething.
‘I canna see it.’
‘There, see, fornent ye.’
I gied my een a dicht and lookit hard, and shair eneuch there was the bogie. It was juist like ane I had seen afore at Fred Jubb the horse-brekers, whan he was brekin in shelties, but Fred had caaed it something else. He was an Englishman, Fred, and haurdly used oor names for onything.
It was ower daurk for me to see the haill ο the bogie, but by the wheels it was gey wee, juist a match for the harness in the scullery bothy. I lookit up at my grandfaither.
‘Could ye no pou it oot into the closs, Grandfaither, and let me hae a richt look at it?’
‘Na na. I wad hae to shift the haill shed.’
‘But I want to gang inside and let on I’m drivin it.’
‘It’ll be aa stour. I wad hae to wash it. I’ll fetch it oot efter, mebbe.’
‘Whan?’
‘Seterday comin.’
‘But that’s a haill week, nearly.’
‘Ye’ll hae to content yersell. I’m ower thrang the nou. I’ll hae to gang to the stable.’
‘Let me come tae.’
‘Na na. Awa back to yer grannie.’
I tried no to greit, but my een were wat afore I gat oot ο the shed, and whan he made for the stable I stertit to bubble. He turnt and liftit me.
‘Dinna greit, man. Dicht yer een wi that.’
He gied me his big reid spottit hankie and cairrit me ower to the stable.
I sat on the cornkist aside him while he gaed on wi his wark. I was feart to speak in case he wad send me back to the hoose again, but efter a while he stertit himsell.
‘It’ll be a guid bogie that yet. It was gey near new whan we bocht it, and it hasna been ill used.’
‘Did my minnie drive it aa by hersell?’
‘Ay. She gaed to Kirkfieldbank in it for the messages.’
‘Whaur did her pownie gang?’
‘We selt it.’
‘Could ye no buy it back?’
‘I dout no. I dinna ken whaur it is nou, and it’ll be gey auld.’
‘Could ye no buy anither?’
‘Ye’ll hae to speir at yer grannie aboot that, I dout.’
‘Can I speir at her nou?’
‘Ay ay. Awa wi ye.’
I ran roun and back into the kitchen. My grannie wasna in and there was a smell ο scones burnin. I ran through into the lobby. She was at the front door wi Willie Mitchell, the packman frae Kirkfieldbank. He had his big black boxes open on the step and was tryin to coax her to buy a dickie. My grandfaither wore a dickie at the kirk.
I poued at her apron.
‘Yer scones are burnin, grannie.’
‘Mercy me, I had forgotten them!’
She ran awa back in. Willie Mitchell pat back the dickies and liftit oot a wee broun guernsey.
‘Hou wad ye like that, Rab?’
I gied him a guid glower. I didna like him. Afore Yule he had selt my grannie twa pairs ο thick worsit combinations for me, pink like my grandfaither’s drawers, and they were that itchie they had speylt my haill holiday.
‘I hae aa the guernseys I need.’
‘Ye haena ane like that.’
‘I dinna want it.’
I turnt and