Beth's Birthday Sheen
June 2008
Fiction: by Bill Robertson
Aakward it felt, as the silence atween them persisted like sna anent the dykes in April. Sat on a great rickle a steens at the tap o Mortlich Hill, that fowk said is aa that’s left o an ancient fort, John and Beth liket fine tae tak in the view across the Fungle and beyond Abyne and winner o times lang by and them yet tae come on Deeside.
“Ach Beth, fa wid want tae end their days in ony howe bit this een?” John asket as he broke the lingering silence and cuddled the tiny frame o Beth’s body closer tae his. Aabody wid hiv thocht it a richt queer thing tae say and him barely twinty-fower, bit Beth kent her John wisnae for haverin.
“It’s likely, Beth, that I winna be weerin my sooter’s apron for a whilie,” he continued. “I’ve nae kisst the King’s shillin, but hiv tae ging fitivver tae the TA Unit in Aiberdeen the morn.”
It wis still a gey coorse thing tae hear her John say that he wis leavin her; aye, an leavin Lumphanan, even though the day afore the Meenister hid sat Beth doon – faitherly like – tae tell her tae expect the warst. And John kent there wis naething a body could dae noo there wis a waar on and tried tae bring Beth back fae the dark place her mind hid taen her.
“Aye, Beth,” he said, “ae day I’m a sooter and the next a sodjer. Dae ye nae think I’ll mak a dapper Sapper?”
Mortlich hid times afore heard spik o the waar that wis comin; a waar that naebody wis siccan, except Hamish Leslie, the blacksmith and he wis fechtin daft. They’d been scunnered early in their lives wi the First Waar that hid killed John’s faither, leavin his mither wi little bit a sair hairt and a second bairn tae bring up in a coorse warld.
Gweed-hairted wyes
“Ach John, ye’ll be hame seen,” Beth reassured John. “Ye’ll see, this waar winna last the six months. Aye, ye’ll be hame tae Lummie for the fine summer days; aye, an hiv time as weel tae mak my bonny new duncin sheen that ye promised for ma birthday.”
“Ye’re a daft and bonny quine, Beth Thomson,” John said, as he wiped the last tear fae Beth’s now smiling face. “Ye’ll get yer sheen on yer birthday, ye’ll see.”
John Fraser wis a couthie loon and aabody liket him and his gweed-hairted wyes. As a sooter in Abyne he’d served his time wi Isaac Gordon – Sac tae his customers as weel as his freens. Mr Gordon aint the shoe shoppie in the main street and he and John warket richt weel thegither.
And some said that they were as like ane anither that it wid gar ye think they were faither an son. John bade wi his mither Helen and sister Margaret at Braelea and he liket fine tae cycle tae Mr Gordon’s shop in Abyne ilky day. He’d laach at the nowt in the parks as they ran alangside him, snortin an kickin up their legs and swishin their tails. “Aye, I’ll race ye,” he wid shout at em as he peddled even faister on his bike throw by Auchenhove.
Beth, she wis twinty-two an the youngest dother o Wullie and Jessie Thomson fae Kincraggie – a weel-warkit fairm wi fine clean grun. Kincraggie sat ower the Peer’s Hoose road fae Braelea far it seemed tae hae hugged the braes furivver. And fan Beth left hame at jist fifteen tae be hoosekeeper at the manse, there wis some afa spik aboot the place.
Peer man. The Reverend Donald Cantlie lost his young wife in a terrible drowning accident, the papers said, in the Dee anent Carlogie. Fowk winnered, aye, an blethered a lang time aboot fit she wis daein there onywye and her a meenister’s wife wi twa bairns tae bring up. Though a young quine, Beth understood it weel fan the meenister explained that Mollie Cantlie wis gey sair made aifter the twins were born.
She liket fine her wark at the manse. She loved tae see the bonny claes wallapin on the line; aye, an lookin aifter the twins fa thocht Beth wis their ain mither – the job she did sae weel. And her wee room at the manse was richt clean and cosy and the Meenister was a hard working gentle man o great kindness and a better employer, Beth use tae say, ye couldna find.
The Fareweels
The station at Lumphanan wis that crowded that afa day in October, ye wid winner the King himsel wis stoppin by tae wish the gran young lads weel afore they were taen awa tae the waar. Fowk waved flags like they were at a fete; bairns played tag and a piper in an auld Gordon kilt mairched up and doon the platform – oot tae the Macbeth Arms ae time and syne doon tae Rose Cottage the next.
Ach, Beth thocht tae hersel, there’s little tae celebrate here the day. She stood back and allowed John’s mither and sister tae say their fareweels and waited her turn, winrin fit she micht say tae her gentle sooter fa wid seen be awa tae fecht for some orra bit o grun that he wid nivver want tae wark. An a great sadness hit the pit o her stamach and she struggled tae hud back the tears. Fit eese wid he be onywye? she asket hersel, regretten the thocht richt awa, and syne shut it oot thinkin he cudnae hurt onbody or onything.
And she mynt jist then o the time fan they were bairns and he lookit aifter the peesie wi the broken wing – till ae day it taen aff across Knoweheid’s parks and he wis nivver happier tae see it set free and he grat syne fan it wis oot o sicht. And the day they got aff their bikes on the wye tae Tarland so that John cud tak a puddock aff the road – feart he wis it wid get squaashed wi a horse an cairt, an he taen it half across a grassy park tae a safe place.
The piercing fustle fae the Ballater train as it passed by the Peel Ring cut through the pictures in her mind; suddenly the coorse thing appeared and begun tae hiss and steam as it approached Lumphanan station. It rockit forrit and back as if in a hurry tae be awa – taakin Lummie’s gweed loons tae some ill-naturt place.
John scoopet up Beth in his airms, kesst her and whispered gentle like in her ear, “Beth my bonny quine, ye ken – there’s nae doot, I’ll be back for ye”. He drappet her gently doon on tae her feet, turned and smiled at his mither and sister and loupet on tae the train as it moved aff. He leaned oot o the cairridge windae – fillin the space – and waved tae the fowk he nivver winted tae leave.
Beth instinctively ran alangside the train, dodgin fowk standin aboot daft-like, she thocht, and tried tae keep up wi the muckle brute that wis stealin her sweethert. Wi tears rinnin doon her chiks she yelled fan she could rin nae further.
“Aye, an you be back for ma birthday, John Fraser!”
As the train disappeared oot a sicht, Beth could still see him lookin oot at the bonny rows a stooks in Tillyching’s parks as he left Lumphanan and she mynt jist then o their young days lang since, hairstin at Kincraggie and her first kiss John gied her as he placed a daisy chine aroon her neck.
Caal Watter
In the fyow days he wis there, he’d dug wi sair haans umteen hallas in sandy hillocks. He wid lie doon in them, curled up like a bairn in its cot, and pray ilky time that he micht be spared as bullets fae them orra Stukas screamed aroon em. Aye, this place wis as dark and dreich as the waar itsel. An John langed tae see again aa the colours o the braes and hear the familiar soons aroon Lumphanan.
Wi een ticht shut he could. He saa the gowden corn swayin wi a late simmer breeze and saa sae clear the reed roddens hingin heavy on the trees. He heard the bummers buzz aboot the lupins as he sat oot at Braelea and the startled soon o curlews quicken as they flew ower Auchlossen, jist gled tae be free.
Like the shaddas that chased across the braes, John’s mind shifted and grabbed fae naewye the story o the Australian ootback telt by Geordie Milne some 12 years afore.
Geordie cam fae oot by Craigievar, bit left in the early 1920s for a new life in Australia far he started a sheep fairm. Bella Sangster fae Kintocher telt aabody that wid listen that he maan be aafa feel tae gang sae far awa and cam hame in nae time ava wi nae siller in his pooches.
Bit the dominie, J B Anderson, wis pleased tae invite Geordie tae the school, hopin he’d tell the bairns that fairmin in New South Wales wis sic a tyaave that it wid gar ye wint tae bide at hame.
And John mynt aboot the nightmares that followed, nicht aifter nicht, fan he saa sae clear the wissened sheep that were beaten tae death on the edge o shalla pits because the years o droot in that queer place caad Orange hid destroyed aathing there wis tae eat.
Yarket. His heid went again, fae ae hellish place tae anither.
“You lot – get on your feet! Move it – now!”
John shuffled intae line, dulled by the sairgent’s shoutin as he waded intae caal watter. The Stukas hid bin quaet aa day. Aabody kent, though, a skelpin wis comin.
I wish I wis a steenie lyin on a hill
I wish I wis a steenie lyin still
It wis richt queer that Grunny Middleton’s rhyme noo rollen aroon John’s heid, that didna mak ony sense tae a bairn, did noo tae a sodjer plyterin aboot in that fool place. An reassurin thochts o his Grunny and hame turned tae his sweethairt. His spirit rose.
“Ma bonny Beth,” he whispered under his breath.
He mynt it wid be her birthday in sivven wiks’ time on the twinty-fourth o July. A smile cam ower his face at the thocht, for he kent that the sheen that Beth hid prigget him tae mak were aa ready and bonny-like wrappet in a fine wee parcel and hidden in Mr Gordon’s back shop. He liket richt weel tae please her an he wisnae sure that he widnae be mair excited than Beth fan he haanded them ower.
He cam upon her sat on the manse dyke, as she aye did, waitin for him, and she tore aff the paper with sic a bonny smile on her face like it wis the best thing he’d ivver gaen her and she kicked aff her ain sheen and tried them on. Aye, they were a perfect fit, as he kent they wid be, for he’d warket on them lang enough in his ain time wi real dedication. And as they waalket by the end o the Kirk door and got oot o sicht, Beth twirled and lowpit aroon the place like she wis Ginger Rogers.
“Sheesht aye, Beth,” John said, as he caught up wi her, “ye’re a bonny duncer” and he held her ticht as the smell o the honeysuckle fae aff the dykeside wafted in the saft breeze.
“Hey Jock, move it or we’ll still be here when Gerry comes back! Move or I’ll kick yer big Scotch arse on tae that boat!”
The coorse soon fae ahin taen John quickly awa fae Lumphanan for the umpteenth time that day and back tae that scunner o a place; it gart him wyde further and further intae fool watter an him sic a lang time
stairvin, as weel as scared. Iley caal watter rose abeen his breest and stiffened his body and the wee boat that seemed ance a lang wye awa noo looket bigger.
He cudna sweem. There was nae need fan ye cud dook and plyter in the Cloak Burn and guddle for troots in the lang summer nichts. John learnt aathing there wis tae ken fae Jimmy Hey fa bade in Glen Road. He wis a dab haan takin troots and fowk wid see em gan hame tae his mither, real prood-like, wi a hullock strung up wi rashes roon his waist.
A’ve nivver deet a winter yet
John mynt fit his determined mither wid say fan life wis a sair fecht – as he bobbit up and doon in the watter, windrin fit wye he hidnae drooned yet. Bit John widna gie in tae aa the nonsense in his heid that wid hiv hid him gie up, like ithers he’d seen deid in the watter.
Far he got the strength fae naebody wid ken, bit John, aifter haen sic a trachel gettin tae this boat, wintit tae help ithers, aye, and them less foonert than him. An for fit seemed like a lang time he helpet push at least a dizzen sodjers ontae that wee boat wi nae thocht for himsel. Fan fowk heard o’t aifter, they said it wis a gey brave, bit gypit thing tae dae. As he wis haalled on tae the boat, he looket back tae the beach and seen still hunners o desperate chiels in lang lines, sair made tae get awa – only tae be scattered aawyes – like sheep chased be a daft dog as the Stukas started tae scream abeen em.
Stabbit hairts
“Oh, Marget, fa wid dae this; fa cud be as coorse as tak anither gweed man fae me?” asket Helen Fraser o her dother.New in fae the gairden, Margaret found her mither sat on her hurdies rockin on the kitchen fleer, sobbin richt sair. An Margaret, though fleggit at seein her mither in sic a state, hunkered doon aside her and wrappet her airms aroon her like ye wid a bairn that wards widnae console.
“Fit’s wrang, Mither?” An the anquish that had swallied up Helen cam aa ower Margaret. “Is it ma brither?” Margaret asket, as the tears ran doon her face.An afore ony answer cam, she felt, as she clappet her mither’s hands, a crumpled bit o paper held ticht aginst her breest. Margaret, gentle like, strachtened her mither’s fingers, ane at a time, until the source o her stress wis gaen up. The paper it wis unraivelt and flattened oot, and she read:
SPR. JOHN FRASER 1919086
MISSING IN ACTION
The broon envelope fae the Waar Office micht as weel hiv delivered a bayonet raither than a telegram that caal, coorse June day in 1940, for it stabbit the hairts o the Fraser family richt sair and deep.
Helen asket o her dother ower and ower, “An fit hae we deen tae deserve this”?
Margaret hid nae answer bit, bein the fine carin quine that she wis, helpet Helen on tae a cheer and made her a cup o tea, and, fan she saa her settled, she clappet and rubbet her mither’s back time aboot and said, “I hid better awa tae the manse, Mither, and brak this aafa news tae Beth.”
The kist
He wis gey sair made. Ivver since John left Deeside, Sac terminted himsel wi the thocht that he nivver should’ve priggit wi the loon tae jine the TAs. On rare moments he wid find peace wi the thocht that the Territorial Army wid gar him cam oot o himsel mair. It wis nivver aboot fechtin and killin. Bit the guilt o’t hung ower Sac aften, like the mist that happit the tap o Morven.
Bit thinkin fowk kent that Sac Gordon’s business hid paid a heavy price onywye, wi John Fraser bein awa. And fowk roon aboot missed seein the young sooter on his bike, deliverin sheen and tacketty beets that looket like they were jist new bocht fae the shop.
John’s tools lay on his bench, as he’d left em, amangst the tiny slivers o leather and nails. Wis it jist Sac’s wye o punishin himsel or did he think that the sodjer, noo that the waar hid ended, wud cam through the door, if nae the day the morn maybe, an tak up his tools? His een moistened as he saa in his mind John workin at his bench and fustlin that tune that naebody kent except John. And as umpteen times afore, his thochts turned tae Helen.
“Oh Helen,” Sac whispered in a voice tender as the hide he wis warkin, “A’ve wranged ye again.”
Sac moved aboot the shop and touched wi fondness aathing that wis John’s. Bit he’d taen little notice o the widden kist aneath the bench afore. His only recollection wis o John restin his muckle feet on it as he stitched the sole o a beet tae its uppers. It wis lichter than Sac expected as he placed it on the bench near the windae tae catch the licht. He held back, winderin if he wud open the kist that wisnae his, bit ill-fashence wis getten the better o him. Ach, maybe it’s teem, thocht Sac. He dichted the stew fae aff the lid wi a sweep o his broad haan and lifted the lid.
He wid hiv liket the box tae hae been teem, but it wisnae. A sma package wrappet in broon paper fae the shop wis aa the box contained. Sac stared at it for a while, winderin if he wid interfere ony mair than he hid already.
He turned the chest and tilted it up tae the licht and saa the writin on the parcel. The haan that wrote it he kent tae be John’s.
To Beth on her Birthday
24 July 1940
Fondest love,
John
Sac smiled fan he read the message – a rare happenin at that time. Ye ken, he felt real gweed, like the horseman waalkin in tae the stable and findin his mare lickin the new born foal at it’s feet. The message wis read ower and ower.
Sac finally uttered, “Michty me, it’s Beth Thomson’s birthday the morn.”
He charged ben tae the shop tae check the date on the morning paper he’d collected earlier fae Strachan’s shop. It said 23 July 1946. As he did, he saa oot o the corner o his ee a shadda gang by his shop windae. He heard the shop door bell tinkle and found himself – mair than usual – ready for a gweed claik wi a customer.
Beth’s birthday sheen Elsie was busy servin tea and Coburg sponge she’d baket that mornin fan the manse door bell rung in the haal. Visitors tae the manse at practically ony oor wis a wye o life, bit the Meenister at this particular time expressed his irritation at the interruption tae the family celebration.
“Elsie, can you ask whoever it is at the door tae call back in the morning. Unless it is a matter of life or death, I’m sure the matter can wait.”
“It micht be maitters o the hairt, Mr Cantlie,” Elsie muttered tae hersel in case the Meenister heard and giggled like the young quine that she wis as she made for the front door.
Coorse July rain battered against the door as Elsie haaled it open, and, as she did, a few wissened leaves fae the ivy hangin abeen the manse door flew intae the vestibule.
“Ah, dearie me, jist look at that!” Elsie exclaimed as she bent doon tae pick them up fae the polished widden fleer. She straightened and pushed the collection o leaves intae the pocket o her starched apron.
“I’m afraid I’ve tae ask ye …” started Elsie.
“Oh, I… I was expectin somebody else tae answer the door,” the visitor stammered in a startled manner.
Elsie, looket up and doon at the big man that practically blocket the manse door, his face half hidden wi the shadda fae the overgrown ivy and a haan, as big as a roadman’s spad, that wis huddin up the collar o a khaki coat. His ither haan she noticed wis tucked in under the coat, queer like, oot o sicht. She didnae recognise the man, but then she wis new tae the parish.
“An fa wid that be?” asket Elsie.
Before the visitor could respond she continued, “I’m Elsie Massie fae Bunchory, ye ken, an I’ve been workin here at the manse noo for nearly sax wiks An fa wid you be? The Meenister says he’s real sorry, bit…”
“Aye, it’s Beth ye see that I am lookin for,” said the visitor. “I’ve somethin here for her,” and he pulled from aneth his sodden coat a sma parcel.
“Beth? Beth?” Elsie repeated. “Oh, you must be wantin Mrs Cantlie, the Meenister’s new wife. Am aafa sorry, bit the Meenister and the twins are celebratin Mrs Cantlie’s birthday the noo and I’ve tae ask ye if it’s nae too much bother for ye tae cam back the morn. An will ye be leavin that wee package there for Beth… I mean Mrs Cantlie?” enquired Elsie.
The visitor muttered a few words under his breath, and wi some reluctance handed ower the parcel, turned and hurried doon the avenue and wis gone.
“And who was at the door, Elsie?” asket the Minister.
“I did speer… I mean ask, Mr Cantlie,” replied Elsie, “bit the visitor widnae give his name.”
“But what was he after, Elsie?” enquired Mrs Cantlie.
Elsie looket at her queer like as she brocht the package fae roon her back and held it oot.
“Ach, I’m nae richt sure. Bit I think he winted tae haan ower this wee parcel tae ye himsel, Mrs Cantlie.”
Elsie took a step forward, and, as she did, her face flushed wi the thocht that there wis ongauns here, aboot fit she wisnae sure – bit somethin wisnae richt. An lookin at the Meenister in a wye that wid gar ye think she wis apologisin for brakin a denner plate, she said, “He muttered somethin aboot Beth’s birthday sheen, but that’s a I cud catch and aff he went in an aafa hurry – like he wis needin tae catch the echt o’clock train tae Aiberdeen.”
Beth got up fae the table, took the gift in her wee fite hands and, wi’oot a word, ran fae the manse an doon the road towards Lumphanan.
This is the first, but hopefully not the last short story written by Bill Robertson in Doric. His parents, who spent their early years in Lumphanan and Logie Coldstone, instilled in him a love for Deeside. His other interests are hill walking, genealogy and composing pipe tunes.
This is an article from the June 2008 edition of Leopard Magazine. To read much more like this every month, see our subscription details.