Sae Mony Summers
June 2009
Toulmin Winning Tale
by Eleanor Fordyce
The twa quines perched on the widden brig, skinny legs danglin abeen the broon, shiny watter. The summer hid been lang an het an the burn lookit sair in need o a guid wik’s rain.
“Ah winner fit Miss Duncan’s been deein in her holidays,” said Molly, in atween lang sooks o a reid lollipop.
“Weel, she’s nae been dookin in the Bogie,” said Sheena.
They lauched sae lang an sair at the picter aat conjured up, that Molly wis the weirs o faain aff the brig.
“I ken fit she’ll be sayin next wik,” said Sheena, eence she’d come till hersel. She steed up an pit on her poshest voice. “Now children, this is a very important year for you all. You will have to work hard and try your best.”
“Weel, she’ll be wastin her breath wi me. I’m nae gaun tae Huntly skweel onywye. I’m bidin here.” Molly hid sut up an wis lookin serious.
“My mam says ye hiv tae ging tae Huntly if ye pass yer 11-Plus. It shows ye’re clivver if ye get tae ging,” said Sheena.
“Your mam disnae ken aathin. My sister Nora passed an she didna ging cause she didna wint tull.” Molly haived the lollipop stick fae her an waatched it jink its wye doon the burn. She fessed a sherbet fountain oot o the paper bag aside her.
Sheena hid aye been fair in awe o Molly an fit she got awa wi. An foo mony sweeties she got. Ivry wik, Molly an her sister got sixpence tae spend at Tamson’s shop. They aye each bocht a quarter o somethin oot o a jar – pear draps, aniseed baas or sic like. They each hid a tin tae pit their sweeties in, an fan Sheena went tae play at their hoose, there wis aye a row aboot fit tin she should get ane oot o.
An they were aye gettin extras forbye – lucky bags, an things Sheena nivver saa. Ivry day her Grunny sent something for her hame wi her Dad, fa went tae his mither’s for his denner, bit maist aften, it wis jist an epple or a wee box o coloured pencils. An Auntie Madge wis good till her. She wisna ungratefae, bit …
An noo, here wis Molly sayin she widna hae tae ging tae Huntly if she didna wint tull. For a wee lassie eest tae daein fit she wis telt, it wis aa ower much tae tak in.
“Bit, my mam says…”
“Your mam! Your mam! Your mam isna even yer mam. She’s yer auntie,” shouted Molly.
Sheena wis that taen aback, she couldna spik an the twa quines sat an lookit at een anither tull she fun her tongue.
“My mam is sut my mam. Foo could she be my auntie?”
“Cause yer auntie Madge is yer real mam. I heard my mither spikkin aboot it tae my dad.”
“Bit my auntie Madge couldna be my mam. She’s nae even mairrit.”
“Weel, I suppose aat’s true,” said Molly. “I’m nae sure foo aat wid work.”
She lookit jist aboot as squaashed as the empty sherbet fountain she threw doon aside her. Sheena hid kine o taen the win oot o her sails.
“I didna mak it up, ye ken. My mam said ony feel can see faas bairn ye are. Onywye, I’m gaun hame for my tea. Are ye comin?”
Sheena got up on her feet an the twa lassies shoogled alang the brig, Molly tittin at the tows tae gie her pal a fleg. They climbed the path up the brae an raced ane anither back intae the village.
“A’ll nae see ye the morn,” said Molly fan they arrived at her gate. “We’re gaun tae the toon in the bus tae get my new sheen for the skweel. An jimmies. We’re gaun tae the Princess Café for wer denner an I’m haein mince an tatties an peas an rice puddin. Weel, aat’s fit I hid last time an it wis bra. Cheerio.”
She ran doon the path an disappeared roon the corner o the hoose. Sheena stood gaikin aifter her for a minit an thocht till hersel that things werena aye fit they seemed. She hid eence hid mince an tatties at the Princess Café and it wis fu o ingins so she widna aet it. The rice puddin hid nae skin on’t an wis nithin like her mam’s. It wis jist a sappy sotter an she widna aet it eether. Her Dad hid been mad an she’d nivver been taen back.
Sheena startit walkin doon the street, past her ain hoose, through Troup’s Close, till her Granda’s hoose cam intae view. Her mam aye made Granda’s tea on a Widensday nicht cause Auntie Madge workit late at the bank. Auntie Madge bade wi Granda an lookit efter him, jist like her sister hid deen afore her. Sheena likit fine gaun tae Granda’s: he hid a television. Nae aabody in the village hid – nae even Molly. She tholed the ingins in the skirlie for ae nicht o the wik, kennin she wid get tae watch Crackerjack.
It wis five o’clock an gaun again, so she ran roon tae the back door an up the steps intae the kitchen. The tatties were bilin awa an the lid o the pan ploppin up an doon. She could hear voices comin fae the front room far her Granda wid be sittin in his cheer. He didna seem tae dee muckle else nooadays an wis aye siccin her tae nip up tae Tamson’s for his Beecham’s Pooders an stuff for his puffer. She sneakit up ahin the door an leaned forrit tae hear fit they were spikkin aboot.
“Is it nae aboot time ye telt the lassie, Frances,” said Granda.
Her mither let oot a sigh. “Weel, it’s nae as easy as aat, faither. She disna need tae ken yet. Nae pint in upsettin the quine afore we hiv tull. Onywye, I’d better see tae the tatties.”
Sheena gied the door a shove an jumped in front o her mam.
“I’ve been doon at the burn wi Molly. Fit’s for the tea?”
“It’s Widensday, Sheena. Ye ken fine fit’s for the tea,” said her mam wipin her hauns on her apron.
“Can I pit on the television, Granda?”
“Fairly aat, lass. Fairly aat.”
It taen a fyle tae waarm up an bi the time it cam on Crackerjack wis nearly bye. Usually she kint aa the answers an wis aye pleased wi hersel, imaginin nae haein ony cubbidges an gettin tae keep aa the prizes she’d managed nae tae skale. Bit the nicht, her mind wisnae on the questions. She’d ower mony questions o her ain. Fit wis’t her mither wisnae ready tae tell her? She thocht back tae fit Molly said at the burn: ‘Your mam’s nae yer mam,’ she said. ‘She’s yer auntie.’
Weel, she couldna conter the fact that her Auntie Madge did look like her. They were baith reid-heided and her mam wis kind o a moosie colour. They got on fine thegither tae. Madge did fyles gie her sweeties – ‘jist gulsh,’ her mither said – an let Sheena read her wee love story books wi the picters, that her Dad said she wisna supposed tae read. In the summer, on a Sunday, the hale jing bang o them wid fyles ging for a waak roon the braes or oot the Cabrach road.
“Here’s yer tea, faither. Sheena, you cam ben tae the kitchen for yours,” said her mam.
She switched aff the television an they baith taen their seats at the kitchen table. Sheena steered her skirlie roon the plate an made a wee pile o the shiny broon bits she couldna abide, hidin them ahin the chappit tatties, aye lookin up at her mither, winderin if she could bring hersel tae say somethin.
The thing wis, she likit her mam. Bit then things werena aye fit ye thocht they were. Sheena listened a lot tae the wireless at hame. Weel, her dad hid it on jist aboot aa the time. She aye hurried hame for Children’s Hour, an the hinmaist wik, the story hid been Great Expectations. Fit a stammygaster she got fin it turned oot the convict wis Estella’s dad. She hidna jaloused aat at aa.
Bi the time her mither hid gaen her dinger aboot foo little Sheena hid aeten, washed the dishes an tidied up, it wis time tae ging hame tae see Dad. It wis a fower-mile bike ride fae Gairtly fae his wark, so he wis aye aat bit later.
Bein still the summer holidays, Sheena got tae bide up tull nine, bit then it wis upstairs. Haein nae brithers or sisters, she hid the wee attic room till her hersel. The lamp aside her bed cast queer shaddas on the skylicht – horrible bulgin heids. Bit if she pit the licht oot, in the quaet darkness, she could hear the scrabblin noises.
“Birds on the reef,” mither said, fan Sheena couldna sleep.
Bit their hoose wis jined on till the bakehoose, an Molly said her mam telt her it wid be rats in the waas. Fa did ye believe?
The nicht, she decided tae keep on the licht an read a fyle. She wis in the middle o Heidi for the umpteenth time. Heidi didna even hae a mither, puir sowel, thocht Sheena, an en mined that the book wis doon aside the fire far she’d left it. She got up an creepit doon the stairs, thinkin her mam an dad micht still be in the scullery. Bit no, she could hear their voices through the open lobby door.
“It’s nithin tae dee wi yer faither fan we tell her, is’t,” said her dad.
“I ken, bit I suppose he’s richt in a wye, Jack.”
Sheena pushed the door wide an wandered in.
“It’s okay. I ken. Molly telt me,” she said quaet kin’.
Nithin could be heard bit the drippin tap in the scullery, tull the fire gid a fustle an a spark.
“Fit? Foo cwid Molly tell ye, lass? Foo cwid she ken onything aboot it?”
“Her mam telt her.”
“Weel, I dinna ken foo aat cwid be, for I’ve telt naebody,’ said her faither. ‘Onywye, we’ll nae be flittin for anither month or so, fan I start the new job.”
“We’re leavin here?” said a shocked wee quine. “Bit – aat’s nae fit Molly said.”
“I’m nae carin fit yer pal said, lass. We’re movin tae Inverurie. You’ll hae new freens an a new skweel. Noo awa upstairs wi yer book tae yer bed an we’ll spik aboot it the morn.”
There wis nae wye Sheena could concentrate on Heidi noo, nor could she sleep. She didna ken whither tae be pleased or no. There wis ae thing, though. She couldna wait tae tell Molly that she, Sheena, widna be gaun tae Huntly skweel either.
Sheena parked her car at the tap o the brae an got oot ower. The sky wis cryin oot tae be pinted, the reids an pinks mirled wi gold. She wisna sure fit wye she’d cam here first, for her mither wis expectin her at the hoose. Mibby she wis pittin aff facin her mam fin she felt sae guilty at missin Auntie Madge’s funeral. Nae that her mam wid say onythin. Onywye, she’d aye likit comin here – an sae hid Madge.
She waakit ower fae the car park an taen her time gaun doon the slopin path that wisna as wide as she minded, wi brobby branches stickin oot aawye. The brig wis solid metal noo an refused tae shaak. Stannin in the middle, wi the sun guddlin in the watter, she unnerstood fit wye they wid be comin here the morn tae scatter ashes. In the last o the summer licht through the shrubby wids, there wis nithin tae be heard bit the burblin o the burn. A new gate barred the wye roon the braes an it seemed tae mark the end o somethin. She waakit back up the path, got in her car an drove tae fit hid been her granda’s hoose.
Taen aback at findin the door locked, she rang the bell an, richt awa, her mither appeared.
“I’m nae eesed tae bein masel, yet,” she said, afore Sheena could say onythin. “Come awa in an turn the key ahin ye. Jist pit yer case in the back room an I’ll pit on the kettle.”
She wis already on her wye tae the kitchen an Sheena did as she wis telt.
“Foo hiv ye been?” said Sheena, eence they’d sut doon facin each ither ower the kitchen table. “I’m really sorry I missed Auntie Madge’s funeral. Ye ken I wid hae been there if I could, bit there wis jist nae wye I could get aff at sic short notice, wi that mony fowk nae weel an naebody else tae tak charge.”
“Yer dad wid hae been aat prood o ye, Sheena. Ye’ve deen sae weel tae hae sic an important job in Edinburgh. Dinna worry. Uncle Jimmy, an Mina, saa tae aathin fine.”
She geid a bit sigh.
“Ah weel. They’re baith awa noo – your dad an Madge. There’s jist me left.”
Sheena could see tears startin tae come in her mither’s een.
“Aye, there’s still you, Mam, an aat’s fit maitters. Madge hid a good life an passed awa peacefully in her sleep, in nae pain. She widna wint yer hairt tae be sair.”
Her mither sat, heid boo’d.
“The morn, aifter we’ve been tae the burn, we’ll teem Madge’s room an sort aathin oot. I’ll phone Paul an tell him I’m takin the rest o the wik aff. It’s the least I’m due. An then, we can hae some time thegither.”
She leaned across the table an touched her mither’s airm, makin her look up an gie a bit smile.
“Aye,” she replied. “That’s fit we’ll dee.”
“Weel,”said Sheena. “I think I’ll hae a bath an ging tae my bed early. We’ve a busy day the morn, so a guid nicht’s sleep’ll dae us nae hairm. I’ll wash the dishes an tidy up here first.”
Her mither wis lookin happier wi hersel an didna argie.
Bi the time Sheena hid relaxed in a het bath an got ready for her bed, her mam’s door wis closed. The door o Auntie Madge’s room wis a bit open an Sheena fund hersel draan till’t. She held back an then went in, switchin on the licht. The room wis fair neat an tidy as it aye hid been. Madge’s favourite scent seemed tae still hing aboot an she half expected tae see her sittin readin in the cheer at the windae. Like her niece, Madge hid nivver mairrit an hid been bidin in the hoose hersel, tull Sheena’s mam hid moved in wi her, fin she wis widowed. The twa sisters hid been company for ane anither.
Noo in the room, it cam tae Sheena that she hidna really taen time tae mourn es wumman fa hid been sic an important bodie in her life. She stood in front o the dressin-table lookin at a brush an comb, a strand o creamy-fite pearls an a bonny embroidered hunky.
She sut doon on the stool an opened the lang narra draaer. Inside wis a battered auld box, like a sma case. She took it oot an felt the need tae open it. It sat there waitin, closed, the lid a broon barrier tae somebody else’s privacy. Guilt chaaed at her conscience – bit it didna stop her.
She pressed the catch an it sprang open.
Inside, yallowin envelopes an newspaper cuttins focht for attention wi photies o faimly an ithers she couldna recognise. A black-an-fite photie fell oot. She pickit it up an saa hersel, aboot sivven or aicht years auld, stannin in front o her mam an dad, aa three smilin, posin for her auntie. She minded o the pale blue frock wi the flooers Madge hid embroidered for her, kept for best, bit hid forgotten aboot the handbag hangin fae her airm. It wisna a bairn’s bag, bit an auld ane o her auntie’s she’d been gien, despite her mither’s protests. The occasion hid been a day oot thegither in Granda’s car, a Sunday, fin they’d stoppit aside a burn for a picnic.
She laid doon the photie an noticed an envelope wi her auntie’s name an address on the front. She thocht she recognised the handwritin an afore she could stop hersel, she hid the letter open in her haun. It wis dated October, 1950, the year afore Sheena wis born. Nosiness getting the better o her, she read the letter:
Catterick. 3rd October, 1950.
My Dear Madge,
Please try to forgive me. There is no easy way to say this. I now realise it is your sister I love more than anything in the world. It was Frances I married and it is with Frances I want to spend the rest of my days. I ken this will hurt you sair, especially after what has happened. As for the bairn, Frances has agreed to bring it up as our ain. You could both bide with cousin Agnes in Glasgow until the birth and no-one need ever know. It will be another six months before my next posting, by which time the bairn will be here.
I’m truly sorry, Madge, for all the pain I have caused. Frances is finding it very hard to forgive us both, but accepts that the above suggestion is for the best. If you are in agreement, I’ll see to all the arrangements.
Please find it in your heart to forgive me, Jack.
Sheena sat fair dumfoonert. She read an re-read the letter hopin that mibby, jist mibby, she’d pickit it up the wrang wye. Bit ilka readin jist confirmed fit she fund ower shockin tae tak in. Her mind birled wi aa that it meant: Auntie Madge wis her mither; her mither wis her auntie.
Aa thae years ago, at the burn, Molly hid been richt. Shock turned tae anger. Fit wye hid naebody telt her, for God’s sake? An fit kin’ o unfeelin bein wis es man, her faither? Thochts in her raivelt mind were aa rummled up as she tried tae tak in fit ilka sister hid hid tae thole ower a lifetime, keepin the lid snappit shut on their sair hairts.
Sheena fund the photie again an noo, lookit at it like she wis seein it for the first time. She saa her mither’s airm an her faither’s entwined ahin them, an there wis nae mistakin foo close they were. Bit for Sheena, the thing that stood oot wis her mither’s ither haun: it wis roond Sheena’s shooders, restin there, haudin her, like she wis sayin, ‘This is oor quine’.
She sat starin at the photie, nae langer conscious o the passin o time. Slowly, it cam tae her, that es wis a wumman fa hid forgiven her cheatin man, hid forgiven her sister’s deceit – an hid loved their bairn. Her heid wis ful o sae mony questions, bit fit she kent for certain wis, she couldna hae asked for a better mither.
Sheena pit the letter an the photie back in the case, brocht doon the lid, an returned it tae the draaer. The morn, the ashes, an their secret, wid float aneth the brig, an doon the Bogie.
Brought up in Aberdeenshire, Eleanor Fordyce has lived in Angus with her family since the 1960s. Retired, she enjoys writing in both English and Doric and is still a North-East quine at heart.
This is an article from the June 2009 edition of Leopard Magazine. To read much more like this every month, see our subscription details.