The Nickum
The Nickum
Also by Doris Davidson
Brow of the Gallowgate
Cousins at War
Gift from the Gallowgate
The House of Lyall
Jam and Jeopardy
Time Shall Reap
Waters of the Heart
The Nickum
by
Doris Davidson
BIRLINN
This eBook edition published in 2012 by
Birlinn Limited
West Newington House
Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.birlinn.co.uk
First published in 2008 by Birlinn Limited
Copyright © Doris Davidson, 2008
The moral right of Doris Davidson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-554-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-84158-715-8
British Library Cataloguing-In-Publication Data
A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
First, I wish to express my sincere thanks to the staff of the Gordon Highlanders’ Museum in Aberdeen for the trouble they took to find answers to my queries. They do a wonderful job.
I come now to my reason for writing
The Nickum
. In the 1930s, I read a book called
Wee McGreegor
, by J.J. Bell, describing the antics of a little Glasgow boy. I was absolutely enthralled by the Glaswegian dialogue, and vowed to write a book some day about a little Aberdeenshire boy. I read and re-read it, and eventually read it to the children I taught, until, alas, it fell to pieces – beyond repair.
My son delighted me about a year or so ago by finding a copy in a charity shop, and my old vow was rekindled. I started to write about a mischievous little boy in Aberdeenshire. I swear I did not copy any part of
Wee McGreegor
, but most of Willie’s pranks were taken from real life, carried out by different boys of my acquaintance.
I know that the Doric dialect is difficult for people outside Aberdeen to understand, but I hope that all who read
The Nickum
will be able to follow it – and enjoy it.
Part One
1930
Emily Fowlie heaved a long sigh as she stuck her hand in the next sock, much smaller than the last one she had darned. I should have known, she mused. We should all have known, but we thought nothing of it at the time – it was so normal.
Looking back, of course, she could see their mistake. Such an event never happens on the day it’s expected. That was the crafty thing about it. And to happen between dinnertime and teatime, so nobody was inconvenienced much – that was probably contrived to save folk suspecting the devil incarnate himself was entering our lives.
She brought her wandering mind to a sharp stop. No, no, she must be exaggerating … mustn’t she?
Just because the bairn had been up to some kind of mischief or other ever since he was able to crawl didn’t make him a devil incarnate – not even an ordinary devil. He was just a ‘wee nickum’, like Jake’s mother said he was. Yes, that was all, just a wee monkey. Her mother-in-law was a good judge of character – usually.
In spite of convincing herself that this was so, various images crept into Emily’s mind; images of the outrageous things her son had done already in his short time on earth – he would only be nine on his birthday next week.
21 September 1921
Emily Fowlie had been feeling quite uncomfortable since not long after they had come to their box bed in the kitchen, but not bad enough to rouse Jake. After all, he had an early start in the morning, and it wasn’t her first child. Connie was ten past August and Becky had turned seven at the beginning of this month, and she’d had no trouble bringing either of them into the world, going by what she’d been told by other women. Of course, Beenie Middleton – the neighbour who acted as midwife for most of the births on the farm town of Wester Burnton – had said she’d got off lucky both times, yet there was no reason to think this one would be any different.
By the time the parish church bell struck midnight, however, the discomfort had become pain, an ever-increasing pain, but it could be hours yet before the infant was born. It crossed her mind then that it was a good thing the bell could be heard for miles on a still night, for without its help she’d have no idea how long the labour was taking.
Half past, one o’clock, half past, two o’clock …
It was beginning to be unbearable, but she’d just have to grit her teeth and bear it. Jake couldn’t have it for her – nobody could – and if she didn’t let nature take its own course in its own time, she’d be in real trouble. Maybe it would burst out of her stomach – through her belly button? When she was a bairn, she’d often wondered what that particular bit of her was there for – she had to be extra careful in keeping it clean, or else it collected bits of fluff off the vests her mother knitted for her. She’d thought maybe that was why people had a belly button; in case they couldn’t give birth the normal way. But men had belly buttons as well, and they never gave birth whatever way you looked at it. She wasn’t a bairn now, anyway. She should know better than to think stupid things like this.
Emily lay as still as she could. If she started wriggling around, Jake would waken, and he’d get all worried about her. Mind you, it would be good to have him worrying about her. Sometimes she felt he took her for granted. That wasn’t fair on him, though. He wasn’t like some of the other farm workers – bairning their wives every year, often in less than a year. She and Jake had been wed for almost two years before she realised she was in the family way, and it was another three before another one came. Then the war had come, and he’d been away for nearly five years fighting the Huns, but he hadn’t ‘knocked her up’ like most of the men when they came home. He’d always been gentle with her, loving, respectful. If she said she didn’t feel like it, he didn’t force her. Some of her neighbours said their men went at them like an animal, they were that starved of a woman. Oh, that was half past striking. Half past what, though? She’d lost count.
It was just after four when Emily was forced to shake her husband. ‘Jake, it’s time.’
‘You want me to run for Beenie?’
‘Aye, it’s real bad.’
‘Ach, you should have woke me afore this, ma lovie.’
Jumping up, he struck a match from the box on the end of the mantelpiece and held it to the candle in the china candlestick next to it. Then she watched him hopping about trying to put on his trousers. It always made her laugh, since it would have been easier to put them on if he sat down, but tonight she couldn’t even summon a faint smile.
‘You’d best hurry, Jake,’ she whispered.
‘Is’t affa’ bad, ma lovie?’
‘Aye, Jake, awful bad.’
Emily was clutching at the blankets in desperation when, only minutes later, Jake ushered Beenie in, her huge rubber apron almost engulfing her round little body, her bright eyes full of concern but her voice as professional as any fully qualified midwife; in fact, having done the job for over twenty years in whatever farms her man was fee’d at, she was probably more experienced than most. ‘How long between the pains?’ Her normal mode of speech in the broad vernacular was dropped when she was carrying out her ‘professional’ duties.
‘There’s hardly any time …’
The other woman nodded briskly and turned to Jake. ‘Right! Get the rubber sheet out of my bag and we’ll get it under her, then you’ll have to go out. I never let my fathers bide to watch, as you should ken.’
His smile was forced, but as soon as his wife was made ready for the delivery, he grabbed the rest of his clothes with some relief. ‘I’ll mak’ some breakfast for the bairns and see them aff to school afore I feed the beasts. I’ll come back at dinnertime to see if it’s a laddie or a lassie.’
His curiosity was destined not to be answered until the following day; his poor wife’s labour continuing for almost a day and a half. Jake and the two girls had been given their supper by Beenie’s seventeen-year-old daughter, and had also slept in makeshift beds in the Middletons’ house.
Remembering, Emily felt pain shooting through her body, only imaginary thank goodness, but it proved that, whatever anybody said, you did not forget the pain of childbirth when it had been far worse than normal.
Ever since those thirty-five hours of excruciating agony, Willie’s behaviour had gone steadily downhill. Jake, of course, was absolutely delighted to have a son at last – a man wasn’t a man until he had a son. As he’d heard people saying, ‘It’s easy to make a daughter when the pattern’s lying under you.’ So he excused his son by saying, ‘He’s a normal boy, Emmie. They’re aye up to some mischief or other. I was the same mysel’.’
Emily wasn’t quite so happy when the new infant continued to be fractious. Her two girls had been no trouble as babies, sleeping and feeding being the way their days – and nights – were spent but this one yelled night and day, newly fed or not. It was hard going to be allowed to sleep for only half an hour now and then, for that was the most this one ever slept.
When he was three months old, and she confided to Beenie Middleton how little rest she was getting, that good woman shrieked with laughter. ‘It’s well seen you havena had a laddie afore. They’re hell on earth wi’ the colic at three month or so. It’ll wear awa’. Jist gi’e him anither twa or three weeks.’
It hadn’t worn away, of course. He was still screaming his head off at six months, even at ten months, but her body had seemed better able to cope by then.
Emily had been looking forward to this day for months. It wasn’t very often that she got the chance to be away from her own home, and Aberdeen was like going to a place of exotic sights and thrills. She wasn’t jealous of her younger sister, although Vi’s husband-to-be was a real catch – only son of a wealthy jeweller – and they were to be living in London after their month-long honeymoon in Paris.
No, she decided. She wouldn’t like the stir of either of the capital cities. She loved the tranquillity of her own part of Aberdeenshire, and was blissfully happy with her own husband, thank you very much. But one day out was different; whatever happened, enjoying herself in Aberdeen or not, there would always be the comforting thought that she’d be home at the end of the day. She
was
glad that only she and Jake had been invited – Gramma Fowlie had volunteered to look after her three bairns – but she knew she would miss them, even for such a short time.
‘I hope nothing goes wrong when we’re away,’ she had whispered to Jake as they were dressing.
Struggling with his front stud, Jake had shaken his head. ‘What could go wrong? Ma’s used to …’
‘I know that, but Willie’s only fourteen months and he’s into everything since he started crawling.’
‘Ma’ll watch him, dinna fret. She kens the mischief bairns can get up to. She’s brocht up twa o’ her ain, me an’ oor Davey.’ His eyes clouded for a moment, as he remembered his curly-headed brother who had been killed in the war.
