The Nickum (3 page)

‘Willie!’ she screamed, after making sure that was who it was. ‘What in God’s name have you been doing?’

No answer was forthcoming, but she didn’t really need one. The rotten cabbage leaves, putrefying tea leaves, scraps of all kinds of food, plus the unmistakable splotches of human waste that Jake emptied into the midden from their dry lavatory every night revealed the sad truth. Her stomach lurched at the thought of having to clean him, but there was no one else there to take over the sickening task.

The simplest way would be to strip and scrub him, so first covering the stone floor with an old newspaper, she set about it. Filling the zinc bath with water – hot from the kettle on the hob on the range plus some cold from the pail in the porch at the back door – she then laid out an old scrubbing brush and a bar of carbolic soap. Thankfully, after she got him into the tub the boy stood perfectly still, his big brown eyes fixed on her mournfully, his nose wrinkling as the the varied stinks assaulted it … and hers.

She didn’t give in to his tiny whimpers when she scrubbed a little too forcefully, for it was the only way she could get him clean. Her son’s skin was shining red by the time she was finished, from the roots of his curly brown hair to the soles of his feet, but she felt no sympathy towards him while she rubbed him vigorously with an old towel. She was taking no chances that any dirt would be transferred from him to anything else.

‘Get up to your bed!’ she ordered, giving him the slap on his bare bottom that he so thoroughly deserved. ‘And it’s no supper for you this night.’

Still silent, for he did know he had pushed his mother too far this time, Willie scrambled up the rickety ladder to his attic room, stark naked and looking like a skinned rabbit. With all the mess left behind to clean up, Emily’s anger kept festering away, and by the time that Jake came in for his supper, she turned to him furiously, forgetting her ‘proper English’. ‘You aye manage to bide out o’ the road till all the work’s done!’ she screamed, then burst out crying, through sheer frustration and exhaustion.

‘Oh, Emmy, lass, what’s got you so upset?’ he asked, for it wasn’t often that she was driven to tears. ‘Was it something Willie did?’ That was usually why she was angry.

His wife did not get the support and consolation she was expecting. When Jake heard the story – and his wife had quite a graphic way of describing their son’s misdemeanours – he couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Oh, Em, he’s just doin’ what boys do. I fell in oor midden at hame when I was his age, mair than once, and Ma gied me a hot backside and sluiced me doon oot in the yard wi’ a’ the neighbours getting their kill. Aye, an’ when I was aulder as weel.’

‘But I’m not like your Ma, Jake. She’d two sons, don’t forget, and I’ve never had nothing to do with boys till we had Willie. And surely all boys canna be as bad as him?’

He slid an arm round her waist and pulled her towards him. ‘No, I suppose yer richt there, Em, but a lot o’ them are. D’you nae think he’s better like that than bein’ a cissie? You’ll never ha’e to worry aboot that.’

She gave a watery smile. ‘You’d better tell him to come doon for his supper. Oh, Godamichty!’

Alarmed by her stricken expression, her husband said, ‘What is it, lass?’

‘I havena had time to think aboot makin’ the supper.’

‘Sit doon, Em, for ony sake. You’re dead beat an’ nae wonner. See, I’ll mak’ some scrambled eggs an’ a puckle slices o’ toast, that’ll fill oor bellies.’

When Jake shouted up to give Willie the good news he waited in the tiny lobby for him to come down, almost giving in to the temptation to clap the boy on the back in a proud fatherly manner. That would be like saying he had done no wrong, when he had disobeyed all the tellings his mother had ever given him about the midden. Jake heaved a sigh as he went back to the kitchen. If only he could get a job with a more up-to-date house – a house with an inside lavvy – so there wouldn’t be a midden for Willie to fall into. But he supposed he was lucky to have a job at all; there were hundreds who hadn’t. Hundreds who still had a dry privy in their backyard.

Things in the little end-of-the-row cottage had changed considerably. There was great excitement because Willie was starting school, although he wouldn’t be five until the 21st of September. On the great day, Willie was ready and waiting for Poopie Grant to call in to take him there, as he had promised ages ago. He ran to open the door as soon as the knock came, ushering his friend in to prove he didn’t need his mother to go with him.

Emily had always been embarrassed to call the child Poopie, so she said, ‘What’s your right name, er …’

‘Grant,’ came the instant reply.

‘Um … no, I mean your right first name.’

‘Oh, aye, I was gan to tell Willie nae to cry me Poopie at the school. I hinna pooped masel’ for a lang time noo, so it’s better …’

‘What is it, then?’ Emily was a little bit frazzled anyway, having had to make her own son ready, much against his will, in an uncomfortable pair of new trousers and a shirt with a collar that she had starched to make sure it would sit properly.

‘Ma sez it’s efter her granda,’ Poopie hedged, clearly unhappy about it.

‘Aye,’ Emily encouraged, while Connie and Becky could barely keep back the giggles surging up.

‘Cecil,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a affa Jessie-Annie name, in’t it?’

The two girls rose hastily from the table and rushed out, and Emily herself found it difficult to keep a straight face. ‘Um … no, it’s a real nice name for a … laddie. A lot o the rich folk name their sons Cecil.’

‘Is that right?’ Poopie’s back straightened, his eyes brightened.

‘Cecil Grant,’ the woman said reflectively. ‘That sounds real good. It does, really.’

But Willie was impatient to be off. ‘Come on, Poopie, or we’ll be late, and I dinna want to be late on ma first day.’

‘It’s Cecil,’ his friend said sadly. ‘Try an’ mind that, Willie.’

‘I’ll try.’ But being a naturally honest child, Willie added, ‘But I winna promise.’

His mother picked up his satchel. ‘Well, don’t forget this, for your dinner’s in here – a flask of soup, a hunk of loaf and an apple. That should be enough. Now, off you go, and don’t caper about and spoil your new clothes. Just walk nicely, the pair of you.’

She stood at the door and watched them as they walked sedately down the path and along the cart track, knowing full well that the minute they were round the bend out of her sight, they would be their usual rowdy selves. At least Willie would, though Poopie – Cecil – was a good bit quieter. At that moment, her two daughters appeared from the side of the house.

‘So that’s Willie an’ Cecil away,’ Connie grinned. ‘I nearly burst trying not to laugh. I can’t think about Poopie as a Cecil.’

‘You’ll just have to get used to it, but what a name to give the laddie.’

Emily found the day unusually long. It was the first time for many years that she had been on her own, and it was heaven. She got through her usual housework in doublequick time and, taking an early dinner, she went out to collect the eggs. Her hens were in the habit of roaming around the place quite a bit, and she never quite knew where to look, for they weren’t all that particular where they laid. They had fully recovered now from what Willie did to them some time ago, and they were good layers. After searching all the known places, she had found nearly six dozen of the still-warm eggs and decided to call a halt. She could sell the whole lot of them since there were still over a dozen in her pantry left from the week before. At least she didn’t have to walk to the village for a buyer; the grocer was usually delighted to take them off her when he called. ‘They tell me they’re really good,’ he had told her once. ‘Fine an’ big, wi’ decent-sized yolks. Some o’ my customers winna tak’ ony ither anes.’

After arranging them neatly in the big basket she kept for the purpose, she went out to weed her little kitchen garden. Jake kept her supplied with tatties, carrots and turnips – they were kept in pits in the sheltered corner of the yard, but she grew her own leeks, shallots, cress, parsley and the herbs she liked to use in her cooking. Some of the other cottared wives believed that she thought herself better than them because she put ‘fancy stuff’ in her soups and stews, plus the fact that she’d been born in the town. But her parents’ house had been a few miles from the last houses in Aberdeen, though so many new houses had been built since she left that Balmedie looked as if it would be part of the city before too long.

She went inside when she felt the need of a cup of tea. Half past three. She had time to chop some kindling before she started making the supper. While she had a seat and enjoyed her ‘cuppie’, she wondered what life would have been like without Willie. He was the cause of most of her work, and definitely the most worry. Neither of her girls had been any trouble, just a few coughs and sneezes, and they’d both caught the measles when it had spread through the school a few years ago. Hopefully, though, Willie wouldn’t succumb to any childhood illnesses. He was tougher than his sisters.

When Willie came running in at just after five she was busy preparing the supper, so she let him ramble on about what had happened during his day.

‘An’ d’ye ken this, Mam, the teacher’s a little wee toot, nae muckle bigger nor me, an’ her name’s Miss Cow, an’ she gied me a row for sayin’ “Moo”, an’ she said it was cheeky, an’ bad manners to mak’ fun’ o’ fowk. An’ she said it’s nae spelt the same as a moo-cow, there’s a extra e at the end. I didna ken what she meant wi’ that, though.’

Stopping to take a decent breath, Willie also took a piece of carrot to crunch. ‘An’ d’ye ken this, Mam? We’re getting a readin’ book next week, a primer, she cried it, an’ we’ve to learn some words every nicht. I’ll be able to read afore I ken faur I am.’ Chomp, chomp! ‘I dinna ken if I like her or no’, for she was aye telling me aff for fidgeting, but she surely doesna expect me to sit still a whole day without movin’, but she said I’d jist ha’e to learn. An’ some of the other bairns had their soup in flagons, like Dad gets oor milk in, and they set them along the range first thing when we went in so they’d keep het. She said twelve o’clock was dinnertime, an’ when I said I couldna tell the time, she glowered and said I would ha’e to learn that as weel.’

Chomp, chomp! ‘I’m nae gan to like the school, Mam. There’ll be ower muckle stuff to learn. But she did tell us a story afore we come hame. It was aboot a wee black boy cried Pammy something.’

‘Epaminondas?’ Emily supplied, for the name had conjured up a memory of her own early days at school.

Willie related the story, ending each little episode with, ‘An’ his Mammy said, “Oh, Pami thingummy, you ain’t got the sense you was born with.” He was ayeways daen something wrang.’

‘Like you,’ his mother said wryly. The pot of stew now simmering gently, Emily straightened her back. ‘So you liked the story, then?’

‘Aye, Mam, it was real good, an’ real funny. We was a’ laughin’.’ Emily could just imagine – especially her son. ‘An’ Miss Cow says she’ll tell us mair stories if we’re good. But I wisna happy to get a slate to write on, wi slate pencils, she cried them, but they mak’ a affa noise when you write. Scraichin’ like a stuck pig.’

His mother was outraged. ‘What d’you ken aboot stuck pigs?’

‘Nae much, but Poopie …’

‘Cecil.’

‘Aye, Poopie-Cecil tell’t me he’d seen it once, an’ he made the noise, an’ it was just the same as the slate pencil mak’s. But Mis Cow wrote up some numbers on the blackboard, an’ we’d tae copy them on oor slates, an’ we’ve to practise them at hame. Mair stuff to learn. My brain winna be big enough to keep a’ that in it.’

‘You’ve got to keep on working at it, Willie, that’s how you learn.’

For two days all went reasonably well, with the boy sitting down to do his ‘home lessons’ as soon as he came home in the afternoon, and Emily was wondering if she had misjudged her youngest child. He wasn’t too bad when he was doing everything his teacher told him. That was Progress with a capital P, and he’d soon get into the habit of learning.

It was on the second Monday that things started to go awry. Willie was almost half an hour late in coming home, and she had begun to wonder what had happened. Maybe the teacher had kept him in as a punishment for something? Maybe he’d been climbing a tree on his way home, or a wall, and had fallen down and hurt himself? Maybe he was lying somewhere unconscious with nobody to see to him?

But Poopie Grant would have been with him surely? He’d farther to go than Willie, so they’d be together all the way. She wasn’t really worried, not really, but it was a bit upsetting just the same.

It was almost six, just before Jake was due in for his supper, when the two little boys trailed in together, Poopie-Cecil’s lip was bleeding and Willie had a scrape on his cheek. ‘Have you two been fighting?’ she demanded to know, anger welling up inside her at the thought.

‘No, Mam.’ Willie turned accusing eyes on her.

‘He was defendin’ me,’ Poopie whispered.

‘What … ?’ Emily couldn’t understand.

‘It was twa loons in the control class,’ the older boy explained, his cut lip clearly giving him some pain.

‘They was playin’ fitba’ wi’ his schoolbag,’ added Willie, ‘but I got it back for him.’

‘Good lad!’ Jake was standing in the doorway, having heard his son’s last statement. ‘I’m richt prood o’ you, standin’ up to bullies.’

‘No! He shouldn’t be fighting like that. You shouldna encourage him.’

Jake ignored her. ‘You got the bag back, I hope?’

‘Aye,’ he nodded, ‘I punched the biggest lad in the face, and they baith ran awa’. Big fearties!’

Jake turned a stern eye on his wife. ‘Get Poo … Cecil’s face cleaned up first an’ I’ll see him hame.’

His voice showed that he would brook no refusal, and Emily hurriedly filled a bowl with hot water and sponged the cut lip gently.

‘Now, then, Cecil my loon,’ smiled Jake, ‘come on. I’ll let your Ma ken it wasna your fault.’

Not even waiting for them to go, Emily tended to her son’s injured cheek, and then said, her voice just a fraction more sympathetic than it had been, ‘It’s all right for the men to praise the fighting, but it’s us women that have to do the cleaning up and seeing to the injured. Now, sit down and learn your letters and numbers, and when your Dad gets back we’ll get our supper.’