The Observations (18 page)

And do you favour any particular colour of ink?“

Any that I can get my hands on. I’m not superstitious—and ink is expensive. But what about your good self, Mrs. Reid? You were talking of writing a poem.“

“Oh dear no,” says missus. As I said, I do not write. But please,“ and here she put her hand on his wrist, ”do call me Arabella.“

We crept along behind Reverend Pollock, who was sandwiched between Mrs. Rankin and Flemyng, a situation which placed him as far as possible from both missus and master James (but of course this could have been accidental rather than strategic). Mrs. Rankin was a lean woman with a head like a skull and a phiz to frighten the horses. She was grinning at the Reverend with all her many prominent teeth.

“Might I ask, Mrs. Rankin,” Pollock was saying, “are you familiar at all with the Queens Rooms? The Queens Rooms in Glasgow?”

“I don’t believe I am, Reverend,” says she her voice all breathless and girlish, quite at odds with her ageing appearance. “Are they something to be seen?”

Ah-haah,“ says the Old Bollix. ”Dearie me no, they are not an attraction to visit as such. It is just that I am to give a lecture there next year and I am not familiar with the building. I do believe that it is an important venue. Apparently, a number of prestigious speakers have graced the very stage upon which I am to deliver my own humble oration.“

This news near enough fetched Mrs. Rankin off. She squeaked and panted. “Oh gracious me,” she says. “How dreadfully clever of you.”

At long last C. Features had reached the end of the table, I jabbed her with the ladle to make her stop and then prodded her forwards into a better position, it is as well we were in company for the look she gave me, I don’t know what class of thing she might have said or done otherwise. Here’s how much I cared.
The rind of a cheese.
Ignoring her, I removed the lid from the tureen and set it on the sideboard as instructed by missus (and
not
on the
carpet
as I had so foolishly done before my training). Then I began ladling soup.

There was 3 gentlemen occupied the opposite side of the table. I surmised that Mr. Duncan Pollock as guest of honour would be the suave looking cove with the neat brown-and-ginger moustache, seated on the missus right. He was talking to McGregor-Robertson while master James was in conversation with Rankin, who was a portly fellow with a whiskey face on him. He wore a wig and a high neck cloth and seemed to have little control over his fleshy lips which slobbered something fierce as he spoke, distributing a spray of spittle before him, by Jove he would have made a fine French polisher.

“Not for an instant have I regretted it, mark you,” he was saying. “In fact, it is my intention tae turn over the rest of what I have tae the very same purpose.”

“I see,” says master James, mildly. He had leaned well back in his chair, giving the impression that he preferred to remain aloof from this discussion or perhaps it was just the slobbers he was keen to avoid, who can say.

“Aye indeed,” Rankin says. “We begin further exploratory work in the spring. I also have it in mind tae build a brick and tile works over at Tuppethill. And there is a fellow wants tae put a chemical works at Mossburn if I’ll let him. But it’s the mines is where the money is. Farming is a thing of the past, believe you me.”

This last comment was addressed to the company in general since—during the course of his speech—his voice had grown so loud as to drown out other conversations and one by one all heads had turned in his direction. Even missus and Flemyng had wrenched themselves from their little confabulation and were spectating, the missus with a beatific smile on her face hell roast her.

Confident that he had the attention of everyone present Rankin had turned his attention once again to master James.

“Here’s a question for ye. Which pit do ye think gives me my highest yield?”

Master James expressed (very dryly) his regret that he’d never seen the need to become an expert in matters of coalmining—ho ho, he was a wag all right. After pausing to acknowledge the polite laughter prompted by this remark he confirmed that—Alas!—he did not know which pit gave the highest yield.

“Well, let me tell ye,” says Mr. Rankin. “The highest yield comes frae the one pit I have that borders your land. And ye know what that means.”

Master James allowed that he was not in fact in possession of that information. But he was sure Mr. Rankin would be good enough to tell him.

“It means that you might be very lucky indeed,” Rankin says. “Should ye take ma advice and give up farming and start sinking pits, or you could lease the land out to them that will dae it for you.”

Duncan Pollock,
Member of Parliament,
was holding up his glass to the light, which gave him the appearance of one who was not listening. But he had the air about him of a man who doesn’t miss a trick. Master James flicked a glance down the table at him. Then he nodded at Rankin and affected a certain weariness.

“I take your point, Mungo,” he says. “However, my ambitions lie elsewhere.”

Rankin scoffed. “Politics? Ach, ye’ll soon tire of that.”

Master James chuckled. “Well, that remains to be—”

“Hoot-toot-toot! Wheesht man wheesht! If ye don’t get into mining, James, ye’re passing up a golden opportunity. What have you got here—some tenants, some cows, a bit land—a piece of nonsense, that’s what the farming business is and you’re short-sighted if you don’t realise it.”

Master James was clearly irritated but seemed unable to come back with a response. He took a breath but before he could speak, missus addressed Rankin, apparently with great affection.

“Dear Mungo,” she says. “And I presume, that when all the farms in the land have been turned over to pits, as you would like, you would have us eating coal and ironstone instead of bread and meat.”

At this, Flemyng snorted so hard that he blew out the candle in front of him. Master James sensed a point well made (albeit by his wife). He joined in with the chortles and glanced in triumph around the table. Reverend P. remarked that it was admirably put. Mrs. Rankin squeaked. There were general murmurs of assent, yes yes, she has a point, you’re not wrong there, well done, all this.

Missus smiled graciously at Rankin, to show him that she had simply been teasing. I noticed that Duncan Pollock MP gave her a long and admiring glance, the man was that oily he’d float on water.

By this time, Muriel and I had accomplished a circuit of the table and all the guests had been served with soup. Since C. Features was no longer required I elbowed her out the room and shut the door in her bake. Then I took the bottle of claret from the sideboard and began to circle the table, filling the tiny glasses. As instructed, I served Mrs. Rankin first but forgot that missus should get hers next and had already poured for master James before I realised my mistake. However nobody seemed to have noticed and so I just continued around the table clockwise.

Now he had it between the old gnashers, Rankin wouldn’t drop his bone. He wondered aloud whether his host would like to conjecture just
how much
money he had made from turning his land over to mining. Master James very graciously said that he would not presume. And when Rankin tried to goad him into hazarding a simple guess at the matter, master James attempted to change the subject. But Rankin interrupted and named two sums, one large the other astronomical and asked master James if he’d care to choose which was nearer to the amount of money brought in by the pits.

Substantial though it may have been it seemed unlikely that Rankin would brag about the smaller sum. You could tell master James had sensed defeat. With all eyes upon him and with great reluctance he named the larger. Rankin gave a shout of laughter, then brought both his fat fists down on the table, making the cutlery rattle.

“Not bad, for a wee laddie frae Linlithgow, eh?” he demanded of the company and jabbed his finger at his own chest just in case anybody was in any doubt about the identity of the wee laddie. “Eh? What aboot that, eh?”

And then everyone did what was required which was to laugh and be gay and murmur congratulations. Except that is for two people, these were Duncan Pollock MP, who was quietly watching the proceedings from his end of the table, and master James who appeared uncomfortable in the extreme, as though he sensed that he’d been played like a puppet. He cast a distressed gaze around the assembled guests but no-one met his eye except missus. Without hesitation, she addressed Mrs. Rankin down the length of the table.

“You must be terribly proud of your Mungo,” she says, not a hint of an edge to her voice. “He has done so well for himself, has he not?” And then in a seamless move she shifted the focus of attention by turning to Flemyng. “You should write a poem about him, Davy,” she says. “A eulogy.”

Flemyng looked up from his soup, a little startled, I suspect that writing eulogies to Mr. Rankin did not count among his primary ambitions. However, missus had already swivelled around to fix her gaze upon Mr. Pollock MP.

“Did you know, sir, that our Mr. Flemyng here is gaining quite a reputation in literary circles? His poems really are rather wonderful. Our very own Rabbie Burns.”

“Och, foof! Too kind, no, no!” protested Flemyng. But nobody paid him a blind bit of notice, he was only a tenant farmer after all. Missus was still turned towards Duncan Pollock, who seemed unable to take his eyes off her.

“I understand you are a poetry lover, sir?” she says.

“Indeed I am,” he says. “But I must admit that my real love is Song. Fine words are all very well, but I prefer them to come with a tune to gladden the heart.”

Here was a man that spoke in the slow, measured tones of someone who is used to being attended to and although what he said was not all that profound it might as well have been Great Philosophy such was the admiration expressed by the others. Heads were nodded, agreement was murmured, and a few of them chuckled even though what he’d said was not particularly funny. McGregor-Robertson the doctor piped up.

“Do you prefer Haydn sir? Or Mozart? Or Boyce?”

Duncan Pollock twitched his whiskers. “As a matter of fact,” he says, “my taste is for humbler music. Plain songs, the ballads of ordinary folk.”

“Ah-haah!” says the Reverend his brother with a wink at nobody in particular. “Dear Duncan is obsessed with traditional melodies, the simpler the better, the sort of thing you might hear sung in the street in Glasgow, by ragamuffins, I can’t imagine why.”

At that instant, I was about to pour claret for missus but she grabbed my wrist as I reached out to move her glass. “In that case,” she says to Pollock, “I think we have someone here that might interest you.”

My left hand was fast in hers and I was trapped. Panic rose in my breast, for it struck me that she was about to blurt out something about me that I wouldn’t like.

“Please, marm?” I murmured, Jesus Murphy she’s lucky I didn’t crown her with the wine bottle but she didn’t seem to hear me, she was talking to Pollock.

“Bessy here concocts songs in her head and goes about the place singing. I am not a musical person but you, sir, might make something of them. She is a lovely singer.” She turned to me and gave me one of her most irresistible smiles. “Bessy, dear,” she says. “Do Mr. Pollock and the rest of us a great honour by singing one of your marvellous songs?”

She turned in appeal to the rest of the table. They were all looking at me now, their soup bowls empty and their faces shining in the candlelight.

“Ah-haah, yes indeed, Bessy!” goes the Old Bollix fondly. As though he knew and loved all my songs—when he’d never heard a single flipping one of them!

Sensing my hesitation, missus tightened her grip on my wrist. “Do please sing, Bessy,” she says gently. “Mr. Flemyng is a noted collector of songs. Perhaps he will collect one of yours? I am sure they would be perfect for him. We
must
hear one. Even just a single verse and a chorus.”

Master James called up the table. “Come on, Bessy!” he goes, his face flushed. “Give us a song!” He began to clap and encouraged the others to do likewise, until they were all clapping and staring at me. And I hadn’t even sung anything yet! Sometimes, it is nice to be asked to sing. However, nobody likes to be treated like a performing monkey. Missus didn’t care two flips for me. She just wanted to impress their honoured guest. Smiling away at me, so she was, in encouragement. No doubt later on she’d chalk it all down in her blasted book, how “the subject‘ responded to being asked to perform. Well, I’d give her a performance, by hicky I would.

I set down the bottle and stepped away from the table. Then I faced my audience.

“This is called ”The Wind that Blows down Barrack Street“, I says and then I launched into the song. The title has a romantic cast. However, it was one of my bawdier efforts, about a man who is afflicted by a severe case of intestinal gas and who is prone to fart in inappropriate places. I will give you a flavour of it here.

There’s a pieman lives on Barrack Street His shop’s next the urinal There’s a pieman lives on Barrack Street With a problem intestinal

He can’t take beans nor beer nor prunes Nor apples pears nor whisky Not cabbages nor cauliflower And even bread is risky

There’s a wind that blows down Barrack Street

A wind to make you fearful

There’s a spicy gale on Barrack Street

If you go there please be careful

On market day, he bakes away

The pieshop it is jumping

You can smell his wares as far as Cowlairs

His windward passage pumping

When for a wake, he has to bake For friends of the departed Then all that goes must hold their nose In case the pieman farted

There’s a wind that blows down Barrack Street

A wind to make you fearful

There’s a spicy gale on Barrack Street

If you go there please be careful

(And so it goes for a few more verses, with the pieman disrupting a wedding and blowing a hole in his breeks &c.)