There were only two people in the stable yard, Malcie and the old man everybody in the area knew as the Daftie, although some thought that he wasn’t as daft as he made out. He still had an abundant crop of pure white hair, and although he was nissing some of his front teeth, he always wore a wide smile. He was helping the youth to polish the horse brasses, there being a show looming in the very near future. Johnny McIntyre was very proud of his Clydesdales and entered them every year; having already won many second and third prizes for various horses, his heart was set on gathering at least one first.
‘Aye Malcie,’ Willie called.
‘Aye Willie.’ His friend was engrossed in his task, but could still acknowledge the presence of his chum. ‘The bike’s goin’ OK then?’
‘Great. I come along the road like a bird through the air.’
The Daftie looked up now, nodding his approval of the vehicle, then he mumbled, ‘You’re Jake Fowlie’s loon, aye?’
‘Aye.’
‘Your Ma mak’s black puddins, aye?’
‘Aye?’ Willie was puzzled. What did black puddings have to do with anything?
‘McIntyre killed a pig this week.’
‘Oh? So what aboot it?’
‘I saved some o’ the bleed for her.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Wait a mintie.’
The elderly man hobbled off and came back within the requested minute carrying a rather chipped white enamel pail. ‘Look,’ he cackled, holding it up to let Willie see inside, ‘Plenty there. Aye?’
The boy knew nothing about this. He loved the black puddings his mother made, but he hadn’t realised that they contained pig’s blood. It wasn’t a happy thought. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Tak’ it an’ gi’e it to yer Ma wi’ my compliments, but mind an’ bring back the pail, or McIntyre’ll gi’e me whatfor.’
Willie, taller now and well on the way to being willowy instead of podgy, lifted the pail, old and battered, but like everything else in the stable and its surrounds, spotlessly clean. ‘I’ll awa’ then, Malcie.’
‘Watch yoursel’, and go easy. We dinna want the bobby to come and tell us to shovel you up aff the road. We wouldna ken which was your bleed an’ which was the pig’s.’
The younger boy joined in the roar of laughter as he steadied the bicycle with his knees until he could get his precious cargo hooked over the handlebars. Keeping his steed upright when all the weight was on one side was quite tricky, but at last he somehow got into a rhythm that answered his problem. Proud of his prowess, he wished that Poopie-Cecil could see him. He was pleased Malcie Middleton was watching as he set off, for he had shared the honour of creating this magnificent mode of transport.
Secure in his belief in himself, Willie fished in his jacket pocket for the stick of barley sugar Mrs Gill had given him, and discovered, to his further delight, that he could steer the bike and its load just as well with one hand as with two, and he sailed along, whistling happily.
Oh, Willie. If either of his grandmothers could have seen him, they would have told him that pride cometh before a fall, but as neither of these good ladies had any idea of what he was doing, he went on his way, considering himself the happiest, and cleverest, laddie in the whole wide world.
Coming to the stony track that led up to the Wester Burnton cottar houses, he stuck his barley sugar in his mouth in order to have both hands free to get round the corner. He took it carefully, making the left turn like a veteran of the road, and after a few precarious moments of wobbling, he picked up his rhythm again. Thankful to have made it into the home stretch, he took hold of his stick of barley sugar again and carried on a little more slowly up the track.
It had to come. There was no doubt about that. A gambling man would have deemed it a dead cert and put his very shirt on it. Willie, though, had no foreboding of impending doom, still whistling tunelessly as he imagined how impressed Malcie Middleton would be to hear how he’d coped with the tricky business of controlling a bike laden with a pail of precious goods.
He had no thought for anything else. He had no eyes for anything but a far-off vision of glory, so that he did not see the large stone thrown up by Mr McIntyre’s tractor which had, only minutes before, come up this same track and had turned right into a field of turnips. All that the boy was aware of was the impact of his wheel against the boulder, of the bicycle coming apart at the seams, as he might have said, and of being catapulted over the drystane dyke on his left that marked the perimeter of the ley field, resting from crops for the second of three years.
Emily Fowlie had an uneasy feeling; not a premonition of some disastrous calamity, more a sense of something that she couldn’t quite put a name to. At first, it was Jake’s wellbeing that troubled her, yet as time passed, her thoughts travelled round the other three members of her family. Had Jackie Burns thrown Becky out for spending too much on clothes? She had warned and warned her younger daughter about that, but Becky always took her own way. But surely she’d have come home if it was anything like that? One thing was certain, of course; she wasn’t pregnant. Whether she had never been, or had been and had got rid of it by some means, was something nobody could be sure about. Had Connie met with an accident at Gordon Brodie’s house? But one of the workers would have come with the news. Finally, her mind turned to her youngest child, her only son, the one who had given her most trouble ever since he came into the world. Willie was always gallous, bashing at things without thinking, but always with the luck of the devil as far as the consequences went.
She glanced at the clock. He should have been back by this time though, so what was he doing? If he’d got to the shop safely, he’d have been home ages ago with the money. Whatever he was doing – some mischief or other, more than likely – he could have lost what he’d got for her eggs. She wouldn’t put that past him. She could never depend on him for anything, though Jake wouldn’t hear a word against him. Strangely uneasy, she set about preparing the supper. There would only be the three of them, with Connie at the Brodies’. She had got a lovely big ham shank from the butcher’s van that morning, which had been simmering nicely for long enough now to add some veggies to the pot, so she set to with a will, paring, cutting and chopping. She liked to eat ham cold, but Jake preferred it hot, after his plate of pea soup. Willie, naturally, took after his father, so she had to do it their way when Connie wasn’t there. When her daughter was at home, it was a case of tossing for it, or taking it turn about.
With everything cooking nicely, she sat down for a minute or two. This was the time of day she liked best; when the supper was under way and all the housework had been done. Willie was usually out playing with Poopie. No, he should get his real name nowadays since it wouldn’t be all that long till he’d be leaving the school.
Goodness knows what Willie would do with himself when he left, she thought. He had never been interested in learning, and he wasn’t particularly good with his hands – except that he’d managed to construct a bike from a lot of odd bits. Still, that wasn’t enough to get him a job, and she didn’t think that Jake would be able to find him work with Johnny McIntyre.
Telling herself that she shouldn’t be worrying about it yet, she was brought out of her reverie by Willie limping in. Then she spotted the angry red cut on his cheek. ‘Have you been fighting again?’ she accused, even as she stood up to attend to his needs.
‘No, Mam, I fell aff’n my bike.’ Willie had never told his mother such a downright lie before, but he’d been thinking as he made his painful way from the scene of his accident. The blood had all been spilled, the money for the eggs had gone heelster-gowdie all over a huge expanse of nettles. He had tried to find the coins, getting his hands stung badly in the process, and he’d realised how deeply in trouble he would be if he didn’t come up with a feasible story. And so he had set about concealing the awful truth. He had lifted the bits of bicycle and the severely dented pail, empty now of course, and carried them across the field until he came to the dyke at th
e opposite end, on the other side of which was quite a large area of moorland.
Walking in what was more or less a circle, he buried one piece of what had been his pride and joy deep in the heart of various clumps of the heather until he had disposed of everything. A degree of his guilt left behind also, he had climbed the dyke again and made his way diagonally across the field towards his home.
Both knees were now so painful that he stopped to find out why, and was amazed to see how badly they were scraped; and, putting his hand up to his throbbing cheek, he wasn’t surprised to see it smeared with blood. He decided to admit that he’d fallen off his bike, but not to mention that the bike was no more, buckled beyond redemption. But one thing would have to be explained: where was the money for the eggs? His mother would go mad at him. Wait a minute, though. She’d likely be too busy tending his injuries to worry about money. And he could tell her truth about where it was, anyway. His hands were proof of his vain searches. The bonus was that he needn’t mention the pail and its contents. She knew nothing of them. Going quietly into the porch, he opened the kitchen door and limped in – his mother’s face, as she jumped up in alarm, giving him a wee bit more courage to say what he meant to say.
Emily’s first action was to fetch the iodine. Her son’s wound had to be made clean from any dirt and infection. It was when she made him lift up his foot so that she could see his knees better that the more serious injury became apparent. Slipping off his left boot and sock with some difficulty, she was alarmed to see how swollen his foot was. ‘Is it awful sore?’ she enquired softly, and at his grimacing nod, she said, ‘I’ll let you steep it in a basin for a while to see if that helps, and then I’d better bandage it.’
These procedures were almost more than the boy could stand, but he managed to grit his teeth and keep from crying. At least his mother hadn’t asked too many questions, and not even one about the lost money. It would come, though; he knew that.
He managed to sup a little of the soup, but was glad when Jake came in. It was Emily who told him what had happened, and after sympathising for a few moments he carried his son up to bed – with something of a struggle. ‘Is the bike a’ right?’ he asked then.
‘It’s a bit bashed, but it’ll be fine. I’ll see what Malcie says the morra.’
When his mother came in to say goodnight, she asked, ‘What about the money you got for the eggs?’
This was the straw that broke Willie’s outward composure. Tears came gushing out as he whimpered, ‘It fell among the nettles, and I tried and tried to …’ He held up his still burning hands. ‘See?’
‘Oh, bairn, you should have said. I’ll get some docken leaves. That’ll take out the sting.’
But it wasn’t only the stinging that kept the boy awake all night. His foot was giving pain such as he had never experienced before, his shoulder had also begun to ache and he felt he was burning up. Hearing his sister come in about ten, he called weakly, ‘Con.’
Luckily, she heard him, and called, ‘What d’you want, Willie?’
‘I want Mam.’
This was so unusual a request for him that she didn’t think twice about knocking on the kitchen door, knowing that, although her parents went to their box bed early, they probably wouldn’t be asleep yet. Emily came out straight away, and when she felt her son’s brow, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, my! He’s burning up.’ After Connie filled a basin with cold water, Emily sponged him gently.
It took well over an hour for the fever to break, but Willie was plainly still suffering extreme pain in his foot, which had swollen unbelievably now.
‘He must’ve sprained it,’ Connie observed.
‘Looks like it,’ agreed her mother. ‘We’d best strap it up tight.’
Using a long strip torn from an old cotton sheet that was kept for mending, Emily bound the foot from toe to well past the ankle, just to be sure, and secured it with a safety pin.
Jake offered to go to the farm and ask somebody to telephone for the doctor, but Emily bade him wait until a more civilised hour. ‘That’s two households you’d be disturbing, Johnny McIntyre’s and the doctor’s. Folk’ll not thank you for taking them out of their beds. You’d best go back to yours and get some sleep, or you’ll not be fit for anything.’
Having had only two and a half hours in bed, although unable to sleep, Jake was up at half past five, and made a pot of tea for Connie and Emily, who had both sat up to watch over the injured boy. It had taken Willie a long time to settle, and he had just succumbed to slumber about forty minutes before.
Having at least got something hot in his stomach, Jake was now allowed to go to Wester Burnton Farm. There were no other houses in the immediate area that had the luxury of a telephone, nor was there a doctor nearer than in Tillyburnie, somewhat smaller than a town but a little larger than a normal village. This was approximately three and a half miles along the turnpike, and actually boasted two GPs who had to cover all the Burnton farm towns – Wester, Easter and Mains of – as well as the village itself and the hamlet of Whinnybrae, so called because the hill under which it was situated was covered wth whins, or gorse to those unacquainted with the word.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Jake apologised to Jean McIntyre after making his request.
‘It’s no bother,’ she replied. ‘We’re used to it. There’s not an hour of the night we havena been knocked up at some time or other, but we dinna mind, as long as it’s not for something that could easy wait. Now off you go, but you’ll let us ken how the bairn is?’
‘Oh aye, Mrs McIntyre, I’ll dae that. Thanks.’
The doctor’s Morris Oxford drew up almost at the same time as Jake arrived home. ‘Mr Fowlie? I’m Dr Murison,’ he said, as he slammed the car door. A small, dumpy man wearing a creased tweed suit with a paddy hat on the side of his head, he did not give an impression of efficiency, but as the Fowlies were to discover, his looks belied his ability. Gently removing the bandage, he carefully examined the boy’s foot, glanced at the stricken face and could tell by the silent grimaces that he was still in great pain.
‘We’ll have to get you to hospital, laddie,’ he said, at last. ‘I’m nearly sure your foot is broken, but an X-ray will show what’s what.’
‘I was near sure it wasn’t just a sprain,’ Emily remarked. ‘So what happens now? Will we have to wait for an ambulance?’
Dr Murison shook his balding head. ‘I’ve some calls to do there anyway, so I’ll take him. That is if you’ll help me to get him down, Mr Fowlie, and into the car.’
‘Aye, we’ll easy manage.’
But it wasn’t easy. Willie could hardly stand the pain, and although he bit his lips and steeled himself not to make any noise, the odd involuntary moan came out as he was bumped down each protesting rung.
Emily, like all mothers, was quite distressed because her son was going into hospital, but more concerned that she hadn’t had time to change his clothing. In fact, he had hardly anything on at all, and although the doctor had wrapped him inside a blanket off the bed, he needed something decent to wear instead of his father’s old drawers that he wore in bed because there was no money for pyjamas.
‘Come on, Emmy,’ Jake called back. ‘If you’re wantin’ to go wi’ him …’
‘No,’ said the doctor firmly. ‘It’s better that she lets the professionals attend to him with no interference. Besides, how would she get home?’
He turned to call to her. ‘If you are looking for something for him to wear, you needn’t bother. There are all sorts of things in all sorts of sizes there.’
Forced to give in, she ran down in time to see her son being laid into the back of the Morris Oxford. ‘I’ll let Mrs McIntyre know what the report is,’ Dr Murison smiled as he sat down behind the steering wheel. ‘She’s quite used to passing on reports.’
Emily shook his outstretched hand. ‘Thank you, Doctor. You’ll think I’m over-anxious, but it’s the first time any of my family have been in hospital.’
‘You’re lik
e all other mothers,’ he smiled.
Jake waited a moment, then said, ‘I’d best get started my work, lass. The bairn’ll be a’ right, so dinna worry. He’s in good hands.’
‘You haven’t had any breakfast. Come inside and I’ll …’
‘I couldna eat a thing. Now, stop worryin’ or you’ll mak’ yoursel’ ill an’ that would finish the lot o’ us.’
Left on her own after Connie ran off to work, Emily had to keep busy to stop her worrying. For as much as Willie had been a thorn in her flesh all his life, she actually was experiencing what could pass as a motherly feeling towards him now that he’d been hurt. And it was all her fault for sending him to the village shop with eggs. He wouldn’t have been out on that rickety old bike if she hadn’t sent him. It crossed her mind then that the doctor had never asked how Willie had been hurt, though he was likely used to boys having accidents of some kind. Anyway, he said he would let them know the report, so there was nothing she could do about it now.
Chapter Nine
It was nearly seven o’clock, and the three Fowlies were having supper when seventeen-year-old Andy McIntyre came with the report from the hospital. ‘Willie’s broke his fit in three places,’ he began when Emily took him inside.
‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaimed.
‘So they’ve put him in plaster and he’ll be there aboot a week. Then they’ll let him hame wi’ crutches, and he’ll be aff the school for a good while.’
‘That’ll please him,’ laughed Jake.
‘An’ his shooder’s badly bruised.’
‘Oh, thank goodness it’s not broken and all,’ breathed Emily, then remembered her duty as woman of the house. ‘Would you like some of this skirlie and tatties?’
‘No thanks, Mrs Fowlie, I’ve had my supper. Oh, an’ my Da says he’s gan to Tillieburnie on Sunday, so he’ll tak’ you to the hospital to see Willie, if you like. An’ he’ll tak’ you back in aboot an hour.’
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