THE LINMILL ADDRESS was Stanebyres, Kirkfieldbank, Lanark. Stanebyres was an estate, and Linmill stude on Stanebyres grun. There was a big hoose caaed Stanebyres, awa up an avenue frae the Clyde road at the Smuggler’s Brig, abune Hazelbank. They say it stude in a muckle park wi big trees aa ower it, and tame deer grazin aboot it, but I neir saw it. The avenue was private.
The falls aside Linmill was caaed Stanebyres Linn, and the big beech wuids aside it were caaed the Stanebyres Wuids, sae ye see aa oor side ο Clyde aboot Linmill was Stanebyres this, or Stanebyres that, though whaur the first stane byres had been, or whan, I neir fand oot. At first, to tell ye the truith, I thocht the auld byre at Linmill had something to dae wi the name, but my daddie said the ferm itsell wasna that auld, and was caaed efter an auld ruin doun aside the Linn at the fute ο the waal orchard, and he showed me the stanes ο the auld mill ae day, gey laich in the grun, and hidden amang nettles. It had been a lin mill, he said, or flax as the English caaed it, and that was hou it had gotten its name: no frae the falls. Hou Stanebyres estate had gotten its name he didna ken.
The ferms on the ither side of Clyde frae Kirkfieldbank, richt doun the watter to the end ο the Stanebyres Wuids, near Hazelbank, were in an estate caaed Sunnyside. They werena like oor ferms, for the bank was steeper on the ither side ο the watter, and the parks abune it lay up oot ο the beild, and wadna growe fruit. If they werena in gress they were in hey or corn or neeps, and the fermers keepit kye. But it was a faur awa warld to me, for Clyde ye couldna cross atween the Kirkfieldbank and Crossford brigs, and they were baith miles awa.
Mind ye, a man could cross Clyde, if he wasna feart, at a wheen o places. They used to say that Tam Baxter had ance wadit across the very lip ο Stanebyres Linn, but his wife Martha was sae dung doun ower it that he swore he wadna try it again; and there was a nerra place atween the banks at the fute ο the Linmill parks caaed the Lowp, whaur a man could jump across, though naebody had tried for a gey while, sin a hauflin frae Nemphlar had landit short, and been cairrit awa to his daith. They fand him later on in the pule caaed the Saumon Hole, doun ablow the Linn, and he was an ugsome sicht, by aa accoonts.
There were twa ither places, no sae fearsome. Ane was by the Carlin Stane, at the fute ο the Stanebyres Wuids, whaur Clyde braident oot ower a shalla, and ye could wade across, they said, if ye had lang legs and the watter wasna big. I had a guid look ilka time I was doun there, but I neir saw ony wey to wade across, for roun the back ο the Carlin Stane, hauf wey ower, there was a muckle hole wi a whirlpule caaed the Gaun Weill, and it lookit as if it wad sook ye doun gin ye gaed near it.
The ither shalla was at Dublin Brig, atween Linmill and Kirkfieldbank, whaur the road passed ower the burn that cam doun into Clyde through auld Joe Dyer’s orchard. I seldom gaed near it, for I didna like to hae to pass through Linville. There were some laddies bidin near Girzie Craig’s shop that aye yokit on to me, if I was aa by mysell.
It was an unco thing, but for aa the grand places on the Stanebyres side ο Clyde, there were places on the ither side that seemed faur better. Tak the whirlies. They were roun holes worn by flood watter in the saft rock, whaureir there was a hard stane lyin. We had a guid hauf dizzen on oor side ο the Lowp aa big eneugh for paiddlin in, and ane big eneugh for a dook, if ye didna want to soum, and safer if ye couldna, for the watter haurdly rase abune yer knees. But they didna content us, for haurdly a hot day in the simmer could we gang near them, withoot seein some callants frae Nemphlar on the opposite bank, dookin in a whirlie there, and it maun hae been faur bigger, and faur deeper nor ony ο oors, for they stude on the edge and dived in.
And it was the same at the Carlin Stane. The Stanebyres side was grand there was nae dout, wi saund at the watter’s edge, and sticks in the wuids to licht a fire wi, and big stanes in the shallas wi beirdies aneth them, that ye could ginnle wi a horse-hair snare. But at bluebell time there was nae comparison atween the twa sides ο the watter. There were bluebells on the Stanebyres side nae dout, but no sae thick that ye couldna see atween them. Ye couldna at Sunnyside. The bluebells there lay sae close thegither they were like a mist hinging, amang the aiks and birks, and I think to this day they were the bonniest sicht I eir set een on.
And it was the same at ither times. If there was onything guid on the near side ο Carlin, there aye seemed something better on the ither. The primroses in the spring, like the bluebells in the simmer, aye lookit bonnier ower at Sunnyside, and the hazels at the back-end lookit heavier-laden, wi thicker clusters, and fatter and riper nuits, nor the hazels in Stanebyres Wuids.
It was fashious, and I grew up wantin to cross that watter, whiles at the Lowp, to dook in the Nemphlar callants’ whirlie, and whiles at Carlin, to dig for primroses, or pou bluebells, or gether nuits. I maun hae stude gazin at the Lowp hunders ο times, till I grew that dizzie wi the rush ο the watter that I gey nearly tummlet in, and I stude for hours in my bare legs in the watter at Carlin gazin into the shallas abune the Gaun Weill, feelin wi a big tae for the lie ο the bottom, and wonerin if I could risk anither step, till my feet grew sae blae wi the cauld that I could haurdly feel wi them, to fin my wey back to the shore.
And in bed at nichts, lyin in the daurk listenin to the rummle ο the Linn, I wad imagine mysell tryin to jump ower the Lowp, and faain back into it, like the hauflin frae Nemphlar, or tryin to wade across Carlin, and bein soopit aff my feet and cairrit doun to the Gaun Weill, and sookit into the middle ο it, and drount.
But whan I did cross Clyde, it was at Dublin Brig, and it was a bird’s nest we were efter.
My cuisin Bob and I had gane doun ae day, alang the hedge that mairched wi Airchie Naismith’s grun, to the heid ο the bank abune Clyde. It was steeper here nor onywhaur else alang the park bottoms, and though we leaned oot as faur as we daured, ilk takin a turn, wi the ither haudin his legs, we could see nae wey doun to the edge ο the watter. It was a peety, for we wantit to play doun at Clyde, but Jess and Gret, twa ο Bob’s sisters, were at the whirlies wi the Baxter lassies, and they had chased us awa. Jess was faur aulder nor Bob and me, and no blate wi her lufe.
We sat for a while lookin oot ower the heid ο the steep bank at the Clyde awa doun ablow us, and at the bank on the ither side, risin heich abune us, and covert wi big beeches, and ashes and aiks, some ο them stranglet wi ivy.
‘See that bird,’ said Bob.
He peyntit doun through a hole in the fullyery ο a hazel to the rush at the tail ο a pule. There was a big bird wi lang legs staunin in the watter aside a big stane, and as sune as I saw it it gaed dab wi its beak in the watter, sinkin its neck, and syne brocht up its beak wi a fish in it, raised its heid, gowpit, and sent the fish doun its thrapple. Syne it stude still again, nae dout waitin for anither.
‘It’s caaed a herne,’ said Bob. ‘Tam Baxter hates them, for they eat the wee troots.’
We sat watchin the bird for aboot an hour efter that, and shair eneugh it ate a wheen ο fish, and then, aa at ance, it streitched its wings and liftit its legs oot ο the watter, and flew awa drippin, first up the watter, syne doun again, risin aa the time till it was juist aboot level wi oor een, and then, whan it was richt fornent us, it landit in the tap ο a tree on the ither bank, and settled oot ο sicht amang the fullyery.
‘It’ll hae a nest there,’ said Bob.
We moved alang the bank a bit, watchin the tree, and in a wee while cam to a place whaur we could see what we thocht was a nest, richt at the tap ο the tree whaur the bird had landit.
‘It’ll mebbe hae young anes,’ said Bob. ‘It’ll be feedin them wi the fish.’
‘It swallowed the fish,’ I said.
‘Tam Baxter says they bring the fish back up, and drap them haill into the young anes beaks.’
‘Back up oot ο their wames?’ I said.
‘Ay,’ said Bob, ‘and if ye dinna believe me ask Tam Baxter.’
‘I believe ye,’ I said, for Tam Baxter kent aa aboot fish, or onything to dae wi fish. He had fish on the brain, my grannie said.
We sat for a while watchin the nest.
‘I wish we could see better,’ I said.
‘Ay,’ said Bob.
‘If ye were ower at Sunnyside,’ I said, ‘and up on the edge ο that park abune the bank, ye could look doun into that nest, and see what was gaun on.’
‘I believe ye could,’ said Bob.
‘I ken ye could,’ said I, ‘for the edge ο the park’s heicher nor whaur we’re sittin, and the nest’s aboot level wi us.’
‘Ye wad hae to walk aa the wey to Kirkfieldbank Brig to get ower to Sunnyside, and aa the wey back doun again, on the ither side, to get into that park.’
‘No if ye could jump ower the Lowp,’ said I.
‘Na, but we couldna dae that,’ said Bob. ‘It wad be suicide.’
‘Ay,’ said I, ‘but mebbe we could wade across somewhaur.’
‘They say ye can wade across at Carlin,’ said Bob, ‘but Carlin’s juist as faur frae here as Kirkfieldbank Brig.’
‘Ye can wade across at Dublin Brig,’ said I, ‘and that’s no faur awa, gin we juist hadna to gang back up on to the road again.’
‘We dinna hae to gang back up on the road again. We can slip through the hedge into Airchie Naismith’s, and roun the back ο his hoose, and alang the bank at the fute ο his park.’
‘He has a dug,’ said I.
‘If we’re quait it winna hear us,’ said Bob.
We gaed through the hedge into Airchie Naismith’s grun, and roun atween the back ο his hoose and the edge ο the bank abune the watter, and a gey job it was to win bye, for at ae place there was a midden whaur rubbish was flung ower, and pails ο dirty watter, and it was juist like a wat slide. His dug did hear us, tae, and howled as if its maister was gaun to dee that nicht, and we heard him yellin at it, but we were sune oot ο his wey, for the bank eased aff a wee as we won nearer Dublin, and we gat aff his grun on to the slope ο it, amang the sauchs and hazels, and though it was whiles gey saft aneth oor feet, whaur the field drains endit and watter tuimed oot, we won to Dublin Brig in the end, whaur we meant to wade across.
But we were fair forfochen, and whan we had a look at the watter we kent we couldna cross, that day at least, for it was faur ower deep. There had been heavy rain twa days afore, and we had forgotten aa aboot it.
We gaed back by the road, Bob to Linville and me to Linmill, gey disappeyntit.
We didna forget the herne’s nest, though, and ilka warm day, if Clyde lookit wee, we gaed alang to Dublin Brig to try the shallas.
A day cam at last whan we thocht we micht manage, for we paiddlet oot to the middle and fand it juist within oor depth, sae we gaed back to the bank and fand oor buits and stockins, and tied them roun oor necks, for we didna want to hae to walk doun the ither side ο the watter to the park abune the nest in oor bare feet.
It wasna sae plaisent paiddlin wi yer buits roun yer neck, for the meenit ye leaned forrit to pit yer haund on a stane, to steady yersell, they began to swing oot ablow ye, and whiles touched the watter, and whan ye strauchtent up they hit ye in the chist, and gey near knockit ye aff yer feet, especially if ye were on some jaggie stanes, or on a slimy rock.
But we won oot to the middle again, and syne stertit to feel oor wey forrit, through a glessie glide ower a clean rock bottom, that we had thocht nae deeper nor the runnels we had crossed on oor wey oot to it. But we sune fand oor mistake, for if ye lookit doun at ane ο yer legs ye saw the bit atween yer knee and the watter lookin juist its ordinar, but the bit atween the watter and yer fute lookit silly and short, and ye kent that the watter was cheatin ye, and was deeper than it seemed.
We had rowed up oor breeks gey near to oor dowps, but we sune had to rowe them up faurer, and then we fand that whan the watter was up to them the force ο it gey near liftit us aff oor feet. In fact, twice I felt my feet slippin.
‘Wait for me,’ said Bob.
He was shorter nor me, and whan I turnt roun to look for him I fand him a guid wey ahint.
I gaed back and took his haund, and we gaed forrit thegither.
‘My breeks are gettin wat,’ he said.
‘They’ll dry in the sun,’ I said, ‘ance we win to the ither side.’
‘Haud me,’ he said, ‘I’m slippin.’
I was slippin tae. I had a look aheid and saw a big stane stickin oot ο the watter, sae I held ticht to his haund and breinged for it. It was like walkin on air, and I felt my ain breeks gettin soaked, but I glued my een on that stane and made for it. Bob gied a yell, for he had stertit to float, but I poued him efter me, and I won to the side ο the stane. We baith stude and held on to it, gaspin for braith, and then had a look at the watter still to cross. There was naething in it, juist shalla runnels amang beds ο big chuckies.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’re gaun to manage it yet.’
And manage it we did, and whan we won to the shore, we lookit ower to Dublin Brig. It seemed a lang wey aff, and the laddies that had been fishin for baggies whan we left the ither side were staunin starin at us.
I waved to them, but they didna wave back, and ane ο them ran awa up the Linville road. Girzie Craig was his grannie. He wad be awa to tell her, I thocht, but I didna care. It was nane ο her business.
Bob said he didna want to gang awa back doun Clyde to the park abune the herne’s nest. He was ower wat, he said. But I coaxed him ower amang some hazels and we took aff oor breeks and gied them a wringin, and syne pat back on oor buits and stockins, and by that time we felt a lot better, and he was game to gang on.
But it was reugh gaun up that Sunnyside bank, I can tell ye, for it was clartie wat and covert wi briers and brambles and that steep ye could haurdly keep yer feet. Afore we won to the park abune it we were glaur frae tap to tae, and covert wi scarts.
The park was fou ο neeps, tae, and we had to tramp ower the dreels, and then we cam to a hedge that we couldna win through till we had gane up the side ο it gey near to Nemphlar, and whan we did mak the neist park it was fou ο young bullocks, and they cam rinnin doun at us if they were gaun to gang for us, and we werena very shair ο them, though we kent they werena bulls. But they juist made a ring roun us, and pat their heids doun, and drew their braith oot and in, as if they werena shair ο us aither, and in the end we faced up to them, and gaed on.
But the neist hedge we cam to was ower muckle for us. There were thistles at the fute ο it, and wi aa the scarts we had gotten sclimmin up frae the watter, we juist couldna thole the jags.
And we werena hauf wey to the park abune the nest.
‘I want to gang hame,’ said Bob.
‘Aa richt,’ I said. ‘Come on.’
Aa the wey back doun to whaur we had crossed the watter I had ae idea in my mind, and whan we won to the shore I cam oot wi it.
‘If ye dinna want to wade across Clyde again, we could walk up to Kirkfieldbank Brig.’
‘We canna,’ said Bob, ‘withoot crossin the Mouss.’
I had forgotten the Mouss. It jeyned the Clyde ablow Kirkfieldbank Brig, no faur frae Sunnyside Hoose.
‘The Mouss Watter’s no braid like Clyde,’ said I, ‘and it canna be sae deep, and there’s a brig ower it onyway, at the fute ο the Mouss Peth.’
‘It wad be daurk afore we won near it,’ said Bob.
‘Ye want to wade back to Dublin, then?’ said I, and had a look across the watter. I gat the shock ο my life, for aa alang the fence aside the road abune the bank, frae Dublin Brig gey near to Linville, there was a raw ο folk staunin, aa watchin us, and someane was wavin.
‘Look,’ I said.
‘It’s my mither,’ said Bob.
‘Come on, Bob,’ I said, ‘if we can wade across ae wey we can wade across the ither. We dinna want to hae them aa lauchin at us.’
And we took aff oor buits and stockins again, and tied them roun oor necks.
We gat a fricht, though, whan we stertit to wade. The watter seemed faur deeper nor whan we had crossed afore and whan I lookit for the big stane whaur we had restit at the end ο the glessie glide, I could haurdly see it. The watter was gey near ower it.
‘The watter’s risen,’ I said.
‘My mither’s wavin us back,’ said Bob.
He was richt, and she was yellin tae, though we couldna hear what she was sayin, for the watter was roarin in oor lugs, and that was a queer thing tae, for on oor wey ower afore we had heard nae mair nor a reishle.
‘I’m turnin back,’ said Bob.
I didna like turnin back, wi aa the folk lookin on, and I felt my wey forrit for a while, but in the end I fand I was bate, for I gat my breeks wat again, and stertit to slip, and the skrechin frae the fence ower at Dublin grew something fearsome.
‘Yer grannie’s there,’ said Bob.
I lookit to see if it was true and gey near lost my balance.
He was richt. My grannie was there, and she was shakin her neives and yellin. I lost my balance and gey near lat mysell droun, I felt sae fulish, then I thocht ο my mither, and kent I’d better gie in. I gaed back to the nearest stane and sat doun.
In a wee while a man stertit wadin ower frae Dublin, wi a stick in his haund to steady him. He frichtent me at first, for his face was pitch black, and then I saw he was a cuisin ο my mither’s, a collier frae Linville. He maun hae been catchit comin in frae the pit.
Whan he won ower aside us he said he wad gie ane ο us a cairry, and the ither could tak his haund.
‘Bob’s younger nor me,’ I said. ‘He can hae the cairry.’
Whan we set aff back I was as prood as a peacock to be wadin and no cairrit, but I was coontin my chickens afore they were hatchit, for as sune as the watter was ower my waist, and I had stertit to float, the collier gript me by the middle and held me in his oxter, and I hung ower the watter fair helpless, till anither collier, a brither ο the first ane, cam and took me on his back.
It was whan the pair ο them stertit to talk that I fand oot hou the watter had risen.
‘They couldna hae crossed wi the watter like this,’ said the ane that was cairryin Bob.
‘It’s risen,’ said the ane that was cairryin me. ‘It aye rises efter lowsin-time at the New Lanark mills. They let doun aa the watter they hae been haudin aa day.’
‘It’s a guid thing it didna rise whan they were hauf wey across,’ said Bob’s ane.
‘They wad hae been ower Stanebyres Linn by this time,’ said my ane, giein me a bit hitch faurer up his back, juist like a bag ο coal.
Still, he was daein his best for me, and I wadna hae ye think I wasna gratefou, but it was sic a disgrace.
The folk alang the fence gied a cheer whan they landit us baith on the shore, and then my auntie Jean, Bob’s mither, gaed for me, for leadin Bob into danger, and syne my grannie gaed for my auntie Jean, sayin I was nae waur nor Bob, and the folk began to snigger, and I tried to slink awa, and my grannie cam efter me and yokit on to me, and daddit my lug, syne grippit me in her twa airms and held me that ticht that I could haurdly draw a braith, and aa the time she was greitin, and sayin it was a guid thing my mither wasna there, or she wad hae passed awa.
She led me by the haund aa the wey through Linville, as if I was a bairn, and aa the folk stared as we gaed bye, and I could hae sunk through the grun.
Whan we passed the Lesmahagow road-end we met my grandfaither, comin to look for us.
‘They’re aa richt, then?’ said my grandfaither.
‘Ay. Yer brither Sam’s twa laddies cairrit them back ower. The watter had been lowsed at New Lanark mills.’
‘Sae ye wadit across Clyde, Rab?’ said my grandfaither.
‘Ay,’ said I.
‘A peety the watter raise,’ said my grandfaither.
‘Nou dinna encourage him,’ said my grannie. ‘If it had risen whan they were hauf-wey across they wad baith hae been drount.’
She keepit sayin that to my mither tae, whan she telt her aa aboot it, later on, and I had to promise no to gang near Clyde again.
And I didna, for a while.