CLYDESIDE WAS BONNIE at maist times ο the year, but neir bonnier than in the spring, whan the grun aneth the trees and roun the bottoms ο the berry busses was black and clean efter the winter delvin. The flourish cam afore the fullyery was thick, and through the trees ye could still mak oot the parks risin ahint them frae the holms by the watter-side, covered wi raws ο groset and curran busses, and rasp canes and strawberry beds, rinnin this wey in ae plot, and that in anither, aye wi the lie ο the grun, sae that aa was pitten to the best use, and there was haurdly a neuk or crannie that didna growe its share. It was trig, I can tell ye, and whan the sun was bricht and flingin lang thin shaddas ower the fresh yird, whan the blackies and mavies were singin frae the taps ο the peirs, and the hinnie-bees thrang among the plooms and aipples, it was winsome forbye, and heidy wi the scent ο the flourish. Clydeside, said my daddie, was the gairden ο Scotland. He had read it in a book.
Ither folk had read that tae, it seemed, for ilka Setterday whan the flourish was oot the haill stretch ο road atween Dalserf and Kirkfieldbank was a lang procession ο fower-in-haund brakes, fou ο folk frae the reikie touns that lay faurer doun the Watter, the feck ο them frae Glesca itsell.
Efter the brakes left Hazelbank on their wey up the Watter they had a brae or twa to sclim afore they cam to Stanebyres Linn, whaur they stoppit at the Falls Hoose to watter the horses, and let the passengers gang doun the made walks in the beech-wuids to look at the Linn. The steyest ο thae braes was the last ane, atween the Black Brig and the Falls Hoose itsell, and there the horses had to gang at a walk, pouin hard on the brechams wi their heids doun, and shovin wi their hin legs like mad; and a laddie rinnin alangside could juist aboot keep up wi them, gin he had rowth ο pech and a stoot pair ο legs.
On thae Setterdays whan the flourish was oot the laddies aboot the Falls used to gether at the Black Brig, and whan the brakes had eased to a walk they shouted ‘Staun on my heid for a penny!’ and whan they had stude on their heids they rase and ran efter the brakes, priggin at the passengers for siller. And the passengers whiles werena blate, and there was mony a spendin-spree later on, at the Falls Hoose, in Martha Baxter’s shop.
I was taen doun to the Black Brig ae Setterday by Martha Baxter’s laddie Tam, but I couldna staun on my heid, and it was fashious. I grew fain to learn, and stertit to practise. I was at it ae day aside the big stane troch that stude fornent the Linmill front door whan my grandfaither cam oot through the front-gairden yett and saw me tummlin ower my wilkies.
‘What’s that ye’re daein, Rab?’
‘Trying to staun on my heid.’
‘What dae ye want to dae that for?’
I didna tell him the haill truith for I thocht that if he kent he micht tell me no to gang near the brakes on the Setterday, for he was aye tellin me to keep awa frae horses.
‘I juist want to learn. The ither laddies can dae it.’
‘Try again, then, and I’ll haud yer feet.’
Efter haudin my feet for a while, and waitin till he thocht I had gotten my balance, he wad lowse his grip, and though I whiles tummlet at first, in the end I could keep up for lang eneugh. My bother efter that was to get my feet up and keep them up withoot his haund to steady them. I wantit him to keep on helpin me till I had learnt the knack ο it, but he couldna spare the time.
‘Practise against a waa.’
For the rest ο the week I did juist that, and by Friday nicht I fair fancit mysell. I could haurdly wait for the mornin, thinkin ο the siller I micht earn.
It was a braw day that Setterday, bricht and dry, and I kent there wad be brakes bye the ordinar, for the flourish was juist at its heicht. I wasna pleased, though, whan I won to the Falls Hoose, to fin that young Tam Baxter was wi his big brithers; and what was waur, whan we had won doun to the Black Brig, we fand a lot ο bigger laddies still, some frae as faur awa as Kirkfieldbank. And aa were efter siller aff the brakes. I felt frae the stert that I wadna dae weill that day.
And I was richt. When the first brake cam I tried to staun on my heid wi the ithers, but the grushie rid road was a sicht harder on the heid than the gress fornent the Linmill front door, and as sune as I felt the pain ο a shairp stane cuttin into my croun I tummlet richt doun in a heap. By that time the ither laddies were up and rinnin, and pennies were jinglin on the road, sae I ran tae, but my legs were ower short. Lang afore I eir won near a penny some ither laddie had gotten it.
I fell ahint and could hae grutten, but hope grew again at ance. Anither brake cam alang, and syne anither. And young Tam Baxter had a plan.
‘Haud back, Rab. Let they brakes gang. Whan the ithers hae rin efter them we’ll be left aa by oorsells.’
He was richt. Afore inither fower had passed we were alane by the brig.
There was a gey lang wait afore anither brake cam alang, and I was feart the ither laddies wad be at the Falls Hoose and back afore it won forrit, but win forrit it did, and Tam shouted ‘Staun on my heid for a penny!’
We baith stude on oor heids, and this time I did it on the gress at the side ο the road, and it didna hurt my heid, and I managed to keep my balance. I had neir dune it better.
I did it ower weill, to tell the truith, for afore I was feenished and had stertit to chase the brake it was gey near roun the bend and oot ο sicht. I gaed efter it as hard as I could, though, and began to catch up on it, and the passengers lauched and cheered me on, and a leddy in a braw big hat wi an ostrich feather in it threw me a penny, but it landit at Tam Baxter’s feet, and he played grab at it afore I could win near it. It wasna fair, for he had gotten a penny or twa already, and there was a yell frae the folk in the brake, and the leddy cried shame on him.
I had stoppit and was gaun to fecht Tam Baxter for my penny, whan I heard anither cry frae the leddy in the brake.
‘Come on, little boy. Here’s a sixpence.’
A sixpence!
I ran efter the brake again, but this time I couldna catch up wi it. I hadna the pech. Tam Baxter won aheid ο me, and I fell faurer and faurer ahint him.
The leddy in the brake cried oot to him.
‘It isn’t for you. It’s for the little boy with the red hair. Come on, little boy.’
But my legs had gane dwaibly. I could haurdly bide on my feet. And though she threw the sixpence as hard as she could it landit faur short ο me, and Tam Baxter turnt roun to gang for it.
I gaed for Tam Baxter, though he was bigger nor me, and we were rowin in the road fechtin like twa cats whan some ο the bigger laddies cam back doun the road frae the brakes that had gane on aheid. Ane ο them gat my sixpence, a muckle hauflin by the name ο Wull MacPherson, and there was anither yell frae the brake, and I could see the leddy in the big hat staunin up and shakin her umbrella, and cryin something I couldna mak oot, and that was the end ο her, for the brake gaed oot ο sicht roun the second bend.
I was faur ower wee to fecht Wull MacPherson, sae I sat doun and grat in the sheuch. Twa mair brakes passed whan I was sittin there, and I could hear the ither laddies rinnin, and the passengers cryin them on, and pennies jinglin on the road again, but I peyed nae heed.
I was tryin to think ο a wey ο gettin a passin brake to mysell. I thocht ο gaun doun bye the Black Brig to the brae abune Hazelbank, but it was a lang wey awa, and for aa I kent there wad be Hazelbank laddies there, and I wad be nae better aff. And I could think ο nae brae up the Watter frae the Falls Hoose till the road won ower the Kirkfieldbank brig, and that was a mile awa and mair.
I made up my mind juist to gang hame to Linmill and fin my grandfaither, then I mindit him tellin my grannie in the morning that he wad be sprayin the orange pippins, and I kent he wadna let me near him, for the sulphur he used gaed aa ower the place in a drizzle, and ruint yer claes.
I was roused oot ο my dwam by a commotion doun the road by the brig. The laddies were chauntin a rhyme. It was ane they used whan the folk in a brake wadna gie them onything, and it made the folk mad, for it caaed them Glesca keelies.
‘The Glesca keelies are no very wyce, They bake their scones wi bugs and mice, And efter that they skin the cat, And pit it in the pail pat.’
The chaunt had hardly deed doun whan the brake cam forrit and drew alangside me.
Here was a brake to mysell, but the folk in it wad be in nae mood to fling pennies to me, I thocht, sae I juist sat still.
The brake was fou ο men in flat skippit bunnets, sae I kent they werena gentry, for the gentry wore hats. Puir sowls, mebbe they couldna afford to fling pennies awa.
Then ane ο them saw me.
‘Can ye no staun on yer heid, laddie?’
I didna like his mainner.
‘I can staun on my heid fine.’
‘Ye can nut.’
‘I can sut.’
‘Let’s see ye.’
I wasna gaun to be thocht a leear, sae I tried to staun on my heid, but I was ower eager, and the gress at the side ο the sheuch was gey coorse and I gat a thorn in ane ο my haunds. Whaneir I felt the jag I gaed richt ower my wilkies, and what was waur, I landit in the sheuch. By the time I had won oot ο it the brake was on its wey roun the bend, wi the men in it lauchin their heids aff.
It took me aa my time no to cry the rhyme efter them.
I didna, though. I stertit up the road on my wey hame. Twa ither brakes passed me afore I cam to the Falls Hoose, but I peyed nae heed, no even what I was askit by a man in the second ane if I couldna staun on my heid. He was weirin a flat bannet, like the ane that had askit me afore, and I juist gied him a glower, and slowed down to let the brake pass me quicker.
I won up to Martha Baxter’s shop without a maik in my pooch, and it was gey ill to thole, efter aa the siller I had heard jinglin on the road that day, and the sixpence that suld hae been mine. I made up my mind to tell my cousin Jockie aboot big Wull MacPherson, and ask Jockie to gie him a hammerin. But that didna mak it easier to pass the shop winnock.
There were aboot seiven brakes staunin atween the Falls yett and the Linmill road-end, maist ο them tuim, wi their passengers doun seein the Linn, and the coachmen watterin the horses. But ae brake in the raw was ready to leave, wi its passengers aa in their places, and as I was walkin bye the coachman strauchtent up by the fore-haund leader’s heid wi twa pails in his haunds.
‘Here, laddie, I want awa. Tek thae twa pails back to Tam Baxter.’
Anither coachman heard him and gied a bit lauch.
‘The laddie’s ower wee. They wad trail alang the grun.’
‘Na, na. Here, son. We’ll pit ae pail inside the ither. Like that, see. Nou pit yer airms roun them.’
I could dae naething else, though it was gey akward, for I could haurdly see abune them to mak shair whaur I was gaun. But I grippit them ticht and made for auld Tam’s stable, that lay through the yett and roun at the back ο the hoose. The coachman hadna promised me onything, and he wad be awa afore I could win back, but I was shair Tam wad tell Martha to gie me a sweetie.
I had juist gotten to the Falls yett, and was keekin doun by my feet to save me frae faain, for the graivel was gey coorse there, whan I bumpit into someane. I lookit up and saw twa-three men, weirin hats, and a leddy, my leddy, the ane in the hat wi the big braid brim and the ostrich feather.
‘It’s the little boy who didn’t get his sixpence.’
Ane ο the men stude and lookit doun ower his wame at me.
‘He seems to have found a more useful way of earning some pocket money. Are you helping with the horses, young man?’
‘Aye. A coachman gied me thae twa pails to tak to Tam Baxter.’
The leddy lookit gey doutfu.
‘They’re far too heavy for a little boy like you.’
‘They’re no heavy at aa. I could cairry twice the wecht.’
‘I hope the coachman gave you something to yourself?’
‘Na, but Tam’ll mebbe tell Martha to gie me a sweetie. She keeps the shop.’
The man bent his brous.
‘The coachman gave you nothing for carrying these pails?’
‘Na.’
‘Bounder.’
I didna ken what that was, but the leddy had opened her purse again.
‘Poor little chap. He seems to be having bad luck. Little boy, here’s your sixpence: the one you didn’t get for standing on your head.’
I pat oot my haund for the sixpence and the pails fell, for my left airm didna gang faur eneugh roun them, and the rim ο the bottom ane landit on my taes, and the pain drew tears to my een. But I screwed up my mou and tholed it, and the men wi the leddy pickit up my pails and pat them back in my airms again, ance the sixpence was safe in my pooch, and watched me till I had won roun to the door ο Tam’s stable, and syne waved me guid-bye. I had to pit the pails doun to wave back to them, and whan I couldna pick them up again they lauched, sae I juist waved till they turnt and gaed awa, and syne poued the pails alang the grun.
There were a wheen coachmen at the spiggot in the stable, aa waitin for watter, and Tam was short ο pails. When he saw me he was pleased, I can tell ye.
‘Ye’re juist in time, Rab. I was needin thae pails.’
He pat ane ο the pails ablow the spiggot and stertit to fill it.
‘Wha gied ye them?’
‘A coachman.’
‘The lazy deil. He suld hae brocht them back himself. Did ye fetch them aa the wey in frae the road?’
‘Ay.’
‘Did the coachman gie ye onything for yersell?’
‘Na.’
‘Shame on him. But awa into the hoose, son, and ask Martha to gie ye a sweetie frae the shop.’
I was comin oot through the shop front door whan I met young Tam. Ye wadna hae thocht he could look me in the ee, efter stealin that penny ο mine, and tryin to steal my sixpence, but he took me by the airm and poued me ower aside his big brither Alec.
‘Tell him, Rab. Tell him aboot Wull MacPherson stealin yer sixpence.’
I telt him, withoot saying that Tam had tried to steal it himsell. Then I saw what he was efter. Wull MacPherson was comin forrit to the shop.
The twa brithers gaed up to Wull MacPherson, wi me ahint them.
‘I want that sixpence ye took frae Lizzie Hannah’s Rab.’
‘I didna tak it frae ony Rab. I took it aff the road. It was flung oot ο a brake.’
Young Tam spak then.
‘The leddy said the sixpence was for Rab.’
‘I didna ken that.’
‘Ye ken nou,’ said big Alec. ‘Ower wi it.’
Wull MacPherson stertit to struggle.
‘I’ll haud him, Tam,’ said big Alec to his brither. ‘You rype his pooches.’
He held him while Tam rypit his pooches.
‘Tak sixpence,’ said big Alec, ‘and pit the rest back.’
Tam did what he was telt.
‘Nou gie Rab his sixpence.’
I didna feel very safe, wi Wull MacPherson hingin aboot, and I wasna juist shair that I had a richt to the sixpence, sin the leddy had gien me anither, but I needna hae fasht, for Tam had an idea ο his ain.
‘Are ye no gaun to shair it, Rab? Ye wadna hae gatten it gin it hadna been for us.’
It was the truith, and I couldna gainsay it. I took them baith into their mither’s ain shop and stude my haund, and it was juist as weill, for whan I won oot again, wi a luckie-bag and a sugarally strap, there was big Wull MacPherson wi his ee on me. I ran back in for big Alec.
‘Wull MacPherson’s waitin for me. Will ye see me doun to the Linmill road-end?’
Whan Wull saw that I had the Baxters at my back he slank awa ahint ο the brakes, and I won the road-end wi nae bother.
Afore I gaed into the hoose I hid my luckie-bag in the byre beyler-hoose, and ate the sugarally strap; but my grannie was ower gleg for me.
‘What’s that black stuff roun yer gub? Sugarally again? I thocht I telt ye no to eat trash. Whaur did ye get it?’
I had to tell her the haill story, though I said naething aboot the sixpence still in my pooch.
She gaed on at me till supper-time, caain me a cadger, and said that if she heard ο me staunin on my heid on the Falls Brae again she wad tell my mither. And she did tell my grandfaither, and he yokit on to me tae, and sad I wad be rin ower yet, aye rinnin aboot amang horses’ legs, and gin he had kent what I wantit to learn to staun on my heid for he wad hae wastit nae time on me, and him ahint wi the sprayin. Syne my grannie caaed him a big sumph, for no jalousin what I was efter, wantin to learn to staun on my heid, and the pair ο them cast oot, and we had a gey grim supper.
By the time I had a chance to slip the sixpence into my bank I had lost aa pleisure in it, and I neir gied near the Falls Brae again.
A recording on audio-cassette (050) of the author reading four of these Linmill Stories (‘The Pownie’, ‘The Mennans’, ‘The Donegals’ and ‘The Saubbath’) is available from Scotstoun Recordings, 13 Ashton Road, Hillhead, Glasgow,
G12 8sp, Scotland at £5.00 (UK): £6.50 overseas.