Erchie, My Droll Friend

X HOW JINNET SAW THE KING

I saw him and her on Thursday,” said Erchie, “as nate’s ye like, and it didna cost me mair nor havin’ my hair cut. They gaed past oor kirk, and the session put up a stand, and chairges ten shillin’s a sate.

“‘Not for Joe,’ says I; ‘I’d sooner buy mysel’ a new pair o’ boots;’ and I went to Duffy and says I, ‘Duffy, are ye no’ gaun to hae oot yer bonny wee lorry at the heid o’ Gairbraid Street and ask the wife and Jinnet and me to stand on’t?’

“‘Right,’ says Duffy, ‘bring you Jinnet and I’ll tak’ my wife, and we’ll hae a rale pant.’

“So there was the four o’ us standin’ five mortal ‘oors on Duffy’s coal-lorry. I was that gled when it was a’ bye. But I’ll wager there was naebody gledder nor the King himsel’, puir sowl! Frae the time he cam’ into Gleska at Queen Street Station till the time he left Maryhill, he lifted his hat three million seven hundred and sixty-eight thousand and sixty-three times.

“Talk aboot it bein’ a fine job bein’ a King! I can tell ye the money’s gey hard earned. Afore he starts oot to see his beloved people, he has to practise for a week wi’ the dumb-bells, and feed himsel’ up on Force, Grape-nuts, Plasmon, Pianolio, and a’ thae strengthenin’ diets that Sunny Jim eats.

“I thocht first Jinnet maybe wadna gang, her bein’ in the Co-operative Store and no’ awfu’ ta’en up wi’ Royalty, but, dod! she jumped at the chance.

“‘The Queen’s a rale nice buddy,’ she says; ‘no that I’m personally acquainted wi’ her, but I hear them sayin’. And she used to mak’ a’ her ain claes afore she mairried the King.’

“So Jinnet and me were oot on Duffy’s lorry, sittin’ on auld copies o’ ‘Reynolds’s News,’ and hurrayin’ awa’ like a pair o’ young yins.

“The first thing Jinnet saw was a woman wi’ a wean and it’s face no’ richt washed.

“‘Fancy her bringin’ oot her wean to see the King, wi’ a face like that,’ says Jinnet, and gies the puir wee smout a sweetie.

“Frae that till it was time for us to gang hame Jinnet saw naething but weans, and her and Duffy’s wife talked aboot weans even on. Ye wad think it was a baby-show we were at and no’ a King’s procession.

“Duffy sat wi’ a Tontine face on him maist o’ the time, but every noo and then gaun up the street at the back o’ us to buy himsel’ a bottle o’ broon robin, for he couldna get near a pub; and I sat tryin’ as hard’s I could to think hoo I wad like to be a King, and what kind o’ waistcoats I wad wear if I had the job. On every hand the flags were wavin’, and the folk were eatin’ Abernaithy biscuits.

“At aboot twelve o’clock cannons begood to bang.

“‘Oh my! I hope there’s nae weans near thae cannons or they micht get hurt,’ says Jinnet.

“Little did she think that at that parteecular meenute the King was comin’ doon the tunnel frae Cowlairs, and tellin’ her Majesty no’ to be frichted.

“When the King set foot in the Queen Street Station he gied the wan look roond him, and says he, ‘Is this Gleska can ony o’ ye tell me?’

“‘It is that, wi’ your Majesty’s gracious permission,’ says the porter; ‘sees a haud o’ yer bag.’

“‘I mind fine o’ bein’ here yince afore,’ says the King, and gangs oot into George Square.

“‘Whitna graveyaird’s this?’ he asks, lookin’ at the statues.

“‘It’s no’ a graveyaird; it’s a square, and that’s the Municeepal Buildin’,’ somebody tells him. His Majesty then laid a foundation-stone as smert’s ye like wi’ his least wee bit touch, and then went into the Municeepal Buildin’s and had a snack.

“He cam’ oot feelin’ fine. ‘The Second City o’ the Empire!’ he says. ‘I can weel believ’t. If it wasna for my business bein’ in London I wad hae a hoose here. Whit am I to dae next?’

“They took his Majesty doon Buchanan Street.

“‘No bad!’ says he.

“Then he cam’ to Argyle Street, and gaed west, past the Hielan’man’s Cross at the heid o’ Jamaica Street. He sees a lot o’ chaps there wi’ the heather stickin’ oot o’ their ears, and a tartan brogue that thick it nearly spiled the procession.

“‘The Hielan’man’s Cross,’ says he; ‘man, ay! I’ve heard o’t. Kamerhashendoo. If I had thocht o’t I wad hae brocht my kilts and my pibroch and a’ that.’

“A’ the wey doon the Dumbarton Road the folk were fair hingin’ oot o’ their windows, wavin’ onything at a’ they could get a haud o’, and the Royal carriage was bump-bump-bumpin’ like a’ that ower the granite setts.

“‘Whit’s wrang wi’ the streets o’ Gleska?’ says the King, him bein’ used to wud streets in London, whaur he works.’

“‘It’s granite, if ye please,’ says they.

“‘Oh ay!’ says the King; ‘man, it mak’s a fine noise. Will we soon be there? I’ like this fine, but I wadna like to keep onybody waitin’.’

“At Finnieston the folk cam’ up frae the side streets and fair grat wi’ patriotic fervour. For-bye, a’ the pubs were shut for an’oor or twa.

“‘Whit I want to see’s the poor,’ says the King. ‘I’m tired lookin’ at the folk that’s weel aff; they’re faur ower common.’

“‘Them’s the poor,’ he was tellt; ‘it’s the best we can dae for your Majesty.’

“‘But they’re awfu’ bien-lookin’ and weel put on,’ says he.

“‘Oh ay!’ they tells him, ‘that’s their Sunday claes.’”

“And so the Royal procession passed on its way, the King being supplied wi’ a new hat every, ten minutes, to mak’ up for the yins he spiled liftin’ them to his frantic and patriotic subjects.

“In ten to fifteen minutes he examined the pictures in the Art Galleries – the Dutch, the English, the Italian, and the Gleska schools o’ painters; the stuffed birds, and the sugaraully hats the polis used to hae when you and me was jinkin’ them.

“‘Och, it’s fine,’ says he; ‘there’s naething wrang wi’ the place. Are we no’ near Maryhill noo?’

“Ye see his Majesty had on a bate he could see the hale o’ Gleska in five ‘oors or less, an’ be oot sooner nor ony ither king that ever set a fit in it. They wanted him to mak’ a circular tour o’t, and come back to the Municeepal Buildin’s for his tea.

“‘Catch me,’ says he. ‘I’m gaun back to Dalkeith.’

“A’ this time we were standin’ on Duffy’s lorry, flanked on the left by the Boy’s Brigade, lookin’ awfu’ fierce, and the riflemen frae Dunoon on the richt. Every noo an’ then a sodger went bye on a horse, or a lassie nearly fainted and had to be led alang the line by a polisman, and him no’ awfu’ carin’ for the job. Duffy was gaun up the street to buy broon robin that aften he was gettin’ sunburnt, and my wife Jinnet nearly hurt her een lookin’ for weans.

“‘’Look at thon wee wean, Erchie,’ she wad aye be tellin’ me, ‘does’t no’ put ye in mind o’ Rubbert’s wee Hughie? Oh, the cratur!’

“‘Wumman,’ I tellt her, ‘this is no’ a kinderspiel ye’re at; it’s a Royal procession. I wonder to me ye wad be wastin’ yer e’esicht lookin’ at weans when there’s sae mony braw sodgers.’

“‘Oh, Erchie!’ says she, ‘I’m bye wi’ the sodgers;’ and jist wi’ that the procession cam’ up the street. First the Lancers wi’ their dickies stickin’ ootside their waistcoats.

“‘Man, them’s fine horses,’ says Duffy, wi’ a professional eye on the beasts. ‘Chaps me that broon yin wi’ the white feet.’

“Then cam’ the King and Queen.

“‘Whaur’s their croons?’ asks Duffy’s wife. ‘I divna believe that’s them at a’.’

“‘That’s them, I’ll bate ony money,’ I says. ‘Ye can tell by the hurry they’re in.’

“‘Oh, the craturs!’ says Jinnet, and then says she, ‘Oh, Erchie! look at the wean hanging ower that window. I’m feart it’ll fa’ ower.’

“Afore she could get her een aff the wean the King’s cairrage was past, and the rest o’ the Lancers cam’ clatterin’ after them.

“‘Noo for the brass bands!’ says Duffy, lookin’ doon the street. But there was nae brass bands. The show was bye.

“‘If I had kent that was to be a’ that was in’t, I wad never hae ta’en oot my lorry,’ says Duffy, as angry as onything, and made a breenge for anither bottle o’ broon robin.

“‘Och, it was fine,’ says Jinnet. ‘I never saw sae mony weans in a’ my days.’.

“And the crood began to scale.

“His Majesty reached Maryhill Station exact to the minute, wi’ his eye on his watch.

“‘Weel, that’s bye ony wye,’ says he, and somebody cries for a speech.

“‘People o’ Gleska,’ he says, ‘I have seen your toon. It’s fine – there’s naething wrang wi’t,’ and then the gaird blew his whustle, and the train went aff.

“The great event was ower, the rain begood to fa’ again; the Gilmorehill student hurried hame to blacken his face and put on his sister’s frock. The coloured ping-pong balls strung ower Sauchieha’ Street was lighted, the illuminated skoosh cars began to skoosh up and doon the street, the public-hooses did a fine tred.

“‘I’m gled it’s a’ bye,’ says Jinnet, when we got hame to oor ain hoose.

“‘Indeed, and so am I,’ says I. ‘There wad be fine fun in this warld a’ the time if we werena tryin’ for’t.’”

XI ERCHIE RETURNS

For weeks I had not seen Erchie. He was not to be met on the accustomed streets, and St Kentigern’s Kirk having been closed since July for alterations and repairs, it was useless to go there in search of its beadle. Once I met Duffy, and asked him what had become of the old man.

“Alloo you Erchie!” was all the information he would vouchsafe; “if he’s keepin’ oot o’ sicht, he’ll hae his ain reason for’t. Mind, I’m no’ sayin’ onything against the cratur, though him and me’s had mony a row. He’s a’ richt if ye tak’ him the richt wye. But sly! He’s that sly, the auld yin, ye can whiles see him winkin’ awa’ to himsel’ ower something he kens that naebody else kens, and that he’s no gaun to tell to them. I havena seen the auld fuiter since the Fair week; perhaps he’s gotten genteel and bidin’ doon at Rothesay till the summer steamboats stop. There’s yin thing sure – it’s no’ a case o’ wife-desertion, for Jinnet’s wi’ him. I can tell by the Venetian blinds and the handle o’ their door. Sly! Did ye say sly? Man, it’s no’ the word for’t. Erchie MacPherson’s fair lost at the waitin’; he should hae been a poet, or a statesman, or something in the fancy line like that.”

It was with the joy of a man who has made up his mind he has lost a sovereign and finds it weeks after in the lining of his waistcoat, I unexpectedly met Erchie on Saturday.

“Upon my word, old friend,” I said, “I thought you were dead.”

“No, nor deid!” retorted Erchie. “Catch me! I’m nane o’ the deein’ kind. But I micht nearly as weel be deid, for I’ve been thae twa months in Edinburgh. Yon’s the place for a man in a decline; it’s that slow he wad hae a chance o’ livin’ to a grand auld age. There’s mair o’ a bustle on the road to Sichthill Cemetery ony day in the week than there is in Princes Street on a Setter-day nicht. I had a bit job there for the last ten weeks, and the only pleesure I had was gaun doon noo and then to the Waverley Station to see the bonny wee trains frae Gleska. They’re a’ richt for scenery and the like o’ that in Edinburgh, but they’re no’ smert.”

“But it’s an old saying, Erchie, that all the wise men in Glasgow come from the East – that’s to say, they come from Edinburgh.”

“Yes, and the wiser they are the quicker they come,” said Erchie. “Man! and it’s only an ‘oor’s journey, and to see the wye some o’ them gae on bidin’ ower yonder ye wad think they had the Atlantic Ocean to cross. There should be missionaries sent ower to Edinburgh explainin’ things to the puir deluded craturs. Ony folk that wad put thon big humplock o’ a hill they ca’ the Castle in the middle o’ the street, spilin’ the view, and hing their washin’s on hay-rakes stuck oot at their windows, hae muckle to learn.”

“Still, I have no doubt Edinburgh’s doing its best, Erchie,” I said.

“Maybe, but they’re no’ smert; ye wad hae yer pouch picked half a dizzen times in Gleska in the time an Edinburgh polisman tak’s to rub his een to waken himsel’ when ye ask him the road to Leith.

“Did ye ever hear tell o’ the Edinburgh man that ance ventured to Gleska and saw the hopper dredgers clawtin’ up the glaur frae the Clyde at Broomielaw?

“‘Whit are ye standin’ here for? Come awa’ and hae a gless o’ milk,’ said a freen’ to him.

“‘No, nor awa’,’ said he, glowerin’ like ony-thing; ‘I’ve coonted 364 o’ thae wee buckets comin’ oot the watter, and I’ll no’ move a step oot o’ here till I see the last o’ them!’

“The puir cratur never saw a rale river in his life afore. Och! but Edinburgh’s no’ that bad; ye can aye be sure o’ gettin’ yer nicht’s sleep in’t at ony’oor o’ the day, it’s that quate. They’re aye braggin’ that it’s cleaner than Gleska, as if there was onything smert aboot that.

“‘There’s naething dirtier nor a dirty Gleska man,’ said yin o’ them to me ae day.

“‘There is,’ says I.

“‘Whit?’ says he.

“‘Twa clean Edinburgh yins,’ says I.

“Och! but I’m only in fun. Edinburgh’s a’ richt; there’s naething wrang wi’ the place ance ye’re in it if ye hae a book to read. I hate to hear the wye Duffy and some o’ them speak aboot Edinburgh, the same as if it was shut up a’thegither; hoo wad we like it oorsels? I hae maybe a flet fit, but I hae a warm hert, and I’ll aye stick up for Edinburgh. I had an uncle that near got the jyle there for running ower yin o’ their tramway caurs. They’ve no skoosh cars in Edinburgh; they’re thon ither kin’ that’s pu’ed wi’ a rope, and whiles the rope breaks; but it doesna maitter, naebody’s in ony hurry gaun to ony place in Edinburgh, and the passengers jist sit where they are till it’s mended.”

“Well, anyhow, Erchie, we’re glad to see you back,” I said.

“Gled to see me back!” he cried. “I’ll wager ye didna ken I was awa’, and the only folk that kent we werena in Gleska for the past twa or three months was the dairy and the wee shop we get oor vegetables frae.

“When I was in Edinburgh yonder, skliffin’ alang the streets as fast’s I could, and nippin’ mysel’ every noo and them to keep mysel’ frae fa’in’ asleep, I wad be thinkin’ to mysel’, ‘Hoo are they gettin’ on in Gleska wantin’ Erchie MacPherson? Noo that they’ve lost me, they’ll ken the worth o’ me.’ I made shair that, at least, the skoosh cars wad hae to stop runnin’ when I was awa’, and that the polis band wad come doon to the station to meet me when I cam’ hame.

“Dod! ye wad hardly believe it, but ever since I cam’ back I meet naebody but folk that never ken’t I was awa’. It’s a gey hertless place Gleska that way. Noo, in Edinburgh it’s different. They’re gey sweart to lose ye in Edinburgh ance they get haud o’ ye; that’s the way they keep up the price o’ the railway ticket to Gleska.