A Scots Quair. Lewis Grassic Gibbon

send the wife up to Blawearie.

      And up she came, the fat, fusionless creature, all she could do was to stand and gowk at father, Mighty me, Mr Guthrie, this is a sore, sore sight, whatever will you do now, eh? And father mouthed and mowed at her from the bed as though the first thing he’d be keen on doing was braining her, paralysis or not he’d still plenty of rage. For when the doctor came up at last from Bervie and bustled into the room, peering and poking with the sharp, quick face of him, and his bald head shining, and snapped in his curt-like way, What’s this? what’s wrong with you now, Blawearie? father managed to speak out then right enough—That’s for you to find out, what the hell do you think you’re paid for?

      So the doctor grinned behind his hand, One of you women must help me strip him. And he looked from Kirsty to Chris and said You, Chris lass, and that she did while Mrs Strachan went down to the kitchen to make him tea and trail around like a clucking hen, God! what mightn’t be happening in Peesie’s Knapp without her? Chris lost her temper at last, she lost it seldom enough, this time it went with a bang−I don’t know either what’s happening in Peesie’s Knapp but if you’re in such tune about it you’d better go home and find out. Mrs Strachan reddened up at that, bubbling like a hubbley- jock, that wasn’t the way for a quean to speak to a woman that might well be her mother, she might think shame to curse and swear with her father lying at death’s door there. And Chris said she hadn’t sworn, but she was over-weary to argue about it, and knew right well that whatever she said now Mistress Strachan would spread a fine story about her.

      And sure as death so she did, it was soon all over the Howe that that coarse quean at Blawearie had started to swear at Mistress Strachan while her father was lying near dead in the room above their heads. Only Chae himself didn’t believe it, and when he came up to Blawearie next day he whispered to Chris, Is’t true you gave Kirsty a bit of a damning yesterday? and when she said she hadn’t he said it was a pity, it was time that somebody did.

      SO THERE FATHER LAY and had lain ever since, all those five weeks he’d lain there half-paralysed, with a whistle beside his bed when he wanted attention, and God! that was often enough. Creeping to her bed half-dead at night Chris would find herself thinking a thing that wouldn’t bear a rethinking out here in the sun, with the hum of the heather- bees, heather-smell in her face, Lord! could she only lie here a day how she’d sleep and sleep! Fold over her soul and her heart and put them away with their hours of vexing and caring, the ploughing was done, she was set to her drilling, and faith! it was weary work!

      She started and sighed and took her hands down from her face and listened again. Far down in Blawearie there rose the blast of an angry-blown whistle.