|Erchie looked pityingly at Big Macphee staggering down the street.
“Puir sowl!” said he, “whit’s the maitter, wi’ ye noo?”
Big Macphee looked up, and caught his questioner by the coat collar to
steady himself. “Beer,” said he; “jist beer. Plain beer, if ye want to
ken. It’s no’ ham and eggs, I’ll bate ye. Beer, beer, glorious beer; I’m
shair I’ve perished three gallons this very day. Three gallons hiv I in
me, I’ll wager.”
“Ye wad be far better to cairry it hame in a pail,” said Erchie. “Man,
I’m rale vexed to see a fine, big, smert chap like you gaun hame like
this, takin’ the breadth o’ the street.”
“Hiv I no’ a richt to tak’ the breadth o’ the street if I want it?” said
Big Macphee. “Am I no’ a ratepayer? I hiv a ludger’s vote, and I’m gaun
to vote against Joe Chamberlain and the dear loaf.”
“Och! ye needna fash aboot the loaf for a’ the difference a tax on’t’ll
mak’ to you,” said Erchie. “If ye gang on the wye ye’re daein’ wi’ the
beer, it’s the Death Duties yer freends’ll be bothered aboot afore
lang.”
And he led the erring one home.
Big Macphee was the man who for some months back had done the shouting
for Duffy’s lorry No. 2. He sustained the vibrant penetrating quality,
of a voice like the Cloch fog-horn on a regimen consisting of beer and
the casual hard-boiled egg of the Mull of Kintyre Vaults. He had no
relatives except a cousin “oot aboot Fintry,” and when he justified
Erchie’s gloomy prediction about the Death Duties by dying of pneumonia
a week afterwards, there was none to lament him, save in a mild,
philosophical way, except Erchie’s wife, Jinnet.
Jinnet, who could never sleep at night till she heard Macphee go up the
stairs to his lodgings, thought the funeral would be scandalously cold
and heartless lacking the customary “tousy tea” to finish up with, and
as Duffy, that particular day, was not in a position to provide this
solace for the mourners on their return from Sighthill Cemetery, she
invited them to her house. There were Duffy and a man Macphee owed money
to; the cousin from “oot aboot Fintry” and his wife, who was, from the
outset, jealous of the genteel way tea was served in Jinnet’s parlour,
and suspicious of a “stuckupness” that was only in her own imagination.
“It’s been a nesty, wat, mochy, melancholy day for a burial,” said Duffy
at the second helping of Jinnet’s cold boiled ham; “Macphee was jist as
weel oot o’t. He aye hated to hae to change his jaicket afore the last
rake, him no’ haein’ ony richt wumman buddy aboot him to dry’t.”
“Och, the puir cratur!” said Jinnet. “It’s like enough he had a
disappointment ance upom a time. He was a cheery chap.”
“He was a’ that,” said Duffy. “See’s the haud o’ the cream-poorie.”
The cousin’s wife felt Jinnet’s home-baked seedcake was a deliberate
taunt at her own inefficiency in the baking line. She sniffed as she
nibbled it with a studied appearance of inappreciation. “It wasna a very
cheery burial he had, onyway,” was her astounding comment, and at that
Erchie winked to himself, realising the whole situation.
“Ye’re richt there, Mistress Grant,” said he. “Burials are no’ whit they
used to be. ‘Perhaps--perhaps ye were expectin’ a brass band?” and at
that the cousin’s wife saw this was a different man from her husband,
and that there was a kind of back-chat they have in Glasgow quite
unknown in Fintry.
“Oh! I wasna sayin’ onything aboot brass bands,” she retorted, very
red-faced, and looking over to her husband for his support. He, however,
was too replete with tea and cold boiled ham for any severe intellectual
exercise, and was starting to fill his pipe. “I wasna saying onything
aboot brass bands; we’re no’ used to thae kind o’ operatics at burials
whaur I come frae. But I think oor ain wye o’ funerals is better than
the Gleska wye.”
Erchie (fearful for a moment that something might have been overlooked)
glanced at the fragments of the feast, and at the spirit-bottle that had
discreetly circulated somewhat earlier. “We’re daein’ the best we can,”
said he. “As shair as death your kizzen--peace be wi’ him!--‘s jist as
nicely buried as if ye paid for it yersel’ instead o’ Duffy and--and
Jinnet; if ye’ll no’ believe me ye can ask your man. ‘Nae doot Big
Macphee deserved as fine a funeral as onybody, wi’ a wheen coaches, and
a service at the kirk, wi’ the organ playin’ and a’ that, but that wasna
the kind o’ man your kizzen was when he was livin’. He hated a’ kinds o’
falderals.”
“He was a cheery chap,” said Jinnet again, nervously, perceiving some
electricity in the air.
“And he micht hae had a nicer burial,” said the cousin’s wife, with
firmness.
“Preserve us!” cried Erchie. “Whit wad ye like?--Flags maybe? Or
champagne wine at the liftin’? Or maybe wreaths o’ floo’ers? If it was
cheeriness ye were wantin’ wi’ puir Macphee, ye should hae come a month
ago and he micht hae ta’en ye himsel’ to the Britannia Music-ha’.”
“Haud yer tongue, Erchie,” said Jinnet; and the cousin’s wife, as fast
as she could, took all the hair-pins out of her head and put them in
again,--“They think we’re that faur back in Fintry,” she said with fine
irrelevance.
“Not at all,” said Erchie, who saw his innocent wife was getting all the
cousin’s wife’s fierce glances, “Not at all, mem. There’s naething wrang
wi’ Fintry; mony a yin I’ve sent there. I’m rale chawed we didna hae a
Fintry kind o’ funeral, to please ye. Whit’s the patent thing aboot a
Fintry funeral?”
“For wan thing,” said the cousin’s wife, “it’s aye a rale hearse we
hae at Fintry and no’ a box under a machine, like thon. It was jist a
disgrace. Little did his mither think it wad come to thon. Ye wad think
it was coals.”
“And whit’s the maitter wi’ coals?” cried Duffy, his professional pride
aroused. “Coals was his tred. Ye’re shairly awfu’ toffs in Fintry aboot
yer funerals.”
The cousin’s wife stabbed her head all over again with her
hair-pins, and paid no heed to him. Her husband evaded her eyes with
great determination. “No’ that great toffs either,” she retorted, “but
we can aye afford a bit crape. There wasna a sowl that left this close
behind the corp the day had crape in his hat except my ain man.”
Then the man to whom Big Macphee owed money laughed.
“Crape’s oot o’ date, mistress,” Erchie assured her. “It’s no’ the go
noo at a’ in Gleska; ye micht as weel expect to see the auld saulies.”
“Weel, it’s the go enough in Fintry,” said the cousin’s wife. “And there
was anither thing; I didna expect to see onybody else but my man in
weepers, him bein’ the only freen’ puir Macphee had but-----”
“I havena seen weepers worn since the year o’ the Tay Bridge,” said
Erchie, “and that was oot at the Mearns.”
“Weel, we aye hae them at Fintry,” insisted the cousin’s wife.
“A cheery chap,” said Jinnet again, at her wits’-end to put an end to
this restrained wrangling, and the man Big Macphee owed money to laughed
again.
“Whit’s mair,” went on the cousin’s wife, “my man was the only wan there
wi’ a dacent shirt wi’ Erchie tucks on the breist o’t; the rest o’ ye
had that sma’ respect for the deid ye went wi’ shirt-breists as flet as
a sheet o’ paper. It was showin’ awfu’ sma’ respect for puir Macphee,”
and she broke down with her handkerchief at her eyes.
“Och! ta bleezes! Jessie, ye’re spilin’ a’ the fun,” her husband
remonstrated.
Erchie pushed back his chair and made an explanation. “Tucks is no’ the
go naither, mistress,” said he, “and if ye kent whit the laundries were
in Gleska ye wadna wonder at it. A laundry’s a place whaur they’ll no’
stand ony o’ yer tucks, or ony nonsense o’ that kind. Tucks wad spoil
the teeth o’ the curry-combs they use in the laundry for scoorin’ the
cuffs and collars; they’re no’ gaun awa’ to waste the vitriol they use
for bleachin’ on a wheen tucks. They couldna dae’t at the money; it’s
only threepence ha’penny a shirt, ye ken, and oot o’ that they hae to
pay for the machines that tak’s the buttons aff, and the button-hole
bursters--that’s a tred by itsel’. No, mem, tucked breists are oot
o’ date; ye’ll no’ see such a thing in Gleska; I’m shair puir Macphee
himsel’ hadna ane. The man’s as weel buried as if we had a’ put on the
kilts, and had a piper in front playin’ ‘Lochaber no More.’ If ye’ll no
believe us, Duffy can show ye the receipted accoonts for the undertaker
and the lair; can ye no’, Duffy?”
“Smert!” said Duffy,
But the cousin’s wife was not at all anxious to see accounts of any
kind, so she became more prostrate with annoyance and grief than ever.
“Oot Fintry way,” said Erchie, exasperated, “it’s a’ richt to keep up
tucked shirt-breists, and crape, and weepers, and mort-cloths, and the
like, for there canna be an awfu’ lot o’ gaiety in the place, but
we have aye plenty o’ ither things to amuse us in Gleska. There’s the
Kelvingrove Museum, and the Wax-works. If ye’re no’ pleased wi’ the wye
Macphee was buried, ye needna gie us the chance again wi’ ony o’ yer
freen’s.”
The cousin’s wife addressed herself to her husband. “Whit was yon ye
were gaun to ask?” she said to him.
He got very red, and shifted uneasily in his chair. “Me!” said he, “I
forget.”
“No ye dinna; ye mind fine.”
“Och, it’s a’ richt. Are we no’ haein’ a fine time,” protested the
husband.
“No, nor a’ richt, Rubbert Grant.” She turned to the others, “Whit my
man was gaun to ask, if he wasna such a sumph, was whether oor kizzen
hadna ony money put by him.”
“If ye kent him better, ye wadna need to ask,” said Duffy.
“He was a cheery chap,” said Jinnet.
“But was he no’ in the Shepherds, or the Oddfellows, or the Masons, or
onything that wye?”
“No, nor in the Good Templars nor the Rechabites,” said Erchie. “The
only thing the puir sowl was ever in was the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults.”
“Did I no’ tell ye?” said her husband.
“Good-bye and thenky the noo,” said the cousin’s wife, as she went down
the stair. “I’ve spent a rale nice day.”
“It’s the only thing ye did spend,” said Erchie when she was out of
hearing. “Funerals are managed gey chape in Fintry.”
“Oh ye rascal, ye’ve the sherp tongue!” said Jinnet.
“Ay, and there’s some needs it! A flet fit, too, but a warm hert,” said
Erchie.