|There was a very self-conscious look in Erchie’s face on Saturday
when I met him with a hand-painted drain-pipe of the most generous
proportions under his arm.
“It’s aye the way,” said he. “Did ye ever hae ony o’ yer parteecular
freen’s meet ye when ye were takin’ hame a brace o’ grouse? No’ a bit o’
ye! But if it’s a poke o’ onything, or a parcel frae the country, whaur
they havena ony broon paper, but jist ‘The Weekly Mail,’ and nae richt
twine, ye’ll no’ can gang the length o’ the street without comin’ across
everybody that gangs to yer kirk.”
He put the drain-pipe down on the pavement--it was the evening--and sat
on the end of it.
“So you are the latest victim to the art movement, Erchie?” I said. “You
will be putting away your haircloth chairs and introducing the sticky
plush variety; I was suspicious of that new dado in your parlour the day
we had the tousy tea after Big Macphee’s burial.”
“Catch me!” said Erchie. “Them and their art! I wadna be encouragin’
the deevils. If ye want to ken the way I’m gaun hame wi’ this wally
umbrella-staun’, I’ll tell ye the rale truth. It’s jist this, that.
Jinnet’s doon yonder at the Freemason’s Bazaar wi’ red-hot money in her
pooch, and canna get awa’ till it’s done. She’s bocht a tea-cosy besides
this drain-pipe, and a toaster wi’ puce ribbons on’t for haudin’ letters
and papers, and she’ll be in luck for yince if she disna win the raffle
for the lady’s bicycle that she had twa tickets for. Fancy me oot in
Grove Street in the early mornin’ learnin’ Jinnet the bicycle, and her
the granny o’ seeven!
“Of course, Jinnet’s no’ needin’ ony bicycle ony mair than she’s needin’
a bassinette, but she has a saft hert and canna say no unless she’s
awfu’ angry, and a young chap, speakin’ awfu’ Englified, wi’ his hair a’
vasaline, got roond her. She’s waitin’ behin’ there to see if she wins
the raffle, and to pick up ony bargains jist a wee while afore the place
shuts up--the rale time for bazaar bargains if ye divna get yer leg
broken in the crush. I only went there mysel’ to see if I could get
her to come hame as lang as she had enough left to pay her fare on the
skoosh car, but I micht as weel speak to the wind. She was fair raised
ower a bargain in rabbits. It’s an awfu’ thing when yer wife tak’s to
bazaars; it’s waur nor drink.
“It’s a female complaint; ye’ll no’ find mony men bothered wi’t unless
they happen to be ministers. Ye’ll no’ see Duffy sittin’ late at nicht
knittin’ wee bootees for weans they’ll never in this warld fit, nor
crochetin’ doyleys, to aid the funds o’ the Celtic Fitba’ Club. Ye micht
watch a lang while afore ye wad see me makin’ tinsey ‘ool ornaments wi’
paste-heided preens for hingin’ up in the best room o’ dacent folk that
never did me ony hairm.
“There wad be nae such thing as bazaars if there werena ony weemen. In
thoosands o’ weel-daein’ hames in this Christian toon o’ Gleska there’s
weemen at this very meenute neglectin’ their men’s suppers to sit doon
and think as hard’s they can whit they can mak’ wi’ a cut and a half o’
three-ply fingerin’ worsted, that’ll no’ be ony use to onybody, but’ll
look worth eighteenpence in a bazaar. If ye miss your lum hat, and canna
find it to gang to a funeral, ye may be shair it was cut in scollops
a’ roond the rim, and covered wi’ velvet, and that wee Jeanie pented
flooers on’t in her ain time to gie’t the richt feenish for bein’ an Art
work-basket at yer wife’s stall in some bazaar.
“Maist weemen start it withoot meanin’ ony hairm, maybe wi’ a
table-centre, or a lamp-shade, or a pair o’ bedroom slippers. There’s
no’ much wrang wi’ that; but it’s a beginnin’, and the habit grows
on them till they’re scoorin’ the country lookin’ for a chance to
contribute whit they ca’ work to kirk bazaars and ony ither kinds o’
bazaars that’s handy. It mak’s my hert sair sometimes to see weel-put-on
weemen wi’ men o’ their ain and dacent faimilies, comin’ hame through
back-streets staggerin’ wi’ parcels o’ remnants for dressin’ dolls or
makin’ cushions wi’. They’ll hide it frae their men as long as they can,
and then, when they’re found oot, they’ll brazen it oot and deny that
it’s ony great hairm.
“That’s wan way the trouble shows itsel’.
“There’s ither weemen--maistly younger and no’ mairried--that’s dyin’
for a chance to be assistant stall-keepers, and wear white keps and
aiprons, jist like tablemaids.
“That’s the kind I’m feared for, and I’m nae chicken.
“When they see a man come into the bazaar and nae wife wi’ him to tak’
care o’ him, they come swoopin’ doon on him, gie him ony amount o’ deck,
jist in fun, and ripe his pooches before he can button his jaicket.
“I’m no’ sayin’ they put their hands in his pooches, but jist as bad;
they look that nice, and sae fond o’ his tie and the way he has o’
wearin’ his moustache, that he’s kittley doon to the soles o’ his feet,
and wad buy a steam road-roller frae them if he had the money for’t. But
they’re no’ sellin’ steam road-rollers, the craturs! They’re sellin’
shillin’ dolls at twa-and-six that can open and shut their een, and say
‘Maw’ and ‘Paw.’ They’re sellin’ carpet slippers, or bonny wee bunches
o’ flooers, or raffle tickets for a rale heliotrope Persian cat. It’s
the flyest game I ken. When that puir sowl gets oot o’ the place wi’
naething in his pooches but his hands, and a dazed look in his een, the
only thing he can mind is that she said her name was Maud, and that her
hair was crimp, and that she didna put a preen in his coat-lapelle when
she was puttin’ the shillin’ rose there, because she said a preen wad
cut love. She said that to every customer she had for her flooers that
day, wi’ a quick look up in their face, and then droppin’ her eyes
confused like, and her face red, and a’ the time, her, as like as no’,
engaged to a man in India.
“I wonder hoo it wad dae to hae a man’s bazaar? They ocht to have made
the Freemason’s bazaar a man’s yin, seein’ the Freemasons ‘ll no tell
the weemen their secrets nor let them into their lodges.
“A man’s bazaar wad be a rale divert: naethin’ to be sold in’t but
things for use, like meerschaum pipes, and kahootchy collars, and sox
the richt size, and chairs, and tables, and concertinas--everything
guaranteed to be made by men and them tryin’.
“The stalls wad be kept by a’ the baronets that could be scraped
thegither and could be trusted withoot cash registers, and the stall
assistants wad be the pick o’ the best-lookin’ men in the toon--if ye
could get them sober enough. If Jinnet wad let me, I wad be willin’
to gie a hand mysel’; for though I’ve a flet fit I’ve a warm hert, I’m
tellin’ ye.
“I think I see Duffy walkin’ roond the St Andrew’s Hall, and it got up
to look like the Fall o’ Babylon, tryin’ to sell bunches o’ flooers. Dae
ye think he wad sell mony to the young chaps like whit Maud riped? Nae
fears! He wad hae to tak’ every customer oot and stand him a drink afore
he wad get a flooer aff his hands.
“Can ye fancy Duffy gaun roond tryin’ to sell tickets for a raffle o’ a
canary in a cage?
“‘Here ye are, chaps and cairters! the chance o’ yer lifes for a grand
whustler, and no’ ill to feed!’
“Na, na! a man o’ the Duffy stamp wad be nae use for a bazaar, even wi’
a dress suit on and his face washed. It wad need young stockbrokers, and
chaps wi’ the richt kind o’ claes, wi’ a crease doon the front o’ their
breeks--Gros-venor Restaurant chaps, wi’ the smell o’ cigars aff their
topcoats, and either ca’d Fred or Vincent. Then ye micht see that the
ither sex that hiv a’ the best o’t wi’ bazaars, the wye they’re managed
noo, wad flock to the man’s bazaar and buy like onything. And maybe
no’.”
Erchie rose off the drain-pipe, and prepared to resume his way home with
that ingenious object that proves how the lowliest things of life may be
made dignified and beautiful--if fashion says they are so.
“Well; good night, old friend,” I said. “I hope Mrs MacPherson will be
lucky and get the bicycle.”
“Dae ye, indeed?” said he. “Then ye’re nae freen’ o’ mine. We’re faur
mair in the need o’ a mangle.”
“Then you can exchange for one.”
“I’m no’ that shair. Did I ever tell ye I ance won a powney in a raffle?
It was at the bazaar oor kirk had in Dr Jardine’s time when they got the
organ. I was helpin’ at the buffet, and I think they micht hae left me
alane, me no’ bein’ there for fun, but at my tred, but wha cam’ cravin’
me to buy a ticket aff her but the doctor’s guid-sister.
“‘There’s three prizes,’ she says, ‘a powney wi’ broon harness, a marble
nock, and a dizzen knifes and forks.
“‘I wad maybe risk it if it wisna for the powney,’ I tellt her; ‘I
havena kep’ a coachman for years, and I’m oot o’ the way o’ drivin’
mysel’.’
“‘Oh! ye needna be that feared, ye’ll maybe no’ get the powney,’ said
she, and I went awa’ like a fool and took the ticket.
“The draw took place jist when the bazaar was shuttin’ on the Setturday
nicht. And I won the powney wi’ the broon harness.
“I tore my ticket and thrieped it was a mistake, but I couldna get oot
o’t; they a’ kent the powney was mine.
“It was stabled behind the bazaar, and had to be ta’en awa’ that nicht.
I offered it to onybody that wanted it for naething, but naebody wad
tak’ it aff my hands because they a’ said they had to tak’ the car hame,
and they wadna be allooed to tak’ a powney into a car wi’ them. So they
left me wi’ a bonny-like prize.
“I put its claes on the best way I could, fanklin’ a’ the straps, and
dragged it hame. We lived in the close at the time, and I thocht maybe
Jinnet wad let me keep it in the lobby till the Monday mornin’ till I
could see whit I could dae. But she wadna hear tell o’t. She said, it
wad scrape a’ the waxcloth wi’ it’s aim buits, and wad be a bonny-like
thing to be nicherrin’ a’ Sunday, scandalisin’ the neebours, forbye
there bein’ nae gress in the hoose to feed it on. I said I wad rise
early in the mornin’ and gaither denty-lions for’t oot at the Three-Tree
Well, but she wadna let me nor the powney inside the door.
“It wasna an awfu’ big broad powney, but a wee smout o’ a thing they ca’
a Shetland shawl powney, and its harness didna fit it ony place at a’.
It looked at the twa o’ us, kind o’ dazed like.
“‘Ye’re, no’ gaun to turn my hoose into a stable, and me jist cleaned it
this very day,’ said Jinnet.
“‘And am I gaun to walk the streets a’ nicht wi’t?’ I asked, near
greetin’.
“‘Put it oot in the ash-pit, and the scavengers ‘ll tak’ it awa’ in the
mornin’,’ she said, and I did that, forgettin’ that the mornin’ was the
Sunday.
“But it didna maitter; the powney wasna there in the mornin’, and I took
guid care no’ to ask for’t.”