|Jinnet had money in the Savings Bank. Erchie used to chuckle when some
neighbour had gone out to whom she had casually mentioned the fact and
say, “That’s it, Jinnet, you be bragging o’ your deposits like that, and
they’ll be thinking I mairried ye for your fortune.” But the truth was
that when their savings at first were lodged in Erchie’s name, they had
an unfortunate way of disappearing without Jinnet’s knowledge, and it
was to protect himself from himself that the husband finally opened the
account in the name of his wife.
The first day she went to the bank with money it was with no little
trepidation. “Maybe they’ll no’ tak’ sae much as twenty-wan pounds,” she
suggested; “it’s a guid pickle money to hae the responsibility o’.”
“Ay, and gled to get it!” he replied. “That’s whit they’re there for.
If it was twice twenty-wan they wad mak’ room for’t, even if they had to
shift forrit the coonter. Ye hae nae idea o’ the dacency o’ thae banks!”
“But whit if the bank was to burst?” said Jinnet. “Lots o’ folk losses
their money wi’ banks burstin’, and hae to go on the Board a’ the rest
o’ their days.”
“Burst!” laughed Erchie. “Man! ye wad think it was a kitchen biler
ye were talkin’ aboot. It’ll no’ burst wi’ a’ we’ll put into’t, I’ll
warrant ye.”
“Will ye hae to pay them much for takin’ care o’t?” she asked, still
dubious of these immense financial operations.
Erchie laughed till the tears ran into his tea. “Oh, my!” said he, “but
ye’re the caution! It’s them that pays you. If ye leave the twenty-wan
pound in for a twelvemonth, they’ll gie ye something like twenty-wan
pound ten shillin’s when ye gang to lift it.”
This troubled Tennet worse than ever. “It’s rale nice o’ them,” said
she, “but I’m no’ needin’ their ten shillin’s; we’re no’ that faur doon
in the warld, and it’s like enough they wad just be takin’ it aff some
ither puir cratur.”
But eventually the money was lodged in Jinnet’s name. She used to take
out her bank-book and examine it once a-week, to make sure, as she said,
“the money was still there,” a proceeding at which Erchie would wink to
himself, and with difficulty restrain his laughter.
On Saturday, Jinnet expressed a wish that she had some of her money to
make some purchases for Christmas and the New Year.
“Weel,” said her husband, “whit’s to hinder ye gaun to the bank and
liftin’ a pound or twa?”
Her face turned white at the very thought. “Me!” she cried. “I wadna ask
for money at that bank if I was stervin’.”
“But, bless my sowl! it’s yer ain money; they canna keep ye frae gettin’
it if ye want it,” said her husband.
“I’m no carin’,” Jinnet protested. “I divna like to ask for’t, and them
maybe busy. Perhaps the puir crat’urs havena got it to spare the noo.”
“Weel, they can jist send oot for a wee lend o’t frae somebody they
ken,” said Erchie. “It’s your money, and if ye want ony o’t oot they
must gie ye’t; that’s whit banks is for.”
“Will you no’ gang for the twa pound ten for me, and I’ll mak’ something
nice and tasty for your tea the nicht?” said Jinnet coaxingly; but
Erchie had his own way of teaching Jinnet self-confidence, and refused.
“They wadna gie’t to me without a lot o’ palaver,” he explained; “ye’ll
jist hae to gang yersel’. Speak nice to them, and they’ll no’ touch
ye. There hasna been a customer murdered in a Gleska bank for years and
years.” He explained the process she was to follow, and she set out with
great misgivings.
“Weel, hoo did ye get on?” Erchie asked her when she returned. “Ye got
the money onywye,--I can see by the wye yer niefs shut.”
“Oh, Erchie!” she cried hysterically, and dropped into a chair. “I wad
never mak’ a man o’ business. My hert’s in a palpitation--jist fair
stottin’. I peety them that has the bother o’ muckle money.”
“Myjove!” said Erchie in alarm, “were they no’ nice to ye? If they
werena nice and ceevil, I’ll--I’ll tak’ oot every penny, and then
they’ll see whaur they are.”
“Oh, they were as nice as they could be,” Jinnet hurried to explain.
“And I got the money a’ richt. But oh! I was that put-aboot. Thon slippy
floor aye frichtens me, and the gentlemen inside the coonter in their
wee cages like Duffy’s goldy----”
“Goldies--ay, that’s jist whit they are,” said Erchie. “It’s a fine bird
a goldie if ye get a guid yin; it can whustle better nor a canary.”
“----like Duffy’s goldie, and that rale weel put-on. Each o’ them had as
muckle gold and silver aboot him as wad fill a bakie. I nearly fented
when yin o’ them spoke to me awfu’ Englified, and askit whit he could
dae for me the day.
“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I see ye’re throng; I’ll can come back anither time,’ and
I was makin’ for the door when he cried me back, and said he wasna that
throng but that he wad be gled to dae onything he could for me. I thocht
he wad gie me the money wi’ a grudge when he found I wanted twa pound
ten in silver, but he coonted it oot like lichtnin’, and bangs it foment
me. A rale obleegin’ lad he was, but no’ lookin’ awfu’ strong; I think
I’ll knit him a pair o’ warm socks or a muffler for his New Year.”
“Ye’re a rale divert, Jinnet!” said Erchie.
“I jist picked up the money withoot coontin’ it and turned to gang awa’.
‘Hold on, Mistress MacPherson,’ he cries; ‘ye’ll be as weel to coont yer
siller afore ye leave the bank in case I’m cheatin’ ye,’ and my face
got as red’s the fire. ‘I wadna hae the cheek to doot ye efter seein’
ye coontin’t yersel’,’ I tellt him, and cam’ awa’. But I went up a close
further along the street and coonted it.”
“I could bate a pound ye did,” said Erchie.
And now, having got out her money, Jinnet had to go shopping. Ordinary
shopping had no terrors for her; she loved to drop into Lindsay, the
grocer’s, and discourse upon the prices of simple things to eat, and
feel important when he offered to send his boy with the goods; she was
quite at home in the little side-street shops where they sell trimming,
and bolts of tape, and remnants of print; or the oil and colour shops
where she was known and could spend a pleasant ten minutes’ gossip over
the purchase of a gallon of paraffin. But Christmas shopping was no
ordinary shopping, and was entered on with almost as much apprehension
as her expedition to the bank. It had to be done in big warehouses,
where the attendants were utter strangers to her, and had ways frigid
and unfamiliar.
“Put on your kep and come awa’ doon the toon wi’ me,” she said to
Erchie. “I hate gaun into some o’ thae big shops mysel’.”
“Then whit wye dae ye no’ jist gang into the wee yins ye ken?” he asked
her. “If ye’re feared they’ll eat ye in the big yins I wadna gang to
them.”
“Oh, that’s a’ very weel, but the wee yins havena the turnover,” she
explained. “Ye get things far fresher at this time o’ the year doon the
toon.”
“I’ll gang wi’ ye, for I ken that if I didna gang they wad tak’ a fair
lend o’ ye,” Erchie agreed at last; “but mind, I’m no’ gaun to stand
lookin’ in at baby-linen shop-windows or onything o’ that sort. Me bein’
a public man in a kind o’ wye, it disna dae.”
“I’ll no’ ask ye to dae onything o’ the kind, ye pridefu’ auld thing
ye,” she promised, and off, they set.
She wanted a pair of gloves for a favourite grand-daughter, an umbrella
for a sister of Erchie’s, who was a widow and poor, and something as a
wedding-present for Duffy’s fiancee.
There was scarcely a drapery warehouse in Argyle Street whose window
did not attract her. Erchie never looked into any of them, but patiently
stood apart on the edge of the pavement or walked slowly ahead.
“Come here and see this at seevenpence three-fardens,” she entreated
him.
“It’s fine, a rale bargain; I wad tak’ that,” he replied, looking
towards the window from afar off, and quite ignorant of what she alluded
to, but determined not to be caught by any one who knew him as waiter
or beadle, looking into a shop-window full of the most delicate feminine
mysteries of attire.
She went into the warehouse, while he walked on to the next shop--a
cutler’s--and looked intently in at the window of it, as if he were
contemplating the purchase of a costly pocket-knife with five blades, a
corkscrew, and an appliance popularly supposed to be for taking stones
out of a horse’s hoof. When he was joined by Jinnet, she had plainly
begun to lose her nerve.
“I’ve got gloves,” said she, “and a thing for Duffy’s lass, but they’re
naither o’ them whit I was wantin’.”
“Of course they’re no’,” said Erchie. “Ye’ve got a grate concait o’
yersel’ if ye think a puir auld body like you can get exactly whit ye
want in yin o’ them warehooses wi’ the big turnover ye aye talk aboot.
Was it a pe’erie and a fiddle ye wanted that made ye tak’ gloves?”
“Oh! dinna bother me, Erchie; I canna help it; the lassies that serve ye
in there’s that Englified and that smert that when they havena got whit
I’m wantin’ I jist aye tak’ whit they can gie me.”
“I’ve seen you in a big shop afore noo,” said her husband, “and I ken
fine the wye ye aye spile yersel’ wi’ them Englified smert yins. Ye gang
forrit to the coonter as if ye were gaun to ask if they had ony windows
to clean, or back-stairs to wash oot, and ye get red in the face and
tak’ yer money oot o’ yer pocket to show ye have it, and ye lauch to the
lassie as if ye kent her fine, and ye say, ‘If you please’ to her; or,
‘Oh! it’s a bother to ye.’ That mak’s the lassie see at yince ye’re no’
cless; she get’s a’ the mair Englified, lettin’ on to hersel’ she’s the
Duchess o’ Montrose, and can put the like o’ you in your place wi’ the
least wee bit touch. That’s no’ the wye to dae in a shop o’ that kind.
Ye should breenge up to the coonter, and cry ‘Gloves!’ as hard as Duffy
cries ‘Coals!’ then sit doon withoot askin’ on a chair, and wi’ a gant
noo and then watch them puttin’ oot gloves by the hunderwicht in front
o’ ye, and them a’ in the shakers in case ye’ll no’ think they’re smert
enough.
“Dinna be blate; that’s my advice to ye. Talk Englified yersel’, and
sniff wi’ yer nose noo and then as if ye felt a nesty smell in the
place, and run doon the goods like dirt. Never let your e’e rest on
the folk that serve ye, unless they happen to hae a shabby tie on or a
button aff somewhere; glower at that, and it’ll mak’ them uncomfortable,
and----
“Oh, that’s a’ richt, Erchie,” said Jinnet; “ye’ll hae to come into the
next shop I gang to, and show me the wye.”
“No fears o’ me,” said Erchie promptly; “I’m tellin’ ye whit to dae, but
I divna say I could dae’t mysel’.”
But when it came to the purchase of the umbrella he did go into the shop
with her, and she got what she thought was a bargain, as well as the
finest affability and courtesy from the gentleman who sold it.
“That’s because I was wi’ ye,” said Erchie when they came out.
“I daresay,” she agreed; “there’s aye some use for a man.”