Took Fur a Ride
Author(s): Andrina Connell
Copyright holder(s): Andrina Connell
Bit naebudy took a blind bit a notice o’ me. A wunnert if A wiz levytatit. Then A thought, Jeez-oh, middby A’m deid! Naw. The Arch Angel Gabriel diznae werr a shiny yella jaikit lik the big fella in frunt o’ me. An onywise A wiz gaun doon ra way, no up. An ma heid wiz beelin! Then A realizt A could only open wan eye. Middy A wiz jist hauf deid. Ma hale heid wiz loupin but. Then A sees ra amblance. Blue lights flashin, the lot. A kid you nut. A wiz oan a stretcher getting shoved inside it. Whit hud they dun tae me?
“Okay Jimmy,” says ra yella jaikit wi an amblance man inside it. “We’ll soon hiv ye in the hossipital.”
Here, A’m telling yous. Wiz this no serious? Ra big man’s fumlin aboot wi sumhing. It wiz straps. A hid bin tied intae the stretcher. A suppose A wad hae slid aff itherwyse.
We stertit tae move aff wi the sirens gaun full pelt. Me-maw, me-maw, right anuff. A pit ma haun up tae ma heid. There wiz a big daud a cotton wool stuck tae ma napper. An anither wan roon the back. Then A hears a voice sayin, “Here mister, he’s comin round.”
It wiz Jinty’s voice. Wiz she here an aw? A turnt ma heid tae see an wisht A hudnae. It wiz birlin. But ther wiz Jinty. Aw dressed up wi her good coat and lipstick oan.
A says, “Whit’s up hen?” but ma voice wiz aw croaky an sumdy’d nicked ma wallies. A tried tae sit up but this pain beltet right through ma skull. A made a funny noise. A went, “Aw-aw-agh-aw.”
Jinty moant an says, “Aw my Goad, he’s gaun.”
Ra amblance man grabbed ma wrist. “It’s aw right missus,” he tolt Jinty, “He’s okay. He’s jist passed oot wi the pain.”
A could hear them fine, but awfy far away. A wanted tae tell her no tae greet. The ba wiznae up oan the slates yet. The wurds widny cum oot but.
Then we stoapt. A wiz strapped in again and liftit oot. There wiz awfy bright lights. A decided tae keep ma eyes shite tut. Naw. A meant tut shite. Aw Crivens. Whit wiz a sayin? Whit wiz a daein ther? Jinty’s gein sumdy ma name an address and partikylars. A musta been bad. She cried he Henry. Hi a no been Harry aw ma days? Then A hears her tellin them A fell oota bed. Whit bed a wunnert. A wisht a kent whit day it wiz.
They goat me unner the oaxters an intae a cherr. A wee nurse shoved it.
“Err you quate comfortable Mr Maconald?” Here, she’s awfy pan loaf. “The doctor will see you soon. Would you like a wee cuppa dear?” she says tae Jinty. “There’s a machine over there.” An aff she tript.
Jinty leant over me, “Pit them in an try tae look mer like yersel,” she says an slips me ma wallies. The wey A’m feelin it wad tak mer than teeth. Ma mooth wiz as dry as a stick. A cud ferr a went a wee drink. That wiz when A minded A’d hud a wee drink. A’d hud a wee bucket foo.
Didny A no get a Yankee Treble up? A’d won a packet. Hud A been mugged fur ma money? Naw. A widnae hiv been mugged oot ma bed. Jinty said A fell oot. A ast her,
“Jinty, Whit wye did A fell oot ra bed?” says A.
“Doon the wye,” says she, quite sarky.
A says, “Jinty, wiz A drunk?”
“Shut yer face,” says she an clenched ur teeth. She wiz right mad at me. A could tell. She happed up ur coat and shoved ur hauns up ur sleeves. She only diz that when she’s squerrin up fur a fight. She wiz in a right tiravee A can tell ye.
I thought A’d hiv a wee gander roon tae see who else wiz in ra place. Sufferin General right anuff. There wiz this wee shilpit craitur, the colour o’ tripe, sittin oppysit me. Lukt lik he wiz ready fur a clap wi a spade. Furnest him wiz a wee stoatir. She lukt fine tae me – till A saw her fit hinging aw funny. The shame. She musta broke it.
“Ye’ll no be at the jiggin the night hen,” A says tae hur. She sees me a wee smile. Well, nearly. She wiz likely in a lotta pain.
Jinty drew me a stinker and gied ma ur elba in ma ribs. A says, “Whit’s that fur?”
“Cat’s fur! Ever seen it oan a dug?” says she. Huh!
I sees a wee loddie in a Celtic strip an werrin a bandage oan ‘is leg.
“Hullo son,” says me. “Did sumdy foul ye?”
His mammy duntit ‘im wan. “Tell the man whit happent tae ye Elton.”
Elton! Mammy, daddy! Imagine gein a wean a moniker luk that.
“A dug but me,” says ra boay.
“A dug but ye,” says A. “Whit wye?”
“Wi its teeth,” he says. “A nivir even touched it. It wiz jist lying ther, waggin its tail an it wagged it right unner ma fit. An then it but me.”
Ra wee sowl, ‘is lip wiz trembling, he wiz near greetin. His snotters matched the colour o ‘is stripey jumper.
“It musta been a proddy dug,” says A, tae cheer im up, but he didny laugh.
Jinty didnae laugh neithers. She wiz not amused. She damp soon wiped the smile aff ma face wi anuther dig tae ma ribs. If A’d no broke a rib afore – she coulda broke wan fur me. Elbas lik knittin pins.
There wiz a big wumman ower the other side. A mean a shuge, big, wumman. She damp near need the ither side aw tae hursel. A wunnert whit wiz up wi hur. She wiznae bleedin or burst or nuchin. She wad uv floatit the Kingston Bridge if she hud uv burst.
“Ye aw right hen?” A says tae hur bit she jist lukt ra ither wye. Never even cracked ur enamel. “Ur ye here wi sumdy getting seen tae or ur ye getting seen yersel?” A speared.
A goat anither dunt affa Jinty’s elba.
“Wad ye hod yer wheesht,” she hissed. “or you’ll get seen tae –wurser.”
A kinda sat up straight in ma cherr. Tae dodge anither nudge. That elba a hurs wiz sharper than ur tongue. A lukked doon at ma feet. They wur danglin. Aw my goad. Ther wiz sumhing wrang wi ma feet.
“Jinty,” A cried, “Jinty. Ma feet! Ther pure dead white Jinty. With’s up wi ma feet?”
“Keep yer voice doon,” says she. “Ye’ve goat white soaks oan.”
“White soaks? Whit am A daen wi white soaks oan? White soaks is Jessie soaks,” says A.
“Ther oor Peter’s soaks,” says Jinty in a strangulatet voice. “A couldny find a perr o yours that matched. Noo, wad ye pit a soak in it.”
A fist cums oot ur sleeve so a shiftet ma bahookey, jist in case A wiz fur a turn o her knuckles.
“Yer turn’ll cum soon,” she says.
A wisht A’d taken a turn – in the oppysit direction. A pulls ma shurt collar up. Wait a minit. A’v niver seen that shurt afore.
“Here Jinty,” says A. “This is no ma shurt.” Hud sumdy pochled aw ma clathes? Hud they goat me dressed oota Mulhearn’s Rag Store – or Paddy’s market?
Jinty wiz getting awfy rid in the face.
“It’s oor Peter’s shurt,” says she. “Noo wad ye shut yer gub wanst an fur aw.”
Sumdy wiz taken a right lenna me an theyr wur takin a lenna ma gear an aw. A wunnert if A’d taken wan o thae serialized hemrages. Naw. A reckon it wiznae that. Bit ther wiz a wee man gein it laldy wi a big hammer inside ma heid. A hud a lump oan ma broo the size o a egg an wan tae match it roon the back. It wiz aw wet an sticky. Here, wiz it no blood.
“Jinty. Ma heid’s aw bluddin,” says A.
“It’s supposed tae blud when he split it,” says she.
“How did a split it?” says A
Jinty leans ower tae me an says right intae ma ace, “Ye cracked it aff the fender gaun doon an didn’t ye no furget tae miss the mantelpiece cumin up. Ye wur pure paralytic so ye wur. Stotious. Steamboats. Stinkin.” She wiz spitting. “Noo, gie us peace, or ye’ll git whits left o yer heid in yer hauns tae play wi.”
Ma heid felt as if sumdy’d been playin wi it areadies. Playin durty. A’m sittin ther, tryin tae think, trying tae stoap masel frum gaun mental. Then Sumdy cries, “Henry Macdonald please.”
It wiz that wee nurse. She wheeched the cherr, wi me still sittin in it, through a door an doon a corrydor. This wee doakter lined shi… help ma boab! A nearly done it again. This – wee – doaktur – shined – lights – in – ma – eyes an rapt a wee hammer aff ma knees. A goat sent fur X-rays. Oan ma heid. They didny find nuchin.
A gets ma broo stiched an the back o ma skull an aw. Talk aboot yer heid being buttoned up the back! Then, afore A knows wher A um, ma troosers get yanked doon an A get a jag on ma bum. That wiz fur tetynus. A didnae see whose drawers A wiz werring. A goat hurled back tae Jinty.
“Here’s oor Peter cum wi his motor tae run us hame,” says she, quite joco. Seein Peter gied me a clue. It wiz aw cumin back tae me. Ma Yankee treble.
“Aw Peter son,” says A. “Huv ye cum wi ma winnins? Yer no a bad sowl tae yer auld man. A’ll see ye okay son. Ha much did A get?”
Bit here, oor Peter’s lukin awfy sick imsel. Hid he been blootered an aw? Naw. But A’m stertin tae feel worser fur A kin jalouse whit’s cumin. A’ve saw that luk oan is face afore.
“Aw Good Goad in Govan,” says A tae him. “Did you no go an furget tae pit ma line oan?” A tried tae git up oota yon stupit cherr but Jinty helt me doon. “Peter,” says A. “Speak tae me son.”
Bit Peter jist stood ther wi is hauns up. Lik a refugee frum a Tom Mix pikchur and Jinty’s goat ur hauns up ur sleeves again.
“A’ll make it up tae ye Da, honest,” says Peter. “A nivir thought ye hud a chance a winnin.”
“You’ll no hiv a chance when A get ye,” says A. “A’ll molocate ye. The minit A get oota this cherr.”
Bit whit’s muney? Munny a hardship. A jist wantit ma ain heid back. Ra wan A hid wiz thumpin right aff ma shooders. A hid been stitched up in merr weys than wan. A whist A wad waken up an fine the whole thing wiz jist a bad dream.
Jinty wiz fur getting in anuther thruppence wurth. “A tolt im no tae pit it oan,” says she, near spittin again. “A tolt im. A’m no hivin Peter coerced intae pittin lines oan in Bookies shoaps fur you.”
That jist showed me how mad Jinty wiz. Using bad wurds lik coerse and no even sayin them right.
“Coerce?” says A. “Coerce? Should ye no huv said co-arse?”
Bit Jinty jist opent ra door an oor Peter goat me in is motor and took me fur a ride.
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Took Fur a Ride. 2021. In The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech. Glasgow: University of Glasgow. Retrieved January 2021, from http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/document/?documentid=835.
"Took Fur a Ride." The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech. Glasgow: University of Glasgow, 2021. Web. January 2021. http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/document/?documentid=835.
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