SCOTS Project - www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk

Document : 1347
Title    : Evie
Author(s): Charles Barron

Copyright holder(s): Charles Barron

Text

The Character

Evie Duncan is 60. She is a little bit stiff, but her mind is as lively –
and wicked – as ever. She speaks with an Aberdeen accent, though often
adopting other accents to suit the stories she tells. Her main companion,
in her widowhood, is her cat, Tutankhamen.

In Act One she is dressed for indoors, but fairly smartly. In Act Two she
is ready to go out; so she is in shoes and her best down-the-town clothes,
though not – at first -  in a coat.


The Dialect

Evie has a fairly broad Aberdeen accent, typical of her generation and
background.  But she has a range of voices and accents which she enjoys
adopting in her stories.


The Set

A room in Evie’s house. It can be as detailed and realistic as the
director wishes, but the minimum requirements are a table, with cloth,
stage right. There is a chair above it, which Evie uses often, and another,
tucked under the stage right end of the table. On the left is a comfortable
chair, with arms, where Evie relaxes. Close to it there lies a cat basket
in which a black cat is asleep, throughout the play. There is a saucer for
milk beside it.


The Date

It is the present day.




Evie


ACT ONE

(It is late evening. The room is warmly lit. Tutankhamen is asleep in his
basket by the armchair; the table bears a cloth but is otherwise empty.
Evie enters with a tray on which there are a teapot, in a cosy, a
tea-strainer, a cup and saucer, a large milk-jug and a plate with two
biscuits. She lays the tray on the table and goes off, returning
immediately, carrying two envelopes. One looks as if it may contain a
birthday card; the other is brown and official-looking.  She lays these
carefully on the table, by the tray.)

EVIE  Just half-an-hour or so and we’ll be able to open the envelopes,
Toots. I’m having  a wee fly cup. Would you like een? (She takes the milk
jug to Tutankhamen’s saucer.) Ach, you hinna touched fit you’ve got.
(She returns to the table.) Well, please yoursel’ if you’d raither
sleep. (Sits.) You’ll need to waken up at twelve, fitever. I canna be
expected to do aathing mysel’. (She pours herself a cup of tea during the
next speech. She is careful about putting the milk in first and she uses a
strainer.)  You’d be up seen enough if I was opening a tin of salmon for
my denner. (Pause.) I micht have that the morn. Fit div you think? A wee
celebration? A wee tin o’ salmon atween’s. Just to mark the day?
(Pause.) 

Of course, there mightna be ony cause to celebrate. (She leaves the
strainer in the cup and picks up the brown envelope.) I should have opened
it afore, but a twa-three days surely hasna made muckle difference? I just
thocht I’d keep it till the morn. (Pause.) As if being a year auler will
make it easier to cope wi’. (She lays it down and picks up the strainer.)
Look at fit I’m deeing, Toots. I’m using my strainer, but I made the
tea wi’ a bag. Evie, Evie, you hinna had real tea in the house for years.
Fit on earth made me tak’ through a strainer iv noo? (She is quite
worried about this behaviour. She gets up to take the strainer out to the
kitchen. She pauses at the exit and turns back to speak to Tutankhamen.) Is
this fit Terry Wogan ca’s a “senior moment”? I think Addy would jist
have said, “You’re getting’ gey dottled, quine.” (She puts on a bit
of a male voice for this. She laughs, and exits briefly, returning without
the strainer.) 

I’ve put it at the back of my orra drawer, so I winna be tempted to pick
it up wi’ the teaspoon again. (Pause. She sits and takes a sip of tea.)
That’s fine, that. (She takes a biscuit.) It’s nae often I have a
cuppie efter 11 o-clock at nicht. Nae wonder you’re refusing to join me.
(Takes a bite.) An’ a biscuit, ana! This is sinful, this. (She is
delighted with herself. Takes another sip.) That’s een of this new
pyramid teabags, Toots. Mrs Swanson up the stair sweers by them. (She takes
a connoisseur’s sip, swirling the tea round her mouth for a moment.) Aye.
It’s a’ richt. In fact, it mak’s a rare cup of tea, richt enough. But
to tell the truth, I canna say that I taste the difference. A decent cup
o’ tea’s a decent cup o’ tea, whither it comes fae a pyramid, a wee
roon’ baggie or a plain aul’ square een. It’s mair to dee wi’ the
wye you mak’ it, than the shape of the baggie. Wouldn’t you say, Toots?


As lang as the pot is heated and the watter is boiling, the only thing that
maitters is to get the sweerl richt. (She picks up the pot.) Three this
wye. (She swirls the pot three times clockwise.) And three this wye. (She
swirls the pot three times anti-clockwise.) Mind, now. This wye first.
(Clockwise.) Never this wye. (Anti-clockwise. Pause. She looks at
Tutankhamen.) 

You just couldna care less, could you, Toots? Fit a rare life you’ve got,
an’ nae mistak’. Nae worries aboot makin’ a decent cup o’ tea.
(Pause.) And nae worries about little brown envelopes. (She picks up the
envelope but throws it down immediately.) I think I’ll come back as a
cat, next time. (She gets up and takes her cup with her, to sit on the
armchair by Tutankhamen.) 

Of course, I’d need to make sure I got a decent body to look after me.
Nae a’ cats are as lucky as you, you ken. I’ve spiled ye, a’ your
life. Iver since ye walket in that door in front o’ Addy, as if it was
you that owned the place an’ nae him. An’ that was that. You jist
wouldna leave; I used to shove you ootside the door, in the hopes that
you’d wander awa’, but nae sic luck. You jist sat there on the mat,
wi’ that snooty look o’ yours, until ye got the chance to sneak back
in. Sae I’ve been your slave ever since.

Addy wanted to ca’ you Hitler, mind? Because you took ower the whale
place. “’At cat wants mair lebensraum than Hitler ever dreamt o’,”
he used to say. But I wouldna ha’e that. “He’s maybe bossy,” I
said. “But he’s nae coorse, like yon een.” Na, it was your uppity
wyes that decided it in the end. “He’s nae some jumped-up decorator
that’s made himsel’ a dictator,” I said. “This lad was born to be
superior. Like the pharaohs o’ Egypt.” Sae that’s how you got your
name – Tutankhamen. (Sips reflectively.)

I suppose I shouldna ca’ you “Toots” ava’.  It’s a bit
insulting-like for a pharaoh. Fit’s waur, it mak’s you sound cute an’
cuddly, an’ you’re certainly nae that. (She gets up, with some
difficulty, tickles Toots and replaces her cup on the table. She rubs her
back.) Michty, I’m getting’ affa stiff. Aul’ age doesna come
itsel’. An’ me nae sixty yet. (She looks at her watch.) Nae for anither
twenty minutes onywye. (She yawns hugely.) Oh, me. Lang past bedtime,
Toots. I should have gone to bed as usual an’ waited till mornin’. I
jist felt this een was a wee bit special. It needed to be ushered in. Like
New Year. I could never ging to my bed and miss midnicht on Hogmanay. I ken
it would still be the new year if I sleepet through 12 o’clock and got up
at breakfast time. But it wouldna seem the same. Some wye or ither, you
need to be there as the new year’s born or you feel you’ve missed it.
(She starts to tidy up the tray.)

I suppose I must have been aboot seven or echt fan I first went
first-fittin’, wi’ my ma an’ da. We jist went to my auntie Evelyn,
naebody else, but I thocht I was Haemanannie. Richt grown up. My auntie
gave me a wee gless o’ ginger wine.” It’ll dee the lassie nae
hairm,” she says to my ma. “It’s only eence a year.” (She has a
special voice for Evelyn.)

She was richt, Toots. It didna dee me ony hairm. It didna turn me into an
alcoholic, as my mither thocht. Michty me, she was affa against drink, my
ma. Never had a wee tootie hersel’, an’ never approved o’ Evelyn.
Mind you, I dinna think Evelyn ever had mair than one whisky at a time,
a’ her life. She was certainly never drunk that I ever heard o’. But to
hear Ma cairryin’ on, ye’d have thocht peer Evelyn got through a couple
o’ bottles o’ Bells afore denner-time every day. Of course, she was my
faither’s sister, nae Ma’s, so she was aff to a bad start there. 

An’ it was a’ made waur, because Da sneaked awa’ efter I was born,
an’ registered me himsel’, ca’ed efter Auntie Evelyn. Ma never
forgave Da, or me, or Evelyn for that. An’ aye thocht she would try to
turn me into an alcy like hersel’.  The truth o’t is, that that first
ginger wine fan I was echt didna affect me – except to gi’e me a real
taste for the stuff. It’s the only alcohol I’ve ever had – one gless
o’ ginger wine every Hogmanay for the last 50 years or so. (She carries
off the tray. We hear her voice from the kitchen.)

But I’m brakin’ oot; I’m gan to the bad; I’m fullfillin’ a’ my
mither’s worst fears. (She reappears without the tray but carrying a
bottle of Crabbie’s Ginger Wine and a very small tot glass.) I’m awa’
to pour mysel’ a gless, an’ it’s nae even Hogmanay. Weel, you only
ha’e a 60th birthday eence in a lifetime. To tell you the truth, Toots,
if I min’ richt, I think I maybe had a wee tootie on my 21st birthday
ana’. Michty, it’s getting’ to be a habit. I’ll need to be careful
nae to let it get oot o’ han’. (Pause.)

Guid sakes, Toots, I canna get a hauds o’ this ava’. (Working it out as
she speaks.) That was near 40 year ago, I was 21. And I was jist gan to
say, if I’m makin’ a habit o’t, I’d be drinkin’ a toast in
anither 40 year – for my 100th birthday. Sae I’m jist half-wye atween
21 an’ 100. I canna believe that, ye ken. My whale adult life –
working, mairryin’, ha’ein’ a family, seein’ abody roon’ me
dyin’ aff – it’s a’ jist been 40 year.

Nooadays I think o’ mysel’ as nearly at the end o’ my life. Sixty,
the aul’ age pension, folk lookin’ at you as if they thocht you were
gan to fa’ ower deid in front o’ them. An’ yet a lot o’ women live
till 100 nooadays. You read aboot them in the P. & J. a’ the time. The
Queen doesna even bother sendin’ oot telegrams ony mair, there’s sae
mony folk mak’ it to a hunner. (She’s amazed by a new thought.) I could
ha’e as lang in front o’ me, as ahin’ me. But fit am I gan to fill it
wi’? Fan I think o’ a’ that I’ve deen to fill up the first 40 year,
rinnin’ roon in wee circles to pack it a’ in, maist o’ the time. A’
that years ower again – an’ naething to fill them wi’. (She sinks
down on the chair above the table.)

I dinna ken fit to mak’ o’ that at a’, Toots. It’s never struck me
afore. I canna jist sit here watching television for the rest o’ my life.
I’ll ha’e to mak’ plans. I’ll ha’e to find things to dee. Och,
this is affa - I’ve jist let mysel’ ging a’ to pot, without even
noticing it. Weel, I’m gan to pull mysel’ thegether, Toots, an’
mak’ good use o’ the next 40 year. You wait an’ see. (A thought.)

Nae that you’ll be there to see, will you? You hinna got onything like 40
year ahead o’ you. I suppose you’ll be lucky to laist anither four-five
year? Then you’ll aff an’ leave me like abody else. Sarah, first. She
couldna wait to get awa’ as seen’s she finished school. Into a flat
wi’ frien’s, an’ them mairriet an’ aff sooth afore she was richt
oot o’ her teens. Efter a’ I had deen for her. 

An’ then Addy. He’s left me. Och, I ken: weemen expect to live langer
than their men but nae to be widowed at 51. Mind you, I was pretty much a
bookie’s widow or a clubbie widow afore that. He was niver in. Hame fae
work, gobble doon his tea - that I had spent a’ day getting’ ready for
‘im. Then awa’ doon to the club. 

I used to say, “You’ll dee onything to keep oot o’ my sicht, min.”
And he’d gi’e that squint wee smile o’ his, and shout “Ta, ta,”
as he went oot the door. Never a word o’ thanks for spendin’ a’ my
days organising his life for ‘im.

An’ ae day, afore ower lang, you’ll awa’ tee an’ leave me really on
my ain. Fa will I speak to, then? Mysel’? It’s a bad sign, speakin’
to yoursel’, eh? I’ll maybe need to look roon’ for a new man. Efter
a’, it’s been nine year since Addy died. That’s been bad enough. I
wouldna want anither 40 year without a man. 

But far am I gan to find a man, stuck in the hoose a’ day? The only man I
ever see is the postie. (Pause. She smiles wickedly.) Mind you, he’s a
bonnie loon. I send for a’ the free samples in the Radio Times and the
Evenin’ Express jist so he has to ring the bell wi’ them. Mind you,
I’m nae too sure aboot the piercin’. He’s got aboot 12 wee stud
things in ae ear, a’ the wye roon. You’d think it would be affa sair to
sleep on. (She runs a finger round her ear, to illustrate.) I div like his
tattoos, though. He’s got a bonnie unicorn on this airm, and a lang, lang
snake that gings a’ the wye roon’ an’ roon’ this een. (She runs a
hand in a spiral down the length of her other arm from shoulder to wrist.)
You see them in the summer, fan he has his short-sleeved shirt on. (She
does a wicked little in-breath and opens her eyes wide in mock excitement.)
He tells me he’s got even better eens, but he’d need to ken me a lot
better afore he could show them to me. (Delighted.) Cheeky wee limmer.

So, is he a possibility, div you think, Toots? Was he saying that he’d
like to get to ken me better? (Pause.) Weel, some men like an aul’er
woman. I’ve seen you chasin’ some gey mangy aul’ cats fan you were
younger. In fact, I’m near sure that was your ain mither you were on tap
o’ mair than eence. So dinna you gi’e me ony hassle aboot eyein’ up
the postie.

(She picks up the brown envelope.) 

Mind you, I’m nae too sure that I’ve got anither 40 years. An’ you
certainly hinna, my wee beastie. You’re 14 noo, so you canna expect much
mair. You’ll be gan the wye o’ Addy afore ower lang. (She drops the
envelope on to the table.)

He was burnt, of course. Nae that I haud wi’ that kind o’ thing, but he
had his hert set on it. I dinna ken fit wye. Except that he never liket the
weet. I couldna get him to walk doon to the corner shoppie if the grun was
even a wee bittie damp. Sae I suppose he imagined getting’ buried in
Nellfield would mean he’d be lying for a’ eternity up to his oxters in
sappy dubs. And he didna fancy that. You should have seen him gan to the
ootside lavvy in oor first hoose. He used to pit on his wellies, an’
soowester. 

Besides, he aye enjoyed a good fire. Fan we moved to this hoose, wi’ nae
coal fire in’t, he sulket for three months, gan aboot the place
shiverin’ as if he was standin’ at the north pole in his Y-fronts,
pittin’ on fower cardigans to sit doon an’ watch television. He
disappeared for three hours ae nicht, an’ fan I went oot to look for him,
thinkin’ he’d had a hert attack ootside the bookie’s, far do you
think he wis, Toots? He’d jined a strike. The scaffies had come oot for
mair mony, an’ he jined their picket line jist so’s he could warm his
backside at their fire. ‘At’s a funny thing that. Fanever you see folk
oot on strike, they’ve got an ile drum wi’ a rare wee bonfire
bleezin’ awa’ in’t. Far div they lay their han’s on them? Do the
unions keep a stock o’ ile drums ready for the purpose? (She puts on one
of her gruff male voices.) “Na, na. Ye canna haud a strike next week. The
bus drivers have booked the ile drums.”

The feel thing was, he didna even agree wi’ the scaffies’ strike. He
thocht they were owerpaid as it was. (Her Addy voice.) “Fit are they
needin’ mair money for? They’re hame for their tea by three o’clock
in the efterneen an’ awa’ oot to their second jobs.” But he wasna gan
to let political principles get in the wye o’ warmin’ up his backside.

The upshot o’ a’ this was that he widna hear o’ getting’ buried. It
was to be the crematorium for him an’ nae odds aboot it. Sae I hadna
muckle choice. But it was a richt dilemma for me. As I said to the
undertaker wifie … An’ that was a real shock, Toots, I can tell you. A
wifie undertaker. I’d pictured mysel’ ha’ein’ a wee news wi’ a
nice middle-aged mannie in stripey troosers an’ a sympathetic expression.
But fit’s here but a lassie, nae half my age. Affa business-like but
maybe nae jist as sympathetic as I would have looket for.

Onywye, I says to her, it’s a real dilemma, isn’t it? I dinna want to
let folk think I’m mean, an’ I want to gi’e him a richt send-off, in
front o’ his chummies fae the club an’ a’thing. But the thocht o’
spendin’ a’ that siller on a decent coffin and then watchin’ it ging
up in a bleeze fan it’s nae mair than days aul’. It gings against the
grain, if ye ken fit I mean, I says to her. (A posh young woman voice.)
“I think you’ll find, Mrs Duncan, that even our cheapest coffin is
elegant and dignified enough to impress Mr Duncan’s friends.” 

“Nae them,” says I. “If there’s one thing that lot ken, it’s
wood. They’ve worked wi’ it a’ their lives, an’ they can spot
chipboard wi’ a plastic veneer on’t fae twa mile awa’. It’ll ha’e
to be real wood to impress them. But I canna help feelin’ it’s an affa
waste a’ the same.” 

Sae I settled for pine, in the end. Real wood, but nae ower price-y. I ken
his chummies would be lookin’ for mahogany or teak, but I was drawin’
the line at that. I didna see ony o’ them offerin’ to put their han’s
in their pooches to pey for’t. 

The service itsel’ was jist fit you would expect o’ onything to dee
wi’ Addy – a total disaster. I startet to giggle to mysel’ because
the minister ca’ed him … (Posh voice)… “Adam” a’ the wye
through. I hadna heard onybody ca’ him that since his mother died. An’
even she only used it fan she was annoyed wi’ him. Sae it sounded to me
as if the minister was giein’ him a row. But they a’ thocht I was
greetin’, nae laughin’, so that was a’ richt. But then fit happens
next, but the curtain got stuck. Ye ken, the wee curtain that comes
chuggin’ roon’ the coffin at the end o’ the service? Weel, it came
away fine, choogy, choogy, choogy, choog. But then it stopped half wye
an’ we could a’ still see the coffin. Somebody ahin me said, as lood as
you like … (Change of voice) … “He’s changed his mind. He’s nae
gan.” That wouldna’ve surprised me; he never kent fit he wanted, peer
Addy. (Comfortably.) Nae till I tellt him.

But it wasna him, it was just a technical hitch, like they say. So the
minister finished up real quick and got us a’ oot so that they could try
an’ fix it afore the next funeral. I hope they didna ha’e to get a man
fae Archibald’s in; that would cost them a bonnie penny.

It left me wonderin’ fit does happen efter the wee curtain closes. Does
the coffin roll awa’ doon a chute, straight into the furnace? Or div they
a’ get piled up until there’s enough to mak’ it worthwhile to licht
the gas aneeth ‘em? Or div they jist coup him oot into the fire, an’
save the coffin for the undertaker to use again? In a funny wye, I wouldna
mind that. It wouldna seem sic a waste o’ a good coffin.

An’ then, to top a’, while abody was filin’ oot to shak’ han’s
wi’ me, did they nae pit on a tape o’ Frank Sinatra singing I Did It My
Way. Apparently, so my nice wee undertaker wifie said to me, it’s the
maist requested song at cremations nooadays. Me, I didna even ken they took
requests. Onywye, I turned back to see if the coffin was deein’ a jig
ahin the curtain because if there was one song that Addy hated it was Frank
Sinatra gi’ein’ it lalldy wi’ I Did It My Way. It jist used to drive
him mental somewye or ither. Fanever it came on the television, he used to
say … (Addy voice.) “If I ever meet ‘at mannie Sinatra, I’ll gi’e
him “dee it my wye”: I’ll ram the microphone right up his
backside.” Sorry, Toots, you didna want to hear that, but he could be
real orra sometimes, could Addy. (Pause. A little sadness.) I wonder if he
got his chance? Did him an’ Frank end up in the same place, I wonder?
It’s a shame that was the last thing he heard on earth afore the fire-y
got him. (She cheers up again at a new memory.)

Nae that Addy was finished creatin’ havoc here on earth, even efter he
was burnt. A couple o’ weeks efter the funeral I got this phone call fae
the undertaker wifie. Affa genteel and oozin’ wi’ sympathy. (Undertaker
wifie’s voice.) “Had I recovered sufficiently from my great loss to
cope with paying the bill now? And also, Mr Duncan’s ashes were ready for
collection if I’d care to drop by.”

Weel, I hadna thocht aboot it. I suppose I jist imagined a’ the ashes
mixed up thegether in a great big ashpan underneath the furnace. It never
occurred to me that they would manage to keep each een separate. Maybe they
div burn them one at a time efter a’? I’d heard aboot folk scatterin’
the ashes ower their man’s favourite golf course an’ things like that
but I had jist assumed that that was something you had to ask for, special
like. But no. Apparently, they haud on to them for abody. So I says I’d
ging roon’ one efterneen and collect them

Ye ken this, Toots, I think I’ve seen ower mony films in my life because
I keep picturing things the wrang wye. I was expecting a wee urn kin’
o’ thing. Ye ken, like een o’ thon cups you get for boolin’. Wi’ a
lid on’t. I kind o’ fancied it would sit on the mantelpiece beside the
brass egg cup my sister Rose brocht back fae Blairgowrie.

But na, it was a plastic boxie, like you micht keep your sandwiches in. It
had a wee label on it wi’ Addy’s name on’t, so’s you didna ging
awa’ hame wi’ the wrang man in your shoppin’ bag. So I sign’s the
receipt and she han’s ower the boxie to me. Weel, I dinna ken if I was
a’ thoombs that day, or if she was thinkin’ aboot fit she’d get for
her man’s tea, but somewye or ither it slippet oot atween wir han’s and
crash bang doon it lands on the grun’. It coups ower, the lid flees aff
and oot skells Addy, a’ ower the fleer.

Weel, I didna ken fit to dee – whether to laugh or greet. The wifie had
nae doubts aboot fit she wanted to dee – she was a’ for drappin’ deed
on the spot an’ getting’ hersel’ an emergency appointment at
Hazleheid Crematorium. But we baith ended up deein’ naething. We jist
stood frozen, starin’ doon at the scatterin’ o’ ashes.  We micht be
there yet, nine year later, but there was anither undertaker there. A real
een – strippet troosers, mornin’ coat an’ a face like Boris Karloff.
Withoot a word he gets a wee brush an’ a dustpan fae ahin the coonter,
gets doon on his knees, a’ solemn an’ religious, as if he was gan to
say a prayer. An’ maybe he wis, inside himsel’. An’ he sweeps up
Addy, alang wi’ a fair collection o’ deed flees an’ a couple o’
tabbies. I wouldna’ve believed it was possible to brush a fleer wi’ sae
muckle reverence. It made you feel a’ holy inside. (Pause.) Onywye, that
was Addy, back in the box and he’s through there in the bottom o’ the
press because I canna think o’ fit else to dee wi’ him. 
Mind you, there must be mair dirt aff the fleer than Addy’s ashes in it,
but it doesna seem richt jist to pit it oot to the scaffies. Nae efter a’
the nesty things he’s said aboot them.

Nae that he had it in for scaffies in particular. Na, Addy hadna much tae
say for onybody really. He was aye grumblin’ aboot somebody that he
thocht had let him doon in some wye. Bookies, doctors, bus drivers,
teachers. I dinna ken fa’ a’. Noo, I’ve aye been fine pleased wi’
the wye folk have dealt wi’ me. Weel, I hinna muckle experience o’
bookies, but certainly a’ the rest have looked efter me jist fine.
Especially teachers. You’ve nae idea fit you’ve missed by nae gan to
school, Toots. I loved my school. Broomhill. Oh, it was rare. Ye ken fit I
liked best? A really dark, weet day. Like you get in November. We’d walk
through the street, a’ dressed up in wellies an’ mackintoshes. Then
we’d see the school, lookin’ a’ warm and bricht, wi’ the lights
shining oot through the windows. Inside, it would be kind o’ secret and
safe, wi’ the windows a’ black, an’ the rain lashin’ against them.
You would jist want to bide there forever, an’ nae ging oot into the rain
again. (She sighs nostalgically.)

Mental arithmetic. That was my favourite. Especially fan the teacher would
fire oot questions as fast as she could an’ we had to pit wir han’s up
wi’ the answers. I’d be half oot my seat, snappin’ awa’. (She
stretches her arm up eagerly, snapping her fingers, reliving the moment.)
Aye first up; an’ she had to ask me, because that was the rule. First een
wi’ their han’ up got to answer. But she’d wait, you see, until near
abody had their han’s up. An’ she’d be watchin’, to see fa’ was
slow. An’ then, fan there was maybe jist Henry Tough an’ Sandy Russell
without their han’s up, then she’d let me answer. 

Or sometimes she’d ging roon’ the class, askin’ us a’ in turn. That
was so as ither folk got a chance to answer as weel as me.  But I would
still pit my han’ up every time, to show I had got their answers afore
they did. Of course, if they got it wrang, she would ask me.

Oh, aye. I enjoyed Mental Arithmetic. (She uses a teacher’s voice for the
questions and her own for the answers. She does it at great speed.) Nine
sevens? 63. Six eights? 48. Five sixes? 30. Nine fours? 36. Eight eights?
64. (Slower.) An’ spellin’. I liked that ana’, especially the lang
words. (Chanting) Mississippi. m-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Constantinople.
c-o-n-s-t-a-n-t-i-n-o-p-l-e. Anti-disestablishmentarianism. (Aside.) I
never kent fit that meant. I often wondered, but I never found oot. But,
boy, I could spell it. (Chanting)
a-n-t-i-d-i-s-e-s-t-a-b-l-i-s-h-m-e-n-t-a-r-i-a-n-i-s-m. We a’ kent that
that was the langest word in the English language. So I felt that if I
could spell that, I could spell onything. 

Every Friday we got places. A’ the marks we’d scored for readin’,
an’ writin’, an’ spellin’ an’ Mental Arithmetic during the week
were added up, an’ we got new places to sit at, in the class. The best
eens sat in the back row, then the nae so good, a’ the wye doon to Henry
Tough an’ Sandy Russell at the bottom. They were aye at the bottom, richt
at the front, under Miss McCorkindale’s nose. Which was a peety for her,
because they baith o’ them smelt tae high heaven. Especially Henry. He
used to kich his breeks every Thursday. Regular as clockwork, Henry was. I
used to wonder if he only did it once a week or if he managed to get hame
in time a’ the ither days.

(Smugly) I was aye in the back row. Usually at the richt han’ end. The
“top spot”. We got a badge to wear a’ week, if we were the top boy or
girl. Oh, she kent fit she was deein’, did Corkie. It made us keen to dee
wir work, the hope o’ getting that badge at the end o’ the week. Weel,
the twa-three o’s that stood a chance o’ it, like. Maist o’ them
didna tak’ much interest. But at least they sat quiet. There was nae
nonsense wi’ Corkie. She kept the rouch loons in line, a’ richt. 

It was aye quines that were in the back row. Loons hinna got the
application, as Miss McCorkindale used to say. (Using Miss McCorkindale’s
voice) “Apply yourselves, boys and girls, and anything is possible. Even
one of you could become a Hollywood film star or fly to the moon, if you
just apply yourself well enough.”

Weel, surely neen o’s did apply wirsel’s affa hard, because I hinna
noticed onybody fae oor class playing golf on the moon, or even appearin’
on Grampian, never min’ Hollywood. Nae that I would thank you for a job
in Hollywood. It’s full o’ Americans. An’ I jist canna thole
Americans. 

But my chummie – Jean Chalmers – she richt fancied hersel’ as a film
star. She was een o’ the quines that was usually in the tap three in the
class; sometimes she beat me an’ sometimes I beat her for the Top Girl
badge, but we were aye quite jocose aboot it. As lang as it wisna Ella
Findlater that got it. We couldna stick her. 

Aye, Jean was a’ for growin’ up to be a film star, wi’ a fur coat
an’ a Rolls Royce. I think it was the fur coat she was efter, really. She
aye felt the caul’, Jeanie. She was affa thin, you see, an’ I think the
caul’ weather could get through to her bones easier than wi’ ither
folk. Onywye, it was aye her dream to get to Hollywood because she kent it
was aye warm an’ sunny there. An’ bein’ a film star she’d get to
wear a fur coat a’ the time. It never occurred to her that she’d ha’e
to learn to act an’ a’ that kin’ o’ thing. She was jist gan to be
discovered by Sam Goldwyn, an’ whisked aff to America wi’ a contract
and a mink. Though I never figured oot fit wye Sam Goldwyn would be
walkin’ doon Holburn Street an’ bumpin’ into Jean.

She didna ging to Hollywood. She went to Ruthrieston School, like maist
ither folk. Nae me, though. (Smugly.) I went to the Central for three
years. That’s fit wye I ended up servin’ in Reid and Pearson’s. You
see? (She taps her forehead.) Mental Arithmetic. I was coontin’ oot the
customer’s change afore the till had even added up the bill. So I didna
see muckle o’ Jean efter that. But I did bump into her ae day, och, lang
efter we’d baith got mairriet an’ had family an’ a’thing. We stood
for a filie, ootside Woolies, newsin’ awa’. Fa we’d mairriet, an’
foo mony kids we’d had. But seen there was naething much mair to say. So
I min’s her aboot wintin’ to be a film star wi’ a fur coat. (Using
Jean’s voice.) “Weel,” she says, “I could near have made mysel’ a
fur coat, richt enough. For a filie, I worket at the poulterer’s in the
New Market. My job was skinnin’ rabbits. On a busy Friday, I’d be up to
my oxters in fur!”

I was surprised to hear she’d ended up in the New Market, her o’ a’
folk. It’s a caul’ hole, thon place. (She shivers a little.) It’s
getting’ a bittie nippy in here, noo. I shouldna’ve let the fire ging
oot at its usual time, fan I was plannin’ to sit up late. An’, michty,
look at the time. It’s gone twelve an’ you never tellt me, Toots. (She
opens the bottle of Crabbie’s.) I should have had this deen afore noo.
(She pours a glass.) ‘At’s it, noo. Nae ower muckle, eh? I dinna want
to ging to my bed bleezin’, just because it’s my birthday. An’ a wee
drappie for you. (She crosses to Toots and pours some wine into his milk.)
Ye can toast me in the mornin’ fan you waken up. (She lifts her glass
very formally.)

Here’s to me. Happy 60th birthday. (She takes a tiny sip.) Ooh, that’s
strong, that. (She has another, longer sip.) It warms you up, though. I
canna say, Toots, that I feel ony different, noo that I’m an auld age
pensioner. It maybe tak’s time to click in. (Pause.) I’d better nae put
it aff ony langer. (She picks up both envelopes.) Which een first? The
thing is, I ken fa they’re fae, but I dinna ken fit this een says. (She
drops the brown one.) And fit’s mair – I dinna want to ken. (A sip.)

On the ither hand, I ken exactly fit this een says. (She holds the white
envelope, obviously containing a card, but makes no attempt to open it. She
adopts a voice for Sarah – rather English.) “Happy birthday, Mother.
Must make more effort to see each other this year.” That’ll be the same
effort she’s made every year for the last twenty. Na, I maun be fair,
Toots. It’s only nineteen year. Ever since she got mairriet. And she did
come up for the funeral. So it’s only nine year since she last made the
effort. Maybe she’s waiting for me to ging doon to England? Can you see
me, wi’ you tucked under one airm, an’ a suitcase under the ither,
struggling on to a train at the Jint Station and findin’ my wye to them?
Hoo mony changes are there atween Aiberdeen an’ Worcester, d’you
suppose?

Besides, they’ve never sent me an invitation to visit them. I’m nae gan
far I’m nae wanted. Onywye, Toots, I dinna ken if I could bide in the
same hoose as an Englishman. They’re near as bad’s Americans. (She
opens the envelope and removes a card. She glances, with a sour face, at
the picture on the front and then reads from the inside.)

“Happy birthday, Mother.” (Pause. Bitterly.) “From the four of us.”
That’s new. The bairns used to send their ain. They’re economising,
surely. That’ll be his idea and she’ll jist ha’e gan alang wi’ it.
Jist like her Da. (Reads again.) “We really must make an effort to meet
up soon.”  (She sets the card up on the table.) Aye. (Pause.) Mind you.
It’s a card. Better een than neen. I’m jist an aul’ misery. Plenty
o’ folk have naebody to send them even one card. And I’ve got twa. (She
picks up the brown envelope. Lays it down. Pours another Crabbie’s.)
I’ll pey for this in the mornin’. I’ll ha’e a hangover. (Pause.)
Fancy waitin’ till I’m an aul’ age pensioner to ha’e my first
hangover. (She drinks. Slowly and deliberately she lays down the glass and
picks up the brown envelope. She opens it and draws out a letter. She reads
it slowly.) 

Fit’ll we dee wi’ you, then Toots? Will we ask Mrs Swanson to look
efter you? I dinna like bein’ beholden to folk, but I canna think fit
else to dee. I can hardly ask Sarah to pop up fae Worcester to empty oot
your litter tray. She wouldna thank me for that. And nor would Toby. He
winna pay her rail fare to visit me at Christmas, so he certainly wouldna
think it was worth it jist to empty oot your doin’s. (She looks at the
letter again.) “Exploratory.” In ither words, they’ve nae idea
fit’s wrang but if they poke aboot inside me they’ll maybe stumble
across something. (Pause. A long sigh.) That’s a fine start to my aul’
age. Hospital. I wish noo I’d opened it as seen’s it came, instead o’
spilin’ my birthday wi’ it. (She sits, suddenly. Very near tears.)  The
17th. A week on Thursday. Better gi’e mysel’ a birthday present o’ a
new nightie. I could maybe even get een fae Marks, since it’s a special
occasion. Believe me, Toots, you dinna get a mannie lifting your nightie
an’ explorin’ you every day. Nae at my age. (She pulls out a scrap of
hankie and blows her nose, briefly.) Ach, I’m jist feelin’ sorry for
mysel’. That’s the drink, you see. Mak’s you maudlin. Jist pull
yoursel’ thegither, quine. (She stands.)

I’ll jist wash oot my gless and my cuppie, an’ get to my bed. That’s
the best place for an aul’ body like me.

(She pulls herself together, gathers up her glass and bottle and makes for
the exit. Just before she disappears, she speaks.)

Good night, Toots.

(She goes and the lights fade for the Interval.)


End of Act One




ACT TWO

(Nothing seems to have changed, but it is six months later. The birthday
card and letter have gone, together with their envelopes. Evie’s coat
lies ready over the back of the armchair. Evie enters, in outdoor clothes
and carrying the same bottle of Crabbie’s and the same glass. She is
brisk and business-like.)

EVIE  Look at this, Toots. The last thing left in the press – my bottle
o’ Crabbie’s. Never been touched since that wee tootie we had on my
birthday. It surely canna be to Mrs Swanson’s taste, because she’s
ta’en a’thing else. I tellt her to clear oot the lot but she’s turned
up her nose at my peer ginger wine. (She takes off the top.) She’s mair
o’ a sweet sherry wifie, I think. (She sniffs the wine.) Smells a’
richt. It wouldna ging aff in six months, would it? (Pause.) Six months! Fa
would have thocht so much could change in six months? If you had said to me
that nicht, “Happy birthday, Evie. And in six month’s time your whole
life will be turned upside down”, I wouldna’ve believed you.
“You’re havering, wee man,” I would have said, and blamed it a’ on
the Crabbie’s in your milk. And you dinna ken just hoo changed your life
is aboot to be. (Pause.) Ah, weel. Nae pint in wastin’ it. (She pours
herself a glass and then tips the rest of the wine into Tutankhamen’s
bowl as she speaks.)

‘At’s us aboot ready. The fridge is empty and switched aff. There’s
naething to eat or drink left in the place. My baggie’s at the door for
the taxi man. The rubbish is in the wheelie bin. So … (She sits at the
easy chair.) I’ll tak’ my time to finish this, wash oot the gless,
an’ pit it awa’ in the cupboard. (Pause.) And then I’ll tak’ you up
to Mrs Swanson. I’ll pit the wine bottle in the bin as I ging oot to the
taxi. And that’ll be me. (Pause. She is cheerful about all this, as if
she were about to go on holiday.) You’ll enjoy yoursel’ fine. You’ll
be spoiled rotten again like enough. I think you were sorry to come hame
efter that week I had in hospital. My “ex-plor-a-tory” visit. Fit an
experience that was. Believe you me, you had the best o’ it. You were
waited on hand an’ foot by Mrs Swanson, but I was being squeezed and
poked by every Tom, Dick and Harry in the ARI. I think abody fae the
consultant to the cleaner had a teedle at me. (She laughs as a memory
delights her.) Nae to mention the Chaplain! Oh, me.

I could see him, workin’ his wye along the beds, layin’ doon the law to
every patient. An’ I thocht to mysel’, “There’s nae a lot o’
laughs wi’ this mannie, onywye. The weemen a’ looket gye solemn fan he
was speakin’ to them, an’ kin’ o’ anxious fan he left. I wondered
jist fit he was sayin’ to them, to ha’e sic an effect. Then he reached
the wifie next to me, and I could hear fit he was sayin’. I could
understand then. He was een o’ yon real miserable ministers, nae tryin’
to cheer you up wi’ a wee joke, or lyin’ to you aboot foo weel you were
lookin’ an’ hoo seen you’d be gan hame. That’s fit hospital
chaplains are for, I aye thocht. To mak’ you feel better when the doctors
canna. They should be chosen because they’re good liars and ken a lot
o’ good jokes. But nae this een. (Assuming an unctuous Minister’s
voice.) “Prepare yourself, my dear, for whatever the Lord may have in
store for you. And if your time in this vale of tears is to be short,
profit from that fact by reflecting on the life to come.”

By the time he’d finished wi’ the lassie in the next bed, I was ready
for the undertaker mysel’ – an’ I was only in for a wee
“ex-plor-a-tory” do. And then he was leanin’ ower me, an’ I can see
the name badge on him. “Jings, minister,” I says, “I used to ken a
loon wi’ the same name as you.” (She adopts the voice again throughout
the sequence.)

“But it is indeed me, Evie. Henry Tough.”

It was jist as weel I wisna in for a weak hert, or I would ha’e drapped
deed richt then and there. “Fit on earth are you deein’ here?” I
says. Thinkin’ to myself, “Henry Tough a minister? Hoo did that happen,
ava’? Henry had mair feet than brain cells.”

“I recognised you at once, Evie, and wondered if you would remember me.
Did you ever glance down from your exalted spot at the head of the class
and notice poor little me, often near the foot?”

‘Often’? Ayewis, mair like. An’ ‘Near the fit’? Fa was he
kiddin’? An’ I never had to “glance doon” to ken he was there. I
could smell him.

“I turned out to be a late developer,” he says. “Went to college in
my twenties; got the call in my thirties; and here I am. Bringing succour
to the suffering.”

Mair like bringing suffering to us suckers, as far as I could see. On he
went, tellin’ me a lot of sanctimonious dribble-drabble in this smug new
voice o’ his. Nae traces o’ Ruthrieston aboot it noo. Eventually he
says, “And you can draw comfort from knowing that Addy is waiting for you
in heaven.”  I nearly said, “If Addy’s there, I’m nae gan.” But I
held it back. I could see it would seem a bit disrespectful. It’s nae
that I didna like Addy, as you ken. It’s jist that I’ve come to enjoy
nae ha’ein’ to look efter him a’ the time. An’ I’ve nae intention
o’ rinnin’ efter ‘im ever again, in heaven or hell or anywye else.

But I said naething. An’ Henry drones on for anither half-hoor. I was
getting’ fower times as lang as onybody else, fit wi’ bein’ an aul’
freen’, I suppose. Lucky me. It was makin’ my blood bile, the wye he
was gan on, a’ pious an’ uppity, an’ treatin’ me as if I was the
ignorant een, noo, an’ him the lord high an’ mighty. In the end, I made
on I’d fan asleep an’ he gave up. He stopped speakin’ an’ crept
awa’ doon the ward. Jist as he got to the door, I cried oot, so’s abody
could hear, “Div you still kich your breeks every Thursday efterneen?”
(Pause.) I hinna seen him since.

Of course, you ken a’ aboot hospitals, Toots. Mind fan you had your
operation a couple o’ years ago? That was a rare place. I was real
worried aboot takin’ you because I’d been in cat shelters an’ places
like ‘at an’ gey disgustin’ they were – dark an’ dirty an’
smelly. But the pets’ hospital was a different kettle o’ fish a’
thegether. A richt comfy body at Reception made a real fuss o’ you,
askin’ your name first an’ then mine. She kept tellin’ you you’d be
a’ richt an’ you’d naething to worry aboot. Of course, that was a’
meant to reassure me, nae you, because she could see I was the mair nervous
o’ the twa.

You had a clean, cheery cage to yersel’ an’ the surgeon explained
a’thing till’s really weel. He even showed you your x-rays, didn’t
he? An’ a’ thon lovely machines, the very latest state of the art
surgical equipment. Then, efter the operation, naething was too much
trouble for them. You’d lovely meat at every meal. I could have eaten it
masel’ nae bother. An’ sic a fuss they made o’ you! You must ha’
got mair claps an’ cuddles that week than you ever got fae me in your
life. Aye, a rare place-y it was. Nae peer aul’ cats left lyin’ for
‘oors on a trolley in a corridor, there.

Nae such luck for me, fan I went in for my ex-plor-a-tion. Yon place jist
wasna clean! A woman used to come in, in the mornin’, wi’ a muckle
great mop thing. She pushed a’ the dirt up to one end o’ the ward. Then
next morning, she pushed it a’ back again. 

I said to een o’ the nurses, get me a feathery duster an’ a bottly o’
bleach an’ I’ll seen set this place to rights. But she jist lauched.
The beds were that close thegither you didna ken if you were clawin’ your
ain itchy bits or the wifie in the next bed’s. (Posh voice.) No such
problem for you, in a private ward of your own. (Own voice.) This nurse was
that fat she couldna get in atween the beds ava’. She used to mak’ us
crawl doon to the fit o’ wir beds to get oor pulse ta’en. Nae wonder it
was aye fast, efter a’ the effort o’ getting’ oot fae under the
blankets and haulin’ oor wye doon to her.

Ye ken, I aye thocht I’d like to be a nurse. Weel, nae jist a nurse, but
a Matron. That was aye my ambition. Except I dinna think they have sic a
thing these days. Mair’s the peety. That’s exactly fit they need – a
wifie that kens hoo things should be deen and is nae feart to mak’ a fuss
until they’re deen richt. I would have been good at that. I can jist see
me gan roon the wards, pointin’ oot the sheets that werena straight
enough, and the windows that werena richt cleaned and the corners o’ the
wards far the cleaners hadna teen enough trouble reddin’ them oot.

And the food ye get in hospitals nooadays! Some quine in an orange overall
an’ a face like Anne Robinson, slaps doon this plate o’ something white
an’ wobbly. “Is that my soup gan solid or my macaroni gan sloppy?” I
asks her. (Sour voice.) “Search me. I only serve the stuff. I dinna
mak’ it,” she says, a’ sniffy-like. “I bet you dinna eat it
either,” I says. An’ she gings, “That’s been specially chosen for
you by the dietician.”  “Weel, I ken fit my cat would say if the
dietician chose this for him,” I say. But she walks awa’ in a huff.

A doctor asked me ae day foo I was getting’ on. So I tellt him. Weel,
they shouldna ask, if they dinna want an answer. “Next time, I’m gan in
to the animal hospital for my operation,” I said. “ They treat their
patients like human beings.” He lauched. I’ll say that for him – he
was een o’ the cheerier lot. An’ then he says, “Well, you might see
me there. I’m thinking of moving to animal surgery. Over there, they
treat their staff like human beings.”

Fae fit I hear, you dinna ging to hospital these days to get better; you
ging to catch something. Nae wonder the waiting lists are so lang. The folk
at the heid o’ the queue are feart to ging in. Politicians have made a
richt sotter o’ things, Toots. Fit wye should you get better treatment
than me in a hospital? I ken it cost me a wee fortune for your operation.
But fan you think o’t, we’ve a’ been peyin’ a great big fortune in
taxes for wir ain ex-plor-a-tions an’ operations. You’ll jist need to
hope that the government doesna tak’ ower the runnin’ o’ pets’
hospitals ana’ or you’ll be done for. 

Fae a’ I hear, they’ve done the same wi’schools as they have wi’
hospitals. I dinna think there was sic a thing as an Education Minister fan
I was at the school, or if there was we never heard a peep oot o’ him.
An’ we got on jist fine. The teachers got on wi’ teachin’ us to read
an’ write an’ coont. An’ the jannie got on wi’ skelpin’ Henry
Tough roon the lug fan he gi’ed onybody ony cheek. I suppose we have the
jannie to thank for Henry bein’ a minister. Miss McCorkindale certainly
never bothered her heid wi’ him efter she discovered fit he was like. So
the jannie’s skelps maybe kept ‘im fae gan to the dogs a’ thegither.

(She empties her glass and takes it off. We hear her still talking while
she is off stage.)

I’ll jist rinse this oot. I’ll need to wash oot your bowl as weel,
afore I tak’ you up the stair. So drink up now, if you’re wantin’ it.
(She returns and stands by the table.) I’ll pit this bottle oot on the
mat an’ then I’ll min’ to tak’ it oot to the bin fan I come doon
fae Mrs Swanson’s. (She crosses to the bowl.) You’re nae sikkin’ ony?
I could’ve suppet that wee drappie mysel’, ye ken. Instead o’
sharin’ it wi’ you. (She takes the bowl off for washing, but again she
keeps talking, raising her voice slightly, so that Toots can still hear
her.) 

You lucky craiturs in the pets’ hospital didna ha’e to put up wi’
somebody like Henry Tough, either, did you? Nae chaplains for cats. Is that
because folk think they dinna ging to heaven? Or because cats a’ ging to
heaven, good or bad, because God prefers animals to human beings? (She’s
back in, drying the bowl.)  He certainly gi’es you an easier life than he
gi’es us, on earth. (Pause.) I wonder fit God thinks o’ somebody like
Henry Tough speakin’ for ‘im? The man would pit you aff religion a’
thegither, even though he doesna smell ony mair. I’ve aye preferred to
speak direct to God mysel’, without ony help fae ministers. I think God
has a better chance o’ understandin’ me that wye. 

I’ve aye tellt Him straight oot fit I expect fae ‘im, an’ I’ve
never hidden my feelin’s fan He gets something wrang. Like noo. This is
nae fit I had in mind ava’ an’ I jist dinna see fit His plan is. But
I’ve tellt Him that, an’ He’s had plenty o’ time to change His mind
but He’s paid nae attention. So He’s obviously determined to ging ahead
wi’ it. But I can be thrawn, ana’, so I hinna finished wi’ ‘im yet.
I’ve a lot mair to say on the subject, but it’ll maybe ha’e to wait
noo till I get a chance to tell ‘im face to face. Jist as lang’s I’m
nae keepit ower busy chasin’ efter Addy. I think, you see, that God an’
me’ll get on like a hoose on fire. We’re the same kin’ o’ folk –
straight-forward, doon-to-earth and we like to get oor ain wye.

I can see us ha’ein’ a spat or twa afore we sort oot fa does fit; but
efter a’, we have the rest o’ eternity to reach a working compromise,
so things’ll be a’ richt in the hinner end, I expect. But will I be
seein’ you there, een o’ these days, Toots? That’s the big question,
eh? 

I wonder if they would have operated on me if I’d been a cat? Doctors are
so scared o’ folk dyin’ on the operating table an’ suin’ them, that
they jist say you’re inoperable an’ send you hame till it’s time for
Roxburghe Hoose.  (Pause.) Weel, we’ve had six month to get used to the
idea, you an’ me. An’ noo it’s jist the last few weeks to pit up
wi’.  That’ll be the hard bittie, though, especially withoot you.
We’ve been thegither 14 year. (Long pause.) You’d think they’d let
you keep your cattie wi’ you, till the end. (Silence. She bites her lip,
determined not to cry. Pulls herself together.) Ach, if abody got to tak’
their pets wi’ them, fit would happen fan the patients died? The place
would be over-run wi’ animals wi’ nae owners, an’ that would never
dee.

Na, na. You’ll be better aff up the stair. Better than you think.
You’ll be spoiled rotten. You winna even notice I’m nae there. As
lang’s there’s somebody to open your tinnie, you’ll be as happy as
Larry. Fa’ever he was. (Pause.) Sae you’ve outlived me, efter a’. But
you’ll need to mak’ sure that you dinna outlive Mrs Swanson because
there’s naebody left to tak’ you on efter she’s awa’. Unless Sarah
tak’s a fancy to you. (Wrily.) Aye, Toby micht see some advantages in
that. We never thocht o’ that, Toots, did we? It doesna bear thinkin’
aboot. Bein’ looket efter by Toby; I woudna wish that on Henry Tough,
never mind you. Sae you’ll jist need to mak’ sure’n die aff afore Mrs
Swanson. I never like to speak ill o’ onybody, but if there’s a meaner
man alive than Toby Wilkins, I wouldna like to meet ‘im.

Fan I got the result o’ my wee ex-plor-a-tion, I thocht I’d better let
Sarah ken. Sae I asket Mrs Swanson if I could use her phone. It didna seem
richt, to pit something like that in a letter. Too abrupt.  Fooever gently
you introduced the subject, you could never be sure that her e’e wouldna
jump forard to the crucial words too seen. So, I phoned her and broke it
till her. (She puts on an exaggeratedly English voice for Sarah.) “Oh,
Ma,” she says. “Just six months? Will I come up?” An’ then I hears
him in the background, spierin’ at her fit it was a’ aboot an’ fit
wye she micht want to spend a’ that money on a rail fare. Then back she
comes, “Do you really want me up there, Ma?” As if I’d asked her
till, in the first place. I could see fit was gan on, a’ richt. Toby was
makin’ sure  she didna waste his good siller. So I says, “Na, na.
I’ve got by without sicht or soon’ o’ you for nine years, I think
I’ll manage for anither six months.” 

“Well, if you’re sure,” she says. And then a wee prickle o’
conscience: “Of course,” she says, “we’ll come up for the …  you
know, when it’s all over.” 

“You’ll ha’e till,” says I. “You’ve to mak’ sure I’m buried
in my ain lair in Nellfield Cemetery. If there’s ony sign that they’re
thinkin’ o’ burnin’ me, you’ll ha’e to stan’ ready to throw
yoursel’ atween me an’ the furnace doors.”

But she never lached. That’s fae Addy again, you see. Nae sense o’
humour.

“An’ if you want to use it, ever,” I said, “there’ll still be one
space in the grave. It was meant for your faither but I forgot foo
squeamish he was aboot getting’ buried. If you feel the same wye
yoursel’, you could maybe pop Toby intill’t fan his time comes.” I
was jist bein’ coorse, to get my ain back, but she took it a’
seriously. “I don’t think he’d like to be buried in Scotland,” she
says. “Ah,” says I, “but we learnt a poem at Broomhill that went,
there’d be some corner o’ a foreign field, that’d be forever England.
Would he nae like to think he’d colonised a bittie o’ Nellfield?”

So that was the end o’ that conversation. The only time I ever spoke to
my dochter on the phone. Weel, weel. (Pause. She looks round the room.)
Jist a few minutes till the taxi. I’ll pit this outside the door. (She
takes the bottle off. We may hear the front door of the flat open and
close. She’s back in a few seconds, but she is finding it hard to control
her feelings now. Still no tears, but a heavy weight lies on her
shoulders.) I think that’s a’thing. (In silence she picks up the basket
and lays it on the table.) 

Near thirty year I’ve bade in this hoose. Never expected then we’d own
it one day, but there you go. Life’s a funny thing. (She puts on her coat
and then straightens the cushion or antimacassar. She crosses to the table
where she adjusts the chairs at the table.) That’s us as ready as we can
be. Ower to Sarah noo. She’s coming up next week. Eence they heard aboot
me moving into Roxburghe Hoose, Toby’s mind started workin’, and
suddenly it was necessary for Sarah to visit her peer aul’ mither. And
she’s got a’ her orders fae ‘im, a’ written oot, she tells me, so
that she winna forget. She’s nae to bring in een o’ thon Hoose
Clearance firms. Na, na. She’s to advertise a’thing, bit by bit, in the
free advertisements, of course. That wye, Toby says, “she’ll maximise
the income”. 

So, I finally had to gee mysel’ up and dee something aboot Addy, oot in
the bottom o’ the press. Nine year he’s lain there, makin’ a nuisance
o’ himsel’, getting’ in the road every time I tak’ oot the hoover.
But I could hardly leave ‘im for Sarah to sell aff wi’ the rest o’
the furniture an’ fittin’s, could I? So I did the decent thing, an’
put him far he was happiest. He never spent muckle time in the hoose, but
fan he was here, far did he spend maist time? On the lavvy. (Pause.) So
I’ve coupet his ashes doon the toilet and flushed them awa’. Ta, ta,
Addy.

Sarah’ll be on the spot, tee, to mak’ sure we get the best price for
the hoose itsel’. She’ll show folk roon’ it an’ nae doubt tell them
a’ aboot her peer mither, dwindlin’ awa’ oot at the hospice. Wi’
ony luck, if she does a’thing Toby’s tellt her, she’ll ha’e the
place sellt an’ the money in the bank afore I turn up my taes. Efter
that, a’ she’ll ha’e to dee is get me happet up comfortable in
Nellfield an’ then she can pop roon’ to the solicitors to settle the
estate. You see, Toby’s been on the Internet, checkin’ up on hoose
prices in Aiberdeen, an’ he got quite a shock. It seems my wee ex-cooncil
flat is worth near as muckle as their fancy three-bedroom semi-detached in
Worcester. An’ very welcome it’ll be, he thinks to himsel’. 

Folk ca’ us grippy. They dinna ken my son-in-law. I’m nae sure if
they’re a’ the same in Worcester, or if he’s something special. I’m
inclined to think that folk that canna pronounce the name o’ their ain
toon richt, hinna got muckle gan for them. Fitever’s wrang wi’
Wor-chest-er, onywye? Ye ken this, Toots? Fan he found oot Sarah was
expectin’ twins, he was hoppin’ mad. She tellt me hersel’ in a
letter. She had thocht he might be a bittie worried aboot it, copin’
wi’ twa bairnies at the same time. Weel, you would, wouldn’t you,
specially your first time? But nae him. He was jist plain furious wi’
her, as if she’d chosen to ha’e twa deliberately. An’ she hidna.
Onywye, twins is nae on her side o’ the family. We’ve never been
bothered wi’ sic a thing. 

Fit was worryin’ him was the expense o’ it. Twa o’ a’thing, ye see.
Oh, he’d been plannin’ to ha’e twa bairns richt enough – but
properly. Echteen months apart, or so. Then the second een inherits a’
its cla’es an’ toys an’ a’thing fae the first een. So you save a’
that expense. But noo Sarah had spiled it a’ by makin’ him pay for twa
o’ a’thing.  An’ fit was worse, they widna get the good o’ them,
because there’d nae be anither bairn to pass them on till. He sulked
aboot it for weeks apparently. Then he took it oot on the peer bairns. He
went an’ registered their names as Morgan an’ Jude.

Sarah wrote to me an’ said, “We’ve chosen names. Morgan and Jude. Do
you like them?” I wrote straight back: “I div like the names you’ve
picked for your dogs. But fit are you gan to ca’ the bairns?”  That was
the end o’ wir letter-writin’. So I never learned much aboot their
growin’ up. Even noo that they’re sixteen, I can never min’ which
een’s the quine and which is the loon. Morgan or Jude. They did send me
Christmas cards and birthday cards and sometimes they put in a wee note
saying “I’ve been picket for the school fitba’ team. Love, Morgan”
or “I’ve broken an airm at my ballet class. Love, Jude” but nooadays
you canna even be sure that that tells you which eens the loon. An’
I’ve never met them, to find oot for mysel’. You canna expect your
son-in-law to fork oot for fower fares a’ the wye fae Worcester to
Aiberdeen. 

An’ I dinna suppose for one minute that they’ll come up to see me
buried. It’ll jist be Sarah on her ain. An’ maybe nae even her if I
tak’ too lang aboot it. Eence the hoose is sellt, she winna want to hing
aboot Aiberdeen ower lang an’ she’d ha’e naewye to bide efter the new
folk move in. So she micht jist ging hame to Worcester and wait. She could
aye arrange the details o’ the funeral aforehand and then jist trigger it
aff wi’ a phone call to the undertaker. 

That micht be best. I can picture the twa o’ them sittin’ there,
waitin’ to hear fae my solicitor. Toby’ll be laying doon the law aboot
fit the inheritance is to be spent on. She winna get a word in edgewise.
You micht think that Sarah should ha’e the main say on fit to dee wi’
money comin’ fae her mither. But she’s never had enough to say for
hersel’. Ever since she was a bairn she’s depended on ither folk to
mak’ up her mind for her. First it was me; an’ noo it’s Toby. So
he’ll be decidin’ fit he’ll spend my money on. She’s aye said he
wanted to paint the hoose because it’s a kin’ o’ fyachy yellow, but
they couldna afford it. Sae he’ll be plannin’ that, likely. I dinna ken
fit colour will appeal to Toby. (Sarcastically.) Sky-blue pink wi’ tartan
maginty dots. 

(She is leaning over the basket.)

Ah, but I hinna been idle this last six months, have I, Toots?. I’ve been
to see the solicitor mysel’. (Proudly.) An’ I’ve made a will. So, fan
they div hear fae the solicitor, he’ll ha’e to brak’ the bad news
that there’s nae inheritance for them efter’n a’. (Very slowly,
savouring every word.) Because her feel aul’ mither here has left the
whale jing-bang to smelly aul’ Toots. (Smiling widely, she pats Toots,
picks up the basket and walks firmly off-stage.)


THE END


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Text
Text audience
General public: Audience size: 1000+

Text details
Method of composition: Wordprocessed
Year of composition: 2002
Word count: 11528
General description: One-woman show

Text medium
Theatre: 
Text performance/broadcast details
Where performed/broadcast: Aberdeen, 2002
Performed/broadcast by: Yvonne Morton

Text setting
Leisure/entertainment: 
Text type
Script (film, play, radio, tv etc.): 

Author
Author details
Author id: 917
Forenames: Charles
Surname: Barron
Gender: Male
Decade of birth: 1930
Educational attainment: University
Age left school: 18
Upbringing/religious beliefs: Protestantism
Occupation: Lecturer (retired)
Place of birth: Aberdeen
Region of birth: Aberdeen
Birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd
Country of birth: Scotland
Place of residence: Aberdeen
Region of residence: Aberdeen
Residence CSD dialect area: Abd
Country of residence: Scotland
Father's occupation: Storeman
Father's place of birth: Aberdeen
Father's region of birth: Aberdeen
Father's birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd
Father's country of birth: Scotland
Mother's occupation: Shop assistant
Mother's place of birth: Aberdeen
Mother's region of birth: Aberdeen
Mother's birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd
Mother's country of birth: Scotland

Languages:
Language: English
Speak: Yes
Read: Yes
Write: Yes
Understand: Yes
Circumstances: All the time
Language: Scots
Speak: Yes
Read: Yes
Write: Yes
Understand: Yes
Circumstances: Writing plays