II ERCHIE’S FLITTING

He came down the street in the gloaming on Tuesday night with a bird-cage in one hand and a potato-masher in the other, and I knew at once, by these symptoms, that Erchie was flitting.

“On the long trail, the old trail, the trail that is always new, Erchie?” said I, as he tried to push the handle of the masher as far up his coat sleeve as possible, and so divert attention from a utensil so ridiculously domestic and undignified.

“Oh, we’re no’ that bad!” said he. “Six times in the four-and-forty year. We’ve been thirty years in the hoose we’re leavin’ the morn, and I’m fair oot o’ the wye o’ flittin’. I micht as weel start the dancin’ again.”

“Thirty years! Your household gods plant a very firm foot, Erchie.”

“Man, ay! If it wisna for Jinnet and her new fandangles, I wad nae mair think o’ flittin’ than o’ buyin’ a balloon to mysel’; but ye ken women! They’re aye gaun to be better aff onywhaur else than whaur they are. I ken different, but I havena time to mak’ it plain to Jinnet.”

On the following day I met Erchie taking the air in the neighbourhood of his new domicile, and smoking a very magnificent meerschaum pipe.

“I was presented wi’ this pipe twenty years ago,” said he, “by a man that went to California, and I lost it a week or twa efter that. It turned up at the flittin’. That’s ane o’ the advantages o’ flittin’s; ye find things ye havena seen for years.”

“I hope the great trek came off all right, Erchie?”

“Oh, ay! no’ that bad, considerin’ we were sae much oot o’ practice. It’s no’ sae serious when ye’re only gaun roond the corner to the next street. I cairried a lot o’ the mair particular wee things roond mysel’ last nicht – the birdcage and Gledstane’s picture and the room vawzes and that sort o’ thing, but at the hinder-end Jinnet made me tak’ the maist o’ them back again.”

“Back again, Erchie?”

“Ay. She made oot that I had cairried ower sae muckle that the flittin’ wad hae nae appearance on Duffy’s cairt, and haein’ her mind set on the twa rakes, and a’ the fancy things lying at the close-mooth o’ the new hoose till the plain stuff was taken in, I had just to cairry back a guid part o’ whit I took ower last nicht. It’s a rale divert the pride o’ women! But I’m thinkin’ she’s vex’t for’t the day, because yin o’ the things I took back was a mirror, and it was broke in Duffy’s cairt. It’s a gey unlucky thing to break a lookin’-gless.”

“A mere superstition, Erchie.”

“Dod! I’m no’ sae shair o’ that. I kent a lookin’-gless broke at a flittin’ afore this, and the man took to drink a year efter’t, and has been that wye since.”

“How came you to remove at all?”

“It wad never hae happened if I hadna gane to a sale and seen a coal-scuttle. It’s a dangerous thing to introduce a new coal-scuttle into the bosom o’ your faimily. This was ane o’ thae coal-scuttles wi’ a pentin’ o’ the Falls o’ Clyde and Tillitudlem Castle on the lid. I got it for three-and-tuppence; but it cost me a guid dale mair nor I bargained for. The wife was rale ta’en wi’t, but efter a week or twa she made oot that it gar’d the auld room grate we had look shabby, and afore ye could say knife she had in a new grate wi’ wally sides till’t, and an ash-pan I couldna get spittin’ on. Then the mantelpiece wanted a bed pawn on’t to gie the grate a dacent look, and she pit on a plush yin. Ye wadna hinder her efter that to get plush-covered chairs instead o’ the auld hair-cloth we got when we were mairried. Her mither’s chist-o’-drawers didna gae very weel wi’ the plush chairs, she found oot in a while efter that, and they were swapped wi’ twa pound for a chevalier and book-case, though the only books I hae in the hoose is the Family Bible, Buchan’s Domestic Medicine,’ and the ‘Tales o’ the Borders.’ It wad hae been a’ richt if things had gane nae further, but when she went to a sale hersel’ and bought a Brussels carpet a yaird ower larig for the room, she made oot there was naethin’ for’t but to flit to a hoose wi’ a bigger room. And a’ that happened because a pented coal-scuttle took ma e’e.”

“It’s an old story, Erchie; ‘c’est le premier pas que coute,’ as the French say.”

“The French is the boys!” says Erchie, who never gives himself away. “Weel, we’re flittin’ onywye, and a bonny trauchle it is. I’ll no’ be able to find my razor for a week or twa.”

“It’s a costly process, and three flittin’s are worse than a fire, they say.”

“It’s worse nor that; it’s worse nor twa Irish lodgers.

“‘It’ll cost jist next to naethin’,’ says Jinnet. ‘Duffy’ll tak’ ower the furniture in his lorry for freen’ship’s sake, an’ there’s naethin’ ‘ll need to be done to the new hoose.’

“But if ye ever flitted yersel’, ye’ll ken the funny wyes o’ the waxcloth that’s never cut the same wye in twa hooses; and I’ll need to be gey thrang at my tred for the next month of twa to pay for the odds and ends that Jinnet never thought o’.

“Duffy flitted us for naethin’, but ye couldna but gie the men a dram. A flittin’ dram’s by-ordinar; ye daurna be scrimp wi’t, or they’ll break your delf for spite, and ye canna be ower free wi’t either, or they’ll break everything else oot o’ fair guid-natur. I tried to dae the thing judeecious, but I forgot to hide the bottle, and Duffy’s heid man and his mate found it when I wasna there, and that’s wye the lookin’ gless was broken. Thae cairters divna ken their ain strength.

“It’s a humblin’ sicht your ain flittin’ when ye see’t on the tap o’ a coal-lorry.”

“Quite so, Erchie; chiffoniers are like a good many reputations – they look all right so long as you don’t get seeing the back of them.”

“And cairters hae nane o’ the finer feelin’s, I think. In spite o’ a’ that Jinnet could dae, they left the pots and pans a’ efternoon on the pavement, and hurried the plush chairs up the stair at the first gae-aff. A thing like that’s disheartenin’ to ony weel-daein’ woman.

“‘Hoots!’ says I to her, ‘whit’s the odds? There’s naebody heedin’ you nor your flittin’.’ “‘Are they no’?’ said Jinnet, keekin’ up at the front o’ the new land. ‘A’ the Venetian blinds is doon, and I’ll guarantee there’s een behind them.’

“We werena half-an-oor in the new hoose when the woman on the same stairheid chappet at the door and tellt us it was oor week o’ washin’ oot the close. It wasna weel meant, but it did Jinnet a lot o’ guid, for she was sitting in her braw new hoose greetin’.”

“Greetin’, Erchie? Why?”

“Ask that! Ye’ll maybe ken better nor I dae.”

“Well, you have earned your evening pipe at least, Erchie,” said I.

He knocked out its ashes on his palm with a sigh. “I hiv that! Man, it’s a gey dauntenin’ thing a flittin’, efter a’. I’ve a flet fit, but a warm hert; and efter thirty years o’ the auld hoose I was swear’t to leave’t. I brocht up a family in’t, and I wish Jinnet’s carpet had been a fit or twa shorter, or that I had never seen yon coal-scuttle wi’ the Falls o’ Clyde and Tillitudlem Castle.”

III DEGENERATE DAYS

The tred’s done,” said Erchie.

“What! beadling?” I asked him.

“Oh! there’s naethin’ wrang wi’ beadlin’,” said he; “there’s nae ups and doons there except to put the books on the pulpit desk, and they canna put ye aff the job if ye’re no jist a fair wreck. I’m a’ richt for the beadlin’ as lang’s I keep my health and hae Jinnet to button my collar, and it’s generally allo’ed – though maybe I shouldna say’t mysel’ – that I’m the kind o’ don at it roond aboot Gleska. I michtna be, if I wasna gey carefu’. Efter waitin’ at a Setterday nicht spree, I aye tak’ care to gie the bell an extra fancy ca’ or twa on the Sunday mornin’ jist to save clash and mak’ them ken Mac-Pherson’s there himsel’, and no’ some puir pick-up that never ca’d the handle o’ a kirk bell in his life afore.

“There’s no’ a man gangs to oor kirk wi’ better brushed boots than mysel’, as Jinnet’ll tell ye, and if I hae ae gift mair nor anither it’s discretioncy. A beadle that’s a waiter has to gae through life like the puir troot they caught in the Clyde the other day – wi’ his mooth shut, and he’s worse aff because he hasna ony gills – at least no’ the kind ye pronounce that way.

“Beadlin’s an art, jist like pentin’ photograph pictures, or playin’ the drum, and if it’s no’ in ye, naethin’ ‘ll put it there. I whiles see wee skina-malink craturs dottin’ up the passages in U.F. kirks carryin’ the books as if they were M.C.‘s at a dancin’-schule ball gaun to tack up the programme in front o’ the band; they lack thon rale releegious glide; they havena the feet for’t.

“Waitin’ is whit I mean; it’s fair done!

“When I began the tred forty-five year syne in the auld Saracen Heid Inn, a waiter was looked up to, and was well kent by the best folk in the toon, wha’ aye ca’d him by his first name when they wanted the pletform box o’ cigaurs handed doon instead o’ the Non Plus Ultras.

“Nooadays they stick a wally door-knob wi’ a number on’t in the lapelle o’ his coat, and it’s Hey, No. 9, you wi’ the flet feet, dae ye ca’ this ham?’

“As if ye hadna been dacently christened and brocht up an honest faimily!

“In the auld days they didna drag a halflin callan’ in frae Stra’ven, cut his nails wi’ a hatchet, wash his face, put a dickie and a hired suit on him, and gie him the heave into a banquet-room, whaur he disna ken the difference between a finger-bowl and a box o’ fuzuvian lichts.

“I was speakin’ aboot that the ither nicht to Duffy, the coalman, and he says, ‘Whit’s the odds, MacPherson? Wha’ the bleezes couldna’ sling roon’ blue-mange at the richt time if he had the time-table, or the menu, or whitever ye ca’t, to keep him richt?’

“‘Wha’ couldna’ sell coal,’ said I, ‘if he had the jaw for’t? Man, Duffy,’ says I, ‘I never see ye openin’ your mooth to roar coal up a close but I wonder whit wye there should be sae much talk in the Gleska Toon Cooncil aboot the want o’ vacant spaces.’

“Duffy’s failin’; there’s nae doot o’t. He has a hump on him wi’ carryin’ bags o’ chape coal and dross up thae new, genteel, tiled stairs, and he let’s on it’s jist a knot in his gallowses, but I ken better. I’m as straucht as a wand mysel’ – faith, I micht weel be, for a’ that I get to cairry hame frae ony o’ the dinners nooadays. I’ve seen the day, when Blythswood Square and roond aboot it was a’ the go, that it was coonted kind o’ scrimp to let a waiter hame withoot a heel on him like yin o’ thae Clyde steamers gaun oot o’ Rothesay quay on a Fair Settu’rday.

“Noo they’ll ripe your very hip pooches for fear ye may be takin’ awa’ a daud o’ custard, or the toasted crumbs frae a dish o’ pheasant.

“They needna’ be sae awfu’ feart, some o’ them. I ken their dinners – cauld, clear, bane juice, wi’ some strings o’ vermicelli in’t; ling-fish hash; a spoonfu’ o’ red-currant jeely, wi’ a piece o’ mutton the size o’ a domino in’t, if ye had time to find it, only ye’re no’ playin’ kee-hoi; a game croquette that’s jist a flaff o’ windy paste; twa cheese straws; four green grapes, and a wee lend o’ a pair o’ silver nut-crackers, the wife o’ the hoose got at her silver weddin’.

“Man! it’s a rale divert! I see big, strong, healthy Bylies and members o’ the Treds’ Hoose and the Wine, Speerit, and Beer Tred risin’ frae dinners like that, wi’ their big, braw, gold watch-chains hingin’ doon to their knees.

“As I tell Jinnet mony a time, it’s women that hae fair ruined dinner-parties in oor generation. They tak’ the measure o’ the appetities o’ mankind by their ain, which hae been a’thegether spoiled wi’ efternoon tea, and they think a man can mak’ up wi’ music in the drawin’-room for whit he didna get at the dinner-table.

“I’m a temperate man mysel’, and hae to be, me bein’ a beadle, but I whiles wish we had back the auld days I hae read aboot, when a laddie was kept under the table to lowse the grauvats o’ the gentlemen that fell under’t, in case they should choke themsel’s. Scotland was Scotland then!

“If they choked noo, in some places I’ve been in, it wad be wi’ thirst.

“The last whisk o’ the petticoat’s no roon’ the stair-landin’ when the man o’ the hoose puts the half o’ his cigarette bye for again, and says, ‘The ladies will be wonderin’ if we’ve forgotten them,’ and troosh a’ the puir deluded craturs afore him up the stair into the drawin’-room where his wife Eliza’s maskin’ tea, and a lady wi’ tousy hair’s kittlin’ the piano till it’s sair.

“‘Whit’s your opinion about Tschaikovski?’ I heard a wumman ask a Bylie at a dinner o’ this sort the ither nicht.

“‘I never heard o’ him,’ said the Bylie, wi’ a gant, ‘but if he’s in the proveesion tred, there’ll be an awfu’ run on his shop the morn’s morn’.’

“Anither thing that has helped to spoil oor tred is the smokin’ concerts. I tak’ a draw o’ the pipe mysel’ whiles, but I never cared to mak’ a meal o’t. Noo and then when I’m no’ very busy other ways I gie a hand at a smoker, and it mak’s me that gled I got ower my growth afore the thing cam’ into fashion; but it’s gey sair on an auld man to hear ‘Queen o’ the Earth’ five or six nichts in the week, and the man at the piano aye tryin’ to guess the richt key, or to get done first, so that the company’ll no’ rin awa’ when he’s no’ lookin’ withoot paying him his five shillin’s.

“I’ve done the waitin’ at a’ kinds o’ jobs in my time, – Easy-gaun Erchie they ca’ me sometimes in the tred – a flet fit but a warm hert; I’ve even handed roond seed-cake and a wee drap o’ spirits at a burial, wi’ a bereaved and mournfu’ mainner that greatly consoled the weedow; but there’s nae depths in the business so low as poo’in’ corks for a smokin’ concert. And the tips get smaller and smaller every ane I gang to. At first we used to get them in a schooner gless; then it cam’ doon to a wee tumbler; and the last I was at I got the bawbees in an egg-cup.”