Preamble ...
... postamble?

Edward and Mrs. Simpson.

If ye were tae daunder along the road fae th Innerleven Boolin Club, headin towards Lower Methil (No! Ah h've nae idea whaur a Higher Methil micht be, cept in Paradise), then ye'll soon come tae th Methil Post Office. An if'n ye went on a Tuesday, then ye micht jist h've seen Rachel Simpson.
She'd be staundin outside, on th pavement. Message bag in haund, an her fam'allowance safely stapped awa in her purse. She w'dnae be waiting fur a bus. Ye ca' afford a bus when ye're bringin up twa bairns on th fam'allowance an an army pension. It wisnae a guid deal, swappin her man fur a pension, an a wee bit o jungle in Malaya. Then again, she was never asked if it was aw richt, an ah never heard her complain. Ye jist got on wi' it, an that was that.

She wisnae there fur the bairns, either. They were jist across th road in th Primary Skale, getting an education an their lugs skelped b' th teachers. Safe enough, an they'd be makin their ane wey hame at fower o'clock. Nae bairn ower six year auld w'd be seen daed, walkin hame wi' their mither!
There, she w'd be. Staundin aside the Post Office, a trim wee lassie. For aw th world like they'd put a statue in front o th red saundstane buildin. Gazin oot on a world o her ane. A human touch tae soothe th hard stane o officialdom. Ayewis a smile. Nothin flashy, jist th ootward sign o a long ago memory.
Naeboddy kent why she stood there, Why she waited fur hauf an 'oor. Then, w' th slight shake o her heid, she'd be off, up th road. Awa hame.

Noo, there is nuthin chaws at folk than a mystery! Folk had watched, an folk h'd puzzled. Fam'allowance day wis the day fur a blether, an aw th members o th Coh-mittee w'd nod tae each ither as they went in an oot the shops in th High Street. It wis th henhouse strut. Big chickens an wee chickens. Noddin an bobbin, getting th peckin order jist richt. Bestowin grace on them in favour, an markin them that had fa'en in th eyes o th mighty. Pittin them t' th wan side fur future consideration. An getherin in petty courts, tae try an condemn the disfavoured.
Everything in it's place!
Cept Rachel. She was a mystery. An it's in the very nature o Th Coh-mittee tae abhor a mystery. Cause a mystery soon becomes a Mystery, an afore ye ken it, it's aw capitals. A MYSTERY! An we cannae be dae'n wi that.

Always Mrs. Jeffrey tae start th proceedins.
"There's that Rachel Simpson. Staundin there ..."
A crime in itself.
"Evry Tuesday. Ootside th Post Office. Same thing. Is she waitin fur summat?"
Never wan tae admit less than perfect knowledge o th world, Big Mary jist made that wee throat noise that says nothing, and admits tae less.
Never needin encouragement, Mrs Jeffrey turned tae Ina, an asked the question. Th wrang question!
"Heh Ina, Why d'you think she staunds there?"
Ina could look doon on Mrs Jeffrey (an often did), an backing awa fae th impudence o bein asked tae think, replied tae th pin haudin Mrs Jeffrey's hat on.
"Mebbe if ye asked her, ye'd fund oot!"
"Ca' dae that. It's no fittin tae ask. It's mebbe a private matter."
"Then we'd better fund oot." snapped Mary. "Ca' be dae'n wi that!"

An that's whaur Eck Slater come in. An if'n his reactions h'd been faster, that's whaur he w'd've got oot. Eck was sleekit, but jist no fast enough that day.
Eck was th bookie's runner. In thae days, it was illegal tae bet on the cuddies if ye werenae on a racecourse. An Musselburgh an Ayr were too faur tae walk on Fam'allowance day. Eck hung around street corners. A natural, he was. Blended in wi th peelin pent an th crumbling brick. His jaiket h'd as much black soot on it as the wa' o th station yaird, an his bunnet h'd generations o Brylcreem in th creases.
No a man that h'd been affected b' th education haunded oot in th skale across th road, Eck couldnae add up his taes an come tae eleven. In fact, th extra tae micht well explain Eck. An his reading wis strictly the Fun Section o th Sunday Post.
But gie Eck a three-cross-double an ten bob on Tatty Jack in th 3.30 at Wincanton, an he never got it wrang. Each wey, onny wey. Didnae matter. Was aw committed tae memory. Couldnae hae onny bettin slips. Was illegal, an if'n th polis caught ye ...

Eck looked shifty tae Big Mary an Ina, but then again, maist men avoided their gaze an tried tae slip awa.
"Eck Slater! A word"
Micht as well've been 'Sit! Rover.' Fur aw th chance Eck h'd o disobeyin.
"See thon Rachel Simpson"
Ecks bunnet, th smairter part o his heid, nodded.
"D'you ken why she hings around th Post Office?"
No gifted w' brains, but a few pence nearer th fu shillin than Mrs Jeffrey, Eck didnae bring up th subject o Big Mary's lack o knowledge.
"Ah could ask her?"
"Aye. You dae that!"
Rover! See ball!
"..an back efter, mind"
Rover. Fetch!"

Th Coh-mittee got back tae it's rightfae business o judgin th unworthy, an Eck sidled across tae th Post Office. Eck never traivelled in a straicht line if he c'd help it.
Eyes scanning fur polis (an th station was jist roond th corner in Fisher Street), he managed tae pu' up alongside Rachel without ever looking in her direction.
"Mornin, Rachel"
Rachel put away th smile, an turned tae Eck.
"Hullo, Eck. How's th horses, then?"
Eck squirmed.
"Wheesht! Ah dae dae th cuddies onny mair!"
Watchin Eck tryin tae wink, talk an move sideways at th same time brocht back th smile. If he'd been smoking a Woodbine, he'd have probably fa'n ower wi spreadin his talents too thin.
"Ah wis kindae winderin, like ..."
Rachel wisnae cruel. Eck was sufferin!
"Wonderin aboot what, Eck?"
She could see where Eck's leash led. Across th road tae Th Coh-mittee.
"Ah wis winderin ..."
"Yes?"
"Ah wis winderin why ye ayewis staund around th Post Office on a Tuesday? No meanin tae be nosey, mind. Jist winderin."
Th smile grew, but somehow gained a little sadness. Rachel turned and looked at th red saundstane wa' o th Post Office.
"Why, Eck. I'm waitin here with Edward."
With that, Rachel turned away, and headed up th road, and home. And if Eck thocht he saw her e'en sparkle, it shairly must h've been th licht. Ye dinnae get a tear when ye're smiling. Shairly no.

Here, boy! The lead tugged. An Eck shuffled back tae his master.
"Well?"
"Th wummin's daft, so she is!"
"Oh!" prompted Ina. "An hoo w'd that be?"
"She says she's waitin wi Edward."
"Edward who?" cut in Big Mary. "There's nae Edward that ah ken o'!"
"Hoo aboot Eddie Kinninmont?" said Mrs Jeffrey.
Ina addressed th hatpin again. "Dae you be daft as weel. He's been daed fur th past six months. Guid job, tae. What w' th co-op checkin up th store books, an him bein manager."
"Then wha's this Edward, then?" Big Mary's broo furrowed.
It wis sae quiet, that Big Mary an Mrs Jeffrey didnae catch it at first.
"Edward and Mrs. Simpson"
Ye could see th wee filament start tae glow in Ina's e'en.
"Edward an Mrs. Simpson"
She laughed. She couldnae help it. It jist started tae come oot.
"Whit's up wi you?" Big Mary's broo twisted up even mair. "Have ye gaun an ..."
An Mary got it.
"Edward and Mrs. Simpson!"
Now Mary started tae laugh, and it looked like she w'd never stop.
Eck looked at Mrs Jeffrey, and blank was swapped fur blank.
"Whatt!"
Through the tears an laughin, Ina looked at th baffled pair.
"Eck. She's made a monkey o ye. Ah ken that's no difficult, see'n as ye're hauf wey there already. It's a joke. Edward and Mrs. Simpson. King Edward an Wallis Simpson. Th Abdication."
"Ah dae get it" puzzled Mrs. Jeffrey. "whit dae ye mean?"
Ina was doubled up b' noo, an could only point tae th Post Office wa'.
Being part of th Royal Mail, British main Post Offices always had the Royal Crest carved on the front. Built in 1936, Methil Post Office had the initials of the King.
E VIII R
Edward the Eighth. Soon to abdicate for the love of Wallis Simpson.

Soon, aw Th Coh-mittee was laughin, an Eck took th chance an made himself an his bunnet disappear roond th corner afore things got back tae normal. An unpleasant.

Somehow, a mystery never became a Mystery, an aw th rest o th capitals were put back in th box. An naebody ever fund out why Rachel Simpson stood outside th Post Office.
Unless ye happened tae be waitin at that spot a few years afore, an saw Rachel sayin goodbye tae th faither o her bairns. He was gaun back, fae a weeks leave. Back tae th Army, an fae there tae Malaya.
As she kissed him goodbye, she said th words that monny an Army wife has sayed tae their man.
"How are me an th bairns gaun manage without ye? We'll shairly miss ye."
An her man h'd pointed tae th Post Office wa', an sayed
"Ye'll be aw richt. Wait here wi Edward, an ah'll be back!"

It was called the Malayan Emergency. It started in 1948 and finally over by 1960.

Not soon enough for Thomas Simpson. And never for Rachel.