Preamble ...
... postamble?
Folk might well be thinkin that th Innerleven Boolin Club wis dominated by wimmen, an that th men w’d dae onnything t’ hae a quiet life! Big wimmen an wee men. Jane Austen wi’ jist a hint o King (or mair richtly, Queen) Kong. Ah suppose there’s nae denyin it. Cept in wan wey…
Romance!
When it come tae the struttin, an puffin oot th feathers, then it wis a man’s job. Ev’ry laudie wis taucht at an early age. There’s only the time atween getting oot fae alow yer mither’s peenie tae fund a job, an gettin mairried an hae’n yer ain peenie. A few years o bein a real man, an chasin th lassies. A time fur romance, fur sweepin them aff their feet. Afore ye were haunded a brush an telt tae sweep th flair.
Some managed it fur longer than ithers. Some got mairred quick, cause they h’d tae. Some got mairried later, cause th weddin do h’d tae wait fur the Provvy loan. An some never got mairried fur aw sort o reasons – the brakes on their pushbike needed adjustment, an they went o’er th handlebars, or th army (or prison) got them furst.
There wis wan, though, th’t looked like th net wis never gaun tae close.
Th Cauldcoits Casanova.
Th Dubbieside Dandy.
Ronnie McLauchlan – Th Midnight Cowboy.
Ronnie maybe didnae hae th looks, but his patter wis pure magic. When th ither boys shellin oot fur brandy an Babychams, in th hope that alcohol w’d gie them mair than nature ever did, aw Ronnie ever spent his money on wis Brylcreem an a sherp suit, tie an shoes.
Ah tell a lie. Ronnie h’d a cousin th’t worked fur Burtons, an the claes were oot on a weekend pass, but he did buy th Brylcreem, an th semmit wis his.
When some pair punters money ran oot, Ronnie w’d glide past. A wummin th’t sensed her cheap date wis runnin short, wis easy game fur Ronnie. A quick glance at th opposition fumblin in their troosers fur loose change, a Brylcreemed nod at th bar, an a firm airm on th elbow an the wummin wis sittin on a bar stool. A wee bit o patter, an she w’d be buyin Ronnie a pint an a nip. Ye jist h’d tae admire th technique!
Ronnie wis a regular at aw th Innerleven drinkin establishments. Well, th wans that encourage th wimmin. Ye ken th sort o place. Tables, chairs, fancy fittins like that. Sawdust only sprinkled roond th edge o th bar. Sure signs that you could tak a lady fur a couple o drinks withoot hae’n some eedjit getting his heid stotted aff the flair.
He’d dae the Innerleven Hotel durin the week, cause ye got th higher class o wummin there. But he still put in an appearance at th Glue Pot, next tae th Model Ludgin, especially if pickins were a bit doon. Th wimmen in th Glue Pot h'd been known tae wipe th chalk aff their soles if they fancied a man. An Ronnie c’d get a chalked price doon faster than Jimmy th Fishman could when his fish barrie ran oot o ice on a hot day.
At th weekend, Ronnie wis a member o th Innerleven Boolin Club. No tae play bools, cause fower woods an Brylcreem jist disnae bear thinkin aboot. Ronnie only h’d wan style o drive. An that wis in th direction o wimmen. An there wis summat new at th Boolin Club. A fresh scent in the watter. Aw th wey fae America.
Jeannette wis across fur her gran’s funeral, an havin been tae th Crem tae pey her respects, wis stayin at her gran’s hoose. Wi’ her gran, Nettie Simpson. (If ye’re a wee bit confused aboot th last statement, it’s cause her gran wisnae quite as deid as awboddy h’d reckoned).
Onnywey, Jeannette wis at th Club that Sa’urday nicht, an bein American (rich) an single (desp’rate), she wis attractin a lot o th wee fish (an th odd lobster). Ev’ry single man atween 20 an 60 reckoned they wis in wae a chance, an a few married wans as weel!
She wis a fine figure o a woman. Shooders like a navvy, an nylon-clad legs like thae really big sticks o Burntisland Rock. (Withoot th wee pictcher, mind). She h’d a reddy-broon dress on, cut low at th front, an barely reaching alow the knee. Then there wis th hat. Perched on her heid, wi’ thon long feathers stickin out. Th wans wi’ th fluff on th bottom.
If th Statue o Liberty were ever allowed tae go rusty, ye’d ken exactly whit Jeannette Pendexter looked like. Sh wis a stunner (as Erchie Ballingall fund oot when his face got too close tae her southern exposure!)
Ronnie h’d come along that nicht, wi’ Senga Marshall. Senga thocht Ronnie wis winchin her, an it wis only a matter o time. Last weekend, Ronnie h’d tae’n her up th Buckhind braes on a walk in th countryside. When she sayed that it wis jist a wee bit cauld, she wis anglin fur a cuddle, or th romantic ‘let me pit ma coat aroond yer shooders, hen!’ Ayeweys a guid sign o serious intent.
Ronnie, he wis th master o th romantic gesture. Quick as ye like, he h’d shifted wan o th coos in th field so that Senga c’d hae a warm spot tae sit doon on.
When it come tae pullin talent - compared tae Ronnie, Casanova couldnae pull his wellies on.
Nae sooner h’d Senga bocht Ronnie a pint, then he wis like a dark fin cuttin across th pool taewards Jeannette. Senga’s Bacardi an Coke was thrust intae Jeannette’s haund, an th teeth were turned up tae fu brightness.
"Thocht ye micht fancy a wee drink, there hen. Sort o welcome ye tae Scotland."
At the word ‘hen’, awboddy flicked a glance at her hat. Dae ken why!
"Ayuh shorely cayun tell you, bustuh! Ah ain’t no hen!"
Flick. Glance. Hat. They aw did it again!
Smooth. That’s Ronnie.
"Nae offence, there. It’s jist us Scots kennin a guid lookin burd when we see wan!"
Flick. Glance. There’s a pattern developin, here.
"Ayun you ah?"
"It’s the Bacardi. Should’ve pit mair Coke innit. Sip it slower, hen."
Flick…
Jeannette backed off a step, tae avoid gettin dandruff doon the front o her dress, then realised that, wi th Brylcreem, Ronnie w’d be takin it hame wi him. As for Ronnie, his plans involved takin a bit mair hame. An no Senga, either.
It wis obvious that Jeannette wis never wan tae be ta’en in b’ Ronnie’s slick words an th offer o a free drink. But Ronnie h’d a wey o anesthetizin the common sense node in th brain. An tonight, th rest o th world w’d be joinin in on his side.
Senga – fur starters!
Senga wisnae happy. Never mind a wummin scorned. Jist see whit happens tae wan that has peyed fur a roond, then seen her bacardi an coke gi’en tae anither. Even Ronnie’s anesthetic starts tae wear aff withoot constant reinforcement. It’s wan thing tae spend yer money fae th mill on a romantic evenin – but only if it’s yer ane nicht oot!
"Heh you!"
Suddenly it got quiet… So quiet ye could hear Malkie ahent th bar, short-changein the till.
"Aye! You! You wi’ th chicken on yer heid. That’s mah Bacardi you’re drinkin!"
Senga had a voice that w’d saundp’per the bottom o’ an Edinburry sewage dumpin barge.
"Are ye listenin, you …?"
Well, awboddy else wis listenin b’ noo, an Jeanette certainly wisnae deaf. An there wis nuthin wrang wi’ her voice.
"I don't see a name writ on it anywhere and it jist so happens to be restin in my fist for the time being!"
Judgin b’ the emulsion paint flakes fa’in aff th ceilin, definitely nuthin wrang wi’ the voice!
"An that's mah man yer leerin at!"
Senga wis determined. Ronnie wis peyed fur.
No that Jeanette wis bothered.
"Well mebbe you folks got different ways of looking at things... I'm thinking that you might be owing me an apology?"
"An why wid ah be gi'en the likes o you an apology. Efter aw, it's me that pey'd fur the drink an the Brylcreem, an it's you whit's got her haunds on bith!"
Noo Jeanette c’d see a guid jab when it hit her.
"You're a fiesty one ain'tcha? I seen a smaller set on a prize bull."
It jist didnae hit her hard enough tae stop her.
" Cryin' shame yer wasting all yer energy talkin' to the hand. I ain't gut yer drink and I ain't gut yer man...
And I ain't gonna sit here and lissen whilst you run your trap.
Jest move it on out the door sister and we'll get back to where we wuz... "
Folk in th line o fire started rememberin urgent appointments. The domino players in th corner started chappin, even when they could get the double six oot. And the urinal in the gents started tae look like a guid place tae staund aside.
"Are you an th chicken in this th gether, or is that jist th chicken talkin?"
"Well now.....I'd say you wuz havin a bit of trubble hearin mah words. Maybe that's not the onlyiest thing you gut trubble doin. Might jest be trubble keepin your man happy."
It wis getting serious, noo!
" Got to ask that question now don't we... "
When the talk gets tae the ‘keepin a man’ stage…
"Whatdidya say your name wuz honey? Nevah mind...
Ah don't ‘spect we'll be exchanging cahds for the holidays!
And jest for the record...that wuz Jeannette speakin... and this heyah headpiece ain't got one lick of chicken on it... nor under it neithah!"
Ask onnyboddy in th hall that nicht, an they’ll aw say th same thing.
Jeanette’s hand never left th end o her airm. They’ll aw swear tae it.
An yet, wi’ the smack o the wrath o Jehovah, Senga took off backward.
Ower the dance flair – an no dancin.
On tae the domino table – an no chappin.
Then on tae the flair – an no conscious!
"Yah gut a name, Brylcreem boy?"
"Ah’m Ronnie. Ronnie McLauchlan."
"Jeannette. Jeannette Day Pendexter."
The way bein clear noo…
"Haw, Jeanette. Ye fancy takin a daunner in the moonlicht?"
Ronnie only h’d the wan record …
"Shorely do, Ronnie!"
… but it wis a guid wan.
Ronnie h’d th coats picked up, an Jeanette oot o th club, afore Senga h’d the bill fur the breakage tucked intae her unresistin haund.
"Hoo dae ye reckon tae a wee stroll along the Wellesley bing?"
Ah c’n only assume that Jeannette thocht the bing h’d summat tae dae w’ that Crosby felly. The wan that did the films wi’ Bob Hope an Dorothy Lamour.
"Is the ‘Bing’ abaht heyah, Ronnie?"
"Naw. Ah’ll get us a taxi."
Noo, fur some reason, since th day that Jeannette arrived in Methil, nae taxi wis ever tae be seen within a mile o th place. Probably coincidence.
Jist then, a wee Standard 10 come up th road. Wi’ twa wee boys in it. Twa Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Ronnie jumped oot in front o th car.
Twa nervous Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Never seen a car stop sae quick!
"We’re gaun tae the Wellesley!"
"But …"
"Get in, Jeannette"
"But …
"The Chicken Hat got in the car, foll’d b’ Jeannette"
Twa very nervous Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Ronnie hauled his sel’ intae th seat aside Jeannette.
In the front, th twa Witnesses were startin to truly believe that Jehovah h’d drewn their names oot th hat fur th testin.
"Where did you say you desired to go?"
Th driver’s adam’s apple wis working a double shift.
"The Wellesley!"
The twa Witnesses jumped tae it.
Wi’ th front passenger changin gear so th driver w’dnae need tae waste time needed fur the steerin, they were away.
Gears crunchin, tyres squealin, Witnesses prayin, that wee car took the Swan Brae like an express train.
Denbeath went by like a vision o Purgatory.
And they were at the Wellesley pit entrance afore ye could say ‘Watchtower’
As the engine expired with nervous exhaustion, and the twa in th front tried to slide doon an blend wi’ the seats, Ronnie an Jeannette got oot.
Jeannette wis aw fur Ronnie peyin th twa boys, but Ronnie refused on the grounds that a taxi driver should yaise th clutch when changin gear.
An apairt fae that, he didnae hae onny money on him.
Fur Ronnie, wimmen usually peyed!
"Jist foll’ me hen …"
Jist fur a fraction, ye w’d h’ve sworn the Twa Witnesses’ een flicked up.
"… an ah’ll show ye the secret wey tae the bing."
(Known only to several thousand pit workers over the past 60 years!)
Jeannette foll’d Ronnie doon the wee dirt path tae th pit yaird. Thae L.L. Bean industrial-grade nylons did their job, and the jaggy nettles an thistles h’d tae admit defeat.
"We’ll jist cut roond b’ th electric shop, an along th pit road tae th bing."
Even at that time o nicht, th electric shop was birlin w’ activity.
"Ayuh, Ronnie? Who works abaht heyah in the middle of the night?"
"That’ll be the bellmen"
"Bell men?"
"Aye. They’re th boys that’re no fully skilled, so they’re no allowed near the dangerous stuff. So they jist work on the signallin. Phones. Bells. That sort o thing.
Mind you, half th sparkies here shouldnae be allowed near a licht bulb, if ye catch mah meaning. Faur too dangerous fur th rest o us!"
"And these heyah ‘Bell men’ work on their bells at night? Like church bell ringers?"
Jeanette wis obviously getting a bit lost here, so Ronnie – ayewis helpful tae a wummin – helped her oot.
"Naw! Nae bells on th back shift. They’re cuttin up th scrap cable. Chappin it doon, so’s it’ll fit in a piece box. That wey, they can sneak it oot th pit, an mak some money sellin it tae the scap men. Guid money in copper cable, there is"
"And is theyah much scrap cable?"
"Oh, aye! Some o they bellmen c’n turn a twa hunnert yaird drum o cable, new in th day, intae scrap on a quiet back shift."
In the moments o silence, while Jeannette thocht her wey through this, the faint soond o praying drifted doon fae Wellesley Road.
"That’s stealing!!"
"Only if ye’re caught, doll. Only if ye’re caught. This is th Coal Board we’re talkin aboot. There’s nae end tae the lives that th coal an th politicians h’ve ta’en. Thae men’ll work hard aw nicht, tae steal a fiver’s worth. Guid luck tae them."
Soon, Ronnie an Jeannette were past th (rapidly diminishing) cable store, an oot on tae th bing.
If ye’ve never been oot on a bing, an especially at nicht, ah’ll hae tae try an describe it.
Staunin high above th bing were the hunnert foot toowers. Big steel pylons wi’ muckle great lamps on them. Some were yelly wi’ sodium licht, an some were bluey-green wi’ mercury lamps.
Th street lichts up on Wellesley Road showed the world o man, but that world wis a distant past, an no pairt o here an noo.
The grund was flat an bare. Nothin grew there. Stane an dirt brocht up fae th depth o th pit, an never trod on in th entire history o man, ape or monkey.
Grey an monotonous durin th day, it become a land o gowd an siller. Shaidies o deepest dark. Wi suggestions o form that th e’e couldnae comprehend. Nae landscape that man could fund a fittin in, but mem’ries fae th depths o evolution chittered in the back o yer mind.
An yet, it wis beautiful. Like an eternally frozen landscape. Silvered plains an gilded crests. An like a dream, it w’d be aw lost in th morning.
Ronnie wis a master. Jeanette wis under th fairies spell. An monny a lass h’d fau’n under th enchantment o th Wellesley bing. There could only ever be th wan outcome…
An up on Wellesley Road, th twa Witnesses prayed.
On this nicht, o aw nichts, Ronnie didnae hae th bing entirely tae his sel’.
Richt in the middle o th bing wis th explosives magazine. Aw pits dae a wheen o shotfirin, an need tae keep a lot o explosive on site.
Coorse, naeboddy in their richt mind wants half a ton o ICI and Nobel’s finest onnywhere near, if thae c’n help it. So they dig a hole oot in th middle o th bing. P’t big, strong wa’s aroond it. An build an explosive magazine wi’ a roof th’t ye could pap peas through. The idea bein, that if wan dodgy stick o Unigel or Polar Ajax goes ‘whoops!’, th other half ton’ll jine in wi a bang an a flash.
Wi th strong wa’s an th flimsy roof, aw th blast goes straicht up. Nae harm tae onnyboddy, unless ye happen tae be a seagull comin late back fae th bingo, an takin a shortcut cross th bing.
No a place, then, fur th sane an sensible.
But, then, that w’dnae include Jeek Walkinshaw.
Jeek wis a gun fancier. Maist men settled fur greyhoonds or pigeons. Easy tae feed, an no likely tae attract th attention o th polis.
Jeek liked guns. Shotguns, he could get a licence fur, but pistols were definitely oot o th question.
Lugers fae the war, an thon big, heavy Webley revolvers that th army dished oot tae officers. An officers – no bein daft – w’d leave ahent rather than lug aroond, spilin th cut o a nice, tailored battledress.
An what an officer w’d leave ahent, th Jeeks o this world sold on fur a carton o Player’s Navy Cut.
Grubby haund tae grubby haund. Doon hill aw the wey.
Endin up wi’ Jeek.
Noo Jeek h’d figured it oot that th last place on earth, onnyboddy w’d come, w’d be an explosives magazine. An if Jeek wanted to shoot aff a few bullets, then th magazine wis th safest place tae be.
That nicht, Jeek h’d th Webley, a box o cartridges, an a shopping back fu’ o bottles. Nae Barr’s Irn Bru or that. Ye got thruppence back on them. But th wans that w’d go in th bucket onnywey.
Jeek wis partial tae th HP sauce, an he liked tae read oot th ingredients on the side o th bottle. In French. Wis th only French that maist Scots learned as bairns.
As Ronnie guide a bedazzled Jeannette tae his favourite spot, Jeek wis at th magazine, settin up th bottles.
"There’s a nice wee cumfy bit across here, hen, if ye want tae set a spell"
Ronnie wis headin fur a particularly advantageous 3 piece suite that somebody h’d dragged oot on tae th bing, an dumped.
Revolver in holster, ready fur th Wyatt Earp quick draw, Jeek started in on th French…
"Cette sauce d’haute qualite, est une melange…"
"Do you hear something, Ronnie?"
Eager tae keep th magic gaun, Ronnie shushed Jeannette.
"Jist you sit yersel here. There’s nuthin oot here …"
"…d’epice et des fruits orientaux…"
"Sounds like French, Ronnie. Real bad French. But French …"
"Dinnae be daft! Whaur oot here w’d ye get a bloody Frenchman?"
"… Est egalement excellent pour enricher le saveur…"
Th magic wis fizzlin like a damp squib.
" Ayuh rathuh thank it’s time we were a-goin home, Ronnie!"
"… aux soups, hachis et ragouts."
"Whit th bluidy hell’s gaun on, here?"
Jeek spun roond. Oot come th Webley, an as th sauce bottle wobbled intae his sights, Jeek pulled th trigger.
Kerrack!!
Th bullet went by th sauce bottle without as much as a by-yer-leave. Naewhere near it!
Whizzin across th bing, it hit th only target that a self respectin bullet could possibly go fur.
Th Chicken Hat!
Feathers, pins an bits o felt flew evrywhere. A tribute tae bad fashion sense was gone in an instant. An th fashion industry on two continents breathed easier.
Jeanette, on th ither haund, drapped like a seck o tautties.
Ronnie stood in a cloud of feathers. Stunned. Like th bairn in a pilly fight that suddenly realises that his mum’ll be lookin fur an explanation.
An Ronnie wis lookin fur an explanation.
So when th eider settled down, he found wan.
Jeek Walkinshaw.
It w’dnae be an exaggeration t’say that Ronnie wisnae too happy. An when Jeek saw Ronnie headin fur him, neither wis Jeek.
Now it wis a time fur th Wrath o Ronnie! The very air took on an Auld Testament feel, and quotes fae the Scriptures seemed easy tae come by.
Jeek drapped th gun, an ran! Up th pit road, acceleratin like a tourist efter eatin Calamari fur th first time. His secret, safe place was noo th last place he ever wanted tae be.
Ronnie picked up th gun. It wis startin tae look like the bing w’d be Jeek’s last place. Ever!
"Come back here, ya miserable wee bauchle!"
Jeek got even faster.
Kerrack!
The bullet took the heel aff Jeek’s left boot, an Jeek started veerin roond in circles.
"Mmmm?" sayed Ronnie "Ah winder…?"
Kerrack!
Th next bullet took aff the ither heel, an Jeek rocketed aff on a tangent. Th Wrath o Ronnie was guided from above. It almost seemed that very air wis crystallisin, an th powder o prayer wis fa’in on th grund.
Standin in a swirl o gowd an siller smoke, Ronnie looked ready tae part the seas.
Kerrack!
Only, it wis Jeek’s hair that got parted.
There wis nae wey that a man c’d move that fast …
Kerrack!
… but th nicht, Jeek c’d h’ve girdled th world in 80 minutes.
As Ronnie lined up th last bullet between th ‘O’ an ‘A’ o Jeek’s National Coal Board donkey jaiket, a quiet voice come fae th direction o th 3 piece suite.
"Leave him Ronnie. He’s no worth it."
Th quiet contempt of a wummin. It’ll stop a man, nae mitter hoo faur he is gaun in his anger. Wi’ a wee shrug o th shooders, Ronnie turned awa fae Jeek.
Kerrack! Th sauce bottle disintegrated!
"Ronnie. Ah think a w’dnae mind a wee cuddle …"
An Ronnie, bein Ronnie, obliged.
Up on Wellesley Road, th twa Witnesses were still prayin. They’d been at it fur half an hour, an th windaes o their Standard 10 were gey steamed up. In a different age, things micht’ve been said, but this wis then, an things were different.
There’s nae doubt that Jehovah ayewis listened tae his Witnesses, but even they accepted that it wisnae richt tae demand answers. Or actions.
B’t th nicht …
Suddenly there wis a terrified face pressed up agin th steamy windae. Haunds were bangin on the door, an Jeek wis shoutin!
"Save me! Save me! Fur th love o Goad! Let me in."
Noo you show me th Jehovah’s Witness that is gaun tae turn that request doon!
That, of coorse, wis years ago.
Jeanette went back tae America. Got mairried soon efter, an h’d a wee lassie. She ca’d her Ronnetta.
Th twa Witnesses emigrated tae Kenya, set up hoose th gether. An spent th rest o their days, happy in a native hut wi nae doors. An nae wey that onnyboddy could slam a door in their face.
Jeek moved tae Bellahouston, an can still be seen in George Square. Lecturing on th evils of firearms and irregular bowl movements.
Ronnie wis always Ronnie.
The 3 piece suite on th Wellesley bing micht be updated fae time tae time, but nuthin really changed.
Ronnie wis that successful wi’ the wimmen, he gained wan mair nickname…
The Pirnie Perambulator.
There wis that monny wimmen h’d tae move oot o th area, an fund anither place tae push their prams.
(Wee note fur Americans – that’s a baby carriage)
Folk were a wee bit stuffy then, an th only wey tae be a respectable single mither wis tae be a ‘war widow’.
Thanks tae Ronnie, later genealogical researchers were tae puzzle aboot a mystery regiment fae the Methil area, that seemed tae hae sustained wan hunnert percent casualties in the early 60s in wan o thae undeclared bush wars that Britain aye seemed tae be mixed up in.
Naeboddy could trace the faithers, or th regiment. But them in th know w’d look at th faithers address, an if it wis onnywhere near Innerleven, well… jist pencil in Ronnie McLauchlan. Th clincher bein Brylcreem stains on th original certificate.
An jist th day, ah got a letter fae wee Ronnie. Ye ken the wan. Nettie Simpson’s great-grandochter fae America, Ronnetta’s laudie. He's in tae thon genealogy, an thinks that his faimly has got some connection w' th 1st Regiment Levenmouth Fusiliers. Goad knows whit he's been tellt! Gaun h've tae think carefull fore ah answer him..."
