Preamble ...
... postamble?

Too Much. Winter wis never a guid time. No because o the cauld an rain - that poured doon on awboddy. Mair, it wis bein on yer ain. Bob wis awa tae his work. Doon the pit, workin nights. Someboddy h'd tae go, even on Auld Year's Nicht. An wi the time he'd h'd aff wi his back, there wis nae wey Bob'd be seein in the bells. No this year. Jeannie w'd be bringin in the New Year hersel. Withoot Bob, there wis naeplace she could go, nor, w'd she want tae. They ayewis went th'gither, or no at a'. Upstairs, the bairns were sleepin. They'd h'd their New Year early. A bit Madeira cake, a bit o shortbread and a wee tumbler o ginger cordial. No fur them, the First Fittin and the ever fu gless. Bairns are no tied tae a clock, so a few hours early didnae mitter. They'd be auld enough, soon enough. When ye've no got much, there's no monny places ye c'n go. An when ye've no got much, there's no monny folk come tae visit. As the Auld Year daunnered on through its last few hours, it didnae look as though there w'd be onny visitors. No the wan. So Jeannie sat there wi the wireless, the wan luxury she'd bocht fae the tick man afore the roof h'd drapped doon the Michael pit an pit Bob ower on his back fur a year, in Strathearn hospital. Listenin tae the Light Programme an the Scottish Home Service. At least, there wis a bottle left o'er fae last year, an she'd be able tae bring in the New Year in the proper manner. Of course, the quiet gets tae ye, so Jeannie thocht there wis nae wrang in bein like the bairns an ha'in a wee drink aforehaund. There wis a while yet, an wan w'dnae dae onny herm. "Here's tae ye, Billy Cotton. Y're bands no bad!" At least Bob wis workin. An the money wis startin tae come in. Next year w'd be better. Jeannie thocht aboot the past year. Wi Bob's accident, the year h'd gone fae bad tae worse. Nae wage comin in. The Coal Board an the Union h'd argued aboot the Compensation, an while they'd argued, naeboddy h'd seen fit tae pey oot the money. No till the blame wis laid an a' the p'pers signed. When ye've got bairns, an bairns are needin, ye dae h've the luxury o pride. When there's nae money in the hoose, ye hae tae get some. That meant the NAB. The National Assistance Bureau. Often called the B'roo. I think Jeannie w'd h've done withoot fur her ain sake, but wi bairns… Ye need tae! So she'd gone doon an filled in the forms. Applied fur National Assistance. The clerk h'd flicked through the sheets, couldnae find onny obvious omissions, then went on tae the next stage. "We'll send somebody round to your house. Make sure ye've got all the facts right." "When'll that be?" "Ah'll have to check the calendar!" "Will we be getting onny money. There's no a lot in the hoose. An ah've got bairns tae feed." "Ye'd better be getting back to feed them, then." "Ah dae think ye heard me richt. Will we be getting onny money the day?" "I don't think you understood me. There'll be nae money till we've checked your case. Nothing until we've looked at your house and your circumstances. I think we can set up the visit next Thursday. You should be grateful - it's not often we can rush things." A' Jeannie c'd dae wis look. "Till Thursday, then." Jeannie worked like a Dervish. That hoose got scrubbed fae tap tae bottom. Nae official wis ever gaun tae say that Jeannie Wardlaw kept a dirty hoose. Nae fancy mops or vacuum cleaners. Jist hard work an sair knees. The bairns h'd tae run aroond wi auld claes on. The wan guid set, their skale claes, wis flung in the biler tae wash. Oot come the scrubbin board an the White Windsor soap tae tak oot onny marks or stains. Through the mangle an hingin oot the back gairden tae dry. A' while cleanin the windaes an whitenin the step. Even noo, Jeannie could feel the redness o her fingers an the raw skin. Hae anither drink. That wis a guid song there th noo on the wireless. Thursday come, an so did the inspector fae the National Assistance. A sherp-faced woman wi the kind o outfit that pits ye in mind o funerals. An she missed nuthin! Every room wis checked, even - in fact, especially - the lavvy. She sniffed at the front step, an checked tae see if the back wan wis the same. She looked in the coal cellar. Bein summer, there wisnae much coal in there. She coonted the lumps an took a note. Jeannie jist held hersel, an sayed nuthin. But when the inspector lifted the skirt o the auldest lassie tae check if she h'd onny knickers tae wear, ah think Jeannie wis as close tae murder as she'd ever been! "I've finished, Mrs. Wardlaw. This house is too clean. The children are clothed. I see no further need for my presence. Claim dismissed!" "Dismissed?" Jeannie was stunned. "What about the Assistance money?" "That is for the needy!" "But the children…" "You can always appeal if you think that is wise. Good day." Sittin in Bob's chair, listenin tae the wireless, Jeannie h'd anither drink. This time tae get rid o the taste in her mooth. That Thursday h'd been aboot as bad as it gets. Naeboddy in thae days ever appealed - ye'd hae sterved tae death afore they'd got roond tae settin a date for an appeal Tribunal. An it w'd be staffed wi them wi suits, an thocht that hunger could be settled by an early lunch. "And here's a toast tae yis, ya miserable bastards! Hell mend ye!" That called fur anither whisky. But only a wee wan. A wee double. Jeannie had never got on wi her mither. She never understood why, but she did know that, while she micht be the dochter, she could never be like her mither. Even her wedding h'd been tainted by her mither's present tae the bride. Four pairs o sheets fae the tick man. Her mither h'd kept two pair an gi'en her the tick book tae pey the lot. Not a good send off into married life wi Bob. As ah sayed. When ye've got bairns, ye h've nae pride. Jeannie pit the youngest in the pram, left the auldest lassie to look efter the rest, an pushed that pram up tae Methilhill. Tae her mithers. When she got there, her brither Joe wis jist hame fae work. He h'd a job at the docks. The money wis guid, an there wis always a few 'extras' that somehow walked aff the boats. An Joe liked a guid tea when he come in. Nae stintin. It wis eggs, bacon, sausage, a pork chop, beans. Lots o bread an butter. Washed doon wi big cups o tea. Jeannie brocht the pram in tae the hoose. "Sit yersel doon, Jeannie. Hoo are ye daein the day?" Her mither poured oot anither big cupfae fur Joe. Haudin back the tears, she told them of the day's events. The NAB. The inspection. The refusal. "If ye hing oan, Jeannie, ah'll be makin anither pat o tea." Jeannie looked at her mother. The desperation must hae been plain on her face, but the words died in her mooth. Her mother looked at Joe, busily forking in the plump sausage and mopping up beans with the bread. "Joe. Is there no onnything ye can dae fur Jeannie?" "Well, ye ken yersel. The hours h've been kindae short this week…" Jeannie's mither turned to her. "Aye. There is that tae consider." She thought for a moment. "Ye know Jeannie. Ye h've tae understaund. You've got too much! Noo will ye be wantin that cup o tea?" Furget what ah sayed. Jeannie h'd pride enough fur a regiment. "No. Ah'll hae tae get awa hame. Ah've got bairns tae look efter." And away hame she went. The bairns all ran about her skirts. "Did ye get onnythin! Did ye get onnythin?" There were tears, but no lies fur her bairns. "Ah got nothin! But there's tautties growin oot there in the gairden. So fetch the spade, cause that's whit ye're eatin fur yer tea." As the New Year drew close, Jeannie lived that day again. And the words would always haunt her. "You've got too much!" She never understood. But somehow, the next day, a cheque arrived fae the pit. Bob's Compensation money. And in the next month or so, Bob wis back at work. An studyin tae be a shotfirer. Things would get better. Jeannie refilled her gless. It wis nearly time. She micht be on her ane, but the songs on the wireless were getting better an better. The New Year wis here, an the Auld, Terrible Year wis gone. Happy New Year! An someboddy wis chappin at the door. A First Fit! "Ye'd better let yersel in" she shouted. "Ah think ah've h'd too much!"