Salemina and Francesca do not enjoy it all quite as intensely as I, so they considerately give me the lion's share. Every morning, after an exhilarating interview with the Niobe of our kitchen (who thinks me irresponsible, and prays Heaven in her heart I be no worse), I put on my goloshes, take my umbrella, and trudge up and down the little streets and lanes on real and, if need be, imaginary errands. The Duke of Wellington said, `When fair in Scotland, always carry an umbrella; when it rains, please yourself,' and I sometimes agree with Stevenson's shivering statement, `Life does not seem to me to be an amusement adapted to this climate.' I quoted this to the doctor yesterday, but he remarked with some surprise that he had not missed a day's golfing for weeks. The chemist observed as he handed me a cake of soap, `Won'erful blest in weather, we are, mam,' simply because, the rain being unaccompanied with high wind, one was enabled to hold up an umbrella without having it turned inside out. When it ceased dripping for an hour at noon, the greengrocer said cheerily, `Another grand day, mam!' I assented, though I could not for the life of me remember when the last one occurred. However, dreary as the weather may be, one cannot be dull when doing one's morning round of shopping in Pettybaw or Strathdee. I have only to give you thumb-nail sketches of our favourite tradespeople to convince you of that fact.
. . . .
We bought our first groceries of Mrs. Robert Phin, of Strathdee, simply because she is an inimitable conversationalist. She is expansive, too, about family matters, and tells us certain of her `mon's' faults which it would be more seemly to keep in the safe shelter of her own bosom.
Rab takes a wee drappie too much, it appears, and takes it so often that he has little time to earn an honest penny for his family.
This is bad enough; but the fact that Mrs. Phin has been twice wed before, and that in each case she innocently chose a ne'er-do-weel for a mate, makes her a trifle cynical. She told me that she had laid twa husbands in the kirk-yard near which her little shop stands, and added cheerfully, as I made some sympathetic response, `An' I hope it'll no' be lang afore I box Rab!'
Salemina objects to the shop because it is so disorderly. Soap and sugar, tea and bloaters, starch and gingham, lead pencils and sausages, lie side by side cosily. Boxes of pins are kept on top of kegs of herrings. Tins of coffee are distributed impartially anywhere and everywhere, and the bacon sometimes reposes in a glass case with small-wares and findings, out of the reach of Alexander's dogs.
Alexander is one of a brood, or perhaps I should say three broods, of children which wander among the barrels and boxes and hams and winceys seeking what they may devour,--a handful of sugar, a prune, or a sweetie.
We often see the bairns at their luncheon or dinner in a little room just off the shop, Alexander the Small always sitting or kneeling on a `creepie,' holding his plate down firmly with the left hand and eating with the right, whether the food be fish, porridge, or broth.
In the Phin family the person who does not hold his plate down runs the risk of losing it to one of the other children or to the dogs, who, with eager eye and reminding paw, gather round the hospitable board, licking their chops hopefully.
I enjoy these scenes very much, but, alas! I can no longer witness them as often as formerly.
This morning Mrs. Phin greeted me with some embarrassment.
"Maybe ye'll no' ken me," she said, her usually clear speech a little blurred. "It's the teeth. I've mislaid `em somewhere. I paid far too much siller for `em to wear `em ilka day. Sometimes I rest `em in the teabox to keep `em awa' frae the bairns, but I canna find `em theer. I'm thinkin' maybe they'll be in the rice, but I've been ower thrang to luik!"
This anecdote was too rich to keep to myself, but its unconscious humour made no impression upon Salemina, who insisted upon the withdrawal of our patronage. I have tried to persuade her that, whatever may be said of tea and rice, we run no risk in buying eggs; but she is relentless.
. . . .
The kirkyard where Rab's two predecessors have been laid, and where Rab will lie when Mrs. Phin has `boxed' him, is a sleepy little place set on a gentle slope of ground, softly shaded by willow and yew trees. It is enclosed by a stone wall, into which an occasional ancient tombstone is built, its name and date almost obliterated by stress of time and weather.
We often walk through its quiet, myrtle-bordered paths on our way to the other end of the village, where Mrs. Bruce, the flesher, keeps an unrivalled assortment of beef and mutton. The headstones, many of them laid flat upon the graves, are interesting to us because of their quaint inscriptions, in which the occupation of the deceased is often stated with modest pride and candour. One expects to see the achievements of the soldier, the sailor, or the statesman carved in the stone that marks his resting-place, but to our eyes it is strange enough to read that the subject of eulogy was a plumber, tobacconist, maker of golf-balls, or a golf champion; in which latter case there is a spirited etching or bas-relief of the dead hero, with knickerbockers, cap, and clubs complete.
There, too, lies Thomas Loughead, Hairdresser, a profession far too little celebrated in song and story. His stone is a simple one, and bears merely the touching tribute:-He was lovely and pleasant in his life, the inference being, to one who knows a line of Scripture, that in his death he was not divided.
These kirkyard personalities almost lead one to believe in the authenticity of the British tradesman's epitaph, wherein his practical-minded relict stated that the `bereaved widow would continue to carry on the tripe and trotter business at the old stand.'
. . . .
One day when we were walking through the little village of Strathdee we turned the corner of a quiet side street and came suddenly upon something altogether strange and unexpected.
