Read Online The Burry Man's Day by Catriona McPherson - Free Book Online

and opera I have ever seen, but imagine the shame if one ever admitted as much to a friend and got only cold uncomprehending stares in return. Besides, it was hard to decide what exactly the substance was which turned the pole greasy, but from the calls of ‘yeugh’ in the crowd, it seemed unlikely to be cold cream, and I shook the daydream away with a shudder.
    Now there began some kind of wrangle between the officials and a wily-looking man who had fashioned a contrivance like cowboy’s chaps out of sacking and attached these on top of his trousers. The head-shaking and muttering went on and on, and the crowd was beginning to grow restive, when a smart clip-clopping drew my attention to the mouth of the close, and I saw a tiny cart pulled by an equally tiny pony draw up. One is used to various makeshift equipages but this really was the sweetest and oddest-looking little outfit I had come across, a sort of cross between a bath-tub and a perambulator with one seat for a driver in front and two back-to-back, facing out to each side, for a pair of passengers behind. I was so diverted by it that I did not trouble to wonder who was climbing down from the driving seat until a voice shouted from the crowd.
    ‘I thocht ye were away hame, Rubbert.’
    Robert Dudgeon nodded vaguely, helping a woman I took to be his wife step down from the little cart and tying the pony’s rein to a gatepost.
    ‘There’s no telling him,’ called this Mrs Dudgeon. ‘You can try if you like, Greta, but there’s no telling him.’ She shook her head at her husband and seemed genuinely worried, although her words were light-hearted enough, or perhaps she was just cross with him. The woman standing at my elbow was certainly cross with her.
    ‘You wouldn’t believe the mess that bloomin’ pony left all over the green this afternoon, and would Chrissie Dudgeon shift herself away out of it? Would she not! She had to wait for Rubbert and take him straight home, she said, and yet here he is bold as brass at the greasy pole and the filthy beastie’ll be at it again.’
    ‘Ach, Myra, it’s good for yer rhubarb, you should be grateful.’
    ‘I’ll give ye rhubarb, ye wee so-and-so. The bairns have trekked it all up the stairs.’
    ‘It’s a very peculiar little cart, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘And such a minuscule pony. One can hardly believe it could pull them along.’
    ‘Made fae a shell hutch,’ said a man nearby, in an attempt at an explanation; an attempt which failed for me at least. ‘And they ponies are used wi’ lugging more than that in days gone by.’
    ‘And it’s on a fine rich diet,’ said Myra, still smarting. ‘You should see my stair runner. Ach, it’s worth it, though, I daresay, to see this.’
    I was puzzled and frowned at her.
    ‘Rubbert has a right knack for the greasy pole,’ she explained. ‘Pit yer paper away, Tommy,’ she said to her husband. She was evidently one of those whose bad temper never quite dissolves but simply shifts to a different target as the mood takes her. ‘Would ye look at this man,’ she said, appealing to me. ‘He comes oot tae see a spectacle and stands readin’ the paper that he can see any nicht o’ the year.’
    ‘Wheesht yer moanin’,’ said Tommy. ‘A man can dream, can he no’?’ He nudged me and showed me the open page of his newspaper where there was a highly embellished advertising notice from a shipping line. ‘New Zealand,’ he said wistfully. ‘Steerage £18. Places still available.’ He sighed. ‘It leaves on Tuesday. I’ve got three days tae pack.’
    I smiled at him while his wife scowled.
    ‘If ye’re waitin’ for me tae beg you tae stay,’ she said, ‘dinnae haud yer breath.’
    ‘Och, give it rest the pair of you,’ said a woman nearby, ‘and let’s enjoy this.’
    Our friend with the cowboy chaps had been dismissed at last and Robert Dudgeon was walking forward. As he broke the front of the crowd a rustle of appreciative anticipation ran