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Authors: John Buchan
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till the edges were all cracked and uneven. The men I was matched
against would miss no detail. I broke one of the bootlaces and retied it in a clumsy
knot, and loosed the other so that my thick grey socks bulged over the uppers. Still
no sign of anything on the road. The motor I had observed half an hour ago must have
gone home.
My toilet complete, I took up the barrow and began my journeys to and from the quarry
a hundred yards off.
I remember an old scout in Rhodesia, who had done many queer things in his day, once
telling me that the secret of playing a part was to think yourself into it. You could
never keep it up, he said, unless you could manage to convince yourself that you were
it. So I shut off all other thoughts and switched them on to the road-mending. I thought
of the little white cottage as my home, I recalled the years I had spent herding on
Leithen Water, I made my mind dwell lovingly on sleep in a box-bed and a bottle of
cheap whisky. Still nothing appeared on that long white road.
Now and then a sheep wandered off the heather to stare at me. A heron flopped down
to a pool in the stream and started to fish, taking no more notice of me than if I
had been a milestone. On I went, trundling my loads of stone, with the heavy step
of the professional. Soon I grew warm, and the dust on my face changed into solid
and abiding grit. I was already counting the hours till evening should put a limit
to Mr Turnbull’s monotonous toil. Suddenly a crisp voice spoke from the road, and
looking up I saw a little Ford two-seater, and a round-faced young man in a bowler
hat.
‘Are you Alexander Turnbull?’ he asked. ‘I am the new County Road Surveyor. You live
at Blackhopefoot, and have charge of the section from Laidlawbyres to the Riggs? Good!
A fair bit of road, Turnbull, and not badly engineered. A little soft about a mile
off, and the edges want cleaning. See you look after that. Good morning. You’ll know
me the next time you see me.’
Clearly my get-up was good enough for the dreaded Surveyor. I went on with my work,
and as the morning grew towards noon I was cheered by a little traffic. A baker’s
van breasted the hill, and sold me a bag of ginger biscuits which I stowed in my trouser-pockets
against emergencies. Then a herd passed with sheep, and disturbed me somewhat by asking
loudly, ‘What had become o’ Specky?’
‘In bed wi’ the colic,’ I replied, and the herd passed on … just about midday a big
car stole down the hill, glided past and drew up a hundred yards beyond. Its three
occupants descended as if to stretch their legs, and sauntered towards me.
Two of the men I had seen before from the window of the Galloway inn—one lean, sharp,
and dark, the other comfortable and smiling. The third had the look of a countryman—a
vet, perhaps, or a small farmer. He was dressed in ill-cut knickerbockers, and the
eye in his head was as bright and wary as a hen’s.
‘Morning,’ said the last. ‘That’s a fine easy job o’ yours.’
I had not looked up on their approach, and now, when accosted, I slowly and painfully
straightened my back, after the manner of roadmen; spat vigorously, after the manner
of the low Scot; and regarded them steadily before replying. I confronted three pairs
of eyes that missed nothing.
‘There’s waur jobs and there’s better,’ I said sententiously. ‘I wad rather hae yours,
sittin’ a’ day on your hinderlands on thae cushions. It’s you and your muckle cawrs
that wreck my roads! If we a’ had oor richts, ye sud be made to mend what ye break.’
The bright-eyed man was looking at the newspaper lying beside Turnbull’s bundle.
‘I see you get your papers in good time,’ he said.
I glanced at it casually. ‘Aye, in gude time. Seein’ that that paper cam’ out last
Setterday I’m just Sax days late.’
He picked it up, glanced at the superscription, and laid it down again.
against would miss no detail. I broke one of the bootlaces and retied it in a clumsy
knot, and loosed the other so that my thick grey socks bulged over the uppers. Still
no sign of anything on the road. The motor I had observed half an hour ago must have
gone home.
My toilet complete, I took up the barrow and began my journeys to and from the quarry
a hundred yards off.
I remember an old scout in Rhodesia, who had done many queer things in his day, once
telling me that the secret of playing a part was to think yourself into it. You could
never keep it up, he said, unless you could manage to convince yourself that you were
it. So I shut off all other thoughts and switched them on to the road-mending. I thought
of the little white cottage as my home, I recalled the years I had spent herding on
Leithen Water, I made my mind dwell lovingly on sleep in a box-bed and a bottle of
cheap whisky. Still nothing appeared on that long white road.
Now and then a sheep wandered off the heather to stare at me. A heron flopped down
to a pool in the stream and started to fish, taking no more notice of me than if I
had been a milestone. On I went, trundling my loads of stone, with the heavy step
of the professional. Soon I grew warm, and the dust on my face changed into solid
and abiding grit. I was already counting the hours till evening should put a limit
to Mr Turnbull’s monotonous toil. Suddenly a crisp voice spoke from the road, and
looking up I saw a little Ford two-seater, and a round-faced young man in a bowler
hat.
‘Are you Alexander Turnbull?’ he asked. ‘I am the new County Road Surveyor. You live
at Blackhopefoot, and have charge of the section from Laidlawbyres to the Riggs? Good!
A fair bit of road, Turnbull, and not badly engineered. A little soft about a mile
off, and the edges want cleaning. See you look after that. Good morning. You’ll know
me the next time you see me.’
Clearly my get-up was good enough for the dreaded Surveyor. I went on with my work,
and as the morning grew towards noon I was cheered by a little traffic. A baker’s
van breasted the hill, and sold me a bag of ginger biscuits which I stowed in my trouser-pockets
against emergencies. Then a herd passed with sheep, and disturbed me somewhat by asking
loudly, ‘What had become o’ Specky?’
‘In bed wi’ the colic,’ I replied, and the herd passed on … just about midday a big
car stole down the hill, glided past and drew up a hundred yards beyond. Its three
occupants descended as if to stretch their legs, and sauntered towards me.
Two of the men I had seen before from the window of the Galloway inn—one lean, sharp,
and dark, the other comfortable and smiling. The third had the look of a countryman—a
vet, perhaps, or a small farmer. He was dressed in ill-cut knickerbockers, and the
eye in his head was as bright and wary as a hen’s.
‘Morning,’ said the last. ‘That’s a fine easy job o’ yours.’
I had not looked up on their approach, and now, when accosted, I slowly and painfully
straightened my back, after the manner of roadmen; spat vigorously, after the manner
of the low Scot; and regarded them steadily before replying. I confronted three pairs
of eyes that missed nothing.
‘There’s waur jobs and there’s better,’ I said sententiously. ‘I wad rather hae yours,
sittin’ a’ day on your hinderlands on thae cushions. It’s you and your muckle cawrs
that wreck my roads! If we a’ had oor richts, ye sud be made to mend what ye break.’
The bright-eyed man was looking at the newspaper lying beside Turnbull’s bundle.
‘I see you get your papers in good time,’ he said.
I glanced at it casually. ‘Aye, in gude time. Seein’ that that paper cam’ out last
Setterday I’m just Sax days late.’
He picked it up, glanced at the superscription, and laid it down again.
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