1
KILBRYDE The bauld rattlin’ thing in oor steeple has hung Since its auld predecessor tae shivers was rung. When at Killiecrankie grim Claverhoose fell Sic an endin’ was grand for that auld clachan bell (anon)
2
East Kilbride – Monday Ane Satyre of the New Estates
I pulled the lever and the pneumatic arm squealed, shaking the cradle into motion, slowly lifting me upwards away from the truck and closer to the huge coat of arms that hung on the prefabricated concrete wall of the civic centre. I looked down at the shiny new council truck twenty feet below, double-checking that we had remembered to wind out the support legs. Petey, standing underneath gave me a mid-text thumbs-up. Even after a fortnight on our squad, his overalls were spotless. Which is more than could be said for his plooky face. He looked like a bairn lost on its way to a fancy dress party. Still, since he had started, I was no longer the boy. I had moved up the pecking order. He stared up at me from underneath a sparkling new hard hat. For some reason known only to himself, he was carrying a screw-gun and a measuring tape. Staring out, I watched the grotesque architectural jumble of East Kilbride’s town centre slowly sink below. The old village was obscured by the grey mass of the civic centre but I could still hear the old parish church bell strike noon just over the noise of the traffic. I let go of the lever and remained motionless as the cradle shuddered to a halt. ‘Whit ur ye lookin’ at, Kevo?’ I heard Petey shout from below. ‘Fuck all.’
3 I turned around, taking off my hard hat, and peered into the shadows behind the shield, pressing the side of my face against the rough concrete wall. In the halflight, I could see something slightly above, resting on one of the metal rods that apparently held the coat of arms in place. Leaning backwards, I stretched my arm in as far as I could. My fingertips came into contact with a small solid mass of dry grass and twigs. ‘There’s a nest in here,’ I shouted. ‘Whit?’ ‘Tell Charlie there’s a nest in here.’ Charlie was the chargehand of the squad and had taken up his usual position of command in the cabin of the truck with his Daily Record, flask and greasy Greggs bag. Whenever he was criticised for this practice he simply responded that in the interest of health and safety he was acting as extra ballast to support the cradle. I stood back to examine the coat of arms. For a moment I was mesmerised by the colours and shapes that confronted me; yellows, blues and greens with stars and a bit of chequerboard and even some kind of bird in relief at the bottom. All this must have been significant to somebody sometime, but today the entire thing was to be removed. To us, it was just another job on the council chit. I had probably wandered past here for years not even giving it a second glance. But now, up close, I felt a strange pride in the designs and devices that confronted me, even though I didn’t have a Scooby what they were supposed to mean. I remembered that my Grandad had written some old book about E.K. years ago, I could ask him, but he had lost the plot lately. It was ironic that a history teacher should end up with Alzheimer’s. Useless auld bastard.
4 ‘Is there a fuckin’ problem, Kev?’ Charlie had appeared below with an aluminium cup in one hand and a scattering of crumbs over his South Lanarkshire Council overall. He looked up, chewing slowly, then leaned back and rested the cup on the protruding mound of his belly. ‘Whit the fuck is it?’ he enquired. ‘There’s a nest in here.’ ‘So fuckin’ whit? Is there anything in it?’ Petey laughed. ‘Maybe it’s a chicken and ye can have it for lunch, big yin,’ he suggested, before jumping out of the way as the remains of Charlie’s tea splashed past his shoulder. I gently touched the lever beside me and the pneumatic arm let out another high pitched squeal as the cradle moved up a few more inches. I peered into the nest from above. ‘Looks like an auld yin.’ ‘Well, jist get it tae fuck.’ ‘Fling us up a stick or a bead or somethin’.’ Petey opened the back of the van and pulled out a metre spirit level. He held it vertically with his left hand and, putting his right hand underneath, launched it up in the air beside the cradle. I caught hold and poked it behind the shield knocking the nest down to crumple into the slabs below. Petey picked it up and looked at it as if he was expecting something inside. ‘Take that doon the Chinkies and they’ll make you a pot a’ soup,’ Charlie suggested. ‘Don’t be boggin’.’
5 Charlie looked up again. ‘How’s the hing held oan?’ ‘Five, naw, six big bolts. But they’re a bit rusty. And it’s pretty heavy lookin’. We might be better wi’ some scaff.’ ‘Scaff, fuck all. Gie it a squirt of the magic ile, then we’ll strap it tae the cradle and loosen it aff efter lunch.’ I brought the cradle back down. ‘How long’s it been up there?’ Petey asked. ‘Fuck knows. Aboot fifty year probably,’ ventured Charlie. ‘So, whit are they takin’ it doon fur?’ ‘South Lanarkshire Cooncil marking its territory. Lik a dug pishin’ oan a lamppost. They don’t want the E.K. coat of arms upstaging their own crappy logo.’ And with that pearl of wisdom Charlie resumed his position in the van. Petey continued, ‘I didny think E.K. hud a coat ay arms.’ ‘Well, as soon as we get this doon, it wulny.’ I stepped out of the cradle and laughed to myself as Petey took the half demolished nest to place it in a nearby bush.
Four hours later, after a great deal of hack-sawing, hammering and sudatory language, the three of us manhandled the redundant shield into the back of the van. There it lay, face down beside a broken railing and a rusty old ‘Ball Games Prohibited’ sign. So maybe that was it. East Kilbride no more. Maybe it was now just another suburb of Glasgow or another characterless corner of South Lanarkshire. What need did a new town have for an old coat of arms?
6 Charlie slammed the back doors trying to catch Petey’s fingers and, as usual, announced the end of the working day with a, “Right. Let’s get tae fuck.” He always made it sound like we were escaping from the scene of a crime. Within seconds, the gears of the van crunched and we got tae fuck, leaving the shape of the coat of arms behind us, high on the weather stained wall like a bright concrete ghost.
7
Kilbryde - 31st May 1679
The auld clachan bell struck six as Gideon stepped out of the Alehouse on to Kilbryde’s only street. The dust of the day’s market had settled and the little village was now almost deserted. He hung his old leather waistcoat over one arm and felt the last warmth of the evening sun on his face. The innkeeper’s voice followed him out of the doorway. ‘Safe hame, Gideon.’ The old man lifted his stick in a tiny wave, grumbled something over his shoulder and made his way along the street in the direction of his cottage at Greenloan half a mile to the south. Some bairns came charging out of the alley in front of him, chasing a slightly heavier lad and circling Gideon before running off up the street. One of the pursuers, about eight or nine years old, who was a few yards behind the rest, paused in front of the old farmer. His small bare feet were dark with stoor and he brushed a clump of fiery red hair out of his eyes to explain himself. ‘Wee Jeemy’s the bishop and we’re aw sassins,’ he explained. ‘Weel, be careful the dragoons dinnae get ye.’ ‘Dragons?’
8
‘Dragoons – the king’s sojers oan muckle big horses.’ ‘Dragoons?’ ‘Wi’ Claverhoose at the front, ridin’ oan the horse o’ the deil.’ ‘The horse o’ the deil?’ ‘Aye. And dinna forget - if ye want tae kill him ye’ll need siller bullet.’ ‘Ah hae’nae goat a siller bullet.’ ‘Ye’d best get ane quick then. And mind the auld rhyme, ‘But when they drag Dundee tae Hell – his screams’ll crack yer parish bell.’ A look of terror filled the boy’s face and he ran off to warn the other assassins. Gideon laughed and continued along past the row of little cottages and workshops. As he drew level with the kirkyard he glanced at the bell hanging from the branch of the old birch tree that served as a steeple for the parish. Paterson, a church elder, in the process of tying the bell rope back to a lower branch, called across to him. Gideon replied with a barely noticeable nod and another quick shake of his stick. He began to walk a little more quickly but the elder seemed determined to share a few words. ‘It’s a braw evening, Mr MacNaughton,’ the elder shouted, approaching the little drystane dyke that stood between them. He was dressed uncomfortably well in his spotless black jacket and trews with white knee high stockings. ‘Aye, but unco’ quiet. Ah’m thinking mebbe ye’ll be needing a louder bell for the morn’.’ Gideon could remember the days when the bell would gather the entire parish to the small church house for Sunday prayers. A few still attended but the
9 majority now chose the illegal conventicles in the hills. Gideon’s choice was to avoid both whenever he could get away with it. ‘Will we see you tomorrow’s service?’ enquired the elder. ‘Weel ah doubt ah’ll be back fae Stra’ven on time. Ane of Jimmy Dixon’s calves has a touch of the Spalliel and ah promised tae get there afore the sun was too high.’ ‘According to the guid book, the Sabbath should be a day of rest.’ ‘There’s a lot of people reading the guid book these days and it strikes me that it always says exactly what they want it to say and gie’ little merr.’ ‘And some dinnae read it as much as they ought tae.’ ‘Well, Jimmy Dixon’s coos canny read ataw and I doubt if the calf’ll see many merr Sabbaths if ah dinnae help it in the mor’n.’ The elder shook his head and returned to the church hall, plucking a small buttercup from the neat grass as he went, leaving Gideon to continue his walk home. He had only walked a few yards when he heard the sound of hooves behind. Turning, he saw a stranger approach on horseback. The man had a sabre hanging from his belt and was dressed in a military style but, as far as Gideon could judge, it was not any kind of uniform that would be worn by the king’s soldiers. Gideon gave a friendly nod but the rider stared right through him and cantered on, out of sight. A few minutes later, as Gideon turned the bend where the road passed Kittoch Farm at the southern edge of the village, he stopped. A movement had caught his eye at Fleming’s barn which stood about fifty yards to the left. He was sure that one of the large doors had closed just as he had looked over. There was nothing strange in this alone, but what made him pay attention was the horse tied up
10 at one side. It was the same horse that had passed him a few moments ago. Gideon watched for a few seconds before walking forward to investigate. Fleming was an old friend and Gideon had often joked that his barn had looked as if it was just about to fall down since the day it was built. It had been patched and fixed in so many different places it was difficult to see the original structure. Consequently there were plenty of small holes that he could take a quick glance through to make sure nothing untoward was happening. As he reached the nearest edge of the wooden building he stopped when he heard voices inside. He bent forward to look through one of the many cracks in the wall. However, before his eye was even close enough to the wall to see anything, he heard the voices stop and abruptly join in a sharp and steadfast melody that cut out through the cracks in the wood. ‘The arrows of the bow he brake, The shield, the sword the war. More Glorious thou than hills of prey, More excellent art far.’ Gideon stepped back carefully without having to look. Covenanters. He would be best well out of it. Then, as he turned to go, he froze when he was faced with the sharp prongs of a pitchfork. His captor nodded towards the door and marched Gideon inside. He heard the door close behind him and they both waited until the Psalm came to an end. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Gideon recognised many locals amongst a group of about thirty people. ‘He’s nae dragoon, but he was prowling aboot outside lik wan o’ Clavers’ dugs,’ announced the man with the pitchfork.
11 The horseman who Gideon had followed moved towards him with his sword drawn. Another man, who towered above the rest, and who Gideon recognised as James Reid of Kittochside, stepped forward. ‘Leave him be, Burley. I’ll gie my word for him.’ The horseman put away his sword but never took his eyes off the intruder. Reid put an arm around Gideon’s shoulders, took him to one side and leaned over to whisper into his ear. ‘Gideon. Are you trying to get yourself lynched?’ ‘Jist bein’ neebourly. Keepin’ an een oot for Fleemin’s property.’ ‘Fleemin’s here wi’ the rest o’ us. So there’s nae need. Aw the parishes are meeting the morn and are pledged tae haud their grun if the sojers appear.’ ‘If? A’body kens aboot your gaitherin’ at Loudon the morra. Ah canna see the king’s men o’erlookin’ it.’ ‘Then God will be wae us, whether in worship or battle.’ With this, they turned around to see two of the congregation unfold a large yellow silk banner, outlined in blue and with a saltire in one corner and an open bible below. It read, “Kilbryd - For God King and Covenants,”. The horseman had exchanged his sword for a bible and began to read. ‘Behold, the days, come saith the Lord, that I will make a new Covenant with the house of Israel…’ ‘The comma’s in the wrang place.’ ‘Wheest, Gideon.’
12
East Kilbride – Wednesday The Mayday of the Lake
I opened the wheelchair and shook it into shape before helping Grandpa take the few paces from of the car to sit heavily down. He stared over the water as I closed the doors. ‘It’s no’ a real loch, you know,’ he informed me for the hundredth time. ‘I know it’s no’. Ye tell me every time I bring you here.’ ‘Who do they think they’re kiddin’?’ ‘I thought ye liked it?’ ‘It’s no’ real.’ ‘Dae ye want me to roll ye in tae see if the watter’s real?’ ‘Don’t you dare, ya cheeky wee bastard.’ ‘It’s awright, Grandpa. I’m just winding ye up.’ We joined the circling throng of joggers and dog walkers that permanently graced the tarmac pathway around the loch and continued on our weekly circuit in the direction of the castle. The Stewartfield estate had crawled over the hill towards the loch in the eighties but was held in check by the main road that skirted the opposite bank. The houses had a splendid view of the castle and loch but unfortunately the castle now had a crap view of a homogenous beige legoland.
13 We passed the cafeteria. Someone had thrown an entire loaf into the water and the ducks eyed it suspiciously. ‘Want a cup of tea?’ ‘Naw.’ For almost the entire circumference of the water, every few yards and a couple of feet outside the path, there were young saplings supported by thick wooden posts and each with a small plaque in front. Some with flowers. One with cuddly toys. One with an empty Buckfast bottle leaning against it. All in loving memory of someone or another. I heard my Granddad grumbling at the monotony of good wishes. ‘This place is getting like a fuckin’ graveyerd,’ he said over his shoulder. At the other side of the park I parked his wheelchair and sat on a bench beside him that was also dedicated to some poor bastard. We now had a full glorious view of the loch, castle and the mass of circling people. ‘Grandpa?’ I said. ‘You know yer history, don’t ye? ‘That’s why they paid me fur thirty years.’ ‘Dae ye know anything aboot the big shield?’ ‘Whit big shield?’ ‘The coat of arms that wis oan the side of the Civic Centre. Mind? The big colourful hing. We hud tae take it doon last week.’ ‘How?’ ‘Christ knows. Cooncil innit. But I was wondering whit it was aw aboot.’ ‘That wid be the District Airms. Ah wrote aboot it. D’ye mind my book?’ His novel, based on the history of the town, had been written long before I was born. I could remember it sitting on a shelf in my mother’s house, unread and
14 gathering dust until a few years ago when it made its way into a box in the loft and now only came down for Christmas dinners. ‘Aye. There’s wan in the hoose. My maw’s right proud ay it. That’s how I’m askin’ ye.’ ‘Well...? Huv ye forgot how tae read?’ We sat in silence for a while. Then as I looked out over the park I realised that everyone was moving in one direction. Runners, skaters, walkers and dogs were all circling anti-clockwise, like water running down a plughole. Suddenly, Grandpa began to recite names. ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie, The Hunter Brothers, Orwell… oh, aye, George Orwell. They were all here. Some for good and some for mischief. And the Covenanters… don’t forget them… and that rascal Claverhoose. And Bonnie Jean Cameron. And Mima. Where’s Mima?’ ‘My Granny’s no’ here any merr. Remember.’ His lips kept moving as if he was asking some other question. Then he stopped and stared at the water. The silence resumed. I would go home and dig his book out. ‘Ye hud enough yet?’ I asked. ‘I hud enough before I even got out the motor.’ I wheeled him back to the car park against the flow of people and gave him just enough time for a final “It’s no’ a real loch.” before taking him back to the home.
15
Kilbryde - 1st June 1679
The sun was still low over the Lanarkshire hills as Gideon made his way south along the drove road to Strathaven. There were signs of a number of people having crossed the Calder at the Flatt Lynn. The southern edge of the small river was wet with footprints and marks of horses hooves were also evident biting into the bank where they had leapt over the narrow stream. However, half a mile on, they had evidently taken the turn towards Ardochrig which would get them to Loudon Hill more directly. The previous evening’s encounter with the covenanters in Kilbryde had made him wary of this morning’s journey but he knew that Dixon’s farm was far enough from the proposed conventicle to keep him safe from trouble. He now had the dusty track to himself. Breathing in the scenery around him, he thanked the Lord for a glorious June day and the good fortune to have been able to excuse himself from both kirk and conventicle. He paused for a quick drink of peaty water from a narrow stream, before placing his stick in to the middle and using it to vault over. The Cladance moss swept out in front of him on the right hand side and the green hills rolled down to Hamilton on his left. The only sound was the occasional peewit and the gentle trickle of the small burn a few yards to the right. He had
16 wandered this track many times in his seventy years, whether droving sheep to the market at Kilbryde or just attending the Strathaven fair, but today he felt as free as the Laird of the whole parish rather than simply a portioner of Greenloan. His daydream was interrupted by bleating and a cracking of twigs. Twenty yards from the track and down a slight incline, a large alder lay on its side, knocked over by last winter’s storms. The branches were a confused mass crushed into the side of the hill and the roots now pointed skywards clinging on to a massive vertical circle of turf. A black-faced ewe, probably one of Jamie Wilson’s of Carnduff, had entangled itself in the branches and was bleating desperately in its struggles to escape. Gideon stepped off the track and made his way over to the trapped animal, causing several other sheep who had gathered to watch their comrade struggle, to scatter. ‘What have you done noo, ye silly auld thing? Eh? Aye, and “Baa” to you asweel.’ He snapped several branches away from the dead tree, taking care not to leave any splinters that the panicking creature could impale itself on. When the sheep’s way was almost clear, he grabbed a much larger branch with both hands and bent it back with all his weight. ‘On ye go then. Dinna tell me ye want to stay efter aw?’ The ewe hesitated for a second and eyed its rescuer suspiciously, before charging clumsily out of its prison. Just then the branch snapped and Gideon fell on his backside. The sheep ran as far as the track and turned to look at the old man getting back to his feet.
17 ‘Nae need to stop and say thanks. Look at me. Noo ah’ve got tae explain tae folks that ma breeks are aw mocket ‘cause ah was rescuin’ a sheep fae a tree. They’ll think auld Gideon’s gone glaikit. They’ll think…’ He stopped talking when he noticed the sheep was no longer looking at him but was now staring down the track in the direction of Kilbryde. Two dragoons on horseback came cantering into view and Gideon slipped quickly behind the turf laden roots of the fallen tree. The old man stood motionless with his back to the turf wall and listened as the sound of the hooves grew louder and then gradually faded into the distance. Looking out through the roots, he watched the soldiers disappear in the direction of Strathaven and was about to resume his journey when a low rumble made him return to his previous position. This time there were many more than two horses. Finding a small eyehole where some of the turf had loosened itself from the roots, he watched the troops draw parallel with his tree. Two abreast and as far back on the track as he could see were more dragoons, well over a hundred of them, their red uniforms and silver breastplates standing out in stark contrast to the green Lanarkshire countryside. The crunch of hooves and clanking of metal obliterated the quiet birdsong and stillness that had until then filled the hills. What caught Gideon’s attention most was the group of prisoners being driven in front of them. They were obviously terribly fatigued and one of them was stumbling around so much that he fell by the side of the track. A voice barked an order, a trumpet sounded and the procession came to a halt. The other prisoners, despite their bound wrists, helped the fallen man to his feet. One of the troopers, a young trumpeter, dismounted and handed the reins of his grey to a companion before passing a canteen around the prisoners. Their commander watched
18 impatiently, sitting arrogantly on his chestnut mare. Long brown hair framed a somewhat feminine face and flowed over his metal breastplate. His fingers drummed impatiently on the hilt of his sword. ‘That’ll do for those whiggish rebels. No point wasting water wetting their necks when they’ll have ropes around them soon enough.’ ‘He doesn’t look as if he’ll last much further, Colonel Grahame.’ ‘Then let’s see if the point of a sword won’t give him his second wind.’ The young trumpeter hastily remounted the grey and blew the command to resume the march. ‘So,’ thought Gideon. ‘Yon yin’s Claverhoose.’ How many covenant marksmen would have prayed for such an opportunity as this? How many would have sacrificed their own lives just to wipe the arrogant smile from the handsome young nobleman’s face. Fortunately, for Claverhouse, Gideon had neither the siller bullet nor the inclination. He kept still for a few minutes until the troops passed, and thought to himself, ‘That was nae black horse o’ Satan - but a fine chestnut if ah’m no’ mistaken.’
19
East Kilbride – Saturday Two Drunk Men don’t look at the Thistle
We sat with our backs against the brick wall looking out on to the empty football stadium. Although stadium is maybe a bit of an over-exaggeration for what was, basically, a football field surrounded by a prefabricated concrete wall and a stand like an overgrown bus stop. The terracing looked as if it should stink of urine but was surprisingly clean. There was no one else in sight. No players. No referee. No spectators – except us, of course. Petey twisted the top of the Buckfast bottle and it crackled loose. He removed the lid and gave the contents a quick sniff. ‘Ahh. Elixir. Dae ye want to take the neck aff it?’ The best way to drink the tonic was to swallow the first gulp quickly then let the bottle air for a few minutes to release the fierce and fruity odour. ‘Naw,’ I said. ‘Just you fire in.’ He took a swig from the bottle, passed it to me, then stared back towards the empty field. ‘Could be an interesting match,’ he suggested. ‘I thought it was a good idea at the time.’
20 Two days previously, during our lunch break, Charlie sat opposite me at the grease-stained wooden trestle table. He folded his paper, threw it in front of him, yawned and stretched his arms out, looking around the bothy at the huddle of highviz jackets, Irn Bru bottles, chip bags and sports pages. I felt his eyes come to rest on me. After a moment he spoke. ‘Whit’s that yer readin’, Kevo?’ I lifted my head slowly, knowing that whatever I said he would repeat it in a high-pitched sarcastic nasal dig. ‘Ye no’ know whit this is?’ I said with as much gravitas as I could muster. ‘How the fuck um ah supposed tae know whit it is?’ I paused for a few seconds. ‘It’s a book.’ The rest of the high-viz jackets burst out laughing. Charlie said I should shove it up my arse and re-opened his Daily Record. Then, before I could do anything to stop him, Tony, a mass of muscle, stubble and bad attitude, from one of the other squads, leaned over my shoulder and snatched the book out of my hands. ‘Kilbryde? Eh?’ he grunted, reading the cover. I stood up and put my hand out, waiting for him to return it. Fuckin’ big bawbag. ‘It’s aboot the toon’s history. My Grandpa wrote it years ago,’ I explained. Tony smiled at my outstretched hand before returning his attention to the book. He flicked through the pages in less than a second, as if to make sure there were words inside but without actually reading any of them. He glanced at the back cover and gave himself a tiny nod of approval. Then, just as he was about to hand it back, he spun it through the air to Charlie.
21 ‘Oh naw! A book!’ Charlie squealed. ‘Don’t gie it tae me!’ The book flew through the air again to the other side of the bothy. ‘Next person tae fling that book gets this coffee o’er his fuckin’ napper.’ ‘Woo-oo!’ Jeers and laughter filled the room. ‘Calm doon, Kevo. For fuck’s sake.’ But my point had been made. The book was passed back and I returned to my plastic chair. The history debate being over, lunchtime conversation predictably turned to the weekend’s impending Old Firm game. I ignored them and tried to carry on reading. When, as usual, the arguments reached a stalemate, they turned to the neutrals for an unbiased opinion. ‘Kevo. Kevo, you’re a clever cunt wi’ yer book an aw that. Whit’s your forecast for Setterday?’ ‘Scattered showers.’ ‘Och, his heid’s fucked,’ blurted out Johnnie Banjo through his roll and chips. He was named Johnnie Banjo, not because he could play the banjo or had ever seen a banjo, but because he had a massive head and ears and looked like someone who should play the banjo. He hadn’t forgotten my opinion of the last Old Firm derby. ‘The fitba, Kevo,’ said Petey, in a helpful whisper. I shifted a few chip wrappers and placed the book on a clean corner of the table. ‘Oh, the fitba? To be honest, I think it’ll be a close run thing,’ I said, paraphrasing some punditry that had been blaring out of the radio in the van. ‘Both
22 teams have injury problems and the value of the three points at stake increases exponentially as the season comes to an end. But all things considered… ‘ A sectarian silence filled the bothy. ‘…I reckon Hamilton will romp it.’ ‘Fuck off, you.’ ‘I telt yeez,’ Banjo telt them. ‘You’re no’ even fae Hamilton,’ Charlie reminded me. ‘Aye, well, you’re no’ fae fuckin’ Ibrox,’ Banjo reminded Charlie. ‘Well, maybe we should aw’ support E.K. Thistle.’ Petey’s reply was met with a barrage of “Fuck off”s. ‘E.K. fuckin’ Thistle? Get a grip ya wee bawbag.’ ‘Better than aw that Weegie pish,’ I said, sticking up for the wee man who was looking a bit embarrassed. ‘Shut it, Kevo. Ye don’t even like fitba,’ said Banjo. ‘It’s nothin’ tae dae wi fitba. It’s civic pride,’ I told them. ‘My fuckin’ erse.’ ‘Naw. That’s gay pride, Charlie.’ ‘When do you ever go to see E.K. Thistle?’ Charlie continued, ignoring the laughter that filled the bothy again. ‘As a matter o’ fact, me and Petey are going this Setterday. In’t that right, Petey?’ ‘Er… Aye.’ So we did. Unfortunately, by the time we had arrived at the village, armed ourselves with a bottle of Devon’s finest, and had started to wander along Maxwell Avenue to
23 the ground, we discovered that there would be no game that day. A sign on the turnstile informed us that the match was cancelled. ‘Where ur we gauny tan this?’ asked Petey, opening his jacket to reveal a bottle of Buckfast inside, wrapped in a plastic bag. I looked around the deserted car park. ‘Let’s go in anyway,’ I suggested. I took a run and jumped up to grab the top of the wire mesh gate. Petey handed me the precious plastic bag as I sat astride and then followed me over and into the ground. ‘Huv ye seen the guy oan the internet that downs a bottle of Buck in four seconds?’ Petey asked as he passed me the rapidly emptying bottle. ‘That’s impossible.’ ‘Nae kiddin’. S’oan Youtube.’ ‘Must be in the Guinness Book of Records.’ ‘Naw, they don’t allow things lik’ that.’ ‘Drinkin’ Bucky? How no’?’ ‘I don’t know. ‘Cause it’s bevvy, maybe.’ ‘Whit the fuck’s Guinness then?’ I looked at the sky through the green glass then took another swig and passed it back. ‘How many people dae ye need for a fitba team?’ asked Petey. ‘Eleven. How?’ ‘Naw. I mean in the toon. To huv a real professional team. How many dae ye think ye need?’ ‘No’ that many. Look at Cowdenbeath.’
24 ‘I’d rather no’. E.K. must be the biggest toon in Scotland no’ tae huv a real team.’ ‘It’s definitely bigger than Cowdenbeath… or fuckin’ Raith.’ ‘Where the fuck is Raith, anyway?’ ‘Where the fuck is Cowdenbeath?’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘Fuck knows.’ A dog barked outside the ground and we sat drinking in silence, looking over the empty football field. Then Petey added, ‘We hud Ally McCoist. He wis fae E.K.’ ‘We hud Gregory’s Girl tae.’ ‘Who the fuck’s Gregory’s Girl?’ ‘Mind the auld film?’ ‘Eh, Naw.’ ‘But it still disny gie us a fitba team.’ ‘And Tommy Sheridan. He played fur Thistle according to my Da’.’ ‘What a fuckin’ squad, eh?’ Petey stood up holding the now empty Buckfast bottle like a microphone and put on his finest football commentator’s voice. ‘And here we are at the Show Park in the European Champions League final. Only thirty seconds remaining of the match and it’s East Kilbride Thistle 1 Barcelona 1. McCoist has taken possession from the European giants on the half way line and is looking for support from Gregory’s Girl as the defenders close him down. A quick back pass to Sheridan who punts it forward to Gregory’s Girl who has found some space. McCoist is now on the edge of the penalty area waiting for
25 the cross. Gregory’s Girl makes a magnificent mazy dribble through the Spanish horde but what’s this? Sheridan has sprinted the entire length of the field and is now apparently trying to shag her. Gregory’s Girl shakes him off with a boot to the groin whilst playing keepie uppie with her head. She passes to McCoist who overhead kicks the ball into the back of the Barca net. The crowd goes wild. And they invade the pitch.’ Petey jumped over the white wooden barrier that surrounded the field and ran on to the pitch holding the empty green bottle up in the air like the European Cup. ‘Right yous. Whit the fuck are ye playin’ at?’ We turned to see an old grunter with a bunch of keys and a face like a lost pension book. ‘Fitba,’ explained Petey pointing at the empty bottle as if it meant something. ‘Ur ye fuck. Ye’ve no’ even got a baw.’
26
Kilbryde - 1st June 1679
What sounded like some sharp cracks of thunder broke the quietness from beyond the ridge to the west. Gideon stopped for a moment and listened. It must have been around an hour since he saw the dragoons. They would have passed through Strathaven a good while ago and must have turned towards Drumclog to disperse the conventicle. He shuddered to think what was happening to those poor farm folk and felt a pang of guilt for not being there alongside them. He considered leaving the track and making his way across the moor but knew it would take well over an hour on foot. Anyway, what help would a seventy year old man be now? He stood and listened until the sounds faded away then continued his journey south. Half an hour later he arrived at the brow of the last hill and the luscious green of the Avon valley opened up before him. The road gradually widened as numerous farm tracks came together. On the other side of the valley, the dark shape of Auchengilloch sat proud and timeless, dominating the countryside, and below lay the village of Strathaven. It was here, over thirty years ago, that he had first set eyes on Jeanie. He could still see the well-practiced frowns of the church elders when the young people gathered and danced on the common green, turning the market into a fair. Mr Maxwell had given him a short break after the last of the cattle had
27 been sold and he spent a wonderful half hour wandering around the boundary of the castle with the girl who would become his wife. But his finest memory of that day was walking Jeanie home to her farm at Shawton, along the very same track where he now stood. Gideon had blethered nervously as Jeanie picked wild flowers and accused him of inventing the story that he lived in Kilbryde just so that he could follow her. Gideon stopped suddenly. The sound of gunfire had erupted from the village below. He stood motionless listening to the crack and echo of muskets from somewhere in the middle of the houses. Surely the fighting hadn’t spread into Strathaven? What reason would the king’s soldiers have for attacking a small town? Unless the covenanters had gathered there too. He made up his mind to continue towards the village but to enter by one of the many alleys rather than the main street. However, as he took his first step, a group of horsemen galloped out of the village and started up the hill towards him. They were a good quarter of a mile away but he could tell by the red sleeves and the glinting of the armour in the June sunshine that they were Life Guards; most likely the same battalion that had marched past him a few hours earlier, but now making a disorderly retreat. He looked around for some cover but the hilltop was treeless and the only place to hide would be the Powmillon burn about fifty yards to his right. If he tried to make a run for it, he would never make it to safety without the dragoons seeing him and this was not the time to be caught acting suspiciously in the hills of Lanarkshire. He simply stepped a few feet off the side of the track and waited, hoping that the horses would pass without any trouble. As the first horses approached him there were still one or two galloping out furiously between the cottages and barns at the edge of the village. On reaching the
28 brow of the hill, the leading dragoons slowed a little to wait on stragglers. Most of them ignored the old farmer but one took a tired half-hearted swing with an already drawn sword but missed by a good few feet. ‘Away wi’ ye, ya auld whiggish loon!’ the trooper spat out, gasping for breath and steadying his exhausted mount. Gideon stepped back a little further to give them space to gather. He noticed that some of the dragoons were badly wounded. One was cursing and trying to tie a tourniquet around his own arm. Another’s head was bleeding so profusely that two of his friends steadied him in his saddle. His face was paling white with the loss of blood. Many of the horses were displaying cuts and slashes too and were covered in congealing blood mixed with sweat and muck. One of the young troopers that was supporting his wounded friend called over, ‘Auld Yin. How far is it to Glasgow? What’s the quickest road?’ Gideon felt strangely embarrassed at the question. Here were professional soldiers running like cowards from the fight. He had no way of knowing what had happened to them but felt sure that they had not been spreading goodwill amongst the Lanarkshire people. ‘Will ye answer me? In the king’s name!’ the soldier screamed impatiently. Gideon stood motionless. An older dragoon intervened. ‘Come on, Angus. Have ye no’ had enough? Move on!’ The main body of soldiers galloped off in the direction of Kilbryde as the last few stragglers arrived alongside Gideon. ‘What have we here? Another canting rogue waiting in ambush?’ Gideon looked up to see that the source of the voice was Claverhouse bringing his group of dragoons to a halt. He too was covered in signs of battle. The
29 right sleeve of his tunic hung open where it had been slashed and his boots looked as though he had been wading through blood. However, what really caught Gideon’s attention was the horse. It was no longer the magnificent sorrel that he had ridden a few hours ago but was now the small grey that had been occupied earlier by the young trumpeter. Gideon looked around for the boy on some other mount but could not see him anywhere. He was sure he hadn’t passed. ‘Are you without a tongue in your head, man?’ ‘Just minding my ain business, Mr Claverhouse, sir,’ Gideon replied. ‘So. You are aware of who I am?’ Saying this, Claverhouse twisted in the saddle looked over his shoulder as if he was worried about being followed. ‘Aye. Your name’s weel kent aroun’ this parish and plenty others alike. But, although I ne’er believed the tale of your supposedly ridin’ the deil’s horse - that yin ablow ye appears tae hae a canny knack of turnin’ colour.’ The young nobleman turned and gave Gideon a furious stare. ‘Have you taken the test?’ he asked, unsheathing a bloodstained sword. Gideon gazed at the blade. His friends and fellow villagers had trudged through miles of moorland on that beautiful Sabbath morning wanting nothing more than to be left to pray in peace. Yet these dragoons had chosen to cut up the countryside and hunt them down like animals on the command of an absent king. Gideon’s fear left him and he felt himself grow angry. The congealed mess on the nobleman’s blade was not just any blood - but the blood of his friends. The blood of the very hills they now stood upon. The blood of Gideon himself. He stared directly into Claverhouse’s dark eyes. One of the dragoons moved his horse alongside the commander. ‘Colonel Grahame, sir. We are pursued.’
30 All three turned to watch group of around twenty horsemen who had gathered at the edge of the village and had started to gallop up the hill. Unlike the soldiers these men were without uniforms and riding much heavier farm horses. Claverhouse turned his gaze quickly back. ‘Will you swear allegiance to the king? Answer me damn you!’ ‘There are twa kings in Scotland. Ane on the throne and…’ He got no further. Claverhouse’s sword flashed in the air and the old Presbyterian quote died on Gideon’s lips. Before he could even lift an arm to defend himself, Gideon felt the heavy blade chop cleanly into the left hand side of his neck. He clasped at his throat to stop the instant burning pain and caused his blood to spurt out in front of his own eyes. Through a quickly darkening haze, he saw the spurs dig roughly into the grey’s belly. He heard the horses gallop off as he sunk to his knees. Then the earth seemed to slap the side of his face and he watched his old fingers stretch in the grass towards a little yellow clump of Lucken-gowan.
31
East Kilbride – Saturday Night Confessions of a Justified Slimmer
I stood at the bar in Hudsons whilst Petey told a joke about ethnic minorities on an aeroplane. I suggested it might be racist but he argued that it was impossible to be racist in East Kilbride since only white people lived here. This was the best pub in the town centre. Not that there was much competition. There were always plenty of barstaff and apparently it sold more booze than any other pub in Scotland apart from the Horseshoe in Glasgow. We were all thoroughly proud of this fine achievement but realised that there was still some room for improvement and we should all drink more just to reach that number one spot. Petey spotted a booth emptying so we grabbed our pints and sat at the table littered with empties and crisp bags. A barmaid came over and cleared up the mess, wiping the table as we held our drinks in the air, but using a cloth that made it smell worse. A group of self-conscious kilt-hires shuffled in and filled the space we had vacated at the bar. They looked around waiting for someone, preferably female, to admire their rented highland bling and ask if they were real Scotsmen. Then they
32 would flash themselves and get a slap in the ear from the bouncer who was keeping an eye on them from the door and cracking his fingers in readiness. A zipped up to the neck hoodie, carrying a pint of lager, most of which had spilt over his arm, staggered into our table. ‘All right, lads?’ he enquired, soaking the bottom half of his face as he tried to get some of the beer into his mouth. ‘Zit a song yer wantin’?’ ‘Naw. Yer fine, thanks.’ ‘I know a German wan. It’s caud ‘Fritz’.’ Petey made the mistake of responding. ‘Fritz?’ The near empty pint glass was thumped on to the table and the slebbering stranger’s hoodie was ceremoniously unzipped to reveal the green hoops of Celtic that he had managed to sneak through the no-club-colours radar. He stepped back a pace and spread his arms wide to sing. ‘Fritz a grand old team to play for!’ The bar erupted with a mix of abuse and cheers. An empty Bacardi Breezer bottle thunked off of the wall behind us and the bouncer got his chance to bounce. As the predictable religious taunts died down, and East Kilbride’s cultural attaché for Parkhead was carried out of the door, I thought about Gideon. Poor old bastard caught up in the religious shit. Three hundred years later and we were still at it. Petey was staring around the bar looking a bit worried. ‘Fuckin’ religion,’ I spat out. ‘Ye know, I was just reading aboot an auld guy that got done in by soldiers oan the Stra’ven Road.’ ‘Oh, aye?’ he said, taking a careful sip of beer and eyeing the disturbed throng as they calmed back down to serious drinking. ‘That’s whit happened tae Jimmy Allison.’
33 ‘Soldiers?’ Naw. He hit a tree. Vauxhall Corsa. But it was definitely oan the Stra’ven Road. Whit’s that goat tae dae wi’ religion? ‘I dunno. Nothin’. But, a couple o’ days later the fence was covered wi’ Rangers n’ Sellick taps.’ Petey was a fuckin’ idiot. But I could picture the ubiquitous sectariana at the side of the road. Car accidents would always produce a display of temporary Old Firm unity. Very touching. Even if the shirts were usually a couple of seasons out of date. We finished our drinks and decided to walk back down to the village to search for a bar without karaoke or impending violence. At the corner of Hunter Street and Main Street, we were suddenly accosted by half a dozen surprisingly attractive young girls in fifties headscarves, garish aprons and slippers, handing out glossy leaflets for the forthcoming performance of ‘The Steamie.’ One of the girls removed her fake cigarette momentarily, ‘The patter’s pure dead brilliant.’ ‘Aye, and I’ve got loads more lines this year,’ added her friend. ‘D’ye like ma rollers?’ ‘S’oan next week.’ We promised to do our best just to get rid of them and I crumpled the leaflet into my pocket. The cackling mass then fluttered along the street to surround an old couple that seemed quite happy to be repeatedly called ‘Hen’ and ‘Pal’. The Village Inn was usually the best venue for live music. However, tonight the entertainment was provided by quartet of grey haired punks who over the past
34 thirty years had apparently drifted from anarchy t-shirts to casual golf wear. They were nonetheless, energetically belting out some Clash covers and had the shiny collection of tonsured heads in the crowd bobbing along enthusiastically. We went into the back bar and got a seat beneath an out of date poster for a Francie and Josie tribute act at the Village Theatre, which hung loose from the wall. A couple of girls that Petey knew from school appeared beside us and Petey introduced us. ‘This is Jane n’ Fiona,’ Petey said, indicating a tall redhead who shook my hand, smiled and made me regret having that half bottle of Bucky in the afternoon. ‘Pleased to meet you, Jane n’ Fiona. Is yer pal ca’d Jane n’ Fiona tae?’ ‘Ah’m just Jane. This is Fiona.’ They had been in to Glasgow to see some Scottish reggae band but came straight back to E.K. to avoid the aftermath of the Old Firm game in the city centre. Ironically, just as they explained this, the applause died down next door after a rendition of White Man in Hammersmith Palais and a whisky fuelled pensioner a few tables away thumped his heel on the boarding beneath the bench seating like a bass drum in three steady beats before starting to sing. ‘Ha-aa…’ However, before he could finish even the first syllable of his song, a barmaid shouted through the row of customers, ‘Right, Billy. That’s enough.’ ‘How did she know whit song he was going to sing?’ asked Fiona. ‘It’s the West of Scotland. It disny matter whit song it wis,’ I explained. ‘Three beats of a bass drum and one syllable is enough to start a riot.’ ‘Ah don’t know anythin’ aboot music,’ she said.
35 ‘While were oan the subject. Are yeez gaun tae the dancin’ or whit?’ Jane asked. ‘Aye. That’s a great idea,’ I said. ‘Let’s pay a tenner each to queue up for hauf an ‘oor for some pissy beer in a plastic tumbler. Even the Guinness is watery.’ ‘Och, it’s no’ that bad,’ Jane put in. Petey took her hand and kissed it. ‘But for you, my dear, we shall gladly suffer the wattery Guinness of Centrepoint.’ ‘There’s no’ much choice,’ I told him. ‘Unless ye want tae catch the last boat tae Dublin.’ A head topped with a white Nike skip cap appeared suddenly between the girls and spat out, ‘Fuck Dublin. Fenian bastards.’ The four of us looked at each other in silence before I responded, ‘Er… We wurny talkin’ aboot Dublin. We were talkin’ aboot dumplin’.’ ‘Dumplin’? Aw… sorry, mate.’ ‘And then you stuck yer nose in. Is that maybe because you ur a fuckin’ dumplin’?’ Petey and the girls started laughing. ‘Ah’ll tan your jaw, ya prick.’ ‘Naw ye’ll no’,’ I said, squaring up. He stared at me and shook his head in a succession of tiny nods then backed off into the crowd. ‘Is there nae escape fae these arseholes?’ asked Jane, sneering. ‘Naw,’ said Petey. ‘Ye’re lumbered wi’ us fur the night noo.’
36 The taxi queue outside was mobbed and the girls had to make the decision whether to walk quarter of a mile back to the town centre for the club or to wait in line and probably miss the curfew. Fiona took her high heels off and started walking in the direction of the centre in her stocking soles. ‘Right, c’moan.’ As we zigzagged through the socialites of Hunter Street towards the steeple, an extremely corpulent drunk, in what looked like a 56” chest – 70” stomach Rangers top, that was obviously never designed to fit any professional player but perhaps could have a reasonable chance of accommodating the entire squad and several back room staff, wobbled his way on to the Loupin’ oan Stane. This was a set of ancient sandstone steps that stood in front of the church gates and were originally intended to help patrons of the Montgomery Hotel to mount and dismount from their horses, but tonight were used to make a very loud public declaration of “Fuck the Pope!” In response to this announcement, another voice somewhere behind us filled Hunter Street with “Fuck the Queen!” Not wanting to miss out on the banter, Petey chipped in with a cry of “Fuck the Pope and the Queen!” and I burst out laughing. Jane slapped him playfully on the back of the head. ‘Behave yersel’, you.’ Suddenly the sound of running behind us made us all turn around. Nike hat was almost on top of me and I jumped aside just in time to avoid soething in his hand glinting in the fake Victorian streetlights. I lost balance and fell over trying to avoid his fist as he charged past. I got up as fast as I could but all I saw was Nike hat and an accomplice in a tightly hooded Adidas top running off. Jane shouted, ‘Watch where yer gaun, ya wee arseholes!’
37 Their momentum carried them ran along Montgomery Street for a few yards before they turned quickly and sprintied back down an alley behind the church. Fiona helped me to my feet. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Aye I’m fine. What the fuck was that all aboot?’ Petey was unusually quiet. He held a hand against his left cheek. Blood was running through his fingers. Jane screamed. ‘Petey - your face!’ ‘You look efter him,’ I told Fiona and ran down the alley. I don’t know what I planned to do if I caught them but I ran remarkably fast considering the amount of drink I had consumed. The alley opened out beside the old graveyard wall and the path led down some steps to the road. The two attackers had started singing some sectarian chant at the other side of the carriageway. ‘Come back here ya wee pricks. I’ll rip yer fuckin heeds aff!’ Nike ran into the middle of the road. ‘Moan then!’ ‘You come on, ya wee shitebags!’ I knew that at least one of them had a knife or a blade of some sort, so I looked around to find something to redress the balance. There were a few beer cans scattered around and some plastic cider bottles but nothing of any use. If I had been alone I would probably have made a quick exit but I was conscious that Petey and the girls were at the other end of the alley. Then my eyes fell on a bright yellow label with its small white monastery. As I reached in for the bottle, I heard a rush of feet running up the slope towards me and had to jump back before I could grab hold. I backed on to the grass away from the wall. Nike was only a few feet away,
38 the knife clutched in his right hand at waist height a little behind him and his chest puffed out like a pigeon. ‘Let’s fuckin’ go, cunt,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘Drap the knife then.’ I was too busy watching the blade to notice that Adidas had picked up a rock from somewhere. I ducked quickly to avoid it catching me full in the face but felt it glance off my ear. However this let my guard down enough for both of them to jump on top of me. I caught Nike with a good punch and knocked him backwards but before I knew it, Adidas had his arm around my throat. I staggered to my feet with his full weight on my back strangling me. Bending forward I tried to throw him off but he was too heavy. His arms smelled like a cocktail of Buckfast and Lynx aftershave with a hint of nicotine. My head was filling with blood and I tried to straighten up again to see where Nike had got to. He was nowhere in sight. I was beginning to get dizzy with the lack of air. I stretched my hands above and tried to get hold of his head but could only manage to grab his hood. Then, from nowhere, Nike appeared in front and I felt a punch in my chest that seemed to go right through me. I dropped my hands to protect myself as I saw him pull a knife out of my chest. The blade cut into my fingers as I tried to grab it. He halfgrowled-half-moaned and rammed the knife in again, first into my stomach and then my left hand as I tried to protect myself. The pressure disappeared from my neck and I landed with my back on the grass looking at the stars above the clock tower. The footsteps faded away again and a car skidded to a halt on the road below. The bell rang above. I could see two faces of the clock. One was a few minutes behind. The grass behind me was warm and I was getting cold. A girl’s voice, Fiona, started screaming. The bell again. I haven’t finished my Grandad’s book. When I was
39 younger, he told me that the light from one of the stars had started on its journey to earth so long ago that Robert the Bruce was still king of Scotland. I wish I could remember which one. They slowly went out. Someone was breathing on me. The bell rang again. Further away. It must have been somewhere else.
40
Epilogue - Kilbryde - 30th July 1689
A south-westerly breeze was clearing what clouds were left in the sky as the two figures made their way past Kirktounholme House on the road to Kilbryde village. James Reid, in unusually smart dress for the middle of the week, sauntered along quietly with Margaret Pollok at his side, smiling and clinging proudly to his arm. At noon their banns would be posted at the Parish Church and Margaret, despite the fact that she could neither read nor write, had insisted that they were there to see the notice go up. Although Reid grumbled about how there was much more important work to be done on the farm, he was secretly glad to have the opportunity to don his best garb and take a walk through the country lanes with his betrothed on such a fine day as this. It was still a strange feeling going to the local kirk after all the years of religious schism, indulgencies, bonds and tests. Thankfully, the church was gradually being released from the chains of episcopacy and all but the extremists had left the conventicles behind. They had set off in plenty of time but more than once he had felt the tugging of Margaret on his sleeve telling him to mind his guid claes as he paused to give some attention to a fence that needed straightening or a drainage ditch that needed clearing.
41 The couple were within a few hundred yards of the churchyard and Reid was just admiring the newly constructed wooden tower, when the bell unexpectedly rang from within. ‘We’re late,’ Margaret exclaimed, gripping his fingers and pulling him forward. For a moment Reid thought that he had perhaps miscalculated the time that their journey from Kittochside farm should take. However, when the bell continued ringing and increased in volume, he realised that this was no steady mid day chime but an alarm. ‘We’re no’ late. There’s somethin’ agley.’ He scanned the rooftops of the small village for signs of fire but, apart from the usual trickle of smoke from the blacksmith’s chimney, nothing disturbed the clear blue skyline. Only the frantic clanging from the tower broke the peace. People had started coming out of the scattered cottages that surrounded the village to look towards the bell tower. The patrons of the Inn could even be seen poking their heads through the doorway. Reid put his arm around Margaret as if to protect her from the unknown cause of the alarm and they hurried towards the church. ‘What do ye think’s happened, James?’ ‘Och, it’ll be nothin’ for us to concern ourselves wi’,’ he reassured her, whilst realising that Scotland’s troubles ran deep and it would be folly ever to regard them as being left in the past. It had been ten years since the glorious victory at Drumclog and the humiliating defeat at Bothwell Brig a few weeks later. The last time Reid could remember the bell being rung with such enthusiasm was to announce the death of Charles II five years ago. King James had now fled to France and William had been
42 offered his throne. The dark threat of yet another civil war hung over the countryside. The people’s old adversary, Claverhouse, was now himself a rebel against the new king and had taken to the highlands to gather an army. Reid remembered the flag of Kilbryde that he had risked his life to rescue from the enemy at Bothwell all those years ago. It had been well hidden at Kittochside and he had hoped it had been put away for ever. The couple walked briskly up the small hill and alongside the graveyard towards the growing crowd in front of the kirk. As they arrived at the rear of the gathering, Reid recognised the bright orange hair of young Sandy Cumming, the soutar’s son. His leather apron was wrapped around him and he carried an awl in one hand and a newly made shoe in the other. ‘Whit’s the alarm, Sandy?’ Reid asked him. ‘I dinna ken. I wis ben the workshop when I heard the rattle o’ hooves on the cobbles. Then the bell stertit ringing and hasny stopped.’ ‘Maybe the king’s deid,’ suggested Margaret. ‘Aye, but whit wan?’ Reid asked. Sandy let out a short, knowing laugh but Reid remained silent realising the dire consequences of an empty throne. The chattering amongst the crowd faded as the ringing stopped and a leather booted horseman stepped out of the bell tower to take a place at the top of the wooden steps of the church beside the minister. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. We have news from the north,’ said the minister, bowing slightly and opening the palm of one hand by way of introduction, invited the man who stood beside him to speak. ‘As you may all ken, oor auld friend, Grahame of Claverhouse.’ A murmur of whispered oaths swept through the crowd at the mention of the name. ‘Or
43 Viscount Dundee as he was recently titled, had ventured intae the heilans tae raise an army for the exiled tyrant, James Stewart. The news is that five days ago his Jacobite army met with government forces at the pass of Killiekrankie. It was aye said that Bluidy Clavers would only ever be killed by a siller bullet through the hert. And if that bides true then the good Lord must surely hae placed sic a token in the barrel o’ ane o’ oor brave soldiers.’ He paused and looked at the attentive faces in front of him. ‘Claverhouse is dead.’ Reid breathed a sigh of relief and joined the crowd as it began to cheer, but a raised hand silenced them again. ‘The highlanders them took it upon themselves tae lay siege tae Dunkelt. Thankfully, they were repelled by a brave contingent of the new formed Cameronians and have retreated tae the hills like the rabble they always were. The Stewarts are gone for good!’ This time the cheer was allowed to continue. James embraced Margaret in the middle of a chaos of handshaking, back slapping and whoops of joy. Some young children started to dance a jig, knowing only that there was something to celebrate. Someone started ringing the bell again, this time more furiously. Suddenly the ringing stopped. The faces of the crowd looked up to see the bell still moving back and forth but now making only a series of dull metallic clunks. ‘The bell’s rent,’ said James. ‘Then old Gideon wis right,’ replied Sandy. ‘He frightened the life oot o’ me when ah wis a bairn wi’ his tales o’ the deil’s horse and the like.’ ‘And let’s hope that’s an end tae it.’
44 The minister opened the door of the church hall and the congregation made their way in. Above the empty street of the little village, a cracked parish bell finally clunked to rest.