Just Jemima/Chapter 9

HE next day was a heap warmer. Mr. Parkins was snoozin' in the tool-shed, and Frederick was, as usual, daein' the auld sluggard's work in the garden, when I gaed oot to get some parsley for the cook. As Frederick says, there's parsley and parsley, and it tak's a long experience to ken the best; so he cam' ower to help me. It was his first chance o' a word wi' me that day.

"I hope ye enjoyed yoursel' yesterday," I remarks in a politelike tone o' voice.

"Oh, weel enough," says he. "I wasna oot for fun, Jemima. Feels as if we was gaun to get some heat noo."

"High time!" I says. "Did ye stop at hame?"

"I had to gang to the town," says he, pickin' at the parsley.

"Ye'll ha'e frien's there, I suppose?"

Mind ye! I wasna the least curious; I was merely wonderin'.

"Naebody special," says he. "Ma mither hopes ye'll be up on Sunday."

"I'm obliged to her," says I, but I dinna say whether I would gang or no'. Of course, the man was welcome to keep his secret, whatever it was; it was nae business o' mines.

He passed me a bunch sayin':—

"Ye're no' to tell ma mither, Jemima; but yesterday I was seein' the doctor."

"Oh," says I, and it was a' I could say jist then. For he had tell't me o' the trouble aboot his heart, which had kept him frae servin' his country and frae daein' ony heavy labour, and stopped him frae the engineerin', his proper trade.

"I'm a heap better," says he.

"I'm glad," says I. "But is your mither no' to ken that?"

"Best no'—till she's a wee bit stronger, onyway," he says. "Ye see she might live in fear o' me bein' called up. But I'm maybe no' fit for that yet, Jemima."

"Alec," says I, and his real name was oot afore I kent. "Oh, surely ye'll never be fit!"

"I've a fair chance, the doctor tell't me. That was nice o' ye, Jemima," he says.

"I didna—weel, maybe I did mean it for once," says I. "But dae ye want to gang?"

He gi'ed a wee laugh, sayin':—

"What dae ye think?"

And jist then the cook cried that the blue room was ringin'. Later on Frederick didna seem anxious to speak aboot hissel', and as I've said already, I'm no' curious. Still, I was kin' o' puzzled.

Maybe I should explain that I had been at his mither's hoose every Sunday since I cam' to Westerbay, for the cook had soon lost the hope o' an admirer, and didna like to miss her supper at the usual time; and as the boarders got a cauld supper on Sundays, she had nae objection to me takin' her share o' fresh air. Ma parents was pleased to think I had a nice hoose to gang to, and I canna deny that I was pleased masel', so I had nae intention o' makin' ony change; but, of course, I didna want Frederick to imagine he was ony attraction.

I may as weel likewise explain that I continued to favour the porter for half an hour betwixt leavin' the Kirk and gaun to the cottage. I daresay ma fayther would ha'e wanted to ken a hundred and fifty things aboot the porter, but I had described him to ma mither as a respectable young man wi' an honest face and a game leg, and I daresay that satisfied her—and, as a rule, she can satisfy ma fayther in the long run.

I canna jist say what made me keep on meetin' the porter on the Sunnyburn Road. It wasna his sweeties, though he was free wi' them, and it wasna his conversation, for he was dumber every time we met, till he seemed to ha'e lost ony fun he ever had. I think it was partly ma soft heart, for I wouldna willingly hurt the feelin's o' an earwig, and partly ma pride, for I wouldna ha'e Frederick fancy hissel' the only chap in the wide world. But for a' that, mind ye, I liked the porter no' so bad.

Still, I had near made up ma mind to keep awa' frae the Sunnyburn Road that Sunday, when the Saturday evenin' post brought me a letter implorin' me to meet him, because he had something terrible important to tell me.

"I'll admit I was kin' o' excited when I seen him approachin', but I needna ha'e been that. When ten minutes had passed awa', he had told me naething except that the railway was rotten, the turnips was wantin' rain, and he had left the jujubes on the mantelpiece.

"Weel, weel," says I, "the world still rolls on, and we still get oor rations, and I observe your shoes is a heap easier."

"What does onything matter," says he, "if your heart's bein' broke? "

"Keep up your heart, and it'll no' get broke," I says, inspectin' ma umbrella, which was oot for the first time. Ma sister had got twa for weddin' presents, and had sent me the second best. But he done naething but groaned and sighed till we cam' to the usual seat. And then he sighed and groaned.

"Cheer up, for ony favour," says I.

"I canna," says he.

"Be a man, Peter!"

"I wish I was a corp."

After a long while he says:—

"Jemima!"

"Present!" says I.

"What way did ye no' beware o' the boots?"

"I bewore till I couldna see ony reason for bewarin'. What ha'e ye got against him?"

"Ye're unco frien'ly wi' him noo," he says.

"That's no' answerin' ma question."

"I suppose ye'll be for his hoose shortly," he says.

"His mither's hoose, ye mean," says I, wi' a cock o' me nose.

"Weel, I didna mean to offend ye, Jemima," he says humblelike. "I've naething against the man—I only ken him by sight—except that he's a boots."

"Mercy!" says I, "and, if ye please, what's the difference betwixt a boots and a porter?"

"Porters is usually higher minded nor bootses," he says, as solemn as a stuffed owl. "Think o' the thousands o' lives that's dependin' daily on us porters! What lives is dependin' on bootses? Tell me that?"

"Dinna haver!" says I, laughin'. "Ye're speakin' as if ye was an engine-driver or a signalman."

"I'm speakin' as a plain porter, Jemima," says he. "What would happen if us porters didna see that the carriage doors was proper shut—whiles at the risk o' oor own necks? Why, the lines would be strewed wi' damaged passengers, and return tickets would be unsaleable!"

He had me there, and I admitted it.

"But that doesna prove that bootses is lower minded."

He looked at me as if he was gaun to cry.

"Are ye attached to this boots?" he says o' a sudden.

"Am I what? "

"Are ye engaged to him?"

"Dinna be a goat!" I says. "Ye ken I'm far ower young to be engaged to onybody."

He wagged his head.

"A girl cannot be ower young to be engaged to the right man, Jemima." And he got hold o' ma hand. "Let me press it," says he, wi' a groan.

"No' likely!" says I, strivin' to draw it frae him.

"Let me hold it then withoot pressin' it."

"Oh, gracious me!" I says. "Behave yoursel'! Ye're hurtin' ma fingers; ye've near dislocated ma pinkie, ye muckle elephant!"

And I won free.

"I'm no' an elephant," says he kin' o' angry. "I'm a human bein' wi' an honest heart which is bein' broke. But I'll tell ye something."

"It'll ha'e to keep till the next time, if ony," says I. "I'm for off."

"And you're gaun to his hoose to your doom!" he cries.

"I'm gaun to ma supper, and I've a rare appetite," I tells him. "If ye winna leave go ma umbrella, I'll leave it wi' ye!"

"Wait!" he says. "Listen! I must put ye on your guard. I was at the town yesterday—the boss sent me wi' a message to the Bank—and what think ye I seen?"

"The Bank, I hope!"

"I seen that boots in his Sabbath best, mashin' a girl, a Red Cross Nurse, mind ye, and takin' her into a tea-room for tea!"

"Are ye sure it wana cocoa?" I says. I was gaun to gi'e a laugh, but something seemed to gae wrang wi' the works.

"Tea or cocoa, I wouldna trust him if I was you."

"Wha told ye I was trustin' him?"

"Your face," he says, wi' a groan. "Your face tells me everything, Jemima."

I was that angry I could ha'e cuffed his ears.

"Are ye gaun to leave go ma umbrella?"

He didna seem to hear.

"Ay, ye've a bonny face," he says, "but your heart's caulder nor a pre-war slider."

"Ma umbrella!" says I.

Nae answer, so I marched off withoot it.

I hadna got far when he was after me, cryin':—

"Jemima, here's your umbrella."

I walked quicker, payin' nae attention. He was near up on me when we seen a lot o' folk comin'.

"Dinna run," he says.

"I will," says I. "And it'll be a fine sight—a-man chasin' a girl wi' an umbrella."

"Tak' it, for ony favour!" he says.

"I never want to touch it again!" says I, and started to sort o' run.

To ma surprise he turned aboot and walked off.

I plucked a dandelion to ha'e something to gaze at when passin' the folk.

I wasna fashin' masel' aboot the umbrella till I noticed the sky. In aboot three minutes it was rainin' like fun, and I was like a drooned rat when I got to the cottage.

"Ha'e ye nae umbrella, dearie?" his mither speired, when she was daein' her best for me at the fireside.

What could I dae but jist shake ma head? Later on Frederick speired the same question, and got the same answer. He was cheerier nor I had seen him for a while, and so was his mither, and I wondered if he had told her ahoot the doctor, after a'. Hooever, whether he was to be trusted or no', his was a nice hoose to be in that night.

It was still rainin' when the time cam' for me to gang. Frederick got oot a great big auld-fashioned umbrella and held it ower me. The road doon frae the cottage was lumpy, and after a while he says:—

"We might get on better if ye would think to tak' ma arm, Jemima."

"I think we'll get on best withoot ony nonsense," says I. And though he deserved it, I was kin' o' vexed at masel' for sayin' it.

"As ye please," he says in that quiet voice of his that can mak' ye feel like dirt.

Seein' that he was never keen on speakin' aboot the "Seaview" folk ootside the hoose, there was little crack durin' the rest o' the journey.

I was for gaun straight to ma bed, but the cook met me in the passage and dragged me into the kitchen.

"I would ha'e gi'ed five shillings to ha'e had ye hame half an hour earlier," she cries.

"What for?" says I.

"To let me get oot," she answers, as red as a rasp.

"Oot!" says I. "Are ye for committin' suicide?"

"Na! To begin to enjoy life," says she. "Oh, me! What an adventure!"

I sat doon and looked at her.

"I suppose ye're harmless," I says in a wearied voice.

She jist laughed like a hen, and pulled oot a bit o' paper. "Listen!" says she, and reads, like it was a text, these words:—

"'How can ye be so unkind to your faithful admirer?'"

"Let's see the writin'," says I.

But she pulled it awa'.

"'D'ye mind the chocolates I got at the window?" she says.

"Ha'e ye got anither box?" I speirs and I couldna help sittin' up.

"What dae ye think?" says she. "My! I wish ye had cam' hame earlier. I might ha'e discovered him."

"I'll bet it's jujubes ye've gotten this time," I says, feelin' sick.

"Jujubes! What put jujubes into your head? Na, na, he's got past the sweety stage," she says proodly, "and he chapped at the door this time! See!" she cries, runnin' to the dresser. "Did ever ye see a brawer umbrella?"