Free The Nickum by Doris Davidson Page B

wag.
    Having received the money for the eggs he had taken in, Willie accepted the usual long stick of barley sugar the grocer’s wife always gave him. ‘Ta, Mrs Gill,’ he beamed. ‘See you next Friday.’
    With no reason now to go carefully, he swung purposefully on to his steed and rode off, cracking his whip in the air to urge it on. He had repelled several English invaders when it occurred to him to drop in past Malcie Middleton – now working for McIntyre of Wester Burnton – to show him how well the ‘Raleigh’ was doing as a charger, and swerved into the farm road.
    There were only two people in the stable yard, Malcie and the old man everybody in the area knew as the Daftie, although some thought that he wasn’t as daft as he made out. He still had an abundant crop of pure white hair, and although he was nissing some of his front teeth, he always wore a wide smile. He was helping the youth to polish the horse brasses, there being a show looming in the very near future. Johnny McIntyre was very proud of his Clydesdales and entered them every year; having already won many second and third prizes for various horses, his heart was set on gathering at least one first.
    ‘Aye Malcie,’ Willie called.
    ‘Aye Willie.’ His friend was engrossed in his task, but could still acknowledge the presence of his chum. ‘The bike’s goin’ OK then?’
    ‘Great. I come along the road like a bird through the air.’
    The Daftie looked up now, nodding his approval of the vehicle, then he mumbled, ‘You’re Jake Fowlie’s loon, aye?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘Your Ma mak’s black puddins, aye?’
    ‘Aye?’ Willie was puzzled. What did black puddings have to do with anything?
    ‘McIntyre killed a pig this week.’
    ‘Oh? So what aboot it?’
    ‘I saved some o’ the bleed for her.’
    ‘Oh, aye?’
    ‘Wait a mintie.’
    The elderly man hobbled off and came back within the requested minute carrying a rather chipped white enamel pail. ‘Look,’ he cackled, holding it up to let Willie see inside, ‘Plenty there. Aye?’
    The boy knew nothing about this. He loved the black puddings his mother made, but he hadn’t realised that they contained pig’s blood. It wasn’t a happy thought. ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘Tak’ it an’ gi’e it to yer Ma wi’ my compliments, but mind an’ bring back the pail, or McIntyre’ll gi’e me whatfor.’
    Willie, taller now and well on the way to being willowy instead of podgy, lifted the pail, old and battered, but like everything else in the stable and its surrounds, spotlessly clean. ‘I’ll awa’ then, Malcie.’
    ‘Watch yoursel’, and go easy. We dinna want the bobby to come and tell us to shovel you up aff the road. We wouldna ken which was your bleed an’ which was the pig’s.’
    The younger boy joined in the roar of laughter as he steadied the bicycle with his knees until he could get his precious cargo hooked over the handlebars. Keeping his steed upright when all the weight was on one side was quite tricky, but at last he somehow got into a rhythm that answered his problem. Proud of his prowess, he wished that Poopie-Cecil could see him. He was pleased Malcie Middleton was watching as he set off, for he had shared the honour of creating this magnificent mode of transport.
    Secure in his belief in himself, Willie fished in his jacket pocket for the stick of barley sugar Mrs Gill had given him, and discovered, to his further delight, that he could steer the bike and its load just as well with one hand as with two, and he sailed along, whistling happily.
    Oh, Willie. If either of his grandmothers could have seen him, they would have told him that pride cometh before a fall, but as neither of these good ladies had any idea of what he was doing, he went on his way, considering himself the happiest, and cleverest, laddie in the whole wide world.
    Coming to the stony track that led up to the Wester Burnton cottar houses, he stuck his barley sugar in his mouth in order to have