In bed, beside him, breathing to sleep, the little sleep after those moments that she still thought fun, she would tickle his throat with her hair, feel sure and confident as never in the light, here in the dark he was hers unquestioned, hers and no other’s, breathing so, sweat on his brow, hair curling about her fingers from the dark, sleek head. He would stroke her with a swift, soft hand, like a bird’s light wing, into that little sleep till somewhere between two and three she would awake, he wakeful as well, and they’d kiss again, cool and neat, and slip out of bed, slim children both, and stand hand in hand and listen, all the house in Windmill Place silent. Then they’d pad to the door and lug it open and peer out, nothing, the lobby dark below, no glimmer about but faint on the landing the far ghost-radiance of Footforthie. Ewan would open her door for her, sleepily they’d hug, and yawn at each other in the dark, giggle a bit because of that, and Ellen close the door and slip into her bed, asleep before she had reached it, almost.

But one morning she saw his hands cut and bruised and asked why, and he said oh that was from his new job, up at Stoddart’s, the granite-mason’s, he’d been taken on there as a labourer.

The table looked at him, the first any had heard: Chris asked if he liked it, were the other folk nice?

Miss Murgatroyd simpered she was awful glad he had found Respectable Employment, like. Such Pity not to be in the office though; they were awful respectable folk, the Stoddarts.

Mr Piddle said he-he! and ate like a gull landed famished on the corpse of a whale.

Mr Quaritch cocked his wee beard to the side: You’ll be able to study the proletariat at first hand now. Tell me when you get sick of them, lad. I might be able to find something better.

Ena Lyon sniffed and said she Just Hated gravestones.

Ellen sat and stared in blank, dead silence, feeling sick and forgotten while they all talked. Oh goodness, hadn’t they heard, had they all gone deaf? Ewan—EWAN A LABOURER!

July came in slow heat over Duncairn, and with it the summer-time visitors. John Cushnie took his feeungsay down to the Beach every night that his mecks would meet, in to hear Gappy Gowkheid braying his jokes in the Beach Pavilion, awfully funny, Christ, how you laughed when he spoke the daft Scotch and your quean beside you giggled superior and said Say he was sure the canary’s camiknicks, she was awful clever and spoke a lot like that that she’d heard at the Talkies—though if you had mentioned her camiknicks she’d have flamed insulted right on the spot.

Or you’d take her down of a Wednesday afternoon, when Raggie’s had closed, birring on the tramcars loaded for the Beach, wheeling out from Footforthie, there glimmering and pitching and reeling in the sun the Amusements Park with its scenic railway, Beach crowded with folk the same as the cars, you and your quean would sit and listen to the silly English that couldn’t speak proper, with their ’eads and ’ands and ’alfs and such. Then off you’d get and trail into the Amusements Park, you’d only a half-dollar but you wouldn’t let on, your feeungsay was so superior and you only the clerk in Raggie Robertson’s. She was fairly gentry and said how she’d enjoyed her holiday away with her Girl Friend, they’d gone for a week out in the country, and the farmers were awful vulgar and funny. And you said Yes, you knew, hicks were like that, and she said You’ve spilt it—with their awful Scotch words: Tyesday for Tuesday, and Foersday for Friday, and no proper drainage at all, you know. And you said again that you knew; she meant there weren’t real WC’s but rather would have died than say so right out.