And Ma sat down and paiched a bit, smoothing out the pounds and the ten bob notes, and said that Mr Piddle was short again, him that banked nearly every meek that he got. Ma’d told him she’d need the balance on Monday—and not to he-he! at her like a goat. Four, five, two halves, a one and ten silver, that’s our little bit English pussy-cat. Sitting up there and reading a book—can you guess what the book is about now, lass?

Chris looked in the range and over at the clock, and shook her head, only half-heeding Ma’s claik.—Well, then, it’s a Manual of Birth Control. What think you of that and our Ellen Johns, with her little mouser and her neat long legs?

Chris was over-surprised a minute to say anything, then asked if Miss Johns tried to hide the book? Ma said she hadn’t; neither showing off nor hiding: Ay, a gey keek our Ellen, with all her quiet ways. And it’s all to the good of the trade, anyhow. Chris asked How? and Ma said Why, she’ll be able to sin as she likes and go free, with no need to marry the gallus childe. So we’ll be able to keep her our lodger…. Twelve, thirteen, ten, Ake Ogilvie’s—ay, faith he’s made of the old-time stuff. If I’d been a ten years younger or so I’d be chumming up to him, a bonny man, well-shouldered and canty, it’s a pity you’re gentry.

Chris had heard this before and now hardly smiled, if it was gentry to know her own mind, the things that she liked and the things that she didn’t, well then, she was gentry down to the core. And Ma had been watching her and cried out Hoots, now don’t go away and take offence. I’m just a coarse old wife and must have my bit joke. Chris laughed, half-angry, Well, don’t have it on me, and Ma said she’d mind and went on with her counting, Miss Lyon’s Boss had fined her two shillings, Awful the way that they treat Us Girls, the Clearmont laddie was all a-blither and a-clatter over his Rectorial election, fegs, what was this Nationalist stite that had got him?

Chris minded back to her days in Segget and said that this Nationalism was just another plan of the Tories to do down the common folk. Only this time ’twas to be done in kilts and hose, with bagpipes playing and a blether about Wallace, the English to be chased across the Border and the Scots to live on brose and baps. Ma said Fegs now, and are we so, then? Then I’m for the English. Eighteen, nine and six, the lot for this week and we’re doing fine. Did I ever tell you when I wanted a partner my niece Izey Urquhart wanted to come in?

Chris said she didn’t know Ma had a niece, Ma nodded, worse luck, a thrawn wee skunk that lived away down in Kirrieben. Ma couldn’t stick the creature at all but she was her only living relation and kenned that when Ma pushed off at last she’d get what bittie of silver there was. That might be so, but Ma had made up her mind she wasn’t to have the long-nosed sniftering wretch skeetering around while she was alive; and maybe when Ma died holy Izey would find a bit of a sore surprise to meet—I’m fond of you, lass, and I’m sending next week for my lawyer man to alter the will. What’s in the house and all things I have would be better in your bit keeping, I think, than as miser’s savings in Kirrieben.