They were into the Lower Cowgate by then, ten o’clock and the pubs were spewing out the plebs, raddled with drink, kids crying in the gutter, Ewan saw a man hit a woman in the jaw, she fell with a scream and a bobby came up and an eddy of the crowd came swirling around, and they couldn’t see more, going up Sowans Lane. But halfway up they came on a woman pulling at the coat of a man who was lying half in a doorway, half in the gutter. Och, come on home, you daft Bulgar, she was saying, or the bobbies’ll damn soon land you in the nick. But the childe wasn’t keen to go home at all, he was saying what they wanted was a little song—Come on, you bitch, and give’s a bit tune. And the woman said of all the whoreson’s gets she’d ever met he was the worst: and what song did he want then, the neep-headed nout? And he said he wanted the songs his mucking mother sang, and Εwan and Ellen didn’t hear more, they were out of the Sowans Lane by then, on to the Long Brig where it spanned the Forthie, and stopping to breathe from the Gallowgate fug.

And then, as Εwan stood there and whistled under-breath, indifferently, far away in his thoughts, he became aware of Ellen Johns by his side wiping her eyes in helpless mirth: History’s the funniest of jokes sometimes. If we’d had the courage of our convictions do you know what we would have done back there?

He said No, and stared a cool surprise.

—Why, STOPPED AND SANG HIM SOME WILLIAM MORRIS!

Ma Cleghorn had taken Chris to the Talkies, to get out of the stew of the house for a while, she said she was turning to a cockroach, near, and Chris to an earthworm out in that yard. Meg would see to the tea for the folk, wouldn’t she, eh? and Meg said she would, Meg had kittled up a lot of late, Chris thought as she went to her room to change. When she came down Ma was waiting for her, dressed all in her braws with a big black hat, with bead work upon it, and a meikle brooch pinned in under one of her chins. There you are, lass, though, God be here, you’re wearing so little I can see your drawers. And Chris said Surely not, and stooped to see Anyhow, I can’t wear more than I’m wearing. And Ma said maybe but it was a damned shame to go about with a figure like that, half-happed and stirring the men to temptation. And they’d better get on, near the time already, what in Auld Nick’s name were they gossiping for?

So they got on the tram and soughed down Royal Mile, and up Little James Street to the Pictured rome; and paid for their seats and went in and sat down; and Chris felt sleepy almost as soon as she sat, and yawned, pictures wearied her nearly to death, the flickering shadows and the awful voices, the daft tales they told and the dafter news. She fell asleep through the cantrips a creature was playing, a mouse dressed up in breeks like a man, and only woke up as Ma shook her: Hey, the meikle film’s starting now, lassie, God damn’t, d’you want to waste a whole ninepenny ticket?