heads with nonsense.’
‘Ah,’ I said, understanding him at last. ‘Certainly, yes. If one puts one’s life at risk every day one would naturally try to be lucky.’
‘There’s nothing natural about it,’ said Mr Turnbull.
‘And the problem with the bottling hall is . . .?’ I said, although I could easily guess.
‘The demon drink,’ Mr Turnbull confirmed. Beside me, Mrs Meiklejohn was breathing heavily, trying to control her laughter. ‘But I’ll save them, Mrs Gilver. The children will pass out of my sphere as bonny and pure as they enter yours today.’
‘My sphere?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘That’s what I came to tell you,’ said Mr Turnbull. ‘Your infants await.’
‘Oh golly!’ I said and followed him. Ahead of us at the Bellstane I could see a gathering crowd of women, each with an armful of frilled and beribboned baby. Most of these seemed to be bawling and some of the women, dressed in black, looked so near tears themselves that one could not imagine why they had not withdrawn their entry.
‘Oh well, it’s only a bit of fun, Mr Turnbull, isn’t it?’ I said in an attempt to rally myself.
‘Not really,’ he said, showing no tact whatsoever, I thought. ‘There is the prize.’ He pointed towards a handsome wooden high chair, newly painted in a cheerful pale blue and with a motif of little ducklings across it. ‘Such good practical prizes,’ he went on, with immense satisfaction, nodding towards the town crier who had been parading around all the morning with a pair of boots hanging from the top of his staff.
‘I had been wondering about those boots,’ I said.
‘They’re the prize for the borough race,’ said Mr Turnbull. ‘The race around the town boundary. A new pair of good boots is not to be sniffed at.’ I had never known a man like him for pushing wholesomeness down one’s throat until it made one choke and by this time I was ready to bet that Mr Turnbull had cold shower baths every day, he and his wife taking it in turns to pour buckets of water over each other in the garden and beat themselves with eucalyptus branches. I pictured this briefly. Perhaps not.
When we arrived at the Bellstane, what looked like a couple of hundred young women stood before us, industriously primping the curls and buffing the cheeks of babies ranging from a few months old – the lolling, useless stage – to bruising great beasts of almost two who tore at their bonnets and struggled to escape the restraining grasp. These were fearsome creatures, and I quickly decided that although I should have to show some enthusiasm for each of the brats, I was determined to make the final selection from amongst the smaller, gentler specimens. The winner, I was determined, was to be one which would not bite me as I held it up for its moment of glory.
I inquired about names and ages and trotted out a little snippet of praise or appreciation for each: ‘What a darling,’ ‘A fine strong boy,’ or, when confronted by a particularly nasty one, ‘Here’s a character, then!’ and it was easy enough to whittle out the absolutely hopeless, whose presence could only be explained by the blindness of mother-love. After that I was at a loss. I should have to shut my eyes and, so to speak, stick a pin in one, for no other option presented itself. Still, I was almost at the end of the line, my early estimate of two hundred having been panic-induced, of course: there were thirty. And only four to go. The next was quite a little one, wrapped in a gauzy shawl and held by a rather tired-looking woman in her forties.
‘Who is this?’ I asked, smiling sweetly towards the bundle. I had hit upon this phrasing after coming a cropper with the more obvious, when ‘What’s his name?’ had brought the answer ‘Susan’ and a scowl.
‘Doreen,’ said the woman, and opened the shawl a little. I peered in. Two shrewd, round blue eyes looked back at me from under a wisp of dark hair with just a glint of red in it.
‘Ah,’ I said, understanding him at last. ‘Certainly, yes. If one puts one’s life at risk every day one would naturally try to be lucky.’
‘There’s nothing natural about it,’ said Mr Turnbull.
‘And the problem with the bottling hall is . . .?’ I said, although I could easily guess.
‘The demon drink,’ Mr Turnbull confirmed. Beside me, Mrs Meiklejohn was breathing heavily, trying to control her laughter. ‘But I’ll save them, Mrs Gilver. The children will pass out of my sphere as bonny and pure as they enter yours today.’
‘My sphere?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘That’s what I came to tell you,’ said Mr Turnbull. ‘Your infants await.’
‘Oh golly!’ I said and followed him. Ahead of us at the Bellstane I could see a gathering crowd of women, each with an armful of frilled and beribboned baby. Most of these seemed to be bawling and some of the women, dressed in black, looked so near tears themselves that one could not imagine why they had not withdrawn their entry.
‘Oh well, it’s only a bit of fun, Mr Turnbull, isn’t it?’ I said in an attempt to rally myself.
‘Not really,’ he said, showing no tact whatsoever, I thought. ‘There is the prize.’ He pointed towards a handsome wooden high chair, newly painted in a cheerful pale blue and with a motif of little ducklings across it. ‘Such good practical prizes,’ he went on, with immense satisfaction, nodding towards the town crier who had been parading around all the morning with a pair of boots hanging from the top of his staff.
‘I had been wondering about those boots,’ I said.
‘They’re the prize for the borough race,’ said Mr Turnbull. ‘The race around the town boundary. A new pair of good boots is not to be sniffed at.’ I had never known a man like him for pushing wholesomeness down one’s throat until it made one choke and by this time I was ready to bet that Mr Turnbull had cold shower baths every day, he and his wife taking it in turns to pour buckets of water over each other in the garden and beat themselves with eucalyptus branches. I pictured this briefly. Perhaps not.
When we arrived at the Bellstane, what looked like a couple of hundred young women stood before us, industriously primping the curls and buffing the cheeks of babies ranging from a few months old – the lolling, useless stage – to bruising great beasts of almost two who tore at their bonnets and struggled to escape the restraining grasp. These were fearsome creatures, and I quickly decided that although I should have to show some enthusiasm for each of the brats, I was determined to make the final selection from amongst the smaller, gentler specimens. The winner, I was determined, was to be one which would not bite me as I held it up for its moment of glory.
I inquired about names and ages and trotted out a little snippet of praise or appreciation for each: ‘What a darling,’ ‘A fine strong boy,’ or, when confronted by a particularly nasty one, ‘Here’s a character, then!’ and it was easy enough to whittle out the absolutely hopeless, whose presence could only be explained by the blindness of mother-love. After that I was at a loss. I should have to shut my eyes and, so to speak, stick a pin in one, for no other option presented itself. Still, I was almost at the end of the line, my early estimate of two hundred having been panic-induced, of course: there were thirty. And only four to go. The next was quite a little one, wrapped in a gauzy shawl and held by a rather tired-looking woman in her forties.
‘Who is this?’ I asked, smiling sweetly towards the bundle. I had hit upon this phrasing after coming a cropper with the more obvious, when ‘What’s his name?’ had brought the answer ‘Susan’ and a scowl.
‘Doreen,’ said the woman, and opened the shawl a little. I peered in. Two shrewd, round blue eyes looked back at me from under a wisp of dark hair with just a glint of red in it.
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