It had been a long hard fight – Emily had been dead set against her daughter marrying so young – and week after week had gone by with constant arguments between Becky and her parents, until Jake was won round by his daughter’s tears, and claimed his right as head of the house to give his permission. Once this had been given, Jackie dropped a bombshell by telling them that his mother wanted the wedding to be at the Mains, upsetting Emily, who had visualised being in charge of all the arrangements in her own house. This contretemps also took some days to settle, but finally everyone was agreed that it should be the bride’s choice. Greatly relieved that the battle was over, Jackie had arranged a date with the minister, who had agreed to perform the ceremony in the bride’s home on the first Saturday in June, which didn’t give much time for other arrangements to be made.
Caught up in the young couple’s excitement, Emily found herself looking forward to it, and looked out the outfit she had worn at her own wedding in 1909. It was over twenty years old, but it was a style that didn’t go out of date – a dusky pink two-piece with, instead of a hat, a lovely band of silk rosebuds (made by Beenie Middleton’s middle daughter, who was now a milliner in Ellon, but had been an apprentice at the time). Bridesmaid Connie had been given a beautiful powder-blue crêpe de chine dress that was too tight for her mistress, but fitted the girl as if it had been made for her. Unable to afford new clothes for themselves on top of all the other expenses, Jake and Emily were content with wearing their Sunday best.
It came as no surprise to any of them, of course, that Willie would almost put a spanner in the works. Becky had been looking through pictures of weddings in the magazines Mrs Burns had given her, showing fashionable wedding parties and detailing wedding etiquette. ‘I don’t want anybody saying we don’t know how to behave,’ she had excused herself to her mother before breaking the appalling information that she wanted Willie to wear a kilt.
‘It looks so nice in this photo, doesn’t it?’ she had gone on, laying out one of the books spread open at a double page image of what looked like a society wedding, or at least someone with a truly wealthy background. The guests looked like advertisements for the latest styles, like fashion plates, as Connie observed, the best man and the groom in tailored grey suits with top hats to match, the bride in a pure white confection (as befitted a virgin) with a high headdress and a long veil draped around her feet.
The two boys, one at front left and the other at front right of the picture, stood stiffly wearing the kilt and full regalia, down to the small dirks at their stocking tops. Even Emily had to agree that they looked very elegant, but they were bonnie boys, hair in place, everything about them absolutely perfect, whereas Willie … She shuddered at the thought of how he would look at the end of the wedding day – even at the end of the first half-hour after he was dressed. ‘No, Becky, I don’t think that’s a good idea, and besides, we couldn’t afford to buy a kilt for him and all that other things.’
Becky’s face wore a radiant smile. ‘You don’t have to buy anything, Mam. Mrs Burns is giving us a shot of the kilt her Tommy wore when he was about Willie’s size.’
When Willie was shown his outfit for his sister’s wedding, he flatly refused even to try it on. ‘I’m nae goin’ to wear a skirt! I’m nae a lassie! A’body’ll be laughin’ at me. Oh, Mam, you canna mak’ me wear a skirt?’
Gramma McKay, there to present her wedding gift of a pair of pink flannelette sheets, shook her head at the boy for being so uncooperative but did her best to talk him round into at least giving it a try. ‘You never know, you might like it once you’ve got it on.’ Noticing his frown darkening, she added, ‘And you’ll likely have the girls after you when you’re looking so handsome.’
It was the wrong thing to say because he didn’t like girls, but she wasn’t accustomed to being thwarted by anyone, not even a young boy, and went off home in high dudgeon.
Gramma Fowlie, however, did manage to talk him round the following day. ‘Come on, ma lambie. Just for this Gramma. Put it on to let me see how you look, eh?’
Willie loved this grandmother more than any of his other relatives, except maybe his father, so, very reluctantly, he got out the offending garment, unfolded it from its layers of tissue paper, pulling a disgusted face when his nose was assaulted by the reek of moth balls.
His Gramma fastened all the buckles that had to be fastened, fitted on the sporran and adjusted it, saying aloud as the brainwave came to her, ‘This is where the Highlanders kept their pistols. You ken, the men that fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie.’
It was as if she had waved a magic wand. His attitude changed as he stepped towards the wardrobe mirror in the girls’ room, his back straightening, his head more erect, his expression that of a brave Highlander, ready to defend the rightful king of Scotland, though his enemies called him the Young Pretender.
Gramma stood by his side, nodding, encouraging him in his moment of glory. ‘D’you like it?’ she asked at last. ‘It’s right comfy, isn’t it, without breeks interfering wi’ your legs, an’ what else is in the bag?’
When he was fully rigged out in the white shirt with ruffles at the neck, the black velvet jacket and black brogues with silver buckles, the gilt had worn slightly off the gingerbread. The velvet of the jacket and the ruffles on the shirt added more femininity to the ‘skirt’. ‘Do I have to wear it, Gramma?’
‘Becky wants you looking smart, my pet, so for her … and me, eh? It’s just for one day, you ken. One day’s nae that lang.’
And so the kilt was donned on the morning of the wedding and Willie Fowlie became one of Prince Charles Stuart’s soldiers for one day … or part of a day. Everything was going without a hitch, but just as Willie was making his way down the ladder, one of his schoolmates spotted him and ran into the parlour to tell the other boys who were there with their parents. The Highlander was greeted with roars of raucous laughter.
Gramma Fowlie, close behind her grandson to prevent him turning and going back, was not prepared for what he did then. Unbuckling the sporran, he flung it on the floor and got himself divested of the ‘skirt’ in spite of all the woman’s efforts to stop him. She was, however, greatly relieved that he had refused to come downstairs without his drawers on, even if she had told him real Highlanders wore nothing under their kilts.
Poor Becky had to be content with the photographer placing her pageboy at the rear of the wedding group so that just his head and shoulders could be seen. Released from bondage, Willie disappeared to his attic and wouldn’t come down until his Gramma Fowlie told him all the goodies would be eaten and there would be nothing for him if he didn’t go down that very minute. Becky was mortified at what had happened, Emily was mortified, ashamed and furious at her son, but the rest of the party, especially the men, thought it had been hilarious. Jake was torn between having a laugh at his son’s expense, being proud of him for sticking to his guns and feeling angry at him for spoiling his big sister’s wedding day. He didn’t worry about it after a couple of drinks, though, and carried out the duties of father of the bride and head of the house, exhorting all the other men to ‘Ha’e another dram. Dinna worry aboot what the wife’s goin’ to say in the mornin’, enjoy yoursel’s the nicht. We’re a lang time deid, eh lads?’
They needed no further coaxing, and their wives, as they always did on such occasions, knew better than to try to rein in their men while they were drunk. Nemesis could wait until they were sober. The younger men were more interested in the girls than in the intoxicating liquor, and gradually most of them, plus an equal number of young females, would have been found to be missing if anyone had been counting them. Emily, of course, realised at one point that Connie had disappeared and tried to think which of the boys she could have disappeared with, but so many were absent that she gave up the struggle. She didn’t want to show herself as an over-protective mother, and in any case, whatever her older daughter was doing, it was probably too late now to stop her. Retribution for her, her father and her little brother would have to wait until next day.
Willie, dressed in his school breeks now, was running around with the other bairns, playing hide-and-seek or tick-and-tack, or What’s the Time Mr Wolf, and getting in everybody’s way. Not that anybody minded, for the alcohol – liberally provided by Tom Burns – was having a calming effect on all who partook of it. Nobody at all had gone the other way, thank goodness, the aggressive way that sometimes took over.
It was well after the ‘witching hour’ before the party began to break up. The whole house was full of cigarette smoke and the reek of whisky, which made the youngest members of the company cry because their eyes were nipping, and the mothers shepherded – almost carried – their protesting husbands towards the door. As Beenie Middleton barked to hers, ‘Shift yoursel’, for ony sake, an’ I wouldna like to ha’e a sair heid like you’ll ha’e in the mornin’, you drunken bugger.’
Obviously accustomed to this form of address from his wife, he leered at her with a vacant grin, but she shook off the arm he was trying to slide round her waist and thrust him from her with a look of disgust.
It was wearing on for one o’clock before Emily got her brood settled down, Jake being the worst to get to bed. Connie didn’t appear to be in the least hang-dog, so she surely hadn’t done anything she shouldn’t, Emily mused, as she took off her clothes and crept in beside her already dead-to-the-world husband. She couldn’t bear to let her thoughts dwell on seventeen-year-old Becky, whose groom had taken her for a night’s stay in a posh hotel in Aberdeen before their fortnight’s honeymoon in Edinburgh. They’d taken the nine o’clock train and had likely been in bed for hours by now – Jackie Burns had shown signs of impatience before they left, and no doubt would have taken his way with his bride as soon as they went into their hotel room.
Emily drew in a long shuddery breath. She could only hope and pray that the poor lass hadn’t had too big a shock. On her own wedding night, Jake had been gentle and loving – as he still was on the widely spaced nights when he claimed his rights as her husband – and maybe Jackie was the same, but so many other wives told a different story. She turned over carefully, her back to the grunting snores, and wished that she’d made Connie help her to tidy the kitchen before they came to bed. It was an awful thought having to rise in the morning to all that work before they could have any breakfast.
Connie was undecided whether to be glad or sorry. She was glad that she hadn’t gone against what her mother had taught her – not to let any boy touch her until she was wed to him – but she wished she’d had the nerve to let Gordie Brodie do what he wanted. She nearly had, oh, how nearly! If he’d persisted for just another second or so, she’d have let him; it was only the thought of Mam’s anger that stopped her. Plus, if he’d bairned her, Dad would have half killed her, and him, or thrown her out of the house, and she’d have nowhere to go. Gordie wasn’t the marrying kind, she knew that, and he’d just wanted to be able to tell his friends she was an easy lay. Aye, she wasn’t under any misapprehension about that, but she wished she’d tasted the forbidden fruit just this once. She might never get another chance.
Willie, too, was thinking, wishing now that he’d kept on the kilt. It hadn’t been so bad, really. If Malcie Middleton hadn’t made everybody laugh, he wouldn’t have minded. He’d felt quite important being one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s soldiers. Och, well, it couldn’t be helped now, and he hadn’t missed much while he was upstairs. In fact, he’d seen something he supposed he shouldn’t have seen and it would be best to keep his mouth shut about it. He’d been standing on his bed looking out of the skylight in his attic room, when he spotted Gordie Brodie by the coalshed, and at first it looked as if he was having a pee because the privy was occupied, but it soon became clear that he was pushing another person against the wall. Wondering if there was going to be a fight, it had dawned on the boy that the other body was a girl, and the two were so busy kissing they wouldn’t have noticed if a whole army had been watching them. Willie gave a sarcastic snicher. Fancy kissing a girl, soppy devil. Nobody would ever catch him doing a thing like that. He’d no time for girls. His brows came down suddenly, as the lad bent over to lift the lassie’s skirt. She hadn’t been happy about that, though, and lashed out with her feet, twisting her head this way and that to stop further kisses. That was when he saw that the girl was his sister Connie, and he felt quite proud of the fight she was putting up. But what a nerve Brodie had. He wasn’t a gentleman, that was for sure.
Fascinated, Willie had kept watching until her knee landed full tilt against her attacker’s most delicate parts. Gordie jumped away with a yell, holding himself as Connie made her escape, and her young brother had collapsed on his bed and rolled about with laughter. Although Gramma Fowlie had come in just a few minutes afterwards to tell him to come downstairs for something to eat, and had looked surprised when she heard him gurgling, he didn’t tell her anything.
Recalling the whole episode, Willie curled up under his bedcovers and soon drifted off into a deep, comfortable sleep in which he dreamed of standing beside Bonnie Prince Charlie and running forward to thrust his claymore deep into the advancing enemy, who all bore an uncanny resemblance to Gordon Brodie.
Jake knew exactly how his ten-year-old son felt. He had felt the same when he was that age. A bike made you feel nearly grown-up. Travelling along the roads with the wind blowing in your face and the bushes and trees whizzing past you was just like being on top of the world – no other experience could match it, but there was no money to buy a bike for the laddie. He’d been in a different position himself; having so many cousins of various ages, he got a bike handed down to him at each stage of his growing up – in addition to the hand-me-down clothes that were not quite so welcome to him. His mother had been very grateful for them, though, for money was always short for the Fowlies then, as well.