Growing Up in the West by Edwin Muir

Author:Edwin Muir [Edwin Muir / J. F. Hendry / Gordon M. Williams / Tom Gallacher]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: igp-001cbl
ISBN: 9781847674708
Publisher: Canongate Books
Published: 2001-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

In the farmhouse Mary O’Donnell limped across from the gas cooker to the big table, where Auld Craig sat staring at his hands, although she couldn’t actually tell if his eyes were open or not.

‘I hope you like black puddin’ and fried potatoes,’ she said, putting the plate in front of him. The three collie-crosses lay at his feet, eyes wide, chins on the floor, trained by dint of many kicks to lie still until the old man threw them whatever was left on his plate.

‘Hrrmmmph.’ He twisted his head to look at her. ‘Don’t be givin’ us any fancy cookin’, plain food’s the best.’

She put down his blue-ring china mug of tea, watching the stiff movements of his arms. An old man like him would feel the cold, no wonder, in a house like this. When she’d arrived the first thing she’d noticed in the kitchen was the sink with dirty dishes piled almost as high as the taps. There was an old gas geyser for hot water, but it wasn’t working. After taking her case into the ground-floor bedroom, she’d changed into her working clothes and got to work on the dishes. Willie Craig had promised her that a ton of coal would be delivered the next day, but until that there was nothing for fires. Already she’d sensed that the old man, ancient as he looked, was the real power in the house. It was him she had to pay attention to. Willie? He was a man and she knew what sort of attention he’d be after, no, the old fella was the one, too old to want to throw a leg over her, and a lot harder to get round because of it.

When he finished eating Auld Craig took his plate and swept the remains of his black pudding on to the bare stone floor. Mary O’Donnell’s lips tightened; she had swept and washed the floor that afternoon, dragging the big table and the mahogany dresser and the heavy old chairs this way and that to get her broom into corners where crusts had gone green and dust gathered in thick rolls. Auld Craig stretched his hand to the centre of the table, to the white loaf. He tore several lumps of bread and crust, his ancient hands still wide and bony at the knuckles, the skin slack only round the purple veins on the back of his hand. As she watched him throw the fragments to the scrabbling dogs Mary O’Donnell controlled an impulse to shut her eyes and scream at him. Her chest was still heaving with rage as the old man pulled himself up out of the chair, his body jack-knifed over the table as he straightened his legs.

‘Hrmmph.’ He looked at her for a second, cold blue flints peering at her from under the great eyebrows. ‘I’m awa’ tae bed.’ He took a bad-tempered kick at a dog which moved in front of him, the stiffness of his knee giving the dog ample time to escape the hobnail boot.

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