Cauld Comfort Kail

In affectionate tribute to Stella Gibbons who died 19/12/89

November’ s chill blaws loud wi’ angry sough across the hard thrawn land. It whustles snell arooun the dour damp fairmhooose, dark and dank as the blastit whinstane oot o’ quhilk it wis quarriet. It hoots like a banshee doon the lums on the cauld auld manse wi’ the heigh driech kirk alangside, and rattles the rottit wee windaes o’ the mean meeserable cottar bothy doon at the reekin’ bourach o’ midden.

Ben the fairm, the beasties sleep cowerin’ and timorous in their byres, the hens roost in their coops, while the fairmer’s eldest dochter - wha, in thae airts, is aye cried ‘the Maiden’ and whase hand in mairriage the grieve maun by custom first ask afore ony ither lassie’s – sates channerin’ on her lane by the bleak ingle, her meeserable thochts sour as the snell wind wi’oot. Forbye she thinks on Dod, her faither’s fine young grieve wi’ braw black hair and bricht een an’ airms that can hurl twa sheaves tae the stack’s tap wi’ yin heave. Or wis it Eck, the brawny hairy-kistit pleuchman wha wrestles wi’ stallions and draws the strechtest furrow in the Howe. In his manse by the heigh driech kirk, the meenister, Reverend Maister Nehemiah Dreep, widower of divinity, muses Glenlivet-fumed in his mold-cauld study, and thinks on Jezebel and Jess MacIver, the session-clerk’s lass, and whatsoever things are lovely but neither pure nor of good report, while in the bothy by the midden, Eck and Dod sup ale alane. And the snell wind blaws cauld ower the hard thrawn land.

Comes Spring. April’s warm zephyrs blast ower the mean bitter fields. The beasts new-lowsit tak tae birthin’, ilk efter her kind. The coos bear caufies, the mares foalies, and the hens eggies. And heigh on the braes and laigh in the glens, yowes and their lambkins loup and gambol in the fragrant breeze. Mirren the maiden decks hersel’ in brawest Easter finery and trips kirkward whaur, sax feet abune suspeecion, the Reverend Maister Dreep sways betwixt Glenlivet and the Book of Kings, preaching on Jezebel and keekin doon the cleavage o’ Jess MacIver, pert and pious in the fourth rang o’ pews. Mirren keeks as weel, sideways at Dod the grieve and Eck the pleuchman, sat thegither in their snaw-white serks and finespun breeks, singin the psalms and paraphrases as tae David’s lyre itsel. But keek and pray as she micht, nor Dod nor Eck tak’ the least heed o’ her. And the snell wind blaws hard ower the thrawn, bitter land.

Haymakin’ simmer wi’ its days estivall. Strippit near nakit, Eck and Dod heave an’ stack an’ pile wi’ their pitchforks, bronze brawny bodies gleamin’ virile sweat and lissom manhood. Mirren, milking, hotches and squirms at the sicht o’ them and, losin’ her rhythm, tweaks the coo’s teat, and gets a shairny tail in her face and her milk-luggie cowpit. Deck-chaired in the manse gairden, Reverend Maister Dreep dram-dwams amang the gloxinias, and dreams o’ Jess MacIver’s breasts like twin roe fawns wi’ a flask o’ Glenlivet claspit between them. And the wind blaws hard ower the thrawn, dour land.

Come Autumn, sae pensive in yellow and grey – hairst an’ ruttin’ time, and the fields ring wi’ the voices o’ reaper and binder. The bull loups the coos, the stallion sclims the mare, tups trog yowes. The height driech kirk’s verra rafters ding tae blithe strains o ‘”We pleuch the fields and scatter the giud seed on the land.” Ilka chiel brings his offerin tae the hairst thanks-gie’in’. Mirren the Maiden lays her gifts o tatties and’ hive honey next tae the beans and kail o’ Dod the grieve, addin’ sic a muckle bunch o’ forget-me-nots and love-lies-bleedin’s that folk spierit gin it wis a hairst service or a flooer show she thocht she wis at. The Reverend Nehemiah Dreep, in a true speerit o’ sacrifeecial gie’in, offers ane o’ his precious bottles o’ Glenlivet, and preaches wi’ face like Cain how the Lord juist fair loo’s a cheerfu’ giver. While Eck the canty pleuchman artistically sprinkles grain ower the gaitherit produce, but especially on Dod’s kail and beans. And Mirren keeks atwixt her fingers during the prayer tae see gin Dod’s spied her bonny flooers, and she fancies there’s yin furrow she’d fain he and Eck baith wad pleuch an’ scatter their seed in, but baith loon’s een bide fast shut.

November’ s chill blaws loud wi’ angry sough, cauld and snell ower the hard thrawn land. It whustles roond the beasts, stirrin’ and murmurin’ in their shuttered byres and reids. In the dank, dark fairmhoose, Mirren lies in unquiet virginal slumber, her tear-stainit pillow strewn wi’ daisy petals that tell’t her Dod loo’s her not. Ben the cauld manse by the driech heigh kirk, Reverend Maister Dreep uncorks anither Glenlivet and prepares to dream of Zion, where streams of living whisky flow, and angelic Jess MacIver, ever bricht and bare, meenisters tae his desires for ever and ever a-woman. And in the mean cottar bothy by the reekin bourach o‘ midden, Dod the handsome pleuchman lies face-doon in ecstasy, harness-shackled and naked as Noah, while Eck, yon brawny hairy-kistit pleuchman, rams deep intae Dod’s sair-red-whuppit hurdies, echt o’ the finest fattest inches as ever sprouted frae loins o’ man. Juist as he’d been dae’in ilk and every nicht for ten years syne they were baith orra-loons. And the twin roars o’ their comin’ thegither mell wi’ the banshee wail o’ the bitter wind that blaws snell ower the hard thrawn land!


	[Jim Scott] [A Boy A Book A Story] [Darkness] [Pat from Lancashire] [The Quaker Oats Man] [A Matter of Conscience] [Picnic] [Incident at a Railway Station] [Cauld Comfort Kail] [Moral Uplift] [The Soldier] [Madonna] [Hero of the Revolution] [The Messenger] [Tramlines] [Innocents] [Unlucky Dip]