That's me jist back fae daein ma messages. Ah went doon intae the Kirkgate. When ah left the hoose ah wis quite geed-up, the sun wis oot, the sky wis blue an the streets seemed fu o licht, but when ah walked intae the Kirkgate the life jist sapped oot o me. It aye dis that tae me these days, it's a sorry excuse fer the street it used tae be, it's aw bare concrete, mean shops an meaner fowks. Wummen oot daein their messages in their pyjamas, bairns joukin aboot at yer legs an screechin like craws, auld men shufflin fae bookie's tae drinkin-hoose an back again. It's no the place it yince wis.
The Kirkgate used tae be the High Street o auld Leith, an it wis aye heavin wi life. Shops, ale-hooses, churches, playhooses aw jostlin up agin each ither, an aw fu o happy fowk gaun aboot their business, cryin oot tae each ither, auld biddies hingin oot at their windaes an wavin tae the bairns, cairts an horses gaun up an doon, even mibbe a sedan chair noo an again. The days when say, Queen Mary or Queen Anne fae Denmark wid cam ridin up fae the Shore oan their way tae Holyrood Palace the entire street wis hung wi banners an flags o aw colour an design, an thoosans o the tounsfowk wid cry an cheer their passin. Happy days...
Still, like aw streets, the Kirkgate had its darker side. Some o the ale-hooses were rough an ready places, filled oan Saturday nichts wi rough an ready sorts, an barely a weekend wid go by withoot a fight brekin oot somewhere 'doon the channel', though nivver usually amountin tae mair than a bloody neb or a scartit fist. There wis this yin nicht tho...
Ah wis workin in auld Mr Cant's ale-shop jist doon fae the Trinity Hoose, tap o Colm's Close, a couple o nichts a week, there werenae an awfy lot o tenements in thon days an stair-cleanin work wis hard tae come by. It wis an ordinary wee pub, but it had been there since time immemorial an aye got guid custom. Ah wis servin in the saloon bar this nicht when John Mackenzie the young Maister o Tarbet cam in wi a crackin-bonnie young sodjer by the name o Andrew Mowat. They had come doon fae Embra tae visit Tarbet's cousin Mr Sinclair o Mey, an his wee pal Jamie Sinclair, wha were bidin in the lodgins at that time. Tarbet, wha wid go oan tae become the Earl o Cromarty, an Sinclair o Mey were richt young Turks, men o guid means an staunin, baith wi bricht futures aheid o them. We kent them aw in there, cos we had kent their faithers. Tarbet though, wis a wee bit heidstrang, a wee bit skelly, a wee bit up hissel, a jumped-up wee nyaff in fact, an that nicht he wis a wee bit 'unco fu an happy' if ye ken whit ah mean. By the looks o it him an his pal the sodjer had stopped in at a few hostelries oan their road doon fae Embra an tae be frank they were hauf-cut afore they'd even reached Cant's...
As ah mind it they had been haein a guid time in the saloon that nicht. Tarbet an Sinclair were happy tae see each ither, Jamie Sinclair wis readin oot yin o his stories. (He used tae write these strange wee stories o whit wid be gaun oan in the Embra an Leith o the far future, like three hunner year hence. He wis nivver awfy sure if he wis gaun ower fowks' heids, but they seemed tae pit up wi them aw the same, they even laughed. Sometimes they startit laughin afore he'd even startit talkin...) So the hoose wis noisy an lively an abody wis haein a grand time.
Jamie Sinclair had jist sat doon, an the young Maister cried oot fer anither roond o drinks. Ah wis kindae hopin they widnae ask, fer ah wis gey tired an ah jist wantit tae shut the bar an get up the stair tae ma bed, but when ah took ower anither joog o ale the bold yin starts at me. "Come ower here a meenit Sophia, sit oan ma knee an let me gie ye a wee shoogle!" Weel, ah wis haein nane o it. "Awa an bile yer heid ye glaikit tickle-heided malt-worm ye!" says ah. Ah wis nivver shy.
Thing is, neither wis he. He staggers tae his feet an comes roon the table at me. Noo, if it had been his pal the sodjer ah might hae stood ma groond an took whit wis comin tae me, if ye catch ma drift, but no wee Tarbet, naw, no him, no fer aw the tea in China. Ah wis aff an runnin. Ah nipped ahint the bar, through the backshop, oot intae the scullery, took a richt-turn, up the backstair, through the billiard room, oot intae the lobby, took a left-turn, up the frontstair, alang the lobby, up the garretstair an intae ma ain room, an slammed the door shut ahint me. Ah'm quick oan ma feet when ah need tae be. Tarbet meanwhile, had come staggerin ahint me through the bar, through the backshop an through the scullery till he lost me oan the backstair, an insteid o turnin left efter the billiard room an runnin up the frontstair he took a richt-turn an burst intae yin o the front rooms...
This puir wee Frenchman, Monsieur Poiret wid ye believe, wis fast asleep in there, or at least he wis till Tarbet came crashin through his door. Quick as a flash he draws his sword. He must've been sleepin wi it in his haun, which a lot o us did in thae days, an there they froze. A meenit later Mowat appears ahint him an a rammy ensues as they baith jump tae get the sword fae the wee Frenchman. Hearin the noise ah cam back doon the stairs an walked in oan this rumpus, an seein that they had managed tae get the sword fae him, ah shut the Frenchie back intae his room an telt Mowat tae tak his drunken pal an "Get oot o ma pub!" (ah actually shouted that... ah used tae enjoy shoutin that... in fact it wisnae a guid nicht unless ah'd shouted that...) They were aw shoutin an yet laughin at the same time. Ah went doon an sent abody else packin fae the bar, pit the lamps oot, an we aw went tae bed...
It micht've endit there, had the young cock Tarbet no realised he wis still cairryin the Frenchman's sword an he got it intae his heid that he had tae return it pronto an apologise, bein sae weel-reared as he wis. So back they come doon the Kirkgate, back intae the pub (we never locked oor doors in thae days) an start knockin oan the Frenchman's door. Weel he, jist gettin back tae sleep, an thinkin they were back tae assault him again, likely oan account o him bein French an aw, an him no haein a sword tae haun, taks the coal-tongs an starts bangin oan the ceilin, kennin that his twa brithers were bidin in the room directly abune his. They cam runnin doon the stairs wi pistols in their hauns, an run richt intae Tarbet an Mowat, wi the sound o the first Frenchman wailin an greetin fae his room like he wis bein murdered awready, even tho they hadnae touched him. It wis daurk mind, an mibbe in the moonlicht the steel flashed, scarin the Frenchmen, mibbe Tarbet jist staggered in his drink, or tried tae grab at a pistol, whitever, but the next thing the fower o them endit up in a tussle, an then they got intae a grapple, an then a single shot rang oot...
By the time ah had got ma hoosecoat oan, roused auld Mr Cant an got doonstairs, yin o the French brithers wis lyin deid oan the lobby carpet, he'd been blawn awa, an the ither had hauf his finger aff. Wi the gunshot rousin hauf o Leith the Toun Gaird werenae lang in comin, an they didnae tak that lang tae find Tarbet hidin oot the back, ahint the cludgie, wi the sword still in his haun, covert in blood tae the hilt, whimperin tae hissel. He an Mowat, an that Jamie Sinclair were aw arrestit, (Sinclair fer the quality o his scrievins maist likely) but o course, them bein young gentry an aw that, power an position spake its truth, the case wisnae proven an they aw got aff wi it.
Tarbet as ah telt ye went oan tae become the 2nd Earl o Cromarty, an had reached the guid age o seeventy-five when he died in 1731. His son the 3rd Earl went oan tae be yin o the Bonnie Prince's men at the '45. That wee French man nivver got tae be a guid age though, endin his life that night oan the 8th o March, 1691, in auld Leith Kirkgate...
It could aw hae been different, if only it had been the bonnie sodjer that had chased me...
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