Tyaavin awa

I was Poet Partner to Moray for a number of years, back in the day. The Moray Doric is slightly different from the Aberdeenshire Doric of my grandparents, but I got used to hearing it. Writing a short story purely in Doric would have been difficult for non-Doric spikkers to understand, so I came up with the idea of a hybrid, a loon from Elgin who had moved away to the South, but who could still fit in with the local speech patterns when visiting. This is the result.

Tyaavin awa

 

The scene opens in a terraced house in Elgin, not made of marble.

 

She got up in the darkness at 4:30 am to go to the toilet. She quite often got up at 4:30 am to go to the toilet. This time, however, she did not slip back into bed beside the malodorous mound that was her sleeping husband. This time she picked up her clothes from her bedside chair and took them through to the guest bedroom, not that they ever had actual guests staying. It had been their son’s room before he left them and moved away, finding a job as a fitness instructor in a leisure centre in Glasgow. He disappeared, far too young, after a friend’s stag night in Prague. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, but not very often.

This time she dressed, picked up a note in her left hand, the note she had written the night before, while grabbing the handle of her pre-packed suitcase in her right hand, the one she had written the note with. This time she left the note, with her wedding ring, on the kitchen table, flitted out the front door, and put the case into the back of her car – not their car – then drove off.

 

The End.

 

 

What more do you want? A quick chorus of She’s Leaving Home, Bye, Bye?

 

All right then, I’ll grant you there is more to it than that, but you can’t have all of it. Let’s settle for Selected Highlights, shall we? But first, who are we talking about?

 

 

She: Euphemia (Famie) Murphy, née Townson

He: George (Dod) Murphy, husband of said, and not the soberest son of Moray

Absent Son: Tommy Murphy, about whom nothing more will be said

Freen: Isobel (Beldie), Famie’s workmate and confidante

Assorted Quines: Assorted quines, some professional femmes de la nuit, others bon accord women, temporary subjects for the drink-fuelled and shallow affections of Dod

The Loon: Bobbie, owner of a shoulder on which Famie had sometimes cried, and other anatomical features, on which she had not

 

A note on translation from the local speech:

I realise that conversations like the following:

‘Fit like, Famie?’

‘Och, jist tyaavin awa, Beldie.’

might be difficult for some to fully grasp, but it would be pretentious and untruthful to render them in the Queen’s English as, say

‘How are you, Euphemia?’

‘Oh, just struggling away, Isobel.’

Nevertheless, compromises have had to be made, with English and the occasional Scots words standing in for the rich rustic dialect of North-East Scotland, a tongue familiar to me from growing up there.

Och, let’s just get on with it.

************************

 

Famie was keen to get her temporary roots settled in to a wee sub-let in Fochabers, a room in a bought former council house occupied by her workmate Beldie, Beldie’s man Erchie, and their teenage daughter Lynn-Ann, name-checked at a time when the fashion for arbitrarily double-barrelling quine’s names was spreading o’er the Atlantic. Famie and Beldie worked thegither at a well-known food processing factory on the outskirts of the town, and the baith o them had a shift that morning, clocking on at 8. Famie’s crush, fancy-man, toy-boy, paramour, call him what you will, Bobbie, also worked in the plant, which was handy for lunch-time assignations if he was on the same shift as Famie.

‘That you left him then Famie?’

‘Aye. Left him snoring. He tried to get freenly last nicht, but he was pished, kept fa’in ower. Still, it’s easier to dodge him when he’s like that, it slows him doon.’

‘Want some breakfast?’

Famie nodded.

‘I’ll fry some squerr sausages an a couple eggs for us. See if there’s ony chutney ye fancy.’

The factory had a shop where workers could buy short-dated goods and quality control rejects very cheaply. It came in handy. You could get bashed tins and stuff with missing labels too. It wis aye gweed gear, mind. Beldie’s larder was full of soup tins, relishes, jars of artichoke hearts and other goodies.

‘Fit’ll’e dae fan he reads yer note?’

‘Nae idea, bit he’s workin in Kinloss this week, so he micht no hae time tae read it afore he gets his lift. I’m hopin I can sneak back eftir we feenish today and grab some mair o ma claes.’

‘I’ll come wi ye Fame.’

‘Yer a pal, Bel, so ye are.’

‘Och, it’s nae bother, and it’s jist for a fyow days, until ye get yer room at the refuge.’

‘Monday, they said.’

‘Great, well, let’s go and earn wir crusts.’

‘Lynn-Ann still at the school?’ She pronounced it ‘skweel’, as they do here.

‘Aye, she’ll see tae hersel. She’s a gweed quine.’

They put in their shifts, then Famie drove them to her former home. George wasn’t there, and her note to him was still on the kitchen table. If he had read it he hadn’t dislodged Famie’s wedding ring sitting on top of it. Probably too hungover – he usually was. It didn’t take the two women long to put Famie’s clothes and personal stuff into a couple of heavy duty refuse sacks they’d brought along with them. Beldie asked Famie if she wanted to take her wedding photo from the mantelpiece.

Famie just stared at her, and Beldie said, ‘Thocht no.’ But she did take the photo of the long-lost Tommy. I wonder what happened to him? You’d think the Czech polis would have turned up some evidence by now? Nothing. No sign he’d fallen off the Charles Bridge, or been mugged in the alley behind U Fleků. Maybe he met a quine, or lost his money and was hitch-hiking back to Elgin the long way, via Vladivostock? Sorry, I said I wouldn’t mention him.

Erchie was embarrassed at the tea-table that night, couldn’t look directly at Famie, but Lynn-Ann had no such inhibitions.

‘Fit wey did ye leave Uncle Dod, Auntie Famie?’

‘He wis aye hittin me, lass, an forbye he went wi ither weemin.’

‘Naw! He didnae?’

‘Aye, he did. Nae doot. Ee nicht he went oot drinkin, then he cam back fu an hit me, or tried tae.’

‘That’s terrible, Auntie Famie.’

‘Aye lass. So I’m off to the refuge on Monday, until I can get a place o ma ain.’

‘Will ye no miss him?’

‘Naw, definately naw.’

Their conversation was interrupted by a call on Famie’s mobile. It was an unfamiliar number. Turned out to be one of Dod’s pals, phoning for him, as Dod didnae have a mobile.

‘Aye hen, Dod wis askin faar ye were. He fun yer note last nicht, and he was fair worrit aboot ye.’

‘Wis he noo?’

‘Aye, fair worrit. So faar are ye lass?’

‘I’m no sayin, but ye can tell him he’s no tae bother looking for me. I’ve had enough o’s drinking and the rest o’s nonsense. I’m no comin back. He’ll hae tae shift fur his-sel.’

‘I’ll tell him Famie, but could ye no gie us a bittie clue?’

‘Naw Allie. Night night.’

Allie (Alistair) didn’t hang up immediately, and she heard her husband ask what she’d said, just before she closed the call.

Keep the auld swine guessing, she thought to herself.

At break time the next day she phoned her social worker.

‘Thanks for calling Mrs Murphy. Everything’s all set for you for next Monday. Your room will be ready; it’s just getting a wee clean and tidy.’

‘That’s great hen. I’ve moved out, and I’m bidin wi a pal until then. I’ve got the Monday off work.’

‘And Mr Murphy…?’

‘Disnae know where I’m bidin, and I’ll keep it that wey.’

‘Until you’re settled in.’

‘Until I’m settlet in.’

‘There’s an entryphone on the door, Mrs Murphy, and all the apartments have got alarms. But there’s never been any trouble. I’ll be there to let you in at 9.30, and I’ll introduce you to some of the other women. I’ll see you get sorted out.’

‘Thanks hen, you’re awfy good to me.’

‘Not at all, Mrs Murphy, we’re here to help.’

The thing is, she really believes it. With her it’s not lip-service, or working through a scripted checklist. I know her. She means what she says. We’ve been friends for a long time, but neither of us wanted more than friendship. Let’s face it, I’m just not the marrying kind, or marrying again kind, to be more accurate.

I’d known Babbsy (Barbara) before my divorce, because she and Unspeakable had been pals. When the excrement collided with the turbine it had been Babbsy who came round first to speak to me, and she had calmed me down during the legal twattery.

It was natural that we’d start going out occasionally afterwards, but she was still friends with my ex, and my nasty suspicious mind believed that she would relay info on our ‘dates’ and what I’d said right back to her. But Babbsy’s a good social worker, really cares about the women she works with.

Nae doot Famie would big up foo bad Dod was to her, foo violent he was, foo muckle he drank an slept wi hoors. Basis in fact, actually; he did do all those things. Truth was he was too slow and stupid to do her any serious damage, but there were times he caught her and blacked her eye. Once, a summer evening, she’d been trapped between the garden shed and the fence, and he’d given her a real kicking before the neighbour pulled him off her. No, the violence was real, Babbsy had seen the evidence and the police reports, her team had OK’ed it, so Famie was given a place in the refuge.

I know that Dod isn’t the brightest candle in the votive stand of life, but even he would eventually figure out that Famie’s best friend Beldie would know where she was. Trouble was, Dod didn’t know where Beldie lived, and he didn’t move in Erchie’s more rarified social circles, like the golf club, so he couldn’t ask him. That left the factory. He couldn’t very well march up to the reception desk and ask for Famie’s whereabouts, even if he knew which shift she was working, but he did know some of the women who worked there, some even in the Biblical sense. He would go to the pub and ask them. Friday night, definately, because Tuesdays to Thursdays the centre was so quiet you could hear the tumbleweed blawin alang baith sides o the High Street.

I was actually in Elgin seeing a client that week, out for a wander after my Italian meal, and I fancied a wee digestif – a couple of pints of Best would do – so I wandered into a quiet little lounge bar, and, Blow Me Down, but didn’t Famie, Beldie and Bobbie have the same idea? Naturally I joined them, buying a round of course. I’ve never held it against Famie that her son, that conniving bastard Tommy, stole my wife. It wasn’t Famie’s fault, and besides, I discovered later that my ex had allowed herself to be stolen a few other times while we were married. But he kept her, that was the difference, and she wanted to be kept. Personal trainer? Oh aye.

‘Fit like Famie?’ I asked.

‘Nae sae gweed Jock.’ She leaned over the table, close to my ear, so she could whisper. ‘I’ve left Dod. Dinnae say onyhing, but I’ve done it. I’m awa ti the safe hoose oan Monday.’

‘Dae ye nae think ye’re takkin a risk comin oot faar Dod micht fin ye?’

‘He nivver comes in here. It’s ower fancy for um.’

‘Weel, I wish ye luck Famie.’

‘Thanks Jock. Fit like yirsel?’

‘Och, jist tyaavin awa. I’m here for a couple mair days, then back tae Glasgow.’

‘Foo about…?’ She didn’t need to mention her name.

‘Huvnae heard frae her for a couple months. Bides in Livingston noo. Got a job there.’

‘She didnae mention Tommy, did she?’

‘She said she hadnae seen him since he gaed tae Prague. Speirt if I’d heard onythin.’

‘An ye huvnae?’

‘Nae a dickie bird, Famie. Naithin.’

And it was true. I’d heard nothing since he went to Prague. I’ve read stories about guys hiring thugs to whack folk in foreign capitals, but what would a mere accountant know about arranging that kind of thing? Fantasy, pure fantasy.

The reality was that I’d lost her. We wouldn’t have the family I’d hoped to have with her, the cosy life, the house in the suburbs, the holidays to exotic places. Maybe, at some far off time in the future, I’d have that dream with somebody else, but first I’d have to be able to say her name, picture her, without feeling the way I do now. Sometimes I can’t think of my situation without wanting to kill someone – her, her new loon, myself.

Just then an old Lossie friend, heading out, spotted me in the corner.

‘Fit like Jock?’

‘Oh, Hi Tam. Tyaavin awa, ye ken, jist tyaavin awa.’

Copyright © Colin Will 2021