Sentence The Onehundredandfifth
After he left Jinglin' Geordie's, where the young folk were in the midst of heated discussions, Jock George, Lord Linkumdoddie went into The Halfway House next door, where he was soon joined by Frankie – having finished her shift at the other pub; she kissed him on the lips and sat beside him, where a glass of Irn Bru awaited her: “ma mither telt me no tae get mixed up wi older men like ye,” she looked him in the eyes and grinned, “an ye were older than hur tae”; he laughed and squeezed her hand affectionately; “I was old enough to be her father,” he said, “so I'm old enough to be your grandfather”; “och, stoap mitherin oan,” she giggled and squeezed his hand back: ye ken a luv ye, Jockie,” and he nodded: *it's reciprocated, and I'm sorry if I use words with too many syllables for you”; “och, ye cheeky auld goat – is it yer place or mine the nicht,” she asked; Linkumdoddie checked his watch: “I've got someone to see in here, in 15 minutes, pop up to mine and I'll see you there in an hour, maybe sooner”; “okie doakie, ah'll hae sum denner waitin fur ye,” and Frankie gave him a kiss and sashayed out of the bar, drawing admiring glances from three lads standing at the bar;
“yer oan a promise there, M'Lud,” called one of them – a Solicitor's Clerk he knew well: the Legal Fraternity of Edinburgh was like a many-headed Hydra, popping up wherever you went: just as well I have no real secrets, he thought and then called out to the young fellow: “how's your Da, Iain, I've not seen him around The Court for a while,” for Iain had succeeded his father who had succeeded his father who wee Jockie George had run about barefoot in the heather with, when that Iain's father had the next croft over from Jockie's Grannie; now Auld Iain McIain had really been a truculent brute of a man, who's treatment of his wife at a time when what went on between four walls was regarded as a matter for a man and his wife an' wha' daur meddle – until Wee Iain, Jockie's pal, turned 16 and beat his father to within an inch of his life and sent him packing, never to be seen in the Glen again; everyone knew what had happened, even the local Bobbie, but no-one in those parts would have spoken in condemnation of the son who had defended his mother; and when he, like Jockie, won a scholarship, his mother and the weans went with him and none of that family ever went back; Linkumdoddie sighed, there had been a lot of water under the bridge since those days, and wondered why his thoughts seemed to be turning back on themselves, but here was Tavish Dalwhinnie coming through the door, looking every inch the louche Edinburgh Criticaster, with his hobnail Ghillie shoes, checked socks, tweed plus fours and jacket, cream shirt under a caramel waistcoat w
and his mane of auburn hair above a bearded, drinker's face; he asked the barman for a glass of Laphroaig and pulled out a chair to sit at Linkumdoddie's table; “sic a sicht, Tavish, you'll be giving your Gay fraternity a bad name in that ensemble; are you auditioning for Brigadoon, is it, or have you been transferred to the Farming pages?” at which Dalwhinnie snorted and said he'd eaten better men than Jock George for breakfast, to which his dear old friend responded by asking, “and did you get their cumuppance doon yer throat an' a'! which produced such a burst of laughter between them and the rest of the drinkers – mostly other hacks from The Scotsman, that for the next five minutes everyone was coughing and hardly able to draw breath, and even the smokers didn't try to move out into the close.
After he left Jinglin' Geordie's, where the young folk were in the midst of heated discussions, Jock George, Lord Linkumdoddie went into The Halfway House next door, where he was soon joined by Frankie – having finished her shift at the other pub; she kissed him on the lips and sat beside him, where a glass of Irn Bru awaited her: “ma mither telt me no tae get mixed up wi older men like ye,” she looked him in the eyes and grinned, “an ye were older than hur tae”; he laughed and squeezed her hand affectionately; “I was old enough to be her father,” he said, “so I'm old enough to be your grandfather”; “och, stoap mitherin oan,” she giggled and squeezed his hand back: ye ken a luv ye, Jockie,” and he nodded: *it's reciprocated, and I'm sorry if I use words with too many syllables for you”; “och, ye cheeky auld goat – is it yer place or mine the nicht,” she asked; Linkumdoddie checked his watch: “I've got someone to see in here, in 15 minutes, pop up to mine and I'll see you there in an hour, maybe sooner”; “okie doakie, ah'll hae sum denner waitin fur ye,” and Frankie gave him a kiss and sashayed out of the bar, drawing admiring glances from three lads standing at the bar;
“yer oan a promise there, M'Lud,” called one of them – a Solicitor's Clerk he knew well: the Legal Fraternity of Edinburgh was like a many-headed Hydra, popping up wherever you went: just as well I have no real secrets, he thought and then called out to the young fellow: “how's your Da, Iain, I've not seen him around The Court for a while,” for Iain had succeeded his father who had succeeded his father who wee Jockie George had run about barefoot in the heather with, when that Iain's father had the next croft over from Jockie's Grannie; now Auld Iain McIain had really been a truculent brute of a man, who's treatment of his wife at a time when what went on between four walls was regarded as a matter for a man and his wife an' wha' daur meddle – until Wee Iain, Jockie's pal, turned 16 and beat his father to within an inch of his life and sent him packing, never to be seen in the Glen again; everyone knew what had happened, even the local Bobbie, but no-one in those parts would have spoken in condemnation of the son who had defended his mother; and when he, like Jockie, won a scholarship, his mother and the weans went with him and none of that family ever went back; Linkumdoddie sighed, there had been a lot of water under the bridge since those days, and wondered why his thoughts seemed to be turning back on themselves, but here was Tavish Dalwhinnie coming through the door, looking every inch the louche Edinburgh Criticaster, with his hobnail Ghillie shoes, checked socks, tweed plus fours and jacket, cream shirt under a caramel waistcoat w
and his mane of auburn hair above a bearded, drinker's face; he asked the barman for a glass of Laphroaig and pulled out a chair to sit at Linkumdoddie's table; “sic a sicht, Tavish, you'll be giving your Gay fraternity a bad name in that ensemble; are you auditioning for Brigadoon, is it, or have you been transferred to the Farming pages?” at which Dalwhinnie snorted and said he'd eaten better men than Jock George for breakfast, to which his dear old friend responded by asking, “and did you get their cumuppance doon yer throat an' a'! which produced such a burst of laughter between them and the rest of the drinkers – mostly other hacks from The Scotsman, that for the next five minutes everyone was coughing and hardly able to draw breath, and even the smokers didn't try to move out into the close.
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