From Mrs Marguerite Walsh Atkins

Ladies and Chents,

Wan o’ ‘at chiels ower ‘ere seyd A most interjuice masel.  Hid seems kinna daft-lek til me, bit ‘ats fit he seyd, so A most tell ye ‘at ma name’s Mrs Maggie Fracher, ma age 63, an’ me an’ ma man hes a croftie at ‘e back o’ Achavanich, half-rods ‘etween Bullavanich an’ Achaginach, an’ ‘ats ‘at.

Well, hid’s iss wey.  A wiz asked til tell ye fowk aboot ma traivels in London, an’ trowth, A wiz not willan, A wiz fair throwther fit wi wan thing an' anither, an' forbye 'at, A wiz kinna nervish thinkan ye’d a’ be gran’ an stuck-up kin’ o’ fowks, bit fan A see ye, fine div A ken, A hev little til be feared o’.

Weel, as A seyd, hid’s iss wey.  Ma owldest dochter, Chessie Cheenie, her ‘at wiz in ‘e Wuffs of fitever ye ca’ hid, she got merried til an English chiel, ca’d Paircy.  Losh, til hearken til him spekkan, ye’d swear he wisna wice, bit he’s a daicent chiel for a’ ‘at, an’ daean richt weel in ‘e engineerium line.  A’ll warrant he hes all his aikles, ‘at same lad.

Weel, nothing wid do Paircy an’ Chessie Cheenie bit for me til go til London for a holiday, an’ stop wi’ them, me, ‘at’s niver been farrer sooth than Watten in ma life.  They asked Donal as weel, ‘at’s ma man, ye ken, bit he seyd “Fat wid A be doin amang a’ ‘at foreigners ‘at dinna ken porridge fae peasemeil brose, an’ niver see otbreid fae wan week’s end til ‘e ither.  Ye go yersel, Maggie, dawtie.

So A left ma youngest dochter, Maggie Ann, her ‘at’s goan wi’ wan o’ yin Acharolles, til look efter ‘e hens, an’ ‘e soo, an’ ‘e gricie, an’ ‘e stirkie, an’ Donal of coorse, an’ off A set.  Mind ye, ma owld chiel did me richt weel, an’ cam’ himsel’ til ‘e station, walkan, an’ took all ma loogage on a hurley, forbye.

Weel, ‘e less seyd aboot ‘at chourney ‘e better.  Hid wiz fearful!  Forbye ma Sunday best, A hed a cheinge o’ semmit, an’ ‘e lek o’ ‘at, an’ A hed a yowng cockie A hed killed ‘e day ‘efore, an’ twa-three eiggs, an’ a pucklie o’ salt butter, an’ a pun o’ croodie.  ‘E cockie A wiz chist cerryan til hing ‘im, ye ken, as ‘at’s ‘e best way for keepan ‘e chiblets for ‘e broth, an’ A wid hing ‘im up in ‘e coarner o’ ‘e cerriage.  Ye’d not believe ‘e impidence A put up wi’ aboot ‘at cockie.  Wan gaird thocht he wid get me for certain til pit id in ‘e van, bit na fears.  A soon sorted him, ‘e muckle doad, an’ ivery time A went oot o’ ‘at cerriage, for fitever cause, A took ‘e cockie, an’ ‘e eiggs, an’ ‘e butter, an’ ‘e croodie wi’ me.  Mind ye, there’s no flechs on Maggie Fracher.  We hedna all yin sodgers billeted on his for nothing, no a dinged thing safe.  A kent fine, so A wid leave nothing on ma seat in ‘e coarner, barran ma han’bag wi’ ma ration books an’ ‘at dirt an’ falderals.  Ma bawbees A hed sewn in ‘atween ma semmit an’ ma gansey, ye ken.

Weel, A wid go in ‘e middle o’ ‘e day an’ hev ma denner, in ‘e back-end restaurant caur or fitever ye ca’d.  A piece for eleven o’clock, A hed wi’ me in a paper pockie, an’ fin A gaed in an’ hinged up ‘e cockie in ‘e coarner by ‘e table, first wan impident gomeril says til me, “Been up for the twelfth, Madam”, A’ll wager A gied him a dinger.  Noor leyt, next comes a wee teetlag sprot o’ a chiel wi’ a cockid bonnad, wi’ a dial ‘e colour o’ sooans, an’ says he, “Madam, you cannot have that bird in here.”  “Can A no”, says I, “Fa’ div ye think ye are, til spek til me lek ‘at, ye peedie wee,  girnan, snotteran, critterag, ‘at wid hev til stan’ on tippence til see ower thrippence, an’ me, owld enough til be yer grannie, an’ A widna hev ye, fit’s more.  Ye fushionless, funceless, feel trosk o’ a regimentarian ‘at ye are.  Wan ither word oot o’ yer gob an’ A’ll claw yer loog for ye, ye doited gowk”.  Bit, losh, lassie, he wiz off afore A’d feenished, an’ ‘at wiz ‘e last A saw o’ him.

Fitever wey or no, A wiz goan til tell ye aboot ma holiday, an’ no till antle on aboot sich eegnorant gapuses, an’ so A’ll tell ye ‘at fan A arrived at Euston, ‘ere wiz Chessie Cheenie an’ Paircy meetan me.  A forgot til tell ye ‘at she hes til be called Chane noo, ‘at sounds richt daft-lek til me, for she had twa perfectly good names lek Chessie Ceenie, efter Donal’s mither an’ mine.  Bit ‘ yowng anes hes notions lek ‘at nooadays, as ye’ll lekly ken better than me.

Weel, A could see ‘at Paircy wiz by-ornar nevervish at handlan ‘e cockie, an’ Chane hed her best costume on, so A wid cerry hid masel.  An’ so, lek ‘at, we wid go on a thing called a Chube – Ochanee, o’ all ‘e inventions o’ Saatan,  ‘at Chube wiz 'e worst.  In we gaed, doon intil 'e booals o' 'e earth, an' wiz packed in lek herrin in a barrel, an’ waitan til be dashed til Eternity.  Fan all o’ a sudden, A thocht A hed loast ma croodie, an’ A wid step ower til call ‘e Gaird.  Bit chist as A gaed til ‘e door, hid slammed shut an’ catched ‘e cockie clean in ‘e wyme, an’ ‘ere he wiz, ma poor cockie, fair pairted in ‘e middle.  Sich a cafuffle A hev niver heard.  ‘E Gaird stoppan ‘e train, an’ miscallan me, an’ ‘e place a’ smoored in bleed, an’ wan drollag shovan in an’ shoutan, “Make way there, I’m a doctor, what has happened”, an’ niver a wan o’ them thinkan o’ ‘e meiss ‘e poor cockie wiz in, ‘at A hed been hainan a’ iss while for ‘e Sunday denner.  A’ iss time, ‘ere wiz ‘e croodie underneath ma oxter, an’ A wiz fearful pitten-aboot ower ‘e croodie.  Ochanee!  Bit haud ye on, ‘at wizna ‘e end o’d.  For oot o’ e’ pot intil ‘e fryin-pan.  No sooner oot o’ ‘at Chube, an’ we hed til go up in a most fearful contraption, lek a movan stairie, called an excavator, A think, an’ me still hingan on til ‘e remains o’ ‘e cockie.  Chessie Cheenie gaed on first, an’ ‘en me, an’ ‘en Paircy.  Weel, none hed ‘e gumption til tell me ‘at ye hed til bide in wan place on ‘is excavator, an’ hid wid dirl ye up.  So A wid try til traivel up.  Weel, half-rods up, did no ma petticoat get catched in wan o’ ‘at steps.  Hid wizna ma best black satin ane A wear next ma skirt, nor yet ma blue worsted ane fat A wear next til ma combinations, but a spleet new grey flannel ane.  Losh, lassie, every meenad iss steps wiz movan, an’ choogan ‘at ma coats, an’ them hingan doon in loops aboot ma ankles, fan at ‘e top, did no ma coat stick altegither, an’ off A wiz shoved wi’ an almightly dunt, an withoot ma petticoat.  Bit, wid A go hom’ withoot id?  Na fears!  Losh, ye wid hev laughed.  They hed til stop ‘e whole concern til manage ‘at, an’ wan chiel chavvan awey at ‘e excavator, an’ anither chiel prysan an’ howkan ma petticoat oot.  Richt daicent buddies, none o’ ‘at orra chiels.  Fan A telt them hid wiz new-made fae three yairds o’ flannel oot o’ Moads, they said that they quite understood an’ they wid do their best til help.  In ‘e end, A gaed them twa-three eiggs, an’ a pucklie o’ butter.

Weel, all ‘e things A could tell ye aboot, ye wid not believe.  Chessie Cheenie’s hoose, ‘at she will call a flat, is all electric, wi a vacuum cleaner 'at fair gluffed me oot o' ma wits fan id started, an’ a telephone, an’ a electric cooker.  Losh, wance fan Chessie Cheenie wiz oot, wid A no try til mak’ masel a bowlie o’ tea, an’ fit wi’ switchan on every dinged knobbagie, an’ wastan a whole box o’ spounks wi’ niver a lowe til show for id, ochanee!  Bit for all ‘at, id wiz a fine little hoosie.

Bit for ‘e last nicht, ‘at beyt all.  A niver hear ‘e lek o’ yon.  Paircy an’ Chessie Cheenie wid tak’ me til ‘e theater.  Weel, hid wizna far off, a muckle beeg hall called ‘e Hippodrome.  Trowth, A saw enough o’ hips yinder til lest me a’ ma days.  At ‘e start, A will say, ‘e concert wizna bad, wi’ chooglers an’ acrybats, an’ a’ thing, fan a’ o’ a sudden, cam’ on til ‘e platform, twa weemen, near needle-naked, an’ A’m no tellin ye a word o’ a lie, no’ a stitch o’ cloes on, barran three lace doyleys, no bigger than a dockan, strategically placed.  Weel, they started til kick their heels abeen their heids, an’ fling aboot, til A wiz fair scunnered.  Trowth, A wiz waitin for ‘e polis til come til them.  A chust could not abide yon, so up A got an’ roared at them, “Ye brazen limmers, ye indaicent Jezebels, go hom’ an’ cover yer nakedness”.  Weel, for twa meenads they stopped lek twa stuccas, an’ a’ ‘e fowk gloweran at me, til wan chiel in ‘e back seats got up an’ roared, “Quite right, old girl, and a lousy act anyhow”.  Fitever ‘at might mean.

Fit ever way or no, ‘at wiz ‘e sequel an’ ‘e start o’d.  In twa shakes o Hornag’s tail, they a’ fell til fechtan an’ skirlan an’ sic a stramash A niver saw in a’ ma born days.

Chessie Ceehnie wiz fair black affronted at me, nothing wid do bit til slip oot ‘e back door ‘at very meenad.  Ochanee, she wiz richt angered at me, bit Paircy, he lached lek til kill himsel, an’ seyd, “’E owld girl (‘at’s me), hed more spirit than any wan o’ them.

Weel, hid’s ower time A stopped, so A’ll be off noo, an’ if ye come up ‘e way o’ Hakreeg in ‘e summer, lek anoff A’ll tak’ anither stoon, an’ tell ye mair aboot London

Mrs Marguerite Walsh Atkins

Janice Paterson (nee McGee) has provided a short glossary to help with some of the terms in Mrs Atkins amusing speech. - This glossary may be extended in time.

Abeen - above
Aikle – molar, back tooth, as in “hevin all yer aikles” meaning you know what you are doing or that you have your wits about you
Brose – a mixture of meal, usually oatmeal, and boiling water
Chiel – a young man
Croodie or Crowdie – a kind of rather crumbly soft cheese
Dirl – to (cause to) tingle, vibrate, ring
Dunt – (to give) a heavy blow (to)
Forbye  - as well, in addition
Fushionless – without energy, strength, ability, spirit or enthusiasm: insipid, dull
Gansey – a jumper  .  In the past the particular stitches and decoration on a fisherman’s
Girn – to moan, complain, grumble
Hurley – a cart made from a wooden box
Oxter -  an armpit
Peedie – small
Puckle – a small particle or amount
Semmit – a vest
Stramash – a disturbance, uproar

Surnames
Fracher – Old Caithness pronunciation of the surname Farquhar
Wheemster – Old Caithness pronunciation of the surname Phimister