The Quest for a Turneep Lantern
by Forbes Walker
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: A true story (almost!) rerun from the video vault that is my memory.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A true story (almost!) rerun from the video vault that is my memory.
“If we’re caught, Walker... You’ve HAD it!” Tiger threatened as the trio ambled out of the Braehead housing scheme and meandered up towards the Golf Course Road that sunny October Saturday afternoon.
“Look! It’s no’ a question o’ gettin’ caught, Ah’ve telt ye. He SAID we could ha’e them!”
I was surprised by the fear I had detected in Tiger’s voice. For Tiger was fearless, hence the nickname which his predilection for pugilism had earned him. Indeed, despite his short, wiry build, he often easily disposed of several adversaries of greater age and size than himself.
But Kenny Mac and I on the other hand were terrified of trouble, knowing only too well what would befall us should our parents - or our grandparents - find out!
We strolled up to the ‘Dark Brig’ where we abandoned the road and climbed the banking using as a ladder the roots of trees that grew in a copse called the ‘Arnet Wood’. Soon we stood on the parapet and quickly caught our breath before heading westward along the Union Canal towpath.
“Well Ah still think it’s funny that Lawrie’s growin’ neeps, jest tae GI’E them awa’!” Tiger argued tenaciously.
“So dae Ah!” chirped in Kenny Mac, who by now feared that my ardour was leading him to yet another rendezvous with his grandfather’s pit belt. “Auld Punch’ll skin me alive if Ah’m caught pinchin’ stuff....”
“Look! Ah wis here at the beginnin’ o’ the Tattie Hoalidays an’ spoke tae a fermer that was cuttin' neeps... Jest alang here… at Kettilstoun...”
Coots and mallards noisily took to flight at the sudden intrusion as golfers on the opposite bank searched frantically in the reeds for a lost ball.
“Right! This is it!” I beamed and we slid down the banking, negotiated the barbed wire fence and bravely entered the field. Each began selecting the best vegetable for the job from the thousands that spread before us. Soon we would carry off the coveted trophy and the task of creating a Halloween lantern might begin!
I was too intent on the job in hand to realise that the man I had spoken to was NOT there. There WAS a distant figure in the field - or was it a scarecrow? Suddenly the scarecrow cursed, waved a stick high above its head menacingly and began to charge at us like a raging bull.
“Run like Hell!” screeched Tiger, though we needed no telling, all three leaving the field in a cloud of dust and scrambling the banking quicker than we had descended it. Like the wind we ran, forcing the already distressed waterfowl once more ever skyward.
* * *
“That wisnae the man that Ah spoke tae...” I offered, as we leaned over the ‘Dark Brig's’ parapet and re-caught our breath.
“Naw?” snapped Tiger sarcastically, between gasps.
“THAT was Auld Lawrie,” peched Kenny Mac. “D’ye no’ ken he blew the hint leg aff the Cormack’s dug wi’ a shoatgun?” I suddenly remembered Scamp, who hobbled about our back road on three and a half legs, and clenched my teeth in horror! “Whit exactly did YOUR ‘fermer’ say tae ye the ither week?”
I pondered and then said, “Ah asked him quite politely if Ah could PLEASE have a turneep for a lantern...”
“Aye! But whit did HE say tae YOU?” both chorused.
“He said, ‘Neeps? Neeps is it? Ye can ha’e the flamin’ loat fer me, son!’”
“Look! It’s no’ a question o’ gettin’ caught, Ah’ve telt ye. He SAID we could ha’e them!”
I was surprised by the fear I had detected in Tiger’s voice. For Tiger was fearless, hence the nickname which his predilection for pugilism had earned him. Indeed, despite his short, wiry build, he often easily disposed of several adversaries of greater age and size than himself.
But Kenny Mac and I on the other hand were terrified of trouble, knowing only too well what would befall us should our parents - or our grandparents - find out!
We strolled up to the ‘Dark Brig’ where we abandoned the road and climbed the banking using as a ladder the roots of trees that grew in a copse called the ‘Arnet Wood’. Soon we stood on the parapet and quickly caught our breath before heading westward along the Union Canal towpath.
“Well Ah still think it’s funny that Lawrie’s growin’ neeps, jest tae GI’E them awa’!” Tiger argued tenaciously.
“So dae Ah!” chirped in Kenny Mac, who by now feared that my ardour was leading him to yet another rendezvous with his grandfather’s pit belt. “Auld Punch’ll skin me alive if Ah’m caught pinchin’ stuff....”
“Look! Ah wis here at the beginnin’ o’ the Tattie Hoalidays an’ spoke tae a fermer that was cuttin' neeps... Jest alang here… at Kettilstoun...”
Coots and mallards noisily took to flight at the sudden intrusion as golfers on the opposite bank searched frantically in the reeds for a lost ball.
“Right! This is it!” I beamed and we slid down the banking, negotiated the barbed wire fence and bravely entered the field. Each began selecting the best vegetable for the job from the thousands that spread before us. Soon we would carry off the coveted trophy and the task of creating a Halloween lantern might begin!
I was too intent on the job in hand to realise that the man I had spoken to was NOT there. There WAS a distant figure in the field - or was it a scarecrow? Suddenly the scarecrow cursed, waved a stick high above its head menacingly and began to charge at us like a raging bull.
“Run like Hell!” screeched Tiger, though we needed no telling, all three leaving the field in a cloud of dust and scrambling the banking quicker than we had descended it. Like the wind we ran, forcing the already distressed waterfowl once more ever skyward.
* * *
“That wisnae the man that Ah spoke tae...” I offered, as we leaned over the ‘Dark Brig's’ parapet and re-caught our breath.
“Naw?” snapped Tiger sarcastically, between gasps.
“THAT was Auld Lawrie,” peched Kenny Mac. “D’ye no’ ken he blew the hint leg aff the Cormack’s dug wi’ a shoatgun?” I suddenly remembered Scamp, who hobbled about our back road on three and a half legs, and clenched my teeth in horror! “Whit exactly did YOUR ‘fermer’ say tae ye the ither week?”
I pondered and then said, “Ah asked him quite politely if Ah could PLEASE have a turneep for a lantern...”
“Aye! But whit did HE say tae YOU?” both chorused.
“He said, ‘Neeps? Neeps is it? Ye can ha’e the flamin’ loat fer me, son!’”
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Forbes Walker loves to write poetry, prose and plays, especially in his own language. But he can also use English when necessary.