The Toulmin Prize is open to amateur writers over the age of 16. The stories entered should have a north east focus, and may be written in Doric or English, or a mixture of the two. This week, we’ll be posting one story a day, including the four commended stories and the overall winner of the Toulmin Prize.
Below is a piece written by Anna Neil, the fourth runner-up.
THE MILK ROUND
It’s strange how a laddie can get it intae his heid that he wants tae deliver milk, but that’s how it was for Frank. I suppose it wis because he’d seen a the quines at school flirting wi the delivery lad, them even arriving early sae as tae catch him unloading the crates. An right brazen they were too; an a the while the big horse patiently watching whit wis goin on. Then the lad would climb back up on the cairt, smiling awa, and wi a few words o encouragement and a shake o the reigns, he’d be off; the sun shining doon on him as he went; a the lassies runnin tae the school gates tae watch him go.
So when Frank left school that summer and saw a job for trainee rounds-man advertised in the Press and Journal, he thocht a his Birthdays had come at once.
Carefully he crafted oot a letter o application, then waited eagerly on a reply.
‘Ye must be feel, laddie,’ his faither said. ‘Ye’ll niver get oot yer bed that early, and dinna think yer ma or me are getting up tae get you oot the door!’
However nothing said put Frank off, for the thoucht o being a working man instead of a schoolboy, and of being in charge of a horse made him feel sick with excitement, and of course his absolute faith that lassies were attracted to men with horses!
So when a letter arrived inviting him to come down to the dairy for an interview, he was fair beside himself.
Kennerty was one of the many dairies that delivered milk in the Aberdeen area, the premises being in Thistle Place, their stables just a few hundred yards down the road from the shop. And now Frank waited nervously in the late afternoon sunshine, hearing the soft movement of the horses from where he stood; their hooves on the straw covered concrete floor as they changed position; their muffled snorts as they ate. There wis a kind o comfort in it, he thought: gentle like.
Then from a small office close by, a small weaselly looking man appeared and crossed the court yard to where Frank stood; his face as he spoke, reminding him of a well-used brown paper bag, with grey eyes like marbles pressed into it, glassy and moist. His name he said was Jimmy Horlicks and he was the retiring rounds-man.
‘Well laddie. Noo fit di ye ken aboot horses?’
There was a long pause.
‘Well nae a lot actually,’ Frank replied honestly, ‘in fact only fit I’ve learnt frae Roy Rogers and Gene Autry.’
Jimmy Horlicks took off his cap and scratched his head.
‘Freens o yours are they?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Nae mony milk lads hae sic fine acquaintances, but come awa an I’ll introduce ye tae a grand beast. Yin that Roy or Gene wid be proud tae ken.’
They entered the stables dark and warm; the smell of horse and hay thick in the air. The stalls were large and comfy looking – Jimmy chuntering away about each horse as they passed, with Frank wondering which one he would eventually stop at. But even now his eyes were drawn down the row to where, in the mellow light, he could see the dark outline of a horse that was much larger than any of the others, and when they finally reached him Jimmy turned around and looked directly at Frank.
‘This laddie is Fury.’
He gently slapped at the horses side to encourage him to move over, allowing him to squeeze past while urging the now reluctant Frank to follow. The great horse was eating from a hay ball tied to the back wall of the stable, gently pulling then slowly chewing; his great head turning slowly to look at Jimmy before his black eyes settled on Frank – then he stopped chewing.
‘He’s a fair size,’ Frank croaked nervously.
Jimmy stretched up to comb his gnarled fingers through the black mane, then let his hand slip slowly down to Fury’s mouth, where the huge nose nuzzled into his palm.
‘Ye ken, laddie,’ he said softly. ‘I love this horse like a man loves his ain bairn.’
Frank felt a lump rise in his throat.
‘Aye,’ he murmured, allowing a moment to pass, ‘he’s fine right enough, bit why is he called Fury?’
‘Ye could say, he’s a wee bit feisty, bit jist a wee bit mind,’ Jimmy whispered.
‘Why are ye whisperin,’ Frank asked.
‘I widna want him tae hear,’ he replied,’ fir he kens a thing yer sayin.’
So now back out in the yard, Jimmy began to explain how the working day at the dairy would go. Frank would have to be at the stables by five, when Fury would be harnessed up before the crates of milk were loaded. All the horses left at different times depending on how far they had to go to start their round, but theirs began at six. Then after their deliveries were complete, usually around mid-day apart from a Friday, they would return to the stables where Fury would have his tack removed, would be brushed down and fed before Franks day ended.
‘An mind,’ Jimmy said by way of warning, ‘he disna like bein held up for ony reason. He kens the time, so ye canna be oor late back!’
‘Aye….right,’ Frank said, ‘now yer really pullin ma leg. A horse that can tell the time? Ye’ll be tellin me next that he reads the Press and Journal.’
‘Weel, the job’s yours if ye want it,’ Jimmy said, paying no heed to Frank’s comments. ‘Ye seem a fine enough laddie tae me, but its nae an easy job mine. Dinna let yer freens, Gene and Roy tell ye ony different.’
Now Frank wheeled his bicycle out from the garden shed, his only means of reaching the dairy that early, with his father watching; he bent down and started rubbing the rust from the chrome with a Brillo pad before oiling all the moveable parts.
‘Ye’ll niver stick it, laddie,’ his father said. ‘It’ll tak ye an hour tae get there. Ye’ll hae tae be up and oot well afore five. Ye might as weel nae bother gan tae yer bed….’
‘It’s being say positive that keeps ye goin,’ Frank replied good naturedly. ‘I’ll jist hae tae prove ye rang.’
So he began his job at the dairy, and from day one Jimmy became his mentor. Frank was soon to discover that there was a magic to being out in the early morning, where coastal harr would sometimes hang late on the trees before being burnt off by a warming sun; with the still air alive with the song of the birds and all the while the click clack of hooves on the cassies – regular, mesmerising. And Jimmy imparting his knowledge of the breed, interspersed with stories about growing up on his parents farm in Midmar; of their Clydesdales Rosie and Maggie who pulled the plough, with all the stories associated with them, and of the sky-larks and pee wees whose nests lay low on the ground of the open fields; of the horses stopping and waiting until the ploughman walked round to move them carefully to the side.
‘Its nae wonder that there are nae birdies left,’ Jimmy would say. ‘The tractor an a the hi fangled equipment they use now jist rolls o’er them. Oor horses jist widna dae that. I tell ye laddie, they are kinder by far than the two legged variety that walks behind the plough.’
Frank now felt emboldened to ask why he wasn’t still there working the land, when he had so many fond memories bound up with the farm, but Jimmy explained sadly, that his father was a tenant, and there had not been an opportunity for him to carry on once his parents died.
And once they started on the round, Frank soon discovered that Fury knew every customer that had their milk delivered by Kennerty.
‘It’s a in his heed ye ken,’ Jimmy told Frank proudly, and because of it there was an easy distribution, for by the time they delivered the milk to a door and picked up the empties, Fury had moved further down the road to the next customers door. He also knew every house that gave him a piece on payment day and would stubbornly wait, tilting his head to the side to see round his blinkers. Jimmy though, always a step ahead, kept a few rowies in his pocket, Furys favourites, in case a customer didn’t come through for him. The round always took longer on a Friday, but if it was too long, Fury became impatient, scraping his great hooves on the cassies.
One Friday, because Jimmy was in chatty mode, the collection took longer than usual with Fury deciding that he had had enough. He took off down Argyll Place, milk bottles rattling in the crates, missing parked cars by a whisker with Frank tearing after him. Luckily he just managed to catch the reins to slowly pull the cart to a standstill.
‘Bugger me,’ Jimmy said breathlessly as he caught up. ‘He disna usually dae that. He’s jist showin off in front o ye.’
Frank was to realise quite soon that this great horse could do nothing wrong in the roundsmans eyes. He was either, ‘jist hain a bit o fun, pullin yer leg, or showin off.’
But Fury had his favourite customers too; one of them being a Major Carlyle, who lived in a grand detached house in the West end. He had served in the First World War Jimmy told Frank, and there was nothing that, like Jimmy, he didn’t know about horses. He would walk out onto the street, his back as straight as a poker, and rain or shine would bring something out for Fury, his hand gently fondling the huge nose. Jimmy and the Major had developed a rapport that was bound up with these wonderful work horses. The Major spoke of Suffolk Punches, and Jimmy of Clydesdales. Then on a fine day Mrs Carlyle would walk out with a tray daintily set with tea in china cups and occasionally a plate of French Fancies which she knew to be Jimmy’s favourites. There they would stand, an unusual sight for an onlooker; four souls having morning tea from the back of a milk cart from a beautifully laid out tray that would have been comfortable sitting on the table of a fine hotel. Jimmy told Frank later that the Major had been a doctor in the Great War, and had not only been instrumental in saving the lives of soldiers, but had helped save many of the war horses that had been wounded by shrapnel.
‘The more I know of men, Jimmy,’ the Major wistfully said, ‘the more I like animals.’
This struck a cord with Jimmy, whom Frank was sure felt the same. Jimmy of course would put on his best accent when he was speaking to the Major, which Frank teased him about later.
‘Ye ging a pan loaf when ye speak tae Major Carlyle.’
‘Yer a cheeky monkey,’ Jimmy said, then by way of an explanation, ‘he widna ken whit I wis sayin if I didna.’
It wasn’t all sunshine on the round, though. The summer had its share of wet and windy weather which Frank soon discovered Fury did not like.
All the horses had coats in bad weather, but Fury did not like wearing his. He would turn his great head around, grab it with his teeth and pull it off almost as soon as Frank threw it over his back.
‘What a wee bugger,’ Frank would say angrily after the fifth or sixth time. Ye can bloody well get soaked for a I care.’
But then Jimmy would hap along and with a gentle hand and an encouraging word he would get the coat on in a one’er.
‘He’s jist hayin a bit o fun wi ye,’ he would say.
Now it became Franks overwhelming ambition to build a similar relationship with this horse. He loved to quietly observe the interaction between horse and man, and Fury indeed knew what Jimmy said, and he in turn anticipated Fury’s moods and little foibles.
‘He’s nae in a good mood the day,’ he would say, or ‘he’s a bit fed up the day.’
‘How di ye ken, like,’ Frank asked.
‘Ye jist ken, Jimmy replied. ‘Yae’ll seen work it oot.’
No one seemed to know what kind of life Jimmy led away from the stables, or indeed if he had one. It seemed that he was always there no matter how early Frank arrived, or how late he stayed. He discovered too, quite by accident, that he lived in lodgings in Baker Street, not that far from the stables.
‘Yon land-lady o his is a real bitch,’ one of the stable hands told him.
‘She wants him oot o his room a day, peer bugger. God knows whit he’ll dee when he retires.’
Bit it wisna sic a fine job in winter: Fury, ploughing his wey through uncleared roads wi Frank and Jimmy huddled close thegither against the chill blast of snow laden wind blowin in frae the North Sea. An by the time they pulled up outside the stables they were baith frozen like blocks o’ ice. Mind, there wis a joy in unharnessing Fury, and seeing him walk to his stall where his nose bag full o’ oats wid be tied aroon his muckle great moo, an he wid look right at ye wi that look o his.
‘Peer bugger,’ Jimmy would say as he rubbed Fury’s nose and patted him affectionately on his side. Oor horses wir niver oot in weather like this. Gie him mare oats the day. Naebody can say he disna diserve it.’
Then one dark and especially cold morning when Frank arrived, he found Jimmy bedded down in the stable with Fury.
‘Hiv ye nae a bed tae go tae,’ Frank asked him gently as he helped him up off the hay.
‘Aye,’ Jimmy replied, ‘bit I’ve been told that mi time we you is up soon. I jist want tae spend as long as I can wi ma wee pal here.’
That fateful morning broke, cold and grey. Jimmy’s last day. It had started raining late evening, followed by a hard frost in the early morning turning the roads and pavements into sheets of ice. Frank struggled to get to work, walking his bicycle most of the way, but Jimmy was still there ahead of him waiting, anxious.
Everything though, carried on as usual; the milk cart loaded, while well bundled with extra layers of clothes, they started on the round. The roads were dreadful – not so much snow but ice, yet Fury walking carefully and steadily, Jimmy gently clicking and shaking the reins. The milk round that morning was delivered slowly, carefully; Fury knowing instinctively not to hurry things in such terrible conditions, so it was with relief when the end was in sight.
As they made their way back to the stables, going down Esslemont Avenue which is built on a hill, Fury and the cart began to slip on the cassies that were sheeted in ice. Jimmy, despite all his years of experience couldn’t stop what was about to happen. Fury began to slide, then fell; the brakes were eased on but had little purchase, and within seconds the cart upturned, falling onto the now frantic horse, the crates of empty bottles smashing into him under the weight of the cart. Jimmy and Frank only just managed to jump off, as now the full horror of what had happened became clear. A passer-by rushed to a phone box. The road was now strewn with shattered glass and splinters from the heavy cart and Fury lying on the road under the weight of it, beyond help.
Jimmy cried out as he crawled across the icy road to lie beside him, laying a thin arm across his neck, whispering in his ear as they waited. Bruised and sore Frank stood helpless, watching. The police, having been alerted to the situation had brought a vet with them, but all struggled to reach them, eventually leaving their vehicles at the foot of the hill. The vet put Fury to sleep, but to be fair he was almost gone when he arrived. Jimmy’s face, wet with tears, wouldn’t let him go, until eventually a policeman had to ease him away.
‘We’ll hae tae clear the road afore the morning rush hour,’ he said firmly.
‘An whit’ll happen tae him,’ Jimmy asked, his voices shaking with emotion.
‘The vet’ll call the knackers. They’ll need a crane to lift that bugger.’
Frank saw the anger rise in Jimmy, and quickly stepped over to slip an arm around his trembling shoulder.
‘Come awa,’ he said softly, ‘there’s nithin wi can dae fir him now.’
‘He’s jist a callous bastard,’ Jimmy said, loud enough for the bobby to hear. ‘Ye’d think he’d hae a wee bit mair respect.’
The lads in the yard had been preparing to give Jimmy a send-off. They had bought in stout especially, and a stable hand had made up corned beef sandwiches, but word spread fast, and jimmy’s parting doo now became a wake. Everyone stood quietly in the subdued light of the stables. They talked about Fury, of his feisty character, and of his bond with Jimmy. No accident of that sort had ever happened at the dairy before, and as it had played out on Jimmy’s last day – was now taken as some sort of sign. Jimmy stood pale and still, his eyes red, staring into the empty stable.
One of the stable lads walked up to him,
‘Jimmy,’ he said softly, ‘he’d niver hae been the same fine horse if it wisna fir yae.’
Sometimes it’s the kind word that can release all the unshed tears and emotions that a man manages to hold onto, and that’s how it was.
Jimmy fell to his knees and putting his hands across his face, cried and cried.
Frank now felt that he couldn’t continue working at the dairy. When he told his parents that night, they were sympathetic and kind.
‘I widna even hand in yer notice,’ his father said. ‘They’ll fair understand that ye widna be able tae come back after a tragedy like that.’
And that was how it was.
It must have been around a fortnight later that a letter arrived in the post, written in a spidery hand. It was on cream Basildon Bond Paper.
‘Noo fa dae ye ken that uses sic fine stationary,’ his father asked as he handed him the envelope.
It was from Major Carlyle. He told Frank in the letter that he had also written to Jimmy, care of the Dairy, and wanted them both to come to visit him and his wife the following Saturday. The Major knew what had happened, and spoke fondly about his memories of the great horse that had become a part of his life too.
That Saturday soon came around, and now Frank saw Jimmy as he peddled along the road in the morning sunshine. He was walking slowly; slightly hunched. They both arrived at the house around the same time.
‘Hoo are ye deein,’ Frank asked as he wheeled his bike through the gate.
‘Dinna ask,’ Jimmy replied.’
His face was grey and gaunt.
Major Carlyle was waiting and greeted them both like long lost friends. He shook Jimmy’s hand and spoke to him comfortingly about the loss of his horse, but Frank knew that nothing said could ever lessen the pain of losing Fury, after all, he thought, Jimmy had little else in his life. Then they were taken into a small morning room where a coal fire was cheerily crackling in the hearth; a tea trolley laid out with cups, sandwiches and cakes.
‘The long and the short of it,’ the Major said, ‘is that I need help with the garden here, and in winter general maintenance. It won’t be full time work, but maybe it’ll tide you over, you know, until something else turns up.’
Frank knew immediately that it would be perfect for him, and when he did find something else, he would be glad to carry on over week-ends, but Jimmy said he had other plans.
‘Noo whit ither plans dae ye hae?’ Frank asked as they left together.
‘Jist,’ he said, ‘ither plans.’
When summer crept round again, with Frank now well established working in an ice-cream shop at the beach, and doing the garden for Major Carlyle weekends, he unexpectedly met one of the stable hands from Kennerty.
‘Of course yae’ll hae heard aboot peer Jimmy,’ he said.
‘No.’
Yet Frank knew instinctively what was coming next.
‘They foon his body by the side o a fairm road. He’d been lyin there fir God knows how lang. Funny though – it wis oot at Midmar. Noo fit wid he be doin awa oot there.’
‘He wis gan hame,’ Frank replied. ‘Jist gan hame.’
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