Yo-yo's Weekend Page 16

  11.

  Wee Jocko McTavish

  THE shop is jam-packed with Scottish memorabilia. There are tons of Tartan tins of Highland shortbread. There are fabulously framed family trees with heraldic designs linking 'Corey Brinkwater Jr.' with the Clan of McDonald, 'Totty Leemaster' with the Cameron Clan and 'Hubert C. Pendlebrass III' with both the Bruces and the Stuarts which implies that Hubert C. Pendlebrass III from Oil City Texas is really the King of Scotland. There are miniaturised, stuffed Aberdeen Angus heifers, West Highland White terriers and velvet-antlered reindeer piled high in a basket. There are lurid green, plastic Nessies and small grey haggises with bright button eyes and little white legs. There are poems by Burns and novels by Scott and rack upon rack of music for ceilidhs and pipers, drummers and strummers. There are kilts and blankets, daggers and sporrans, and those bloody irritating tea-towels that lay claim to every invention in the history of the Universe on behalf of a Scot. You know the type -

  The English wear raincoats made by Mackintosh (a Scot), drive on

  roads with tyres made by Dunlop (a Scot) on tarmac created by

  McAdam (a Scot), enter their homes (invented by McHome, a Scot),

  sit on McSofas (invented by McSofa, a Scot) by fires invented by McUg

  (a Stone Age Scot) sipping water invented by McWater (a God-like Scot).'

  and so on. In short, every cultural cliché of Jockland is represented but for the one item that is utterly indispensable on any visit to Scotland, namely a large and effective umbrella, as invented by Sir Johnny Umbrella, an Englishman on his first visit to the Highlands who, in order to shelter from the traditional shooting party weather, glued some coat-hangers to a beater's kilt and stuck it on a stick.

  ''A braw bricht moonlit nicht tae ye, wee mon.'' An enormous, ginger, badger-burying bush is speaking.

  ''I'm sorry?'' says Yo-yo, fearing this is yet another Moses moment.

  ''Och the noo and Donal where's ye troosies.''

  Yo-yo makes out a yellow, red and black tartan hat on top of the bush, a hat of the kind jocularly known as a 'tam o' shanter' (who was Tam of the Shanter anyway and why did he invent such a bloody stupid little hat?). The bobble is an unfortunate red. It looks like a cherry on a banana-and-blood tart.

  ''There's a moose loose aboot this hoose.''

  ''I'm sorry,'' says Yo-yo, ''I don't really speak Jockish.''

  ''Och awa' wi' ye, sassenach.''

  Suddenly Yo-yo realises the bush is in fact a beard and that, from within it, a man is talking to him. ''Good day,'' he says politely.

  ''Whit ye yammering aboot?'' says the beard.

  Yo-yo steels himself. ''Och the noo, oor Wullie, and hoots mon the Broon tae ye neeps and tatties,'' he says.

  Instantly the bush breaks into a beaming smile of welcome.

  ''How are ye this fine mairning, young Jimmy?''

  ''Hoots the nanny,'' Yo-yo replies.

  The speaker pumps his hand up and doon. ''Wee Jocko McTavish,'' he says. Wee Jocko McTavish is about four feet eight in height and about the same in width. Under his vast, voluminous beard is a kilt in the same unfortunate tartan as his hat. There is also a frighteningly furry sporran hanging beneath his waist. ''Whit can ah do for ye, me laddie?''

  ''You know your bagpipe music?'' Yo-yo begins.

  ''Whit ye say, Jimmy?''

  ''Do ye ken yeer piping?''

  ''Aye. The pipin' .''

  ''I'd like to buy a CD.''

  ''Whit?''

  ''A muckle o' music,'' says Yo-yo.

  ''Aye weel. That'll be ten poonds and ninety-nine o' yeer shiny new pennies,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish, handing over a CD of the Edinburgh Tattoo.

  All Yo-yo's favourites are there. ''I like this one,'' he says.

  ''O flower of Scotland, when will we see your likes again

  That fought and died for your wee bit hill and glen

  And stood against him, Proud Edward's army,

  And sent him homeward tae think again.''

  Wee Jocko's eyes are moist with emotion. 'Tis a stirring hymn.

  ''There's a real Scotsman inside ye, laddie,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish, ''A real Scotsman. We'll call ye Wee Jimmy McJimmy.'' Before he knows it, Yo-yo is wearing

  a frilly white shirt

  a kilt in green, blue and black

  knee-length white socks

  a natty black jacket with silver buttons up the back

  a large, hairy, white sporran

  ''All ye need noo is a skein dhu,'' says Jocko McTavish.

  ''Hey, hey,'' says Yo-yo, raising a warning finger, ''No-one's skinning my do.''

  ''Nae, nae, ye dinna understand,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish, rummaging in a drawer, ''A skein dhu, a wee dagger.'' The one he brandishes is a little 'mair than wee'. ''An' ah'm sure ye have yeer ain wee dagger, eh? He he he.'' He twists Yo-yo's sporran and cackles.

  ''It's like the butcher's knife I used to kill my mum,'' says Yo-yo. ''I cut her throat. Blood sprayed all over the curtains.''

  ''Aye weel, it goes in yer sock,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish. ''Wuid ye like me to fiddle wi' yer sporran? It's a wee bit crooked.''

  The sporran is the hairiest thing Yo-yo's ever had between his legs, unless you count that friendly Nidderdale sheep, which he doesn't. The CD slips unnoticed into

  Oh cruel is the snow/That sweeps Glencoe

  And covers the House o' Donald

  And cruel is the foe/That raped Glencoe

  And murdered the House o' MacDonald.

  ''Hullo,'' says a tourist uncertainly. ''Anyone haim?''

  ''Och,'' says Jocko, getting off his knees and straightening his beard. ''Ye look the part noo, wee Jimmy,'' he tells Yo-yo, whose sporran has been well and truly adjusted. ''Whit can I do ye fer, Jimmy?''

  ''D'ye sell haggis?'' says the tourist.

  ''Aye. Finest haggis in York.''

  The newcomer pauses and consults a piece of paper. ''Sorry, I don't mean haggis. I mean neeps and tatties. I've come for some neeps and tatties. Grrrrr.'' Wee Jocko McTavish looks at him blankly. ''You know,'' says the newcomer. ''Neeps. Give us some neeps. And a quick look at your tatties. Woof woof.''

  Yo-yo takes a set of bagpipes. He figures a Scottish night once he's back in Gillworthy will drive Doctor Molasses to utter distraction, maybe even to suicide.

  ''Thank ye, laddie,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish. ''This is Wee Jimmy,'' he tells the newcomer.

  ''Och aye the noo,'' says Yo-yo, ''Ye slinkie wee beastie.''

  ''Oh aye?'' says the newcomer. He hesitates. ''I'd like to see your Nessie. Whoooaarr!''

  ''Whit?''

  ''Your Nessie. You know. Your Loch Ness Monster. In the deepest loch. Your monster. Eh? Monster. You know?'' The newcomer runs out of steam. ''Nessie?''

  ''Nae need tae get radgie,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish. ''Awa' wi' ye, Wee Jimmy. Or Not-so-Wee Jimmy, hur hur. Ah'll see ye agin.''

  ''Your deep-fried Mars Bar?''

  Yo-yo opens the shop door.

  ''I'd like to toss the caber?''

  ''Och weel,'' says Wee Jocko, ''Why did ye nae say so? Roond the back wi' ye, laddie. We'll put a real Scotsman inside ye, he he he. Ten poond an 'oor.''

  Yo-yo is in Stonegate once more. Rue and Thyme are outside Debbie's Ice Cream Parlour which sells 12 types of ice cream including

  tiramisubanana

  cappuccinococonut

  banoffeevanilla

  raspberry ripplechocolate mint chip

  honeycombpassion-fruit cheesecake

  bubblegum

  ''Nice knees,'' Rue remarks.

  ''Lovely sporran,'' Thyme twitters. ''May I stroke it?''

  Yo-yo's nice knees knock together.

  ''We bought you a banoffee ice cream.'' Rue hands him a cornet topped by a yellow and brown splodge.

  ''I thought we should talk,'' says Thyme, ''About your emerald ring.''

  They have passed the plaque that claims Guy Fawkes' parents lived here and are under the Stonegate Devil, a smal
l, red, black-horned, black-bearded demon perched on a shop corner, his little hands resting on his little thighs. This was once a printer's shop, a devil being a nickname for the inky-fingered apprentices who delivered the printed-up pages which carried the news. Now it is a designer leather outlet.

  ''It's very valuable.'' This is Thyme again. ''You could be rich if you sold it, rich beyond your wildest dreams.''

  ''My dreams get pretty wild,'' Yo-yo admits. ''For instance, once I dreamed I was sitting on top of a giant chimney with Santa Claus feeling for presents in his enormous sack, and then I dreamed I was a giant stick of Blackpool rock being licked by Hannah Montana and that bird out of Twilight…..''

  ''Yes, yes,'' says Thyme impatiently. ''Fascinating.''

  ''We could get you a good price,'' says Rue.

  ''You'd be able to buy anything you wanted,'' says Thyme. ''What do you want, Yo-yo?

  ''You,'' breathes Yo-yo. ''I want you. Both of you.''

  ''Well,'' says Rue, ''We can come to an arrangement…..''

  ''The ring for one hour of bliss….'' says Thyme.

  ''Both of us together.''

  ''Drive you out of your senses.''

  ''All your desires…''

  ''All your dreams….''

  ''Come true. With us.''

  ''NOOOOOO!'' screams the devil. ''Don't trust them, Yo-yo!''

  ''You're a devil,'' snaps Yo-yo. ''What do you know?''

  ''More than you think,'' says the devil. ''I've been here hundreds of years. And I know evil when I see it. I'm a devil, for devil's sake.''

  Vanilla ice cream dribbles down Rue's chin. Yo-yo's entire being trembles. His hand is yellow, brown and sticky. His once-crisp cornet is turning soggy.

  ''Think of your mother!'' shouts the devil.

  ''My mother's a whore!'' yells Yo-yo. ''I don't care what she thinks!''

  Everyone in the street stops and stares at him.

  ''Ahem,'' says Rue to the gathering crowd. ''He doesn't mean it. He's a little upset. Our mother's dead.''

  ''Our little brother's finding it hard to handle,'' says Thyme. ''We'll take him for a nice walk.'' One sister takes his left elbow, the other his right, and they escort him along Stonegate. ''Come along, Nigel, nice walk and a cup of tea. Rue will show you her Edinburgh Tattoo.''

  ''There's a nice part where you can toss your caber,'' adds Rue.

  ''Ha!'' Yo-yo pokes his tongue at the devil. ''Boo-sucks to you, Stonegate Devil'' and he starts singing ''Yo-yo's gonna get it, Yo-yo's gonna get it.''

  Suddenly, as they round the corner at Crabtree and Evelyn's, they bump into Katze and Uncle Reefer coming out of The Punchbowl (what is it with all the John Smith's?)

  ''Yikes! It's them!'' gulp the sisters, and promptly disappear in a herbal scent.

  Yo-yo feels like crying but he doesn't really know why, except his discarded cornet lies crumpled and flattened on the now-sticky pavement, his creamy ice cream leaking liquid into the gutter.