Mother’s Milk

The night started and ended with a bang. All the hours of planning had really paid off. Folk had travelled from all over the country to join Ian and Janet in celebrating their Silver Wedding Anniversary. Everything had turned out better than they had hoped. The buffet, though expensive, was well worth it and it was great having the waiters there to serve and clear away. Everyone had commented on the quality of the fillet of Aberdeenshire beef and the 15lb sea salmon caught by Duncan and sent down by train. The trad. jazz band really entered into the spirit of the evening. The dance floor was packed throughout the evening. Over 120 friends, work colleagues and relations had made the effort. Some had travelled a very long way. From way up North in Easter Ross to way down, South of London. Morpeth’s B & Bs did very well out of the occasion. So many had travelled a long distance that they stayed for the weekend rather than just the Saturday night. Ian’s brother Kenny made a great speech which included a clever reference to the heavily bearded band needing some attention from their name - the ‘Barber’s Shop Quartet.’
The party continued, as expected, in Ian and Janet’s house into the wee small hours of the morning. Eventually the last sausage roll was crumbled into the carpet and the last emotional, slurring reveller was persuaded to leave.
“Well guys wasn’t that a great night? yawned Janet. I don’t know about you pair but I’m bushed. Good night.”
“Night Jan, thanks for a brilliant evening. You looked gorgeous in your silver dress. I’d forgotten how you can jive. You nearly knackered me!”
Ian gave her a hug and kissed her good night. He turned to Callum.
“Well, I’m for a night cap. Fancy a wee dram?”
Callum put down his chanter and the two friends went into the sanctuary of the little snug. It was the only room in the house that wasn’t a shambles.
“ Christ Ian, that really was a cracker of a night. The band were brilliant. God knows how many years since I’ve danced to trad jazz.”
“Call that that Dancing?”
“Cheeky bugger!”
“Want a beer with that?”
“Its been known.“
Ian went through to the kitchen. He filled the water jug with iced water and put a bottle of Glen Turret and the open bottle of ‘Old Poultney’ on a tray with 6 cans of John Smiths Creamy Ale. He knew from many such evenings with his best friend that they would be at it for a while.
“Fancy finishing off this ‘Poultney’ then we’ll open the ‘Turret.’? I hid this from the Vikings. They wouldn’t have known the difference between it and ‘Bonny Prince Charlie’s Sporran’ anyway. It was great to see Jim again. What were you and he arguing about?”
“Och, he was rabbiting on about the Scottish Parliament.”
“Your usual hobby horse then.”
“Hobby horse, no! We’ve fought for this for ages.”
“Oh come on. Surely by now, even you would agree its just a talking shop?” “Maybe now but this is just the beginning.”
“Come on mate, its just a useless waste of money.”
“Bullshit. I’m thinking of standing next time.”
“Christ man, you can’t be serious.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you. Can’t you see this is the best chance we’ve had since we sold out 300 years ago. You just haven’t a clue!”
“Hey! Hey! Keep the heid man! Help yourself to a beer, I’m going for a pee.”
Ian let his dog, Skye, out and followed it into the back garden. It was a lovely clear night. A nearly full moon hung motionless above the sleeping town. He stood quietly, smoking. He was simmering. A lot of the people at the do were English. How could Callum not understand?
“Come Skye. In!”
“Fancy anything to eat? There are sandwiches left.”
“No ta, I’ll just stick with the cheese and pickles.”
“I really don’t understand why you’ve got it in so badly for the English.”
“Look just leave it.”
“But surely you’d agree that the gang of my Geordie work colleagues you met tonight are really great guys. They certainly can’t be bothered with Southerners. They hate rule from London as much as we do. I think they’re very like Glaswegians. They’ve the same sense of humour, can laugh at themselves as well. Surely you can’t hate all the English. What is it you have against them?”
“Look just leave it. I’m starting to get mad. You’re really starting to get to me and you know how angry I can get.”
“That’s just not good enough.”
“Christ man, won’t you shut up about it!”
“Hey there’s no reason to shout, you need to ------”
Callum leapt to his feet as his frustration boiled over into rage. In a red fury he hurled his whisky glass at the wall screaming, “Shut up!” The glass hit with such force that it made a large dent in the plasterboard, then bounced to shatter into a myriad of fragments on the stone fire place.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Callum sagged down. The pair sat in sullen silence looking away from each other.
Up above them a bed creaked. Then they heard footsteps on the stair. The door opened.
Janet looked both sleepy and mad. She stood in the centre of the room, arms akimbo on the waist of her blue silk dressing gown, and glared at the two of them.
“ What in heaven’s sake is going on. What was that terrible rammy?”
“ Oh God, sorry Jan. I’m really sorry to have wakened you. And for the mess. I’ll clean it up and of course pay for the damage. I just lost it. I got mad with Ian.”
“You don’t have to tell me how he can wind people up. Just look at the level in that whisky bottle. Didn’t you have enough booze earlier? Ian, why don’t you make a pot of tea?”
“God, I ‘m really sorry Jan. I was on about Scots v English and it just got out of hand.”
“Callum, what is it that makes you hate them so much?”
His jaw tightened. His face turned hard. Through tight lips he said,
“It’s in the milk!” Ian 1062 words