Robbie Burns Day has come and gone. Mr. Markam enjoyed showing his guest from America the whole thing, and they had another big dinner party. By 3 in the afternoon the house was full of kilts, so many tartans I couldn’t count them. The ladies, of course, wore dark dresses and tartan scarves.
When everyone was seated the master had the haggis piped in and he addressed it himself, in true Gaelic style. Much Scotch was drunk, and the chamber pots were put to use again. I slept overnight in the scullery again. Mr. Markam left me the newspapers to read, and again slipped me half a crown. I like him more and more!
The next morning while I was going about my regular duties the madam received her minister in the drawing room. She belongs to the Free Church of Scotland, and is, of course, a teetotaler. He is a tall, thin man who carried a thick bible and has a very dour expression on his face. I carried in the tea-tray and served them shortbread. As I dropped a curtsey and started out the door I head him mention to Madam he had not seen me in church, was I new to Wick?
“No, she’s a Papist”, Mrs. Marham said, “She is a Sinclair, and that stiff-necked family will never leave their church. I only took her in because Angus does business with her father, out of pity – he’s lame, you know. I consider it my Christian duty to offer the girl gainful employment.” I heard no more, but took my burning ears to the kitchen.
Cook told me to take the one leftover haggis home to my family. They enjoyed it so much, and I thought how much my Da would have loved the Robbie Burns celebration. What would I give to be able to buy him a proper Sinclair kilt! All he has is an old tartan scarf, a raggedy thing he wears in winter to keep his neck warm.
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