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Updated: June 7, 2025
There she found the Mhor, then a very small boy, seated on a chair playing a mouth-organ, while Mrs. M'Cosh, her skirts held coquettishly aloft, danced a few steps to the music. Jean being Jean had withdrawn unnoticed and slipped upstairs to the sick-room much cheered by the sight of such detachment. Mrs.
It's been such a grubby day, no kitchen range on, no hot water, and Mrs. M'Cosh actually out of temper. Now you've come, Pamela, it will be all right but it has been wretched. I hadn't the spirit to change my frock or put on decent slippers, that's why I've reminded you all of Cinderella.... Are you going, Mrs. Duff-Whalley? Good-bye." Mrs.
M'Cosh, "he's been in a trap, but he's gotten out. Peter's a cliver lad." Jock and Mhor had no words. They lay on the linoleum-covered floor while Mrs. M'Cosh fetched hot milk, and crushed their faces against the little black-and-white body they had thought they might never see again, while Peter licked his own torn paw and their faces in turn.
"For all the world," as Miss Abbot said to herself, "as if lifting folk from the miry clay and setting their feet on a rock was all in the day's work." He immediately began to entice Jean into spending money. It was absurd, he said, to have no one but Mrs. M'Cosh: a smart housemaid must be got. "She would only worry Mrs.
It was certainly neither Argyle Street nor the Paisley Road, but it bore a far-off resemblance to those gay places, and for that Mrs. M'Cosh was thankful. There was a cinema, too, and that was a touch of home. Talking over Priorsford with Glasgow friends she would say, "It's no' juist whit I wud ca' the deid country no juist paraffin-ile and glaury roads, ye ken.
"It's a wee Shakespeare to send to Mrs. M'Cosh and I've got a card for Bella Bathgate a funny one, a pig. Read it." He handed the card to Lord Bidborough, who read aloud the words issuing from the mouth of the pig: "You may push me, You may shove, But I never will be druv From Stratford-on-Avon." "Excellent sentiment, Mhor Miss Bathgate will be pleased." "Yes," said Mhor complacently.
We hev gas an' plain-stanes an' a pictur hoose." When Mrs. M'Cosh left the room Jock returned to his books, and the Mhor, his imagination fermenting with the thought of bombs on Priorsford, retired to the window-seat to think out further damage. Some hours later, when Jock and Mhor were fast asleep and David, his packing finished, was preparing to go to bed, Jean slipped into the room.
One morning, by reason of neglecting his teeth, and a few other toilet details, he was able to be downstairs ten minutes before breakfast, and spent the time in the kitchen, plaguing Mrs. M'Cosh to let him write an inscription in her Bible. "What wud ye write?" she asked suspiciously. "I would write," said Mhor "I would write, 'From Gervase Taunton to Mrs. M'Cosh." "That wud be a lee," said Mrs.
The day passed very pleasantly: the luncheon at the Jowetts' was everything a Christmas meal should be, Mrs. M'Cosh surpassed herself with bakemeats for the tea, the presents gave lively satisfaction, but the feature of the day was the box that arrived from Pamela and her brother.
It was waiting when the family came back from the Jowetts', standing in the middle of the little hall with a hammer and a screw-driver laid on the top by thoughtful Mrs. M'Cosh a large white wooden box which thrilled one with its air of containing treasures. Mhor sank down beside it, hardly able to wait until David had taken off his coat and was ready to tackle it.
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