Airchie - Rebel of the North

By Garth

“Here we are now,” says the driver. He puts on the handbrake and switches off the engine of the furniture van.


“There you are!” shouts Fraser. “I’d given you up. This is your home now.”


And so it is that in this early spring day the Fraser’s, now in their working clothes, settle into the cottage. Here, long ago, the painted men looked south towards Finavon Hill, where they fought the Romans. But now, the children roam about all over the place, even as far as Drumlithie and the sweetie shop.


The next morning is sunny as the eldest Fraser son, in his khaki shorts and red Ladybird jumper, saunters up to the farm can and knocks at the rustic door.


“Who are you then?” the wrinkled old women quizzes as she opens the door in her black woven shawl.


“Archibald,” he offers sheepishly. “We’ve just moved into Lodge Cottage and I’ve been sent for milk.”


“Oh you are, are you? Just stand there,” she says shutting the door in his face. He is left standing like a fool, sparking away at the cobbles with his tackety boots. In about five minutes she is back and thrusts the heavy milk can into his hands.


“And where did ye come from?” the farmer’s wife says, staring at him with her dark brown eyes and clearing her nose onto the shawl.


“Rhynie. Up north.”


“Rhynie is it! More foreigners!”  She slams the door in his face again.


Airchie turns away and faces the reeking, steaming herd peering out over the wall of the byre. “And what are you all looking at?” he shouts.


Struggling with the can, he sets off down the track and back towards the cottage and his mum.


Despite the coming summer rays lightening the hue of the red clay as the parks dry out, the school at Drumlithie is not any warmer. The dominie is a real sourpuss. Miss Bain, a product of the fishing folk of Crovie, is never ever described as a bundle of laughs. Straitlaced, plain, with a bun at the back of her head and a face like a flitting, she dims even the brightest light around. And so it was for Archibald: the dreamer.


Miss Bain kept telling the class to use their imagination, but she often caught him staring out the window and forming in his mind: the tractor zooming round a park like a Ferrari at Monte Carlo; the corn stacks marching in rows together towards the battle to come. She then took great pleasure in extracting the leather belt from inside the shoulder of her colourless twin set and belting him across the hand as hard and as often as she could.


‘She can be really coorse for a church goer,’ he thought.


Thwack, thwack.


“Archibald Fraser, you will always be a disappointment. You mark my words,” she ranted.


Thwack.


After a time it didn’t matter. His window on the world held more for him than Miss Bain’s uninspiring recant of prescribed dogma ever would.


At Stonehaven, the Mackie Academy and more of the same. Mr Souter tries to teach him maths, but it is hopeless. He goes on and on at him, gives him lots of homework, but Airchie’s dad could make nothing of it. And for a time Souter persists. And that about sums up his education: no sums at all.


Nevertheless, his dad has great plans for him: no farm for his good looking, black haired first born son. So he sends him to Aberdeen for a job on the buses. Airchie arrives for the exam.


“If you’re mother gets on the bus at Holburn and wants to go to Summerhill what would you charge?” asks the balding clerk three storeys above the Castlegate.


“Nothing.”


“What do you mean, nothing?”


“My mum doesn’t stay in Summerhill and always walks when in town.”


“God! Well, what’s the charge for five six-penny tickets then?”


“Five and six?”


And so he is quickly back out on Marischal Street. On the way home the light strikes him; he will start working on his own.


He borrows the old van and sets out around Stonehaven selling firewood door to door. The housewives take to the six foot handsome hawker and sales take off. Soon he has his own pick-up truck and is selling coal as well.


Archibald Fraser is always looking for the new opportunity and spies another at the harbour. He buys another vehicle: a smart white van. His wee brother Fred, with his round happy glow, is now Freddie the Fisherman.


More chances are taken, he branches out into constructing modules for the rigs and after twenty good years Archibald is a rich man. At the peak of his success, he is invited to speak at the Rotary in Aberdeen.


He pulls up outside the Caledonian Hotel in his Merc and as he opens the door he spies Miss Bain limping along the pavement. He approaches her and she looks up into his still rugged good looks.


“Miss Bain, do you remember me?” he asks.


“Yes, I know you. You were the dunce at Drumlithie,” she says taking in the Merc. “I suppose that you think your Airchie.”


 “Yes, I am,” he smiles. “Airchie Fraser.” He turns and walks up the grey granite steps to the revolving doors of Aberdeen’s premier hotel.


The Rotary lunch is in the dining room, just off the American Bar. And his speech goes down a treat. He feels at home. An older but familiar figure approaches him.


“Airchie Fraser. Remember me?” says the refugee from Stonehaven.


“Aye fine. You used to be Mr Souter at the Academy.”


“I’m still Souter, but now I’m retired. That was some speech you gave. I couldn’t help wondering what you would have done had you stuck in at the sums.”


“That’s easy,” says Airchie. “I’d have been a conductor on the buses.”


personal rebellion, individuality