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Morrison had offered to help out with the horses at nights.
    Jeemsie was feeling quite excited. He’d been cleaning and oiling all the bicycle parts he’d managed to pick up, and he only needed a fork to fit the handlebars to the frame. ‘Tam Fernie says his dad’s got some aul’ bikes a the back o’ the smiddy,’ he confided to his mother one night before he went to bed. ‘I’ve to gan roon’ the morrow straight fae the school to see if there’s onything there that would work.’
    ‘That’s fine,’ she said absentmindedly, too busy drying the stack of dishes to take much heed of her son, but it suddenly penetrated her mind what he had said, and she looked at him sternly. ‘Dinna be late hame for your tea, then. For I’m needin’ you to gan to the Mains for me. I hear they’re to be killin’ a pig the day, an’ I want some o’ the bleed to mak’ black puddens. Your dad hasna been feelin’ like eatin’ much lately, an’ that might kittle him up a bit, for he just loves black puddens.’
    ‘I’ll be hame as quick as I can, Mam, I sweir. An’ if I get a fork at the smith’s I’ll be able to finish the bike an’ use it to gan to the fairm. I’d be back in time for you to mak’ the puddens after suppertime.’
    His round freckled face was turned to hers earnestly, and his smile revealed the gap where he’d knocked out two teeth jumping the paling to catch a sheet that had blown off the washing line a few weeks earlier. Then she remembered that the sheet had been torn when he caught his foot in it, but it wasn’t his fault that things went wrong every time he did anything for her.
    What lay in the blacksmith’s outhouse proved a treasure trove for Jeemsie the next day.
    He found the required fork, and two wheels with better tyres than the ones he’d pulled out of the dump. He ran all the way home to assemble the last pieces, then stood back to admire his handiwork. It looked perfect, and with a lick of paint on it, nobody would ever know he’d made it himself - except Tam Fernie, the smith’s son, of course, but he was Jeemsie’s best friend, so he wouldn’t tell.
    Washing his filthy hands at the outside standpipe, he went into the kitchen, leaving his masterpiece propped against the wall of the coalshed. ‘My bike’s ready noo, Mam. You can get a’thing ready for makin’ your puddens, for I’ll be back afore ye ken I’m awa’.’
    ‘Change your claes then, an’ I’ll ha’e the bucket ready for you fan ye come doon.’
    He sauntered out a few minutes later with the pail slung over his arm, lifted his creation reverently, then put his foot on the pedal and swung his leg over an imaginary bar. The seat, even at its lowest, was too high for him, but he’d manage fine without having to sit on it. As he wobbled on to the rough track, his mother called, ‘Watch yersel’ noo, Jeemsie.’ It was a wonderful feeling, to be going along at such a speed with the wind blowing in his face, on his own bicycle, though the pedals were a bit stiff and he’d have to oil the chain again. But he reached the farm in record time and was soon on the homeward way with the pail slopping full.
    It was much harder to keep his balance now, weighed down on one side, and he couldn’t see all that well in the darkening late afternoon. He had forgotten that he would need a lamp, but he knew every step of the way and he could look for one the morrow. Coming to the beginning of the track up to the cottar houses, he swung round carefully and made a perfect right turn. Sadly, however, he soon found himself wobbling uncontrollably and, in trying to control his steed, he forgot to watch out for the hole in the track. THUMP! Crack!
    Picking himself off the stony round, dripping with blood, he wondered fleetingly if he had been mortally wounded, but when he got his breath back and felt himself gingerly all over, all he could find were skinned hands and knees. Then he realised, with a sinking heart, that it was