The rickety front door of the shabby house flew violently open, and a woman -smartly dressed in a matching skirt and top – ran out. Holding on to a leather briefcase for dear life, she covered the lawn as fast as her high heels would allow, and seeing Joe Jack and Lucky, yelled out:
“He’s blerry mad, I tell you. Blerry mad!”
A tall and painfully thin figure now appeared at the door. In his hands was a set of bagpipes which he raised precariously above his head for a few seconds before flinging them viciously to the ground. He then proceeded to stagger drunkenly onto the lawn, nearly falling over the bagpipes in the process before pointing roughly in the woman’s direction and cursing loudly. To Joe Jack and Lucky’s amazement they realised that the man was clothed in a Scottish plaid cloth, a brightly coloured tartan kilt, long-laced ghillie brogue-style shoes, a tartan beret and even a sporran for good measure. Joe Jack couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, pinching himself on the arm to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming. When Lucky leaned over and whispered in his ear, “he’s a walking cliché; the clothes are like something you’d hire at a costume shop,” Joe Jack could only nod in agreement.
They watched as the man once again pointed an unsteady finger at the fleeing woman and yelled what sounded like:
“Eh Lassie, you’ll ner be able tae seel thes hoose. Nae bugger will buy it. Awa wit ya!”
The frightened lady had now taken refuge behind Joe Jack’s ample frame. She breathlessly explained to him:
“I’m from Pat Goldenberg, the estate agent. We’re trying to sell his house for him, but it’s impossible – the man is completely mad.” She cautiously peeked out from behind Joe Jack’s shoulder and shouted back at the home owner: “Mr McDonald, how can we sell your house if you keep doing this. Please, you really must calm down and let us get on with our job.”
McDonald kicked ferociously at the grass beneath his brogues causing a large divot to fly over the garden wall, just missing Lucky:
“Ye only brooght tossers ‘n hoodlums haur sae far. Nane ay theese idiots is gonnae buy thes hoose!”
“How would you know what these people are like, Mr McDonald? You keep chasing them away.”
“Thar spyin’ oan me,” came the reply, “and robbin’ me!”
“No they’re not spying on you and they’re not robbing you! You really do have to let them look around the house. And you keep pulling our ‘for sale’ signs up, sir. You just can’t do that either.”
“Och aye, ah see ye diggin’ ya holes. Yer’ tryin’ te nik me gold oot th ground, ya thievin’ bastoods.”
The young estate agent looked close to tears although indignation and anger now seemed to be replacing her initial terror. She came out from behind Joe Jack to wave her hands excitedly at the drunken Scotsman:
“Mr McDonald, I’m telling you now: we’ll try one more time to bring people around. But if this happens again, then that’s it – we’re out of here! Do you understand, sir?”
But the Scotsman hadn’t understood a word. Instead he took an aggressive step forward only to once again entangle his foot in the wind bag of the grounded bagpipes. To the accompaniment of a discordant groan from this instrument, he held a precarious balance for a moment before finally tipping over and landing face down on the lawn. He cried out in frustration and proceeded to yell a few profundities at the top of his voice; all offensive enough to give his foul-mouthed neighbour a run for his money. Then slowly and hesitantly, he rose to his feet, spitting a few tufts of grass from his mouth and waving grains of sand from his dislodged beret as he attempted to right himself. And now he looked up and, for the first time, seemed to focus on Joe Jack and Lucky standing on the other side of his garden wall. He raised his eyes and once again pointed the shaky finger. Both father and son prepared themselves for an aggressive, rude or drunken comment. Instead they were completely surprised with:
“I bet ye cannee play that thing, Rabbi!”
Joe Jack looked down at the guitar case in his hand.
“You’re right there,” he replied with a shrug of the shoulders. “Not a note. But my son can.”
McDonald’s bloodshot eyes narrowed and gradually focused on Lucky. A wicked smile spread across the Scotsman’s face and gradually staggering back towards the house, he reached for the bagpipes:
“Reet, yar on. Loch Lomond it is, son.”
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