Hell With the Lid Blown Off by Donis Casey

out, but he sounded amused. “Here we go again! You’ll be sorry you got him started, Granny.”
    â€œWhat is Black Watch?” Ruth asked.
    Randal turned to look at her. “That’s the nickname for the British Army’s 42nd Regiment of Foot. They’re called that because the tartan they wear is so dark.”
    As far as I was concerned they might as well have been speaking Chinese. I had never heard of Crimea or the 42nd Regiment of Foot, and when it came to tartan, I had no idea what they were talking about. I’d have asked if I weren’t ashamed of being so ignorant.
    â€œMama has a little piece of tartan cloth that her I-don’t-know-how-many-greats grandfather brought over with him.” Ruth made a little square with her fingers. “It’s about yea big, kind of gray-brown, now, all faded. We don’t know exactly what it was for, but the family story is that he was forbidden to have it in the old country and kept it hidden under his shirt until he came over here.”
    â€œIsn’t your mother’s maiden name Gunn? That’s a Highland name, you know.”
    Wallace clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, no, Ruth! You’ve opened the barn door! Neither Randal or Gran can be stopped now.”
    Randal laughed, but Miz Beckie was affronted. “Well, Ruth dear, apparently Wallace has heard enough about tartans to last him a lifetime.”
    â€œI don’t know, Miz MacKenzie,” I said. “I’d like to hear about it.”
    Wallace stood up. “That’s it for me.”
    His grandmother waved him back down. “Don’t be rude, Wallace. Don’t worry, we won’t bore you. Thank you, Trent. Perhaps you’ll come back for tea someday and I’ll tell you and Ruth all about it.” She turned to face Randal. “I still have my father’s Black Watch regalia, Randal dear. He kept his entire uniform, from bonnet to ghillies. I’d never part with it for anything.”
    Randal straightened up, interested. “Oh, I’d love to see it, Miz Beckie.”
    â€œSo would I,” Ruth seconded, and I put in that I’d be interested in getting a gander myself. We all shot Wallace a sour look, but instead of throwing cold water on the proceedings, he volunteered to go upstairs and fetch it.
    â€œI know right where it is, Gran. After all, you’ve made me look at it enough times.”
    He brought down from upstairs an old cedar-lined wooden box about three feet by three feet and maybe two feet deep, and placed it on the tea table in front of his grandmother’s chair.
    She opened the box like it contained treasure, which I guess to her it did. It was late in the day and not much sun left to come through the tall windows. At first it looked to me like the piece of cloth she drew out really was black. But when she held it up I could see that it was dark green and blue checks.
    â€œThis is his feile-beag ,” she said. “In English it’s called a kilt.”
    It looked like a short skirt to me, heavy wool with sharp pleats all across the back. I’ll admit that I was a mite shocked to think of a man wearing something like that. Especially a soldier! I didn’t say a word, though. Ruth and Randal both looked real interested and even Wallace acted like a man wearing a skirt was the most natural thing in the world. Miz MacKenzie draped the kilt over her lap and commenced to drawing out the rest of the outfit, piece by piece, and telling us about each one, her voice as reverent as if she was describing Jesus’ swaddling clothes.
    â€œThese are his hose and flashes…” The wildest tall checkered socks I ever did see, and some rags I figured he used for garters. “His uniform shirt…” Old-fashioned puffy sleeves, but at least it looked like a regular soldier’s blouse, tan, with regimental insignia on the shoulder. “His sporran…” Looked like a