Stephen McGinty meets Lorna McKie, wife of the compiler of The
Herald's Wee Stinker crossword, and finds that she hasn't really got a
clue about what makes him tick
WHEN you talk to Lorna McKie about the life of the wife of a crossword
compiler you needn't fill in the blanks. It's all there: the
frustrations and fears, the love and laughs, printed out with all i's
dotted, t's neatly crossed.
Her husband John McKie is The Big Cheese behind The Wee Stinker and
the clues which leave The Herald crumpled in frustration. Ponder for a
minute if you will just what is the solution to GGAG -- two words, five
letters and eight?
The garden path on Glasgow's south side which leads up to where John
works to lead so many down is gravelly and ends at an imposing door from
behind which dogs bark in answer to the doorbell. Lorna McKie, a small
lady in checked skirt and red polo neck, ushers us into the hall where
John, a towering willowy figure, says hello.
He is a man of few words, his wife having pinched the rest. ''I don't
know why you're here,'' she starts before seldom stopping. ''I've
nothing of interest to say, the only reason I'm talking is both my boys
are journalists and I know how hard they try to get people to talk to
them, that's the only reason. Oh, don't turn that thing on, then I'll
not be able deny I said it. Oh, all right then. But only if you promise
to edit out any bad language.''
Her husband returns only once to the living room, which is packed with
books and bric-a-brac, then disappears to his study, the giant Christmas
crossword is due in a week with scarcely a one across or a two down
done. Lorna laughs and talks about loathing this time of year. She loves
it when it's done, it's waiting while he does it that's difficult.
''I'll tell you one thing that drives me crazy, he can't do it unless
he has a gun to his head. . . or he will not do it. If we are away in
Arran where there is nothing to do I'll tell him to do it. But he won't.
That's him just starting. . . it'll never be ready. I'm much calmer now
but I used to worry he was going to die as he never went to bed. I would
get up in the middle of the night and scream -- 'I'm going to be a widow
by the time I'm 40'.''
Each New Year Lorna receives a letter from a lady in Aberdeenshire who
describes how her Christmas was spent struggling over crossword clues,
her family life lying around her like tattered wrapping paper. Last year
Lorna wrote back and explained how lucky she was. Things could be worse.
''He will walk into the room and say; 'Miss Otis regrets' and stop and
we are all supposed to say, 'she is unable to lunch today'. Then he'll
come back and say 'are you sure it's lunch and not dine'. Of course the
minute somebody puts doubt in your mind you think, is it lunch or dine?
and for the next 48 hours all the family is talking about Miss Otis and
whether she is going to lunch or dine.''
John was born in the first year of the war and Lorna in the last. The
pair matched while he taught her Sunday School at Knightswood
Congregational Church. Both now teach at Hutchesons' Grammar where as a
boy his passion for crossword puzzles flared during dull classics
classes. Classes which he now teaches.
In comparison Lorna educates infants, a task that captures her
conversation more than crosswords ever can. ''When you take them at four
years old and six months later they can actually read. It never fails to
amaze me.'' And every year she writes and produces a stage play with the
parts tailored for each child.
The partnership of a brilliant eccentric uninterested in small talk
and a vivacious television addict puzzles most who are clueless to its
success. ''I knew he was off his head but that was part of the
attraction, anyone who reads Greek for pleasure on their honeymoom is
not your Mr Average.'' The couple now have five grown-up children and
have celebrated their silver wedding anniversary.
There is a see-saw element to the McKie's collective fame, fellow
teachers who snare Stinker t-shirts will wear them under shirts and
flash like Superman, while dinner party's can be a drag. ''Last Saturday
a guy suddenly leaned forward to John and said -- you're not the wee
stinker are you? I hate you!''
But what the public hate more than a tough clue is an error. A missing
line will receive more faxes, letters and phone calls than any
controversial column. A fortnight ago the Saturday prize crossword had a
missing clue; number 23 down had disappeared. When The Herald phoned the
house they were told. ''The stupid bugger missed it out, why don't you
fire him and give us all some peace!''
On other occasions Lorna is more supportive. ''The phone will ring and
they'll say we've no crossword for Saturday and that's when I say he's
just stepped out. Then I turn and ask what he's at. And he'll say, 1
Across.''
But despite having loved the man with the corkscrew mind for over 25
years she remains unable to complete The Wee Stinker and its cluster of
enigmatic clues.
''I have a friend who is a pianist and John asked for her number -- so
I listened in, naturally, that's what wives do. I heard him ask what key
you would play Happy Birthday in. She said if it was for a child it
would be G. The clue in the wee stinker was GGAG and the answer was
Happy Birthday. Now there were idiots all over Glasgow who actually got
that.''
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