Bruar's Rest Read online

  Bruar’s Rest

  JESS SMITH

  was raised in a large family of Scottish travellers. She is the bestselling author of Jessie’s Journey: Autobiography of a Traveller Girl and its sequels, Tales from the Tent and Tears for a Tinker. This is her first novel. As a traditional storyteller, Jess is in great demand for live performances throughout Scotland and beyond. More information can be found on her website, www.jesssmith.co.uk

  First published in 2006 by Mercat Press

  This edition published in 2011 by Birlinn Limited

  This ebook edition published in 2012 by

  Birlinn Limited

  West Newington House

  Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.birlinn.co.uk

  Copyright © Jess Smith, 2006

  The moral right of Jess Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-210-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-84158-936-7

  Version 1.0

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To all my family and friends

  To Michelle Iona Melville

  To Shirley, a fine poet, songwriter and singer

  To my mate, Sheila Stewart MBE

  To Mercat

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this story to Spook: co-editor of my life

  INTRODUCTION

  My seed for writing was planted twenty years ago, when I set off to pick the brains of Mary, a tradition-bearer and relative who lived in the coastal area of Aberdeenshire.

  I half-joked about writing a book, told her I’d been toying with the idea of telling the world my life story, with several old ghostie tales thrown in. She knew cracking spook stories, I wanted inspiration and if ever there was a tinker tale-teller, it was her.

  ‘This book,’ I told her, ‘is in its wishful stages, an array of handwritten bits and pieces about my childhood on the road in our bus-home.’

  ‘You mean life as a human sardine, with seven sisters, parents and some mangy dog.’ She grinned and slapped her thigh, at the memories of Daddy manoeuvring the bus alongside her wee cottage, engine revving, us tumbling over each other to cuddle the life from her, escaping like kennelled pups from the narrow door of our bus-home.

  ‘Not much of a life though,’ her smile gave way to a frown, ‘to write a book about, I mean. Are you sure it would work?’

  ‘Of course it would, I have memories galore. For instance, like you said, living like sardines—in deep winter, when Jack Frost clung to eyebrows and toes, our closeness kept away his icy stings. Or that incident that had travellers the country over in awe—you know, that time when Daddy took on four drunkards who would have murdered us all on yon dark moor up Dalwhinnie way. Wee gladiator he was that night, beating them to pulp. What a braw story, don’t you think?’

  A blank look told me she wasn’t impressed, nor believed in the feat of my five-and-a-half-foot father; so I tried the academic approach by saying, ‘Surely, as part of Scotland’s travelling community, you think it’s important to preserve a lifestyle, one which has been in place for two thousand years; wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Ach, who cares about our kind? Nobody jumps through hoops to preserve a rat, my girl, and in society’s eyes we’re no better. You’ll be hard pressed to sell a book about tinkers, they’re next door to an ape; sub-humans, little else, surely you know we’re nothing more.’

  She sank into a floral patterned armchair, leant forward with her arm on a bent knee, threw a sour look in my direction, then went back to ponder fond memories. ‘Do you mind how each year you’d rush in here, wee face all red and rosy, full of excitement to share your latest epic tale of shroudwashing banshees and fierce werewolves? I told your folks at the time, even as a wee lassie, there was a gift in that head of yours. But never mind ghost-shockers and bus-dwelling, I know a story that would make a great book, one tailor-made for you: listen!’

  So while I sipped hot tea with my host, who was a sort of cousin of my father’s (to explain connections would take far too long and prove a novel in itself) she began to recount a saga of epic proportions. About someone called Megan who searched the country for her husband, the strangely named Bruar—one single casualty amongst the millions of the First World War.

  World War One is definitely not my favourite period in history; those were dark times when souls were lost to pride and greed. Nations with guns for brains slaughtering each other at the raising of an old general’s finger. World War Two was just as bad, it took my daddy away, leaving mammy to go it alone with four children for six tortuous years. No, wars weren’t my thing.

  Mary, though, was on a roll, galloping out words of past times, and only by clanking the kettle against the kitchen sink and turning the tap full on did I manage to halt her charge. I hadn’t the heart to tell her that those kinds of events didn’t hold me one bit. Innocent people dead, the guilty left to gloat. It was disrespectful of me, yes, but I could only see war as a game of winners and losers; and what was it all for in the end? We have tongues! Surely, if they were used truthfully, the wise of all nations could find common ground.

  I’m a placid kind of body, whereas Mary could skin a cat without touching the poor thing, so while we were discussing her tale I asked out of curiosity, rather than any real interest, were the characters real people?

  That didn’t matter, it wasn’t important, it was a grand tale and she continued pressing me to write it down.

  Yet it was a monster epic and it terrified me. My brain at that time couldn’t contemplate a paragraph, never mind thousands upon thousands of words. If I realised my dream of writing a book, it would have to be my past, not Mary’s murderers and lost souls, that would fill its pages. Hers was a story for another day. Hell, I didn’t even know if I could write.

  Yet, in the years that followed, like a running stream I made my mark on the world through, not one, but three books. A trilogy about a Scottish traveller and her dying culture!

  I had been uncaged; I was a free creature once more. The words of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre spring to mind: ‘I am no bird; no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.’

  It was after publication of my first book, while I was gathering ghosts and folklore characters to fill future books, my phone rang. It was Mary. I did keep reminding myself at times of her tale and wondered what negative response she’d had to my writings. On the contrary, she’d really enjoyed my stuff, especially when it used her contribution of ghosts and witch tales. I was astounded, though, at how quickly she pressed the case of Bruar and Megan’s tale. If determination could win a prize, in my mind she’d won a high honour.

  ‘I knew fine the days on the road would make good reading,’ she said. At first I thought she’d changed her tune, then came—‘but have you given any more thought to that lassie with the lost husband?’ The forthright, I would even say furious tone took me a little by surprise.

  ‘No, I’ve been researching the old ways, Mary. The origins of gypsies need researching for another project I’m toying with, and to tell the truth, I’m still not convinced I could do that story justice.’

  Instantly a stuttering apology followed. One book in the bestseller list and I was awarding little respect to my dear old mate, brushing her aside with a lame excuse. I felt her silence on the end of the phone and knew I’d been far too harsh. Thankfully,
though, an answer came from her that sounded quite light-hearted; it even afforded me a laugh, albeit a kind of goblin-like shriek followed by a low hiss.

  ‘You can look at my craggy face and find all the details of an old gypsy, if that’s what tickles you, lassie. Come up and see me. I’m not at all well these days, old age ye ken, and any road, I could do with a bit company.’

  Not blessed with children, her husband long dead, she was quite alone apart from her Tam, a nippy West Highland terrier. So off I went to visit Mary and nippy Tam in their tiny low-roofed cottage, nestling in a cove on the Aberdeenshire coast. Clear blue sky went as far as the eye could see, marked with tiny wisps of white cloud. If it hadn’t been for a covering of frost on roof-tiles one might have imagined it early summer, not March.

  Holding a mug of steaming tea, one arm curled around my knees, I stared into the teller’s eyes while heat from the coal fire warmed my body. Strangely, perhaps now that my own story had been told, I found Mary’s World War tale attractive in a way I couldn’t explain. Hearing the characters come to life once more, I needed to get closer to them: what made them tick? Until now they had remained patiently silent, waiting on a pen that could give them an eager rebirth.

  She sensed my eagerness and took the story further back, this time into Bruar’s past, telling of his mother’s demise which, to be honest, dug into my marrow.

  But whether it was a lack of belief in my slender abilities or fear of taking on such a massive storyline I don’t know, but my excuse was on cue. ‘I’ll write it as a short story, I’m no use at the novel, me. Those long story writers are gifted, I’m not!’

  ‘Aye, right,’ she said, smiling through a gap-toothed grin. There was for a minute a cooling of the atmosphere, I saw the eyes narrowing, nose twitching, and thought, ‘here we go again, another argument.’ I was wrong, however.

  Stretching her cardigan across the narrowest of shoulders to keep the grey sea haar rolling in from the ocean from chilling her bones, she stared into my soul, as old folks seem able to do. ‘Can you put the neck of a giraffe onto a rabbit, or push rain back inside its cloud?’ she asked, then added, ‘It was man who invented the pen.’

  I wondered if my old relative was reaching an age when, instead of going through life with added intelligence, she was slipping back into childhood. But maybe it was I who, with all my individual characters catalogued for future books, was slightly off balance.

  I didn’t know at the time what she meant, but later, while mulling over my visit, it became clear to me: she was simply implying that ‘to a writer, outer galaxies are reachable.’

  ‘Getting a wee bit senile,’ was the last thought I had of her standing on the red doorstep of her spotless cottage, smiling, one hand waving, the other folded over just as spotless an apron, her dog, wee Tam, tight against those tartan-slippered feet.

  As I looked in my rear-view mirror, that image of her waving, dog barking, seagulls diving for biscuit-crumbs scattered onto paving stones to the front of the house, was the last I saw of her. My last look drifted into the mouth of sea mist that swallowed all in its path. What I witnessed that day was old Mary’s preparation for death; two months later she fell foul of a massive heart attack. The best ghost story teller in all of Scotland had left the earth a sadder place, as far as I was concerned. A great tragedy, and in my hands rested her dirge tune; could I play it?

  A mound of research, the adornments of fiction and Mary’s facts (lodged methodically in my head) were merged to produce the story and journey which you, my dear reader, are about to embark upon now. I cannot enlighten those of you who ask, of my characters, ‘Were they real people?’ because, as is the way of many mist-folk, nobody like Mary tells a story with proven, documented facts. However, I may go some way in answer to you at this early point by saying, a blood-red vein does trickle in and out of a certain beating heart.

  Mary had informed me that the main players in her story were part travelling stock, and maybe that’s a reason why I found myself leaning towards this tale. If at times you find it difficult to grasp their culture, don’t worry, I’ll guide you through. However not all the players are mist-folk; like squares in a patchwork, in this story many different cultures are fastened together.

  Perhaps you’re at home, sat in that favourite armchair, G&T just so, or fingers warmed around a nice cup of what you fancy; maybe you’re lying in bed, cocoa at hand; maybe you are in a train or plane surrounded by strangers. Wherever you find yourself, come with me, I’ll tell you a story of how one lone young woman followed a flame of devoted loyalty through fear, murder and forbidden love.

  Bruar’s Rest

  Run lassie, find your man, he sleeps above the earth, not below, fast go your way, like the stream, winding forth blindly, yet always aware of treacherous waterfalls cascading over sharp rock. Mind how you flow, wild child of Nature: go on until the great tide frees your tired limbs and the hidden sun shines for you once more. Embrace the warmth of he who waits in the shadows.’

  CONTENTS

  THE BEGINNING

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  POSTSCRIPT

  THE BEGINNING

  Our tale opens in 1892.

  Rory Stewart, a young Highlander, wild and far too fond of the drink, was the only son of a peat-cutter who’d passed away many years ago. His mother had also answered death’s call, leaving him and his older sister Helen. She was a staid and stern young woman, whose only ambition was to join a nunnery and live in quiet servitude to her faith. When parents were gone, she opted instead to take care of her wayward brother. A choice that brought constant regret.

  She did her best, but his love of drink and raising trouble in the quiet village of Durness, the northernmost point of Sutherland, caused her hours of torment. However, when a tinker man and his niece came passing through the village, his eye fell upon the bonny lassie. She had a power of beauty that crept into his sleep; if there is such a thing as love at first sight then surely it happened when he saw her. She had no liking, though, for men held under the power of alcohol, and for a while refused to look at him, still less would she share frivolous words.

  She was to his eyes a rare beauty, serene and charming. It was hard to believe she’d been a walker of the road, living under stars, washing in freezing burn water and laying her head wherever the feather fell. To him there would be no other: this had captured him, his dream woman. He’d not fallen in love with a lesser being as many might have considered such a match with a tinker; he’d fallen for an angel, who would prove his very own salvation. Down on one knee he went, but not until he had proved there was no longer any love of demon drink in him would she so much as afford a smile.

  So day followed day of sobriety and his wild nights were forgotten. She had tamed the tiger.

  Under the roof of an ancient chapel, along with her only relative, an old uncle, and his sister Helen as witnesses, Rory married his lassie.

  His wild ways seemed behind him, and he would only ever raise his kilt on rare occasions like New Year and birthdays. Helen saw little of him, since he took on his wife’s occupation of wandering Scottish by-ways. His wife showed him how to cut bracken, snare rabbits and make brooms. Money made wasn’t thrown away on a night’s boozing, but went instead into a small wooden box; winter sustenance would come from that container. Once, for a brief time, the couple appeared at Helen’s door to say a baby was due.

  Rory’s lassie loved the north, where his roots were. She wanted to rear a family and stop travelling, and after Bruar, their first child, was born life could not have been better. The uncle, who had been forced to care for her after her parents were killed in a flood that washed away their campsite, left her in the capable care of Rory and head
ed west.

  A second child was nearing its time when Rory gained possession of a derelict cottage. It was in dire need of major rebuilding, but he was determined to complete the task. It would take a lot of hard work, but she was worth it. They pitched a tent next to the ruin and both worked hard.

  From their clifftop vantage point, gulls, guillemots and puffins watched as the young couple, each filled with dreams, built, with loving devotion, their new home. She thought it a lovely spot overlooking the sea, ideal for chasing sea breezes and telling her many forthcoming children stories of her people of the mist.

  They had lain under the stars, making love and promising each other they would fill the village nearby with a whole clan of wee Stewarts. Girls would be like their mother; boys like him. All that life could offer lay at their feet. They even joked with Helen when she came to help with toddler Bruar, freeing them for longer hours of eager toil, that she should turn her home into a nunnery to teach her nieces and nephews the ways of her God.

  Helen was fond of her brother’s wife, even though she’d not much time for mist-wanderers or the summer walkers, names that Highland people gave the tinkers. Oh, some gossip had gone around, but it soon dispersed when folks saw how much the young lassie had changed the wild Rory. Her brother now had purpose in life, he was happy, what more could she ask.

  ONE

  Her labour began with tiny twinges. At first she sang through the pains, playing gently with wee Bruar and a wooden train his father had made for him from odd pieces of wood.

  ‘Do you need anything, my pet?’ Rory asked, handing her a stone jar of milky tea, and seeing to his young son. His gaze went through the cramped tent, already showing a few holes at its base, where on a torn mattress stuffed with crushed bracken his lassie would give him another child. He’d voiced concern at how uncomfortable she might be, but in her usual way she assured him that a tent was where her mother brought her into the world, and her grandmother had given birth there also.