Tears for a Tinker Page 12

  There might be truth in that. What other man could stand eight pairs of wet knickers drying on a string suspended above his head, while doing his football coupons on a rainy Saturday afternoon?

  Anyway, let’s go back to our campsite. The fire was reeking away good style, kettle boiling on the hook hung from iron chitties. Daddy whistled in fine tune, while Mammy sang ‘Busk, Busk, Bonnie Lassie’ like an angel, at the top of her voice.

  Sisters played nearby—and me? Well, I was still being ignored, so I thought I’d distance myself from the family, who were grating my nerves good-style.

  I found a braw deep burn hurling with fish, so broke a thin branch from an ash and went home to unwind some strong thread from a pirn kept in Mammy’s sowing box. As I rifled through it, I helped myself to a safety pin. Back at the stream, the uplifting of a few flat stones exposed some big worms, too big for my hook, so I put them back and raked for thinner ones. I unearthed two or three and plopped them into a wee flat fag tin I’d found in a midden heap. But I have never had the nerve to stick a hook into an innocent worm, so they stayed in the tin while I made a fly from pieces of a crow-feather I’d found. Voices drifted from our bus over to the burnside where I sat fishing. I heard Daddy and Mammy with raised voices, unlike their earlier mood, which was a jolly one. Leaning my makeshift fishing rod against a tree, I went back to see why. ‘Och, nae wonder,’ I thought, seeing the tramp. ‘Mammy did our hair the night before and isn’t about to expose us to an army of nits.’

  ‘Give the bloke a drink o’ tea, Jeannie, for God sake, woman.’

  Daddy took his life in his hands speaking to her in that tone. He knew she was a sweetie, but that it was us she was protecting—well, our cleanliness to be exact. Tramps didn’t put her up nor down, if they would only pay a wee bit more attention to personal hygiene.

  ‘You sit away from my weans,’ she told the man, sternly pointing to a tree stump. Turning to Daddy, she said, handing him a mug of tea, ‘here, you give him that, and he gets not a single bit of food.’

  I couldn’t understand why my gentle mother felt that way, because she’d give her last penny to whoever asked her. I know, though, it wasn’t so much a personal thing. Keeping us free from nits meant that when school came around once more, we wouldn’t have the fingers pointed or names called. If weans had nits, then to her they weren’t clean enough.

  So there he was, a small-made tramp of the road with not a tooth in his head, sitting on a tree-stump wearing a massive army coat. Daddy told him to take it off and be comfortable. He apologised for Mammy and sat by the old fellow blethering. Now, as you well know, I loved these colourful chappies, and just had to join in the blether. Mammy ignored the situation, getting on with peeling tatties for supper. The look she sank me spoke volumes, though, something like ‘I’ll be dipping you intae the burn the minute he’s away!’

  He didn’t say much, this guy, he wasn’t a storyteller, so my thoughts wandered back to my fishing rod. But when I got back to the burn, it had gone. I ran upstream a bit, and could just make it out bobbing in deep water. Being so young I shan’t tell you what I was muttering to myself: suffice to say it wasn’t the language of an eleven-year-old.

  Aware of the fast-flowing current’s strength, I lay flat on the bank and stretched. Too short was my reach, leaving only one option left, to wade in. Dangerous waters flowed swiftly around my legs as I sank into a nightmarish slurry of algae and mud. I was being dragged down, sucked by a whirlpool. My danger did not become apparent at first, because this was no big river, just a stream, deep in parts, shallow in others. However, one heavy shower of rain high upon the mountain can turn a quiet burn into a raging river, so it could well have been in spate. I thrust an arm forward, yet missing its target, a hanging branch of willow. I was losing my struggle and felt stupid.

  ‘What will they say when I walk back like a drookit rat?’ was all my mind could think, before panic gripped me. ‘Perhaps I’ll not walk anywhere again?’ I felt fingers of long grasses wind around my legs and pull me further, deeper in. The burn began to take on the form of a monstrous ocean trying to gulp me down. ‘Help me!’ came those desperate screams that all near-drowning victims must utter, ‘I’m trapped, Mammy, Daddy, help.’

  Water cascaded into my open mouth, choking my futile calls, filling my lungs. Bubbles started popping in my head; it was then that the strangest thing happened, I began to feel warm and good. My struggling slowed down, then stopped, as those gentle, dancing, fingers of water formed into slender arms swaying in motion. I was aware of currents rushing violently above my head, yet not down here.

  My body began to float back and forth in rhythm, while a beautiful girl with long dancing silver hair held out arms to embrace me. Who was she, this smiling mermaid with long flowing hair? Words came from her lips as she pointed downwards, but what was she saying and where was she pointing? She then began to fade into the reed grass, leaving me alone in the merciless depth.

  It got very dark; my spine arched, forcing back my head, and I could feel my lungs bursting with water. Then a terrible pain tightened around my upper body and brought back my panic. I opened my mouth to scream, and then came the most terrifying sight—a beast grabbed me, pulling on my neck. I looked up: it had no teeth and was smiling with an evil grin, then total darkness engulfed me. I was running down a long black passage, when other hands began to pull at me. They rolled me over and over, until a great thumping noise bounded in my head. Lights of immense brightness burst into my eyeballs, and then a fountain of warm sticky fluid came pouring from my mouth. My eyes opened, to reveal the toothless demon standing over me. It was a small man wearing a torn semmit and long johns; water was pouring from the crotch.

  I didn’t recognise him minus his coat. My saviour, of all people, was the road tramp. He had jumped in to investigate the air bubbles coming from a patch of clear water in a thicket of reeds and saved my life. My family were running up and down the burn frantically searching for me, but it was his eagle eye that detected the near drowning wean, me! I later discovered that the toothless, grinning monster who felt my kicks while attempting to rescue me, a common occurrence when someone is drowning, was that poor tramp who my mother had detested—but never again.

  That night a saint sat at our fire, one wearing a heavy wool coat, and it mattered not a jot to my mother that an army of Black Watch nits infested his collar, they were welcome too.

  After my near-death experience our visit to the east side of Scotland’s coastline was breathtakingly spectacular. But so was each breath I inhaled. Rock pools filled with green water as the North Sea brought back and forth her tides. I didn’t swim once though; I was too afraid to allow water above my neckline.

  Ah, but what made my days there so joyous? A coastline bursting with goodies, that’s what. Two stappit-full jute sacks of scrap metal, paying four pound sterling, meant that I became rich. And the first thing I purchased? A beautiful china cup for Mammy’s tea!

  Seriously, what did the ‘wench from the watery depth’ say to me as I struggled to keep my last pocket of air in my lungs? I’ve asked dozens of people after telling them of my experience, and they all said the same thing—‘if you knew, then you’d be dead’. It’s the same as falling from a great height in a dream. You always waken before hitting the ground.

  Not that long ago I put my experience to an expert, who informed me that it would have been the water reeds, which can grow to a great length, that I mistook for a wispy female. ‘Yes, of course it was water reeds of great length, but what did they say—?’

  So much mystery surrounds rivers in Scotland, and a Pitlochry man, a fine poet who goes by the name of Douglas Petrie, gave me his description of one such mysterious waterway in his series of river verses.

  THE RIVER

  Where do you come from?

  Where do you go?

  With your never-ending flow,

  Down through valleys

  And along the glens,

  Your sparkling
body twists and bends,

  And as you pass along your way,

  Every night and every day,

  Sometimes rushing, sometimes slow,

  But never saying where you go,

  In your splendid pools so deep,

  What are the secrets that you keep?

  O lovely river, so serene,

  Where are you going?

  Where have you been?

  A RIVER HOME

  It’s in the glen you sparkle, twist and run,

  And really dazzle in the sun,

  Here will always be your home,

  And not the place you will roam.

  In the glens you’re clear and free,

  Further on must troubles be,

  But although you journey away each day,

  I know it’s here you wish to stay,

  For in the glens your beauty’s best,

  Its here I know you love to rest.

  MY DREAM HOME

  Just an old wooden shack

  By the side of a track,

  With a stream running close at the rear,

  Where my neighbours and friends are the deer.

  In the little loch, not far away,

  I can see trout rising in a gentle ribble today.

  The view down the valley

  And up the glen, it’s heaven here at my but and ben.

  With no daily junk mail or rubbish TV,

  Only realities have I to see.

  I know some ways of life I would miss,

  I can gain far more,

  Just need to go and look outside my front door.

  Douglas and I met by chance recently while I was researching into my family’s background whilst they lived in Pitlochry. A phone-call had come from Radio Scotland, the producer of ‘The Robbie Shepherd Show’, inviting me to take part in a set of summer programmes they were planning. Now, you know what a show-off I am, so I didn’t have to be asked twice. ‘Choose your favourite places and several pieces of music,’ was the request. I chose Pitlochry. It was there in Walker’s Field over the bridge that Daddy introduced me to my home of many summers, the old blue bus. Blairgowrie was my second choice—those wonderful days at the berries, my friends, laughter, singers, camp-fires. Choosing music was fun, because there were umpteen songs I loved. So before I met up with Robbie and Jennifer, his producer, I took a jaunt over to see if some of the old places were still there. It was sad to see many places no longer existed or were changed dramatically. All except Granny Power’s wee green hut where she lived at the Bobbin Mill, under a canopy of bushes, but still withstanding the ravages of time.

  It was hungry work trekking around, so I went into a nice riverside café and it was here I met Douglas. It turned out he remembered some of my family, in particular daddy’s brothers, Wullie, Joe and Eddy. We had a brilliant chat, and as I was leaving he handed me a sheet of folded A4 paper. ‘If you write any more o’ thon stories o’ yours, lassie,’ he smiled broadly, ‘find a wee space for these’.

  I thanked him and said goodbye. When arriving home I examined the paper, and on it were scribbled the above verses. I hope one day, Douglas, you find that but-and-ben by the stream.

  19

  CURSE OF THE MERCAT CROSS

  I’ll take us back to Macduff now folks, and, sad to say, for the last time.

  Davie wasn’t born to the sea. This hadn’t taken long to dawn on him—in fact, poor lad, he had been overburdened with his dislike of the ocean from the word go, but being a good provider he decided to plod on and say nothing. He came home one day, and sat for ages allowing the contours of an ancient torn armchair Sarah had given us to almost swallow him, before telling me he’d quit, finished.

  ‘It takes a certain kind of man, Jess, to leave his family and walk into the bosom of an ocean. You can be floating on a carpet of peaceful water one minute, and sinking fingers into wood and metal the next as you hang on for grim death, while twenty-foot waves throw you in every direction. I’ve seen myself heaving a newly eaten meal over the side, as those born to the sea to be fishermen laughed and played cards. I’m first to admit, it’s not for me. Give me a building site any day. Let’s go back to Perthshire. What do you say?’

  I couldn’t say much, as my thoughts about leaving my parents and family left a cold unwelcome mind. I should have seen it coming, he’d been showing signs of unrest for several weeks, always seeming preoccupied, unhappy with things. I thought it was a sore back I’d caused him by an over-zealous attempt to prove my love. I’d not lost much weight at the time, and ran into his arms after a longer time than usual at sea. The poor lad went backwards like a ton of tatties, me on top of him. But it wasn’t that. No, in hindsight I think he needed to be back on home soil.

  Well, I won’t lie, there were very noisy arguments as I dug in my heels, adamant we were staying put, and he’d have to find another job here in Aberdeenshire, while he was determined to go home. Mammy solved the problem by suggesting we go somewhere new, like Fife. Glenrothes, where Shirley lived, was doubling in size; there was lots of building work on offer, and whole families were flooding the area.

  I softened, as did he, and with everything packed up we said our goodbyes to everyone and left our wee low-roofed rented cottage for good.

  I loved Macduff for many reasons. And like many places in my life little pieces of me remained there; Sarah for one, and Doctor Mackenzie another. It was there our son nearly died, and a nearly-baby changed its mind about being a human and leaving my womb; it became just a few joined-up cells. Behind closed doors I brushed shoulders with the shadow world. A ruddy-faced harbour chappie told me I had a weight problem, cutting me off forever from polony suppers. Oh aye, Macduff (which incidentally was Daddy’s pet name for Mammy) would not leave me, we were joined just like Banff and Macduff with its bridge spanning the River Deveron.

  So before we head to Glenrothes to take up residence with Shirley, here’s that story I promised you of a half-caste rogue, the fiddler McPherson.

  Legend has it he was the illegitimate son of a Highland gentleman and a gypsy girl. It may have been because of his mother’s background that men of substance shunned him. Not many looked on gypsies as anything other than human vermin. Unable to find acceptance in mainstream society, he turned to his mother’s people. There he could be a proud man, and grow strong in their midst. Musicians abounded among the gypsies. He acquired a grand fiddle, and from his mother, a deep love and understanding of music. This should have been the reason for his name passing into history, had it not been for a gang of cattle-lifters operating in the shire of Moray in the late seventeenth century.

  Whether they were guilty mattered not—they were gypsies. On 7 November 1700, McPherson, along with a cousin of the name of Gordon, and a weak-minded lad called Brown, were brought before the Sheriff of Banffshire to face numerous charges. ‘You are hereby charged with being “Egyptian” rogues and vagabonds, of keeping the markets in their ordinary manner of thieving and purse-cutting, also being of masterful bangstrie [violence against a person or property] and oppression.’

  The peculiar language spoken between the gypsies may well have helped seal their fate. It was mentioned, not in their favour, that their nights were spent in debauchery, dancing and singing.

  Guilty verdicts were levelled at McPherson and Gordon. At the Market Cross in Banff, the next day, they kept their appointment with the hangman’s rope. There is a well attested story that the Banff authorities, anticipating a royal pardon, hung them before the stated time of the execution. McPherson composed in his final hours his famous rant, the song which inspired Burns’ ‘Farewell, ye Dungeons Dark and Strong’.

  That was the traditional story that has been handed down.

  But this one we now share has only been told round campfires by folks who swear it is the truth. I heard it myself one misty gloaming filled with the onset of night.

  Once there was a handsome young gentleman who noticed, while out riding one fine day along the Moray coast, a vision of
loveliness that stopped him dead in his tracks. So beautiful was the dark-haired girl singing to the sea, that he felt compelled to dismount and watch her from behind a windswept tree. He sat down among dune grass, completely spellbound by her sultry beauty. She was a shy songstress, and sang so bonny until her eye caught sight of him watching and listening. She smiled across on seeing him, waved her slender arm, rose, then ran off, and before he regained composure had gone from his view. ‘Where did she go?’ he asked his bewildered steed, as if the horse would know.

  Remounted, he galloped for miles along sand and rock, but she’d just disappeared, gone.

  Night found him tossing restlessly in the feather-down bed he slept upon. ‘Sleep will’, he thought, ‘be an impossibility if I do not find the dusky maiden’.

  This fine young man, heir to the estate of his father the Honourable James McPherson, had fallen in love at first sight. Next day, abandoning his usual duties, he set off once more in the hope of catching a glimpse of the maiden. As luck would have it, she too was hoping to see him; and in the place where they’d first seen each other they met properly. ‘I am James,’ he held out a hand.

  ‘And I am Mary-Ann Gordon,’ she told him, lowering velvet black eyelashes over smouldering brown eyes.

  Sadly though, his dreams of courting this fine young maid and one day introducing her into his circle of family and friends were soon dashed, when he discovered she was a member of the Cave Gypsies, those mysterious people associated with the lowest forms of existence. Certainly she was not the kind a gentleman of blue blood would be found near. Yet love is a taskmaster like no other, and soon they were meeting in secret with a fondness growing stronger by the minute.

  One day he decided she would be his wife, and no matter what the response a decision was made to tell his parents. Oh my, the wailing and beating of breasts that morning. His father hit him hard across the face, while his mother begged that he forget the wench. There were others, far more suitable ladies, who’d give anything to be his bride. They pleaded that he give up the cave dweller. It was a problem the McPherson family had never encountered before. James senior met with an old friend, the Laird o’ Grant, and asked what could be done.