Sookin' Berries Read online

  The thought of a nice big plate of steaming hot tatties, onions and corned beef made me call back, ‘The hunger’s on me, so don’t worry, I’ll be playing round the door.’

  I was curious, though, and leaving my sisters playing in safe view, I went to have a look at the bowed camp with the red-headed kids.

  This was the type of abode my parents lived in as youngsters, and it always held a fascination for me. The construction itself was an art handed down from father to son. With Scottish winters being so severe, there was no room for errors in putting it together. If rain and draughts were allowed under those canvas shelters, then new-born babies and elderly parents would certainly suffer.

  They were built like skin around a ribcage. Animal skins were used originally, and these were later replaced by jute sacks, plastic sheeting or tarpaulin. Hazel sticks, formed into bows while the saplings were still young, became the skeleton for those nomadic homes. When the time came to move on, it was a simple matter of removing the cover and untying the sticks, which were all held together with a ridge pole, and piling them neatly onto a cart. Usually a small horse pulled the cart around the countryside. However, if there was no horse, the entire contents of the travellers’ lives were distributed onto their own sturdy backs.

  To add to the comfort of the tents, water was drained away by digging a shallow ditch at either side, allowing water to run freely away from the floor. In winter, heavy stones were used to stop strong winds blowing the cover off and away. Ropes were also used as extra security. Where two canvases joined, usually in the middle, a wee stove was used to give heating and cooking. This was a lifesaver in the cold winters Scotland was at one time accustomed to. A long chimney (lum) was pushed through the roof to take away the smoke.

  Relatives told me of the ghost stories they heard as children during winter nights while huddled inside, with gales and blizzards swirling round their cosy home of long ago.

  Now, getting back to the tale...

  ‘Hello,’ I called over to the children sitting beside the old woman. They were shy wee things, and as I got nearer, they couried their faces into the elderly woman’s chest.

  ‘Hello to you,’ said a voice from inside the camp. At that a younger woman pushed her head out, and, deary me, she too had blazing red hair.

  ‘My children are afraid of strangers,’ she told me.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I assured them.

  The old lady smiled but didn’t look at me; instead she asked if that was my bus she saw trundling onto the green. I proudly said it was. She told me they always relied on Bonny, their horse, to take them where they needed to go, but she had died a week ago.

  I looked around and saw horse tack laid across a nearby tree, which had been on the animal that had brought them to the berries. I asked who had taken away the carcass. She pulled her shawl over her head and said nothing. I was thinking it strange that there was no man in the group, and being a youngster, I asked where the head of the family was.

  ‘We’re from Argyllshire. This is the first time we came to the berries,’ said the younger woman, brushing her long red hair as she stooped coming out of her camp. ‘This is my mother, Bella, and these besoms are my children. Clara is the oldest, she’s six. Rory here is a big four, aren’t you my laddie? And Florrie, my baby, is three. The berry farmer kindly removed Bonny for us. Poor old thing, she was over thirty. The dear creature was glad to go, I’m certain, but Mum loved her so much, she’s still mourning her passing.’

  Then the woman freely told me that her husband Ronald had taken very sick and he too was gone. A tear slid down her cheek. I felt guilty at my nosiness and immediately apologised. Then I quickly changed the subject. ‘Oh, I love animals too, but we’re not allowed any in case they run under the bus and get squashed.’

  I turned to speak to the little ones. ‘I bet you can’t guess this, but I have seven sisters!’ Ice broken, the kids took to me straight away. I was fascinated by their hair colour. I wanted to take them to our pitch and show them to my parents and sisters. ‘Can I take them up to meet my wee sisters?’ I asked, adding that I was called Jess.

  ‘No, lass,’ said Bella, ‘it’s nearing their bedtime. Tomorrow morning you’re welcome back.’ That said, she crawled into her tent.

  ‘See you in the morning then, Jess,’ said the children’s mother, who told me her name was Isa. They waved goodbye, as one by one they followed granny into the camp for the night.

  As I was leaving, Bella called to me, ‘Would you like to have a peep at my dog’s new born pups?’

  Given my love of animals I didn’t need inviting twice. The old lady gently lifted back the doorflap to display a tender sight. Lying curled up beside their mother were four of the smallest puppies I’d ever seen.

  ‘My goodness, how small they are,’ was all I could say.

  ‘The old dog is nearing her end,’ whispered Isa. ‘You know she’s had a lot of litters in her life, but I fear this last one will kill her.’

  The poor old dog did look fairly peched, and didn’t bat an eyelid when I lifted up the nearest pup, a black and white ball of fluff. But this one didn’t catch my attention. No, it was the smallest one. Snugly sucking away at its mother’s milk, no bigger than my fist, was a wee white soul with a black patch covering the right eye, which looked right at me. All I could say was, ‘My, you’re so tiny!’

  I gently laid the other wee mite beside his mother and looked round the camp. I told Bella my folks had lived their early years in a bowed camp. I was surprised to see how well constructed it was. Despite there being no man, these two women certainly knew their stuff.

  Later, while sitting around my family campfire getting tucked into tasty stovies, I told Mum all about my newfound friends, and the pups of course.

  ‘Don’t you be bothering folk, now, Jess. I saw that old woman, and she didn’t look in the best of health. Give her peace, and don’t be running in and out of the camp minding pups.’

  As I washed before bed, I promised my mother that I would do as she said. That night I filled my dreams with the bonnie, wee, tottie dog that slept beneath the canvas of the old bowed camp, and not only that, I dreamed that he was mine.

  During the next week the strawberry picking was in full swing, and wherever I went three red-headed little ones came with me. The pups grew strong, and I became more and more attached to Tiny. But when I mentioned him to Mum, she said, ‘No!’

  ‘Keeping a dog in a house is fine enough, but it would be cruel in a bus,’ she said, and then added, ‘I’d be forever tramping on the animal.’

  Saturday morning after breakfast, I skipped off to take my new-found pals out to play. Strange it was, when I arrived, to see the fire not lit. And why was the old woman not up and about? I stood at the closed camp doorway and quietly called on Isa.

  ‘Wait there, Jess, I’ll be out in a minute,’ she answered. After a while she appeared, and I could see she’d been crying.

  ‘Is there something wrong with one of the kids?’ I asked, concerned. She didn’t answer, because a moan from within the camp had her dashing back inside. My concern had me intruding, as I gently bent down and pulled back the door. ‘Can I help, what’s wrong?’ I asked again.

  ‘Mum isn’t the best this morning, lass. Do you think you could away and fetch your mother for me?’ Isa looked frightened. I had seen that look before whenever folks were really poorly.

  As fast as my legs could carry me, I ran home. Mum was busy washing and was up to her elbows in soapsuds. ‘Old Bella’s not well this morning,’ I told her, ‘her daughter Isa is asking for your help.’ I was out of breath.

  Mum could see something was seriously wrong. She quietly stopped her chores, dried her hands and took off her wet apron. ‘Now, Jess,’ she said softly, ‘you dress the kids and light a fire, fill Isa’s kettle and put it over the heat to boil.’

  Without question I obeyed my mother. I then took the bewildered little ones up to our bus, where I gave them each a plate of
porridge. After I had wiped little Florrie’s face, we all went back to see how Bella was progressing.

  ‘Come in, one at a time,’ said my mother.

  I was puzzled, what was wrong? I had enough sense, though, to see that this was adults’ ways of doing. So, without question, I ushered each of them in, then out, before asking if I could come in too. Mum took my hand, pulling me onto my knees as I entered. The old woman’s colour was drained white. Isa was sobbing into a flannel cloth, at the same time holding her mother’s hand to her face.

  Bella turned slowly to look at me. With a faint gesture she pointed to her feet where the old dog and her sleeping pups lay. ‘Take the one with the black patch, bonny Jess, it’s yours,’ she said in a whisper.

  I looked at my mother and she nodded. I was confused yet overjoyed. She had been adamant about no dogs, yet here she was, giving approval for the very thing that up till then had been denied.

  She ushered me out, saying in a whisper, ‘Take the wee ones away to play. At dinnertime take them up and feed them at the bus with soup from the big pot.’ Before I could question her as to why it was necessary to keep them away, she added, ‘Here’s some money, buy sweeties.’

  All I could think was, this poor old woman must be awfy sickly if I’m getting all this money for sweeties. Little did I, or the children, know just how sick Bella really was.

  We played hide-and-seek in the high berry drills, stopping every now and then to pop a juicy berry in our mouths, laughing at the way the red juice ran down our cheeks. Soon we forgot about the drama back in the bowed camp as, like kids the world over, we played.

  Soon, though, they tired of eating berries and playing in the high drills. So with the money Mum gave me I knew the very thing that would bring smiles, a lovely big tin of condensed milk. Off to the bothy shop I went with our pennies and my wee flock following behind, to devour the contents of heaven itself. But as we sat in a circle on a patch of clover, it dawned on me we needed a tin-opener. I told my flock of hungry kids we’d have to go back to the bus and get one.

  ‘Not necessary,’ said Clara, ‘I have the very thing.’ Pushing her thin fingers into a concealed pocket in her shorts, she pulled out a rusty nail. Without a word she ran her hand across the ground and picked up a medium-sized stone.

  ‘Well done,’ I said, as I hammered the dirty nail into the top of the tin.

  In no time the thick, sweet, glue-like milk was spewing from the holes, and each of us in turn sucked and licked to our heart’s content. Florrie, though, because of her age, just hadn’t mastered the art of sooking. This resulted in half her ration disappearing up her nose. We were in fits of giggles watching her wee tongue try to lick the contents of her nose along with the sweet, creamy milk.

  When time came to eat my mother’s big pot of soup they had little appetite. Hardly surprising, really.

  By late afternoon they were all played out and wearied for their mother. I had no choice but to take them home. ‘Perhaps the hours of peace from the kids will have done Bella good, and she’d be a little better,’ I thought.

  But when I saw the fire still out, I thought she’d be much the same. At the camp door I told the kids to wait until I checked if it was alright to go in. Gently pulling back the door-cover, I whispered, ‘Is it alright if I come in?’

  ‘Here, Jess, ‘said my mother, handing me a cardboard box with four sleepy pups in it, huddled together. I did as I was told and put the puppy box down on the grass.

  Isa came out, said nothing and reached for her children, holding them tightly. I looked over her head at a sight that comes vividly into my mind even now. Bella was covered over by a blanket. Unable to stop myself I pulled the cover from her face. ‘She’ll suffocate,’ I shouted.

  Mum squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear that Bella had died, and then lifted me away from the old woman’s death-bed. I took one last look before dashing outside. She was grey-coloured. Her eyelids half shut, chin resting on her chest. So this was how dead folks looked!

  My mother slipped her arm through mine and said, ‘Come now, pet, let’s leave this family to their grief.’ She then added, ‘I’ll have to get homes for these pups.’ I wondered why she didn’t take the bitch as well, and asked her so.

  ‘The strangest thing,’ she said, ‘the minute the old woman went, the bitch went with her. That old dog just gave a heavy sigh, stretched her legs and died!’

  Thinking on my mother’s previous promise I peered into the box to see if Tiny was still there. ‘You’re not giving my wee one away, are you Mum?’ I asked, thinking she had only said it to keep the dying woman content.

  ‘No, don’t fret, lass, you should know me better than that – a promise must be kept. But remember this, I don’t want to see a squashed pup under the bus wheels or an accidentally kicked one rushing around the bus. You now have a dog, so take care of it.’

  Tiny became our beloved family pet. Dad took him away when he went to work, I took him playing among the hills and glens. He was there when my oldest sister got married and there when my youngest did too.

  You may find this difficult to believe, but when he passed away, our Tiny was 21 years old!

  Well, like all good things, even stories must end. Sharing all these tales with you has been great fun. I hope now that you have spent some time with me, you might have a better understanding of the ways of the travelling people.

  Before our culture is gone for ever, I would like to think that we may be remembered fondly for one thing – our truly wonderful stories that we have so carefully passed down from one generation to another. They are yours now, so guard them well...

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM BIRLINN BY JESS SMITH

  JESSIE’S JOURNEY

  From the ages of 5 to 15, Jess Smith lived with her parents, sisters and a mongrel dog in an old, blue Bedford bus. They travelled the length and breadth of Scotland, and much of England too, stopping here and there until they were moved on by the local authorities or driven by their own instinctive need to travel. By campfires, under the unchanging stars they brewed up tea, telling stories and singing songs late into the night. “Jessie’s Journey” describes what it was like to be one of the last of the traditional travelling folk. It is not an idyllic tale, but despite the threat of bigoted abuse and scattered schooling, humour and laughter run throughout a childhood teeming with unforgettable characters and incidents.

  TALES FROM THE TENT

  In Tales from the Tent, Jess Smith – Scottish traveller, hawker, gypsy, ‘gan-about’ and storyteller – continues the unforgettable story started in Jessie’s Journey of her life on the road. Unable to adjust to settled life working in a factory after leaving school, she finds herself drawn once again to the wild countryside of Scotland. Having grown up on the road in an old blue bus with her parents and seven sisters, Jessie now joins her family in caravans, stopping to rest in campsites and lay-bys as they follow work around the country – berry-picking, hay-stacking, ragging, fortune-telling and hawking. Making the most of their freedom, Jessie and her family continue the traditional way of life that is disappearing before their eyes, wandering the roads and byways, sharing tales and living on the edge of ‘acceptable’ society. Intertwined with the story of Jessie’s loveable but infuriating family, incorrigible friends, first loves and first losses are her ‘tales from the tent’, a collection of folklore from the traveller’s world, tales of romance, mythical beasts, dreams, ghostly apparitions and strange encounters.

  TEARS FOR A TINKER

  In the third and final book of Jess Smith’s autobiographical trilogy, Jess traces her eventful life with Dave and their three children, from their earliest years together. Their adventures and achievements are interspersed with stories of her parents’ childhood, her father’s ‘tall tales’ and the eerie echoes of ghosts and hauntings that she has heard from gypsies and travellers over many years. Fans of Jess Smith will not be disappointed with her latest memoir, full of more unforgettable characters and insight into the trave
llers’ way of life, a tradition that stretches back more than 2000 years and survives in the rich oral tradition of its people.

  WAY OF THE WANDERERS

  Scottish Gypsies, known as Travellers or Tinkers, have wandered Scotland’s roads and byways for centuries. Their turbulent history is captured in this passionate new book by Jess Smith, the bestselling author of Jessie’s Journey and a Traveller herself. Her quest for the truth takes her on a personal journey of discovery through the tales, songs and culture of the ‘pilgrims of the mist’, who preferred freedom to security, and a campfire under the stars to a hearth within stone walls. The history Jess has uncovered reveals centuries of prejudice and shocking violence by settled society against Travellers, including the enforced break-up of families and separate schooling. But drawing on her own and her family’s experiences as they wandered the glens and braes of Scotland, she also captures the magic and rich traditions of a life lived outside conventional boundaries.

  BRUAR’S REST

  Bruar’s Rest is an epic tale of love and loyalty set against the backdrop of World War One. The story opens in the Highlands at the beginning of the twentieth century. The gypsy wife of wild drunkard Rory Stewart dies giving birth to their second son. Many years pass, and Rory and his sons are rootless travellers on the roads of Scotland. One night, during a winter storm, they save another traveller family from freezing to death in a blizzard. Bruar Stewart and one of the girls he rescues, the hot-blooded and beautiful Megan, fall in love. But the First World War is declared, tearing their lives apart. Bruar is reported missing in action, and Megan sets off on a long and perilous journey to find him...An epic tale of love and loyalty by the author of the spellbinding autobiographical trilogy, Jessie’s Journey.

  SOOKIN’ BERRIES

  Introducing “Sookin’ Berries”, her collection of stories for younger readers, Jess Smith writes: ‘I have been a gatherer of tales for most of my life, and I suppose it all began when I was a wee girl. I shared a home with parents, seven sisters and a shaggy dog. It could be said that I lived a different sort of life from most other children, because ‘home’ was an old blue bus. We were known as tinkers or travellers, descendants of those who have wandered the highways and by ways of Scotland for two thousand years’. Acclaimed for her autobiographical trilogy, “Jessie’s Journey”, Jess is on a mission to pass on the stories she heard as a girl to the young readers of today. ‘If you are aged from around 10 going on 100, then you’re a fine age to read, enjoy and hopefully remember forever these ancient oral tales of Scotland’s travelling people. What I’d like you to do in this book is to come with me on the road; back to those days when it was time to pack up and get going, and to take the way of our ancestors. I want you to imagine that, as my friend, you are by the campfire listening to the magical Scottish stories that have been handed down through generations of travellers’.