Jessie's Journey Page 19

  ‘That’s all well and good,’ came the quiet voice of wee Annie, ‘but in a’ the carry-on, me and Andra’s wee tent got flattened, so when ye’ve a mind tae it, wid ye baith git us another ane.’

  As for their wintering ground, well, as each member of the family married and left home, it went back to its original size. The old friends continued to coexist until Pushkie was left a house by an old professor whom she cared for while he was bed-ridden. And it was here that she and Geordie lived out their last days.

  On a more serious note, it is a known fact among travelling people that in the not so distant past, feuds between families have resulted in death. This strengthens my belief that after the Highland clearances many clan remnants, outlawed by church and government, joined with gypsies, tinkers to trade and wandering minstrels to survive. I do not have the proof needed to enter this into history books, but if you were to join a travellers’ campfire sing-song and compare the experience with a Highland ceilidh you would be surprised by the similarities. It’s such a pity historians have ignored the travellers’ history in Scotland, given that so many have opted out of the old ways to settle in towns and cities, living a lie about their rich cultural past. Who could fail to understand their reasons, however, when harassment of travelling people begins with the breast milk.

  24

  THE SHEPHERDESS AND HER WEE DUG

  As wee Tiny has been part of the family for some time now, I would like to share this little moment of canine joy with you. On leaving the Berries, Mammy often had a hankering to while away a few days in the area of her birth. This was one of those times.

  Foxies can be, so I’ve heard, a mite crabbit in nature, but not our wee lad. He loved to sit in a doll’s pram, dressed in a baby cardigan and woolly shorts, while all the bairns in the green took turns pushing him around. He must have felt like a wee king with a baby bunnet propped on his head. Everybody laughed, and the more they did so the more he seemed to enjoy himself.

  He had another side to his nature though, because when Daddy went rabbiting and moling, the wee dog was set loose in barns to thin out rats, and this was where he revealed his true nature, and it certainly wasn’t bonny!

  He could be just as content on the road hawking with Mammy, being petted by folks as she went from door to door. Yes, Tiny was a family pet if ever there was one, and we loved him to bits.

  The bus was mechanically sound and we were all fit, so Dad asked Mammy were she wanted to go. ‘Is it to Brigadoon, wife?’ he asked her jokingly.

  ‘Hell, no, Macduff,’ (her fun name for him) ‘how about a trip to Inveraray, it’s a while since we were there, and given that the bracken cutting will be in full swing, we’re sure to see a lot of other travellers.’

  ‘Okay, wife of mine, the bonny wee white village it is.’

  Mammy was drawn to Inveraray because, just a bit down the road, was the tiny picturesque town of Tarbet on the shores of Loch Fyne. It was here that my grandmother, many years ago, lay down exhausted and gave birth to my mother. Granny Power was on her way to visit her sick sister in Strachur when she went into labour with Mammy. It was late at night, and she’d been on the road for days. Unable to go any further she took a branch from a birch tree, inserting it into the sleeve of her coat. In pain she crawled under her makeshift shelter, then, without help from a single soul, brought the baby into the world. After cleansing the precious bundle in the loch, she fed her gift from God before resting and continuing on her journey. My mother’s birth certificate states she was born in a tent, near Tarbet, Loch Fyne, 15 October 1915. No silver spoon there, just a pot of pure gold, because to me that is what she was. When she saw the wording on the document, she later told me it was untrue. ‘I wasn’t born in a tent, I came into this world under my mother’s good tweed coat!’

  The sea loch at Inveraray was, or so I thought anyway, much bluer than the rest of the ocean inlets, and warmer. The little town looked as if it had stayed the same for hundreds of years. Rows of wee boats bobbed in the harbour, while the main street of painted white houses shared their reflection in the crystal water with the little boats.

  Do not be fooled, though, by Inveraray’s beauty, because a couple of centuries ago, the mere mention of the place sent fear into the bravest heart the length and breadth of Scotland. The visitor rarely tarried here, because this was where the infamous courthouse and jail stood side by side. People were tortured for the pettiest of crimes. Little children were imprisoned alongside lunatics, and pregnant women locked up for not informing their spouse of their condition. Some poor souls, when the jail was overcrowded, never saw the inside of a cell. Instead, the bottom of the loch was their place of confinement, especially the vagabond or tramp who just happened to fall foul of Judge Death and Thumbscrews.

  Recent work on both the courthouse and the jail has restored the once-derelict building to its former glory (if that is the proper word), and I assure you a visit to the place is well worth it.

  Fortunately, my crime, which I will shortly tell about, took place in the twentieth century, and I thank my good God for that.

  I’d walked up and down the beach for ages that first morning, looking for scrap metal for my scrappy bag. Finding small bits of green-coloured copper and the merest trickle of solidified molten lead and little else was enough to send me off to pastures new. My young sisters were content to play by the sea and her shoreline, but I had a hankering to explore the forest on the opposite side of the campsite. ‘Mammy, can I go into the wood and play?’ I asked my mother, as she filled the metal bath with hot water from the big black kettle on the open fire. She had the biggest pile of washing heaped beside the bath, so there was no doubting what she had planned to do with her day.

  ‘Of course you can, my bonny wee lamb, but only if you take the dog with you,’ she answered.

  ‘Do I have to?’ I protested, ‘He’ll frighten the baby bears, and you know what will happen if he gets his mouth round a squirrel’s neck!’

  She laughed at my ridiculous excuse. ‘Bears here in Inverary, well, that’s a new one on me! And as for yon wee squirrel, there’s not a dog in the whole world can shift itself up a tree at yon speed.’

  I could see that, if I wanted to explore the woods, then the dog was to be my companion, on that day at least. Making myself the biggest piece of jam my fingers could hold, I set off into the woods to play.

  ‘Jessie, have you forgot someone?’ shouted my Mother, pointing at wee Tiny, whose tail was about to propel him into the air with excitement as he wagged it so fast.

  ‘Come on, wee monkey, but mind now and leave the beasties of the trees alone, all right!’

  The forest was thick with giant fir trees. Leaving the open space and going into this place was like entering another world. Tiny was into every wee hole, nose glued to the ground and sniffing at tree roots in the hope he would prove my mother wrong by catching a speedy squirrel. Thank God, she was a hundred percent on this one.

  Now and then a movement in the trees behind us had me swiftly glancing back to see what it was, but only the keenest eyes would catch a glimpse of the shy red deer staring back at them.

  My companion and I explored what seemed like miles of dense trees, but apart from one squirrel sighted at the top of a very tall tree and a noisy jaybird, the forest was a wee bit of a disappointment. Soon we’d left the denseness of the woods behind us, and found ourselves staring out at a vast expanse of hillside, half covered in purple heather, and half in thick bracken.

  Tiny was more at home in this terrain as he chased cocky rabbits in and out of the bracken, pushing his wee head out now and then to let me know he was still there. I did not mention that the year before we almost lost the daft dug when he got stuck in a rabbit warren and Daddy had to borrow a farmer’s plough to dig up half a field to reach him. He was pretty near his end when he was found, because he slept for a week afterwards. He’d learned his lesson, though, and always stopped at the mouth of the burrow, not going one step past it! That inci
dent cost my father dear. In payment for the use of the plough, he had to do the farmer’s moles—five acres of them.

  That morning, Tiny and I had explored quite a large chunk of Inveraray’s countryside. I imagined that this must have been how David Livingstone felt, going through the jungles and plains of Central Africa. Of course this was no such place: here on Scotland’s rugged west coastline was the land of the Duke of Argyll, and there were plenty people looking after it.

  As my companion and I reached yet another purple hilltop, we stopped and sat down to watch a shepherd way down in the glen rounding up his sheep. He had four collie dogs. Each one followed the commanding whistle their master gave them, going in different directions until all the sheep were huddled together. I stared down at my wee mongrel dug crouching beside me and wished for a second that he was an obedient collie instead of a wee ratter! Tiny sat up, licked my face, then gave a sad whine as if to say, ‘It’s not my fault I’m a terrier.’ When he stared at me with those big brown eyes I felt so guilty.

  ‘Och, yon collie dogs would make useless pets; nothing like you, my wee pal,’ I whispered in his perked ear, giving a reassuring hug at the same time.

  We watched the shepherd and his dogs until every sheep was safely in the pen. Securely closing the heavy iron gate, he gave a final whistle and the four obedient animals were at his heel. Resting his crook against the gate, he took a pipe from his jacket, filled it with baccy and lit up. Adjusting the bunnet on his head he retrieved his stick, gave his flock one last look, then set off down the road, probably for his dinner. I thought about mine, and the dog looked a mite hungry as well, but before I headed for home I couldn’t resist a wee look at the shepherd’s sheep. Ignoring my empty belly I skipped down to where they were safely penned in. Tiny stayed at the hill’s brow, refusing to join me. He well remembered the time Daddy used a stick on him for chasing sheep at Furry Murdoch’s farm. There’s many a traveller lost dogs to a bullet for being too near sheep.

  As I walked round the crowded pen, I imagined myself in the proud role of ‘Shepherdess to the Honourable Duke o’ Argyll’. ‘Yes, no bother to me, that job’ I thought. ‘Dog, come here the now with me, we have a job to do.’ The wee dog took one look at me, lay down on his belly and covered his nose with his two paws!

  Spying to see if the coast was clear, I lifted the latch over the gatepost with the intention of letting out one sheep. I meant to put it back when I was sufficiently trained, but nothing ever turns out the way you intend, does it? Especially when you haven’t a clue what you’re doing. The weighty gate lifted me off my feet as it swung open, and for a moment the sheep looked at me like I was nutty, all except four who bolted the minute they saw the open gate. With every bit of strength in me I pushed shut that iron menace just in time, before the rest of them got the same idea as their mates. The big problem being, how would I get them back? There was no way I could open that gate to put them in without the whole lot of them scattering across the brown bracken, purple heather and dark green forest.

  I don’t know who got the biggest fright, me, the sheep, or Tiny! As I surveyed the situation I thought the only thing to do was try to keep an eye on them until, hopefully, I met the shepherd coming back. That is, if he was coming back.

  Now, I don’t know about you folks, but whenever I saw sheep in a field they were always standing chewing the grass, but not these wild woollies. No, they were for a donner down the road.

  So there you have it, then: my dog and me were sheep stealers! I suppose you’re wondering, ‘Why did she not go back through the woods and leave the beasts to the open moor?’ Well, I’ll tell you why, because the craturs might have gone walkabout and found themselves down near the campsite where there was not only plenty of grass to chew, but plenty big dogs who might just have liked the look of them to chew! And if that happened, who had been wandering in the place that day? Yes, yours truly! I would have been leathered for a crime of that magnitude, nothing surer. No, I was stuck with the sheep until somebody took them off my stupid hands.

  I’m not sure if it was the hunger pangs; then again, maybe I was beginning to lose my concern for the sheep. Anyhow, I made my decision. I would abandon them after all, turn tail and head for home. ‘Come on, Tiny, let’s go,’ I said, but the wee dog wasn’t paying heed to me. His ears were up, nose madly sniffing at the air—something had disturbed him. Then I noticed the reason for the dog’s behaviour. Coming round a bend in the road was the man with his four collie dogs. ‘God, I’m for it now,’ I thought, ‘here’s the very person I hoped never to see.’

  As the shepherd got closer, I noticed he was a lot bigger than he looked earlier from my viewpoint at the top of the hill, and the nearer he got the bigger he grew. Lordy, Lord almighty, what a monster! I noticed the size of his forearms—lumps of beef would be how I’d describe them! ‘Hello there, mister, how are you doing this fine day?’ I called out. ‘Never you mind how I’m doing, where’d these sheep come from, eh?’

  As my eyes darted from the giant’s cloth-capped head to his tackitty-booted toes, I knew that one thing was certain on that fateful day, that he wouldn’t hear the truth from me! Maybe if he was a mite smaller, but no way was I about to take a chance. ‘Oh, you’ll not believe it, sir, but some bracken bairns were playing over by the sheep’s pen, and as sure as I’m standing here this day, the wee devils let out the beasts. I shouted at them and warned if thon sheep got free lurchers would tear them apart, but they kept on, being right wee wildies.’

  God forgive me, if my mother had heard how easy that lie came pouring from my mouth, she would have disowned me for sure.

  The shepherd looked puzzled, and said, ‘You mean to say weans got the heavy gate open? Well, the wee middens.’

  As the big man thought about his sheep scattered all over the moors his face went red with temper, and his brow gave the appearance of four tattie drills stuck together. Worst was his nose. What a size of a thing—the only way to describe it was that it was as if he’d been hit square on with a shovel. However, it looked as if he believed me. I was on a roll, praise be. I continued lying,

  ‘Don’t you fret yerself over the rest of the sheep, because I pushed the heavy gate shut while my wee dog growled at them and they stayed put. He’s a braw sheepdog you know, mister.’ The man’s collies just sat there eyeing up my Tiny, probably wondering what he was! Then, at a word of command, they rounded up the escaped sheep and in no time had them back in the pen with the others. ‘Thank you kindly, lassie,’ said the shepherd, ‘for doing me that good turn. Now, what’s your name, and whereabout did you come from? I suppose you’ll be a tinker bairn here for the bracken-cutting.’

  ‘No, I am not here for the brackens. No, I am certainly not a tinker, we are traveller folk,’ I shouted. One thing that really angered me was that word ‘tinker’. For a moment my pride got the better of me and I forgot who I was raising my voice to, so quickly apologised for my behaviour. He laughed and asked why folks should feel ashamed of being a tinker. Then he told me his great-grandfather was one. ‘A very able lad he was,’ he said. ‘People would look for him coming, because without his skilled hands many a pot lay broken.’ He went on, ‘If women folks didn’t see a yearly visit, then knives, forks and spoons got the worst for wear. So, lassie, remember everybody has a use. But never mind that, have you had any dinner, lassie? I don’t think you have. Come back to my house and the wife will give you some soup.’ The biggest man in Argyll smiled, and his face looked totally different, kindly-like. We walked back cracking away like good old friends. ‘We’ve no wee ones our self, bairns that is, except the lassies here,’ he said, pointing at his four dogs. ‘That’s Win, and that’s Peg and the two playing with your wee spyug are Blacky and Nell.’

  ‘My mother has her fair share of women too, with eight of the blighters incuding me,’ I said.

  What a laugh he gave out at my remark. ‘All those women in a tent, good grief, your poor father must be driven mad!’

  ‘No,
no, man, we don’t bide in a tent, we live in a bus. We’re posher than that, I’ll have you know.’ My bus had taught me a sin, one of pride.

  The man laughed even louder, and said, ‘With all those daughters my father would be demented, no matter where we lived,’ and I had to agree with him on that one.

  Soon the house came into view and the dogs ran on to alert the wife of our arrival. ‘What’s this, then, Dougal?’ said the woman, who was as big as her man, and just as bonny, ‘a lost wean?’

  ‘Na, lost sheep, wife.’ Her husband told her about my heroism, my false heroism that is.

  ‘Come you in and get a plate of soup, pet, I’m thinking you deserve it.’

  I didn’t half feel guilty, but after washing my hands at the outside well, then tucking in to a braw plate of chunky vegetable soup, finished off with a giant scone and melted butter, my only thought was—crime pays! Tiny was given a bit of cooked rabbit that disappeared down his throat quicker than a haddy slides down a seal’s.

  Soon it was time to go home, sadly, because I had become quite attached to those friendly folk. The grandfather clock dominating their lobby was striking four, and if I didn’t get back pronto then Mammy would have the search party out.

  Dougal’s dogs, one by one, jumped into the back of an old jeep while I sat in the front, Tiny on my knee. After a final goodbye to the big man’s wife with promises to visit next year, we headed down the narrow hill road. ‘Mammy’s mouth will be dry whistling on me. You don’t mind telling her what I’ve been up to, do you Dougal?’ I asked, beginning to think a welcome was the last thing I’d get from her when I got back.