Tears for a Tinker Page 7
As I rolled from my bed one morning, I suddenly had a clear idea what to do. A visit and a chat with nice Doctor Mackenzie was what I needed. If anybody could help, it was him. Blood tests were taken, my weight properly monitored, and he prescribed for me a diet that would guide me back from the abyss. Did it heck! Along with watery chicken soup and butterless toast, I was still downing the slimming treats and going out to get late night polony suppers. I was a lost cause, with a mouth sucking in every morsel.
My young sisters gave me makeovers and hair-dos, but nothing could disguise the four chins all fighting for space somewhere in the region where I knew there was a neck. The only way to find my waistline was by running a finger inside my knickers and feeling for the elastic. Those were a laugh, those knickers. Mammy bought me some—yes, from the Co-op again; they were designed for elderly ladies who had ‘difficulties’. I don’t know what kind of problems these were meant to be, but if the Boy Scout movement had needed extra tents, then a visit to the Co-op for these knickers would have met their needs. Constant headaches were also plaguing me.
I went back to the doctor for the blood results. ‘What are you eating?’ he asked, with friendly concern.
‘Along with your food stuff I’ve been eating biscuits, slimming ones.’
He was horrified on discovering the amount of them I was eating, and told me not to take any more.
‘They are full of caffeine, Jessie, that would explain the headaches. Don’t eat anything after six in the evening and forget the chippy suppers. I saw you one night popping out of the chippy with a great bundle under your arm, but you must stop them!
I blushed red with guilt, knowing that Doctor Mackenzie had seen me sneaking about with yesterday’s newspaper disguising comfort food.
I did lose weight but not in the way I’d planned.
It began with a headache, then a fever, then a horrendous bout of Asian flu. Up and down the country folks were dropping like flies. It was a merciless epidemic, and death followed like a flooded burn in its wake. Seven days I lay in bed, unable to keep a morsel of food down. Nightmares of drowning in giant middens of polony suppers provided hallucinations galore. Doctor Mackenzie and his team worked round the clock. The poor creatures were exhausted, working flat out tending flu-ridden Macduff, Banff and all the wee coastal villages scattered along the Moray coast. The local newspaper made depressing reading; it was terrible to see how many entries there were in the death columns.
I had youth on my side, however, and was soon back on my feet. It was a delight to see how much fat had turned to sweat and drenched itself into my bedclothes, I was two stones lighter, and liked what looked back at me from the mirror. So when I was fully recovered, I started on the odd day omitting breakfast. Lunch would be ignored and then teatime. I drank loads of water and felt great. I spent hours walking and exercising, and in time my weight on the freebie weighman’s scales had registered the precious figure of ten stone. No more auld wives’ breeks for me. My bum was sliding into silkies from then on.
When we skip through our twenties, we humans seem to have a ‘nothing can hurt us’ attitude. It is like we’re superhuman. But some discover to their cost this isn’t the case. ‘Why am I so tired these days, Mammy?’ I asked her one morning, with baggy eyes and sore bones. I’d a pile of washing to do, sweeping and washing of the floor (I had no hoover then). I usually took no time doing it, yet lately I could hardly wash a dish.
‘I blame the slimming,’ she scolded me. My food press, when she examined it, had only the bare necessities to feed the boys. When Davie was due home from the sea I’d get enough food for him. But now I’d just won a serious battle with food, and I loathed it! Never would I go down that nightmare route again. I could hardly look sideways at chips, those horrible things that piled fat onto my now eight-stone figure. Time for another visit to Doctor. More blood tests and questions. ‘Are you sticking to that diet sheet I gave you, Jessie? You can eat more vegetables and fruit, it won’t put weight on.’
‘You can take a running jump,’ I told him from my mind, adding to myself as I smiled and left his surgery, ‘I’m beautiful now, and no way will I let so much as a loose hair live on my body.’
Within three days he came by to visit, saying he was in the area and so to save me a trip he’d brought the results of those blood tests over. ‘Do you know what a normal blood count is, lass?’ he asked, refusing to leave until I’d put a hot cup of tea in his hand.
‘No, doctor.’
‘It is twelve. Do you know what yours is? Well, it’s six! You, my dear lass, are running on a half-empty tank of energy. Healthy blood cells are not being fed.’
‘Big lumps of fat are not getting to crawl onto my body, doctor and I don’t care a jot for blood-cell counts or anything else. You try being so fat the sheets on the bed suffocate you, try it, see how happy you are.’
‘I won’t let you kill yourself, lassie, and that’s from a father whose kids love and depend on their mother. You’re eight stone just now, but within three months you’ll be seven. Let’s see how cold those bed sheets will feel next to bone! And what about other children? Do you think your womb will carry a healthy bairn? No chance, you’ll not have any nourishment to carry a baby nine months. You’ll abort!’
I watched from the door as Doctor Mackenzie went into his car and drove away. I had visions in my head of a giant nurse with bulging biceps, sitting on my body and force-feeding me. That night Mammy came round and gave me a right talking to. Changing the subject eventually, she said that Chrissie and her family were moving up to Macduff; Uncle Joe had got them a house beside their family.
I had learned a lesson and been drawn back from the brink in the nick of time. Many young women are not so fortunate. From then on my weight stabilised. If I went over I cut back, and if I went under I ate more, but never again did I enjoy the taste of a dripping-thick battered polony supper.
Sadly, Doctor Mackenzie was right about aborting. Three months after his visit I miscarried.
11
POT HARRY
With Chrissie and her lot now living in Macduff, it felt more like a Riley clan gathering. Smashing ceilidhs were held in our parents’ house, with singing, music and dancing. Neighbours were always welcome, and filled the house to bursting. Mammy and Daddy only drank a dram at New Year, so it was always soft drinks, and the best kind of entertainment comes this way.
Remember how in Jessie’s Journey I shared my childhood days with you, travelling the shoreline in our old blue Bedford bus, and how my obsession with beachcombing had me with head hung, searching every inch of the beach for scrap metal washed up by the tide? Let me tell you of a man who shared this pastime with me. Pot Harry was his nickname and I think it was because of his trade—he was a real tinker.
In his day there wasn’t a mile of Argyllshire he hadn’t tramped. He knew every inch of coastline and everyone who lived on it. He was the last of his line. His father passed both his skills and tools on to Harry, little knowing that modern materials would replace tin and render his skill obsolete. ‘Folks fair looked tae me coming before they bought aluminium things. With the old knives, forks, gairden tools, plenty o’ need for Harry—but no noo, they didnae need me noo.’ Those words I heard him mutter to himself one day as I played along a stretch of coast. I was seven years old, and remember like yesterday the colour of his old face and the sparkle in his blue eye. Bonnet tilted to the side of his head, he sat looking out to the ocean.
‘What are you muttering, auld yin? Is the want on you?’
My honest childlike question was simple enough to understand. All I needed was as simple an answer. ‘Ye wee imp, if ma leg wisnae broke, I’d skin ye fur that lip. There’s nothing’ wrong with my head. Now be away and leave me by myself.’
I could see my mother waving from the bus, which had been settled in a safe spot above the incoming tide. I ran back to the bus and my mother’s stern instructions: ‘You stop talking to strangers. Who is he, any road?’
This raised a curiosity in her, so taking my hand she walked to where he sat on a rock seat.
As we reached him recognition spread over Mammy’s face. ‘Hello, Pot Harry,’ she said, greeting him with a hug, ‘what are you daeing in these parts? Last time we met, you said the tinker days were over.’
However before an answer come forth, the old man let out a groan, touching his plastered leg. ‘Wit have ye done tae yer leg?’ my mother said, sitting beside Harry with a look of genuine concern on her face.
‘Och Jeannie, ye’d never credit it, but all that ah did wis jump oot o’ the road o’ a train. I wis searching for auld tin cans for ma soldering over by Hoolit’s Bend, when it jist came oot o’ naewhere, bloody train wis on me before I heard it coming.’
‘My God man, are ye deaf? A corpse in its coffin would hear yon rattling, puffing monster.’ My mother laughed, shaking her head, saying the luck was on him for sure, then she asked where his camp was. He said it was into the wood, no more than a hundred yards from our bus. Then he began moaning once more. She thought maybe this old fellow was in need of some, as they say today, TLC.
Obviously he’d been hospitalised, hence the heavy stookied leg, but by the way he was going on you’d have thought he’d had to put the plaster on by himself.
‘I think what you need, Harry my lad, is tae come back with us. I’ll get Charlie to fetch yer bivvy and pitch it next tae the bus. What did the doctor say about the leg?’
‘He telt me no tae dae any moving, in case ah did mair damage. But what bothers me, Jeannie...’ his face turned quite serious: he was concerned about something and Mammy’s second sight told her exactly what. ‘You’re worried the country hantel canny get their knives sharpened and pots soldered, aye, lad.’
‘Ah’m nae sae bothered aboot the sharpening, they ken whaur ah am, they’ll find me, nae doubting that. But ah’ve no a drop solder left tae sort the pots. Bloody stupid bugger that I am, for no rolling doon the bank away frae thon train. Trust me tae loup in the air and break the bloody leg.’
My mother shook her head and said, ‘if a woman stood up and had her baby instead o’ lying flat, then there’s no many o’ us would be going about.’ Harry nodded, but I wondered what in the name o’ Rabbie Burns did she mean? As we helped hoppy Harry back to our fire, I had to ask her. Both of them said in unison, ‘all the bairns would chap their brains and heeds wid yet be empty!’ None the wiser, I put it down to adult talk, and as every seven-year-old knows, adults are mad!
When Daddy came back from the moling he liked the idea of another male around to be able to talk man to man with, and soon we had Harry’s wee tent plus his tinker tools nearby.
We later discovered travelling folks had taken him to hospital, and then when he had come out, left him where he wanted to be, back on the shore beside his tent. They weren’t abandoning him, as you might think, reader. Travelling folks were always in and around that area, and those who had come to his rescue knew he’d be helped by them. Everybody knew the tinker would be thereabouts, and as well as his own kind, others needing his services would most certainly seek him out.
We liked Pot Harry, and next day after the breakfast dishes were washed, my family busied themselves in making him comfortable. One of my older sisters found a discarded armchair lying in the bushes. Daddy re-strapped it with slats of wood. After it had been cleaned up Mammy covered it with an old blanket, and with my three-legged stool for the elevation of his leg, Harry couldn’t have been more comfortable. He was especially relieved by the knowledge that Daddy had promised to take him back to have his plaster removed in a fortnight, but still he was anxious, because his handicap prevented him from going out to search for solder.
Poor soul, this insurmountable problem weighed heavy on him. We told stories to entertain him, and sister Shirley formed from some tree branches a pair of crutches so that he could make his visits to wee behind trees, but I leave that picture to your imagination. Still, try as we might to help, our patient’s worries grew deeper. Only one incident changed his mood for the better, when Mammy found a bag of minced beef he had long forgotten among his belongings. ‘How long have ye had this, man?’ she asked, holding it at arm’s length. ‘It’s humming tae the high heavens.’
For the first time since we had set eyes on Harry, he opened his mouth and laughed from his belly. ‘Ye ken this, Jeannie, that mince was rotten when I got it. I manged [asked] it frae a butcher, it’s for my fishing, ye ragie mort ye!’ (Cant for ‘you silly woman you’.)
‘Well, I’ll put it down here beside this stone, and oor Jessie will rake out a can to keep them in.’
I was curious to see what contents the bag held—yuk, big yellow maggots, that’s what!
‘Go find a rusty can to keep them in, Jessie, and then me and you can go to the water’s edge and fish.’
‘You can pit them on the hooks, because I’ll no hurt anything,’ I told him defiantly.
In no time the battered can I’d found along the beach was crammed with yellow crawlies awaiting a watery death. Poor wee things, what harm did a maggot ever cause us?
Here’s a riddle for you:
A wee, wee thing made o’ leather
Running up and down the heather,
Through a rock, through a reel,
Through my Grannie’s spinning wheel,
Through a miller’s happer,
Through a bag o’ paper,
Through sheepshank marrowbone.
What is it?
A wee maggot, of course.
Anyway, the sea kept her bounty of fish away from the hooked maggots that morning, and as the tide receded, back came Pot Harry’s black mood. As young as I was, I could still feel his sadness, so asked if there might be something I could do to help.
‘You’re a great bairn, Jessie, but I need solder, and my leg hinders the finding of it. Now help me back intae that braw chair, ma leg’s nipping right sore.’
‘Great’ I don’t think I was, but I certainly was persistent. ‘Tell me where tae get this solder, and I’ll fetch some for you.’ I told him I’d go everywhere except Hoolit’s Bend.
He stared at the stones around his good foot. I’d given him brain food, he was thinking hard. He then bent over and gathered some of the stones. With a powerful throw, he made each one skim the water. It was like all his problems went skiff, skiffing with those stones. Somehow it seemed to me I’d either offered a helping hand or given him a difficulty. So, giving the dirty plaster on his leg a stroke, I told him of the time when, after sitting one day during a film matinee, I thought I could fly, like the screen hero, Batman. ‘Broke ma leg intae bits, Harry. What a pain, and boy did it nip. Oh aye, thon’s a horrible pain.’
When I’d finished, his smile returned and with it his spine straightened. ‘That’s an awfy stupid thing tae dae. God gave wings tae birds and no you or thon actor gadgie, Batman. I’ve seen him in heaps o’ films, and he’s as stiff as the plaster on ma leg. Now, kin ye rake the beach and ditches fer syrup and treacle tins?’
‘Nae bother, Harry, I’m champion at raking. I’ll even midden-rake, tae.’
‘Oh lassie, that’s music tae ma ears. Half a mile along the auld road is a braw midden. I never fail tae find dozens o’ tins there. Better ask Mammy’s permission afore ye go, though.’
I made off breathless with a big jute sack in my hand. Only a ‘cheerio’ did Mammy get, as my mission to find the precious solder galvanised my young legs!
It took me only ten minutes or so to come across a braw heaped midden which lay behind an unlocked metal gate. Before me and my bag could scour its contents, I waited as the ‘churl, churl’ growl of an old Brownie tractor-engine drifted off down the road leading away from the rubbish tip. The Brownie had just deposited a bogey full of rubbish. ‘Great,’ I smiled, in my element at being the first to get stuck into this new mountain of trash. I knew that nearby travelling bairns would not
be long in joining me, so without inspecting the tins closely, I shovelled what I could into the jute sack. By the number of treacle and syrup cans I found, it was obvious the village folk in those parts had a liking for scones and sweeties. To make carrying simpler, I flattened them with a heavy stone. Soon, with a full bag, I made homewards to see Pot Harry. I can still to this day picture that wonderful smile spreading across his grey face when I appeared, filthy and bedraggled, dragging a jute sack full of rattling, clanking, solder-pocked cans.
Daddy set up a brazier made from an oil-drum cut in half and filled with coals, and set it by Harry. It was as if the broken leg had been forgotten as he carefully melted the solder, and saved it like gold into a metal cup, to be used to fix handles back onto pots and pans, mend pitchforks etc. While I had been collecting from the midden, Mammy had taken herself off round farms and houses, telling folks that Harry was able to do his work, hence the pile of jobs awaiting his expert attention. Pot Harry—a real ‘trade tinkler’.
12
LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE
I promised to take you on board with my Davie during his brief career upon the wild ocean as one of that hardy breed who put their lives on the line, the Scottish fishermen.
I’ve a tail-wagging yellow Labrador by the name of Brigadoon, and a twelve-year-old Heinz variety with foul breath that both desperately need walking. So while Brig, auld Jake and I saunter off, I’ll leave you in the expert hands of my man.
‘She pestered me to death, did Jess, to take up my trade, but to be honest there were already plenty well-established joiners and carpenters around Banff and Macduff.