Tales from the Tent (19 page)

Our day would begin with the frost biting into the tips of our fingers. I say ‘our’ meaning, on this Manchester visit, Nicky and I. Mammy stayed at home while the lassies went to
school. Daddy, being the mechanically-minded chap that he was, had found an odd hour helping in the garage, and this was of great benefit. It covered our rent, although I have to admit we certainly
found him coming in many times covered in oil from burrowing into the guts of cars. Still, it was a labour of love to my old Dad without a doubt.

So I hope you’ve got the picture, folks, as to our abode in the Rosy City. I’d like to tell you now about our neighbours. Opposite the waste ground, to our north, there sat a large
smelly waterproof factory. I don’t know its name, just that it made raincoats. Once a week, a massive lorry-load of cuttings was dumped onto the waste ground. Believe me if you can, reader,
but under that smouldering mountain of material lived the city’s vagabonds. Almost like an army of vampires they emerged onto the night skyline to forage hotel and restaurant back-entrances
for scraps of food.

For me they represented a menacing, heaving mass of life’s unwanted, the dregs of society, but to my mother (God love her) they were sad, unfortunate individuals who had fallen from
life’s hard road and never found the way back. She always smiled and greeted them, as she would do anyone. They in turn would remove their crumpled bunnets, click heels together and greet her
with as much politeness. ‘Mammy,’ I remember saying, ‘thon lads could just as easy slit our throats while we slept for whatever we had, and here’s you smiling and giving
them the time of day.’

She took my hand, answering me by saying, ‘lassie, a beggar disnae steal, he begs.’

I, with my blindness to adult knowledge, shrugged my shoulders and asked my mother where was the sense in her words. To this day I see her eyes twinkling with a tear in each. ‘They have
already been robbed, Jessie, of all dignity and honour. Nothing left for thon poor souls than to live within the cess-pit of nature, surviving on the likes of folks who have a little heart left in
them to show the compassion this world seriously lacks.’ She then scolded me and reminded me that we travelling people should understand that better than others. She finished with these
words. ‘After all, who do you think taught tramps the ways of begging if not us?’ Mammy had a way of painting pictures with her well-chosen words, and this is why, to this day, I can
share them with you, my friend.

Within a fortnight of us settling into the secluded spot within the Cheetam Hill area, the only other person who came into our midst was a young policeman called Jim. He took to us because he
came from Fife; he was another Scot living and working in the heart of England and needed perhaps to hear familiar Scottish voices. Mammy enjoyed his visits when he was on street duty. She’d
whistle him in for a hot mug of tea; this was a godsend to a street bobby, especially one who had to walk the lonely nights away with eyes in the back of his head. At first he said, ‘Och,
you’re no needing tae be giving me tea, Mrs Riley,’—then, after a while, he’d appear with a bag of scones or a packet of biscuits expecting our hospitality as if he were one
of the family. Daddy, who mainly eyed the law with mistrust, soon dropped his guard to Jim, the young friendly bobby from Fife, and treated him like an old pal.

After November had passed we got ready for the deep dark winter ahead, and I certainly felt that the ragging was taking a chunk from my pretty feminine fingers. Nicky said it left him shattered
in the evenings, and gave him no time to ‘check oot the bints’ (look for talent of the female kind). This had me scratching my head, I must say: you’d think there were more than
enough ‘bints’ sharing his breakfast with him every morning. Yes, I know, folks, he had the sowing to do, I know, I know.

So, with Daddy’s permission, Nicky and I went job-hunting. He found one in demolition while I settled for work in a lampshade factory. It sticks vividly in my mind, does this factory,
because it was tightly sandwiched between Gallaghers’ Tobacco factory and Strangeways Prison. Quite a thought that, don’t you think, folks?

My boss, a wee round fat guy by the name of Swift, positioned himself in a podium above the workforce. He was a bit like a stern minister glued to his pulpit, fearful to leave lest he falls from
grace. I must say, however, my boss was a gentle little man who smiled and nodded and seldom gave orders. He just liked sitting and doing his business from a high viewpoint, leaving the day-to-day
running of the place to a tall, thin, one might even go so far as to say ghostly-faced woman. In spite of her appearance she was the nicest, kindliest soul you could ever hope to meet and spoiled
me rotten. Why, you ask. Well, once she and her late husband spent two weeks in Rothesay, and now loved all of Scotland’s hantel because of it. If I were late she’d touch my hand and
say, ‘did Mr Frost keep you awake, pet, that sleep found you late?’ Or something just as caring. Yes, a nice cratur she was, but for the love of me I can’t remember her name. (If
you are reading this, gentle lady, then get in touch.)

I loved my job making lampshades in that place, perhaps because I enjoyed seeing the finished object. The job was simplicity itself, though. All I did was take the wire frame and wind
different-coloured plastic ribbons round and round until the frame was covered. Downstairs they had a far more delicate job to do. The people who worked there were intricate painters. It was their
job to paint flower-designs and suchlike onto hard-canvassed shades. I knew within myself I could have flourished in that studio environment. But one had to be six months on the ribbon job before
venturing downstairs, because once a design was applied to the skin-shade it had to be perfect. Only proper artists were allowed a brush in hand there. Still, I think I could have done ‘no
bad’.

Remember I told you Daddy wanted me to be the ‘bide at hame’ daughter? Well I couldn’t let him know that a certain young artist had given me more than a fleeting glance during
canteen visits. His name was Ian Campbell, and he was three years older than me with the most gentle nature and sparkling white teeth thrown in for good measure. We talked ourselves silly and found
we had so much in common it was uncanny. My nights were filled with dreams that had us running along sun-kissed beaches, kicking soft warm sand through our toes, then falling into warm embraces and
smouldering kisses. Oh yes, dreams were made for times like those. I kept our day meetings secret, telling no one. However, it soon became apparent we were a duo. One day he, not me, decided to put
a more permanent seal on our sneaky, feely-touchy romance.

‘Jessie, would you like to come home and meet my parents?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Of course I would, but I can’t ask you to meet my folks because my father doesn’t want me involved with boys, I hope you understand.’ He did without question, and went
ahead to introduce me to his folks. It happened on the Friday. And you will understand why this particular incident stays forever in my mind.

I was a nervous wreck with all manner of thoughts swirling through my mind; would they like me? Did he tell them I was a gypsy? And how would they take it? By the time we reached his front door
the small amount of lipstick applied to my dry mouth was gone, leaving a vague pink line instead. I had taken a lot of time with my clothes, pressing my hemline until it resembled a sharp knife.
Mammy kept saying she needed the gas ring to boil the kettle, so would I please hurry and remove the iron. Daddy was obviously suspicious, but accepted my excuse about going to see Clark Gable in
‘Gone with the Wind.’ I’d have gone with the clouds to see Clark, never mind the wind, but not that night. I lied to my father just as every other teenager does who sneaks around.
It was not my fault, though, because if Daddy had left things to Mother Nature, I know I’d have been as honest as the day was long.

So, as I was saying, there we were, me and Ian, standing with fingers entwined on his frosty doorstep. And talk about frost! His mother, the queen of freeze, opened the door. Fairly tall she
was, with a straight back, and sporting short curly black hair. I smiled gingerly and stepped inside an immaculate hallway. Ian started to remove my coat when suddenly she stopped him with a raised
hand. ‘I cannot allow you in my house,’ she said through clenched teeth. Ian tried in vain to quieten things; the poor laddie didn’t know where to look. I did though, right into
his mother’s face. Our eyes met with steely stares. ‘I suppose you think I’m not the right kind for your son!’ I shouted, standing there in the pristine lobby of this
complete stranger’s house.

She turned and walked away without an answer, leaving Ian dumbstruck and bumstuck on a small chair. It was his father who helped me understand. ‘I must apologise for my wife, but she
doesn’t believe in mixing the blood. It’s not a personal thing with her, my dear girl, but it wouldn’t be right, you see.’ He too walked off, leaving me in total
confusion.

But me being an ‘intae-the-face-wi’-all-things buddy’ I had to have my say. ‘Listen to me, you bloody English, jumped-up, would-be toffs! I’m just as good as you if
no’ better, who dae ye think you are anyway!’ Ian held my hand and said, more to shut me up than anything else, ‘Jessie, it has nothing to do with you being Scottish or even being
a Gypsy. It’s our colour! My parents want me to marry a black girl like myself!’

After telling the wimp not to open his mouth to me on the coming Monday, or any other day of the working week, I pushed open the door to storm off down the road like all spurned females. My poor
hips and thighs were scadded red raw with the speed I shifted myself. But not as red as my face, I bet.

Another dead-in-the-water romance then, folks. Do you think my Da had put the evil eye on that side of my life? I wonder. Anyway, what did I know about skin colours? Hell, I fancied the bloke,
is that not enough? Apparently not!

When I got home no one bothered where I had been or why I came home early, because we had had a visitor while I was gone. Of all people, it was our wee con man, Portsoy Peter, who had arrived
back to finish the winter with us. I must say I for one had missed him and his wee Alfred Hitchcock face. No one told me where he had been. However, when the opportunity offered I asked him. This
was his reply: ‘You know how much I enjoy the company of toffs and their expensive lifestyles, Jess? Of course you do. Well, when her Majesty asked me to spend some time in one of her
confinement homes with all expenses paid, I just couldn’t refuse.’

That’s my Portsoy for you, and I will always remember him. It’s not proper, I know, to encourage a conman, but he never to my knowledge took a penny from the folks without money,
only from the folks with plenty. We’ve a while in his company yet, folks, before there is a parting; and the winter in Manchester still had a wee sting in its tail for us.

18

KING RUAN AND THE WITCH

W
hy don’t we have a blether now about another ancient tale without time, reader? I’m feeling the need for a visit home to bonny
Scotland, so let’s us, you and me, travel north to a field skirting Bankfoot, not far from Tullybelton in Perthshire.

Here we’ll drift back before the days of recorded history and hear the story of ‘King Ruan and the Witch’s Promise’.

Once upon a long time, back before the rising of millions of tides, there lived a young King. He was called Ruan, and he was not a bad fellow. His entire kingdom, which spread
from the Tay’s birth spout to its entry into the northern sea, was filled with good, kindly people. However, they had a problem. I don’t say, and God forbid if I do, that their King was
the cause of it, but in a way, I suppose he was. You see, he wasn’t a pretty boy, in fact he was the very opposite. He was so ugly, nobody would look upon his face without feeling a wee heave
from his or her guts. How could their King with a face like a hew-haw ever find love? And no one was more aware of this problem than Ruan himself. He rose from his bed each day with the heaviest of
hearts, longing to be cuddled, but no matter where he searched, not a single female would spend a moment too long gazing at his ugly face. If by chance they had noticed the sad unhappy eyes staring
from within that face then it might have been a different story. He might have melted them somewhat. His longing had him search everywhere but to no avail. He might have searched in the forests and
found a pretty nut-gatherer, but he had a terrible fear of trees and was never found anywhere near them.