Tales from the Tent (23 page)

Well, folks, at long last winter is over. Mammy is whistling while sewing bonny tartan curtains for the trailer, and Daddy has purchased, for the coming months’ spray-painting season, a
new compressor. Although he went through the last few months bronchitis-free, little did he know how much it was to plague him in the future, and all because of his unhealthy way of making a
living. Nicky said his goodbyes to the ‘bints’ he’d befriended, although come to think of it, I only ever met one. I’d say by looking at her the blonde wasn’t real and
she’d not see forty again, but who was I to judge?

Portsoy said that once he was over the border he’d go another road from us, but would make his way to the ‘berries’ in July. My young sisters, like me, were becoming more
restless with each sighting of daffodils. All our talk was of who we’d see first when home again in the Perthshire glens, or anywhere over the border, come to think of it, as long as it smelt
like shortbread and had the seal of Scotland set upon it.

It was sad, I must say, seeing those unfortunate creepy-crawlers sharing goodbyes with my mother. What would they do now for the free booze and hot treacle scones she so lovingly baked for them?
They’d go back to lying by day under the mountain of plastic cuttings, and spend nights raking food buckets at the rear of hotels and restaurants. So farewell, you Brasso braggarts, may the
guid God show you a healthier road to walk upon.

Before we parted from the bustling city our friend Jim, the Fife policeman, had to have his dram. That night he came in as always and we toasted his health, me and my sisters with blackcurrant
cordial, Daddy and Mammy, Portsoy and Nicky with the amber spirit. I swear, when big Jim left our caravan that night, his eyes were meeting in the middle. I hope to God he didn’t come across
any crimes taking place.

Daddy swithered before leaving about whether to head south for the hop-picking, but I think Mammy was hankering to see the older girls, after all she was a Granny now, and like grannies the
world over she needed a cuddling at the wee yins.

On the road we settled down until Carlisle came into view. We stopped off here for a day or two while Mammy did a bit of hawking. The day before we left, Daddy took me into the town and
surprised me to tears. Without a word he guided me into a posh jewellery shop and asked the assistant to show a tray of their best gold hoops—gypsy-style. I picked the cheapest: he put them
back and chose the dearest. ‘Happy birthday, ma lassie,’ he said, draping an arm round my shoulder. I felt like a queen with my thick gold hoops dangling from my now sixteen-years-old
lugs.

As we drove back to the field outside Carlisle, no words were spoken, and to this day I remember the purity of those silent moments. The love between a daughter and her father can sometimes
bridge an unseen river that, no matter the drought, never runs dry.

Twigs dancing in boiling water,

Through the smoke our glances meet,

And his dark eyes smile at me
.

No other movement, no spoken word,

The glow comes not from the fire,

But from deep within me, and I know no fear,

He is my Dad—dark, still, strong
.

I am his child—safe, happy, protected
.

We drink our tea
.

Before we re-join the road, let me share the memory of one fateful summer’s afternoon. The time my dear mother stuck me with a darning needle.

It was in Crieff while we were staying along the Broich road. This was an area where the Ministry of Defence used to barrack prisoners of war during WW2. Several Nissan huts and hangers had been
left
in situ
. For a while a local farmer housed his pigs there. Many travellers, not having the canvas for tents, moved the pigs out and moved themselves in. I was only six years old when,
with an envious eye, I noticed the pretty travelling girls with hooped earrings.

Mammy was washing her usual mountain of clothes when Daddy’s auntie, old Jess Johnstone, came visiting. She was a sprightly old biddy who dressed totally in black, even covering her grey
head with a thick, black, coarse head-square, tied tightly beneath a pointed chin. As she never failed to do during our stay in that field by the River Earn she eased her narrow frame into
Mammy’s favourite seat next to the bus door and demanded a cup of tea. My mother, who by now was sweating like an Irish navvy, told Jess, ‘in a minute, auntie, in a minute.’

This was when I made my big move: ‘Mammy, can I have my ears pierced?’

‘Lassie, can ye no see how busy I am? Later on, when I’ve time.’

Old Jess by now was getting a bit thirsty, and her constant demands for tea had Mammy scrubbing Daddy’s thick woolly socks with a vigour to make the Irish navvy envious.

‘But Mammy, I deeked the barry hoopit chats the gouries a’ hud in their lugs, an please, Mammy dear, kin I nae have them tae?’

‘Jessie, shut your bloody mouth about hoops, or as sure as hell’s fire I’ll leather ye sore! Now clear off and play.’ Mammy was getting fair roused, but it wasn’t
me who prompted her next act, oh no, it was that crabbit auld woman.

‘Kin an auld bent woman who’s brought up a dozen weans no git a drap tea fur her crackit throat in this place?’ Jess was by now constantly tapping her feet on the bus floor,
adding that if Daddy were there he’d give her a cup o’ tea.

Mammy lifted the corner of her damp apron, half-dried her soap-sudded hands, and with the force of a force ten gale threw the ribbed scrubbing board a mile in the air. Thud! It walloped off a
big thick oak and fell to the ground, before bouncing several times and settling next to a pail of rinsing water. With enormous strides for a wee woman five feet one inch in height, my mother
stooped under her seat, the very one old Jess was perched on, and hauled out her sowing basket. Purns of threads, darning-wool cards, yards of laces, thimbles and an assortment of gaily-coloured
buttons were tossed up and over old Jess until Mammy found what she was looking for—her biggest needle, the Darner. ‘You, luggy, here!’ I didn’t stand a chance as she threw
me over her wet knees and thrust the darner, dripping with Dettol, into one ear-lobe and then the other. Blood spurted down my neck as Mammy removed her own small, thinning gold hoops and pushed
them into my newly-bored holes. I was too sore to scream and too shocked to think. I got what I wanted, but, by God, at what cost.

Old Jess got such a shock she leapt from the bus, threw a handful of tea-leaves into the pot, and for the remainder of my mother’s washing day, cup followed cup of fresh tea. Folks
who’d witnessed my mother’s heechy that warm summer’s day said not even a pig could squeal like me. I thought I’d never uttered a word, but according to them I was rending
the air with my cries. It just goes to show what a fright can do to a buddy. It was a heavy price to pay for it, but in a few days my red ears had calmed down and I joined the rest of the hoopies.
Daddy replaced Mammy’s earrings with a brand new pair. Those worn old battered rings she rammed into my ears all those years ago I keep in a wee silver box, as a reminder to a lassie who had
learned what it was like to push a mother with the strength of an Irish navvy too far!

Thought you might enjoy that wee bit of nostalgia, reader.

When Daddy asked us all to vote on the way we should take from there, whether east or west, it was unanimous for going via the west coast with its rugged beauty and warmer sea.
I felt the lump rise in my throat at the thought. To me there is no place more picturesque than my Scotland’s western coastline, and we knew every hidden bay and Atlantic inlet. I could taste
the salt in my mouth.

At Gretna we headed west along the A75 until Annan. Here we left the main road and travelled to Clarencefield, a tiny village where some travellers were camped further down beside the shore.
Daddy knew them and was rare pleased to see that one in particular, a boyhood mate of his, was there. They were part of the Boswell Border folks, a grand lot. It was a delight to see the campfire
burning bright and to hear the cant tongue flowing freely again.

Another great treat for me was when an old tramp of the road joined us, who pulled a jew’s harp from his pocket, and while he and Mammy did a duet we all had a wild sing-song. I’ll
just add this about why I have a lasting admiration for the gents of the road: it is because they were fuelled by the spirit of Mother Nature and not by allowing the evil demon lurking in a bottle
to enter and demoralise their inner selves. You will understand why, because of this, I had little respect for the crawlers who softened my Mother’s heart in Manchester. Now, I should add, I
have softened with age, and have learned never to judge my fellow man.

As the remnant of the day gave way to the creeping of the night and angelic voices grew hoarse, we partook of my favourite pastime—storytelling.

23

THE KELPIE

M
any tales are told of the evil beast that haunts the ghostly gloaming in the Highlands, emerging from a deep loch or pool to bring an end to some
poor unsuspecting soul. In the northeast the water horse, unlike in the west, never changes colour, staying a golden yellow whereas his western counterpart goes from black to light brown. There are
also, in some parts, those who can change form to deceive. Then there are the ‘water wraiths’, tall, green-dressed females, all withered and scowling to herald one’s doom.
However, folk tales of such a beast are not predominately told in the north. Galloway is where there is a dreadful creature, and here he is: the water kelpie.

It was dark, and she knew fine well it was not a time for one as young as herself to be out. Had her parents not often warned her, ‘Lassie, if he sets on ye, then
ne’er will he stop until you are his.’ Her heart beat faster with every step, for darkness was moving quicker than her feet. Shadows melted into the ground to become giant trees and
bushes, wherein lurked the eyes of ever-seeing owls. What a relief for her to see, far down the valley, her parents’ house, and one of them waving a lantern of reassurance that she’d
soon be home. Suddenly, while passing a deep pool in the river’s bend, from the corner of her eye she saw a flash of white. Startled, she turned to see a handsome young man alight from a
beautiful, pure silver-coloured horse. Without saying a word, he gestured with an outstretched hand for her to come. For a moment she felt her head swoon and her slender body sway. Then a whistle
brought reality spinning back, it was her father. Knowing what she did about the water kelpie that could shape-change, she turned and ran faster this time into the waiting arms of her anxious
father. That night, unable to sleep, she sat staring into the darkness, watching him galloping back and forth, from hillock to glen to river.

Come morning, her parents realised only too well that once the water kelpie has set eyes upon his prey he will stop at nothing until she is his. The lassie was packed off to live with an aunt,
and there she lived, finding romance in the arms of a handsome young soldier who was not without a title or two.