by Jess Smith
Thankfully, ‘red face’ changed his direction and didn’t come after us. We got back to the bus safely, and Mammy set about taking the washing from the fence. She then went into the bus to see how Daddy was.
‘Tell him about him with the roaring face,’ I said. ‘That mad, slavering-mouthed farmer. Go on, Mam, tell him.’
‘No, we won’t worry him today. If he thought a farmer was angry with us then poor Dad would have to move. Now, we don’t want that, do we, kids?’ We all agreed, then skipped off to play nearby. Mammy would have been a lot happier if the older girls were there, but with them being on a visit to Aberfeldy we were quite alone, and she hoped red-face would stay away.
The flu had got the better of Daddy, and he was out like a light. She kept us outside for a while, not wanting to wake him, and prayed that red-face would give us peace for the night. After supper, Mammy put a little water on the fire and carefully poked the heart out of it so that it wouldn’t start up in the night. With being so near to a wood it was always the practice to make open fires safe before going to bed.
We hardly slept a wink because Daddy was fevered quite badly. Mammy was up and down filling a wee water bowl to sponge his fevered brow, and constantly pulling open the curtain peering at the darkness, obviously concerned at our vulnerable position.
She was up with the crows in the morning and came with each of us to toilet in the trees. Usually we did it ourselves, but this farmer had put the fear in our mother right enough. She kept darting her stare from us to the farm road, as if expecting a battalion of ploughmen to converge on us in Champion tanks and machine-guns.
Daddy was no better, in fact if anything he was worse. She decided to speak with the angry owner to try to persuade him to let us stay a few days until Daddy was back on his feet.
However, the gent in question was at our door before we’d even finished breakfast. I remember thinking ‘My Goodness!’ when I got a right look at him, because he had a big head with a nose that took up half of his face, and two eyes that met in the middle! He seemed to be looking at his nose when he spoke.
Three thumps on the door almost loosened its handle-bolts. He ordered my father to come out. ‘I told this woman of yours yesterday. Now, are you gonna move this thing or do I get my ploughmen to pull it off for you!’ Poor Daddy, this was the last thing he needed. I watched my mother’s cheeks turn red, then redder, eyes round and staring. If at one time she was afraid, then her fear was rapidly replaced by anger. We had met an irate farmer who instantly disliked us and was out to cause us worry and humiliation.
Mammy checked her tongue for our sake and tried to reason with him. ‘We are not troublemakers, mister, in fact we’re quite helpful round a farm.’ She added, ‘Is there anything you need doing?’
‘Where’s the men?’ he shouted at her, ‘I canna see any men. The only work I have is for big strapping lads.’ Mammy informed him that although there weren’t any laddies, her lassies who would join us in a day or two were just as strong and had done many a day’s work on a farm. The man laughed, which made his head look even uglier. ‘Lassies are as common as rabbits,’ he laughed again, ‘and just as much of a pest!’
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back, for nobody miscalled her lassies. I still remember the look on his face when she let him have it. ‘Oh! Now is that so!’ By this time she was staring him clean in the face. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something here that’s not as common as rabbits, and that’s the big red neep heid with the two cockitt eyes that’s perched above your neck, lad!’ She wasn’t one for making fun of people’s looks, but had been pushed so far that day.
‘But lad, I am neither bothered by the face on you or anything else. No, there is a matter far more serious. One that you and I know of, don’t we, my gun-toting friend?’ We looked at our mother in total amazement. Did she not meet our unfriendly guest only yesterday?
The farmer went deathly pale and leaned back against the dyke to support his unsteady body. Mammy, seeing his reaction, went over to him, stared him in the eyes and said: ‘Last night a strange spirit came to my bed. An old road tramp he was, with a great hole in his chest. “Are you a gypsy woman?” he asked me, as he appeared out of nothing in the grey black night. “The gift, do you possess it?”’
We watched the farmer turn paler still at my mother’s words, before he fell into the cold stones of the dyke to steady himself from sliding onto the ground.
Mammy pulled her cardigan from her shoulders and draped it over her head. ‘I told my visitor from the other side,’ she whispered, ‘that yes, I have the gift. “Well, woman, I canna move on until I’m revenged,” he cried, as he hovered above my head. “Oh!”’ went on our mother, in a whimpering voice, ‘“What will you have me do?” He continued, “A bad man broke my life chain, he took the breath from me: but if I tell you I’m a ‘Brangat’, will you understand?”’
Our mother, now with her face almost touching Neep Heid’s, said, ‘I tell you this, farmer: as sure as the moon’s cold light falls on a lonely grave, no one interferes with a Brangat’s journey, no one at all!’
Our farmer was by now slumped against the cold stone of the old dyke, eyes staring in terror from their sockets, his appearance of menace long gone. His lips quivered as he asked my mother if the ghost told her anything.
She stood back, threw her hands up towards the heavens and said, ‘He told me everything!’
‘Oh Lord, I’m a doomed man, what can I do, gypsy?’ He leapt to his feet and grabbed my mother’s hand.
She thought for a moment, before answering: ‘Why should you have worry with my ghostly friend. What manner of crime would one with such wealth and property do, sir? Did you not stand up in court and swear on a bible that it was an accident?’
The man, whose reddened face had changed to grey, confessed on both knees. ‘One winter’s night a hen-run up at the farm was broken in, and my prize layer stole. I’d seen him, the tramp, loitering in the area, but I only meant to frighten the pest. It was pitch dark, you see, I didn’t know he was so close. It was my hand that killed him. Oh my God, what manner of revenge will he take?’
‘The spirit said you would have done better to tell the judge about a certain fox who you knew for sure had been also seen near the hen-run,’ said Mammy, pointing a finger at the collapsed figure now sitting on the ground with head on knees against the old dyke.
She sat down on the bus step opposite the farmer, and said, ‘He told me, the spirit did, that on the twelfth night of the month he comes back to begin his revenge!’
‘This is the seventh! Do you mean to say he comes in only five days time? Can you contact the fiend and speak with him? Please, woman, I’m begging.’
‘Sir, this is a very hard task for me, for once a Brangat comes there is no stopping him, except if a Cattling is done.’
‘What is it? I’ll do it, just tell me!’
‘You must visit every farmer between Sutherland and Perth, and remove a scraping from one cow’s horn. Then all the scrapes of bone must be brought back. Remember where you killed the Brangat, because this is the most important of all. At this spot you must make a circle with the bone shavings, and position yourself inside. Now, please listen to what will happen if you don’t do exactly what I say. He will come back each year on the same night and take a piece of your flesh until you are stone dead!’
‘I’ll tell all my men to get started right away,’ he called, hardly taking time to breathe. With those as his parting words he was off in his rattly truck, and didn’t even look back once.
What a laugh we had. Daddy had been listening and knew Mammy was making it up as she went along. But one thing puzzled us all: how did she know about the dastardly deed?
‘Well, remember the wife who gave us scones?’ Yes, we did.
‘When she opened her door a sliver, she whispered to me that he had shot a tramp!’
‘You sly thing, Jeannie,’ said Daddy. ‘You gave him five days, enough time for this bloody flu
to be gone from me.’
So we had perfect peace while waiting on our father gaining strength. Within four days we had moved away to Aberfeldy to collect the older girls. They had such a laugh when we told them, and wished to go back that way one day to see the ‘Neep-Heid’ farmer.
‘Mammy, how long do you think he’d sit in the circle of bone-scrapings?’ I asked her.
‘Until a brisk wind blew them away,’ she laughed, then added, ‘If I hadn’t smelt strong drink on his breath that morning I wouldn’t have said to the man all the things I did. You see, pet, a spirit was already in the fool, all I did was add another one.’
‘And do you think he paid heed to you about the cattling thing?’
‘Well, lass, who can say? But if, when he sobered up, he realised a tinker woman had pulled the wool over his eyes, the shame of it made him stay clear of us. On the other hand, what a busy man he would have been, tracking the country and scraping cows’ horns. Just think what his fellow farmers were thinking. Perhaps the cratur is settling his self in a secure “Cuckoo’s Nest” somewhere.’
I was curious, though. ‘The Brangat spirit, on his journey, is there such a thing?’
A shiver went up my spine at her answer. ‘Yes, my lass, but that’s another tale!’
21
A FALLEN MAN
I think Daddy was still a wee bit under the weather and didn’t feel much like work, so he decided to spend a quiet time recuperating in gentle Glen Etive before heading to Oban.
This incident that happened at that time has a special place in my heart because I am a Munro walker, and have many times since then gone back to wander through this beautiful glen, to sit on the rocks and remember.
Daddy should have been given some kind of award for manoeuvring the bus into its position opposite big Ben Starav. The one-track road was bad enough, but even worse was meeting a bearded, grumpy ploughman driving a Fergy and bogey filled with steamy, stinky dung. A packet of Capstan Full Strength and an hour of blue air followed before the bearded one unhitched the bogey, leaving it plonked in the ditch, and allowed my father space to drive past. Not the best start for a recuperation week.
Mammy and I had lots in common, but more than anything else it was our love of walking. I think it was from her I forged my lifetime bond with the track roads and high hills. Daddy, on the other hand, had no liking for such a pastime. He used to say that tramping during his young life behind the horse and cart did that to him. ‘On a wet day,’ he would remind me, ‘a brown trail of gutters hardened all the way from my nose to my toes as the cart wheels and horses’ hooves threw up a constant stream of muck.’ No, not one to put a foot in front of the other was my Dad. So how Mammy managed to persuade him to come out for a walk on that warmer than usual May Day, beats me. Perhaps cuddling each other the previous night had something to do with it, who knows but he was in a lovely mood. So here we were then, me and the folks strolling along an old hill road, towering mountains on either side.
Mammy and I were discussing our May Day wash in the dawn dew while Daddy was lighting up his fourth fag. About a mile had been walked when Daddy stopped to sit yet again on a rock cluster. ‘We’ll never see a drop tea this morning, Charlie, if you don’t put a feather in it.’
‘Shhh, Jeannie. I thought I heard a stirring down there in the heather,’ he said pointing down a steep slope strewn with large loose boulders. We both joined him and stared over the ledge.
‘Help, is there somebody there?’ called a voice from among the rocks and heather.
‘God help and save us, it’s a poor man fell down the side of the hill,’ exclaimed Mammy. ‘Are you hurt bad, chavie?’ she called to him.
‘It’s my leg, I think it’s a goner!’ was the call from deep within the rocky terrain.
Daddy went quite pale. He reminded us he’d witnessed severed limbs during the war, and knew that if the lad didn’t get help soon he’d die with blood loss. ‘No telling how long he’s been there already. We had best get help,’ he told us, adding, ‘Jeannie, you go down. Do what you can for the poor soul, but careful as you go, lassie. Jessie, we’ll fetch the help.’
Mammy cannily lowered herself over the precarious edge, calling reassuringly to the man, not knowing what manner of injuries he’d incurred. We waited until she called back that she’d reached him before we set off. ‘Come on, pet, there’s not a moment to lose,’ said Dad, removing his woolly jersey and tying it round his waist. He did well running at my pace, but the recent flu and years of smoking began to slow him down. I tried to coax him on: ‘Daddy, think what Mam will do if the stranger conks on her. Please try a bitty harder, surely we’ll come upon a cotter house soon,’ I said.
I knew, though, by the skull-grey jowls on my father, that he’d run clean out of lung air. ‘God curse thon stupid man for falling into the crevice in the first place, what fool thing is that to do?’
I asked him to stay where he was and let me go on ahead to get help.
‘No, I’m all right. Let’s go,’ was his surprised answer.
So away we went running, walking fast and stopping every so often for a breather.
It seemed like ages, and still no sign of a house, cotter or otherwise, before at long last a figure could be seen on the horizon. We both shouted—well, I did, Dad had no air to make a sound, but I never had a problem being heard (important, when living among eight females). We ran on to meet the person coming towards us on the old hill road. It was the bearded one with the smelly bogey. He took us further down to his little cottage, where we clambered onto his Fergy tractor and rumbled back to the scene of the accident. Mammy shouted up that she had things under control, and not to worry, he wasn’t as bad as first thought.
Lowering ourselves down, the beardy man and I joined the pair. Daddy, unable to find the energy, stayed at the top.
Now, it’s a good thing he did, because when I went back up and told him we needed a screwdriver, he found that the air came back to his lungs alright. ‘What! I’ll kill the stupid idiot!’
Now, why a screwdriver? And had my father not run himself to near collapse to save the man’s life? Well, let me enlighten you, dear reader.
If you remember, the victim called out that he feared his leg was lost. Indeed it was! It had unscrewed from its leather socket and became stuck between two boulders while he was bird-watching. A futile attempt to retrieve his wooden leg led to his predicament. I ran back to the cottage for a screwdriver while my mother and the beardy man helped Woody onto terra firma.
Of course, Daddy didn’t kick the leg from the poor lad. In fact he screwed it back in for him, after giving him a good old talking-to about hill dangers. My mother, though, because of the amount of time they had spent together, had found a friend. He came home with us and shared our supper. His name was Fred Plumley, a Yorkshire man. I wonder if he continued as a ‘twitcher’ in the mountains after his incident in Glen Etive? If time has been kind to you and you’re still out there, then know this, Freddie boy: you almost killed my father!
We stayed in the Glen not for a week but a month. June was fast approaching when at last Daddy drove the forty miles to beautiful, idyllic Oban.
So there we were, then, heading on towards Oban, singing and giggling. Weather absolutely roasting. Every window of the bus wound down. A chorus of ‘Bonnie Dundee’ had the tartan-and- shortbread tourists picnicking by the roadside shaking heads, obviously thinking we were a busload of cuckoos out for the day.
I’m brought to smiles when I think on our loud rendition of ‘Haste ye back we lo’e ye dearly’ as we stretched our torsos half out the windows. This removed any doubt in their minds that their first thoughts were probably right. We fell back into our seats in fits of giggles.
‘You lot will be needing me to pull off the road shortly—all that carrying on will be hastening the emptying o’ bladders.’ Daddy reminded us of the last time he had to pull over while the older girls followed the call of nature. It was a sight to turn faces red, no doubt! W
ill I tell you? Oh, all right then.
Now it’s one thing young women singing in a moving bus, but peeing in a rock cluster is something uncouth, I can tell you. It was unfortunate that no one saw the lorry load of soldiers cruising round the bend in the old Glen Affrick road. The driver slowed to a snail’s pace so the lads had full view of my extremely embarrassed sisters.
‘Hello, lassies, needing a hand?’ was the call from the khaki-clad laddies, followed by wolf-whistles and the usual ape sounds. This turned my sisters a brighter red as they fumbled with belts and buttons. Not Shirley, though. She just stood up, slowly peeled on the tightest blue jeans one could wear and said with the toss of the head: ‘Get to f---, morons, can you not see we’re on relief duty?’
Daddy heard her, but said nothing at his daughter’s cursing, except that she was lucky there were no elderly folks in the vicinity. A girl swearing like that in those days was not proper at all!
The incident put the girls into a sombre mood, until a certain hitchhiker brought them smiling again. Six gorgeous feet of open-necked shirt, gleaming white teeth, shiny slicked back hair and Elvis eyes.
‘Look at the bronzed biceps on him,’ whispered Mona.
‘He’s mine,’ said Shirley, slithering up to Daddy, begging him to stop and give the lad a lift. Daddy never drove past a hitcher, and soon Elvis the second was surrounded by drooling females. ‘Hi,’ he said, in the hunkiest American drawl. A chorus of ‘his’ followed. Daddy asked him where he was going. He said he’d be happy to get to wherever. So for the remainder of our journey that day the girls were in heaven.