by Jess Smith
During his conversation we soon found out that although he had everything in the handsome department, the grey matter could have done with a wee bit help.
This was a conversation he had with Daddy.
‘I asked this guy at the Mackinlay Distillery when the haggis-shooting begins,’ said the hunk.
‘Oh, now you did, and what did he tell you?’ asked our father, biting his lip as he stifled a laugh.
‘Sometimes this month,’ was the innocent reply.
‘Aye, and did he further tell you where the shoots took place?’
‘As a matter of fact he said the nearest one was in the Nae Glen.’
‘Och aye, that’s up by thon Bonny Braes!’ Daddy was near splitting his sides trying not to laugh. The girls were trying hard to stifle the same.
‘Now, lad, that distillery hand was pulling your leg, because the haggis-shooting doesn’t begin until late September, after the clootie shoots.’ By now the girls had knuckles bitten trying not to give the game away, while the young hunk was seriously taking in every word Daddy said.
‘That’s a pity, because I’m heading home after August and will miss the clootie shooting.’
‘Well, as it happens,’ said our terrible liar of a father, ‘my wife, Jeannie, just happens to have a cooked clootie in a tin ready for tonight’s tea. Will you stay and share some with us?’ The hunk was more than pleased, and that night sat as our guest by our campfire and ate the wee brown clootie, saying, when he had his fill, ‘Is there a wish bone?’ Yes, you’ve guessed it, we all burst sides laughing. The poor laddie thought us a happy bunch—though I’ve a sneaking suspicion he likened us to what they call in America, ‘hillbillies’.
That night, as my sisters waved farewell to the big handsome hunk, they were less than pleased that he chose to give Mammy a big smacker of a kiss. Well, she was the one who cooked the delicious clootie, now wasn’t she?
22
A NATURE OF LOVE
Early June in Oban was a favourite time and place for travellers; we loved it there. No surprise, then, to find us camped not far from her lovely beaches. Mammy’s brother Charlie had, as a laddie, arrived in Oban, fallen in love with the place and never left. He married Isabel, a local lass, and had three of a family.
Mammy would visit her brother and his family and keep them in touch with events and share a laugh and a crack. We bairns had other reasons to like the place: the beach had the bonniest pale sand, and, weather being on our side, we spent all day playing on it. We would catch the incoming tide in newly dug pools to bob in, and dig ditches to trap the outgoing tide. Sandcastles became villages, and we swam in the green water of the Atlantic until we looked more like prunes than bairns. The older lassies did nothing but listen to the wireless, as Elvis and Gene Vincent crooned across the ocean. They sunbathed until turning the colour of chocolate, so that the laddies would be chasing them at Blair, our next stop. This, then, was how we all spent early June at beautiful Oban.
In this particular summer our Janey had found a treasure. In a field near where we had camped was a beautiful big stallion. Jet-black he was, the bonniest creature Janey had seen in all her sixteen years.
She loved horses. Daddy knew if there were horses about nearby then that’s where she would be. Our Janey had a way with them. She would whisper in their ears, and although we never knew what she said the horses seemed to understand her. After a day she had to find out who owned the horse. ‘Dad,’ she enquired, ‘who owns the big black beauty of a stallion?’ Daddy looked at his daughter before answering, ‘Janey, lass, I knew you’d be needing to know, so I asked the factor of the estate over thonder, and he told me the horse belongs to the landowner. Seems he has a daughter at university in England, and the horse is a surprise birthday present for her.’ He added, ‘Now, lass, don’t you be going into the field beside him for he’s not yet been broke.’ Daddy raised his finger as a warning to his horse-loving daughter and left it at that.
‘Aye, alright Dad.’ She lowered her eyelids as she promised him she would stay away from the horse.
The night was clammy and Janey found it hard to fall asleep.
‘Are you sleeping, Jess?’ she whispered to me.
‘Aye. Leave me alone, of course I’m sleeping!’ I whispered back.
‘You wee liar, you are not,’ was her reply. ‘I can ride the horse, Jess, I was on its back the day.’ She could hardly contain herself as she shared her secret with me.
‘God, Janey,’ I answered, ‘is there something missing in your head? If Daddy finds out he’ll go mad moich.’
‘Och, I was only sitting on him, I was hardly any distance.’
‘Sister, dear, the horse might be bonny, but he’s neither broke nor cut, and that’s a dangerous mix; he could have killed you, lassie. Whatever were you thinking, you mad bisom?’ I scolded her angrily.
‘Shut your big mouth or the folks will wake up,’ she said, clasping her hand over my mouth.
Next morning, Janey and I took ourselves off to see the landowner in the hope he’d let her ride the horse. Regardless of what was said, she was certain the beast was fairly tame.
The man was very nice, and he knew a lot about horses, but told Janey the horse needed lots of handling before a young lassie could go near him. Instead of telling her off, though, he showed her round his stables and happily left us to browse among his horses. We spent most of the morning wandering round the dung heaps and nose bags. My sister seemed to know instinctively what to say and do with these gentle beasts. It was difficult to think she’d hardly been near them in her life. Before we left she’d managed to brush three of them until their coats were gleaming.
The sun was exceptionally hot as we arrived home. I helped Mammy with the dishes as Janey rabbited on about the landowner’s stables. I wriggled into my red cossie, still damp and sandy from the day before, and chased after the big breakers rolling onto the beach. My older sisters were still sunbathing on their towels and had turned the chocolate colour they had aimed for, as Elvis and Gene Vincent’s voices still crooned over the sea. My parents went into Oban to visit Uncle Charlie and Aunt Isabel. Janey was, as usual, whispering in the stallion’s lug, and that’s how things were as the day headed for its end.
At supper that evening Daddy said, ‘Well, lassies, in the morning we head for Blair, so check the place and make sure there’s nothing left lying about. We don’t want a mess left on the beach.’ It was important to leave a place as one found it. A good name follows travellers who leave a camp tidy and clean. Local folks would soon remember clarty visitors on their doorsteps.
Mammy bade us all goodnight before she turned in. Daddy doused the fire before he too headed for his kip.
All was peaceful and in its place, when suddenly wee Babs noticed one of us was missing! ‘Janey’s not in her bed, Mammy,’ she cried, sitting up and pulling the covers off the rest of us.
‘I knew it, I just knew it, that bloody big stallion. She’ll be half way to Kingdom Come by now!’ said Mammy, rising hurriedly from her bed. Daddy quietened her down as he pulled on his trousers, then went outside to see where his horsey lassie was.
‘She’ll be for it now,’ I thought.
Our father came back inside and said, ‘Quick, bairns, come and see this.’ We all rushed outside half-expecting to see Janey riding her horse, but not to see her tearing along the beach at full gallop. That was the most spectacular sight we’d ever seen. Horse and rider were one as they emerged into a blaze of black and orange, silhouetted against the red horizon. Janey knew on the morrow she and her horse would be parted forever, so she stole her only chance. She knew the animal was not a danger, and he knew, without any human handling, that she could be trusted. They had a bond that went beyond any understanding.
No one said a word as we waited anxiously for her safe return. She came back, leading her companion into its field; one last whisper, and she and horse parted. Our parents said nothing as they looked at this radiant, rosy-cheeked lassie of t
heirs; just a gentle arm from Mammy around Janey’s shoulder, then, for the second time that night, we all took our weary bodies to bed. Janey put her hand on my arm, it was soaked with sweat. I knew, then, here was someone who would always have horses in her life.
If you’re ever over by Brechin way, there’s locals who might tell you about the middle-aged woman who rides her horses along the banks of the Esk. Janey keeps horses by her home there, never any fewer than four of them at a time, and there’s always a bonny black one to remind her of her stallion. A Natural Love indeed!
23
GUNFIGHT AT ‘OK YER A’ DEID NOO!’
If my memory serves me right, we left Oban and went to the Berries. Here is an incident from that summer.
It was a Saturday afternoon. Womenfolk had shopped in the weekend’s messages, bairns were quietly playing at skipping and other games that amused them, while the menfolk were either picking about with their motor engines or just cracking amongst themselves. Older children were in the nearby wood gathering sticks for campfires, whilst teenagers were sprawled lazily on the grass listening to their wee trannies, straining lugs to hear the latest top tens. An air of peaceful co-existence had settled over the campsite, and all was in its place.
I had had a grand week at the picking. Long, sunshine-enhanced days allowed me to earn a whole three pounds. Mammy was rare pleased with me, and after putting aside money for my school uniform there was two pounds for the family press. Because of my effort she said I deserved extra pocket money.
‘I’m giving you half a crown, Jess, to buy whatever you want. But go easy with sweeties, all right?’ She always added those words when giving me money because, ‘Sugar rots teeth, so best avoid the things that are full of it, or else you’ll be a gummy mouth.’
But do you know of any bairn that wasn’t addicted to sookies, toffees and the likes? Therefore, with this vast amount of dosh I bought a scribbling pad, two charcoal pencils, and pocketfuls of gum-rotting sweeties.
There were many travellers on the green that year, in fact the place was near bursting at the seams. Some folks I knew quite well, others I’d never seen before. On the whole, traveller families get on fairly well together, I suppose a mutual respect for their own kind is how I’d describe it. The story I’m about to share with you, though, relates to two families who had no such respect for one another.
In the past they had argued over wintering boundaries, which each claimed as their own. This was a stretch of ground between Montrose and Arbroath, their extremely important winter home. In the early days before the families swelled to their present numbers there was plenty of room. With each new addition to the family the ground became too small. Where once it took the two families it could now only take one. Tempers flared as privacy was invaded, and children who had once played, bickered and fought.
So one cold winter’s night the two heads of the said families, raged with drink, had a fight that ended in splitting them. The winner stayed put, the loser moved three miles up the road. The latter maintained his opponent cheated, the winner swore the fight was fair, and so a feud was born.
Old Geordie sucked on the clay pipe between his yellow teeth, then, spitting at the campfire with precision, leaned back in his outside armchair, pushed his bunnet forward until it covered his face, and succumbed to the hazy summer heat of that significant Saturday afternoon. His sworn enemy, old Frankie, camped at the opposite end of the green, was in the same blissful state as himself.
I was sitting under a branch of a sycamore tree sketching two wee laddies playing at marbles, when I heard Frankie shouting up to Geordie about a water-container. It seems one of the grandbairns from Geordie’s lot had stolen it and Frankie’s wife saw it happen. After a few choice words it wasn’t long before the two old cadgers were out of their blissful existence shouting abuse at one another.
Before I continue, allow me to acquaint you with the families of the old lads. Geordie and his wife Pushkie had produced five big strapping sons. Frankie and his manshie Sally had three just as big laddies, and two lassies. Much to the horror of the elderly adversaries, Annie, the younger daughter, had that very winter secretly married Geordie’s youngest son, Andra. The union was kept secret from both sides until that very summer. The newly-weds, having pitched their own wee tent between the two families, were so wrapped up in each other they could not have cared a tuppenny toss about the feuding fathers.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, as I was saying the shouting got louder as the old men continued to foul-mouth each other. At first the other members of each family left them to it, but blood flows thicker than water. Therefore when Frankie’s wife, Sally, called Pushkie a ‘foreigner’, the two tribes went to war!
All the lads and lassies joined in. Chins were rammed forward, knuckles were clenched and broad shoulders met halfway. Fists were flying, legs kicking, handfuls of hair and skint shins were everywhere. There was roaring, screaming, blood-spattered noses, snotters, sleavers—michty, what a right old carry-on. In all my travelling, never had I witnessed such a sight. Every mother on the green quickly gathered in the weans, for fear they might get hurt if this wild melée spilled out beyond these fighting folk.
Andra and wee Annie tried their endeavours to stay neutral, but then she squealed out that her family didn’t have as many laddies as her man’s, and that wasn’t fair. So, taking the wee tin berry luggy hanging from the guy rope of her bow tent, she walloped poor Andra on the side of his head. The love of her life stotted a mile in the air and landed with one ear a hundred times bigger than the other. ‘Whit did ye cry that wife, a freendly cuddle?’ he asked, clasping a hand over his swollen ear.
‘Oh, now, I’m a richt fine wimin if I let yur entire breed kick ma femily up an doon the green, am I now!’ she screamed at her moments-before loved one.
Suddenly the situation took on a far more drastic turn, when, from the mouth o’ his tent, old Geordie gave an almighty roar: ‘Yer a’ deid noo!’ As everybody turned to see what he meant they froze solid, because the old bisom had, of all things, the biggest shotgun that was ever seen in the hand of anybody that picked a berry!
I have to laugh to myself (though I didn’t at the time), when I remember how the whole bunch of brawlers scattered into the safety of their tents. It was like shining a torch into an old barn shed in the dead of night, and watching mice and pullets flee in every direction, trampling over each other to avoid the wrath of a wife-nagged ploughman.
Frankie didn’t run, though, no, not him. As cool as you like he turned his back on his gun-toting adversary, threw open the flap of the master tent, stooped inside and walked back out with as grand a firearm as Geordie’s, saying ‘and wha’s deid noo, mash-mooth?’
This fine description was used for persons who, rather than purchase ‘the water of life’ from a Perthshire hidden-still man, begged it from the back door of a distillery, and drank the foul mash, rather than bothering to climb a hill and pay for the real Mackay.
By this time, every eye was staring out at the two old men from the safety of tent, tree or any place which offered relative cover from the guns. I was tempted to find a healthier spot myself, but the scene being enacted before my eyes seemed more important to my curiosity than my safety. My marble plonkers were up and gone, all abandoning their coloured glass balls to a playful puppy.
Wee Annie, full of remorse at scudding her Andra, was sobbing her two eyes out. ‘Andra, ma maun, I’m no half sorry fur hittin out at ye, Lord roast me if I ever dae sic a thing again.’
‘Wheest wimin,’ said her bleeding spouse, ‘yer faither’s aboot tae blaw the heed aff ma auld Da, and a’ ye kin think aboot is if I speak tae ye again.’
The stand-off continued as the two old godfathers exchanged insult for insult against relatives living and others long dead. At the same time, with each venomous mouthful, they both would take two steps forward, then two back, jumping up red with the anger, and each wondering who was going to make the fateful move. The name-calling continue
d, going as far back as kin that knew Rabbie the Bruce, but still the guns stayed silent. Apart from the gun-slingers, the only other sound to be heard on the green that day was the crackling of green sticks burning on now-deserted campfires.
Then it happened—old Geordie leapt a mite too high in the air, slipped and fell backwards, tripping over his own guy-rope and cracking his head on a big wooden tent peg.
Frankie, as fast as his tired bandy legs could go, was at his enemy’s side. I covered my eyes with the scribbling-pad I had on my knee and thought that next the head was coming off Geordie. But, much to my and everyone else on the green’s surprise, Frankie threw away the gun, and knelt down beside the slightly injured Geordie. He gently rested his one-time good friend’s bruised head on a comforting arm. ‘Come noo, auld freend, wit are ye dain lying there amongst the widden tent pegs? Give me yer haun, fur fine ye ken that’s waur ye land when yer on the drams.’
‘Well, wid ye credit that,’ said wee Annie, who was expecting the stardy (police) to appear any minute and fling everybody headfirst into a Black Maria van.
Hands were shaken as Geordie, nursing a roasted lump on the side of his head, said, ‘Frankie, ma maun, hae ye ever seen sic a swellin on an auld maun’s heid?’
Frankie laughed out loud and said, ‘I swear by the Jore stane o’ St Fillan himself, Geordie, better that than a hole through ma chast with yon wild gun o’ yours.’
Geordie slapped his thigh and stretched his hands to the sky saying, ‘Ha, wild gun indeed—my, there wisnae a firing pin in it!’
At those words Frankie went into fits of laughter, slapped his own rickety thigh and disclosed that his gun never had one either.
The feud was well and truly over; that night the two families buried the hatchets that had been wielded for many a year. When the blood stopped flowing, the beer and whisky poured in abundance. The two heads of the families spat out their anger into the burning embers of the fire, shook hands as is tradition, then vowed to remain friends until death.