by Jess Smith
Flora shrugged her shoulders when she saw the visitors. If she’d a penny for every time Hamish went into the village for a bag of groceries and came back with some needy soul in tow she’d have a fortune. So, as always, she made the family welcome, although it would be a tight squeeze. Nevertheless she managed to make up enough beds, then set about preparing her wee house for their night’s sleep.
The man, a tinker to trade, told his hosts that his dear wife had recently died in childbirth. With tear-filled eyes, he went on to describe how, from first light on through until the next day she struggled to give him a fifth child, but it proved too much and she was weakened beyond recovery. ‘My beautiful wee woman closed her eyes, never to open them again. I laid our dead infant in her arms before she died. To pay the doctor I’d to sell the cart and pony. So I made a makeshift stretcher to carry her body from Tomatin to be buried among her own folk up at Kingussie.’ The man went on to say they were heading down to winter at Stanley, where he would work for a farmer he knew.
Flora’s heart opened to the sad family as she remembered how she herself had almost died in failing to bring a bairn into the world alive. ‘We would be more than pleased to ask you to bide awhiles here. At least until the end of the month. You can help Hamish fix a fence or two, and there’s the cowshed, it needs tending.’ Flora went on, ‘Our only son, big Joseph here, works in the wood and has little time to do as many chores as he’d like, so with his father coming sore with age, I’m sure your help would be well appreciated.’
The tinker looked with kindness at Flora, then at Hamish, before saying, ‘Thank you kindly, folks, but without my horse I’d never make it before the first of the snow.’
Hamish, who was listening to the man and could tell he was an honest cratur, said, ‘Now, how does this sound to you, my man? We’ve an old gairn over yonder on the braeside. She’s been retired for a year or two now, but I dare say there’s a bit of power left in her old legs, and she would get you to Stanley before the weather changed. God, I’ve seen her carry many a stag off the hills in her day—aye, she has powerful legs, that old lass. Now, what do you say?’
Joseph, who was deep in conversation with the bonny sixteen-year-old Helen, said he’d be pleased to make a cart for the family if they took the gairn.
The tinker, who had never been shown hospitality of this measure in all his life, could not refuse, and thanked his generous hosts most kindly.
That was settled, then. For the next few weeks, the tinker family lived with Flora and Hamish, while Joseph, with a great deal of company from Helen, built the cart. The old woman crocheted gloves and socks for the wee lads as their father helped Hamish fix fences and make watertight the cowshed and hen-huts for the coming winter.
As the weeks passed, the old woman noticed something she thought never to see: her son was becoming increasingly drawn to the bonny Helen. The pair had the same likes, laughed at the same things, and sat well into each night simply chatting and being together. They became closer, and soon Joseph could think of nothing else but the young tinker lass. He was falling in love! And that love was met with returned love. When the time came for the family to depart, Helen asked her father if she could stay with the kindly folk and help the old woman with the daily chores. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘the lads are a fine size now, you won’t be needing me, will you?’ She went on, ‘Surely you can see how crippled Flora’s fingers are?’
The man could see his daughter would be well looked after, so without argument he agreed to let her stay. However he too knew, as Flora did, that the lassie’s real motives had more to do with Joseph than the old woman’s chores.
Soon the day arrived to say farewell to the visitors. Helen’s father took Joseph aside and said, ‘Have you something to ask of me? Are you not asking for our Helen’s hand. After all I might never pass this way again.’ He continued, ‘Now, man, I know you’re not that much younger than myself, but I’ve seen the way the lassie looks at you; and given that I don’t know kinder folk than you and your family, well, if it’s my blessing you want, you have it.’
Joseph, being a man of few words, could only manage to say, ‘I’ll take the greatest care of your lassie, I swear to you. Not a hair on her precious head will be harmed. For none could love her as I do.’
The tinker family bade farewell to their Helen, leaving her in the tender caring home of the hill farmer’s son, twenty-four years older than herself.
The following spring, while daffodils and willow trees bloomed in their midst, the big woodsman took the bonny Helen, now seventeen, to be his bride. She was like a breath of fresh air as she sang and skipped about the farm, feeding the hens and milking the cows. She made new curtains for the wee windows of the old farmhouse and filled them with vases of sweet-smelling meadow flowers. Flora and Hamish could not have been happier with their new daughter-in-law. Meanwhile Joseph was busy rebuilding his old shack into a proper home for his Helen.
Soon the new home was ready, and the newly-weds waved a brief goodbye, promising to visit in a while. ‘Before the summer’s end,’ said Helen, as she kissed and thanked the old couple for their kindness.
‘It is we who should be thanking you, lassie. Now remember and keep your promise to visit us,’ were old Flora’s parting words.
During the next few months, the old woman became more and more confined to the house, venturing only as far as the wee wooden gate at the end of the garden. She would stand there staring down the road, looking for the couple to come calling as they had promised, but autumn was upon the land and so far there was no sound from them. Hamish reminded her that obviously they were busy. ‘Can you not remember how you and I were, away back when we got wed? Michty, lassie, we never had enough hours in the day.’
‘Aye, man, I suppose you’re right, it’s just that I feel my strength is getting awfy low.’
Hamish could hear the weakness in his wife’s voice and became increasingly concerned for her state of health. He began to check her in the night to see if her breathing was fair. Deep within his soul he began to think their time together was waning rapidly away. Hill folk were hardy craturs and accepted Nature’s ways, but nevertheless, loss of their loved ones was as painful to them as to any other body.
The misty month of November came and went, and still no sign of the couple. Even Hamish began to worry. ‘I’m sure if there was anything the matter we’d have heard it before now, lassie,’ he assured his wife.
Flora smiled at her husband. ‘If anything was wrong, husband, I’d have felt it,’ she said.
She was right, because within hours, on that very day, a familiar voice was heard on the wee path leading up to the house. ‘Hello, Mother, hello, Father, it’s us! Is that kettle on the stove? For me and this mother-to-be wife of mine have an awfy drouth.’
‘God bless us and save us, Hamish, did you hear that?’ cried Flora, hardly able to stop herself from throwing open the door and hobbling into the open arms of the happy couple.
‘When, when, tell me now, are we to see the happy day?’ The old soul was by now crying tears of joy as she held both their hands to her chest.
‘I told you she would be like this,’ said Joseph to his Helen, ‘She always went on about grandchildren, didn’t you now, old yin?’
‘Aye, son, that I did.’ Flora was running her fingers across Helen’s abdomen, tears freely flowing down her wrinkled cheeks.
Helen and the old woman went into the house to talk about the coming arrival of the first grandchild and the things that women do, while Hamish and Joseph cracked over the farm and the new house.
The baby was due in March. ‘Spring babies,’ said Flora, ‘make the healthiest weans, because they have the summer to thrive in.’
The couple’s visit did Hamish and Flora a power of good, and they stayed for several days before heading back to their house in the woods to settle for the winter and to prepare for the new baby. Flora didn’t tell them about her deteriorating health, and in fact neither did Hamish. Suc
h was the couple’s happiness it would have been wrong to say anything to spoil it.
Flora spent the winter knitting wee mittens and bootees and bonny tiny cardigans with such pleasure that it did her the power of good. Sad to say, though, the tide of time can not be held back, and by January’s end she lost the power of her legs and was confined to bed. She knew her time on earth was fast closing, and with her every prayer she asked her God to grant her the joy of seeing the new baby.
As I listened to my mother I found it impossible to stop the tears that were fast rolling down my cheeks from finding their way into my cocoa cup. Drying my eyes with the corner of the tartan rug draped over my shoulder, I asked my mother why she chose such a sad tale to tell me. Mammy smiled, and said that life could be sad sometimes, and now that I was a young woman, then perhaps it was time to hear such tales. ‘Any road, I’m not finished, do you want me to go on or not?’
I knew that the sleep I had so desperately yearned for earlier would surely escape me if I didn’t hear the end of this tale. ‘Yes, Mammy, of course I do!’
March was striding in like a lion! Swirling ice-cold winds had been blowing up a fearful storm. Helen felt a pain deep in her lower back. It was early morning and the same pain had awakened her several times in the night. ‘Joseph, it’s time, love, the baby is on its way.’
The big man leapt up with such suddenness that the sight of his naked body made her laugh out loud.
‘You may well laugh, lady. You’re not the one whose wife is having a baby.’ His choice of words made them both laugh until another sharp pain brought home the reality of the situation. ‘What will I do, my love?’ Joseph asked, kneeling beside his teenage wife.
‘I’ll be alright with you at my side, husband—women have babies every day, so surely it can’t be that bad.’ She bit her bottom lip as another pain travelled through her.
By midday Helen’s labour pains were coming with much more severity than before, and it was obvious to Joseph that if the baby didn’t come soon he would have to get help. The mother-to-be began to fret as she remembered her mother’s last birth. Did she not sit with the dear soul until she died, aye, her and the baby. ‘Joseph, for God’s sake fetch your mother. Please go now or I fear I’ll not make it.’
As pain followed excruciating pain without any sign of the baby’s arrival, they both knew that if this birth did not kill Helen, then it would almost certainly kill the baby.
‘How can I leave you like this, what if you need me?’
‘Just go, Joseph, for the love of God. I need her more than I need you. Go, Joseph, go!’
Leaving his wife as comfortable as he could, he took off through the forest, taking every short cut he knew, to fetch old Flora, unaware that his mother was bedridden. The thickening snow greatly hindered his progress, but within an hour and a half the desperate man was knocking on his parents’ door.
Instantly Flora knew there was something wrong, Joseph looked so frightened.
‘Mammy, the lassie is in terrible pain, the baby’s not coming, and I am frightened that she’ll not make it.’
Hamish closed the door behind his son and put an arm around his shoulder as he beckoned him to sit at the fireside; then he shook his head and said, ‘Mammy’s ill, son. In fact...’ But before another word passed his lips the old woman prevented him from saying any more. ‘Get my coat and shawl, and a pair of your breeches, Hamish, to keep my legs warm.’
Hamish knew that if Flora did what she was proposing it would be the end of her, but he also knew that she would have it no other way.
Sitting up in bed she pretended to be smitten by flu. She said, ‘Joseph, I’ve lost the power of my legs with this damned flu, do you think you have the strength to carry me on your back?’
‘Mother, you never made me this size for nothing, of course I can.’
Hamish kissed his wife. As she bade him goodbye, she said, ‘Keep the kettle on the boil, old man, I’ll be needing a cup of tea when I get home.’
Hamish looked into the face of the woman who had shared most of his life. He held the thin, weak hand that hung limp beneath her coat. ‘I love you,’ he whispered, kissing her at the same time. ‘Thank you for everything.’
The old man watched his wife and son disappear into the swirling snow, then closed the door to wait alone.
Each step the big man took became harder, both for him and for Flora as she fought the pain in her aged body. But this journey was not for him, nor his mother. It was to save the life of his precious Helen.
At last they were at the door. What would they find? Flora’s past experiences told her that, given the time the lassie was in labour, the baby would almost certainly be dead! If Helen herself were still alive, then the fight to save her from death would indeed be great.
Praise be, she was still fighting, but she was hanging by a thread. On seeing Flora, her fear gave way to hope. She kissed the old woman’s hand and managed a weak smile. Flora felt the swollen abdomen, then said to the lassie, ‘Now, my bonny Helen, when I say push, do as you’re told.’ Turning to her son, she said, ‘Joseph, the heat in your wife’s body will make her faint, keep her as cool as you can. Whatever you do, keep her awake!’
It was now midnight. Helen was beyond exhaustion and Flora was almost giving up the battle. Joseph, unable to watch any longer, went outside and fell to his knees on the freezing ground. He put his face in his hands and cried, ‘Lord, if you’re somewhere out there, then save my Helen. I think you’ve taken the bairn and no doubt you’ll have it among the angels by now, but give me my wee Helen, please, Lord.’
‘Joseph, come ye in here, man.’ Flora’s voice sent a shiver through his body, and he froze at the thought of what was behind the door. Then he heard it—a baby’s cry! Yes, there again, a wee bit louder this time. He rushed in, and the sight before him was, in his own words, ‘A miracle’. Mother and baby were both alive. With the help of his very own beloved mother the pair were going to make it. Helen was drained of all colour. Tears came freely as she held out the tiny bundle, a girl, to meet her new Daddy. ‘Flora, how can we thank you for all you’ve done?’ she cried. The old woman smiled, and said ‘Let me hold her for a wee minute’.
Joseph gently put his precious bundle into the old woman’s arms. Flora looked at her first grandchild through tear-filled eyes, then softly kissed the tiny cheek.
‘You are Granny’s wee miracle, that is what you are, a gift from God.’
‘What name will we give our wee lassie?’ asked Joseph to his wife, but Helen had fallen asleep exhausted. He turned to Flora, still holding the baby, and said, ‘Well, Mammy, you’ll be happy now. In the morning I’ll fetch Father, and you can both stay here awhile with us, to share our joy.’
Joseph’s words never reached his mother’s ears. Peacefully holding in her arms the longed-for baby girl that she herself had never had, and was now at long last gifted to her son, she died!
Joseph lovingly tied his mother’s body to a wooden stretcher and, for the second time, made the journey back to his father.
Hamish told his son that a gentle wind had brushed against his cheek while he was sitting at the fireside. ‘It was Flora, your mother, she came to say goodbye.’
They buried her beside the infants who had died so many years ago.
When Joseph returned home to his wife and child, the snow was almost gone, melting under a warm spring sun.
‘Can you think of a better name for our bonny wean than Flora?’ Helen asked her husband.
‘There’s no better name in all the world,’ he replied.
Joseph and Helen went on to have five more healthy bairns. Three big lads just like their father, and two wee stotters, the spit of their mother.
The fire was out as Mammy finished her story. It was turning cold again, and we needed our beds, but I had to ask one more question before prising my backside off the wee stool.
‘Was I a hard birth, Mammy? Did you have any bother bringing me into the world?’
‘As a matter of fact, my lass, you were a breech. You decided at the last minute to come into the world the other way round, bum first.’
These words opened a floodgate of questions, but from the look my Mammy gave me, they wouldn’t be answered that night.
‘Race you to bed, old yin, last one in is a scabby cat!’
Slap!
‘You can sleep to the front, where Daddy sleeps!’
27
ARRAN SUMMER
Cousin Anna could hardly contain herself as she ran into the bus. Bursting with excitement, she grabbed me by the shoulders, stared through eyes as wide as pools and said, ‘We’re going to little Scotland, Jess, all of us this summer! I can’t believe it, can you?’
I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. Before I had time to think even a single thought, Daddy came in at that moment and enlightened me. We were going to the West Coast island of Arran, beautiful Arran! He had been busy, my Dad, and secured spray painting jobs at several farms and hotels. So it looked like we were to holiday on an Atlantic island, sitting next to my Scotland. If there could be anything to tarnish my delight, however, then Daddy’s next statement did it!
‘We can’t take the bus, though, so tents it’ll have to be.’
‘Why not? We can’t leave the bus, not here in the yard. It’ll be lonely, someone might break the windys.’ The thought of not being with my bus brought a lump to my throat.
Daddy said the ferry didn’t take buses, and our Janey wasn’t going because of a job she’d just secured in Kirkcaldy, so she’d be staying behind. That was all right then, tents it was.
Within a fortnight, we were all standing on the quayside at Ardrossan, vans loaded with camping equipment to last the summer, watching the mighty Glen Sannox ferry coming into dock. I’d never been on a boat of that size; it was like a wee village.