by Jess Smith
‘I bags the seat beside the driver. Come on, last one on is a scabby cookie!’
‘Jessie, you stupid pudding, ships don’t have drivers, they have rudders!’ shouted Anna, pushing past me.
‘Well, wherever he sits, I bags a seat beside him.’
Auntie Jessie grabbed us back into line and said, ‘Listen, you two, calm down, you’re like dafties let out for the day from an asylum. Folk will think us travellers have wild weans.’ She flashed her sharp green eyes as if to say, ‘If you don’t behave, then it’s the back o’ the hand.’ She had big hands, did my auntie, but never used them to hit any of her children. We knew this, but what she did do was tell Mammy, who on the contrary had wee powerful hands, and never hesitated to use them.
As we all stood on the top deck, faces into the warm wind, I felt like a tourist abroad. You know, the ones in the cinemas, Ava Gardner in Africa or Marilyn Monroe sailing away with some fella, somewhere exotic. I remember feeling rich, not with wealth, but the richness that comes through freedom, the traveller’s freedom.
My young sisters were playing skip-slap. Let me think, how did it go again? Oh yes, I know, it goes like this: ‘eesie osie, mannie’s nosie, eesie osie oot!’ Skip, then slap, then ‘eenerty feenerty, fickerty feg, eel, del, domineg, irkie, birkie, starry rock, an, tan, tooslie Jock!’ Then one skips forward as the other slaps hands and continues, ‘black puddin, white troot, eerie oorie, your oot’. As the big boat gave a gentle sway our Mary skipped and fell. This prompted Auntie Jessie to raise her voice yet again. ‘Sit down the lot of you, people are staring!’
An elderly lady, who had been enjoying my sisters’ play, told our ever watchful aunt that it brought back memories of her childhood in the Angus glens. Then, sprightly as can be, she showed us her version of eenerty feenerty. She couldn’t half shift those old bandy legs. Yes, this year’s summer jaunt was indeed going to be a cracker.
We were bursting with excitement as we shuffled and rooted through the ferry, and only a stern ‘Don’t touch!’ from an angry steward who caught us shinning down a thick rope tied round a red and white tyre calmed our shenanigans.
Having searched unsuccessfully for the rudder-driver, Cousin Anna and I skipped down the gangway at Brodick, convinced the poor soul was stuck deep under the ship and guiding it along the ocean’s floor. Several boxes of groceries later, we set off to find a suitable camping spot. Cousin Wullie didn’t share the journey with us; he was expected to join us later on in the week after taking ownership of his first motorbike. This was his seventeenth-birthday present from Auntie Jessie and Uncle Wullie (of Jake the Adventurer fame).
The sun was hot for early May, prompting Uncle Wullie to bring forth one of his long-range weather predictions, with a wee verse thrown in for atmosphere.
When the sun gives heat in the bonny month o’ May,
It will shine through the hawthorn pink and white,
Red berries, foustie hay.
And do you know this, folks, that is exactly what it did, because from that day until we sailed back home, not a single drop of rain did we feel on our faces. From May to August’s end, we had lovely, tar-melting sunshine.
As we drove along the coast road, more and more delightful camping spots came into view. ‘Oh Daddy, look at the waves coming onto the beach, this will do.’ Then another just as appealing inlet brought forth more ooohs and aaaahs. Then we saw it: our heavenly campsite, big enough to take vans, tents and washing lines. It was off the road in a sparsely-wooded area, with plenty of unspoilt grass to soften our sleep. A few flat rocks provided fine seating, with a place to put a safe fire for cooking. Most important of all, there was our very own swimming pool: the blue-green waters of God’s own Atlantic Ocean. Heady scents from azalea and rhododendron shrubs growing wild in the wood would lull our slumber, while a fresh salty sea spray would awaken the senses come morning light. Could anyone ask for better?
After helping pitch tents, Anna and I squeezed into the year before’s cossies and joined the jellyfish, which looked for all the world like rolled-up chiffon scarves floating on the sea’s surface. Bobbing in the lukewarm water within the rock pools and kicking aside stringy threads of green seaweed, my cousin and I hugged each other. We were thirteen, almost grown-up. Life felt terrific, we would never forget Arran.
That night, as we lay in our camp beds, hair still damp, we dreamed of happy days ahead, whilst the big folks sat sharing a drop of tea with the island’s local policeman. He had noticed our arrival at Brodick and, as most bobbies did, decided to give us a check-up visit. The fact that there were no baddies on Arran meant that nothing ever happened to need his attention, so a mug of tea and a crack round our fire became part of his day.
The next morning we were welcomed by a warm sun which seemed to shine just for us. ‘I’m going dooking, anybody joining me?’ I called, pushing a leg into a sandy, damp swimming costume.
‘Hey, ma lady, you’re going for milk and rolls, that’s where you’re going,’ called my Mother. ‘So get the legs into a pair of dry shorts—dooking, indeed.’
Anna laughed, saying, ‘See ya later’. Auntie Jessie grabbed her mermaid daughter before she plunged into the waves, saying, ‘And you can go with Jessie. Bring back the day’s papers to see if the world is still turning.’
We both reluctantly slipped from our cossies, donned vests and shorts, then made our way into the town. En route we left the road to skip along an ancient harbour-wall, long since deserted for a new one. The crystal-clear water was filled with many kinds of sea life. Silkies (seals) and various colours of jellyfish shared the harbour with four giant basking sharks. ‘Look at the fatness of yon brutes,’ said Anna, adding, ‘I’ve heard tell they are gentle creatures and couldn’t hurt a fly.’
I peered down at the great beasts. ‘They look as if they’re dead. Are they real?’
Anna, having lived most of her life on the East Coast, Aberdeen to be exact, knew a lot about marine life. ‘Yon brutes live their whole lives appearing dead-like. I’ve a pal who told me when she goes on holiday to Nairn she swims under them!’
‘Don’t believe that,’ I said, unconvinced that anyone with tuppence-worth of sense could be so stupid or brave.
‘Polly McPherson is her name, and next time you visit I’ll take you to see her yourself. I’d seldom seen our Anna get rused, but the more I pooh-poohed the more she was determined to prove me wrong.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘let’s get in.’
‘In where?’ I asked, confused.
‘In the water and swim under yon bellies. I know Polly would never lie, her being a minister’s daughter, so let’s see if it can be done!’
Without another word, my cousin stripped naked and dived in! I stiffened like a poker watching the water engulf her thin frame. As quickly as the ripples formed they just as instantly scattered, leaving Anna’s head inches from the shiny black sea monster. ‘Watch this,’ she gurgled, then before I could find one word of protest, she was gone beneath her water companion’s underside. Emerging at its other side and pushing her dripping hair from half-shut eyes, she called out to me, still open-mouthed,
‘Come on, scaredy breeks, get yourself in. Polly was right, they’re so big they don’t even know I’m here.’
I can only describe my next actions as madness. Purple shorts and grey vest lay discarded on the ancient harbour wall while I found myself diving to join our Anna in the soft green water to swim below the basking sharks! Holding my hand she guided me under, then up. Twice, three times we swam. The gentle beasts, obviously unaffected by our presence, did not move; we even went as far as tickling their bellies with our toes. I think that moment was one of the most marvellous of my entire life. I felt half-fish, half-girl as the water filled my ears and a shark rolled his lazy eye to glance briefly at my form passing through his domain. All thoughts of the family waiting hungrily back at the campsite for milk and rolls were gone from our minds as we hurriedly donned our clothes. ‘That was immense, I shall neve
r forget,’ whispered Anna. She never did, but then, neither did I.
‘In future, if a bully gets me beat, I will know I’ve done something greater than they shall ever do!’ I threaded my arm through Anna’s and added, ‘Let’s keep this as our forever secret.’
‘To tell no one until we die, right Jess?’
And to my knowledge this has been our secret until now, the swim below the sharks.
On our way back from the shops, after a wee blether with the shopkeeper’s wife, we heard loud music coming from the shore. This sent our curiosity into overdrive. Following the noise we came upon a long black sort of floating barge. On the boat a dozen or so lads were all rushing about, some singing to music coming from a trannie, others jiving to it. Others were laughing and shouting as they poked and pulled at ropes on the strange flat surface of the vessel. We watched them for a minute or two, when suddenly a loud siren sound had us clinging onto each other in fright. Before we could imagine what it was, the lads stopped what they were doing and disappeared down a hole in the middle of the boat-thing. Within seconds it sunk out of sight, taking the unfortunate laddies with it.
‘Oh my heavens, Jess,’ said Anna ‘what kind of monster was that? Do you think they’ve all drowned?’
‘I don’t know, but best tell the men. It might be a lifeboat job, come on.’
We arrived back as the lid was dancing on the big black kettle.
‘Another minute and I’d be searching for you two,’ said Mammy sternly. ‘Do you know that kettle has dried out twice? Why are your faces blood-red, and why is your hair wet?’
‘Never mind that, Mam, there’s a boatful of lads drowning out in the water!’
‘Aye, Auntie Jeannie, we think they’ll need rescued,’ panted Anna.
My father came round from behind a large rock and told us the boat was an American submarine, and that they were based nearby. He added that we would probably see a lot of these strange-looking ships while on Arran. Our Shirley, emerging from the sea, heard Daddy and rushed away excitedly to tell Cousin Carol there was talent in the shape of Yanks.
If anyone mentioned Yanks, Elvis came to mind, and the two lassies, being madly in love with the King of Rock, had no doubt a visit to one of these U.S. vessels had to be a priority. My father reminded them that only cheap woman frequented navy ships, and if he found them within a mile of one, then the ‘back o’ the hand’ it would be!
Both girls, though, were nineteen and he knew there was little he could do if that was the way they decided to go. ‘During the war...’ he started to say, but before another word left his lips a screeching sound had all of us turning on our heels, to see Cousin Wullie straddling his new shiny motorbike, riding full-throttle towards the campsite.
‘God almighty, here’s our Wullie on his bike, and the daft goat hasn’t a clue how to ride it!’ exclaimed my uncle.
‘Aye, and it looks awfy like the ragie doesn’t know where the brakes are either.’ At Shirley’s words the red-faced laddie ploughed straight through his parent’s tent, coming to a halt halfway through ours. ‘Braw bike, eh, folks? Now lets get a cup o’ tea and then rebuild the tents.’ That was our Wullie, a big, daft, soft-hearted laddie.
No one said a thing, because that was how it was with our cousin. He never swore or fought or said a wrong thing against a living soul. Give him a guitar and let him sing and that was Wullie.
So as that day headed to an end, Anna and I had swum with the sharks. The older girls were enlightened about the talent close by. Our tents had been rebuilt and the little ones lay sleeping, toes black with bursting tar bubbles. Wullie serenaded us all to sleep with his rendition of the King’s ‘Love Me Tender’. Here’s to tomorrow.
Apart from Daddy keeping eyes in the back of his head to defend the older girls from the Yankee talent, our island existence remained idyllic. The men worked hard at spray-painting, while the women kept an eye on us lot slipping in and out of the ocean. When the men were not at work, they too enjoyed the greeny sea pools lapping at our canvas doors. Young Wullie spent his spare time either serenading the curious seals who came in with the tide, or polishing the new love of his life, his very noisy motorbike.
I will now digress slightly and tell you a tale of Devil worship, told to my mother and me as we spent the day hawking on our Arran isle.
Anna declined Mammy’s offer to go with us that day because she’d a sore head with too much sun, so a book in the tent was to be her lot. I didn’t fancy going either, but she couldn’t go alone; anyway, Shirley would only babysit the three smallest ones.
‘We better get off, Jess,’ said my mother, taking off her apron and tying it on a tent rope. ‘Uncle said it would thunder before the day’s end, so best not go far,’ she added.
‘Aye, I think he could be right, there’s a sticky heat this morning. You can almost feel the heavy air,’ I said, remembering how hard I found it to sleep the night before.
A half-hour later we were standing outside a wee picture-postcard cottage, with a low thatched roof and tiny windows. White-painted walls were crowded from every side by red, yellow, and purple rhododendrons. ‘Look, Mam, your favourite flower in all the world.’ She saw the little snowy-white flowers of lily of the valley and tears welled in her eyes. They grew all around the roots of azaleas like small companions to their delicate blooms.
‘Oh, do you know why I love these bonny flowers so much, pet?’
If I’d a penny for every time she told me I’d be rich, but I knew how she delighted in the telling, so I said, ‘No, Mammy, why do you?’
‘The night before Daddy went to war, he walked me down to the wood at the end of the Bobbin Mill in Pitlochry to where the lily of the valley grows. Holding my face in his hands, he said, “If I never come home to you, my bonny Jeannie, then come here and sit amidst the birch trees and valley flowers. Close your eyes and put all fear away from your mind. If you listen I will call to you through the breezes blowing up from the River Tummel. Promise me now.”’
My mother went on to say that, as she lay in her bed and listened to enemy bombers droning in the night sky above, she filled her thoughts with her man and the valley flowers. It got her through, she said.
‘Is this not the bonniest wee cotter house, Jess?’ Before I could answer, a frail-sounding voice from within a bush had us turning to look—a little thin-faced lady, secateurs in one hand, basket in the other.
‘Good-day to you both,’ she said, removing a dirty green glove from one hand and pushing it out to shake my mother’s. ‘You’re no’ from here. I know everybody round about for miles.’
‘Aye, that’s right, missus, we’re travelling folks spending a few weeks on the island, and a grand place it is.’ My mother was politeness itself when hawking. ‘Can I interest your kind self in a bit or a bob from my basket?’ Sitting down on the cottage step, she gestured to the old lady to have a look. Leaning on one knee she rummaged through the basket. ‘How much?’ she asked, holding a piece of Irish lace and a card of six red buttons. ‘I’ve been looking for this colour of button to finish a cardigan.’
I can’t remember the price asked for, because it was never relevant to my Mother. What she really wanted was to tell the lady’s fortune or read her tea-leaves, either way she made a great deal more from that.
‘I tell you what, why don’t the both of you come in and share a pot of tea with me. I’ve been out in this garden far too long, and I’ve a drouth half way down my thrapple. Oh, and before you ask to tell my fortune or read the tea-leaves at the bottom of my cup, don’t bother. Its ninety-five I am, and if you know of anybody who cares at that age about a future then I’d like to shake their hand.’
Mammy laughed at that remark, and said yes, we’d be grateful for a cuppy, but would sit outside and take it. Far too clammy being inside today.
‘No, come away in to the cool of my wee cottage,’ said the old lady.
I asked her, with such a low roof and tiny windows, surely it would be boiling inside.
That did it—my mother loved ginger cake and I was equally addicted to the browny-black toothache sweetie.
Inside Mammy removed her thin headscarf and wiped her brow before tying it round her neck. It certainly was cooler inside, with an air of garden freshness. We both sat down on pine chairs with bowed backs. ‘Now,’ said Mammy, ‘are you sure I can’t tell your fortune? Age matters not and you look healthier than myself.’
The old dear laughed out loud, displaying a toothless mouth and a chunk of gingerbread. ‘If I open my eyes in the morning then it’s a surprise, never mind what the future holds.’ She laughed again, more of a cackle, and I held my breath thinking she might choke.
Mammy, being the professional that she was, said, ‘Everyone has a future, wife, even if it’s a flickin’ of a lamb’s tail.’
But our host would have the final word on it and said, ‘Lassie, the only thing I have to look forward to is a wooden box. Now tell me, where are you camped?’
Mammy pressed her back against the hard chair and said we were outside Brodick, two miles to be precise, sea on one side, wood on the other.
All of a sudden our host’s eyes widened in their sockets and her face went death-pale.
For several seconds nothing was said, then sitting forward in her chair she asked in a whisper, ‘There wouldn’t be a large, bell-shaped rock nearby?’
Mammy looked at me, obviously puzzled and confused by our host’s instant change of mood, and said, ‘You’re the explorer, Jess, have you come across such a rock?’
I had no hesitation in answering. Of course I had. It was as big as an elephant’s head. ‘Aye, Mammy, surely you’ve seen it. Did Uncle Wullie not think it was a beach standing stone, like Stonehenge or the Orkney ones?’