by Jess Smith
‘This daft Morayshire man broke doon upon the Perth road,’ laughed Daddy, ‘I found him hitching a mile north o’ Scone.’
I found it hard not to laugh at the poor soul’s predicament, because he had been blowing a hardy trumpet that very morning about how his new-bought Bentley ‘was the maist reliant motor vehicle in all the countryside.’
But when he saw his dear friend Mac lying sprawled upon his bed, storybook opened, he put the car aside for another day’s conversation. Daddy asked me to fetch a pot of tea while the threesome had a wee crack. He’d been away himself most of the day at Stirling selling a vanload of brock wool.
Although pleased, as I always was, to see my father safely home, I was also annoyed that the pair had interrupted Charlotte’s tale. ‘Are we going to find the end of our story?’ I prodded Mac on the arm.
Now, I know this seems a bit uncommon to say the least, given the ungodly hour, but Daddy said he’d haggled all day with the rag merchant and would take a tale before bedding himself. Portsoy, who’d heard Mac’s tales before, was also in the mood for hearing it again. So, after going hurriedly back to the beginning of the story for our added listeners, Mac continued with ‘The Severed Line.’
One day, while out walking in the thick forest with her old housekeeper, Charlotte was stunned to silence by the appearance of a small band of passing tinkers. It was not their lowly existence nor tiny abodes secured to bent backs that took her eye, but the fine fiery red hair cascading down a slender spine. The girl, Iona by name, was a mere fifteen, if that, with flashing green eyes and oh! that so thick red hair—the hair of the Royal Stuarts.
Charlotte was already sealing the fate of this impoverished band, and before that fateful day slowed to its end she had paid two henchmen to slit all their throats. All but the wench. She was gagged, bound hand and foot, and brought into the stately home. There she was forced up the winding metal stairway and thrown into the den of Charlotte’s twin sons. ‘I shall surely have my heir to this country now,’ she cried, as she shook her fist at the heavens above and swore that this was a God-given day.
The two sons had grown up as twisted in mind as they were in their maimed bodies. The innocent tinker girl was subjected that night to the most horrific attack upon her small frame. Had the housekeeper not entered later to remove her shattered and torn body, no one knows what they would have ended up doing to Iona that night. Next day Charlotte insisted her sons taste more, and in she threw an exhausted and half-dead girl. This she did daily for a week, allowing both her sons to abuse her at will.
After that she imprisoned Iona in a tiny basement and waited. Within two months her housekeeper brought the news—Iona was pregnant. On the old housekeeper’s advice a warmer, more comfortable apartment was prepared to imprison the mother-to-be. After all, it would be a royal Stuart who was coming once again to the Scottish nation, one whom the clans had been awaiting for a long time. They would listen and believe Charlotte when the truth was shown to them. She would be the Queen Mother and instruct the new heir. Oh, how she schemed and plotted!
Now, while all was being prepared, the old housekeeper began to think remorsefully on the road her life had taken. She could feel that her life was slowly dwindling and felt it wasn’t Charlotte’s fault but hers for disclosing the truth in the first place. She thought on the husband who had died far from his estate. She thought about the sadly malformed twins who had never been kissed or cuddled by a loving mother, and now poor Iona, whose family had been murdered for sake of this woman whom she had nurtured.
Any day now Iona would give birth and then what? What if it was a girl? Would she be thrown into the den of the twins once again? What if it was indeed a son? Of course, with her task complete, the young mother would never see another day. When would all this evil end? The old woman was the only one who could change things. Next day she set out to do just that.
While Charlotte slept, she went into the girl’s room, and just as expected the baby was moving into position for birth. Dressing Iona, the old housekeeper silently led her out of the large house of Lister. On the way she told the lassie what Charlotte was planning to do. The pair walked on until, exhausted, they came to the shore. Iona was led into a small cave to hide and have her child without help. You see, the old housekeeper had her own safety to consider.
Charlotte was seething with the red anger when she found that Iona and the housekeeper had gone, and she rode out to procure once again the assistance of her two henchmen who were living in a dark hovel nearby. Riding madly through the thick forest the three came upon the old woman, who lied and said that when she rose that morning she too had found Iona’s bed empty and set out to find her ‘before you, my mistress, awakened.’ Before walking off she called back to the death-minded threesome that she would take care of the boys, then she was gone into the forest.
As the day’s sun was settling into the night sky, they were searching every inch of shoreline until a child’s cry brought Charlotte and her hired killers to the cave. As they dismounted they saw a small figure silhouetted against the horizon; it was Iona standing above them on a ledge.
‘Have you a son for the throne of Scotland, lassie?’ Charlotte cried up to the visibly shaken girl.
‘Aye, mistress, see for yourself. I’ve done ye doubly proud.’
Charlotte could hardly believe her eyes, for there, lying wrapped in a torn shawl, were not one but two sons, each already showing a fine red hairline.
‘When I have my babies you know what to do with the tinker,’ she whispered.
The henchmen nodded in unison.
Iona was more than aware of her impending doom, but she was not going to go without seeing Charlotte’s face when the truth was revealed.
For as the lady of evil stooped to bundle up her heirs, two tiny heads rolled from their bodies at her feet!
‘See, wicked Charlotte, see your severed line!’ Those were Iona’s last earthly words as she leapt to a watery grave.
Charlotte screamed towards the heavens, blaming everybody but herself.
‘I will repeat this, others will be found,’ she screamed over and over again.
Those men of depravity had come even to their limit when witnessing this dreadful scene, and without payment they rode off into the dark forest, hoping never to set eyes upon Lady Charlotte again.
However, when she at last arrived home yet another horror was to meet her eyes that day, because the old housekeeper had torched Lister House with Charlotte’s twin sons locked within its walls. Charlotte and Lister House were never heard of or seen again. There are those who said she cursed Scotland from that day, and swore that the impostor would fail in any attempt he made to unite the clans. And that he did. Strange!
‘Great story,’ whispered Daddy, not wishing to wake Portsoy who had fallen asleep earlier. He turned and whispered to me, ‘Mammy will want to know why you and me hadn’t bedded until the second hour of the night, better no tell her we were tale telling.’ I smiled and promised, but hey, who could fool Mammy?
He then went off to his bed. But not I, no, I was still standing on that ledge with Iona watching the babies’ wee heads rolling at Charlotte’s feet. How could I sleep? I just had to ask Mac if there was any truth at all in this tale. He never answered. I couldn’t help but smile to myself, though, as I watched him take those flashing white teeth of his that I’d admired all day, and pop them into a glass half-filled with water.
Next day the berries saw us swelling the purse. Mammy was rare pleased and thanked God for filling the drills with juicy fruit and the heavens with the sun. I wanted to hear more of Mac’s tales, but he had lots of cracking to do with old Portsoy. I stood upon a wee stool and peeped through the window, to see the same glass Mac’s teeth had snuggled into the night before filled to the brim with ‘the cratur’. ‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘thon’s a wild bit o’ cracking taking place in that wee trailer this night, best I forget the tales for now.’
I wandered off and soon found a
dozen or so girls of my age hanging about the farmer’s giant hay barn. ‘Let’s monkey swing,’ said one of the lassies. This game was to swing from the rafters and then drop down onto the hay, great fun it was too. The usual practice was to aim to go from one end of the barn to the other without falling. Whoever slipped first stood out, and so on until only one was left. Well, I can’t say exactly how or why, but you-know-who fell and landed, not on the soft spongy hay, but on a great rusty pitchfork concealing itself under a layer of straw. Up it went into an inch of my foot. Two strong lassies dragged me squealing like a porkie all the way from the barn to our spot at the far end of the campsite. Every traveller in the place was up and over to see why my foot was dragging a pitchfork behind it. ‘Take that lassie tae the doctor,’ was one concerned voice. ‘God, wid ye look at thon fit, it’ll need tae be cut aff!’ was another. My mammy knew exactly what to do, and soon my foot with the hole was steeped in an almost boiling basinful of water and Dettol. Half an hour later I was sat, my foot washed and swathed in miles of torn cotton sheet strips, with a cup of tea and a scone. All well wishers and nosy parkers gone, I hopped to bed with a foot as sore as the wildest toothache, and Mr Nod definitely did not come within a mile of me that night.
Next morning I was still immersed in the Charlotte story and failed to hear Mammy shout out to me to ‘watch the fire, ye daft lassie!’ Too late—I stumbled and fell over half a tree Nicky had positioned on the early morning blaze. ‘Ouch!’ I watched a great swelling instantly spread itself across my shinbone to add to my other injury. Everybody laughed and I said something stupid like, ‘so glad to kick-start yer day’s humour.’ Mammy came immediately to my assistance with a damp cloth—then, when she saw my baggy eyes, she didn’t half turn on the fury. ‘Have you been filling your empty head with stories, how oftimes dae I say, there’s a time an a place.’ Before I could answer, Daddy came to my aid by saying, ‘the tale she heard was a cracker, Jeannie, and if you mind oor Jess when its cold winter howling, then she’ll tell it on a dark night.’
Mammy tutted, then ordered everyone to eat breakfast and get to work. I looked at Daddy who winked at me, then at Portsoy who in turn winked his eye at Mac. But it wasn’t the story of Charlotte I’d heard two nights past that had caused my baggy eyes, it was the throbbing pain in my sore foot.
However Mac’s tale of Charlotte did give me food for thought, and I just had to hear another tale. By teatime, me with my shiny shin, holey foot and baggy eyes were once again propped in old Portsoy’s caravan, listening to another of Mac’s tales.
This story was given to Mac by a young woman he met camping in a moor, and that was all he would tell me. He tells it through the woman’s tongue. I do the same.
5
THE TOMMY STEALERS
It was a beautiful place, with warmth and security. The moon shone on the hanging branches of several laburnum trees lining the pure green grass, and as my father unyoked the horse a flash of silver-white wings rose in brief splendour from an old oak. Mother imitated the too-wooing of the owl, then apologised to it for the disturbance.
My brother Tommy and I helped Father unload the cart while Mother filled a kettle from a clear flowing stream marking its territory round the outskirts of the forest. In no time the horse was munching on a casket of hay, the bowed tent was nestled snugly against an ancient stone wall, the fire was lit with a brag o’ heart and we were enjoying a hot mug of tea.
‘This is a good place,’ said Dad, ‘I think we’ll make a day or two’s lowie here’.
Mam gulped a mouthful of tea before replying that any place would be better than the last place, then added, ‘God help us all if they ever find us.’
‘They’ll never find us, lass, and if they do then it’s a fight to the death.’
Dad’s words sent a cold shiver up my back and the hair rose on my neck as a shy rabbit scurried through the thick undergrowth over by some trees. My brother Tommy felt my fear and moved closer, entwining his arm through mine.
Dad smiled and said, ‘now let’s not be shanning ourselves like this, it’s time for bed,’ then added, ‘look at the old moon, it’s heavy on the western side of the heavens and we all know that means it’s past two in the morning, so off to bed with the lot of us.’
I pulled the rug up under my chin as sleep was finding no place in me and thought back to the last place—and them! ‘Will I ever sleep again?’ I thought.
Sleep did come that night, but not in a restful slumber that a child of ten should enjoy. No, it came within a dark cloud of nightmarish memories, ones that would plague me for the rest of my life.
It was the day before that we had camped briefly with some travellers of Irish stock, who kept my father busy dealing his horse for theirs. After swapping mares they hitched up to move further up country. Nice folks they were.
The three strangers who wandered on to the green seemed pleasant enough as they shared some twist with Dad. Mother even gave them tea and a buttered scone. I remember hearing one ask Dad if we were the only travellers there. Yes, he told them innocently, there had been four or five Irish families but they’d moved on.
This seemed to please them and they settled back at our fire, spending what was left of the day with us.
Come teatime, Mother didn’t have enough food and told them so, apologising.
‘Oh, that’s fine, because we’re not here to eat your meat,’ said one of the strangers, a tall man.
‘No,’ laughed another, ‘we’re here for him.’ The older man had no sooner answered my mother than he stretched out a hairy arm and grabbed our Tommy. Father fumbled with a burning stick from the fire, then, brandishing it in the air, shouted, ‘leave my son alone!’
The third man, a dirty creature, unshaven and raggedy-clothed, came up behind father and knocked him to the ground. Then a sickening thud from his navvy-booted foot rendered father unconscious.
I screamed at the man who was running off with Tommy to let him go, while Mother scooped a bucketful of burning ashes from the fire and in vain threw them over the second man. Within seconds the three fiends were out of sight, running off with our Tommy. Mother and I dropped to our knees beside father’s lifeless body, sobbing uncontrollably. We’d heard the tales of body-dealers, men who targeted vulnerable people. Unscrupulous men with wicked intentions of selling them to doctors for the practice of dissecting. But until then we had never believed the scattered tales. There we were, then, victims of such demons. But some folks swear that God protects us! It certainly was true on that day, because who should discover that the horse father had changed with them was lame? Yes, the Irish lads. And while they were bringing the mare back they came across the body snatchers. When they saw and recognised Tommy it didn’t take them long to sort out those evil men and bring him home.
Father was none the worse for his ordeal. It wasn’t the first hammering he’d had. After thanking the Irish we packed instantly and set off. Mother told me to hold Tommy’s little hand. I held it so tight it went pale.
Yes, my sleep was sorely troubled that night. But that was a long time ago.
The Great War of 1914 came with its millions of casualties. Father followed the call and was among them. Mother, being of delicate stature, found life without her man unlivable, so within a year took her place in the ground at his side. I had to be strong for Tommy. You see my young brother developed a stutter, and became the butt of endless jibes and jokes. One day before his tenth birthday his teacher asked me not to take him back to the school.
As he grew he became more and more withdrawn. No matter how hard I tried to love and protect him, Tommy found life unbearably hard. One dark winter night while a blizzard covered the country, my young brother walked out, barefooted and nothing on except pants and a thin simmit. I found him clutching a piece of paper. He was frozen dead. Scribbled on the paper was: ‘I love you sister, but every night when I fall asleep those three strangers come back, I have to find peace. Forgive me, Tommy.’
My brother died
before reaching the age of seventeen.
‘Oh Mac, you might have picked a story to cheer me up, that is so, so sad,’ I told him.
‘Funny is it ye want—well, here’s a wee laugh for you.’
Mac closed his bulky journal and lit up a fag. Full-strength Capstan he smoked. Why did folks feel the need to kill themselves and call it enjoyment? This always made me think that we adults are stupid. But back to things in hand (and not Mac’s fag by the way). No, this next wee tale was perhaps his way of cheering me up. All the more because the folks involved are relatives of mine.
6
SANDY’S KILT
Sandy the piper was more than pleased with his day’s takings. Well, that’s understandable, because was oor lad no’ just the country’s best piper. He’d spent the better part of that July day on his favourite spot at the Pass o’ Killiecrankie, piping tune after tune for Scotland’s culture-keen tourists. Weary but happy, he’d wandered home, which was a snug wee wood-end on the outskirts of Pitlochry, to share his hard earned shillings with the dearest love of his life—bonnie Jeannie. When our hardy piper arrived, a grand plate of thick vegetable broth was waiting, followed by a heel-end of the best bread spread over with streaky bacon, to be swallowed down with Jeannie’s milky tea.
‘Ye ken this, my love, if ever a man had an angel for a wife, then he stands here in front o’ ye.’
‘And I’m the maist fortunate woman tae have Scotland’s finest piper lay at ma side every night.’
Yes, an air of fine contentment spread itself over the little bended tent that teatime, and the bairns, all seven of them, played in amongst a forest floor of soft moss and grass fern.
Jeannie told Sandy that while in the town earlier she had met a dozen or so lads here for the games. She said his cousins and brothers were there, and why not go meet up with them for a dram. Sandy was grateful to his lass, but thought it might not be wise to drink the night before his crème de la crème piping event of the year. But Jeannie said she trusted him enough not to overdo the swallowing.