by Jess Smith
I was absolutely beautiful. For the very first time in my entire life I wore a coat no ordinary traveller girl had ever worn. I felt like the Queen of the travelling people.
‘Portsoy,’ I whispered, ‘I know full well you and the whole of Kirriemuir don’t have the lowie tae pay for this coat.’
‘Shsst. I never touched yer pinkie, wait and watch.’
So, whilst the young lassie folded my new purchase into a gold-coloured box, Portsoy conned, to the highest standard of his profession, the rose-smelling manageress.
‘Now, where, oh where, did I leave that blasted wallet of mine?’ he turned to me.
Obviously his pinkie-touching technique was still applicable and I stayed silent.
He pretended to search through his pockets for a wallet that never existed, saying, to humour the lady, ‘I have a shoot this afternoon, my man must have popped the pocket contents into my tweeds. So, sorry Gwenny, but we’ll have to leave this coat of yours here, can’t be helped, lovey.’ Then he turned to the lady, apologised and summoned me to leave.
‘What in heavens name is he up to?’ I thought. The idea that he’d taken cold feet, and wasn’t conning the dear lady as he’d first thought to do, was a relief to me, but I was sad I’d lost the coat. I had misjudged him, however, because Portsoy knew exactly what he was doing. His plan was still ongoing.
‘That will not be necessary, sir,’ the manageress said, as she pushed the boxed garment into my hands, smiling broadly. ‘Feel free to settle the purchase any time you’re in town.’
‘If you think that will be alright,’ he said, adding, ‘I tell you what, just in case I’m called prematurely back to Harley Street, better pop it onto the Laird’s account.’
‘Certainly sir!’
I can say this to you, reader, in all honesty: when we walked from that store I felt like every law-enforcer on the entire planet was about to pounce. I was terrified.
‘Happy with your purchase, Jessie?’ asked my wily companion, as we headed back to our fancy mobile apartment nestling on the Kirriemuir lay-by.
Honestly, words failed me, I didn’t know whether to scream out loud, throw the boxed coat over a dyke or hide beneath a boulder. ‘How do I explain this coat to Mammy?’ I asked him.
‘Your wonderful mother has no idea how much a coat from that shop costs, and if you don’t tell her, then where is the harm?’
Little did he know he’d asked the impossible of me—to lie to my Mother: not Death himself could force me to do that. I fell silent and knew that this beautiful pink coat would never be mine. Next day I’d give it back, even if it meant going to jail.
Strange, though, how our best intentions can be waylaid.
When I entered the trailer Mammy said a dear relative was nearing his end and she and Daddy had to go to him. We were to stay with Nicky and Portsoy Peter until they came back. That very night Nicky pulled our trailer over to Menmuir, then went back for his mate’s. I never told anybody about my pink cashmere coat, nor did I show it to them, because whilst they slept away the night I ventured into the dark, found a soft piece of ground and buried it like a corpse. Portsoy’s venture, although a terrifying experience for me and my conscience, was an everyday laugh for him. So, no surprise that he wondered why I was never seen wearing the coat of many lies!
Menmuir and its neighbouring area seemed to be full of farms and outbuildings. Daddy was certainly going to be a busy man. Mammy and I did a lot of hawking. One day we went up an old track road, hopefully to make a bob or two at some cottar houses snuggled in behind a heather moor, when we came upon a really nasty young woman seriously abusing one of her children. A sad wean, a lassie of no more than ten if she was a day, was getting a beating for dropping her baby brother. Her mother with all her strength was using a heavy stick across the lassie’s back. Mammy saw red, took the stick off her and broke it in pieces. ‘Never you do that to your own bairn or the Lord will take a heavier stick across your back, shame on ye.’ My mother, as wee as she was, could wield quite a power when she came upon injustice.
‘I tell her till I’m blue in the face, but ever since my man left me that quine has turned as wild as a schnell north wind.’
The young woman, along with her brood, hurried away down the road, and Mammy said, ‘God alone knows what thon lassie has to put up with, her no having a man, but there’s nae excuse for cruelty tae children.’
That night, while the family enjoyed a sing-song with some local folks who’d joined our fire, I stayed inside the trailer and remembered this story Mac told me. And given the day’s events it holds a lot of weight.
11
FAIR EXCHANGE
‘That lassie o’ yours, Anya—well, what can I say?’
Anya gathered her apron into a tightened fist at her side and bit her lip.
‘Will you put down that poor wee bird or I’ll lay intae ye wi’ a stick!’
The impudent, unruly child stared at her mother and the neighbour, spat in their direction, then sealed the fate of the unfortunate bird by twisting its thin neck and threw it at their feet, before running off laughing loudly.
‘The devil’s in your wean, she needs a priest!’
Anya watched her friend walk off, those sickening words swimming round inside her head made all the more forceful by her daughter’s actions. Yet to look at her she was such a pretty thing, with big blue eyes, blonde curls which cascaded down her back in golden ringlets and a smile of an angel.
The badness was in her right enough however, because as far back as Anya could remember her little Maura was wicked to the core. The time she delighted in biting her newly-born brother’s finger until he turned blue with the pain; and the relish she took in leaving tiny creatures like spiders legless as she slowly removed their spindly legs one by one. Nothing was safe from her fiendishness.
Anya’s heart had been broken many times in Maura’s seven years of life, and she wandered how long the village folks, kindly as they were, would suffer this ‘child of Satan’—their words, not hers. So often a gentle soul would pop in through her door and offer help, but nothing worked. She even wished that she was a convert of their faith, but this was never to be. Anya was of Romany lineage and her beliefs were in Mother Earth and Father Sky. Her teaching lay in fire, water and air. She believed that if Maura was disturbed that this came from disturbance in the elements at her birth and not from some unseen force that possessed her being. She was mistress of her own self.
Her other four children were of a quiet good-nature and gave her much happiness, but Maura was disruptive, the opposite of her siblings, and they loathed her greatly.
Anya saw humans as a vast field of flowers, of many colours, shapes and sizes, all swaying in the winds of life. If a weed was among them, then it had to be removed. Little Maura was a weed and it was up to her to destroy it! After all, was it not she and her late husband Daniel who planted the offending flower? Yes, it was time for a terrible decision.
That night as she lay in bed, fingers of silver moonlight dancing on her tear-streaked face, she made a dire decision. She would give back to Mother Nature her weed of wildness and ask her to take Maura home. It was the Gypsy way.
By early morning she had risen, fed and clothed the little ones, telling Maura she was going away with mummy.
‘Oh dear Lord, lass, you cannot do such a thing,’ pleaded her friend when Anya told her what had to be done. ‘It’s God’s hands that seek the lost souls, even bairns can be taken away by the dark, but only he can save them.’
‘This may be your way,’ Anya said, ‘but we gypsies have our ain beliefs. Now, can I ask you tae watch over my other children while I’m gone?’
The kindly woman nodded, and as she watched the young widow walk away over the horizon, she inwardly prayed that her heavenly Father would intervene and save the life and soul of the child.
‘Come now, Maura, let’s me and you away for a long walk,’ she said, grasping her daughter’s hand tightly.
‘
Where do you take us, Mither? And why?’ The youngster was suspicious. Anya knew this, so her answer had to be convincing.
‘The old wife, our dear neighbour, has need of herbs, you know the ones she uses to heal open sores.’ She went on, ‘It seems all the ones growing by the hedge have withered and died. I know of a field many miles from here where there is an abundance.’
‘I don’t want to go with you. Why can’t I stay with the rest? My feet will swell.’
‘Now Maura, be still with the tongue.’ Anya could hardly bear to look at her child, given the awful task which lay ahead, and changed the subject. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest with every step.
Soon the girl tired and glanced backwards, saying, ‘I want to go home. I hate all this walking through thistles and nettles. My legs sting, and I hate you too.’
Anya slowed her pace, realising she was forcing the child to go faster than her small legs were able. ‘We’ll be there in a while, bairn, I can smell the lavender.’ Little Maura, knowing how the healing herb grew sporadically amidst lavender fields, was convinced, and settled her otherwise rebellious mind to gaze at her steps, before deliberately stamping on her mother’s toes. Any other time Anya would have scolded her, but not today.
Soon it was time. The summer sun had lost its heat and began to sink slowly into the westerly horizon. Anya sat her child down on soft grassy clover, surrounded by fern and buttercups. Maura wondered where the herbs were and asked her mother. She lied, saying they grew over by the hedge. It was Anya’s plan to feed Maura deadly belladonna poison disguised within a piece of bread. The hungry child found no reason not to eat and did so until every crumb was devoured. Within no time Maura’s eyes rolled upwards in her little head and soon the poison had done its deadly task. Anya, through blinding tears, arranged a deathbed for her child of soft clover heads and lavender blossoms, all the time calling upon Mother Earth to take care of her baby. Unable to look upon the still features of Maura, she ran and ran until all her strength was gone, then fell and lay hidden amidst deep undergrowth. Her terrible task completed, she lay on the root-filled ground crying, until a troubled sleep overcame her exhausted body.
It was a muffled sound from within the deep undergrowth that awakened her, a strange noise not unlike someone whispering. She sat her stiffened frame up and stretched her neck to see. There was smoke from a small fire. A simmering kettle hung from a blackened tripod. Then she saw him, the old man. He was outstretched on the ground, covered by a thin grey blanket of coarse wool.
She was certain he couldn’t see her. How could he, as she was completely camouflaged by hawthorn bushes? Yet, without turning or opening his eyes, he beckoned her to join him.
As she gingerly stepped forward it became clear that this was no ordinary situation. Laid on the ground in a neat pile was a penknife, a hat, a small book, ‘perhaps one of those bibles,’ she thought, and a chipped cup, all his worldly goods. She’d seen this arrangement before when an elderly man died in the village.
It seemed as if Death would follow her this day, and a cold shiver that ran through her whole being left her frightened. Bending down she quietly enquired if there was anything he needed. ‘No,’ was his whispered reply, ‘but you, lass, whatever ails you? I sense a heavy-burdened heart.’
Anya knew when Father Time is on his way, folks see things. Perhaps this dying man could see that the loss of little Maura had left a scar on her. It may have been this or maybe that his own life would soon be extinguished. Her burden was so heavy she felt the sharing of it would lessen the terrible pain tearing at her heart.
Soon he heard it all, the evil of Maura, Anya’s beliefs, everything. When she had finished she lowered her guilty face to the welcoming soil and sobbed an ocean of tears. The old man said nothing. The only gesture he made to this grieving mother was a gentle stroke of her hair before he pushed his chin upwards, breathing a final gasp, and then he was gone. She covered his face and sat watching and wondering who he was, and what manner of life he had led.
Darkness had engulfed their little clearing, and as she lay lost in time and silence, watching the flickering lights from the small fire entwine and dance with each other, a strange light came from the body of her companion and spread from head to toe. Suddenly it took on the form of thin, spindly, swaying hands. Fingers of light ran over his frame as if feverishly playing an invisible piano. Anya, unable to move, shook with terror.
All night long the fiendish fingers ran up and down, back and forth, never missing one inch of this old man. And all Anya could do was sit and watch spellbound. Then, as silently as it began, the haunting was over. His body, which had been raised in the air, was gently lowered back onto the now cold ground. Anya did not go near him until the thought of the old lady caring at home for her other children brought a gleam of sanity back to her mind. Dawn had brought a welcome light. She decided to gaze briefly upon the face of her dead companion, perhaps to fix his face and this weird memory in her mind, so she peeled back the grey cover. And lying there, staring up with sleepy eyes, was the living, breathing body of her very own child—Maura!
Anya, unable to grasp the meaning of this miraculous situation, did not speak, just gave a grateful thanks to whoever or whatever had given her this second chance. Not only was she given back her child, but the evil nature that was once so apparent in Maura was gone. In its place was a gentle, caring child. Was this the miracle of her neighbour’s God, or a gift from Mother Earth, who could say?
Anya would never forget that night she spent with a stranger not of this world.
That was just another tale from traveller folklore for you, reader, and I hope you enjoyed it. Most of the ancient stories were told as moralistic warnings, to teach travelling bairns the ways of right and wrong. It was a great way to learn, I thought, and better than shouting the rules at little ones. A story would remain in a child’s head long after a shout or slap had lost its meaning.
12
THE BLACK PEARL
When we got back to the campsite between Menmuir and Montrose, Daddy was having a crack with some lads who were passing by; travellers, they were, and I believe related to the Stewarts of Blair. Grand men, and they told me (when I nosed at what they did) that they were ‘pearl fishers’. After a cuppy one showed me a wee silver snuffbox. I gently peeped inside the opened box to see, nestling in cotton-wool, three of the largest pearls I had ever been privileged to see. Beauties!
With this in mind I now share an ancient folk-tale with you, and I do hope it’s to your liking. Here, then, reader, is the story of The Black Pearl.
As you wander up the road towards Glen Turret you will come to a small waterworks sub-station that overlooks a deep ravine. Stop awhile and glance over to your left. Do you see a castle surrounded by high walls, with two massive pillars upholding heavy oak gates? No! Well, if you’d taken the same route several hundred years ago, then you would certainly have seen such an ominous building.1 The castle was home to Toshach, early chief of the Macintosh Clan. And an evil man was he!
Toshach was known the countrywide for his wickedness towards his neighbours. He would rather cut off their hand than take it in friendship. Although he was only twenty-five years in age and of handsome features, no father would offer his daughter’s hand in marriage to such a fiend. So one day, Toshach, raging with the want of a wife to breed him sons, stole a pretty country girl from her duty of gathering in the flax. Her parents tried to save her being carried off and forfeited their lives in the attempt.
Unknown to Toshach, however, was the fact that the pretty maid had previously been promised to a pearl fisher from the Earnside. Between Templemill and Strathgeath flowed a precious oyster burn with beds thick with pearls. It was there he lived, preparing the cottage for his soon-to-be-bride.
Now, when the pearl fisher discovered that the tyrant of Turret had carried off his beloved, he turned to the Fairies for help.
‘Do I live my life with my beautiful Meera, or will she be lost forever to T
oshach?’ he asked the invisible fairies, whom he believed danced upon the mussel shells and turned their pearls to silver. They answered by telling him to leave a handful of pearls lying on the grass overnight, as was the way. Now, if in the morning the pearls had been strung together, he would know that Meera would be his. If, on the other hand, the pearls were scattered, then that meant she would be lost to him forever. Needless to say the poor lad had a sleepless night ahead of him.
Meanwhile, back at the castle, Toshach’s cousin Bregha, who had always thought he would choose her as his bride, was fuming with anger at the vision of loveliness who had stolen her chances away. She had to find a way of discrediting Meera in Toshach’s eyes.
On the coming of the next dawn the pearl fisher found to his great satisfaction that the fairies had strung the pearls together—but one of them was black. He knew only too well what this signified: his beloved would be disfigured, afflicted in some way.
Never matter, he would love and protect her whatever the affliction. What was more important was, how was he to rescue her?
The castle walls were impenetrable; water cascaded from great heights by either entrance to the place. There seemed no way in. Nevertheless he had to try, so that morning he set off. On approaching the giant pillars at the lower end, he was met by two fierce guards. Finding himself without an explanation to give, a gentle whisper in his ear told him what to do—‘give the pearls to the chief’s new bride-to-be as a wedding present.’ This he did, before swiftly walking away.
The guards took the gift intended for the girl and gave it to Bregha, who saw an opportunity in this gift to discredit Toshach’s choice of bride.
‘Look,’ she told him, holding the pearls, ‘see, your beloved has chosen a husband already. He brought her favourite jewels for her to wear; she is unclean.’