by Jess Smith
Wull said that his replacement to be, young Skiff Smith, had a way of charming women, and might be able to persuade her to visit her sister over on Millintroch Island. ‘He’s got a good excuse he can use,’ sniggered Wull, ‘the Ferryman brought news that she’s sick.’
‘How can he do that, then, Wull? She’s as sharp as a fish-knife and hates all men.’
The gravedigger’s eyes twinkled: ‘I’ve been informed by the lassies that Skiff can charm the whelk from its shell. I’ll go and fetch him.’
Mrs Macallister sobered fairly quickly and dashed off in clouds of embarrassment to scour the manse with bleach, broom and boiling soapy water. She was more concerned about the Bishop than the Duchess, and feared for her job.
Soon the secret chamber was filling with the hardy folk of Collbrae, determined to bury a Duke and be the envy of the West Coast. Along with young Skiff there was Angus and Malky, two hardy creel fishermen, Dod the polisman, Mrs Mackinley the village postmistress, Big Annie, herself a one-woman telephone exchange, Jock and Jenny who ran the pub, and plenty more besides.
After toasting the plan to bury His Grandness the Duke of Downchester, every hand set about preparing Collbrae for its VIPs. But everything depended on Skiff charming a certain crabbit old woman from her hard shell.
Young Skiff, with hands behind his back and fingers crossed, began his part of the plan.
‘Mrs Baird, the ferryman has brought bad news from Millintroch. It’s your dear sister, she’s fallen with a sickness.’
‘My sister Phemie? Ill, ye say? She’s niver had a day’s sickness in her life, and how wid thon big useless ferryman ken?’
‘Oh, Mrs Baird, I heard him say she had been gathering in the sheep when the poor soul keeled over. Everybody from one end of the island to tither is thinking she might not make the morn. Please come now, just in case. Look, if ye want I’ll come with you, hold yer hand if ye want.’ Skiff held out a hand and softly touched her arm and waited. For ages she stared at him with those wee, sea-green eyes.
His stomach was turning somersaults, and for a moment he thought she didn’t believe him, when at last she lowered her gaze and said, ‘I’ll fetch my coat an’ lock the door. You can stay here, young Skiff. I’ve reached this age without help from men, I’m sure I can manage. Now, is thon ferryman sober?’
Yes he was, and thank God she didn’t need Skiff, because there were more important things needing done. Still, it was best he see her well and truly off the peninsula, so he escorted the wee green-fingered lady away, making doubly sure with the ferryman that he’d been paid enough. There was a sound reason for paying him, because before an oar went to water on the return journey, the bold lad would surely spend every penny in Millintroch pub, and he would need a day to sober up.
With her well and truly out of the way, the hardy villagers, working under makeshift lights, demolished Mrs Baird’s garden wall. Every plant and bush was replanted in and around granite and marble gravestones. On and on through the night they toiled, stopping now and then to sup from that handy, never-ending supply of home-brew.
A bright orange dawn saw them gathered to eye their hard work. Yes, it looked just like a quiet, tenderly cared-for resting-place, just the kind of graveyard to lay a Duke in. Would all go well? According to Mrs Macallister the Bishop would have no complaints, even the cat was gleaming. Yes, it might just work. What about Mrs Baird, however, when she arrived home to find His Grandness’ grave inches from her kitchen window? Well, by the time she was due back, the villagers hoped to relocate the Duke, rebuild her wall, and re-plant the flowers back in their own wee resting holes.
So after a quick spruce up, combs through hair, black garments put on, they lined up on the quayside and waited. Peter felt his pulse to see how much faster it was pumping. Wull wiped the sweat that was building up between his fingers and hoped the shovel wouldn’t slip, thanking the Almighty them grand undertakers in Glasgow had got the Duke ready for burial. Finally Padraig, well, if his throat dried up then it wasn’t for the want of lubricating.
Skiff stood out on the point, watching and waiting for the royal barge. Suddenly his signalling whistle sent them all rigid; the royal barge was sailing round by Dougal’s cave and would soon be upon them.
‘Well now, would ye tak a look at that,’ whispered somebody. Every eye was on the black-bedecked sailing vessel, long and narrow, with all manner of dignitaries lined upon its decks. The bishop stood alongside a tall veiled lady dressed in the finest fox-furred coat. She raised her head and nodded to the villagers, then lowered it again. The funeral boat gently docked. Peter’s pulse was visibly leaping beneath his collar, while Wull had a permanent wet streak down the side of his jacket. Padraig began clearing a nervous throat, as everybody uttered a silent prayer.
The hearse carriage led by four regal greys had arrived in the village an hour earlier and was waiting. Six large gentlemen carried the Duke’s oak coffin, adorned with brass handles and gold-threaded tassels, off the boat and onto the hearse. The sun slipped behind some clouds and the faintest smir of sea mist added to the heavy atmosphere funerals can bring with them.
It was only a few hundred yards to the graveyard gates, and soon all were in their places. Wull had done a grand job as usual—six feet deep, eight feet long and three wide. He thought of the times he’d dug that familiar trench, his ‘masterpiece’, with his lasting thought always, ‘ye’ll no git oot o’ that so easy.’
The women folk had done a fine job arranging Mrs Baird’s flowers. Yes, all was going to plan. The Duke’s coffin was lowered; a single rose was gently placed on it, then he was settled into his place for eternity. Padraig said the usual blessings under scrutiny of the bishop’s gaze.
All seemed to go well. Peter winked at Wull, he in turn winked at Padraig.
Then, just as the sun pushed aside the ribbons of greyish clouds, a crack began to appear around the shiny black shoes of the mourners. Two granite headstones headed in slow motion towards each other, then rested with their points together. There was another crack, and more headstones began to wobble as several faint-hearted guests took to their frightened heels like hounded hares. Then it happened: without any further warning the earth, including the plot containing the Duke’s coffin gave way. Now, the villagers knew exactly why this catastrophic event was happening, but to the Duchess, the Bishop and friends it was as if hell had invited them in. Down went the Bishop, up went his frock. Down went the fox-furred Duchess, followed by guest after screaming guest. You see, during all the previous night’s digging and preparations, no one had taken stock of what couried beneath the ground.
The Crypt lay directly beneath Mrs Baird’s garden wall. Only a few feet separated the Crypt and the garden. Every single guest, including His Grandness the Duke, was now collapsing on top of Padraig, Peter and Wull’s homemade still several feet below in the secret chamber. Broken fingers brought screams along with bruised bums and heads. Hats, gloves and feathers joined the handbags and hankies to float and bob in the last drops of the ‘Tinker’s Brew’. What a blooming disaster for the village of Collbrae!
Mrs Macallister had to be carried back to the manse and no one saw hide nor hair of her for a week.
I will now leave it up to you, reader, to imagine the fate of all concerned. Just in case you can’t, please allow me to tell you.
Peter had been village doctor far too long, so when a suitable more able-bodied younger man was found then the responsibility of the villagers’ health was handed over to him.
The bishop never found it in his heart (despite what the bible says) to forgive Padraig, so he was defrocked, sacked and kicked out. Mrs Macallister refused to clean for anyone else so went with him to his new house.
As for Wull, well, he put his shovels and spades into the capable hands of young Skiff Smith, who became the proud keeper of a brand new graveyard situated a half-mile down the road. Oh, and in case I forget, he did the undertaking as well. Because of the old graveyard being in such a dangerous s
tate, a group of architectural planners had came up from Glasgow and measured out a new one. Big Annie swore she had overheard a telephone conversation between the Bishop and one of the architects instructing him that a special plot had to be landscaped for the Duke.
Regarding Mrs Baird, the strange thing was her sister Phemie really had fallen sick, so rather than leave her to fend for herself she moved in.
Which takes me back to Padraig’s new house. It was Mrs Baird’s place he bought, since it had such a bonny garden. ‘Rubbish,’ said Malky and Angus, ‘it is the smell of the auld still wafting up his nostrils when a westerly blows, and not a row o’ rid roses.’
A last word on Mrs Baird. Folks said she never said a word about that day when an English Duke was buried in her garden. But the women of the village would have loved to be flies on Phemie’s wall, I bet.
So if, one fine day, it’s the village of Collbrae you find yourself in reader, then why not take a walk round to Dougal’s Point. To the cave to be precise. If you do, you might find a grand welcome. For in there are three mates puffing on their pipes and supping from a hidden still filled with a ‘tinker’s brew’.
I hope you enjoyed the farce of Collbrae, then, reader.
26
TRUE ROMANCE
Back to the road now, folks, and we drift into May with its extra hour of daytime, flowery trees and hearts searching for love. However with my ‘love-seeking’ never to be, I settled into a future already decided for me. When I give more thought to this subject it makes me wonder about arranged marriages. In many parts of the Asian world, brides and grooms are joined even before they are born. Now, here was I with no such luck, because I’d been chosen not to be joined to anyone. No fear then of me being mated to a gadgie with a guffy’s face—or, on the other hand, of hitching with an Adonis. Oh no, as I told you earlier, I would spend my life taking care of Mammy and Daddy in their old age. But I suppose when you consider what a great set of parents I had I should have been grateful.
We had pulled onto a deserted beach well up the coast. Nicky left us to visit his folks and with Portsoy out of the picture it was a quiet and serene place. Quiet serenity puts me into a thoughtful mood even to this day, and one morning after finishing my chores, my feet went walkabout for miles through slipping leathery seaweed and powdery sands. I had no recollection of tide or time as I succumbed to a perfect sunshine. Hollywood would have killed for such an atmosphere: it was heavenly, or, as we travellers say, ‘a truly barry day, chavie, just kushtie!’
To those who sought Cupid’s arrow it was a perfect day. I had no thoughts in that direction until I saw him...
He seemed almost Lowry-like upon the skyline, the young lad. And like the artist he too was a painter, sitting in front of an easel, sketching white fluffy clouds touching a green ocean. Not wanting to appear nosy, I walked slowly as if to go around him. His brush-tip was applied to the canvas so I stopped, not wanting to distract the lad. Obviously, though, with only the two of us sharing miles of deserted sands, he was aware of my gaze and turned. ‘Hiya,’ he smiled, and I wished I had had a canvas to paint such a perfectly handsome face.
‘Hiya,’ was all I managed. It was enough, he popped his brush into a jar half-filled with coloured water and asked me to join him. ‘Do you bide here?’ I asked.
‘Bide, what kind of word is that?’
I felt my face grow red and redder, until I’m sure it glowed. ‘Do you live in this area?’ Repeating the question would not, under different circumstances, have brought a feeling of discomfort, after all the word was Scots and not cant.
He stood up, pushed hands into baggy-pocketed trousers and stretched a strong-muscled neck toward the sun, ‘No, but I wish I did. My name is Rod, and I come from London with loads of cars and people and buildings. Do you “bide” here?’
We both laughed and suddenly a voice in my head said, ‘don’t tell him you’re a traveller.’ I responded to this feeling of shame and for the first time in my life I lied about my status. I could feel them, the old ancient ones, turning cold in my heart. Here was I, a proud travelling girl, denying my roots: how could I do such a thing?
Then I caught his gaze, melting blue eyes shaded from the sun’s glare by a tanned hand, and blatantly lied. ‘My name is Jilly, I’m from Edinburgh here on a few days’ break from University.’ (I had once heard someone say that all the rich and best-bred folks came from there, and called their girls, or their horses, Jilly. I was doing fine until he asked what I was studying and the year, and everything else a student at university would know.
‘Gosh almighty, why did I dig such a hole for myself?’ I thought, then ran off to pick up a mother-of-pearl shell glinting in the sunshine, while he went back to his easel. But like a magnet he drew me back to him, and doe-eyed and captivated I watched him silently paint. Whatever was happening to me had never happened before, even my stomach had little creatures bouncing about in it with tackity boots on. No words could explain why I felt this way, was it love at first sight, perhaps?
Rod painted, I watched, I talked, we laughed as hour followed hour. Lunchtime came and went, but what did I need with food? I had all the nourishment I wanted from my beach companion’s smile, and from thoughts of us walking off into the sunset to who cares where. As we wandered through the pages of Mills and Boon I even imagined giving myself to him completely. You know what I mean by that, reader, and I thought that vivid dream would soon be realised when we became better acquainted.
Firstly I’d come clean and tell him who I really was: ‘Jessie from the campsite over across the dunes, and not Jilly from the home of Arthur’s Seat’. But before I got the chance, I saw, coming toward us, a young woman. I wondered why she was smiling. I didn’t know her and surely my Heathcliff didn’t either. She was a right bonny lass, and when Rod saw her I was left standing while he ran and scooped her up in his arms. She held onto a floppy hat trimmed with a long chiffon scarf. A long, almost see-through dress, the same colour as her headscarf, hugged slender hips and trailed upon the sand. She was beautiful, and I was gutted, deflated, dowdy and scunnered tae the hilt.
‘Darling this is... sorry, what did you say your name was, again?’
Of all the bloody rotten Rods—he hadn’t been listening to a word I’d said!
Picking up the thin cardy I had left lying by a rock, I said, ‘Hiya, I’m Jessie.’
My stupid blind eyes filled to the rim with painful tears as I turned on my heel and waved goodbye. Another heart-sore lesson for me. When would I ever learn?
As I reached our campsite I noticed Daddy had been watching me running up the beach. He asked if I was all right. Not wanting him to see my tear-stained face, I nodded, then went into the caravan. Mammy, who’d been away hawking with my three sisters, smiled and asked me what I’d done with the day. When she heard about the artist, and me lying about my roots, she touched my face and said, ‘lassie, if I’d a penny for every wee white lie that slipped from my tongue, then we’d be living in Inveraray Castle by now.’ That was enough to abolish my fear of passing over at life’s end and meeting the wrath of the ancient ones. Still, there was a slight heaviness on me that night as we sat round our campfire, and it left me feeling a wee bit ashamed of myself. I cringed at the easiness in me towards a complete stranger. I may have gained a slightly bruised ego but what if I had allowed my heart to rule my head? What if I had given my most precious gift freely? It wasn’t the ancient ones who haunted my innermost thoughts that night, it was the fact that I had nearly done an unthinkable thing before marriage. Sleep only came after I had wrestled with the reality that my future didn’t include marriage anyway, so the only disappointment would have been mine.
Goodness gracious me, folks, nearly an X-rated one there!
This wee story I share with you now was one my father heard at a tender age. He said, ‘I was as high as my auld spaniel’s left lug, and never forgot the night after a snake bit me, mother told me this wee story.’ While he was playing in a heathery mo
or up and round by Ballachulish an angry old adder gave him a bite like no other. To quiet him, Granny told this wee tale.
27
ROSY’S BABY
Rosy was a city lass and didn’t know a single thing about the countryside. Her mother hated it. But Daddy lost his job as a shoemaker and was forced to move into the old dilapidated farm his uncle had left him. Into a month, and already Mother was nagging: she didn’t like the awful place, not one bit. Poor Daddy tried his best. He rebuilt the old dyke, fixed the cottage roof, bought some cows and sheep and even acquired a cat to chase away the mice that lived beneath the floorboards of their little house.
‘I hate this place,’ protested Mother, over and over again, ‘I need to go home.’
‘This is home, my dear, now please try and be happy,’ begged her husband.
‘Why can’t she try harder?’ he thought, as he went outside to see what his seven-years-old daughter was doing.
Rosy didn’t mind the new life, in fact she was settling in fine. When she saw her father she ran to him breathless and grabbed his hand, saying, ‘Look, Daddy, over there by the hole in the hedge—a huge rabbit, see it?’
‘That’s not a rabbit, my dear, that’s called a hare, and I must say I’m surprised it has come near, usually they stay upon the hillside. They’re afraid of humans, you see.’
Wondering what was taking her family’s attention the mother went over. The moment she saw the hare a piercing scream came from her, ‘That’s a hare! Don’t look into its eyes or it will entice you away, Rosy.’ Saying that, she grabbed the little girl’s arm and marched her into the house. Her husband followed, shaking his head in disbelief at the senseless reaction from his wife to a harmless animal. ‘What is wrong with you, woman? Do you have to be so awful just because of our predicament? You know if I could afford to we’d be living in the city. Oh, I’m off to fix the far side fence, don’t make my tea until I come back.’