Tales from the Tent

by Jess Smith

  Rosy didn’t hear her parents arguing, because lately that was all they did. No, she was staring out the window watching the big brown hare. As young as she was, she recognised there was something wrong with the animal. ‘Mum, I think the bunny is hurt, look.’ But she didn’t look: instead she pulled her child away from the window and closed the curtains. Then, with Rosy sulking in her room and her husband gone out, she recalled her old Granny’s stories of witches, crows, fairies and magic brown hares. ‘They possess a mystical power, and if parents are not careful they will lose their babies to the magical hare who will take them away for the Devil.’ Yes, it may have been a long time ago, but she never forgot the terrifying tales. So often as a child she would wake in sodden bedclothes, because of those fearsome visions stirring in her little head.

  However, while deep in her own troubled thoughts, she failed to notice that her daughter had sneaked from the house. Imagine the panic spreading in her when she discovered she was gone. ‘Rosy, Rosy, come here this minute!’ she called, running from the house. She ran from one end of the garden to the other, but not a single sign of her precious child could she see. She called out to her husband, but he too was nowhere to be seen. Tears filled her eyes, as the heart in her chest beat faster than it had ever done. ‘My baby has been stolen by the dark forces. I knew it was a mistake to come here, I hate this place.’

  Drying her eyes, she noticed a tiny hole in the hedge. ‘My baby, I must find my baby!’ She swiftly dropped onto her knees and pushed her body through the tiny opening. She searched everywhere—behind trees, in bushes, under boulders; she even, in desperation, rammed her arms inside rabbit-burrows. Poor soul, the more she called and searched, the louder her heart beat, bringing all her Granny said about the dark world closer. Then, as she glanced far off toward the horizon a tiny spark of hope appeared: Rosy’s navy blue dress, she saw it disappear under a gorse bush. Quickly she got to the place and was on her knees staring into the thick undergrowth. There was her little girl, and at her side, breathing heavily, was the hare! ‘Rosy, my love, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  ‘Mummy, please help my friend. She is bleeding, I think she might die.’

  The young mother froze. Her Granny told her that hares sometimes pretended to be hurt just to gain the trust of their prey. ‘Don’t go near that creature, come home this instant!’

  She pulled at Rosy’s sleeve, but her child refused to abandon the injured animal and broke free, diving further into the bushes. Then the child saw why the hare needed her help. ‘Look, Mummy, come in here and see.’

  She leaned down and there, tangled up in ferocious barbed wire, lay the whimpering body of a baby hare!

  ‘Stay with it, dear, I’ll go home and get Daddy’s cutters.’ She felt an absolute fool for putting herself into a state of blind panic over a childhood story. When she returned she hardly noticed the mother hare had gone. Soon the tiny bundle was suckling hungrily on spoonfuls of warmed milk and within two weeks it was back outside munching on moist grass.

  After that the couple put all worries behind them and felt as if they had always lived in the countryside. Little Rosy was born for the wild open spaces and grew strong and healthy. And according to my Daddy she spent many happy days playing up on the high hills surrounded by big brown hares with cleft top lips and long pointed ears.

  I left my baby lying there, a-lying there, a-lying there,

  I left my baby lying there, and someone stole my baby-o.

  Talking about babies made me think on my father’s words back at the berries, when he disclosed I would never have any, and although I’d put this out of my mind at the time I won’t say it didn’t come into my head now and again. Especially when those blasted hormones took the contents of my brain and scrambled them up like fluffy eggs. I just had to speak to Mammy and see if they were both in agreement about the road my future was to travel. Later that night, as we took our last private stroll of the day, I asked her. This was our conversation.

  ‘Mammy dear, Daddy told me never to go with men.’

  ‘Why, in heaven’s name, should he say such a thing?’

  ‘He said I’m the one to look out for the baith of ye when you’re too old to see to yourselves.’

  ‘I’m sure we can do that ourselves, pet.’

  ‘But what if the brain goes or the legs, or, oh, I don’t know, Mammy, but he said that it was final. Although I cannae see a problem, because it would make life easier for me. I couldn’t be bothered by arguing with men and cooking for a dozen weans and a’ that kind o’ stuff, but I would like the choice.’

  ‘You don’t know what the good Lord has planned for you, Jessie.’

  ‘But Daddy said, and I have to obey him.’

  ‘Listen to me, pet, and keep stushie on this, because it’s between me and you, right?’

  ‘O.K., Mammy.’

  ‘Now, how do you think Daddy’s lungs are coping with all the spray-painting, given as the bugger never wears a mask? You know as well as anybody how the coughing fits come on him during the winter, and the doctor sees mair of him than us. Daddy will not last, Jessie, he knows that. It’s me he’s thinking of.’

  ‘Why, mother, you’re fitter than a young wife wi’ a back loaded wi’ the siller herrin’.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to leave me on my own, Jessie. When he told you that about being the “carer”, he really meant being my companion after he’s gone, now that’s the truth.’

  ‘Oh God, Mammy, surely there’s a lot o’ spunk in the old divil yet!’

  ‘Maybe aye, and maybe no, but one thing I’m certain of, my bonny wee lassie, is, if a laddie takes yer fancy and he’s made o’ the right stuff, then go for him. I’ll see to myself.’

  ‘Listen to me, now, Mother dear, because I make this solemn promise; whether I marry or not, even if I have a dozen weans, I’ll be there with your last breath.’

  It was as if a mountain had been lifted off my young shoulders. Honest, reader, if you’re young like I was and have problems, and if you have a mother, then share them with her. What a great tonic.

  28

  A WARM NIGHT

  That day while we slowly ventured along the narrow coastal roads of Sutherland I remembered a time far back in my past when we lived in our bus. None of the older girls had married, so we were a happy crowd of travellers without a care. Or so I thought. I know some people believe that each of us has a guardian angel, while others believe we are contacted in other ways. I am certain my guardian came to me one night while I slept and gave me a dream. See what you think.

  Being Scottish travellers in the fifties could be hard going. For a start, unless you were wanted by local farmers to spend back-breaking days in their fields working the land, there weren’t many places to pull on to. Landowners got a mite stroppy as well, and on many a night we were forced from our beds to pack up and move on. But that was before the Bus. Once Daddy purchased our state-of-the-art mobile home we were on the luxury level, as travellers go that is. He’d been gifted with two good hands, had our Dad, and could master everything from electrics to joinery, although his expertise fell short of plumbing. Well, there was not much room for a lavatory, especially one to accommodate eight females, four older than I and three younger.

  Toilet was a walk of privacy to where no eyes could pry. We dug the ground and then covered it over, so nothing was left above to soil or spoil Mother Nature’s painting.

  So there we were, then, on the road, in our completely renovated bus with beds, carpet, cupboards and the heart of every home—Wee Reekie, the stove. A rounded three-legged glowing fire, for cooking in summer and heating in winter. Reekie was bolted to the floor, positioned behind the driving seat and partitioned off by sheets of asbestos. Of course no one knew the dangers to one’s health from this material at the time, and it is thanks be to God we were none the worse. Mammy cooked everything on that wee stove, which resembled Queen Victoria when she was old and fat.

  The day was into its glo
aming when Daddy called back to us that a wood-end was nearby. ‘We’ll stop here,’ he said, as the end of the giant fir forest came in sight. Branches of thick spruce grabbed the last of the sun’s rays, scattering them in every direction. The last sliver of sunshine fell upon the moss-carpeted forest floor while we rushed about gathering as many thick sticks as our arms could encircle before the dreaded midges began to bite. Soon our fire had a heart of spewing blue smoke and orange flames. Mammy took no time in finding a burn and filled the kettle from its wimpling stream of peat-water. Within a short while we were eating ham pieces washed down with milky tea, finished with a chunk of her ‘clootie dumpling’. The older girls went off to do what one does in the privacy of trees. Meanwhile my young sisters and I hastily washed off the day’s grime in the meandering burn. Mammy tucked us into bed, said a short prayer and warned us that there was no wind, so we should keep the windows shut or else midges would render sleep impossible. That night, though, it wasn’t the dreaded midge which surrounded our vulnerable abode but something far more sinister. Something so frightening, that even to this very day hair I never knew I had rises on the nape of my neck.

  My older sisters went to bed sickened by the constant nipping of Scotland’s cursed mosquito and Mammy followed. Then, after making the fire safe, Daddy pulled the bus door shut and he too called it a day.

  The night was clammy. Our bodies became sticky as if we were coated in glue. Uncomfortable and unable to sleep, I pushed back the quilt, making sure not to wake my little siblings, and tiptoed down to the front of the bus, staring out at a pitch dark wall of trees.

  As I stared into the forest my eyes soon became accustomed to the depth of night, and bit by bit things began emerging from its midst. Moonbeams pushed through the high trees. A small roe deer sniffed the air, then dashed off, followed by its sleek shadow. On a hanging branch a hoolit (owl) stretched her wings, then glided up into the sky, only to dive at some poor unsuspecting crawly and end its tiny life. Like the ever-turning light of a solitary lighthouse my head went from window to window, taking in all that the night had to offer. It was through the little window above my parents’ bed that something caught my eye. A movement at the dying embers of our fire had me hold my breath. I very gently stretched my body over to peer out. Whatever was out there wasn’t going away. I stared and could just make out the outline of a man who was stirring up the ashes with a stick. He piled fresh wood into the flames, allowing me to see his thickset body and unwashed bearded face.

  Now, it wasn’t unusual to see the odd tramp wander round our fire in the night and take comfort from what was left of its welcome heat, so I didn’t wake anyone. Instead I curled my knees up under my chin and watched him from my perch. No doubt, I thought, after warming himself he would blend into the night and be gone, but soon it became clear he had other things in mind. From a bag he pulled out a length of rope, rose to his feet and made over towards the bus. Very swiftly he slipped the rope between the split door of the bus and tied it into knots. Instantly he went back to the fire and lifted a flaming stick, then before I could open my mouth to warn my parents, he shrieked, ‘burn, bastard gypsies, fry in your filth!’ Suddenly flames darted up the side of the bus, and with demonic ferocity engulfed a curtain tail that had found its way from a small cracked window. I screamed at the top of my voice, ‘Mammy, Daddy, girls, wake up! We’re on fire!’ while pulling at the tied door with all my might. ‘Help, help me, there’s a shan gadgie trying tae pagger us, he’s fired us, wake up, come on!’

  The fire was terrible and spreading with a madness I’d never witnessed in all my nine years. But more awful than the unfolding evil was that no one was stirring, it was like they were all dead. I pulled and punched at all of them, yet still they slept. I leapt upon my parent’s bed and threw punch after punch onto their heads, but there was no response.

  With relentless fury the flames, now totally engulfing the bus, hissed and spat sparks onto the curtains, then ran along the roof, down and under the exposed flesh of my sisters. I watched them fry. Then the flames, as if with a mind of their own, gathered in a giant ball and rolled over me. I screamed and writhed on the floor. And it was within this nightmare that my mother shook me awake. ‘You’ve been dreaming, pet, the thump your body made as you fell out of bed wakened me, are you alright?’

  ‘Oh, thank God for that, Mammy, the bus was on fire, it was a living terror. Yes, I’m fine, I think.’ I held her close and sobbed, feeling my skin to see there were no burns.

  ‘There now, go back to sleep, lassie. It’s as quiet as the grave this night, nothing but a moth stirs in the place.’

  What a relief I felt, but oh, how lifelike it was, that bearded face and fiery red eyes.

  Next day we’d packed early, and before eight were once again trundling along another winding country road. Just before midday, as yet another bend approached, Daddy slowed down to overtake an old man standing on the byway. I glanced down at him as we passed by. I was about to give a friendly wave as I always did when passing a road tramp when my hand fell like a dyke stone. Staring up into my eyes was the arsonist of the Devil, who had crept within the deep recesses of my mind the previous night and torched my whole family! The dirty, bearded face and fire-red eyes seemed to recognise me. I changed places with one of my sisters to look out another window.

  I shook uncontrollably, calling on Daddy to find an open campsite, anywhere but a wood-end. Thankfully we met up with other travellers and were able to stay several days on a deserted beach, back-dropped by the mighty Ben Hope in the county of Sutherland.

  On the last day as we packed to move on, a Highland policeman came cycling along. He stopped and propped his bike against a tree, removed his hat and sat down on a boulder. My mother noticed his face was pale and he’d the look of sickness. ‘Would you like us to make a cup of tea for you, lad?’ she asked him.

  He shook his head, rose and came over to where Daddy was watering the bus engine.

  ‘Do you know of a family of travellers who were hereabouts, a week or two ago?’ he enquired.

  Daddy asked what their names were. The policeman mentioned a name we did not recognise. My father talked a while with the man before he set off again on his rickety bike. I forgot about him until I heard my father tell Mammy that a family of travellers who had camped back in the forest had been burned to death in their tent!

  ‘Poor souls,’ she said. My mother’s next words froze my spine. ‘Some folks can be right reckless with fires.’

  The unexplainable, perhaps, reader?

  29

  SUPERNATURAL APPARITIONS

  While we’re recalling the days on the bus I remember another night visitor, whom I called the ‘Tall Man’. I saw him one night—well, not all of him, only the back of his head. It had been one of those darker than normal nights when it takes a wee while for eyes to adjust to the pitch black. I awakened, sat up and saw it, the head, propped on the seat at the front of the bus. ‘Is that you Daddy?’ I enquired, thinking he’d risen, unable to sleep.

  ‘No,’ said the head, ‘it’s me, now go back to sleep, Jessie.’

  I froze solid with fear as I sat there in almost total darkness, before finding enough courage to cry for my parents. Mammy rose and went down to the front seat, only to find no one there. Our door and windows were locked tight. Next day, news came that Granny Riley had passed away. This brought with it all the pain and grief of losing a loved one, and I put the night visitor out of my mind, thinking him a dream anyway. However, months later, he appeared again. Same scenario as before, but this time I noticed his shoulders. My family, plus Tiny, were jolted from their beds at my screaming, and as before he just vanished.

  Mammy was sure I’d been eating cheese too near bedtime, and hoping she was right I left that food in the cupboard the next night. However, when the news came that a close relative had passed on, the apparition left a cold shiver lingering in my mind.

  Months went by before I awakened in the dead of night again, and
there he was, as before sitting eerily silent and still. I forced out the words, ‘who are you?’, then waited. But nothing came from my visitor. Without a word I slid under my blanket and curled into a ball between Mary and Renie. I lay there, not moving, until I heard a cock crow.

  Yes, as before, another of our kin soon went into the soil.

  I have no explanation why this visitor thought our bus a place to be days before a relative died, and to this day nobody has given me one. Was he a long-gone relation, or just the product of a child’s imagination?

  I know for certain, however, I did not imagine his last visit. He’d left my nights alone for almost three years and I’d forgotten him. Then, on the eve of my Granny Power’s leaving us, he came back. This time he rose from the seat, stood up and walked up the aisle and out through the rear end of our bus. A figure so tall his head almost touched the roof. In the dark I could not see his face, but something told me he meant no harm. From that night to this I have never seen him again.

  I want to share some of our superstitions with you now, friend, for we are steeped in them, we travelling folk.

  We have a massive fear of certain objects that bring bad luck and search constantly for signs of good luck. Take, for instance, when men are getting prepared for a day’s work. Now, if they happen to see a crow on the ground to their left, then no work is done that day. It’s considered bad luck. If, on the other hand, the bird pecks to the right, then the men will go to work, but not until after midday.