by Jess Smith
The Jacobites and the Covenanters had been locked in combat for many a year, so the banner of the Stuarts found little support in the lowlands of Scotland. Still, it is a well-documented fact that there were still a great many in the west willing to die for Charles’s flag, and by the time he reached Glasgow his army numbered 9,000.
General Hawley with the English army had followed up Charles’s retreat until he arrived at Falkirk. Here both armies met on 23 January 1746, where the English suffered defeat.
This is where I bring bold Charlie to Crieff. It was on his arrival here that he quartered his troops upon the hardy folks of the town. He also had the southmost arch of the bridge over the river Earn destroyed, in order to impede the advance of the English army. There is no record as to the length of time he stayed in Crieff, but what is well known is that he was not a welcome visitor. As it happens the Crieffites had long since changed their beliefs to that of the Presbyterian faith. They regarded Jacobitism as a thing to be detested and opposed.
He had loyalty in Strathearn, though, especially among the landed gentry. He sat in the Auld Hoose o’ Gask where the old lady cut off a piece of his hair, an incident still sung about in folk circles today.
It is known that Charlie sent most of his men north by way of the Sma’ Glen and Highland roads, while he sat at a window in the Drummond Arms Hotel in James Square until he saw the first of the Duke of Cumberland’s men descending by the old Muthill road. He then ordered his horse and left to spend the night in Ferntower House. Its ruins still stand today on the edge of Crieff Golf Course.
The Duke did not follow the Pretender’s army through the wild treacherous roads they had taken, but preferred to take a safer route by Perth and the East coast to Aberdeen. He then turned towards Inverness, where both armies met on Culloden Moor. There Jacobitism was utterly destroyed.
Lord Perth of Drummond Castle was a true friend who risked and lost everything for Bonnie Prince Charlie. But neither he nor any of the other local landed gentry could now offer much support or assistance to the Pretender. Only two or three recruits went along with Lord Perth to stand by the banner of the Stewarts on Culloden. After the defeat, for his act of high treason, a great price was put on his life.
He tried however to muster as many of his estate workers as he could. One local story tells of twin brothers, aged only thirteen years, who disobeyed their parents and tried to follow Charlie. Fearing their lives would be lost in battle, their father and relatives tied them to a strong oak tree down by the Earn’s bank. It is where the river dips before reaching Powmill. Sadly, after a terrific thunderstorm, the river rose and burst its banks, drowning the boys.
The estates of Drummond fell into the hands of the Government, which appointed a local factor by the name of Campbell who owned some land in Argyllshire.
Instead of Lord Perth it was a Captain Drummond who belonged to a collateral branch of the family who was considered worthy of recognition by the Government because of his services to Britain during the American War of Independence, and so to him went the estate of Drummond and the Castle.
Captain Drummond had a male heir, but sadly he died in childhood of the croup. The story goes that the baby’s nursemaid, an elderly woman by the name of Mary Moir, who lived in King Street, took the infant up onto Turleum Hill to cure it. It was believed the top of Turleum had healing properties, and she sat all night with the child hoping to save his life.
Captain Drummond had another child, known as Miss Drummond of Perth. This young lady married Lord Willoughby de Eresby. Both lived in London, visiting the Castle once a year. Their name still holds the seat to this present day.
Now do you see what I mean by the course of history being changed?
If the people of Crieff had not embraced Presbyteranism but had clung to the hand of the old faith, then Charlie would have found many more thousands throughout Strathearn to take on the Duke’s army at Inverness.
So then reader, what do you think of this?
Crieff rejected a Royal Prince, yet accepted a wee Scottish nomadic lassie—me!
Just like the drovers who came to Crieff hundreds of years before, eager to make enough money to see them through the long, bitter Scottish winter ahead, so came the ‘tattie howkers’. Clans of Macallisters, Reids, Macphees, Macdonalds, Burns, Johnstones, Rileys, Stewarts, Donaldsons, MacKenzies, Williamsons, MacLarens, Shaws, Douglases, Patersons, Robertsons, Browns, Whytes and many more descended upon Crieff.
In this little town nestling at the mouth of the Highlands, the traditions of an age-old culture flourished. If during the summer one failed to pass roads with relatives then a certainty was that all would meet at the tatties. Field after field, mile after brown mile, farmers grew and grew potatoes until not an inch but had a shaw protruding from the earth. The potato may be a humble part of our diet, but here in Crieff it was the agricultural backbone that brought prosperity to the whole Strathearn valley. And it was to my folks, the lowly travellers, that a great deal of thanks is due, because they converged in their thousands to harvest the tatties and make landowners and farmers rich.
Ask the farmers and see if they agree with me, of course they do. It was many a furrowed brow they had if their usual tribe failed to appear on time.
So here I am then, reader, in Crieff at tattie time. We found a proper site with toilets and washie house, which pleased Mammy no end. Daddy was still painting, but back on the fags. My sister Babsy went to the very same school I went to the last time we lived here. Renie and Mary went to the tatties. Cousin Nicky joined us for the tatties along with Mammy’s brother, Mattie’s son of the same name.
The site, named Arnbro, was built near the ruins of a prisoner-of-war camp halfway along the Broich road; it is still there today, run by the same family.
My older sister Chrissie, who was married to a Crieff lad, lived on the site, and having them there with their two boys was sheer joy for my parents. Now and again Janey came to visit with her lot, and soon the family were happy and content.
When the tatties finished, Nicky and Mattie drifted off home, and Renie and Mary started working in local shops. I felt the need to head off some place for the winter, so saying my farewells to everybody I set off, with battered brown suitcase in hand.
I spent a week here and there with cousins, aunts and, latterly, sister Shirley, with the wanderlust still strong in my legs.
I hardly gave my folks a thought, when out of the blue came a letter from Chrissie that Mammy had fallen and hurt her back.
Her being ill had me heading back to Crieff. Poor soul, she’d fallen on the concrete step at the washie, and slipped discs in her back so severely she’d been hospitalised.
Before going down the road to Arnbro I had to pop into the Cottage Hospital to see her. When I asked how she was faring, she said, ‘stiff as a board—and see that old woman over there, if she doesn’t stop shouting at the poor nurses I’ll throttle her myself.’
Although her back was a hindrance, there was nothing wrong with her spirits, thank heavens.
Painful days lay ahead, but without doubt she felt much better seeing me, she knew as long as I was there Daddy would get his soup (only I made it like her), and I could keep a check on his smoking.
This after all was my purpose in life, to care for my parents. Funny, though, I didn’t think I’d be doing it this early.
Mammy received a bit of bad news from the doctor, who told her she’d be in hospital for six weeks. Being away from us for this length of time fair knocked her into a right mood. I’d intended to tell her that Daddy’s cough sounded more like a barking dog, as the fags were chained to his lungs, but thought she had enough to worry about. Instead I took it upon myself to make a doctor’s appointment for him. He shouted and protested, but when I said I’d tell Mammy about the coughing, he reluctantly went. This time the doctor let him have it. He left the surgery drained of all colour, came home and threw a twenty packet of fags into the fire.
‘Well, Da, what mad
e you do that?’ I asked.
‘Yon doctor wi’ the rid hair, Dr Lindsay, telt me tae stop spraying and smoking—if not, then my lungs will cease to work in the space of a few years!’ Poor Daddy, we all knew that farmers had no use for a mole-catcher or rabbit-trapper, and rags fetched a mere pittance. So what would he do, how could he provide for his family?
Everybody believed him to be missing Mammy, and yes he was, but only I knew why he was so down after that.
I tried my best to cheer him up by saying that Renie and Mary could share their wages and I’d get a job. ‘That might be all right, lassie,’ he told me, ‘but a man needs his money. What good is the head of a family without a shilling in his pocket?’
Six weeks went past, and Mammy was home. What a happy caravan we had, filled with her smell, that fresh ‘lily-of-the-valley’ toilet water she wore seemed to lift our spirits, it even cheered Daddy up. I thought the better of telling her of his doctor’s visit. After all, his cough had cleared up considerably, and the fag withdrawal symptoms had subsided.
One Saturday Mammy received a letter to say her sister-in-law was coming to visit. I remember the panic when she realised there wasn’t enough tea, sugar or biscuits. I told her not to get so flustered, I’d go and get some at Wooller’s shop in King Street. As I left the shop I accidentally put my toe in a box of vegetables and tripped, sending messages flying in all directions. When I leant down to retrieve them, a young lad gave me a hand. I was so embarrassed I hardly noticed what I’d dropped.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘a packet of sweetmeal biscuits for a sweet wee lassie.’
God, did my face burn or not? You bet, what a beamer. ‘Thanks,’ was all that came from a half-closed mouth, as I turned and ran off feeling like a right eejit.
Approaching Arnbro gates I heard a voice calling behind me and looked back, it was him holding up a bag. ‘You forgot the sugar, you must be far too sweet then.’
There was no need of me going red because I still was, my cheeks shining like toffee apples.
‘What’s yer name?’ He was holding out a hand, long fingers with a bluebird tattoo. I touched his hand and drew back, remembering my spinster’s role in life and said, ‘Jessie, what’s yours?’
‘I’m David to my mother, Spook to my mates, but you can call me Davey.’
‘I can understand the David and Davey, but Spook?’
‘Oh, I used to be a milkboy and when I used to get into school from my rounds with a pale face and my hair blown stiff with the wind, a certain teacher began calling me “Spook”, as in ghost.’
Then with two hands pushed into jean pockets he turned and sauntered up the road. ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he shouted back, then added, ‘that’s a promise.’
That night, as my relatives blethered about everyone and everything, I didn’t hear them. My mind was filled with the fair-haired lad who’d followed me home with a bag of sugar in his bluebird-tattooed hand. It would be several weeks before we met again, and not for one minute did he leave my thoughts.
Meanwhile, despite immense protesting, Daddy went back to the painting. He’d made up his mind to give Mammy a nice big residential caravan, one with a washing-machine and sink. I knew this meant our travelling days were well and truly over; somehow I had felt it back in Blairgowrie but prayed I was wrong. I also knew it might be the last job Daddy ever did. I prayed even harder on that one, folks.
Something else I’ll share with you now, reader: he decided it was time for a driving licence—mine! ‘You think I’m learning to drive in big Fordy, then think again, Daddy.’
I did! It was nightmarish trying to manoeuvre yon great brute of a motor along the narrow bends of Broich Road, Madderty, Auchterarder, Muthill and so on. I remember most of the way I was on the grass verge instead of the road. What a useless article behind a steering wheel, by the time I’d mastered staying on my side of the road I’d sent the frighteners into every tractor man for fifty miles radius. One sighting of the orange van and out of the tractors they jumped. Chrissie’s man, plus uncles, cousins and Daddy, took turns at tutoring me, but if ever there was a useless learner driver then I was it. There was nothing else for it but a proper instructor.
So, by my seventeenth birthday I was a learner driver, Mr Bertie Don did the business. What a difference having a qualified gent instruct me on the ways of the road. After twenty lessons I was facing my test. It was a cold wet Thursday morning, the Examiner’s name was Mr Lindsay. After what I thought was a perfect half-hour examination he turned to face me and said, ‘take this list of failures, and when you can drive come back and re-sit the test.’ Honest, reader, to this day I feel anger and shame swelling inside. I was certain my driving skills were red hot. So angry was I that the piece of paper he handed me was thrown into his face; on reflection, if he had wished, the man could have had me arrested for assault.
Daddy hardly said a word, instead he blamed poor Mr Don, stating that anyone worth a grain of salt could teach a body to drive. Then he changed his mind and said I couldn’t have been paying attention.
I immediately re-applied for my test, and employed the help of a certain George Gauld. Six lessons later, I was heading home with a pink slip in my hand, giving me permission to take up my place on Her Majesty’s Highways.
‘Thank God,’ said Daddy, ‘at last I’ve got a driver.’ The great thing was that Daddy had sold his Jag (I couldn’t see me getting to cruise in yon status symbol) and purchased a Ford Zodiac, six cylinder, which went like a rocket! I refused to drive anywhere in big Fordy, so was allowed the privilege of hitting the road in Flashy Fordy. It was a Lovat-green-coloured, sleek, handsome, powerful car, just the tool for a travelling girl.
However, before I was given the freedom of this car I had to prove my road skills. So, if I wasn’t going in to Edinburgh for paint, I was taking him and Mammy to Perth where they’d found a form of entertainment they liked—wrestling! They wouldn’t miss it. One of the wrestlers was named Mick McManus, and because Mammy’s Granny went under the same name she was convinced he was a relative of sorts. Mick was hardly a nice wrestler, in fact it seems he was always the baddy, yet my mother, thinking him a distant kin, would shout for him to win. Daddy said she was the only fan the ‘bad man’ of the ring had. He, in all seriousness, warned her not to be telling folks she was a relation of yon ape-acting wild man. Why? Because ‘he wisnae awfy bonny’!
Driving was a form of freedom for me and sometimes I’d sit behind the wheel, foot to the boards, cruising like Stirling Moss along the old A9. One day Daddy asked me where I’d been. I asked him why he wanted to know. ‘Because there is one hundred and fifty miles on the clock!’
What did my father do then, folks? Well, he had the wheels made so that they wobbled—when my speed reached fifty the car shuddered; to stop it happening I was forced to lower my speed. One thing he didn’t know, however, was the other way to stop the shudders—that was to hit sixty and keep up the speed! I was just a wee devil, me with a vehicle.
In the meantime I got a job outside Comrie in a mink farm. This was for me a totally new experience, as I hated the idea of caged animals, but the vet who treated them convinced me that, as they were born in captivity, the small furry creatures knew no difference. I never took any part in the kill, but I am ashamed to say I skinned and boarded the pelts. However, now that I’m older and wiser, you’d be hard pressed to see me take any part in animal farming. Then I was just a teenager and knew my wage-packet far outsized anybody else’s of my age. My workmates were two Aberdonian lads plus Davie the feedman, from Comrie, and a family of Irish folk called Comer. Mary was my favourite; she was as rough and ready as any man, with a heart as big. To this day she and I share a crack and a laugh. Once, when working overtime at the pelting, I collected the family in the works van, a wee green Mini. There had been an almighty snowstorm, leaving great drifts on either side of the A85.
Between Comrie and St Fillans I came upon a bend in the road, took it far too fast and span round. Well, as i
t happens my Irish workmates had been celebrating the night before, and just happened to be the worst for it when the door swung open, spewing each of them onto the road. God, what a fright. I thought they were all killed, but thankfully up they jumped, and soon were walking into the farm none the worse.
Next day I almost drove over old Sandy ‘the cock o’ the north’ Stewart. This bold fella was one of Perthshire’s road tramps, and although I seldom spoke to him he’ll always stay in my memory because he wore two Black Watch coats, a Glengarry tammy and a crooked stick. He was a fine lad who’d never miss the Highland Games, wherever they were held.
Mammy got her state-of-the-art modern residential caravan and was over the moon.
Remember Davey? Well, one night some Muthill girls I’d befriended took me to the dancing in Auchterarder. As we queued to pay at the door I saw someone, a young lad, lying out for the count along a corridor. If it wasn’t for the tattoo, there’s no way I’d have looked twice at someone the worse for alcohol. When I stooped to see if it really was him, he opened his eyes and said, ‘promised I’d see you again.’
‘What a waste of space,’ I thought, when joining my friends. ‘If that drunkard comes within a mile of me he’ll feel my hand across his face.’ Well, he did, and when I discovered it was his birthday I understood. Stupid me! However, walking home that night I told him my parents didn’t want me seeing boys. He asked if we could be friends, and not seeing the harm in that I agreed. So from then on Davey was a permanent feature in my life, although Daddy refused to speak to him. I think Mammy had told him I could easy take care of her, whether married or not. But nothing doing, my father was adamant—no man in my future.