Tears for a Tinker

by Jess Smith

  Now, as it happens, never before had anyone seen such a spectacular contest. No human had witnessed the pair, but a water kelpie, that supernatural creature of myth and legend, had seen it all from the other side of the black water. Without a moment lost, he swam down into the fathomless depths. Down and down he sank, entering a world where nightmares and ghoulish creatures live.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he shouted, awakening the horny Devil from a grand slumber, ‘did ye no see Peggy Moore and the wild cat fechting?’

  ‘Na,’ answered the Hairy Man, angry at the intrusion. ‘Now, water horse, it had better be good, this tale ye’re about tae tell me, for I’ve a splinter in atween yin o’ ma cloven hooves, and the black mood’s on me.’

  ‘You turn back yer clock, sir, an’ then tell me if ah’ve wasted yer time.’

  Auld Nick cleaned a fish bone out of his jaggy teeth with the point of his forked tail, sat down and pointed a finger upwards. Suddenly Peggy Moore and the cat appeared—scratching, rolling, screaming, and neither giving way for a moment.

  The Devil laughed and slapped his goat-like thigh. ‘Ye’re richt enough Kelpie, yon’s too guid a wrestling tae let finish, I’ll gi’e the twa o’ them immortality.’

  So there you have it, folks. I bet there’s many a time you’ve been sauntering about the shore of Loch Ness when the gloaming has come down. I can hear you say to whoever is in your company, ‘Did ye see the shape o’ thon thing in the water?’ And in turn your friend will say, ‘No, I didn’t, what was it?’ You’ll scan the water and swear blind something moved along, a great bulk of a thing. But the water calms, and if there was a creature, then it’s gone. You, being certain there was something, hope that somebody else saw it.

  Next day as you open your morning newspaper there’s a story catches your eye which reads: ‘Last night two American tourists saw the “Loch Ness Monster”. There were several humps in the water [Peggy’s four bellies]. It had a thick neck and small head [her forearm thrusting upwards and fist thumping into the back of her opponent]. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone.’ It was just her and her pussy cat fighting their way from the bottom to the top of the loch and down again—readers, that’s all it was.

  ‘But,’ I hear you say, ‘what of her kin, that poor sad pair who worked day and night. What was their explanation for Peggy’s disappearance?’

  Some said that when they saw the trail of blood going from tent to loch, they could only assume she’d been eaten by the wild cat. But with her demise they made a smaller tent, ate more food and did less work. And became a happy, contented pair, no doubt.

  6

  MACDUFF

  Time to leave Crieff now and head to Macduff, courtesy of my half-cousin John and his wee Morris van. When I think back on how we all got inside that tiny vehicle I burst into a sweat.

  Mammy had earlier promised she’d pick up cheap bits of furnishings to make the fisherman’s low-roofed cottage habitable for us. That was just as well, because at that stage all our worldly goods consisted of two bonny bairns, some kitchen utensils, one pair of green cotton bed-sheets, towels, four woollen blankets, a duvet and our clothes. Mine were of no use on account of my extra weight. I’d put on two extra stone since taking possession of that blasted Be-Ro book. Still, nothing could spoil that day. I remember so well how I felt as we drove off, with Crieff getting smaller by the mile.

  The boys and I had to make do in the back of the wee van, getting as comfortable as we could. Davie sat in the only seat next to John. Stephen was rolled inside some bath towels that Margaret had sent down the previous night. Johnnie, full of energy, bounced over everything, excited to be in a Morris van—to him it was a toy to be played with.

  Earlier, an hour before we left, while giving a final dusting to our Crieff house, I said to Davie who was feeding Stephen his bottle, that I was concerned our bairn might not settle on the journey. I didn’t think to ask Davie what he meant by, ‘Och, this wee fella will sleep all the way there.’ Because that he did!

  When we arrived at Macduff, Mammy was there to greet us with lots of tattie soup, tea and scones. It was after we ate I asked Davie how he had been so sure about Stephen’s long slumber. ‘Oh, I slipped a teaspoon o’ whiskey intae his bottle.’ Now let me say right here and now, if I’d so much as had a whiff of the stuff on my baby’s lips I’d have swung for his father. But, and this isn’t any excuse, not a difference did it appear to make to our wee bouncing laddie, as he smiled broadly at everybody who tickled his chubby chin. Mind you, when I think on the swaying he did in his pram, I’m certain my eight-months-old was drunk.

  Macduff was filled with a fresh sea breeze that blew gently through my new home to greet us each morning. Johnnie played safely at the front door, where the traffic was almost non-existent. Baby Stephen soon threw away his bottle, refusing to suck on it any more and craving solids instead. At nine months he was eating the same as us, scrambled eggs and milky tatties being his favourite.

  Life began to settle into a regular pattern, one that suited me fine. Mammy and I would take the boys on a daily walk across the bridge to Banff for messages, although fresh fish and vegetables were delivered to our door by friendly Macduff van men.

  Davie helped Daddy at the painting and was well paid. We managed to afford a three-piece-suite and new kitchen table and chairs. Davie put his skills as a joiner to good use by building a fitted kitchen, with permission of the house owner, of course.

  Neighbours were friendly, not at all the gossiping or in your house kind, just there if you needed them. One old dear was Sarah. Let me tell you about her.

  ‘Hello fine quine, fit like?’ This was the Macduff way of saying, ‘how are you this fine day?’ I turned around to see a very old lady smiling at me as I washed my small windows. We chatted on the pavement, before the want o’ a cuppy had me invite her in. She politely refused this invitation, saying when we got to know each other better then she’d take up my offer. Next day, as Davie was waving goodbye, Sarah appeared minutes behind him. It was seven o’clock in the morning, a very busy time of day for a young mum, but when she smiled and held out a hot steaming loaf of crusty bread, how could I refuse. When inside she found the best seat and sat down. ‘Ah’ll play wi’ the bairns, while ye mak a fresh pot o’ tea, Jessie.’

  When I brought the buttered bread and cups of tea in, she’d washed and dressed both my boys. Who, may I add, loved her to bits. On a daily basis she’d pop along from her house to mine, which was a mere hundred yards away, never empty-handed. If it wasn’t a pound of mince she had brought, then it was bread or cakes, and always sweeties. Thus began a wonderful friendship between an old woman of ninety-four-years old, and a young mum of twenty-one.

  Davie and I seldom went out together, and this was sometimes noticed by Sarah who soon became a fixture in our busy house. In fact amongst our family noise she’d snooze happily. I got to the point many times of leaving her asleep and going off with the boys for a walk. One day she came in and said, ‘There’s a dance in Banffy this weekend—why don’t you baith gang?’ We told her my folks were away visiting family in Perthshire, and even though it would be nice to get out of the house for a time, there was nobody to baby-sit.

  ‘Fit’s wrang wi’ me? I’ll watch the bairnies.’

  Sarah was a dear old soul, but there was no way she could cope with two bairns. After all, she’d never had any of her own, and at her age—oh no, we couldn’t possibly burden her, the responsibilities were far too great for her to manage.

  Sarah didn’t see herself as old, and insisted, reminding us, as she constantly did, ‘me and ma Wull, afore he deed, wid walk ten miles a day, an’ he’s only four year deed.’ In other words this elderly lady was covering quite a distance at ninety!

  So we gave way, and, on the night of the dance, as I put the finishing touches to my hair, Sarah’s parting words were, ‘dinna drink spirits, for the demons will fill yer heed.’ Sarah hated alcohol, and would lecture us about how many a good man ‘fell tae t
he demon o’ the bottle’. I promised not to drink, but she’d wait on hell freezing over before Davie would make the same promise. A night out meant, to him, a guid dram.

  The dance, which was run by the local fishermen, was great fun as I twirled and skirled the night away. We met lots of young couples who had kids of our age. As we walked home we left the bridge spanning the river Deveron, and with shoes in hand played upon a moonlit shore. Exhausted in a nice way, we slowly wandered home through the deserted streets of Macduff. All was silent at our wee house. There was never the need for locked doors then, so we very gently turned the handle and let ourselves in. I expected to see our old babysitter plopped on her favourite chair with the boys snoring from their bedroom, but boy oh boy, was I in for a shock! Johnnie was vrooming a toy lorry along the floor. Stephen was sound asleep in a basin, face covered with dried chocolate. And Sarah, the bold lass, sat on the floor with her back against a chair. Her legs were apart, and plonked between them was an empty bottle of Davie’s OVD Rum, a present from his father to celebrate the New Year when it came. An old photograph of Wull lay inside Johnnie’s toy lorry along with an empty glass, and the headscarf forever tied tightly under her chin was covering her face. She was totally unconscious, and no wonder, because the empty bottle had previously been full!

  Davie put her into our bed and we made do with the settee. Stephen, who awoke screaming from his basin bed, probably with a stiff neck, curled up beside us. Next day, try as we might, there was no way we could raise her off that bed, so we left her there. She surfaced again only when it turned dark. Sarah never mentioned that night ever after; nor did she offer to baby-sit again.

  The only ‘blind blink’ on our horizon was my weight gain. Within six months of moving to Macduff I’d piled it on. I was eight stone before the kids came, now I was fourteen and a half! What a fatty—and try as I might, not an ounce could I shift. This mystified me, because if anything I was exercising more and eating less. A visit to the doctor in Banff didn’t help. He put it down to the extra pounds that pile on during pregnancy, and a slight imbalance in the body’s make-up of cells etc. I must say, though, Doctor Mackenzie was a right braw lad. His mate was none other than Jimmy Mitchell, our Crieff doctor. They were both students at Aberdeen together and each hailed from the north. This medicine man from Banff will always stay dear in my heart, and this is the reason why.

  Perhaps that cup of tea would come in handy now. If you are a parent, then you too may have had a similar experience to the one we’re about to share.

  It was around October’s end, in fact Halloween time, when the usual thick sea haar turned everyone into blind folk. People called out to each other, groping along the street, searching for familiar voices. Davie and Daddy came home early, they couldn’t do any painting because it was far too dangerous climbing ladders. Mammy brought me some milk and bread. I couldn’t push a pram outside in case I knocked some elderly body over onto the road.

  Stephen was sitting playing with a rubber toy when Johnnie began to complain of a stomach-ache. Nothing unusual in a toddler, but within four hours he was fevered and crying painfully. Mammy came round, saying he should be cooled. This I did, bathing him with tepid water, but one minute he shivered, next he was boiling to the touch. His eyes began to glaze over, and it soon became apparent our bairn was quite ill. Davie went over in Daddy’s van to fetch Dr Mackenzie. Within half an hour he’d arrived home, doctor at his back. No sooner had he stepped inside, when Johnnie began vomiting brown and green slime. The poor wee mite also took diarrhoea, which was the same colour as his vomit. Dr Mackenzie examined him and said, ‘this wee chap has gastro-enteritis, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What is that, Doctor? Can you give him something for the pain?’

  ‘Firstly, it is when a stubborn bug finds its way into a bairn’s digestive system, and it depends on the child’s stamina how fast it gets out. Usually lots of fluids and tender care shifts it. As for pain, no, I can’t give him anything. But now that’s he’s been sick he should pick up. I’ll come back later on tonight to see how he is.’

  I felt much better with my wee boy in his care, and after the door closed behind him, Johnnie said weakly, ‘can I watch Thunderbirds?’

  ‘Thank God,’ I thought, ‘that means he’s feeling better.’

  Davie switched on the black and white telly and sat Johnnie up against some cushions, but no sooner had he propped him up when our son began to vomit violently. Suddenly he stretched his spine, jerking his arms and legs. He was convulsing and I was shaking with fear.

  ‘I’m away to fetch the Doctor.’ Davie ran out the door and met the Doctor coming back. He’d not liked the look of Johnnie, and had gone back to his surgery to fetch his colleague for a second opinion.

  All of a sudden my house was filled with ambulance men. Mammy, Daddy, Renie and Babsy all appeared. Wee Stephen, being a baby, sat stunned by the commotion, and only when Mammy took him away did he cry for me.

  Bairns guising the doors were singing and shouting, ‘pennies for the guisers!’ I distractedly apologised and told them to come back later.

  ‘Johnnie is seriously ill,’ Doctor Mackenzie whispered to me. ‘I want him to go to Aberdeen Sick Children’s Hospital. This will be a long night. Now you go with your wee lad in the ambulance. Keep talking to him.’

  Daddy told Davie to follow in the van.

  All the way there I clung to our child as he lay limp and pale in my arms.

  The driver, aware of the poor visibility throughout the fifty-mile trip, put himself at terrible risk by speeding as best he could through that nightmarish sea haar. ‘Slow down,’ his mate whispered, hoping we wouldn’t hear, as the ambulance screeched on bends. ‘That wee laddie micht nae make it if ah dae,’ was his answer. This made my fear all the more terrible.

  Our arrival at the hospital saw a host of professionals tear into action, as our bairn became their property and not ours. Davie, following on our heels, was at my side in minutes. The waiting-room, with its yellow-painted walls, felt cold and uncaring. If it hadn’t been for a certain nursing sister, I would have cried myself into a hysterical state. She came to tell us where Johnnie was and took us to him. What a fright we got, seeing him lie limp and thin with tubes coming out of his tiny wrists and ankles. ‘Don’t be alarmed by them,’ she reassured us, ‘that’s food and water he’s getting. Now come in here with me.’

  We followed her into a warm room next to Johnnie’s ward, and no sooner had we sat down when a young red-headed nurse brought us mugs of tea and plates of toast. ‘If this isnae enough I’ll dae ye twa eggs.’ We had no stomach for food, but thanked her just the same.

  Desperate in our ignorance, we pleaded with the sister to tell us about our son’s state. ‘I’ll tell you truthfully, kids, that wee laddie will fight this night for his tiny life. It will be touch and go, but if by the morning he’s still with us then he’ll live to tell the tale.’

  These days, if a health employee said that to worried parents, they’d be sued to the hilt. Her words entered my heart, and I had an overwhelming feeling that Mammy’s Jesus had to be found. I closed my eyes and sat praying, sometimes inwardly, sometimes outwardly, but not once all through the longest night of my life did I cease. I must have repeated Jesus’ name thousands of times.

  ‘Come and see this,’ said a voice. I opened my eyes: it was the friendly sister. We followed her, on legs stiff and aching, into the ward.

  Sitting up, with arms outstretched towards us, was our beloved wee son, smiling. He’d made it! Whether it was Mammy’s Saviour or a devoted caring staff who had helped him, I do not know, but our time with Johnnie had been extended. No questions needed answers, the only important thing was that the joy of life continued.

  He would get home within two weeks, and by the end of this time he was a favourite patient with nurses and doctors alike.

  7

  THE CURSE OF A GOOD MAN

  Winters along the Moray coast could be mighty cold, and the first one w
e endured there was no exception. Night entered when the afternoon had hardly had time to start. People disliked those long cold nights, especially fishermen’s wives. Where Uncle Joe and his wife stayed by the shore, there also lived an old woman. Betty Lyall was her name, a woman who’d given to the sea two sons and a husband. Although her husband had come from the Moray coast she was a wife from the west, Kintyre to be precise. It was by chance, as I walked my two lads down by her door one day, she invited me in.

  As we got chatting in her immaculate front room, it became apparent we shared the love of storytelling. This is a tale she told me from her home ground. Steeped in tradition, it held me spellbound. See what it does to you, reader.

  Superstitious and fearful of strangers were the folk of the western Highlands, but not so the inhabitants of Morvane House, home of John McPherson and his family. He was not a big man in stature, but in heart and good nature there were few his equal. While he gave most of his time to rearing cattle, his wife opened their home to many a weary traveller passing by in need of a bed. No one was turned away. Over a wide area, folks knew if their journey was broken by wild weather then the light of Morvane would offer shelter, and no matter how poor the travellers were, they never failed to offer something in way of payment. A halfpenny, a penny, a spare pair of shoes, a plaid, hat, anything would do for payment, but not many left without handing over a morsel of sorts. If Mistress McPherson needed work undertaken then this too was offered in lieu of money.

  McPherson, a busy man, spent long spells away at markets or doing deals connected with his cattle. Now, it was while he was away that his good wife allowed a certain stranger over her doorstep, and if he’d been there it’s doubtful if he would have given night shelter to such a one. Exceptionally tall, head covered by a black hood attached to a long cloak, she stood in silence at the half-opened door of Morvane. ‘What can I do for you this dreich nicht?’ enquired Mistress McPherson.