Tears for a Tinker

by Jess Smith

  After Charlie and I finished painting, I did the odd homer with my tools, but everywhere a body goes in these parts the sea is never far away. Lads I’d met while having a pint kept me informed as to which boats were in need of deck-hands. There weren’t many, sad to say, and if one did come up there was a long list of lads ready to set sail. I didnae fancy being thrown about on the ocean’s swell, but the money sounded good. However taking to a life at sea had to be a serious business, not something you go in for lightly. So a visit to the Broo Office was first step. “Try it first,” was the advice given, so I did. At twenty-two years old and eager to learn, I accepted a trial run on a sturdy seine netter. After it was over and the guts somersaulted a dozen times, I decided yes, it might be the very life for me. So off to Aberdeen to be schooled in the ways of fishing, staying at the Fisherman’s Mission. First boat I was on, the Ardenlea, was a big trawler, with a great bunch of lads who made me welcome. I’ll tell you about the cook who never (and this amazed me) entered a boat sober. When I saw him sway and bounce around the deck I thought, “what the hell am I daeing here?”

  Yet as the boat set towards the wide ocean, he immediately sobered up. Captain, mate and crew batted not an eyelid as the man who would be sustaining us throughout our trip began the day as pie-eyed as a one-legged hen. “Why?” I hear you ask. Well, the reason was that this lad was as gourmet a ship’s cook as you could find, a brilliant chef of very high standards. The only time we ate fish was on our final journey home. The rest of the time it was steak, beef, chicken and so on. But sad to say, my trial trip on Ardenlea soon came to an end.

  While at the mission I met Danny, and what a lad he was. “Davie, boy,” he asked minutes after being introduced, “will you do me a big favour?”

  I always feel uncomfortable when strangers ask favours, but before I could answer him he continued, “if I give you half of my money, will you look after it until tomorrow?” Too young and too naive for my own good, I said yes. Then, on second thoughts, I wondered why he should part with a sum of money, big or small, to a stranger for safe-keeping.

  “If I take all my money intae a pub, I’ll come out fu’ wi’ empty pockets. If I take half of it, I’ll still be rocking drunk. It’s best to be sensible and leave enough for another time.”

  “This guy,” I thought, “is mental!” However, I agreed, but only if another chap witnessed the transaction. So me and this witness, we waited outside the Fisherman’s Mission for well over an hour past the agreed time, but no sign of Danny did we see. Next morning after breakfast, I wandered out to stretch my legs, and there, draped around a lamp-post singing to an empty bottle of rum, was the bold lad with not a penny to his name. Two wee black-clad nuns sped past, crossing themselves at the sight of the half naked torso. He was totally oblivious to the world and its wean.

  When we later became better acquainted, he told me tales of his sea-faring days. Sine-die is the worse label that can ever be hung around a seaman’s neck. It means he has been judged to be a degenerate and has forfeited the right to sail from the harbour where the sine-die is given to him. Danny, while working out of Grimsby, had been allowed little or no time off. His feet ached for a time on dry land, while his belly yearned for rum. In protest, he climbed a ship’s mast, refusing to sail unless he was allowed time off. This act ended in his being sine-died out of Grimsby. Not long after that he came to Aberdeen, hence our meeting. He had a terrific sense of humour and never failed to make me laugh. Here is one of those times. We were together on my second boat, Cedarlea. This state-of-the-art vessel was fitted with all mod cons apart from the cook. He was as stern-faced a bloke as ever sailed the sea. Unlike my trial boat where our cook was of the finest, this teetotallar was as useless as they come. The food was bland and tasteless. Fish was served daily.

  On the last day of our trip, and sick to death with watery soup and rubbish grub, someone insulted the cook by calling him a c—. “Who called the cook a c—?” demanded the Mate.

  Danny stood up and replied, “who called the c— a cook!”

  Well, folks, I can hear “she who must be obeyed” coming home with the jugals (her traveller word for dogs), so I’ll say thanks for allowing me to share my time at sea with you.’

  13

  MY POETS

  Before we go back to Macduff, I want to tell you a wee bitty about the poets who have freely contributed to my trilogy. Perhaps you may have wondered about them. Take my sister Charlotte, for instance, better known through these pages as Shirley, my honest as the day is long, ‘I’ll take on a giant if he annoys me’ sister. Born on a freezing January afternoon in a small hut huddled between trees at the Bobbin Mill, she came into the world with (according to my mother’s endearment) ‘one eye open.’ A tiny baby, who came into a war-torn world of uncertainty and misfortune. It was 1940, and Daddy was away some place in Europe, when Mammy, with three-year-old Chrissie on one side and four-year-old Mona on the other, gave birth to Shirley. When we chat about the Bobbin Mill, she laughs and wonders what other person can claim that on her first nights in the world, rats had to be swept out from beneath the bed before she was laid down. I sometimes think that maybe her honesty and forthright approach at calling a spade a spade might have led her to be isolated. Never one to tolerate fools gladly, she was left many times friendless and alone. Yet, if she lacked the art of tact, she excelled in having a natural beauty not many could match. Boys sometimes thought her aloof, and females looked on her as one so lovely she’d lure their men away from them.

  At the young age of nineteen she met a handsome six-footer from Kirkcaldy. Within a few months they wed. Two children followed, first a girl, then a boy.

  Everything in my dear sister’s life seemed to be rosy, until deep in her throat a nasty growth began to flourish. Her thyroid was diseased. One illness followed closely behind another. Days spent in bed, soaking sheets in sweat, left her drained. Her moods swung from gentle to violent. Almost overnight that armour of strength she wore peeled away, leaving a weak and out-of-control young mother. This illness, undetected, crawled freely through her body for years. Only after a terrible pregnancy, ending with the tragic loss of a still-born son, did doctors discover what was slowly destroying my sister. The course of treatment was harsh and as violent as her mood swings. Her husband, a petted son of an over-protective mother, gave her no help and soon found another woman.

  Left alone, the mountain seemed unclimbable, the road never-ending. Her only saving grace was her inner desire to become a songwriter, a verser, a poet. All the pain, the anxiety, the self-sacrifice, went into verse. Long nights she spent head down, scribbling feelings of love, hate and lost desires onto whatever piece of paper came to hand. This brought her back from the brink. Anger, hurt, heartache, the joys of watching her child’s academic progress went into verse. If the words sang to her, she wrote the emotion; a haunting melody smoothed the feelings. Joy bounced over the page with loud operatic tones. Yet no one listened, nobody cared. The children grew and left home; this too she turned into songs with beautiful silent music; played them in her mixed-up head with a full orchestra.

  She reminded me of a bluebell flourishing yearly in a field of nettles; one solitary flower wishing to be part of the bluebell wood. But no matter how she wanted to be like everyone else, it was never to be, because just as the bulb from which the bluebell lives withers and dies, it only emerges in spring once again to a solitary existence among those stinging nettles.

  Then Dave Munro, ex-soldier, man about the house, came along, and they hit it off. Not only did he see the budding petals of her gift, he encouraged every minute of her life. Never far from her side, in fact close at hand when sleep-terrors filled her with nightmares, his strength guarded her vulnerability. Most of all, though, Dave encouraged her gift; installing a PC, recording equipment of every kind, books etc. Now, at long last, she is what she always thought it was her reason to be on the earth—a songwriter and poet. To date she has seventeen published works, is featured in Tim
Neat’s book as one of the ‘voices of the Bards’, and is working on her masterpiece, Kingdom of Marigolds.

  Here’s a song she wrote for Dave who is her ‘bees knees.’

  BEES KNEES

  You do not have the sight

  To follow stars into the heavens.

  You do not have the hearing

  That can tell when mountains sway.

  You do not have the reach

  To touch the birds as they are leaving,

  But to me

  You are the bee’s knees anyway.

  You do not seek a quest

  To pull the sword from out of that stone.

  You do not have a plan

  To save the day.

  You do not have the means

  To tackle poverty alone,

  But to me

  You are the bee’s knees anyway.

  You cannot solve the secrets

  Beneath the desert sands.

  You cannot sail the seven seas

  By two o’clock on Sunday.

  You can’t control the high winds,

  Or the waves that wash the beaches,

  But to me

  You are the bee’s knees anyway.

  You can become a legend,

  Especially in my time.

  You will release the magic

  That I hope for when I pray.

  You must be sure you love me,

  Just as much as I love you,

  For to me

  You are the bee’s knees anyway.

  More of Shirley later, for now we’ll talk about a real legend in his time—my friend Mamie’s dad, Keith McPherson. He owned and ran a garage at the far end of Comrie in Perthshire. He’s no longer with us, having passed away in 1973, yet the poems he left will remain. As long as his poems are enjoyed and respected, then how can oor lad be forgot?

  Mamie trained as a nurse in the Western Infirmary in Glasgow, doing her training in the Royal Maternity, better known as Rotten Row. German POWs imprisoned at nearby Cultiebraggan Camp (those who posed no danger) would find a benevolence, seldom seen in one so young, from fourteen-years-old Mamie. When they visited Keith’s garage she would give sweeties to the youngest and cigarettes to the older prisoners. In a recent television programme, Mamie met some of those POWs who came back to Comrie to say thanks for the kindness which helped them through a terrible time in history.

  There were plenty of lads who, all the worse for a heavy night’s drinking, found themselves sat in Crieff cottage hospital dreading a lecture from a local doctor. Worse still was the prospect of getting home to the wife, sporting another stitched head-wound and taking a tongue-lashing. It was Mamie they wanted to see, because never a lecture or a dressing-down or any other kind of warning about the evil drink did she administer. She would simply ask, while cleaning and bandaging, ‘How is them weans o’ yours, lad? Are you still working with so and so?’ Gentle words from a dear lady, who knew her patient was punishing himself inwardly. Little did she realise it was her good nature that made him feel shame and remorse.

  I have known Mamie for over thirty years, and to this day I’ve never heard her speak down to a living soul. Her couthy ways were inherited from Keith, and not only did he love his neighbours, but he made sure all the bairns living around Glenartney got to school on time. He owned and maintained the school taxi. His poem about this ‘school taxi’ speaks for itself.

  THE AULD SCHULE CAR

  (Sing it to the tune of ‘Where the praties grow’)

  There’s folk who like to travel,

  And some foreign lands tae see,

  Like sunny Spain or Italy,

  Or even gay Capri.

  But me I like the hameland,

  So I dinna travel far,

  I go driving up Glenartney,

  Wi’ ma auld schule car.

  I have a wheen o’ laddies,

  Who are starting on life’s road.

  Wi’ singin and wi’ laughter,

  Man, they mak a cheery load.

  I join them in the chorus,

  For I’m just as young they are,

  When I’m drivin up Glenartney

  Wi’ ma auld schule car.

  There’s Billy an there’s Bertie,

  And Sandy one and two,

  Wi’ Stewart an wi’ Jackie,

  They complete the merry crew.

  They sing a cornkister

  Just as well as any star,

  When we’re driving up Glenartney

  In the auld schule car.

  I’ve got another laddie,

  But like me he’s left the schule,

  We’ve made him leading tenor

  Just tae earn his milk and meal.

  He leads us in the singing,

  And he keeps us up tae par,

  When we’re driving up Glenartney,

  In the auld schule car.

  The cuckoo in the season

  Gi’es a call as we pass by,

  The old cock grouse, he lifts his head,

  An’ winks a beady eye.

  An’ whispers tae his sittin’ hen,

  ‘Jist bide ye whaur ye are,

  For ye ken its jist McPherson

  Wi’ his auld schule car.’

  We dinna hae the golden sands,

  Nor yet the sunny days,

  But bonnie is the heather

  Growing round Dalclathic Braes.

  We see the winter shadows

  On the snowclad Uam Var,

  When we’re driving up Glenartney

  In the auld schule car.

  We see the bonnie rowan trees,

  Their flowers the summer’s pride,

  And then the scarlet berries come,

  And deck the countryside.

  Ye get a great contentment,

  And a pleasure nane can mar,

  When we’re driving up Glenartney

  In the auld schule car.

  I’ve seen the glen in a’ its moods,

  In sunshine and in snow.

  I’ve seen it at its brightest

  When the autumn colours glow.

  I turn quite sentimental,

  Till a pothole gi’es a jar,

  Then I ken I’m in Glenartney

  Wi’ ma auld schule car.

  There’s time when death’s dark shadow

  Haunts that lonely, lovely glen,

  An’ Grewer whispers tae his wife,

  ‘We’ve lost anither hen.

  It wisnae Fisher Ferguson,

  Nor Pate frae Tighnablair,

  It maun hae been McPherson

  Wi’ his auld schule car.’

  So if you’re bowed wi’ trouble,

  An’ your sky seems dull an’ grey,

  If you think that fickle fortune’s

  Turned her head the other way,

  Should you want to lose your sorrows

  (An’ be sure there’s thousands waur),

  Just come driving up Glenartney

  In ma auld schule car.

  My laddies a’ hae left me,

  Father Time has passed along,

  I hope they face life’s battles

  Wi’ the same auld cheery song,

  As echoed round the hill tops

  ‘Stron-e-moul tae Uam Var,’

  When we sang gaun up Glenartney

  In the auld schule car.

  If you have read Jessie’s Journey, my first book, you will recall John Gilbert, that fine gent who gave me permission to use his grandfather’s moving poem ‘The Tinker’s Grave’. I knew little about him at that time. I simply read the verses, researched who it was that penned them, and discovered I had to ask permission from his grandson.

  The poet lived in Perthshire, ran a fruit and veg. shop in Comrie, and was gifted, as we all now know, with the art of beautiful verse. Since Jessie’s Journey, his grandson has very kindly given me the following information about the poem:

  ‘One evening towards the end of the Napoleonic Wars, a young man, Peter MacEwan
by name, was watching for smugglers in the woods of Strath Bran. He saw no smugglers; instead he saw a strange sight, the burial of an old tinker. When Peter MacEwan was an old man he described the scene to my grandfather when he was a young boy.

  Each autumn a group of tinkers were in the habit of camping near my Grandfather’s home. On one occasion he noticed that one of their numbers was missing and naturally asked where he was. “We left him sleeping ’tween the licht and the dark,” was the mysterious reply.

  That incident in Strath Bran and that reply inspired my Grandfather to write the poem.’

  Travelling tinkers didn’t always bury their dead without marking the spot. Up until the reign of Henry VIII they were renowned for their elaborate way of sending loved ones into heaven with precious belongings and lots more. Stones were erected over them and it was apparent what lay beneath the earth. Well, the king became obsessed with gypsies, whom he believed were carriers of the plague. It was for this reason he decreed that burials of these ‘verminous creatures’ be halted, and the remains duly dug up and burned. Certain undesirables looked upon this duty as a trade, because when remains were brought to court a small payment was paid to the grave-robber. From then on, English gypsies burned their deceased and all they owned.

  Like wildfire the king’s ruling spread to Scotland, and soon burials were carried out under a cloak of secrecy and darkness. No sign was left to signify that a dear one lay sleeping beneath the soil. The only witnesses were kin, and no stranger was allowed anywhere near.

  Being from travelling folk, this was a story repeated many times to me as a bairn. If you don’t mind I’d love to repeat John Gilbert’s beautiful poem for you, just in case it has passed you by.

  THE TINKER’S GRAVE

  In the drowsie sound o’ a murmurin burn

  Far ben in the hert o’ a boskie glen,

  There they left the tinker sleepin,