MANY years ago away on the West Coast in a wee hill farm there lived a farmer and his wife. His father had died and left him the farm and he was just newly married. He didn’t remember his mother because she had died years before, but he’d loved his old father. Being left the farm and all alone, the first thing he had done was find himself a wife, this girl in the village whom he’d loved and respected. Alistair and Mary Maclean were their names. They had this farm in the glen and a little money that his father had left him and they lived happily together.
Now up on the hills on the West Coast of Scotland there’s not much arable land. But Alistair liked to keep a few cattle and a few sheep, and for the cold winter months he just couldn’t buy feed. So he tried to make a wee puckle hay, the best he could possibly make. Anything that looked like it was growing to be hay he would leave, keep the animals off it, and cut it with the scythe in the spring or at the beginning of summer.
But one day Mary said to him, ‘Alistair, I think I’ve got to give you good news.’
‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘after a hard day’s work I would enjoy any good news – what is it you’re gaunna tell me?’
‘Alistair, I think, Alec,’ she said, ‘we’re gaunna have a baby.’
‘Oh,’ he gasped, ‘we’re gaunna have a baby are we! Oh, it’s the best news you’ve given me today,’ he said, ‘it’ll make me work ten times harder this afternoon!’ So he put his arms around his wee wife and kissed her. He sat down and they made up plans what they were going to do. ‘But,’ he said, ‘are you sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ she said, ‘as sure as can be.’
Now Alistair wanted to have a son as much as his father had wanted to have him. But to make a long story short … sure enough, they had a baby, a beautiful wee baby boy. And when Alistair came in and saw the wee boy born beside his wife, he said, ‘Whit are you gaunna call him?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you think I’m gaun to call him? I’m gaun to call him “Alistair” after you, because you’re my husband and we live in this glen, on this farm cut off fra all other people – and two Alistairs in the family is not enough for me!’
But anyway, Alistair was so happy to have a baby son and so was his wife. Time passed by and the baby grew up naturally … three months, and by this time it was the end of April. And he was sitting up in the cradle. Now what did Alistair have in the house but an old-fashioned wooden cradle that had passed down through his family, from generation to generation of the Macleans for hundreds of years. The cradle had a hood and was made in one bit of solid oak with rockers, whereby the woman could sit and put her foot to it to rock the baby. This cradle was about four feet long with a hood to keep the sun or the light off the baby. And Alistair had always promised himself, someday he would have something to put in it – so finally he had!
But this day, April the thirtieth, he said to his wife, ‘Mary, I’ll have tae cut the wee puckle hay the day otherwise we’ll no have nothing for the cows in the winter-time.’ In the hills grass grows but you can’t grow good hay. But they had a few cows they kept for milk and he said, ‘Or mebbe for a stack or two, we’ll try and get a stack or two – I’ll hev to cut a wee bit o’ hay.’
‘But Alec,’ she said, ‘I’ll come out and gie ye a wee bit help.’
‘It’s no cut yet.’ He said, ‘I’ll cut it today – it’s no very high, it’s very thin, and I think by the day’s sun, if it gets a day’s sun, I’ll be able tae turn it tomorrow.’ (They turned it with these hand rakes: you walked along behind where the man had cut the hay, after it had a day’s sun, and you turned it with a rake that had a long handle and about fourteen teeth on it.)
‘Well,’ she said, ‘Alec, I’ll come oot wi ye tomorra.’
‘Okay, but,’ he said, ‘what about the baby?’
‘Ach, it’s nae problem, I’ll take the cradle under my oxter and,’ she said, ‘I’ll come oot. I’ll put him beside me.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘at’d help me a lot.’
So Alistair cut all day with the scythe. It was about two acres and it was a hard job cutting with a scythe, but he finished it. The sun was beating down from the sky and he was tired. He took his scythe and stuck it in an old roan pipe beside the barn; took his stone from his belt (he carried a sharpening stone), shoved it beside the scythe, and walked into the farm-house. His wife had his supper ready, so he sat down to eat. ‘Mary, I’ve had a hard day.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘Alec, ye’ve had a hard day, but tomorra will be better for us.’
‘But,’ he said, ‘ye know, Mary we need the wee puckle hay for the kye in the winter-time.’
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘we need the puckle hay. It’s all right, Alec, tomorra we’ll take little Alec in the cradle, he’ll be no bother tae me! And I’ll turn it while you build it intae wee stacks fir the winter.’
But that year they’d cut the hay early in the hill because it was a good spring. He said, ‘Mary, what is it, what’s the date on the calendar?’ It was an old fly-bitten calendar on the wall.
She said, ‘Alec, I think tomorra is the first o’ May.’
‘Well, upon my soul,’ he said, ‘I have never even remembered as a child wi my father, ever bein able tae cut hay on the end of April, the first of May, for a long long time. I remember my father tellin me we’ve done it earlier but,’ he said, ‘this is early for me, and prob’ly by the time we get it raked up and gaithert mebbe the second crop’ll be fine tae let out the goats on it, after we get it built up.’
‘Alistair, I wouldna let it bother ye,’ she said. ‘If we get this little pick o’ hay gaithert up before the rain comes and stacked up wi my help, I think we should manage tae keep the animals alive fir the winter.’
He said, ‘Mary, thank you for all yir help.’
She said, ‘Tomorra morning we’ll go out both together.’ Sure enough, the next morning they got up bright and early. The baby was lying in the cradle, bonnie young Alistair was lying giggling and kicking his bare feet in the cradle. They had their breakfast, porridge and milk and tea, scones, cheese, whatever they had. And the sun was shining, it was a beautiful day.
She said, ‘Alec, I’m gaun with ye.’
He said, ‘Ye’re sure you can manage?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘my dear, I’m sure I can.’ So she picked up the cradle below her oxter.
He walked out, took the rake from the back of the barn, and said to Mary, ‘Will ye manage the rake – and I’ll take the scythe and gae round the borders, cut whatever’s left – you turn what’s ever there.’ And wee baby Alistair was lying in the cradle giggling to himself after he’d had his bottle, after his meal.
Now in the middle of the field was a wee bit hill, nothing grew on it but flowers, daisies, but no hay. And Alistair had cut round it with his scythe – it was high up in the middle of the field, a hillock, or a knowe. So Mary came walking up with the cradle, she thought the best thing she could do was walk up the wee knowe and leave the cradle at the top. While she’s turning the hay round the knowe she could look up and see him in the cradle – if anything happened to the baby she would hear it. So she carried the old-fashioned wooden cradle under her oxter and put it on top of the knowe. Baby was fast asleep; she placed it down.
And you know a man cuts bouts of hay with a scythe, lines in circles. Mary walked round and she’s turning the hay. Round she goes and round, and round, right round the field for about two hours. But all in a moment she hears the baby screaming. She puts down the rake, runs up. There’s the baby crying from its heart, greetin like it never gret before and Mary’d never had any trouble with the baby since it was born.
She said, ‘Prob’ly it’s wet … mebbe something’s wrong with it, mebbe it’s been stung with a bee or a wasp in its cradle.’ She sat and she coaxed it. She did everything, checked it all over. But no way in the world – it just cried and cried and cried. It cried so much that Alistair, who was away with his scythe on the other side of the field, stuck the scythe
in the ground and walked up.
‘Mary, what’s wrong?’
She said, ‘It’s Alistair – there’s something happened tae him, something’s wrong with him.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘mebbe it’s wind, it’s something … what’s wrong wi him? What happened?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I left him there and I was turning round … everything was peace and quiet. All in a minute he startit tae cry, he startit tae greet. And I cannae get him settlit, I’ve checked everything about him but there’s nothing seems tae make him pleased in any way.’
‘Is he hungry?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘he’s no hungry.’ But baby Alistair cried so much the mother and father couldn’t get any peace.
He said, ‘We’ll pack it up fir the day.’ So Mary took the cradle under her oxter away with the baby in it, walked back to the cottage, checked him every way again.
But he still gret, and he swinged and gret and he swinged, gret and swinged!1 Alistair came in, washed his face, had his wee bit supper. But the baby still cried, And he rocked the cradle but it was no good. They rocked the cradle, it was no good – no way in this world. They tried their very best. But the swingein went on. It wasn’t really crying! It was just ‘aa-heyn, aa-heyn, au-in’. It gret and gret and gret – it wouldn’t stop, went on and on and on, put the mother and father to their wits’ ends!
They sat up all night, but finally about twelve o’clock when the moon was high, the crying stopped. When the full moon came up on the first of May – it went peaceful, quiet! Oh, they blessed each other and thanked God! They went to bed, fell asleep. But about six o’clock in the morning it started again, the greetin.
‘God bless us,’ he said, ‘what’s wrong wi that wean!’
‘I don’t know, Alistair, what’s wrong,’ she said, ‘there’s something terrible wrong wi him.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll have tae get the doctor up.’
‘Well—’ she said.
‘Luik,’ he said, ‘I cannae stick another night like this. I’m gaun for the doctor.’ So he had a garron pony that he sometimes put in the shafts to pull his mowing machine. Alistair put his riding saddle on the horse and rode the three miles down the glen to the village, to the doctor’s. The doctor had visited Mary after she’d had the baby.
‘Oh, what’s the trouble?’ he asked.
Alistair told him the story I’m telling you: ‘We were oot doin the hay, we took baby Alistair oot in his cradle and put him on the wee hill. My wife was busy turnin the hay, he startit tae cry. And frae then on, doctor, we have no peace – no pleasure in the world. He just greets and swinges and cairries on … he’s breakin wir hearts! But the only thing was, twelve o’clock at night he stopped. But,’ he said, ‘it’s terrible: that’s only the first day, this morning it was worse. And I’m here, I don’t know what tae do.’
Doctor said, ‘I’ll come up and see him.’
The next morning the doctor, with his satchel in his hand, yoked his gig, drove up the glen in his pony and trap, tied his pony to a tree – never unyoked it because doctors didn’t unyoke their horses in these days, they just took the reins and tied them round a tree because they knew they weren’t going to stay long. He went in. He looked at the baby, checked it, turned it over, stripped it, examined it, sounded it every way in the world. The baby was perfect. The doctor said, ‘I cannae find no complaint with it, no way.’
She said, ‘Doctor, is there no something you can—’
He said, ‘No, there’s nothing.’ And it was still girnin, still greetin. Doctor said, ‘Nope … I’ve skelped its bottom, checked its legs, checked its knees, did everything in the world with it. I can find no complaint with it in the world,’ he said, ‘it’s perfect in every way.’
‘But, doctor,’ she said, ‘luik, cuid ye no stop it, give it something tae stop it fae greetin?’
It wasn’t really greetin, it was swingein, going, ‘A-hung, eh-heng, a-hayn’. And this was more upsetting than really greetin. The mother gave it the pappy, she gave it the breast, she gave it the bottle, tried everything – but no way could she content it. It went on and on, for day out and day in.
Now, they didn’t have much correspondence with the outside world being up on the wee hill farm, they didn’t write many letters or get many visits from other people. But now and again, the old postman used to come up and tell them if there was a sale or a market on in the village. The postman used to cycle his old bicycle up the glen and come to Alistair’s farm, have his tea there and a crack to Alistair and Mary, because he’d known them since they were children.
So this day, after a couple of weeks had passed by and Mary and Alistair were so very exhausted with their baby they didn’t know what to do – they loved it dearly from their hearts – who should happen by? They’re sitting down and the baby’s sitting in the cradle, with Mary rocking him by the fire, when who had come up but the old postman! A knock came to the door. Alistair said, ‘Who’s at the door?’
‘Och, it’ll be the postman,’ she said, ‘it’s just about his time.’ So Mary went to the door and she brought the old postman in.
He sat down. And the natural thing was for Alistair to give him a dram, because they always kept a bottle of whisky for visitors. ‘I cam up, Alistair, tae tell ye,’ he said, ‘there’s a big market tomorra in the village and there’s a lot o’ sheep and cattle and goats and hens and everything gettin sellt. So I thought prob’ly that you would maybe be interested.’
‘Och-och, you know fine, postie, I’m always interested,’ he said. ‘But we have a problem.’
‘Ach,’ he said, ‘what’s yir problem?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s the baby, young Alistair. Ever since Mary and me has been cuttin hay, a queer thing has come over him: he disna stop swingein and greetin. We canna have no peace, we’re just put to the world’s end with him – and we had the doctor up and everything, he says he cannae find no complaint!’
And the baby’s lying in the cradle still swingein and greetin! When the postman went over to him the baby looked up.
The postman took a long look at him, pulled the blanket right back and stared at the baby … he had his own ideas about children. He looked at the baby’s face and the blue eyes. But the thing that was interesting to the postman was the baby’s skin – on its face the skin was as old as leather, old as leather! Mary and Alistair had never paid attention to this, but the postman thought it was kind of queer. ‘I doubt,’ he said to himself, ‘… something queer here.’
Alistair said, ‘I would like to go to the market, postie, I wad love to go to the market, but there’s no way in the world we can get going. Mary is needin to go to the village anyway, but what can we do? We cannae leave young Alistair here, he greets and swinges so often – there’s nothing in the world I can do!’
The postie said, ‘Well, tell ye the truth, I’m no very busy tomorra, the day o’ the market. In fact, it’s my day off, and if ye wad like tae go, you and Mary tae the market, I’ll come up and take care o’ the baby while you’re gone.’
‘Oh,’ Alistair said, ‘wad ye do that? It’d be just out of this world fir tae let us off tigether for one day! We’ve never had a day off for over a year and Mary wants to buy some things fir hersel, and I wad love to go tae the market. If you could take care o’ the baby, we’d make it worth your while.’
The postman said, ‘Luik, I’m no needin – you’re my friends – I dinna need any money, I dinna want nothing. I’ll take care o’ the baby while you go to the market, I’ll be up tomorra bright and early!’
But the swingein and the greetin still went on. Mary sat and sat and she rocked the cradle, she rocked the cradle till midnight! At last, when the old wag-at-the-wa clock1 in the cottage struck twelve o’clock – quiet, peace for the night.
‘Thank my God,’ she said. ‘Thank God at last fir peace!’ So she put him to sleep, crawled in beside her husband, and the both of them fell asleep with exhaustion.
But in the morning, six o’clock, when the cocks on the farm crowed, the swingein started once more. Mary got out of her bed in her nightgown, ran down the stairs and she tried her best: bottle of hot milk, cuddled it, kissed it, broke its wind, did everything – no, the girnin and swingein still went on. But between the girnin and the greetin and Mary’s shaking the cradle, Alistair had got up because he had to go to the market. The two of them were upset about what they were going to do.
She said, ‘Dae ye think it’s safe tae leave it with the old postman, dae ye think he can keep it quiet?’
‘Well, Mary,’ he said, ‘we’ve had an awfu time o’ it fir the last three weeks and fir a month and … luik, I hev tae get to the market and you hev tae get to the village for the things ye need. And if he’s gaunna greet with hus, he’s gaunna greet wi the auld postman tae, so what’s the difference?’
They were sitting discussing it when a knock came to the door, here was the old postie with his old bike up from the village. ‘Good morning, people, good morning! It’s a nice bright morning,’ the old postie said, ‘a lovely day fir the market.’
‘Oh,’ Alistair said, ‘it’s a lovely day fir the market but it’s no a very lovely day for us.’
‘Well, tae tell ye the truth,’ he said, ‘I’ve cycled up the glen this morning tae see youse young people and I want yese tae take yir pony and yoke yir gig, gae doon to the village and enjoy the market! I’ll take care o’ the bairn! If it greets wi you, it’ll greet wi me – I’ll rock it tae sleep, I’ll rock it,’ said the old postie. The postie’s name was old John.
Mary said to him, ‘Luik, John, ye’ll no need tae want for nothing, ye ken where the cupboard is and ye ken where the food is. If ye get hungry, help yoursel tae onything ye need!’
‘This is my day off,’ he said, ‘and I want youse two tae enjoy yoursel,’ because they were his friends and he loved the young couple very much. ‘Dinna worry about the bairn!’
The King and the Lamp Page 16