Telling Tales

by Jane Yeadon

  Maudie and Charlotte, used to their signal for feeding and milking time, appear from the close-by fields when Dod and Elizabeth, tilley lamp in hand, repeat the cry.

  I usually love it in the byre but tonight, waiting with the scoured milk pails, it’s too worrying thinking about Pansy to appreciate the lamp’s soothing hiss or its beam lighting up the thick clay-biggened byre walls. When everybody arrives, there’s a rustle from the cows’ bedding straw as they step over it. It’s as soft as the clink of their neck chains when I hook them in place: but I’m listening for another noise.

  ‘Frankie’s quiet tonight,’ says Dod. ‘Maybe he’s full up with all that I hay I tossed in to him earlier.’

  There’s no mention of Pansy, so Frankie must have killed and eaten her. The horrible pig!

  ‘Right, Lizzie,’ continues Dod, ‘You do Maudie and I’ll milk Charlotte.’

  The cows are in stalls, separated by a wooden partition. It’s low enough for the cows to see each other but higher at the tying-up stances at the top. It’s to stop them snitching feed from each other’s trough and haik.

  Dod sees me watching and, perhaps misinterpreting my miserable look, leans down and, pulling on Charlotte’s teats in my direction, sprays me with warm milk. ‘Hey, Janie, come and have a shot.’

  For a moment, Pansy’s forgotten. The milking stool’s a fine height for me. Elizabeth’s one is higher, so I see her resting her head against Maudie’s flank. She looks cosy cuddled up to her cow and knows by instinct where to put her hands to grasp the teats. From where I am, only Charlotte’s undercarriage is visible but it does put the targets within easy reach.

  They feel like warm carrots newly out of the ground. I squeeze one. Nothing happens. Charlotte stops eating and flicks an ear. I try again and at last manage to squeeze a thin spray of milk against the pail. Silently, it dribbles down the side of the pail, making nothing like the regular thin sighing song that my sister’s brisk milking makes against hers.

  ‘Well, Catties – at this rate, you’ll maybe hiv tae wait until morning for your coggie to be filled,’ says Dod.

  If he hadn’t spoken to them, I’d still have known the cats had arrived by the sound of their purring. Out of the corner of my eye I see all but one watching. She’s a little outside the velvet circle and busily washing her face.

  ‘Pansy!’ My heart lifts and in my excitement tug so hard on a teat that Charlotte shifts, rattles her chain and glances round with a reproachful look.

  ‘Ca’ canny! You’ll pull it off. Here, let me,’ says Dod and, as he takes over, adds, ‘By the look of that dratted cat, she’s had her kittens. Go and see if you can find them.’

  Pansy lifts her head and gives me a long look before going back to her toiletries. The byre noises are almost as friendly as those in the barn and certainly more hospitable than where I’m sure the kittens are.

  ‘It’s ower dark,’ I protest, rather pleased to be telling the truth. Just as Dod tuts, further argument is stopped by a sudden violent movement. A short vicious-sounding clang follows. It bounces round the byre walls and is so loud it must reach up to the rafters.

  9

  HAVING THE LAST WORD

  Maudie’s kicked the pail and probably Elizabeth too. She topples backwards off her stool and all the cats scatter except for Pansy. She soars to the top of the separating partition. Between her thin figure and flying ability, she’s just shown there’s no kittens aboard, whilst Elizabeth’s proving she’s dumber than she looks.

  Honestly! If you were almost drowned in milk and knocked over with a cow’s hoof flying past your ear, wouldn’t you expect some kind of instant reward? Lots of sympathy with the promise of a free hand into the rationed-sweetie jar, at the very least. But does my silly sister grab this heaven-sent opportunity?

  No. She does not. She hasn’t even cried. Despite being covered in dubs, straw and a gift from Maudie’s tarry tail, her face is pale but her voice is matter-of-fact.

  ‘Ach, I’m fine.’ She gets up, wipes her brow with the back of her hand, then shakes her head as if to clear it. ‘Maudie didn’t kick me – she only shifted her foot against the pail. But look at all that spilt milk, Dod! What a waste.’ She chews a fingernail and would have picked up the pail if Dod hadn’t got there first.

  ‘That bloomin’ Maudie’s a besom and it’s no use crying ower spilt milk, darling.’ He looks as if he’s had a much bigger fright. Maybe it’s because he’s called her darling. Dod’s usually too strong to show any soft side. Now, to my surprise, and by her expression, hers, he puts an arm round her and says, ‘I’ll come back to finish the milking after we get you to the house. Come on.’

  ‘Are ye sure?’

  ‘Aye, aye! Come on. Janie – you carry the tilley.’

  As if nothing’s happened, Maudie and Charlotte go back to eating. The sound of their chains chinking and contented chewing restores the byre to its original peace. Pansy jumps down to join the rest of the cats, reassembling round the spilt milk. They pull their tails, cosy and muff-like round their feet, unworried about the closeness to Maudie’s hooves or that the sound of them lapping her milk might disturb her. I strain my ears but not even the faintest mew comes from Frankie’s stall. Praying that Pansy’s still got a family to return to, I hurry to join mine.

  The pool of light the tilley sends out is as soothing as the normal atmosphere in the byre. Usually, the walk back to the house in its encircling light allows us to appreciate seeing other lamps being lit in the homes of our glen. They send back their beams to ours as if in friendly recognition whilst, in the far distance, and out across the Firths, Tarbat Ness Lighthouse blinks its mercy message.

  Tonight’s different. Nobody lingers. Shadow must be sleeping in some sheltered corner, and even if the Merry Dancers were staging their Northern Lights Show in the sky they wouldn’t stop us from hurrying into the house.

  Mum’s face goes as white as her hair whilst Dod explains our early return. ‘And Lizzie’s fine but that damn Maudie! I should never have let the quinie milk her.’ He looks stricken.

  So, for a moment, does Mum. Then she takes a huge deep breath, sighs, bites her lip and visibly drops her shoulders before she says, ‘Well, it’s a blessing you’re all alright. As for you, Eliza darling, we’ll get you out of those clothes and into the bath. The water’s fine and hot.’

  I look at Elizabeth who, under sympathy, has begun to look shaky. At least she’s been spared caster oil, one of Mum’s specialities. Instead, she pops in another. ‘And it’ll be an early night for the pair of you. You too, Janie, you’ll have had a scare as well.’

  I could try the it’s not fair card, but sometimes you know when it’ll be a loser.

  Maudie’s tarry tail and temper might be the villain of the piece, but Dod’s the hero.

  ‘You heard him. He called me darling.’

  Tucked up in bed, Elizabeth says it in a voice so full of wonder it demands profound and silent respect.

  ‘But d’you think you’ll get to milk again?’ I eventually ask, hoping that she might now forget about her accident and suddenly become aware of its hazards, and discuss whether she sees a future in milking. There’s no reply. I’m dying to tell her about Pansy, as well as entertaining her with my Cow-Pat Sagas. Surprisingly, she’s either fallen asleep or she’s pretending to be.

  I snuggle under the bedclothes, supposing that it’s a bit of a bonus that she’s forgotten our nightly competition. It’s called Having the Last Word. Pleased to share with Rabbit, proof of winning this round, I whisper into his ear, ‘Listen, Rabbit, you can hear me saying this, even if she can’t. “Goodnight, Elizabeth.” ’

  10

  RED-LETTER DAY

  Maudie’s calf Fanny Annie’s back with her mother.

  ‘I think it’s bound to put a strain on maternal instincts,’ says Mum. ‘She’s a greedy wee calfie and more than delighted to swap drinking from a pail to taking it direct from source. She wasn’t long in finding out that if she butted her ma’
s udder, it encouraged her to let down more milk.’

  ‘Serves her right,’ I say.

  Mum agrees. ‘As well as that, it’ll save us a lot of scuttering about. Really, it’s not like the war years when the workers at the timber camps were relying on us to provide eggs and milk. Charlotte’s got plenty for us and Dod’s folk as well. He’ll manage her himself, so you won’t need to do it any longer, Liza.’

  Elizabeth takes this in her stride. ‘Uh huh, but Dod says he’s going to learn me tae drive the new tractor an’ that wee Fergies are easy and then,’ she adds, rubbing her knuckles on her jersey as if polishing them, ‘I’ll be up with the Big Boys at school.’

  This obviously pleases her as much as her reading. She’s so good at it she can even read the Red Letter magazine without having to run her finger under its small print.

  Dod’s mum gets it every week. We call her Mrs Bremner and never wonder why we should be formal with someone who welcomes us into her house when we call her husband, who ignores us, Lala.

  ‘He maybe canna cos he shakes so much,’ suggests Elizabeth. ‘That’d make anybody grumpy; weary, as well. The only time I see him happy is when Nell’s around and, even then, he’s got a funny way of showing it. D’you see him put his hand on her head? He keeps it there so long it begins to annoy her! That makes her start to chew his nivs.’

  Consulting her own fist, she screws up her face. ‘It must be sore, but he disna seem tae mind. And I’m beginning to think that bad weather suits them. It’s a good excuse to be inside in front of Mrs Bremner’s bonny fire that she’s always got on. I bet Lala’s pleased he disna need tae go oot tae the tattie-pit or saw logs in the stick shed and as often as not Dod doesn’t need Nell.’ Elizabeth rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, I heard Dod complain to Mum that she’ll only do what Mum tells her.’

  The old Tombain house is a but-and-ben, with a small bathroom added. Given its ice-box temperature, and that there is only a working cold tap on the bath, it’s unlikely the Bremners ever jump into it willingly. It’s probably the same when they go to bed, which is in the ben bit. The mattress covered in ticking-type material looks as un-giving as the iron bed it barely covers. In the dim of this quiet little room, with its still and cold atmosphere, the brass knobs at each end of the headboard’s metal bars shine to reflect a loving attention. I wonder how Mrs Bremner manages to get her hair, with its straight parting, pulled into such a neat-looking bun because there’s neither a mirror here, the bathroom nor the kitchen.

  But at least it’s a warm place with an open fire heating the kitchen range alongside it. Mrs Bremner keeps it gleaming with something Dod calls ‘elbow grease’. A matching big black kettle sits on top of the range, sending out puffs of steam like a constant smoker.

  Light filters through two small half-netted windows. If Mrs Bremner’s at the sink and Lala’s sitting by the fire, they’ll see our house from one. The other looks out onto the moor but its view’s slightly blocked by a big plant with blue-green leaves on the windowsill.

  Once, I picked off a leaf and squished it, surprised by how much green liquid came out of it. I thought no one was looking, but Lala was. To my surprise, he winked.

  A horsehair sofa’s in front of the window and it’s where Elizabeth and I sit, usually after we’ve had our tea and delivered the daily milk. However, it’s Saturday today and Mrs Bremner’s asked us to come early.

  She looks round from the sink. ‘Ah! The milkmaid quinies. You’ll hae left the milk in the porch? Grand! It’s fine and cold there. I’ll be using it for makin’ bannocks for the mill day on Monday. There’ll be plenty folk tae feed.’

  She’s obviously part of the team, as she squints out the window and says, ‘Ed’s always so busy with folk needing his threshing machine, I hope he can fit us in and bring a bonny day with him.’ She wrings out a cloth with red swollen hands, dumps it on the wooden draining-board, then comes to the table. ‘Aye – there’s a lot of work making food and your mam’s hands’ll be full enough.’ She shakes her head, sighs, then brightens. ‘See and help yourselves to a couple of Butter Ba sweeties.’

  They’re in the top drawer of a huge chest of drawers which, as you come into the room, is on the left-hand side. There’s a low bed jammed in behind it, which must be where Dod sleeps. As we stand on tiptoe to pull out the drawer, then reach in, I hear the constant dripping sound of the tap into the white sink and wonder if it disturbs him at night. Maybe that’s why he so often stays late at our house.

  Alongside the Butter Ba sweetie bag, there’s a packet of poppy seeds with a picture of a flower on it. It’s old and faded and unimaginably beautiful. I’ve never seen it growing anywhere other than on the packet. I often wonder what it’s doing here. Maybe Mrs Bremner keeps it to look at to cheer herself up. It would help after emptying Lala’s disgusting spit bowl down the toilet. But she’s always so busy, perhaps she hardly notices despatching the slimy contents.

  ‘Do you ever stop working, Mrs Bremner?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Many’s a time, and at night I’ve that.’ She nods at the Red Letter lying on the sofa.

  ‘Can I read it?’

  ‘Of course and when you get bigger you can learn to knit and do it at the same time with this.’ Mrs Bremner pats the leather belt she always wears. It’s got a pouch-like affair in the front with holes to stick in knitting needles. ‘It’s handy too if you’re on the go, but you’ll need to remember to wear something with a pocket for holding the wool.’

  ‘So, did you do Dod’s bed’s blanket?’ I ask.

  ‘Uh huh. Squares knitted in plain-stitch are fine and easy,’ she says and goes back to the sink to finish off her washing.

  She chuckles when I say, ‘My! But you’re right hardy.’

  Whilst sucking her Butter Ba, Elizabeth loses herself in the Red Letter. It specialises in murder stories and must be exciting because I hear her nibbling her nails. I’m dying to go to school so I can learn to read too. Meantime I’ve nothing to do other than look up at the high mantelpiece, where a fancy wooden clock surrounded by curly bits ticks its solemn message. The people in the nearby black plastic-framed photographs are more interesting.

  There’s two, both showing a mixed age group. Both pose in front of a tall, immaculately clipped hedge and all the young men wear sporting caps, so flat and large they remind me of huge pancakes. In one photograph, the three blokes at the back look more relaxed than the one at the front. He’s got his hand round a collie cuddled close to him. The other seven stare out from the front, with Mrs Bremner and Lala in the middle.

  The two girls wear dark frocks, brightened with long beads, whilst the men and the elder boy, who I think may be Dod, wear ties that look as if they’re strangling them. Tie-wearing days are yet to come to the two other young boys, tucked in close to Lala and Mrs Bremner.

  ‘Mrs Bremner, I’m thinking you’re not the only hard worker. The chappies in that photo must’ve used a ton of elbow grease to get their boots that shiny,’ I say.

  I quite often mention the photographs to Mrs Bremner and she’ll often come and glance up at them and smile, but I get nowhere when I add, ‘Maybe that’s why some of them look so serious.’

  At least, there’s something cheerful about the false teeth grinning out from the thick tumbler sitting between the photographs. I spit out my Butter Ba onto my hand to consult it. Yes! False-teeth gums are the same colour. I bet they belong to Lala and are the reason for Mrs Bremner mashing his tatties. I might have my own teeth but I’m envious because he gets such a lot of butter and tomato ketchup added to his plate as well.

  The other picture shows a less formal and tie-free group gathered round a wooden sign on the ground saying ‘Drumin’.

  Lala and Mrs Bremner aren’t in this one, and neither are two of the young men nor one of the children – the one with the curly hair. There’s a new face, though. It’s a young man, fag in mouth, and he’s holding a melodeon.

  ‘That looks like the one that Dod plays, but isn’t that hi
m?’ I point to a serious-faced boy standing a little outwith the group. His hand’s on the collie’s head whilst it looks away, as if searching for someone else.

  ‘Aye,’ Mrs Bremner turns round. ‘That’s Dod, right enough.’

  ‘And what about the ones that are in the first photo – were they not around?’ I ask, but Mrs Bremner, her face clouding over, ignores this. She checks her bun, then points to the sign. It’s got a horse’s head drawn at one end of the name, with an upside down horseshoe speared with a whip on the other.

  ‘That’s over in Glenlivet. We farmed there.’ She nods at the window behind us. ‘It’s no so far if ye walked ower the moor there, but you’d need your wellies and ye’d hae tae cross the railway line, an’ of course there’s the kelpies.’ I’m dying to ask about them but it’s as if we’ve lost her in recall. She sounds sad and as if she’ll never see Glenlivet again. ‘If ye went by the road, it’d be a lang, lang time afore ye’d reach it.’

  She dries her fingers, carefully, one by one as if they’re painful, whilst Lala, looking straight ahead, cuts a twist of black Bogie Roll tobacco in his palm. His long fingers push the cut tobacco into his pipe, then he takes a long white spill from a jar beside his chair. His bones creak as he bends over to light it at the fire and we wait until he disappears in a plume of smoke.

  I’m determined that in the absence of kelpie and a photographic conversation there should be a musical one instead. ‘Well, Dod’s melodeon’s very like the one in the picture an’ he’s a right bonny singer and he plays the fiddle, though I’ve never heard him.’

  Mrs Bremner looks surprised, so I explain, ‘Well, when I asked Mum where he was the day, she said he was fiddling out in the field.’ I add reflectively, ‘I’m sure that’s what she said, though it did seem a funny place for doing that.’

  I think of the nights when Dod comes to our house. He makes them special, especially after he gives up singing and playing the melodeon and chases Mum round the table. We love it when she laughs. ‘Maybe he’s practising for tonight and he’s going to give us a surprise’