by Jane Yeadon
Thinking about his smelly presence, I say, ‘I didn’t know animals got married. Poor Mrs Ferret!’ and Elizabeth laughs in a way that’s as good as having the last word.
16
A PRACTICE RUN
It’s easier to get out of bed when Elizabeth’s around in the school summer holidays. She’s usually in better tune and we don’t fight so much, especially when we can get outside. One morning when the sun’s stirred us early and she’s not being important helping Dod, she says, ‘Hey, Jane, let’s go! I’ve found a great place for us to do acrobatics. There’s a couple of birches near the burn, perfect and a lot safer than barn rafters. Come on, I’ll show you.’
It’s true. She means young trees, growing back to back, on a mossy stretch dotted with green grass-shoots. The lowest branches are the same few feet above the ground and grow straight and parallel to each other.
‘They’re that close, they’ll make a handy ledge,’ approves my sister.
Our kilts have been packed away for the summer and we’re in dungarees. They save us wearing tight garters that make your legs scream. They also protect us from skinning our knees and barked shins and are perfect for the present activity.
With the branches offering an easy hand-hold, Elizabeth catches one. ‘Look!’ She starts to swing. ‘See? You can get a good rhythm going too.’ Her speed’s increasing, making the green birch leaves above her rustle, as if complaining at disturbance. Any minute now, I think, my sister’s going to take off.
She doesn’t but manages to make such a good leap away from the trees I’d have applauded it if it had been anybody else. Instead, I say, ‘Huh! I can do better than that.’
‘Oh, really? Well, try this, Smartie-pants.’
She spits on her hands, rubs them on her dungarees, then approaches. Pulling herself up so that she’s leaning over the branches, she bends over them and keeps going until the only thing to hold her from falling are her feet. Dangling upside down, her fingers brush the mossy turf below. As if to prove her versatility, she pulls a grass-shoot and tucks it into her dungaree pocket before collapsing onto the ground.
‘I’d have done a backward summersault, but you were far too near me,’ she says.
‘Liar! I’ll show you how to do that. Stand back.’
It mightn’t be that simple but I don’t have to worry about falling – really falling – and the upside-down world is not without its fascinations. From the nearby Knockack burn comes a constant chuckle. I consider it gentle applause, whilst the sky makes its blue canvas an offer of artistic freedom to passing clouds.
‘Hey! Look!’ Elizabeth bends down to whisper. ‘There’s a heron.’ She points to the burn, then clicks her teeth as I right my position. ‘Och, blast! Could you not have made a quieter landing? I bet it’s been in the water for ages and now you’ve gone an’ disturbed it.’
We stop breathing as the grey bird lumbers into flight. It’s astonishing that something so large can manage it. It looks spooky with its wings tipped in black, beak like a dagger and short witch-like cackling call.
‘That sounded like a warning,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t want us here.’
She scowls. ‘That’s the kind of thing that Granny would say. Honestly, it’s all drama with you two.’ For all that, she shrugs, then says, ‘Anyway, it’s time we went home. Bags me tell Mum about the heron.’
We race back, and breathlessly tumble into the house, anxious to be the first to impart startling facts about birdlife, until we see something even more amazing. Mum’s swapped her dungarees for a mustard-coloured suit. She’s even got on the brown felt hat with a feather that she wears for church, and powder and lipstick.
‘It’s a Cairngorm,’ she tells us when we finger the bright stone set in its silver clasp and pinned to her jacket. If we’re going to Grantown and it’s a clear day, we can see the mountains of the stone’s origins in the far distance. Today, we’ve got a bit of them here. This one shines as if sunning itself on the tweed material.
We’d forgotten that today’s the day of the Highland Show. For the past week, Mum’s been trying to persuade Dod that they should grab the chance of some free time to go to it, since the tatties, neeps and oats have all been planted.
‘It’ll be the first one since the war and it’s going to be in Inverness.’ She’d taken his arm and shaken it. ‘Inverness! I never thought I’d see the day they’d have it somewhere only forty miles away! I’m sure the car will manage that, and if not we’ll take the tractor. At least that’d save on white petrol.’
He must have thought that she was serious. ‘Dinna be daft! The car’ll be fine but whit aboot the hoeing and Roma?’
‘The neeps won’t care and it isn’t Roma’s first calf. Anyway, she’s not due until next week. Look, Geordie, the show’s not going to wait for us. Forbye that, it’ll give us a chance to see old friends and what’s going on in the world. I was beginning to think there wasn’t one beyond Dunphail. And we’ll have fun.’
Her eyes had sparkled and she’d said the last word as if it was unusual. When she’d put her head to one side, Elizabeth and I knew it wouldn’t take much more to convince Dod. She’d clinched it with, ‘We’ll see the latest in new implements.’
He’d almost sounded enthusiastic. ‘Ach weel,’ he’d said, and to celebrate he’d offered us all a pandrop.
‘Are we coming too?’ Elizabeth had asked.
‘No. Mary’s coming to look after you through the day. We’ll be back in time for the milking.’
My sister had folded her arms, pouted, then cried, ‘But I could dae that. I’m seven now, you know, and Maudie’s feeding her own calf and Charlotte’s used tae me.’
But Mum said no, and when she said it like that we didn’t argue. Anyway, we were delighted about Mary. She lets us do pretty much what we like but we hate to see her worried so we wouldn’t tell her that Elizabeth had recently fallen into the big water butt at the byre. She’d managed to get out without help, but despite Dod’s follow-up demonstration of the breaststroke on our kitchen floor Mum wasn’t convinced it would work in water.
‘Now, you’re not to go near any, without an adult around. Look what happened to poor Corrie.’
‘What?’ We’d pounced on the name.
‘Drowned.’ She’d said it in such a matter-of-fact way it seemed silly to have asked. ‘He was Dod’s nephew, but dinna speak about him to either Dod or his folk. It’ll only upset them.’
‘That must be the wee one wi’ the curly hair. He’s only in one of the photos on the Bremner’s mantlepiece,’ Elizabeth had whispered. ‘We’d better not ask about the other missing ones, maybe they drowned as well. Anyway the Knockack burn’s that small I’m sure Mary winna mind us going down to it. It’s only wee but perfect for damming. I love it when the water rushes out when we let it go!’
I had nodded. Elizabeth’s birch tree branches were a new attraction, but in the past we’d played at the burn without anybody ever stopping us. We’d fallen in loads of times without drowning. The water always makes a happy gurgling noise as it runs over stones and under rough banks overgrown with heather, but once dammed, the noise peters out, lost to the moorland birds and distant cattle cries. When we release it, the sound of running water is so joyful, you’d think the burn was grateful for its returned freedom.
Returning to the present, Elizabeth says, ‘Maybe Mary’ll give us a shot of her bike as well. Mum’s manny one’s hopeless. I can’t get my leg over the cross bar and if I try going under it, it dunts ma head.’ She bites her lip and shakes her head. ‘Oh! I’m dying to learn how to ride a bike. Then I’d maybe get ane o’ ma own. It’d save me walking all that way to and back fae school.’
So now, Show Day’s here and, as far as we know, Mum and Dod haven’t mentioned water to Mary. They’ve been too busy dealing with all the needs that running a farm demands.
‘I so wish we could turn it off at the mains,’ says Mum before they leave, then, turning at the car door, she brightens. ‘But we’ll me
et other farmers with the same predicament. They’ll all be at the show and we’ll love every minute of it.’
Now that they’ve gone, I’m disappointed not to have asked if they’ll buy a birthday present there. In two days I’ll be five and, as Dobbin’s getting too small, I’d really like a horse.
Mistaking my look, Mary says, ‘They’ll be back before you know it.’
She arrives, as always, by bike. It’s got a bell that shines like a silver beacon and she lets us ring it as soon as she appears. She lives with her mum and dad at the Glebe, which is a small croft beside the church and manse and is overlooked by a railway viaduct. Its huge arches show grey against the lush green of the wide valley it spans. Far below, a twisting road leads to farms on the other side of the railway line from us and the Divie river. It’s got such deep pools and is so fast-flowing there’s no danger either Elizabeth or I would go near it, never mind trying to dam it. Anyway, Mary’s mum and dad have told us there’s kelpies in it.
I still don’t know what a kelpie is but it doesn’t sound very friendly.
The Glebe’s two miles, mostly downhill, from us. Coming the other way, of course, is not so easy.
‘We don’t know how you’re not out of puff. At the end of that great long pull, there’s the Tomdow brae and our own road’s just as bad a slog,’ says Elizabeth, watching Mary prop her bike against a side of our larch plank-built garage. In an absent-minded way, she polishes the bike’s bell with her coat sleeve.
‘Ach! You get used to it. It’s better than walking anyway.’
‘So, Mary,’ hope fills Elizabeth’s voice, ‘could I get a shottie please?’ She rings the bell as if to plead her cause.
Mary rubs her hands, re-secures the crimson beret on the bike seat and takes off her headsquare.
‘Of course you can. Jeepers! It’s a fair old walk to school. It’d be great to get you on wheels. Once you get the hang of cycling, it’s easy and you’ll love it, but don’t you do anything until I’m good and ready. I’ll need to hold onto you to begin with, but I’ve some chores to do for your mam. After I’ve done them, I’m all yours.’
An old horse cart’s been abandoned near our back door. Even if it’s been mouldering under a big larch tree since time began, there’s still enough of it left for Elizabeth and me to climb in. We play in unusual harmony, probably because going together to one end makes it tip down to make a satisfactory clatter. Then, when we run to the other end, it does the same thing.
‘See-Saw, Marjorie Daw,’ we sing, running to and fro, faster and faster and to an ever-increasing racket. A short time after, either Dod or Mum will come along and shout to us to stop – they can’t stand the bloody racket, and Duck won’t shut her competitive voice unless we do.
As yet she’s not around and we only stop when Mary, with her gentle smile, returns. We climb out and troop after her as she takes the bike and pats the seat. ‘Right, Elizabeth, let’s see how we go.’
Were the bike not such a highly polished black, it might have more of the importance and glamour of a gold chariot. Still, it holds the promise of freedom and adventure, and I’m envious of Elizabeth as, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, she adjusts her dungarees, then climbs onto the seat.
Duck registers rage in a loud sudden arrival. Mum must have forgotten to feed her.
‘Don’t mind her, Elizabeth. Just concentrate,’ urges Mary.
Elizabeth slides off the seat. ‘It’s a bit too high. I’ll be better off standing on the pedals,’ she says. As she does so, after reaching up and grasping the handlebars, her knuckles show white.
‘Right as usual,’ says Mary with a wee grin. ‘Now, look ahead.’
‘Yes – look ahead,’ I repeat.
‘What would you know, Jane? Just shut up,’ snaps Elizabeth, making Mary laugh, as, with her staggering support, both set off on a zig-zag course.
Certain that unless Duck’s fed she’ll go on the attack, I find her some bread and milk. By the time she’s fed, Elizabeth’s gaining confidence, whilst Mary’s completely breathless. She blows out her cheeks, then Kirby-grips her brown hair back into its tidy waves.
‘My! But you’re a quick learner, Elizabeth. You were going at such a lick, I nearly had to let you go and just look at me!’ She wipes her brow. ‘I’m fair done it. Look, quinies, I’m going to have to go inside and have a cup of tea before I can do any more.’
Left to our own devices we remove the beret, tie a hanky over the bell, then turn the bike upside down.
‘Mind out!’ says Elizabeth as she cranks the pedals. There’s something exciting about the way the back wheel spokes spin into a blur.
‘I bet you don’t know how to stop it,’ says my sister. She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘See? Watch this.’ She presses her foot on a lever at the handlebar. ‘Brakes are important.’
I’m unclear about the lecture and why she’s using her foot. Anyway, why would anybody ever want to go slow? When I learn to ride a bike, I’m not ever, ever going to bother with brakes.
Tutorial over, Elizabeth is on another track. She’s looking at the bike in a considering way. Suddenly, she rights it.
‘Here, hold it steady.’
‘But . . . Mary . . .’
The set of her jaw means that it’s no use arguing, so I straddle the front wheel to stabilise the bike. Elizabeth grips its handlebars, saying, ‘Good thing it’s a lady’s bike. No bar to swing my leg over. Look!’
Already she’s in control, with a leg on either side of the bike and feet planted on the ground. Using a lever-type movement of her foot, she kicks up the furthest-away pedal.
‘Hold it steady,’ she shouts, but it’s hard work holding onto something that plainly wants to escape, especially now that its rider’s got her full weight on one of its pedals. She stands up on it. Unless she wants her other leg to be left behind, it has to follow. It lands on the other pedal. I can’t hold on any longer. I’ve just enough time to tug the hanky off the bell and ring it when she shouts, ‘Let go!’
As if I could stop her!
‘Look straight ahead,’ I cry, determined to be part of her success and waving the beret as if it’s a starting flag. But she’s off and cycling, albeit in a wobbling fashion, down our farm road. Birds wheel above her, their cries mingling with hers in a chorus of jubilation, but, watching her, head down and certainly not looking ahead, I get a sudden pang.
With this key to freedom, my sister may well want to explore a world beyond us and the farm.
17
A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE
It’s impossible to think anyone would want to leave home but, waiting for Elizabeth, I’ve had an inspiration. It’s a sure way to beat her newfound mobility and, what’s more, it’s even more exciting than cycling.
Flying’s the thing.
Floating will be the first challenge but should be easy enough with a parachute. Recently, I saw a picture of a happy-looking bear in a comic and he was drifting down to earth holding an umbrella. Mum got one the other day. She’s so proud of something that nearly matches her suit, I was surprised she didn’t take it with her, but I’m in luck. It’s been left in the porch and she didn’t say not to use it. I distinctly remember her saying, ‘The weather forecast’s so good for the day, I’ll not be needing this.’
Granny once told us it was bad luck to open an umbrella inside. Mindful of the warning, I take it outside and press the opening button. As the umbrella unfurls, an unexpected gust catches it and I nearly topple over. It doesn’t feel that safe but something as strong as this has to be perfect! Quickly I fold it away, tuck it under my arm, then, grateful for the knee-protecting dungarees, scramble up onto the garage roof.
It feels risky crawling towards the highest point of the sloping roof and takes even more courage to peep over the side. A small world away, our hens, in their intent and matter-of-fact way, scratch about the place, whilst Duck strikes out for the byre. She’s her usual dirty-white colour. She could do with a bath, and she’s head
ing for the water butt, but if I know her, she’ll only want to cool her feet in it. Today’s hot enough. Even the tar in the felt covering the garage is melting. Black marks streak my dungarees and the umbrella as well. Heck!
Mary is still inside, but I can see my sister heading back up the road. Carefully, I stand up, unfurl the umbrella, close my eyes and jump.
‘Honestly, Jane. You could’ve broken your bloomin’ neck,’ says Elizabeth, who’s got off the bike and swapped her breathless look of triumphant return for one of shock. ‘And look at the umbrella – it’s been turned right inside out. It’ll never work properly again. Mum’ll be furious. She got it as a present and’s awful proud of it – well, she was.’
‘Don’t tell Mary,’ I say, from a bed of nettles. Then, unsure whether to turn, die or be lifted out, settle for, ‘Gie’s a hand up. Ouch!’
After placing the bike to one side with the care of an attentive mother, Elizabeth grabs some docken leaves and throws them in my direction. ‘It would have been worse if you hadn’t been wearing dungarees, but try these.’
‘No bloomin use!’ I throw them away, but forget stinging hands and ankles when Mary comes and doesn’t go mad. Instead, she inspects everybody and everything, nods, then replaces the beret on the bike seat. She takes the umbrella, looks at it for a second, straightens the bent ribs, then magically clicks it back into shape. ‘There now! It’s a pity the tar’s probably there to stay. Otherwise, it’s as good as new, but, Janie, you’re a wee terror.’ She dimples. ‘I never know what you’ll be up to next.’
I might be feeling loads better but this is so unfair, especially as all that Elizabeth gets are approving words. ‘And you’re a wonder. Fancy you learning to ride a bike, and by yourself too. Thank goodness you were here to help Janie when she fell off the roof.’
She could easily have fallen too, I might have said, and even if she didn’t, all she did was rage and hand over some useless old docken leaves. However, it’s best to say nothing because there’s an outbreak of sunshine and she’s grinning and pointing to the basket Mary’s prepared.