by Jane Yeadon
‘Time to go home,’ says Mary. ‘Let’s take a shortcut. We can go up through the field.’
‘No!’ we chorus. ‘Frankie’s in that one.’
‘I know that, sillies! I meant the field next to him, but’ – she turns to Elizabeth and says with a twinkle – ‘I’m pleased to hear that at least you’re frightened of something.’
My sister shrugs. ‘Uh huh, and I think mebbe Dod is too. In fact, to tell you the truth, Mary, I’m sure that Mum and Pansy’s the only ones who aren’t. I’ve even see Pansy out in that park he’s in and hunting close by him.’
I’m dying to tell them about the kittens. I bet they’re not frightened of our bull either. They’re certainly not scared of me. As soon as Frankie was moved outside, Belinda and I met Pansy taking four fair-sized kittens through the field leading to the Tomdow. I tried to pick up one of her young but stopped when, with its eyes blazing, it arched its back, fluffed up to twice its size, spat and swiped the air with its claws.
‘Such language!’ tutted Belinda. ‘Leave it alone. It’s a common little thing.’
‘You wait till I’m a lion tamer, ye wee vratch!’ I called, watching as it scampered after Pansy, now purposefully heading towards the Tomdow’s steading.
‘Maybe she’s giving them a lesson on rat-catching,’ I’d mused to Belinda. ‘I don’t think I’d ever be brave enough to do that.’
Still, I’ve enough courage as we walk home, going up the field next to Frankie’s one. Taking Mary’s hand in case she’s scared, I shout loud enough for him to lift his head and look in our direction, ‘Bloomin’ P-A R-A-S-I-T-E!’
19
TO MARKET TO MARKET
Mum throws opens our bedroom door. She sounds harassed. ‘Would you two sleepyheads wake up? I canna believe you’re still asleep. Did you not hear the float arriving and the stirks bawling? They were making sure we knew they’d no intention of going anywhere, least of all somewhere on wheels. Och! I canna wait to see the back of those meddlesome brutes.’ She takes a breath, then powers on, ‘Come on! You’ll need to get up, and now!’
I’m too sleepy to ask why, but Elizabeth’s already tumbled out of bed and asked the question.
‘We’re all going to Inverness. The stirks are being sold at the Wool Fair there, and as you two are needing shoes, we’ll get them in town.’
Elizabeth sounds puzzled. ‘Wool Fair’s a funny name.’
‘Aye, it’s kept its name from the days when people only sold sheep, and for their fleeces especially. Now all kinds of animals are sold – even horses, though I don’t imagine we’ll be buying any of them.’ She’s wearing a skirt, jersey and, unusually for her, a headsquare. It makes her look and sound business-like and strict. ‘Now, Janie, pit on something sensible an get oot o’ that bed!’
I’m in a bad mood. It was too much to hope that Mum and Dod would actually come back with a horse after the Highland Show. Instead, they brought home a beautiful birthday frock. Even if it’s the only one I’ve got, chances to show it off are rare, but it’ll spoil in the rain. I look out the window and consider having to wear something more suitable. The ruched bathing suit perhaps.
After our day on the moor with Mary, the sun packed up. Grey skies took its place, bringing rain that’s been falling ever since. The only person who seems happy is Duck. Her shouts sound almost tuneful whilst she turns well-oiled cartwheels in the deep puddles that are everywhere. It’s terrible weather for hay-making. Maybe a day in Inverness won’t be as dismal as the sight of flattened grass in our fields.
‘It’s bad enough cutting the stuff, but just as difficult getting it dry,’ says Dod in tones of despair. ‘At this rate, it’ll never make it to be stored inside.’
The other day he ran out of wet weather wear and resorted to wearing a corn bag cornerwise over his head, the rest draped over his shoulder. Today, however, he’s smart in a dark suit with a waistcoat, white shirt, tie and hat. Whilst we’re waiting for him to fit in the car’s back seat for us, Mum, looking pointedly at his head, says, ‘That Fedora suits you better. Yon sack made you look like a grimy member of the Ku Klux Klan.’
It almost sounded like a joke. Relieved that Mum’s beginning to sound less stressed, Elizabeth and I try out the back seat for bounce and spring, whilst Dod gets into the driver’s seat. He looks in the car’s cracked mirror and adjusts the hat brim so that it slants. ‘Ye think so? Ma mither said she thought I looked like a gangster, tho’ I dinna ken how she wid know.’ He closes his eyes and turns the ignition key whilst Mum holds up crossed fingers. The car starts without fuss. I look at my own fingers. I must try that. It might be a good way to get a horse.
Elizabeth leans forward so that she’s practically sitting between Mum and Dod. ‘Are we goin’ by Glenferness?’
‘Aye, you quines like the switchbacks and it’ll be quicker today, even if we’ve tae gae through the ford, just past Dulcie Bridge. There’s times the railway gates on the Inverness–Nairn road are closed long before the train goes through. Ye can get a right hold-up and I bet the road’ll be busy enough with ither floats going to the mart.’
Mum puts in, ‘And that’s the way our stirks will be going. Much as they’ve been a bloomin’ nuisance, I hope they get there in one bit.’
Shortly after, we could apply her remark to our own journey.
‘For goodness’ sake, Eliza, sit back or you’ll go through the windscreen. And, Geordie, would you mind the exhaust!’ she says as we fly over the first switchback bump. The car back seat is low but, thanks to the springs, and despite hanging onto the back of the seats in front, we soar towards the roof.
Dod merely says, ‘Aye weel, Janie, when you go to school at least ye’ll be able tae count tae seven. Are ye counting? Six more bumps an after that there’s the ford. Plenty excitement, eh?’ He slides Mum a mischievous grin. ‘Haud tight, Betsy.’
The windscreen looks as if it’s crying. In the brief moment that the wiper manages to clear it, we glimpse a sodden landscape, where tree branches bow low, laden with rain-soaked leaves. Crop fields, like frozen sea waves, lie victim to the weather’s tempers. Mum tightens her head square whilst, with a shush of water, the car hits puddle after puddle.
Quiet falls inside; outside, making up for it. Then Mum says, ‘Um, not sure about this.’ We follow her gaze and see something like a river crossing the road. ‘That’s surely not the ford?’
But already we’ve hit and are in it. On my side there’s an expanse of water, running fast against the car as it tries to plough through. The engine falters. The windscreen steams up. We start to drift. As water begins to well up through the car’s floor, I wonder if Dod’s swimming lessons might be put to the test.
Mum, however, is not about to keep her opinion to herself. ‘Dod! At this rate, and if we don’t drown first, we’ll sail into Nairn, no matter how much you’d like to miss going that way.’
This morning, before we left, I looked out of our scullery window and couldn’t understand what a huge brown twisting snake wearing a scarf the colour of old lace was doing at the bottom of one of our fields. It turned out to be the Knockack burn, but so heightened and transformed it was easy to imagine that not only a serpent lived there but also that there’d be room for half-a-dozen kelpies as well.
I’m sure there’s enough water in the ford for a few here too, but Dod’s unfazed. Then the engine dies. Quickly he turns the ignition key. Rain beats down on the car roof. Time stands still. Then, just as I’m thinking how different is the soothing sound of a downfall on the Bremner’s porch, the car reclaims its voice.
As if the tortured noise of a revved and labouring engine’s normal, Dod raises his voice but says in an easy way, ‘Full throttle!’
The car jolts forward. The wiper groans and gives up. The canon-propelled water spray blinds visibility. We shoot through the rest of the ford and must be back on the road because the tyres have grip, and suddenly we’re racing along an even surface as if chased by a dozen kelpies.
‘What’s that smell?’ asks Elizabeth, wrinkling her nose and looking green. I feel sick, too.
‘Och, a wee bit of hot metal,’ Dod says. ‘It’ll be after us bein’ in the water an’ I suppose the brakes’ll be affected as well. It’s easy to sort – they jist need a wee pump.’
We watch as his foot goes from gentle pressure to stamp. When nothing happens, Mum mutters, ‘I just have to hope that they work before we go down that brae.’
If we were going in the other direction, it wouldn’t be a problem, but we’re now approaching a gentle slope with a sharp drop beyond. The car’s gathering speed. Mindful of the slowing effect of the laurel bushes at the station, I’m surprised that Elizabeth doesn’t recommend driving into the rain-soaked trees bordering the road. They lean forward, as if waiting to see the arrival of somebody special, but we’re now going so fast that even if we wanted to we’ve neither time nor inclination to wave. Instead, we flash past them. All eyes are fixed on a sharp and fast-approaching bend. Whilst Dod repeatedly pumps his foot over the brake pedal, changes gear and makes a distressed engine sound even more troubled, I clutch Elizabeth’s hand.
At the same time, Mum reaches for the handbrake. But we know about that, don’t we?
With perfect timing, we’ve been sick. As we flew down the hill, we managed to hold back until we reached the sharp bend at the end of the slope. Then the brakes finally worked. As the car screamed to a halt, we leapt out. We did it in unison, as well as throwing up. After, as we turned our faces to a now lessening rain and Elizabeth said, ‘Oh, that feels lovely but I do wish we were in Inverness,’ I continued the unusual harmony and agreed.
Now, Mum’s promise that ‘we’re nearly there’ does finally come true and we arrive in Inverness with Dod, blithe and confident despite the stink of burning rubber filling the car. ‘That’s jist the brakes getting back into working order,’ he explains.
There’s a rattle of something troubling the car’s undercarriage, accompanied by the occasional bang, so loud it sounds like gunshot. ‘And that’s the exhaust,’ he continues. ‘But there’s plenty garages here. I’ll drop ye all off at the mart, then I’ll tak’ the car to Macrae and Dicks. They’re that quick and reliable, I bet it’ll be ready after the mart.’ He glances at Mum and pats her hand. ‘I’m sure it won’t be too expensive. It sounds worse than it really is.’
She sighs, checks her watch and nods. ‘Let’s hope so. I could have done without the drama but at least we’ve made it, and doubtless the whole of Inverness will have heard us coming.’ She turns to look at us. ‘Poor pets. You’re still looking pretty peely-wally.’
Lining one side of the road leading into town are wooden pens. They’re a permanent feature, except that today they hold the disturbed occupants from the floats that men are busily unloading.
We drive past them until we’re practically at the town centre.
‘This is as near as I can get you and I’ll see you here later.’ Dod drives off in a cacophony of noise.
The mart’s not far from the station and I wonder if the cattle would prefer to have come by rail. We’re certainly delighted to be out of the car. Sucking recovery-pandrops, we watch as cattle lots, seemingly dazed and muddled by their surroundings and the distressed calls of other livestock, are herded through the mart’s back entrance. There’s so many, that recognising any of ours, seems impossible. Once inside the mart, there’s the same doubt. The place is huge and full of ruddy-faced, farmer-looking people not apparently doing anything but gazing as if transfixed by the sight of cattle circling the auction ring.
Whilst Mum scans the place, Elizabeth whispers, ‘For goodness’ sake, Jane, dinna pit yer hand up in case ye buy any beasts. It’d be easy enough. Imagine what it’d be like if we’d to take our own ones home. Mum wid be furious.’
Mum’s aware of the danger. After she gets a programme, and scans it, she checks her watch, then, turning her back on the auctioneer, says, ‘It’s not going to be long before it’s the stirks’ turn. You two should go on up to the top. I’ll stay at ground level, and don’t for the love of Mike do anything daft.’
There’s several tiers of wooden planks surrounding the ring. When we reach the top one, we sit on our hands, look straight ahead: terrified to move.
‘This place minds me on a circus,’ I eventually whisper. Elizabeth, summoning up enough courage, casts her eyes heavenwards.
The auction ring’s enclosed with bars, handy for those wanting to put their feet on the lower rung whilst resting their arms on the top one. That way they get a closer look at the animals prodded round the ring by men in dust-coloured coats wielding large sticks. The mart smells like a well-run byre. Round and round, the cattle are driven. The place is loud with their confused cries and the voices of men skilled at conversing over large fields. Still, the auctioneer, sitting at a raised desk, is clearly audible as he barks out the bids in a torrent of words and figures. He connects these with frequent whoops. They’re quite fun, but after he bangs a wooden stick to mark a completed sale, there’s a short respectful silence and we have to recognise that market is a very serious business.
‘I dinna understand this. Naebody seems tae be bidding but that’s a new lot coming in noo.’ I try to say it without my lips moving.
Since, mercifully, we haven’t bought anything ourselves, Elizabeth’s growing in confidence. She risks, ‘I wis wondering that too, but I’ve spotted some of the mannies round the ring. They must be the ones bidding but the auctioneer’d need eagle eyes to see them. Look!’ she points, then looks at her hand accusingly, before snatching it back. ‘There’s one – he’s winking and another one’s scratching his head and, see yon manny wi’ the black cap? His eyes are rolling that much you’d think he was taking a fit.’
She’s probably right about bidders being near the auctioneer. Still, I mustn’t blink or blow my nose in case she’s wrong. A drip forms at the end of it. It’s really annoying. Before it falls I catch it with my tongue.
‘Yuck, Jane!’
‘Ssh! Look, there’s Mum. She’s joined the auctioneer.’
She’s one of the few women here. I’ve always thought she was big but seeing her amongst the auction team I realise that she’s small really. I might not have recognised our stirks were they not so nosily going up close to the spectators, then kicking up their heels and joining in a race round the ring, as if proving that they don’t need any old prodding stick. Mum, looking anxious, stands beside the auctioneer.
‘Fine beasts, bred on the hill and owned by Mrs Macpherson. Lively boys too,’ he says it approvingly.
Once again, I’m flummoxed as to who’s bidding. It’s impossible keeping up with what the auctioneer’s saying, but when his stick bangs down I see from her smile that things have gone well.
20
DRESSED FOR THE OCCASION
The rain’s given way to a watery-looking sun and Inverness High Street looks as if it’s celebrating its appearance. Gaelic voices mix with broad Scots and English spoken in an accent that brings the sound of a pibroch to mind. There’s colour, if faded, in the ancient tartans of darned shawls worn by women with brown faces carrying baskets of home-made wooden pegs, whilst country people, most recognisable in their rugged features and heavy tweed clothes, jostle for space amongst townsfolk in clothes meant for a softer lifestyle.
‘Dod’s more like them,’ Elizabeth points out. Then, as someone brushes past her, leaving a faint, pleasant smoky air in his wake, she adds, ‘And his clothes don’t smell of peat.’
‘It’s probably because we don’t burn them. The peat-moss we’ve got isn’t good enough for cutting them, and you’re right, Dod is a snappy dresser,’ says Mum. ‘He’s so seldom away from the farm, he makes a special occasion of it when he gets the chance. He’ll be going back to the mart to see what trade’s like and I bet the folkies there will be teasing him.’
‘Won’t he mind that?’ I ask.
‘No, he’s used to it.’ She laughs. ‘He says folk are just je
alous!’
Even if Inverness is exploding with hill folk who might not be watching where they’re going, there’s little risk of accidents. When the crowds occasionally spill onto the street, the few cars that crawl along it aren’t likely to cause any either. And certainly no driver seems to mind if the one in front stops for a chat with someone they’ve recognised in the crowds.
‘I never thought that driving along a street would be such a social occasion,’ says Mum. ‘But come on, bairns. Let’s get your shoes, find Dod and then we’ll get home: I’ve had enough of crowds and excitement.’
Dod takes the main Inverness to Nairn road home and I’m happy: not only because it’s straight but also because I’m nursing a box with bright red leather shoes in it. They’ve even bars, so it’ll save always having to ask someone to tie my laces.
When Elizabeth does it, she says, ‘It’s high time you learn to do this yourself.’ Then she ties them so tightly my feet must think they’re being strangled.
I shake the box and the shoes inside it rattle: proof they’re not a dream. These new shoes are the nicest ones in the whole wide world. It’s unbelievable that they’re mine. And they fit properly! The shoe shop’s shiny, wooden X-ray machine proved it. I’d only to stand on its step, put the newly shod feet into the slot there, then, peering through one of the viewing holes at the top, see toe-bones. Against a bright green background, they showed black.
‘Wriggle your toes,’ instructed the shop assistant, looking through the other hole.
‘Perfect. Look, they’re not touching the shoe. You can see its outline.’ She stood aside to let Mum have a peek. ‘See? There’s plenty room for growth.’
And this clinched it.
Elizabeth gets shoes too, but they’re plain brown in hard, ungiving leather. When she protests, Mum says, ‘You need them for school. Janie’ll get your old ones, but she always gets your cast-offs. It’s not good to always be getting things second best. Anyway, Liza, you’re getting a bike.’