Telling Tales

by Jane Yeadon

  I feel a bit sorry for Elizabeth. She sighs, frowns, nibbles her nails and looks longingly at my shoes, but not enough for me to admit that I don’t really mind getting either her clothes or shoes – it saves breaking them in. But, ah! These red shoes are perfect for instant wear, even if Mum says they’re to be kept for ‘best’.

  The car sounds marginally better, though the odd rattle can interrupt Mum’s chatter about the stirks’ sale. ‘Well, here’s hoping that bloke who bought them hasn’t got a garden, and if he has it’s stirk-proof. Honestly, until the auctioneer banged down his stick I wasn’t sure if there was anybody bidding. The way farming mannies bid’s extraordinary, and, you know this, quines’ – she turns in her seat so that we feel included in her story – ‘that’s how they must think it’s done at all sales. The other day, Smithy told me, she’d fancied buying a rather pretty dinner set at a local roup. Beel insisted on going with her. Said she’d be the better of a husband being around, especially one with his special bidding technique. Many a bargain he’d got using it.’

  I don’t think Dod’s all that interested. He’s too busy commiserating about the lot of the poor farmers who farm the land alongside the road and whose crops are ankle deep in water: but Mum’s determined to finish her story. ‘Beel couldn’t believe the women at the sale could be so loud or rude. According to Smithy, contempt filling his rugged features, then, come the dinner set’s turn for auction, Beel prepared the weapons of his extensive armoury.

  ‘He pulled his cap over one eye, pretended he was measuring the middle distance with the knob of his stick, but by the time he’d waved the leg of his horn-rimmed specs, the dinner set was knocked down to a cheery wifie who was waving a flamboyant umbrella and bellowing louder than anybody else.’

  As if defending the way farmers bid, and disapproving of our laughter, Dod sounds cool. ‘Weel, ye widna get any tinks at something like that so I doubt if she came fae those clootie hooses. There wouldn’t be much demand for china there.’

  We drive past a group of dwellings made up of bits and pieces of cloth draped over hoops. They’re built so low to the ground, and covered in such faded cloth, they merge into the scenery. If it wasn’t for the smoke coming from an outside fire, you wouldn’t know anybody lived there.

  Elizabeth’s startled. ‘Do folk actually bide there?’

  ‘Yes, tinkers, and I don’t suppose the Inverness folkies much like having them so close to their town,’ says Mum. ‘Oh well! I suppose I should remember places like this when I complain about Tombain’s draughty corners, but tinks don’t like to be tied down to any place so when the sun shines and the mood take them they’ll be off, and taking their houses with them.’

  From the way she speaks, I get the feeling that on a bonny day she might like to be a tink herself. Did she and our father not go gadding about the countryside selling vegetables from the back of a car? We don’t mention this. We think Dod might not like it.

  He says, ‘Well, even if the rain’s stopped and the sun does come out, they’ll no go far fae here the day.’

  Perhaps telling us that neither might we, the car backfires.

  ‘I thought the exhaust was sorted,’ muses Mum whilst Dod gives her a brief lecture on the thrifty measures taken by the car mechanics, who’ve managed to re-secure it but not sort it completely.

  ‘But I doot it’s hardly worth it. A new one’s the answer,’ he says.

  Mum, who’s always happy to let Dod be the driver, looks out the window. ‘Car mechanics are beyond me,’ she sighs.

  Still, despite having to wait for a train to go over the Gollanfield level crossing and the crossing-keeper to come and re-open the barricading gates, we do make progress.

  There will be a time when ‘something must be done!’ becomes the cry after a succession of tragic accidents at this crossing. Nowadays, the crossing-keeper, heavy gates, automatic level-crossing barriers and lights have gone. In their place is a wide road. It’s built over the railway line, which has so little importance to motorists now it’s irrelevant whether or not there’s a train running on the track below.

  However, the road leading from Nairn to Grantown, and which we now take, remains remarkably unchanged to this day. No fast driver will appreciate its winding way through green sheltered valleys, neat upland farms and woods where lichen flourishes as much as the trees on which it grows.

  ‘We’ll not go by Glenferness, we’ll take the Relugas way instead. It’s that bit closer,’ says Dod, as the distant prospect of the Knock appears. We turn off, as if away from it, and onto an even quieter, narrower road. Not far along it is a whitewashed cottage.

  ‘That hoose is right close to the road but if it was any further back from it, it’d fall into the River Findhorn and would you listen to that racket. It must be in spate,’ says Elizabeth.

  It’s true. The threatening roar of a huge body of water surging almost parallel to the road reaches into the car, even if the windows are closed.

  ‘It’s when ye canna hear it that ye need tae worry,’ says Dod. ‘That’s how ye ken it’s burst its banks.’

  Elizabeth says, ‘I’ll tell Derek that when I go back to school. He says you hear it in that house all the time. His grandfather stays there. He often tells us funny stories about him at school. He calls him Ginga. Mebbe it’s the same way that Lala got his name.’

  ‘Is that the Derek Grant who kicked the teacher’s milk pail down the schoolie brae?’ I ask, knowing that story but liking it so much I want to hear it again. (Derek will in the future swap footballing skills for writing. Clap Hands for the Singing Molecatcher is his enchanting recall of his own years growing up in Dunphail.)

  But here, Elizabeth’s the storyteller. ‘Uh huh. Mary’s folk supply the schoolhouse with milk every day, and Derek takes it up in a lidded pail to her. One day after school he was returning it and found that it was easy and better fun to kick than carry it.’ She looks sad. ‘He got a right belting for that.’

  ‘Did they have to get a new milk pail?’ Mum asks.

  Elizabeth folds her arms, pouts and kicks the back of her seat. ‘No. So it couldn’t have been that badly damaged.’

  The sound of the river gets even closer as we cross the Divie Bridge, a few miles down from the Dulsie one. There’s only a brief glimpse of the Findhorn’s seething cauldron of black water and brown spume before we start to climb. We continue, up and up, then through the tiny village of Relugas, where crammed-together houses lean, looking as if, domino-like, they might all topple down the slope.

  ‘Might be something to be said for clootie hooses built on the level,’ Elizabeth remarks.

  At the continued challenge, the car begins to labour.

  ‘If we don’t make it, you quines’ll have to go oot an’ give me push up the hill,’ says Dod, so we sit forward, willing the car onwards. The smell of a distressed engine fills the interior, whilst children who’ve been out playing on the road point to the back of the car and, scattering, shout, ‘Fire!’

  ‘Limmers, but I ken fine they’re jist up tae mischief!’ chuckles Dod, glancing in the mirror. Still I think he’s pleased that it’s only black smoke coming from the car when, that long climb finally accomplished, we drive past Relugas House. It’s made in an attractively pinkish-coloured stone and far grander than a clootie hoose, but it’s also sensibly built on flat ground. And now, wheeling past Tillyglen’s, whose farmer’s shouts can often be heard echoing across our glen, the Knock once more makes it appearance. With Tombain tucked under it, it’s very close.

  ‘Nearly home,’ says Mum.

  ‘They’re very nice, my dear,’ says Belinda when I show her the new shoes and tell her about the tinks and how lucky she is to live in a house and built on level ground.

  ‘I don’t know about Rabbit,’ she whispers, ‘but I shan’t in the least mind living in a caravan when we join the circus. Anyway, most of the time we’ll be in a huge tent. Such fun! Now, look, why don’t you try tightrope walking? You’ve never done it befor
e and it’ll be another useful skill. It’s jolly nice outside now and I could come with you and watch.’

  I’ve done my chores. The hens have been fed, their eggs collected and Duck’s angry shouts silenced with her special mash. Elizabeth’s helping Dod with the milking and Mum’s busy making the tea. It’s a good half-hour until then, so there’s time for a bit of circus practice.

  ‘Great idea, Belinda. I could get dressed up for it, too.’ I squeeze past the toy box in the wardrobe to get my frock. It’s sea green in colour, and made in a material that’s so soft and shiny that when I go to put it on it slips over my head like water. I give a twirl and the dress floats out. I can’t tie the sash at the back, so tuck it into the pockets at the side.

  ‘Now, that is smart,’ says Belinda when I put on the shoes. There’s not a mirror, so I have to take her word. For a moment, I consider staying inside, putting on the Hungarian folk music record and trying out some balletic moves, but Mum’ll hear. Going by past experience, she’ll laugh and I hate that. No, it’s best to go outside, where I can practise at the back of the house: out of sight.

  All dressed up’s made me feel too excited to even speak to Rabbit, but I’ll tell him about everything when we get back.

  The fence posts have pointed tops but they’re broader than the high wire the circus performer used, so they should make the first try easy enough. Remembering the importance of a balancing stick, I cast around for something appropriate.

  ‘Look, Belinda, somebody’s left a rake and hoe lying against the fence. They’ll be the very dab. Now, you sit there, and you’ll get a good view.’

  Popped on top of a strainer post, she doesn’t look that safe, so I add, ‘Don’t bother clapping, you might fall off. ’

  She doesn’t answer, probably because she’s already looking a bit squint. I’d right her, only getting on top of the fence demands concentration. The rake and hoe do help, even if they are a bit short, but once I’ve reached my goal, they give a sort of balance.

  A late sun shines on my back and a gentle wind ruffles the dress. I’m ready! I steady myself, then inch forward and make it past the first post, but as I try for the next one the sash slips out of one pocket. It’s a distraction. I clasp my balancing poles, realising belatedly they’d be of more help if their length matched. The fence posts are still a bit wet. It’s not good news because my shoes with their leather soles don’t have the grip of rubber ones. Midges start to gather in a cloud above my head. It’s useless trying to shake them away. They’re after blood and persist. Suddenly, without warning, Belinda tumbles off the post. There’s a sickening crack as she hits her head on a stone.

  Diverted, I wobble, then, stifling a cry, overbalance. I’d have fallen with the same horrible-sounding repercussion as poor Belinda had the frock hem not caught on a pointed fence-post top. At least it slows descent. However, accompanying it, comes the ominous sound of tearing material.

  21

  A WEDDING!

  It’s all a matter of being helpful, and the waitress could do with some advice.

  I lean over the table to say, ‘If we’re haen soup at hame, we usually keep oor plate for the next course. It fair saves on the washing.’

  She nods and winks. ‘Don’t you worry. This is a hotel, so you’ll be getting a clean plate for your meat one.’

  Very occasionally, we’ve had afternoon tea at Austin’s Tea Rooms in Elgin. There, the waitresses wear the same kind of black uniform with crisp white aprons and cuffs. As we didn’t have to take a turn at the sink there, I suppose the rule’s the same here. Still, these present surroundings feel even less comfortable than the tea room, with its hushed chat, shining silver teapots, water jugs, spotless white tablecloths and carefully folded napkins.

  The one that I’ve got’s so big that despite being tucked in at the neck of my blue velvet dress it still reaches below my knees. It feels like a tent and is so well starched I can hardly move. Elizabeth’s similarly trapped, although she seems more bothered about finding a hair in her soup.

  ‘You’re always finding one of them,’ I tell her. ‘You’re so bloomin’ fussy!’

  She lifts her chin up, freeing it from the napkin’s hold. ‘I am not, and would you stop fidgeting?’

  The sun shining through the hotel’s dining-room window makes the Moray Firth it overlooks sparkle. It highlights an entombed feeling the napkin obviously shares as it slips from anchorage then shoots onto the floor. As I bend down to get it back, I’m struck by how dull in comparison to the view of the firth is the sea of dark-coloured clothes glimpsed from under the table.

  It’s laid out in a U-shape and might make me play a guessing game of when and from where the waitress’s feet might appear, but I can’t stay down too long. Surfacing, I appreciate that from here, at least, the guests’ outfits, perked up with button-hole flowers, make for a jollier sight. And a lot of effort’s gone into setting the table. There’s enough laid out glassware and cutlery to start an ironmonger’s shop. Mum’s not around to tell us which to use. I watch carefully.

  She and Dod are sitting at the top of the table and get served first. He’s looking particularly smart with a spray of white heather in his suit button hole, whilst Mum’s lovely in her navy blue frock, and hat and suede high heels all in matching colour. They’re so occupied talking and laughing with each other that we might be near them but it feels as if they’re miles away. They both look very happy.

  It’s funny getting a different plate for each course and I might be wondering why I’m in a fancy hotel in Nairn, worrying about food spilling over another new frock, if I hadn’t overheard Granny’s recent conversation with Mum.

  ‘Look here, Betty, you can’t have one of your bairns at your wedding, wearing a frock repaired with Copydex.’

  ‘Well, Mother, actually it was only torn at the hem and I was that proud of mending it, you’d have to look very closely to spot it. Besides, Janie wouldna mind.’ Mum sounded exasperated. ‘Anyway, God knows what she might get up to at a wedding. I couldn’t stand it if she spoilt another frock.’

  But Granny was determined. ‘For a start, and by way of example to the girls, you should stop taking the Lord’s name in vain. Then, and with a bit of grace, start to accept help instead. My books are selling well and I’m happy to pay for both the lassies to wear something decent, especially as we’re having a meal at the Golf View Hotel. I know the head housekeeper there. She’ll make sure everything’s right.’

  ‘I hate fuss,’ Mum tried, but Granny was unstoppable.

  ‘Well, you’ve had your own way about keeping the actual ceremony private and it’s going to be done by a minister this time around, but it’s not every bairn who gets a chance to go to a wedding meal, even if it is their mother’s one.’ Granny took a breath. ‘And at least her mother’ll be present at this one.’

  Mum’s voice rises. ‘We’re surely not going over all that again, Mother! You know as well as I do that, apart from all the expense of a flash affair, neither Ian nor I wanted a lot of ceremony and we certainly didn’t ever think there was anything wrong with a registry office wedding.’

  ‘Especially when your father was a minister and we knew nothing about it until the deed was done? It was the talk of Hopeman for ages and, for all I know, still is.’ I think this must have really annoyed Granny because she’s just a wee note off shouting.

  But Mum’s not bothered. ‘Och well, as you say yourself, the bairns can aye say they were there when their mother got married. That should stop the tongues wagging about her last wedding. Anyway, the fact that I’m marrying someone who came to work on the farm and is nine years younger than me’s probably giving folk plenty to speak about already.’

  Whenever I ask Mum her age, and for many years after, she’ll say she’s forty-eight. That’s odd because Elizabeth says she’s sure that’s not true and Mum’s joking. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with grown-ups, but this time I’m pretty sure of my facts.

  ‘Did you know that Mum and Dod
are getting married, Elizabeth?’ I asked one day that we were playing on the see-saw cart.

  ‘Course. I told you a’ready, but I dinna expect you were listenin’.’ She spat out something green, then stuck out her tongue, squinting down to have a look at it.

  ‘What’re ye eatin?’

  ‘Sooraks. Mum sometimes calls them sorrel. They’re fine but ye widna want tae eat a hale panful.’

  ‘Ye’ll get a sair belly.’ It’s the best I could come up with. However, inspiration came later.

  ‘Your tongue’s still green. I bet it’ll stay that colour for the wedding.’

  So, here we are, and we’re actually at its celebratory meal, and sadly Elizabeth’s tongue’s no longer green and of course Mum’s getting a better deal than poor old Mrs Ferret and Dod looks great and our mother beautiful. Still, I can’t imagine ever wanting to wear any of the stuff that she’s got on, unlike what Granny has stored at her house. Now, it is beautiful. We’re going to be staying with her and as soon as we go back to Fern Cottage she’s promised that we’ll get a shot of it.

  The meal drags on. It’s followed by sherry in tiny glasses for the ladies, and not much bigger ones for the men’s whisky and well-diluted Kia-Ora orange juice for us. We all raise them after something called toasts. When Dod and Mum, together, cut a cake very like the type displayed in the Asher’s window, there’s much applause. Considering how easily Dod cuts kindling sticks, I find this astonishing. Then, at last, covered in confetti, they leave the hotel, hurry into the car and drive off to something called a honeymoon.

  ‘I hope that exhaust holds,’ says someone, not entirely joking. The taxi taking us back to Granny’s house hasn’t that problem, but Elizabeth, who’s tripped and fallen getting into it, is crying.

  She so seldom does, I’m magnanimous. ‘If you dry your eyes and blow your nose, you can have first shot of Granny’s skirt.’