by Jane Yeadon
But she’s still at her writing. I can hear the typewriter, so I sneak in by the rarely used front door. I think she may have heard me because I’m hardly in when the typing stops and she bawls, ‘Go away out o’ here, now!’
She must have hearing like a bat, I think, and go out again, slamming the door to express my feelings, immediately realising that this may have been a mistake. She’s right after me.
‘Janie, was that not you knocking at the back door?’ she asks. But she’s not looking for an answer. I follow the direction of her horrified gaze and see a headsquare-topped woman dressed in a suit. She’s going down our road at a walk bordering on a trot.
‘Damn! I think that’s the laird’s wife,’ Mum says.
37
SPINNING A YARN
Elizabeth stretches in bed, moans about how lifting tatties gives her a sore back, then says, ‘So, what did Mum do?’
‘She ran after the wifie, full of apologies, and took her back to the house. Insisted she have a cup of tea.’ I’m still amazed by this example of our mother’s turnabout, let alone display of hospitality, but then allow, ‘Her typewriter was still on the table, so I suppose that the laird’s wife would have seen it and maybe realised it wasn’t the best of times to call.’
‘And what kind of wifie is she?’
‘She seemed fine enough. Speaks different fae us but she liked Smiler.’
‘Well, that says a lot, and she didna take the huff when Mum shouted at her?’
I’m a bit sour thinking about grown-ups who think it’s all right to yell at little children. ‘No, they’d a bit of a laugh,’ I say, scratching a midge bite. It’s dark, so I can’t see if it’s bleeding, but it’s unlikely there’ll be any sympathy coming from my sister. She’s too busy groaning about having to go tattie-picking in the morning.
As a diversion I ask if she’s seen Pansy.
‘No, but I’ll tell you who I did see. Black Douglas! The tattie field that we’re working on’s next to Tomdow’s grounds. We’re high up, of course, so if we want to see him we’ve to look down, whereas it’d be difficult to miss the Culfearn bull. If he wasn’t in the field opposite us, we’d certainly hear him. I think he must be picking up on the racket the Kerrow one makes. He’s new. Bought at the Perth sales or so, one of the tattie-pickers said.’
‘Perth!’
‘Aye, a fancy, expensive job and he must know it. Ready to rule the roost and not only at the Kerrow. He must be wanting the Culfearn bull to get the message.’ Elizabeth tuts. ‘Both seem to think it’s a competition and whoever bawls the loudest’s the winner.’ She pauses for a moment, before going on, ‘Douglas must’ve thought he needed to join in.’
Thinking about fat, easy-going Douglas with his big behind, short legs and ladies enjoying a pleasant spot in his meadow beside the river, I think of the winding path leading from it to the top. ‘He must’ve been keen. It’s a fair old climb.’
‘Uh huh, and I don’t think he’ll bother doing it again. Och! He started off well enough and he certainly can scream, we all heard him coming, but by the time he arrived at the top, he’d run out of puff. All that he could do then was to lean on the fence separating him from us and puff like an old mannie. You should have heard some of the tattie-pickers in the squad teasing him.’ Elizabeth sniffs. ‘They wouldn’t have done that if it’d been Frankie.’
‘Bloomin’ cowards,’ I say. ‘Who’s in the squad anyway?’
‘There’s the farm workers from roundabout. I’m the youngest and the only quine, but there is a wifie there and she wouldn’t torment a fly. She’s Mrs Coutts. Comes from the Dava. I bet you know her husband. Works on the railway, goes to church every Sunday.’
She means the tall, angular, straight-backed man who cycles there. I know this because I catch him on the binoculars, amazed that he manages the long Tomdow hill climb without ever having to get off his bike. Clad in Sunday best, complete with shiny cycle clips, he maintains a steady, dignified course. Unlike Black Douglas, I don’t think Mr Coutts would ever get out of breath.
It sounds as if his wife is equally strong, as Elizabeth continues, ‘She’s just wee but she’s a great worker. She gives me a hand if I haven’t finished my stint before the tattie digger makes its next round. She told the mannie driving the tractor pulling it, that sculls were heavy enough to carry without tatties in them and to give me a pail, like she’s got, and to stop going so fast.’
‘And did he?’
‘No, I think it made him go faster.’
‘That’s terrible!’
There’s a smile in Elizabeth’s voice. ‘Aye, but he soon changed his tune after the other tattie-howkers shouted he was a helluva hasher and threw tatties at him.’ She turns in bed without groaning and muses, ‘And I suppose that kind of cheered us all up a bit. I bet that driver’s no idea how hard work picking tatties is, and it did get a bittie easier when he went slower. Still, by the end of today I’d hardly enough puff left to bike home.’
Spurred on by the dismal thought of the long trail to school, I take a chance. ‘Why don’t you take the shortcut through the woods? I bet that’s quicker.’
‘Dinna be daft. It’d puncture the tyres.’
‘No, I meant going on foot.’
I don’t say I am planning a sneak practice on her bike, nor do I need to because she says that Dod’s going to give her a lift. He wants to speak to the tattie squad. See if they can come to us after they’re finished at Culfearn.
‘So, are you part of the squad?’
‘Aye.’
Despite myself, I’m impressed enough to say, ‘Dod’ll no pay you.’
‘He will sot. You’re just jealous.’
‘Quiet, bairns. It’s half-past nine!’ calls Mum, which is timely and not unusual.
Next morning when Dod comes back from Culfearn and he says he needs a hand, wages aren’t discussed. But if I’d heard of danger money, then the present activity might qualify.
‘Haud onto that fence post,’ Dod instructs. He’s got something he calls a ‘mell’ and it’s the size of a hammer that a huge giant would use.
We’re out on the moor to fence off an area, which, thanks to the Lammas Deluge, has deepened a bog enough to make it dangerous: even for smart sheep. Gingerly holding the post and worrying about what Dod’s about to do with the mell, I think back. At least it was fun and exciting up to this point. Sitting amongst the fencing clobber in the tractor-drawn trailer, I’d looked back at the farm.
Had smoke come out of the old house’s chimney, the view of Tombain would have been as it always was. Still constant and edging one side, was the sheltering fir plantation, and the larch trees too, their pointed tops leaning towards the house, as if watching over it, whilst the farm buildings huddled close by. In the distance, Morvern and Embo were distinct and blue as harebells. The weather had kept. There might have been frost in the night, but now the sun ruled the sky and all the fields still, but for the one next to the moor. On it, short grass rippled in green waves. Yet, and this too was unusual for our high Highland croft, there wasn’t a breath of wind.
I could’ve shouted to Dod but driving along the rough track leading to the moor needed all his concentration and once we’d arrived at the boggy bit the trailer had to be unloaded. By the time that was done, I was out of breath and only able to watch as Dod picked up a huge metal pointed pole.
‘Ye might have to wait a wee while,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to make some holes in the ground wi’ the punch first.’ With all his power, he drove the pole into the ground, cursing at the muffled thump- sound of a stone being hit.
As he readied for another go, a grouse flew out of a nearby tussock of heather. With a cry that began like a hoarse giggle, it went into clumsy flight. ‘Go back, go back!’ came its call as it went in the opposite direction of the field where I was now heading. Still, the day stayed calm. Still, the short grass rippled. Still, last night’s frost lingered in the field’s hollows, despite a hard, bright sun. It glance
d on what I thought was wet grass. Then, out of nowhere, something brushed against my face: light as a cobweb’s thread.
I looked closer. It wasn’t the grass that was moving. Instead, caught on it and making it seem so, were millions upon millions of single threads spun by millions upon millions of tiny spiders. The sun glanced on them as they swung from their tethered green posts, like minute empty washing lines blowing on a drying day. But it would only take a whisper of wind to free those tiny spinners on their gossamer-like threads. Then, using them as parachutes, they’d be able to float away as had the one that drifted across my face. A long time later, I’ll learn that they’re called balloon spiders.
Meanwhile, entranced, I gazed down on a tiny world of huge industry, where everything above it remained quite, quite still. And easy for Dod’s voice to carry. ‘Right, Janie!’
‘Haud tight,’ he repeats and now I’m back and in the present and watching him grip the mell with both hands. Now he stands on tiptoe. Now, with a wide swing, he brings it up. Now, my eyes follow its course. Now, for a split second it shows black against the blue sky. Now, it comes crashing down with all the power and weight of a canon ball.
And now they’ll all be sorry because now I’m quite, quite sure I must be dead.
38
A HELPING HAND
‘Ye’ll need tae haud the fence posts tighter if ye dinna wint them tae dirl,’ Dod advises.
I look at my hands. They throb and tremble from the impact of the mell landing hard on top of the post round which my grasp was so unsure. Whilst Dod’s aim was perfect, I think back to the neep hasher. At least I could stand back from it. I’m about to tell Dod this when he walks to the next hole and drops in a pole.
‘Ach, your hands’ll soon feel better. Jist mind whit I telt ye an’ grrrip hard. Come on, we need tae get this fencing finished afore it’s dark!’
Unlike Shadow, who’s a Cheviot, our new sheep are called Blackfaces and are specially able to cope with all the tough conditions Scotland can deliver. Our flock has been ranging the hill, keeping their distance from us, but eventually one comes to investigate. Others follow, then form a line of shaggy, grubby coats. Under them, balanced on trim ballet dancers’ toes, are legs splodged with the same black that covers their faces. They’ve all got horns, but they don’t look dangerous. Maybe it’s because they’re shaped like bicycle brakes.
Amused by their interest, I say, ‘Hey, Dod! They’re as nosy as Shadow, but I dinna think they look half as snooty.’
‘No. That’s the trouble wi’ a long nose, ye can only look doon it. As well as that, when she wis wi’ us, we’d nay other sheep. Mebbe she thocht she wis a human.’ He nods at the Blackfaces. ‘But this lot’s got the usual herd instinct. Makes them worth the watching. See how they followed the first sheep? If one got into that bog, the others might follow.’ He looks at the Knock and raises his head, as if looking beyond. ‘It happened at Lochandorb.’
I’m aghast. ‘How?’
‘The loch wis frozen over and the shepherd thought he’d take a shortcut across it. It wis a bitterly cold night an’ he wanted to hurry them to shelter and for himself as well. Only there’s springs under the loch and they can thaw out bitties. When the leading sheep went over one, it fell in and the others just followed. The shepherd could dae nothing aboot it. He wis near drowned himself.’
‘What a terrible thing to happen!’ My cry is something of a bleat but makes the sheep scatter.
‘It was that, Janie.’ Dod pats my shoulder, clears his throat, then taps one of the posts. ‘But this should keep the brutes safe.’ He stands back to admire the fenced enclosure. ‘We did a grand job, but we’ll need tae get home. It’ll soon be time tae get Lizzie back.’
It’s a much happier Elizabeth who bursts in the door. Throwing down a pile of Mickey Mouse comics on the kitchen table, she says, ‘I got these from one of the tattie-squad folk. He said his brother and sister are finished with them.’ She gives a little hop. ‘As well as that, they’re having a wee Halloween party tonight and we’ve been invited. Dod says he’ll take us, but we’ll need to go dressed up. I’m going to go as Willie Winkie. That should be easy an’ I could say his poem for my Halloween piece.’
Mum looks up from cleaning a basketful of eggs. Her brow creases. ‘Janie, I don’t suppose you’d like to be a Willie Winkie as well?’
Hearing Elizabeth’s sigh, she hurries on, ‘But mebbe you could jist do a wee poem.’
The cheerful faces of Minnie and Mickey beam out from the shiny paper. I know there’s colour, fun and adventure inside it because Elizabeth sometimes buys one from Mattie. I’ve always to wait ages until she finishes reading it. Now that she’s got a whole pile, I bet she’ll still do the same with these. I haven’t got a wee poem – well, I have, but the minute I stand up to recite anything, I always forget. Not only that but I’d been looking forward to sitting, cosy, at the fire with Smiler.
Overwhelmed between a day of hard work when I could so easily have been brained and the rewarding prospect of having the comics all to myself, I burst out, ‘I dinna wint tae go.’
Dod, arriving in time to hear this, says nothing but looks so disappointed I feel guilty. Having had no intention of helping, I now say, ‘But, Elizabeth, I can look out dressing-up stuff for you.’
‘I’m fine. Dod’s goin’ to give me a shirt an’ he says there’s yon green metal candlestick that Lala and Mrs Bremner had. I’ll get a shot of it.’
‘So, where’s the party, Dod?’ Mum asks.
‘At the Lamond’s. One of their loons was at the tattie howkin’. He said a few of the Dava bairns aye go roon to their hoose. An’ the quines would be welcome.’
Mum looks at me, questioningly. When I shake my head, she hands me her cloth. ‘Right! If that’s the case, you can take over cleaning these eggs and don’t use Vim on them. It breaks the shells’ natural seal.’
Nell had been rolling in something very dead and she’d brought the memory of it into the kitchen. ‘You’re an orra smelling brute!’ Mum had cried and taken her outside to throw a bucket of water over her. Now Nell’s back, damp, in the huff, in the kitchen and only marginally less offensive, whilst Mum, Smiler and I are in the sitting room.
I love this room and can’t believe we’re actually in it. It’s usually kept for Saturday nights, when we keep up with the fortunes of the MacFlannel family on the wireless. Afterwards, we roll back the room’s small square of carpet and, whilst Mum’s the audience, Elizabeth and I dance on the black painted wooden floor to the music that Dod plays on the melodeon. Sometimes we sing bothy ballads. Maybe Dod’ll entertain the Lamonds with a few of them tonight.
It’s such a cold night I couldn’t bear to think of the dolls freezing in the loft. Now they’re tucked in on either side of the deep chair I haven’t had to fight with Elizabeth to stake my claim. Thinking the dolls will be bound to enjoy the comics, I hold up one of them so that they can see the pictures. Mum, with some muttering, has lit the fire. It burns with a blue flame licking round a log’s silver coat which, if it hadn’t already released a sweet perfume, would tell us we’re burning birch.
The fireplace has grey tiles topped with a highly polished mantelpiece made of dark wood. A small glazed vase the colour of a summer midnight stands at one end of it, whilst on the other a figurine of a naked lady balances on a small block of green marble. I wish I’d her long hair, but following the school nurse’s visit, there’s been a nit alert, so it seems unlikely. Flames cast shadows over the book-lined walls, the tilley hisses and Smiler, in raptures, is sitting on Mum’s knee. She’s so engrossed in her newspaper that the only sound she makes is the rustle as she turns a page.
I hold up a comic, sniff and try to concentrate on the adventures of Pluto but see nothing funny about him. Surely no dog’s ears could possibly stick up as straight as his, no matter how big a fright he’d got. With the back of my hand, I dash away a hot tear rolling down my cheek, taste its salt and sniff again. The fire spits and crackl
es.
‘You haven’t got another cold, have you?’ Mum sounds a bit fed up.
‘No,’ I try not to sniff again.
Mum puts down her paper and gives me a long look. ‘You’re surely not crying?’
Her concern is too much. It opens the floodgates.
‘I gotta an affa row fae Dod,’ I bawl.
‘Because you didn’t want to go guising?’
‘No, no!’
‘What then?’
‘I felt bad that I wisna goin . . .’ I stop for another gusher.
Mum’s exasperated as she says, ‘But you were very clear when you said that you wanted to stay here.’
‘Mmm. I did. But I think Dod wis affa disappointed so I ran after them to say that I hoped they’d have a nice time.’ I blow my nose then go on, ‘And I near missed them – they were already in the car and that meant I had tae shout. I’ve heard them cryin’oot something at school and afterwards everybody has a great laugh. I wisna sure what it meant but thought it must be something cheery, so I yelled it out.’ My lip trembles and I dash away more tears.
Whilst Smiler opens her mouth in soundless sympathy, Mum says, ‘If you greet any more, you’ll be waterlogged, but go on.’
‘Well, the minute I did, Dod stopped the car an’ when he came oot he was in a right rage.’
‘So what did you say?’
I only said, ‘Good riddance tae bad rubbish!’
39
A NEW ARRIVAL
‘I ken how tae ride a bike!’
‘How?’ Elizabeth, back from her last day at Culfearn, stops in her tracks.
Knowing I’m having to brazen this out, I say, ‘On your bike, of course. You werena using it, an’ I learnt it all by myself.’ I rush on, unable to stop pride and excitement swelling my chest. ‘I jist used an upside-down pail to get onto the saddle and to gie me a bit o’ balance. After that, I knew I’d to pedal like hell.’ I take a deep breath. ‘An’ that’s what I did. I just took off! Of course, I fell off a few times, but I’m sure I’ve got the hang o’ steering and braking now.’