Telling Tales

by Jane Yeadon

  ‘You shouldn’t swear, the brakes aren’t very fancy and you should’a asked me first. Anyway, you needna bother thinking you can have my bike just cos I’m not around.’

  ‘I dinna want it. Mum says she’s going to get me a second-hand one. There’s a great bike shop in Forres. They sell them dirt cheap.’

  I’m expecting my sister to protest, but she doesn’t. It’s a surprise when she shrugs. Later on, I expect she’ll start gloating all over again about the wonderful time she had at the Lamond’s Halloween party and the friendships she’s made with the tattie squad. Right now, however, she’s looking remarkably cheerful.

  ‘Mum got mine there an’ it’s been fine, but actually,’ she slows down to savour her news, ‘I’m goin to buy a new one an’ it’ll have gears, a big saddlebag, a bell an’ brakes that really work. See? And look whit I got.’ She pulls some notes from her pocket and flourishes them. ‘That’s ma wages! So after you pay me for my old bike, you can use it as much as ye like.’

  Autumn’s giving way to signs of winter. It’s the end of the tattie holidays. The leaves that made the gean trees overlooking the garden look as if they were on fire have all gone. Without them, the trees seem cold and forlorn. We no longer climb up them to spy on Lala at the tattie pit. Something like a giant molehill has taken its place.

  ‘Thank God we got the crop picked and covered so quick,’ says Dod. ‘An’ we were lucky to get that squad Lizzie was in. Getting fowk tae pick tatties is getting tae be a nightmare. It was good o’ Mrs Munro tae come an’ gies a hand, but she’s over seventy!’ Dod shakes his head in wonder. ‘An’ even if her an’ Mrs Coutts worked as hard as anybody else, she’s no so young either. We’ll mebbe hiv tae think o’ something different for next year. I’ve been reading in the Farmers Weekly about something called silage. Sounds a better option and no so weather dependent, but at least we’ll have oor pit full o’ plenty tatties for stock-feed once the winter sets in.’

  ‘Wheest! Don’t tell the cows that,’ Mum advises. ‘If Charlotte hears that she might be kept tight o’ a tasty bite until the snow comes, she’ll go on strike. She’s strong-minded is Charlotte and, as for that new coo, Morag, that we bought from yon croft in Sutherland, she’s maybe heard already. Did she not chase you into the steading and bawl at you to give her some hay and a tattie to go with it?’

  ‘Ach weel, she needed tae settle in,’ Dod allows. ‘She’d come a long way.’

  ‘Maybe, but she must already know that you’re a big softie,’ scoffs Mum. ‘I saw you pinching tatties for her from our own supply.’

  ‘It’ll all be strange for her, and coming from where she does she’ll only understand Gaelic,’ Dod says. ‘Anyhow, actions speak louder than words.’

  On our first day back at school, I realise this is true after I shout, ‘Wait for me, Elizabeth!’

  She says nothing, but I get the message. Already, she’s clicked her gears, rang her bell and now she’s off on her brand new Raleigh bike. Like her, I’d wave goodbye to Mum but am still not confident enough to take my hand off the bike’s handlebars. Instead, I concentrate on catching up.

  She’s halfway along our road when she slows down. Good! She must be waiting before we get to the main road. It’ll give me a chance to show how fast her old bike can go! Head down, I pedal like mad, then, taking the lead, remember the brakes warning too late, as is the cry, ‘Mind the gate!’

  It’s one that Dod’s made. It was stretched between us and the main road before I crashed into it. Actually, it’s really like a fence, so I have to be grateful that, on impact, it disintegrated into a tangle of wires.

  ‘Honestly, ye should watch where you’re going. Did ye not see the cows out of the fields and grazing aboot the place?’ says Elizabeth, helping me up. ‘Dod aye puts up this gate to stop them going onto the main road.’

  The home-made barrier might look insubstantial, with its light poles supporting three lines of wire, but their barbs make it effective. It’s amazing that the only damage is a grazed knee. Whilst I dust dirt off it with a hanky, then bend down to lick it properly clean, Elizabeth sorts out the jumbled wires.

  Replacing the barrier, she says, ‘Come on. We’re going to be late. We’re lucky ye didna snap any o’ the wires and the bike seems OK too.’ Before she gets on her own one, she hands over a hanky. ‘Here. Take this one. It’s cleaner. Tie it over your knee.’ She deals out a long measuring look, then declares that I’m fine and once more sets off.

  I follow, but this time am not inclined to keep up with her. The whir of my bike tyres as we swoop down the Tomdow brae is company enough. Not even the wind that blows cold on my face holds me back. This is the nearest thing to flying imaginable. Up the small brae towards Mrs Munro’s house we go. Smoke’s coming from her chimney but she’s not around to see or hear me shout to a pheasant, ‘Hey you! You’d be better on a bike!’ The bird, startled from feeding in a stubble field, ignores the cry and, as if clockwork powered, runs, head outstretched, on and on. Flying seems outwith its reach. I’ve the same problem going up the schoolie brae.

  Maybe it’s because school’s at the end of it, but on getting there I find there’s more excitement than usual. A new girl’s arrived. She’s got her back against the tree in the playground and Alec and his pals are teasing her. ‘Mina! That’s a funny name. Are ye sure it’s not Jemima?’

  She’s big, plain and looks scared. She doesn’t respond. Maybe she doesn’t understand them or their humour. Instead, she casts about, as if trapped. It wouldn’t have helped that, drawn to the spectacle, the rest of us crowd round to watch. She opens her mouth, but only manages a strangled cry. She shoves lank, mousy hair away from her brow and shakes her head.

  She is, after all, a big girl, but had either Davy or Moira not been finishing off the last of their tattie-picking at home, I suspect they’d have stopped us from joining in a chant, and repeating over and over again, ‘Mina Mina – rhymes wi’ Jemima!’

  Suddenly, and with a loud roar, she rushes at us, hurling her schoolbag round her head, helicopter-fashion. It’s much as I did on my first day when I was teased, but suppose I lacked Mina’s sheet-white face, with its terrifying grimace, and the trace of spittle gathered at the side of her gaping mouth. Nobody fled then, but this must be the one time everybody beats the toll of the school bell. As one, leaving the girl behind, we pelt into the classroom. Minutes after, Miss Milne comes out of her house to investigate the phenomenon, somehow managing to herd in the new girl.

  ‘She’s got a knife!’ The whisper comes from nowhere and whips round the classroom as the newcomer takes in her surroundings. Fear and hostility charge the air. She shakes her head, then pulls back as if to escape. Miss Milne holds onto her. There’s uproar. Arms about each other, they sway together as if in some crazy dance. The girl’s breath came in anguished grunts. Her stockings slide down. She’s as big as Miss Milne, but, as momentarily it looks like she might be pushed to the floor, the teacher uses her weight to better effect. Somehow, she manages to pin down the girl’s frantic hands and, for a second, stills her. Then, with a wild cry Mina breaks free. Passing the piano, she hurls her schoolbag at the clock. It lands in the open doorway through which she’s fled.

  Not only is it amazing that she’s been able to resist the girl’s undoubted strength, but, knife or not, we reckon Miss Milne has the courage to chase after her. The sound of footsteps running over the stone floor of the cloakroom dies as the outside door slams. Elizabeth and I, holding hands, sob along with most of the other pupils, whilst James licks his lips and drums his fingers.

  ‘Good riddance tae bad rubbish,’ someone eventually tries, but nobody laughs. In the frightened atmosphere of our classroom, Alec and his pals, heads down, mutter amongst themselves. Then one of them offers, ‘Ach! We wis only teasing. We aye dae that tae newcomers. It’s jist a bit o’ fun. It’s easy seen she canna take a joke and her a big girl!’

  ‘Aye, an’ she might be wanting tae get her ain back. She’s mebbe waiting
in a ditch for us.’ Alec sounds rattled. It makes me gladder than ever that I’m able to ride a bike. I’m still getting out earlier than the older pupils, but today Elizabeth says, ‘If you wait for me, we can go home together.’

  I don’t jeer at her. There’s been too much of that today already.

  It’s not long before Miss Milne comes back. She’s on her own. Her brow’s untroubled as she reinstates the clock, which despite a cracked face is still working. ‘Right. Get on with your lessons,’ she says, as if nothing’s happened, and for once we do as we’re told.

  We’ll never see or hear about that disturbed girl again. Maybe it’s because we all feel a little guilty but telling our parents about her might cause further trouble. Thinking our part in it, best forgotten, we don’t discuss her. She only came to school for one day and that apparently was enough.

  40

  LOCAL DRAMA

  The local hall gives a better sort of drama than what poor Mina offered. Country dancing, rurals, badminton and the drama society succeed each other every night of the week except Fridays, when everyone whists, dances or holds variety concerts to raise funds for their interests. There’s talk of getting new curtains, but not everybody feels a need for them. But the dramatic society does, and it’s their turn tonight.

  They’re putting on a play. It’ll make a change from the usual display of local talent, gifted or otherwise for music, dance and humour. Because it’s so busy on the farm we can’t always manage to be there, but this time it’s different.

  I’m almost sick with excitement and so’s Elizabeth. She says, ‘I cannna believe we’re going. I heard Mum say so and that she wouldn’t miss it for all the world and Dod said neither would he, only he hopes that the piano’s been tuned.’

  From the outside, our wooden-built hall looks a bit like a huge boat at anchor, but the creaking floorboards inside give the impression of it being in motion. The station’s a short walk away. It’s handy for Bert, who not only works for the railway but is also the hall keeper. Setting out the rows of seats must have been hard work, but on the night of the concert he’s delighted to see every one being taken.

  ‘Grand body heat! There’ll be nay need for paraffin heaters the night,’ he says. ‘But once the show starts I’ll need tae tell the wifies in the kitchen tae turn doon the tea urn. It makes the place affa steamy.’ In an act of courage, he adds, ‘And to stop their blethering.’

  We’ve come early so we get seats near the front and a good view of the stage. The ancient mustardy-coloured curtains stretched over it look as if they were put up at the same time as the hall was built but haven’t worn so well.

  ‘I can see why they’re needing new curtains,’ says Mum, as a buzz of activity comes from behind them, along with the intermittent sound of someone hammering.

  ‘Uh huh, an’ that’ll be Alec Jack doing the final touches.’ Dod stretches his legs in front of him and folds his arms. ‘He didna get in tae make the set until the afternoon. Ah jist hope it disna collapse.’

  Tension rises as curtains-up time approaches. The noise behind them subsides into whispers. Some wag in the audience observes a little girl, bored with inactivity, running back and fore to the toilet, and says, ‘That’s an affa watery wee quinie.’ We muffle giggles. The same person who waves at Bert to put out the lights now pulls a heavy cord to open the curtains. Behind them, the piano strikes up.

  ‘Nay tuned,’ tuts Dod.

  Unaware that the curtains have done no more than twitch, the pianist gets into her stride. Mum’s laughing. I wish she wasn’t so loud. The curtain-puller tugs again. Still nothing happens. Mum’s giggle’s so infectious, Dod’s grin gets bigger.

  ‘We’re nay ready,’ shouts the stage manager. Somebody must have told the pianist there’s a hitch because the music stops. The audience stops breathing, then round each curtain side a pair of hands appear. To the sound of material tearing, a little dust and rapturous applause, the curtains are finally opened and the play begins.

  I’m not sure what it’s about, but it’s not boring.

  Alec’s joinery skills are obvious in the sitting-room setting. It’s got a door on either side. It’s even got a window with curtains.

  All eyes train on the blue-and-white gingham, as someone says in a whisper loud enough to overcome a stage one, ‘Ooh, they’re right bonny. I think he’s mebbe taken them fae his ain kitchen. Wonder if he asked the wife if he could.’

  ‘He must’ve. They look starched to me. Alec wid niver have got them to look sae fancy,’ someone else answers, not bothering to keep his voice down.

  Audience participation, now established, is prepared to be helpful. Having watched the first person coming on stage through one of the doors but failing to make a dramatic exit through the one opposite, the watery wee quinie’s also ready.

  ‘Mind! The ither door disna work,’ she shouts, as soon as the next character comes on stage.

  The player’s inclined to argue. He glances over in her direction, then, cutting his lines, strides over to the door. ‘Dis so. Look!’

  As he twists, shoves, then eventually puts his shoulder to it, the scenery wobbles.

  ‘Canny!’ cries Alec off-stage.

  ‘Right enough,’ the player sighs, giving up. He nods to the wee quinie, then carries on with the script.

  ‘Telt ye,’ she says with some satisfaction, after which somebody promotes the value of a clout in the lug for impudent and spoilt children.

  I’m busy keeping my eyes peeled for the actors who forget to duck as they flash past the window on track for the working door. However, the wee wifie Smith’s so small she got past it without being seen. It comes as a surprise when she appears onstage. And to herself as well.

  ‘Ooh I’m nay supposed tae be here, but at least I came through the right door,’ she says, interrupting players already mid-stage and mid-dialogue. She throws a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Och, it’s aye fine tae see ye any road,’ shouts somebody from the audience.

  She giggles, then, waving a small hand, skips off the stage, giving a thumbs-up as she makes it through the working door.

  At length and despite Bert’s best efforts, sounds of chat and clattering china from the kitchen tell us that no matter how entertaining the play, there’s no way that tea’s going to be held back. Interval time is decreed. The piano strikes up whilst, to tumultuous applause, the curtains are unceremoniously hauled back into position.

  There’s a lot of chat about the state of them over tea, cakes and sandwiches.

  ‘It’s all very well for the other groups to say they don’t use them, but they will if they’re running a concert for their own funds,’ says Mum. ‘Honestly, you can get so much more done if you consult and cooperate with each other.’

  ‘Are you staying for the dance afterwards?’ someone asks.

  We know that Dod loves dancing, but Mum, who insists that she can only do the Charleston, says right away, ‘No. As soon as the anthem’s over, we’ll be heading for home.’

  41

  LET IT SNOW!

  ‘I wish you’d leave your sledges in the bike shed,’ says Mrs Haggarty. ‘I’ve just tripped over one as I was coming in.’

  She must’ve been up early to light the school stove. The cloakroom radiator it heats is warm enough for mittens and hats flung over it to steam and give off a homely smell.

  ‘Jings! You’d think somebody had been making Sheep’s Head Broth,’ she says with a mischievous glint.

  She’s been making a path between the school and the canteen and now is heading towards the stove carrying something small on her shovel.

  I peer at it.

  ‘Can ye nay see withoot yer specs, Specky?’ Alec mocks.

  The truth is, I hate my specs. They’re still too tight round the ears and make my eyes feel as if they’re being pulled out on stalks. With either rain or snow blurring the lenses, they’re pretty useless outside too. I think Elizabeth’s the same. She doesn’t need them for the blackboa
rd because she’s so near it, but I’m back sitting beside Moira and can’t see it without them. It’s seldom very interesting and certainly it’s never been as fascinating as what was on Mrs Haggarty’s shovel.

  ‘Course I can see. It’s a moosie,’ I say.

  Ignoring Alec, Mrs Haggarty turns to Davy, who’s just come in. As he hangs his balaclava on a coat peg, she says, ‘I heard you cleaning your feet before you came in. You’re a good loon. Now, could you open the stove door, please? Mind, it’ll be hot. Use your foot.’

  ‘Nay bother.’ Davy presses his foot on a latch as big as one you’d get on a barn. The door swings open. He steps back from the heat whilst orangey-red flames leap out. They might look like hungry imps but, undeterred, Mrs Haggarty advances.

  ‘Dinna!’ I cry.

  But it’s too late. The cleaner has swung the shovel towards the flames, decanted it, then kicks the door shut.

  ‘The bloomin’ thing was dead, Jane!’ She sounds exasperated.

  ‘It might jist hae been frozen!’

  ‘Well, it won’t be that now,’ the cleaner replies with a heartless laugh. ‘Now, some of us need to go and do some more work.’

  Mrs Haggarty’s hard heart’s been as much a surprise to me as the start to our day, when Elizabeth jumped out of bed to look out of the window.

  ‘I thought we’d slept in. It’s so light! Dod did say that he smelt snow last night, but I thought he was joking.’

  I was hopeful. ‘Is there a lot?’

  ‘Not enough to keep us from going to school. Come and look for yourself. It’s funny,’ she paused for a moment. ‘It seems awful quiet. I canna even hear Duck, but I suppose we’d better get up.’