By this time the old farmer was back from the hill. And these two old aunties, two old sisters, oh, they were like witches to me! Things I had seen in story books. They were bustling about and they had this big metal pot sitting on this big fire. And this frying pan. It was a new experience, I had never seen this before. I was only new from my father’s tent, never in a house before. And they took this bowl and put it on the table. And these chairs round the table. They put a chair up for me. And these two collie dogs were sitting there looking at me. There was a reddish one and a black and white one. I’m sitting in this chair, same as my daddy was. And the farmer himself is sitting at the other end of the table. This old woman put a fork down beside me and a spoon, and a plate. My mother had given us a plate and a spoon, but we always held it on our knees. I was never at a table in my life, never knew what a table was. There was no cloth on it, just a bare wooden table. And this collie dog’s sitting looking at me. I remember fine, it was some beef and some tatties on this plate. Oh, the old women were good to me. They were kind.
They said, ‘Are you all right, wee laochan?’ They spoke in Gaelic. ‘Are you all right, sitting there, laochan? And your daddy. Did you enjoy yourself today?’ I wasn’t wanting to speak very much, I was kind of ashamed, you ken.
And my father said, ‘Oh aye, he’s all right. He’s a good laddie. He’s Duncan.’
‘Oh, he’s Duncan. Oh aye, just like wir own Duncan.’ Duncan MacVicar was the name of their nephew. And when they knew I was Duncan, that was it. The two old aunties, Chrissie and Morag, I was to spend many years later with. ‘Oh Duncan, is the meat okay?’ And they fed me this meat and tatties. Oh, this was a good dinner. I’d never had a dinner like this before in my life. And a spoon and a fork and a plate. I’m sitting and I also had got this bone on my plate. I didn’t know what to do with it, you see. I had picked it clean and I didn’t want to put it on the table. And these two big collie dogs were sitting. I could see the saliva running down – the dogs were watching me! And the farmer was sitting on the other side. He was eating wee bits. They were awfae rough, from what I know now. And he was flinging anything he couldn’t eat . . . sluuuuurp, and the dogs were just, sluurrp, golloping the bits up. I didn’t want to do what the farmer was doing, but I slipped my hand down canny beside the chair, down beside the table. And this big red collie was sitting beside me. I put the bone down canny to the dog. And slurrp. Oh, the dog was contented. He lay down at me feet, see? This is fine. So, my father was watching me. This was my first experience being with non-traveller folk.
Oh, we’d had the best of meat to eat with my mother and my father. But we just sat with the plate my mother gave us on our knees at the fireside. There wasn’t a table in our tent. But anyway, I saw the idea and I was slipping the bits of meat I didn’t want in below the table to this dog. And I mind my father, God rest his soul in heaven. After the meat, the aunties brought us a big mug of tea, scones and cheese. And my father lighted his pipe and the old farmer lighted his. They both smoked and were sitting cracking about the hay and their good crop. ‘Oh, and how’s Duncan getting on?’ And ‘he’s just fine,’ this carry on.
My father said, ‘Well, we’d better go away again, brother. Time to go.
I said, ‘Right.’ This was dinner time finished. Back down to the stable.
He said to me, ‘Did you get plenty to eat? Are you hungry?’
I said, ‘No, Daddy, I got bings to eat.’
He said, ‘The flesh was moich. Brother, the flesh was moich.’
I said, ‘Moich? What?’
‘The flesh was moich,’ he tellt me. He meant that it was off, it was bad. You see, the farmer had killed a sheep. I didn’t know in these days. He had killed a sheep and hadn’t cured it right, kept it too long. And the old craturs, the nephew and these two old women, they’d put it in a barrel with salt. But they had no freezers or anything to keep it right. They’d kept it for maybe a fortnight or three weeks.
‘I ate it, Daddy,’ I said.
‘Aye, I ken,’ he said. ‘You gied it to the dog.
I said, ‘No, I didna gie it aa to the dog.’
They’d cut their chops, you see, a rough cut with the ribs and left an awful lot of meat sticking to them. Maybe there were three ribs together on each plate. They’d stewed the mutton and put the tatties in beside it. And the old craturs were doing their best, you know.
He said, ‘Did you get plenty?’
I said, ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’re gaun oot to cut more hay.’ So, back again. And he led this horse out. ‘Noo,’ he said, ‘look, you tak one and I’ll tak the other.’ He took this big horse out of the stable and he gave it to me. ‘Noo,’ he said, ‘watch your feet, in case they tramp on ye!’
I said, ‘Aye, Daddy.’ I mind I had on a wee jersey. A wee brown jersey and a tie. You got these jerseys and ties combined. And my mother tied the tie in a bow across my neck. And I had short trousers. There were no long trousers on the laddies in these days. It was a shame for laddies to wear long trousers. And my bare legs, no stockings. And these wee bits of shoes. I don’t know what kind, but they were bits of shoes on my feet. They weren’t sandals or sandshoes. Maybe they were two old shoes belonging to my mother with the heels chapped off. But my bare legs into them.
He said, ‘Brother, watch it disna tramp on yir feet!’
I pulled this horse out, oh, this was a great big monster horse! I was to own bigger horses later on in years. But it was the typical horse of Argyll, a crofting horse in these days, a garron horse, fourteen hands, maybe heavy built. It wasn’t a Clydesdale. They didn’t have big heavy Clydesdales with their big hairy feet in these days in Argyllshire. I was to see these horses later. But I was daft, moich on these horses. Just to even handle the rope, and pull the horse behind me was something I was never going to live down, you see! And this time Daddy actually gave me the rope itself. This horse had a moustache on its lip. And it’s stepping out, ken, stepping canny. And I’m turning my back to it, pulling it over my shoulder. And then now and again I would turn round to look at this horse.
My father said, ‘Are you gettin on aa right?’
I said, ‘Aye, it’s comin fine, Daddy.’ We walked down this wee hill, down by this place called Baby’s Byre and down the brae to the field on the flat. He backed the two of them into this machine again. Yoked them up into the machine. I jumped up in the seat, but I never jumped up till he got them yoked. Oh, I was fly enough for that! And he shoved this lever forward, put it in gear. Pulled the four reins up, clicked the horses round the field again, clickety-click. Rippita rippita rippita, round this field and round this field. Round, round this field till four o’clock in the afternoon. And cut it all, cut the lot.
He said, ‘That’s it finished, brother!’
‘Aye,’ I said, ‘that’s fine.’
‘Finished it,’ he said. Now I’m happy as a lark, see! Cut it all. Pulled the machine in close to the fence, and left it. And lowsed the two horses out and came back up. Took the harness with him this time. He never left the harness because it was getting on towards night. We put the two horses in the stable, took all the harness and put them back on the pegs. Got a bag, cleaned the sweat off the horses’ necks, cleaned the sweat off their backs and gave them a wee puckle corn, filled their hecks full of hay and shut the door. Back up to the old women again. Now this time we didn’t go into the house. It wasn’t dinner time. We knocked on the door and one old woman came out. And then the old farmer came out.
‘Oh, you’re finished, Johnie!’
Aye,’ he said, ‘I’m finished, Mr MacVicar. That’s it finished.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘ye’ll be wantin to go awa hame noo.’
He said, ‘Aye, I’ve got to go hame noo. Ye’ll manage noo.’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I’ll manage fine.’
So my father says, ‘Betsy says you were tae gie me, to ask you for a bottle of milk.’
‘Oh aye,’ he said, �
�ye’ll get a bottle o milk.’ And the old woman went into the house and she got one of thon old-fashioned whisky bottles, a three-cornered bottle. It had a net wire round it. It was full of milk, beautiful milk. And he gave it to my father, and also the money, five shillings. ‘There ye are, Johnie,’ he said. ‘But I want you back to help me with the corn, cut the corn.’
And my father said, ‘Ye any tatties?’
‘Oh aye,’ he said, ‘I’ll gie ye some tatties.’ So he went and filled him a wee bag of tatties. My father put this bottle of milk into the tattie bag, and he put it on his back. He took me by the hand.
I said, ‘Daddy, can we see the horses before we go hame?’
‘See the horses – they’re away to their bed, brother,’ he said. ‘They’re away to bed mair the night.5 They’re hungry, they’re tired.’
I said, ‘Daddy, I want to see the horses before we go back.’ We had to pass by the door of the stable, you see.
He said, ‘Laddie, are ye moich on horses?’
‘Aye, Daddy,’ I said, ‘I like horses. These big beasts, big animals.’ And he opened the stable door, pressed the latch down with his thumb and shoved the door. I was to work in that stable, take the horses to my own contract work years later. And once he’d opened the door, I heard crunch-crunch crunch-crunch. The two horses looked round at me. And this one had a white blaze on its face.
He said, ‘Are you pleased now?’
I said, ‘Aye, Daddy, I’m pleased noo.’ And he shut the door.
He said, ‘We’ll go hame.’ So we started the five miles back, walking down through the field, through the cut hay. And the smell of the hay would take your breath away. Soon we reached the road. It was a long bit from Achnagoul to Furnace, but oh, I’m running along all the way. I wasn’t hungry, no way, because I’d had bings of haben.6 We landed home and I’m thinking about these horses. My father gave my mother the five shillings, the bottle of milk and some tatties. She cut across the wood to the shop. But I couldn’t get away from the idea of these horses, you see.
‘Noo,’ I said, ‘Daddy, are you finished wi the horses? Are you no goin back to work, to the fairm nae mair?’
‘No, brother,’ he said. ‘The old man doesn’t want me. I cut the hay for him because he was gaun to work among the sheep. But he wants me back to cut his corn.’
I said, ‘Daddy, will ye tak me wi ye when ye go to cut the corn?’
‘Aye, brother,’ he said, ‘I’ll tak ye wi me.’
‘Can I sit in the seat?’
‘You cannae sit in the seat, though,’ he said. The farmer’ll have to sit in the seat, brother, because he’ll have to make the sheafs of corn.’
But my mother got the messages for the night. She came back from the shop with plenty to eat, tobacco and things for my father. And she made our tea.
Two months passed by and it came again – my father’s going back to Achnagoul. It must have been about August. Old Duncan had sent a message down with the post. The post collected the letters from all the farms. And Mr MacVicar had tellt the post, ‘Will you go up and tell old Johnie to come up the morn, I’ve got a wee job for him?’ We never got any mail, except a postal order we’d receive when my father would send away a parcel of rabbit skins to Glasgow, a fur trader. My mother had collected them from the houses. That’s the only mail we ever got. But the post always came up and tellt us if he got a message. The next day we had to go up to Achnagoul because the man was wanting us to cut the corn. I would have nothing in the world,7 but I was going to greet and carry on if I didn’t get to go with my father! So, it was a bonnie day.
I said, ‘Daddy, you promised to take me with you.’
‘Nah, brother,’ he said, ‘nah! Ye cannae, ye cannae come wi me this time. It’s too far to walk. Wi your bare feet it’ll be sore.’
I said, ‘Look, Daddy, you said you would!’ I gret and I gret and I gret. I wanted to and I carried on. I said, ‘I want to see the horses!’
‘All right, come on then,’ he said. ‘It’s yir ain fault, yir ain fault! If ye cannae walk, it’s yir ain blame. I’m no waitin on ye. Come on!’ So he finally took me with him. We walked up the field to the old farm once again.
When we landed up, the old farmer was out. And his two old aunties were out. They were tying poles together with pieces of rope. And they had corn rakes, and they had forks. They were tying these three poles together with pieces of rope.
My father said, ‘Well, Duncan, it’s a nice day.’
‘Aye fine, Johnie,’ said Mr MacVicar, ‘fine day.’ I was with him and I saw the two dogs. But I never saw the horses. They were in the stable. And I mind the old red dog’s name was Sam. I liked old Sam, he was a good old dog, a big red collie. He wouldn’t touch a mouse. I used to pet him, ken. But his tongue always hung out the length of my finger. And he was always hungry!
‘Oh,’ the farmer said, ‘Johnie, you go doon and yoke the horses, put the harness on. I’ll be doon wi ye in a minute.’ And my father went into the shed and he took two forks out, two-pronged ones with spikes on the points, and a hand rake with teeth on it. He took them down, put them on his shoulder. And he went down to the stable. He put the harness on the two horses again.
I said, ‘Daddy, can I catch one?’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘noo watch your feet. Watch they dinnae tramp on you!’ Now this field that the corn was in was just close at the back of the stable a wee bit. This was a beautiful field of corn, you know, big corn straws about three feet high! And the heads of corn . . . the horses were reaching over and trying to bite the corn. My father’s ay pulling their heads up with the rope, rope reins he had. And I’m pulling these big corn straws, holding them up to the horses. They were gobbling them, especially the one with the moustache. This was the whiskery one with a white blaze on his face. He was puckering up his lips as I’m holding the corn straws. You were amazed how fast these straws could disappear in the horse’s mouth! The farmer had brought up the cutting machine before we got there, the reaper with two seats. My father yoked the two horses on, the same way he had done for the hay. And then I saw the farmer.
My father says, ‘Here’s Duncan coming!’ And he had this thing, a board with a lot of wee strips on it, and a wee wheel. He was pulling it after him.
I said, ‘Daddy, what has he got?’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that’s the tilting board.’
So I said, ‘Daddy, what are ye gaunna do noo?’
He said, ‘The farmer’s coming with this board and we’ll put it onto the machine. And you cannae sit on the machine, brother, because the farmer’s got to sit on it. He puts his foot on this wee board, and makes the sheafs of corn. But if you walk behind, you might get a rabbit that’s got its feet cut off with the machine!’
After the farmer had got the tilting board belted on to the side of the reaper, he said, ‘That’s it ready, Johnie!’ Now you can imagine, this machine cut to the left. There’s only one way it cut. So they couldn’t walk in among the corn and cut it, or the horses would have to walk among the corn. So they had to go up to the end of the field and turn and come back. And the horses had to walk close in to the fence while this blade and machine was into the corn. Now this was the best part! So they circled the field right round about with the blade on the outside. And my father turned the horses. I’d never seen this done before. He had to turn the opposite direction; they couldn’t go up and down the one side. The field wasn’t big, maybe three acre. It was a big corn field to my standard as a wean. But I could have cut it my ownself in a couple of days with a scythe when I was a teenager.
So Father was the steerer, he drove the horses. And this farmer sat and had this rake in his hands. And he’s sitting in my seat, my hay seat! And I’m a wee bit envious of him. But my father tellt me, ‘You’d better walk behind.’ But walking behind this reaping machine was better than actually sitting on it. Father came up, turned the horses at the top of the field. And he reached down and put it in gear. I knew how to put it in gear, I coul
d have done it myself! You lifted this wee lever and put it over, and this was a wheel drive. When the horses pulled, the wheels drove the blade. And this blade went back and forward. And I wouldn’t say it was a bad noise . . . it was the most fascinating noise you ever heard in your life . . . bhrrrrrrrrrrr. That’s the way it went! And I saw this old farmer – he lay back and he’s in this seat – and he put his foot on this board.
Now the reaping machine was cutting, and there was a pulley and a belt. When the blade cut the corn, it all fell back. And it travelled up, when it was cut, along the board. And this wee board the farmer had, had a double canvas onto it, and the canvas ran round.
It brought the corn up all the one direction. The farmer held his foot down till he got a lovely sheaf of corn! And then he put his foot up, and the sheaf fell off.
‘Ah, dear me!’ I said. And he went and gathered again with his foot till he thought the sheaf was big enough. Then he put his foot up, the sheaf fell off. And he was going along, dropping the sheaves of corn. But they weren’t tied – just sheaves of corn loose. And my father and the farmer went right to the end of the field and stopped.
My father says to me, ‘You watch the horses – they dinnae walk awa!’ Now along this row, which would be about 150 yards long, the farmer had dropped every three yards a sheaf of corn. There must have been maybe twenty-five sheaves of corn lying in a row. Beautifully made. But they weren’t tied!
So my father got up and the farmer walked back; they each pulled a wee handful of corn out of the sheaf. They bound it round and they twisted it, and they put one end under the tie. They flung the sheaf aside. And they tied another one. And he tied the whole lot. I’m amazed at this.
I said, ‘I could learn to do that myself.’ So next time we came down I said, ‘Daddy, the horses’ll no go awa . . . I want to see how you tie this corn.’
The Horsieman Page 5