Now, to let you understand how Betsy was. Betsy was reared with these two old folk and put to school. And when she was eighteen my brother Sandy who was two years younger, only sixteen, came down to visit my granny and grandfather from Furnace to Tarbert. And he fell in with Betsy, and the two of them ran away together. Now, that’s the story how it happened to them.
LADY MARGARET
O Lady Margaret she sat in her high chamber
She was sewin her silken seams,
She lookit east and she lookit west
And she saw those woods grow green.
So picking up her petticoat
Beneath her harlin gown,
And when she came to the merry green wood
It was there that she let them down.
For she had not pulled one nut, one nut
One nut nor scarcely three,
When the highest lord in all the countryside
Came a-riding through the trees.
He said, ‘Why do you pull those nuts, those nuts?
How dare you bend those trees!
How dare you come to this merry green woods
Without the leave of me!’
She said, ‘Wonst on time those woods were mine
Without a leave of yours,
And I can pull those nuts, those nuts
And I sure can bend those trees!’
So he took her gently by the hand
And he gently laid her down,
And when he had his will of her
He rose her up again.
She said, ‘Now you’ve had your will of me
Come tell to me your name!
And if a baby I do have
I will call it the same.’
He said, ‘I’m an earl’s son from Carlisle
And I own all those woods so green,
But I was taken when I was young
By an evil Fairy Queen.
But,’ he said, ‘tomorrow night is Halloween
And all those nobles you can see,
And if you will come to the five-mile gate
It is there you can set me free.
O first there will come some dark, some dark
And then there will come some brown
But when there comes a milk-white steed
You must pull its rider down.
O first I’ll turn to a wicked snake
And then to a lion so wild,
But hold me fast and fear me not
I’ll be the father of your child.
And then I’ll turn to a naked man,
O an angry man I’ll be,
Just throw your mantle over me
And then you will have me free.’
So that night at the midnight hour
Lady Margaret made her way,
And when she came to the five-mile gate
She waited patiently.
O first there came some dark, some dark
And then there came some brown
But when there came a milk-white steed
She pulled its rider down.
O first he turned to a wicked snake
And then to a lion so wild,
She held him fast and feared him not
He’d be the father of her child.
Then he changed to a naked man
O an angry man was he,
She threw her mantle over him
And then she had him free.
Then cried the voice of the Fairy Queen
O an angry queen was she,
Saying ‘If I had hae known yesterday
O what I know today,
I’d took out your very heart’s blood
And put in a heart of clay.
So Lady Margaret on the white-milk steed
Lord William on a dapple grey,
With the bugle and the horn hanging down by their sides
It’s merrily they rode away.
Traditional
CHAPTER FIVE
GIE ME A HAUD O YIR HAND!
We had some messages in the pram and I had fags, and Betsy had fags. Sandy said, ‘The best thing we can do is push on and get the tent up for the bairns. But there’ll be a lot of traivellers there on the old road, and prob’ly we’ll no even get a place for wir tent.’ Now I thought this camp was only going to be a wee bit beside the road. I’d never met many travellers in my life.
But we landed and came into this camp. Sure enough, the first thing I saw was two gellies sitting. Now in these days the travellers built gellies summer and winter. The old travellers a long time ago built the barricade, like my father had – a round structure with a big place inside where the family could sit, and a hole in – the top and a fire in the centre; with wee tents or sleeping compartments built off to the sides. But after the war the travellers who came from Skye introduced the chimney, the fire can or ‘tank and lum’ inside the tent. There was no more need for this big high structure because a chimney drew the smoke. The gelly, so called for its shape like a ship’s upturned galley, came into use – a straight tent, lower and longer with less room than the barricade. It caught less wind, had less headroom and the chimney came up through the centre. Now I had never seen one of these gellies before this time with my brother. There were two sitting together in the Knock Camp. Smoke coming up the chimney and the door in the centre. Up the road a little bit further were another two, with two carts sitting nearby, and another cart further down.
Sandy says to me, ‘I ken that’s yir cousin. That’s yir cousin and yir auntie in that camp ower there.’
I said, ‘Hoo do you ken?’
He says, ‘I ken. And that’s Hieland folk up the other road.’
He called them Hieland folk because they came from Skye or from Inverness-shire. They were great Gaelic speakers, and they had Gaelic cant forbyes. They had a different culture, a different
way of life all together, different customs and different religion. The only thing was, they would never speak Gaelic among themselves if you were talking to them in their tent. I’ll tell you a wee bit o what happened to me a short while after that.
While we were staying on the Knock Camp I went up to that Hieland folk’s tent. There was a wee boy about two years old playing with a ball at the door of the gelly. I came up to crack to the folk, and they were mangin Gaelic back across to themselves. The wee boy flung the ball out and I caught it, threw it back to the wee boy and I said, ‘Seo’. The boy caught it. And from that day on till the day I left that place, those people never mentioned another word o Gaelic. They thought then if they said anything, that I would be able to understand what they said. They knew, me being Highland-tongued like themselves, I was a real Gaelic speaker. They were ashamed, thought I may have known Gaelic better. They were very sensitive, believed if they said a word and didn’t pronounce it right, maybe I knew it better.
So anyway, we pulled in and my brother says, ‘We’ll just put wir tent up there.’ But we hadn’t got the pram in and the dog tied to the fence – we tied old Jackie to keep him from going in the road – this was our livelihood, old Jackie, he was the boy for the pot. You had to take care o him. And here comes this young lad walking across. I’d never seen him before in my life. And Sandy introduced him.
‘This is your cousin John,’ he said to me. So the laddie shook hands with me. I noticed he had a bad eye, it was discoloured. Oh, the laddie was about the same age as me. He gave us a hand to put the tent up and in two minutes he and I went for sticks. We got the fire going, we sat and cracked and Betsy made some tea.
Then he says to me, ‘You comin ower to see yir auntie?’
I felt kind o shan, ken, kind o droll. I said, ‘Aye, I’ll go and see my auntie.’ So I said to Sandy, ‘You’ve anything else you want?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘brother, I’m okay. I’ll get a pail o water to your sister Betsy.’ He called her ‘yir sister Betsy’. ‘You go and crack to your auntie,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ower later.’
So I said, ‘Right, I’ll come ower.’ And I w
alked over. I felt a wee bit ashamed. I never had much to do among travellers really, except back among my own folk. So I came in, into this gelly. Oh, it was long, a good big tent! There were two sides in the tent, a table in it, and the thing that amazed me was the fire can in the middle with the chimney going up through the top. There were a heap of logs beside the fire. But there were no carpets; it was just the ground, grass. Because they were only going to stay for a short time. The grass was fine and dry with the heat of the fire. I thought it was really beautiful inside. They had a lamp, a Tilley lamp going. So John introduced me.
He said, ‘This is your auntie. This is my sister and this is my brother.’
There were two brothers and two sisters, a family of four. My auntie had lost her man in 1939 and she took care o all this family herself. He took rheumatic fever with fishing for pearl, and he died in Dundee when he was only thirty-three. And his baby daughter was only nine months old. But my auntie, I looked at her for the first time in my life. She had long, dark hair away down her back. She looked to be like something out of a gypsy picture. She wasn’t dark in the skin, but to her last days she was a beautiful woman.
But anyway, we got talking and cracking, and she asked me how my mother was and how my father was. ‘How many brothers and sisters have you got noo?’ And she tellt me, ‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen your mother and father. The last time I was there we’d only the oldest laddie there, Charlie. He was only an infant. But I always promised to take the boys tae Argyll for a summer to see their cousins.’ She was my mother’s cousin, forbyes she was my mother’s brother’s wife.
I said, ‘That’s right enough.’ But me and my auntie hit it off very well. We got on very fine and I felt at home with her. We sat and cracked and had some tea.
My cousin said to me, ‘Come on, I’m going up to shift my horse.’ Oh, now this is more in my line!
So we go up the old road, and there were three horses. John’s horse was tied to the fence. Beautiful chestnut pony, nice. It wasn’t big but it was beautiful. And then there was a white horse and an old thick, fat horse.
He says to me, ‘Do you like horses?’
I said, ‘I like horses. Horses is my life.’ I started to tell him the story about back home, the wee farms in Argyllshire and the horses my father used to work. I said, ‘How long’ve you had horses?’
He said, ‘I cannae remember when I didnae have a horse. I’ve had them all the days of my life.’ And he was horsie moich. He cracked and tellt me all these stories about horses. ‘And that one there, that’s Hieland folk’s fae Skye, that old white horse. But that old thick horse, that’s a guid auld horse. But he’s old.’ Little knowing that he was going to own it very shortly. ‘But,’ he said, ‘whaur are ye makin fir?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘cousin, I’ll tell ye. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever been in Perthshire. And my brother Sandy tellt me all aboot Blairgowrie.’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it’s a long time till Blairgowrie yet.’
I said, ‘Are ye goin?’
‘Oh, I always go,’ he said, ‘for a wee while. For the odds o seein it, to say I was there. But, brother, there’s an awfae travellers there, an awfae horses and swappin and dealin. And fightin and arguin all hoors o the night. You never get much peace. My mother disnae like it very much. She’s too feart o us gettin into trouble.’ But he was an awfae nice laddie and I liked him an awful lot. He says, ‘Come on back doon.’
We went back down and we sat in my brother Sandy’s camp for a while. Then he says, ‘Come on ower to my mother’s for a while. You’re no goin to yir bed yet?’
‘No, I’m no going to bed.’ I said, ‘Bed disnae mean nothing to me.’ So we sat and cracked and talked. I was telling him about Argyllshire and fishing and hunting for shellfish, and all this carry on. He was telling me these cracks.
And Auntie says to me, ‘Can you read?’
‘Oh, Auntie, I can read all right!’ I said.
She says, ‘John can read.’ But he had a wee bit hesitation in his speech, a stutter. ‘But,’ she said, ‘the rest o them cannae read. You wouldnae care to read me a wee bit story?’ she said to me.
Oh I felt shan! I said, ‘What kind o story?’
‘Well, that laddie,’ she says, ‘that cousin o yours is mad on cowboy books.’ Westerns. ‘And,’ she said, ‘he reads me a bit sometimes. But you wouldnae like to read me a wee bit story?’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘Auntie, I’ll read ye a wee bit story all right.’
So she went up, and stuck in the tent cover was a blue book. I remember it fine. It was a hard cover, a cowboy story. She says, ‘I’ll make some tea.’
So I sat and read and read, read out loud to her. She really enjoyed it. She made me tea. Oh, that was done a lot among the travellers. See, they didn’t have any wireless or anything in these days.
Auntie says, ‘You’re a good reader.’
‘Ach well, Auntie, I’m no really good.’ I said. They thought you were a good reader, ken, because she couldn’t read or write herself. So I read on till about twelve o’clock. This story was Smiling Frank Orio, and she really loved it, about two twin sisters who owned this ranch and both of them were in love with this boy. I read on till everybody got sleepy, and I took the book and stuck it back up. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow night and finish it for you,’ I said. And she thanked me very much.
By the time I got over to our tent, my brother Sandy was in bed. And his two wee kids were asleep. Betsy was lying smoking. Before she went to bed she always made her flowers. She never missed a night! Come hell or high water, she’d get these flowers made. And she could make that paper stretch like nobody else in the world could do it! Now me, I’ll take a sheet of paper, and clip it the full length. But no her! She could cut that paper, and she knew what one sheet could make. If she was out one flower, she knew she had made a mistake.
The next morning Sandy was up early. He could see I was very interested with my cousin and his horse. My cousin John had tellt me he was going to the sale on Monday. While we were shifting the pony the day before we had talked.
John said, ‘Look, do you ken where Balbrogie is? Brother, that’s an old waste farm where your brother goes. And he stays in an old mill. It’s an old house right enough. But, brother, it’s miles frae the road. And it’s two mile to the nearest shop. And you’ll never see a soul. He works there. It’s all right for him, but you’re going to be bored stiff if you go there.’
I said, ‘I’ve nae other choice. What can I dae?’
He said, ‘Come along wi me. You can stay with me and my mother for a while.’
I said, ‘I cannae dae that.’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Be my mate for a while. I like your company. Come along wi me. Tell your brother Sandy you’re no gaun.’
I said, ‘He’s gaunna be kind o upset. He’s older ’n me.’ But we made this plan up. I was going to tell Sandy the next morning I wasn’t going to Balbeggie.
That next morning Sandy said to me, ‘Well, brother, I’m making off, on my way to Balbeggie.’ He took his tent down, packed his pram, got his things, said goodbye to his auntie. He always came by to say goodbye to his aunt when they were at a camp together.
He said to me, ‘You gaun?’
I said, ‘Brother, I’m no gaun.’
He said, ‘What?’
‘I’m no gaun,’ I said. ‘I’m gaunna stay wi my cousin John here for a while.’ He was a bit upset.
‘Well, you ken I promised your faither,’ he said, ‘I would take care o ye and bring ye back safe.’
‘I can take care o masel,’ I said. ‘I’ll come and see ye for a while later. John kens where ye are. I’m able to look after masel noo.’
‘Well, look,’ he said. ‘Will you make me a promise before you go?’ He never tried to keep me back, but he wasn’t very well pleased. He said, ‘If you’re hame before me, back in Furnace. I’ll prob’ly no be back till the summertime again, next summer. Or, prob’ly Betsy’s gaunna
e hae another wean before that time.’ And he made a wee laugh about it . . . but it really did happen. Because every baby Betsy had, she would go back to Campbeltown to have them. It didn’t matter, suppose she was in Aberdeenshire, she would go back to Campbeltown. So, Sandy told me to behave myself. And he said, ‘You know you’re only a wee laddie away fae your father, and I promised to look after ye. Noo you’re leavin me, and if you get back hame before me, mind and tell your father that you left me; I never left you.’
I said, ‘Okay, brother, I’ll dae that.’
‘But stick wi your cousin John,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you, what you dinna ken about horses, he’ll learn ye. That laddie was among horses since he could creep.’
So we parted the best of friends. I said to Sandy, ‘I’ll come and see ye.’ He went on his way to Balbrogie Farm. I was looking forward to the market on Monday. The market meant a great trade to the travellers.
Some travellers the week before had bought a horse, a young horse in the market. They broke it in, made it work and brought it back in the market to sell, swap or deal it away a week or two later. If they were kickers or biters, or they were lame, travellers fixed them up the best way they could. Maybe they had bought one ruined with worms; they cured it. If it was lame they fixed its feet. If there were anything wrong with it, it wasn’t pleasing them, they took it back, cured it. It’s the same idea today with motors. Only in the 1940s there were no regulations on horses. Anyone could buy a horse, own one. You didn’t need to register it.
The Horsieman Page 11