I told him, ‘I’m goin to Inveraray.’
He said, ‘Would you take a job? I’m lookin fir a boy to help me in the store.’
‘I’ll take the job.’ And he and I sat. He gave me a couple o bottles o beer and we had a drink. He made me some tea, sang to me all night and gave me a bed. He fell asleep. But the next morning I got up. I was wearying to see the old folk, and I caught the Royal Mail25 at six o’clock to Furnace. And I tellt my mother, ‘I’m back. I’m no gaunna go away no more. I’m fed up wanderin, I’m stayin at hame.’
Mother says, ‘Ye’ll be lifted fir the Army.’
‘No’, I said, ‘I’ll no be lifted fir the Army any more. I’m passed, Grade Four.’ So I stayed there with the old folk all that back-end, and who came in the wintertime but my brother Sandy and Betsy! He put a big tent up beside my father and mother in the wood. And he and I had a rare, good winter of it. We had a great time together fishing and going to the shore for shellfish, going to the hill for rabbits, and I was quite happy. But the spring following Sandy coaxed me, said he was going back to Forfar. And I went back with him to Forfar again.
Before we landed in Forfar we went up to Benchie Farm and planted tatties. From there we walked on to Forfar and right away up to Oathlaw. In Oathlaw we were camped at the burnside. Sandy and I were sitting beside the fire when we heard these feet on the road. This was my cousin John! He and his mother and his auntie were staying about two miles along the road. So I left Sandy the next day and went with John. I stayed with John all that year and we went back into Fife, into Dunfermline. By this time I was twenty.
Now I’ve said very little about my feelings towards the things I had seen going on; which way I really fared, which way did I want to go, which kind of life did I want to lead? After I went back to Forfar with my brother again, back over the ‘same old story’, the same old roads, seeing the same old things again, I’d ended up with my cousin in Oathlaw. And then we’d moved back to Fife. Now I’d known my cousin John’s sister Jeannie since she was about thirteen years of age, from the very first time I had met John, when I went to the horse market in Perth. And I had little thought of ever getting married, especially to her, for she seemed to me just like a sister. And I could have chosen many other lassies that I’d talked to along the way for to be a wife. But a fate was to send me back to Fife with my cousin and meet his sister once again.
By this time she was seventeen years of age and we had both grown. I saw her in a different light from her just as my cousin – now Jeannie was a young woman and I was a young traveller man. Naturally, when young travellers get together and they take a liking or a notion to each other there’s no time wasted, such as long courtships and planning for houses and planning for everything else. It’s just a matter of getting together and get one thing understood between you – you love each other. You might be penniless. Her mother might not be happy, or my mother’ll not be happy. But we didn’t give one thought to anything else. We just wanted to be together and be on our own and start from the beginning. I didn’t have a ha’penny, I had no job, I had nothing. And we just made up our mind that we were going to start out in life together. We had nothing planned, we didn’t know what to do, we just said, ‘That was hit.’
I mean all travellers are like that. When you go back to the beginning and see among these travelling people, the thing that really means so much to them – it’s not property or all this great security or anything else – that doesn’t have any meaning to them. It’s the actual partnership and being together that actually has the meaning to travelling people down through the years. And their stories and tales and songs going back for four hundred years among the traveller people, how they eloped with each other, and they had nothing. And the amazing thing is, even though they had so little and they had planned so little for the future, they always managed to stay together and have a happy family. Some of them went on to become old together and die together. For hundreds of years this went on. And they never regretted one moment of it.
I had little thought or little knowledge of being married in any way, and neither had she. So I’d heard stories of how couples just eloped and built up a future together with each other. I said, ‘Well, if they could do it so could l!’ That was the idea, I mean it was a traveller heritage. I wasn’t doing anything new that my forbears had never done before me. This was expected of me to do this. And her father and her mother had done the same before her, and her grandfather and granny had done the same before them, and she didn’t expect anything else. She wasn’t looking forward to marrying rich and she had no thought of security or anything. It was just the love of being together and being with each other, and fight the battles as they came. Of course we could have turned round and told her mother we were getting married, and her mother maybe would have been quite happy. Because in fact she was my cousin; and my auntie and I got on very well, and so I did with my cousin and his brother as well. But anyway, just to keep things on the right form and make it look as if we really meant it, we had to elope – we just called it ‘run away’.
So we took the bus to Cupar . . . If I’d had said to my auntie ‘Look, I’m in love wi yir daughter and I want to marry her, and me and her’ll jist stay together with you,’ she would never have had the same respect for me that way. We were breaking away, running away without a penny, just showing her mother that we could go on our own and do as we wanted to, like she had done before in her time and her father and mother before her. It might sound unnatural to you and the settled community, the non-traveller – if you run away you’re doing something wrong. But in the traveller idea you’re taking your wife with you to show her family that you can take care of her. You’ll probably meet them three weeks, five weeks, maybe a year later. And you’ll come back with a good horse, a good cart to show you had conquered the moment and had survived, were quite happy together. You had made a start.
Probably my brother-in-law, my cousin had searched for me and Jeannie that evening after we left. But never having an idea what direction I had gone, he had little success. But it was expected of them to search after the lost daughter. Like me, when my daughter went away in later years. I, too, searched for her. Not that I didn’t trust the man she went with, but it was expected of me. The man who sits and lets his daughter run away is not regarded as a good father at all. Let it be brother, sister or father – you must do something to show face, even suppose it’s only a half-hearted attempt. You kick up a stir, even though it’s only a front, to show you’re doing something. When my daughter Betty left she was only fifteen past. She’d worked beside me all that day gathering tatties. I’d seen them kissing and cuddling in the drills beside me. I was lifting the baskets. And I knew. I was happy and pleased, for the laddie was a good laddie. I knew him. And when she left, her mother was a wee bit upset. Now, she had to comply with the other women around the site, you see. And they would say, ‘Oh, what kind of woman is she that would let her wee lassie at fifteen run away wi a man?’ So, when Betty’s mother went for the police and kicked up a row, she showed a kind of respect for her family. Even though it was only a half-hearted attempt and they knew that nothing would come out of it. This is the traveller idea.
So anyway, I had chosen that Jeannie and I should go into Cupar, and then cross the ferry to Dundee and take the bus to Aberdeen. We stopped in Cupar and I remember I walked into a shop and bought a large bottle of cider. None of us ever had a drink before, but I said to her, ‘Would ye like something to drink?’ And we’d only been together – I mean we had nothing in common. We had kissed but I’d never touched her or been near her in any way. I walked into the shop and I bought a large bottle of cider, and we walked out of Cupar. I knew that I had left Dunfermline – her brothers were well behind me. I said, ‘Do you want a drink?’
She said, ‘Yeah, I’ll take a drink.’ She drank and she said, ‘Gie me some more o that cider.’ And she drank nearly half this bottle. And I hated the stuff. I was going to throw it away. So she
said, ‘Let me carry it.
I said, ‘I’m no carryin a bottle o cider. If you want to carry it, you drink it!’ So she drank it, and it took a wee bit effect on her, you know! And she was so happy. I said, ‘Look, I’m no tryin to make you drunk!’
‘No,’ she says, ‘I like that stuff. It’s like appleade.’ She was quite cheery.
I said, ‘I hope you have got nae regrets.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘if I had any regrets I wouldn’t be here.’
I said, ‘I’m goin on to Aberdeen. Yir two aunties are there. In fact, ye have three aunties in Aberdeen.’ Her mother’s three sisters, Katie, Jeannie and Mary.
She says to me, ‘I don’t care where ye’re gaun. As long as I’m with ye, I’ll go anywhere you want to go.’
Now we only had our bus fares. No idea what we’re going to do or anything. So I said, ‘The best thing I can do is go back tae Aberdeen, and I’ll go tae Reverend Begg. I’ll take a job, I’ll work and we’ll save wir money and I’ll buy a horse! There plenty auld horses knockin about Aberdeen and I’ll have a deal. And me and you’ll get a horse and cart. We’ll go on the road like real travellers. And after we get a good horse and a good cart, we’ll go back to Fife and see yir mother, tell her we’re okay – she’s gaunna be worried.’
But the thing was, I had spent about two years steady back and forward with Jeannie’s mother, and I used to read Western stories to her and we used to go to the town. And I’d hawked with her, I’d sellt holly with her, and she knew me through and through. In fact, I was her man’s sister’s son and I was closer to her than a stranger. We had great respect for each other. And I knew, in her own heart she knew that as long as Jeannie, her daughter was with me, little would happen to her. But that wasn’t her mother’s worry. Every mother worries what happens to her lassie – it doesn’t matter who she goes with.
So, as the story goes, we got the bus into Aberdeen. Then we walked through and out to Old Aberdeen, about a mile and a half, and we preferred to walk. When we landed back at the building where Sandy and Katie and Jeannie were, the roof was off of the building next to theirs. But the downstairs floor was still there. We walked in. Only wee Hector Kelby and Lizzie were there. He shook hands with me.
‘Duncan, ye’re back!’
I said, ‘Aye, I’m back, Hector.’
‘Is this yir wife?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘this is my wife. She’s my wife noo and she’s gaunna be the only wife I’ll ever have.’
‘Well, yir Uncle Sandy left two days ago. Buggie left the same day. They’re makin their way for Perth.’ So we had some tea with Hector and we cracked for a wee while. So, no place to go. Hector asked us to stay. ‘Stay the night, there’s plenty o room for ye.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Jeannie’s never seen her Aunt Mary.’
‘Noo,’ he said, ‘Jeannie and Mary are up the road in the huts.’ It was a big Army billets. Jeannie and Mary are up there. Sandy and Katie left yesterday, but I was oot when they left. I dinna ken what direction they took. If you go to Jeannie and Mary,’ who was Katie’s and Hector’s sister, ‘they’ll prob’ly tell ye where they went.’
So we sat and had our tea with Hector and we bade him goodbye. And you know this was the last time I was ever going to see Hector Kelby. He died shortly after that.
And old Lizzie says to Jeannie, ‘You run awa, ye wee lassie, ye’re only a wee cratur yet!’ You know, Jeannie wasn’t very big. She was young looking, but she was seventeen going on eighteen. She didn’t look very old and I was taller than she.
‘No,’ she said, ‘we only cam for a visit.’ Jeannie was kind o shan. ‘We only cam for a visit!’
And old Lizzie said, ‘Aye, ye wee liar! Ye’re awa wi a man.’
‘No, Lizzie, I’m no awa wi a man!’ And Jeannie had these blue eyes, and she’d short, short hair and it was curly. Her eyes were as blue as berries, you know. And she wasn’t very big, only about five-foot-two or five-foot-three, and she never was stout, no way. She was only made like a lace, a boot lace.
She says, ‘Aye, ye’re a wee liar, ye run awa wi a man.’
And old Hector turned around, said, ‘Look, Lizzie, if she ran awa wi a man, I’ll tell ye something. She got a man that can look after her.’ That was really true, till the last days that was really true. I looked after and took care of her, and it wasn’t my fault that God took her from me. (She died in 1971.)
So Hector had said, ‘If you go up to Johnie and Mary, ye’ll see where Katie and Sandy went.’ So we walked up, it wasn’t far up to Seton. And there was a big place where the Army had huts. These were condemned. They gave them to the travellers rent free. Dozens of travellers were staying there. And some had horses tethered on the green, and carts up beside the Nissen huts. So by the time we walked up it would be about five or six o’clock. Now old Mary had five sons of her own and three daughters, and they all were with her. Not one of them were married, and there were some of them older than I, so we landed up at the hut, knocked at the door, walked in and they were all sitting at their tea. Old Johnie knew me from that time, because he used to love me singing to him.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘ye’re back!’ Johnie was awful dark. He was like the Whytes a lot, the same kind of eyes, the same kind of eyebrows. These were ay the markings – you could always distinguish the Whytes – their eyes never change.
And Mary says, ‘Oh, it’s you!’
‘Aye, Aunt Mary, it’s me, I’m back. Hae ye any idea where Sandy and Katie went? We cam fae Fife this morning.’
She says, ‘Wha’s this here wi ye, what lassie is this?’
‘That’s yir sister Bellag’s lassie,’ I said, ‘Jeannie.
‘Ah, it’s wee Jeannie.’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh God bless hus, it’s no a while sin I seen her! It must be years. What age are ye noo?’
Jeannie says, ‘I’m eighteen.’
‘No, ye’re no eighteen! And ye run awa wi a man!’
‘No, I only cam through wi my cousin Duncan here tae see yese!’
She says, ‘Ye wee liar, ye’re tellin lies, ye run awa wi a man! If I kent where yir mother was I’d take ye right back the night.’
I said, ‘No! What about yir ain dochters?’
She says, ‘All my dochters has no got nae men!’ She was like old Katie, good at heart. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘If yese are married, are yese gaunna be wi each other? Ye’re no gaunna get Sandy and Katie the night! They left yesterday and bi this time they’ll be makin their way to Stonehaven. Well, come in and get something tae eat.’ So she gave us a good tea and we sat and cracked for a long while. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘youse young couple’ll be needin a bed. So, Jeannie, come on lassie, come wi me, you’ve got a man noo, dinna be ashamed. Come on and I’ll tak ye and show ye where yese can make a lie doon fir yirsels.’ So the woman made us a good bed. And the next morning she wanted us to stay for a couple of days.
‘No, Aunt Mary,’ I said, ‘we have tae mak wir way back. We only cam fir a visit.’
‘I ken ye only cam fir a visit,’ she kidded us on. ‘I ken the way yese is lyin wi a young woman aa night!’
‘I ken! It’s aa right, Aunt Mary,’ I said, ‘she’s my wife and we’re gaunna get married and that’s hit.’
So they were very happy about it anyway, and old Johnie bade us goodbye, And he said to Jeannie, ‘There, lassie, there’s ten shillings tae ye. There a wee present for ye.’ It’s a good job he gave it to us because we had nothing.
We bade Mary and Johnie goodbye and we walked down to Aberdeen. I said to Jeannie, ‘There’s nae sense in stayin in Aberdeen. We’ll no bother. The best thing we can dae is mak wir way, catch up wi Sandy and Katie. We’ll stay with them fir a while. Wherever they go, we’ll go wi them and somewhere along the way we’ll get a job.’ Now Jeannie was really very clever. She could sell flowers, she could do anything because she’d done it with her mother steady. I didn’t need to worry about anything. She could get a shilling under other folk’s
feet, honest to God, she really could.
We took a bus from Aberdeen, only about half a crown each, to Stonehaven. But we came out the other side of a wee place called St Cyrus, and there we saw these barrows going along the road. This was Katie and Sandy with his newly built barrow, and Buggie with a pram and Winkie with another pram! They were all strung out. The bus slowed down and we pulled the bell. The bus stopped and Jeannie and I came out. Then there was a happy reunion. Katie, who had never seen Jeannie since the Hoolet’s Neuk, said, ‘Oh, what a big lassie!’ And Isa, Katie’s youngest lassie, was really jealous. Now by this time she was about fourteen. And we had spent a great time together that one summer in Aberdeenshire with Sandy and Katie. She believed I was going to marry her sometime. She was really upset, you know. Isa was a grown lassie, as big as Jeannie but younger. I said to her, ‘Never mind, Isa, ye’ll get a man tae yirsel sometime.’
So I said to Aunt Katie, ‘Oh no, I’m no married! I just took Jeannie up to see ye. She’s goin away back . . .’ We couldn’t convince them, you see! So we came along the road with Sandy.
He says, ‘We’re gaunna go tae Stonehaven.’
I said, ‘Ye’ll never make it to Stonehaven, Sandy.’ So we came to this old house, a ruins. And there was a big garden, and the house was empty. I said to Uncle Sandy, ‘Why don’t we stay in there for the night?’
He says, ‘Brother, ye cannae stay in there.’
I said, ‘Come on, come in to the garden!’
He says to me, ‘Ye got a mort?’
‘Aye, it’s my wife.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘brother, there no much I can dae fir you, but I’ll gie ye half o my covers. So he had two big covers, and Sandy gave me a big canvas one. Then Katie gave me two blankets. Then Buggie’s mother gave me another two blankets. That was four, all we needed. So Sandy put up his tent and I put up my tent on the other side of his. Now by this time Buggie had run away with Johnny and Mary’s daughter.
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