So his mother says, ‘That’s him away. We’ll prob’ly no be seein him again fir a while.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘there one thing fir sure, we’ll no need tae worry about another horse anyway, because there naebody tae look after it!’ Because John’s other brother wouldn’t bother about horses. So we made our way from there down to this wee place the other side of Glasgow. It was late on in the summer now, and by this time mostly all the neeps round about Glasgow were finished. I said, ‘The best thing I can do, because I was the man that had the horse then, I’m gaunna make my way back tae Fife.’
So my auntie says, ‘There’s nae sense o hus stayin here wirsels when John’s awa. The best thing I can dae is jist go back tae Fife wi yese. He’ll prob’ly come back sometime.’ Because he wasn’t married. He had no wife or anything, and just stayed with his mother, looked after her all the days of his life since he was a wee laddie. And we made our way to a place called Bellshill on the outside of Glasgow, on our way back to Fife. We stopped at the roadside to make some tea. And I looked over the hedge and saw this big field of turnips. Oh, they were growing past the common and never were thinned.
So I said to Charlie, John’s brother, ‘You watch my pony a minute. I’m gaun doon tae this farm and see if I can get these neeps tae thin.’
He says to me, ‘They’re too big. Ye could never work wi these turnips.’
‘I’ll work wi them. I’ll dae them some way.’ But they were an awful size. Now, I was a bit upset because I’d never got to the horse market in Glasgow. John had promised me, and I was upset. So, I went to the farm, not far down the farm road. This old man was in the dairy washing milk cans. And he had a rubber apron on him.
He says, ‘What is it, laddie, you’re wantin?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘tell ye the truth, I’m on the road, I’m after comin over fae Barrhead way. I’ve been up there all summer thinnin turnips fir some o the fairms, and I go there every year. I was makin my way back tae Fife and I stopped up at the shop there tae make some tea, and I see you’ve got some turnips in yir field that’s needin done.’
‘Oh, laddie, I’ve tried ma best tae get them done, but we had a bad spell o rain there fir a while. I used tae get some women oot o the village there, but they never cam the year, and I dinnae ken what I’m gaunna dae with them neeps. Ach, I’Il jist let them grow and it’ll be a loss tae me fir my dairy coos in the wintertime, but I’ll jist have tae let them grow wild. What was it ye wanted?’
‘I’m wanting a job fae ye tae thin yir turnips.’
‘Do ye mean to tell me you want tae dae them fir me?’
‘Aye, I’ll dae them fir ye and make a good job o them to ye.’ It was beautiful weather.
‘What were ye gettin fir yir turnips up there in Mearns?’
‘The man was gien me a shillin a hundred yards.’
‘Well, if you do that fir me, I’ll gie you one and sixpence a hundred yards.’
‘I’ll need that because they’re kind o dirty and kind o big.’
‘You make a kind o fair job fir me even suppose you only pull oot the doubles and lea them single. I’m no worried what you do wi them, dae yir best wi them and I’ll pay you one and six.’ Now that was the best money ever was gotten for thinning turnips up till then from any farmer!
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ll need a place fir my camp.’
He says, ‘The fairm’s big. I’m sure you can find a suitable place.’
‘And a field fir my horse.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘there plenty fields. Ye jist put it in among the coos there, among the milk cattle, it’ll get plenty to eat.’ Nice old man. Hamilton was his name. And he says, ‘Bring up yir pails, ye’ll get plenty milk.’
Now there was only me and Charlie to work. The lassies and their mother didn’t bother because they had been working all summer with us, and we didn’t want to bother them with those big neeps. I said, ‘We’ll work away at them and we’ll sit here jist in case John ever turns up again from where he went away on his journey. If he turns up he’ll no hae far tae find us. He’ll trace us oot some way.’ But we worked away. It was a Thursday. Charlie and I worked Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Tuesday we finished them.
Now it was Wednesday and my auntie says, ‘I think I’ll take a trip into the horse market in case that laddie does turn back. He might go there.’
And Jeannie my wife says, ‘Ach, I’ll go in wi my mother.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘away youse go if youse want tae go. I’ll no bother gaun in. I dinnae ken much about it.’
She says, ‘We’ll just go and have a look roond. And we’ll see – if he’s no there, we’ll take the tram car oot.’ The tram went right into Argyle Street to the Gallogate, where the horse market was. So away they go.
Charlie goes up to the farmer, comes down with a big pail of sour milk. And the sun was hot. He’s sitting with this cup drinking this sour milk. So this woman steps in off the road, a young woman about in her twenties and she had a long coat on, and high-heeled shoes. So Charlie says to me, ‘Shan gurie.’31 He always spoke in cant, you see. ‘Shan gurie, dinnae mang tae the shan gurie.’
She said, ‘Excuse me, boys, I was wonderin, boys, if yese could gie me a wee cup tea.’ Oh, a real Glasgow tongue too.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘certainly missus.’ Now I always kept the can, the kettle full of tea at the fireside. It was bow tents we had and the outside fire. It was a beautiful day and we were staying in the corner of this field, and there were plenty of rotten sticks. I had this good fire going.
She said, ‘Is it aa right if I sit doon?’
I said, ‘Aye, sit doon, missus.’
‘And eh, are youse married?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘aye, we’re married, both o hus is married. We’ve got women and bings o weans, we’ve got a dozen weans. They’re only awa up to the shop there.’ We were kind o eerie, feart o her, ken, because we didna want tae cause any trouble. So we gave her a cup of tea, and she starts speaking about what happened to her, how she went in hospital, how she went to the British Legion and what they did for her.
But after she had tea she said, ‘I’m awfae tired. I think, could I hae a wee lie doon in yir tents, one o yir tents? It looks awfae comfortable in these tents. I would like to have a wee sleep.’
I told her, ‘Ye better go, missus, cause I’ve got a wife and six weans and this man’s wife is wicked here. If they come back and get you asleep in wir tent, you’ll never live, they’ll kill you dead.’ We had to do something to get rid of her. She wasn’t wanting to go. I said, ‘Missus, we’re very sorry. Look, we’ve got work tae do. If we’re no oot on that fairm at twelve o’clock, we’ll get shifted here. We’re only in here to work. We’re sorry we’ll have to go.’ So I pulled down the flaps of the tents, put a stone on them and put out the fire and walked away.
So, we finally got rid of her, and away she went. Charlie and I kindled the fire back up again. In about an hour’s time we hear this horse, horse’s feet on the road. Charlie says to me, ‘I hear a pony on the road. Maybe it’s yir pony got oot.’
I look up the road and here’s John and his mother and Jeannie coming! She had the bairn in her oxters. And John had this beautiful pony, about fifteen hands, a trotting, chestnut pony. He had come on the train from Aberdeen on the Wednesday morning and was there early, in the market and had his horse bought by the time his mother had come in, thinking we were still in the same camp where he’d left. John didn’t have any harness or anything, but he had this beautiful horse he’d bought in the market. So he comes in and has his tea.
He said, ‘What do you think o that ane?’
I said, ‘It’s no bad. Had ye tae go to Aberdeen fir that ane? Did ye go to Aberdeen market wi that ane?’ I was laughing.
He laughed and said, ‘No, I didnae go to Aberdeen market wi that!’
I said, ‘What’s about the promise you made to me, you’d take me to the Glasgow market? You never took me!’
He
said, ‘Look, the summer’s no finished yet. You’ll prob’ly be back in the market before the summer’s oot yet.’ And true to his word, I thought it would never happen, but I was to go to the market before we landed back in Fife.
So I said, ‘Were there many horses in the market today?’
‘There were dozens o horses! I bought this pony for sixteen pound, a beautiful horse.’ It was young and a real fast trotting horse, a cross blood and hackney. ‘And I’ll be all right once I get a cairt and harness. We’ll shift up to Baillieston old road. There’s some travellers on it and I saw them at the market today. They tell me my Uncle Johnie and my Uncle Sandy are up there. They’ve got yokes and there’s other travellers. A man Townsley frae Edinburgh and he’s got a horse, so they might have an old cairt and harness I could buy fae them. If you shift my stuff up to the Baillieston auld road, I’ll prob’ly get something before we mak wir way back to Fife.’
So it just shows you how things take a twist. We shift up to the old road and my two uncles were there. One was old Sandy Reid, who told me so many good stories later on in my life. Another was my mother’s second oldest brother, Johnie. They were great horsiemen. And they had gotten in with the Irish. There weren’t many Irish travellers in Scotland at that time, but they were beginning to come over. And this is how I met Ned Cash, the big, big, tall Irishman.
MY OLD HORSE AND CART
O the summertime has come again, but it surely breaks my hairt,
When I think on the happy days I spent with my old horse and cairt;
The roads they were nae lang for him, nor yet too lang for me,
It’s on the road I used to gang, oh my old horse and me.
Frae Aberdeen tae Galloway we tramped the country wide
Fae Edinburgh doon tae Stranraer and roond the banks o Clyde,
The roads they were nae lang for him, nor yet too lang for me,
It’s on the road I used to gang, oh my old horse and me.
O many’s a time on a winter’s night he stood tied to a tree
Wi no a bite to gie to him or no a bite for me,
With a wee bit cover across his back to shelter him from the snow
And I ken it’s in the morning on the road I’d have to go.
Noo many’s a time upon the road my old horse he’d cast a shoe
Up to the smiddie I would gang, to the smiddie man I’d view,
‘I cannae buy a new shoe,’ to the smiddie man I’d say,
‘O pit me on an auld ane, I’m sure it will have to dae!’
Noo those happy days are gone and past, I’ve bocht a motor car,
Sure I go drivin on the road – I’m sure I travel far!
I drive past all those places, but I’ll turn to you and say,
‘I’ll never be as happy as I was with my old horse and me!’
Duncan Williamson
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BY GOD, LADDIE, YOU’RE GAME!
So I came in, put my tent up, put the horses up – there was plenty of room on the old road for the horses. Oh, we had to go and crack, and get a big fire going. Everybody got round the big outside fire and the tents. All were cracking and speaking about this thing and that.
So this man Townsley says to me, ‘That’s no a bad lookin pony you have there.’
‘Ach,’ I said, ‘it’s no nae better as nae other horse. I see a good lot o horses on the road here.’
‘Man, I’ve a notion to that horse! I bocht a wee gypsy wagon. I’ve never had ane before and I was wantin, fir the sake o me and the wife in the wintertime fir tae stay in this wee wagon.’ It was a caravan, a bow-topped wagon. And he said, ‘My pony is a good one, but it’s no big enough to pull my wagon. I thought maybe, I was up here on the auld road tae see what yir Uncle Johnie had, but his is nae much bigger than mine, nor yir Uncle Sandy’s. That ane John’s got is kind o light in the leg. I could dae wi yir pony.’
I said, ‘Aye and I could dae with it tae. I need it fir masel.’
‘Come on up and see my horse,’ he said. ‘Look, afore ye see this horse, I’m no tellin ye nae lie about it. This horse at one time could do a mile in three minutes. It cam off the trots in Musselburgh.’ Well, you’ve seen an Appalusa horse. This was a different way round about, a pure brown horse with white spots all over its body, as if somebody had taken a pail of whitewash and just cast handfuls here and there. It was a beautiful animal, fat, and it was standing in long grass.
So I said, ‘Well, it looks a nice pony.’
He said, ‘I’m tellin ye, it is a good pony. But that’s the only way I’m puttin it awa, I dinnae think it’ll pull my wagon. It could pull it right enough, but it looks kind o shan wi the wee horse bein in the wagon. Even though yir horse is bigger, it might no be nae stronger. Yir horse’ll no look so bad, haen a big horse inta a wagon, especially gae’n through the toons with all the Cruelties and that. If they see a wee horse overloaded ye’re pulled up every minute.’
‘Well, I’ll think about it.’
‘Aye, tak yir time. ye’ll no be gaun awa fir a day or two.’
‘No, I’ll no be gaun awa fir a day or two.’ So I had a crack to John on the sly. ‘John, what do you think o that horse belongin tae Willie Townsley up there?’
He said, ‘That’s a good pony, a trottin horse. I heard my Uncle Johnie and the rest o the boys speakin aboot it – that horse can trot!’ Oh it could, no mistake.
‘Well, he wants tae swap me.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘do you no think you’ve had that white horse lang enough, you’ve had her since ye left Fife.’
So it was Jeannie, the wean’s mother, I tellt her. She said, ‘Look, I’ll tell ye something about that horse – that horse is lame.’
I said, ‘You’re lame, no the horse!’
She said, ‘I’m tellin ye it’s lame! I seen the man takkin it fir a drink, it’s goin lame.’
‘I was up at the horse and I seen it and I looked . . .
‘You seen it standin among long grass. I’m tellin ye, that horse is lame.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m no carin if it’s lame or no, I’m swappin fir it.’
‘Well, dinnae complain tae me about it if ye get a bad deal.’
So the next morning I go up to the man, come a-crack to him and I swap with him, three pound about, his horse for mine. Horses and harness we swapped. So I wanted to shift that day.
I shifted on the road and I said to John, ‘I think instead o goin back to Fife, I think I’ll go back up to Barrhead.’ Something tellt me to go back to Barrhead. I was on my road going to Fife, too, for the winter. But it wasn’t far back the same distance I’d come, about twenty miles.
So he says, ‘Ach well . . .’ John didn’t get a cart, but he got an old set of harness from some of them. ‘We’ll go away back up that way. I might manage tae pick up an auld float or something.’ So back by Barrhead we made our way right enough, and we go right out to a wee place called Neilston. And it was hell of a bad for a fire. Now this horse was definitely going lame with me when I got on the road a while. But once it got heated up, it went kind o sound. But it was definitely sore. One foot had ringbone and there was nothing in the world you could do with it. This was a sinew that turns into a bone, gets hard through time. You can patch it up, poultice it, make it go sound for a day or two, but it never gets better. It’s an overstrained tendon in the front foot. Anyway, I only had it that day and the next. And it was a hellish place we were staying for sticks.
So I said, ‘I’ll have tae go fir some sticks.’ I yoked this pony up and away I went. I must have went about four miles down this road, and I loaded the cart. On the road back I jumped up on the top of the sticks. I said, ‘If you can trot, I want to see! Lame or no lame, if you can trot!’
But when the pony went about a mile the lameness went away from him. And I looked behind me. Here’s an old-fashioned Army lorry coming. (The Army sellt a lot of lorries after the war.) Two men were in the front of it and they’re keeping behind me. I waved th
em on, but they wouldn’t pass. And when I turned into the camp they followed me up. The two men came out and I could see it was a father and son.
He said, ‘That’s a guid goin pony you’ve got there, laddie! We were follaein you wi the lorry there.’
‘Aye, I seen ye.’
‘Well, we cam frae Saltcoats and after I seen that pony trottin, I want tae buy it frae ye. Is it for sale?’
‘Oh, it’s for sale aa right. It’s fir sale, mister, all right! I’m sellin it first chance I get. I’m lookin fir something a wee bit bigger.’
‘What would you be wantin fir it?’
‘Oh well,’ I said, ‘it cost me a good lot masel.’
‘Aye, put a price on it and I’ll buy it fae ye.’
Now this horse has cost me six pound ten . . . the white horse had only cost me nine pound, because I had got three pound in the swap. The price is getting wee-er. This horse I’d got was only worth six pound ten to me. It had cost me that much. And this is the way the travellers worked it out, till the horse they had cost them nothing. I said to these two men, ‘Twenty pound for the yoke. It’s yours, no a penny less.’
‘By God,’ he said, ‘you’re game! Haud out yir hand, I’ll tell ye what I’ll dae with you.’ I held out my hand. He said, ‘I’ll gie ye eighteen pound in yir hand, cash!’
I said, ‘Get it paid, and it’s yours.’ So it was a deal. The man paid the eighteen pound to me.
He told the laddie, ‘You yoke it and mak yir way noo. Nae chasin it on and walk it hame! And I’ll drive hame with the lorry. I’ll gae hame and hae a bite tae eat. I’ll yoke up my other pony and come back and meet ye.’ So away goes my horse and that was the end of it.
Now here are we left in Neilston. John has got a pony and harness and no cart. I’ve got eighteen pound and no horse. And it was a Monday. I said, ‘John, ye’re gaun . . .’
He said, ‘I cannae tak ye to market. I’m goin to see a man about a cairt. I have tae see him on Wednesday.’
The Horsieman Page 30