So I said, ‘Well, I’ll go to market masel, and I’ll get something before I come back. I’ll take a tram-car in myself,’ He tellt me where to go.
So on Wednesday I get a bus in a bit of the road, and then I get a trammie into the market, right to Argyle Street. And I come off. I asked everybody to tell me the road to the market and it was no bother. The first body I met in the market was my Uncle Johnie. Also my Uncle Sandy and a big bunch o travellers. They’re all standing with ponies and carts right at the front of the market. And two Irishmen. This one Irishman had the biggest horse I ever saw in my life, a grey horse about seventeen hands. But I walked up and down and up and down and looked at all the horses, and I couldn’t see anything worth my money. Horses began to get dearer then. And this Irishman was cracking to Uncle Johnie.
He says to me, ‘Ye looking fir a horse, son?’
I said, ‘Aye, I’m lookin fir a horse, mister.’
‘What kind o money would ye be gaunna pay fir it?’
Now I had given Jeannie two pound to get messages. And I’d paid my bus off it, which wasn’t very much. I think I had fifteen pound odds left in my pocket, and I bought fags. This is why I couldn’t buy anything in the market, because they were a wee bit more than I had in my pooch. If I had kept my eighteen pound I might have had a chance. I said, ‘I havena got very much money. I’ve got nae way o gettin nothing.’
He said, ‘How much money do ye hev?’
I said, ‘Tell the God’s truth, mister, all the money I’ve got between me and God is fifteen pound.’
He said, ‘I could get ye a pony fir yir fifteen pound, boy, on my road back where I stay at a place called Harthill. But it means a long walk for ye.’
‘Oh mister, I’m no carin about a walk.’
‘Well, I’m goin oot this way and I know the old man that owns it well. And I’m sure I could buy it to you fir yir fifteen bar.’ So by this time the horses began to get sold in the sale and everybody was moving out. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘wait till I get this auld woman o mine, fling her in this cart an we’ll drive out. I’ll show ye this pigman has this horse!’
So I jumped in the cart with the man and I’d never been out this road before in my life. His name was Ned Cash. He stopped at this shop. His wife came out, and she had this great big box of messages. She put them in the side of the float. He jumped up. And he drove that horse all the way out, never giving it a stop, never a chance to draw a breath till it landed where he was staying.
Now, sister, when we landed there – I’ve seen rough travellers in my day, real rough ones, and I’ve been among a lot o travellers – and God kens I was brought up kind o rough myself! But never in my life have ever I seen a rougher place than this. These travellers were fresh from Ireland, Irish travellers. They treated Scotland like I couldn’t tell ye. But the law didn’t mean anything to them – they camped in any farmer’s field, they camped any place, and if they wanted something they just went and helped themselves to it. When the police came, ‘Oh, we’re just from Ireland – we don’t know any better. We thought . . .’ This was an excuse! They pleaded ignorant.
So this old woman said, ‘Come on up to the fire, boy, and hae a bite o tea!’ The man took me up to the fire. The woman made a kettle o tea and she gave me some. This old woman was sitting at the fireside making a loaf o bread. She had a big metal pot, and the loaf into the pot. She had a fire kindled under the pot, and the lid of it was turned upside down. Another fire was kindled on top of the lid. That was heat from below and heat from above. She was baking a home-made Irish loaf. I’d never seen this before in my life. I’d seen my mother making bannocks at the fireside, scones and that. But these were the freest people you ever saw in your life! You could have stayed with them all your days! But questions – they asked you questions about this, questions about that, and they were very inquisistive. They wanted to know everything. What are old coal bags a dozen? They collected everything, you see, old coal bags, rags, bottles and bones, anything they could turn into a shilling. I’ll tell you, some of them are well off today with big new trailers and lorries. And they got their start here in Scotland.
Ned Cash said, ‘We’ll yoke the old pony again and I’ll drive ye down to this pig feeder, and we’ll get you that pony.’ He never said ‘buy it; well get you this pony,’ he said. So he yokes the big horse up again. ‘Jump in, son!’ And he jumps in, drives away back the road a bit and then down this side road. And he comes to this wee old croft. He says, ‘I was down here the other day and I got some old bags from him, and some old scrap. And I seen the wee bit of a pony he’s got. I think it would do you a turn. You hold the pony and I’ll have a speak to him for ye.’
I said, ‘The’re the fifteen pound to ye. If you can buy it fir that, keep the rest.’
‘Oh not at all, boy! What are you gae’n to do for a smoke or maybe a sup o tea when you go home to your woman? You couldnae gie it all tae him. Gie me thirteen and you keep another two, because you might need it, you know, tomorrow.’
‘All right.’ I gave him the thirteen pound. He took the reins of the horse and tied it to the gate post.
‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘and we’ll see him.’ We walk in and out comes this old man. He said, ‘I was down yesterday and bought that puckle scrap frae ye.’
‘Aye,’ the man said, ‘so you were.’
‘And I was tellin the young boy here – this is a friend, a mate o mine. He’s just new married and he’s just tryin to make his way in the world. He disna have very much money. I thought maybe I could buy that old teat from ye. It would maybe give him a start in life. He’ll prob’ly get an old bit o harness fir her.’
‘Well,’ the man said, ‘there it is there, she’s fir sale.’
‘Come here, boy, and have a look at this teat and see what you think!’ I looked at it. And oh, a nice wee pony. A mare it was, beautiful wee brown pony, a long tail and mane. He said, ‘Would it do you, son?’
I said, ‘God bless me, aye, mister, it would do me aa right! That would suit me fine.’
‘Well,’ he says to the old man, ‘and what would ye sekkin fir it?
The old man said, ‘I was wantin twenty pound fir it.’
‘Och not at all,’ he said. ‘I’m sure now he was offered one there now just afore we left at my own place for fourteen pound. He could have got a nice wee pony, and he hadna the money tae pay fir it. I’ll tell ye what I’ll do wi you, I’ll give ye ten pound fir her and ye’re gettin a good bargain!’
‘Oh,’ the man said, ‘no ten pound. I would never dream of it!’
‘Now, I’m sure it’s no good to you now. Would you no be better now, maybe you could buy a couple o pigs fir the ten pound, you see, and it’s far better tae you. Now it’s only standin there and it’s eatin all yir meat, and it’s no doin you any good.’
Man said, ‘I’ve plenty meat fir it, plenty food fir it. I’m no going to gie it awa fir ten pound anyway.’
‘Well, I’m sure now a biddin man’s a buyin man! Now hold your hand: I’ll tell ye what I’ll do with you now. If ye hold yir hand I’ll give ye a right deal. There’s [SLAP] six in that hand. Now hold that, I’m gaunna give ye more – now this is the last penny and there’s seven in that hand! Now there’s thirteen pound to ye. Am I no givin ye a good bid now? Now be sure, let me see ye puttin that in yir pocket and sayin it’s a deal!’
Well, I think the old man began to agree with him. ‘Ach well,’ he says, ‘seein this is fir the laddie, you can have it!’ The old man put the money in his pocket.
‘Now ye’ll gie the boy a bit bridle fir tae put on it tae lead it back!’ The old man went into the stead building, got me a nice working bridle. I had the bridle for years after that. ‘Now I’m sure you’ll gie the boy that bridle now fir a luckspenny! I’m sure it’ll bring him luck! Take yir pony, boy, and tie it to the back of the cart.’ And he had a ring on the back of his cart for tying other horses to. ‘Tie it there and we’ll drive home. We’ll get some more tea.’ Oh, this w
ee pony could fair step up behind the other cart. It was going fine. He drove back. All the people gathered round it.
‘Ach, it’s just an old teat fir the young fellow here,’ he tellt them. ‘It’ll give him a bit start.’ He says to me, ‘Will you manage to make yir way back noo?’
‘Oh, I’ll make my way back.’
‘Look, you can’t go wrong. Sure I know the way to Barrhead all the way fae here. Now if you take the way I show ye, it’s a quicker way.’ He gave me directions, ‘Ye’ll go back the tram car rails, follow the rails ti the end. It’ll save ye gaun down the main street now. And fae there on you’ve a straight road home. But I’ll tell you something, it’ll be late before you get home so you better fill yir belly before you go!’
I had a nice cup o tea with Ned Cash and his family. My main interest was watching this other old Irish woman making this bread in a pot on the fire. I said to Ned, ‘That’s nice. I bet you that tastes good.’
‘Well, son, you should know if it tastes good or no. You’re after havin a bit of it!’ I never knew I was eating the bread his mother-in-law had made. It was delicious. Great I thought! So he said to me, ‘Now, son, after you’ve had tea – did you fill your belly up?’
I said, ‘Aye, I’ve had enough to eat. Thank you very much.’ They were awfully nice folk.
‘Now you remember the directions I’m sendin ye?’ This was Harthill, past Bellshill a good bit. ‘You’ll have to go straight back through Glasgow, right through Argyle Street and go over the Jamaica Bridge, straight out to Carnwadric, Pollokshaws and on to Barrhead. Now that’s not a bad little teat you’ve got. It’ll prob’ly do you till ye swap it away for something bigger. Where dae ye come from?’
I told him, ‘I come from, well mostly I come fae away doon in Fife.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about that country. But I’ve never been there.’
‘Well, if you’re ever down that way, look me up. We’ll have a good time o it when ye get there.’ It was nearly three years later before I was to see him in Fife. And I did have a great time with Ned Cash, but that’s another story.
I was quite pleased to get this wee pony and I didn’t mind the walk. I was really young, in my twenties, and walking to me was nothing. So the old man had given me a bit rope, a bridle. I put the bridle on the pony and started to walk. It was a beautiful day. The funny thing is, if you’re walking with a pony leading it by the head you seem to walk better, faster, because you keep time with the horse. You never feel the time passing because you’re aye speakin to the horse and watching the horse and the miles seem to pass on. But I walked on till I came to the tram car rails. And I said, ‘I hope it’s no feart o traffic. It cannae be feart if the old pig man used it in the street often enough.’ A lot of horses were feart o tram cars with the ‘ssshhhhhtt’ and the sparks fleeing off the wheels, and the overhead sparks off the wire. But this wee pony didn’t seem to bother.
So I walked on and on and on and I was well into Glasgow making my way for Argyle Street. When I came along there was a big building, and just as I was coming level with this building there were two or three kids playing in the road. This wee lassie, about three, she ran straight out in the front of this tram car! I just let go the horse and ran out. I snapped the wee bairn away from in front of the tram car. And the horse being loose set sail, galloping right down in front of the tram car. All the cars are stopped and the horse is loose! It hadn’t run far, maybe a hundred yards when a policeman on patrol stopped it. And, with the help of some of the folk he caught it. He walked back with it towards me. Now I’m standing and I’ve got the wee bairn, and I’m shaking with the fright I got. And this woman came out of a close. She was just coming out when another man in plain clothes came across, and he, too, was a policeman, or a detective. This other one came up who had the horse.
‘What’s the meaning o this?’ he says to me. ‘Lettin your horse go in traffic! Lettin it go. You know, it could hae been killed. You could have caused an accident. What’s your name?’ I tellt him my name. ‘Where do you stay? Well, we’ll have to see more about this.’
This other policeman or detective came up. ‘Constable, wait a minute! It’s not the young fellow’s fault. He’s after savin that kid frae the front o that tram car.’ And the tram car stopped. The driver came out and he tellt the police.
‘It ran right in front o the car,’ he said, ‘and the young fellow here, he had to let go o the horse. He let go of the horse to save the child’s life. I never really seen her.’ You know, because in tram cars you sit up high and you could hardly see right down in front. But I’d snapped her and saved her life. And then her mother came out. She snapped the wee bairn! She gave it all the scolding you could get!
And the policeman said, ‘Come here you!’ To the mother, ‘You take the tellin off you gied her. You could have caused the bairn’s life, and this young man could have been killed. And the horse could have run away in the road, caused an accident! All through you neglectin your child. Now never let that happen again!’ He gave her a terrible scolding.
So the two policemen pulled me aside, asked me where I was going. I tellt them I was going to Barrhead and I said, ‘I bought . . .’
‘Where’d you get the pony?’
‘I bought it away up oot at a tinker’s encampment.’ I never said I got it from a pig man. ‘And I drove oot with him in his cairt tae this Irish tinker’s campin place. He got me this horse, and I have to walk to Barrhead.
‘Well,’ the policeman said, ‘I see you’re on the right side of the road anyway.’
I said, ‘Oh aye, I’ve walked horses a long way.’ You’ve got to face the traffic. You always keep yourself next to the traffic because if the horse shies, it’ll no shy towards you. It’ll shy up to the pavement.
So he said, ‘It’s okay then.’ So I never got charged. The policeman gave me the rest of the directions to take, told me two or three shortcuts. But I didn’t want to get lost. I just kept on the way Paddy tellt me.
So I travelled on. I followed the tram car lines over the Jamaica Bridge and right out to Carnwadric, Pollokshaws, right to Barrhead. And we were camped on an old road. It was about ten o’clock at night when I got back. So, the next day we shifted. Now I had no cart and I had no harness. John had a gig he’d bought. We called it a ‘machine’, a governor’s car.
He said, ‘We’ll try wir best to pack it up and you just walk your pony, and we’ll make wir way back to Fife.’
So we did make our way gradually back to Fife. We cut away in by Glasgow, in by Larbert and in by Kincardine Bridge, and into Dunfermline. It was at Halbeath where I bought this wee cart and harness from an old man. I got myself a complete yoke once more. And I swore that no more was I going to break up my yoke. I said I would never sell out again! It disna matter what I had, I was going to keep it. If somebody offered me a swap, they would have to swap me a complete yoke.
So we landed back in Fife anyway. And we started gathering the puckles o scrap and stuff and trying to make our living the best way we could, hawking flowers and that. But we got word that there were travellers making a lot of money at the tatties at Muthill by Crieff. It was coming up now about the end of September. The travellers were gathering at Muthill. This man, Sir Dembey Roberts, had opened up a big place for the travellers to camp there, an old Army billet called Hell Fire Corner.
My cousin says to me, ‘I think the best thing – we should go for a while to the tatties.’
Now it was only me and Jeannie and Edith. She was only about eleven months old. So I said, ‘Okay by me, that’s fine. We’ll go to the tatties. So we left Fife. But I said, ‘Look, I’m comin back to Fife in the wintertime. I’m no stayin in Perthshire in the winter.’ I liked Fife because in these days you could camp any place and you got plenty of coal. There were plenty of coal bings. And there was a scrap store in nearly every wee village. It was good for making a living. Money wasn’t very plentiful but it was a poor day you couldn’t go out with your cart and make somethin
g.
When we finally got to Crieff and were at the tatties, we were working for ten shillings a day. Well, I was lifting the tattie baskets and getting thirteen. That was twenty-three shillings a day between the two of us. Now when I was back in Fife I could go out and make a couple of pound for my day gathering a wee puckle scrap or non-ferrous metals, or suppose it was only selling flowers. But you got bored doing the same thing steady, every day. And you soon hawked a place out. Say, you were staying at Markinch for about a week. With a pony you only had a small district to hawk. And you soon got cleaned up round there, so you had to move on to get some place else. The further you moved away from the scrap stores the further you had the stuff to take back. And there weren’t many travellers had cars then. All the travellers were flocking to the tatties because there were some families with six and seven gatherers. A father and mother and six weans would draw about five or six pound a day. Now, you could buy a good horse then for twenty-five-thirty pound. And travellers were just beginning to get a start in motors. The tatties is where you could buy a cheap tent, you see! Somebody ran out of money, and they were selling a tent. Or maybe they were selling a horse or a cover for a camp. It was better than the berries, because the folk out for the berries were only out for fun. But the tatties was reality – you had to really work.
We had made our way to the tatties. And when we landed there I never saw so many camps in my life! There were gellies and barricades, but not a caravan among them. Some had big tents with bits of barricades at the front. All had chimneys and fire cans in now. Different from what you would have today. There’s people running about the country now wouldn’t even go there. But that’s where they were born, some of them. Even suppose such a place was there today, some travellers wouldn’t go, disgrace themselves and do a day’s work in such primitive conditions.
At that time you didn’t need to go and ask for a job; you just came in and put up your tent. The next morning they sent a cattle float with the big doors. An odd traveller had a car, and they would drive to the field themselves and take their own family. But there were only half a dozen motors there. Everybody had horses, and it was good fun because the farmer gave you a big field. You could turn your horse loose and forget about it. There was a burn where you could poach plenty salmon. There were plenty of rabbits and you could take home as many tatties as you wanted. And firewood past the common. You had company; you could play quoits at weekends and go fishing. And there was a wee train passed by where you stayed; it took you into Crieff for a sixpence. You only had four or five hundred yards to walk to the wee station to get a train. And it went four and five times a day by Auchterarder and right through by Crieff. The women used to go in on a Saturday for their messages. They were no time away! Things were all right there. Folk liked it!
The Horsieman Page 31