by Jess Smith
That weel may be,
But catch a poacher, then, ma certs!
Yer value see.
Or see the trapper, cap in hand,
Go bargain for the rabbit land,
Tae me, it’s hard tae understand,
Despite the hairm
Ye dae the fairmer, he’ll demand
The rent o’ fairm.
In Parliament they’ve used yer name,
Classed ye as vermin, just the same,
I think ye merit some sma’ fame,
A slight ovation,
In war when things were tight at hame,
Ye fed a nation.
But mappie, dinna fret oor sair,
Ye’ll weather this, o’ that I’m shair,
And multiply, aye mair and mair
Roond ilka clachan;
Now what’s that echo? I declare
The trapper’s lauchin’.
11
LOCHGILPHEAD MONKEY
I’ll take you over to Lochgilphead now on the west coast, and see if you believe this next tale. There are many who didn’t.
My namesake Auntie Jessie, her man Wullie, and their kids Anna and Wullie, had arrived the day before. It was grand seeing the fire blazing away and a braw big pot of tea brewing on the fire. Have you got yours? Good, then I’ll begin.
There are monkeys in Lochgilphead, you know, and not pet ones neither. I mean real wild ones in the wood. You don’t believe me? Well, read on.
The sky was a deep grey as we pulled on to our favourite spot on the shore a mile from the Argyllshire village of Lochgilphead. The mist on the hills in the distance seemed to roll down to meet the ocean and cover it with fingers of grey. It rained a lot; well, at least it did when we were there. I didn’t mind, though, because this part of the Scottish coastline had miles of shale beach, and that meant, for me at least, a good rake, or, to put it in general terms, beach-combing.
There was no swimming or sun-soaking while we were camped in this part of Bonnie Scotland—I had other things to do. For the purposes of my midden-raking, I kept a big jute sack (a tattie-bag) and in it I put all kinds of sellable metal. Brass, copper, lead—whatever the scrapman bought, if I found it, then into my bag it went.
I soon became quite an expert on scrap metal, and knew what it was worth just by its weight. Daddy used jokingly to warn folks not to leave their jeely pans lying about, or else I’d be slipping them into my bag.
The filling of my sack would take most of the summer; then came the best bit of all, the selling of it. I found the scrappy enjoyed a good haggle with me before a price was agreed on. We’d go through the best of the green-coloured brass, he’d offer me this or that, and I’d hum and haw before I accepted his offer. Then, after the entire contents of my bag had been scrutinised, the tired man would pay me the princely sum of two pounds. It was a great feeling walking away from that scrapyard, sack folded neatly under my arm, eagerly awaiting the coming summer when it would be filled again. This, then, was my goal—the filling of my big jute bag.
Folks used to comment on the sad wee lassie with the hanging head, the ones who didn’t know me, that is, for those who did, knew exactly what I was doing. I was scouring the ground for scrap. A right wee entrepreneur, if ever there was one. My ambition was one day to own a fleet of scrap lorries, and become the richest scrappy in the land. The lorries would be bright red with the Queen’s emblem on the doors, ‘By Appointment to Her Majesty’.
Sometimes I’d come across discarded cable-cuts, which meant the rubber casing had to be burned off, exposing the copper wire inside. Mammy avoided dressing me in frocks, because I didn’t half get reekit black with the burning rubber.
By the time we got settled at the shore the mist was thinning, and through low cloud little glints of sunshine were throwing their welcome light onto the stony beach. The tide was out, and my eyes greedily scanned as far as they could for anything with a metal look to it. I set about gathering up the odd bit. By the feel and the weight I soon knew what was worth popping into my sack. I walked for hundreds of yards, with head down and hands soaked from ramming them eagerly into thick, browny-green seaweed.
In no time I was heading home. I had so little in my bag that I could carry it over one shoulder, as I made my way through the now incoming tide back to the bus. My wee sisters were busy lifting crabs from rock pools. I returned in time to prise one from wee Babsy’s pinkie before she turned blue with crying. ‘Dear me, that wee sister of mine has the most greeting face amongst all the bairns in Scotland,’ I thought, examining the crab of half an inch in width. Mind you, I was bitten by a crab myself up past Berrydale, and my finger throbbed for near on a fortnight. It was a mite of a thing as well.
I didn’t find muckle on the beach that day, but that didn’t bother me because the sea constantly cleaned herself. Therefore, like the beaver I awaited the next day when I was sure I’d find a fortune.
Mammy whistled us in for supper. Uncle Wullie had also been collecting the sea’s bounty and had a braw fire going with some of the driftwood that lay in endless piles as far along the beach as the eye could see. My uncle, to his credit, was a dab hand at fires. He was also one of the best storytellers I’d ever heard; his tales of ‘Jake the Adventurer’ were renowned among travelling folks. And after I finish this wee story, I’ll tell you about him!
So, when day gave way to the night, we settled round the warm glowing fire, and while Cousin Wullie played his guitar, we sang along, then headed off to bed to dream.
Apart from dreams of being the richest scrappy in the world, my nod times would take me into bonny Mull, where I found buried treasure. Then I would marry the Duke, to become Her Highness, the Honourable Duchess o’ Argyll. Being one so noble, I’d put campsites all over Scotland for travellers, but only for ones that kept the place clean. People would say, ‘She’s a right fussy Duchess, that Jess Riley!’ Now, for a bairn of tinker stock, that wasn’t bad going, don’t you think?
Come morning, the mist had found its way into every part of land and sea. It was a ‘pea souper’, as Uncle Wullie called it, ‘but it’ll be gone by dinner time, it’s only morning mist.’
Mammy went hawking, taking wee Babsy, who was crabbit—or should I say ‘crab-bit’—and Renie with her. Mary and I were left with the bus to tidy and the dishes to wash. Daddy had to work on the bus engine, because it needed a bit of attention. I made Mary and me a braw big piece in butter and jam, making sure I kept the heel to myself, before setting out on my day’s raking. I’d made up my mind, while licking the raspberry jam dripping from my jeely piece: this day I’d fill my bag, even if it took the best part of the day to do it.
Mary and cousin Anna disappeared away down the beach, leaving me to finish the breakfast dishes. Daddy looked over at me, and as he pushed his hand into his pocket I just knew what was coming next: ‘Jessie, here’s ten bob, away into the village and get me ten fags, and mind my change, for I’m hard up this week.’
‘Why does it have to be me? I am the one who always has to do the messages, and I’m fair seek, so I am. Did God say, the day I came into the world, “Here is wee Jess, she’s to get all the shopping and not gather any scrap!”’
‘Get you down that road, I’m gasping for a fag, and if you go raking along that beach you’ll feel the back of my hand!’
He wasn’t a big man, my father, but by God he had hands like shovels, and if one landed on you, then you didn’t half feel it.
So, with silent reluctance, I sheepishly put the folded ten-shilling note into my cardigan pocket and skipped off down the road towards the village. I was determined not to loiter, because the shore had a lumpy look about it, and I was certain today it was heaving with goodies. In no time at all I was making my way homewards, with Daddy’s fags and change securely held in my hand.
I was halfway home when, in the wood to my right, something caught my eye: an animal of some kind was moving up and down between the trees.
‘Na, na,’ I said to myself,
‘I’m imagining it, quite common to see things that are not there in the mist’, which by this time was thicker than ever. ‘I doubt Uncle Wullie’s prediction is away off mark today,’ I thought, because it was past dinnertime. This was unusual, though, because his weather forecasts were always spot on.
I had decided to forget what I thought I saw and press on home with the old man’s fags when suddenly the beast leapt up, no more than thirty or so feet from me, and this time I knew what it was—it was a monkey!
I had seen one on a Tarzan film, and I never doubted that this beastie was the same as thon thing with arms to the ground, trailing its fingers along behind it, then flinging them up in the air and making a ‘hoo-hoo’ sound. Yes, no mistaking a monkey: but how, in heaven’s name, was it running wild through a wood at Lochgilphead?
I had to see more of this, so putting the fags and change into my cardigan pocket, with the curiosity of a dozen cats I leapt the dyke and into the wood after it. He, my finger-trailing friend, seemed aware of the chase, and weaved in and out of the trees keeping a good distance between us.
Judging by the chimp in Johnny Weissmuller’s film, these beasties were nobody’s fool, and neither was this wee bugger. I just couldn’t get a good enough look at him, but I was sure he would tire, because I certainly was!
It would be braw if I could catch him, then I’d take him back to Daddy. God in Heaven! I had forgotten about the old man’s fags and he’d be gasping, nothing surer. This was more important than any stupid monkey.
I turned to make my way back towards the dyke, but try as I might, the way was lost. I had run too far into the wood. There was no way I could make up time, it was the back of my father’s hand for me, nothing surer. Even worse, my jute bag would be denied its fill.
Hour upon hour seemed to go by like lightning as I weaved in and out the trees, cursing the wee monkey to the fires of hell, who, by the way, had vanished, and was probably sitting laughing at me from the safety of a sturdy branch.
Just as I was beginning to feel genuine fear, I saw a familiar sight above some trees further up on my left—a spiral of grey smoke told me an open fire was near. I made my way over and, thanks be, there in an opening in the wood I could see the road, and there at the other side was our dear old bus. ‘Someone must have been looking after me’, as the old folks used to say.
I clambered the dyke and ran breathlessly over to my fagless father.
‘Daddy, you’ll not believe me, but may my dear Granny spin in her grave if I lie, I’ve been chasing after a monkey, all through the wood!’ The words came fleeing from my mouth, and I swear to you I was having difficulty believing them myself, they sounded so unreal.
‘Listen!’ shouted Daddy, shutting me up with the tone of his voice, ‘for a start off, your Granny is alive and well, so what she’s doing spinning in her grave beats me, so don’t use those words again, my lady. Now we’ll say no more if you give me the fags.’
I could see the want of a fag was taking its toll on him, so I put my hands into my pocket. Then, as I ran my fingers inside, a terrible realisation came over me: Lord leap the spurtle stick, the fags and change were gone. Drawing in my breath, in whispering tones I told my father that I must have lost them. ‘What!’ he roared, ‘you’ve done what?’
‘It wasn’t me, it wis the monkey.’ Why, in the name of sanity, did I say that, because if ever an excuse was insulting to the intelligence then that was it.
Daddy pointed to the bus and that meant only one thing—grounded!
‘Please, Daddy,’ I pleaded. ‘What about my bag, I’ll no’ get it filled if you ground me?’ God, if I could get my fingers round thon ape I’d strangle it myself; aye, and I bet the brute’s sitting watching me getting my punishment and having a damn good laugh to itself.
I stared out the window at Daddy and knew by the lines on his brow: a thunderstorm was going on in his head. He’d most likely decided to wait until Mammy came home. Thankfully, he didn’t give me the back of his hand!
Mammy arrived home right pleased with her day’s hawking. She came into the bus, where by this time I was greeting my eyes out at the idea of not being able to rake the beach. The fact that my Daddy didn’t believe me made matters worse.
‘Here, lassie, take this,’ she said, handing me a handkerchief. ‘Now, did you lose Daddy’s fags while down raking the beach?’
‘No, Mammy, you should have seen it, the monkey! It was leaping up and down, and all I could think was, if I caught it, how excited everybody would be.’
‘Jessie, lass, you’ll bring the wrath of your father on yourself, now stop that.’
‘Lord roast me, Mother, if I tell a lie, but there was, really and truthfully, a monkey.’
‘You’ve got to understand, my lass, you can’t go using the Lord’s name in vain like that—another week for you, alright!’ My mother sank me a look, accompanied by hard slap on the leg.
‘Oh, please don’t!’ I knew no one was going to believe me, and blamed myself for going into the wood in the first place. So there I was, a stinging slap to the leg and grounded for two weeks. All because of the truth. I was resigned to the fact that my scrappy dreams were to be put on hold for the duration of our stay at Lochgilphead.
Next day I was peeking out the back window. The beach looked as if it was brimming with all kinds of goodies, and here was I stuck in for telling the truth. My sisters were giggling at my misfortune, and I wished the biggest crab in the ocean would come crawling out of the water and nip the heads off them.
Sinking I was, deeper into misery, when I heard the sound of strangers’ voices coming from outside. Looking through the curtains I saw two well-dressed men in conversation with my folks. They had the appearance of doctors, or perhaps lawyers, I really couldn’t say; one thing certain, I distinctly heard Mammy say my name.
‘Jessie, come on out, pet.’
I gingerly stepped down from the bus, leaving one hand securely grasping the door.
‘Is this the wee lass?’ asked one of the men.
‘Aye, this is our Jess,’ was my father’s reply. ‘These gentlemen are from the “Big Hoose”, hen, and they want to ask you something.’
Everyone knew about the Big Hoose, because whenever we did something stupid, the old folks would say, ‘That yin’s heading for the Big Hoose.’ It simply meant lunatic asylum!
Here, then, was what my parents had decided was to be my fate: I was to be locked up with all the dafties!
Looking in absolute horror at the two men, then at my parents, I screamed ‘Mammy! Daddy! I did, I really did see a monkey in the wood yesterday, please believe me! Don’t send me to the moich kier [mad house].’
‘Now, now, bairn, calm yourself, nobody’s sending you any place,’ said one of the men. ‘We came down from the hospital to tell you that there’s a patient of ours who pretends to be animals. Some days he thinks he is a lion, and can be heard roaring in the wood, then he likes to imitate a dog, and barks and whimpers. He is quite harmless, lass, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘So that was my monkey then, was it?’
‘Yes, that is his favourite beastie,’ said the other man.
‘Well, I can think of another description than harmless. Do you know he’s got me grounded for weeks?’
I could feel my mouth going quite dry, as I realised the wee monkey was really a man.
Daddy was looking at me, and I could see by his eyes he was sorry for not believing me. He took my hand, gave it a squeeze, and a soft smile spread across his face. My parents thanked the two men, saying their visit had made a wee lassie very happy, meaning I could get on with my rake.
When the men had gone we all looked at each other and burst out laughing. The very idea of a wee man-cum-monkey sitting happy on the dyke with a fag in its mouth, and the change of a ten bob note in its pocket, was a thought and a half, right enough.
Lochgilphead and I did not too bad with my rake, because I filled the jute sack to overflowing. We weren’t near a scrapp
y, but the travelling man camped along the beach gave me a full three pounds for the sackful. One pound more than Queen’s at Pitlochry, my usual scrap dealer, gave me. So, apart from the monkey man incident, the Lochgilphead visit proved economically fruitful, I’m glad to say.
May was coming to an end, but before we said our goodbyes to the relatives, there unfolded another wee tale with a tail, and this time my father was the one who had to do the explaining!
12
MOUDIE’S FATE
The whole of the countryside was spotted with moudiehills—molehills to those of you not accustomed to the term used by northern folks. ‘I’ve promised the factor to do the moles up and over yonder by the Big Hoose. Do you want to come, Jess?’ asked my father, trying to make amends for not believing my tale about wee monkey-man.
‘No thanks, there’s no way I am going anywhere near thon place, you never know what form the ape man will take today. No, I’ll bide on the beach, if that’s all right, Dad!’
Janey and Shirley laughed, but he soon wiped the smiles off their faces when he ordered them to come and help. Excuses were ignored—lump it or like it, they were going.
Truth was, on my part it wasn’t just the monkey-man that stopped me going with my father. I had no stomach for mole extermination. The knowledge a death was taking place, every time my Dad poked the mound of earth and dropped in yon awfy Cymax stuff, made my flesh creep. That by itself was bad enough, but you’ll never guess what was used to make it tasty to wee Moudie—worms were rolled in it. Now, I ask you, was that not an abomination? Innocent worms rolled in poison, then dropped into a mole’s den, awful!
To me, as a youngster, a mole was no different from a dog, a cow, aye, or even a bairn itself. The poor wee moudies didn’t stand a chance. Being honest, I’m certain Daddy took a scunner to killing them, but a living had to be made and we had to eat.
‘The beastie dies quick,’ he’d say. I was never certain if that remark was to convince him or the listener! To sway himself further he’d add, ‘If you seen the damage they do after they tunnel through miles of arable land, then perhaps you’d be getting rid as well.’
