by Jess Smith
‘Well done,’ I said, as I hammered the dirty nail into the top of the tin.
In no time the thick, sweet, glue-like milk was spewing from the holes, and each of us in turn sucked and licked to our heart’s content. Florrie, though, because of her age, just hadn’t mastered the art of sooking. This resulted in half her ration disappearing up her nose. We were in fits of giggles watching her wee tongue try to lick the contents of her nose along with the sweet, creamy milk.
When time came to eat my mother’s big pot of soup they had little appetite. Hardly surprising really.
By late afternoon they were all played out and wearied for their mother. I had no choice but to take them home. ‘Perhaps the hours of peace from the bairns would have done her good, and she’d be a little better,’ I thought.
‘Poor Bella must still be poorly,’ I said to myself when I noticed the fire was still out. ‘Wait the now, bairns,’ I told the children, ‘I’ll see if your granny is sleeping.’
Gently pulling back the door-cover, I whispered, ‘Is it all right to come in?’
‘Here Jess,’ said my mother, handing me a cardboard box with the sleepy pups huddled together. I did as I was told and sat the puppy box down on the grass.
Isa came out, said nothing and reached for her bairns, holding them in to her breast. I looked over her head at a sight that comes vividly into my mind even now. Bella was covered over by a blanket. Unable to stop myself I pulled the cover from her face. ‘She’ll suffocate,’ I shouted out. Mammy squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear that Bella had died, then lifted me away from the old woman’s death-bed. I took one last look before dashing outside. She was grey-coloured. Her eyelids half shut, chin resting on her chest. So this was how dead folks looked!
My mother slipped her arm through mine and said, ‘Come now, pet, let’s leave this family to their grief.’ She then added, picking up the pups, ‘I’ll have to get homes for these dogs.’ I wondered why she didn’t take the bitch as well, and asked her so.
‘The strangest thing,’ she said. ‘The minute the old woman went, the bitch went with her. The old dog just gave a heavy sigh, stretched her legs and died! Now, my God, was that not a way of doing, Jess!’ She shook her head, repeating, ‘My God, a strange way indeed!’
Thinking on my mother’s previous promise I peered in the box to see if Tiny was still there. ‘You’re not giving my wee one away, Mam, are you?’ I asked, thinking she only had said I could have it to keep the dying woman content.
‘No, don’t fret, lassie, you should know me better. When I make a promise, I keep it.’
‘Great, I’ve got a dog!’ I said, forgetting for an instant the sadness back inside the bowed camp.
‘No, Jessie, the pup belongs to the family, although I don’t want it under my feet, mind!’
‘Mammy, it’s not the size of tuppence, you’ll not even know it’s there,’ I said, as I squeezed my mother’s arm with excitement.
‘You don’t know what size it’ll grow to, lassie,’ she answered, shaking her head.
‘He’ll be tiny, Mam, I have a feeling.’
‘Never mind that just now,’ she said. ‘A doctor has to be brought in and relatives to be contacted. Isa asked me to go into Blair and get the polis to contact the minister at Appin church. He’ll find her brother Wullie. His last known address was somewhere near the coastal village.’
My mother then fixed me with her ‘this is important’ stare and said, ‘Now, lass, a death has taken place here this day, so away and tell as many bairns as you can to mind their wheest!’
Travelling folks have a mountain of respect for the dead, and as old Bella rested peacefully that Saturday at the Berries, a pin would have been heard dropping.
Next day I was up with the dew to look after Isa’s sad weans, but when I went to where the camp was they were gone, and I ran back hoping my mother could tell me where they were.
‘Mammy, the camp, old Bella’s body, God rest her soul, and everybody have gone, where are they?’
‘Well, lass, I expect the polis managed to get Isa’s brother Wullie, because before day broke a lorry driven by a red-headed man arrived and took everything away. They’ve gone.’ Mammy continued, ‘the heart-broken woman came up to thank us, said if we were in Argyll we were to visit them.’
After breakfast I wandered down to the spot where the camp had been pitched. Only the flattened grass and the burned circle made by the fire were still to be seen. There was one other thing, though—a wee cross where they’d taken the time before leaving to bury Tiny’s mother, the tired old bitch.
As promised, my mother found good homes for the three remaining pups. One went to a ploughman’s daughter, a bonny lassie with a calipered leg. The other two found good homes with rat-catchers.
After that year’s berry-picking was over, we trundled up to visit awhiles with a farmer friend at Balquhidder. Come with us, and I’ll introduce you.
16
JAMIE’S REST
Being so young, Death and his ways seldom spent a whiles in my head, but as I thought on the old woman who I had come to know, albeit briefly, I wondered where she would rest. I had visited the odd graveyard with Mammy and watched her, with bowed head, say a soft prayer over the departed relative sleeping peacefully beneath the soil.
The little marble stone carved with their name made certain folks know where exactly the grave was. What, though, if no such marker existed? How would one know where to put the flowers or pay respects on birthdays or any special event? This nagging thought prompted me to ask Mammy if there were any places she knew that didn’t have headstones. Like the olden days of the poorhouse, or battlefields: what happened to the bodies that lay about peckit by the craws?
No, she had no such knowledge, but she did know a tale of a ‘Tinkers’ Graveyard’, and she said there was no place more honourable than yon holy ground. If it’s comfortable ye are, then I’ll begin.
In certain travelling families—or tinkers as some Highlanders called them—kept secret from all but their own was the last resting place, the ancestral burial ground. If death came prematurely, and the family were far away, then a long journey awaited the departed and the grievers back to the resting place. I cannot disclose the names of the folks in my tale; I hope you will understand, and respect my reasons for doing so.
Jamie was a proud tinker laddie who waved farewell to his parents as he set off to join his fellow Scots on the battlefields of France in the year of 1914, the time of the Great War. Tinkers were treated like vermin in those days, but they still fought alongside many, and fell alongside them as well. A soldier once wrote: ‘generals’, privates’, dogs’, and tinkers’ blood mingles in the earth, an’ nane can tell the difference.’ Notice the tinker is listed below a dog. They lie in foreign lands, having given the final sacrifice for their country, and only the folks back home grieve with respect.
Jamie, though, was the exception, for he soon shone above others for his friendly mannerisms, strength, and bravery. All his comrades liked him, as he told jokes and helped the injured in those awful mud-filled trenches where so many young men died. He fought like a true Highlander and was the pride of his command, twice saving the lives of his comrades in the line of fire. While many brave lads were reduced to tears, young Jamie continued to shine. His final act of courage came when he carried a wounded soldier through enemy lines for over a mile. For this act of unselfish heroism he was awarded an honourable medal, which he kept in his tunic pocket.
Two months before the end of the war, Jamie took a sniper’s bullet to his left leg. The injury wasn’t serious but his officer sent him home with the wounded, telling him to see a doctor when he got back.
The young man thought nothing of his injury as he made his long journey home to his people in the Highlands. In due course he eventually found them pearl-fishing in Caithness. His folks were over the moon that their laddie was returned them, aye, and him with a medal. Sad to say, his leg-wound was far more serious than
he thought; poison had found its way into his bone. In those days this was fatal, and within a month Jamie, the brave tinker laddie who gave so much on the fields of France, died in his father’s arms.
Relatives came for miles to mourn the brave laddie. While the men wandered back and forth discussing Jamie’s heroics, the women prepared his body for the long rest.
Little balls of flax were placed in his ears and nostrils; this stopped evil spirits from entering his body and stealing away his soul. A small piece of ancient plaid embroidered with his family name was placed across his heart, ensuring a heavenly home for all the family. Lastly there was a gentle kiss from his parents before his body was wrapped tightly in thin muslin cloth. Young Jamie’s earthbound remains were mummified from head to toe for his spiritless rest.
Within three days, over a hundred relatives had gathered for the journey to the secret burial ground. This sacred piece of land lay deep in a Highland glen, towered over on either side by high mountains, as if guarding their secret from the outside world. At the head of the little glen remnants of a once great Caledonian pine forest scatter themselves, bent with age, ravaged by rook and osprey nests, refusing to fall as if their very existence was a mark of Scotland herself.
From where Jamie’s funeral procession began to the hidden spot was thankfully only fifteen miles, a day’s walk following the horse and cart. But that was before the old laird passed away himself. He had no problem with tinkers; in fact a mutual respect existed between them. This, though, was not the attitude of the new owner, who loathed tinkers with a vengeance.
The old laird never knew, or ever wanted to know, the whereabouts of the burial ground, but the new laird was not so tolerant. Folks say he was assaulted by a gypsy while serving with the ‘Bubbly Jocks’ (nickname for the 2nd Dragoons, The Scots Greys, from the Border country). The incident, so folks said, arose from cowardice on the laird’s part, and left him twisted and angry with every nomadic person.
Imagine the reaction from the funeral party when, at the start of their road, a great iron gate barred the way. Wooden fences ran as far as the eye could see, while the factor, with estate workers sporting guns, menacingly shouted abuse at the grieving relatives of heroic Jamie.
That was a bad do, right enough. The parents of our dear deceased, heart-broken as they were, asked everyone to sit down and wait until they returned. They decided to approach the big house, home of the angry laird, and put to him the importance of their son being laid among his ancestors.
‘I will under nae circumstances allow vermin tae be burret on ma land. Now afore I gie the order fur the hale gang o’ ye tae be run through, I’ll let an hour pass fur ye a’ tae git aff ma grun!’
Without a single word the parents turned, heads hung down, and walked away.
The laird’s men laughed and mocked as the mourners walked back down the way they had come. When out of sight, though, the travelling folks took on a totally different view of the situation, and sat behind a broad dyke concealing their hero laddie’s body, planning a strategic battle with the brave lairdy and his henchmen. It mattered not to them how many the enemy were, or the amount of guns they held, Jamie would rest in his rightful place, and before that day ended. ‘I made a promise tae ma boy,’ said his father, ‘an yon stuffed, port-supping, turkey o’ a laird will not stop me frae keepin a promise tae ma Jamie.’
So, as dusk fell and the laird’s men had all retreated home, the tinkers led the horse and cart with its precious cargo up the rhododendron driveway of the ‘big hoose’. And as the women wailed and the piper played a lament the men dug a six-foot hole in a beautiful flowerbed, yards from the laird’s front door, then gently lowered Jamie’s body into the freshly dug grave.
Now imagine the red anger of himself when he witnessed the desecration taking place on his very own doorstep. ‘Get that oot o’ there or I’ll blow the heeds aff ye. Dae as I say, I’m warning ye.’
But, as before, not a single word was uttered, apart from the women, who were still wailing, and the piper, who was still lamenting.
Now, folks, in the Highlands of Scotland it matters not if you’re a duke, a tramp or a dog—no one on any account desecrates a grave!
The laird screamed at his house servants, his factor, in fact all his household who were lined up outside, to ‘Dig up the vermin an’ dump it or burn it,’ but ‘Na! Na! that was deevil’s work’, and more important than the laird’s employment was the future of one’s soul! ‘What will ye tak tae get that aff ma doorstep?’ he shouted to the grievers. Still keeping silent, the father pointed to the hills in the distance.
‘My Lord, it would be a fool who stood in the way of the tinkers,’ said the laird’s old butler. ‘Many is the curse which falls on the house of whoever stops the burial!’
The red face of the enraged man glowed, like the now-full moon shining brightly in the night sky, as he turned and marched up the steps of his stately home, leaving matters to those he hated, but knew he could not defeat.
So, as the women wailed and the piper played, our Jamie was duly dug up.
Two lads stayed on guard within the remnants of the ancient pines as the rest went on to the secret burial ground. ‘Wait,’ said Jamie’s father, and before they lowered his boy to his rest he bent down and gently pinned a little silver medal on his chest.
So there you have it, in an unmarked grave somewhere in a Highland glen, a soldier sleeps peacefully, guarded over by two mighty giants. I will only give you a tiny clue: each of the giants goes by the name of ‘Ben’!
It is with the kind permission of John Gilbert I now include my favourite poem. These beautiful words were written by his late grandfather of the same name. He came from Comrie in Perthshire, and was a very gifted poet. Thank you, John.
The Tinker’s Grave
In the drowsie sound o’ a murmurin burn
Far ben in the hert o’ a boskie glen,
There they left the tinker sleepin,
But whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.
Was it close tae the silvery stream o’ the Earn
Or set by the Ruchill’s rocky bed?
The fairies that dance on the Leadnaig’s banks
Do they lull his sleep wi’ their airy tread?
His bed was lined wi’ the saft green mosses
His shroud was the tent he had sleepit in.
His dirge was the tune o’ that wimplin burnie,
Played on the sough o’ the saft west wind.
Owre him they made the tinker ritual,
They merched roond the grave an they keepit time,
Chatterin aye wi’ a mystic mutter
Some cryptic words in a queer auld rhyme.
The lovelorn merl there in the lerac,
Singin his mate tae sleep fur the nicht,
Soondit the last post owre the tinker,
Full and clear in the fadin licht.
Never a mound did they raise aboon him,
Nor chiseled a stane fur his grave tae mark
That unkent spot in the phantom country,
That lies merched in twixt the licht an the dark.
There in the land o’ mellowin gloamin
Whaur the evenin shadows begin tae fa’,
Whaur the nicht comes quietly creepin forrit,
An the day goes gently wastin awa.
In the drowsie soond o’ that murmurin burnie,
Far ben in the hert o’ that boskie glen,
There they left the tinker sleepin,
Whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.
17
BALQUHIDDER VISIT
I can’t remember the journey to Strathyre; I was too busy sewing a lining into an old wicker basket for the wee dog. Daddy glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘If that’s where the pup’s going to sleep make sure it can slip beneath the bed, I am not wanting it lying in the road of my feet, all right, Jess?’
‘Och, Dad, he’s a terrier for goodness sake! Did you see the size of the mother, no bigger t
han a Golden Wonder tattie.’
‘No, I didn’t see the bitch, but do you see thon tramp over yonder on the right hand side of the road?’
I stretched myself to see an elderly gent of the road sleeping peacefully beside a stumpy tree trunk, and nodded.
‘Well, my lass, he’ll be the proud owner of a wee dog if I get any more of your cheek.’
I changed the subject by pretending to prick my finger on the needle, then muttered something about driving too fast round a sharp bend on the road.
Janey lifted her eyes from above a book she was reading and said, ‘You’d have a face on yourself if he got up in the dark for a pee and stood on the wee dog.’
I suppose that thought had never reached my head. ‘Aye, Janey, I can hear the roar out of him if he did. And what if the dog, when fully grown, took a lump out of him?’
That brought hilarious laughter from the two of us.
A glower in the mirror was enough to tell us he had heard, so I continued sewing while Janey went back to her book.
Renie whinging that the floor was soaked soon broke our blissful peace. ‘Daddy, the dog needs the lavvie, there’s a puddle on the floor,’ she said.
‘Shut up, Renie, if he sees that he’ll give Tiny away.’ I whispered I’d shove her finger into a Devil’s thimble (foxglove flower). She had got it into her head that if one’s finger was inserted the Devil kept it. I don’t know who told her that. No, it wasn’t me!
Thankfully Dad was listening to the gearbox as it crunched its way from top to bottom while tackling a very steep hill, and wouldn’t have heard her anyway.
Janey threw an old towel on the floor covering the dog’s pee, and mopped her foot across the wetness, pointing a finger at me as if to say, ‘You’re owing me!’
Tiny’s basket slid under the bed without any bother, so he didn’t get stood on. Mind you, my father took to him so much the wee dog was given the best bed in the place, under the feather-filled quilt on my parents’ bed.
