by Jess Smith
‘Aye, poor beast, thon goolies are dragging off the ground. It must be right sore at times, especially jumping a dyke!’ I added.
‘Jess, if you weighed the same as him, lassie, I hardly think you’d be able to jump over yer Granny’s thimble. Come on, let’s get and see if we can find a bob at this place!’ she said.
Although I’d heard others talk about Maggie-Ellen’s work, I had never seen her in action. I’m grateful for my cut finger, because this day’s events allowed me at first hand to see a true teller of fate at work. It was an experience which has stayed with me all the days of my life.
Adjusting her coat buttons, fixing a loose hair-comb, and asking me if her lipstick was still red, she knocked three times on the farmhouse door. No answer. She knocked again, louder this time, followed by a gentle, ‘Hello, is anyone in?’ Still no answer. I said there might not be anybody in, further reminding her that farm people seldom care to deal with strangers at the door. Ignoring me she knocked again.
‘Jess, go and look through the wee window at the side of the house.’
I felt annoyed at her insistence. ‘Perhaps there is nobody in. Do you not think we waste our time?’ I said, as I reluctantly did as she asked.
‘There is a bad thing here, I sense entrapment. Look through the window, we’ve not much time.’
I didn’t understand a thing she said, but it made me feel uneasy just the same. I stared through the small window, and although a net curtain hindered my gaze I did catch sight of a young woman sitting at a table. I tapped gently on the glass. She instantly stood up, came over and opened the window. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.
Before I had time to answer, Maggie-Ellen was at my side. ‘Lassie, I’ve come to help. Pack a bag quickly,’ she told the young woman.
The next thing I can only describe as indescribable! The young woman opened the door and called for us to come in while she packed.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked my companion, still totally stumped at the reaction from the woman. After all, had we not just met her? Was she not a complete stranger?
Within no time the lassie stood in her kitchen, suitcase in one hand, small vanity-case in the other.
‘Now, listen to me,’ said Maggie-Ellen. ‘I feel he is not far. In fact the beast comes up the road, but don’t you fret, me and the lassie here will keep him from you.’
‘What in hell’s name is going on?’ I asked, for the tenth time.
At those words the woman began to tremble, tears instantly filled her eyes and ran freely down her face. ‘I’m dead now, he’ll kill me for sure. Help me, gypsy, please.’
‘Are you ready? Have you all you need?’ asked Maggie-Ellen. The frightened woman nodded in answer. ‘Well, lassie, this is the only chance you’re going to get. Come now.’
I was still utterly stunned at what was taking place.
On opening the door my mouth dropped, for standing feet away from us was a six-foot tall, heavily-built man. His eyes narrowed on seeing us. ‘Where the hell are you going?’ he shouted at the frightened woman. ‘Get yourself back in there or it’s the stick I’ll give ye!’, he added, before turning to us, hissing through clenched teeth, ‘And you, filthy gypsies, you can go now, or else.’
He lifted his crook and brought it down inches from my legs.
I lifted the swag-bag, swinging it at him and narrowly missing the side of his face.
Maggie-Ellen straightened her back, squared her shoulders, stared the offending gent in the eye and said, ‘You are a vile, evil man! I give you one warning, let us go without hindrance or on your own head be it.’
‘The day I bother about the likes of you will be the day hell freezes over. Now, see the bull at the gate over yonder—do you want me to set him on you?’
‘I see the brute,’ answered Maggie-Ellen, keeping her gaze on the wicked man, ‘but he doesn’t stand at any gate, he lies in his own dung!’
I couldn’t believe my eyes. The broad, healthy bull we joked about earlier lay as dead as stone at the foot of the iron gate.
‘Oh, my God, my prize Charolais, what’s wrong, what’s up with you?’ the man cried, clambering over the gate to get to the departed beast.
‘Let us be gone from here, it won’t take him long to make chase,’ said my fellow traveller, holding my arm and pulling the young woman away at the same time.
In no time we were standing at the road end. Joe-Toe was already there, and I can tell you, I wasn’t half relieved to see him.
‘Just drop me off at the bus stop,’ asked the still-shocked woman, ‘I’ll get a bus.’
‘Don’t you think the seed growing in there needs its father?’ asked Maggie-Ellen, patting the woman on the abdomen. These words brought floods of tears.
‘I think you may be right,’ she smiled, drying her eyes. ‘He lives in the village of Cardenden. If you take me there, I’ll find him. And thanks Maggie-Ellen, for keeping your promise. Here’s something for your trouble.’ She slipped some money into her hand.
‘Will the wild man come looking for you?’ I asked her.
‘God, I’m pretty certain the loss of his prize bull will have knocked the stuffing from him. No, he’ll not bother me again,’ she said, thanking me also for my help.
We watched the woman run off down the road to, hopefully, a new life.
As we ate our cold mutton pies, I asked my friend what the day’s events were all about. ‘I think you owe me an explanation,’ I said to Maggie-Ellen.
She told me that the day before, she had found the poor soul crying at the side of an old dyke near the farm. The big-mouthed man whom we’d had the run-in with was her brother. Ever since their parents died he had been using her more or less like a slave, forbidding her to go anywhere. One day, a young lad came looking for work. They met and fell in love, keeping their romance secret for over a year. The brother had recently found out. He beat her and forbade her from seeing him again. Maggie-Ellen, on hearing of the young woman’s predicament, promised to help. You know the rest. And there was me thinking my friend was a psychic extraordinaire.
‘But,’ I enquired of my companion on our way home, ‘one thing puzzles me.’
‘I know you’re going to ask me about the bull. Well, that’s for me to know and you to guess.’
So, then, that was the only answer she gave me. I never knew if the old bull went naturally or otherwise. One thing I do know, that young woman never told Maggie-Ellen she was pregnant, so how did she know that?
Traveller women who have the ‘gift’ never disclose their secrets, not even to their own daughters! They say if an individual is to be clairvoyant, then they will know from within from an early age.
My own mother, no matter how many times I asked her about it, refused point blank to say a thing apart from, ‘If you tell people good things, and keep the bad from them, then what harm can be done?’
We met Auntie Jessie and Wullie, then travelled to the Berries where, as usual, a great time was had. I do not have a tale to tell of this occasion, except it was there for the first time in my life I fell in love.
If you have read the books of Betsy Whyte then you will know who I speak of, because my first love was her younger son, William. I followed him around like a doe-eyed pup until he gently sat me down on an old dyke and disclosed he loved another.
I was heartbroken. There was I, hopelessly in love. I cried my eyes out while I told him so. Betsy’s laddie, being a true gentleman, said I was far too bonny for him, then kissed my flushed cheek before strolling off to pick the morning’s berries.
I spent many happy hours with Betsy and her man Bryce that berry time. It was with them I heard many happy tales of their young days on the road. Little did I know her life story would one day be read by the whole world in the form of her renowned books, Yellow on the Broom and Red Rowan and Wild Berries. She was a lovely travelling lady whom I am the richer for meeting.
We left Blairgowrie that summer at the Berries’ end and headed to Glen Shee.
30
ARMADALE MARY
‘Where to now, folks,’ asked Daddy, ‘is it west or east?’
Uncle Wullie said he wouldn’t mind a donner up round Braemar, he hadn’t been there for ages. ‘Do you know there’s ancient pine there that grow so high they kiss clouds, and the burn water so cold at its source only the Gods taste it. Them, and travellers like ourselves, of course.’
He came from that part of Bonnie Scotland did my uncle, and beamed with pride when describing it. If anyone happened to disagree with him, then he proudly reminded the said body that a great Royal once fell in love with it at first sight, then wryly asked, ‘Well, tell me, why did Her Majesty build Balmoral?’
No one could argue with that, for Queen Victoria indeed said, and I quote: ‘There is no place on earth so majestic as my Deeside.’ She and Uncle Wullie have long since passed away, but I know they would have had no doubt that this part of Scotland would forever retain her beauty and remain ‘Royal’.
‘Fine, Braemar it is!’ answered my father, as he adjusted the wee velvet cushion behind his back on the driver’s seat.
I am eternally grateful to my Uncle Wullie, because if he hadn’t suggested going east, then my meeting with Mary would never have taken place, and a valuable lesson in life might not have come my way. This was, never to judge a book by its cover.
On one of the many snake-bends on the road from Blairgowrie to Glen Shee, I noticed a bent old woman. Her appearance sent shivers up my spine. I dived to the back window to get a good look at the old witch’s features before another bend took her out of view. We stopped up for the night in bonny Glen Shee.
‘Did anyone see the old biddy with the heavy bundle on her back? We passed her by about mile or so back at the Spittal.’ I looked round my relatives for a response to my query. Auntie Jessie frowned before answering me.
‘Don’t you be thinking on yon old witch. I’ve seen her many a time, on plenty roads. Big Wull Macdonald had a run-in with her over a dead hen. He said she was using it to hex some poor farmer who chased her out of his barn.’ This was typical of my Auntie Jessie; if she didn’t know a person then she gave them a character, and always one of a dubious nature.
‘Och, she’s only a tramp,’ said Uncle Wullie, blowing into the newly stick-piled fire to give it a heart. ‘Keeps to herself and never bothers a soul.’
Cousin Anna laughed as she said, ‘Maybe yon big heavy pack is full of bairns’ heads, Jess, so you better watch in the dead of night that an old, bony-fingered hand doesn’t reach into the bus and pull you out!’
‘Aye, by the lugs, no doubt!’ This remark from Daddy brought on hearty laughter as everybody gave my larger than normal ears a second glance.
Mammy saw my face turn bright red, smiled, and told me there was nothing wrong with my ears; then reminded me to fetch the water from the burn. ‘It’s half an hour gone since I asked you, my lass, to get water for the tea. Now be off with you, or it’ll be me grabbing the lugs!’
The burn water was crystal clear. Removing the top from the water can, I plunged it into the deepest bit and drank my fill. It was so cold and sweet I helped myself to another cupful. As I leaned over the pool a reflection joined mine in the mirror of the water. I stood up quickly, and standing behind me was my witch-cum-tramp!
‘Well now, I hope you haven’t frightened away my supper,’ she said, pointing at the fast-moving trout darting to and fro among the smooth stones at the either side of the burn.
‘Oh, sorry,’ was all I managed to say.
‘Never mind, lassie, I wasn’t hungry any road. Are you part of those tinkers camped by the March dyke?’
Had she not called us tinkers I might have felt a sense of fear. Instead my hackles rose at her remark, bringing anger instead. ‘We are travellers. Are you a hexy witch?’
She glowered at me. I took two steps backward and wished I’d held my tongue.
Saying nothing, she undid the broad leather strap placed round her head that held secure her weighty pack. ‘I’m no witch, but I tramp the roads, so that makes two of us. Now you’d better fill your can and be away with you. I’m back-sore and feet-weary and the last thing I need is a snottery-nosed tinker scaring away my supper.’ That said, she placed the heavy pack on the ground.
‘You said you weren’t hungry, and you’re the one with a dirty nose, it’s ingrained. When did that old wrinkled face last see a drop soap?’
‘Why, it’s a while since I had words with sic a fiery bairn. What do they call you?’
Mammy’s whistle brought our uneasy conversation to an abrupt end. Screwing the can lid tightly I started for the campsite, saying in answer to her question, ‘You tell me yours first.’
No answer did she give me, just muttered something under her breath, sat wearily down, removed a small pouch of tobacco from a pocket in her long black skirt, and began filling an old clay pipe with the stem half broke.
As I walked away she called out, ‘Mary, my name is Mary,’ then pulled a sad old face down onto her chest and covered her head with a black shawl.
As I hurried back with the water-can, thoughts of my encounter, albeit of an unfriendly nature, made me feel drawn to this tramp named Mary, and I just had to find out a wee bit more about her background.
As soon as supper was over I was sitting on the humpback-bridge crossing the burn where she settled for the night. ‘Where are you from, Mary? I’m Jessie, by the way. I want for you to accept my apology. I’m right sorry for being cheeky to you earlier on.’
She looked me up and down, then pulled the black wool shawl from off her head, saying, ‘Usually I tell nobody about myself, that’s how I prefer it. Are you an Angus tinker—oh, sorry, I mean traveller!’
‘No, we’re from Perthshire. I was born in Aberfeldy Cottage Hospital. A Dr Yellowlees brought me into the world.’
‘Yellatrees, gey funny name, is it not? Are you sure the good doctor was called that?’ she asked teasingly.
I moved nearer, reminding myself that the older you are the harder of hearing you get.
‘My mother said he was her favourite doctor at bringing bairns into the world, and as she had nine babies she would know, don’t you think?’
‘Michty, I think she would. Did they all survive? How many of each kind were they?’
My new companion seemed genuinely interested, and I was more than keen to tell her all about my mother’s attempt to swell Aberfeldy’s population.
‘Eight lassies, including myself, but sad to say she had a wee laddie who never survived.’
‘Oh, that was a right shame. What happened to the infant?’
‘Well, my mother seldom speaks on it much, but during a bad measles scourge, she lost him. John,’ I continued, ‘My folks gave him the name of my father’s best pal in the army, because he saved my daddy’s life, he did.’
My new friend settled herself back against her bulky pack and asked if I’d tell her how Daddy’s mate saved him.
‘Well,’ said I, very happy to tell this tale, which I knew off to a tee, on account of my father telling it on many a cold winter’s night with my sisters and I huddled round his feet, as wee Reekie turned our faces bright-red from the heat of her coal-stapped body.
It was nearing the end of the war and thoughts of victory were on the soldiers’ minds. Daddy and his mate Johnny Slay, who served with him in the Black Watch, transferring to the REMEs and then finally the Tank Corps, were advancing through the Black Forest in Germany. At long last the allies were beginning to see an end to six years of hellish war. The Germans, who’d been in retreat for three weeks, rallied and were soon pushing British and American troops back the way they came. Daddy’s tank took a direct hit from a severe mortar bombardment. He and Johnny escaped with little injury, but their officer, a young man from Bedfordshire, was killed instantly.
The Germans had dug deep pits throughout the forest. Daddy thought it was to bury the dead hastily, but wasn’t sure. Anyway, in the darkness the two comrade
s fell into one of the pits and couldn’t get out. Down in the pit filled with corpses and rainwater, the pair clung together as enemy soldiers scanned torches over the forest floor searching for survivors, who without doubt would have been shot. Several times during the long night my father slipped in and out of exhausted sleep. Johnny, obviously the stronger, held Dad’s head above the blood and water filling the hole, saving his life.
Early morning saw friendly troops descend upon the half-dead duo, retrieving them from the pit of death. Daddy promised Johnny, ‘When I have a son he’ll have your name, that’s a promise!’
A minute or two’s silence followed. Then Mary said, ‘I had a son, Andrew I called him, after his Dad. Curly blonde hair he had, the bonniest bairn in Armadale, I’d go so far to say in all of Skye.’
I looked at my old companion, and a solitary tear rolled down her wrinkled face. She fumbled in her skirt pocket, pulled out a piece of rag, wiped her face and then, before putting it back, blew hard upon her nose. ‘My wee curly-headed Andra, who’d have thought such a bitty wean would grow to six feet. As broad as he was tall, my laddie was. The navy, that’s where his heart took him, just like his father, sailors the both of them.’
I didn’t need adulthood to tell me this old lady’s son had passed on, but dare I push her to open a long-closed heart to tell such a story? However, without any prodding from me she opened her sore heart and said, ‘Both of them, my two men, husband in the first war, son in the second. Their ships were sank and they, God bless them, are buried on the ocean floor. Entombed in salt-eaten metal and rotted wood, my precious laddies never came home to our wee cottage in Armadale on Skye.’
Slowly I closed the distance between us and gently touched her shoulder. She drew back as if in some way a comforting hand was denied to her in her solitary world.
