by Jess Smith
She continued, ‘I had no relative to turn to, or neighbour. My home became like a tomb. I spent more time outside than in, even when winter snow and wind froze my bones. It was towards the mighty ocean I gazed for comfort. For it was she who held them in her watery depths, in a grave I could not tend.
It was one day while staring out at the vast ocean I made a decision to leave my island home, go to the mainland, and find another life. This I did, but my heart found no peace, and soon the life I live today became my lot, tramping the roads.’
I closed my eyes with shame and thought on my Auntie Jessie’s words of witch, evil, mad—just a few of the adjectives used to describe this heart-broken, lonely old woman, who’d been dealt more than a fair share of bad luck!
‘Look, lassie, the sun sets and I haven’t even got my hap up yet.’ Mary had unburdened herself more than she meant to, and quickly changed our conversation.
I said nothing as I helped her pull her bed and bivvy from her pack. No pile of severed heads rolled out, only the necessary things to keep body and soul intact.
‘I’ll get a puckle sticks for your fire. The nights are fair drawing in. Mary, you’ll sleep better with a wee fire at the hap door!’ I wanted so much to help her, she seemed so vulnerable.
‘Aye, I’ll accept your help, lassie. Then I’d be grateful if you’d let me be. There’s a long road ahead of me tomorrow.’
‘Oh, and where are you going?’ I asked, before adding, ‘We’re going over the Devil’s Elbow to Braemar. Come with us, Mammy would be pleased, I’m sure, to take you.’ I had become concerned, worried about this sad old woman. It didn’t feel right she should be uncared for. I took hold of her skeletal hand. ‘Please, Mary, I’ll take good care of you, and I never make promises I cannot keep.’
Her look softened at my concern. Touching my face, then turning towards the high hills on our right, she said, ‘Do you see those hills away up yonder? There’s a sheep track will guide my feet into Glen Muick. From there I’ll visit Braemar, so if that’s where you’ll be then we will meet again. And if it’s not to be, bonny lassie, remember how vast the Heavens are. If we don’t meet in this life it’s certain we will in the next.’
No words passed between us as we busied ourselves, she building the small deer-skinned hap, me lighting a fire.
After chores were done she held out a piece of dried ham. I refused, saying she shouldn’t share what little she had, but thanked her just the same.
‘You away home now, pet, for I’m sure your folks will be worrying, and as for me, well, I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘Oh, Mary, you can’t be serious about climbing up thon high hills. Anyroad, you’d need a powny to carry your heavy pack!’ I pleaded again for her to come with us.
That comment brought a hearty laugh, as she said she’d had a heavier pack in midwinter and managed fine. I could see my old friend had a will of iron, and no amount of pleading would make her change a set mind.
I hugged her. She smiled and thanked me, saying the last person who had done such a thing was young Andrew, the day he set off to defend his country.
She crept inside her tiny abode. I ran home to my family, my happy cheerful family.
In the early morning I decided to surprise her with sandwiches and milk for the hill journey, but when I got to the grassy bank by the humpbacked bridge, she was gone. The flattened grass and patch of burnt ground was all that remained. Panic filled my chest, I scanned the hillside, called her name: ‘Mary, Mary, I’ve got some food for you. Please don’t go without a decent goodbye!’
It was as if the mist that shrouded the hillside had swallowed her up. But if she fared well in the glen and didn’t get sick or something, we’d meet in Braemar. This thought consoled me. I had became fond of her like a third Granny. She should have a family; I had to see her again.
But before we left the wee glen snuggled at the foot of the high mountains, the notorious Devil’s Elbow had to be negotiated.
‘No way in this world do I sit in that bus while you drive it pointing towards God’s heavens,’ shouted Mammy at Daddy, ‘and neither do the bairns!’ With that said, she ushered us in a line to climb up and round the hairpin bends of the road. Truth is, no-one could blame her, because this stretch of narrow road was near on vertical. Uncle Wullie had a Bedford van, a lot smaller vehicle than our bus, and crept up without rolling backwards or stalling. Well, my dad feared no road, regardless of its width or gradient, and as this was the only way to Braemar, then upwards and onwards it was.
‘You coming, Jess?’ he asked me.
‘Can I, Mammy, please?’ I pleaded with her, saying that when the Links Market Fair came to Kirkcaldy she let me go on the divebombers.
‘First sign o’ the bus rolling back you jump out, do you hear me, lassie?’ she warned, then walked on up the way, my three younger sisters in tow.
It seemed to take forever. I remember every nail-biting inch of tarmac; every chug, chug and spurt from the engine’s gut brought my heart into my throat. At the bend itself I sank my nails into the back of Daddy’s neck, prompting him to shout, ‘Go and take a seat, lassie!’
I even forgot about old Mary, such was my experience of sheer terror. What a relief to feel the bus level off as the deer fence running round the foot of the Cairnwell Mountain came into view. Daddy pulled the bus onto a heathery layby and set up a wee fire. I spread a tartan rug on the heather, disturbing a red grouse who let me know how annoyed he was by almost choking on a guttural scream, as he reached for the misty sky with outstretched wings.
(Note: The Devil no longer bends the road to Braemar into a fierce elbow. It has been replaced by a wider and straighter road. It is far better for the driver, but to me personally the old road seemed more in tune to the terrain of that part of Scotland.)
Although we stayed in Braemar for more than a week, the old woman failed to arrive and I never saw Armadale Mary again.
Sometimes, when feeling despondent with life, I thought she might have slipped on a rocky outcrop in some desolate spot, or died of the cold on a high snow-covered hill.
Perhaps, while driving round a bend on a lonely road, a weary long-distance lorry driver thought he hit a lone deer, and she was thrown into a deep ditch to die of her injuries. But my mother reminded me that imagined scenes were just that, and that my dear old friend probably passed away in a kind farmer’s warm barn, who then saw to it that she was given a decent burial. Now she was probably happily surrounded by her son and husband.
Whatever happened, and wherever you are, Mary, I would like you to know this—I named my first son Johnnie!
31
THE BEST TABLET IN THE WORLD
We said goodbye to our relatives, who went up to visit friends at Brora in Sutherland. We headed west to spend a week on the coast. Here’s a tale of sweetness for you. Also a story of evil and revenge. ‘Why?’ Well, this is life, is it not?
I am the country’s best butter-tablet maker! I can sense you think me a wee bit swelt-headed. Fine, think what you like, because it just happens to be fact. Ask anybody who has tasted my tablet and they’ll tell you the same. Reaching the heights of this culinary, sugary delight, however, was not achieved without a wee bit of an obstacle or two, to say the very least! Read on.
Edie (Edith) Dalrymple and her mountain of a man, Barry, acquired a field on the west coast somewhere twixt Irvine and Ayr. I remember hearing that he won it during a card game with a landowner. The deal was signed before the gent sobered up, and being a man of honourable seed he could do nothing about it. Barry owned several palomino horses. After a spit and slap day at Appleby Fair one year, he’d allowed his heart to rule the head, and ended up with five more ponies than he needed. Still, though nothing took precedence over his love of Edie, these dappled beauties came a close second.
The grand pair, who for reasons unknown were never blessed with bairns, were renowned, so before long the field where the horses roamed was filled with travellers who happened to be
passing by. It was well-known throughout the circle of the wandering folks that a welcome awaited at Big Barry and Edie’s.
Barry was in his element, surrounded by little yins clambering to sit upon a pony. Older kids, those who didn’t yet have the knowledge, were taught to saddle and harness. The ones who did were allowed the freedom to gallop and canter within his field of equine delight. So if you have a memory of a green pasture down on the coastline filled with travellers and coloured horses, then you’re probably remembering the wild hospitality of two of God’s finest.
Local villages were more than grateful to the pair because of the rising trade they brought, especially when the site was full. Barry, being the gentle giant that he was, had no problem with any would-be troublemaker, because a firm hand round the back of the neck was all it took to rid the site of the offender. This meant local bobbies had no need to visit. Yes, peace reigned amongst the travellers who pulled on to spend a while by the sea in the sandy field of Barry and Edie Dalrymple. There was no charge (but if you felt the need to part with a bob or two, then Barry didn’t refuse) even although he’d built a block with toilets (hand-emptied) and one sink. Two taps supplied running water, one at either end of the field. The awful task of emptying the latrines was done by whoever had the most bairns or the fattest wives. (Only kidding, I can’t enlighten you on that one. Sorry!)
So here we were, then, mingling with friends and relatives after a long summer. This would be our final stop before heading back to Kirkcaldy for the winter and school. Yuck!
It was a Sunday and Mammy had lifted a stern finger, warning us to stay out of the bus. Had she not spent the morning polishing and cleaning? This meant one thing—Auntie Anna and Uncle Robert were calling in. Mammy made some soor scones, which were fly-protected under a clean muslin cloth on a plate near wee Reekie. He had a grand glow, our warm stove, and Daddy thought it a waste not to use it. He just wanted a cosy feet-up, but she insisted the bus stay empty and clean until the visitors had gone. Renie, like Janey, was horse-daft. She’d found a brute of a horse and could not be prised from it. The other girls were playing on a slide made of corrugated roofing, while I followed a smell, one that had filled my nostrils the best part of the morning. A hot, sweet aroma, which made me think, whatever it was, it would be damned tasty! Like a bloodhound I wandered round the site, sniffing the air, until I got the smell in my nose and throat, throwing my taste buds into turmoil. What could this be?
‘Hello, Jessie, have you come to help me make Barry’s favourite sweetie?’
I was standing outside the open door of Edie’s caravan. Inside, a great black pot sat on her stove, bubbles blobbing gently at the surface.
‘What a marvellous smell, Edie. Show me what you’re doing.’
‘Come in, lass, I’m making Barry some Scots tablet.’ I went up the high step of their caravan and sat down beside the bubbling pot. Around the narrow seat the smell rolled, engulfing me in its snare. I was being hypnotised. I sat transfixed as Edie stirred a long-handled wooden spoon in circles within the black pan. ‘Always stir clockwise. Never go the other way, you’ll annoy the de’il,’ she informed me.
‘The devil? Why should he be interested in a boiling pan?’ I enquired.
‘He’ll guide you away from the straight and narrow if you stir even the porridge round agin the clock.’
Those words made me shiver, and even to this day I feel the same tingle if I accidentally find I’ve circled my spoon the opposite direction from the flow of natural time. I feel stupid telling you that, but it’s just one of those things.
Anyway, after half an hour she dropped a little of the now-brown fluid into a cup. ‘Hold that, Jess, and wait a minute while it cools.’ I sat staring, as the droplet formed a ball lying at the bottom of the cup, no bigger than a pea. Edie buttered a tin tray, then laid it on a tea towel. ‘Is it a wee ball yet?’
I nodded.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘this is the secret of making tablet taste divine.’ Taking her pan carefully from the stove and sitting it gently on a thick wooden chopping board (Edie had all the mod cons) she began turning the spoon hell for leather! Round and round she went, like the devil himself was fast on her heel. ‘Look, do you see the mixture change colour?’
I stared in at the forming tablet, like a whirlpool it was. Edie’s forearm was bulging like her man’s and for a moment I thought it would burst. The smell was swirling round too and into my mouth and nose.
‘Do you see the tablet changing?’
Yes, it certainly was. What was transparent seconds before was now sandy-coloured and thickening. ‘Did you put butter in it?’ I asked, ‘I can smell butter.’
‘There’s the best part o’ a cow’s mornin’ offering in there and a good pint of it as well, melted together with a full bag of sugar, lass,’ answered Edie, before pouring the finished mixture into the tray. As I sat and watched the tablet solidifying in its rectangular bed, Edie offered me a drink of lemonade, saying it would take up to an hour before the sweetie was edible. This brought a huge feeling of disappointment and I didn’t think I’d last that long. She told me to come back later, but I felt the tablet might either get eaten or stolen, so making the excuse that I’d nothing to do I stayed where I was—on guard, so to speak. She smiled, perhaps reading my thoughts. We cracked a while and our blether took on a conversation about Crieff. ‘Do you know the story of Baby Bairn?’ she asked, running a knife lengthways across the hardening tablet. I told her I had no recollection of the tale.
Edie asked my age. When I said I was a teenager, she said that was a good age to hear this tale. We sat cupping our lemonade, and here, reader, is the harrowing story of Baby Bairn, which I tell to you word for word as Edie told it to me.
A popular campsite for the Perthshire travellers was a place called Lady Mary’s Walk, on the banks of the Turret river which flowed opposite the lower end of Macrosty park. Across a bridge spanning the burn, a path leads to an area which used to hold up to a dozen or so families. This filled to capacity around the tattie-howking time in October. The main railway line from Perth to Oban ran through the campsite. Old folks talked of the friendly train staff who would throw sweeties to the bairns as the train trundled loudly along the track. Wee laddies used to run alongside the engine as the driver pulled on the whistle, much to their delight, though not so to the angry mother who had just got the wean to sleep.
At this time the tatties hadn’t yet started, so there were only a few families on the green. One was a family consisting of a mother with two grown sons and a daughter of sixteen years. The lassie, though grown in body, had the mind of a five-year-old; ‘a simple wee cratur’ was how folks described her. They said it was sad seeing the lassie playing in the sand by the burnside, and thinking how unfortunate that this poor thing would never know the joy of getting married or having a family, because she would never grow up. She had the body of a woman, though, and for this reason her elder brothers watched over her like a hawk. Her mother called her simple child ‘Baby Bairn’. Although conscious of her daughter’s disability she never fussed over it, and was just grateful to the Almighty for her bonny lassie. And what a beauty she was, with long blonde ringlets cascading down her back, touching the ground when she sat on the grass. She had blue eyes as big as saucers and skin like the elusive pearl. Travelling folks who knew the family said she had the face of an angel, and all who saw her remarked on how she could brighten the dreichest day.
Soon, as the tattie time drew near, others arrived on the green. Everybody more or less knew each other, and before long the place was full of cheery folk, eagerly awaiting the chance to make enough money to see them through the long winter ahead. Apart from the tattie-dressing there was no more work on the farms until the planting in the spring. The bairns all had to be schooled, so extra money was needed for clothes and sturdy shoes.
No-one saw the lone man arrive on the green and pitch his small tent. He must have come during the night. He had with him a bike and khaki-col
oured haversack, and that was all. Travelling folks did not shun the stranger, nor did they judge him, but they were always mindful of his lone status and kept a wary eye on him when he was near the bairns. He did not seem to cause any problems, however. In fact he seemed a decent enough man, and after several days was welcomed at the campfires.
Soon the tattie-lifting was in full swing, and everybody was busying themselves, taking advantage of the unusually mild weather enjoyed that particular autumn. Weans eagerly awaited the friendly train workers for the free sweeties thrown from the old steam train as it trundled past the campsite, while mothers cooked the big pots of stovies for the hungry workers coming home from the back-breaking tattie-lifting.
The lone man had struck up a friendship with the two brothers of the simple lassie, spending his nights at their campfire. He seemed genuinely fond of the girl, spoiling her with gifts of coloured ribbons for her hair and bracelets. She called him her uncle, and being childlike in nature she trusted him as she did everybody.
The tatties that year had been very good, and the farmers were pleased with the yield, so everyone received a bonus. The two brothers were not ones for drinking, but with their mother’s approval they took a dram from the kindly stranger whom they had befriended. The mother had no objection to her laddies having a dram or two, so after making sure her precious lassie was asleep she bedded herself down for the night. Soon her boys bade their friend goodnight, and apart from the sound of a lonely hooting owl high in a nearby tree, the happy campsite fell into a welcoming slumber.
Just before dawn the old train headed by on its journey north, and that was when the demon showed the real reason for his attention to the simple lassie. With the cunning of a fox he sneaked her out from the tent, her muffled protests disguised by the noise of the passing train, did to her what is unspeakable, and killed her.
