by Jess Smith
Now, perhaps this is the best time to tell you about Sandy’s other love—his late father’s Black Watch kilt. This said garment had been passed down to Sandy by old Sandy, and his intention was to do likewise for his own eldest son, wee Sandy, who was becoming a grand piper in his own right. The family were totally convinced that this garment of pitch-black and forest green held the power of all their good fortune.
‘Take off the kilt, ma man, and wear troosers. I’ve a pair I hawked from an old gamekeeper. They’re a wee bit coorse, them being rough tweed, but they’ll do for a meeting wi’ the lads,’ advised Jeannie.
‘Na, lassie, this is games weekend, everybody will be in the kilt. I’d look right oot o’ place in troosers, folk would think me an Englishman.’
‘Very well, but mind an’ take good care o’ yer faither’s kilt.’
Sandy walked off briskly, near a whole jar of Brylcreem splattering his sideburns. To meet up for a couple of drams with his kin was all he intended, but oh, dearie me, we all know—when the drink’s in, the maths are oot! Intentions or nae. And soon the couple of drinks became a wayn o’ the cratur.
Jeannie put the bairns to bed before adding half a tree stump to the fire for her man to ‘get a wee heat when he came hame.’
However, she didn’t hear his homecoming, because sleep overcame the good lady, and at four in the morning what else should she be doing? Not wishing to wake the family, Sandy curled up at the fire like a shepherd’s old collie dog and fell into a deep drunken sleep. But Ochone! Ochone! were matters not about to take a right serious turn?
‘Rouse yourself, wee Sandy, and fetch the water can!’ Jeannie screamed as loud as she could at the sight of her sleeping beloved laid on the ground with half his kilt flaming away. Great spirals of orange and yellow fire twisted and danced with the green and black of the travelling family’s heirloom Sleeping Sandy’s hindquarters were on fire! His oldest lad threw every ounce of water from the can over him. This brought our bold lad leaping from his bed of flattened and singed grass, and he began hooting and howling. ‘A’m weel fumit, help me, bairns!’
Every one of them threw dirt and rags and whatever they could lay their hands on, and even the wee-est bairn whipped its dad with a broom branch.
However Jeannie was the one who was fuming. ‘Look at the kilt, ye stupid fool o’ a tinker’s curse! Ye heap o’ cow’s dung, yer an excuse for a man!’ She’d certainly changed her tune from the previous day. Her tongue was in unison with the fires of hell, and who could blame her?
‘Mammy,’ said one of the sleepy-headed bairns, ‘what’s that smell?’ the wee yin was pointing at her father’s smouldering rear-end.
Now if ever anything was sent to sober a body, then that was it—his bum was on fire! Like a wild dog that had just swallowed the gorse, he dived into the narrow burn, splashing madly at his burning flesh.
‘See where the drink gets you! I said a couple o’ drams, no half the f...... pub.’
Poor Jeannie, all she could think was how in the name of God was her breadwinner to perform today? The money made at Pitlochry Games was supposed to see them through a long winter ahead. They were doomed. And not to mention the ‘luck’ of granddad Sandy’s kilt. Yes, life as she knew it was over.
Poor Jeannie threw herself in through the door of her wee tent and screamed until every roosting wood pigeon was a mile up in terror. Amazing how the gentle lady-love of Sandy’s day before had changed. But she wasn’t one for long grudges, was Jeannie, and soon had the half-burnt kilt spread out across her knee, stitching like a possessed demon at every damaged pleat, seven anxious children round her and a sobering Sandy slapping calamine lotion over his wee burnt bum in the background.
For over an hour she laboured, but as handy a seamstress as Jeannie was, this job was well and truly beyond her. Putting the kilt on the ground at her feet she apologised to old Sandy as if he himself was hovering in the spirit world wondering if his precious garment would soon be joining him. Still, Sandy wasn’t a giver-upper, oh no, not him. Half a kilt or not, he’d wear it and be a piper. A plan formed in his head.
‘Ye’ll never do that, Sandy. Mark my words, that’s a rubbish plan.’ Jeannie and the kids shook their heads as Sandy the piper marched off to work that fateful day. His parting words were echoing in all their ears—‘My faither’s kilt is a lucky yin, and if it’s as powerful as we ken, then the luck will be a power tae be reckoned with. Cheerio.’
As Sandy marched away down the road, he never heard the hysterical laughter coming from his brood. They had good reason. Even a blind man would have been in stitches, thinking on thon two wee red hips of Sandy’s rubbing together with the sorest sway a body wearing the kilt can swagger.
Soon, though, our hero had himself secured in place hard up against a dry stane dyke. As the first few early morning tourists settled themselves into the Coronation Park where the games were to take place, Sandy gave his first tune on the pipes. One stirring tune followed another, and if ever a man had to prove himself then here he was. He was going to make amends to Jeannie (and his father’s kilt) if it was the last thing he would do.
Half the day passed, along with caber-tossers, cyclists, relay-runners, pipe-bands, bonnie stewarty tartan lassies louping high in the air with every turn of their delicate toes. But still Sandy’s collection bunnet lay at his weary feet, seeing a mere handful of pennies. He’d played every tune he knew twice, and still they walked by. It was beginning to dawn on him: his father’s kilt had lost its luck, ‘all burnt away,’ he thought sadly.
‘I’ll play a lament for my auld Da, then its hame to face the real music; oor Jeannie’s tongue.’
Sandy played his heart out through that last lament, and at long last a group of tourists began to circle round him. He played it again, louder this time. This brought a penny from one, sixpence from another, two halfpennies from a lady’s wee laddie, then they left, all but one couple, who were Americans. ‘That was damned fine playing, my man,’ said the gent before adding, ‘I remember a piper who played his regiment into battle. He was a damned fine piper as well. My wife here will tell you how often I speak of that Scotsman, although I ain’t got a clue what his name was.’
Sandy couldn’t have cared a toss, because his Jeannie was going to tar and feather him for taking home the measly pittance huddling at the bottom of his bunnet. No, it mattered nothing if the yank tourist reminisced or not.
‘I wonder if you might do my dear lady a favour, piper?’ said the gent, pushing his hand into his pocket and retrieving two beautiful five-pound notes.
Sandy’s heart began thumping in his chest at the sight of the money. ‘Whatever you like, sir, and, er, madam, you only have to ask.’ With the man’s next words, whatever heartfelt joy our piper had felt vaporised.
‘Could you be so kind as to march up and down while playing your pipes?’
‘March, ye say, lad. Well sir, if I could then it would be my dearest pleasure.’ Sandy was desperate: he had to get his hands on that tenner. His marriage depended on it, but how, in heaven’s starry heights, was he to walk with two reddened hips for the entire world to see? What Scotsman worth his salt would insult his national garb in such a way?
Sandy thought quickly. ‘Ye see, sir, I was a fighting man myself, an while the wildest battle was raging I found myself along with two young soldiers. They were like yerself, sir, dear Americans, pals of mine. It happened like this. Hitler’s bullets, sniping and whizzing like a whirlpool, were taking us out like flies. Man after man fell in that dark hole over enemy lines. One of my companions took it in the back, the other in the thigh. I had no option but to carry one on my back, the other laddie I dragged. On and on I went, and not the devil himself could separate me from my pals. I had to get them back to our own lines, but a hundred yards from there did I not take a blasted bullet in my right knee and then one in the left. Wounded and without the power of my legs, I still pulled and dragged those seriously injured boys to safety. Later they came to see me
when they healed, but me, well sir, the power I lost that fateful day never returned to these legs of mine.
‘Do you mean to tell us you gave up your own safety for my fellow countrymen?’
‘I would have done it again, sir. They were fine boys, and I know what pain a mother suffers if her lad disnae make it hame. I can stand, but no much walking dae these legs of mine dae. My oldest boy pushes me here on a wee cart, and when the Games close he comes back for me.’
‘Then a mere two fivers ain’t enough for a hero like yourself.’ The gent pulled out his wallet and handed Sandy a bunch of notes without even counting them. His wife, who up till then said nothing, removed another wad of notes from her handbag and stuffed them into Sandy’s fist. He was completely dumbstruck. He’d never in all his life seen so much money. Luck, this half-burnt kilt had never been so lucky!
The couple, with the wool pulled over their eyes, walked away shaking heads at the wonderful bravery of this lowly piper. If they only knew. Sandy had spent the war as a storeman at Inveraray Barracks, and the nearest he came to a bullet was when one rolled from its box and hit his bunion.
‘There are times when desperation leads a man to sink beneath his usual high moral standing, and this has been one,’ thought Sandy as he marched off down the road with a healthier swagger than before, loaded! And, of course, with a mighty blister forming on his buttocks. Still, was his Jeannie not a dab hand with the needle?
But hey, talk about paying the piper!
Black Watch
1st Battalion (42nd) was raised in 1730 from six independent companies of Highlanders, for the protection of Edinburgh as a regiment of the watch. In 1751 it was numbered the 42nd. When it became amalgamated, the bright colours in the tartan were taken out, leaving only the dark green background as a tartan, and from this circumstance rose the title ‘THE BLACK WATCH’.
In 1794, for gallant conduct at the battle of Guildermalsen in Holland, it won the ‘Red Hackle’ (on plume) which is worn in the men’s bonnets. They are also known as the ‘FORTY-TWAS’.
Although my foot was beginning to throb like billy-oh, I was laughing. Who wouldn’t laugh with the devil on that hilarious tale, I ask ye?
Next day Daddy and Nicky set off to spray-paint a farmer’s outbuildings round about Kirriemuir way. Portsoy, who had been on the whisky with some ancient, well-to-do wife, was sunk into his bed with the drink-doldrums. His companion had the fortune to live in a stately home two miles north of Blairgowrie, and the misfortune to have acquired a fondness for ‘the wee cratur’. I promise later on to share the character of oor lad with you, and how he seemed to be drawn to toffs and their ilk.
Mammy left me comfortably seated on piles of cushions, with true romance comics and a plate of sandwiches. Mister Sun had dominance over the early morning sky. So there I was, semi-invalid with a horribly pained foot. It hadn’t been that bad until Mammy gave it another dip into a basin half-filled with almost unbearably hot water and Dettol, before she went berry-picking with my three siblings.
Our wee Tiny was panting at a lurcher bitch coming on heat owned by travelling folks from Cromarty. I called across to a good-looking fella that if my wee jugal got a slip at his bitch, then don’t blame me. The laddie eyed up Tiny, no bigger than a size ten shoe, then at his bitch standing the height o’ a wee pony, and split his sides laughing. I blushed scarlet and sank my head down into a comic. The laddie called over, did I need anything?
I shook my head, and kept reading, aware my cheeks were redder than before. Horrors, he came over and sat on the grass opposite. I cringed, because, since falling insanely in love with Betsy Whyte’s son Wullie last year, I hadn’t even looked at boys. Incidentally, the previous summer Wullie had tried to avoid my infatuated advances because he’d already had a girlfriend. No, men and me didn’t work well at all. Anyway, when I’d sufficiently stopped blushing I raised my head to see a smothering of freckles cover the friendliest face I’d seen in a long while. With flashing blue eyes and thick curly blond hair, he didn’t look half-bad, I can tell you.
‘I heard the wild screams oot o’ ye when thon graip found its way into this foot o’ yours. I thought a terrible thing had happened, like ye were half dead or something, instead of a wee teeny hole intae the sole o’ yer fit.’ He went on, to my annoyance, ‘you wimmin canna handle pain.’
‘I am half-dead, you cheeky bisom. If poison gets hold, this leg of mine will be in deep dung, I can tell you. And as for pain I’d like to see a maternity ward full of gadjies!’
As I thought on what I’d just said about ‘dung’ and pregnant men the red returned, and not only covered my cheeks but most of my neck as well. All of a sudden this young man made me feel strange, my head was fuzzy, what was happening?
He apologised for making fun of my injury, saying he was just trying to cheer me up. Then, obviously embarrassed, he got up and walked his three lurchers. Tiny by now was nosed deep into the heaty bitch, and although what he wanted was a complete impossibility, he wasn’t taking no for an answer. The bitch rolled her eyes, and with a swish of her wiry tail let him know she was not remotely interested. The bite she gave was enough to say that her rear-end was a no-go area.
George (for this was the lad’s name) asked if, when he returned, he could come over for a blether? I said ‘okay’ and my very first romance began. The look, the smile, the red face, yep—it must be love. From that moment my painful foot became more tolerable as I floated away on pink clouds with my man, George. Honest, folks, that’s how fast it happened. A fifteen-year-old’s first love. Is there anything more blissful?
We found through our blethers that we had much in common: high mountains, peaty burns, migrating swallows and much more. But above anything else was our love of the travelling history. I always believed our people were descended from ancient Egypt and were brought here as Roman slaves. Handpicked for our skills. Our masters had only one skill: the art of war. It’s no secret Rome produced a mighty army. Hence their ability to conquer a great chunk of the Earth. But the craftsmen, builders and scholars were all slaves of the highest esteem. Of course when the Romans had to flee back home they had no place for slaves and left them behind. Now, if you were a native and had seen the tyranny of conquerors run rampant through your land for many years, then it’s highly unlikely you’d have much time for the people brought with them. No, you’d want rid of them as well. Hence our wondering nomadic existence and fight for survival through a hostile world.
George had another theory, that we originated from Northern India and spread through the world, arriving in Scotland seven or eight hundred years ago.
I didn’t accept this (and still don’t). ‘Where,’ I asked him, ‘do you get the title of gypsy from?’ I went on, ‘there are folks who call us gypsies and them who call us Romanies. Doesn’t that speak for itself, Geordie my lad, we were Rome’s Egyptian slaves.’ After the clearances, Highlanders forced from hill and glen shared our nomadic lifestyle and were grateful for it.
George had his own ideas and wouldn’t be swayed, but one thing we did agree on was our puzzlement as to why Scotland accepted and gave respect to descendants of those other conquerors, like the Vikings and the English, given the terrors they brought?
‘Aye, an undivided world right enough,’ we laughed, saying if big hairy three-headed spacemen come and help themselves to Scotland it will make little odds who we think we are. We’re all ‘Jock Tamson’s bairns’, as the old folks would say.
In passing, it is worth a mention that Egyptian mummies have been discovered with the bagpipes amongst other treasures buried in their sarcophagi.
One thing our relatives had handed down in stone, however, was that a hell of a chunk of us were scattered and displaced Highlanders who had joined with gypsies for survival.
The farmer, bless him, had made me, from two pitchfork handles, of all things a pair of crutches, and by the end of the week my foot had healed perfectly.
Geordie’s father, who by now was a permanent
feature at our fire, gave me the next tale I am about to share with you. One of his lurchers had been splinter-speared while rabbiting. A gaping wound on the poor beast’s side had rendered it near dead. A handful of spider moss was wetted, rolled into a ball and inserted into the wound. This pale green moss, which grows on the bark of the silver-birch tree, has powerful healing qualities. Old folks swear it is Nature’s penicillin.
When I enquired of Geordie’s father if he knew any stories, it was no surprise that the only tales he knew were to do with dogs. So, reader, if you’ve walked your old mongrel, and got the cuppy close by, then here is the tale of—
7
HARRY’S DOGS
‘So, old boy, I can only say sorry to you, but that’s the way of it. Please close the door as you leave.’
Slower than he’d opened the heavy oak door of the factor’s office, Harry closed it behind him. Not even a glance backwards at the big house did he take as, flanked by his lassies, his gun dogs, the old gamekeeper, with head hung, hobbled down the driveway towards the wee cottage in the glen. Mrs Brown, the shepherd’s wife, came to meet him. ‘Och man, me an’ Wull are fair vexed at thon factor’s decision. He’ll no find a better gamey onywhere in the hale o’ the country, and I’ll tell him when he bothers tae bring his fine self in among us. Come you in fur a drappy tea, I’m thinkin ye’ll be needin yin.’
Harry, usually reluctant to visit the kind lady’s kitchen on account of her blethering tongue, felt in need of a bit company, so ushering his girls under her table he sank onto her husband Wull’s chair by the fire. Something he’d never usually do, but today his mind wasn’t on the niceties of good manners.
