Tales from the Tent

by Jess Smith

  Peter shuffled inside, closed the heavy oak door, put a few more logs on the fire and sank down in his worn armchair.

  ‘Helen, my lovely Helen, oh how I miss you. No living body could begin tae ken the depth o’ pain in my heart for you. Why, my bonny dearie? Oh why did you leave our home all those years ago?’

  Peter closed his eyes. The passing of thirty years hardly eased the pain which was more unbearable with each passing year.

  It was like yesterday, the memory so clear in his head that he could almost see her! She sang a gentle carol while tidying up the small house, looking forward to the coming new year. ‘Just think,’ she called to him, ‘it will soon be 1900, a brand new century!’—then continued with her singing.

  She put his porridge on the hot stove and quietly went into the tiny bedroom, kissed his cheek as he was half waking, and reminded him in a whisper that young Maggie Brown’s first baby was overdue and she’d promised to help at the birth.

  ‘Goodbye, my love, I’ll be back in a whiley. I think we’re in for a white Christmas, the sky’s grey, and the frost’s liftin’.’

  He’d had a bout of fever the week before and was more than relieved that Helen left him to a long lie. He heard the door close behind her, pulled the bedcovers over his head and couried down for a cosy sleep.

  There was no need to concern himself about Helen’s safe return, for countless times she had walked the half mile to visit the pregnant woman. She knew the way like the back of her hand, though, mind you, he would rather his wife had stayed at home on Christmas Day.

  But not having children of her own, she just had to be there, she wouldn’t have missed the birth for the world.

  The young mother did indeed deliver a beautiful baby, a big healthy boy it was. Helen couldn’t wait to get back home and give Peter every detail of the birth.

  The new parents advised her to wait until morning; the wind and snow were swirling up such a fearsome storm! But she had no fear of a wee bit snow, and besides, was her heavy tweed coat not warm enough to keep out the worst of Scotland’s blizzards?

  Peter never knew what story his wife would have told of the infant’s coming into the world.

  Helen never came home.

  Somewhere in the depth of wind and freezing snow his precious wife lost her way. Now only the glens carried the secret of her resting-place, for her body was never found. This was the reason for old Peter’s intense heartache—no remains to grieve over, no body to bury, no graveside to visit!

  His only consolation was that ‘time doesn’t stand still’, and thankfully time for him was running out. That year heralded his own eighty-first, and in those days a ploughman seldom saw sixty, never mind twenty years more. Not a bone in his body failed to ache with a sore stiffness, and every so often a searing pain centred in his chest, then journeyed up his shoulder and down his arm, taking the breath from his body.

  When Helen shared his life they had a fine wee croft, four sheep, two cows, quackies and pullets that laid many a tasty egg. A grand yield of corn kept bread and porridge on their table. Now the only thing left alive in the dilapidated croft were a few scrawny hens, long past laying. If it weren’t for the old screeching cockerel, a passing stranger would think nothing existed there at all. This, however, was the way Peter preferred it. Like him, all around was dying!

  The knock at the door jolted him from a troubled slumber. He ignored it, hoping whoever it was would think him out and go away. Not so! This person sounded desperate, the knocking became louder and more urgent. Peter, sufficiently angered, lifted his stiffened frame from the chair and shuffled toward the door.

  A flurry of thick snow instantly covered his face, adding to his annoyance. ‘Who’s botherin an auld man on such a dreich day? Have yer say an be aff wi’ ye!’

  ‘Mistletoe, sir, would you buy my mistletoe?’

  Peter looked down at a slightly-built lassie, no more than sixteen if she was a day, black curly hair blowing with the wind, cheeks blue with the cold, little button nose glowing red.

  Her lips quivered and eyes filled with cold tears as she repeated her words; ‘for tae kiss yer fair lady, sir, aneath the white berries, two pennies worth?’

  ‘Look at the state o’ the weather. Where are yer folks? Be gone now or it’s a stick I’ll tak tae yer hide if ye dinna git away from ma door!’

  For some strange reason Peter’s raised voice and angry words did not put fear into this youngster. Perhaps she had been shunned once too often that day and was past the point of caring, or maybe it was so cold, so very cold.

  ‘Do buy a wee bit then, sir, before I go, or could you see yer way tae gie me a heat at yon warm fire, then I’ll bother you nae mair!’

  Peter could see the lassie edging her frame nearer, trying desperately to catch a little warmth radiating from his fire.

  ‘Och, come in for five minutes then, the house will soon freeze if I keep this door open any longer, and no, I dinna want yer stupid branches, I ken whaur there’s a tree full o’ the stuff, that wad fill my house!’

  She unloaded her pack and jammed the mistletoe between stacked logs near the house wall, before scurrying past her host to sit as close to the fire as she could, hands fanned out to the warm flames. The old man sat back down into his chair and watched her thin frame slowly stop shivering.

  For a few minutes both said not a word, before she broke the silence by saying, ‘This is a warm hoose with a cold heart! When did she die?’

  He almost fell from the seat as her words cut into his very soul. ‘Get yersel out now!’ he shouted pointing at the old door. ‘I’ve no place for a dirty tinker at my fireside!’ She, a stranger to speak of his precious Helen! How dare she, the little bitch?

  ‘Forgive me, auld man, it’s just that I have the gift. Your hoose tells me a great love lived here, but didn’t die here. If she had, then her heart would still be in this place, keeping you warm. You see, the warmth comes from the sticks in the fire, the cold from you.’

  Peter’s privacy had been invaded, not by a dropped word like Mrs Beckett’s but an intrusion he never wished for while breath came from him. No! She had to go, snow or otherwise.

  Outside the wind had increased to such an extent the little windows rattled loudly in their rotted wooden frames. The young girl rose swiftly, closed the torn curtains and latched the oak door.

  ‘We’re in for a wild night, auld man! It’s my promise tae ye I’ll say nae mair if ye gi’e me shelter here the nicht!’ She sat down on the hard floor before adding, ‘I’ll sleep here on your floor and not ask for a morsel o’ food if that is alright with your kind self?’

  Peter, still shocked by her intrusion into what he regarded as something ‘sacred’, would not hear of such a person spending a night in his house. He pointed for a second time to the door, saying, ‘you lot have nae soul, and folk like your kind are no deserving o’ a decent body’s menses. Be awa wi’ ye!’

  She hung her head, removed a tartan neck-scarf and cried silently into the crumpled cloth. Keeping her head down she begged, ‘It’s Death himself who will get me if I’m forced out in such a foul night. Please let me stay. Look! Like a dog I’ll bide on yer floor in front o’ the fire.’ At those words she lay down, bringing small thin knees up under an elf-like chin.

  Peter’s heart had hardened through the years. He could not share his house with this tinker, even although the gales screamed round the little house and night had crept in. No, she had to go! He got to his feet, reached for his stick, then with a sudden jolt slumped back down as the chest-pain returned with a vengeance.

  Clutching his neck as if all breath had been wrenched from his body, he tried to speak but only short gasps came from his throat.

  ‘Oh my God! Old man, whatever ails ye?’ The young girl was at his side, pulling his shirt neck open as if such a futile attempt might release his breath. She took the neckscarf, soaked it in a basin of water, and mopped his sweating brow.

  He slumped forward in his chair, gave on
e long gasp and fell clumsily onto the hard floor. She pulled a small tattered cushion from his chair, propping up his head, and began shaking him by the shoulders. This seemed to help. Bit by bit the breath returned.

  Although sweat oozed from every pore he began to shiver. ‘Gi’e me my overcoat, lass, it hangs behind the door.’

  She leapt to her feet, grabbed the grey relic from some long-past war and covered the shaking man.

  He lay in that position for ages while she stacked the fire and gave him small sips of welcome water.

  Perhaps an hour passed, before old Peter at last felt his body warm deep inside, the shivering slowly subsided and his breathing became less erratic.

  ‘I think it would be a wise act for you to go to bed, auld man,’ she said, as she gently lifted his hand, brushing it against her small face.

  Peter, weakened and frail, nodded. ‘I’m sorry, lassie, for bringing fear into your heart earlier. Ye see, my dear wife’s memory—well, it’s aye been sae precious.’ Before he said another word she smiled an understanding smile, then put a finger to her lips, whispering, ‘shh—I ken, I ken, don’t tire yourself.’

  Soon the small youngster had her host tucked warmly in bed, while she lay under his great coat on the cold, hard floor.

  Outside, the storm was becoming as fierce as he’d ever known. It had a ferocious heart, just as it was the day it took Helen.

  As if to remind him of that nightmare, the wind forced a crack in the window to lengthen, causing a nasty cold draught round his head. He pulled, with weakened fingers, a torn wool blanket over his ears as if in some way to deafen him to the awful sound, and he prayed never to see the morning.

  In the pitch-dark of the long night Peter heard his bedroom door creak open.

  ‘Auld man! Are you asleep? Has the pain gone?’ He raised his head from a flattened feather pillow to see the small frame silhouetted against the opened door.

  ‘In and out of baith, lass, sleep and pain. What is it you want?’

  She moved to his bedside. ‘The fire is clean out and my bones freeze on the hard floor. I know you must be cold as well, for it feels like ice in here. Can I sleep wi’ you?’

  ‘Oh lassie, that’s impossible! Unheard of! Unholy!’

  ‘What would the guid Lord say if we kept each other warm till morn? As it is, the storm isnae letting up, and if I stay on the floor I’ll be dead in the morning. Aye, an your good self intae the bargain! Please, auld man, I’m freezin’ already!’

  His heart softened. He knew that without the lassie’s help, the cold kitchen floor would have been his rest that night. What harm could be done?

  Peter pulled back the blanket and within seconds the unlikely pair were huddled together. He felt instant warmth from the girl’s body and moved closer, slipping an arm round her small waist.

  Something strange began to happen! The young girl’s frame had a familiar feel to it, and for some reason he knew this feeling. She did not move as he ran his hand over her head and shoulders. In the dark he could not see her hair but there was no curl to it, in fact the opposite. Long and silky hair cascaded through his quivering fingers. Helen had such hair!

  At his touch she turned round to face him, the smell of her body filling his nostrils. He had never forgotten the smell of rose water. Helen dabbed a little on her breastbone each night. He took great pleasure from the fragrance when she gently laid his head on her body after a long hard day at the plough.

  He held the girl close, running his hands over her small frame.

  ‘My love! My love!’ he whispered as time took him back to days long buried. They were running together, young, hand in hand, a warm summer breeze gently blowing her hair against his face. He closed his eyes and felt the silky smoothness. They’d stop every so often, embrace lovingly, and then kiss with all the passion in their youthful being.

  ‘Helen, why did you leave me alone, my love? Oh, how I’ve missed you!’

  He whispered in the young girl’s ear over again, ‘My love, why?’

  Peter had been dreaming. Realising what he’d said and done, he sat up, feelings of guilt and shame rushing through his mind.

  Utterly ashamed he cried out in the cold, darkened room. ‘I’m sorry at what I have done. Oh Lord, what manner o’ man am I? What has become of me? Lassie, please forgive this auld man, I’m not myself. You stay here, I’ll go into the kitchen and light the fire...’

  In the darkness the girl said nothing. It was silent, for the storm had subsided. A bright moonlight filled the sky, slivers of light shone through the cracked window and lit up her face, but it wasn’t her he saw lying there, with arms stretched out to him, not the little tinker lass—it was his very own Helen, his beautiful wife had come home.

  All pain left his body as he fell into a deep sleep.

  He returned to his dream, holding tightly the hand of his lost love. As they walked off into the red sunset, he glanced over his shoulder and waved to a young mistletoe-seller, with curly black hair and a little button nose, skipping off down a heather-lined path, who waved back before disappearing over the brow of the hill.

  Mrs Beckett, concerned for her neighbour, went back to visit early in the New Year. There was no sign of the old man and the house lay cold and empty, as if no one had lived there for years.

  The few old hens had laid claim to the bedroom. Melting snow soaked floors and furniture. Where had old Peter gone? ‘Did he,’ she wondered, heartbroken, ‘set off in the storm and, like Helen, become a mystery known only to the glens?’ She would never know.

  The good woman stood in silence, clasped hands and said a little prayer.

  One last look round the house, then she would leave and take the sad news home to her husband.

  Something, though, caught her eye. A notebook, covered in dust, lay half-open on the kitchen table. It was a small diary, Helen’s, dated thirty years ago, the day she disappeared. Mrs Beckett picked it up, and carefully blew off the dust. It read:

  ‘Today my Peter sleeps long, the fever leaves him weak. Mrs Brown will deliver today. I hope it’s a boy, they need a fine boy to start their family.

  I feel snow in the air.

  There was as strange early morning visitor, still, I felt it best to buy a little, even though Peter knows the whereabouts of a tree laden with berries. Still, she was such a small tinker to carry a heavy load.

  She said one day that she’d come back and repay my kindness.

  Sweet child. Bonny curly black hair.’

  Now if the couthy neighbour had dallied just a wee bit longer, and taken herself into the bedroom, then shooed away the hens from the tousled bed, she may have seen on the pillow an impression, clearly showing the mark not of one, but of two heads!

  9

  THE BANASHEN

  That is one of my all-time favourite stories. So where were we? Oh aye, this creepy place. I’m still sure you won’t believe me and I’ll lose you on this one, folks, but if you can stay with me then its grateful I’ll be, because if you haven’t experienced the supernatural then why be a judge?

  I was the first to notice it. Mammy said there was nothing like it for spiralling through a damp washing and giving it a proper airing. Daddy said it put a grand heart into the fire. It sent wee Tiny curling into a tight ball behind the trailer wheel for shelter, but to me it meant only one thing—the voice of a ‘Banashen.’ That cold, sharp breeze blowing along the Earth’s floor, rising no higher than knee level, told me a spirit was angry. An elderly woman once informed me that if a grave were disturbed then many would come. I didn’t know what she meant at the time, but before our stay’s end I found out all right, no doubting that!

  Apart from the cold breeze blowing round our ankles that Monday morning it was quite pleasant for September. The heather heads were deep purple and cornfields ripe for cutting. Daddy and Nicky went off to spray-paint a farmer’s sheds, while Mammy and I went hawking. Since my confinement with Shirley in Glenrothes and that horrible paper mill, Mammy and I didn’
t have many cracks, so this day’s hawking would allow us time together. Anyhow, who could forget a day tramping amongst the kind country hantel of the Angus glens?

  Nicky’s wee brother Alan, their mother and her new man, big Wullie Young, who had arrived the night before, said they’d keep a heart in the fire and have soup ready for our return. My Auntie Annie was previously married to Jock Macdonald. His family was known amongst travellers as powerful street fighters. They were as proud a clan as any that lived and breathed in Scotland, and not only were they an extremely handsome folk, but their history tells of ancestors who held a circle of human shields around Charlie on the field at Culloden. All perished. They were thought to be descended from Glen Coe. My mother’s younger sister, Mary, had married Charlie, brother of Jock.

  During mid-morning, big Wullie and the lassies went for a rout amongst the silver birch wood. Soon they came upon the circular granite structure of a mausoleum. This giant building, standing about forty feet high, seemed an impregnable fortress. Undergrowth of thick ivy and gorse bush dominated its lower part. Sisters Mary and Babsy were desperate to see inside, but Renie wasn’t so keen. She was our seventh sister, and although she never accepted it there was in her the power of the eye. Not, may I earnestly add, ‘the evil eye’, but rather that of the sixth sense. ‘Come on, big Wullie,’ she begged, ‘don’t you go looking for a way in there. It’s a sacred place, and gives me the jitters.’

  Big Wullie found Renie’s fear quite disturbing and ushered the lassies away. Our Mary, however, was as curious a thirteen-year-old as you’d find anywhere and laughed off Renie’s warnings. She spied a broken branch hanging from the high bank over onto the wall. ‘Come on, Babsy, that’s our way in,’ she called. She hoisted Babsy up by the arm, and in no time the duo were out of sight and half way up the branch before big Wullie could stop them.

  ‘You two bisoms get down here this instant, before the polis or a laird o’ some kind spots ye breakin’ an’ enterin’.’ He needed to raise his voice and shout my sisters down, but if you’d ever heard the roar from him then you’d know the whole of Kirrie would hear. He was aware of this, so told Renie to go back home, and that he’d fetch the girls down himself. She didn’t need telling twice, and was soon gone out of the wood and up the road.