by Jess Smith
Andra spoke oot—and his heart it grew sairer—
He jist couldn’t thole bein licket by Crerar,
A buddie gey handie wi’ blacksmithin tools,
But no in a class wi’ himsel at the bools.
Noo the ghosts made a ring, each the ither hand taen,
And they swore by the marks in the muckle big Stane,
That Crerar the smith they would visit that nicht,
And leave the puir buddie half dein wi’ fricht;
They swore by the elves wha bide under toadstools,
He’d never again bate their man at the bools.
Noo Andra McLeod, be it sleet, snow or rain,
Aye stops when he’s passin the muckle big Stane,
Since that fearfu nicht, when he gain them his crack
The whole Roman Empire he’d had at his back.
So long as the Stane, Andra’s destiny rules,
He’ll no lose tae Crerar again at the bools.
Keith Macpherson
19
HELENA’S STORY
I am going to shock you with this next story, but I hope that when we’ve shared this, my friend, you will understand that, of all the evils in the world, beating a pregnant woman must rate one of the worst.
Yet it’s sadly a common picture today, as it was then, a battered wife. Nowadays it is referred to as domestic abuse. Traveller folks loathe a man who beats his wife. It is regarded as the despicable act of a coward. For a man to lift a hand and strike a woman is, in their eyes, the same as an Alsatian attacking a Westy.
Here is Helena’s story.
Bonny Helena adored Robert. Everybody knew it. Her family idolised him and his folks thought the world of her. Since the youngest age both were inseparable, and when old enough they married. For a few years he worked hard to give her a nice caravan and a good sizeable lorry for himself. Night after night he’d drive home after long hours breaking and collecting scrap metal, fall into her welcoming arms and sit down to a warm meal. Then one day Robert received his call-up papers. This meant his dreams of wealth and building a grand house for Helena were to be put on hold, for the duration of his national service of two years.
But suddenly a crack in the world appeared. A violent war was taking place in Korea, and Robert was thrown into a battle of, as we all now know, massive proportions. When it was finished he came home, like many of his comrades, a different man. Not so as one could visibly notice, but the smile had been replaced with a serious frown. Fewer people came calling on the couple because of his rudeness and lack of civility. He began to drink more and more, and worse was his treatment of Helena. He’d been seen hitting her, although she at first denied it and then made excuses blaming her nagging. It didn’t take long for his business to slip downhill, so one night after a bad bout of ‘supping wi’ the De’il’ he came home and beat her so badly she was taken into hospital. That was enough for her family to intervene and remove her from the scene. Her heart, though, was with Robert, and it didn’t take long for Helena to pack her bags and go back. This happened three times after that, with even the police arresting him; something seldom done in those days because wife-beating was looked upon as a triviality and usually solved over a cup of sobriety and tea.
They finally parted. Helena went away to live in the south of England where he would never find her. This seemed to sober him up, and he set about rebuilding his shattered business, turning away from the demon drink. After a teetotal year, Robert eventually persuaded her family to get her to write, and said he was trying to make amends. In spite of all that had passed she still loved and forgave him. In a short time he set about courting his estranged wife and this time he promised ‘no more tears’. Well, things went from fine, to good and better. He had indeed changed. A nice house came along, the business blossomed, and soon the happy couple awaited the arrival of their first baby. A lovely boy put the icing on the cake. Tragically, however, he only survived a week.
This sent Robert back into the so-called solace of drink, and Helena’s nightmare began all over again. Still, he had the good sense to draw back and not tip over the edge. They tried again and soon another baby was nestled in the womb. But Robert began to fall into deep black moods, and only a drink would help. Helena found his heavy hands were again finding their mark on her tender frame. One night, after his business had gone to the wall and their home was facing repossession, he set off to spend another drink-fuelled night with the amber spirit.
She was asleep when early morning brought him home. The final beating was horrendous! This was the final straw, the one that broke the camel’s back. I will tell what happened in the form of a poem.
Water of Life
As the demon from the bottle flows,
The spirit deep within him grows:
It tells him this, it tells him that,
‘Angry young man, go kick the cat.’
His blue eyes turn a fiery red,
While she sleeps soundly in her bed
He hears the amber spirit say,
‘Pack your cowardly soul away.
Wear the mantle formed for you,
Demand another drink or two.
Now see him standing by the door,
Hit him till he tastes the floor.’
The barman shouts,
‘Get out, listen here.’
While the demon whispers in his ear,
‘What you need is a knife, my dear.’
Out in the street, his money spent
He staggers home, head hung, back bent.
The spirit mutters, ‘She’s to blame,
When you get back show her some pain.
Never mind that pregnant bitch,
She’s the reason you’re not rich.
You don’t need me to tell you so,
You’re the boss, she should know.’
He kicks the door, bounds up the stair,
Grabs her long, soft, brown hair,
‘Look at you, fat, ugly cow,
I’m starving, woman, feed me now.’
‘You let her off, you’re much too soft
You will regret this at your cost
Before she rises from that floor,
Kick her, go on, once more!
Good lad! I’m glad you understood,
Now let her lie, enjoy the food.’
Shivering she watches till he sleeps
Then tiptoes out on darkened street.
The skin across her face grows tight,
He didn’t miss his mark tonight;
From head to toe she’s wracked with pain,
She knows he’ll swear, ‘never again!’
But she’s had enough, just can’t go on,
The sharing love has all but gone.
The stone bridge wall is a dark, cold place,
Water sprays her tear-stained face.
She whispers to her child unborn,
‘With life anew we’ll meet the morn.
He beats me black, he beats me blue,
But he won’t hurt you, my baby new,
I promise this, he won’t get you.’
The bell wakes him from drunken sleep,
Makes to the door on shuffled feet.
Policeman, helmet in his hand,
‘Can I come in’ he asks, ‘young man?
I have grave news for you,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry but your wife is dead!’
20
MANCHESTER HOGMANAY
Do you know, reader, sometimes if we could see what future lies before us we might take another road—but we don’t, do we?
Back on the waste ground in our cosy caravan I find myself sitting staring into the darkness, with more than a few monsters haunting the darkened recesses of my young mind. Mammy had, as usual, been blethering with the earth creepers, and I told her she was becoming far too familiar with them. She laughed as she always did, and said that the poor craturs were telling her they were becoming colder as winter stiffened on the city. What did she
do? Well, she toddled off to the corner shop and bought a bag of kindling. Then she got Nicky to take the van and collect two bags of coal. Over she went, poking and prodding at the mounds of discarded plastic and calling their names because, yes, she’d even found out what some of them were called. ‘Mr Weatherspoon, Mr Delifario, Mr What-dae-ye-call-yerself?’ Oh, and better not forget, Major Something. Those were only a few. I think the fact she identified them as individuals mattered more to them than if the names were correct.
Right away they shed the vast humps of waste material they were under and began helping Mammy and Nicky build the grandest fire they’d ever seen. Earlier in the day my dear mother had made a batch of treacle scones, and as the tramps sat on makeshift seats of old boxes and the likes, the glow from the blazing fire on those craggy faces was a picture to capture forever in the mind. They never asked for seconds, nor did they say a word, the contented stare of warmth said it all. Mammy and Nicky left them to their thoughts and went to bed. I sat up for ages, peering through a slit in my caravan curtain, watching the vagabonds chatting and sharing some liquid concoction from a tin heating the deep bits while the fire did the same to their outer regions. I was young, and knew that as far as the men of the night were concerned they’d never have my total trust as they had Mammy’s, but it was nice to fall asleep knowing they had found one night of relative comfort. However I will now retract that, because you’ll never guess what those stupid creepy-crawly idiots did? They went and got drunk as skunks and set fire to their mound houses! I thought Martians were dropping on top of us from the skies when the fire sirens descended with flashing blue lights and hissing hoses. What a night to remember. Daddy called Mammy everything under the sun, while she swore never to help the drunken old bastards again. Yes, I must say, folks, it was a night when the Keystone Cops, Flash Gordon and Dante’s Inferno all rolled into one. And, I’ll add, there was a tramp the spit of Charlie Chaplin who took off into the dark with a yellow flame spurting from his rear end. What a delightful spectacle!
You will be thinking ‘she’s a heartless swine’, but don’t worry, no one got hurt and after a wee clean up next day there was as many wee humps to sleep under as before. Only difference was that my Mammy was forbidden to help the tramps again—strict orders from the ‘high heed yin’, my Daddy.
Now, maybe after I share this next episode with you, you’ll be thinking Daddy should have kept his trap shut.
It was all to do with his fancy Jaguar.
Mammy and Portsoy went into town on that busy Saturday to do a bit of shopping. As Christmas was round the corner we were all in a grand mood. Nicky had a few bob to spend, Mammy too was flush with a regular stream of woman clients needing their fortunes told, and as for me, well, Mr Swift served on all his staff a generous bonus. Aye, we were not a bad bunch of happy Scottish travellers on that particular December Saturday. Trust my Da to go and spoil it!
‘I’ll be here waiting, Charlie, at four o’clock’, Mammy told Daddy outside the Daily Express building, adding that he was not to be late, for she didn’t like hanging about with a pile of Christmas presents. Portsoy said he’d find his own way home. Daddy set off, and I do not have any information as to his whereabouts, folks, only that he was away the best part of five hours.
Mammy was waiting dead on four outside the newspaper office, when suddenly the air filled with police bells clanking like mad. The whole of Manchester’s Piccadilly froze at the screeching of brakes and peep-peeping of horns. Then, to her absolute horror, who should come tearing along, polis at his back? My Dad! His eyes were standing on their stalks as he darted a quick glance at Mammy, who by the way had turned to stone with a dropped bottom lip. If a lay preacher had laid eyes on my Mother he’d have thought she’d seen Sodom and Gomorrah tumble.
She arrived home in a taxi still struck dumb. What in heaven’s name had he done?
Thankfully, Nicky and Portsoy were home and immediately went along to the nearest stardy. They seemed to be away for ages, and when at long last they arrived back they had no news for my anxious mother. ‘What in the name o’ hell is yon daft faither o’ yours up tae?’ she said, glancing at my sisters and me. No sooner had she uttered those words when there was a loud knock at the door. It was our friend Jim, the Fife polisman. He’d brought the news we were all desperate to hear.
It happened during our stay in Manchester that certain villains (big-time bank robbers by the sounds of it) were using grey Jaguar cars as getaway vehicles. While Daddy was minding his own business and driving to pick up Mammy, a right Al Capone style robbery was in progress. In all the getaway carry on, Daddy’s car got mistaken for the one the robbers had. When he heard and saw all the shiny black polis cars descending on him he panicked and put the foot down.
‘So, if you can settle your mind, Mrs Riley, Charlie will soon be back home with you.’
Jim’s reassuring smile told us everything would be all right, and it was. What was Daddy’s response? He painted his status symbol—Gold! Yep! Even the cat!
Well, there you have it, folks, our quiet stance behind the garage had so far been anything but. Och, what’s the point of living if one can’t bite on a bullet once in a while?
From then on our existence went on an even keel. Christmas came and went, but not until New Year’s Eve did we realise that guid auld Scotia was the place to be. England just shines at Christmas with everybody having a richt braw time, but if it’s celebration time, well, us Scots certainly take all awards at Hogmanay. Mammy bought in the drink, stout for herself, whisky for the boys and blackcurrant cordial for us. Lots of black bun and shortbread with bricks of fruit cake found our wee bunch celebrating up to the gong of midnight. Somehow or other, things didn’t have the same ring to ‘A guid New Year’ as it might have done over the tartan border, and by two o’ clock we were sound asleep. Next morning, apart from Jim the horny coming to first foot us, the day had an empty, hollow sound to it. Still, we hadn’t reckoned on our neighbours—the creepy-crawlies. Mammy noticed that, apart from our empty bottle of blackcurrant cordial, the drink box was full. She had had her stout but Daddy didn’t fancy a whisky and Nicky only sampled the beer. Portsoy had his own supply and God alone knows how much of that the old lad drank. He certainly found it difficult giving his face a wash, so I reckon he’d opened another bottle. He always said ‘never buy the one, it might get lonely.’
‘I can’t abide keeping drink in the place after the bells,’ Mammy told us all at dinner. Oh, this only meant one thing, she was going to visit the earthworms again.
Daddy told her just to leave the box sitting some place, for they’d surely find it. ‘Smell it more like,’ I mused.
She and I carried the booze-box over as near them as possible, and while I dived home for fear of slipping and falling into a gungy hole Mammy whispered to them: ‘Mr Weatherspoon, hello, Mr Delifario, you there? Major, also Mr What-dae-ye-call-yerself.’ The ground rippled and she knew things would be fine.
That evening as we settled in for what was forecast on the wireless as a change in the weather, there was a tapping on the caravan door. Daddy as always answered it.
‘Jeannie,’ he said, ‘there’s a few blokes out here need to speak tae ye.’ Mammy gingerly stepped outside, and out there, shivering in the first covering of snow stood (and I kid you not) every bloody tramp in the whole of Manchester and maybe beyond!
The Major came forward, rolled a crumpled cap between black and orange fingers, and said, ‘Madam, we’d be glad if you’d allow us to toast you and your family’s good health.’ With that, a horde of jam-jars, broken cups and containers of every sort, holding Mammy’s offering of the ‘cratur’, rose into the cold January sky to fall back and slide down those sadly-abused throats.
‘Men, please step inside.’ Mammy pushed open our narrow door, and one by one the creepy-crawlers stepped into our spotless clean caravan until there was standing room only. I felt my dinner heave inside my belly as the smell hit the back of my throat, but that was on
ly a temporary thing—after all I’d smelt worse from a dung-field. And as the night pushed onwards we were entertained to mouth-organs, singers (with beautiful voices even although half the teeth were absent), jokers, magicians and, my favourite pastime—storytellers. Amazing fun was the only way to describe the first night of 1964. That was the best New Year’s party we’d ever had, and we’ve never since seen its likes.
I wonder now if you may want to hear the story one of the city tramps told us that night. I’m glad you do. So get the kettle boiled up, pour your favourite cuppy and share this with me.
21
THE LETTER
Young Johnny rose on that memorable day from a cosy bed, washed and went down stairs. His dear, sweet mother as always greeted him with a kiss and said there was a plate of his favourite hot oats waiting for him, then handed him a letter that had arrived by the early post. Before enjoying his breakfast he opened his mail, only to find it was written in a foreign tongue. ‘Mother, be a dear and read this for me, you have a flair for languages and I don’t know what it says.’
His mother obliged and sat down to read. What happened next was unbelievable. He watched his mother turn from a gentle, loving lady into a furious, foaming-at-the-mouth monster. ‘Argghh, you beast, you horrible evil creature, get out of my house this instant and don’t ever come back here again!’ she screamed, throwing his letter at his feet, then grabbing his collar she heaved her son from the house. Johnny stood there in the cold street flabbergasted. Without a moment to lose he picked up the offending letter and set off to ask his vicar why its contents had turned his mother mad.
The vicar, as always politeness itself, ushered him into the parlour. ‘Hello lad,’ he said, ‘what brings you to my door this early?’
