Tears for a Tinker

by Jess Smith

  But whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.

  Was it close tae the silvery stream o’ the Earn

  Or set by the Ruchill’s rockie bed?

  The fairies that dance on the Leadnaig’s banks,

  Do they lull his sleep wi’ their airy tread?

  His bed was lined wi’ the saft green mosses,

  His shroud was the tent he had sleepit in.

  His dirge was the tune o’ that wimplin burnie

  Played on the sough o’ the saft west wind.

  Owre him they made the tinker ritual,

  They merched roond the grave an they keepit time,

  Chatterin aye wi’ a mystic mutter

  Some cryptic words in a queer auld rhyme.

  The lovelorn merl there in the lerac,

  Singin his mate tae sleep fur the nicht,

  Soondit the last post owre the tinker,

  Full and clear in the fadin licht.

  Never a mound did they raise abune him,

  Nor chiseled a stane fer his grave tae mark

  That unkent spot in the phantom country,

  That lies merched in twixt the licht an the dark.

  There in the land o’ mellowin gloamin

  Whaur the evenin shadows begin tae fa’,

  Whaur the nicht comes quietly creepin forrit,

  An the day goes gently wastin awa.

  In the drowsie soond o’ that murmurin burnie,

  Far ben in the hert’ that bowskie glen,

  There they left the tinker sleepin—

  Whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.

  That beautiful picture in verse, written in the old Perthshire tongue, never fails to bring a tear to my eye. However moving it is, my favourite poem of all that has been written is ‘The Last o’ the Tinklers’ by Violet Jacob. Honest, I challenge the sturdiest heart among you to read it and not to feel a tiny tear welling at the corner of your eye.

  THE LAST O’ THE TINKLERS

  Lay me in yon place, lad,

  The gloamin’s thick wi’ nicht;

  Ah canna see yer face, lad

  Fer ma een’s no richt.

  But its ower late fur leein,

  Fer ah ken fine ah’m deein,

  Like an auld craw fleein,

  Tae the last o’ the light.

  The kye gan tae the byre, lad,

  The sheep tae the fauld,

  Ye’ll mak a spunk o’ fire, lad,

  Fer ma hert’s growin cauld;

  And whaur the trees are meetin,

  There’s a sound like waters beatin,

  An the birds seem near tae greetin

  That was aye singin bauld.

  There’s just the tent tae leave, lad,

  Ah’ve gaithered little gear,

  There’s just yersel’ tae grieve, lad,

  An the auld dug lyin here;

  But when the morn comes creepin

  And the waukin birds are cheepin,

  Ye’ll find me lyin sleepin,

  As I’ve slept saxty year.

  Ye’ll rise tae meet the sun, lad,

  An baith be trevellin west,

  But me that’s auld an done, lad,

  Ah’ll bide an’ take ma rest;

  For the grey heed is bendin

  And this auld shoe needs mendin,

  But the trevellin’s near its endin

  An’ the endin’s aye the best.

  Is that not the saddest poem? It is in my world. Say it aloud to anyone who might listen, it sounds as bonny as it reads.

  14

  ENEMY AT THE DOOR

  Talking about worlds, this tale we’re about to share deals with a certain group of travellers living in their own world—Glen Lyon. We’ll drift on down there now. It’s 1944 and Daisy is beside herself with worry.

  ‘Donald, ma man, where dae ye think yon Germans are the day?’

  Donald grasped the neck of the struggling cock pheasant between the two middle fingers of his right hand and pulled, threw the jerking bird at her feet. He said, ‘Daisy, I’ll tell ye till I’m sick o’ telling ye; the Germans dinna come this far south.’

  ‘Better no leave ma washing hingin ower the dyke just in case, though.’ Pushing her bouncing breasts up with clasped hands she went on, much to the annoyance of a long-suffering husband, ‘Minnie Robertson said she’d heard—and by god, thon woman is as honest as the lang day—that a troop o’ the buggers were seen in aboot Kingussie. Donald, my heart is feart, ’cause you ken that’s no far awa frae us here in Glen Lyon.’

  Poor Donald, ever since a lone tramp had brought news that Britain was at war with Germany, his wife hadn’t given a minute’s piece to his wind-battered ears. He put some more sticks onto the low burning fire, lifted a big black kettle and wandered off to fill it at a fast-flowing burn near their camp site. Her shrill tones pierced through his head. ‘Aye, dinna answer me—go on, walk away, an’ thon buggers nae mair than six miles frae my tent door.’

  Wearily he turned and said, ‘Kingussie is mair than six mile away lassie, I’d say nearer sixty.’

  Truth be told, neither of them had the foggiest idea where anywhere was outside Perthshire.

  ‘You’re a good man, Donald, I ken you’re telling me that to keep me frae worrying.’ Once more she shoved her large breasts under her chin, folding arms beneath her cleavage to stop them going the way of all gravity-controlled flesh. He gazed at her and thought, ‘my goodness, whit German wi’ two good eyes would come near ma Daisy? She’s long past her best, and one scud frae her power-loaded fist could split an oak log. He’d need tae get a pot shot aff afore she kent it.’

  Yet, in spite of her failings, she was a good-hearted woman who’d never failed to brose and bannock a cold winter night; her cuddles fair warmed his bones when a long day helping out a glen shepherd had frozen him near solid.

  He slowly walked back and hung his kettle on a metal hook suspended over the flames from a tripod of iron. As he dropped some twigs into the container, ‘to better flavour the tea’, Daisy spurted off again. ‘I don’t care whit ye say, there’s nae way I’m hingin oot ma washed knickers over the dyke this night, or any other, until I’ve heard yon Germans have followed the craws.’

  Donald was too tired, and frankly too bored with all this anxious talk. He’d a good cosh under his bed, and a couple of hardwood spears topped with sharpened ewe horns. If the Germans did come into Glen Lyon, then he’d not go without a fight. That night, as his wife fidgeted and rolled from side to side on a coarse hay-filled mattress under the shelter of their canvas home, he decided a long walk into the Lawers mountains would be just the rest he needed from Daisy’s tongue. Especially since, from the highest viewpoint in all Perthshire, he’d soon spot the enemy. Earlier than a red kite he was trekking away into thick Scots mist before his wife had stirred on her bed, and by midday was standing upon the summit of Ben Lawer itself. As far as the eye could see, all that lay below him belonged to the red deer and white balls of sheep dotting the green slopes. The blue heaven above was the domain of ravens, crows and the mighty eagle.

  ‘I kent it,’ he said to himself, scanning the horizon, ‘not a German in sight.’

  Far down below, dots of homes with thin spirals of smoke reminded him that Daisy would have a pot of kale boiling around some ribs of ham. The thought made his mouth water. ‘Best get awa hame, jist in case yon Germans are dab hands at the camouflage cerry on.’

  How many times he marvelled at a scene of nature’s disguising, like the antics of a green frog upon a patch of sphagnum moss; it simply could not be detected, yet he knew it was there. The old adder could disguise itself into looking like a bent root of heather. The more this thought pestered him, the faster he strode along the sheep track homewards. So hard was he going that he almost knocked over a tramp coming the opposite way. ‘Man, ah didnae see ye,’ said Donald, apologising, ‘can I help with yer load?’

  The elderly gent had a heavy box upon his back, cross-tied with a thick rope.


  ‘Would you help me with this thing, I have been carrying it for almost a week.’

  Donald carefully untied the box and sat it gently on the path. He wondered what it was.

  ‘This, dear fellow,’ said his new acquaintance, ‘is a wireless.’

  Not wanting to seem stupid, he being a tinker and all that, Donald pretended he’d seen something similar, somewhere. Imagine his terror when the old man turned a knob at the front of the box, and voices came forth. Donald lost the power in his legs and fell back into the heather. ‘Who the bloody hell have ye got prisoner inside the box? Wid thon be a wee Irish leprechaun?’

  The old man, being a toff who’d fallen on hard times, said, ‘my dear friend, this wireless is a voice-box for the whole world. Listen.’ He turned the knob round until more voices poured forth. Some were women, others well-spoke gents, like his mate here, some made crackling sounds, making Donald think a Banshee lived inside the magic box along with many more strange creatures.

  ‘Well, well, wonders will never cease,’ said Donald, ‘and all I dae is turn this knob and the world speaks tae me?’

  ‘Yes, my friend, that is all that is needed. Now I was thinking, I haven’t got an ounce of energy left, would you have enough money on your person to purchase my wonderful contraption?’

  ‘No, no, I’ve plenty to do with my lowy. Any road, a thing like that would frighten ma Daisy tae death, her being aye looking oot fer Germans.’

  The old man seemed stunned by this answer, and asked why the Germans, who were so far removed from Perthshire, should worry his wife who was snuggled safely in Glen Lyon.

  ‘Dae you know where they are, sir?’ asked Donald, glad that at long last someone might have the knowledge to relieve the glen tinkers of their fear.

  ‘Well, according to the voice of the BBC world broadcaster, they are on the retreat somewhere in Europe.’

  Donald’s eyes grew wide with excitement, as he rammed both fists deep inside his pockets. ‘Here’s all the lowy I have tae ma name.’ It was hardly anything, maybe in total thirty bob, but it was enough to relieve the wireless owner of his cumbersome load, and to see the sheer joy on the tinker’s face was well worth it.

  Farewells were made, and soon Donald was at home and delighting Daisy with a voice-box capable of informing them where exactly German snipers might be hiding.

  She birled and danced, swinging arms and legs in every direction. The silly woman forgot in her excitement how large were those bosoms, and one jump too far resulted in them connecting under her chin with as powerful an uppercut as any champion boxer. When she asked Donald where Europe was, he said, ‘Up by the Minch, some place near Sutherland.’ These were places he’d heard other travellers mention, yet had no idea where they were. It was enough to satisfy his wife, who soon spent more time in front of the talking box than she did plucking fowl.

  Weeks passed, with Daisy twirling the knobs on her box, neglecting all her duties as a good tinker woman. Poor Donald, as hard as he tried, she was not for moving. Every step of the war she followed through the magic wireless, never missing a battle report. Yet for all the place-names reported, not once did she realise that a channel of water was splitting Europe from Britain. To her it was all one big place, with the enemy being forced back from every town in Perthshire.

  Once a year her two brothers, Dougal and Thomas, came by to visit. Like their sister and her man, they too had no idea where the Germans were. Daisy sat lording it at her tent mouth, with the crackling patter of the World Service booming out through the glen, feeling like a queen among the heather. Her brothers never stayed more than a week, because a great deal of alcohol consumption would eventually result in fisticuffs between the foursome. But with a war on, and the BBC giving a remarkable day-by-day account, they stayed on to be entertained.

  It was the morning of 8th May 1945. Donald rose first and lit a fire, Thomas and Dougal filled the kettle and made a pot of porridge. Suddenly, like a female mallard being gang-banged by fifty sex-starved drays, Daisy emerged from the tent mouth screaming and dancing with whoops and yells. ‘They are leaving, man, oh man, the bloody Germans are finished! Donald, Dougal, Thomas, doon tae the burn and wash yourselves. Hurry noo, we’re going tae Killin for a wild party.’

  Stunned into zombies with gaping holes for mouths, the three men could hardly manage a blink between them, and each thought she’d gone mad. All the worry and obsession about enemies stealing her bloomers off the dyke had turned her head and left her pure moich.

  Donald put the last stick on his fire, stood up and said, ‘Daisy, as big as you are, I’ll put you over my lap and skelp some sense intae ye. An’ another thing, if ye dinna want that wireless sat in flames on ma fire, calm doon.’

  ‘Listen tae me, the three o’ ye, the Germans are leaving Killin, I heard it wi’ me ain ears as clear as day! The bool-moothed woman said “THE GERMANS ARE LEAVING KILLIN”!’

  That was enough for the boys, who were desperately in need of a celebration drink. However, when they at last arrived in Killin, smelling of braxy water and carbolic soap, it was apparent from the usual sober mood of its inhabitants that they’d already celebrated in their own quiet way.

  No, of course buxom Daisy hadn’t heard in the broadcast that the Germans were leaving Killin. But what she had heard sparked a worldwide celebration—‘The German forces were leaving Berlin.’

  I love tales like that, and believe me there were plenty, but we’ll sneak back later and peek again at tinkers huddled in lonely glens. Meanwhile, let’s go back to Macduff.

  15

  THE MORNING VISITOR

  Johnnie heard the knocking on our door one morning while I had my new-fangled washing machine churning away. It was state of the art, my wee white washer, because it came complete with wringer attachment. I honestly don’t care what any woman thinks, those first washers did a far cleaner job of clothes than the computerised wallies of the present day. I loved my washing smelling fresh, with not a stain anywhere. I felt much more in tune with being a housewife. I took pride in those duties frowned upon by many modern day quines. On second thoughts, maybe my upbringing had a lot to do with my attitude.

  Anyway, as I said, wee Johnnie pulled on my skirt to tell of someone at the door. Along with the chuggie-chump-churnie of my washer, Connie Francis was in full voice singing ‘Carolina Moon’ on the radio. No wonder I failed to hear a visitor. It was a strange time to hawk, but standing on my doorstep, that very busy Monday morning, was a real life gypsy. Grey-black hair, pleated and piled upon her head, ear-lobes stretched by solid gold loops, hands heavy with the weight of rings adorning each finger, she was about seventy years old.

  Drying my hands on my apron, I waited on the spiel: ‘I brings the luck to you, don’t turn me away, you’ve a lucky face, but ups and downs of life tell me something waits around the corner...’ etc., but I was wrong. ‘Perhaps there’s a different approach,’ I thought, waiting on her to speak. I searched her face; it had a tired look, pained even.

  For a moment she stared, said nothing, obviously her technique. I spoke first. ‘I’m awfy busy trying to get a big washing on the line before rain comes.’ Stupid me, there wasn’t so much as a puff of cloud. It was the bluest sky I’d seen for a long time. I continued, ‘are you English? It’s just that you’re a right bonny dark colour and all the gold. Dae ye ken Maggie Ellen Young?’ (She was the only real gypsy who lived in Scotland that I was aware of.) ‘She’s a fortune-teller, by God a good yin tae. Put a spell on an angry farmer’s prize-winning bull, and it dropped doon dead!’

  The woman wasn’t impressed by my tale, she’d heard it all before, no doubt; nor did she answer my questioning. She seemed preoccupied.

  ‘Can I come in? My heel is painful, look.’ She eased a shoe off with one hand, steadying herself against my harled, white-washed wall. A great blister bubbled at her heel. I asked if she wanted me to burst it. ‘I’ll clean it and put some powder on to dry it up for you.’

  ‘No thank you, girl
ie, but if you have a kettle boiling, tea would be a blessing.’

  Never in my life did I see Mammy turn a gypsy from her door, and I wasn’t about to change our welcome no matter how busy or Connie Francis-obsessed I was. ‘Come in.’ I held her arm as she hopped into my low-roofed cottage, gently lowering her body onto my settee. I made some space for her among kiddie toys and cloths. ‘I’ll get some tea now, but I’ve no biscuits or cakes, sorry.’

  My visitor stretched her neck and laid her head to rest on a cushion. ‘Tea will be blessed,’ she said in a low whisper. Those gold-clad hands could hardly hold the full mug of tea, so she asked for a saucer. It made me smile watching her delicately pour some tea into the saucer and sip it like a cat. When sufficiently refreshed she told me who she was.

  ‘I’m a Penfold from Kent country. I never come up these parts, but recently I lost me mother. She never said where it was she’d been born until her final days, when she told me it was a town in these parts. Her own mother died giving birth to her, leaving me grandfather unable to look after her and big brother Barley. Travellers took them in, adopted them, brings them up as their own. They were known as Riley, but I don’t know a single thing about them. Me mother married me father, Leonard Penfold, and lived south of the border ever since.

  ‘My folks are Riley,’ I told her eagerly, ‘well, Daddy’s people, he lives just round the corner. Keep your eye on my boys, I’ll go fetch him in a minute. What have you been doing here? I ask because we don’t see much of the old ways in these parts. These are all fisher-folks, very holy, don’t hold to fortune-telling.’

  ‘I’ve been walking all over these parts doing the dukkering [fortune-telling] and hawking with a tushni of lace. Me old fella is dead this past seven years. Young Barley, me son, is in the town over the bridge, I forgot its name.’

  ‘Banff,’ I interrupted.