Tears for a Tinker

by Jess Smith

  That night, as I lay under our canvas tent, it seemed not a bad idea; not being born, that is. What a long drawn out night it was. I listened at the chirr-chirring of a lone nightjar chasing moths. A hedgehog had found its mate and the two scraped away good style inches from where my head tried to sleep. Minutes seemed to have gone by when a solitary peewit jolted me from a dearly needed sleep with its pee-twit call. I’m sure nature’s creatures had got wind of a certain battle due to take place next day, because to cap it all I heard what I’d never heard before, the “squawk, squawk” of two herons flying low over our tent. One, aye, but never two of the noisy bisoms.

  Sleep came in drips and drabs, and that night it was for me a luxury I’d been unable to afford. The dawn came in with a chorus from a skylark and I was certain no matter how apt my father’s wisdom had made my fists, without a good night’s sleep I’d be easy meat.

  An early morning plunge into the burn sent all sleepiness flying, as water sprayed over every inch of my young frame. If thon women were approaching then I’d meet them wide awake.

  It was quiet, though, and I began to hope that my imagination had been working overtime. Perhaps the dear ladies had no intention of fighting battles for their horrible offspring. But as I washed porridge plates and filled our tea koocazie [kettle], a great screech of soprano voices sent pheasant and grouse to shelter on a cloud. Wood pigeons joined them.

  “Hey you Power lot, whaur’s the wee worm that chased oor weans frae the pearl burn?”

  My fears were realised, and by golly in big time mode, because three of the largest females I’d ever seen stood like gladiators on the brow of the hill. Dressed in tweed skirts and heavy cotton blouses criss-crossed by paisley-patterned wraparound aprons, they were as mighty a gathering of Crinnin as I’d seen in many a long while. My poor mother, who I’d forgotten to say was heavily pregnant, called to them that it had been a storm in a tea-cup, and come away doon for a share of the tea. Glancing at me she whispered, “pick up yer bag, Jeannie, and run like hell. I packed it last night when you and your father were sparring.”

  Daddy, however, who was in the process of shaving, rubbed the soap from his chin and walked up to me. Not a single look did he afford the Crinnin, just walked on by and said, “Remember and keep the head, Jeannie. Don’t let them rage ye, lassie.”

  I felt my belly shift to my throat, and smiled through a frozen grimace. “Faither, I think yon beasts will maul me tae bits. Maybe I’ll keep ma head and run!”

  “And spend the rest o’ yer days in the knowledge you run frae a fight? Do this, lass, and you’ll do it all the days of your life. I know that along with your golden threads there’s a Highland bull in there. Now get facing them heathen bitches.”

  Daddy was rousing me to find a courage I still hadn’t known, but he was right: if I let these women chase me away, then who next? Travellers can’t afford to show fear. One day I’d have to defend a family against polis, factors, and farmers. If there was fear in me, now was the time to face it.

  However, as the earth moved beneath my flayed feet, fear seemed to reach through me with tentacles of terror. Suddenly it all seemed too late, with me shaking to the bone, and three very angry ladies lined up to batter me senseless. It might seem strange, but they resembled three reddish-brown Highland coos. I felt that if I’d the use of a cartload of hay I’d have offered it to them. Daddy saw, though, that the uneven odds were not to his liking, even though I’d a wee bit of knowledge that these creatures did not possess.

  “Listen now, girls, if you need to teach oor Jeannie a lesson, then do it one at a time. She’s a skelf-like lassie, so what joy wid ye get from attacking her all at once? I think she’d remember a lesson if she got it in turn from each of ye.” Daddy was offering them a form of fairness, but I wandered if that word had any meaning in their dumb lives. Without a word Maggie stepped to one side and Ella the other. I stood alone facing a scrum o’ a beast called Jinty. Her forte, and was I about to experience it, was the “frontal butt”. All the moves my father had taught me fell by the wayside, as Jinty lifted me into the air with a kick, and when the butt connected with my brow, down I went like a crumpled newspaper. My empty lungs desperately sucked for oxygen, as stars and bells filled my throbbing skull. The three witches slapped each other on the back as I lay there useless. Mother lunged forward, and would have taken them all on, had Daddy not hauled her back. “Leave her, Margaret,” he whispered, “oor Jeannie’s no finished yit, she’s rising to her feet.” My father smiled that twinkling-eye smile and exposed the scar beneath his muffler. “Give them what for, ma lassie,” he whispered, “do it for me.”

  Jinty moved sideways and gestured to another clone to take over. I knew if this creature got the better of me I’d be mince, so before her heavy forearm left her side, my clenched fist with a power-packed punch went straight for her jaw. I balanced on my feet and went in with a right-left-right-left-right just like Daddy taught me. Whoosh, she spun around like a thronged hen, with eyes going everywhere, before tripping up on tied feet and hitting the deck. “Yes!” and “boy-o-boy, bring on the rest!” was all I remember screaming, before my father grabbed me and whispered, “Keep the heed. Ye mind I telt ye no tae loss the thinking.”

  Too late, me and the remaining Crinnin had scores to settle. “Come on then, Maggie, here I am, you tae, Ella. Aye, you might knock me intae the gutter, but I’ll blacken an eye before ye drop me. Question is, which one o’ you Pretty Pollys wants it?”

  Ella shook the ground as she stomped over and stood glowering down at me. I almost swallowed my thrapple when she put a hand on my shoulder. “By the gods, lassie, what would other travellers say if they heard us Crinnins got paggered wi’ a wee mort [girl] that stood the height o’ a puddock’s nose. Keep yer upper cuts and yer left hooks—we’ll shake a brave hand.”

  Maggie and dizzy Jinty came over to me. I swear my knees and head didn’t know what to do. Was this a tactical move—would I be flattened by three overweight females? No! They each hugged me close, apologising for the laddies who treated the pearl shells with disregard, saying I was right to row them. I wasn’t half glad, though, to wave cheerio to the big Crinnin women, as they followed each other back to their campsite over the brow of the brae.

  It might be a good time to tell you here, that although that incident was momentous to me, Mother started her labour within hours, which overshadowed all other events.

  My two older sisters Winnie and Maggie were married at that time, and were travelling the road over into Tummel from Calvine. If they had been at my side then the odds would have been better divided, yet if they’d been there, maybe the Crinnin would have half-killed the three of us.

  Sometimes what seems a foregone conclusion turns out differently—just as well, eh?’

  Mammy had a wee glow to her face whenever she told us that tale, and laughed when we circled our fingers around her upper arm and said, ‘Tarzan Mammy!’

  27

  A BRUSH WITH THE LAW

  Back to Glenrothes, now, and here’s a turning point in our lives that I’d rather not think about.

  Davie had been pestering me for a while to go and visit his folks in Crieff. He believed, and rightly so, that my in-laws should see our boys. ‘It’s not fair, Jessie, my poor mother isnae getting any younger, she misses the bairns. I think we should go over first chance we get.’

  I reminded him, ‘It’s not so much getting time, Davie, it’s affording bus fares. Your job is fine, but I’ve to put every penny by for when we have our own home. Sorry, but we just can’t spare the money.’

  Shirley gave us a room to ourselves, but a blind man could see we were far too tight-packed and needed a home. I’d filled in the necessary forms for a council house, and was assured it wouldn’t be long before one became available. New houses were sprouting in every spare acre, so we didn’t have long to wait before the letter fell through Shirley’s letterbox to say that a brand-new three-apartment semi-detached was to be our very own ho
me; just fill in the acceptance slip and it was ours. What a lovely home it was. We all trekked down with the keys to view it, in an area skirting Glenrothes named Cadam. We began packing.

  A week before we were dated to move, Davie came home from work happier than he’d ever been. I put it down to our new house. He picked me up, gave a great big hug and said, ‘I think I’ll take Johnnie over to see my folks.’ He looked at me with eyes that spoke volumes. I could see he was desperate to let them know about his good job and our new house, so I agreed. He said he’d saved a few pounds and would use this to pay for bus fares to Crieff. I handed him a fiver to buy some chocolates for his folks and wished him and our oldest boy a good time. Knowing how fussy Margaret could be about her son’s appearance, I sewed two missing buttons onto his best shirt before ironing the arm and collar crease. ‘Tell your folks when the house is in order they should come and visit.’ I knew when Davie’s mother saw what a lovely home her son and grandsons were living in, she’d be well pleased. It was no secret how worried she was at our moving away from Crieff in the first place, and that she thought her laddie couldn’t settle anywhere else. Not like his wayfaring gadaboot of a wife. Just as he and Johnnie set off, I warned my husband not to go near a pub! He winked and said he’d not enough money to go anywhere, so it was silly of me to worry.

  Anyway, it was quiet with my wee family halved, so for something to do on Sunday I plopped Stephen in his pushchair and went for a very long walk with Christine. It was late when we arrived back in Adrian Road. I noticed a car parked outside the door, but at first thought it was a mate of Shirley’s husband. When we got inside, however, imagine my surprise to see my father-in-law Sandy and Davie’s cousin, Brian.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I blurted out, fearing my husband had met with an accident or some disaster. ‘Where’s ma bairn? Oh my God, have they been in a crash?’

  Brian, a quiet, gentle soul, said, ‘dinnae be getting upset, they’re baith fine.’ He turned then to Sandy, and gestured that he should tell me why they were there without my husband and bairn. My gentle father-in-law sat me down and tickled Stephen under the chin, saying, ‘silly carry on, lassie, and I’m no right sure o’ the events, but David’ (he always gave him his proper name) ‘is in the jail at Perth—well, mair like the station cells.’

  I jumped to my feet, shaking as my vivid imagination sent pictures through my head faster than Charlie Chaplin’s running feet. ‘Jail! Cells! Why? Tell me at once, Sandy, because when he left me all’s he wanted was to see you and Mither Smith. He was as happy as a pig in swill, knowing it was a long while since you’d seen the bairn. What happened?’

  ‘Well, lassie, seems he got intae a running battle wi’ other lads. He was drunk, and you ken what they are a’ like when the drink fuels them.’

  ‘Aye, I dae, but he’d nae money for drink, and I well warned him no tae go near a pub.’

  Brian interrupted, and said David was just a bystander, not getting involved, until a polisman came up behind him. ‘Did Davie no’ think it was a lad looking for a fight, and with that in mind skelped the polisman. But it’s no’ as bad as it sounds.’

  None of my wild imaginings could compete with the actual events—my husband was in jail in Perth, awaiting a charge of ‘police assault’! My God in heaven, how bad was that!

  Shirley promised to watch Stephen to let me go and see Davie. He was to appear before the Sheriff first thing on Monday morning, which was next day. All of a sudden my nice little life seemed doomed, and the beating of my heart was all the journey to Crieff afforded me.

  Margaret was quiet and distant throughout, but unable to keep silent she blamed me. ‘Traveller people are too fond of living for the day, with no thought for tomorrow,’ was her exclamation about her son’s predicament. I raised my voice, and with the tension of the situation blamed her for mollycoddling him. We cried and apologised to each other, but she’d said it—that traveller stigma once again thrown in my face cut deep. I didn’t think much of my husband that night, nor did I give any future thoughts to our marriage. All I wanted to do was get my sons, find an old blue Bedford bus, and take to the road. Perhaps this was an omen. Perhaps the ancient ones were warning me I should never have married a non-traveller, and maybe our life together would be blighted by mishaps. Oh yes, the imagination went into overdrive that night, I’ll tell you. Of course I hardly slept, and next morning even after Margaret hugged me and said not to worry, my mind was in turmoil. I’d a husband who lied to me and was violent to a man of the law; he had to go, we must part.

  Sandy and I went through early in the hope we’d be allowed a moment with Davie before his court appearance, but nothing doing. We had to take our position in the courthouse like all the other relatives of criminals there to face the Sheriff’s wrath. After three bad lads had been tried and sentenced, he crept upstairs and gingerly stepped into the dock. Oh my good God, what a state he was in: a new growth of beard along with his longish tousled hair made him look more like Ned Kelly than my man. My first thought was, why had his captors not allowed him the luxury of a wash? His shirt was ripped at the shoulder, with not a single button left on the thing; and to think on how I cut those buttons off my own blouse to match the ones on his shirt. I tell you this, folks, if I had been that Sheriff, I’d have thrown not one book at him but a dozen.

  One good thing in his favour was that he’d been appointed a young lawyer, and was he good! He convinced the Sheriff that leniency had to be shown because Davie had a job and was soon to move into a house. He emphasised the fact he’d never been in trouble before, well, not a violent kind, and that this incident, because of the darkness and chaos in the street, was indeed a case of self defence, Davie had not meant to harm anyone. He really felt remorse and was sorry for how things had turned out. The Sheriff believed that if a man hits a policeman then he should take a severe punishment, but in Davie’s case he thought that it could have been mistaken identity. The fact that he had a job and was awaiting our new home went heavily in his favour. He was let off with a fine of twenty-five pounds. Sandy said he’d pay it, but imagine my astonishment when Davie paid it himself. Where did he get all that money from?

  The bloody tax-man, that’s who. It seemed my lying-faced creep of a man had not told me about a certain tax rebate. When I thought back to the night he came home from work smiling from ear to ear, and saying he should visit his folks, the money was safely in his back pocket all along.

  You’re wondering if I got shot of him, aren’t you, my friends? No, of course I didn’t, but I’ll let you into a secret—he was a sorry lad, because I took the rest of the money off him, which was about half of the rebate, and bought myself a new coat. The boys got kitted out too. Davie—well, he did need a new shirt, so I bought him a cheap bri-nylon one, knowing how that crinkly material made him scratch. A woman scorned, as they say.

  We did a powerful amount of talking about that incident, and one thing I discovered was that if we were to settle in Glenrothes he would be unhappy. So the keys to our so long awaited new home went back to the council offices, and we went back to Crieff. Somehow, although she would never say, my dear sister was more than happy to have her home all to herself once again. She wrote to me to say how quiet the place was and how she missed my cooking, but I still think she was happy that her life was a wee bit less crowded. Another letter followed to say she’d a run in with a certain big roller-haired wife while shopping down at the supermarket. Remember her? Shirley told me this individual tried to wrench a bag of tatties from her hand. Now, I ask you who in their right mind would dare take on my sister? Silly woman ended up having every one of those plastic rollers pulled from her head. Wish I’d seen that!

  28

  ON THE GALLOWS’ HILL

  Number 1 Gallowhill was our new home. There was a small row of houses, long since turned into flats, and we were in the first one. It was an area steeped in history. Where several roads met there was a place called the Chains, and in that place over a hundred yea
rs ago criminals hung from the gallows while cattle were driven by, filling the street with dung. The place was haunted by stories of drunken murders and whisky-fuelled drovers seeking red bisoms of prostitutes after they’d sold cattle at the Tryst, their ghosts still wandering in a shadowland of waste ground opposite our home. Lying below this grassy stretch was Crieff’s graveyard. Dark marble statues towered on monuments above small cheap stones, but each carried the same bleak message—‘we all go the same road.’

  Back home for Davie was back to square one for me. I didn’t like the place, not in the way I do now. As a child travelling in my bus, Crieff was a stop-off point before the ‘berries’. We might pass through a winter or two there before gathering at the real travellers’ meeting place, Blairgowrie, where the raspberries hung their ripened fruit onto long green bushes for us to work through a fun-filled summer.

  Now July would come and I knew that the berries would not wait on me. I was stuck just like all the other flatties—static—imprisoned.

  Although this upstairs flat was new to me, to Davie it was a home he had lived in many a time, because it was the home of his deceased grandparents, Sandy’s parents. I never met this pair of grandfolks, but tales abound about how well-respected they were in Crieff.

  James and Margaret were their names. His work was selling fruit around Crieff with a horse and cart, and wood-cutting. It was not that different from how my old relatives lived, just that they carted themselves from place to place, whereas he did the same with fruit. Old Maggie, his wife, was a stern body, so I’m led to believe, who seldom went further than her own front door. As I said, they had long since passed away when I came on the scene, but I’ll tell you later that Maggie still crept about that house, and she seemed to have a thing about how I made the bed!