by Jess Smith
I hated other people knowing my business, poking eyes and ears into my affairs. Yet everybody was centred in the same small community. However, I knew the importance of my past, at least what it meant to me, and I allowed the farmer to close the gate but not to lock it. One day, when my role as mother was no longer needed, this old cow would bolt through that gate and run free onto her familiar pastures.
A lovely, dark-haired, beautiful baby girl, born on 14 June 1972 when the summer was at its height, completed our family. Because of my contracted pelvis the sterilisation took place immediately after the caesarean birth. The pregnancy wasn’t as simple an affair as the other two; sickness and painful backache plagued me for the whole nine months. My baby, who we named Barbara after my youngest sister, weighed only five pounds five ounces, but she was perfectly healthy. I could hardly believe how tiny she was. Davie was frightened to pick her up.
My stay in hospital could have been easier, though, had I not taken an infection. Let me tell you about it. I had been in for seven days when the nurse who removed my stitches thought two of them looked a bit red. She said that before going off duty she’d check my scar. I was to be going home next day. That evening, at visiting time, Mammy came in and said, ‘what’s the matter with you, lassie, your skin’s yella!’
‘Mammy, I’m fine, I got ma stitches out nae mair than four hours ago, see.’ I pulled back the covers to let her examine the scar. ‘That’s alright, but I still think you’re a funny colour.’
Well, the visiting hour passed, but my mother knew something wasn’t right, and when she left me she headed off to speak to a nurse. When she voiced her concerns, staff assured her that I was fine. Mammy, however hard the staff tried to convince her, would not leave until a proper doctor listened to her woes. ‘Doctor, I ken these things, now that wee lassie lying in thon bed has the poison in her. Please give her another check, because I’m never wrong.’
This kind doctor had Mammy brought a cup of tea and said he’d do a check on my blood himself, but it would take several hours for results. However my nurse, the one who had promised to look at my scar before she went off duty, was to change the ward’s plans that night. She smiled and said as she lifted the thin piece of gauze from my scar, ‘well, Jessie, I’m off duty now, but let’s see this...’ Whatever she planned to say never came from her lips, as immediately her fingers were covered in red and yellow gunge. Infected fluid oozed from my scar like a hot volcano as the stitched area split open. I don’t remember much from then on, only my mother screaming—‘I telt ye, now. Ma bairn, ma bairn!’
Well, as it turned out I did have blood poisoning, and did that not half put the dampeners on me getting home. Back into the theatre I went to have all the rotting tissue cut out, and then for another seven days I laid on my back while tons of antiseptic gauze was packed into the open wound. Before each meal I was given a great big injection of penicillin.
What concerned me more than anything else was my sons; I hadn’t seen them for the whole time I spent in the Maternity ward, and boy did I miss my laddies. Davie’s parents looked after them well enough. I remember when Margaret sent them to visit. She didn’t come herself, as she hated hospitals, but Sandy brought my wee boys to see me. They weren’t allowed in because I was in a room on my own due to infection. What a shock I got, because when they walked round to the French windows to look in, all I could see were two wee Lipton’s orphans. Margaret had dressed them in belted tweed coats, and they’d had their hair cut in the shape of a bowl. If you have ever seen photos of war refugees, then that’s what they were like.
I’d dressed my boys in trendy gear and let their hair grow longish; like wee hippies they were until my mother-in-law got her hands on them.
Still, that was the least of my problems. I had to be restitched, but that didn’t bother me, it was getting the buggers out that worried me. Because of the severity of my failure to heal, massive deep tension sowing was done on my wee belly. I couldn’t get a minute’s peace from worrying about these new stitches rupturing again—would I never heal? This certainly became an obsession with me, so a bit of diversion therapy was applied by the staff. Every four hours my wound was cleaned and checked. On the seventh day a stern-faced nurse came in to do the duty. I’d never met her before, and wondered where the other nurses were. She didn’t answer me, just got on with what she was doing. I tried several times to converse with this guffy-faced mort, but nothing doing. Still, I’m not one to give up, and told her that on the previous night I’d seen from my window a new father enter the main ward all the worst for drink, probably he’d be celebrating. Well, she sank me a look that would have scuttled the Bismarck and called me an interfering busybody, with nothing better to do than laugh at others’ misfortunes. I can tell you here and now that nurse was lucky I didn’t burst the nose on her flat face. I told her to clear off and send another more civil nurse. It was then she pulled off her rubber gloves and plumped the pillows behind me saying, ‘you can get up now, lass.’ I told her I could not move until the stitches were removed. Her answer was, ‘what stitches?’ That nurse had been sent to get my mind off the removal of those deep tension stitches, and by talking about the drunken father I had given her the chance to get my mind onto something else—hating her.
Well, from then on I never looked back. Me and Barbara, who’d put on a whole two pounds in weight since her birth, went home to the rest of our family. In a short while the boys had longish hair and were wearing flowery shirts and dungarees again. Margaret’s wartime coats were passed on to a travelling woman, more than grateful for such warm garments, who came to my door doing a bit hawking.
Within six months we had moved to Murrayfield Loan, a new block of flats. This place with its mod cons would see us through another eight years in Crieff, before we flitted to a more substantial house. But before we leave Gallowhill, let me tell you about Davie’s crabbit old Granny.
I won’t linger long over this, so here is all I know of her. I can’t speak ill of anyone and don’t intend to, but even although this wiry old lady had long since died, she left her presence in the house. It was nothing I could honestly put my finger on, but you know when something isn’t right. In that house I had that feeling many a time.
A breath of air against my cheek as I’d pass by one particular place would bring me from a train of thought to see if I’d left a window open. Dishes arranged in a certain way would mysteriously be changed from one shelf to another. Lights were switched off when no one was in a room. These things are easily explained, I expect, but one thing I can swear on my heart was down to her was the way my bed-making wasn’t to her satisfaction. I’d make the bed as usual in the same manner daily by tucking in the blankets and sheets, and leave the room, yet when I’d go back they were untucked. I always laid the top cover with a lacy bit to the bottom; she turned it to the top. This happened every day, until I made the bed the way she desired it to be made.
What I didn’t know at the time was that both the bed and those covers were at one time hers! I thought they were part of the furnishings we had rented with the accommodation, and indeed they were, but after the Smiths died the new owner had inherited certain pieces that were theirs.
32
SPITTALY BANK
Ghosts are not a new topic in my stories. People have given me many tales, and whether or not I believe in their existence matters not, because a story is a story. This next wee present I received did not come from anybody specific, it was always there, inherited from the smouldering embers of countless camp fires. The teller always swore blind it was his mother who had told it to him, because had she not felt ‘it’ in the place described in the story.
Half drunk and melancholy, some quiet elderly gent who up until then had listened to other stories, would at the gloaming hour tell his version. And maybe down an old quarry road I’d wander up to yet another campfire and hear a different version of this tale. It was never far away from the tinkers—this tale of ‘Spittaly Bank’.
I will now take a back seat and hand you over to old Maggie.
‘Weel, it wis roond aboot the time atween the wars, ma Jocky wis awa’ doon at Burrie’s takin care o’ his old yins—the puir craturs were sair croupit. My Jocky had a haun on him wid soon pit them back on their feet; he kent a’ the herby medicines. I didnae like bein on ma ain, but he’d left me plenty habin [food], so there wis naethin comin ower.
I’d pit a roarin fire on, cause man, wis it nae half a cauld nicht, when this gadjie cam’ by ma bowdie barricade. He frickit the life frae me, cause he wis as high as the yew tree branches hingin above ma bowdie; near on seven feet he wis. I was afeard and thought, “God help us this nicht if this shan gadjie [strange man] tak’s it intae his heed tae pagger [murder] me tae death.” He niver said a word, an’ sat doon at ma fire. He wis wearing a black cape, an’ his big heid wis covered ower wi’ a hood hiding his een frae me.
I pit some braxy ham ontae a lump o’ breed an’ offered it tae him, but wi’ a brush o’ yin finger he refused. I flung it tae ma auld jugal [dog], and Lord did it nae scoot aneath a hap, no’ even gi’ing the ham a sniff. Ony ither time that habin wid have disappeared doon yon jugal’s thrapple, but no’ that nicht, the puir animal wis shakin inside its auld mangy skin. Noo, I didnae ken whit shanned ma jugal, but it bid under thon hap, shivering and cowed. Noo whit could I, a wee five-fit manishi [woman] dae if ma visitor should hae wild intent tae burn me and ma bowdie in the dark hours o’ the nicht?
I thought the dug wis a fierce chat, but no nae mair. Then without a single wird, I felt a cauld shiver run up an’ doon ma back as the gadgie made a breenge at me. I fell back and and squealed intae the nicht, “whit is it ye need frae me, ye big shan bastard?” I felt the grun and grabbed a bit firewid, jumpit tae ma feet and cam doon ontae his humpit back. He laughed like it wis a twig that hid battered him, but still no a wird.
I kent this gadjie wisnae at ma fire fer ma habin, he didnae eat the ham an’ it wisnae a crack he wanted, fer no a word cam oot o’ him. Only thing he wis there fer wis tae wait until I fell asleep, then he’d pagger me intae bits an’ burn the auld bowdie. So I stood there in the licht o’ me campfire, knuckled stick firmly in ma haund. I couldnae rin intae the dark nicht, he’d catch me fer sure; so I waited. The shan gadjie hung his heid, staring intae the flames. The reek frae the campfire curled intae grey ringles aboot his hooded heid.
My God, wis it nae a terror in yon silent dark nicht, but thank the Lord he didn’t mak tae grab me agin. It wis a richt lang nicht, the worst yin I’d iver lived through, an I wisnae half gled whin I saw a glimmer o’ licht push up abun the mountains. A cluckie doo flew inches frae the claws o’ a big hungry hoolit watching it frae the yew tree abun ma heed. Then, as quick as he’d come, the creep stood up. I thocht, “if he’s goin tae pagger me, he’ll dae it noo.” The panny wis starting tae bile in ma blaidder, cause I’d nae relieved maself a’ nicht. The gadjie, still wi’ his heid covered, pit a haun forward fer me tae shak it, the langest pointed fingers iver I’d seen on ony haun, but I kept tight haud o’ me stick and widnae shak his haun. Then he grabbed the stick frae me and threw it intae the low burning embers o’ ma fire. Then, slow, he took haud o’ ma haun, and I tell ye this wi’ ma haun on ma hert, his grip wis as cauld as ice. Then that panny that wis hissin in ma blaidder ran doon ma legs, cause the gadjie’s feet that turned tae walk awa’ wir hoofit, he hid the cloven feet o’ the Hairy Man—the Deevil.
My Jocky’s auld mither telt me, whin me an’ him first gat merried, no’ tae be alane, cause the forkit tail o’ the Deevil wid seek a lane lassie oot an sit waitin on her soul. If she’d a weak bone in her body he’d seek it oot, an’ awa’ wi’ her he’d gang. I niver waited tae git a bit habin tae brak’ ma fast, cause me an’ the auld jugal, we took aff tae meet up wi’ Jocky at Burrie’s Spoot. Oh, div I no half shiver whin I tell hantle o’ that nicht.’
Maggie has long since departed from this earth, but no one would have forgotten the way she contorted her face and slanted those flashing blue eyes of hers when describing the appearance of that visitor. If he was a figment of her imagination, then she had a very good one.
Do you know, if I’d a shilling for every time I’d listened to past travellers tell a tale of him from the underworld I’d be rich, no doubt. This next tale, also well known among my people, is terrifying to a child, yet sad to an adult’s ears. I heard it when my childlike mind believed every word, and to say it petrified me is an understatement. I’ve been unable until now to bring myself to tell this story, and it had to lie unspoken in my youthful memory; but now that I’m a mature manishi I’ll share it with you.
33
THE GIFT
Though cold be the clay,
Where thou pillow’st thy head,
In the dark silent mansions of sorrow,
The spring shall return
To thy low narrow bed,
Like the beam of the
Day star tomorrow.
The above is a verse from a poem Burns wrote for a favourite child after she died. I thought in view of the following tale those tender words would touch all who have experienced that unique bond a parent has for their child, which goes beyond the boundaries of life and death.
A travelling tinker lassie by the name of Bella Johnstone, who was related to my father’s side of the family, experienced an awful happening in Nether Kincairney near Clunie. And after it, witnesses swore that her bonny jet black hair went snow-white, and her only twenty-one.
She and her young man Donald had pitched their camp well into the wood at the end of a track that went past several wee cottages, now all derelict and dilapidated. It was at the beginning of the First World War. Tinker laddies were volunteering in their droves to take arms and fight for their country. Donald went along with his brothers, leaving pregnant Bella alone. She wasn’t the only lassie left to fend for herself, though she was the only one camped in the forest, but she had a good strong back and busied herself gathering firewood and piling it up for the coming winter. She would earn her meat by hawking her baskets, and Donald had left her plenty of pails he had made, which she would sell to keep herself fed. For a few hours helping his wife in the dairy, a local farmer would supply all the milk, butter and cheeses she’d need. Tatties and turnips came from the farmer’s wife, so Bella was fine on her own. This campsite was warm and sheltered, but something seemed to set her nerves on edge when she passed the ruined cottages. She felt it several times, a strange, cold feeling that seemed to find its way into her very bones. It got so intense that, rather than take the way along the track, she circled around it, going through a boggy field instead.
Donald had been home on leave with tales of death and lone pipers, leaving behind a melancholy lassie who was longing for the war to be over. However, much as she yearned for her soldier laddie, the baby moving vigorously in her womb was taking up more of her thoughts. This coming wee child would be their first baby, and she longed so much to see and count its tiny fingers. Whether it was a boy or girl didn’t matter to her, as long as the ba
irn had healthy lungs.
Into her eighth month, and with news trickling home of the war’s fiercest battles, her mind wandered away from her fears about the ghostly ruined cottages. Forgetting to circle round by the field, she found herself walking past them. ‘Oh well,’ she thought, averting her eyes from the blank-paned windows with their torn, shredded curtains. ‘I’ll hurry past and maybe I’ll no’ feel the icy cold.’
She pulled her shawl over her head and quickened her pace. No sooner had the edge of the shawl touched her forehead, when an almighty gust of bitter cold air blew hard against her face, turning her lips blue and bringing water to her eyes. It seemed as if something unseen was breathing on her. Then the wind came so hard it nearly blew her off her feet. Holding the shawl around her swollen womb, Bella lowered her head and tried to walk into it, but hard as she tried, she could not move her freezing limbs. It was like a raging storm, so fierce it became difficult to breathe; it was blowing her back towards the campsite. Now Bella was a strong young woman, and she began to feel anger at whatever phenomenon was obstructing her, and pushed all the harder against it. Suddenly she could hear thundering hooves coming up the old road, and at the sound she was lifted off her feet and thrown against the middle house. At that precise moment a rider straddling a massive black stallion raged past, shouting to her that his mount was out of control. Then, as clumps of earth ripped up by those racing hooves went flying everywhere, he was gone.
