by Jess Smith
‘My God, if I’d been in the way of that beast I’d be flat for sure!’ She lay slightly stunned, then slowly rose onto wobbly, weak legs, in the knowledge that something unnatural, a powerful force, had saved her life—but why?
Unable to move very far, Bella went back to rest in the safety of her warm bowed tent. The pain in her back where she was thrown against the wall of the house was quite severe.
A voice came from outside; it was a man calling to her. ‘Excuse me, but are you alright? My horse is a new purchase, and we’re not used to each other yet. Please except my apologies, are you all right?’
Bella crept from her tent mouth to see a well-dressed young gentleman holding a riding hat in one hand, two gloves and a whip in the other, as the horse grazed quietly near by.
Just as Bella moved to stand up, a rush of the severest pain shot into her abdomen, and there could be only one reason; her labour had began. ‘Oh lad,’ she said, as she held out her arm for assistance, ‘can you fetch a farm wife for me. Tell her Bella’s pains have started.’
Nodding, with an embarrassed look on his face, the young man, now in control of his fiery horse, galloped away to fetch help.
It was just getting dark as Bella heard voices. Two lassies from the farm along with the young rider made a very welcome appearance at the tent. ‘Hello, Bella, how far on are you?’
‘I’m taking them every ten minutes, so it winna be long.’ She thanked the rider for his help, and he wished her well before taking himself away down the track road. All night long her labour continued, and just as the first rays of a spring sun pushed over the horizon, a tiny cry echoed over the fields and surrounding countryside with the sound of new life. Bella and the absent Donald were parents to a bonny healthy boy.
In time when all the cleaning and assuring was over, the women left a happy Bella to care for her gift of life.
Tinker folks, it is well known, live close to Mother Nature, and unexplained events like the cold ghostly presence that had saved her from going under the hooves of the runaway horse were seldom questioned; instead they were put down to something that had happened in a time long ago, that wasn’t the business of the living.
Bella in Donald’s absence named their son Peter, because she thought he had the makings of a wee cock’s curl on his thickish head of hair, the same as her late father by that name.
Within a week, with Peter rolled into a shawl around his mother’s front, the pair set off to make their living. The track which ran round by the old cottages brought Bella back in front of them, and once more she stood curiously frightened. Her baby had kept both her mind and body occupied, allowing little time to think about the past weird experience. Yet whoever had saved her meant no harm, so she scolded herself, but still wondered if she should dare to walk on past. Taking the longer boggy route now that she had a baby presented her with more trouble than she needed, so with the thought that the ghost had saved her from the horse she stepped on past the houses with more confidence than before.
But mysteries have their own reasons, and just as before the icy wind rose and blew into her face. It stopped her, growing as fierce as the last encounter with each laboured step. This was much to her terror, for now she held a baby, and it was for his safety that she cried out, ‘please stop it, whoever you are, and let us go in peace. I thought you saved me from the horse, but why do you haunt me and my tiny infant like this?’ The wind grew stronger and colder, with an added ferocity that made Bella pray, ‘Oh God, what is this thing that tears at my skin with its icy cold fingers? If it is in pain, then please release it from this earth.’ At those heartfelt words the wind decreased to a slight breeze, yet the icy cold remained. Then something to her left caught her eye, and for a moment imagining there was someone else there, she called out, ‘who are you?’
There was movement in the cottage nearest her: she saw the torn curtain being drawn aside, yet there was no hand to be seen. Then there was a creaking as the middle house door opened very slowly. Someone was trying to contact her, but oh, how terrified she felt. She wanted to run away, but her legs were still weak after the birth. Those shaking legs had a power of their own as she walked over to the door. ‘Will you harm me and my baby?’ she asked, although no-one could be seen. Standing inside the old ruin she began to wonder if perhaps Donald’s absence was playing tricks with her mind. Her heartbeats grew louder in her chest, they beat with a deafening thump.
‘Who are you? Do you want to tell me something?’ Then came the most horrifying experience: it made her draw in her breath as if it were her last. Peter was taken from her bosom and laid gently on the broken wooden floor. Then it was as if two invisible hands lifted him, and he began to move back and forth; those invisible hands were gently rocking the infant, who still slept soundly. Powerless to control this supernatural experience, Bella was rooted to the spot, when a noise from outside made her turn. She heard horses, several of them, gathering speed. At the same time she heard a whip cracking the air, wheels whirring on the road, then cries from a coachman, ‘Whoa, boys. Mind out, lassie, watch your bairn! Oh God, woman, he’s been trampled!’
Instinctively Bella pulled open the door, but to her utter astonishment there was no sign of any coach, horses or coachman, only a cold breeze blowing through branches overhanging the ruins. She turned to gather up Peter, who had been laid softly on the floorboards. Bella held him tightly to her bosom, still unable to make any sense of the happenings. Then, just as she was about to leave, she noticed one of the floorboards had a thin sliver of cotton sticking out from under it. She leaned down and pulled at the piece of material. It was lodged between two of the boards, so she lifted one aside. Something was beneath the boards, and somehow she felt the answers to this mystery were in there. Peter, now wrapped inside his woollen shawl, was tied firmly to his mother’s back as one by one the rotted floor boards came away in her hands. The sight that met her eyes spoke volumes as she made it out in the dim light. There were two skeletons: one adult, the other a tiny infant! Now she could piece together the story. After hearing the sound of the coach and horses and the cry from the coachman that they’d run down a baby, she realised that no-one had come to the aid of the dying child. Unable to cope with what had happened, the mother buried herself under the floorboards with her child.
Bella went for help, and soon a church minister was burying in the local graveyard a sad set of bones. From that day on, no icy wind or strange sounds were heard near those derelict cottages.
The war ran its course and brought Donald safely home. Bella had the farm folk pitch her tent nearer the farm now that she had a baby to look after, and she felt more secure. It was that experience that told Bella she was born with the ‘Gift’. And the ghost with her child was not the last to communicate with her from the other side. Although according to her this was more of a curse than a gift, she accepted her lot and helped many miserable souls.
The ‘Gift’ comes upon a person at the seven stages of life. In other words it can be made manifest in people aged seven years old, or fourteen, or twenty-one and so on. Bella was twenty-one when that first visitation came to her.
34
MY TOP FLOOR HOME
Back to Crieff now, and I don’t know about you, folks, but I think a cuppy just now would go well.
So, if you have yours, then here’s how things progressed with my scaldie lifestyle.
The flats in Murrayfield Loan were a big block of human emotions. In other words, they were filled with young families; a heaving mass of same-age kids and hard-working parents. These flats were Crieff Council’s first attempt to provide what cities in Scotland had been developing for years. As homes went, they had everything to offer a growing family unit—central heating, spacious living quarters, big roomy kitchens—but the Crieff folk never understood why flats had to be a necessary part of their landscape. There were plenty of green fields around with miles of space on which to build houses, so why build flats? No one was ever given an explanation, but
I kinda liked my top floor home, and with other families beneath us we soon settled on good terms as neighbours should do.
Davie’s parents lived a stone’s throw away, and every morning as the kids set off for school, they’d conveniently pop into Granny and Grand-dad’s for a sweetie.
Changes in my own family were taking place: firstly my parents had left Macduff. Sister Shirley had just separated from her man, and was the reason why Mammy and Daddy left their Morayshire home and settled in Glenrothes. This suited me, because with my parents living nearer Crieff I could visit them more often. It was round this time that I remember Daddy telling me he had decided to write a book about his life as a tinker laddie living on the road in Scotland.
He planned it to be autobiographical. He told me about a time when his family, being pearl fishers, travelled remote bridle paths, carrying all their belongings in a custom-built barrow which had a single wheel and extra long shafts. I was so excited that he’d planned this, and each time I went to visit he’d read me another piece. I knew from tales he’d shared about his early days that it would not be an easy book to write, and some times he was so down I could hardly get a word from him. He and Mammy existed on a bare state pension, yet he still managed to pay a typist. When it was finished he sent the whole manuscript to folklorist Hamish Henderson in Edinburgh, whom Daddy had met many years before. A letter duly arrived from Hamish stating he was looking forward to reading it over the festive period. Daddy’s wonderful book was called The White Nigger.
Now this is where I come against a solid brick wall, because I don’t know if Hamish liked or disliked the manuscript. I have no knowledge beyond that the document remained in Hamish’s possession. Daddy never smiled much after that, nor did he ever mention his masterpiece.
Thirty years later, I am still searching for it, but it seems to have disappeared. Daddy died in 1982, and according to Roger Leitch who edited The Book of Sandy Stewart, his manuscript is mentioned in the said book, which was published in 1988. So at least it was still kicking around six years after Daddy died. Hamish died in 2002, making my search all the harder.
We travellers believe that if something is meant, then so be it. In other words, if The White Nigger is to be, then it will find me.
The flats were on four levels, and I remember one time when Davie had been overdoing New Year celebrations. Several of his mates, ones who came back to Crieff for a holiday at Hogmanay, called on him, and with my blessing he took himself off to the pub for a richt guid blether.
The bairns had been given bikes by Santa, and we spent all day cycling country roads until the poor things had frozen fingers and itchy bums. I’d borrowed an old bike of Sandy’s, and, oh God, was I hippit! After tea, all I needed was a bath and my bed. Davie, being a guid bletherer, I knew would not be home until late, so I locked the door meaning to open it in time for his homecoming. But I didn’t realise how sleepy I was; the bairns too were out of it. So when Davie began knocking, we all failed to hear him. Now, not one to be undone, the bold lad with more than a fair share of the booze in his belly, decided he would scramble over each balcony to reach his own. I kid you not, when I say that for a sober man this would have been a job for mountaineering equipment and abseiling gear, with experts on hand for guidance—but you know that old saying, ‘when the drink’s in, the wit’s oot.’
I remember the shocked look on my neighbour’s face, when she described the appearance of a man throwing his lanky legs over her railings and heaving upwards towards the next floor. She blamed too many Babychams on Hogmanay causing her to imagine things, and I failed to enlighten her. Not only that, my Spiderman was so drunk that he’d not a single memory of his escapade. It was our Johnnie, relieving himself at three am, who heard his Dad gently knocking on the verandah door to be let in. All I can remember was the freezing cold body that huddled into my back, swearing to every god on the entire planet that he’d never drink so much again. Aye, aye!
Bringing our family up in the flats was fun. It wasn’t my idea of a home, but the people were great. In the summer when it was sunny and hot, all the mums would fill baskets with food and we’d sit and blether having a braw picnic. Whoever lived in the bottom flat fixed a hosepipe onto their bath tap, allowing the bairns to frolic in the water. They filled polythene bags, chucking them at each other in water fights, and when the council erected a swing park nearby the kids had added enjoyment.
Yes, as houses go I liked the flats, but with our growing family, two bedrooms weren’t enough: we needed another room for our budding little female. In due course we left our flat and settled into a four-apartment house in Monteith Street. This spacious house was great (do you notice how my preoccupation with travelling the road is fading in favour of the scaldie life?) and soon, with Barbara in her fifth year, I watched my last bairn set off to school.
This house had what the others didn’t—a cosy fireplace. At long last there was somewhere to gather my kids round and tell my resurrected stories. One cold winter’s night, when a thick layer of snow covered the land for miles, I remember telling this story to my family. Even Davie gave me his ear.
The Precious Black Jewel
A long, long time ago, before cars or tellies or glass windows, the land was covered with lovely flowers. Lanard picked a bunch of sweet smelling red roses to present them, with his undying love, to Wisa. Pretty Wisa lived across the glen, and Lanard and his cousin Rigg had both fallen in love with her. She had a way with her though which wasn’t so attractive in one so bonny—her greed for precious jewels.
One day, after years when both men had been vying for her affections, they were summoned to her house. ‘Boys,’ she told them with a flirtatious flutter of her long silk eyelashes, ‘if you love me, now is the time to bring me what I desire more than any other thing on earth. It is a jewel; one so sparkling, so big, so immensely beautiful, that I will not be able to refuse my hand to whoever brings it to me. She writhed around them like a serpent circling its prey, stroking their muscled arms with her long fair hair.
‘I shall dig for gold and bring you a mountain of it, my sweet,’ said Rigg excitedly; her perfume lingering in his nostrils.
Lanard knelt on one knee, took hold of her hand and said, ‘I don’t know where to find jewels to match your beauty, my love, all I have is these two strong arms and a heart filled with undying love and devotion.’
‘That is as it may be, but I shall marry whoever brings me the most precious of gems.’
With a last flutter of eyelashes she closed the door on them, and promised not to speak to either until they’d fulfilled her dearest wish.
Rigg sneered at his cousin, saying he was only wasting his time, because he had no knowledge of jewels and it would be he, Rigg, who would marry Wisa.
Poor Lanard, those words rang so true. All his life what he had cared about was what the earth gave in way of food to sustain its people, and not useless commodities like gems, which were just simple stones as far as he was concerned. They couldn’t help the sick or feed the poor and hungry. Yet how much he loved the only precious gem that meant anything to him—Wisa.
Rigg searched high and low, covering hundreds of miles and taking little sleep, digging and gouging the earth whenever he saw anything sparkle in the sunlight. Weeks passed, when one day, while resting under a shady willow tree, he overheard a conversation between two merchants. These overweight men of substance were, according to their serious discussion, carrying a treasure to some rich man who lived several miles further up that road. Rigg’s eyes widened at the thought of what the silver boxes hanging either side of the mule held, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt that he was getting nearer to claiming Wisa over his cousin.
‘Good day, my fine fellows,’ he said, smiling, ‘can I be of any assistance to you?’
The merchants, weary and thirsty after their long journey, were more than glad of an offer of help, for it was obvious they were lost. ‘Could you be so kind as to point the way to Lord so and so
’s castle? We seem to have taken a wrong turning.’
‘This is a coincidence, my friends, because I too am going to see his Lordship.’
So, with a fox-like cunning, Rigg then proceeded to take the pair of tired men with their fine cargo to a quiet spot, where he duly robbed them. The way home was full of imaginings of what Wisa would say at the wonderful present he was bringing to her.
Lanard would never have robbed anyone, in fact he probably would have taken the merchants to their destination without expecting payment. But having searched everywhere for a sparkling gem without success, poor sad Lanard rested under the branches of an oak tree. It was very hot, and in his tired state he fell asleep. He slept for only a little while, however, because something pushed against his back, a movement from the tree behind him. He rose, and saw to his utter amazement a tiny hand opening a door in the tree’s trunk. Then, without a word, the smallest man he’d ever seen darted out and lifted some twigs before darting back. ‘Wait a moment, sir,’ said Lanard, ‘pray tell me who you are. I don’t know if I’m dreaming or not.’
The tiny creature laid his twigs down and stared at Lanard for a while, before saying, ‘I’m one of the little elves who take care of the earth’s crust. Who are you, and why do you look so heavy laden?’
Lanard told his companion everything about Wisa’s conditions for marriage and how futile his situation was, because he knew nothing about precious gems.
The elf sat down, scratched his head and tugged upon his red beard, then said, ‘I will give you the most precious gem in the entire world. Unlike other stones it is a life-saver.’
The tiny creature promised he’d go and bring this stone if Lanard would be patient and wait. After what seemed an eternity, the elf returned holding a small cloth bag drawn tight by a cord. He open it, pushed his hand inside and brought out a horrible-looking black stone. Lanard’s heart sank. What would Wisa do when she saw such an object?
