Tears for a Tinker

by Jess Smith

  The elf watched him and read his thoughts. ‘Listen to me, son, I have never told a lie in my life, so when I say this is the world’s most precious stone, I mean it. Now take it, give it to your love, and tell her what I have said. If she does not love you, then she’ll reject it, but if she does then you’ll have a good wife.’

  Lanard, full of new vigour, set off to present his love with this gift. When he got to her house he met his cousin, laden down with his illegal offering.

  Wisa opened her door, her eyes feasting on the silver boxes. ‘Ooh, what have you got, Rigg?’

  ‘For you, my dear, not one, but two caskets filled with every kind of jewel in the world. See.’ He opened the lids to reveal piles of the most exquisite gems, gold, diamonds, emeralds and rubies, everything to adorn a handsome lady.

  Lanard watched as she ran the gems between her fingers, giggling with excitement. She turned and stared down at the greyish cloth bag hanging limp at his side and said, ‘Well, what have you brought me—hurry, open it.’

  Rigg folded his arms and sniggered while Lanard clumsily unwound the cord, pulled open the bag and took out the black stone. ‘Here,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of insult is this? I ask for gems, you bring me a filthy dirty stone, and your cousin presents me with more than a princess would possess. You won’t be given the chance to insult me again.’ With that she turned to Rigg and led him inside, slamming her door in Lanard’s face.

  This was terrible. How long had he dreamed of caring for the beautiful Wisa, his beloved. There was, and never would be, any other for him, yet how stupid of him to trust an elf, a horrible weasel-faced man of lies. He’d allowed himself to be tricked. Filled with these thoughts, Lanard ran and ran until he knew or cared not where he was. At last, exhausted, he lay down and fell into a slumber, muttering to himself, ‘I wish to sleep forever, and never to walk this earth again, in the knowledge that my love is joined to another!’

  What he failed to notice was that he’d stopped at exactly the same spot beneath the branches of the oak tree where he’d encountered the little man, who just happened to hear Lanard’s heartfelt wish.

  So with a wave of his hand, night came upon the land and with it the first winter. Up until then it had always been summer, with sunshine and rain, but it was never cold. So when this spell was cast upon the land, no one knew what to do, it was a nightmare. Flowers withered and died, trees shed their vivid green leaves, and fruit lay on the ground and was covered with snow. Old people died of cold. Rigg and Wisa hid behind their doors, shivering under all their bedcovers. Their useless gems secured in boxes offered no comfort or warmth. The tiny man took care of Lanard, who slept through all this, by covering him over with piles of fallen leaves. Then one dark and foggy day he sprinkled magic dust over those closed eyes and whispered, ‘Time now, son.’

  Lanard opened his eyes and stretched his stiff bones. He sat up and wondered what manner of place he’d slept in. ‘Where am I?’ he called aloud, ‘is anyone about?’

  ‘You have been asleep lad,’ said the elf, ‘for a long time; ten years to be precise.’

  His awakening did not eradicate the memory of losing his love and the reason for it. He grabbed the little man and said, ‘You tricked me, how could you be so cruel as to lie to me?’ He felt the freezing cold air rushing around him, and added to his questioning, ‘Why has the land turned so cold? Is this another of your wicked tricks?’

  ‘I do not lie, nor do I create evil. Now remember when I told you the black stone was the most precious of all stones, that stone your greedy love refused? Now, do you still have it?’

  He felt the bag tied to his belt and took out the stone. ‘Here it is, but I think you owe me an explanation.’

  ‘Come with me, young man. It is time to give your world its other sun.’

  He watched in amazement as the tree trunk opened to reveal a concealed passageway, along which he followed his companion. At its end was a cave with black walls, where hundreds of tiny people were working away with axes cutting out stones. ‘These are our gems, now watch.’ The elf took some twigs, laid them in a pile, then put a handful of the stones on top. He put two twigs together with a smaller one between and rubbed hard. Lanard thought it was another feat of magic when he saw smoke appear, then fire. It was the first time he’d ever witnessed this flaming stuff, but it warmed him and he stopped shivering.

  ‘This will save the people of your world until the sun shines again. Take a big basketful. Now go and bring heat to your freezing world.’

  He went first to Rigg and Wisa. ‘I have brought you back the black stone: now will you accept it?’

  When they saw how it worked and warmed them they were repentant. Rigg confessed to his crime of theft, and Wisa swore never again to put a finger on worthless gems.

  The elf instructed Lanard how to dig the black stone from the earth, and soon every house had a plentiful supply to use for heating and to help them survive the annual winter.

  The stone was later given the name of coal.

  Coal is precious indeed, but even although my new home had its fireplace we opted for gas. I managed many a tale around that warm coal-effect gas fire on the coldest nights, when the weather kept my growing brood indoors.

  35

  YELLOW IN THE BROOM

  I want to go back now to my own childhood, to a time when we were living in our bus. Daddy was away at Kinloch Rannach getting rid of a farmer’s vermin. Mammy, I and my sisters were to face several nights alone. Travelling women don’t like the night, especially when the campsite is surrounded by thick broom. Come with me, folks, and I’ll tell you about one such night.

  We were at Braidhaugh in Crieff, down by the low Comrie road. I may have been only nine at the time, but every single moment of that night I can remember vividly. As I said, Daddy had plenty of fields to clear of moles and rabbits. It didn’t make sense driving from Crieff to Rannoch each day, so he took a bothy for the duration. It was early spring and the clocks still had their winter faces on them, but it was a rare opportunity for Mammy to get spring-cleaning our bus home. Hearing a grand wind getting up in the night, she rose early that morning and took down her winter curtains for laundering. ‘Lassies,’ she announced to all her brood—Mona, Chrissie, Shirley, Janey, Mary, Renie, Babsy and me, ‘we’ve a guid going wind blowing the day, so I want all the curtains washed and out on the rope. And this bus needs a guid clean, so there’s plenty tae dae.’ She looked at me and said with a pointed finger, ‘You, ma lass, can never mind trailing through the broom or skimming stanes at the river. I want those hands daeing woman’s work now, dae ye hear me?’

  ‘Aye, Mammy, but can I go and rake the midden later on?’

  ‘You bide away frae the coup! My God, I canna take ye ony place but folks wonder if I batter ye, wi’ the cuts and bruises ye get raking among splinter wood and broken bottles.’

  ‘No use bothering her this day,’ I thought, because the rest of my sisters threatened to chuck me in the River Earn if I shirked my duties.

  By midday each one of those heavy tartan curtains was blowing briskly from a rope tied between two beech trees. Shirley had climbed to quite a height, and after we’d pegged all the curtains on, she tightened the rope to raise it so that the washing would get a braw blaw. Chrissie sponged the windows and Shirley polished them up. Mona went through all the dishes and discarded any chipped cups or cracked plates. We were never allowed to eat or drink from chipped or cracked dishes, for fear of harboured germs. Later on, with all our chores completed, we giggled and laughed, eating beef and mustard sandwiches while Mammy began putting up the lightweight summer curtains which she’d made that winter from blue and white gingham material. She’d enough left over for tie-backs; man, how bonny they were, she could fairly work a needle, my Mammy. If she saw a hole in a sock or elbow, it got darned with a weave of the prettiest pattern. No hem or cuff was left to tatter if she spotted it. Sometimes she’d attack a garment with her needle and by the time she was
finished there wasn’t a single thread that had been original. Just a great wee seamstress, was my Ma.

  It was late in the day when Mammy let out a scream, ‘Bloody blue bleezes, it’s pourin doon!’ We all dropped what we were doing to see that indeed the blue sky which dominated the morning had given way to heavy grey clouds, dropping buckets and soaking the curtains which had probably been bone dry. ‘Och, I wanted them in and folded before tea-time—now I’ll have to leave them out all night.’ She wasn’t pleased, but much to her relief however the clouds soon dispersed and the wind got up again. ‘They might dry before then, though,’ she said as we settled back, all doing our own thing.

  I might tell you now, folks, that because of the earliness of the season there were no other travellers on the site, only us. As I mentioned in my other books, this site was once a P.O.W. camp. German and Italian prisoners had been held there during the war. The Nissan huts were dismantled, leaving concrete bases which made grand solid stances for caravans and our bus. Tents fared best, because they stayed dry when the weather was bad. For years the site was also used by Boy Scouts, who came annually to do their dib-dibbing.

  We thought when we heard a service bus stopping at the road end and the sound of lots of male voices that the Scouts had come early that year. I wandered up to have a nosey. It certainly wasn’t boys, in fact it was loads of men. I ran back to tell my sisters, who never failed to check out any talent that came into their vicinity. Shirley and Janey ran out to see about twenty Teddy Boys, decked out in their drainpipe trousers, knee-length jackets, beetle-crusher shoes and pipe-cleaner ties. They all had those classic sideburns and the slicked-back hair styles which were known as D.A.s (from duck’s arse).

  The moment they saw my pretty sisters they started wolf-whistling and calling them over to join them, but Mammy could whistle with more power than a group of mere wolves.

  ‘You stupid buggers, Daddy‘s away and we’re alone. Those laddies nae doubt will fill themselves wi’ peeve. By the way, I canna see a single yin that’s younger than twenty one. They’re big men, far too auld for you, so bide here and no’ go near them.’

  Our mother’s tone and instructions were meant for my four older sisters. I was far too young to bother about men—it was the midden-raking that I missed that day, and I wouldn’t have minded skimming flat stones down at the river.

  So that was that, back to quiet reading in the safety of the bus. We watched those Teddy Boys erecting tents and wee haps in the broom, which prompted Mammy to call them stupid scaldies. Every traveller knows that the broom is filled with insects of every description, most enjoying tasty flesh—especially the human kind. She smiled, thinking of them trying to sleep, then said, ‘even if they dinnae get bit, they’ll surely find a branch or twa either up their nose or their arse.’

  We laughed so loud we failed to hear a knocking at the door, ‘Missus, kin ye dae us a favour?’ It was three of the men, one holding a knife like one that Davy Crockett might have used to skin a buffalo when out on the wild frontier.

  Mona opened the door and asked what they wanted.

  ‘We was wandering if we could use they tartan rags scattered around your bus, we need something to sleep on the night!’

  Mammy ran outside and was horrified to see her lovely freshly laundered curtains thrown over the broom, and when she saw that knife it didn’t take much to know who had cut the rope.

  ‘You shit-pots, just wait until my man and sons come home, they’ll knock the living daylights oot o’ ye.’

  ‘Never mind waiting on Daddy and pretending you have sons, Mammy, I’ll sort them oot,’ Shirley breenged at them with arms outstretched, took two off balance and put an upper-cut under the third. ‘You reekit faces think you can come here and wreck ma Mammy’s washing, well, think again.’ By now her eyes were out on stalks as venomous curses few from her mouth. Mona and Chrissie intervened, dragging her off them. The cowards got to their feet and ran off, saying it would be a long night. We watched as they joined their mates who were heading along the Comrie road, no doubt for a night in the nearest pub.

  Suddenly something dawned on us—we were under threat. How often had danger come from strangers? More times than was comfortable to mention, but before Daddy was always with us. If the danger was menacing he just positioned himself behind the steering wheel and left, going to a safer place where there was no threat; but now he wasn’t with us. Mammy, only five feet tall, had the full weight of responsibility on her narrow shoulders. Oh yes, her older girls were strong and with weapons could hold their own against the best of men, but not against drunk men. This frightening problem was taxing to say the least.

  ‘What time does a pub chuck oot?’ she asked. Her girls never went near pubs, but at least if she had an idea when they’d be back we could all be in bed, lights out and with doors and windows locked.

  ‘Ten, most drunks are seen swaying hame after then,’ Chrissie told her.

  So after we’d gathered in the dirtied curtains, we quickly took some supper and then went to bed. I say bed in the singular, because all eight of us were piled onto Mammy’s courie-doon at the rear of the bus. My younger sisters began to whinge, even although we pretended there was nothing wrong, so Mammy told stories and the girls sung ballads. I can still recall how nervous Chrissie’s voice sounded as she sang ‘Fair Rosie Ann’.

  Shirley was in the middle of ‘Flooers o’ the Forest’ when there was a deafening thud against the side of the bus, which stunned us into a shivering silence. Waiting through the next minutes, I can only describe them as some of the most terrifying in my life, it was awful. I thought I had swallowed my tongue, such was the thump in my throat, so God knows what my younger sisters, who were eight, six and four, went through. They sat staring like a bagful of kittens about to be drowned, with round innocent eyes. Shirley, fiery warrior that she was, was also afraid, but we all knew that in her case it was the dark that caused her fear, and not what lingered in its shadows. She began mumbling; Mammy touched her arm and said she had to be strong.

  Mona said we should have escaped while the louts were away, but Janey said if we’d left our home it would have been torched. ‘I’ll sneak oot,’ whispered Shirley, ‘and slit each and every one o’ them reekit buggers’ throats.’

  This remark, gruesome though it was, made us start giggling at the thought it conjured up—our sister wriggling about through the broom with a dagger clenched between teeth covered in blood and booze—a top soldier of the SAS or an ancient warrior queen.

  Mammy brought us back to reality. ‘Listen, Boudi-bloody-cea, so far all we’ve heard is some daft drunk thumping the bus. The rest o’ the fear is coming frae inside this bus. Now calm doon and listen.’ Our mother had spoken; Shirley sat down, slipping her hands under her shaking knees.

  It may have been a minute or an hour later when cries came from the broom, drawn out as if the Teddy Boys were imitating ghost calls. ‘O-o-ohh see them in the broom, the lights are coming tae get ye, watch how the lights glo-o-ow.’

  We peered out of slits in the curtains to see, to our utter terror, yellow eyes staring at us. Some turned to orange, others to deep red. What was out there hiding in the broom? Were they vampires who had heard Daddy was at Kinloch Rannoch, and thought with him away we’d be easy meat?

  Mammy, more concerned about our safety than our sanity, took control. ‘Now, I smoke fags and I know what they look like in the dark—the same as yon ghost eyes. Don’t be feared. As long as we’re in here they can’t get at us. Now take the seat cushions, pile them against the door and windows. Chrissie, put the carpet runner over the windscreen; if they throw stones that will stop glass hitting us.’ Mammy then took a paper bag from her handbag where it lay hidden under her bed, and gave us each a peppermint. For ages the only sound to be heard was us sooking nervously on those sweeties, then Renie and Babsy began snoring, having fallen asleep, exhausted. Mona covered their shoulders with a blanket, saying their prayers for them.

  Shirley ask
ed for another sookie and said, ‘if the Teddy Boys get in, yon two wee yins will be nane the wiser, the poor wee craturs are done in.’

  Outside the yellow lights still shone from the broom; we could plainly see them, but there was no attempt to attack our bus despite our fears. Shirley was still ranting about taking them on single-handed, when suddenly a piercing noise rent the dark night.

  ‘Help! For God sake, ye daft bugger! Look whit’s ye’ve done. Get water, hurry, and get water!’

  Cushions went in every direction as we clambered over each other, pulling back the curtains to see what commotion was taking place. We could hardly believe the scene—the broom was alight, it was on fire; great spirals of flames mingled with choking reek and millions of sparks. There were screams from the men darting back and forth, flames scooting from their bums as they rushed down to where they hoped they’d find the river. The threat was over: we knew that by the time those menacing Teddy Boys sorted themselves out it would be morning. So to bed we went, not the least bit afraid. In the morning there was no sign of our night tormentors. All that was left were a few empty beer bottles and several scorched broom tops.

  There was no time to gloat—Mammy had a wheen of tartan curtains needing to be rewashed, but she did relent and I was allowed to visit and rake my midden. Do you know what I found? A big suede size ten beetle-crusher! Aye, only the one. Later I filled it with sand and sank it in the Earn, and as far as I know it’s still there on the river’s bottom.

  36

  JIP

  I will stop now and take my dogs for a walk. Remember Brigadoon, my monster yellow Labrador with a bottomless pit for a stomach, and wee broon Jake, my twelve-year-old mongrel?

  I’ve always loved mongrel dogs; they seem less inclined to catch diseases that thoroughbreds are prone to. Worms are got rid of by chewing grass and discarded sheep wool. Ticks don’t pose problems, and if they smell a heaty bitch off they go. If they manage to find their way back, well, that’s fine, but if not, then get another one. No, mongrels are, like the mangy mutt in ‘Lady and the Tramp’ their own masters. Take a wee while out from your day and journey back with me to the flats, because it was here I got conned into giving Jip a home.