Tears for a Tinker (22 page)

‘Well, Jessie, can we look in the mirror?’

‘Yikes! No, ye canny, I mean there’s no mirror, it’s broken.’ Before I could prevent them, they’d run from the bus and looked at their new hairdos in the bus
wing-mirrors. What a screaming and yelly-hooing. Off down the road they ran, to tell anybody who’d listen that I’d turned them into monsters. I ran after them, only to meet Mammy and
Daddy driving up the track.

I’d no idea my mother could dislocate her jaw like that. What a monumental roar.

Two leatherings I got after my beautician escapade; one for creating yellow-haired greetin’-faced weans, and the other for my seal sister, who had to be rescued from rocks because I
didn’t keep her in about.

I was not into babysitting, me—hairdressing neither.

22

MY BROTHER’S SHARE

R
obbie Shepherd called me a right romantic, and of course he was right. This next story I share with you about two brothers describes a common
scenario, especially during the pre-war years.

Along with several cousins, Janet and Drummond shared a campsite with her mother and his brother Robin. Nothing much happened in the way of excitement, and life wandered on at a snail’s
pace, yet there was joy when baby Muriel was born, and again at the safe arrival of Drummond junior. These had been the highlights of life on the campsite in over three years. A large farm provided
year-round work, so they gave up travelling round Aberdeenshire and hoped one day they’d be offered houses. Tents could be mighty cold in winter, and the farmer did have a row of dilapidated
cottages in need of renovation. One day the old farmer, as a way of thanking them, told Drummond and Robin, along with the other workers, that if they repaired the houses he’d let them have
them rent-free so long as they stayed under his employment. Although the work to be done was back-breaking, it had its rewards in the end. Roofs were re-thatched, loose windows puttied into oak
frames, doors replaced and gardens dug over for planting. It meant that for the first time in two thousand years the tinkers would have a place to call home. The womenfolk weren’t idle
either. With bairns tied to their backs, they scrubbed the slabs of stone floors, brushed away cobwebs, and made curtains and carpets from rags of ribbons all sown together.

Robin was born with the skilled hands of a carpenter, so it fell to him to build beds, tables and chairs. He even threw together bunkers at the rear of each house for winter firewood. One by one
the families helped each other move into their new homes, abandoning the old campsite to be taken over again by its long burned and flattened grass. Soon it was once more the home of the rabbit,
fox and weasel.

Three years later the row of cottar houses was as a bonny a picture as one could wish to see: the whitewashed walls were covered with honeysuckle and ivy, paths leading to each unlocked door
were lovingly paved with broken granite in mosaic patterns.

Much as we’d like to see this continue, with our small band of tinkers toddling happily on through life, one day two momentous changes took place—the outbreak of war and the demise
of the old farmer.

The war came in like a lamb, but soon turned into the most ferocious of lions. Drummond had no doubt that his loyal duty lay in taking arms against the enemy. Robin also followed his brother to
the enlistment office but an accident with a saw had deprived his right hand of two fingers, so he was turned down. Drummond consoled him by saying that the women needed a man, a strong one, to be
their guardian. The other men were posted to different regiments. The care of everyone and all the farm work were now the responsibility of Robin and two old workers.

It was at this time, while spending many days with Janet, that he began to feel drawn to her. At first he believed it was a brotherly affection that he was feeling, and as the country was thrown
into the midst of war and its uncertainty, people certainly did draw strength from friends and neighbours. She too took the comfort that he offered, and many a night the pair sat cracking about old
relatives round the hearth of a small fire. Little Muriel began adding another person to her prayers, and each night before she went to bed she’d be heard saying ‘God bless my Mammy,
Daddy, wee Drummond and Daddy two,’ meaning Uncle Robin.

He worked hard, did that lad. He was as tough as three ploughmen, and although the missing fingers might have hindered his aim with a rifle, it didn’t stop him with a plough. Janet
especially needed his company during the long nights when she and Drummond used to cuddle together in bed and fall asleep, embracing in true love. She so longed for her husband and tried hard not
to rely on his brother, but one night while a blizzard raged outside, she welcomed Robin in to share her bed. From then on they were as one. Yes, this robbed each of dignity, but who can afford
that luxury during a war?

Only once did a letter arrive from Drummond. It gave Robin and Janet an insight into the horrors of battle, but not wishing to upset his family he finished with a cheerful, ‘no need for
snivelling, I’m eating like a horse.’

Then it happened—the letter from a weary War Office: Drummond was missing, presumed dead! Weeks of closed curtains and tea-sipping left Janet’s exhausted mind in turmoil. Robin said
he’d not let the wind blow on her or the weans, and that once her heart wore off its pain they’d marry. Her own frail old mother gave them her blessing, saying he’d make a good
man for her. So one sunny day, three years later, Robin and Janet wed.

Another two years passed, with the arrival of a son to bless their union: then great public celebrations brought the final chapters of war to a close.

The farm work was undertaken without supervision; the jobs needed to be done and the tinkers did them. The late farmer had left instructions with his factor that wages were to continue to be
paid to his tinkers as funds allowed. However he hadn’t reckoned on his heir: a nephew with a heart coated in iron. He liked the look of the houses occupied by the tinkers, and wondered what
they’d fetch if sold. The farm could make a good sale also, bringing him cash; he was a lover of money, obviously. So one day the bombshell came with a letter to each tenant saying it was
time to move. Oh yes, they met him and protested all they could, but there wasn’t a drop of his uncle’s benevolence in the nephew, and with deep sadness the tinkers took once more to
the tent and travelling the trails.

For a while small amounts of money were earned through rat-catching and rabbit-snaring, but it barely provided the necessities of existence for the sad, weary tinkers. Janet’s mother died
of influenza. One young mother died in childbirth, and soon the severe weather took its toll on Robin. His chest proved weak, and as each day passed he began a downward spiral of ill health. By
1948 he’d seen his last winter. Janet, now alone with four children, took to begging the streets of Aberdeen.

One day, after a long sore day’s begging, she headed home—which was a wood-end on the outskirts of Dyce. Walking along the road, young Muriel thought she recognised a man passing on
the other side. She ran after the bedraggled man with black beard. He shoo’ed her away, but there was a distinct familiarity in this tramp. She called a name; one she’d long spoken
under her breath. The tramp froze, then turned. It was her father: none other than Drummond, presumed dead, who’d been captured and spent the rest of the war as a POW. He’d suffered
shell shock, not regaining his memory for some time. When it had returned, he made a long journey to find his family.

‘Blessings come in strange packaging,’ was all Janet could think as she kissed her lost husband. Now, with him returned home, she could see a future for her children. There were no
recriminations about her marriage to Robin, because Drummond’s sentiments all his life were ‘what’s mine’s my brother’s, and what’s my brother’s is
mine.’

When the above story was given to me, not much detail came from its narrator. However it wasn’t my place to elaborate or retouch it. I have told you the version I heard.

23

GLENROTHES

W
e emptied our wee low-roofed cottage house of its meagre amount of furniture, giving it to whoever wanted it. Then we piled into Daddy’s van
(a bit larger than John’s) and set off to Glenrothes, to live with Shirley in her new house. It was to be a tight squeeze sharing with her, but as far as Davie was concerned it was a step
nearer Crieff. Fife skirted Perthshire, and he’d not be happy until we were back in his beloved home town. However, this, may I say, was a pipe-dream carried around in my husband’s
head. As far as I was concerned, Crieff was in the past, and would firmly bide there! Yet if you’ve read my previous book, then you will know that, in the end, he won.

From Woodside, the ancient part of Glenrothes, sprang Scotland’s second modern ‘shopping centre’ (Livingston, I’m informed, gave us the first). By shopping centre, I mean
shops gathered together under one roof. The birth of ‘you will spend your money here’, and the death of family-run businesses began in these places. Years of shopping with the personal
touch died beneath those Perspex roofs. The old shopkeepers were unable to compete with ‘buy one, get one free’ smiley faces behind miles of walled glass. Like zombies we give them
hard-earned money for cheap, shabby goods, and turned our backs for ever on the ‘this is quality’ businesses that had been handed down from father to son, pushing them into little
drawers of past times. Yes, new town shopping centres like those in Glenrothes and Livingston had us hook, line and pork-linkers. Nowadays, like locusts, those centres have arrived in every town,
ruling our credit and controlling spending on a gigantic scale. Gone forever is the personal touch, lost to banks and building societies who determine what, where and when we spend.

Personally I blame these centres for destroying the art of conversation. We tend to eye up a nearby stranger as a hovering hawk ready to pounce and steal our credit cards from tightly held
purses. I used to enjoy shopping—now I spend more time trying to avoid eye-contact with security guards than wondering if the garment I just purchased could be dry-cleaned or
machine-washed.