Tears for a Tinker (25 page)

“You will have to go there with him, then,” he laughed, and the sword fell for the second time. Her beautiful head with its deep auburn hair rolled under a yew tree and settled next
to that of her lover.

Boris spurred his horse, laughing hysterically, and galloped away like a fiend.

An army of dragoons scoured the countryside, but neither he nor his horse were ever seen again.

Thomas straightened his spine, lifted an arm toward the night sky and gave a long, low whistle. Then, for every ear to hear, the bells began to ring. Jingle, jingle, tring-a-ling, came the
sounds from somewhere deep in the forest.

‘What the hell was that? Eh lad! That ringing, whit is it?’

‘I fear it might be the demons from hell searching for Boris,’ he spoke with a shivering sound, and continued. ‘Ye see, after the murder it was thought he had gone abroad, but
auld shrivelled wives say the water kelpie stole him. It’s just a mystery, because naebody kens whit happened tae him after that.’ Another low long whistle, and this time Daddy, Wullie
and Matthew all pulled together. Screams and howls come from the frightened listeners. Then Daddy gave the metal rings a shake. A voice murmured, ‘That sounds like chains! Oh Mammy, them
devils and goblins are in the woods, they’ll haunt the life oot o’ us. I dinna like this place!’

‘Me neither, Da,’ called another one, adding that a shooter at the beating was called Boris, and adding that he’d not go back.

Thomas acted; this was exactly the response he needed. ‘Aye, but no jist demons come in among these pairts. Oh no! If ye stare long enough intae the bushes, ye’ll see the headless
lassie. Hear her wailing. She holds her lover’s head, rotted wi’ maggots, flesh stripped aff it like streaky bacon, and she screams for the soul o’ Boris.’

Suddenly the old woman rose to her feet in a trance-like state and called out to the night, ‘Spirits, awa noo, fer we dinna ken onything aboot Boris, go away an no frighten ma
family.’

Thomas put his arm around her, gave another long whistle and waited. This time the bells were louder, the sound of chains dragging ever nearer.

‘That’s enough fer me, come morning I’m off. I’ll not sleep another minute in this place.’

‘Aye, I dare say the winter kin get mighty cauld up here. We’ll pack first thing.’

‘Never mind the morning, I’m pitting ma stuff intae bags right this minute.’

Thomas listened with the greatest satisfaction as all the MacSpits worked themselves up into wrecks of fear and dread. His work completed, he slipped away under cover of darkness to join the
lads, helping them to ring bells and pull chains until a hoody crow flew over heralding the first light of early morning.

Not wishing to interfere in the migration of the MacSpits, they went back by a long way round to tell Granny that her campsite awaited, and to inform Grand-dad that the estate would need his
expertise and they’d have to do some beating.

It took a while to clean the site, since its past inhabitants had left in haste, but that chore was a welcome one. Thankfully, Granny’s washing line was still in its place from the
previous year. Grand-dad and the lads built the tent’s rib-cage, tying it together with wire. Canvas was criss-crossed to keep out draughts, heavy stones placed to anchor the tent and prevent
damage. First a bed of straw was strewn over the floor, followed by those green velvet curtains to provide a carpet fit for a Queen. The wee three-legged stove stood proud in the centre with its
chimney expertly placed through the roof.

Thankfully the winter snows didn’t amount to a great deal, nor did the demons creeping for souls reappear in the forest, but on Christmas Eve the lads tied all the rings and bells to the
old yew tree, and Granny swore she heard a fluttering of wings during the night. ‘Maybe you bairns should take a wee deek, ye never know what kind of miracles abound this time o’
year.’ When the family investigated, they found big fat stockings made from green velvet laying upon the frozen ground, filled with sweets and fruit.

‘There’s only one Angel living in these woods, Mammy,’ said my father, giving her a Christmas cuddle.

The ‘eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you could die o’ fright’ MacSpits
¹
were seldom met from that day. Yet when they thought about it afterwards, my
Father’s family couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They were simple-minded folks, but as Granddad told their relatives later, ‘all’s fair in love and whoever gets tae a
campsite first. Just dinna listen tae a master storyteller in a cauld wood wi’ a whistling wind!’

By the following early spring, as lambs were popping up in the lower fields, my Granny gave birth to another boy.

25

A STREET NAMED ADRIAN ROAD

I
hope you enjoyed that tale. Hearing it was for me just an accepted part of my rich cultural heritage. Let’s go back now to Glenrothes for a
while, and see how we all got on living in Shirley’s five-apartment council house, on a street named Adrian Road. Number 5.

To be honest, life went on at a snail’s pace. Davie, Shirley and her man rushed around in the early morning trying to avoid each other, because, according to experts, that’s the time
of day when we are most short-tempered. I expertly prepared sandwich boxes with whatever appealed to their bellies, and was pleased as punch to see the back of them, the moaning lot.

Weekends could be fun, though. Davie and my brother-in-law would take themselves off to the dog-racing at Thornton, leaving Shirley, me, Johnnie and toddler Stephen along with Shirley’s
two, Christine and Hughie, to wander through the wooded areas between Leslie and Glenrothes. Thankfully, at that time the town hadn’t expanded into what was a lovely natural wood of old trees
and a meandering burn. It has today, though. We’d take a picnic box filled with sweeties and ginger [lemonade], tip-toe when a squirrel was sighted, run when we saw a young fallow deer.
Johnnie desperately wanted to see a badger, and followed Hughie around because he knew where a den was. Christine, like her mother, had little interest in the natural world apart from wanting to
put it into song. For instance, if a colourful jay bird flew among the branches, Shirley would sing: ‘Hello, bonny tartan bird, skipping through the trees, noisy screeching tartan bird, are
you full o’ fleas? Blackbirds arenae pretty, but they sing a joyous tune, but you, my lovely feathered bird, like a witch whirling aroon.’ That was my sister. Christine always tried to
go one better, but each had their own gift of verse and music. That for me was a double joy, and still is.

Wednesdays, I always remember, were by far the worst days of the week. I think it was because, back then, the Glenrothes workforce got paid on a Thursday. Rent, bills and so on saw the bulk of
the pay packet empty out on Fridays, and more was frittered away through the weekend. Monday left enough to feed families to Tuesday, but on Wednesday it was empty larders and walk to school and
work. But that was in the beginning, before new factory units provided a whole new way of life for the lads who had gone down the mines and the lasses who had worked long hot hours in linoleum
factories and paper mills. Things were to change when companies saw this new town as the gateway to an exciting technological age.

Factories producing electrical components sprung up everywhere. They offered jobs that required small skilful fingers—women’s. Youngsters, who at one time left school and stepped
straight into coal mines and linoleum factories, were now offered well-paid jobs in a clean and healthy environment. The new lifestyle meant that dreams could be realised like affording your own
house and owning a car. Yes, the hunger on a Wednesday soon dispersed, as families saw that to own their homes with two cars was not so much a dream but now a reality.

So let’s for a wee while go back to the lean, mean, hungry days when Glenrothes was on the dawn of change, and I’m away down to fill my son’s pushchair with Monday
morning’s messages. With three adults working full-time, we managed to afford mince and tatties. Four pounds of minced beef meant shepherd’s pie for Monday and meatballs in tomato sauce
on Tuesday. I’d scrape enough together to fill sandwiches for the lunchboxes. A pot of soup made with left-over vegetables and flavoured with ham-bones would fill bellies until Thursday, when
fish suppers would abound all around the town. That was my plan.

If I were older I’d have felt like Janet, the wee housekeeper of the Doctor Finlay television series. My purse would be gripped firmly in one hand while I manoeuvred the pram and two big
wicker baskets ready to be filled with tatties, bread and that very important minced beef. There was no room for my weans, they were happy enough toddling on and chatting to a young policeman
covering his beat.

The supermarket was fairly busy, with dozens of women doing the same as me, Monday shopping. As I made my way through the crowds of people, many with weans like mine, I heard a woman shout,
‘if yer looking fer mince then there’s nane, the butcher couldnae get it the day. I’m right sorry, ye ken, but there is plenty ham-bones tae feed the man soup.’

Everybody in that place must have had the exact same menu planned as me, because a surge of jostling females had emptied the butcher shelves of hambones before I could blink. When I had made my
way through to scour the glass shelves in the hope that something would be there to feed my hungry bunch, I was delighted to hear an assistant shout that more mince had just come in, but only a
small amount.

‘Four pounds, please,’ I said, shoving the right money to the assistant who took it and handed me my precious bundle. Suddenly, like a weasel diving onto the neck of a poor
unsuspecting rabbit, two big-knuckled hands grabbed at my mince, which fell from my grasp in a heap on the floor, where an army of leather-shod feet crushed it flat. I grabbed my boys, thinking a
mad person was loose on the public, holding them tightly by my shaking knees. It was the most awful sight that stood before me—a great fat beast with bullet eyes, fists on hips and wearing a
ton of hair rollers screamed, ‘Ma Bob wid kill the hale o’ Glinrothes if he didnae get his mince and totties!’

‘But surely you’d get some down the road at Tom Baird’s?’ An elderly woman, feet in fluffy pink baffies, minus her false teeth, repeated the question to Two-ton Tessie.
By mentioning the butcher down the road, the older woman, I’m certain, saved my jaw from stotting off something hard. Although the butcher at the bottom of the road had occurred to me as
well, I was struck dumb by this woman’s temper and just stood stiff with fear.

I remembered when I was only fifteen during my short time as an employee of a paper mill, the women there could either be sweet gentle creatures or roaring gladiators who even cowed the men. But
frightened as she’d made me, I couldn’t help but feel as if I’d been robbed, and truth be told, Shirley, her man and Davie wouldn’t be too chuffed.

‘Well, yon’s a cow that died for nothing!’ I muttered eventually, and gestured at the mess of mince on the floor and on shoes and boots which were tramping away to be cleaned
outside. The more I looked at this waste of food and thought about how much it cost me, the angrier I became. ‘Stupid bugger,’ I dared to say as the heap of slavers and sharp eyes moved
menacingly toward me. The hand, with its cardigan sleeve rolled up, rose in the air. I thought my brains were about to be battered out of my skull, and they certainly would have been had a young
trainee manager not intervened with a timely worded warning: ‘There’s a polisman outside!’

The arm fell to her side, and the female from hell shifted faster than Roger Bannister running the mile. I asked the butcher’s assistant if a refund was out of the question? Thankfully it
was given, with an apology. With my money back, I bought tinned mince and loads of tatties and bread, enough to feed us for two days. I also managed some flour and margarine for baking.

I learned a lesson that day—if a mountain of anger approaches on a supermarket floor, pray a nice member of staff is willing to intervene. I later found out, to my utter dismay, the big
lady lived three doors away around the corner from our house. Every time we met she growled that my end was coming, so to avoid her I began taking the longer route to the shops. In time when I
accidentally met her, the threats stopped and her stare became less menacing.