Tears for a Tinker (33 page)

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

G
hosts 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’.

About a hundred or so yards off the Kirkton to Lethendy road there’s a snug spot known by locals in the Spittalfield area as ‘Spittaly Bank’, often frequented by travelling
tinker families, mainly those from Perthshire like myself. This story relates to a couple named Maggie and Jocky Burke. It was between the war years that we go and find them in their wee flimsy
tent beyond the road at the Spittaly Bank campsite. Jocky had been away to visit his parents at Burrie’s Spoot near Coupar Angus, who were stricken with the flu. This was a campsite many
folks stayed on during harvest time. Older travellers, unable to walk far, were allowed to live out their lives there if they wished, and if they were there, relatives worried less about their
well-being. Not all farmers or landowners were so benevolent, but the man who owned Burrie’s Spoot had a fondness for his lot of travellers. He had grown up with them and they were his
friends. So while Jocky tended his sick parents, Maggie kept her campfire burning at Spittaly.

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

T
he 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.