Tears for a Tinker (34 page)

Donald had been home on leave with tales of death and lone pipers, leaving behind a melancholy lassie who was longing for the war to be over. However, much as she yearned for her soldier laddie,
the baby moving vigorously in her womb was taking up more of her thoughts. This coming wee child would be their first baby, and she longed so much to see and count its tiny fingers. Whether it was
a boy or girl didn’t matter to her, as long as the bairn had healthy lungs.

Into her eighth month, and with news trickling home of the war’s fiercest battles, her mind wandered away from her fears about the ghostly ruined cottages. Forgetting to circle round by
the field, she found herself walking past them. ‘Oh well,’ she thought, averting her eyes from the blank-paned windows with their torn, shredded curtains. ‘I’ll hurry past
and maybe I’ll no’ feel the icy cold.’

She pulled her shawl over her head and quickened her pace. No sooner had the edge of the shawl touched her forehead, when an almighty gust of bitter cold air blew hard against her face, turning
her lips blue and bringing water to her eyes. It seemed as if something unseen was breathing on her. Then the wind came so hard it nearly blew her off her feet. Holding the shawl around her swollen
womb, Bella lowered her head and tried to walk into it, but hard as she tried, she could not move her freezing limbs. It was like a raging storm, so fierce it became difficult to breathe; it was
blowing her back towards the campsite. Now Bella was a strong young woman, and she began to feel anger at whatever phenomenon was obstructing her, and pushed all the harder against it. Suddenly she
could hear thundering hooves coming up the old road, and at the sound she was lifted off her feet and thrown against the middle house. At that precise moment a rider straddling a massive black
stallion raged past, shouting to her that his mount was out of control. Then, as clumps of earth ripped up by those racing hooves went flying everywhere, he was gone.

‘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

B
ack 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.