Tears for a Tinker (38 page)

Lizzie was seeking revenge and when I opened my door to the wide-eyed, pale-faced lady, she pushed by me and gave Jip a right wallop with her umbrella. It was funny, yes, but not to that poor
mongrel. From then on I walked him on a lead.

Here’s another strange incident relating to our jugal.

My young sister Babsy had been visiting one night. She had her pet with her, a pedigree bitch called Goldie, a pretty-faced spaniel. Babsy warned us the dog was coming on heat, and maybe it
would be better if we locked Jip in another room just in case. Well, she arrived earlier than planned, and before Jip could be put out of the way he was faced with the bitch. I was horrified, and
had visions of throwing buckets of water over them to separate them, but the strangest thing happened, Jip looped his tail between his legs and began to shake, and when the wee dog sniffed him he
shot under the kitchen table. Next day Babsy phoned to tell us her lovely dog had died. The vet’s examination showed a large tumour.

That was another thing that made me question whether Jip was a dog, or a man whose seeds had got misplaced while Mother Nature was having an off day.

I had been baking cakes and sweet-making for a church fete. At night I heaped bags of tablet, individually tied into quarter-pounds, on a tray. I’d wrapped cakes with cling film. In the
morning I boxed everything and transported it to my car, but when I did a final count it was obvious one bag of tablet and a cake had gone missing. I blamed the family, who swore blind they
hadn’t touched them. Days later, when I cleaned out Jip’s basket, there hidden under his cushion was one quarter-pound of softened tablet and a flattened sponge cake, both still
wrapped.

The last incident I’ll share with you is when he came home after trailing for a week. I heard the bark and opened the door, to find he’d brought his bitch home. She was the
scraggiest looking jugal ever I set eyes on, talk about a tramp; what a mangy cratur. I shooed her away, but each time I did so, he whined to get out after her, so eventually I opened the door and
watched him go. It was strange that at the turning in the road he lingered, but only for a moment and then was gone. His eyes seemed to say thanks, Jess, but I’ll away now.

And that was the last time I ever saw our Jip. Well, from then on we searched and searched, days followed days, but not one sighting of our bold lad did we see. We took turns following in his
usual footsteps, but there was no trace. Did a gamekeeper shoot him? Did a dog warden pack him off to a dogs’ home? Or did he decide himself it was time to move? Did the bitch belong to
tinkers who offered him a home also? Yes, I think that might have made sense. I remember seeing a caravan out the Gilmerton way, and when I went searching for Jip they had gone.

Jip just vanished into thin air. He was six years old. Each one of us missed him in our own way, and the pain of not knowing was at times unbearable. Sometimes with the passing of time I get
ideas in my head that he came with the blessings of my ancient ancestors to say, ‘Look, this is how us tinkers have finished up, vanishing from our favourite haunts like a trailing dog. One
day we are a healthy, happy clan, the next we are gone, no more!’

I began this book with my son crying real tears for us, the tinkers, and I shall it end it in the same way, with me shedding tears for my long-gone culture. A culture that by
now you’ll know has had me making a fool of my people in one chapter and then praising them the next. Like all societies we have our good and bad, our wise and mad, our sad and happy. There
are class distinctions among my people as there are in all races. To quote my father: ‘when people are low, they search for someone lower to make them feel better about themselves.’

Tinker, Traveller, Gypsy, we are all the same. Rome invaded and brought their slaves with them. When they came north they met more solid resistance from the Pictish warriors. Common sense
suggests that a greater armoury was required, and so the early metal workers came to Scotland.

In the south of Britain, the Romans’ Egyptian slaves worked with horses, leather, basket weaving, and clay. Rome withdrew and left the slaves, who I believe were at that time drawn from
bedouin tribes—wanderers of the desert. They were dark-skinned people forced upon the Britain of two thousand years ago. Some called them Romanies after their masters, who incidentally marked
them with ear-rings.

But generally they were looked upon as foreigners, belonging to the underclass of slaves of the Romans, those evil conquerors. This was senseless, because by the time Rome left it had been in
occupation for hundreds of years. Still, long ago time changed little. You accepted Rome’s calendar, its days of the week, months etc. Also its power as a mighty army, but you never offered a
hand of acceptance to those wanderers who had been brought here against their will and who had spread throughout a hostile world, long, long ago. But blood mingles and intertwines. When you feel
strong, that’s the Viking in you. When wise, that’s the Jew. When you yearn for the sun, that’s the African in you. When you look in the mirror and a twinkle in your eye meets
your gaze, that’s the Gypsy winking back.

So if any of the tales and incidents scattered through these pages make you cry, then let them be tears of joy, because we are not gone; we are sitting beside you on a bus or a
train. We lie in hospital beds and are healed by the same doctors who treat everyone. The earth will claim our limbs, and when we have climbed our mountain we will stand naked in the sun alongside
you. As my sister Shirley wrote, ‘Ye cannae sleep us away, we’ll aye be there in the morning.’

For too long Scotland’s Tinkers, Travellers and Gypsies have stood holding out a hand of friendship; please accept this offering and let us be one nation. After all, we are a mere five
million in population, dwindling daily. Let’s be fellow Scots and give our country a future where there are no differences, no racism, and no divides.

My friends, we have come yet again to the end of our journey, but this time I don’t want to say, ‘The End’. Instead I’ll just part from your faithful
companionship with the words, ‘keep that kettle on the boil...’

1
. As you will have guessed, MacSpit is a fictitious name chosen to conceal the identities of these particular folk—their real name bears no
resemblance to it in any way!

One of the many rich traditions of travellers and gypsies—the coronation of the Gypsy King, Charles Faa Blythe, down in Yetholm in the Borders.

(
Bob Dawson
)