Tears for a Tinker (6 page)

Now, as it happens, never before had anyone seen such a spectacular contest. No human had witnessed the pair, but a water kelpie, that supernatural creature of myth and legend, had seen it all
from the other side of the black water. Without a moment lost, he swam down into the fathomless depths. Down and down he sank, entering a world where nightmares and ghoulish creatures live.

‘Your Majesty,’ he shouted, awakening the horny Devil from a grand slumber, ‘did ye no see Peggy Moore and the wild cat fechting?’

‘Na,’ answered the Hairy Man, angry at the intrusion. ‘Now, water horse, it had better be good, this tale ye’re about tae tell me, for I’ve a splinter in atween yin
o’ ma cloven hooves, and the black mood’s on me.’

‘You turn back yer clock, sir, an’ then tell me if ah’ve wasted yer time.’

Auld Nick cleaned a fish bone out of his jaggy teeth with the point of his forked tail, sat down and pointed a finger upwards. Suddenly Peggy Moore and the cat appeared—scratching,
rolling, screaming, and neither giving way for a moment.

The Devil laughed and slapped his goat-like thigh. ‘Ye’re richt enough Kelpie, yon’s too guid a wrestling tae let finish, I’ll gi’e the twa o’ them
immortality.’

So there you have it, folks. I bet there’s many a time you’ve been sauntering about the shore of Loch Ness when the gloaming has come down. I can hear you say to whoever is in your
company, ‘Did ye see the shape o’ thon thing in the water?’ And in turn your friend will say, ‘No, I didn’t, what was it?’ You’ll scan the water and swear
blind something moved along, a great bulk of a thing. But the water calms, and if there was a creature, then it’s gone. You, being certain there was something, hope that somebody else saw
it.

Next day as you open your morning newspaper there’s a story catches your eye which reads: ‘Last night two American tourists saw the “Loch Ness Monster”. There were
several humps in the water [Peggy’s four bellies]. It had a thick neck and small head [her forearm thrusting upwards and fist thumping into the back of her opponent]. As quickly as it
appeared, it was gone.’ It was just her and her pussy cat fighting their way from the bottom to the top of the loch and down again—readers, that’s all it was.

‘But,’ I hear you say, ‘what of her kin, that poor sad pair who worked day and night. What was their explanation for Peggy’s disappearance?’

Some said that when they saw the trail of blood going from tent to loch, they could only assume she’d been eaten by the wild cat. But with her demise they made a smaller tent, ate more
food and did less work. And became a happy, contented pair, no doubt.

6

MACDUFF

T
ime to leave Crieff now and head to Macduff, courtesy of my half-cousin John and his wee Morris van. When I think back on how we all got inside
that tiny vehicle I burst into a sweat.

Mammy had earlier promised she’d pick up cheap bits of furnishings to make the fisherman’s low-roofed cottage habitable for us. That was just as well, because at that stage all our
worldly goods consisted of two bonny bairns, some kitchen utensils, one pair of green cotton bed-sheets, towels, four woollen blankets, a duvet and our clothes. Mine were of no use on account of my
extra weight. I’d put on two extra stone since taking possession of that blasted Be-Ro book. Still, nothing could spoil that day. I remember so well how I felt as we drove off, with Crieff
getting smaller by the mile.

The boys and I had to make do in the back of the wee van, getting as comfortable as we could. Davie sat in the only seat next to John. Stephen was rolled inside some bath towels that Margaret
had sent down the previous night. Johnnie, full of energy, bounced over everything, excited to be in a Morris van—to him it was a toy to be played with.

Earlier, an hour before we left, while giving a final dusting to our Crieff house, I said to Davie who was feeding Stephen his bottle, that I was concerned our bairn might not settle on the
journey. I didn’t think to ask Davie what he meant by, ‘Och, this wee fella will sleep all the way there.’ Because that he did!

When we arrived at Macduff, Mammy was there to greet us with lots of tattie soup, tea and scones. It was after we ate I asked Davie how he had been so sure about Stephen’s long slumber.
‘Oh, I slipped a teaspoon o’ whiskey intae his bottle.’ Now let me say right here and now, if I’d so much as had a whiff of the stuff on my baby’s lips I’d have
swung for his father. But, and this isn’t any excuse, not a difference did it appear to make to our wee bouncing laddie, as he smiled broadly at everybody who tickled his chubby chin. Mind
you, when I think on the swaying he did in his pram, I’m certain my eight-months-old was drunk.

Macduff was filled with a fresh sea breeze that blew gently through my new home to greet us each morning. Johnnie played safely at the front door, where the traffic was almost non-existent. Baby
Stephen soon threw away his bottle, refusing to suck on it any more and craving solids instead. At nine months he was eating the same as us, scrambled eggs and milky tatties being his
favourite.

Life began to settle into a regular pattern, one that suited me fine. Mammy and I would take the boys on a daily walk across the bridge to Banff for messages, although fresh fish and vegetables
were delivered to our door by friendly Macduff van men.

Davie helped Daddy at the painting and was well paid. We managed to afford a three-piece-suite and new kitchen table and chairs. Davie put his skills as a joiner to good use by building a fitted
kitchen, with permission of the house owner, of course.

Neighbours were friendly, not at all the gossiping or in your house kind, just there if you needed them. One old dear was Sarah. Let me tell you about her.

‘Hello fine quine, fit like?’ This was the Macduff way of saying, ‘how are you this fine day?’ I turned around to see a very old lady smiling at me as I washed my small
windows. We chatted on the pavement, before the want o’ a cuppy had me invite her in. She politely refused this invitation, saying when we got to know each other better then she’d take
up my offer. Next day, as Davie was waving goodbye, Sarah appeared minutes behind him. It was seven o’clock in the morning, a very busy time of day for a young mum, but when she smiled and
held out a hot steaming loaf of crusty bread, how could I refuse. When inside she found the best seat and sat down. ‘Ah’ll play wi’ the bairns, while ye mak a fresh pot o’
tea, Jessie.’

When I brought the buttered bread and cups of tea in, she’d washed and dressed both my boys. Who, may I add, loved her to bits. On a daily basis she’d pop along from her house to
mine, which was a mere hundred yards away, never empty-handed. If it wasn’t a pound of mince she had brought, then it was bread or cakes, and always sweeties. Thus began a wonderful
friendship between an old woman of ninety-four-years old, and a young mum of twenty-one.

Davie and I seldom went out together, and this was sometimes noticed by Sarah who soon became a fixture in our busy house. In fact amongst our family noise she’d snooze happily. I got to
the point many times of leaving her asleep and going off with the boys for a walk. One day she came in and said, ‘There’s a dance in Banffy this weekend—why don’t you baith
gang?’ We told her my folks were away visiting family in Perthshire, and even though it would be nice to get out of the house for a time, there was nobody to baby-sit.

‘Fit’s wrang wi’ me? I’ll watch the bairnies.’

Sarah was a dear old soul, but there was no way she could cope with two bairns. After all, she’d never had any of her own, and at her age—oh no, we couldn’t possibly burden
her, the responsibilities were far too great for her to manage.

Sarah didn’t see herself as old, and insisted, reminding us, as she constantly did, ‘me and ma Wull, afore he deed, wid walk ten miles a day, an’ he’s only four year
deed.’ In other words this elderly lady was covering quite a distance at ninety!

So we gave way, and, on the night of the dance, as I put the finishing touches to my hair, Sarah’s parting words were, ‘dinna drink spirits, for the demons will fill yer heed.’
Sarah hated alcohol, and would lecture us about how many a good man ‘fell tae the demon o’ the bottle’. I promised not to drink, but she’d wait on hell freezing over before
Davie would make the same promise. A night out meant, to him, a guid dram.

The dance, which was run by the local fishermen, was great fun as I twirled and skirled the night away. We met lots of young couples who had kids of our age. As we walked home we left the bridge
spanning the river Deveron, and with shoes in hand played upon a moonlit shore. Exhausted in a nice way, we slowly wandered home through the deserted streets of Macduff. All was silent at our wee
house. There was never the need for locked doors then, so we very gently turned the handle and let ourselves in. I expected to see our old babysitter plopped on her favourite chair with the boys
snoring from their bedroom, but boy oh boy, was I in for a shock! Johnnie was vrooming a toy lorry along the floor. Stephen was sound asleep in a basin, face covered with dried chocolate. And
Sarah, the bold lass, sat on the floor with her back against a chair. Her legs were apart, and plonked between them was an empty bottle of Davie’s OVD Rum, a present from his father to
celebrate the New Year when it came. An old photograph of Wull lay inside Johnnie’s toy lorry along with an empty glass, and the headscarf forever tied tightly under her chin was covering her
face. She was totally unconscious, and no wonder, because the empty bottle had previously been full!

Davie put her into our bed and we made do with the settee. Stephen, who awoke screaming from his basin bed, probably with a stiff neck, curled up beside us. Next day, try as we might, there was
no way we could raise her off that bed, so we left her there. She surfaced again only when it turned dark. Sarah never mentioned that night ever after; nor did she offer to baby-sit again.

The only ‘blind blink’ on our horizon was my weight gain. Within six months of moving to Macduff I’d piled it on. I was eight stone before the kids came, now I was fourteen and
a half! What a fatty—and try as I might, not an ounce could I shift. This mystified me, because if anything I was exercising more and eating less. A visit to the doctor in Banff didn’t
help. He put it down to the extra pounds that pile on during pregnancy, and a slight imbalance in the body’s make-up of cells etc. I must say, though, Doctor Mackenzie was a right braw lad.
His mate was none other than Jimmy Mitchell, our Crieff doctor. They were both students at Aberdeen together and each hailed from the north. This medicine man from Banff will always stay dear in my
heart, and this is the reason why.

Perhaps that cup of tea would come in handy now. If you are a parent, then you too may have had a similar experience to the one we’re about to share.

It was around October’s end, in fact Halloween time, when the usual thick sea haar turned everyone into blind folk. People called out to each other, groping along the street, searching for
familiar voices. Davie and Daddy came home early, they couldn’t do any painting because it was far too dangerous climbing ladders. Mammy brought me some milk and bread. I couldn’t push
a pram outside in case I knocked some elderly body over onto the road.

Stephen was sitting playing with a rubber toy when Johnnie began to complain of a stomach-ache. Nothing unusual in a toddler, but within four hours he was fevered and crying painfully. Mammy
came round, saying he should be cooled. This I did, bathing him with tepid water, but one minute he shivered, next he was boiling to the touch. His eyes began to glaze over, and it soon became
apparent our bairn was quite ill. Davie went over in Daddy’s van to fetch Dr Mackenzie. Within half an hour he’d arrived home, doctor at his back. No sooner had he stepped inside, when
Johnnie began vomiting brown and green slime. The poor wee mite also took diarrhoea, which was the same colour as his vomit. Dr Mackenzie examined him and said, ‘this wee chap has
gastro-enteritis, I’m sure of it.’

‘What is that, Doctor? Can you give him something for the pain?’

‘Firstly, it is when a stubborn bug finds its way into a bairn’s digestive system, and it depends on the child’s stamina how fast it gets out. Usually lots of fluids and tender
care shifts it. As for pain, no, I can’t give him anything. But now that’s he’s been sick he should pick up. I’ll come back later on tonight to see how he is.’