Tears for a Tinker (8 page)

John kept up his agonising vigil, galloping the length of Carradale’s shore, calling all the time upon God who might just pity his beloved sons and render them safe. ‘Oh mighty
father in Heaven, if you need my sons, then take them now and do not prolong this agony further. Take them into your care and love them as I have done since their first breaths.’

He reached a point near Carradale where the ground allowed a wider view of the sea. Just at that moment his horse gave way beneath him, and at the same time the boat carrying his brave lads was
swallowed by one enormous wave, never to surface again. John fell upon the wet earth, lifted his fist in a futile defiance of the elements, and cursed the demon Banshee with her mantle of
despair.

Suddenly his heart grew cold with fear for the safety of his other children. Leaving his mount to the hungry sea birds he went down to the shore and took his daughter-in-law Catherine home. She
would, if left to herself, have taken her own life, for so much had she and Duncan meant to each other.

After the period of mourning was over, John still hadn’t told Mistress McPherson about the Banshee. Maybe, with the loss of the three boys, the curse would be ended. Perhaps his fears for
his two sons, who were in the Americas with the 42nd regiment fighting the French, were unfounded.

But the doom-maker hadn’t finished with the McPhersons. Rumours that many soldiers had been killed during recent battles circulated among the Highland folk. ‘Rumours,’ John
told his worrying wife, ‘just gossip gone mad.’ Yet in his heart there began a terrible gnawing which would not go away.

Soon the word came—that dreaded news he prayed never to hear. A young man stood solemnly on the cold doorstep of Morvane, a letter sealed with black wax held tightly in his palm. Catherine
carried it into the house. Mistress McPherson bit hard into her knuckles, asking a servant to go for the master.

John felt the icy fingers of death run up his spine as he broke the wax seal. Trembling, he slowly opened the letter. ‘Sir, as Captain of the platoon in which your gallant sons, Hugh and
Alister, served, it is my sad duty to inform you they have given their lives in the most heroic manner.’

The letter went on and on about the exemplary conduct of his sons in fighting for the 42nd, but it made no difference to him and his broken-hearted wife. Death had come once more. Where once six
sons filled their happy home there remained but one, young Ian.

Circling his arms around his wife to comfort her, he said, ‘My love, I have something to tell you. So awful is this I can scarce bring myself to speak. However in view of our loss I feel I
should.’ John held her close, and told of the vision he’d seen that night.

‘You saw seven lights, my love—we have six sons. Oh please, do not tell me we are to lose wee Ian, and...’

‘And me,’ he whispered. ‘Surely I am the seventh.’

This was far too much for a mother who had lost all but one of her children. She could and would not talk again on the matter. ‘I will not believe,’ she declared, ‘that what
has befallen us is any different than to any other parent who has lost loved ones to the sea and to war.’

Two months went by, and John refused to take young Ian anywhere near danger. The cattle might stampede him or he might fall overboard while fishing. Ladders were also forbidden. Like a hawk,
John watched over his son, but another worry plagued him; who was the seventh? If his wife were to die, then how could he go on? Yet, unknown to him, she also felt the power of the dark
supernatural curse, and feared dreadfully for him.

Time went on, and with it the diminishing fear of death. Spring brought a fragrance from pretty apple-blossom trees. Ian and John thought a gentle day’s fishing at the small safe stream
off the River Bran which ran by Morvane would produce nothing untoward. After a time John went into the house for some refreshment.

How Ian slipped and banged his head was a mystery. Yet there he was, face-down in the pool, bonny thick blonde hair floating like a lily.

‘Oh God, how could you take them all, and it will be my love next. Is heaven so empty that you desire them all?’

No one heard John’s agonising pleas, because as he made to pull his son from the water he too slipped and the seventh light went out.

Mistress McPherson and Catherine, from that day, as John would have wished, continued to offer shelter in the bosom of Morvane. It is doubtful though, if on a misty winter’s night,
they’d open the door to a tall, narrow-shouldered, hooded female!

8

IS THERE ANYBODY THERE?

C
oming once more to our time in Macduff, I want to keep the subject of superstition alive if I may. This is a more modern tale, in fact it happened
to Davie and me. Shivers run up and down my body as I recall this incident.

‘Come down and have a go at the séance crack,’ said Uncle Joe one morning. He was my father’s youngest brother, and I thought the world of him, also of Doreen, his wife.
They lived, as I said earlier, down on Low Shore. An old-style house it was, not the usual fishermen’s cottage, more like a well-to-do body’s place. They, like us, were renting, and
when they first moved in it was dark and moody, but in no time they’d freshened the place up with their own special touch. Doreen loved flowers, they were everywhere. Joe loved music, which
could be heard drifting from open windows and never-locked doors. The kettle was seldom off the boil for anybody happening by who was wanting of a cuppy.

If you have yours to hand, then let’s go down to their place and touch the unknown. But before I go any further, I want to clarify something: what happened that night is in my opinion
unexplainable. Perhaps those who were there were controlling the messages that came through unconsciously. But what if the messages came through by themselves?

These séance nights were becoming quite fashionable in and around the small coastal villages during the time we lived in Macduff. I thought it sounded like fun, something different. Davie
and Uncle Joe were out to take the mickey, but Doreen—well, she had taken a more serious look at the prospect of raising the dead. Youngest sister Babsy came along to make up numbers.

Sister Renie, who by now had a steady boyfriend, offered to baby-sit. Her gentle manner and quiet beauty had captivated a handsome young fisherman, and he was soon more than a visitor. He swept
her into his own love net and she was caught, hook, line and sinker. They were later to marry and produce two lovely bairns, a boy and girl.

I remember setting foot in the big house that night. Darkness and a cold sea breeze had made Doreen close her curtains, giving the place a more enclosed feeling. Joe’s record player had
broken, it needed a needle, I think, but can’t quite remember. Anyway, there was a deathly quietness. That could have been for two further reasons. Doreen had not long since had their first
child, a bonny wee lassie who was sleeping soundly in a large Pedigree pram near the window; or perhaps she just wanted the proper atmosphere for our gathering!

On a large coffee table Doreen had arranged all the letters of the alphabet in a circle. Centred within the ring was a glass; not any special kind of glass, just a simple ordinary everyday one.
She held out a notepad and pencil and said, ‘who wants to write down the messages from the spirit?’ I took the job, yet I don’t know why.

Doreen instructed us to sit, this we did. Davie and Joe began laughing at how she was being so serious.

‘I happen to think there are as many unexplained things on this earth as there are explained ones,’ she said, raising her voice at their inability to control themselves.

Babsy agreed with her. Only sixteen was my wee sister, but sometimes she’d the mind of one far older.

Joe apologised to his wife, then said, ‘Sorry pet, now who are you going to crack tae the night? Henry the 8th might have a tale tae tell, ask him why he had it in for women. Maybe the
poor bugger wis a poof and didnae ken it.’ I told him homosexuality was rampant in those days, but not among kings; Royals would get a bad name if it was broadcast that they didn’t walk
the straight line.

‘Well, how about wee Harry Lauder tae give us a song?’ My uncle was in fits laughing by now, and Doreen was not pleased. Even I began laughing at the antics of Uncle Joe. Once again
she scolded him, ‘Look, Joe, if you’re not going to play the game, go and make a cup of tea.’

‘OK, I’ll stop. Now let’s get started.’ He promised to stop acting the clown. Davie didn’t want to annoy Doreen, so if he’d a joke to tell, he sat on it.

So there we were, then, all sitting in a circle, me with pencil and paper at the ready, Doreen, Joe, Davie and Babsy all with their fingers on the top of the glass.

‘Is there anybody there?’ enquired Doreen, in quivering tones.

Joe bit down on his lip, trying hard to be serious, but at Doreen’s second attempt in a more quivering voice than her first, he offered to make tea instead.

With him whistling about in the kitchen, we got down once more to reaching beyond the veil of life. Doreen took in a deep breath, as if willing a response from the glass, and said, louder this
time, ‘is there a spirit in this house?’

Suddenly, with all eyes on the glass, it moved very slowly. It seemed to be making up its mind whether or not to communicate with us, going from left to right, then stopping and moving again.
Doreen opened her mouth to repeat her request, but before she’d half a word formed on her lips, the glass, in a most determined fashion, shot up to YES.

Doreen gave a wee squeal, so did Babsy, while Davie pulled away his finger as if it had been burned. Joe came dashing from the kitchen to see what the commotion was.

‘Sit down, Joe, forget the tea,’ whispered Doreen.

‘Why, has King Henry decided tae crack?’

His wife peered inside the pram to check her sleeping infant and said, ‘we’ve made contact. Our visitor has arrived.’

Her words sent shivers up my arms, and I could feel the hair rising on them. She told me to write everything down. Tightly I held the pencil, notepad unsteadily settled on my shaking knees.

‘Who are you?’ she asked the unseen being, which had turned us all into zombies with staring eyes and white faces. At first, no answer brought a little relief, colour returned to
Babsy’s face.

Then, slowly but methodically, the glass came to life. I wrote down each letter to form these sentences: ‘
my name is Lyall this was my home I was a lawyer I do not want to be here why
are you doing this?
’

Joe’s eyes widened with sheer excitement. ‘What great fun. Ask the spirit questions, Doreen.’

‘I can’t do that Joe, I’ll not mock the dead.’

‘Oh, come on, what harm is there in asking it some questions? Will we win the football pools, ghosty? Or, let me think, how long is a piece o’ thread?’

There was no movement from the glass. After all, we were exhausted and the baby was stirring. Doreen picked her up and went into the kitchen for the bottle feed.

For an hour we drank tea and chatted, then, when baby had fallen back to sleep, Doreen asked us if we wanted to have one more go, giving Joe the sternest look to tell him to behave.

‘This is rubbish, Doreen,’ he told her, ‘it’s all done by your own control of the glass.’

‘Well, let’s see if your finger will make a difference.’ She bade him sit and take a place.

I felt unable to touch the thing and was happy to stick with my notepad.

‘Are you willing to talk with us, Lyall?’ was her next question into the void.

This time the glass shot violently towards the YES and back again to the centre. ‘That was a bloody quick response, this bugger fair fancies a crack,’ said Davie, who up to then had
been fairly quiet. Doreen looked at each of us and said, ‘who has a question for the spirit?’

Davie wondered if his dead brother was happy, and asked the spirit to speak with him. ‘
I am fine Mother isn’t well keep an eye on her
.’ I wrote without taking my eyes
off the board.

Davie went pale and removed his finger. Babsy asked after someone, but I can’t remember who. Doreen too asked to speak to some long-gone relative.