Tales from the Tent (15 page)

Jeannie hung her head, for she knew that if he accepted the truth then she had lost him. Still, better living without him than living with him always haunted by the past.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Embrace your father, son, for many years has he done without you. Come, Rosy, let us leave them to their joyous reunion.’ That said, she took
Rosy’s hand and stooped from the tent.

‘Father,’ said the young man, ‘I am unable tae think straight on these matters. Only I feel I must ask what ye would have me do.’

‘Son, my dear, dear son, you must leave this hovel and come home to your rightful place. I have a grand house where you shall live as intended, as a blue-blooded gentleman. Clothes of the
finest cloth shall you wear. Now say your farewells and let’s be away home. Oh, what a wondrous day indeed this is.’

Gordon knew that no matter what happened from then on, his dutiful place must be at his father’s side. He found Rosy and his mother standing sadly by the riverbank and told them what he
had to do. Rosy, unable to bear being without her man, ran off in floods of tears, but old Jeannie had suffered before and would do so again. ‘It’s glad I am that I cared for you, ma
laddie, because things have turned out fine. Now away with you, I’ll see tae Rosy.’

Now, nothing of material wealth was spared for Gordon, or should I say ‘the Honourable Gordon Riddle, son of the Provost of Hawick’. He wanted for nothing, but strangely, a rich
heart is not always a happy one. Something was missing. He knew what it was and told his dear father. ‘It’s my Rosy, father, ye see, me and her, we’re betrothed.’

‘Son, there is something you must understand, the gypsy has no rights. It matters perhaps to them if promises are kept and broken, but not to a gentleman like yourself. Now go and tell
her. Anyway, the broom yellows, soon they will have moved on—surely you know this.’

‘Aye, father, that I do.’ Gordon had duties now, the life of one who would soon run the Provost’s office, and he had to break with the past. Still, that did not mean it would
be easy. He found Rosy amongst the river reeds, singing a sad song. He heard the same pain in her voice as was in his heart. When she saw him, all her love and longing wrapped itself around his
broad chest as she clung desperately to him, kissing every inch of his face. ‘Oh Gordon my love, its been a while but I knew ye’d come back, I telt Mammy.’

Gordon pushed her gently from him and told her their love was impossible, they had to say farewell. Rosy ran off, unable to listen further, while he went to the campsite to say goodbye to
Jeannie and tell her he’d to lose Rosy.

‘Why dae ye have tae lose Rosy, son? Surely you two are as in love as the merle that sings tae its ain love in the dusky night.’

Gordon then went on to say his father would not allow the mixing of gypsy blood with his line. ‘Now, what makes you think a mixing would take place?’ she enquired impishly.

‘Mother Jeannie, what is it ye’re saying?’

‘Well, son, perhaps the guid Lord wishes me to disclose a final truth. Ye see many years a go a terrible wicked nursemaid was employed by Lord and Lady Uphall to take care of their new
baby, a girl. Now the maid got entangled wi’ a rogue who made her steal the baby, hide it, then ask a pretty sum for its safe return. Lord Uphall, though, was enraged to such an extent that,
before he knew where the baby was hid, he ran her through with his dirk. Every able body then set out to find the newborn child, but she was not found. It was around this time I was passing along
nearby, and as I passed a few wild rose bushes, did I not hear the weakest cry. When I parted the thorny branches, there was your beloved Rosy lying there minutes from death. Thankfully a nursing
lassie was on the green and gave the baby milk. Of course, as with yourself, if we, the dreaded gypsies, had taken the baby home, we would have been killed for even laying a finger on such a royal
child. No, son, it was take the baby and run as it was with you. So we called her Rosy because of where she was found. So go and find her and take her to Uphall with my blessing.’

So, reader, there you have it, except to say that the wedding of Lady Uphall took place shortly after that time to Gordon, the Honourable son of the Provost of Hawick. I would also like to add,
it was the only wedding of such high esteem that ever invited a band of roving gypsies as guests.

14

THE BORDER GYPSIES

W
ell, my friend, did you enjoy that age-old love story? It never fails to give me the greatest pleasure. But I’m forever a romantic. I was
asked not that long ago by the wonderful Robbie Shepherd of Radio Scotland, did I think our country held a romance for me? My answer was easy—‘Yes’. With its vast heather
moorlands, through which you can picture lovers running. The rolling waves of the west coast shoreline, where a parting forever takes place as sweethearts say farewell. One watches the little boat
fade into a sun-kissed horizon. Oh dear, there I go again, lost in my thoughts. But I’d better get back to the past. Where were we? Oh aye, among the Border gypsies.

The town of Melrose saw our next stop; well, a mile outside it in a wood that was regarded at that time as no-man’s-land, to be precise. Daddy was walking the talk with
the fancy motor amongst all the travelling men, and I’m sure he had a permanent sore head keeping it above his neck. Mammy never was a status follower because she had hawking to do. She asked
me to do the washing while she was gone. Now, it’s amazing, so it is, what one hears when bent-backit over a metal bath scrubbing dirty clothes.

Two old dears sat by their fire and had this conversation. It was about wars and foreigners and humour. It went like this: ‘I wonner why the Breetish aye beat thon French in a’ the
battlin’ they done the gither?’ said one.

‘Och, I ken fine well,’ answered the other wife, looking upwards towards the heavens. ‘It’s because afore going intae fechtin the Breetish say their prayers.’

‘Aye, but surely yon Frenchmen dae the same.’

The other lady thought for a minute, then said, ‘ach noo, lass, ah’m thinkin yer richt, but hoo wid the guid Lord unnerstaun yon French gibberin tongue?’

How indeed!

After I spent the morning washing and scrubbing I stood proudly back, watching my finished articles blowing in a north-westerly. Up and up they went, with gallons of water spraying into the
atmosphere from soaked cuffs, collars and towels. I must say there is a deep sense of satisfaction after slogging hard at a job (although it was damned hard avoiding the stinging blister popping up
on my knuckles), one that my washing machine of the present day has robbed me of (what a liar).

Still, unlike the lass in my next wee tale I could take laundry or leave it (preferably the latter). See what you think of this.

Travelling folks are no different from anybody else when it comes to ‘phobias’. Even though we live closer to the earth than many others there are still certain
things that can be seen as obsessive. Take the woman who is terrified of grass, she wears three pairs of socks under her wellies rather than risk touching it with her toes. Then there’s
Maggie Blains; she has a phobia to butterflies. Now I ask you, how can anyone be afraid of such beautiful creatures? Well, a relative informed me that the poor wife swallowed one in a piece of
bread and jam. The worse case I heard of was Tommy Macintyre, who sneezes for Scotland around trees, and him a woodcutter. Please!

Here is the lass I mentioned. Her phobia was of grimy earth, and her living in a tent of all places. This happened on my campsite that day. Like me she was washing her fingers into blistered
bubbles. And although it was a big moan for me, she wasn’t aware of them. Earlier her man had fixed a washing line between two sturdy oaks. All morning she sang happily, hanging one item
after the other until there was not so much as an inch left for a holy sock. Now, as it happens when men are busy, they don’t always do what their good lady asks them to do with certainty. In
this case it was the fixing of the washing rope. My fellow washerwoman’s line began to unfasten and slip from its tree. Without warning her spotless clean clothes slipped from the rope and
rose into the air. Up and away went socks, knickers, woolly waistcoats, babies’ nappies, headscarves, trousers, shirts. And the rest was gone before I could tell you what it was. The woman
let out the wildest scream I’d ever heard as she helplessly watched her newly laundered clothes join the hoodie crows gliding in the blue yonder. Inconsolable she was, as she lay prostrate on
the ground. When she eventually raised herself she stood up, pushed a fist to the heavens and said ‘God! God! Pairt me if ye must frae ma bonny bairnies, aye, even ma guid man. Take if ye
want the breeth frae ma body, but God in yer mercy dinna pairt me frae ma new-washed clean claithes!’

I swear that that wife, if she had had enough soap, would have removed the tent pegs and scrubbed her very abode. What a fixation with cleaning she had.

Just thought I’d share that with you, folks.

Thinking of my father showing off and bragging about the fancy car, here’s something else that might interest you. If you have ever been over the high road to Applecross, then you will be
well aware of its precipitous dangers. Those bends and almost vertical braes are, even with today’s technically advanced cars, a wild hazard. And many a nerve-wracked passenger has begged the
driver to stop just in case brakes might fail. Imagine what like it must have been some sixty-odd years ago, when the road had a mere scraping of coarse gravel on it. That would have been a
frightening journey for a goat, never mind a young man driving a big shiny black Buick.

Yes, if you’ve jumped ahead of me then you’re right enough. Daddy drove the first car over into Applecross. There are folks who will argue with me about this and say it was a Postie.
However it was in the coastal town I met the very policeman, now a very old man, who remembered welcoming my father as he drove in.

When Daddy jumped out of the car the whole village clapped and cheered. The bobby, who was all business-like, approached Daddy and enquired if he had a license to drive ‘this here
vehicle?’ When Daddy said ‘no, I don’t,’ then the policeman offered to sell him one!

What I noticed at this time more than I would ever have done before was the vast number of hunting dogs the Border gypsies had. We may have pulled onto four or more sites heading south, and
every family had at least six dogs apiece.

There were reasons why dogs were important to the traveller. The main ones were hunting for food and guarding. Another reason, and may I say one not to my taste, was for ‘sport’. But
no matter what the reasons, if a good dog was for being sold, then men could go on for days dealing and bargaining a price.

Our wee Tiny could rabbit and rat better than any ferret, but he was simply a family pet. If he missed his natural goal in life then he never let on, especially when Mammy filled his bowl with
cooked mince or some Lorne sausage.

Many travellers, however, took their dogs far more seriously than we did, and I know of a man who left his wife because she took a dislike to his lurcher.