Tales from the Tent (25 page)

What better place, then, to finish life’s journey, than with those folks who never closed a shutter or locked a door? Only Death himself knew why.

However, in the cold reality of Death, who does his business then goes, thon visitors were always lacking a penny to fill a pocket. So without question their demise and disposal became the
responsibility of the three men: Doctor Macpherson to state time of death, Father Padraig O’ Duffus to give God’s blessings and old Wull to fit them with a coffin coat and find a spot
for them beneath the earth.

Let’s leave the lads to their enjoyment for five minutes, reader, and see the housekeeper Mrs Macallister arriving home a day early; and, by googily golly, it’s as well she does!

‘No doubt the place will be like a bomb hit it,’ she says to herself as she scuttles up towards the manse door, knowing a sinkful of dishes and floors covered with dust will meet
her. A sideways glance at the half-opened curtains made her cringe. However, she was well aware that this was the day of Wull’s retirement, and that a certain threesome would be tucked under
the graveyard supping away, so at least she’d be left in peace to get on with her housework.

Coats draped themselves over chair-backs, while a pair of welly boots lay discarded where the priest had left them. A bladderful cat dashed between her open legs to disappear in a puddle of
bliss. As she rushed through to a usually spotless kitchen, removing her neat black coat at the same time, the sight she saw filled her Irish heart with fury. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea
before I start this pile of greasy-coated grime,’ she thought, then went back to the hall to hang up her coat, muttering under her breath, ‘how in God’s name does this excuse for
a holy man think heaven’s gates will open for him? Surely the Recording Angel will have filled half the book with him alone. What a lazy, gambling, liquor-loving...’ suddenly she
noticed, lying among unopened mail on the hall table, a rather rich-looking beige-coloured envelope. Instantly, with trembling hands, she lifted it. Edged in black it was—and not just black
paper but cloth—velvet!

‘Oh my, I don’t like the look of this, better let himself see it.’ Now, although Padraig feared his housekeeper to a degree, one thing he’d never allow her to do was
enter his Crypt. She knew this, but there was something powerful about this letter, something mighty important; she had to risk it. Clenching it in a knuckle-tight grip, she made her way towards
the priest’s leisure hole, blessing herself at the passing of each gravestone.

‘Father, are ye down there? I’m coming in whether it pleases the three of ye or not, I’ve a letter.’

‘Quick lads, hide the whisky, it’s Macallister home early! What the hell, woman, ye know Wull here is parting with his tools and shovels. Can’t we ask for a bit peace from your
prying nose?’

‘Never you mind my nose, here, take a look at that, it might be from the Bishop or some one in a position, here, take it.’ She shoved the envelope into his hands, then sat down on a
cold slab stone, rising immediately when aware of what lay beneath it.

‘Och, it’s only a funeral letter, you open it and stop panicking, then away and see tae the hoose. I thought the cat was half ways down yer throat there for a minute, wi’ the
noise out of ye, woman!’

Mrs Macallister had a feeling, and nothing under the sun would shift it until she knew what the envelope held. ‘Feel the paper, Father, it’s thick and silk-like, and look here at the
edges, they’re velvet black. I tell you, man, whoever sent it has a wealthy way o’ doing. Please, Father, open the thing before I go mad.’

Padraig thought to himself, as he took the letter and opened it, that his old housekeeper was already there, but he was too much the gentleman to tell her.

‘I can’t read the blasted thing, it’s in a fine waving scroll and I don’t have my glasses anyroad.’ He handed it to Wull, who said he’d never the need of
writing and reading, and passed it to Peter.

The doctor slipped two fingers into his shirt pocket; retrieved thin-rimmed spectacles, popped them on his nose tip, took a deep breath and began to read.

Mrs Macallister wiped a tear from her eye as she did when hearing of the departed, then said, ‘ah well, that’s alright then.’

‘Alright! Alright! How can it be alright, woman? Are you thinking straight? This is Thursday—they’re coming tomorrow!’ Padraig had never sobered up so quickly before.

Peter reassured him by saying they’d get everything ready and told him not to panic so much.

However the old priest looked across at the retiring undertaker/gravedigger, who had gone very pale, and said, ‘Wull, will you tell them or will I?’

Old Wull shook his head and said, ‘There’s not an inch left in the graveyard for a toad, never mind a Duke, the bloody place is full up.’

‘Holy Mother of God, we’re all finished when this gets out that Collbrae refused to bury a Duke because it was full to bursting with tinkers and tramps. Give me a drink o’ that
firewater before I have a heart attack.’ Mrs Macallister helped herself to a cupful, not realising the power it held. Instantly she started choking, and if Peter hadn’t brought his
fists hard down between her shoulder-blades then it would have been two funerals instead of one they’d be worried about. Finding her breath returned, she began a hysterical tirade of curses.
‘We’ll be plagued by boils and beetles, God will surely send the locusts and frogs! Oh my, what a terrible day for us all—we are doomed, doomed I tell you!’ Peter, thinking
the only way to shut her up was another swig, filled a cup, held her nose and instantly poured it down. Her face turned red, then blue, and it was decided to let her find her own breath this
time.

The threesome had to think of a plan, and fast.

‘Mrs Baird has the only available plot. If we ask her, aye, even pay her, surely she’ll allow a Duke a burial.’ By plot, the good doctor meant her rose and azalea garden.

Padraig shook his head, ‘no, no, lad, thon woman swears her ancestors fought and died alongside the “White Cockade”—she’d set fire to the Duke in his coffin before
she’d allow an Englishman to rest within a hundred miles, never mind right outside her kitchen window.’

As a doctor it was supposed he was more of an authority, so Padraig and Wull turned to Peter.

‘What we have to do is get her away for the day and help ourselves to the garden. I’m sure the village can get heads together to come up with a plan,’ said Peter, glancing with
concern at Mrs Mac, who was laying on a stone slab singing the Londonderry Air, with two eyes focussed on the point of her nose.

Wull said that his replacement to be, young Skiff Smith, had a way of charming women, and might be able to persuade her to visit her sister over on Millintroch Island. ‘He’s got a
good excuse he can use,’ sniggered Wull, ‘the Ferryman brought news that she’s sick.’

‘How can he do that, then, Wull? She’s as sharp as a fish-knife and hates all men.’

The gravedigger’s eyes twinkled: ‘I’ve been informed by the lassies that Skiff can charm the whelk from its shell. I’ll go and fetch him.’

Mrs Macallister sobered fairly quickly and dashed off in clouds of embarrassment to scour the manse with bleach, broom and boiling soapy water. She was more concerned about the Bishop than the
Duchess, and feared for her job.

Soon the secret chamber was filling with the hardy folk of Collbrae, determined to bury a Duke and be the envy of the West Coast. Along with young Skiff there was Angus and Malky, two hardy
creel fishermen, Dod the polisman, Mrs Mackinley the village postmistress, Big Annie, herself a one-woman telephone exchange, Jock and Jenny who ran the pub, and plenty more besides.

After toasting the plan to bury His Grandness the Duke of Downchester, every hand set about preparing Collbrae for its VIPs. But everything depended on Skiff charming a certain crabbit old woman
from her hard shell.

Young Skiff, with hands behind his back and fingers crossed, began his part of the plan.

‘Mrs Baird, the ferryman has brought bad news from Millintroch. It’s your dear sister, she’s fallen with a sickness.’

‘My sister Phemie? Ill, ye say? She’s niver had a day’s sickness in her life, and how wid thon big useless ferryman ken?’

‘Oh, Mrs Baird, I heard him say she had been gathering in the sheep when the poor soul keeled over. Everybody from one end of the island to tither is thinking she might not make the morn.
Please come now, just in case. Look, if ye want I’ll come with you, hold yer hand if ye want.’ Skiff held out a hand and softly touched her arm and waited. For ages she stared at him
with those wee, sea-green eyes.

His stomach was turning somersaults, and for a moment he thought she didn’t believe him, when at last she lowered her gaze and said, ‘I’ll fetch my coat an’ lock the
door. You can stay here, young Skiff. I’ve reached this age without help from men, I’m sure I can manage. Now, is thon ferryman sober?’

Yes he was, and thank God she didn’t need Skiff, because there were more important things needing done. Still, it was best he see her well and truly off the peninsula, so he escorted the
wee green-fingered lady away, making doubly sure with the ferryman that he’d been paid enough. There was a sound reason for paying him, because before an oar went to water on the return
journey, the bold lad would surely spend every penny in Millintroch pub, and he would need a day to sober up.

With her well and truly out of the way, the hardy villagers, working under makeshift lights, demolished Mrs Baird’s garden wall. Every plant and bush was replanted in and around granite
and marble gravestones. On and on through the night they toiled, stopping now and then to sup from that handy, never-ending supply of home-brew.

A bright orange dawn saw them gathered to eye their hard work. Yes, it looked just like a quiet, tenderly cared-for resting-place, just the kind of graveyard to lay a Duke in. Would all go well?
According to Mrs Macallister the Bishop would have no complaints, even the cat was gleaming. Yes, it might just work. What about Mrs Baird, however, when she arrived home to find His
Grandness’ grave inches from her kitchen window? Well, by the time she was due back, the villagers hoped to relocate the Duke, rebuild her wall, and re-plant the flowers back in their own wee
resting holes.

So after a quick spruce up, combs through hair, black garments put on, they lined up on the quayside and waited. Peter felt his pulse to see how much faster it was pumping. Wull wiped the sweat
that was building up between his fingers and hoped the shovel wouldn’t slip, thanking the Almighty them grand undertakers in Glasgow had got the Duke ready for burial. Finally Padraig, well,
if his throat dried up then it wasn’t for the want of lubricating.

Skiff stood out on the point, watching and waiting for the royal barge. Suddenly his signalling whistle sent them all rigid; the royal barge was sailing round by Dougal’s cave and would
soon be upon them.

‘Well now, would ye tak a look at that,’ whispered somebody. Every eye was on the black-bedecked sailing vessel, long and narrow, with all manner of dignitaries lined upon its decks.
The bishop stood alongside a tall veiled lady dressed in the finest fox-furred coat. She raised her head and nodded to the villagers, then lowered it again. The funeral boat gently docked.
Peter’s pulse was visibly leaping beneath his collar, while Wull had a permanent wet streak down the side of his jacket. Padraig began clearing a nervous throat, as everybody uttered a silent
prayer.

The hearse carriage led by four regal greys had arrived in the village an hour earlier and was waiting. Six large gentlemen carried the Duke’s oak coffin, adorned with brass handles and
gold-threaded tassels, off the boat and onto the hearse. The sun slipped behind some clouds and the faintest smir of sea mist added to the heavy atmosphere funerals can bring with them.

It was only a few hundred yards to the graveyard gates, and soon all were in their places. Wull had done a grand job as usual—six feet deep, eight feet long and three wide. He thought of
the times he’d dug that familiar trench, his ‘masterpiece’, with his lasting thought always, ‘ye’ll no git oot o’ that so easy.’

The women folk had done a fine job arranging Mrs Baird’s flowers. Yes, all was going to plan. The Duke’s coffin was lowered; a single rose was gently placed on it, then he was
settled into his place for eternity. Padraig said the usual blessings under scrutiny of the bishop’s gaze.

All seemed to go well. Peter winked at Wull, he in turn winked at Padraig.

Then, just as the sun pushed aside the ribbons of greyish clouds, a crack began to appear around the shiny black shoes of the mourners. Two granite headstones headed in slow motion towards each
other, then rested with their points together. There was another crack, and more headstones began to wobble as several faint-hearted guests took to their frightened heels like hounded hares. Then
it happened: without any further warning the earth, including the plot containing the Duke’s coffin gave way. Now, the villagers knew exactly why this catastrophic event was happening, but to
the Duchess, the Bishop and friends it was as if hell had invited them in. Down went the Bishop, up went his frock. Down went the fox-furred Duchess, followed by guest after screaming guest. You
see, during all the previous night’s digging and preparations, no one had taken stock of what couried beneath the ground.