Tales from the Tent (27 page)

‘I hate this place,’ protested Mother, over and over again, ‘I need to go home.’

‘This is home, my dear, now please try and be happy,’ begged her husband.

‘Why can’t she try harder?’ he thought, as he went outside to see what his seven-years-old daughter was doing.

Rosy didn’t mind the new life, in fact she was settling in fine. When she saw her father she ran to him breathless and grabbed his hand, saying, ‘Look, Daddy, over there by the hole
in the hedge—a huge rabbit, see it?’

‘That’s not a rabbit, my dear, that’s called a hare, and I must say I’m surprised it has come near, usually they stay upon the hillside. They’re afraid of humans,
you see.’

Wondering what was taking her family’s attention the mother went over. The moment she saw the hare a piercing scream came from her, ‘That’s a hare! Don’t look into its
eyes or it will entice you away, Rosy.’ Saying that, she grabbed the little girl’s arm and marched her into the house. Her husband followed, shaking his head in disbelief at the
senseless reaction from his wife to a harmless animal. ‘What is wrong with you, woman? Do you have to be so awful just because of our predicament? You know if I could afford to we’d be
living in the city. Oh, I’m off to fix the far side fence, don’t make my tea until I come back.’

Rosy didn’t hear her parents arguing, because lately that was all they did. No, she was staring out the window watching the big brown hare. As young as she was, she recognised there was
something wrong with the animal. ‘Mum, I think the bunny is hurt, look.’ But she didn’t look: instead she pulled her child away from the window and closed the curtains. Then, with
Rosy sulking in her room and her husband gone out, she recalled her old Granny’s stories of witches, crows, fairies and magic brown hares. ‘They possess a mystical power, and if parents
are not careful they will lose their babies to the magical hare who will take them away for the Devil.’ Yes, it may have been a long time ago, but she never forgot the terrifying tales. So
often as a child she would wake in sodden bedclothes, because of those fearsome visions stirring in her little head.

However, while deep in her own troubled thoughts, she failed to notice that her daughter had sneaked from the house. Imagine the panic spreading in her when she discovered she was gone.
‘Rosy, Rosy, come here this minute!’ she called, running from the house. She ran from one end of the garden to the other, but not a single sign of her precious child could she see. She
called out to her husband, but he too was nowhere to be seen. Tears filled her eyes, as the heart in her chest beat faster than it had ever done. ‘My baby has been stolen by the dark forces.
I knew it was a mistake to come here, I hate this place.’

Drying her eyes, she noticed a tiny hole in the hedge. ‘My baby, I must find my baby!’ She swiftly dropped onto her knees and pushed her body through the tiny opening. She searched
everywhere—behind trees, in bushes, under boulders; she even, in desperation, rammed her arms inside rabbit-burrows. Poor soul, the more she called and searched, the louder her heart beat,
bringing all her Granny said about the dark world closer. Then, as she glanced far off toward the horizon a tiny spark of hope appeared: Rosy’s navy blue dress, she saw it disappear under a
gorse bush. Quickly she got to the place and was on her knees staring into the thick undergrowth. There was her little girl, and at her side, breathing heavily, was the hare! ‘Rosy, my love,
I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Mummy, please help my friend. She is bleeding, I think she might die.’

The young mother froze. Her Granny told her that hares sometimes pretended to be hurt just to gain the trust of their prey. ‘Don’t go near that creature, come home this
instant!’

She pulled at Rosy’s sleeve, but her child refused to abandon the injured animal and broke free, diving further into the bushes. Then the child saw why the hare needed her help.
‘Look, Mummy, come in here and see.’

She leaned down and there, tangled up in ferocious barbed wire, lay the whimpering body of a baby hare!

‘Stay with it, dear, I’ll go home and get Daddy’s cutters.’ She felt an absolute fool for putting herself into a state of blind panic over a childhood story. When she
returned she hardly noticed the mother hare had gone. Soon the tiny bundle was suckling hungrily on spoonfuls of warmed milk and within two weeks it was back outside munching on moist grass.

After that the couple put all worries behind them and felt as if they had always lived in the countryside. Little Rosy was born for the wild open spaces and grew strong and healthy. And
according to my Daddy she spent many happy days playing up on the high hills surrounded by big brown hares with cleft top lips and long pointed ears.

Talking about babies made me think on my father’s words back at the berries, when he disclosed I would never have any, and although I’d put this out of my mind at the time I
won’t say it didn’t come into my head now and again. Especially when those blasted hormones took the contents of my brain and scrambled them up like fluffy eggs. I just had to speak to
Mammy and see if they were both in agreement about the road my future was to travel. Later that night, as we took our last private stroll of the day, I asked her. This was our conversation.

‘Mammy dear, Daddy told me never to go with men.’

‘Why, in heaven’s name, should he say such a thing?’

‘He said I’m the one to look out for the baith of ye when you’re too old to see to yourselves.’

‘I’m sure we can do that ourselves, pet.’

‘But what if the brain goes or the legs, or, oh, I don’t know, Mammy, but he said that it was final. Although I cannae see a problem, because it would make life easier for me. I
couldn’t be bothered by arguing with men and cooking for a dozen weans and a’ that kind o’ stuff, but I would like the choice.’

‘You don’t know what the good Lord has planned for you, Jessie.’

‘But Daddy said, and I have to obey him.’

‘Listen to me, pet, and keep stushie on this, because it’s between me and you, right?’

‘O.K., Mammy.’

‘Now, how do you think Daddy’s lungs are coping with all the spray-painting, given as the bugger never wears a mask? You know as well as anybody how the coughing fits come on him
during the winter, and the doctor sees mair of him than us. Daddy will not last, Jessie, he knows that. It’s me he’s thinking of.’

‘Why, mother, you’re fitter than a young wife wi’ a back loaded wi’ the siller herrin’.’

‘He doesn’t want to leave me on my own, Jessie. When he told you that about being the “carer”, he really meant being my companion after he’s gone, now that’s
the truth.’

‘Oh God, Mammy, surely there’s a lot o’ spunk in the old divil yet!’

‘Maybe aye, and maybe no, but one thing I’m certain of, my bonny wee lassie, is, if a laddie takes yer fancy and he’s made o’ the right stuff, then go for him. I’ll
see to myself.’

‘Listen to me, now, Mother dear, because I make this solemn promise; whether I marry or not, even if I have a dozen weans, I’ll be there with your last breath.’

It was as if a mountain had been lifted off my young shoulders. Honest, reader, if you’re young like I was and have problems, and if you have a mother, then share them
with her. What a great tonic.

28

A WARM NIGHT

T
hat day while we slowly ventured along the narrow coastal roads of Sutherland I remembered a time far back in my past when we lived in our bus.
None of the older girls had married, so we were a happy crowd of travellers without a care. Or so I thought. I know some people believe that each of us has a guardian angel, while others believe we
are contacted in other ways. I am certain my guardian came to me one night while I slept and gave me a dream. See what you think.

Being Scottish travellers in the fifties could be hard going. For a start, unless you were wanted by local farmers to spend back-breaking days in their fields working the land, there
weren’t many places to pull on to. Landowners got a mite stroppy as well, and on many a night we were forced from our beds to pack up and move on. But that was before the Bus. Once Daddy
purchased our state-of-the-art mobile home we were on the luxury level, as travellers go that is. He’d been gifted with two good hands, had our Dad, and could master everything from electrics
to joinery, although his expertise fell short of plumbing. Well, there was not much room for a lavatory, especially one to accommodate eight females, four older than I and three younger.

Toilet was a walk of privacy to where no eyes could pry. We dug the ground and then covered it over, so nothing was left above to soil or spoil Mother Nature’s painting.

So there we were, then, on the road, in our completely renovated bus with beds, carpet, cupboards and the heart of every home—Wee Reekie, the stove. A rounded three-legged glowing fire,
for cooking in summer and heating in winter. Reekie was bolted to the floor, positioned behind the driving seat and partitioned off by sheets of asbestos. Of course no one knew the dangers to
one’s health from this material at the time, and it is thanks be to God we were none the worse. Mammy cooked everything on that wee stove, which resembled Queen Victoria when she was old and
fat.

The day was into its gloaming when Daddy called back to us that a wood-end was nearby. ‘We’ll stop here,’ he said, as the end of the giant fir forest came in sight. Branches of
thick spruce grabbed the last of the sun’s rays, scattering them in every direction. The last sliver of sunshine fell upon the moss-carpeted forest floor while we rushed about gathering as
many thick sticks as our arms could encircle before the dreaded midges began to bite. Soon our fire had a heart of spewing blue smoke and orange flames. Mammy took no time in finding a burn and
filled the kettle from its wimpling stream of peat-water. Within a short while we were eating ham pieces washed down with milky tea, finished with a chunk of her ‘clootie dumpling’. The
older girls went off to do what one does in the privacy of trees. Meanwhile my young sisters and I hastily washed off the day’s grime in the meandering burn. Mammy tucked us into bed, said a
short prayer and warned us that there was no wind, so we should keep the windows shut or else midges would render sleep impossible. That night, though, it wasn’t the dreaded midge which
surrounded our vulnerable abode but something far more sinister. Something so frightening, that even to this very day hair I never knew I had rises on the nape of my neck.

My older sisters went to bed sickened by the constant nipping of Scotland’s cursed mosquito and Mammy followed. Then, after making the fire safe, Daddy pulled the bus door shut and he too
called it a day.

The night was clammy. Our bodies became sticky as if we were coated in glue. Uncomfortable and unable to sleep, I pushed back the quilt, making sure not to wake my little siblings, and tiptoed
down to the front of the bus, staring out at a pitch dark wall of trees.

As I stared into the forest my eyes soon became accustomed to the depth of night, and bit by bit things began emerging from its midst. Moonbeams pushed through the high trees. A small roe deer
sniffed the air, then dashed off, followed by its sleek shadow. On a hanging branch a hoolit (owl) stretched her wings, then glided up into the sky, only to dive at some poor unsuspecting crawly
and end its tiny life. Like the ever-turning light of a solitary lighthouse my head went from window to window, taking in all that the night had to offer. It was through the little window above my
parents’ bed that something caught my eye. A movement at the dying embers of our fire had me hold my breath. I very gently stretched my body over to peer out. Whatever was out there
wasn’t going away. I stared and could just make out the outline of a man who was stirring up the ashes with a stick. He piled fresh wood into the flames, allowing me to see his thickset body
and unwashed bearded face.