Tales from the Tent (32 page)

W
hen I read about Crieff in bonny Perthshire it is mostly described in terms of tourism. Fair enough—a fine picture is painted, and justly
so. But when I think of this little town nestling in the foothills of the Grampian mountains I see the whole face of Scottish history being changed, or how it would have done if the folks who used
to live here took a different route. Why? Well if you’ve a cuppy, then sit yourself down and listen to this.

After the great upheaval of the Reformation, France and the Stuarts had one great plan between them: to seek the throne of England. If it was in their hands then Rome could claw back her
Catholic states, which were disappearing daily.

Prince Charles Edward Stuart (who my friend Mac didn’t believe was monarch of anywhere) was their last hope. Aided by France, he tried to land an army of French soldiers in England in
1744, but his fleet was lost at sea during a storm.

The next year, 1745, France could no longer render military aid to Charles, so with only seven men he landed on a small island on the west coast of Scotland.

He certainly was an able lad, however, for by August he’d collected a large army of mainly Highland clansmen. He made for Perth, then Edinburgh, and while there, proclaimed himself King at
the Market Cross. On 21 September he attacked Sir John Cope at Prestonpans, and quickly cut through his army, leaving them fleeing from the field of battle. Triumphantly he marched on, taking
recruits as he went, and soon his army consisted of 6,000 men. After defeating Cope, Charles marched on to England, reaching Derby without opposition. He’d heard many places were still strong
in Jacobitism. But to his great disappointment he found that his support was weak, and to proceed any further south would have been folly. Anyway, word reached him that the Government had
dispatched two armies, one on either side of the line of his advance, while a third was retained to defend London. There was nothing for it, then, but to retreat to Scotland.

The Jacobites and the Covenanters had been locked in combat for many a year, so the banner of the Stuarts found little support in the lowlands of Scotland. Still, it is a well-documented fact
that there were still a great many in the west willing to die for Charles’s flag, and by the time he reached Glasgow his army numbered 9,000.

General Hawley with the English army had followed up Charles’s retreat until he arrived at Falkirk. Here both armies met on 23 January 1746, where the English suffered defeat.

This is where I bring bold Charlie to Crieff. It was on his arrival here that he quartered his troops upon the hardy folks of the town. He also had the southmost arch of the bridge over the
river Earn destroyed, in order to impede the advance of the English army. There is no record as to the length of time he stayed in Crieff, but what is well known is that he was not a welcome
visitor. As it happens the Crieffites had long since changed their beliefs to that of the Presbyterian faith. They regarded Jacobitism as a thing to be detested and opposed.

He had loyalty in Strathearn, though, especially among the landed gentry. He sat in the Auld Hoose o’ Gask where the old lady cut off a piece of his hair, an incident still sung about in
folk circles today.

It is known that Charlie sent most of his men north by way of the Sma’ Glen and Highland roads, while he sat at a window in the Drummond Arms Hotel in James Square until he saw the first
of the Duke of Cumberland’s men descending by the old Muthill road. He then ordered his horse and left to spend the night in Ferntower House. Its ruins still stand today on the edge of Crieff
Golf Course.

The Duke did not follow the Pretender’s army through the wild treacherous roads they had taken, but preferred to take a safer route by Perth and the East coast to Aberdeen. He then turned
towards Inverness, where both armies met on Culloden Moor. There Jacobitism was utterly destroyed.

Lord Perth of Drummond Castle was a true friend who risked and lost everything for Bonnie Prince Charlie. But neither he nor any of the other local landed gentry could now offer much support or
assistance to the Pretender. Only two or three recruits went along with Lord Perth to stand by the banner of the Stewarts on Culloden. After the defeat, for his act of high treason, a great price
was put on his life.

He tried however to muster as many of his estate workers as he could. One local story tells of twin brothers, aged only thirteen years, who disobeyed their parents and tried to follow Charlie.
Fearing their lives would be lost in battle, their father and relatives tied them to a strong oak tree down by the Earn’s bank. It is where the river dips before reaching Powmill. Sadly,
after a terrific thunderstorm, the river rose and burst its banks, drowning the boys.

The estates of Drummond fell into the hands of the Government, which appointed a local factor by the name of Campbell who owned some land in Argyllshire.

Instead of Lord Perth it was a Captain Drummond who belonged to a collateral branch of the family who was considered worthy of recognition by the Government because of his services to Britain
during the American War of Independence, and so to him went the estate of Drummond and the Castle.

Captain Drummond had a male heir, but sadly he died in childhood of the croup. The story goes that the baby’s nursemaid, an elderly woman by the name of Mary Moir, who lived in King
Street, took the infant up onto Turleum Hill to cure it. It was believed the top of Turleum had healing properties, and she sat all night with the child hoping to save his life.

Captain Drummond had another child, known as Miss Drummond of Perth. This young lady married Lord Willoughby de Eresby. Both lived in London, visiting the Castle once a year. Their name still
holds the seat to this present day.

Now do you see what I mean by the course of history being changed?

If the people of Crieff had not embraced Presbyteranism but had clung to the hand of the old faith, then Charlie would have found many more thousands throughout Strathearn to take on the
Duke’s army at Inverness.

So then reader, what do you think of this?

Crieff rejected a Royal Prince, yet accepted a wee Scottish nomadic lassie—me!

Just like the drovers who came to Crieff hundreds of years before, eager to make enough money to see them through the long, bitter Scottish winter ahead, so came the
‘tattie howkers’. Clans of Macallisters, Reids, Macphees, Macdonalds, Burns, Johnstones, Rileys, Stewarts, Donaldsons, MacKenzies, Williamsons, MacLarens, Shaws, Douglases, Patersons,
Robertsons, Browns, Whytes and many more descended upon Crieff.

In this little town nestling at the mouth of the Highlands, the traditions of an age-old culture flourished. If during the summer one failed to pass roads with relatives then a certainty was
that all would meet at the tatties. Field after field, mile after brown mile, farmers grew and grew potatoes until not an inch but had a shaw protruding from the earth. The potato may be a humble
part of our diet, but here in Crieff it was the agricultural backbone that brought prosperity to the whole Strathearn valley. And it was to my folks, the lowly travellers, that a great deal of
thanks is due, because they converged in their thousands to harvest the tatties and make landowners and farmers rich.

Ask the farmers and see if they agree with me, of course they do. It was many a furrowed brow they had if their usual tribe failed to appear on time.

So here I am then, reader, in Crieff at tattie time. We found a proper site with toilets and washie house, which pleased Mammy no end. Daddy was still painting, but back on the fags. My sister
Babsy went to the very same school I went to the last time we lived here. Renie and Mary went to the tatties. Cousin Nicky joined us for the tatties along with Mammy’s brother, Mattie’s
son of the same name.

The site, named Arnbro, was built near the ruins of a prisoner-of-war camp halfway along the Broich road; it is still there today, run by the same family.

My older sister Chrissie, who was married to a Crieff lad, lived on the site, and having them there with their two boys was sheer joy for my parents. Now and again Janey came to visit with her
lot, and soon the family were happy and content.

When the tatties finished, Nicky and Mattie drifted off home, and Renie and Mary started working in local shops. I felt the need to head off some place for the winter, so saying my farewells to
everybody I set off, with battered brown suitcase in hand.

I spent a week here and there with cousins, aunts and, latterly, sister Shirley, with the wanderlust still strong in my legs.

I hardly gave my folks a thought, when out of the blue came a letter from Chrissie that Mammy had fallen and hurt her back.

Her being ill had me heading back to Crieff. Poor soul, she’d fallen on the concrete step at the washie, and slipped discs in her back so severely she’d been hospitalised.

Before going down the road to Arnbro I had to pop into the Cottage Hospital to see her. When I asked how she was faring, she said, ‘stiff as a board—and see that old woman over
there, if she doesn’t stop shouting at the poor nurses I’ll throttle her myself.’

Although her back was a hindrance, there was nothing wrong with her spirits, thank heavens.

Painful days lay ahead, but without doubt she felt much better seeing me, she knew as long as I was there Daddy would get his soup (only I made it like her), and I could keep a check on his
smoking.

This after all was my purpose in life, to care for my parents. Funny, though, I didn’t think I’d be doing it this early.

Mammy received a bit of bad news from the doctor, who told her she’d be in hospital for six weeks. Being away from us for this length of time fair knocked her into a right mood. I’d
intended to tell her that Daddy’s cough sounded more like a barking dog, as the fags were chained to his lungs, but thought she had enough to worry about. Instead I took it upon myself to
make a doctor’s appointment for him. He shouted and protested, but when I said I’d tell Mammy about the coughing, he reluctantly went. This time the doctor let him have it. He left the
surgery drained of all colour, came home and threw a twenty packet of fags into the fire.

‘Well, Da, what made you do that?’ I asked.

‘Yon doctor wi’ the rid hair, Dr Lindsay, telt me tae stop spraying and smoking—if not, then my lungs will cease to work in the space of a few years!’ Poor Daddy, we all
knew that farmers had no use for a mole-catcher or rabbit-trapper, and rags fetched a mere pittance. So what would he do, how could he provide for his family?

Everybody believed him to be missing Mammy, and yes he was, but only I knew why he was so down after that.

I tried my best to cheer him up by saying that Renie and Mary could share their wages and I’d get a job. ‘That might be all right, lassie,’ he told me, ‘but a man needs
his money. What good is the head of a family without a shilling in his pocket?’

Six weeks went past, and Mammy was home. What a happy caravan we had, filled with her smell, that fresh ‘lily-of-the-valley’ toilet water she wore seemed to lift our spirits, it even
cheered Daddy up. I thought the better of telling her of his doctor’s visit. After all, his cough had cleared up considerably, and the fag withdrawal symptoms had subsided.

One Saturday Mammy received a letter to say her sister-in-law was coming to visit. I remember the panic when she realised there wasn’t enough tea, sugar or biscuits. I told her not to get
so flustered, I’d go and get some at Wooller’s shop in King Street. As I left the shop I accidentally put my toe in a box of vegetables and tripped, sending messages flying in all
directions. When I leant down to retrieve them, a young lad gave me a hand. I was so embarrassed I hardly noticed what I’d dropped.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘a packet of sweetmeal biscuits for a sweet wee lassie.’

God, did my face burn or not? You bet, what a beamer. ‘Thanks,’ was all that came from a half-closed mouth, as I turned and ran off feeling like a right eejit.

Approaching Arnbro gates I heard a voice calling behind me and looked back, it was him holding up a bag. ‘You forgot the sugar, you must be far too sweet then.’

There was no need of me going red because I still was, my cheeks shining like toffee apples.

‘What’s yer name?’ He was holding out a hand, long fingers with a bluebird tattoo. I touched his hand and drew back, remembering my spinster’s role in life and said,
‘Jessie, what’s yours?’

‘I’m David to my mother, Spook to my mates, but you can call me Davey.’

‘I can understand the David and Davey, but Spook?’

‘Oh, I used to be a milkboy and when I used to get into school from my rounds with a pale face and my hair blown stiff with the wind, a certain teacher began calling me
“Spook”, as in ghost.’

Then with two hands pushed into jean pockets he turned and sauntered up the road. ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he shouted back, then added, ‘that’s a promise.’

That night, as my relatives blethered about everyone and everything, I didn’t hear them. My mind was filled with the fair-haired lad who’d followed me home with a bag of sugar in his
bluebird-tattooed hand. It would be several weeks before we met again, and not for one minute did he leave my thoughts.