Tales from the Tent (13 page)

That was just another tale from traveller folklore for you, reader, and I hope you enjoyed it. Most of the ancient stories were told as moralistic warnings, to teach travelling
bairns the ways of right and wrong. It was a great way to learn, I thought, and better than shouting the rules at little ones. A story would remain in a child’s head long after a shout or
slap had lost its meaning.

12

THE BLACK PEARL

W
hen we got back to the campsite between Menmuir and Montrose, Daddy was having a crack with some lads who were passing by; travellers, they were,
and I believe related to the Stewarts of Blair. Grand men, and they told me (when I nosed at what they did) that they were ‘pearl fishers’. After a cuppy one showed me a wee silver
snuffbox. I gently peeped inside the opened box to see, nestling in cotton-wool, three of the largest pearls I had ever been privileged to see. Beauties!

With this in mind I now share an ancient folk-tale with you, and I do hope it’s to your liking. Here, then, reader, is the story of The Black Pearl.

As you wander up the road towards Glen Turret you will come to a small waterworks sub-station that overlooks a deep ravine. Stop awhile and glance over to your left. Do you see a castle
surrounded by high walls, with two massive pillars upholding heavy oak gates? No! Well, if you’d taken the same route several hundred years ago, then you would certainly have seen such an
ominous building.
¹
The castle was home to Toshach, early chief of the Macintosh Clan. And an evil man was he!

Toshach was known the countrywide for his wickedness towards his neighbours. He would rather cut off their hand than take it in friendship. Although he was only twenty-five years in age and of
handsome features, no father would offer his daughter’s hand in marriage to such a fiend. So one day, Toshach, raging with the want of a wife to breed him sons, stole a pretty country girl
from her duty of gathering in the flax. Her parents tried to save her being carried off and forfeited their lives in the attempt.

Unknown to Toshach, however, was the fact that the pretty maid had previously been promised to a pearl fisher from the Earnside. Between Templemill and Strathgeath flowed a precious oyster burn
with beds thick with pearls. It was there he lived, preparing the cottage for his soon-to-be-bride.

Now, when the pearl fisher discovered that the tyrant of Turret had carried off his beloved, he turned to the Fairies for help.

‘Do I live my life with my beautiful Meera, or will she be lost forever to Toshach?’ he asked the invisible fairies, whom he believed danced upon the mussel shells and turned their
pearls to silver. They answered by telling him to leave a handful of pearls lying on the grass overnight, as was the way. Now, if in the morning the pearls had been strung together, he would know
that Meera would be his. If, on the other hand, the pearls were scattered, then that meant she would be lost to him forever. Needless to say the poor lad had a sleepless night ahead of him.

Meanwhile, back at the castle, Toshach’s cousin Bregha, who had always thought he would choose her as his bride, was fuming with anger at the vision of loveliness who had stolen her
chances away. She had to find a way of discrediting Meera in Toshach’s eyes.

On the coming of the next dawn the pearl fisher found to his great satisfaction that the fairies had strung the pearls together—but one of them was black. He knew only too well what this
signified: his beloved would be disfigured, afflicted in some way.

Never matter, he would love and protect her whatever the affliction. What was more important was, how was he to rescue her?

The castle walls were impenetrable; water cascaded from great heights by either entrance to the place. There seemed no way in. Nevertheless he had to try, so that morning he set off. On
approaching the giant pillars at the lower end, he was met by two fierce guards. Finding himself without an explanation to give, a gentle whisper in his ear told him what to do—‘give
the pearls to the chief’s new bride-to-be as a wedding present.’ This he did, before swiftly walking away.

The guards took the gift intended for the girl and gave it to Bregha, who saw an opportunity in this gift to discredit Toshach’s choice of bride.

‘Look,’ she told him, holding the pearls, ‘see, your beloved has chosen a husband already. He brought her favourite jewels for her to wear; she is unclean.’

When he heard those words anger grew within him, and he screamed at his own stupidity for choosing an unclean thing.

‘Take her to the dungeon, I shall slit her throat in the morning,’ he ordered his guard.

Bregha was overjoyed by this turn of events, and instructed the servants to serve their master a supper of venison and mead.

That night after both had feasted and were asleep in each other’s arms, the fairies set to work rescuing the maiden from the dark deep dungeons. Loosing her shackles, they hurried Meera
away out of the castle by a concealed underground passage which was entered through a cave opposite the Turret Falls and reappeared beneath the Barvick Falls.

The moment she fell into her beloved’s arms the thunderous roar of an earth tremor shook the ground beneath their feet. The castle of Toshach and all that lived therein were destroyed.

The significance of the black pearl was soon apparent, as the fairies removed the girl’s sight—no one had ever seen the fairies as she had done and lived to tell of it. But she had
suffered enough, so they took her sight instead of her life. The love between the girl and the pearl-fisher was stronger than ever, and he became her eyes.

The souls of Toshach and his evil cousin Bregha were given over to the Boorak spirits of the forest, and to this day there are two trees in the wood that have an uncanny resemblance to a man and
a woman. Would you like to cast your eye upon them? If you’re ever up the bonny glen, then why not take a look for yourself?

Those lads had a way with the old ballads, and when one produced a set of bagpipes then it was a certainty they were for staying the night. We laughed at their jokes and cried at their songs:
what a talented bunch of men indeed. If any of you have ever had the privilege to know and perhaps hear the great ‘Stewarts of Blair’ in concert, then you’ll know what I mean.
‘Tradition bearers’ amongst the travelling people, that is what those talented folks were. I have been privileged to share a stage with the last of those bearers—the great Sheila
Stewart herself—and may I say in all honesty, it was indeed an honour.

At breakfast, along with a wee nip of October frost, came a parting tale from one of those lads. Here, why not have it yourself with a scone and a cup of your favourite.

This was how he told it.

‘Ma Daddy’s cousin, an I cannae tell ye his name, said one night while he wis heading hame frae a real busy day ahent the scythe he lost the path and ended up at a burn-side.

This is whit he telt me:

“Noo, as ma wee fingers were awfy sair and rid raw, I bent doon tae wash ma hands in the burn. Noo thon water wis as frezzin cauld as the frost on a January morning, and wi ma palms
blistered I lay doon fur a whiley, keepin ma hands in the braw cauld watter. As I was only ten-year-auld I fell asleep richt easy. It was a hootin hoolit that opened ma een tae a bright yella moon.
Thinkin Mammy an Daddy wid be frantic lookin fur me I jumped to ma feet. As I turned tae git ma directions I noticed three trees over on the horizon brow. Now can ye jist imagine whit went through
ma young head, whin hingin frae the middle yin wis a rope an hingin frae it wis a skeleton—aye, man, a puckle ae bones, an they were rattlin an rollin as if the divil himsel wis gieing them
life. Lord roast me if I tell a lie!”’

I split my sides laughing, but the teller said he thought the story might have a bit of truth, because when his father’s cousin asked around the locals it seemed a certain gent was hung
between trees at the burnside. When he enquired further he discovered that two young men had fought over a bonny lassie they both loved. When the winner took the girl’s hand in marriage, the
loser, unable to live without the fair maid, hung himself from the lonely spot. Maybe the youngster did see something, but, come on, a skeleton? Still, I didn’t want to appear disrespectful,
so stopped laughing and told him our tale of haunting back at Kirrie. At this my listener burst his sides laughing and thanked me for cheering him up—huh!

Menmuir saw Daddy and Nicky work from sunrise to its westerly setting. Mammy worried he was taxing the old lungs, but he reassured her he was fine. He added that the money he was accumulating
would stand us in good stead during the winter. Now, reader, what’s that old saying again? Oh yes, I know—‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’ Yes
indeed.

Daddy was on top of the world. Of course he was: a bulging bundle of notes tied with two elastic bands was payment for one of the big jobs. ‘Look, Jeannie, we’re rich!’ he told
her as he met us in the town of Montrose. We were in getting messages, and he thought because he desperately needed new trousers he’d get a pair. As Mammy and I went for food, he popped into
a menswear shop to buy the trews. Now don’t ask me why, what or when, but whilst my father was undressing to try on those new flannels, someone slipped a nasty hand into Daddy’s old
trouser pocket and removed the bundle of notes! The thief managed to steal all our winter money, a total of over three hundred pounds. I am aware by today’s standards that isn’t a vast
sum, but believe you me, to a travelling family in the early sixties that was a fortune.

We searched the shop from top to bottom. Daddy even accused the manager of having a hand in it, but nothing doing: our father’s money had walked and it would never be spent by us. The
thief, I am positive, would certainly not have spent that hard-earned cash with any enjoyment, not with all the curses we hung over his or her head that day.

Fate wasn’t finished with us either, because when Daddy completed his final job, the farmer didn’t have any cash to pay him. It seems that the sad man was hoping to sell his farm and
emigrate. Daddy, however, had been seriously hurt by the trouser thief, and would have payment in kind. Well, this came in the way of a 3.4 Jaguar saloon.

Mammy near had his face in the soup pot, but when he said he could fetch plenty money by selling the motor, she softened up. Now, I expect you’re thinking everything turned out all right
then. No, sorry reader, but he fell in love with the car and hadn’t the heart to sell it. I mean, a wee traveller man with a car like that, could you blame him? What a brilliant status
symbol. Silver grey with that famous ‘cat’ perched sleekly on its long nose. Nicky also had his eye on the vehicle, thinking on the classy bints he could pull. He’d have to stay
with us, though, and that pleased Mammy because she’d grown so fond of her sister’s boy. We kind of liked having him around too.

Well, winter wasn’t that far round the corner, so after three weeks of back-breaking tattie-lifting we experienced a monumental change. Daddy had decided to go back to Manchester. For
Perthshire’s agricultural travellers, a trip over the border meant going far away from home. Still, I suppose with us being big-league paint-sprayers, a few hundred miles was not to be
grumbled at.

Now, you remember from my first journey how our winter in the smoggy city left Mammy at the door of death. This time there was a different peril. On this journey the long arm of the law tried to
snatch away Daddy’s liberty. Now, folks, for a travelling man that’s a big liberty! It served him right for showing off with his Stirling Moss drive through the city centre in the fancy
wheels.

However, we’ll leave this story until a few more tales have been the better of sharing with your good selves.

13

JEANNIE GORDON