Tales from the Tent (21 page)

Bonny Helena adored Robert. Everybody knew it. Her family idolised him and his folks thought the world of her. Since the youngest age both were inseparable, and when old enough
they married. For a few years he worked hard to give her a nice caravan and a good sizeable lorry for himself. Night after night he’d drive home after long hours breaking and collecting scrap
metal, fall into her welcoming arms and sit down to a warm meal. Then one day Robert received his call-up papers. This meant his dreams of wealth and building a grand house for Helena were to be
put on hold, for the duration of his national service of two years.

But suddenly a crack in the world appeared. A violent war was taking place in Korea, and Robert was thrown into a battle of, as we all now know, massive proportions. When it was finished he came
home, like many of his comrades, a different man. Not so as one could visibly notice, but the smile had been replaced with a serious frown. Fewer people came calling on the couple because of his
rudeness and lack of civility. He began to drink more and more, and worse was his treatment of Helena. He’d been seen hitting her, although she at first denied it and then made excuses
blaming her nagging. It didn’t take long for his business to slip downhill, so one night after a bad bout of ‘supping wi’ the De’il’ he came home and beat her so badly
she was taken into hospital. That was enough for her family to intervene and remove her from the scene. Her heart, though, was with Robert, and it didn’t take long for Helena to pack her bags
and go back. This happened three times after that, with even the police arresting him; something seldom done in those days because wife-beating was looked upon as a triviality and usually solved
over a cup of sobriety and tea.

They finally parted. Helena went away to live in the south of England where he would never find her. This seemed to sober him up, and he set about rebuilding his shattered business, turning away
from the demon drink. After a teetotal year, Robert eventually persuaded her family to get her to write, and said he was trying to make amends. In spite of all that had passed she still loved and
forgave him. In a short time he set about courting his estranged wife and this time he promised ‘no more tears’. Well, things went from fine, to good and better. He had indeed changed.
A nice house came along, the business blossomed, and soon the happy couple awaited the arrival of their first baby. A lovely boy put the icing on the cake. Tragically, however, he only survived a
week.

This sent Robert back into the so-called solace of drink, and Helena’s nightmare began all over again. Still, he had the good sense to draw back and not tip over the edge. They tried again
and soon another baby was nestled in the womb. But Robert began to fall into deep black moods, and only a drink would help. Helena found his heavy hands were again finding their mark on her tender
frame. One night, after his business had gone to the wall and their home was facing repossession, he set off to spend another drink-fuelled night with the amber spirit.

She was asleep when early morning brought him home. The final beating was horrendous! This was the final straw, the one that broke the camel’s back. I will tell what happened in the form
of a poem.

The spirit deep within him grows:

It tells him this, it tells him that,

‘Angry young man, go kick the cat.’

While she sleeps soundly in her bed

He hears the amber spirit say,

‘Pack your cowardly soul away
.

Demand another drink or two
.

Now see him standing by the door,

Hit him till he tastes the floor.’

‘Get out, listen here.’

While the demon whispers in his ear,

‘What you need is a knife, my dear.’

He staggers home, head hung, back bent
.

The spirit mutters, ‘She’s to blame,

When you get back show her some pain
.

She’s the reason you’re not rich
.

You don’t need me to tell you so,

You’re the boss, she should know.’

Grabs her long, soft, brown hair,

‘Look at you, fat, ugly cow,

I’m starving, woman, feed me now.’

You will regret this at your cost

Before she rises from that floor,

Kick her, go on, once more!

Now let her lie, enjoy the food.’

Shivering she watches till he sleeps

Then tiptoes out on darkened street
.

He didn’t miss his mark tonight;

From head to toe she’s wracked with pain,

She knows he’ll swear, ‘never again!’

The sharing love has all but gone
.

The stone bridge wall is a dark, cold place,

Water sprays her tear-stained face
.

‘With life anew we’ll meet the morn
.

He beats me black, he beats me blue,

But he won’t hurt you, my baby new,

I promise this, he won’t get you.’

Makes to the door on shuffled feet
.

Policeman, helmet in his hand,

‘Can I come in’ he asks, ‘young man?

I have grave news for you,’ he said
.

‘I’m sorry but your wife is dead!’

20

MANCHESTER HOGMANAY

D
o you know, reader, sometimes if we could see what future lies before us we might take another road—but we don’t, do we?

Back on the waste ground in our cosy caravan I find myself sitting staring into the darkness, with more than a few monsters haunting the darkened recesses of my young mind. Mammy had, as usual,
been blethering with the earth creepers, and I told her she was becoming far too familiar with them. She laughed as she always did, and said that the poor craturs were telling her they were
becoming colder as winter stiffened on the city. What did she do? Well, she toddled off to the corner shop and bought a bag of kindling. Then she got Nicky to take the van and collect two bags of
coal. Over she went, poking and prodding at the mounds of discarded plastic and calling their names because, yes, she’d even found out what some of them were called. ‘Mr Weatherspoon,
Mr Delifario, Mr What-dae-ye-call-yerself?’ Oh, and better not forget, Major Something. Those were only a few. I think the fact she identified them as individuals mattered more to them than
if the names were correct.

Right away they shed the vast humps of waste material they were under and began helping Mammy and Nicky build the grandest fire they’d ever seen. Earlier in the day my dear mother had made
a batch of treacle scones, and as the tramps sat on makeshift seats of old boxes and the likes, the glow from the blazing fire on those craggy faces was a picture to capture forever in the mind.
They never asked for seconds, nor did they say a word, the contented stare of warmth said it all. Mammy and Nicky left them to their thoughts and went to bed. I sat up for ages, peering through a
slit in my caravan curtain, watching the vagabonds chatting and sharing some liquid concoction from a tin heating the deep bits while the fire did the same to their outer regions. I was young, and
knew that as far as the men of the night were concerned they’d never have my total trust as they had Mammy’s, but it was nice to fall asleep knowing they had found one night of relative
comfort. However I will now retract that, because you’ll never guess what those stupid creepy-crawly idiots did? They went and got drunk as skunks and set fire to their mound houses! I
thought Martians were dropping on top of us from the skies when the fire sirens descended with flashing blue lights and hissing hoses. What a night to remember. Daddy called Mammy everything under
the sun, while she swore never to help the drunken old bastards again. Yes, I must say, folks, it was a night when the Keystone Cops, Flash Gordon and Dante’s Inferno all rolled into one.
And, I’ll add, there was a tramp the spit of Charlie Chaplin who took off into the dark with a yellow flame spurting from his rear end. What a delightful spectacle!

You will be thinking ‘she’s a heartless swine’, but don’t worry, no one got hurt and after a wee clean up next day there was as many wee humps to sleep under as before.
Only difference was that my Mammy was forbidden to help the tramps again—strict orders from the ‘high heed yin’, my Daddy.

Now, maybe after I share this next episode with you, you’ll be thinking Daddy should have kept his trap shut.

It was all to do with his fancy Jaguar.

Mammy and Portsoy went into town on that busy Saturday to do a bit of shopping. As Christmas was round the corner we were all in a grand mood. Nicky had a few bob to spend, Mammy too was flush
with a regular stream of woman clients needing their fortunes told, and as for me, well, Mr Swift served on all his staff a generous bonus. Aye, we were not a bad bunch of happy Scottish travellers
on that particular December Saturday. Trust my Da to go and spoil it!

‘I’ll be here waiting, Charlie, at four o’clock’, Mammy told Daddy outside the
Daily Express
building, adding that he was not to be late, for she didn’t like
hanging about with a pile of Christmas presents. Portsoy said he’d find his own way home. Daddy set off, and I do not have any information as to his whereabouts, folks, only that he was away
the best part of five hours.

Mammy was waiting dead on four outside the newspaper office, when suddenly the air filled with police bells clanking like mad. The whole of Manchester’s Piccadilly froze at the screeching
of brakes and peep-peeping of horns. Then, to her absolute horror, who should come tearing along, polis at his back? My Dad! His eyes were standing on their stalks as he darted a quick glance at
Mammy, who by the way had turned to stone with a dropped bottom lip. If a lay preacher had laid eyes on my Mother he’d have thought she’d seen Sodom and Gomorrah tumble.

She arrived home in a taxi still struck dumb. What in heaven’s name had he done?

Thankfully, Nicky and Portsoy were home and immediately went along to the nearest stardy. They seemed to be away for ages, and when at long last they arrived back they had no news for my anxious
mother. ‘What in the name o’ hell is yon daft faither o’ yours up tae?’ she said, glancing at my sisters and me. No sooner had she uttered those words when there was a loud
knock at the door. It was our friend Jim, the Fife polisman. He’d brought the news we were all desperate to hear.

It happened during our stay in Manchester that certain villains (big-time bank robbers by the sounds of it) were using grey Jaguar cars as getaway vehicles. While Daddy was minding his own
business and driving to pick up Mammy, a right Al Capone style robbery was in progress. In all the getaway carry on, Daddy’s car got mistaken for the one the robbers had. When he heard and
saw all the shiny black polis cars descending on him he panicked and put the foot down.

‘So, if you can settle your mind, Mrs Riley, Charlie will soon be back home with you.’

Jim’s reassuring smile told us everything would be all right, and it was. What was Daddy’s response? He painted his status symbol—Gold! Yep! Even the cat!

Well, there you have it, folks, our quiet stance behind the garage had so far been anything but. Och, what’s the point of living if one can’t bite on a bullet once in a while?