Tales from the Tent (24 page)

The day was set for their wedding, and as tradition has it they were to be wed in her hometown. People came from miles to see the pretty Galloway lassie marry her Duke. She was a picture of pure
beauty standing at the altar of the flower-decked church.

However, just before the exchanging of rings the sound of horse’s hooves was heard from outside the church. No sooner did the wedding guests turn their heads when the door flew open, and
there, for all eyes to see, was a great silver-white horse, with wet flowing mane, galloping towards the terrified bride. On its back sat the demon who had marked her for his own. He leaned down,
and with one scoop had her onto the horse before a hand was raised in her rescue. Her heartbroken husband searched high and low but never saw his lovely bride again. Unable to live without her, he
died of a broken heart. After that, some folks swore that if one stared into the pool near that fateful spot where she first met the demon, a sad white face could be seen beneath the water’s
surface.

24

HEADING NORTH

Let’s you and I share a wee bit of history from the Border country now, folks.

The Border country, what a historic place. Kings and Queens with mighty armies came through it to conquer the North or to hide in Scotia’s mountains. But what about the inhabitants who
lived there, those hardy Borderers? If ever a phrase had meaning for them, then this is it:
passing through
. If the south was at war with Scotland, they were the ones who first took the
brunt of an incoming army fresh for a kill. And if the shoe was on the other foot, then again the Border saw the sword of the Highlander before the English did. Yes a ‘stuck-in-the-middle
folk’ I’ll say. Perhaps that is why the lads are bigger and stronger than the rest of us. Good at the rugby too, they recently informed me.

My kin also have found a home in this lovely part of Scotland. From as far back as the sixteenth century gypsies have settled here.

They were a colourful people, and like other nations had their monarchs. I was brought up on tales of the ‘Lord of Little Egypt’, who was known to people in general simply as Johnny
Faa, but to his own folks he was a blue-blooded king. Historians of gypsy culture tell me it is nigh on impossible to track the Faa succession, because so many ended on the gallows or were sent
away on prison ships, but there are folks today who claim they are descended from the King and can show a legal and true genealogy.

The village of Kirk Yetholm became a settlement for gypsies around the year 1690. Faas intermarried with Youngs, Blythes, Gordons and Rutherfords amongst others.

Queens and Kings continued to be crowned but the last I know of was Charles Faa Blythe Rutherford, born in 1825 and crowned in 1898 in his seventy-third year. His reign was a short one because
he died in 1902. And like all the other monarchs Scotland has crowned, he was not followed by issue or otherwise. My old Granny Riley, who hailed from Ayrshire, told me many times about the
‘wee broon-skinned King wha had richt green een’. She claimed her mother, maiden name Annie O’Connor, told her the real monarch should have been a woman by the name of Esther.
However I have no proof to set before you on this one, reader.

My father claims to be descended from royal gypsy lineage, and the way he used to demand half a cup of fresh cream mashed into his chappit tatties, I don’t doubt it. And another thing, I
wonder why Granny called him Charles?

Saying our goodbyes to the Boswells, we set off in the early morning heading north. For a while we meandered into this bay and that inlet, and gently followed the contours of Scotland’s
west coast. Some days we were blown inside out, while others brought a gentle warm gulf breeze that sent woolly jumpers to the back of the drawers. One thing we found a great asset was the endless
heap of driftwood strung out along beaches to fuel our campfires. I, for one, found not having to carry heavy piles of wood from bramble-floored forests a treat, leaving me more free time to
beachcomb. As I mentioned in my last book this pastime of mine was more like an obsession that could fill my whole day. One day, I believed, a treasure would reveal itself to me and I would be
rich; until then I’d gather scrap metal to fill a tattie bag. The scrap-metal man for all my humping and heaving would pay me two to three pounds sterling. (As a little lassie I dreamt that
I’d be the richest scrappy in Scotland, with a fleet of lorries emblazoned with Her Majesty’s coat-of-arms on the doors.) However it wasn’t the filling of that bag that was the
main thing, rather the freedom of wandering hour upon hour along a deserted beach, throwing sea-shells at screeching gulls and pushing bare feet into green and brown kelp. Finding caves and
imagining a wild pirate instantly stealing my heart and whisking me off to find treasures of the mind. Then Mammy’s whistle to tell me that the dishes needed washing would dash all my
daydreams.

I missed sharing those latter years on the road with my cousins. They’d long since left the old ways, settling into houses. My young sisters were pestering our parents to find a house as
well. Not me, though, I was a tinker, gypsy, vagabond, road tramp, gad-about. Every day found me stretching it out to milk the life for all it was worth. However, it pains me greatly to say the
worth of travellers was being whittled down; soon my sisters would have their wish and I, though I little knew it, was seeing the demise of Scotland’s true travelling folk.

We’ll come to that another time, my friend, because for now I’ll share a tale with you about a funeral, and by all that’s holy, what a burial it was.

25

WULL
’
S LAST DIG

Think, passenger, as you pass by,

And on my tombstone cast an eye
.

As you are now so once was I,

As I am now you soon must be,

Therefore prepare to follow me!

P
lain enough are those words so wisely engraved on the kirkyard wall at Aberfoyle, that bonny wee village nestling in Scotland’s Trossachs.
And oh so true!

We, however, are not setting sights in that part of the land. Instead our attention is diverted to the sleepy village of Collbrae, wrapped around an idyllic peninsula on the west. Hope
it’s a nice day, my friend, while you read, and nicer if the west wind is flitting through the pages, just to put a bit of atmosphere in for you.

When Father Padraig O’Duffus wasn’t doing the baptising, burying and ringing the church bell he’d be found in the Crypt. This place of seclusion he called his
‘resting place’, and what better a name. Only his closest friends were allowed access into the secret chamber, they being his auld mates Dr Peter Macpherson and the
undertaker-cum-gravedigger, Wull Blair.

The hardy threesome, who’d inherited an old tinker’s recipe for ‘the making o’ the brew’, had set to work many years past and now had a grand supply from their very
own still.

‘Down here, boys,’ assured the priest, ‘we can sup the liquid peat and suck the pipe without hindrance from any living soul.’

Padraig, Peter and Wull had it made, and, to quote the priest, had found ‘a heaven on earth’.

Yes, an idyllic place indeed, and nobody else was supposed to know a thing about it. But who could keep such a secret from the busybodies of a Scottish village? Everybody knew, of course they
did, but the knowledge that it was located under the remains of the dear departed kept folks well away. The good women of the village believed auld Nick himself supped from the still. Many a time
the manse housekeeper mentioned, in no uncertain terms, that she feared for their very souls. She was a grand, upstanding Irish woman, who had been Padraig’s blessed bidey-in cleaner for as
many years as he cared to remember.

As we open our tale he’d been left to fend for himself for two weeks while she tended her sister’s girl. The lass, who lived in Donegal, was having her ninth child, and the
priest’s housekeeper never missed a birth.

So with those formalities out of the road, let’s go back to the supping and puffing Crypt.

Padraig stared with those half-open slits for eyes like a prize cock who’d just beat off the others for the best hen, and said, ‘Give me another fill o’ the brew, Wull, me dear
old mate, an’ I’ll be showin you ma winning hand.’

Wull, as always, saw his pastoral mate get the better of him at cards, and began to feel the red anger above his frayed collar. ‘Och, ye’ve the deevil himself wi’ ye the day,
Padraig, for that’s four in a row.’

‘When a man wins at pontoon it’s neither him above or him below has a hand in it, but only sweet Lady Luck—now pay up.’

Old Peter, the village doctor, and always the soberest of the threesome, gathered loose cards from off the cold slab table and popped them in his waistcoat pocket, saying, ‘when you reach
this level of conversation it aye ends in blows, so no more of the game, I think.’

Padraig was far from pleased, and told him, ‘Hell blazes, man, I was feeling a winning streak resting on me there, why dae ye need tae spoil things?’

‘Because we’re here tae celebrate Wull laying down the spade and folding his box tools, have you forgotten this is his retirement? We should be rejoicing an’ no fighting over a
card game.’

The priest laughed, displaying a toothless mouth, slapped Wull on the back and said, ‘Aye, my old mate, you’re a hard act to follow right enough. I don’t know a single soul for
miles who can carve a box and dig a grave like yourself. Total precision, that’s what it is. You’ll be missed on the sacred ground, I ken that for certain.’

That was a plain statement of fact, describing a man who laid low the dear departed and returned earth to earth. To him death was a job, a simple task he’d undertaken for fifty years. It
was his Uncle Tam who did the job before him, and he was long since gone, lying beneath the soil at the far end of the graveyard behind Mrs Baird’s rose-garden wall.

Wull gulped down the homemade ‘breath o’ life’ that Padraig had distilled from God alone knew what. Partly to disguise the lump of emotion rising in his throat and partly the
fact that his companion had more cards hidden in his cassock than rosary beads. To him, cheating at cards was normal and expected, and when playing only for penny stakes, why cause bother? After
all, with a friend like the priest, a man who had the kindest heart beating under that old faded vestment, Wull had a lot to be grateful for. To be totally truthful, the three old lads between them
couldn’t be surpassed in good-hearted kindness.

Still, they did keep a secret from the outside world and another one they did share with the villagers.

You see, Collbrae being the most peaceful place in all the west coastline, meant that more than one tramp came passing through, to sit, rest and slumber a while. And many times these quiet folks
just happened to forget to wake up from that deep sleep. Tinklers of metal, tramps of the road, wandering minstrels and others found in wee Collbrae their last resting-place. Was it the gentle sea
breezes, or the way the sun’s rays danced and glittered upon the green water? Or perhaps it was those friendly village folk, who’d sit a while and pass the time of day?