Tales from the Tent (30 page)

Daddy was spray-painting from dawn till dusk, and Mammy constantly worried about his lungs. One day my old friend Grumbling Appendix had me staying in bed hugging a hot-water bottle. It was
while there I heard my father coughing, and by God I’d never heard him that bad before. When I told Mammy she made murder with him either to give up the painting or the fags. He did neither,
until a visit to a doctor put the frighteners on him.

‘You stop smoking, Mr Riley, and you’ve a good chance of seeing your old age. Continue, and you won’t see past the next ten years!’ For the rest of that summer he stopped
smoking and wore a mask while working. It certainly helped; his mood changed too, he’d a brighter smile and only coughed if the cold virus was spreading throughout the family.

It was over a month since the first day we’d arrived, and Daddy said that in one more week we’d head for Crieff to settle for the winter. Crieff would fill our pockets with tattie
money and the younger girls could attend school. The harvesting of the tatties meant I’d a good chance of meeting up with travellers, so this cheered me up a wee bit.

But not half as much as our Sunday visitor: it was dear old Portsoy Peter, who’d arrived from somewhere only God and some toff knew. He came laden with presents and promised they were not
‘shan chories’. Mammy’s jaw dropped when he presented her with a beautiful Crown Derby fruit bowl. She thanked him, but she was well aware it must have cost somebody an arm and a
leg, so she put it away and refused to display it as other travelling women would have been proud to do.

After a bite to eat he stayed for a blether, then went away. I never saw Portsoy again.

That day’s end joined a dreamy dusk which settled upon the quiet site. I wandered down to where we’d camped the year before. The place where our caravan had sat was jammed with
balers and discarded ploughs. It had taken a flood during the winter, leaving the farmer no option but to section it off from travellers. I climbed upon the old baler, looked on the ground and saw
the circle our fire had left. I remembered Mac of the ‘tent tales’ and the last tale he shared with me. I hope you like it. Got that tea poured?

32

DEAD MAN
’
S FINGERS

P
urney felt a warm spring breeze whistling through the broom and thanked God another winter was at the tail-end. He could throw up the flap door of
his wee canvas tent and let the air in. ‘At long last,’ he thought, ‘I’ll get ma fire lit without it blowing out and hear the leric singing his love song to his
mate.’

Apart from her with the pointed nose passing every so often, he’d seen neither hide nor hair of a living soul come past his wee tent on the field at the opening of the forest, and that was
exactly how he liked it. He’d long since decided the strange old herb-gatherer was a witch, and wouldn’t even spend a minute in conversation with her.

It was many years gone that he had come upon this heaven of a place to work for the farmer who owned the very land he dwelt on. And from that day to this he’d worked the soil, never
feeling the need to travel on as his ancestors did before him. A quiet man, was Purney, who enjoyed his own company along with the birds and creatures that lived within the neighbouring forest.
Nothing meant more to him than his perfect peace and quiet, just to watch a red squirrel nibbling at some crumbs he’d scattered on the ground was enough contentment for this worker of the
soil.

One day, not long after he’d seen out the summer, her with the pointed nose came by, as she was prone to do, and gave a wee nod before scuffling away on two big cloth-covered feet.
Suddenly she slowed her pace, stopped, turned and came back. ‘You’ve company,’ she said, then dashed off and was soon concealed by fir and beech tree.

‘Company? What the hell is yon auld witch muttering about now?’ Purney laid aside a knife he was sharpening with a ruggle stane and walked to where he’d a view of the winding
farm road. Sure enough, heading in his direction was a big muckle lorry. Dark green it was, and covered by a khaki-coloured tarpaulin. He watched it change direction and trundle towards the farm,
where it came to a crunching stop. A big, gruff-looking, bearded man with a belly that hung like a jelly pendulum over a leather belt, stepped down. Purney watched as the wild man conversed with
the farmer, then they both turned and stared up towards him. He wondered why the farmer should be pointing in his direction, but oh, dearie me, he didn’t have long to wait for an answer. The
fat man went behind his lorry wheel, reversed and headed for Purney’s wee haven. All manner of reasons for his actions jetted back and forth in Purney’s mind while he waited and watched
the lorry turn the last bend and soon grind to a halt feet from him.

‘What brings ye, my man, have ye news for me?’ Purney asked in hesitant tones.

The green lorry man ignored him as he stumbled down and went round to the back of his vehicle and lifted the back flap. Next instant poor old Purney near had the breath leave his body, as bairn
after bairn jumped like freed zoo monkeys from the lorry. There, in front of his very eyes, he watched the gruff man erect a massive tent. A woman pushed a rosy red face into his and said,
‘where’s the water?’

Purney took it she was looking for the burn, and pointed over to the fountain he’d dammed with stones. Without a word of thanks she thrust a battered pail into the pool and filled it to
the brim. In no time his small campsite was overflowing with unruly children and flea-ridden, mangy hounds. Soon they had a roaring fire going, with sparks shooting everywhere; some landed on his
wee tent and sent shivers of fear through his old bones. Why were these unruly folks thrust upon him? The only thing for it was to see the farmer, who told him, ‘you have been getting a wee
bit bent-backit, Purney, and wi’ me purchasing three more fields I need extra hands. I thought you’d be pleased, seeing as they’re tinker folk like yerself.’

‘How long have ye fee’d them for, farmer?’ he enquired.

‘Och, I though they’d be fine company for ye, Purney lad, so I said as long as they were content they could stay.’

Purney, rather than say a word against his own kind, pulled his bunnet back over his head and headed home. When he got there, two big lads had removed his guy rope, resulting in his tent leaning
dangerously in the direction of his fire. ‘Ye stupid buggers, my tent has been in this spot for thirty years, now why did ye dae that?’

He watched them laughing and mocking him, and that was after he’d had words with the parents. Purney went into his tent, and for the first time in his life allowed the day to waste away
without a cup of tea. All night long he lay listening to the noise and unruly behaviour of his new neighbours from hell. The biggest lads fought over a knife, while the mother and father cursed and
swore at each other over him taking more of the bedcovers than her. And just to cap it all, the hounds had caught a rabbit and were tearing each other to pieces for a feed at it.

Purney had to find a way to get rid of this wild bunch, and before morning a plan began to form in his head. However he had to gain their trust, especially the two teenage sons; this is the age
when people are most susceptible to suggestion.

The sun was pushing itself into the sky like a giant yellow fan, birds began to tweet and sing from the crow to the wren, and Purney breathed the air—his air, not theirs but his. He looked
over at the dirty brown dome tent and wondered about the awful smell and mess of filthy bodies about to gatecrash his heavenly space. Well, he’d be waiting for them. They could take any bit
of God’s earth they wanted, but not his!

The mother rose first, crawling like a snake from beneath the flap. ‘Someone get this fire on for me, or ye’ll eat raw sausages.’ Purney watched a stirring from within the
canvas, as the gruff with the jelly belly followed his woman from the hole. He then picked up a stick and hit the tent side, shouting, ‘come on, big yin, an’ gather sticks for the
fire.’ The oldest boy crawled out, rose and threw Purney a look, marched across and blatantly helped himself to a pile of tidy piled sticks he’d stored against the dyke. Grabbing a
handful he shoved a fist into his face and said, ‘ye dinna mind me helping maself, dae ye?’

‘Be my guest, laddie. By the way, are you thinking on going into the wood today?’

The lad threw Purney’s sticks over for his father to start a fire, and asked why he should bother where he was going, that day or any other day.

‘Well, seeing as you folk are new to these parts, I’d best warn you about the dead man lying half buried in the forest.’

‘Who killed him?’ was the only response the boy gave, before adding, ‘ye’d think him no very good at murder if he wisnae able tae bury a decent grave.’ With that he
kicked a toeful of dust into Purney’s face then strutted off.

He’d not get much from him, but he was, after all, the oldest, it was the younger two who’d be more likely to listen. Purney watched them eat, and thought the dogs had better
manners. Soon the boys, with catty firmly clasped in unwashed hands, set off into the forest to seek out birds and squirrels, to see how many they could shoot down. Purney followed them. When he
thought them far enough out of earshot of the rest he called out, ‘you lads, I hope you remember not to go near the undergrowth.’

Curiosity roused, they asked why. ‘He disnae like being disturbed from his sleep, some folks claim they’ve been chased by him.’ Purney deliberately sat down and the boys came
over. ‘Thank God,’ he thought, ‘maybe now I’ll get some fear intae them.’

Watching their eyes grow wider with every word he went on and on about the ‘dead man’. ‘In the darkest night some say his black hands lift up the corner of tinkers’ tents
at the spot where young lads like you sleep. Once a family of travelling people came and camped just down the road a bit. I heard screaming in the night and went to see the folks next morning, and
all that was left was a dead dog and a flattened tent. Oh, a bad do, right enough!’

The boys were by now showing signs of genuine fear, so he laid it on like syrup. ‘They say he can conjure up thunderstorms and forked lightning, and an old man was struck once leaving a
smoking pile of ashes on the scorched ground. A bad do, right enough, you wouldn’t catch me creeping under the brush bushes.’

The older of the two had heard more than he’d wanted, so grabbing his brother by the collar, he shouted that he was going to get his father and big brother to skelp Purney for frightening
them.

No sooner had they ran off screaming, when jelly-belly Daddy, red-faced Mammy and bully brother came storming into the forest. ‘Come here, you,’ shouted the belly, ‘I’ll
tank the face aff ye for shanning ma laddies.’

Poor Purney, it looked as if his plan had backfired, as a kick from one landed on his leg and a slap from another came hard upon his neck. Just as he thought they were about to skin him alive, a
voice from behind a tree had them fall silent.

‘Have any of you people been into this undergrowth here?’ It was her with the pointed nose. She cautiously approached with those big cloth-covered feet and added, ‘it’s
the dead man’s fingers, they’ve been moved. Have you got them?’

Red-faced Mammy let out a scream and said, ‘we’re biding aside a deevil and a witch, come on, let’s pack and get tae hell oot o’ here!’

Jelly-belly, bully-brother and the rest from hell took off in the direction of the mother.

Purney could hardly believe his luck. By the time he’d arrived home the invaders were trundling down the windy road and were never to bother his tranquillity again. They’d left a
mess, but in no time he’d got it tidied and soon all trace was gone. That afternoon, as he sat warming himself at a bright fire, the pointed-nose one came by and for the first time he spoke
to her. ‘Excuse me, dear lady, but how come you heard me tell those lads about a dead man in the undergrowth?’

‘I dinna ken onything about a deed man.’

‘But I heard you ask thon rough folk if they’d moved the dead man’s fingers.’

‘Aye, they’re ma favourite mushrooms, they grow at the foot o’ the beech tree and yon certain patch is always covered by brushwood. Now, if ye’ll excuse me, sir,
I’ve a bunch o’ herbs tae gather before I go hame.’

Purney pushed his wool cap to the back of his head, scratched his temple and said, ‘Bloody mushrooms! Well, bless my soul. Cheerio, wife, maybe if tomorrow you pass, stop and share a bite
tae eat with me.’

‘Well, seein’ as you’ve lost your neighbours I might just dae that.’ She smiled, and Purney was certain he saw a wee wink at the corner of her eye as she shuffled off
back into the peaceful forest.

Far be it from me, folks, to speak ill of my own kind, but in all society there is good and bad, and that’s life!

Note
: Dead Man’s Fingers,
Xylaria polymorpha
. With its blackish, club-shaped fruit-bodies, which often arise in clusters, this fungus deserves its morbid name. It is strange,
though, that the experts declare it is inedible, yet pointed-nose said it was her favourite mushroom. It is also known as a delicacy to believers in Black Magic, when eaten with roasted raven!