Tales from the Tent (33 page)

Meanwhile, despite immense protesting, Daddy went back to the painting. He’d made up his mind to give Mammy a nice big residential caravan, one with a washing-machine and sink. I knew this
meant our travelling days were well and truly over; somehow I had felt it back in Blairgowrie but prayed I was wrong. I also knew it might be the last job Daddy ever did. I prayed even harder on
that one, folks.

Something else I’ll share with you now, reader: he decided it was time for a driving licence—mine! ‘You think I’m learning to drive in big Fordy, then think again,
Daddy.’

I did! It was nightmarish trying to manoeuvre yon great brute of a motor along the narrow bends of Broich Road, Madderty, Auchterarder, Muthill and so on. I remember most of the way I was on the
grass verge instead of the road. What a useless article behind a steering wheel, by the time I’d mastered staying on my side of the road I’d sent the frighteners into every tractor man
for fifty miles radius. One sighting of the orange van and out of the tractors they jumped. Chrissie’s man, plus uncles, cousins and Daddy, took turns at tutoring me, but if ever there was a
useless learner driver then I was it. There was nothing else for it but a proper instructor.

So, by my seventeenth birthday I was a learner driver, Mr Bertie Don did the business. What a difference having a qualified gent instruct me on the ways of the road. After twenty lessons I was
facing my test. It was a cold wet Thursday morning, the Examiner’s name was Mr Lindsay. After what I thought was a perfect half-hour examination he turned to face me and said, ‘take
this list of failures, and when you can drive come back and re-sit the test.’ Honest, reader, to this day I feel anger and shame swelling inside. I was certain my driving skills were red hot.
So angry was I that the piece of paper he handed me was thrown into his face; on reflection, if he had wished, the man could have had me arrested for assault.

Daddy hardly said a word, instead he blamed poor Mr Don, stating that anyone worth a grain of salt could teach a body to drive. Then he changed his mind and said I couldn’t have been
paying attention.

I immediately re-applied for my test, and employed the help of a certain George Gauld. Six lessons later, I was heading home with a pink slip in my hand, giving me permission to take up my place
on Her Majesty’s Highways.

‘Thank God,’ said Daddy, ‘at last I’ve got a driver.’ The great thing was that Daddy had sold his Jag (I couldn’t see me getting to cruise in yon status
symbol) and purchased a Ford Zodiac, six cylinder, which went like a rocket! I refused to drive anywhere in big Fordy, so was allowed the privilege of hitting the road in Flashy Fordy. It was a
Lovat-green-coloured, sleek, handsome, powerful car, just the tool for a travelling girl.

However, before I was given the freedom of this car I had to prove my road skills. So, if I wasn’t going in to Edinburgh for paint, I was taking him and Mammy to Perth where they’d
found a form of entertainment they liked—wrestling! They wouldn’t miss it. One of the wrestlers was named Mick McManus, and because Mammy’s Granny went under the same name she was
convinced he was a relative of sorts. Mick was hardly a nice wrestler, in fact it seems he was always the baddy, yet my mother, thinking him a distant kin, would shout for him to win. Daddy said
she was the only fan the ‘bad man’ of the ring had. He, in all seriousness, warned her not to be telling folks she was a relation of yon ape-acting wild man. Why? Because ‘he
wisnae awfy bonny’!

Driving was a form of freedom for me and sometimes I’d sit behind the wheel, foot to the boards, cruising like Stirling Moss along the old A9. One day Daddy asked me where I’d been.
I asked him why he wanted to know. ‘Because there is one hundred and fifty miles on the clock!’

What did my father do then, folks? Well, he had the wheels made so that they wobbled—when my speed reached fifty the car shuddered; to stop it happening I was forced to lower my speed. One
thing he didn’t know, however, was the other way to stop the shudders—that was to hit sixty and keep up the speed! I was just a wee devil, me with a vehicle.

In the meantime I got a job outside Comrie in a mink farm. This was for me a totally new experience, as I hated the idea of caged animals, but the vet who treated them convinced me that, as they
were born in captivity, the small furry creatures knew no difference. I never took any part in the kill, but I am ashamed to say I skinned and boarded the pelts. However, now that I’m older
and wiser, you’d be hard pressed to see me take any part in animal farming. Then I was just a teenager and knew my wage-packet far outsized anybody else’s of my age. My workmates were
two Aberdonian lads plus Davie the feedman, from Comrie, and a family of Irish folk called Comer. Mary was my favourite; she was as rough and ready as any man, with a heart as big. To this day she
and I share a crack and a laugh. Once, when working overtime at the pelting, I collected the family in the works van, a wee green Mini. There had been an almighty snowstorm, leaving great drifts on
either side of the A85.

Between Comrie and St Fillans I came upon a bend in the road, took it far too fast and span round. Well, as it happens my Irish workmates had been celebrating the night before, and just happened
to be the worst for it when the door swung open, spewing each of them onto the road. God, what a fright. I thought they were all killed, but thankfully up they jumped, and soon were walking into
the farm none the worse.

Next day I almost drove over old Sandy ‘the cock o’ the north’ Stewart. This bold fella was one of Perthshire’s road tramps, and although I seldom spoke to him
he’ll always stay in my memory because he wore two Black Watch coats, a Glengarry tammy and a crooked stick. He was a fine lad who’d never miss the Highland Games, wherever they were
held.

Mammy got her state-of-the-art modern residential caravan and was over the moon.

Remember Davey? Well, one night some Muthill girls I’d befriended took me to the dancing in Auchterarder. As we queued to pay at the door I saw someone, a young lad, lying out for the
count along a corridor. If it wasn’t for the tattoo, there’s no way I’d have looked twice at someone the worse for alcohol. When I stooped to see if it really was him, he opened
his eyes and said, ‘promised I’d see you again.’

‘What a waste of space,’ I thought, when joining my friends. ‘If that drunkard comes within a mile of me he’ll feel my hand across his face.’ Well, he did, and when
I discovered it was his birthday I understood. Stupid me! However, walking home that night I told him my parents didn’t want me seeing boys. He asked if we could be friends, and not seeing
the harm in that I agreed. So from then on Davey was a permanent feature in my life, although Daddy refused to speak to him. I think Mammy had told him I could easy take care of her, whether
married or not. But nothing doing, my father was adamant—no man in my future.

35

FOR THE LOVE OF RACHEL

I
’ve been going on far too long about my life, folks, so how about another tale from the tent?

Here now is a story of love.

Three months passed and Rachel was becoming increasingly worried that she had heard not a word from James since Father Dillon had brought the last crumpled letter.

‘My lassie, it has rained for weeks,’ was the first line the old priest read, before saying, ‘Aye, and no’ just on the soldiers fighting in France, but here in Glen Coe,
we’ve had oor fair share, is that no’ right, Rachel?’

‘Aye, aye, Father. Now please read on, maybe ma laddie has been hurt and you sitting there going on aboot the weather.’

Father Dillon sat back into the soft chair Rachel had placed by her campfire to make him as comfortable as her meagre means allowed. He was a very important person, was the old priest, for what
would she do without him? Tinkers in those days seldom learned to read and write, and she was no exception. Neither could her good man James: his saviour who put pen to paper on his behalf was an
army minister.

The priest continued reading to Rachel who had gathered her wee sons, Jamie and Harry into her bosom, so that they too could listen to their father talk from within the crumpled letter held
gently between his sinewy fingers.

‘We are fine here in France but my pal Joe who comes from Brora took a bad one and is in the field hospital. Hope he makes it. Are the boys behaving themselves? Tell Jamie to keep chopping
wood, and Harry you mind and gather twigs for kindling, I’m on guard duty tonight so best get my bully eaten and take up position. Love you till the heather grows feet and walks off the
hills, James’

‘Thank you, Father, you’ve no idea how much better we’ll sleep knowing he’s still safe.’

Father Dillon said nothing as he handed her the letter. She stared at it for ages, touching it and smelling it as if a piece of James were in her hands, then she gently folded it and slid it
into a small box under the tent door.

The memory of that day three months ago was all she had to cling to. ‘When will he be in touch again?’ she thought, then prayed he remained safe.

As October headed to its end it was becoming colder with each passing day. The women of Ballachulish were knitting and baking, because weather predictors had already foretold a bad winter
looming. Rachel became concerned about her two children living in her tiny canvas hovel—oh, how she needed James. Suddenly a voice she knew well boomed from a small, bent man making towards
her. It was Father Dillon. He held something in the air and waved it, a letter. ‘Oh, praise God, word from my man!’ She ran to meet him, with Jamie and Harry at her heels. ‘Read
it, father, read it. Hurry up, what does it say?’

‘Come now, lassie, ye’ve waited this length of time, a few more minutes won’t matter. At least let me settle my bones.’ Breathless, he dropped onto the familiar seat,
took a grey handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow.

Rachel and the boys sat wide-eyed, with the biggest grins on their faces, eagerly waiting to hear what James was saying and doing in the mud-filled trenches of France.

The priest read on, not losing a moment to bring joy to this small family of tinkers.

‘Dear Rachel, Jamie and Harry, Daddy here again I hope you are fine, I have managed to stay clear of the bullets. Not much time so this letter has to be short. Rachel I want you to take up
roots and head over to Glen Etive. As you know my folks have a wee cotter hoose there. I had a feeling last night you are going to see a lot of snow this winter. I’d feel a lot better knowing
you and the boys were with the auld yins. By the time Father Dillon finishes this note I want you packed.

Look for me among the heather, love always, James.’

‘Well, I’d have thought he could have put a wee bit more into the letter, Father. Surely he’s not that busy, fighting the Germans?’

‘Lassie, I’m sure he’ll write a longer letter next time. You never know, but maybe there’s one waiting for you when you arrive at Glen Etive—you know how long it
takes for mail to arrive, goodness, this letter must have taken weeks to get here.’

‘Aye, Father, I’m sure you’re right as always.’ She began gathering her belongings into a tablecloth that she tied in two large knots. Jamie and Harry skilfully did the
same with their own things. Jamie, who had just turned seven, already owned a knife and wood-axe, while five-years-old Harry pocketed a catapult and a handful of marbles he’d won from a local
laddie.

‘Father,’ asked Rachel, untying and piling her skeleton ribcage of hazel sticks on which stretched the tent canvas, ‘would you be so kind as to store our tent in the shed by
the manse? I’ll collect it when James and I come back here again.’

‘Why, of course ye can, pet. Now, away with ye and take the path through the Buchailles. No short cuts, mind.’

She’d shared many a story with the kindly old man, about James and her running over Beag and Mhor as children knowing every inch of the traverse.

‘Not with the boys, Father,’ she promised. ‘Anyway, this nippit wind and heavy sky tells me my soldier laddie’s feelings are coming with a herald o’ truth in
them.’