Tales from the Tent (7 page)

‘I heard the wild screams oot o’ ye when thon graip found its way into this foot o’ yours. I thought a terrible thing had happened, like ye were half dead or something, instead
of a wee teeny hole intae the sole o’ yer fit.’ He went on, to my annoyance, ‘you wimmin canna handle pain.’

‘I am half-dead, you cheeky bisom. If poison gets hold, this leg of mine will be in deep dung, I can tell you. And as for pain I’d like to see a maternity ward full of
gadjies!’

As I thought on what I’d just said about ‘dung’ and pregnant men the red returned, and not only covered my cheeks but most of my neck as well. All of a sudden this young man
made me feel strange, my head was fuzzy, what was happening?

He apologised for making fun of my injury, saying he was just trying to cheer me up. Then, obviously embarrassed, he got up and walked his three lurchers. Tiny by now was nosed deep into the
heaty bitch, and although what he wanted was a complete impossibility, he wasn’t taking no for an answer. The bitch rolled her eyes, and with a swish of her wiry tail let him know she was not
remotely interested. The bite she gave was enough to say that her rear-end was a no-go area.

George (for this was the lad’s name) asked if, when he returned, he could come over for a blether? I said ‘okay’ and my very first romance began. The look, the smile, the red
face, yep—it must be love. From that moment my painful foot became more tolerable as I floated away on pink clouds with my man, George. Honest, folks, that’s how fast it happened. A
fifteen-year-old’s first love. Is there anything more blissful?

We found through our blethers that we had much in common: high mountains, peaty burns, migrating swallows and much more. But above anything else was our love of the travelling history. I always
believed our people were descended from ancient Egypt and were brought here as Roman slaves. Handpicked for our skills. Our masters had only one skill: the art of war. It’s no secret Rome
produced a mighty army. Hence their ability to conquer a great chunk of the Earth. But the craftsmen, builders and scholars were all slaves of the highest esteem. Of course when the Romans had to
flee back home they had no place for slaves and left them behind. Now, if you were a native and had seen the tyranny of conquerors run rampant through your land for many years, then it’s
highly unlikely you’d have much time for the people brought with them. No, you’d want rid of them as well. Hence our wondering nomadic existence and fight for survival through a hostile
world.

George had another theory, that we originated from Northern India and spread through the world, arriving in Scotland seven or eight hundred years ago.

I didn’t accept this (and still don’t). ‘Where,’ I asked him, ‘do you get the title of gypsy from?’ I went on, ‘there are folks who call us gypsies and
them who call us Romanies. Doesn’t that speak for itself, Geordie my lad, we were Rome’s Egyptian slaves.’ After the clearances, Highlanders forced from hill and glen shared our
nomadic lifestyle and were grateful for it.

George had his own ideas and wouldn’t be swayed, but one thing we did agree on was our puzzlement as to why Scotland accepted and gave respect to descendants of those other conquerors,
like the Vikings and the English, given the terrors they brought?

‘Aye, an undivided world right enough,’ we laughed, saying if big hairy three-headed spacemen come and help themselves to Scotland it will make little odds who we think we are.
We’re all ‘Jock Tamson’s bairns’, as the old folks would say.

In passing, it is worth a mention that Egyptian mummies have been discovered with the bagpipes amongst other treasures buried in their sarcophagi.

One thing our relatives had handed down in stone, however, was that a hell of a chunk of us were scattered and displaced Highlanders who had joined with gypsies for survival.

The farmer, bless him, had made me, from two pitchfork handles, of all things a pair of crutches, and by the end of the week my foot had healed perfectly.

Geordie’s father, who by now was a permanent feature at our fire, gave me the next tale I am about to share with you. One of his lurchers had been splinter-speared while rabbiting. A
gaping wound on the poor beast’s side had rendered it near dead. A handful of spider moss was wetted, rolled into a ball and inserted into the wound. This pale green moss, which grows on the
bark of the silver-birch tree, has powerful healing qualities. Old folks swear it is Nature’s penicillin.

When I enquired of Geordie’s father if he knew any stories, it was no surprise that the only tales he knew were to do with dogs. So, reader, if you’ve walked your old mongrel, and
got the cuppy close by, then here is the tale of—

7

HARRY
’
S DOGS

‘S
o, old boy, I can only say sorry to you, but that’s the way of it. Please close the door as you leave.’

Slower than he’d opened the heavy oak door of the factor’s office, Harry closed it behind him. Not even a glance backwards at the big house did he take as, flanked by his lassies,
his gun dogs, the old gamekeeper, with head hung, hobbled down the driveway towards the wee cottage in the glen. Mrs Brown, the shepherd’s wife, came to meet him. ‘Och man, me an’
Wull are fair vexed at thon factor’s decision. He’ll no find a better gamey onywhere in the hale o’ the country, and I’ll tell him when he bothers tae bring his fine self in
among us. Come you in fur a drappy tea, I’m thinkin ye’ll be needin yin.’

Harry, usually reluctant to visit the kind lady’s kitchen on account of her blethering tongue, felt in need of a bit company, so ushering his girls under her table he sank onto her husband
Wull’s chair by the fire. Something he’d never usually do, but today his mind wasn’t on the niceties of good manners.

Mrs Brown talked incessantly while preparing girdle scones, stooping every so often to pet the dogs lying under her table and to pop a bit of cold cooked rabbit into their mouths.

‘I mind when you an the old Laird were like brithers. Dae ye mind yon time, Harry, whin he fell an broke his ankle an you cerried him frae the quarry a’ the way doon tae the big
hoose, dae ye mind?’

Harry took a swallow of hot tea and nodded. The shepherd’s wife could see his furrowed brow, and how hard he was trying to conceal a tear forming at the corner of his eye.

‘He needs to be by himself,’ she thought, and made some excuse that Wull had asked her to mind a sick ewe in the byre.

Alone now with his dogs, Harry thought back on his life as gamekeeper on his friend Sir Gregor McEwan’s estate. They met during the war, he as a mere Private, Greg a Captain. After the war
their friendship continued when Harry followed in his father’s steps and became a keeper. Greg took over the running of his own father’s estate and became laird.

During a blether while on a shoot, Harry discovered that a certain estate was looking for a good keeper. Imagine his surprise on discovering that the laird of this place was none other than his
old buddy, Greg. ‘Good God, Harry, what a great day this is, of all the keepers in the country there’s none I’d rather have than you! How in the name are things doing with
you?’

‘Och, I’m the better for meeting up with your good self again,’ was his answer.

Drams were downed by the bottleful as the friends cracked on into early light.

First off, Harry became under-keeper, then head-keeper, running the shooting on the estate with a free hand. Greg trusted his every decision and he never let him down.

A few years down the line, Sir Greg married a city girl, a pretty debutante who tolerated country living for a while. She was never happy away from the bright lights, and when their first and
only child came along, a boy, she was determined he would be reared in the city. This unhappy union soon ended in divorce and so Greg threw himself into the running of the estate, spending any free
time he had wandering through its vast expanse of moorland with Harry and his faithful gun dogs. Harry always believed those dogs were the only companionship a man needed, and so never found nor
looked for the comfort the fairer sex offered.

And that’s how it was from that day until three months ago, when suddenly his friend of over forty years lost his life. No one knew what had really happened, reports in the papers stated
that the lorry driver had fallen asleep. It was just another fatal accident on a winding moorland road. The fierce gale and driving rain may have contributed to it.

It didn’t matter to Harry how or what had happened, his best friend was lost to him forever. Never again to discuss the grouse, the deer and the high-flying flocks of wild geese over a
‘guid auld malt’.

Greg’s son had no intention of running the estate. Money and what it could acquire were all that motivated him! Those precious acres of land that his Father tended so lovingly were sold to
whatever land developer offered the highest price.

However, exceptions were made for some of the land to accommodate the employed. Greg’s will saw to it that they were given lifelong tenancy of their homes. But whenever the old laird had
mentioned the details of this plan to Harry the old gamey used to say, ‘well now, man, I’ll be long dead before yourself, you being a well-heeled gent an all,’ So the old friends
never got round to arranging such things. When Greg brought up the subject, Harry refused to discuss it.

So here he was in that dreadful position of being homeless, but what troubled him more than anything were his ten-year-old gun dogs. Those faithful companions who had never lived a day without
being in eyesight of their master. More heart wrenching was the fact that they were a gift to him after age took his last pair—a token of friendship from Greg. ‘For yourself lad, to
take you through the next ten years,’ Harry remembered him saying when he handed over the six-month-old spaniels, one black and white, the other brown and dirty white.

He quickly thanked Mrs Brown for her kindness then excused himself and was gone; two dogs at his heels. ‘Only one thing to do,’ he thought, ‘my lassies would pine without me. I
have no choice, every keeper worth a spit of knowledge knows dogs without their master would be useless, better dead.’ A shiver ran from bunnet to boot as he walked back to his wee cottage
with the heaviest heart. In minutes, pack slung over his shoulder holding a few morsels of food, gun clenched in a tight fist, he set off for a mist-shrouded moor, dogs running in excited
circles.

Within the hour a quiet stretch of heather-covered peat ground spread before him. ‘Let’s see the best o’ ye, lassies,’ he said, pointing his gun towards the heavens.
Darting excitedly back and forth, with yelps and barks, the spaniels routed a fine specimen of a grouse. Up, up it flew. Harry hadn’t lost his sharp eye to age. It fell like a stone, then
another one fell, feathers falling like gentle snowflakes upon the purpled ground. The girls soon stood before him, proudly depositing the fallen prey at his feet.

‘Well done, my beauties, now you shall feast at the rich man’s table.’

The bewildered animals lay resting as Harry, instead of tying the fowl, plucked and gutted the newly-killed birds. He then built a fire and proceeded to cook the grouse, saying all the time,
‘A feast for my ladies, my lovely ladies!’

It may have been a dog’s instinct, who can tell, but after feasting on the prepared meal Harry’s lassies become subdued, quiet as if they knew what fate waited them at their
master’s hand. High upon the windswept moor he walked them; hour upon hour passed before he sat each one down and said, ‘you know I must do this my dear, dear friends, the choice has
been taken from me,’

A strange eeriness crept upon the moor in the coming dusk. Silence followed the last whine as each of Harry’s companions fell dead at the command of his shotgun. With tear-filled eyes he
threw the offending weapon as far from his hand as he could possibly manage. High above crows circled and chased a single buzzard waiting to feast on the dead carcasses of Harry’s spaniels.
He would leave them to Nature: it was her place to dispose of them. His head hung from bowed shoulders. Tears fell freely from his old weatherbeaten face as he turned, not knowing or caring in what
direction his tired legs were taking him.

Perhaps it was a sudden onset of mist, or maybe night fell faster than usual, but he didn’t see the familiar lip of the quarry. All he remembered was tumbling and falling down, down, into
the murky, thick, peat water. How long he hung on to a broken tree branch he had no knowledge, but one thing soon became apparent, he was losing the battle with that cold, watery grave. And indeed
he was on the point of slipping under when suddenly two strong arms pulled him from almost certain death. It was old Wull and his youngest lad.

An early morning light pushed a welcome ray of sunshine through the small window of the shepherd’s cottage bedroom. ‘Hello lad, my, you gave us such a fright you did.’ It was
Mrs Brown. ‘I have some brose, here, sit up and fill yourself, Harry. It’s near death you’ve been for sure.’

Harry lifted a weak hand across his eyes, wiping away five days’ unconscious sleep.