Tears for a Tinker (7 page)

I felt much better with my wee boy in his care, and after the door closed behind him, Johnnie said weakly, ‘can I watch Thunderbirds?’

‘Thank God,’ I thought, ‘that means he’s feeling better.’

Davie switched on the black and white telly and sat Johnnie up against some cushions, but no sooner had he propped him up when our son began to vomit violently. Suddenly he stretched his spine,
jerking his arms and legs. He was convulsing and I was shaking with fear.

‘I’m away to fetch the Doctor.’ Davie ran out the door and met the Doctor coming back. He’d not liked the look of Johnnie, and had gone back to his surgery to fetch his
colleague for a second opinion.

All of a sudden my house was filled with ambulance men. Mammy, Daddy, Renie and Babsy all appeared. Wee Stephen, being a baby, sat stunned by the commotion, and only when Mammy took him away did
he cry for me.

Bairns guising the doors were singing and shouting, ‘pennies for the guisers!’ I distractedly apologised and told them to come back later.

‘Johnnie is seriously ill,’ Doctor Mackenzie whispered to me. ‘I want him to go to Aberdeen Sick Children’s Hospital. This will be a long night. Now you go with your wee
lad in the ambulance. Keep talking to him.’

Daddy told Davie to follow in the van.

All the way there I clung to our child as he lay limp and pale in my arms.

The driver, aware of the poor visibility throughout the fifty-mile trip, put himself at terrible risk by speeding as best he could through that nightmarish sea haar. ‘Slow down,’ his
mate whispered, hoping we wouldn’t hear, as the ambulance screeched on bends. ‘That wee laddie micht nae make it if ah dae,’ was his answer. This made my fear all the more
terrible.

Our arrival at the hospital saw a host of professionals tear into action, as our bairn became their property and not ours. Davie, following on our heels, was at my side in minutes. The
waiting-room, with its yellow-painted walls, felt cold and uncaring. If it hadn’t been for a certain nursing sister, I would have cried myself into a hysterical state. She came to tell us
where Johnnie was and took us to him. What a fright we got, seeing him lie limp and thin with tubes coming out of his tiny wrists and ankles. ‘Don’t be alarmed by them,’ she
reassured us, ‘that’s food and water he’s getting. Now come in here with me.’

We followed her into a warm room next to Johnnie’s ward, and no sooner had we sat down when a young red-headed nurse brought us mugs of tea and plates of toast. ‘If this isnae enough
I’ll dae ye twa eggs.’ We had no stomach for food, but thanked her just the same.

Desperate in our ignorance, we pleaded with the sister to tell us about our son’s state. ‘I’ll tell you truthfully, kids, that wee laddie will fight this night for his tiny
life. It will be touch and go, but if by the morning he’s still with us then he’ll live to tell the tale.’

These days, if a health employee said that to worried parents, they’d be sued to the hilt. Her words entered my heart, and I had an overwhelming feeling that Mammy’s Jesus had to be
found. I closed my eyes and sat praying, sometimes inwardly, sometimes outwardly, but not once all through the longest night of my life did I cease. I must have repeated Jesus’ name thousands
of times.

‘Come and see this,’ said a voice. I opened my eyes: it was the friendly sister. We followed her, on legs stiff and aching, into the ward.

Sitting up, with arms outstretched towards us, was our beloved wee son, smiling. He’d made it! Whether it was Mammy’s Saviour or a devoted caring staff who had helped him, I do not
know, but our time with Johnnie had been extended. No questions needed answers, the only important thing was that the joy of life continued.

He would get home within two weeks, and by the end of this time he was a favourite patient with nurses and doctors alike.

7

THE CURSE OF A GOOD MAN

W
inters along the Moray coast could be mighty cold, and the first one we endured there was no exception. Night entered when the afternoon had
hardly had time to start. People disliked those long cold nights, especially fishermen’s wives. Where Uncle Joe and his wife stayed by the shore, there also lived an old woman. Betty Lyall
was her name, a woman who’d given to the sea two sons and a husband. Although her husband had come from the Moray coast she was a wife from the west, Kintyre to be precise. It was by chance,
as I walked my two lads down by her door one day, she invited me in.

As we got chatting in her immaculate front room, it became apparent we shared the love of storytelling. This is a tale she told me from her home ground. Steeped in tradition, it held me
spellbound. See what it does to you, reader.

Superstitious and fearful of strangers were the folk of the western Highlands, but not so the inhabitants of Morvane House, home of John McPherson and his family. He was not a big man in
stature, but in heart and good nature there were few his equal. While he gave most of his time to rearing cattle, his wife opened their home to many a weary traveller passing by in need of a bed.
No one was turned away. Over a wide area, folks knew if their journey was broken by wild weather then the light of Morvane would offer shelter, and no matter how poor the travellers were, they
never failed to offer something in way of payment. A halfpenny, a penny, a spare pair of shoes, a plaid, hat, anything would do for payment, but not many left without handing over a morsel of
sorts. If Mistress McPherson needed work undertaken then this too was offered in lieu of money.

McPherson, a busy man, spent long spells away at markets or doing deals connected with his cattle. Now, it was while he was away that his good wife allowed a certain stranger over her doorstep,
and if he’d been there it’s doubtful if he would have given night shelter to such a one. Exceptionally tall, head covered by a black hood attached to a long cloak, she stood in silence
at the half-opened door of Morvane. ‘What can I do for you this dreich nicht?’ enquired Mistress McPherson.

No answer came from the mysterious stranger, so she began to close the door. Other visitors were complaining at the sharpness of the wind that found its way in to suck upon the burning sticks in
the hearth, throwing spirals of smoke around the room. A long skeletal arm, thrust forth from underneath the cloak, stopped the door from closing. Mistress MacPherson looked at the woman, who
stared back with a look that sent shivers running from her toe to her head. A white face without sign of life, and eyes cold as granite glared silently and sternly from beneath the hood. Shaking
off the foreboding rising in her breast, the good wife further opened the door and offered hospitality.

‘Come in, woman, for this night grows colder by the second. Now sit ye yonder by the kitchen door.’

Morvane was full that night, so the hostess could offer little in way of bed, but she brought the stranger some food and a blanket, and pointed out a place where she could find sleep upon a
window bench. The eerie visitor refused food, but took the blanket and sat down on the bench seat, staring at each of the other guests who had fallen into an uneasy quiet. Before that knock on the
door the house was full of laughter and good crack. One by one everybody made excuses and went to bed, not so much as looking sideways at the woman in her dark clothing.

When a seat by the fire emptied, she rose and warmed herself. Outside, rain lashed at the windows. Mistress McPherson wished her husband John was home, because she did not know what to do with
this person who refused to utter a word. But tiredness was overtaking her, so she told the woman that if she wished more privacy then there was a small loft above the stables. The stranger nodded
her head, took up the blankets, then turning slowly pointed at a box of candles. Mistress McPherson offered the box, and instead of one the dark-cloaked woman took seven; her hostess, wanting rid
of her, said nothing.

By midnight, John, who’d decided to cut his business short, came trotting home. The hour was late, and, as was only to be expected, all of Morvane was in darkness. But there was a light
coming from the little room above the stables. Why? Not wishing to waken his wife, John thought he’d find out whoever was in his stables using candles. It was stacked high with bundles of dry
hay, and if a spark landed in the midst of it, the whole lot would burn. He called up the wooden ladder leading to the room, but no answer came. He climbed up and knocked upon the door, but it was
not opened to him. Not to be beaten, he went outside and stood up in his horse’s stirrups. As his eyes fell on the awful sight within, his heart almost stopped in his chest!

Stretched out on the floor lay the stranger, surrounded by seven lit candles, arranged like so—three on one side, three on the other, and one to her head. John McPherson was amazed, and
for a moment spellbound. Then, without the woman touching them, three candles went out. Then two more, then another one. All were extinguished except for the one at the head. Then came the most
terrifying minute of his life, as she rose up, turned towards him, and began to sway. In the little light that remained, he saw by her heinous appearance this was no mortal woman. To his utter
horror, it was a creature he’d prayed never to see in his lifetime—it was the Banshee. Here at Morvane. This demon had come with a prediction from the dark country. As she moved from
side to side, her long grey hair, thick and matted with swamp peat, also swayed to a hellish rhythm. She floated over towards him, smiled menacingly, and was gone as the final candle flickered
out.

John had been brought up on tales of this apparition coming. Why did it appear? To herald doom, that’s why. He trembled, thinking of his sons, all six of them.

Although shaken and terrified to the bone, McPherson wasn’t one to show fear, especially before his dear wife. So without disturbing and alarming her, he slept downstairs at the fireside.
Yet to say that he slept would be an exaggeration; he had more than enough to think about. Three of his sons were employed at the herring fishing. Because they had managed to buy a boat of their
own, he was indeed a proud father. The eldest son, who’d recently married, named the boat after his young wife, Catherine.

Next morning he was troubled dearly, because the ‘take of herring’ season had begun. His fine sons knew that in Kilbrannan Sound there were silver darlings that would fill their boat
to capacity.

John, at breakfast next morning, asked his wife who had lodged in the stable loft the previous night. Did she realise that by burning candles the stranger could have sent the whole place up in
flames?

‘Husband, I was feared by her appearance, but she refused to say who she was. We had a full house, so I let her stay in the loft.’

Not wishing to frighten his wife, John said nothing of what he’d witnessed. After lighting a fire and briefly chatting with two wanderers who’d stayed the night, he said to his wife:
‘Bad weather comes, I feel it in my bones. Anyway, this is the time when it always blows the severest gusts, so I think I’ll ride down to Campbeltown Loch to see if I can catch our lads
in the fleet. If the weather gets any worse they’ll do better not sailing till the sky shows clear.’

But what John was unaware of was his sons had set out a day early. They weren’t near the port yet, and had little knowledge of the blackening sky heading toward the Kilbrannan Sound. John
lost no time in galloping towards the shoreline. The raging water had many boats scurrying for safety. Some found the harbour, while others headed for the Saddel and Carradale. All of the boats had
found safe havens—all, that is, except one. The McPherson boys had been far offshore when the huge black clouds released their fury. John from the back of his sweat-soaked steed saw them
struggling alone in the raging sea.

Men and women, frightened at the boys’ predicament, ran up and down, screaming for the lads to make inshore. But even if they’d been able to hear them it was useless, the sea was
their mistress now, and she was screaming doom. Catherine stood among the crowd on the shore, calling from the depths of her heart, ‘Duncan, ma man, beat ye the ocean and come hame tae
me.’