About to point out that he was hungry now, Willie thought better of it. He’d got off lightly, considering. He’d expected his mother to smack him and his father to wallop his backside, so it was better to leave things as they were.
By the following August, Willie being what he was, and Poopie-Cecil being what he was, it had become accepted that it was always the younger who defended the older, and, as he assured himself, his mother would just have to get used to ‘seeing to the injured’. Coming to the end of the summer holidays, he didn’t want to go back to school. Why should he waste the lovely weather doing reading and practising his letters and numbers? It tired him out much more than when he was running all over the place playing tick and tack or hide and seek with his pal. And he would have to go to school till he was fourteen. He’d asked Connie how long that was and she’d said, ‘About eight years yet, but it’ll soon pass. It’s two years since I left and it just feels like two weeks.’
This helped to put some cheer in the boy’s soul, but he was even happier when he discovered that schoolchildren would get a week off in October – the ‘tattie’ holidays, when farmers expected local children to help with harvesting the potato crops. Willie offered his friend and himself to his father for the job but Jake had to turn them down. ‘I’m sorry, son. I can manage mysel’ wi’ my wee tattie patch an’ besides, I canna afford to pay you. See, the fairmers’ll pay you for workin’ for them.’
Reasoning that the bigger the farm, the more money they would get, Willie suggested the Mains first, then Ricky Muirhead at Easter Burnton, but his father just laughed. ‘I’ll see if McIntyre’ll tak’ you. He’s nae a bad boss, an’ he’ll nae cheat you.’
Johnny McIntyre of Wester Burnton, a roly-poly of a man with a big wart on his cheek, said, ‘Ach weel, Jake, they’re a bit young yet, but if they’re prepared to work hard, I’ll gi’e them a try. My horse an’ cart goes round the cottar hooses at six every mornin’. So tell your laddie to get himsel’ to the Grants on Monday, he’ll get lifted wi’ the rest o’ the bairns.’
There was great excitement on the big day before Willie was ready in his oldest clothes, a pair of wellies on his feet and an old peaked bonnet of his father’s on his wellbrushed hair. Emily had been at her wits’ end making him stand at peace until she made sure all his buttons were fastened, that he had a handkerchief in his pocket, that he remembered to take his dinner with him, but at long last he skipped out, leaving her to collapse on a chair and pour herself a cup of tea. Jake had already gone, taking Becky with him to help him with his ‘crop’. Connie had already left for her work at the Mains.
Willie ran as fast as his podgy legs would carry him and was knocking on the Grants’ door before any of his fellow tattie-pickers were assembled.
‘You’re in plenty time ony road,’ laughed Mrs Grant, ‘but my Poopie’ll nae be lang. I made him gan to the privy to be sure …’
Guessing why, Willie couldn’t help a little smile, but he didn’t have long to wait for his aptly nicknamed chum, who said sharply, ‘Come on, then, Willie, or we’ll be late an’ Da says they’ll nae wait.’
By the time they reached the end of the dirt track that led to Johnny McIntyre’s clutch of houses for his workers, there were a good dozen boys of all ages already there, a motley crew in their varied modes of dress, hand-medowns from fathers or older brothers, which were mostly of the over-large size, or old clothes of their own, which were too small and too tight.
Most of the younger boys were there for the first time, showing their nervousness by shuffling their feet (whether in Wellingtons or tackety boots) and giggling quite a lot. The older boys wore an air of boredom to prove that they had been doing this job for years and knew they were good at it. For once, Willie thought it better not to ask questions, but was somewhat disappointed to find that their transport, when it arrived, was an old cart, drawn by an equally old looking Clydesdale, not the splendid modern bus, as he had imagined.
Still, what did it matter? It did the same job and their journey wouldn’t be very long. It was farther than he had thought, however, as they were taken to one of McIntyre’s more distant fields, a huge expanse of green vegetation among the evenly distanced furrows. The drills were marked out with branches of broom for the pickers: one length for the older boys and the few retired men who had turned up, half lengths for the younger boys and the few handicapped men. McIntyre himself came over to the two youngest. ‘I’ll let you tak’ half a dreel atween the two o’ you,’ he stated firmly. ‘You should manage that, and if you canna manage that, you needna come back anither day. Is that understood?’
Willie Fowlie did not join the chorus of ‘Aye, Maister McIntyre.’ His eyes and his total attention were taken up by the big wart on the man’s face. ‘I’ve seen some big warts afore,’ he muttered to Poopie-Cecil as they looked for their designated area, ‘but yon’s like a … a …’ He searched for an appropriate description and finally came up with, ‘… like a bloody aipple.’
Flabbergasted at the swear-word, for he’d never heard Willie swearing before, Cecil made no reply. He didn’t want them to lose the job before they’d even picked up one tattie.
It was a back-breaking task going behind the tractor (Clydesdale pulled, not motorised) and picking up the potatoes, large and small, and putting them in the wooden container they had been given for the purpose. The day grew warmer, then hot, then almost suffocating, and within a couple of hours, most of the younger ‘howkers’ were stripped to the waist. Only the older, wiser from past experience, kept on their semmits for protection and wore a handkerchief knotted at the corners to protect their bald heads.
The farmer’s wife and daughter came round at half past nine with some tea and a biscuit, and by noon both Willie and Cecil, and probably several other youngsters, were feeling that they couldn’t go on much longer. Half an hour was allowed for eating their dinners, sitting round the grass verges at the edges of the field, and then it was back to the grindstone again. The sustenance had given them all a good boost, so they set to with almost as much vigour as they had had first thing in the morning. It didn’t take long to fade, however, as Cecil observed, ‘My backbone’s broke, I think. I can hardly bend.’
Wiping the sweat from his face and out of his eyes, Willie warned, ‘Dinna let onybody see you’re tired. We’ll nae get back again.’
‘Yokin’ time, lads,’ came a voice from somewhere on their right. ‘The grieve’ll be roon’ to collect your boxes an’ you’ll get your wages ower yonder.’
Both boys swivelled round to see where the money was to be given out, and were pleased to see the farmer himself standing at a wooden trestle table set up just inside the field gate. The reward for all the excruciatingly hard labour would be coming, very very soon.
They watched as the horse went up each drill, stopping for Frankie Wilson, the grieve or farm foreman, to pick up the boxes and write in his little book which box belonged to which worker. Several other collections had been made during the day from those able to work at a good speed, each one being marked with the number of the collector, and they would be added together when the final tally for the day was made.
‘Weel, then, lads,’ came the greeting in a few minutes, ‘let’s see how much you’ve got.’ Frankie swung their box on to the cart. ‘Nae bad, nae bad. You’ve daen better than I thocht. Ower you go, then, an’ wait in the line. It’ll nae tak’ lang, jist the weighin’ o’ this last lot.’
It didn’t take long, for which the boys were extremely glad. Having to stand in the sun, even at seven at night, was hard on poor exhausted bones, but at last it was their turn. Their day’s work was weighed, Mr McIntyre stating, ‘You’re two grand wee workers, I’ll say that for you. Are you thinkin’ on comin’ back the morra, or can you nae face it again?’
It was Willie who said boastfully, ‘Oh we’ll be back, we’re nae that tired.’
Poor Poopie-Cecil, scarcely able to make a move, just nodded, but both faces lit up when they were handed a half-crown each.
Willie had been watching what the co-workers in front of them had received; most of the other boys got a good few coins, some of the older youths even pocketing a paper note of some kind. Ten shillings, maybe, or, like the men, a pound note. As they left the field and stood waiting for the cart to take them home, Willie whispered, ‘Will you manage the morrow, Poo … eh … Cecil? You’ll get another half-croon.’
His chum heaved a telling sigh, but murmured, ‘I’ll be fine if I get a good night’s sleep.’
When he reached home, struggling to keep upright for the last hundred yards or so, Willie handed his half-crown to Emily. ‘See that, Mam? If I gan evey day this week I’ll ha’e … what’s seven times half a croon, Becky?’
‘Not seven,’ warned their mother. ‘You’ll not be tattiepickin’ on the Sabbath, even though Johnny McIntyre’s heathen enough to expect it.’
‘Eight half-croons mak’ a pound,’ announced thirteenyear- old Becky, looking smug, ‘so four would be ten shillings, an’ two would be five, so six would be fifteen shillings.’
She looked hopefully at her father, who said, ‘Na, na, lass, I canna afford to gi’e you as muckle as that.’
The following morning, however, told a different story. Becky wasn’t wanting to gather potatoes with her back aching in every bone, and Willie felt every bit as sore. Furthermore, his bright red skin was burning up under the old shirt, but he didn’t want to admit to such a weakness. Emily could tell by his gait, however, that he was not as fit as he was making out, and felt a touch sorry for him. She waited until the boy went out to the privy, then said to her husband, ‘He’s only five, Jake. He’s not fit to be picking tatties.’
‘He’s fine. He’ll need to learn to put up wi’ a lot harder work than that if he wants to be cottared.’
‘He mebbe doesna want to be a farm servant,’ she snapped.
‘He’s ower young to ken what he wants to be, and you havena aye been so worried for him.’
Their son’s return stopped their bickering before it became a full-blown quarrel, but Emily was hurt that her husband would argue with her like that. Where was the old gentle Jake, the man who had come back from the war quieter even than when he left, and had never been able to speak about his experiences, not even after all this time, and not even to her?
That week was the longest week Willie had ever lived through, or, as he said to Poopie-Cecil, ‘I’m sure this tattie howkin’ll tak’ a year aff’n my life.’
‘Mair like a year aff for every day,’ nodded his friend.
The trouble had begun long before this, of course, but had developed as time went on. He’d never had anything to do with girls before, and it seemed to him that they were fair game for tormenting. He would pick his victim, find a decent place of concealment, then jump out on her with a ‘lion’s roar’. The resulting flood of tears pleased him, but he discovered that it also led to a reprimnd from Miss Cowe, and that several reprimands led to a smack over the fingers. This didn’t hurt so much as the ignominy of being punished in front of the whole class. The other boys, however, didn’t laugh at him as he had feared, but treated him with some respect, thus prompting him to find various other ways of annoying the poor little girls.
The next few terms followed much the same pattern as Willie’s first – gradually including fights with the bigger boys who targeted Cecil as a prime recipient for all their bullying, but learning fairly soon that he had a protector who could give as good as, if not better than he got. Eventually, they gave up altogether and Willie turned his energy in other directions. Most of the girls wore their hair long, some being fortunate enough to sport lovely dark curls, or fair tresses, and one even had lustrous auburn hair. Each female head was also adorned with a ribbon, tied with various sizes of bows which were like red rags to Willie’s bullish humour. In the playground at playtimes, he would manoeuvre himself into such positions that he could, with one little quick tug, undo the bows and send the owner’s hair cascading down around her shoulders and sometimes, hopefully, over her eyes.
He always ran off laughing, which encouraged the other small boys to point their finger at the victim and laugh their heads off. This carried on for some weeks, with Miss Cowe threatening to report him to the dominie, but never carrying out her threat. Willie was becoming a bit of a hero to the boys in his class, a composite of five, six and seven-year-olds, but a wicked being to be avoided by the poor girls.
Willie himself took pride in fuelling his reputation as fearless, and relished watching the apprehension in the girls’ eyes when he went near them. It wasn’t until he caught Lizzie Cordiner breaking her heart in a corner of the bike shed that he gave any thought to the consequences of his pranks. Lizzie, a tiny five-year-old with big blue eyes and hair as straight as the yardstick they used for measuring the length of things like their classroom or the corridor, wasn’t quite as pretty as some of the other little girls, but she looked so miserable that Willie felt a rush of shame at what he had done to her. ‘I’m sorry, Lizzie,’ he said, quietly, but she wept all the harder.
‘You … thought … it was funny,’ she sniffed accusingly, ‘and my Ma says you’re a heartless little brat, and if she gets her hands on you …’
There was no bravado left in her tormentor now. ‘What did she say she’d do?’ he asked, for Lizzie’s Ma was a giant of a woman, strong enough to break him in two if she felt like it, or tear him limb from limb if she so desired.
‘She … said … she’d … um … skin you alive.’
They looked at each other silently, each picturing how the woman would go about such a task, then Willie muttered, ‘I’ll nae dae it again. It was just a bit o’ fun.’
‘It wasna funny for us. The big loons took the ribbons and put them in the lavvy, or cut them up … an oor Mas said they couldna afford to keep buying new ribbons. My Ma even says she’s gan to cut my hair aff so’s I can see.’
‘Oh, I’m real sorry to hear that. I didna ken. Look, I’ll get money oot’n my bankie and you can buy a new ribbon.’
‘Ma would still be angry wi’ you,’ Lizzie murmured, sadly. ‘She thinks your Da should skelp your …’ She stopped, unwilling to use the exact word her mother had used.