Tears for a Tinker (21 page)

‘Calm doon noo, fairmer, ye ken how much ye mean tae me an Nancy. This morning, if yer prize cow hadnae taken flight at the sight o’ yon horrible wee man, then life wid hae been a
gey sight milder. He put the evil eye on me, ye ken, had it stiff intae ma heed.’ (Tam’s godly scruples had fallen by the wayside.) Tam had passed the point of no return; lies fell from
his forked tongue and he continued unashamedly. ‘Why dae ye think I had tae defend him frae yer guid self? I had nae choice. He warned me and Nancy we’d be turned tae cauld marble if we
let you belt him. But it’s alright now, man, because I battled hard wi’ the devil and chased him aff. He had the power in him, ye ken, but me—well, I said tae myself, “yon
fairmer’s a good man, and this demon isnae getting tae steal his cow.” Go see for yourself, she’s safely in her field.’

‘Safe, ye say, Tam? Ma Sally is alright?’

‘Aye, man, and no’ a scratch on her.’

Chest puffed like a champion cock, Tam led the farmer down the track to where he’d just left Sally. He could see Nancy coming to meet him, in the hope that things were now sorted. A cold
wind blowing from the north, flaked with snow, made her cover her head with a grey shawl. They met together at the field gate, she, her husband and the farmer.

‘I hope ye’re telling me the truth, now, Tam, for I’ll no’ be pleased if she’s a mark on her.’

By now the wind had dropped slightly. The snow thickened and fell around them as they stood unable to think, let alone speak about what stood before them. Sally had stopped chewing. And it
wasn’t for the lack of food, because plenty of the best hay lay scattered around her stone hooves; she would never eat another morsel of anything again, that solitary statue of grey
granite.

Stunned into silence, they then turned slowly when they heard a noise behind them. The wee man was jigging in the air and laughing hysterically. Then with a puff of blue reek he turned his
behind towards them, patted it and was gone, never to be seen again.

21

THE DAY OF THE HAIRY LIP

I
thought I had turned into a monster once. It all happened one morning while we were camped on waste ground near Oban, which had, during the war,
been a Royal Navy base. After the wooden buildings had been dismantled, grand concrete bases were left in place and many travellers found clean floors to use for their caravans and tents. I was
thirteen years old, at that nightmare age when a tiny spot on the cheek looks like a volcano about to erupt.

September followed a beautiful summer with hardly a drop of rain. We had chocolate-coloured skin under sleeveless tops and shorts. I can to this very day feel the horror of that particular
morning, the day my life changed for ever.

I had been fascinated by two large white swans which had taken up residence in a patch of dry seaweed down by the beach. We’d camped on no man’s land for almost a month, and the
swans had got used to me beachcombing by their nest. I felt sorry for them because, according to locals, the bonny pair of birds had failed to produce any offspring. I knew several travellers who
never had bairns. They were always kindly treated by folks who felt sorry for their barren state.

Perhaps it was because they did not have cygnets to protect that those regal birds didn’t attack as I rummaged around, searching for scrap metal for my jute sack. Well, that’s where
I’d planned to go after Mammy went hawking and we’d finished cleaning the bus. But, as Rabbie was wont to write, ‘the best laid plans o’ mice and men’, etc—a
plan is best discussed in hindsight.

I positioned my gilt-edged mirror on a wee chair to give everything above shoulder level its usual third degree. This braw-looking glass I’d recently found abandoned on a rubbish tip.

It suddenly dawned on me, as I brushed my hair, my mirror needed a good clean. I’d left it out from the day before, and the mist was still clinging to it along with two spiders’
gossamer webs. It soon shone bright, illuminating my shiny black hair and two new plooks at each side of my nose. ‘I wonder if I could squeeze them buggers away?’ I thought, as every
human does when confronted by such face hangers-on. But as I moved close up to the mirror it wasn’t the red plooks that caught my eye: oh no, it was something so terrible I felt cold at the
very sight. Yet how could it be? Surely this wasn’t possible? I wiped a frantic hankie once more over the mirror, even used it on my eyes, yet still, there it was, no mistake—a thin
line of hair had sprouted above my top lip. I WAS TURNING INTO A LADDIE!!

I ran behind the bus, tucked my chin onto shivering knees and covered the monstrosity with my forearm. What was going on? How long would it grow? Would I sprout that thing that I had mistaken
for a slow-worm which grew below Cousin Joey’s belly button? I’d have to wear trousers and keep my hands in pockets. Oh God, what terrible thing had I done to deserve this? My knuckles
would also grow hair. How could I tell fortunes with digits like the Wolfman? Ochone, ochone, heel, weel, heel, weel.

I must have sat rocking back and forth like a dafty for hours, when Mammy called my name.

‘I’m roond the back o’ the bus, Mammy, an’ I’ll stay here if it’s a’richt wi’ you.’

Her head peered round at my secluded spot between two gorse bushes. She smiled, then when she saw my red eyes, said with concern, ‘Baby lassie, what’s the matter with ye, hen? I
thought you were away combing the beach or cracking tae the Queen’s swans.’

I had sat so long imagining such terrible changes from girl to boy that waves of emotion suddenly brought floods of tears. ‘Mammy, look what’s growing on my top lip.’ I shoved
out my face; she quickly examined it, laughed and said, ‘That’s your celtic beauty.’

Shock and horror! I thought at least she’d show some compassion, after all the only women who have hairy faces are sat in cages in the circus. Then I wondered if perhaps all Mammy’s
prayers in years gone by to give Daddy a son were now being answered. Mother Nature had decreed I was to be a laddie. Oh no!

‘Jessie, there is nothing ugly about a thin layer of fluff. As I said, all celtic lassies have it, it attracts the men.’

‘Poofs mair like!’ I screamed, then remembered how hurtful that word could be to certain individuals born to their lot. Still, I wasn’t about to start wearing greasy jeans and
a cravat on Sundays. If Mammy hadn’t taken hold of my arm, God alone knows where I’d have run to—joined the swans in their barren nest, no doubt. Come to think of it, maybe they
too were poofs. I went with my mother into the bus, protesting, with one hand over my lip hiding the hairy curse. She sat me down and opened a small wooden box concealed under the ‘courie
doon’ bed at the rear of the bus. In it were all her womanly things—powder, rouge, lipstick and ‘lily of the valley’ perfume (her favourite). A small bottle of twenty
volumes peroxide came out, and was placed very carefully on the thick chopping board. She pushed her hand down further and took out a ribbed bottle marked ‘dangerous substance’. I near
fainted. Was she about to poison me, ashamed of her daughter’s metamorphosis into a man?

I felt my body shake, but only momentarily, as she produced a small dish and poured a tablespoon of peroxide into it. ‘Hold your nose, now, because this stuff is lethal.’ She warned
me also to cover my eyes. I covered them and with a dropper she plopped five drops into the dish. The fumes were awful, but not for long. ‘Now,’ she assured me, ‘let’s magic
this away, although too be truthful I can hardly see it.’ With cotton soaked in the solution she applied it to my skin. There was quite a degree of stinging, but hey, ‘no pain no
gain’. We waited until, according to my beautician of a mother, the treatment had taken effect. After ten minutes she held my face gently with one hand, with the other she wiped a cool damp
cloth over my painless top lip, dried it, then said, ‘let’s go look in your mirror.’

I swear sweat was dripping freely down my back as each step took me nearer that mirror. What would I see? ‘Now tell me, Jessie, where’s the moustache?’

What magic—it had disappeared. Oh, the joy of seeing nothing there made heaven meet my earth. I smothered my mother in kisses, and hugged her to death, when suddenly she spied the spots at
each side of my nose. ‘Get that face washed properly, and don’t let me catch you squeezing,’ she skelped my backside. Then, with a wee wink of her bonny brown eye, she said,
‘Now you have a hairy lip like your Mammy.’

‘No, it’s away, gone, look.’

‘It’s been bleached, Jessie, and in several months’ time when it reappears, let me know and this time I’ll show you how to mix the liquids yourself.’

I spent the day in a state of nerves at the knowledge that I’d a hairy lip, and like the invisible man who took off his bandages to be unseen, I’d have to concoct a vile-smelling
poison to spread over my lip. ‘God,’ I thought recoiling in horror, ‘I hope my body doesn’t start sprouting any more hair!’

I know, I know, but those tattie shaws under my armpits were dealt with in another way.

Secrets of the female form—eh, girls? It might be the right time to add that, on inspection of my new mirror, my father informed me it was a magnifying one.

Now, I should leave this topic, but I have another surprise for you, folks. This new hair-removing mixture could, as I later discovered through experimentation, be put to other uses. Let me tell
you how my mother’s wrath was pushed beyond boiling point.

Still at Oban, and only days after my traumatic experience, I was at a loose end. My swans had taken flight to another place, probably further down the coastline. With no more tidal scrap to
collect, I decided to find out if my bleach would make head-hair disappear. Not mine, dear me no—but I had innocent wee sisters who hadn’t a clue about anything other than building
sandcastles and greeting for sweeties.

Mammy and Daddy had gone hawking through neighbouring villages along the coastline, leaving me to watch over my blessed siblings with strict instructions not to get them dirty or allow them to
play on the beach. Other travellers were there, who also kept their eye on parentless bairns. My older sisters weren’t with us at the time, so I was the big, wise sister. Aye, right.

Mary really didn’t need looking after, in fact I’d challenge anybody who knew her to so much as try to keep that wild lassie in one place. Mammy told her, though, to obey me or else
she’d feel the back of the hand when she got home. But as I said, Mary was untamed, so as soon as the van drove off she was off herself.

‘Don’t get stuck on rocks,’ I called out with my so grown-up voice, ‘if ye dae, bide there until the tide goes out.’ I knew if this happened Mammy would be home and
fuming at her disobedience, and at me for not keeping the wee madam in check.

Renie was swingeing at not being allowed to go with her, and Babsy joined in for support. There had to be something I could do to amuse them.

‘Can we play at cards?’ asked Renie.

‘Snap, or I won’t play,’ said Babsy, sniffing the air like a meercat.

Cards it was, but where did Mammy put them? I checked everywhere, and while I looked under her bed, my hand ran over the beauty box. Suddenly thoughts so spectacular popped into my head it was a
mini-Blackpool Illuminations as lights switched on in my brain.

‘Forget the cards, lassies, we’ll play at hairdressers!’ I looked at them for a reaction, but before they could guess my plan I’d put two seats side by side and said,
‘please, madams, will you be seated.’ Giggles followed as I draped a towel around their shoulders.

‘Listen now ladies, I shall give you both a Marilyn Monroe fringe, but while I’m preparing the mixture, feel free to have a chat. Coffee?’ I asked, pretending to pour into
invisible cups.

‘Yes, please,’ they said in unison, adding, ‘cream and sugar lumps.’

As they sat chatting and sipping non-existent coffee from invisible cups, I went outside to prepare that lethal mix of peroxide and ammonia. Standing with a spoon in one hand and bottle in the
other, it dawned on me I’d forgotten how much was needed, so I stupidly poured the whole bottle of peroxide into a soup bowl, then tipped in enough ammonia to send a fizz of torment up my
nose, which joined tears and snotters to escape and run down my cheeks. Daddy’s toothbrush had fine strong bristles, so I used that to lavish my home-made bleach onto my victims’ hair.
They thought this playtime was fun as I applied more bleach. In fact I used the lot. You might think me a bit of a show-off, but when I swear on my Granny’s grave that my siblings had turned
from dark-haired weans into lightning-streaked freaks, you may believe me. What a state! I’d created two brides for Frankenstein. Mammy would kill me.