Tears for a Tinker (26 page)

Telling you this, the memory of a similar experience my dear mother went through comes to me. She was a mere sixteen years old at the time she took on the Crinnan women from Dalwhinnie.

26

IN DEFENCE OF THE PEARLS

I’
ll speak in my mother’s voice.

‘I’d been hawking three solid days in a row. Started at the Atholl Palace in Pitlochry, where I foretold a cook she’d find her lost engagement ring under a
stone bench, and thank God she did, because she presented me with a basket of fine oatcakes amongst other braw eaties. I loved them crumbly biscuits that only Scottish cooks can conjure up. She was
so grateful that I left that kitchen with two whole florins and a bottle of the finest malt. The four shilling was well needed, but not being one for whisky, it gave me pleasure to pour it into the
burn at Killiecrankie. Daddy, you see, was all too fond of the awful stuff, and when on it could blacken my poor mother’s eyes; he was just a demon with drink, my father. I remember shouting
down intae the water, where I think a certain soldier leapt to his death in days gone by, “if ye’re still doon there, man, here’s a guid dram tae ye.”

I gathered washing for a Blair Atholl woman who’d hurt her shoulder, and in gratitude she gave me a present of two tweed skirts. Said she’d a bairn growing in her bowdie, and the
skirts would be too small when her belly swelt.

I made up quite a few miles heading over the pass, but by the gods it wisnae half cauld. I arrived at Dalwhinnie, and met up with my family in our usual campsite a half mile beyond the
Distillery. Mother was rare pleased with the basket and clothes. Daddy, thanks be, didn’t take any drink, and as was the case when he stayed off it, he was a really pleasant father.
He’d got a job burning heather on the moor, which took from sun-up to its going down. There was no time for drinking, but he joked that on a down wind the smell of the “Angel’s
Share” wafting from the froth-topped alcohol fermentation vats satisfied him.

I was feet-tired after my long road journey on the old A9, and after chores called over to my mother, sat stirring broth in a big black pot cooking over a grand fire, “Mother, if you
don’t need me, can I curl ma toes in the burn?”

“Aye, lassie, away you go. I’m rare pleased with your hawking these days. There’s a laddie waiting somewhere, and he’ll treat you good, for there’s golden threads
in you, wee Jeannie, aye, and silver yins and a’.”

I loved my mother’s way with words, and did hope that soon I’d meet a fine young man willing to better my lot, as all travelling lassies did in those fanciful days.

Over by the ash and willow trees flowed our lifeline, a freshwater burn. It wound down through miles of heather moorland and rocky ravines. The burn, a gift from Mother Nature to all wandering
people, provided liquid to quench the thirst, and water to wash everything, especially our birthday suits, and on that day for me, with sore and puffed feet, it was heaven itself.

May blossoms glided softly from wild hawthorn bushes, dropping on waiting bluebells that were throwing out scents to please a fairy queen. Broom thrust above drystane dykes like hundreds of tiny
soldiers wearing yellow caps. Summer was just around the corner; I felt weightless and content. I think in my heavenlike state I fell asleep, because then some lads were wading down the burn,
shouting excitedly among themselves. They were not much younger than I, about four in number, and I went to see what all the noise was about. They seemed so busy my appearance hardly raised an
eyebrow. “Hello boys,” I called, “what are you doing?”

“We’re pearl fishing, look at the pile of shells.”

I did indeed see the heaps of emptied mussel shells, which made me feel sick. “Why are you raping the bed of all those young shells, surely you can see there winna be ony in them. These
older ones maybe, but not them.” I pointed to some shells that had hardly been hardened, and gave the laddies a right roaring.

One jumped up and lifted his hand, but the others warned him not to hit a lassie. I said to forget the lassie bit, I’d take them all on, but they pushed me and laughed. Before I left, one
called out that their womenfolk would meet me and batter the spit from me.

Hot, more under the collar than sun-warmed, I dashed over to our camp site.

“Mother,” I spat the words, “is there other travellers near us? I’ve just had a run in wi’ wild bisoms who were raping a mussel bed, ripping intae the poor shells
and them no near any age.”

Mother, who was busy cooking over the fire a mammoth pot of vegetable soup, said when she heard me ranting on about the laddies armed with pearl knives, “it’s a family o’
Crinnin folk”. She seemed worried, and asked me if I’d annoyed them. I told her I couldn’t give a pirate’s curse for their well-being, it was the annihilation of the mussel
bed that bothered me.

My brother Matthew, who’d been out on the moor burning heather with Daddy, arrived home tired and weary and said, “Jeannie, yon Crinnin lads will be spouting tae their mither and her
sisters about you. Mother is worried they’ll visit now with wild fighting talk.”

His words sent a shiver into my wet feet. Every travelling family knows too well not to upset the Crinnin, especially the women. It doesn’t take much to spur them into a fury, but look out
when they are! They were three big brutes of females, famed for one way of fighting—head butting.

“Matthew, the lads were ripping every single shell apart, kenning fine if there were pearls in them they’d not be the size of a pin-head. It was the horrible way they laughed and
threw the empty shells at each other. You ken me, brother, I cannae stand that type of thing.”

“Oh aye, Jeannie,” said Matthew, with as serious a look on his face as I’d seen, “but nevertheless, yon Crinnin dogs love a fight. Any excuse will dae, they need little
wind in their sails. Mind, if stories are true, it’s the bitches that dae the fighting.”

My mother told Daddy about it as she poured him a deep bowl of soup, adding that if they came seeking to pagger, it was his wee Jeannie who’d take it.

Daddy sat down, took a slurp of his broth and said, “well, that’s a different way o’ daein right enough. Sorry, lassie,” he stuffed a chunk of crusty bread into his mouth
and continued, “I darenae stand by your side if women throws the glove.”

“Well,” said I, “then it’s time I was away again.”

Mother shook her head, handed me my share of steaming broth and said, “No, Jeannie, I’m not seeing you off again, lassie, it’s no more than a half day since you came back.
We’ll all go. Tae hell with the Crinnin belles.”

“Margaret, I’ve a whole month’s work burning heather. If we move, then where else will I get work?” My father handed over his empty bowl for a refill, adding,
“listen, if they come looking for tae pagger oor wee Jeannie, then I’ll have tae show her how to handle her fists.” He sat down his too hot soup and grabbed my hands. Like he was
handling gold he ran his fingers over each knuckle, asked for more bread and said, “we’ll get started right away, Jeannie. If yon wimmin mean tae pagger my lassie’s bonny face,
then she’ll not be taking it easy-like.”

I was shivering inside, thinking what state my face would be in after three mountains of madness threw iron skulls in its direction, but Daddy’s words took away part of the fear. My daddy
was, during his peak, a first-class street fighter. In fact he told everyone that’s what attracted our mother to him, his hard knuckles and swervy moves were irresistible. She always laughed
at this statement, and pooh-poohed it, saying it was the black hair, twinkling eyes and the way he made the keys dance on his wee melodeon.

With an eerie silence coming from the Crinnin who were camped a mere half mile into the neighbouring glen, Daddy took me onto a flat grassy patch to show me his moves. Like a bee he buzzed
around me, jerking and jabbing in a ghost-fight fashion.

“Don’t turn your back on me, I could take you down. Don’t leave the chin exposed, keep it low. Here, watch me.”

He pivoted, he ducked and he parried, kept moving, blocking an invisible blow, and catching his opponent’s jabs with an aggression I’d never seen in my father. I’d seen him
angered with drink, but not like that, now he was controlled. He was in his past again, master of the ring.

“Now, Jeannie, whatever you do don’t get caught off balance, always keep up your guard. Watch their eyes, follow them at the same time, imagine you have more eyes than them, in the
back of the head, at the side, keep watching. And no matter how close they get, never lean back, and slip your head away when reading their moves. Oh, and lassie, if you get tired, please
don’t drop these hands. And for God’s sake keep the temper under control—a mad dog is easy kicked!”

For the rest of the day I became a boxer. It was strange how much energy flowed through my arms as I followed his expert instructions. Later, as we walked back to our beds, I asked my father why
he never kept up his boxing.

“See this scar under my chin?” he lifted his head and removed his muffler. I never knew it was there on his neck, a scar stretching across his throat.

“That was a big brute of an Irishman called Traveller Buff Scarlet. We met on a field behind a pub on Stirling’s Drip Road. Said he was a flyweight, but every man on that day could
see he was a lot heavier. Well, I held my ground and we battered it out, reaching nineteen rounds; longest I’d ever boxed. A fearsome bastard, yon Irishman. He hooked me with a one-two, and
when I moved back a fish knife was flung at his feet by some snake relative. All’s I mind was the heat of blood running over my chest. Thank God he missed ma main artery, or me and you widnae
be having this conversation. Come tae think on, you widnae be born.”

That night, as I lay under our canvas tent, it seemed not a bad idea; not being born, that is. What a long drawn out night it was. I listened at the chirr-chirring of a lone nightjar chasing
moths. A hedgehog had found its mate and the two scraped away good style inches from where my head tried to sleep. Minutes seemed to have gone by when a solitary peewit jolted me from a dearly
needed sleep with its pee-twit call. I’m sure nature’s creatures had got wind of a certain battle due to take place next day, because to cap it all I heard what I’d never heard
before, the “squawk, squawk” of two herons flying low over our tent. One, aye, but never two of the noisy bisoms.

Sleep came in drips and drabs, and that night it was for me a luxury I’d been unable to afford. The dawn came in with a chorus from a skylark and I was certain no matter how apt my
father’s wisdom had made my fists, without a good night’s sleep I’d be easy meat.

An early morning plunge into the burn sent all sleepiness flying, as water sprayed over every inch of my young frame. If thon women were approaching then I’d meet them wide awake.

It was quiet, though, and I began to hope that my imagination had been working overtime. Perhaps the dear ladies had no intention of fighting battles for their horrible offspring. But as I
washed porridge plates and filled our tea koocazie [kettle], a great screech of soprano voices sent pheasant and grouse to shelter on a cloud. Wood pigeons joined them.

“Hey you Power lot, whaur’s the wee worm that chased oor weans frae the pearl burn?”

My fears were realised, and by golly in big time mode, because three of the largest females I’d ever seen stood like gladiators on the brow of the hill. Dressed in tweed skirts and heavy
cotton blouses criss-crossed by paisley-patterned wraparound aprons, they were as mighty a gathering of Crinnin as I’d seen in many a long while. My poor mother, who I’d forgotten to
say was heavily pregnant, called to them that it had been a storm in a tea-cup, and come away doon for a share of the tea. Glancing at me she whispered, “pick up yer bag, Jeannie, and run
like hell. I packed it last night when you and your father were sparring.”

Daddy, however, who was in the process of shaving, rubbed the soap from his chin and walked up to me. Not a single look did he afford the Crinnin, just walked on by and said, “Remember and
keep the head, Jeannie. Don’t let them rage ye, lassie.”

I felt my belly shift to my throat, and smiled through a frozen grimace. “Faither, I think yon beasts will maul me tae bits. Maybe I’ll keep ma head and run!”