Jessie’s Journey

We stopped there at quiet Blair Atholl by the burnside, and this, folks, is a wee tale from the week I spent among the surrounding fields and hillsides.

Auntie Anna, Uncle Robert and ken-it-all Berta pulled on at our backs. Within an hour my cousin and me fell out about a rope-swing the local weans left on a nearby tree. I told her she was too heavy and would break it. ‘Na, na, it’ll take the weight of a dozen men,’ she called, as she duly ran at the poor thing. I can still hear the crack of the branch splitting in two. Aye, she broke it! I had planned to play on that rope all day, hence the moody with our Berta, so instead I went into the village with Mammy and my wee sister Mary.

The plumpy lady who ran the village post office was more than pleased to crack with our mother that morning, on account of them knowing each other, while Mary and me had a blether with some scaldy laddies.

‘What you doing?’ I asked, watching them carrying a bucket and a ball of string up towards a clump of trees behind an old derelict house.

‘Cat’s fur, stupid,’ answered a wee fat one (who looked more like a red and brown turnip than a boy), obviously offended by our unwelcome intrusion. Do you notice that short men, even at a young age, always have more to say for themselves than the rest?

‘We’re going to trap birds under this bucket, but we have no intentions of harming any,’ said the tallest laddie. (See, I told you, only the wee chaps are lippy!)

‘Don’t let them come, giggling women give the game away!’ said the neep-on-legs.

The neep stared into my face and then gave the real reason for excluding us. ‘Well, if you lot come, then the smell of you tinky stinkies will send the birds shrieking to the moon!’

I looked at my sister, knowing full well what her response to this uncouth laddie was about to be.

‘Say your prayers, you flea-ridden dung heap!’ she roared as she lunged, sinking talons into the wee fat lad’s two lugs. Rolling in among the grass and gravel she clung onto the lugs as if it were them that had offended us and not their owner.

‘Mary, get up out of there, that’s a disgusting way to behave. A’ these lads can see the big tear in your knickers,’ I said, worried that Mammy was about to come out of the shop and find her daughter wrestling in the dirt and gravel with a local laddie. Too late, she did, and was she not fury on fire!

Mary drew back, but managed a fine kick into the right shin of her opponent, who I’m more than certain wished he’d kept his mouth shut that quiet afternoon. Mary was not a big bairn, but by God, she was a fiery one, and it wasn’t the first time she flew at someone for calling her a tinker!

Mammy dragged the both of us along the river bank by the scruff and muttered away to herself at the same time, ‘Lord, I can’t turn my head for a shaking of a lamb’s tail and look what you two are up to. The village is out of bounds to you both, now are you hearing me?’

I nodded, but Mary did a fool thing by saying, ‘If you hadn’t appeared when you did, Mam, that wee cack-pot was a dead duck.’

‘She’s for it now,’ I thought. One thing we did NOT do, was answer Mammy back. Realising too late what she just said, Mary, in an attempt to make amends, blurted out, ‘Sorry, Mam, I didn’t mean that!’

Mammy was roused to the point of no return. Staring Mary in the eye, she told her, ‘You’re grounded!’

With Cousin Berta and me not speaking and our Mary kept in, I had nobody to play with. Our wee Renie was swingeing about a sore bellyache, so she was no use. And there was no way I would take Babsy to play, after her fouling her breeks back at Kindallachan, I didn’t want a repeat of that.

I told Daddy about the bird-trapping the Blair Atholl lads were planning on doing, and which they were going to show us until our Mary put a stop to that.

‘Och, we used to trap birds when I was a laddie,’ he told me. ‘Come, I’ll show you how it’s done.’ He took a piece of twig, a bitty string and a saucer, then proceeded to skill me in the art of a ‘Bird-Trapper’ of the highest degree.

‘Courie yourself flat on the ground,’ he said. ‘The first rule is don’t be seen. No bird will fly within a mile if it can deek [see] you, so rule number one is hide. Number two, make sure the string is long enough so when it is tied round the twig it can be concealed in the grass from there to your hand. Three, when you have your bird under the saucer,’ (this was only a guide, he reminded me, I’d need something a lot bigger than a saucer) ‘yank at breakneck speed and walla, a pet bird!’

Auntie Anna who was listening to us said, ‘You don’t want to be lying in among the undergrowth for fear of the wee throat-ripper, lassie!’

She leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘He’s a Dracula beastie, drinks rabbit blood, in fact any kind a blood at all, he’s no’ fussy. Folks say through the years over a hundred weans were sucked dry by the fiend, aye, right here in this very place. King o’ the weasels he’s known as, the Blair Atholl vampire!’

‘Auntie, for God’s sake, you don’t say!’ I burst out laughing, and so did my Daddy.

‘There’s a wee fat lad with two swelt lugs in the village, I doubt the bloodsucker must have missed him,’ I told her, ‘because you should have seen the blood Queen Mary (Mrs Dracula) removed from him!’

‘Aye, you may well laugh, but there’s many a tale about the cold-blooded beastie. Just make sure you and him dinna come face to face one of these days, bairn. Mark my words, it will stay the whole of your life with you!’

That evening I spent ages lying on my back watching the first of the swallows winging by on the first stage of their long journey to the other side of the world. I remember thinking, ‘How in the name do these tottie wee craturs stay up in the sky? Surely the angels help them.’ Whenever I didn’t understand things, I always found the answers my young brain sought in the work of the angels, then changed the subject of my thoughts.

I walked up the sandy bank of the burnside, tiptoeing as rabbit upon rabbit scooted in and out their burrows, and I thought on the dreaded weasel, father’s snares and, not least, the Gamey. What I didn’t know then was that the dreaded mixi disease was lingering in the shadows to almost scour the poor beasties from the face of the earth.

They certainly had little going for them, the poor souls. But that was in their future and mine. That evening was so beautiful, so peaceful. The ‘too-too-the-noo’ of the wood pigeon and the water wriggling on its never-ending journey down the burn were the only sounds to be heard. Then another sound filled my ears: ‘Jessie, Jessie, cocoa!’

‘That will do for me,’ I thought, ‘I hope Mammy’s made scones, I’m dying o’ hunger.’

Next morning the sun hadn’t made up his mind if he wanted to shine or not, but it was fairly warm.

‘There’s thunder in the air the day,’ said Uncle Robert. Like his brother Wullie, he was never wrong with his weather predictions.

‘Will it be worth my while hanging out a washing then, Robert?’ asked Mammy.

‘Well, to tell you the truth, Jeannie, I think you’ll be a’right, it’s heading over from the west south-west,’ he added, sticking one finger in the air, wetting it on his tongue, then thrusting it back up again.

‘Strange,’ I thought. ‘How would that tell him if my mother should do a washing or not?’

That news had her hurrying out the washing tub, as Uncle put the thickest sticks on the fire.

Daddy had left before we stirred, to do a bit of moling round the local farms. I tried to break the ice between Cousin Berta and myself, but she huffed her eyes shut and turned her back. Honestly, she could be right throng, that lass, when she put her mind to it.

‘You please yourself,’ I told her, adding, before striding off, ‘life’s too short for that carry-on.’

Mary had positioned herself halfway up the tree that Mammy hung her washing-line from, and sat there, legs dangling over a branch, so that she could keep an eye on her.

The ball of string I took from the handy box kept in the bus boot seemed okay for the job. A broken stick flung down by Mary from her perch would be fine, but what was I going to use to trap the birds?

‘Jessie,’ called my suds-covered mother, ‘before you go playing, pet, can you do me a big favour and wash the dishes?’

‘Would you look at the mountain of dirty clothes piled at my feet, lassie. Now, if you don’t want to join the craw in the tree,’ (meaning Mary) ‘get washing the dishes!’

I looked up at Mary and thought she did resemble a crow. Rather than sit arguing with her all day, then the cursed dishes it was.

This, though, was a blessing in disguise, for with each porridge plate plonked into the water, a big smile spread over my face. I had found my ‘trap’! Why, of course, the dish-basin, none other.

‘Please Mammy, It’s not for anything dirty, like keeping baggy minnows in.’

I remember a countrywoman we saw once washing her baby’s nappies in her basin. Mammy called her a filthy, clattie manishie (woman) and refused a cup of tea from the kind wife. ‘I’d rather die o’ the drouth than take tea from a cup that’d been washed in the same basin as shitty hippins,’ she said.

But the trapping was on me and I had to have the basin. Anyway, there was a big difference between a bum wrap and a bird trap.

‘Mammy will kill me for sure,’ were the thoughts racing through my head as I found the perfect spot, with basin securely held under my arm. I quickly set about propping it up with the string-tied twig. Lastly, a sprinkling of breadcrumbs finished the job. I stood back, and when I thought it looked right, took the loose end of the string and found a braw bit in the undergrowth to hide in from any suspicious birdy.

I may have lain in that spot for hours, for I soon lost all track of time, when a flutter of wings caught my attention. A blackbird was filling itself to its brim with my tasty crumbs. ‘Jings, I’m not needing a bird of that size,’ I thought. ‘And if it bides under the basin it’ll not leave any bread for wee-er birds. Away with you greedy blackie,’ I called out, ‘the free meal’s not for you, go!’ Instantly it flew off to pastures new.

Just when I thought my luck was out at this trapping carry-on, a wee curious bird settled itself at the mouth of the basin. It was, of all birds, my favourite: a wee cock-sparra. The hoppitty-hop curiosity of the tiny bird at the basin told me Blackie had left some crumbs, and yes, the little visitor was making his way under my trap.

I gently tightened my grip on the string and yanked as fast as I could. ‘Got you!’ I screamed. Jumping to my feet with excitement I ran over to check on my captive spug pet. Then a thought flashed to mind: ‘How can I lift the basin up without him fleeing away? I’d best go and see if Mammy will help me make a cage for my new pet.’

Well, if ever a mistake was in the making that was it. I can still to this day mind the look on her face when I told her what I’d done.

‘You’ve done what?’ she roared. ‘Do you mean to tell me you’ve got a wild bird trapped?’

‘It won’t be wild for long, Mam. Sure, if a flea can be trained, then surely a bird would be a doddle.’ I went on, ‘Can you not make a cage for him? He’d look grand sitting in the back windy.’

‘Would you like to be stuffed in a cage sitting in the back window, my lass?’

‘Never mind but. Listen to me, now, Jess, this is a lesson! When the good Lord gave you two legs to run with, he also gave yon wee sparra wings to fly with. How would you feel if you hadn’t the use of your legs?’

‘Wheesht, Mammy, for God’s sake, heaven forbid,’ I squirmed at the question.

My mother stared at me as if staring into my very soul. Only mothers can do that. Tears filled my eyes as I thought on what I’d done. She put her arm round my shoulder and continued: ‘When travelling folks camp in the countryside they must leave it as they found it, nothing taken, or abused. You see, this would offend Mother Nature and she doesn’t look too kindly on abusers of the land. Some, who have spoilt her pattern, find she won’t let them back. They say such people have had all their belongings lost, either in floods or landslide, aye, and some found a living impossible to make. Now, lassie, away and set free yon wee sparra, that is if it’s still alive.’

My mother’s lesson fairly filled my head as I sped off to release my captive. I began to think that Mother Nature must be married to God, because Granny Power told me he was the one who made everything. ‘One big painting, Poppy’ she would say (she called every wean that), ‘painted by the Master Himself. Birds singing, spring and autumn colours, winter’s frock o’ white. He does the paintings. She gives it life.’ And here was I interfering in Their way of things.

‘Oh dear, better pray the sparra hasn’t died with fright!’ I thought, running with the stretch of a pursued hind at rutting time.

I hurried back to my wee captive, and with trembling hands gently lifted up the basin. ‘Are you dead, bird?’ I whispered, peering underneath. The spug sat there with marbled, glazed eyes, not a single tweet or movement, just silence. Lifting my head towards the heavens, I prayed, ‘I didn’t mean it harm, God, only thought it would mak a fine pet. Please can you see a way to forgive a helpless wean?’

The sparra sat staring. I sat grovelling, even promised to wash every dish the family used indefinitely.

Unable to contain my fears at what the Almighty and his woman had planned for my future, I took hold of the dish-basin and threw it a mile in the air. The noise it made as it stotted against a tree trunk did the trick. Our wee sparra was only kidding on, one look at the dish-basin rolling in his direction sent him reaching for the sun, with the healthiest pair of wings I’d ever seen.

‘You wee cheat, there was nothing wrong with you,’ I screamed pointing at the heavens. ‘It’s a bating [spank] for you if we meet again, I can tell you, my lad.’

After teetering on the brink of God’s wrath, I swore I’d leave all birds alone, and spend my time from now on playing bairns’ games! But isn’t it peculiar when we’re young how we soon forget our wrongs, so within a minute the basin was propped up again and I was hidden in the undergrowth awaiting my next victim.

‘Oh my, what a naughty girl!’, I hear you say, but well, ha, ha, you’re wrong!

I would leave the spugs alone and go for the big black hoodie. Mammy hated the clumsy creature, the witch’s favourite. Many times she stretched her fist towards the sky and called out, ‘You can’t leave a crumb out to feed the wee birds when yon big ugly black things steal it!’ I even heard old wives say the hoodie was a bird of the Devil.

So seeing as nobody liked ugly craws, I’d make it up with both mothers—nature’s and my own—and catch one.

So there I was, concealed in my now familiar hidey-hole, string clasped firmly in my hand, awaiting the unsuspecting prey.

I waited, and waited, and better waited, but yon wee sparra must have spread the word that the big bird-trapper was operating in town.

As I lay there, only the odd thin-legged spider ventured without fear across my bum, up my back and down my arm, then trotted off to disappear under the basin. Apart from him, nothing, not even a wasp, ventured within a mile of my trap.

It might have been nearing suppertime, my belly was rumbling, but by golly it wasn’t the only thing, for the thunder that my Uncle Robert had predicted was splitting the heavens.

I could hear away in the distance Mammy’s beckoning whistle, calling her brood home. ‘Home,’ I thought, ‘best get back.’

But, before I stood up, something caught my eye. A rabbit was making its curious approach to the basin mouth. ‘Jeeps’, I cringed, ‘if Mother Nature takes a heavy at birds, she’d be a damn sight more peeved if I trap a rabbit.’

The next few minutes of my life in the undergrowth that late afternoon were for sure the most terrifying I’ve ever lived, so take heed as I relive the horror.

Directly behind the unsuspecting bunny I saw him. Standing on hind legs, swaying like a red cobra, was Auntie Anna’s demon throat-ripper! He stood poised, ready to strike my unsuspecting wee ball of innocent fur. Like a snake he swayed from side to side as if hypnotising the poor wee rabbit. His prey went rigid and so did I. I could hear deep in my head a high pitched shrill, a sound I’d never heard before, like a scream from a dying fairy brownie.

Now, I don’t know if it was the thunder and lightning, Mammy’s whistle or Auntie Anna’s tale of blood-sucking, but my whole body froze from top to toe. All I could manage to move were my fingers, which I pushed into the soft earth, filling my fingernails with peaty soil and rye grass.

It mattered not a jot if rabbit was on Dracula weasel’s menu that day or not, as long as it wasn’t me. I became terror-struck. Bit by bit, from teeth to feet, the fear of weasels spread across my rigid body, giving birth to a lifelong phobia.

As I lay in the undergrowth with my dirty nails and dry throat, I could not have cared less for the raging electric storm, my whistling Mammy, Mother Nature, God—aye, even the fate of the poor wee rabbit. No, my throat and its contents were all I cared for. So, with the last ounce of strength in my now useless body, I up and like the banshee herself, shrieked across the now rain-sodden grass.

‘Where’s my basin?’ she shouted, ‘and why did you ignore me, your supper’s frozen cold?’

‘Mammy, dear, ken I fine we’ve not to disobey you, but I’ll take the worst of your hand before I go back there into the kingdom of King Weasel for a simple basin.’ Those words said, I threw myself over her knee.

Beware the wee weasel wha hides in the green,

For he’ll rip oot yer tonsils, an’ gouge oot yer een.

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